Burger Tex should pay me for this

Here's a poem

God gave me style
God gave me head
God put his muddy boots
On my bed

Imagine this: You awake, unreasonably early in the morning (10) considering how late you went to sleep and also how drunk you were and how many left over (delicious) mashed potatoes you ate just before cozying up to your red headed friends dirty pillows (boobies). You are confused for a moment about where you are and who you are/aren't with, considering you haven't slept at home in a few days. You have to take a humassive morning after drinking, solid at the beginning, runny towards the end, shit. But mostly (take notes, this is important), you are hungry, and you are thirsty, and this, for the mother fucking love of god must be remedied pronto, other wise ginger haired (though completely undeserving) heads will roll.
"But where, " you ask, "can I get delicious and filling food in abundant variety, that is also healthy because I don't want to ruin the de-flabifying roll I've been on (liquid diet) since I've been back from Thailand, because, well, I don't care if I'm a cunt, as long as I'm thin?"
To which I respond, "Souper Salad."
I'm changing from 2nd person omniscient to 1st person narrative now. Look alive.
So you/I and also the Tiffer's put on our flippy-do's (I'm actually lobbying at present to have the unpalatable colloquialism "flip flop" changed , for obvious reasons, to the superior and, I'd venture to say, musical "flippy-do." I'm sure I have your support in this), forgot our phones, and headed in the direction of the vegetable smorgasbord that was our destiny.
While en route, using meticulously selected back streets so as to maximize efficiency, and minimize a) fuel consumption, b) time consumption, and c) my frustration (p.s. I am a master navigator), we wound up behind this total smeghead in a Lincoln or some other ugly, and in this situation, slow going car. As I was road raging at him, borrowing generously from my reserves of outdated urban vernacular, the Tiffers and I noticed simultaneously, that we were passing by Burger Tex, at a ludicrously slow pace. And we looked at each other, and we knew. Salad was not in the stars for us. Not today anyway.
As a quick aside, I feel I have to explain something. I have passed by said Burger Tex hundreds, nay, thousands of times in my life, never thinking to stop and have a bite even once. But all that changed Saturday, when I had the most enjoyable, life-altering experience (I can die happy now) imaginable; a mushroom swiss burger from Burger Tex. Thank you Nick, I will name my new fat after you.
Continuing. Well, getting to the point anyway, we abandoned any hopes of self satisfied smugness at our iron resolve to better our lives through the consumption of healthy food, and got 2 delicious burgers, one each, and ate them with zealous gusto, and now we are fat, but elated, praise the lord! it is a beautiful day in Austin!

A Discussion of Intriguing Topics

Today I am so (insert adjective). I wish I could just (insert verb) all day until (insert pronoun) (insert verb, past tense) all over (insert pronoun) (insert noun).


Whew! Good to get that off my chest.


This morning Tiffers and I, in a frenzy of previous evening alcohol mixing induced ravenousness, went to Taco Cabana for a smidgen of their glorious breakfast tacos. While en route, a long and harrowing route filled with trials and tribulations of a terrifying nature, I was saying really hilarious things to distract us from vomiting up the non contents of our stomachs. one item of said hilarity was this...


(Note: I am adding a verbatim transcript of the conversation in order to demonstrate, in addition to the obvious humour of the comment, the contextual genius as well.)


Tiffany: "If they aren't serving breakfast any more, I'm ordering a bean and cheese taco with extra cheese."


Me: "I'm ordering a bean and cheese taco with extra taco."


HAHAHAHAHA! You are laughing.


And now for the latest installment of The Death Shoe Chronicles.


They are fucking rank, and they are Tiffany's and not mine and they are also boots and not shoes and let's get some Dr. Scholl's foot stank spray for the love of god, my lungs are being melted by the noxious vapors.


I want to address an issue really quick, as I'm sure it's been on the front burner (the big one) of everyones thoughts, and I'd hate to be an inconsiderate twat and not quell any curiosities/fears/insatiable desires. So here goes: I am fully aware that I say heaps of nothing with words in equal proportion. But my question to you, kind sir a.k.a. fuck wad, is this; what do you have to say? I have an unfortunate medical condition, incurable I'm afraid, where in I have been blessed with an extraordinarily large vocabulary (snicker) and an immensely enviable and innovative mastery of the English language, but I am incapable of contriving a single interesting or original thought beyond what our kids would look like if cilantro and I copulated (more on this later).


So anyway, the real point is this. There is no point. If you'd like to see a free verbal masturbation show, read on. If not, do something other than read on.


I like to use masturbation in analogies. Also, abortions, interracial comradery, the stock market, and lion pride hierarchy/feeding habits. Fascinating.


Back to cilantro. Whilst on the previously mentioned Taco Cabana outing, something revelatory happened to me. But before I can even think about opening that bag of chips, I feel the need to prologue the story with a bit of Taco Cabana 101.


While Taco Cabana's fare is both delectable and authentic (made by real Mexicans), neither of these qualities are what made the establishment into the fast Mexican food empire that it is today. No, what makes Taco Cabana truly great is their all you can eat condiment bar, which features a dizzying array of fresh salsas, pico de gallo, fresh onions, limes, and jalapenos, and, you guessed it, cilantro. Ask any one, tell your friends. It is the shit. Take a big whiff.


That said, I can begin the story. As I tore into my potato, egg, and cheese breakfast taco, wrapped in a thick hand made tortilla, topped with a tongue teasing rojo salsa, pico, and a sprinkling of tender cilantro leaves, something, I'd venture to say, life altering occurred to me. I realized, I love cilantro. I can't deny it. My salivary glands squirt out their lubricious fluids at the very thought of that scintillating herb rolling around in my mouth, being ground by my molars, becoming an embarrassing green thing in my front teeth, and finally, fatefully, coming to rest in my welcoming stomach, nourishing, not only my body with its chlorophyllous goodness, but also my soul. Cliantro raises your IQ by 3 points on each occasion that you eat it. I am now a genius. (Wouldn't it be funny if I spelled genius like 'genyus' whilst proclaiming to be one. Woo Hoo!) My mind then wandered, as girls minds are wont to do when thinking of the things we love, to marriage, and then to baby making. Before long (3 seconds), I found myself wondering what out offspring would look like. After much contemplation, I arrived at this.

I hope this means as much to you as it did, and will continue to mean to me.
Something terrible actually happened a couple of minutes ago, which was that Tiffers asked me if I wanted to go for coffee, and you know what? I do.
Now I am distracted and hurrying through this and I am not giving my writing my 100% super star effort, so I'm going to stop and feed the beast.

Fecal Matters!

This shit is serious.
It is Fat Tuesday, which means it is Tuesday and you are fat.
But seriously, I think we should take a moment, on this most solemn of days, to reflect on what it means to get completely leathered and either a) bare your mammaries for strands of tawdry plastic baubles, or b) try, in your state of retarded inebriation, to steady your video camera as you record said exposed mammaries for (self) pleasurable viewing at a later time.
That was yesterday.
Today is Ash Wednesday, and I have no idea what that means to people of the Catholic description, except that you can't do anything fun any more for a long while. Yes. And something to do with ashes.
It actually all just came flooding back to me in a moment of omniscient clarity. On Fat Tuesday, Jesus, turns water into wine (things get a little crazy, women are showing their ankles, a holy tradition begins), on Ash Wednesday, Jesus is cremated (resurrect that, you sum-bitch), skip (insert adjective) Thursday, on Good Friday, Jesus makes a miraculous comeback with the single 'Love Your Neighbor, All Night Long', Saturday, Shomer Shabbas, and finally on Sunday, Jesus goes to IHOP for breakfast, waits 2 hours for substandard pancakes, all the while cursing the church going crowd for flooding the 24 hour breakfast market. And that, my friends, is the story of the Easter related holidays, and the foundation on which the whole of New Orleans' economy is based.
I am the queen of run on sentences.
As much as I'd love to bitch today, and believe me, I always can (Complainator), I am instead going to write about the weather conditions in Austin, Texas today.
It is lovely.
Tiffany, James and I went to the Barton Springs spillway in, get this, flip flops and shorts, tanned for a minute, had iced vanilla lattes of the non fat variety, and now I'm here, pecking out this verbal virtuosity, for you to enjoy, you being James, Lindsay, Tiffany, or any of my friends whom I force to read my blog and tell me how funny it is.
Yesterday, Tiffers and I went to a fire station, tried on their fire proofing awesome costumes, climbed the pole, ate chocolate chip cookies with cream of the ice and whipped denominations, and watched Face Off in extremely comfortable recliners until we could no longer bear to witness the nauseating spectacle of over aged, over actor showmanship. The we left to go get pissed. Yay!
Tonight I'm going to work, and I am convincing myself that I am uber excited about this by writing right now about how I am uber excited to be going to work.
Holla!

I live for my rug! Interpret as you see fit.

Is it wrong to buy a bottle/box of aged wine (the product turnover at that liquor store is deplorably low), a value sized container of economically piquant grape drink, at 5:20 in the evening, and not only consume the entire thing solo, but in under 30 minutes?

I may do this regardless of your morally superior (incorrect) opinion of, "Yes, it is wrong."

I was considering changing the, what I thought to be no longer aptly applied, name of my blog, the other day. I stopped considering that, when I realized that it is not only quite apt, but probably more so now that I've started writing from a perspective other than some sort of idealistic highhorse.

Who wants to wrap themselves in a cozy blanket of self-deprecating-glorifying-pitying, world weary, cynical, sarcastic, and boringly magniloquent humour? Well step on up kids, I've got a variety (one type) of cheap vino, 1 lb of peanut M&M's (half gone), a tub of crisco (also half gone) and a black rubber dildo (very broken in) the size of two Coke cans stacked. What the fuck does that even mean (shut up you twat)?

Update: Cigarettes are more powerful than god+jesus+black holes+infinite gravity+the compulsion to masturbate with a pillow when ever left alone for even a moment. They are not more powerful than Satan (god rest his soul) as they are made of a carefully rendered composite of the dark lord's nail clippings, semen, fromunda cheese, and just a dash of heroin(shocker!). The amalgamation is then roasted to a scrumptous crispiness (I'll give you one guess as to where), packaged and deilvered to my nearest convenience store, or as I like to call them, Chinese people, where they idle their time, preforming one seductive siren song or another, until I actually have to throw my car keys into the nearest pond (which is actually farther than the 'Chinese people') to avoid succumbing.

p.s. The car keys part is an artful embellishment, meant to enhance the appeal and intrigue of the former factual, even if dull, statements.

I just thought of a game. Let's think of something good that happened to us today.

.......

Well, that was a nice mental exercise in futility.

No no no. I can breathe. And that's always good. Also, I have a functioning healthy body.

The sad part of this all is, I don't even have a box of cheap wine with which to inebriate myself to a stupid degree. I made that all up.

But I am not a para... or better yet, quadraplegic. And that is good for me. Not for wheelchair production companies. But for me, it rocks.

I also have a very cool rug. It really ties the room together.

Wow! I'm feeling so much better.

Wow! I wish there was an internationally recognized font meant for conveying sarcastic tone.

The latter sentence was not sarcastic. The former was. Note the difference in font. Viva La Revolucion!

For your viewing pleasure, here is a photo of me passed out on V.D. over a plastic bag I had just thrown up into. Go on, have a laugh.

p.s. Is it wrong to rub one off to a picture of a kid you had a crush on in 5th grade, if said picture is a yearbook picture, and said yearbook is from 5th grade?

Purely hypothetical people. Tranquilo.

British people are known for bland food

I just over heard a girl at the table opposite mine say that. Apparently they boil everything into a flavorless mush, and that is why they invented Worcestershire sauce. I'm going to have to disagree here. I think they deep fry everything to a heart attack facilitating, yet delicious crispiness, and that is why they invented HP Brown Sauce.
But it's all speculation.
I am looking at a painting of an ecstatic whale, who I only imagine is ecstatic as he is suspended weightlessly in green water that fades to yellow, he can hold his breath for an uber long time, and words are floating with him in that spring colored abyss. I am projecting. I would be ecstatic. To be honest though, his face looks a bit smug. But he has every right to be. He's a behemoth in the 2nd dimension.
SNAP!
I'm sad-ish today. I'm having a coffee at Spiderhouse in attempt to cheer myself with caffeinated good and the hope and endorphin inducing possibility of hot boy seeing, especially one particular hot boy employee, who I thought I just saw, and my stomach jumped, but it wasn't him, and I was disappointed.
It is really hard to be funny or clever when you're down. I am trying to think of things, but instead of actually thinking, I am being repeatedly caught by curious yet apalled onlookers
with my fingers inside my nostrils. I'm not picking! It's a comfort thing. My other comfort thing is putting my hand in my pants and cupping my vajayjay. It's warm and soft and it makes me feel safe. So I'm obviously choosing the less offensive of publicly inappropriate comfort devices. Sod off!
Maybe I'll just run to my mom's house, pick up some of my early to mid-teenage 'woe is me, I've managed to convince every one that I will take my life with an entire bottle of Advil soon, and leave my tortured life in a headache free condition' poetry, transcribe it on to my blog, and call it a day.
One thing though, is that they are playing Black Sabbath/Ozzy Osbourne, I can't tell which because, as I'm getting to saying, I don't like either and I don't give a frick, but the point is that it's annoying and affecting the purity of my self pitying mood, distorting it into a 'I'd like to infect myself with rabies' sort of mood, which is obviously not my desired state.
I also quit smoking yesterday afternoon, which is gay, because it seems like everyday in my life is a bad day to quit smoking. Or maybe everyday is too bad a day to quit smoking because the day has been sullied with attempts at nicotine abstinence. The chicken, the egg? Who fucking knows.
I'm probably just going to procure a beret, a fresh cup of coffee, and a package of existentialistic, brown papered, French cigarettes, which, while not less carcinogenic, are infused with such a high concentration of coolness and superficiality dispelling ponderance, you grow in awesomeness purely by attempting to pronounce their name.
Fuck a Duck!
This motivational incidence of perseverance through the trials of shit early satan worshipping metal, rejection dejection, and bowel shattering cigarette withdrawals, brought to you by a true crusader of awesome, a warrior for fabulous of the highest distinction; me.
I'm feeling 1.3% better.

1969 in the Sunshine

I have intentions today of extracting the diahorrea from my cranium and smearing it around on this vitrual sheet of crispy white paper, with a stick, or a log of harder shit, and I will hand it into your kindergarden teacher, and it will be art. You love it.
I get a gold star.
Speaking of shit, you know how some times after you take a really humassive shit, you feel like you've been anally raped, but from the inside? Well, after last night's, Candice has some how gone from delightfully tipsy, to violent heaving, of both the wet and dry varieties, into Cuba Libres toilet along with her vomit streaked hair debacle, that's sort of how my throat feels. Like it was violated, lubelessly, by a huge phallic object. But hey, maybe it was. Seeing as how I can't remember much beyond, "Hey Lins, let's go to the bathroom, " I'd say it's quite possible that I forceably, and finally, learned to deep throat, as a group of 6 or more random, viral menengitus hosting blokes gang banged my throat. I will be dead in 4 hours.
As my last literary testament to the world, in summation of my life, which absolutely teems with platinum accomplishments, to get down to brass tacks, and thick red wine reductions, I'd like to say, "I don't know how bulemics do it."
So, today I am grouchy and am compelled to be productive by making t-shirts for my new t-shirt making company 'Babies with Rabies, Inc.' which is soooo about to exFUCKINGplode, p.s. that awesome Thai vagrant dog inspired company name is so copyrighted, so don't even think about pilferring it, you poon. My posse should be here before too long, and then it's off to Hobby Lobby for supplies.
I am hungry.