Just to continue the Snatch-tastic trend - A story.

So apparently my hormones have gone into full tilt boogie because out of the last five posts, 2 have included snatch, 1 was about food, and the other 2 were about illegal substances. I'm not sure what this says about me except that I'm very obviously extremely mentally disturbed and choose to deal with it in the only the healthiest ways possible.

But the guys over at A Beer for the Shower mentioned that I use the word 'snatch' quite efficiently. Which is true.

I thought I'd share a funny story about the how and when I started to use the word in regular conversation.

And no this isn't like that time when I was eight and referred to a man's testicles as balls in front of my entire family while watching America's Funniest Video's and my mother passed out from shame. This actually was probably worse. It involves someone who is mentally handicapped. (And while I do sometimes wonder if my mother is mentally handicapped I know that she is not. She merely has the capacity for evil.)

I used to work in a local florist here in town my senior year of college because I was poor and needed money for booze. Duh. There was this guy that used to come in to the florist to buy flowers for his respective girlfriends and while he was completely nice, he was just a smidge awkward. Something was off about him and I expected that he probably had a mild learning disability. But he was totally nice! I stress to you that he was totally nice so that you don't judge me for being creeped out by the functional retard. But he leered at me. Often. And for a repeated length of time. Then it came to pass that he was starting to show up at the florist pretty much everytime I worked and then lo-and-behold he was showing up everyday asking for me, even when I wasn't there.

Then one day, he bought flowers when I was working and gave them to me on the spot. I was extremely nice in refusing to accept them but I explained that it wasn't something I would be comfortable doing because I wasn't interested in him romantically. It worked because he didn't show back up. So kudos to me.

Wait, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking 'How could you give yourself kudos? How did you know that he wasn't at home sobbing his eyes out?' I know this because after he stopped coming to the florist I started seeing him at the bar.  Obviously, he wasn't that hurt. With his mother. Whom I may or may not have had a drunken conversation with about how I really didn't want to hurt his feelings but I didn't want to lead him on either. I was drunk; I can't remember.

Needless to say we (Yes, my entire posse of friends.) switched bars and started to frequent the one across the street and once he and his mom figured that out we switched back. Musical bars as it were.

I tell you all of this to prove to you how creepy this guy was and how much it skeezed me out to be around him. Ya'll know I'm a busty girl but I honestly feel bad for being nice to people whom I know don't have a snowball's chance in hell with me, but simply cannot help themselves from being drawn into the gravitational pull of the awesomeness that is my chesticular region. (Modest, I am not.) And it embarrasses the shit out of me to know that I'm being stared at.

You're waiting for the snatch; Here it comes.

I'm at Border's one day many years later with roomie and we're perusing the DVD's and guess who I see, making a beeline for me while dragging his mom who is currently waving at me? Our friend from the florist.

I'm visibly starting to panic and I look at roomie and he just shrugs and I am stuck.

So they approach together and we begin our nicities to make polite conversation. Polite conversation which involves 'Oh are you going to buy some DVD's?' while I pick up the closest DVD and say 'Yes, I LOOOVE this movie.' I then actually look at the movie title and without even thinking say "I LOVE SNATCH!' Because actually I do really love that movie. But because I'm nervous and uncomfortable as hell I keep saying 'OH SNATCH IS SOOO GREAT' and 'I THINK YOU'D LIKE SNATCH TOO! You should totally get into it.' On and on ad naseum while his mother's mouth drops open even further everytime I say snatch and his eyes get bigger every time I say snatch and I'm already too far gone now to begin apologizing so I just keep saying snatch and does anyone stop me?

Why No. They don't. Our friend's mother just drags him away by the shirtsleeve, literally. All the while, I'm still yammering on about snatch. Actually by this point I may have been yelling 'SNATCH! SNATCH! SNATCH!' Similar to the chorus of that 'Shots' song by Lil' Jon. What? I was thankful that I actually found something that worked so I was running with it.

And That, my friends, is how the word snatch entered my vernacular. And also how I managed to scare away the creepy guy that followed me around.

I saw this one bitch's vulva at the gym tonight.

I know that I tend to hyperbolize things sometimes. But not as often as you'd think though. As sad as it, the majority of this shit actually does happen to me. Most of it is true.

Anyways, I saw this one bitch's vulva tonight at the gym. That's right. I saw enough into her snatch to see her actual vulva.

WHY was I looking at her snatch you ask? You ask this because you know I'm not one to actively seek out snatch and for the most part I tell people to put it away. See here. I saw homegirl's vagina because she felt it necessary to show it to everyone.

HOW you ask? Which you really shouldn't do because that shit looked straight up like a beef-n-cheddar from the Arby's. Not cute.

Homegirl had on the shortest shorts I think I've ever seen a person wear in public. Aaaand her legs won't even that cute. (For this to have the full effect you need to imagine me pursing my lips, snaking my head, and pointing in some abstract direction.) She was in the 'Knockout' class which is a synonym for that dumb kickboxing shit. In this class they begin by stretching, by bending over and touching the floor.

I'm not sure if you ever watched 'BET After Dark' in the late 90's when they had Too-Short on (They may still do this. I don't know. I saw it once and was scarred for life. Why was a 17 year old white girl watching 'BET After Dark' in 1999 you want to know? Two words: STUPID BOYFRIEND. I'm getting off-topic here. Plus my high school was kind of ghetto and he was kind of in a 'black girl' phase. Yes, I am aware I am white.) but the one time I did see it for a split second I saw this black girl with a giant ass and a g-string bend over and her thong went up the crack of her hoo-haa and you saw her labia hanging out the sides. Both major and minor. It was kind-of like when you get on a rollercoaster and they warn you to keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times except no one warned anybody and EVERYBODY was hanging out the both sides of the cart.

Shudder.

From the room in which I take spin class, you have a downward prospective over the entire gym because you go up about half a flight of stairs to get into the room. So everyone on the bikes tonight in the 5:45 class saw homegirl's vulva. And so did the person behind her. Because she was having a wardrobe malfunction of great magnitude unless she meant to do that on purpose; if that is the case I believe she may be deluded about what kind of establishment our gym is. But here's the kicker. Did she stand up and pick her shorts out of her hoo-haa? No. She continued to repeatedly bend over and stretch and further her frontal wedgie (Yes boys, it is a thing.). I halfway expected her shorts to become a wedge and split her in half up to her ribcage. Every time she went to bend over everyone in the spin room cringed and leaned to their left to get further away from it.

But that's the problem with stationary bikes. No matter what the horror, you aren't going to get very far.

The stuff a fat girl's dreams are made of.

I've gained approximately 10 pounds in the last couple of months because I quit going to gym in about July. My life just got cray-cray and I simply didn't have time and I haven't been able to establish a routine again.

So I'm now a fat girl again. I mean I wasn't a skinny girl in June but I was skinnier.

The other day I took a nap. Because not only am I fat, I'm also lazy.

Do you know what I dreamed of whilst I was asleep?

A buffet.

If I wasn't aware that I was fat by looking in the mirror I'm reminded of it when I dream. Of buffets. I don't even like buffets; I feel like it's a waste of money. Although it's kind of like that line in Shrek when Donkey says "I don't know nobody that don't like no parfait." I imagine everyone likes a buffet, most especially fat girls.

Le sigh. I feel shamed. 

HBO pushes the boundaries of television nudity with Paz de la Huerta's asshole.

Ya'll, I don't know if you watch Boardwalk Empire on HBO or not but I do. I'm not sure why because I never know what in the blue-fuck is going on but it's mildly entertaining and as much as I do not enjoy watching Steve Buscemi get it on I do enjoy gratuitous violence on occasion. And that new Irish kid 'Owen' is hawt.

But I am damn tired of seeing Paz de la Huerta's "Paz-de-la-Huertas" if you catch my drift.

Seriously, I have seen her vag more often than I have seen my own. HER ACTUAL VAGINA. I live with my own self and even I don't see my own self naked that much. And sometimes I even sleep naked. So I'm naked with myself so I see myself naked on a regular basis.

Take for example, yesterday's episode which we watched tonight. Homegirl is louging around in her lingerie, preggers as shit, and WHAM! Vagina. It's just sitting there, on the kitchen table. You're all like 'Aw poor, crazy Lucy Danziger. She's pregnant by a repugnant bastard. Wait? Is that her snatch? ON THE TABLE NO LESS?'

It doesn't help that the character Paz plays is bat-shit insane along with being annoying as fuck and then I watched an interview with her on VH1 this morning when I realized that she is essentially playing herself. Because the actual Paz de la Huerta is bat-shit insane too.

Case in point here: Coo-coo banana crackers. Bitch is cray-cray.

I know what you're thinking. I am a prone to having the same issue as you can read about here: No matter how hard you try, you cannot wriggle back onto your tampon after you've sneezed. But damn ya'll. Actually I have never done this. Although this one time in college I was particularly mad at my boyfriend's repeated sexual advances, even after warning him I was on the rag, so I told him that if he'd take it out with his teeth I'd give in. I was just being facetious; I did so enjoy watching him retch.

I cannot wait until next week to see what unexplored caverns of her body we haven't been shown by the producers at HBO. Joy.

Reasons why crackheads are not in parades.

If you're not familiar with the town I'm from let it be sufficient to say that like many other towns  it possesses good parts and not-so-good parts. Imagine that your humble narrator and protagonist sometimes used to drive through the lesser parts to get to her abode, which was humble by obvious extrapolation.

Imagine one Friday evening your narrator, that being me, is driving home from work from her second job that was in the ghetto. It's the certifiable ghetto; pizza places will not deliver there. I'm driving home down highway 52 (Which I may interject is still a death trap. Seriously, I have no doubts that my untimely demise occur on 52. The greatest likelihood would be that I was trying to exit Bus-40 onto 52 and some dumb asshole who doesn't understand the concept of merging will be poking along in the right lane and the idiotic asshole in front of me can't immediately get off the exit ramp so they'll just stop, because they're the kind of people that use their brakes on the highway, and I will have to figure out what Dumb and Idiot are doing and die in the process.) and get off onto my exit in the not nice parts of town and while turning onto the 3rd worst possible street in town, I blow a tire at 9:30 on a Friday night.

I'm talking to my mother on my cellular who proceeds to freak that I've blown a tire in the actual ghetto and instead of letting me off the phone immediately to call AAA she does her 'I'm-a-mom-therefore-I-cannot-get-off-the-phone-in-no-less-than-2-minutes' thing and finally hangs up. I call AAA and the fun begins.

Enter crackhead #1.

This crackhead was relatively mild-mannered and may not have been a crackhead at all but this story would be much less dramatic if he wasn't so we're going to assume that he was. The point was that he had a GIANT stick. Seriously this stick was more of a branch and was about 6 feet long. He stops at my car window and asks me if I require assistance and when I say no he moves on along. I was extremely relieved. IT was a significant stick.

Enter crackhead #2.

This crackhead was the annoying one and was an actual crackhead. He smelled like crack. (I know what crack smells like because we went to this bar this one time and my friend turns and looks at me and says 'This bar smells like crack.') By this point I'm currently talking to the AAA operator and explaining that I need someone to come and change my tire. This crackhead just beats on my window to get my attention and I crack the window to speak to him, because I may be a lot of things but rude is not one of them. Well at least not on purpose. Most of the time.

Now I'm currently having 2 different conversations. One, explaining what is going on and what I need done, with the AAA lady and one where I'm fending off the crackhead outside of my car who is telling me that I don't even need to get out of my car. If I'll just pop the trunk he'll get the spare out and change it for me. The AAA operator hears this and says 'Are you in a safe place?' Before I can answer her I say to the crackhead 'No, I'm not going to do that. You're just going to get the tire iron out and beat me to death with it.' The AAA operator then says: 'I'll tell them to hurry.'

Here is where it gets interesting.

I figure I can't just sit in my car and not inform someone that I'm about 3 minutes from death so I make a decision: 'I know, I'll call my dad! He'll come and sit with me until the AAA people come.' This is a brilliant plan.

Except, I'm me and my father is my father. I call him and he answers the phone and I explain to him the situation, mention where I am and that I am literally less than 10 minutes away from him, all the while STILL yelling at the crackhead outside of my window. By this point the crackhead has just lost all shame and has decided to just ask me for money outright. He seems to think that he is entitled to some sort of monetary compensation for staying with me and scaring off the other crackheads. Yes he actually said 'other crackheads,' I'm not making that part up. My father retorts with this jewel: 'Anna, you mean to tell me that you're 26 years old and cannot change a tire?'

I believe I may have said 'Excuse me?' to my father before I said 'Fuck you' and hung up on him. Nothing can deter that man from a blow job, nothing. Most definitely not his child, his ONLY CHILD, the only genetic evidence that he has on this earth, being threatened by a crackhead. I'm sure that the gem of a woman he selected to give him head that evening would have waited on him to go rescue his child. I highly doubt that her mouth was going to fall off in the 45 minutes he would have been gone. But then again he may have been paying her by the hour and he is cheap.

So here I am, with a crackhead, waiting on the AAA people to come and change my tire. By this point we've kind of come to terms with one another and I honestly feel that if we had been given the full 30 minutes that it was going to take AAA to get to my location we really could have become friends. But alas the police showed up and honestly I have never been more grateful to see the cops ever in my life. Up to this point in time this may have been the only interaction with the police where I wasn't arrested or ticketed.

I have a certain irreverence for the local law enforcement and apparently it shows.

The cop gets out of his car and actually has to tell the crackhead to leave me alone. Talk about brazen! Sargeant-major-police man then asks me if I'm alright and informs me that he is going to have one of his rookies come and sit with me until the AAA people come. It seems that the AAA operator called the cops. So they actually are worth at least half of the exorbitant price they charge you every year. Who knew?

Unfortunately the rookie cop wasn't that cute but I was glad to have to have company that wasn't trying to bludgeon me to death with a small tree or a tire iron.

'This is a nice story, but what does all of this have to with a parade?' you say.

I'll tell you what it has to do with a parade. In a parade you have to keep moving and crackheads have the attention span of magpies and stop to see every distraction on the way.

That ladies and gentlemen is why you will never see a parade of crackheads. It wouldn't go anywhere.

I hate movies that make you cry and how this relates to my ex-boyfrands.

I have had it.

I have had it with movies that make you cry.

Lord help, I do realize that I've got a pretty super case of PMS and that I'll shart blood out of my vag soon and thus aaaaaall of my emotions are all willy-nilly over everything but good people that still read my blog even though I totally said I was going to start posting more and here it is halfway through the month and I've written what 2 posts so apparently I really do still suck at life, oh sorry about that.

Avoid My Sister's Keeper.

I imagine the book would make you cry as well. Good God I sobbed like a child through the whole thing and I even stopped it in the middle and took a 6 hour break in hopes that it would dull the histrionics. Yea, not so much.

It started out with what seemed like an interesting legal posit and WHAM uncontrollable sobbing.

I haven't cried this hard at a movie since I Am Legend or The Notebook.

Yes, I realize you're now currently wondering why I cried at I Am Legend and I'll tell you why. That is a sad fucking movie. The dog gets bitten and turns into a zombie. I was doing pretty good until ol' dude aka The Fresh Prince starts screaming 'Sam! Sam! Sam! Samantha.' And when I realized that the dog was a girl I lost my shit and embarrassed the shit out of my bff who was sitting beside me and hissed:

'ARE YOU CRYING AT A FUCKING ZOMBIE MOVIE? YOU KNOW THIS ISN'T REAL LIFE, RIGHT? YOU KNOW WE ARE IN PUBLIC, RIGHT?'

To which I muttered incoherently: 'Yeah, but the dog was a girl.'

To which he said: 'What? You don't cry when boy dogs die?'

I then said: 'Yes. I cried when Old Yeller died.'

So if the Confederate Railroad* song rings true, then dozens of past boyfriends should have cried when I left but I'm not really sure that they did.

They may have cheered. I don't stop to poll them.

*If you're not familiar with this piece of Southern Americana here's a link to a you-tube video of a fairly patriotic trio singing the song I'm referring to.

And yes, I'm aware that I just admitted to knowing a Confederate Railroad song. For what it is worth I have like 3 black friends. So there.

Bitches with Brazilians in Barroom Bathrooms

There is an epidemic going on in this great country of ours.

Do not get me wrong. I support every woman's right to go have all of the hair ripped off of her vagina by an old socialist Soviet. This is America and it is still a free country.

My problem is more of a logistical issue.

You see when you have no hair on your woo-woo there is nothing to direct your stream of pee. It just kind of goes out in a spray, instead of down. Especially if you're half-drunk and do not have the proper muscle control to pee with enough velocity to force the stream down into the bowl.

So the next unsuspecting person trots into the bathroom and finds the seat besmattered with piss. I imagine this is a common problem with boys because I hear horror stories of women cleaning their bathroom walls because their boys, husbands, boyfriends, visitors piss on the walls instead of into the toilet. I do not know. I do not let men piss in my bathroom. If you comment on the picture on the wall above my toilet you are not invited back to my house. Plain and simple. You've clearly over-stayed your welcome because you shouldn't have had time to go pee before you put your clothes back on and left.

You're thinking to yourself: But Anna, you don't actually sit on the toilet seat do you?

No, I do not. Unless I'm half-drunk and do not have the proper muscle control to hold myself up while my lazy bladder tries to push out the 3.5 beers worth of pee that have accumulated in my bladder. By then I probably have forgotten because I'm trying too hard not to piss on my actual self because I've stood in line for 20 minutes waiting to actually go piss. I cannot multi-task whilst inebriated; I can only handle one thing at a time.

Ladies, if you're gonna go whole hog and go Brazilian down under, sit the fuck down on the toilet.