The Good Word According to Jess: making fun of rap

Showing posts with label making fun of rap. Show all posts

Uh-oh, Bart. I think Mongo here's taken a liking to you

Blogging for me is a lot like going to the gym - I like doing it (mostly), I think it benefits others through enjoyment (fat thighs = repulsion) and it's time spent just for me (mostly me and those muscle men doing the ab machine in the weight room that I spot). I feel guilty most times doing anything that tears me away from more meaningful, responsible tasks. Like bathing my children. Or washing my hair. Or sleep. But I manage to intertwine these responsibilities into my day-to-day and that helps. A little.

I actually started this blog awhile ago. If you're new here (welcome, I'm sorry if I insult you) - I tend to write blogs sporadically when I have a few free moments here and there. Once upon a time, I was actually able to write blogs at work (on work time! For shame!!) but now I'm all forced to take care of people and do "state regulated" paperwork, blah blah blah. So my blog (and etsy shopping) time has somewhat diminished. For you, this equals disjointed prose and haphazard, lackadaisical writing that sometimes doesn't make sense. In order to understand my stuff, you have to be willing to look past all that and not be one of those "normal" sorts who wants things in life to flow. My shit don't flow. (That would be a good name for a Rap Album. Maybe it already is one. Let me go google it and see).

*A google search of "My shit don't flow" resulted in a number of numerous rap lyric websites and (oddly) the suggested search of 'don't poop on my face'. I'm not sure how these are related, Google but no thanks. I'm definitely not searching for that.

I'm moving this month and trying to get acclimated from taking all the innards of my tiny apartment and putting them in a home that's the biggest one I've lived in, to date. I'm not even sure what to do with all this room - well, besides run around naked in each one of them shouting 'my nipples aren't touching the walls!', which I will probably do as soon as I get some heavier curtains on the windows. Or more self confidence, whichever. The latter of which I've been steadfast in trying to discover now for the last, oh - 34 years. But seriously, my cheesy college-esque IKEA furniture looks lost in here. I need a big, soft velvety couch (and bean bag chairs...oooo and a lava lamp!) so I can be all grown up and everything. Whatever that means. I am excited that my children will finally be free to play and run around and make noise and I don't have to worry that any crazy landlord types from down below will come a'knockin'. I also am free to yell at them as often and as clamorous as I so desire & also sing Air Supply loudly when cooking breakfast. You know - *if* I wanted to. I'm not saying I do that. I also do not, in any way, dance around the room with my Swifer pretending it's Graham Russell.

There is no central theme to this entry and for that I am apologetic. You could have spent these last 4 minutes catching up with an old friend, waxing your ears. or listening to that self-help book on CD - but instead, you spent it here with me. I'm forever grateful.

I promise to blog more, if you promise to shower.

You're killing me, Smalls.

Dear Blog Readers:

I'm so, so very sorry. You probably thought I died. Well, I didn't, of course. And by the way, thanks a lot for calling/emailing to check in on me or at least contacting my next of kin for an address to which you could send flowers or make a substantial monetary donation in my name (you could still donate, ya know). I 'preciate it. I feel the love. No really.

I've been busy. With what, you say? Well - aren't you the nosy blog reader. Sike, it's cool - I'm glad you asked. I've been trying to find a new school for my kid (he's in one of those closed-down Catholic jobs), a new apartment (moving on up, to the East side yo - and actually, the West side, but that doesn't sound as good), & also lots of other mundane things that will bore you to tears and leave you running from my blog wondering why you ever came here in the first place and demanding I give you back that $10 check I mailed out to improve my fan base. Phew. That was a mouthful, no? Seriously though. I've been busy dealing with some major crapola in my life and decided to take a break from all the semi-nurse work & relationshit (yes, you read that right) and do this here blog. For you. You should be grateful.

I found this website called snacksandshit.com (ok, someone sent it to me - whatever). Sounds like it would be right up my alley, I mean, I love snacks. Shit, not so much. But whatever - snacks are cool. At any rate, it's a website designed entirely around the hypocrisy and idiocy of rap lyrics. It's a good read. I almost peed my pants a few times reading some of it. I would link you to it, but frankly I'm lazy and I have this one link per blog limit. You understand.

Seriously, how hard is it to cut and paste that yourself into a new browser window? I mean, yeah - sure - you'd have to take your non-dominant typing hand out of your pants. But you should probably do that anyway. Gross.

Yesterday - in my misguided attempt to please my inner fat kid while simutaneously working towards my goal of qualifying for gastric bypass, I made deep fried Oreos. Oh, I'm so not lying.

This picture actually doesn't do it much justice. And I even saved some for the next day and they were like donuts. DONUTS. With friggin OREO cookies inside. A fat girl's wet dream. You know - if girl's had wet dreams (do they? I don't even know). But you know what I mean. So now I keep envisioning all the things I could batter and deep fry. Snickers bars. Ho-Hos. Those peanut butter tastycakes. Can you imagine them? Berger cookies?! (My apologies to those of you who have no access to the Baltimore-bred Berger cookie. It's a crack-like food item in its own right and you should definitely consider moving here JUST for that. And - you know - for the actual crack. I hear you can get a lot of that here too). Moving on....

Sigh...

Bathing suit season is here. Can I get a 'whoop whoop'?

*crickets chirping*

So yeah, ok. No one is cheering. I lost a smidgen of weight, but you will be happy to know that I still look hideously horrible in anything remotely tight and made of waterproof spandex. I've tried every bathing suit from the 10$ job at the Target to this $100+ number that promises miraculous body transformation and delivers nothing more than pushing all my flab up into my neck with copious amounts of boning and what I can only assume is stainless steel thread. Cause *that's* comfortable. The suit promises to make you look like you lost 10 lbs instantly. What it doesn't tell you is that those 10lbs will be pushing against your liver and will probably cause some permanent internal damage resulting in abdominal cavity bleeding and death. "Miracle" Suit. Should be called the "Miracle You're Still Alive What With All This Lard" Suit. I know, I know - I'm being extreme. But seriously - they are the most uncomfortable bathing suits EVER. And it's not like I even feel like I look hot wearing them. So I might as well wear my skirted mom tankini and my long sleeved burka-ish cover up and at least be able to breath. Sorta.

Next year I'm gonna be slim enough to wear a bikini. Bwahahahahaha. NOT. I make this promise to myself every year and then fail miserably. (See above - DEEP FRIED OREOS)

I rest my case.

I think this is enough blog for one night, don't you? I need to easy myself back in. - Insert perverted joke here - I'm much too tired for that one.

In my next blog I promise the following things:

- Photos of funny bathing suits & the people not scared to wear them

- Photos of that serial killer guy from Aruba who looks surprisingly like Jamie (it's the ears)

- A recipe for Bolivian stew.

Ok, that last thing was made up. But I'm sure I could come up with a recipe or two for you.

On that note, so long. Never stay mad at someone - it's such a waste of time. Send them some poop in the mail and call it a day, ok? Whoops. Broke my one-per-blog link rule. Eh. Oh well. I was never much for rules anyway. Peace out!

The Good Word According to Jess

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Uh-oh, Bart. I think Mongo here's taken a liking to you

You're killing me, Smalls.

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