Our good friend Druncle Bad Touch signed The Dish and I  up for a golf tournament…in the pitch black with very VERY rigid rules of play.

Sign up now for an evening of sunset cocktails, grilled kabobs and golf under the stars!

       Rules of Play:

1.       You must enjoy cocktails and buffet dinner ($21.45 per person) on the West deck starting at 6:30pm on Saturday.
(great, almost three hours of cocktails before I am supposed to hit a tiny ball  in the dark with a metal stick, something I haven’t done in years….
the hitting the ball part that is.)

2.       Absolutely no play until it is pitch black!
(by pitch black, you mean in the DARK…don’t they know people could DIIIEEE* doing this?)

3.       Your partner will be assigned at cocktails.
(WHAT….a stranger??? that I have to speak to? Well after almost three hours of cocktails this should be quite interesting.**)

4.       You and your partner must choose to bring 3 clubs which you will share on the course.
(Awesome, so I can get in a fight with a total stranger who thinks they know better than me and eventually this will end up with some one having a sand wedge shoved some where uncomfortable and you know it won’t be me. This is when I will bring up the fact that I have a Skakel*** designed pitching wedge (if you don’t know what I am talking about I will let you do the research) so consider yourself warned. 
At which point two things might occur… uproarious laughter or  a really awkward silence not even accompanied by crickets)

5.       Alternate shots and each team will play 3 holes.
(I am NOT liking the sound of this at all. There is no such thing as three holes that are playable!)

6.       Bring a flashlight.  No carts
(What is this “flashlight” you speak of? Is it something to “flash dance” to?” AND I have to walk, my high heels will get stuck in the grass.)

7.       Entry fee to be paid that night — $8.00 per person (includes ball & prizes)
(um…ball prizes? does The Dish know about this?)

 8.       Prizes following play
(seriously, you must have been drinking while *figuring* out these RULES of play, you just talked about the ball prize!)

 Not only are these country club types WILD…they can get down right nasty especially when you end up in their fairway trying to shove the damn mini glow stick back in the ball so you can pick it up and walk  back to your fairway and on the way stomp on  random ball that may or may not belong to the wise ass who was making fun of you for being in his fairway just before you killed him properly hit back to your fairway and politely resume play. In the dark. Adorned in glow sticks.
By the time we got to that infamous THIRD hole we just happened to be back by the bar club house where it was completely necessary to refresh and by refresh I mean pee because I never pee in the outdoors especially clad in glow sticks. I also mean load up on more wine water because, MAN if playing golf in the dark doesn’t work up I thirst I don’t know what does.

And in the end, we won!

WE WON!

 We won ‘The team with the most putts’ with an award of….

A GLOW STICK!

Which ended up scaring the crap out of me in the middle of the night when I woke up to it glowing  right next to my face on my pillow apparently trying to suck my soul out through my eyes. Or at least that’s how my eyes felt, and that’s when I chewed up a xanax and sucked my thumb until I fell asleep.

*I am pretty sure that some where, some one probably has been hit by a golf ball and died as a result so really I am not crazy. AND I know for a fact that a goose has because a good friend of ours actually did that by mistake at this very country club and felt very very bad about it, so the odds were against us the entire time!

**Druncle Bad Touch rigged the entire event and he was my partner and I failed him miserably 47 out of 50 of my hits.

***This is completely true and this pitching wedge is totally scary, I never use it. Bad karma I guess, but I keep it around for precisely these kind of events when I can whip it out and make horrible jokes in very poor taste.

P.S. Also it was a crap load of fun and I really enjoyed the drinking and stuff so THANK YOU Druncle Bad Touch. Also I am going to start practicing at midnight at my local club so that next year I will hit more than 3 good shots.

You see I have been wanting to find another way to whore my blog out because I know I don’t do enough of that on Twitter, or by sprinkling the entire east coast of this continent with my blog cards, or by walking the streets in a sandwich board ringing my cowbell.

My grand plan to take over the interwebs and step on the paws and tails of all the other little kittens out there was to create a badge for anyone and everyone out there who absolutely must pimp me out because that sandwich board is getting kind of worn and the splinters in my ass are KILLING me.

But *sigh*…all I did was think about it and ask the universe to provide me with some spectacular inspiration (and time) that would capture the essence of my fantastic blog, and by fantastic I mean the one where I post more than once every eon or so.

What I love about the universe…or web or HOLLY! at Mid Western Mamma is that they always put out!
I woke up the other morning and there in my box…(heh I said box) was the most divinely inspired badge a vapid girl could ask for.
That Holly made for me…out of the goodness of her heart.
(I swear I didn’t promise her the pot of gold I’ve been hoarding in my basement ever since I took out that entire commune of leprechauns that were squatting on my property, they are worse than hippies.)

DUN, DUN, DUNNNNN!
The unveiling of my beautiful sparkly badge compliments of Holly,  who captured my essence to perfection!

I love her!

P.S. I am working on the little scroll box (heh, I said box, AhhGAIN) to show up on my side bar with the Secret Code…but for now it’s so secret, NO ONE can fucking have it. For now feel free to
1.Copy that picture —>
2.Paste it all over.
3. Link back  to me and
4. Tell me to shut the fuck up and go find some code bitch.

I do enough damage on my own, thank you very much.

It all started about a year and a half ago when I entered a raffle and won.
I won a mountain bike.
This is kind of like a vegan winning a cow that sits there looks and at you with those cute little blinking cow eyes that are too far apart.
You know the cow eyes I’m talking about.
That’s about how much I would use a mountain bike.

 
Then there is their meat.
Their meat doesn’t come with a disclaimer  that says “FLAVOR ENHANCED” and their meat doesn’t actually seep out white gelatinous goo when cooked.
Their meat is local and grass fed.
So you can see why I am addicted to their meat.

So I can’t understand why they would sell me a hunk of 15 dollar cheese named Prima Donna…
that when I got it home I realized the underside was COVERED in mold. 

Are you trying to kill me my beloved Local Grocer?  Or are you trying to make me go broke?

I vote for you are trying to KILL me, because NOT two day’s later as I was minding my own business picking out tomatoes through the swarm of fruit flies, all the while being  hawked on by the creepy ‘Children of The Corn’ produce guy that THIS melon, this ragged street cred honey dew melon tried to knock me out.

Not once, not twice, but three mother fucking times did that Melon jump off it’s pile at me all angry and shit!And because I was worried that the creepy ‘Children of The Corn’ produce guy was going to come at me clacking together a couple of ears of corn, I put it back three times not realizing it was the
Evil Satan Melon of DOOM.

 Just when I am about to cut you out of my life once and for all, 
you my Dear Local Grocer, 
you pull this crap out or your  fun bag of tricks.

Seriously, how can I EVER shop anywhere else?

Well played my Dear Local Grocer, well played.

I danced with grace, with a Muskrat,  with a bug and a mac.

I passed out cards for a bird, a brat and a blonde.

I was embraced by the alternative , I panicked when I thought I lost my new found Brilliance.

I stalked a Czar.

I waited until midnight to put on my tubesocks but instead I just tied one on…Thanks a lot Chuck!

I cavorted with a toy, accepted a gift, in return I procured street meat like a stealth ninja in about 2 minutes.

(oh yeah, that street meat!)

I was showered with unicorns, ninja duckies and owls all without ever actually showering.

I met up with a chick, a weird girl and a girl who is on the spot.

I missed being cool, and I missed being blue, two things I really wanted to say HI to.

We all agreed we needed someone to keep us awake and that there just wasn’t enough poo around.

I missed riding a mechanical bull, that will have to wait for you know who, don’t you think so?

I even met Avitable and wasn’t AvitaBALLED…Thank fucking god.

Armed with a constant flow of very expensive booze I worked my way through the entire weekend with my Glitter Gang Bangers sprinkling my custom jelly bracelets, three separate blog cards and wit onto anyone who would listen long enough to my babble. Madly stalking anyone I recognized. Yes, I would randomly go up to people and say

‘you are so and so, right? Love me…please.’

Much to my relief no one sprayed mace in my eyes or yelled for security.

I ate two cheeseburgers one right after another at midnight followed by pizza in times square at about 3:00 am

 I did this all Thursday to Sunday with only half a xanax flowing through my veins.

Should you inquire about the sessions at Blogher my response would be:

Sessions?  There were sessions?

This was supposed to be a post about my German refrigerator Otto Lothar Alberich* who started to protest his position in this house  after not quite three years of  clean and crisp German service…

close

On the bright side I am pretty sure there is a butt load of xanax waiting for me over at the pharmacy so WHEEE!

It’s this whole idea I got into my head that I somehow belonged at this conference with real writer types that just boggles my mind.

Well my darling people you would be correct.

HOWEVER…
(and that is a big however if you didn’t notice)
I would love for it to be summer time all day every day year round.
Flowers bloom year round. Grass is always green. 
The business I am in, which may or may  not be hooking selling my soul to Satan in the name of dresses, booms in the summer.
Hell even though I hate bathing, the showers are even better in the summer.

The Dish and I have an outdoor shower that I think I may have spoken of at least once before but for the life of me right now I CAN NOT FIND IT in my archives so I am probably just crazy.

My problem with it is that I am not tall enough and the shower head is set so high that the only part of me that can get under it without washing my hair is my ass.  And yes even though it is a squeaky clean ass, it does need to be washed every now and then but, and that’s a big but (not a big butt mind you) I just don’t like to wash my hair EVERY day, the natural oils that build up act much like hair product so I am actually saving money by having dirty hair. 

Just try blow drying your hair in this 300,000 % humidity.
It’s pointless I tell you,

P O I N T L E S S!

I can blow dry my hair for an hour in the summer and the only thing that happens is I get sweat streaks running down my back, under my boobs and yes….in between my legs, which by the way is totally embarrassing.
“Hi everyone, just want to mention that I didn’t actually pee my pants, I am sweating…..

from my crotch.”

Back to the hair, which never really dries and by the time I give up it’s still damp, I am damp and the word damp is just gross.

(I swear I am not complaining about the warm weather I would so rather be damp
than frozen and crazy like I was this week.)

But whoa have I gotten really off topic and *big exhale* my point is I don’t often use the outdoor shower since I don’t often wash my hair and keeping it dry can not happen in the outdoor shower.

When I do use the outdoor shower though, I love it.
It doesn’t matter if it is raining, humid, chilly or hot and dry. Taking an outdoor shower is some how very liberating. Very sensual. Almost stimulating especially if someone pulls up the driveway…which actually hasn’t happened.
THANK FUCKING GOD!!!
(but is totally something that I panic about each and every time I use the outdoor shower)

I get to look at our garden.

  That I am so proud of since I never really thought I could actually grow anything. 
Sometimes before I hop in the shower I may do a little naked weeding.
*cue soft core porn music now*

But only a little because there are certain places that getting a mosquito bite is just altogether awkward so I scurry back to the shower only to

GET EATEN ALIVE BY AN ANACONDA!!!!

WHO DEFINITELY TELLS ME TO ‘BACK THE FUCK OFF OR I WILL EAT YOU ALIVE SO BAD YOU WILL WISH I WAS THE
MONGOLIAN DEATH WORM.’

 And from that moment on everything is a giant snake in the grass

TRYING. TO. KILL. ME.

ACCKKK!!!

Holy fuck balls!

Oh my god, oh MY GOD…what do I do, what do I do?

I
 run to the shower turn on the water, close my eyes and hope the giant beast hates water, that’s what I do. Because it’s a mother fucking snake that eats things whole and then sits there on a rock gloating with it’s belly full of whole human beings.

WHOLE HUMAN BEINGS!

 Then when I finally open my eyes to find the snake gone I grab my shampoo only to be attacked by 

A GIANT SPIDER! 

Who was probably watching the whole anaconda ORDEAL come down and thought ‘watch me scare the living shit out this chick, her nerves are probably all shattered by now. BWAHAAAHAAAAHAA!’

EWWWWWW!
*swats spider away while screeching like a cat in heat*

 So by the time I am ready for work I feel  like a snake ridden, spider nest with runny mascara and a damp crotch.

And I am sure I look like just like this…

I probably shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house under any circumstances….EVER!

PARTY PANTS.   

More commonly known as our clown pants.

These pants can take you from an ordinary sweet couple…

To the fucking CLOWN PANT POSSE!

Every article of clothing including shoes are still in this house and ready to go…because I insist on keeping them. When The Dish was cleaning out his side of our closet (which by the way is very, very close to being a full on half of the closet) he tried to discard his clown pants I was all like….

‘DUDE WHAT THE FUCK, THOSE ARE YOUR CLOWN PANTS!!!’

His response…they don’t fit me anymore.

(???)

 
Here is the thing, one just doesn’t give up on one’s clown pants OR whore pants.

You work your ENTIRE life to fit in them,

 to find them. 

To WEAR them at the most inappropriate times!

End of story.

P.S. If my tramp stamp IS indeed older than you, I suggest you step away from my blog….right the fuck now!

And j0y comes from laughter…pure fucking laughter.

So my dear friends laugh hard, laugh out loud and laugh with all your heart.

And LOVE!

(of course)

Did you come here expecting something new?
Me too.
Yet every time I sit down to write something I get distracted by things like work, and oh….work, and um….
MOTHER FUCKING WORK!
I know, I KNOW I said Mike is an inspiration but I would really like a little me time and by me time I am not talking about the time you spend “ALONE” stirring the pudding or you know, what ever it is you do…

(now would be a good as time as any to tell you all that I am actually a 12 year old boy)

Just down time.
People speak of this thing called a vacation, yet I doubt its existence.
Kind of like the Chupacabra.

This past weekend The Nug started physical therapy. So after a gazillion dollar knee surgery we are taking her to an actual animal physical therapist to go swimming on a weekly basis.
She really enjoys it.

Can’t you see the joy.

And on Sunday I tried to cut my thumb off.

Unsuccessfully.

And that is my weekly wrap up.

Enjoy your fourth of July weekend.

I’ll be hiding from knives and mosquitoes and pretending to be a functioning part of society.

July 1 is just around the corner which means I will be running around like a chicken with its head cut off, not a real pleasant state of mind…or being for that matter.

Unless you are Mike, The Headless Chicken

Because I am pretty sure that if YOUR head was mostly cut off you would just give the fuck up a lot sooner than 18 months of running around being a chicken with its head mostly cut off.

(what the fuck…MOSTLY?)

So not to try and be like Mike in anyway but come July 1, the tourists descend and try to peck my eyes out for the two most pristine months and unlike Mike I pretend I am an ostrich….or Helen Keller. So either I can’t see or hear them because my head is stuck in the dirt or I walk around signing wah wah into peoples hands so they run in abject fear of me.
And the funny thing is, I have been doing this kind of similar game of chicken for 12 years!  
So Mike…
YOU WIN! 
In my book YOU are the winner.
You may have lasted just 18 months with only your jugular and brain stem but I commend you for fighting that uphill battle. You tried to preen, you learned how to get to your perch but  you had the sense to give up after a year and a half.
You see Mike today? I went to work after NOT showering or putting on deodorant in a skirt with holes in it because I said fuck it…I don’t feel like preening. I think I can forget ever learning how to get to my perch, don’t you Mike?

You see I think the reason you gave up was because you couldn’t crow anymore and if you can’t crow why show up, right?

But Mike I am here still, trying to crow and having it come out like a pathetic gurgle even though I still HAVE most of MY head.

So Mike I guess you are an inspiration of sorts. I have you to look up to. I have you, Mike The Headless Chicken, to thank for my steadfast resolve.

Mike, if you can survive for 18 months with only a jugular and a brain stem why the hell should I give up when I have most of my head?

Especially when I can stick it up my ass and sing laa laa laa laa laa I can’t hear you.