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Berry Lies

6 May


What the hell does an acai berry look like?  If you can tell me, I’ll send you the six old gift cards that have been hanging out with some sticky ibuprofen and rubber bands at the bottom of my purse. (Winner winner chicken dinner, who knows what’s on those babies).  Seriously though.  Are these even real berries? Oh, they are? Fine. Prove it. So, you really know what they look like? Based on the picture on the half gallon of acai flavored vodka you bought? Tell me…do they prefer a tropical climate? They must really thrive outside the Stoli plant. If they are in fact real, they sound like they should be magenta or maybe a deep red. Like a cranberry and a beloved pink Starburst had a baby. At least that’s what I’m thinking. I’m still not convinced though. I never heard anyone spin a nice ol’ timey story about how they used to go catch the bus every morning during summer vacation to go pick acai berries to earn money for their 4H project.

We lived a long time without these mythical berries. Why all of the sudden are they being put in everything from my shampoo to dog food? We no longer have a space program, but somewhere there is a big pile of money, 20 feet deep, that is being spent on figuring out what bullshit flavors we will suddenly decide we love. (Yes, I realize that these two things are completely unrelated, but this is how my brand of crazy works). Maybe Tang was the start of this, and that was made of condensed astronaut sweat, so perhaps there is a link. If Snapple made a monkey crap and banana green tea how long would it take until you at least, considered it? It’s full of antioxidants, I’m sure.

I’m sick of chipotle, too.  Shut up with your chipotle.  It’s the pesto of the 20-teens. Everyone went so bat shit for that one that a restaurant was born. Come get your chipotle at Chipotle. The special is grilled acai berry chipotle with a side of pomegranate salted caramels. For dessert, please enjoy some red velvet cake and bacon ice cream.

I don’t know what an acai berry looks like…and neither do you.  If you say you do without googling it to confirm, you’re a liar, liar, pants on fire. But, I can tell you one thing.  I know what a Franken Berry looks like.  That shit is real.


The Art of War (on dog shit)

4 May

ImageThe sun is shining, the house smells of fresh coffee, the baby is cooing and examining her hands like Hunter S. Thompson on a mescaline trip….so, needless to say, life is good. Our only problem today, the only thing that can change our focus from the smells of fresh cut grass and BBQ, distract us from the promise of a treasure hunt at a nearby garage sale or the kiss of sun on our pasty Oregonian shoulders….the only thing….are the two barking shit ninjas posted up on the couch, waiting, plotting, scheming to launch another sneak attack of baby carrot sized turds in our home.

My beloved dogs, who at one point not that long ago, I would have thrown myself in front of a train for, are now formidable opponents in a game of Dog Shit Battleship. I didn’t like that game when it just involved plastic destroyers and now it’s being played with canine feces and I’m losing. I don’t know how to get the upper hand? Our first mistake was thinking that rescuing a couple of Chihuahua mutts (to be clear, my husband’s idea) was going to end in anything other than a house full of yapping shit machines.  Don’t even get me started on the pi$$. (I hate the word pi$$…but it’s the only word that fits.  I also hate other words that start with ‘p’, like ‘peck#r and pu$$y’. Awful. I love a swear word or a tasty superlative, but if it starts with a ‘p’ I’m likely to cringe).

I don’t understand these little assholes. Rita and Diego have a giant backyard to drop a deuce in; a wide expanse of green to take care of their nasty business. Is the backyard too big?  Does it feel like that part in Dances with Wolves, where John Dunbar Costner crawls up over the ridge to see a million buffalo? Is it just too much land to consider? Do they ponder their minuteness as they venture past the patio? Are they expecting tatonka to charge up and catch them with their pants down? Maybe that’s why they prefer such locations as sticking it to, (literally) sticking a turd to the front door. Diego pushes his tiny b-hole up against the door, craps, and walks away. One or two stick to the door and the rest roll down like those sticky balls you used to get in a box of cereal. When you open the front door, you’re greeted right off the bat by 2/3 of his last crap being scraped across the floor. If that doesn’t work for you, how about right where you will put your feet when you swing your legs out of bed? Too obvious? OK, perhaps on the only portion of brown design on the throw rug, to ensure it’s perfectly camouflaged, like a dog crap duck blind. But my personal favorite, in the baby’s bath chair.  In her chair? The entire yard. The entire house.  But nope, in her chair. Sonsofbitches.

The bath chair was the final straw. Only the baby is allowed to shit in that chair. This means goddamned war. With Sun Tzu as my guide, I will learn my enemy and beat them at their own game. I will stop just short of pooping in their kennel.  Or will I? Only the barking shit ninjas will know.


The Two Big C’s: Cancer and Commodes

3 May

4668582_f260There seem to be few certainties in life.  They say death and taxes are two, but I know a few people that have dodged that second bullet longer than seems possible.  (You know who you are) I have a new spin for you to consider.  Neither is pleasant but both are guaranteed.  I promise you.  So, we might as well try to wrap our heads around it now rather than let it sneak up on you.  I suppose you could do things to minimize the potential for each….but if left on this beautiful, shitty planet long enough you will meet with one or both of them.

Exhibit One: Cancer. If you live long enough, cancer will find you. Sure, you may not die from it, but at 92, if you’ve dodged cancer your entire life, get ready for Exhibit Two (more on that in a bit). Cancer is the mother bitch of all mother bitches. It doesn’t care if you’re a Tea Party whack job or a bed wetting lunatic liberal. It doesn’t give two shits if you have Oprah money or live in your double-wide dream home. Go ahead, be an optimist. Live your life well. Make plans. Never smoke. Cancer doesn’t care; ask Christopher Reeve’s wife. Sonofabitch. I’m hoping for a questionable mole but I know that colon cancer will be knocking on my backdoor at some point. Yes, I get colonoscopies. I’m going to have a lot of them; some even for medical reasons. Goddamned cancer. You are universally hated.

Exhibit Two: If you manage to survive into your twilight years; all of your friends and wife are dead; your kids don’t visit as often as they should and you’re just passing time reading old Watch Towers left by those pleasant but pushy visitors that don’t even seem to have parents at the senior living frat house; you’re just trying to avoid STD’s from that floosy, Edna, who has been meeting you for nooners before bingo…know this…you are one missed bowl of Fiber One away from dying on the shitter. Serious as a heart attack. Go ahead, skip your bran muffin. See if I care. Hopefully, Joyce, that sweet wife of yours, will still welcome you into her happy cloud paradise. But, she might be mad that you held out your best moves for 40 years, yet have no problem giving it to Edna during the light of day, all the while yelling, “Bingo! Bingo….Binggg-gooohhh.”

If I had my wish, I pick toilet. In fact, when I see the end approaching I’m going to cancel my nooner with Clyde,  eat a baby loaf of Tillamook Extra Sharp Cheddar Cheese, wash it down with a glass of alfredo, bare down and wait for the bright light.

Read it and weep

3 May

Before I start, let’s get one thing out of the way. Please. Go no further. No, really. Go to the ‘about my crap’ link and read it. Well, skip most of the crap if you want (it, like most of what I write will be fairly useless) and look at the last paragraph. I’m sorry. Really, in advance, I apologize. Not like you need to ‘hide yo wife, hide yo kids’ from what I’m going to say, but I am conscious of the fact that ladies who cuss can be tacky and unattractive (I know from experience). However, cussing is too fun to completely ignore and let’s face it, totally necessary to tell any good story. That’s my first disclaimer.

The next step before kicking this off: Let me remind you, this blog is YOUR fault. I tried to resist. I tried. I really tried. As much as I would love to sit around with hipster glasses and a cup of coffee and write all day, I’m so paranoid of being a douche bag that I can’t. Or, at least shouldn’t. But…..YOU….you kept saying I should, and then I got all cocky and thought ‘what the hell’? If you choose to follow this and then find yourself regretting it, don’t blame me. Blame my mother, bless her heart, and the face in the mirror. It was all fun and games when you could block my Facebook nonsense. Now look what you’ve unleashed? And one other thing that you might not have considered, I tend to slip into a Rain Man like state when writing, so anyone who would like to fill in the lapses in my daughter’s personal hygiene care, feel free. Is that her crying now? Shit.

So, I guess it’s blog time. Let’s see what happens. My prediction? A story or two about me making a complete ass of myself, tales of the weirdos that find me, musings about my husband that I’ll later have to apologize for sharing with the world and observations about shit you’ve already thought about. Here goes.

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