Do not go outside. EVER.



So I went for a walk about an hour ago with my camera and tripod, hoping to get some cool pictures for the calender contest.

First, I stepped on a HUGE stick, which bounced back and scratched the hell out of my leg.



(Yes, I stopped by the side of the road to take pictures of it....it was oozing and neat-o.)

I walked under this bridge:



Then a giant bee landed on my camera. So I took a step back, hoping the bee would get bored and fly away, and I wasn't under the bridge anymore. Over my head I heard a TING sound, and before I could figure out what that was, I felt cold liquid on my back and head.

Some jackass, who apparently likes to drink and drive at 7pm through kid-infested neighborhoods, had tossed his beer out his car window, and its contents found their way into my clothes and hair.

I was bleeding, stinking of someone else's booze, and the damn bee was still on my camera.





How was your day?

So this afternoon, I got a phone call. From whom, you ask? Or maybe you didn't ask, because you're rude and can't even pretend to take an interest. WELL, I"M TELLING YOU ANYWAY.

Well, it was professorE aka Ethan aka Dr. Acula. And I learned a few things about him that I thought I should share.

1. He enjoys robbing the cradle.
2. He has a genitic predeposition towards butt plugs.
3. He thinks California is full of jerks.
4. He has a high pitched voice.
5. He collects human organs.

P.S. There are totally true, and not just me taking things out of context or lying.

Or rather, explain the musicians who come from Detroit who seem to have identity problems.

.

Thinks she's British.

.

Think they're brother and sister.


But this is what really bothers the shit out of me:


UGH. Warren Zevon AND Lynyrd Skynyrd? I HATE YOU, KID ROCK!

What's that....posted 12 days ago? Hmmm...guess that makes me FIRST! Suck on that, HECTOR!

Anywho, happy bort-day, Eeeeeefan. I bought you some ponies.

.

.

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Feed them more than you did your dinosaur, okay?

.

First, melt chocolate in a double boiler. I used milk chocolate chips.



Draw or print a stencil of a moose, or whatever you want, and place it under wax paper. When chocolate is cool enough to hold, pour into an icing bag.



Using a writing tip, pipe onto wax paper. Hold the tip close to the paper so it blends better.



Let it air dry, or put it in the freezer or fridge and VOILA! Chocolate punny goodness!



Original post
Hey.


I had a crap day.




But I also had two awesome things today.

One, I made a chocolate moose:



And two, I recieved my shirt from Opifan:



I don't know if you can see the note, but he drew a little character on it! And the shirt is beautiful! I'm wearing it right now, and the little details are just....really making me happy right now.

So, a thousand-kajillion million thanks to Opifan.




THAT IS ALL.

NERD ALERT!

This is one of my favorites of mine:

Requiem in A Minor


How do you write an essay about breasts? Especially your own?
Well, let me start by saying that there’s nothing particularly interesting about mine, at least from a clinical viewpoint. I don’t have extras, and they’re not in bizarre locations, such as behind my kneecaps or perched on each hip. They’re not exciting colors or shapes, and they can’t even shoot lasers. They’re the standard rounded mammeries assigned to all adult females. Except, they’re small.
That’s right- my cup does not runneth over. In fact, it’s more often half empty. (Or half full, to all you damned optimists.) And the only way I’d achieve cleavage is to morph into a hunk of calcite.
By the way, congratulations to all the geologists who caught that reference.
So why is it that the ideal of womanhood centers on two fleshy, fatty masses protruding from our ribcage, that female sex appeal revolved around the girth and perkiness of these appendages that serve no real purpose unless you procreate? Why does everyone with a Y chromosome become a mindless, drooling drone whenever they see C cups or larger pass them by? Perhaps they have hypnotic powers, like a bouncy version of The Manchurian Candidate, and if anyone were to harness the effects of Baywatch, democracy might fall prey to a global coup d’etat. Or perhaps it’s the age-old adage, “Bigger is better,” and everything small is weird and unnatural.
Thankfully, my horrendous flaw can be fixed. I can cram my body with enough silicone to make Pamela Anderson jealous. I can have just as many mindless, drooling drones to do my bidding. With a few thousand dollars, I can surrender my individuality, and become another living Barbie doll. Of course, I’d still have to grow about six inches and have a few ribs removed, but what’s skeletal structure compared with ultimate beauty?
Why can’t women just be who they are? A little overweight, or tall, or short, or brunette, or ridiculously flat-chested. You know, there are good things about having an A cup. I can sleep on my stomach, bras are optional, I don’t stretch out my t-shirts, and I can see my feet without bending over. Plus, if I ever wanted to do some Mulan-esque cross-dressing, I think I could pull it off.
So what if I’m not the ideal? So what if I have a smaller bust size than most junior high girls? And so what if I have no future as a Hooters waitress? I think I can live with that. Pamela Anderson can keep her armies.

Post yours so I feel cool!

This blog is not about Sarah Palin.


It's about pancakes.








Waffles are also allowed:

Home of everyone's favorite whisky:



Home to large spheres which may or may not contain wigs:



And hey....who doesn't love parallelagrams?


Dirty communists, that's who!!!!

Al Gore gives it a bloated thumbs up:



Also....I'll make cookies.

Feliz......that thing!!!!! Amigo! Burrito!!! Charro!


I got you a cake, to fit in with your interests:



I got you a goat, 'cause you're, like, Mexican or something:



Also, a pinata, for above reasons (and who doesn't want to beat the shit out of Hannah Montana?):



Also, Ethan is lame because he's up all night watching porn and made a blog before me because I fell asleep.

We spent one night in Pigeon Forge, which is Dolly Parton's hometown, if you didn't already know that, and one night in Gatlinburg, which is Tacky Tourism's hometown, if you didn't already know that.

Sorry, Hecter and Ethan. I know you two had your mind set on an airbrushed t-shirt with your names inside a heart held up by Minnie Mouse. Next year, I promise!