Dana Michael's Blog

As of late, I have been working three jobs.

This is the subsequent reason for my most recent slack in blogging.

One would think that after working so many jobs, I would be, as the rappers say, “Raking in the Benjamin’s”.

This is not so much the case.

Much like my Jamaican brothers and sisters who also work a plethora of jobs for minimum wage, I am pretty damn broke.

The amount of money I make a day at each of my jobs is the same number of critical electoral votes that put Bush in office in 2000, it is the number of years of marriage in a silver wedding anniversary and it is a famous interstate running from New Mexico to Wyoming.

It has come to my attention that I, Dana Michael, am the 25 dollar woman.

If I lived in Europe, I would be the 19.9171 Euro woman.

My 25 dollar Monday night job consists of working at a comic book shop.

It is my teen-age dream realized.

(With the obvious exception of the 25 dollar part, as a teen I probably would’ve wanted to work in return for pot)

I sit in a chair reading comics for a few hours and receive my generous wages whenever I run into the owner. 

I also get a slight discount on comics.

If I were 14, this would be an amazing deal. 

Unfortunately, I am almost 30, and the whole ordeal is entirely more awesome in theory.

The fourteen year old in me, however, would never forgive me if I quit.

My next 25 dollar job is in telemarketing.

Should I stop at that pathetic sentence?

I get paid the nominal fee to be screamed at and hung up on every night, except for the rare occasion that I actually make a sale.

Hey, do you want to know what telemarketers do after they promise to put you on the “do not call” list?

Nothing loves.  They do not care that you are annoyed.  They hate their lives.

If you REALLY want to piss off a telemarketer, don’t just tell them the person whom they are trying to reach is dead. 

That just makes them giggle inside.

If you want to make them wish they never called you… let them actually try to sell you their retarded product.

Wait for them get to get through their entire sales pitch, even ask questions to seem attentive and mildly interested.

Then, when it comes time for them to “seal the deal”…drop the “not interested” bomb.

It will be just like excitedly giving up some foreplay and then withholding sex.

Lick their phone shaft and then don’t allow them to blow their metaphorical product load.

Create “sales blueballs”.

There are too many holes in the process of telemarketing as a whole.

Obviously, companies want to reach the masses, but when I call Jin Qin who speaks not a word of English and try to sell him a subscription to an American magazine, he will most likely decline.

I agree it’s not ok to racially profile at the airport or even the mall, that’s just racist.

But, let’s call a spade a spade here and not waste our time asking Adolf Herman if he wants to give to the gay pride festival this year.

My third job is purely on a volunteer basis, so the 25 dollar rule does not actually apply there.

Though, It does cost around 25 dollars to fill my tank, and I do that once a week to go to said internship, so I suppose I pay them 25 dollars.

The trend continues. 

For some side money, I decided to use one of my talents to make 25 dollars an hour.

After deciding my boyfriend would probably not approve of me gobbing knob for cash and figuring no one (including myself) cares if I remember how to roll a “super serious joint”, I remembered I had a degree in Musical Theatre.

Included within that degree was four years of speech training.

Luckily for me, I met a man who is both black AND gay.

He needs my assistance, and it can be provided for a mere 25 dollars.

Also, recently a good friend of mine needed to board his two cats for a week.

I have two cats of my own, and they are not the nicest to other animals.  But, being the amazing human being that I am, I said I would help out.

There’s a lot of pussy in my apartment at the moment.

My only request was that he sends me 25 dollars for my trouble.

It’s kind of my “thing”.

Apparently, one of my cat’s decided it was her “thing” to piss all over my hair while I was sleeping because she was so angry at me for allowing other felines in her home.

Essentially, after my whopping $125 a week; I am still broke, pissed off and pissed on.

This is where you come in readers.

Assuming you already know that there’s no chance I will perform any type of sexual or illegal act, I am curious what my readers would pay me to do were I to rent myself out.

What will Dana do for 25 dollars?  Let’s find out.

The economy is rough out there guys!

Send me your responses.

I may take you up on the funnier ones if you’re lucky.

Everyone loves a good old fashioned “shit your pants” story, especially when it’s not your own.

I have had my share of farts that have left surprises behind.

I am no stranger to that illustrious gas followed by mass.

But I have never experienced a saga as epic as a story I was told yesterday by a girlfriend of mine.

Let me set the scene for you.

Recently, the fast food chain, “Checkers” had a special going on that offered a free chili dog with the purchase of any food.

This is where the trouble began.

Being the smart consumer that she is, she opted to buy a chili dog and get another chili dog as a reward.

Double your pleasure, double your fun?

Might I add, for your enjoyment of course, what my friend is wearing as she drives through the drive-through window…

She had just come from her “big girl” job, so she is in her professional attire complete with white capri pants made of rather thin material.

You will soon learn, that leisure suits lack the type of material required for such an adventurous meal.

She enjoyed her glorious dogs of chili and headed to fill her tank before she went home to relax.

As my girlfriend entered the room at the gas station to inform the woman behind the bullet proof counter which tank she was about to fill, she realized that she had to fart.

Chili dogs will do that to you.

But, that fart was not going to be a fart.

No, that fart was not even going to be a shart.

She was about to shit her pants.

Not even just shit her pants, my friends….

As globs of diarrhea dripped down her leg in a cramped room in South Philadelphia, she thought to herself, “What the fuck am I going to do?”

This is not something she could hide while wearing those thin white capri pants.

Leisure Suit Larry did not eat Chili Dogs.

The brown goop was all over her flip flops at this point, and the woman in line before her could not stop herself from shaking her head and laughing.

My girlfriend politely excused herself, not that that mattered, and went back to her car.

“Forget the gas”, she figured.

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t gas she was getting at that gas station to begin with.

As she got back in her car, shit stained and all, she picked up her phone to call her mom.

Women tend to call their mom’s when something weird happens… it’s our first instinct.

Well, readers… talking on the phone as you drive in Philadelphia is now illegal.

So, as luck would have it, my friend was then pulled over for being on the phone while behind the wheel.

Now, all women have used the “I have to pee” or some sort of bathroom excuse after being pulled over. But, this was to be a special case for both my friend and the on duty officer.

I use the word, “duty” lightly.

As he leaned into her car, she explained to him that she had just defecated into her panties and was calling to tell her Mother the story.

The officer turned a bright shade of red, took her license and walked back to his car.

Was he really going to give her a ticket?

On top of crapping her pants, ruining her work pants and humiliating herself at a gas station, was she now going to get a ticket for talking on the phone while driving?

The officer returned quickly and handed my friend back her license, along with a stock pile of napkins to clean herself off.

Napkins from Checkers.

The restaurant that keeps on giving.

The other night was video game night.

First we played “Soul Calibur 4”, and I triumphantly kicked my man’s ass as Yoda because the force is and always will be strongest with me.

He thought that if we tried battling as the floppy titted corny bitches it would make a difference. But K.O. after K.O. proved that I am indeed a jedi warrior no matter what form I take.

Seemingly pissed off, he then pulled out a Japanese game called, “Beautiful Katamari”.

This will be a game he proceeded to annihilate me in.

As I played levels where the objective is to roll up objects in this world to please the King of the Cosmos, I decided quickly that Japanese people are fucking crazy.

First of all, it is impossible to make that Liberachi dressed King happy. And he is a dick.

Secondly, the “objects” laying around in the towns and cities in this virtual universe are more random than the visions I used to have when I drank morning glory seeds in my youth.

This wacky rolling katamari collected items ranging from tires, lilly pads, giant squids, floating cows, famous wrestlers, giraffes and innocent people you are clearly murdering.

Then, after you roll them up into your ball of death while fast paced Japanese pop music plays in the background, the King rips you a new asshole and tells you that you suck at making a sufficient sized Katamari.

Clearly, the makers of this game were smoking something they had rolled up when they created this technology.

Or were they?

Because seriously, Japanese people are nuts.

Look at the bizarre shit that is marketed over there from school-girl’s underwear vending machines, electronic face-dancing, the square watermelon, the Hello Kitty assault rifle and my personal favorite… penis ice cream.

I read an article in my research about a petition signed by thousands of people to the government to legalize marriage to cartoon characters.

We can’t get Americans to support gay unions and the Japanese support anime love.

It’s a peculiar Nation of little crazy sex crazed people.

Kind of like the infamous Midget Town that I am dying to visit but on marketing mushrooms and slanted.

Here are some of my favorite examples of why this country is ape shit crazy:

-I found a toy called the “Tuttuki Bako Finger Game.”

You stick your finger in the box and a digital representation appears on the screen mimicking your motions. You then proceed to terrorize a tiny stick man, poke a girl in the face and flick a tiny panda.

This is not normal.

My first thought in seeing the product, knowing little about the Japanese culture outside of porn,

was to wonder when the vagina stage would arrive for some good old finger banging.

Ages 5+

-Next I saw an ad for a product called, “Mother’s Milk”, which is dubbed, “The Breast-tasting drink EVER!”

No, not from a cow’s udder, from someone’s Mother.

I shudder to think of one of those manufacturer’s factories.

Milk. It does a body good.

-I won’t say much about this next two products, I will just show their pictures .

Really??

Ok.

-Known as “Ganguro”, there is a retarded trend in Japan that may make even less sense than the Goth faze I remember in the early 90s.

Women fashion their make-up to appear like an overexposed photo negative.

It’s kind of the look Michael Jackson was going for with a Twisted Sister flair.

-Then there was this item that I could not find a name for.

I can only assume it’s purpose is for the type of person who often falls asleep on the subway.

I can relate to said person being that I was a junkie who would nod out on the subway in New York and end up in Brooklyn on many occasions.

But, does this sad Japanese woman not have… a friend?

What happens when the suction cup sticks and she can’t get out?

What about the fact that she just looks stupid and it screams, ‘Rob me, I am asleep.”

-Oddest to me is a prank often played in Japan called “Kancho”.

It is performed by clasping the hands together so that the index fingers are pointing out and then attempting to insert them sharply into someone’s anal region when the victim is not looking.

It’s much like an American wedgie, perhaps in prison or hell.

Who created this game, Ashton Kutcher?

Beyond their game shows, odd inventions and obsession with mayonnaise, Japanese culture is off the wall.

I want to visit this magical wonderland of madness and Sony.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a geek.

I am a comic book reading, video game playing, Star Wars fanatic and I don’t care who knows it!

Well when I found out that Comic Con was coming to Philadelphia, I shit a small ewok shaped brick.

After purchasing a ticket and renewing my subscription to Wizard Magazine, I went on to Craigslist to continue my search for a job.

I assume those two browsers were open in many an over aged nerd’s computer as they perused them from their Mother’s basement.

While looking under “Misc. Jobs”, I stumbled upon a gold mine.

A company called, “Superherostuff.com” was looking for a booth babe to hand out flyers at the convention.

The entire forest moon of Endor dropped into my panties at that very moment.

Let me get this straight… go to the convention for three days AND get paid? I needed in.

I promptly wrote the company an email that could probably be considered by most people to be stands for a restraining order.

The only thing I excluded in my geeked out plea for the job was a naked picture and the promise of my first born.

Perhaps it was my extensive comic book knowledge, perhaps it was my enthusiasm, perhaps it was my promise for the group gang bang… but for some unknown reason, they decided to hire me.

This weekend has been quite the trip.

I scalped my ticket and headed in to my Disney Land.

You know, since the real Disney Land is fucking corny.

There were a good deal of both celebrities and “celebrities” there.

Vernon Wells (No, not the baseball player… the guy from “Mad Max 2”) asked me how much I “cost”. I assume he was drunk.

I’d be drunk too if I were a has been.

Speaking of, Steven Baldwin didn’t even show!

I followed WWF pretty hardcore in my youth. So I was excited to find out there would be some old school wrestlers there.

I was so hardcore in my youth, in fact, that I almost chose to go to college at Hart School of Music in Connecticut JUST to live near Vince McMahon.

I now wish to vomit all over that teenage wrestling fan self after an unfortunate run in with Virgil.

He called me over to his table as he messily chowed down on buffalo chicken wings.

He was an indescribable living stereo-type.

If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought I was watching a Saturday Night Live sketch of a perverted ghetto black man.

Here’s how our lovely interaction went and my childhood innocence was ruined:

Virgil: “Hey girl. How much you weigh”

Dana: “I don’t know… 107?”

Virgil: “Turn around for me.”

Dana: “No.”

Virgil: “MMM… You gotta baby body.”

Dana: “What?”

It’s hard to hear words of wooing through the smatter of chicken and saliva.

Virgil: “You hairy?”

Dana: “No.”

Now, I could have walked away. But, I wanted to see where this was going.

Virgil: “I like hairy women”

That’s where it went.

Virgil: “I’ll put hair on you…

Virgil: “You Like Black men?”

Dana: “I don’t dislike them.”

Virgil: “You wanna come home with me?”

Dana: “I have a boyfriend.”

He then licked the remainder of sauce off of his fingers…

Virgil: “I don’t give a shit… he can come along.”

And along with that conversation went my last shred of sex drive.

Million Dollar Man: Worth millions.

Conversation with Virgil: Priceless.

Luckily, that day got much better when I got the chance to meet Linda Hamilton.

She is wildly friendly and looks amazing!!!

I asked her what any normal fan would ask the beauty to their beast.

“Linda, would you sign my boob?”

She was happy to oblige and had no interest in charging me as long as it weren’t for a tattoo and just for fun.

In fact, she told me she felt like she should be PAYING me.

Someone most have told her about my breast implant widget.

I told her I would bake her brownies and bring them to her the following day.

As I dropped those brownies off to her, she actually remembered me.

She asked me if they were “special brownies” and seemed relieved when I said that they were not.

When I walked away, I realized she probably threw them right in the trash can.

I would.

I mean, some crazy asshole stranger at a comic book convention, who asked her if she would sign her tit the day prior, just brought her a plastic baggie full of food.

That’s just creepy.

What was most random was that people at the convention kept asking to take pictures with me like I was anything but some flyer slave.

I wasn’t in a costume or anything, the booth just asked me to just wear one of their slinkier Wonder Woman tank tops.

I am a Marvel fan dammit… not DC.

Being a narcissist, I took each photo op with pride.

If I end up in even one Trekkie’s spank tank, then I have succeeded.

People would get so offended when I would try to give them a flyer if I already had.

“You gave me one yesterday, remember?”

No! Almost everyone here looks like the comic book guy on the Simpsons.

The coolest though, was the chance to meet Marilyn Ghigliotti and Scott Schiaffo from Clerks.

That movie was evolutional for film making and is a cult classic.

Marilyn now works with the awesome Eric Nyenhuis on “Retro Radio Live” on sirius XM, and they interviewed me earlier today.

The station is talk radio, remembering the 70′s, 80′s and 90′s.

I wasn’t alive in the 70′s, I was a baby in the 80′s and I was high in the 90′s… so I talked about this blog.

They really were the best years for all sources of media, but when I get the chance to talk about me to a large group of people… I will.

Then I left before the gang bang… muhahahhahahahhaahahahahaah!

After all was said and done; I went home with a whopping $40, had an amazing weekend, made new friends and no there were no lines for the ladies room… not too shabby Comic Con!

No Winston, I have never “Quit better jobs than this.”

On an amazingly beautiful day like this, I can’t help but to stay outdoors.

I laid in the sun thinking about how freeing it felt to drink my coffee in the park with my lap top.

I do not have a care in the world.

I then began to wonder…

What do convicted felons do on such a beautiful day?

Are there “good days” when you’re in jail?

I woke up this morning and looked out my window, just like a prisoner could, to see the sun shinning.

But, unlike the criminal I speak of, I went outside and enjoyed my day.

They merely see the rays of sun peer down to a dark spot on the cold dank floor of their 6 by 8 prison cell.

They too can go outside, briefly, to their cement block to perhaps work out in the fully-equipped, state-of-the-art gym so that they can be bigger, faster, stronger criminals upon release.

But once that whistle blows, they will once again be locked behind bars.

I wonder if a great game of spades really gets a murderer’s spirits up.

Maybe a pleasant day is after effective sphincter tightening exercises.

Maybe it’s when one has finally taught themselves how to give themselves a BJ.

Maybe it’s a day when Jimmy 24601 has not been ass raped or has been ass raped or has ass raped someone new?

I think if I were in jail, I would institute fun games on a lovely day much like today.

I would try to wrangle others in my posse to stage a prison rendition of whatever Anne Rice novel we had checked out of the library at the time.

Or perhaps I would play a game of “find the contraband” with the guards.

If I were more of an artist, I would carve my same sex lover’s image into the soap with my home made shiv, and then use that shiv to make them my bitch.

I have heard, from my ex-con friends, that food was a big deal in lock up.

Out of curiosity, I looked up Aramark’s special prison menu.

Prices generally run from $7-12 for a hot meal and $20-100 for a junk food box filled with beef jerky, iced cookies, vanilla cappuccino and other goodies not available in the commissary.

That seemed pretty damn expensive to me, but being that I am not in jail… I care very little.

Here is the run down of a prison store:

Ramen (chili, beef, shrimp, chicken): $5

Kosher Pickle: $3

Chili Rice and Beans: $3

Meat and Cheese Sticks: $5

The “No Snack Attack” package, and no I don’t think “attack” should be in the title of anything having to do with prison either, is $19.99.

It comes complete with 1.5 oz. of; Ruffles Chips, Cheetos, 4oz. Crunch n. Munch, 6oz. Potato chips, Nacho Doritos, White Cheddar Popcorn, 2 1oz. Crackers of cheese/peanut butter and a 6oz. Lemonade.

There is also a package called, “The breakfast getaway”. I can’t make something that awesome up.

It is $39.99 and comes with oatmeal, coffee with sugar and cream , a Mrs. Freshley’s grand bun, a Mrs. Freshley’s texas roll, three little powdered doughnuts and orange drink.

Finally, my favorite is the “Birthday Bag” for $19.99. This has 1 cookie, 1 butterfinger, 8 salsa packets, 6oz. Tortilla chips, 7oz. Jolly Ranchers, 4.5 oz. Of both Gummy worms and Sour Bears 6 oz. Of tea mix and lemonade mix, 1 lined paper tablet, 50 sheets of paper, 1 Birthday card and 1 pencil.

Apparently your birthday in prison is just like your birthday at the age of seven minus the magician, parental love, candles and the fact that you may just take that pencil and stab yourself in the jugular.

“Hey Tyrone, all us guys on D block got together, shanked some people, traded some cigarettes and got you a sealable bag, 3 containers of Orange Juice, 1.5 cups of sugar, 3 dinner rolls and some tap water.”

(This is the recipe for fermenting alcohol if you were wondering… it apparently takes six days and I hear it tastes like shit but it’s Tyrone’s birthday and his gang went to a lot of trouble.)

“You guys… No ass rape today!”

“Yay!!!”

I suppose you can make a “good day” anywhere.

It’s a matter of perspective… ask T.I.

Maybe I’ll send some photos down to the local jail of some titties, not mine of course.  Some nice one’s.

It’s one of those day’s you just want to pay it forward.

Am I the only one who thinks the oil spill looks like explosive diarrhea?

It seems to coat the Louisiana coast in a way that it does my toilet, and I feel empathy for them because I know how hard it is to get that shit off.

The BP (one of the world’s largest gas companies) estimates 210,000 gallons of oil a day has spilled since April 28^th.

This has been disputed by scientists as of late, who say it is likely to be ten times bigger than that.

As I splattered the back of my toilet to look similar to a Jackson Pollock painting this afternoon, I felt the sadness in the South.

Obama criticized the BP and other companies for the environmental disaster in the Gulf of Mexico.

I assume that a criminal probe is on it’s way and prosecutions will go down the line from the MMS staff.

How is it the BP has no idea how to clean up their own mess?

Something smells funny around here and it wasn’t my massive dump.

Obama should have known better than to trust that a foreign company that pays little to no tax would be truthful about their paper trail.

But, maybe we are all wrong and North Korea planted a plethora of laxatives in the Gulf.

It was meant to be a new type of warfare to give our sea life bulimia that went array.

That is no crazier a notion than Rush Limbaugh suggesting that “environmentalist wackos” deliberately blew up the oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico in order to stop off shore drilling.

Readers, unless you live under a rock, you are currently aware of the catastrophic explosion from an offshore BP drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico that has since reached the shore line.

(Pardon the redundance, I thought I would take a moment to catch up the morons.)

To clean up this mess, an attempt was made to plug the oil leak in a mission dubbed, “Top Kill.”.

The BP decided it would be a novel idea to drill mud into the well 5,000 feet underneath the water.

Now, if I clog my toilet, and proceed to throw some more shit in the top tank in hopes of pushing down the lower feces… would you suppose those efforts would prove successful?

Needless to say, this mission failed.

Robot submarines were then sent out to finish off what human beings could not start.

It was like Stanley Kubrick’s wet dream.

But unlike the droids of our comic book dreams, they were only able to suck out a disappointing 900,000 gallons from the gusher.

If this were an “end of the world” movie folks… we would all be fucked.

Being that it is now hurricane season in the Gulf, oceanographers forecasted winds high enough to send a hault to boats on the newly erected clean up operation.

This data came to the public along with the uplifting news that by August there may just be a containment valve in place that will somewhat restrict the flow.

Plan D sounds like something I want to get behind.

“This may or may not cause you to go blind… or it will make you have X-ray vision.”

“Well, let me rub some of that shit all over my eyes then!”

It’s OK, only 11 people have died thus far, no need to rush on that one guys, we will wait.

You would think shoving wads of toilet paper down there would do the trick.

It works at my house.

There’s always the under-used Sham-Wow option as well.

Angered Americans everywhere drove their Hummer’s down to the coastline to demonstrate against the BP.

Some people are making light of the situation.

Like a bar in L.A. that has a hot new drink called, “The Tar Ball Shot”.

It consists of one part Jagermeister, one part grape Jell-O and what I can only assume is one horribly long evening of vomiting.

Another drink on their menu is “The Oil Spill”. This contains shaved ice, chocolate and cherry syrup.

Apparently, they are in the process of concocting “The Oil Slick Daiquiri”.

Though I appreciate their dark humor, I wonder the life expectancy of such a joke.

Even the “Lost lunch specials” are passe, and that’s been a mere week.

Here’s the important question, when Peter Jackson makes the “BP the oil Spill Movie”, who will play the romantic leads?

The other day, my girlfriend Mia informed me about the most brilliant parenting in the universe.

Indonesian toddler, Ardi Rizal is just two years old and smokes 40 cigarettes a day.

His father taught him how to smoke when he was at the ripe old age of 18 months.

That is what I call dedication.

The downside to his task?

This little fatty is too unfit to run around with all of the other children and will most likely die before he can even learn how to read.

The upside?

He has found something to put in place of the typical childish oral fixation and most likely does not suck his thumb.

Think of the money those parents will save on braces!

Parents: one     AMA: zero

When asked, his father said, “I’m not worried about his health. He looks healthy.”

He then shrugged and added, “He cries and throws tantrums when we don’t let him smoke. He’s addicted.”

Well there smartie, I must have been addicted to cake then because I am pretty sure I cried and threw tantrums when my parents didn’t let me have that.

Good call on giving in on that fight.

I am not so impressed that little Ardi can down 2 packs a day. That’s some amateur shit.

My question though is, can he hold his liquor?

What kind of peer pressure is this kid experiencing in the neighborhood playground?

If I were Phillip Morris I would offer him a Lear Jet to continue smoking to combat the car his government has offered him to quit.

That cute little face has to be able to boost cigarette sales faster than any falic looking camel.

My first instinct in hearing this story was to go back to my ongoing curiosity about breast milk.

Every time I have a friend who pops out a little rug rat, I always ask them if I can take a sip of their natural love nectar.

I am dying to know what that stuff tastes like.

My friends usually laugh uncomfortably and tell me, “Maybe another time.”

That time never arrives.

Breast milk fascinates me, being that it is the only edible fluid our body creates.

You would have thought that the castaways on Gilligan’s Island would have kept Marry Anne pregnant the entire time they were stuck there.

She looked like she wanted it anyway, and she could’ve fed the whole lot with those things.

I know we “can” technically eat baby placenta.

Which oddly is what I think of every time I see oysters.

But the consistency just turns me off.

Now, as a smoker, I can state firmly that the “After McDonald’s cigarette” is the best cigarette you can possibly have.

It comes right after the “with coffee cigarette”.

I can’t help but wonder if Junior has discovered an “after” smoke unlike any “after” smoke the world has ever known.

The “teat smoke” is what I call it.

He may be a little bitty titty genius.

I also read that his smoking habit costs the Rizal family a cool $5.50 a day.

Now, I don’t know the going rate for a fish mangler, which is his father’s occupation, but that’s pretty damn cheap for 2 packs of cigarettes a day.

I’m currently looking for employment myself, so if Ardi needs a Nanny I may be lured by the low nicotine prices to go third world.

I’d be a much better influence than his parents.

I wouldn’t dare let him smoke more than one pack a day.

He is a growing boy.

Here is a clip of him puffing away:

http://dlisted.com/node/37418

I have not been blessed with flawless skin.

(Thanks Mom)

Each month, right before my period, I tend to break out.

Being a girl is a bitch I tell you.

Sometimes if I am super lucky, I will get the kind of zit that really leaves an impression.

You know the type, a big red one that doesn’t even want to have a pretty white head so you can’t even make it go away quickly.

That zit that you can feel on you face before you even know it’s there.

The kind of zit that just wants to poke it’s ugly, unwanted face into the party.

You can’t hide that zit.

Try as you may, you can’t avoid that zit.

Worst of all, you cannot ignore that zit’s presence.

That pimple is Voldemort to your Harry Potter.

It is Steve Urkel to your Laura.

It’s the bandana to your Bret Michaels.

It is the wire hanger to your abortion.

This zit is the very bane of your existence.

Well readers, I have had my very first overnight stay with my boyfriend planned for a few weeks now.

It’s a big step in a new relationship.

As timing would have it, I am due for my bloody friend next tuesday around noon (feel free to mark this fact in your calendars for future reference. It may also come n handy at Quizzo).

Two days ago, I woke up with the type of blemish I speak of above.

I need not explain my lack of excitement.

First impulses as to how to deal with these death zits should never be acted upon.

I decided to ignore that sage wisdom.

Quickly, I grabbed a hot compress with the hope of bringing puss to the surface.

Anyone who says they don’t enjoy popping their own pussy zits it’s a dirty liar.

Unsuccessful tries lead me to reach for my tweezers.

Perhaps if I pull the skin back, I can dig deeper.

Before I knew it, I was in a daze. I was no longer picking at my face, I was excavating a demon from the underworlds.

Cotton swabs, hydrogen peroxide and clearasil were my tools as I became a woman on a mission.

You would have thought I had eaten an eighth of mushrooms and was dissecting a frog.

In the end, I was left with what looked like a bloody scab.

Lovely, now I’ll look so hot for my trip!

I covered it with makeup.

If you are curious… adding beige foundation to a red scab turns a lovely color of dark brown. This is much less obvious then what coverup on the original red bump would have looked like.

I wonder if he’d notice, I thought?

He may just think I put a cigarette out on my chin.

That is less embarrassing then thinking his girlfriend dared to have a pimple.

The funniest part of these horrible pimples is that there is a part of you that misses them when they are gone, like you have formed some sort of a love/hate bond with them.

It reminds me of both the theme of the novel “A Tale of two cities” and how the world feels about Tom Cruise.

Oh, you can’t relate perfect skin people?

Fuck you.

When you go to see a staged show, you are there watching actors.

What you are unaware of is that the actor’s are watching you as well.

We bitch offstage about the douchebags talking through our “big moment” and we see you with your head in your playbill during our fucking song.

First of all, what you have to say can wait. Secondly, I’m sorry, am I boring you? Go fuck yourself. Read that at intermission I want your attention.

Shocker, actors thrive off of adoration.

Wanna know a secret? If an audience responds favorably to the performance, the performers try harder.

We give up on your asses when you suck.

I mean, we are getting paid either way.

Another annoying audience member trait is your child.

Ok, that’s not a trait, but they are fidgeting and kicking other seats and should be at home with a sitter.

Now, sneezing and coughing is involuntary. I get that, and I am very sensitive to your ailments.

But if you’re sick what he hell are you doing out in the first place?

I’ll punch you in the crotch if you get me sick during the run of my show.

If you are unsure as to whether you are a perpetrator of annoying yourself, here are some signs:

1. People near you move seats.
2. Other audience members continuously look over at you (no, you don’t look “super cute”… you are pissing someone off).
3. Hugh Jackman has yelled at you from the stage. (link at bottom)

During the run of this last show, we had a few interesting characters in the audience.

One of my favorites was a rather large woman in a fancy, bright pink, poofy dress.

Luckily, she sat in the very front row, enjoying her beer and crinkling an entire bag of chips.

By the way, we also love when you eat loud food like potato chips… it doesn’t distract us at all.

You should pretend it’s the movies and enjoy.

The worst food offenders is wrapped candies.

Is it me or does it take an hour to open one and a whole lot of unnecessary noise?

Anyway, during this show, my opening scene involved me pushing a vacuum through the aisles.

Being an asshole, I made it a point to suck up her pink train as I passed.

None of the cast members admitted to knowing this woman dressed for her 80′s High School Prom.

The audience member who takes the cake though is a man who calls himself, “The Anonymous Trucker”.

He is a man who, while driving his tractor-trailer all over the country, is on a rather unusual mission.

He feels the need to find the local playhouses in each town he delivers to, and stops to see a theatrical production.

This nameless show goer even has his own parking spot at the “New Castle Playhouse”.

I don’t know where that is, but that is as ironic as it is unnecessary.

He has gone as far as to tell his fleet manager not to call him on a Friday or Saturday night or Sunday afternoon.

I asked this man what made him so into theatre, and as luck would have it he had a printed pamphlet in the back of his big rig explaining his story.

In it, Mr. Trucker says to other drivers, “So, if you’re a trucker, put down the porn, pass up the video games, the bars, and the lot lizards, and give culture a try!”

Obviously he is on a mission from gay.

It’s like he needed to make his Nascar loving pop proud so he went into something he felt was manly, like truckin’.

But his secret love for sequins and musicals overrode any desire for hookers or beer.

When other drivers call him over the C.B. To discuss a drop off, do you think he is belting out Barbara and wearing heels?

COME SUPPORT MY NEXT SHOW!!!

But remember, I am watching you.

http://www.celebitchy.com/72915/hugh_jackman_yells_at_audience_member_with_a_ringing_cell_phone/