You’d Think It’d Be A Theft Deterrent, But Wherever We Live, We Get Robbed.

Conversation with my Realtor yesterday:

Noa: So, Adrian and I want to lower the price for our house again.

Realtor: I think that’s a good idea. I’ll send over the paperwork.

Noa: Great.

Realtor: I wanted to let you know that since someone broke in to the house and stole the appliances, I’m having a hard time keeping any of the doors closed.

Noa: All the doors?

Realtor: Well, yes, but especially the back door. (that’s what she said.)

Noa: That’s because my house is haunted.

Realtor:………..What?

Noa: The house is haunted.

Realtor: Oh, well, uh, that sure does explain it.

Noa: I’m joking. The back door won’t stay closed because that’s where they broke in to steal my shit.

Realtor: Ah! I see. I’ll send someone to fix it.

Noa: The house is haunted, though. I was just joking about it opening doors. It never learned how. It just made phone calls and cried all night in the crawl space.

Realtor: Should I put that in the seller’s disclosure?

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It’s no wonder we can’t sell the damn thing.

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Also, you bitches have some serious competition in the Fashion Fuckaround Challenge. The entries have been coming in and HOLY SHIT they’re good.

There’s still a few days left to submit your pictures to ohnoagavin at gmail dot com and win a $50 Visa Gift Card if you’re chosen as the Fashiony-est of them all.

 

Yesterday I was a sloth. Figuratively.

This is my first week of actually, truly, working from home.

It’s been weird.

And a little boring. I’m having a hard time getting into the swing of, “I should probably do some actual work or people are going to be really pissed at me.”

Yesterday’s Schedule:

8:00-Wake Up

8:00-9:00-Sad about the dream I had where Adrian didn’t let me go to London with him because I didn’t have my passport. Punch Adrian while he’s sleeping.

10:00-Put down ABCNews.com after finding 3 misspelled headlines. Wake Adrian up.

11:00-Shower

12:00-1:00-Work Out. Make Iced Tea. 1 load of laundry.

2:00- Feed the cats. Eat food.

3:00-4:00-Work

4:00-5:00-Cry in the shower to Adrian about how guilty I feel for working from home.

6:00-7:00-Work

7:00-8:00-Pretend to be a sloth while Adrian eats dinner. Snuck around the kitchen until he notices, then climbed in the chair with him. Assist him with a three-toed napkin swipe. Made him guess what animal I was before I got out of his chair. It takes him a while.

9:00-11:00-Watch Stupid Game Show Clips on YouTube. Laugh at Family Feud answer, “A REALLY LOUD HAMBURGER,” for the better part of an hour.

Predominantly unproductive. Endlessly fun.

I can’t do this much longer. I need to start a business. But not just any business. I need one that makes me a lot of money really really quickly, while preferably leaving my clothes on, cause Adrian isn’t okay with less than that. Marking off stripping does eliminate a lot of quick-class possibilities. I need a quick-buck business, that doesn’t require a lot of skill, in a visible location. Essentially, I need to rip people off.

Nailed it.

Grace and I are opening next week.

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The deadline for the Fashion Fuckaround Challenge is almost here (January 30th.) If you once wore a questionable outfit and have photographic proof, send it to me and you could win a $50 Visa Gift Card. NO FOOLIN’, GARY COLEMAN. God rest his soul.

ohnoagavin at gmail dot com

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I Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Drive.

Adrian and I had a chat this weekend, after I called him for the 4th or 5th time saying, “OH MY GOD MY CAR IS BREAKING DOWN I DON’T WANT TO BUY A NEW ONE,” and it turned out that actually I had just put the ‘ol Jeep in 4 Wheel Low so that’s why it wouldn’t shift into a higher gear.

I really shouldn’t be allowed to drive. The evidence is piling up against me.

1. I jumped my 1974 SuperBeetle into a cornfield.

This car is the very reason I will never complain about a vehicle I drive ever again.

My stepdad, true to his plan to “toughen us up,” bought me this car–a stick shift (which, to be fair, I’m grateful I can drive now), purple, hole in the floorboards, tarantula in the trunk, wasp nest in the backseat, no heater, cracked windshield piece of shit. Ask Grace, I’m not exaggerating. I HATED that car, but it was the only car I had, and my driving history to that point didn’t exactly warrant me needing anything nicer. I cleaned it up as well as I could–extracted the creatures who called it home, peeled the Grateful Dead stickers off, put in some Zebra accents, and literally sailed into the sunrise.

One day, I was driving to school, and as teenage girls are tend to do, got distracted.

I was re-applying lipgloss, when suddenly I realized I could only see clouds. I was sailing through the air.

I had apparently run off the road and over a raised driveway large enough to send me airborne. Herbie ain’t got shit on that purple bug.

I landed hard in a cloud of dirt, both outside and thanks to the holes in the floorboards, inside. The car died, and was buried pretty well nose-down in a cornfield.

Another reason why I shouldn’t be driving? I never panicked–just laughed my ass off and drove away.

2. I can’t even control a go-cart.

One summer, my sister and I worked and worked and worked our asses off to earn a go-cart. One day, in our garage stood a lawn-mower engined, shiny white ticket to freedom.

Grace and I invented a lot of games to play, all of which consisted of us flooring it and usually putting me in mortal danger. Games like, “Hey, lean out and grab that Horny Toad while I whizz by,” and “Mrs. White made us cookies again, grab the baggie out of her hand while we whizz by.”

Grace usually drove because I was too damn short to reach the brakes. She knew this to be true, but she often let me drive by myself.

“How did she stop?” you’re wondering.

I rammed into the garage door as hard as I could. I must have done this 100 times before I finally made a dent, which was accompanied by a sonic boom and my stepdad, furious, and Grace laughing her ass of.

3. I’ll go too fast on anything.

Before we got the go-cart, we had a riding lawn mower. The Stormin’ Craftsman had 6 gears, but the Stepdad would only let us get up to third gear, at which snails would flip us off for being in the fast lane.

But he never said we couldn’t go in reverse, which ended up being about 1,000 times faster than 6th gear anyway. The summer before we got the go-cart was filled with Grace and I whipping backwards through a field as fast as that sombitch would let us, trying not to jackknife the trailer that I rode in, thus killing me.

4. If we’re in danger, I will only laugh.

Let me preface this by explaining to you that Grace has a terrible fear of Geese, because once when she was little and Ma was pregnant with me, she was chased through a park by one and Ma’s only contribution was, “RUN FASTER.”

So we were driving to school one beautiful day, and we both had our windows down. There were geese ahead of us in the road, but, as everyone knows, when you get close enough, they fly away.

Well, they all tried to fly away. One got pulled in to the windstream around us and got his head sucked in to the Driver’s side window. Miraculously, he lived, and honked FURIOUSLY in Grace’s face for about a mile. She was screaming in terror, driving all over the road (now that I think about it, it was right where I jumped my bug several years later). There were feathers and expletives all OVER that car.

And I could do nothing but laugh.

Grace was trying so hard to defend herself, but he was honking away, snapping at her hair.

So her plan was to keep driving faster all over the road, in the hopes that he would be sucked out of the window by the same force that sucked him in. It actually fucking worked and he slipped out of the window and Grace was able to stop.

I’ll never forget her face as she turned to me after the ordeal, covered in feathers and tears, shaking like a leaf.

Oh God, I’m laughing just thinking about it.

5. I’ll wreck anything you put me in.

Examples: I wrecked my first car so badly I snapped the drive shaft. Oh, also, I was 14. Unhurt and blasting Blink 182, but that little gold Honda wouldn’t even TRY to start. I wrecked my stepdad’s truck so badly he had to use a crowbar to open the doors from then on. I slammed it into our 2o foot tall front gate hard enough to knock it down and render the doors useless. In that same truck, I once hit a deer which ripped out the headlights and fucked up the transmission something awful. I totaled my Cavalier by going about 10 miles an hour.

Really, it just makes sense to leave me in the passenger’s seat.

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Submissions are coming in for the Fashion Fuckaround Challenge! It’s your chance to show off how awesome you look and win a $50 Visa Gift Card, or a Corn-Nut Tiara. Submissions need to be in by January 30th–and then YOU get to pick the winner!

Submit your favorite fashion disaster pic to ohnoagavin at gmail dot com.

Funny Bitch Friday: Douglass Diaries

Though she may be new to The League of Funny Bitches, I’mma talk about Brandi of Douglass Diaries today for a few special reasons.

1. She’s bloody famous now

2. She kicks ass at losing weight

3. She needs some love, y’all, after her hubs left for Afghanistan, and she bribed insurgents with muffins.

4. Cause she’s fly like a cheese stick

5. Scrapgate

6. And the Scrapoff and Winners

I could go on and on and on and on and on.

Go show her some love.

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Don’t forget about the Fashion Fuckaround Challenge (just crop your head off if you’re embarrassed and send in the picture of the clothes. It’ll be like a lineup but without heads.)

Submit your pictures of your favorite fashion disasters from childhood or yesterday and you will probably win $50. NO FOOLIN’

Grace and Noa. 2 years ago.

 

 

ohnoagavin at gmail dot com

Let’s do this, Leaguers.

‘Merica: Land of Ridiculous Problems

Funny Bitch Friday will be back tomorrow.

We need to have a talk.

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Ma’am, you fell into a fountain. You were uninjured. You were embarrassed, sure, but you were unhurt. Some mall security should probably be fired for leaking it to YouTube, yes, but to sue the mall?

Why? Why sue them? Because no one came to your aid? You fell in a fountain and then stood right back up again like nothing happened, and walked away. I wouldn’t have addressed it because I would figure you’d want to leave well enough alone. You just made an ass out of yourself.

Had I been you, I might have laughed at myself, and not gone to the news bitching.

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This teacher has been placed on leave for going to the police about a very violent student after parents and school officials did nothing. She was placed on leave for violating the student’s privacy rights.

These kids were 7-years-old, being faced with a classmate threatening violence–including bringing a gun to school.

7-years-old.

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This cop was suspended when he wrote a ticket to a 7-year-old boy when the boy threw a ball at his truck and hit it, in an effort to have the child’s mom discipline him for what he did.

When I was a kid, I threw rocks at a neighbor’s window and broke it, so my mom took me to the sheriff’s office. He scared the hell out of me. I worked off the money I needed to buy them a new window. I turned out to be a good kid.

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What in the shit is going on with this country?

We’re complaining about problems that other people would DREAM to have.

Other people in the world have to worry whether or not their government will kill them that day. Or if they have enough food to feed their children though they haven’t eaten in days. There are places in the world with terribly unsafe drinking water, food, and living conditions.

People are being washed away by mudslides in Brazil, watching their families die right before their eyes.

Children are being sold into slavery everywhere.

My in-laws had to escape their own country. They lived in a refugee camp in Greece for 4 years. They had a 2 year old at the time, and hot water once a week. Some of their friends still fear the KGB.

Your problems are not that bad. You were texting and fell of your own volition, not killed or maimed by a drunk driver.

The teacher stopped violence the only way she knew how, and probably averted a major disaster and allowed a child to gain access to the mental health help he or she desperately needed. Let us not forget a 9-year-old girl was killed recently after a man who needed that help did not get it.

The officer was teaching a child about the law, and safety after he was given no option but to do so.

America? Grow the fuck up. Look at what you have, and be grateful.

Oprahlympics

I like to liven up my day by playing little games that no one else knows I’m playing. George Bush Mouth and Space Invaders were inspired by boring meetings.

But a recent conversation with Grace inspired these few games brought to you by the Goddess of Stupid Crap on TV, The Oprah. Appropriate at the mall and at home, there are a million ways to play Oprahlympics.

Let’s do this.

1. GrOPRAH Shopping

You Need: 1. To have seen any episode of Oprah ever     2. A Grocery List

How To Play: Go grocery shopping. Every time you find an item on your list, you have to shout it out like Oprah shouts celebrity names.

“Vlasssiiccc PIIIIIIIIICCCCKKLLLESSS!”

“Trojan MAAAAAGGNNUUUUMMMS!”

“Whole-Wheat PPPPPAAAASSSTTAAAAA!”

“Spa-GHETTTIOOOSSSSS!”

It’s the only cool way to buy groceries these days.

2. Harpo Head-Snaps

You Need: A neckbrace

How to Play: At every possible moment, headsnap for emphasis. Oprah does this while nodding, while ‘understanding your feeble plight,’ and while announcing her FAVORITE THIIIIIINNNGGSSSSS!

BUY*Snap*A*Snap*MOUNTAIN*Snap*

3. Ho-Oprah

You Need: Ninja Skills

How to Play: Allow no physical contact. Anytime anyone tries to initiate so much as a High-Five, give ‘em the old Oprah Hug–the Ho-Prah. You must shake the hands, and shout, “GOOD FOR YOU!”

They use it in Australia:

And Oprah even gives the Ho-Prah to BaBa.

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Any games you play when you’re bored?

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Also, don’t forget about the Fashion Disaster Challenge, where bad decisions make you money!

Who has the best picture of your worst fashion disaster?

You can send me your favorite disaster picture to ohnoagavin at gmail dot com by January 30th. I’ll pick the top 5, and you’ll all get to vote for the winner.

Winner wins a $50 Visa Gift Card to buy whatever you want. Or a cross-stitch sampler. Or a picture of my boobies, but Adrian says I have to be wearing a shirt at least.

*UPDATED* Mallpocalypse: You’re Out of Control, ‘Merica. *UPDATED*

I went to the mall last week, and was both baffled and horrified by what I saw. What is going on with clothing these days?

First, this.

Is that? Oh God. It's acid wash.

Does it come with it’s own scrunchie set and airbrush machine?

Then, this.

FO-TY DOLLA. $40. FORTY GODDAMN DOLLARS.

What? WHAT IS HAPPENING? I can’t tell if that’s the ass or the U.P.A. What ass would look good in this? Your ass would have a smooshed, ruched crack. Ruchecrack is generally inadvisable.

It’s like a deflated Cyndi Lauper.

Oh no.

Is that a jersey BUTTERFLY PONCHO?

Yes it is.

Now, now I’ve seen everything.

OH COME ON.

It’s like designers hired 13-year-olds with Bret Michaels in Boca Raton to design this shit. Worse yet–SOME PEOPLE HAVE BOUGHT THESE THINGS.

There’s a demand for it. There is a demand for jersey butterfly ponchos. My blood is boiling.

Then, I read THIS little gem about the new trend of holyshit on ABC News.

This is a world gone lazy.

PajamaJeans have already been torn apart for their ridiculousness, so I won’t waste my time.

They make fun of themselves, really. It's feature/benefit relationship.

But the President of Jumpin’ Jammerz is going a bit far naming this bullshit the “Pajama Culture,” talking about people going to Vegas clubs in these. People considering INTERVIEWING in JEGGINGS AND PAJAMAJEANS. He’s making a social network for people who live this “pajama lifestyle.”

Party-Time!

I’m just so confused.

I thought this was the end. I thought we’d gone too far in our willingness and ability to swathe ourselves in ridiculous crap.

And then, just to test myself, I googled “ridiculous clothing,” and got these.

These were made for babies. And I assure you, I have chosen the more appropriate ones–most of them made ME blush.

You know what? Wear all the acid-wash corduroy footie pajamas to interviews you want.

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What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen someone wear?

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If we can’t laugh at ourselves, who can we laugh at?

Oh goodness. It seems as though the fashion debate has been around long enough that even early man was quoted as saying, “Ugga wear distressed mammoth hide. Ugga so last global disaster.” And you Leaguers are no exceptions.

So, I propose a contest, inspired by our own Funny Bitch, BloggerToBeNamedLater.

Who has the best picture of your worst fashion disaster?

You can send me your favorite disaster picture to ohnoagavin at gmail dot com by January 30th. I’ll pick the top 5, and you’ll all get to vote for the winner.

Winner wins a $50 Visa Gift Card to buy whatever you want (but so help me, if you buy PajamaJeans.) Or a cross-stitch sampler. Or a picture of my boobies, but Adrian says I have to be wearing a shirt at least.

I’ll start the bidding with me. I have many, many of me when I was a child and my mother decided it’d be cool for me to dress myself (hello Lion King shirt/Polka Dot Bikini/Snowboots combo), but here’s one of me in New York on a vacation where Adrian took me BEFORE WE WERE MARRIED. Look at those butch-ass arms and transitional haircut that leaned to the left.

Who knew old white tennis shoes and too-short jeans would look totally fine on 5th avenue? YES MA’AM!

Example: Shitshow

I am my own reason that I only wear black, white, and gray anymore. I clearly still can’t dress myself.

If we can’t laugh at ourselves, then we can’t laugh at anyone.

On second thought, that came out like a threat.

It’s okay to laugh at yourself. Much better.

Funny Bitch Friday: Hoody Hoo

Y’all. Hoody Hoo. Is fucking hilarious.

From the very first comment (in a sick kind of way, I kinda want a Life Gem… just to screw with people. “Oh, that’s a lovely necklace!” “It was my Nana.” “It was your Nana’s?” “You’re not listening.”) I was in lurve.

The cast of characters never disappoints: My Dear Sweet Mama in particular.

Fucking delightful. (Also, Hoody? Sorry for cussing at your mama.)

Let’s explore her psyche.

The First Step: Hi, I’m Noa, and I’ll punch a bitch if I don’t get to watch ma’ programs.

GET ME DENNIS QUAID! (man, If I had a nickel for every time I needed him)

The Legend of Petey: That’s not safe for Petey’s eyes.

BRILLIANT!: WHY DID I NOT THINK OF THIS?

And, my personal favorite, Blinding you with Science!

Go check it out, homes.

What did YOU do this weekend? Pt. 2

We opened presents, we ate, and then we battled.

It’s much better if I can just show you what the hell happened.

1. Noodle Stab Adrian and Noa

2. Oreo Oral Noa

3. Oreo Oral Grace

What did YOU do this weekend? Part 1

Hello Leaguers. I’ve been awol for the past 4 days because I’ve been in the Texas Panhandle at my Grandmother’s Christmas. And my Christmas, I mean my big ass family comes together to eat a shitload of food and battle. We’ve gone over this before. Pay some attention.

Let’s begin our journey, shall we?

Starting with this might make you think I'm nicer than I am.

And that’s truly where it began. After landing in Amarillo (and driving past the JESUS IS LORD TRUCK STOP–no foolin’), Grace, Damon, Adrian and I drove to Groom for the reception for a funeral.

I can feel you cringing right now in anticipation. You will not be disappointed.

You see, Groom, Texas has one of the World’s Largest Crosses, and I love love love taking pictures in front of religious monuments. Here’s one of me in front of a 20 foot Jesus in a Box. Yes. Jesus. In a box. You can see Grace reflected in the glass.

Abernathy, Texas. You can totally visit it.

So, then this happened.

To be fair, this was a totally cool monument.

Actually a good picture. You can surely see the aftermath of the West Texas Winds in the fact that my hair is in both of our mouths.

Grace: “Adrian, you should have left your hair long and brought a sheet.” (Adrian totally looks like Jesus)

Me: “He could have signed autographs.”

Grace: *PUNCH*

Me: “FUCK!”

Grace: *PUNCH AGAIN*

Apparently, Grace has an issue with Jesus signing autographs.

After this most aupicious start to our funeral journey, we parked in front of my Great-Grandmother’s house and waited on the reception to start. It was cold outside, so Grace put on Damon’s coat, and I got into the coat with her. Just as Adrian had zipped us both into it and we were laughing like a-holes–the hearse pulled in front of us, followed by the family car full of relatives. Adrian AND Damon both saw it coming, and ASSISTED WITH OUR FUCKERY.

I could mentally hear my grandmother yelling her favorite phrase at us, “STOP FARTIN’ AROUND.”

Sorry, Granny.

After making asses of ourselves at a solemn occasion, we visited with family that I haven’t seen since 1998 when my Great-Grandmother died. I knew virtually no-one anymore, and Adrian was even worse. These people remember me from 6th grade–most had no idea I was even alive, much less married. It was socially excruciating. I stayed glued to my Grandmother, offering every 12 seconds to get her something from her car. It was blessedly over within 1/2 an hour.

Upon leaving, this conversation took place with my uncle.

Grace: “Hey, can we follow you to Granny’s? I don’t remember how to get there from here.”

Uncle: “No problem. But I go slow.”

Grace: “It’s okay! I’m happy to follow.”

Uncle then tore through town going 50 through stop signs and school zones, and Grace got air with Mom’s truck at one point. Slow. His defense? “I said I go slow–through stop signs.”

STOP FARTIN’ AROUND!

After assembling our drink choices for the weekend, we finally made it to Granny’s house.

That’s where the real fun began. You’ll have to wait on that. I’m still recovering.

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As an aside, Lana’s son has RSV. Please keep her family in your thoughts.