Archive | November, 2010

Noa Gavin’s Guide to Holiday Gifting: Go Fuck Yourself Edition

29 Nov

There are people in the world that you don’t like. Don’t fucking lie to me–you don’t like them. Could be your in-laws, could be your Aunt, could be a co-worker, but any way you slice it, you’d rather harangue a macaque than see them.

Lucky you! They’re on your Christmas list!

You’ve already sent them a shitty card. But it’s time for something real. Something tangible.

Something that says without a doubt, “Go Fuck Yourself.”

1. Never Smile at a Monkey (Only $10.88!)

It’s long been known that an easy way to piss off friends with kids is to purchase them a noisy toy. That way, anytime they get a splitting headache from the endless appeals of a plastic Dora (“Can you say, Hombre? VERY GOOD.”) they know exactly how you feel about them.

These days, so many toys are noisy. For fuck’s sake, almost every toy my nieces own makes some kind of horrible noise.

Skip that noisy shit and go straight for the source–Psychological Warfare. Give their children nightmares, and they’ll never be able to repay you.

Never Smile at a Monkey is filled with such delightful prose as, “Never Harrass a Hippopotamus. They kill more people in Africa than any other wild animal,” and, “Never Jostle a Jellyfish. If you are unlucky enough to become entangled with a box jellyfish, you will die very quickly.”

Sweet Dreams.

2. Poopsenders.com (about $20-$35 dollars.)

(Picture not included here because that’s fucking gross.)

Nothing says, “Go Fuck Yourself,” like a gallon of anonymous Gorilla shit.

You can choose between cow, elephant, and gorilla, in any one of 2 convenient sizes.

That co-worker that’s a shithead? A gallon of elephant will do nicely.

Your shitty ex-boyfriend? Quart of cow, please.

3. John Wayne 3-D Cuckoo Clock ($200 motherfucking dollars.)

I can only hope instead of saying, “CUCKOO!!” this clock just shouts, “PILGRIM,” over and over again to toll the hours.

Found in SkyMall (who else would carry this?), this magical timepiece features The Duke twice over. Make sure to get the replacement plan for your recipient’s benefit–you’ll want to immediately replace it when someone mysteriously takes an axe to it.

It would be even better to not wrap this, and just weld it to the wall in the home or office of your Secret Santa, that way, they can enjoy True Grit anytime!

I just realized that the numbers are backwards. Really, SkyMall? Couldn’t take the time to press, “mirror image”? You’re charging me $200 for this, the picture better be presentable.

I just. I have no words for how perfectly strange this is.

Mom’s Messages: Real Texts from My Ma

24 Nov

Grace: So, I just got this from mom. “Good 4 u!             U r Ur grandmothers kin!”

Me: It’s like a shitty fortune cookie. By the way, she also has unlimited texting. You’re welcome.

Grace: Great. Thanks for that.

Me: This is the one I got the other day about the Christmas Lists. “BTW, I do not have Word & Granny could not print off ur lists.      cn you resend n another format & make it print n black?”

Grace: Umm. Wow.

Me: I fear sending a PDF. It might blow her mind.

Grace: Do It. PDF it.

Me: This was after I got the following text, asking if she had Word. “I don’t know will ck with Leo when he gets home. It is his old lap top gaming computer Alienware?”

Grace: So many things wrong with that. 1. Leo has a gaming laptop? 2. What the fuck is Alienware? 3. Why does it all end in a questionmark?

Me: She worked with digital medical records.

Panic Attack Tuesday.

23 Nov

Fuck.

I’m buying a house.

Okay, well, Adrian and I are wanting to buy a house. A loft. A small one.

We’re self-employed.

I heard your collective gasps, those who have bought a home before me. For those who haven’t–beware. Buying a home while self-employed is like trying to put mascara on a giraffe. Sure, you can do it eventually, but it’s going to take some serious shit to get there. Hope you brought your ladder and come-a-longs, ho, that Revlon is in for a fucking ride.

While, yes, fundamentally, I understand this is not the Bank’s fault, and the fact that a good 1/3 of the country being in foreclosure makes it more difficult for anyone to get a loan, it’s equal parts frustrating and baffling. Though we make good money, are not looking for anything even close to 100% financing, and have excellent credit, we have not been employed in the same city for 2 years.

To the banks, this means we are heathens. We’ve already been rejected by two.

It’s also sending me into an OCD Anxiety Meltdown.

We’re in the final stages of underwriting. Leading up to this, we’ve turned in P&L’s, Taxes, Affidavits of Credit Checking (as Adrian’s car was stolen 2 months ago and we’ve placed a trace on his Social Security Number for now), Utility bills, Inspection Reports, and the tears of Guatemalan children saddened by the plight of the mayfly.

This is getting a bit like the whole TSA debacle. Yes, I fundamentally understand the need for the nudie pictures and the crotch groping, but I also understand now what it’s like to be on this side of it. A little crotch grope here, a tit squeeze there, and BAM. You’re a terrorist. The bank’s doing a hell of a job running their hands over Adrian’s crotch, but we won’t get to end this little bump and grind with a vacation.

I understand why Adrian and I are considered risky in the eyes of the Bank, especially considering the loan environment, but it’s painfully embarrassing to consider yourself ‘blessed in the self-employment area’ and for banks to tell you no.

We’re supposed to find out tomorrow if we get it. We’re also supposed to close tomorrow.

We’re supposed to be out of our apartment, house or not, by next Wednesday, because we’re tired of living in a place where the cops told us, “You should move. Soon. It’s not safe here,” when Adrian’s car was stolen.

I have not packed a single box. Neither has Adrian. We’re not even trying to. We have no immediate plans to do so. We come home every night as though we’ve never even considered moving.

We’re both fucking terrified. It’s like this isn’t even happening–we’ve been in a state of limbo and self-induced impending homelessness for a month. We’re both just ignoring the fact that we HAVE to move no matter what, for fear that if we start packing, we’ll get our hopes up and the Bank will notice and rain down rejection from the heavens like so many fearsome thunderbolts.

Half our shit is still in boxes from the last time we moved. But we have no truck with which to move. We have no tape. We are unprepared and I am scared to fucking death.

Our realtor even got a notification about a loan for a customer he does not have. That man was approved.

An imaginary man was approved faster than we.

In one week, it will mark the 16th time I have moved in 12 years. Adrian has, barring a house in college, lived in one home growing up. The jealousy of that kills me.

While ‘home is where the heart is,’ and family is what matters in making a home, I want a real home for once. I want a place that’s all ours. I want a place where I can paint the way I want to, and live how I please, and sit on my balcony and be peaceful and come HOME to a HOME. I’ve moved so many times that houses are flippant objects, to be discarded and unremembered as you bounce from one to another, temporary places for your stuff. I’m tired of that.

I want Adrian to say to me one day, “I’ll be home soon,” and know it means something bigger than a shitty apartment where I happen to be.

Sometimes, I’m not funny. Sometimes I’m terrified. And embarrassed. And procrastinating.

 

Update: Since this post, we have not closed. We have been notified, however, that Fannie Mae will probably not let us move into the loft, even though we were approved for it, because the HOA is under quite of bit of interesting litigation. We have packed all of our stuff, and are in the process of unpacking it or putting the boxes into closets so we no longer live in a UHaul maze. Though we will probably not get the house, it’s under good terms–if the HOA is in trouble, we don’t need  the place.

Sunday Timewasters: “I KNOW That!” Edition

21 Nov

If you’ve already seen these, forgive me, but they are too good not to share.

1. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

2. The April Fool’s Legend of Zelda

3. Tetris: The Movie

4. Halo

5. Wokkawokkawokkawokkawokka

6. I own a Mac, bitches.

Funny Bitch Friday!

19 Nov

Welcome to the first FUNNY BITCH FRIDAY! Where I’ll feature a post or tweets or a vagina from a member of The League of Funny Bitches.

This week is Annie from Hard Labor is Seriously Ruining my Manicure, where she and her husband Tim and a Bull and a Dog named Zelda buy and resurrect a farm in New York, while, as you see, fucking up her manicure. This Ho is fucking hilarious, and her most recent post about her husband’s fascination with the NRA had me on my knees.

She brings us “A Dozen Things Bad Guys Hate.” So, give thanks to she which brought you the gift for the crazed gunner in your life!

And now, on the mainstage:

Tim was extremely excited by the NRA monthly email he received yesterday, proclaiming it “the best thing they’ve ever sent him.”

This statement, coupled with the fact that he then said “you can NOT post this on your blog” made me instantly decide I needed to post it.

I have no snarky or insightful words to add as this genius piece of art is amazing in its own right and my commentary would only dull its magnificent hilarity.

Without further ado, please enjoy A DOZEN THINGS BAD GUYS HATE…

**********************

And because this one was fairly short, and the NRA did contribute, here are a couple more of Hard Labor’s fucking awesome posts.

Tales of the Nightmare Campout Where we learn about a creature that will rip your face off.

and

Bitches at the Gym Where Ho knocks some heads.

But seriously, go read.

LEAGUE OF FUNNY BITCHES, AWAY!!!!!!!!

Love in the time of Zombie

17 Nov

Last night, while watching The Walking Dead.

Me: “If there were an outbreak of Zombie, I would drive down to pick up your parents, then down on to my sisters to pick up her and Damon, then up to Ma and Leo.”

Adrian: “That’d be a good crew.”

Me: “I mean, your parents are survivors. People who escape from communism know how to fucking do it. Grace can cook, and farm, and raise animals, Damon can hunt. Ma is a nurse, and Leo has more guns than West Point.”

Adrian: “All valid reasons.”

Me: “But that leaves us. We’re useless in the Apocalypse.”

Adrian: “Mmh.”

Me: “I can…um…I don’t know. I guess that Grace will be busy with the, you know, sustenance, so I can do laundry or something. Someone has to cook the food.”

Adrian: “See, you’re useful.”

Me: “And you’re the driver.”

Adrian: “Naturally. You’ve really thought this out.”

Me: “You have to be prepared. Know what you’ll grab and where you’ll go.”

Adrian: “Glad you have.”

Me: “But we’ll have to take my car…I’m the one with four wheel drive–”

Adrian: “While that’s a good idea, you have to remember that you’ll always need a backup. My car is fast for a reason. We’ll take our cell phones, because the satellites will still be active, and we both have car chargers. Your car is large enough and powerful enough to haul all of the people, and a trailer for the animals and all the gear. Damon and I will go ahead in my car and scout. We’ll call you if it’s clear. If it’s not, I know how to kill–I mean, I haven’t spent 20 years in martial arts for nothing–and Damon knows how to shoot. Your car is also tough enough to drive over terrain, but you’ll need me to clear the way or gather supplies quickly.”

Me: “…………………………………..Thought that out, have you?”

Adrian: “Always be prepared.”

I love you, Adrian. I wouldn’t go through the Zombie Apocalypse with anyone but you.

Noa Gavin’s Guide to Holiday Gifting: Greeting Cards

15 Nov

Welcome to the Noa Gavin Guide to Holiday Gifting. Have a difficult person to buy for? Low on funds but high on bitchery? I’ve got your back, ho. I’m not being paid or bribed with booze to write these posts–I just think these things are awesome.

It’s that time of the year again. The Christmas decorations are out way too early, it’s still 75 degrees in Dallas, and I have to send out cards to remind my family that I am still alive, and that I just have a terrible phobia of speaking to anyone on the phone.

Then, we wait eagerly for the haul of glittering Reindeer cardschlock.

Oh, are those your 8 kids? They’re all…lovely. How’s your vagina?

Hmm, glad to hear Aunt Bethany’s fungus is subsiding. Have some eggnog. Shitter’s full. (Name that movie.)

Or, send out a Christmas letter on lime green paper in all caps, shouting your accomplishments (“Noa’s not wearing Wranglers anymore!”) to relatives unknown.

Fuck that.

I’m not that nice. I’m not that sentimental. What’s worse, people have come to expect a certain amount of, “What’s wrong with you?” from me, and I will not disappoint.

This year, I will be sending out cards from Bluntcard.com.

What better to send cheer to your Nana than a sassy card to brighten her day?

Or to let a friend know you’d love to attend her Holiday Gala?

And for your Jewish friends…

But what about your holiday invites? The Festivus Airing of Greivances? WHAT ABOUT MY NEEDS?

The Bureau of Communication has you covered. Need to let someone know that their actions at your ice cream social were unwelcome?

Or apologize for being “That Girl?”

You can even let people know the location of your booze filled fantasy land.

Now is the winter of your family’s discontent, and your year to be the star of the Christmas Card circuit.

You’re Welcome.

RV To Hell: The School Edition

11 Nov

Let’s get a couple things straight. The RV has played a big part in my life, and when I get into trouble, it’s usually with Grace. But, you knew that part about Grace.

So one day,  we’re in the driveway, about to drive to school. Her car had a serious flat, and seeing as how step-dad (a glorious man, that one) had put the sumbitch on with a torque wrench, there was no getting that bad boy off the car.

School, for us, wasn’t a happy jaunt through a quiet neighborhood. We lived 20 miles from school, and had to pass by a spooky motherfucking wooded lake to get there. And a couple of yaks. No lie.

Was there a graveyard too? Fuck, now I don’t remember. Seems like there was.

Whoakay, back to the story.

So, there was no walking for us.

We had to make a choice. One, we could stay home from school and get our asses kicked. Or, we could ride our horses to school, possibly picking up dysentery or losing Ma after fording the river.

Or we take the family RV.

Grace looked at me, standing there dorkishly in my blue t-shirt,wranglers, and rose-tinted glasses.

 

'Merica.

I nodded. We were going for it.

Grace started up The Widowmaker, and off we went. I rode to school in fucking STYLE that day, chillin’ on the couch in the back, eatin’ my cheerios like a fucking king.

“GET YOUR ASS IN THE FRONT SEAT, NOA.”

“No way. The couch is awesome.”

“GOD DAMN YOU.”

As we lurched through the bar ditch to enter the parking lot (yet again, not joking), Grace suddenly noticed something was amiss.

“Noa, something is sparking outside. Stick your head out the window and see what it is.”

I got a glimpse of the perpetrator only as it whizzed 2 inches from my head and slammed into the map of America on the starboard side, sparking the fuck out of the countryside.

“HOLY SHIT GRACE, WE NEVER UNPLUGGED THE RV! WE’RE DRAGGING THE FUCKING POWER OUTLET.”

In case you didn’t know, RV’s need to be plugged in for a time. Ours was plugged in on a free-standing outdoor outlet, which we ripped from the earth and drug behind The Widowmaker for 20 damn miles. The outlet whipped violently around for the entire time, and WHOAfucking up the fiberglass.

“We’re dead.”

Later that night, upon arriving back home in The Widowmaker, while the step-dad stood watching our embarrassed asses lumber back in:

“YOU CHOSE TO DRIVE THE RV TO FUCKING SCHOOL?”

“What else were we supposed to do? You put my lug nuts on with a torque wrench, there was no way we could get them back off.”

“RIDE THE HORSES TO SCHOOL.”

“And then what? Where the hell do we put the horses when we get there?”

“LET THEM GRAZE ON THE FOOTBALL FIELD.”

Can’t make it up, y’all.

Being A Cookess

8 Nov

Grace made a lasagna for Adrian’s birthday last week. A homemade lasagna. As in, bitch made the sauce and pretty much everything else that went in to it. It was delicious.

Grace can COOK, y’all.

I’m not half bad–I can bake a lot more than I can cook. But Grace, she can cook your ass under the table and then make you eat a meal on said table and be happy about it.

She was not always good. It was a slow, grueling process for her to be good. Luckily, I was there for ALL OF IT.

CookFuck 1: Salad

Lesson Learned: A fresh salad does not require any cooking. Of any sort. Learned after she boiled lettuce for a salad, which produced a smell only replicated by Lilith in the bowels of Hell.

CookFuck 2: Garlic Bread

Lesson Learned: Make sure when you are pressing buttons on the oven. The Broil button is usually located right next to the Clean button. The difference? About 700 degrees. The Clean cycle will temporarily render the oven a smelting plant, and lock the door. We watched that shit flame for an hour.

CookFuck 3: Gravy

Lesson Learned: White flour, pepper, and cooking grease does not a white gravy make. Or the plastic spoon repurposed from Olive Garden used to stir said consistency-of-wet-concrete gravy. By the time we turned the burner off, the gravy, the skillet, and the spoon had molecularly bonded.

CookFuck 4: Brownies

Lesson Learned: Brownies require cocoa. Duly noted.

CookFuck 5: Poached Eggs

Lesson Learned: Eggs nuked in water will not poach, but become chicken fetus shrapnel grenades when poked with a fork. It literally (and I don’t use that word lightly) exploded–coating her kitchen, living room, self, husband, and cats in a considerable amount of half-cooked egg. Burned her lip.

CookFuck 6: Cajun Chicken

Lesson Learned: Distribute spices sparingly in spicy dishes. 4 chicken breasts do not require an entire bottle of cayenne pepper. That was the hottest motherfucking chicken on the planet. Atomic chicken, if you will. It was as though the Fire Gods had brought a chicken from the depths of Mount Kilauea, sacrificing it for the torture of those who had wronged the volcano.

There was a lot of water drunk that night.

And now, to rag on me a while.

CookFuck 7: Egg-spiration dates (HAH!)

Lesson Learned: When making brownies in a beer pitcher, be aware of the speed of which an egg exits a shell. Old eggs=Slow eggs=salmonella.

 

UPDATE:

Had to buy a cake for the Boss’ birthday today. I also needed bacos, ranch dressing, and drano, so I figured I would make one trip.

NOT A GOOD IDEA.

MMM, Bacon cake with ranch and a side of poison.

 

To Be Fair, She Did Look Better Than I Did.

3 Nov

I got in a fight with a drag queen at my sister’s bachelorette party.

Looked like this.

It started off as a fine night. A Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, where Lana had planned for us to drink Texas Tea and make fucked-up hats and hit the gay bars. There would be scavenger hunts for shots and penis candy and dancing and MERRIMENT.

What people typically do, right?

Yeah, no. I went too far.

At first, is was just us gals, sitting on the floor hot gluing banana-scented dicks to straw hats and pipe cleaners like we were Lady Gaga’s costume crew. It was all twats and glitter, and all was well in the land.

Crafty Motherfucker

And then, Lana broke out the Texas Tea.

Y’all, that was the strongest shit I have ever drank in my life. It was like Jack Daniels took you to Vegas to party then kicked you in the face. In your mouth. That’s what she said.

What should have been a tad bit of whiskey in some cranberry juice was actually a fifth of Jack, a handle of black-market Vodka, and a Phoenix tear of cranberry juice. It was fucking magic.

I didn’t really feel all that drunk at first, but as we were loading up into the TrailBlazer, it hit me. I sat in the cargo hold (I know it’s dangerous, shut your face), and quietly laughed to myself for the entire half hour ride to the clubs. I just kept getting more and more drunk the longer I sat alone, allowing my body to absorb the alcohol. No one tried to engage me as I sat like a crazy person, staring out the back window, waving to people behind us.

This was a mistake on the part of those in the group with me. When hammered, I should always be in motion. This constant motion keeps me busy, and unable to concoct plans and a shitty attitude for the rest of the night, leaving me without ammo for potentially poor interactions, where I think I’m charming while, in reality, am just this side of arrest-able.

Once inside, I was suddenly entranced with how many dicks I saw. There were dicks galore. It looked like the Mid-West, if the Mid-West farmed dicks instead of wheat.

Dicks, y’all.

“Grace, there’s a lot of wangs around me.”

“Noa, shut the fuck up, you’re yelling.”

“THERE ARE DICKS AT EYE LEVEL.”

Dicks, y’all.

But anyway.

The reward of the scavenger hunt is, as mentioned, shots. The more you find, the more you drink. It became my mission to find every damn thing on that list. I KNEW THIS WAS THE REWARD ON THE CAR RIDE THERE. Do you see why I shouldn’t be left alone? I was planning, y’all, planning.

So, one by one, my drunk ass sprinted all over the bar with my team, picking up someone’s panties, a phone number, a condom, lipstick, and collecting shots, shots, shots, shots.

At some point, my body acknowledged that I had taken in around 5 gallons of liquid in one hour, and had not gone to the bathroom. I walked inside, and immediately saw a spectacular sight.

She was probably 7 feet tall in her heels. Wearing a gold dress and a killer wig–bitch was WORKIN’ IT while dancing in the mirror. As she was re-packing the wang and straightening her wig, I made the offhand comment, “Bitch, you look good.”

This is the last part of the conversation that made any sense to me. I was being genuine–she really looked good. But, as said before, I shouldn’t be left alone to soak in booze, lest I say something shitty later on.

Apparently, what she heard was, “bitch, uuuuaghakkkndndndnndd.”

Golden Drag Queen: “Girl, WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

Me: “I said, you look good.”

Golden Drag Queen: “I KNOW you didn’t just say some shit in my face in here. I will kick your skinny ass like you have never SEEN before, HO.”

Y’all, I totally believed her. She was right in my face, backed up against a wall, and we were the only ones in the bathroom. She really was going to kick my fucking ass, because I was a slurring idiot.

I didn’t stay to pee. I ran back up to Grace and Lana, innocently dancing on a pole in the middle of some shirtless men.

Me: “We gotta go.”

Lana: “Why? What the fuck did you do?”

Me: “I got in a fight with a Drag Queen.”

Lana: “WHAT?”

Me: “Really, we should go.”

As they stood there, mouths agape at my stupidity, THERE SHE CAME AROUND THE CORNER. I’ve never seen someone sprint so fast in heels so tall, but we hauled our asses out of there.

Later, in Whataburger:

Grace: “Did it seem like a good idea at the time?”

Me: “She picked the fight with me.”

Grace: “She was 7 feet tall.”

Me: “All I said was she looked good, WHICH SHE DID, and she got huffy.”

Lana: “I wish we could go anywhere without you two requiring us to duck and cover from someone.”

Lana, that day will come.

But then again, Lana has the two of us to contend with.