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

27 Jan

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?

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

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.

26 Jan

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.

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

What did YOU do this weekend? Pt. 2

12 Jan

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

Conversations with a Search Engine

13 Dec

Based off of search terms which led to me.

“Oh, Noa?”

“Hey, what’s up? So glad you found me.”

“Street Luge.”

“Oh, um. Yeah, sorry, I don’t know much about it.”

“Street Luge.”

“I only wrote about that once, and, really, just said street luge one time in that post.”

“Street Luge.”

“I think you’re in the wrong place.”

“Street Luge.”

“Motherfucker. I wrote ONE SENTENCE about it ONE TIME. HOW THE FUCK–”

“Velociraptor Costume.”

“OH! Okay, yeah, I do have some suggestions for you. Let me get them out.”

“Velociraptors love cupcakes.”

“Haha, yeah, I suppose they might. If they were children-filled.”

“john wayne cuckoo clock before christmas”

“You might be seriously disappointed in my content on that particular item.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Hey. It’s a fucking John Wayne CUCKOO CLOCK. Or if you say it quickly, it’s John Wayne’s Cockoo Cluck. How is that not funny?”

“Man luge doubles.”

“What. The. Fuck. Sir.”

“She look tomy penis.”

“No, she certainly does not.”

“Trust no one.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to see that’s a good choice with you.”

“Lesbians in Lingere.”

“How much lesbian? Oprah is not even kind of a lesbian.”

“Gay bikers in Lingere.”

“I don’t think I have any of those here.”

“Button Crafty motherfucker.”

“I suppose Gay Bikers might be button crafty.”

“Always wearing tinted glasses.”

“Gay bikers don’t wear them, I think. Just Drag queens.”

“Drag queen in panties?”

“I’m fresh out of non-hetero references.”

“Prepare your anus nerd.”

“I hardly find that appropriate conversation, sir.”

“Point blank vagina.”

“If I wasn’t okay with the butthole suggestion, what makes you think this was okay?”

“Street Luge Boards.”

“GO FUCK YOURSELF.”

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.

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.

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.

How are you finding me?

19 Oct

People are finding me through some extraordinarily fucked up search terms.

1. Velociraptor Costume:

BAM! Found it.

2. Velociraptor Face:

See Above.

3. Velociraptor Sitting:

4. Several Variation of Oh Noa and Mom’s Messages:

HOORAY! Someone found me through my name and even a regular post of mine! I feel so special.

This is the last search term that makes any sense whatsoever.

5. Cheddar Cheese Taco Vag:

Okay, the Raptor stuff I get. I’ve done only one post about Raptors, but it’s apparently pretty searchable.

But the fact that you found me through a search for Cheddar Cheese Taco Vag says more about your psyche and your daily disposition than I think you realize.

Were you looking for a Vagina filled with Cheddar Cheese?

Were you looking for a horrible recipe?

Are you a dairy fetishist? I mean, I’ve never even heard of that, but hey, people are turned on by worse than this.

6. Latex Predator Costume Fetish

I have this whole demographic of bizarre fetishists that I’ve apparently servicing rather well.

Did I say servicing? Fuck.

I suppose a latex and a dairy fetish combination would at least be easy to clean.

7. Elevation Bed, LLC.

Elevation Bed, LLC is the parent company of the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed. Someone found and read my blog searching for a bed meant solely for older folks, invalids, and those laid up for a considerable amount of time so as to prevent bed sores.

I hope I brightened your day.

8. Wearing a C-String on the Beach

I think we all know how well this would actually turn out.

9. Razzle Dazzle Noa

This sounds as though Mattel thought it appropriate to make a Barbie of a woman who was awkward in public so that when you pulled a string on her back when others were around she would say shit like:

  • “Do you wonder if Noah left the unicorn off the boat on purpose?”
  • “I bet your Grandma looks good in that bandage dress.”
  • “Ma’am, your Vagina. Address it.”

But in private would say things reflecting of a crippling social anxiety disorder:

  • “No one thinks I’m funny but me.”
  • “Your friends only want you there.”
  • “I shouldn’t have picked a fight with that Drag Queen.”

Then, the Barbie would throw confetti in your face. Give it a Whiskey and Coke and some limp-ass red hair.

That would be a Razzle Dazzle Noa Doll.

(I have said all of those things.)

And my favorite:

10. Cat your gonna get raped

HOW THE FUCK DOES MY BLOG EVEN COME CLOSE TO A HIGH-RANKING PAGE WITH THIS SEARCH TERM?

Not only is this a fucked up statement in and of itself, but it’s not even grammatically correct. This sentence is stating something about a Cat’s ‘gonna get raped’ as though it was a thing a cat could possess.

This is not ok. Cats cannot possess Gonna Get Raped. No one should possess Gonna Get Raped.

I felt dirty even making this one, y’all.

Cat’s don’t even have opposable thumbs, so why would they even need a can of Gonna Get Raped?

Baffled. Fucking Baffled.

The Eyes Follow You.

17 Aug

Back when I did more than ghost hunt and martial arts, I worked at a company that was the single most terrifying and hilarious jobs of my entire life.

The job itself was really tame–I was an assistant, and the only thing I HAD to do every single day was sort the mail. I was still in college at the time, and it let me work around my schedule, earn a decent wage, and be left alone up at my desk for many hours at a time.

Let me tell you the timeline of this job.

Day -2: I am laid the hell off, sitting on my bed watching Law and Order: SVU, and desperately need to be paid to get out of my house, because Adrian is tired of me reorganizing the office every Tuesday. I notice a job posting on my university’s job listing online–“Work part-time at a small office as a president’s assistant! Clerical work, filing, good pay. Will work around school schedule. Please include your GPA.” JACKPOT, I’M A 4.0.

Day -1: “Come in for an interview,” says Laura. Alright bitches, time to put on pants.

Day 0: I show up at this small office, only a block from my house, in my fancy red shoes and sassy pencil skirt. I can already feel that this interview is going to go well, considering I don’t have cheese on my tit, like I did when I interviewed for my last job that I got laid off at. Word to the wise, Cheeseboob? Not a good idea.
There seems to be an inordinate amount of dead animals on the walls of this office. Oh well, he’s an eccentric man, probably. HOW COULD HE NOT BE BADASS? He owned a great company and hunted all over the world.
Laura is pretty, tall, and fun. She’s chatty in the interview, and I can see that she’s cool–this job is going to rule.

I take a test to make sure that I’m even halfway competent at operating basic computer functions. I do pretty well until I have to calculate percentages. I never knew my official score, but can assure you, it must have been awful.
There are even more dead animals back further into the office. Oh well.

Day 1: FUCK YEAH I’M HIRED. Time to razzledazzle.

Day 2: I train on how to sort the mail. Doesn’t seem too bad. I get a quick rundown of other things I will do: make travel arrangements, compile things into understandable packets, print out his emails in doubles so he can read one and we file one, send birthday cards. Okay, I can do this.

Wait, is that a zebra on that couch?

Day 3: I am alone up at my desk, trying to sort the mail and keep shit straight. There are piles upon piles of papers all over the office, in every location in which there are not dead animals hanging from the walls, which is quite the feat, considering there are at least 3 dead animals in each office. I notice that the coffee table is made of real elephant feet.

I meet Jen, who works with Laura in the back. Laura and Jen are rad as shit.

I meet Cam, the President. Cam is approximately 80, and it his birthday today. He seems nice enough, and I am sent to get his birthday cake. Remembering that I’m terrible in any social situation, my coworkers, Cam, and I assemble in the middle of the office for beans, cornbread, and carrot cake without the icing.

Mother of God, can a bitch get a glass of water up in here?

I make a couple of jokes that Cam doesn’t get, making me look like a total ahole, and we listen to him talk about farming.

Day 19: Okay, what the hell is going on here? Thank God for Jen and Laura, because I would not be able to figure any of this shit out. There is a protocol for literally everything, right down to where to put certain sticky notes, because if we don’t do it this certain way we are literally breaking the law, but I don’t understand any of it. I look like an aneurysm patient trying to file basic things.

There are so many dead animals. There are herds of them. Herds. They line the walls, the floor, and one on the ceiling. There are two in the reception area that stare soullessly into my eyes, watching my every move. I’m sure there are cameras in them.

Cam is codgery on his good days, and straight up WHOA on his bad. It’s a crapshoot sometimes getting things done correctly, mostly because I’m completely incompetent. I don’t understand a lot about farming, but Cam will make sure I do.

Jen is funny. THANK GOD.

Day 30: I meet Kent. Kent is apparently an accountant, but I can’t, for the life of me, ever recall him being in the office to work. He’s dressed in paint stained jeans and a Mighty Ducks sweatshirt. He’s a little sweaty and a lot out of breath.

Jen’s face immediately contorts in a failed attempt not to laugh when she sees him. I immediately IM her.

Noa: WTF is with this guy?
Jen: That’s Kent.
Noa: You say that like it’s no big thing. Dude looks like he painted the lines for a marathon.
Jen: That’s always how he looks, save when he’s wearing a thong and pantyhose underneath those jeans.
Noa: …ugh.
Jen: Once, he was missing for a while, and then came back 4 days later from Seattle with bruises and no explanation.
Noa: …I don’t even know what to say to that.
Jen: True story.
Noa: Dear Kent, it’s weird when you sit on the edge of my desk to introduce yourself. You sweated on my work, and you’re wearing a sweatshirt in August. You’re fucking weird. Love, Noa.
Jen: Laura thinks your letter to Kent is awesome.

Day 57: At this point, I have realized that working here is awesome and terrifying all at the same time. It’s a veritable parade of, “Who knows what’s going to happen this week?” Up to this point, here are a few snippets of joy that have actually occurred.

Cam: “OH MY GOD. Is that a tornado siren?”
Noa: “No, it’s the vaccuum in the hallway. The cleaning ladies started early.”
Jen: Bursts into laughter from the back room.

Kent: “Can I speak to Laura please?”
Noa: “Sure, let me put you through.”
Laura: 10 minutes later, emerges from her office, visibly shaken.

Cam: “You know I have two fighting lions at my house?”
Noa: “What? You have two lions that just fight?”
Cam: “Well they’re dead.”

We just hired a new girl for billing, who is of Vietnamese descent. She is adorable, and we are all afraid for her.

Cam: “I went to Vietnam once.”
Dana: “That’s nice.”
Cam: “You know where they have the best Vietnamese food? In Colorado. Or maybe it’s Thai.”
Dana: Blank, horrified stare.

It’s our other billing girls’ last day, so we all go to eat at a hibachi joint.

Cam: Snaps at the hostess, “SEAT US.” Then hands our waitress a White Paper on the dangers of eating meat that isn’t cooked through.
Jen: “Enjoy your miso and spit.”
Cam: Drinks a couple beers.

Noa: “Happy Birthday Jen! Here’s a shitty cake with Twilight on it!”
Jen: “Might have been better if it said Sorry about your Dismemberment.”
Noa: “Noted.”

Cam: Farts loudly about 6 times as he walks from the front door (directly in front of me) to his office.
Office: NO ONE SAYS A DAMN WORD.
Noa: Can’t do anything but laugh.

Cam: At a conference in New York. “Can you fax me a sheet of business cards? I forgot mine.”
Noa: “…Sure.” Fax.
Cam: Calls back. “These aren’t cardstock.”
Noa: “…”

Kent: “Oh, Noa, I dropped these two files that I absolutely need today behind these two crazy tall filing cabinets. You’re skinny, can you get them?”
Noa: “Okay, no problem.” I spend about 5 minutes dangling helplessly behind two 5 foot tall cabinets to reach them, and tear my shirt across the boob on the way up. KENT STOOD BEHIND ME THE WHOLE TIME STARING AT MY ASS.
Noa: “Fuck’s sake, Jen, you couldn’t have said anything to Kent about that?’
Jen: “No. I was staring in delight, anticipating the horrified look on your face.”

Cam: “Do you think I could win in a fight with Noa?”
Laura: “Noa does Jiu Jitsu, Cam.”
Cam: “I have a year of judo.”
Laura: “Okay, yeah, well then you’ll be fine.”

Day 150: I move away. Cam’s last words are, “Make sure you send out those emails. Well, bye. Faaaarrrrt.”
I can’t make this shit up.

Ass-Relational Graphs

10 Aug

http://thegloss.com/odds-and-ends/im-appalled-that-this-thong-exists/

What. The. Hell.

I am also appalled that this thong exists.

Ladies and Gents, that’s an underwire shoved up your hoohah that covers only parts of your hoohah. That’s like shoving a pen up your ass and posing for a calendar shoot–these things do not make sense.

I cannot possibly imagine a need or a want for such an item. This could also be because I am not bone thin with a giant rack and an egg-crackin’ ass. Ma’am, your vagina is hanging out.

Whew. Okay, now, I’m a results based person, and before I make a decision on things, I like to have as much information as possible to choose. I look at all sides, and evaluate possibilities. I need to give the c-String (I even hate the name) a fair shot.

My Hypothesis: Buying this bikini is an awful decision.

Let’s first look at the basic facts.
1) I am translucently white.
2) Most people are susceptible to sunburns.
3) It is to be worn to a beach/pool.
4) Beaches have sand. Pools have concrete.
5) Bikinis are designed for sex appeal.
6) This thing looks fucking uncomfortable.
7) Gripping things in your asscheeks is grippingly unsexy. (Unless you’re my phone, which is in to S&M).

Let’s Test our Hypothesis! SCIENCE IS AWESOME.

Test 1: Evaluate Facts 1 & 2.
  

As you can see here, a normal bikini is going to aid a normal person in the toasting process, while the C-String induces large amounts of UV poisoning in your nethers.

Test 2: Evaluate Facts 3 & 4. MOTHERFUCKERS TOOK IT AWAY.
  

Test 3: Evaluate Facts 5, 6, & 7.
  

Conclusion:

Fan of anuses, sunburns, and sunburns on your anus? THE C-STRING IS FOR YOU! Otherwise, stick to your tankini.

Adrian says, “Nice use of multimedia.” Thanks!

UPDATE: MOTHERFUCKER TOOK DOWN MY MATHEMATICAL EQUATION OF SAND AND IT’S RELATION TO YOUR ASSHOLE. You won’t get the best of me.