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What did YOU do this weekend? Part 1

10 Jan

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.

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

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Let’s Heart to Heart.

5 Jan

Can we talk about Gilligan’s Island?

A Hotbed of Rousing Debate

What was the sex situation on the island?

I hope just an all-out dick-fired sexferno.

Did someone say Sexferno?

After food and shelter, and the knowledge that whatever the Professor came up with would promptly be fucking decimated by the Gillgs, what did they have left to do? They were clean, healthy, and safe. Basic needs met, now let’s get to the good stuff.

There were more men than women, which creates an evolutionary situation of cock-slappery-in-facery.

 

Write your own caption.

I imagine that every Tuesday, they threw their names in a coconut and drew. Everyone wanted Ginger or Maryann, sure, but Lovey had been around the block a time or two–bitch knew how to please a man. Last man out got stuck with a buttered coconut for the week.

Or maybe it just devolved into a crazy orgy every single night, like Lord of the Flies, but instead of bugs, they meant jeans flys. And instead of Piggy getting killed traumatically in the end, Maryann got rugburn.

Short Straw gets the shackles.

But surely that old, grizzled Skipper had approximately 67 STDs floating around at any given time. But that wouldn’t have stopped anyone trapped on an island for many years with no chance of rescue. Why not take a chance? Isn’t syphilis-crazy at least a more interesting way to go?

The Face of Gonorrhea

Or was it just a giant harem? Was Gilligan the master of it all? Did he purposely destroy all the inventions of Maryann and Professor because they were trying to escape Gilligan’s hold on them and their hormones? Was it sexual trapping that drove their minds towards freedom?

Was Gilligan a Wang-Tyrant?

Cocky Bastard. HAH!

This is where my mind goes most days. This is a terrible way to think.

Noa Gavin’s Guide to Holiday Gifting: What I Gave

27 Dec

I’m currently shithoused in a condo in the Colorado mountains, awaiting my day on the slopes on Wednesday, still shithoused but wearing my knee brace.

I’ll update you on my Christmasventures another day. It’s been joy(rum)filled.

Thus far, I have recommended products for you that have gone untested by my vigorous standards.

I saved a few recommendations for y’all until after I tested them within my own family and friends. I wanted to make sure that there would be no injuries, no explosions, no maimed penguins (at least, not without reportable hilarity) because as you well know, I am a sucker for scientific exploration.

1. Hand-Crafted Love

Nothing says, “I like you more than I do most people,” than homemade gifts.

Or does it say, “I’m fucking cheap.” Damnit, now I’m self-conscious again.

This all started with Simone Bernhard, of Chapeaux by Simone, who is adorable and makes fantastic hats and helped me endlessly when I asked on Twitter one fateful night, “Does anyone know how to cross-stitch?” Simone almost immediately answered that she did, and then shit went downhill from there.

$13 IHaveNoFuckingClueWhyThisIsAGoodIdea

Suddenly, it went from making one silly thing to four (Simone? Did I not tell you? Yours is almost finished.) Then, after mangled fingers and endless repetitions of “FUCK THIS SHIT. WHY DOES THIS KEEP KNOTTING UP,” we have the finished product.

How did this happen.

To Elizabeth, a dear friend from Flourish-in-Progress and a mostly Texas Native:

To Lana, for various reasons up to and including and incident with vaginas at Fast Eddie’s:

To Grace, in folksy remembrance of our favorite song, Fancy by Reba McEntire:

Nothing says love like framed dirty words.

2. I’m here, and I ALWAYS WILL BE.

Have you seen that stupid fucking Kay commercial where the grown ass woman needs her stalker boyfriend to protect her from the drizzle outside?

Piss off, ma’am.

A good idea nonetheless. I don’t live terribly close to my family, so what better gift than to be with them? Forever. Frozen in time. With eyes that stare into your very soul and with each passing minute drive you deeper into insanity and hatred for your family.

Grace received this in the mail about a month ago.

Don't judge me. It was a transitional haircut. And clothing choice.

Step 1: Find the worst possible picture of yourself

Step 2: Go to Shindigz.com, and order a cardboard standee, starting at only TEN FUCKING DOLLARS.

Step 3: Tell no one. Await the joy.

This is the one Ma received. Yes, that is butterfly spandex.

What is the best gift you ever gave?

Noa Gavin Presents: Games for Boring Meetings

15 Dec

Have you even been stuck in a meeting, the likes of which make you want to sizzle your corneas with a butane torch to have something to do? Well, friend, me too!

I mean, haven’t we all? Lucky for you–I’ve found many games that one can play to assuage your growing hatred for humanity without letting your boss know you’re not listening to any part of the “game changing plan”!

Game 1: George Bush Mouth

You Need: A mouth, a window/mirror, and a sense of danger.
How to Play: This game needs to be anticipated prior to the meeting. Place yourself near a window or mirror. Furrow your brows as if you’re thinking very hard, then, try to make your mouth as small as you can possibly make it, using all the dimensions of space! It’s good to start using a pencil/pen in your mouth, to give you a goal to shoot for! Even if you get caught, you look Uberfocused!
If this is the first time you’ve played, then make sure no one else can see your dumb ass. The more experienced you get–the more fun it is to fuck with people! Extra points if you have a companion to compete with. Whoever has the most anus-similar mouth when asked a question by a superior WINS!

Game 2: Space Invaders

You Need: A wheelie chair for Roundtable, a stationary chair for Classroom, a sense of comedic timing, a history of drinking games
How to Play: In either setting, you’ll need a “Trigger Word,” appropriate to the tone of the meeting.
Examples:
Safety Training: “Hazard.”
Sexual Harassment Seminar: “Inappropriate, or Touching”
CPR Certification: “Chest.”
Motivational: “Goal.”
Classroom Style Meeting: Position yourself in the flunkie row. Assume the “I’m Interested In This Company’s Future” posture–lean forward, pen on paper. When you hear the Trigger Word, move forward an inch. Keep doing so until you are crotch to ass to the person in front of you.
Roundtable Style Meeting: Leapfrog! Every time you hear the Trigger Word, quickly zoom around the person to your left. Can you make it back to your original spot by meeting’s end? YOU LOSE, MOTHERFUCKER, YOU WORK IN A DEAD-END JOB!
Space Invaders is also fun to play with a friend. Choose separate Trigger Words and RACE!

Game 3: Table Bangers

You Need: To have a FANTASTIC rack, an obscenely low-cut shirt, a pen
How to Play: Pull down your shirt, show a little bra (or some nip, if you’re daring enough) and tally mark the Wang Bangs you hear on the conference table! Game can be played in rounds, for a longer meeting–simply change-up the way you display your water coolers while taking a blazer-straightening break in between.

Noa Gavin’s Guide to Holiday Gifting: Lost Loved Ones

8 Dec

Holidays are especially difficult when you’ve lost a loved one recently. Christmas time means family time, and it’s a painful reminder of what you’ve lost.

But thanks to me, you don’t have to be in pain forever.

1. LifeGem: Curing your grief with SPARKLE

Time for some Razzle Dazzle

What. The. Fuck. Is. This.

I lost my Dad when I was three, but I cannot, for the life of me, imagine wearing him as a diamond around my neck for the past 20 years. Nor do I think he would have preferred that.

I know my sister recently lost the center stone of her wedding ring at an Aggie Football game–can you imagine losing Nana between the bleachers?

Or worse, having to explain to a date that it’s your two dead cats you’re wearing in your ears? De-fucking-lightful.

I’m sure this is a great option for some people (coughParisHiltoncoughcough), but I can’t imagine not looking like a stalker with this.

2. Perpetual Pet AKA Frozen Friends:

Cisco: As he was in life.

I love my pets like children–they sleep in my bed, I carry them around like infants, and I spoil them rotten.

But when they die, they die. I do not wish to have a constant reminder of their passing awkwardly poised on my sidetable. With headphones. And sunglasses. Staring back at me with cold, dead eyes.

Do you vacuum it to clean it? Is there a dead pet polish?

I’m so confused.

3. Amazon recommends Sleepless in Seattle.

I hate this movie.

In checking Amazon’s “Gifts for the Grieving,” list–this little movie made an appearance. Because nothing will help heal the heart of your best friend who just lost her husband than a shitty love story featuring mother fucking Meg Ryan.

You might as well ring her doorbell, and then punch her right in the crotch. It has the same sentiment behind it.

4. Photo Playing Cards

A full house? Not anymore. Oh. I made myself sad...shit.

I’ve seen memorial photographs. Hell, I have one on my fireplace of my dad and I. But I’d rather not be reminded of a loved one’s passing while I’m playing a drinking game with some friends. Or drunkenly gambling away millions in a Rotary Club Sponsored Poker Tournament/Fun Run.

“YOU’RE ALL BASTARDS.”

“Ma’am, we’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“I’M TAKING MY CARDS WITH ME.”

“That’s fine ma’am, please pack up your things.”

“THIS IS MY TEDDY. OH GOD. HE’S GONE.”

“Ma’am, don’t make me call the Texas Rangers.”

Let me imagination get away with me there for a second.

If you love your family, please don’t buy them this shit.

 

Comment of The Day:

HoodyHoo

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.”

How to Make a Kickass TV Show

6 Dec


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.

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.

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.

I Injure People With Excitement. EL DOS.

14 Oct

Situation 2: Alien Experience at Walt Disney World

I LOVE scary movies, and sci-fi movies, and haunted houses and all kinds of those awesome things that are suspenseful and delightful and make your hair stand up on end.

What I don’t like is to be strapped down and force-fed terror from the mind of Old Man Disney.

I was only in the 8th grade or something like that when my Step-Dad, who’s known for great vacations, takes us to DISNEY WORLD.

This was the best trip we were ever going to take with him, ever. DISNEY WORLD, y’all! There’s MICKEY. And ROLLER COASTERS. And even…AEROSMITH.

 

I Rode 8 Times.

 

I’ll give them this, Disney does things RIGHT. The whole park, just as everyone who’s ever been has ever told you, is an experience. They’re all actors, so you truly feel like you’re riding in Aerosmith’s limo and dropping from the Tower of Terror and dancing with Cinderella.

This rule also applies to horrifying situations.

Like the Alien Encounter: Extra TERRORestrial

The premise is that they’re trying to transport something to Earth, but fuck it all up when they accidentally unleashed a WINGED HELL-BEAST INTO THE AUDITORIUM.

They bring you into a room and strap you to your chair roller-coaster style.

 

Exhibit One

 

So you think you’re going to be thrown around or something equally exhilirating.

Nope.

You’re strapped in so you can’t escape, motherfucker.

Here’s the part where it all gets a little too real for me. I believe what Disney is pitching. We really are going to watch a cool presentation. And then there is an alien.

And then he escapes.

AND HE IS RIGHT BEHIND ME BREATHING IN MY HEAR AND OHMYGOD HIS TAIL BRUSHED MY ARM DEAR GOD GRACE SAVE ME FROM THIS HELLSPAWN! JESUS, I’MMA COMMIN HOME!

I freaked balls, y’all. Lost my shit.

When my flight or fight response kicks in, the answer is ALWAYS fight. I clawed. I scratched. I was going to kill that motherfucker and get out with my family alive, so help me God.

I heard a lot of people screaming for their lives, and it took Grace slapping me to realize that I was the only one–Disney pipes in scream tracks to enhance the terror. I was screaming so terribly that it sounded like someone had lit an bunny orphanage aflame.

 

Miffy watched in horror upon the realization he was too late.

 

I was halfway out of my harness before Grace, laughing so hard she couldn’t speak, shoved me back in so I wouldn’t dislocate my hips.

Go ahead. Watch a video.

DO YOU ALSO HEAR PEOPLE LAUGHING? That’s because it was NOT REAL.

My brain never bothered to register that with me.

Grace and my Ma couldn’t stop laughing long enough to even unbuckle their harnesses at the end. People from across the room came over to make sure that I was okay, and not going to go ape-shit on some animatronic demon.

You should ask my sister one day. This is her favorite story to tell.