The Peanut Butter Bandit...Trespass, Burglary & Murder.

WARNING:  This is a story of trespass, burglary and murder, complete with graphic photos and blood.  Not for the faint of heart.  Viewer discretion is advised.

Last Saturday night I was enjoying some me time, watching a movie in my living room with the lights out.  Alone in the house I noticed some movement in a corner.  I strained to see what it was in the dimly lit room but could make out only a dark spot on the carpet.  I rose slowly in an attempt to flip on a light, but the blobish figure scurried quickly behind a book shelf.  I'd at first thought it was a frog as it was too big to be a mouse or a bug, but as it darted away quickly I feared it was much worse...a rat...lurking in the shadows like a burglar ready to steal my food and vandalize my home.

Several weeks ago I wrote about the epic battle between myself and a roach so big that it could eat a rat as a snack.  I absolutely hate roaches but while I don't want a rat or mouse in my house chewing on my shit and defecating everywhere, I don't have the fear or anxiety over them that I do over roaches.  So unlike the roach invasion I wasn't up flipping over chairs and running around after it like a mad woman (this time).  Instead I made arrangements for traps to be set in the morning and went on with my movie watching.

A little while later that night I was sitting on the toilet (with the door open), doing some of my best thinking when what do I see?  The rat, perched on TOP of the bathroom door, just staring at me.

The view from my toilet.  You have to admit rats are much cuter than roaches.

Seeing the rat on the top of the door, I did what anyone in my situation would do...I tried reasoning with it.

Me:  Well hello little guy.  How did you get in here.

Rat: (staring intently as if thinking "so THAT'S where girls pee from!")...said nothing

Me:  You know you're trespassing on private property and I'm within my legal rights to kill you.  You really should come down here and let me take you outside so I don't have to.

Rat: (still staring at me with it's beady little eyes, playing with it's tail thinking "my, what tasty looking earlobes you have")...said nothing.

Me:  I'm gonna be getting some traps in the morning so I'd get out tonight while you still have a chance.

Rat: (Jumps off the door, runs into the hall and disappears)

Yes, I know normal people don't have toilet conversations with rodents, but this is me we're talking about.

The next day traps were set but the crafty little critter kept eating the peanut butter, avoiding tripping the traps and managed to run free around the house for the next few days.  Despite it repetitively eating the bait, the Peanut Butter Bandit was only seen once darting out startling Man-Friend and myself...until last night.

I was in the kitchen concocting a masterpiece (top ramen noodles) when I heard something in the hallway just outside the kitchen door.  As I peeked around the corner, there on the floor was Bandit.

The actual rat on my hallway floor.  Look at that tail!

Upon seeing me, Bandit made a desperate but unsuccessful attempt to scurry away.  It was moving using only his hind legs as if his front legs were broken, heading for the spare room.  I sprinted forward closing that door as well as the doors to the other two bedrooms, blocking it in the hallway.  Bandit stopped, laying flat on the floor staring at me with its beady little eyes as if saying "Fuck you and your leg breaking traps of peanut butter deliciousness!"  For a moment I stared at Bandit, almost feeling sorry for it.  Then I took the above picture saying, "Thought this was a free bed and breakfast did ya?"

I grabbed a hand towel and tried grabbing it by the tail to take it outside, which is when I realized that there was nothing wrong with its back.  It quickly came up at me causing me to squeal like a startled school girl before drooping and stomping it in thoughtless reflex.  There was a sort of crunching sound.  I stepped back and the tough little nuisance made one final attempt to move until blood started coming from it's mouth and nose making gurgling sounds, leaving blood bubbles on the floor.

Yeah, I know it's disgusting but you're not the one that had to clean it up!

DIE already, damn it!  I don't get the glue traps because I don't want to have to kill the animals myself, but I was left no choice with this beady eyed rodent.  I murdered it.  The Peanut Butter Bandit was laid to rest in a ziplocked dumpster grave and I was able to rest in peace knowing I wouldn't have to worry about it nibbling on my ears last night.

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If You Have An Erection Lasting More Than 4 Hours (Repost)

 

There are so many products on the market for erectile dysfunction and male enhancement. Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra seem to be the leaders in helping the man with a not so stiff stiffy, feel like a steel rod again. Then you've got the medications geared toward helping the man with a micropenis hear something other than, "is it in yet?" For male enhancement, the top 5 choices, as reported and reviewed on www.howtoenhance.com are 1) SizePro, 2) VigRx Plus, 3) ProSolution, 4) Volumn Pills, and 5) Maxaman. Who comes up with these names?

SizePro claims that it will increase erection size up to thirty percent and improve hardness instantly. VigRx claims that their product is "designed to give the largest and longest lasting erection". ProSolution claims that it will give you stronger erections and a boosted libido. Volumn Pills says only, "provides great sexual performance and pleasure" and "it has been proven very effective, and it will be effective for you". Maxaman, on the other hand says, "Maxaman will make your penis gain both in length and girth. With use, new erectile tissue is developed, leading to a permanent gain. Maxaman can lead to up to a 6 inch growth in penis length. The advances made by Maxaman have made this growth irreversible.

What I want to know is can you mix them? I mean, what if I want a man with the longest lasting erection, a boosted libido and a 6 inch growth in penis length? I'll take VigRx, ProSolution and Maxaman please! I mean, we take different medications for different types of pain...what about taking different medications for different types of pleasure? Surely the biggest penis and longest lasting erection in the world wouldn't do us women any good if the man is like, "No thanks...I've got a headache." So surely we want increased libido with the increased penis size and longer lasting erection. I also want to know who tests these products? Do they post adds in the classifieds? 

 

I mean, really? And then, who signs up? I want to know how it has been "proven effective"? Is it because they give it to some guy and ask him to fill out a survey...maybe give one to his partner? What kind of scientific proof would that be? I want hard evidence...pardon the pun!

Then there is my absolute favorite warning on television today...contact your doctor if you have an errection lasting for than four hours. Well, duh! And your mother, father, grandmother, best friend, dentist, neighbor and all your old girlfriends! I could just see some college student calling all his frat brothers, "Hey man, come check this shit out!" Honestly...that seems like a challenge to young guys to use the drug recreationally. Hahaha...I guess the whole point of the drug is recreational, but I mean without having erectile disfunction.

I really wish they'd come up with a pill, while they are at it, that would instantly make a man know how to use his regenerated, or enhanced penis. That way, when us women meet the perfect man, who ends up having a limp micropenis, we fix it with a Viagra and Maxaman, and then give him InstaRomeo and 

 

He's a keeper! As for the, "if you have an erection lasting more than four hours...", hell, after you call your doctor...Call Me!

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F*** You AND Your Pork!

If you've known me or read my blogs for any significant period of time, you are already aware that I am a truly flawed individual who could probably benefit greatly from the services of mental health professionals (or maybe its the poor individuals around me who are in need of those services...I'm going with that theory).  I own my flaws and eccentricities knowing that I am who I am, and its those very qualities that make me the way I am (and the voices).

Argument with myself aside there are a couple things that all of my personalities agree on.  We have a mutual hatred of mornings; a lack of tolerance for intellectually deficient individuals and argumentative, badly behaved children; a love of good food and a serious lack of patience for bad service just to name a few. 

One night last week after work, I picked up my son and headed to Wally World to look at camping gear for our upcoming trip to the lake.  We were checking out tents, lanterns, air mattresses, and all the other cool camping gadgets geared at making roughing it not so rough, when the Turd (my son) lets out a sound which could only be comparable to a small child on Christmas morning then yelled out, "Mom, come here!!!"  I took a couple steps toward his voice and realized what he'd found.  The gold mine of isles for any tween and above boy...the airsoft, pellet and paint gun aisle.  I don't think so.  I explain to him that we're there for camping gear and those were not camping accessories.   He champions the cause in his effort to obtain what he saw as weapons of mass destruction by saying something about protection from wild animals, yada, yada, yada shut the hell up.  I mean really, what's he going to defend us against with an air soft gun?  Squirel?  Rat?  Roach maybe?

The rest of our Wally World experience was polluted with him pleading, me telling him no several different ways, him trying to convince me that an airsoft gun was something I simply could not allow him to continue living without, and finally me telling him I better NOT hear another dang blasted word about it or else, as I thought of what a great look this would be for him.

Already irritated we went to a local Mexican restaurant for dinner (and a JUMBO margarita...for me, not Turd).  Man-Friend met us at the restaurant and when the waiter came to the table we ordered two jumbo margaritas and a tea for Turd as well as some pico and cheese dip.  When the waiter came back with our drinks, we asked for a couple glasses of water.  That's where it begins. 

While normally the tequila in the margarita would begin relaxing the worries away, I was feeling a bit dehydrated and REALLY wanted a glass of water.  I'm not in the service industry and don't claim to be an expert in the field of waiterology, but it seems to me that an order of two waters would be a relatively simple concept. However, after several minutes our waiter was wondering around aimlessly looking like he'd just smoked a big fat joint and we still hadn't gotten our waters or placed our food order.  When the dufass waiter finally remembered where he was and came back to the table I politely reminded him that we were still waiting on our waters.  We placed our orders and soon after Dufass returns...with one water which Turd wants to claim because his "tea is too sweet".  Ugggg. 

My patience is running seriously thin, so I take a big pull off of my jumbo margarita and say in the politest voice I could muster to please bring us two more waters.  Several more minutes passed before Dufass returned and handed the one glass of water he'd returned with...to Man-Friend.  Now this may seem like a small or petty problem and not worth making a big deal over, but I was REALLY thirsty and REALLY wanted a glass of water AND was already quite irritated before I arrived. 

This was getting on my every last nerve.  I felt my eyebrow start to twitch and my upper lip begin to spasm as I'm asking him again for a glass of water through my shriveling from dehydration lips.  Man-Friend could feel the tension building and quickly offered me his water in an effort to ease the tension but NO!!!! Bring me a fucking glass of water!  (though I managed to avoid the meltdown and just shoot daggers at him through my narrowing eyes.)  I think he got the point and finally I got a water.

Because I'd ordered pico and cheese dip and can just about make a meal out of the chips and dips (and liquor), I decided to order a small burrito called the San Jose Burrito for a cool $5.75 verses paying $9-10 for a meal that I wouldn't eat much of.  A little while later, Dufass starts bringing our food, one plate at a time.  First he brings Turd's food, followed a few minutes later by Man-Friend's plate, then a few minutes later with my plate.  As he begins handing me the plate he says here's your California Burrito or whatever the fuck location Burrito it was that was NOT the burrito I ordered but WAS twice as expensive.  Are you fucking kidding me?

Me:  That's not what I ordered.
Dufass:  It's the (whatever the fuck) Burrito.
Me: I didn't order the (whatever the fuck) Burrito.  I ordered the pork San Jose Burrito.
Dufass: (as he holds the plate over Man-Friend trying to hand it to me) But it's pork.
Me:  But it's not what I ordered and I'm not paying twice as much for a burrito that I didn't order.
Dufass: But it IS pork (as he tries again to give me the wrong menu item yet again).
Me: I ordered the San Jose Burrito.
Dufass: But it's pork!
Me: (about to seriously lose my shit) But it is NOT the $5.75 pork San Jose Burrito and I'm NOT paying the $9.00 for the (whatever the fuck) burrito!! (It took everything in me not to say FUCK YOU AND YOUR PORK AND GET ME THE FUCKING BURRITO I ORDERED DUMBASS! as my eyes bulged and steam sprayed from my ears.)

A light finally seems to come on behind his glazed over eyes and he apologizes to which I tell him how completely frustrated I am by the whole experience and send him off to get my order while I take another BIG pull off my quickly disappearing jumbo margarita. 

My blood pressure was so high I could feel my pulse at my temples. I'm forcing myself to take slow deep breaths to try and calm myself when Turd says, "Mom, you know those airsoft guns?" 

Me:"Are you freaking kidding me?  I'M ABOUT TO SERIOUSLY LOSE MY SHIT and you're gonna bring up something I told you to drop already?!"
Turd: "Mom!! But it's pork!"

What can you do right there?  I went between wanting to strangle him and wanting to laugh right then.  I finally got my food, and managed to get out of there without strangling Turd of Dufass, but barely.  Between Turd acting like a turd and the completely shitty service at the restaurant,that was an accomplishment I was quite proud of.  Hopefully Dufass will leave the dope at home on my next trip.

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Showing my NADs

Sunday, the incredibly funny, tell it like it is, holder of not just any man card, but the Dude Write Platinum Man Card, Six-Fingered Monkey (Six herein) posted a rant on his loathing of Instagram and it's overuse and filter abuse.  For those of you fortunate enough not to know what Instagram is, it's an app for your iPhone or Android device where you "Snap a picture, choose a filter to transform its look and feel, then post to Instagram. Share to Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr too – it's as easy as pie. It's photo sharing, reinvented."  This quote taken directly from instagram.com.

Much like Six, I'm wondering when it became necessary to "reinvent" photo sharing.  I mean the change from film to digital is A-FREAKING-MAZING!  It has revolutionized photography and allowed us to do so much in so little time.  Add to the digital revolution, Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, Tumblr, Photobucket, and the countless other social media sites available to us for exchange of these ever evolving snapshots into our lives.  Why do we need to distort those memories into some picture that in no way actually shows the moment as it is, but in a cute and fuzzy way we wished it was (or wish we look)?

In a brave stance against the Instagram craze, Six challenged the Blogosphere to join him in his newly created memorial day for unedited phone photography titled NAD or National Anti-Instagram Day.  So today, I set out to prove that you can still be an artist while not editing the photos that are taken with your phone, and I think I have accomplished my goal.  Behold!!!!

Is it a road cone or something more?  I like to think of it as SOOOO much more.  I mean, people are using Instagram to take grainy pictures of coffee cups and trash cans and calling it art.  They have nothing on this.  Notice how my shadow becomes one with the cone, and the cone becomes my head.  Suddenly my shadow has a cone head.  And the toes...sheer genius.  I mean a sandal wearing, red toe-nail'd shadow with a cone head and parking lot weed belt.  I feel like the fucking Picasso of smart phone photographers right now! 

My artistic genius aside, how about a real life moment?  Or better yet, a self portrait.  There are so many Instagram photos where the asshat, I mean poster, strikes the same pose over and over and then applies a different filter and then posts like they are some famous model and self photographer all rolled up into one awesome Instagramer.  (NOT!!!) In protest of the beauty queen pose, I give you this!

Notice the natural messiness of the hair, the obvious signs of aging, and the sheer mystery. Am I having a bad scratch and sniff moment with my finger, am I digging knuckles deep for that booger what's grown roots, or popping a puss filled boil?  Only I know the answer, but I've got the memory EXACTLY as it looked when the picture was snapped.

Now I've taken both the above pictures today in observation of NAD, in support of the Anti-Instagram movement that shall soon be sweeping the cyber and cellular nations.  However, I think in closing I should show Man-Friend's Anti-Instagram photo artistry taken on the day after Six's post.  The picture shows what happens when my son and I try to get out of a patio chair after stuffing both our fat asses in it.

To all the Instagramer asshats out there who think you could do better using your magic filters; develop an imagination, learn some real creativity and for fuck's sake, strike a new pose!

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Blondie Escapades--Let Loose in Savannah

Last week Man-Friend suggested we blow town for the weekend or at least for a night. Now I absolutely love ANY excuse to blow town, but have to admit that I get a bit of anxiety about overnight trips in small hotel rooms with him. I know the logical question, the one you’re asking yourself, “why?”

This is me on a good morning:

This is Man-Friend on ANY morning:

The combination of the two of us together in the morning is very similar to the combination of fire and gasoline, vinegar and baking soda, habenero hands and vagina...it's either destructive, messy or extremely painful. 

However, I decided to put my big girl britches on and go for it.

I like to eat. I know what you're thinking...well, duh, doesn't everyone? Good point, but when I say I like to eat, I really LOVE to eat, but I love to eat good food, not just anything that will fit in my mouth (which could really be gross because I've got a big mouth and I can think of lots of really disgusting things that COULD fit in my mouth, but that sounds like a whole other blog so I'm erasing those gag-me mental pictures now). Anyone who loves to eat should really learn not just to cook but to enjoy cooking.

That being said, after deciding to head to Savannah, an internet search led Man-Friend to Chef Joe Randall's Cooking School. Chef Randall has appeared in shows on The Food Network, HGTV, Georgia Traveler and has been featured in several food articles, renowned for his "southern style" cooking. After looking it over and deciding it looked like a positively scruptious meal and fun experience, we hit the road Friday afternoon, Savannah bound with the promise of a good meal and fun time ahead.

Chef Joe Randall in the Kitchen of his Cooking School

 I'll admit that when we first arrived, it was not what I expected.  It was a small building a bit wore out looking, and the interior was a cramped and cluttered.  However, wine and awesome food made this an awesome experience.

It was about a three hour affair and the portions were big...to big to eat everything so I had them box up my leftovers and desert.  As Chef Randall's wife was boxing my food, it happened.  You know what IT is.  It's the moment when your intestines wake up and say, "Hi asshole, how've ya been?  I think it's time we had a talk with toilet."  Oh NO!!! Not here.  Did I mention that this was a small compact space and the only bathroom in the place was located about three feet behind me, and that could only be a few feet more away from the other diners.  It was time to go!  Luckily for me we'd already checked into the hotel room prior to coming to dinner and the hotel wasn't that far away because it was another full on battle of the buttcheeks being waged during that ride, but we made it in time for that talk with the toilet. 

It was about 10:00 and neither of us were ready to sleep.  The night was hot and muggy and a swim sounded fabulous...however, there were two problems with that...the hotel had a rent-a-cop patroling the property and the pool area was closed and padlocked.  Do you think that stopped us?  Hell no!  We just hopped the fense like teenage pool crashers and jumped on in. Ahhhhhhhhmazing!  The rent-a-cop let us get away with it for a couple passes until finally and very politely asking us to evacuate the pool. 

The next morning the plan to avoid world war three and minimize my morning bitchitis was that happy pants Man-Friend was going to get up, go out by the pool and let me sleep.  So morning comes and Man-Friend gets up, gets dressed then asks me what time I want him to bring me a cup of rich awesome deliciousness sure to jump start the heart of even the sleepiest beast...otherwise known as a Starbucks Venti Quad Cappuccino.  With that in mind my response was anytime, and he was out the door.  A few minutes later he was back, with no coffee and laid back down.  Ok, this I can handle and back to sleep I went.  However it was short-lived and I awoke to him talking to me, asking me something or other to which morning bitch responded in full force..."OK, I'M UP!!!" His reply, "NO!! You don't have to do that!" As I was heading out the door to gather myself and smoke a cigarette I retorted, "Then why the freak do you keep talking to me?!" (I know, I know, filthy, stinky, disgusting habit, going to rot out my lungs, yada, yada, yada, shut the hell up).  I'm outside for about 5 minutes and when I come back into the room, there lies Man-Friend, on the bed, snoring and I seriously wanted to throw a chair at him in that moment but settled for, "Are you freaking kidding me!?!" 

I'm sure I looked WAY scarier than this woman.

It was about to get dangerous.  Sensing the danger level rising I decide to hop in the shower and Man-Friend did the next best thing to interveniously inserting large amounts of caffine into my blood stream before waking me up...he went to Starbucks.

Let the day begin!

We began our day by heading to Kitchenware Outfitters in search of an amazing citrus juicer we'd seen the Chef use the night before.  It was metal and both looked cooler and worked better than the orange plastic one I currently had, so I must have it.  Upon arriving at the kitchen store we were assisted by this very nice, but very sinister looking young lady:

I usually have the butcher remove the heads of the large animals
I eat prior to buying them and I don't cut up people in my bathtub so I don't
 think I'll be needing that cleaver today, but it looks really good on you in a creepy serial killer sort of way.

I absolutely love Kitchenware outfitters.  It's got everything that nobody needs for prices that few can afford, yet somehow I find I want it all.  I mean how about a $53.00 trivet (small metal thingamajigger that holds a hot pot that resembles a metal jacks), or a wisk large enough to whip up a room size bowl of mash potatoes, or for the savy grill master who wants to make sure he doesn't mix up who's piece of meat is who's...I give you the meat brander!

Susie Q likes her meat rare, while Bobby Whogivesafuck likes his welldone.  No longer will there be any question if you're giving the right steak to Whogivesafuck because you can brand it right on the meat!  Add to that it can second as a branding and torture tool for your garden variety sadist, rapist or serial killer and I'm sure this item will be a best seller in no time!

After spending way too much time in the kitchen shop, we were both hungry and decided to go to the mall for a little chow time people watching.  The day was extremely hot, not just miserable hot, but if I had balls I'm pretty sure I'd have sweated them off kinda hot.  The kinda hot that makes you feel sick just from walking from the car to the door.  However, I don't think any degree of hotness could excuse this teenage mom's fashion fiasco.

Why yes, that is her ass cheek waving hello at me as she walks her toddler into the mall. 

We didn't stay long at the mall and were headed back home shortly thereafter,  but I did find a couple things that warrant mention as awesome gift ideas.

Nothing says, "No officer, I don't have any drugs on my person or in my vehicle" like
these pot leaf party glasses, sure to be a great gift item for your teenage son or daughter.

Put a weenie in it!  Nothing says class and elogance like a good Weenie
Linguine.  Sure to be a crowd pleaser at your next business dinner.

And for that special man in your life, it's a Snuggie with shrinkage.

My personal favorite, and equally, um, fiting for Dad, Uncle Joe, your boss and co-workers
is this Gum Job Granny.  No pesky teeth marks from this pulseless princess!

Uncle Bob refusing to go to the proctologist this year cause he didn't like the way the Dr. looked at him when he asked if it felt good last year?  No worries, just get him this handy do it yourself prostate exam and he'll be bending over in no time.

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