Tuesday, December 20, 2011


The holidays always remind me of what a bitch my grandma is. It was two years ago on a snowy Chicago day that my grandma fucked me over by epic proportions, and I will never forgive her for her shrewishness.

I had spent the night at my friend Reggie’s house and my car got towed. Technically, it was my parents’ car. Mimi and Jim Royer love to make me feel like a child and when I called to tell them the good news, they said brilliant things like, "we just don't think you understand the ramifications of your actions" and "money doesn't grow on trees ya know." Yes assholes, I do know. Because I'm 30. And I have a job. How. Fucking. Dare. You.

Needless to say, my day was not off to a good start. To make matters worse, Reggie was hysterically laughing at me because I had gotten the mini-van towed and couldn’t stop screaming about how I was 30 and had a job.

On this particular day, I was scheduled to meet Mimi and Jim at the white-trash nursing home where my grandma was stowed. But first, I had to hightail it to the dirty Westside to rescue the mini-van out of the tow lot. This was a harrowing experience solely because I don’t like to travel west of Damen, yet here I stood in the middle of the ghetto holding $300 cash. What makes it worse is that with all the drug dealers around there it took everything in me to spend that money on getting the mini-van back and not on an eight ball.

I remained strong and eventually made it to the white-trash nursing home and I was pissed off. Upon arrival I looked for an activity that would keep me busy as I knew I was looking at about an hour of my grandma screaming at my dad and I needed a distraction. Enter Elaine. Elaine was probably someone else's grandma but on that particular day I adopted her as my grandma based on the fact that she let me borrow her coloring book and crayons, she liked to hug, and she smiled a lot. Needless to say, my “Actual Grandma” wasn't real thrilled when I introduced my new adopted grandma to everyone but I didn't care because now I had a coloring book. For the next hour or so my Actual Grandma played right into her stereotype. She told my dad she wished she had put him up for adoption. She asked my mom what she ever saw in my father despite the fact that they have been married for 37 years. And of course, she claimed to be dying, which she'd been claiming for years. Yet... there she sat.

After a few hours of this song and dance I had to make my way back to the city. I was coming into Chicago from the north side which ultimately means I sat in the mini-van for two and a half hours with a dick up my ass. I had forgotten how wretched the north side was and, eventually, this return venture had me in tears.

Ironically, I was trying to make it back to the city to attend a sort of self-help group I had frequented when I actually lived in Chicago. I saw this as the silver lining. The format of this particular self-help group was that people in the group were randomly asked to share their stories and I knew they were going to call on me since I was visiting from out of town. This made me very happy because I had had the worst day ever and I knew everyone was going to feel so sorry for me. Finally, I could get some relief.

This is when God bitch slapped me with the story of Charlie. I'd never seen Charlie before, so I had to imagine he was new to this group. He got called on and when he got up he said the following, "My mom died today. And I've been so upset all day but you guys have given me a place to go in good times and bad. I didn't know what to do after I found out so I just came here to be with you...my family………”

FUCK YOU CHARLIE!!!! You have got to be fucking kidding me. Seriously? Your mom died?! Well that's reeeeeaaal convenient, isn't it? You couldn't have been called on after me Charlie? Of course not, you had to get up there and take a shit on my one opportunity to elicit any sympathy from my peers. You've got a lot of nerve, assclown.

Of course, I get called on next and I mumble something about how proud I am of Charlie and what a great example he is to me, but really all I'm thinking is that my parents hate me, the mini-van is my own personal jail cell and my grandma's a bitch.

After Charlie’s escapade, I drove back to my parents’ house and, after a good night's sleep, I woke up feeling refreshed. I'm always grateful for the opportunity to start anew. As I was sipping my morning coffee, the phone rang. My grandma died in her sleep the night before. The room was quiet for a minute and then I broke down. Of course. Of course she couldn't have died a few hours earlier so that I could have talked about it at that God damn meeting. I have to believe that she held out just long enough for me to get my ass handed to me by Charlie. Couldn't have helped me out on that last one G-ma? Of course not. You bitch.

Friday, December 2, 2011


I begin a lot of sentences by talking about jamming a dildo into my asshole and lately this behavior has garnered a slew of sideway glances and jaw-dropping horror from my lady friends. It’s possible that this has always been the case but it took me a while to notice it. It’s hard to give things your full attention when you’re eating a delicious plate of cheeseburgers. (Mmmm….cheeseburgers). Anyway, it got me thinking. What is a lady? This mystical creature that men seem to pine for. I’ve heard a lot about them and decided to put some effort into being one. I have zero ideas as to what being a lady actually entails. All I know is that I’m not doing it. I can tell because I’ve seen a lady before and men always treat them differently. The most common thing a man ever says to me is, “What’s your friend’s name?” Or, “Um…there’s mustard on your eyebrow.” Or, “How can you be sure it’s my baby?” Not exactly lady material. So I googled the word “lady” to see if perhaps I could change my ways.


Dress Nicely-Easy, pal.... Let’s not try to changes things all at once. I was thinking this would be more of a baby steps situation. It is fairly standard for me to realize, half-way through my work day, that I’ve got a hole in some part of my clothing. I’m known for dressing in rags and honestly, who has time to keep up with the Hollywood trends? Have you encountered a feather extension recently? It’s literally a feather that’s like stapled to your head or something. I can’t even tell you the amount of times I’ve found discarded animal parts in my hair but is that considered fashionable? Nooooo…… Apparently it’s only cool if you paid money for it and no animals were harmed in the process. I could never pull that shit off. Nor can I pull off A-line dresses or anything made out of silk. Or pants. Obviously. Pants and I have never gotten along. If being a lady involves wearing pants, you can count me out. It’s physically impossible

Look Good, Smell Good-I usually smell like cigs and look like hot garbage. There’s a period of about 8 minutes between the time I wake up and the time I’m in my Daewoo. I can’t be expected to wake up 8 minutes earlier just to push my way into the lady category. I have a mullet and have had it for years and no matter what I try to do to get rid of it, it remains. Also, in order to combat my cig smell, I’ve attempted to use anti-bacterical gel which ultimately just has me smelling like alcohol, yet it lacks the alluring charisma that comes from me being actually drunk.

Choose Your Words-How about you suck ma dick?

Ugh, that’s enough. Acting like a lady isn’t for me. Everybody knows that. When I was watching football, at the bar on Sunday, I was screaming at the television and shoveling fries into my mouth when my friend Brian leaned over and said, “You should teach a class on how to never get picked up by men.” He’s right. Listen, does my body size dictate that I’ll never find love in this world? Yes. Do I consider a bucket of fries a meal? Absolutely. (Mmmmm…..fries) Do I buy pregnancy tests in bulk in order to cut costs? Of course I do. Do people think of me as a lady? Certainly not. But at least I can find solace in the fact that I live in a world where pie is always for breakfast and the only reason I smell like alcohol is because I’ve been shotgunning beer for breakfast. And if considering beer as a breakfast item makes me less of a lady and more of a poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous, that’s perfectly fine with me. Lady this, bitch.