L.A.P.D.

This morning a fucking midget pulled me over at 8am while I was on my way to work. He gave me a ticket for a broken tail light.

Cop: License and registration please.

Me: *stunned silence from behind sunglasses*

Cop: Have you sent in your check for your new registration?

Me: (In my head, "Of course I did you fucking asshole. Do I look like a homeless person to you? I see you're judging my Daewoo and all the dents and scratches it has but perhaps you should judge me by my fucking business outfit which I'm wearing because I HAVE A JOB!!!!”) Yep.

Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?

Me: (In my head: "Because your dick is small and you have a thing for little boys despite the fact that you're married and giving tickets to people while they're on their way to work makes you feel like you've gained some semblance of control over your tiny life?") No.

Cop: Your brake light is out.

Me: (In my head: "YOUR brake light is out.") What's a brake light?

Cop: Stay here.

Me: (In my head: "Obviously. Do you think I'm going to make the great escape by speeding off in the bumper to bumper traffic you fucking minion?")

Eventually he came back and gave me a ticket. Naturally, I immediately burst into tears and then pouted until he was done talking. Soooooooopper white girl of me but I was caught off guard and very frustrated.

Turns out I only pull out the big guns when I'm totally inebriated. When I was 18 yrs old, most of my outfits were accessorized with a tie-dyed cast. The cast was the result of a bottle of Jagermeister. The bottle of Jagermeister was the result of my friend Ryan dying. Ryan's death was the result of heroin. Needless to say, it had been a tough year and I was long overdue for a break that did not fall into the leg category. One night, I was casually driving home from a night of debauchery when I noticed cherries in my rear view mirror. I immediately pulled over so that the dutiful police officers could catch the outlaw they were after. Turns out the outlaw was me. I was a mere block away from my parents' house and eager to get home, yet I was inconveniently deterred. These cops were then faced with a drunken teenager with a broken leg and a trunk full of beer. A transcript:

Cop: Have you been drinking.

Me: Of course not, that's illegal.

Cop: Do you mind stepping out of the car?

Me: No problem.

Cop: What happened to your leg?

Me: I'm bad at walking.

Cop: Do you have any alcohol in your car?

Me: Unclear

Cop: Stay here.

(I always regretted not running at this point since I wasn't in handcuffs yet but I probably wouldn't have gotten very far seeing as I was wasted and one-legged.)

Cop: You have beer in your trunk.

Me: Weird.

(I also had a hit of acid in my purse so I sort of felt like I was getting off easy so far.)

Cop: Put your hands behind your back. You're under arrest.

Me: Whoa, whoa. Easy buddy. How about you just give me a warning? My house is literally a block away.

Cop: My wife and kids are driving on these roads.

Me: I assure you your wife and kids are not driving on this block right now. We'd be able to see them.

Cop: Hands behind your back.

Me: Ugh.

When we got to the police station, I was allowed one phone call. I had just turned 18 and was so excited that I didn't have to call my parents. Instead I called my drug dealer friend, Marc. The good news was that Marc was awake. The bad news is that he too had been arrested by these particular cops. My brilliance came when they asked me to take the breathalyzer. When you hang out with drug addicts and alcoholics, you get a lot of awesome advice. My friend Zac once told me never to take the breathalyzer because then they'll never have proof that you were drunk. I fucking nailed that shit. Ultimately, they could never charge me with a D.U.I. If you don't take the breathalyzer, you immediately lose your license for 6 months which was fine with me because that way I could guarantee that I wouldn't drive drunk. Problem. Solved.

When Marc dropped me off at my house that night, I slurked into bed only to be awoken mere hours later by Mimi knocking on my bedroom door.

Mimi: Alison, where's your car? (When she says "your" car she means "her" car because I never actually owned my own car until I moved to L.A.)

Me: I don't know but I think I got a D.U.I.

Mimi was not impressed. This is likely because we had had a very similar conversation a few weeks earlier.

Mimi: Alison, where's your car?

Me: I don't know but I think my leg is broken.

I think I'm being punished for the D.U.I. I maneuvered my way out of 13 years ago. I have been getting a full-on dick up the ass from the L.A.P.D. ever since I moved to Los Angeles. I have a flare for the dramatic and every time I'm faced with anything I find to be unjust, I can't help but wonder...why me? What did I do to deserve this? I work hard. I pay my taxes. I send barrels of water to Ecuador. Why do I keep getting my ass handed to me by Los Angeles' finest? Perhaps it's because I spent my adolescence bitch slapping police officers. I once got pulled over by a Chicago cop who merely stopped me to tell me he'd literally never seen a worse driver in his life. I spent a lot of time drunkenly bumper carring side-mirrors off every car parked on the side streets. I often called the Chicago police in the mornings because I thought my car was stolen, only to find out I had gotten wasted and left it somewhere (at least I wasn't driving drunk!). At the end of the day, I'd say I've had this coming for a while. But your time is almost up L.A.P.D. I'd say my karma circle has just about been completed. I've got my eye on you L.A.P.D. Watch your back. If you cross me again, we both know what will happen...I will silently cry behind sunglasses and then move on with my day. Ugh...I should start drinking again. I was way more macho.

A Conversation With My Father

Dad: I’m racist now.

Me: Excuse me?

D: Yep. I hate how black people are treated differently.

M: Dad, that’s basically the opposite of racism.

D: No, no, no. I’m telling you. I’m super racist.

M: Ok, give me an example of your racism.

D: I just think everyone should be seen as equal.

M: Right. Not racist.

D: You listen to me! I! Am racist!

M: Dad, I’ve literally never heard you say anything racist.

D: I totally do. Like the other day I heard a black guy yelling at his daughter in public and I told him to stop it.

M: Not racist.

D: But then he told me to mind my own business.

M: Not racist.

D: I think he thought I was racist.

M: But you just said that you are.

D: Exactly.

Depression

You’re probably all thinking that I haven’t posted an entry lately because I don’t know how to use a computer (totally accurate) but it’s also due to the fact that I’m suffering from a serious depression. If you’ve never experienced such a thing, you’re a robot. Either that or you’re totally happy with your life and its surroundings in which case, shame on you. Typically my downward spiral into a deep depression is totally ridiculous and unwarranted. My friend Lauren and I call this state, “Fake Depressed” because at the end of the day, nothing is wrong. It’s typically the result of a heap of white person problems that ultimately overwhelm my pea sized brain.

My most recent depression was precipitated by a dress not fitting. This seems like a fairly quick fix, i.e. stop eating hot dogs for breakfast, however, for me, this plight seemed incredibly overwhelming. I’m a solution oriented person so I chose to check in with a few of my friends about my supposed problem. I then received a hoard of information that I found to be totally useless. If you’re ever talking to a “fake depressed” person, do not remind them about the children in Africa. Do not point out how lucky they are to have legs. Steer clear of helpful suggestions like, “just be glad you have a job right now.”

When in the midst of my fake depressions, I become incredibly unreasonable. There is nothing you could possibly say to make me feel better. I will have a quick rebuttal for all the things you believe I should be grateful for. A few examples:

Children in Africa-“Chances are, they’d fit into this dress. Fuck them.”

My Legs-“If I didn’t have legs, I wouldn’t be forced to drive in soul-crushing traffic everyday. Where do I sign up?”

My Job-“Stop it. I’d give just about anything to not have to enter that God damn torture chamber ever again.”

When in a more reasonable state of mind, I can see how, perhaps, these responses are ill-conceived. As I said, these depressions lead to erratic behaviors that, at the time, seem totally sensible. My solutions to said depressions seem sensible as well, however, much like all my ideas, they only cause more damage.

Solutions for Depression:

Eat Chinese food until you pass out

Immediately sleep with the first person you see

Openly cry while driving on the freeway

Tell your boss what you really think of him

Drink copious amounts of alcohol

Try on pants

After 30 years in the business of trying to fix my life, you’d think I would have realized that my ideas are terrible. Unfortunately, each time I’m faced with a problem, I begin to think I have the perfect fix. One of my friends from high school and I used to get wasted and poke each other with a cattle prod. In retrospect, I think we were really onto something. Sometimes I just need a swift kick in the ass to bring me back to reality. So, in summation, the cure for depression? A cattle prod. You’re welcome. My ideas work.

F U LA

Here's the thing about Los Angeles that's a real dick up the ass. Even seemingly positive accomplishments are torn to shreds by the City of Angels. This commercial poses as an excellent example of how this city clearly wants me dead.

For starters, the day I booked this commercial I also received a letter, from the DMV, which claimed my license was going to be suspended if I didn't fork over a shit ton of cash. Reeeaaallll convenient, DMV. It's as if they waited for me to come into any kind of income so that they could immediately pounce. When all was said and done, I made zero dollars off this commercial. The city of Los Angeles, however, made $1,200. I'm certain they used that money on prostitutes and drugs. I know what you're thinking. I must have done SOMETHING for the DMV to start barking up my tree. Well I did. I ran a red light….TRYING TO GET TO THIS AUDITION!!!! Ugh, insert dick into ass.

DMV aside, I was ready to begin the process of being a famous, non-union, internet-commercial actress. I was brimming over with self-confidence…until I got to the fitting and had to try on pants. So basically I had high self-esteem for like 30 minutes. It was awesome. But if faded due to the pants issue. Each time I re-entered the wardrobe room I heard things like, “Oh, that’s too bad. We really liked those pants before,” and “That won’t work. She looks so lumpy.” LUMPY!? Am I actually lumpy? Of course I am. But I didn’t need to drive all the way to Santa Monica to figure that out and I certainly don’t like being called lumpy as if I'm not even there. If there’s a lumpy person in the room, please pay them some respect.

To make matters worse, the guy I was shooting this commercial with (you see the Adonis draped to the wall?) WAS A MODEL! How dare you cast a model beside me to steal all my glory. Luckily everyone on set found me to be a HILARIOUS fat person meaning I wasn’t actually acting at all. I should also mention that they were all real adamant about that hand gesture to denote that I was hot. “It’s hot.” is my actual line and I think we can all agree that you never would have known what I meant had it not been for the strategically placed hand movements that backed up my theory.

At the end of my 8 hours of work, I basically blacked out. I was tired, still poor and as always, my pants didn’t fit.

Carmageddon

In honor of the 405 shutting down this weekend, what follows is my inner-monologue while navigating the perplexing and horrifying streets of Los Angeles. As we all know, I'm the only good driver in this God forsaken town.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Oh good, an ambulance. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Oh look at you! You're turning left! Congratulations you fucking asshole. Oh, yep. Just a little slower now. Make sure you've really got it. Hooray! I hate you. Fuck you. I hate you. Fuck you. SERIOUSLY?! A CAR ATTACHED TO A TRUCK ON SUNSET?! Awesome. Ya know what you could use more of? Lights, yellow tape, and billowing black exhaust. Ugh. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead. Calm down everyone, it's just a movie premiere. Let's all try to focus up and continue on. UGH!!!! Pedestrians are the devil. Pedestrians are the devil. Pedestrians are the devil. Seriously bicyclist?! Who do you think you're helping? Get a fucking car you shitshow. You dirty hipster. You're not saving the environment. You're only increasing the homicide rate. USE THE SIDEWALK! Ideally you'll take out a few pedestrians in the process. My life lacks meaning. My life lacks meaning. My life lacks meaning. My life lacks meaning. My life lacks meaning. CONSTRUCTION!!!? Oh sure, now's a good time to work on the 101. 5pm on a Friday. Excellent choice, city of Los Angeles. You son of a bitch. There is no God. There is no God. There is no God. There is no God. What the fuck are you doing lady? Oh I get it, you're doing your makeup while reading to your child, OBVIOUSLY. You suck! You are so stupid! This time should be dedicated to DRIVING!!!! AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

My Friday Night

I think we all know I had zero to do with the mass accomplishment of uploading a video onto my blog. We have Amanda McFarland to thank for that. She can often be seen hacking my Twitter and Facebook pages. She is a rebel and a leader. Much like these animal people below, she is a wildabeast. Hope you enjoy. She asked me to put on a play including the animal crackers she bought and far be it from me to deny a lady a request.

Happy Birthday

I’m supposed to go to Mexico for my birthday, Puerto Vallarta, to be exact. I have meticulously planned this trip and have set aside the necessary funds in order to embark upon this journey in a responsible way. Then I accidentally watched a documentary entitled Crude. This movie has ruined my life.

Crude tells the heartbreaking story of how Texaco-Chevron basically destroyed the country of Ecuador (Is Ecuador a country? It doesn’t matter. There are indigenous people there and they are God damn adorable.) Basically there’s something there called “The Amazon.” This place looks terrifying to begin with. Pour a shit ton of oil on top of it and you can bet your ass I’ll never be visiting. Yet as this documentary unfolded, I was taken. Set aside the fact that these people are dumb enough to live in the jungle. Why not a studio apartment? Believe me people, it’s no picnic but I have to imagine it’s better than living in a tree. So whatever, I get it. Born in a tree, start a family in a tree, grow old in a tree. It’s tradition. God bless. I’m willing to chalk this all up to idiocy and move on with my life. So far, this documentary is boring.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop there. Turns out the fine people of Texaco accidentally spilled a ka-jillion gallons of oil all over the fine city of Ecuador (maybe it’s a city?). All these tree people are dying because they have nothing to drink but oil water. This is where I start to lose it. It turns out drinking and bathing in oil water causes ferocious cancer and the horrible man that made this film was sure to cover it all. There was this little girl with rashes all over her body, and then some 16 yr old who had to take a bus 18 hrs to get cancer treatment, and then a dad who lost both of his sons. And then Sting’s wife, that vixen Trudie Styler joined in and before you know it I’m jumping off the couch, cheetos are flying everywhere, I have a total breakdown of senses AND I BUY A $500 WATER CONTAINER FOR THE PEOPLE LIVING IN THE PROVINCE OF ECUADOR.

You have got to be fucking joking me. This is not ok. I don’t have $500. I DRIVE A DAEWOO! But how could I just sit here and watch that 16 yr old jungle person take the bus for 18 hrs? She should be awarded $500 just for having to take a jalopy in that heat! And who knows what supposed cancer treatment she’s even getting? For all I know, she just took a bus, probably got a staph infection in the process, and was awarded an Advil on the other end and told it was chemotherapy. Stop it.

It seems I have a soft spot for tree people. I love them, in fact. So fine, I can’t afford to go to Mexico now because I have no more money. And sure, my parents are going to murder me once they hear about the kinds of choices I make on my own. And yes, Rob Schaefer is going to never speak to me again because I made him change all his plans around so I could visit his condo in Puerto Vallarta and instead I chose to provide water to a part of the world I can’t even be really sure exists. Essentially, I’ve lost everything. I guess the good news is a) I have clean water, b) I don’t sleep in a tree and c) I have 4,000 new Ecuadorian friends that owe me, big time.