You just made my list!

Because I’m awesome, I’ve been working 14 hour days… everyone wants a piece of my talent. Of course this means you, my flock, suffer. For this, I am sort of sorry.

Blah blah blah, Paula Deen, bacon, butter, mayonnaise, fat, loud, giant head, scary eyes, more butter… You get the point.

If you have ever doubted this woman’s talent, just check out this advanced recipe for English Peas only a pro could come up with.

Fuck off, I’m going to bed.

Do you have an important funeral to attend but you just don’t feel like getting all dressed up in blue jeans for it? Have you been invited to a wedding and think it’s unfair that you can’t just wear your pajamas? I mean what’s more important than YOUR comfort, right? For years women have suffered the inhumane torture of wearing jeans in public. What, is everyone supposed to be the Queen of England?

Introducing Pajama Jeans, you lazy piece of shit! Now you can wear your PJs to your mother’s funeral and all the other dopes in attendance will think you have dressed up in jeans. Joke’s on them, it’s our little secret.

Pajama Jeans provide the best of both worlds… the laziness of wearing jeans every day, and the laziness of wearing your pajamas in public! Our patented stretchy material works for all shapes and sizes, so cramming your fat ass in there for a trip to Walmart will be a snap. The special interior “Dormi Soft” material is as soft as a baby’s face. It’s like rubbing your sweaty vagina against a cute baby’s face, what could be better?!?

You can wear your pretend jeans with sandals, bare feet, Crocs, or if you have an important court date for your recent D.U.I. you can even wear them with flip-flops.

But wait, there’s more! You can even work out in your magical fake jeans. I’m just kidding, we all now there’s no need for you to work out, it’s McDonalds’ fault you are fat. You should fucking sue!

Order now and we will throw in a free T-shirt that you will most likely use to wipe Slurpee spills off your belly.

Finally, Americans have a way to dress casually! Order your Pajama Jeans NOW!!

I was on such a roll and yet here we are, with no post to get you through your miserable day. I really screwed the pooch.

Let’s see, what’s my excuse for not writing last night? Oh yeah, I was too tired from “bringing it” P90X style.

You want a quickie? Here you go. I hate people who always say “no, I’m just kidding” after every jokey comment they say. Really? I used to work with a girl who said this after EVERY joke, no matter how small. Were you kidding when you said you were “hungry enough to eat a horse?” Thanks for clearing that up because I was horrified that you would ever consider eating such a majestic animal. Not to mention, I was seriously doubting your ability to actually consume a 950 pound creature. Plus, where the hell are you even getting this lunch horse? Thank god it was all a joke Kelly.

Leave me alone.

I think I’m going to be sick.

All I can do is stare at the screen and wonder what the hell I could possibly say about this.

I honestly think we may have peaked as a civilization. Maybe it’s because I watched an episode of “Wife Swap” for the first time tonight or maybe it’s simply because Taco Bell is jamming Flamin Hot Fritos into burritos, but I’m starting to feel like the human race has reached the top of the roller coaster and it’s time to all put our hands in the air and enjoy the rapid decent into hell.

Can we be trusted with the enormous task of keeping society running smoothly when Fritos are being shoved up the ass of an already heinous “burrito?” I’m not even against the practice of putting chips on things, in fact I like a good PB&J filled with pretzels, but this activity should be reserved for the end user. There is just something so grim about buying a food product already stuffed with Fritos. It’s unfortunate.

Oh, but there is some good news though. The Beefy Crunch Burrito comes with “reduced fat sour cream.” Why bother?

OK, before you get your hockey pants all up in a bunch, I will say that I also despise the accents of my fellow Chicagoans. And let me say this as well, I have been to Canada several times and always enjoyed myself. Any place with a chain of stores called “The Beer Store” has to be at least a little awesome. But those accents, eh?

Sure, Canada has exported some pretty important people who have made living on this godforsaken planet a little bit better… Neil Young, Rush, Pamela Anderson and, best of all, porn star and legendary “rope” shooter Peter North. I’m even willing to forgive you for Keanu Reeves and the Barenaked Ladies but I refuse to excuse those accents. Wait, I just remembered, fucking Nickelback* is from Canada. Thanks for shitting that one out of your country’s butthole all over us, Canada!

Lets get back to collectively hating the Canadian accent. It’s hard to really describe why I hate it so much. You might think it’s the annoying way they pronounce “out” as “oot,” or “sorry” like “soar-y,” or instead of saying “process” like “pra-cess” they insist on showing off and saying “prooocess,” but that’s just the icing on the back bacon. At the core of their horrible accent lies something far more sinister… over e•nun•ci•a•tion!

Every precious letter and syllable is given its chance to shine and be a star. While the rest of the world mashes sounds and words into one flowing mess, Canadians talk-like-they-are-speaking-to-a-deaf-person-who-reads-lips.

It doesn’t end there though. On top of this, Canadians end every sentence as if it were a question? “I’m going to the store? To buy some beer? If Bill calls? Tell him I’ll be back soon?” What’s with all the questions, Canada?

*I know, we gave the world George W. Bush, but still, Nickelback?

Oh thanks beautiful angel for letting me eat your sauce-soaked hair!

There’s only one thing horrible enough to wake me from my recent lazy holiday writing schedule. Angel hair pasta is the pussy of all pastas. I don’t mean that as a compliment, as in, angel hair pasta is awesome like female sexy parts. No, I mean angel hair pasta is the nerd of the pasta world.  Spaghetti is James Brown* and angel hair pasta is the Spin Doctors.**

I think I would rather eat actual hair than ever put another lifeless, slippery tangle of angel hair nonsense in my pretty mouth. Plus, angel hair pasta is always slimy and over-cooked because it’s so fucking thin it’s practically already cooked just from being near a boiling pot of water. It’s like when a little kid pukes just from seeing a roller coaster whiz by. At least in that scenario the people on the roller coaster are having fun, with angel hair pasta everybody loses.

*This could either be the young James Brown or the old drugged out, bat-shit crazy James Brown.

**Pick any era of the Spin Doctors you want.