Fetch My Flying Monkeys

So I was sitting at my desk yesterday wondering if Eric was going to live on True Blood working and I heard my co-worker next door girly scream. I asked what was up and she yelled "A SPIDER!" and I heard things getting flung around and more girly screaming. Being the quick thinker that I am, I grabbed my stick. I bet you're wondering what stick, aren't you? Well, one of my other co-workers reads this blog (Hi! I promise those cupcakes I brought in didn't really have ground glass sprinkles on them and I promise if someone in a black trench coat comes in shooting I won't point you out as a potential target from under my desk!) and she brought me a South Carolina Stick for scientifical stick science purposes and I kept it at my desk.

So my co-worker was screaming and I grabbed my stick and I went over to her. She pointed towards a little spot and yelled "SPIDER! KILL IT!" all hysterical like. I looked down and saw a wee little spider, like the Gary Coleman of spiders, nothing like the Satan spiders at my house. She was still girly screaming and I started to laugh. Then she started to cry, honest to God cry, and was all "I HATE SPIDERS! BOOHOO!" I said "It's cool, I'll kill it" but it was in a weird location where I really couldn't step on it so I took my stick and went to apply stick science and flick it on the floor and then my stick broke and I screamed "OH MY GOD! MY STICK BROKE!" all dramatical and she let out another girly scream and then I let out a girly scream (I love getting caught up in drama, ya'll) and she started crying more and was begging me to kill it. I looked down and the spider had moved and I couldn't find it. I dramatically yelled "OH MY GOD IT GOT AWAY!" and she screamed a scream at an even higher octave. Then I saw it and I flicked it again with one of the halves of my stick and it jumped! So I yelled "OH MY GOD IT'S A JUMPING SPIDER!" (like jumping made them ninjas) and she ran out the door, knocking over files and papers, and ran down the hall doing that insect heebie jeebie dance. Then I saw it on the floor and I applied shoe science to it.

After it was all over, people came over and started asking what all the commotion was. We announced it was the deadliest of spider species and that we barely escaped with our lives. "Just look at my stick! LOOK AT IT!" I exclaimed and held up the two pieces.

They looked at each other, then looked at us, rolled their eyes all smirky-like then turned and went back to their desks.

I mentally painted a bullseye on all of them. Those bitches are definitely getting pointed out.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (32)

I suffer from insomnia about every three to four months or so. It's horrible. If you've never had it you need to thank whatever God you worship. I go for weeks with sleeping, maybe if I'm lucky, four hours a night, but it's usually more like three. Some nights zero. I've tried the big sleeping aids like Ambien and Lunesta and they suck. Oh sure they knocked me out in the beginning but then the weirdness began to happen. I'd forget how I got to work in the mornings, I mean zero recollection of the drive and once on Ambien I woke up with my clothes still on, well, one leg was outside my jeans and apparently I had shaved it. One leg. I know. What the fuck? Anyway, I had to stop with the meds and just learn to deal with it best I can. Being an insomniac makes you a zombie. You're super, super tired but sleep doesn't come so you just run on auxiliary batteries you never knew you had, and you look at the world through a haze of exhaustion and a constant low buzzing sound in your ears, and you just function on auto pilot hoping you don't kill anyone because even with a bulbous head, you know you're way too pretty for prison. A plus side to insomnia is you have more time to think of ways to aggravate your pets.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (34)

No one can make me laugh harder than my friend Richelle. Seriously, I have tears running down my face from laughing so hard every time we talk. I'm thinking about spotlighting some of the shit she says on this blog. She doesn't blog or tweet or Facebook because as she puts it "Girl, when I'm pissed I don't blog my feelings, I cuss the bitch out then I take a damn nap."

Today she called me from work because she was frustrated with her co-workers. Richelle is the only African-American at a medium size company and apparently her co-workers aren't around many black people, so she has some of the most hilarious work stories ever. This was one of our conversations today:

Me: "Hello?"

Richelle: "I am so sick of people asking how old my daughter is and what school she goes to."

Me: "You don't have kids."

Richelle: "Exactly."

Me: "Then what in the hell are you talking about?"

Richelle: "They have a bulletin board in the break room where all the ladies post a picture of their kids or grandkids and one of the ladies here has a bi-racial granddaughter and they put her pic up and now everyone comes up to me asking me about my daughter."

Me: laughs "Do you tell them she's not yours?"

Richelle: "No. I re-named her and tell them she goes to Dreher."

Me: "No you didn't!" laughing

Richelle: "The hell I didn't. Everything black belongs to Richelle here. Any black man that walks in the place they're all 'Oh Richelle is he cute?' Like I'm their black male meter."

Me: "NO!" laughs

Richelle: "Yes! I'm thinking 'Bitch if you don't think he's cute, he probably isn't, so stop asking me if every black man is cute or not.' Oh, and here's the best part- they then try to hook me up with EVERY black man that walks in the office, including the janitor!"

Me: laughs hysterically

Richelle: "I can't be talking to you when you're like this. I gotta go. I have to go to HR and change the number of dependents on my withholdings and make a hair appointment for my baby girl, Shaniqua."

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (27)

My weekend was filled with a lot of screaming, hair pulling, death threats, and tears. Yes, I went clothes shopping. Jesus Christ. It's still almost 100 degrees outside and there's nothing in the stores but winter wear. What. The. Hell. And OH MY GOD, it was like EVERY store thought "Well it's the end of August, Fall must be here!" so they had their AC turned down or off and there I was misjudging my size again, because in my head I'm super thin and tall and smart with lots of friends, and as I struggled pulling jeans over my thighs the sweat started pouring off of me under the blinding cellulite-enhancing fluorescent lights. I finally just said "Fuck It" and went home and cried into a bag of Cheetos while sitting in front of a fan wearing my oversized "Frankie Goes To Hollywood" t-shirt and my elastic waistband pajama shorts and watched a movie the Internet told me to.

So I rented Kick-Ass and it was an okay movie. It is nothing like you'd expect it to be from the previews. I thought it would be about a bunch of do-gooders getting together to play super heroes with a lot of slap-stick comedy thrown in. It may have had a tad of that but mostly it was about a mentally deranged guy, Big Daddy, played by Nicholas Cage, whom I have loved since Raising Arizona (LOVED that movie), who's hell-bent on revenge. He trains and brainwashes his daughter, Hit Girl, to be his side-kick and they go after the dude who years earlier framed Big Daddy and sent him to prison. Hit Girl was clearly the star of this movie and the best/most disturbing part of it was watching this little ten year old slaughtering people with glee. I think she was ten, I don't know anything about kids and I'm too lazy to google it. Also you get to see an adult kicking her ass. Do not watch this movie if the line between movie world and real world is blurry for you and you're all sensitive about watching a crazy-ass murderous little kid get beat up. You rarely witness this kind of child violence in American film, but it really should be shown more often. I personally would pay extra to see a child punched out in every film. Oh hush, I kid, I kid. Or do I?

Anyway, for not really developing any of the characters enough for us to really give a shit what happens to them I give it two Ed Crying On Account She Can't Have No Baby:

And for its gratuitous violence and cursing and showing a ten (?) year old psycho kid getting punched in the face repeatedly I give it three Baby in the Highway, which means "pretty cool":

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (36)

This week was boring and kind of sucked, but I think you all know me well enough to know that a suck-ass boring time never stopped me from finding something to blog about, so here's some things that weren't boring and didn't suck:

Random Friday Crap

1. Richelle wants to go to another psychic. I told her she's on her own, but she keeps whining about it. I told her I'd only go again if I went armed and now she's all "Oh shit no, you'll shoot them if they say you're gonna have a kid." And I'm all, "It will be justifiable homicide." So at this point I don't know what we're doing.

2. I want to thank everyone who voted for my sexy Daily Babe boudoir picture at Fountain Abbey. I'm still waiting to hear if I won anything. I mean, who the hell shows that much skin for free? Gah.

3. Mr. Bingley at The Coalition Of The Swilling made a Circus Peanut Pie to cheer me up since I haven't gone to California yet. Take a gander at this baby:

Mmmm. I would eat half of this pie, lay on my couch with a cool, wet washcloth on my head for a few hours to recover, then get up and eat more. Circus Peanuts are my crack. Thanks Mr. Bingley, you're now just like a crack dealer but not.

4. I get a lot of email from readers who send me pics or articles of things they think I'll like. I love hearing from you guys, so keep 'em coming. I had several readers send me this next item and even facebooked it on my wall. Is facebook a verb even? It is now. So I took it as an omen and ordered it:

How awesome is that? Pretty damn awesome.

5. I plan on drinking this weekend. And because I make poor choices when I'm drinking, I am asking you all to take my lame-ass poll and choose a movie for me to watch and review while I'm drunk dialing my exes.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (32)

Recently, I told you about the different birds of prey going after Jack, right? Don't worry, I walk out with him now, and no, he doesn't wear his lion suit. Well, it appears our squirrel population has gone down considerably since the appearance of the raptors. This is a good thing. We had too many squirrels and a few tried to eat their way into my attic. Fuckers. Also appearing at about the same time was a mysterious ice cream truck. Now this isn't a regular looking ice cream truck all brightly colored and cheery. No, this is like a pedo-truck of horror that clunks along with spray painted windows in the back, half of the body painted with grey primer and hand painted pictures of ice cream cones on it. Warped spooky circus music plays from what sounds like broken speakers as it prowls down the street. Now the thing I really wanted to tell you is, since the appearance of the ice cream truck, I haven't seen many kids in the neighborhood. That's right. So raptors show up and the squirrels are gone, and then a creepy ice cream pedo-truck appears and the children are gone. Maybe I won't move after all.

P.S. J just called and said I haven't seen the kids because school started and that I shouldn't be writing that children are being abducted by a creepy ice cream pedo-truck because normal people get upset if they think kids are being abducted and that he really shouldn't have to tell me this but I always get out of control with my stories. He also said he saw the ice cream truck and it wasn't that creepy looking and that it only had a small patch of primer on it. Gah. It's like he's blind sometimes.

P.P.S. J also told me that I am not seeing the squirrels because the days are getting shorter and they were nesting, not that the birds ate them all. Then I asked him why he hated raptors so. "Is it because eagles are raptors and eagles represent freedom, Mister Ice Cream Truck/Squirrel Scientist?" He sighed, then hung up on me.

P.P.P.S Here's an exact replica of that creepy ice cream pedo-truck. I photoshopped the driver in. It looks just like it except the tires have more air and there's more primer and less rust and more pictures of ice cream on it and it may be a little whiter, but the driver looks the same except less make-up and he may or may not have red hair:

P.P.P.P.S. And, J, here's a picture of FREEDOM:

IN. YOUR. FACE.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (35)

Saturday morning Richelle picked me up to go to the psychic. On the way there she said it was an Indian Psychic that her cousin's second husband's sister goes to and that he's so good he told her she was going to have a baby and she did. Richelle's cousin's second husband's sister that is, not Richelle. And I was all, "He'd better not tell me I'm going to have a baby. I don't want to see some baby psychic." And Richelle was all, "No, girl. He's good. He'll know you're barren and hateful." And I told Richelle she could go ahead and pay me now because I could see her future and it involved me kicking her ass. This continued all the way there, and by "there" I mean down a dirt road to a mobile home right next to the Congaree Swamp. "Jesus Christ," I said to Richelle, "I think I saw the name 'Serial Killer' on his mailbox." She laughed, and I laughed back, but as soon as we entered his home I wished I had come strapped. I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe a room full of people waiting to go back behind a pair of beaded curtains. What I saw was a huge Indian dude with a long braid down his back sitting in a recliner eating Ramen noodles and watching the Disney channel with no one else around.

Richelle went first, going with Chief Ramen to the kitchen table. I sat there pretending I was watching Hannah Montana or some such Disney bullshit, but I was actually mentally planning my escape should the need arise. I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and held it in my hand so that I could dial for help real fast and then maybe use it as a weapon. Yeah, I was sure an iPhone upside a 300 pound homicidal psychic Indian's head would do some real damage. Damn you Steve Jobs for not making a brick app.

All I kept thinking was, "Please don't kill us, please don't kill us" and then I told myself to stop thinking that in case he could read my mind and it would make him spring into action faster. Wait, I thought, he's a psychic not a mind-reader. Then I thought if I hear Richelle scream I'll run for the door real quick (Richelle would be on her own for making that barren and hateful remark) but he'd probably use his psychic powers to hold the doors shut and then have vases and shit fly across the room and slam into me. But then I thought "No, wait that was Carrie." "Burn me with fire?" No that was Drew Barrymore. I was sitting there thinking what a psychic serial killer's power would be when Richelle walked back in and Chief Ramen said it was my turn.

I sat across the kitchen table from him and he was just sitting there staring at me and I wanted to tell him I was born with this bulbous head, but he probably knew that being psychic and all. He kept staring and I was feeling uncomfortable and I wanted to open my shirt and show him my surgery scars and freckles so he wouldn't want to kill me and wear my skin because there were too many seams in it and the pattern was a bit off. But I sat there and looked back into his eyes thinking I'd use my own powers and I started mentally projecting my thoughts at him. "You do not want to murder this girl. I repeat, you do not want to murder this girl." Then he started talking about general psychic stuff, telling me things about my personality that really, could have been about anyone who is awesome, and then he told me I'd live a long time (long enough to get out of this trailer and down the road I thought) and that it would take a long time before I would be completely happy. Great. Then he asked me if I had any questions for him and I kind of went blank for a while. I finally asked him for lottery numbers and he frowned at me and said he didn't do that. I said "Oh, okay." He kept looking at me expecting another question and I was all "Fuck what do I ask him?" So I asked him "At what age will I die?" and again he said he didn't do that but that I would be old and he kept looking at me wanting more questions so I said "Will I ever be with George Clooney?" Then he looked at me like I was retarded and I thought "What the fuck Chief Ramen? I want to know. Maybe." I frowned and he started to get up and he told me I owed him $45 and I said "Oh, oh" because I had just thought of another question as I was handing him the money out of my pocket. He looked at me like "Wha?" after he took my cash and I held my left hand up and pulled the thumb back a little with my right hand and I said "My thumb hurts when I move it like that, do you know what's wrong with it?" I think at this point he really thought about murdering me, and he sighed and said "Go see a doctor." Fuck.

So basically I paid $45.00 to be told how awesome I was by an Indian. I still don't have any lottery numbers and I still don't know what the fuck is wrong with my thumb. But at least I'm alive and I ain't having any babies, so there's that at least.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (41)

I visit a few blogs on my blogroll that post pictures of half-naked women daily or every so often. I'll open the page sometimes and my eyes are slapped senseless by saline stuffed mammary glands and airbrushed ass. I like to read the comments on these entries because men looking at boobies are funny.

So a week or two ago I was over at Curtal Friar's Fountain Abbey and he was posting his "Daily Babe" entries and I noticed all of them posted that week were redheads. Of course me being the redheaded attention whore that I am and this being the Internet where the only thing that keeps me from having a multi-million dollar modeling contract is, well, REALITY, I had to comment that I was a redhead. Then I noticed he was having a poll on who was the sexiest babe he had posted that week and I kind of wrote my name in. I know. Sometimes I have cocktails when I read blogs.

So dude called me on it and wanted a sexy picture. Shit. But what the hell, right? I'm just as pretty as those skanks, I mean, if you kind of stand way back and hold your head to the right and squint. So I sent him a boudoir picture I used to send to George Clooney until the judge told me I had to stop just happened to have on my hard drive. At first I was all worried, thinking "I hope this doesn't turn around to bite me on the ass." You know, like one day maybe ruin my chances at running for president. But then I remembered that my world domination plans don't really involve being "voted in" so much as "taking over."

And because the Internet can be cruel, and just because I have a bulbous head doesn't mean I'm not sexy, I am asking you all to go HERE and rate my sexy boudoir picture 5 stars or more. Yes, write some extra stars in because I don't really feel that 5 stars could really represent all of my hawtness. I'm not posting my pic here because I don't want to be one of "those women" that are all "Oooo look at me and how sexy I am." Even though I totally am.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (37)

I got in late Sunday night, watched True Blood, then it was off to bed. Yes, I went to see a psychic this weekend and yes, there's lots to tell you, and I will, but first look at these puppies that were up for adoption at a local animal protection organization:

I think Jack needs a sister. Damn those puppies and their mind numbing adorableness. Damn those evil beasts.

Posted by Laura at 06:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (32)

Can you believe it? A second entry in a series I started on here. I am actually doing something on here that I said I would. What the fuck? It's like I don't even know myself anymore.

I'll Try It So You Don't Have To

Today I purchased a Pitaya, also known as "Dragon Fruit."

It's native to Central and South America but they're big in Asia. Years ago Asia ran a campaign saying in the old days dragons used to spit these out after breathing fire so they named them dragon fruit. I didn't have a dragon to photograph with it so I settled for pteranodon which is just like a dragon except not.

So I cut it like the Internet said to and spooned out some fruit.

The best word to describe it is "meh." It wasn't sweet or bitter or anything really. I think people mostly eat it because it's supposed to be packed with antioxidants, not for any deliciousness. I'll stick to my artifically flavored Flintstones Vitamins which are delicious, especially the grape Dino ones.

I rate this dragon fruit three Opera Singers because you know you're supposed to like it and it's suppose to be good for you but it's boring as all hell and you'd rather be watching some cartoons at home in your underwear.

And I give it one Crying Retarded Arnie because it cost me five dollars and I could have bought a lottery ticket with that money.

Posted by Laura at 08:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (26)