More Costumes That Won't Get You Laid

Leave it to my mom to scour the Internet for more costume pictures to add to my Menagerie of WTF? Love her. Of course, none of these gems came with titles so we'll have to improvise.

The Village Douche: Proudly defending what appears to be an Iowa Waffle House.

I Wanted to be a Power Ranger but My Mom Hates Me: I mean really, from the bowl-cut haircut to the turtleneck sweater to the sweat pants, to the white, white shoes--something tells me this kid doesn't need to wear a polyfoam toilet to be laughed at by all of his peers.

Larry Craig: Just add white patent leather tap shoes.

The Unfortunate Cousin: Here's a familiar character. He's family, so you invite him to your costume party. Then he waggles his private parts at the other guests and asks everyone how many piercings they think he has. Later he'll be arrested for peeing in public.

The Thing: My old dog Gussie used to eat a lot of weird stuff, including foam mattress padding, cotton balls, underwear, toilet paper and babies. Okay, I lied about the babies. But whenever she decided to dine a la carte on furniture or the bathroom buffet, her crap looked a lot like this. Otherwise I have no idea what this could be.

Sir Douche of Douchelot: Oh, this guy is the creepiest ever. You know when he's distracting you with his plush wang he's also busy ordering you a roofie colada. Sick. He's a knight to remember because tomorrow you'll be picking his ass out of a lineup.

On a separate note, do you suppose this guy counts this catalog work as modeling? Like, when he's on a "go-see", do you think he mentions that time he modeled a two-foot stuffed penis?

The Dust Settles

Things have finally cooled down around here--for the moment anyway--so I thought I'd do a quick post before I leave for the weekend. Everyone seems to be talking about Halloween costumes and I think most of us will be going as a Sexy Pirate, a Dirty Hooker, or Sexy, Dirty Pirate Hooker.

I usually try to put costumes together with stuff I already have in my closet (meaning I go as a Dirty Pirate Hooker every year). This method works for some people, but clearly, not everyone.

Like this poor woman(?). Clearly this err, individual did a last minute inventory of her closet and came up with flannel pants, a scarf, a cape, a backstage pass, some face paint and a handful of Tylenol gel caps. Put it together and you get...well, you know...you get...that. If I had to guess, I'd say she was the resident pill pusher of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft/first person to pass out at a party next to the crayola markers.

Or this guy, who has dressed himself like a tiger. Or a zombie. Or a tiger zombie. Truth be told, if there wasn't a date stamp on the picture, I would've just assumed this was the t-shirt that matched those sweet-ass NFL Team Hammer pants that were popular in the late eighties. But since it's 2003, there's really no excuse for this.

Even purchasing a costume is no guarantee that people will get what you are. Take this woman--what the hell is she supposed to be? Slutty Movie Theater Concession Stand Employee? Slutty Carrot? Slutty Construction Cone? Or did they run out of white fabric at the Slutty Nurse Factory?

I'm assuming that most elements of these costumes were purchased at the costume store, except of course, for the underoos. And speaking of the underoos, I now want to switch my mascara to kerosene and poke my retinas with lit matches. Um, sir, your girlfr--err--date appears to be smuggling a kiwi fruit. And while I was staring (in horror, of course) at her package, I couldn't help but notice the total ninja foot you've got going on in your unitard. Oh, the humanity!

With that, I've got to get out of here. I'll be at my desk all weekend staring at the 6-car pileup in his pants. But before I go, please check out this short film a good friend directed for the Apple Insomnia Film Festival. The contest is decided on the ratings given to the film, so if you could also rate it (and don't be a dick about it, either) I would greatly appreciate it. Click here to go to the gallery. Just search the gallery for the film "Carved" and it will pop up.

Have a great weekend, you Dirty Pirate Hookers!

When It Rains, It Pours (And Pisses Me Off)

Holy Crap! Things have gotten so busy lately. It seems like only weeks ago I was desperately looking for ways to kill time, like wandering around grocery stores and sneaking KY into old ladies' shopping carts, watching QVC, and punting animals that walk by. Now I barely have time to sleep and punt animals that walk by.

Still, I feel like I ought to post and give you the Steph Status. Three posts in two weeks aren't probably enough to get rid of the withdrawal symptoms you've been enduring, so I hope I can make it up to all of you adoring fans (read: Mom, Grandma, Great Aunt Pat, two people from work and strange guy who keeps sending me handmade drawings in blood).

STEPH STATUS

Consecutive days without drinking: Zip.
Last shower: This morning--on a whim.
Mood: Slightly murderous with a chance of apathy.
Financial status: Not homeless and\or selling crack. Yet.
Boyfriend: Not by a mile.
Stray cats: Seven.
Stray cats for pet purposes, not food purposes: Zilch-o.
Most desired item: A stupid Louis Vuitton bag I have no business owning.
Next thing I'll probably purchase: Chairs. Taco seasoning. Booze.
What's making me mad right now: My wireless card keeps falling apart and I got chocolate in it somehow.
What's making me happy right now: The idea that somewhere, this very second, someone is dropping their iPhone into a puddle in the middle of traffic.

Well, there you have it. You are all caught up in the excitement that it my life--at least for a little while. Now excuse me while I work on getting peanut butter crackers out of my keyboard. And phone receiver. And fingernails.

Oh, and cleavage.

Excuses, Excuses

I'm sick.

I was in New York City all weekend.

I'm super busy at the office.

I was molested by David Copperfield.

Four good reasons I can't possibly post today. Well, three if you're only counting the things that are actually true (the other is on my 'to do' list, of course). So much to discuss--so I promise there will be a post tomorrow. However, I'm feeling awful guilty for leaving all three of you loyal readers hanging, so here is my New York trip in 50 words:

Airplane bloody mary rain SARS pizza how much for that purse you must be insane Gene Simmons hot dogs Time Square subway smelly Richard free drinks kissing stranger cut off hotel Central Park pizza VIP stumbling Bon Jovi in bed on the corner hotel broke Statue of Liberty phlegm factory.

In other words, it was frickin' awesome. And despite the fact that I probably subjected thousand people to some unknown Cleveland plague, I don't think I could've had a more fun weekend.

Hope y'all had a good weekend too! More to come tomorrow.

Lots of love and bacteria,

Steph

What Plague Will Jacobs Field Bring Tonight

We all remember Game 2 (the second game of the series held at the Jake) in the Yankees Series, in which a horde of gnats descended from the Heavens and onto the infield. The wild pitch, the tying run, Derek Jeter hopping around the field like a little bitch--it was truly a thing of beauty.


So what matter of curses, if any, can we expect tonight, as we play the second of a three-game stint at the Jake? Gnats were fun, but I think Cleveland can do better. Much better.


Top 3 Misfortunes that could Befall the Red Sox


The Curse of the Tower City Food Court

Earlier in the day, the Red Sox have a brief moment to grab some sustenance. In a rush, they head down to the Team Diner Food Court. Not wanting to wait, Ortiz and Ramirez head straight for guy with the free samples of teriyaki something-or-other, making a meal out of the entire tray of bite-sized mystery meat. Neither one will make it to the game...or the pregame meeting...or batting practice...or to the Team Diner bathroom. Tribe wins 3-1.

The Curse of the Drumming Guy

It's been a big year for the guy who sits under the scoreboard and endlessly thumps his giant drum. He got to throw out the first pitch at the opening of the Yankees series, and now he will single-handedly deliver the Tribe to the World Series. In the middle of a feverish rat-a-tat-tat, one of his drumsticks will go rogue, soaring onto the infield and becoming pierce the flask full of Bacardi 151 Slider keeps somewhere underneath that purple mess. The Bacardi 151 immediately ignites, causing a panic. Trying to redeem himself as a past Cleveland hero, Manny jumps on Slider and attempts to put out the flames. Instead, his ridiculous cornrows become engulfed. Eventually, a beer vendor extinguishes the flames ($13.50 worth of Budweiser, mind you) but Manny is forced to sit out of the game and team morale hits a new low. Tribe wins 18-2.

The Curse of the Horny Lumberjacks

Attracted to the 3-inch thick mound of pine tar stuck on half of their batting order, a throng of lusty lumberjacks will rush the field and start humping the Red Socks with reckless abandon. Shreds of Sox uniforms and plaid flannel with fly into the air like confetti, and the game will have to be delayed for a good hour as the Brawny army is subdued and the Red Sox batters are allowed to shower quickly and ice themselves down a bit before having to finish the game. Tribe wins 8-2.

Okay, maybe the gnats were better. With the predicted precipitation, who knows--they might be up for an encore.

T.G.I.F.B.I.A.T.H.S. (Thank God It's Friday Because I'm About To Hurt Someone)

Okay. Let me just say this: when it comes to the predestination lottery, I really lucked out in the job department. I'm not making enough money to start wiping my butt with dollar bills (although that is a goal of mine), but I enjoy my work, have awesome bosses and can more or less do whatever I want--including showing up in torn-up jeans and novelty t-shirts, spending several hours decorating tissue boxes with pictures of ALF, farting around on YouTube and when absolutely necessary, napping. And when I'm not doing all that, I really like the work that I get to do. Almost all the time.

There are, however, little assignments here and there that pop up and make you realize this: there's no such thing as a perfect job. They also make you realize this: window offices come with the disadvantage of giving you the option of ending your existence without having to really make a scene.

Okay, I'm exaggerating, of course. I would never end my life. But the latest 'To Do' to come down the pipes may send me into a murderous rage, which would be really bad for company morale. So to help myself put things in perspective, I've decided to reflect on some past jobs and come up with ten tasks I had to do that were way worse assignments than this one.

10: Wiping the blood off of the products at Record Town.
Hey guy, there's a large plastic security device around that CD. Do you think that after we went through all of the trouble to put it on there we'd make it easy for you to rip off right there in the middle of the store? Probably not. So now I get the most unpleasant chore of removing your bloody fingernails from said security device and putting the Sir Mix-a-Lot CD back on the shelf for our paying customers. Thanks.

9: Answering the phone at the radio station.
Eagle 106.3 the Rock Station? Yes, I know I suck. No, the Big Kahuna isn't here, he's on in the daytime. People that are good enough to be on the radio in the daytime don't work from midnight to six like me. Yes, it's just me right now. What's that? You're watching me from the parking lot? No kidding. Well could you run across the street and grab me three hard taco supremes? I can't leave this phone for another freakin' 5 hours.

8: Working in the fitting rooms at Gap.
Ugh. How about you ladies get a little more deodorant all over everything? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it goes on your underarms. Why am I having to wipe it off of your leggings?

7: Filling in for the dishwasher.
What do you do when the gnarly, toothless, sixty-year-old meth addict walks about because he feels like he's above the chore? Throw the 16 year-old hostess, full of hopes and dreams, back into the dish tank and see how she does! Ah yes, you can almost see her soul escaping her body as she gets hit in the face with mashed potatoes and half-chewed gristle.

6: Counter duty at the tuxedo rental shop during prom season.
No, jerk-off, we don't have any tuxedos like the orange and blue ruffly ones from Dumb and Dumber. But we do have this nice tailored jacket with deep pockets, so you'll have plenty of room for your flask, condoms and your date's last shred of dignity at the big dance.

5: Cleaning the hot dog machine at the ice arena.
Kind of an obvious one, isn't it? Here's a little known fact: after rolling around in the machine for 8 and a half hours, hot dog grease congeals and actually turns into chlamydia.

4: Working the skate rental at the ice arena.
Speaking of chlamydia, the flora that were thriving inside each of those rental skates could wipe out an entire small-to-midsized community. We sprayed them with some sort of NO AIDS spray, but I don't think that even put a dent in the casserole of illness growing in there. Ish. So wrong.

3: Dressing as a friggin' elf and handing out friggin' Gift Coins at Record Town.
Seriously. I'd rather clean the blood off of the Sir Mix-A-Lot CD with my tongue.

2: Representing the radio station at local events.
Hey, everyone! I realize this is a motorcycle show and that I'm a twenty-year-old sorority girl with a microphone, but you're supposed to pay attention to me. Also, you should all applaud when I ask "HOW'S EVERYBODY DOING OUT THERE?" in my best ex-cheerleader scream. And you should also pretend not to think I'm a complete retard when I exclaim that all of these motorcycles are "really bitching." God, kill me.

1: Waiting on complete douche bags for over one-third of my entire life.
No, I will not make your drink "healthy." No, I will not have the kitchen remake your steak--you got a seven-ounce sirloin butterflied. No, you can't have more free popcorn until you order a drink and stop falling asleep at the bar. No, I will not get you a brand new margarita because a bug flew into the one you've almost finished outside on the patio. You will not get an extra pour, a free appetizer, a complimentary dessert, a complaint form or my freaking phone number! EVER! GET BENT!!!!!!!!

Phew. See? So much better. Now the awaiting assignment seems like a piece of cake. Crappy, sugar-free, straight-from-the-box cake. But still--cake. Murderous rage averted.

Hope you have a great weekend!

Open Letter To The Guy Who Announced The Browns Game (Who Wasn't Greg Gumble)

Dear Announcer Guy (Again, Not Gumble),


I realize that as a television personality you must be super busy, what, with all that work you have to do so that you can bombard the nation with ridiculous, useless blathering every Sunday--but I was hoping to just get an eensy-weensy moment of your time so that I can ask you a simple question:


IF YOU LOVE TOM BRADY SO MUCH, WHY DON'T YOU JUST MARRY HIM?

Jesus! Like any Browns fan who had to sit and listen to you pine away for Brady, I've been searching for your address so I can start heading that way with a wrench, a bunch of tubing and some astronaut diapers. If I felt like coughing up the cash to order a transcript of the game, I'd expect to come across the words "living legend" and "incredible athleticism" as often as, say, "first down" or "complete pass". Or "football".

I know that your job is to call the game the way you see it--so I have to assume you weren't watching anything in a white uniform and an orange helmet. Also, you must have been too absorbed in the game to take one little thing into consideration: when it comes to everything besides football, Tom Brady is a huge douche.


If I were calling the game, I'd try to look at the big picture. For example:


"Wow! Tom Brady just dodged that Wimbley tackle like it was a pregnant girlfriend. What athleticism!"


"Notice how quickly Brady gets rid of the ball, just like he does with girlfriends who get knocked up? He's a living legend!"


"Look how comfortable Brady is in the pocket. It's like he is in the arms of a vapid, home-wrecking supermodel. He's always got so much protection around him. Well, not always."


Instead, I had to hear about your twisted man-crush for three pathetic hours, which would have been better spent laying behind the tires of my neighbor's car, or sticking various metal things into my electrical outlets.


Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that there were actually two teams present on Sunday, with two quarterbacks, both throwing for over 260 yards. Only one of them wasn't a philandering prick with a celebutard girlfriend.


Regards,
Steph

I'm A Very Bad Blogger

Sorry friends and relatives, for I have been seriously neglecting my blogging duties this week. I have a handful of excuses--working late, fighting off bobcats, drinking, etc. etc. I promise to be better next week! Have a great weekend, and GO TRIBE!

Hugs!

Wouldn't You Like To Know?

For all of you expecting the play-by-play of the date I went on last Friday, you are sadly mistaken. A lady doesn't kiss and tell, or break wind at dinner and tell, or apocalyptically vomit and tell. And of course I'm not saying that any of these things did or did not happen. I'm just saying that I'm a lady. Translated: I will use a series of pictures to help illustrate the evening.

There. Any questions?