Yikes.

It's been a busy month, pets. I know I'm behind with the posts, but I haven't had time to do any free writing (and yes, I mean writing I don't get paid for). And I miss it, I truly do. Hopefully things will settle down after Christmas and I can get back into the swing of things. But before that happens (or doesn't happen, I suppose), I just wanted to wish you all a safe and happy holiday! I hope you get everything you ask for, but bear in mind that you won't. Because it's a recession. So just manage your expectations. That's all I'm sayin'.





Oh, and here I am with my brother on Christmas a couple of years ago. As you can see, he didn't get any presents because then people wouldn't be able to give me as many.



Happy Holidays!

Daytime TV Can Kill You

I don't watch daytime television. Most of the blame for this falls squarely on my employer, who happens to think that if I'm to receive payment, I should be in my office doing something during the hours in which daytime television typically airs.

But I don't particularly mind, because I despise daytime television. It reminds me of being sick, as sick days were the only days I ever watched daytime television. The very words "daytime television" conjure up images of me watching Bob Barker while simultaneously vomiting into a big silver mixing bowl. Mom would try to keep me from slipping into a coma by forcing me to bid on items, like I was one of the contestants. But it's hard to guess the cost of an old-timey popcorn machine while you're turning the living room into a giant Jackson Pollock painting made with bile. Enough? I thought so.

Anyvomit, I'm quite the stranger to daytime TV. But while in the waiting room of the doctor's office today (that was equipped with several flat screens but sadly devoid of draught beer or wings), I was reminded just how out of touch I was with the world of midday television. Which probably explains why I've never come face to face with the hosebeast that calls herself Paula Deen.

Before you grab your torches and pitchforks and start looking for my house (hint: it's the one with a different repair truck in front of it every damned day), let me just say two things:

One: I love comfort food.

Two: I hate anorexia.

Okay? So my butter-soaked, bacon-wrapped, cream-drizzled beef with Paula Deen is not because I believe that thin is pretty or pie is bad. And if you're a religious Paula Deen viewer, let me just say two more things:

One: No offense.

Two: STOP! THIS WOMAN IS TRYING TO KILL YOU!

Seriously. In just fifteen minutes of waiting for the doctor to see me, I witnessed her whip up a version of chocolate bread pudding that would give Ghandi heart failure in under three mouthfuls.

Watching her amble from pot to pot like a grizzly bear in a fat lady costume, I couldn't fathom how the Surgeon General was allowing this type of programming to be broadcast to the masses. Also on the menu was some sort of potato casserole that was straight-up hemmorahging sour cream. She finished it off with a vat of beef stew, in which I think she skipped the vegetables and just added whole suckling pigs for color.

She plated the stew directly on top of the potato stuff, giggling as she drenched the entire meal in stew gravy. "Whoops," she said. "Got a little gravah on mah potatoes!" And next week: "Whoops, I just fell down on the table with my mouth open and accidentally python-style swallowed that Thanksgiving turkey whole."

The worst, though...the worst was that damned bread pudding. She brought it out of the oven and gazed at it like she was Whitney Houston with a ten pound crack rock. Paula then sunk a serving spoon into it and the bread pudding actually quivered and farted. "I just LOVE that gushy sound. Ya hear it?" she squealed with delight. Yes, Paula, I heard it. And then I went out into the lawn, ate some grass, came back and yakked it up on the carpet of the waiting room. You make me want to be ill.

I mean, watch this woman eat a pumpkin bar. Nobody should ever react to food this way, unless it's a Louisiana Meth Souffle.

Sure, she's probably extremely likable. And I bet her cooking tastes amazing, just like I bet it would be fun to steal a car or kick my neighbor's stupid dog--great in the moment but you know it was wrong and feel just awful about it ten minutes later. Honestly, I just can't imagine what regularly eating like that could do to a person.

Important note: That is a man. And that is his thigh.

There is a little glutton inside all of us, and 'tis the season for it to rear its fat, ugly head and smash some serious gravy-riddled food. But to religiously use full sticks of butter in meals? The very thought of it makes me want to have ice cubes and a Cert for dinner.

Speaking of, I hope you all have a great Thanksgiving. I'll try and blog between now and then, but I'm very busy having steamy nights and shopping all my days away (read: staying at the office late because the heat is free and buying brake pads and hot water tanks). Love you all.

Oh, and in the spirit of Paula Deen, I say we all have a turbaconducken this year. It's a chicken wrapped in bacon, stuffed inside of a duck wrapped in bacon, stuffed inside a turkey. Wrapped in bacon. It makes my eyes fart.

TGIF (This Girl Is Fried)

This is what it sounds like in my brain right now. Honestly.

The weekend needs to happen immediately. That is all. Hope you have a good one.

What You Should Get Me For Christmas (If You Never Want To Hear From Me Again)

Beginning in October, my family starts bugging me for Christmas list items. I'm not complaining, mind you, but this year I'm having a bit of trouble coming up with things I really want. In case any of you were wondering, here are a few things NOT to give me out of the kindness of your hearts. Seriously. Send money. Send kind words. Send a pipe bomb. ANYTHING but these.


The "No Sex 'Til Six" Clock

Personally, I don't even know who this clock was meant for. But it sure as hell ain't me. If it had been, it would say "no sex until six" and there would be nothing but 3's around it.

Finger Nose Hair Trimmer

I'm a firm believer that no one should buy another person a regular nose hair trimmer unless they specifically ask for one, and even then...eeewwww. So let's add insult to injury by making the trimmer look like a finger. Hahah! At least they could've gotten a better nose model than this one. It looks like they bribed a 72-year-old hobo with an airplane blanket and a box of wine.

Smencils



Smencils didn't make this list because they are scented pencils. That actually sounds kinda fun. Smencils made the list because someone named them Smencils. They had the envious assignment of naming scented pencils and all they could muster up was Smencils. Probably the same geniuses who brought you Smens, Smarkers, Smighlighters and Smite Out (although I sorta enjoy the biblical undertones of that one.)

Nope...It's Soap


Me: It's crap!
Them: Nope...it's Soap!
Me: No really, it's crap.
Them: No, try it, it's actually soap.
Me: I get it asshole, but it's still crap. It's a crappy idea and it's not funny. I mean...you're all idiots! Who would buy this? Nobody! Because it's CRAP!
Them, sniffling: It's soap.

The Complete Manual Of Things That Might Kill You


I already have this online. It's called WebMD. Every time I use the symptom checker, it alerts me to something catastrophic that's happening to my body, like my torso is gradually turning inside out, or my temporal lobe is developing nipples.

The Boyfriend Pillow

Honestly, this has to be the most depressing item ever made. You might as well send someone a thousand cats, a copy of Love Story and a shotgun.

In Case You Were Wondering...

Hot dog vendors can read minds.

Don't believe me? Go ahead. Walk by one in deep thought. Remain expressionless, but mull over something that's really troubling you. If today was any indication, they'll abandon their stand, walk you across the street, and give you a reassuring shoulder squeeze.

Thank you, Michael the Hot Dog Vendor, you strange, smelly saint.

Help Me Help...Me

Like many of you, I've put Halloween costume brainstorming off to the very last minute. So I'm asking you (nicely!) to drop everything you're doing, put your selfish brainstorming aside and help me think of something. Now!

Last-minute Halloween costume assemblage usually turns out poorly for me. Like the time my date went as Batman, so I decided at 4:30 the day of the party that I was going to be a cave. Basically, I donned a garbage bag and put a rubber bat in my hair. My date thought I looked like a woman wearing a black poncho with a rubber bat in her hair, so we decided to spell out "I AM A CAVE" on my front side in duct tape. Five minutes after arriving at the party (he entered the room from between my legs...still, no one really got that I was a cave), someone stole my bat. So I just looked like a gross lunatic in a black poncho that thought she was a geological formation.

Other last minute costumes: skanky 80's chick, skanky sailor, skanky cat, and a crazy skank (I simply threw a bunch of clothes together from my animal print phase and finished it off with caution tape.) In other words: NOT GOOD. Back in the day, I used to have the sweetest costumes. Like the time I went as Nancy Kerrigan, if Nancy Kerrigan had been beaten in the face (who hasn't fantasized about that at one point or another?) Or the time my mom spent two months on a beautiful butterfly costume that was so well-made, I actually thought I could fly. Injuries ensued.

C'mon people. I need help. And just to keep you from wasting your time, here are a few things I will NOT be going as:

Nude Person Emerging From Pizza Box

Free Mammogram Guy

The Lovechild of a Dolphin and a Capri Sun

And finally,

Racist Child

Thanks in advance,

Steph

And I Thought The Furniture Was Bad

I don’t like to knock online dating. Personally, you won’t catch my mug shot on any of those sites—but who knows? I could be dateless in ten years and in need of some internet intervention. Probably not, though, as I imagine I’ll just get better and better looking between now and then. On the off chance that this doesn’t happen, however, I suppose it’s good to have a backup plan. So I try to play nice on the subject.

And it seems like sites like eHarmony.com and Match.com are really helping people find their “soulmate”, if such a thing exists. I watch the commercials and find myself going “Awww…those two people are adorably boring together! It’s almost like they met each other the normal, socially-accepted way.” All of the sites have some sort of sophisticated process to find someone perfect for you, even if you are a 70-year-old transvestite who subscribes to Cat Fancy and enjoys the smell of their own farts.

However, I can’t help but be endlessly amused at the people who take a do-it-yourself approach to internet dating. I’m talking about the people who, in lieu of a hiring a match maker, would rather post up a flyer in a dark alley and hope for the best. And when I say dark alley, I mean Craigslist.

My (futile) search for coffee tables opened my eyes to a whole new world of entertainment—the personal ads on Craigslist. I mean, wow. These people are really putting themselves out there. It almost makes me feel bad for ridiculing them in a blog. Well, I said *almost*.

Because I’m not a totally venomous harpy, I won’t post real pictures or names or phone numbers or anything. But the rest of it will not be altered, embellished, or edited in any way. Quite frankly, it doesn’t have to be.


Will she be my lady??? - 25 (Cleveland)

Reply to: ********
Date: *******
Please WOMEN only... I am a handsome, educated, street smart, male who is tired of crying. Now... It's all about me but I'm gonna give this all to you. If you are serious and aren't on any games I'll be your boyfriend and you be my lady. Hit me up... LADIES ONLY PLEASE!!!

Why do you suppose this guy feels the need to repeatedly beg men (in all caps) not to respond? How could someone mistake this clearly heterosexual personal ad for anything else? Could it be the fact that this guy has cried himself into exhaustion that might throw people off? Hmmm? Hmmmmmm? Maybe this is reverse psychology? Hmmm? Hmmmmm?

Massage - 41 (Parma)

Reply to: ********
Date: ********
Male seeks female for massage with happy ending...will pay forty for the hour..must be willing to host..attractive male lookin to relax for an hour..email back thanks

Well, no innuendo here. While I appreciate his honesty, I don’t know where you can find a regular hour-long massage for forty dollars, let alone one with a “happy ending”. Cheap bastard. I wish him a lifetime of dry, cracked, calloused hands.

ROMANTIC LOOKING FOR THE SAME - 31 (CLEV BURBS)

Reply to: ************
Date: *******

I'm a hopeless romantic ! I love to go out on a night on the town or relax around the house with a glass of wine AND a movie. I love to do things outdoors and indoors, You'll find me riding my Motorcycles or boating and fishing! i like to cook ( i think i'm a pretty good cook too :D ) i like to spend time with my dog. Hope u like pets! there my version of kids LOL I like pretty much all sports and play a few, I'm always down for catching a Browns or Indians game. i hope its the year, its hard being a cleveland sports fan LOL I work a lot! I'm a Finance Manager and put a lot of hours in each week. I would like to meet someone thats motivated and has goals in thier life! and likes to live life to the fullest!!! Anything else you want to know just ask. would love to chat !

Translation:

I’m a spineless douche!

I like to go out or stay in, really, whatever you say is fine AND I drink but don’t worry, not in excess and only while I’m doing something else like watching Patch Adams or your favorite movie, whatever that is. I like to do things indoors and outdoors and did I mention we can do whatever you want including selling my motorcycle and euthanizing my pets so your kids can move in. Now I feel like I should mention sports—ha ha, Cleveland is bad at them—I bet you think so too. We have so much in common! I work 70 hours a week because I’m just as big of a doormat at the office. I’d like to find someone who will exploit my kind and giving nature and castrate me with love.


LOOKING FOR MATURE 18 YEAR OLD FOR GIRLFRIEND - 36 (RockyRiver)

Reply to: *******
Date: **********

Good looking nice guy here looking for nice young 18 year chic to have fun with. If your tired of boys your age give me a try you won't regret it. If your interested lets talk it can't hurt to find out right? Don't be shy. Look foward to hear from you.

Call me. I’ll be in my unmarked van full of puppies. Seriously. What’s the worst thing that could happen? It’s not like you’re going to end up in a hole in my basement with a bottle of Jergensoh-there-I-go-again…carrying on like a silly billy. Hope to hear you screa—err, hear from you soon!

Well, picking on these poor, love-seeking souls has amassed me enough bad karma for one day. I'm going to head out and get crapped on by a pigeon or run over by a street sweeper now.

Hell and Back

Well, it’s official. I went to Hell. We all saw this coming, of course, but maybe not so soon. And it’s nothing like the land of fire and brimstone depicted in the Bible (that’s a blatant assumption, of course. I’ve yet to read it). No, Hell is the collections department of the Cleveland Public Utilities building.

Hell tricks you into thinking “hey, this might not be Hell” with its soothing blue and gray color scheme, spacious black leather benches and the clean, white light emanating from the wall sconces. But no one is fooled for long.

First, you’re forced to take a number like you’re at some sort of futuristic deli. Judging from my companions in the waiting area, this deli only serves Spam and canned cheese product. Digital screens along the top of the wall tell you that you only have, oh, 32 Spam-eaters to go before it’s your turn to speak to the people behind the glass.

You take a seat among your fellow sinners. Keep in mind most people are here because their water got shut off. Lost in a sea of unwashed skin tags and swampy asscracks, you look to the clock for solace. Of course, the clock doesn’t work. Also, the 12, 3, 6 and 9 positions of the clock are all marked with a single teardrop. This is because every fifteen minutes or so, you want to burst into tears.

Also, I think this lobby is where people bring their babies to cry. It seems statistically impossible that there wasn’t a crying baby in Cleveland that wasn’t occupying this very room. Many of them were strewn about the floor and forgotten like they were those annoying flyers the Jesus people hand out downtown. Every few minutes, a janitor would come and sweep up the babies into a giant dustpan (well, that’s what I was fantasizing would happen. They actually just laid there and cried and filled their unwashed onesies with caca-doodie).

So you continue to wait and listen to every transaction up at the window. The conversation is always the same, and it always sounds like a mugging.

Bitchy Teller: Give me $325 dollars.
Filthy Sinner: But I don’t have $325 dollars.
Bitchy Teller: Well, then give me whatever you’ve got.
Filthy Sinner: I…I don’t have any money on me.
Bitchy Teller: You holding out on me, bitch? Let’s see that ATM card, then. You got an ATM card? Alright, let’s go to the ATM, you and me.
Filthy Sinner: Oh-oh-okay, just please don’t hurt me. I have kids…they’re somewhere on the floor around here.

Over and over again, until it’s finally your turn to face the window. After six months of trying to fight this injustice—after two inspections, one letter, dozens of phone calls and about 14 hours of that GODDAMN HOLD MUSIC, you are giving up. The teller sizes you up momentarily and then goes to work figuring how much of the $727.00 water bill they’re going to mug from you today, and how much you will get to pay each month for the rest of your time on earth. During her calculations, you make the mistake of pleasantly pointing out that your last name is misspelled in the system. She briefly raises an eyebrow at you and then quickly returns to crunching numbers, BECAUSE YOUR VERY EXISTENCE DOESN’T MATTER.

Without a word, you are given a piece of paper with a dollar amount on it and then corralled into another waiting area. Everyone stands in line like cattle before the slaughter—pathetic, defeated, staring bleary-eyed at the number on the piece of paper. You hear a woman behind you muttering the same mantra over and over again. “Se-ven-ty dollars a month—I don’t believe this shit. Se-ven-ty dollars a month—that is some shit. Se-ven-ty dollars a month.” A crying baby rolls by like a tumbleweed.

The cashier offers you the first smile of the day as she stamps the check and deftly erases $250 from your possession. It’s the kind of smile that knowingly asks “hey there, how’d you like that raping?” Soon after, she dismisses you with a “you’re all done”, like she’s just delivered the last of a painful series of rabies injections.

And then you shuffle out, flat broke, but at least able to shower for another three months. You pass a whole throng of new sinners as you leave, who collectively smell like a thousand broccoli farts trapped in an armpit.

That’s…pretty much it. Not much more to tell you. Hell is just as scary and awful of a place as you’d imagine—but instead of flames and pitchforks, you’re tormented by thieves and unwashed baby factories.

In other news: YAY 4,000 HITS! Thanks to all of my friends and family who still check out this silly little blog. I’d just like you to know that you’re all getting an expensive jar of Cleveland city water for Christmas. Because I love you all that much.

Hugs,
Steph

One-Word Letters

As a writer and general enthusiast of the written word, you might be surprised to learn that I absolutely HATE having to write letters. HAAAAAAAATE. Still, they are an important (albeit archaic) communicative tool that I often find myself having to use. To that end, I've decided to make this chore as painless as possible by summing up my sentiments in single-word letters.

Regarding the value meal I received in which all three items were incorrectly made...

Dear Wendys,

FAIL!

Love,
Stephanie

Regarding my recent case of Strep throat and the cold I now have...

Dear Shoddy Immune System,

Hello?

Love,

Stephanie

Regarding the fact that the old crotches of Sex and the City are making another film...

Dear hags,

Stop.

Love,
Stephanie

Regarding his latest stunt and overall douchiness...

Dear David Blaine,

Honestly?

Love,
Stephanie

Regarding my $800 bill...

Dear Division of Water Idiots,

Pllllllllllllbbbbbbbbbbbtttthhhhht.

Love,
Stephanie


Regarding the guy who let his girlfriend sit on the toilet for two years and then serendipitously won $20,000 in the lottery...

Dear Karma,

Uhh...?

Love,
Stephanie

Just A Little Bit Of History Repeating

Sigh. Another Monday, another bout of mind-numbing depression. Another hangover from watching the cruelest joke God ever played on mankind: The Browns. And now I sit here asking the one question that every Browns fan asks an average of, oh, 12 times a season.

"Why do I do this to myself?"

It defies science, really, that hundreds of thousands of us put ourselves through the same emotional train wreck every week. It goes, from what I can tell, something like this:

Monday: The second-worst day. Sundays are, not surprisingly, the worst. Monday you wake up tired after crying yourself to sleep. The day begins with denial (was it all just a horrible, horrible, dream?) and generally culminates with demands for the resignation of at least one player and usually the coach. Then you're forced to watch two halfway decent teams play REAL football that night. Which is just cruel, in my opinion.

Tuesday: You wake up tired after crying yourself to sleep. However, you finally feel strong enough today to read an article or two about the game and watch a few highlights. This is typically when the nausea sets in. That asshole Bills fan in accounting decides that it's safe to come up and chat with you about Sunday's game. He is very wrong. You spend the rest of the day saving porn to his public folder and thank your lucky stars that you don't have to watch football tonight.

Wednesday: You wake up tired after crying yourself to sleep. You put on a brave face, though, because today it's time to start scouting this Sunday's opponent. Hopefully they have a lot of injuries, because you KNOW the Browns will. In fact, you're waiting for a report that in their first day back at practice, Kellen Winslow accidentally ran over Braylon Edwards's hand and Josh Cribbs's head with a snowmobile and Brady Quinn was injured during a knife-throwing drill (kids will be kids.) Despite every shred of evidence to the contrary, you start getting your hopes up again.

Thursday: You wake up refreshed. You also must have suffered a small stroke in the middle of the night, because you now wholly believe that there is NO way the Browns are losing this week. You even go so far as to make a bet with the asshole Bills fan in accounting, who you already owe $50 bucks worth of Blimpie sandwiches. You buy another favorite Browns t-shirt since your old one has been reduced to ashes in your friend's portable grill. Bar patrons resurrect the cheers of "Here we go Brownies, here we go," and you reply with "woof woof", even though you know you sound absolutely retarded. You decide the third-string Browns could annihilate either of the teams playing Thursday night.

Friday: You completely forgo work projects to study film from last season and coordinate the most elaborate tailgate yet. You spend hours posting predictions and threats on the opposing team's blog in all capital letters. Although it is still two days away, you have serendipitously come up with the final score of the game, which you yell to anyone within earshot. You consider a Browns tattoo again.

Saturday: You project all of your Browns-related hopes, dreams, fears and excitement onto the Ohio State Buckeyes. They lose. You quickly get over it because the Browns are going to destroy tomorrow and you didn't even go to that college anyway.

Sunday: You watch in horror as your favorite team on the planet plays exactly like they played the previous week. You get drunk. You cry yourself to sleep.

Now repeat.

Remember When Shopping Was Fun?

In the good old days, my mom and grandma used to take me on what I consider quite extravagant shopping sprees. You know, kinda like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, except we were at an Abercrombie & Fitch somewhere in Toledo, not a boutique on Rodeo Drive. Also, I wasn't a prostitute.

Anywhoozle, shopping used to be fun. Lately, it's become quite unpleasant. Not hot-poker-to-the-sphincter unpleasant, mind you. But maybe stepping-on-a-discarded-prophylactic-in-sandals unpleasant (Only one of those scenarios has actually happened to me. I'll let you guess which one. Hint: I think I have toe crabs.) I believe this decrescendo of fun is happening for two reasons. One: I am only shopping for things I NEED. The things I WANT are reserved for Christmas gifts or shoplifting. Two: I'm shopping with my own money. Which...well...sucks orangutan ass, really.

The purchase I currently NEED to make is a new coffee table. The glass top cracked during an unfortunate piping-hot Lean Cuisine incident. My brother, the genius, exacerbated the situation by resting his feet directly on the crack. Now there's a giant shard of glass missing from the table (remember the giant shard of glass that killed Carl Bruner at the end of Ghost? Yea, like that) and it needs to be replaced. Of course, when you get a new coffee table, you have to get a new end table. And when you get a new end table, you have to get a new pair of designer jeans. It's just science, people.

So in the interest of being thrifty, I decided to scour Craigslist for coffee table sets. My first thought: the people on Craigslist are LYING ASSHOLES. They lure you in with words like "beautiful" and "like new" and then they show you the biggest flaming turd of a coffee table you've ever seen. My second thought: there's is a lot of crappy crap on this site.

For example, this is the posting I clicked on:

Like New Living Room Set

And this is what they are actually selling:

Like new? This shit hasn't been LIKE new since LIKE 1982. I honestly think I saw this living room set on ALF. The seller claims it was "really never used." Really? What the hell has it been doing this whole time? Occupying space in a time capsule next to some Air Supply albums and a Teddy Ruxpin?

Or how about this gem, posted as a "Bamboo Asian Coffee Table"

See something missing? Oh yea, the freagin' top. This pile of douche is trying to get me to pay for what I already have: a broke-ass coffee table. His suggestion? "Get creative and make a top for this guy or get some glass!" That's not selling a table. That's selling work. And I will pass.

Then there's this:

A fish tank table. Certainly a conversation piece. Although something about it struck me as a little fishy (HA! Yick. I disgust myself.) From the seller: "Never had fish in it. I paid $550 for it." Say what? You paid almost $600 bucks for the thing and never put fish in it? What DID you have in it, then? Turtles? Aquatic hamsters? Parts of dead hookers? No thank you.

Or how about this one?

I think it's a table. Maybe? And the seller's description is just about as unclear: "Was a display cube that is 32" square. Makes a great misc table. You pick up." A display cube? Did you jack this from the men's section at Kohls? Sorry. I no pick up.

I guess I'm starting to realize that even if I found something I liked, I'd always wonder about the previous owners and what they did on or around their table. For example, I GUARANTEE you that someone did blow off of this table:

And I can tell just by looking the below item that the seller probably hates gay people. I'm just sayin'.

And clearly this person beats their kids:

Okay, I don't know that to be true. Maybe I'm just getting tired of looking at other people's "barely" used crap.

But that picture reeks of child abuse.

It's Going To Be A Bright, Bright Car-Crashy Day

I've been late to work three days in a row. Did I oversleep? Nooooo. Did I spend too much time obsessing over my appearance? Noooo (it really doesn't take me too long to put on last night's jeans and not wash my hair.) So, you're probably wondering why I've been tardy all week. Aren't you? Just a little?

Sun glare. FREAKING SUN GLARE. According to the traffic bimbo on the radio, the reason I'm puttering down the interstate at an average of 7 mph is sun glare. Not a fiery, explodey, bloody, severed-limb-scattering car crash. Not a bridge collapse or deadly brush fire. Not even construction (and where I'm from, the roads are always under construction, even though there are still potholes the size of small aircraft every-freaking-where.)

No. I am in a four lane, bumper-to-bumper traffic jam because...ahem...the sun is bright? ARE YOU SERIOUS? Am I driving amid a sea of Powder people? Come on, you Vitamin D-hating sissies!

It's not that I enjoy driving directly into cornea-shearing sunlight. It's just that, being resourceful, I've found ways to deal with it. Sunglasses, for example, are a great way to combat the issue of sun glare and drive at a reasonable speed (which is over 50 mph on the freeway, if you were wondering). If you don't have sunglasses, pop into your local Big Lots and pick yourself up a pair. I guarantee that they're under $5 and probably have had only limited contact with insect parts or rat feces.

Don't have $5? Skip the sunglasses and just pull down your bloody visor. It may obscure your view a little bit, but not enough to slow you down to, say, Amish buggy speeds.

Don't have a visor? Squint your eyes a little. Drive in reverse. Better yet, kindly get your piece-of-crap car off the road and out of my way. Trade it in for a bike and ride that directly into oncoming traffic. You suck.

What, Two Posts A Month Aren't Enough?

What is with you people? I start dating someone, start being a little more artistic (read: making SHITTY pottery), start being a little more active (read: cramming my ass into some John Ritter shorts and thrashing about rather unathletically on a volleyball court), start getting writing work--and all you want to talk about is why I haven't posted lately? CAN'T YOU BE HAPPY FOR ME FOR JUST ONCE?!!

But alas, I do feel a small twinge of guilt--or is that gas?--about not posting lately. Honestly, summer is generally when I like to spend time outdoors and away from my computer, save for that healthy regiment of celebrity gossip blogs and food-related internet porn. And I imagine all of you are busy doing your own thing, which I imagine (ooh, I'm imaginative today) is a whole lot more interesting than the contents of this page at this very moment. Well, except for a handful of you. You know who you are, laaaaaame people.

I'm not promising much, since this blog has turned me into a pathological false promiser (liar is a bit harsh, doncha think?), but I hope to be able to get on here a bit more soon. Until then, hope all is well in your worlds!

Your Daily Dose of WTF?

Today's WTF? moment is brought to you by the driver of custom Dodge Neon that I passed on my way to work this morning. Now, I don't live all that far from Lorain, so custom Neons aren't exactly a rare sighting for me. Usually I see "sweet whips" like this:

Or this:

Or my personal favorite, this:

(If I told you it had flames on the side, would that make it ironic or just plain hilarious?)

And in my personal experience, any one who goes to great lengths to customize their Neon is...well, a bit of a douche, really.

This douchiness was taken to new heights today, when I saw that someone had customized their black Dodge Neon to look like a skunk. And I'm talking skunk decals on the bumpers, a single white stripe across the entire top of the body, and the pièce de résistance, a sizable, bushy tail affixed to the rear of the car.

Of course, when I say "bushy tail", I'm referring to the large piece of artificial Christmas tree that someone spray painted black and white to look (I guess) like a skunk's tail. To round off the skunk theme, a small menagerie of skunk beanie babies and other various pieces of stuffed skunk shit were proudly displayed in the rear window.

Okay, quick sidenote. Everyone has some little pet peeve that makes them immediately despise someone--without even having to speak to them or even see their face. For me, that thing is crapping up the back window of your car with stupid-ass stuffed animals. The very nanosecond I see stuffed animals on exhibit in someone's car, I immediately know that I have nothing in common with the driver and start fantasizing about that particular person driving theirself and their car full of freakin' Webkins off a cliff. Can't. Stand. It.

So here I am behind a Dodge Neon that has been (poorly) customized to resemble an animal known primarily for its exceptionally disgusting ass spewage. Normally I use my morning commute to clear my mind and prepare myself for the workday ahead. Today I had to spend every second of it trying to imagine what would inspire a person to take a perfectly crappy Dodge Neon and further crappify it by making it a skunk-on-wheels.

I actually Googled "skunk fetish" (for the first time ever, I swear!) when I got into the office today, and sure enough, it exists. There's even a love story about it, which kind of makes me want to purée kittens.

Here's a touching summary:

This novel tells of a young man’s attraction and ultimate addiction to skunk musk, and the social difficulties he encounters as a result. He longs to find an isolated utopia where he can experience his addiction in peace, but he is thwarted by all, including a young woman who understands his skunk fetish because she has a fish fetish.

People are just weird. People like the owner of the skunk car. I'm sorry that I don't have any pictures to show you, but the sheer douchiness of that image would've completely cleansed my memory card. But, in my humble opinion, when a skunk and a car get together, it should look like one thing.

You Will NEVER Guess What I'm Doing Right Now

Let's see here. It's Monday. It appears lovely outside. And I'm on my lunch break. What could I possibly be using this precious free time for?

Taking a midday stroll, perhaps? Reading a few chapters of a book under a shady tree? Delivering a half-eaten cinnamon roll to the somewhat attractive homeless person (very attractive by homeless person standards) outside our building?

Actually, no. None of those things. Because I am on the phone with the Division of Water. And, shocker, I'm on hold.

I have two major problems with the Division of Water (well, three, if you count that $700 water bill they sent me).

1. I think only one person works there at a time, and they are usually sleeping. I've never called this place and waited for less than a half an hour to speak to someone, and when I do finally reach someone, they sound like they've been disturbed from a deep, deep slumber.

2. Their hold music is horrible and the loop is too short. After 15 seconds of music, a man interjects and offers a completely disingenuous-sounding apology. Then 15 seconds of music. Then another half-assed (quarter-assed, really) apology. It is literally the ambient sounds of the elevators of hell.

I suppose most unnerving of all is the fact that I am having to make this phone call in the first place. After receiving the $677 water bill, I called to see if there might have been, oh, I don't know, A COLOSSAL FREAKING MISTAKE. They sent someone out to check my meter, everything was fine, and I was told to call the Division of Water for further instructions. They then sent a "special inspector" out, who did the very same thing, except he also checked out all my bathrooms and got a closer look at my dirty underwear. Everything looks normal (with the bathrooms, not the panties) so he told me to call the Division of Water for more instructions. So now I am on hold AGAIN, waiting for them to tell me they'll be sending a "special SPECIAL inspector" who I'm assuming will do all of the same stuff, plus give me a rectal exam.

I hate water. That is all for now.

The Panty Abandoner Strikes Again

If you're an avid reader of this blog, 1) you're probably bitterly disappointed in me most of the time, 2) you're a little mentally challenged and would likely be entertained watching water drip out of a faucet and 3) you're familiar with the small rash of bathroom criminals I encounter on a day-to-day basis at my office.


I should note that I don't think any of my coworkers are responsible for these unsavory bathroom behaviors. We share our floor (and subsequently our bathrooms) with some architects, some personal injury lawyers and their derelict clients. Now, I have no proof that any of these groups are to blame, but if you had to guess, who do you think would be most likely to defecate on their hands and then wipe it all over the toilet paper?


Besides the Three-Fingered Doodie Bandit, we also have a caveperson who continuously leaves her undergarments in the sanitary napkin disposal (not once, not twice, but thrice). The next unfortunate soul who has to use the disposal for its intended purposes then gets a eyeful of orphaned panties.


Today, she struck again, this time with a ballet-slipper pink cotton number popular with grannies the world over.






I know what you're thinking. "Stephanie. You adorable but twisted demon! You slender, attractive genius! Why would you subject us to such a horrible image?"

Because I had to see it. Because someday, when I'm not be paying attention, I might get a knuckle full of someone else's netherfilth. Because I have to go through the rest of the day knowing that I'm sharing air with some crazy, soiled lady, who is now wandering around commando. That's why I'm posting them.


Hugs,
Steph

Guess What I Am Consuming Right Now?

A. Lasagna lovingly prepared by Bonfilia, a blind, Italian elderly woman.


B: A medium rare filet paired with a stunning Maine lobster tail. Market price, natch.



C: Celebratory strawberries and champagne, compliments of my publisher.


D: Whatever I could find.


If you answered D, you are correct. If you answered canned tuna topped with expired Mexican shredded cheese, washed down with a Bud Light I stole from my brother, you are psychic.

Just Flew Back From Hiatus, And Boy Are My Excuses Tired

Hey gang!

Yep, it's really me, and it's been way too long since I blogged last. I'd feel pretty bad about it too, if I didn't realize that you were all very busy, important people that have better things to do than read about my plumbing problems. Still, I made a commitment to keep a (mostly) candid diary of my goings-on, and for the last few weeks, well--I've been sucking major wind.

Sadly, I don't have the time to do the girthy post you deserve. So I give you another Steph Status, and with it a glimmer of hope I might be able to bring you girthier posts in the near future. And to make it even more interesting (or even remotely interesting) I'll repost October's Steph Status and we can compare.

STEPH STATUS: 10/23
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.

STEPH STATUS 7/16
Consecutive days without drinking: Zip. Obviously some things haven't changed.
Last shower: This morning, actually. Apparently I'm also consistent when it comes to hygiene.
Mood: Overwhelmed. Is that a mood? No? Fine. Bitchy due to overwhelmingedom.
Financial Status: Considering surrogate motherhood. As long as the adoptive parents let me drink. And I get to name the baby after my dragon name, Itrenore the Flame Starter (No really, it is. You can find yours here.)
Boyfriend: Yes, although maybe not after he discovers that I have a dragon name.
Stray cats: None. I collect homeless people now. Like my brother.
Most desired item: A hovercraft that runs on smiles.
Next thing I'll probably purchase: Freakin' gas.
What's making me mad right now: Not having time to write for fun. The Division of Water. The fact that there's a third Mummy movie coming out and that Brendan Fraser has an acting job instead of the Jamba Juice cashier position he deserves.
What's making me happy right now: Pretty much everything else.

Ah...it's good to be back. Hope all is well with all of you!

Steph

Live Blogging My Call With The Division Of Water

10:33 am: This hold music would sure be a lot more relaxing if the clip wasn't 45 seconds long and constantly interrupted by a surly gentleman reminding me that all agents are busy. For the record, I have yet to speak to a live soul and I've been on hold for six minutes and thirty five seconds. Kenny G is a whore.

10:37 am: Still on hold. Does anyone know where Kenny G is living these days? I'm thinking about showing up there with a dish towel full of ether. Then I will take him into my basement and sing 45-seconds of "Camptown Races" over and over again. And probably poke him with hot metally things a little.



The perfect soundtrack to a nice, long beating.


10:40 am: We are officially twelve minutes into the phone call and it's still just Kenny G and that surly gentleman I was talking about earlier. Since I'm assuming neither one of them know about my $677 water bill, this has been a complete waste of time. If my children ever decide to play the saxophone, I will disown them.



10:44: 15 minutes in. I've decided to write lyrics to the hold music.

Here I am, wasting away
Because someone expects me to pay
$700 for water I didn't see (pronounced "say"...it's a country blues feel I'm going for)
And on my salary ("sala-ray")
I'll be forced to sell both my kidneys ("kid-nays")



10:50: Hallelujah! Beverly picks up. And she seems like she has a soul. This might go better than I thought.

10:52: The call is over. I waited over twenty minutes for a two-minute phone call. A two-minute phone call in which I was informed that they'd be sending a special investigator out. Kind of insulting to the "not special" investigator that came out to check meters yesterday, no? So now I have to wait for some David Caruso-type to swing by and grill me about my missing water. Beverly also told me if David Caruso doesn't call to schedule an appointment within, oh, two weeks or so, that I should call her and Kenny G again.



Can't wait for that.

All We Had Delivered Was Pizza

Okay, confession time. When I was in middle school, I was a gang member. True story. Not your throwing-up-signs, busting-caps-in-asses, hollering-at-my-bitches-and-smacking-my-hos kind of gang member, of course. No, I was a member of the, ahem, “Rose Preps”.

Dear God, this is humiliating already. Picture if you will, six tweenage girls who shared a passion for unbuttoned vests, oversized Esprit t-shirts and poorly-cuffed denim shorts. Who, before the first class of the day, drew gang tats on each other in Crayola marker—always right above the knee (to this day I have no idea why). Who were determined to remind everyone else at school that they were, like, so way cooler than them because they were in a gang and NOT accepting applications, a-thank you. The Rose Preps. Un-freaking-believable.

Out-of-school gang activities were pretty intense, also. We’d all walk to Dara’s house after school (Dara and Jessica fought constantly over who was the gang leader—I was happy to be an underling, since whoever was top dog was always worried about getting ousted, the social equivalent of a good shivving). There we’d order pizza, gossip, propose new ways to embellish our gang tats (“I think the rose should have hot pink lips in the middle of it!”) and call boys. On the weekends we’d invite the six cutest guys at our school (slim pickin’s, people), pop in Mariah Carey’s Music Box and have dances in the basement.

I literally want to take a hot shower just thinking about it. We were such ridiculous tools, and yet we thought we were the coolest thing since fuzzy slap bracelets. I wouldn’t even be coming clean with you about my gang affiliation if I hadn’t stumbled across this rather unsettling piece of news. Evidently at one Massachusetts high school there are 17 pregnant girls, none of whom are older than 16. So I’m thinking…okay, that’s a lot of knocked-up chicks, but maybe this high school is just a touch sluttier than the one I attended? Maybe?

No, apparently the girls made a pact to get pregnant and raise their babies together. That’s right—they started a gang of underage mothers. And all you have to do to become a member is to get preggers. Here’s the really frightening part: girls are working their asses of to be in this elite club. One of them even enlisted the help of a 24-year-old homeless guy.

WHAT?!?! A HOMELESS GUY? ARE YOU SERIOUS? I mean, how in the hell did that arrangement go down?

Girl: Hey you! You there, defecating into that mason jar! Come over here!
Hobo, confused, putting lid on jar: Me? What? You want me to come near you?
Girl: Actually I want you to make love to me. I’ll give you almost three dollars in change.
Hobo drops jar.
Girl: I know you must be confused. Actually, what I really want is your seed. I want to carry your child.
Hobo: B-but, I could never support a child…
Girl: Duh! You can’t buy diapers with jarred turds, silly. My parents will support it.
Hobo: And…and my genes are pretty dicey. I might be schizophrenic. Plus there’s a tiny unicorn that lives inside my penis.
Girl: Totally fine. So can you hurry up and ruin my life already? Miley Cyrus is hosting the Kid’s Choice Awards and if I miss it I will just DIE!

I mean, honestly? Teenagers so desperate to get in the pregnant club that they’re boffing homeless guys? How does this happen?

Slow-dancing to "Without You" in someone’s basement? Embarrassing memory. Horizontal-dancing behind a dumpster with an unwashed box-dweller? Yikes. That might even be worse.

Why Can't I Quit You, Water?

I'm in a lover's quarrel with Water right now.

Water does my laundry. Helps out with a lot of my cooking. Takes care of the flowers. And of course I loooooove my long showers with Water.

But lately, Water has been flat-out dicking me over. You may recall the small rash of plumbing problems I experienced around the holidays. Well the toilet-water baptism I received was nothing compared to the shenanigans Water has been pulling lately.

Apparently, Water has been sneaking out of my place (unbeknownst to me, mind you) and screwing my neighbor. And by 'screwing my neighbor', I mean turning her ceiling into a work of art. And by 'work of art', I mean, grayish, brownish, beige-ish, f'ed up, impressionistic watercolor piece. Oh, she just ADORES me right now.

I had no idea my Water was running out on me. Evidently it was escaping through the guest bathroom, which is ironic, because I will never allow a guest to use it as long as my little brother is living with me. Every square inch of the room looks like the floor of a Wookie Barbershop. So yours truly had to pay for the plumber to come to her place, her neighbor's place, and now has to have her neighbor's ceiling repaired. Thanks a lot, Water.

And then I get my bill from the Cleveland Division of Water. My last bill was $31. 26. This quarter's bill: $677.04. Ummm....WTF, Water? Want to explain how one girl (and her transient brother) in a two-bedroom condo can usurp 18,400 cubic feet of water? Five hundred and seventy-five TONS of water?? Of course I don't think this bill is correct--but the way things have been going with Water lately, who the hell knows?

So I've decided to leave Water. I hope you all will be patient and understanding, as there are going to be some slightly noticeable changes with me. Mainly that I'm going to become a smelly, crazy person who craps in holes she dug in her yard.

You guys would still be my friends, right?

Coming Up With A New Marshmallow

They did it again. The Lucky Charms people added another meaningless marshmallow to my favoritest breakfast cereal of all time. This time it's an hourglass. A freakin' hourglass. Here's the incredibly vapid press release announcing the new marshmallow.


What the hell is lucky about an hourglass? Aren't they usually associated with time running out or aging? Oh and Black Widows? And that's when I realized that the last, oh I don't know, TEN MARSHMALLOWS didn't have anything to do with luck either. I started to wonder about the marshmallow creation process. Who was doing this and why were they so goddamn bad at it? This is how I'm picturing it:

Guy 1: They want us to come up with another marshmallow, bro.

Guy 2: No, are you serious? SHIT!

Guy 1: Yea, totally serious. And they want it, like, in five minutes or something.



Guy 2: SHIT! We are totally hosed, dude. Totally hosed. It took us like a week to come up with the red balloon. Like a whole week, bro!



Guy 1: Alright, alright, you're freaking me out! I CAN'T THINK LIKE THIS!



Guy 2: SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!



Guy 1: Wait! What about a rabbit's foot? Those are lucky.

Guy 2: Tried it, man. PETA was all over us. Plus the Trix people got all pissy. Said it was a personal attack.



Guy 1: Man. Okay...what about a...a...rock?

Guy 2: What the hell's lucky about a rock??

Guy 1: Like a lucky rock? I don't know! JESUS! I'm trying here!



Guy 2: Sorry, man. Sorry. Okay...so how's about a blue diamond?



Guy 1: That's been in the cereal since '75. What is wrong with you, bro?

Guy 2: I'm just freaking out right now!! I can't think!

Guy 1: I've got it. A marshmallow shaped like just a marshmallow. A lucky marshmallow.

Guy 2: That's...actually not bad. We should probably present more than one idea, though.

Guy 1: But we're running out of time, dude!

Guy 2: THAT'S IT! An hourglass!

Guy 1: YES!! Wait. Are hourglasses lucky?

Guy 2: This one is. It lets you control time. And if you can control time, you can control...

BOTH: ...your LUCK!

Guy 1: Brilliant! Dude, we're so freakin' amazing. Let's get 'em on the phone...

Don’t Let The Future Cat Lady Plan Your Bridal Shower

Okay, I realize that many of my posts make me sound like embittered, bat-shit-crazy spinster-in-training. And this couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, I couldn't be happier with the way things are right now.

However, I'm starting to wonder if I was the best person to have been given the task of arranging the activities at one of my best friend’s upcoming bridal showers. It seems like a simple enough endeavor, sure. But after researching bridal shower games for, oh, about five minutes, I think I might throw my computer at someone’s face.

The first site I visited allowed users to contribute their own stellar suggestions for bridal shower games. What a great concept! Shiny, happy people sharing super fun ideas on how to keep bridal shower guests entertained! There’s just one small problem: most people are idiots and should not be allowed to share their ideas with anyone.

Like Maggie M., who was kind enough to lend us this flaming turd of a bridal game:

First kiss
contributed by Maggie M.
Everyone remembers their first kiss. The bride should start by telling the story of the first time she and her fiance kissed. Each guest can then tell their story of their first kiss with their husband or boyfriend. If there are younger guests, they can tell a story of how they imagine that their first kiss will be like. Everyone can vote on the most romantic story and the funniest!

Fantastic! Let’s all sit around and tell kissing stories. I’m sure my mom, who will be in attendance, will want to know exactly how many shots of tequila it took for me to assault a helpless guy’s face for the first time. I’m a shoo-in for most romantic! Oh, and sitting through twenty to thirty other guests’ stories will be a hoot! I’ll be ready to make out with the tailpipe of a Nova in no time!

We need something a little more exciting. Looks like Katherine S. has just the trick.

Hit the target
contributed by Katherine S.
This is a partner game. one person hold a roll of toilet paper between the knees. The other person holds a broom or stick between the knees while thier eyes are covered or blindfolded. The person with the toilet paper graps their partner hands and guide them to getting the stick in the hole of the toilet paper. The partners who does it in the fastest time wins. This can be done one at a time or pair up the partners to see who wins first.

What a delight! I can’t wait to see the bride’s grandmother simulating sex with a broomstick. What is wrong with you, Katherine (besides some obvious shortcomings in the spelling and grammar department)? I think you’re confusing “bridal shower games” with “scary swingers orgy icebreakers.”

The apron game
contributed by Melissa R.
Buy an apron and have the bridal party buy lots of utensils to pin on the apron. Make them practical and a couple of things they would never think of buying until they need them. Pin all of the items on the apron. Have the bride wear the apron in front of all of the guests. Have her walk around the room for about 2 minutes. Then have the bride go into another room and have the guests try to list as many things as they can remember seeing pinned to the brides apron. The person with the most wins! Then tell the bride she gets to keep the apron!!

Here, bride-to-be, have an apron covered in crap! It will help remind you that you’re trading your single life in for one of indentured domestic servitude. We’re also going to throw in a butter churner and an iron washboard. Thanks Melissa R., for setting womankind back about half a century.

Still, not the worst idea of the bunch. As you will see, that honor goes to Jammy.

Smell the herbs
contributed by jammy
Take 10 styrofoam cups and fill them with 10 different herbs. Place aluminum foil over the top with a small whole in the center. Pass around the cups and let everyone smell the herbs (no peeking) and whoever gets the most right wins.

WHAT? Smell the Herbs? Who gives a flying fecal bomb about herbs? What does smelling herbs have to do with weddings—or anything, for that matter? Who would find this kind of activity fun? Listen, my Gramma is about to turn 80 and I bet if someone tried to make her play “Smell the Herbs”, she’d go all kinds of Steven Segal crazy, flip the table of rosemary and thyme over, then tell everyone to man up for Beer Pong. I’ve never seen her drink beer, mind you (or flip a table over, for that matter) but I guarantee you that even my mild-mannered Gramma would have a violent reaction to a game that lame.

This isn’t perpetual-bridesmaid bitterness, folks. It can’t be! There’s no way in Hell that I’m the only one who thinks these are horrible, bridal-shower-ruining ideas undoubtedly created by terrorists.

Right?

New Trend In Body Art Or Sunscreen Applied By An Asshat?

Well, I'm back from vacation. In other news, I look like a giant goddamned Strawberry Creamsaver. Yes folks, here is the visual argument for why one shouldn't apply one's own sunscreen. It looks like I managed to get the front of my arms right before I drifted off into a margarita-induced mid-day coma on the beach.

Here's another look at my aptitude as a "self screener". Note the thin streaks of pale, sun-protected skin, where I apparently suffered a small seizure and just dribbled lotion haphazardly across the back of my arms. Then note the large red areas, where my skin feels like I slept naked in a leather-upholstered convertible parked in the seventh layer of hell.

And as the day turned into night, it got even worse...

Now that's a sunburn. But damn, does my ass look good in knee-length denim cutoffs!

So there you have it. I'm back in Cleveland and shedding Mini-Cooper-sized pieces of burnt flesh. This girl needs a giant Ped-Egg, stat! Fortunately it's a sweltering fifty degrees here, so I'm pretty well protected from further injury.

Hope you all had a good week while I was turning myself into human jerky!

Worthless!

That's what you're thinking, isn't it? This blog is worthless! Seven days and no posts? I'm calling shenanigans on Stephanie and this lousy excuse for an internet diary!

Yea, I'm sorry gang. It's been a hectic week. Oh, and next week? I'm on vacation. But before you soak your torches in kerosene, grab your pitchforks and start heading toward my house, know that I'm going to make a conscious effort to blog at least once or twice when I'm in sunny South Carolina. And maybe thrice.

So stay tuned. Well, in a couple of days, I mean. Like, a week or so. Maybe sooner. No promises, though.

Steph

Super. Can We Get That Cure For Cancer Now?

There seems to be a recent influx of offensively stupid inventions. The Ped-Egg, for example, which--from what I can tell--is nothing more than an ergonomic cheese grater for wonky-ass feet. If I never have to see some corn-riddled actress dumping eight ounces of skin leavings into a trashcan again, I will die happy.

But nothing could’ve prepared me for “Under-Ease: A New Generation of Protective Underwear for Flatulence.”

Let’s see…where to begin? First of all, is there an old generation of protective underwear for flatulence? How many other compulsive gas-passers have been dedicating their lives to creating fartproof undergarments before this particular butt-musician came up with Under-Ease?

That aside, how does one protect one’s drawers from flatulence? Because you can’t make shit like this up, people, I’m just going to copy and paste this from their website. I should note that I chose to make the font brown. It just felt like the right thing to do.

“Under-Ease are underwear for protection against bad human gas (malodorous flatus) and are made from a soft air-tight fabric (polyurethane-coated nylon). To maintain the air-tightness, elastic is sewn into the material around the waist and both legs.

A triangular "exit hole" for the flatus to be expelled is cut from the back of the air-tight underwear, near the bottom. This "exit hole" is covered with a "pocket" made of ordinary porous fabric sewn over the "exit hole". This unique design forces all expelled gas (flatus) out through the "pocket".

Inside the "pocket" is a high-functioning, replaceable filter - the core of the technology. This multi-layered filter is made in a sandwich-style, and begins with the two outer layers of wool felt. The second two layers are made of non-woven polypropylene and spun glass materials. In the center of the filter is a single layer of activated carbon.

The filter is then covered with soft ordinary material to allow for easy replacement in or out of the pocket. The underwear are washable and will last approximately a year depending on the frequency of use and laundering. Each filter will last from several weeks to several months depending on the frequency of use and laundering.”

Hot.

So essentially they are hermetically-sealed underwear that force

malodorous flatus to be released through a filter, which I’m assuming takes all the malodorousnosity out of it. But does it work? Just listen to some of these testimonials.

Betty writes: "They really are working for me, an answer to my prayers, because I like to wear them when I go out." Wow, Betty. Thanks for that completely vapid endorsement. How about eating less broccoli and praying for something useful like peace in the Middle East or something?

Imavis writes: "I am very pleased to tell you that the UNDER-EASE have arrived today (in China). It's very classy. The size fit me well. It's very helpful and brings joy and happiness! Thanks again. Allow me to offer my heartiest wishes.” Aw, that’s nice. But can someone please tell me what’s “classy” about underwear with a built-in fart portal?

P. Maher writes: "I am a circus performer and for years I have been embarrassed to pass gas on stage. People in the audience sometime think its part of the act but it isn't. Because of your wonderful product today my audience laughs at my gags and not my gas.” Great. Now if they could only invent something that takes away the embarrassment of being a circus performer.

My favorite has to be this visual testimonial of a guy completely filling his pajama pants with methane while his wife rests her head unnaturally close to his ass. His smile is so unbelievably wicked, it looks like he just got away with a presidential assassination.

Okay, moment of niceness: I must say for people with Crohn’s Disease or IBS, these are probably a really great thing. But I imagine there are more than a handful of people who wear these so they can continue to eat horribly and disseminate anal vapors without the hassle of having to leave the room.

I don’t want to make a stink or anything (HA! I had to do it. Shut up.) but now that we’ve found a convenient way to shave the dead flesh from our feet and a cure for rectal honks, can we get on that whole cancer/AIDS thing? That would be stupendous.