Thursday, May 05, 2011
Sometimes They Give Me The Opposite Of Money
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Tuesday, May 03, 2011
The SEALS Are So Elite Everyone Wants To Be One. Except Me. I Can't Swim.
This was originally posted in 2010 as One Minute You're Fine And The Next Minute The Internet Is Ruining Your Life. But in light of the recent heroism of the Navy SEALS in Pakistan, I thought I'd post it again.
I first met David Silbergeld in New York. I was working for a co-op developer when David came into our office with his supermodel wife Mel Harris, who would be named one of America's 10 most beautiful women by Harper's Bazaar in 1989.
They bought a huge co-op from my boss and I assumed I would never see them again.
A little over a year later my sister Lindy was living with me and told me she'd met this great guy. A divorced man named David Silbergeld.
Same guy.
One day I came home to an empty apartment and when I walked into the bedroom I heard my sister whispering from inside one of the closets.
"Snookie, is that you?" She always called me Snookie and I always called her Bijou. I won't repeat the names we call each other today but one begins with an A and the other one begins with an A.
I opened the door and she was crouched on the floor with her hand over my dog's mouth.
"David called earlier and I screened the call. Somehow he got upstairs even though I didn't buzz him in and he was fooling around with the door knob and you know he was a Navy SEAL and those guys can infiltrate Fort Knox and I know he was trying to get into the apartment and somebody's DOG wouldn't shut the fuck up."
But David was not outside or anywhere else in the building. He never called Lindy again.
By the late 80's his ex-wife Mel was on a show called Thirty Something. Had the internet existed back then I would have read that she and David had only stayed married for a year. And that he had no job and no money. It apparently took her a very short time to figure out why he had married her. And they say models are dumb.
One day I read an article in The New York Post about a small plane flying into Teeterboro Airport in New Jersey with the lights off. The pilot was David Silbergeld.
The Feds arrested him upon touchdown. He had an arsenal of weapons in his waiting car and went to prison for possession of 610 pounds of cocaine worth $200 million. The New York Times reported it as the largest drug-smuggling bust in the northeastern United States.
One day I got a call from him. He had served his time and wanted me to meet him and some of his friends for dinner. At dinner I asked him about prison but he didn't want to talk about it. We had a great meal, a great time and then David disappeared.
I didn't know much about the SEALS until 1997, when the movie G.I. Jane was released. I had no idea they were, along with other Special Forces the Rangers, Green Berets and Delta Force, considered the elite of the military branches. They're the people I want to rescue me if I'm ever caught by pirates off the coast of Somalia. You don't know; I MIGHT GO THERE.
A few years ago I decided to Google David and found this:
Silbergeld's fictional SEAL war record, which earned him full disability pay of more than $2,300 per month, along with a prison-earned doctorate from a diploma mill allowed him to become a Pennsylvania community-college history professor and contributor to National Defense magazine. He also set up a business that defrauded the U.S. government through sales of night-vision equipment. At his sentencing he pleaded for leniency — by pointing to his bogus military record.
By now the Internet was helping to close in on all the thousands of fake elite Special Forces that had sprung up around the world. David was being investigated and was subsequently fired from the university in Pennsylvania. He must have known the trail of felonies would now follow him wherever he went. I'm sure he had run out of plans. And ego.
He was found in a town square in Delaware sitting on a bench, a bullet through his brain and the gun dangling from his hand.
I first met David Silbergeld in New York. I was working for a co-op developer when David came into our office with his supermodel wife Mel Harris, who would be named one of America's 10 most beautiful women by Harper's Bazaar in 1989.
They bought a huge co-op from my boss and I assumed I would never see them again.
A little over a year later my sister Lindy was living with me and told me she'd met this great guy. A divorced man named David Silbergeld.
Same guy.
One day I came home to an empty apartment and when I walked into the bedroom I heard my sister whispering from inside one of the closets.
"Snookie, is that you?" She always called me Snookie and I always called her Bijou. I won't repeat the names we call each other today but one begins with an A and the other one begins with an A.
I opened the door and she was crouched on the floor with her hand over my dog's mouth.
"David called earlier and I screened the call. Somehow he got upstairs even though I didn't buzz him in and he was fooling around with the door knob and you know he was a Navy SEAL and those guys can infiltrate Fort Knox and I know he was trying to get into the apartment and somebody's DOG wouldn't shut the fuck up."
But David was not outside or anywhere else in the building. He never called Lindy again.
By the late 80's his ex-wife Mel was on a show called Thirty Something. Had the internet existed back then I would have read that she and David had only stayed married for a year. And that he had no job and no money. It apparently took her a very short time to figure out why he had married her. And they say models are dumb.
One day I read an article in The New York Post about a small plane flying into Teeterboro Airport in New Jersey with the lights off. The pilot was David Silbergeld.
The Feds arrested him upon touchdown. He had an arsenal of weapons in his waiting car and went to prison for possession of 610 pounds of cocaine worth $200 million. The New York Times reported it as the largest drug-smuggling bust in the northeastern United States.
One day I got a call from him. He had served his time and wanted me to meet him and some of his friends for dinner. At dinner I asked him about prison but he didn't want to talk about it. We had a great meal, a great time and then David disappeared.
I didn't know much about the SEALS until 1997, when the movie G.I. Jane was released. I had no idea they were, along with other Special Forces the Rangers, Green Berets and Delta Force, considered the elite of the military branches. They're the people I want to rescue me if I'm ever caught by pirates off the coast of Somalia. You don't know; I MIGHT GO THERE.
A few years ago I decided to Google David and found this:
Silbergeld's fictional SEAL war record, which earned him full disability pay of more than $2,300 per month, along with a prison-earned doctorate from a diploma mill allowed him to become a Pennsylvania community-college history professor and contributor to National Defense magazine. He also set up a business that defrauded the U.S. government through sales of night-vision equipment. At his sentencing he pleaded for leniency — by pointing to his bogus military record.
By now the Internet was helping to close in on all the thousands of fake elite Special Forces that had sprung up around the world. David was being investigated and was subsequently fired from the university in Pennsylvania. He must have known the trail of felonies would now follow him wherever he went. I'm sure he had run out of plans. And ego.
He was found in a town square in Delaware sitting on a bench, a bullet through his brain and the gun dangling from his hand.
One Minute You're Fine And The Next Minute The Internet Is Ruining Your Life
I first met David Silbergeld in New York. I was working for a co-op developer when David came into our office with his supermodel wife Mel Harris, who would be named one of America's 10 most beautiful women by Harper's Bazaar in 1989.
They bought a huge co-op from my boss and I assumed I would never see them again.
A little over a year later my sister Lindy was living with me and told me she had met this great guy. A divorced man named David. David Silbergeld.
Same guy.
One day I came home to an empty apartment and when I walked into the bedroom I heard my sister whispering from one of the closets.
"Snookie, is that you?" She always called me Snookie and I always called her Bijou. I won't repeat the names we call each other today but one begins with an A and the other one begins with an A.
I opened the door and she was crouched on the floor with her hand over my dog's mouth.
"David called earlier and I screened the call. Somehow he got upstairs even though I didn't buzz him in and he was fooling around with the door knob and you know he was a Navy SEAL and those guys can infiltrate Fort Knox and I know he was trying to get into the apartment and somebody's DOG wouldn't shut the fuck up."
But David was not outside or anywhere else in the building. He never called Lindy again.
By the late 80's his ex-wife Mel was on a show called Thirty Something. Had the internet existed back then I would have read that she and David had only stayed married for a year. And that he had no job and no money. It apparently took her a very short time to figure out why he had married her. And they say models are dumb.
One day I read an article in The New York Post about a small plane flying into Teeterboro Airport in New Jersey with the lights off. The pilot was David Silbergeld.
The Feds arrested him upon touchdown. He had an arsenal of weapons in his waiting car and was carrying cocaine. He went to prison for possession of 610 pounds of cocaine worth $200 million. At the time The New York Times reported it was the largest drug-smuggling bust in the northeastern United States.
One day I got a call from him. He had served his time and wanted me to meet him and some of his friends for dinner. I asked him about it but he didn't want to talk about prison. We had a great meal, a great time and then David disappeared.
I didn't know much about the SEALS until 1997, when the movie G.I. Jane, starring Demi Moore, was released. I had no idea they were, along with other Special Forces the Rangers, Green Berets and Delta Force, considered the elite of the military branches. They're the people I want to rescue me if I'm ever caught by pirates off the coast of Somalia. You don't know; I MIGHT GO THERE.
A few years ago I decided to Google David and found this: Silbergeld's fictional SEAL war record, which earned him full disability pay of more than $2,300 per month, along with a prison-earned doctorate from a diploma mill allowed him to become a Pennsylvania community-college history professor and contributor to National Defense magazine. He also set up a business that defrauded the U.S. government through sales of night-vision equipment. At his sentencing he pleaded for leniency — by pointing to his bogus military record.
By now the Internet was helping to close in on all the thousands of fake elite Special Forces that had sprung up around the world. David was being investigated and was subsequently fired from the university in Pennsylvania. He must have known the trail of felonies would now follow him wherever he went. I'm sure he had run out of plans. And ego.
He was found in a town square in Delaware sitting on a bench, a bullet through his brain and the gun dangling from his hand.
They bought a huge co-op from my boss and I assumed I would never see them again.A little over a year later my sister Lindy was living with me and told me she had met this great guy. A divorced man named David. David Silbergeld.
Same guy.
One day I came home to an empty apartment and when I walked into the bedroom I heard my sister whispering from one of the closets.
"Snookie, is that you?" She always called me Snookie and I always called her Bijou. I won't repeat the names we call each other today but one begins with an A and the other one begins with an A.
I opened the door and she was crouched on the floor with her hand over my dog's mouth.
"David called earlier and I screened the call. Somehow he got upstairs even though I didn't buzz him in and he was fooling around with the door knob and you know he was a Navy SEAL and those guys can infiltrate Fort Knox and I know he was trying to get into the apartment and somebody's DOG wouldn't shut the fuck up."
But David was not outside or anywhere else in the building. He never called Lindy again.
By the late 80's his ex-wife Mel was on a show called Thirty Something. Had the internet existed back then I would have read that she and David had only stayed married for a year. And that he had no job and no money. It apparently took her a very short time to figure out why he had married her. And they say models are dumb.
One day I read an article in The New York Post about a small plane flying into Teeterboro Airport in New Jersey with the lights off. The pilot was David Silbergeld.
The Feds arrested him upon touchdown. He had an arsenal of weapons in his waiting car and was carrying cocaine. He went to prison for possession of 610 pounds of cocaine worth $200 million. At the time The New York Times reported it was the largest drug-smuggling bust in the northeastern United States.
One day I got a call from him. He had served his time and wanted me to meet him and some of his friends for dinner. I asked him about it but he didn't want to talk about prison. We had a great meal, a great time and then David disappeared.
I didn't know much about the SEALS until 1997, when the movie G.I. Jane, starring Demi Moore, was released. I had no idea they were, along with other Special Forces the Rangers, Green Berets and Delta Force, considered the elite of the military branches. They're the people I want to rescue me if I'm ever caught by pirates off the coast of Somalia. You don't know; I MIGHT GO THERE.
A few years ago I decided to Google David and found this: Silbergeld's fictional SEAL war record, which earned him full disability pay of more than $2,300 per month, along with a prison-earned doctorate from a diploma mill allowed him to become a Pennsylvania community-college history professor and contributor to National Defense magazine. He also set up a business that defrauded the U.S. government through sales of night-vision equipment. At his sentencing he pleaded for leniency — by pointing to his bogus military record.
By now the Internet was helping to close in on all the thousands of fake elite Special Forces that had sprung up around the world. David was being investigated and was subsequently fired from the university in Pennsylvania. He must have known the trail of felonies would now follow him wherever he went. I'm sure he had run out of plans. And ego.
He was found in a town square in Delaware sitting on a bench, a bullet through his brain and the gun dangling from his hand.
Monday, May 02, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Never Underestimate The Power Of The Stupid
I feel sorry for President Obama. I feel sorry for him because rumors don't die. Hello Richard Gere and Is Your Gerbil Still Alive?
Last year a rumor about me was started by Frogs and Lizards, the crazy lunatic manager of this building. She slashed some pool floats but told people I'd done it. The floats belonged to the girl downstairs who had 2 barking dogs that wouldn't shut up. I complained about them to upper management and blamed Frogs and Lizards for not properly vetting a tenant. In 2009, when Dog Wars broke out, (8 dogs in 6 apartments out of 21 units. With an echoing courtyard) it marked the beginning of me wanting to leave this place.
So by 2010 I was fed up living here. In March of that same year Frogs and Lizards started another rumor about me, that I reset the intercom and didn't tell anyone the new code. Because that's my secret dream, to lock everyone out on the street and then if by some miracle they should zip line their way in and go for a swim? THEY'D DROWN BECAUSE THE POOL FLOATS WERE SLASHED.
If you knew me at all you'd realize I'm far too lazy to have considered either of those incidents. I would have had to drag myself away from Twitter and that's not going to happen any time soon.
By the time the new manager took over I addressed the issue and made fun of the rumors. The new manager said, "You'd be surprised how many people think you did it."
In March of this year we had a huge storm. Lots of wind, lots of rain. The wind knocked over a plant and spread dirt all over the stairs leading down to the pool deck. Like every other resident manager except one, this one doesn't sweep the stairs. So I had dirt and debris all over my worn, faded and disgusting looking carpet. Which, after 20 years, upper management refused to replace, which is a city wide housing LAW.
When the resident manager came into my apartment, I asked her to remove her shoes as the stairs hadn't been swept HINT HINT HINT. I mentioned all the dirt that littered the area and she looked at me and said, "I wonder who did it?"
I wanted to answer "A very revengeful dog barking hating rain storm that couldn't get into the building with the old code and then almost drowned with the help of a slashed pool float" but thought she might actually believe me. Did she think I'd done it? After all, the dirt affected my apartment directly so why wouldn't I do it, you know, just to make living here more of a hell than it already was?
So yes, I feel sorry for Obama. One untrue rumor can lead to other untrue rumors and now part of his legacy will be this unnecessary blight brought on by The Stupids.
I don't care whether you voted for him or not, or like him or not, why must a black president have to prove his American birth when Presidents Bush Sr. and Jr. didn't have to?
And everyone knows Texas is not part of America.
Sidebar: It's probably noteworthy that I spelled RUMOR like this: RUMER, when I first typed it. If you don't know who RUMER is, there's hope for you. Just don't call me because we'll have no one to make fun of.
Rumors are always started by The Stupid. People who haven't left their neighborhood in 20 years and who get their news from PopEater.com.
Okay, so that sentence happens to describe me. And no I'm not going to show you my grades from one of the top 50 universities in the U.S. because I got an INCOMPLETE in SINGING.
Then went on to star in a musical review in Paris. Where I sang. Badly and incompletely.
Rumors are always started by The Stupid. People who haven't left their neighborhood in 20 years and who get their news from PopEater.com.
Okay, so that sentence happens to describe me. And no I'm not going to show you my grades from one of the top 50 universities in the U.S. because I got an INCOMPLETE in SINGING.
Then went on to star in a musical review in Paris. Where I sang. Badly and incompletely.
Yet Another Sidebar: I'm the one in the middle, wearing a 2 foot tall headdress and sitting. While everyone else is standing. I may have gotten an incomplete in Singing but I got an A in Yelling At The Director.
So by 2010 I was fed up living here. In March of that same year Frogs and Lizards started another rumor about me, that I reset the intercom and didn't tell anyone the new code. Because that's my secret dream, to lock everyone out on the street and then if by some miracle they should zip line their way in and go for a swim? THEY'D DROWN BECAUSE THE POOL FLOATS WERE SLASHED.
If you knew me at all you'd realize I'm far too lazy to have considered either of those incidents. I would have had to drag myself away from Twitter and that's not going to happen any time soon.
By the time the new manager took over I addressed the issue and made fun of the rumors. The new manager said, "You'd be surprised how many people think you did it."
In March of this year we had a huge storm. Lots of wind, lots of rain. The wind knocked over a plant and spread dirt all over the stairs leading down to the pool deck. Like every other resident manager except one, this one doesn't sweep the stairs. So I had dirt and debris all over my worn, faded and disgusting looking carpet. Which, after 20 years, upper management refused to replace, which is a city wide housing LAW.
When the resident manager came into my apartment, I asked her to remove her shoes as the stairs hadn't been swept HINT HINT HINT. I mentioned all the dirt that littered the area and she looked at me and said, "I wonder who did it?"
I wanted to answer "A very revengeful dog barking hating rain storm that couldn't get into the building with the old code and then almost drowned with the help of a slashed pool float" but thought she might actually believe me. Did she think I'd done it? After all, the dirt affected my apartment directly so why wouldn't I do it, you know, just to make living here more of a hell than it already was?
So yes, I feel sorry for Obama. One untrue rumor can lead to other untrue rumors and now part of his legacy will be this unnecessary blight brought on by The Stupids.
I don't care whether you voted for him or not, or like him or not, why must a black president have to prove his American birth when Presidents Bush Sr. and Jr. didn't have to?
And everyone knows Texas is not part of America.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Last Time I Smoked Pot. I Think.
I had a gig at The Comic Strip in New York the first year I did standup. My friend Melanie came to that show. She and I went to the same university in Paris and after graduation she moved to London. I visited her there but hadn’t seen her in years until she relocated to New York because she got a job working for director Martin Scorsese. I can still hear her chastising me for mispronouncing his last name. “It’s ScorSESSY, not ScorSAZY.” Rude.
Melanie arrived at the club that night with two men. After my set I hung out at her table and we started to catch up but one of the guys kept interrupting her so he could talk to me. He was annoying and kept touching my arm and I rolled my eyes at Melanie who appeared not to get the Girl Eye Roll. Maybe they didn’t have that in London. I finally gave up trying to talk to her and asked Annoying what he did for a living and he said he worked for Werner Herzog, the German film director. I smiled and said ‘that’s nice’ as Melanie glared at me. Londoners don’t get the Girl Eye Roll but feel perfectly fine shooting you The Girl Glare? Eventually Annoying went to the bathroom while the other guy went to get us more drinks.
“Who is this moron?” I asked Melanie.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Oh my God I’m sorry, is he your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s not my boyfriend. What’s wrong with you?” she hissed from across the table.
“Me? What’s wrong with him? I mean look at him, look at me. As if I would give a guy like that the time of day. Why won’t he stop touching me?”
“Well maybe because fifteen years ago you slept with him in London.”
Oh. Well if you’re going to count that, fine.
Sidebar: I can hear you judging me from here. Like you never forgot the face of a person you slept with. Or their name. Or in what country you slept with them.
Nine years ago I remembered the story of Annoying because nine years ago was the last time I smoked pot. I had given up alcohol a few months prior to that and apparently was not entirely clear on the meaning of sobriety. I was having dinner in my neighborhood with a girlfriend when a couple of guys asked to join us. The one who sat down next to me seemed familiar which made me flash back to Annoying in New York.
Familiar lived a block further down the street than I did so he offered to walk me home after dinner. He knew a lot about art and since I collected it, I invited him upstairs to see what I owned. Familiar flipped through my CDs, put something on the stereo and then brought out a baggie of weed. I liked the guy but hoped he wasn’t a pothead like my friend Ken, who lives up the street. Ken is a musician who doesn’t get gigs and who smokes dope for breakfast, lunch and dinner. If parents want to show their kids how potheads never get ahead in life, they need to buy them tickets to see Ken.
Familiar was getting over a bad break-up; his girlfriend had left him for his best friend. He was so sad that it prompted me to tell him that I was having trouble getting over Elvis, the love of my life. As we commiserated, he extended the joint he had just rolled and I took a hit. Within seconds I took another hit because the first hit always fools you into thinking you might not get high and God forbid you shouldn’t get high in one point two seconds. We talked for a while but then, like with all good pot, we started to laugh. I’m sure it was about something really funny, like how air conditioning works. Suddenly Familiar leaned in to kiss me and I pulled my head back.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. I just stared at him so he tried to kiss me again but this time I turned my head away at the last minute.
“Your face, has it…has it always… been like… that?” I sputtered.
“What?”
“Is that the same face you had back at the restaurant?”
“Dude, how high are you?”
“Just answer the question, is that the same face you had back at the restaurant?”
“Okaaay, here’s the deal. I’ve had this face since I was born; only it was a lot smaller. But since the restaurant? Yes, this is the same face I’ve had since the restaurant.”
And then it hit me. No wonder the guy seemed familiar. He looked exactly like Elvis. I was about to kiss a facsimile of a man I wasn’t getting over. Great.
I didn’t kiss Familiar and never smoked pot again.
You’re all sitting there trying to think of everyone you slept with, aren’t you? Admit it; a couple of those faces are pretty blurry aren’t they?
Melanie arrived at the club that night with two men. After my set I hung out at her table and we started to catch up but one of the guys kept interrupting her so he could talk to me. He was annoying and kept touching my arm and I rolled my eyes at Melanie who appeared not to get the Girl Eye Roll. Maybe they didn’t have that in London. I finally gave up trying to talk to her and asked Annoying what he did for a living and he said he worked for Werner Herzog, the German film director. I smiled and said ‘that’s nice’ as Melanie glared at me. Londoners don’t get the Girl Eye Roll but feel perfectly fine shooting you The Girl Glare? Eventually Annoying went to the bathroom while the other guy went to get us more drinks.
“Who is this moron?” I asked Melanie.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Oh my God I’m sorry, is he your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s not my boyfriend. What’s wrong with you?” she hissed from across the table.
“Me? What’s wrong with him? I mean look at him, look at me. As if I would give a guy like that the time of day. Why won’t he stop touching me?”
“Well maybe because fifteen years ago you slept with him in London.”
Oh. Well if you’re going to count that, fine.
Sidebar: I can hear you judging me from here. Like you never forgot the face of a person you slept with. Or their name. Or in what country you slept with them.
Nine years ago I remembered the story of Annoying because nine years ago was the last time I smoked pot. I had given up alcohol a few months prior to that and apparently was not entirely clear on the meaning of sobriety. I was having dinner in my neighborhood with a girlfriend when a couple of guys asked to join us. The one who sat down next to me seemed familiar which made me flash back to Annoying in New York.
Familiar lived a block further down the street than I did so he offered to walk me home after dinner. He knew a lot about art and since I collected it, I invited him upstairs to see what I owned. Familiar flipped through my CDs, put something on the stereo and then brought out a baggie of weed. I liked the guy but hoped he wasn’t a pothead like my friend Ken, who lives up the street. Ken is a musician who doesn’t get gigs and who smokes dope for breakfast, lunch and dinner. If parents want to show their kids how potheads never get ahead in life, they need to buy them tickets to see Ken.
Familiar was getting over a bad break-up; his girlfriend had left him for his best friend. He was so sad that it prompted me to tell him that I was having trouble getting over Elvis, the love of my life. As we commiserated, he extended the joint he had just rolled and I took a hit. Within seconds I took another hit because the first hit always fools you into thinking you might not get high and God forbid you shouldn’t get high in one point two seconds. We talked for a while but then, like with all good pot, we started to laugh. I’m sure it was about something really funny, like how air conditioning works. Suddenly Familiar leaned in to kiss me and I pulled my head back.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. I just stared at him so he tried to kiss me again but this time I turned my head away at the last minute.
“Your face, has it…has it always… been like… that?” I sputtered.
“What?”
“Is that the same face you had back at the restaurant?”
“Dude, how high are you?”
“Just answer the question, is that the same face you had back at the restaurant?”
“Okaaay, here’s the deal. I’ve had this face since I was born; only it was a lot smaller. But since the restaurant? Yes, this is the same face I’ve had since the restaurant.”
And then it hit me. No wonder the guy seemed familiar. He looked exactly like Elvis. I was about to kiss a facsimile of a man I wasn’t getting over. Great.
I didn’t kiss Familiar and never smoked pot again.
You’re all sitting there trying to think of everyone you slept with, aren’t you? Admit it; a couple of those faces are pretty blurry aren’t they?
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Money Makes The World Go Round But Sex Makes It Stop At Your House
There are people who have more than 6 orgasms a day. That's like telling me there are people who do 6 sit-ups a day. CRAZY TALK.
I figured it can't be men because they'd be asleep after the first 2 and you'd have to wake them for the final 4. But if you wake them and mention the Final 4 they'll think you're talking about March Madness and then you're going to be stuck channel surfing until you find a basketball game. You've also stopped for snacks after the first 2 orgasms and with him asleep this just leaves more for you. Let's get real and let the man sleep.
I asked some of my girlfriends if they'd ever heard of anyone having more than 6 orgasms in one day.
"I've done that."
"Yeah, me too."
"That's kind of normal, isn't it?"
"Yeah, in prison. YOU PEOPLE HAVE HAD MORE THAN 6 ORGASMS IN ONE DAY?"
"Ohhhhhh, one day. I thought you said one week."
"Yeah, I thought you said one month."
"I thought you said one year."
I bet Costco has group discounts on hearing aids.
"63% of people have had sex in a public place."
"I've done that."
"Yeah, me too."
"That's kind of normal."
"Yeah, in prison. YOU PEOPLE HAVE ALL HAD SEX IN A PUBLIC PLACE?"
"Ohhhhhh, I thought you said *got to first base*.
"Yeah, I thought you said *while he wears lace*.
"I thought you said *without using Mace*.
"Wait, your husband has sex while wearing lace?"
"Hey, I don't let him wear MY stuff, he has to buy his own."
"Did you know that 18% of women go commando?"
"I've done that."
"Yeah, me too."
"That's kind of normal."
'WHICH ONE OF YOU AT THIS TABLE IS NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR?"
"Not me; I wear bikinis."
"Not me; I wear thongs."
"What's with all the statistics? You hate math."
"Quoting statistics doesn't mean I hate math."
"So you like math?"
"No, I hate it alright. Who remembers when Lindsay Lohan went all mental because that e-trade commercial referred to Lindsay the Milkoholic and she was going to sue them?"
"Yeah I remember. Why, did she have 6 orgasms a day in Central Park while going commando?"
"Ha ha and shut up."
"What percentage of people listen to you when you ask them to shut up?"
Is the Friends Store open today? I've got some shopping to do.
"Is this Miley Cyrus and if it is, is she going to be as delusional as Lindsay?" I said, pulling up a site on my friend's iphone.
"It really looks like her."
"Maybe I'll buy that for my husband, let someone else take a shift."
If you buy anything from Eden Fantasys, you'll definitely improve your sex life, although your FICO score may plummet if you get carried away BUT you also get a magazine with this noted sex magnet on the cover. So win win.
I figured it can't be men because they'd be asleep after the first 2 and you'd have to wake them for the final 4. But if you wake them and mention the Final 4 they'll think you're talking about March Madness and then you're going to be stuck channel surfing until you find a basketball game. You've also stopped for snacks after the first 2 orgasms and with him asleep this just leaves more for you. Let's get real and let the man sleep.
I asked some of my girlfriends if they'd ever heard of anyone having more than 6 orgasms in one day.
"I've done that."
"Yeah, me too."
"That's kind of normal, isn't it?"
"Yeah, in prison. YOU PEOPLE HAVE HAD MORE THAN 6 ORGASMS IN ONE DAY?"
"Ohhhhhh, one day. I thought you said one week."
"Yeah, I thought you said one month."
"I thought you said one year."
I bet Costco has group discounts on hearing aids.
"63% of people have had sex in a public place."
"I've done that."
"Yeah, me too."
"That's kind of normal."
"Yeah, in prison. YOU PEOPLE HAVE ALL HAD SEX IN A PUBLIC PLACE?"
"Ohhhhhh, I thought you said *got to first base*.
"Yeah, I thought you said *while he wears lace*.
"I thought you said *without using Mace*.
"Wait, your husband has sex while wearing lace?"
"Hey, I don't let him wear MY stuff, he has to buy his own."
"Did you know that 18% of women go commando?"
"I've done that."
"Yeah, me too."
"That's kind of normal."
'WHICH ONE OF YOU AT THIS TABLE IS NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR?"
"Not me; I wear bikinis."
"Not me; I wear thongs."
"What's with all the statistics? You hate math."
"Quoting statistics doesn't mean I hate math."
"So you like math?"
"No, I hate it alright. Who remembers when Lindsay Lohan went all mental because that e-trade commercial referred to Lindsay the Milkoholic and she was going to sue them?"
"Yeah I remember. Why, did she have 6 orgasms a day in Central Park while going commando?"
"Ha ha and shut up."
"What percentage of people listen to you when you ask them to shut up?"
Is the Friends Store open today? I've got some shopping to do.
"Is this Miley Cyrus and if it is, is she going to be as delusional as Lindsay?" I said, pulling up a site on my friend's iphone.
"It really looks like her."
"Maybe I'll buy that for my husband, let someone else take a shift."
If you buy anything from Eden Fantasys, you'll definitely improve your sex life, although your FICO score may plummet if you get carried away BUT you also get a magazine with this noted sex magnet on the cover. So win win.
photo by Karen Walrond
**I was compensated for this review but I used the money to buy some things from their website. Wouldn't you love to know what they were? The red tantra feather teaser is one of them. Let's call it the tamer of the two!
**I was compensated for this review but I used the money to buy some things from their website. Wouldn't you love to know what they were? The red tantra feather teaser is one of them. Let's call it the tamer of the two!
Saturday, April 09, 2011
Whoever Said Winning Isn't Everything Is A Moron
The 3rd Annual Shorty Awards are over and I'd be upset about how I finished in the humor category (rigged) but I forgot all about them until today, when I saw them in my bookmark list. There were 327 official places although there were so many ties it probably comes out to about 4,637 places. (rigged)
The winner is someone named The Dark Lord. (rigged) Because I have no idea who this is I refuse to link or show a picture of them or even look up one of their "humorous" tweets because we all know how mature I am.
And speaking of maturity, I tied for 193rd place with Homer Simpson and an 11 year old. (rigged)
In the name of good sportsmanship I'd like to point out that the 11 year old can't spell for shit.
The winner is someone named The Dark Lord. (rigged) Because I have no idea who this is I refuse to link or show a picture of them or even look up one of their "humorous" tweets because we all know how mature I am.
And speaking of maturity, I tied for 193rd place with Homer Simpson and an 11 year old. (rigged)
In the name of good sportsmanship I'd like to point out that the 11 year old can't spell for shit.
193rd Place Homer J Simpson I work at a nuclear power plant. Married with two kids and a baby.
Suzy Soro I've been on Seinfeld and Curb. These are old credits but that's the way the career crumbles. I'm a comic. You're not.
NoahDanial I'm 11 years old, I like the summer and winter, But I hate going outsite when It's cold, I like Kool-aid singles and goldfish, Follow me please and thanks. :)
View nominations for Homer J Simpson - 16 votes in humor 1 vote in celebrity (tie)
View nominations for Suzy Soro - 13 votes in humor (tie)
NoahDanial I'm 11 years old, I like the summer and winter, But I hate going outsite when It's cold, I like Kool-aid singles and goldfish, Follow me please and thanks. :)
View nominations for NoahDanial - 13 votes in humor (tie)
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Friday, April 01, 2011
If You're A Las Vegan Does That Mean You Gamble But Don't Eat Meat?
I'm thrilled this person bought one of my teeshirts. (And no, it's not the dog) (although the day dogs learn to shop I'm going to buy one) (for food shopping) He's been a faithful follower and commenter for years and I’m so happy to shout him out.
He's a computer programmer who lives in Sin City, Las Vegas. I've always wondered if Las Vegans hate the term "Sin City" as much as New Yorkers hate "The Big Apple." L.A. is "The City of Angels" or as one online article called it, "The City of Angles." If you ever see anyone doing geometry in Los Angeles, rest assured it's only because they missed their connecting flight to China and are not trying to show us up. (maybe)
This is his dog Buster. Buster’s 21 years old, only has one eye and due to cataracts is almost blind in the other. He’s almost deaf as well, but still navigates around their house fine. They hear him wandering down the hall, bumping from one wall to the other hitting his head as he walks – thump – thump – thump – until he finds them.
Which reminds me of my youth and the many drunken nights I spent with people whose names I can't remember.
Ah, the good ole days.
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