Thursday, June 07, 2007
So, GNVP and I were speaking yesterday and he mentioned that this place pretty much fell to complete shit. I suggested we delete, delete, delete; he bitched and moaned at the prospect of having all his blogland contributions [a whopping 4 posts, stop and be amazed] become non-existent with the simple click of a button.
Thus, this place remains and I have no real clue what to do with it [other than post the NBA Finals pictures I'm going to be taking from the floor of center court for strategic gloating purposes. Nothing gives me more pleasure than ruffling the flamboyant homo-tendancy feathers of GNVP, my other best friends, and my brothers--oh, and that tone of sheer jealousy in their voice makes living so much more worthwhile]. Suggestions are much appreciated.
For now, I'm going to take the easy way out and do a meme. My answers are in normal text, and GNVP's are in homosexual pink. You have to admire him being so comfortable in his lack of sexuality.
There you have it. Useless information for no other reason than keeping this place alive.
Monday, November 20, 2006
My, haven't we neglected this place? For like two fucking weeks, at that. For shame on us! For shame! In my own defense I've been working, and in Kitty's non-defense she's been on vacation for nearly two weeks. Blame her. Perhaps she should fulfill her responsibilities as a devoted blogger first, and then go surfing for hours a day!
Regardless, seeing as she's been home for a while and MIA on the internet front, I've taken it upon myself to completely embarrass her with a drunken photo of her on the beach, courtesy of Ranen, her little brother. Cell phones are awesome, aren't they?
Thank the lord almighty I had Ranen delete all the photos of me from her laptop and memory stick. I think this means war.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
If you're an idiot, don't pay attention, or just have never read this blog before, I will repeat for the sake of glorious repetition that I'm Hawaiian.
Yup. I come from the islands, and no I don't wear grass skirts unless I'm provoked. Regardless, it dawned on me that I've been a rather shitty blog host, in that I haven't invited you in to see the culture of mah peepz. Thus, I have assembled a few choice phrases that may come in handy should you find yourself traveling to the islands. Enjoy!
On The Plane:
At The Hotel:
For The Doctor:
Friday, October 20, 2006
Alright. Aliecat asked for a new post on the grounds that seeing the word Vagisil has the affect of making a Sahara out of a moist fun time, and seeing as I can't really argue with that I am going to take one for the team, and post. Even though I have absolutely nothing to post about because I've been going insane at work trying to finish up three contracts, get a patent application finalized, and some other crap that's not really worth bitching about.
I guess I could talk about the most lowly creature in this world: men.
Basically, this week I've fallen off the face of the earth and have literally moved into my office on account of all the shit I have to do. Shockingly, when one falls off the face of the earth they pretty much no longer have contact with people who are merrily prancing upon the earth; however, that fact is so easily overlooked when you're prancing along enjoying the scenery.
I haven't been to practice in a week and a half, and yet that is totally fine. I haven't talked to the guy I've been pseudo half-assedly seeing [or in my words, hanging out with] for that entire week and a half either, and that is not cool at all. Rather than be like "Yo, bitch. What the fuck?" two days into my sabbatical from existence, he waited until last night to pull out the big guns:
"I don't know what I did, or anything, but I just wanted to apologize." To which I said, "Huh?" "Well, I sent you an e-card last Thursday, a text message last Friday, a text message last Monday afternoon, and I heard nothing for 6 days. If you don't want to talk to me anymore, that's cool."
Men. I'm only going to give you this nugget of awesome information once, so put down your dick any pay attention.
YOU CANNOT PULL THE PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE GUILT FACTOR WITH A WOMAN.
Did you get that? Did you internalize it? Put it on a piece of paper. Tattoo it on your fucking forehead, do whatever you have to do, just DO NOT! forget that. You will never, ever, ever, be able to get a straight answer from a woman if you pull that passive aggressive bullshit with us. Why? Because unless we did something egregiously wrong, there's no way in hell we'll take such action as anything other than you being a spineless, needy, fucker. Why? Because that's how we women folk roll, and that's how we get what we want from you men folk; therefore, we are more hip to your little "game" than you ever could possibly be and you won't beat us at the game we have not only perfected, but have made into an art such that the passive aggressive guilt we seed in your head is seemingly nothing more than your own ideas.
Bottom line: Don't play mind games with a Jedi mind fucking master. Women are the Jedi mind fucking masters, so just don't even bother men.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Praise fucking Moses, yo. My girlfriend and the little stink nugget are out of my life until next Sunday. I feel like a kid on Christmas, or what I imagine a kid feels like on Christmas. It's not that I don't love having my girlfriend around, cooking and cleaning up after me, and the little stink nugget is kind of cute in that I think I've dropped a deuce that weights more than you kind of way, but it's nice to have my place to myself for a little while.
It's rather interesting that when you enter into a relationship, someone's living quarters becomes communal in the sense that it becomes a little less yours and little more ours. I have no idea how the place is selected because if I knew I would make sure that my place was never up to selection par, but it's pretty much inevitable that before you know it, you find yourself always at your place and them never at theirs. It's not the same as having a roommate, because even your bed is the subject of invasion.
My place has been invaded by a 5'10'' Aphrodite and her little stink nugget, and I didn't really have an issue with it until I went into the bathroom cabinet below my sink and found a whole shit load of her shit and my shit no where to be found. Tampons, make-up, hair products, a blow dryer, a curling iron, more moisturizers than I thought any human could possibly need, a funky heating contraption for her eyelashes, I even found a tube of Vagisil which quite frankly scares me. I didn't find extra can of shaving cream I keep down there for when the original runs out. That was no where to be found. I also have no clue
I'm fine with her adding things to my laundry, I'm fine with her staking out a section of my closet for her crap, I'm fine with keeping my lone four pairs of shoes in the linen closet so she can keep her shoe "options" open, and I'm even find with her keeping shit-even Tampons and Vagisil-in my bathroom, but that's the logical side of me. The non logical side of me feels like I'm being phased out of my own apartment which I pay for, along with my roommate. I've been on the other end of the communal living spectrum and I can't ever remember bringing over an arsenal of shit with me and leaving it there. I can't even remember my girlfriend who lived with me in college having this much crap in our place.
Kitty says to talk to her about it, decide if I see this relationship evolving into something more than hanging out and sex, or stop bitching about it. Unfortunately, Kitty is also the first Jewish nun (because she gets none and hasn't in a while) in existence and that's all attributable to the fact she's one blunt little girl who doesn't understand the meaning of walking on egg shells. Thus, I throw this out there to blogland for suggestions because while little Ms. Kitty can't understand it, I don't want the sexin' to stop along with the Vagisil collection growth.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
I think GNVP's story pretty much illustrates that too a tee, afterall, not only did he get worked like a part time job, but he got worked like a part time job by A GIRL!
Right, so back to my point, which has nothing to do with GNVP getting his ass beat by A GIRL, friendships can be rather painful. I'm not talking in the sense that they make you feel pain in an emotional way, but in a physical way.
"But Kitty!" I hear you say, "violence is never the answer, especially amongst friends." And, in response I say "No fucking shit; however, when one is addicted to the magical art of getting objects permanently placed into their skin, friendship turns into much more than a field of flowers. It turns into a force to be reckoned with and bad, bad, bad decisions."
The first tattoo I ever got was the result of not my own volition, but accompanying a friend to get his, and from that moment [at the tender age of 18] on a trend and tradition hath commenced. I cannot walk into a tattoo shop without getting something. It's horrible. I exceeded the white trash tattoo limit before I even hit 21.
When Noah picked me up from the airport and told me that he was planning on getting another tat, he knew exactly what he was doing, the asshole! Nothing says gay like:
His and hers
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Goo Goo Gajoob Yo.
First and foremost, I'd like to allow you the opportunity to formally welcome me to this lovely little world we entitle blogland. Go ahead. Make it rather speedy, and make sure you mention how awesome I am at least twice. Got it? Excellent.
Next, I'd like to extend a heartfelt middle finger to Kitty for picking a most homosexual picture of me to post on the site. As pay back it was my initial idea to tell a rather embarrassing story of Ms. Kitty. Perhaps the one about drunkenly stripping on a bar at a frat party and being caught by an older brother at the tender age of 14, or maybe I could delve into that one time when she totally fell flat on her face as she smiled, took her diploma, and turned towards the camera at our high school graduation. I could talk about how she got ditched three times in one night by three separate guys, and had to call me at 2am to pick her up, or about the numerous times I've had to roll on down to the county jail and pick her ass up because drunk tank seems to be her best drinking buddy.
But then I realized she took time out of her surfing and sun bathing to comply with my wish for a less homotastic template. It's a bit slap dash, but I think it's rather awesome for a rough go. The bubbles make me tingle. So, I'm really left with nothing to talk about and have opted, instead, to write a story. Get comfty, boys and girls.
She stood there. Rather pissed off, rather unsure of what to do, and completely enraged. She could not understand why this scrawny little boy would not comply with her wishes. It was simple enough: Get out of the swing. The repercussions where simple enough, too: Pain. Yet, there he was, swingingly gaily and freely without so much as a care in the world. Afterall, who listens to girls, let alone girls who just moved into town.And for those who didn't get it, that's how I met Kitty. Luckily for her I had a deviated septum and had to get my nose done anyway, otherwise my godly and awesome profile may have come between us.