For the past two weeks I’ve been relocating every single piece of shit that I own – and then some – into the all new Chowderhead Headquarters. Forgive me. For those who care, I’m still very much alive.
I decided to spend the first night that I didn’t have to run out and buy ‘stuff’ by testing the smoke alarm in my 600 sq. ft. dwelling. It works. Not only is it loud, but there are two of them that beep at the same time. They talk too. A female voice told me to stop cooking and to exit the building in a single file line with all the other pissed off residents.
After about ten minutes of listening to the incessant, loud beeping, I decided to just turn the radio on. I couldn’t find the clicker to change the hippy-music station that was on, but quickly decided that it was my only option to drown out the sound. My neighbors now have two good reasons to hate me.
After a couple of songs I began to realize why I prefer head banging and mosh pits ( \m/ ) over club humping and booty-grinding. A flood of awkward memories from an earlier point in life drifted into my subconscious mind. One particular memory stood out: 8th grade Halloween Dance.
I remember being absolutely stoked about it. Not just because Halloween is my favorite holiday, but because it would be the first ever legit school dance. It was gonna be off the hook: costumes, decorations, spiked punch, heavy metal, and chicks. Lots of them. All I needed now was a sweet-ass costume to reel ‘em in…
Ok, two things:
1.) A Marketing professor once told me that minivans are appealing to women because they look like a pregnant woman. Ironically, he was never married.
2.) Don’t ever go to a middle school dance dressed as Zorro.
With cape fluttering behind, I ogled all the decorations through the hand cut eye holes as I stormed into the front hall of the school. I could hear the music blaring from inside the gym as I excitedly handed my prepaid event pass to the ticket zombie (volunteer mom).
The hallway leading to the music was decorated with hundreds of Black and Orange balloons, spider webs, skeletons, monsters, event posters, and a few stragglers mingling outside the gym. Everybody turned as I stormed past. It was definitely the costume. I was a virtual clone of the dashing Zorro.
After turning a few heads, I exploded into the entrance of the gym, took two steps inside the door, and stopped dead in my tracks. It was at that moment when I realized that I was the only clown in the entire gym dressed in a Halloween costume – not just any Halloween costume – one that consisted of a cape, fake leather boots, a penciled-on mustache, and black tights. That my mom made.
I back peddled through the entryway of the packed gym before anyone really noticed, escaping with only a few snickers and jeers. There I stood, in a dark corner of the hallway out of sight, contemplating. My heart felt like it was gonna burst out of my chest and my face began to flush. I felt so stupid. Did I not get the memo? Was this a practical joke?
With sweaty hands, I peeled the mask from my face, exposing the redness that had formed on my cheeks and forehead. In a matter of milliseconds I’d gone from standing on top of the world to having the world standing on top of me – smashing the toes of my fake leather boots.
At this point, I didn’t have any way out. I couldn’t go back in that gym. At the other end of the hallway I noticed a Ping-Pong table swarming with the school’s uber dorks. Of course they were all wearing costumes. Clearly, that’s where I belonged.
I just stood there watching the uncoordinated geeks whiff on every serve. Then they argued. Then they whiffed. Then they argued. In the meantime, I just stood there shamefully peeling off layers of my once proud costume. All I could think was just blend in, Chowderhead, just blend in.
And that’s how I spent the rest of the night…
Everyone has a ridiculously funny story from their awkward middle school years like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t still a little bit of residual hurt left. It’s an awkward time, and transitioning from being a kid to an adult is a painful process.
That’s why it’s important to never stop being a kid.
- Happy Blogging, Chowderheads \m/
- I Hate Middle-School Dances. (thekab69.wordpress.com)
- We’ve Got a Situation Here – The Situation Costume That Is (costumesupercenter.com)
I’ve come to the gradual realization that Yahoo Answers is the electronic version of The Magic 8 Ball. In other words, it’s the biggest pile of shit ever plopped into a flaming paper bag and dropped onto your virtual doorstep since the dawn of the Internet.
Here’s how it works:
1.) User asks a question seeking a valid response.
2.) Question is then made available to a general population of experts, comprised mainly of YouTube trolls, single men over the age of forty, and juvenile hipsters. Answers are typically never longer than five words, and usually written in butchered English or hipster shorthand.
99.99% of the replies found on the site are also found written on dumpy bar bathroom stall doors in black Sharpie pen across the continent. Thanks to the contributions made by the single males over the age of forty group, .01% of the information found on the site is not entirely useless.
I’m still trying to figure out why it exists? It’s like a pipeline for fucking morons, and a few other Jeopardy rejects. Do these folks not have access to Google? With a half billion websites at our disposal, there’s bound to be a few pieces of information out there to meet your need, right?
Let’s look at an Example:
What is the correct title to use on a cover letter if a job posting doesn’t have a recipient name listed?
If a specific name is not listed on the job posting, an appropriate title would be: Dear Hiring Manager.
PlainGuy1972 **Single Male over 40 group.
PlainGuy1972 is clearly the outlier in this pack of apes. Let’s have a look at some of the other responses…
I don’t think dat it matterz cuz if you work hard and try at your job interview den you shouldn’t have to even write one. <3 <3 <3
L8erSk8er **Most likely a YouTube Troll…
Good luck finding a job. Company’s aren’t hiring because of the repressed economy, and too many jobs are moving overseas. I’m not sure how the U.S. is going to to compete with China’s economic growth in the coming decades. On top of that, I’ll never see a Social Security check. Thanks a lot, Obummer.
DamnYankee456 **Thanks for not giving two shits about my question…
MorpheusFTW **Over-analyzer. Definitely a Jeopardy reject. Matrix Junkie too. Matrix Junkie too. (See what I did there?)
I don’t think you needa cover letter for some places like where I got my job at Taco Bell. Dey jus need to know dat you know how to work. Lolz! K, bye!
MaloryBabez97 **There are aliens among us…
- 85% of Respondents would likely fail a standard 5th grade literacy test.
- 34% of Respondents probably don’t know how to spell the word literacy.
- 34% of Respondents speak fluent Hipster.
- 17% of Respondents pose a threat to your computer security.
- 17% of Respondents pose a threat to national security.
- 100% of this post is made up.
And that’s all I got.
Cheers to a happy May. April, you can kiss my skinny ass.
-Happy Blogging \m/
A few weeks ago I was experiencing a blog identity crisis and announced that I would be undergoing a sex change. I mean a name change. Since then, amid all of your incredibly cool suggestions, and all of the dumbass names that I came up with myself, I still haven’t decided on one.
My indecisiveness leads me to believe one of two things: 1.) I’m not incorporating enough essential fatty oils into my diet, or 2.) I’m pregnant.
All that aside, I made a promise that I intend to keep and I’m gonna make good on it today. But I’m changing the rules up a bit; instead of blabbing on and on about one person, one winner, I’m about to throw a bunch of thick-skinned blogger buddies of mine onto the barbecue.
Congratulations. You’re all winners of the Name Adam’s Dumb Blog Contest!
Here’s how the whole thing’s gonna play out: I rip you to pieces, you cry for a few minutes, then you send me an anonymous death threat or a horse head, then we hug and makeup, and then you drop me a PayPal contribution for publicizing your blog! I just threw that last part in there. It’s not mandatory.
The Premise of the Roast:
I have a couple of really sharp computer geek friends that figured out a way to reverse the search term feed. I know who used what search terms to find my blog, and today I’m gonna let the dirty little kitty out of the bag. I’ll also try my best to address your long-forgotten queries. Of course I’m making all this shit up right now, but just play along.
So sit back, relax, crack a beer, throw some ABBA on the stereo, and soak up the sweet insults of the First Inaugural Roast.
Forgive me in advance.
It sounds like someone has been bumpin’ plugs with some dirty strange if you know what I’m sayin’. I don’t think those bumps are from your highly unfashionable, nylon runner shorts; you may well have caught your first raging case of gonorrhea. Well, you could easily be a repeat recipient of the crotch-critters, but who am I to judge? Merbear, head to your nearest clinic. Stat. And stay away from public restrooms in the meantime.
Blogger: Lady Anonymous: Blog Title: Alien Red Queen
Search Terms: “My boa constrictor makes a farting sound out of her mouth.”
You know, you always struck me as one of those chicks that shows up to some really elaborate wedding sporting shredded fishnets, combat boots, miscellaneous spiked-jewelry, and fucking purple hair. Queen of the damned. I can picture you all gothed-out, holding a one-sided debate with Ed the bartender about the current political climate in Sudan. Ed’s not listening. He’s staring at your eyeliner. And your hooters. Oh, and by the way, who buys a boa constrictor?
Which part is the fantasy here: the steamy sex scene with your interviewer, or actually finding an interview? I just consulted with my magic eight ball to determine the likelihood of either and here’s what it said: Fat Chance.
Blogger: Becca Blog Title: 25 to Fly
Search Terms: “My masterpiece liquor dispenser is broken how do you fix?”
I think the hair dye is starting to leach into your grey matter, darling. Anyone that can’t tell the difference between a hammer and a band saw should either call a handyman or toss it in the garbage. If you don’t heed my advice, you might not have any fingers left for me to put a ring onto.
Oh god, first Hasselhoff and now this tool? So Jen, if he did smoke, would that tarnish his otherwise flawless character? His whiny voice, corny hairdo, and the fact that he was kind of married to Helen Hunt doesn’t factor in? If he does smoke that would be the only cool thing about him (Don’t listen to me, kids. And stay in school). He strikes me as a Virginia Slims kinda guy anyways, which totally kills all that. You’re too uptight, Jen. Drink a fucking beer.
Blogger: Cathy Ulrich Blog Title: Large Self
Search terms: “Steven Segal Spine Punch.”
When Cathy’s not busy taking pictures of flowers and writing inspirational poetry, she’s reading up on how to perform violent Judo take-downs. I’m making a point to tread lightly here. If I say something stupid and we happen to cross paths in the future, chances are likely that I could end up in the back of a meat wagon with a dislocated head, courtesy of Dr. Ulrich. You look very lovely today, Cathy. Lovely indeed.
That’s a dump truck full of bullshit. You’re probably not aware of this, but we have a mutual friend, Amy. I know for a fact that you’ve been quarantined on drinking holiday weekends on more than one occasion. I also know about your lighter trick performance back in college. Video Proof: click here.
Blogger: Calahan Blog Title: B.L.O.G.
Search Terms: “One seated band wagon.”
Mike, your hair is definitely riding a one-seated band wagon. Ditch the mousse. Helmet hair hasn’t been in style since the 50’s. Neither has your blog. It’s gotta be difficult finding a jug of Drain-o in your homentown with you living in it. I can’t even imagine how many gallons a week it requires to keep your shower water from backing up because of all the fucking hair product you stuff into your plumbing. B.L.O.G: (B)uys (L)ots (O)f (G)el
Blogger: Madame Weebles Blog Title: Fear No Weebles
Search Terms: “Offended you are Yoda.”
Star Wars Nerds…
Don’t worry, Weebles, Yoda not I am. Or something like that. If it wasn’t for all of the nauseating publicity that you fan geeks get at these conventions with your themed weddings and Vader-humping get-ups, I wouldn’t even know what the hell a Yoda was…
Blogger: Edward Hotspur Blog Title: Edward Hotspur Search Terms: “I’m feeling verklempt.”
Oh stop crying, Eddie. This Romantic Monday stuff is elevating your estrogen levels. That makes me weepy. Listen, Ed, if you don’t start focusing more on testosterone-boosting activities like beer curling, hammer throwing, and chain saw woodcarving, you might start growing breasts soon. So bottoms up. Now go buy a chainsaw and start practicing. Start with something simple: a carving of Mt. Rushmore.
Blogger: Lillian Blog Title: High, High, Higher!
Search Terms: “there are already so many good blogs”
Keep practicing, Lillian. One day you’ll be this good. No I’m just kidding. That’ll never happen. Freshly Pressed twice you say? The WordPress editors were clearly drunk. Both days.
Blogger: “Yo.” Blog Title: Tales from the Motherland
Search Terms: “Blog straight from the gut bitches”
I know I wasn’t supposed to do this, and I won’t. However, I will say that your infatuation with the Adam and Becca show is now bordering on Glen Close in the movie, Fatal Attraction. Just a heads up, I’m filing a restraining order against you next Wednesday. Lawyer up, you nut.
Blogger: Pixie girl Blog Title: Exploring Pixie
Search Terms: ”Outdated Halloween Outfits.”
I see you took some time out of your grueling piano practice schedule, which probably consists of Chopsticks and the first five notes of the Sesame Street Theme Song, in order to update your wardrobe. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re a Walmartian. Look, there goes Pixie Girl with her little fairy wings strapped to her back, floating aimlessly down the dairy isle in search of a loaf of bread. Clearly your school investments did jack shit to improve your financial situation. Or for that matter, your IQ.
Blogger: John Blog Title: Society Red
Search Terms: “I’m really lucky I took my hidden cam that day, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to shoot this hottie’s sexy big ass in grey butt pants.”
It’s clear now why you transitioned from construction worker to massage therapist: you’re a pervert. I’m starting to wonder if Society Red is a secret voyeur cult. I got my eye on you, Grandmaster John. I’m sure you got your eye on me too. And anyone wearing grey butt pants.
Blogger: Amber Blog Title: Lady lovely Blogger
Search Terms: “I’m warming my lips.”
Ok, I’m just gonna say it: I think you’re one of those anonymous hardcore sex bloggers. The gushy-poetry thing is just a fluffy diversion. Fess up. You’re a closet sex addict. And hey, since your lips are good and warm right now, why don’t you put them to good use? Wait, let me bend over first.
Blogger: Annonymous Hornball Blog Title: Fat Bottom Girl Said What
Search Terms: “Demonstrations on how to shave my pubis and cookie for my man.”
Where would you even find the time to shave your cookie? It seems like most of your free time is spent guzzling cheap beer and Facebook stalking all the guys that dumped your crazy ass after one date. The rest of your time is spent crying about it on WordPress. I was picturing an intimate dinner date with you just now and it went something like this: “Check please.”
Whew, that was fun!
You know, when I scroll through that list of mugshots, I don’t just see a collection of random people that willingly subjected themselves to public humiliation, I see a list of some of my absolute favorite blogger friends. Not only are all you people really good at your crafts, but you’re also good at inspiring, motivating, and encouraging others that share the same passion.
Speaking personally, at one point or another you’ve all helped prop me up during the dark times, flattered or complimented me when I sucked, encouraged me to keep writing when I wanted to quit, and inspired me when I didn’t have anything left in the tank.
Not only have you all played a part in the evolution of this dumb blog, but more importantly, you’ve inspired a very personal evolution. Nowhere else will I ever find this much heartfelt support for a silly pipe dream of mine. I can count the people on one hand in real life that support my writing. But here is different. I’d need a lot more hands. \m/
And lastly, I wanted to make honorable mention of one person in particular on the list: Jules, the author of the blog, McCrabass. Thank you for all your help outside the blogosphere. You’re an immense talent and a very gifted mind. Thanks for taking the time to point me in a direction. You have a big heart. I’m still your number one fan.
I wish I could have included everyone, but damn, this took a long time to put together. Thank you all again for being good sports. And thank you to everyone else not mentioned here that I interact with regularly. You’re all very much loved and appreciated. We’ll see where this whole thing goes.
Sorry for being a dick.
Thanks for your contributions:
- Jean, author of Wholey Jeans
- Tracy, author of, um, Tracy Fulks
- Sara, author of Laments and Lullabies
- Jenn, author of Jenn’s Midlife Crisis
- Vanessa-Jane, author of Vanessa-Jane Chapman
- Mystery Lady, author of Happy Zinny
- Mystery Lady #2, author of Words Fall From My Eyes
Feel free to test the thickness of my skin in the comment section.
- Happy Blogging \m/
- My Right to Bitch Facts and Fallacies (righttobitch.com)
- What Kind of Blogger Are You? 7 Different Blogger Types Explained. (zemanta.com)
- Bloggedy Blog Blog Blog (jessessential.com)
Alright, so dig this, I’m going on a solo flight in a couple of days and I’m wiggin’ out.
I’m not all that big on flying, so I’ve been spending a lot time in the fetal position, whimpering like a sissy. I thought this might be sort of therapeutic for me, ya know? Write it out, Adam, just write it out…
See, I’m not one of those people that’s afraid of crashing and dying. Honestly, I can think of much worse ways of expiring, like, for instance, being eaten by Hannibal Lecter. That would suck much more than a really brief, but really fun, roller coaster ride into the ocean.
Maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate…
What I am afraid of is all of the ridiculous scenarios that I create in my mind before I even set foot on the plane. Consequently, (I like that word) for the past week and a half I’ve been chain-smoking and building a collection of virtual self-help books, which now rivals the Library of Congress. At the moment, I’m working on a chapter in one of my anxiety miracle cure books called, “how to stop worrying about spraying projectile vomit all over the guy in the seat next to you.”
That would be one of those ridiculous scenarios. Not that it wouldn’t be possible I guess, but I haven’t tossed my cookies since I was an infant. That is of course if you don’t count that one time when I went to that Lebanese restaurant after a night of heavy drinking a few years back. But that was only like a violent vurp – not really full on hurl.
In any case, I realize now that not only do I have this longstanding phobia of just about everything, but a particularly bad phobia of all things vomit. God I hate that word. They actually have a name for it too: emetephobia. Gnarly!
Emetephobia, is what self-help guru’s refer to as an “Irrational fear.” I would have to agree, it is irrational, because chances are likely that I’m not really going to give two shits about the guy sitting next to me for a number of reasons:
1.). He might be an armrest-stealer.
2.) He might be a talker, which means kiss my Yatzy Addict Tournament goodbye.
3.) He could be a projectile vomiter, which would do absolutely nothing to help me rid myself of emetephobia.
I hope he’s just an armrest-stealer…
I’m rambling now. Shut up, man. Does this give me a free pass for slacking on reading everyone’s stuff? I’m acting like such an attention whore right now, I know. Please tell me to stick a sock in it and man up.
Oh, and I still don’t have a clue what I’m gonna name this blog, not that it’s all that important, but you know, The Artist Formerly Known as My Right to Bitch is gonna be a really hard one to plug to random strangers on the plane: “Hey, you should read my blog, it’s called…wait, do you have about five minutes to spare?”
Louisiana or bust…
- Vomiting Robot Pukes for Science (news.discovery.com)
- Larry the vomiting robot goes ‘viral’ while helping researchers study norovirus (thestar.com)
Look at me goin’ all Prince up in here…
This informal name blogging contest thingy is getting fun! Thank you so much for all your suggestions. Honestly, you guys are a clever brand. I’m in good company. Oh, and Calahan, stop being so damn funny.
I always wanted to do this. This post is like a magic trick explained – debunked. I’m blowing the mystique of David Blaine so to speak. Of course, I’m only assuming that you too think he has mystique. If not, disregard the comment.
Today is a continuation of this whole cleansing/purging ritual that I’ve succumbed to. I wanted to take this opportunity to present to you a list of fallacies about me and this page which you may or may not have mistaken for fact. If I were a famous musician this might be something you’d find in the “box set”. Some of it you may find shocking. Some of you might even hurl. So, grab a bucket and keep it close.
Behold, MY RIGHT TO BITCH unmasked:
MRTB Fallacy #1 I Loath Hypothetical Questions.
In two of my past posts, Hypothetically Speaking, and Still Speaking Hypothetically, I spewed off about how much I loath unanswerable questions. This a fabrication. I actually love ’em. Find as many as you can and I’ll find a disturbingly creative way to answer them.
MRTB Fallacy #2 I’m Not Into Small-Talk
In another post, 5 Creative Ways to Avoid Small Talk, I played the role of a social-phoebe. The truth is, I’ll talk to you until your ears bleed. There’s nothing in this world I love more than chillin’ out on a patio, in the middle of the summer, drinkin’ beers and yackin’ it up with good company. I’ll even pay. However, if The Bragger, Story Teller Steve, Religious Rick, or Political Pete show up, the party’s movin’ indoors, followed by a deadbolt. Oh, and I am Too Much Information Guy. But you knew that already…
MRTB Fallacy #3 I’m a Picky Halloween Candy-Eater
Back in October, Don’t Be a Halloweiner included a list of sucky candy not to pass out to trick-or-treaters. I told a white lie. There are three items on that list that I actually love: Mounds, Almond Joy bars, and Raisinettes. Whoppers still actually do suck. As a kid I never liked any of them, however. I think all kids are genetically hard-wired to hate those candies. That much is true, so don’t pass them out. Seriously, this is science talking. Never argue with science. Unless you’re catholic.
MRTB Fact # 1 The Fruitless Pursuit of an Anonymous Hacker is a True Story.
I do dumb shit like this all the time. I get riled up about something, then drive around trying to figure out a plan to right all the injustices of this world. I usually give up soon after departure, and head back with my tail between my legs. Then I end up sitting down someplace to chain smoke and mull it over.
Yes, you read that correctly. She’s kind of turdy most of the time, but the chick knows personal finance better than you. And me. Although, despite her financial wizardry, she’ll never be protected from future Fotoshopping efforts. Ever. It’s too easy. Speaking of, she’s also not really missing a tooth, but I think I mentioned that already. You gotta admit, it was a seamless Fotoshop-job.
Both times. I can already see the comments…
MRTB Fact # 4 I Love Reading Books
The problem is that I rarely finish any of them. I’m not that big on novels, however. I don’t think I’ve made it past the fourth chapter of any of the so called Classics. Go ahead, blast me. The problem is that I get sidetracked when people speak in fucking Olde English. I’m sure it’s a classic, however, I found the first forty pages or so to be extremely uninteresting and confusing. Plus, I would much rather make up my own stories. Side note: I have to credit my Grandma for teaching me how to story-tell. When we were little kids she’d always make up bedtime stories on the fly. They were all better than any of the crap I write.
MRTB Fact # 5 I Do Poetry and Short Screenplays
But you won’t find any of it here because it’s not for prying eyes! I’m not Spielberg or Edgar Allen Poe by any stretch, but I dabble in both from time to time. Scripting is actually the reason I started the whole blogging thing in the first place. See, a lot of people that write scripts (not me) are really fucking snooty. They act like they’re all carrying around the next Forest Gump Screenplay. Give me a break. I always wanted to make a Short Film, but it’s virtually impossible to network with people in the trade. Ah bite me. Now I write blog posts instead. It’s funner. More fun, I mean…
Anywhoozle, I feel better. If you have any deep, burning questions for me, ask now or forever hold your peace.
In the meantime, I’m gonna go grab another espresso. With some vodka in it.
- Happy Blogging, Rock Stars \m/
- Valentine’s Candy Messages for the Cynical Single Person (righttobitch.com)
- Failing at Fotoshop (righttobitch.com)
- Hypothetically speaking… (davesmythjr.wordpress.com)
What?! You’re pullin’ my leg! Say it isn’t so, Adam?!
I’m sorry. It’s true. After the week has concluded I will have purged every last ounce of negativity and whining out of my frantic fingertips, and My Right to Bitch will be no more. Bankruptcy has been declared. Liquidation has begun. The podium mic unplugged for the last time…
Ok, let’s not get all overdramatic about this. I’m not going anywhere. Yes, I’m a bit choked up about the decision, and it’s a bittersweet one, but it’s time for a rise in consciousness. Sort of. The direction of the vortex has been reversed, and new and exciting horizons are on the…uh, horizons. Wait, that sounded stupid. That doesn’t even make sense?
I’ll come back to it.
Here’s the deal: Daddy needs a new name for this domain. The catch? I’m not gonna be the one to pick it. That’s your job. I know, I know – like you give a rat’s ass about naming my blog, and probably wondering out loud, “what’s in it for me?”
Oh-Ho-Ho! I’ll tell you what’s in it for you!
The winner of the name my blog contest will win an all-expenses-paid trip, including airfare, hotel, and deluxe accommodations, for a 6 day, 7 night trip to Cancun, Mexico. You will be stayimg in a presidential suite at the fabulous Mayan Palace resort, furnished with a golden toilet and lots of chocolate and berries and stuff.
Hahahahahaha! Yeah right! Who do you think I am, fucking Oprah Winfrey?
Ok, for real this time: The winner of the name my blog contest, as it is will be officially known by, will earn a guest of honor spot, right here, where you will be Comedy Central-style Roasted by yours truly, and become part of the last ever My Right to Bitch rant. This will probably be in history books one day…
I’ll be experimenting all week long with some sucky titles that I had in mind already, as well as revisiting some memorable posts and interactions with a ton of faithful followers.
Keep in mind, we ain’t ditchin’ the parties around here, and my brand of humor ain’t part of the liquidation process either.
Here’s the new tag for a little bit of inspiration:
“Rooftop Keg Stands. Pyrotechnics. Unruly House Guests. An Occasional Orgy, and Rock and Roll. Grab a Cup. Five Bucks at the Door.”
So, put your thinking caps on and drop your best ideas in the comment section throughout the week..
I’m counting on you. Tick, tock…
- Happy Blogging \m/
This is the moment you were supposed to be waiting for, that is, until you got sidetracked with your experimental meatloaf surprise that turned into a house fire. I don’t even know what I’m talking about right now. I’ve been up late for the past two weeks. I’m sleep deprived and bordering on hallucinations. Despite all that, I’m jacked to the max.
This. Is. Killer.
Any over/under bets on YouTube page views after today? It’s gonna go viral, watch. It might even threaten to boot a couple unfortunate quacks off the Academy Award nomination deck. I’m serious. My guts are usually pretty dead-on.
Behold, Adam and Becca’s Valentine’s Day Bash:
Happy Valentine’s Day everyone. Enjoy your Sweetheart if you’re lucky enough to have one. <3
-Happy Blogging \m/
Alright! It’s taken me five grueling months to decide on the first candidate to stand under the hot-lights, but I’m 100% confident that I found the perfect mix of raunch and class to pop the MRTB guest blogging cherry. Is that possible to be both raunchy and classy? I guess you’ll just have to judge for yourself.
I’m convinced that Singlegirlie and I were separated at birth, but after that, one of us went on to play rock and roll, drink beer, and start accidental house party fires, and the other went on to debate penis sizes, and lead the single world with a fist in the air and lipstick on her teeth.
Without further ado let’s give a big, warm welcome and rock star salute to the Chelsea Handler of the blogging world, Singlegirlie. Earmuffs.
What up, My Right to Bitch’s bitches? Singlegirlie inna house. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, which means I’ve been busy stocking up on vodka and hiding the knives and razor blades. But I did take a moment to create some of my own super cute candy hearts with special messages on them for my loved ones. And I made some for you, too. So suck on these, my sweet babboos, and I hope you enjoy the burn of VD as much as I do.
Happy Valentine’s Day. Now STFU.
There’s always that one annoying a-hole who goes on and on about what a wonderful Valentine’s Day they had with their sweetums. Well, I got news for you. Most people, single or not, hate V-day the way 99% of the planet hates Kanye West. If you’re single, you feel like a loser. If you’re in a relationship, you resent the monumental pressure Valentine’s Day forces upon you to do something romantic. So save the sickeningly sweet details about your ooey gooey day for your cat. Because trust me, no one wants to hear that shit.
You can’t always count on a man, but your dildo will never let you down. I named my dildo Danny after Danny Zuko from Grease. (Note that this was John Travolta back when he was hot and before he became a big, fat, gay alien worshipper and massage boy molester.) Unlike a man, my Danny is super reliable and I can always find him right where I left him – in my bottom dresser drawer concealed by a mountain of Duracell eight-packs. And although he’s unable to thrust himself and has not the same texture as actual man meat, he also doesn’t make a mess inside me or ask for a post-coitus sandwich.
You’re never alone when there’s Craigslist.
Oh, don’t scoff, you know you’ve looked. Hell, even I’ve used Craigslist before. Granted, you may not find your soul mate, but it beats sitting alone on VD diddling yourself whilst watching queens throw tantrums on Project Runway. On Craigslist, you can find anyone into anything you want, so why not take this opportunity to explore your adventurous side? Always dreamed of urinating in a dwarf’s belly button? Craigslist is there. Hermaphrodite-curious? Look no further. This is your time to go hog wild with absolutely no one to judge you! Only downside is the possibility of getting murdered and dismembered – but hey, at least you’re not alone on Valentine’s Day.
Take solace in the fact that your V-day isn’t as bad as Manti Te’o’s.
If anyone’s had a bad time of it lately, it’s Manti Te’o. How would you feel if you discovered that your fake, dead girlfriend is a real, live gay man? Before this scandal broke, I never knew Manti Te’o existed, much less his catfish girlfriend. But this is the catfish to end all catfish – the King God Kamehameha Catfish, if you will. First, the love of his life gets cancer. Then she dies of it. Then he learns that she faked her own death. Then he learns that she faked her whole identity. Then he learns that she’s a HE – a 275-pound, high-talking, Samoan HE in severe denial of his sexuality. Given the choice between his shit and my shit, I’ll take the dildo and a Craiglist random any day.
I’m single, but you’re stuck with that asshole.
It’s no secret that single folk curse their coupled brethren around this time of year, assuming they’ve got it better because they have a sweetheart. But what we singles are wont to forget is that V-day can be a steaming pile of dog shit for couples, too. As we all know, 50% of marriages end in divorce. But that doesn’t mean the 50% that stay together are all in a state of wedded bliss. I guarantee that many of these people regularly fantasize about stabbing their spouse with a steak knife, but they stay together because of the kids or because divorce is expensive or because the death penalty is still legal in many states. So take comfort in the fact that even though you’re lonely, at least you don’t go to bed at night wondering if your penis will be attached in the morning.
I am a single girl dating in Los Angeles. Sometimes. It’s interesting. If you enjoy snark, penis stories and the occasional F-bomb, mosey on over to Single Girl Blogging to partake in the mayhem. Or find me on Twitter @singlegirlie.
I think I need a drink after that. But first, how bout a round of applause?
- Happy Blogging \m/
P.S. Stop by tomorrow for the Vlog. It’s gonna be killer!
Geez, I take a couple days off and people start sending me emails asking if I’m dead or something. Relax, I’m alive, and I also have good news!
Despite the hiatus, there’s been no loafin’ around during the past week. I’ve been busy making plans for the biggest, baddest, hottest, virtual Valentine’s date of my life with the very lovely, and soon to be famous, Becca from 25 to Fly.
Was that a run on sentence?
Who cares. Eat it, grammar snobs. I got bigger things to worry about than indefinite pronouns and fucking subordinating conjunctions. I don’t even know what those two things are either. I looked them up online. They sounded cool…
Anyways, what was I talking about?
Oh yeah, back to the pitch! I promised that this was gonna be a big year, and I’m following through on that promise this Thursday, Valentine’s Day. For the first time in the brief history of My Right to Bitch, not only will I not have a single thing to bitch about, but I’ll also be dropping the first ever video log! You’ll finally get to check out the Heavy Metal Master of this domain in live, technicolor format! (Did you catch the third person usage, grammar snobs?)
Also, drop by tomorrow for an awesome guest post by the infamous Single Girl Blogging. If you’ve never heard of her then you’ve been living in your sock drawer. This chick is the Chelsea Lately of the blogging world (god that sounds dorky) and always a riot. I wonder if she’s got any good advice out there for all the single folks this Valentine’s Day? I guess you’ll just have to wait and see!
-Happy Blogging Rock Stars \m/
I have a dirty little secret to share with you all today — one that I’ve been withholding for some time now. I can’t live with the guilt anymore, and I’m finally ready to come clean with it: I’m Photoshop illiterate. I’m not proud to admit it, but I’m still floundering away at The University of Microsoft Paint.
If you’re not familiar already, MS Paint is a watered-down photo editing program that comes standard with every PC. The only thing it’s useful for is drawing a perfect circle, square, or trapezoid, then filling it with any of the three primary colors. It’s one step above an Etch-o-Sketch.
Since I’m in a giving mood today, I thought I’d give all you graphic artist snobs an opportunity to point and laugh at some of my crudely-edited pictures from the past. Up until now, none of them have seen the light of day. The tour you’re about to take should give you an idea of what I’m working with here.
In short, my graphic design skills are about four feet shy of a slam dunk.
I’m a wizard at blacking out teeth. Lucky for me, Suze Orman is already missing one. The caption saved this one. The sketchy-looking thought bubble did not. Grade D+
The caption saved this one too. Grade: D
What began as a Chariots of Fire-inspired tribute to Michael Phelps, ended in a craptastic horn sympony of wet farts being lit on fire. I blew this on so many levels. First off, I butchered the name. Phleps? C’mon man. Secondly, the Olympic Rings look like they just got off some Woodstock hippie bus after eating a handful of brown LSD. Needless to say, this one didn’t bring home the gold — or any medal for that matter — just a raging case of genital herpes. Grade: F
Where was I going with this one…This was actually an old piece from my graphic design portfolio. People who interviewed me described it as being preposterous, laughable, and harmful to pregnant women. One guy even called a couple weeks after the interview to tell me he’d gone sterile after looking at it. Liar. Needless to say, my computer drawing career never panned out. Now that I look at it again, I can see where they’re coming from. You did’t have to be a dick about it. Sheesh. Grade: F
Wait for it…
…and boom goes the dynamite. This one gets high marks for originality of content. Unfortunately, I’m not sure The Enquirer is gonna fork over any loot for this Photoshop hack-job. A Kindergartner could do a better job of cutting and pasting. Look at Bush — he looks terrified. I’ll bet this won’t be the first time G-Dub’s had a low mark stamped next to his name. Grade: D+
The shading is spot on in this one, but I kinda goofed on Sara Jessica Parker’s hair. Oh, and I totally forgot that she doesn’t eat carbs anymore. Sorry chicky, this ain’t gonna help straighten out the long face —-> Grade: D-
…Exhibit G: *G-Money*
Here’s an exception. Not much wrong with this one. Except for the fried egg in Becca’s hair. It was supposed to be a daisy. Whatever. If you print this out, don’t try using it at Walmart. They just busted someone recently who was trying to score change for a million dollar bill. True story. It’s obvious that Walmart invests heavily in counterfeit and fraud prevention. But who would wanna get rid of something with that pretty face on it? Grade: A+
Gary Busey is so grouchy around the paparazzi. I think he has a sugar problem. Or a coke habit. Probably both. By the way, fake blood is hard to do on MS Paint. It looks like cartoon barbecue sauce. Someone give this man a rabies shot. Stat. Grade: D -
More pickin’ on Bush. Wait. That came out wrong. Nevermind. If you’ve never seen the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off then you’re probably scratching your wig right now. Congratulations! You’re the only person on the planet that hasn’t seen it. The bong in the photo looks sort of believable, I guess. And it’s patriotic too! Who am I kidding. It all sucks. Grade: D+
I can’t imagine his monthly dry cleaning bill. Actually, who cares about that. I’m sending a Christmas card to the owner of the shop. What a saint for handling all those poopy pants. Grade: C
I even screwed up my tribute to David Dixon. Wait, is that his name or his nemesis? Either way, you make it look easy, my friend. Grade: F
End of Tour.
I hope nobody went sterile.
If you guys didn’t think this totally sucked, let me know. I have a lot more Fotoshop Fails in the dumpster out back. I could do a weekly bit called something corny like, “Fotoshop Fridays?” Meh. I’ll work on a title…
Oh, and check out the Post of the Week by Alien Red Queen. Nicely written, Ms Lady.
-Happy Blogging \m/