Why is everybody always hater totting on the French? Are we really not over this whole WWII thing yet? Do we really still resent their lack of support for Bush's war on terror? (Is anyone in America even still doing a happy dance over this?) I just don't get it! I freaking love France like it was a Reznor-headed chocolate old fashioned doughnut!
The reason I ask about this is because a lot of peeps I work with have been going to Paris to work on a project, and I don't know if they're just canker sore sucking morons or what, but they all come home bitching about France.
For instance, this one stupid skank was complaining about how "rude" the French are and as an example of such, cited being shushed during a symphony. Um, hello! It's considered bad ettiquete to applaud during a symphony, let alone have a retarded convo about your greasy ass hair! Back me up here, Nick!
So, then they whine about how "mean" the French are when people don't speak the language in their country. This really asses my chaps because I'd freaking LOVE to know the last time these hosers were cool to a non-English speaker in America. I have seen people abuse taxi drivers here for not understanding complex English words, but when they go to Paris and yell, "Hey! HEY! Where's the Eiffel Tower at?" to strangers on the street, and a Parasian rolls their eyes, they act like they've been morally assaulted.
WTF, people?! It all sounds like a super gay double standard to me. I've been to France, I have very good French friends, and you know what? They kick ass. All I've ever had to do is know how to say s'il vous plait, merci, and excusez-moi and the French been absolute peaches to me. I'm sure if everybody just did some homework on the countries they visit (and recognize that all big cities are just a little less touchy-feely), they'd get to France and want to make sweet love to them all like I do.
The Lost Chronicles
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Once upon a time, this blog was very controversial. I know, I know! Difficult to believe here in this desolate, post-apocalyptic landscape in which The Chronicles now reside. But yes, it has caused fights between friends, breakups, rageful accusations from strangers, and was even banned by the company where I work. In turn, it also brought me fawning adoration from readers, got me an in for my current job, and led me to meet my delicious man.
During this tumultuous journey, I got into the bad habit of omitting stories that ROCKED because I had too many readers who would have caused drama about me posting stuff that involved them. However, times have changed, and none of those hosers read my happy blog anymore. The time has come, dear munchkins, to behold…
The Lost Chronicles
Let us begin with The Invitation.
It all started with an e-mail. An e-mail from a friend who enjoyed writing as well. She sent it to me under the pretext that she wanted me to read a short story that she had co-authored with her boyfriend. It started out generic enough…a couple and their friend named Florentina having drinks and chatting, when suddenly and without warning, it turned into effing Showtime. It was The Most Graphic Three-Way-Bang Story of All Time. Like I’m talkin’ the phrases, “buried to the hilt” and “vagina” were used and everything! I was way surprised to get something so bawdy from her, but I just kind of laughed about it and uncomfortably dropped the subject.
A couple weeks later, my pals and I all went out to some swanky bar at which the lusty literary duo made and appearance. With their friend. FLORENTINA. I mean, come on! Like there’s that many Florentinas in the area!! That’s when I began to suspect what was going on. I mean, I always think everybody is in love with me, so you’d think I would have caught onto this sooner, but holy shat! These folks were totally trying to dew me!
I carefully avoided them until my birthday party, where I partied SO hard that I gave the stripper a lap dance. They waited until I was so loaded that I was hanging onto nearby furniture so as to not topple over to ambush me. They were all looming over me, frothing at the mouth and stroking my arm, saying, you don't believe that there isn't a G-spot? You can watch him give me one. Why don’t you let us take you home? And I was all AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! And in slow motion, I turned and fled, leaving overturned barstools in my wake. Really, I saw no other option but to hurl myself into the safety of a group of friends whilst giggling uncontrollably.
Ahh, I’m so hawt. Everyone wants to hit this! But I ain't promiscuous, and if you was suspicious...all that shit is fictitious!
During this tumultuous journey, I got into the bad habit of omitting stories that ROCKED because I had too many readers who would have caused drama about me posting stuff that involved them. However, times have changed, and none of those hosers read my happy blog anymore. The time has come, dear munchkins, to behold…
The Lost Chronicles
Let us begin with The Invitation.
It all started with an e-mail. An e-mail from a friend who enjoyed writing as well. She sent it to me under the pretext that she wanted me to read a short story that she had co-authored with her boyfriend. It started out generic enough…a couple and their friend named Florentina having drinks and chatting, when suddenly and without warning, it turned into effing Showtime. It was The Most Graphic Three-Way-Bang Story of All Time. Like I’m talkin’ the phrases, “buried to the hilt” and “vagina” were used and everything! I was way surprised to get something so bawdy from her, but I just kind of laughed about it and uncomfortably dropped the subject.
A couple weeks later, my pals and I all went out to some swanky bar at which the lusty literary duo made and appearance. With their friend. FLORENTINA. I mean, come on! Like there’s that many Florentinas in the area!! That’s when I began to suspect what was going on. I mean, I always think everybody is in love with me, so you’d think I would have caught onto this sooner, but holy shat! These folks were totally trying to dew me!
I carefully avoided them until my birthday party, where I partied SO hard that I gave the stripper a lap dance. They waited until I was so loaded that I was hanging onto nearby furniture so as to not topple over to ambush me. They were all looming over me, frothing at the mouth and stroking my arm, saying, you don't believe that there isn't a G-spot? You can watch him give me one. Why don’t you let us take you home? And I was all AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! And in slow motion, I turned and fled, leaving overturned barstools in my wake. Really, I saw no other option but to hurl myself into the safety of a group of friends whilst giggling uncontrollably.
Ahh, I’m so hawt. Everyone wants to hit this! But I ain't promiscuous, and if you was suspicious...all that shit is fictitious!
Considerate Crapping
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The more I’m around people, the more I’m concerned that I’m antisocial. It’s either that, or I’m completely superior to those around me, which, after consulting my ass, is clearly the case. I just feel like I’m in constant battle with bitches everywhere I go over things that I consider to be common social courtesies.
For instance: the shitter. Evidently, it is not common knowledge that when someone is already in the can upon your arrival, that it is polite to forgo your favorite stall and instead choose the one farthest from the person who’s already marked their toilet territory. I’m just sayin’, nobody wants your weird nosy ass dropping trowel next to them if you have the choice to be an extra six feet away. It just makes you seem weird, like you sniff people’s butts or something. Gross.
Also inappropriate, is chatting while shatting. Cereal not cool, y’all. Or even chatting in the batroom for any length of time when someone else is in there trying to drop a deuce. Take it outside, for the love of christ! And dude, just in case you are this kind of dirty sac, never ever call someone out when they're in a stall. Swear to god, I was in the far away throne, laying some Tetris, when some chick like, peeked under a stall and shoe snooped, then actually said to the woman in there, “Stephanie! Is that you?!” While poor Stephanie is awkwardly trying to muffle the post piss farts. I would mutilate a bitch with a toilet paper tube if that happened to me.
I don’t think I’m being extreme here, unlike this chick the other day, who upon realizing that I too was headed for the bathroom, turned and looked at me in horror. HORROR, people. Like I had just spun my head around and a tentacle shot out of my bellybutton and was suckering her face. It was righteous! She got her little potty paper and sat there for a long time in silence trying to pee. Ultimately, she couldn’t do it, even though I bailed for the stall farthest from her, but at least I tried to be privy polite. I just want those around me to do the same.
For instance: the shitter. Evidently, it is not common knowledge that when someone is already in the can upon your arrival, that it is polite to forgo your favorite stall and instead choose the one farthest from the person who’s already marked their toilet territory. I’m just sayin’, nobody wants your weird nosy ass dropping trowel next to them if you have the choice to be an extra six feet away. It just makes you seem weird, like you sniff people’s butts or something. Gross.
Also inappropriate, is chatting while shatting. Cereal not cool, y’all. Or even chatting in the batroom for any length of time when someone else is in there trying to drop a deuce. Take it outside, for the love of christ! And dude, just in case you are this kind of dirty sac, never ever call someone out when they're in a stall. Swear to god, I was in the far away throne, laying some Tetris, when some chick like, peeked under a stall and shoe snooped, then actually said to the woman in there, “Stephanie! Is that you?!” While poor Stephanie is awkwardly trying to muffle the post piss farts. I would mutilate a bitch with a toilet paper tube if that happened to me.
I don’t think I’m being extreme here, unlike this chick the other day, who upon realizing that I too was headed for the bathroom, turned and looked at me in horror. HORROR, people. Like I had just spun my head around and a tentacle shot out of my bellybutton and was suckering her face. It was righteous! She got her little potty paper and sat there for a long time in silence trying to pee. Ultimately, she couldn’t do it, even though I bailed for the stall farthest from her, but at least I tried to be privy polite. I just want those around me to do the same.
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Get Out of My Tits!
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So maybe it’s me that has the bad gym etiquette, or maybe it’s everyone else. I’m thinking it’s everyone else, but you know, what the hell do I know? I began wondering about this the other day when I was standing in front of my locker, minding my own biznazz and exchanging my grodie stank workout clothes for a towel. This would seem to be a fairly private moment in a fairly public place, right? Like, one in which you wouldn’t bust in front of said disrobed person to fish around in your locker? Wouldn’t you pretend to get a fresh towel or something so that the nekked individual could have a minute to cover her flab?
Clearly, I am the only one who would, because as I was standing there, some fat ass, who always wears a fucking leotard to speed walk on the treadmill, reaches within three inches of my chest to open her locker and fiddle about. I was all, GET OUT OF MY TITS! But instead of shrieking this aloud like so much banshee, I settled for passive aggressively dropping stuff from my locker onto her meddling hands. Then I flapped my towel around like I was Big Bird on ice to make sure that she felt as uncomfortable in my personal space as I was with her in it. Skank!
It occurs to me in hindsight that I probably just gave her more of a show for which she was already stoked to be in attendance, but at least I doused her with a grotesque mixture of warm vanilla sugar lotion and filthy gym sock. My revenge may be small, but it is in frequency that I disperse my reign of terror. Mwa ha ha, bitches!
Clearly, I am the only one who would, because as I was standing there, some fat ass, who always wears a fucking leotard to speed walk on the treadmill, reaches within three inches of my chest to open her locker and fiddle about. I was all, GET OUT OF MY TITS! But instead of shrieking this aloud like so much banshee, I settled for passive aggressively dropping stuff from my locker onto her meddling hands. Then I flapped my towel around like I was Big Bird on ice to make sure that she felt as uncomfortable in my personal space as I was with her in it. Skank!
It occurs to me in hindsight that I probably just gave her more of a show for which she was already stoked to be in attendance, but at least I doused her with a grotesque mixture of warm vanilla sugar lotion and filthy gym sock. My revenge may be small, but it is in frequency that I disperse my reign of terror. Mwa ha ha, bitches!
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