Rants, Raves and Psychotic Fucking Hatreds

Well then...
Seems we've been a little remiss in our blog-o-licious duties (I know, I know...I said 'dooty')
What can I say? *sigh* Absolutely nothing, really. I'm at a loss for awesome and envy-inducing excuses, which is a first. I'm usually quite able to conjure up some entertaining anecdote about why I've neglected this or that, but alas, the excuse pot runeth on empty.

I have managed, in the mean time, to liberate myself of the shackles otherwise known as facebook. Whew...that was a tough one. I now understand why there were such groups as "Facebook ruins relationships"... I highly recommend you try it. Deactivating the collection of pseudo-friends, photos and drama is quite cathartic, and I'm hoping it persuades those who actually ARE friends (and not those with whom I haven't spoken in 15 years, adding me simply to populate their already overinflated friends list) to reconnect, instead of relying on the already bullshit-laden thing called the intertubes.


That, and it will give me more time to do other unproductive things, such as spew forth the vitriol bubbling just under the surface the last few months into this blog. Go team.

Anyway, last I recall, I was in the midst of some age-crisis, which has since spawned some sort of existential crisis, which has, in turn, exacerbated some of my more hermit-esque behavior. Yeah....30 sucks. Huge donkey balls. I try not to think about it, else I might start doing the ugly cry. You know...the one where you cry so hard, you think your eyes will pop out, and you have to keep checking for the snot that may or may not be dribbling out of your nose and down your chin. Good times.
This has also spawned my hatred for all things marriage-related. Now being in my 30's, it seems that my own mortality has become a bit of an obsession. Or as asshats would say, my "biological clock is ticking". Having hit cougar-dom, I've finally come to the realization that I'm NOT actually getting any younger. WTF? I mean, I thought I would be able to get away with being an irresponsible tart for at least a little while longer. No such luck, so it seems.

And so, everyone around me being the same age group, the baby-and-marriage race is on, because apparently turning, or inching, toward 30 is synonymous with tying yourself down and trading in your super-awesome life for responsible, married parenthood. (is this the biological clock thing?) I did not get this memo.

Don't get me wrong...getting married and having kids is on my list of things to do...eventually, but when did it become about having to trade in the life you worked so hard to make awesome? THAT is why I'm hating all over marriage. Everyone around me is getting engaged, and inevitably the whole "when are you guys going to get hitched" question comes about...meaning we (my boyfriend and I) have officially been entered into this race. I hate that. I never liked the Jones', and didn't have any intention of trying to keep up with them, but apparently, 30 is default age for race entry, like it or not.

I'm content with where my life is right now, almost responsibility-free. But now, there's this strange anxiety floating in the air: me hating that everyone is getting hitched before me (because to be honest, I think every woman feels a small twinge of jealousy when someone she knows, who's been in a relationship far less time than them, gets engaged), yet a quiet rage at not wanting to join this race, for fear that it looks like we're jumping off the same bridge as everyone else, as well as the super-secret rage that my significant other is apparently not completely sold on the idea of spending our lives together, despite being almost a decade into it, while others have jumped in...nay..belly-flopped into it. My answer is usually just to hate things that cause any sort of emotional discomfort... blinding rage...psychotic fucking hatreds, really.

I hate weddings.

I have, on the brighter side of things, managed to start compiling that infamous list of "TO DO's" in my 30th year of life. These are in no real specific order...especially not of preference.

1) Remember that kickass tattoo? Yeah, well, it's finally in the works. I scored pretty big in the B-Day Gift department, and managed to convince people that I know to give me money to get it done, instead of paying it out of my own, moth-infested pockets. Hehe...aw yeah. (Thanks guys! I now like everyone who contributed that much more than the rest of the people I loosely refer to as friends!) The hunt for the tattoo artist that will defile this temple was short, thankfully. Now, time to pony up. Let's hope the person who will torture me for several hours is at least semi-attractive...I can justify it a little better that way. Compromising photos will most likely ensue.

2) Thought I might do some crazy traveling this year. I'd love to go to Europe, but I'm sure my financial planner might say otherwise. I'm hoping that my financial planner won't scold me too severely for a trip to Boston to the Penny Arcade Expo, or to New York for ComicCon in October. Yeah, yeah, yeah...I can hear the mockery already.

3) I have also decided that, even if it kills me, I'm going to finish the degree that I've been made to resort to taking part-time, within this year. Yes, I'm on the 10 year program at University, apparently. By no doing of my own, I might add. Seriously. I'm not so much of a failure that I would extend my shitty BA because I have no motivation...oh no, this is all on the part of the shitty university I'm getting my shitty BA from. But enough about that...emotional discomfort, remember?

So these are the 3 preliminary items... I've got a few more that are still being spit-balled (wow, that sounds like some sort of porno term), which should be posted as they take shape, especially now that I'm not wasting precious blogging time on Facebork.

Next week, we'll run through my psychotic hatreds that revolve around the Christmas season...let's call it the Holiday Special.

Remember kids, there is a difference between 'juice' and 'drink'.

Time to ride the Fiery Carousel....

So, I just did the math, and I'm not liking these numbers.

No, not these numbers....

THESE numbers: As of tomorrow, I turn 30 in 69 days. What exactly that combination of numbers is supposed to indicate, I'm not quite sure. I have a feeling there will be nudity.
Time to ride the fiery carousel, I suppose. (If you're confused, do a clicky-clicky on the linky-linky)

Needless to say, I'm not exactly enthused about the sun-setting of my 20's. There's no bitter-sweetness about it, there's no "30 is the new 20" mantra going on in my mind. Nothing. Nada.

I loathe the thought of it. I have a feeling it has to do with the strange neurosis my parents have bestowed upon me from birth, wanting me to accomplish EVERYTHING they couldn't by the time I was 25, combined with the more recent, incessant badgering about when I'm getting a real job, getting married and becoming the full-time baby machine that my parents hope to live vicariously through. Needless to say, I'm a bit of a disappointment in their opinion, at least in terms of providing them with babies. Lots and lots of babies. (I'm not quite sure why they want so many babies. I'm beginning to think they are perhaps some sort of strange mutants that get their nutrition from the life source of infants)

Besides my parents' frequent niggling about the fact that "when they were my age, they already bought a house, had 2 kids andthisisthepointwhenItuneout...", I'm just feeling a little personal disappointment, I suppose. I thought I'd be a bit better travelled, perhaps be a little further along in my education that I'm paying far too much money for, and have my personal life in a little bit better state. I know, someone will inevitably say "you still have your 30's to do that, you know? It's not like you're going to die as soon as you turn 30."

And what if I do? Then what, smart ass? Won't you feel stupid then??

But we're not talking about you, we're talking about me having a ...uh...1/3 life crisis? HA! Yeah, there's NO WAY I'm living to 90!! Guh...

What it comes down to, is I guess I'm beginning to feel that strange level of "irrelevance" that seems to be afflicting many people I know in the same age range. No one really cares about 30 year olds...they aren't as "cool" and "youthful" as 20 year-olds (even though they have 2-3 times the disposable income); they aren't as affluent and settled as 40 year-olds, and hey...they ain't fucking seniors or tweens. What are 30 year-olds, then? It's this weird liminal state that seems to describe most people in that age range now, especially if you're a yuppie like me- don't have the house with the white picket fence, the 2.5 kids, the station wagon OR the dog. (I'm aware that the concept of the nuclear family is a pretty dated one at this day in age, but there are quite a few people who still operate under the assumption that it's the right way to be...pretty much, anyone who isn't in their 30's. Or my parents).

Another factor adding to my feeling of impending irrelevance is this sense that I should have done something WAY fucking cooler with my life. Yeah, I packed into dark warehouses with thousands of other kids, hopped up on whatever illicit narcotics were available, and yeah I've got a pretty kickass pad, and a pretty bitchin' car, some sweet tattoos and an amazing boyfriend. (Anyone else think 8 years is too long to wait for some tattooed wedding bands?? ) While all this stuff makes my life great, I'm just left feeling that this geeky little woman should have done something a little more brag-worthy. Being a bedroom DJ just isn't cutting it anymore...I feel like I'm losing my edge.


I came across a blog today, with another woman suffering from the same sense of non-awesomeness at turning 30. She set herself a pretty lofty goal: do 30 amazing things that she's always wanted to do, the year she turns 30. Good concept...poor execution. Kinda lame, really. (See?? You get LAME when you turn 30!!) One of her top 10 was reading the God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. Excellent book...it's on my list of "must reads"...but as a GOAL for giving her new life as a 30 year-old meaning?? *slaps forehead*

I've decided I'm going to assign myself the same task...'cept different. I am determined to be as non-lame as possible! If I'm going to compile a list of tasks that I will endeavor to complete in my 30th year of life, which I believe will make me a better person, my life feel more complete, and dispell the myths of being a total loser, as imposed by marketing giants....they're going to be FUCKING KICKASS!!1!!

First on my list - finish my reverse half-sleeve tattoo. (I know some of you are scratching your heads going "reverse half sleeve?? Is that like, some sort of skateboarding trick?". No, numb nuts ...it's not. Instead of getting a tattoo on the outside of my arm, this bitch is going to run from the inside of my elbow, down to my ribs. So there.

There's #1. I'm going to keep compiling, and keep everyone abreast of the goings-on.
*snicker* I said 'breast'.

I will also welcome suggestions...the awesomer, the better.
Y'Hear?? I said AWESOMERRRR!! If it sucks, I will publicly humiliate you. Word.

aaaannnd....that's why I can't go for that.


Snoochie boochies,
Skippy

AAAHHHWWW GOD WHYYYY! BigBoy on Relationships...

Ever find yourself asking this very question after leaving/running screaming from a relationship that has left you feeling like a giant blood sucking bat just devoured your entire supply, leaving you a dry, shriveled, bitter and much wiser shell of your former self? I have. Quite recently in fact. I would like to stress the "MUCH WISER" part of that sentence, for it has never been more true than it is now. Below I will lay out 3 simple rules that will guarantee you'll never have to ask "AAAHHHHWWW WHHHYYYY!!??!?!?" again.

1) Don't date a drug addict. Some would see this as common sense...I seem to lack that all important sense. I often found myself thinking "holy fucking christ, he does more cocaine than a 1980s wall street executive strapped to the back of a cocaine addicted elephant strapped to the back of Chris Farley! But he has such lovely eyes....".

This is where I should have committed suicide, because the ensuing relationship was quite possibly worse than any death I could have possibly imagined...including being eaten alive by spiders while falling ten thousand feet to a rocky death where sharks and lions will rip the flesh from my body and witches will make flutes from my femers. Paranoid accusations, violated privacy, emotional immaturity, incapability of making sense of their own thoughts...yeah, drug addicts are awesome.

2) Don't date a man with more hair on his body than a musk ox on rogaine. I'm talkin SO hairy, you can't even SEE the skin underneath.

I would wake up on some mornings and find little hairs in my mouth and wonder "how did those get there, I didn't even cuddle him", that's when I realised the gorilla shed like a fucking bearcat (it exists, I swear!). I could have created a new species from the shed hairs found in the sheets...a gorillabearcat. Brute strength of a silverback combined with the winey persistance of a spoiled domestic house cat combined with the awesomeness of bear...truly terrifying.

On the flip-side, don't date a bald/balding man either. You'll never enjoy the missionary position again. Not only do you get a front row view of his balding pattern (I will forever see that optical illusion with the 2 faces/lamp in his male pattern baldness ridden scalp), but any sweat his hair would have caught while furiously (yet unsuccesfully) trying to please you will drip with pinpoint accuracy right into your eyes. Don't try to avoid the drips, you can't. I tried and they ended up in my mouth. Chinese water torture, now with salt!

3) When you start to notice that your man CUMS LIKE A WOMAN, it's time to walk away...or run, run as fast as you can, hop on a motorcycle towards the airport, jump from the motorcycle onto a jet as it's taking off and then swing your way on over onto the nearest passing rocket ship to the moon...if you forget your shoes in the process, leave them behind princess, you can always buy a new pair on the moon. Any man that arches his back, and then spends the next 5 full minutes panting and doing some sort of epileptic dance on your crotch while cumming is making on my short list for "creepiest things a man can do while naked" (coming soon!). Nothing will dry a woman out faster than seeing this scene happen on her, except for maybe having that man give birth to a fetus via his mouth while doing his epileptic crotch dance.

So there ya go folks...3 easy steps to ensuring you'll never regret another relationship. Well, sorta...there's more but I'm lazy and it's Monday.

Thoughts for this miserable day...

I simultaneously love and hate Fridays. I love Friday because Friday has never been bad to me. It's never really disappointed. What I chose to do on said Fridays may have been disappointing, but never the day itself. Wednesdays...those I can do without. Fucking Wednesday. It's like the bastard child of Tuesday and Thursday, without inheriting any of the good qualities either posess(Tuesday is cheap night at the movies, and Thursday always has a certain feeling about it due to its proximity to Friday).

Now, the reason I hate Fridays is because I have a tendency to be completely unmotivated to start something new, and it usually causes me to do a mental inventory, or a week in review type thing in my head. (That requires thinking, and I'd personally prefer to have none of that nonsense on a Friday.)

Today is a perfectly miserable Friday. Disgusting weather outside, and apparently, someone forgot to lock up the asylum last night, because all the fucking retards are out, en masse. I have no desire to start something new at work, thus, I'm left to the mental inventory.

Thoughts today: (I'll plant these little seeds of despair in your mind too, so we can share in the joy of depression due to our waning youth)

Adult responsibility: Buying a house. Now, I understand that buying a home is the fiscally responsible thing to do, but I am still fighting it tooth and nail. Why do I want to commit myself to years of misery? (Misery because I hate the city I live in, and it's quite honestly the last place on earth I want to buy a home - refer to earlier comment about escaped retards). I understand people's desire to own something, and to be proud of it, but c'mon...buy a friggin piece of art or something. I refer to my favourite voice of reason, George Carlin.


Fucking douchebags: Who fucking told these idiots they look good?! Like seriously?? That, and what calibre of woman not only DATES these monkeys, but SLEEPS with them??? (I know BigBoy wouldn't even stoop that low).
For more comedy gold, and a self-esteem boost, check out more monkeys on parade. (And since when was orange a natural glow??)


This also brings me to another point: http://textsfromlastnight.com/
I'm guilty of a little schedenfreude, as I thoroughly enjoy having a good laugh at the expense of others, but some of these are just unreal. I mean, I'm no angel...actually, I can be quite the intoxicated tramp, but STILL! Even I have standards. Where are these people, and how have they managed to maintain vital signs this long?? Like, OMFGBBQSAWSW!!1*one!

And finally, because it's Friday, thought I'd share some choons (yes, I said choons...sound it out, kids. If it helps, sound it out with a posh English accent, à la Jimmy Carr)


Buh-bye T-Pain is all I have to say. (where's your boat now, MoFo?? :P)
Jay-Z Death of Autotune


And because I love it, and it makes me feel gushy inside, like when I see a new penis.
Phoenix - 1901

(not the actual video, but I've yet to find that on the intertubes)



Have a weekend.

Good or bad? Well kiddies... that is not my concern.

Love and Sloppy Kisses,
Skippy

Of all the ridiculous things to say....

I'm the one who's mentally challenged?? Really? I mean, I would have at least gone for Vertically Challenged ie. tart, slut, trollop, or some such thing. Hm. So much for starting with a bang.

Speaking of bang, which is Big Boy's favourite pass-time, thought I'd provide a little intelligent humour for those who aren't satisfied by the ramblings of a half-wit. It's a little thing I like to call "You've Been Learned". (This one's a little old, but thought I'd dust it off, just for you.)

This one came to mind whilst sitting at my desk, listening to some choons, and I figured it would be best to write it down before forgetting...I'm amazed that I even came up with this, considering I haven't slept in 2 days...It's a 2-parter

1- CSS (Cansei de ser Sexy) ...awesome band. I'll let you get familiarized if you aren't yet. info





Now, the point to ponder: the song "Let's make love, listen to Death from Above".

Now, are they referring to the DFA record label, run by by my significant other's fave person James Murphy (of LCD Soundsystem ), which would be awesome because there are plenty of amazing artists on there that release music that I personally would be inclined to have as lovemaking background music...or are they making a reference to DFA1979 , that wonderful Canadian band from TO, (which had to change their name from DFA to DFA1979 because of legal issues with DFA Records ) which has since broken up and resulted in MSTRKRFT? (I believe option 2 would probably result in more of the angry fucking and less of the love-making)

2- Does listening to CSS talking about listening to DFA cancel out having to listen to DFA? Or does listening to DFA make CSS redundant?



Sloppy Love kisses,
Skippy

2 girls 1 blog - THE MOST SHIT EVER!

Perhaps we should start off with some introductions. I am Big Boy, your menacing neighbour who steals your potted plants and pees in your bushes when I think you're not looking (and sometimes when I know you are). Skippy is my mentally challenged side-kick.

I'm not really sure what you expect to get out of this blog, but I'm pretty sure it'll entail stories of my drunken escapades through the streets of Ottawa, Toronto, Montreal and beyond. If you do not have a sense of humor, or you respect people, then this is not a place for you, you fucking pussy-ass twat sniffer. GET OUTTA HERE!

Now, I would like to warn you that although I am most definitely not a racist, I have a very twisted and offensive sense of humor, some people love it, others want to stab me in the face with their home-made hobo forks. Ya can't please everyone.

The reason why my girlfriend and I decided to start a blog was because we basically spend all our time online during work, chatting with one another, make eachother laugh, cry tears of confusion, and cry normal every-day tears not of confusion and we thought it would be interesting to see how many millions of dollars we could make by sharing our disturbing thoughts with you.

Please note that we will not be gossiping about celebrities, tv shows, the latest fashions, or the color mauve. We will be talking about the things that piss us off, like little people and hobos; the things we're afraid of, like the mentally challenged; and things that make us laugh, like the misfortunes of others. Intrigued yet? I am! Oh boy!