Open Letter to the baby powder lady.

This is the second time you've had a baby powder explosion in the bathroom. The location of the baby powder bomb (directly in front of the toilet) leads me (and the others who've seen it) to believe you put this on your lady parts. I have a couple of questions for you...
1. Why?
2. Why don't you FUCKING clean it up.

We know who you are, because the first time it happened, we did some covert ops in the office and examined EVERY woman we saw who works here.. and guess what… you had it all over your skirt.

It's got to be your kitty. Does it stink? Are you chaffing? Is it not something you could do AT HOME? Quite frankly, it grosses me out that the residue that's left on the floor came floating down from your cooter. What else is laying in that dust, pubes? God knows what else if you're putting baby powder on it.
I don't want to step in that shit. Do you do it while you're sitting down? I mean, it's kind of a weird angle to do if you're standing up, I guess, you'd kind of have to throw it on there, but that's producing a really unpleasant (and at the same time, hilarious) mental picture. I even tried to do it.
I mean, I was sitting, hovering over the toilet and throwing imaginary powder at my va-jeen. And does it not creep out of your panties? Do crackheads follow you around thinking they've hit the goldmine? Do you sprinkle that fucking fairy dust everywhere? So many unanswered questions, and I can't ask to your face. That's a bit intrusive, "Hey, why do you throw baby powder on your nu-nu?
Anyway. Just stop doing it in the bathroom. And, really... I hope your puss is okay.

Fupas-A Growing (literally) phenomenon

FUPA: (lifted from Urbandictionary.com)
Acronym for "Fat Upper Pubic Area"; common misinterpretations include "Fat Upper Pussy Area," "Fat Upper Penile Area" ..gut roll on a woman, aka the double bubble, mini ass in front...a FUPA is characterized as fatness stored in the area between the genetalia and the belly button. Also characterized by incessant sweat marks left on clothing and the dank smell that only a true FUPA can have.

I have also heard it called "booty do" meaning.. "the front sticks out farther than the booty do." Or, a "gunt".. a mixture of the gut and the cu.. well.. you know.

Anyway.What inspired me to write this blog is that it seemed today at the Riverchase Galleria in Birmingham, Alabama, that Fupa Festival 2009 was going on. Everywhere I turn, fupa. I'm sorry if you have one, or know and maybe love someone who has one. I'm sorry. I think it's disgusting and if I offend you, you don't have to read my blog. But man, WHAT THE HELL IS EVEN inside a fupa?

It could store some serious product. You could smuggle drugs across the border. They don't do fupa checks.

Another thing i've noticed is that people who have fupas choose to wear clothes that accentuate the fupa. IE, sweatpants, mom jeans... I even saw a fupa today that went above and beyond any i'd ever seen. It hung down, completely covering this woman's pubic area, down to about 5 inches above the knee. I know at my highschool, that was the legal length for a skirt. She could have come to school naked, lets put it that way. Her fupa covered all things woman. It led me to coin a new term. "Hopa." Hangs over the Pubic Area.

I mean, I can't even imagiane the hygiene that goes along with maintaining a healthy fupa, or hopa for that matter. If you were a man and wanted to make love to this woman, you would have to literally LIFT it up. Anyway. I just wanted to put out a little fupa awareness. We all know they are there. They really shouldn't be tolerated, but hey, what can you do?

Dear Miss Lady

Dear Miss Lady at the Gas Station:

Is there some occupational prerequisite that says you have to be a miserable bitch in order to work there? It's not my fault you're a morbidly obese retard with no fashion sense, so please don't take it out on me. Yeah, my id is expired. In order to get a new id, I would have to go stand in line at the DMV for 3 hours. I don't have time this week, didn't have time last week, and won't have time next week. However, that's none of your business and, if you want to make a big deal out of it, you should apply for a job at the fucking DMV. that way you can sit on your enormous ass all day long and stuff your face with whatever it is you stuff your face with (i'm guessing bologna and mayonaise by the way you smell). if you ever want to get laid by someone other than a sweaty budweiser soaked redneck, i would suggest you starve yourself for at LEAST two weeks and do something with your hair that doesn't scream " i went to see White Snake on my sweet 16." seriously, that cut never looked good, not in 1987 and certainly not now. i understand that approaching forty with all of your hopes and dreams in the toilet must be embittering. waking up in the morning only to see your idiot husband and a sagging, blotchy manatee in the mirror would do that to almost anyone.i'll take this last moment to thank you for supporting nascar and the KFC all these years, and for exerting all the authority and control your position grants you. stop eating and start drinking heavily because you really deserve it.
love-
the girl you wouldn't sell a pack of camels to.

Let's call it an experiment.

My friend and I are about to engage in a groundbreaking experiment..

Operation: Just Say Yes

The concept is simple. We're going to say yes to every date we're asked on. Now, in an ideal world, there would be an abundance of "real-life" guys askng me out. Not the case. I probably get asked out a few times a month, and if you've read the Tiger Shirt blog, you know how that turns out. Fortunately, those are the results we want. If a date is going to bad (chances are, it will be!) then why can't it be entertaining!

So, as I was saying, in an ideal world i'd have dates lined up like it was my job. But we don't live in an ideal world and we joined a dating site.
Minutes after joining, my inbox is full of grade A meat.
If I were joining this website with the intent of ACTUALLY finding love, i'd have some ground rules. Such as:

1. Grammar/spelling mistakes automatically disqualify you.

2. Owning a cat: Disqualified. *I would make exceptions only if you were incredibly, supernaturally good-looking, and, even then.. it would be iffy.

3. No picture (you're out, buddy.)

Those are the three major ones, but in this case, those rules obviously go out the window. If anything, the lack of rules in this situation makes the experiment more interesting.

I posted a pretty basic profile, with pictures, likes, dislikes, etc. Stay tuned.

TIger Shirt Mcgee

Ah. My date last night. It was horrible enough to warrant a blog.

Yes, it was one of those.
I met this guy a couple of weeks ago at a bar you might know as Marty's. He seemed cool enough. Dressed normally. Jeans, t-shirt, flops. Nothing screamed "CRAZY" at me... so.. he got my number, called me after the standard three day waiting period, and we began a pretty regular talking/texting relationship.

Our first date was last night.
We went for sushi. As soon as he walks up, I'm NOT feeling it. Let me paint you a picture. Button down shirt.. with a graphic of a tiger on the back. And the tiger was lounging on some kind of rock.

He also had on those croc shoes which, i'm sorry, are only okay for little kids.

Believe it or not, i'm a polite person and couldn't just say, alright, i'm bailing.. besides, he's actually good looking.. I decided to give it a go. I tried to order as many glasses of wine as I could. Some things said/done over dinner include, but are not limited to as my brain is still a little hazy from the alkeehol:
him:*I have a suspended sentence now, because my ex girlfriend has a restraining order out on me. I was trying to call her and apologize, but shes just a dumb-bitch. Can't wait til that thing expires. (note to the girlfriend, RE UP THAT R.O, stat!)
Him:*No, i'm not drinking tonight. Wanna be sober when we bone. Well, that and my medication. It makes me black out and do (He pauses for at least 6 seconds, then maniacally giggles) horrible things.

I have had about 5 glasses of wine at this point and am significantly buzzed. Buzzed enough to think, at least we are going to hear a good show after this. Show-uneventful. He suggests some pool. I agree, only because the beer is flowing like honey through the promised land.
me: Racking pool balls.
him: Nice rack!

I let that one slide. Somehow we get on the subject of body hair. I tell him i'm opposed to completely shaved men, that I actually LIKE hair on a man. He tells me that he's covered there because he's hairier than carrot top (I SHIT YOU NOT) down there.The guys behind us are making fun of his shirt. I'm so buzzed that I start laughing, too. I mean, it's never gotten so bad that I'm actually making fun of my date, ON the date!

After pool, we sit at a table to finish our beers. We have a semi-normal/decent conversation about David Gilmour. I feel like I can close this parade down without causing a scene. Heres how that went.
Me: I probably need for you to take me back to my car.
Him: You know, a lot of people call me the human valium (winks)
Me: (blank stare, as I am processing this for a while) Yeah i'm still probably going to need you to go ahead and take me back to my car.
Him: My nipples are pierced.
Me: I hope you're not trying to entice me.
Him: We can go back to my place and watch PF Pulse. Lets do that.
Me: Yeah, I can't. Just if you could just take me back to my car now that would be so awesome.
Him: Hard to get! I like it.
Me: So, about that car ride...
Him: You are kind of making me angry. I dont think you would like me if i'm angry.
Me: (laughs this off, but is very scared and has that scared nervous smile plastered on face)

He does take me to my car.
So we're now doing the awkward sitting in the car in front of my car thing. If the date goes good or bad, this is where I always kill it saying awkward phrases, really, they just spew out of me. I have put them in bold, just for you. Fortunately I did not care what this guy thought at this point because I just wanted to get.in.my.fucking.car.
Him: This has been a great date.
me: One for the history books!
him: Can I tell you something that might freak you out?
me: (oh jesus) Keep on truckin!
him: I'm already thinking about how to make you my girlfriend.
me: It's raining cats and dogs!
him: Turns my face (YES HE TOUCHED ME) TURNS MY FACE toward his)
Me: (high pitched voice) Hoooo! I'm not kissing you. Sorry.
him: I should kill you! Haha just kidding!
Me: Right. Well, zip it up and zip it out! (dave chappelle for those of you who dont know)

I exit the car. Get in mine.
He calls me on the way home.
I do not return the call.the end

Pit Stains McGee

scene: 3 girls sitting at a table at a place which shall remain nameless. Well, we'll call it smuffalo smild wings. karaoke is about to start. We know its going to be good because the guy that is going to sing first is singing a Metallica song and hes already started headbanging his long, disgusting hair. So, we're feelin' it. We're READY. We've got some making-fun of material, we are pumped.. Let's do this thing.

We are already about 5 pitchers in.
2 guys come over to our table. One kind of resembles Matt Dillon from Wild Things, my friend is into him. His friend was fun.. we are conversating.. I could see every muscle underneath his size schmedium shirt. It was not at all unpleasant. *side note: the third friend had at this point began talking to strangers at other tables.

I'm wearing a pink cardigan. Not thick like a sweater, thin, very thin. This doesn't sound relevant, but trust me.. It is. Said guy is making all kinds of intelligent conversation with me.

Him: I'm from Miami, but I live in Calera.
me: Why the hell did you leave there to come here.
Him: Why is the sky blue?
me: *confused, but goes for it anyway.* uhhh, Does a bear shit in the woods?

(I never found out why he moved because our conversation went in the aforementioned direction for a WHILE)*

anytime a really ugly guy walked by he would say, "hey you're boyfriend is here." which was funny.. What was even funnier is that he would point at them and he was talking VERY loudly. The person would hear him. Haha.

Him: (looks deep into my eyes) If you were a booger, i'd pick you first!
me: huge, shit eating grin. (Why, you ask? Because here is what I heard when he said that: "You are stunning, darling. You are intelligent, beautiful, witty and I we should date." *warning: alcohol makes you hallucinate)

At one point I tell him that I think his boobs are bigger than mine. I have a vague memory of some jaeger shots. I start squeezing publicly fondling his muscly man boobs. Haha. I tell him I think he should do a song, topless.

Him: Dare me.
me: Okay, I dare you.
him: I'm going to wear your cardigan, with nothing underneath.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is where I reach what I like to call a FUCKING DILEMMA. I've been sweating this guy. And when I say sweating, I mean literally, I have pit stains. They werent stinky, but wooo boy were they wet. He's trying to convince me out of my shirt. Not the way I wanted this to happen, but man, I want to see him with his shirt off. I was at the threshold! Fuck it, I think. (actually, I think the beer was pretty much doing my thinking at this point) I take off the cardigan.. he goes to the bathroom with it.

me: (to my friends) That guy is about to experience my pit stain wrath.
friends: maniacal laughter... Maybe... laughter.. maybe... maybe he won't... laughter... notice!me: It's not funny! I'm so embarrassed! Listen, the pit stains are.. pretty substantial guys. He's going to notice. Dear God, hes going to NOTICE.

Well, at this point we are all sitting back, waiting for the show. Said friends are laughing, still. I have my head in the pitcher at this point. He's been in there for a long time. One could only deduce it was because he was just, really, in awe of what my pits had produced. When they are they bad theres no way you cant just, respect them.

after an eternity, He comes out of the bathroom in my way-to-small-for him cardigan. Buttoned up. FLEXING HIS ARMS, SHOWING MY PIT STAINS TO THE WHOLE BAR, who, at this point, ARE ALL STANDING UP AND CLAPPING FOR HIM. I hear people asking whos cardigan it is. YEAH. People are noticing the wet spots. He gets up to sing. He's still flexing and doing schwartzneger (sp) poses.

Operation: Take shots and forget about this commences.

The pictures are for your enjoyment and to help illustrate my pain...I hope that my mild humiliation has bettered your day, in some shape, form or fashion. Until next time.