Everyone looks forward to the weekend after a long, grueling week of schmoozing with a bunch of coworkers at the workhouse (usually against one’s own personal will) for five days, forty hours and two and a half hours worth of fifteen minute breaks. But no matter how much everyone psyches themselves up for an abbreviated two-day weekend, the weekend is almost always two days minus thirty hours. Most working class citizens spend more time in a company staff meeting.
Never the less, even though the weekend is over by the time we complete a single blink of an eye, there’s no denying that the time away from the office is dedicated to excessive drinking, inhuman amounts of grease and sugar consumption, and unforgettable sex with strangers that are picked up behind an oversized trash dumpster of any Pizza Hut restaurant chain.
Oh, wait. Is that what weekends are for or any day that ends in the letter “Y”? Same thing.
If a long term relationship is what you seek, start investing now in shares of Grey Goose because the idiot that agrees to date you is sure to drive you to drink.
Get your fill of food by eating all the free samples at the local Sam’s, Costco or BJ’s. In other words, this week don’t change your already greedy and cheap ways.
Ancient Scandinavians believed the Holiest Cow “Auðumbla” was the one that suckled the Gods. You may not know what that means but it’ll sound good in your head for the rest of the day.
Someone is itching to punch you in the throat for your overly eternal optimism, incessant cheerfulness and sunny disposition. And by “someone” I mean the homeless guy standing behind you.
If a charlatan shows a brief bit of interest in you, it’s probably because you are stranger than they are. Go for it. You may not get this chance again for many moons.
If you were to ask almost anyone if a bird pooping on your head was considered good luck, they’d probably tell you “yes.” Most likely because of some myth or superstition they heard while growing up or while chug-a-lugging at a beer keg party in college or some after-hours church function. But you didn’t ask just anyone; you asked me. …well you didn’t ask, I volunteered – same thing in my book. Anyway my answer would be “no!”
If I were to swing from a vine with my pants down to my ankles and shitted on your head, would you consider that to be good luck? I don’t think so. The luck you would incur from me actually pooping on your head is if you were to catch me and beat the crap (some pun intended) out of me. With this example in mind, if a bird does decide to do his business on your head, your luck will only change for the better if you’re lucky enough not to get crapped on again.
Think about it. If you have droppings of any kind to fall on your head you’d most likely have stinky hair, and no matter how much you wash your hair, you’ll forever be dubbed with the nickname “Shithead.”
If it’ll make you feel any better, birds don’t just fly through the air searching to find a culprit to drop a load on. Well not all birds. I’m sure there’s a renegade or two up there. But since most birds (most of us are used to ghetto pigeons) are scavengers, they are full of shit from the garbage they eat. And while they must carry their own weight, logically it must be difficult to sail through the hair with a heavy load of excrement in their tummy, so they blow it out in order to travel light. When you look at it that way, it’s clear that they aren’t pooping on you purposely. It’s not you. It’s the shit they eat.
Still you can’t beat inevitability. It’s a proven fact that shit happens.
The month is May; the year 2013. Let’s see what kind of luck is seen and unseen. Hold on to your shorts because this will be a ride as good luck and bad luck unluckily collides.
Below are Hottywood’s cookie fortunes as revealed by the moon and the sun, and the itch on the bottom of his foot.
I have absolutely no energy today. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything all weekend. Now in addition to me having no energy, enthusiasm or motivation, I have the Monday blues. I’m grouchy and I don’t want anyone to talk to me even less than I want to speak to anyone else. Do you have any suggestions for a pick-me-up?
Slave to the Weekend,
Dear Slave to the Weekend,
Considering you just told me that you sat on your ass all weekend, telling you to slow down from a busy lifestyle to get a proper amount of rest is out the window. Besides eating properly (inhaling fewer double bacon cheeseburgers), hydrating (excluding root beer floats and malt liquor beers) and exercising (jack rabbit sex does not fall into this category…this time), sleeping should do the trick to boost your energy.
But if the rest you’ve gotten from doing nothing all weekend hasn’t motivated you to be an active member of society; if you’ve eaten only half of a cheeseburger, a quarter less of a root beer float and had sex with yourself by yourself, and you’re still tired, chances are your lack of energy comes from you being lazy. And if that’s the case, increasing your energy levels must begin with you wanting to do something more than wasting space.
Here are a few practical suggestions for you:
Do interesting things.
Find something interesting to do with your time like making fun of people whose socks don’t match the rest of their outfit. You’ll find that laughter is a natural recharge for most Earthlings.
Music is always a good way to re-energize yourself provided you aren’t deaf. If you’re deaf, you obviously can’t hear any music and therefore this suggestion is of no use to you.
Read more HottywoodHelps.com (shameless plug).
Reduce Stress.
You’d be surprised how much cleaning up your clutter (especially your house/bedroom and negative, pointless and/or stupid people in your life) will zap your psyche and pull you to your feet.
Spend less time pretending to care about things you don’t care about like listening to someone actually answer your question when you robotically ask, “How are you doing today?”
Take frequent bubble baths and showers (or bird baths in public restrooms – however you keep your ass clean) in order to keep your body from carrying heavy amounts of filth build-up. Being dirty is hard work and hard work is a proven fact of making anyone tired [or lazy].
Exercise.
Have a lot of sex with a lot of people; preferably random people that you don’t know. Not only will it boost your energy; it will boost your ego. It’ll also boost your chances of contracting an STD, but hey – you can’t win ‘em all.
Tell the Chinese carryout cooks to increase the number of shrimp they put in your egg rolls. If your egg rolls are heavier, you’ll have a stronger chance of increasing your muscle mass, particularly your six pack one pack stomach muscle.
If none of these suggestions help your case then you are a lost cause and there’s nothing I, nor anyone else, can do for you.
My pal calls or texts me nearly a hundred times a day with some cockamamie story about him being victimized in some way. The bottom line is he is a chronic complainer. What can I do to make him stop?
Sign,
Hear No Evil See No Evil
Dear Hear No Evil See No Evil,
Unfortunately the only way to get him to chill with the complaints is to sew his lips shut with barbed wire – although that might run the risk of you sitting the rest of your life out in an electric chair, which coincidentally is your next option.
Sadly, most chronic complainers don’t view themselves as complainers at all. They believe what they are doing is sharing entertaining stories with you. And since you listen, they find no reason to stop. You’re going to have to be truthful with him and kick him in the throat;tell him he’s depressing the shit out of you;tell him he’s sucking the air out of his own existence and yours, too; tell him he needs to learn how to appreciate the happier things in life. You should be warned though that anything you do or say will cause him to think you don’t want to hear about his gripes. And even though you don’t, he’ll take it much more harshly than the pain of being kicked in the throat.
Being truthful by telling him that he’s not exactly a ray of sunshine will be nothing more than a waste of your time and the pin that pops the balloon of your friendship. You can top his victimizing stories with your own, but that takes more effort than what’s it worth. You can saw your ears off with a fingernail file, but ears make a person so much more appealing. You can drown yourself in a pitcher of water, but that’s not as easy as it sounds. Believe me. I’ve tried.
I’ll tell you what you should do. Build a carbon copy of yourself out of Popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue. He’ll be so consumed in himself that he won’t realize that you’re more bored stiff than usual. He’ll keep going on and on and on and the reaction that he doesn’t get out of you will easily be mistaken for your overwhelming interest in his less than interesting story. Problem solved!
No need to thank me. Hottywood Helps! It’s what I do.
A friend of mine (well, she’s not a friend actually; she’s someone I’m forced to work with for eight hours a day, seven days a week. We don’t talk much unless we’re locked in a staff meeting together for almost two hours and are required to give a shit about what the other thinks) hails from Cuba and often asks me (when there’s no one else or better to talk to) the meaning of some American figures of speech. Usually I’m able to muster up some generic response or something clever enough to keep her quiet until the next time she has nothing better to do but converse with me, but today her question had me stumped. She asked: “Why do you guys say, ‘Not my cup of tea?’ I know what the saying means, but where did it come from?’”
My first inclination was to reply with an ever-clever, “How the hell should I know?” However it can not go unsaid that her question, as random as it was, was profound enough to leave me speechless, not merely because of my surprise that she broke her routine pattern of only talking to me when her own shadow faded, but because I thought it was a damn good question. Why not “Not my cup of kool-aid,” or “Not my cup of Tang”?
So I did some digging. My discoveries answered my question of why kool-aid and tang were not the words chosen to center the figure of speech. How so? I’m glad you asked. The answer is simple – because the expression “not my cup of tea” is British-born and not birthed in the District of Columbia’s Barry Farms Projects.
‘Not my cup of tea’ derived from some old ass Englishman who loved tea as much as armadillos love ants. Only in its original use the phrase was “…cup of tea” (sans the word not) which was synonymous for acceptability or a metaphorical and descriptive of ‘nice’, ‘good’ or ‘invigorating,’ obviously because in Britain, tea is to them what pot is to those District of Columbia Barry Farms Projects residents I mentioned earlier…but you didn’t hear that from me.
It wasn’t until WWII that some US shell-shocked soldier stole the expression from the Brits and put his own negative spin on it (big surprise), transforming “…cup of tea” into the negative “not my cup of tea”, which today means “Nah bitch, I don’t like that.”
Take a long look at yourself in the mirror. If you see nothing, you may very well be a vampire. Avoid pointy tree branches, garlic powder and alcoholics with open wounds.
Am I the only one that wants to explode from the inside when listening to or watching someone show me their skill of speaking and chewing at the same time? I can’t be. This has to bother someone – and by someone I mean everyone – as much as it bothers me.
The last time I checked, speaking with a mouth full of food doesn’t win you any dates behind door number three. It isn’t worthy of recording this skill on a resume. It isn’t impressive at parties.
What it IS is rude and borderline nasty. It’s probably more rude than nasty, unless of course crumbs are spewing from the human cow’s mouth as they moo speak to you.
The problem with speaking and chewing simultaneously is that it’s slightly more annoying than listening to a lush slur his words; it’s a hare more frustrating than communicating with a bill collector who is stationed in a third world country; and in my personal opinion, it’s just about as suicidal as listening to an Aaron Neville Christmas album.
First there were flip-flops, then skinny jeans, then baggy jeans, then overly dramatic faux eyelashes, and now this.
Quote of the Week: “A foolish man tells a woman to stop talking, but a wise man tells her that her mouth is extremely beautiful when her lips are closed.”