Springtime Blues: The Same Lame Game as Last Year

Guys and gals, welcome to Spring; a change of season and a transition of a host of things that transcend from bad to worse.  Don’t get me wrong, we say goodbye to a lot of things we can do without however not without sacrifices.  After all, life is about sacrifices, right?

Strap your seat belts tight, kids ’cause this bound to be a bumpy ride.

It’s so amazing how a simple thing like warm weather can inspire foot trends. Not too long ago boots were the only thing that kept us grounded when skating on thin ice.  They were the must-have of the time!  In fact, if you weren’t wearing boots then your feet deserved to freeze.

Boots were necessary, safe and warm.  And since it looked like the snow wasn’t going to melt overnight, people were forced to adapt their own personal style to the trend and the weather.

The snow brought on, I must admit, quite a few interesting choices of onion peels for foot hidery (yeah, I made up a word).  But as chemistry, biology, or one of those “ologies” proves, fire always melts ice which all boils down to this one thing…Spring; the middle ground of fashion, where everyone is too damned confused to know what the hell to wear on their feet.  And just like that we’re stuck with socks & sandals, stupid gladiator boots and poorly maintained pedicures.

Regretfully, the buck doesn’t stop there.

If you think you were befuddled by people who put their underwear on public display now… Good gawd a’reckon!  To put it as professionally as I possibly can: “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Jeans, sweatpants, booty shorts, mini skirts…I don’t care how the package is wrapped, everyone is guaranteed to see the goods.  Now I won’t go into all the specifics of the number of sanitation issues, privacy act violations, suggestive and just plain ol’ T.M.I. stuff this raises.

Whatever the case, political or not, when you’re talking about people’s underwear, it’s always a big fat case of, “Oh Crap!”

…No pun intended.

What would Spring be without the hippest trend of the season, motorcycles?  It’s true you can’t wear a motorcycle, but these days it seems everyone and their grandmother has one of those artistically designed, loud and obnoxious accessories that anyone without envies. 

Let’s face it; bikes are going to be everywhere.  For guys, they are babe magnets.  And most ordinary dudes usually can’t resist a hot biker chick.  Something about her straddling the back of the bike with her arms wrapped tightly around the driver’s waist, only a slight notch away from a pornographic scene seems to get everyone all riled up.

Beware though.  Where there are bikes, bikers, and biker babes, there’s always an accident or two just waiting for its spot of 15 minutes of fame to be aired on the local news at 11 channel.

If the bike accident isn’t enough for you, if you see one too many ass cracks parlaying in the wind, you’d just might want to gouge your eyeballs out.  Either accident can be considered terrifyingly amusing to watch, not to mention news worthy.

Love it or leave…that’s just the way the cookie crumbles.

I heard someone say once, “…if you fall off a horse, you have to get back on it.” 

I wonder if the same rule applies if one survives a bike crash?

We could probably go on about the lameness of Spring that would include April showers, allergies, flip flops, shorts & jackets, skull caps & tank tops and booty shorts with stockings.  But if we keep going now, we’ll spoil all the surprises Summer has in store for us.   And if there’s one thing I hate to do, it’s a spoil a surprise.

So as I pack my bags and prepare to bid you a fond farewell until the next time we meet, I’d like to leave you with this thought:  Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every few months.   

Lucky for us all 90% of any effort is getting started.   

At least we know there’s one thing that’s guaranteed not to be any different from the Spring prior to this, and that’s the same lame game as last year. 


Quote of the Week:  “Fashion is something that goes in one year and out the other.”


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Permission to Replace Office Swivel Chair with Air Mattress

MEMO

TO:  Superior Managers of If I Told You I’d Have To Kill You (IITYIHTKY) Enterprises

FROM:  HNIC, No One Matters But Me Department

SUBJECT:  Permission to Replace Office Swivel Chair with Air Mattress

DATE:  Half Pass Right Now, 2016


This notice of memorandum serves as an official request for permission to replace [suite #211] swivel chair with a home-supplied air mattress.

Attached you will find a signed medical notice from Dr. Boo Boo McLeod, MD of the Unsanctified Round-a-Way Medical Center, requesting that human resource officials and all other appropriate personnel of IITYIHTKY Enterprises acknowledge and honor doctor’s recommendation for Hottywood Helps to permissibly replace is raggedy office swivel chair with a tricked out air mattress, in an effort to avoid any further compulsory medical treatment administered due to a rare case of coworkersannoystheshitoutofmeoxia, from which Mr. Helps suffers.

This condition causes Mr. Helps to lash out at fellow No One Matters But Me Department staff and risks interruption of interoffice departmental work progress, therefore he should be granted immediate approval to replace said furniture with a more comfortable sleep-encouraging apparatus.

Upon recent telephone conversations with Mr. Helps’ physician, Dr. Boo Boo McLeod, and in addition to research gathered from the world wide web, an air mattress would ensure Mr. Helps’ speedy recovery from coworkersannoystheshitoutofmeoxia.  Should the mattress coerce Mr. Helps into a temporary midday coma, the respite would ignite unused cells in his brain ultimately improving his work performance and allowing him to overcome the late day grogginess that so many IITYIHTKY Enterprises employees experience on a day-to-day basis (water cooler rumors have it).

I am in favor of supporting the healthiness of my entire staff and request that all official authorized superior managers do the same as long as proper documentation is supplied, not to include death threat notices.

In the event that further references are needed and/or necessary (in addition to Dr. McLeod’s recommendation), the telephone numbers of the below listed names may be provided upon request:

Please note that all below listed persons are dead so it may take a while to gather the information you seek [if applicable]. 

  • Winston Churchill
  • Napoleon Bonaparte
  • Albert Einstein
  • Leonardo Da Vinci
  • John F. Kennedy

Quote of the Week:   “A day without a nap is like a cupcake without frosting.”

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A Historic Leap Year Bedtime Story: You’ve Got to Pay to Play

Fellas, today is the one day that you really don’t want to wear deodorant – especially if you’re single or once hooked up with a woman who saw hearts on your nipples instead of androgenic hair.

History deems February 29th as the day when any three-eyed bearded woman, whose weight happens to be more than a double-trunked compact automobile, is allowed to pursue any man of her desire relentlessly for 24 hours and beat the hell out of him until he agrees to marry her.  Refusal of the proposed nuptuals would come at a price.

The tale began some time in 5th century Ireland, when a desperate wench in the heat of unbridled passion finally asked the question to her then inamorato, “What’s love got to do with it?”, which [arguably] later inspired Tina Turner’s 1984 hit single “What’s Love Got To Do With It?”  

The wench, very generous with her “jewelry box,” was pretty pissed off at her gentlemen caller for hooking up with her for her booty without taking up interest in asking for her hand in marriage.  Tired of being labeled a harlot, one night while wrapped in the arms of her philanderer, she finally complained of the sexual unfairness.  Much like today, the man friend spoke from his head in the southern region rather than the northern, and finally relented to set aside February 29th as the day the harlot would be allowed the right to ask for his hand in marriage.  As years passed and their relationship dissipated, four years succeeding their emotionless relations the moll took the sir up on his offer, not discerning the family he had since started with another woman of whom he’d developed genuine feelings for.

The harlot, who had not heard from her ex mister in a few turns of a set of 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes and 46 seconds, tracked down her old beau to insist that he honor the promise he made to her in the bed where they lay one February night four calendars passed.  She had ridden a mule to the gentleman’s manor and hid behind a tall horse in a backyard stable with unsubtle patience, awaiting his bride to leave the grounds with their young.  Once the beau was left alone in the abode, she entered the estate, stripped him of his clothes as any honorable 5th century hooker would, and screwed him silly.  With each pelvic thrust upon his, she reminded him of the promise he made to her four years preceding that moment of conscripted fornication.  Now, being a faithful gentleman betrothed to the woman who bore his namesake, the former gigolo refused the harlot’s proposal.  Luckily for him, this woman was scorned in the 5th century and not in present day time.  Although the history of this tale is not completely substantiated, it is rumored that once the proposal was rejected, the harlot forced a razor to the gentleman’s neck and demanded that he repay her heartbreak with a final [tongue] kiss, a silk dress or a pair of gloves.

…talk about a cheap date.

Since then, February 29th has been associated with the day where a woman can be a butch for 24 hours and ask for a man’s hand in marriage or make him pay a penalty for [the proposal] rejection, which if you ask me is a win-win for the woman.  Who’s being unfair now?


Quote of the Week:  “Love is not having to say you’re sorry, unless of course your private parts stink when you’re getting special kisses.”

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‘Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving

‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving and everything on the stove

Was boiling over in a mess when Mama had dozed.

The chitterlings were stinking. I think they were scorched.

My nose started bleeding so I threw them on the porch.

Mama was all comfortable, drooling on the couch

While my fast ass sister was getting dressed to sneak out.

And I in my jammies and ghetto stocking cap

Was pissed to finish cooking because mama took a nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a noise

That scared my dog and the neighborhood boys.

Away to the window I flew like a flash

Ducking for cover from bullets through glass.

A drunk driver had crashed into the stop sign outside.

Grabbing my heart I exclaimed, “Oh my!”

On Thanksgiving Day who’d want to be

Holed up in a hospital with a bed pan to pee?

The little old driver who was tanked and high

Celebrated too soon before going out to drive.

More rapid than eagles his ass flew

As our street filled with men in blue.

I felt kind of bad as he stumbled away

But at least unshackled he’d spend Thanksgiving Day.

Unlike myself, a slave to the stench

To the burning food in the kitchen ‘cause mama dozed. The wench!

The fried chicken was crispy, black on the skin.

The yams from the can had to be baked again.

Out of my mouth curse words flew,

“Shit,” “Damn,” even a “Fuck you!”

Dad was no help outside or in here.

He was down in the basement sneaking a beer.

Had mama known she would have started bitching.

Anything to keep her out of the kitchen.

I wouldn’t have complained because she can’t cook

Not even a simple recipe out of a book.

I should be glad she slept as the crumbs I scraped

Stuck to the bottom of the baking plate.

Next year I vowed I would not be

Cooking a dinner for lazy people times three.

Cleaning up a mess that I didn’t start

Watching Thanksgiving go up in a fart.

Where is the man that crashed outside

To give me a bag of whatever got him high?

Where is my dad with the six pack

That gets him all bloated and loaded and fat?

Where is my sister with her lazy ass

To give me a hand with these scorched pans?

Where is my dog to lick the floor?

So I don’t have to sweep and mop any more.

If this were Christmas I’d run away

Hiding in the back of Santa Claus’ sleigh.

Instead it’s Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday no doubt.

But I swear next year we’re ordering take out!

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THROWBACK: Be Careful What You Wish For

Once upon a time there was a little old man who wished for a whole bunch of shit beginning at an age when he could officially define the word “wish.”

As a young boy his wishes never turned out right. He once wished he could fly like Superman. His wish partially came true. He turned into a bird and used the flight as an opportunity to shit on the heads of all his enemies. It wasn’t long after that he was chased by a ferocious alley cat, warranting him to wish to be turned back into his old young self.

A few years later he wished he had a car so he could pick up the ladies. His wish came true. Unfortunately he never learned how to drive. So while picking up a woman on the ho stroll of 43rd and Heifer Lane, he wound up being chased by a gang of cops for reckless driving and operating a vehicle without a valid driver’s license.

He spent the next 100 hours in a jail cell with a boyfriend named Ice Pic, who incidentally was not a woman. This ended his wishing cycle for the next few turns of a pad lock.

A couple years passed with no wish from the then young boy who quickly turned into a young man/bitch/jail bait. Greed got the best of him over time. He figured with age would come better wishing decisions so he wished for more birthdays so he could have more wishes. What he got was more candles on his birthday cake and a few liver spots.

Once again his wish didn’t turn out exactly the way he’d hoped. By this point he was over it. Just as he came close to losing oxygen from blowing out the million plus candles, he spewed what he thought would be a fail-safe wish.

His wish was, “I wish I weren’t an old man.”

He was quickly running out of time and patience. In a last ditch effort for help, he turned to yours truly for a word of advice.

“Hottywood,” he said. “How can I at least turn myself back into a man without screwing up another wish?”

The question had me stumped for a minute. Then suddenly it came to me!

 

The moral of the story is to be careful what you wish for.

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Don’t Sleep on the Toe Doze

I suppose now is as good a time as any to sit down and have a random chat of observation specifically about the wheels of the body – aka feet/toes. If we were sitting face to face, right about now would be when you’d witness me hang my head low and shake it in disappointment, though not without mixed emotion.

As a man who is no big fan of feet, I am more than elated that the winter weather is approaching, thereby forcing sandal lovers to hibernate their thong flops and bare feet for a season. On the flip side, I am saddened that a lot of people, both men and women, will use the cold weather as an excuse to ignore the maintenance on their feet, leaving pedicure specialists across the world frightened of the white crusty foot build up they will have to look forward to facing come the dawn of spring and summer.

Some people will ignore foot upkeep out of laziness. Some will do so because they are just plain ol’ cheap. Others, because they feel no one will see their bunions during the colder months of the year. Sadly all are mistaken.

Feet must be kept up for three reasons:

REASON NUMBER ONE

The upkeep of hardwood floors.

The crust that builds on the heel of a foot will scratch the beautiful finish of hardwood floors.

I remember going to a dinner party over a friend’s house one winter’s night. The splinters in her floors were so out of control that I had to leave the party wearing stilts because they ate through the soles of my shoes like termites. This was all thanks to that young lady (whose food I refused to eat for fear that her hands were anywhere near her feet) that refused to pay a $17 visit to her foot care provider. Because she was either cheap or lazy, I had to pay the price. I’m still picking splinters out of my feet.

__________________________________________________________

REASON NUMBER TWO

Life Expectancy of Bedmates/Bed Linen/ Mattresses.

Unclipped toe nails will break the skin of the person sleeping next to you. They will also slice bed linen and rip through a mattress like Freddie Krueger in Nightmare on Elm Street. Razor sharp toenails fall into the category of “worst case scenario” for one night stands, right after bad sex and hermaphrodites.

__________________________________________________________

REASON NUMBER THREE

Respect for Apartment Renters that Live on a Lower Level.

Between the extra long raggedy toenails and weighted ashy heels of the neighbor that lives in an apartment unit on any level above the ground floor, the weight of the [foot] heel crust build up will damage the ceiling of the lower level tenant, running the risk of a possible ceiling collapse.

My Uncle McWeeterwatten used to walk around his apartment barefooted all day every day. I don’t think he realized that the build up on the bottom of his feet were destroying his floor beams with each step he took. He managed to survive one massive winter without getting his corns scrubbed. But on the first day of spring, just as he tied up his sneakers to run to the neighborhood foot spa, his floor beams finally gave out, sending him plummeting through the ceiling of the apartment below him. He suffered a law suit from his neighbor, the property owners of his complex, incurred an outrageous hospital bill and a spike in his home renter’s insurance. His failure to keep his feet up during the winter resulted in him spending so much money that he couldn’t afford to buy a new pair of shoes (or sandals) for eight months, three weeks, and two days.

__________________________________________________________

For the sake of sanity, personal safety and good health, it’s always important to keep your toenails clipped, your heels sand blasted and lathered up with lotion, and [in some cases] doused with a little baby power. And by ‘a little’ I mean a whole bottle full. Not only will you get a little more respect from your local pedicure specialist, but your feet will think twice before betraying you by kicking you swiftly where the sun doesn’t shine.

__________________________________________________________

Quote of the Week:  “Better to slip with foot than tongue.”

When the Weave that Would Suddenly Won’t

Let’s face it, when the weather is too hot even for the sun, not even the coolest rides can stand up to the scorching heat.

This week in Washington,  temperatures are sky-rocketing to ‘hell’ degrees. By ‘hell degrees’ I mean a high temperature of about 94-1,000,000 with a heat index somewhere around 209 gazillion. With a code red heat advisory  in effect for the residents of the Metropolitan area, or at least the residents of my apartment, it is with great regret that I say the warning has nothing to do with the heat itself but rather the mane on the crowns of those that suffer from the sun’s stinging rays.  This is usually the point in the text where I make some witty comment about the subject at hand however my brain sizzled to a point of evaporation somewhere during the journey between the walk from the parking lot to my office door.

Instead, a lot of DC females will watch their  weave money burst into flames because 9 out 10 of them failed to buy a pack of weave that carries a heat resistant label on the package.

Because my fingertips are beginning to melt as they stroke the letters on my keyboard, I’m going to cut to the chase and let the below images speak for themselves. Keep your fingers crossed that if the heat doesn’t kill me first, the women of DC, Maryland and/or Virginia whose weaves are standing on its last leg don’t come charging after me for making fun of their tragic tresses.

“If I were you I’d wear a hat, too.”


“Her hat must’ve evaporated while waiting at the bus stop. I wish it were my eyes that melted instead of her hat.”


“If I didn’t know any better I’d think her whole head exploded.”


“This ass lost its tail for nothing.”


The only way a bad weave could get any worse [due to the devil himself rising from the pits of hell] is if the weave started out looking bad to begin with.

I rest my case.


Quote of the Week:  “Whether the weather be fine, Whether the weather be not, Whether the weather be cold, Whether the weather be hot, We’ll weather the weather, Whatever the weather, Whether we like it or not.”

Lock and Load: The Season of the Flip-Flop is Upon Us

Ugly Feet ShoeIt’s almost that time again – the wretched season of the flip flop.

With winter slowly, almost and  finally kind of toying with the idea of getting lost to make way for Spring’s fresh, frilly and fragrant flowers, it won’t be long before the fragrance of those flowers are overpowered by bunion cream and foot powder.

That’s right kats and kittens, tis’ the season to be not-so-jolly with the return of flips flops and sandals [paired with white socks]. Woe is me!

Gun FootIf you’ve been following HottywoodHelps.com for the past couple of years, then you are well aware of my unconditional despise for sandals. I won’t even bother to mention the words “flip flops” again because the words alone make my stomach quiver. As much as I’m not looking forward to different variations of footwear toe displays, I am equally as excited about finally putting my portable rocket launcher to good use.

Spring and summer are the only explainable seasons for firing off missiles aimed at unkempt feet and even more disastrous footwear – Jesus sandals, gladiator sandals, flat sandals, slide sandals, topless sandals and my absolute least favorite – thong ip-ops (rhymes with flip-flops). And don’t even mention the sin of putting on foot sweaters (socks) with sandals. That should be one of the 10 commandments: “Thou shalt not go there.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a happening kind of guy. I can get with most of today’s fashion trends – with the exception of skinny jeans, sagging jeans, excessive hair extensions, overdramatized faux eyelashes and wearing sunglasses at night – but you lose me with toe thongs. I dunno, call me old fashioned.

Is now a good time to bring up my idea of eliminating feet and shoes all together and replacing them with wheels? At least then we’ll stumble across a new fashion phase – ankle hubcap spinners! Yay or Nay? What say ye?

foot wheels


Quote of the week:   “If you want to forget about all your other troubles, wear a pair of shoes all day that are too small for your feet.”

Office Work Leads to Excessive Alcohol Consumption

If we were to take a trip back in time to the era when alcohol was first invented (roughly 10,000 B.C.), we’d stumble upon the first person to blame their steamy night of unbridled passion on liquor. We’d stumble upon the first wino. We’d also stumble upon the first person to ever have a hangover at work.

 

Fast forward a few thousand years later and not much has changed. The average man or woman today can be found wobbling the streets in an off balanced attempt to walk off the beer bottles and shot glasses from their previous night (or their lunch break) that could potentially land their cold sweats in some major hot water.

As common as it is to drink in lively spirit (or even in depression or out of sheer voracity), it is equally as common for man to drag himself to the office by the collar with a hangover from hell. This act is about as common as skinny jeans for men and outlandish faux eyelashes for women and drag queens.

If you say you’ve never gone to work with a hangover you’re a liar. And if you believe your colleagues spend half the morning vomiting in the office pee-hole because they ate a bad bagel, you’re a fool. In fact, office work leads to  excessive consumption of alcohol. It’s a proven fact.

These days, employees drink to drown high levels of work-related stress. They drink to avoid punching their colleagues and supervisors in the nose. They drink to mask the tasteless flavors of the job’s cafeteria food. They drink to help them sleep through half of the eight hour work day. They drink because it’s necessary.

Even though there are ways to hide a hangover – scotch tape connecting the eyelids to the eyebrows; toothpicks in eyelids; painting pupils on closed eyes; bleach-based eye drops; – why bother going through all that effort, especially if and when the hangovers are a result of work overflow?

Instead of laying shame on the enormous intake of fermented beverages, hangovers should be something to be proud of. Excessive drinking brought on by the overwhelm of the office is validation that an employee is working harder than the human body can take. It means that employee is actually doing something between the hours of 9AM-5PM. He/She is doing his/her work, even if they are cranky from work overload and slowly bleeding to death from unfiled paper cuts and blisters on their keyboard typing fingers. Who cares if the employee’s head is ready to implode as long as the week’s progress report is up to par?

Managers in the workforce that forbid their employees to drink on the job ought to be ashamed of themselves. They want their cake and they want to eat it too, but not offer any of the damn cake to the drunk worker so he/she can soak up the liquor still lingering in their system. Isn’t that selfish?

Hard working employees shower with their clothes on to save time in the morning to go to work for a man dressed in a starched button down shirt who can’t even remember his department team members’ names. They hang themselves up in the closet at night hoping that being that much closer to their wardrobe will save them a confusing amount of effort of trying to decide what to throw on in the morning that will allow them enough time to catch the 7:10am shuttle bus.  And that amount of trouble is still not enough to convince manager(s) to implement a policy that supports the purchase of vodka and brandy from a vending maching inside the staff break room. Seriously, is that too much ask?

Employers don’t realize by now that employees that are bright-eyed and bushy tailed are really slackers? Those peppy office mates must not be underworked if they are not suffering from the medically acclaimed “Idranktoomuchlastnightis” or “Idranktoomuchonmyfifteenminutecoffeebreakoxology,” like all the rest of the American workforce. They are obviously not stressed out from full inboxes, emails and extended staff meetings. They are purposeless to the team and therefore should be fired. And any manager that doesn’t realize that ought to be fired too. Or set on fire.

Until employers, managers, supervisors, bosses, or whatever title they go by these days, hip themselves to the various stresses their subordinates go through every day, employees will continue to come to work with red eyes and fiery attitude problems. They will continue to sweat gin through their open pores. And they will continue to secretly sneak a swig from their flask under their desk just to get the job done and ensure themselves that they’ll get a paycheck at the end of the week.

Don’t think all managers don’t know that they are employing professional alchies to type a winning memo to the boss’ boss. Congress simply has not yet passed an appropriate bill that will allow those managers to stop playing stupid.


Quote of the week:  “Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.”

Office Wars: Payback is a Beast

office-prank-bearGuys and gals, it’s been a while since my last office gripe. I believe since the last time I hurled a staple remover at one of my office mates, I’ve settled comfortably in my emotions, allowing me to tell my colleagues to fuck off while smiling very respectably and sipping on a cup of hot raspberry tea.

Well today one of my colleagues, we’ll call her FAT ANNIE, pulled one of her usual “I-can’t-do-anything-except-put-on-a-front-for-anyone-that-bears-a-high-ranking-title” routines.  It’s not as important to tell you what FAT ANNIE did to piss me off. Besides, no one cares about the why. They only care about the what happens next.  I think I can answer that question. Well, presumably anyway.

Here’s a recap of what went down. Someone out there is curious to know why I’m plotting my revenge:

FAT ANNIE was being her usual worthless self. When I needed something from her in order to complete an assignment, her verbal responses were just as worthless as her physical laziness.  When she couldn’t muster up any more intelligent stupid words to say, she said fuck it all together and completely dismissed me.  Naturally, because I was already upset for being at work in the first place when I’d rather have been a thousand other places with anyone but her, I almost lost my cool. I almost forgot that I wasn’t out on the strip (even though I often joke that the workplace is a hoe stroll where a bunch of proprietors dressed up in second tier Sunday garments sign off on employees’ paychecks, making us [loose employees] their bitches for hire).

Instead of jumping off the deep end, I punched a hole in her Mac computer monitor and stomped out of her office. I mean I literally stomped out like a college marching band. It may have been a little dramatic but who cares? Work is boring and I bring the theatrics.

I probably could have handled things differently.

I could have pushed FAT ANNIE out of her chair and threw it at her candy dish. I probably would have saved her from adding any extra pounds to her thighs. I could have put her ugly white pumps in the microwave and watched the cheap imitation leather melt. I could have taken a permanent black magic marker and wrote some colorful Chinese street slang on her forehead. The best part about this idea is that I don’t speak a word of Chinese (and still I can understand everything Ming Lee says to me from behind the carryout cashier’s window).

Alas, I didn’t do any of these things. However the day is only half over. *Rubs hands together devilishly*

Since I can’t go all inner city ghetto on her non inner city ghetto ass, what can/will I do to annoy the hell out of her that will cause mischief, keep me out of jail and keep me employed all at the same time? My choices of payback are limited, but I’m creative and will make do with what little I have to work with. Hmmmm. I might…

Plant a grass garden in her computer keyboard.

Garden


Create an infinite loop of shopping carts around her car. …wait. Didn’t I say I needed to do something that wouldn’t get me put in jail?  Dammit. Scratch that.

Shopping Carts


Attach an air horn to her seat.

airhorn


Offer her some mint-flavored Oreo cookies, or

oreos


Make sure the morning paper is delivered to her office every morning before she drags her lazy behind to work. Fortunately she’s always late.

newspaper

Watching her turn maroon red with anger will be more than enough kudos for me to pat myself on the back for making her miserable life even more miserable. And just think, I can turn her good day bad easily, and on the company’s dime! #WINNING


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Embrace Your Alter Ego: Tell the Real World to Fuq Off

Alter egos.  Everyone has one.  The other side of who you portray yourself to be to the real world.  By day you are a hard working, over- or underachiever; however by night you are someone the world only knows in the darkness of shadows.  A weapons toting, ass kicking somebody who takes no bullshit and even more, takes no prisoners!

We all have our days when we want to take over the world, fight a few villains, or even destroy the good guys in hopes that no one can thwart out dastardly plans for global domination.  We may even want to use our magical powers to invade a Popeye’s franchise chicken delivery. Who knows? These are some of the thoughts we think as we sit in church and try to listen to the preacher who’s making absolutely no sense whatsoever because he can’t stick to one subject; or the supervisor who’s turning the staff meeting into a slow session of watching paint dry; or the cashier who’s overcharging all of the customers who are waiting in what seems to be the longest line ever at the grocery store.

Alter Ego

At the best times possible, and sometimes at the very worst, our alto egos take control of our bodies and tell reality to fuq off in the worst way — or the best.  It all depends on the character you play and the tricks you have up your sleeve.  So who’s your alter ego?


James Bond

Debonair; suave; cut throat. 

You will do whatever it takes to own your success and destroy your competition. You’ll always spend a pretty penny and shag the most shaggable beauties.  You are uninhibited, ruthless, clever, mysterious, and like all things that go BOOM.  You are attracted to expensive price tags (which include posh clothes, fast cars, loose women and quality chronic).  You kick ass first and ask questions later.  Everyone wants to be you and you know it.  Your shit doesn’t stink. You are the type to approach all things with style and winning is your only option.  You like your situations like you like your drinks: Shaken, not stirred.


Rorschach (Watchmen)

Mysterious; clever; inquisitive.

Everything serves a purpose and you are inquisitorial enough to search for a deeper meaning.  You remain neutral and are usually prematurely underestimated.  Although you are the type of person that follows a set of black-and-white values that take many shapes and never mix into shades of gray, you have a colorful past that shapes who you are – and you don’t give a shit who likes it or not. You see existence as random and are free to scrawl your own design on a morally blank world (you do you).  You also keep most of your business to yourself and will punch the daylights out of anyone who crosses you unnecessarily, especially if it means getting to the bottom line.  You are one to beware of.


Spiderman

Underestimated; innocently cocky; intuitive. 

You are a typical person who fights a battle for good and are aware that with great power comes great responsibility.  You’re a slight pushover – otherwise known as a bitch if you fuq with the wrong person in the right hood. Generally, you are the type that deals with your own personal struggles, just like the common man. However you put your problems to the side to carry the load of every one else, especially when it comes time to beat that bully’s ass for calling you bitch while you were cruising in the wrong neighborhood.   Though you are an aide for the world around you, you strive to figure out your own self-worth.  Sometimes you can lose yourself in your own head. You would much rather avoid a fight, but are more capable of beating the living shit out of your opponent than anyone realizes.


Wonder Woman

Noble; fine as hell; feminine.

You are a princess – the type of person who fights for a just cause.  You are honorable, fair and believe in equal justice for all.  You are true to yourself and your heritage and are certain that a woman can do anything just as well as any man.  Dressed in your finest Victoria’s Secrets, you are also undeniably sexy, feminine and can throw a mean left hook!  Be cautious of your competition because there are many women (and men) who would love to be just like you, even if it means taking you out to gain control of your crown.  That’s why you carry a golden lasso, so you can choke a bitch when he/she forgets that Princess Diana is a Queen B.


Catwoman

Cunning; conniving; untamed; fem lesbian. 

You are seemingly shy without your mask, however by night you are skank in spandex!  You walk a thin line between good and evil and use your feminine wilds to gain control over the weakness of men and female studs.  You love animals and have a soft spot for the defense of them.  You will do whatever is necessary to get what you want and take down anyone who stands in your way.  You have a smart ass mouth, a killer body, an overwhelming sense of self confidence while donning your spandex and always rock a bad ass pair of 6” stilettos.  You are more than likely to have corns on all of your toes. You do not take orders or play well with others.  You also have the ability to smell bullshit and cabbage a mile away.


Xena the Warrior Princess

Sexual; butch; manipulative.

You are on a quest to seek redemption for your past sins as a ruthless scallywag in thigh-high Timberland boots.  You stand for all things good, but you will rip a mutha-effer to shreds who opposes you.  You are sexual, controlling, defensive, smug and never underestimated!  Some people run from you, others are intrigued by you, yet you are phased by nothing or anyone.  You are bisexual versatile, multi-talented, open minded and very dark.  Your past shapes who you are and condemns you at the same time.  Either way, you are definitely not to be fuqed with.  You are one baaaad bitch!   And it hurts all so good.


It doesn’t take much imagination to embrace your alter ego.  All it takes is a little effort and imagination. 


Quote of the week:   “We’ve always been ready for female superheroes. Because women want to be them and men want to do them.”

Weekend Forecast: Mostly Drunk with a Chance of Horny

WeekendEveryone 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.

Weekend is Among Us

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Quote of the Week:  “There aren’t enough days in a weekend.”

Cheers to the Weekend: The Grand-daddy of Regret

Once upon a time an innocent boy, low on the popularity totem pole, decided to ignore his good-boy conscious and opted for once to live life to the fullest.

His adventures began with one little glass of alcohol…

As a result, the boy who otherwise would not have been taken seriously by any woman in a romantic arena got laid for the first time by a woman who would be considered by some to be as large as the arena itself.

He closed his eyes as he experienced his first romantic encounter – or so he thought – until he realized his eyes weren’t closed at all. Instead he was buried and suffocated by the weight of the woman’s massive house-like body.

It took all of 15 minutes before the large woman determined the noises coming from the frail boy wasn’t moans of pleasure, but rather yelps for mercy. Soon after, she freed him from her relentless grip. He ran in terror with a shred of dignity and even more shredded underwear. Sadly his equilibrium was about as note worthy as his judgment in alcohol and women.

As he sped away from the quiet street of the unfamiliar neighborhood of his plump love bucket, his car swerving from one side of the street to the other, he was tailed and pulled over by the cops for suspicion of drinking while under the influence.

Just when he thought things could get no worse…

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Quote of the Week:  “I’m not as think as you drunk I am.”

This Week on, “Ask Hottywood!”

Dear Hottywood, 

Without going too much into detail about a story regarding someone that chose to learn a lesson the hard way instead of listening to my advice, my general question to you is “what’s a nice way to tell someone, ‘I told you so’?” 

Kierra 

Dear Kierra,

In all honesty, no one likes to be told “I told you so” so no matter how you say it, the person you’re saying it to will want to pour old hot dog water on you.

I was raised to believe that if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t  say anything at all. And since saying “I told you so” isn’t such a nice thing to hear (it obviously must not be such a nice thing to say either), the nicest way to say it is to laugh at the person hysterically. Laughing will make you feel good and no one can get mad at you for not saying those three little words that may get you punched.

Alternatively you can say “I told you so” like this:

“Te lo dije”. ~ Spanish

“Je vous l’avais bien dit.” ~ French

“لقد قلت لكم ذلك”. ~ Arabic

“Én megmondtam.” ~ Hungarian

“Te l’avevo detto.” ~ Italian

“私はあなたに言った。” ~ Japanese

“我告訴過你了。” ~ Chinese, or

“I oldtay ouyay osay.” ~ Pig Latin

If you can’t pronounce any of these languages then stick with laughing and pray you never have to go to them for advice, because if you do they may purposely steer you wrong in high hopes of laughing at your ass in the end.

If however you choose not to follow my advice and wind up being laughed at or doused with hot dog water, I will not hesitate to tell you I TOLD YOU SO.

Hottywood

Man Jumped for Not Sharing His Weed to Celebrate Vatican’s White Smoke Announcement

Church FightKILLEM COURT, Connecticut – Rodney McSausagefoot was beaten senseless in a parking lot of a Catholic church in Connecticut’s Killem Court Projects for sparking up a joint filled with marijuana after hearing of the Vatican’s announcement of a new Pope.

“Firing up a jay is how we celebrate good news in the hood. Actually firing up a jay is how we celebrate bad news in the hood.” McSausagefoot said before undergoing evaluation for the concussion he suffered from the assault.

Neighbors were outraged at the Catholic’s harsh reaction to the victim’s unwillingness to share his weed at the time of one of the most historical moments in Catholic history.

When police asked McSausagefoot why he didn’t offer any of his smoke to the attackers before being attacked he responded, “…because they didn’t put in on this.”

McSausagefoot could face a steep fine or a sentence in a county jail for being stingy with his weed.