Thursday, June 30, 2011

Slave to the Grind. know how I sit right in front of my boss' office at work, right? (You might not have known that, but now you do.)

Sometimes when I'm sitting at my desk scouring the internet or refreshing my Blogger feed for the 800th time that day, I start to drift off into Snoozyland and I have this weird daydream that my boss storms out of her office and comes out here to slap me around and tell me to "DO SOME WORK, DAMN YOU! GODDAMMIT, YOU DO SOME GODDAMN WORK!!!"

I dunno why, I mean...I DID my work. It's done. If some more comes along, I'll surely do it in my normal swift and awesome way, so it's not like I'm not doing my part. And it's not like I necessarily WANT her to slap me or anything. BUT...I guess I could probably sue the company or something. At least possibly get a promotion, which I feel like is otherwise destined to NEVER happen given my history of "We-Went-With-A-More-Qualified-Candidate" speeches they've given me the last billion times I've tried.

I think mostly it's because getting slapped around by your boss would make a damned good story and as far as my life goes, I don't have a whole lot of really stellar stories to share. My adventures are fair game for blog fodder, but rarely does something happen that I would wanna talk about out loud. You know those "are you shitting me??" stories that people whip out late at night at a bar or when you're trying to impress some new friends? I need those!

The ones I do have are lame and kinda embarrassing!

*This one time...I fell into my uncle's grave when I was trying to reaching a rose on top of his casket but I forgot I was short and fat.
*This one time...I saw DJ Qualls at the airport but I didn't say anything because I couldn't remember his name, plus I'm not really even a fan.
*This one dad ran over my foot.


This one time my boss got so pissed, she just walked out of her office and slapped the shit outta me right in front of everybody.

"No way...are you shitting me?"

No. I'm not shitting you.

I own that company now.


Monday, June 27, 2011

Your daddy's rich, and your momma's good lookin'...

Tricia here. Hopefully Dina's blogposts will get better because that one kinda sucked...not that I'm complaining.

But speaking of complaining, that's kinda what this blog is all about. If you know me and you know Dina, then you know we LOVE to bitch about stuff. Sometimes all that bitching doesn't really fit in to our normal blog routine of bitching about our weight and how hungry we are though, so it doesn't find a home on our respective blogs. (Dina has a blog? What blog? Huh?) Well...except of the two entries so far, they're both about being fat, so...well, okay, starting now we'll bitch about other stuff, deal? DEAL, brother!

So sit back and kick up your shoes and get ready to read some bullshit.

OH AND SPEAKING OF SHOES...(this is yet another segue)...

One of the things I hate the most about living in a hot place in the summertime is that dudes think it's okay for them to wear flip-flips or sandals even though their feet look like they were carved from dried dog shit. The real dry kind! Like, after it turns white, know what I mean.

In general, I don't prefer seeing anyone's feet when I'm out and about doing my daily business things, but at least most women try to give a shit. Guys will put a fucking flip-flop on the most disgusting foot known to man, then have the nerve to get pissed off when a stray dog confuses it for a brick of hamburger meat. It's not the dog's fault! Put a pumice on that freaking dead sea scroll you call the sole of your foot and behold the magic of skin that hasn't seen more cracks than a plumber's convention. It's not that hard! Even a fattie like me can make an effort and I can barely even reach those damn things!

I remember being in middle school and me and some friends made up these lists of what we would require in our ideal guys. #2 on my list was that he had to have nice feet. NUMBER TWO!! That was right after #1 - Must have money. And then what happened? I fell in love with a poor man with the most terrible feet I've ever seen.

Jeff's feet are like comically bad. Hobbits look at Jeff's feet and point and laugh. His toenails are like these evil triangles that I really can't even describe, but if I had to try, the description would most consist of the words Fritos and Talons. They scare me, but I love him. So for the most part I don't care. BUT...he has NO shame when it comes to those things! If you wanna rip up the carpet in our own house, that's one thing....but to wear those stupid Birkenstocks out in public knowing your feet look like that, that's another thing entirely!

It's gotten to a point where getting him to put on shoes has become like a negotiation ritual in our relationship. "Okay, I'll clean the kitchen, but you have to wear sneakers when we go out with our friends on Tuesday." DEAL! It's not really fair, but it's a part of my life I've learned to accept.

So...what I'm saying is...either get a pedicure, or put on some goddamn real shoes.

Whew...okay...I feel better.

So what's your main complaint about summer? Don't come with that "NOTHING, I LOVE SUMMER!!!!!!!!!" crap either because everyone hates something and this blog is about TRUTH! Spill it.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Walking on the Sun

Far be it for me to say what people should do with their bodies, seeing as how I'm semi-content with turning my body into what science will one day classify only as: How NOT to Live. BUT...I can't help but be fascinated by the drug scene here in Vegas. Anytime I dare to venture out of my apartment, the streets are filled with crazy toothless weirdoes wandering the hot city streets looking for spare change or tossed-away cigarettes...or crack, I guess? Las Vegas in the summertime is like a third-world country, only with more slot machines and no Chick-Fil-A's. (seriously, wtf Chick-Fil-A?)

Anywho, the other day I had to go do a blood test for a Dr's appointment I have coming up. On the drive home, I see this dude walking down the street with NO SHOES ON! It was like a thousand degrees outside, so I mean, I don't even see how this was humanly possible without your feet literally exploding and/or melting into the ground. The only thing I could think was that maybe crystal-meth has some unknown foot-cooling ingredient that the meth-heads of the world haven't told the rest of us about so that we can act all impressed and mystified when they do amazing feats with thier...feets.

Then I thought...oh, maybe he's a diabetic. Like me! Maybe he can't even feel his feet at all because of all the nerve damage due to eating cupcakes and Slurpees all day, every day. Then I kinda felt bad for judging him. I wondered if maybe one day that would be me...or if I would even live long enough to have that kinda neuropathy. That's a pretty fucked up thought to have at 33 years old: "Hmm, I wonder if my heart will last long enough for diabetes to kill me?" Aim high!

Needless to say, time for some changes. Guess I'm dieting now...

Oh, and if it's worth anything, Shoeless Joe ended up yelling out the word: FREEEEEEEE and then running down the street in the opposite direction. Totally meth. Guilt be gone.