Monday Bear

So we know I don’t ever like to bitch, but I have a serious problem with girls who work at Sonic.  (No offense, Holly or Matt’s cute friend Naomi.)  They are conniving, tricky bitches.  Let me explain.  This has all happened to us at at least one point in our lives:

You and a friend order some drinks and onion rings on a sweltering summer afternoon.  A girl in khaki shorts and a dumb visor carrying a tray walk close to you, but no luck.
Another one.  You examine the contents of the tray:  2 drinks and a box in a bag.  She walks past you.
Another one:  2 drinks and a box in a bag.  She walks toward your car.  She then looks at the receipt only to realize that she was walking the wrong way.
Another one: 2 drinks and a box in a bag.  You look at her and her tray with wild fried onion- craving eyes.  She looks back at you.  Your eyes meet.  It’s like you’re spiritually making love to this angel in the ponytail who is bringing you your nourishment.  Instant chemistry.  She keeps walking and gives your order to the middle aged guy in the red Camaro.
What a bitch.  She knew what she was doing the whole time.  She just wanted to toy with you.
Another one:  1 really big ass drink and 3 boxes in 3 bags.  She comes to your car.  It’s the wrong order, but you don’t fucking care.  You’ll never talk to another teenage girl wearing roller skates as long as you live.I hear the fry cooks piss in the onion ring batter anyhow.

Alley Jo came over late last night.  I wrote down several blogworthy quotes, and they will be strewn about this post.

Some very very moral Christian boy text messaged Alley Jo with a sentance that would knock any girl’s socks off.  It implied that he wanted to BANG her.
“That’s crazy!  He’s a Christian!”
The main reason this is funny is that Alley Jo and I are both Christians, but we talk about sex, drugs, and rock and/or roll just as much, if not more, than the next guy, and nobody ever says anything about it.  This kid says he wants her to cuddle with him in his bed, and all hell breaks loose… literally.

And I meant xtain.

Sometimes on Sunday afternoons, I think, “Why the hell am I watching Kindergarten Cop… again?”.
Alley:  It bothers me that he calls me Hon.  Old people say that.
Liz:  Lots of people say Hon.
Alley:  Yeah.  Lots of old people.

For those of you familiar with my trick, Alley Jo makes me keep my legs apart whenever I hang out with her.

So Matt got back from Bonnaroo, and after a 3ish days of hippie life, this is what he looked like:

I would have hosed him down before I let him in my house.
And look at those socks.
Psht.  What a nasty ass.

(PS:  I just showered today for the first time since Saturday.  I washed my hair for the first time since… Wednesday?)

“How old are those drawers you got on, Miss Nasty Ass?”

My dad really really really likes him.  Seriously.  He likes Matt more than he likes his friends.  I know that’s not saying much, but geez, my dad doesn’t like anybody.  My dad even gave him a nickname.  Cat.  Apparently it’s short for Caterpillar.  Because he’s… tall, skinny, fuzzy, and… metamorphic?  And juicy.

But seriously, he had been wearing those pants LONG before Bonnaroo.
Cropped pants.  NOT crotch pants.

“I gotta piss!” *frantically points to crotch*.

I don’t know what was wrong with me last night.

Alley:  Put this in the DVD player.
Liz:  You mean the VD player?  *puts the disk on her vag*
Alley:  No.  And buy me a new DVD.

Seriously, last night was the vaggiest night I’ve ever had.  I mean, it was the most times I’ve ever vag in an 8 hour period.

Vag.  Period.

Speaking of which, I got my lip pierced.
Not forrealz, but a fake one.  It looks pretty snazzy too.  It will be permenant soon enough.

“Why the hell is everybody licking the fing floor?!?!”
That’s what you say when you don’t  know what the f is going on.
Like last night.  Both Trixie and Pete were licking the floor like it was covered in Honey mustard or something.  It was crazy.
“Why the hell is everybody licking the fing floor?!?!”

And while we’re at it:
“Where yo’ tweezer at?  I mean, where are you going?”
That was probably the most WTF moment of today.  I really meant to ask her where she was going, but somehow “Where yo’ tweezer at?” came out.
So from now on, when you don’t know where someone is going, you ask him or her, “Where yo’ tweezer at?”

PS:  In any normal situation, I would never put a preposition at the end of a sentence.   Esp. an unnessecary preposition.

Alley:  Please, please, please stop scratching your vag in front of me.
Liz:  It’s not the vag.  It’s the vag- edge.

Like straight edge.  SxE.  VxE.

I’m Vag- Edge.  VxE.

Last night I was wearing my Muppets underwear with Animal on the front of them.
Alley:  You have an animal on  your panties.
Liz:  More like in my panties.  If ya *snap* catch my *snap* drift *thrust*.

I am -so- disgusting.  This blog is definitely going under the Nasty category.  If it bothers you, don’t complain about it.  You were warned by the title.

And if prostitution were legal and government- monitored, patrons would have to pay a vagtax.

Seven cheesecakes will keep you constipated for 7 days.  But I’m not even going to touch what those Double- Fisted sammidges will do to you.

The “sammidges” was for Zephyr + Colleen.

You’re welcome.

Sexpert, while I’m at it.

Speaking of sexpert, we don’t really always have to be so specific unless we’re in a professional situation.
“What if your vagi, vulva, excuse me…”

How many times a day is one supposed to feed aminals?  I get ridiculed because people think I don’t feed mine enough.  But I feed them at least three times a day– sometimes twice!

When they weren’t listening to real bands, Matt and his friends listened to Three 6 Momma.

And they better put my money in my hand.

Alley:  Is that a pregnancy test?
Liz:  No, it’s ant poison.

Half of these things I wrote down aren’t even funny anymore.  Hardly anything is funny the morning after.  I don’t even remember half of what this stuff means.   What the fuck is a pickle weasle?

Q:  How long does it take to make 75 drink orders?
A:  $85
A:  Rub ‘em together!

Zephyr got her package I sent her.  It contains:

• Zephyr- coloured (avacodo) monogrammed towel with light blue writing.
• Zephyr- coloured monogrammed washcloth with light blue writing.
• Crumpled up letter.
• A fortune (personalized by Liz)
• A tag from those golfing socks my mom gave me (I think)
• A ribbon
• A dead battery
• Probably some other stuff

She called me and left me a strangely short message on the answering machine.  It seems as if she liked the package though, because of her squealing.

The fortune was from when mom and I had Chinese the other night.  My fortune said, “The coming month will bring winds of change.”
Mom:  No shit.  You’re going to college
Liz:  No, next month is July.  I’ll be spending most of it with Matthew.
Mom:  Oh my gosh, you’re going to get pregnant.

Wrap it up, every time.

So I gave that fortune to Zephyr, and put “in the sack” at the end of it, because I do that to fortunes.  It makes them funny.  Plus, I didn’t want to get pregnant.  I have a greater chance of getting pregnant than Zephyr does.  Alot of people do.

I love Zephyr : )

The other day I went to Rachel’s wedding shower.  I think I have orientation on the day of her actual wedding.  Oh well.  I bet she won’t have goldfish and fun games on her real wedding.
Men should keep in mind that women talk about sex at wedding showers, because, well, married people have sex.
But anywho, we had to play this game where they stick a lemon in a pair of pantyhose, tie the pantyhose around our waist so that the lemon is in the back, and thrust to swing the lemon to knock over a bottle.  The person who knocks the bottle over in the least amount of swings wins.  I don’t have any pictures of me doing it, but here is the bride:

I knocked it over in three thrusts.  Rachel gave up after 20something.

Matt was proud when I told him.

But that’s how you win.  Thrustin’ hard.  Thrustin’ fast.  It’s an analogy to life.  You win the game by thrusting hard, thrusting fast, you win at life by thrusting hard, thrusting fast.

How do you think Paris Hilton got so rich.  Her daddy?

Jessica:  You were thrustin’ pretty fast.
Liz:  I’m like lightnin’, baby.

I have alot more to say, but I’m going to wrap this blog up before I start talking about vag or secks or pooping again.

Wrap it up, every time.

I lied.

So in conclusion, if you have a habit of putting out, I have a secret for you.  Before you go out on a date:

• Do not shave your legs.
• Do not shave your armpits.
• Do not shave your naughty bits.
• Do not shower.  Nobody wants… you know… unless you’re at that stage in your relationship…
• Wear jogging pants.  The type you wore in the 4th grade with the elastic around the ankles.
• Wear a belt.  Yes, with your jogging pants.  It sends a subliminal message “HEY DON’T CROSS THIS LINE.
• Tell your date you have crabs.  Vagcrabs, not watercrabs.
• And most importantly, schedule dates when you’re on the rag.  Especially first dates.  Also, this is the best week for your brain, and you can impress your date with your intellect, not your ass.  A great icebreaker for a first date intelligent conversation would be to explain to him how you shed your uterine lining every 28 days.  Or say “every full moon” if you really want to freak him out.  Or you could show him.  Unless he’s allergic.  But if he is allergic, that might be good, because after all, the whole point of being on the rag for this date is that you don’t have sex, right?

Right.

So seriously this time, in conclusion, “Impress him with your intellect, not your ass.”

- Maya Angelou

Just kidding.  But it would be really funny if she said that.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 21st, 2006 at 1:01 AM and is filed under Awkward Scenarios, Babies, Dating, Food, Language, Nasty, Party over here, Philosophy, Secks. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.