Awesome Amy Would Bone an Asian

What I'm about to share with you is an excerpt from a legitimate and life-changing conversation.

Me: Serious question. If you had to bone an Asian, who would it be?

AA: ?? Apollo Ohno? Is he Asian?

Me: Oo good one. And probably.

AA: And you can't use 'serious question' with the word 'bone.'

Me: Boning is serious.

AA: True dat.

Me: I love you. ...even though you'd bone an Asian.

AA: Ass.

     My favorite part of this conversation is that Amy didn't question anything until after she answered, and she responded immediately with her first choice of the Asian honeys.

     Along the same lines, if I had to be taken advantage of by any race, I'd choose Asian. Not because it would be enjoyable, but because it's a logical choice. I'd never see it coming and it would be super fast. Plus they're generally smaller so it seems less offensive.

Amy is happy because the glow stick in her drink reminds her of downtown Hong Kong

Moral of the story - Awesome Amy would bone an Asian. AND LIKE IT.

Rapping Jesus

Oh. my. lanta! - I have to tell you the most hilarious story about what I witnessed last Saturday night.

You know it's going to be a good night when it starts like this. I'm in green.

If you're ever near Fairview, check out a little bar called Conway's. It's on Stacy Road and it's cool on the inside, and super classy. I know it's classy because the walls in the women's bathroom are the color of neon pepto AND JESUS WAS PLAYING GUITAR THERE. Yes, you read correctly.


Well it wasn't the real Jesus, maybe more like a generic "hey seuss" type but believe me, it was glorious. Imagine this - you're sitting at a high top table with 3 friends, enjoying a XX (the beer, you pervs, the beer) when all of a sudden, you see him. *intense curiosity-raising music* A 50-something, long haired, goateed, pleather-pants wearing man with an electric guitar and possibly padded underwear. I made a joke about how I almost wore the same pants and how embarrassing that would've been - then karma bitch slapped me because I actually have the hat he was wearing and I had to shut up. ....until he sauntered off the stage during a song, came over to our table and played half of "Freebird" directed strategically at my crotch.  (insert dramatic "suck it" gestures here.)

I think it was some weird Freudian slip with the whole freebird/freecrotch vibe he was sending but after my history with another long-haired musician, I was immune to it. My friends said it was awkward, I thought it was interesting and it seemed as though Jesus assumed he was approaching holy ground. Which he was, depending on who you ask.

But wait, there's more. After his finger-frolicking guitar solo to my ladybusiness, he went back on stage to introduce the band. (FYI - he was only the frontman in his heart. The lead lady singer was vying for the attention of all 12 patrons the whole time.) Then, like a bolt of lightning, it happened. Somewhere in the band introductions, he started rapping. YES! Rapping. Rapping about Jesus. It seemed to make everyone else uncomfortable but I thought it was pretty cool. It was like watching a twisted SNL skit where grungy Jesus raps about not-grungy Jesus except even better than it sounds.

It was kind of like this, but creepier and with a questionable hat

Among the "fans" was an intriguing older couple with obviously-dyed jet black hair and sun glasses. Inside. At 11pm. But it was all cool because they awkwardly held hands and let their knees graze each others' as they expressionlessly watched rapping Jesus and his hip-twisting leading frontlady. The whole thing reminded me of a bad day in 7th grade. ... or a good day in 7th grade. *pensive face*

After everyone at our table got eye-molested (or as I prefer to say, gently caressed), Evan stole this professionally made sign from the bathroom and we split.

In case you can't read the professionally hand-written details - it's Classic Rock AND R&B. Bitches.

I don't want to sound judgmental, but I'm pretty sure this was a prostitute. Or a female douchebag who was also in town for the convention. Or both.

We ended up at another place where there was an apparent Douchebag Convention and... dundunnununaaaah!


A big, cornfed, ginger redneck who was straight up breaking it down on the dance floor. When I tell you he was getting after it, he was SERIOUSLY shaking his big o' redneck booty like a drunk cajun who just got their refund check, early. It was one of the best things I've ever seen. It was like a Britney Spears video set to the "Rump Shaker" song with Hank Hill doing all the right dance moves. Seriously, he outdanced the sexy version of Michelle Obama and 2 different sets of lesbians. All the while, his wranglers were tucked into his boots. *sigh* Hilarity at its finest.





This was the best picture I could get. He was moving faster than a fox on crack.

Moral of the story: Only Mexicans are ballsy enough to name a kid Jesus.

What She Says vs. What She Means

       Based on multiple failed relationships, I feel like I'm the perfect person to give dating advice. For instance, there seems to be a major breakdown between what women say and what they mean. For those who don't get it (men), let me help you.

 

She says...
Don't get me anything for my birthday/Christmas/Hanukkah/Valentine's/Wednesday.
She means...
Get her something thoughtful.
What to do...
Odds are that she's mentioned what she wants, in writing, recently. (Look at the nouns in your text messages.) If you're still not sure just ask one of her girlfriends. Oh, and then obtain and deliver the gift. Preferably in a loincloth.

Try this one

She says...
Whatever you think.
She means...
I trust you to make a wise decision. After all, you're the one with external genitalia.
What to do...
Decide on the restaurant (or whatever) already. If the place sucks, just take her to look at knives. That always works.

Magically distracting

She says...
I like your new hat.
She means...
I bet it'll be comfortable on me after you break it in.
What to do...
Don't get it too sweaty and let her wear it. (giggity.)

She says...
I'm not sure what to do about ________.
She means...
I trust you enough be vulnerable so don't be a dick.
What to do...
Let her finish the whole story before you give suggestions. Most of the time we just want to be heard and don't require you to fix anything.

She says...
Hey good lookin'.
She means...
She's picturing you without a shirt on holding her like on the cover of a best-selling Harlequin romance novel, but sexier and much more awesome.
What to do...
Kiss her on the mouth, or break into a random dance party. Or both.

You're welcome.

She says...
It's fine.
She means...
You're fucked.
What to do...
Give her a long hug and tell her you're sorry for being stupid. Then stop being stupid by listening to her. Unless she's holding a weapon, then flee immediately.



I would write more of these but apparently these are geared towards women like me and I'm being told there aren't many. (except Mother Theresa, Miranda Lambert, and Oprah before she got weird.)

Thrift Store Treasures, Kind Of.

     Oh hi there - sorry it's been a while. I've been super busy drinking wine and getting into mischevous things. I will update more later but for now, check out these little love nugs from a few weeks ago.

     For whatever reason, D'Anne and I decided we would take minimal cash and go into the thrift stores in Irving, TX. First, let me inform you that Irving is what some people call the "melting pot" of "culture" for the Dallas area. What that means is there's a metric shit-ton of ghetto people of all different races who live there. They say a picture is worth a thousand words but in these cases, a picture is worth 99 foodstamps. Allow me to elaborate.

Trick or treat! The blonde mermaid hair chick is black...Seriously.

This is an empty Garfield canister. For what, who knows? I can think of all kinds of things. Weed, trashcan punch... or weed. Or trashcan punch because how funny would it be to drink trashcan punch out of Garfield?

This just goes to prove my theory that black children are toys. Oh stop acting like that didn't make you giggle.

This also proves my theory that douchebag white boys have crabs. You're welcome, Yin. You're welcome.

Come to Irving Thrift, where there's something for everyone. Like your rapping iguana who you named "Juvenile."

You bitch! We cost WAY more than that.

"There's no way I'm buying these unless they're $1.50. ... Oh, well alright."

Leprechaun Dragqueen's leftovers

Why in the world would fellow thrift store shoppers look at me weird? Seriously, look at this face. Very culturally diverse.




The icing on the cupcake - a freaking pinata. FINALLY.

Stay tuned for the next blog. It's about how I got stuck in Boston during the hurricane and what I did to keep busy. Hint: it's not what you think.





 

Malloronika

      For those of you less cultured (or as my friend Laz says “culcheered”) than me, let me educate you on a very important religious holiday called Malloronika. It’s an 8 day celebration of my birthday running from the end of August through September 6th. The best part about it is you can do whatever you want for several days in a row with the simple excuse of “hey, it’s Malloronika.” Here’s a recap of the Malloronika highlights.


Day 1 of Malloronika started with Yin and I going to Taco Diner and having some mambo taxis, then reluctantly going to Sherlock’s for “one more drink” which meant one more for her, several more for me.  She was a total trooper which I thought only white girls did but I was wrong. There was a not-my-type of drunk Mexican hitting on me and Yin told him my name was Roberta. Apparently he didn't mind, which is exactly why he's not my type.

You can call us Roberta and Tonya

Day 2 of Malloronika I had to work so I very quietly sexually harassed Yin and another co-worker. If there was a “Creepy” category in the Olympics I would’ve won that day, sugar tits.

Me and co-worker being superheroes, as usual... *long stare*

Days 3-5 I got 3 massages, slept in, ate Pad Thai and didn’t wear a bra. I should probably leave this part out but I’m not going to. I hope you feel liberated just by reading this.

Days 6   *sigh* Austin, Texas

I went to Austin to see my brother and met his friend Phil and guess what – he was my first blog fan that I didn't know previously. It was so exciting when he recognized me and also said I was "kind of" hilarious. It felt like Paris Hilton when people recognize her DJ’ing. Kinda like “oh, hey… is that…yeah, it is. Weird.” And then she does rapid fire karate moves in her head because she thinks she’s all bad ass because one person recognized her. Not that I would do the same moves as her because mine would be way cooler. If I even did that, which I don’t.

Phil and Mitch. Precious, aren't they?

Besides meeting my first fan in Austin, I also met a cardboard cut-out of Snoop Dogg (now to be called Snoop Lion – don’t ask me what kind of weed brought that name on because I do not know nigga, I do not know) and a Mexican dude who was trying to score a Clamato from Snoop Lion’s lair.

"No killa, thrilla, shrilla... I just want some reg-a-lar weed!" -Katt Williams

We went to a cool bar called Workhorse and I foolishly turned down a free Jager shot because it was 3pm and I’m responsible now that I’m 27. Just kidding about all that except the part where it was 3pm. 

Texas breweries map at Workhorse

I also had an abundant amount of Lone Star beer and even found a 27 ounce one. So awesome. Those of you who know my brother know that we had a rip-roaring good time. So good, that I can't even tell you about it for fear the authorities will read this and we will both go to jail. As you may assume (pun intended), I'm not cut out for jail. (another pun intended)

 Happy birthday to ME!

Day 7 I realized I'm too old to drink Jagermeister now and my superfab (pronounced thuper-fab) friend Justin had to nurse me back to health with tap water and the latest men's magazine full of naked guys covering their junk with football pinatas. True story.

On the way home from Austin I stopped in Waco to see my Mom. (AKA Missing Panty Lady) She was 30 minutes late to the restaurant that's right by her house and she cried a lot when she got there. I'm not sure why but since it was Malloronika I just chocked it up to the fact that that's what she felt like doing, so that's what she did. It would've been a hilarious scene to watch it it had involved anyone besides me.

The good news is that Logan's restaurant had painted a mural of Mitch and myself from the night before.

His hair is longer and I'm brunette. Other than those minor details, this is an accurate description.

Fortunately we went shoe shopping and mom and I both felt much better. She blessed me with some fantastical party boots that are a mix between Wonder Woman and Ellie May Clampet. Needless to say, they're perfect for me.

 Party "Boots," with a T you perverts.

Day 8 was my actual birthday. I slept in again, wore my party boots to work for a couple hours, went to Hobby Lobby like any self-respecting old woman, then met up with Yin for a super hot date where she got me a very fitting gift. (details to come in the next blog) Then I went on a motorcycle ride and it was indescribably awesome. In conclusion, Malloronika was relaxing, intense, fabulous, sporadic, and loosey-goosey but not in a sexy way. Feel free to assume further details because I can guarantee they're true. (except you mom. Don't assume anything and no, no midgets were harmed in the celebration of Malloronika. ...this year.)

Moral of the story: I'm already planning next year's birthday celebration. Y'all should come.

 

I Hate Dishes

I love to cook but hate to do dishes. If anyone else feels the same way, here’s a list of stuff to try instead of cleaning plates.

1.       Buy new underwear. Fun, but the dishes were still dirty and now I felt that way too.

2.       Get a bad ass coin collection from your dad. Have you ever seen a steel penny? They’re cool.

3.       Paint a weird looking tree thing in your new underwear while the blinds are open… Yikes. I wish I was kidding about the blinds.

4.       Give the dishes evil looks.

                       I just put this in because I think I look like an angel. Thanks instagram.

 

5.       Teach your dog Spanish cuss words in case she ever needs them – and at this rate, she will.

6.       Revisit why you don’t date people more than 10 years older than you, then remember exactly why.

7.       Laugh hysterically as you remember what happened Friday night.

        This is how Friday night started. Unfortunately the pictures taken after this one are not appropriate for public viewing.

8.       Wait on a tall Latin man to show up at the door with grapes and a banana leaf. (If you know what I mean.)

9.       Consider the physiological reasons old people could smell like they do.

10.   Remember the guy from Fuzzy’s who looked like Harry Potter.

             Here he is passionately discussing a magical bottle involving Fuzzy's sauce. 

11.   Think about what superpower you’d pick if you only got to choose one.

12.   Dance party.

13.   Write a blog. You really should, it’s easy to do and I would read it.

14.   Pray about much more significant things than this list.

                                      Take this as you will. (Shout out Awesome Amy!)

15.   Count the hours til dove season starts. (146.5)

16.   Listen to music on the balcony in your skivvies. The neighbors have seen it anyway.

17.   Review the “Do it Yourself” astrology book, at least the simple parts at the front of the book.

18.   Be thankful you’re employed although bummed tomorrow is a 14-hour work day.

19.   Continue to be baffled at the thought of “Kitty Caps.” Seriously. Who came up with that?

                                                            That's enough meow!

20.   Wish you had that baby goat that you saw at Tractor Supply yesterday. He was so darn cute. (sidenote: I had just eaten bacon before I played with a piglet. Do you think he has to have counseling now based on my bacon breath? Poor guy.)

                                   He was too disgruntled (pun intended) to face the camera.

 

Moral of the story: Do your dang dishes or they start to smell like old people.

 

 

You Are What You Eat - Part Dos Equis

Well hello there, or as the gringo tourists say… “Ho-la.”

 

Last week I tried becoming Mexican by default. I ate a lot of Mexican food and drank only Mexican beers (minus that one whiskey slip up, but I am Irish so that shouldn’t count).

Stop judging me, gringos!

 

I went out with my Mexican friend tonight (Consuelita) and we had several epiphanies. I unintentionally ordered a margarita, then a XX, then a Modelo. It was like I had transformed into a real Mexicana without even trying.

Mexicans really know how to par-tay. I already knew this but it became so much clearer after 3 margaritas and this picture of a 10’ rooster.  What other culture gets away with a giant rooster painting and Christmas lights in August? (besides white trash. Y’all don’t count.)

                                                       Insert inappropriate joke here

 

Who else would think to throw a child’s birthday party and hang a hollow, animal-shaped creature up filled with candy and booze that you get to beat up and still win a prize? You get to beat it up and get  prizes… It’s like the Christmas morning of all things cultural.

                                                       Here's a white dude making fun of Mexicans

I appreciate that it’s easier to cuss in Spanish, and it seems less offensive. Every day words involve some type of profanity.

                                                                                 Si what I mean?

 

They also get to have mustaches and it’s part of their “culture.” I’m referring to men and women here.

 

     Here is Don Pedro. Or Maria.

 And last but certainly not least - the #1 reason I'm Mexican is because I've always wanted a baby goat for my birthday... and my birthday is September 6 so get ready you white suckers!

 

                                        Hey, I need this actual baby goat for my birthday.

                                                             Gracias!

 

Moral of the story: Mexicans are delicious.