Return of the Butt Chinned Man

I used to know this guy that tried to get me to give him a hand job once. He was a friend of a friend, and we were all hanging out in someone’s cat hair coated basement. He had recently come into my group as someone we’d known in fifth grade, but had long ago abandoned. Isn’t it weird that sometimes you reconnect with people you know you should despise, but can’t for the life of you remember why (This wouldn’t be the last time this human waste would pop up: he would later date my friend Stella, who told him he had a butt chin and we all made jokes that she was going to give his face a rim job).

Since I was a dewy and sweet-eyed junior, I was like, "Fuck y'all, I'm going home" the moment I felt any pressure to do anything, including pay for gas. He continued to flirt with me occasionally online, which I found insulting coming from a guy who had dated thereof my friends already. I really didn't give a shit if he were interested in me, being already firmly dedicated to The Boyfriend. Eventually he joined the Marines and dropped off the face of the planet.

When I was a sophomore in college, he sent me an online album to look at without warning. Just a simple “ping” on my screen was the only warning I received that a serious storm of asshole was coming my way. I hadn't heard from him in a year or so, so I was like, "Oh balls. I hope he's fat now,” and clicked on the link.

The album was filled with what can only be described as tiger beat shots: him in a wife beater over a lush bedspread, him at the helm of a ship looking into the distance, him in a park playing with a black lab.

Did I mention he has always had the face of a ten year old? Well he fucking did. It was rounded at all edges and he had a flesh colored beard over his very cherubic cleft-chin. He wore the same glasses I had when I was in fourth grade. I honestly felt dirty looking at him, like some kind of Humphrey being pursued by a Lolita-man.

Anyway, one of these shots was from the myspace angle and it was him shirtless in the shower. It didn’t show any nudity below the waist (Thank you, sweet, merciful Jesus), but it was a glamour shot of his noticeably hairless chest. Copious vomit is the least of what came out of me.

He asked me what I thought of that picture. I asked him if he were fucking joking. He said no, not at all. I told him I couldn't stop laughing. And that was the last thing I ever said to him because after that he never spoke to me again.

But seriously, it looked like kiddie porn.

This is a post by Julie, who seriously regrets leaving her all women high school for the real world.

Neighborhood Stories

So, Betsy had a son. For the time being, we are going to call Betsy's son Betsy Junior. Betsy Junior liked to torture me. Without further ado, here's some of Betsy Junior's favorite activities:

1. He liked to smoke in my car. Not that I ever willingly let him INTO my car. He would break into the car in the middle of the night, and smoke cigarettes. My car was fairly easy to break into, seeing as it was a peice of crap, and he liked to smoke cigarettes in it. My car was one giant ashtray for this guy. And yes, he was an adult. The nice old lady across the street told my mother, which cleared up a lot of questions for me, to be honest. I mean, I let my friends smoke it in, but I never saw one of them put out a Newport Xtra Long in my backseat. Nor did I ever see any of them SMOKE Newport Xtra Longs, seeing as none of them were 8o year old grandmothers.

2. In the winter, he would pee on the door locks of everyone's cars. Yeah, nothing like needing to use lock defreezer on someone else's PEE. I've never had to use it on my OWN pee, as a matter of fact. (Again, nice little old lady across the street solved this puzzle for all of us, not like it was a great mystery to begin with, but I digress.)

3. He would stand on his roof and when he felt the urge to pee, (you know, in the summer, seeing as he had a place to pee in the winter) he would just stand up and pee off the roof.

4. Assworms. Back in the day, some of the kids on the block went over to Betsy's house to play. We were too young (by about 10 years), but also, my mother could smell crazy from a mile away, so we were never allowed to go over and play. Those kids that went over to play? They all got assworms. Well, actually, pinworms. But that little peice of knowledge solidified in my little mind that assworms were REAL. Also, all the other kids obviously had eaten nothing but sugar while they were there.

I would like to take a moment to explain that my parents didn't live in a ghetto part of Chicago. They lived in one of the nicest parts of Chicago at the time all of this was happening.

So thank you Betsy Junior, you have given me something to write about this Friday morning! But seriously, stop peeing on my parents' door locks.

This Friday...

(No judgements here people! These ladies are my friends)

If you happen to be in the Chicagoland area, and want to get in to see a show for free, and love you some PBR (and who doesn't?)

Then you need to be here:

[caption id="attachment_668" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Vaudezilla!"][/caption]

 

You may even be able to hear some jokes that I wrote...

MOM FOR THE WIN

My sister Julie named her first bike "Crotch Biter" ...for obvious reasons.  She was about four or so when she learned how to ride a bike. She took to it pretty well, she only rode out into traffic once, so all things considered, that's pretty good.

We had a neighbor, named Betsy. Betsy has become infamous among my my family's friends for the various escapes she has gotten into.

Betsy saw Julie having a little too much fun, and came out to tell her that she was calling the police because Julie was riding her bike on the sidewalks too fast.  Julie, being four years old, was understandably freaked out, and ran home to our mother. Julie ran into the house screaming that the "fuzz was out to get her."

My mother instantly knew what was going on, as she has had many run ins with Betsy herself. She kindly told my sister that she hoped that the police did come out, because she would like to tell them about all the various crap Betsy had done to our family and others on the block, and that no, Julie was not going to jail.

When my parents first moved into the house, my mother was taking out the garbage, and ran into Betsy. She thought Betsy was a nice friendly neighbor. Then Betsy told her about how when the previous owner of our house died, Betsy and her family entered the house and took all the meat out of his freezer, seeing as how he had no use for it anymore.

This little tid bit set off the "Freak Alarm" in my mother's head, and my mother politely tried to go back into the house. Betsy tried to follow after. My mother again tried to politely say that she had things to do, again, Betsy tried to come into the house. My mother ended up abandoning all politeness and shoving her out of the house and locking the door, after a couple more attempts.

And Betsy wasn't the only one in her family that had a screw loose. She had a daughter and a son. I will get to the son in another post, because he is a piece of work.

My brother and my favorite winter activity was packing snow tightly against one side of our front steps, and then going sledding down them. We lived in Chicago - a flat, midwestern city. There were literally no hills to be had in our neighborhood. So, being ingenious little children that we were, we figured out how to make our own snow hill for sledding.

Betsy's daughter (who was a teenager at the time, when we were roughly six and seven) was walking by as we were sledding. She remarked that we must think we are so clever but she and her friends had done this sledding trick way before us.  We replied that she must think she is so clever even though she probably wasn't the kid who invented it, and if she did, she should have patented it, but I guess you're not that clever. (See, we were little snarky asses even then!)

She went home and told her mother, and Betsy promptly came on over to give us the what for. My brother and I had to keep from peeing our snowsuits from laughter. Betsy was literally the only adult we were NOT afraid of getting yelled at by. Part of it was even as children we could tell she was an idiot, and the other part was listening to my mother describe her as "that IDIOT" (high emphasis on the idiot part, as though she is YELLING it.) when describing Betsy to my father.

My mother happened to get home at the time Betsy was yelling at us, and my mother, with baby Julie in one arm and a gallon of milk in the other, walks up to the scene. This is what I remember of that day:

Betsy: Your bratty children told my daughter she wasn't clever enough to patent a SNOW idea! Can you believe that!

Mom: Did she patent it?

Betsy (obviously confused): Well no...

Mom: Well, that would make my children correct, wouldn't it? Come on kids, back in the house. Oh and Betsy, never talk to my children again.

MOM FOR THE WIN. Whenever it came to Betsy, no matter what we did, we always knew our mother would have our backs.

This post has obviously been brought to you by Enna, as Julie was probably too preoccupied with all the snow, seeing as she was only one at the time.

Dad's Graduation Road Trip

My father graduated from college a couple of years ago. But, because he is a member of my family, he graduated college on the other end of the earth. Ok, not really, it was in Washington D.C. But to my little sister Julie, who does not drive and doesn't fly, it was at the end of the earth. My mother came up with a solution - I would drive Julie to Ohio in her car, where we would meet up with my brother, and he would drive the rest of the way to Washington D.C.

This would mark the first solo road trip with just Julie and Enna in the car. I picked her up, and off on the road we went. Now, I am not a very good driver when it comes to inclement conditions. Eric often jokes that I need to live in Southern California, because every time it rains or snows, I freak out behind the wheel. And since I live in Chicago, it rains or snows roughly 300 days a year. When we left, it was perfectly clear.

Julie and I hit the road. I have 5 paper maps in the car, and directions printed out from Mapquest, Google Maps, and Yahoo Maps. Julie is navigator, seeing as she does not drive, but also, she doesn't read maps, which was something I had not considered before starting out on this cross country journey.

Midway through Indiana, I stop at a rest stop. While in the rest stop, I discover the awesomest most greatest food item ever imagined by man: A Jello Shaped and Flavored Pickle. Julie swears it was just a rotten pickle. Either way, it was TASTY.



Julie originally thought that I had just bought a pickle, until I wiggled it at her, and the top half broke off and rolled under the seat, a pleasant discovery for my mother at a later date. (It was probably hairy the second it hit the floor too, adding to the surprise.)

About halfway through the state of Indiana, it started to rain. And then it really started to rain. And then it started to hail. All the while, my knuckles are getting whiter and whiter, and Julie is getting more and more apologetic.  Then I see it on the horizon: A tornado. I am driving towards a tornado.

I freak out. Like, really freak out. Like I am screaming in a high pitched whine that was probably only audible to dogs in the area. Because we are in Indiana, the land is completely flat, and there is only one road, no overpasses to hide under, nothing. There is nothing but flat land around the car, and I am freaking out.

Right about this time, Julie notices that the giant, twister shaped mass of grey on the horizon is coming out of a smoke stack.

Julie: "Enna! It's just pollution! It's coming from a smoke stack! Pollution!"

Me: "Are you sure? ARE YOU SURE IT'S JUST POLLUTION! JULIE ARE THESE TWISTER LIKE CONDITIONS? ARE THEY?!"

Julie:  "Nope, just pollution. Sweet, sweet Midwestern pollution!"

Me: "OH THANK GOD. Dude that was so scary I thought..Ewww...it's a pork rendering plant."

Julie: "Oh...oh man that's nasty. I actually would prefer a twister right about now."

Me: "Me too."

It was the best roadtrip that Julie and I ever took on our own. We were very proud of ourselves that we handled the almost twister situation admirably. And when I say admirably, I mean we freaked out and may or may not have had to pull over to the side of the road to get a change of pants.

This story has been brought to you by Enna, who cannot wait for Julie to be able to drive so she can force her to drive to the middle of Wisconsin in February.

20 Things

As some of you might know, I have a few sleep issues.  Very often this means that I will get up in the middle of and destroy random things in my house. Or, you know, filling the bathtub with water and then throwing all toilet paper, copy paper, paper towels, and napkins in it. Sometimes though, I will just say random things in the middle of the night. Sometimes, I frantically shake Eric awake to tell him these little gems of wisdom. Here is a list of things I have woken up to tell Eric, as told by Eric:

1. I hate bananas! HOW DARE YOU?


2. We should kill her. She has ugly shoes.


3. The toxicology report came back - you have too many elves in your blood.


4. Happy Mother's Day! I got you a stripper!


5. Cocaine! I'm sorry - what IS cocaine? (Groggy Eric "So that makes me Alex Trebek then?")


6. Maybe the elephant ate it!


7. I think I have lice. (Eric: "I think that means I have lice too." Me: "No, lice are like Ice-T, they only like white women." Eric: "GOOD GOD. Either way, we will deal with this in the morning." PS I LOVE COCO, I don't know where this came from...)


8. Something smells like menthol and poop.


9. The keys? I left them in your mouth. (Eric, holding the keys: "I KNOW ENNA, THANKS FOR PUTTING THEM THERE WHILE I WAS SLEEPING.")


10. What tastes like purple?


11. Pssst, my shoes smell like Eskimos.


12. The ninja is back - he's  in my closet!


13. No! That's MY onion!


14. You were in my pocket! I smooshed you! OH I AM SO HAPPY YOU ARE STILL ALIVE. (Eric: "As am I.")


15. Spaghetti cat! NO!


16. They paid me in bacon!? How am I supposed to pay the bills with bacon?! It's cool but still...


17. I think AT&T might be trying to kill me (Eric: "But not Comcast? Interesting.")


18. Where is my engagement ring? Oh, right, I ate it. (Eric was WIDE awake after that one, just because it was entirely possible.)


19. Dude, wake up, I ate a button, it's totally cool. It wasn't my ring. Still...where did the button come from?


20. This pill will ensure I will never get sick again. But it's covered in ear wax, so I think I will pass.

For those of you who work with Eric and read this, I am sure this explains why he is so gwumpy when he comes to work in the morning.

This post has been brought to you by Enna, Queen of Sleepwalking.

Mistakes Were Made

Ok, so I went on a job interview on Friday, and well...mistakes were made. Huge mistakes. But do not worry, my mistakes equal your humor.

Mistake #1: Purposely giving myself diarrhea.  I know what you're thinking - how, and why, right? Yeah. See, when I heard I had an interview, my buddy and I decided to go celebrate. THE DAY BEFORE the interview. So, we went out to Hooters, got nice and crunk, and ate our weights in Three Mile Island in chicken wings. The next day, I am waiting to go into the interview, and it occurs to me: I have to use the bathroom. NOW. But, because my luck is SO bad, that exact moment was when the interviewer came out to get me. He could hear my bowels moving and gurgling and shuffling around. It sounded like a rundown nursing home in my small intestine. I, having learned well from my sister, decided to not fart to ease the pressure, which could turn out to be the smartest thing I did all day. 

Mistake #2: I wore a cute shirt. You know that cute pink shirt that is a button down and goes really well with your brown suit? Don't wear it to an interview. Because when I wore my favorite cute pink shirt, it decided the rebel against me.  Midway through the interview, a button came off. Apparently I wear my favorite cute pink shirt too much, and it was getting a bit threadbare. It didn't pop off and clink against a glass, thank goodness, and it didn't pop off and expose something I could cover up with my sportcoat, like my stomach or something. No, it inconspiciously popped off so that I was exposing a little too much cleavage to seem professional. So much cleavage, in fact, that it looked like porno music was about to start playing at any moment and things were about to get funky in that office. I, of course, did not notice this fact until I got home.

Mistake #3: I do not have an MBA.  After the interview, the recruiter I was working with stopped me on my way out the door. "You have an MBA, right?" Uh, no, I do not.  Thank you for that little shot to my self esteem, and for making it just a little bit longer before I could get to a bathroom.

Mistake #4: I used their unisex bathroom. So, after that tremendous interview, I used their unisex bathroom, and proceeded to give my memory a jolt about why it isn't the smartest thing to eat your weight in buffalo wings. Who was in the stall next to me? The interviewer, of course. I hightailed it out of there and skipped washing my hands (I know, I am gross) for fear that he would come out of the stall and see that the girl with the horrible bowel problems was the girl he just interviewed for the position.

All in all, I think it went well, don't you? I mean, who wouldn't want to hire the horrible smelling, non-hand-washing, non-MBA-having, porno mistress of the Chicago suburbs?

This delightful tale of woe has been brought to you by Enna, queen of Hooters.

What Are You Searching For, My Son

I am just going to go ahead and pretend that when people search for terms, and they come upon my blog, they are really asking for advice. I feel much more special that way.

So, without further ado, here is some advice for the seekers of the world:

Witty things to say to after a man kicks you? How about I AM CALLING THE COPS ASSHAT. Or, since I am trying to quit swearing, you could scream "penis casket" at them. Penis casket is one of my person favorites, because it is something someone searched for too, and lo, they came upon my blog!

How is the job searching going? GREAT! I have a couple interviews scheduled for today, thanks for asking. Though, this isn't really seek advice.

Why eat fruit and cheese together? Because it is OH SO good.

Is hippopotamus kosher? Uh. No. That could very well be the least kosher food out there.

My cat accidentally ate weed, what do I do? LMAO. Really? My best advice would be get a better storage space for your weed, you know, other than your cats bowl. (Ba-da-dum! It's a play on words!)

What is reply all? If you don't know, don't use it!

Potatoes rotting smell terrible why? I do not know! But it is totally gross. I have smelled a dead body before (not purposely, like I got all up on it to sniff or anything) and rotten potatoes smell worse.

Is there kosher pork for dogs? I am more surprised that you have a Jewish dog than anything else...

What are puff gams? Probably something like this...



Should I be weirded out that this is a VERY common search term for this blog? Maybe.

What is Pedegg Cheese? Dude, you seriously do not want to know. I do not want to know...

Ok, that's it folks, the rest of the search terms are too crude or otherwise boring to post here. Wish me luck, because as you are reading this I am probably off on job interviews!

 

This has been a post by Enna, whose gams are nicer than those pictured above!

Julie-Doo

Let me preface this story by saying that as the youngest of three children, when an older sibling gives you and item of clothing that is not completely threadbare or filled with jelly you hold onto that piece of clothing for dear life.

It gets harder when your siblings are considerably older, because you always run the risk of being half a decade behind, fashion-wise. This is particularly true of pants. Tapered legs were never popular as far as I can tell, but in the late nineties I ended up slitting the legs halfway up my calves just so I could pull them up.

I know what you're thinking: why wouldn't my mother just buy me pants? Well, for one thing, until the doctor confirmed that the growth plates in my wrists had finally matured, I was not getting any damn new pants. I was projected to be six feet tall by the time I finished growing, so I have to hand it to my mom, she knew what she was talking about. I'd grow out of pants in six weeks. Particularly hideous hand me downs (turquoise and mauve geometric shapes, gem stoned pockets, and for some reason, panda shirts were all very common) caused me to beg my mother to get a new pair of pants I could wear after school. She would sigh and remind me that that she and my father were dedicated to putting ALL THREE of us through CATHOLIC SCHOOL and she didn't even know why because I SWEAR LIKE AN IRATE SAILOR anyway and wouldn't I rather have a shiny new vocabulary workshop book to prepare for the Terra Nova test? Thus I spent most of my childhood in over-sized sweaters and pastel stretch-pants with stir-ups.

So when my brother handed me a baggy pair of corduroys that I could have without even doing his chores or being farted on and I just had to sew up the ass, I was elated! I called two girlfriends and to show off my new old pants, we walked the mile to a burger joint I thought was cool and grown up enough for such an occasion.

It must have been the unexpected heat of a Chicago April baking me in my new corduroys. Or the long walk from my house to the drive-in dinner. Or the double chili cheese dog with mustard I tried because it reminded me of Sonic the Hedgehog. Maybe it was a perfect storm of searing gastrointestinal pain just waiting for me. One thing is clear, however: I had to shit and I had to shit right then.

As an owner and proprietor of a vagina, let me tell you this now: when you have to shit, you can tell no one. Not even your closest friends. Ever. My friend Mary was a smart kid, she heard we were going a whole mile somewhere, and brought her bike along. My friend Caitlin, however, chose this moment in her life to test out her brand new sandals. Every fifteen steps or so, Caitlin would have to stop, reach down, and adjust her sandals. I was drenched in sweat and trying very dearly to keep my internal organs from flying out of my ass at jet speed. Surely it would propel me home, but at what cost? I told my comrades that I "had to pee" and asked them if they could speed up a little. Unfortunately, Caitlin was hunched over her shoes again, and took my impatience as an insult. "I'm not the one that had two cokes, Julie," she huffed, "We'll get there when we get there." She had all the bossy air of her mother running a bake sale, something only prepubescent girls think will earn them respect. I was about to say something snide back when I was doubled over in pain again. "Okay," I told myself, "Just let a little gas out. No poop, just gas. It will relieve the pressure. No poop, just gas. No poop, just gas."

I let a small, long low fart go and regained some mobility for a few more feet before both Mary and Caitlin commented that they thought there must be an open sewer nearby. After letting out a little gas, I thought I would be okay to get home. I only had three more blocks; I was more than halfway done!

Again, just as suddenly, I was hit with a wave of nausea and I was sure I was going to crap my pants or vomit all over the only two friends I had. I grabbed Mary's bike, promised I would bring it by her house when I got home, but, y'know, I just had to pee so badly. Mary understood and I pedaled her bike into the street as fast as I could go. Not only was I going home, I was making a clean enough break away from my friends that I could fart all I wanted to.

And let me tell you, I let it rip.

But reader, have you ever experience trying to hold in a massive load while riding a bike? I bet you haven't, but I am here to testify that it was my own personal hell. I couldn't go too fast for fear of losing control of my bowels. I couldn't go too slowly or it guaranteed that I would shit myself. On a bike. That I borrowed from my friend.

Finally, I got to my own back yard and carefully parked the bike. I was euphoric. I might end up shitting myself later in life as a sloppy drunk, or on some exotic vacation, but damn it, I was still young and I could still control my sphincter!

It wasn't going to happen to me! Not today!

That shit fairy was going to fly right past me. This is the problem with that line of thinking: I was so overjoyed as I reached for my back door, that my asshole just let it all go. I felt the new seam I had just sewn break down the seat of my pants and a few thuds echoed off the deck. The deck my father and uncle built by hand. And now I was shitting on it. I held the rest of the poop in my pants with my hand and the horror-vomit to a minimum as I ran for the bathroom. Recklessly, I bagged up my pants, showered all the Julie-doo out of my asscrack and changed pants hoping no one would notice. I went outside and threw the pants away in a dumpster (Sorry, Chicago Streets and Sanitation) with a twinge of regret for my pants.

I stood there wondering if I could salvage them for a minute before leaving them in their final resting place to rinse off the porch. I was hoping everyone would think my terrier just had a ridiculous shit and not think twice. Since he had a reputation for just such an act, no one ever asked why a bear sized pile was on the pavement.

One regrettable thing did occur, however: Mary needed her bike sooner than I assumed. The bike had been hit by the hose and she stared suspiciously at me for some time wondering if I made it home in time or if I peed all over the bike she was merciful enough to lend me. Later that day, my sister and mother both talked about the horrible stench I left behind in the bathroom, wondering aloud at the dinner tale what could possibly have happened to me to give me such awful shits. But my secret was safe, until ten years later in a bout of exhibitionism I'm writing it to you.

I know what you're thinking: how could I have possibly thought twice about saving those wretched pants? For one thing, they were good pants. They fit. They didn't have pandas on them. And I seriously needed them. But they were an absolute lost cause. I will know I am wealthy enough when I can shit my pants and throw them out without any regrets. Until then I hoard my pants.

This post has been brought to you by Julie. Obviously. Because the last time Enna checked, Enna was only 5'7 and a half.

Introducing: Julie!

So, I asked Julie to write an introductory post, and she did. Well, I guess you could say she did, seeing as how it is a post...though not a large one:

Hi, I'm Julie. I just thought I'd peek in and introduce myself. I'm a redhead history major. I draw comics and participate in democracy.

I look forward to alienating all of you with how truly disgusting I can be.

So yeah, that's Julie. If you want to learn more about her, you can read the following:

Take a gander at her About Me Page.

Or maybe you would like to know about her FAQ (scroll down halfway through the page.)

Will she ever go to the DMV and learn to drive? Who knows.

She was the first to discover that I sleep with my eyes open.

She frequently would get her hand stuck to her hair as a child.

She tried to run down the Burger King.

She likes to make me take "angry showers."

She often blames my faults on our father.

She sends me humorous text messages.

...and I send her strange text messages.

She has been attacked by me over "bears" while I was sleeping.

(This post is totally the "clip show" of the blogging world!)

Conversations

This is a story about a buddy of mine...she was sent to a women's empowerment seminar by her company...

The other day, when I posted my various text messages, I wanted to post this conversation between my friend and myself. She said no way, but I finally convinced her that this is possibly the funniest thing I have ever read, she agreed, as long as I changed her name and some details.

Gina: You still unemployed?

Me: Yes! Do you know of a job opening? IS YOUR COMPANY HIRING?!

Gina: No. I just wanted to make sure you were at home so I have someone to talk to. You are so needy!

Me: Dammit. You got my hopes up.

Gina: Sorry. I swear is someone else tells me how powerful my vag is I am going on a killing spree.

Me: I'm sorry...what?

Gina: I'm in one of those tolerance and women empowerment seminars.

Backstory: Gina got caught with various people she works with telling a sexist joke. Someone else told the joke, but she was sent to a tolerance seminar anyhow, because she was laughing too.

Gina: The joke was funny.

Me: Do you know who told on you?

Gina: Yes I do. And I am going to shit in the shape of a muffin and give it to her when I get back to the office.

Me: Daaaaaamn.

Gina: The leader of this shindig is all about women's empowerment. She keeps telling everyone that their vaginas are powerful and we as women must stand up for other women.

Me: Haha! I find it so funny your company is paying for this. She sounds like the type of girl who couldn't get into a sorority in college.

Gina: DEAD ON. I feel really bad for the men in this thing though. You can tell they are totally uncomfortable.

Me: THERE ARE MEN THERE?!

Gina: Yeah. And every time they try to have some input the Leader of the Vagina Army keeps glaring at them and cutting them off.

Me: WOW.

Gina: One guy was trying to tell a story about his wife giving birth and his respect for women and it didn't go too well.

Me: Oh please do share I am dying of laughter over here.

Gina: She waits for the poor SOB to finish his story and then she tells us this is just another way men try to steal an experience from women. CHILDBIRTH IS A WOMAN'S EXPERIENCE ONLY ENNA.

Me: Wooooooow.

Gina: The guys all learned to keep their heads down and doodle after that.

Me: I bet they're doodling what their maginificent vaginas would look like if they could steal them from the women!

(Long pause)

Me: You still there?

Gina: I totally got busted for laughing. The Leader of the Vagina Army came right over and asked what was funny.

Me: What did you say?

Gina: What could I say? I had no other choice...

Me: WHAT DID YOU SAY?

Gina: ...penises.

Me: Hahahahahaha

Gina: Then the guys started laughing. Then she said we were taking a break, and asked to see me privately.

Me: Uh oh

Gina: She told me I was what was wrong with women these days.

Me: GTFO!

Gina: I told her that since this was not a pass/fail situation, and as long as I do not walk out, this doesn't go in my file at work. I just have to get through eight hours of this crap. And IT IS CRAP.

Me: What did she say?

Gina: She went on a tirade about vaginas. I dunno. I stopped paying attention. She was eating up my smoke break time, plus I wanted to go outside and see what the guys were all saying.

Me: Priceless!

Gina: I only have two more hours of this crap. I should try not to get kicked out though, so I should stop texting.

Me: Ok, but one last thing before you go...

Gina: What?

Me: Your vagina is magnificent! IT CAN CHANGE THE WORLD GINA! VAGINA POWER!

Gina: Go to hell.

Save The Sea Kittens!

Full Disclosure: I hate Peta. No, I mean I really hate Peta. You would think that I would love them being a little hippy-dippy mama, but no. I hate them. If my choices are giving money to Peta or giving money to...well...just about anything, I would choose just about anything in spades.

I find Peta's message obnoxious. They want to give rights to animals. Uh, yeah, there's still humans without rights. People cannot marry who they want in America, and in the world, there are more slaves now than there ever has been in history. So yeah, Peta, sorry if I could give a royal crap about whether or not pigs are happy.

Now, I fully understand that chickens and pigs and all the other tasty animals of the earth are treated like crap when held in captivity by some people. And that they are eventually slaughtered for human consumption. I also know that they are against animal testing for medical purposes, which is just asinine. I am all for no animal testing for cosmetics, but dang Peta, without animals, we wouldn't have a whole lot of medicines. Too many to list here, in what is supposed to be a humor blog.

Peta has a campaign going right now that is trying to get people to see fish as "Sea Kittens." Does anyone see why this particular campaign wouldn't exactly work for me? I mean, I love fish. I also love kittens. Both are pretty darn tasty with lemon butter right off a BBQ.

In other animal news, someone came upon my blog searching for something that made me laugh out loud:



Uh sorry dude, there is none. Everyone knows poodles are asshole naturally. The haircut is a bit of a warning for the rest of us...

Kind of like when you see a guy wearing a red tie you just know he is going to be an asshole...



If you are wondering what is going on here, why the name change and all that - scroll down a little bit more - I updated about it. Yes, that's right, I updated more than once in one day.

For Those of You with Google Reader!

This will be the LAST post under FatPinkHippo! You have to update your Google Reader! Add www.kosherporkchops.com to your google reader to keep following me!

Redesign!

Hi folks! You may have noticed a few changes...

Like, for instance, the name of my blog has changed. It is no longer "Tact is for Those Clever Enough to Be Witty" and is now Kosher Porkchops. The blog's address is no longer fatpinkhippo.wordpress.com, but www.KosherPorkchops.com.

My sister, in her awesome generosity, has gifted me with a domain name.  She also has gifted me with her presence in the sense that she will now also be posting here, mostly comics, but sometimes actual posts. My sister's name is Julie, because when I wrote about her in the past, that is what I chose to name her. Hence, she is saving me much much much editing by just saying that her name is Julie. THANK YOU JULIE.

If you're wondering where the name Kosher Porkchops came from, he's the delightful story:

Once, I came home, and my sister was in the process of Koshering meat. (Boiling in salt water, essentially, for those of you who do not know.) I asked her what she was koshering, and she replied:

"Pork chops."

I stopped in my place. "Pork chops?" I asked.

"Yeah." she replied.

"Julie, I am pretty sure that is an affont to God." I said.

"Yeah, but it's a pretty tasty affront to God." She replied.

Hence, when trying to figure out a domain name that worked for the both of us, she came up with Kosher Porkchops. Since, you know, this blog is probably an affront to God as well.

I am pretty sure your links in your blogrolls will still point to me and this blog, but I am not sure. When I type in my old blog address at wordpress, it redirects here, so I think we are good. But you should probably change them anyhow, mostly because I enjoy making your lives difficult.

Now, for those of you smart people who use Google Reader, I think it automatically changes. I have google reader as well, and after this post I am going to check it out and see if it works.

(For those of you who do not know what google reader IS, let me explain. Google Reader - found at reader.google.com - is a service where you can subscribe to all your favorite blogs and read them all at once in one convenient place. For those of you who read blogs at work - I HIGHLY recommend it. To your IT department, it looks like you only look at one site a day when dicking around, not, say, 45. Plus they cannot track you and your habits on the net.)

UPDATE: Oh no Google Reader doesn't automatically redirect. Fuuuuuudge.

UPDATE X 2: Wait...no I think it does update in Google Reader. Whew.

Cajun Super Spicy Week

I didn't start out in the donut industry. I originally started in the chicken industry. Yes, it is absolutely as glamorous as you imagine it would be.

I worked in a store, as a fast food employee. We had a promotion that  I am going to call Cajun Super Spicy Week.  I call it Cajun Super Spicy Week because of what it did gastronomically to the customers. The problem with Cajun Super Spicy Week is that the low man on the totem pole had to clean the bathroom. AND I WAS THE LOW MAN.

Now, I can put up with exploding vegetables, my hands swelling up, eating a cat. But I cannot put up with what comes out of people when they have spicy cajun food. And I cannot put up with the general publics' bathroom habits.

Here are some of the things I was required to clean during Cajun Super Spicy Week:

1. Baby Diapers. Who hates their baby enough that they order them Cajun food? I mean really, you have to hate a child to do that to them.  But more than that, when they change their children, they often would put the diapers rolled up in random places for me to find. Like, surprise! A stinky little gift for you! My favorite was the woman who left the diaper in the sink and turned on the water and then walked away.

2. 4 Pairs of soiled men's underwear. Men's. I kind of would expected women's, but men's was a little weird.

3. Poo everywhere. Imagine someone took a fire extinguisher filled with poop and sprayed it all over the bathroom. That is what I would daily walk in to.

4. Toilet paper everywhere.  Ka-BOOM toilet paper explosion!

Well, after a couple of days, I got tired of cleaning the bathroom. I locked the bathroom, and put up a sign that said our bathroom was out of order and to go across the street to McDonald's.

After about half a day, McDonald's called and said that under no circumstances would we be able to have our customers use their bathrooms ever again. And also, that our customers were the most disgusting that they had ever seen. And that came from a McDonald's employee.

So yeah, that was about the worst week of work ever. But luckily, my family was there to laugh at me every day when I got home and was too traumatized to talk about it.

Because that is what family is for - laughing at you when you are covered in other people's poop.

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It...Ah Crap

It snowed here in Chicago. A lot. And then the tempatures dropped. A lot.

The funny thing about how low the temps dropped is that while waiting for a train to pass, the exhaust from all the cars rises up so you cannot even see the cars in front of you anymore, it's like you're just sitting in a fog.

Texty-La-Roo

I figured out how to send text messages from my email to all my friends, which is pretty awesome, especially since I have to pay for every text message I receive and send with my cell phone (yes, my plan is from the dark ages, thank you for noticing.)

The other plus side of this (other than the FREE side) is that I now have 4 billion text messages in my inbox. Ok, not really 4 billion, but you get the idea. Apparently, I was the only person who actually worked all day instead of texting their friends. Without further ado, here's some texts I have received in the past week or so. Names have been changed to protect the slackers and perverts I call friends:

• Wait. My mom and dad had Urtha Kitt over for dinner? When?


• What what in the butt?


• Are you angry with me?! If you are you know that means feud! *puts on feuding overalls and fills burlap sack with chickens* OH THIS FEUD IS ON!


• What? Oh well, just add it to the list of crap he hates about me [we were talking about her 2 year old]


• MARY AGNES STOP IT


• I nailed that interview like the west coast nails Paris Hilton.


• Well, say a little prayer for me. And you have done plenty to torture the dead. And you know it.


• When do you find out so we can go ape crazy on the thrift stores?


• Those gals need a swift kick in their junk.


• I busted out the rosary the other day because it felt like a ghost slapped me awake.


• Holy shit! Way to go! Slam that vag!! [Accidentally sent to me.]


• MMMMMM BITCH I SEEN YOU! KARMA SEENT YOU BITCH!


• We will create you a fake name, Like Gusty Vaginatastic.


• I'm stuffing envelopes for work and I wish to God I had proofread these things for them.


• So I pork my husband in the cemetary? A gal has to spice things up sometimes.


• I will not forget, it will be like 9/11.


• I saw that. Dude Tony Blair is the shit.


• In high school, she had more pubes in her teeth than I had on my snatch. True story.


• I hate trashy short wedding dresses. They reek of STDs.


• I will single handedly RUN THAT SHIT. Even if it's into the ground. EVEN IF IT'S INTO THE GROUND, GINA, INTO THE GROUND!

I need a job, this is getting too amusing for me.

Hair! Everywhere!

All this time off of work, I have a lot of time on my hands. This time has been converted into cleaning darn near everything. Eric jokes that when he is eating, he isn't even done yet before I am loading his plate into the dishwasher.

So, after running out of dishes, I decided to tackle the towels. My towels, and maybe this is just my towels, but they smell bad pretty darn quickly.  They go from Snuggle Bear fresh to floor of a men's rest stop bathroom extremely fast.

My sister was the first to figure this out, well, besides Eric and myself.  She came out of my bathroom once with a perplexed look on her face. "Enna" she said, "why do your towels smell like John Goodman's ass after a serious workout?"

Since then, I try to make sure when people come over the towels smell better. This usually means a mad dash to the washer and dryer in my building about an hour before people walk in my door.

So, with this time off, and the dishes being done, I collect all the towels in the house, and proceed to wash them. When the washing is done, I pop them over to the dryer. I pop it on, and go back to searching the internet for jobs and/or recipes for cat because now I have the taste for mammal blood.

I come back to the dryer, pull my towels out, and then proceed to take the giant layer of lint out of the lint trap.

I should stop at this point and mention that this is a shared washer and dryer in our building. We are not allowed to have washers and dryers in our individual units.

So, as I am pulling this epic lint out of the dryer trap (because towels always leave epic lint) I notice on the underside of the lint, under the towel lint, there is a layer of hair.  Now, layer of hair doesn't describe this properly. It looks like someone skinned a gray squirrel and put it in the dryer lint trap.

How, on God's green earth, I did not notice this when I was putting the towels INTO the dryer, I will never know.

So I promptly flip out. I start inspecting my towels for someone else's hair. I decide at that point rewash my towels in another washer and dryer, because I cannot for the life of me stop freaking out about the idea of toweling off and finding weird gray hairs all over me. Because you know they would stick to freshly washed skin.

So I go to another washer and dryer, and before I start this, I inspect the washing machine. So far so good, no hair. Then I check the dryer. GOBS OF HAIR. I mean, how does that even happen??? I keep picturing a man looking at a calendar, noticing the date, and then saying to himself  "Well look at that! It's time to wash my bags of hair again!"

So, instead of washing my towels once again, I decide against it, and just resign to the fact that someone else's hair might be on my towels. I am now trusting in the blowing power of my dryer.

And I cannot for the life of me bring myself to take a shower. I keep waiting for Eric to do it first, like maybe all the hair will stick to him, and I can get away scott free.

Or maybe I can wash them in my dishwasher...

So, Enna, How is the Job Search Going?

I will tell you how it is going: STELLER. No, I am not being sarcastic. However, I am finding it difficult not to "be myself" when applying to jobs.  What I mean by this is I want to write snarky comical comments in my cover letter to make it stand out. But I also do not want people to be put off my these comments. So, without further ado, here is my cover letter. The Italicized text is what I want to say, the normal text is what I do say.

January 13, 2008

 

 Dear Sir or Madam, Dear person who holds my financial security in their hands,

This letter is to express my interest in the position listed on your website thank you for making your site hard to navigate, by the way, and for saying an MBA is required for your receptionist position, that made me feel great.  Based on my skills in Microsoft Excel, Access, Word, and Powerpoint and anything else Microsoft comes out with, and my previous administrative, financial, and office management experience, I am confident that I would be a great addition to your team. I want you to hire me. Please hire me. I am going stir crazy. I am a workaholic, and this unemployment thing is killing me. I know a person should not be defined by their job, but I am. I love working. And I would make a great addition to you team. I golf. I golf WELL too. I cannot play softball too well, but I will make sure you have enough gatorade and snacks for after the game. And I will drive you home after the game when you get too drunk. I will also memorize your wife and children's birthdays and anniversaries and send you reminders and gift suggestions. I know almost all the laws of Judaism if that helps you, and can tell from a mile away if something is Kosher or not. And I guarantee your wife will like me. I am also the person who shows up to company events and makes sure everyone gets home ok. I am the person who will show up to your New Years party, and the bar for a drink after work on Friday. I like a good sexist joke, and I won't tell on you to HR for using the word 'broad.' I probably know more filthy jokes than you do.

In addition to the skills listed on my resume and they are many, I would like to highlight that I am professional though I love a good whoopee cushion joke, punctual actually I am perpetually early, but more importantly, I am personable and very customer service oriented actually I am company-oriented but apparently no one wants to hear that. My hobbies outside of work include volunteering in my community through my local church I am their marketing rep, yes, Jesus needs a marketing rep, reading mostly boring books you would never have heard of, and quilting I swear I am not an 80 year old grandmother. I also blog, but apparently that makes people who hire nervous, plus probably I use the C-word too much for your liking.

I am excited about the position and the ability to help your company succeed actually I am excited about you hiring me. Thank you in advance for your time I guess. I would appreciate the opportunity to review my qualifications in more detail and if you have any questions or comments, please feel to contact me at [my phone number].
Sincerely,

Enna S. Now please fricken hire me!

My Top Ten Guilty Pleasures

This is a list of a my top ten guilty pleasures. AKA the ten things I am going to buy/do when I get a job again. I am numbering them for the sake of organization, not because I like one more than another.

10. Cheese. Oh sweet lady cheese. I swear, the chocolate gene in my brain was replaced by a Dairy Fat Gene.  If someone, say the French (because you know they would) carved a man-shape into the block of cheese, I would leave Eric for it. I am not kidding. I would come back to Eric in about 20 minutes, because that is how long it would take for me to cannibalize it.

9. Lox. I am so seriously allergic to salmon. I have a bad stomach reaction to it, but do I care? Nope. Every single time I am offered smoked salmon or Lox I jump at the chance to eat it.  The only saving grace to this one is it's only like what? 5 calories for the whole damn salmon? COME TO MAMA.

8. New socks. Oh man do I love new socks.  In my address book, underneath people's addresses is a small notation that says "socks" which means their house is a house where a visitor is required to take off their shoes when they enter. I usually save a couple of pairs and hide them from Eric for just such and occasion. And bowling. Whenever I refer to my address book, I imagine Martha Stewart doing the exact same thing.

7. Flip Flops. You think with this love affair I have going on with socks, I would never wear flip flops. If it is warmer than 50 degrees out, I am wearing flip flops. I love love love them. Something about being able to see my toes whenever I darn well please makes me happy.

6. Elephants. When I write my memiors, I will title it "Socks, Elephants, and Cheese: This Fat Girl's Story" because if I keep eating cheese, let's face it, I will be fat. I have a serious thing for elephants. Last Christmas, Eric and I went to New Orleans, and somewhere in New Orleans there is a wooden toy shop. I bought a small elephant there. Eric kept asking me did I want a souveier, and I kept taking the small elephant out of my pocket and telling him no, I already have a pocket elephant, and really, what else could a girl want?! I also kept making elephant noises in church when we went to midnight mass at St. Louis Cathedral. Because, you know, that's what Jesus would have done.

5. Make-up. Oh man, do I love make-up. There were days at work where I wouldn't even WEAR any, but dang, if I do not own a TON of it. If you compiled all my beauty products into one place, you could fill up one of those half sized Rubbermaid bins. Yeah. I know.

4. Bacon wrapped water chestnuts. I own a George Forman grill for one reason and one reason alone: Bacon and Water Chestnuts. I know, I know, bacon and ANYTHING is good, but man, this is the best! You just wrap the water chestnuts with bacon, secure with a toothpick, and grill them on up. This can also be an hor dourve. But, if you're like me, you will just eat the whole dang plate of them and then pick up some cookies on the way to the party.

3. Dress Shirts. I love button down dress shirts. My sister to can attest to this. Once, we went to a second-hand store, and they had aisle upon aisle of color coded dress shirts for women. I almost peed myself.  And, at a quarter a piece, I pretty much bought myself a new wardrobe for under $20.

2. Pickled Jalapenos. I could eat a jar of these in one sitting. I am not even kidding. I fricken love spicey food, and these fit the bill for me.

1. All the creatures of the sea. Mussels? I will eat them. Crab Legs? I will eat them. Lobsters? I will eat them. Fish? I will eat them. Clams? I will eat them. Frog legs? I will eat them. There is very little that can be found in the sea or really, your run-of-the-mill aquarium that I will not eat.  How kosher is it? Not at all? THEN PUT IT ON MY PLATE WITH SOME LEMON BUTTER.

Ok folks, that's it. Say a little prayer for me, I am up for a pretty awesome-sauce job that will allow me to buy all of the things listed above!

Happy Birthday Dad!

In honor of my father, and his delightful birthday, I am going to post a little story about him.

Once, in the middle of the night, while my parents were sleeping, or rather, while my mother was sleeping, my father got an idea.

He woke up my mother, telling her "Honey, something crusty fell off my ass, help me find it! It's somewhere in the bed!"

My mother, in her asleep state, started lightly feeling the bedsheets, delicately running her hands over them, trying to find this crusty thing.  After a couple of minutes, she starts to fully wake up, and realizes she is looking for something crusty that fell of my father's ass.

My father is crying he is laughing so hard, and my mother was less than enthused about it.  This has since become the stuff of legend in my family, how my father managed to pull an epic prank on my mother.

So, without further ado, happy birthday to my crusty father!

Accidental Lubrication

So, I searched my whole blog for this (and my what a blog it is!) and I could not find this story. I cannot believe I never posted it!

So, when I go shopping, my hands swell up. I don't know what it is on supermarket carts that make my hands swell up like stubby little grapes, but whatever it is, it happens every single time.

I am shopping, and I get to the checkout lane, and I look down, see hand sanitizer, and make an audible "Oooooh!" as I throw it into my cart. The woman in front of me gives me the pervert eye, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. I brush it off, and load up the contents of my cart onto the conveyor belt. I pay for my purchases, and head out to the parking lot.

The Pervert Eye woman is loading up her car, and she is parked directly in front of me. So, I load up the car, and then get all giddy because I whip out my hand sanitizer, while standing in the parking lot, and proceed to open the package and put a large dollop on my hand. I start to rub my hands together excitedly. At this point, the Pervert Eye woman has stopped loading up her car, and is staring at me in total mouth-open shock.

My hands start to get really warm, and the sanitizer isn't absorbing or evaporating.

Then I notice that instead of buying hand sanitizer, I have mistakenly bought warming lubricant.

Which would certainly explain the pervert eye that woman gave me.

I mean, from an outsider's perspective, a girl with large inflamed purplish hands was SO EXCITED about her warming lubricant, she couldn't even wait to get into her car before she started to rub it on herself. All while staring at other patrions in the parking lot.

It's a wonder I am not arrested more, honestly.

Hippos! Hippos on Parade!

First, a anecdote: Every time something makes a loud noise in our house, like the house is setting, or something falls off a wall or something, Eric now looks up and says "...potatoes?"

This is a story about how sometimes parenthood is really, really fun.

When my parents were first married, and when I wasn't around yet (how much must their lives sucked? I mean, I am FABulous!) they had their hands full with my brother. My brother didn't like to sleep, he was CONVINCED that my parents had parties at night, and broke out the chocolate and all the other things he wasn't allowed to eat.

This, obviously, was not the case. Well, maybe the chocolate was, but either way, they were too exhausted by him and usually just passed out cold.

So, after many sleepless nights, or interrupted nights, my parents finally decided to get some revenge. Now, before you judge my parents too harshly, I want you to get an air horn, and I want you to somehow set it up that someone comes into your bedroom around 2 a.m. and blows it off next to your head. Do you want to kill the person with the air horn? Yeeeeeeeah you do. My brother is still living, and thus my parents should be up for sainthood.

Anyway, I keep getting sidetracked, sorry about that. So, they calculate their revenge. First, they bust into his room in the middle of the night, and scream "Get up buddy! There's hippos! Hippos in the BACKYARD! ON PARADE!" and my brother runs out of bed and over to the window, only to see a completely empty backyard. "Oh sorry buddy, you must have just missed them" sighs my father. Meanwhile, my mother is dying of laughter in the other room. My brother is pissed off that he got woken up for nothing, and my dad just looked down at him with a knowing smile.

So if your children won't sleep through the night, just remember, a hippo parade can happen at any time, at any place!

Supermarket Fun

One of my favorite games to play with Eric is the Supermarket Fun game. We try to make jokes about what everyone else is buying when standing in line. The weirder or more filthy guess you make, the more points you get. Like, when someone is buying scotch and diapers, we usually say to each other "That guy is in for an interesting night - GO!" and he'll say something along the lines of "Teething baby." and I will say something along the lines of "teething baby" while making motions that the person is going to beat the kid with the bottle of scotch.

So, the other day, we were standing in line, and in front of us, a man starts loading up the checkout conveyer belt. He had two melons, 14 pairs of queen sized nuetral tones nylons, and 6 jars of herring in cream.

And both our heads exploded at the exact same time.

Not really, but we were too close to the guy to speculate what he could possibly be doing with that.

We get in the car and we are just flabbergasted. I instantly go for the prostitute angle, "Perhaps he is trying to create a life sized tetradecahedron prostitute!"

Eric just shook his head at me, "It's always about the prostitutes with you, isn't it?"

Please people, when is it not all about the prostitutes?

The Kindness of Everyone

I wasn't originally going to post about my lack-of-job status, mostly because I find it embarrassingmore than anything else. But, for the sake of honesty, I decided to post it anyhow. I also posted it on Facebook, and emailed eveyone I know, so I figured, why not post it here?

I must say, the sympathy has been overwhelming. And I wasn't really going for sympathy, more if you know someone who is hiring, let me know kind of thing. But an ex-co-worker of mine said something that absolutely amazed me:

I cannot believe they let you go. You never stopped working for them, not once. You were cutthrout with our competitors, fair with the employees, and completely emotionless when it came to your job. You were the best employee they ever had. And honeslty, the first job available in my company is YOURS.

That surprised me, to be honest. It was hands down the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

My pastor is praying for me, as is Eric's mom, and really, between the two of them, God is sure to listen.

There are a lot of positives going on in my life right now, too (and you need to count your blessings):

- Right now, right this minute, my dad is in Massachusetts getting his Master's Degree.  And my whole family is exceedingly proud of him for it.

-We are refinancing our condo - for HALF of the interest rate we originally got.

-Eric has the opportunity (is that the word I want?) to work a ton of overtime.

-Unemployment. I am milking the system like a COW babies! Ok, so if I didn't need the money, I wouldn't be taking it.  Getting a new job trumps milking the system any day in my book (I am a Republican when it pertains to me, i.e. I need to pull myself up and not take any more fom the system that absolutely necessary; and a Socialist for the rest of Society, because I never want to deny help to anyone who needs that help.)

-The quilt I was hand-sewing for my boss? I forgot it in my car, so I never gave it to him. AND THANK GOD FOR THAT.

-Chicago-style pizza. Because sometimes, it's the little things.

So, give me a reason to smile - what are you thankful for?

I Got a New Haircut

It's kicky and cute. I really like it, I feel like it's a whole new fresh start.

Oh and I totally lost my job.

So yeah my haircut is totally cute! It's all swingie and layered...and...what? What's that? Oh, you want to hear about the job thing? Yeeeeeeeeeah...I lost my job. Poof! Totally gone.  I won't go into detail, because really, it's best to keep this blog classy and professional.

*crickets*

But, for the record, Starbucks is totally better. And I have waited a LONG time to say that!

I think that I might wait until I get a new job before I start posting about the old one. Speaking of new jobs, if you know of one in Chicago or the Chicagoland area, shoot me an email at superenna@gmail.com.

Now excuse me, I have to go back to eating this delicious sandwich and drinking this fabulous Frappachinno. Mmmmmmm-mmmmm! NO ONE DOES IT LIKE STARBUCKS.