>projectile vomiting

Leave a comment

>Tip:

When you know you have a session with your personal torturer (trainer) at 4 pm, make sure to consume more calories than what are contained in the two protein shakes you had for the day. The consequences are not pleasant.

Thanks to this new nutritional program my husband and I are on, you’re not hungry all to often. An I am not very good at force-feeding myself as he is. So I wasn’t hungry, it didn’t occur to me to eat.

Force-feeding would have been an Eden-esque alternative to the illness and dry-heaving that ensued for no less than two hours last night after my training session. I am sitting here in the throes of the after-effects glaring at my daily morning protein shake wishing it would just dissolve into oblivion and leave me alone.

Okay. I’ve learned my lesson. So, I am going to continue with my week-long pre-birthday vacation with my husband. You’ll notice I’ve discontinued the countdown. I began to see why y’all thought of it as annoying. Quite.

Ah. Bry has put a ‘date movie’ on for us. We’re gonna go watch the South Park movie. And i’m gonna finish this damn shake.

Long-live Terrence and Phillip Asses of Fire.

Voulez-voulez-vous projectile vomiting

4 Comments

>damn the mavericks, damn nowitski, and damn duncan for bein’ a score-only-three-points-in-the-second-half-when-the-spurs-are-meant-to-dominate shmoo.

whaddahell.

himpy canine jousting flapjack II

5 Comments

Lumpy marmots swimming by…
Turtle parsnips weep;
Blankly flitting burlap swags
Spitting violet sheep.

Flimsy dimpled flying kelp
Harbinger of Whee
Quick-draw plumber smacks a flue
Yelps a symphony.

Partridge clammers busy flee
Justly hanging newts
Murky gargle chutney fleas,
Velour jogging suits.

Lolling knuckle cabbage bomb
Whisking butter gobs
Nubby tinkle fishhead bumps
Shampoo gorged ear-bobs.

Chasing ricochet teepee
Looping daftly moon
Wherefore art thou chicken dart?
This poem ends too soon.

Voulez-voulez-vous wtf?

>arms = gelatinous muck

5 Comments

>My personal trainer is a demon from hell sent to destroy me.

I no longer have full use of my arms. I hope she’s happy.

Sadistic she-beast.

Despite how I may feel about her now, I know in a few months she will be my god-dess, my muse, my salvation.

Little does she know that I’m using her to become a kick-ass buff chick who will whomp up on all o’ y’alls ugly mugs.
Heh.

I so wanna beat somebody up, just to see if I can. I’ve never been in a fight. Except with Duke, and he usually trudges off in defeat when I put his fuzzy-duck toy away. He prefers to battle with Gee for dominance over the fluffy-duck-toy. Gee usually wins the fluffy-duck-toy, so my boy Duke is just a two-time loser. Poor Duke.

If I were to ever get into a fight, I would, statistically speaking, get into a fight with another chick. Being a chick myself. You don’t see a lot of chicks startin’ sumpin’ with a guy in the parking lot. Bar fights involving two people of the opposite gender don’t seem to be all too common. I’m assuming “chivalry” and “weaker sex” have something to do with this phenomenon.
(I gotta say though…that scene in GI Jane where she bus’ up what’s-his-face was right-on.)

Chick fights don’t seem to involve too much. From what I’ve seen, they usually involve a great deal of hair pulling and jumping about. Fingernails seem to be a popular weapon of choice, though I would be grossly unarmed as I trim my nails if they grow past my fingertips. I would ultimately be forced to bore my knuckles into their eye sockets, or maybe grab their 4-inch spiked-heel off their foot and…I dunno…jam it in their ear or something.
For the most part, chick fights seem to be exercises in futility. A knock-down-panty-brawl is not going to permit a woman to forgive her sister for sleeping with her husband and stealing her ThighMaster. However, what they do have is the entertainment factor. Men seem to like them. I think there’s some chick-on-chick potential at play in their interest in female combat. Whatever floats yer boat, boys.

Now, when I beat someone up, I wanna be all, like, left hooks and clotheslines…no, wait…fuckin’…piledrivers! Choke slams!

Boot to the head.

I am now feeling oddly aggressive.

Would anyone care to come over for tea?

Voulez-voulez-vous 6 days 4 hours 45 minutes

>odd day

2 Comments

>To establish the setting:
Where I work there is an employee parking lot approximately 200 feet from the employee entrance, affectionately known as “the pit”. It is a gravelly, pothole-laden patch of land which is not adequately sized to accommodate the whole of the staff. Hence, there is another parking lot across the street which is a kind of “overflow” lot for when valet is full but employees are able to park there as well.

So.

I’m driving to work and on my way I happen to notice that there is snow atop the mountains that punctuate the skyline where I live. I was tickled. I love winter, and this was the first time I saw any indication that winter was well on its way.

As I crossed the bridge and prepared to enter “the pit”, I was prevented from pulling into the narrow inlet by a police car with lights ablaze. Knowing my co-workers the way I do, I suspected one of them had foolishly sped down the 30-mph zone in an effort to be on time.

However, upon closer inspection, I noticed that not only was the officer out of the car, but he was also standing with hands outstretched in front of him, gun in hand.

Shit.

In front of him knelt a young man in a plaid shirt and jeans with his hands on his head.

Keep in mind I work and live out in “the sticks”, where people get pulled over for going 2 mph over the speed limit because the local cops are so bored.

Criminal activity is not necessarily our thing.

So, I was forced to park in the valet overflow lot. As I made my way to the employee entrance, I noticed a second car pull up. Backup.

I got to work, giddy with the news that “somebody is gettin’ busted in the pit!”, blah blah blah.

It was at this point that one of the chefs flicked the switch to turn on the warmers on the hot line.

Oops.

An explosion to rival the 4th of July ensued, complete with blue flames and firecracker pops.

Lights flickered for a moment, a body part inventory was taken, and all but the hot line seemed to be functioning within normal parameters.

*whew*

Not just yet.

About 20 minutes after the “flaming hot line” incident, a resounding crash echoed throughout the kitchen. Only the noise wasn’t coming from the kitchen. It came from the dining room.

Trepidatiously, we tiptoed around the corner, peeking around the wall like heads on a totem pole.

One of the shades on the hanging ceiling lamps had somehow wrenched itself free from the fixture and came crashing down on the table. Casualties included 2 crystal water glasses, 2 champagne flutes, 2 Rosenthall coffee cups, saucers and bread plates, and a lead-crystal vase containing rocks and rosemary stems.

The cherry on this metaphoric triple-poofy-parfait of a day was a near-accident in the roundabout-style valet parking area involving a Lincoln Town Car and a runaway daushund whose owners were either ignorant of or ignoring the rule regarding dogs on the property.

I’m going to go watch Rome now.
Today is fini.

Voulez-voulez-vous fini.

>Fetchez la vache

4 Comments

>ARTHUR: Halt!

FRENCH GUARD: Allo! Who is eet?

ARTHUR: It is King Arthur, and these are my Knights of the Round Table. Whose castle is this?

FRENCH GUARD: This is the castle of my master, Guy de Loimbard.

ARTHUR: Go and tell your master that we have been charged by God with a sacred quest. If he will give us food and
shelter for the night, he can join us in our quest for the Holy Grail.

FRENCH GUARD: Well, I’ll ask him, but I don’t think he’ll be very keen. Uh, he’s already got one, you see.

ARTHUR: What?

GALAHAD: He says they’ve already got one!

ARTHUR: Are you sure he’s got one?

FRENCH GUARD: Oh, yes. It’s very nice-a. (I told him we already got one.)

FRENCH GUARDS: [chuckling]

ARTHUR: Well, u– um, can we come up and have a look?

FRENCH GUARD: Of course not! You are English types-a!

ARTHUR: Well, what are you, then?

FRENCH GUARD: I’m French! Why do think I have this outrageous accent, you silly king-a?!

GALAHAD: What are you doing in England?

FRENCH GUARD: Mind your own business!

ARTHUR: If you will not show us the Grail, we shall take your castle by force!

FRENCH GUARD: You don’t frighten us, English pig-dogs! Go and boil your bottom, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called Arthur King, you and all your silly English k-nnnnniggets. Thpppppt! Thppt! Thppt!

GALAHAD: What a strange person.

ARTHUR: Now look here, my good man–

FRENCH GUARD: I don’t wanna talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!

GALAHAD: Is there someone else up there we could talk to?

FRENCH GUARD: No. Now, go away, or I shall taunt you a second time-a!

[sniff]
ARTHUR: Now, this is your last chance. I’ve been more than reasonable.

FRENCH GUARD: (Fetchez la vache.)

OTHER FRENCH GUARD: Quoi?

FRENCH GUARD: (Fetchez la vache!)

COW MOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Voulez-voulez-vouz moo