The O'Mara Revolution. It's What's For Dinner. (For Reals. Cuz I'm Totally Not Cooking Tonight.)

Breaking News, you guys: I have a big mouth.

So last week I told you guys my road trip story and about how my friend Anne really really really wants to get all sweaty with Chef Curtis Stone. After he cooks dinner for her first. I'm pretty sure that was a prerequisite. At least it should be. And personally, I would also make him promise he'd do the dishes first too. Cuz that's the kind of crap that a dude would try to pull on you. "Oh baby, I'm soooo tired. I'll clean up the kitchen later. I promise." You know I'm right. And Curtis is cute and everything, but not cute enough to make me wanna wash dishes. Just sayin'. Anyways, I also told you guys that Jason O'Mara is my main man. And just to refresh your memory, here he is again:

Refreshed??? I know I am. So after I wrote that blog some of you were asking me about him and I wanted to be all stingy with him and everything, but I also wanted other people to appreciate him as much as I do, so I decided to be super-sharey with everyone. Cuz some things are just too awesome to keep to yourself. And Mr. O'Mara is one of them.

So I was dorkin' around on Facebook and I thought "Hey, I wonder if he has a fan page?" And so I found one. And much to my surprise, HE was the one who was running it. Which is one more thing about him that is awesome. Because most actors or musicians or whatever have "their people" doing it for them. But not this dude. So I posted this on his wall:

So then I'm like, "It's on!" And I decide then and there to share him with my favorite people in the world: You guys! So I told everyone on Facebook that I was starting "The O'Mara Revolution" and all my amazing friends jumped right on board with it and started friending the holy crap balls outta him. Which was super amazing because I had more friends than he did and I was like "WTF? How. Is. This. Possible. I am a total weirdo moron and he is him and he should totally have like a mazillion more people than me!" It was like up was down. Down was up. Paris Hilton was talented, and Meryl Streep couldn't memorize her lines or do an accent to save her life. Everything was totally effed up.  So my amazing peeps were all showing him the love. Then he wrote this:

Then this:

Then this:

(I made that one up there ^ HUGE because it's super-duper-awesome.)

And then he sent me this:

Or maybe I made it on my computer. But whatever. Close enough.

So basically, Mr. O'Mara is making me look super smart because he is my celebrity crush and he is also: (a) Obviously a really, really nice guy. (b) Obviously has a great sense of humor. And (c) Obviously has nobody around him like a manager or publicist or therapist or bodyguard or close friend to tell him to get a restraining order on me. This guy is being so freakin' nice that I am completely floored. I guess I always kinda expect anyone I like from afar to be a total douche-wagon if I ever get up close. In college I tried to talk to a musician that I absolutely adored, and he was a total asshole. It was a big fat bummer. And when I went to The Emmy's a few years ago I just didn't even try to talk to anyone because I didn't want to be disappointed. Even when I was in the Limo line behind Jason Bateman whom I had loved since Silver Spoons. Even then, I didn't try to talk to him. I may have pretended to touch his butt and I may have done a slight humping motion behind him. But I didn't try to talk to him. 

But Mr. O'Mara has not disappointed.

If you think that you don't know him and you are a chick then you are probably wrong. He was in 2 episodes of Grey's Anatomy, which I know all you chicks are into. And he played a dude who had a brain tumor and was all yelly and bitchy and stuff and I believe that at one point he was mauled by a bear. Which is really unfortunate. And stupid. Cuz everyone knows that as long as you play dead or offer up a pic-i-nic basket or some freakin' honey, no bear is gonna bother you. At all. And if I remember correctly, he totally died in surgery.  Which made me hate that big-haried McDreamy with a passion. But it was okay because (a) It's pretend, and (b) At least he didn't come back as a ghost and have weird ghost/human sex with Izzy, like the other dead guy did. Which was dumb as hell. Even to me. A person who believes in ghosts. I believe in them, but I don't believe in making out with them. Also....He is in the new Stephanie Plum movie "One For The Money", which should totally get him a lot of attention. And guess what? He stars in this movie with Izzy from Grey's. Who I hope doesn't go around whoring herself out to ghosts. Because I'm not interested in seeing that again.

But the most coolest thing that my boyfriend Mr. J. has going on right now is the new show that starts in September called "Terra Nova" which is bound to be amazing cuz it has not only Jason, but Spielberg, Dinosaurs, Time Travel (which might help me with my Time Burger Project), and that really mean white-haired guy from Avatar. Who scares me. Cuz he was so not nice to those tall blue people and that really hot guy whose legs were all useless and stuff. And he pissed me off. Big time. But I'm gonna give him another chance because he's supposedly a good guy in this. But if he even yells at my Jason once, I'm gonna lose my shit and use my brain magic to make a dinosaur eat his ass.  

And to complete my fawning I have to tell you all that if you haven't seen "Life On Mars", you have to. NOW. And you probably haven't seen it, which is why it was only on TV for one freakin' season. So basically it's your guys's fault. But you can make it up to me and Mr. O'Mara now by "Liking" his page on Facebook. Show him some love and tell him you are part of "The O'Mara Revolution". And also go to his new website and read my blog post....yes, my blog post. Cuz for some weird reason he asked me to write some stuff for his website. And do me a solid and watch his new show starting in September. It looks kinda cool, like "Land Of The Lost" but with awesomer more-attractive people who are less lazy and more ass-kicky and have to deal with bad-ass Spielbergian dinosaurs instead of stupid-ass Sleestaks. Puhleeze. I could take a Sleestak down with one nut punch. Done. Show over. 

So I'm expecting this to work like that Faberge Shampoo commercial from the 80's. I tell you guys then you each tell two friends, then they tell two friends and so on and so on. Don't let me down people. We must bring my man to the masses. Everyone deserves a little O'Mara in their lives. True story.

Jason's FB Page: https://www.facebook.com/jasonomaraofficial

Jason's web site: http://jasonomara.com/jason-nation/the-omara-revolution-a-complete-and-mostly-true-history/

Someone Spent 24 Hours In A Car With Me And Still Likes Me!

So last week I went on a road trip with my friend Anne to my home state of Missouri, so that Anne could go to her college reunion. And no, I was not her date. Although it would have been nice to have been asked. And it probably would have made her the talk of the reunion if she had shown up with a girl. So basically, she missed out on an awesome opportunity to be super-duper popular and crap.  And I am really really good at making up stuff and pretending stuff.  Which some people might call lying. But I just call being creative.

Anyways, Anne and I talk almost every day, so we decided to avoid each other for a week before the trip. Which was really hard, but worked out really well because we talked non-stop for a 12 hour car ride that really should have been a few hours shorter but in Arkansas Anne had to drive all slow and grandma-like cuz the roads were all curvy and hilly and she gets car sick. And nothing ruins a good old-fashioned road trip like a car full of vomit. At least I assume. I've never actually had someone vomit on a road trip with me. Although in high school my friend Stephanie had too much to drink at a party and vomited out the car window while I drove home. That was also the night she got felt up real good by her boyfriend and touched his weiner. And he was a level 10 douche-wagon so maybe that's what made her get all vomitty up in there. I do know that just hearing about it made me feel kinda sick, so it's definitely possible. And I think maybe I've mentioned that incident before, but in my opinion it's really something that cannot be mentioned enough.

So anyhow, when we finally got to Missouri you'd think we woulda been sick of each other, but for some reason we weren't, and after we got in our jammies we had wine and talked for about another hour and a half. And here are a few things I learned: When you are afraid a conversation is dying down, just start talking about poop, periods, general vaginal stuff, other people, any of the Real Housewives, people you used to date, things you've done that were against the law (Anne: 0. Patti: 1,283), people you hated in high school, food, and famous people you want to have sex with. (Dear Anne's Husband, Your wife has a pretty decent-sized list. And if Curtis Stone is ever in Houston you should probably lock her in the closet. Dear My Husband, I couldn't think of many. At all. Even my Paul Rudd I just wanna hold hands and maybe snuggle and watch a movie with. Possibly feed each other popcorn.  I mean, I would probably get funky with Chef Curtis if there was a gun to my head. Or if I imagined a gun to my head. Or if he cooked me pretty much anything. And I do likes me some Bear Grylls. But as I've said before, kissing him is forbidden cuz once I've seen a man drink his own pee, Frenching is outta the question. But I do admit that this guy is on my list. And Anne didn't know who he was. So Anne, here's a photo:

This is Jason O'Mara. And he kinda makes my secret garden get all bloomy and stuff. And I hesitate to show him to you guys because he's kinda under the radar and I like to keep him that way. Cuz once everyone else starts liking someone I kinda don't like them anymore. So just look at him in wonderment for a moment and then forget about him. Cuz he's all mine.

So to sum up our drive to Missouri, we kinda talked about really important things. But mostly about poop. And we also learned that box wine gives you a freakin' mega-headache. Please you guys, learn from our mistake.

After Anne went stag to her reunion instead of taking my hot ass along like a good girlfriend would, I got a chance to visit some family and friends. And at my friend Kim's house, after a few beers, this happened:

That's me. Drawing on Kim's upper ass/lower back area with a sharpie. And I don't think it's weird. At all. Cuz if you recall from the blog about her back surgery and the hospital hooker vagina (And I Could Never Watch The Little Rascals Again), she had a big scar that made her ass crack look extra long and I suggested she get a tattoo to cover it. And I made a drawing of it on my blog. And, you know, sometimes after a few beers it seems like a good idea to bring certain super-amazing ideas to reality. Kinda like the time my friend Margaret and I decided to float down a river in a plastic swimming pool in the dead of winter. But this idea involved much less ice, snow, sinking, getting soaked, having your nipples turn into nipsicles, and having to walk through a tundra dragging a pool with you to get home. So anyway, we brought this tattoo dream to needle-less life. And here is the result:

And although she said she didn't mind if her crack was on my blog, I realize that she was maybe, possibly drinking a little at the time so I gave her an ass-giraffe. Cuz that's the kinda friend I am. And come on you guys. You have to adore any friend who thinks it's a great idea when you say "Hey! Do you have a sharpie? I wanna draw on your ass!" That, my friends, is a true friend. Even though she removed it the next morning with acetone. Which I thought was a bit rude, ya know, since it was my artwork. And I told her that I'm pretty sure that she's now gonna get ass-crack cancer from using acetone down there so to not blame me if that happens. And it's also probably a pretty good idea to not go trying to light any farts on fire for awhile. At least until that stuff has a chance to air out. Cuz I'm assuming it's pretty flammable. And I'm also assuming that Kim has a certain amount of beer that would make her attempt such a feat. That is why I love her so.


And also, my sister gave me the best present I have ever received. No offense to everyone else who has ever given me a present. But this? This was magical. AND it holds alcohol:

This is a mustache flask, you guys. And this is what it looks like when you drink from it. Pure. Genius.

And I have a few more tidbits that I'll share with you guys later. But right now my carpal tunnel is acting up, which I totally blame on Facebook, cuz I have been overwhelmed with friend requests from my super amazing and probably slightly mentally disturbed readers, and just clicking "accept" is a major thing for a person with a totally effed up wrist. Which is one more reason that I want a Finger Monkey. Cuz he could click the hell out of an "accept" button. And hopefully even be trained to type this blog for me. Cuz typing totally effs me up too. But I'd have to really trust him not to try and take it over and make sure he's only typing what I say. Unless his ideas are better. Which they might be. Cuz Finger Monkeys, they probably have lots of stories to tell. And those are probably stories I wanna hear.

P.S. If you're feeling givey: To Donate To MO Tornado Victims Click Here

(Beautiful Jason O'Mara photo from tvfanatic.com)

Holy Crap Balls!

I'm freaking out! But really, what else is new? Only this time I'm freaking out about something besides medical stuff, poop stuff, vaginal stuff, spider stuff, monkey stuff, crow stuff, and whatever other completely ridiculous things I'm usually freaking out about. This time I'm freaking out cuz my new blogger friend Nikki, from Moms Who Drink And Swear, put a link to my blog on her page, and in the span of about 5 seconds I got super-popular-er than I was before. Like, WAY more popular. I not only got about a bazillion hits on my blog, but a kajillion nice emails and a quadrillion new FB friends. I kinda always thought I was an attention whore, but I realize now that when I gets the attention, it kinda freaks me out.

And poor Nikki is still waiting for me to pick her up day before yesterday in my hamburger time machine that I haven't finished building yet. Sorry, Nikki. Like I said, I need parts. And now you've gone and made me so busy answering emails from these amazingly nice people, that I haven't had time to work on my Time Burger. But don't worry, I'll still pick you up day before yesterday. Someday. And we'll rock the sesame seeds right offa my bun hood.

But for now I'm feeling pressure because I have soooo many more readers than I ever expected, and I don't wanna bore your pants off. But if by boring you I could actually, literally, make your pants come off, I might wanna do that. Cuz that would be really super awesome. Not that I'm a pervert or anything. I'm not planning to touch your junk (boys) or your secret gardens (girls) if they do come off. I just wanna laugh at you. Although, truth be told, I did touch my road trip friend's crotch last weekend. But that was harmless. And not lesbiany. And I was just acting something out. And I asked her first. And she said yes. Which is probably not normal of her.

And by the way, I was on a roadtrip last week. Which is why I've been MIA. And you know that I love you guys and I tell you almost everything, but The Hub kinda gets irritated when I announce my whereabouts or his out of town-abouts because he is trying to be protective of me getting myself all murdered and crap. Which is very sweet. And also why I didn't tell you guys I was leaving.

Anyways, a big fat welcome to all my new readers. Thank you for finding my nonsense entertaining. It honestly amazes me that anyone wants to read it. But not as much as it amazes The Hub. He's been rolling his eyes at my shenanigans for years, and now I have all these really smart, really awesome people who WANT to hear my stupid stories. So, you know, that really gives me some good ammo to use against him if I get the feeling I'm boring him. Which totally happens about a hundred times a day. Unless I'm talking about graphs. If I got all graphy up in here, he'd be all ears. Maybe next time I'm feelin' frisky, I'll dim the lights, put on some Oak Ridge Boys, pour some wine, and talk about graphs. Maybe I could get myself some graph underwear. Or a graph bra.

I have no idea why I said Oak Ridge Boys. I'm pretty sure they're not sexy. Unless you're name is Mildred and you're, like, 80. Sometimes I type things before I even know what I'm saying. I'm not normal, you guys. At all.

So to all my new people, you've obviously got some issues if you're into this kinda thing, but people with issues are my kinda people. And just an FYI: If you subscribed to my blog through Feedburner, it sometimes sucks balls. It will send you a confirmation email and if you don't get it, check your bulk mail or spam or whatever you have. You have to click on a link in that before you start getting my stuff in your inbox. If nothing works, email me and we'll figure it out. Or just consider it a sign from The Universe that you should stay away from me. Whatever.

And since I've suddenly got the attention of so many awesome people, I'd like to tell you all to read my friend Laura's blog, Fetch My Flying Monkeys. She is hilarious and I kinda want to marry her just a little bit. As soon as it's legal here. So go check her out. I'm totally paying it forward like that kid who saw dead people in that one movie did in that other movie with the guy who was Keyser Soze and the chick who was the girl who Tom Hanks was supposed to marry in Castaway before he went and got all castawayed and fell in love with a ball and she married some other guy and broke his heart.

That's hows I roll.

Somehow This Post Turned Into Lots of Talk About Poop. I Wish I Could Say I Was Sorry.

My uterus hurts. And for those of you (like Cathy and Lisa) who think that I seem to have PMS a lot, you're right. I do. In case you didn't pay attention the first one million times I said it, my body is a f@cktastrophe of epic proportion. It should not surprise you at at all to learn that I am not normal. Not even close. Unlike most of you "normal" people, I DO have PMS a lot. Every 2 1/2-3 weeks. And that fact should make you all realize what an amazing man my Hub really is. Also during PMS, I gain approximately 10 pounds. Yes. Every 2 1/2-3 weeks. Then when the red dragon comes a callin', POOF! The 10 pounds is gone. Oh, and then T.R.D. only hangs around for one day. So that kinda makes up for the rest of  the mayhem.

And some of you (or all of you) might think that this is TMI, but in my world there's really no such thing.

For example, my Facebook status yesterday was "Dear Uterus, You and your Menstrual cramps suck ass. I would totally wanna come back as a dude in my next life if only it wasn't for those damn balls. Periods are hell, but walking around with those things dangling between my legs sounds worse. If Evolution can make fish walk the land, can't it do something about Aunt Flo and nut sacks?"

For those of you who have yet to friend me on Facebook: You are really missing out. Which is probably a good thing.

And last week my friend and I had a lengthy phone conversation about nose picking. Pros and cons. Various techniques. Possible injuries that could occur.  Etc...

And yesterday, at The Boy's soccer tournament, the ref kept calling Handballs, and I wondered aloud, "I wonder how that works if the kid has no hands. If he touches the ball with his stumps, does the ref still call Handball? Is there a call for Stumpball? Or can that kid smack the ball around with his stumps all he wants?" And someone said something along the lines of "I can't believe she said that" or something.

Whatever.

And about 99% of conversations between me and my friend Stephanie are about pooping. And bloating. And vaginas. But mostly pooping.

And just today, me and someone who is definitely not my little sister, had an in-depth conversation about how one could possibly survive for 3 full days on a houseboat with a bunch of other people and not poop, due to not only the close quarters and embarrassment factor, but also the fact that the toilet is prone to clog. My suggestions included, but were not limited to: Putting on a Depends just for poops, then tucking it into the bottom of a trashcan. Getting a colon cleanse a day before the trip then eating very lightly while on the boat. Taking a Folgers can in your suitcase to poop in. Training yourself to poop those little nugget poops, then every time you go in the bathroom to pee, you just drop an inconspicuous nugget, and by days end, you're good to go.

I am pretty much a poop genius.

I really don't find any subject off limits. Much to The Hub's dismay.

The man really does put up with a lot.

But so do I. (See graph post from last week for proof)

Wow. This blog really went astray. I can't even remember what I sat down to write about in the first place. But this was not it.

You guys are so lucky.

Sometimes Blogger Sucks Balls. Sweaty Hobo ones.

Blogger has gone insane. Sometimes this happens, you guys. I don't know why. Maybe it's having trouble at home. Maybe it's meds need to be adjusted. Maybe it's having PMS. I don't know. But what I do know is it's pissing me off. Yesterday I couldn't get on it at all. And who knows what I woulda written for you if only Blogger wasn't being such an a-hole? It was probably gonna be my masterpiece. It was probably gonna be the blog entry that would finally have made Paul Rudd notice me. Thanks a lot Blogger. Thanks for being a dick.

So at least today I can get onto Blogger, but when I did I noticed that for some reason it sent out an old blog to some of my email subscribers. If it was gonna do that I wish it would have at least had the decency to send a good one. But no. It had to go and send a boring one. And not only that, it took the liberty of deleting my last blog about how nerdy Steve is. It's almost like Blogger and Steve are in some sort of cahoots. Dear Blogger, Did I mention you suck?

Anyway, I apologize for the repeat blog. Even though I shouldn't, because I had absolutely nothing to do with it. But I am super considerate like that. That's one of the many reasons I manage to put up with myself.

And also, since it deleted the Nerdy Steve blog I had to re-post it which means you are all gonna get that one in your in-boxes again too. So just ignore it. Or read it again and feel sorry for me. Whatever. What really really super sucks is that Blogger actually deleted it from my records too, so thank God I had it in my inbox still or it woulda just been gone forever and future generations would never know the nerdiness of Steve. And that, my friends, would be an awful shame.

So since I am digging around in Blogger trying to thwart any future conspiracies, I thought it was a good time to post a list of some of the recent phrases that people have typed into google and ended up on my blog:

insane vagina
barefoot to jury duty
crazy mom brains
uses for cat hair
insane mom big brother scream
furry castration
wife wants sex and ass spanking
actual vagina
moms who are not normal
moms with adhd
menstrual cup love

And I wonder why I attract weirdos...

How Nerdy Is My Husband? There's A Graph For That.

This weekend my sister's boyfriend is borrowing our mini-van to go to Kansas City to pick up a bunch of my sister's crap and move it to Houston. Oh yeah...my little sister is moving to Houston. The one who taped cat hair to her face. Yes, there be two of us. But she is younger, taller, smarter, prettier and talented-er.

Anyway, my sister said that her BF wanted to know what kinda highway mileage the van gets. And since after 21 years together I am still too stupid to predict The Hub's extreme nerdiness, I asked him. I soon realized I just shoulda made something up. 298 MPG sounds pretty good. Why oh why didn't I just pull a random number out of my ass? I. Never. Learn.

So I see The Hub tap tapping away on the computer and I ask "What are you doing?" and he says "I don't wanna tell you." So I assume he's looking at midget porn or something. But no. He's making these (and I woulda totally preferred the midget porn):

This, Ladies and gentlemen, is , and I quote: "A scatterplot of Sienna Mini-Van gas mileage for the past 3 years with a linear regression least squares fit. BTW the r squared value is very low but the trend is correct." WTF???

And then there was this:

This is, and once again I quote, "A bar chart of Sienna Mini-Van gas mileage over the past 3 years , broken down by quarter to get a higher level view of the trends. For some reason it appears that gas mileage is getting better as the car gets older. Currently averaging about 21.5 mpg primarily highway driving." Then Steve told me to ask my sister to ask her BF if he drives with one foot or two, and what his average highway speed is. Swear to God.

Now I'm just gonna pause here and give you guys a moment to feel sorry for me. The girl who once asked her husband (back in 1999 when we were still saving for our first house) if I could buy some jeans and he showed me a pie chart of our finances/living expenses and told me to look it over and see if I thought I should buy some new jeans. Take your time..............................................................................................................

Done? Alright. This is what I deal with, people.

So I tell Steve that he is a dork. Which is way beyond true. And I suggest that while we are at it we get some  testing done on the BF's bladder to see how many ounces it will hold, ask him how much he plans to drink on this trip, and come up with some algebraic equation to figure out the right amount of liquid he can drink vs. the amount of gas he will use so that he can plan his pee stops with gas tank filling points. And he looked at me like I was the nerdy one. But I could tell he was thinking about how to do this. Cuz he just can't stop himself.

So today I made this pie chart to explain how I feel about this aspect of The Hub's personality. This is my first and last ever pie chart. And it's not actually a pie chart, insomuch as it is a super-amazing donut chart:

Mother's Day. Keep Your Flowers and Gimme A Dead Lizard. Any Day.

Last weekend we did a Mother's Day/Ethan's Birthday combo trip to Austin. We went on one of the bat cruises, during which a spider crawled all up on me because they now obviously have some sort of state-wide spider communication system with which to let every spider alive know that I am in the vicinity and it's time to attack. So anyway, when it crawled onto my arm of course I  screamed "Holy Balls!" and totally embarrassed Steve, but gave our tour guide a new phrase to use. Which he seemed to totally appreciate. And ok...I'm pretty sure he was stoned. But still. 

And the next morning we went to eat this:

And in the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that I not only ate a fourth of this donut, but also a kolache and a fried cinnamon roll. And I washed it down with chocolate milk and cappuccino.

But then I worked off/sweated off every calorie doing this and seeing what my future will be like when I finally get bitten by a radioactive spider and have my own awesome webbing system:

But after flying around and burning off those donut calories, I ruined it all by ingesting even more calories by having this:

Some women want fancy dinners and jewelry and crap like that for Mother's Day.  I want Beer and fried pickles. Oh, and I also want this:

Which The Hub didn't actually buy me. Choosing instead to ignore me while I talked about my deep and abiding love for it. Sure, it's a really crappy example of taxidermy:  He looks like he got in a street fight and got a hand and a foot eaten off. And maybe some of his organs harvested for a black market lizard organ harvesting ring. Which is probably a huge thing somewhere. But I think that gives him character. And since The Hub didn't dig the lizard, I woulda been totally happy with this too:

But once again, he kept walking when I stopped to fawn over it's awesomeness.

And I DID want to ride in this:

But by the time the bat cruise was over it was too late. Which The Hub was not so secretly happy about. Like maybe it's not manly or something? Whatever. (And BTW...I'm taking my sister to Austin this summer and WE WILL ride the crap outta this mofo. Whilst singing love songs to each other. And we will possibly get the stoner tour guide to go with us. I promise.)

And I got this refrigerator magnet. Which is pretty amazing. Especially since The Hub is the one who found it:

Diamond earrings? No. The opportunity to hold a dead lizard and stick a totally inappropriate magnet on my fridge? Yes.

Best. Mother's. Day. Ever.

-By the way, and totally un-related: I LOVE when you guys friend me on FB. It's a great way for me to get to know you, and for me to annoy the crap outta you on a daily basis. Whenever you send me a friend request, please tell me you're a blog reader. That way I know you're not some weirdo FB stalker ex-convict. Just a weirdo who likes my weirdo blog. Which is just a little less frightening. Just write "blog" or "not a murderer". THANK YOU!!-

Just Say No Or I'll Totally Embarrass The Hell Out Of You. Oh Wait...You've Done That Yourself.

Can we please, for the love of Rudd, all agree that we ARE NOT going to do this? Okay? Last summer I was all up in arms about these stupid things, and this summer I thought for sure they wouldn't be back. But they are back. Like hemorrhoids. Or herpes. Or Madonna. And as I've said before, rompers are for girls who have yet to get their monthly visitors or grow boobies. They are not, under any circumstances, for adults. Well, unless you're in prison. Or you're a mechanic. Or you're filming a re-make of Three's Company. Or you just rode a sweet-ass Delorean back to 1975. Plus, if you wear a romper and have to pee you have to get totally nude. Unless these have crotch snaps. Which they might. I'm not sure. Cuz believe it or not I'm not in the business of investigating the crotches of pants at Macy's. But only because I've never thought of it until now. Not because I'm too ladylike for crotch investigations. And ladies, crotch snaps are only for kids that still wear diapers and hookers who are really obsessed with speed, but aren't into skirts. And I assume those speedy hookers are getting paid by the job and not by the hour. Which is really stupid of them. When I was a hooker If I were a hooker, I would charge by the hour and wear something with lots of lace-up corsets, and buckles, and petticoats, and layers and layers of fabric, and start the clock before I started undressing so by the time I was naked I'd have already made a ton of money, and then once I was actually naked I still wouldn't be naked because I'd have my Wonder Woman costume tattoo by then so I'd be like "Ha!" and the John would get pissed and try not to pay me but I'd totally lasso him and then let my Pimp kick his ass. And anyways, I know I've mentioned this before, but Drag Queens LOVE to wear rompers. After spending endless hours on hair removal, make-up, hair styling and weenie-tucking, I think it's just easy to pull on a romper. Drag Queens are still men. At least partially. And men are all about simple. Rompers are like the Pert 2-in-one of clothing. Easy Peasy George and Weasy. Plus, they leave a little room in the crotch for a couple of balls.

So in conclusion: If I see any of you wearing one of these, we're gonna have a talk. Before which I will take photos of you that will be posted on this blog. And unlike that pussy Glamour Magazine, I will not put a black box over your face. I'm doing this for the public. I'm all community servicey like that. Why I don't have some kind of trophy or medal or key to the friggin' city is beyond me, and you should all probably get off your asses and write The Mayor some letters about that.

Don't get too excited. This is not a real blog. It's an ad. That I'm doing for freezies. Because I loves me some Pilates. I loves me some Phillip. And I deserve to be in their ads.