Oh, real nurture guys!

I can't wait to be a Mom. When I'm a Mom, my jokes will be SO much funnier, plus it's super lonely sleeping on my friend's floor. It would be nice to have a little child to keep me warm. Some one has to love me and dogs are too much responsibility (also, not as many clothes). If I were a Mom tomorrow, I probably wouldn't go to this party tonight, unless my baby were going to be sick (but only if I knew for sure) b/c it would probably just sleep all day anyway and then I could just go somewhere exotic (shhh don't tell child services) after sleeping in.

Anyway, I'm nannying right now for twins and they're sleeping. I have a little over an hour until the parents get home and the mom and I don't wear the same size anything so I thought I would just write a little true story about being a mom tomorrow. I will probably have to steal a baby here because that's not a lot of time to get a boyfriend. I guess I have a fella, but he lives in Louisiana and is already married to his work. He is New Orleans' premier graveyard tour guide. I think his success is based on his wardrobe (he loves capes). His personality is sub par and he's only my boyfriend because his penis hangs all the way down to his knees (calm down ladies, he's like 3 feet tall). He sent me pictures of his penis once. We have never seen each other in person. I broke into this call center a few weeks ago and stole a bunch of leads, he was the most responsive when I was calling around for a boyfriend and we've been together for, well several lifetimes I'm sure. I could ask him to mail his sperm tonight (we're really close) so I can have a baby, but the baby would probably be retarded because my boyfriend is also one of my biological fathers. You see, my Mother was a slutty cat and had all sorts of penises in her furry pussy, so I have at least 7 dads (and nine lives). If I had a child, I would probably accidentally bake it too long, so I should just go to this party tonight instead.

I'm glad that I had time to figure this out. No kids for me, especially if they end up all sexy like I was when I was 3. If I wanted some competition I would join a varsity basketball team.

I Can Say Whatever Because National Geographic Says I Am From Africa

I got a call from my agent today (you know the one- Dr. Everything Be Alright) and she says that I'm huge in Russia! This news cannot come at a better time because I really need to move into an apartment. I have been sleeping on a forensic science nightmare for the last month and the only thing between me and sweet comfort is about $1,400. Surely Russia can help. I mean, look what we did for Haiti in this economy! (I hatey to make it a competition, but...) My back feels like Darfur + 911 + World Trade '93, not to mention (yet) that I can't find a thing to wear with all my stuff in boxes. Where's my telethon George Clooney?!

So in real life I am a stand-up comic, writer, take the trash outer, small talk with stranger specialist and I also work various other unpaid jobs. However, in Russia, I am a famous fashion designer of swim suits and sundresses! My picture is all over their Queen's panties! I guess it makes sense because I am part Czechoslovakian, which is still, today, a beautiful country inside of Russian territory. I think my Mom was like a cat and that I have several different fathers (I also think, as a kitten, she was left in the microwave too long). According to National Geographic I am originally from Africa, which explains my compulsive desire to yell out "MY NIGGA", but this has yet to yield any grant money from my Niggas over at the NAACP.

I recorded a bit, byte, clip for all of my fans in Russia. I did this before I was informed that my swim line isn't selling because it's 10 degrees. Also, on a production front, nothing has been made due to everyone thinking the designs are "ugly and tasteful". When my agent (position available) said I was "huge in Russia", she meant "fat and plain looking". So all I can really do is wait for NAACP to get back to me about my request for $1,400. They could also just be a co-signer for a $50,000 loan, enough to get me through the year. I think within a year I will have made it big, if not for stand-up, definitely for doing the dishes.

Best ______You'll Ever Get.

People ask me what I want in a fella. I mean, these people are paid professionals and under my employ, but they ask (not a lot of boat rocking in this economy). People tell me I should write more and wear more shirts that show my mid rift. I like to own people, it makes me feel skinny. So when describing my dream boat, let's just say I get motion sickness... which is why he better be sedentary. It helps if he's bogged down with salty snacks. Extra weight makes it extra hard for him to run away or feel good about himself (hot tip ladies, you look way better to fat guys). Another big thing is occupation and when I hear "employed" I think "boring"! Jobs are for goal- oriented people and trust me, you can't run a man with ambition. Oh sure, he can want things, just as long as he doesn't pose a threat at advancing in life. I mean, if he advanced what would I look like? No one would ask themselves "what does she see in him?" and with out that question how could I maintain the benevolent notoriety that is so crucial for any woman to be considered truly beautiful? The best part of this paragraph is when I talk about employing people.

sigh.

I was getting frozen yogurt tonight and the young man working the sweet shop informed me that they only have one size. I asked for him to fill it at three quarters (can't live in stretch pants). As I asked this a tall, thin, female worker walked by, heard my request and rolled her eyes. I immediately jumped behind the counter, shoved her frail head into a tub of ice cream and screamed "I'M SORRY! DOES MY PORTION CONTROL BOTHER YOU?". She wriggled, but her vapid body collapsed under my strong arms (thanks Yoga!). To my defense I was only trying to freeze her sassy eye balls out of her emaciated face when, suddenly, I was snapped out of my lucid daydreaming to the male worker saying "...that will be $4.50, not a lot when you consider we serve our yogurt with love!". I slowly backed out the door yelling "YOU DON'T KNOW ABOUT LOVE! NOT YOU, NOT MY FATHER, NOT THE BANK THAT DENIED MY LOAN..." and with that I walked out feeling pretty good, but then I went back to fetch my purse off the counter. I ended up leaving with my head held high. I didn't eat that frozen treat after all and this means I'm going to be all the thinner when I see my sweet fella in just a couple weeks. He's been "looking" for a job and smoking lots of pot (who loves snacks?), so I'm sure to be pretty physically appealing. Turns out the Secret isn't a bunch of bull-shit after all. Thanks Oprah!

2 Dollars?!

"What do you mean this coffee is 2 dollars?!" she screams at the barista before throwing the hot beverage all over his face. He wriggles in pain, blinded permanently. She laughs "hey buddy, I'm just kidding. What do you take me for- some poor person?" She leaves without tipping, knowing that the energy she put into the exchange was way better than a dollar, besides she's broke.

I enjoy awkward interactions, so I usually engage a cashier in some conversation like "isn't this place the place to be?" or I just make a dorky observation about the pastry case "Sure looks good, probably filled with rat poop... you don't have to tell me, I'm hip" [winks]. I am either a ham or dead-pan, but people rarely know what to say back- so I win! I am the champion of Talking the Most! My friend says it's uncomfortable for her when we go places where I talk to people. My friend tells me I should try not saying anything or I should be "normal", let the people do their job (she actually pleaded with me). Now, we go somewhere and there is a "normal" interaction highlighted by me punctuating every "normal" exchange by looking at her and smiling. You're probably stupid, so I wrote a script:

CASHIER: What will you have?

ME: An 8 ounce latte, please [turns smiling face toward her friend]

CASHIER: That will be $2.45.

ME: No problem, here you go. [hands over exact change while slowly turning head to her friend, smiling]

end scene

I think I do this to emphasize my effort to appease her; To let her know I value her comfort and to showcase my willingness to compromise. Ironically, it's probably more uncomfortable the new way! I like to embarrass myself. I think that it is to relieve my own tendency to take myself too seriously, but a psycho-therapist might say something else.

PSYCHOTHERAPIST: That will be $110

end

What Do You Mean these Eggs Aren't Satanic?!

True story. I mean, true as true can be. I cannot see an Asian walking a dog without thinking "enjoy being soup- dog!". Does that make me a racist or a dog hater? I don't know, but I have always been a cat person. It's not just Asians, it's anyone with black, silky hair- they all look the same to me!

I lived on a dead end street from the age of 5-10 and there were a lot of dirty, poor, white kids in my same age group. We would shit in each others lawns, spit in a cup, make my little brother drink it and harass the old Chinese (or Mexican) man who lived across the street from my house. Was it that we were "racist" or "animal- lovers"? Clearly, with an old menace like that renting the garage of Clint's house, all of the four-legged pets in the neighborhood ran the risk of being turned into a burrito. How did we know that? Let's just say someone's dad liked Hamm's beer so much- he had a life sized statue of a fun-loving-beer guzzling bear in the family room and then after I say that, let me add that I still don't know how that relates to the cat myth. However, deviled eggs are fun!

The thing about the cats in our neighborhood, is they were all related and screwing so they were in-bred, worthless and probably deserved to be made into some sort of ethnic dish anyway, but hindsight doesn't feed a slew of poor kids. Nothing does. There are tons of stray cats and dogs in areas amassed in poverty, so why did Tu-Pac's Mom have to make "miracles every Thanksgiving"? You don't have to be David Blaine to understand the magic of resourcefulness. That's what happens in a welfare state: a false sense of entitlement to beef.

I miss my childhood, I really do- seriously, I blacked most of it out. That Italian across the street though, will always be a gook in my eyes and now I see him in the hair of every pet owner passing by as I think too myself: phở.

If Beef Were Funny, Cows Would Be Sacred.

I live in San Francisco, which makes me a better person than other people. I was born and raised all over Portland, OR and as a native Oregonian, I am making sure to never move back. I think that people who really love Portland hate the sun and black people, because both are myths in that city. Oh sure, it's "cool", with all of the $3 movie theaters that serve beer and popcorn with nutritional yeast, but that's the problem- I guess. Portland residents tend to think they are in the most progressive, inventive and artsy city around. You know what? Public transportation there isn't even as cool as Portland thinks it is and it's pretty easy to feel "progressive" without a ghetto. Seriously, I was never afraid I would get raped in that city- how fucked up is that?! Pabst is somehow the poster beer for Portland (unless it's not anymore). Why does every city pride itself on drinking the most? Why is cheap beer so cool, Portland? It's not- it's cheap beer. Accomplishment is pretty neat though, so enjoy being drunk and downloading ambient pop.

In San Francisco, I sleep on my friend's floor. She wants to move back to Portland. She has a beautiful voice, great hair and a job, so Portland needs her (plus she's white) and I have a hard time relating. Her family is there, but so is mine. Hey, I have a family too... I have like 5 families I don't talk to- thank you very much State of Oregon. Yeah, ward of the court... since I was 10. It's amazing I can write, let alone form sentences.

I think that because I grew up with a _____ childhood, I am more entitled to success. However, just as I lacked parents, I lack motivation. Oh- sure, I had parents- lots of them, but guess who parented who (how does one punctuate that?). Meanwhile there are a million boring people brought up organized and disciplined, geared to shape the ideas of this nation. Then there are a million other people ruining the lives and chances of their children. That means there are two million people (children obviously don't count as people until they can vote). Two million people and over half of them are rich, however the poorer half are fatter... who can explain that? A: not even God, mainly because the question is formed in English and God only speaks Mayan (studied Latin in youth, but totally lost it by now).

It's raining and that makes me a bad person. I really don't know how I am going to make this a funny blog. I don't know what will come of my writing... I generally write in journal format, however, I want to be funny or pretty... the end.