Prego. Not the spaghetti sauce.

So, me and some pals went to out on Saturday night. We met up with some other pals, who in turn, had some pals with them. So, we are in a large group at the bar, and we are all chatting.

There is a girl in the group, wearing one of those spaghetti strap tank tops that are fitted around the boobs and then baggy from the boobs down. Black with sequins...it was a cute shirt. I'll give it that. But when everyone at the bar wonders why the pregnant chick is taking shots, you might want to reconsider your outfit. She looked pregnant. Several months prenant. She was a thin girl...but that shirt made her belly look like she had stuffed a small stuffed penguin under there. It was the major topic of conversation.

Turns out, she was not pregnant...big surprise, Ms. Lush. But I advise all the women out there to verify with friends you can trust...not that girl who always tells you you look fabulous, because lets be honest, sometimes you look you got run over by a truck. Pick that friend who you can count on for the truth. You don't want to be the 'wanna-be prego-girl' at the bar. If you wanna be prego, pretending isn't the best solution. Take that penguin out of your shirt and get laid.

Results are not garaunteed, but highly probable.

For the rest of us, it made for a quality night of people watching.

Hot dates.

The ladies in my office (there are only 4 of us), are always trying to set me up. Always.

This is an email from Cindy about the cute guy who sits behind her:

"He is better looking up close! He is an Architecture major/ooh! artsee babe. I know are looking for a geek…but u never know he may wear black socks with his running shorts!"

By George, I think they have it! They have finally figured out what makes my loins quiver. A man with black socks and shorts. The only thing missing is some suspenders and a wife beater with those shorts and you have my dream man.

I am proof that there is someone for everyone.

Victor is my hero.

In an email discussion with my French friend, Victor, I used the phrase "dumb as a doornail". Victor, being French and relatively new to the stupid things Americans say, did not understand what 'dumb as a doornail' meant, or what a 'doornail' was.

I think he figured it out.

-----Original Message-----
From: Victor [mailto:thefrenchguy@yahoo.fr]
Sent: Wednesday, March 29, 2006 1:49 PM
To: Christy (CM)
Subject: RE: Geek Humour

After a bit of research, I think "dumb as a doornail" is a malapropism. The expression actually is "dead as a doornail." But I've heard "dumb as a doorknob," so you're not that far off from correct cliché usage. Dead as a doornail is an oldie. Even William Shakespeare used it a couple of times, as did Charles Dickens. Experts disagree on why doornails would be described as dead, though the alliteration is very nice.

The leading theory is that the doornail in question in this phrase, which can be traced all the way back to 1350, was a small metal plate nailed on a door that visitors pounded with the knockers attached to it when announcing their arrival. This poor nail would have had its life bashed out of it by visitors and their repeated rapping. Life (and any kind of intelligence) would eventually be pounded out of the 'nail' in that way. Although one might wonder why these doornails would be regarded as any 'deader' than say, coffin nails is a mystery. I guess this particular nail was clearly very unresponsive and dead to the constant assault, hence the saying.

********

I'm pretty sure 'malapropism' is a French word.

He also didn't know what a 'chubby' was. We are all hoping he uses it inappropriately at the workplace.

HYSTERICAL.

Well, maybe not. But Erik sent it to me, and apparently, we are the only 2 people in the whole of the universe that think this is funny (except for the people who wrote it - I'm sure THEY think they are funny).

http://www.cockeyed.com/inside/howmuchinside.html

I think it is hysterical. I almost peed my pants at the Chevy Trailblazer and the Salsa ones...did I mention that I was alone in my cubicle on a Saturday?? Either I am a complete tool with no sense of humor or you guys suck ace and I don't want to be your friends anymore. Odds are, I am a complete tool. I thank you for being my friend for this long. I pay you well, so I'm not surprised you keep hanging on.

If you know the people who own this website, let me know. I want to be their friend. I would fit in nicely.

Spring Break 2006.

I haven't gotten around to writing about Spring Break yet because there is just so much to say and so little time to write it, seeing as how I think I am a rockstar. First of all, we all know I am not a rockstar. Second of all, we all know that I have none of the qualities required to become a rockstar. So what's the problem? I'm an idiot. But regardless, I am going to list the topics that need to be covered in the Spring Break Recap so I don't forget any highlights. Then, later, I will come back and discuss them in detail. For now, just use your imagination.

Hitchhiking
Hector and his European friends with the little penises
LA Boyfriend
Canadian Boyfriend
Karaoke
Retainers
Threesomes
Fat Bitch
Nads
Party Favors
Husband
18-packs
Beer bongs
Canada
Octopuses

That will pretty much cover the highlights of the trip. I'll write it eventually. I promise. This rockstar thing has got to stop. On Thursday. I'm not going out on Thursday. Don't even ask. I'll be sitting at home watching my TIVO. Until then...VIVA LA BEER!

Brokeback Mountain II

Beto send this to me and his comment was, " I'm going to skip the first one, but HERE's a movie worth seeing.............."



Hahaha.

Disclaimer: It's a joke. Laugh. If you're upset, call your mom. She loves you no matter what. My love highly conditional.

Living in Filth.

So, my friend Kevin, who is still in college at A&M lives in a house with 2 (I think) other guys.

Story set-up: While I realize this is the norm for college guys, it's still gross. The house is in Bryan, behind Northgate and is quite old. The living room consists of 7 couches, none of which match, none of which are even slightly clean and none of which I would dream of touching with my bare skin (elbow, foot, etc...), some very clever Kramer wall-art and a TV. The floor is sticky. There is crap everywhere. The stickiness continues into the kitchen where there are piles and piles of dirty dishes on top of even stickier countertops. A poker table doubles as a kitchenette - where I am certain no one in their right mind would actually eat. To the right is the "game room". The game room is where they store the kegs for their parties and if they did lots of drugs, this would be where they did it, but they don't, so it just looks dark and scary. Once again, we have couches and chairs...don't actually touch them. You might shrivel up and die. Down the hall, the sticky floor continues. Enter the bathroom and you enter the majesty that is a bathroom that 3 college guys share. Use your imagination. It's disgusting. Kevin's bedroom is actually pretty clean (considering), so we won't judge that too much. He DID let me sleep in his room when I evacuated for Rita...that bia.

Anyways, back to the meat of the story...

So, Kevin's house is filthy. Well, the boys leave for the weekend last weekend. The front door is funky and you have to shut it just right or it pops back open. Well, someone didn't shut it just right. It popped open. The neighbors, upon noticing this, call the cops thinking someone has broken into the house!! Mon dieu!! The Bryan Police, having nothing better to do, arrive quickly. They enter the house and after doing a thorough search cannot decide if the house has been broken into and ransaked or if these guys actually lived like this. After a few phone calls, everything was cleared up and it was determined that my friends live in filth. The guys are so disgusting that police, people who specialize in fighting crime and investigating crimes, cannot even determine if a crime has taken place. I mean, I think my house is gross, but I don't think cops would ever question whether or not I had been robbed.

Mops are our friends.

Here's to you...

I respect the hell out of these people. http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2362369

Here's to you Mr. Donut Hamburger Inventor. Only a man could create a sandwich with 45 grams of fat. I'd take my hat off for you, but I can't get my fat arms up that high. Here's to you Mr. Donut Hamburger Inventor.

Out of context.

From: Victor [mailto:thefrenchguy@yahoo.fr]
Sent: Thursday, March 09, 2006 10:23 AM
To: Christy (CM)Subject:
RE: Soccer schedule

Can I put this email on my blog? I don't have a blog but if I did I would. Because out of the context, that would be a great quote, maybe you should add it to your blog...

"I want a hot guy on my back...if I am gonna love him, I at least want him to be hot. Because we all know that looks are all that matter." - Christy, March 2006.
_____________________

...Welp, I'm headed to Spring Break 2006 this weekend...I'll fill you all in next week on the diseases and nekkidness we uncovered on South Padre Island. I can't wait. 18 year-old boys...here I come!!!

Survival of the Fittest.

How I have friends? I have no idea. How I graduated from college and got a degree? I have no idea. How someone, not only employed me, but hasn't fired me yet? I have no idea.

Today is Thursday. I paid bills on Tuesday. Brought said bills to work to mail (my mail person refuses to pick up my mail - or deliver it for that matter). Put bills in malbox. Today, of course, the bills had been taken to the post office to continue on their worldy journey. As I am walking down to the crapeteria at work, it occurs to me that I never put stamps on the envelopes. What an idiot. I should be shot. Or at least taken out of the human race. Stick me in the ape cage.

So I try and call all my bill people, but I can't remember what all the bills were for...phone? Electric? Gas? Insurance? Who the hells knows. All I know is that they are all due sooooon. I call around. Every person I talked to laughed at me. Is it really so uncommon? But, I think I got everything taken care of...the bill collectors won't be coming 'round the mountain anytime soon. I hope.

My brain is the size of a peanut. I'm like one of those huge dinosaurs with the tiny brains. Me = brontosaurus.

Edward 48 Hands.

I'm not totally sure why we thought this would be a good idea, but I am young and stupid...and they are even younger, more stupid and impressionable. Sooo, I convinced my sister, her roomate, and her best friend to play Edward 48 Hands. Typically, this is a game played with 2-40 oz. beers and is called Edward 40 Hands, but we aren't so young and so stupid that we thought our bladders could handle that sort of torture. So we modified the game to 2-24oz. cans - hence, Edward 48 Hands. The guy at the gas station knows my sisters name...should I be proud? I can't decide. He sold us 24 ouncers and 2 rolls of duct tape. Object of the game: finish your beer without peeing your pants...cause you can't go until you finish the beer. Beautiful.


Good times with the hippies in Austin.

Taco Bell Addiction!!

Email from Victor, my French friend who had never had a donut...until today. He said "I was impressed - not stroke by the magic - but impressed :)" But Victor has another addiction - Taco Bell. I can appreciate this.

In reference to my explaining about the donut-fasting:

-----Original Message-----
From: Victor [mailto:thefrenchguy@yahoo.fr]
Sent: Friday, March 03, 2006 1:30 PM
To:Christy (CM)
Subject: RE: Soccer schedule

Oh, I took the same kind of resolution with fast food 5 months ago... When the Taco Bell window man knows you by your name and gives you free tacos, I think it was time for me to stop. It is now forbidden food. And I don't miss it. I don't miss it. I don't miss it :)

Sweet Potato Queens.

An exerpt about obituaries and funerals from "God Save the Sweet Potato Queens" by Jill Conner Browne:

"A good friend of Tammy's, Alex, said she doesn't care all what they say about her when she is gone, she just wants to be buried in cheese. She envisions a huge coffin-shaped hunk of cheese with a hollowed out space in the middle for her. She didn't specify a preference for the type of cheese, having never met one she didn't want to spend eternity with."

I don't know Alex, but I want to be just like her when I grow up. Although I do have a cheese preference...no crumbly cheese and no american cheese. Please and thank you.

(if you haven't read any of the Sweet Potato Queens books, go for it...they are hysterical. like, laugh out loud by yourself on the crowded airplane hysterical)