Ever wondered what snowmen do during summer break?

Boo!

Ok so this is, officially, the ugliest thing I have EVER seen. Achmed the Dead Terrorist with small boobies and candy floss on his head.

I mean…Seriously?!  AS IF…the veil a.k.a. dress that covers the exorcised Emily Rose wasn’t enough to scare the shit out of me, they had to bed a sheep dog on her head. Why, oh why?!? I will refrain from sleeping tonight just in case this image decides to haunt me in my nightmares.

Oh, and also, how can anyone possibly carry on his head something twice his weight? Unsolved mistery. I would hate to sit behind her in a movie theater.

Hello There, Miss “I know all there is to know about 69 sex positions”

So my new roommate is a sweet, funny, big-boobed, not-so-smart slut. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love her, everybody does, but sometimes I would gladly shoot fire out of my eyeballs and burn her to the ground. There are times when she’s so funny she almost makes me piss my pants with amusement, but then again there are times when she brings her new boyfriend home and flashes me a sweet Get-out-of-the-room-I’m-trying-to-get-laid sort of smile that makes me wonder whether I should kill them both or kill myself.

But yesterday, oh yesterday was the cherry on top. I kinda like this guy who has a friend who kinda likes…promiscuous girls. The good thing about this guy who likes sluts is that he has an apartment. So I quickly devised a plan to get him and my roommate to meet and then ask her pretty please to never again have sex in our apartment and simply use his.

For my plan to work properly, a double-date was necessary, so all four of us had dinner last night and talked about…bussiness. And by bussiness I don’t mean hooking my big-boobed roommate with MY guy and going to a “guys only” party.

Abbreviation of the real names is imperative, to protect the innocent. Namely, me. My roommate will therefore be referred to as A., the guy I like will be referred to as I., and the guy who likes sluts will therefore be referred to as C. Enjoy the conversation and feel free to pitty me for I am a tortured, miserable soul.

A.: So C., I heard you’re buying Coronas tonight. And Baileys. Sounds like a party. Are we invited?

C.: Actually, it’s a “guys only” kind of party, you can come but you might not like it…

A.: Hello?! Since when is a guys-only ANYONE’s idea of a party? C’mon, take us, it’ll be fun, right?

Me (taking a huge sip of my coffee): A blast…

A.: I remember the last time we went to this kind of party…

Me (while ordering another coffee): Oh, God, this was definitely a bad idea…

A.: I drunk so many new coktails, I don’t even remember their names…second morning my mouth felt like it had been basted with nail polish…I wasn’t even sure what day it was, I’d woken up, taken a shower and wandered out the door, hoping for some guidance…but we had fun, didn’t we?

Me (sending an icy “shut-the-F-up-you-horny-idiot, guys-only-parties-are-just-for-guys-and-prostitutes” glance): Of course we did.

I.: C’mon, C., I think A.’s right, it should be fun.

Me (almost spilling my coffee): EXCUSE me?!

I have a tendency to raise my voice when I’m nervous, even though I wasn’t exactly nervous, just over-caffeinated.

I.: Well, the girl has a point, there’s no party without girls to start it, so we could use a couple to set the mood.

Me: No, you see, you got her all wrong. We’re not party starters, I think dinner for tonight was enough, wasn’t it, A.?

A.: Dinner, my ass! They have Coronas and Baileys, let’s go!

C. (horny as a dickhead, at the idea of partying with A.): You know what? You SHOULD come. The thing is we should find a second car, ‘cuz a few more friends are coming, so we won’t have a lot of space left in my car.

A.: We could squeeze…

I. (staring at her huge boobs): Yes, we could.

A.: Hey, I could sit on someone’s lap…

C.: Of course you can.

I.: Of course you can.

Of course she can…

The thing about making a deal with the Devil is, he always comes to collect

Well don’t act so surprised, no one in this world can be as GORGEOUS as I am, as SMART as I am, as FUN as I am, without making a deal with the Devil. In this case, the Devil is my mom, and I never thought I will pay the price for being born every-freakin-day-of-my-life! Trust me, you don’t even know the meaning of the word “evil” until you’ve met my mother, which you most likely never will.

So there it is: the painful, way to long, four-and-a-half minute phone conversation with my mom:

“Hey mom, I saw you today leaving work. Kick-ass shoes!”

“Don’t you think they make my ass look big?”

“…The shoes? How can the shoes…Eeew, mom!!! NO. Your ass looks just fine. I can’t believe I just told you that. Gross.”

“So your brother told me you had dinner last night, how come I wasn’t invited?”

“Well, we wanted to have a good time, Mom…”

“What does that suppose to mean?”

“Mom, I’m really not in the mood for the “I’m your mother, hear me roar” speech…”

“Do you have a date for the Christmas Party?”

“Ummm….What could I have said so wrong that the conversation’s center of attention moved to the relationship sector?”

“Dear…”

“Mom…”

“You remember my friend whom I met at your cousin’s wedding…”

“Ok mom, I already have difficulties following…”

“…well she has a son…”

“MOM!”

“What?”

“Doesn’t Hell freeze when you’re not there to run things?”

“Well think about it, why not? You don’t have a date for the Christmas Party, he doesn’t have a date for the Christmas Party…It made perfect sense”

“Just like it makes perfect sense to call me at 3 A.M. (!!!) to ask me about my Christmas plans?”

“Are you at least seeing someone?”

“Ok, mom, you win, now go to sleep.”

:deep sigh:

Ladies,

…tights are not pants. Seriously.

http://www.tightsarenotpants.com/manifesto