are they over yet?

them, the holidays. they over?

no, of course not. we of excess and gluttony need one more round of overindulgence and self-destruction. motherfucking awesome.

i’d like to tell you that i’m all resolved, absolved and involved in the new year. but, i’m still looking out at all of you wondering how you have it in you to remain spirited, social, and drug-free.

i always wonder what those of you with faith do when things seem dark and hopeless? i mean isn’t that why you have faith, so things don’t seem all dark and hopeless? at least being an atheist, i’m not pissed at god for feeling low and estranged. one less person to be mad at and blame is kind of a win, don’t ya think? unless of course god is within, so god is me; therefore, i’m just feeling more wrath with myself. that actually sounds about right.

oh i know i should be all ”to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.“

turn, turn, turn.

but i don’t fucking get it. every time should be a time to laugh, embrace, and dance. fuck the times to weep, mourn, break down, hate, lose, etc. are they really necessary? i’m done with those times, just like i’m over the ass sore that is the holidays.

so i wont talk about those times in 2010 that were supposed to provide some kind of ‘leveling,’ ya know to keep us all humble. like the bp oil spill, teabaggers election wins, jessie james’ infidelity, arizona’s anti-immigration law, bristol palin’s psa, prop 8 supporters, bill donahue blaming the gays for pedophilia, etc.

thrash, thrash, thrash.

this ain’t no grammys, no oscars, no disco, no fooling around, this is just the shit i like from 2010 presented in categories i like:

indie album: high violet by the national (it’s my new testament. their album, alligator, is my 13 commandments. hey, i’m very religious — god is within me, remember — so 10 commandments weren’t enough.)

pop song i couldn’t resist: love the way you lie by eminem and rhianna. (shut up, it’s like a punk pop song. ‘sides, bitch got pipes and i totally sound like her when i wail in the car.)

ukele song: http://bugginword.com/2010/09/24/uke-me-away/ (ok, i may be self-absorbed, but i still suffer.)

breaththrough movie: the kids are alright (color me a lezzy cuz i have the hots for annette bening and juliane moore. then again there’s mark ruffalo. so color me bi-curious.)

salacious sex scene in a movie: casey affleck and jessica alba in killer inside me (not for the faint-hearted and really sick to like any part of this ultra violent film. but my dreams don’t lie.)

rocker tshirt: tie between “it’s motherfucking booze time” (check it here) and “i think i brained my damage” (here).

caught on tape: joe biden to president obama on the passage of health care reform, “it’s a big fucking deal” (vp with a dirty mouth = hawt.)

commercial worth watching: tie between the kia hamsters doing the black sheep and kevin bacon talking about kevin bacon. (i don’t know what product this latter one is for, but who doesn’t love kevin bacon crossing his fingers wishing he could turn into kevin bacon.)

actual comedy: modern family (lmao every week. should be on hbo for added irreverence.)

dramedy: nurse jackie (girl likes herself some narcotics. why didn’t i consider nursing?)

real drama: tie between dexter and mad men (serial killer who slays serial killers vs. stylistic ad biz show. that’s a toughie, right?)

useful technology: ipad (internet on the train with a large screen for my over 40 eyes + name jokes = no brainer.)

memorable talk show moment: conan obrien doing freebird on his farewell show. (dude can rock out with his sub-woofer out. and he tickles my funny bone.)

depraved blog: vodka and ground beef (i’d link you to it but for some reason it’s like gone. without notice. wtf!)

intriguing blog commenter: tie between bugginword and dufmanno. (both make me feel like i’m swirling in some kind of an imaginarium. that’s a good thing, btw.)

awesome gift giver: three way tie between subwow, wicked shawn and a vapid blonde. (i retire my tiara to these sexy, amazing girls who all blew my mind this year.)

rad nail polish design: fuck u on lindsay lohan’s middle finger (how much do i want to wear this in the corporate conference room!)

book without flowery language: tie between squirrel seeks chipmunk by david sedaris and life by keith richards (each of these artists are iconic and the fiercest in their respective crafts: satirist and rock star.)

and since i’m still wallowing in my suckdom, i’d like to end on bad note. why jimmy choo, why?

uggs aren't pretty to begin with, why bedazzle them?

kibosh is a weird word. so is kielbasa. but this post isn’t about sausage. sausage just isn’t as worthy as bacon. bacon is king.

back to kibosh.

know what you can put the kibosh on? i’ll tell you what because it’s my blog and i’ll kibosh if i want to.

you can put the kibosh on low back pain. that’s an imperative and not an auxiliary verb in case you were wondering. so, who can i count on here? (auxiliary)

i somehow injured my lower back and have a constant burning and radiating pain.  it’s got me all in a funk because i’m pretty sure it’s going to hurt for a year and a half. maybe two. which means i won’t be able to ever work out or play tennis. and then i’ll become fatty patty. i just know this is how it’s going to play out.

i sit at a desk and write for a living so it tightens up and gets worse everyday.  it’s got me so depressed, i’m losing it.

how do i know i’m losing it? i’ve been obsessively:

• picking the scab on my heel which means my boot blister is now open and raw again.
• clenching the steering wheel of my car like i’m choking it to death.
• twirling my hair like a school girl into an alfalfa like horn and tugging on that shit.

one thing i like about blogging is that you never know what may show up in your posts

i wonder what you’ve done for low back pain. keep in mind, i live near and work in a northeastern city so i need the remedy to be fast. i also can’t afford to get fatter. unless it all goes to my boobs. which it won’t.

by the by, i’d also put the kibosh on arm swingers. especially the ones walking slow, holding a cigarette or carrying an umbrella.

and hipsters. they’re so smug and unethusiastic. enthusiasm and passion are way more hip. besides they all look alike making them conformists and not really hipsters.

and boy scout popcorn. at $9 a bag it should have crack in it, like the girl scout cookies. i’m all for supporting the troops, but gimme a little buzz for my money.

i’m patty punker and i approve this message.

there’s a gaping hole where my soul used to be. i need to get out of corporate america. mostly because of the pudsuckers i talked about in my last post. it just makes my blood boil that these princesses executives are grossly over compensated and they’re not even doing anything great. they’re not changing the way the world does business, saving lives, or doing anything to prolong the female erection.

au contraire! too many of them are actually running businesses into the ground (e.g., the american bankers and automotive execs).

i have to believe the execs at the likes of franzia and apple, whose companies are doing great things, don’t behave like the rest of these corporate asshats by taking their money for nothing and chicks for free.

the other reason i have to get out is because my mental illness isn’t really compatible with corporate america. there isn’t a name for my mental illness, other than “my mental illness,” because it’s a mixed bag of mental maladies, including but not limited to:

blushing disorder– i hate the spotlight and have issues with authority figures. you have to lovvvvee the spotlight to succeed in corporate america. substance not required.

high-low disorder — i could conquer the world during my manic phase, but i could junk punch a bitch during my low phase.

german disorder – i hate my lack of perfection and criticism thereof. believe me, i’m my own worst critic so i don’t need any help in this department.

irish disorder — i believe drinking and occasional recreational drug use should be part of the creative process. “The problem with some people is that when they aren’t drunk, they’re sober.”  ~W.B.Yeats

punk disorder– i despise conservative clothes, jewelry and hairstyles. why can’t a girl wear rock tee shirts, jeans, and doc martens to work and still be taken seriously?

night owl disorder– i prefer to work when i’m inspired, which doesn’t always occur during the set hours of 9-5.

UV disorder– i’m wilting under fluorescent lights. i need frequent doses of the UV rays to thrive.

george carlin disorder — there’s rarely a sentence formed in my mind that doesn’t have shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits so it’s a little hard to get anything out of my mouth because it requires reprocessing. and let me tell you, my filter is deteriorating with age.

so i’ve explored two alternative ideas, but they have flaws:

photographer– i’d need to be a fine arts photographer, like nan goldin, cindy sherman, diane arbus, robert frank, robert mapplethorpe or larry clark. i wouldn’t want to do babies, weddings or sports. commercial photography might be good if it was fashion or portrait photography like the work of annie leibowitz or richard avedon. but i think it’s a little late in the game for me here.

greeting card writer — hello, have you seen 500 days of summer? but here’s the rub: print is a dying breed in the wake of facebook, twitter, and free e-greetings. ideally sommecards would be a target but often, they’re too mean. hilarious to read, but not sendable.  i would need to start an edgy online greeting card company, without the insult and free factor. anyone in? designers, email me.

if you have any other ideas for me, let me know.

on the up side, everything is well in my little blogosphere. i’ve felt the bloggy love and have bestowed it on those whose writing continues to inspire and entertain me. recently, i received this award, from not one but two beautiful bloggers, sister merry hellish and the barreness.

the rule is i’m supposed to name 10 others to give the award, but the truth is i couldn’t pick just 10. everyone listed in punk places is worthy of this award, so read them all!

cuz i have a exceptional taste in writers and they’re all dougie like that.

i’ve received another blogger award. this one is called the end of days award and it’s from this dick who knows how to insult a bitch and crack her up all at the same time — with gusto. it’s pretty awesome.

there are no rules for this award. the only thing i have to do is post a short summation of what i would do if  the mayans were right about 12.21.2012.

i can do this. why the hell not. i don’t have anything else to talk about. oh except maybe this blogher10 conference i attended in nyc this weekend. essentially, it just confirmed for me that i don’t have anything to talk about. i obviously don’t take my blog seriously. fuck, i didn’t even have blogger business cards to pass out.

there are so many bloggers out there who are way more talented.  i don’t even know what i’m doing in the blogosphere.

i don’t have an original bone in my body. i’ve never even coined a word/phrase. i don’t mean like sarah palin (aka shakespeare) who coined “refudiate.”  but actual usable terms like fucktard, crapstorm, cock knuckle or lame sauce.

the homeless people on the street have more words than me. and they’re not even degreed in this shit. and they sure as shit don’t do it for a living where they might stand a chance of having the discipline beaten into them.  and i’ll be a monkey’s uncle if they can’t throw an f bomb way more poignantly.

hell, i can’t even monetize my blog properly. i don’t know how to tell a brilliant story and then tie it to the brand’s needs like one famous blogger (who shall remain unnamed). sure, i figured out how to use google ad sense but that brings in about .000000006 cents per day. however, i think after attending the blogher10 conference i have a blockbuster idea for raking in the ad dollars. just you wait and see! i may reveal it in my next post. if you’re lucky.

i did meet these awesome chicks who can blog like nobody’s business. even though i was my shy and typically socially awkard self especially upon meeting people i adore and admire for the first time, i had a blast partying like rock stars with them.

bugginword and absence of alternatives

a vapid blonde, brilliant sulk, bugginword, for the birds blog, me (who cares)

shy girl wishes she could be a fly girl or spy girl, brilliant sulk, dufmanno

who doesn’t like a bad boy? but way more bad ass is the wicked girl. and i got one in my corner. her name is wicked shawn because she is wicked in all the right ways. recently (okay, awhile ago but i’ve been in a time cluster fuck) shawn presented me with this awesome award:

it made me blush and all giddy like a school girl. and who doesn’t like that feeling? no one doesn’t like that feeling, that’s who. so thank you my wicked goddess.

here are the rules:

1. i love polka dots. everything looks good with polka dots. shirts, sweaters, skirts, dresses, bikinis, thongs, scarves, hats … it’s just the happiest fashion detail around.

2. i’m obsessed with hot fries. if i’m going to consume all those calories and fat, and enjoy every second of it, my fries must be hot. cold fries are unacceptable. i will send back the fries even if they’re lukewarm. if you’re thinking i’m high maintenance, you’re right. what’s your point, bitches?

3. a long time ago in a galaxy far far away, i used to have short spiky annie lennox hair. and my grandma would say to me, “trishy trish, why don’t you grow your hair? you don’t look feminine with that short hair.”  i thought i was the bomb-diggety. but turns out grandma was right. when i look back at pictures of me with my punk do, i realized i could mimic annie lennox’s hair but i didn’t have her face. and short hair requires that you give good face.

4. i’ve always wanted to use the phrase ”… can suck my dick!” suck my dick has punch. i like punch. verbal punch, rum punch, punch buggies, punch and judy, punching bags, junk punch. suck my lady bits doesn’t have quite the same ring.

5. i live in nj and i don’t like bon jovi. especially that living on a prayer song. yeah i said it. it’s bubble gum rock. jbj is a better actor than a rocker. now keith richards, he’s a rocker. jbj is, well, cute and cuddly with tight jeans. but keith won’t remember your name and can’t keep his jeans from falling off his heroine-hot ass. after a night of debauchery jbj would say, “we regret the disturbance and apologize to the hotel guests and administration. we intend to provide full restitution for any damages.” keith would say “those bloody pigs can suck my dick.”

6. beignets and chicory coffee from the cafe du monde in new orleans is the perfect breakfast.

7. this song makes me swirl with emotion. it’s melancholy and celebratory all at once. it stirs pathos in me. it’s got crescendo. and it moves me to shout-sing. play it now and play it loud, people!

The Only Living Boy In New York

and if i mentioned music twice in my list of seven, it’s because i fucking love music. for some this is nothing new. for others, this is a bonus list item. and for those who don’t like music, you can suck my dick.

now here are the five bloggers i’m presenting with this award:

1. A Vapid Blonde
2. Absence of Alternatives
3. Annah Banana
4. Midwestern Mamah
5. Dufmanno

it’s not everyday i get an award like this. it’s every week. so this week when i was tagged by one of my new bloggy friends, subWOW, who i’ve quickly come to love and adore, i had to accept my award and follow the rules for eligibility (following the rules is not my strongest suit, but this girl is worth it.) and i’m a suck up.

plus it’s simple: “If tagged, you need to list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you’d like to do the horizontal whiplash with.”

we all know i’m a motherfucking list dork. i’ve even already done a couple of posts like this. there was my top 5 foreign dudes i’d like to get naughty with and the hot couples i’d like to bang a gong with lists.

so i’m not going to repeat any of those characters just for the challenge. and two of my other beloved bloggy friends have already used some of the characters that would be on my list. wicked shawn included roux the gypsy played by johnny depp and lucy spiller played by courtney cox arquette in the show dirt and a vapid blonde included bill compton from true blood (as did subWOW).

so i better get on this shit before my characters are all taken up.

first, there’s heath ledger as patrick verona ”in 10 things i hate about you,” which is a remake of shakepeare’s “taming of the shrew.” how cool is that. he’s an outcast and he doesn’t give a fuck. but he takes a challenge seriously and could win over even the most resistant of girls.  he’s hard core, persistent and a hopeless romantic – in other words a RILF (rebel i’d to fuck).

once he won kat stratford over, she wrote this poem:

“I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big, dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick — It even makes me rhyme.
I hate the way you’re always right. I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh — Even worse when you make me cry.
I hate it when you’re not around. And the fact that you didn’t call.
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you — Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all”

i totally get that. and i like it. a lot. i miss you heath ledger. RIP, my dark knight.

second, there’s bill murray in “lost in translation.”  he’s snarky, subtle, gentle, adoring, a bit confused and totally up for fun no matter what time of day or night. plus that deep voice. what’s not to love:

third up is shane from the l-word.  a strong, sexy hairdresser that knows what a girl likes because obviously. and she just so happens to be the lesbian version of johnny depp. woot woot. 

i'm going to mess up that choppy hair even more

forth place belongs to sean penn. that’s right, sean penn, period. i couldn’t pick any one of sean’s characters (i’m a punk so i’m expected to cheat.) he’s just so super fucking talented. that combined with his american spirit smoking, bad boy, doesn’t take shit from anyone, i’ll kick your motherfucking ass if you take that picture, left madonna still wanting him and soulful blue eyes, i don’t even know if i can keep my irish ass down.

you're my punk soul mate

and fifth goes to harvey keitel in “the piano.” don’t judge. he’s one bad lieutenant. and played a crazy aboriginal with heartstrings for holly hunter’s piano keys. he knows how to take care of a girl waaayyy better than her wealthy land-owning husband. he’s a savage alright. in the sack.

(the vid’s a little long, bt worth it. if you have ADHD though, skip to 4:40 to get right to the harvey sexy beast love).

and now i’m tagging:

toywithme

fuckyeahmotherhood

blurt

one of the guys

melissa

i’m pretty sure “important factoid” is an oxymoron. fuck it, the title stays.

here are 10 important factoids about your punker:

1. i dislike the serial comma. the less punctuation, the better. punctuation just slows everything down. and formalizes shit. i write like i talk and the only time i pause is when i go into an absinthe trance. (although the tilda~ might be good punctuation to represent that.)

2. i used to be a catholic, a bartender and a smoker. not all at once. well i did smoke with my bestie in the cemetary while attending catholic grade school. anyhussy, the only one of the three that i miss is smoking. i just pray for one month’s notice before i die, so i can smoke my motherfucking ass off.

3. i always take the biggest, cheesiest slice of pizza. i have no qualms when it comes to my pizza. i’ll cut a bogarting bitch.

4. i don’t think farts, pirates or dane cook are funny. chances are you do but you should know that shit is not universal. and i won’t fake laugh or crack a crooked smile for it either.

5. i stockpile xanax just in case it all becomes too unbearable.  if my daughter dies or i get a horrible disease, i don’t want to live through it. i NEED control in this. sorry for the heavy, but that’s the way my brain works. i consider it forward-thinking and good planning.  also, i think i’m pretty clever outsmarting my doc to write me multiple scrips (i tell him they’re for the pms rage and no doc argues with that) and i get my insurance company to pay for them. you’re welcome.

6. i’m not a lesbian but i like to flirt with girls. especially foxy girls who give good blog like a vapid blonde, buggin word and wicked shawn.

7. i always liked yoko ono. even when everyone else blamed her for breaking up the beatles. not that i was alive then. okay maybe i was but i’m sure it was only for minutes. she makes good art. for realz. and this is one of my favorite songs that john lennon wrote about her.

Oh Yoko!

8. speaking of music, this is my favorite love song of all time.

This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)

9. i may or may not have tried heroin. but i if i had, i would have snorted it because it would have been the 80s and needles–aids… no thanks.  and if i had tried it i would have really liked the euphoria and heroin-sex but not the vomiting all night.

10. i think the jolly rancher should sell bags of the watermelon flavor 0nly.  i don’t care for the grape, cherry or blue rasberry ones. and i hate the sour apple ones. this is a huge miss on the jolly rancher’s part.

what’s an important factoid i should know about you?

you may already know that girls bore me. the only thing that bores me more is perfect couples. you know the type. in high school it was the head cheerdancer who sprouted a perfect rack in middle school and the jockstrap quarterback. in college it was … well i smoked too much hash and ate too many mushrooms in college so i don’t remember who it was. and as adults it’s these people:

not fun

do you see an edge here? of course not. they’re perfect and don’t know how to have fun. they’re in training for some marathon. always. and they get all wacky the night before their marathons and and have wild carbo-loading parties. riveting.

no, what i like is a badass couple. a rockstar couple that doesn’t give a flying fuck what people think.  they’re just true to their firey desires. they’re a hot mess and fucked everywhichway but loose. and that’s why i study these couples:

she tastes just like a peach

clarence and alabama are the epitome of true romance and living on the edge. clarence is an elvis impersonator and alabama is a hooker. clarence becomes her hero when he kills her pimp and steals his suitcase of coke. these two soul mates head to cali to sell the coke and all along they have the mob on their trail. there’s tons of blood, rape and murder, but in the end, here’s what alabama says:

“Amid the chaos of that day, when all I could hear was the thunder of gunshots, and all I could smell was the violence in the air, I look back and am amazed that my thoughts were so clear and true, that three words went through my mind endlessly, repeating themselves like a broken record: you’re so cool, you’re so cool, you’re so cool.”

speaking of blood, there’s these two:

note his blood necklace. that's hot, motherfucker.

ohmyfuckinggod! wearing each other’s blood on a necklace is so erotic. just shut up, this is my fantasy, bitches.  i always imagined them alone in some isolated cabin in the woods doing wicked pagan things like cutting each other and making a suicide pact so they could be together for all of eternity.

and the rad couple who actually pulled off the ultimate suicide pact? romeo and juliet. these two BAMFs couldn’t live without each other so they killed themselves to preserve their forbidden love forever. and delivered a big fuck you to their feuding fams.

hard core elizabethans

then there is the punk romeo and juliet, sid and nancy.

vicious is delicious

ok, so he stabbed her to death, but they were always talking about killing themselves. and after it happened he proclaimed he couldn’t live without her and hadn’t kept his end of the bargain.  when he was released from prison he intentionally overdosed to be with her again. their lives were full of violence, volatility, and the ecstasy of heroin. tragically punk and tragically sexy!

alright, alright enough about the seductiveness of suicide pacts. let’s get back to fun. and who had more fun than these gangstas?

guns are a rush

bonnie and clyde. nothing gets the libido pounding like being outlaw bank robbers. i’d seriously like to try this shit. just for the mothefucking rush. or at least i’d like to join these gun-toting, cigar-smoking punks in a bed strewn with stolen cash and a smoking pistol.

more exhilirating than serial bank robbing couples might just be serial killing couples.

psychopaths are sexy

mickey and mallory are natural born killers. he helps her kill her sexual abusing father and enabling mother and they go off on a killing spree across route 666.  along the way they tease and tantalize their victims, and kill just for kicks. hey a kick is a kick. never knock a kick because we don’t get enough of them in life. these two were tight and had some trippy, psychedelic sex. tell me this convo isn’t romantic:

Mickey: The whole world’s comin’ to an end, Mal!
Mallory: I see angels, Mickey. They’re comin’ down for us from heaven. And I see you ridin’ a big red horse, and you’re driving them horses, whippin’ ‘em, and they’re spitting and frothing all ‘long the mouth, and they’re coming right at us. And I see the future, and there’s no death, ’cause you and I, we’re angels…
Mickey: I love you, Mal.
Mallory: I know you do baby, and I’ve loved you since the day we met.

and last but most important, fight club’s own tyler and marla.

crazy sex gives me goose bumps

he forms fight clubs where men act out their aggressions and violently beat each other to a pulp. and she is a disturbing, chain-smoking, sex-starved tourist. amongst the blood, violence and xanax overdoses, these two have THE MOST stupendous sex in the world. in one scene she is yelping in ecstasy as they are pounding away and it’s causing plaster to fall from the ceiling in the room below them where jack the narrator (or everyman) sits.  marla says:

“My God. I haven’t been fucked like that since grade school.”  epic.

who are your favorite badass couples?

as a blogger sometimes people send me things they think would make good post material and sometimes i have to agree with them. the victoria’s secrets love your body campaign was one.  and this is another:

what. a. riot. now anyone who knows me, knows i’m okay with showing some cleavage. especially if it’s bodacious. i mean, why hide an asset? i’m a “rock what your mamma gave you” kind of girl. so i would never spend 10 knockers for the cami secret. but i do get a kick out of it because it was obviously invented by a woman. men must want to kick the woman who invented it in the cooch.

and that just feels like sweet revenge for all of the motherfucking sinister things men have invented. like:

the mammogram:we can put men on the moon but we can’t figure out a better way to image the boobage other than having a tech with cold hands take our precious mammaries and shove them into a gigantic metal vice grip?

brazilian bikini wax: what if we take your balls and gob hot wax on small areas at a time and then tear off the hair with a piece of heavy duty shipping tape. the kind of tape that takes the cardboard with it when you remove it from the package. oh yeah and we do this to your asshole, too. burn much?

toronto trim:this is the reduction of the labia and slight unhooding of the clitoris. men invented this because they couldn’t figure out what to do down there and needed everything to be more visible. so mutilate a woman. how about googling that shit. here’s your search term: “little man in the boat“

birth control pill: how about you take something that will make you have wild-ass mood swings, put on 10-15 pounds, and decrease your sex drive? and don’t forget to take it or you may have intermittent red bull spotting. i can’t imagine why the male pill hasn’t gone to market yet.

flarp noise putty:unlike most girls who pretend to think farts are funny and who watch sports on tv or at bars just to impress the Y chromosome, i think farts are fartarded. why are toxic gasses released from your asshole that smell like sulphur funny? someone please clue me in.

why are you laughing?

anal bleaching: only someone who thinks farts are funny would think the woman’s poop hole could be lighter, brighter, or pinker. just last night i was down on all fours with my ass facing a big mirror and holding a handheld mirror so i could examine the coloring of mine. cuz that’s how i roll. i don’t care if my bunghole is three shades of chartreuse i’m not taking motherfucking crest white strips to my anus. see brazilian waxing above  for further explanation.

women’s restrooms: in stadiums, concert halls, and theaters the ratio of women to stalls is typically 50,672 to 4. and i like to drink in these venues. so i get to miss the the excitement when my favorite act comes on stage and instead spend 96 minutes in line where i overhear things like “i can’t text him. he motherfucking chewed my phone, now i need a new one.” awesome.

hymen reconstruction surgery: virgins don’t exist. except in mythology. fuck you.

what else should be on this list?

yeah i know, the word “don’t” is a big negative. but in this case it’s necessary. in order for me, and it’s all about me, to have a positive experience at a group fitness class (spin, yoga, strength, boxing, cardio, pilates, tennis drills) these 10 rules must be followed:

1. don’t hoot and holla like you’re having an O. no yelling out Wooooh. Yeaaaahh. Owwwww. there is nothing orgasmic about this. this is agony. the high associated with working out doesn’t come until later. when it’s over. then we can relax and let go.

2. don’t come into class smelling ripe. what the fuck are you going to smell like over the next hour if you smell like a sweaty locker room mat at the onset? it’s much easier to tolerate your hoagie smell once i’ve been pushing it and my own soft gardenia-like aroma begins to turn a little onion-y. a little onion-y. as in barely noticeable. only discernible by me.

3. don’t deviate from what the instructor is doing. i’m not that coordinated. i can barely keep up with the moves as it is and your improvisation is throwing my ass off.  if you can’t conform, don’t do a group class. quit trying to stand out. attention whore.

4. don’t bring all kinds of gear. isn’t it commitment enough that i get my ass here and spend $180.9 bajilliion per year on membership and classes? then you come waltzing in with your high tech heart monitor, gloves, spin shoes and seat cover, wrist wrap, and designer gym bag. that’s too much commitment. i would clearly jinx myself with an injury the second i spent a penny more on this shit.

5. don’t look too pretty. your hot little coordinated outfits and tennis dresses make me sick. i want to scream like sam kinison when i see you. i look like a swamp rat and you look like a gym rat. i don’t need this kind of intimidation when i don’t even want to be here in the first place. and don’t be wearing pretty pastel-y colors either. i have to wear dark colors so the sweat rings around my boobs don’t show. don’t your boobs sweat? bitch.

6. don’t be fist pumping. i don’t care how energized you are. this ain’t no party. this ain’t no disco. this ain’t no club at the jersey shore.  ’nuff said.

7. don’t respond to the teacher audibly as if you’re trying to impress me. when the instructor says, “it gets easier the more you do it,” don’t respond, “yeah if you never increase your weights,” then look at me to make sure i notice how much weight you’re lifting. i’m fucking focused here. focused on getting it over with! and when the teacher asks if we’re all feeling great, don’t say, “like a rock star,” then look at me to see if i think you’re funny.  i can barely breathe so i sure as shit don’t have enough oxygen to laugh. even if you are funny. but you’re not.

8. don’t save spaces or bikes for your posse. i like to be in the back of class. i like to minimize the number of  people who can observe my lack of ability. if your clique wants to be in the back, then they need to get their asses there before me.  or, to the front with the attention whores!

9. don’t be a badass. here i was thinking i was all cool by going to the gym then you come swaggering in with your gangsta bandanna, gnarly tank top and ink looking all tight and rad. thanks motherfucker. my inner badass dial just dropped to dowdy. and dowdy makes me want to run and hide out of sight until i can step back out right.

10. don’t zumba. ok this rule is just for me. even i have to have rules. and if i don’t zumba then you can all remain upright and moving.  my lack of coordination won’t cause me to spin in the wrong direction and flail about until i collide with you and take your ass down. see, i’m a considerate gym-goer, too.

what are your cardinal rules of group fitness class?