An Invasion Wouldn’t Be a The Worst Thing to Happen to Us.

I realized what a shitty taste in music I have when the music playlist at a Bosnian lounge had all of my favorite jams. If I remember correctly, foreigners have the worst taste in music and comedy. But here I am, nodding to Telepopmusik and Gotan Project with a female erection in my pants while eating some cheese with figs. This is as worldly as it gets when you don’t have a passport.

My barstool neighbor says he has never been to Vegas. He says he works in finance, he is dressed like he works in lumber, and talks like he doesn’t have a job. Why is Seattle like this? Is this a Canadian thing? At least this is not California.

California people constantly brag and shove on your face their awesome beach life. Motherfuckers you don’t have beaches, you have coasts. You don’t know what a real beach looks like unless your parents took you to Hawaii or Mexico. The equivalent of the shitty California beach life would be me in Puerto Rico bragging about rock climbing, or in Vegas bragging about skiing in Mt Charleston. Enjoy your cold, dark water ‘beaches’, dear douches and douchettes.

And what the fuck happened to California women’s voices? I am terrible with accents, and it saddens me that I can perfectly imitate it. Who knows, maybe my true talents come from a place of hatred. The accent sounds like a complete idiot with cum in the back of the throat. You speak slowly, dragging your words, kind of raspy, and end every sentence like a question. (see: Paris Hilton, Audrina Patridge, Kourtney Kardashian). Like food and music, language and accents are a reflection of the culture. California women sound like lazy, uncultured, craigslist prostitutes.

Food. Ha! American cuisine has to be in the bottom 5 of all world cuisines.

But now that I have realized I have more in common with a middle-aged man from Sarajevo than with someone from the west coast of my own country, I feel I have no credibility. Either Americans have turned into shit in the last 50 years, or I have in the last 5.

Perhaps being taken over by the Chinese, the French, or the Mexicans isn’t such a bad thing.


McDonalds, the fabric of America.

The old school McGangBang

The old school McGangBang

I recently saw McDonald’s reviews on Yelp.

First of all, McDonalds is not a restaurant. For it to be a restaurant it must serve food, and while I do not know what is in a chicken nugget, I sure as fuck know it isn’t chicken. I’ve had chicken before, nice try McDonald’s.

These are actual reviews:

“I saw a lady in her pajamas, wearing snorkeling goggles, and holding a small child sized doll. I didn’t know what to make of it.” – Denis, Pasadena CA

“Sausage McMuffin was disappointing. It could very well be that my eating standards have gotten more frou frou. But I think I could have made a better breakfast sandwich than this if I had the time.” -Jon, Bellevue WA

” I rather be here than some suburban boring restaurant where my life passes me by and don’t feel a bit alive.” -Jaime, Azusa CA

“When being told to meet at “the sketchy ass McDonald’s” is all that’s needed to establish location it might speak poorly of your business reputation.” -Sal, Seattle WA

The words: rape, lunatic, lockdown, and save yourself, were a frequent theme in the reviews.

Stop blaming rap music, meth, and liberals for America’s decline. THIS is what’s wrong. Some reviewers encourage people to walk to another McDonalds a few blocks away for, and I fucking quote, “quality industrial chicken sandwich or hamburger”. Chances are that if you are at a McDonalds, you are not a fan of walking, or quality.

Valentine’s Day Part 1: The Blind Date Game Show

datingFor Valentine’s Day I participated in a blind date game show at a comedy club in which I ask questions to three bachelors hidden behind a curtain and I have to pick one of them for a date based on the answers. But surprise, surprise. All of the bachelors competing for my hand were unacceptable. First one is (legally) retarded, second one has a Bachelor of Science in Douchebaggery with a minor in misogyny studies, and the last one had a GREAT personality- just wonderful.

By the way, it took me more than 10 minutes to figure out the retarded guy was retarded. But he might not be. I am just going to list the facts below and you be the judge of whether he is or not:

  • He has a large necklace like Flava Flav but instead of a clock it has an oversized letter. 
  • He introduces himself and tells me his necklace weights 5 pounds. Walks away.
  • The other comedians think he is retarded. (But none of them is a doctor.)
  • His proficiency in ebonics is noteworthy. He is white, 850 pounds lighter than me, and 12,000 feet shorter than me.
  • Every time he approached me (no less than 5x) he addressed me by my name. (I’m always impressed by anyone that can remember the names of people they just met.)
  • During the show the says hi to his friends in the audience. They look like they just got out of jail for doing something stupid, like selling meth on Etsy.

After the show someone had the fantastic idea to ditch the comedy club and head to a nightclub in downtown Seattle, no more than 20 minutes away. By then I had beer, whiskey, fruity crap, and holy water in my system. Basically: I am down to rob a 7-eleven or feed the homeless, I dongiveafack.

Before I leave I ask the waiter for a shot.
Me: “any kind, I trust you man”.
He brings me a Kamikaze.
Me: “I thought you were legit, man”
Him: “It’s good, it’s extra strong”
Me: “If it was it would be called Little Boy”
Him: “I don’t get it.”
Me: (to myself) “I don’t expect you to”

I take the shot and just as suspected it tastes like sprite without effervescence.

Me: “Since you don’t have “Little Boy”, I’ll take a Jack Daniels, same thing”

My designated driver, Jake,  is one of the comedians that performed that evening. He drives a windowless rape van with a software company logo on its side. I know it’s bullshit because he told me earlier what he does for a living and it has nothing to do with computers. I start laughing hysterically. You can’t rape the willing so I jump in.

Up until two months ago I lived in Las Vegas, this is my first time going to a nightclub in Seattle. I shouldn’t have assumed it was a joke when Jake said “this place is a ghetto meat-slapping festival” (as if there is an upscale version of that) because that is exactly what this place was. Fights break out in every establishment, but it takes a certain type of dump to have their dancers and bartenders partake on it. When your  immature drunk patrons are the ones settling disputes between your staff members, you know you run a gigantic shithole.

After the longest 37 minutes of my life Jake and I head out. He takes me back to my car and I am mildly disappointed that the van was just for show.

(to be continued…)

The fat lady inside of me.


Gluttony Hoe

I love booze and drugs as much as the next asshole, but my greatest love, my undisputedly greatest indulgence is and will always be: food.

There is nothing I won’t eat, at least once. Blood sausages, hooves, worms, day old McDonalds, snails, brains, tongues, etc. (There is a semen joke there, but I will leave that up to you.)

I am not your typical fat girl. For one, I’m not fat. Standing 5’5 tall and weighing 105 pounds, I look like your normal everyday run-of-the-mill bitch, or a very poor fat bitch. Not many people would appreciate at first glance the depths of my love for all things edible. But rest assure, there is a happy fat girl living inside of me.  She is also kind of a slutty bitch, and is not above, maybe one day, using butter as lube.

Food could easily be a deadly weakness for me. My passion for real butter is such that I have eaten half a tub with crackers as if it was cheese. I ate nothing but cherry tomatoes and mozzarella cheese for 2 days, which left me with a beautiful shade of red on my skin and the softest shit I’ve ever taken.

If someone wanted to kill me it would require no more than baking me brownies laced with ricin and leaving them in a basket on my front door. That’s it. I wouldn’t hesitate to eat the shit out of them. I would post a photo of me eating porch brownies on Facebook. I should either invest in a royal food taster, or work as one.

Please don’t freak out.

Heat Shot painting by: aaViPiR

Head Shot painting by: aaViPiR

There are little to no differences in the schedule of a dog and an unemployed person. I know because as a part-time contractor and full-time unpublished writer, I am by all means “unemployed”. Between the frequent naps, snacking all day, and looking at the window checking out every car and neighbor that passes by, me and the dog have a lot in common.

There are only two major differences between our schedules. He gets out of the house way more frequently than me, and he gets to lick his genitals.

I cannot stress enough how terribly depressing is to work from home. I’ve never been more interested in suicide in my life, so much so that I feel very passionate about it. Passionate enough to NOT want to do it. I have found something that has peaked my interest and is worthy of living for: death by own hand.

So, in my quest for research into the matter, I have explored countless of gore sites, seen tons of pictures/videos of botched suicides, and gone really creative about how to plot the most hilarious and yet poetic suicide of all time.  I want people to hear the story and ask themselves these two questions “what the fuck? and, how is that even possible?”

Scenario #1: Birthday Party for the Dead.

I get a birthday cake that says “I know who killed Kennedy”. I will collect a bunch of dead forest critters: squirrels, skunks, geese, rabbits, birds, even a couple of small snakes. I buy birthday party supplies: hats, balloons, party favors, and mini tuxedo outfits. I rent a room in a shitty motel- the shittiest I can find within a 150 mile radius. I bring my cute little dead friends and outfit them with the party hats, tuxedos, put slices of cake in front of them, I smear some frosting on their little dead faces, and smear some on mine too. But here is the kicker, I give the squirrel a handgun… and I shoot myself with another one. During forensics they will know the squirrel didn’t do it, but think of the person that walks into that scene.

Scenario #2: The Set Up

Befriend someone I fucking hate. Have them invite me over for drinks/coffee or even dinner, and when they are not looking- poison my drink! They will go to jail for it!  (Ok, it is only funny from this side of the fence.)

I guess there is another major difference between me and the dog: the dog is definitely a better person than I am.

Reason #439 why women are inferior.

Last week at the grocery store I came across a vegetable I’ve never seen before called rapini. My computer agrees it is a weird vegetable because autocorrect insists I am misspelling the name. None of my cooking books have it as an ingredient so I go to Barnes and Noble periodical section to get some super hip cooking magazine that may have a recipe for it. One of those magazines that makes me order ingredients from Sure I could have found a recipe online but I am curious to try some other weird shit suggested by the better-than-me magazine’s marketing department. Also, I want to buy “A People’s History of the United States” (my previous copy was water damaged), and that funny comic book about my cat plotting to kill me.

My god, people make magazines for everything. Yarn magazines, dog house building magazines, chair magazines, stamp collecting magazines, redhead magazines, bukake weekly magazine, raising demon babies magazine. I’m not complaining. Frankly I don’t give a fuck that people are super into shit I consider menial at best. If there is a demand for it, I’m glad someone can supply it. My tip of the hat to the free market. But what really struck me was the order and classification of the magazines.

Top row: Technology. Cars. Mens/History. Finance/Business. Sports. Comics. Food/Wine. Women’s Interests. Craft/Hobbies.
Bottom row: I didn’t pay attention.

Women’s Interest makes up the largest section because it includes wedding and fashion categories. Men’s and History are group together. This, ladies, is why you are inferior.

There is no Barnes and Noble misogynistic secret society plotting against you. As if by moving the history category into the Men’s one will deter you from ever purchasing a magazine about the lingering socioeconomic effects of the confederacy… or does it?

Barnes and Noble merchandising department is simply accommodating their customer needs as conveniently as possible. They know that someone interested in crafts may also be into cooking. How they know this? Because this is what their POS is registering and what millions of dollars in market research are pointing towards, that’s all. Women shopping behavior indicates you are a pack of dumb cunts. I would pay top dollar to access Barnes and Noble consumer databases and see the actual figures of what women purchase against men. I am confident that upon evaluation, I will be left with great sense of shame and self-deprecation. Well, a greater sense of self-deprecation.

By the way, the top/back row of the Men’s section is all porn. Which I am not surprised by, but.. really? Men come to Barnes and Noble to buy porn magazines? I guess the location doesn’t have to make sense. If McDonald’s came up with an adult Happy Meal consisting of a Bacon-Guac 11 pounder cheeseburger, fries, drink and a pocket pussy as a toy, I am certain the entire world wouldn’t be able to supply the brutal demand for cattle, corn, and latex. Riots will ensue in drive-trus in every major city.

Of cocks and honor.

Rooster Art, original oil painting by Debra Hurd

Rooster Art, original oil painting by Debra Hurd

I know nothing about guns except that I should get one. My father owned a few guns and used to stash them around the house in the hollow spaces between the decorative wood panelings and the actual wall. He would go shooting at least once a month. He would use them to kill chickens in his farm and the endangered carnivore birds that hunted his chickens (see: guaraguao). If I was a chicken, I would have serious mixed feelings about my father’s gun usage.

My dad only killed chickens for food or to settle chicken disputes. Chickens can get out of hand, especially when they raise little cocks. We ate the eggs for the most part, but sometimes he would let some hatch to maintain the population. I’d say, from a batch of 6-8 eggs, only one would be male. This is when chicken drama ensues.

I hate cock fights in the sport sense. But when you see one how nature intended it to be, oh, it is quite a scene. Even the chickens gather around to watch the spectacle. You know one of them will win and bathe in honor and glory. The sexiest chickens will become the winner’s groupies. The loser would be humiliated and forever remain an unfuckable outcast with his feathers all jacked up as if he just got done with his 4th round of chemo, and with an incurable limp that screams of weakness and defeat. Cocks take their feathers very seriously as they are very shiny and add fullness- makes them look bigger and dignified. For a cock, having a prominent tail is the equivalent of a king’s crown… or a Lacoste polo for the douchebags.

Usually the loser cock will follow the order of things and simply find new territory and new chickens who didn’t witness his ass-whopping. But sometimes the humiliated cock will just not give up. He dreams of vengeance. He plots his attack. He lusts after the winning cock’s groupies. He starts to spread rumors about winning cock’s sexuality. He goes on a marihuana plant diet to cope with the disgrace. I’ve heard of cases in which the loser cock bartered eggs with rats in exchange for coca leaves. (Rats are notorious for having excellent coca leaf hook-ups.)

The rumors, the drug abuse, the missing eggs, it all adds up. The tension in the coop is detrimental to the chickens. So in an effort to maintain a high quality of life for those chickens my dad does the most humane thing possible: delicious rooster stew.

I bet the winning cock felt a great sense of respect and loyalty for my father when he took care of that dick. I bet this act further validated the winning cock’s supremacy and made the groupies all wet. Everyone is a winner.

Classy snatch

6a00e54f8eb1d488330120a6410bb4970c-piI thought the interview was over. I was feeling like a champ. I nailed this!
Then the guy in the corner goes: “Clearly you’re brilliant and you have a lot to offer. But I feel you are too poised and elegant for this position. You are, high-maintenance, and I do not think you will be happy here.”

My immediate thought was “..dis mo’fucka”.

I should have conference called my Vegas friends. Hearing someone say I am too classy for anything would have been the most hysterical thing they hear all year. These are the people that saw me dunking myself though a basketball hoop, head first. The same ones I have gone in a 4 day camping trip in which no one showered, not because there were no showers, but because we just didn’t feel like doing it. The same ones I have woken up next to on the floor of a living room so destroyed, even the owner himself thought he was at someone else’s place.

I have been soaked in some else’s diarrhea, peed in someone’s shampoo, smeared dog shit on windshields, eaten tequila worms, chased by cops, stole from a blind dude (who was an asshole), paid a junkie to beat up a girl I didn’t like, and worse… eaten candy corn, TWICE!

And this guy, this talking snatch with testis, is telling me I am too high class for his non-profit.

“Two weeks ago my dog ran outside. Iw as expecting him to make me chase him, but instead he stopped just a few feet away from our porch and appeared to be smelling something on the grass. As I approached him I see he is interested in something pink. He is licking it and eating it. I realize this is my vomit from 2 days before when I got food poisoning from eating half a dozen of bad oysters. Apparently when my ex husband tried to help me, he took the bucket of vomit and emptied it there. I yelled and screamed at the dog. The dog wouldn’t stop eating it. I ran inside and grabbed a broom, mind you… I have no shoes on. I start hitting the dog with the broom. He is faster than me so he ducks, and in the time it takes me to recharge, the dog takes more bites of the putrified vomit. I accidentally step on it, the stench is so vile I gag. I have to step away from this hellish scene. I start puking. The dog runs over to me and gets puke on his head and begins to eat my fresh vomit off the ground. I managed to grab him by his collar while I continue to gag and throw up. I tie him up to the tree and run inside to take a shower. After my shower I hose down the dog. As disgusting as this was, I didn’t think it was shocking enough to tell anyone, so I never did, until now.” -that is what I should have replied.

Instead, I proved him right by replying “I beg to differ.” Shook hands. Thanked them for their time. Left.