Pseudoephedrine + Blow Jobs= Methamphetamines (this blog post makes no sense whatsoever)

Oh Pseudoephedrine

I love you. 

I don't care what the Feds say...I want to buy you in BULK.  Not because I wish to become a meth addict, lose all of my teeth/frontal lobe brain cells and commence the manufacturing of massive quantities in my garage laboratory to sell for profit...but rather because I have SEASONAL ALLERGIES.

That's right.  SUE ME.  My nasal cavaties become inflamed, drippy and in need of theraputic levels of pseudoephedrine to remain viable transbuters of oxygen to my lungs during certain times of the year. 

Apparently our legislators do not have seasonal allergies.  Which makes sense since they are all aliens Republicans anyways.

Because in my neck of the woods, one now has to show three forms of ID, give the pharmacist a blow job* and sign away their first born child to get some pseudoephedrine these days.  Which begs the question:

Whose brilliant idea was it to crimininalize the purchase of SMALL quantities of pseudoephedrine via Walgreens?

Is that really where the bulk of the supply was coming from...my local Walgreens? 

Clearly the Feds have never been in MY local Walgreens because there aint nobody up in here but a bunch of arthritic 80 year olds and some broke-ass white bitches giving pharmacists blow jobs.**

Once upon a time, I could be allergic to Acacia trees without feeling like a goddamn criminal for seeking pharmaceutical assistance. 

Now, Me + Acacia pollen = OMFG YOU MAY BE MANUFACTURING METHAMPHETAMINES!!!!!    

Another example of a few morons fucking it up for the rest of us and I am feeling resentful. 

Because of YOU, meth users, I can no longer buy Sudafed in BULK.  

Let me be clear as to what I mean by "in bulk"....I mean that I used to buy Sudafed 24 tablets at a time. 

There are several problems with this picture.

First of all:  I know, right?  ooooooooo, SO RISKY and DANGEROUS.  24 whole tablets at once.

Secondly: You know why I bought the 24 pack instead of the 8 pack?

I'M LAZY.

I don't want to drive to goddamn Walgreens every 8 days during tree pollen season.

WHAT KIND OF TIME DO YOU ASSHOLES THINK I HAVE?!

Thirdly: According to my sources (and by that I mean Google), it takes KILOgrams of pseudoephedrine to produce meth in any kind of quantity worth the effort in terms of profit margin (which, frankly, begs the question; how many blow jobs are those pharmacists getting?***)

Therefore, it seems to me that the REAL problem here is that the Feds have an unrealistically low opinion of meth manufacturers. 

Are they really such underacheivers such that their primary source of meth production is my local Walgreens?  Because, how much meth, REALLY, is a 24 pack of Sudaphed going to produce?  I'm no math genius, but I believe that those numbers would be less than a KILO of any sort and may, in fact be only a teeny tiny bit.

May I offer, as it apparently has not yet occurred to our illustrius legislators, that it may be more likely that meth producers are utilizing other sources than their local Walgreens via one-at-a-time purchases of 24 pack pseudoephedrine to manufacture their methamphetamines for mass distribution?

Oh, WHOOPS. 

Was that too much common sense for one day?

Sorry.
 

*I have since been advised that giving pharmacists blow jobs for sudaphed is NOT part of the new Federal regulations....FYI.

**I have never actually SEEN any broke ass white bitches giving pharmacists blow jobs-that is mere speculation on my part.

***I have no actual proof that blow jobs were exchanged for sudafed.

Man Tutorial: How To Get Laid

I've decided that I should be doing more community service activities.  You know, as a way of giving back...because I'm all into philanthropy and all. 

I shall begin with the following VERY useful Man Tutorial for all of the needy men with no game out there, which I shall call: Man Tutorial.

In today's Man Tutorial, I will discuss how to get laid.

Are you ready for this awesomeness men?

Here are my tips:

Lesson #1: The following pick up lines will usually* NOT get you laid...so you should avoid these: (*when I say "usually" I mean FOR FREE)

"Heyyyyy YOU!"
"How much?"
"Yo."
"Hi"
"Whaaaat?!  Guuurrrrl, you got it going ON!"
"Can we fuck?"

So you should avoid all of the above.  Are we clear?  Good.  Moving on.

Lesson #2: Get a better job.

Always.  I don't care what your job is, you should get a better one, right now.

Lesson #3: Put appropriately sized tires on your car (unless your car is an oversized, giant pick up truck in which case skip to Lesson #6)

Really men?  When we see that you have GIANT tires, and/or a car that is 500 feet above its tires, our default assumption is that you have a very, very small penis.  And there are NO women on EARTH that are gonna want a peice of your infinetesimally small man parts.  NO THANK YOU. 

Lesson #4: There IS a dress code, and it does NOT include showing off your underwear

Pull your damn pants up.  As a woman, when I see a man walking around who has to use one hand to hold his pants up, I immediately assume he is a moron.  And I don't know any self respecting women who want to DELIBERATELY have sex with a known moron, so this exponentially decreases your chances of getting laid.   Just buy a damn belt already you moron.

Lesson #5: Do not advertise your teeny tiny penis.  This is a turn-off.

Occasions wherein you (perhaps inadvertantly?) advertise your small penis include but are not limited to:

wearing a toupe
dying your hair
any and all comb-overs and/or attempts at comb-overs
putting lifts on your car/truck (also see Lesson #6)
wearing giant gold jewelry
wearing any jewelry whatsoever

Lesson #6: Drive a regular vehicle.  Do NOT put your car/truck up on lifts
It doesn't matter WHAT kind of automobile you own-if said vehicle is up on lifts and/or the tires are so enormous that a step-stool is required to enter said vehicle, the default assumption of all females on Earth is one of the following:

1) you have lost all or part of your penis in some kind of horrific freak accident and are now penis-less
2) you are missing one or both of your testicles
3) you have never, ever been laid ever
4) you have an itty bitty penis. 

Either way, none of the above will get you laid.  Also, all of the above assumptions are multiplied times 100 if said "automobile" is a giant truck...

That is all men.  You.  Are.  Welcome.

Happy Holidays Assholes.

Ahh, the Holiday Season...

The time of year where we all are kind and generous to each other and don’t run over other people with our carts at Target whilst trying to get to the last *insert unimportant item here*....

Wait, what?

It’s OPPOSITE DAY?

Oh well that makes so much more sense then.  Carry on assholes.

WTF Wednesdays: Rough, lesbian, sex

One of my favorite persons on earth (outside of the bakery lady at Safeway who gives out free cookies) is my friend Elle.

Elle and I have known each other for the better part of 20 years now (that's right, i started making friends when I was 2 years old...I'm a savant...deal with it), and we have become so close our conversations sometimes resemble that of elderly married couples.  That is to say that our conversations are often random and incoherent. 

Elle and I talk and text often, but we only hang out in-person once a month or so.  These rare in-person events always include several bottles a SINGLE bottle of good wine at a great restaurant. 

Unfortunately, neither of us has much of an alcohol tolerance so For no explicable reason, the evening quickly becomes a comedy of errors.  Thanks to a new app i downloaded which allows me to record things at whim, I was able to document one such outing and the conversation that followed. 

YOU'RE WELCOME.

Me: This is fun.  We should make this, like, a regular thing we do...regularly.

Elle: Like how regular?

Me: Once a month.

Elle: Ok, but this can't interfere with my sex life.

Me: What?

Elle: You know?

Me: What does your sex life have to do with us getting together for dinner and drinks once a month?

Elle: Because of the spa thing.

Me:  Are you propositioning me?  Because I don't find you attractive, no offense.

Elle:  I thought we were talking about going to the spa?

Me:  What kind of spa did you have in mind exactly?

Elle: I'm like '50 Shades of Gray'

Me: What?  Isn't '50 Shades of Gray' a book about sex?  I totally do not want to have sex with you, if I haven't already made that clear.

Elle:  What?

Me: I just want to get drunk over dinner once a month and NOT have lesbian sex at a sex spa.

Elle:  I like it rough, like the main character in '50 Shades of Gray'...the book.  I AM her.

Me:  I don't know how I can make it any more clear to you that I do NOT want to have sex with you...rough or otherwise.

Elle:  So are we going to the spa or what?

Me:  If this is a sex spa, I am not into you like that.

Elle:  Why do we always end up talking about my sex life?

Me:  I don't know, you brought it up.  I just wanted to go to dinner and then you were all like, "i like rough sex," and I was all like, I don’t want to have sex with you and you were all like-

Elle: No, no, no, not WITH YOU, with Joe (her boyfriend).  Why would I want to have sex with you?  You don't have a penis.

Me:  I don’t know, you brought it up.

Elle: I did not!

Me:  Um, yes you did.  I have it all here (tapping iphone).  It's all on tape.


This is where the conversation stops as I play back, for an incredulous Elle, her lesbian sex proposition to me....IT'S ALL ON TAPE.

In fairness, so as to spread the shame around equally, I should also note that immediately after this conversation-as we were walking from the restaraunt to our waiting cab-I spotted an ex-boyfriend (who is a police officer) performing a traffic stop on some poor motorist and proceeded to make a fool out of myself in public-which may or may not have included my making a proposition for "ex sex" to a sworn peace officer who looked remarkably similar to my ex-boyfriend. 

Becasue I'm COOL like that.

#boom

Pissing Cherubs, Buckets of Wine & Scooters.

A few weekends ago I went to a family reunion.

My family members have stuff like this in their backyard.

That's how we roll.

I chose to bypass the pissing cherub and instead headed straight for the bucket of wine. 

That's how I roll.

Yes, we're of German and Irish stock so there are buckets of wine at our family reunions.

THANK GOD.

And then this 10 year old that I am somehow remotely related to was all, like, "I'M A SCOOTER RIDING GENIUS!"

And, of course, I couldn't just let that claim go unchallenged. 

So then this happened.

GODDAMMIT APPLE; Why you fuck with me?

FYI: This post may or may not make any sense whatsoever.

You're welcome.

So Apple has released their most recent IOS upgrade

*insert magical rainbows and unicorns here*

We are all supposed to cheer and pledge our firstborn children to the cause....

Oh, did you miss the memo?

Your loss.

You see, I looked into the upgrade and I AM A BELIEVER.

No, no.  I did NOT immediately look at the upgrades and wonder, OMGWHATTHEFUCKISHAPPENINGANDWHY?!

NO.

Because I am a loyal soldier.

Okay, I'm sorry. That's as far as I can take that.  Do you want the truth?

HERE'S THE TRUTH IN THE FORM OF A QUESTION (in so much as I can sarcastically/passive-aggressively deliver it..)

Do any of the engineers who created the IOS7 actually use iPhones themselves? 

ha ha, JUST KIDDING!

That was a rhetorical question.

Obviously the answer is NO. 

Unless, that is, said engineers have teeny, tiny, miniature, magical MARSUPIAL fingers with which to effectively use the new keyboard...because otherwise why would they make something that's already hard to use EVEN F*CKING HARDER?! (also rhetorical...clearly they are malevolent evil-doers who've dedicated their lives to making it impossible for me to text rapidly)

In fairness, I do often text inappropriate things so perhaps I need something to make it slightly harder for me to text so as to allow my cerebral cortex to intervene...

Come to think of it, has anyone actually put any thought into WHO is behind "auto-correct"? 

I say, it's BARBARA BUSH.

You know who I mean.

Not the cute "Barbara-Bush" that-got-the-Secret-Service-in-hot-water-for-her-drunken-antics-while-her-father-was-President-and-therefore-seems-like-she'd-be-a-blast-to-get-drunk-with-Barbara-Bush AND/OR the Barbara-who-looks-like-she-may-actually-have-given-a-human-male-a-blow-job-once-or-twice-in-her-life-BUSH.

NO.

NOT that Barbara Bush.

I mean to refer to the Barbara Bush who-is-OLD-and-somewhat-unfortunate-looking-who-despite-having-birthed-children-appears-as-though-she-is-someone-who-HAS-NEVER-ACTUALLY-SEEN-A-REAL-PENIS-because-she-kept-her-eyes-closed-real-tightly-during-sex (don't pretend like you don't have a visual image of the type of prude i'm referring to here)-and-who-seems-to-have-never-had-any-fun-in-her-life-ever-looking-sour-puss-who-is-married-to-the-FIRST-President Bush, Barbara Bush. 

Are you following?

THE OLD BAG.  I'm talking about the old bag. 

What I was TRYING to say is that I suspect "auto-correct" is secretly run by the prudish version of Barbara Bush (the OLD one who was married to the FIRST Bush president) whom I suspect (going only based on her FACE here people) only saw a penis ON ACCIDENT and certainly never had one in her mouth.

That's just the impression I get.

EVIDENCE: I already had to turn off my auto correct because it kept changing "fuck" to things like "duck" and "luck"....when CLEARLY if auto-correct knew me at all it would realize that "fuck" is FAR more likely...

Fuck.

Now I've totally lost track of what was I talking about.

Nevermind.

Conversations on The Job: Ghetto Cred...I got it.

Welcome to a new series on this here blog that no one reads, in which I will chronicle actual conversations that actually happen at my job which I shall proudly call: Conversations on The Job.

I don't want to brag or anything, but...I got ghetto cred.

I'm not proud of this. 

I would much rather be a kept woman for some rich man, driving around in his Jaguar and wasting away my days getting my nails done, drinking champagne and complaining about poor people.

BUT NO EARTH, that is NOT my life...yet... (*side-eye* to any rich, jaguar driving, man who may be reading this blog whilst simultaneously looking for a lazy housewife...*wink wink*)

Sadly, my ghetto cred occurred by accident and I really couldn't help it.  So I have decided to embrace it for what it is.

I drive a 13 year old Toyota Corolla-because I'm poor I have ghetto cred (not because i'm poor).

My car is missing a hubcap and has a large crack in the windshield that stretches from the driver's side to the passenger's side, makes a very loud banging/clanging noise when running, has a bumper sticker that says 'I "heart symbol" Shih Tzus' (if anyone knows how to insert heart symbols into blog posts hit me up in the comments section THANKS!) and it's pretty dented up because I've hit lots of stuff to increase my street cred...because I'm cool like that.

Ok fine.  I hit shit.  DEAL peeps.

I'm not even gonna try and pretend like I have an excuse for hitting things such as poor vision or ADD or texting and driving or something.

I don't need texting to make me a bad driver, NO MA'AM.

I am a horrible driver all on my lonesome thankyouverymuch. 

Seriously, I would not drive with me if I were you. 

No joke.

Though you may be inclined to assume that the following is an exaggeration, IT IS NOT. 

I really do hit lots of stuff.  My current car is the FIFTH car I've owned on account of how I hit REALLY BIG stuff with my previous four cars.   I hit stuff A LOT. 

Just off the top of my head I've hit some light poles (4), a few hedges (6), a tree (or 3), a tricycle (unoccupied), two minivans (both of which were parked at the time, 100% my fault), a coffee table (at a garage sale, put waaay too close to the curb, 100% not my fault), several sedans (moving targets therefore only 45% my fault), more curbs than I can count (who designs those things so close to the street anyways, wtf?!), a pigeon (natural selection), a fire hydrant (long story), two arm-chairs (at ONE garage sale, so that counts as the same accident), two racoons and one possum (all were already dead but I couldn't swerve in time to avoid the carcass), 12 orange cones (in the same day during the same 'defensive driving' course therefore they should all only count as ONE cone), a "One-Way" sign, a "Stop" sign, a roundabout planter, and one human male (this was more of a tap, but I was dating him at the time so that doesn't count anyways).

One time, back when I used to drive an ambulance for a living, I hit a fire engine with my ambulance (in addition to a list similar to the above which included several more light poles...for some reason light poles are harder to see in an ambulance than when in a Corolla).  Ok, actually I a fire engine TWICE-actually two different fire engines one time a peice, but one of those times doesn't count because the fire engine was old and the crew didn't care that I put a "new" dent in it and also I may or may not have been sleeping with one of the firemen on said engine at the time which doesn't matter because the bottom line is that it wasn't "reported" and therefore it DOESN'T COUNT.  I also hit a police cruiser with my ambulance once, but I was "dating" (or whatever) the police officer inside of said cruiser and he was cool with it so that doesn't count either). 

I'm about to get real politically incorrect and probably contribute to some horrible negative stereotypes or something equally offensive in a hot second, so if you're easily offended you should just move along.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

Are all the pansies gone now?

Good.  

The county where I work is the 7th largest county (of 58 counties total) in the state.  It's a BIG space.  Just like any big space, there are widely varying degrees of socioeconomic status depending upon which part of the county you're in. 

At my work, our case loads are divided geographically, although "management" denies this.  I put "management" in quotes because there is some question as to who exactly has any authority whatsoever at my workplace, not to mention concerns surrounding their emotional maturity, general ability to serve etc etc....NOT that there are any clear hiring standards at all-OBVIOUSLY peeps hired me so, DUB TEE EFF-but frankly, any moron looking at the case distribution would be able to see that, CLEARLY, there are geographical divisions to case load assignments.  

For example, 2/3 of my clients live in a 48 square mile radius OF THE GHETTO in a county that encompasses 821.15 square miles total.  A short hop-skip and jump over to someone a few cubicles over from me and you'll find that 75% of their client's also live in a similarly small radius OF THE NON-GHETTO. 

The fallacy of "geographic parameters" aside, who gives a shit?

As far as I'm concerned, there is only ONE official delineation. 

MY area of the county and EVERYWHERE ELSE I'D RATHER BE WORKING. 

And just so we're clear, I'm not talking about RACE, I'm talking about crime and poverty which, for you racists, are two TOTALLY DIFFERENT things.

You see, it just so happens that my "catchment" area includes the neighborhoods that are make the news on the daily for someone being shot/mugged/robbed/kidnapped/raped and/or for some riot/1% rally/occupy movement that occurred and created mass panic and chaos.

And by "occupy movement", let me be clear that I am NOT referencing peaceful beatnik protests nor the original, passive "occupy movement" occupiers who literally "occupied" something by sitting there and mediating peacefully whilst displaying home-made posterboard signs that said something like "equality for ALL" over a rainbow with puppies on it. 

No.

The "occupiers" in my neck of the woods are the mean, angry, jaded occupy movement-ers who break storefront windows with giant rocks and cause bodily injury to innocent bystanders as an expression of their rage occupiers, burning trash cans, setting off molotov cocktails, shooting AK-47's at the police, and rallying against "THE MAN" whilst simultaneously collecting tax-payer funded benefits and failing to see the irony in any of the above.

Our "occupy" movement-ers SCOFF at the other occupiers . 

You're not a real movement if the National Guard doesn't get called out.

#BoomBitches.

Twice in the last year the mayor of my catchment area has ordered a "lockdown" and I had to BEAT IT out of town like my ass was on fire so as to avoid getting caught up in violent riots.

My point being that my catchment area is the straight-up, hide-YO-fancy-shit-ghetto.

Again, not for RACE you racists, for CRIME.

The bulk of my time is spent visiting my "clients" in their homes which are (mostly, see above) in the poorest, most crime-ridden neighborhoods in the county so my 13 year old , dented, hub-cap challenged, Corolla fits right in.

One time my car was in the shop and I had to borrow my dad's 2010 Kia.

I got all kinds of weird looks that day, and the two clients I visited were all like, "ooooo GIIIIIRRRRLLL, is thatcho caaarrrr?" and I had to be all, like, no dude...those my DAD's wheels yo.

It was awkward for all involved.

Don't get me wrong.  There are those afternoons where, ghetto cred or not, I feel embarrassed and know I need a new car because small school children flinch and duck for cover as I approach. ...

Sorry kids, can't hear the noise over my Li'l Wayne mix tape...

Wait, WHAT?!?!

Tape decks aren't standard anymore?  DAMMIT.

But most of the time, having a car that looks like mine does works in my favor. 

Recently, I visited one of my clients and he insisted on walking me to my car.  And, while we were in a particularly bad neighborhood, I was a little bewildered because a client offering to walk me to my car does not happen neverever and, coming from this particular client, it at first* seemed very out of character. 

*I say "at first" because this is a client I am actually a little afraid of on account of how, not only is he a REALLY violent felon who has spent most his life in prison, but on the occasion of our first meeting, he casually described how he "beat the shit" out of someone using a baseball bat on the way to said meeting because this random individual "was having words" with "a lady" which my client found to be so inappropriate he felt it reasonable to indulge in a homicidal rage using a baseball bat. But then I realized, that was my client demonstrating CHIVALRY (though in a violent, felonious way), and I felt less afraid of him walking me to my car.  THE END.

Upon arriving at my 13 year old, dented, hubcap-missing, shih-Tzu loving Corolla the client kept walking.

Me: Oh, hey Bob this is me. (I said gesturing to my car).
Client: (incredulously) This?
Me: Yeah.
Client: This yo ride?
Me: Yup.
Client: (staring at me incredulously)
Me: What?
Client: I thought you drove a Range Rover.
Me: A what? 
Bob: You know, one of them fancy cars
Me: Nope
Bob: *staring at me incredulously*
Me: Bob, I don't even have a hubcap let alone a Range Rover.
Bob: Really?
Me: Nope. See? (gesturing to said hubcap-less tire)
Client: So...this yo ride? (more incredulous staring)
Me: Umm...yeah.
*LONG pause*
Bob: Aight...that's cool.

Bob seemed to accept this alternative reality, but I noticed he stood there on the sidewalk as I got into my car and drove several hundred feet to the end of the block with my clanging/banging dented, hubcap-less, shih-tzu loving car before making a U-turn heading back up the street toward the freeway.

Bob was waiting for me when I got back up to the corner of the block.

He stuck out his hand and waved.

I waved back.

And that's how I got Ghetto Cred, folks.