Tuesday, October 4, 2011

This Contains Shameless Self-Promotion and Also Dinosaurs.

Just found the song I'm going to dance to at my wedding! Who wants to marry me? I'm not married enough.

Guys, I discovered something really exciting while talking to Bestfriend on Facebook the other day. If you're an avid user of this :D emoticon, prepare to get your face blown off your face. If you add an extra D to it, like this: D:D, it's actually a siamese twins emoticon, and one is happy and one is sad. Wait for it, though. It gets funnier if you actually picture two baby siamese twins attached by the tops of their heads with one set of eyes and one is crying hysterically and the other one just saw its first cupcake or boob. It's funny, right? Maybe it's only funny after three sodas and a five hour marathon of America's Next Top Model.

I hung out with my little sister tonight. She's seven. She told me that dinosaurs are cute and awesome and also that I'm really weird, so pretty much she's right on base. If you were wondering how dinosaurs came up in the conversation (which you probably aren't, but I'm all prepared to tell you anyways, so I'm just going to do it), we were eating dinosaur chicken nuggets. Good news, they were actually chicken and not BREADED FUCKING TURKEY like they were in This Post! Also, I just really like to talk about dinosaurs. Probably disc one of my life will just be 18 years of me impersonating dinosaurs and begging for fruit snacks in the grocery store (I outgrew that phase. My mom told me to quit it yesterday, so I've moved on); the director's commentary is just going to be me sitting there, repeatedly saying, "Yeah, I don't know."

This post isn't about anything in particular. It was kind of just a clever attempt to make you guys like me more before I tell you that I got a TWITTER and my username is SKlones and you should totally FOLLOW ME or else I'll cry and probably throw a dinosaur chicken nugget at you or something. Click here for more dinosaurs. I'm like, all about dinosaurs tonight, aren't I? That's cool. Just to thank you for putting up with me, here's a picture of a funfetti cake that Bestfriend and I made with the full intention of making it as ugly as possible:
It says "Happy Birthday Floyd from Accounting!"

We made up Floyd from Accounting.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

All of my Cooking Equates to Cat Vomit. Roughly.

HEY GUYS. Blogger is being an ASSHOLE and it won't let me show you the picture of how I mutilate my seven year old sister's coloring books by turning Barbie into Medusa.

Anyways, I learned some valuable lessons last weekend. Number one: Reading is hard because TV. I'm sorry, professor, I understand that I was supposed to start reading chapter 10 of the Intro to Film book, but the TV was staring at me and how could I say no to just one little tiny short six hour marathon of America's Next Top Model? I couldn't do it; I gave in. (Heads up, I didn't try that hard to resist the temptation.) The second lesson that I've learned is that when thinking to myself "Maybe I should cook something," the appropriate response is always "DON'T." Nothing good could possibly come out of this. Here's where my traumatizing experience began. Bestfriend and I decided "Hey, let's make some homemade mac & cheese to go with this mysterious chicken we found in the freezer." Good start, already, I know.
     So we find this mac & cheese recipe with the pasta, and it seems good and legit, so we take out the salt, and pepper and dried mustard (by the way, have you SEEN dried mustard? It looks like cat vomit, guys! STAY AWAY!) and all this other shit, and put it in the pan. Then we pour in the milk. Oh WAIT, we were supposed to pour in the milk GRADUALLY? Shoot. So I was all "I'm sure it'll be fine, just mix it really well," and a minute later, Bestfriend is all "Hey, all this other stuff is stuck to the bottom of the pan, and it smells like it's burning." I tried to scrape it off the bottom of the pan while telling Bestfriend, "It's fine!" Bestfriend grated some cheese, which may I add, was the wrong kind (we used two kinds, and both of them were WRONG), and it got stuck in the damn cheese grater and EVERYTHING. DAMN IT. I had to mix the two kinds of cheese together, which absolutely enraged Bestfriend when I tried to mix it in a cup with a knife because she's really fucking weird or something. "A BOWL, Sara! A BOWL!" she exclaimed, angrily happily. We put the cheese in the burnt-milk-and-other-disgusting-things mixture, and watched it become a masterpiece! Just kidding, it smelled like burnt glue and sour milk.
      So we stupidly decided to continue trying to make this mac & cheese, and poured the burning-glue-and-milk-and-cat-vomit mixture into the other pan with the already cooked pasta in it. Yeah, Bestfriend and I destroyed one of the pans. GUESS WHICH ONE. Nevermind, I'll tell you, since I know you're all dying to know. It was the one with the burnt-milk-dried-mustard-cat-vomit shit in it. Dried mustard burns really fast and it really sticks to the bottom of a pan, I found out. So we poured our sad attempt at mac & cheese into a glass pan, put some more cheese over it, and put it in the oven for 30 minutes or something. Halfway through, I looked in the oven and asked Bestfriend if it was supposed to be bubbling, to which she replied "I don't KNOW, Sara, IS IT?" She wasn't very happy with me at this point, after the mixing-the-cheese-together-in-a-cup-with-a-knife ordeal. Ugh, WHATEVER.
     Our mac & cheese was a failure. If you were wondering what it tasted like, you should probably stop wondering, because it would ruin your appetite imagination is fun. Oh, and that mysterious chicken I mentioned earlier? It was fucking turkey. TURKEY. Who breads turkey and makes it look like chicken nuggets? Breaded turkey is like chicken nuggets for people who don't understand anything that is happening. So if I'm ever all "I think I'm gonna cook some lasagna," Please, SOMEONE, be like, "Hey, Sara, you can't cook for shit, and also, you don't even like lasagna, so what are you thinking?" Thank you. I can cross "Successfully cooking a meal," off the list of 'Things that will someday happen to me." It's right under winning American Idol. I crossed that off, too.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

I'm Feeling Like Being a Jerk Today...

God, I hate when I'm watching America's Next Top Model, and I change the channel during commercials, and flip back just in time to hear Tyra calling me a loser. Also, look at the cool cake made out of magic and fairy dust (my mom told me cakes can't be made of these things. I definitely remember putting them in the bowl, but WHATEVER) Bestfriend and I made:
I'm sorry, what? Why yes, that IS the coolest cake that's ever been made in the history of ever. I'm waiting for the job offers to roll in from all those shows about cake. I mean, I understand that the cakes on there have actual moving parts and helicopters (made of cake) that fly, and little men (made out of cake) that want my hand in marriage wave at you, and little business executives in suits (made out of fucking CAKE) that want to hire me carry briefcases, but this cake is rainbow. I'm sorry, I don't know if you heard me correctly. It's fucking RAINBOW. The frosting is ALSO rainbow, so there's that. I'm gonna tell you how to make a rainbow cake as awesome (and rainbow) and special (and also rainbow) as Bestfriend and I's.

 STEP ONE: Get your cake mix. Make sure it's vanilla or white. It can NOT be chocolate. That just won't work and you'll feel stupid, so don't do that shit.
STEP TWO: Mix that shit up with eggs (not hard boiled), water, vegetable oil, and whatever else the damn box says; just read the box, okay? I'm very busy. Hey, guess how many cheetos fit in my mouth?

STEP THREE: Separate the cake batter into six different bowls. Don't ask questions, okay? Add food dye to each one. You want red, yellow, orange, green, blue, and purple; the colors of the rainbow, since it's going to be a rainbow cake and so youI'm gonna stop explaining now.

STEP FOUR: Pour the purple batter into the bottom of the pan, and then pour the blue batter into the center of that. Do the same with the green, yellow, orange and red, but keep it in rainbow order, or else you suck! I love you, don't leave. It should look like this:

STEP FIVE: Bake your cake for whatever time the box tells you.

STEP SIX: Take your cake out of the oven, and let it cool. Then, carefully flip it out onto a large plate, platter, cooling rack, whatever you want. Also, don't do a shitty job flipping it onto the cooling rack and break it in half like we did a dumbass.

STEP SEVEN: Frost it if you want to, or if you don't want to, then you're boring. If you do, then buy or make some white vanilla frosting or icing or whatever you like to call it, and separate it into six different bowls, and use food dye like you did for the cake batter. Then figure out the rest of the damn thing.

So that's how you make a rainbow cake. Don't say I never give you anything. Also, this was pretty much the worst recipe/baking tutorial/blog post ever, so I deeply apologize.

Also, I'm still working on my Lady GaGa costume, so keep liking Pork on a Fork on Facebook. You can do that from the sidebar right here on my beautiful, spiffy, average-looking, horrible, embarrassing blog. Do it so I don't look like a loser.
Also, look at this picture of me eating a fake bagel and drinking fake coffee inside of a furniture store!
I'm so, so sorry.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Beware the Serpent-Eyed Girl With Twelve Heads.

Be careful what you send me. If it says "FWD:" anywhere in it, I will automatically erase it, and I will judge you. Wanna hear more? The answer is yes, you do. You have no choice. Actually, in reality, you could just stop reading, which would be a pretty good alternative if you were a cruel, heartless person who hates laughter and humor of any sort, and wants to break my heart by not reading this. Did I make you feel bad? Good. Read on, please.


I've started erasing my mother's emails if they have "FWD:" in the subject. Am I a mean daughter? Possibly. Thanks anyways, mom.

I have friends that still send me forwarded text messages. Do other people still do this? I have no idea. Either way, if you're sending me a text message about what a good friend I am to you, write it yourself, bro. If, when I open said forwarded text message, it plays the theme to Titanic, just stay home and talk to your cats, instead. Thank you. I'm sorry, that's a little harsh. I'm sure Fluffy would love to hear about your problems. P.S. The same goes for those of you who think you can sneakily post the same sappy message on my Facebook wall. Stop. Thank you.

P.S. I want this:

Another P.S.I never showed you guys my amazing sock...
*Sigh.* It's so anatomically correct...
UPDATE: If you go like Pork on a Fork on Facebook, I will... take pictures of myself in Lady GaGa's next outfit. How's that for motivation? Done and done. Also, I won't look like a loser will be very appreciative. You can tell whenever I put up a new post right from your news reel on Facebook. Fancy.

UPDATE AGAIN: Okay guys, here's the thing. I want your ideas on what I should write about, because during the Summer, I turn into a hermit with no human interaction, so my inspiration/intelligence is out the window hanging from a telephone pole I care. Tell me what pisses you the FUCK off. Sorry I said fuck. I might even decide to make it into a video, if I have enough motivation to make myself look presentable. Write it in the comment box. E-mail it to me. Post it on my Facebook page. Send it with a carrier pigeon, if you would like, as long as I get to keep the pigeon. I will name him Ronaldo.

Also, sorry this post looks like a bowl of Alphabet soup. If you continue to read my blog after you read this, I will be forever yours.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Thank you, Dear Hater Bitch.

Recently, I have discovered the joy of having haters. These incredibly insightful individuals can look at my posts and find hidden meanings that even I was not aware of when I wrote them. To thank one of my favorite haters, in particular, I decided to respond to him or her in this here post, just to show my appreciation. Here is their comment to me, regarding This Post I had written about why I dislike the beach, and underneath is my response.

you're so wrong. I really liked yur blog because you're really funny and clever but now you've seriously offended me. I've gone to the best everyday over the summer my entire life, it's a really awesome place and holds a thousand happy memories for not just me, but everyone who goes there. I always though you were really great, but now you just seem like an ignorant little pussy whose tiny brain can't comprehend the vastness of the ocean. it is the source of such inspiration for artists like who you claim to be, and the vastness of it's depth makes it THE wonder of the world. I'm sorry it is far from "large wading pool for little kids to pee in" pools are the gross things, all those chemicals are harsh and unnatural, the ocean has been here long before you and will be here long after you. and yes, you can be " hit in the yapper with a -10 degree wave every thirty seconds" but thts because the ocean is vast and powerful and much stronger than a weak little thing like you. I wouldn't make jokes and disrespect something that can kill you in half a second. you think you're being funny and offbeat with your hilarious outlooks on the greatest body of water ever, but really? you're a whiny immature little kid who thinks it's funny to complain. I'm absolutely not going to 'make you famous' you smartass little cretian who knows nothing about life. say hello to your first hater bitch

Dear Hater Bitch,

      That is what you would like to called, is it not? You stated "Say hello to your first hater bitch," so I can only assume that this is what you would like to be called. First of all, I would like to thank you for the delightful compliments. They truly warmed my heart. However, I became somewhat confused at the point where you told me, "It's a really awesome place and holds a thousand happy memories for not just me, but everyone who goes there." For me, personally, I've been to the beach quite a bit over the span of my life, and I can most likely count the amount of happy memories I've had on one hand. One time, I found a bra stuck in a vending machine and laughed over it for a minute or two. This memory did, in fact, occur at the beach. Another time, I found a dollar near the beach; I bought a chapstick with it. I believe that this would also count as a "happy beach memory." Other than that, I am unable to recall other said "happy memories" occurring at the beach.
      Also, your statement, "It is the source of such inspiration for artists like who you claim to be, and the vastness of its depth makes it THE wonder of the world," confuses me quite a lot. Firstly, I cannot seem to recall claiming that I was an artist anywhere in this blog of delicious porkage, but one time I had to make a wire sculpture for an art class which sent me into a state of rage that I'd never experienced before in my life. After many attempts at forming the basic shape of a dog, and then a rabbit, and then a worm, I decided to make said wire sculpture resemble an iPod. In other words, it was a square. Made of wire. If that would constitute as "art," then yes, I am indeed an artist. Second, I would like to point out that there are seven wonders of the world, including The Great Wall of China, Petra, Christ the Redeemer, Machu Picchu, Chichen Itzu, the Colosseum, and the Taj Mahal. If you were perhaps looking for the seven natural wonders of the world, these would include the Grand Canyon, the Great Barrier Reef, the Harbor of Rio de Janeiro, Mount Everest, Auroras, the ParĂ­cutin volcano, and Victoria Falls. Not the ocean.
     I would like to thank you for your concern about my well-being, as you warned me that pools are full of harsh and unnatural chemicals, but if the ocean is in fact strong enough to "kill me in half a second," (which as my friend has stated, is untrue, as drowning technically takes ten minutes) I think I will take my chances with all of the chemicals. Thank you for the concern, though. Also, thank you very much for the kind comment, and I hope my response clears up any possible confusion or hard feelings. Please do not hesitate to comment if you decide to check in and read this. I would love to hear back from you, dear Hater Bitch.

P.S.- Apparently this is what people are interested in when they find my blog on Google...
P.S. Again- Go like Pork on a Fork on Facebook. I'll give you Oreos. Not really, but you'll help me not look like a loser. There's a super easy and awesome Facebook widget thingy on my sidebar here ------------------------------------------------> 

UPDATE: Suppose I were to create a Tumblr where I post pictures I've found or drawn or whateva when I don't have time to write a whole blog post. How many of you wonderful people would be interested in following this?

UPDATE: Said Pork on a Fork Tumblr has been created. Check it out Here. The URL is just porkonafork.tumblr.com, in case you're like, morally against clicking links or something or if you want to get it tattooed on your forehead or whateva, so... Go check it out so I look awesome. Thanks.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Dumbledore wants his damn pork fried rice.

Sometimes I'm really judgmental of people. And I look at them like this:
Or this:

Or maybe even this:

But only on special occasions. I like to think I'm generally a pretty nice person, though, so I try to keep an open mind. Some people, though. If you:
  • Wear pajama pants out in public, I will judge you. Especially if you're over the age of eight, because that shit ain't cute, man. It's not that hard to throw on some pants, dude wearing ratty old South Park pajama pants in Newbury Comics. I know pants are just a major hassle enforced by society to prevent public indecency; I feel ya. Hell, if you refer back to This Post, you'll see that even in my own list of Things That Shouldn't Be Necessary But Are, wearing pants is in there, but do I look in the mirror when I'm wearing my fuzzy Mickey Mouse pajama pants and think, "Gee, I look totally presentable right now?" Absolutely not. What if you see like... your future mother-in-law or something out in public while you're sporting those super classy pajama pants with penguins all over them? No way are you marrying her daughter, now, buddy. You. Are a bum.
  • Wear Crocs anywhere but in your garden, and you are over the age of ten, I will judge you. There's holes in them, pal. Miss, there are holes in your shoes. What are you supposed to do with that? Shoes are not meant to be rubber and lime green... or shaped like that... Ever. And if you put those little rubber button whatever-they-ares on your Crocs, go stand in a corner; no one likes you anymore. I'm sorry, that's a little harsh. Go home. Please.
  • Look like Albus Dumbledore, I will judge you. I'm talking to you, old man eating Wonton soup in that Chinese restaurant. Please don't cast a spell on me.
  • Have a picture of Edward Cullen or Jacob Black on your shirt, I will judge. Actually, if you have a Twilight shirt of any kind on, I will judge you. Don't advertise that shit, man. It's already popular enough; wouldn't you agree? Oh, what's that? You're team Edward? Well then, I'm team Jacob. Yeah, I love werewolves. They're sooo cool. I'm sorry, what? You're team Jacob? Oh, that's cool; I just remembered that I hate all of them. Every last person in Twilight. That's right, I'm talking to you, Kristin Stewart. 

P.S.- Super big thanks to my pal Rafa over at The RudeBlog for putting Pork on a Fork in his list of bloggity blogs that he likes to read. Check out his blog. Now. It's funny. Guaranteed laughs or your money back; just kidding, I have no money for you. It's funny, though.

Another P.S.- Pork on a Fork has a Facebook page, now. You can like it on Facebook from the sidebar right here on this crappy looking snazzy blog of mine. Go like it, so I don't look like a loser.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Excuse Me, Waitor, There's Flies in My Everywhere.

Beach? I'd rather just swim in a pool, thanks. Honestly, I don't understand the appeal of beaches at all. I mean, sure, it's (sort of) fun to build things out of sands... like piles, or "mountains" as I like to call them, because I'm so innovative and artistic and also because I can't build anything else because the damn sand falls apart every twenty seconds. Other than that, the only things that stand out to me are flies all over the fucking place (sorry I said fuck), hairy old men in uncomfortably small speedos, and five hundred pound women in floppy sunhats and Crocs flailing their flabby underarm skin every time a wave hits them... Okay, that was kind of funny, but still mostly just disturbing. Why I hate the beach the most:
1. Sand... Everywhere
It's on my towel. It's on my feet. In my hair. In my bathing suit. In my everywhere. Who the HELL designs women's bathing suits? I would like a word with them, please, because putting a pocket area in the crotch of women's bathing suits is just super unneeded. What are YOU keeping there? I don't know about you, but I'd like to keep my important belongings out of the water and away from that area, thanks. I don't care how innovative and ingenious it seems to you when you come up with it. Don't do it... bitch. Oh, and those "convenient" openings in bathing suit tops that the padding comes out of? No. Negatory, you fucking moron creative gem of a person, you. Stop doing this. I don't need sand in those areas. Thanks, but no thanks.
2. Salt Water in My Eyes and in My Ears and Up My Nose
Why would I want to swim in an oversized body of dirty salt water that has basically turned into a large wading pool for little kids to pee in when I can swim in a normal sized, clean pool? I understand that some people say a pool doesn't "give you the same experience as the beach," or whatever they like to say to defend their choices, and if getting hit in the yapper with a -10 degree wave every thirty seconds is your thing, I apologize. However, I'll pass on the getting tangled in seaweed and stepping on what I can only guess is countless numbers of rotting corpses and rusty nails laying on the ocean floor. I'll swim in a pool, where I can see what's in the water right in front of me, thanks.
3. People... I Hate Them More at the Beach
There's always the same crowd of people every time I go to the beach. There's:
-The leather lady who's been out tanning way too long... About fifteen years too long.
-The older, aspiring Arnold Schwarzenegger with peeling sunburn, flabby skin and tan lines from his "super cool" sunglasses wearing a speedo two sizes two small. There's just some things I wish I could unsee.
-The group of seven year olds screaming and throwing sand at each other three feet away from your towel. Have fun laying on piles of sand all day.
-The previously mentioned five hundred pound woman wearing bright blue Crocs that match her unflattering sunhat, flapping her arms like she's trying to take off every time a wave knocks her down.
-The group of obnoxiously disgusting teenagers who think blasting Lil Wayne from their crappy iPod speakers makes them the greatest thing on the planet. Unless you're listening to that one song that says, "Bitch, real G's move in silence like lasagna," I don't want to hear it... That one line is really friggin' clever, though.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

My Favorite Least Favorites

You know those people who you purposefully try to avoid conversation with? I want to discuss this, momentarily. I can’t cover them all. It would take too long. Considering the fact that I actually really hate people about half the time, this post would be ridiculously long if I didn’t narrow it down a lot. Really, there could just be one massive group called “People” that would sum up the type of people that I try to avoid like a virus, and I end up seeing them everywhere, so I put an extreme amount of effort into staying away from them, and I end up going as far as hiding behind shelves of donuts in the grocery store, or darting into the nearest bathroom and counting to a million, hoping they’ll be gone when I finish counting and emerge from my cave bathroom. Here's one of my favorite least-favorites. It's one of the more least favorite favorites of all of my least favorite people. They may not be my favorite favorite people, but they're definitely some of my favorite least favorite people. I'll stop.
They are: The Stink Bomb
They ALWAYS smell. Whether it’s because they haven’t showered in one or six weeks, or because they have apparently never heard of toothpaste or breath mints, they smell terrible. I know a few people like this, and whether they’re a good person or not, I don’t know. Probably because I’m always trying to stay away from them. They could be the nicest person in the world. Maybe they read to the blind, and help old ladies across the street, and a lot of other nice things that I can’t think of right now because I don’t do that many nice things unless they involve eating chocolate or getting the opportunity to adopt a unicorn. Maybe I can eat chocolate with the blind, and adopt a unicorn that old ladies can ride across the street, instead. Who knows. Anyways, I’m not sure whether they’re actually nice people or not. A good indication would probably be the words that come out of their mouth, but I can’t really pay attention to the words because the only thing I can focus on that is coming out of their mouth is their terrible breath. So here’s what I try (maybe I can help you all out, too.): I try to put a little distance between myself and the person who I’m going to label Dumpster, because they smell a bit like that. Stand a few more feet away. If they’re one of those leech-like people, and decide to move closer again, and invade your personal space, move back again. They should get the hint. If not, I recommend something like this:

Try standing too close to me now.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Idiots: The Best Places to Find Them

There's always an abundance of things you don't want.

One of these things are idiots. Morons. Imbeciles. You can find them almost anywhere, but some places seem to be breeding grounds for these Einsteins. I don't know why you'd WANT to find idiots, since they're actually very irritating, but just in case you do, go to these places:
1. Fast Food Restaurants/Drive-Thru
I ordered a medium chocolate milkshake, and you gave a jumbo Dr. Pepper with fries. I'm sorry, but there's NO way you misheard that. I'm not really a fan of fast food, because deep fried chicken intestines isn't really my thing, but I can confidently say that the few times I get fast food a year, it takes much longer than it should. First off, if you work in a fast food restaurant, do all of your customers a favor and have a general knowledge of what's on the menu. (Is it even considered a "menu?" It sounds too classy.) Oh, and also, learn how to count money and give change. Just a suggestion here, too, but maybe whoever works the drive-thru shouldn't sound like they just had a root canal and have cotton shoved in their mouth.
2. Facebook
This is a little different, because whatever idiots you find on here are still throwing their stupidity in your face; it's just not in person. If you're patrolling Facebook for idiots, look for the following:
  • Individuals who talk about Jersey Shore too often. Exhibit A: "Watching Jersey Shoreee, bitches! Text the celly. Love yaaa. xoxoxo." Bite me.
  • People who tag their significant other in every status message, with a paragraph about how amazing they are. Exhibit B: "I. Loooove. Joe Imgonnaspamyournewsfeed. Sooo much. He's sooo amazing nd he's so cute. his eyes are the beautiful color of a rotten blueberry smashed on the bottom of my white sandal. He kills bugs for me because he's sooo brave and he's more jacked than Hercules and Beowulf combined." He's Steve Urkel in a polo shirt. Shut up.
3. Walmart
If you don't agree with this, you're probably one of the many Walmart idiots. When I say that Walmart is like the main hall in the castle overlooking the land of idiocy, I really mean that 99.9% of the Walmart population is fucking STUPID. Either that, or terrifying. Sorry I said fucking; don't hate me. Also, if you shop at Walmart, I'm sorry. I have this constant nagging feeling during every second I'm forced to spend in this Godforsaken store that: A. Some idiot is going to ram their cart into the back of my legs and then glare at me like I ran over their pet shih tzu and then got in their way, or B. I'm going to get raped and/or murdered in the dressing room/middle of the store in broad daylight. Actually, just the latter. I've never been in a Walmart dressing room. It's probably frightening and resembles a bathroom more than their actual bathroom.

On a separate note, I would like to know from all of you... Would you rather be attacked by fifty duck-sized horses, or one horse-sized duck?
I want to know. I don't know why.

I would pick the duck-sized horses...

Monday, February 21, 2011

Unicorns Are Better Than Ponies... And You Know It.

I'm sure you'll all be delighted to know that the reason I haven't written a blog post in quite a long time is not because I am dead. I've actually been busy doing nothing and also putting off work. I also got my wisdom teeth ripped out of my face on Friday, to put it lightly. I'm sort of disappointed that I didn't act like a moron when I woke up from my surgery. Like this: My New Best Friend. She's mainly my new best friend (After BestFriend, because she always comes first, which makes my new best friend... Second BestFriend) because of her extreme fascination with unicorns, and also because she has come up with a fantastic rap about Jesus Christ, himself, but mostly because I think she owns a unicorn, and I want in on that. I won't settle for a pony. I want a unicorn, and that's that.
I hate when people compare ponies to unicorns. They are NOT the same thing. Unicorns are one hundred times better, and I have actual scientific data to back that up.
1. Unicorns Have Horns
Do ponies have a horn protruding from their forehead? No. Actual scientific data. That's that.
2. Unicorns Can Be Pink
Or purple. Or blue. Or green. Or whatever color your heart desires. Can you have a blue pony? No. It's just not possible, unless you try using hair dye on your pony, but then it wouldn't be legitimately blue, so basically, you're a lying cheater. How do you feel about yourself now? Here's what my unicorn is going to look like:
That's glitter around it. My mother told me it was scary looking. I think it's perfect, but that could be my pain medication. I'd like to applaud my (in)capability of drawing a unicorn while simultaneously being drugged up and resembling a chipmunk.

3. Unicorns Are Just Better
They just are.

This is the worst list I've ever made. Whatever. What was I talking about? Right, I don't know. So basically, my medication for my surgery/teeth getting ripped out of my face turns me into a delusional, rambling idiot, and I'm incapable of writing anything more intelligent. Sorry this is the worst blog post I've ever written. If anyone returns to this blog after I publish this, I will literally love you until the day that I die.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

My name is Olga, and I am a Water Buffalo...

Hey guys, so first off, I recently wrote a guest post, which is pretty exciting. It was featured on Caroline Clemmon's blog, and you can check it out Here. My New Year's Resolutions need some work. I can live with that, though, and still not make any revisions to them. I'm quite content with mediocrity, thank you very much.

I hate when I say something stupid and make everything uncomfortable. Don't make me seem weird; you know you've done it, too. Everyone does, except maybe unicorns, because they don't talk, but if they did, I'm fairly sure they would never say anything that wasn't one hundred and ten percent relevant, or ingenious, or hysterically funny. Here's my favorite awkward situation to create:
Me: Oh God, you know what name I hate? Olga; it's horrid. It sounds like warthogs molesting chimpanzees in a construction zone.
Other Person: Olga was my great aunt's dead cat's name. She was an orphan and my great aunt adopted her. Her hind legs got run over by a doughnut truck when she was living in the projects, and now she uses a motorized power scooter to get around, and my great aunt brings her to kitty therapy to get over her fear of doughnuts, too.
Me: Oh, well it's a delightful name for a cat... I just meant that it's a terrible name for people.
Other Person: It's my middle name, too...
Me: Did I say people? I meant water buffaloes... So, uhh, I'll talk to you later...

And this is how I unintentionally offend people. Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this... Anyone? Well, in case you do, here's one possible way to get out of it:

Maybe they won't notice?

Monday, January 10, 2011

Illogical Thoughts That I Still Think

I vastly over think everything that ever happens. People have actually asked me what's wrong with me, because someone asks me how I am, and I spend ten minutes thinking, "Did they know I was mad? How did they know? I bet they know WHY I'm mad. Wait, that's impossible. What if I'm being really obvious? I should act like nothing is wrong... just in case." I'm a whack job, and I am one hundred percent aware of this, so no need for reminders. Most of the thoughts I have are completely illogical, and I know perfectly well that they could never happen, but that won't stop me from thinking it. I could go on for days about my reoccurring illogical thoughts, but I'll narrow it down to just a few.
1. I'm Going To Die When The Satellite Signal Is Lost
I'm not addicted to television, despite how this sounds. It's those times when I lose the satellite signal at three AM and I'm up by myself and the TV screen goes black. I can only assume the girl from The Ring will appear on my TV, leaving me with only one week left to live. This thought remains in the back of my mind until The Nanny comes back on TV, and I will realize that I've never been so overjoyed to hear Fran Drescher's voice before that moment. Thanks for the false alarm, DISH.
2. People Can Hear My African Tribal Music/Ke$ha
Just because I like Marilyn Manson doesn't mean Ke$ha isn't allowed on my iPod, and if you look in my direction one more time, I'm going to assume you can faintly hear me listening to her through my headphones, and I'll have to go through my entire explanation of why I have TiK ToK on my iPod even though I can't stand Ke$ha. When my teacher permits iPods during an exam, I keep my music at such a low volume that I'm not sure whether I'm listening to The Beatles, or Japanese bubblegum pop. When everyone in the room is that silent, I can only think that maybe they can hear me listening to Tahitian tribal music, and now they think I'm weird. I mean, I already have the volume so low that I can't even hear anything but the bass drum, but the person sitting six feet away from me might know that I'm listening to Amy Winehouse, so I should turn it down some more.
3. People In Stores Think I'm Incapable Of Shopping
I understand that asking "Can I help you?" is just common courtesy, and also required for store employees, I would think, but just tell me one thing. What makes you think I need help finding a CD when there's a one hundred year old lady ten feet away from me trying to figure out how to turn on a laptop? Do I just seem like the kind of person who's incapable of finding a certain CD in a perfectly organized, alphabetized aisle? Because I am, but I won't let you know that. I'll find it myself, because if I tell you I need help, I'll have another three employees searching for that one CD five minutes later, and calling every other store in the area to order it, when it would actually just be quicker for me to go buy it somewhere else. I'm perfectly capable of being a dysfunctional young adult without the help of four employees. Maybe if the "Can I help you?" question had never come up that time at McDonald's, Bestfriend and Bestfriend's brother and I wouldn't have spent ten minutes standing at the cash register trying to figure out how to use coupons for a Big Mac... That never happened, actually...

Fine. It did.

P.S. Look! I found Michael Cera in animal form! I thought you might be interested...

The resemblance is striking, really.