Fun Fact: Two people have actually asked me if I was a cutter. But I’m no cutter! I’m just a cat lady!

I have been really, really busy lately. I thought things would settle down after I finished moving, but that was just the calm before the storm…the storm that is mostly made of sh*t…cluster f*cks of sh*t…

And one of the clusters in this storm of cluster sh*t f*cks is this:

Is this a real picture from a Batman comic?! Is it?! I must know! And I don’t even know why!

So I’m currently in the middle of moving to a new place and OMG! It is such a f*cking nightmare! It has gotten so bad that I’ve actually started wondering if I was in hell…in fact, I think Dante’s Divine Comedy included a bit about how the souls in the lowest circle of hell were condemned to move from place to place for all of eternity…using only a U-Haul truck too! Noooooo!

Sidebar: If you ever find yourself getting called out for spouting nonsense that you pulled out of your ass because you were desperately trying to make conversation, just say you got it from the Divine Comedy. This tactic tends to work when used against children and the illiterate because (1) most people are only familiar with the Inferno, and aren’t aware that it is just a part of the Divine Comedy, (2) they aren’t going to admit #1, and will go along with you because they don’t want to be called out when they’re the ones who started it, and (3) even though they now know there is something called the Divine Comedy, they aren’t going to bother reading it just to find out if you’re full crap.

Anyway, maybe I’m exaggerating a little about how awful the moving process has been, but it’s still pretty damn bad. For one thing, I spent every single day looking at sh*t that I couldn’t believe I actually owned (i.e., a child’s sippy cup that is shaped like an owl…WTF?! ), and/or didn’t even know how the hell I ended up owning it (i.e., child’s sippy cup that is shaped like an owl…Seriously, WTF?!). Those items all got tossed into a donation pile that by the end of the move will also include things I actually should have kept, but donated anyway because it was easier to haphazardly toss them than it was to pack them.

Making matters worse was the fact that my stuff was apparently breeding. They had to be. Every time I managed to clear an area, it somehow filled back up with even more crap than before!

It’s driving me nuts…! What the hell am I supposed to do with a million sporks? I don’t eat at KFC that often!

In between my attempts to force my stuff into a one-child policy, I’ve also got to deal with Ikea. I hate Ikea. I hate it because it sells cheap furniture that looks good and lasts longer than you’d expect of cheap furniture.

One problem with Ikea, however, is that you have to build everything yourself. And I’m bad at that. I once managed to put together a dresser, but only after I took the freaking thing apart like three times because I used the wooden plank that had 5 holes instead of the one with 4 the first time around, and put the drawer rails on backwards on my second attempt. By the time I was done with the dresser, it looked like it was the victim of a drive-by.

Another problem is that Ikea’s furniture is deceptively simple-looking. Like, you go to the showroom and see a nightstand looks like it’s just a square tabletop and four legs, which makes you think, “OMG! This only has 5 pieces! I can totally do this!” And so you buy it.

But when you open the box, you end up seeing all this sh*t:

And the accompanying instructions look like this:

How the hell is anyone supposed to put together anything with this f*ckery?!

The only thing that has kept me from going insane is that I finally completely moved out of my old apartment yesterday (…I think), and probably won’t be moving again for a long time. And I don’t even have to worry about unpacking because I hid all of my boxes in the garage…where I can’t see them. And they will stay there until the food I didn’t realize was packed away starts to stink up the place. Hooray!

Thanks so much for putting up with my delayed posting!

I was bored and decided to Paintify three commonly used ass-inspired insults. Guess which one is being depicted in each of the pictures below!

1.

2.

3.

BONUS!

I came up with an ass-inspired insult of my own while I was drawing the other pictures…and you will get a bag of nothing really awesome prize if you can figure out what I was going for:

(10 minutes later…)

OMG…there is no way anyone is going to know the correct answer. Even I have no idea what the hell it is, and I’m the one who drew it.

Here, I’ll throw in a hint:

 That helps, right?

*UPDATE* I forgot to post the answers! Here you go:   (1) Asshat, (2) Butt munch (3) Ass wipe, (Bonus) Poobacca

*And the fact that no one could answer the Bonus question is a testament to how sh*tty (no pun intended) my drawing skills are. *sigh*

Thanks for playing!

I stopped relying on the local Los Angeles television stations for news updates because of Sharon Tay. I know she only works for one network, but I don’t know which one it is and would be putting myself at grave risk of further damaging my eyesight if I chose to watch the wrong channel.

For those of you who do not know who Sharon Tay is, don’t look her up. Please, I am begging you: do not put yourself in front of a train that’s inevitably going to wreck.

It’s not because she’s a bad person. I’ve never met her, but I’m sure she’s a decent member of society. And for those few times I’ve accidentally watched her newscasts, she seemed to be pretty good at her job. My only problem with her–and it’s the only reason why I’ve sworn off local news broadcasts–is her face…or more accurately, whatever is left of it.

Sharon Tay is a good example of what I consider really bad plastic surgery. Look her up (if you dare) and you will see exactly what I mean. The woman has probably had every possible enhancement and augmentation that exists, times three. And while I do think she’s attractive, it’s not enough to overcome the plastic mess that makes her hard to look at.

Not all plastic surgery is bad plastic surgery. My litmus test for determining which category your nip or tuck falls into is whether I can tell you’ve had work done without knowing what you looked like before. Sharon Tay failed that test–as did the Duchess of Alba (so scary), Octomon, 80% of the people on reality television shows, my waitress at the Cheesecake Factory, and Courtney Stodden. And by the way, Courtney Stodden obviously did not get her sex change done in Thailand because she still looks mannish…Huh? What do you mean she didn’t have a sex change? Oh please! There is no way in hell that gnarled man was born with a vagina.

Anyway, the results that tend to bother me more than others are the rail-thin nose jobs and bloated-ass lips.

I don’t know what it is, but I haven’t seen many nose jobs that resulted in natural-looking noses. The only person I can think of right now is Ashlee Simpson, and that was after I spent many hours of intense memory searching.

Most new noses all have the same shape: the ridges are really thin and narrow, and the nose ends with an unnatural point at the tip. I’ve been trying to draw a bad nose job, but you’ll just have to make do with a picture of a ski slope because that’s the closest I could get.

Were there no other noses for these people to choose from? Why would they go with one that makes them look as if their cheekbones won the war for facial turf?

Bad lip injections are even nastier. They happen so frequently that I’m starting to wonder if maybe the science hasn’t advanced enough to produce results other than trout pout. I mean, you’re telling me someone actually paid money to look like a bunch of herpes-infected bees attacked her mouth. You would have a better chance convincing me that Courtney Stodden is 100% female.

Seriously, how the hell is that a good investment?!

You know what though? Although it’s pretty bad to have a face that screams “this is why you shouldn’t get plastic surgery,” I wonder if it’s worse to be accused of having work done when you actually haven’t. That happened to me once.

,

…That’s the closest I’ve ever been to plastic surgery. And I still don’t know how the hell I ended up with so many eyelids that day.

UPDATE: Revenge of the angry eyelid! I awoke to find my right one all messed up! I don’t have three folds this time, but still…

A friend had posted the titles of several news stories on his Facebook page in honor of April Fools’ Day, along with the caption: “Which one is fake?” At first glance, all of the titles looked really shady because some of the topics were about things that were too insane to be real. I mean, how the hell could “Urine-cooked eggs a delicacy in China city: ‘Virgin boy eggs’ are spring tradition in Dongyang” not be a joke? The fact that the city has the word “dong” in it was a dead giveaway. And “New Hello Kitty lingerie is either sexy or very creepy”? A Hello Kitty lingerie line? That’s definitely not real. We’re talking about a cartoon cat that has a fan base made up of children under the age of 10. No one is going to put their child in a nasty-ass teddy just because it has Hello Kitty on it (I wouldn’t count out those creepy pageant moms though), and no adult is going to wear that sh*t because it’s not sexy.

The third title, “The Secret of Weight Loss May Be In 3,000-Year-Old Mummy Poop,” threw me off a little because poop in general is unappealing, and ancient dead person poop is probably much more disgusting. Imagine if someone put an old doot husk in your face. You’d probably lose your appetite and then some even if you were on the verge of starving to death. But then again, why would anyone study mummy poop for diet advice anyway? I don’t know if their eating habits helped them with their weight management as much as famine, warfare, and general labor did.

Between all the different titles, I picked the Hello Kitty lingerie article as being the made-up one. And I would have been right except for the fact that all of the new titles were real, legitimate works of journalism. All of them. Yes, Hello Kitty lingerie is real.

Forget the piss eggs and old doodoo. There is actually a company (appropriately named Hanky Panky) that wants women to put a cartoon pussy on their pussies.

And Sanrio is totally okay with that: According to Sanrio senior brand marketing director David Marchi, “Many women 18 years and older have grown up with Hello Kitty and can relate to the brand in a more adult way.”

I know Hello Kitty has been licensed to sh*t, but lingerie? That’s crazy. But you know what’s even crazier? The fact that all of us know at least one adult woman who is about 15 years too old to love Hello Kitty, but is already waiting in line to get her hands on a Hello Kitty thong.

And that’s just wrong…and creepy. Hello Kitty’s age appropriateness rating is probably, like, what? Ages 4 and up? But I don’t think “up” means “until death.” There’s a certain age limit for being a Hello Kitty fan, and adults who don’t outgrow this phase end up looking like piles of mess.

Of course, there are those who are aware that they are giving off a Peter-Pan-syndrome vibe and try to look less creepy by buying Hello Kitty items that are made for adults—like cookware or car seat covers. There’s even a line of high-way-robbery-priced Hello Kitty jewelry.

How the hell does that make things any better? I mean, you’re at an age where you shouldn’t be spending a single dollar that stuff, but you’re dropping $7,500 on a Hello Kitty necklace? And can you imagine going to a friend’s house and seeing a Hello Kitty wok or toaster? That would scare me sh*tless. I’ll take urine-cooked eggs and mummified doot any day.

I read an article about another airline booting a family off of a flight because the parents couldn’t get one of their children to stop throwing a fit. I love reading stories like this. I love them because I am so sick of this belief that we should sympathize with parents who can’t control their misbehaving kids. “Oh, boo hoo…you kicked me off of a flight because my child was screaming and kicking. You owe us an apology.” No, you’re the one who owes the apology. Have you ever been trapped on a flight with a screaming child before? I have…twice. And both times were hell.

The first time was back when my sister and I were flying home for winter break. We sat in front of a family that had two daughters: one screamed and shrieked the entire flight; the other kept kicking the back of my sister’s seat. The second time involved me sitting next to a toddler who screamed and cried for almost 6 straight hours. Nothing compares to the misery of those flights. I once sat through a 10-hour flight while stricken with food poisoning…oh, and I was assigned the awful middle seat and couldn’t go to the bathroom without tapping the people next to me. Even that experience was way more tolerable than sitting through a 6-hour flight with a screaming kid.

The thing is, even though I know the people on those flights were just as irritated as I was, none of us said anything to the parents. It was somehow engrained in our minds that we were supposed to just deal with it…to give the parents a pass because they were parents. But there’s a problem: if the parents aren’t going to do something about their children, then who is? It’s not like I could go up to a stranger’s kid and scold some sense into it. My ass would get hauled off to jail. Instead, we have to rely on the parents. But if they’re not going to school their kids, then we’re sh*t out of luck. And that doesn’t seem fair at all.

So I applaud those airlines that have been willing to say “We’re not going to take your kid’s crap anymore. Get the steppin’!” I only wish more establishments would do that…especially restaurants. And of course I have a story to explain why.

A friend and I went out to eat one day. The place was pretty busy, and we were told to wait for the next available table. Also waiting for a table was a large group of about 10 adults and children. One of the kids was a little boy (he was maybe about 6 years old or something…I’m not good with ages) who was waving his arms around and tweeting. I don’t mean “tweeting” as in he was posting something on Twitter. The kid was literally shrieking “tweet tweet” over and over again.

This tweeting was beyond obnoxious–and the kid wouldn’t shut up! And the more he kept at it, the more pissed off I became. At one point, I was actually trying to figure out a way to “accidentally” knock him on his face so that he bit his tongue off and then shattered all his teeth.

I couldn’t think of anything that would give me the ideal results, so I resorted to a more passive aggressive tactic: the “F*ck Off” face. You know what I’m talking about, right? It’s that glare you give to inconsiderate assholes…like, the asshole who coughs and sneezes without covering his mouth, or the other asshole who takes a call in the middle of a movie. Yeah, that face.

Anyway, although the kid’s tweeting made using the “F*ck Off” face totally appropriate, I was not going to use it on him. I mean, he’s a child. He probably wouldn’t understand the message that my eyeballs were trying to convey. It would be a waste of energy glaring at him.

Instead, I used the “F*ck Off” face on the kid’s mom–who was sitting in a chair right next to him, could see and hear her son being an obnoxious sh*t, but didn’t say a damn thing to him. So I decided to let her know that she needed to pick up the parental pace. Whenever the kid tweeted, I would turn to look at him–thus showing mom that people were noticing her son’s bad behavior–and then I would turn to mom and give her the “F*ck Off” face. I did this about three times before she got the hint. Great, I thought, she’s going to shut him up.

But instead of giving her son anything even remotely close to resembling discipline, mom just muttered a few words. And before you start thinking that maybe the kid was retarded or whatever, he wasn’t…because as his mom was speaking to him, he cut her off by covering his ears. And what did mom do? She gave up!

Soon after watching this woman’s weak-ass attempt at keeping her child in check, the waitress came by and led their party of 10 to a table towards the back of the restaurant. And as they walked away, another waitress came over to seat my friend and me. All I could think about was, “Please don’t give us a table near that kid! Please don’t give us a table near that kid!”

Thankfully, we were seated many tables away from the tweeting turd child. Even though I’d gone through a rather painful ordeal in the waiting area, at least I was going to be able to enjoy my meal.

Do you know how loud that kid had to have been for me to hear him? I was at a restaurant that was packed full of patrons, had music coming out of giant speakers, and four televisions that were showing basketball games on high volume. And despite all that noise diarrhea, I could still hear “Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!” It was awful.

We ended up shoveling our food into our mouths and leaving the restaurant as soon as we could because neither of us could take the auditory abuse much longer. And as we left, I turned to look at the kid’s table and noticed that all the diners sitting nearby looked absolutely miserable. Some of wait staff looked just as unhappy. The only people who didn’t seem to care were the kid’s parents.

I really don’t understand why the family didn’t do anything to shut him up…just like how I don’t understand why some parents let their kids run around restaurants, or kick the backs of airplane seats even though people are sitting in them. Do the parents think their kids are acting cute? Are they not doing anything because they’re burnt out? Well, too freakin’ bad for them because there isn’t an excuse in the world that would justify forcing the public to put up with someone else’s sh*tty kids.

And so what if I don’t have children of my own? I honestly don’t think having kids would make me hate annoying children any less.