I need more guy friends. Sometimes I feel like my entire friendship scape is filled with girls and gay guys. Which is fine, because I love them all. But sometimes there's just certain things that you can't talk about to either one of those species. So I'm holding a casting call for a new guy friend. What's that? You might know someone who would be interested? Let me give you the qualifications he would need.
Must be fatter than me, in order to make me look like a sex god in comparison.
Must have a neck tattoo of the name Charlotte.
Must be named something worse than Jordan, like Melvin or Theodore.
Must be willing to let me call him "Bitch Tits" if and when I please.
Must have a rocking set of bitch tits.
Must be willing to ride bitch when he rides with me, because we all know that Kelly Clarkson always sits up front. (Oh you didn't know about me and Kelly Clarkson, did you? I'll fill you in soon, I promise.)
Must be completely single, I am not competing for his time with some buck girlfriend of his.
Must be able to handle his liquor well, lest I get drunk and need a ride home.
Must never call or text me when he knows I'm with someone more awesome.
Must be willing to read the books, and see the movies of my choice that I'm too lazy/busy to read/watch myself and tell me all the important plot points so that I don't feel out of the loop when Bryant tries to bring them up.
So yeah, I think thats it. If you or someone you know is interested please send a headshot and resume along with a taped monologue via youtube link to postarita@gmail.com. K, thanks.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Jordan Gribble: A History Ages One Through Five
I had a frightening thought the other day, that in less than a months time I will be turning twenty two years old. I know it's not a milestone number to most, but for me it's particularly daunting. Twenty one has almost already flashed by without nearly enough gambling or drunken stumbling. Eighteen feels like a lifetime ago, days when I was just newly legal and coming to terms with who I was. I no longer have the fresh throes of youth to cling to. High school is now a distant memory, and bigger things like mortgages and school zones for my future children loom in the horizon.
I am now to old to ever be a kid star, or a child prodigy, or even star in kiddie porn; not that I had even considered the last one, but it would be nice to still have the option I guess. I am now five years away from being too old to try out for American Idol. But I also only have thirteen years to go until I am eligible to run for President of the United States of America. So I guess, some good things could come from it, maybe. I can no longer possibly pass for someone who's underage at this point, which in itself is sad making. Although to be fair, I'll still probably be id'ed every time I buy cigarettes, but I digress. It's sad to think that my next milestone birthday is eight years away at thirty. God, if I'm this upset at turning twenty two, imagine how I'll be at thirty? I don't even want to think about it right now.
But all of this is besides the point, since I only have a month left of being in my mind a juvenile, I would like to take a few posts to look back on the last twenty one years of AMAZING. To see how far I've come, or maybe just to try to figure out where it all went wrong. So I present to you; "Jordan Gribble: A History"
Here I am at the age of one, in someones discolored recliner. I don't know who's great idea it was to dress me in overalls, nonetheless overalls with a tugboat on them, but I'd like to tell them what an awful idea it was. I think that possibly in this picture that I am either visualizing my future and laughing because it's so bad. Or possibly I'm taking a big shit, and laughing because it's only going to discolor that horrible chair even further.
Here I am at three I think. I like how curiously big pimping I am on this tricycle. I would hazard a guess to say that I was one hundred percent a bigger pimp at three than I will more than likely ever be for the rest of my adult life. I would even hazard a guess to say that now Jay Z has retired from the pimping game, and married Beyonce that I should clearly take his place. I'm sure my parents have saved those awful sunglasses (along with millions of other relics from my youth that I would rather forget) I'm sure I could dust them off, and start slinging drugs, and land me some hot Beyonce-like pussy. Or possibly not, actually definitely not. But whatever, it sounded pretty good didn't it?
This is like my favorite fucking picture of me in the entire world. I'm almost positive that I am doing a really amazing Reba Mcentire impersonation as I did very often at this age. Actually it's something I still do with more frequency than I'd probably like to admit to myself and the Internet. I also love how in the general progression of these photographs that you can tell that I have had the exact same haircut for nearly twenty years of my life. That's two entire decades if you need me to spell it out for you slow ones.
When I got my first pair of glasses in kindergarten my parents completely ignored the "LESS IS MORE" credo, and decided instead to get me the largest, pair of mother fucking glasses in the state of Louisiana. And to top it all off, they bought them in red. Did my parents try to sign me up for future humiliation or something? I swear to Jesus sometimes I must have been adopted. Surely no one who actually loved their own flesh and blood would put them in something as hideous as all of that mess. I have one good memory about those awful glasses however. I remember putting them on for the first time, and for the first time seeing leaves on trees. Never once before seeing anything but a large green and brown blur. Now I saw the distinction, and I would never be blind again from that moment. And it felt good to know that. It still feels good.
Oh and I also just noticed the paisley shirt, I would talk about it but then I would just end up wasting another paragraph of your time. But I mean what could I possibly say about paisley that hasn't already been said by Joan Rivers or those Queer Eye for the Straight Guys? Exactly, it's all been done before.
Stay tuned next week for ages six through ten, where I inevitably have even bigger glasses and my head becomes of an even more abnormal shape than before. Also some horrible wardrobe choices from my parents. Giddy with excitement? Yeah, me too.
I am now to old to ever be a kid star, or a child prodigy, or even star in kiddie porn; not that I had even considered the last one, but it would be nice to still have the option I guess. I am now five years away from being too old to try out for American Idol. But I also only have thirteen years to go until I am eligible to run for President of the United States of America. So I guess, some good things could come from it, maybe. I can no longer possibly pass for someone who's underage at this point, which in itself is sad making. Although to be fair, I'll still probably be id'ed every time I buy cigarettes, but I digress. It's sad to think that my next milestone birthday is eight years away at thirty. God, if I'm this upset at turning twenty two, imagine how I'll be at thirty? I don't even want to think about it right now.
But all of this is besides the point, since I only have a month left of being in my mind a juvenile, I would like to take a few posts to look back on the last twenty one years of AMAZING. To see how far I've come, or maybe just to try to figure out where it all went wrong. So I present to you; "Jordan Gribble: A History"
Here I am at the age of one, in someones discolored recliner. I don't know who's great idea it was to dress me in overalls, nonetheless overalls with a tugboat on them, but I'd like to tell them what an awful idea it was. I think that possibly in this picture that I am either visualizing my future and laughing because it's so bad. Or possibly I'm taking a big shit, and laughing because it's only going to discolor that horrible chair even further.
Here I am at three I think. I like how curiously big pimping I am on this tricycle. I would hazard a guess to say that I was one hundred percent a bigger pimp at three than I will more than likely ever be for the rest of my adult life. I would even hazard a guess to say that now Jay Z has retired from the pimping game, and married Beyonce that I should clearly take his place. I'm sure my parents have saved those awful sunglasses (along with millions of other relics from my youth that I would rather forget) I'm sure I could dust them off, and start slinging drugs, and land me some hot Beyonce-like pussy. Or possibly not, actually definitely not. But whatever, it sounded pretty good didn't it?
This is like my favorite fucking picture of me in the entire world. I'm almost positive that I am doing a really amazing Reba Mcentire impersonation as I did very often at this age. Actually it's something I still do with more frequency than I'd probably like to admit to myself and the Internet. I also love how in the general progression of these photographs that you can tell that I have had the exact same haircut for nearly twenty years of my life. That's two entire decades if you need me to spell it out for you slow ones.
When I got my first pair of glasses in kindergarten my parents completely ignored the "LESS IS MORE" credo, and decided instead to get me the largest, pair of mother fucking glasses in the state of Louisiana. And to top it all off, they bought them in red. Did my parents try to sign me up for future humiliation or something? I swear to Jesus sometimes I must have been adopted. Surely no one who actually loved their own flesh and blood would put them in something as hideous as all of that mess. I have one good memory about those awful glasses however. I remember putting them on for the first time, and for the first time seeing leaves on trees. Never once before seeing anything but a large green and brown blur. Now I saw the distinction, and I would never be blind again from that moment. And it felt good to know that. It still feels good.Oh and I also just noticed the paisley shirt, I would talk about it but then I would just end up wasting another paragraph of your time. But I mean what could I possibly say about paisley that hasn't already been said by Joan Rivers or those Queer Eye for the Straight Guys? Exactly, it's all been done before.
Stay tuned next week for ages six through ten, where I inevitably have even bigger glasses and my head becomes of an even more abnormal shape than before. Also some horrible wardrobe choices from my parents. Giddy with excitement? Yeah, me too.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
A Weekend of Dramatic Tension
Scene One
I was sent to Wal-Mart today to obtain five gallons of industrial strength bleach, I don't know why and I don't ask. Sometimes it's better not to know the smaller details. He also wanted antifreeze, maybe he's secretly making me buy the ingredients so that he can poison me? So really it will look like I bought the items that brought along my own death? Probably not, but I have an overactive imagination I always have and I always will. The store is crowded, filled with the kind of people that I would never want to converse with in real life. Wide eyed, and sweaty, grubbing, and greedy looking for the very best price on their Little Debbie snack cakes. Children are screaming, and mothers are screaming, and fathers are wondering how it is that they were dragged off the couch and brought to this hell. I move my buggy up and down these crowded aisles, non stop, full speed not slowing down for anyone. I was on a mission and I'm not here to move out of the way so that you can grab for that last loaf of whole grain wheat bread. I don't care if it's better for you, I don't care if your doctor says that you need the fiber for your digestion. I just don't care. I want to get my five gallons of bleach and go sit my ass at home.
And when I finally do procure those five gallons of bleach, and that antifreeze I make my way to the checkout lines. Only to discover the worst sight I could have possibly imagined. It's bedlam, like the day after Thanksgiving has hit in the beginning of May. The screaming of children has only intensified as they start grabbing candy bars and tabloid magazines with their filthy hands off the news racks. At this exact moment I swear I can feel my sperm shrivel up and die, never wanting to make such a mistake. (I do apologize that I said the word sperm, but it's just the way I felt about the situation. Women talk loudly on their cell phones about how dreadfully long the lines were and how much they have to do before they can get dinner on the table tonight. I finally decide on what seems to be the shortest line available, and not seconds after I align myself into position do ten other customers line up behind me. They're all talking, and they're all sighing loudly, and they're all too close to me. The woman behind me has inched her buggy ever so close that it is finally digging into the soft flesh of my ankles (truth be told, I have cankles but whatever.) I can't take it, I can't breathe, I can't even think. The children, and the mothers, and the fathers, and all the people. I can't breathe, and the world starts to break away from me, and the floor start spinning. And I take a small step backwards into the woman's buggy. As I wince with the pain of it, in the loudest stage whisper I can muster I say "Fuck it! I'm going to Target!" And I turn around and leave my buggy in the line with my five gallons of bleach, and my antifreeze. And I regret it because I know that Target will only offer more of the same, but I also am thankful to gain back my sanity with a few well smoked cigarettes in my car on my way back to civilization.
Scene Two
The party is in less than two hours. He's standing there with his sixty four ounce big gulp filled to the brim with crown, and coke. He takes a sip, and steps closer to me. I'm huddled in the small space between the stove and the refrigerator a small one foot square that my body is being forced into like a circus contortionist just to get away from him. Large pots of sauce are simmering, and noodles are boiling, and steam is rising, and he's still sipping, and talking. With every four words out of his mouth comes another sip, no a gulp like the name of the cup implies. I wonder just how long it would take him to drink the entire glass, perhaps a few mere minutes? He's definitely not in the camp of taking one beer at the beginning of the party and taking small sips from it all night so people think that you're boozing it up. Maybe that's a camp that I'm the only member of.
He sips, and licks his lips, still getting closer. and he's talking, talking, and swearing, gesticulating wildly with his hands. I try to stop listening and just attempt to figure out what he's saying just by looking at his hands. From here it looks like he's talking about the violent rape of a particularly large bird. I could be wrong, but I don't think I am. And if I was wrong, I couldn't' be blamed. The heat is getting to me, and the boiling water sizzles and burps, and pops. The steam is in my eyes. There are a million voices all around me, surrounding my every thought. I am loosing a sense of who I am right now. I am only "Jordan! Don't over cook the pasta!" or "Jordan! Come help me drape this sixty yards of white tulle that I have purchased!" or "Jordan! Isn't it time you go take a shower, so you don't look like total shit when your parents get here?" But I can barely hear any of that, because he's still talking. In fact he's getting louder, I don't know how I'd even be able to tell the subtle nuances of his volume with the racket that is going on around me, but I can tell. His mouth is opening wider, his neck is stretching tighter. The wrinkles in his forehead are becoming tighter as to they almost disappear. He looks stressed, he looks terrified. He looks like I'd imagine that I did if I happened to have a mirror on me at the current time, but I don't. All I have is noodles, and tulle, and sauces, and screaming relatives. And all I want is for the voices to stop. And the steam to stop its getting so hot in here. It's unbearable. I can't take it. I just can't. But I have to , it's all for them. Those two people who I love. Begrudgingly, sometimes surely but still love. And I would do anything for them. Even put up with this heat, and the voices all of them. Even his, no matter how drunk he is.
I was sent to Wal-Mart today to obtain five gallons of industrial strength bleach, I don't know why and I don't ask. Sometimes it's better not to know the smaller details. He also wanted antifreeze, maybe he's secretly making me buy the ingredients so that he can poison me? So really it will look like I bought the items that brought along my own death? Probably not, but I have an overactive imagination I always have and I always will. The store is crowded, filled with the kind of people that I would never want to converse with in real life. Wide eyed, and sweaty, grubbing, and greedy looking for the very best price on their Little Debbie snack cakes. Children are screaming, and mothers are screaming, and fathers are wondering how it is that they were dragged off the couch and brought to this hell. I move my buggy up and down these crowded aisles, non stop, full speed not slowing down for anyone. I was on a mission and I'm not here to move out of the way so that you can grab for that last loaf of whole grain wheat bread. I don't care if it's better for you, I don't care if your doctor says that you need the fiber for your digestion. I just don't care. I want to get my five gallons of bleach and go sit my ass at home.
And when I finally do procure those five gallons of bleach, and that antifreeze I make my way to the checkout lines. Only to discover the worst sight I could have possibly imagined. It's bedlam, like the day after Thanksgiving has hit in the beginning of May. The screaming of children has only intensified as they start grabbing candy bars and tabloid magazines with their filthy hands off the news racks. At this exact moment I swear I can feel my sperm shrivel up and die, never wanting to make such a mistake. (I do apologize that I said the word sperm, but it's just the way I felt about the situation. Women talk loudly on their cell phones about how dreadfully long the lines were and how much they have to do before they can get dinner on the table tonight. I finally decide on what seems to be the shortest line available, and not seconds after I align myself into position do ten other customers line up behind me. They're all talking, and they're all sighing loudly, and they're all too close to me. The woman behind me has inched her buggy ever so close that it is finally digging into the soft flesh of my ankles (truth be told, I have cankles but whatever.) I can't take it, I can't breathe, I can't even think. The children, and the mothers, and the fathers, and all the people. I can't breathe, and the world starts to break away from me, and the floor start spinning. And I take a small step backwards into the woman's buggy. As I wince with the pain of it, in the loudest stage whisper I can muster I say "Fuck it! I'm going to Target!" And I turn around and leave my buggy in the line with my five gallons of bleach, and my antifreeze. And I regret it because I know that Target will only offer more of the same, but I also am thankful to gain back my sanity with a few well smoked cigarettes in my car on my way back to civilization.
Scene Two
The party is in less than two hours. He's standing there with his sixty four ounce big gulp filled to the brim with crown, and coke. He takes a sip, and steps closer to me. I'm huddled in the small space between the stove and the refrigerator a small one foot square that my body is being forced into like a circus contortionist just to get away from him. Large pots of sauce are simmering, and noodles are boiling, and steam is rising, and he's still sipping, and talking. With every four words out of his mouth comes another sip, no a gulp like the name of the cup implies. I wonder just how long it would take him to drink the entire glass, perhaps a few mere minutes? He's definitely not in the camp of taking one beer at the beginning of the party and taking small sips from it all night so people think that you're boozing it up. Maybe that's a camp that I'm the only member of.
He sips, and licks his lips, still getting closer. and he's talking, talking, and swearing, gesticulating wildly with his hands. I try to stop listening and just attempt to figure out what he's saying just by looking at his hands. From here it looks like he's talking about the violent rape of a particularly large bird. I could be wrong, but I don't think I am. And if I was wrong, I couldn't' be blamed. The heat is getting to me, and the boiling water sizzles and burps, and pops. The steam is in my eyes. There are a million voices all around me, surrounding my every thought. I am loosing a sense of who I am right now. I am only "Jordan! Don't over cook the pasta!" or "Jordan! Come help me drape this sixty yards of white tulle that I have purchased!" or "Jordan! Isn't it time you go take a shower, so you don't look like total shit when your parents get here?" But I can barely hear any of that, because he's still talking. In fact he's getting louder, I don't know how I'd even be able to tell the subtle nuances of his volume with the racket that is going on around me, but I can tell. His mouth is opening wider, his neck is stretching tighter. The wrinkles in his forehead are becoming tighter as to they almost disappear. He looks stressed, he looks terrified. He looks like I'd imagine that I did if I happened to have a mirror on me at the current time, but I don't. All I have is noodles, and tulle, and sauces, and screaming relatives. And all I want is for the voices to stop. And the steam to stop its getting so hot in here. It's unbearable. I can't take it. I just can't. But I have to , it's all for them. Those two people who I love. Begrudgingly, sometimes surely but still love. And I would do anything for them. Even put up with this heat, and the voices all of them. Even his, no matter how drunk he is.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Fuck a Party
Never, ever plan a top secret anniversary party for you parents. It hwill have you waking up in the middle of the night in a panic. Mind racing, stomach churning, having to call the Grandparents that you can't stand, so that they'll shut they're big mouths and not ruin the surprise. Trust me, it's not all that it's cracked up to be.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Busy Part Deux
Remember how I made a post earlier this week to say that I was too busy to post? Yeah, well that still stands. All I have to say is that I'm throwing my parents a twenty fifth anniversary party this weekend. And let me tell you now that if in anytime in the next five years they decide to get divorced they owe me twenty dollars for every single person who shows up to this party that I have to feed.
So anyways, back to being busy I guess.
So anyways, back to being busy I guess.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Busy
I'm sorry that posts have been so scarce lately. I'm a bad person, I get it. Really, I do. But I've just been terribly busy attempting to complete some very important operations that are essential to my happiness. Operations, are as follows.
Operation: buy new Ipod (This one has been a roaring success. Or at least it had been until my male cousin came over and decided that what would be appropriate is to fill up that Ipod with free Internet porn. And some wonder why I don't generally associate with my family)
Operation: clean out my motherfucking car, has not been such a success. I have tried on several attempts, but with no victory. It's getting to the point in my backseat if you roll down the windows discarded McDonald's bags topple out of them. I'm sure the Louisiana Department of Litter thanks me, as does Al Gore.
Operation: Become Her Friend, is making steady progress. What you don't know about "Operation: Become Her Friend?" Well, you wouldn't would you? Because I haven't told anyone but Bryant, and he lives in fucking Guam, so he's not telling anyone.
Operation: Mentionitis is a side project of Operation: Become her friend. It is making small advances, but has recently come to a stand still. Must focus to make this one happen.
Operation: Find a Way to Turn My Hair Color Back To Brown, this one has been plaguing me for two weeks. Must find a solution, and soon.
Operations: Finish Reading "Stop Dressing Your Six Year Old Like A Skank!" by Celia Riverbark. Which is a hilarious book of short essays. You should pick it up, I got mine at Books a Million for under five dollars. What you don't have five dollars? Then I suggest you go to the sea wall, and start giving two dollar hand jobs to passerby. At that rate, you'll only have to do two and a half of them to afford it. And trust me it would be worth it.
Operation: buy new Ipod (This one has been a roaring success. Or at least it had been until my male cousin came over and decided that what would be appropriate is to fill up that Ipod with free Internet porn. And some wonder why I don't generally associate with my family)
Operation: clean out my motherfucking car, has not been such a success. I have tried on several attempts, but with no victory. It's getting to the point in my backseat if you roll down the windows discarded McDonald's bags topple out of them. I'm sure the Louisiana Department of Litter thanks me, as does Al Gore.
Operation: Become Her Friend, is making steady progress. What you don't know about "Operation: Become Her Friend?" Well, you wouldn't would you? Because I haven't told anyone but Bryant, and he lives in fucking Guam, so he's not telling anyone.
Operation: Mentionitis is a side project of Operation: Become her friend. It is making small advances, but has recently come to a stand still. Must focus to make this one happen.
Operation: Find a Way to Turn My Hair Color Back To Brown, this one has been plaguing me for two weeks. Must find a solution, and soon.
Operations: Finish Reading "Stop Dressing Your Six Year Old Like A Skank!" by Celia Riverbark. Which is a hilarious book of short essays. You should pick it up, I got mine at Books a Million for under five dollars. What you don't have five dollars? Then I suggest you go to the sea wall, and start giving two dollar hand jobs to passerby. At that rate, you'll only have to do two and a half of them to afford it. And trust me it would be worth it.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Paint Me Black
I forgot to tell you that I dyed my hair this week. It was an impulse kind of thing I guess, I get like that sometimes. When I do things before I think them through. But, I like having black hair, it makes me feel mysterious, and deeper somehow. I have the cover of a lie if I want it, I can be a whole new person. but, I'll probably just stick with what I know, and that's same old Jordan. Anyways heres a picture for you to FEAST your eyes on.
I know what you're thinking..pretty sexy right? Yeah, well keep it in your pants this is a family place bitch.
I know what you're thinking..pretty sexy right? Yeah, well keep it in your pants this is a family place bitch.Talk Dirty to Me
I was talking to my cousin earlier this week, and as I was rambling off on some tirade, she suddenly stopped me. "What the fuck are you talking about?" She asked suddenly, I was confused because I thought I had been clear, and then I thought back on what I had just said and realized how many slang terms that I had used. Slang terms that only a select group of people I know actually use on a daily basis. I never realized how much vernacular I actually use. And though I don't actually use a lot of it on here, I am going to define each and everyone of them for you here in case they ever come up in conversation.
Buck
-adjective
1. Ugly, or otherwise disfigured.
2. To act retarded, or otherwise unrefined.
As used in a sentence:
Your face looks buck today.
or
I don't know what's wrong with him, he's being awfully buck.
Dyke cicle
-noun
1. An angry lesbian.
As used in a sentence:
Jordan, your new haircut makes you look like a dyke cicle.
Trade
-verb, adjective
1. The act of having sex with someone; trading bodily fluids with another.
2. Used to describes someones anatomical attributes.
As used in a sentence:
I had the best trade last night, it was amazing.
or
Dude, check out the trade on her!
Begonia May
-Proper Noun
1. Describing a bitch, southern belle type.
As used in a sentence:
I hate that bitch, she's such a Begonia May.
Dyke Mike
-Proper Noun
1. A male who after dating a girl finds out that she soon after turned into a lesbian.
As used in a real life situation:
I once dated a girl we will refer to as Hennifer Fobbs, and soon after she became a lesbian. Therefore I am a Dyke Mike.
True Story
-A turn of phrase
1. Another way of asking, are you for real, or are you fucking me?
As used in a sentence:
That really happened, true story?
Debbie
-Proper Noun
1. Describing a girl with no personality of her own, acts like a leech and steals the personalities of those who she hangs out with.
2. A hanger on girl, who copies everything you say, think, or do.
As used in a sentence:
Allison, is so bland, she's such a fucking Debbie.
or
She likes everything I like, what a Debbie!
Barney
-Proper Noun
1. The male form of the proper noun Debbie.
2. A generic, hick, unattractive male.
As used in a setence
He won't leave me alone, he's such a Barney.
or
Why is she having sex with that Barney?
Well I hope that this list can be useful in deciphering me in the future.
Buck
-adjective
1. Ugly, or otherwise disfigured.
2. To act retarded, or otherwise unrefined.
As used in a sentence:
Your face looks buck today.
or
I don't know what's wrong with him, he's being awfully buck.
Dyke cicle
-noun
1. An angry lesbian.
As used in a sentence:
Jordan, your new haircut makes you look like a dyke cicle.
Trade
-verb, adjective
1. The act of having sex with someone; trading bodily fluids with another.
2. Used to describes someones anatomical attributes.
As used in a sentence:
I had the best trade last night, it was amazing.
or
Dude, check out the trade on her!
Begonia May
-Proper Noun
1. Describing a bitch, southern belle type.
As used in a sentence:
I hate that bitch, she's such a Begonia May.
Dyke Mike
-Proper Noun
1. A male who after dating a girl finds out that she soon after turned into a lesbian.
As used in a real life situation:
I once dated a girl we will refer to as Hennifer Fobbs, and soon after she became a lesbian. Therefore I am a Dyke Mike.
True Story
-A turn of phrase
1. Another way of asking, are you for real, or are you fucking me?
As used in a sentence:
That really happened, true story?
Debbie
-Proper Noun
1. Describing a girl with no personality of her own, acts like a leech and steals the personalities of those who she hangs out with.
2. A hanger on girl, who copies everything you say, think, or do.
As used in a sentence:
Allison, is so bland, she's such a fucking Debbie.
or
She likes everything I like, what a Debbie!
Barney
-Proper Noun
1. The male form of the proper noun Debbie.
2. A generic, hick, unattractive male.
As used in a setence
He won't leave me alone, he's such a Barney.
or
Why is she having sex with that Barney?
Well I hope that this list can be useful in deciphering me in the future.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Other Side of Me
Do you ever have a moment when you say or do something so stupendously stupid, that you have an out of body experience? A brief moment where you seem to float out of your body and can see from a different perspective the awful blunder that you just made? I have those about once or twice an hour it feels like. Those moments where you just wish you weren't yourself. Sometimes I wish that I were someone else, anyone else really. It wouldn't matter who. I'd like to be a socialite living in the Upper East side of New York. With a life filled with things such as Sunday brunches, and society parties, glitz and glamor. I think I would really like that. Or I could be a quirky character on a sitcom. Where every other line out of my line is something witty, and my hair would always be perfect and so would my wardrobe. My life wouldn't be perfect but they're would be plenty of punchlines, so I think I could deal with it. Or maybe I could be a contestant on American Idol, hoping that the general public would like me and keep me on the airwaves. Singing bad seventies cover songs, and forgetting the words with much frequency.
If only it were that easy to just pick another personality completely, and run with it. If only you got to decide things like that before birth. Things like how big your nose is, and what color your hair is, and what kind of person you would be. Not that I don't like myself, because I do. I really do. Sometimes. I like the way I can make people laugh by saying the most inane things. I like the way people ask me for advice as if I have any motherfucking clue as to what I'm talking about. I like my blue eyes, and I like my hair long. I like being tall, and articulate. I like my singing voice, not so much my speaking tone.
Maybe it's not that I don't like being me. Maybe I just wish that I could be a different me. Someone who's not afraid to be completely one hundred percent myself. Someone who never leaves anything reserved or quiet. Someone that no longer just wants to be a period. Someone who wants to be JORDAN! instead of Jordan. If that makes sense at all. And if you don't get it, then I guess you never really did get me at all did you? I've said it before but I just want so much more than what life has offered me so far. I want bright lights, and a fast paced life. I want earthquakes instead of thunderstorms. I want so much more, and I just don't know how to get it. I guess I'm just waiting for my next great idea.
If only it were that easy to just pick another personality completely, and run with it. If only you got to decide things like that before birth. Things like how big your nose is, and what color your hair is, and what kind of person you would be. Not that I don't like myself, because I do. I really do. Sometimes. I like the way I can make people laugh by saying the most inane things. I like the way people ask me for advice as if I have any motherfucking clue as to what I'm talking about. I like my blue eyes, and I like my hair long. I like being tall, and articulate. I like my singing voice, not so much my speaking tone.
Maybe it's not that I don't like being me. Maybe I just wish that I could be a different me. Someone who's not afraid to be completely one hundred percent myself. Someone who never leaves anything reserved or quiet. Someone that no longer just wants to be a period. Someone who wants to be JORDAN! instead of Jordan. If that makes sense at all. And if you don't get it, then I guess you never really did get me at all did you? I've said it before but I just want so much more than what life has offered me so far. I want bright lights, and a fast paced life. I want earthquakes instead of thunderstorms. I want so much more, and I just don't know how to get it. I guess I'm just waiting for my next great idea.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
F.U.S.S.
Man, did I ever tell you about that person in Helfin, LA that like really hates me? That one who's always commenting about how much of a fucking loser I am, and how I'm apparently ugly? No, I haven't? Well I totally should sometime.
f.u.s.s.
f.u.s.s.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth
I know this has nothing to do with anything but when I was trying to design a header for this month all I could think of was vintage circus posters, so I attempted to make one. Here it is.Friday, March 21, 2008
The Post Where I Talk About Britney Spears
If you have ever bought a tabloid just to read what about what Britney Spears is doing, you need to watch this. If you've ever laughed when she shows something, or shaves something, or shows something shaved, then you need to watch this episode of South Park. It is truly one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen.
http://www.southparkzone.com/episodes/1202/Britneys-New-Look.html
http://www.southparkzone.com/episodes/1202/Britneys-New-Look.html
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Dear Old Navy,
I would like to say that I have been a patron of your stores for years. I love your khaki pants, and your sweaters, there was once a time where I even loved your graphic tees. Sometimes I can look through old photographs of myself and pick out every article of my clothing from you're past catalogues. And although my tastes in clothing has changed as of recently to more mature and sophisticated wares than what you're fine store offers I still visit once in a while.
In fact I did very recently with my sister. I bought a pair of khaki pants, that I'm still quite fond of. I even purchased this shirt in "Dark Sea Blue Stripe" and plan on coming back for the white one. So if I grace your store with my presence so often, why am I writing you, one might ask? Well the other day when I was in your store, I suddenly had an urge to urinate. Not on one of your graphic tees, but in the restroom. Be it to my surprise when I walked into the men's room and took at a look at the urinal to relieve myself I noticed something odd.
Why is it that there are shit stains in the urinal? Is this some Old Navy secret that I am not privy to? Is it like an unspoken code that all employees must shit in the urinals so as not to tie up the toilets? I just don't get it. It's not like it's a normal thing for a guy to pull down his pants and sit down backwards over the urinal and lay a big dump. I just don't understand is it something in the air at Old Navy that causes guys to as they are shopping for that perfect pair of carpenter jeans to suddenly have a weakening in their bowels? Does it make it so that the only thing they can do is to rush headfirst into the Men's room and shit on the nearest porcelain object they come across? Well whatever it is you need to change it and fast.
I can simply not shop under these conditions. I cannot pick up a pair of boxers and wonder if they're are shit stains in the urinal. I just cannot, especially when your boxers cost eight fifty a piece. Eight dollars and fifty cents is simply too much to pay when there are shit stains in the urinals. I can't look the check out girl in the eye, when I know that they're are shit stains in the urinals. Because she knows that I know, and I know that she knows, and we all know that no one is doing anything about the shit stains in the urinals. How can I even be expected to finish this letter when I know that if I went to Old Navy right now there would more than likely be shit stains in the urinals? How can any of us live in this world knowing that there are shit stains in the urinals at any Old Navy in this world? I hope you can clear this problem up, or at least post banners around the store to let us know why it's happening, that would be greatly appreciated.
P.S. Could you possibly try to make more flip flops in a size thirteen? That would be of much help for me. Thanks.
Your Friend, Jordan
In fact I did very recently with my sister. I bought a pair of khaki pants, that I'm still quite fond of. I even purchased this shirt in "Dark Sea Blue Stripe" and plan on coming back for the white one. So if I grace your store with my presence so often, why am I writing you, one might ask? Well the other day when I was in your store, I suddenly had an urge to urinate. Not on one of your graphic tees, but in the restroom. Be it to my surprise when I walked into the men's room and took at a look at the urinal to relieve myself I noticed something odd.
Why is it that there are shit stains in the urinal? Is this some Old Navy secret that I am not privy to? Is it like an unspoken code that all employees must shit in the urinals so as not to tie up the toilets? I just don't get it. It's not like it's a normal thing for a guy to pull down his pants and sit down backwards over the urinal and lay a big dump. I just don't understand is it something in the air at Old Navy that causes guys to as they are shopping for that perfect pair of carpenter jeans to suddenly have a weakening in their bowels? Does it make it so that the only thing they can do is to rush headfirst into the Men's room and shit on the nearest porcelain object they come across? Well whatever it is you need to change it and fast.
I can simply not shop under these conditions. I cannot pick up a pair of boxers and wonder if they're are shit stains in the urinal. I just cannot, especially when your boxers cost eight fifty a piece. Eight dollars and fifty cents is simply too much to pay when there are shit stains in the urinals. I can't look the check out girl in the eye, when I know that they're are shit stains in the urinals. Because she knows that I know, and I know that she knows, and we all know that no one is doing anything about the shit stains in the urinals. How can I even be expected to finish this letter when I know that if I went to Old Navy right now there would more than likely be shit stains in the urinals? How can any of us live in this world knowing that there are shit stains in the urinals at any Old Navy in this world? I hope you can clear this problem up, or at least post banners around the store to let us know why it's happening, that would be greatly appreciated.
P.S. Could you possibly try to make more flip flops in a size thirteen? That would be of much help for me. Thanks.
Your Friend, Jordan
Monday, March 10, 2008
Dear Palmer Candy Company,
I think there's something we should discuss. I know you're thinking what could I possibly need to say to a candy company? Besides the fact that I think it's pretty obvious if you look at any of photographs of my chin that I consume to many confections. But there is at least one that I will never taste. And that is one of your chocolate covered conglomerations you've designed for Easter and I am of course talking of the chocolate cross.
Look, I'm not a religious guy, I'm all about skipping church and only praying when I need something. I get it I'm a bad person. But that does not mean that I want to walk into Wal-Mart and see that you have decided that what kids today need in their Easter baskets is a cocoa covered crucifix. This is not okay. I mean, is nothing sacred to you people? What's next? We might as well make a chocolate topographic figure of Da Vinci's "Last Supper" or better yet what about a peanut butter filled, white chocolate representation of Jesus and his crown of thorns! You could even do the drops of blood in clotted strawberry cream! Or is that just too precious? I don't know, it's really your call guys. I mean if we have a chocolate cross in the world, where do we stop? Really? Can you tell me exactly what is going to be considered too much? Should I expect a marshmallow nativity scene in my stocking next Christmas? (On that note, if I do see any marshmallow nativity scenes in stores next Yuletide season I will find the CEO of your corporation, and cut him.)
But seriously, I'm okay with the Easter bunnies. I'm okay with the bubble gum eggs. I can even stand the hollow milk chocolate eggs with miniature chocolate bunnies inside! Which correct me if I'm wrong but aren't we just confusing children on the biology of rabbits here? Last time I checked rabbits don't lay eggs. Because I'm sure if they did we as people would try to find some way to make an omelets out of them. I'm almost positive. But I digress, stick to your guns people. Don't you dare step out of the well designated boundaries that society has marked out for you. We do want as many chocolate creations as you can produce, but do us a favor and leave Jesus Christ out of it.
P.S. I just stumbled upon your candy bar entitled "The Big Mo" now I might be wrong but isn't the abbreviation 'mo' usually used to describe a homosexual? So explain to me why your candy bar has a photo of a middle aged man on the wrapper above the words "CREAMY CARAMEL" Explain this one for me, because it's perplexing.
Your friend, Jordan
Look, I'm not a religious guy, I'm all about skipping church and only praying when I need something. I get it I'm a bad person. But that does not mean that I want to walk into Wal-Mart and see that you have decided that what kids today need in their Easter baskets is a cocoa covered crucifix. This is not okay. I mean, is nothing sacred to you people? What's next? We might as well make a chocolate topographic figure of Da Vinci's "Last Supper" or better yet what about a peanut butter filled, white chocolate representation of Jesus and his crown of thorns! You could even do the drops of blood in clotted strawberry cream! Or is that just too precious? I don't know, it's really your call guys. I mean if we have a chocolate cross in the world, where do we stop? Really? Can you tell me exactly what is going to be considered too much? Should I expect a marshmallow nativity scene in my stocking next Christmas? (On that note, if I do see any marshmallow nativity scenes in stores next Yuletide season I will find the CEO of your corporation, and cut him.)
But seriously, I'm okay with the Easter bunnies. I'm okay with the bubble gum eggs. I can even stand the hollow milk chocolate eggs with miniature chocolate bunnies inside! Which correct me if I'm wrong but aren't we just confusing children on the biology of rabbits here? Last time I checked rabbits don't lay eggs. Because I'm sure if they did we as people would try to find some way to make an omelets out of them. I'm almost positive. But I digress, stick to your guns people. Don't you dare step out of the well designated boundaries that society has marked out for you. We do want as many chocolate creations as you can produce, but do us a favor and leave Jesus Christ out of it.
P.S. I just stumbled upon your candy bar entitled "The Big Mo" now I might be wrong but isn't the abbreviation 'mo' usually used to describe a homosexual? So explain to me why your candy bar has a photo of a middle aged man on the wrapper above the words "CREAMY CARAMEL" Explain this one for me, because it's perplexing.
Your friend, Jordan
Thursday, March 06, 2008
The Post Where I Use the Word "Fuck" Three Times
I hate the term "constructive criticism" because there is absolutely nothing 'constructive' about it. It doesn't help me in the slightest when you pick out all of my insecurities and lay them out in front of me. It doesn't change things for me, it just makes things worse. If you know me at all, you probably understand that I have large self esteem issues that I cover up with false increased self worth. I pretend that I'm the hottest being to ever walk the planet because I know I'm not. I act like the smartest individual in the room because deep down I know I'm probably the stupidest. I fake being the most talented, and the most creative, and funniest, because I know I'm not. There will always be someone funnier, or better looking, or smarter than I am. I will always be in last place, and I get that. I'm not trying to win any races, but you pointing all of these things out for me doesn't help. I'm really not trying to be down on myself, these are just things that I've come to accept. But you should have enough tact to not bring them up. you should have enough tact to remember that every time you make a fat joke at my expense I drown my sorrows in a hostess cupcake.
You know I typed that about an hour ago, and now I'm totally over it. Now I'm just being impatient that my illegal copy of the High School Musical 2 Soundtrack is taking so fucking long to download. Don't the people at Azureus realize that I lead a busy life? I bought a copy of "101 Dalmatians" today that is begging to be viewed.
So I guess what I'm saying is that if you don't like the way I am, you can fuck the fuck off, mother fucker.
You know I typed that about an hour ago, and now I'm totally over it. Now I'm just being impatient that my illegal copy of the High School Musical 2 Soundtrack is taking so fucking long to download. Don't the people at Azureus realize that I lead a busy life? I bought a copy of "101 Dalmatians" today that is begging to be viewed.
So I guess what I'm saying is that if you don't like the way I am, you can fuck the fuck off, mother fucker.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Don't Be Fooled By The Locks That I Got
As I mentioned briefly in an earlier post today I cut my hair. I know that doesn't exactly sound monumental to most of you, and more like basic routine, but to me it was a tragic act. I woke up this morning after spending a week on the couch (more on that in a later post I'd expect) with a broken spirit and only one thought in my mind. This thought was that I would clearly look amazing if I were bald. Clearly this was true. Although I didn't end up going bald (thank God) the end results are just as horrifying, sadly. Unfortunately I look like I did when I was sixteen, which is much like this (and yes this is actually the picture that remains on my license to this day, if I had saved any other of my pictures from this era I would have them instead) if you didn't know me then. And because of this tragic event, I have made a list to remind myself why I should never ever cut my hair again. Ever as long as I live. And the list goes like this:
1. Because when my hair is short everyone I see becomes knowledgeable of the exact contours of my oddly shaped head.
2. Because I look like a sixteen year old virgin, instead of a twenty one year old one.
3.Because it makes my chins look even bigger.
4. Because I look like an angry lesbian. Not that I don't like lesbians, I do. I just don't want to look like one. Especially not an angry one, them bitches be vicious.
5.Because with the streak of blonde hair that I have had since birth, and a flat forehead I look like Frankenstein with a bad dye job.
6. Because now when I leave a room in a huff I can't make a dramatic exit with a whip of my head. Not that I have ever done this because I think it's a tad emasculating, it would be nice to still have the option.
7. Because do I really need to bring this up again? Looking like I'm sixteen with bad skin issues, and a double chin? Isn't that just a bit too much to handle?
1. Because when my hair is short everyone I see becomes knowledgeable of the exact contours of my oddly shaped head.
2. Because I look like a sixteen year old virgin, instead of a twenty one year old one.
3.Because it makes my chins look even bigger.
4. Because I look like an angry lesbian. Not that I don't like lesbians, I do. I just don't want to look like one. Especially not an angry one, them bitches be vicious.
5.Because with the streak of blonde hair that I have had since birth, and a flat forehead I look like Frankenstein with a bad dye job.
6. Because now when I leave a room in a huff I can't make a dramatic exit with a whip of my head. Not that I have ever done this because I think it's a tad emasculating, it would be nice to still have the option.
7. Because do I really need to bring this up again? Looking like I'm sixteen with bad skin issues, and a double chin? Isn't that just a bit too much to handle?
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Set Me Off
At the place where I have been getting my hair cut since I was five years old there is one of those large, yellow DHL drop off boxes right outside the door. As I was outside waiting for my father and smoking a cigarette after realizing that I look like an angry lesbian with my new shorn haircut (but more on that later) I was looking at the DHL drop off point. On the box (Which looked much like this one only bright yellow and with a signifigant increase in cigarette burns) it had a large label on the top that states "DHL DOES NOT ACCEPT DANGEROUS MATERIALS INCLUDING ANYTHING FLAMMABLE, CORROSIVE, OR EXPLOSIVE"
Well that is good news for safety I guess, but what does this mean for those thrifty terrorists who are just trying to watch their pennies? Would this mean that likely bomb senders would have to switch to the boys in brown at UPS? And would that even mean a savings or an increase in shipping charges? Well you no longer have to ponder the question because thankfully I did some research on the subject. With a little help from Google I found out that the average bomb weighs in at 6.5lbs. Now say someone was going to send a bomb (or any other package that weights roughly 6.5lbs) who would be the cheaper carrier? If you were going to send a package of that weight to anywhere in the world that wasn't thousands of mile but certainly not within walking distance who would be the more economical choice?
I chose Little Rock, Arkansas as my destination because first of all it's the title of a Reba Mcentire song, which sounded like a good enough reason for me, secondly it's in Arkansas and the only time I ever went there was some of the more boring parts of my life. So I figure if you're going to figure out the charges for an imaginary bomb it might as well go to Arkansas. So anyways if you were going to ship a package that weighs six point five pounds (which if you'll remember is the average weight of a bomb, not sure how this was assumed but it's the only figure I could find without throwing up some terrorists signals to the government. I'm willing to research but I'm not willing to be put on a list of possible suspects, bitches) to a distance from Lake Charles, LA to Little Rock, AK it would cost $43.86 for overnight shipping for DHL and nearly twice that much at $75.31 for UPS. So basically all I'm saying is that DHL is doing terrorists all over the world a disservice by not allowing them to ship their explosives via DHL. I mean are you really helping our economy if you can't even pass on the savings to possible mass murderers? I don't think so.
Editor's Note: I do not condone the bombing of Arkansas, or bombs, or violence at all actually.
Also just so you know, I am definitely not a terrorist so thank you and good night.
Well that is good news for safety I guess, but what does this mean for those thrifty terrorists who are just trying to watch their pennies? Would this mean that likely bomb senders would have to switch to the boys in brown at UPS? And would that even mean a savings or an increase in shipping charges? Well you no longer have to ponder the question because thankfully I did some research on the subject. With a little help from Google I found out that the average bomb weighs in at 6.5lbs. Now say someone was going to send a bomb (or any other package that weights roughly 6.5lbs) who would be the cheaper carrier? If you were going to send a package of that weight to anywhere in the world that wasn't thousands of mile but certainly not within walking distance who would be the more economical choice?
I chose Little Rock, Arkansas as my destination because first of all it's the title of a Reba Mcentire song, which sounded like a good enough reason for me, secondly it's in Arkansas and the only time I ever went there was some of the more boring parts of my life. So I figure if you're going to figure out the charges for an imaginary bomb it might as well go to Arkansas. So anyways if you were going to ship a package that weighs six point five pounds (which if you'll remember is the average weight of a bomb, not sure how this was assumed but it's the only figure I could find without throwing up some terrorists signals to the government. I'm willing to research but I'm not willing to be put on a list of possible suspects, bitches) to a distance from Lake Charles, LA to Little Rock, AK it would cost $43.86 for overnight shipping for DHL and nearly twice that much at $75.31 for UPS. So basically all I'm saying is that DHL is doing terrorists all over the world a disservice by not allowing them to ship their explosives via DHL. I mean are you really helping our economy if you can't even pass on the savings to possible mass murderers? I don't think so.
Editor's Note: I do not condone the bombing of Arkansas, or bombs, or violence at all actually.
Also just so you know, I am definitely not a terrorist so thank you and good night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)