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My shitty Valentine

14 Feb

Throwback insert-day-of-the-week-here

When I was twenty-three (back in the stone age) I used to date an old man; he was thirty-eight (therefore born shortly after the Big Bang). This piece of shit decided to dump me on Valentine’s Day. Back then, I hadn’t yet learned the reflex to scoff with cynical detachment at this “holiday” which I now see for what it is: a ploy to pack restaurants on a week night and sell chocolate and red lace lingerie.

Back to the dark ages, I was understandably devastated. Getting dumped hurts, and getting dumped on Valentine’s Day only adds insult to injury. so I was home (I lived in England back then), licking my wounds, swearing off men and toying with the idea of making a voodoo doll in the resemblance of my brand new ex. That’s when a new piece of information was brought to me; I hadn’t just gotten dumped on Valentine’s Day; I’d gotten dumped on Valentine’s Day FOR A FIFTEEN YEARS OLD. That filthy perv.

I saw red. Not cheesy Valentine’s-Day-heart-shaped-chocolate-box red; blood red. Apparently, I was too old for this particular thirty-eight years old teenager. At the ripe old age of twenty-three, I had been dumped for a younger woman.
Thankfully for my sanity, by then, anger had superseded sadness.
So I did what any extremely pissed off very newly single gal living in England would do: I grabbed my best friend by the sleeve and hit the pub with a vengeance.
Then another pub.
Then another.
Then an… Wait. That’s his car. The piece of shit’s car. The old perv’s car. Here, Parked right outside the pub. With no one in sight.

A lightbulb went on. Revenge. I had a real good idea for a real shitty revenge. Quite literally. But I needed props. Or more precisely, *a* prop.

I needed poop.

You see where I’m going with this?

We walk in the pub. POS isn’t here. But what *is* here, however, is a dog. My best friend, who confirmed that night that he was indeed my best friend, because only the best of friends will endorse your stupidest ideas slipped in my ear that “Hey, this dog must shit”.

Indeed. In the small outdoor passageway between the front and the back of the pub, there was a large fresh dog turd. Perfect. I put in a plastic bag, went back outside, looked right, looked left; perfect time for a perfect crime. I smeared dog shit all over the windshield of his BMW. Thick enough that there was no way he could drive without cleaning it up first.
Here’s a nice ending to your Valentine’s date with your little teenage girlfriend, asshole.

Maybe I read too many Greek tragedies, but revenge felt hella GOOD. To this day, I still have no regret.

Somehow, he found out it was me. Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought I was when I did the deed. Maybe someone saw me from the pub’s window. Don’t know. Don’t care.
Shortly afterwards, he confronted me about it. I denied.

Back then, I lived in Norwich. Later, I moved to London. But on one of my occasional visits back to Norwich, I learned some interesting tidbit about him. As in, he was in prison for pimping underage prostitutes.
I call it karma.

The moral of this story is: guys, don’t dump your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. Because karma’s a bitch. And she’s an even bigger bitch on February 14th.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!


New year, new decade: new post. Coming soon (hopefully): new me

2 Jan


The following post was started on Palindrome Day, but unfortunately, was only finished the following day, thus making part of the ‘information” stated below erroneous. However, I have fixed the problem by cheating on the publishing date, making myself seem a bit less full of shit in the process.

Other note:

Palindrome: a word, line, verse, number, sentence, etc., that reads the same backward as forward.


Happy Palindrome day, motherfuckers!

Today’s date is: 01-02-2010. It’s a palindrome! I’m beside myself with excitement!

Actually, it’s only a palindrome in North-America, where inexplicably, they arrange dates by month, followed by day and then year. Which is totally nonsensical, in my opinion. Wouldn’t it make more sense to go day-month-year? Anyway. Not the object of this post. Sorry for going off-topic on your asses so quickly.


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100 Sexy Men in 1 Minute

11 Apr

Yowser…! Where are those emoticons with their eyes popping out of their head when you need them? Have they even been invented yet?

But here’s a more burning question: how come no one never told me about People‘s “100 Sexy Men in 1 Minute” videos? Hmm? U guys really suck. And you gals suck even more.

I, of course, already knew that every year, People awards the title of “Sexiest man alive” to either Brad Pitt or George Clooney, depending whether the year ends in an odd or an even number.

And yes. I do know that People’s latest sexiest dude is neither one of the aforementioned, but Hugh Jackman, but they do have to throw people off once in a while. It will be back to George next year, I tell ya.
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Leave Jessica aloooone!!!

30 Jan

OMG you guys, Jessica Simpson got SOOOOOO fat…!

Look at that:


(Pictures from:


Isn’t she, like, tooootally repulsive?


OK, let’s get real, here, people. This girl isn’t fat. Hell, she probably wouldn’t even make it in the chubby club, so give her a break, k?

For the record, I don’t give a flying fuck about Jessica Simpson. I personally find her to be a dumb airhead and a mediocre singer with annoying mannerisms.

That said, she comes across as a nice enough person, and she’s completely harmless. So what if she put on a couple of pounds?

Everyone is ripping on Lindsay Lohan because she’s too thin, but Daisy Duke shows up bloated in public and there’s an outcry about her being overweight? Come on! What the fuck is it that you want already?

The girl has curves, and I give her props for not hiding it.


Oh. My. God.


I cannot believe I just defended Jessica Simpson.

I can’t even believe I wrote a post about Jessica Simpson.


I need to go and take a very long, very hot shower.

But not before making a bitchy comment about her outfit, which is, I’ll give you that, absolutely fucking horrendous. I mean, isn’t one leopard-printed belt hideous enough? So why wear two? As for the pervert who invented the high-waisted pants, he or she should be condemned to wear a glow-in-the-dark unitard for the rest of his or her life.


I’m done. On a final note, leave Jessica alone.