Funky Chicken Foto Friday

Its late, and we haven't really been posting much good juicy gossipy-ness lately.  But I feel its my duty to share these weird ass  pictures with you all...

It'll  take him four hours to do one hand. He then  photographs it for posterity. I cannot imagine  how he does it, the eyes are so remarkably  lifelike.

Suburbs Girl= Cougar?

I officially live in the suburbs.  With a bunch of people, in a nuthouse.  I used to sit in my cozy little personally decorated office to do work from home.  Now I find myself fighting for signal with the kid who lives behind us (probably surfing the interwebs for porn) and all the out of work housewives googling the items they see for sale on QVC daytime.  So I am on the constant search for my happy Zen workspace.  Where the internet connection is not affected by neighbors or by the weather.  I love Panera, but I always want to spend money and watch people instead of getting my work done. 

So I usually opt for the public library.  You can’t spend money there and there isn’t really anyone fun to watch (besides me).  It’s the same library I used to take my little brothers to, where I studied for my SATs, and LSATS.  It made it even better that I had convinced my mom the night prior to make me a sandwich.  Brown baggin’ it at the library… woohooo.  But you aren’t allowed to have food in there.  But I sneak it and rebel.  Today I realize as I am walking in, in a white tee and black leggings, that I officially could care less what I look like.  I just hope that I put deodorant on and brushed my teeth.  I find myself thinking about wrinkle cream and whether or not my thighs touch when I walk, but I could completely care less that my hair is a frizzy mess, I have not a speck of make-up on and likely am sporting VPLs.  Is this the glory of getting old, or just the fact that living in the burbs means I will see no one who even cares what I (or they) look like. 

After the library I headed for super suburban lunch with Mommy and we met at Burger King.  I was super delighted to see they had wireless internet there and thought this may need to be my new hangout.  We order a few things off the dollar menu and I go up to get ketchup.  “DAMN…”  Ok I must have been hearing things.  There is no way that 15 year old just checked me out.  Oh there it is again.  Yep yep, just got scoped by a youngin.  Much to my own surprise, I was completely uncomfortable with the situation.  Is that really how old Bieber is?  In some messed up way I could be his mother.  (It is physically possible to have a baby at 13!)

I get over it and giggle a little.  My ex’s favorite thing to say to put me down (one of many)… is “Grow Up.”  Other variations include, you are an immature piece of sh**, you are a 12 year old in a grown woman’s body… and my personal favorite…. You and your friends act like a bunch of F*&^ing 16 year old girls.  REALLY???!  Thanks, that’s awesome because my life is way more awesome now than it was at 16.  My face is clear, I have money (sometimes) when I go to the mall, and I still find it completely appropriate to dress as my favorite pop stars. 

So today while sitting in the kitchen at my kitchen table playing JB on iTunes, my 17 year old brother comes out.  He says “Seriously, is that Bieber?” (We’re on a last name basis with him here) and when I say yes he says "Aren’t you embarrassed? That kid is like 14."  "15!"  I correct him.  And then ask him to bring over some of his friends…. Hahaha… adventures in pre-cougardom.

Target vs. Poop

This is a story about Target.  It’s actually a story about poop.  Which one makes you want to read it more?  So today I was in Target, like any other day.  Maybe it was because Zac Posen was there this month.    Every few weeks Target has a designer come in and do their thing for a few weeks.  Right now its Zac Posen, made popular by the ever precious Natalie Portman. Maybe it was because they have awesome 80’s print bathing suits,  and if I am going to wear neon, its going to be on a bathing suit.  I probably just needed dog food but it never hurts to look. 

So I am walking down the isle and I have the worse gas imaginable. Let’s side note here by admitting I have a fear, like a SEVERE fear, of public restrooms.  I barely ever even pee in them.  In my entire life, I had pooped in once 2x.  Ever.  So its gets a little dicey in the aisle and I start to freak out.  I grab my purse and leave my cart and run, literally run, to the bathroom.  At this point I am nervous and sweating and just am praying that its empty.  I make my grand entrance and try frantically to cover the seat with toilet paper.  I literally almost sharted.  I was trying desperately to hold in while I put toilet paper down on the seat.  It was both the worst and the funniest thing that happened to me today.

One night…. a night a long, long time ago, we sat on the back porch on a clear beautiful night.  I wore my new scarf that my tree friend had bought me as a birthday present.  It matched my outfit perfectly.  Us tree friends drank wine until we got silly (more than usual)  and made up for the past 5 months we hadn’t seen each other in.  Just like any other night,  I had the worst gas ever.  I could not help farting and none of the dogs were around to blame.  Instead I decided to blame… Dead Oreo.  Dead Oreo is very sad, but this night we made it something hilarious.  My mom has an iron doorstop that’s a replica of a cute little Boston Terrier we had named Oreo. RIP Oreo.  So I blamed my gas on dead Oreo and we laughed so hard I almost peed my pants.  Or farted a few times.  The next logical thing to do was to get in the dryer.  Then as if that wasn’t enough, I wanted to go through the door dog too.  All while holding my wine.  I am, after multi-talented.  From here on out we decided everything was “RUUUUDE.”  There’s some understated batspeak for ya.

I woke up the next day still wearing my scarf.

There are some lessons to be learned here.  *Tar-get is worth the prices.  Check out Zac Posen.  *Better to be in Target’s bathroom than Walmart’s.  *Always blame your gas on your dogs, dead or alive.  *Laugh so hard you cry.  *Stay up all night with good friends.  *Sleeping in your clothes is entirely acceptable.  *Sometimes people are just “RUUUDE.”  *Most important lesson here…. WE ARE AWESOME.

Love, The Bats

Its Funky Freaky Fantabulous Foto Friday

Why... just because I feel like it.  lets get silly.  If you have a better comment than one of our guest commenters... leave it as a comment.  Hell if you think anything is funny on this blog, leave a comment.  You can do it anonymously.  But your comments are like crack for us.  You comment, we write more.  fair enough?  Um k... and on with the Friday Fotos....

Who brought the old chicks? They can’t hold their steel reserve.  So much for a gummer later…

There’s nothing like the tri- snuggie with my 2 moms…

Who wants to smell my finger? (Who wants a whiff of the old chick?)

I love you Frank.

Stomach Shooters

We had a suggestion from a faithful reader.  To talk about “stomach shooters.”  Now that’s some batspeak for ya.  Keep reading to get more details on this special breed….  “And I say the blog should have an upcoming story about letting guys know that us girls need to be fore-warned before they explode on our stomach….”

And so unfolds a story of guys who sadly enough, “sneak attacks with jizz.”

My first experience with this was in college.  In a dorm room no less.  I already had my own apartment, but was already honing in on my cougar skills and decided to make the trek back to dorm world for some fun with the hot boy.  Now I thought he was really hot.  Apparently hot enough to ignore the fact that he was acting like we were in a porn and he insisted on jerking off next to me instead of actually hooking up with me.  At some point I finally realized he was more into himself then he was into me.  I probably should have left to test my theory but shit, I was already there so why not stick around to see how it ended.  Well let’s just say it ended with a very unsatifying pile on my stomach.  By now I can’t even remember if he cleaned it up, or if I did, I only remember thinking WTF.  And what a waste.  Why did we not just have sex?  Why instead did he have sex with himself and land his unborn babies on my stomach?  Isn’t that what condoms are for?  Or a combo of birth control and pulling out?  (it was college here, give me a break).

So a few of us girls were sitting in the student union building one day and his name comes up.  I of course feel the strong need to tell everyone about what had happened on our “romantic evening.”  I quickly recover by saying  “OMG guys! Don't tell anyone I told you about this poor boy! 

Later that day he IMed me this morning during class and was all, "I hope you said all good things about me!" I was all, "Ummmm, yeah!"   As it turns out, he had also IMed one of my friends that day and simply said "yooo". She did not feel that such a tactless IM required a response.  He also invited her to his apartment party, too. I told her she should bring a towel...Poor guy.  But on the bright side, he didn't sneak attack my mouth with jizz.... (some might say….I know I don't need those empty wasted calories!)  I however would suffice to say that at least it would make your skin clear up.  But from a random, no thanks.

So he will forever be remembered as the “Stomach Shooter.”  We may even start “Goober Tuesdays” in his honor…. Thoughts?

Salad Creations in Exton, PA

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Check out our girl....

I love my delusions.

Apparently some people get offended by our posts.  So here’s my advice.  Waltz your cellulite ass over to the dictionary (it’s a big book with words and their definitions) and look up “random thoughts” and “delusions.”  Oh, you’re too lazy?  I did it for you on Wikipedia.

- A delusion, in everyday language, is a fixed belief that is either false, fanciful, or derived from deception.

So that means if I want to believe that pigs can fly,

that fruit can talk,

or that vaginas can be made of sushi,

I am well within my rights.  Read the effing title of the blog.  Its fiction people, and if there’s something you are worried about, maybe you should go to your gyno instead of airing out on the walk to your local precinct to see McGruff the Crime Dog and show him your high school paper printed in Times New Roman on your word document. 

If that’s not enough for ya, here’s a little something called “Freedom of Speech.”

Freedom of speech is the freedom to speak without censorship and/or limitation. The synonymous term freedom of expression is sometimes used to indicate not only freedom of verbal speech but any act of seeking, receiving and imparting information or ideas, regardless of the medium used. In practice, the right to freedom of speech is not absolute in any country and the right is commonly subject to limitations, such as on "hate speech".  I didn’t say I hated anything, not even sushi.

This blog is a silly happy fun place to have fun with friends. 

Thanks for reading!  No go get some teriyaki and ginger, and call it a night.