Austin

I'm planning on rejuvenating myself in Austin this weekend.

Int he highly unlikely even that I do not come back with a renewed snarky attitude and some story about driving around with a large black man in an escalade until 4am (true story), I will, at the very least, stop by the snake farm on the way home.

And of course the Czech bakery.

Do we have a problem?

I talk about drinking.

A lot.

It's one of my favorite hobbies, so naturally, this would occur.

HOWEVER.

I am beginning to wonder if people who don't *actually* know me know the difference between when I am kidding and when I'm not.

The difference is very subtle but important.

For instance, I have 3 very important rules that I see as my "I am not an alcoholic" bible:

1. Sober Mondays*: with exception of MLK day, memorial and labor day weekends

2. No blacking out on week nights**

3. Either of the above two rules must be honored except for special occasions***

 *Sober means not drunk, not "zero drinks", I have to have something to get through the Bachelor

**Thursday is still the weekend

***$2 marg Tuesdays, Any sporting event, living through another day

My morning was spent gchatting with the one and only Steph Higgs about our divine dinner plans tomorrow.

Our decision? The restaurant below her apartment that serves cucumber martinis....

That we eat at every single time I am in town.....

Because it's relatively cheap and easy......

And after getting sauced by 9pm, so am I......

[insert long lunch]

This afternoon, I overhear co-workers talking about cup holders in their cars.

One of them mentions she has room for a water, coke, and a gatorade all in the front of the car.

Oooohhhhh. My ears perk. The hangover trifecta.

Co-worker catches on: your car is made for a really thirsty person...or an alcoholic.

Co-qorker 2: LOL just keep a handle of vodka in the side compartment.

Me (not actually part of the conversation, just eavesdropping): YEAH! and a cooler in the console for roadies!!

Errr for when I am a passenger...when my chauffer is driving...

Co-worker: "You would Courtney...."

Yeah, okay?

I effing would.

And you know what? Keeping beers in your car is good.

I even donated one to a homeless man one very cold night and he was very grateful.

So cut me a fucking break, I am doing good deeds around here.

I justified my constant drinking as a stress reliever for work and general life woes 

(traffic, stubbing my toe, realizing there is no milk left for my cereal after I already poured the bowl)

Then I went on with my merry way, until about 30 minutes ago, when I realized I was having the following twitter exchange:

@cstanderfer: these PRETzels are MAKing me THIRSTY!

@Bread_Winners: Martini's are half-off after 5PM tonight!

@cstanderfer: @Bread_Winners what is your favorite martini? 

@Bread_Winners:@cstanderfer Just plain-o "dirty"

@cstanderfer: Good choice. Dirty martinis are my go-to. Bleu cheese stuffed olives complement perfectly. 

@Bread_Winners: @cstanderfer Ever stuffed w/ a jalapeño? or habanero?

@cstanderfer: @Bread_Winners jalapeno absolutely. very delish. never tried a habanero stuffed olive, but I love anything spicy. I'd probably be hooked.

@Bread_Winners: @cstanderfer One martini is all right. Two are too many, & three are not enough. ~James Thurber 

@cstanderfer: @Bread_Winners "I like to drink martinis. Two at the most. Three I'm under the table, four I'm under the host." -Dorothy Parker

@Bread_Winners: @cstanderfer “If it wasn't for the olives in his martinis, he'd starve to death!”- Milton Berle  

Yes, I wasted 30 minutes talking to a restaurant about Martinis.

I even googled that quote just so I could respond.

Although truer words have never been spoken.

But you know what the point is?

The point is that I do not drink too much.

Everyone else is just a little behind the curve.

I'm in the 99th percentile.

And last time I checked, that was a good thing.

Oh, and most importantly, I'm really fun.

So suck it.

Oh Sorry, I died......

Or maybe I just wish I was dead instead of staring at my computer screen for 11 hours and slaving away.

Due to a busy work week which has drained my brain of any meager scraps or creative morsels, please watch the following video until I can get my shit together and once again mount my thrown of bitchy cynicism.

"I'm deeply Sorry" - The Tiger Remix

I'm deeply sorry I haven't blogged.

Deeply Sorry.

D-d-d-d-d-eeply sorry.

I'll get one up soon

(a post? or an enormous staff?)

hopefully both

Say Cheeeeese

I'm slightly hungover this morning.

Shocker.

But actually it's not my fault.

You see, last Friday I lost my left contact in a drunken stupor and then realized I was out. 

This may not seem like a big deal except that I am blind as a bat (with cataracts). I mean, I can't see the big E on the chart, it is really embarrassing, actually. Do you know what it's like for  a doctor to laugh at you? And not a chortle either, a full out belly laugh. I'm glad my vision is so funny to you.

So anyway, my mom ran by the eye doctor for me and grabbed an extra contact for me until my new shipment comes in. Because I don't like to wear my glasses to the bar on Friday or Saturday. Not because I don't like them, just because I am truly afraid they will fall off in the crowd and I will have to grope my way home and will probably get hit by a bus or fall in a sewer or perhaps try to enter the wrong apartment.

These are also possibilities if I have my glasses, but drink rumplemintz.

So anyway, the parentals pick up the roomie and me and we bump the escalade down the street to Sangria, a lovely little tapas bar.

I hadn't had anything alcohol related in 22 hours so of course I went for the dirty martini. I do have a complaint that when you say your tini comes with "feta stuffed olives" it should not be 2 tiny kalamatas with some feta cheese floating in my vodka. but whatever, it took the edge off.

And it gave me something to put in my system until those tasty little bacon wrapped dates arrived.

I think Red Wine and I are going to have a threesome with bacon wrapped dates this weekend. And then go Big Love style and share a house and backyard, because let me tell you something, there is no better combo in this world than bacon, date, feta, and almonds. Nada. Capiche?

I started this post with some idea about cheese but it's totally gone now.

I want to talk about this little restaurant.

I had been once before but last night was fun.

First of all, I prefer going out with my parents over most of my friends these days, so that's an added bonus.

Then, we get seated next to the band.

And for some reason, the owner seemed to really like us. He sent the belly dancer outside to the patio so we could see her. Thank GOD my dad found a couple of dollars so we could pretend like we were at a strip club and shove bills in her jingling pants.

Quote of the night: "Aren't belly dancers supposed to...NOT....have a belly? Kinda flabby" -Dad

I don't really remember where I was going with this.

It's probably a really boring post for anyone reading it.

To sum it up, I got to eat rabbit, shrimp, lobster, and mousaka which I think had beef in it, all in one sitting. And we all know how much I love to gobble up little animals. Carnivore Courtney rarrrr.

Then the waiter popped out of nowhere and gave us a free bottle of wine after the bill had been paid. Okay? Thanks, brah. Because it's wednesday and I needed a stiff martini and 2 bottles o' red. So then I got trashed and there's a third of the bottle left sitting on our kitchen counter. 

And I think I might still be slightly intoxicated which would explain why I can;t get my shit together this morning, spilled coffee all over myself, and haven;t been bothered the slightest by either. It also explains why I just used two semi-colons for apostrophes and would rather write a new sentence to acknowledge it rather than just change it.

And I have also been wondering....are there people in the world who poop without peeing first?

It's really bothering me. 

Just had to get that off my chest.

(The thought not the poop)

Sorry for being random and boring.

loveyameanitbyeeeeee

god, I need to go home.

Lent

I'm not Catholic.

Which I am very thankful for because I don't see how people look their priest in the eye after confessional. He would so know my voice and then I would be all embarassed and probably never go to church again.

For the record, I'm Methodist, but we still practice Lent every year.

I like Lent.

A lot of people say things like, "well shouldn't we be focused on sacrificing throughout the entire year?"

Well, sure. If knowing we should or shouldn't do something ever had an impact.

Man, I realllly know I don't need this beer...I shouldn't....ARE YOU GUYS TAKING JAGER BOMBS?!

But we are human.

It is the same reason we have New Year's resolutions.

And spring cleaning.

And why I promise myself every year in September on my birthday that *this* will be my year.

We like people telling us what to do.

Plus I am giving up sweets (as usual) and it's hard enough to last 40 days, much less 365.

I'm just glad I don't have to give up meat. Because I love every kind of animal you could possibly raise domestically and send to the slaughter house. Including but not limited to: chicken, cows, pigs, bacon (this is an entirely different element than regular ole pig and gets its own 'animal'), deer, duck, goose, turkey, and whatever else they put in hot dogs.

Let's be honest here, I thought about giving up booze.

Hell, I even thought about giving up one category of booze.

But it just felt like setting myself up for failure.

Which may or may not be my ultimate worst fear.

So I just pretended the thought never crossed my mind and decided that with my physical sacrifice, I will also improve my spiritual side by doing at least one good deed per day.

It sounds small.

And it is.

But I've realized that stress, the news, constantly being broke, and whatever other petty bullshit I complain about has started to make me bitter.

[serious sidenote: most satiric commentary on this blog is purely for comedic effect]

Actually, bitter isn't the right word; I feel entitled.

And entitlement is one of my most sacred pet peeves, which really isn't good since I'm kind of stuck with me.

I was driving to work last Thursday, already seething that my company didn't cancel work due to the snow.

Which I won't put it quotes because it was legit snow, but it was 35 degrees and the roads were just fine, plus I live less than a mile from the office, so even if they weren't fine I could bobsled my way over there pretty easily.

I wasn't late. In fact, I was early due to lack of showering and showing up in a long sleeve t shirt, sports bra, and glasses, which, ironically, I am also wearing today.

I should probably change at lunch. But then I would be that weird girl that changed.

Lose-lose.

So anyway, I get stuck behind this super annoying douchebag who can't drive worth shit poor little old man who can barely see over the steering wheel. 

Stupid old man! Can't drive! Get off the road during rush hour!! (I live in uptown....there is no rush hour on side streets...nothing even opens until 11am when the lunch crowd comes around...)

When he finally switched lanes I revved past him and sped down my lane, only to be stopped by a pesky red light.

Typical.

What the hell is wrong with me?

he's old!! and it is snowing!! 

So I am going to do small nice deeds to remind myself that somewhere in there is a heart not made of hard, black stone surrounded in barbed wire.

We will see how that goes when I can't have sweets.

Which I wasn;t even going to do but then I told me dear friend Nadia "Gonads" Tognocchi about my little good deed stint and she said "me too! and also giving up sweets like every year!"

Damn.

Can't be shown up for Lent!

So yet again, I turned something that should be for JESUS into a competition.

Because I just really like self-gratification.

This really will be a testament.

It's girl scout season.

Don't worry I already devised a plan to buy a few boxes for the boys overseas if I am accosted by small evil Lent-sabotagers in the grocery store or if they come a-knockin'.

2 for 2.

I'm really trying to do this for the right reasons.

But I'm already thinking about how this is going to benefit me now that swimsuit season is coming up.

Oh well.

At least I'm trying.

Having Gas is Good

My parents recently moved to a house that I absolutely adore, despite the fact that they left my childhood home. HOWEVER. This new home does not pass 18 gas stations on the way and yesterday I conveniently missed the exit for the last gas station before arriving at their lovely abode.

What's the big deal?

Um, many, many things are a big F-ing deal.

Let's start with the basics:

1. When I am going somewhere, I just want to get there. And if I miss my stop, I don't way to pull a U turn for something as petty as gas.

Especially after volunteering 12-5 for a great organization called Family Gateway, which I L.O.V.E, but love is conditional when you are with 30 inner city kids who are being treated to a performance of hard core rap, and you have a hangover, and then some idiot gives them inflatable beach balls, which the older kids threw at my head while the younger kids cried because the older kids stole their beach balls to throw at my head.

2. I'm lazy when it's warm, so I really didn't want to stop and get gas in the first place and it was dreary and cold.

Maybe if I had needed wine, but mom & dad had that.

3. The main big deal: Due to said laziness and dyer need to arrive in a warm, safe place, I had already driven from Dallas with my fuel light on. Which is 22.8 miles. Which gives me approx 2 miles until I REALLY run out of gas.

Which has happened before......

Back in the day when I first moved to Dallas, I was having some work done on my car. Not being 25 yet, my mom rented one, and I took hers. Now, she has one of those fancy cars with the technology that tells you exactly how far you have to go.

I don't even have mirrors on the flip side of my visors.

Apparently, I decided that the little guage was full of shit.

I don't exactly remember why I slept at their house that night, but I did, and then I tried to drive to work 30 miles away when the fuel light had already been on because I was running late, because I had a shitty staffing/sales job that required me to be there at 7:15 every.fucking.morning. which is earlier than I even wake up now.

Insert sidenote about how I love my job, and how close it is to my house, and how I get to dress super casual, and everyone here not only tolerates but encourages and supports happy hour, and I could just DIE here and be just fine.

So there I am, driving along the tollway, enjoying the melodic ding of the car.

Melodic ding (noun): the sound created when a car is trying to warn you that gas is completely out because you are too stupid to believe it for the first 35 miles.

Due to never-ending Dallas construction, I have conveniently driven onto a bridge, with no shoulders. As I hit the gas to drive up a small hill, I realized that my mom's car was not speeding up. In fact, the RPM gauge had deflated to 0 and I was rapidly slowing down.

On a bridge.

With no shoulder.

At 7:30am.

Did I mention this is a tollroad? So people have now PAID to sit behind a car that ran out of gas?

FML does not even begin to cover this.

It's more like life just raped me up the ass then shat on my chest.

[hoooooooonk. hoooooooonk.]

[various passerbys giving me the finger and yelling obscenities into their driver side window.]

sir, I have no idea what you just yelled, but your unheard words are just twisting the knife.

I. am. so. stupid.

So of course I call my dad.

Because he can snap his fingers from 30 miles away and fix it all.

"Have you called AAA?"

No.

"What about the North Texas Tollroad Association?"

Er, no.

"Court, I think you better get off the phone with me and call them."

So I call AAA and the NTTA.

Oh by the way, I am crying.

I see that an escalade has stopped in front of me.

Either a large black man or a housewife from the burbs is about to pop out.

But no!

It's a good looking man.

And he is knocking on my window.

"Did your car break down, miss? I work at cadillac and they will come tow you! All you have to do is call. I can call them for you right now. [dialing]"

Um....well, this is kinda embarrasssing (teeeeee heeeee awk nervous laughter) but I kind of just ran out of gas."

"Oh. Did the car tell you it was running out of gas? Is that feature not working? You should still be under warranty if it broke...."

Insert the brightest red you have ever seen..........

Annnnnnnd that's my face.

Finally the man picks up on the fact that I am just an idiot and tells Caddy to bring me some gas.

As I'm sitting there, my dad calls back to check on me.

awww, thanks Dad.

Oh wait, too bad he really only called to laugh at me and deliver the fun tidbit that the story is being featured on the news and the radio.

I hang up on him and call my work to tell them I ran out of gas and am going to be late.

About 3 minutes later I see a reflection in the rearview mirror.

My knight in shining armor!!

And by shining armor I do mean a neon yellow jumpsuit.

He siphons gas into my tank, which is on the passengers side, and since I am in the left lane, everyone can see that I am, in fact, the dumbass that just ran out of gas, and then he tells me that it's just enough to get me to the nearest gas station.

Okay, thanks!

tires screech as I get the HELL out of there.

As you may remember, I called AAA, NTTA, and Cadillac.

Still not sure which delivered the gas.

I spent 2 hours after the incident ignoring phone calls from the other two out of sheer embarrassment.

*ignore it and it will go away, ignore it and it will go away*

To recap, I do not stop at a gas station, drive to work, park in the "1 hour visitor" parking for the bank, run upstairs, and am basically told not to F up again OR ELSE.

My boss and I never really saw eye-to-eye at that job.

I lasted longer than most of the other poor saps but I'm not really sure if I won in that situation or if they did.

Anywho, I quit/got fired about a month later anyway.

So clearly, I don't learn lessons the first time around.

And I get terrible anxiety every time my gas light comes on, but I still won't just pull off the damn highway and get gas.

And that almost happened this morning because I could feel the pTERRAdactyl losing juice.
Fortunately, we made it this time.
But I'm sure I will push just a little too far again in the future.

At least it makes for a great story!

^

|

my motto for life.

   

Imma get rich, bitch!

I recently had a flashback of a conversation I had with two of my friends and decided I really need to revisit the topic.

My friend Katherine is really smart. She's an actuary. If you just want a short recap: It's someone who assesses the financial impact on risk (ex: your company might work for insurance companies to determine how much someone pays for their policy due to risk). I hope that's right because it's really all over my head. I like advertising, and twitter, and wine, and dance parties, and none of those things involve heavy math skills.

So I started thinking of other ways I could get rich, but we just kept circling back around to investment banking. 

Ugh, I cannot do that. I need to be home with my liquid relaxer by 6:30 at the latest, even if I have to work from home. And I cannot miss American Idol. So that's out.

But then it hit me. I could open my very own investment banging firm.

What?

Are ya deaf?

Ya hurd.

I've never quite been the relationship type.

I'm a lone wolf.

re: selfish commitment-phobe

But alas, I also cannot have that big scarlet letter stamped on my chest, so I started a little side business that became known as investment banging.

The rules:

1. Candidates must be fully single

2. Before sleeping with said person, you must be certain you will sleep with this person at least 3 times (preferably much longer).

3. Inspect for warning signs of stage 5 clingers

4. Good looking, likes beer, no braided belts

(optional) 5. Friends are easy targets. 

Sometimes things are right under your nose....

or you. 

disclaimer: If you are overly-sensitive, jealous, or generally do not bring anything to the table, investment banging is not for you. 

Thanks for playing.

If you play your cards right, investment banging can be an extremely smart decision, increasing your stocks tenfold.

The top three benefits include:

1. Keeping your numbers low

You only have so many fingers and toes for a reason

2. It's good practice for a relationship, but you can quit when you want.

like playing house, without the in-laws  

3. Go green

Because we are definitely into recycling around here 

So before you go out on the prowl, I urge you to consider my new company.

I will be glad to assist you in criticizing and judging others until we conclude if they are worth it.

In a kindly manner, of course.

Make love, not war.

Because in the words of my mother, via text:

"Saw a buffalo and camel grazing side by side yesterday. Can't we all just get along?"

the pTERRAdactyl

I drive a 2005 Xterra that I plan on motoring around town until she completely dies.

Which could easily be 15 years from now considering I drive her .5 miles to work (1 mile RT every day) and occasionally to the grocery store.

Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure the only miles on that bad bitch are from trips to Austin and a road trip to Florida that I like to call spreak break 2007.

Also known as the trip I flashed a 10 year old.....what?

Another time.....

p.s. I was wearing an elephant visor.

So anyway, I'm not really sure when I started calling her the pTERRAdactyl, but that has become her name and despite how annoying 99% of my friends think it is, it ain't gonna stop.

So get used to it, haters.

A recent twitter war of office callouts for bad parking jobs in the parking garage has caused me slight embarrassment over my lover  (jk red wine!) beloved patty wagon.

Not because I am bad at parking, because I never claimed that.

I kind of find parking annoying and wish spots were twice as big, and I will fairly admit that I have been the asshole who takes 2 spots on more than one occasion.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that's why I got keyed in my parking garage.

Although a simple "hey bitch, do it again and I'll knife your ass" would have done the trick.

Where is the fair warning?

But alas, my "parking" is not my concern.

No.

My concern is that my car is filthy. And I have let her get that way.
In fact, sunday february 14, we are celebrating our one year non-wash anniversary.
I DO HAVE PLANS!!!

At brunch the other weekend, the valet guy tried to make some ass backwards terrible F ing joke  witty comment about how I got towed.

I curtly sneered at him and told him that ACTUALLY that was last February but that pTERRAdactyls are hardcore and don't need showers.

[sped away murmuring sweet nothings to heal her bruised ego]

I mean, she's clean on the inside.

That makes it okay right?

Isn't that the rule for hookers?

I really hope so.

Because to get her washed would either entail 1 hour of my time or booze money for thursday and friday night.

Chances of either a none to negative, so she's going to continue her life as a dirty dirty girl.

Cuz that's how we roll.

No shower Sunday, Maybe shower Monday

I did feel kinda bad that I totally ditched her on Valentine's 2009.

I got towed from my current roommate's then-parking-lot, but there was no way in hell we were going to skip drinking to go get my car from little Mexico in the dark.

By the way, I was seriously in the lot for 45 minutes.

At first I thought I had drunkenly parked and forgotten where and then I realized I hadn't had anything to drink.

[sigh]

[almost cry]

[drink it off]

4 hours later.....

[blackout] 

So she got tattooed, I got drunk, and then I paid $160 to retrieve her in the morning.

Sounds about right.

I mean, it's kind of cruel not washing her.

It's like not letting your friend take a shower after a night in jail.

but now that dust has turned into a cute brown pea coat for winter.

And as an added bonus, it's hiding the fact that she's due for an inspection.

Because I'm cheap.

And I drive 1 mile a day.

And I think I'm invincible.

Plus not everyone who lives in my apartment building is a self-loathing-car-keying-douchebag.

Someone drew a peace sign on dusty old pTERRA the other night.

And it looks good on her, y'all.

So long live grungy chicks.

Make peace, not war.

Like Night and Day

I feel like my life is this whirlwind of polar opposites and I'm just a little old pinball being bounced back and forth. Pro: I love the loud noises and I am a shiny & silver. Con: It's exhausting. And expensive.

I spend half of my time going to visit college friends in far away places, 1/4 of my time holing up in my apartment with cheap booze so I can afford these trips (which I really can't), and the other 25 percent discussing weddings with my high school friends.

My 3 best friends from high school are all either engaged or married. Although I am *super super* excited for them, the monetary responsibility I feel to toward these people gives me anxiety. They are the kind of friends you WANT to spend money on...not the bitch who invites you to her shower for the gift and then doesn't even serve mimosas. But let me tell you what really is the hardest part: trying to discuss shoes, flowers, and hotel accommodations after playing slap the bag for 48 hours on a ranch with 30 of my college friends, of whom 4 are married or seriously dating. As in 2 couples...

It's like a little angel/devil arrangement.

"Come visit me! Help me plan my wedding and catch up since we don't see each other as much anymore!"

"No! Come with me! We will drink boxed wine and jim beam straight out of the bottle and then burn shit in the bon fire!"

It's like some weird warped world.

And I only understand one of them.

Because I can't even find a date to take to the wedding, much less think about spending 60 years with that person, which is really probably more like 70 because my family lives to be old as dust. 

Dust that existed when dinosaurs roamed the earth and cavemen dragged their wives by their hair, like every good man should.

In my humble opinion.

So let's just rewind to the actual lifestyle I get.

This actual slapping of the bag and bonfire extravaganza actually happened this past weekend in a little place I like to call San Saba.

It is the pecan capital of the world, and let me tell you, we checked out peCAN'T attitudes at the door and went balls (or nuts) out for the next 48 hours.

In a nutshell (hehe see how I did it again? see? see?), I've had a 2 day hangover and spent the 3 hour drive to Dallas holding back chunks of my sonic breakfast toaster.

To be honest, I tried to throw up in the gas station bathroom during a pit stop.

But I have a terrible gag reflex, and don't "do vomit," and I generally just find puking embarassing. Plus some bitch was standing outside the bathroom door and I got stage fright and then I realized there wasn't any soap and my wallet was in the car, so I would either a) have puke hands, or b) have to go out to the car, and that kind of physical movement was NOT kosher at the time.

 

The thought of the superbowl was a little much to handle, so I just ate every weird food morsel I could find in my apartment, because clearly ordering food, THE LOGICAL DECISION, never even occurred to me.

I turned on Teen Mom and was quite enjoying myself, pretending that my little post-drinking bloat and food baby was in fact a real live fetus.

Note: this was only funny to me because I was still a little drunk and I have participated in zero activities that could possibly impregnate me, including but not limited to:

a) offering my secret garden to some lucky seedsman

b) knife fights with my ex-bf while giving my new bf a bj. 

c) exploring Dallas sperm banks

d) channeling the Virgin Mary

Not to mention my extra-curriculars involve activities that would certainly not allow a child to survive inside of me.

Then my phone rang....for the 8th time that day.....from some 214 number I had never heard of and they WOULD NOT LEAVE A MESSAGE.

So finally I decide I am going to answer it.

[annoyed voice]: Hellooooo?

Hold Please.

the FUCK? you have called me 8 times and then tell me to hold?

I should add to my faux pregnancy that I was quite irritable and not in the mood for telemarketers.

Um, hello. Is this Courtney [insert mumbling that starts with an S but sounds nothing like my last name].

Uh, yes. Who is this?

At this point bitch tells me I signed up to receive freebies for my baby at some website.

Is God laughing at me? 

In a half choke/sputter/cough I tell her that I do NOT have children.

Then she says this:

Well are you sure this is Courtney?

Yeah I am pretty damn sure.

In fact, I am quite positive.

So kindly take me off your phone list, go hang yourself, and let me go back to my misery on the couch because you totally just ruined my Teen Mom experience.

There has got to be a hidden camera somewhere. 

You can get pregnant through your belly button

**The following story may or may not be true**

But it's one hell of a tale

This just in, Kenyan Olympic marathon runners not only are the fastest men on earth, but have trained their sperm to travel the length of the universe. 

You can just ask the 15 year old girl with no vagina.

You heard me. A 15 year old girl with no vagina was impregnated by African sperm....through her belly button.

Sidenote: getting pregnant out of wedlock may be the single most scary thought on the face of the planet.

a) I would have to pay for that fucker for 18 years, b) I can't seem to find a guy I can stand for more than a few months, so I am sure to be a single mother, c) I don't do barf, d) YOU CAN'T DRINK WHILE PREGNANT. 

Thank God I am dating my sweet BF Red Wine, because our wine babies will be able to tolerate the booze. It's like extra placenta to them.

So anyway, African bitch is all cray-cray and gets in a knife fight in which she is stabbed in the belly button.

The hoodlums prob would have gone for the neck but they have those neck stretchers on, ya dig?

I tell you what. Those neck rings are not worth it, ladies. Are you listening?

You are basically telling men you are training for the 'deep throater of the year' award.

And let's really take a look at all the disadvantages of this situation. 

First of all, home girl didn't even have a vagina.

[insert above comment again]

So you would think she couldn't even get pregnant. 

wrong.

But that's not even the weird part. 

Then she went and got stabbed and it punctured something inside, and then when she just couldn't resist from giving BJs to all the tribal men in the village, one of their pools of swimmers actually traveled through her stomach and made it all the way to the ovaries where they settled into a cushy egg and turned into a fetus.

I mean, you have the worst luck EVER. Did you get AIDS too?

Christ.

AND I just have to ask: If you don't have a vagina, why the fuck are you giving blow jobs? I completely disagree with the whole "better to give than receive" BS.

I would agree that it is better to give, then to receive.

See how grammar changes everything?!

You know a man made that up.

Most likely a man who should be on "To catch a predator: Africa style" where Chris Hanson is waiting in the hut when little old man comes in to get a blow job from a 15 year old who wears neck rings. 

But at least she got a matching C section scar to accessorize her stab wounds.

Scars were all the rage in Africa at the time.

So kids, the moral of the story is that you shouldn't be a whore.

And if you are a whore, don't let your old boyfriend catch you sucking off your new boyfriend, because you will get stabbed and you will get pregnant.

God Bless America, eh?