Don't Eat Barbiturates and Drive, Kids.

So, I know I haven't posted all week, and honestly, I had a few really great ideas at one point, but they completely slipped my mind like boobs in a pool of Jello.

I do, however, have many insane stories in my back pocket, so I figured I'd pop in & share one of those in the meantime, till some of those maybe come flying back to me.

Have you ridden in a car up on a wall?

You should try it. It's exhilarating!

This was an incident that very few pics out there could help in describing, so I doubted myself on if I could draw the scenario out, and this morning it just kind of flowed like wine into Julia Child's cup.

It was a sunny day in Fall, circa 1997. My good friends, whom I guess for legal purposes we'll refer to as Saul & Matty, and myself were having a jolly old time hanging around my homestead.

At one point Saul had decided to take us over to his house in his Impala (which back in that day, was really the pimp of American cars). 

Oh 1997, you're so sexy.
Like, kind of detective with a handlebar mustache sexy.

Before we walked out the door we really had no idea how much Phenobarbital Saul had taken. Just that his current girlfriend had recently turned alternating shades of green & as purple as Violet Beauregarde from one of her binges on a balloon full of "candy" he gave her (which nothing says "Darling, I love you. In fact, so much that I'd like to give you this pretty balloon & see you change colors like a goddamn Iguana." as much) & we probably should have known.

All was good until we got to the rail road tracks (you know, where you're supposed to go 20 mph.), and he floors it & starts going 80, and all of a sudden.......

.

.

We're. Driving. On. A. Effing. WALL

.

.

And as I hear the ruckus in the back & quickly look behind me...

.

.

No effing way were his jeans that skinny.
Also, his left leg was way going the other way. Tell Charlie Sheen you can't always win.
Also, I don't know wtf is up with the car here. Just go with it.

Nope, the side of the car wasn't scraping the wall. We were somehow remarkably driving sideways, on a wall, with the car bouncing on the rough stone, pouncing Matty completely around the back seat like a rubber ball, left to right.

It gets better.

We finally escape the wall & Saul turns us onto a side street & decides to turn his head to the back of the car to get a good look at the wall.

I wasn't even messed up, and when I tell you this mofo's face looked as melted as a Van Gogh painting...

Holy Shit!

Lookin' good, man. Lookin'. Damn. F'n. GOOD!!

.

.

.

So here's where I'm wondering who's watching the goddamn road in front of us & figured maybe it was my job to step in here.

.

.

And that's how you could tell the weird shit, bug power or whatever the hell he was on, had taken full effect.

.

.

Is it needless to say I grabbed the steering wheel & swerved us all from certain death or brain damage?

Now, I know what you're thinking & probably going to say.

But that's the thing about good ol' Saul. He's fucking IMMORTAL.

There are HUNDREDS of incidents where the dip shit, by the laws of nature, should have died.

Among those we've literally seen him fall off a cliff, blow his arm up with explosive gas, smash through glass doors, survive 5+ car accidents, wake up naked on his landlord's couch after hours of trudging waist deep through a swamp in the dead of night, getting his ass kicked while naked hiding in the bushes on his front lawn on angel dust, and I don't have all goddamn day here.

In fact, there should be a series or even a book about the wonderful adventures of Saul, the immortal moron.

There were a few others among the crew almost as messed up as Saul, but he takes the golden taco.

(If you ask me what that means, I cannot tell you. I have no idea!)

So, let that be a lesson to you. If you're going to Liza Minnelli it up

 Don't get behind the wheel.

And don't tell me what's possible if you get the right footing.

Also, there could be someone like this where you live.

Have a safe & comfortable weekend!

A Twenty Spot & You Too Can Look Pretty Much Horrifying

I know tanning can be a controversial subject; the potentially harmful effects on the skin, yada, yada, but that's not what we're discussing here today. No, today it's about the fact that I have been somewhat addicted to that cocoa glow on & off for years now, and yes, I tan indoors occasionally because it gets you evenly, quickly, and you don't have to bead sticky sweat under the blazing sun for hours to get a beautiful color.

Mere minutes, some crazy, incredibly high-powered fans, grooving to some music in the nude & you're a walking bronze statue. How could some pasty Irish girl not be alll over that shit?!

So, even though I'm convinced I know what I'm doing with my excessive moisturizing & avoiding burning, my fears still creep up on me once in a while. ESP. with my Irish skin. What if I start getting those spots?!

I don't want to end up one of those women who's a walking piece of beef jerky & skin soup because she fried herself constantly for 20+ years like a leather wrapped strip of bacon.

As you may know, there are many alternatives nowadays. You know, from instant tanning lotions that don't work to pills that turn you fucking orange.

I call bullshit on where all the oompa loompas came from.
I'll give you a hint-Spring break.

Considering I recently started tanning again, I've been reminded of my spray tanning incidents gone awry.

 So, in the past few years Mystic Tan has come out with something I figured was the answer-The Mystic Tans spray tanning booth.

It seemed to be the answer for many people with fears of the risks of tanning, it had to be the answer for me, right?

Well, this is where I point out to you that this pixi's luck in some arenas may be a lil different and that I've learned time & time again that what works for most probably isn't going to go right for my ass.

So, on this day of my first spray tan I am so psyched. I have a weekend long date in VT with this hot guy I liked (Who turned out to be the loser of losers & careless, shitfaced drivers, but another story for another time maybe), and I'm happy I'm able to pull off weeks worth of tanning in one 6 minute spray session.

I don't buy all the special before lotions they suggest because the ditz behind the counter tells me I can do without it & gave me some simple lotion they had on hand, so I pick out my color cartridge & head for the booth.

The booth............

(The robotic goddamn gas chamber)

"I will break your legs, boss you around, and spooge in your face."

I had no idea this was really the case till it was too late.

I walk into Captain Picard's lil capsule there onto this octagon metal floor traced with footprint patterns.

I wasn't sure if this was like one of those Dance Dance Revolution games where I had to dance to the Macarena just to turn this on, but because of the cheap lotion (And my lack of booties. And how TF was I supposed to know I needed booties), I was slipping & sliding all over this thing like I was fighting for dear life.

I finally get a lil bit of a grip & insert my cartridge (Uh haha, Beavis), and this voice echoes from all corners like fucking 2010 Space Odyssey.

I have no time to think or even blink before I start getting hosed down in this chemical substance that smells so toxic it really seems like no living thing on this earth should be within 100 miles of it.

This robot bitch is yelling at me, telling me to move my feet onto all different numbered footprints & positions with my naked ass in a shower cap while this machine is giving me golden showers from every angle & I'm just trying so hard not to breathe or break my legs, and this lil routine either unlocks some key to the universe or it's a futuristic game of nuclear Twister. Either way it's like McDonalds meat-I'm hatin' it.

The only thing this was missing was a robotic hand that picks you up & slams you into the walls till you're knocked unconscious.

Here's an older, less deluxe version.

See what I mean? For that type of shit I at least expect breakfast in the morning.

I was thrilled a few hours later when I noticed myself getting darker & darker, and the color itself did look natural.

But when I got to Vermont & was sitting on a grassy knoll with my date in my cute lil mini skirt & noticed my Zebra legs, it wasn't so awesome.

I KNOW it's not a Zebra. It's a Jack Ass, take a hint.

Now this is an ongoing issue with me & you're bound to hear the words "You'd think I had learned my lesson" many times in the future of this blog.

Because a year later I found myself in some weird no name tanning salon that was probably just someone's basement, naked & being sprayed from a canister I swear I have in my garage, by some weird lady, only to have it start raining the second I walked out of there, and have YOU ever seen somebody literally peel & chip like the led paint on an old house?

Remember Death Becomes Her?

I could have used my own mortician too.

This IS what happens when spray tanning goes wrong.

It's like, The Hulk dipped in golden hershey squirts.
The guy on the right, not the one on the left.

I'm going to stick with the lamps until there's a better solution or I learn to do that shit right me thinks.
I mean, even if it can look normal on some people when done right, the facts are still the facts. The reality is a lot like this till your next few showers & tanning session....

Be smart. No one takes a clown seriously.

I Didn't Realize Only You Lived Here

The rest of us must be here temporarily visiting by time travel because if other people did live on this continent, you surely wouldn't drive around with two feet of snow, or better yet, frozen solid snow or ice, on the roof of your insanely large car of destruction & doom, would you?

Because what's better than a big mechanical death machine with giant shards of killer ice hanging off of it, going 80 mph.

Now, maybe you just can't reach &/or you're in a hurry - In this case....... Well, I don't give a flying squirrel's nut sack, run and get a chair, step, anything & clean. off. the. car.


Let me introduce you to my lil friend - Extending ice scraper/snow brush.

Omg, it's like, logical thinking, on a stick!

Maybe you have a condition & limited ability in your arms & it hurts to lift em' high or do all the motions, in which case I don't know how your ass can drive, but if you can do it, you can do it. So that's when you go grab some sorry mofo off the couch to do it for you. If said mofo declines, that's when you back your car through the front of the house & into said living room, pull up next to em' & tell em' it looks like it'll just be a relaxing day at home.

(I have quick, simple solutions to every perplexing matter)

Maybe you think you just won't be that guy/chick, or maybe you're hallucinating drunk & just think the car is covered in powdered sugar, and therefore, automatically everything will be okay because who doesn't love powdered sugar, right?

 (actually, a lot of people, but that's beside the point), and maybe if you raised your hand on that last one you should have your license revoked, and probably an intervention as well.

(Or you could build a donut car & ram em' into each other. Powder devours Donut ='s Breakfast)

Maybe these people have Agoraphobia & it makes them feel safe, so maybe driving around in a big homicidal snow fort is comforting to them. I can tell you how comforting it is to the guy behind you who suddenly got a blast of powdered sugar something like a snow blower emptying out on his windshield, who has now swerved off the road, hit three pedestrians & driven through the window of a TGIFriday's.

If you need help identifying these toolbags, you probably are one. Let me show you what you look like...

Gallery of people who should have the shit slapped out of them.

That's a good hairstyle, assfuck.

"We'll get there, Rhonda. I'll use my spidey sense. I'm a fucking superhero!"

Either mama failed tragically, or somebody gave you brain damage with a bat.

I'd flip you the bird or yell at you or something, but I'm too busy running for my life from your ass, you insane disaster waiting to happen.