Tag Archives: lesbian

The Lesbian

I think I mentioned Tuesday that I am stressed out at work, right? It’s because it’s the fiscal year end and they (The Company/boss whores) try and cram more work than we do 11 months out of the year into 1 month and expect people not to lose their shit. I knew September was going to be crazy when I was trotting around in May being all “Fralalaaaaa… I have nothing to do! I’m better than you!” And everyone was laughing behind my back being all “Heh heh.. she’ll see!”  I see, ok douchers, I see.

I broke it down to see how much time I need to spend in each “area” I am responsible for to get all the work on my desk done: 

Emails: 1200 minutes

Transfers: 750 minutes

New Accounts: 30 minutes

Budgets: 60 minutes

Financial Reports: 1650

Total: 3690 minutes OR about 62 hours.

So if I worked for the next 2 ½ days taking no breaks and not sleeping I could get all of my work done, that is assuming that I don’t get any additional transfers, emails, financial reports, etc… which is about as unlikely as me finding a husband tomorrow. Especially considering the due date is September 28th for all this crap, and I will get about 10 X this much coming in on September 27th alone. I hate everyone!

If I hadn’t been such a slack ass facebooking/blogging/googling the missing instead of working for the past 2 months, this predicament probably wouldn’t be so bad.  But! Since everyone I work with is old and slow I still have less work than them, yesterday my bosses were all, “Praiiiise Gizzy, since you’re ahead of everyone else we need you to train the new girl, The Lesbian.”

Ok, ok.. I’ll train your lesbian, but you just tell her to keep her eyes to herself, mmkay? Before we get a bunch of hate mail, I am totally down with the gays, Lucky and I were Kevin Yang’s #1 fan before he deleted his blog/wordpress kicked him off.  I’m not entirely sure what happened there, I just know that my sweet rambling gayness is gone forever, Ellen is my homegirl, you get it.

So, despite what the bloggy may lead you to believe, I don’t really like to talk to people who aren’t my friends.  I’ll do a little hey how ya doin, or a short 1 or 2 line convo.  But after that I can all I can hear is myself talking (and yes, I’ve suddenly taken an interest in acting? I know, I think I’m bi-polar too) and I just think I sound weird, and quiet, and raspy, and a lot of people have told me that I have the voice of a porn/phone sex/900 number lady, and that really creeps me out, but I guess if I really want to work from home that’s an option?  So I’m just not big on talking, and having to train someone means I have to talk, like a lot.  So I was not looking forward to this.  I made notes so that I could run through the training 1 time, give her the notes and be done with it.  But she had all kinds of questions and wanted examples and just really ruined my plan.

Just when I’d start to feel a little bit comfortable with my training rambling and could hear myself talking in the 900 lady voice I noticed she was looking at my boobs, and then I remembered that she’s a lesbian.  Yep! Awkwaaaard.  

I shifted around in my chair and pulled my cardigan closed holding back my tears.  Don’t get me wrong here, I had on a full coverage dress, but I have big boobs so they stick out and are pretty noticeable no matter how much I try and cover them up.   As I was sitting there fidgeting wishing she would just go away so I could crawl under my desk and cry, I looked down and noticed that the dress I was wearing that has a weird angle slit up the front (it might actually be a bathing suit cover up, or pajamas? Thanks Target, for not making that clear) was positioned so that the world could see my underwear.  I mean there is a good chance she didn’t notice because my exposed underpants were under my desk and she was too busy checking out my boobs, but just the thought of it gives me the willies, as it would if this happened with anyone.

When the training was finally over I texted Anth, “There’s a good chance I showed The Lesbian my underwear today.” he replied, “HAAA! I knew it!” So he thinks I’m a lesbian?  I replied, “Not on purpose, jerkoff.” Then I explained the situation, and he proceeded to tell me not to jump to conclusions because she hadn’t asked me to be on her softball team yet, and I’m not really the type that lesbian’s are attracted to anyway so I needed to get my panties out of a twist, literally.

At this point in my life, Anth has now told me that I’m not the girlfriend/wife type and now I’m also not the type lesbian’s are attracted to either.   So what’s left… being a cat lady or a nun?

So I don’t know, things might be weird at work today.  I’m either going to have to call in sick or wear a mumu.

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Reasons why I’m not crazy.

I think I can finally breathe. For a hot second. Last week was my first week back at work, and it was rough. Not only did I have meetings, deadlines, and e-mails coming out of my ears, but things outside of work were hellishly busy—I had three major freelance deadlines all due YESTERDAY. Also, yesterday I had somehow managed to schedule a dentist appointment, a hair appointment, in between work, and then give a presentation on blogging (open to the whole city) last night.

I am pretty glad there’s not much on my plate today. But, today, is day 1 of my detox-cleanse. I think I mentioned it before—I completed the detox for the first time 6 months ago. The detox is a 14-day regimen of herbal supplements and a very strict diet: no dairy, no salt, no white sugar or flour, no red meat, no alcohol, no caffeine, nothing processed. It sounds awful, and it really is tough. But since I’ve done it before, I’m hoping it’s easier this time around. Truthfully, it gives me more natural energy and last time, I felt like I weighed nothing because of all the water and natural foods I had.

But I’m apologizing now if I am more irritable than usual in my next few posts (silly Lucky, like THAT could ever happen!).

Anyway, I had an interesting weekend that I have yet to tell you about. I’m not going to lie, I’ve been a little bummed lately—it could be all the stress in my life, but I find myself feeling defeated in the dating scene. I feel like everyone, except Gizzy of course, is engaged, married, or on the fast track to happily ever after. I really am happy for my friends who have found love, but being the third wheel is getting really old—I need more single friends!

Friday night was pretty low-key, which I was thankful for. I went out to the bar with a friend from work and we had some beers and watched football. Saturday, I had to be productive on all of that shit I was telling you about. However, Saturday night I was ready to do something fun and get my mind off of things.

My friend Anne invited me out to a roller derby “bout” (what they call a match in roller derby proper). I was pretty pumped, as the closest I’ve come to roller derby was last year’s Whip It starring Drew Barrymore and Ellen Page.

Unlike Whip it, these girls were skating on a flat track, but it was still concrete and still pretty bad ass. Per tradition, the ladies were dressed in fishnets, colorful accessories, with plenty of tattoos and bright hair color, of course. But the best part, were their names. The MC for the night was killing me with, “and your Jammer, Goin Postal is coming through the pack!!”

Some other goodies were Goldie Schlager, Kelly Ripya, Serial Mom…it got me thinking, what could MY roller derby name be? Lucky is just too kind. I checked out a roller derby name generator, and this is what it gave me: Goodass Gold, Karma Suture, Lucy Blackbeast, and Betty the Bulldozer.

I kind of like Goodass Gold 😉 now, if I could only skate.

Anyway, so I’m there with Anne, because her new obsession is the roller derby head referee. No, seriously. So we’re sitting there watching the bout, well I was, but when I looked over at Anne she was using her camera as a pair of binoculers—zooming in so she could watch her guy. Really? I’m happy she found someone she likes, buuuuut…they’ve been on one date.

It’s shit like this that tells me I’m just not as crazy as I sometimes fear I am. Anne told me this guy, we’ll call him Head Ref, has had a crush on her for 8 months, but since she was in a relationship (with someone abusive, I will add) they couldn’t see each other. So she ran into him on New Year’s Eve, mentioned she was single, and he asked her out. All of this is fine and dandy, but like I said, they went on one date…and now she was calling him her “baby” and talking about how perfect he was.

“You know, he’s 28. And 28 is the PERFECT age, and it’s just so nice to have someone pay for you and open doors, just a complete gentleman, I am so smitten.”

It’s time I get real with you, Anne:

  • It’s a first date. If he doesn’t pay, flip the table and call a cab.
  • Chivalry is great and all, but it ain’t everything. The Has Been Matt McFaggot opened doors, paid for me, asked permission to drink beer, was polite in all ways, yet STILL a complete douche.
  • One date does not a boyfriend, baby, boo, honey bunch, make.

I don’t mean to be a cynical asshole about it, but haven’t we learned by now? I don’t know if Head Ref invited Anne to the Roller Derby, but all she got from him was a little, “hey.” We went to the after-party, where we got to see Head Ref surrounded by a group of ladies. When Anne went to talk to him, she didn’t have much luck. Then, he left without even acknowledging her.

Just saying.

In the Year of the No, I just wouldn’t have (and will never) acted this way. I’ve been on way too many first dates to think they are anything more than a simple dinner and getting to know someone. I have a feeling Anne is going to be disappointed within the next two weeks.

Just a hunch.

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The Real Bloggers of…New Jersey?

I’m sure most of you recall (the most famous reindeer of all) the adventures Gizzy and I had with DDM a little more than a month ago. Thankfully, we haven’t heard from him in awhile, but I figured now would be a better time than ever to stir that pot a little further. Churn baby churnnnnnnnn!

After we had The Fight, DDM (bless his little penis, tool) found it necessary to create a fake identity and bug us some more. The first little jab came in the form of a comment request, saying this:

Jesus how old are you gals? You’ve got to be kidding me with your content. How can you write such garbage and live with yourselves? If you can insult yourselves so much, why don’t you just take a bottle of pills and do woman-kind a favor. Your existence only serves to bring us down. Yuck, show some self esteem and not this fake “we are scum sucking cunts and proud of it” wanna-be funny bullshit you pass off for writing.

And by the way, what’s up with the long left side of the screen format of your blog? How annoying to have to scroll to Japan to read this complete crrrrap!

Don’t quit your day job, or as it may be in your case, the street corner.

Blech!

The comment was from a “Danielle.” Gizzy and I agreed it was pretty suspicious, as the name “Danielle” is very similar to DDM’s name and the complaints were nearly identical. It was less than a week after The Fight and “Danielle” just had an e-mail address, no blog.

Now, I want to set the record straight here. If you don’t like our blog, that’s cool. I’m really fine with it.(I’m not, if you don’t like our blog then fuck you.) I read blogs everyday that I think really suck. But do I comment and tell those people to rot in hell for it? No, I simply move on. That’s the part that I don’t get. So it isn’t that I can’t take criticism, it’s that this blog is for fun, for laughs, for shits and giggles. It’s the ONE place in my career as a writer and an editor (yes, DDM I am paid as an editor and a published writer) where I can let loose and really say what I feel.

And as for the layout of our blog? What is the freaking B.F.D?!! It’s trendy that’s what the b.f.d. is!

Anyway, “Danielle” didn’t get the comment approved, but tried to reply to ShyGuy this:

Don’t let them fool you- they know nothing. They’re a couple of immature NJ girls lacking any kind of life experience or maturity. Don’t waste your time reading this garbage page.

And since theyre so immature they don’t allow anything but praise to be posted BUT- they certainly write back anyone who criticizes them and profanely insults them, I’ll write to you privately and make sure you know this exact message.

Ummm okay wait you psycho asshole, now you’re going to privately message our readers? HA! Get a god damn life you piece of shit. Naturally, I took matters into my own hands to unleash on this fucktard, by e-mail.

To: “Danielle”
From: Lucky
Subject: (no subject)

You hate our blog, yet you read it and then wrote us a comment?

Here’s an idea, Danielle. Go fuck yourself.
Thanks love,

-Lucky

To: Lucky
From: “Danielle”
Subject: (no subject)

As far as that being an idea of yours- it just shows how small your brains are. Are you blonde too? Then at least you’d be living up to a stereotype.

HA HA you’re such an insecure shit I would have been impressed if you actually let the comment through but you’re so small inside you hide from the world in every way. YOU ARE A FAKE! LOL! You are what people make fun of when they attack bloggers. You’re probably a fat bloated mess who can’t get it together living a fantasy life on your blog. That explains why you have no real presence online. YOU ARE HIDING YOU INSECURE SHIT! LOL!

How about this idea? You grow the pair you talk like you have and allow all the comments you get to be posted you fucking coward cunt. Go fuck yourself you immature piece of shit excuse for a woman. It figures you’re a Jersey girl, you all tend to be spoiled brats hiding from the real world over there. You wouldn’t survive a New York minute here in the city.

To: “Danielle”
From: Lucky
Subject: (no subject)

Wow, you are really good at LOL-ing. I’m thrilled you think I’m so fucking hilarious. Listen up you fat bitch, I’m not the one who is hiding—you are! I know your name isn’t “Danielle,” it’s fucking Daniel. You’re a 40-year-old loser with nothing else to do than sit around and e-mail twenty-something white chicks all fucking day. How’s that for fake, fucking asshole?

Looks like you’re upset because no one gives a shit that we called you a name. Your readers don’t care, WordPress doesn’t care, Facebook doesn’t care, and WE don’t care.
Get a fucking life.
PS. Neither of us are from Jersey, so stop acting like you know a damn thing.
To: Lucky
From: “Danielle”
Subject: (no subject)
Wow, I guess I’m not the first one to tell you off and put you in your place huh? So much that you’re paranoid about it huh? He must have gotten to you- or was it me that got to you? What’s this guy’s e mail address so we can share our thoughts about you.

You’re so bent out of shape and insecure- know how I can tell? You call me a fat bitch, but then accuse me of being some guy… you’re not even sure of what you’re saying enough to show some consistency.

And right, you’re not from NJ- sure. That’s you being afraid your cover will be blown. Shyguy is from DC- is that where you’re from? You’d never tell, post or reveal it I’m sure, so you can feel secure being a fraudulent internet hate monger at will. You have no guts whatsoever.

On a personal level honey I pity the guy who falls for your bullshit, but what am I saying- anyone worth while will see the emptiness in you and either trump your fakeness to use you as a fuck toy and throw you away how you deserve or they will run away as fast as they can checking their shoes when they get home because finding you is like stepping in shit for sure.

At second glance you know what’s really sad- that the only people you have posting comments on your blog are either failed bloggers themselves or the never ever real kind of people who only offer fake praise in their desperation for the same in return. HA HA! PATHETIC!
You’re losing this little joust there pea brain, and if I did show you who you’re corresponding with you would shrivel up and die from the insecurity that obviously eats you alive every day – judging by you’re writing at least. Here’s a little fuel for your fire… I’ve modeled before I graduated Columbia Law. And here you are verbally jousting with me under name’s like “Lucky (indicative of a dog’s name maybe) and Gizzy (isn’t that a term for ejaculate?)” LOL!

I’m sorry, but I stopped responding. That little shit was pissing me off waaaaay too much. And clearly, nothing I say will ever get through to this asshole. No, me and Gizzy aren’t from New Jersey (I WISH!) I haven’t even ever been there. And no, we aren’t from DC. And we don’t live there. If we did, I think we’d be hanging out with ThoughtsAppear. And I’d clearly be trying to get it on with ShyGuy. Yep, yep!
And we love our readers. They are not failed bloggers. THEY ARE AWESOME!!!!! THE BEST!!! Which is why “Danielle”/DDM isn’t allowed in on all of our fun. Because he is a loser posing as a model from Columbia Law. What the hell?
Now, this is the part where I tell you what DDM WOULD HAVE DONE, had I not predicted his every next move.  After reading this post he would’ve sent us a comment/email saying how we’re racist drunk bitches blah blah blah and how we need to grow up and LOLZZZZ he should write for us because he’s sooooo cool and a way better writer than our kid’s cat could ever be because he writes about “stuff that matters,” like racism and dedicating websites to his ex gf who saw the light and got the eff out of that relationship.  But now he won’t because he’s so predictable, which is how we knew the fake commenter Danielle was really him.  Not only the name, but also by these KEY words and their punctuation: LOL!, consistency, Jersey, and this phrase: shit excuse for a woman.
Who wants to be in the 2014 class of Gizzy’s School of Law? BOOM.  Eat it DDM.
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You got me so hypnotized.

Sigh. My weekend was uneventful, yet not horrible. Ok wait, so one interesting thing happened, which I’m about to get to. In the meantime, I think I’ve reached an all new level of lazy. I went from working full time (like, actually having things to do at work) plus doing at least three freelance projects a week, writing a book…to…nothing. I have no deadlines at work, so yesterday I sat at my desk and read a book. I finished all of my freelance work for the month, and yeah, I finished writing my first book.

I guess I’ve earned my right to be lazy…but damn, now I’m just bored! Anyway, I’ll quit complaining and just be lazy while I can.

So this weekend, my friend Anne told me she won an eff-load of free tickets to a comedy club Saturday night and asked if I wanted to go. For once in my life, I didn’t really feel like going out, but I hadn’t seen her in awhile and I always love a good laugh. So I buckled up my boots and met her out.

The comedy club near my apartment is inside an actual bar/club. And of course, it’s one of the TRASHIEST in town. I’d never been inside before, but it’s in the loop with all the finest strip clubs, so I figured as much. We got to the club an hour before the show started and I ordered a drink.

Single Stoli and soda with one lime. $9.

Nine fucking dollars??!?! I mean Stoli is one of my favorite vodkas, but seriously?? It’s not fucking Chopin, and it isn’t worth $9 plus tip. God I am so cheap.

During the hour to kill, Anne and I snagged a table near the dance floor, along with a few of her girlfriends, whom I didn’t know. They were laughing at all the cougars trying to dance. Then, out of nowhere, this chick comes up to our table and starts begging us to dance.

“Plleeaaasee!!! Come ooonn! Dance with us!!!!”

Heh. Heh. NO.

I love to dance just as much as anybody, but seriously? There was no one on the dance floor, I don’t know you, and I’m not a lezzie, K?

We leave our table to get in line. Then, the same girl comes up to us again:

“UGH. THANKS FOR DITCHING ME ON MY BIRTHDAY!”

“Hey we weren’t invited to your fucking party,” I said.

“I was just JOKE-ING.”

Then she rattles on about how the show we are in line to see is just sOoOoOoOoO funny. She walks off and I’m all, “What in the fucking fuck fuck was that?”

We grab a table inside the comedy area, I manage to get a double-well-vodka for $6. That’s more like it. And the show starts.

Did I mention we were there to see a sexual hypnotist?

Uhmmm yeah. So this guy, we’ll call him Hypno, tells us all what is about to happen—that 10 or so people will volunteer to be hypnotized, they will have a great time because they will feel so relaxed and we will have a great time laughing at them. Since the show is X-rated, we had to turn off all our cameras and cell phones. He gets the volunteers on stage and they sit in a row of chairs. He tells us he needs 10 minutes of silence to get the volunteers completely hypnotized, and that even some people in the audience will probably fall too, so we should beware of anyone who starts reacting to what he is saying. He says to just let them be and not react to anything they do so they won’t wake up.

So he starts in on the schpeal, music, he tells them about a staircase, they are stepping down, 10, 9, 8, 7, etc. As he is counting down, I start to see their heads drop one by one. And it was freaking me out.

He told them when they heard applause they would fall deeper into the state of hypnosis. And they did. I’ve never seen anything like it. Then he snapped his fingers and they woke up, but were still under the spell, ready to follow his instructions.

He started by telling them it was a Friday night and they just got home from work, ready to smoke a huge bong. “I’ve got the best shit ever, it’s going to fuck you up and give you an orgasm. Now who wants it?”

All of the little spellions raised their hands and reached for him as he handed them an imaginary pinch of his shit. They proceeded to light up and take giant hits from FAKE BONGS. “Isn’t that some good shit??? It feels so good, right? Go ahead and touch yourself!” And that’s when half of the spellions straight up masturbated on stage. I am scarred for life. He then told them to turn on their imaginary tvs to watch a porn. More masturbating. He continued with his instructions.

And his instructions were sick:

1. When you hear any song by Shania Twain, you are a stripper. Dance for it.

2. When you hear a phone ring, you must answer your phone, which is your own shoe.

3. You hate Christmas, and you have to scream and shout it to everyone.

4. When you see the audience holding up cocktail napkins, those are $100 bills, strip to earn a living.

5. When you hear me say the word “DVD” you will have the most intense orgasm of your life.

6. I am the most attractive person you’ve ever seen in your life, show me the things you want to do to me.

7. Use your chair to show me your favorite sexual position.

He also passed out cucumbers to all of the girls and bagels to all of the guys and told everyone to perform their favorite oral act on them. Talk about weird.

The “DVD” thing also freaked me out, the girls on stage were practically naked, screaming on stage.

I met Hypno after the show and told him he was a sick fuck.

“I KNOW!” he said. I was afraid to look into his eyes—he told me when he got home from tour he puts his wife under a spell, fucks her, and then avoids household chores.

kjsdrgvsdnvjhrigsrdgvnfrjeng. MEN.

Anyway, I saw one of the spellions in the bathroom afterward, her hair was looking like shit and she was trying to make the most of it in the mirror. She looked at me and says, “DAMN. I didn’t look like this when I got here.”

Umm yeah, and you also have no idea that I’ve seen you jack yourself off and suck a cucumber. Hard.

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There are only six Pringles in a 100-calorie pack.

Which would explain why I’m completely ravenous right now, and could probably eat my fist (if it was covered in peanut butter). I mean shit, I try to eat a little healthy for lunch and I get six fucking Pringles. Like that’s going to hold me over for two days, ugh.

If you haven’t already guessed it, I’ve reached an entirely new level of Lame. With a capital L. My freelance gigs have been riding my ass—not in the good way—so whenever I have a damn second to myself I just want to drink, or sleep, or both simultaneously. My dad is coming in town today for a weekend visit, so I’ve spent the last week cleaning my apartment with a toothbrush.

My dad is a complete neat freak, and he WILL find something wrong, I just know it. The last time he came to visit, he said my microwave was too dirty on the inside and the drip pans on my stovetop needed to be cleaned. So I washed every linen, cloth, carpet, hell I even shoved my couch into the washing machine, causing it to overflow, which got my carpets wet. I vacuumed every nook and cranny, and even baked cupcakes and arranged fresh flowers in a vase on my dining room table.

Being Martha Stewart is really hard work.

And that’s the story of my life. No guys to speak of, no sex, not even a nun at the gas station. Wait…I take that back:

Now that I really look at it, to you, it just looks like a man in a tuxedo vest. But I assure you, it’s a nun. And I’m not sure why I thought it was funny at 7:30 this morning. Probably because I’ve never seen a real nun before, nor do I ever want to. And I didn’t know nuns pumped gas? I don’t know.

Oh yeah, and I have a band. We call ourselves Jack Whitley. Our debut album will be released on iTunes before Christmas. Look for it, it’s called “In It Because They Excel.”

I know you’re thinking, Lucky, you’ve never said much about music and you said in the 100 fun facts that you only know one song on the guitar. That’s correct, kids. But if Kim Zolsiack has taught me anything it’s that you can make a career just knowing one song. And you don’t really even have to know it.

Here is the album cover:

Okay, okay, this joke has gone on long enough. I’m really just a huge faggot and saw this little game on Facebook when I was bored at work yesterday. Here are the rules:

1 – Go to “wikipedia.” Hit “random”
or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 – Go to “Random quotations”
or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 – Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”
or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 – Use photoshop or similar to put it all together. Preferably in a square format layout, like a nice old-timey vinyl album cover.

4,5 – Use the first font you find on your computer of the first letter in your name.

Cool, huh? It’s so fun, I’ll do one for Gizzy, too:

So, according to this, Gizzy is a religious singer searching for the meaning of life. I think we both know what Gizzy and I were sent here to do—to be fucking hilarious. CHECK!

I was just having a conversation with ShyGuy, as he was saying his boss just told everyone in his office she was pregnant. And I told him how disgusting I thought it was.

You see, last week, we were having a staff meeting, when someone was like “Michelle! Mchelle! Tell everyone!”

So Michelle stands up and is like, “Stewart and I are expecting…in April…it’s a girl.”

And everyone clapped and cheered and ripped shots of tequila rose, while I was trying to crunch through the titanium ball on my necklace. I hate it when people say they are “expecting.” Expecting what? Company? Expecting a hurricane? Expecting a human being to come shooting out of your lady bits?

SICK.

I also realized I hate it when people say they are “trying.” As in trying to have kids. Like, just tell me when the baby shower is, because I don’t want to picture you and your husband’s beer belly all floppin around, k?

ShyGuy seemed to think I was complete cray cray for thinking this way, but I know there’s got to be other people who feel me on this one. Amd speaking of ShyGuy, he’s got a dating issue he wanted to mention to you guys, for some advice, but was afraid to…so tell him how much you want to hear it.

Until next time…Kelsey Grammar.

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Gee Golly, I love that hopey-changey schtuff.

I’m so excited to write you guys today, ELECTION DAY! I just got back from the polls, where I pretty much skipped all the way to the door, presented my voter card, punched my votes, and when I came out from the curtain I laughed an evil laugh and told everyone in the room to suck it.

Because no one expected us black folk to show up today, because we’re stupid, or we’re poor, or we haven’t had enough of that “hopey changey” stuff like one miss Barah Salin said. I don’t want to give her anymore media attention you know. I don’t mean to get all cheesy on you today, but go vote if you haven’t. Even if you’re part of the Pee Party or whatever shit you call yourselves. At least do it, because you can! And this is one of the most exciting mid-term elections of our time!! Because I’m proud to be an American….

Okay okay. Enough about that.

In other news, The Year of the No is really tough. Last week, I had to go to a meeting at our Mayor’s office. When I got there, I joined a group of people for a tour of a press room. Our tour guide was HOT. He was tall, average weight, blonder hair, no wedding ring.

God, I rully rully wanted to flirt with him. But it’s The Year of the No. So, I can’t. FACK. I kept hoping he would walk over and say hey. But he didn’t. Then he asked us all to put down our e-mail addresses, so then I was hoping he would shoot me little e-mail later…maybe something like:

Lucky,

Hope you enjoyed the tour. Would you marry me?

Michael

or maybe he’d pull a Marko Polo with a:

Lucky,

Do you like what you see?

Michael

But no, I haven’t gotten any of that. Instead, I third-wheeled it to a costume party over the weekend, where I proceeded to get sloshed off of sangria, champagne, beer, jello shots, peppermint patty and buttery nipple shots. Geez. I felt awesome the next day. And then I remembered this:

My rounds of karaoke, where me and Nicole sang “Everybody,” by Backstreet Boys…don’t remember it? OH MY GOD WE’RE BACK AGAINNNNN, BROTHA SISTA EVERYBODY SAY AM I ORIGINAL…YYEEAAAHH..AM I THE ONLY ONE? YEAHAAAHHHH…AM I SEXUAL? YEAAAAA……

We also sang Spice Girls, “Wannabe,” and Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean.” We called our selves The Sharts (as in the shit farts) and no lie, we were a huge hit.

So at the party, Nicole and I are talking, and she’s telling me about this annual party that her family is going to. It’s this huge event with live music and dinner and it’s black tie. I’ve been with her family before and it’s a damn good time. So she tells me it’s $150 per couple, and I’m like sure, no problem, I’m completely in. Despite the fact this party is three months away, Nicole was like, “I mean maybe Gizzy can come.”

Ummm yeaahhh….

So now my friends aren’t even trying to set me up. They have completely given up on that, and suggested Gizzy as my lifelong partner. I mean, I love you Gizzy, but you don’t have a dick. And I mean, there are times I’d actually like to have a man as a date. What the hell? That’s how revolting I am!

I wanted to drown myself in the sangria bowl right then and there.

It’s like the day when the celebrities stop getting stalkers, it’s official, I’ve stopped getting set up.

Sigh. Someone send me a Taylor Swift sympathy card before I cut myself Demi Levatto style.

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Taking care of biz.

Happy effin Mun-day eerrrybody. I am waiting on Gizzy to wakey-wakey-eggs-and-bakey because we are going to have a joint post later today about a SPECIAL Cocktails At Tiffany’s event coming up in the next few weeks—so please, keep your eyes peeled.

But before we get on to any funny business, something has been weighing heavily on my mind. I know Gizzy and I are hilarious and we joke about basically everything. There aren’t many times something serious will arise on this blog, but this is one of those issues and I’d like to address it.

I, and I will speak for Gizzy, would like to express my sincere condolences to the family of Tyler Clementi. My thoughts are with his friends, family, and the members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender community. I am deeply saddened by the recent string of suicides as a result of hate crimes in our country, especially on college campuses.

While Gizzy and I both love the dick, we are fans of love in any and all forms. It is my hope that college campuses and their communities can find a way to embrace everyone, and offer proper help to those who don’t feel included.

MTV, along with actress Brittany Snow, have launched the “Love is Louder” campaign, where visitors can post videos on the topic at http://your.mtv.com/.

Don’t mean to be all Debbie Downer on you guys this morning, but I have been wanting to address this to our readers—all 3 of you. I’m not going to get all Gaga on you and war meat and shout, WE WERE BORN THIS WAY!!!!! or anything, but you get my drift.

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