pretty girls poop too

These are search terms that drove people to this blog today:

A Few Notes to Those in Search:

• We truly hope you find your football guy in Atlanta. I bet he was smoking hot. Or if you ARE the football guy, and you’re just searching for a Craigslist missed connections post about yourself, you really need to find other ways to boost your ego. Try steroids.
• “Shirt you spent reading this?” Did you lose a shirt in order to read this blog? We salute you. Send us topless pics. Unless you’ve got man boobs.
• There is a very good chance you will never meet Natalie Portman. But if you do, tell her there’s a chick in Canada who looks like she could be her uglier and less talented cousin and that she should come kick it with me and we’ll drink beer and rap.
• “I touched my vagina with jalapeno on my hands” – At first, this made me laugh out loud until my co-workers started sending me emails begging me to quit cackling. But then I became concerningly somber. Why? I was once in a grocery store with K. that had a plethora of hot peppers. The selection was so vast and majestic that I become excitable like a small child in a toy store except replace toy store with “aisle full of dangerously spicy peppers” and “small child” with “adult who knows better.” I began running my hands along all the peppers, taking in their shapes, sizes and colours; holding each one up individually and yelling: “K! K! K! K, look at this! It’s a habanero…BUT IT’S YELLOW! K! K….K are you looking? LOOK, K!!!” Then I rubbed my eye. I recovered in the grocery store bathroom (special thanks to the meat department for letting me use their eye wash station), but the emotional scars of this incident have never really left me. Imagining this pain….ON MY VAGINA? Girl. GIRL. I just don’t even know what to say. Blessings be to your coochie.

Again, we’re sorry that you were looking for answers to these crucial life questions and all you stumbled upon was some blog written by two chicks from Canada. To make up for it, here’s a picture of Michael Jackson drinking vodka with midgets.

xo
S. of Pretty Girls Poop Too

There are many things I don’t own, including (but not limited to):

• A car
• A watch
• My own set of pots and/or pans
• Self-control
• Children
• A pair of sunglasses

One of these is a desperate necessity for summer in a big, hot, sweaty city and contrary to your first inclination, it’s not the self-control. IT’S THE SUNGLASSES.

Why do I not own sunglasses? There are many reasons; stemming from my lack of disposable income and my propensity to lose things, to my inherent belief that every single pair makes me look like a total asshole.

I don’t know what it is, but the moment I put sunglasses on I instantly feel like I’m trying too hard. Which is so stupid, because I look around and everyone else is wearing them. Even losers. Even old people. EVEN CHILDREN are wearing sunglasses. Maybe I’m too hard on myself. Or maybe I’ve been too damaged by the rampant belief that ugly chicks wear sunglasses to trick boys into thinking their cute, like how some boys wear hats all the time until that one awkward date when he doesn’t wear a hat and you realize his head is shaped like a butternut squash or that his hairline resembles a half-crescent moon that is pulling the tide away further and further from his forehead but by then you’ve been on too many dates to stop seeing him for such a superficial reason like the fact that his head reflects light better than the windshield of a car.

But I digress.

This past weekend I went out to a little neighbourhood street festival that was happening near my place. The sun was trying to spoon with my retinas so badly I knew I had no other option but to give in and buy a damn pair of sunglasses. I grabbed a pair, threw them on my face, took a 0.04 second look in the mirror and mumbled “Yeahsurethesewillworkhowmucharethey” and threw a $20 bill at the poor woman. I felt like I was buying condoms for the first time.

After my completely unnecessarily high emotions about buying sunglasses calmed down, I realized that they have a fake woodgrain pattern on them.

That’s right. I’m wearing the equivalent of this ON MY FACE (except way less majestic):

Let's go on a journey...

So if you need me, I’ll be over here wearing a mauve tracksuit and humming Joni Mitchell songs while I pack my husband’s underwear in preparation for our big trip to Casino Niagra.

S.

EDIT: The funniest part about this whole post is the fact that my mom drives a PT Cruiser. But it’s red, not woodgrained. I swear.

When they’re not yours, of course.

The Funniest Kids Test Answers – via HuffPost Comedy.

S.

You don’t even have to say anything.

I know what you’re thinking.

Where has this bitch been?

I have no excuses for you. I’ve been at work. And at my other part-time job where I am VP of Lazy Assholes. It’s a really tough gig. Here’s a recap of what has happened since my last post:

• I found out that Hugh Hefner is on Twitter. I’m furious with all of you for not alerting me to this earlier.
• I’ve been learning to live with humidity. We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re in a good place now.
• I watched this video an inappropriate number of times. THEY’RE LIKE LITTLE ACTUAL PEOPLE. Doing regular people things. And yes…I understand that they are babies so they are, indeed, little people but that doesn’t stop this from being amazing. And 26+ million people agree with me, so you can fuck right off.
• I found internet k-hole and nothing has been the same since.
• Peter Falk died, so if you aren’t watching The Princess Bride this weekend in remembrance, I really don’t know what you’re doing with your life.

I feel like I sign off every post with a promise to write more, so I’m just going to leave you with this BLAST FROM YOUR PAST:

That just happened.

S.