or whatever the going rate is for pimping like a sonofabitch around these here parts. each market is different, i don't really want to sell myself sort.
more importantly, b just told me 'boy, if you do couchie right, it'll sure do you right.'
he fluffs those cushions with unparalleled enthusiasm.
right, back to pimp talk. so most of you know about how kristine from wait in the van is my oldest and bestest bud. back in seventh grade we were the bitches to know, all the smack talking we did with her ferocious perm and my perfect bowl-cut made us feared and loved throughout our junior high.
or maybe we were the outcasts who wore men's clothing and pretended to smoke cigarettes without actually inhaling.
either way, the time has come for me to say wonderfully amazing things about her and her fantastic blog, wait in the van. if you have yet to click on the link for wait in the van, i suggest you do so now so that you can enter her chuck norris contest, lest you get a sharp roundhouse to the head.
i can personally vouch for the authenticity of the items in the contest, as i was happily on hand for the entire three hour wait to meet the chuckster himself. i was not at all a crabby bitch, pouting in a corner, surrounded by underage boys at a military academy, wondering what, for fuck's sake, had i done for my life to bring me to that exact situation.
no friends, i was really thinking about how funny and special it was that one of you out there in blogland was going to end up with a piece of chuck norris history in your hot little hands.
it takes a very dedicated blogger, one who really, really cares about her readers, to offer up such valuable memorabilia instead of keeping it for herself.
if the contest is the bait, her well crafted stories and one-of-a-kind microsoft paint drawings are the true snare that will keep you lurking and lingering around her blog for years to come.
and if that isn't enough for you, than you suck at life and are destined to become a miserable old goat with really long nails, stringy hair, and yellow teeth.
(that's always how i've pictured mean people looking when they get old, or you can insert your own visual here if needed)
ok, so maybe insulting people isn't the best way to get folks to check out my best friend's blog, but then again, i've never really been one to do things the traditional way.
in any event, i hope that when you do check it out and find yourself giggling and clapping, that you have enough manners to remember to thank me in your head.
your welcome.
Showing posts with label i love kristine the most. Show all posts
Showing posts with label i love kristine the most. Show all posts
Monday, January 11, 2010
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
i have an endless supply of bullshit in my catalog
i usually despise lying. the whole moral objection part is one reason, but also because i'm a horrible liar. i get all sweaty and flushed in the face. this ridiculous nervous giggle erupts from me in spasms, like a bad twitch that i have no control over, accompanied by the cheesedick grin that only looks more awkward as i try to straighten my uncooperative lips out.
once in a while, under extreme circumstances, i can pull off a lie. but usually only if it's for a really good reason, like for example, a dumbass practical joke.
now, i'm by no means what you'd call a prankster. i generally think that stuff is pretty annoying. the whole 'salt in your coffee' thing needs to stop, it's not funny people!
that was for my co-workers. i got it off my chest and now i feel better.
right, back to my point. i was about to tell you the story of my most successful prank/joke of all time. which, you might find slightly immature, but i was thoroughly impressed with myself about.
it was about 2002ish, and i was out of college but still young enough to go to college bars and not be the creepy old-er lady getting her drink on. i was living at my mom's house with her and her lame bf and three motherfuckingdisgusting cats. one was named ass. he had a leaky pooper.
one day my little eye spied a catalog lying amidst the mail for mom's bf. it was international male. i think they've change the name since then, but they sell things like this:
and this:
oh, and also this:
because you don't have the pleasure of reading the lovely captions for these pics i'll tell you that the middle one is called mansilk and the last one is called pistol pete.
as you can imagine, the first idea that came into my head was 'how can i share this comedy genius with other people?'
naturally, myself and my friend amanda, who looked incredibly mature and not at all like a skanky 22-year old, brought it out to the bar with us that night. you know the place, you've been there. two hundred people squished into an old house-come-bar, spilling out onto the patio. the floor permanently sticky from who knows how many years of spilled alcohol seeping into the hardwood, and every frat boy in town wearing his white hat with some logo on it to match his uniform of khaki cargo shorts and fitted t-shirt.
i folded the international male and stuck it in the back pocket of my calvins, waiting for someone to take the bait.
it wasn't long. a chipper fellow approached me with a twisted grin, 'so what's that in your back pocket?'
my first victim.
i casually informed him that i worked as an intern for the company. the less i talked the more intriguied he became. finally, i gave him what he was waiting for.
'well, to be honest, it's really stressful right now. the underwear model that we wanted to use just cancelled for another job and now we're stuck with this massive photo shoot for the new season and no model. my boss wanted me to find someone who would be willing to drop everything and go to the bahamas for four days on less than 24 hour's notice. she just doesn't get it, people have lives. they can't just up and leave to prance around in a thong for four days, even if it is all paid for.'
his eyes lit up like the griswold's house at christmas.
playing right into my game, he offered to be the model for me. he'd probably be able to talk to his teachers and get out of class for a few days...
i told him we'd (me and my colleague) have to talk about it for a minute.
(cut to half an hour later)
almost every guy in the bar is now standing in a line next to our table, some holding offerings of beer and shots of every variety. they are, in turn, pulling up their shirts to show us their abs, hoping that we might choose them to work as the international male underwear model.
we were professional, no touching or flirting. simply taking fake notes next to bad nicknames written on a bar napkin.
by the end of the night, we had had our fill of drinks and amusement. we left the bar, having stayed in charater the whole time.
i guess maybe it's only a real practical joke when you clue the victim in on the fact that it's a joke. but i'm not claiming to be the joke master over here, so we bailed and left a few dozen frat boys with false hopes of making it big in thong modeling.
or maybe the joke was on me after all. did the drunken boys really buy my load of crap? or were they just trying to talk to two chicks in a bar who weren't in their art history class?
who cares, i had fun. and it was also fun to reminisce about this story with kristine last night at her house. as she perused the website, i walked out of the room to talk to b. he was calling to make sure we weren't getting into any trouble, and i had to get away from the junk pics to be able to have a conversation. 'talk' might not be the best word. i probably should say snorted/laughed hysterically when i heard kristine scream 'ewwww, i see penis!!' from the other room.
nearly a decade later, and i still crack up at junk holders. and that, unfortunately, is not a lie.
once in a while, under extreme circumstances, i can pull off a lie. but usually only if it's for a really good reason, like for example, a dumbass practical joke.
now, i'm by no means what you'd call a prankster. i generally think that stuff is pretty annoying. the whole 'salt in your coffee' thing needs to stop, it's not funny people!
that was for my co-workers. i got it off my chest and now i feel better.
right, back to my point. i was about to tell you the story of my most successful prank/joke of all time. which, you might find slightly immature, but i was thoroughly impressed with myself about.
it was about 2002ish, and i was out of college but still young enough to go to college bars and not be the creepy old-er lady getting her drink on. i was living at my mom's house with her and her lame bf and three motherfuckingdisgusting cats. one was named ass. he had a leaky pooper.
one day my little eye spied a catalog lying amidst the mail for mom's bf. it was international male. i think they've change the name since then, but they sell things like this:
and this:
oh, and also this:
because you don't have the pleasure of reading the lovely captions for these pics i'll tell you that the middle one is called mansilk and the last one is called pistol pete.
as you can imagine, the first idea that came into my head was 'how can i share this comedy genius with other people?'
naturally, myself and my friend amanda, who looked incredibly mature and not at all like a skanky 22-year old, brought it out to the bar with us that night. you know the place, you've been there. two hundred people squished into an old house-come-bar, spilling out onto the patio. the floor permanently sticky from who knows how many years of spilled alcohol seeping into the hardwood, and every frat boy in town wearing his white hat with some logo on it to match his uniform of khaki cargo shorts and fitted t-shirt.
i folded the international male and stuck it in the back pocket of my calvins, waiting for someone to take the bait.
it wasn't long. a chipper fellow approached me with a twisted grin, 'so what's that in your back pocket?'
my first victim.
i casually informed him that i worked as an intern for the company. the less i talked the more intriguied he became. finally, i gave him what he was waiting for.
'well, to be honest, it's really stressful right now. the underwear model that we wanted to use just cancelled for another job and now we're stuck with this massive photo shoot for the new season and no model. my boss wanted me to find someone who would be willing to drop everything and go to the bahamas for four days on less than 24 hour's notice. she just doesn't get it, people have lives. they can't just up and leave to prance around in a thong for four days, even if it is all paid for.'
his eyes lit up like the griswold's house at christmas.
playing right into my game, he offered to be the model for me. he'd probably be able to talk to his teachers and get out of class for a few days...
i told him we'd (me and my colleague) have to talk about it for a minute.
(cut to half an hour later)
almost every guy in the bar is now standing in a line next to our table, some holding offerings of beer and shots of every variety. they are, in turn, pulling up their shirts to show us their abs, hoping that we might choose them to work as the international male underwear model.
we were professional, no touching or flirting. simply taking fake notes next to bad nicknames written on a bar napkin.
by the end of the night, we had had our fill of drinks and amusement. we left the bar, having stayed in charater the whole time.
i guess maybe it's only a real practical joke when you clue the victim in on the fact that it's a joke. but i'm not claiming to be the joke master over here, so we bailed and left a few dozen frat boys with false hopes of making it big in thong modeling.
or maybe the joke was on me after all. did the drunken boys really buy my load of crap? or were they just trying to talk to two chicks in a bar who weren't in their art history class?
who cares, i had fun. and it was also fun to reminisce about this story with kristine last night at her house. as she perused the website, i walked out of the room to talk to b. he was calling to make sure we weren't getting into any trouble, and i had to get away from the junk pics to be able to have a conversation. 'talk' might not be the best word. i probably should say snorted/laughed hysterically when i heard kristine scream 'ewwww, i see penis!!' from the other room.
nearly a decade later, and i still crack up at junk holders. and that, unfortunately, is not a lie.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I Love Kristine the Best*
HEY EVERYBODY!
It's me, Kristine! From Wait in the Van?
Sigh. Moving along.
I had a really great idea about what to write for Lana's blog today, but I had the idea at night right before I fell asleep. And I am SO not one of those people who keeps a pen a paper on her nightstand. Hell, I don't even really have a nightstand; it's more like a cardboard box. So, instead I tell myself, "Oh, hell yes, that's hilarious Kristine! You're so amazing and funny and gorgeous and skinny...and....SNORE." Then I forget.
So I went through some of my crap. You know, that I keep in my cardboard-box-nightstand, and I found THIS:
And I figured, since Lana's out of town and all, we could totally talk about her behind her back! HA! And by that, I mean, she'll totally be in the loop and reading it and listening and shit because this is HER blog. So it'll be pretty much just pretend. And full of love. Because we love Lana. And that part's NOT pretend. YAY! Rainbows!
This picture was probably taken in like 1996 or something. We were apparently sitting on the floor in my bedroom in the house my family rented during my middle-high school years. It was the only free-standing house I lived in until I graduated from college. Don't you feel sorry for me?
Well don't, because we're here for LANA. I like this picture so much because it captures quite a bit of what defined us as angsty teen punk shitheads. I mean, do you SEE my room? And those clothes? Including the shirt I'm actually wearing? Sal's Boutique, baby**. We were all class.
Also, I'm not wearing my glasses. Neither is Lana. Big deal, right? Probably contact lenses! Um, no. More like, probably we thought we were cool enough to walk around blind because SEEING ISN'T REALLY A BIG DEAL. And if we were in fact wearing contacts, Lana's were probably covered in fungus (changing them is optional) and mine had probably fallen off my eyeball. Hey, dry eyes also happen without herbal supplement, smart alecs.
This was also the house where I considered myself cool enough to throw a party while my parents were away. And by "throw a party" I mean, invite a full band to set up in my living room and let the place get totally out of control while I get tipsy on 2.5 beers. When my mother came home the next afternoon, she found an empty in the oven, the heat cranked to 80, and a missing block of mozarella cheese. We really knew how to party.
So, let's cheers to Lana, the cheese-loving-contact-abusing-formerly-man-clothes-wearing blogger who is totally vacationing WITHOUT ME right now.
Love her.
__________
*You can tell this is not written by Lana because it's properly capitalized and stuff. So I don't feel all that badly for making her pretend to declare her love for me.
**Um, or you could also call it The Salvation Army Thriftstore.
It's me, Kristine! From Wait in the Van?
Sigh. Moving along.
I had a really great idea about what to write for Lana's blog today, but I had the idea at night right before I fell asleep. And I am SO not one of those people who keeps a pen a paper on her nightstand. Hell, I don't even really have a nightstand; it's more like a cardboard box. So, instead I tell myself, "Oh, hell yes, that's hilarious Kristine! You're so amazing and funny and gorgeous and skinny...and....SNORE." Then I forget.
So I went through some of my crap. You know, that I keep in my cardboard-box-nightstand, and I found THIS:
And I figured, since Lana's out of town and all, we could totally talk about her behind her back! HA! And by that, I mean, she'll totally be in the loop and reading it and listening and shit because this is HER blog. So it'll be pretty much just pretend. And full of love. Because we love Lana. And that part's NOT pretend. YAY! Rainbows!
This picture was probably taken in like 1996 or something. We were apparently sitting on the floor in my bedroom in the house my family rented during my middle-high school years. It was the only free-standing house I lived in until I graduated from college. Don't you feel sorry for me?
Well don't, because we're here for LANA. I like this picture so much because it captures quite a bit of what defined us as angsty teen punk shitheads. I mean, do you SEE my room? And those clothes? Including the shirt I'm actually wearing? Sal's Boutique, baby**. We were all class.
Also, I'm not wearing my glasses. Neither is Lana. Big deal, right? Probably contact lenses! Um, no. More like, probably we thought we were cool enough to walk around blind because SEEING ISN'T REALLY A BIG DEAL. And if we were in fact wearing contacts, Lana's were probably covered in fungus (changing them is optional) and mine had probably fallen off my eyeball. Hey, dry eyes also happen without herbal supplement, smart alecs.
This was also the house where I considered myself cool enough to throw a party while my parents were away. And by "throw a party" I mean, invite a full band to set up in my living room and let the place get totally out of control while I get tipsy on 2.5 beers. When my mother came home the next afternoon, she found an empty in the oven, the heat cranked to 80, and a missing block of mozarella cheese. We really knew how to party.
So, let's cheers to Lana, the cheese-loving-contact-abusing-formerly-man-clothes-wearing blogger who is totally vacationing WITHOUT ME right now.
Love her.
__________
*You can tell this is not written by Lana because it's properly capitalized and stuff. So I don't feel all that badly for making her pretend to declare her love for me.
**Um, or you could also call it The Salvation Army Thriftstore.
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