An Open Letter to My Dogs

An Open Letter to My Dogs

Dear Snuggles and Clover:

Good gravy, what in the world did you two eat? Are you even aware that your farts can penetrate Kevlar? The next time I need to sandblast something I'll just bottle some of your abominable flatulence. You have a permanent fog hovering around you like Pigpen from Peanuts. I no longer have any nose hair. Your farts can peel varnish and dissolve acid. True story, I once saw a pit bull fart make Chuck Norris cry. The smell is so bad my eyes are watering and my nose is running. And by "my nose is running" I mean, like, my nose literally jumped off my face and ran away in fear and revulsion. It went into the Witness Protection Program and now I'll never find it. The fallout is truly heinous. The blast radius is the width of a city block. I now have a new theory for what killed off the dinosaurs.

With nothing but love for you (but not your gas),

Heather

Our bad.

Retch-tables

As I mentioned a while back, my parents are staying with me whilst they build a new house. Now, I have to say... when it comes to all things foul-smelling, I thought pit bull farts were bad, but my friends, there is something much worse and far more nefarious, I must tell you. Mom and Dad eat a TON of vegetables. Like, vegetables coming out of their ears. In particular, beans, broccoli, and cauliflower. You may be thinking that I'm going somewhere else with this - maybe that parental farts are worse than pit bull farts. But thankfully, that's not the problem since they take Beano like it's their job.

Some slogans Beano rejected...

Beano: "So you don't smell like you pooped your pants."

Beano: "Ew, you're nasty."

The problem is the veggies themselves. Mom is constantly cooking some abominable smelling retch-tables in my kitchen, which then stink up the whole house. If rotten eggs had armpits and didn't wear deodorant, this is what it would smell like. It's like a diarrhea factory on fire. It's what it would smell like if poop had a bowel movement*. The worst of the lot is the batches of exceptionally malodorous kraut, broccoli, and cauliflower that Mom cooks to smithereens. And in particular, Cauliflower was my enemy numero uno until a new smelly veg moved in last week. I submit to you... the Brussels sprout. Mom has started roasting these things, or frying them, or just torturing them to death, or something. I don't know, whatever. The point is, the stench is so horrifyingly putrid. It's like a rotten cauliflower crawled up a Brussels sprout's butt and died. But before any of that happened, 43 pit bulls farted on a skunk and then the skunk got hit by the smelliest garbage truck in the world, which was incidentally being driven by hippies. The skunk unfortunately got stuck to the tire of the garbage truck like a piece of old chewing gum. Then the truck proceeded to drive into the cauliflower's butt. Really just a chain reaction of unfortunate, stinky events.

I think this may qualify as child abuse. Does anyone know of a hotline I can call or something?

*EDITOR'S NOTE: My brother, Jake, insisted on me giving him credit for this one since he came up with it. I don't mind doing that. He got his sense of humor from me anyway.

An Open Letter to the State of Arizona

An Open Letter to the State of Arizona

Dear Arizona:


What the crap? Why are you exempt from Daylight Saving Time? That is so unfair, State of Arizona. I, for one, am not a happy camper. This business of springing forward, falling back, hopping sideways, and skipping in circles is getting a little frigging old. And I will be hating my alarm clock with that little bit of extra fervor come Sunday. But you, Arizona? You’ll be happy as a clam, secure in the knowledge that 8 AM is still 8 AM and all is right with the world. Except for the part of the world that is springing forward! Lame!


Totally jealous of you,


Heather
Oklahoma, USA


cc: Hawaii

Word Verification

Sorry, folks. I know typing in those stupid gibberish words are annoying as all crap, but I'm getting spammed left and right, so I've added it. Sue me!*

*Please don't sue me. I'm getting out of debt and I'm on a budget right now.

And I don't like spam!

An Open Letter to My Credit Card

An Open Letter to My Credit Card


Dear Credit Card:

I know this might seem like it's completely out of the blue, but... well... how do I say this? To put it as gently as possible, I'm breaking up with you, you jackhole. I know, I know... I'm sorry. We've had some great times. We really have. Remember that shopping spree at Anthropologie? Remember when I got LASIK? Remember when Snuggles had to have unexpected surgery? Yeah... I'm still paying for those things. Not cool, you know? Your manipulative ways have held me captive in your unrelenting grasp for too long. I've come to realize I'm just another number in your little black book. Account No. XXXX XXXX XXXX 0231, actually.

And so, Credit Card, I'm cutting you off. I'm cutting you out of my life completely. And, well, I'm actually going to literally cut you up as well. And believe me when I say it will hurt me more than it will hurt you. Because I will actually have to start paying for things. And it's going to sting for a while. But in the end, it will turn out for the best. For both of us. Well... maybe not for you. But definitely for me. And hey, chin up; someday we'll look back on this and laugh.

It's not you. It's me. Well... actually, it is you. It's 100% you, and you suck.

Not so fondly,

Heather
(your soon to be debt-free ex)

P.S. I've been seeing someone else. His name is Ca$h Money.

An Open Letter to My Alarm Clock

An Open Letter to My Alarm Clock


Dear Alarm Clock:


I hate you.

That is all.


Sincerely,

Me

'Nother Round of Vintage Ads

Two sizes-Regular and Hospital

Seriously, I do not want to know what hospital size is.

And the award for most racist gelatin advertisement goes to...

The copy on this ad reads:

"Mammy sent dis ovah"

JELL-O is known to all sections as "America's Most Famous Dessert." In the South, for instance, it is inexpensive enough to be found in the cabins of the old plantation. It is delicious enough to meet the standards of good living at the "Big House." It is dainty enough for milady's afternoon tea. It is appealing enough to turn the sinful, of any color, away from his neighbor's melon patch.

Yes, please read that again, if you need to. Jell-O: America's Most Famous Racist Dessert.

HolycrapJell-Oareyouserious.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

(Looks like fun, though.)

Effanbee Dolls, you say?

"Hey, that's a really nice effan' bee doll!"

"Yeah, you like my effan' bee doll? You want to see this effan' bee doll up close?"

"HEY! Get that effan' bee doll outta my face!"

Reminds me of these:

What're you doin'? Oh, nothing. Just sittin' here eatin' some elfin' crackers is all.

Early graffiti.

Yo, that's a mad tag, yo.

How to keep your silk underwear and stockings: don't go to a Tom Jones concert.

[CLOVER] Yes, we are HOTT. So what?

So, fun fact... Snugs and I were out walking our Mommy this week and not one, but TWO times, we got stopped by ridiculous peeps with an even more REE-DIK-YOO-LUSS query. No, dummies, we will not have sex with your doggies! Look, I know me and my little bro are super fine, as well as highly sought-after for photo shoots, not to mention all that and a bag of dog biscuits, BUT that doesn't give you the right to proposition us in the middle of da streetses! Ew. As if. We are NOT that kind of gal/guy. You, a random stranger, calling out, "-ey! Are those boys or girls? Cuz I got a girl pit and we're lookin' to breed her. You wanna breed yours?" is not going to get you far with our Mum. She is not pimping us out! Besides, we got no special partses left anyways.

Dummies.

Srsly.

*RME*

We only has eyes for each other

That's IT!

I’m growing my hair back out… OFFICIALLY.

Today I stopped by Wendy’s to pick up a salad (I’m on a diet, people!) and as I paid and got my food the woman working there said to me, “Thank you, sir.”

...

...

...


Sir?

SIR?!?!

I mean, I know I have short hair but in my defense I was wearing large hoop earrings, makeup, high heels, boobs. You know, stuff like that.

Not.

Cool.

So… now I’m off to shave my mustache and drown my sorrows in chocolate chip ice cream on a waffle cone.