Snarky Heifer

Kids say the shittiest things... it's a wonder I let mine live

Teen Spawn: You have really nice legs, Mom.

Me (bewildered): What? I have no money.

Teen Spawn: No, really, they're long and lean.

Me (admiring my legs): Hmmm. They ARE kinda nice, huh?

Teen Spawn: Yeah, but it's kinda weird.

Me: What is?

Teen Spawn: They're just kinda outta proportion or something.

Me: Oh, HERE we go. You should stop now.

Teen Spawn: I mean... they're like toothpicks holding up a potato.

Me: You have 3 seconds to start running before I kick your ass.

Tiny Spawn (looking at my legs): Hmmm... don't listen to her, Mommy. Your thighs are chunky like a marshmallow.

Me: If I weren't medicated and sipping on Mommy Juice, the two of you would already be dead.

HOLY SHIT, y'all... I'm Mrs. Potato Head!

Malls Can Kiss My Fat Ass Twice a Day... and Three Times on Sundays

Please be warned: this has nothing to do with my trials and tribulations as a freelance writer.

I hate strolling through the fucking mall. Nevermind the fact that I'm anxiety-ridden, impatient and slightly claustrophobic (there's medication for all that), my issues with malls go deeper. Don't get me wrong, I love to shop. But, I'd rather drive and park in front of each store I go into. All this walking-through-the-mall crap is bullshit and highly over-rated. And, the older I get, the more passionately I want to blow those bitches to smithereens.

First of all, there are those pesky kiosks situatued... well.... EVERYWHERE... and the people running them are annoying, pushy assholes. The super fun thing about them is that I seem to be a magnet for them. They seek me out and offer me ProActiv for my PMS breakout... or fat burning cream for my belly rolls.... or hair extension clips for my thinning and graying hair.... or my favorite, miracle hand cream that claims to be a manicure in a bottle. And, when I kindly decline their fucking offers to beautify myself, they get all pissy and holler after me. Next time I go to the mall, I'm going to wear a shirt that says, "FUCK OFF KIOSK FREAKS".

Then, there are the teeny-boppers. I get enough dose of teenager in my regular, daily life. I don't need to be exposed to that shit while I'm having my "me-time," too. All the giggling and sashaying and trolling is ridiculous! I don't remember ever behaving like these kids do. And, taking my teen spawn to the mall only makes the experience worse because we have to go into all the "cool" stores. And by "cool" I mean "stupid, shitty and over-priced". You know... the ones that are overly crowded and reek of cheap perfume and loud music. Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie and Fitch, etc... everyone working in these places is a teenager, too. They don't know shit, they can't find shit, and it takes every ounce of patience in me not to smack them upside their big, empty heads.

Ok, I'm done.

But I'll leave you with this brilliantly written song:

Foghorn Leghorn = Fucking Awesome!

Don't get me started on the cut-off uniform shirts!

Gonads, Ice Picks and Husband-Eating Zombie Wives

If Hubber begins one more sentence with, "Since you'll be at home all day doing nothing, could you..."... I'ma pluck his eyeballs out with a rusty ice pick and squish his gonads between my freakishly strong toes. Then, I'll pull his hair. And for good measure, I'll scrub the toilet with his toothbrush.

For some strange reason, Hubber seems to think that I roll out of the bed each morning and assume this ritual:

slurp down a cup of coffee
stumble into my house slippers
drive starving teen spawn to school
get back home and crawl back under the covers
take magically dressed, sugar-filled kindergartener (with shiny clean teeth) to school
get back home and crawl back under the covers
take a two-hour nap
turn the tv on and watch soaps and talk shows while munching on Cheetos and drinking rum and coke
roll back out of bed to frolick around in the backyard with the dog
"play" on facebook until it's time to pick teen spawn back up from school

I wish, mofo!

Instead, shit usually goes down like this:

fall out of bed
try to spruce myself up a bit to look alive
scream at teen spawn to hurry the hell up
beg tiny spawn to get up
answer a few work-related emails
plead with teen spawn to eat/drink something before we leave
argue that we do NOT have time to go to McDonald's on the way to school
drag tiny spawn out of bed kicking and screaming
pile kids up in the car and drive to the high school
halfway there, teen spawn freaks out that she forgot something at home
more arguing takes place
drop teen spawn off at school
get back home to get tiny spawn ready for school
fight with tiny spawn regarding hair/teeth brushing and NOT having a popsicle for breakfast
remind her that panties and socks are essential on school days
answer a few work-related emails
take tiny spawn to school
sit in the car line for at least 10 minutes while other jackass parents figure out how to fucking drop their kids off and move the hell out of the way
get home and let the dog out
scream at dog for fighting with neighbor's dog
feed animals / clean litter box
make FIRST cup of coffee
answer work-related emails
return a couple of calls
work
wash some dishes
work
throw a load of laundry into the washing machine
work
sit in on ridiculously long conference call while catching up on some writing
pay bills
run to the grocery store
work
look at the time and freak out that I only have 10 more minutes until I have to pick teen spawn back up from school

I'll stop there because what comes next deals with carpooling... arguing with teen spawn... running (literally) in the direction of tiny spawn's bus stop so the bus driver doesn't get mad at me for being late again..... getting write-up from teacher because my kindergartener can't behave at school... arguing with tiny spawn about her television priveledges... trying to get more work done... etc. etc.

Then, Hubber gets home all tired, wondering what the fuck I did all day and why we're having cereal again for dinner and why I didn't wash a load of whites.

2011: It's a Wrap!

2011 was a tough year for my family.

It's been nearly a year since my grandma started hangin' loose with the sweet 6 lb, 8oz baby Jesus in heaven. And, it seems we've all been stumbling through the year making up new family traditions for ourselves without her. Shit just isn't the same without that ol' gal. But, the world keeps turning and life seems to be going by at full speed.

On the homefront, we had to adjust our lifestyles to my new career move. You know, THE MOVE. The one that resulted in less income but more freedom. The one that relieved me from stress and restored some of my sanity. The same move that has injected me permanently into the daily lives of my children. Yeah, that one.

I've watched my teen spawn mature a little. She appreciates having me at home and has been a real trooper when it comes to budgeting for material things she was accustomed to getting at the drop of hat. I'm one proud momma.

I think I've had to adjust more than anyone else. I haven't bought myself new clothes or shoes in over a year. The funny thing is that I didn't even realize that I have been going without until I was cleaning out my closet the other day. Some things just aren't THAT important.

Also, I've learned that "working from home" isn't as easy as it sounds. You still have to bathe, shave, manage your time, juggle "work" and "home", and deal with dumbasses on semi-regular basis.

All in all, though, life is good.

Happy Holidays! May 2012 bring great adventures!

We're More Like the Griswolds Than Cousin Eddie's Peeps

Although telecommuting isn't always all it's cracked up to be, the one constant positive thing about it is that I can work from anywhere. And by "anywhere"... I mean ANY FUCKING WHERE! Like here, for instance:

Hellooooo, Minnie Winnie!

That's right, people! The Hancocks bought a second home...and this bad boy has wheels! His name is Minnie Winnie. Like a small weiner. (But, we all know, size doesn't matter. Besides, Minnie Winnie has very ginormous balls.)

So, why did we take the plunge? Well, Hubber had an itch. I guess it's the caveman in him. The last time he had this itch, I nearly died... and in order to live through his itch this time, we decided a motorhome was the way to go.

The first itch took place several years ago when Hubber introduced me to his kind of "roughing it." It was loaded with nature, tents, sleeping bags, fires and more nature. Momma don't like too much nature, y'all. But, I'll try anything once... so I was a good sport about my first camping trip. Mother nature, however, wasn't too keen on my dabbling with her affairs. First, it was hot and muggy and mosquitos were everywhere. Next, it was so cold I thought my nips would break right off the ends of my boobs. Then, it rained. All night. As I lay in my tent. Dying. I kid you not. And, to make matters worse, in the middle of the worst rain storm in history, my toddler decides to contract explosive diarreah. Climbing (but mostly slipping and sliding) a half mile uphill in the dark of night to find the restroom nearly killed us both. It's a miracle that I lived to tell the tale.

So, when Hubber got the "we really need to go camping" itch again... the solution was either DIVORCE or buy a motorhome. We figured a divorce would be too taxing on the children so we opted for the latter.

Which makes the entire family happy. The "real campers" can pitch a tent if they want to, but Momma's gonna be warm and cozy inside her Minnie Winnie; banging away on the laptop, sipping coffee and watching trash on television. And, when the explosive diarreah stikes (and it WILL strike), the toilet will only be 6 feet away!

Although I sure hope that when the shitter gets full, Hubber doesn't turn into this guy:

I can't make this shit up, y'all....

For the second time in my entire history of motherhood, I attended a Thanksgiving Feast with my child. The first time, was with the oldest spawn when she was in 3rd grade. I was in the lunch line with her when some loud-mouthed jackass kid asks my her, "Hey, is THAT your mom? She's fat!" In my mind I reached over there and kicked him in his teeny tiny nutsack. In reality, I shot him the bird and he turned right around and minded his own business. After that most joyous day, I realized the older kids got, the assholier they got, too. So, I figured that would probably be the first and last time I'd go and have lunch with my kid.

Fast-forward 6 years and my youngest spawn is in kindergarten. At this age, kids are still kinda cute so I figured I'd probably be safe against verbal attacks. Also, my youngest would proably kick someone's ass if they talked smack about me to her face. So, when I was invited to have a Thanksgiving lunch with her, I said, "sure, let's try this shit again!"

Everything was fine. Great, as a matter-of-fact. I chit-chatted in the lunch line with some parents. I sashayed my fat ass around like the confident heifer that I am. It was all cool.

That is, until we sat down at our assigned spot at the lunch table. Directly across from us was another kid and her mother - a police officer in full fucking uniform.

Here's where shit went downhill fast.

Spawn: What does that badge say on your arm?

Cop Lady: It says, "police officer."

Spawn: YOU'RE a policeman?!

Cop Lady: Yep.

Spawn: Do you have a gun?

Cop Lady: Yeah... it's right here, see? (tapping her hip holster)

Spawn: Cool! My mom doesn't have a gun.

Cop Lady: Really?

Spawn: Nope. But, my dad does.

Cop Lady: Really?

Spawn: Yeah. He's a boy. He likes to shoot stuff. Especially bad guys and SQUIRRELS!

Cop Lady: He does, huh? (glancing at me)

Spawn: Yeah. He hates them because they drop a lot of acorns in our pool. Also, they make a mess by the back door.

Cop Lady: Hmmm. (staring a hole in my head)

Me: Hey, don't look at me... I don't even know the guy.

So, there goes our family's reputation with this group of parents. By the time my tiny spawn gets to 3rd grade, this story will be exaggerated to astronomical proportions. I'm sure that by then, Hubber will be a convicted felon who kills cute, tiny, doe-eyed puppies and eats their hearts raw.

The funny thing is... he's never even actually hit a squirrel with his bb-gun. :)

Sheesh.

Sex Toys Are Your Friends (and mine)

All Stand and APPLAUD, Damnit!

It's a proud moment in Snarky Heifer-ville, y'all. Momma got her first advertiser! That's right! Someone is actually PAYING money for a slot on my website! CHA-CHING! I didn't even have to turn a trick; which makes Hubber a happy camper.

Nevermind that my advertiser sells adult toys. They're still legit (because the check didn't bounce)... and cool as shit in my book. At first, I was tempted to trade them some ad space for loot. But then I realized that my cupboard is bare and my peeps need milk and eggs before Hubber needs a blow up doll. So, I opted for the cash. Smart, huh?

Another good thing about my newly acquired [best] friends is that I've learned a lot more than I ever thought possible about the adult toy businesses. There are contraptions for everything, y'all. Turns out, I don't know shit about kinky sex.

For example, what do you think THIS is?:

No, it is not an attachment for your kitchen blender.

It is a vaginal/anal bi-polar ElectraProbe. And, if that isn't snazzy enough for you... you POWER it up with one of these things:

I'm dead serious about this shit. Kinda scary, if you ask me. Pretty sure I don't want anything inside my hoo-ha that uses electro-thingamajigs in order to operate. With my luck, my goodies would turn toxic and Hubber's dingaling would fall off in two months. Eeek!

But, wait! Don't let that stop you from visiting my advertiser's lovely store! They sell a bunch of normal shit, too. I promise! Go check them out: www.PerpetualPerv.com

I ain't no hillbilly, but I sure as heck can write like one!

Just when I thought I couldn't stoop any lower in the writing-for-money arena, I was offered a new gig writing in "hillbilly speak" (which I took without hesitation... duh). I am getting PAID for using bad language, poor grammar and crappy spelling. It don't get much better than that, peeps!

Let me just say, there are some weird ass websites out there, y'all. This one site is targeted at hillbilly-types who can't afford indoor plumbing but somehow own a computer (with internet access) and want to make money online by clicking on all those bullshit ads and surveys. The crazy thing is that they have over 9,000 members! NINE THOUSAND people believe they'll make a living off of clicking on website ads and being bombarded with pop-ups and spammy emails.

I know first-hand that that shit don't work. Yes, I tried it - many, many moons ago. But, just to make sure shit hasn't changed since last year, I decided to try it out again for tackling this writing project. In a matter of 30 minutes, I was able to accumulate $0.05 and 20 wooden nickles. Five cents don't go far in my world, y'all... and at that rate it would take me 654 gazillion years to accumulate $5 for some Marble Slab icecream.

I think I'll stick to writing.

How do you like yer possum, fallin' off the
bones tender or with a little fight left in it?

I understand the concept of COOKING and CLEANING - just not as it applies to me...

Contrary to popular belief, I did not pull a bait-and-switch on Hubber. Before I became his ball-and-chain, I made extra sure that mofo understood that I do not like to cook or clean. I also don't like a messy house. And, I love to eat. So, basically, he was hitting the jackpot!

No problemo, he said, "we're two gainfully employed adults - we can hire help and eat out!" Back in those days, I had a housekeeper to do the dirty work; and I had all the take-out restaurants on speed dial.

Three moves, a few new jobs, two kids and 6 pets later we're eating Ramen noodles and covered in dog hair. Also, our pool needs to be completely drained of funk, our toilets need a good scrubbing and every inch of carpeting needs to be set on fire.

My house looks like shit, y'all. It seems that at some point after reducing my salary considerably, firing my housekeeper, and letting the youngest spawn take over the house, this shit just got away from me. My peeps are lucky to have clean dishes and clothes.

Well, usually.

We all know I hate doing laundry. It is a never ending fucking menace.

Me: Hubber, please tell me you have clean panties for work tomorrow.

Hubber: Are you EVER going to do the laundry?

Me: Yes or no, Hubber?

Hubber: If I say no, will you do the laundry?

Me: Probably not. But, I MAY go to Target, in which case, I'll buy you a few new pairs.

Hubber: (rolling eyes) I keep a few spares for times like these.

Me: Damnit.

I think he's on to me. He can outlast me and the spawns when it comes to clean clothes! I wonder if he has a mistress somewhere scrubbing away at his dirty panties in secret? Anything to keep me from making an extra trip to Target. Jackass. I bet he has secret burritos stashed away for days when I don't cook, too!

In case of fire, grab some panties!

Teen Spawn: Mom, if our house was on fire, what three things would you be sure to grab on your way out?

Me: Is this a trick question?

Teen Spawn: No. Seriously.

Me: (playing it safe) you, your sister and your father.

Teen Spawn: besides people.

Me: my dog.

Teen Spawn: What about the cats and the lizard and the hermit crabs?

Me: Nah, just the dog.

Teen Spawn: (disgusted) Ok, what three things would you grab besides people and animals?

Me: My purse, my phone and my external hard-drive.

Teen Spawn: YOUR PURSE? It's full of trash and alcohol!

Me: Exactly. Oh, and some panties.

Teen Spawn: Panties?

Me: Yeah. What if I burn to death on my way out of the house?

Teen Spawn: How would panties save you?

Me: They wouldn't. But, see... the house would probably burn down in the middle of the night when I'm in bed. So, I'll be sans panties. I can't be caught dead pantiless!

Teen Spawn: You've been caught ALIVE pantiless... what's the big deal? Also, do you even OWN a pair of panties?!

Me: It's different when you're dead... your stuff probably shrivels up and looks gnarly. I don't want my gnarly stuff hanging out for the neighbors to see!

Teen Spawn: Are you sure I wasn't switched at birth and my REAL mother isn't some sane person?

Me: Nah, you're mine. You were the only white baby born that day. Besides... someday you'll be just a fucked up as I am. Just wait. This shit doesn't really set in until you're around 25.

Teen Spawn: (rolling eyes) Why do I even ask you anything?

Me: Hell if I know. I thought you knew it all.

Teen Spawn: I hate you.

Me: Join the club, Sista!

I laugh in the face of stupid writing!

For today's blog, let us take a look at a few online ads for writing gigs. We'll start with this one:

I don't need time wasters, either, honey! And, you just wasted MY time with this jacked-up ad. What the fuck is "mix words"? And why do you assume everyone reading your piece of shit ad is a GUY? And what's with your requirement for "perfect English"? YOU are going to judge MY English? I don't think so. Also, you're a jackass for thinking that $0.01/word is an excellent rate. ONE CENT. This ain't the Phillipines!

Moving right along, let's check out this one:

I have a problem with every other fucking word in this ad. What you need is SOME writer to proofread your ads before posting. Research thinks? Huh?

"Please let me know with the starting work as "SEVEN"." Uhm. WTF are you talking about? So far, 14 people have bid under budget on this job. I am shocked.

Finally, there's this one:

This person likes UNIQUE stuff, that's for sure. What IS a unique, original writer? Aren't we ALL unique and original? I ain't writing 1 page for this weirdo, much less 10. He/she is probably the dope fiend that got Roger Clemens in trouble. No thanks. I have a reputation to uphold, people.

******************* update**************************

You heifers need to quit pointing out the fact that I didn't proofread this entry before posting it! You can all suck my left tit! Bitches.

Top 5 List of Stupid Things I've Done That I'm Not Even Remotely Sorry For....

5. Spawn two children. Although my fat rolls and stretch marks would probably beg to differ, I am not sorry in the least. It was a stupid and crazy thing to do, I know, but deep down, I really love these little heifers. Plus, who else can I boss around when I'm too lazy to fetch my own glass of water (yes, WATER) or wash my dishes... or paint my toenails?

4. Get married. Who else would take out the trash, do my yard, clean my pool, eat my taco, stomp on bugs and change the oil in my car? Not to mention that I have someone who actually signed on to listen to my rants and raves till death do us part. Hubber does all these things with no hesitation. Well. Maybe he hesitates a little. Nah... he loves being my beck-and-call-boy.

3. Perm my hair. Yes, I know it's not 1985 and that perm chemicals will dry my shit out, so STFU. Momma loves her some curls. They're loose and bouncy... just like Hubber likes his women.

2. Adopt a really large dog. Part mastiff, part boxer? SURE, I'll take her! Her poop piles are the size of cow patties; but I don't care! I call it fertilizer. Also, she eats 60lbs of food every month? So? No problemo, I say! I can buy that shit at Sam's for $30.

1. Exchanged my full-time, good-paying job for a part-time gig with crappy pay. Who cares if I have to pimp people out on the side for money? Not me! I get to stay home and "work", bitches! Also, I get to spy on the neighbors and make up stories about their comings and goings. I've already pegged the pedophiles, swingers and drug dealers. Which reminds me, I need a new pair of binoculars. And, a bb-gun.

I've got my eye on all you beeeyotches!

Don't worry... we didn't sell his testicles.

I decided to go "minimalist" in my house by getting rid of all the unnecessary crap we don't really need. And what better way to unload my crap than by having a garage sale? My trash is YOUR treasure! That's my motto for this weekend. Nevermind that this decision was another masked attempt at supplementing my shameful income. And speaking of shame... one thing I am not ashamed to do is exploit my children for cash. I planted those two little heifers at the end of the driveway with a lemonade/popcorn stand; looking all cute an inviting. It's a shame my girls aren't old enough to be "hooters girls", otherwise, I would have had them out there prancing around wearing next to nothing and washing cars! This was the best I could do:

The little one dressed herself.

...and it worked like a charm! We raked in enough cash to start working on our bathroom remodel! And, the girls even raised $50 selling lemonade! Not too bad for one day! I mean, it ain't gonna send them to college, but it'll pay for all the Halloween crap they've been asking for. (Please don't tell them I snagged a twenty out of their tip jar for a bottle of booze.)

I also make a killing off of stuff Hubber doesn't need anymore. He was a little pissed at first because he's so attached to his crap, but he got over it. Mostly.

Hubber's Quote of the Day: "Do you wanna sell my testicles, too?! We can put the left one on the 50-cent table!"

Also, purses are always a big hit at garage sales. I unloaded about 20 of my old bags! Hubber was so concerned that I was getting rid of too much...

Hubber: You're getting rid of all these purses? Do you even have any left?

Me: I kept about five.

Hubber: Wow. I'm shocked.

Me: Now I have tons of room for new handbags!

Hubber: Oh. Now, THAT makes perfect sense *shaking his head*

It's taking every ounce of willpower I have in me not to swipe $100 out of the bathroom remodel money for new handbags.

There is no limit to the extent of my pimping...

I am one determined heifer when it comes to "working from home", y'all. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I will pimp anyone out for some cold, hard cash. I even tried pimping myself out, but for some reason, I'm not as good at that.... I guess because I know all my faults and I probably wouldn't even hire me if I were in the business of hiring. Which I am not. Well, except for my snazzy logo up there. I did pay for that.

(Need a graphic artist? This guy is the shit!)

Anyway... recently, an opportunity presented itself to me. I was just sitting around, staring at my youngest spawn (who was explaining to me the logic behind her poor conduct reports in school) and wondering what the hell I ever did to deserve such a sassy, smart-assed, loud-mouthed rugrat. God is one cruel mofo. As I watched her mouth move and completely tuned her out, my mind was racing with ideas on how I could pawn her off on some unsuspecting soul for a little peace and quiet.... that's when it occured to me. She's smart. Real smart. Too smart, actually. WHAT IF she was destined to be Doogie Houser, Jr.? At the rate she's going with reading and math and logic, she could be competing with the minds of college students in three years. Tops. It was at that moment that I realized I needed to get to pimpin' HER ass out.

College is expensive, y'all. And, although I'm not adverse to child labor, she's only five-years-old and pretty useless. However, she's a budding artist and her artwork is highly sought after. And, we've just been GIVING that shit away! Well, no more of that nonsense. I've started a gallery and I'm selling her shiz to raise money to ship her ass off to college when she's eight. Go buy some fantastical art, people... one day she'll be famous and you can say you knew her when...

WHO'S PIMPIN' WHO?!

Why the fuck am I working today?

The mail ain't running today... the kids are off of school... the bank is closed... and everyone's trash will be stinking to high heaven at the curb until tomorrow. All because it's Columbus Day. Big fucking deal! We don't celebrate this "holiday" in my house because Columbus could not have actually DISCOVERED a place that had already been discovered. HELLO? THERE WERE ALREADY PEOPLE HERE! It's one of the dumbest national holidays.... right up there with MLK day. Don't get me started, people.

So, anyway... here I am working and wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. I should be plastered in front of the TV like my kids are... or snuggled under the covers in bed with a trashy novel. Or, better yet, I should observe "Columbus Day" in the proper, most common-sensical way by barging into someone else's house and claiming it as my own. Where can I find some vials of small pox?

But, sadly, I'm not doing any of that fun stuff. I'm working. I've got deadlines to meet today; shit to write and asses to chew on. I'm sure that halfway through the day, I'll decide I've had enough bullshit and pour myself an adult beverage and chillax a little. And, when 3:00pm rolls around and I decide to go out and check the mail because I've forgotten it's a damn holiday, I'll be pissed off all over again because my Netflix delivery won't be there. Christopher Columbus was an asshole.

I Hate Kindergarteners Who Can Read

Specifically, my own kindergartener. Now that she can kinda-sorta read, I can't lie about shit. Like when she wants a quarter for a gumball machine.... I used to say, "See that sign right there? It says, 'out of order'." Then there's my favorite non-existent sign posted outside of Chuck-e-Cheese that says, "Sorry, we're closed...all the people parked in our lot are at the store next door." I can't pull that shit on her anymore because she can sound words out and use context clues and whatnot on the words she can't quite figure out. She's too smart for her own damn good. Or, for my good. Either way, it's annoying as hell.

What's worse is that the tiny spawn can now half-assedly read my text messages and emails! So when she's playing "Top Model" or "Monster Farm" (or whatever nonsense is popular that hour) on my iPhone and a text comes through, she turns into a nosey little heifer.

Spawn: MOM! Hubber Hancock just texted you! .... uhm.. .is "m-o-f-o" a bad word? Muffu? Moofoo?

Me: Give me my phone!

Spawn: Please, please, please let me text him back for you.

Me: Fine.

Spawn: What should I say?

Me: I don't care... go away.

Spawn: Cool!

So = saw and Yo = You. Kinda cute, huh? I guess I don't hate it that much. I guess. But, this lil heifer needs more schooling on using punctuation properly.

Zombie Princesses Rule, Y'all!

I applied for a writing gig recently that I thought would be fun. I shoulda known my creative genius would be wasted on those damn Canadians. But, when they flashed some dollars around and promised lots of work, I couldn't turn it down. 'Cause I'm a whore for money, y'all. Anyway... so as it turns out, I'm now a ghost writer for some weird-ass princess persona who represents a chain of pawn shops in Canada. She's like their mascot. My first assignment was to write 5 blog entries... they were all returned for major edits...

Canadian Boss Person: The princess doesn't drink alcohol - she needs to appeal to an audience of moms and families.

Me: Canadian moms don't drink booze?

Canadian Boss Person: What I'm trying to say is that we're "family oriented."

Me: The only reason I even like my family is because I drink.

Canadian Boss Person: Oh. Uhm. Can you just take that part out? Oh... and no sex, either. The princess isn't married... we want her to be appealing to men.

Me: So, no booze and no sex. Remind me again why people like her?

Canadian Boss Person: She is fun and sassy.

Me: Can she be a zombie? If she can't drink and she's a virgin, she can at least eat brains. THAT would make her cool!

Canadian Boss Person: Are you drunk?

Me: No... I'm high.

Candian Boss Person: What?!

Me: Just kidding. Kinda.

Canadian Boss Person: Are you still up for this project?

Me: Are you still paying?

Canadian Boss Person: Of course...but the message has to be exactly what we want... with a rated-G sense of humor sprinkled in.

Me: I think I need a raise.

At first I thought the gig would be pretty badass...but now, it's just sad. And, dumb. Seriously. There isn't anything remotely cool about buying used shit from a boring-ass mormon princess. Canadians are dumb.

I think I need to start another pawn mascot....maybe someone in AMERICA will appreciate my geniusness.