I wrote stuff?

Hello Internet!

For those of you who do not know me my name is JP (I do this sometimes). I’m like a creepy single version of Chris (better looking though) who I’ve known for 17 years now. Just as loud and obnoxious, and I’m also well versed in the art of making fun.

Chris asked me to watch his dog, and I said only if I can torture the loyal Surviving Myself readers with my nonsense. So while you read this I will be letting Jack eat people food and watch the scary movies Chris and Ari won’t allow.

Ok, we all know the only true way to be saved is through Jesus. The hard part is finding a way to make him a part of our everyday life.

Sike! Aw man you should have seen your face!

[Ahem!]

Oh, right the blog thing.

How bout the time Chris and I made fun of the guy with the orange and yellow sherbet colored over-sized shirt.

Chris: Dude your shirt looks like an old school car wash!

Me: Ahhaha!

Dude: Bro, you don’t know about [some brand nobody knows about].

Me: Nobody knows about that shit!

Dude: This shirt cost $80!

Chris: You paid too much!!!

This went on and on. It was amazing that there was no fight.

Now I wanted tell you some crazy high school stories, but I can’t remember them. All we did was drive around in my 83 Volvo 240, smoke blunts/joints and listen to either Bob Marley, Wu-Tang or Korn. ‘Cause we were way too fucking cool to be pigeon-holed.

Although, there was this awesome time we were cutting class…

We met after 2nd period, snuck out the back by the locker rooms, and didn’t even make it 50 yards before Owen (head security guy) spotted us. We bolted for the street. A mere fence to hop and we were off school soil!

It looked like we were in the clear, but out of nowhere one of Owen’s goons appeared and cut off the route! We were forced to cut through the parking lot. It was looking bad. The lot was huge, they were gaining on us, and more were surely on their way (yes, there were a lot of security guards). We weren’t gonna make it through the lot.

Suddenly a mini-van screeched out of the edge of the lot, and its sliding door flew open.

Cute girl: “Get in!”

It was like the A-Team! We both fucking jumped into the van and it peeled out of the lot. We flipped off the security goons, and high-fived. Triumphant!

Then it was just us, two of the hottest girls in school, and a bag of dirty schwag weed.

Cue porno music.

That’s all from me. Just make sure you reference that I am cooler than Chris in the comment section.

Thanks,
JP

meeting of the minds

I’m over at Cleveland’s a Plum today, which is cool because I’m meeting Alexa (the writer behind that blog) tonight.  So of course I wrote about how meeting bloggers in real life is awkward, which will only make it more awkward when we meet.  Let the record show that I am brilliant.

Now please go read the post, because it is Friday the 13th and you know as well as I do that if you don’t a black cat will eat your baby.  Yes, even if you don’t have a baby right now. Black cats are very patient. They will wait for their baby feast.

guesting

I’m guest posting at Big Time Fancy today, so please go there and read my post about how hard guys have it when we want to look pretty.  I mean look special.  I mean looks spiffy.  Jesus christ, I better just stop now.

Incidentally, how cool would it be to have your name end up being a swear word/phrase?  I think that’s the pinnacle of stardom, honestly.  People have said your name so often, that eventually they start using it in anger.  Looks like I have a new goal for myself.

play-by-play

God, it is so great to be here in New York. On Chris’ blog. In New York. The new York internets are so much more sophisticated than the ones we have in Portland, Oregon. And also…ruder. But I digress.

Hello! I’m Kiala from Face of the Cookie. Exciting right? I’m all famous and shit.

Okay yes, that is not true but I like to say it outloud to other people besides myself whenever possible and especially on the webospheres because it sounds super legit.

And look – I’m even doing those one line sentence zinger thingies Chris does! It’s like he’s still here with us. Please don’t tell him I went through his medicine cabinet.

Anyhadoodle. I have a topic and I would very much like to topicalize on it with you fine Surviving Myself Peoples.

The topic for today is: Kiala Explains Sports

Sports are a game wherein many people (men, mostly…let’s be honest) rub their parts on each other until someone in charge wearing stripes yells at them and then everyone drinks beer. A lot of other things happen in between like online shopping, Jezebel reading, and makeup application but…whoa….wait. Okay sorry, I somehow cut and pasted my Google Calendar in there.

Moving on!

Dudes in matching colors go to war with each other over “turfs” and “bidznass” and “enz” and then Ice T says he is a nightmare walking, psychopath talking,
King of his jungle just a gangster stalking and they multiply. Colors.

Okay, I guess I don’t really get sports. Sorry.

tips from one of the top five canadians

Am I nervous about guest posting here today? HA. Don’t you know who I am?

I’ll have you know that I was once in the top five in a national writing game. Yes, in Canada – but it still counts, I promise!

I’m basically one of the top five funniest, smartest, best writers in all of Canada. I mean, it says it right there on the website.

Read IN BETWEEN the lines.

What I’m trying to say is that I can handle the pressure. Or, that because I didn’t win, I can handle the rejection.

When I got the boot from the show, it was after a round of writing and delivering movie pitches. Mine was very high-brow, no wonder those slobs didn’t like it. Actually, they also didn’t like me because I wore a tuxedo vest to the radio recording. I was just bringing the Sinatra, baby. And they didn’t complain when I was loaded on Scotch and beat up the host.

They told me that for radio you need to bring lots of personality – they didn’t say WHOSE.

Since then movie pitches have haunted me. Or they have at least for the purpose of this guest post. Convenient, no?

For some movies, it’s pretty clear how the pitch to the executives went down. I mean, some of them were completely easy street.

Bring it On

“Black on white cheerleader rumbles.”

“Done”

Mr. & Mrs. Smith

“Picture this…Brad Pitt…Angelina Jolie…”

“Done.”

But then there are others – that even if they are considered great movies (I’m saying this only to appease Chris. I’d rather not have him throw away my guest post for insulting one of his mancrushes), you’ve got to wonder how the conversation went.

No really, you’ve got to otherwise this next part will seem really fucking stupid.

Speed

“So you’ve got this bus, right? And terrorists have rigged the bus so it’ll explode…”

“I love it.”

“No wait, I’m not finished. It’ll only explode if it goes above or below a certain speed…”

“Why would anyone EVER do that?”

“No no…stay with me…so the bus is barrelling through the city trying to maintain…”

“WHY WOULD ANYONE EVER…”

“Okay, okay…just think for a minute. Fast cars, big explosions…”

“Fast cars? You just said a speeding bus. Busses aren’t sexy.”

“Okay, but what if we put sexy people on the bus? Then you have a big bus of Sexy speeding along, trying not to explode…”

“But it has to explode…why else would I make this movie?”

“And it WILL!”

“It will? That’s a terrible ending.”

“It will AFTER the sexy people get off the bus.”

“Oh.”

*crickets*

“Get out.”

“Steven Seagal??”

“Oh…I get it now.”

I’m currently working on my triumphant movie pitch comeback. Stay tuned for the major industry battle for the rights to the film adaptation of my life. I’m still working out the details but I’m pretty sure Jake Gyllenhall will give it some credibility. And I might throw Meryl Streep in there for good measure.

After Mama Mia? She’s up for anything.

under my skin

Hello everyone! Chris is having a spa vacation, getting facials and having his eyebrows waxed and his heels exfoliated and he asked me, Melissa Lion of Recovering Californian fame, to post for him. He also asked to borrow my fluffy pink robe and some pointers on “girl talk,” both of which I gladly gave him.

Because Chris has built a whole blogging empire on describing things that drive him nuts, I thought for my guest post, I’d add my two cents. I thought I’d identify new annoying things because perhaps these things are underrepresented. Maybe there are a few blog readers who are sitting there thinking, well, I love this blog, but what about the things that make me want to throw bricks and inanimate objects? What about the things that drive me nuts? Okay, that might be just me who feels that way. And I also might have the thought that Chris should post a picture of him with his shirt off. Maybe after his spa trip, he’ll share that.

Things that drive me nuts:

Renee Zellweger

What the fuck is she so pinchy about? What is so damn wrong in her life that she always looks like she just drank a pint of cat piss, and enjoyed it the tiniest bit? I’d like to believe she looks like that all the time because the war in Iraq isn’t going quite the way she’d like, or maybe the injustice that a book as seminal as The Bridges of Madison County never reached the status of, say, the Guttenberg Bible, but I’m fairly sure her face is permanently in ass-pucker mode because she not only slept with, but married a guy in a puka shell necklace.

Physical Affection

I’m not so into the touching. Particularly when I don’t know the person. Please don’t fake-slug me in a solidarity way, like, “hey, wasn’t that funny when I said that thing about The New Yorker’s Obama cover?” Um, it would have been a lot funnier if you hadn’t touched me. I don’t want to hug after the first time I meet someone. Sure we got along great, but if I hug you, some of your cells and hair and dander might be on me. Once we know each other for several years, then perhaps a hug is in order. Like at a funeral.

Exiting Public Restrooms

I’m not a germaphobe. I wash my hands after using the restroom, but I don’t use a paper towel to open the door, and I don’t use my elbow. I press the door open in the appropriate place with my hand. For a few reasons, 1) Enough people use paper towels to open the door that I’m fairly certain it’s clean by the time I get there 2) Enough people use their elbow that I don’t need to worry about their hands. However, seeing people contort themselves to avoid a potentially germy restroom door, makes me question my own tactics. I mean if it’s important enough to look like a jackass, well, maybe I’m in the wrong. Maybe I’m the one who’s a dumbass. What can I say, I always seek out an opportunity to be self-reflective.

Inflatable things

It’s just impossible to ever get them fully inflated. Impossible. The valve must close. And then ugh, that critical teaspoon of air escapes and the thing that’s supposed to be rock solid is squishy like an overripe peach and goddamn it, there is nothing you can do.

Sitting in the passenger seat in a parked, but on, car while the driver fiddles with the heater/ air conditioning / music selection.

These things are supposed to be done while driving.

Gritty Bits in My Sheets

One day (soon) when I’m a millionaire, I’m going to be a humanitarian. I’m going to travel to a third-world country and buy an orphan and bring him back to the states and show him how democracy works. He’ll live in deluxe accommodations in the basement, kept warm by the water heater; he’ll learn to read by cooking elaborate meals from expensive, inaccessible cookbooks for me and my family (he can totally eat the leftovers); and he’ll get his exercise by carrying me around town on a Chesterfield filled with feathers and draped with gold tapestry while my admirers throw gilded lilies at my feet. He’ll also change my sheets daily because as soon as I feel the smallest, tiniest little thing in my bed, I can’t sleep. I’m up and itchy and crying because Mumsie and Dadsie NEVER let their baby girl sleep in day old sheets and WHAT HAS MY LIFE BECOME???!?? Okay, I just get annoyed and then fall asleep thinking about what I’ll name my personal third-world orphan – Hope? McKenzie? Joe?

Okay, I think that’s it. Except I also hate the commercials on commercial radio, gristly meat, when mechanics tell me to “smile,” and melons. Maybe the next time Chris goes out of town, we can cover those other things, or maybe Chris will return and do a post about them as a form of thanks for the pink kitten-heeled bedroom slippers I lent him.

scan this

Hey Chris’s Internets!

I’m Crissy, from Crissy’s Page.

Don’t let the name fool you.

I’m a very big deal.

I was going to write about how I can never find a pair of underwear that fits nicely, but that’s too girly of a subject because things can be sort of testosterone-y around these parts.

Speaking of testosterone, it smells like stale L’Homme with an undertone of balls over here, doesn’t it?

It’s distracting.

And what’s this huge black dildo doing here?  It can’t be Ari’s.  This thing would impale the poor girl.

Huh.

I can’t say I’m surprised.  I had my suspicions, what with his love for Madonna and his taste for expensive suits and his fussiness about how his t-shirts fit and his intense fear of moths and everything.

Right?

RIGHT???

Anyhooter, Chris likes to rant a lot and stuff, so that’s what I’m going to do too so you don’t miss him too much.

Here.  Pretend I’m him.

So I’m at the grocery store and I’ve got one of those self-scanner things where you scan your store card and you win a chance to carry a gun and do all the work yourself with your very own scanner and bag your very own groceries as you go.

This is supposed to make shopping Fast and Easy.

And it would be if the fucking things worked right.  Maybe it’s because my daughter is always hurling them out of the carriage.

I have no idea.

So I was having a particularly tough shopping trip with my three-year-old and just about everything meant to be convenient and easy was broken and fucky particularly the self-weigh produce scales and so I wound up weighing a lemon but taking a cantaloupe but so. what. It’s their fault for having shitty scales. And then the scanner gun thingy tells me its battery is dying and that I had to go get a new one so I did, but that meant I had to unpack all of my stuff and rescan everything.

I may or may not have gotten it all.

What?

I was pissed.

Don’t. Judge.

And my kid was all “let me out! I want to talk! LET. ME. OUT. OF. HERE!!!”

Whatthefuck.

So I finished my painful, painful, shopping with little miss screams a lot and I go to the self check out and I scan the thing and the card and the other thing and find my coupons which were buried in the bottom of one of my repacked bags and I scanned the first one and the fucking machine freezes.

Nothing.

Crickets.

So I press the help button and the light on the top of the self check out is blinking, blinking, blinking, helplessly away and clerks and cashiers are walking by and chewing their gum and picking their asses and I’m still standing there and the thing is still blinking and I’m wrestling a 27-pound octopus who is trying to score herself a bag of M&Ms and also trying to commit suicide by jumping out of the cart and

NOBODY IS COMING TO HELP ME.

So finally I have to shout and I don’t like to shout because I’m the Queen of Fucking Everything and The Queen should never have to shout.

But I did.  I shouted.

“EXCUSE ME! I’VE BEEN STANDING HERE FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES NOW AND EVERYONE IS IGNORING ME.”

And finally some teenage girl schlubs over with her attitude and her blue hair extensions and her keys and gives the machine a hand job and then left me to complete my purchase without so much as an apology or a free bag of Cheetos.

The rest of the transaction went pretty okay but I was still irritated to shit and so I signed the credit card signature pad “Fuck You.”

Childish and immature?

Absolutely.

But it was satisfying Internet.

It felt good.