SELFABSORBED.ME

I know this bitch...she slept with myboyfriend in 2001...so smashed her fucking grapes

Made with pride and love...and a whole lotta dog meat

So in case any of you have been following John McCain recently, or maybe you might even just know who he is, or even know that he actually exists…or maybe, just maybe, know that he MIGHT be a person whom could possibly exist and walks and talks and has eaten Skippy Peanut butter before (the chunky kind obviously). I want to update you on a little information regarding his daughter. Speaking with a reporter on the Today show awhile back, I was lazily getting dressed in the morning, and by “getting dressed” I do mean...”kicking the three men in spandex and roller skates out of my bed while I negotiated a caffeine-drug-deal with my local barista via wire-transfer”…and I overheard McCain speaking of his daughter, when the reporter asked about her job he said in all seriously, “Well, you know, she is …a blogger.”

I looked at this 71 year old man and wondered if he even knew what a blogger was, or more so, what had his daughter insisted to him it might be? And more to the point did he know that most bloggers …wait for it…waaaait for it…..don’t get paid?!

Holy high rollers, I bet Mr. McCain might fall right off his rocking chair if someone tells him that. See, to me, a “job” implies something that you do, that you might not like doing, but you do it anyways because you get PAID. And the paycheck part helps a whole lot on distinguishing that what you do is in fact a “job”. See there are many things that I do on a frequent basis that I don’t consider to be my “job”. Things such as clogging the guest toilet with paper towels…flossing my back molars…berating minimum wage sales employees….see how all these things are “FUN”, but aren’t necessarily my “JOB”?

I wonder if Mr. McCain’s daughter has told her about all the great ‘benefits’ that comes with having a ‘job’ such a blogging, benefits like …perfect strangers wanting to round-house kick you in the face…death threats to small animals you might own (sorry Mr. Whiskers)…or my favorite, applications for mail-order brides (hey don’t knock it, I’m on page 74 next to Kmishla, the dark-haired horse tamer).

But I digress.

I guess my hope is one day, when John McCain looks over his bank statements and notices that 100K is missing he can find out that it was all going to support his daughter's blogging 'job'.

Well played Miss McCain, well played…way to put one on over your old man’s head…a man who might someday be the future fucking president of the United States. Great.

So now if you will excuse me, I have to go, my ‘blogging job’ as my ‘blogging phone’ is ringing off the hook and I have to go fill out my ‘blogging health insurance’ form right now.

Dear Tampon Man,

I know you are standing there. I see you. Even though your head is buried down into the neck of your Northface windbreaker. As you eye the Summer’s Eve and Playtex collections. I know you will see me and start looking around as though you are completely lost. Lost in a sea of tightly stuffed cotton as you start saying, “Um, condoms? ...condoms? This isn’t the condom aisle? This isn’t the EXTRA LARGE Trojan condom aisle?”

I get it Babydoll, you got a girl, and that girl, unbenounced to you, actually has a period. I know I know, I am a real life Nancy Drew.

And I know how the entire situation went down too. She was sitting on the couch, hoping that you don’t mind watching TLC’s a Baby Story while you were hoping that surviving 30 minutes of ‘Kate’s Triple Birth in a hot tub', gets you at least 10 minutes of her sucking your cock….and right before the camera guy gets a good pan-in of the birth canal, you lean in to kiss her and it’s as though she suddenly morphs into that horrible dragon from the sea movie that freaked you the fuck out when you were 7 years old. And as the fire and lava pours out of her fanged-mouth she bellows, “I HAVE MY PERIOD , GO BUY ME TAMPONS!" Because, as all women know, we can’t get our fat asses off the couch to grab another tub of caramel toffee popcorn, let alone hike it over 2 blocks to the 79th Street Duane Reade.

So you have to tear yourself away from TLC , curse out the day you ever bought this bitch a Malibu Baybreeze at Bombabalie’s Romper Room, and head out to the drugstore to try and figure out which piece of cotton looks the best to you.

So as I pass you in the aisle that day, Tampon Man, I look over, lean in and whisper right into your innocent sport-center watching ear, “…get the plastic Platex ones labeled super.”
And just as I pass by, I see you look up and bow your head at me, like a minion bowing to his king, and I watch you grab the shit-tastic purple flowered box and make a beeline for the register.

God bless you Tampon Man, as I watch you walk off into the sunset, carrying Platex Gentle Glides in hand.

Look at Jim here, he already got laid twice because of this article.

Oh the timeless art of buying a girl a drink. As ex-roommie and I sometimes joke, we can go out on the town with five dollars in our pockets and come home with twenty-five...oh wait, hmm, maybe that was a stripper joke I heard at Scores...regardless I think it still applies... It is the only advantage to being a women sometimes, besides being able to lactate, which I hear is extremely handy in providing nourishment to 'babies'... that can't be proven though, unlike my five-dollar theory, which is scientifically proven to be true.

Drink-buying, however, is also a much disputed over topic between men and women. I know plenty of men out there who actually refuse to buy a woman they don't know any drinks at a bar and will go out of their way to avoid the drink-buying game. I debated this question with a guy friend over the phone once;

“It is considered good manners to offer a girl a drink if you plan on chatting with her for the rest of the night, or if you are getting a drink for yourself,” I reasoned.

”Kim,” he said. “Buying random girls drinks is for sad, pathetic men who can’t get a girl anyway.”

“So you wouldn’t buy me a drink?”

“This is 2008 and women have have jobs now.”

“But my job doesn’t pay as much as your job does.”

“Well, then maybe you need to get a new job.”

Fuck me.

So why can’t we have jobs and get our free drinks too?

Not only is buying a woman drinks an art form, but actually avoiding the person who bought you the drink afterwards is, I believe, the true art. I tend to be polite, try and stay and chat for as long as I think the drink is worth it.. then I make some excuse about having to get back home to my sister who is recovering from a bad case of the black plague (Hey, I hear it's coming back around again).

I don't have enough time in the universe to comment on what is wrong with Tevas

In case you missed Lipstick Jungle last night, let me recall a quick summary for you.

There are three women claiming to be in their late 30’s/early 40’s, all of whom appear to be nearing early 60’s.

Hey Marge, where's your pad bitch? ...let's go get some wine and talk about sex.

They live in houses…no wait, those are…NYC apartments? Oh right, I am sorry I forgot for a moment that they live in fantasy land. Unless one of these bitches is the Queen of England, they are by no means representing the ‘average’ working-woman apartment. Let me tell you, I am waiting for the show when one of these Gucci clad women comes home to her 121st street East Harlem pad, kicks the homeless guy off her doorstep and steps inside to the shit show of mice and bad plumbing... then folks, we got a cable television show.

First off, the one bitch who is a “fashion designer” appears to make more money then Pete Doherty’s drug dealer, and is dating some guy who flies around in a jet. Honey listen, if you are single and forty, you are lucky if a guy pays for your Metropass on the 181 bus, let alone has a flying machine.

Even worse is the one whose name I can’t figure out, Windy? Winnie? Winley? I prefer to call her, Whatthefuck? Or WTF. Well, WTF apparently has phone conversations with Leonardo DiCaprio. Which prompts me to the biggest question of all…when did heads of a major movie companies live in NYC? The answer is...they don't..they live in LA. Puh-lease bitch. And to top it off, The Leo does not CALL anyone. The Leo has people who call people for him. The Leo does not touch dirty things like ‘phones’, he is too busy tanning on a hammock drinking water made with diamonds.

The worst tragedy of all of course is the blond one who is trying to sleep with some hot 20-year old. First off, in real life, that dude would just want a job…or some kind of job, at least. Second off, your ‘revenge’ to some prick who is trying to mess with your company is to ‘oversalt’ his food at the table. Oh SNAP! Don’t oversalt my food, please, no stop, I might, become…DEHYDRATED!

The final scene ends in them crying and hugging. While the fashion bitch tries to make a witty comment about her roof deck.

It was simply too much to handle.

There are many significant points in a person’s life; The day your first child is born…being proposed to…the first time you ever tasted Nips Nacho Cheesier Flavor…all these poignant life-changing moments come to mind. For me, a moment that will forever stand out in history as bringing both tears and laughter to my face is:

The time I almost died at the Jersey Shore.

Now for the three other ladies who were with me on this moment, they might read that line above and think I am EXAGGERATING. Well , let me tell you one thing, I do not exaggerate…yes I may wave my arms around and sometimes loudly proclaim myself to be the Queen of England…so lying yes…exaggeration, no.

This is how my moment of almost-death on the Jersey Shore went down:

My lady friends and I were partying at a place known to some as ‘D’Jais’, but to me , it is known as ‘The Gates of Heaven’. At D’Jais every meathead, overly tanned, steroid using, personal trainer could be seen surrounding the perimeter of the club. It was as though Jesus was standing right there, welcoming me into the gate of serenity and light. White Diesel T-Shirts and stone-washed Armani jeans covered every arm-hair-shaven boy around. As we exited the club that night, we made the first left we could down a pathway we presumed was the route back to our hotel. Turns out it was the route to death. (Well almost-death, but it was a damn un-well-constructed route at that, someone needs to start paving that shit).

We were walking for about fifteen minutes or so, when suddenly the groups of people heading home down the same path all started to disappear. And one by one the beach homes grew fewer and farther between and went from three-story white shudders, to one-story I-have-no-shudder. As the four of us walked into the dark, summer night, the sounds of the cars grew distance and we approached a huge grass area with an old fence.

As we were crossing over the old fence I proclaimed, “Where the fuck are we?”

“Just let’s start walking to the right, I think our hotel is to the right somewhere.” One of the girls said.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, speeding down the street beyond the fence was the worst thing I have seen in all my years of living….a yellow…1993…Pontiac 4-door...with white trim.

This is when I about knew my life was over.

The worst part about thinking you are going to die on the Jersey Shore is wondering if they will have to bury you there. Will the makeup lady cover my corpse in thick bronzer and hairspray? Will three meatheads who are weekend bouncers have to carry my casket? Will they lay me out in the shore’s finest gold and silver bikini complete with press on nails and a fake Gucci bag nail-glued to my right hand? Will the service consists of a lot of, “Yo yo yo, she was chillin” remembrances? Will the exiting song be the extended remix of ‘Pump It up’?

All these questions ran through my mind. So I did what any rational girl from New England would do. I grabbed ahold tight of my clinky clink bracelet and started booking it down the street, wobbling all the way in my Aldo pink teasers.

Then I heard it ... a voice, from the distance.

It was calling out, “Kim…Kim look to your right, do you see it... look to the right…and you will see the light!”

I turned my head, looked up and asked, “Jesus?...Is that you Jesus?”

A moment of silence.

Then I heard it..a female voice….Jesus was a woman?

“No asshole, it’s me ..Ellen, I’m walking right behind you, you whore…fucking look to your right, there is our hotel sign, see it?”

I looked up, and there it was. The Belmar Inn. Glowing from a distance. Suddenly it was as though I could feel a huge tanning-light bulb beaming down on me. And I knew we had been truly saved that night by the Jersey Shore Gods.And now every time I wake up on a summer morning, about to hit the beach, I think of the New Jersey Shore God’s and how they saved me, and to thank them, I stand, look at myself in the mirror for an extra ten more minutes then normal, then spray-tan the shit out of my legs until I feel they are satisfied with my offering.

The End.