February 1, 2007
It’s that time of month again (not my menses, I’m a dude), it’s writing time!
This weekend my mother and I engaged in a philosophical (ho-riffic) discussion over the word ‘ho’. My mother thought that Hilary Clinton was a ho, while I disagreed. So, like all god-fearing people, we looked in the word of the lord: wikipedia.org.
Accoring to the wikipedia:
The term prostitution refers to the act of having sexual intercourse or performing other sexual acts, explicitly for material compensation — normally money, but also other forms of property, including drugs, expensive clothing, jewelery, or real estate.
Assuming that Hilary Clinton is a ho, this is obviously wrong, no one would be willing to pay (or recieve pay) to sleep with Hilary Clinton. So, I checked encarta:
1. an offensive term for somebody who is regarded as willing to set aside principles or personal integrity in order to obtain something, usually for selfish motives.
Again, totally wrong. How can Hilary set aside principles that she doesn’t have? These people don’t even know what a ho is! Then I finally came to it. The greatest idea I’ve ever had…
I’m easy like Sunday morning
The all in one guide to the ho-tastic world of hos
-The 10 Commandments
1. Thou shall not player-hate.
2. Thou shall appreciate.
3. Thou shall not kill, unless thou got her corner stoled by a skank ho, in which case don’t worry about it.
4. Thou shall obey thy pimp.
5. Thou shall remain clean.
6. Thou shall stop after the age of 40. Dear god please stop after the age of 40.
- Is she a ho?
1-Take the first letter of her middle name.
2-Add the number of times the preacher says amen at your next service.
3-Multiply that number by 4 badoodles.
4- Forget about that number, pick how much you hate her between 1 and 10, and if it’s more then 0,
She’s a HO!
-The many flavors of ho
She who benefits from the ho-dom, but doesn’t actually ho. Sometimes referred to as scaredy ho.
She lurks in the shadows (usually very wide shadows) and pounces on her unsuspecting victim. Territorial. Their prey include ugly white men, skinny black men, and Bill Clinton.
The STD collector
Not to be confused with the skank ho. The STD collector tries to find as many odd and ecclectic STDs to add to her croch collection.
-How to be a successful ho
So you’ve got you’re first potential customer! I’m so proud of you. He’s probably driving up in a flashing sentra or something affirmingly masculine right? Now’s your time to make the sale. Start walking in a zig-zag pattern up to the passenger window, while alternating your head from looking upper left to upper right extremes. Try to act natural. Once you’re within 5 feet, make an abrupt stop, look at him, act surpised (like the girl on the coppertone bottle) and repeat the following mantra: “Oh, lordy me, I didn’t see that sexy sautee of man filet from that distance. Sexy boy, blah blah blah…”. It doesn’t actually matter what you say as long as you make sure to phrases like “sex me” and various god references at least 2-3 times a sentence. If he hasn’t driven away yet then you’re doing good!…
Condy is the new Monica. I think we all know that W. loves the dark chocolate.
Let’s face it, her poems (ho-ems) aren’t that good. A real bore. The only reason she’s popular must be because she’s a ho.
The Virgin Mary
Her and the big man were doing the nasty. If that don’t make a ho I don’t know what do.
And there you have it. Serious bestseller material. Now please excuse me while I go hide from the avalanche of interested publishers…
September 15, 2006
My parents (since recently joining the catholic church), have developed a particular affinity for buying nuns cell phones. Every nun and or partially religious figure needs to be asked whether or not they own and/or want a cell phone. If they do, my parents offer to fly out to whatever god forsaken place they live in and act as Cingular missionaries, teaching them all they need to know about their new (and holy) cell phone. Most of these “targets” have been near our house, so it hasn’t been a problem. But, as you can imagine, my parent’s addiction has gotten worse as of late, and our last hit was in Mendham, NJ, some 200 miles away. Who is this cellponeless saint? One Sister Joanna (a friend of a friend of a nun).
Another nun, Sister Ann, offered to make the drive with us (note that I was not particularly happy about this idea). Sister Ann is about as close to having a perfectly round body shape as humanly possible (this is mostly due to her ridiculously borderline-dwarf stature). She could be best described as a weeble, in that she wobbles but doesn’t fall down, unless of course any sort of wind hits her in which case she’s screwed.
We piled into the car (in my case kicking and screaming) and started off. We picked up Sister Ann, she asked me a few questions and I attempted to answer politely (is a fart followed by a “Halleluiah! What was your question again?” a polite answer?) . It was not a particularly long drive, although it was kind of extended by my nervousness wondering if Sister Ann actually touched me if it would burn, and thinking about what Sister Ann must be telling God about me. My mom conducted a ridiculously long cell phone call to her godmother, which (around minute 296) I began to think would never end. Just as I had decided there must be a special level of hell for weekend atheists, the call ended. 20 minutes later I had decided there must be another level of hell based around making fantastically large amounts of small talk reserved especially for me…
Finally, we arrived at our destination, Mendham NJ. The motherhouse (nun for “Big fricking House of God”), was where we were greeted by an large regiment of nuns. All of whom smiled and said hi to us, (you could almost taste the malice). We met Sister Joanna, took her out to dinner, gave her the cell phone, and stopped at the largest gas station I’ve ever seen (appropriately named the “Chateu de Exxon”). After we reached our hotel my parents went to bed (like the good catholics they are, they believe that the lord only talks to people who wake up between 6:00 and 7:00am), and I watched Meet the Fockers, which I still find funny after multiple watchings.
We woke up and went to a nun mass (you heard me right), during which I contemplated the meaning of uncomfortable wooden pews, while my nose ran like a faucet. The nuns singing “Halleleuiah, Halleleuiah”. They keep singing, I keep grabbing tissues (trying to wait for the loud parts of the song to start blowing). All while more and more nuns began to look at me strangely (sort of like “What did he do that God got so ticked at him for?”). I hate to admit it, but as my supply shortened I began to covet another’s tissues. The guy in front of me most likely had (and still has), either an extremely uncomfortable penis or ridiculous hemroids. He would fidget every couple of seconds and look at Sister Ann. A lot. Plus there was a nun to my back right who found it nessacary to sing louder than the rest of the church so that all you could hear was her mindless screeching. Then, when we got to the homily-the priest mentioned how, in the scripture, Jesus says that if you make the sign of the cross on your ear you will hear the sound of the lord - which consequently made the ingenius singing nun behind me disengage both hands to try her luck. When I turned around to look at her (and this is hard to imagine) she immediately pulled her hands down and tried to ‘act natural’.
And that was about it. We conseqently headed home without anything else exciting. I was pretty dissapointed with the lack of controversy inside of the Convent. Too bad. Maybe it’s time to start giving cell phones to priests…
Until next time.
August 13, 2006
Welcome to my blog. My name’s Casey, and this is my blog. In the next few posts I hope to describe my family.
My dad is great, don’t get me wrong. But if I just said he was great and moved onto the next person no one would be reading this blog. He was raised with three sisters in Silver Creek NY (which is by the way the most isolated place on the planet).
The Sisters Three
First off, there’s my Aunt Carol (aka Auntie June). She’s not the most present minded person you’ll ever meet. Here are some Carol Quotes, or as I like to call them, Cuotes. Oh man am I good! Edit - There was only one quote good enough for this blog:
“If Malawi is in Africa, Where is Africa in Europe?”
Next up, Aunt Fran. Aunt Fran is quite honestly the nicest person you’ll ever meet in your life. She’s never mad and she’s never been mad. She literally poops happiness and splendor, and you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn’t like her. Not much to mention here, except that I found out(after some tough investigative work, like 5 minutes at least) she has, at some point in time, said a bad word. Do do do de do Inspector Casey…
And finally…Aunt Joanne. Aunt Joanne is funny (and nasty dirty) as all get up (as they like to say in my hood). She likes to drink and party, and I wouldn’t be real surprised if she’s made an appearance on Girls Gone Wild recently. I’m just saying…
As far as towns go, god must’ve greated Silver Creek NY somewhere around the 15th day, and it was not good. The Creek consists of a road and a McDonald’s (with the added bonus of a brand new chinese restaurant) and recieves a combined average snowfall of around 100 billion inches. Anyone raised in the creek knows a few essential things by age 3:
- The precise mileage to every location on earth.
- How to change a spare tire with your eyes closed.
- How to properly pronounce the phrases “Yup”, “Dontcha know it”, and “Well there ya go now”.
Under these circumstances, I’m sure you can understand how ridiculously normal my father is.
My dad is relatively laid back His father was a carpenter, and his mother can cook, he’s a perfect mix of the two. I’ve made a diagram that makes this easier to see:
See, a perfect mix! My dad’s in Tech Support. After 20 years in working with computers, he’s learned a lot. Like how to say cool acronyms like “AJAX” and “SAP” (that’s my dad *jealous*). Ok so he’s learned one thing. Shut up.
Besides the traits listed on the diagram, my father (having grown up in the snowfall capital of the solar system), can shovel like a russian, navigate a road covered in african-american ice, and make a first class snowman in no time. Although he is quite efficient at shoveling, he’s also an Icy Rainman. He can’t come inside before he’s double-shoveled the portions you already triple-shoveled, and has made up his game plan for the upcoming day’s shoveling.
They’re not real
Around 2 years ago I introduced my Dad to a game called Managerzone.. Basically you manage a soccer team. I’d been playing for a while, and figured it might be a nice father-son activity. Here’s how the conversation went:
Casey: “Hey Dad, wanna sign up for ManagerZone? It’s really cool.”
Dad: “Rassum frassum..errrr..too much work…errrr…not enough free time already…errrrrrr..too stressed….errr..no..bad idea.”
He suqsequently started an Excel spreadsheet to manage his team, started depositing $20 a month into his account, and now spends 50 hours a week trying to get that shinytastic .gif trophy (that rotates around 45 degrees and then swivels back just a touch) on his home page. That’s my dad. Deal with it.