Sunday, April 17, 2011

that heather grey area...

Alright look.

We all know that the word "sweatpants" is stupid. I think it's safe to say that the term generally indicates awkward wang awareness – like, wangs of all ages, with levels of awkwardness ranging from "eek floppy nobby, that's awkward" to "aw. Aw man. Aw. Aw. Aw..."

Sweatpants are different for women, of course, but still bring with them an air of sloth, broad contempt for personal hygiene, and, if worn in public, the desperate aura of "hey, I THINK about exercise. IT HAS TO COUNT."

So sweatpants are stupid. The jury came in a long time ago and the point is settled.

Let's take a step back, though. Say the word out loud. Do it now. Sweatpants. Sweat pants. Sweat. Pants. On the one hand you've got your sweat, one the other hand you've got your pants. Let's face it: legs sweat, and butts? Well, they are the bosses of sweat. Why wouldn't they be? They've got a lot of work to do.

So start with your regular pants, which are already pretty goofy, because they're called pants. Then, whoa!, things start happenin', life takes you by surprise, the world goes topsy turvy and whammo: your sweatin'. And you're sweatin' in your pants. You, my friend, need some sweatpants. Something with a higher rate of absorption and more room for your droopy balls. Don't have any sweatpants on you? Well then, looks like you and your "jeans" are outta luck, buster. "Hello world, let me introduce you to the discomfiting wet spot down my crack," is what you might as well say. Point being: sometimes stupid things are necessary. This is an important point that you can all go ahead and carry forward into other areas of your lives. You're welcome.

And before you even think about it, wiseass, sweatslacks would never work. For one thing, nobody wears heather grey slacks. For another thing, we'd be looking at a downward spiral of manly hygiene. "Don't have to change my slacks for sweat? Why change them at all? Ever? Problem, ladies? This is who I am. Deal with it, and by "it" I mean, "me and my sweatslacks".

So let's not dig ourselves deeper by getting into the heather grey area of sweatpants vs. sweatslacks. In fact, let's just stop talking about it altogether. You know what? Let's just forget that we even had this conversation.

Sweatslacks.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

murder, I write

A confession:

I was getting ready for bed tonight – brushing my teeth, washing my face, doing De Niro impressions in the mirror (it's like, of COURSE I'm lookin' at me! Hahahaahaaaaaugh) – and glanced over to see some sowbugs creepin' on my window sill. This wasn't a huge surprise, as it's the spring thaw and they like the warm, moist conditions of the basement bathroom (hey did you know that sowbugs are crustaceans just like lobsters and that they breath through gills?? They live on LAND and they breath through GILLS. Now you've heard evvverryything!) If you don't know what a sowbug is, move your lazy fingers and google search one. Do it now.

I don't get freaked out by bugs unless it's a gigantic-spawn-of-satan-spider hiding in my bath towel (true story), so when I saw the sowbugs, I casually grabbed some toilet paper and wiped the three of them off of the sill, then tossed 'em in the toilet, taking fleeting notice of them as they flushed away. Then I continued brushing my teeth.

And I started thinking.

"Yeeeepp. Three sowbugs. Silly ol' sowbugs. The one was pretty big. Other one, not so much. Third one was pretty small, almost like a... baby. It was almost as if they were some sort of a...    faaaammmilllyyy..."


Freeze. *Deep breath*

"WHAT HAVE I DONE."


I flushed a family of sowbugs, you guys. I am the harbinger of tragic family sowbug doom. I continued guiltily brushing my teeth, the moral conflict crashing against the fact that they were just fucking bugs. As the bedevilled guilt washed over me, I glanced up at the window sill one more time. BEHOLD! A teensy tiny sowbug. Smaller than the smallest one that I had flushed. An infant sowbug. A survivor. Alone. Without its family which I had just flushed. Against the world, and against me, a recently certifiable sowbug killing machine.

I don't know if it looked at me. I don't know where their eyes are so it was impossible to tell. But a ray of beauty shone into my murderous and guilt-ridden heart.


"Go, little sowbug. Go. Live and be free. When you are old enough, you may find me and take your revenge. I'll be waiting for you, and we will face each other, bug-to-human, eye-to-thing you somehow see out of. Even if it's just you falling off of the shower wall and washing down the drain without me even noticing you, your life and inevitable death have won my respect. GO! Seize your sowbug days and live like no sowbug has ever lived before! If this were an "unlikely tragic pairing" movie, I might take you under my wing and raise you as my own, burdened your entire life with my dark and harrowing secret. You would play in the park with my human children, and we'd laugh because backpacks would look idiotic on you. Eventually you would find an old photo (a selfer of me flushing your family) and confront me, and the strength of our love would be tested to the breaking point. You would drive off of a cliff in a tear-blinded fury, and I would be left alone on the precipice, heartbroken, wondering how the hell you ever figured out how to drive a car, and confused about where your tears were coming from, since I never did find out where your eyes were."


Raise fist skyward. Fade to black.

~Fin~

Friday, April 8, 2011

Ultimate Fighting Snotmanship

It begins with a chase. Simple enough. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a running powerslam. I respond with a step-over-toe hold, they hit me back with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker followed by a twisting scissor hold. I break into a bridge rollup, but they've already got me in an Indian leglock. A torso flip happens in there somewhere, and I find myself locked in a nerve hold.

I throw down an orihara moonsault, but they're already mid-quackensmash. As I stand up they're coming at me with a double running clothesline. I hit the ground hard, and they're mexican arm-dragging my ass across the floor. I hit 'em with a leg sweep (classic) and surprise them with a gator buster followed by a dragon screw leg whip.

Finally I've got them. Full-nelsons all 'round. I switch to a sleeper hold and reach for the kleenex. I wipe the river of snot and release them, backing away so as to avoid their incensed airplane spins.

Round two in about five minutes.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

if I had a stammer

I just wrote this amazing song:

If I had a stammer 
I'd stammer in the morning 
I'd stammer in the evening 
All over this land 

I'd stammer out d-d-d-d-d-danger 
I'd stammer out a w-w-w-w-w-w-faaack-w-w-w-wwwwarning 
I'd stammer out l-l-l-l-l-l-lllllove b-b-b-between m-m-m-my b-b-b-bbrothers aaaand m-m-m-m-mmy sssssist-t-t-t-ters 
All over this land 

I'm pickin up good vibrahuuurrrrrg

When I was a kid, my mom and all my aunts went through this "electric massagers are MIRACLES" phase. All of them had some wonky model of electric massager, and during family gatherings everyone would laze around after dinner while kneading their tired 'ol necks and backs.

It's only now, as a full grown woman with womanly needs and womanly parts that enjoy a good "massage", that I realize what all the fuss was about.

Essentially we were chillin' with a bunch of big dildos. Miracle solved.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I will be in the shower until I can't feel the raunch anymore.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

oh my shit...

AS IF.

Paranoid Momdroid is back, nerds.

NO personal junk. NO ramblings about what it all means. FUN ONLY. I've resurrected my favourite posts from the old blog (I actually missed them), and every new post will be joke/fun-related.

This is mainly because I miss having something to write on a regular basis. I won't be updating it every day, but rest assured that when I do, it'll be solid as fuck and mostly almost entertaining. Also, it will be uncensored because the revived version will not be followed by my gargantuan Mormon fam (I love 'em, of course, but you know...)

So bookmark it - or subscribe or follow or whatever - go back through some of your beloved favs, and let's get shitty on this internet!

Monday, November 15, 2010

I am probably capable of some crazy sh*t

Sometimes my body gets these urges...

SIKE. This isn't a post about things that will make you uncomfortable in a pervy way. It's just an "I've been on the internet too long doing boring work and I need a distraction oh dear god I need a distraction" kinda post.

Sometimes I wonder what I'd be capable of in a do-or-die situation. Like, you know how sometimes when you're playing sports or when you're just pressed to do some physical feat without time to think about it, and you totally nail it? Those magical times where your body is like "eff off, brain. I got it," and you casually toss a crumpled paper into the trash from 20 feet away and everyone who sees it secretly thinks you have a crazy athletic past?

I wonder what I'd be capable of if I was in some kind of emergency situation and someone was like "YOU GOTTA BACKSPRING OUTTA HERE OR WE'RE ALL DEAD". I'm pretty sure that if I wasn't given the chance to think about it, I'd backspring the hell outta there and save countless lives. Positive, in fact.

Or say, there's a basketball that has a birthing cat in it and it needs to swish gently through the basket and land in some blankets or else the kittens won't make it. Preeeeettty sure I'd swish that shit.

Or like, someone backs me into an alleyway and my body instantaneously simulates crazy fighting moves, gathered from all the times I've watched Beverly Hills Ninja. Boom, whack, hiYAA! And then saying something cool as I leave like, "Your balls called, they're really small..." Or something more clever because my brain would be so impressed with my physical instincts that it would reward me with the best line ever.

Yeeaaaahh. I guess I should get back to my stuff.