Wednesday, September 13, 2006

XOXOXO! part deux

I know it’s been a while but I been busy! I think the last time we talked I was ‘bout to high tail it to the big city! But a ride to Tallahasee ain’t free, ya know. Thank God I sure got Uncle Stevie wrapped around my little twat like a duck taped maxi pad! And I got the Hyundai to prove it!

So I made it. I’m a little sore, but I’m here. And, shit ya’ll. I feel big time. Talle may not be New York, but it’s sophisticated to me!

I was strollin’ down the street ponderin’ the fact that I’d finally arrived n shit, and then that’s when I got it. The Fear. I’m mean, fuck, ya’ll. This is a big tittie city! I mean I know I’m hot n shit, but even Britney Spears cry-cry-cries in her lonely heart. And I sure is lonesome cause I ain’t got nobody here. All I got is a pair of boobies and a dream.

But I told myself, “Bunny Fuxxx, this is no time for cryin’! You march your sore little beehind into the best modlin’ agency in town and demand yurself an interview!”

So two blowjobs later I was sittin’ in the big office. I mean I was talking to the president and the manager of catalogue promotions! So I sat down, adjusted my titties, smiled like Samantha and told them my name. But they didn’t even care! And, ya’ll know I spent hours workin’ on that shit. I mean I almost came up with a really good pun! But they just ignored me. They were all like, “Do you have a portfolio or something?” And I go, “What’s a portfolio?” And they looked at me like I had worms crawling out of my Fashion Bug dress. (So cute!) So I’m all “Yeah, you might as well be talking about hygiene or sumthin’ cause I ain’t got no clue!” And they told me I had to have a book of pictures if they were ever gonna let me into their catalogue. I guess you gotta get all professional for the president of Sears. Anyway, I was like, “Ooooooooooh” (and I knew I looked hot cause I practice that open mouth look a lot in the mirror…and on Stevie Weebie) Anyway, I was like “Ooooooh, you mean my Myspace page! Well are ya’ll stupid or somethin’? Like I can actually drag my Dell in here alls by myself. I mean, for ass fucking sake, I’m a lady!” And I pointed at my boobs for proof.

Well you know how I said they were lopsided n stuff? (Uncle Stevie couldn’t afford more then 300 dollars for the surgery.) Well, when I pointed at ‘em, I looked down and I saw sumptin’ icky on my shirt. On the big one. And I was like gross! I probably dropped some twinkie filling on my shirt back into the lobby. Wait…omigod, I have to tell you this story real quick cause it was really funny. Before my interview I was waitn’ in the lobby n stuff. When they called my name I was eatin’ a twinkie cause I luuuvs a good cum filled cake and all. Butgoddamnit I couldn’t let that thing go to waste! So I stuffed the whole cake in at once. But don’t worry, I had that thing scarfed in a like 8 seconds. Don’t ya’ll know that’s my specialty? I mean, mamma always told me no lady makes it into show business without knowin’ how to swallow a twinkie in under ten. Anyway, I thought that thing got all Monica Lewinsky on my ass leaving the evidence on my shirt n shit, so I was like, “Excuse me, ya’ll.” And then when I went outside I invet- investimiga- I directed my eyeballs down further and I realized the stuff was all gooey! I was like, shit, I cant be lacktimating can I? I’d heard women who had babies can lacktimate if they got near a small child. And there was a baby in the lobby. But I can’t be lacktimating if I only had two abortions can I? (I know, I know I told ya’ll I was a virgin before but it’s been a few months and things change. And, besides, a girl’s ass can only take so much!) So I went into the little girls room to look at my boobies (thank you, Stevie! Muahh!) and I saw that one of them things was leaking! (In case you were wonderin’ it was the big one, double duh!) It couldn’t have been lackimation cause everybody knows baby formula is cum colored. triple duh! Anyway I looked down at the shit, and I saw, swear-to-fucking-Sex-in-the-City-goddess-Samantha there was fuckin’ green goo coming out my fake boobie like the boogie man melted and was oozin’ out my nipple!

And I was like, oh my god, wwfd? WHAT WOULD FORBIDDEN DO?? So baby, if you can hear me, I’m still here locked in the bathroom of Sears, with a leaky boobie and no more twinkies! Oh why didn’t I bring in my dell? Myspacers can you hear me??? I promise I’ll post, like fifty seven million more of my sexy ass cum fuck me pics on my page if you can puuuleaze call 911! I mean, no twinkies? No penis shaped cake with a mushy filling??? THIS IS A FUCKING EMERGENCY!!!!!!

Sunday, September 03, 2006

I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m gonna make this quick.

I’m currently working on a campaign at my agency that is doing some ads in the style of Gary Larson’s Far Side. We’re not exactly copying him, we’re just using his style to establish the tone of our campaign. Needless to say, to get into the style, I’ve had the pleasure of flipping through numerous cartons he did throughout his career.

Despite the nauseating commercialism of his cartoon, if you really dig through the anthologies, it’s hard to deny the brilliance and cool-as-fuckness of this guy's shit. When I see talent like this, I would think no one could be enough of a dick to piss on his haha parade. But I was wrong.

This is a letter the LA Times received about Gary Larson, while he was working there as a cartoonist.

I cannot understand the cleverness of this Gary Larson. Do these come from the inmates of prisons and are sold to him, which he turns and sells them to you?

What lies behind these warped cartoons? I wish some one would clear their meaning (of them) to me.

To me they are a waste of space and are an insult to an LA Times reader who can find no reason for them in your newspaper.

Signed R.E. Lewis

This hit close to home. There’s been a lot of talk amongst bloggers and on the blogs themselves about negative anonymous comments lately.

Given I’m not the brightest bulb on the tacky Christmas tree, forgive my lame little attempt to wax philosophical. Plus, I haven’t read Ayn Rand since I was a teenager, so I'll probably get this wrong anyway. (I’m really not even trying to allude to her philosophy, but it feels a little Ayn Randish). But it just seems to me that in this world we're stuck with two types of peeps: creators and the sit-on-their-assers. Not to say that bloggers are THE creators of the world, but there is something to be said for the simple fact that we are doing something other than smelling the tips of our ass exploring fingers. There are also hoards of sit-on-their assers, existing as part of the amoeba-like masses, contributing very little – i.e. The Anonymous Commentor. He feels the need to spew out his point of view, much like a drunk spews his late night vomit, while never producing anything himself. But how can his opinions count for anything until he attempts to fucking do something!? Opinions are about as useless as Stephanie Klein working in a strip club. Maybe try putting down the bag of cheetos, wiping the cheese off the keyboard and coming up with your own fucking idea or two! And if you've gotten yourself far too drunk on idiot absinthe to create anything intelligent, then will you kindly put a dildo in that ass you call a mouth and shut the fuck up? Maybe then you'll spew a little less vile chunky cheese colored vomit all over the net and this whole blog world might smell a little better. Cause for fuck’s sake, all we're trying to do is entertain you, and make you go hahaha a little fuckng bit.

Friday, September 01, 2006

blue and clockwork orange

It’s been a busy week. I’m moved. Unpacked. (sorta) But still waiting for those bitches at Ikea to deliver the furniture. Apparently it takes three weeks to bring a goddamn loveseat.

Anywho, it was a long week and I’m too tired to bring the funny today. But I do have a little something I’d like to leave you with before we part.

This week is the start of one of my favorite times of the year. The time when Saturday mornings great me with the hiss of an open Heiniken and the smell of filet on the grill. Where obscenities float through the air so frequently, you can almost grab one that’s drifting by, and pet it like a chinchilla. And my favorite, the shit talking, and all the glorious fighting. The week where we kick-off a little bit of the ultraviolence.

(music: Synthesizers and kettle drums)

College football.

But on Monday, there will be a game that has the potential to tear my little brain in two. For my most hated teams will face each other off, like two forces of evil in a final apocalyptic (yet annual) battle. My friends, you know as well as I do that these are the worst two teams in existence. A fan of one of these school was either too stupid to get into UF or dumb enough to pay $30k/yr for the same education in MIA. And that’s an absolute truth, isn’t it, oh my Brothers?

Now, I can handle watching just one of these schools play. It’s easy. I just root for the other team. But when they both go head to head is when my little neuron fibers start to frazzel like hair in a fire.

I want you to loose.

No, you!

No both of you!

Agh! This hurts!

Ah! The pain!

The brain tearing neuron implosion of football fandom confusion! I am utterly beyond my capacity to wrap my mind around this moment!

But still there is hope. Two hopes to be exact. The first is the wish that both their offences will suck major llama nuts. The second -- their defenses will be good enough to keep the other team from scoring, but egregious enough to never intercept the ball themselves.

And then no one will score at all.

And they will both lose.

But there will still be one winner.

And that will be me.

(music: More synthesizers and kettle drums)

Your friend, Concha Libre.

Shaking her ass.

And her number one foam finger.

That looks like this:

Go gators. Or as we say in Libre land, “¡viva los gators! y ¡viva la concha!”

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Just who do you think you are?

Yoo-hoo, all! It’s me, again. The Anonymous Commenter! And that’s Mrs. Anonymous to you, missy. I been married to the same man for 18 years and that’s somethin’ to be respe’ted! Anyway, it’s a brand new day and as usual I’ve got nothing to do, so I thought I’d pop up to say howdy.

If you were wondering what that big, loud scratching noise was before, that was me crawling out from the big Midwestern rock I live under. I can’t fit my used Dell under there (let alone my ass- HAHA!) so I gotta climb out to do my daily blogroll.

Ahh, let’s start the rounds. Oh, HEHEHE! HAHAHA! WHOOWHOOWHOO! That Waiterrant has done it again. Such a nice young man. Always gets me in a pickle. Ok, what’s next? Oh…Oh my. What the …Jimminy Christmas! This is just terrible! How dare this snobbish little pooterbag make fun of… How can they sit here and say these things on the Internet??? I mean, the nerve! Don’t they know there’s only six or seven sites I read? How can they force me to listen to this? And their blog is just like this day after day. And it never changes! Don’t they think about me? What I want to hear? What happened to writing for your audience? That’s something Mrs. Wiesenburg taught me in fifth grade grammar class and I ain’t never forget! But every day they just go ahead and say something I don’t agree with and, I’ll tell ya, I’m cotton pickin’ mad! I think it’s time for Mrs. Anonymous to get the old soapbox again, and show ‘em who’s the real boss of their blog!

Just because you think you’re some big city slicker in Los Angeles or San Francisco (they’re all the same to me I don’t check profiles anyway) does not mean you have the right to put up your opinions and your fancy humor for us all to read! I mean who do you think you are! Instead of spending the whole day polutin’ the internet with your bitter little stories, why don’t you go out and get a job every other good American? Yes, missy. Hard work is what I’m talkin’ about. Like my husband, bless his soul, who works like an ox. Even on Fridays and Saturday nights! Sometimes he works so hard he doesn’t even come home! But that’s ok. Cause I got a date with my Dell every night. So why don’t you write something we wanna hear for a change? And for your information, it’s not “an stupid idiot.” It’s A stupid idiot.” Looks like somebody was doin’ a little snoozin’ in fifth grade grammar class!

But not me, nosiree! I had almost perfect attendance. I only missed that one day when they went over irony! Whatever that is.

Well, I think that’s enough sopaboxin’ for one day. Besides, I don’t hate all blogs. I mean, who can deny that Stephanie Klein is probably the most brilliant writer since Jackie Collins? And boo on Gawker for posting those mean, mean comments about Kitty Can Scratch. Boo pooty toot poop. That bright child is a real inspiration for women like me. And she can too write. I mean, I tried to write a couple of times; like this one time when I was really mad cause my poodle Daisy Lips ate my brand new pair of pleather Aldos! But, gosh! It was harder than when I tried to give up Bon Bons!

I’m telling you, that young lady has a gift. And just cause I don’t have any talent, doesn’t mean I can’t sniff it out like onion dip at a community center gathering. So you can just take your snarkiness and put it in your pootoodle!

What’s that you ask? Uh, what’s my name? You mean my name? Well, I er, I…Ooop. Gotta run. Who’s the Boss reruns are on! And ooo boy, that Tony’s sure a looker! Toodles!

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Ikea sucks swedish meatballs

We went to the Port Authority and arrived at door #5. That’s we saw them. Hundreds of them. Yacking on cell-phones. Hoarding the oxygen. Bulbous and porous handfuls of sweaty flesh. Bellies soft with stupidity.

“This isn’t the fucking line is it?” I asked. “This can’t be the line.”

It stretched to Harlem. I was pretty sure we’d never make it on the bus. The line was too goddamn long. But as it disappeared through door #5, it appeared as though we might make it on. Suddenly, however, the line stopped right as we were about to board.

“No more seats,” said the woman in charge. “Only standing room.”

“Standing room?” we both asked in unison. “What the hell is standing room?”

But before she could answer, the crowd behind us had nudged us aboard. We discovered that "standing room" meant two things:

1) Standing in the middle of the isle of the charter bus
2) Holding on for your fucking life.

I gripped and held. For we were aboard and on our way. On the free Ikea bus to Jersey.

It reminded me of the time I was late for my train in Europe and had to ride in the cargo car. Only now I felt more like a chihuahua's ass drippings.

“This feels European,” I commented to the Rican.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Carpooling to a destination seems like a responsible thing a European would do. If we were big, stupid Americans we’d be driving to Ikea, polluting the air with big, stupid gas guzzlers.”

“No.” He shook his head as we stood in the crowded middle isle. “It doesn’t feel European. It feels Mexican.”

When we arrived, we discovered that Ikea is probably Mexico’s cousin. Cheap stuff, little order, and delinquent children overran the floor, like they were auditioning for the movie, City of God. (Yeah, I know that’s Brazil.) As I watched the swarms of screaming kids circle around the floor, I had only one thought. What the fuck were these parents thinking, bringing their kids along to Ikea? Because really. What were they going to add to the experience? Will the sleeping infant be able to help the arguing parents come to a decision between a new chartreuse throw or an extra set of curtains? Will the screaming toddler be able to provide insights on wallpapering Vs hiring a painter? Or were they really there to do the duty they seemed to be sent there to perform: stomping on my feet.

“I’m getting my tubes tied tomorrow,” I leaned over and whispered to the Rican. In the country of chaos, I was trying my best to eliminate any confusion.

But despite the disorder, we had to focus. Screaming bastards or not, it was time to turn our new home into Omm.

(Wow. I am super gay.)

After a few hours, we had to put a temporary hold on the torture in order to refurnish our empty stomachs. The only option for food was the Ikea cafeteria, so we grudgingly joined the line of oversized customers eager to stuff their faces with Swedish meatballs.

As we picked up our trays, I couldn’t help picturing the Swedish chef from the Muppets preparing the food. But when I took my first bite, I realized that my imagination was pretty accurate.

“This food looks like it would be good,” The Rican observed. “But when you eat it, it’s just crap.” This was becoming a common theme. The beds seemed stylish and comfy, but were like sleeping on top of a snoring grandpa. The pots and pans looked functional, but during cooking, the handles get hot and bite you. And the although the food, appeared tasty, it could have only been prepared by a chef with the brain of a puppet.

Hours pass. Days maybe. Lamps. Loveseats. Spatulas. It's a blur. All I know is that it ended. So we found a sales associate and asked him how we could get out furniture and end the pain, man!

"Oh you guys gotta go back and get da shit."

You mean the fucking giant sofas and shelves? ....we, uh... we just wanna get it delivered.

"I know, but you gotta get one of dees carts and, you know, put da shit on it, and take it over there," he said, pointing to a line of people that stretched to Rhode Island.

We thanked him, checked the time and realized it would be totally fucking impossible to order our furniture and board the last bus to New York before it abandoned us in this hell. Frustrated, we marched out the door and quickly boarded our last chance for escape. As we sat down, thankfully securing seats this time, I looked down at the bag I was carrying. And I realized, uh…we never got in line. We, um…

“Babes…we didn’t pay for shit.

We just jacked Ikea. Looking around to check for swat teams, I felt bit of tugging in the pit of my stomach. At first I thought my super strict Christian upbringing was making me feel bad for stealing. But upon closer examination I realized it was not guilt but regret.

“Damnit,” I said to the Rican, “Why didn’t we take more?!”

But there wasn’t room for anything else. Cause everybody left their common courtesy behind in favor of mexi-packing the bus full of overcrowding shit. Bags were the size of obese Americans. Cardboard boxes seemed to stretch as long as backyard diving boards. And then, of course – children.

As I listened to a screaming toddler while simultaneously being poked by the corner of a flat cardboard box scrunched next to my seat, I started to realize that children were a lot like the items sold at Ikea. Lunch looked yummy but tasted like a Dr. Scholl’s shoe insole (used.) The beds had comfy potential, but felt like sleeping on old man flesh (hairy.) So then there’s the kid. He looks cute and cuddly, but he’ll start screaming his fucking fuzzy head off when you forget to do the littlest thing. Like feed him. Even once! Forget Swedish meatballs, this is false advertising at its most misleading.

“Well,” said the Rican, trying to raise his voice above the decibel of the screaming child, “at least we got all this shit for free.”

For a second I agreed that our heist made it all worth it. But then my toe got smushed for the eight time by an out-of-control toddler. Nothing is free, bitches. Nothing. Not even stolen pillows.

Update: I'm pretty pumped you guys all hate Ikea as much as me. Feel free to share your miserable stories and keep the comments coming. Maybe Ikea will see it and feel compelled to clean up their act. But, maybe not...

Monday, August 21, 2006

no sleep till brooklyn!

So this, might be what we call a "light post week." (right, like i post so much anyway...)

I have to a) start my new job, meet my partner and try to remember how to concept for ads

b) move to williamsburg -- the rican and i got a fabulous new place which we will be moving to over the week which means...

c) multiple trips to ikea (a blog may be coming about the wretchedness of that place. went yesterday and made a few "observations"...)

d) lots of cleaning. and oh how i hate that....

e) finishing my other job. I'm such a noble employee i decided to give them proper notice and still finish all the shifts i was scheduled for. (barf)

and then there's f) keeping you, my loyal readers, updated with regular posts of hilarity. (see, even that was funny.) ok. i know. i'm not funny. shut up.

and don't forget....

that's it!

Friday, August 18, 2006

Self indulgence and a Streets metaphor

(Warning...this one's whiny. And I guess it won't make sense to you if you don’t listen to the Streets. But given his recent rise to popularity, I’m betting that most of you have. So I’m using his song as a fucking weak metaphor. And if you haven’t, sorry, dude. This probably isn’t worth reading anyway. i only ramble on and on. I just kinda wrote it for myself....and of course, this one goes out to all my homies in the struggle...)

It was supposed to be so eaaaaasyyyyy.

Finish ad school. Move to New York. Get a job. Almost exactly one year ago that was our plan. “Our” being the Rican and me. And it sounded simple enough. I had savings. He had his mama. Never mind that the total combined times he and I had visited New York was under eight. Cause fuck, man. We were smart. And (while I didn’t believe it) everybody told us we had good books. Shit, a few people went so far as to flip out when they saw him. ”Oh, you guys definitely won’t have a problem.” Plus I had Donnell’s list of contacts in my little job searching black book. With hook ups like that I’d been turnin’ the fuckers down! And if all else failed (which it most certainly wouldn’t) I could always waitress at my old manager’s night club. New York, man. We were much too talented to go to some little agency out in Kansas. It was like fucking destiny or something. So goddamn easy.

But little did I know, a grand don’t come for free.

And just like that, easy, quick snap, we had jobs. Like good ad school grads, we printed out ten books and twenty CDs and marched to the portfolio review. And got our egos fucking stroked. “This is nice stuff,” The recruiters said. “Funny.” “Love your work.”

“I really need a writer. You think you can come in tomorrow to start?”

Fuck yeah, I can come in. Hired. On the spot. The Rican too. We didn’t really want to work at the same place, given that we were living together in sin and all, but shit. It was a job. Right-a-fucking-way. Who else could boast such quick employment? No one ever gets hired from these things. But we did, cause we were meant to be here. New York, man. I guess it was destiny after all. So easy, indeed.

But easy come, easy go. We went to our first day of work. The Rican overslept and was late. I got there an hour before he did only to learn the news I already feared in the back of my head. We weren’t just hired to work at the same agency, but in the same office. As a team. “But we’re dating,” we protested, hoping our new CD would just find us new partners. “Then that might be a problem,” he agreed. So the Rican got to keep his job. “And don’t worry, CD said to me. “You’re a great writer, you’ll find something else in no time.” And just like that, I was back on the streets. (This kind of thing is also great for a relationship, by the way.)

So I failed on the DVD,
But I still had to get the money….

Ah, but there was always plan B. The nightclub in Meatpacking. Under any other circumstances I’d never set foot in that herpes infestation. The smoke, superficiality and kamikazie shots were more nauseating than a night of chugging Belevdere. But my old manager offered me the job. And given my situation, I had to swallow my nausea cause I needed the money. The hours were horrible. The girls were bitches. I barely saw the Rican. And my ego, inflated by a portfolio review, was immediately popped by the customers who treated me like a dumb blonde cocktail waitress. A grand don’t come for free, indeed. Too scared and miserable to even enjoy the money, I continued to live like a pauper, spending none of it. I simply spent all my free time worrying I would never get a job. And began wondering why the fuck I’d left Miami, my home, everything I knew, in the first place.

So I failed on the DVD.
Couldn’t withdraw any money.
But I still had to call Mom.
Get the savings and then hurry.

And in this case, "Mom" was a list of agencies. Call. Email. Unreturned Email. Unreturned Call. Fuck! How busy can these people be? On the off chance I actually got through, I’d get the same reassurances. “Oh don’t worry. You're good. It’s just a matter of time.” A matter of time like eternity? Like never? Like I the two years I just wasted in ad school?

Oh, but there was the freelance. The horrible partnerless freelance that strung me along week by week. Month by month. The insecure income that forced me to keep two jobs, the club and the agency, lest I lose one. I was living a schizo double life, with my heart in neither one. Uncertainty began to creep all over me in this shaky state. And this horrible thing kept happening to me. Every day. It started with a little worry. Then the world got a little shaky, like I was on the verge of a ‘shrooms trip. But instead of spending the evening laughing at silly visuals, I began crying. For no fucking reason at all. “Shit, I’ve never cried like this before. What the fuck is wrong with me?” And that’s how I learned what a panic attack feels like. And learned over and over, every time I sat down to write. Kinda makes it hard to get your headlines done. But at least I still had that lucrative club gig. I may not have a career, but I couldn’t complain about pulling in that kind of money.

And then, for reasons out of my hands, the bitch fired me.

So there I was. In the middle of a winter I didn’t know how to handle. Losing one income. Knowing that if I didn’t start writing like I used to, if I didn’t get my shit together, I’d lose the other too. Pressure ain’t good for the anxiety. And, fuck it was cold. And ugly. Where were my palm trees? What the fuck was I doing here? Standing in the middle of a frigid crowded street in giant Uggs I should have never spent the money on, I felt like I was in the middle of that Streets song. Except, it wasn’t just about a bad day, it was a fucking bad life. A stupid fucking me. A whiney immature bitch who just couldn’t get her shit together. So easy, my ass. What the fuck was I doing leaving Miami? For what? For here? For this?

Today I have achieved absolutely now.
It’s just being out of the house I’ve lost out.
If I wanted to end up with more now,
I should have just stayed in bed like I know how.

My freelance ended like I feared it would. It seemed like a good thing at the time – my CD promising me all the contacts I needed. But, of course, the prick never came through. Never returned an email or a phone call. Just like all those other working bastards who at one time or another assured me my book was great. So great. So fucking great. So great everyone I know is working but me.

A thousand pound disappearing from me, is not what I call funny.

Getting up was gratuitous. The alarm would go off, but I’d just roll back over, hiding safely behind my eyelids. Good morning, Day, now fuck off. My twenty-seventh birthday was coming. After 8 months of CD hounding I had no job, and no career to speak of. Waa-waa. Boo-fucking-hoo. Even Dave Eggars was not this whiny.

But then one day I just said fuck it. Stop pondering the suckiness of this hole I'd let myself fall in. And start climbing the fuck out of it. You’re depressed? Really? STOP THE DRAMA! GET THE FUCK OVER IT! Get a waitressing job. Start writing. Just do it. No, it’s not fucking easy. It’s actually really fucking hard. But a grand don’t come for free, goddamnit!

So I went back to old faithful and started waitressing again. It didn’t pay like the club job did. But who was I to complain? There was no time for that. “All writers get shitty jobs,” the Rican told me. “Much worse than this one.”

Easy for his employed ass to say. But still, he was right. It wasn’t great, but it could have been a lot worse. So I just did it. Yoga. Write. Work. I didn’t have a spot at Chiat, but I was a hell of a lot further ahead than I was a few months ago – unemployed and crying hysterically on my bed. And I felt better too. Routine keeping me busy. A month passed and I was about to start working on my book again, my confidence restored and my finances (while minor) intact.

And then the restaurant closed without notice, leaving me out of a job again. Goddamnit! What else can go wrong??? No, no. Don’t ask that question. Cause the universe will always answer you. Just find another job and keep writing. You’ll have a new book by the new year, and then you can start chasing the ad thing again.

And I found a new job. And a better one at that. Mo’ money. Better peeps. And a month later I started luxuriating in the comfort of income and routine. Now I can start working on my book again. Just two kick ass campaigns, by the end of the year. I can do this. Just like I did it before.

And then, suddenly, without my planning, to my great surprise, I found my thousand quid. Yesterday, after almost a year of searching I stood outside in Soho, blinking in disbelief. I’d just been offered a job. A good job. A fucking full time job. In advertising. And it’s the kind of job I really want like I want an IV of Black Label in my arm. Or fuck. Make it Blue Label. Cause, fuckers, I’m making a paycheck! 401k! Health insurance! A kick-ass CD! And it was all out of fucking nowhere. It seamed too easy. No, no. This can’t be. A grand don’t come for free. But a quick mental montage through the past year and I remember. This isn’t some freak lottery win. I earned this.

“Was it worth it?” asked my friend on the phone as I walked to the 6 train. “All that shit you went through. Aren’t you glad it all happened?”

I smiled a silent “yes.” into the receiver my phone’s receiver. I guess things, easy or not, usually end up just as they should.

(Yeah, yeah. I’m rolling my eyes too. But fuck. Let me have my little moment. The normal bitter programming will return shortly.)

Tuesday, August 15, 2006


It’s been a minute since I posted a server story. Mainly because I’m living in denial right now (despite kinda liking my job) and refusing to acknowledge the way I’m temporarily earning my living. I tell myself it’s not my job, no. It’s just some place I go hang out between the hours of 3 and 12. Sure, I bring home a fistful of cash. But it’s not my profession. People just like me. And they donate.

But spending longer time working in restaurants than I ever imagined I would has taught me something. Despite what I used to think as a high and mighty college student, there’s nothing wrong with being a server. Much like real estate, sales or any of the other numerous middle man positions out there, it’s just a job. A way to earn a living. You punch in. You punch out. Then you go find something that makes you happy.

But there are plenty of people who think there is something wrong with it. And what’s wrong with it isn’t the job. It’s the person doing the job. “What’s that? You’re a server? In a restaurant? Oh yee, of little education. Poor thing. You must be stupid.”

So they condescend. They speak sl-o-o-o-o-wly. They treat you with the same annoyed frustration a spoiled rich teenager would treat his retarded cousin when forced to baby-sit him. And there’s nothing you can do but bite your tongue and check your watch. Cause eventually you can high-tail it the fuck outta there and bury your nose deep into a fat glass of cabernet and a couple of brilliant blogs.

But in their perceived social triumph, there’s something they don’t realize. There’s a group whose intelligence plummets far below the average IQ of your every day order taker. A group who was apparently absent on the day in school when they taught the lesson – How Not to Act Like A Total Fucking Asshole. A group composed of you, me and everyone we know. You know who they are? Fucking people.

And this story, would be what I call, proof.

I was annoyed. (surprise!) Standing by the hostess stand on my fifth shift in a row. We were understaffed, overbooked, and my manager had called in sick. And with that phone call he threw us all to the wolves.

Three of them walked in. Two wolves and a baby pup.

If you ask me, children have no place in adult restaurants. There’s a very specific reason that most people avoid eating their food while surrounded by plush cheese eating mice that go by the name of Chucky. And I don’t think anyone deserves a place at the adult dinner table, until they learn to not shit in their pants.

But that’s what kids do. Shit their pants. And then they grow up to be adults. Adults who shit on your day. Adults who missed the lesson in class: You Don’t Change Your Baby’s Diaper at the Fucking Dinner Table in a Fine Dinning Restaurant. But that’s what she did. And that’s what people do. That, or something like it.

And like an unwelcome child, the diaper’s aroma came out to play. To mingle with the normal restaurant smells of garlic and lamb jus. The smell got so bad that one of the bus boys decided to walk to her table and spray Lysol. On her. (Hey, you act like an idiot, you get treated with stupidity.)

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Why he felt she deserved an apology, I don’t know. “But some people have been complaining about the smell.” Personally, I don’t see the use in trying to explain to people like this that there actually are others in the world that their actions affect. But maybe it was some sort of service industry instinct that prompted him to apologize for something that wasn’t his fault.

“Well you can take that then,” the woman said pointing to a napkin on the center of the table. “That’s probably what the smell is.”

The bus boy reached down, doing his normal job of cleaning up other people’s thoughtless shit. But the warm gushy feeling inside the napkin made him recoil his hand in horror.

“What is that?!”

“Oh, that was me.” Said The Moron. “I threw up.”

After changing her child in the middle of a food-consuming environment, where people touch things and then touch their mouths, she went on to publicly vomit in the same spot. Puke, no doubt, subconsciously induced by her gut wrenching behavior. And then she went on to talk down to her server, and all others working around her, just trying to do their job.

“Let me out there.” Said the chef, shuffling back and forth like a boxer preparing for a fight. “Let me go out there and tell her that we don’t want people like that in here.”

Ah, such naïve words for one who deals with food and not humans. People like that? Then you’ll be forced to close down and look for other work. Because at some point in our lives, all people do something like that. Kick her out, and you kick everyone out. These are people you’re talking about.

“Relax,” I said. “She’s just a stupid human. Just learn to laugh at her from back here. You’ll find it’s much more fun.” And fun is what I'm all about these days.

More people were seated. The night continued.

Like the flu in the winter, stupidity relished in its breading ground, mutating like motherfucker. Highly contagious. Infecting everyone in it's path. Too much idiocy to fit in one post. This used to make me mad. Infuriate me to the point of feeling compelled to teach everyone out there a lesson. To give them my class notes, and fill them the fuck in!

But now, after so many years, you can find me in the back. Completely metamorphosed into a bubble of laughter. Hilarity weakening my legs to the point of eventually collapsing Indian style to the floor. Gasping for air. Tears escaping from the corners of my eyes. Guffawing at all these stupid, stupid motherfukers.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Truth in Advertising

So those Osama blowin' fuckers were about to use liquid explosives on planes, eh? Thanks a lot, Towel-Heads. Now I have to settle for that half soda can those cheap airline fuckers ration out during the flight, instead of bringing on my own Cherry Coke.

So here I am, on my imaginary flight, sans Cherry Coke, pondering the various ways I'd like to administer Chinese torture to the minds behind this plot and that stupid smiling stewardess who still won't give me the full can, when it dawns on me. The Sierra Mist commercial!

This wasn't some original idea dreamed up by creatives. They were in on the plot too!

So that giant inconsistent clusterfuck BBDO is really just a network of soda bombing terrorists! And for some reason, it all makes perfect sense.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

They Call me Crackhead

Here we are. You and me. Maybe we’re in a bar. Maybe we have some beers. Maybe I suggest we get a shot with the beers. Maybe you say, “Hell yeah! Muthafuckingshot! Hell yeah!” Maybe we walk to the bar. And maybe, while the bartender relinquishes some of that agave nectar, I, purely for your entertainment, decide to say something weird.

To which you will reply, “Dude, are you on crack?”

My friends, nary a day goes by without the things that come out of my mouth being indicted as products of the various habits of hippies and homeless people. In fact, at one time, your dear blogging buddy, Ms. Libre was known to her closest friends as “Crackhead”- this nickname being official as several people had stored my phone number under this name in their cell. But was it because I was a whiter walking audition for Dave Chappells’s crack-feign character Tyrone? No. I simply liked to watch, read and thus say weird shit. So they’d call me “Crackhead,” and I’d say, “Hey.”

Fun fact #37: I’ve actually never done crack. And if you add up the number of times I’ve done acid, you’ll ultimately reach a grand total of one. (It was slipped in my mouth without my consent at nine am after I’d taken my fourth ecstasy pill while in the middle of a whipit. But that’s beside the point.) So why then, should hallucinogens or the poor man’s coke get all the glory? Why can’t my freakish thoughts be the product of my own weirdness? You know, Crack didn’t spend its childhood years with an unhealthy addiction to reading insane books and trying to emulate the writing styles with its own stories when normal children went out and played softball. Crack didn’t suffer through years of peer rejection whilst trying to woo those same normal children away from their softball game with said written stories. Crack didn’t cry about its friendless existence on its mom’s shoulder, while she tried to comfort it saying, “There, there, Pipe. You just march to the beat of a different drum.” Crack didn’t even grow up later to realize how gay that saying is. So why’s Crack getting the credit?

Fun Fact #41: Aside from popping a few Focus Factors, I’m actually mind numbingly sober when I write these posts. Soberer than your mom. Soberer than Billy Grahm on Bible detox. Soberer than you when you woke up next to her:
and swore off burbon for the rest of your life!

Sure, Kerouac wrote On the Road while careening through the mind trip of Benzedrine, but I just can’t do that. Don’t got the right wires, man. Can’t blog while simultaneously watching purple heads ooze out of the walls and come together as one beautiful pulsating being that sings William Blake poems to the tune of Ooops, I Did it Again while soothing my anxieties with their fuscia tongues that duuuuude, makes me figure it all out. It’d be too hard to see the Zs and Xs on the keyboard.

Relatively Fun Fact Depending on What Your Mom Says #82: I’m actually more inclined to write posts about, for example, Why the Chickens are Speaking to Me Through the Spatulas. But what’s the fun in writing something if everyone assumes it was ghost written by hallucinogens? This story was kinda weird. Yet I felt the need to put the disclaimer on the bottom to illustrate that no, I was not stealing the Rican’s weed. (I did that later.) But since the whole fucking world has decided to crown Crack as the Poet Laureate of Lunacy, I felt compelled to defend my inspiration.

So peeps, just so we’re clear, Godamnit! It’s not crack’s idea!!! It’s mine! I’m the weirdo! I’m the freak! Listen to the Spatulas, man. The chickens are trying to speak!

Now, about that shot. Need some alcohol to bring me down quick. I took waaaaay too big a bump in the bathroom.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Subway Etiquette

You. You there wearin’ the tank top. Yes you. There’re only two other people in here. And I’m certainly not gonna attempt conversation with Mr. Pot Belly Sanchez sittin’ diagonal across. I see you. And I see what you’re about to do. Twisting your underarm skin ‘round so you can see. It’s in your eyes. Bloodthirsty. You’re wild, ravenous. You’ve spotted your prey.

Oh I know it looks all bulbous and juicy. Ripe for the poppin’. You can almost hear the satisfying snap of taught flesh breaking between your fingernails. There’s no goin’ back now. Temptation’s got its dirty little coke-nail hooked on your throat. Pointing out your prize with the other four fingers.

And it’s luscious. Apple-like. Garden of Eden n such.

Well, allow me to play God. Just for a second.

Don’t pop your fucking arm pimple in the subway!

Oh I know, I know. It’s calling out to you. And there’s nothing else to do considering you’re illiterate and all. And perhaps you think I don’t see you. I’m looking away now, right? You’re safe. I’m busy. Buried. Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (good god…does he ever stop whining? Does the book ever end?) But your vision is dancing all over my peripheries. My imagination filling in the sites and sounds. I can see the whole operation from the squeeze to pop and wipe. Examine the evidence on your little finger stubs. Your entertainment oozes all over my senses. You’re the subway ridin’ Garbage Pail Kid. And I’m officially grossed the fuck out.

No! Goddamnit! Don’t start looking on the other arm for another one!!!

Tuesday, August 01, 2006


Omigod! Don’t you love my new slut photo? I’m totally putting it up on my myspace page!

It seems like just yesterday when my brother got that job at Best Buy (you go, bro! So proud of you!) and he stole me that digital camera. I’ve always kinda wondered what my titties would look like on the big Dell screen, so I bit my lip and snapped a pic. And I was like, holy Sex and the City! I am totally gonna be the nexxxt Forbidden!

Forbidden is my fucking hero. Even her name is like totally genius and ironic n stuff. You know, like she’s forbidden like you can’t really “have” her, but really all you have to do is friend request her and she can be in your number one spot – like she is in mine. She didn’t respond to my “Thanxxx for the add!” or anything. But that’s cuz she’s “Forbidden!”

I’ve gotta start working on my myspace name. I was thinking something like “Cum out and play.” Get it? It makes me sound like totally hot and willing, but kinda innocent and schoolgirlishy too. Guyz like that. And it shows I’m more than just super hot but totally fucking clever. LOL! Fucking clever. Get it? I’m on a roll today!

Or maybe I’ll just go with something straight-forward like WetBoXXX or Bunny Fuxx. Cuz, gosh! Puns are really smart n stuff. I’d like totally hate to confuse my audience.

My audience, by the way, is huge. I’ve got 378 friends and counting. Only like, celebrities and porn stars have more than that. And I’m practically a celebrity myself considering that most of my friends are bands and famous people!

Speaking of celebrities, guess which Sex and the City character I am? Well as if you couldn’t figure it out already, as my page says, duh, I’m totally Samantha! When I took the quiz I was scared I was gonna end up being that tight twated Miranda, so I made sure I answered every question as slutty…I mean as “sexually liberated” as possible. And, viola! Samantha! And those tests are proven scientific evidence.

So what if I’m not really that hot in person? Who needs to be pretty when you can just master the “angles?” I've gotten really good at tilting my face in the cum-fuck-me style. But the best are the ones where you can't see my face or anything, so it makes me all boobs, baby! I fucking love my boobs. Even tho they’re a little lopsided, they were seriously the best present I could have gotten for passing my GED. Thanks, Uncle Steve!

But let’s get it straight. Just cuz I got a twat shot addiction, I AM NOT A SLUT! I’m just celebrating the beauty of the female form n stuff. And what's wrong with a little self luuuv? I mean, really. How could I be a slut when my profile says “in a relationship," duh! And I’m practically a virgin because finger fucking does not count! Man, is my ass sore.

But honestly, guyz. I think this new photo is the best one yet. A few more like this and I’m totally gonna high tail it outta here to the big city. Tallahassee, here I come! Maybe Uncle Steve will let me borrow his Hyundai. I’ll ask “nicely.”

Update: For the fucking record, since there seems to have been some confusion, THAT IS NOT ME! Nor is this post ABOUT ME. Instead of ranting about all those stupid girls who take these kids of pictures of themselves, I did it this way. Geez, people.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Another Friday cop-out post

The beauty of growing up in So.Flo. is that it’s virtually impossible to not know somebody who knows somebody who knows one of the flaming falsetto fairies that Orlando used to pump out like Chicanas and newborns. Because of this dangerously close and inevitable first or second degree of separation, me as a drug and alcohol obsessed girl in my early twenties would often be minding my own business on a Saturday Afternoon when I would hear something like this: “Omigod. You know my cousin’s neighbor whose best friend is from Orlando, right? Well he’s totally letting us all into the VIP of Crobar for free tonight. And guess who’s gonna be there. Ok, ok, wait, I’ll tell you. The fucking, swear-to-god, Backstreet Boys!”

You would think statements like this would send my open palm flying towards the side of her head. But there’s something you must understand about 21-year-old Conchita. I would have to go, cause there would be bottles. Free bottles. It’s amazing how much your capacity to ignore sequin wearers and bad techno music explodes when your free cup runneth over.

So thanks to alcoholism, I’ve had to meet all the Backstreet Boys. And most of NSYNC. Even if I was strong enough to see beyond my vodkaholcic tunnel vision, we would have still been forced to exchange fake pleasantries. Cause in my Miami waitressing days, I had to wait on them. Often. Lance Bass in particular. And guess what he was drinking. Ok, ok, wait, I’ll tell you. A Madras: One part vodka, one part cranberry, one part orange juice, one part People magazine.

Never mind all the singing and gyrating and sequin wearing, for way back then, in his hand he held the dead giveaway. I’d hate to get all Stephen Colbert on ya’ll and yell, “I called it.” But well, I think I kinda did.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Born to be a douchebag

It never fails. Sunny evening. The occasional, yet miraculous night off from work. Strollin’ down the street. Telling a friend one of my stories. Aiming to inspire hilarity all around— when my voice gets dropped like I’m an actor in a Cingular commercial.

If you were wondering what else I hate, then allow me to quiet your little curious head. Motor-fucking-Cycles. It’s not even the actual bike I can't stand. If you choose a bike over a car, that’s your decision. It’s the “everybody look at me” battle cry from the head pounding motor sound, which totally disrespects everyone around them and the conversations they may be having. Your motorcycle is the equivalent to the guy who blasts a boom box on his shoulder, while the rest of us carry iPods. And just like the boom boxer in the mall who thinks everyone’s gotta know he’s listening to Master P, bikers are obviously under the delusion that motorcycles are fucking cool. Sorry, faggot. You’re wrong.

Did any of you stop to think that when you’re riding a motorcycle you’re just riding this:

with a motor on it?

Would this be any more cool with a motor on it?

How bout this?

And unless you’re Lance Armstrong (sans yellow bracelet) there’s nothing that says “super douche” louder than rolling up to a night-spot on a beach cruiser.

none of these people are cool

Not to say there’s anything wrong with riding a bicycle. Hell, if I was skilled enough to tackle the NYC streets with one, I would. I’m not cool. Never claimed to be. But with their deafening “look at me” motor revving, these guys think they’re born to be wild. Bad to the bone. Never realizing that once your anthem gets used in a fucking Pet Smart commercial (or any of the many others) it ceases being cool.

Furthermore, when you ride a bike, you’ve gotta wear one of these:

I understand helmet usage is necessary and applaud those who choose to be responsible. But why use all the noise to draw attention to yourself and your sartorial senselessness? This makes you look like some kind of fucking Cyborg alien Star Trek reject. Sup, Klingon? Have fun at your next convention, douche.

Not to mention, if you’re riding one of these, you’re also probably riding one of these:

Try putting a motor on her. See if that improves her chances for landing the cover of Cosmo.

Hey. Everyone’s entitled to their own thing. If Puff Daddy wants to rap all day at home in his PJs, then fine by me. But when he sets up stage under my window and starts performing, then we got problems. So when your bike feels the need to announce itself all over my conversation, as if I need to drop everything I’m doing just to look at you, that’s when you get an “I hate you” post on my blog.

(“Oooooo.” Yeah, I know. Shut up.)

Saturday, July 22, 2006

I am happy man

Please keep in mind that this theory fully excludes any actual truths about the real Chinese culture. So don't get pissy. I mean C’mon. This is not an insightful well-researched blog. It’s more like the looney guy who stands on the corner muttering incoherent diatribe to his fellow passerbys. Maybe you ignore me. Maybe you give me spare change. Actually, yes. Give me your spare change. Cause it’s Saturday and I need beer money.

I was jetlagged. Deliriously jetlagged in Berlin. I’d been there for 48 hours, but it had been about oh, 87 hours since I’d slept properly. And the fact that my first big night out was going to be a evening of Karaoke with a bunch of Germans, didn’t really have the effect of espresso on the fun meter.

And then meth was injected into my eyeballs.


At the front door of the Karaoke bar, I found myself starring into the face of a Chinese man.

“But, I..”


These were not the polite, often timid words of my German hosts. And I had a feeling these may have been the only English words he knew. But they were all he needed. Cause I was totally deconfused. There was no arguing with this man. There would be no unfair blonde American chicky attempts at sweet-talking. Business is business. I would pay. Is now ok?

Yes, my friends. I firmly believe the world would be a lot better if we were more like the Chinese. Here are a few traits I love about my dim sum heroes. But don’t just read them as entertainment. Take them as suggestions for improving society.

Let’s be frank: I suppose as a (ahem-wannabe) writer, I should treasure descriptive prose that paints a vivid picture with eloquent imagery. But the Chinese’s candid language cuts through bullshit like a machete, and gets me moist like some Evil Discussing warm wet blog love. If the Karaoke bar owner would have been an American, the conversation may have gone something like this.

Generic American: “Uh, ma’am, Yes, hello. Hi. How are you? Good evening, yes. Welcome to Long-Time karaoke.”

I'd raise my left eyebrow.

GA: Oooo, that’s a nice tube top. Love the sparkles. Anyway, Ma’am if you wouldn’t mind, we actually have a three-dollar cover charge this evening, which is actually quite a bargain when you consider our 4873-song play list, and of course that wonderful feeling of getting to pretend you’re Britney Spears for the nigh…

Me: Whatves, bitch. I’m out.”

But the linguistically shrewd Chinese man made it clear. If I wanted to come in and sing a little “Eye of the Tiger” with my newfound German amigos, I must pay three Euro. He even gave me a payment time frame. Then he left me alone. This, my friends, is authority. This is how business gets done.

Imagine the peace and order we could restore to society by having Chinese men stationed in, for example, every subway car. The loud screaming of drunken teenagers would be effectively snuffed out with the iron fist command of “YOU SHUT UP NOW!” Sure, the most delinquent ones may initially protest. But ultimately no one can argue with such an uncompromising demand. The newfound quiet would free the rest of us to engage in peaceful activities such as reading our Time magazine undisturbed. Or watching porn, if that’s your thing.

Label whores at the Gucci altar: Or Prada or Fendi or any of the numerous ways you can drop European vacation money on a tiny bag. While some people wouldn’t dare blaspheme the church of high fashion, a few geniuses on Canal St. had another idea. “We make same bag. But with low price.” Sure you can flash your little “Channel authenticity card” all day, but there’s nothing more humbling than paying $4000 for a purse, only to have a little Chinese grandma say, “Look, see, I make one that look just like you for fifty dolla. Hahahahaha, you pay four thousand dolla! Hahahahaha!” Now any whore from Michigan can look as rich as you do. Take that, bitches.

Sweet Words of Encouragement:

In America we have inspirational posters. And “quotes.” And Chicken Puke for the Soul. They aim to enlighten us with advice and hope. But they only inspire me to bitch slap a random sorority girl on the street – just because it makes my soul tingle. But the Chinese have found a better way to accomplish this task – with the fortune cookie. While never actually telling me the future, I’ll usually open one and see something like this: “You are happy man!” And, suddenly I’m grinnin’ like a fat boy gettin’ a hand job. Goddamnit, I am happy man! How did I not realize this before? Maybe I don’t wanna slap that bitch anymore. Just push her a little. Into the east river.

But this is only a dream. My dream for the world that is peaceful and orderly. Quiet conversation is re-incarnated. Grocery stores are clean. And ringtone usage is subject to punishment by Chinese water torture. In fact, I think I have the solution for our Middle Eastern troubles. Just recruit a few Chinese men, send them to the Middle East and hand ‘em a few bullhorns.


Then everyone could make friends and eat fortune cookies. And we’d have Happy Man! all around. And really, who can argue with that?

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Been duped like Oprah reading a memoir

Every morning I wake up, I have to look in the mirror and face something horrible. It’s like a gigantified tumor on my face. But worse. The millionth reminder that, “Goddamnit!” I’m a fucking girl. And there’s nothing I can do about it. (No, that’s not an option.)

This would all be fine and peachy if I was the type of girl who didn't view her existence and fem-habits as an atrocity to society. And could buy tickets to see "The Devil Wears Prada" like it's completely acceptable social behavior. But personally I find 8-balls to be a much more time valuable way to massacre brain cells.

But my brain is not the only part of me that makes decisions. I have this other little bully inside me, who’s pretty fucking strong. (For a girl). A dumb little floozy we call Estrogen. I fucking hate this bitch.

My brain and Estrogen are constantly having battles that make Celebrity Death Match look like the Berlin fucking Love Parade. At sixteen or seventeen, Estrogen used to be the clear winner in these brawls. But as my brain has become more developed (read: smarter) Estrogen is starting to be revealed as the pussy she really is and losing these fights. (Thank fucking god.)

Estrogen: Omigod, you will look so totally hot in [perfectly useless fem-product that even Paris Hilton’s Ferret is smart enough to avoid].
Brain: “Shut up, whore."
Estrogen: “K!”

But sometimes she makes me do very stupid things that are completely out of my control. Like this weekend, when she discovered I was out of face wash. Even though my brain saw the perfectly acceptable bar of Ivory in the soap dish, I was drug by my heels to “check your logic at the door” Sephora . It was here that she successfully tied my brain to an outside poll and let it fry away in the mind melting Manhattan Heat. Thus, allowing me to fall under the temporary delusion that I would hand over my money to this store and try to, as their tagline says, “Believe in Miracles.”

I bought this:

Or as I like to call it, The Four Steps to Stupidity.

Step one: “Purity.”

A bottle of “soap” that really should be enough in one’s cleansing routine. But sadly, mostly for me, it’s only the first step. On the bottle it says, “Cleanliness is the beginning. Then you can begin to be who you really are.” What? A doltish shiny faced bitch who’s now slightly poorer in both intellect and pink coin purse for believing the mind numbing copy scrawled all over your box? I had no idea all that dirt and oil was hiding this. Thanks for exposing the idiot in me.

Step 2: Hope in a jar.

I’ll repeat. Hope in a jar. The actual name of the product makes a mockery of those dumb enough to consume it. (Including myself.) They’re selling fucking Hope. Not “Results.” Not "Shit that Actually Works." They’re selling, “Oooo, I hope it works! I wish, I pray, oh please, oh please!” I’ve also been hoping for an advertising job and, you know, eighteen million dollars. Will they sell me a jar of this too? (And if so, apparently I’ll be first in line to buy it.)

Step 3: Hope in a jar, part 2 for eyes and lips.

Notice the similarities of the bottle on the right to the former bottle of pipe dreams shown on the left. In this step, they have the nerve to sell a smaller jar of the same hope. Ironically creating less hope that I’ll ever regain a sliver of the former smartness that’s currently roasting away outside the entrance to Sephora. (If there ever was any in the first place.)

Step 4: Hope and a prayer.

The directions say to take a small scoop of this powder and mix it with a small dab of "Hope." Like this:

So let’s see. We've already established that I'm separating myself with my money for "hope." And thus, I’m a fucking dolt. So now you're just choosing to ignore this completely and expect me to be a fucking chemist? To take proper measurements and mix shit? You actually believe I’m capable of this? I think you may have won the Biggest Moron contest this time. And unfortunately your prize is my money.

So that makes one, two, three, four steps to what could have been a fifteen second affair with a bar of soap. Washing my face is now going to take about eight minutes every morning and night. Sixteen minutes a day stolen from what could have been time for more intellectually edifying activities like slapping my elbow with a spatula.

But time and brain cells are not the only treasures lost. The grand total of this cerebral abortion? Fifty-two bucks. I bet it’s not even that bad when you compare it to the beauty budget of your average “Devil Wears Prada” fanatic. But then I remember that most of the world lives off a dollar a day. And the girl inside me feels the sting of the bitch slap she deserves.

Luckily, it will take about 6 months to run out of this stuff. So, I’ll only fall victim to the bitch in me twice a year. My only wish is that next time I go, I’ll discover that Adobe has gone into the cosmetic industry, and started bottling Photoshop. Cause that’s a miracle that both Estrogen and I are willing to believe in.

Friday, July 14, 2006

sad news

I just learned that one of my favorite childhood rides in Busch Gardens, Williamsburg is closing. So, in it's honor, here's a pic of The Le Mans, Conchita and her father circa 1984. (i think).

Cherish those fake race car rides, my friends. They won't last forever. One tear. (And then a beer.)

sorry for the cop-out post. more real stuff after the weekend. (maybe)

Monday, July 10, 2006

Hey, Nacho. Why you all up in my name n shit?

Dear Mr. Libre,

We’ve got a bone to pick. You see, long ago, before you were just a twinkle in Jared Hess’ eye, I was christened the one and only “Concha Libre.” And it seems, my non-amigo, that you have stolen the title by which I'm known. How could you even dream of robbing the one and only Concha Libre: Famous Blogger with audience of eight? Did you think I wasn’t going to find out, Mr. Jack-my-name Black?

Maybe if you would have asked to borrow my name nicely, we could have been nombre compadres, no? We could live lovingly in happy Libre Land. We could lucha together and be the Libre champions of the world. You’d paralyze our opponent with a camel clutch. And I’d finish him off with some biting sarcasm. And it’s 1…2…3….and Libre victors we’d be!!!!

But no. You stole. And then something went wrong, didn’t it? Your movie sucked. Ass.

But don't take my word. In between the pained writhing, clutching their eyes and begging for mercy, here’s a few things the critics managed to get out:

“Nacho Libre is the kind of awful movie that ruins your whole day."

“After a while this movie just lays there like a wrestler body slammed one too many.”

“Slightly less funny than cancer.”

And cancer isn’t funny at all.

You know what else isn’t funny? Stealing. Oh it isn’t funny. No no no. Cause the Bible tells me so. And since you’re the mastermind behind this grande nomenclature larceny, you’ve got a life sentence to the unfunny jail. But I’m still free to live a life of libre. Do you see my commenters, my faithful loyal readers, mis amigos al fin, saying these things about me? Clearly, in la copa de lucha de nombres, I am the Italy to your France.

I bet you thought you were being sneaky by not stealing my whole name. "I’ll just steal the “Libre” part. She’s too stupid to notice anyway." Maybe you even thought your name is totally different. A concha is a shell, while a nacho is a chip. Let me tell you something, you Canal Street charlatan. A shell tastes a lot like a chip when it is stale. If you find the stalest chip in the whole pile, it would be just like eating a conch from the sea. And that’s all you are. Just a stale chip in the Mexican food of movie going.

But what can I do? You’re the one grossing 73 freakin’ mil. So go ahead. Steal my name. Bite my concha. Bite it hard. I hope you break your teeth.*


The one and only: Concha Libre.

¡Viva la Concha!

*note: I realize some of you are familiar with Argentine Spanish slang and probably recognize the pun. It wasn’t really intended, as I have no interest in Mr. Libre getting anywhere near mi concha.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

it's called vibrate, bitches

A few weeks ago I was in the restaurant working a party, when a hush fell over the crowd. The party thrower decided it was time to inundate his guests with a little public masturbatory bather, otherwise known as a speech. During his rambles, a ringtone inevitably exploded from the silent crowd. The phone owner grabbed the disobedient device and ran to the back of the restaurant where I was standing.

“I put one of those ringtones on my phone,” he said to me holding it up. “So I’ve gotta wait here until it stops playing. You know, so I don’t interrupt his speech.”

I opened my palm and placed it in front of him.

“Sir, allow me.” He handed me the phone and I so very cleverly pushed the button labeled “off.”

And lo’ the angels ceased their song. And by angels I mean the idiot’s ring tone stopped playing.

He looked up at me incredulously. “How’d you do that?”

My friends, this is an accurate representation of the intelligence of a person who has chosen to replace his perfectly acceptable cell-phone ring with a ringtone: An illiterate technologically inept idiot. You can defend your awesome Kelly Clarkson song all day, but having a ringtone wins you a first place ribbon in The Biggest Loser Ever contest. Don’t believe me? Then look around you and take note of the type of people who purchase these sound pollutants and the songs they’re picking. With all the pop garbage spewing out of every fucking Motorola in this city, you’ll find the number of people with ringtones is almost directly proportional to those with embarrassingly bad music tastes.

Since they’re impossible to ignore, I’ve made a few observations about idiots with ringtones I often hear. Their selections usually say a lot about them, and quite possibly, what they think of themselves.

Jay-Z “Big Pimpin’”

Although the song conjures up mental images of yachts and blinged out bitches, I’ll turn around only to see a middle class white boy rocking out to the first few bars of his played out ringtone. News Flash: Getting a free Motorola for signing a contract that, if broken, demands your left nut, is not exactly the Cristal poppin’ lifestyle the phone’s crappy speaker is pathetically trying to blast. So put a normal ring on your phone and fucking answer it. It’s probably your mom.

Black Eyed Peas: “My humps” There are probably about 2.7 women in the world who have lovely enough “ lady lumps” to hypnotize a few jerk-off idiots into laying down their black American Express cards for some 7jeans. But unsurprisingly, the number of women touting this ringtone is significantly higher. The fact that your husband’s meager middle management salary purchased your new pair of Jordace jeans, does not make you a dancer in a Black Eyed Peas video. Quit shaking your swollen post pregnancy hips and answer the goddamn phone already.

Britney Spears: “Toxic” Not only is the name of this sound pollutant incredibly ironic, but let’s think back to the Britney we knew in the pre-I-married-me-some-white-trash-and-turned-into-a-beached-whale days. Remember her fan base? The ones you saw flipping out and screaming at her televised Disney World shows? Their average age was about nine fucking years old. So choosing Britney for your ringtone is like strapping a giant marquee onto your head that says “MY MUSIC TASTES HAVE NOT ADVANCED BEYOND A FIFTH GRADE LEVEL!” I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of dates, so you’re probably much better off storing your phone down your pants and setting it to vibrate.

Pussycat dolls: “Don’t Cha?” It amazes me the number of times I hear this ringtone and turn around to see a less than attractive young woman fall under the temporary delusion that she is “all that” and smugly pull her phone out of her purse as if to say to the world, well, “Don’t cha?” But if you’ve downloaded this eardrum atrocity to your phone, there’s something you should know: If you’re a chick, chances are, you’re not hot. I don’t mean this as an insult, but the fact that there are significantly less hot chicks than drastically unhot ones does not put the odds in your favor. And the chances of you being hotter than anyone’s girlfriend are about as likely as Britney getting a clue, an abortion and a divorce.

So, please. For the love of fucking god. Keep the Kelly Clarkson hidden in your iPod and the phone on fucking vibrate. Or you might find some crazy blonde chick grabbing your phone and snapping that little pink “buy one, get one free” razor in two.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006


(and now concha gets angry)

I don’t know how you grew up. And frankly, I don’t care. But let me tell you about how I grew up. I grew up in a place where shopping for groceries didn’t invoke homicidal feelings. I grew up knowing if the loudspeaker announced “Cleanup on isle 3” Someone went to mutherfuking isle three and started moppin'! I grew up not having to ask myself, “Will there be a prize in my Cracker Jacks, or perhaps a FUCKING DEAD RAT?” Cause I grew up with Publix, where shopping WAS a mutherfuking PLEASURE.

Then I saw this. The fucking entrance to fucking hell, my brethren.

Maybe their lawyers (stupid mutherfukers who think they can actually defend this place) call it Gristedes. But for the rest of you, you better fucking call is what it is. The nasty, fatty, artery-clogging, heart attack causing, excrement of fucking pig lard, lubricant between the sweaty cellulitey thighs of fat chicks: Grease. Fucking Greasy’s!

Here is a picture of the fucking piece of shit Greasy’s by my apartment. See how the sky is all ugly and gray? That’s cause it just realized that it’s the part of the sky hovering over Greasy’s, and it’s about to ball like a fucking constipated baby who’s fortune teller just told him that he’s gonna grow up to be nothing in life but a fat piece of shit mutherfuking Greasy’s employee!

The other night I was in fucking Greasy’ s trying to buy some dinner to end my pathetic day, when the stupid baby who grew up to be a fucking Greasy’s cashier started talking to me.

“You know what?”

No. I don’t know what. And I don’t fucking care.

“I was laying in bed next to this girl last night and I told her, ‘I think I’m in love wit chu.’"

Thank you. Now I have a naked fat man picture in my head. There went my fucking appetite. And by the way…why are you telling me this?

He fucking continued.

“So she rolls over and says, ‘Steve, what you talking about? We just havin’ fun, Steve.’ And I was like, ‘But really, I think I’m in love wit chu. I’m tryin’ to take it to the next level.’ And she was like, ‘Don’t be stupid, Steve.’”

First of all, telling a fucking Greasy’s employee not to be stupid is like telling a fucking emo to cut his bangs. Because one day this idiot woke up and decided, despite all the fucking fungus free grocery stores out there, he wanted to work at FUCKING GREASY’S. OF COURSE HE’S FUCKING STUPID.

FURTHERFUCKINGMORE, If I fucking had anything that resembled sexual relations with a fucking Greasy’s employee, it had better be because I had fucking IVs of GHB in all six thousand of my veins, regaining consciousness only because the fat fuck ripped them all out. And when I came to, and discovered I’d just been (eww, gross, gross, gross!) fondling a Greasy member, I’d say the same thing. And by the same thing I mean, “Put the IVs back in and get the fuck out of my house YOU FAT STUPID GREASY’S EMPLOYYEE!”

This is the fucking stupid door to get into Greasy’s.
(Note: none of these pictures fully capture Greasy’s grease in full glory. Much more acned in person. Much.) Most automatic doors do what they’re supposed to do and open when you step on the mat. But not this fucking door. Step on the mat here and it will say. “Oh, shit. Do I really have to stop eating cheetoes and get off my fat fucking ass to open the door for you. Goddamn fucking customers!” And then you will hear lots of creaking, which is actually the sound of it scratching its fat fucking lazy ass while it opens the door for you.

More grease.

I'm so fucking glad they could get off their fat greasy asses to clean up this germ infested half finished soda can left in the spice rack.

Uh, yeah. That would be dried mud on that beer bottle.

Gee. I was looking all over for the maxi pads. There they are! Silly me, I should've known they would be next to the Jolly Green Giant. Great organization, ass wipes.

This would be the way the genius custodial staff decided to fix the leaky seafood shelves. Really works up your appetite for tuna.

Seriously. With the way this place can ruin appetites, there's no need to buy Lean Cuisine.

AHGHG. I hate fucking Greasy’s!

Believe it or not, once in a while they do make lame attempts to mop up the constant dripping grease of this place. One time I actually saw a fucking Greasy’s employee cleaning the floor. Unfortunately the ramen section was hovering above the part of floor he just mopped. So I had to gingerly step over it. But when I did, the fucking piece of shit grease cleaner shouted out, “You fucking stupid bitch! Fucking walking on my clean floor you fucking stupid bitch!” And this was all in earshot of the manager. But did he threaten to call corporate? Run to me and apologize on behalf of his delinquent employee who would surely be facing some kind of immediate punishment? Offer to comp my Ore-Idas? No. He fucking only grunted and went back to licking the grease out of the corners of his register.

I suppose you may suggest that I do something like stop going to Greasy’s. “They just opened a Trader Joe’s in Union Square, Concha. Why don’t you try that?” To which I’ll answer, “Exactly. It’s in Union fucking Square and I’m not about to ride down the whole green line just cause I ran out of fucking Pot Noodle!” I say we all go to every Greasy’s and dump buckets and buckets of Dawn on them, since it takes “grease out of your way” and all. Only then might we be able to rid the world of this artery clogger, and buy our Pot Noodle in peace.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

the bride of frankenstein

At work on Friday night, I had a fucking pounding headache. The pounding part was ever amplified by the fact that unless I’m hung-over, I don’t usually get headaches. So I’m not used to the feeling of a little man on cocaine running around inside my skull, pounding on the inner walls of my brain with a sledgehammer like an ADHD child on a kilo of meth. Yeah, it hurt.

“Can you go down to the ladies room and see what’s going on?”

I looked up into the face of my manager. The entire night I had been awash in a sea of “Can you do this?” “Can you do that?” so I gave him a look like he had just asked me to extend my shift an extra 14 hours.

He sensed my pain. “Please?” he added. He was being sincere, so down I went.

My judgment was clouded from my headache, so I immediately pictured a group of women all partaking in a drug buffet in one of the stalls. (And had I still been working in South Beach, that’s probably what would have been going on.) My plan of action was to march me and my headache all authoritative-like and threaten to call the cops, unless they shared. After I had consumed every drug known to man, I’d just float home, having successfully killed that asshole with the sledgehammer in my brain.

I was confronted with something very different.

Walking down the dark stairs to the restaurant’s bathroom, you get the feeling of walking into the basement of a horror movie. The bathroom is quiet and barely lit by an overhead light, while candles eerily flicker in the corner. When i opened the door, I found a woman standing in one of the stalls. She was overweight, some sort of foreign, with an unbuttoned shirt, droopy eyes, and an agape mouth. There was probably a little drool there too, but me and sledgehammer man agreed that we weren’t about to get close enough to investigate.

Eyes practically rolling into the back of her head, she looked up at me and with a deep, almost demon-like voice asked, “Where are my pants?”

Sledgehammer man and I looked down further, and asked ourselves the same question. Because, good fucking god! Where were this woman’s pants?!

“I can’t find my pants.”

Now, one’s first guess would likely be that she was really – I mean like 87 tequila shots – drunk. But as I stood there in the dark quiet bathroom and watched the candles flicker in her bloodshot eyes, I thought I was starting into the possessed face of Damien’s much older sister.

She reached a shaking finger towards me and pointed to the pants I was wearing. “You. You have pants. Give me yours. Give me your pants!”

Me being 5’9” and 130 pounds (187 if you added the sledgehammer) and her at 5’ 2"ish and probably well over 160, I wanted to state the obvious: “My pants would only fit around one of your toes.” But given the fact that she was standing in the stall of a fine dining establishment’s restroom, inquiring the whereabouts of said missing pants, I don’t think this woman could comprehend the concept of being a fat fucking bitch.

Like a demon after my soul she started to stagger towards me and slowly chase me out of the restroom.

“Give me your pants! Give me your pants!”

I suddenly felt like I was a scared-to-fucking-death little kid in a haunted house, running from a ghoulish skeleton, who was inching its fingers toward me with a greedy appetite. So me and my pants hauled ass up the stairs back to the bustle of the Friday night restaurant crowd, safe from the monster in the bathroom stall.

“A!” I called to my manager, breathless. “A, we’ve got a…a…a ‘situation’ in the ladies room. Woman…no pants…drunk…”

She gave me a puzzled look. Probably cause I looked like I had just seen a ghost.

“Just go down there and check it out.”

My headache now miraculously gone, I walked out of the kitchen to experience the comfort of being surrounded by tables of fully dressed non-ghost like people. And I walked out just in time. Because standing in the back of the restaurant, I had a great seat to the show.

The woman had decided it was time to leave the restroom and join the rest of us. And with the speed of a zombie, she sloooowly and pantslessly walked down the middle isle of the restaurant and out the door with all eyes and snickers on her. Since staring at cellulite isn’t much of an aperitif, the management had badly wanted this situation contained. But there was nothing they could do now but ogle and giggle at the fat lady in her granny panties as she walked down the isle. In the spirit of the procession, I thought about humming a little ‘Here comes the Bride’ to the tune of her walk. It would have fit perfectly. Except for one difference. She wasn’t carrying a bouquet. She was carrying her skirt.

Monday, June 19, 2006

karma tastes like shit

Most of you that know me, are well aware of the amount of shit talking I do. Be it, fruity drinking guys or that fucking anorexic bitch over there, there’s always a plethora of excrement flying out of my mouth. And I guess it’s payback time. Because lately I’m having to swallow heaping spoonfuls of my own sarcastic comments. And Mother Karma is not letting me up from the table till I’m finished with dinner.

The first course of this meal was prepared by the Rican. Last week when getting the mail, he couldn’t help but notice a package from Victoria’s secret arrive at our apartment. He brought it over to me, hoping I'd open it immediately. But me excitedly tearing it open was only prelude to his disappointment. Because he gave the contents one condescending look and then turned his nose, announcing he liked nothing.

“Fine.” I said, throwing the catalogue at him. “Why don’t you go through this and Art Direct me some underwear.” Not one to turn down the chance to peruse the scantily clad, he agreed.

“What about that one?” I asked, pointing at a thong I think most guys would agree with. “That one’s cute.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay. But there’s no point in getting it cause it wont look like that on you.”

My face dropped. To the floor.

He, to my disbelief, continued. “What? You know you don’t look like that. I know you don’t look like that. Everyone knows.”

My face was practically fucking the floor.

…and on. “I mean no one looks like that except for a Victoria’s Secret Model. You don’t. So what’s the point of pretending you do and buying something even though it wont look as good on you.”

My face and the floor were now having post coital cigarettes.

All women are painfully aware that because we don’t have 36 hours an afternoon to spend in the gym, nor have the money to afford the microbiotics/coke diet, that we don’t look like Victoria’s Secret models. We don’t need to be reminded. Although I was too dumfounded to say it then, I should have replied with, “Yes, I’m well aware of my sub Victoria’s Secret Model looks. Because if I looked like a one, I WOULDN’T BE DATING YOU.”

During one of my half assed attempts to be a tenth as attractive as the model I’ll never be, I pulled on some sneakers and did my early morning visit to Crunch. Never having been one of those put-on-a-full-face-of-makeup-and-prance-around-the-gym-like-the-Victoria’s-Secret-Model-I ain’t types, I was more the pull-on-an-old-pair-of-Umbros-I’ve-had-since-I-was-fourteen-and-the-rest-of-you-can-just-fuck-yourself chick.

This particular morning I was in a body sculpting, Victoria’s Secret Model looks attempting class. Taught by the sort of perky cheerleader type, that, if I ever have kids, and my daughter turns out like her, then she will have to be taken out back and shot.

Miss sprightly gym class instructor came bubbling and bouncing over to me and pointed to my shorts.


Great, I thought. Way to point out my ugly shorts.


Yes. They’re old. Thanks for drawing the entire class’s attention to my circa 1994 gym short fashion sense. I realize that since you’re shamelessly playing Kelly Clarkson music, you must not mind revealing your incredibly embarrassing music tastes. But some of us and our ugly shorts, would rather go un-pointed out over the fucking microphone in the back of the class.


I thought “back in the day” comments were still reserved for my dad. But apparently, kids, I have my own back in the day, and that was the day of the ugly Umbro. Which means I am officially old. No wonder I don’t look like a VS model.

So far I’ve had to swallow the fact that I’m Umbro wearing and sub VS model looking. But I can still write, right?

Lately it pains me to answer the “What do you do?” question. My ad friends get it. But questioned by anyone outside the complicated world of portfolios, and my answer may seem like a desperate string of excuses for why I don’t have a “real” job. Last week I was asked this question by an old man I was waiting on in the restaurant. While I should have stated the obvious (“I’m serving you your fucking foie gras, what the fuck does it look like I do?”) I decided to save my own face and give the short answer to my most dreaded question.

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh!” He clasped his hands together excitedly.

“What do you write? Novels? Theater? Screen plays?”

“No, sir. I write advertising.”

“Oh. His voice dropped to a nadir of disappointment.

“I thought you were a real writer.”

Fine. You got me. I’m the fucking unemployed pack of Splenda in the pastry shop. But you should see how I rock the runway in a pair of Umbros.