I was all prepared to come back from my winter holidays to talk about the amazing little gem dropped on us while we were all celebrating:
Kim Jong Un threatened “merciless war” on South Korea by a fucking fax. Which, on one hand, is hilarious because I picture him typing it out on a 6-year-old Dell computer, on which he’s still making reasonable monthly payments of $120/month. He probably used Microsoft Office, and was even kind enough to use a cover page.
But on the other hand, it is INFURIATING. Aren’t these the same guys who claim to have unicorns? If you have unicorns, why the fuck are you sending faxes? Strap one of those winged-bitches up with a majestic scroll, and point his horn south-ward. I’ve never had anyone wage war on me before, but I can guarantee that if I were put on notice by a majestic unicorn, I’d take it a hell of a lot more seriously than a fax.
Alas, I can not rail on our favorite tiny little Korean fella quite as much as I was hoping, because so much happened during my holidays, that I felt these little gems deserved just as much as attention. Here are my top 3 moments from my winter holidays:
3. I took alcoholism to its classiest level yet: I got a drinking muff. A drinking muff is just a regular muff, but I have a flask hidden in it (shhhh). Not to be outdone, Calm-Ass Husband turned his jacket into a “beer jacket.”
We went and looked at Christmas lights, and it was our best Christmas light trip, yet. Look how
drunk happy we look!
2. I started a new pilates class, and dropped it the same day:
First of all, let’s get this out of the way right now: I don’t say the “f” word. No, not “fuck.” If you’ve read literally any other article I’ve written, you know I dole out f-bombs like little positive reinforcement treats to keep you all coming back. I don’t say the “f” word as pertains to breaking wind, passing gas, etc. I don’t care if others say it, I just don’t. In fact, it’s become a big joke among my friends and family as they all try to get me to slip and say it. My big plan is, on my death bed, to make it my last word. Actually, I will just whisper out a faint, “Faaaaa….” and then die right in the middle. Kind of like the last episode of Sopranos. Those surrounding my death bed will think they’re finally going to hear me say it, then be frustrated forever more, using all their spare time to rant about it in chat rooms and online forums.
So I started a new pilates class, and I ended up with an elderly woman, who apparently had a serious case of gas, right above my head when we were on the mat. I’m not talking little slips here and there; it got fucking awkward. And silent in the class. I seriously began to worry that she crapped herself. And I was trying not to vomit. And the entire time, I just kept subtly slipping further and further down my mat in an attempt to escape the immediate area, without being obvious. I’ve drawn a stick-figure recreation of how I looked by the end of the class:
But that isn’t even why I dropped the class. Do you know who was in that class? FUCKING CUNT FUNGUS, YOU GUYS! What are the chances? Of all the pilates classes in all the town, she had to fester her way into mine. By the time I walked out of the class, I was pissed off, sore, and in desperate need of shower to wash away what I was certain was an invisible field of stranger-gas, surrounding me like Pig-pen’s dirt clouds in the Peanuts cartoons.
Needless to say, I dropped that class.
1. I gave Calm-Ass Husband Herpes
Well, probably not. I am already on his shit list for giving him MRSA a few years ago. For those of you who don’t know, MRSA, per WebMD, is:
“Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) is a bacterium that causes infections in different parts of the body. It’s tougher to treat than most strains of staphylococcus aureus — or staph — because it’s resistant to some commonly used antibiotics. Those who are infected will get cancer and die.*”
* Ok, I made up that last line. But, I mean….WebMD, right? It’s always all “cancer and death” with those guys.
So I got him a mean case of MRSA when I pestered him to come get a pedicure with me and those fucking nail salon bitches didn’t properly clean out the foot bath. I’d been going to that salon for 5 years. The one day I bring my husband, then boyfriend, for a pedicure, he gets MRSA. So my track record was already bad.
Well, for New Year’s Eve, we got invited to a 70s-themed party, and I insisted he dress up. Like the pedicure situation, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea. Like the pedicure situation, I persisted. And like every “guy hoping to get some action later” situation, he finally gave in to me. So off to Goodwill we went, and we got him some totally groovy corduroy pants, and a bitchin’ button-down. And all was right in the world.
Until a few hours later, while at the party, CAH randomly reached into his pocket and pulled out a little blue pill. No…not that little blue pill.
A pill for herpes. My husband was wearing herps pants. By the way, how ironic is it that both the pill to get an erection, and the pill to treat a disease obtained by your erection, are little blue pills? Very funny, Big Pharma.
I saw a panic wash over his face unlike any panic I’ve seen on his face before. Actually, I’ve only seen it one time before. It was April Fool’s Day in 2012, and I told him that I changed my mind about having kids, and I wanted to get started right away. Hahaha.
Luckily, he was wearing underpants. And I’m pretty sure you can’t get herpes from pants. Otherwise, think of all the herpes that would be rampant in junior high from the sheer volume of dry humping (do kids in junior high still dry hump?). And he still got action, because his herpes are my herpes. And that’s love.
I am working on a holiday song for him. Something like,
“Last Christmas, I gave you MRSA,
and the very next day, antibiotics made it go away.
This year, to save me the tears,
I’ll give you something more infectious.”
Eh, I’m still working on it. I hope you all had a great holiday season!