PAY ATTENTION TO ME!

There’s this weird thing that people do that baffles me. As an artist, it has happened to me but it clearly isn't just confined to art, but the puzzling phenomenon of people taking credit for things that they obviously didn't do.

That is not to say that I don’t get the general idea of lying to get attention...

But the chances of it backfiring and looking like a total jackhole when you are figured out totally skews the risk vs. reward ratio way too far into the TOO RISKY category for me and I think, most reasonable people. So much so that I have never actually considered such a ridiculous idea.

Part of the real confusion I experience with this is this "flying to close to the sun" urge that seems to come with the urge to lie about your achievements. Instead of lying in a small way that might give a small boost, it seems to be a huge ridiculous lie that is just so obvious it's kind of insulting. *cough Trump cough*

But there is another way.

For all the flack that millennials get, there’s this beautiful thing I have seen happening in the current generation that would totally satiate these low effort attention seekers without resulting in them needing to delete their Facebook account when their artist friends call out the fact that they have claimed to paint a picture that was painted by a really well-known artist…

It’s called… ASKING FOR COMPLIMENTS.

Honestly, it is the coolest thing about people now. When you’re having a bad day, if you’re friends with leftist millennials or similarly positive nice people, you can just ask for the attention you need and (if you don’t do this on a daily basis and you’re not a total asshole) they’ll totally say nice things about you to make you happy.

This also works with asking for a gif of kittens and pictures of hybrid corgi mixes, I've found. But seriously, have you looked up corgi mixes?



Anyway, if you find yourself in need of emotional support sometimes and claiming you painted the Mona Lisa starts looking tempting, I urge you to try asking for a compliment to get the ego boost you need. Just say, "Hey friends, I'm having a hard time. Could you say something nice about me to cheer me up?"


And there’s the added bonus of knowing who to unfriend if anyone tries to make you feel bad about having emotional needs that are met by receiving external validations sometimes, 'cause you deserve to be happy and feel loved and people who try to shit on that don't deserve corgis AT ALL.

My hole is gonna be HUGE!

I’ve been waiting for a while to discuss this, because this friend of mine in high school once told me about this theory she called “The Point of Light” and the idea is that when you are excited about something, the more you talk about it, the less likely it is to happen, and since I grew up in a household where that was basically the rule, the idea stuck. I know that seems like it has nothing at all to do with lights, but it does if you imagine your anticipation to be a pinprick in the dark that lets light in, and the more you share it with others, the bigger the hole in the darkness gets and apparently bigger holes are less appealing to the gods of wish granting. I think her theory might have been slut-shaming me. Anyway, now that Exciting Event I Didn’t Want to Jinx ™ has happened, (and not without a ton on ridiculousness attached to it) I am free to talk about it.

I moved AND I’m not exceedingly poor anymore, thanks to the government (for the time being, as long as President Dickface and his Zany Cabinet ™ don’t fuck up financial aid for old-assed people going to college. That would be my husband, not me.) Mr. Rose is a college student now and we are living in an adorable tiny house on a college campus in Montana with our cat and a veritable menagerie of woodland creatures. It’s adorable. A gopher cut me off as I was going to get in my car yesterday. Bunnies frolic on our front lawns. It could only get cuter if they talked, or carried tiny baskets with them (makes a note to buy tiny baskets).

But the not being really really poor part is exciting for me. When I’ve said I was poor, I mean, we had no actual income for three straight years and very little for years before that. Like, my mom gave us money to cover things we really needed during that time (‘cause who wants to live with a person who needs - but can’t afford - tampons), and the government paid for our food, but otherwise, I didn’t touch my debit card for literally years. I was actually confused when I had to use it again because ATM technology has changed so much in the last 5 years or so since I last used one. And with the influx of money that I now have access to, I have discovered a deep and passionate love for makeup. I want all the makeup. I don’t have all the makeup, and I should probably curb my appetite for it since, holy shit, makeup these days is so expensive, but it is all so pretty.

That’s not to say that I’m good at makeup. I’m not super girly, but I am so drawn to it. And with my art background, I’ve got an idea of what I want my face to look like, but using makeup brushes is just not like painting. It’s hard, y’all. I’ve been watching tutorials on youtube though and mostly it leads me to wonder how is it that I can integrate beauty tips into a humor blog so that Urban Decay and Too Faced, et al, decide that sending me free makeup is a good business decision.

How many of you are into makeup? Would any of you be into seeing what colors I put on my face some time?

Forget Mensez, Here's Period Pocket!

If you have not seen this innovative new product, Mensez**, let me introduce you to it.

Dr Daniel Dopps, Kansas Chiropractor, is marketing a new way to control the ickiness of menstruation... literally gluing the labia shut so your period doesn't leak out. Genius, right!?

According to his Facebook page (which sadly has been taken down already, but this link works), women are idiots for not thinking of this before.

It's such an easy concept, you just apply this "Lip-stick" (get it, it sticks your "lips" together) comprised of amino acids and stuff and then it holds in all your oozing blood flow until you have to pee. Then, some magical formulation of glue that doesn't react to the moisture in blood lets go with the power of pee, and all the blood rushes out where he claims you never even have to look at it or touch it, which seems a pretty amazing claim, since he also says you need to clean up "down there" and apply more of this glue and then hold your labia together, presumably, until it dries enough to stick your junk together.

While this seems like a great idea, I think my idea, Period Pocket, will get the job done in a much easier and quicker way! With just a few pieces and a little glue, you can use your labia to capture all your blood without having to reapply any pesky glue. Allow me to illustrate!

The metal structure to the pocket is magnetic so you don't have to worry about movement making the pockets come unsnapped.

And, Period Pocket doesn't only have to be used during your period. You can also use it to store spare change or small snacks at other times of the month. Also helps with incontinence and overactive bladder*.


Of course, if you can't afford the low low price of $19.99 each month, you can always improvise with a plastic Zip-lock bag and some Krazy Glue. Just cut off the bottom of the bag, glue the opening to your vulva, and then yellow and blue makes green!




*may not actually help with incontinence or overactive bladder. It is really just a deconstructed coin purse.


** This is a real product, with a real patent. Or moreso, it is being marketed as a real product though it hasn't actually been formulated or tested yet because it is one of the most ridiculous ideas ever conceived. Honestly, gluing your labia together...

Cheeseblarg's Guide to Guilt-Free Holidays

I'm very helpful, I know you all will agree, so this holiday season, I've brought you 7 surefire ways to avoid the guilt that tends to plague us around this time of the year. Having a happy holiday, whatever you might celebrate, is a great way to start a new year, so without further ado, 7 guilt-free holiday tips, right this way!

-One-

Don't feel guilty about eating food. Just don't. That is one of the choices you can make. The holidays are about enjoying stuff... why let feeling bad ruin that? When it comes to food guilt, just say no.

Because you can choose not to feel guilty for eating ALL THE FOODS!

-Two- 

But what if someone tries to guilt you for eating food?

If I had a million dollars for every time someone put out food and then asked me snidely, "do you really NEED to eat that?" I would have enough money to get a really good defense lawyer for stabbing them all with my fork.

Here are some good responses if you encounter this kind of bullshit this holiday season:

Say yes cheerfully (and then shove the food in your mouth). 

Deliver a simple "nope" (and then shove the food in your mouth anyway).

Tell the inquirer to fuck his/herself (also shove the food in your mouth).

-Three- 

Don't eat babies. Eating babies generally upsets people and you should totally feel guilty about it, you monster. What's wrong with you?

-Four- 

Enjoy everything you can because this time of the year is full of so much deliciousness. I mean, the holidays are about getting together and eating things... or eating alone at home with no pants on while watching Netflix with your cats.

You're making them wear holiday costumes anyway, you might as well have some spiked eggnog while you, Fluffernutter, and Mr. Whiskers binge watch Supernatural.

-Five- 

Don't kick orphans. This makes most people feel pretty guilty during the holidays, again, for good reason. Perhaps you could buy some toys for underprivileged kids or maybe just watch this Toys for Tots commercial with the kid who asks the Marine if he's Santa and cry on your cat.

I'm not kidding, I cannot watch this commercial without crying. *wipes eyes on Stevie*

-Six- 

Don't buy clothes in the wrong size (in the hopes of fitting into them) to stress yourself out before holiday parties. Seriously, having to spend time with people who take out their life's unhappiness on other people is NOT the time to sabotage any vestiges of your own happiness.

-Seven- 

Don't be the person who tells other people that they should feel guilty this holiday season. People remember they are expected to feel guilty, I promise. They don't need you to tell them. They also don't need you to bring celery to holiday parties, not because it's delicious and delightfully crunchy, but because you have appointed yourself the diet fairy who has arrived in order to keep everyone from eating delicious fatty food.

Vegetables are not above shaming you.

 Leave festive people alone...unless they're eating a baby or kicking orphans... then you can totally remind them that everyone thinks they're awful!

And with all that said, may your holidays be merry and bright and completely free of guilt!

Cheeseblarg's Slutty Halloween Extravaganza

We all know that "sexy" Halloween costumes have totally gotten out of hand. There are tons of humor sites out there enumerating all of the ridiculous designs.  This humor site is not content to just sit back and observe the insanity. Instead, I am jumping in myself, with both feet.  I offer you, Cheeseblarg's Slutty Halloween Extravaganza.

Life Lessons: Inside Voices

I've noticed, since it's heading towards summer (here in Montana, it is not quite there yet), humans, particularly of the vagina carrying type, have seriously upped the negative self-talk. You know, where you announce to the world (or repeatedly to yourself) that your (name of human body part) is (adverbly/adjectively) (negative adjective).

 I used to do this ALL THE TIME.  In health class in 11th grade, we all had to introduce ourselves, and my introduction was, "I'm JRose, and I'm fat." and that wasn't a simple declarative like I use now, it was an attempt at being mean to myself, and to let everyone know that I was aware of my (negative adjective) fat, and they didn't need to tell me because believe me, I thought I was (negative superlative adjective-er) than they could ever think me.

And I was superlatively unhappy.  Even if my body changed, I wasn't happy. No matter what happened, I had a negative remark to fit the occasion, and while there were certain jerks in my life who helped me cumulate those negative thoughts, mostly, it was me, repeating them in my head, allowing people and companies to steal my self-esteem and sell it back to me wholesale. It is a lucrative business, selling self-esteem.

But here is what I learned... there is an unending supply of self-esteem out there, so much that no one ever needs to mine it from someone else. All it takes is... not buying into that bullshit.

Now, I am not saying that everyone should be a stubbly smelly bridge troll, unless you are into that sort of thing (not that there's anything wrong with that), but if you are tired of feeling like crap about yourself all the time, you can totally stop. You don't have to do a thing other than telling your jerk brain to shut the hell up when it starts nagging you. When it starts saying, "Jesus, Joe and Mary, think your thighs could possibly make anymore sound when you're walking!?" Say to that voice, "Yes, asshole, corduroy, now shut up. I have some Doctor Who replacement to think about... ain't nobody got time for your smack talk." And when it says "You have wrinkles at the corners of your eyes, you looking fucking ancient." say, "I laugh a lot, that's why, bitch. I'm happy and I have fun when you aren't here talking shit about me! So I get all squinty -- enough that, of course, my skin shows it. That is what skin is built to do." And when it says, "You're a loser!" Say, "YOU'RE A LOSER! SHUT UP! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO ACCOMPLISH ANYWAY?! You know we are working here in the same body, right, if I'm all the shit you say I am, you are too, and you know what, neither of us really are, and there is no reason for any of this! I am making the choice to silence you RIGHT NOW. ZIP IT!"

Does this mean sit in a hole for the rest of your life pleased as punch about how awesome you are without ever doing anything positive? Probably not. I mean you could, if you really wanted to, but there are very few people I know who think sitting in a hole singing their own praises is terribly fulfilling. But it does mean that you can cut yourself some slack.

For example, I don't run, I have no desire to run, I don't think I would even really want to run if someone was chasing me with a machete.

Not once in my life have I enjoyed running, so things that pertain to my skills as a runner are not things that I worry about. Why should I? I have no interest in it, so it's not something I should be ashamed of having no skills in.  I do worry about my skills as an artist, it is important to me, and is fulfilling. But sitting here telling myself that this artist does better work than I do does me absolutely no good. Just like telling myself that my knees are not what I consider ideal, visually, does nothing positive for me. They are the knees I have. They have gotten me through 36 years of walking, and skipping, and sitting, and hopping, and other things that I won't write about because my mom reads this (Hi Mom!), and I would rather have them than have no knees at all. Seriously, my lower legs would be much less appealing if they were trailing behind me attached by some rope and a twist tie. So, I am not saying that you should never work on things that are important to you.  That is not what this is about.

I'm just saying, there is a good chance that your life, and the lives of those people you surround yourself with, might just be a little more awesome without that dick voice in our heads being allowed free run of the place. That little voice is usually just trying to fuck shit up, because it is what we have all been trained to do, and it's easy, it's habit, and because for some reason, this society has some sort of beef against people who actually like themselves. Companies have a HUGE interest in convincing you to hand over your self-esteem so they can mass produce it, package it in fancy wrapping, and then sell it back to you by working in collusion with that little fucker in your head. Your self-esteem is YOURS. The word "self" kind of assumes that... you already have it. Sometimes, you just need to shut that son of a bitching voice inside your head off so you can hear it.

That said, my challenge to everyone reading this, should you like to experiment, is to do what you can to shut that voice up for one full day. Just one day of no complete negative self-talk (complete, as in allowing the whole thought to come out unchallenged). That voice is gonna yell like a toddler having a temper tantrum most likely, so don't let the backup voice chastise you for the first voice trying to get its way, but try, for one day to see how you feel without negative self-talk, and let me know how it goes!

Pintester Movement - Cheese Porn

So, Sonja Foust, over at Pintester.com has started The Pintester Movement, which is a concerted effort to try Pinterest Pins and post about them, and I figured I would use it as an excuse to try some pins that I have on my Pinterest "Nom Nom *Chomp*" board, because it was something to do, and I always find myself putting off making things that I really want to eat because it takes effort.

The problem is, I am too awesome for this project. Or else I only pin things that are well within my scope of abilities. Notice there are no pins of things that require dipping or patience, ala How Not to Make Cake Pops. I know that making cake pops (which I just typoed cakepoops, clearly a Freudian slip, because we all know how I feel about those asshole treats), will make me want to stab people, so I chose something amazingly easy, and excelled at doing as little as possible, as the recipe demanded.

Recently, I found the food blog "Oh Bite It!" It is like my foodie spirit animal. Every post has bacon, or fried, or some sort of combination of butter and sugar, and that really speaks to me, in an OMG PUT THE FOOD IN MY MOUTH, sort of way. At this point, I have stopped pinning all the things I want to make from that website because my entire food board would be filled with her recipes.

The pin I chose to test for the Pintester Movement maiden voyage into the waters of possible fail, was "Oh Bite It"'s Grilled Cheese Pull-Apart Rolls, mostly because I miss grilled cheese so much, and any promise that something will taste like grilled cheese, while not causing my insides to try to kill me is something I am going to want in my mouth. I also thought it was kind of appropriate for da Cheeseblarg.

So I followed the directions, which are basically, open a can of biscuits without having a heart attack (almost failed on that one), flatten canned biscuit, stuff that motherfucker with velveeta cheese, pincha-pincha-pincha, drown in butter, and bake.

I made half the recipe because there were only two people eating it and I was also making pizza soup to go with it, because half a pound of cheese in bread is apparently not a full meal.

Only the rolls took 40 minutes more to cook through than the instructions lead me to believe, and when I tasted them finally, they tasted like canned biscuits stuffed with velveeta cheese, and not so much like grilled cheese. I was slightly disappointed, even though they were really easy to make. But then, the next night, having the leftovers, because I could only eat one roll the night before, reheated in the microwave, they tasted exactly like a grilled cheese sandwich, and all was redeemed.

That means I will be making these again, and I have complete faith that I will enjoy anything that Oh Bite It comes up with.

This image makes no sense, I just wanted to draw myself in a cute polka dotted bathing suit.

The biscuits' identities have been hidden for their safety.

You look like a monkey and you smell like one too!

And to celebrate, here are some of my favorite things currently:

(video above)

And as much as I am amused by Gangnam Style, I love this video below even more, especially when you read the translation:

And a birthday wish from my best Harry Potter nerd friend. I once made her a chocolate cheesecake for her birthday, with the Hogwart's Coat of Arms on it, created with royal icing, and snitches made of Lindt truffles dusted in edible gold powder. This was nearly as enjoyable, though I had no idea she had an animagus.

Also, I received a new drawing tablet as a present, which I love the heck out of... mostly because it makes me draw better, and it is awesome and fancy.  

Here is a drawing of my friend's adorable pug, Ollie, that I did with it:

So yeah, happy birthday to me (as of 4:04 in the morning, October 2nd). Thank you for reading the silly things I post, and for commenting, and clicking reaction buttons for another year. <3

Crazy Mike and the Debbie Stick

Hey, mom and dad, you might want to skip this one…

Yesterday, I was in the gift shop in St. Regis, Montana, which is one of my regular stop-offs when going on road trips because it is roughly 2/3rds of the way from my house to my friend’s house, and because once I took a bus to Washington State and it stopped there, so since professional drivers deemed it a good place to stop, I do too. Also it has a Live Trout Museum, and if you won’t stop for a Live Trout Museum, what the hell will you stop for?

During this particular stop, I was searching this giant gift store for something small and amusing to give to a Cheeseblarg follower on Facebook, because I like rewarding people for paying attention to me and humoring me without my having to actually put a lot of effort into posting. I think of it as Operant Conditional Love.

What I wanted to buy was a flashing solar keychain that said “Debbie” but I realized that I hadn’t told you the story that makes referring to everyone as Debbie hilarious, so I bought something else that was equally as amusing, to me at least, and made a note to tell you guys the story, which is what I am about to do.

When I was in college, I had low self-esteem, which as we all know, leads to some really bad choices and amusing tales, thankfully. This story started at a Drag Show at the gay club in my college town. I sat outside on the porch, smoking (which I no longer do), and was approached by a very handsome guy who I had noticed around town before, due to his handsomeness, and somehow, the details of which are fuzzy, it lead to us making out by the stairs. (Yeah, parents, I told you to stop reading this).  As I was giving him a ride home, it occurred to me that I didn’t really know him and he was leading me down unlit and unpaved roads and that he might be leading me to a dark, out of the way clearing where he was going to murder me, but, as you might have guessed, since I am writing this now, and called it an amusing story, he didn’t kill or rape me, for which I am quite thankful.

I didn’t bother getting his number or anything, I just dropped him off and went back to my dorm because I realized that my stupidity was overwhelming, and that while it was quite an experience, it was really a dumb DUMB choice to let someone into my car who I didn't really know, but I could now cross “make out with random attractive stranger” off my list of things to experience in life, and yay, I survived it.

Except Crazy Mike apparently didn't feel the same way about the experience that I did.

I think it was when he started giving me random presents that he got the nickname, Crazy Mike. The first was a Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch tape. No case, just the tape.  And I should probably mention that this was about 1996 so Marky Mark had not been heard from for about 5 years.

 The next time he gave me a ring. I think it was a man’s ring. He might have found it discarded in the street.

“Oh, that’s nice…” I said sitting on the porch of the gay bar with my friends.
“Yeah, we’re gonna get married.” he told me.
“Oh?”
“You’re my girlfriend now.”
“Oh…” For fuck’s sake.  And THIS is why you are not supposed to make out with random strangers, THIS right here.
Entirely creeped out by this, I tried avoiding  the gay club. Crazy Mike, however, started showing up all over town, usually sitting on the hood of my car when I would come out of Denny‘s or Simon‘s. I drove a big ugly station wagon. It was pretty easy to find apparently.

So after a few weeks of being unable to avoid him, I finally went back to the club, and sitting on the porch was Crazy Mike’s equally crazy brother, Mark.

“Hey, Debbie! Debbie!” I looked around, and then realize he was talking to me.
“That’s not my name.”
“My brother likes you, Debbie.  I think you look like a hippopotamus.”
“Well, thank you, Mark. My name still isn‘t Debbie though.”
“He’s got a present for you…”

Oh yay, another present. How wonderful.

He wasn’t there though, so I went inside and watched the Drag Show, and after a while, I grabbed my friend and went to leave.

“I have something for you.” he said when I came out of the club.
Oh, was pretty much my standard response at the time, because OMG, LEAVE ME ALONE, somehow was not part of my vocabulary, most likely on account of the low self-esteem. I looked up at him, sitting on the top part of the porch, he was holding a knife and something that looked like a very long ax handle.
“I made you this, I’m carving your name into it.”
He handed me the stick, which I really can’t be sure wasn’t a very old ax handle. He had carved two lines all the way around it, kind of intertwining around the length of the stick, and at the top, he was starting to carve the name “Debbie.”
“Yeah, my name is NOT Debbie!”

After I received the Debbie stick, he seemed to lose interest in me, although a few weeks later, he found me outside Denny’s and told me that he had something to show me.  Apparently he had learned my name by then because he had it tattooed really crudely in a misshapen heart on his shoulder. I, on the other hand, really appreciated the gift of the stick, even though I had to change the name to my own, myself, because he had actually given me a weapon that I could use to bludgeon him if he had chosen to take his creepy stalking up to the next level. I actually still have it, because it was a nice stick. And also because it serves as a reminder not to make out with strangers who don’t know your name and who have brothers who tell you that you look like a hippopotamus.

Operation: Mother May I?

Here I go being political again. If you think that we would be better off if the government controlled the lives of women, reading this will likely piss you right the hell off and your time would be better off spent elsewhere pretending I am just PMSing.





After reading more on proposed contraception bans and comments about how women should be at home taking care of children instead of working so we don't need things like Head Start, the following occurred to me:

I wonder how grating it would be to Republican politicians if hoards of women tweeted them every time we wanted to use our vaginas to see if it was okay with them.

Perhaps having to hear about tampons, and douches, and discharges, and masturbation, and kinky sex, or even conventional vanilla sex within church sanctioned marriages, 24 hours a day, would make them less interested in controlling our junk.

Think this might make a difference? Want to help make a point? Tweet your daily vaginal activities to your favorite Republican on twitter with the hashtag #MotherMayIGOP 

Don't have a republican in mind? 

You can start here:
@Senate_GOPs
@RoyBlunt
@RickSantorum
or do a search for your local GOP representative on the Google.

Don't have a vagina?

Be sure to share this post with your favorite vagina owner.

Disclaimer- One should never wait for a reply from someone to use their vagina. At this point, your vagina is yours and yours alone (unless you have figured some clever way to rent it out or are a conjoined twin)... take advantage of it while you still can!

Another time I thought I had cancer.

I learned yesterday that I don't like having needles stuck into my face.  I had an inkling before that it was the sort of thing that I would not be in to, but having it done totally cemented in my mind that I REALLY don't like it. I probably like it more than the prospect of having cancer though, which is why I allowed my doctor to put a needle into my face.  If he had just been like, "You know what would be fun? Stabbing you in the face with a needle!" and then he'd come at me all:

 I would have had to use my Hamster Style on him.

But why was a doctor sticking a needle into your face, JRose?

Funny you should ask.

On Friday, my face went all Volcano-mode and the mole by my nose did a dramatic recreation of the movie 2012.

I thought, eh, pimple, whatevs, because I like to talk to myself like I am cool and hep, as the kids say. I kept screwing with it 'til it popped because if I have a giant "end of the world" sort of face sore, I cannot do anything but poke and prod until it goes away or I pass out from pain.
I am not sure what it was, I don't think it was actually a pimple, but it had its sights on my signature mole which is now gone completely because it fell off.  PART OF MY FACE FELL OFF! One of my favorite parts of my face, too. I mean, I would miss my eyelids more, but I really liked that damned mole.

Of course, by "fell off" I mean I kept messing with the little flappy part that was threatening to fall off until it ripped off, but the results are the same, a bloody gross face hole that I was pretty sure was the deadliest kind of cancer, because I always think everything is the worst thing it could ever be... and obviously, my inane expectation that I'm going to die eminently led me to the doctor's office where I allowed him to inject shots into my face to do a biopsy because while it probably isn't cancer, he says, it would super suck to be wrong.

And now I feel sorry for strangers who have to look at my post-biopsy face because I am sure they must feel uncomfortable looking at me. It kind of looks like someone put a cigarette out on my face, which should totally be my story if anyone breaks social code and asks why I am so horribly disfigured.

It's a Trap!

I was reading an article on how to succeed at blarging, and apparently, it is my failure to "get a celebrity" that is holding me back.

I am assuming, at this point, that there is some secret to "getting a celebrity" that is being purposefully hidden from me, because celebrity endorsement is motherfucking elusive. Or more likely, it will take something enticing like... money, or... something of some sort of value to get acknowledged, because offerings of llama drawings have, thus far, been summarily ignored, as have portrait paintings and obnoxious @ messages on twitter.


I'm thinking that I should build some sort of celebrity trap, which makes me sound a bit like a serial killer, but I promise, I don't want to harm them... I would just chain them up for a fortnight and make them tweet links to my hilarious posts at which point I would let them go, if they promised not to press charges.

I just have to work out a) how to get celebrities to come to Montana, and b) what kind of bait I should use.

If you know a celebrity, send them my way...but if you link them to this post, tell them I was joking about the bear trap... and the new car.

Charming Thanksgiving Fun

As I said last year, I like to terrorize my Thanksgiving guests and make them DO things before they can have their dinner.  Because I use up all my creativity drawing stupid pictures and joking about horrifying genres of porn, my staple torture device is "The Hand Turkey." If you are unfamiliar with the hand turkey tradition, you are either not American, were home-schooled, or may have some sort of memory disorder.  Basically, you trace your hand, and make the tracing into a turkey. Very complicated stuff.

I tried really hard to come up with more Thanksgiving crafts, but it took way more effort than I was willing to expend and I thought googling would be cheating. If you have any, especially if they are really awful (not goatse awful, please... although... no, not goatse awful) do let me know.  In the meantime, I created an easy set of print-outs so you can share my Thanksgiving traditions with your families.

Extra llama points if  you post a hand turkey on the FB page... just so you know!

Also, PLACE CARDS!  You have to have place cards at family dinners, because, a) you certainly cannot trust people to pick their own seats, and b) actually telling people where to sit is out of the question. You are already flustered enough trying to get everything out passive-aggressively hot so Aunt Beverly doesn't bitch that the potatoes are cold again this year, and if you have to repeat yourself at all, you may just stab a ho'.

I've included one for if your family has a sense of humor, and one to keep you from being disinherited. Just print it out on card stock, carefully cut along the blue border and write your guests' name in the blank area. Or something like that...



*if you don't know what Goaste is and you look it up, it is not my fault. I'm not kidding. Curiosity/Cat/Yadda. Eye Bleach does not exist.

Why you should leave aversion therapy to the professionals.

I hate black pepper. You know, the seasoning, that everyone in the world uses, that makes people sneeze? Yes. I hate it. And I hate it, I realized a few years ago, because I was conditioned, as a child, to hate it.

Here is a pro-tip for you: If you decide that it is a good idea to do DIY aversion therapy on your grandchild to get her to stop sucking her thumb by mixing something bad tasting into nail polish that is placed on her thumbnail, don't use a common spice that will be in her food for the rest of her life. Unless you want to be a dick, in which case, go for it.

Non-confrontational Guide to Getting Your Waiter's Attention.

My waitress at lunch today was pretty damned inattentive.  Thankfully, she got back to us before I got to the cacophony.

I would like to state, for the record, that the comic originally said "waitron" instead of waitress, but it was argued that normal people don't use the word waitron and that it would mar the joke.  I urge you, however, to start referring to your wait people as waitrons, as it is an awesome genderless term that makes them sound like SUPER SERVICE ROBOTS.

An illustrated guide for taking gross pills.

There are a plethora of really BAD tasting pills out there, and while children are usually the ones we need to worry about, some of them taste so bad that even adults need some help getting them down. The pills, not the children, what's wrong with you!?

I started taking Prednisone a week ago.  After two days, I couldn't take it any more and didn't think I would be able to force one more pill down my gullet, let alone four a day, so I used my well-cultivated creativity and came up with a way to take them without having to run around in circles, gagging and shuddering. I'm not even kidding. That stuff is horrible, almost beyond measure. As bad as guaifenesin (mucus reducing pills) and flagyl (you're usually nauseated before you take this, the taste doesn't help) or any prenatal liver vitamin.

So I bring you, my handy dandy guide (for adults and children) to take pills that make you want to shave your own taste buds off:

One word of advice: Be sure to take care to wrap the pill tightly. Pokey edges don't facilitate the swallowing process, at all!

And clearly, use liquid to swallow the pills, still. Do I need to mention that? 

Why my house is now clean.

There are two types of people who watch the show Hoarders- those who start cleaning their houses before the show is even over. . . and hoarders.

VIRUS WARNING! QUICK! GIVE ME MONEY!

While I am entirely against violence and revenge, people who create those viruses that pretend to be virus warnings that try to trick computards, like my sister and her husband, who don't have anti-virus programs on their family's laptop (because WHO NEEDS ANTI-VIRUS!? YAY! THE INTERNETS! OOH WHAT'S THAT!? CLICK CLICK CLICK!

)

into paying said virus makers to remove the virus on their site that pretends to be "Window's Helpful Security Tool"... those people, they should have acupuncture needles inserted into their peeholes. I'm just saying. I don't condone violence*, but they kinda deserve it.

*This statement, the result of 11 hours of wrestling with a fake security warning virus out of the goodness of my heart, which kept me up until 6am, running and rerunning two different malware removers and spybot s&d, to try to get my sister's computer usable for her work trip (which she told me about last night at 7pm), only to find that the virus keeps me from being able to finish the last step to remove it (installing an actual anti-virus program) so that the whole hard drive needs to be wiped, though the backup OS disk has been lost of course, is not representative of my usual feelings or intentions towards hackers, who really should DIAF until I get more than 4 hours of sleep. Really, die.

<3, JRose

Stick it!

When I went to the doctor's office last Wednesday, the nurse I saw suggested that acupuncture might be the cure to my ridiculous intestinal ailments.  I fail to see how sticking needles into me will make me not allergic to things, but other than the whole, sticking needles into me, what could it hurt? Surely it wouldn't make my food intolerances worse.

After talking to the acupuncturist, my worries were allayed that the cure would surely have something to do with stabbing needles into my eyes, because of course, to me, something is not really valuable and useful unless it is the most unpleasant scenario you can possibly imagine. Yes, so no needles to the eyes, no needles to the pee hole, just a bunch of holding things I am currently allergic to while she stabs needles into my back to teach my body that freaking out at food and medicines is not acceptable and will be punished with repeated stabbing. That should do it, right?

Unfortunately, the treatment would cost over 900 dollars and though she SAYS that I would have no allergies when she was done, and I could eat bread again until it grew out of my ears, I don't think she is willing to guarantee that.  There is also the problem that I do not have 900 dollars nor the prospect of having that much money that I will ever be able to spend on something that may or may not work, that also requires me to be stabbed repeatedly.  If I had that much to spare, I would do it. But I'm an industrious and frugal kind of gal, maybe I could just do it myself.  I'm sure we have a box of straight pins in the sewing room somewhere.

Can I take your order?

There are times that I wonder if things just happen to me to give me something to write about.  It is really like my life is one big chain of weird event that have no apparent reason other than to give me material.  Today I went out to lunch shortly after noon and we got stuck in a giant line.  I really wanted a bacon cheeseburger so I just stood there patiently.

After five or ten minutes of waiting, an older lady walked up with a stack of paper.  "Are you two together?" she asked us and we told her we were. "Okay, I'll start with you then."  We were smack dab in the middle of the line of about twenty people and the women in front of us turned around, incredulous. It seemed a nice touch though, that in a fast food place they would send out "Hostess Vicky" to expedite orders to get us all out of there soon. So she asked us what we wanted and we told her our order which she wrote down in lovely wide looping cursive and then, after she had written it all down, she handed the paper to me. Not to the people in the back, not to the cashier. She handed it to me. What the quack was I supposed to do with it?
I guess she was bored and wanted to seem useful? Maybe she was taking a census? When we got to the register, we had to order again, even after handing them the mystery paper, to clarify, and then, of course, they got our order wrong.

I insisted on taking a picture of it to prove that I don't just make up this stuff.