Jeanine is related to Val Kilmer!
Jeanine is related to Val Kilmer!
My mom bought me this tiger-striped trainwreck when I was sixteen. In case you cannot tell, it’s fuzzy. It also came with a matching fuzzy miniskirt. It is unquestionably trashy, right? (Yeah, yeah, the poor fit adds to the trashiness but the muffin top is not the issue, dude.)
Yesterday, my mom called and asked what I wore to my white trash party. When I told her, she got really, really offended. “I didn’t think it was trashy. Not with that cute skirt!”
So, all along, my mom was styling me to be a high-class hooker.
Geoff Brousseau has a joke about shitty apartment complexes; the nicer the name, the trashier the apartment. He moved into a place called ‘Camelot Manor’–sounds nice, right? You’d never guess that in Camelot Manor, there would be white kids with cornrows smoking cigarettes in the swimming pool. If Camelot Manor had a mascot, it would be an eagle wearing a fanny pack, punching his wife.
As soon as I heard that punchline, I knew I had a birthday cake idea. I passed it along to girlpirate, who dutifully recreated it in icing and then sent me this message:
“Lol bakery manager just spent 10 minutes staring at your cake disapprovingly. She doesn’t understand it. She was asking questions about you like “was she weird?” And shit and I finally said “****, it’s a friend of mine…” And she got all flustered and walked away.”
This is what I imagine she looked like:
Which I, frankly, do not get, because I don’t feel anything other than unmitigated joy when I look at this:
I picked up the cake early because I had a lot of work to do in order to get the place to look appropriately trashy.
White trash hero mugshots had to be placed on the walls.
I put out both kinds of wine–the jug kind AND the box kind.
The kiddy pool needed to be blown up and filled with trashy beverages. Yes, there is a TV in front of the TV in the room, because the apartment manager neglected to tell me that the TV in the room was broken until the day of, which necessitated dragging the old tiny tv out of the storage closet and carrying it across the lawn to the Plastic Velveeta Ultralounge. It made things extra trashy but it still kind of pissed me off. Really, apartment manager? You couldn’t find a few bucks in the budget to fix one of the amenities residents are paying to have access to?
mschilepepper showed up first and helped me get a lot of last-minute things together, and then most graciously agreed to be kitchen bitch for the evening. amazoni and Andrew showed up shortly thereafter, dressed to the trashy nines.
Amy commented on Andrew’s fanny pack being a nice touch, and, uh, he got confused because apparently that’s something he wears all the time. Whooooops. How does one respond to that? “…Oh.*”
Amy said she was embarrassed to be seen outside in her getup, even on the short walk from our apartment to the Plastic Velveeta Ultralounge. I contend that it was much worse to have been caught by the cute downstairs neighbor whilst wearing mine…and with my hands full of coonskin cap, camera, and cigarettes.
It’s hard to see in this picture, but I’ve got a tiny cigarette pack as a necklace. Because I am a classy broad. And I have hot pink, leopard print nails.
When Ryan showed up, I knew we had a contest winner. Here he is with a pregnant conceptcanibal.
jimhark poured tequila shots of ‘El Jimador’ for anyone who wanted one…and I foolishly did one and the tequila pretty much punched me in the throat.
I had a spread available for anyone who wanted to make ‘Elvis Sandwiches’–his favorite was peanut butter, banana, and bacon, which I had available, in addition to strawberries, nutella, carmelized onions, marshmallow fluff, cheese, and twinkies, with the instructions to ‘hey, go nuts’.
Magic was born.
Theeeere’s that cigarette pack necklace!
poetrix618 and I shared a sammich. That’s right. And Amy. And about half the party.
And then we birthed a baby out on the back porch. I think I’ve found this year’s Christmas card!
After a while, I forced everyone to play ‘pin the pasties on the stripper’ and gave out trashy prizes.
What was particularly impressive was that only guys managed to instinctively find stripper nipples while blindfolded, and what was even more impressive was that I had only a couple of prizes that were aimed at girls and the guys picked them all, ending up with dollar store douche, pregnancy tests, and imitation ‘Tommy Girl’.
After that, we watched ‘Showgirls’ and played the accompanying drinking game, with people having to drink every time someone said ‘dance’, ‘darlin’, swung around a stripper pole, or punched a guy or a car.
Cake was consumed and fondant cigarettes were smoked. The baby was left floating facedown in the kiddy pool water.
The beeramid was built rapidly and knocked down a few times as well–eventually beer cans started getting flung around the room to distract those who were constructing the beeramid.
After Showgirls, we put in ‘Jackass’ and we didn’t get far before…uh oh, a security guard was at the door, wanting us to leave. “Didn’t you know you were supposed to be out at 10?” “No, that was never expressed to me.” “Well, the place closes down at 10.” “…Oh.*”
He gave us 10 minutes to clean up the place and get out, and you’ve never seen a group of people organize and clean so quickly. There was frantic emptying of the kiddy pool into the sink. Decorations and leftovers and everything were getting hurriedly shoved out onto the back porch. And I decided that since I couldn’t convince people to do the arm wrestling contest, the 40oz 40 yard dash, the belching contest, the twinkie deep throat contest OR the domestic violence re-enactment contest, we were NOT going to leave without mugshot photos. (Oh yes, at one point, Jeanine broke her pants and also whipped out a boob to feed the fake baby. We were all at peak form.)
Aaaaaaaaand just as I was wrapping up mugshot pictures, the clenched-fist, begunned security guard came back to lock us out, but of course, not before getting my full name and apartment number. We traipsed across the lawn with arms full of stuff and deposited it on my front stoop, I sent everyone on their merry way, and discovered that I had the cabana’s garbage can as well. Whoops!
I went inside and opened gifts while the room rotated merrily around me and found that Tristan gave me a velvet Elvis card stuffed with cigarettes. <3
Yesterday, I returned the office’s wastebasket, and the apartment manager gave me a look and said she’d heard I had a pretty crazy party. “Not THAT crazy.” (I mean, we were kicked out before 11pm–my trashy neighbor’s kids were making noise well past 1am the night before!) “And I heard you had alcohol up there?” “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees….” “That’s against the rules; it’s a liability issue in case someone falls down the stairs.” “Well, no one bothered to explain the rules to me beforehand, so I had no way of knowing the room closed at 10 or that no alcohol was allowed.”
So, it looks like we broke ALLLLLLL of the rules. WIN.
*”Oh” is the tried-and-true answer to any situation involving something where you’ve either stuck your foot in your mouth or find yourself in the wrong with no explanation, and is a staple in my family. For example, my dad once wanted to golf in Racine and get the resident’s discount though he did not live there. He asked for the discount, and they asked to see his driver’s license. “This says you live in Kenosha.” “…Oh.” Not “I just moved and haven’t updated my license yet”, not “Oh, I forgot my driver’s license”, “…Oh.” Try it! You’ll find it makes an awkward situation even moreso.
All I want for my birthday is this controversial pirate statue that has been cursed by a priest.
My glasses have been slipping down my face a lot lately; has my enormous head ballooned even further, like Cristina Ricci on head steroids? Did I go to sleep and wake up as the flesh version of Mr. Mackie? When will children start to point and scream “Mommy, what’s wrong with her FACE?” At what point will I have to wear only clothes that can be buttoned on or slid up over my rear end, lest I take the risk of cutting the bloodflow off to my brain by trying to cram my head through a t-shirt hole? When do I give myself a new name, acknowledging the head spread, like ‘The Screaming Forehead Lady’ or ‘Blobula’? Do I then commission a bobblehead doll in my likeness? Will the head have to be exaggerated further lest I have the only bobblehead figure in the history of time that’s accurately proportioned?
All I know is that my glasses are starting to fracture at the temple. My favorite pair of glasses I’ve ever had, ever. The ones that are completely and utterly discontinued.
WAH WAH WAH.
On Sunday, Tristan sent me a message, inviting me to see Ratatat; he and his roommate were not going out to dinner beforehand, but v1c1ous was going to House of Hong with some friends and I was welcome to join them.
I’m really glad I did; Sean’s friends were delightful dinner company, and together we ordered a family dinner. A family dinner that nearly killed us…with deliciousness. We started off strong, all of us digging in enthusiastically. By the fourth course, we’d all started to slow down. By the 9th, we were all groaning and about ready to die. At one point, we had six different courses on the table, and each one was the most delicious thing in the world. HOW DOES THAT EVEN HAPPEN? Toward the end, we started commenting on lobster battles and making fun of neighboring tables and anything that would delay us from standing up because we lacked the proper bloodflow to handle walking; we also were unable to form coherent sentences. Tristan called at one point to find out where we were, I think, but none of us really knew what he was talking about, or cared, or could comprehend spoken language.
There is a soup on the menu at House of Hong that costs $350 and is intended for 10 people. At some point, a group will have to be gathered for the express purpose of consuming this soup.
We eventually made our way over to the venue, which was packed with squealing pre-teens. Hurrah for the bar area! Before the opening bands started playing, Tristan offered earplugs around. Oh no, we were all much too cool to protect our hearing. After the first band started playing, Tristan pulled out the earplug package and waggled it, and this time, all of us but one grabbed a set. It’s one thing to lose hearing from rock concerts. It’s another to lose hearing to an awful, awful, awful band. No, I don’t know what their name was. Yes, I could look it up. No, I don’t care to do so. It was fronted by a guy who looked exactly like the Chocolate Rain dude, the whole band jerked around onstage like rhythmless chickens, and they were singing songs about: positivity, jesus, and…running away from home at 16 after being punished for kissing a boy. I was not their target audience.
The second act was even worse. It was a whiteboy rapper, of the ‘look how hard I am trying to be thug’ variety. I am tempted to write a letter to Eminem and ask him to apologize for paving the road for this dude. LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE WROUGHT, MARSHALL. Half-finished, unpracticed songs with titles like “The Chicken Featha Licka” and “Son of a Gun of a Bitch”, and this guy is almost ready to roll with Herbert Kornfeld in the Nite Rida. Shit, maybe this guy is Baby Prince H Tha Stone Col’ Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin’ Muthafukkin’ Badass Supastar Kornfeld Tha Second!
I am curious as to whether Ratatat purposefully picked wretched openers to make them appear even better by comparison, but they really don’t need to resort to such trickeries, as they’re awesome. AWESOME. Not only did I get to hear some killer music, but I got to enjoy another one of my favorite activities: watching people dance like jackasses. Bless you, Ratatat, for making that happen for me. Bless you.
This weekend was one of my two long weekends per month, which happily coincided with earthdotprime‘s visit, hereafter referred to as M’ris. I started stalking M’ris on the tubes sometime in…2006, I think. I’m not even sure anymore, it’s like I’m some sort of insidious worm that finds one interesting livejournal and all of a sudden I am friends with half that person’s friends. Anyway, M’ris and I have since separately determined that the other one is either not Internet Crazy or at least crazy in a highly entertaining, most likely non-lethal way, and that we should definitely meet when she was in town.
M’ris was at least crazy enough to entrust her life to the terrifying garbagewagon, and so we set off on the road for adventure.
Our first stop was the giant metal Lenin, which M’ris promptly scaled.
Our second stop was the Fremont Troll, where we witnessed dudes climbing up and flashing gang signs for photographs; we both openly mocked them, and M’ris confessed that she’d never been able to make the Bloods gang sign that apparently everyone learns at summer camp. I spent a few minutes trying to rearrange my sausage fingers into the appropriate arrangement before I realized it was probably not a good idea with y’know, actual gang members hanging around.
Here is where I suggested M’ris find a way to slide down the face and straddle the nose. She began contemplating it, and I began to fear that I’d underestimated her potential craziness and exactly how I was going to explain her cracked skull to the internet at large.
I’m not going to lie: When she found a way to do it, I was both impressed AND jealous.
Here she is as a human Q-tip.
I have determined that more pictures need to be taken of me straddling things, throwing the horns, and it might be my new Thing.
Then it was time for some tree-climbing action!
Keeping strong with our theme.
After tree-climbing, it was time to visit Archie McPhee, because there is never NOT a good time to buy pickle-shaped band-aids. I love double-negatives.
The Mac & Cheese one cracks me up every time I see it.
M’ris was almost attacked by penguins, but then it was determined that we were all in the same gang, so everything was cool, dawgyo.
“Please don’t touch me, I am very expensive and short-tempered”: This is a sign I should probably be wearing, myself.
If anyone loves me, they will buy that tacky Sasquatch painting for me. It will hang on the wall next to my Baba Rama Nana!
Totally plotting to kill one another.
I really, really wanted to buy one of these cockroaches for Napoleon to battle, but the wires in the legs gave me pause, because the last thing I want is a dog with a broken tooth.
I totally don’t even care if I have lice now from trying on wigs and hats. Don’t even care. All of that battling works up an appetite, and thus, we went to the Lunchbox Laboratory and executed experiments in deliciousness and pants-expansion.
After lunch, we took a bit of a roundabout way back to the car and happened upon a bus stop painted by people on drugs.
ONE OF THESE PAINTINGS IS NOT LIKE THE OTHERS. ONE OF THESE PAINTINGS DOES NOT BELONG.
We then drove to visit Bruce & Brandon Lee’s graves, only neither one of us managed to determine whereabouts in the cemetary they might be beforehand, so there was a lot of driving around and “I think Brandon’s is a big black twisty headstone. Like, beveled and twisty.” and backing around a corner praying to Cthulhu that I wouldn’t veer off and accidentally back over a headstone and once and for all destroy any chance I ever had at becoming President Mellzah.
As it turns out, their graves are hidden behind bushes and we only found them via a stroke of luck.
All in all, a very, very awesome day.