Please Stop Blowing Up My Myspace

This is not the usual blogging that I do, but is a little something I like to call PAYBACK, BITCH. I've got questionable taste in pretty much everything: men, music, facial piercings. So this entire post is just FOR THE RECORD:

To kick things off slow

YES, I thought Jesus Christ Superstar (the Broadway version not the movie version) was a pretty solid album. YES, Gilmore Girls is hands down my favorite television show. And YES, I have a ridiculous Tom Delonge lip ring, though hopefully not for long.

And now to kick it up a notch

That Guy Outside Of Rudy's That I Drunkenly Agreed To Go On A Date With - decent music taste, cool coat that looks totally cute on me. Nevertheless, not interested. Smoothies? Sure. Dinner & a movie? Not so much.

Cap'n Swag - mouthy and sort of obnoxious, though pretty funny if you're in a "Hate Yourself" sort of mood. Still...not interested, as my apparent deep hatred can only be quenched with lava. That's right, lava. I don't get it either. How ya like them apples, son?

That Kid I Knew Way Back When Who Loves Crass And Wolf Eyes
Pretty Much All Of My Old Romantic Endeavors
And You And All Your Friends

NOT INTERESTED, so you can tell your girlfriends and "fiances" and whatever else that they can all stop checking me. Thanks.

Hiatus Schmiatus

I believe that my hiatus from SnarkCity was pretty well established, since I haven't written an entry since February the 22nd. But according to sources that I maintain have no authority on the matter whatsoever -- so what difference does it make? -- I'm not on hiatus until I post an entry that actually says "I'm on hiatus," the way our friend over at Boobs Radley just did. You can click the link, but she's on hiatus for god's sake.

I don't agree with this principle. I don't need to post just to say I'm stopping posting, so that all my blog friends can snarf up my comments telling me how awesome my blog was and to come back because their blogosphere is incomplete. They did that anyway. 50 Snarfs!

My unpublicized but thoroughly obvious hiatus is now over, though I don't promise you any more posts, because I don't blog about every god damn random thing and every haha-funny joke I hear. But mostly because I'll soon be off to a city that's best known for its Nazi riots and ICP's Juggalo Gathering, when they flooded our streets with Faygo and punched a police horse. I saved my congratulatory champagne for FluidFace and some other randos, because, well, I can't get drunk and sleep with any of you jerks. (Can't or won't? Probably both.)

So even though I'm now calling off this hiatus, it is not because of any of the following

- "You're not funny unless you blog," because that's clearly untrue: lots of people that blog aren't funny, and I'm hilarious blog or no blog!

- "Our blogging community has a hole in its heart that can only be filled by you." Swag isn't sure what a heart is, no matter what he tells you, because he's never actually had one.

- Rufio is bored

I am happy to be back, though.

The Rest Of My Entries Will Be Written in MS DOS Form

T&R were talking tonight about how they're both really good at math and how their senior years were a breeze except for AP Calculus. Well, I'm fucking terrible at math. It took me six years to graduate highschool, and I wouldn't say that the math thing is why, but it didn't help. I can count how many ice cream sandwiches I've eaten today, how many cigarettes I've smoked, and how many days it's been since I've showered -- and that's enough for me. But everybody else my age thinks they're a bunch of god damn geniuses, so I get a lot of shit for taking so long to graduate. But I had two extra years to learn this much math:

80% of my friends took their highschool diplomas to some shithole like OU where they smoked x bowls, drank x² beers, and fucked (x³ + 4¼) girls with too much eye makeup and/or boys in "skinny jeans" (if they got laid at all), only to fail out, return home, and work at trash jobs for minimum wage, losing an estimated one one-thousandth of their souls for every minute that they're there. And I'm okay with not being that guy.

But apparently, in those two years, the proficiency tests that I originally took expired, and I had to take new ones, including the math. I didn't mind the reading and writing and science and social studies (which is now entirely about the Cold War), and you can't fool me with your fancy "caveat" and your "filch" and your "intrepid". Except that vocab doesn't help me figure out fractions and surface areas. So really, screw you and your triangular prisms and your two trains traveling at 207955.82 MPH. This fucking test threw at me a bunch of shit I've never really had to know. I shouted with actual, audible glee when I finally got to the SHAPES section of the test, because I can stick the circle peg into the circle hole, and that's a skill I've learned to actually use.

Anyway, I got the results back. And as it turns out, I'm alright at math, but not totally awesome at Life Science. So in conclusion, I think the truth here is that I'm actually a robot, and I won't have to deal with karma and the hellhounds that could eat my innards for eternity for all the self-deprecating retard jokes I made. It would explain why I am a heartless prick with no human emotions whatsoever.

I Got My Motorcycle Jacket, But I'm Walking All The Time

I was reminded of this by Boobs Radley's most recent entry about Glenn Danzig, because while out to find a good hamburger, we found a parking spot in front of his house while I was visiting Los Angeles. He lives in the monster house on the block. It's awesome. But getting to my point, I really like the Misfits, and so do a bunch of my friends, so I figured I'd text them all and tell them, specifically the ones that own the Draven Misfit shoes and the ones that really enjoyed that time Bob bit the head off that bat.

These are not transcribed into my own words for comedic purposes.

Snark: I'm parked in front of Glenn Danzig's house right now!!
Friend1: What are you doing in Toledo?!
Friend1: Wait, you actually parked?

---

Snark: I'm parked in front of Glenn Danzig's house right now!!
Friend2: YOU parked? Like you parked your own car? Do you even have a license?
Snark: Okay. I was in the car that my brother parked while he parked it. You sort of missed the point.
Friend2: Awesome! Did you shout "WE ALL WANT 38?"*

---

Snark: I parked in front of Glenn Danzig's house earlier!
Friend3: No you didn't. You don't have a driver's license.

*The title and lyrics to the song are "We Are 138"

Bloodsuckers.

Gambit From The X-Men Would Have Totally Wanted To Makeout With Me

I've been asked to list six weird things about myself by my pal over at Sloppy All Around (and he really is), and I have to admit that it's incredibly rare to convince or coerce me into taking part in this kind of internet crap. But I love to talk about meeeee, and it occurred to me that there are so very few things that I'd consider "weird" as opposed to "mortifying" and/or "creepy", so I thought maybe I'd give it a shot. I came up with more, but these are special because these have pictures.

1. I once dated someone strictly because of his resemblance to one of my most beloved movie characters. If he ends up reading this, then I suppose if it's any consolation, it turned out to be my longest relationship yet, clocking in at exactly six months. He looked a little something like this, including the hair:

2. One time at what was originally the Rhythm Room in Cleveland Heights, I spit directly into someone's mouth from the ten foot balcony. He finished the show and never skipped a beat. This was taken directly thereafter:



He has since left the band to become an "artist" somewhere in "New Mexico".

3. I'm looking for the Blanka to my Chun Li:





4. The picture above (of me, not Blanka) was taken in the same fashion as the set that almost made me a Suicide Girl. At the very last possible second, I thought better of it, keeping in mind my oldest brother's words of wisdom: if you do nudes, we're not friends anymore. Point taken. This one doesn't have a picture attached, so shut up.

5. I originally met my best friend when her ex-boyfriend accosted me because I looked just like her. It took another year for us to become friends, but she's been stealing my life ever since. I make no major decisions until I consult her for advice and then blatantly ignore it. As it turns out, we don't look that much alike anymore, but it used to be that if I wore a Mexican soccer jersey and said items off the Taco Bell menu with enough finesse, I could have certainly been mistaken for this:


But that was before she cut off all her hair and put up a nasty mohawk. If any of you want to makeout with her, I suppose you could take it up with her girlfriend.

6. The next time I have $50 to throw around, I'll probably get this tattooed on my butt:



I'm just barely joking and have been known to do more ridiculous things.

P.S. This blog will probably never sport another picture of me, so stop being internet creeps.

This Is A True Story

As I was boarding my flight to Atlanta, there was a couple in front of me, oldish but not decrepid. I hate that. Anyway, the wife said to the husband, "I'm in 32C."
This is how it went from there:

Husband: I'm 32C, you must be 32D.
Wife: No, I'm 32B.
Husband: They gave us C's and D's; you must be D.
Wife: No, I'm 32B.
Husband: You're D!

The wife checks her ticket and says

Wife: D. 32D.

And in a totally angry tone...

Husband: Yeah. D for DORK!!!

And I laughed and laughed. I don't know whether that's insensitive or not.

# of A-List Celebrities I Saw In Los Angeles: 0
# of Celebrities I Saw Whose Careers Are Nearly If Not Completely Over: 2 1/2
# of People I Saw That Were On TV But Totally Aren't Celebrities: 2
# of Lesbians I Saw That I May Have Mistaken For Gary Bussey: 1

Overall I think it was a pretty worthwhile trip.

You're Costing My Mom a Fortune in Overage Fees!

This is my life in text messages
(These may or may not have been transcribed into my own words)

*[Players: Snark, Snark's ex-boyfriend that thinks she is a.) Trash, b.) Crazy, and c.) a Democrat]

He said: what up
(This is where I think that I'm having a fucking terrible nightmare and I should stop watching American Justice before I go to bed.)
I said: i haven't heard from you in six months
i want my stuff back
what are you, drunk?
i'm in los angeles

I'm also retarded; neither of us said it, both of us thought it. And this brilliant exchange was followed up by a phonecall, because why harmlessly text when you can lace every word with disdain and utter disgust? Obviously I answered. In this half hour conversation, he made a few things very clear. He's embarrassed about the time he told me that I turned him off to "goth girls" who are "musically oriented". (The word "genre" was thrown around a lot, and apparently Minor Threat is what he's been missing all his life.) And he hasn't gotten laid since that last time I gave it up.

---

*[Players: Snark, Snark's buddy whom she texts because he totally wants to bone her and she likes the attention.]

I said: hey hows your day
He said: no i will not go out with you

---

[Players: Snark, Snark's really awful 49 night stand that she never wants to think about again]

He said: whats poppin sexy?
I said: you're white
He said: what?
I said: nothing.
He said: wanna kick it tonight?
I said: I HAVE A CRAZY HOT BOYFRIEND AND YOU CAN'T TRICK ME INTO DOING IT TO YOU ANYMORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I said: also, you are a creep

Classy and articulate.

---

So here's what you should know before you start texting me. I seriously do not want to go out with you. Bluff dumps don't work when you're not dating, sucker! And Minor Threat is not the way to my deliciously sexy panties -- and take Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" off repeat, because I know how you really are.

I will start accepting texts again from any or all of these guilty parties if they grow any or all of the following
- a brain
- a sense of humor
- a fucking backbone

Here is one more, just for good measure, because I can even induce inappropriate Thundercat reactions from my very best friend.
*[Players: Snark, Snark's best friend/other ex-boyfriend:]

He said: i love you
I said: i love you too
He said: YOU JUST WANT TO GET MARRIED AND HAVE A BUNCH OF BABIES AND SNARF, SNARF, DOUBLE SNARF, SNARF.

I'm so transparent.

P.S. I'll be in Los Angeles until Saturday now instead of Thursday. What can I say, the fast food here is incredible and Latinos love me.

In other news, I sort of feel like this redheaded crockydile today:



*i joke with total affection (except for that one that's not affectionate at all), so don't blow up my comments with a bunch of snarfs

(Not Live At All)

      This is arguably the most inappropriate thing I've ever written from the middle seat of an airplane.

      In case either of the two men that are within two and a half inches of me are reading this, thanks for not blowing it -- this could be much worse; we could all be vomming right now.
      It should be almost halftime by now in whatever CVCMMXIVIMCVDLL Super Bowl, which means I'm missing Prince. I'm less than pleased, and I've got another few hours on this flight, so I'm taking the opportunity to start blogging, because T asked me to. And maybe a little bit because I think I'm totally clever and adorable and really, much funnier than I come across right off rip.
      R (of T&R, which if you didn't know, is kind of like a mix between T&A and G&R) asked what "snarky" was over a delicious nacho bowl. Well, I'm snarky, and here's why:

I do not
  - need a fucking haircut, for christ's sake
  - appreciate your sass
  - want to hear your art-scum babble

I am not
  - impressed

So I guess SnarkCity is wherever I happen to be.


      Anyway, before this obnoxiously long plane ride, I had a connection from Cincinnati (which is actually in Kentucky, or what I like to call the motherfucking cut). It was okay; I don't mind flying, even on those little puddlejumper things. I'm a little bit slanty-eyed, so I already know they'll thoroughly check my bags and then strip search me. But CreepCity (similar to SnarkCity, only much less endearing) at Security was physically abusing my beauty products. Listen. I don't have a job –- and that’s sort of one of my defining qualities: being amazing at doing next to nothing -– so I cannot readily replace the hundreds of dollars worth of makeup and hair products (I can't just turn all this off, you know?) that you put your rat paws all over and then tried to throw out. Yeah, I checked my bag over an absurd amount of eye shadow.
      So I followed your stupid rules -- you effectively eliminated the threat of me making some sort of incendiary device out of a quarter ounce too much face lotion. But I would thank you from the bottom of my tiny, black, cold heart of stone if you could not uncap my deodorant. Germs, guys. Germs.


In other news, buy me this amazing SuperFly Monkey:



P.S. Ringback tones are ruining my reputation and my life; stop calling me. And as it turns out, I caught Prince's halftime show, and it was the best thing I've ever seen, ever. The scarf and the sheet -- so much fabric, so much love.