Since it was all over the interwebs yesterday, you have probably already caught a glimpse of the picture below, taken over the weekend of little Lindsay as she was leaving a Hollywood party.
Now, unlike the rest of the universe, I am NOT going to just going to assume that Lindsay Lohan, master in the art of subterfuge that she is, attempted to walk innocently past the paparazzi by hiding a bag of cocaine IN HER FUCKING SHOE!
No, as damning as the picture above may be, I will stand by my fellow Long Islander and offer 5 other explanations for what possibly could have happened:
1) Lindsay simply misjudged how much of her new time-released Gold Bond Foot Powder she needed to use in one dose. 2) Caught while filming a guest spot on ’24', Lindsay neglected to remove the hidden Anthrax from her shoe. 3) Lindsay just got back from skiing the K12 in her custom-made Manolo Blahnik ski-boots. 4) Only seconds before this picture was taken, innocent Lindsay was attempting to open a jumbo Pixie Stick with her feet. 5) Lindsay is suffering from the world’s first ever recorded case of pubic dandruff.
All kidding aside, as much as I want to just haul off and Donkey Punch this chick, I feel for her too.
Maybe it’s because she’s a home-town girl that I want to see her pull through this shit, or maybe it’s because that, as a child star, she was SO fucking talented that I want to see her cut this shit out and get her life together. Maybe it’s because, seeing as how she comes from a family of desperate attention-seeking fuckwads, I want to see her rise above it all.
Probably, it’s a little bit of all-of-the-above.
Whatever the case, the wise-ass in me just CANNOT contain itself while embarrassing shit like this is CONSTANTLY happening to her.
When someone as talented, pretty, and lucky as Lindsay Lohan was decides to so completely self-destruct like this and throw her career away like she has, she should just accept every damn joke and insult that gets thrown her way.
On the day we left Disney for home, we gave ourselves plenty of time to catch our flight. We arrived at the car rental return about 2 hours before our flight from Orlando airport.
As we unpacked the car, the other couple we vacationed with started looking frantically around the mini-van. When I asked them what was up, my friend looked up at me with a panicked face and yelled:
“Two of my bags are missing! We searched the whole car and two of our bags are not here!”
To make matters worse, ONE of the bags that they were missing contained ALL of their electronics…. Digital camera, camcorder, the kids DS’s, etc. About a grand worth of stuff.
So, what to do? My friend was in a panic, his kids were crying, and his wife was PISSED! They decided to jump back in the van, and head back to the condo to try to find the bags.
The condo was about 30 minutes from the airport! I knew this could be bad.
So, he and my wife jumped back in the van and frantically sped off, while myself and his wife took the kids and checked in the luggage, and got our boarding passes.
Then there was nothing we could do but wait.
I kept in contact with them every 15 minutes or so, watching our time left to get on the plane ticking with each call.
With an hour left before our flight, my wife called to tell us that security had found their bags sitting on the sidewalk! They retrieved them and were on their way back to the airport now.
I started thinking that while the time would be tight, everything was actually going to work out. We started walking to the security gate, where we planned to meet them when they arrived.
The line to get through security was at LEAST 500 people long.
It was at that point that I knew we were 100 percent fucked for any chance to get on our plane.
I asked someone near the middle of the line how long he had been waiting so far. When he told me “about an hour so far”, it was about then that we all started to panic.
It was then that I saw a guard, complete with semi-automatic assault rifle slung on his shoulder, standing behind a nearby podium that read “Homeland Security V.I.P. line”.
He really looked like he didn’t want to be fucked with. But as the minutes kept ticking by, and the realization really sunk in that we were in fact going to miss our flight, I decided to take a chance and plead my case to him.
So, I walked over to him, and did just that. While I told my story, he barely looked at me. I was expecting to be told to “fuck off” any second.
What he said next was the LAST thing I ever would expect him to say. Out of the corner of his mouth, talking like shady people do in the movies so people can’t see their lips moving, he said:
“Grab my hand”
Now, I stood there dumbfounded. Out of anything I thought he was about to tell me, a romantic hand-holding outing was not what I was expecting. I mean, he was cute, but he was moving a tad too fast for me.
I stood there thinking, “There is no fucking WAY I just heard that right.”
So, what the Hell to do? Do I just blindly grab his hand and hope he just wants to be friends? I quickly imagined me trying to hold his hand, and him looking at me like I just took a poo on the floor and then head-butting me with his rifle.
I masterfully managed to stammer out: “Wha…. What?”
“My left hand. Take my left hand.”
Honestly thinking that he was about to hand-cuff me for something, I decided to just throw the guy some love and grabbed his hand, which was hidden on the side of the podium.
There was a slip of paper in it.
He continued to talk out of the side of his mouth:
“Take that paper and put it RIGHT into your pocket. Do NOT take it out to look at it. Do you understand?”
I nodded “Yes” and did as he asked.
“When your friends get here, if I’m no longer on duty, show the guard here that slip of paper, and tell him that you already went through security, but then you realized that you had to mail a snowglobe to your aunt, so you went back to the main concourse.”
Was he fucking kidding me? A fucking snow globe??? There was no way I was going to be able to make that story fly. It sounded ridiculous to me.
Not knowing AT ALL what to do, and half-expecting to be tackled at any second by 10 guys in blue windbreakers, I quickly thanked him and slinked away.
I REALLY wanted to know what the fuck was in my pocket. When I explained to my friend’s wife what just transpired, she happily offered that maybe the paper said something like:
“Hi, I’m a member of Al Qaeda! I have a suitcase nuke hidden in my underwear. Die Yankee Skum. HA HA!”
That didn’t help much.
So there I sat, watching the clock tick away, and wondering just how the Hell this was all going to play out.
With 15 minutes before our flight, the others finally arrived.
I quickly explained to them the situation while all of us slowly walked over to the Homeland Security station, where my hand-holding friend was thankfully still working.
I handed him the paper, and he just whisked us right through to the terminal. He never even looked at me. I mouthed a silent “Thank you so much!” as I walked past him, and that was that. We made our flight with minutes to spare.
I wonder if I should have said something more to the man. He truly did save the day.
And he really did have nice, soft hands. Maybe I should have slipped him my phone-number?
No doubt you all have been checking in here hourly, desperate like a junkie for your latest fix of “ME”.
I know I let you all down, but as the banner pic implies, I have spent the past 10 days over in the land of imagination, better known as “Disney”.
Sorry for not letting ya’ll know I was taking a vacay, but the truth is I don’t trust you reprobates enough to inform you all that I wouldn’t be home for an extended period of time. Armed with THAT kind of info, more than one of you wouldn’t have thought twice about breaking into my home, urinating on my pillow, and raping the cat.
Anyway, I’m back, and I’m EXHAUSTED.
I have some great pictures to put up for you, but that will have to wait a bit since I haven’t gotten around to downloading them off of the camera yet. For now, just use my masterful storytelling to paint an image in your mind.
On our second day in Florida, it was raining like Hell, so we opted for going to the indoor “Disney Quest”. It was a great idea, but unfortunately the rest of Florida had the same damn idea. The place was packed! Plus, most of the rides sucked. They sure as shit weren’t worth the crazy amount of time it took to wait on line for them. Plus, Mini-Me was about 1 inch too short to go on the cooler ones, so THAT went over like a lead fucking balloon.
Next we went to the top dog itself, Magic Kingdom. I hadn’t been there since I was 8 (they were BUILDING Epcot the last time I was there... I’m old), so it was nice to revisit it. We stayed from opening till closing, about 15 hours of pg-approved fun. Mini-Me loved every second of it. His favorite ride was The Haunted Mansion. The highlight for ME was to FINALLY get to go on Space Mountain, a feat I attempted to accomplish when I was 8, but after seeing a sign in front of the ride proclaiming a 2 1/2 hour wait, my father promptly declared “no fucking way” and I never got my shot. It was nice to finally check that off my Bucket List.
Everyone was pretty much exhausted after Disney, so we spent the next day having chicks check out my hot physique by the pool. Being a sex object gets old after a while. No it doesn’t.
Next up was Sea World, which was cool. I like imagining what I would do if the tank to the Shark cage cracked open while I was in there, flooding the room. How many sharks would I be able to punch in the nuts before they ultimately swarmed me and ripped me to pieces? I estimated 8. Anyway, they started the Killer Whale show with a very moving tribute to the chick who got killed 2 weeks ago, which was nice. The show was cool, until I looked over at Mini-Me, who had been uncharacteristically mopey all day, to see him sound asleep and burning up.
Guess what that meant? Strep Throat! On vacation! WOO HOO!
So, the next day he and Friz rested back at the condo, while the rest of us (we had another family, very close friends, go with us), went to Disney Hollywood. What a waste! This place blew chunks, and really was the only sour spot on our vacation. Everything had incredibly long lines (on a Monday!), half the attractions were either shut down or broken for the day, and the few we DID get to go on I thought pretty much sucked balls. I TOLD everyone we should have done Universal instead, but does anyone listen to me? NOOOOOOO! Why can’t people get it through their thick skulls that I’m not just a pretty face… .I have a brain, too!
We capped off the trip by going to Epcot on St. Patrick’s Day, which was phenomenal. We once again closed the park, and at the end of the night, I used my masculine wiles to sweet-talk a security guard into getting us into the VIP area to watch the fireworks show. Sitting there, from that incredible viewpoint, with Mini-Me on my lap, watching his beautiful face in wide wonder as we watched the fireworks, was without a doubt the highlight of the trip for me.
Anyway, I’m back, and I’m still sexy. As I said, I’ll try to get some pics up soon.
And check back next time when I tell you about our adventure getting home. It involves breaking the law and me having a run-in with an assault-gun-wielding officer of Homeland Security, and me pretty much pooping my pants.
So, I’m sitting here at work a short while ago, when suddenly I felt the need to go make pee-pee.
Anyway, off to the Men’s room I went.
Upon entering the bathroom, what did I spy with my little eye, but yet another dude already in there who just did NOT understand the “RULES OF THE GUY’S BATHROOM”!
You chicks may not know this, but there are a whole SLEW of rules, passed down through the ages, of what protocols guys are supposed to follow in the Men’s room.
Much like a dog inherently knowing how to swim, or a bat knowing how to hang upside down (or whatever the fuck else bats do), a “normal” dude just KNOWS how to act in the bathroom.
The guy I just shared my latest “bathroom experience” with obviously marches to the beat of his own drum.
For starters, there are 3 urinals in our bathroom here at work, and this guy was peeing IN THE CENTER URINAL!
You never EVER never EVER pee in the center urinal unless it’s the only one unoccupied, and even then it’s a judgment call.
On the contrary, when you walk into a bathroom with multiple urinals all in a row, you are supposed to pick one all the way on either end.
Why, you might ask?
Obviously so when I walk into the bathroom a second later, I can now pick the urinal on the OPPOSITE end from you, ensuring that there is zero chance of any homo-erotic hyjinx breaking out. That way, our wee-wee’s are as far apart as humanly possible.
But now, with this ass-hat taking care of business in the MIDDLE urinal, he forced my hand.
I HAD to take one of the urinals next to him.
So, there I was, hosing down the urinal while trying to remember the phone number to the National Urinal Tinkle Society (N.U.T.S.) so I can have this guy’s membership card revoked, when I saw him break RULE # 2!!!!
He turned his head and LOOKED AT ME!
YOU NEVER LOOK AT THE GUY NEXT TO YOU WHILE YOU ARE PEEING.
Never. Not ever. Not even if you think his hair might be on fire. You just don’t.
Staring straight ahead at the tiles and graffiti is standard protocol. Some prefer to stare into the urinal. Some rebels prefer to look up at the ceiling. All of these are acceptable.
However, looking at ME while we both have our Willies out is certainly NOT acceptable.
Anyway, I finished up as soon as I could, and high-tailed it out of there.
But while I far surpass him in the looks department, Phelps would admittedly edge me out with his knowledge of pools.
Case in point:
Since the weather has warmed up this week, most of the snow we have suffered these past few weeks has melted.
The other day, noticing that there was an assload of water on the cover of my pool, I thought it was high time for me to turn the water pump on to get some of it off my cover before it rips from the weight.
The only problem is, having an above-ground pool, gravity eventually takes over and the damn hose, over time, always slowly slides out of the pool. Then I come outside the next day to find the hose on the floor, and none of the water has yet to be siphoned.
Luckily for me, I’m as smart as I am hot. So I came up with an INGENIOUS plan to keep the hose from sliding out of the pool.
I put a brick on it.
It was FOOLPROOF. The brick would keep the hose from sliding, and the water would be pumped off my cover.
I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for those meddlesome kids!
Sorry, I accidently channeled Scooby Doo. I’m back now.
Anyway, the ONE thing that my genius intellect didn’t account for, was the wind.
Apparently, during the night, the wind (or a squirrel, or rat, or camel, or a Mexican, or SOMETHING) blew the brick into the pool, onto the cover.
With the weight of the brick pushing the cover ever lower into the pool, my trusty little pump kept pumping…
And pumping, and pumping, and pumping.
Cut to the next day, when I cheerily went outside to check on how my pump was doing…..
…Only to find out that my pump had gone above and beyond the fucking call of duty, apparently.
So, now my pool has about 15 inches of water in it, my backyard looks like i should have a fucking Gondola floating across it, and I’m none too happy about the whole mess.
I realize that many of you aren’t anywhere NEAR as smart as me, and might have had trouble visualizing the sequence of events as I described it.
In light of this, I decided to help any of you who couldn’t visualize this whole mess with a handy diagram.
While it’s a very technical diagram, I hope you can read through the scientific jargon and begin to understand the sequence of events that led to my current situation.
Does it all make sense now? Hopefully, that didn’t go over your heads and did the trick.
And yes ladies, that self-portrait is 100 percent anatomically correct.
Will you fellow bloggers out there, please, PLEASE, for the love of all that’s Holy STOP HAVING MUSIC PLAY WHEN I GO TO YOUR SITE?
Don’t you realize that I, like 90 percent of the rest of you, do our blog reading DURING WORK HOURS?
Nothing puts a good buzzkill on my lazy, leisurely afternoon of catching up on your blogs when I SHOULD be working, than when I click on a site and suddenly hear MY HUMPS blasting over my pc speakers.
Seriously, everyone within earshot hears it. And if by chance it happens as the boss is walking by, I am basically down to three options:
1) Admit that I was fucking around on company time. 2) Pretend that listening to Gloria Gainer’s "I Will Survive" really revs me up and motivates me to finish those quarterly TPS reports! 3) Before he can ask me about it, take the offensive and stab him in the heart with my “#1 Dad” pen.
Those are three pretty shitty options. One of them will get me fired, another will make me look like a tool, and the last one gets me 10-20 at Ryker’s Island.
If pressed, I’d probably have to be forced to go with option 3. I NEED my job, and while killing my boss would undoubtably get me banned from the company Christmas party, I’d be given a clean slate after I got out of prison in 20 years, but if I admitted to listening to some of the ridiculously effeminate crap some of you guys have playing on your sites, I’d NEVER be able to live that shit down.