hot coffee girl

Burning questions, that is.

In case you don't get enough later this afternoon at BlueOhioan in the video interview by Anthony at Bloggapalooza, here are some answers to those questions you stay up nights asking yourself.

• Are there naked pictures saved on your computer?
• Would you never blog again for $50,000? 
• If you could change your first name, what would you change it to? 

The answers to these, and many more of those itchy burning questions are here. 

And don't forget to skate on over to BlueOhioan later today to check out the interview. None of those questions are in that video, by the way. Anthony has a lot more class than that. 

It's Independence Day in Peru. It's SnogAsh's Birthday. The Word Series of Poker Championship event kicks off today.

I don't really care about Peru. Snog is in freakin' Arizona. And I was a little short on cash for the $10k buy-in. What's a girl to do this weekend?

Oh yeah-I have a Final Table of my own to sit at on Sunday. (Not the fire and brimstone judgement final table, the poker kind.) Yes, I have fallen prey to the geeky-slacker ritual of occasional online poker play. But all those sites like Full-Tilt and Party Poker? Too cool for me. Nope, I am not playing for big wads of cash, but for a trip to LA and a walk on part in NBC's Las Vegas. Uh huh...Bravo.  Make fun if you will (oh-and I know you will), but I managed to win a qualifying tournament about a month ago. So this Sunday night at 9:00, I will be sitting down to my laptop, lighting up a cigar, and hoping not to get sucked out in the first round.

(P.S. If you are stuck inside by the rain this weekend, there's still a chance to qualify...go on. You know you want to.) 

Doc, Bashful, Sleepy, Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Dopey.

What about Friggin' Pissy?

I woke up today in a pissy mood...for no particular reason. Instead of talking myself out of it, I find myself looking for actual reasons to be pissy. Brilliant.

Since there will be no (additional) posting whilst pissy-ness ensues...either leave a note to cheer me up, or give me a real reason to be pissy. Either one will work.

"Sometimes I wish I'd done a little more with my life instead of just hanging out in front of places. Maybe be an animal doctor. Why not me? I like seals and shit. Or maybe be an astronaut. Go into space and shit. Be the first to find a new alien life form... and fuck it. People would be, like, "there he goes. Boy fucked a Martian once."

-Jay, Clerks II

 Oh, Kevin.  Kevin, Kevin, Kevin. I saw Clerks II last night. And it was everything that I hoped it would be.

Being a long-time Kevin Smith fan (I even own Mallrats), I was looking forward to this flick long since I read about it on View Askew. (There is a great trailer there, by the way, that you should check out....as I still can't bring myself to imbed video on this blog, but whatever.) Back to the matter at hand.

It was brilliant. Usually sequels for comedies don't work, especially sequels that are 10 years apart from the original.  This one managed to pull it off, though. This was as funny, smart, and witty as the original. Kevin showed his love for dialogue and bizarre situations (a donkey fucking scene?!) that kept me laughing, nearly non-stop. And the ending (I won't be a spoiler) was a kind love letter to all of his fans that made you feel warm and fuzzy.

No, I'm not a movie critic (but I am a thinker)...and if you have any sense in your head...run, run, run to see this one. Call off work. You're not even supposed to be here today.

This post has taken me a while to compose, as I was mostly sitting in a dark corner of my bedroom, curled up in a fetal position rocking back and forth at the thought of it. The team of therapists that I had on staff, however, agreed that talking about it might help.

I had to spend a good deal of time in Parma about a week ago.  

(For those of you not from Cleveland, or new to this blog, let me give you the quick run-down. You will know that you are in Parma when you see the spandex pants, big hair, scrunchies & banana-clips, pick-up trucks with gun-racks, and tacky yard art. I swear-to-fucking-christ that their website ACTUALLY has a pink flamingo on it. Think I am lying? Click here.)

Though no fault of my own (and little fault of a friend who shall remain nameless), we had to spend time at both the Parma DMV, then at the Parma Hts. Mayor's Court.  Although I am sometimes want to exaggerate a bit (no, really)...I have to tell you that everything that follows is an honest account of the fashion, behavior, and overall scariness that is our southern 'burb.

Let me introduce you to the VERY large woman who sat behind me at the DMV. We'll call her Star (as in Jones). Star had these massive arms...the kind that had layers upon layers of other arms spilling over the stretch marks. I know this because she wore a tank top. A. Tank. Top. While her size 87DDDD breasts sat proudly on her third stomach, she screamed into her cell phone at the cable company that she "Didn't care what they had to do, she wanted them to come back out and hook her up." From the one side of the conversation that I could hear, it was evident that she hadn't paid her bill...but there was less shame in her voice than in her choice of attire. Her riled demeanor eventually got her baby screaming as well. So she got up and walked outside...leaving the child there in his stroller unattended. I wanted to talk to him about not growing up to be like his mother between his kool-aid stained screams...but he was about 7 months old, so he probably would have forgotten about it when it mattered.

Next, meet Dorf. I call the tall thin white boy Dorf because he wore a long sports jersey (it came down to about his knees). Said jersey had to be long enough, I presume, to cover his ass, as his "shorts" were nearly grazing his ankles-since the waist had to be somewhere around his thighs. Busting a sag, I think is the correct term. The effect from the back was that he looked a lot like Dorf on Golf...his clothing gave the effect of a long torso and very short stumpy legs. This gave way to sudden fits of laughter over the next hour between my friend and I...only sputtering "Dorf" between gasps for air.

On to court a few days later. No Dorf in sight...but no less rife with fodder. Scanning the room quickly, I almost started to believe that there is actually such a thing as The Fashion Police, and most of the people here were violators.  I spotted two scrunchies, one banana clip, one kicky leopard-print spandex pants and shirt combo, and (I shit you not) more backfat than on a Canadian breakfast plate. The tastiest of the bunch, though, was the woman, who-with 5 (count 'em) kids in tow-donned a shirt that read "Just like you...only better." OMFG. Yeah...better. If better means wearing a two-sizes too small tank, high heels, skin-tight cargo pants that I could actually see her cellulite though...then yes, she was better. Making no attempt to keep her brats in any kind of quiet line, she managed to convince the magistrate that she couldn't pay her fine for a couple of months. Can't pay your fine? STOP HAVING SO MANY FUCKING KIDS. That should give you some extra cash next month.

I could go on...really. There was more. But I am ready to go back into my closet and suck my thumb from the shock and horror of it all. If, after reading this, you need the number of my therapists, they are offering a group rate.