Dear Ryan Seacrest,

Dear Ryan Seacrest,
I need my own tv show. It's not so much a want, more a need. For both of us.
A bit about me: I am a typical 9 to 5'er (correction 9 to 6'er, that whole "9 to 5 bit" is a major falsity, I'll write to whoever started that lie later), who feels my talents would be better served in front of the camera of my own half hour (could be an hour if the editing was done right) television show. I am willing to do almost anything on my show (well except maybe bite the head off of a pigeon a la Ozzy Osbourne, but definitely don a unitard and walk the streets of Los Angeles with a midget a la Chelsea Handler - I love love love miniatures, but that's a separate letter). I am also great with people and can chase them down in 5 inch heels if necessary (don't ask). I think alcohol is 50% of the food pyramid and carbs should be the other 50. I used to be so ugly I had to sneak up on water to get a drink. I have a dating history that rivals "Another World" (RIP). I can also have an entire conversation with an answering machine or any other inanimate object.

Call me.


P.S: I don't eat meat.


Friday, March 25, 2011

Why I Can Never Go to the Bathroom in Borders Again...


The last time I visited my sister I wanted to stop at Borders on the way to the airport to pick up a few books. While there I had to go to the bathroom. As soon as I walked into the bathroom I heard two voices coming from the handicap stall, one of which sounded like a mans. So I turned around, opened the door and checked, yep "women's". Hmm...ok, just get in and get out....

As I'm in the stall I can hear them arguing, clearly something's wrong. Shit. I'm starting to sweat. I can feel the heart palpitations starting. As soon as I'm done I know I need to flee, but my need for sanitation stops me at the sink. That's when I hear it "ma'am, can you help us?". I freeze. Oh God, what should I do. Should I run? Should I say no? No, Jesus wouldn't like that. Even though I'm on the verge of a full on panic attack I respond, "s-su-sure". As I approach the handicap stall I feel similar to Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I'm also wishing I'd gotten a presciption for Xanax filled.

I enter the stall.....There is an obese woman on the toliet with no legs........I desperately wish I'd worn more deodorant. The man asks me "if I lift her, can you raise her pants?" I just stare with a glazed over look in my eyes. I'm numb. I have no feeling in my hands. I think I might be having a stroke. *Focus* She starts yelling at him "do NOT flush the toliet". Oh God. I walk over. He lifts her....There it is, Mount Poop-ola, I nearly pass out. Frantically I try and raise her pants, I can't get them. Oh God. I can't get a good angle. She's yelling, he's yelling, I'm now having a full on panic attack. My hands, why can't I feel my F-ing hands? In a last ditch effort right before she lands back on the toliet I manage to get her pants up.....

The man looks at me, "they're crooked"

*You have got to fucking kidding me*

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