Dear Girls Two Seats Down

Dear Girls Two Seats Down,

Thanks for coming to class today. It's always a pleasure to see you and the fact that you always sit on my side of the room helps give my life some sense of continuity. I'm also glad to see you because, well, the world needs more girls that are...how shall I say...chunky.

Don't get me wrong, I loves me the larger ladies. Big girls, you are beautiful. Fat bottom girls make the rockin' world go 'round. More cushion for the pushin. Ect. And I for one should know; I too have to turn sideways to fit between the rows of seats in the classroom and when I take my jacket off there is not room for the both of us in the chair. I get it. I feel you.

Having said that, I would like to remind you that our seats are connected by a metal bar located somewhere beneath your grandiose ass. And when you move I move. When you dip, I dip, we dip. That is to say, when you adjust your 'curves,' or jiggle your ham-hocks, or otherwise heft your rolls around in your seat it jolts me. It rocks me, it bumps me...it pisses me off. While the skinny bitches can bounce around in their chairs as they please, girls like us have got to stick to slow, small movements for the duration of class. Some might say that should be easy for someone of your stature. Not me though, I would never say that. I respect and value humans of all shapes and sizes, including the large, circular ones.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to hell and I should be on my way now.

Sincerely,
Angry Bitch Two Seats Down.

A New Use for Books

With graduation fast approaching I ponder not only my own future, but that of my books. Over the years I have unwillingly acquired a great many leather bound books which leave my apartment smelling of rich mahogany but are unfortunately worth less than $1 on the open market. Naturally I would keep them around to trigger intellectual discussions at dinner parties but I fear this will cost me my reputation as a woman of the people. And then who will lead the peasant revolution? As such I have compiled a few options to consider for the timely demise of my book collection.

1. Burn:

This is of course the obvious and time honoured choice. I will, however, only burn books that deal with religion, democracy or witchcraft. I will only carry my books in plastic bags and I will only do so if I am 50+ pounds overweight and wearing at least 1 print.

2. Phashion
Obv this dress has a train. Obv. Make sure you pick something nice and dense like Marx for winter wear, while media studies is perfect for a nice light summer number.

Don't forget to accessorize!

Coco Chanel once said a women should always remove one accessory before leaving the house. She failed to mention that it should always be your book hat.
She also said, "A woman should never weigh more heavily on a man than a bird," to which I respond, "Fashion is like an ostrich: bury your head in the sand and you always look fabulous."

3. Crafts!
It's a birdfeeder/shelf/art!?

4. Secrets.

Except where they have put ridiculous and useless things I will put drugs, alcohol and secrets.

Beautiful Baking for Birthday Boys

Birthday baking is actually just an excuse to have bowls to lick clean and leftovers securely stored in my refrigerator while the flour suspended in the air hangs around me like an edible halo. My aura is all-purpose and self-rising.

First up was the decoy cake; I pulled the old 90's sitcom trick where it seems like everyone has forgotten your birthday/nobody cares about you and then bam! Friday! Laser tag! Zach and Kelly had the whole thing planned and Screech had no idea! But in the interests of not crushing self esteem into a fine powder and sifting it in with the dry ingredients I thought some baked good was necessary. With that I give you the Leaning Tower of Strawberry Angel Food Cake:

I'll save you the how to on this one; suffice to say it involves a rigorous process of selecting which cardboard wrapped box of pre-prepared mix to use. I chose the one where you only have to add water so I wouldn't have to buy oil and eggs. While the president's choice on the stimulous package was generous, apparently his stance on cake mixes is more conservative.

Also, I used angel food cake mix but cooked it WITHOUT the appropriate circular pan with that large phallus in the middle. My phallic free pan did just fine and contrary to popular belief the world did not explode. One more point for feminism.

To cover up the botchy cutting job I covered each layer with a generous portion of whipped cream because I prefer it over frosting and while the cake was made for someone else the baker reserves the right to make it however she damn well pleases. Plus, bikini season is fast approaching and you know what that means: high fat foods with extreme sugar content. However, my hand mixer is still broken and whipping all that cream by hand was my work out for both last month and this month.

In case you were wondering, the angle atop the food cake was indeed a chocolate covered strawberry which I managed to make even sans double broiler. This is ingenuity at its finest:

That is a pot, with a sieve on it, holding a bowl to melt the chocolate. Ghetto foodie.

Blurberries.

So the next day was the actual paaahty for which we made Vegan Cookies and Cream Cupcakes. The recipe came from Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World, but I also found it here. FYI, the last line of the recipe actually reads, "Shortening and margarine are totally good for your digestive system. Just ask my bunghole." Mmmmmm, vegan poop.

Anyway they looked super cute and have oreos in them which is always a plus (oreos btw, are vegan because they are entirely made of chemicals. Eggs = bad. Mono-nextrose-bicarbonate-polysaturated-glucomate = okay. I prefer dead baby birdies, but to each their own).



Hapeee Berthdaaay!

Constitutional Law is Rarely Funny

I have a midterm tomorrow and despite what many might think, constitutional law can be funny. Let me make the case:

First point: names of justices.

- Justice Louis-Phillipe Pigeon
- Hon. Jean Beetz
- Hon. Frank Iacobucci
- Hon. Michael Bastarache
- Hon. Morris Fish

Eg, While Justice Bastarache concurred with the majority in this decision, he chose to write a separate set of opinions thereby extending the length of the reading by 9 pages. Pffft, what a bastarache!

Eg, In my opinion Justice Fish fails to acknowledge the jurisprudence set by Justice Pigeon in his comparison of wings and gills.

Eg, Justice Beetz has opted out of sitting on the case of Borscht v. Stew due to what he describes as a vested interest in the outcome. When asked what he meant he replied, "What can I say, I'm a Beetz!"

Second, they straight up look like Santa Claus. If Justice Fish had a beard he would take reindeer to work:

The only difference between these two groups is in the amount of fun they're having:


















In the case of Naughty v. Nice the court finds unanimously that Tommy is guilty of twelve counts of teasing, bullying and name calling as filed by the complainant, his little sister Betty. In response to the court's decision his parents have decided to invoke Section 33, attaching a clause to his wish list which reads, "Notwithstanding the decision of the Santa's, we are going to go ahead and buy Tommy a powerwheels anyway."

Thirdly, in Gosselin v Quebec Chief Justice McLachlin held that there was not a Section 7 violation because the issue at hand was not connected to the administration of justice. Justice Bastarache found that there was also not a Section 7 violation for the reason that the issue at hand was not shown to be connected to a definitive state action. Then only three years later in Chaoulli v. Quebec Justices McLachlin and Bastarache along with Justice Major found that there WAS a section 7 violation even though there was NEITHER definitive state action nor was it regarding the administration of justice! Pfft! Whaaakkkkkuuuuft? Isn't that funny?? Isn't that CRAZY???

...I need to go home.

Drunk Food for the Recently Sober

Sunday: a day of rest, repentance, relaxation and the occasional intense drinking binge. Yesterday I started in heavily at a hair past twelve o'clock and didn't quit it until I had almost spilled wine on several passing babies, freaked the fuck out about the acoustics in a dive bar, fell flat on my ass doing air guitar in said dive bar, ate a random persons abandoned fries at a restaurant, had to be piggybacked home because my legs were too tired, and passed out cold at 6pm. Some people do brunch, I do brunk.

Anyway I came to around 8 o'clock, called my momma, explained to her how exhausting it was to be studying all day, then went to fill the space in my belly that used to hold my booze. But Old Mother Hubbard ain't got shit on my cupboards so what emerged was due to both lack of culinary options and lack of will to do jack shit with an early evening hangover. I shall call it Lightly Seasoned Overcooekd One Pot Fusilli with Aromatic Tomatoes and Herbs.

Lightly Seasoned Overcooked One Pot Fusilli with Aromatic Tomatoes and Herbs
- Some water.
- Less fusilli than water
- 1 can of whole tomatoes
- Some oregano.
- 1 dash of straight up hard core gangsta attitude.

Now this could probably be made with any variety of pasta, but a quick tour around google image will I'm sure persuade you to stick with fusilli.

First, fusilli is obviously the wacky cousin of the pasta world, as indicated here by Rigatoni:

"I'm all twisted up Rigatony! I'm going loopy for christsake! I'm going to be in hot water soon enough Itellyouwhat! Enough about me, how's the wife Tony? Is she still as big as a fricken manicotti?? Ehh? Ehh??"

Secondly, there's this Seinfeld pop culture reference that I don't understand due to my lack of television, but if Jerry's laughing then you should probably be too.
So we're clear then? Fusilli it is.

1. Boil water.
2. Add fusilli.
3. Overcook it.
4. Yeahhh.
5. Add tomatoes.
6. Mush them with a fork so they break up just like your parents did just before your 10th birthday.

*Note: in lieu of fork you can use the meat hooks attached to your hairy bulbous forearms like this feller here:

7. Salt.
8. Pepper.
9. Look in fridge for cheese.
10. Close fridge emptyhanded.
11. Eat that shit anyway.
12. Eat it real good.

It won't look nearly as good as this photo, but it won't taste as bad as a rectal exam with a dirty glove either. My roommate said, and I quote, "Hey, this isn't so bad. Also, you have the crazy eyes of a woman who was recently drunk."

Sunday, bloody mary Sunday.

Pancake Pancake Baker's Man

The sun was shining deceitfully when I woke up this afternoon, concealing the cold realities beyond the window, and that means one thing: pancakes. Also known as natures way of delaying my route to school. These are the pancakes my mom makes, they're called Fluffy Pancakes, and the recipe comes from one of those old timey coil bound cookbooks that have fallen apart sometime over the last century and the faded cover says something like United Church Wives Farmer's Almanac Cookbook 1979. The pancake page was always loose and difficult to find...not unlike your favorite prostitute.

That being said, I've actually forgotten the recipe at home but I want so badly not to do schoolwork that I'm just going to guess at it for you. You are welcome.

Fluffy Pancakes
2 cups flour
3 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
2 cups milk
2 eggs (separated)
2 tbsp melted butter

Mix up the dry stuffs. Then mix up the wet stuffs, but only put in the egg yolks. The whites you're going to save and beat stiff...like the pimp does to your favorite prostitute. If for some reason you have small children or idiots around the house you're going to want to make sure they don't mistake these egg whites for whipped cream, that's just one life lesson best not learned the hard way. If your hand blender is broken this could take a while. I suggest recruiting a boyfriend for this task, he likely has overdeveloped forearm muscles anyway. Oh, you don't have a boyfriend? You're eating alone? Oh, I'm so sorry. You must have your own overdeveloped forearms then. The egg whites should make peaks and look something like this:


So now you're going to pour the wets into the drys and mix out the lumps. If you are either fruitie or tootie you can go ahead and throw in some deliciousness. I'm a purist so I restrict this to either straw and blue berries, but if you insist on mango chocolate chip bubblegum pancakes, that is both your perogative and your mistake. Then you're going to fold, yes fold, the egg whites in. This is the key to the fluffiness - the egg whites make the pancakes go 'poof' but not if you stir them in too much. As with classy ladies and their accessories, less is really more.

Heat up your griddle, or your fry pan, or even your hot plate. Slap some butter down in there and then pour away. My friend's dad used to own a restaurant and he'd make me pancakes in the shape of teddy bears with blueberries for buttons any time of the day. I am still no match for that, but circles are good too in their own little way. Flip them when they bubble like this:

If you're even halfway competant they should look like this:

If your salary figures are greater than six, or you're heir to a Cabane a Sucre fortune, you can put liquid gold in the form of maple syrup on them. If not, suck it up with Aunt Jemmima (fact: real person and first living trademark. She was a former slave and her real name was Nancy Green.) or you can just butter them up and eat them plain.

Pancakes in morning light. And by morning I mean mid-to-late afternoon.

If you're anything like me your kitchen will look like this post-pancakes:

Clean that shit up, loser.

Rachel Ray Ain't Got Shit

Spring cleaning includes emptying out the old saddlebags so last night's dinner was Spinach Salad with Creamy Poppy Seed Dressing. Popeye might have been heavy in the forearm's, but I'd kill for his waistline.

NOTE: I suffer from shaky hand syndrome which explains why the spinach leaves appear to be in motion. I assure you they were long dead and immobile by the time they reached the table.

Spinach Salad with Creamy Poppy Seed Dressing

Spinach (dead)
Cherry tomatoes (hole, halved or quartered, whatever makes them look cuter)
Strawberries (again, cut in an aesthetically pleasing manner)
Green pepper (because I had it in the fridge)
Hard Boiled Eggs (I'd say several, but this is because they were my only source of protein for the day)

NOTE: If I had the cash monies I would put bacon in this. If you don't mind racking up your charge card with pork related products then I would recommend this option.

Chop that shit up. Mix that shit up.

NOTE: If you're cooking solo you go ahead and mix those right in the dish you're going to eat out of because the only thing more depressing than eating alone is cleaning alone.

Dressing:
Mayonnaise
Milk
White vinegar
White sugar
Poppy seeds

There were measurements for these, but my house has somehow lost all but the 2/3 measuring cup so I winged it. Here's the basic breakdown: more mayonnaise than you likely feel comfortable eating, less milk than mayonnaise, less vinegar than milk, several shakes of the sugar jar and a bunch of poppy seeds. The ratio's look about like this:

FACT: the price of poppy seeds has skyrocketed because poppies are grown in the middle east where the terrorists are stealing them all to make opium pies. This is directly the reason that the wonderful ladies of the Valleyview, AB Farmer's Market have stopped making Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins. I'm sure you will agree that they have taken the jihad too far.

Anyway, whisk that stuff up, or, if you're alone, you can just use the fork you're going to eat with. It should be about the consistency of semen, if sperm's were black (ooh, racism?).

Drizzle over salad. Put excess dressing away. Pause. Go back and get more. Who are you kidding? Put your face down close to the bowl, it should look like this:

Eat that shit up. Then go do your dishes alone, loser.

It's Not My Fault You Hate Your Job

Me: "Hi, I just had this textbook out and it's due back now, but I was wondering if I could take it out again please?"

Librarian: "You have to wait 15 minutes in between taking the same book out."

Me: "Oh, but won't you be closed in 10 minutes?"

Librarian: "Yes."

Me: "Oh, ok, well in that case, would you like to suck on my dick instead?"

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Me: "Hi, I'm looking for a student who goes to school here. His name is Sean and I actually can't remember his last name but-"

Secretary: "Well how am I supposed to help you if you don't know his last name?! Just Sean?? I don't know every Sean in the school! I really can't help you."

*storms off to issue more late slips for 13 year old stoners.*

Me: "...-but I know his homeroom....? Oh, I'm sorry, you probably couldn't hear me over the dull roar of mediocrity. I know dreams can be pretty loud when they're crushed repeatedly. You take good care."

Let's Just Get This Out of the Way.

My most embarrassing moments, chronologically, for your reading pleasure.

I was too young to actually remember this story, but my family tells it so often it’s become one of those created memories. One day when I was really little I decided I wasn’t going to wear anything except for my dad’s rubber boots. So I walk out into the kitchen to show off my new outfit only to discover that my parents had company over. I was so surprised I started to pee and it ran straight down my leg and into the boots. I had to shuffle back out of the room with pee sloshing around my ankles.

In grade five my mom was on this health kick and I wasn't allowed to eat anything with sugar. Seriously - anything. At recess one day I saw this doughnut sitting just on the edge of the garbage can, like baaarely touching it. So like any sugar starved ten year old I went and picked it out and ate the damn thing. This earned me the nickname ‘Garbage Picker’ for the better part of the rest of my life.

When I was twelve we were on a family vacation and we were all packed into our sporty utility vehicle and brothers and I were fighting one of our infinite and usually violent fights. Apparently this time I was at fault because my dad pulled the car over, hauled me outside, and spanked me on the side of the highway for all the passing cars to see. No one called child welfare though; I guess they could tell it was my fault too.

I was in swimming lessons when I was about fourteen and I hopped out of the pool to grab a flutter-board and the lifeguard started screaming at me from across the deck that I was bleeding. I looked down and it turned out that I had started my period and there was quite obviously menstrual blood streaming down my leg. Luckily only everyone in the pool noticed.

One time I was camping with some friends and I had hurt my knee and was on crutches at the time. I was sitting on the ground when this dog came over and started humping my leg. I couldn’t move my leg to shake him off, nor could I reach my crutches so I tried to drag myself away from him with my hands, but he had such a good pelvic grip on me that I just ended up dragging him around behind me on the ground. Clearly everyone was too busy laughing to intervene in my canine rape.

One time I went to the doctor and he asked me to give a urine sample, except I had literally just gone and my bladder was bone dry. I just straight up could not go. Unfortunately the East German Nurse From Hell was working the lab that day and told me, in front of the entire packed waiting room, to go to the fountain and drink until I was ready to go. So I suck on the fountain until I feel sick, but the liquid is not exiting my body anytime soon. I go back to Helga the Horrible and try to explain quietly that I am a urinary failure. She does not take this well and tells me I cannot leave until I pee, at which point I begin to cry uncontrollably. Realizing that she has a hysterical person on her hands she changes her tune and lets me and my empty bladder go on the conditional that she’ll just write in my permanent record that I have “difficulty urinating.”

One time I was out drinking with this guy and along the way I ate some dangerous looking food from a street vendor. So we make our way home and start getting down to business. He's going down on me when out of no where I accidentally let. one. rip. We're talking big time. Not a fluff or a squeak or even a queef, but a full on mother fucking ass rumbling fart. I'm assuming, from his position and such, that the asshole air probably hit him somewhere in the mouth/face/neck region. Shit happens, but sometimes it's just gas.

I hope you feel better acquainted now.