The Irish prostitute
Sorry, I had to post this. With so much shit happening out there, including the death of the great Nastasha Richardson– which happened I suppose, to make us remember, that we are all equal and we stand at the wim of the great big beyond, I thought why the hell not. Post something funny, and give us all a laugh.
THE IRISH PROSTITUTE
An Irish daughter had not been home for over a year. Upon her return, her Father cussed her. ‘Where have ye been all this time? Why did ye not write to us, not even a line? Why didn’t ye call? Can ye not understand what ye put yer old mum thru?’
The girl, crying, replied, ‘Sniff, sniff….Dad….I became a prostitute…’ ‘Ye what!!? Out of here, ye shameless harlot! Sinner! You’re a disgrace to this Catholic family.’ ‘OK, Dad– as ye wish. I just came back to give mum this luxurious fur coat, title deed to a ten bedroom mansion plus a $5 million savings certificate. For me little brother, this gold Rolex. And for ye Daddy, the sparkling new Mercedes limited edition convertible that’s parked outside plus a membership to the country club…………………… (takes a breath)…………. and an invitation for ye all to spend New Years Eve on board my new yacht in the Riviera and… .’
‘Now what was it ye said ye had become?’ says Dad.. Girl, crying again, ‘Sniff, sniff….a prostitute Daddy! Sniff, sniff.’
‘Oh! Be Jesus! Ye scared me half to death, girl! I thought ye said a Protestant. Come here and give yer old Dad a hug..
Ok, I posted at work. So shoot me. It took less than 5 minutes. If you can friggin’ twitter during the day, I can post. But you did laugh, now, dinna ya? Thanks Cheryl.
What do you see??
So I guess peops really like all this optical mind game stuff, so I found this other photo. And guess what? I could see what kids can see! Can you see both photos?
You saw a couple in an intimate love position, right? Interestingly, research has shown that young children cannot identify the intimate couple because they do not have prior memory associated with such a scenario. What they will see, however, is nine (small & black) dolphins in the picture! So, I guess we’ve already proven you’re not a young innocent child. Now, if it’s hard for you to find the dolphins within 6 seconds, your mind is SO corrupted that you probably need help! Unfortunately, all I can see is the dolphins.
Answer: look at the space between her right arm and her head, the tail is on her neck, follow it up. Look at her left hip, follow the shaded part down, it’s another one, and on his shoulder.
Yellow teeth
Here’s an ad on my site.
And I’m thinking, there’s so much more wrong with her teeth than just being yellow. Has she thought of going to a vet? Oh, that’s mean. Isn’t it? Just plain mean. (But they are a little scary.)
John Hinckley, redux
So, in June, I published this letter that, I got in my inbox, and sick mind that I have, found funny:
The staff at the mental facility treating John Hinckley reports intercepting the following letter from Bill Clinton:
To: John Hinckley
From: Bill Clinton
Dear John,
Hillary and I wanted to drop you a short note to tell you how pleased we are with the great strides you are making in your recovery. In our country’s new spirit of understanding and forgiveness, we want you to know there is a bilateral consensus of compassion and forgiveness abroad throughout the land.
Hillary and I want you to know that no grudge is borne against you for shooting President Reagan. We, above all, are aware of how the mental stress and pain could have driven you to such an act of desperation. Hillary and I are confident that you will soon make a complete recovery and return to your family to join the world again as a healthy and productive young man.
Best wishes,
Bill & Hillary Clinton
PS: Barack Obama is screwing Jodie Foster.
OK: so I was like trying to figure out WHY my site visits were so high that day. It’s like, kinda weird. And now, 9 months later, I’m still finding that folks are looking for John Hinckley. Here’s a snapshot of terms that people used to get to my site:
And I’m like, over 1000 visits for JOHN HINCKLEY??? Thats FUCKIN’ WEIRD! But then, I’m also looking at the 90 visits from Hillary Clinton’s Boobs (yes you can see them here) and 300 on Bill Clinton’s picture and 250 on POLICE BOOBS. So, it’s like, well, NO WONDER the shrink business on the rise. Go friggin’ figure.
Find the man
So, my sister, who is always sending me interesting bits of information, sent me this today:
FIND THE MAN
Doctors have concluded that if you find the man in the coffee beans in 3 seconds,
the right half of your brain is better developed than most people. If you find the man
between 3 seconds and 1 minute, the right half of the brain is developed normally.
If you find the man between 1 minute and 3 minutes, then the right half of your brain
is functioning slowly and you need to eat more protein If you have not found the man
after 3 minutes, the advice is to look for more of this type of exercise to make that
part of the brain stronger!!! This little game ends with the following conclusion: Once you find him – it’s embarrassing, and you think, Why didn’t I see him immediately? And, yes, the man is really there!!!
Needless to say, I didn’t find the man after 3 seconds, 60 seconds, 3 minutes or 10 minutes. In fact, I had to get up, watch the rest of 30 ROCK, call my sister and just as she said, “hello?”, I finally found the man. Which is actually, a lot faster than I find men on Match.com, but well, significantly lower than the curve. Then I began wondering, does this test translate to other things I can’t find? Like, keys? The remote, phone (YES, I still have a land line), my blackberry, business cards, expense receipts, glasses (on top of my head) and building ID. The list can go on. But you know what? I came to the conclusion, (without the help of my therapist), that none of the above has any meaning, other than, most likely, I had one Cosmo too many or 2 hours too little of sleep. Even, alas, finding the man. Unless of course, he shows up in Match.com. How’d you do?
Boobs, wrinkles and botox
Sunday was 70 degrees. I hate the warm weather. I especially hate when the weather is warm in winter. This only reminds me how much I hate warm weather the rest of the year. Why? Because in the Big Dirty Apple, that is the time that every one under 30 strolls up and down the 3rd Avenue bar scene with their peach skin faces, cellulite free giraffe legs and short little skirts seeking hot, tight bodied young males.
Which is what I used to do (stroll). But those tales are for another day. I am on the dark side of,well, let’s just say, 38. That sounds freaking old. So old in fact, it’s hard for me to even…type… the…. word. So, I won’t. But since everyone thinks I’m a lot younger, I guess I can ascribe to the thought that 50 is the new 40. And then, if 50 is the new 40, and 40 is the new 30, am I really closer to 20? Think about it. Anyway, everyone I work with, is under 40. Even the CEO of the company I work for is under 40. In fact, most people are under 30. In my company. Ok, I guess I can live with that. BUT what I can’t live with is that chicken waddle that is starting to appear under my chin in every picture I take. I can’t
even wear turtle necks anymore. I’ve told myself it’s just the ten pounds I want to lose. (VERY lousy because I work for a company that specializes in weight loss. They don’t tell you when you join the company that there is tons of fattening food in the kitchen, and that the pressure of the job causes you to stress eat that very junk food, so you gain 10 pounds. And then, owner sends an email around telling everyone that she is going on a diet to lose the weight she’s gained from unhealthy eating and if everyone in the company who needs to lose weight does within 3 months, the company will pay for your gym membership. And then, after you lose the weight that you originally gained from the stress of working there, you can become a success story.) Did you get that?
Ok, the waddle. My mother says that I need to do the following exercise.
The Waddle from Lara Dean on Vimeo.
She’s been doing it for years. And to be honest, she looks great. But also to be honest, I don’t believe from the ages of 13-18, she took her mother’s tin foil, schmeared babyoil on her nubile teen skin, and roasted in the 90 degree heat for 2 hours all summer long, so that from the side, she looked African American to anyone who drove past her in their ’67 Firebirds. And did you know that the most damage done to skin happens BEFORE you’re 18? Well I didn’t either which is why Dr. Goldberg, the Dermatologist, is my new best friend, making sure all those sun spots, are just that.Not to digress. So, one fine night, at dinner with an old, good friend, (who happens to NOT be as old as I am—plus she is a beautiful, very thin, somewhat surgeried*, model that books TV commercials, etc) I made the mistake of commenting on the waddle. “Oh, that’s just age Lara. Do you know Jeanette Greenbean? Well, she went to this great plastic surgeon and I don’t know what he did, but he fixed her right up and she looks fantastic. AGE!!??? Not to use an overused phrase (so I’ve changed it a bit) but with augmented, assholes like that, who the hell needs enemies? But since I did have the benefit of that geriatric knowledge (speak up, who cares what you say, you’re too old anyway) and a 3 glasses of champagne bravened** tongue, I decided to say: “you know what Debbie? You really hurt my feelings when you told me my waddle was from age. I would have rather you told me I needed to lose 10 pounds”“I am SO sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings! But at least I gave you a solution. “ And in my wizened age, I saw her point of view. “True, I said. But more importantly, didn’t you tell me you used Botox? What doctor did you use?”“Shhhhhhhh”, she said looking around wildly at her boyfriend. “I’ll call you tomorrow”***From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
*Surgeried: – One who has had multiple surgeries to improve their physical appearance even if they don’t need it.
**Bravened: – more brave than usual so as to speak up when someone hurts your feelings rather than hide it inside and speak badly about them behind their backs.
***I’ll Call You Tomorrow: – a euphemism meaning “shut up you little bitch, my boyfriend is right behind me and I can’t believe you said that. You’re nuts if you think I’m giving you MY trade secrets.”