Terms/Words I HATE.

Here are just a few of my least favorite terms. Believe me, there are way more, and every day I find a new one. ...Or six. These are just some of the top few.

(1) Feelings.

When someone says, "I have feelings for you" I picture them grabbing me with large purple tentacles. When they say, "You hurt my feelings", i imagine them with large purple tentacles that are bleeding profusely. 

Just say that word slowly and I think you'll understand. FEEEEEEEEEElings. Ewwwwwwww.

(2) Condiments -or- Condominium.

Now, do not mistake me, I do not have my head in the gutter, but when I hear these words I automatically think "condom". I do not want a condom on my hamburger, and I certainly do not want to live in one.

Just be more specific.

Say, "mustard," or "ketchup", or "small house", as applicable.

(3) Navel.

A belly button is a cute little thing that sticks out of your middle. A navel, however, is a hairy, lint-infested thing that now resides where your belly button USED to be, because you failed to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene. Make sure not to confuse the two…and also, make sure you clean your belly button thoroughly and regularly.

Need I say more?

(4) Bowel movement.

I'm not even going to illustrate this one. For the love of humanity, just call it "poop"!! Believe it or not, it sounds better.

(5) Moist.

Now, why say "moist" when "damp" is such an adequate - and far more appealing - substitute? It's the same basic principle as "navel" vs "belly button". One sounds just sounds icky, while the other seems to imply some degree of cleanliness. For example:

Together we can make a difference. Together we can help mankind. USE LESS DISGUSTING WORDS!!! Or don't. And I just won't talk to you. Ever.

-Rachel

The Deodorant Vandal

Every morning this week I have woken up to find myself in bed with at least three sticks of deodorant.  I didn’t even know that I owned that much deodorant.  I can never find it when I actually need the stuff which is both a burden on me and anyone who happens to walk by me that day.  The thing is, I travel back and forth between school (where I live with my parents) and my actual apartment so much that every day I wake up having no clue where I am for the first 15 seconds of consciousness. 

You know when your friends decide at 4am that it is a good idea to start a game of Risk?  You comply because you have very few friends, and you don’t want to lose these last few nerdy friends even though they participate in outlandish games that involve too much thinking.  You look down at the board, look back up, and all of a sudden it is four days later and you’re not sure how you’ve managed to go this long with peeing.  You also wonder, more importantly, how did you go this long without ice cream?  If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then you probably have cooler friends than I do.  Good for you! If you have some idea of what I’m hinting at, then you need better friends and you now have an idea about the kind of confusion I feel upon waking up in the morning.  Except I am extremely aware that I need to pee.

Being this confused every morning is hard enough, but finding yourself in bed, surrounded by antiperspirant is an entirely new level of perplexing. This was my thought process each morning for the first few mornings waking up to my unexpected guests:

Morning 1: “Where am I?  Grand Rapids? Yes? Yeah.  It’s Monday, and I have to do things.  What is this? Deodorant? Three deodorants? Is that the plural for deodorant? Deodori? That sounds best. Oh, I just threw this stuff on my bed and forgot to clear it off before I went to sleep.  I can eat ice cream later.” 

Morning 2: “Friggin deodori.”

Morning 3: “$^%%O*^%$^%#^%#$!”

Morning 4: “Shouting ‘MONEY SIGN, PERCENTAGE SYMBOL, EXCLAMATION MARK’ yesterday obviously did not intimidate this deodori.”

Morning 5: “Investigation.  **Singing a made-up song in a blues-y manner** Gonna investigate the case of the deodori bum bum bum.”

Before I even got out of bed on morning five, I carefully smelled myself. “Maybe,” I thought, “I’m being overly-careful to make sure that I smell good the next day.  Look at me...caring about others.” 

Nope, that definitely wasn’t it.

Could I have deodorized something else?  Indeed I could have.

There isn’t really anything else in my bedroom other than my bed since I’m poor. To make myself feel better about the severe lack of income, I pretend that I try to live like a minimalist.  Material possessions always suck when I don’t have them.

This left me one choice.  I must have applied deodorant to my wall.  So like the hot stuff that I am, I got out of bed to smell my wall.

***Sniff...Confused Squint...Sniff Again...Squint Some More...AND...***

Found it!

Yeah that’s right, I put deodorant all over my walls.  Now, I have taken Ambien to fall asleep for years which had led me to eat an unfortunate and unplanned amount of calories.  It also causes me to put dry macaroni noodles on my ice cream before consuming which leads to chipped teeth.  Sleep eating is a common occurrence for most people who take Ambien.  However, I am the first person that I have ever heard of that has deodorant-ed their walls.  For a second, I thought that this must have been an act of kindness on my part.  I must care so much for my walls that I want to them to smell nice and have minimal pit-stains.  Then I remembered that I’m not very nice.  If I discovered that I sleep-harassed my walls, that would have made much more sense.  Therefore, it must have been an act of vandalism!  That would continue my streak of being mean and being bad at things!  Sadly, deodorant to wall application is the worst act of vandalism that anyone could ever pull since deodorant rolls on clear and smells like fields of flowers.  If I am a vandal, then I am the worst, but from now on I’d like to be referred to as: The Deodorant Vandal.



-Whitney, The Deodorant Vandal

Unfunny Paper About Humor

I just transferred schools this semester.  The school I am at right now doesn’t really care about the hours of mind-numbing English class I sat through before I transferred. I have to take THEIR English class so because it’s “different.”  But I know their poorly kept secret, they want my monies.  This means that as a senior I am stuck in good ole’ English 101.  In my mind English 101 is a pathetic excuse of an English class.  English 101 is for eighteen year-old girls that learned to spell by texting things like “U R a QTPie.”

Thankfully, I mastered the art of proper sentence endings about 12 years ago, and I always spell out “you” when I text, so I wasn’t worried.

As it turns out, my English professor is ridiculously intelligent (she also looks like Helena Bonham Carter, making her more intimidating/awesome) which throws me into defense mode to prove my that I have even an ounce of smarts.

Teachers very quickly manage to see past my “big and knowledgeable” 5’5” of unbridled mediocrity.

Our first paper came and went, and I did relatively well. 

**Writing Tip**If you want an A in your writing class, join a cult. Then leave it.  I’m serious.  It makes for good writing material.

Then it came time for paper number two.

“Please write a three page paper about an abstract topic.”

“Okay,” I thought.  “Abstract. Depression, love, passive aggressive people, zombies apocalypse.”

I finally landed on humor after throwing around several zombie-related ideas.  Humor is something that I know. We have our modern comedians on TV and online. Tina Fey is funny.  Allie Brosh is funny.  The classics. Carol Burnette, Charlie Chaplin, Groucho Marks.  I got this.

After several hours of work, I had three pages of Star Wars references, 30 Rock quotes, a Beethoven music joke, and a paragraph about why puns are the lowest form of humor.  I managed to avoid talking about farting.  This thing was golden, man.

I passed my 3 pages of my unrivaled perfection down the row of students, hoping that out of the corner of her eye, my teacher would catch the words “Sith Lord” and bow down to me right on the spot.  This didn’t happen, but I still had a chance.  We had to meet the next day for a quick, five minute conference to go over our rough draft.  I knew that my paper wouldn’t have any problems, but I thought I’d give her the opportunity to present me with my “best at all of English” crown.

You can’t tell from the picture, but she’s definitely kneeling.

So the next day I walked into the classroom totally inflated by my own awesomeness.  I sat down in my spinny-chair with a cocky grin on my face.

“Alright Whitney,” she began.

In my mind, this is how all crown presentation ceremonies began.  Things were off to a good start.

And then...

Reactions:

1. Awkward Toothy Smile/Lack of Comprehension

 1. Taking it in

  3. Watching My Crown Get Stabbed

 And so ended any humor-related aspirations that I may have had.

-Whitney

FUN THINGS ABOUT BABYSITTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fun surprises!!!!!!!!!

Fun facts about the people you are working for!!!!!!!!!!!

...to be continued!!!!!!!!!

And Now for Something a Little Inappropriate

Whitney and Ryan went to the store because Ryan got paid, and Whitney mooches off of Ryan because Ryan is the one who makes the money.  All of the Hostess desserts were on sale, so we had to decide which one we wanted.  The conversation went like so:

Ryan: Whaddya think?

Whitney:  Ho Hos are the best.

Ryan: You mean prostitution snacks?

Whitney:  Ho Hos aren’t prostitution snacks.

Ryan: Well then what is?

Whitney:  Cigarettes and a barbecue sauce packet.

**INVENTION**

So, good people, I now present you with Prostitute Snacks... “Because if you’re a prostitute, this will probably sound good to you.”

-Whitney

Mrs. Potts was a Pregnant Tea Kettle

Tonight Ryan and I watched Beauty and the Beast.  When it ended he kinda squinted his eyes and said, “waaaait a minute...” 

And so it began.

Here’s the deal: when prince/beast was turned into the beast by the pissed-off, hot enchantress lady disguised as a creepy old lady, he had to have been 10 years old.  This is explained by narrator guy who says that the last petal of the rose that appears to have had a fight with some nuclear waste would fall on the prince’s 21st birthday. Then we learn that 10 years had already passed before we meet Belle.  When the spell breaks and prince/beast turns back into prince, he is 20 and not 10.  Okay, I think we got the basics out of the way.  Here’s the problem:  Chip was about three years old when the spell was broken. Think about this...prince/beast was put under the spell at age ten, but he was 20 when the spell broke.  Here is the epic conclusion:

Mrs. Pots must have had Chip while she was a teapot!

This is her shocked that I know her crazy secret:

That’s right you teapot skank.

Now for my question.

It is obvious from the picture that Mrs. Potts could not have carried Chip on her teapot stomach because her fat chin is in the way.  So...where did Chip come from?

I tried drawing a bunch of “baby bumps” on Mrs. Potts, but let’s face it...there is no possible place for her to carry a tea cup.  I would show you my drawing but it looked more like a cancerous mass than a child.  I quickly came to the conclusion that Mrs. Potts must have carried Chip in her spout.

This is my bizarre thought for the evening.

And how about that magic mirror?  Say anything that you want to see, and you will see it?  That has some serious sinful implications.

-Whitney

MEN.

I am currently single.
While at the moment I don't have a ton of prospects pursuing me, I do have a lot of people trying to set me up with their brothers/sons. It seems that everyone would like me for a sister/daughter in law but no really desires me for a wife at this time. I am ok with this fact…which is why I'm still single.

The other day, however, I did have a guy hit on me at work.
This was odd because when I am at work, usually the only people who talk to me are the ones who want me to do something for them. And I'm not very social at work because I'm always in grumpy-work-mode, counting down the hours till I can leave and hoping that everyone will just leave me alone in the meantime.

But anyways, this guy was named Franco. What kind of a name is that?!?

I decided that "Franco" is a more appropriate name for a gay hairdresser than for my ideal man. My ideal man is a handsome, rugged, crossbow-wielding, bearded lumberjack man. Such a man needs a manlier name….like……….Logan. Yes, Logan would be a good name for him. (**note: I might or might not have just described a hybrid of Hugh Jackman characters. You don't know.)

(1) - dreamy eyes
(2) - nicely trimmed but still scruffy beard
(3) - chest hair
(4) - unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt, exposing chest hair
(5) - axe (crossbow is currently hanging above our fireplace in the cabin Logan singlehandedly built. also, crossbows are hard to draw.)
(6) - muddy boots
Gay hairdresser named Franco:

(1) - faux hawk which probably took like an hour to arrange
(2) - shaven face, as soft and smooth as a baby's butt
(3) - purple shirt ordered online when he was supposed to be working
(4) - shiny shoes

Of course, the real Franco is not gay, obviously. If he was, he wouldn't be hitting on me. And considering the fact that he works with me, he is also not a hairdresser….as far as we know. But on the manliness scale, he was a bit closer to this end of the spectrum then my Ideal Man…
On second thought….

Franco. FRANK. OH.
FRANK O's…??

That sounds like some sort of hot dog cereal. Maybe he is an aspiring exotic cereal inventor.

Ew. Who would want to date THAT guy??? And more importantly, who would want to eat that cereal!?!?!  Oh well. Wait until he finds out that not only do I work with him, but this means that we BOTH work with my MOM. That'll scare him off!  And if that doesn't work, there's always my second tactic…

And of course if THAT doesn't work, I'll sick my lumberjack man on him.

 

--Rachel