Super Slueth’s … Friday Eye Candy … Etc.
Aug 27, 2009 Completely Hypothetical and Generally Specific, Etc., Friday Eye Candy, I WIN!, Random, The Tarably Wicked Show
Dude. Today is the blogiversary of PQNation.
I know, right?!
1 year ago today, we hopped in this theoretical RV and embarked on a pretty kick ass journey. We have stopped along the way, picked up hitchhikers, stranded damsels in distress, and even a red-headed step-child or 2.
We have been there, done that … and have worn the motherfucking t-shirt the hell out.
I am proud to be one of the bloggers/writers/decision makers on this wonderful website. I am proud to read about the lives of all of my other PQNation lady friends. (And soon to be a couple PENIS PROVIDERS…. But you didn’t hear that from me.) If you haven’t found your way to their blogs in the time that you have been reading me, then look to your left and start clicking.
Speaking of clicking … you need to click this pic below and go see the PQNation Blogiversary Roast. It is fucking hilar. (But come back though, K? I have stuffs below it.)
Moving right along.
So the other night, Tarable and Charli-bear and I embarked on a new adventure with Tarable’s old friend and my new friend. We will call her D2. (Not like R2-D2. Like Dsquared) D2 needed us (me really because Tarable is hated by most) to serve her non-child-support-paying-douchebag fucking ex-husband court papers.
You know, the ones that say “If you dont show up for court, we are gonna throw your ass in jail you motherfucking deadbeat?” Yeah. Those ones. When she called and asked… I was like “Psh. HELL YEAH I WILL.”
So we drive almost an hour out of bounds. D2 has mapquest (sucks) directions printed. We drop D2 and Charli-bear off at McDonalds because well, lets be honest. I bribe my child with french fries. After dropping them off, Tarable and I set out on a mission to serve these mofo’n papers.
Attempt 1: We end up on a dead end gravel road out in bum-fuck-farmland somewhere. Like, straight out of a motherfucking horror movie. I don’t see an address on the double-wide so I just assume that it is the house. I walk up, pounding on the door. A younger man, in his late 20’s early 30’s comes around the front, looking at me crazy like.
Me: “Hey! Douchebag, right?!”
Him: “Uh… No… What address are you looking for?”
(Tarables blind ass is trying to see if it is him all inconspicuous like)
Me: “So.. … you aren’t Douchebag?”
Him: “No. I think you have the wrong house.”
(Tarable vehemently shaking her head that it wasnt him)
Me: “Uh, okay sorry to bother you.”
Him: “Good luck!”
Attempt 2:
Me: “I think this is the street. Nooooo. That isn’t it. WAIT YES IT IS THIS IS THE STREET!”
Tarable: (slamming on brakes, hitting reverse) “Jesus.”
Me: “Sorry. I cant fucking see.”
Tarable: “You are wearing your GLASSES.”
Me: “At least I have a pair. Blind ass.”
Tarable: “Shut up and look for the address. I cant fucking see the numbers.”
Me: “Really?”
So we drive up and down this one street because THAT WAS THE STREET THAT GOOGLE MAPS (sucks) TOLD US THE ADDRESS WAS ON like 14 times. These 2 busybody ladies were staaaring at us… and I am pretty sure they thought we were going to do a drive by (because we really ARE that gangster) and called the police.
Or not. Whatever. No address even came close.
We drove for almost 2 hours trying to find this address. 3 different search engines came with 3 different and totally out of the way from each other locations. So, defeated we go back to McDonalds and grab D2 and Charli-bear. D2 had called her other half, and he had gotten the goods on how to get to the hidden residence via Google EARTH (not sucks).
(Insert Mission Impossible theme music)
So we go. Anticipation is rising. Adrenaline is pumping. We make another 25753543.6 wrong turns in the meantime… and then we found it. WE FUCKING FOUND IT.
I grab the papers. Tarable and I scramble out of the car (my ass was numb at this point… not gonna lie) and as we get up to the house, we notice that … there isnt a motherfucking light on. They were sleeping. Best day ever right there.
Heh. Your welcome for this right here.
Anyway. Now that is stuck in your head. I go to the door:
Me: “They are sleeping.”
Tarable: “Fuck them. Pound on the door like the po po’s”
Me: (ring doorbell. pound on door. ring doorbell. pound on door.) “Move that scooter out of the walkway. I am not trying to serve papers all gangster-like and then trip and fall on my face.”
Tarable: “That is a for real FML”
Me: (Ring doorbell. pound on door. ring doorbell. pound on door) “Fuck. What if they don’t wake up?”
Tarable: “Keep knocking.”
Me: (Ring doorbell. pound on door. ring doorbell. pound on door.) DOG BARKS. “Yeahhhhhhh. That is it right there.”
Tarable: “Yeaaaaaaaaaaaah buddy.”
Door opens.
Me: (all perky like) “HI! Are you Douchebag’s Girlfriend?”
DBG: (sleeping still) “Uhh yes…”
Me: “Sweet, well … you can give these papers to Douchebag because he has been SERVED!”
DBG: (awake as FUCK now) “Uhhh.. okay”
Insert me and Tarable running. (yeah I know. Totally gangster.)
Now accepting applications for people’s papers I can serve. Prices vary. That shit ruled.
And, in honor of our blogiversary… and just for Ms. DCPrincess herself *cough*sheisobsessed*cough*… I would like to make Zachary Quinto this weeks Friday Eye Candy.
Woot. Have a great weekend! (and JUST because I didnt do my own YGWM, doesnt mean the floor is closed. Friday is ALWAYS open for your ranty fucking letters. Get it out people!)
PS: Mr. Franco Beans is also having a blogiversary. Love him. Cause I said.
Tags: blogiversary, comedy central, FML, google maps, heroes, mapquest, pqnation.com, roast, you got served, zachary quinto
TMI Thursday: A Literal ROFL.
Apr 9, 2009 DUH, Out of Wicked's Mouth, Random, TMI Thursday's, Wicked Wisdoms
I should have a weekly blog that tells Military War Stories. Military Monday…. Hmmmm….
While I ponder that possibility, I will honor my commitment to TMI Thursday by posting one of my most favorite stories of all time.
Long ago… Like, 11 years ago… (God I am old) I was a ‘booter’ in the USN. For my very first deployment, we traveled down the coast to San Diego from Bremerton. If any of you are military brats or ex-military yourself… you already know that San Diego also means Tijuana, Mexico. At that time, the rule was that if you were too young to walk into a bar in San Diego, you were too young to go to TJ.
Did the Border Patrol check our ID’s? Uhhh… No. *wink*
So as soon as we heard Liberty Call, we were on the bus to TJ. What the Captain didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Right!?
Little did we young’ns know, it was Ladies Night at all of the bars in TJ. So when us ladies ordered Long Island Iced Teas… they were automatically poured as doubles. I did not know this. I had 8. I remember the number because my partner in crime at the time kept counting out loud whenever I was passed another.
“OMG! Courtni! THAT IS YOUR 8th DRINK! EIGHT!”
“Bitch I know how many motherf*cking drinks I have had. Shit. Are you my momma!? I miss my mom.”
Not only were we involved in the double pounder LIIT’s, we also did the “Tequila-From-The-Bottle-Straight-Down-The-Throat-Limbo” These guys who worked there walked around offering these “straight shots” for $5 all night.
I didn’t participate in ANY of these shots. I promise!!!!! <— lying.
Anyway, there came a point in the night after dancing my cute little 19 year old ass off in a miniskirt where it was melt-down time.
*GASP*
I know, right!?
I am going to break this down exactly the way I remember it going down. Wannahearithearitgoes.
Queue the imagination to me, dialing my MOM from MEXICO at 2AM on a Thursday.
Mom: “Hello?” (groggy as fuck)
Me: “OhmomIloveyousomucchhhhhhh”
Mom: “Courtni!? Are you ok?”
Me: “MommmmIamwastedinMexicoomgIwannacomehomeeeeeeeeee”
Mom: “Are you actually calling me wasted at 3am on a Thursday right now?!”
Me: “Is that not okay?” (All of a sudden I felt and probably sounded sober)
Mom: “Go to bed.”
Me: “Okay.”
Click.
Me: “Damn. That bitch hung up on me. Biiiiitch.”
My ass (literally) sat down on the sidewalk (in downtown TJ… GROSS) and cried. Shut up.
Somehow, my Partner-in-Crime persuaded me into a cab. I don’t remember this conversation, I just remember being in the cab.
Me: “Stop touching me.” (she was rubbing my back)
PIC: “Sorry. I was just trying to make you feel better.”
Me: “It makes me want to puke.”
PIC: “My bad.”
1 minute later
Me: “STOP!”
PIC: “What!? I am not even touching you!”
Me: “Noooooo! Stop the cab! I am gonna …”
I opened the door to the cab, laid my head out the door and puked. The cab never stopped. And, all of the people who I was stationed with were walking back to the border… clowning on my situation. I am pretty sure they got a couple of “fuck you’s” in between pukes… but I don’t know. Mostly there was a shit ton of laughter in my general direction.
Normally, the story would be over here. It is not.
We get to where the ship was docked. Being that I was on a huge Aircraft Carrier, there was this long, steep stairwell from land to the Hangar Deck. The mission was to get my drunk, barely able to stand up ass up the stairs and past the Officer on Duty. All I needed to do was hold my ID and say “Permission to come aboard”
Sounds easy, right?!
Queue your imagination to a person on either side of me, holding me up. Then think about me, ID in hand, practicing “Permission to come aboard” all the way up the stairs.
“Puhmishon tah comaboard. No.”
“Missiontocomeaboardd. No.”
“PERmission to come aboard”
“PerMISSION to come ABOARD.”
“Permission TO come aboard”
So I get up there, stand in front of the Officer on Duty, and hold my ID up like I did every single day. He is looking at me. My friends are subtly trying to remind me why in the fuck I was standing there. Because I straight up forgot.
What did I do? I fell the fuck out. Laughing. Like, literally rolling around on the Hangar Deck laughing my drunk ass off. Do I need to remind you that I was also wearing a mini skirt? I showed my vag to a good percentage of men on this boat. (I haven’t worn panties for years.) I remember for several months after… I would get whispers. And I would think to myself… “Those guys saw my crochandmore!”
I do not remember any of this. It has all been retold to me by who? The Officer of the Day. Turns out, he was my BOSS. Riiiiight. So, when I tried to waltz in to work the next morning, hungover, smelling like a mixture of vomit and a walking Long Island Iced Tea as if nothing ever happened… I had another thing coming.
Boss: “Good Morning Seaman Kenyon. (shutthefuckupialreadyknowseamanisfunny) You have fun on liberty last night?”
Me: “Yes sir, but I think I got food poisoning.”
Boss: “Is that why you have vomit on the side of your face right now?”
(I literally woke up and threw on my uniform. No shower. No nothing.)
Me: “Uhhh….” (F*CK)
Boss: “Go clean yourself up and get to work. You owe me one. Remember that.”
Can I get a “FML”?!?!
Did this spark any TMI stories for you?
How about FML situations?
Happy TMI Thursday!!!
Tags: boss, Bremerton, Deployment, drunk dial, FML, Long Island Iced Tea, Mexico, Military, party, permission to come aboard, San Diego, Taxi, Tequila, Tijuana, TMI Thursday, USN
