It's not just you… we all have our moments

It's not just you… we all have our moments

Tuesday, December 31, 2013


“You’re ridiculous.”

Somewhat of a compliment but more over something I’ve been accused of many times in my life, usually preceded by, “How inappropriate,” followed by the inevitable, “You’re ridiculous.”

Ridiculous is an adjective that means deserving or arousing ridicule; extremely silly or unreasonable - but it has also come to symbolize the inane.  Or just things that are plain lame, as in stupid.  Not handicapped.  That would be insensitive.

So, let’s take a closer look at what, exactly, “ridiculous” is.

For example, Ridiculous is:
  • Giving someone Lotto tickets as a gift.  That’s on par with handing someone a wrapped box of disappointment.
  • Peeing in the backyard. (I’m looking at you, Dad).
  • Charging any amount of money for checked airline luggage over 50 lbs. 
    • As my BFF pointed out: why is it fair a 250 lb. dude is allotted a 50 lb. bag when she weighs 125 lbs. less than he does, but has the same weight limit on her bag?  It stands to reason she should get the courtesy of a bag that weighs up to 175 lbs. before she’s charged a $50 penalty.  But alas this logic regarded her the unsolicited opinion of being “ridiculous” by an eavesdropping bathroom patron.  Stick to your bowel movement, sweetheart.
  • Road cyclists and their desire to be both moving vehicle AND pedestrian are ridiculous.
  • This blog.
  • Customer service (More of a joke).
  • Retail.
  • The restaurant industry.
  • The entertainment industry.
  • The Kardashians.
  • My inclusion of the Kardashians on this list.
  • “The fact that my period has not come yet.” (As echoed by a number of close girlfriends).
  • Adult onesies.
  • How amazingly AWESOME The Neverending Story is. 
  • Also, RAD.
  • Dog strollers.

  • Self-importance.
  • Facebook.
  • Shia LaBeouf.
  • Every show on TLC.
  • And VH-1.
    • Just, stop watching “reality” and go live it.
  • Movember.
  • Hipsters.
  • My dating life.
  • Stufz: America’s Stuffed Burger.
  • The TSA screening process.
  • Notes process.
  • New Years Resolutions.
  • Diets.
  • When Artax dies.
  • Dog shows.
Photo courtesy of NY Times
  • The soundtrack to Flash Gordon by Queen.
  • Plastic surgery (my grandmother’s face lift was a really confusing time for me).
  • Justin Bieber’s retirement
  • America's obscene and misguided obsession with all things gleuten free. (Thanks for the reminder, Leigh!)
I could go on and on.  Which, I guess, is kind of the point of this blog.  So on this NYE, I will take time to reflect on all the ridiculous memories and material afforded me by 2013 with gratitude, and assume my crash position in preparation for 2014. 

Happy New Year’s Eve all!

Monday, December 30, 2013

Holiday Boom Boom?

Something about the Holiday season that breeds nostalgia.  Something about Facebook that acts as the perfect host/ carrier for indecent proposals, you know, "for old times' sake."  So imagine the degree of flattery I was met with yesterday morning when I was awakened to the sound of my past and my present colliding.

First came the sext messages from the new guy.  Always a fun and welcomed way to begin the day.  But then, like a bull in a china shop, Facebook crashed the party with a message of its own.

Appropriate response, yes?  My best friend would be the first to point out that "when the past calls send it to voicemail.  It has nothing new to say."  Sound advice.  But what about when it Facebook's you?

Long and the short of it: what's apparent to me is that I continue to elicit the same lascivity from most men who interact with me.  And I have an obvious affinity for sex toys.  Not for nothin', at least I'm consistent. 

Maybe now is a good time to contemplate some new resolutions.

Friday, December 20, 2013

Chocolate Covered Ball Sack

Apparently I'm on an island that celebrates this sort of thing.  News flash: pooping's not that big an accomplishment after a night of boozing.  Particularly drinking beer.

Point in case: (real names withheld for the sake of safeguarding some last shred of dignity,) Sally and Billy were a couple of wild and crazy kids who spent most their days drunk on Bud Light and love.

Since their drinking schedule and level of consumption precluded them from doing the horizontal tango at night (limp dick, ya know), morning sex became their thing.  And because Billy was a lazy fuck, Sally usually found herself riding him.

One should know this is dangerous for a couple reasons:

1) Gravity, &
2) Beer shits

Now couple that with the pressure of an above average-sized you know what cock-a-doodle-doing you, and what you end up with is chocolate covered balls.  And I'm not talking about truffles.

Also, Billy lived with his parents.  His very Mormon parents.

True story.  

Sally eventually recovered, and after some therapy sessions, was able to jump back up on that pony - just not Billy's.  And she switched to wine.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

I Did It All For The Wookie

"Key West, is the most beautifully strange (or is it strangely beautiful?) island in the US... The locals revel in their funky nonconformity here, probably because weirdness is still integral to the Key West brand." (

Sweet.  So I read this and immediately think to myself, Great!  I'll be right at home.

So far, this place is a bright spot on the road to ridiculous.  

Back when I was drinking, my friends and I endearingly called our local dive The Star Wars Bar because it never had a shortage of "action figures;" otherwise known as complete fucking weirdos.  

Turns out Key West is literally no different.

(Surprisingly quite the DMB fan.)

(Absolutely positive I have lice now.)

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Friends Don't Let Friends Eat Strangers

Took off work a week early so I could travel to Land's End and experience all the majesty the Florida Keys have to offer. 

In other words, I'm as far away from familial holiday disfunction as I could afford to go. 

My best girlfriend and I took the red-eye Monday night.  (After having given her lice in first grade, I'm surprised she cares to travel anywhere near me at all.)  

In less than 24-hours, we've not only been called "ridiculous" by an ugly girl in an airport bathroom (& she wasn't calling us funny), but I was almost consumed by an Alligator/ Crocodile/ Dinosaur.

Fortunately, this guy's friend convinced him not to eat me; claiming he couldn't tell where I've been, but by the looks of it,  I probably wasn't "safe."

Wish I would have had half this reptile's foresight during my twenties. 


Monday, December 16, 2013

I Wanna Sex You Up

What. The. Fuck.

Here's the deal: I'm a girl.  My inner-worth is based on my outsides.  Your response to me (aka: my appearance) informs me how to feel about myself, as reinforced by practically every goddamn magazine cover on virtually every corner.  (See below.)

Listen, I'm not one to complain.  This is a system that has been in place forever.  "If it ain't broke, don't fix it;" and I'm certainly not about to go try and change it with all this "therapy."  A woman's place is in the kitchen (as long as she's not eating.  Otherwise she better get her ass to some vacuuming to burn those calories, am I right?)  I accept this now.

I've wasted countless years desperately insisting I am an intelligent Being - that I be recognized for my beautiful brain first and foremost - as you've most assuredly gathered by my previous blog posts.

Well, I AM DONE with that nonsense.  So, here it is: my Holiday resolution to fold in as apposed to fall out.  I am joining the ranks of the vapid, and assuming my rightful place amongst my gender.

Kicking it off the right way with my festively photoshopped Greeting Card.  Merry fucking Christmas.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

No-K Cupid

Ok Cupid is a free dating website.

I think it's fair to say, you get what you pay for.

The above was submitted by my slutty friend.  (I can say that because water seeks it's own level.)

Aaaaaaand the kind of response my profile was attracting.  My account has since been deactivated.

Got an OK Stupid experience?  I'd just looooove to hear about it.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Clit Stitches

When I was seven, I had an accident on my bicycle, which resulted in the mutilation of my clitoris, several stitches, and probably even deeper psychological scars… who knows.

True story:  It was night and the family was outside saying goodnight to my parents dinner guests.  I saw an opportunity to show off my sweet banana-seat bike riding skills (see pic, below),  sans training wheels, and I took it.
Not so skilled, as it turns out.  Apparently, I had yet to master Bicycle Physics 201: When Rubber Hits Wet Grass - resulting in an untimely dismount that had my "big girl parts" meeting the pedal of my "big girl bike."  Have you ever heard the term: Bleeding like a stuck pig?  Because it applies to this situation.

I bounced off the ground like rubber and leaped to my feet, grabbed my crotch, and flew around the yard screaming my head off.  My pants looked like a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Long story average length and a few stitches later, I was "back to normal."

If "normal" includes scar tissue.

Maybe this somehow subconsciously explains my promiscuity during my 20's?  Maybe I wasn't even promiscuous at all, but a field scientist, researching the extent of the damage...

Point being, I'm a bit brain dead today, and my busted tragic bits was the best anecdote I could muster up.  I wish this story was some deeply profound metaphor for life, but it's just a story.  Unless you're hard pressed to make the connection that sometimes life sucks, sometimes it hurts and can be a downright bloody (in the English sense of the word, of course) mess; then, yes, this tale is a metaphor.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

A (Toxic) Shock On My System

You might have a problem if…

Nothing stands in your way of a good time.  And by "nothing" I mean tampons, and your idea of a good time is sex.  And your name is Kristyn.

The details of the evening in question are  inconsequential.  All you need know is I was under the (natural) impression that not being able to locate said clotting device the next morning meant I had remembered to remove it before play time, and had disposed of it.

Turns out the exact opposite had occurred, and essentially I'd been hammering a nail into my coffin.
Oh, yeah.  Toxic shock syndrome is fatal.  Sex kills - sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly.  Just like booze.

Eleven days later,  I'm layed up in the hospital with a series of tubes and IV's running through me; kickin' it on a goddamn gurney that had a built in scale - my ultimate nightmare.  ANYONE could freely access my weight at any given time.

A series of things happened over the course of the three days I was incapacitated:

1) My brother graduated from college.  Which I missed.  Because I was recovering from toxic shock syndrome.  Can't get that moment back.

2) My ENTIRE family was in town!  (For my brother's graduation.)  So I had LOTS of visitors.  Who "knew" what happened to me.  I'm a whore.
             2a) Know who didn't visit?  My boyfriend.

3) It was the first time I was informed by a medical professional that I might, in fact, have a drinking problem.

To which I responded: "Man, I need a fucking drink."

Friday, December 6, 2013


This is Rachel.  And and for starters, she's wearing a Panda hat she bought from a bathroom attendant in Hollywood.  

P.S. Rachel sent me this pic. I have manipulated her into granting me permission to exploit her. Welcome to L.A.
Rachie Pooh is from Texas, and she says "y'all" a lot.  She's young and spazzy and gorgeous and funny and goes home for things like "Homecoming."  

It may seem like I have a lot of contempt for this strange creature, but I don't… I just don't understand her.  My office mate, who's from New Orleans, explains "it's a Southern thing…"  Like Hell it is.  I'm from Southern California, bitches, and I can tell you this is a "green" thing.  I have immediate concern for Rachel and her lady bits.  She most assuredly has head lice from the Panda, and if you know a thing or two about gravity, shit rolls down hill. 

To further break things down for y'all, this is a girl who said "yes" to an evening out with a local bartender because she thought he wanted a new friend.  This same girl came back with lunch AND a phone number from the TACO TRUCK guy.  

I know this isn't really a "ridiculous" story, per se, but I'm starting a campaign to SAVE RACHEL before she has a chance to accumulate any submission material for my blog.

Please email advice to Rachel at:

Or send pepper spray.

Your cooperation and attention to this matter is appreciated. 

Thursday, December 5, 2013

SUBMISSION: The Family Vibrator

From England via: Florida, Dave shares:

I've been pretty fortunate when it comes to embarrassing moments with my parents, mostly because when I left home for university I quickly realized that some things (i.e. them) are much better in small doses. Certainly no alcohol fuelled tales of shame and woe here. However, this stands out as a somewhat uncomfortable situation:

At some point during my childhood, my mother had purchased a delightful electronic device to help with the aching muscles in her shoulders, neck, and back - one from which the entire family could benefit. I present the electric vibratory massager, "for fast soothing relief."

Not the exact model, but you get the idea. It came with a variety of exotic attachments, including one with knobbly bits, designed to penetrate hair... This was the 80s, people had more hair back then. On their heads, too.

Now, I'm sure it’s purchase was innocent enough, or it would have been hidden away faster than the small bottle of aphrodisiac I accidentally discovered in my dad's sock draw that one time. Awkward.

Anyway, when I was about ten I regularly went to a swimming club on Tuesday nights. There was always a crowd of people afterwards - parents picking up their kids, people who worked at the pool – you get the idea. Well, one evening I'd managed to pull a muscle in my shoulder, so when my mother arrived to pick me up, I (very loudly) declared I needed her to rub me with her vibrator when we got home.

That was the end of any sort of family gifts that vibrate.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

SUBMISSION: Slutty Swim Team Girl

This gem comes to us from XX in NorCal.

So, I was a freshman in high school and I was on the swim team.  My teammate, Lisa, wanted to take me to a swim meet in Modesto.  She was a senior.  My mom thought she would be a good role model and safe to go with, so she let me go.  My mother had no idea that before school, Lisa and I would go for a run, then get cream soda Slurpee's and fill them with vodka before French class.  

Now with my super wholesome swim team buddy (she didn't even wear make up), my mother never suspected a thing.  Off we went.  We never made it to the swim meet, but we met a friend of hers named Mark.  We sat around by some swimming pool, drinking Kahlúa and cream, when he presented mushrooms and cocaine.  I passed on the shrooms because they smelled like Poo, but decided to take my first little sniff of blow.  I didn't think it worked, it might have been fake, (BTW, it was the 80's).  

But I decided he was hot, and we ended up making out.  He went down on me, but I stopped him right there because I didn't want him to think I was a slut.  We exchanged addresses and that was it (again, it was the 80’s).  Went home and told my mom how we kicked ass at the swim meet.  

A couple days later, I received a letter from Mark with some artwork… who knew he was an artist!  As I'm reading the letter, all twitterpated and excited in my bedroom, I came upon a drawing of him eating me out, with "memories of you!" written under it.  Just at that moment my stepfather walked in and demanded to see what I had thrown under the bed.  

"Ummmmmm, nothing...”  

"Let me see it" he said.  

He then showed my mom.  I was grounded for life, and never got to see Lisa again.  And my mom called me a slut.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Mortifying Moments w/ The Parental Units

We've all had them - still frames of life with our parents that make us want to curl up in a little ball and die.  Whether it's them embarrassing us, or just being caught in a super awkward situation we have the misfortune of sharing with them, this shit happens.  Hell, I declared I how much I love butt sex in front of my dad.  My adult life has been a goddamn shame spiral in front of my parents:

  • The aforementioned butt sex incident.
  • That family trip to the movies to see Boogie Nights
Dirk Diggler's Junk
  • Weddings: 
    • Telling my dad I'd found a new ride home with Tim or Joe or Dan or whoever the fuck looked good on the dance floor.
    • The time I passed out in the gravel parking lot with my dress above my head at the wedding of my parents best friend's daughter.  
  • Getting caught with my pants down (literally) drunk fucking my ride home from the bar in his car parked in front of my house.  Their bedroom window faces the street.  Also, my bare ass hit the horn a few times. 
  • The time I was laid up in the hospital for three days while I was treated for toxic shock syndrome.  Over my brother's college graduation weekend.  So the WHOLE family was in town.   They came to visit.
    • Also, that was the first time I was informed by a medical professional I might have a drinking problem. 
  • (This blog…)
The list could go on, ad infinitum.
The point is, I'm not the only one who who experiences these moments of character degradation, as evidenced by the following text a favorite girlfriend of mine sent me over the Holiday:

I immediately feel better about myself.  And less alone.  In fact, I think this would be a good topic to expand on.  We should make this a thing.  Send me some mortifying moments you've had with your Toads.  I'll post anonymously.

Email to:, or comment below.  Or Tweet me.  

Monday, December 2, 2013

Drunk Dial Disaster

Piggybacking off the "my brother caught on fire" entry, thought I'd lighten up the mood with this little anecdote.

During the time my brother was in the hospital, my parents were living in a hotel in San Diego and I was drinking a lot in HB.  I knew they had a few things on their plate, so when I crashed my Jetta into the side of my boyfriend's house one drunk afternoon, I decided not to tell them.  What they didn't know wouldn't kill them.  See how thoughtful I am?  Besides, my boyfriend was in construction, and he was more than capable of repairing the hole I put in his house.  The hole in the bumper of my car was another problem, entirely.

You see, on weekends I would drive down to UCSD Burn Center to visit my fam and the crispy critter.  In a futile attempt to hide the damage I had done to my rear end, I was always careful to back into parking spaces.  I played it off as being "so LA."  I thought I was pret-ty clever, until one day when my mom asks me if there's anything I want to tell her?

That's the LAST question I'm ever answering truthfully.

I lie and say of course not; I play dumb - whatever could you mean, mom?  I'm an Angel… And that's when she whips out her cell phone and plays back a saved voicemail, from me, to the effect of:

Holy shit!  I hit his house!  Oh my God, I'm so drunk!  HahahahahahahahaBURP.

That's right - I drunk dialed my mom after running my car through my boyfriend's house while her other child was laid up in the hospital awaiting skin grafts.

I'm an asshole.


A) Anal Beads

B) Curling iron


C) Hybrid: Hot anal prod/curler

(Personally crossing my fingers for "C")

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Get That Thing Out Of Me

Tony, Type 1 Diabetic
(Photobomber: Mystery Brother)

In regards to trading his insulin pump in for some old school needle action:

"I'll explain it in terms you'll understand, Kris. Sometimes, your body needs a break from constantly having a foreign object inside you, and I get nostalgic around the Holidays. But I believe you call it your thirties."

Good to know I've made a lasting impression.