Thursday, July 29, 2010

Bob Geldoff, phallic balloons and covens of HR managers. How was YOUR day?

I’ve been put on marketing duty again – something I both loathe, and studied for four years. I was supposed to phone all the hospitals we work for but ALL of the HR directors at ALL the different companies on vacation. (I’m not sure how they coordinate this. I picture something like that movie, The Witches, where they all hang around on a hilltop in a coven and chant and eat chidren. Actually, that might be an apt collective noun: “a coven of HR managers”.)

To encourage me to make 100 calls, I was given a bunch of colourful phallic balloons to pop every time I made a sale. (Sir Bob Geldoff told my boss to do this at some sales conference. Apparently it makes it more fun. I also had to wear stilettos. I fell several times and there were burst balloons everywhere. It reminded me of my 2nd birthday. At least back then I got to eat cake with my foot.) All in all it was pretty horrifying. I was shocked at the paltry service the hospitals offer. I was on hold with one cosmetic clinic for 10 minutes before I got through to reception.

RECEPTION: “How can I help you?”
ESSIE: “This is shocking. I’ve been holding forever.”
RECEPTION: “I do apologize. We have a very busy switchboard.”
ESSIE: “It could have been an emergency.”
RECEPTION: “We don’t do any emergency treatments.”
ESSIE: “What if I had surgery and my lip fell off?”
RECEPTION (long pause): “That can’t happen.”
ESSIE: “Are you a doctor?”
RECEPTION: “No.” (hopeful) “Would you like to speak to your doctor?”
ESSIE: “My lawyer will speak to him thank you very much. Can I speak to your HR manager, please?”
RECEPTION: “She’s on annual leave.”
ESSIE: “Is there some sort of HR religious holiday?”
RECEPTION: “Pardon?”
ESSIE: “I asked, is it HRistmas already? HRannukah, for our Jewish friends?”

And then she hung up on me.
Also, they had the worst porn-type music playing when they put you on hold. The whole thing was very disturbing. Bob Geldoff was talking out of his ass.

my boss and Bob Geldoff, looking pervy

Oh, but that reminds me – a few weeks ago I wrote a very businessy and important guest post about Marketing on Ashley’s site. Check it out, you might learn something. We can’t just sit around and drink all day.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Scraffito says you are ripe for the taking

6 am. The Nagel household. Although we live on a pristine farm in the Winelands, I am not awakened by the gentle crowing of a rooster. (The rooster gets up at 10 am. It’s why I haven’t killed and eaten him yet. So basically, there is only the thin veil of my waning Judeo-Christian ethics keeping me from bludgeoning DW and feeding him to my faithful rooster, Scraffito.) No, instead, I’m hearing the tinny sound of a Jamaican steel drum band emanating from D-W’s blackberry.

ESSIE: “Turn that fucking cell phone alarm OFF!! ITS 6 AM, YOU KNOW YOU AREN’T GOING TO GET UP!”

DW: “I’m getting up!”

DW (falls promptly asleep)

6.15 am. Jamaican steel drum band starts up. And at 6.30 am. And 7. 7.30. And then at 8. DW once again proves immune to sound of irie jammin’. At this point I start having disturbing R.E.M sex dreams involving the Beach Boys and surfboard wax.


DW: “You’re just not a morning person!”

ESSIE: “Bullshit! Look how cheery I look!”

DW: “God, that’s creepy.”

ESSIE: “It’s not creepy. It’s cheery.”

DW: “I’m going to take a picture.”

ESSIE: “Like hell you will.”

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

I'm so hardcore

Well, once again I've out-hardcored myself. I got injured falling off a mechanical bull. A broken mechanical bull. Mattie, who is more hardcore than I am, warned me that it would break. As usual, I'm not particularly good at listening to him.

But on the other hand, this was a positive learning experience.

1. Don't ride a mechanical bull. It's not easy. Or glamorous. Or fun. But it is addictive. The mechanical bull is the cocaine of the mechanized animal kingdom.
2. Don't wear a pimp hat to a cowboy party. People will want to wear it. And also make hooker jokes. Ok, that was just me. I don't have people skills.
3. Vodka jelly shots have less jelly in than vodka. Don't let the gooey candy exterior fool you.
4. I look good in flannel.
5. Like a cat, I land on my feet. Even when pumped full of vodka jelly shots.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Don't trust doctors or tractors. Anything in the "tors" family, really.

Well I’m at work but I’m sick as a dog. I’m cranky because I didn’t get asleep all night. I amused myself by kicking DW and waking him up at random intervals. He amused both himself and the cat by shining a light in my eyes at 6 am as I finally drifted off “to check if I had made it through the night”. I bet people are really jealous of our relationship.

I couldn’t take the day off because you need a sick certificate from a doctor to take the day off. And I don’t like my doctor. For some reason, she’s convinced that I either am or am trying to get pregnant. I could literally walk into her office with blood gushing from the stump that used to be my arm screaming that I got mangled by a tractor and she would still nod knowingly and say, “I bet I know what you’re here for. You’re pregnant.” (Yes, your arm can get mangled by a tractor. Also, by chimpanzees. That’s not part of the thread, it’s just a safety tip.)

I wouldn’t mind so much but she likes to withhold medicine from me “just in case” I really am pregnant. And then she asks if I would like to do a test. Which is fine, but the way she’s looking at me makes me feel like she has hopes of not only getting a positive result but also of cutting the aforementioned baby out of my stomach and raising it as her own. I’ve mentioned it to Dr L but she told me I need to be less paranoid. (Last week I worked late for a full hour because I didn’t want to leave the office because I was convinced there was a rapist in the parking garage. It was just a bag of trash, but still. Better safe than sorry.)

I’ve bluntly told her that 95% of the time I don’t know where my husband is and when he’s not out there doing whatever the hell it is that he does, he’s certainly not over here doing...well, me. I don’t think she believed me. What a weirdo. I bet she has a closet full of pee sticks at home.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010


Well, I got up this morning and noticed that my washing line had gotten stolen. They left some of my techni-colored crocodile pegs, a dust rag and a G-string. I’m not sure exactly when the damn thing went missing. I’m not the best housekeeper. I try to buy things that don’t wrinkle and only work for really unprofessional companies that don’t care if I come to work looking like a hobo. (Or drinking like one, for that matter).

I took photos of the crime scene, but I have a theory that my landlord stole it in retaliation because I stole his potted plant. And...erm...a fence. It was more like half a fence, really. My friend Delora’s husband wanted to make patio furniture out of it and I really wanted to see what patio furniture made out of a fence would look like so I helped it disassemble and steal it.

Really, I’m more offended that he didn’t steal my underwear. Anyhoo, if you see it, please bring it to my house.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Where we spent our rent money this month

I went to Maze Restaurant with my brother Oey and DW for my birthday. Maze is in a five star restaurant in the Cape Town Waterfront and really, really overpriced but it's owned by my celebrity crush, Gordon Ramsay. (He wasn't there. I looked.)

Me and Oey (I'm not really disproportionately bigger than he is. It's just the camera angle.)

We couldn't afford anything on the menu. The waiter kept telling us about this steak that costs 100 US dollars per 200g. Apparently they massage the cows and play them music so the meat gets really tender. I kept feeling sorry for the poor cows masseuses. I'm sure they get all attached to them and then they have to kill them with a hammer. (Of course, if I was a cow, I think I might be more nervous if some redneck farm hand starts massaging me. I'm not sure.) We decided to be responsible and order only one glass of wine and a main meal each. But somehow we kept ordering side dishes, bread, starters, dessert and overpriced quail on a stick. I think they release expensive spending pheromones from the air conditioner that makes you fork out more than you want to.

Highlights included when we were having a heated debate over the politically correct term to use for "mermen/merfolk" and the smarmy maitre'd leaned over and said, "I believe the correct term is "ocean people", madame."

I made a note on his comment card that i was very impressed with his knowledge of mythological creatures and the correct terms to use for them. (I also mentioned that I would visit the restaurant again in the event of a zombie apocalypse, as they were clearly equipped to handle it.)

DW: "I love this has such...cadence."

ESSIE: "Is that a real word?"

DW: "Yes...but I'm not entirely sure what it means."

ESSIE: "Then this may very well be cadence."

OEY (raising glasses): "TO CADENCE!!!"

Essie's Tips for visiting a 5-star restaurant: Wear a surgical mask to protect yourself against the spending pheromones. And don't order the consomme. It's really expensive but it's just an egg floating in some thin beef stock.

If you are the Loch Ess, you may be a redneck

My therapist got into my blog SOMEHOW and she’s all concerned because I made a comment about her expensive shoes so we did an exercise to figure out where my “societal inferiority complex” comes from. We managed to trace this back to a conversation I had with my mother when I was five:

LIL ESSIE: “Mom, are we rednecks?”

MOM: “Your father is. I’m a poor white.”

It seemed like a good explanation. My mother used to say that rednecks had more fun that wealthy people and I carried it with me. Because of her, I also still go to the bathroom before I leave the house and lock my car doors when I drive because if you don’t a hobo will open the door and grab you when you stop at a traffic light. Really, it’s a miracle I don’t have more paranoid delusions than the ones I already have.

DR L: “But you have succeeded. You are a career woman.”
ESSIE: “I’m not a career woman.”
DR L: “You are a marketing manager.”
ESSIE: “Not a very good one...I mean, I blog at work and am half-drunk all the time.”

So, she suggested that I start looking for something that “challenges” me a bit more. Here is my skill set:

• Slightly used Degree in Marketing Management
• Can operate a frozen yoghurt machine
• Able to describe what an endoscopist, colposcopist and variety of other complicated medical professionals do
• Can explain the exegesis of a given Bible verse
• Can organize wine and cheeses
• Knows what the secret in the secret sauce is at Spur Steakhouses (it’s just mayo that we leave in the sun)
• Has the telephone number of Heinz Winckler on cell phone

If you guys hear of anything, please recommend me.

Friday, July 16, 2010

How (not) to drive

I was in a minor car accident. It turns out my usual tactic of swinging wildly into traffic making my Wallace-face while screaming "Sorry, sorry!" doesn't always work.

For those of you who aren't familiar with my Wallace-face, this is what it looks like:

For those of you who don't know who Wallace from Wallace & Gromit is, this is him:

Anyhow, I'm disappointed. The value of my car already went down because the bumper fell off last year. I keep it tied to the car with cable ties so I don't lose it. I'm hoping to sell her soon. I took a picture of her to post on the Internet.

Notice how I cleverly fill potentional buyers with a sense of majesty and awe by including a majestic rainbow in the shot. And my dad said a degree in Marketing was "useless" in the real world. HA!

Thursday, July 15, 2010

More Conversations with DW

DW: "Could you do me a favor?"

ESSIE: "No."

DW: "Why not?"

ESSIE: "Because you never want to do me any favors."

DW: "Yes, I do!"

ESSIE: " don't. You never want to. You wouldn't piss on me if my hair was on fire."

DW: "I would! I would totally piss on you!"

DW (takes a second to consider what he just said.)

DW: "That must be the weirdest compliment you've ever gotten."

ESSIE: "Not even close."

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

I won something!

My self-proclaimed creepiest follower Shinxy gave me this award to add to her constant self-esteem raising homoerotic comments about me, which I love. She’s a cool Australian chick who’s into S&M and therapy, so I know you’ll all love her various blogs. Also, if I don’t accept one of her awards soon, she may rape and kill me. She’s very exciting like that.

Here's why I love her:

And here is my award:

This is the best award I've ever gotten. Also the only award I've ever gotten. Which is somewhat pathetic because I went to one of those progressive schools that gave out awards for "neatness" and "penmanship" and "greatest effort".

Also I noted that a full 80 people are now reading this blog. Introduce yourselves below, it's nothing to be ashamed off. A full 79 other idiots also think I'm funny.

Pour me over tuna, I've melted

In general, I like to blog because of my low self-esteem. When people follow me I feel like I’m liked. Last week, Blogger had technical difficulties, and no one’s comments showed on my site. I kept going back compulsively to check and then I started uploading posts like crazy. The gist of my internal dialogue was: “See, I’m funny? You don’t like that? That’s about this...? No? No comment love? Um...Ok...just give me a second...we can laugh again, I swear! Don’t leave meeee....”

Also I realized with shock and horror than DW is getting more friends than I have on Facebook. I can’t allow that because he is the only person in my life that I feel superior to. But that’s OK, I’ve just added a whole bunch of people from the Horny Asian College Boys group. That should put up my stats a little.

Game set and match, DW! Or whatever. Actually I don’t know any sports terms...where is that from, tennis? When did I see tennis? My God, I was drunk last night. Who gets drunk and watches tennis? I’m so pathetic.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

I'm actually OK with all of you knowing that I pee

I was at my shrink’s office and I really needed to pee and she told me I could use the one in her office and I didn’t want to because peeing where other people can hear me gives me performance anxiety. It’s really bad. My bladder seizes up and no matter how badly I have to go, I can’t. And then I always end up NOT going because I’m scared people will think I’m pooping. No one must ever know that I poop.

I explained this to her and she was all like, “Why do you think you don’t want people to know you have normal bodily functions?” and “How long have you had this fear?”

I tried to explain that it’s not about fear, it’s a bladder seizure, and that I couldn’t possibly be held responsible for my bladder’s hang-ups. Then I told her I was in fact so cool about people knowing that I pee that I’ll publish it on the Internet and then she went quiet and made notes and that "mmm" noise.

I would KILL to see my file.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Confession time...

As most of you know I spent 6 years of my life in an extremist religious group. It's fun if you are a leader, but being a follower kinda' costs a lot of money and you have to go to church 4x a week and also be kind of a douche-nozzle to innocent people whom you think are going to hell. You also can't wear short skirts or see PG movies or smoke or drink or swear or date. It may seem like a great way to spend your early twenties, but it's not. Any way, one of the practices I really miss is confession. We had to confess all the gory details of our sins every week. It was kinda' cleansing and I enjoyed shocking people with my flagrant impurity.

Of course, my conscience has since died but here are my top seven deadly sins for the week:

1. Remember my friend who is really shy about sex even though she’s having it a lot? She would kill me if I ever revealed her real name on here so I’m going to call her...Lebecca. We were all sitting around drinking wine after work and she finally opened up and shared some of her (fairly straight-laced) fantasies and was like all red-faced and insecure and asked in a whisper, “Are my fantasies...normal?” and everyone was kinda quiet so I went, “GOD, no.”
2. Reading the Twilight books.
3. Owning a vuvuzela
4. My (vast) Japanese subculture porn collection. And the fact that people I hardly know keep sending me more links to Japanese subcultural porn sites with the words “This made me think of you” in the Subject line.
5. Once while on the phone to Telkom (our phone company) I got desperate for service I offered to send naked pictures of myself to the technician if he could fix the Internet problem.
6. That he didn’t take me up the offer.
7. Accusing DW of “stealing” various of my possessions, finding them in the bottom of my closet, moving them to his closet and then miraculously “discovering the evidence” when he comes home.

Ok, now your turns. Raptor Jesus will forgive us all. Or eat us during the Raptor Rapture. I'm not sure. I'm still writing our Bible.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Disturbing places to put Robert Pattinson's Face

We all know this Twilight-thing has gotten out of hand. Seriously, we should have put a stop to it, but Stephanie Meyer's Mormon powers overwhelmed us and let's face it: we were all distracted by Paul the Psychic Octopus and other important world news.

Here are the most disturbing Twilight spin-offs to date. I may have missed a few, so feel free to add them:

Edward Cullen is a Girl's Panty

Ladies, men find nothing more attractive than stripping you naked and staring into the face of that pasty kid from Twilight pasted onto a pair of granny panties. At the very least, they could have chosen a less disturbing picture...maybe one where Edward is winking in encouragement. Like, "Yeah, we know she's thinking of me, buddy...use it!"

The Repackaged Wuthering Heights

Anyone else ever get the idea that Edward is a raging homosexual? What kinda guy likes Wuthering Heights?
If however, it's true that Stephanie Meyer based Twilight "loosely" on Wuthering Heights, I'd definitely buy the next Twilight book. Cathy fucks a bunch of rich people and Heathcliff kills puppies. It can only improve the "plot".

Tattoos You will live to regret

Matt always says you should never tattoo a girlfriend's/band's name on any part of you. I'm not sure what he'd make of this.

The Edward Cullen Dildo

I'm usually supportive of people's self-loving equipment...but the Vamp just blew me away. This dildo not only sparkles but can be placed in the fridge so that you can have the full "sex with a corpse" experience "remininiscent of the New Moon's glow". By the lovely folks at - God bless their twisted little libidos!

Friday, July 9, 2010

Oh, I remember why I loved high school...wait, did I say love? I meant loathed.

My therapist Dr L, told me I need to get rid of my inappropriate sexual fascination with Edward Cullen and get out there and socialize (Team Get-a-Life, whoohoo!) so I accepted the invitation of an old school friend of mine and attended a reunion barbecue.

I should explain that I have known this friend since we were 7 years old. He was the single most boring child I’ve ever known – kinda a combination between Spock from Star Trek and the pukey kid that used to be on The Simpsons. My earliest memory of him was the time he stood in front of me in the playground and asked me if I could recite the alphabet yet, and I said no, and he said in a completely deadpan, disdainful voice, “My 2-yr old sister can already recite the alphabet backwards. I shall demonstrate. Z, Y, X, W, V....” (At this point I’ll stop quoting him, because I still can’t do that.)

My first clue that the party was going to suck was the fact that he gave really, really thorough directions. That’s a dead giveaway. If someone gives you directions to their house with two or more alternative routes and/or attaches a map, the party WILL SUCK. I don’t know why. It’s how SCIENCE works. I barely know where I live and my parties always rock if people can find them.

The second clue was the fact that my offer to bring a keg was politely but firmly declined with an email reading: “Although some of our guests may indeed appreciate alcohol, I myself do not. Feel free to bring your own drinks, if you feel it is absolutely necessary.” (For those of you who don’t speak WASP, that means they think you are a redneck alcoholic. You are allowed enough booze to steady your hands but not so much that you lose your shirt and vomit in the azaleas. Like last time when you didn’t eat enough and actually had a cold coming so you took a Xanax you found in the back of the cupboard so it wasn’t even really your fault and when Lindsay Lohan does it everyone thinks it’s cool so I blame society for the whole incident, anyway. You know what? Fuck you guys.)

I followed my suspiciously good directions to what must be the cleanest house and yard you’ve ever seen and was greeted by my friend and his wife, who is a professor of literature at a local university. The “men” (four Babylon 5 geeks and the captain of the high school debating team) were standing around the fire drinking...sodas...and I was herded into the kitchen to “help make the salad” (not a euphemism for lesbian experimentation in this case, unfortunately! I won’t make that mistake again!) where the womenfolk were discussing (of all things) the Twilight-saga. I tried to keep out of it, but then the Literature Professor turned to me and said, “Do you know they are now repackaging Wuthering Heights with stickers that say, THIS IS EDWARD AND BELLA’S FAVOURITE BOOK? Isn’t it...dreadful?”Of course, I had to blurt out, “Yeah, I know. Edward didn’t even LIKE that book” and the room went quiet.

Needless to say I was the only person with a steak to barbecue, so it took forever and the five hungry Stepford Wives glared at me with hatred in their eyes all night like they couldn’t wait to rip off my little head and stuff it with that microchip that makes you bake muffins all day (not a lesbian thing, either. The porn movies have it so wrong sometimes). I started drinking more and more of my unwelcome beer on an empty stomach and over-sharing about that time I went on a Japanese sex house tour and lost my keys down the bondage grate. They really should put bigger warning signs over those things. A child could fall in. Well, maybe not a child. Children aren’t allowed in. But surely your average S&M sex midget is at risk? I'm only thinking of the sex midgets, here, not of myself.

If that wasn’t bad enough, the next morning when I went to work there was an email from the school friend...with a detailed memorandum of the night’s events. (Told you he took himself a tad seriously.) It included a list of detailing the lives of the guests in attendance and what they had accomplished since high school. Peter – who was now a chemistry major at university...John – a geneticist...Susan – an accomplished journalist. And wayyyy at the bottom was my name .

“We were delighted to receive Estelle Nagel, once a treasured member of our high school drama troupe. Estelle is still in Cape Town and she once ran into Clint Eastwood at the airport!”

How to see me naked

My friend Matt is mildly peeved at Dee for thinking he looks like Fred Flintstone in my artwork so I’ve come up with a comparative photo montage. He hasn’t commented on it yet because he’s stuck indoors during hurricane season and was too busy calling the bank manager a “goddamned stinknugget”. (That’s part of an elaborate vocabulary that includes “knucklefucker/Smurf fucker” and “giant oozing pulsating regurgitated afterbirth of a lesbian clusterfuck”. You can’t buy charm like that.) Incidentally Matt is also the one person who told me I don’t need therapy because I’m the sanest person he knows. I was pleased for a full five minutes and then I remembered that Matt knows a lot of trannies and strippers and genuinely crazy people who sometimes email me pictures of their cats in different outfits. The victory is small. But I’ll take it.

MATT: “What’s this thing on the blog about me marrying you?”
ESSIE: “It is because I’m irresistible. You are longing for some sweet, sweet Essie.”
MATT: “You’ve been reading bad literotica again.”
ESSIE: “Not...bad literotica.”

But here are the photies of Matt and Fred and PaintMatt. (As you can plainly see his cat hates me for no reason.)
Dee says you all should vote and agree with her and if the vote goes her way she’ll put the naked pictures she has of me on the Internet.

Stupid woman. The naked pictures of me are already ON the Internet. So I won that round. Or lost it. Depends on how you look at it.

I think I've discovered our productivity problem

For those of you who don't know - when I'm not being aweseome all over the Internet, I work as a Junior Consultant at a UK medical headhunting firm (some childhood dreams DO come true!!!)

Well, it's a sweltering day at the office and I hurt my neck when I fell off the rickety wheeled joke I have to sit on at my work station. I really wish our boss would pay for air conditioning or at least a decent swivel chair or business cards or a pension scheme, but she doesn't think we need all that "James Bond shit". I don't mind really, it's the only office I've worked in where I'm allowed to lug my laptop around in the Nightmare before Christmas-satchel my brother got me for Christmas and blog all day.

Anyhoo, we haven't made our targets in a while and the investors would like to know why. Instead of typing a whole long report I'm going to submit this photo of my manager. Note the motivational book "The Rules of Work" being used as a coaster to her right.

I love Champagne Wednesday.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Zombie Mad-libs

As an avid fan of zombie movies, I’d like to invite you all to play a game of Zombie movie Mad libs with me. It is a scientific fact that is how zombie movies scripts are written. The best Mad-libbed zombie movie script will be produced and directed by myself and Steven Spielberg. Well, maybe just by me. And you'll have to front the money. And borrow a video camera somewhere. And also I dont know how to edit it. Really, it'll be more like a play I'll put up in the garage.

The scientists combine ( noun ) with ( noun ) that leads to the creation of a super-virus that infects humanity and makes them crazy. Zombies start devouring people and the remaining ( number ) survivors take shelter in an abandoned ( place ) where they run into more ( adjective )( noun ). The survivors soon start bickering over who gets to be the leader of ( noun ). The rebellious group devises a plan to escape to ( destination ) where a ( adjective ) ( noun ) told them there are no zombies.
During the escape, a ( noun ) gets bitten and does not tell the other survivors. Just as everything seems to be going smoothly, the bitten ( noun ) goes apeshit and starts attacking everyone. At this point, the screen goes ( adjective ).

This was the results of mine:

The scientists combine hamsters with meatloaf that leads to the creation of a super-virus that infects humanity and makes them crazy. Zombies start devouring people and the remaining four survivors take shelter in an abandoned Starbucks where they run into more annoying waitresses. The survivors soon start bickering over who gets to be the leader of Gone-to-shit-ville. The rebellious group devises a plan to escape to Kokomo where a squeaky radio told them there are no zombies.
During the escape, a stripper gets bitten and does not tell the other survivors. Just as everything seems to be going smoothly, the bitten stripper goes apeshit and starts attacking everyone. At this point, the screen goes black .

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Fuck yeah, Low Self-Esteem

Well, usually when I wake up with a pimple on my face I do pretty much everything short of setting fire to it to get rid of it but then my mom called and told me that she once had a patient who did that and then his face rotted off. (This was a very clever tactic my mother employed all through my childhood whenever we did something she disapproved of. Apparently during her brief stint as an occupational therapist, the wards were entirely filled with people missing limbs because of tattoos, piercings and masturbation.)

Anyway, I was feeling fairly confident - I just dabbed the offending thing with some of DW's theatre makeup and headed out the door. (DW is appearing in the straight-to-DVD film, The Lost Boys III. He started off as an extra, then got promoted to vampire, then to featured extra vampire. The trailer is on Youtube. You can see DW's arm in it, which is unfortunate because now he is under the impression that he has succeeded in life.)

I decided to not obsess about it. I decided that I was beautiful no matter my small imperfections. I put on my makeup and those boots all the little children died making and decided to go seize the day. I almost got away with, too, until DW shouted, "OMG YOU HAVE A HUGE PIMPLE ON YOUR FOREHEAD!" at me.
Goodbye, Self-Esteem!

So I decided to use my new-found angst to become an Emo. All the kids are doing it these days. At first I thought it was something like being an Eskimo but it's all being a douche and putting your hair in your eyes. Here's a pic of me glowering and being all discontent and mad at my dad for some reason. I'm so hardcore.

If you don't like the look, go kill yourself. It's what I would do.

Guest blog awesomeness & Technical Glitches

It turns out the reason all of your comments didn’t show on this blog was due to a technical fault and NOT because you all don’t love me. I’ll stop hating you all now and direct all of my wrath towards the technical department at Blogger. DON’T DRINK THE KOOL-AID.

In a related note, Whitney The Graphic Design Goddess came up with this brilliant new header for the site. Worship her. I'll be posting up more info about her and also changing the background as soon as I figure how to do it. And when I say "I" I mean Matthew.

I was also featured on another awesome blog called Stir Fried Dinosaur because literally everything I say is awesome.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Life Lessons I've Learnt at the Bar

Ok, I showed this post to my friend Dee and her immediate reaction was "What kind of bars do you go to?"
The only kind worth going to, Dee. The only kind worth going to.

1. If you are at the bar talking to your friends about your abandonment issues you have with your father, and some guy overhears and shouts “Dibs!” – DON’T GO THERE

2. It is impossible for a ceiling fan to support the weight of a 27-yr old woman in a catwoman suit and here’s how I know....Oh never mind, just google my sex tape.

3. Never ever get drunk in a cold room when it’s warm outside. Trust me.

4. The only reason men over forty live with their mothers is to a) avoid doing housework and b) so that when she dies they can skin her corpse and parade around in it while listening to vinyl music in the soft lamplight. You decide if it’s worth the risk.

5. The second best oral sex tip I ever got was that you can deep throat someone really easily by lying with your head dangling off the edge of the bed. The BEST tip I ever got was to withhold it until you decide what pair of shoes you want.

6. If a man says he’s been “on TV”, always be sure to ask him what show he has appeared on. If it’s ever been broadcast on the Crime channel, I’d pass.

7. They stopped making good music in the late 70s.

8. You cannot grind up a human body using the garbage disposal. I’ve learned my lesson on this one.

9. Do you like movies? Go to the cinema. You might get a treat.

10. Do not wrestle with a pig. You both get dirty, and the pig likes it.

You're welcome.

No, that’s not gay AT ALL

More real life conversations between me and DW...

DW: “This Blackberry I so awesome.”
ESSIE: “Fascinating.”
DW: “I have a twitter account. I tweeted.”
ESSIE: “If you like that thing so much, why don’t you replace your balls with a USB port so you could make sweet love to it?”
DW (trying desperately to come up with something funny): “If I wanted to do that, I’d just shove a cable up my ass.” which point I looked around at my invisible studio audience and raised an eyebrow. Seriously, I'm not making this stuff up.

Monday, July 5, 2010

I pray we all live to see what our babies look like as zombies

Dear Friends

I am about to be brutally murdered for what I write here tonight. In fact, I believe this will be my last post.
Since I last wrote about, the lady that makes the obscenely scary porcelain zombie dolls, I visited the popular social networking site, Facebook.
It was during my visit of aforementioned site that I noticed the uncanny resemblence between one of the newer zombie dolls and my friend Jenni's baby, Sam.

I realize that by pointing out this resemblence, I am going to be brutally murdered by Sam's adoring parents. At the same time, so few people have the privilege of being granted a glimpse into what his/her child may look like as an evil zombie baby.

Let us then remember than zombie babies do not belong to one man - but to all of us.

I thank you, and bid you good night.

A trend slightly less stupid than crocs

OK, so my idea to start a cult perfectly innocent trend isn't going so well - partially because I decided to bring crocs back. (I missed the whole croc thing because I was broke and all the croc snobs were like, "You can't buy knockoffs" and then by the time I got the funds crocs were out of fashion and I was like, "Hah, Croc Snobs, I was fashionable all along" and then they said "It doesn't work that way" and it sucked and then I cried.)

Anyway I found these cool nipple clogs that might be as stupid as crocs. Ok, maybe not AS stupid. Go get a pair now. And some for me. I'm about a 34C/size 8.

You all follow me blindly anyway. Let's start a trend.

In an attempt to make this blog more relevant, I’ve come up with some new internet slang. Please use it immediately – even without context. That’s how trends get started. Also, I’ve decided we’re all wearing crocs again.

LSHIVOMD – I laughed so hard I vomited on my dog
DTAILSUIK – Do that again, I’ll stab you in the knee
Vidiot – People who obsessively talk about Playstation games like its real life
Famspam – The gazillion Farmville spam invitations you get sent on Facebook everyday
Induhvidual – Anyone who blindly follows the trend, collectively known as sheeple
IYDDIYWGRBGB – If you don’t do it, you will get raped by grizzly bears
TIFYK – Therapy isn’t free, y’know
CTIVONTZP – Can’t talk, I’m violating Oprah’s No Texting Zone Pledge
RUTH – Are ur Testicles Haunted?
IND, IIU – I’m not deaf, I’m Ignoring You

DW says none of these will work because they are too long. TYO, MOIIHYGT2SBRO. (That’s your opinon, my opinion is I hope you get torn to shreds by rabid owls).

Friday, July 2, 2010

Apparently Jehovah Witnesses don't do drugs or wear uniforms. I ask the important questions so YOU don't have to.

I was at home when two Jehovah’s witnesses rocked up sporting slamming short-sleeved button-up shirts and ties. I wanted to take pictures of them but they wouldn’t let me because they believe that photographs steal your soul. Or something. I wasn’t really listening.

JW: “Good day m’am, have you heard about the Watchtower?”
ESSIE: “Is that the one where you get to smoke pot?”
JW (nervous laughter): “No, we...”
ESSIE: “Do I get a uniform?”
JW: “No...”
ESSIE: “My old cult had uniforms.”
JW: “That’s...”
ESSIE: “Can you do recreational drugs of any kind?”
JW: “No...”
ESSIE: “What if it’s medical marijuana?”
JW: “No, I don’t...”
ESSIE: “What if Jesus appears and asks you to smoke a fatty? Would you have to do it?”
JW: “Miss, we basically just...”
ESSIE: “How about a hookah?”

(45 minutes later)

ESSIE: “Can you huff paint?”
JW (defeated): “No...”
ESSIE (thinks): “How about sniffing permanent markers?”
JW: “That...sound be fine.”
ESSIE: “Yeah, I might be interested.”

I listened to them intently for maybe 5 minutes and then I offended them by asking them if they’ve ever used Divine interventions and they asked what it was and I said it was a range of sex toys shaped like Biblical characters. I hope they didn’t put a curse on my house. Or is it gypsies that do that? I don’t know. Why don’t gypsies ever come to my house? I’d be an awesome gypsy. I met some Freemasons at a fair once. They ran the hotdog stand gave me literature but they didn’t have napkins so I used my pamphlet and so I missed my opportunity. True story.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Valley of the Evil Zombie Dolls

Once in a while I throw these big dinner parties where I offer to cook for 12 people and it takes nine hours and I end up resenting and hating and wanting to poison everyone before they even arrive. As a result, I get invited to a lot of people's houses. So basically, I got an invitation to a little girl's birthday party and apparently she collects porcelain dolls. (What happened to Pokemon cards???)

Anyway I started googling around and found this lady that supposedly makes these arty dolls. These were the reviews I found:
". . .evokes a sense of timeless antiquity and memento mori. Museum quality works of fine art by a friendly, talented artist."

"This was created with unbelievable detail and care. A very unique piece; definitely NOT one of the run-of-the-mill "collectable dolls" on the market. And such quick shipment and communication. Thank you so much for a REAL one-of-a-kind piece. I LOVE her!"

Promising, right? Well here are the actual items:

For some reason, the little kid was less than thrilled with my selection. Nonetheless if I get invited to Morticia Addams' next baby shower, I'll have a gift ready.

Shit my Dad Says Part III

My dad is really awesome. I've written about him here and here...Here's a picture of him kinda looking like Moses with Raybans on and my fave Dad-isms:

“You will do as your mom says. I handpicked your mother. You I had to take whether I wanted you or not...and frankly I’m still on the fence about the whole thing.”

“You’re being brainwashed. Your brother is being brainwashed. One of these days we’ll wake up and we’ll all just be communists.”

“Oh you’re wearing clothes...for a change.”

“Didn’t you move out already? Seems like there should be less of you.”

“Gross? That’s not gross. That’s a scab. Gross is when you see a grenade explode in a Portugese guy’s hand and then you have to pick him up and hold his chest closed and put him in your helicopter and fly away with black people shooting at you. That’s gross.”

“Two things. MOVE and OUT. Your mother and I want to go on second honeymoon.”

(to my mom, on vacation, after leaving us alone at home for the first time) “Haven’t heard a word from the kids all week...hope the dogs are OK.”