My Post about Slutty Fruit

In my last post, I discussed my shopping trip with a Charles Manson twist. One of the more mundane things I bought was some ladies’ shaving gel. Well, I thought it was mundane, but now it's inspired a whole blog post.


To pick out shaving gel, I usually just smell them all and pick out the one that makes my nose happy. I didn’t even look at the name of the one I just bought until I got home and shaved my legs. Then I noticed that the scent was called “Flirty Mango.”


Flirty. Mango.


What the fark? Men don’t have to deal with this shit! Their choices are original and…well, original.


Mango-scented, I can understand. But why does the damn mango have to be flirty?


I keep imagining this:

Or Joey from Friends as a flirty mango:

How about Mango Madonna:

The fabulous Sean Connery Mango:

The romantic and flirty Pepe LePew Mango:

Leonardo DiCaprio Mango:

Can't forget Mango Sheen:

And finally, MangObama:

I also researched some of the other shaving cream scents:

 

Alluring Avocado - The flirty mango's slutty cousin.

Strawberry Kiwi - I can’t figure out why so many marketing folks are obsessed with frigging kiwi. Kiwis look like monkey balls (trust me….and don‘t ask).

Raspberry Rain - The scent formerly known as Purple Rain. Or Raspberry Beret. Whichever, I’m feeling a strong Prince influence in the shaving cream aisle.


Now, it's not just scents. I was looking online for some t-shirts, and decided to share the variety of colors with you. 

You're welcome!

I remember when fuschia became the color of choice in the 80’s. (I may or may not have had a fuschia prom dress.) We dealt pretty well with fuschia, and we even accepted teal and mauve into the mainstream, but today’s descriptions left me baffled.

Camel - I’m praying that this describes the color and not the smell.


Sage - I don't really want my shirt named after an obscure spice. Who the fuck uses sage, anyway?

Rose - Again, is this the color or the smell? Guess it’s better than “Camel.”

Foliage - I just have no words to describe how stupid this one is. It’s GREEN, people! Just say, “GREEN!”

Hollyhock - Is it red? Is it green? Nope….it’s purple! WTF?

Electric Lime - It can’t just be lime green. Oh, noooooo! It’s gotta be friggin’ electric!

French Navy - Do the French even have a navy?


Sun - I had a shirt like this once. We called it, “Yellow.”


Snow - Pretty sure that’s white, unless you count yellow snow, but then they probably would have called it “Sun Snow.”


Coffee - I’m just waiting for Starbucks to start naming shirt colors. “I need a large v-neck in dark mocha cinnamon crema frappa-latte, please. And a biscotti.”


Delph blue - I’m not sure what the hell a “delph” is, but the shirt was pretty.


Green Palm - As opposed to the orange palm…


Tamale - Also available in “Enchilada.”


Eggplant - Doesn’t even SOUND attractive.


Lino - It was plain ole gray, but lino sounds much fancier!


Kiwi - Again with the damn kiwi!


Fresh Raspberry - Ladies, if you want to confuse the shit outta your husband, ask him to bring you your “fresh raspberry shirt” from your closet.

So, there is my consumer report for the day.  Now I have to go use my Flirty Mango shaving gel, put on my Tamale-hued shirt and my Cappucino-colored shoes, get in my Ebony car, and take my ass to Dallas for the weekend.

Someone, please put the city on alert.

Shopping With Charles Manson

I went shopping the other day to get a few household items and an Easter dress for my daughter. (That’s ONE, 1, UNO dress...got it?)

So, of course, I ended up with 3 dresses for her - they were on sale - DON’T judge me!

While I was at JCPenney‘s, I decided that I needed some new undies. I’m just minding my own bidness in the underbritches section, when I saw this.

Omigawd! Is anyone’s ass actually that small? How do you even take a poop when your backside is not much larger than a friggin’ peanut? Here is another picture for some perspective.

That’s a quarter beside the teeny tiny drawers. If we stay with this analogy, my undies could pay down the national deficit.

Even though I felt like a fatass after seeing these miniscule ass covers, I picked out some new undergarments (also on sale - woooohoooo for me!) and headed to The Wal-Mart for my household items.

After my last trip to The Wal-Mart (click here to read about the cashier and her coochie), I know you’re probably surprised that I would go back.

Alas, I am known in this land as BraveLiver (BraveHeart was already taken…), so I stoically entered the store of doom and began my shopping. They were out of my deodorant (assholes), so I moseyed on over to the shoe section to find Miss Smarty Pants some Easter shoes.

[Side note: I was going to buy her some shoes at Penney’s, but they were all, like $50, and her feet grow about eleventy inches a week, so I’m being a cheapskate on these shoes she will only wear once a week for about an hour. Also, she is only 9 years old, but wears a size 10 in ladies shoes, and all of the shoes in that size at Penney’s looked like stripper shoes.]

[Side note #2: Good Lord, does anyone know how to make my kid’s foot stop growing?!?!?  Or does anyone know when Shaquille O‘Neal is having a garage sale?  And does he have a penchant for sparkly open-toe sandals and flip-flops?  Probably NOT???  Well, shit!]

Apparently, Wal-Mart has hired Charles Manson to organize their shoe section.

This is helter skelter right here people!

Speaking of Charley-Boy, I would like to take this opportunity to thank him for his recent thoughts on global warming. After his expert commentary, I am SOLD!

It sure is nice of those prison officials to let Mr. Helter Skelter out to do hands-on research on global warming. I didn't even know he was a scientist!  Now, let’s let him work on the deficit.  I’ll donate my underwear……

How To Get Kicked Out Of The Hospital

My daddy was recently hospitalized for a 10-inch blood clot in his leg. Yeah, I said a 10-freaking-ass-inch blood clot!

Now, we’ve gotta get these sexy legs fixed, right? They have him on some blood thinners, and also some heart meds, because his heart was going into atrial fibrillation.

You may remember that my dad is borderline crazy. Not in a schizophrenic kind of way, but in a lovable half-step-away-from-the-loony-bin kind of way. Of course, this totally endeared him to the nurses.

They loved him! There was one little nurse who he ribbed at every opportunity. She asked if she could get him anything, and he pointed at the oxygen tubes they had up his nose. He said, “Yeah, can you go outside and get some damn grass burrs to run up my nose? Because that would be more comfortable than this thing.”

He was constantly making nutty comments like this. And don’t even get me started on his visitors.

WTF???

This is Dad’s classmate from back in high school, Marguerite. She showed up in his hospital room with this horse head on. They are 60 years old, and still act like little kids! It was pretty freakin’ funny, though!

 Then there was my husband. The white board in the hospital room lists the nurses and doctors on call for that particular shift. Well, my husband took a note from Chevy Chase in the classic movie, Fletch, and wrote “Dr. Rosenpenis” on the white board.

We are a fairly loud and rowdy bunch, and I fully expected a team of hospital administrators to storm through the door with discharge papers at any minute.

But I think they actually enjoyed having us there. The nurses seemed to come into my dad's room a lot more often than necessary, whether to see what he was going to say next or to get some of the food he was constantly offering them.

Dad offered one of his favorite nurses some ribs and she snuck into the bathroom to gobble them down, because apparently, the hospital frowns upon nurses accepting barbecue from the patients.  Go figger!

But we weren’t the only ones pulling hijinks at the hospital. We were there on April Fool’s Day, and someone in the staff put up a sign by the printer that told employees that they had new software, and the printers were now voice-activated. The sign told them to just say their name and how many copies they wanted.

So, all morning, there were people yelling at the printer, “THIS IS CAROLINE. I NEED 4 COPIES.”

I guess that’s better than replacing everyone’s pain pills with Viagra. That's what I would have done!

My Momma Can Throw Insults Better Than Your Momma

Well, folks - it’s time for another edition of The Mommy Diaries. Since my mom is no longer with us and she was such a hoot, I decided to share some of her crazy stories with you, my readers.


If you haven’t read the one about my mom jumping off a bridge, then check this one out.


My mom had a childhood friend named Margaret Ann. These two were always getting into trouble together. Getting into trouble tends to be a recurring theme in my mom’s life, in case you haven‘t noticed. You would think she would have grown out of that after high school, right?


Ehhhh, not so much.


They were in their early twenties when Margaret Ann had a little lunch party at her house with my mom and a lady we will call Jean for the purposes of this story (mostly because I don’t remember her actual name, but Jean sounds about right).


My mom didn’t know Jean, but they were all getting along well, perhaps due to the bloody Marys they were drinking at lunch. They started talking about old boyfriends and dates from high school, when my mom piped up with, “Oh my Gawd, Margaret Ann! Do you remember that guy, Marty, that you fixed me up with in high school? The one with the greasy-ass hair?”


Margaret Ann kicked my mom under the table.


My mom didn’t notice, and continued, “I’m still mad at you for that one! Good Lord, if he had one more pimple, he would have had to hold it in his hand. I was scared to touch him!”


Margaret Ann kicked her again, this time a little harder.


Mom apologized for bumping into her leg and proceeded to bash good old Marty: “You remember I had to hide out in the bathroom the entire night just to avoid his breath. Oh, girl! It smelled like he chewed on the ass end of a goat!”


Margaret Ann kicked the holy shit out of my mom, and gave her the “STFU” look.


Of course, my dear mother was entrenched in her story by this time and remained oblivious to the look. She just scooted her chair away from Margaret Ann a bit and continued to regale them with the faults of Marty. “He was so damned bucktoothed, he could eat corn-on-the-cob through a picket fence! I was afraid he was going to put my eye out. Ha ha ha ha.”


She didn’t notice that she was the only one laughing.


Finally, Jean stood up and haughtily announced, “Marty is my brother.”

Artist's rendition of The Marty.

{cricket, cricket, cricket} 


Mom: “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with a nicer personality than that sweet Marty! How is he doing?” [feeble smile]


At this point, Jean stormed out, mumbling something under her breath that sounded an awful lot like, “Bitch.”


Boy, my mom could really liven up a party!