Hobos and Vomit and Dildos, Oh My!

I couldn’t decide what to call this post.

Since I went to Dallas this past weekend, I originally called it “Shelia Does Dallas.” (If you don’t get that reference, you’re probably too young to be reading my blog.)

But Hobos and Vomit and Dildos, Oh My! sounded quite charming and whimsical, which is totally what I was going for here.

Now, don’t worry! This is not a boring look-at-my-pictures-of boring-stuff-I-did-this-weekend kind of post. There’s lots of action and fun, so read on, readers!!!

I went with my crazy cousin, Tammy, to see Lisa Lampanelli at the Majestic Theatre Friday night.

At the show, there was a whole row of very flashy dudes sitting behind us. Most of them were very cool, but one of the men was very loud and rude during the opening act; so my cousin turned around and told him to shut the fuck up. She’s so shy!

I was fully expecting to be ambushed by the dudes in the parking lot. However, we did make it out safely (probably due to the giant pair of scissors I had in my purse) and then checked into the Hyatt Regency. Here is an over-the-balcony pic that made my butt hole clench up while I was taking it.

On Saturday, we went to Dick’s Last Resort for some great food and drinks.

Our awesome waitress made us some very classy hats.

If you can't see this, the dude has a broken finger, and his hat says, "I broke my finger in her butt!"

For some reason, a group of ladies decided to bring their kids into Dick’s. Bad idea! I was trying to hide my totally inappropriate hat because the kids were staring and trying to read it.


The kids were mostly girls, but trailing them was one young boy. He read my hat, and then waggled his eyebrows at me, and said, “Nice!”


Oh. My. God.


I just received a nice-blow-job-hat eyebrow waggle from a friggin‘ 9-year-old!


Then the tornado sirens started going off in downtown Dallas, and the electricity went off. I went to the bathroom, and thought I had locked the door properly, but hell…it was dark…who knew for sure?


This hooker in a sparkly dress busts into my stall, practically crushing my skull with the stall door.


She trilled, in a very annoying little voice, “Omigod! I’m like, so sorry. But it’s ok because we all have, like, the same parts. Hee hee hee!”


Yeah, bitch, but what about that subdural hematoma you just gave me?


Here is a pic of the stall-slamming whore who wore a sequined evening dress to a restaurant that serves ribs and something called “Chick’n Fry’d Chicky.”

When I regained consciousness, Tammy and I decided to scope out the city. That’s when we spotted a store called “Condoms To Go.”

We just knew this had serious blog potential, so we entered the establishment to do a little research.


Yes, it was totally for research, not because we are perverts. Seriously, stop laughing!


A young lady employee, who we shall call “Cherry” was schooling us on the benefits of a personal shaving product called “Coochy.” With a straight face.


I decided that this was an excellent time for an impromptu blog interview.


Me: So this place is “Condoms To Go.” Is there also a “Condoms To Stay” in the city?


Cherry: Ummm, not that I know of. It’s pretty much a take-out kind of business.


Me: Has anyone ever asked if you have a fitting room?


Cherry: {giggling} No, but that’s an excellent idea!


Me: Do you have any of these edible underwear that taste like chicken?


Cherry: We only have apple and watermelon.


Me: Do these pasties pull the hair off of your nipples when you remove them?


Cherry: You have hair on your nipples?


Me: Uhhh, never mind! I’m doing the interviewing here, dammit! So, about these 12-inch diameter butt plugs...does anyone actually buy these?


Cherry: A few people. Very few.


Me: Can I have their phone numbers?


Cherry: No.


Then she walked off. Hmmph. And I thought it was going so well!


Here are some interesting pictures that I covertly snapped in the store:

Later on Saturday night, we poofed up our hair for a night on the town.

Tammy and I decided it would be a super-fun idea to ride the train over to the West End.


Sometimes "super-fun" actually translates to "super-homicidal."


While waiting for the train, we were accosted by several very aggressive hobos who “just wanted to buy some food, man.”


I’m sure they would NOT have used the money to buy booze or cigarettes, even though they all smelled like 2 a.m. at the local honky tonk.


One of them even pulled out her papers to prove that she had just gotten released from jail that day.


Because that made her seem much more respectable.


Also, we saw someone’s pants in the trash can. I don’t even want to know.

Hey, maybe one of the panhandlers can sell these pants to buy more crack and Wild Turkey food.


When we finally got on the train, we noticed a very strange and foul odor. Checking the seat in front of us, we saw this:

Yes, that’s vomit.


Thank God we had a very short ride to our destination.


We rounded off the evening by eating some excellent sushi, having a few drinks, listening to some music, and NOT riding the train back to the hotel. Taxi!!!


Despite a massive head wound, potential tornados, the vomit incident, and monster anal plugs, this was the most fun I‘ve had in a long time!


Yes, my social life is sad.


Now, who wants to go with me on my next road trip?

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!
 

Newsflash About Teeth...And Strippers...And Guns...

It’s time for another edition of Opto-Mom’s Newsflash.  Today's topic is teeth, but it also involves, strippers...and guns...and marijuana.  Oh hell, just read it already!

If you haven’t read my previous Newsflash posts, you should check them out. After all, I want you all to be well-informed readers. If you enjoy reading about sexy goats, golfing transvestites, and healthy dwarves, then read this one. If you like discussions of orgasms and crazy cookie bitches, check out this one. If you appreciate the ability of people to hide items in their rectums, then this is the post for you.

HE JUST WANTED TO SEE SOME BOOBIES

A man in Indianapolis was minding his own business at a strip club when he received the surprise of a lifetime.  And I don't mean a free lap dance...or herpes. 

Jake Quagliaroli was sitting about 20 feet from the stage when an apparently very aerodynamic stripper shoe struck him in the face, chipping several of his teeth.

Pictorial representation of the event.

So, did he meekly drive home and make up an excuse to his wife about getting his teeth knocked out while saving a group of orphans from a roving band of ninjas?  Of course not!

Mr. Quagliaroli did what any modern red-blooded American man would do:  he sued the strip club for "lifelong dental injuries."

Yeah, because it's totally unreasonable to expect clothing items to be flying off the stage at a strip club.  I have a friend who almost had an eye put out by a rogue rhinestone flying off some hunk's junk at Chippendale's.  But did I she sue?  Of course not!

Why are you looking at me?  My eye is just red because I poked it with the mascara brush.  Really!

Seriously, I don't know if he's married or not.  If he's not, can you imagine the family of his future bride googling his name to check him out?  BUSTED!

Shoulda gone with the ninja story, Jake!

STAY AWAY FROM THIS GUY'S POT!

Waltdell and Walter Davis are brothers from New Orleans.  Waltdell found out that his brother had smoked some of his pot.  Well, that just made Waltdell madder than a cannibal at an anorexia camp.

Who wants to bet me that their daddy's name contains some version of "Walt" and that they have a brother named "Waltrick?"

Anyway, regarding the pot stealing, Waltdell said, "Ah HELL naw, mo-fo!" and shot Walter in the face with a .22 revolver.  Fortunately for Walter, the bullet bounced off of his gold tooth, sparing his life. 

[Side note: I'm thinking that maybe Strip Club Jake from the first story should have been wearing some gold teeth.  Can I get an AMEN?]

So, all you punk ass bitches hatin' on Flava Flav, better step off.  Now we know he wears that bulletproof grill for safety, and not because he's a ghetto freak.  It doesn't explain the giant clock or other weird shit that he wears, but I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation for them. 

Uh huh.  'Cause nothing says "reasonable individual" like these pictures:


Flava Flav - A genius among men?

And here's a shocker...Waltdell was on probation.  [Gasp!]  So, he was arrested for probation violation, admitted to shooting his brother, and was promptly charged with aggravated battery and possession of a firearm by a felon.

I think he should have also been charged with being an anti-dentite.  Just sayin'...

Well, folks.  That wraps it up for another edition of Newsflash.  I hope you've learned something, or at least had some fun.

Anyone Know of a Good Place to Bury a Headless Body?

I remember as a child, if I did something particularly annoying or stupid, my dad would often comment, “Now I see why some animals eat their young.”


NOT that I ever did anything annoying or stupid. I probably never did…well, almost never…though there was that one incident involving the cat and my dad’s electric razor….


Whatever! So, I’ve recently been researching female animals that eat their mates. Mostly because I’ve decided to kill and eat my husband.

{GASP!} Before you send me e-mails filled with shocked outrage, you have to hear these two little anecdotes:

Episode 1: ANNOYING THE OPTO-MOM

To be honest, he probably could have gotten away with this one as a stand-alone affront. Our nine-year-old, Miss Smarty Pants (MSP), was going to work with me one day last week - ahhh, gotta love Spring Break! The night before, she was picking out her clothes to wear the next day, and she comes in with some maroon shorts (that were waaaay too small) and a yellow t-shirt with pink and blue screenprinting. And green blinged-out flip flops. None of this stuff even remotely matched.


Now, I’m not one of those moms who subscribes to that mamby-pamby, let-your-child-wear-whatever-they-want-so-you-don’t-suppress-their-creativity-and-individuality bullshit. If you’re going somewhere with me, your hair will be brushed, your face will be washed, your freakin’ clothes will MATCH, and no booty shorts, for crap’s sake!


Doing what all children do when one parent says, “no,” MSP went to get her daddy’s opinion on her fine ensemble. She returns looking smug and triumphant. “Daddy says it looks fine.”


So, she’s taking fashion advice from the local Ralph Lauren. This is the man who, when we were going out to a nice restaurant, and I asked the inevitable question, “Is that what you’re wearing?” replied, “Well, I hosed my flip flops off with the garden hose.” Yeah.


After much whining (on both our parts), we settled on the yellow t-shirt and some denim shorts that actually fit. I let her wear the green flip flops, because they were light green and could almost pass for yellow, but she had to paint her toenails because they looked crusty.


The point is, the appropriate father response regarding fashion should always be, “Whatever your mother says. She’s a fashion genius.” {Preening in my sweats.}

Episode 2: INSULTING THE OPTO-MOM'S ASS

This is the one that really made me want to go all praying mantis on the husband. We were folding clothes, and he held up some jeans, and asked, “Are these yours or Miss Smarty’s?”


Now, Miss Smarty is really thin, so I was initially flattered that he could even remotely mistake my jeans for hers. I smiled my most winsome smile and replied that they were mine. I might have flirtatiously batted my eyelashes, too.


Then the husband said, “No way! You can’t fit all your junk in these pants!”


Dude, sometimes it’s best to just stop while you’re ahead, or I will have to re-introduce The Stank Eye.

If that doesn't work, or if I have PMS, then this will most likely be the result:

Seriously, don't jack with me.