I'm Kind of a Shitty Friend

My dear friend, Melissa, and her family were over to visit.  It had been several weeks since we had seen one another, and Melissa was so kind as to bring something along for me. 

“Here,” she said, handing me a plastic shopping bag with a few clothing items in it, “You left these at my house and I washed them for you.”

When I looked inside the bag, I found a pair of my pajama pants and underwear.  “Oh, yeah,” I said, recalling why these items had been left behind, “I’m kind of a shitty friend.   Sorry.”  These were the clothing items I had pissed through while vomiting in her bathroom and stumbling around her hallways in a drunken stupor.  I had just left them lying in a corner.  Yeah, I’m a really shitty friend. 

The night I pissed my pants at Melissa’s had been the evening of the Zombie Pub Crawl.  I don’t believe it is possible for me to attend this event and stay sober -- like, seriously, as impossible as male pregnancy.  Immediately following ZPC, I received a request from a blog follower to post about that evening.  I haven’t done so until now because I maybe – just maybe – don’t remember the majority of the night.  Further, as I didn't confront the Ying Yang Twins about their language this year, as I had done with DMX the year prior, the events didn't seem quite as blog-worthy.

Upon recently having bits of the night recounted to me, however, I am able to state the following: Not only am I kind of a shitty friend; I am kind of a shitty human being.  More importantly, one should not accept successive high-proof shots from old Somalian men.  Yeah, I blame the old man for every stupid thing I said or did that night.

Melissa and I attended ZPC with another wonderful friend, Jessica.   Respectively, we costumed ourselves as Alice in Wonderland, the Queen of Hearts, and the White Queen. When I got together with Jessica not long ago, I told her about the return of my piss pants and my belief that I can be a shitty friend.  Jessica, who is never one to abstain from telling the truth, informed me that I was kind of shitty a few times that night. I did recall, of my own accord, telling a DJ, “If you don’t play my request next, I will rip your fucking balls off. You hear me?  I know I put my request in before those skinny little whores there.”  So, yeah, Jessica was probably right about my behavior that evening. 

I also knew that I had yelled furiously at some man Jessica was talking to, although I could not remember what he said to so infuriate me.  I learned the comment had been, “If Alice doesn’t watch out, someone is going to crawl up her rabbit hole.”  Just in case you didn’t figure out, the rabbit hole he was referring to was my vagina. Yeah.

His comment, though quite disgusting, was warranted as I had passed out on the sidewalk.  Jessica informed me that after he made this comment and pointed out my pathetic, inebriated state, she decided she really ought to check on me.

 “And there I found you,” she said, “just spread eagle on the sidewalk.  ‘I am trying to trip people,’ you whispered and laughed hysterically, clearly amused with yourself.”

When I later asked why I had been lying there alone, as Melissa is certainly not a woman to abandon her friends, Jessica explained that Melissa was talking with two homeless men about the services available at her ministry’s community center. 

“Yeah,” Jessica laughed and rolled her eyes at me, “so there you were trying to trip people while Melissa is trying to get these men a good meal and some warm clothes.”   

Having such a stark contrast of interests pointed out to me, I confess that I can be a real shitty human being.  Compared to Melissa, though, we’re all kind of assholes.  I guess this post, then, is to say thank you to her for being such a kind, generous individual (even though she has since told me, “Oh no; those guys were shifty. They weren’t coming down for the chicken dinner”).  

I also owe a debt of gratitude to Jessica for ensuring no one entered my “rabbit hole.” Thank goodness for friends who love you all the same even when you’re spread eagle on the sidewalk.  

For the record, it may also be unwise to accept shots from strangers in large, bloody rabbit costumes.  Tell your children.

 

Keeping it Real with DMX

Recently, a student and I had a discussion about DMX and the illuminati.  I later discovered that DMX was performing at an event I was attending.  The organizers must have desired an artist whose career was “dead” to headline the Zombie Pub Crawl.  Oddly, I was excited to see this hard-core rapper. One would have thought I was DMX’s biggest fan, hands in the air “like I just don’t care,” singing “y’all can suck my dick.” 

But, DMX disappointed a lot of folks.  Many were ready to tell DMX to suck their undead dicks for showing up 90 minutes late and performing only a 30 minute set. 

Screw DMX.

TOTAL BULL-SHIT.

WTF?

Fuck DMX – that washed –up drug addict.

Who does he think he is?

The above is  a sampling of hundreds of irate comments from the zpc stream.  Yes --someone asked, “Who does he think he is?”  I would reply with another question, “Who do you think he is?  He’s mother fucking DMX; he’s not exactly the most upstanding citizen in the world.    Are you not aware of his reputation?“

Here’s a quick lesson: DMX was charged with animal cruelty, disorderly conduct, and possession, after officers found a loaded pistol, 13 pit bulls, and six crack pipes in his home.  Later, he was arrested for stealing a vehicle, and identifying himself as an FBI agent.  So, really, you’re surprised? 

DMX lacked proper manners on stage; there’s another shocker.  He announced, “Boy – you all  a bunch of ugly mother fuckers.  I wouldn’t fuck her, I wouldn’t fuck her, oooh … I definitely wouldn’t fuck you girl.”  In his defense, we were all dressed like zombies so it probably would have been fucked up if he did have a hard-on.

I pulled my friends closer to the stage. “C’mon, guys,” I yelled, “Let’s get  up in there! DMX wants to see me!”  At that point in the evening, I fully believed this with all my heart. 
 

Then someone in the crowd threw something on stage. To this, DMX stated, “Another one of you fuckers wants to throw something  and I’m gonna come down there and kick your ass, faggot.”  My friend and I looked at one another, shaking our heads in disapproval of this homophobic slur.

His performance soon ended, but my time with DMX was not over. “I gotta go talk to DMX,” I announced to my friend.  “No, no, you don’t,” she adamantly tried to convince me otherwise.  I snuck past the gates and approached the back of the stage.  A large security guard stopped me and told me to turn around.  I told him DMX wanted to talk to me.  I was so sincere in this and honestly believed what I was saying.

DMX made his way off the stage, and I winked and pointed at him,  “Hey, DMX, you wanna see me, right?” 

The guard was shaking his head negatively and trying to push me back, but DMX said, “Get on over here honey.”  I don’t know why this made me immensely happy, but I beamed and bounced over in my red tutu, visible black panties, and “Zombie Bitch from Hell” tee. This apparel probably helped because truth is I have an ass that is quite popular with the African American male community.

So, DMX invited me over and embraced me in a warm hug. 

“Hey DMX," I said, “I gotta tell you why we need to talk.  See, I lost my teaching job due to fucking Scott Walker.”

“Scott Walker? Who’s Scott Walker?” DMX questioned.  I know you’re wildly surprised that DMX is not educated enough in politics to recognize this name.

One of the security guards answered,  “He’s the governor of Wisconsin.  He’s an ass."

I gave that guy a high-five, and  continued, “Yeah, he’s the governor, but he didn’t even graduate from college.”

“Dude didn’t graduate from college and he wants to run a state?” questioned DMX in genuine disbelief and disgust.

“He is running it,” I replied, “He even won a recall election.”

“Well, that shit ain’t right,” DMX said, shaking his head.  I had underestimated DMX, judging him on his reputation, but even DMX knew that education should be valued.

“Anyway, we’re gonna get off track here, DMX,” I continued, “So, you see, because I lost my job I work part-time now as a para and my new students told me you never committed any of those crimes you’ve been convicted of, and the illuminati is framing you.”

Fuck. I have big balls.  Also – what is wrong with me?

“Oh, I don’t know nothing about no illuminati.  I don’t want to talk about no illuminati.”

I did, so I went on to tell DMX everything I had recently learned. He endured this for a while, and then interrupted,  “You want a hug, sweetie?  You a sweet girl.”  He gave me another big hug, and kissed me on the cheek.

Then, DMX asked me if I loved the Lord.  I said I surely do.  He showed me the “Jesus Saves” tattoo on his wrist.  Then I got to it – the reason I felt most compelled to talk to DMX .  “This brings me to the point I wanted to make.  I  need to tell you one more thing. You're telling me you love Jesus, and Jesus wants you to love everyone, and we shouldn't judge others, so it’s not cool to use the word ‘faggot.’”

“Well, see, now you judging me!” he said, his voice slightly rising in anger.  “I don’t mean ‘faggot’ like you gay; I mean ‘faggot’ like you an asshole.  You know? I got no problem with the gays! I got an uncle that’s straight gay!”

After this, there was more hugging before I returned to my friends.  I got high-fives from everyone we met as my friend bragged about my exchange with DMX, but the police officer we spoke with asked, “Why did you  talk to that dude? He’s an egotistical prick.”  Again, he’s mother fucking DMX.  What did you expect?  

 

 

<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/79-open"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/challenge79.png"></a>

 

Resources: http://crime.about.com/od/famousdiduno/ig/mugshots_rap_hip_rb/DMX-Mugshot.htm

Zombie Bitch From Hell

On Sunday morning, I rolled out of bed and dragged my ass into the bathroom.  My head hurt and I was dog tired.  I walked with a slow gait from wearing heeled boots the evening before.  As I made my way down the hall, dully moaning to myself, I realized that even though most of the zombie flesh paint and fake blood had rubbed off on the pillow case, I probably looked more like a zombie now than I had the night before for the Zombie Pub Crawl in Minneapolis.  I undoubtedly felt more like one. 

When I washed my hands after using the toilet, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized another interesting irony to the evening.  Although I was tired, most of my own skin was now visible as opposed to being masked with applied scars and flaking skin.  This is when I realized that for some folks this event might lead to one of the only times when the random bed fellow you took home with you  actually looks better in the morning. 

This was my first official zombie pub crawl, and I had an amazing time.  As I recently perused some of the other comments on the official zpc facebook page, it seemed that not everyone had the same kind of fun I did.  Folks were leaving posts bitching about the shuttles, bitching about the security, bitching about the cost, bitching about the entertainment, and everything else under the fucking sun.  To this, I have to say: who invited all the whiny bitches?  People – if you did not have fun, it is your own fucking fault.  It is not the event organizer’s fault; it is not even DMX’s fault (expect a whole separate post about this). It is your fault for being an asshole.  We are not threatened that you said you’re going to stay home next time.  Please do.  I could find a way to have fun in the middle of a cornfield.  It’s all about how you choose to live your life, and your perspective clearly just sucks so shut the fuck up you douche-bags.  Okay, that is all.  Moving on …..

Is it weird that I thought some of the people I saw out on Saturday night were really fucking hot?  That’s probably not right to think that someone is dead sexy (PUNS!) when they are covered in blood and their clothes are all tattered and torn.  But, if we’re being honest here, which clearly I cannot help but do today, my inappropriate tendencies (aka – my “Bitch Tourette’s”) is the primary reason most of you all follow this blog.  So, yeah, I felt myself a little bit turned on by all these blood-soaked bodies, but as you might imagine, I also had a lot of damn alcohol.

 

I was not, however, even remotely attracted to the completely random man wearing a long leather trench coat, who was not “zombified” (I am making this a word because I do what I want now) at all, walking down the street juggling glow sticks.  That shit was straight creepy – far scarier than all the walking dead.  When I saw my friend’s faces in response to this creepy mother fucker, I straight up lost my shit.  I tried holding it in, but sometimes when I laugh real hard, a little bit of pee comes out.  (I’ve had two children; I need to “sneeze and squeeze”; mothers, you know what I mean, right?)  So, I tried stopping the leakage while I was laughing hysterically in the middle of the street.  Some zombies on the sidewalk began screaming, “That girl’s shitting in the street!  Look at her! She’s shitting in the street!” 

Instead of getting embarrassed and trying to look real nondescript, I stood up and brazenly defended myself for everyone in a five to ten mile radius to hear, “Dude! I’m just pissing! I’m just pissing!”  No big deal.  The whole night was a lot like this – me being completely shameless.  Later, I told DMX it was so not fucking cool of him to use the word “faggot.”  I also straddled the intestines of Phil, the giant inflatable zombie and did a little pantomime like it was actually a giant something else.  Shameless.  But, if you’re going to act this way, what a better place to do it?  Family reunion: not a good idea.  Courtroom: also a bad idea.  Funeral: Terrible, terrible idea.  You’re going straight to hell. Pub Crawl: Who gives a shit?  Go for it!

For today, the last thing I’m going to say is a message to one specific man I met Saturday night.  So, to the short Asian man that gave me a great big bloody bear hug:  It was fun at the time, but fuck you now.  Did you have real fucking blood on you?  What the hell?  That shit straight stained my bra, and I own very few decent bras.  Further, it stained right through to my skin, and took about twenty minutes to scrub off my rib cage in the morning.  That was more work than cleaning period stains out of my panties.  Not cool, dude, not cool. 

Expect more on this event later in the week.  Stay tuned by heading over to the sidebar and pressing that facebook “like” button.  If you don’t, I will eat your bbbrrrraaaiiinnsss.