My CPA that I refer to as "Clogged Pulmonary Artery"

And then there's this guy...

‘Tis the season to file our taxes kids. Now the only reason to be poppin’ bottles is if you're sure you have a beefy check coming back from the government. For the people that owe oodles of money you should probably just get it over with and jump before someone talks you out of it. I'm half kidding. But seriously, you should probably schedule the appointment with Dr. Coleman sooner than later.

To my surprise, I will be poppin’ bottles this year. My doll of a Mother recommended that I go to her CPA to get my taxes done not long ago. He’s good, he’s cheap, and most importantly he’s so fast you’ll freak, she says. I wasn't sure if she was talking about Jimmy Johns or tax refunds, but I just nodded my head and pretended to listen. I told her to make me an appointment and also asked if she could order me up a Beach Club with extra avocado and a pickle cut into fourths and have it delivered to my place. She said no and hung up. When it came time to leave for my appointment she insisted on warning me about a few things. Oh my God Mom, what the hell is wrong with him? I demanded that she spit it out before I walk into his office and am blind-sided by a wandering eye or a hook for a hand. She said, OH NO it is way worse! As I am sitting in the parking lot waiting for her to tell me, and debating whether I should go in or not, she finally gets to the point:

The building is really old so beware of the rank smell and the place looks like an episode of hoarders. Still cracking up and struggling to get her words out, she continues, he is also a little hard on the eyes but try not to stare. He is REALLY nice Ti, and our entire family goes to him to get our taxes done so please be kind! Uggggh FINE.

I was instructed to park in the back and to walk through the side door of the house. (The place was built in the early 1800’s and had been turned into his office space. I am 101% sure it was haunted.) After walking through a graveyard that was made specifically for lawn mowers, I had made it to the back door and walked right on in. I knew I was in the right place when I heaved open the door and was punched in the face with a stench so foul, even a skunk would have been offended. The hallway to get to his office was just wide enough that if I turned my body sideways, I could wobble to an open area. There were documents that had been stacked to the ceiling 132 years ago and had started closing in on me. My claustrophobia was now in full force while trying to avoid any paper-cuts that could possibly make me bleed out. 

All throughout the house there were old paintings of dead presidents hanging on the walls, and they had eyes that did not miss a beat. They were definitely watching my every move, so I had to be cautious with my facial expressions. When I passed the spare bedroom my curiosity got the best of me - if I was left with the unknown I wouldn't be able to sleep at night. Peeking in I saw close to 1,500 empty paint cans that were stacked from one end of the room to the other, all the way up to the leaky ceiling tiles. Okay, there are way too many cans for painting to be any sort of hobby and he sure as hell wasn't about to recycle all of these. Definitely weird - but I wasn't running for the hills just yet. When I came around the corner I caught a glimpse of a figure sitting in his office with another client. I didn't really get a good look at him, as he murmured for me to go to the front room and wait for him there.

I walked into the “waiting room” and was sure I had just taken a seat at The Addams Family dining room table. The drapes reeked of moth balls and white musk perfume and when I sat in a chair, a mushroom cloud of dust and debris blew out from under my ass. There was an old TV with a rusty antenna that was rolled in for my entertainment. I sat at the elongated wooden table long enough to get in three full episodes of Keeping up with the Kardashians. I found it incredibly difficult to see what sort of trouble Lord Disick was getting into with framed Woodrow Wilson giving me the stink eye. While I was in mid-text trying to tell my mom this shit had better be pro-bono the accountant had called me into his office.

 

Unclear of the odor that was seeping out of the walls, I immediately cracked the case when I took a seat at his desk. There was an entire seasoned rotisserie chicken rotting on a paper plate that had been chewed down to the bone, parked on the floor next to the overflowing garbage can. The chicken must have been there for a few days due to how dry the remnants of meat looked. I counted FIVE biggie sized McDonald's bags sitting next to the copy machine due to the lack of space left in the garbage can. It seemed the 2 for $5 Big Mac deal was a fan favorite. To the left of his feet were two large empty cartons of orange juice lying on their side without the caps. No cups needed I suppose. I was sitting in his dumpster of an office doing everything humanly possibly to try and stay alive for the next 30 minutes. I held my breath until I was blue in the face and right before I felt like I would pass out, I would take in minimal oxygen through my scarf. I could feel the disease in the air and my body was about to become the next host.

My friend was wearing a black button up dress shirt with a classy tie and what were clear to be black swishy pants below. Now I am all about a great pair of sweats, don’t get me wrong, but swishy’s? They had better be Nike, sir. I don’t think I am asking for much? I wanted to compliment his argyle tie, but thought it would be best to keep my Muslim appearance and continue to hide behind my scarf. Being a hefty man, he smelled of gangrene and used dental floss every time he opened his mouth to speak. With one glance anyone would have diagnosed him with type 2 diabetes, even if the carcass between his cankles didn't already give it away. I would say he had the world’s shiniest head but that would be putting it nicely - it looked like it had been slathered in bacon grease. 

With a George Costanza up-do he had two strands of hair that were long enough to technically call it a comb over. Popping through those guitar strings was something that I know I will have a hard time forgetting until my end of days. Through the two wet pieces appeared to be some sort of growth that he had picked and turned into a giant scab. Mom was right about two things: he was indeed difficult to look at, but was also the biggest sweetheart imaginable. I sat in the chair and watched his porky paws while they were hard at work trying to get me my money. As he finished filing my taxes, and with my foot half way out the door he called me back into his office. You dropped this, he said as he tried handing me my pen that I watched fall out of my purse 10 minutes earlier. One glance at his fingernails, and I said no worries, you can keep it! Thanks again for the salmonella! I mean SERVICES!

Cheers to Dead Presidents and Unintentional Taxidermy

Ti-Bag

25 Things You Wouldn't Want to Know About Me

Sorry Mom...

1. I've been to 1 orgy in my life. I did not participate but I did take photos.

2. I don’t like Madonna. There, I said it. I think she sucks at singing and sucks even more at dancing and I don’t understand how she gets all these hot young guys. Her face looks like a soggy piece of shredded wheat.

3. I hate girls with super short hair. You are a girl. One of the best things about being a girl is having long luscious locks. The only excuse for helmet hair is if you've been terminally ill. And even then it just ain't right.

4. When I need a pick me up at work I google Jon Hamm’s penis. You’re welcome. Yes please.

5. I've had sex with one republican. We all make mistakes.

6. The carpet matches the drapes.

7. I think I would make a great second wife. I would also make a great basketball, football, and hockey wife. I would not be a good stay at home wife. Or a faithful wife.

8. I once helped Lindsey Lohan move from one Hollywood apartment to the other. Over the course of the evening she ashed her cig several times on my foot, offered me a meal of vodka and Sudafed and walked around topless trying on clothes from her ex-boyfriend Sam Ronson. 

9. Confession: I, Waz Ma-Taz, admit in the 4^th grade to sticking a tack through a library book. I know I lied to all my teachers, and my friends and the librarian, but it was in fact me who did it. I disgraced my entire school and the Boxcar Children.

10. When I was young I slammed my sister’s finger in the door and she nearly lost it. Luckily it was saved and reattached at the hospital but it now resembles the gnarled mandrake root Pan kept under her bed. It is her engagement finger. 

11. I would rather have 3-cheese meaty lasagna for my birthday than a cake.

12. I hate surprises.

13. I've never seen a full episode of the Simpson’s, Homeland or the Sopranos. Get over it. 

14. I don’t believe in god, ghosts, angels, or dairy.

15. I think the Taco Bell Volcano taco is one of the greatest taste explosions ever to be created. Even with all these “horse meat” rumors swirling about, I am still a devoted fan.

16. I have total Latin fever. I am so devoted to their people I once spent three days in a wooden shack in the middle of the jungle perfecting my salsa moves with a gentleman who spoke parrot, howler monkey and Spanish. 

17. I think Casey Anthony is innocent.

18. I went to school to be a journalist, ended up working in reality television and secretly just want to be a back-up dancer in late night rap vids. Drop it Low

19. I once went home with an amateur UFC fighter. My hips sockets have never been the same.

                                                                20. I love children. And puppies.

 

21. In college I got a fat lip from a week long bender of partying. I made my friend stop off at a gas station to purchase a pocket sized sewing kit to pop the blister on my swollen upper lip before returning home to face my roommates – she’s called me Ducky ever since. 

22. I once stole from Claire's. And JC Penny’s. Sorry PIC. You know who you are. 

23. One time when I was riding home from gymnastics practice my Dad turned to me and told me he wished I would become a professional singer someday. I told him I would love to but that I wasn't very good at singing. He said he’d noticed.  

24. I once got so drunk in Santa Monica I had to take an $80 taxi ride home. Neither me nor my friends had any money so I had to strike a deal with the driver: One friend made out with the smooth criminal, the other gave him an aromatherapy neck rub, and I sang a Vanessa Carlton song to keep everyone focused. Sang it.

25. When I was 5 I found a baby kitten in a cornfield. I hid it in my room and fed it Kraft singles. Once when I was scolding it for pooping under my bed it bit my finger and drew blood – I got so mad I put the kitten in the street at the end of our cul-de-sac and never told my parents.  

Cheers and Sorry,

WAZ

25 Things You Shouldn't Know About Me

1. I have a severe issue with specific textures. If something has bumps, clumps, or holes in it I can not be around it. Example: Pomegranate fruit, cradle cap, or any of the water-logged shipmates from Pirates of the Caribbean. (Soggy Ship Mates)

2. My biggest fear in life is also my biggest obsession: Sharks. Watching a Great White shred a surfer’s sunbathed bod  is better than sex.

3. I am no longer welcome at the Chicago White Sox Stadium because I once smoked a cigarette too close to the players. I was then thrown in the drunk tank to have my photo taken and then escorted out of the park by 3 policemen.

4. I want to have a baby girl with Jason Bateman. And after I saw Never Say Never 3D in theaters I realized I want to have a son with Justin Bieber.


 5. I sold Xanax to the lead singer of “The Lumineers”. Apparently he has a hard time sleeping on the road. 

6. I once dropped my black laced thong on the side walk in front of my friends’ Dad who was trying to drive my drunk ass home from a work party. When he told me to pick them up I told him they were his.


7. They say “Once You Go Black, You Never Go Back”. They lied.  (HUHHHHHH?!?!?!?!)

8. I would drink a TRENTA filled with ginger dressing if no one was looking.

9. I rewound the scene where Zac Efron gets out of his car in the movie 17 AGAIN approximately 47 times. (Delic)

10. I sing “WIDE OPEN SPACES” by the Dixie Chicks in the shower when my roommate isn't home. Who doesn't know what I’m talking about? (Pun definitely intended)

11. I once hopped the fence to a random house and got naked in a hot tub with my landlord and his wife. My utilities were half off that month.    

12. My first French kiss was in a McDonald’s parking lot and I choked on the guys tongue. He was a senior in high school and could have passed for my Dad. My Mom was in the drive-thru ordering a Diet Coke.

13. I once went to a wedding and woke up with my history teacher passed out in bed next to me.

14. At the same moment 9/11 was happening I was discussing my friend’s penis size with him in speech class.

15. I have broken all 10 of my toes, mostly while drinking.

16. I physically wasn't able to swallow a pill until I was in 8th grade. My parents would make me sit at the kitchen table until I swallowed them. I would let them dissolve on my tongue and didn't care how long it took.

17. I rode a short bus to school for several years in junior high because a regular sized school bus wasn't able to make the turn around on my street.

18. I have a birthmark on my inner thigh that looks like a skidmark.

19. I started getting gray hair when I was 23.

20. I once made out with my cab driver in an Ulta parking lot. I got my high heel stuck in the meter.

21. When I was 9, my Dad took the family dog and I to work with him outside at a client’s house. I told him I had to go to the bathroom and he told me to go behind the bushes. I pooped and the dog ate it. My Dad was not impressed.

22. I have astigmatism in both of my eyes and I still don’t know what that means.

23. I worked at IHOP.


24. On New Years Eve, I dropped a glass of wine and it shattered on Brian Urlacher’s bouncer’s foot. I was trying to high five Bri but the bouncer told me to get away from him. 

25. I lost my virginity the day after my Mom asked me if I was a virgin. 

Cheers,

Ti-Bag

Should I Give Up, Or Should I Just Keep Chasing Pavement

And then there was this Night...

One would think at a certain age no matter the trouble and chaos we create in our teens and early twenties, by the time 30 is knocking we all sort of fall into this place of maturity whether we realize it or not. Our credit cards get paid off and our cars become nicer and faster and our jobs suddenly seem secure and locked. We look now to finding a mate and having a family instead of chasing after one night stands and filling our closets full of shoes we can’t afford. We attend work meetings and have someone do our taxes and use Groupon as a smart way to financially dine on Friday nights. But, some of us aren't quite there yet. Or more, we are still the same 18 year old binge drinking and drunk sexting pervert, just in designer jeans and with a higher credit card limit: Regardless, this “group” finds themselves in limbo, a constant struggle between adult yin and party time yang. 

 

And in limbo is exactly how I felt as I lay on the cold hard pavement, fully sprawled out, head resting on my purse, tears streaming down my face. I continued weeping like a child and cried even harder when I realized I had to pee. It was a Thursday night and I was drunk and alone and stuck on the other side of town. I had literally hit sidewalk rock bottom.

Let’s start from the beginning: I have a good job. And I work with super smart people. That being said I have a ridiculous amount of responsibility and stress placed on me each and every day. So, when my bosses proposed a small raise with the opportunity to do 2 jobs at once I immediately began googling the proper way one cuts oneself to make it seem like a suicide, yet keep the body alive long enough for a co-worker to find them writhing under their desk. But, being the pussy I am, I put the razor blade down and accepted the challenge AND swallowed my new 3 hour round trip commute to our satellite offices located in Hawaii.

Luckily my new work load made the time fly by but after 4 weeks of 18 hour days, 7 days a week, plus the long hours spent chain smoking in my car, I was fucking exhausted and looking to blow off some steam. The night of wrap everyone propositioned going next door for a celebratory drink. Now, I don’t know where you come from, but I have never in my life ever celebrated with just the one toast – even when I was in a high chair enjoying my first birthday you can bet your ass I was washing down my mini sheet cake with a liter of yoohoo. Homie don’t play. 

However, having not done well at my last 2 or 13 work functions I decided to class it up and show these people I was a working adult who could handle a night of slow sipping with the bosses. I enjoyed a casual glass of bubbles in the office and planned to walk over to the bar with everyone for one quick celebratory drink. 1 chard, 2 sips, finito. But, before I knew what was happening an older colleague of mine ushered me into a dark corner of the office to have a shot to us! Oh great, just what a crack head needs, a barrel full of crack. I tried declining the half glass of patron that was being offered up in the shadows but gave in as he talked of his deceased granddaughter and how much I reminded him of her. He had never been prouder of a young woman and her work and dedication to a project. FUCK. The next thing I knew I was on guilty glass number 3 and my lips were officially numb. I licked the rest of the salt off the rim as we both wiped our eyes, swallowed my lime wedge whole and told him I’d see him Monday. I had had enough to drink and the last thing I needed to do now was take my worm sucking ass to a bar.

I had quite a walk back to my car and began in hot pursuit - Steamy tequila smoke tendrils curled out of my nostrils and the fresh air made me feel clear as I entered the elevator bank excited to make my 2 hour trek home. Once in I ran straight into yet another co-worker. Hey! Where the hell are you going? Oh, I'm going home to let me dog out. Home? Home is for quitters! Before I had time to protest he punched the elevator back down to the first floor and looped his arm through mine – Upon entering the bar, I scanned the room and saw the entire team throwing back drinks and getting rowdy. Ce la vie. When party fate comes aknockin’ you gotta fucking answer the call. Plus, I had the company credit card in my back pocket.

Rounds of chardonnays and kettles and soda were ordered at my discretion, as I became court jester to my work kingdom. I made sure everyone in the room had 3 more drinks than I as I sipped water in an attempt to be a lady – I was already feeling quite groovy from my tequila shit storm from earlier so needed them to catch up and fast. After I saw at least 75% of staff take down the hard stuff I began my fun. Chardonnay after chardonnay, pool was played, and ping pong was executed and then ass grab was on the menu. Bosses were on assistants and managers were on interns. Everyone was feeling loose and I held the plastic keeping it all together. After feeling like I’d had one-teen drinks too many, I appreciate me in moments like this: 1 more drink Waz, and well, you are either going to be crying, puking, or breaking up a marriage. Put the drink down, chug 20 waters and go home to bed. You may pass McDonalds but do not pass go and do not collect that drink at the end of the bar.

 

Luckily being the boss I am I had worn my six inch Michael Kors boots to work that day to really show the people not only my camel toe but that I too could work in heels and still kick ass. As I paid the enormous tab and filled out the tip portion in Mandarin and the signature in Swedish, I Pirate-walked out the door without saying good-bye to anyone. (Note: The Pirate walk is done by one who exits an establishment dragging ones foot behind oneself, heaving their shoulders forward in an effort to gain momentum to move or rather walk, while drooling slightly from whichever way the neck is slightly cocked. I usually lean left. This is because my left boob is bigger.)

Out the bar I go hobbling and heaving my heavy work bag and lap top case behind me, suddenly looking out and staring at 4 parking garages. Logistically there are only 2, Pirate Wazzy sees 4. As I moved on in my enormous wooden boots each step felt harder and more Danish than the next as the tequila and bubbles and bottle of chardonnay kicked in. Dammit, I knew I should have had those spicy wings to soak up this bullshit. Finally after a half blacked out amount of time I made it to the elevator banks - Next task, find my car. I fell into the elevator cab sweating and sunk down to a seated position as it rose to the top. Crawling out on my hands and knees lugging my bags behind me, I hoped a car wouldn't fly by with his lights off and behead me like the bad wench I was. Finally making it to my feet I two-stepped across the dark top floor garage and Dougied into my car. I immediately jammed the keys into the ignition and fired her up. Nothing. Maybe I did it wrong. I pinched my nipples and focused my Asian looking baby blues and tried once more. Key in ignition. Foot on brake. Twist key right. Fail. FUCK!! I only had 1 hour and 12 minutes to get home and order a Papa before they closed (Papa as in John, not as in someone I sometimes meet up with on the weekends from Sugardaddy.com to collect an allowance – Oh and ladies, you’re welcome. It’s a real thing).

I decided to take a step back and re-examine my situation. In doing so I suddenly realized how light my keys felt. Removing the key from the ignition, to my horror I saw the battery had fallen out making it USELESS! Without the battery I could not properly unlock the car meaning I could not properly start the car and drive it into the ocean. Somewhere in between me walking the plank and leaning like a Cholo I had busted them. Before I had time to panic my car began doing the screaming for me – the alarm kicked off ringing and wailing. So, I handled this like any single white female: I cried, and screamed, and beat my steering wheel and eventually lay my body on the horn in defeat Rihanna style. After realizing no one was coming to my rescue and I was all out of cigarettes I switched to my next option: Call my girlfriends from work and make it their problem. Dial. Ring. Voice Mail. No one was picking up. They must be pirating too. Finally one of the girls answered - I began choking on my spit and inhaling my tears as I tried to explain my situation, starting with the tequila and dead granddaughters. I got 15 seconds into my story and blurted out one dead girl ghost moan when there was silence on the other end – my phone had died. At this point I actually felt worse than Rihanna and waited for the cops to come.   

When they didn't show up I decided to move onto plan B. I grabbed all of my belongings and made the long trek back to the elevator bank. At this point my face was so red and swollen from crying, I looked like the love child of Hitch and The Crow. I took the bank down to the first floor searching for a friendly face and noticed the entire lot was dead – no lights or people but I did see a guard shack off in the distance about 3 miles. I felt like Don Quioxte drunk and schizophrenic as I began yet another long march sans Sancho Pancho. I finally arrived at the shack winded and heaving, doubled over in my heels, face a mess, smelling like the remnants from a Lindsay Lohan bath. The guard looked at me half scared half worried as I begged him to call me a cab. My phone was dead. My car was broke. My $300 heels were grated down to a piece of mozzarella. The kind guard agreed to call me a cab. He also recommended waiting with me so I didn't get arrested or taken to Compton to play rodeo clown to a dog fight.

We walked another mile to a busier intersection and the minutes kept ticking by for this rogue cab. Realizing it was going to take a while I threw my exhausted defeated body down onto the sidewalk, boots in the air, and rested my head on my bags. Arms folded I began to cry again, like a sad, bloated child. No cab and no pizza. This sucks. After 30 more minutes of waiting and no naughty texting as my usual form of drunk entertainment, I’d had enough. Sitting upright I looked desperately over at the guard and asked him where the hell was my cab! Did he even know how to call a cab company? Did he even know how to use a cell phone? (At this point I had also taken off my bra) Sir, I am a WO-MAN sitting on a cold sidewalk waiting for a ride I can’t afford! I am a college graduate!! I HAVE A BACHELORS DEGREE!!! He looked at me hard letting me get out every word and black tear, then responded: Ma’am. If I were you I would be a little nicer. I’m the only friend you have right now and I can turn and leave your ass, out here, in the dark. Understand? I laid back down one vertebra at a time, and silently continued to cry. Another 30 minutes passed and my cab came. I peed a little then jumped in elated. I looked over to thank the guard but he was gone.

I rode all the way home looking out the window and wondering why these things always seemed to happen to me. Another $80 cab ride home alone, another giant receipt to explain to my bosses. I looked over at the clock. 2 AM. Papa was closed.  

The next day I sent my assistant to get my car after explaining a more convenient version of the story. During my lie, another assistant passed by and stopped in to listen. He shamefully admitted he had seen me and heard my alarm go off but due to the enthusiastic rendition of “Push It” I was performing for myself he decided it best to let me be.

Later in the day my bosses came in to congratulate me on a job well done. The room was spinning as I stood to shake their hands, steadying myself on my desk. I gave them my best hangover smile and felt the giant bar receipt in my back pocket as they walked out, thanking god they hadn’t noticed I was in the same clothes from the night before, minus a bra but plus an eye patch.

Cheers to Great Intentions and Crocodile Tears,

WAZ

Pride-A-Palooza

And Let’s Not Forget About This…

Every year I go directly to the back of my closet and dig up the most obnoxiously bright and festive thing I can find, dust off my feather boa, sharpen my eyeliner, and apply more glitter than a girl could dream of. I wake up at the ass crack of dawn and begin the process of binge drinking and morphing into a beautiful drag queen. This time of year is known as Chicago’s very own Gay Pride Festival. It is typically 100 degrees and there are what feels like 2 million people cooking in the narrow streets of Boystown, all trying to catch a glimpse of the dancing queens. For those of you that have been, you know that it’s a whole different world, and once you cross Clark Street there is absolutely no going back. All the streets are shut down and the only way to get across is by having all the gays huddle up to catapult your body across one of the parade floats, hoping to catch some ass mid-flight. Just picture thousands of people grinding in the streets, strangers hugging strangers, and expect to be told how beautiful you are all day long. From a bird’s eye view it looks like a giant glittery rainbow farted on the North side of town.

I have had my face painted by a lesbian clown, have earned my body weight in dick-shaped beads, sought out and kissed the one and only straight man in the bunch, and have been groped by the best of ‘em. One year I even ran into an unexpected guest on the train. I was sitting with my 3 best girlfriends and minding my own while taking pulls out of a bottle of Wolfschmidt vodka, when suddenly I was slapped upside the head. Ready to turn around and verbally assault someone’s face, I heard “What the hell are you doing here lady!?”(in a smokers voice so deep that she woke up her own cat 50 miles away.) HOLY SHIT! HEY GRANNY!!! I’m going to Gay Pride, what about you?! She roared back, ME TOO!! We clinked vodka’s and high-fived so fiercely that everyone around us now knew we were pre-gaming family style on the 8 AM train.

With all of that being said, there is still one particular year that stands out above all the rest. I decided to bring my friend who was about to pop her Gay Pride Parade cherry. Not really knowing what she was in for, she had the right attitude going into things: A non-judgmental mind and a liver that was open for business. We drank our way into the homosexual chaos and loved every minute of it. We saw the dykes on bikes, approximately 300 sweaty nut sacks, and a variety of questionable characters. Mission accomplished. When the parade came to and end, there was nothing left but mounds of garbage littering the streets and thousands of drunk people doing somersaults through it. We had seen enough and were ready to take the party back to our hometown dive bar where we felt safe and secure in case one of us decided to nap on a stool  Wiping the glitter out of our tear ducts, we attempted to hail a cab. After 45 minutes of walking in the blistering heat and knowing that we had approximately 20 minutes to catch our train, we clunked our dome pieces together and thought up a brilliant plan.

From a distance we spotted a strapping young Hindu that just so happened to be driving an ice cream truck. At this point it was so hot out that I was running a sweat shop between my boobs and this ice cream truck could have been a mirage. Strutting our boiling bodies towards him we were now in 100% prostitute mode. I was completely over walking and we knew if we had any chances of catching that train, our new friend Gudakeysha was our only hope. Two Dora the Explora’s and a Choco Taco later we had finally convinced our main man Ke$ha to take us for a ride. My friend jumped in the passenger seat and without hesitation I opened the gate to the back and made myself right at home next to all the freezer compartments. It was all of 38 seconds before I had my body hanging out of the little window and was chucking ice cream at anyone’s head that was covered in beads. I felt the need to tell every homosexual how fabulous they looked and that the ice cream cone that was coming 40 mph at their face WAS ON ME! You’re welcome! Guda was begging for me to stop throwing away all of his frozen treats free of charge and to please put things back the way they were. Snoopy’s were mixed in with Incredible Hulks and Ninja Turtles were now sharing a bin with the Sponge Bob’s but I didn't care. His shit was a mess, and it was all thanks to me. I yelled back at him, HEY LISTEN GUDAKEYSHA! DON’T EVER TRUST A DRUNK GIRL WITH YOUR DAIRY BRO!! He agreed with me as we pulled up to our destination. Feeling bad about almost ruining all my fun, we hugged it out and he offered up a snow cone on the house as a peace offering. We politely declined and sprinted up the ramp only to find that he had taken us to the wrong station. Son of a Hindu! We missed our train!

With 2 hours to kill until our next ride rolled through, we decided to hit the streets for a cold brew. On our way we met a nice lesbian couple that we learned had been hitched for over 14 years. It was no secret that they were into us and offered to buy as a drink while we waited for our train. One beer quickly turned into a barrel and the next thing you know we were all dancing to Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits. (Side note: This was right after Michael hit the pavement so we had the entire establishment in tears and up on their feet honoring all of the King of Pop’s best moves -including the bartender). What started out to be an innocent cocktail turned into us unraveling 14 years of marriage simply by smelling of sweet summer corn and knowing all the words to Man In The Mirror. I admit I did notice wife # 1 undressing us with her eyes but thought nothing of it as I continued to raise my arms perfecting the“Thriller” choreography. How sexy could dancing zombies in bloody stitches really be? Well, wife #2 did not appreciate our grace and taught arm movements either and shit got really awkward as she called wife #1 out on all the inappropriate gestures that were directed towards us young fawns. My friend and I found this to be the perfect opportunity to bolt- Well, look at the time!? Ladies, it has been a pleasure and thank you so much for the dance. As the one licked her lips, I grabbed my friends hand, covered her eyes, and sprinted towards the train station. We made it just in the butch of time, and couldn't wait to get back to share our scandalous voyage as homosexuals.

Cheers to Hot Fudge Hitch Hiking  and Butch Break Ups,  

Ti-Bag 

Kirb Your Enthusiasm

Remember When…

Once upon a night, 2 girls went out drinking and looking for men. These were fine girls and they tipped back their beers at the local pub trying to acquire interesting male conversation. Having no such luck the night trickled on without success. As the moon hung low in the sky and the barkeeps began closing down shop, the uninteresting men quickly disappeared into the distant hills to their wives and whores. The girls had no other choice but to button up their petty coats, pay their tabs respectfully and retire to their bungalow. At this particular time, Ti was the gracious host and Waz was buying sleep in the comfort of her underground lair.

The two girls enjoyed a stiff nightcap in their sleeping gowns, then blew out the candles, and kissed each other good night. They dreamt of men and interesting conversation and longed to be entertained.

As the golden morning began stretching its rays, light flooded the windows illuminating the quaint space. Luckily the girls had had SO much of the fizzy drink, they slept through the suns birth. It wasn't until the loud thick knock at the front door that they did startle.

WHO THE FUCK IS IT? Ti squawked in a voice deeper than a baritone sax hitting an F/E sharp. (The 2 birds tweeting sweetly outside her window also died immediately) The front door sprang open as he stepped into the landing – a tall strong looking man wearing cargo shorts and thick leather boots and a cherry stained cotton shirt. His intricately gelled hair appeared confident and unmovable, his diamond earrings nearly blinding the girls as they were hit with an odorous wave of Axe: Phoenix and Abercrombie’s Fierce. MY NAME IS JASON LADIES, AND I’M HERE TO SHOW YOU MY KIRBY.

WHAT THE FUCK IS A KIRBY? Ti squawked yet again as she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her side table and lit one with her breath. I stayed quiet, tucked behind her body shivering with no pants on.

The man took Ti’s “casual cigarette in bed bit” to mean, come on in. Down he thudded the 16 steps from the front door to the front of the bed where the two of us laid mystified and confused. Before either of us had time to speak the gentlemen outreached his hand for a proper handshake then immediately swung the 80 pound vacuum he had attached to his back around his shoulders and head, nearly missing our toes. THIS LADIES, IS A KIRBY AND YOU TI, HAVE EARNED YOURSELF A FREE CARPET CLEANING.

The two of us took a scan around the apartment looking for carpet (the scan took less than 3 seconds total) The only carpet in the entire 250 sq. foot space were the dirty stairs leading up to the front door. Pointing in that direction I suggested Jason start there as I fished under the covers for my leg sleeves. EASY LADIES, he said. I'VE GOT THIS.

Having fully now woken up and examining the situation at hand, a few things ran through my mind. He was either A, here to kill us, B, we had met him last night and accidentally agreed to an AM threesome or C, Ti had now resorted to inviting “vacuum salesmen” over as a way to get lucky. I chose D, none of the above, he was here for our entertainment. I immediately shot up and grabbed a half full bottle of Rashid Wallace champagne from the night before and poured Ti and myself 2 coffees. After finding a suitable outlet Jason began cleaning and as we finished our rotten booze he had stairs 1-16 shining bright. He smiled at us elated as we clapped for our hero.

A small bit of sweat hung on his brow and as he wiped it away, the body spray embedded in his skin ignited the room and I swear I saw a flame in his eye. Jason asked what was next. What was next? There was nothing else to clean! This place looked and smelled like Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s basement: cold, carpet-less  and full of lotion - Well in that case, I chimed in, can you please go get us some more champagne at the gas station? I've got quite the headache and we are both dreadfully thirsty. Jason said he’d sure love to but couldn't on account of the fact that he’d gotten a DUI just a few weeks back so he wasn't allowed to purchase alcohol – he did however know a great restaurant down the road that didn't card and had $2 Natty lite on tap. Half tempted to accept the offer we decided we needed to know more about Jason before we got into a vehicle with him and his suction machines.

With the two of us still tucked in bed we asked if his vacuum cleaned furniture. He said it did and within minutes like a magician, he attached several small pieces and a hose to the Kirby. Ti made a move to clean off her chair so Jason could have a fresh canvas to paint on, but Jason insisted on stripping it himself. We were all shocked when he finally got down to the last layer of dirty clothes and pulled out a human body. Jason was so cool about it as he walked it up the stairs and laid it in the drive way to grow back to life. Back to the chair he came, forearms flexed, hips and torso in position. Within minutes the chair too looked and smelled as good as 2007.

Jason was now on a roll – there was no carpet or piece of furniture too big or too small for him to tackle. He had seen and de-stained it all. Though he was doing this free of charge, the confidence he gained from his hard work was priceless. With beer brunch still on the table we decided to keep Jason around a little while longer. Before he knew what we were going to ask he accepted the challenge and began cleaning Ti’s mattress with us still in the bed. Rolling from side to side, we expertly kept our hands and feet out of Jason’s intricate path. He cleaned the entire mattress head to toe, front and back, flipping bodies and pillows to do a job well done, while we laid by comfortably enjoying the gentle yoga flow. This guy was a pro. He twisted the hose from left to right, removing unnecessary pieces and stacked them in his belt as his eyes landed on a special stain. Suddenly Jason reached deep into his back pocket and pulled out a foreign looking piece – a piece used so few and far between in the Kirby world most would have mistaken it for arsenal or Tupperware. He took the plastic-like shell and fitted it to a secret nozzle then pressed a hidden button under the belly of the vacuum. The Kirby giggled. It was ticklish.

The sound that came next was menacing and the man was maniacal. He saw the stain at the end of the stripped bed and we all knew it had to go. Plunging the secret piece into the soft springy dough he began kneading and rolling the mattress likes a baker at a bread race. Hand over hand he sawed machine into the cottony flesh and to everyone’s amazement the stain began to lift. Shade by shade it softened until there was only a faint glow left behind – but this wasn't good enough for Jason. No, he wanted more. He pressed the secret button one more time and the machine began vibrating almost uncontrollably – there was no stopping him. Pressed up against the headboard Ti and I held hands and closed our eyes as turbo booster met mattress and to everyone’s horror it cut right through the cotton down to the spring. Jason had gone too far. He immediately jerked his arm back alarmed at his own strength, eyes wide as he wildly screamed out NOOOOO, but it was too late. The Kirby damage had been done. Our screams were silent as we knew in our heart of hearts the mattress was dead. Jason dropped the secret piece of machinery as if it had a mind of its own and pressed his hands to his hard pecks. His reputation was ruined and so was our nap.

As the dust settled there wasn't much left to say. Jason packed up his belongings, his pale face long and sad. We stayed in bed and placed a blanket over the new hole. We didn't think brunch was a good idea anymore. Or, carpet cleaning.

On his way out Jason offered us a 50 % off deal on a new machine plus a chance to sit on his back as he did push-ups as a special thank you. Though it was a hard bargain we had to refuse. He handed us business cards and looked up with puppy dog eyes. We pointed to the door for him to leave – he knew what he had done. The moral of the story is, if a strange man comes over to shampoo and deep clean your rug, just make sure he doesn't get overzealous and get stuck in a tight space.

Cheers to The Boy who Cried Brunch and Mattress Munching,

WAZ  

The Cupid Shuffle

So this happened last night…

Any single woman automatically breaks out in hives the minute her alarm clock goes off on the morning of February 14^th. Their bodies go into system overload and it takes 24 hours to power down and reboot. Watching their co-workers receive flowers and candy and bullshit all day is enough to put any single gal on suicide watch. I almost knocked a bouquet of flowers out of some bastards’ hands earlier in the day but unfortunately my “morals” kicked in. Most women deny that they are going home after work to throw on their ex-boyfriends sweatpants then eat 3 pounds of chocolate covered anything and proceed to wash it all down with 2 bottles of Pinot and some NyQuil. Well I will never be that girl. I would obviously replace the chocolate with 7 layer burritos from Taco Bell (buckets-o-mild on the side please).

 I decided that I wanted this Valentine’s Day to be extra special. I was picturing a night filled with chocolate covered jagerbombs and a bouquet of cigarettes. Rather than making a noose out of my best linens, I realized that would just be a waste and I should probably find something better to do with my time and my bed sheets. I decided to invite my buddy down to the city so that I would have someone to distract me from watching Titanic on repeat all night while reciting every word. You know who you are LADIES, we are all guilty of doing it. I often find myself having spitting competitions with the dog over my third story balcony. He always wins because he has mastered the art of arching his back while being on all fours, which to my surprise really gives him an advantage. I laugh and call him Jack, with a cocked head he looks at me, but I know there is no confusion. He thinks I make a great Kate Winslet. But that’s neither here nor there.

I thought, why not do the respectable thing and hit the streets for some strange ass. I wanted to embrace being a single woman of 2013 and once again show Chi-town what they KEEP missing. I’d like to call it a Valentine’s Day rebound, but in reality I wasn't rebounding from anything. There hasn't been a backboard in my life for well over 2 years. Ti-Bag: 0 Life: 117. Take me off the bench coach, I’m about to ALLEY OOP this city. After draining an entire bottle of wine, I was feeling overly confident and ready to bat my lashes for some free drinks. My friend and I ended up in Wrigleyville at a bar that looked like it had some potential. We spotted an open booth across the way that happened to be right in the middle of all of the action. Dancing, mingling, rounds of shots - things were looking very promising.

I ran to the bathroom and filled up our Diet Cokes with the water bottle of whiskey I had smuggled into the bar. We sat there for about 15 minutes singing every word to Young MC’s “Bust a Move”, but not one person was feeling our groove. I looked around at all of the eligible bros and honey dips and wondered why they weren't feeling our vibrations. DUHH! We looked like we were on a date! Oh hell no, it was time to go our separate ways. We gave each other some pointers, hand hugged, and moon walked to opposite ends of the dance floor. After giving it some serious thought, I ended up playing the “girl alone at the bar” card. It’s Valentine’s Day, this girl’s drink is almost empty, she looks vulnerable - come and get it you idiots!

Fast forward three minutes – BOOM! Out of my peripheral vision I see the first shark swim up to the bar getting ready to approach me. He was okay, but nothing to write home about. The bottle of wine I had inhaled earlier told me that I could do better. I politely nodded and turned my back to him acting like I was getting a funny text. Oh goody, here comes sorry sap number two. To my surprise he looked like a young James Franco and I wasn’t about to pretend text with this one. Jumping into my go-to character (Betty “Rizzo” in Grease), I act tough letting them know there are definitely worse things I could do than accept a drink from a boy or two. When it came time to leave, he asked for my digits and I went about my night. The whiskey had definitely kicked in at this point and I couldn't for the life of me remember his name. When I got home I received a text from “RED IVY” which was the bar we were at and apparently how I had named my suitor. I texted Big Red back and the next thing I knew he was headed over in a cab. I did what I do with every male guest I have over; I take the edge off by hosting an extremely competitive dance off in my bedroom. In between the worm, the sprinkler, and the tootsie roll I sipped on the cocktail he had made for me. Ivy brought over a bottle of nothing good. When it hit my lips it tasted like a concoction of all of his household cleaning supplies with a splash of red Gatorade. I didn't seem to mind, as I was too busy perfecting my version of the running man. After working up a sweat, we decided to catch our breath by sucking face and doing our very own rendition of the running man. I will spare you the details, but what came next was my so called “Valentine’s Day 3 pointer”. I felt like Jordan in game 6 and it was definitely something to write home about.

At 8 AM we decided to unlock lips and I called him a cab. I noticed that my best bud was no longer on the couch- he typically leaves right around the time he hears the gun go off for the dance competition. Red Ivy told me that he had to get home to write a term paper. I said, oh good for you! Going back to school is very honorable and something I wish I would force myself to do. He said, “Well I didn't go back, I am a student, at Columbia College”. With a confused look on my face, I continued to listen, terrified at what was coming next. “I live in the dorms there right off of State Street.” Uggghhh, son of a bitch. I told him I was very familiar with those dorms, 9 years ago to be exact. That would explain the sweet vermouth he brought over for me to choke down and why he was wearing an Abercrombie polo. He was too young to realize that vermouth was just an ingredient for a Manhattan and not an actual mixer you just causally sip on. This guy just gave me 4 cavities and a license to cougar. Without asking anymore questions, I told him to call his mom back since she had called 9 times, threw his ass in a cab and wished him well with his studies. You know things are bad when you find yourself with someone that sleeps on a top bunk and keeps requesting that you play a remix by one of Kiss FM’s DJ’s. I have become one of the terrifying red dots on your computer screen when you pull up your neighborhood's sex offender list.

Cheers to Heart Shaped Suckers and Co-ed Sleepovers, 

Ti-Bag