Tuesday, August 29, 2006


Katie likes to try to talk to me whenever I'm on the phone or computer. It's as if the sudden distraction of my attention is all it takes to bring on an attack and she just HAS to tell me this one story RIGHT NOW OR SHE'LL DIE. And some nights, this means she must invade my room. Which is dumb. Because I don't always play well with others.

For example:

Katie was laying on MY bed and I didn't want her there so I smacked her butt as hard as I could. If you know ANYTHING about Katie this fact will not upset you because you'll know Katie has an ass that could WITHSTAND THE FORCE OF AN ATOMIC BOMB.

As means of retaliation, she farted releasing an invisible CLOUD OF DEATH over the vicinity of her rear.

So I forcibly removed her from my bed using my feet.

Yes. That's right. I kicked her onto the floor. And promptly knocked shit over.

In my haste to pick up the things that were now toppled, my face took an UNPLEASANT trajectory, right through the aforementioned CLOUD OF DEATH.

For a moment, neither of us could breath. Me from choking and sputtering, her from laughing herself silly. Again, if you know ANYTHING about Katie, you are WELL AWARE of the fact that she is much like a man in some regards, particularly, the stench that E-M-A-N-A-T-E-S from her posterior.

I'm pretty sure I threw up in my mouth a little.

Sunday, August 27, 2006


EriK: "I may not know much about relationships but I would have to think that a woman being comfortable enough to fart in front of her man is an intimacy unrivaled."

Me: "Well, if that's the case then how intimate is it if the boy farts ON the girl? Twice."

Rusty: "It was an accident! I was asleep!"

Me (asside to EriK): "He's not allowed to be the little spoon anymore."


*If you want to get truely technical the ice never touched his ass. We put it in the front. But Junk Ice didn't have the same ring.

Imma give you a rundown of my weekendedness in a particular order:

Boy Thing gets into town about the time I get off work. We decide to do nothing and rent a movie. My friends decide otherwise. One Matt and two Eric/k's commender my porch (which I must admit is a pretty freaking sweet porch) so THEY can drink and smoke cigars and cloves.

And apparently berate me for being a woman. (SHUT IT ERIK WITH A K! THIS IS MY BLOG AND I'LL TELL THE STORY HOW I SEE FIT!) Now, let's (not) take into account I was hormonal (bitchy) at the time but NO ONE says to me on MY PORCH, and I quote, "Hush woman, the men are talking," and lives to breathe another breath.

All he got, however, was a hearty, "OH ((CENSOR)) YOU," out of me for that. He failed die simply because I would have been the one who'd of had to clean up the blood. And he's huge.

Party at my place. You know why I hate having parties anymore? Because y'all are effing slobs but also because I DISLIKE cooking for you people. It's smokey and I'm running around so much I can't enjoy myself.

But you know what is worse? I HATE when someone touches my grill. GET. THE. HELL. AWAY. FROM. MY. BABY.

But that's not funny. Onto what is. Rusty likes to screw with Dan D. and by "screw with" I mean wrestle and generally molest just shy of rape. This particular tussle on the porch resulted in Rusty grabbing Dan around the neck and leaning him back so far that his hips are thrust forward invitingly. I helpfully grab a handful of ice but Matt E. did the honors of shoving said ice into the front of Dan's pants. And rubbing it in.

Luckily for Dan, he wears boxers.

Unluckily for Matt and me, he wears boxers.

Dan picks up the ice that has since fallen from his pant leg and he shoves it into Matt E.'s mouth who then jumps up and runs screaming like a girl through my neighborhood. I get a cube in the mouth, too but I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't worth it.

Boy Thing's Jeep breaks down about an hour away from my place so I go keep him company while he's waiting for his dad which means I am the BEST GIRLFRIEND EVER AND DESERVE LOTS OF EXPENSIVE GIFTS AND TOYS. AMEN.

Thursday, August 24, 2006


Katie freaking LOVES it when I have a party. Because I clean. The ENTIRE house. BEFORE the party. Why? Why do I do this? You idiots are just going to mess it up again.

I blame my father.

Come over individually and I see nary a need to lift a finger. Dishes need done? Katie will do them eventually. There are questionable spots on the toilet? I'll hover. The floor has taken on a gray hue under the fine coat of dust? I have dry skin.

But suddenly it's a group and I HAVE TO CLEAN THINGS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN TOUCHED SINCE WE MOVED INTO THIS HOUSE. I watered plants that would have thought the Sahara Desert was a vacation. I WASHED THE SLIP COVER. I moved Frank (the pine tree) and Eliza (the mannequin*) just to mop the hardwood floors.

My sister may be uber anal when it comes to organization (according to D2Mom) but there are two people who are as anal (if not more so) than she is and they would be our father and me. Daddy taught me everything I know (that I hadn't already inherited). A forensic team couldn't find any sort of evidence in this house. Party on.

*Yes, we really do have a mannequin. Here is a picture of Aaron molesting Eliza at the luau this past winter.

It was his idea to wear her bra. He was TOTALLY SOBER. I'm not kidding.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006


"I think I might clean the house Thursday so Rusty doesn't actually see my anal cleaning come Saturday."

"Anal cleaning? That's gross."

"... Dude, I meant the house. Not my butt."

Tuesday, August 22, 2006


I have nothing witty to say today to entertain and regale my sister in the first few minutes of her work day. (Shouldn't you be WORKING, Tiff, instead of using the computer for personal entertainment? Does your boss know you're reading this? HEY! TIFF'S BOSS! SHE'S NOT BEING PRODUCTIVE!)

It was brought to my attention that if I don't satisfy my older, nosy sister's need to pry into my day to day life that she's bitter and resentful and just a royal pain in the ass to work with for a good part of the morning afterwards. (Not that she isn't a pain in the ass regardless.) So this is my apology because now not only is she going to be annoyed because there is no brilliantly funny update from me, but she's going to be uber pissed because I'm making fun of her. For being short. And old. Well, older than me at least. Seriously though. She really is short. I bet if you people went over to her desk right now you could see her little feet dangling JUST ABOVE the floor kicking in a rage. It's cute, isn't it, how she has to sit on the edge of the chair to touch the floor. A good prank would probably be to put her chair at full height so then you could watch and giggle as she jumped up and down trying to get her butt up on it. I bet she could even ride Hey Dog like he was a horse. I have to admit though, she is a hard worker and she'll probably move ahead in your company. Not so much for her astute attention to detail but because her head is at the PERFECT height to kiss some major ass.

And let's not forget she's getting on in years now. She may not technically be "old" yet (though you have to admit she's trying her damnedest to make it to 40) but her memory is getting a little rusty*. And she is a product of the 80's. Big hair (so what's changed?), acid wash denim, stirrup pants**, and pants pegging should all be held against her. So should that one Milli Vanilli cassette.

I would like to take this moment to let you all know I love my sister terribly and I know deep down in her soul she's strong enough to take this sort of abuse (only from me, mind you so DO NOT try this at home) and in her infinite grace and mercy she realizes I'm still wet around the ears and to keep my naivety and innocence in mind as she plots my demise. I would also like her to keep reading and enjoying my blog but woman! You just don't threaten to snitch like that!

LOVE! XOXOXO, Shanny Lynn

*Yeah, how do you like that one coming back to bite you in the ass, huh?! It was lame when you said it, too!
**I actually don't know for a fact if she ever owned or wore stirrup pants.


"There is nothing better at 10 pm (or 10 am for that matter) than an ice cream sandwich."

Monday, August 21, 2006


It's my fault. I really just can't learn my lesson. I can't get it through my head that stairs are meant to be climbed, NOT bash the SHIT out of my toes.

Exhibit A:

Twice! In two days! Bloody hell. See that stuff in the bottom right corner? That's blood. On my flip flop. And you know what I did when offered a bandage by the woman who worked in the coffee shop I stopped at to get a napkin to wipe up said blood? I told her no. No, I'd rather drag my gaping wound of a toe around C-L-I-F-T-O-N until I could get back home and take a picture of the carnage for my blog.

Steps*: 2; Toes: 0

*Particularly concrete steps. In the middle of a dirty, dirty city.


Talking to Katie I remembered something that I left out of the previous post. APPARENTLY, Rusty's subconscious either wanted to get back at me for giggling at his anger OR he thinks that deep down inside I have a violent streak just waiting to pounce and rear it's ugly head. Following the harrowing dinner fun, the next day Man Friend informs me he had a dream about me.

"Oh? And what sort of dream was it?"

"You got sent to jail."

"Beg your pardon."

"You got sent to jail. Guy put too many onions on your sandwich so rather than letting me go get you a new one you just hauled off and punched the guy."

"So why didn't you protect me from the police? Why didn't you tell them I was totally justified? Damn onions."

"They tackled me."

So he's the hero without actually DOING anything. I mean he TRIED to save me from the jail inside his head but alas. Even heros have an off day. Or they get tackled by the police while the woman fights the good fight. Stupid, freaking onions.


This weekend the man friend (hereafter known as 'Rusty' - Are you happy now, Tiff? It's on my blog so it MUST be real!) ATTEMPTED to feed me. He eventually succeeded (three hours later by no fault of his own). It started off innocently enough. I was hungry. He was paying. So Friday evening we drove into one of the nearby towns (by 'one of' I mean ONLY nearby town) that is sprawling enough to have TWO legit restuarants. The first one boasted a 45 minute wait to which my grumbly tummy declared we would try out luck elsewhere. Elsewhere just so happened to be Ruby Tuesdays.

Nothing too exciting. Nothing I haven't done before.

We apparently merely suggested to the hostess that we THOUGHT we would like a seat in the smoking section (yeah, mom was surprised, too) but we obviously weren't not too sure. We also apparently told only ourselves that we were going to sit at the bar for the 30 minute wait. First thing we noticed as we walk into the smoking section where the bar is located: two empty tables.

I suggested maybe they're running behind because there were a number of people outside.

45 minutes, someone who JUST WALKED INTO THE DOOR being seated before us, and two MORE empty tables later , Rusty decided to ask the hostess if we might be seated as well. She claimed she walked into the bar and called us. Not so. We were as close as you could get to her little podium and nary did she call our name. Not wanting to make a scene, Rusty asked her again to seat us in the smoking section. And she seated us immediately. In the NONsmoking section. Man friend is not pleased. I suggested lightening up, at least we were seated at this point and conversation turned to dinner.

20 minutes later and the lady at the table next to ours leaned over and asked, "you haven't been served yet?" Very astute madame. As our retained possession of the vivid red menus (I think rather clearly) indicated, we had NOT yet been helped. She told her waiter. He tells us he'll get the manager.

A portly fellow in a white buttonup that just screams inept sauntered on over, KNELT DOWN so he's on our eye level, and asked how us folks are doing this evening. Rusty proceeded to explain the last six paragraphs to the man whose managerial response is, "awww."

AWW?! Are you kidding me?!

He asked how he could make it better but at this point Rusty was sputtering pissed and I couldn't even look at the guy because I was laughing at Rusty for being so pissed. So rather than accepting his generous offer of free, spit on food, Rusty informed the man that we would be leaving as soon as he finished his beer (because he'd actually already paid for that), to which our friend responded, "None of my customers leave unhappy."

Like hell they don't. Rusty's stubborn.

Speaking of stubborn, he also feels the importance of fulfilling all his promises, particularly the one about sitting ON MY PILLOW WITH HIS BARE ASS. I had to drive home THREE HOURS and rather than just being able to immediately crash my head into a nice, fresh pillow, I had to CHANGE THE SHEETS.

And blog about it.

OH! And one more update. For any of you who have known me for any extended period of time (really, we're talking a matter of minutes here people), you know that graceful I ain't. One particular move I consistantly find challenging is, apparently, USING STAIRS. Damnit. It was ONE STEP UP and I didn't lift my foot high enough and now the tip of my middle toe isn't so bruised you can see it, but is bruised enough for me to bitch about it. And I fell, too. Not really because I tripped (which I DID) but rather because of my brains refusal to use the toes I'd just bashed into the metal strip to break the downward motion. Now, I have to give Rusty credit. He didn't laugh (though that smile was a little condesending) and he offered to help me up but the only thing I could think at the time was "Ow. Ow. Ow. Don't cry. Ow."

Wednesday, August 16, 2006


I woke up in an irritable mood today. You've been warned.

My right arm and I are fighting. The whole arm. The right hand and I continue a fragile peace but I fear mutiny at any moment.

You see, the skin on my right arm is forcibly removing itself. In annoying, ugly, white patches.

Why the hell am I molting? Why arm? What did I do to you? Yes, yes, I remember full well burning you in the hot Canadian sun but that was OVER TWO WEEKS AGO and you didn't even get it THAT bad. I've lotioned you since, albeit haphazardly. You have no good excuse for nullifying our relationship and voiding the contract we negotiated in years prior.

And it isn't like I can take a wash cloth to it rid myself of it. That just pisses it off. Maybe I'll just hack off my arm. It isn't like I REALLY need it anyway (yeah, lefty!). I think that punishment suitably fits the crime.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006


I LOVE caramel.

No. No, wait. LOVE is not a strong enough word to truely express the depths of my feeling about that tan, sugary substance. Alas*, I do not care for caramel on its own. It must be delicately coupled with another to bring about it's truely glorious nature. A coupling such as apples, chocolate, coffee products, or the salty tang of sweat off a naked body.

This is why Nestle Treasures are my FAVORITE CANDY EVER IN THE WHOLE WIDE WOLRD, AMEN. (OH MY GOD, do you SEE that image at the top of the linked page with the chocolate and the caramel and the lighting so pristene on the beautiful oozing center? Knees: weak. Heart: fluttering. MUST. HAVE. CANDY.)

The reaction you see above is also why I do not allow myself to have Nestle Treasures. No self control. It's a real pity but better in the end for my ass if I stay away from the chocolatey, caramely sin.

I do, however, allow myself the caramel treat every now and again in the form of Starbucks (Boo! Damn the man! Down with the corporate giant! Blah, blah, blah! But have you TASTED a caramel frappuccino with no whip and extra caramel sauce?! And the angels came down and said unto the world, "Bask ye sinners in the glory that is a frappuccino." - At least that's how I remember it happening.)

*I really did just use 'alas'. You may commense with the calling me a pretentious bitch.

CANADA! (Ode to my Feet)

I have to admit this is a little ironic. If you know me at all you know I. HATE. FEET. yet for some reason, I couldn't keep mine the hell out of the Canadia pictures. Therefore, I present to you in their technicolor goodness, my feet.


More water!

I realize you can't tell but I guarentee this is in fact, still more water. (Yeah, toe ring! It's almost TOO sexy.)

If you don't get what this is by now then NEVER READ MY BLOG AGAIN.

This was me attempting to show how bruised my feet were after Matt "taught" me to play soccer (It's because I have no control and I kick people) but instead this seems to show some strange deformity whereby my feet no longer look like a separate entity from my ankle but come frighteningly close to becoming the dreaded cankle.

May I present for your viewing pleasure: Dirty, sandy feet.

Still dirty but not so sandy feet. I WAS going to take a shower but Canada ran out of hot water. Canada's a bitch.

Monday, August 14, 2006



When I say 'wrestle you to the ground' what I really mean is I'll catch you when your guard is down and attempt (rather pathetically) to keep you somewhat vulnerable while I do my best to achieve the second part of the initial threat (in this case licking of the forehead). If such attempts fail, I will make copious excuses to get out of any repercussions there might be as the result of my assault. If THAT fails and I am subsequently covered in excessive amounts of your slobber (IN MY EAR!) and given a sizable wedgie (EFFIN' HUGE!) to accompany my spit bath, my only response is YOU ARE SO GOING DOWN. I don't know when, and I'm not telling you how but you will rue the day.


Thursday, August 10, 2006


Despite how lazy I've been the past week, I feel like, today, I finally got a few things accomplished. Among them:

- I got up BEFORE noon.

- I used unnecessary commas in a sentence.

- I showered (AND! I even shaved my legs).

- I went to the grocery store.

- I started* my portfolio.
*Just don't ask me to define started.

Despite ALL of those WONDERFUL GOALS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS (DROP IT!), I think I forgot one major thing. (I SAID DROP IT!) I cannot for the life of me remember if I brushed my teeth today. I am so VERY disgusted with myself that you don't have to be BUT! instead of immediately rectifying the situation, I decided to tell the internet. I HAVE POOR ORAL HYGIENE. PLEASE JUDGE ME.

I must now to go bravely into the depths and defuzzify what used to be teeth. If I'm not back in five minutes, just. wait. longer.

CANADA! (As told by slightly blurry, not quite compositionally sound photographs)

Canada was so beautiful sometimes it looked fake as seen here:


Not here:


Also note the Estes butt crack Junior is proudly displaying to the right. I swear to God, if not both than at least one brother was sporting this FINE fashion statement AT. ALL. TIMES.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006


"I have a great picture to show you."

"You are a cruel person for sending me that."

"Yes, but your reaction made it so worth it. Now you can be cruel to others. OH! I know! I'll send it to Tiff!"

"Nice. I have a feeling that will start a photo war."

"Oh, she can BRING IT! I D-A-R-E her."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Well, I wouldn't tell her that to her face. That would just be dumb."


1) My car got moved. And not by me. This is a good thing. My best guess is Katie and if that is the case I am SO VERY HAPPY that I keep my car keys on the table by the door so that 1) she didn't have to wake ME up to do it since she was up for work anyway and 2) I didn't get a parking ticket. Last parking ticket I got was $40. WTF?! The nice little $10 parking ticket I got in Kentucky was enough to ensure I NEVER PARKED THERE AGAIN! $40 is just excessive. And mean. Bastards.

2) I have no water pressure. AT ALL. The friendly blue notice on my door says I won't have it FOR 6 MORE HOURS. I don't know if the water company got the memo, but I'm done camping. Got back Friday, thanks. (This is also the reason my car needed moved)

3) The Canada pictures will be up... eventually. I have to sort through them and I took almost 200. Don't get excited. None of them are of exceptional quality. Just me dicking around with composition. And now that I admitted that I'm going to be embarrassed to show them to anyone who has even the slightest clue what they're doing with a camera.

"You were in design school for how long? And you had how many photography classes? For SHAME!"

Tuesday, August 08, 2006


I've been on a quest of sorts to find the cereal my grandparents used to feed me as a small child. It wasn't sugary sweet, to my best recollection it was supposed to be good for me, and I'm pretty sure it was something the elderly community is encouraged by the medical community to eat.

Only thing I know for sure, it isn't All Bran.

But I'm feeling pretty regular.


I tore my favorite jeans last night. From crotch to midthigh. I leaned over to remove my not-the-sexy bowling shoes and now I need to go shopping.

As a way of consoling me Seth told me a story about his torn jeans. Apparently, Seth carries a LOT of stuff in his pockets. This LOT of stuff tore a hole in his jeans rather high up on his thigh and one day, Seth wore these holey jeans WITHOUT underwear. I'm assuming by the time he realized his mistake he wasn't within the range of a fresh pair of panties so his BRILLIANT, PHILOSOPHICAL solution? He used DUCT TAPE to WRAP AROUND HIS WHOLE THIGH to cover the offending (?) area. Weren't you worried about removing that duct tape later? Along with all your leg hair?

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. This IS Seth.

Seth the beatnik pirate who can't defeat Eric because Eric is a ninja and even though pirates and ninja's are mortal enemies, Seth the beatnik pirate's only real super power is smoking pot.

Seth the amazing sweating man who nuzzles into my cheek and gets sweat IN MY EAR! and then can't understand WHY I'm spazing out.

Seth the bowler extraordinar who decided to make the game a little more interesting last night. For every spare, we had to show our belly buttons. For a strike, our boobs. I showed a whole lot of belly button. Thank God I suck at bowling.

SETH! Don't go to Iowa. They won't appreciate you like we do. Besides, what are you going to do with a MA in Philosophy anyway?

Monday, August 07, 2006


Drew M. - At least I think that's what his last name starts with. If I'm wrong, I'm pretty damn sure one of you will not only correct me but then tease me until I cry. (I have been corrected)

Drew is Dan D.'s friend. Drew smells like shit. Drew makes REALLY good cow. It was at Drew's that the bonfire took place. Drew didn't give me a ride on the tractor but then again, I never asked. Drew linked to me first and even though this seems like a rather big jump in our relationship and I thought I told you I wasn't interested in anything serious, I feel pressure to reciprocate since Rusty told me Drew doesn't link to ANYONE. It's just the neighborly thing to do. And it makes me feel like prom queen. Heavy on the queen.

Erik B. - Erik (spelled with a 'K' people, which I think means he can't truely be considered one of the Eric's - spelled with a 'C') is training to hurt people for a living for the entertainment of the nation. Thats right folks, pro-wrestling. I knew another guy who wanted to be a pro-wrestler once. We called him the Polish Thunder. Erik told me once (okay not really but work with me here) that the only way he'll promise not to body slam you is if you buy him a beer. Good beer. In a bottle. None of that can shit (even though the one time I sent Erik out for beer he brought back MGD. In a can).

Dan D. - Best known on this blog for such antics as this, this, this, this, and this, Dan D. finally has a blog all his own. He hasn't written anything yet and probably won't write much once he does start, but he has one. Woo.


"I don't like to wear shoes or socks. They're too constricting."

"I feel the same way about pants."

Sunday, August 06, 2006


"So I was helping my dad move a dead hooker onto the table..." -Ed


It rained.

I'm not complaining. This is just your formal announcement.

It rained hard.

Think of me as the weather channel.

We decided to watch a movie. Something with Cuba Gooding, Jr. in it. The movie was at its climax. Cuba was near death and as he glared at Robert DeNiro in a way that said, "what now, bitch?!"... the TV went black. Son. of. a. bitch. I want to know what happened.

And then the whole cabin shook. Like an earthquake.

Matt E. D-O-V-E for safety as far from the window as he could, tumbling into the bathroom as Sonja opened the door, pulling down one of the parents on top of himself as a living shield. A rather large tree crashed over the roof and snapped between the cabin we were in and the one beside it. Eight 20-somethings, one 12-year-old, and a few adults dislodged elbows and knees from other's orifices and stared out at the storm that has since obscured the other islands into a gray haze.

The first thing out of anyone's mouth: "That was freaking AWESOME!"

Someone helped Matt to his feet.

"Tossing aside small children and the elderly to save yourself, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm just curious how high the number is going to climb before you're done telling this story."


"So he's going to come visit you again next weekend?"

"Yeah. We're going to have copious amounts of sex."

"Yeah right."

"You don't believe I'm that big of a slut?"

"Not yet. You gotta work your way up to Marta."

Friday, August 04, 2006


1) IT is a w-i-n-d-s-h-i-e-l-d w-i-p-e-r. YOU are an e-n-g-i-n-e-e-r. Figure it out.

2) Do not make fun of ME trying to explain to YOU how to work a windshield wiper when it's 4 in the morning and you JUST WOKE ME UP.* **

3) So are you going to ask the little girl to make my coffee or is that $3.50 I just spent so I can bask in your general presense? Because if that is the case, I WANT MY MONEY BACK.


*Matt and I are still friends.
** I think.