Before I rant about what a horrible blogger I am, I’d like to share a rather horrifying and awkward thing that I just witnessed.

It all started last night when I settled down in bed to a really craptastic live stream of the Mayweather vs. Marquez fight. I believe the feed was through an Indonesian or Philippino network or something…this commercial pops up.

It starts with two beautiful, proud Cocks in a ring, facing off (Roosters, you pervert). Then some tacky computer-generated vision tells you that B-12 with liver extract will somehow evaporate and fly off into a fairy-like spark, go right inside your fighting cock’s eye and make him a crazy killer chicken to dominate the fights and make you mucho rico.

View said masterpiece below. WARNING: Some things you can’t unsee, please use caution and no hallucinogens, for your own good.

It took me watching the commercial 8 times and an embarrassingly-involved Google search to find out that, in fact, this is an actual injectable vitamin you shoot into your cock before it fights. Ummm…if you’re not catching the hilarious innuendos out of all this, I’m afraid we have nothing more to talk about. And how is this legal when Michael Vick gets shit for almost the same thing? (Not America…gotcha.)

After this unfortunate experience, I drifted off to the sound of Mayweather laughing as he mashed Marquez’s face in. Who didn’t see that one coming?

Now about my unnecessarily lengthy disappearance? WARNING: SHAMEFUL SELF-PROMOTING PLUG: Let’s just say finding a job is rough in NYC, if anyone (or any friends, family or faithful Facebook friends) are looking for a freelance (or *fingers crossed* full-time copywriting positions open?). I promise if you give me work, I’ll stay far from the frequent farce of alliterations.

More to come, sooner, rather than later.

So Mighty President Barack Obama threw out the first pitch of the game for the 2009 All Star game last night.

In a few words…he should stick to basketball (as seen below).

If you look closely when the video reaches :45 Obama throws the ball much like a stereotypical “girl.” Now, don’t start hating on me for the whole “throwing like a girl” thing because I know as well as you do, that there are girls out there that can throw balls like rockets (me being one of them), but we’ve ALL had the experience of seeing prissy girls attempt to throw something (and we’ve all laughed inside [or out]) and Obama looked somewhat like that with his weak ass pitch.

Oh well, as long as you stick to being a kickass president and don’t try to pick up a bat, I’m cool with you, Obama.

The second one drop floats down from an ominous cloud above Gotham City, the sound of hundreds of almost bat-wing “swooshes” immediately turns the streets from a cattle run to a cattle run with hundreds of little pokey hazards attached to them.

I’m talking about New Yorkers and rain (notice that the ground is dry):

Now, I come from the Pacific Northwest and, by golly, we know our rain. We grow up in raincoats and hoodies and when an umbrella is absolutely necessary to avoid drowning, we at least have “Umbrella Etiquette.”

New Yorkers, however, think that rain will melt their precious over-priced skin, hair, and/or designer clothing, so “UP!” go the umbrellas at the slightest sign of precipitation. This wouldn’t bother me so much if the population of the umbrella-toting heathens were 1/2 of what they were (or if it rained half as much)…or if the people who bore these rain shields knew how to avoid poking people directly in the eye-sockets.

But, unfortunately, those are the facts: SO…if it’s raining in NY, avoid the street at all costs or sharpen your umbrella pokey things to attempt (and most likely dominate) the street battle.

Hardly workin' or working it hard..

I’ve already said too much.

I saunter to one of the few remaining WaMu’s in my neighborhood to deposit a long-needed, already-spent-on-rent check. I’ve been a Washington Mutual customer since I was literally a kid in elementary school in Portland, OR and have always been treated like family there. I approach the counter with deposit slip in-hand only to be rejected with a rude jolt. “It’ll take 7-10 days to process this. You’re from the West Coast, so you’re a Chase customer now. There’s one across the street.”

Thanks, dick. I mean…I got the e-mails telling me the big switchover was May 22nd, but couldn’t fathom NOT banking at the remaining WaMu’s, all of the NYC locations of which are mapped in my brain already. I guess it still comes in handy, though, seeing as the WaMu’s are being transformed into Chase banks at the same rate people are dropping Twitter.

As we all know, Chase jumped on the opportunity to scoop up this friendly and pretty well-established bank when the shit hit the economy, making Wamu no more (as seen below).

Putting the "Was" in Washington Mutual

So I hop across the street to the shiny, new Chase bank. The doors slide open without a peep and the frigid A/C hits me, sending chills of stability down my spine. I wait. I approach bank counter number 2 of the last 30 minutes and start with “I’m a WaMu customer, they told me to come here.”

The reply, “Well, if you’re a WaMu customer, you can’t bank here yet, they haven’t switched over the accounts yet.”

“Umm…come again? I have rent that’s due and they already said to come here and if I can’t bank at Chase and I can’t bank at WaMu, where the fuck can I bank? I need to talk to your manager.”

A tear-filled rage ensued in the direction of the nicely-mustached manager. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. This is until they finally asked what state I was from, then realizing Oregon is fully transferred and they could bank for me. Fucktards.

So…not really excited to leave the once friendly faces of WaMu for the questionably educated bunch over at Chase, but at least it’s not in Madoff’s hands.

Oh, and instead of Chase, I’m opting for my newly fashioned combo-logo that’s a bit more fun and captures my experience:

First off, apologies for slipping into a procrastinational coma for the past week. A personal update: I’ve gotten a little bit of work and couldn’t be happier, but it’s hard to blog when you’re not getting bucks for it.

I digress.

Have you guys gone to an event recently, whether it’s a marathon, an awards show or a volunteer effort? Has your swag traded its bag-with string body for a new svelte, canvas one? I’m talking totes, here, people.

I’m personally drowning in them. It seems that every organization and event JUST figured out that giving away something USEFUL is a good idea. Too bad they all realized it at the same time…now you can’t wander the city without someone shoving a free tote in your face.

While I want to say “kudos” to these “green-thinking” companies, I also want to say, “What the F— am I going to do with another bag?” This all boils down to my main point (yes, I have one), where do all the unused totes go? I’m sure fewer people than you think are touting “Toledo Finance Conference 2008″ tote bags to match their shiny new Crocs before heading to the beach. Are these bags ending up in the dump? Being recycled to make more useless totes?

I propose that any company that considers littering the planet with 2,500+ more tote bags, to take that money and donate it to an environmentally conscious organization in your company’s name. And hope they don’t use the money to make totes.

A friend of mine was recently in Spain, home to Flamenco, bullfights and parties that don’t stop til’ 8 in the mooornin’, and happened across this hilariously cute, yet almost pedophilia-ridden graffiti:

Just thought you’d like an awkward smirk right about now. And if that ginormous penis were blue, I’d have to imagine that it came from Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen.

Like you needed to remember THAT post…anyway…

Happy Memorial BBQ’s, beers and/or blunts to all you beautiful bitches! Gratuitous random phallacy:

A major breakthrough in Femmasculinity that you and I have been awaiting with great anticipation: girls can finally take a piss standing up (although I guess it’s been around for a while now).

Some genius realized that it’s unfair that dudes can say “I have to pee, back in a sec” as they dip around the nearest tree, bush or some poor sap’s unlocked apartment lobby to “leak the lizard.” Meanwhile, us girls are doing the ever-so-attractive pee dance and keeping our eyes peeled for any establishment with a door that isn’t home to a “Restrooms for Customers ONLY!” sign (though most restaurants are pretty cool if you just ask nice).

But now, all women can say “I gotta pee, be right back,” and dip around to a less-crowded street corner or abandoned handball court and use the “GoGirl!” Female Urination Device or FUD to leave a mellow yellow river much like your brothers, fathers and/or lovers do with abandon.

How does it work? Simple, it looks like this:

Figure it out. You still have to remove the undies (unless you’re sporting boxers JUST to try out your new GoGirl!) and place the GoGirl! against your umm…you know…where you pee. Let it fly and the GoGirl! does the rest by directing your flow through a drip-resistant funnel-like thingy and there you have it! No more embarrassing squatting behind smaller trees than your ass or between-the-parked-cars pees or hovering over disease-ridden public restroom toilets. As long as you have your GoGirl! you can go, girl!

p.s. Can you guys tell I work in advertising by that shpeel? Apologies.

Though you may not all live in the great city of New York City, you’ve all seen movies or TV shows with the NYC subways in them.

Now, let me clarify something for you. The subway’s lights no longer flicker (except sometimes on the G train) and the insides no longer represent a street canvas for graffiti artists of all ages. The subway is a relatively “cleaner” place than it used to be, but the people….the people never change.

Tourists crowd around staircases speaking their weird-as-hell native languages and rustling maps while rush-hour people traffic try to filter through the one-person gate they so generously left open.

“MOVE OUT OF THE WAY, THERE’S PEOPLE TRYING TO GET THE FUCK HOME!” I scream as I scatter the bumbling tourists on my bee-line decline down the stairs. People look at me a little shocked, mostly because I’m a white girl, but they also exude a resonating air of respect for my getting things moving.

Living in NYC has brought out the bitch in my laid-back West Coast self and there’s no place it comes out more than riding the MTA (Metropolitan Transit Authority).

I approach the escalator in a hurry to get to my next train so I don’t miss my softball game. People are supposed to stand on the right and walk up the left. There’s nothing worse than the assholes who stand on the left side while a line of people urgently wait to get by. So I yell, “STAND TO THE RIGHT, WE NEED TO GET THROUGH!” As people reel from the screaming in their ears, the human roadblock begrudgingly moves to the right, letting us pass. Another day as the fucking Subway fairy.

This rant is really nothing more than just that. A rant. There are no life lessons in this blog today, as I’ve provided time and time again.

So…fuck the MTA and enjoy your day.

Since the term “Femmasculine” is ever-changing and though I’ve tried to tell you guys what it is over and over again, you still can’t figure the goddamned thing out.

With the new “Am I Femmasculine?” quiz, uncover the truth about your own hidden Femmasculine tendencies. If you’re a dude, the results are obviously going to be a little…not meant for you.

AM I FEMMASCULINE?

1. When going out on the town in strappy heels, do you:

A. Grin and bear it the whole night – beauty is pain.

B. Wear flip-flops most of the time and change when you’re close to the destination.

C. Strappy heels? Are you fucking kidding me?

2. If you get a pretty nasty cut, do you:

A. Faint when you see the blood.

B. Immediately cover it with Neosporin to avoid scarring.

C. Use the cut as a mouth and have it say things like “I’m a badass gash, feed me.”

3. In an average month, you enjoy sex:

A. Once or twice from only a refined gentleman.

B. At least weekly from whomever I can get (includes BF).

C. Yes. Yes I do.

4. When eating out, you prefer to order:

A. Only salads, I don’t want to lose this (stick) figure.

B. Just enough to fill me up, but nothing more.

C. A majority of the menu.

5. A full Spring cleaning consists of:

A. Reorganizing all my shelves, getting rid of clothes and scrubbing every surface ’til spotless.

B. Minor cleaning, making sure the bathroom isn’t funky and kitchen isn’t moldy.

C. Sorting through that box of crap from when I moved a year ago and finding a really exciting something that distracts me from finishing the job.

6. When going to work, I dress in:

A. A skirt suit or dress most of the time.

B. Nice pants and a button-up shirt or blouse.

C. Jeans, shirt.

7. When out indulging in alcoholic beverages, I’ll have:

A. Usually a gin and tonic or Screwdriver.

B. A shot or two in addition to my couple drinks.

C. …to win every single beer pong game until I can’t muster up the functionality to throw another ping-pong ball.

8. When you need to release a bodily gas, do you:

A. Politely excuse yourself to an area where nobody will know.

B. Try to let it out with as little noise as possible and promptly excuse yourself afterwards.

C. Rip it loud and proud and challenge anyone in your 20 foot radius to try and “Beat that!”

9. My screen names sound most like:

A. PrettyPrincess21, FuzzyRainbowChaser, AbrcrmbieGrrlXOXO

B. MYNAMEmybirthday

C. badassBitch, SkullCrusherette, yourMom

10. My cell phone:

A. Is a color that I could match an outfit with (red, pink, blue, green, yellow, etc.).

B. Is shiny and black and I can play music and games and take pictures and do email and…

C. Is a piece of shit that I keep around to call people.

SCORING:

Each

A = 1

B = 2

C = 3

Add and total for results.

RESULTS:

10-15 points: The Pretty Pretty Princess

Stick to the strappy heels, all the salads you can eat and your perfect little prissy life. You most likely spend most of your money on yourself and your looks and prefer romances to horror films. You’re the furthest from Femmasculine, but that’s not a bad thing, there’s always a place for girls like you. Like on Deal or No Deal.

15-25 points: The Pretty Cool Chick

You’ve definitely come a long way from prim & proper, but you’re not quite the Femmasculine role model yet. Be true to your womanhood, but don’t be afraid to take that extra step, like squashing the spider instead of screaming, or avoiding mani-pedis to be replaced with an extra beer pong game during the week. Still, you’re a strong woman, so be proud.

25-30 points: The Femmasculine Badass Bitch

You’re why I’m here. You’re the ones raping gender boundaries and making men nervous about keeping their reign of power. The ones charging the way for strong females and belching your way to the top of the food chain. Keep agitating your bruises to see the pretty colors they make. Be proud of your Femmasculinity and if anyone ever fucks with you, send ‘em to me.