Rate my kittens? Because it’s more fun than pap smears, high colonics, hangnail infections,and boil lancing all rolled into one!
Bella looking tasty
Posts published during September, 2005
Smug Elle, likely inspired by my previous post about beverages and body fluids, sent me a very interesting article. Apparently our neighbors in Deltona (the next town over) are getting more than a little sugar and fizz in their soda.
Let’s just say, that if after watching Kevin Costner drink his own urine in Waterworld, you’d like to do the same, just head to a Deltona convenience store.
The Story: a clerk urinates in a soda bottle and then sells his golden elixir as mountain dew to an unwitting (and likely very thirsty) construction foreman. Said foreman then chugs piss and becomes violently ill
On top of it all, poor piss-drinking foreman has to be tested for infectious diseases like hepatitis and gonorrhea, which can apparently be contracted from drinking human waste products.
Who knew?
I hope his STD tests come out negative. I mean, how would you explain that one to the little lady at home?
Foreman: Uh honey, I have something to tell you… I have, err, contracted gonorrhea. I am now experiencing urethritis and penile discharge.
Wife: Oh my God! Have you been cheating on me? …And penile discharge, ewww.
Foreman: No baby! I would never be unfaithful. I got it from chugging a bottle of piss, I swear!
Oh, and one more thing, the convenience store clerk, he’s not been fired. He’s merely on suspension! That being said, tune in next week folks when Pissing Peter, having graduated from peeing in pop, plants a New England steamer in the chili dispenser. Hilarity and revulsion will ensue.
My body is a mysterious thing. Sometimes it’s a supremely functioning work horse, able to withstand the greasiest of pepperoni pizza, the gooiest of caramel drenched cream puffs, and the most colon-blowing 7 layer burritos (my favorite!). Last weekend, however, a meager glass of 1% milk (shaken, not stirred) sent my stomach into Delta Force relation mode, and I’ve spent the better part of three days clutching my gut, crying “Santa Maria!”
I can’t say I didn’t see this one coming. I don’t usually drink milk, but when offered the beverage by a saintly, dinner party hostess, well, how could I refuse?
With the immortal 80’s hit, Highway to the Danger Zone playing in my head, I grasped the cool, white glass, and then, like it was my job, like I was first string on a competitive milk drinking circuit, I chugged that bitch.
…And then, predictably, all hell broke loose in the abdominal region of my body.
Now, because I’m a New Age Mama, I ingest things that most folks might find unusual, maybe even a bit concerting. Colostrum, I suspect, is one of those things.
Dictionary.com defines colostrum as the following:
-
The thin yellowish fluid secreted by the mammary glands at the time of parturition that is rich in antibodies and minerals, and precedes the production of true milk. Also called foremilk.
It is this “foremilk” that my ND recommended I take to appease my wicked 72-hour stomach ache.
(Don’t worry dear hannihaus readers, I didn’t have to find a lactating breast. You can buy colostrum over the counter. Joy!)
Per the instructions, I emptied one capsule of colostrum into a small bit of Evian (my beverage of choice). Eager to experience some sweet relief from the o’ achiest of stomachs, I brought the cup to my lips, but before I could complete the mission, so to speak, something made me pause.
That something was a smell.
That smell was, unmistakably, baby puke.
Even though it smelled like spit up, I still gulped down the colostrum. Yes, I’m hardcore. And yes it works. Stomach has been subdued… but now I have another problem…
Aye carumba. Will I never win?
I realize that in many ways, I am the Grand Poohbah of nerdiness. For example:
• I delight in wedging spinach, like veneers, over my front teeth so I can look at whoever else is in the room, smile big, and watch for a reaction
• And while I’m not that guy who’s into nose mining in traffic, I am definitely am that girl who’s having a full-on rock and roll experience, punkpop blaring, mouth wide like a fish, fists pumping in the air as I travel the highways and byways in my little, red Corolla
• Additionally, I talk to my house plants – some even have names like “Mountaineer” or “Wendy”
• I wash my cats with black tea (all natural, no chemicals!)
• I have a favorite pair of socks – the ones with the pink birds. I have a ritual that every time I don them, I have to say, “Only flamingo socks can save me now!”
• On a biweekly basis, I discover (usually after I’ve been wearing them four or five hours) that I have my underwear on inside out
• Because of the unusual frequency of its use, I’m considering keeping a running tab of how many times someone uses the cliché “latest and greatest” at A Very Hip Software Company
• I have a standard joke I tell whenever the opportunity presents itself. It is not really funny, and for some reason, I often tell it around bald men.
-
My joke:
Q. What do you call a line of rabbits hopping backward?
A. A receding hare line
See? Not funny really.
In any event, what prompted this missive is this article someone sent me last night about the video game widow, a woman who became so enraged at her unemployed fiancé’s obsessive online gaming that she sent him to that big Legend of Zelda convention in the sky.
I’m sorry, but these people who play computer games are NERDS – the type that needs capitalized for emphasis. One only needs to go so far as the message board comments featured along side this little news byte to figure this out. Take for example, this tasty little morsel from one “Tabard”:
Honestly man, I think I’d rather kill myself than have to spend another hour out in Eastern Plaguelands farming Larval Acids. Junk mobs everywhere, very few spawns that drop them, a low drop rate, and the item I’m collecting them for needs eight to boot…
Eastern Plaguelands? Larval Acids? Junk Mobs? Wha?
If you are as confused about this jibber jabber as I am, breathe a sigh of relief, you are not a game nerd. Conversely, if you understood any of the above, please take all that money that you are spending on online gaming subscriptions and instead make a one-time purchase of a little Hasbro classic called Operation. This foray into the world of medicine will be good for you Game Nerd, as you need to have your head checked anyway.
Extra, extra read all about it: Gdub finally takes some action in New Orleans!
Gdub says: I caught this with just some cheesy puffs and a beer can tab!
_________________________________________________________
On a more serious note, victims of hurricane katrina, we are praying for you. Dear hannihaus readers, if you haven’t done so yet, please consider helping out our brother and sisters in Louisiana and Mississippi by sending some greenbacks their way. I’ll make it easy for you. Just click a link!
Red Cross
Salvation Army
Save The Children
Til next, adieu!
Reason #148 to move out of apartments and buy a home in BFE: Guns N’ Roses.
I’m quite sure that if I lived in some boring, bucolic town in Maine I would NOT be able to hear “Cold November Rain” blasting through my paper thin walls at 7-freakin-am on an I-need-sleep-because-I’m-über-jetlagged-Sunday morning.
I would then NOT need to change sleeping locales from my cozy, queen size bed to the couch, in order to escape the sound of Axl Rose’s cheesy, early 90’s love song, only to be assaulted a second time by plebian neighbors turning on BOTH loud radio and now, rambunctious televangelist programming.
Oh holy lord.
Don’t get me wrong. I can definitely see that Guns N’ Roses has a place in apartment living, maybe just not at 7 am. In my opinion the staff should blast “Welcome to the Jungle” from the rafters when you sign your lease, because that’s exactly what you’re getting into. Just ask White Trash Woman, Sally Sexpert, the maintence staff, or the community enforcer.
Hrmph. I’m grumpy because I need sleep!
The fabulous Femina Formosa tagged my ass with a meme, so sit back and enjoy. Here’s a little bit about Hänni.
Ten years ago I was starting my sophomore year of high school. Even though I wasn’t eligible, I desperately wanted to attend to the Senior Prom. My bigot principal, however, wouldn’t allow me to go with my friends, and I had to find a male date. I tricked some schmuck from my choir class into taking me. He showed up at my door wearing a white tuxedo with tails. He also had a flaming pink bowtie. His friend, already a grad, was with him wearing the same white tuxedo, but he had a mint green bowtie. They looked like the ambiguously gay duo. This should’ve been my first clue to stay at home that night, but I didn’t, and consequently I suffered. Instead of hanging out with my friends, I spent the entire night slow dancing with a little, 18 year-old-man and his bald spot. He tap danced to Gangster’s Paradise. After the prom I crushed my souvenir glass, started wearing shirts that said things like “Girls Kick Ass,” and then swore off guys for several years.
Five years ago I was starting my sophomore year of college at Virginia Tech. I had just come off a stint working the Worst. Job. Ever. as phone jockey for a seafood transport company. In contrast, the previous summer I had the Best. Job. Ever. working as an intern in the United States senate. At the end of that pre-freshman summer my then-boyfriend, CFTP, surprised me by stealing his dad’s car to take me on a joyride that spanned Seattle to San Francisco and back.
One year ago Angelface and I were newly married. We were boarding up our apartment to defend against our second hurricane. Unbeknownst to us, this little routine is something we had to repeat two more times last year!
Five snacks
• My best friend Nolie’s chocolate chip cookies
• Snickers ice cream bars
• Pizza rolls
• Craisins
• Anything organic
Five songs I know all the words to
• Just a Girl – No Doubt
• Doll Parts – Hole
• Open The Door – Magna Pop
• Blister In The Sun – Violent Femmes
• Kielbasa – Tenacious D
Five places I would run away to
• Never never land
• Key West
• Kyoto, Japan
• Butchart Gardens
• The library (nonfiction stacks)
Five things I would never wear
• Thong underwear (If I wanted floss in my butt, I’d use a crest dispenser)
• White pants
• Pedophile sunglasses
• Anything from Wal-Mart
• Birthday suit in public (private is fine. Am blogging in bday suit now actually)
Five favorite teevee shows
• Dawson’s Creek
• Ren & Stimpy
• Alias
• American Idol
• The O.C.
Five biggest joys
• Drinking champagne on my wedding day
• Playing with my baby nieces
• Watching Rockstar Brother play the AK State Fair
• Adopting my kittinks
• Writing for the haus!
Five favorite toys
• iPOD
• WordPress
• Kitchenaid mixer
• Cuisinart food processor
• Angelface (he is my boytoy after all)
Five people to pass this on to
Hino “deez nutz” Banzon – because he loves this kind of crap
Violette Margarita Conchita Torrez Guadeloupe – because I want her attention (and for her to post Other People’s Money pics!)
Jonathan – because he is a man of mystery whose meme we’d like revealed
Phineahs Gray – because you too are a man of mystery
SORM – because there’s a “favorite toys” section and I know you are dying to brag about your fancy powerbook
I have enjoyed playing this game of virtual tag, but must now get ready for work. Til next, adieu!
Angelface and I have this ongoing debate. Angel asserts that there are more rednecks in Alaska (where my parents live) than in West Virginia (where his parents live). I have to disagree. Having spent time in both states, I can honestly say that the mullet count-that classic redneck hairdo, that antithesis of class, that façade that boasts party-in-the-front, business-in-the-back- is displayed much more prominently in West Virginia than in Alaska.
I’m not really sure why this is true. I imagine it’s because it’s so freaking cold in Alaska and you’d be a damn buffoon to only grow out 50% of your hair. Yeah, an Alaskan mullet could be a dangerous thing. Even though your neck would be all roasty toasty, you could still get frostbite on your forehead. Talk about confusing.
Another reason I tell Angel there are no rednecks in Alaska is that everyone knows rednecks are a southern phenomenon. Why else would Jeff Foxworthy say “You might be a redneck if more than one of your living relatives is named after a civil war general”?
Seriously, I don’t think anyone in Alaska could even tell you the name of a civil war general. Now you get an Alaskan in on a conversation about fishing, hiking, or moose turd pie, and that’s a different story.
… And I would like to take this moment to note that my MS spellchecker says “turd” is not a recognized word, but that “spellchecker” is.… But I digress.
Anyway, back to Mr. Foxworthy’s statement, might it also be true that you may be a redneck if your alma mater was named after a civil war general? I think so, and am going to point out that Angelface graduated junior high from Stonewall Jackson Middle School in Charleston-By God-West Virginia.
And here’s the part of the post where, after having made inflammatory statements about my better half, I admit that I may have been wrong the whole time. Never one to back down from eating a big, steaming, heaping portion of humble pie, I’ve got to admit, I did something in Alaska which could classify me as a redneck. It was a gorgeous sunny day at the Alaska State Fair when I first touched her soft, supple udders. Last week, dear hannihaus readers, I milked Gertie the Goat.
I am not ashamed, but I, and my Alaskan kin, might be rednecks afterall.
Somebody googled the haus for “how to get rid of smelly crotch”…
Two things:
1. Wash (if applicable)
OR
2. Close your browser already, pervert!
(… That one’s subtle folks).
_________________________________________________________
Help our designer – Vote For Chris
This is the last day to vote for Chris’s t-shirt on Threadless. Vote 5 for Chris b/c a vote for Chris is a vote for your personal protection. Merci Beacoup.
Am on location in Wasilla, Alaska (hence the sabbatical from breakneck blogging), and am enjoying, amongst many things, spending time with family.
One thing that’s been great is seeing Rockstar Brother again. The ‘Brother has wrapped Warped tour, and is back home in the 49th state this week, playing a bunch of high-energy shows in support his new (and excellent) album, “Here Goes Nothing.”
Yeah today Rockstar Brother is dancing and singing and strutting on the north coast stage, but when he returns to Fresno tomorrow, it’s back to anatomy and physiology, chemistry and histology. You may be surprised to learn this, but in addition to his strong desire to rule the world one bass line at a time, Rockstar Brother also *really* wants to be a dentist.
The other night, Rockstar Brother played at the Alaska Fighting Championship, a spin off on the Ultimate Fighting Championship – a kind of no holds barred, mish mash of boxing, wrestling, and marshal arts fighting. (It’s violent stuff).
On our way home from the event, Maaa asked “What kind of life is that? What kind of person spends their life doing that to their body?”
I wanted to say, anyone who has ever dined in Hänni’s kitchen has known the suffering of a body (and intestine) abused -(think beef bourguignon and lamb chops en flambé)- but instead, I talked about Roy.
Roy was this kid I used to work with at Other People’s Money. Smarmy looking with patchy mustache and lithe limbs, Roy was a street- fighter- turned- ultimate- fighter- turned- accountant. An expat to Japan, Roy battled in Tokyo arenas just about every day for a year and a half. He quit when he lost a significant chunk of brain function and almost all of his teeth.
“How did he lose it? “ Rockstar Brother asked, in response to my tale o’ Roy.
“Got kicked in the face,” I said.
“So that’s how he lost his teeth?”
“Teeth? No that’s how he messed up his brain… but I suppose that’s how he lost his teeth too.”
And then, like addled brains are of no consequence to a Rockstar who delights in talk of cavities and crowns, my bro replied, “Teeth Hänni, we only care about the teeth!”
Mmmm k bro…
_________________________________________________________
Help our designer
There are just two more days left to vote for Chris’s super fab t-shirt at Threadless. Because we love Chris, we want you to vote 5 for Pawn, The Underdog. Muchos gracias mi amor.
Hännihaus
German for "totally awesome blog!"
Follow Me On Twitter
I Also Blog Here
-
Watching
-
Reading
-
Listening
; )
01010010
01100101
01100010
01100101
01100011
01100001
00100001