M.C.’s got more ass than a Best Western bathtub

In late-breaking news, Mariah Carey was photographed in Paris today wearing a garish, fuschia raincoat that just barely covered her juicy double…

The media also reported today that hotel heiress, Paris Hilton has herpes…

And I think the obvious question here –the one that just begs to be blogged is:

Shouldn’t Paris be the one wearing rubbers?

Just a thought…

Heh.  Man, you guys love it when I write this crap.
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♥♥This post is dedicated to all the sexy XXies at the haus♥♥

“Happy Women’s Day,” my boss said this morning.

“Women’s Day?” I replied.

“Yes,” said Boss, “Today is International Women’s Day.”

“Oh cool,” I said, “Hey, since it’s Women’s Day, do I get to take the day off?”

“No” said Boss.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because,” said Boss, “this place would fall apart without you guys.”

“But Boss,” I replied, “Only 8 of 70+ employees are female.”

“Yes,” said Boss, “this place would fall apart without you.”

Having seen most of my male coworkers geek out and freak out about stuff like ninjas, RC cars, and computer games, I can’t help but agree.
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On a related note, Mrtl’s list of weird holidays shows today as “Be Nasty Day.” Well if it’s Be Nasty Day, shouldn’t it be International Men’s Day instead of International Women’s Day? I mean, I think men are pretty nasty with their burps, farts, and boy flaps sown into the groin of their underpants.

I mean seriously men, do you need the peepee pouch? What’s a matter Al Bundyman –can’t pull your hand out of your pants long enough to lower your waistband like any self-respecting lady would do?

I can’t think of anything worse than the boy flap… except when that flap comes standard on a pair of pantyhose. – >check this out< --
…

I hope you enjoyed that.

I know I did.

Happy Mannyhose Day. And happy Women’s Day too.
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It’s been too long since I sat in this chair and punched out a proper post. It’s been more than 12,960 minutes (or 9 days) since I’ve been gone y’all. The whirlwind that was AK Vackay 2006 completed, like K-Fed’s skeezy corn rows, I’m back.

Maaa and munchkin.

The 13-hour trip from Anchorage to Orlando was fairly uneventful. The jet departed on time and on course at 12:55 am. Sleepy and a bit sad – I wasn’t ready to leave Maaa and the munchkins, and I had that nostalgic/home sick/the-flood-gates-are-about-to-bust type tickle in my throat – once boarded, I immediately hunkered down with a felt blanket, closed my eyes and went to sleep. But first, because cabin pressure causes your feet to expand, I kicked off my clogs.

I only woke up a couple of times during the 5 hour flight to Salt Lake. Once I was craving soy crisps and cranberries, so I fed my face. Twice I opened my eyes, startled and aghast, when my drool, extreme in its volume and dispersion, soaked right through my blanket.

Seriously, it was like a freaking tidal wave had gone through. Forget about stop, drop and roll. If I was ever in a fire, I’d do just as well to stop, drop and drool.

Anywho, when the plane touched down, I gathered my carry-ons, slipped on my shoes, and exited the aircraft. As I got to the jet way, I began to feel a discomforting pain –and no, it wasn’t in my ass; the kittinks and Angel were home in Florida after all. *ba dum bum ching*

No, the pain was in the meaty part of my foot, right behind the toes, just before the arch. With every step I took, the vexatious sensation became more and more excruciating.

As I ambled toward the terminal, I began quietly cursing the airline and its pressurized planes.

I imagined my feet – like Beyonce’s voluptuous booty – had grown to elephantine proportions. And by the time I made it to a seating area, I was wild with panic.

With much apprehension, I sat myself down and looked toward my tootsies. I was prepared for ginormous and grotesque. I was not prepared for what I actually saw.

With neck careened to the carpet, imagine my delight and discomfiture when I saw this:

Apparently the fact that I do everything ack-basswards translated into a tricky sitch when, upon deplaning, I put my clogs on the wrong feet.

No, I am not six. Yes, I am special.
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Addendum OK, so I just checked my e-mail. With “ahem” in the subject line, hannihaus reader, JB sent a link to this.

Sheesh. And I thought I made the jokes around here.
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Stampy asks “where are you Hänni?” In answer, I’ve been here and there, but mostly there. I’ve gone from the land of flip flops to the land of long johns, and now it’s back to the flops. I’ve gone from drinking ice cold evian to swigging steaming hot soymilk, and today I’ve got a lukewarm cholorophyll-rich green drink in front of me.

I am tired. I am cranky. I have really bad hair.

But I’m back… and I’ve got some really great stories.

Sad thing is, they’ll have to wait. I’ve got some grocerys to buy (my kittinks are starvink) and a wedding to attend this evening (can’t wait to wear my new cheetah print shift). If things go well, you won’t hear from me tonight – mostly because I’ll be dancing the Macarena til my feet blister, buzzed off enough free booze that I won’t even feel the tortured tootsies.

I’d leave you with a teaser – a pic to pass the time – but Angelface took my camera. He’s in Houston. Probably eating barbecue. Maybe learning to line dance. I don’t know what all they do there -I don’t mess with Texas.

And with that, I must bid you adieu. I’ve missed you all so very much dear hannihaus readers. I promise – scouts honor (and I was a girlscout for an embarrasingly long time) – the next time I write, it will be “ret ‘art’ ed” just like you and Stampy like it.

Cheers kids!  Join my map?