Posts published during May, 2006

Every couple months or so, I get a nastygram. Sometimes they’re warranted, most times—ref. the infamous Hänni Horseface— they’re not. And the topic that gets folks most hot and bothered is the assumption that I, your kind and gentle mistress, have an unfair bias.

Shhh, the critics say, George Bush may hate black people, but …

*gasp*

Hänni hates fat people!

… And I’m sorry, but that’s just not true.

Not even a little bit.

Seriously, eff that shit.

On my list of things Hänni hates, fat people don’t even rank. Look:

THINGS HÄNNI HATES—A GRAPH

things_hanni_hates.gif

If you examine figure A. Retarded.Graph, you’ll notice there’s no “fat folks” on it. Know why? Because—unlike the cocktail wieners that are contributing to my irreconcilable bitchiness—those of us who are overweight do not give me particular pause.

And I resent people accusing me otherwise.

The god’s honest truth is, I don’t care if you’re seven pounds or 700 pounds—If you think fart jokes are funny, then you’re alright with me.

A hannihaus reader asked, what’s my beef against fat people?

My answer is pretty simple: I don’t have one.

On a walk the other day, I crossed paths with an acquaintance. We’ll call this guy, Senor Pantalone.

Senor Pantalone has always struck me as strange. To start, he’s got this Charlie Brown face—completely nondescript and entirely featureless save for two black holes where his eyes should be. And when he walks, he often stumbles. It’s like there’s a hiccup in his step, it’s like he’s a wind-up toy running out of motion.

And I don’t know S. Pantalone that well—like I said, he’s an acquaintance—but what I do know is, his peculiarity extends past his faceless face and the stop-and-go gait.

Case in point: the other day, out on the walk, I noticed he was wearing lady’s pants.

And not just any lady’s pants.

The Senor, (who is fairly slim), was wearing lady’s fat pants.

Said pants were pastelly gray and made of a cheap, stretchy knit most commonly seen in the women’s athletic department at stores like Wal-Mart, Target or Sears. The legs, straight and long were stovepipe style with no taper at the ankle—a look favored by those XX’s who are reticent to accentuate meaty calves.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, the Senor’s pants were strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.

*ba dum bum ching—thank you, I’ll be here all night*

But yeah, we parted ways and I didn’t think any more about S. Pantalone’s pantalones … until I saw him next … and he was wearing lady’s fat pants again(!).

These ones were identical to the first, except for the color which was pale lavender/light denim.

And I wondered, where on earth was this man getting these large lady’s pants?

The most obvious answer was that the pants belonged to his wife. The only problem with this theory is: dude is divorced.

But still …

Though I never met the missus, the children—the little Pantalones— they are chunky monkeys. If forced to wage a guess, I’d say their mom was too.

Senor Pantalone *had* to be wearing Mom’s pants.

And I bet those stretch pants are what sent the couple careening toward splitsville.

Here’s how I imagine things went down:

One night, deep in conversation, Senior Pantalone probably told his wife he wanted to wear the pants in the family.

And that would’ve been fine by wifey except …

the pants S. Pantalone wanted to wear were hers.

And she probably wasn’t into that.

But I digress.

So y’all know I’m a pretty good writer, but …

I bet you didn’t know I could sing!

American Idol Cocktail Countdown karaoke—check me out! Ow ow!

Disclaimer: Although you may hear something that sounds like animals being tortured, nobodys cute, furry pet was harmed in the filming of this video. The only thing in danger here kids is my dignity.

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Alright kids it’s been 8 weeks of American Idol Cocktail Countdown madness and tonight it all come down to this …

I’m about to get retarded and it’s all your fault.

Your votes have been counted. The Internet has spoken. You wanted to get me wasted, so you chose Stephanie’s Coke Lobster to be the winner of the AI Cocktail Countdown. Although its probably foolish to do so, I will be toasting this tasty brew—as promised—at the American Idol Finale Party tonight.

That being said, I cordially invite you, dear hannihaus readers, to join me in my jackassery. Please, should you feel so compelled, *do* play along at home.

For those who are tossing back the ‘Lobster at 8/7 central, you will need to do the following:

1. Gather ingredients.

You will need:
Crown Royal
Chambord

Coke
Shaker
Ice

2. Mix your booze.

Directions:
- Fill shaker with ice.
- Then fill shaker halfway with Crown Royal.
- Add about ¼ shaker of cranberry juice (about an inch from top)
- Add a shot of Chambord (more or less to taste)
- Top with a splash of Coke
- Shake it like a polaroid pitcha

3. Freak dance with strangers.

- Bonus points if the stranger is wearing renaissance garb and/or looks like a member of Swedish pop sensation, ABBA

4. Lather, rinse, repeat.

* If you can’t/choose not to do the booze (Cze-Johnson Carrie, Spanky, whoever), please enjoy a nonalcoholic Coke at 8/7C. It’s the real thing.

*If you promised to tip one back, I know who you are (villiage idiot, mrtl, fil, CFTP, whoever else). You better do it … and you better send me incriminating photographs that I can post on my blog lovingly admire in private.

Alright time to party. Til next, dear hannihaus readers, adieu!

Out with friends the other night, I met the most charming girl. Her name is Jody and she is a 34-DD.

Now you may be asking yourself, why, pray tell, does Hänni know the cup size of a girl she just met?

Well, it’s not because I was checking her out or anything … Because I was … And it—I mean they—were awesome.

But yeah, I know Jody is a 34-DD because she told me so.

It was in the context of this story:

“So,” she started, “I’ve got boobs, huge boobs, 34-DD boobs. And I’ve got this boyfriend. We’ll call him James, like James Dean.

James has a sport bike. It’s a Suzuki—like a crotch rocket. Like a rice burner. Like a thing that goes ‘weee weee’ when you rev the engine.

James loves that bike. He loves it so much he has a pre-ride ritual. First he runs his hands over the front where the headlights are, then over the seat, then over the smooth plastic above the rear wheel. Next, slowly, lovingly, he pulls on the gloves he bought specially for riding. And then James puts on a jacket to protect against the wind. When all that’s done, he mounts the bike for its “warm up.”

The “warm up” (which I don’t think is necessary) consists of revving the engine a time or two or twenty. Only when James feels he’s made a sufficient amount of noise, does the ride begin.

Not too long ago James was having a rough day. He decided his Suzuki would chase away the blues. The wind in his face would be just what the doctor ordered.

As usual, James did his routine. Running of hands. Wearing of gloves. Donning of jacket. Revving of engine.

As he drove out of our complex, a sense of serenity overtook him. The engine’s growl combined with the rough and rugged sensation of dirt bouncing beneath tires made James forget all his troubles. Just a boy and his bike, James felt like a million bucks.

James felt like a real bad ass.

James rides on some paths near the boulevard, and not too long after he started, he had to stop. Passersby were honking their horns, and while the first time it happened James figured it was alright—someone was showing their appreciation for his fine-ass ride, by the fourth time, he thought something might be amiss.

And there was.

And it had been waving in the wind while James flew down the pathway.

That something amiss—it was my ginormous bra. And it was attached, by its hooks, to the back of James’s jacket.

Horrified, James undid the bra—which ironically is how it ended up off my body in the first place—and shoved the contraband under his seat.

When he got home, James was upset. I tried to cheer him. I told him that if things like this happened more frequently, maybe there’d be no war. When he questioned my statement, I explained that the undergarment being white and all probably looked like some sort of flag of surrender, some sort of high-flying flag of freedom.

For some reason, James was not impressed by my analogy.

I laughed until I about peed my pants though,” Jody said.

And that’s the story of the boy who went from bad ass to jackass in the snap of a bra strap.

The end.
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The AI Cocktail Countdown ends tonight. Get your votes in so I can get my drink on this Wednesday for the American Idol finale party.

33 comments

Notice

Today marks the third time in six months that I have, at other’s requests, removed a post from this blog. The Ghost Post—like its twin predecessors—was deemed to be “Too Hot for the Haus” by people I love IRL.

And while I may be good at quite a few things—Re: googling my own name, eating organic raisins, or fawning over boys who wear makeup, I’m really no good with apologies.

Because seriously, I *heart* every word I write. And I don’t know about you, but I think this blog kicks a$$. Plus it’s totally saved my life … like three times.

… But actually that life-saving thing isn’t true. But what is true, what is so very real, and what I would shout from the rooftops if I weren’t afraid of heights is this:

More than pixels and fonts and an electronic framework, this blog is a love letter. And it’s written to commemorate my life.

Even with all its shit-talking irreconcilable bitchiness.

And sometimes I include things about people I hold dear, my mother or father, sister or ex-boyfriend, because—like veins converging at the heart—their stories are often inextricably intertwined with mine.

And I’ve probably been insensitive a time or two or twenty. But it’s just that I don’t think what I write on the Internet should be a cause for offense.

The Internet is not the Real World after all; it’s simply the Real World Wide Web.

When people freak about something I post or tell me a story sucks, I take it personally. Seriously, I’ve spent many-a-sleepless-night wondering “did I go too far with that diarrhea diatribe?”(Undoubtedly, the answer to this question is yes.)

This worry about self-censorship, about always being so-funny-Haw-knee has made me wishy washy.

Sometimes, like today, I feel I should stop causing myself the grief.

I think maybe, just maybe, I should stop blogging.

And this thought makes me incredibly sad. I hope it makes you sad too.

So I’ve done some reflecting and I know I can’t quit this blog. It’s my retarded child—sure its kind of effed up, but I’m so totally in love with it that sometimes I just wanna cry.

Yes, I am that lame.

Now I’m not a big fan of making rules. After all, I’ve been a Rebel with a Clause all my life. But today I’m going to set some.

From here on out, anything that gets posted to the haus stays on the haus. Although I will attempt to exercise restraint for those folks who don’t want the world to know they hooked up with a Thai stripper (Hi G!), I will no longer remove any posts, period.

I won’t even remove the crappy ones … and there are quite a few of those.

If you don’t like what I’m posting, I encourage you to fight back. Start your own blog. You can call it “STFUHANNI!!!” and you can use it to berate me, via your keyboard, on a fort-nightly basis.

In concluding this post, I would just like to remind you, dear hannihaus readers, that my blog is meant to tickle your gigglebone and does not (typically) cause headache, nausea, vomiting, or oily anal discharge.

That is all.

—–
Update: OMGWTF!

Somebody who reads this blog is an evil genius … and he totally sent me that link.

—–
I don’t know about you, but after posting this shit, a drink sounds really good. Why don’t you pick one for me? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar.

And that post probably took me like three hours to write.

And that post was awesome, except for one thing—it didn’t exist.

Nope, you didn’t read anything here.

You’re just mentally confused.

(And that’s why you visit the haus in the first place.)

God bless you and good day.
—–
Drinks in the sidebar. You know what to do.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I love Mom.

I just can’t say enough about the woman who bathed me, clothed me, and—advancing my lifetime fascination with flatulence—taught me to sing about beans, beans the musical fruit.

Yes, while other moms were singing oh-so-sweet lullabies to their four-year-olds, mine was trilling about tooting …

And that is so totally awesome.

But I digress.

So yeah, there’s a lot of things I need to thank Maaa for. For one, she passed me bald, breach, backwards and upside down through her petite little hoo hoo. Oh yeah, and she did this at home, without an epidural.

You think I’m a hardcore hippy? Meet my maaa.

Another cool thing Mom did was make me a daughter. I mean, that right there is entirely awesome. Because—while I am innately a jackass—I couldn’t be an offspring without Maaa making it so.

Unfortunately, while Mom made me a daughter, I didn’t make her a mother (at least not the first time). That honor falls on Maaa’s first born, my elder bro-bro, Nicky.

But actually, (and this just occurred to me), Nicky may *not* be the responsible party after all.

More than likely what made my maaa a mother was a six pack of Schlitz and some Ravi Shankar.

But anyway …

Happy Mother’s Day Maaa.

My gift is this blog, and this post’s for you …

xoxoH

mothers_day.jpg
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I’d also like to wish a Happy Mother’s Day to Angel’s mommy Kim, my step-mom MistressElida, my sister Spanky and all the other Mommies of the haus. You are amazing.

Yesterday my baby sister, Spanky made a plea in comments that I *not* participate in the American Idol Cocktail Countdown.

And she’s right. As a New Age Mama/hardcore Nutrition Nazi, the *last* thing I should do is flood my veins with alcohol.

After all, I hear shooting organic raisins intravenously is much more fun.

But yeah, I love my sis so much. And I really value what she has to say.

Sure I was jealous of her when we were small. Back in 1985, when we didn’t have running water, I had to do it like they do on the Discovery Channel and drop trau in an Alaskan outhouse. My sister, on the other hand—the baby of the family—got to do her bizness indoors.

That’s mostly because she was always crapping her pants in the house.

… But she was in diapers in 1985 so I digress.

And it’s true, as we grew older there was some division between us. Although she always wanted to, I didn’t hang with Spank much when I was a teenyrocker.

When I was 15, she was 10 and her little jacket pockets were just too small to hold the amount of contraband needed to effectively toilet paper a high school parking lot. Because you don’t wanna squeeze the Charmin, I had to hang with kids my own age—they had roomier pockets.

These days, now that we’re adults (don’t laugh), Spanky and I are like lemon and lime. And I don’t wanna do anything she doesn’t want me too…

But there again, I do remember the time I made her eat dog food. Sis *definitely* wasn’t into that…

but I’ll be damned if I didn’t enjoy it!

That being said, you know I love you sis, but the Internet has spoken. Every day thousands, hundreds, ten a couple of you vote in my poll. And I appreciate that. Plus, I rarely miss an opportunity to do something that will likely result in me freak dancing with strangers.

AI Countdown to Cocktails is oooon. The finale is May 24th and I hope you all will join me in my debauchery by playing at home. Game details will be posted soon.

The other day FancyPants and I were talking about how marriage is the new dating. We decided courtship is dead—society stuck a knife in its big, bursting heart and served it cold with some fava beans and a nice Chianti …

mariahCakeSmall.pngM.C.: ruining romance for everyone

And then, as her big ass is used to doing, Mariah Carey ate it.

…But I digress.

Anywho, it’s sad to say, but kids these days are slipping right past getting-to-know-you-ville and are advancing directly to man-and-wife town.

They are not passing Go.

They are not collecting $200.

Hell, many of today’s couples aren’t even making it through second dates.

It’s a shame, but it’s no exaggeration. I’m willing to bet that all of us, dear hannihaus readers, know someone who has made their way to the Chapel of Love (and lust) way too early.

Call me old fashioned, but I miss courtship.

I miss the idea of one soul seeking the affections of another.

I miss the good old days. You know, those antiquated times where instead of getting married right away, you got to know someone first …

by having kinky, deviant sex with them—sometimes incorporating strangers, sometimes incorporating sheep, and oft times inserting large inanimate objects in to dark orifices.

Forget love, sweet love, what the world needs now is more boobs and fewer “I dos”.

Am I right?
—–
So, I’ll admit it. I’m down with the brown. I like me a little greasy Mexican action. I wanna give a shoutout to blog superstar, Askheychris. Not only does his writing kick my writing’s ass, he also has been known to paint his nails, which means he’s a—*gasp*—boy who wears makeup. Rock! Check him out.
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Wanna get me wasted? Vote in the sidebar. Another drink gets kicked off the AI Cocktail Countdown tonight.