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.

Billions of people today will celebrate Cinco De Mayo.

Here at the haus, however, I will be celebrating Cinco De Salsa.

Why?

Because salsa is a much *cooler* condiment. Case in point: when buying fresh, salsa comes refrigerated. You can’t say the same for mayonnaise.

Plus, salsa has better hair. Look:

—-
Have you picked your fav. today? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar. Go vote!

I am an ASS. And I’m not even a garden-variety ass. No, dear hannihaus readers, I’m hardcore. The extent of my assiness is so HUGE, I’ve got to capitalize the damn word.

Indeed, I am all about the (capitalized) ASS.

And I hope you are too, because I want you to join me in my jackassery.

Today, dear hannihaus readers, it’s all about getting to know you. And I want all the lurkers—the shy little violets of the haus— to stand up and say “allo!”

Baby, I blove you
More than boys who wear makeup, Chipotle vegetarian burrito bols, and bulk bins of organic raisins, it’s you dear hannihaus readers that I adore. You keep me writing and that keeps me ridiculous.

And I want to know, what do you love? Let’s play a game.

Here’s how we do. I want *everyone* who reads this post to leave a comment. The comment you leave will be addressed to the visitor who comments before you. I want everyone to start their comment with:

“[visitor’s name], I love you baby, but all I can think about is …”

You fill in the blank with whatever you like to do.

For example, if Dima left a comment right before FancyPants, FancyPants’s comment would read “Dima, I love you baby, but all I can think about is styling my hair like it’s 1982.” (Because FancyPants is really into new wave).

Easy right?

Okay lurkers (and old friends too), let’s get retarted in here. 1, 2, 3 … comment!
—–
Christophe’s French 75 has been deep sixed. Now there’s only four drinks with which to get Hänni wasted. AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar. Vote!
—–
Oh and for a laugh… me and stinxy

OK so when it comes to MySpace there’s a thin line between blove and hate.

On one side you’ve got the antis. They are the hardcore kids –the Blogger babes, the TypePad titans, the warriors of WordPress. They are insatiable. They’d just as soon as cut you with their words as kiss you full on the mouth with them. The clanging of keyboards provides a catharsis they can’t find in confessional, a fix they can’t buy on the street. For the antis, blogging is serious business.

Directly opposed are the evil omgzis. These are the lifeblood that pumps through MySpace’s veins. They are young. They are feisty. They don’t give two shits about quality posts or grammar. That’s because the evil omgzis r lyke 12♥!!!!!

Somewhere in between the antis and omgzis you’ll find Hänni.

Yeah I might get tarred and feathered for this, but I actually *like* the ‘Space. I use it for getting info about my favorite bands and for keeping up with kids I met through the haus or in high school.

Tory Spelling: She look like a man.

No I can’t begrudge MySpace just because most peeps using it are prepubescent.

I was once a teenyrocker too.

I used to dance to Milli Vanilli and I know what NKOTB stands for. And let’s not forget that obsession I had with the guy from Beverly Hills 90210. That Donna dude was HAWT!

But anyway, while MySpace is great for a lot of things, you’ll never catch me posting there. Why? Because In the world of blogging MySpace is a training bra. Though the size of my boobs would indicate otherwise, I grew out of those a long time ago.

—–
And what do you think, dear hannihaus readers? Tell me about MySpace. Do we say yay or suck-ay?
—–
AI Cocktail Countdown. You know the drill. Go vote.

Christophe Quoted:

“Hmmm. This tastes like ass. … That’s good though.”

Christophe sez, Coke Blak is Coke blech.

I would’ve been disturbed by my cubicle mate’s off color comment, except he explained it was in reference to Coke Blak. Apparently, Christophe was pleased that the beverage boasted a flavor so nasty, it would likely keep him from becoming dependant on the highly addictive ½ coke ½ coffee concoction.

And I’m glad he clarified.

The thought of stuffing your face with ass is so totally unappetizing.

… I mean, who the eff eats donkey anyway?

—–
And what about you dear hannihaus readers?  Have you tried Coke Blak?  What did you think?
—–
And another one bites the dust. Vodka Swish was voted off the AI Cocktail Countdown last night. Keep voting. The competition’s just getting retarted started.

Hi, my name is Hänni.

I am irreconcilably bitchy.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m listening to a lot of screamo lately, or if the sugar-free/wheat-free/dairy-free lifestyle is going to my head, but damn!  The littlest shit is setting me off.

Today the cornucopia of my wrath is teaming with the yams and maize of my repulsion towards online gaming.

If you’re hardxcore into Internet role playing, you probably won’t like what I have to say ….And you’re probably 36, living at home, wondering what a real booby feels like.

For the record, I hear they feel like jello.  In my case they just feel like small.

But anyway, the dudes at my work are obsessed with this war-themed computer game.  They talk about it all.day.long.  I don’t think my cubiclemates can go one mother-lovin’ afternoon without saying something about snipers or maps or killing virtual villains.

This is disturbing.

Especially when you hear a grown man shout, “You shot my privates!” from the confines of his cubicle.

…Perhaps the only thing more disturbing than this geekspeak is my coworker Buddy’s frequent shouts of “fire in the hole!” More jarring than this announcement is the blast of stench that proceeds it … but that’s a different story for a different day.

But anyway, yeah.  I can’t stand games.  And every day, as work is winding down, a gaggle of geeks starts playing them.  And it’s not like they’re discreet about it. No, they gotta have their speakers on full-effing-blast so as to flood my space with the annoying sounds of digital gun fire.

And then there’s the swearing.  Something happens when otherwise decent men flip the switch on this role playing shit.  Everything out of their mouth is “eff this, eff that, eff YOU!”

It’s excessive.  And I worry that they’re using up the world’s supply of “eff.”  I’d hate to be the one to tell the Osbournes “No more ‘eff’ for you.  These geeks in a cube farm in Florida have used it all up.”

And my co-workers just don’t understand why I won’t join the gaming nerdherd.  “It’s so much fun,” they say.

Yeah.  I bet.   I’m sure it’s just as fun as that time in junior high when my best friend told our lunch table I had chronic halitosis.  Everybody laughed at me.  And then I developed a complex.

Games are for nerds.
—–
AI Cocktail Countdown update: The Internet has spoken.  Carmel Coke is out.  If that was your favorite, too bad.  Keep voting.  We’ll knock one more off next Monday.

I’m not sure how to tell you this…

The indicator on the display is red.

And I’m sitting here biting my nails. My forehead is covered in a cold sweat.

My life is about to change in a very big way, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

I keep telling myself, whether good or bad, everything happens for a reason. Still, I can’t shake this feeling:

Nothing good will come of this.

And I know I shouldn’t panic –this is just life. I set into motion a series of events, and now, inevitably, I must face the consequences.

My brave sisters who have gone before me, I’m looking to you for support.

You see, yesterday, in the mail, I got this. (< — go on, click it.)

Now I’ve got the DVD player cued, its red light flashing as it prepares to run.

And omg …

I’m actually considering watching this junx.

Someone please alert the media because HELL HAS OFFICIALLY FROZEN OVER.

—–

Dima , though your gift greatly disturbs me, thank you *squeeze*.

When celebrities get divorced, they often blame it on a nebulous something called “irreconcilable differences.” Vague by design, I have no idea what that means. What I do know is this:

If I was a celebrity going through the big “d” (and I don’t mean Des Moines), based on my last week’s behavior, the line asking reason for split would read: irreconcilable bitchiness.

I’m coming out of it now, but last week was like kvetchfest 2006.

I was mad at the cats – I don’t *like* being awoken with someone’s fur lodged in my nostrils, prickly pain in my fingertips where little teeth have been nibbling as if to say “I’ll let you keep your digits if you feed me my organic kibble, never mind that it’s 5am.”

I was mad at Monday – I don’t *like* to go to work on Monday. Monday sucks. About the only thing that makes it bearable, is that it’s the one day of the week I get to wear the underpants with “Blue Monday” spelled out across the kiester.

I was mad at St. Patrick’s Day – I’m not Irish. I don’t *like* wearing green. Call me an ass, but I feel like I don’t need to celebrate something I have little chance of ever becoming. Plus I don’t drink beer.

I could go on and on. The point is, last week I was MAD.

The worst offense of bitch-n-moan week, the one thing that got my panties in a bunch like no other, was my dental plan.

Folks, if any of you have a DMO (the dental equivalent of HMO), you might as well take your insurance card, bend over, and shove it up your ass.

…Because seriously, that’s about all it’s good for.

Did you know that if you take this DMO card to your dentist and they find one tiny bit of plaque, *you*, not the insurance you so painstakingly pay into each month, are responsible for 100% of the cleaning?

And did you know that as part of this DMO plan, even though we live in the United. F-* ing. States, land of the free, home of the brave and all that, you are required to get a fluoride treatment at the end of your cleaning? Never mind if you’re into green living and are vehemently opposed to pumping a chemical into your body that is a) unnecessary and b) has been linked to a little thing called CANCER.

And also, did you know that if you call your insurance provider to bitch and moan about your DMO, you’ll be routed to a customer service agent whose only redeeming quality is that he sounds like a bored automaton?

… But actually, this last thing is quite nice. There’s something very satisfying about being a jackass to someone you’ll never meet in person, and so I would’ve quite enjoyed ending our conversation with, “Domo arigatou Mr. Roboto” – Click.

I didn’t think about that one until later though.

To top it all off, the icing on this DMO cake is, while checking my chompers, the dentist told me I needed to floss like a hundred times.

I know I’m a little slow on the uptake, but come on, a hundred reminders is excessive … even for me.

Around reminder 82, I wanted to tell Dr. Dentist, “Look man, if I want to pour brandy on my gums and set my teeth on fire whilst dancing the funky chicken in my Blue Monday underpants, then I’ll damn well do it!” But I didn’t tell him that… mostly because he had a sharp instrument in my mouth.

And with that, I must bid you adieu dear hannihaus readers. Have a good day, eat your vegetables, mind your manners and don’t forget to take care of your teefs.
________________________________________________________

You know what’s funny? Splitting your pants in public (been there, done that). Know what’s not funny? Cancer. Likely everyone reading this has been affected by cancer; Some of you may have friends and family who’ve battled it, and some of you are cancer survivors yourselves (Go Kranki!). Hannihaus, Personal Assistant, ScottyGee is fundraising on behalf of the American Cancer Society and this is especially poignant as his own mother is currently undergoing her last rounds of chemotherapy. If you can, please support him in his efforts. Donate for cancer research.