May 3, 2006

Who The Hell Reads This Crap?!

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!
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Oh and for a laugh… me and stinxy

16 comments

April 30, 2006

My First Time

I was 19 that summer. The city—like its inhabitants—was sweltering hot.

Beautiful 20-somethings poured like water from subways onto street corners and into restaurants and bars and old buildings. An urban pheromone factory, sex oozed from these golden gods as beads of perspiration gathered on breastbones and thighs hidden beneath stylish suits.

We were young. We were eager. We had (most of us) come to intern in the greatest political city in the world.

Washington D.C. was a far cry from Wasilla, Alaska where I grew up. Back home, under my parents’ watchful gaze, I’d lived the kind of churchly, modest life that is the hallmark of rural America. I won’t bore you with details, but I will say that my landlocked upbringing played a major role in the delay…

It was embarrassing. Most girls—by the time they are 17 or 18—have done it. And I suspect that in certain places, like California for example, girls probably start doing it at 10 or 11.

That summer—the one I spent in the city—I was almost 20 and I felt a dire sense of urgency.

My intern group was scheduled for a weekend trip to Rehoboth Beach at the end of July. On this trip there would be no parental supervision. There would, however, be dozens of sexy co-eds wearing next-to-nothing. And they’d be slathering lotions and flirting and frolicking. The only thing hotter than these beachside babes would be the sun under which they’d bake.

It was for this trip, that I wanted to be prepared.

The week before Rehoboth, I stopped into J.’s. I’d been there before, but this time was different. I was nervous. And I think he knew that. A handsome boy, when he looked into my frightened eyes and asked if he could help me, I said yes.

That day, in some cluttered part of the city, I passed through a proverbial gauntlet of maidenhood.

With my breasts cupped in a J. Crew top (75% off!) selected by a sales dude with my specifications, I was glad I’d finally done it.

I’d finally … for the first time … worn a bikini.

And shortly after my first time wearing a bikini, I experienced the first time wearing a bikini whilst throwing up in a children’s pool in Rehoboth. But that’s a whole nother story.

Til next dear hannihaus readers, adieu.
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Did my story get you all hot and bothered? How about you vote for a nice, refreshing drink? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar. Next one gets kicked off tomorrow!

P.S. Maaa I’m sorry if I gave you a heart attack with this one.

3 comments

April 28, 2006

Eat Your Heart Out Teri Hatcher

Here’s a hip(py) tip for you:

If you are a New Age Mama who makes your own skincare products, it’s probably a good idea to keep your organic, rosemary-infused vinegar-based astringent from areas that are sensitive to this sort of concoction.

Specifically, areas like your eyeballs.

Even if you think it’s a great idea—even if you feel so totally compelled to do it—even if you decide it’s entirely Albert Einsteinesque in its genius—*do not* hold a cotton ball near your cornea if it’s been soaked in a highly-antiseptic elixir.

And then do not—I repeat, do not—give said cotton ball a satisfying squeeze.

If you fail to yield my advice you will suffer. Yes, you should be prepared for a veritable tsunami of six-weeks’ fermented vinegar sloshing in and stinging your eye sockets.

Britney Spears: Oops she did it again.

In case you’re wondering, this is a bad thing.

… Unless of course you’ve been subjected to pictures of an “oh-no-she-di’int” nature, like those showing Britney Spears is preggers again.

*shudder*

In this case, rendering yourself blind by way of acidic beauty brew is the only reasonable reaction.

But I digress…
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Have you voted today? AI Cocktail Countdown—it’s more fun than pouring vinaigrette in your pretty little peepers.Trust me on this one.

13 comments

April 25, 2006

Un-Bee-Lievable

Angelface and I have this friend. His name is Mike, but I like to think of him as Mister Misadventure. Mister Misadventure makes Hänni happy. While I’ve split my pants a time or two (or three or four), I’ve never unclogged a toilet with my bare hands and I’ve never forgotten to remove “I like sex” from the Hobbies section of a resume I sent to an employer—Mister Misadventure has done these things.

Recently Mister Misadventure told me a story that was a real hum dinger. Or should I say hum stinger?

One afternoon, after finishing some yard work, Mister Misadventure and his lithe, little missus decided to hop in the shower. What would’ve been an opportunity for romance quickly turned bad as an uninvited guest entered the bath.

The intruder was dressed in yellow and black. Agitated and confused, a bee had gotten in and was buzzing rather ominously near the showerhead.

M & M Misadventure were pretty frightened. I guess you could say that bug scared the bee-jesus out of them… but I digress.

Anyway, wearing nothing but what the good lord gave him, Mister Misadventure leapt from the tub. He quickly scavenged the kitchen looking for some sort of weapon. Running short on mace, chains and medieval torture devices, Mister Misadventure settled for an empty cool whip container.

Armed and ready for action, the Mister returned to the shower. When he threw back the curtain he found that in his absence the Missus had further pissed off the party crasher. By frantically splashing water on the bewildered bee, Madam M. had escalated the situation.

Someone was *not* going to get out of the shower unscathed.

Unfortunately for Mister Misadventure, he was that someone.

Gesturing with his hands near his groin, Mister M. explained it was probably because it’s so big that the angry bee chose his penis for a target.

Yes, Mister Misadventure got stung on the stinger.

His first reaction was not unlike mine when I found out TomKat was pregnant—in a fit of panic and confusion, the Mister screamed like a twelve-year-old girl.

And then, in a knee-jerk reaction he’d soon come to regret, Mister Misadventure gripped his cool whip container and thrust it towards the bee … on his crotch.

And then Mister Misadventure started screaming like a twelve-year-old girl again.

And then he had black and blue balls for five days.

And that’s a true story, you better bee-lieve it.
—–
I never liked her much anyway. Blonde’s Death was voted out last night in the AI Cocktail Countdown. We’re still got four more kick offs to go, so keep voting kids. Poll is in the sidebar.

10 comments

April 23, 2006

Killing Me Softly

Lately, I’ve been having a hard time getting some quality shut-eye. It might be related to the fact that I’m facing some pretty heady challenges both at work and in my personal life.

Most likely though, I can’t get any rest because my kittens are trying to kill me in my sleep.

Witness the horror that is Stinky Sphynxy trying to astinkysphynxiate mommy by pushing his chunky-ass body up against my windpipe. Meanwhile, his partner-in-crime, Bella Donna Bad Girl does her best Beelzebub impression:

Right: Stinky Sphynxy feigns innocence, “I’m just feeling up mommy’s boobs” he says. This story does not hold, mostly because mommy doesn’t have any boobs. Left: Bella Donna Bad Girl enjoys fava beans and a nice chianti with her organic kibble. Center: Smiley face hides boobs mommy doesn’t have.

And Frankly I’m shocked at the amount off effort that’s gone into killing me. I mean if Sphynx *really* wanted to hurt me,he’d make sure I was standing downwind after mealtime. Now that’s pure torture.

But I digress.
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Did you vote today in the AI Cocktail Countdown? Don’t make me send my catsassins after you. They’ll break your kneecaps.

11 comments

April 21, 2006

MySpace -At least It’s Better Than An Anal Probe

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.

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

10 comments

April 18, 2006

Coke Blech

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?

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And what about you dear hannihaus readers? Have you tried Coke Blak? What did you think?
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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.

15 comments

April 17, 2006

One Nation, Underpants

Some people like to skulk on Blue Monday. They complain, cry, rant and rave.

I personally like to sit on Blue Monday … mostly because that’s what I have stamped across the ass of my underpants.

And that’s what you do with underpants – sit on ‘em.

…Except of course, if your name is Smug Ellie and you’re my college roommate. In that case you’re fond of wearing your knickers on your head like some sort of dormroom do-rag with controltop coverage and an elastic waistband.

On multiple occasions you’ll also force your roommate, Hänni, to wear the Headdress o’ ~~Shame~~ Hanes as well.

Sad thing is, Smug, I totally miss that.
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It’s not just another manic Monday here at the haus. Tonight we kick off our second drink in the AI Cocktail Countdown. Go vote!

26 comments

April 12, 2006

Games Are Lame

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.
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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.

10 comments

April 10, 2006

The Popular Vote

I read in the news this morning that American Idol contestant, Mandisa will not be performing at a pro-gay event. The unquestionably Christian singer speculates these kind of beliefs are what got her kicked of the show last week.

I disagree.

Having seen her last performance, I think it’s perfectly obvious why she lost the votes.

America is superficial. And Mandisa – for some inexplicable reason – was styled most unflatteringly, like a helium balloon.

And it’s a shame. A big, beautiful woman with one helluva talent, I would’ve picked Mandisa to win American Idol by a backside.

Because you know baby got back(side).

Heh.

But yeah, I’m kind of having a hard time coming to grips with this loss. You see, hot air is the reason American voted Mandisa off, but when Gdub employed it, he got voted in. WTF?!
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Don’t let a Mandisa happen here at the haus! I want you… to get me trashed. Pick your poison every day in the AI Cocktail Countdown. First drink gets kicked off tonight!