Last night I had a dream. And that alone is pretty impressive, because —while I’m pretty good at daydreaming (about vegan brownies and boys who wear makeup *yum*)—I hardly ever have the kind of dreams that occur in the nighttime.

And when I do, they are often of the nightmare variety.

This is upsetting … mostly because I don’t care for horses. Those big-ass eyeballs are totally terrifying. Given the choice, I’d much rather have nighthares than nightmares.

Because let’s face it, Peter Cottontail really isn’t that creepy.

Anyway, the most amazing part of last night’s dream was the eff. I don’t remember what my companion did to warrant such an outburst, but for some reason I screamed it at the top of my lungs.

“Eff you!” —that’s what I said.

But actually I didn’t say “eff,” not exactly.

Quite out of character, I said the real thing. And there aint nothing like the real thing, baby.

That’s right, dear hannihaus readers, last night your mistress uttered the naughty, naughty.

In my dream, I said: EFF-YOO-SEE-KAY

And I would never use that word in real life.

That’s partly because its sounds retarded coming out of my mouth. I mean some folks sound all awkward-like when they drop the F bomb. They’re like giddy little girls teetering in their mommy’s heels. And since I’m twelve, I should probably stick with the flats, metaphorically speaking.

Another reason I don’t use the f- word is, that I am a lady.

…

And I’ll kick the dumb slut’s ass who says otherwise. Shit-talking, jackass, dickhead, motherfunky, hellcat beyotches can kiss my left nut. Well, except I don’t have a damn left nut, but you bastards get my drift.

Til next…adieu!

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Update: ok its 12:43pm on 06.06.06. I currently have 6 comments in the que and i’ve 666 hits so far today. Creepy? Mayhaps.

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:

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 . The only thing in danger here kids is my dignity.

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!