It Could Always Be Worse

If you have a Facebook account, and you probably do because even Amish Acres  is on board with social networking. You may notice some of your friends post some pretty negative status updates. For example: “I’m sad about everything, I bit the side of my mouth and it hurts… no one appreciates me.” I mean, that may not be verbatim, but pretty close. At this point I would like to add that I giggle when that one smart ass “likes” those kind of status updates. I usually ignore it and check out whatever Cracked.com article is posted or focus my hate on memes that are not funny.

I would like to take a moment to address the negative Nelly’s out there and say cheer up, things can and will at times, be worse. I have provided some examples of how I justify small frustrations in my life that do suck:

The amount of chocolate I ate today is absurd. Inconsolable shame…

I did not, however, do too much meth today.

My boob cleavage is sub par.

My butt cleavage is amazing

My gynecologist looks like this…

My gynecologist could be this…

I don’t really know what to write today

I’m still smarter than animals.

I only got a regular ol’ burger…sans cheese

My hair looks awesome…

I’m hormonal and bloated

It’s not spontaneous explosive diarrhea.

I have no idea where my money goes…

I didn’t spend it on this movie

Lowes employees STILL send me butthurt comments over a fairly old post…

Sorry that store is balls, and I stand by my original post statements.

So in conclusion, chillax, post some eCards, not everything is appropriate for Facebook. More importantly, being happy is an effort not an innate human right. Go hug on a loved one and enjoy all the good things, there’s an innumerable amount if you start counting.

My New Get Rich Quick Schemes

I don’t really like to work.  I do like to get paid.  Now NASA doesn’t need to do any calculations examining extensive statistical data to determine I need to get rich; quick and easy.  I have been able to come up with some ideas of how to obtain succe$$.

1. Hoarders.  I can combine my new obsession with the ability to make profit.  I love piles of  soiled incontinence briefs in the living room and rat turds on my Hallmark figurines as much as the next person.  Guess who doesn’t? Hoarder’s neighbors.  They hate them.  I mean besides obvious property value losses it’s rather unpleasant to live next to.  Especially if you have the hoarder neighbor that has too many Cabbage Patch kids and Encyclopedia collections in the bathroom to handle business inside.  I imagine it’s rather unsavory to see your neighbor defecate in the hedges on a daily basis.  While they captivate me I can understand hoarders are a nuisance. My proposal? Approach said hoarder as an intervention psychologist who specializes in hoarding.  Make a contractual agreement for a disclosed sum to help them with their hoarding ( I got to get the family involved on this one).  At the same time there is at least one neighbor willing to pay you for arson.  Now, I will sneak into the hoarders house disguised in a trash suit that looks like dead cats and newspaper.  Wait for them to leave and then torch the house.  The neighbors pay me, the hoarder  will have already paid ( I only accept money prior to services) and everybody wins and I didn’t have to help the hoarder.  A new house is built, the hoarder has about ten years to gross it up again, and I have cheddar. It’s bulletproof.

2. Child Support.  Now what are women good at? Getting pregnant.  I certainly got the hips to pass something 7 or 8 pounds right through them! Well, why not combine my gestational abilities with nothing other than a potent rich man?  Preferably a rapper.  Why? Rap is here and it’s not going anywhere.  Rappers come and go but in their prime they make a ridiculous amount of money.  So, I can dress super inappropriately, and attend every rap concert in my Cashville, TN!  If I am granted access to the backstage at 5 out of 10 concerts and manage to bang a rapper…I will eventually be fertilized and money makin’ money, money makin’.  As long as I keep a diligent log of the rappers I bang, I’ll know the dates and which emcee to contact.  My plan is in no way flawless nor could it result is such adverse side effects like an STD….it’s called penicillin and it grows on oranges. DUH. Once I sue the rapper who has poured more Cristal on  bitches’ titties he don’t even remember me to deny such allegations. The court will settle everything.  Paternity tests will confirm I have birthed his offspring.  Then? I get paid! Child support! I calculate that the percentage would be pretty high…and my check would be pretty fat.  If I get lucky it will be the child of an immortalized rapper, and maybe he could follow his father’s footsteps and sample his old music. BANK!!!

You laugh now, but you won’t laugh when I own 10 snuggies and you own 1 and it’s got a hole in it. SUCKA.