The only buzz kill worse than work is getting a phone call from your strange dad. No…I didn’t spell estranged incorrectly, I really did mean strange. Only after him losing his hair on the top of his head and growing the rest out to look like Xur from The Last Starfighter did I go from referring to him as my estranged dad to my strange dad. Go ahead and Google it, I’ll wait…welcome back. I don’t really consider myself unfortunate, unless I look in the mirror first thing in the morning, then I just consider myself an unfortunate hot mess and that’s really only due to the fact that the half eaten hot pocket I had the night before is stuck in my hair. The one I call my dad was there for at least thirteen years. That is more than I can say for my biological father. He left as soon as he found out my mother was pregnant. Apparently he ran fast enough to give Flo Jo a run for her money. What makes a dad become a dead beat dad, or as I like to call them, a “DBD?” Unfortunately when I say DBD, I sound the same as a retard with a speech impediment asking where the DVD section is at Wal-Mart. Like I said, I don’t feel unfortunate about it. I’ve had several failed relationships, a drinking problem, a drug problem, and ten plus years to help me work through it all. I could have gotten the same conclusion from a Magic 8 Ball and saved myself the drug problem. Anyway, like I said, I don’t think of myself as unfortunate in this category as I know some kids who have a DBD and the last time their daddy played with them they were still in his balls. Where am I going with all of this? I’m not entirely sure since I can’t seem to get Mapquest to guide me through this hot mess. Anytime I type in hot mess directions in Mapquest all I get is a picture of Lindsay Lohan. It all stems from my insane Facebook post about my dad calling and letting me know it was by accident. I didn’t mean for everyone to read that and think that I was soliciting sympathy. I thought the entire phone call was not only asinine, but funny as hell. Who really calls their kids and tells them it was by accident other than Courtney Love? I wasn’t trying to share my misfortune, just my hilarious travels through life. I wonder if Verizon would credit back those minutes on my plan.

This entire time I thought this blog was just updating itself. If anyone knows where the “Auto Update” blog settings are, please give me a holla.

Now I am not one to talk about people…at least to their face, I have manners, so I wait until they leave the room. With that said, I just have to “shit chat” for a moment. You know, chit chatting, but talking shit. I don’t know what ABC executive came up with this next season’s Dancing with the Stars cast, but he must have been high at the time. What….a joke. I normally don’t watch D.W.T.S., with the exception of season 10, which I had dubbed the “train wreck” season. Kate Gosselin, Pam Anderson and Shannen Doherty. A slut, a hoarder, and a bitch; I shouldn’t have to tell you which one is which. This next season, I fear, I will have to dub as the “handicap” season. No, I am not calling it the handicap season because of the gay/transgender aspect, although most people confuse gay for handicap. See: Perez Hilton. I am calling it the handicap season because of most of the cast. Let’s review.

Rob Kardashian. You’re probably thinking who? Don’t worry, so are the rest of us. You may know of his sisters Kim, Khloe, and Kourtney (or the KKK for short) on Keeping up with the Kardashians, or as most call it, Keeping up with Kim’s Ass. He’s so handicap they don’t even let him on the show, but Bruce Jenner is on there all the time. If they won’t even let him on, but they will Bruce, then something is up. You can’t look at Bruce and not think handicap.

Kristin Cavallari. She’s in the same boat as Rob Kardashian for the “who the fuck are they?” factor. As a reality “actress” she was on the very well unknown show The Hills. She co-starred with Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt which have been publicly named Herpes Simplex 1 and Herpes Simplex 2. You cannot spend six years with STD’s and not be handicap. To the D.W.T.S. hosts: I hope you brought some Summer’s Eve to clean that dance floor.

Chaz Bono. I love Chaz, mainly because his mother is Cher and I feel that she would love to hang out with me, but also because he puts it out there and is giving the GLBT community a good name. Let’s be honest though, he is new to this whole post op transgender thing and is probably still having issues in the bathroom. Does he sit, stand, or do the hokey pokey? I’m just assuming that he is still in the beginner stages and going to the bathroom is the equivalent of pissing in the wind.

Carson Kressley. Some of you may remember him from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. To me, he looks like what Justin Bieber will look like after puberty bitch slaps him in the face in about 30 years. Being compared to Justin Bieber in itself is a whole new level of handicap.

David Arquette. It’s David Arquette, enough said.

So as I prepare my popcorn and fire up my TV, I can’t help but wonder if ABC will be promoting this under its new title, “Dancing with the Tards.”

Is this thing still on? Holy shit it has been a long time since I have been on here. I blame my lack of adequate leg-muscle capacity, lingering baby weight, and easily located quantities of Ben & Jerry’s and vodka on maintaining this here bloggy thingy. Which roughly translates into I’m hella lazy, so deal with it.

Now, I’m not one to talk about people while they are still in the room. I wait until they have left to do it. It’s called manners; but somehow, I hope that this post finds that special someone who just can’t seem to put the perfume bottle down. Searching for her would take too much of my already limited time. That’s like Jesus posing nude for an art class because he isn’t busy these days. It seems that we have a little nugget who believes the term “the more the merrier” is directed at her and what, I can only assume, she believes to be perfume magic.

Why on earth would she perpetrate such a whammy? I only know that it is happening from the lingering scent in the hallway long after they’ve passed by. It’s pretty sad when you walk into the hallway and exclaim "OH!" and then back away into your office crying and asking, “Are you sure that is perfume and not tear gas? “

We’re not even sure how long it lasts. How can you gauge that? We can not just rely on our gut feeling, however substantial that gut may be, to get us through the hallway. Just when we think it’s ok to go out, BAM; there it is again and you find yourself writhing in pain curled up in the fetal position crying for your mother.

Whoever you are, I just want to know; did you marinate in it or just feel the need to douche yourself with it? Your perfume is giving me The Hives and The Asthma and no, the number of suicides resulting directly from your over indulgence has not been exaggerated. Put the bottle down and step away. Remember this little friendly piece of advice to people who wear perfume and cologne. Spray and walk away. That’s it. Spray it, walk through it and keep walking, don’t go back for more. My burned retinas will thank you.

Dear Super In-Shape Guy at the Gym,

We all noticed you bust a front double bicep as soon as you got into the gym. We also saw you piss all over that bench just incase anyone didn’t know it wasn’t taken. But do you really need to stand there pretending you are a Greek god? You’re blocking the aisle for the rest of us, get walking. You remember how to walk don’t you? It’s one set of knuckles in front of the other.

Okay, so if you’ve got it, flaunt it, I suppose, but would it really kill you when it’s just the TWO of us in the cardio area, to just keep your shirt on instead of going all Matthew McConaughey while running on the treadmill? In the words of Phil Foster, “…for the love of God, put on a fucking shirt.” You don’t see me taking my shirt off do you? (Collective sigh of relief) Not even when I’m hot from the alcohol. It’s called manners.

I understand that you think nobody wants you to keep your shirt on, and your pulsating veins demand our attention. But seriously, what in roid hell is going on with your arms and legs? Just looking at you makes my own veins all tingly. If someone touched one of your veins, I think it would touch them back. Sometimes, I get the distinct feeling your veins want to chat with me as you walk by.

Lastly, I find it amusing how you will attempt to lift more weight than usual when women come around. Just to let you know, you look constipated, and your pulsating veins are trying to tell you that it’s not a good look for you. Maybe you can’t understand them since the only way you seem to communicate is through grunts.

Much Love,

Guy Who’s Already Sweating After Walking Up The Stairs

All in all, it hasn’t been a good week. Bad traffic, being late for work, mounds of homework and tests, a malfunctioning computer, and incompetent coworkers all made me a bubbling cauldron of hate. But more importantly for this story, the work bathroom has smelled like it had been over forty-eight hours since whoever used it last had last taken a dump and expelled whatever had died up there. It was asstastic.

Now…let me tell you the story of how I became blind in my right eye.

It hit me. My colon informed me with a sudden cramp that I needed to visit the little boy’s room. I gaily made my way into the back when I noticed that the bathroom was occupied. No big deal, I wasn’t in dire need of the restroom. No sudden wet, squeaky farts telling me that everything needed to go. So I waited…and waited…and waited. In fact, I waited so long, that I damn near forgot that I need to go until my bowels let me know on no uncertain terms that I needed to get in there. I made my way back there again, this time a little more hastily than before, and was thrilled to see that bathroom was open. As I entered the bathroom, I was met by a horrible, unearthly stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul mist quickly made its way through my nasal passage and began choking me. How could this be? Who would do such a thing? Maybe I’m the only one that believes you should have the utmost standards in bathroom etiquette at work. Sometimes, you should just take that *shit* home and wreck your own bathroom.

I was stuck. There was no stopping me. I couldn’t just slam my sphincter shut for the rest of the day and call it good. I had to go. As I trekked deeper into the bathroom, I surveyed the damage that was left. It looked as though something had actually recoiled out of the toilet bowl and ran down the side to the floor. Tears involuntarily began to run down my face from the burn. As I continued to survey the disaster, I noticed that the toilet paper dispenser was dreadfully low. The user before me used a considerable amount of paperwork for his supernatural elimination. Was it too low? Will there be enough? I had to take my chances. The subtle rumble of my insides were telling me, “Any longer, and we will be having a clearance sale. Everything Must Go!”

I proceeded with my business. My eyes were burning and the tears were rapidly flowing down my face. Sounds of suppressed gagging and retching filled the bathroom. I could not take much more of this. I had to escape, and soon. I gripped the toilet paper dispenser with one hand and braced myself against the side of the wall with my other hand and pushed with everything I had. I was finally rewarded with comfort and knew that I was almost out of there. I used up what was left of the toilet paper and whoever said “less is more” was not kidding. I should receive a medal for being able to do a full clean up with only having half the materials to do it with.

I quickly washed my hands and noticed that the mirror was being faded out by the haze left over from the previous occupant. I was failing to realize that the burn from the mist was doing more damage to me than just causing me to cough and gag. I ran out of there and as I exited the bathroom, I realized that the blur caused by the mist was not clearing up. Could it be? Did that green haze damage me for life? As I continued on, I ran into another co-worker, literally, since I could no longer see out of my right eye. With fear etched into my face, all I could say to her was…“Gotta go… horrible… throw up…in my mouth… not… make it… tell my family… love them… oh God…”

And this, my friends, is how I lost vision in my right eye; my good eye.

Can I just say that moving is possibly the worst thing in the world besides Crystal Pepsi? What happened to the good old days of feeding a starving student and having all of your shit moved by the time you got the kitchen cleaned up? Anyway, we have been moving and without our satellite TV for almost a week now. I really haven’t been sad about this since I have my wonderful Western Digital TV Live box which allows me to stream right from my computer or the internet. It. Is. Spec-tac-u-lar! I think Mike is dealing with it pretty well; although, I did find some claw marks on the old remotes and sometimes hear crying at night during what would have been “Glee viewing time.” Just kidding. Mike seems to be doing really well with this no-more-tv-ness style we have going. Maybe this would give you time to do other things Mike. Important things, like creating a Camilla Toe Facebook page. Imagine the good you could do with that!

So the countdown begins and as of posting time; I have 28 hours until I start bringing back the eighties with my 80’s Spin Night. Originally this was created to celebrate my birthday week at the gym, but it has become an event of its own. I have been getting music suggestions from people, whether I want them or not, every time I talk about it. I even had my class do a few suggestions, or requests as I like to call them. Mike laughs about this, believing I was too young to remember much of the decade. This plays to my advantage since I cannot remember many of the fashions, and looking back, no loss there.

Here’s to the 80’s, Twisted Sisters on MTV, and all the fun you had that you can “totally remember.” I think that if she could, my friend Heather would still be in the 80’s shaking her ass on the hood of White Snake’s car with her hair as big as a bus. Three words: Like Totally Rad!

Well, well, well…it’s been too long since my last post, but let’s move on. This year I am celebrating my ∞ birthday. Yes, that’s right, my ∞ birthday. If you had asked my age before, I would have normally told you to cut me in half and go phuck yourself. Anyway, I was going back and forth on whether to celebrate this year or lay low, and someone really hot asked me if I was going to celebrate my turning ∞, leaving behind all the things I didn’t do in my twe…..err….earlier years. Thinking back, I decided that I am going to celebrate leaving behind all the things I did do that I either shouldn’t have done or don’t remember doing; like that pencil thin eyebrow incident. Yes Mike, all of those pictures have been destroyed….or have they???

So…I will be celebrating my birthday week, that’s right, week, and doing something all week long ending the B-Day week with a trip to Vegas for a little clubbing and some Phantom of the Opera viewing. Everyone is invited to celebrate with me, whether it is here or in spirit, or at my 80’s Spin Night (Wednesday, May 19th, 5:30 PM, Gold’s Gym). I am hoping that someone will voluntarily throw a birthday bash for me, but I’m not counting on it…maybe…I am going to sub out my spin class next week just in case. Just a hint that this would be an excellent time to try all of those “drinks o' the day” that someone keeps posting about.

Anywho, just to recap, it’s my birthday week, all week. When you see me, say hi, I won’t be easily missed with the inside-out Burger King crown painted red with the phrase “It’s My Birthday Bitches” written on it. I do accept gifts, cash and checks (with a check guarantee card). Hopefully I will see you all next week, maybe at some random birthday party! YAY!