My debilitating addiction to Facebook
My recent addiction to Twitter
My incessant need to tell stories in a bar, whether anyone wants to hear them or not. Hey, I aim to please.
But let's get to the point.
I have no idea where this blog will go, what I will discuss, or what kind of trouble it will get me in when I inevitably decide to run for President, but whatever. Friends, be sure I will not use your real names when discussing you. Unless of course, you have managed to piss me off.
Let's begin with the facts. I grew up with three rules. I will share them with you now so you can pass them onto your children and raise the finest citizens the world has ever seen.
RULE #1- TAN FAT LOOKS BETTER THAN WHITE FAT, SO ALWAYS BE TAN.
This rule is an absolute universal truth. And don't even try and bullshit me with "what about gorgeous people like Nicole Kidman?" Nicole Kidman is great, but let's face the facts here folks, she is only gorgeous after a 4 hour appointment with a makeup squad, a shot of whiskey, and a touch of fairy dust. There isn't a soul on Earth that doesn't look better with a bit of help from our closest star, especially if you have a little junk in the trunk.
Now, I can preach the gospel on this matter because I myself came out of the womb with both an amazing personality and an addiction to pasta. Did I inherit this addiction from my mother? Only science knows, and I'm no scientist.
I, along with everyone else on the beach, would much rather see me shakin' my tailfeather with a little help from Ultra Tan. There is nothing worse than laying on the beach, half drunk, and looking up only to find some woman who has NO CLUE she is blinding everyone with her white dimpled derriere. Please sister, cover that shit up or put some baby oil on that gravel road. Stop being so selfish already.
RULE #2- EVERYONE LOOKS BETTER IN MASCARA
A few years ago, I was put in the hospital for almost a month when my body decided to go batshit insane on me and my immune system started driving my bodily functions about as well as I drive my Toyota Scion (more on my douchebag car later).
SEX MACHINE.
Anywho, while teetering the fine line between being awesome and seeing the White Light, I had one request for my best friend: "If this shit goes down in a way I don't approve, please make sure to keep my mascara looking good". I mean, let's get serious; if I'm going to go into a coma, I gotta look good while doing it. The best friend, we'll call her Peep, held up her end of the bargain. They induced me in a coma, I stayed in the hospital and got better, and managed to look like a rockstar while doing it. Thanks Peep, I owe you one.
Do NOT fool yourselves ladies, if I can be near death and have good eyelashes, you can throw on some mascara to take out the trash. You DO NOT look better with natural eyes. If you did, God would not have invented Maybelline. And let's face it, He totally started working on that right after The Big Bang. That is a fact, science says so. Don't mess with science.
RULE #3- NEVER DATE A MAN WITH A WAISTLINE SMALLER THAN YOURS
We have all made poor choices in men before. I am the poster child for "follow your heart until you're drinking mason jars of your own tears". But I digress. The point is I have probably missed out on countless great guys because of this rule.
I can't help it. There is nothing in me that feels sexy about being with a man I could beat in a wrestling match. Have you ever seen those wedding pictures where the wife stands at 6'6'' and the husband is a solid 5'2''? PLEASE.
Clearly, those couples are following the "Love is Blind" theory. I, however, am not Helen Keller, and need to be with someone who has a few pounds and a few inches on me. As my good friend, we'll call him Jellybean, told me "You can be a neuroscientist, People's Most Beautiful Person, and love puppies, but if you aren't 220 and over 6 feet, don't even think about going near Whitney". Damn Straight, Jellybean.
I once almost broke up with a man because I was scared I wouldn't be able to button his jeans I borrowed after a hot night at a Sticky Fingers buffet (a very classy date BTW). Thankfully, I got them buttoned so I could remain in the relationship that would eventually crash and burn in a text message saying "Never Contact Me Again." Yeah, it was true love folks. T-RUE LOVE.
So friends, your obligation when I croak out is this: Hit me with a spray tan before the funeral, throw on some fake eyelashes, and make sure all my belonging go to someone resembling Vince Vaughn.
I know I can count on you.
