Photoblogging Friday 4.13.07

Happy Friday the 13th.

In honor of my favorite Kentucky girl, who was always the perfect date for crushing the hearts and souls of boys in bars, looks great in black, and with whom I would be spending this 13th drinking if it wasn't for her being in fucking Kentucky, I present you this picture:

Frame #33: Library Tower, March 2001

Continuing with my unofficial series, "My Daily Route through Downtown Los Angeles," this is what the Library Tower at 5th and Grand would look like, if it was electrocuted. I think. Every year, the YMCA sponsors a run up it's 73 floors. I might do that this year, just to see how many floors I can get through.

How does this tie to our Kentucky Girl, Lex? She nearly electrocuted herself and set her entire house on fire yesterday while playing with live wires. That's fucking awesome, and I love her knee-jerk reaction to a noisy stove timer. When I read about it, I immediately thought of this picture, which I took over 6 years ago.

Confidential to my ballsy girl: I miss you. Boys are too easy to go home with when you're not here. The sex is good, the company is not. Come back!

T-29 Days

In exactly 29 days, I will become 29 years old. It's quite exciting, the birthday stuff. For me anyway. You're just along for the ride.

I woke up this morning and my first thought was, "Damn, I feel good. Thank god I didn't go out last night." Because I had briefly entertained the thought of meeting up with the boys. At 11 pm. That lasted all of 32 seconds.

Anyway, then I decided today was going to be the greatest day of my life.

The first phone call of the day was one naughty boy asking what I was wearing (all black, head to toe. Including a kickass pair of heels!). Then a hotelier brought me my favorite candy of all time (Almond Joy, even though I can't eat it!). And then it was back-to-back-to-back meetings. One of which was a discussion about the transition into my new position.

Being on top is a nice place to be.

T-29 was a damn good day, indeed.

Top 40 Ta-tas

I have been getting a ridiculous amount of traffic for a particular Google Images search string having to do with the female anatomy. And it's not just from American Google. I have hits coming from Canada, Ireland, Spain, Australia, Brazil. And that was only in the last week. This piqued my curiosity, so I did a little searching of my own.

And there they are, in all their autographed glory: the last picture on the second page. I think this is hysterical.

But it gets better!

Look at the picture below. Click for sense-making bigness.



See something wrong? Yes, you do. Why the hell is someone from the Kern County Superintendent of Schools searching for answers to the question "does a man like to feel my boobies when I hug him?" Does that seem inappropriate to anyone else?

Finally, in all seriousness, to the boys out there: does a man like to feel my boobies when I hug him?

Dear John Letters #7

It's been quite some time since we had an installment of these here at Exxy HQ. So clearly, you're all due. And I just so happen to be in a horrible mood. What timing.

Enjoy!

Dear Guy Wearing Sunglass at the Gym,

What the hell is wrong with you? Are you afraid the roof is going to open up--3 floors above us--and allow the sun to burn your retinas? Didn't you notice it was foggy out? Or, do you think you're sooooooooooo famous that you must remain incognito even as you sweat your man-boobs off on the elliptical machine? Guess what? You just look like a blubbering jackass. No one cares who you are. But they ARE all pointing and laughing at the moron with sunglasses on inside. At the gym, for crying outloud!

Jackhole.

***

Dear Quark v4.1,

I hate you. Probably more than I hate wannabe actors. Why is it that you cannot figure out that my document is landscape? Why must I reselect this option each and every time I print my marketing collateral? It’s a very pretty piece but you refuse to recognize this and continue to butcher it in portrait setting. Microsoft Word has no issues with this setup. You create a landscape document, it will print a landscape document, without my needing to request it pretty please with a fucking cherry on top! Do you know how many precious moments—and how much paper—I've lost with this stupid idiosyncrasy of yours? Why must you waste my time? I’m sure your newer versions don’t have this problem, but I’m stuck with you because upgrades are unheard of around here. I hateyouhateyouhateyou!!! Hard.

***

Dear Cobalt-blue Z 350 Driver,

One of the few happies I can find in this overcrowded city of ours is Mulholland Drive. With its windy switchbacks, amazing views, and a full 10 miles with only four traffic light interruptions it's about as great an open road as you can get. That is, until you decide to test your braking system 3 inches from the back end of my car. What the hell possessed you to hot dog your way up my asshole all the way from Runyon to Cahuenga? Do you know how scary it is to see your bright blue shitbox in the rearview suddenly screaming to a stop so close I think you're actually IN my backseat? Did you notice the lack of turnoffs for me to escape your vicious tailgating? Did you see the car inching its way down the hill in front of me? I nearly hit him trying to a modicum of distance between me and you. The last thing I need while I'm revisiting the areas I've spun out on up there is a heart attack.

I hope you took a turn so fast, you fell off the hill in a huge, fiery explosion.

***

Dear Loudly Yapping People Working Out Next to Me,

Do you seriously think that professional hockey players are underpaid? What the hell is wrong with you? They're playing HOCKEY for a living! It's a GAME. 60 minutes of stick jockeying for a teeny black disc. On ice. With helmets. And fighting. I'm not saying it's not enjoyable, especially the fighting, but give me a motherfucking break. To say that ANY professional athlete isn't getting paid enough is like saying that Paris Hilton is a virgin: ridiculously laughable and patently untrue.

Also, the salary cap isn't $300,000 like you thought. The median salary for the team with the smallest payroll in the 2006-07 season was $850,000. If you're going to complain about the world's worst atrocities, at least get your facts straight. Assholes.

***

Dear Gum-cracking Twit,

I was supposed to spend 15 minutes on the stairclimbing machine. I chose the one next to you so I could watch the basketball game on tv. But listening to you crack your gum every 30 seconds was driving me so batty, it took all of my resolve NOT to punch you. Right at the base of your skull. Who the hell chews gum while working out? And didn't your mother teach you any manners? Cracking gum is like drinking OE out of a brown bag while sitting on a corner in the middle of the workday:
G-H-E-T-T-O. Not to mention you look like a cow chewing its cud. The laws of common decency, and the fear of going to jail for assault on a twiggy bitch-cunt, made me give up the machine after a mere 10 minutes.

But I really wish I had kicked you in your flat butt before leaving, you masticating asshat.

I Still Haven't Finished My Taxes

Fucking IRS. Fucking itemizing.

I took a break last night to watch the Clippers give it up in the last quarter to Denver. Fucking Denver.

I have never sat down on the floor at Staples Center. I usually manage to score a seat in a skybox, high above the action. Where the alcohol is free and the chocolate cake gives me hives just by standing too close to it. No joke, it's that potent.

But the Princess got us tickets down low, and I love me some basketball, so off we went. We rode the choo-choo, despite the fact that I have free parking just 10 blocks away. But walking 10 blocks in downtown Los Angeles, at night, is like asking to be ass-raped with a cactus. So we took the subway.

It's very clean, the LA subway system. Strange.

So down there we are, enjoying the fact that you can almost smell the sweat coming off the big, hot, black men on the court. We banged our noisemakers. We made friends with the surrounding Clipper Nation. I drooled over the older white guy in our row who looked vaguely familiar. We played several rounds of "My Team, Your Team."

Every single Clippers game I've ever been to has ended in victory. For us. Every. Single. Game. What was different about this time? I was down on the floor? I was with a girl? I wasn't drinking?

And we lost. Fucking hell.

That's the last time I do that. Next time, I'm drinking!

I Should be Doing My Taxes

But as I'm waiting for some documents to print, and my stupid bitch printer keeps threatening to run out of ink, I'm watching the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame induction and reading random blogs.

This leads me to two questions:

1. Is it wrong that I thought this would be a sex toy? I mean, really. A bong-bong boxer?

2. When did Eddie Vedder turn into a mountain man? Now, I have never been a Pearl Jam fan (even after repeated arm twisting by a certain man), but there was definitely a time when Eddie looked rather hot. Him being 15 years younger at the time doesn't count, since men only get better with age. Witness: then vs. now.

I like me a lumberjack. I really do dig facial scruff. I don't know why this is bothering me so much.

Ugh, back to reality. I really don't want to pay the IRS $2200. Anybody willing to do my taxes for me? This really blows.

But this, not so much. Oh, do I love me some musician nipples!

Photoblogging Friday 4.6.07

What's better than being the number one listing under the Google search string "tijuana strip club peanut"? Better than Spanky dressing exactly as you asked him to for your breakfast program?

This:

Downtown Los Angeles, at night

That's what I get to see on my drive home. Or what I got to see before this bullshit "daylight saving time" thing we do here in the States. So fucking lame.

Nighttime in LA, though? Fucking awesome.

Playing Team Sports

Here at Exxy HQ, we play favorites.

Our favorite Canadian posted this timely blog, just as I was about to share with everyone my new favorite game. That I was introduced to while surreptiously checking out the plainclothes CHP cops working our event the other day. (The entire California Supreme Court was in attendance, and they had to make sure the justices could get from Point A to B without breaking a sweat. Or having any fun.) I was really hoping for US Marshalls, but the state boys were good enough.

My new little slave pointed to the hottest of the group and said, "my team." She then pointed to a less attractive one and said, "your team." And that's the game. You pick your teams based on hottness. You basically get dibs on who you'd fuck based on how quickly you name them to your team.

It's also great when you're comparing straight and gay. You know, trying to guess who plays for what team.

And it's so much better than fantasy baseball or whatever the hell is going on now that April has come back around.

For more team sports: go here (not really safe for work, but whatever).

Oh, and to everyone who's come around looking for pictures of my autographed tits: you're welcome. And hello!

Lust in the Aisle

In a crowded supermarket, two people approach the express line at the same time. She (your humble GPG) has exactly the allowed amount of items in her cart. He (short, balding, and clearly, painfully shy) is only holding milk.

Is it wrong that when he said "ladies first" and I heard the Irish accent, I was instantly attracted to him?

I almost asked him to join me for coffee right then and there.

But then I didn't. Because I'm a pussy.

Breaking News: Hot Coach Brings Home Second Straight Victory

Congratulations to the Gators. And their HOT coach, Billy Donovan.

Is it just me or is he getting skinnier with each passing season? Billy, please eat something before you disappear. Invisible guys are less hot than real ones.

A Missed Opportunity

Had I not spent my entire day in bed on Sunday recovering from four solid nights of drinking heavily and/or just getting home late (but mostly drinking heavily), I would have pulled something like this to everyone I know.

F-U-C-K-I-N-G B-R-I-L-L-I-A-N-T!

And I wouldn't have stopped at marriage. There would have been a sheepish call to my parents and both brothers begging them for bail money, a teary-eyed call to the Krazy Mommy about an unplanned pregnancy, an angry text message to one blogger about a sudden eruption of chicken pox, and finally a call to Jon Tenney asking him to marry me.

Except I would have meant that last one. Because I really want to have his babies. And by that, I mean I just want to practice making them. A lot.

But no. Instead, my lazy ass didn't even remember the date until my roomie's boyfriend called her at 5 pm to say he'd been in an accident. She freaked out and then he walked through the door yelling April Fools! That was funny to everyone except her.

When I finally decided to get out of bed a half hour later, it was too late to start having the Fool's Day Fun.

Oh well. There's always next year. I suppose.

March by the Numbers

90 minutes of hot Jon Tenney action
3 hours of Krazy hospitality
1 marathon not run
29 consecutive hours of successful programming
2 consecutive 3-day weekends
5 more consecutive weekends with at least one of the Girls
11 entire days off
13 hours at the happiest place on earth
3 birthdays celebrated
77 years of life combined
30 teeny little muscle relaxers in one bottle
3 drinks with one spank-happy lawyer
2 hours enjoying the view of downtown Los Angeles from a hotel rooftop
1 baby boy announced
3 questions by one 4-year-old asking how the baby got in the belly
1 exposure to chicken pox
0 pocks on my body
2 passes by 8763 Wonderland at 2 am
80 dollars equaling four drinks
5 more drinks bought by a random stranger
3 hours of sleep allowed making it worth his while
1 new fabulously reckless leaf overturned
5 days without internet service
178 dollars paid for that luxury
100 minutes learning about war-induced PTSD
6 various alcoholic drinks imbibed to try erasing the impact
1 DJ met in line for tacos at 2 am
2.5 hours at the ballet
2 intermissions
4 text messages with Final Four updates
10 points between revenge and loss
1 half watching amazing defense by both teams
1 Bushmills-loving blogger I adore for attempting to scream us to victory
1 doctor-cum-blogger undercover back in the homeland