Friday, January 19, 2007

Randomness: In 4 Movements

Movement 1: A conversation with TheBoss

ThePeach: I finished enetering all those surveys for you about the sex lives of senior citizens. It only took me 2 weeks and a little piece of my soul.
TheBoss: *flips through surveys* Whoa! This woman answered "No desire for any sexual activity whatsoever"!!
ThePeach: Ya.
TheBoss: ...sounds like my wife.

Movement 2: Overheard in my dank, smelly, favourite Universitytown Bar

Random Chick: Oh, god. There should be a "Smells of Universitytown" tour, and this place should be a stop.

I guess some people don't appreciate the delicate aroma of urinal pucks, yeast, and fresh death.

Movement 3: ThePeach's Uterus Makes Poor Shopping Decisions

I'm not allowed to shop when I have PMS. PMS makes me crazy. My brain says "you can't afford $80 anti-cellulite cream. Plus it won't work. Just keep going to the gym. Bitch, you put that credit card away. NOW!", but my Uterus has a different view of things...

ThePeach's Uterus: BITCH, you are so FAT. Nobody loves us! Why? Because your ass doesn't look like Kiera Knightley's! That's why! LOOK AT THAT MAGAZINE COVER! LOOK AT IT! LOOK AT HER SMALL, PERT ASS! SHE IS BETTER THAN YOU!!! SHE HASN'T EATEN IN 2 YEARS!! GOD, I HATE HER!!! *sob* Just buy the fucking cream and make me some brownies. Actually, buy that magazine, too.


Movement 4: Cleavage Finds Gash

Cleavage was in England visiting her internet lover, when she stumbled upon an adult novelty store in a dark alley. I'm not too sure what she was doing in that dark alley, but if I had to guess I'd say it involved a greased-up fist and someone's pooper. Anyway, she took a picture, knowing I would appreciate this:

Gash. They get right to the point in England, don't they?


Thursday, January 11, 2007

Milo is an Atheist; Hates ThePeach

I think Milo has rejected both religions, here. Santa is a religion, right? To me, picture 1 says "Oy, I'm going to eat your soul." and picture 2 says "ho-ho-ho, I'm about to bite your cornea."

Please don't call animal services. They'll take him away. And then who will vomit in my bed? Other than myself every other Saturday.



Wednesday, January 10, 2007

ThePeach Repents; Hates You

I will not apologize for making fun of mentally retarded people in my blog. If I apologized for every type of person that I was brutally insulting to, this blog would be 50% apologies, 50% offensive, and 100% bullshit. Why 100% bullshit? Because I am JOKING when I make fun of people, and my apologies would thus be FALSE. So, everything I write would be lies. Do you want me to write 100% lies? Why do you want that, you sick skanks? Lies make baby jesus cry.

But, since I have insulted some people that I care about, I will repent for this apparent sin.

I just donated $25 to the Canadian Special Olympics Foundation.

Seriously. Not kidding you. Don’t believe me? Here:

I chose $25 because that is exactly how much money I have made off the commercials on my blog in the past year (which is sad, I know). So, every penny that this blog – and all of its hilarious offensiveness! – has earned, is being put towards the Special Olympics.

Put your hands up in the air! Put your hands UP. IN. THE. AIR.

Now, a brief word: I’m only doing this ONCE. Don’t think y’all can get all up in my grill about every other group of persons I insult and think that I will donate them all money. I’m just doing this to prove a few points:

1. I don’t hate retarded people. I don’t want to drown them. I hope my $25 buys some special olympics swimmer a set of floaties and maybe a pool noodle just so that he WON’T drown.

2. I am not totally devoid of feelings, despite being half-dead on the inside from my upbringing and slowly killing the other half of my soul via alcohol. When people get mad at me, it hurts and I get upset. Ya, that’s right. Maybe I’ll even cry later. Maybe it will be because I accidentally hit my head, but what do you people want??

3. TheHippie is probably the only one of all my friends who has a shot of making it to heaven, and I don’t want to ruin those chances for her by having her soul-mate seem like a heartless and offensive bitch. I think I read in the bible that Jesus sees us when we’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake, and knows when we’ve been bad or good…or something like that. I do know for sure that Jesus is psychic, so he totally knows what just happened. TheHippie: when you get to heaven, tell Jesus that I’m sorry about the time I stole a name-tag from the church lost-and-found when I was 12. The name-tag was “Heinz Burger”, though! I think Jesus will understand.

If anyone would like to make a donation to any other groups that I have offended, here is a list that you may find helpful:

Stretch-pant wearing Skinnies:

I think that about covers it.


Tuesday, January 09, 2007

ThePeach Is Going To Hell; Takes TheCrip

In case anyone wasn’t already positive that I would not only rot in hell, but also become the dark lord’s evil-consultant (TheDevil: I think today I’ll kill some orphans. ThePeach: Molest them first…then kill them. TheDevil: You so craaazy!), here is a convo I had with TheCrip over msn today:

TheCrip: I went to a hockey game this weekend.
ThePeach: Coo’
TheCrip: It was Special Olympics Day!
ThePeach: OH MY GOD.
TheCrip: I walked in and this tard ran over waving a flyer at me and yelled “SUPPORT SPECIAL OLYMPICS” in this amazing tard voice!
ThePeach: YES! OH MY GOD!
TheCrip: Unfortunately I was with TheHippy, so I couldn’t laugh out loud…
ThePeach: Shit, that damn hippy ruins everything.
TheCrip: Well, she did laugh when all the tards started dancing to that song “Put your hands up in the air! Put your hands up! In. The. Air!”
TheCrip: I immediately thought of you.
ThePeach: Did you videotape it on your cell phone?
TheCrip: I know I failed you.
ThePeach: You’re fucking right you failed me! FUCK! DANCING TARDS, THECRIP!
TheCrip: I’m so sorry. My mom’s dog-sitter is a tard. She looks like a potato.
ThePeach: YES. You do realize that karma is going to bite us in the ass and that our own children will be tards, right?
TheCrip: Do you think if we mated that our karma would cross each other out?
ThePeach: No, I think we would breed tards with flippers. But I have a plan. It’s not illegal to drown tards, right?
TheCrip: They won’t drown if they have flippers. But we can shoot them out of potato cannons.
ThePeach: YES! And we’ll aim the cannons at cripples! We’ll kill 2 birds with 1 tard!
TheCrip: We’re going to hell.
ThePeach: I can take it.
TheCrip: And the tards will be our overlords.
ThePeach: *shudder*

I'm coming to you soon, Satan. Patience...patience...


Tuesday, January 02, 2007

It's Not Christmas Unless ThePeach's Mom Cries

Sorry for the delay, sluts. The next person to harass me (TheCrip) about updating my blog (TheCrip) is going to get a foot in the anus (TheCrip) and maybe a “Block. Delete.” off my msn (TheCrip). I’m just saying…

Anyway, here is what you’ve all been waiting for:

ThePeach’s Christmas with the Family


My Mother Hates Me: Now I Know for Sure

Ever since my mom sold our house and precious belongings (“sorry honey, I didn’t think you’d still want your baby pictures”) to move to the other side of the province with her boyfriend, we’ve been holding Christmas in her teeny little apartment in the middle of nowhere. That means that I spend my holidays stuffed in a small apartment with my mom, TigerCat, my mom’s bf, and my grandpa. There is no privacy. I can’t drop a deuce without my grandpa or my mom asking me how it went. There is nowhere to go. The apartment is literally surrounded by nothing. It is, in short, pure hell. Stuff my family in a small apartment with no privacy and no escape for a week? Sure, why don’t we just murder some kittens and maybe nuke an orphanage at the same time? It all has the same outcome: pure macabre disaster.

Our holidays can be summed up in a few choice words:

1. neglect
2. cheese
3. outright hate
4. disturbing images
5. torrid sobbing

Let us begin.

On the first day of Christmas, my family gave to me: NEGLECT

It started when my mom picked me and my sister up at the train station. The time was 7pm. We had been on the train all day. We were tired. We were hungry. Our mother had told us that we were putting up the tree that night, so we were at least looking forward to that. And then, it began…

*in the car*
Peach/Tiger Mom: We’re not putting up the tree tonight.
ThePeach: What?
TigerCat: Why?
Peach/Tiger Mom: Because it’s late.
ThePeach: It’s 7pm.
Peach/Tiger Mom: It’s late.
TigerCat: But you told us we were doing it tonight. That’s why we got here tonight.
Peach/Tiger Mom: I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

*in the car, 5 minutes later*
TigerCat: So, you know how that friend of yours stayed in the guest room for the past month? The one who had a nervous breakdown and didn’t bathe and had an infectious rash all over her body?
Peach/Tiger Mom: She bathed a few times.
ThePeach: Ya well…did you wash the sheets? And the blanket? Since we’re staying in that bed for the next week and all…
Peach/Tiger Mom: The rash wasn’t infectious.
TigerCat:…did you wash the sheets, mom?
Peach/Tiger Mom: I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.
ThePeach: I don’t want a goddamn rash, mom! Did you wash the sheets?? Why won’t you just answer us??
Peach/Tiger Mom: The rash was starting to heal by the time she left.
Peach/Tiger Mom: *parks car* We’re here!
ThePeach: For the love of fuck.

*in the apartment, after hugging our grandpa and our mom’s boyfriend*
Peach/Tiger Mom: Well, you girls must be hungry.
ThePeach: Yes, I am. Let’s sit down for dinner.
Peach/Tiger Mom: We already ate.
TigerCat: What?
Peach/Tiger Mom: We went ahead without you.
ThePeach: We just took the train for over 5 hours to come visit you and you couldn’t wait for us for dinner??
Peach/Tiger Mom: It’s late.
TigerCat: It’s 7pm!!
Peach/Tiger Mom: OH GOD I’M HAVING A HOT FLASH. *opens window; freezing rain pelts everyone in apartment* OH GOD IT’S HOT.

*the next morning*
ThePeach: *opens eyes; stretches; scratches face* I’m getting up now.
TigerCat: *scratches head* ok.
ThePeach: *opens bedroom door; encounters fully dressed mother heading out the front door* Mom? Where are you going?
Peach/Tiger Mom: Oh, just out for brunch!
ThePeach: But…why didn’t you tell us or wake us up? Can you wait a bit? We’ll come.
Peach/Tiger Mom: No, I thought just me and your grandpa and my boyfriend would go.
Peach/Tiger Mom: Bye, sweetie!

On the second day of Christmas, my family gave to me: CHEESE

I’m sure that by now you all know how much I adore the cheese. Cheese is my lover. I would marry cheese if I could, because cheese would never leave me. Cheese is always with me; every time my thighs touch while walking or my heart stops while sleeping – cheese is there. So it was no surprise that I asked my mom to stock up on cheese for the holidays. She lied and told me that she bought all kind of cheese, when in reality she just took some scary preserved cheeses out of a gift basket given to her and her boyfriend. These cheeses were wrapped in foil and did not require refrigeration. They probably gave me blood cancer.

One such cheese was called “Zingg” and this cheese scared me the most of all the scary preserved cheeses. It came in little foil triangles with pictures of cows on the front. Right away, I was alarmed because I don’t like to be reminded of which animal the food I eat comes from. I’m no box-eating hippy, but I just get thrown off when I’m reminded that my favourite foods consist of, for instance, the juice that is squeezed out of a cow’s rubbery nipples. “Zingg” wasn’t looking too appealing.

I still ate it. Zingg tastes like feet. TigerCat liked it:

TigerCat: It tastes like Kraft Dinner!
ThePeach: Let me try some. *peels silver wrapper off Zingg; spreads on cracker; consumes* OH GOD.
TigerCat: Isn’t it good?!
ThePeach: OH GOD *clutches stomach* OH GOD, IT’S HORRIBLE.
TigerCat: But it tastes like KD!
ThePeach: *gags* It tastes like day-old Kraft Dinner NOODLES!

On the third day of Christmas, my family gave to me: OUTRIGHT HATE

My mom did a really great job this year of making my sister and I feel unwelcome. You’ve gotten a taste of this in the NEGLECT section. I should also mention that she:

- did not do any groceries for Christmas dinner
- did not do any Christmas shopping until 4 days before Christmas, and told us this.
- told me that she didn’t like hosting Christmas and didn’t want to do it anymore.
- did not put up any Christmas decorations
- left us one towel. For two people.
- spent 3 of the 5 days that we were visiting doing fun family activities without her daughters. We would wake up to notes left on the kitchen table.
- yelled; cried

It’s the most wonderful time of the year, don’t you think?

On the fourth day of Christmas, my family gave to me: DISTURBING IMAGES

Here are some of the images my family delighted me with at the dinner table on Christmas day:

Image #1
Courtesy of: Grandpa
Situation: Turkey Carving
Effect on ThePeach: chokes on wine

Grandpa: Spread ‘er legs and dig ‘er out!

Image #2
Courtesy of: Mom and Mom’s Boyfriend
Situation: Clearing table
Effect on ThePeach: throws up into napkin

Boyfriend: Can you grab it?
Peach/Tiger Mom: I live to grab it.

Image #3
Courtesy of: Mom
Situation: Pouring wine
Effect on ThePeach: Threefold (anger, disturbed, blame for poor math skills and other mental deficits)

Peach/Tiger Mom: This is the wine I was drinking when I got pregnant with you, ThePeach!

Thanks a fucking lot, whore. Next you’re going to pull out your crack-pipe and tell me how you celebrated my 6 month gestation. If I had been born with a flipper I would slap you in the mouth with it right now.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my family gave to me: TORRID SOBBING

As my title suggests, it’s just not Christmas unless my mom throws a crying fit. She’s awesome that way. She knows how to take a warm and loving holiday and turn it into a reason to slit your wrists with a butter knife. The crying fit almost invariably occurs during the cooking of Christmas dinner, which is when my mom’s stress levels reach a point that only be described as “neurotically amazing”. My sister and I actually cook most of the dinner, yet my mom still finds a way to make it seem like she has never worked so hard in her life and that she hates us, the tumors of her womb, for forcing her to partake. My sister and I will be calmly peeling potatoes and basting the turkey, when my mom will explode into the kitchen, knock over a pot, yell at us for criticizing her, moan about how much work needs to be done, hit her head on a cupboard door, swear, cry, and go hide in her room while my sister and I clean up the trail of wine and antidepressants she left in her wake. She’ll emerge 20 minutes later to tell us how much she loves us. On her way out of the kitchen she’ll trip on an apron string and the whole scene will be repeated.

Here is how this year’s torrid sobbing went down:

My sister and I were in control of the kitchen. Everything was cooking beautifully and we were being totally competent and amazing. My mom didn’t trust us and watched over us like a hawk. A hawk who doesn’t know when to shut up. A hawk who has hot flashes every 13 minutes and tells us about them in detail. A hawk who needs to be slapped in the mouth. Yet we kept calm, somehow. Things were still somewhat civil…until:

Peach/Tiger Mom: Ok, you girls did an adequate job on the gravy. Now, I’ll just pour it into this gravy boat…*spills gravy all over hell’s half acre*
TigerCat: Shit.
Peach/Tiger Mom: *pitiful sobs*
ThePeach: Jesus Christ.
Peach/Tiger Mom: *torrid sobbing*
TigerCat: It’s not Christmas unless mom cries.
Peach/Tiger Mom: *little-girl giggles* Dinner time!