Friday, November 30, 2007

TheBoss Sends ThePeach an Important Work E-Mail

Here is the work E-Mail from TheBoss I found in my inbox when I got to work this morning:

A skinny little white guy goes into an elevator, looks up and sees this HUGE black guy standing next to him. The big guy sees the little guy staring at him, looks down, and says: '7 feet tall, 350 pounds, 20 inch private, 3 pound testicles, Turner Brown.'

The white man faints and falls to the floor. The big guy kneels down and brings him to, shaking him. The big guy says: 'What's wrong with you?' In a weak voice the little guy says, 'What EXACTLY did you say to me?'

The big dude says: 'I saw your curious look and figured I'd just give you the answers to the questions everyone always asks me.I'm 7 feet tall, I weigh 350 pounds, I have a 20 inch private, my testicles weigh 3 pounds each, and my name is Turner Brown.'

The small guy says: 'Turner Brown, Sweet Jesus, I thought you said, 'Turn around!'

Another day, another sexually innapropriate joke from TheBoss.


Friday, November 16, 2007

This is going to be random.

Yesterday was interesting. I had tons of work and was feeling sleepy, so I went to Tim Hortons for a large hit of speed. I was just going to get a large tea to give me energies to get through the day, but my uterus made me also buy cookies. I was a little annoyed with my uterus at that point, but those cookies sure looked tasty and, really, two cookies are unlikely to give me an extra chin or roll of back-fat. So I gave myself a little justifying pep-talk.

ThePeach: Peach, you’ve had a hard week. You have lots of work to do. You deserve two gooey TimWhore’s cookies. Two cookies won’t kill you.
ThePeach: And really, Peach, you’re still pretty far off from becoming morbidly obese. Enjoy a treat every once in a while.
ThePeach: Shh, Uterus…shhh…have a cookie.
Uterus: FUCKIN’ A!!!!

So, I nibbled on my cookies and walked back to my office.

Unfortunately, I passed one of god’s little practical jokes on the way back: a bake sale.

ThePeach: Oh god…oh god no…must…keep…walking…don’t…want…chins…
ThePeach: I won’t listen to your threats, uterus!
Pelvis: *screams in agony*
ThePeach: *to bake sale salesperson* Here’s all the change I have. Give me as much as you can fit in my backpack.
Uterus: *purrs*

Ok, so then I ate 6 cookies. That wasn’t as easily justifiable. And, since I am squeezing into a very tight dress tomorrow, this meant I had to take my most hated course of action.

I would have to go run on the motherfucking treadmill that night. Motherfuck!!!

But first I had to get through my day of work. I was literally up to my asshole in papers to write, so I was feeling the stress. This was not helped by an afternoon visit from TheBoss:

TheBoss: *opens office door* Hi, Peach!
ThePeach: shmyfglygrofsshh (mouth packed full of cookie)
TheBoss: I have to go do some running around. I’ll be back for my kids in a few hours.
ThePeach: *spits out cookie* excuse me?
TheBoss’Spawns: *scream and run into office*
TheBoss: Bye!
ThePeach: OH MY GOD.
TheBoss’Spawns: *scream, hit Peach with umbrellas*

Ya. My boss dumped his two young sons on me for the afternoon. They are 4 and 7 years old. I think you can imagine by now, through getting to know me through my blog, just how much I love young children. Young boys are demented hellions. Now factor into the equation that these young boys are the offspring of TheBoss. They spent the next 2 hours screaming and destroying my office, while I anxiously begged everyone on my msn list to come to my office and put a bullet in my eye.

So, that was fun.

Afterwards, I went home and weeped gently onto my futon while Milo attacked my feet. It was a sad scene.

So, then I went to the gym. That was also a sad scene. Those cookies did not appreciate being shaken up in my gullet on the treadmill. They did not appreciate it AT ALL. My uterus was also pretty pissed.

ThePeach: *wheeze* run….run bitch…run like the wind…
Uterus: WHAT ARE YOU DOING????!!!
ThePeach: *pant* run…keep running…don’t die…ignore that wedgie…
Uterus: OH MY GOD!! WHY???
ThePeach: *cough* run…run…ok, maybe pick that wedgie because it’s starting to seriously hurt, but for the love of god, keep running…
ThePeach: *dry-heave* run….run bitch…run away from the chins…

Ok. So, after that debacle I went home and worked on essays all night. That wasn’t very fun, either. FauxHawk came over around 11 and I was very glad to see him. We went to bed. But first, I drank some chakra tea.

I need to explain about the chakra tea. TheHippie (who else?) bought me a package of chakra tea for my birthday. 3 days ago I decided to try the “sexual” chakra tea, just for fun. It promised to awaken my sexual chakra (which is chakra number 2, in case anyone wants to look it up). I was pretty skeptical, but I figured what the fuck. Let’s see if TheHippie’s lesbian tea could get me laid.

My friends, it did. I don’t know if it was just a placebo effect, or if “chakra number 2” is Sanskrit for “put it in me”, but I essentially raped FauxHawk two nights in a row. I don’t think he minded. At least, he didn’t say anything, but I might have been muffling his voice by sitting on his face. He’s such a good sport.

Anyway, last night he came over and I was hoping to have a 3-night run. So I guzzled more chakra tea and jumped anxiously into bed.

FauxHawk was already asleep. Poor little lamb, I guess I wore him out those past two nights. Plus the whole “doctor” thing is tiring, I guess. So I was a good girlfriend and woke him up gently.

ThePeach: *slaps FauxHawk*
FauxHawk: zzzzz..huh what??!!!
ThePeach: Oh, sorry…were you sleeping?
FauxHawk: Yes.
ThePeach: *strokes FauxHawk gently* sorry….
FauxHawk: That’s ok…what…do you want?
ThePeach: Sex.
ThePeach: I’d like some sex, please.
FauxHawk: But…I’m sleeping…so tired…
ThePeach: I shaved!!!
FauxHawk: zzzzz…
ThePeach: *raises face to god* I SHAVED!!!!!

So, that was a lost cause. I lay in bed with the chakra number 2 tea coursing through my veins and anger coursing through my mind. I just drank a steaming mug of sexual prowess and had no outlet. FauxHawk snored gently beside me.

And then…poetic justice arrived in the form of a stinky monster named Milo.

Milo usually sleeps on the bed, and usually on top of me. It’s the one time each day where he’s cute. Last night, Milo jumped into the bed and crawled across FauxHawk’s dozing body. Milo started purring. The purring got louder. The bed started shaking.

Milo was homo-raping FauxHawk’s leg. Perhaps he drank the remnants of my number two chakra tea.

FauxHawk woke up to the sound of my hysterical laughter.

FauxHawk: What…what the fuck?
Milo: *hump*
FauxHawk: Why is the bed shaking?
Milo: *hump*
FauxHawk: Oh…my god…
Milo: *hump*
FauxHawk: Is he…am I being…oh my god…
Milo: *hump*

Oh, Milo. What a good kitten. This is what happens when you refuse my sex. My cat homo-rapes you.

At least someone got laid.

Anyway, Milo tired himself out pretty quickly and curled up to have a post-coital sleep on my stomach. I was no longer angry, and I told FauxHawk that I loved him and let him fall back asleep.

He’d been through enough that night.


Monday, November 05, 2007

ThePeach Hangs Out With a Rapist; Racist

I guess I had a pretty typical weekend. You know, for me. On Friday I went to my favourite bar and on Saturday I went to Ottawa for my grandpa’s birthday party. This seems like a pretty normal thing to do.

Until you tack on the raping and the black-face.

Ok. Slow down, Peach. Have another gin and just let the story flow of its own accord. Like the gin. Into your throat.

I’m ready.


Friday night rolled around after a long and stressful week, and FauxHawk and I headed to our favourite bar to have a few drinks with TheCrazy and TheCastrato, who are newlyweds. TheC’s had been on a romantic dinner-date earlier in the night, so I assumed they would show up at the bar a little buzzed and very much in love, and the night would then proceed pleasantly.

They showed up hobo-drunk and hating each other. They tripped through the bar door with their wine-stained teeth bared and immediately proceeded to tell us about the pitfalls of marriage. Ah, young love! Because they were already fall-down drunk and surly, FauxHawk and I felt the need to catch up. Or, as TheCastrato eloquently put it “GET FUCKING GUNNED. FUCK!”. No problem. Fast forward 2 hours later and:

1) FauxHawk is tackling TheCastrato to prevent him from fighting a guy in the street who looks like he could cut us all up.
2) TheCrazy is dancing sensually on the table and then falling skull-first onto the floor, which smells of onion rings urinal-pucks.
3) I am asking the uptight blonde next to me if I can motorboat her, and then doing it anyway just to loosen her up.

Watch out. Any one of you could be next to get your boating license.

Ok. So, I was in a happy place. TheCrazy and I then had an intimate conversation about…I don’t even know…and then it seemed like a fantastic idea to give each other lap dances. Much sensual motorboating ensued. And then, after TheCrazy sat in my lap and pitched herself face-first onto the floor yet again, but this time pulling me and a table with her, ensuring that the entire bar was staring at us…the following happened:

TheCrazy: *pushes table off her skull* Yoush knows, I really do loves you, Peach.
ThePeach: *untangles mangled leg from bar-stool* Isssh loves you, bitch.
TheCrazy: *stands up* I’msh gonna kiss you now.
ThePeach: *stands up* I’msh gonna likes it.
All Men: OH MY GOD.
ThePeach: That wash a nice kisssh. I appreciates your loves. I’ma gonna motorboat you, yoush sonofabitch.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you first.
ThePeach: Wows. Hey, didn’t you just kissh me alreadys?
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you now.
ThePeach: Wai-
All Men: HOLY GOD.
ThePeach: Whys do you keep kishing mes?
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you now.
ThePeach: But-
ThePeach: Oks. Enoughs.
TheCrazy: I likes your titsh.
ThePeach: Muffinsh make them grow.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna touch your titsh.
ThePeach: Huh?
ThePeach: Heh…oks…hands off my nips pleash.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you.
ThePeach: Oh jesu-
All Men: YES.
TheCrazy: Oks.
ThePeach: Oks.
TheCrazy: We cool?
ThePeach: Ya. We cool.
TheCrazy: Oks, cause I’m gonnas flash your titsh to the bar now.
ThePeach: WHA-
All Men: *applause*

So, to make a rambling drunken story short, the entire bar saw my tits and TheCrazy raped my mouth. To be fair to her, the rape was consensual. Emphasis on the sensual.

I’m pretty embarrassed about it now, though. Especially since the bartender, who was obviously sober, came over to our table just to tell me that he saw the whole thing and that I am a real “bundle of trouble”. Ok.

FauxHawk then took me home, where we immediately passed out. What a waste of a good dyking.


FauxHawk and I drove to Ottawa to meet up with my mom, my sister, and CockDoc for my grandpa’s 81st birthday party. I was only, like, 80% dying of hangover. Could have been worse. We met up at my grandpa’s favourite restaurant, which is kind of like a daycare center for the elderly.

You walk in and are met with the smell of old people and tomato soup. Tables of little old ladies are scattered about the room. A Dixie-land band is playing “When the Saints go Marching in” and the old ladies who can hear are clapping along, while the old ladies who are deaf are smiling blankly. You sit down and the menu consists of 6 pages of “Experienced Diners” sections, and 1 page of regular-person menu.

To my grandpa, this place is heaven. It is my hell.

The food is bland, mushy, and boring. The waitresses talk in EXTRA LOUD VOICES and call everyone SWEETIE PIE and HONEY. The band plays its music EXTRA LOUD so all the deaf ladies can hear it, which means that none of the old people can hear each other talk and the ambiance in the restaurant is a LOUD constant rendition of “Yellow Bird” peppered with the throaty voice of an old person shouting “WHAT?” every 10 to 15 seconds.

At one point, my grandpa walked over to one of the tables full of old ladies and wished a grey-haired woman a “Happy Birthday” since the waitress had just brought her out a cake. This was the scene:

Grandpa: *eyes table of ladies* I’m going to go wish that pleasant lady a happy birthday.
TigerCat: Oh man, he is totally taking her home tonight.
ThePeach: *chokes on tomato soup*
Grandpa: *shuffles over to table*
Grandpa: *leans into grey-haired woman and presumably wishes her a happy birthday*
Grey-Haired Lady: *smiles blankly*
Grandpa: *shuffles back to our table*
Grey-haired Lady: WHAT?
Grey-Haired Lady: WHAT?
Friends of Lady: WHAT?

After dinner, and after TigerCat and I took turns dancing with my grandpa in front of the band (“follow my lead, girls. I’m gonna spin ya”), I went back to my grandpa’s house with my mom and grandpa. TigerCat and CockDoc drove back to UniversityTown, and FauxHawk went out with some friends. I put on my sweat pants and prayed to Allah that my mom and grandpa would just go to bed so I could watch tv alone. No dice.

My grandpa grabbed a bottle of wine and suggested we watch a movie together. The movie he picked was: “College”. A black and white, slapstick comedy, silent film starring Buster Keaton. It was filmed in 1927.

I spent my Saturday night watching a silent film with my grandpa. I am 25. Is this normal?

The film was pretty much everything you’re imagining right now. The only sound was vaudeville piano and every 10 seconds a screen with lines such as “Esther was the most popular gal in the malt shoppe” would pop up to aid the progression of the plot.

My grandpa got a real kick out of the movie, and guffawed appreciatively as the male hero tried out for the baseball team but, saints preserve us, didn’t know the rules of the game of baseball. Comedic genius!

And then something caught my attention. The male hero, only referred to as “the boy” in the text screens (“The boy preferred science over baseball”), decided to get a part-time job. Luckily, he walked past a restaurant with a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. Ooh, relief is felt by all. Until the next screen pans out and shows the entire “Help Wanted” sign.

“Help Wanted: Negro Waiter”

It gets worse.

The next scene shows the male hero in a waiter’s uniform, holding a tray of food. His face and hands are painted black.

The male lead was dressed in black-face. BLACK-FACE!!!

My grandpa is of course guffawing and slapping his thigh with the hand that isn’t wrapped around the bottle of wine. I am sitting in shock on the plastic-covered couch, asking god why he keeps feeling the need to send me material for my blog. Doesn’t he think my life is interesting enough without schizophrenics in my workplace and black-face in my movies?

Back to the movie. Of course, the real “negroes” working in the restaurant are made to act like wild animals, and the kitchen is like some bizarre jungle where the tribes dance about like monkeys and the “black queen” (aka lady stirring the steaming vat of soup) gives sex eyes to every “negro” within 5 miles. Once said steam melts the blackface off the male lead, the “negroes” chase him out of the restaurant with large knives and sticks.

I just…how do you…is there a reaction for a situation like this?

My grandpa could see that I was grappling with something major, and turned to me to say something reassuring.

Grandpa: He’s not really a negro, Peach. He’s in black-face.

Ok. So, that was my weekend. The two nights couldn’t have been more dichotomous if I had tried. Friday finds me being molested by TheCrazy, and Saturday finds me getting a lesson in black-face from my grandpa.

A quick note to God: You can stop now.


Thursday, November 01, 2007

ThePeach Gets a Visitor at Work

I have been dying to blog about this for days, but unfortunately I have been up to my asshole in essays and have literally not had an extra second available. But now that I have handed in my paper and not slept in about 4 days, I will gleefully attempt to convey the scene from last Monday to you.

10am. I had just walked into my office with a massive tea in hand. I sat down and turned on my computer. I had gotten 4 hours of sleep the night before thanks to the massive procrastination of my essays for the past 2 weeks which culminated in the manic writing of scores of bullshit while hooked up to a constant caffiene drip. I was cranky. I was still fuzzy-eyed.

As I suckled on the sweet teat of tim hortons and opened my favourite celebrity gossip web pages, a disheveled looking woman wandered into my office and stared at me blankly. She scratched her head, sending her short hair into further disarray, and continued to stare at me with her bug-eyes.

I wasn't alarmed. My office is right next to the main door to the building, so I often get lost and confused people in my office asking me for directions. These people are usually stretch-pant clad undergrad whores, however, and this woman may have been wearing alarmingly tight acid-washed jeans with zippers at the ankle, but her face full of wrinkles and fresh scent of homelessness clued me into thinking that I was not dealing with an undergrad. However, she was still probably just lost, so I asked her if I could help her find something. What followed was one of my more interesting work conversations.

ThePeach: Do you need directions?
Lady: ...*scratch**cough* you do psychology?
ThePeach:...I work for the psychology department.
Lady:...*tugs on denim vest* can you tell me about my nervous system?
ThePeach: I'm sorry?
Lady: The brain...and nervous system...can you help me with my case? *starts looking in all the corners of the room*
ThePeach: Maybe try the main office. Upstairs.
Lady: They can't help me.
ThePeach: Go there anyway. *starts getting annoyed*
Lady: I used to be an alcoholic...would be affected?
ThePeach: Maybe. No. I don't know. Yes.
Lady: I like your office.
ThePeach: ...I'm just going to make a quick phone call to my boss.
Lady: No...that's not necessary. *cough*...can you help me with my nervous system? *sits in a chair and pulls it up to where she is sitting within an inch of my face*
ThePeach: *tries to recall any memory of self-defence moves/remembers that she never went to that self-defence class because she was hungover* I don't think I can help you.
Lady: Somebody put a computer chip in my brain.
Lady: Somebody put a computer chip in my brain and I need help getting it out.
ThePeach: ...try the main office. Upstairs.

So, the scary lady stayed in my office for another 15 minutes, talking in her monotone voice about her nervous system, until another woman walked into my office, took the lady by the arm, and led her away. I can't be too sure what the fuck happened, but it might have had something to do with jebus knowing that I have a blog and wanting to give me interesting material.