Soccer is the most popular sport in the world. Thank you, third world countries. - Tosh.O

Summer office attire pisses me off.

Rule number one: If your arms can double as thighs, you should have no legal right to wear sleeveless shirts. If you have vision that is sufficient enough to operate a vehicle, then your sight should be clear enough to recognize that sleeveless, button-up shirts are absurd and should not be worn. In fact, they should not be manufactured. 1985 called, they want their sleeveless, button-up shirts back…all of them.

Rule number two: No flip flops. Feet are gross and yours are no exception. I don’t want to look at your gangly toes when I pass you in the hallway and I don’t need to smell your feet during a meeting. Plus, I have my own bunions to worry about. I don’t need yours in my face when I’m waiting to use the copier. And flip flops on men? Completely deplorable. The only articles of clothing that are acceptable on both sexes are jeans, t-shirts and baseball caps. If you’re a guy and you wear flip flops, you may as well get a bowl haircut…you have no fashion sense. You deserve to be dateless on every national holiday.

I work in a semi-professional office. I use the term “semi” because I’ve seen things at work that could make the People of Wal-Mart look like they’re at a black tie event. For this reason I tend to stay at my desk all day. I venture out for food, water, and to use the shitter. It never ceases to amaze me the crazy things I see during my brief moments outside of my sweet, neutral-toned, cubicle walls.

Take today, for example. If I had a nickel for every burly woman I saw wearing a tank top, I could’ve called off work and not even used a vacation day. One woman was wearing a sleeveless, button-up shirt, and I had a clear view of her beige bra through the arm hole. Well, I assume it was beige, and not a white bra that just gave up. It was one of those industrial bras, the kinds with the super wide straps and 4 clasps in the back…the 6-string bass guitar of bras, if you will. It was almost like seeing the Loch Ness Monster, without the coolness and excited picture-taking.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am not, by ANY stretch of the imagination, a fashionista. I have 3 basic rules to my style: 1. It’s gotta be clean, 2. Don’t let the ass hang out, and 3. Never try matching blacks. Maybe that’s why I don’t understand 90% of what I see, like kids wearing pajamas in public (when did the universal nightmare become socially acceptable?) and too-skinny girls who probably cut themselves, wearing knitted scarves indoors. When has anyone ever commented on how chilly their neck was? It’s a senseless fashion from every angle. If I walked around wearing only earmuffs, people would think I looked stupid. Why? Because I WOULD.

I’m not usually this angry. I blame it on a book I’m reading. It’s a Jodi Picoult novel, and holy shit, she’s one of those slit-your-wrists writers. But she’s clever – she lures you in with false sense of, “This is quirky but interesting,” and then right when you’ve invested too much to turn back (somewhere around Chapter 4), her style morphs into that of a sad, anemic, my-uncle-raped-me-when-I-was-12, tortured 19 year old song writer. The only problem with that, is it only works for 19 year old song writers, not pre-menopausal women who should’ve used their Liberal Arts degree for a better purpose, like writing blogs and working for The Man (ooo, burn on me, I’m a clever one).

I may be angry on the outside, but I’m happy on the inside. My vacation starts in approximately 25 hours, and I can’t wait! I’m tagging along on my boyfriend’s family vacation, and I am fairly certain it will be blog worthy. And if not, I’ll just lie my face off when I blog about it.

"My need to pee trumps YOUR need to pee." - quoted by me, to my dog, 5 minutes ago.

In my defense, I've had a few beers. You don't mess with that. ANYWAY...

See this girl? That's my half-sister. Technically, she's really my 2/3 sister. Super-duper long story short, my biological dad is a scumbag whoremonger who deserves to have his dick fall off. And down a storm drain. Never to be seen again. (I'll give you a moment to let that sink in) Needless to say, the only genetic difference between this chick and me is that we have different grandmothers. Our grandfathers were brothers, our mothers...first cousins. Well, that and I have waaaay better hair. So there's your "WTF" moment of the day. You're welcome.

It's no shock to anyone who knows me that people have said I was "mean." The reality is, those people have no sense of humor. Thankfully, I have discovered that the 'mean gene' is, in fact, for real. I found my 2/3 sister's Facebook page (thank you, Bing). Unfortunately (for her), my nosy ass discovered she only had most of it privatized (if that's a word...it is now). Luckily for me, she's *just* enough of an attention whore that she made one page public. Here are some blurbs from her posts:

"Money doesn't buy happiness but I'd rather cry in my Ferrari."
"Move out of the way, children, I've been waiting 11 years to see Toy Story 3."
"I don't like chicks with tans; it means they've been out of the kitchen."
"I don't care if the spider's 'not hurting anyone.' I want it DEAD."
"The amazing feeling of victory when you see karma kick someone's ass..."
"I'm gonna kill this bug...HOLY-SHIT-IT-FLIES!"
"Locking your animal in your room to make it spend time with you..."
"I will sit in my car an extra 10 seconds to hear part of a song."
"You cannot fathom the immensity of the f-ck I do not give."
"Saying 'Oh my God, I almost died!' when you really didn't."
"I can't hear you, so I'll just laugh and hope it wasn't a question."
"People saying 'We can still be friends' is like saying 'Your dog is dead but you can still keep it.' "

Be honest: if I didn't preface those phrases with, I didn't write these, you'd probably think they were me. Creepy, huh? Especially when you consider I've not only never met this chick, but she's a decade younger than me. Apparently the Douchebag Gene is a strong one. I dare say it's stronger than AIDs...well, if AIDS was a gene. Which it's not. But if it were...I'm gonna shut up now.

The point of the lesson is this: Genetics are a strong, strong, force. It's like the Jedi of Biology. Remember that the next time you have sex, and please, use a condom. Because that person only seems that cool 'cuz your drunk.

Write much? (warning: this is a scattered blog)

Alright, fair enough. I haven't written in awhile. But check it out: I was sitting outside earlier and watched an ant carry his dead ant friend back to the ant...place. Hill? Hive? Wherever ants live. I thought it was a sweet gesture in the natural world. There's your "awww" moment. Now shut up.

We're in the middle of a heat wave right now. If one more person says, "Hot enough fer ya?" I will set them on fire and say, "Actually, until THISMOMENT, it wasn't. So thanks."

Where am I going with this? Nowhere.

I just finished eating a bowl of spaghetti made with homemade sauce I found in the freezer. I admit, it's a sauce that my ex "fiance" made. I use the term "fiance" lightly, since we were engaged for all of about 3 1/2 hours. Anyway, I think this sauce was the only productive thing he did in all of 2008 (and maybe even 2009) - assuming you don't count the ridiculous amounts of masturbation and the massive amounts of bacon he made (both of which were usually followed by a nap). But I digress. It's good stuff, regardless of how much he sucked. I only hope he washed his hands when he made it.

As I'm sure you all know by now, I like food. I look foward to summertime (heat aside) because of the parties. Where there are parties there is food. Hells yeah!

I hit a party a few weeks ago. While I was on my 5th serving of pulled pork, pasta salad and shrimp cocktail, the heroin-addict brother of the hostess approached me and asked, "Where have you been all my life?" I eyeballed him - too skinny, needed haircut, faded black jeans and I KNOW that Slayer hasn't performed recently, and I responded, "Uh, probably at school or at a JOB." I stuffed my face with cheese and walked away. Was it rude? Absolutely. But drug addicts don't count as real people, everyone knows that.

Later on (same party), his drunk hostess sister came over to me. Side note: Here's the thing about parties - they are very much like poker games. If you look around a poker table and can't identify the sucker, then it's probably YOU. In this case, if you look around a party and can't spot the asshole, guess what?

Back to my story. The drunk hostess comes over to me and starts chatting me up. I've met her a few times before at other family functions. Blah blah blah and 20 minutes later she says, "I really like you. We should hang out sometime!" I looked at her, smiled and said, "Absolutely!" pause "But what's my name?" I'm sure if I listened closely at that moment, I would have heard her poop a little in her pants. And let me tell ya, it's funny enough when a drunk person slurs, but add a panicked stutter and the results are PRICELESS. She had no idea who I was, and I had to break it to her that my name was Michelle and I only hung out with people who knew my name. Who brought the asshole?

A few weeks later I went to another party. This time, the hostess was a close(r) friend of mine and while we were sitting around her patio table, she asked when I had my nose pierced. She apparently mistook a mole on my nose as a piercing scar. Funny enough, when I was around 14 years old my mother mistook this same mole for a blackhead. She spent 15 minutes trying to pop it before I realized what was happening and stopped the action. I had to explain to my friend that it wasn't a self-inflicted scar, that (unfortunately) I was born this way. Before she could respond, I said, "Oh, and before you ask, NO, I was not in a fire. I just have a shitty complexion."

I guess it could have been worse - she could have asked when my baby was due, or insist I take my backpack off (and I wasn't wearing one). I find it refreshing when other people have a 'foot in mouth' moment - usually I'M the one who does that kind of stuff...like when the blind guy at my gym walked by and said, "Goodbye," and I responded with, "See ya later." And I NEVER say that! Of all days...

This is all I've got. See? All this waiting for a blog and it's a whole lotta nuthin'. OH! I almost hit a rabbit on my way into work this morning. And as a result of that, I almost hit a mailbox and then a bike some kid left in his front yard. There's a little juice for ya.

The picture of Justin Bieber is just because he's a pretty big deal right now, and I'll do anything to be trendy. Besides, if his own mother can exploit him, why can't I?