It’s been a year, so…

It’s about time I picked up my random and fleeting interest in blogging again.

My full-service gas station days are numbered

I am moving to Pennsyltucky soon. There, I said it. Although this is something I’m actually pretty psyched about, there is one thing that, as a native Jersey broad, I will never get used to: pumping my own gas.

It doesn’t so much have to do with laziness as it does the completely ridiculous ordeal I seem to endure every single time I need gas. Which is a lot; PA is a big state. It goes a little something like this:

The scene: Wawa self-service gas station, 7:45am.

I pull into the parking lot, scanning the gas pumps for an empty spot. This particular gas station is huge, so there should be no problem finding one. But for some reason, every spot is taken. I pull up behind decrepit looking Taurus and wait my turn. After about a minute, I realize that not only have I not seen anyone pump any gas into this car whatsoever, the person sitting in the driver’s seat appears to be either asleep or dead.

I leave this Weekend at Bernie’s scenario behind, and look for empty pump. There are none, so I pull up behind a red pick-up truck and wait my turn once again. The driver is painstakingly wiping away every speck of dirt from the truck’s windows, as one would wipe away the tears of a crying child. He cleans the windshield wipers, the door handles, but it isn’t until he begins lovingly buffing the rims that I decide to try my luck at a different pump.

I know I’ve already completely screwed myself by not sticking with one pump, and at this point I know I would’ve been better off waiting for Weekend at Bernie’s. Someone would have to notice there’s a dead guy in there eventually, right? As I’m circling the parking lot again, I notice that most of the owners of these cars are not pumping gas; they’ve just left their cars at the pump so they can go into Wawa and bullshit with the shim behind the register for 45 minutes. Don’t get me wrong; I have no problem with trannys, I just don’t consider them to be a part of my morning routine.

At last, I’ve found an empty pump. I get out of my car and prepare to fight with my gas cap. As usual, it’s stuck. I stand there pulling and jerking it around for so long that it would probably appear to others that I was the shim. It makes a cracking noise most likely indicating that I broke it, but I don’t care. I swipe my credit card, and pray this particular machine works. If it doesn’t, I’ll have to go inside and make an educated  guess as to how much gas I need, and if I forget the number of the pump I’m at I’ll have to awkwardly excuse myself and run outside to find out what it is.

Luckily, that is not the case. I hit the unleaded button, remove the filthy nozzle thing from its home, and begin the awful process of pumping my own gas. If it’s a cold day, I’ll be imagining which fingers I’ll have to get amputated from standing in the cold for several minutes while my ginormous gas tank guzzles down its fill of petrol. When the gas finally stops flowing, I remove the nozzle and throw it back into its holder. I almost never put it back the right way, and I almost never consider the possibility that a mistake like this could ignite the entire Wawa.

That’s why, in New Jersey, we have professionals for this sort of thing.

The life of a hustler is not the life for me

Back in the day, I was endlessly fascinated with the lavish lifestyles that many rappers brag about providing for their women in their songs. Like T.I., for example. Although he can’t seem to form coherent sentences (if you’ve ever watched T.I.’s Road to Redemption, you know what I mean), he sure as hell can buy his ladies a lot of shit. And that’s really all I wanted: a lot of shit.

I was always curious about how exactly one rolled with a hustler. Do you sell drugs, perform sexual favors, or both? And is there a way around those things? If the hustler takes you shopping, does he pick the stores? Does he come in the dressing room with you? Cause if you don’t like him like that, it could be weird. But then, isn’t the whole arrangement a big facade anyway?

I used to think that maybe, just maybe, I could roll with a hustler. That is, until Jenny and I were propositioned by LL Cool J’s opening act in Atlantic City this past weekend.

Or so he said, anyway. My Google searches have turned up naught for a Mr. Atlantic City. He was strolling through the casino with an entourage of four guys that looked like Ice Cube in various stages of life, which is the only reason we sort of believed him. His opening line was, “Chocolate cake goes great with white milk.” No amount of showers could wash away the filth we felt at that moment. When he ran out of gross innuendos, he made promises of shopping trips and a lifetime of financial stability. His diamond chain and matching diamond studs suggested he could one day make the right hussy very happy. But we were not those hussies.

I know he was probably full of crap and his pockets were more likely filled with roofies than Benjamins, but I wonder what happens to the hoes who actually buy his lines. When you hit on everyone with boobs in a casino,  you’re bound to find one prime for drugging at some point. But do Mr. Atlantic City and the rest of the so-called gangsters slash gentlemen of the world make good on their fiscal promises?

I guess I’ll never know.

There will be blog

Eventually.

Nevermind, Britain is a lot weirder than Pennsylvania

Holy Crapstone.

I could be a reality TV star, I just don’t want to

So this past Saturday, Jenny and I drove down to the Dave & Buster’s in Plymouth Meeting (yet another nonsensical Pennsyltucky town name) where they were having a casting call for I Survived a Japanese Game Show. Random, I know. But I figured with Jenny’s sass and my desire to be humiliated on national television, we were shoe-ins. Then I read the waiver, which stated that everyone who was chosen for the show was required to stay in Tokyo for five weeks with zero contact from anyone in the States. As much as I love sushi and isolation, I thought that was a bit much. I decided to go through with the interview anyway, just to see what would happen (and also because I drove like and hour and a half to get there). While we were waiting, we made friends with some guy who said he owned the hottest bar in Reading, PA. I think it was called the California Grill. So big-ups to Steve or Joe or whatever your name was if you’re reading this.

Anyway, after filling out questionaire detailing my dreams, aspirations, and athletic abilities (mine were kickball and awesomeness), I was finally called into Party Room One. A short, energetic dude named Billy who worked for the casting agency introduced himself. He asked me a bunch of questions, and I proceeded to act insane and bubbly because that’s what all the Rock of Love girls do.

What you I do with $1000?

Buy a minitature pony.

Tell me something about you that I wouldn’t know from looking at you.

I have giant shark tattoo on my leg.

What do you do for fun?

Drink heavily.

And so on. He asked if I ever tried out for a reality show before, and I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or not. Later that night at 9pm, I received a voicemail from Billy saying congratulations, I’d made it to the second round, and could I please fill out the long questionaire he’d send shortly via e-mail? I replied saying that, after much consideration, I decided that I Survived a Japanese Game Show was not for me. He e-mailed me back saying I had a great chance, and to let him know if I changed my mind.

So if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out, I know I have a future in reality TV.

Pennsyltucky never ceases to amaze me

For whatever reason, maps fascinate the crap out of me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have no sense of direction, so to me they are like magical oracles. Who knows. But one day, I found myself totally transfixed on a map of Pennsylvania – not because of its compelling geography, but because it has some of the weirdest town names I have ever heard of in my life. These are my favorites:

Big Beaver

Nanty-Glo

Balls Mills

Jersey Shore

Mars

Paint

Pillow

Choconut

Braintrim

Leisure Land

Gringo

Ogle

Scalp Level

Laboratory

Boring tuna ends now

I’m unimaginative and would rather research Caribbean vacations I’ll never go on

Meeting my daily

Blog quota is harder than

Previously thought

Answering all the questions in Black Sabbath’s “After Forever”

I heard a very witty DJ on WPRB do this the other day, so I’m stealing his idea. I’m going to answer all of the questions posed in the Black Sabbath song “After Forever.” It will be great.

1.) Have you ever thought about your soul, can it be saved?

Honestly, no, I’ve never thought about my soul that much. But when I was in the 8th grade I took out a lot of books from the library about mysticism and crap, so I often thought about my aura. I tried to determine the color of it, and per the instructions of my aura how-to guide, I spent hours staring at the top of my head in my bathroom mirror, probably permanently damaging my eyesight in the process.

2.) Is God just a thought within your head or is he part of you?

If I remember correctly, in CCD class we were taught that we were all representatives of God, and should act accordingly. But if that’s the case, God has a lot of malcontent employees.

3.) Is Christ just a name that you read in a book when you were in school?

Yeah, I have admit that as a five year-old attending Catholic School, I thought Jesus was a some kind of superhero about a step above the Easter bunny and a step below Santa Claus.  Sorry, but Santa brought me My Little Ponies; Jesus brought me guilt.

4.) When you think about death do you lose your breath or do you keep your cool?

I’m pretty paranoid, so I’ll go with the first option.

5.) Would you like to see the Pope at the end of a rope – do you think he’s a fool?

No, I think he’s a Nazi. Oh snap, he is. Pope on a rope!

6.) Could it be you’re afraid of what you’re friends might say if they knew you believe in God above?

I don’t think so, but religious debates are really annoying and usually go nowhere.

7.) Is your mind so small that you have to fall in with the pack wherever they run?

No, unless I was raised by wolves. Then I would definitely stick with the pack.

8.) Will you be so sure when your day is near, say you don’t believe?

When is my day? If it happens to be like The Day the Earth Stood Still, then I whole-heartedly believe in Keanu Reeves.