Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
"You'll meet an intelligent, mature boy..."
Mature boy...oxy moron?
"Excuse me, a mature young MAN..."
I could be dating a crack-head straight outta Compton, as long as he was mature.
"...who will respect you for the bright young woman that you are, and you will think you're in love."
Love. What a sweet thing to expect from college. Of course I notice the "think" before the "you're in love." Parents always believe their child is too young for many things, no matter HOW old they are, whether it be grasping the concept of adultery, driving in storms and pre-storms, dodge ball, and yes, even love. (I'm sure their parents do it to them, too, just in different, more adult ways, like..."You're too young to be in debt!" or "You're too young to be tired of sex!" or "You're too young to be wearing that mu-mu!")
"And you will want to have sex with this young man."
WHOA-HO! Taking an unexpected turn HERE!
"And you should. Because sex is healthy."
So what I'm getting from this is that college leads to...healthy sex?
"You might do other things, too, like give blow-jobs..."
WHAT!? NO! I'm naive! I'm sheltered! The birds and the what? I don't even know! Because I'm naive! And sheltered! And please, tell me more!
In case you were curious, I'm not one of "those" who is awkward around their parents when talking about things like sex (probably because I'm still innocent. Maybe I should wait 'till I'm not and see how "comfortable" I feel then.) I don't know what Guide to Parenting MY parents read but it must have included a chapter on, "How To Tell Your Child Specific Details About Your Sex Life." And thank god it did! Look, you may think I'm just another little horndog, but there is LOGIC to this method, people. Look at the sluts and man-sluts of the world, and ask them if their parents were ever open to them about sex. NO, THEY WEREN'T. That's why they had to go out and do it all the time! Because they were curious. To them, sex was alien; sex was a mystery; to me, I feel as if I already know sex tips A to Z and a half, so why rush it? I know the procedure, the drill, the uh-uh-uh.
Of course you can't get advice from just a couple people about something as grand as COLLEGE. So I asked my sister.
"You have to be the most beautiful or you will never be happy."
How utterly depressing. But then again, she's only four. NOT that four-year-olds are depressing. They're great. I love them. Maybe I just shouldn't have gone to her for College Tips. Naming Your Turds Tips, yes, but not college tips.
My other sister says...
"You're taking me with you."
"This is college, not the Mayflower."(Thought I'd throw in a little historical allusion there. Hope you enjoyed it. It won't happen often.)
"You're taking me with you."
And she leaves. Hmmm. Interesting. Oh, wait, she's coming back now---
"Seriously. You're taking me with you."
And she's gone. Again. Hmmm. Interesting.
From what I've personally gathered about college expectations, girls seem to be mainly concerned with "The Freshmen 15," which could potentially lead to what my mother refers to as, "Cottage Cheese Thighs," and NO, that's NOT a chicken dish. Fellas on the other hand...who even knows, man. Hot chicks, probably. (No, that's not a chicken dish, either.) But before I start loading up on Ramen and waiting for Prince Mature to arrive, I've got to get into the bloody thing. (College, that is.) Apparently I'm supposed to FIND one, then fill out STUFF, then write SOMETHING. God why can't things just be SIMPLE. What is there even for me to write about? A life-changing moment? (Puberty?) A painful experience that I overcame? (Chicken pox?) Who my hero is? (Doc Brown?) I have this feeling that writing about my first lovely lady lumps and the Flux Capacitor will NOT get me into college. I remember the first time I was told what college is...
"It's the only school that you get to choose...ALL...BY...YOUR...SELF."
I also remember the state of awe I was in. That was back in the day when school was cool. (HOLD THE PHONE. SCHOOL IS STILL COOL.) (Just not as cool as it used to be, when we colored all day and had a different boyfriend every week without him even knowing.) And now I'm actually here. Preparing. Anticipating. Drooling. (it happens. and it happens to you, too.) And in a complete state of oblivion, for I have NO idea what to expect. (Besides man-boys and weight gain. LET'S HIGH-FIVE TO THAT ONE!) In the meantime, I plan to live it up. Last year of high school, man, have a blast! (A SAFE blast, of course.) Do it ALL! (All the LEGAL things, of course.) Because college will be here before I know it. Mature man-boys and pothead-professors, here I come!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
"Natasha! Your article is so funny we had to put it on the front page along with you picture and mini-bio!"
"Natasha! Your article is so funny we decided to ditch the whole "school newspaper" idea and go with...NATASHA NEWS, featuring things only written by you!"
"Natasha! Your article is so funny we decided that you don't even need to graduate from this hell hole! Get outta town with this ticket to California and make millions writing with people like Lorne Michaels and Larry David!"
"Natasha! Your article is so funny I want you to marry me right now and make millions of babies with me! I can't live without your charming wit, your dazzling sense of humor, or your bodaciously smokin' bod."
-Hugh Jackman, who would indeed appear at my school with a bouquet of roses after hearing about my debut article
These were realistic scenarios, were they not? People like my blog, people think I'm funny, Jackman would agree to walking around my house naked from noon till six free of charge. I mean, right? Not only did I know how people would react to my article, I knew that I would write something new and fresh for my fellow peers. That's right, no material taken from my blog. Something no one had ever seen BEFORE. I SACRIFICED here, people. I went out ON A LIMB here, people. And that just made it even better, because after e-mailing (we haven't quite gotten to texting our articles, yet. one day, I'm sure.) my article to the "Senior Editor," who told me it was hilarious, (ego boost), who told me it was great for the newspaper (moral boost), who told me it made her crack up (confidence boost), had the nerve to maliciously twist my article into something that was not only new and fresh to my peers, but new and fresh to ME. (you better run, bitch boost) So what do I get? What do I see when the newspaper FINALLY comes out after MONTHS of "editing" and "formatting" and "procrastinating?" I get a fireman jumping out of a birthday cake dancing to "Macho Man" and getting all up in your mom's grill as well as other places, which instead of horrifying her seems to be delighting her and you sit there not knowing if you should call the cops or just go ahead and hire a stripper-cop to make it even. I get a surprise. A BAD SURPRISE.
"I have copies of the newspaper on my desk for those of you who would like a copy."
Now in my fantasy, upon hearing these words, everyone would leap from their seats and stampede over to the newspapers, punching each other out of the way screaming things like, "But I've been waiting for this day!" and "I thought this day would never come!" and "What a day, what a glorious day!" and other things with the word 'day' in them that are positive.
"I guess I'll get one."
The one student who got up and got one couldn't even admit that they really wanted a copy.
That one student was me.
As I sit reading the paper, not really reading it but just pretending to while really looking up to see if anyone is going to get a paper, I try to devise ways to persuade others to get one. I could A) laugh really loud and obnoxiously at an article on the the same page as mine...
B) continue to gasp over and over while muttering common phrases of surprise
GASP! I just can't believe it...GASP! Who would have thought...GASP! This can't be real...GASP!...GASP!...GASP!
or C) act like it sucks. Teenagers tend to be cynical little bastards, if you didn't already know.
"Who writes for this piece of shit, man? I could have shit these articles out my ass, dude! My grandma's farts are more interesting than this!"
Yeah. That would probably get their attention. Especially the word "fart." That's a shoe-in. But thank da lawd I didn't do any of these things, for it was at about that time that I actually had the nerve to turn to my own article.
(That one was real.) They had changed my article completely. Not only had they taken out words, they had taken out entire PARAGRAPHS. They had taken out various allusions. What's wrong with saying "Straight outta Compton?" What's wrong with saying, "sexy leg?" What's wrong with saying, "pothead professor?" (which they had changed to "crazy professor," as if 'crazy' is a synonym for 'pothead.' As if pot makes people 'crazy.' Just goes to show the naive sheltered dimwits that edit the newspaper. (aka GEEKS) (aka NERDS) (aka NUMBNUTS) My article had been turned into an appropriate for school-fair to all-non stereotypical-PG-piece of SHIT, and I was furious. Many thoughts came into my head to fix the problem, such as...
A) impregnate the senior editor (not by ME you fool)
B) shoot the senior editor up with heroin
C) shove the school newspaper up the senior editor's ass and give her ink poisoning
D) other cruel and unusual punishments involving the senior editor that have to do with things nerds, geeks, and numbnuts are against (sex. drugs. shoving things up peoples asses against their will)
But until then, I guess I have to grin and bear it. All I know is I am NEVER writing for the school newspaper again, vengeance IS sweet, and if I wasn't too busy blogging I would actually have time to think OF a sweet revenge. Any suggestions?
Thursday, December 18, 2008
"Mrs. Quack, is it true that you used to be a nun?"
"Why yes, I was a nun for several years."
"And now you're an art teacher?"
"So you're not a nun anymore."
"Because you teach art."
"And nuns don't do that."
"Not in public schools, no."
"So you don't wear that thing on your head anymore that covers your hair and stuff?"
"No. I still have mine, of course, but I don't wear it anymore."
Why the hell not.
"So you lived in a covenant?"
Shit that's what it's called right?
"Was it nice there?"
"So...you quit being a nun, though."
Look. I think it's pretty obvious that I didn't give a shit whether or not she had spaghetti and meatballs (because that's some good food right there) at her covenant or not. I just had one burning question that was stuck in my throat. Not that it would ever escape. I now knew half of the rumor was true, but I needed to know the other half.
"So why did you quit?"
"Well...you know...it was just time and after some time you just need to find other things and I love God."
Giving someone an answer to a question that was obviously pulled right out of your ass is a good sign that the other half WAS true. I didn't even need to ask. I just knew it must be the truth.
MRS. QUACK DID THE HANKY PANKY WITH THE PRIEST.
Mrs. Quack wasn't only a nun on the run, she was also my art teacher. It is because of my one year of art class that I have a biased opinion towards all nuns of the world. What is this biased opinion, you ask? All nuns are evil.
"YOU ALL BELONG ON THE STREETS, THAT'S WHERE YOU BELONG YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING HOOLIGANS! YOU...YOU...WEIRDOS WITH YOUR WEIRDO ART!"
This was only one of many of her ridiculous tyrants that sporadically occurred throughout the entire year. This would be a typical Tuesday in the art room of my high school. A typical Wednesday went like this:
"I love you all like you are my own children. You are all beautiful souls that God cherishes and it is obvious that you all have the inner beam of light inside your souls that will take you to Heaven and remind you to rinse the brushes when you're done painting."
And then the cycle would start all over again. And oh! WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T EVER LAUGH.
"Natasha, step outside with me right now."
"What did I do?"
"RIGHT NOW, YOUNG LADY."
Door slams. I had just thoroughly enjoyed a good laugh with a few of my fellow classmates when this quacker asks me to step outside. She looks at me. I look back at her. She squints her eyes at me. I hold my breath. She ever-so-slightly turns her head to the left, maintaining the squint of hatred. I let out a soft giggle and immediately shut my mouth. She continues to look at me. It's starting to get very awkward. Should I say something? What should I say? Anything, anything!"
She removes her index finger from the tip of her lips and opens her eyes very wide, only to squint them back down again. Wide...squint...wide...squint...oh...shit...
"You are HIGH as a KITE."
"You heard me."
"Are you serious?"
"AS A KITE."
"You're serious as a kite?"
"YOU ARE HIGH AS A KITE."
"You mean...I'm high? Like. On drugs?"
"Don't you toy with ME, Ms. Ferrier. I don't want any of your mind games."
"I'm not high."
"I'm not high!"
"You cut that little innocent act right out or I'll have you sent straight to the office."
"How about I go to the office and say you're accusing me of being on drugs FOR LAUGHING."
"That wasn't a normal laugh and we both know it."
"Well I'm SORRY my laugh isn't up to par."
"It was an abnormal laugh."
"Well I'm SORRY I have an abnormal laugh. I didn't realize we all laughed the SAME way."
"It was the laugh of someone ON DRUGS, Ms. Ferrier."
"Lots of people have laughs that sound like they're on drugs. Some people even spit chunks of food on people's faces when they laugh. Or flatulate. I can't help how I LAUGH, for God's sake."
Did that on person to offend her. Man, I'm good.
"Get out of here."
"Get your stuff, and GET OUT."
"Oh MY GOD, this is ridiculous."
Had to get one more offensive 'God' phrase in there while I still could.
I wanted to say it right then and there. I now wish I would have. If there would ever be a perfect time to say it, it would have been then. If only I can one day be the rebellious bad-ass motha fucka I so greatly aspire to be. If only I could have given that woman a taste of her own medicine. I'm high, am I?
WELL AT LEAST I DIDN'T DO SOME HANKY PANKY WITH MY PRIEST, BITCH.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Let’s pretend I am the mother of a teenage girl. I’ve given her the sex talk. (“They’re only after one thing, honey.”) I’ve tried my hardest to make sure she isn’t influenced by pop culture. (Now see, in real life, honey, Julia would never end up with Richard. She is a whore who will die on the streets, disrespected AND infected, with runs in her stockings.) I’ve warned boys her age of the dangers of dating my daughter. (“Whip it out one time, Buster, and I’ll be grading it like cheese by tomorrow.”) But it’s not enough. I can’t stop little Susie from “getting it on” or “hooking it up” or “mojoing it down,” or whatever phrases these kids are using these days. I was a teenager once, myself. I do remember what it was like before these married days of, “I worked all day I don’t have the energy fine let’s just do it then I guess.” So, after much pensive thought, I have come up with a solution to this crisis.
My first solution, removing all genitals from adolescents ages 13 to 17, was soon deemed ridiculous when I realized that our human race would no longer be able to continue if this were to be done. Also, there would be no sufficient way to dispose of the genitalia of millions of boys and girls across the United States. Throwing it into the ocean would only lead to it later washing up onto the shore and who knows what diseases would spread then! Silly me. My second solution was also given the boot due to the fact that shipping all teenage boys off to Switzerland and keeping all teenage girls here in America would not necessarily prevent the spread of STD’s. It’s called adapting. But forget all of those preposterous half-baked schemes. It is I, Natasha Ferrier, mother of a teenage daughter, who has come up with the most brilliant solution to date, a solution that will indeed be embraced by millions around the nation.
High school students attend school Monday through Friday. From what my daughter tells me, Fridays are spent watching “educational movies” and “talking about what we learned.” From what my daughter tells me, Fridays are a joke. However, with my newly found solution, Fridays will no longer be of no benefit to the student body. Every Friday, we shall congregate all students, male and female, to some sort of large room, such as an auditorium, or perhaps a cafeteria. They will be given precisely 6 hours, one hour deducted in order to make sure no one has brought condoms or any type of “protection,” and after those hours are up, they will go home happy. It is during these 6 hours that, as my own mother would phrase it, they can “have at it” with whomever is willing. This “doing it” with numerous people will occur every Friday. You may even call it a modern “orgy.” As time progresses, the statistic will without a doubt change to: 4 in every 4 American teenage girls has an STD. When my daughter goes out on a Saturday night wearing an exceptionally low-cut top, I won’t be biting my nails thinking, “Is little Susie going to get frisky?”, “Is little Susie going to be safe?”, “Is little Susie going to have a disease-infested meal tonight?” Instead, I will be sitting at home, reclining even, thinking, “I hope my little Susie gives that Johnny that gonorrhea she contracted last Friday. That’ll show him!” So you see, as long as everyone has an STD, no one will have to fear ever getting one. You can “shake your groove thang” with whomever you wish! As a wise man once said, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But as I say to the teenage girls of the world, “You can beat ‘em, and then you’ll join ‘em!”
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Skip the anatomy of the figure, we all already know about THAT. (Gazungas-waist-legslegslegs.) Skip the innocent smile that stays white without those amazing Crest White-Strips. Skip innocent occupations such as, "Nurse Barbie" and "Babysitter Barbie." Skip it all. We're about to get down to the nitty-gritty: Barbie is a tramp. Why do you think she has painted on panties? BECAUSE OTHERWISE SHE'D TAKE THEM OFF. Why do you think those panties have an innocent floral print? BECAUSE HER THONGS ARE IN THE BACK SEAT OF KEN'S CONVERTIBLE. Why do you think there is one Ken and thousands of Barbies? BECAUSE KEN IS A TRAMP, TOO. There's no way I was the only child who had a Ken doll who sneaked out of the Barbie House at night to have a little hanky-panky with Wilderness Barbie. (And boy, was she wild.) There's no way I was the only child who made Ken use the grocery store as an alibi while he was really playin' some Marvin Gaye over at Gymnast Barbie's house. (Even though all Barbies were contortionists.) There's no way I was the only child who had Ken babysit Barbie's little sister Kelly and then get it on with her. (Or maybe I was the only one for that one...) If Barbie was a slut, Ken had to be, too. (Slut Barbie got taken off the market in '92 when some parents complained. Same thing happened with Gonorrhea Barbie in '96.) Besides, Ken was hot. At least mine was. (Magic Razor Ken. He had stubble that could be removed with warm water and then would reappear with cold water. I never removed his stubble. I loved his stubble.) (True story: Magic Earring Ken got taken off the market in the 1980's because people complained he was too "gay," including the gays. Apparently lavender silk shirts and diamond earrings are stereotypical of that of the homosexual. I personally would have purchased Magic Earring Ken in a heartbeat. I could have had a lot of fun with that one...)
Remember Life-Size Barbie? All I have to ask is this: Why do you think they made a Life-Size Barbie but not a Life-Size Ken? Think about it. (Or I could just tell you. BECAUSE WE'D BE DOIN' IT WITH THEM! THREESOME, BABY!)
We must not forget in 1994, merely two days before Valentine's Day, Barbie and Ken called it quits. According to Russell Arons, vice-president of marketing at Mattel, Barbie and Ken would "remain friends." Well, according to Natasha Ferrier, former president of her junior class, "Barbie and Ken will remain friends. YEAH. Friends WITH BENEFITS." Do you really want your child playing with a doll who has problems with commitment? (Unless you count commitment to taking advantage of Cheerleader Barbie after a Friday night kegger.) Sure, you don't have to tell your kiddie that Ken has moved on to greener pastures (it's a phrase, NOT a sexual innuendo), but that doesn't mean they're going to have Ken and Barbie be together forever. That's BORING. That's LAME. Why do you think divorce rates have increased? Because as children, we were taught to play the field, and it's all because of Barbie. It's a disaster waiting to happen. Sure, you buy her Babysitter Barbie, but that only leads to Pregnant Barbie, which leads to Abortion Barbie, which leads to I Don't Give a F*ck I Just Wanna Get Laid Barbie. Why do you think boys are so much hornier than girls? Because us girls got that all out of our systems when we were playing with Barbie and Ken. (And listening to "Barbie Girl" by Aqua. What a classic.) Guys can't release their sexual impulses when playing Donkey Kong, can they? I don't think so. Unless giant apes turn you on. (Or if the word "Kong" makes you think of "thong" or "ding dong" or some other "ong" that could only take a perverse imagination to think of.) Until they make Abstinence Barbie, I would recommend not investing in one for your child. Buy her a Furby, instead.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
So he didn't direct this statement directly towards me, but I was in the middle of a conversation with him and ONE other guy when he suddenly turns to the guy and says:
"She's really hot."
I hope you can imagine how uncomfortable that is for a girl. Especially when he says it, then turns, looks at me, and then looks down at my chest. It doesn't get any more uncomfortable than that.
"I would masturbate to her picture."
I cannot even begin to describe the Uncomfortableness of that situation. I could have been shitting my pants, and it would not have made a difference. I could have been shitting in someone ELSE'S pants, and it would not have made a difference. That's how uncomfortable it was. Try to grasp this, PLEASE.
"She can give me her picture if she wants."
Note to guys who are interested in masturbating to a girl you are currently acquainted with: Ask for the girl's picture BEFORE you let her know what you're going to do with it.
"NO! NO. NO. NO. NOOOOOOOOOO."
I let the O's drag on as I walked away. If he can be that straightforward, SO CAN I. (Though I was a freshmen at the time, I still think that was the best way I could have handled it. Things like "maturity" and "manners" don't matter when a guy is on the verge of dropping his pants and touching himself in your presence. The Divinyls may get away with it, but not the bowl-cut with a boner.)
This is when the thought first crossed my mind that I may be a Future-Pedophile Magnet. I have to admit, I was in denial for quite some time. You see, you do not want to be a Future-Pedophile Magnet. (I know it sounds intriguing...) I cannot even tell you what kind of girls Future-Pedophile Magnets are, because so far I am the only one I know. We're a rare breed. All I know is the type of guys we attract.
"So I woke up this morning and my hair was green. I was like, 'Ahh SHIT!' "
"I noticed your hair was green."
"Yeah I don't know how the hell it got like that! I just woke up and it was green."
"You just...woke up...and your hair was green?"
"Yeah man but it's AWESOME. Then my mom beat the hell outta me 'cause she hates the color green. She likes purple shit, you know?"
"Oh wow. I'm sorry your mom beat you."
"It's cool. I'm getting my nipples pierced today."
"Ahhh...nipple piercings...always an option!"
"So do you have a boyfriend?"
I do this thing where I speak before I think. It's kind of a problem.
"Can I get your number?"
Then I do this other thing where I give Future Pedophiles my number. It's kind of a bigger problem.
"Here you go."
"Thanks. Ill see ya later then. Natasha."
"Natasha! What were you doing talking to that guy?"
"He asked for my number and I gave it to him DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT I WAS PUT ON THE SPOT, OKAY?!"
"He tried to kill himself last year! He has serious mental problems, that's why he wasn't here the last 3 years."
I feel like should have a theme song. "Future Pedophile Magnet, na-na-na-NA! Perverts hitting on her in so many WAYS! She's gonna get molested one of these DAYS! Na-na-na-NA!" Or something like that. It's taken me 5 years to accept it (it actually started in 8th grade with my first two stalkers. yes, TWO. Na-na-na-NA!), but now that I have I can get to the bottom of what it is about me that seems to scream, "PERVERTS OF THE WORLD, CAST ME IN YOUR SEX DREAMS!" Is it the hair in need of a dye-job? The chipped toe-nail polish? The same black blazer I wear every single day of my life? I mean, what is it? Does it even matter? No. They will keep on comin' anyway. Because that's what Future-Pedophile Magnets do. We distract future-pedophiles, one (or two) at a time. "Future Pedophile Magnet, na-na-na-NA! Deviants on the verge of whipping it OUT! There's nothing she can do but cover her privates, run, and SHOUT! Na-na-na-NA! Future Pedophile Magnet."