Thursday, October 27, 2011


I was with some friends the other night when "scars" became the topic of conversation. For a reason that remains unknown, scars seem to be a pretty frequent discussion to arise, whereas other bodily mishaps are not. For instance, no one ever talks about their bald spots,

"Mine's in the shape of an egg!"

Or their nose hairs,

"My girlfriend loves when mine tickle her upper lip when we kiss; they're that long!"

Or even fat deposits,

"My buttcheeks are uneven..."

But scars, scars are acceptable. And only post-scar, as in "I got this from that time...", not scarsin-the-making, like when Maude was telling me about her recent accident.

"Yeah, I missed class because I had to go to the doctor for this burn..."

"A burn? Oh man, can I see? Is that weird that I'm asking?"

"Well, you can't really see it..."

"Oh, so it wasn't too bad?"

"No, it's bad, alright, it's just...down...there."



"Down...on your thighs?"

"No, down there."

"Down...on your knees?"

"No...down THERE. Down there THERE."








"I spilled candle wax on it."

" it?"







"The same thing happened to my sister a few months ago."

"She spilled candle wax on herself?"

"Yes. Down there."


"Yes, down there."

"Down THERE-there?"

"Yes, down there-there."







You'd think after the first incident, they would have removed either all the candles in their house or all the vaginas. Seeing as the latter is impossible, looks like candles should have been booted off the island. Another question that irked me that I found too inappropriate to inquire is: Was the wax directly poured on the southern region? I mean, were pants worn when these candles were lit, or was something else entirely going on...?

At the time, this was just too much information. It's alright to picture some old scar on someone's body, but to picture rough, bubbly flesh on one's vagina is something completely different.

Have I gone into too much detail? I've gone into too much detail.

So the conversation arose, and I found that it was one of those rare occasions where I had absolutely nothing to say. This never happens. This...never...happens. I mean, I could have pitched in, i guess.

"Yeah, so I got this scar on my leg when I was---"

"I have a leg!"

"Oh, you have a scar on your leg, too?"

"Well, no...I just...have...a leg."

" too? Anyway, so my neighbor was throwing this stick, and he threw it right at my leg---"

"I actually have two legs!"

"You have a scar on both your legs?"

"Yes, I do have two legs."

" don't have a scar."

"Nope, just got these two legs right here!"
(This is where I would begin to hit my legs to prove that they are in fact there, while also hoping that maybe if I hit them hard enough, a scar would in fact appear...)

Point being, I couldn't really contribute. I mean, I do have scars, but none worthy enough for conversation.

"Dude, so this crazy bitch at a party one time grated my face with a cheese grater, that's why I have all these little nicks on my cheeks."

"That's nothin' man, I was addicted to heroin for 12 years and so I got all these scars on my arms for shootin' up."

"Fuck you guys, when I was a baby, my finger got caught on our dishwasher and it ripped open the skin and I got THIS!"
(This is where I would show the line on my ring finger that is not even 2 centimeters in length, thrusting my hand forward as if I was about to shock my audience with its utter brutality, while Feta-Face and Trackula sat unimpressed. I would then become very defensive after seeing their bored expressions, causing me to shout things such as: "MY SCARS ARE EMOTIONAL!" and "STICKS AND STONES MAY NEVER HAVE BROKEN MY BONES, BUT WORDS HAVE SCARRED MY HEART!")

So there I was, silent and depressed, for I had realized I was a wimp. A WIMP! Oh, the horror, oh the disgrace, oh the sad realization that after years and years of thinking I was a badass, it hit me that I had nothing to show for it, no proof.

Until that night.

That night would have never occurred had it not been for the night before, a night I'd rather NOT explain due to horror and humiliation on my part, but I find it mandatory to at least summarize Night #1 in order for you to make sense of Night #2. (Not that it's going to make that much sense anyway. Alcohol-induced-acts never make sense.)

Brief Summary of Night #1

1. Went to Day One of a fest.
(I hate that word. "Fest." Shortening words is lazy and simple-minded. If you wouldn't write it, don't speak it. N on woul rea m blo i I wrot lik tha. It fuckin dum a shi.)
2. Drank a fifth of rum.
(Coconut. Bad idea. Whoever created coconut rum had his sights set on turning me into an alcoholic.)
3. Went to the male strip club for my friend's birthday.
(They get naked. They get completely naked. And no, it's not sexy. More so, it's confusing. How do they all have constant erections? Why were we the only people in the strip club? Why is one of them telling me he's a homosexual as he's thrusting on my friend beside me? Am I supposed to be turned on by 18-year-old boys wiggling their penises around to techno music? Am I abnormal for laughing at their thongs? Where the hell did my vodka go? Did I drink it all?)
4. Decided to go and surprise my on-and-off boyfriend at the time to tell him funny stories about the strip club, only to find him naked in bed with another girl.
(I don't really want to go into that. All I have to say is that's more nudity in one night than I have ever witnessed.)
5. Some kind of pea was given and I went home.
(You'll realize what I mean by that later on.)

So there's Night #1. Now, prepare yourself for Night #2.

Day Two of the same fest. Why I returned, don't ask. Along with things not to ask, please include the curiosity as to why I, yet again, drank a fifth of rum. You can also add why I have a single, black hair that sprouts from my chin every couple of months on the Don't Ask Me list.

Hairy chin or not, there I was, doing the same dumb shit for a second night in a row. Except this time, my friend randomly handed me a dildo in the middle of the night, in which I turned on and vibrated strangers from behind with for a good two hours or so. (Dildos + rum = Comfortably molesting people you don't know with sex toys that aren't yours.) Once someone shouted, "IS THAT A DILDO?" and took it from me, that fun was over, leaving me no choice but to go sit on a couch, wishing I had something else to harass people with. Along comes an acquaintance, just as drunk as I had quickly become, who starts putting his mouth on my fingers. Before he had even gotten the chance to progress to sucking my toes, On-and-Off-Boyfriend walks by, not as drunk as me and Acquaintance, but drunker.


Kind of a ridiculous thing to say if you think about it, considering the word "ex" along with the events from the night prior. Having your pointer finger sucked and having your dick sucked are on two completely different levels if you ask me. But what do I know. I don't have a dick.

On-and-Off (we'll call him Lightswitch) then sprints away, screaming, leading me to decide it's time to leave. Into my car I go, and drive away I do, but not fast enough to avoid the eyes of Lightswitch.


Now, as much as I'd like to say I just laughed and waved with a big smile while I stayed safely inside my vehicle, this did not happen, for like I said before, I have a thing for coconut.




"Natasha. Natasha. Come on, leave him alone, he's drunk, and you're drunk, and none of this is going to end well. Come on."

SmartPerson gently grabs my arm and turns me away from Lightswitch, leading me far, far away. But that's when I hear footsteps moving at a much, MUCH faster pace than your average jogger.


I hit the ground: I've been tackled. I've been fucking tackled. I try and get up, but my left leg won't stand straight. It's bleeding quite a bit, and there's blood on the concrete in which I was tackled into. I think I'm about to start crying, but then I just get pissed.


...I really just shouldn't drink.

"Natasha, stop, stop. Let them handle it. Let's go."

I look over and see people holding down Lightswitch, and then one of them bite right into his nose as Lightswitch begins to scream.

...That's when I start to cry.

A few weeks later, after all the blood and pus and mystery-green-shit has all gotten out of my knee that had smacked straight onto the pavement, I realize that it's finally done healing, but my knee doesn't look the same...there's a...a red circle...and some white's still there months and months later...wait...could that

"It's a scar!"

And now, all due to male strippers and stolen dildos, when the topic of scars comes up in conversation, I no longer sit and think I'm a pathetic coward. Now, I audaciously rise from my chair, pull up the left leg of my pants, and arrogantly exclaim:


Wednesday, October 19, 2011

The Russians

As much as I try and avoid writing about work (because let's be real here, everyone and anyone can bitch about work) (let's be even more real and say that everyone and anyone DOES bitch about work), I find it impossible not to share my most recent catastrophe at a little place I like to call...DEMON UNDERWORLD. (Okay, so I don't call it Demon Underworld, I was just trying to illustrate a dark and gloomy place for my most faithful readers, only to later realize that Demon Underworld is neither clever nor witty. It is just retarded. Instead, we'll call it Club Gay.)

So Club Gay offered me another raise, but with a price (money with a price, oxymoron?). I must quit my second job as a waitress at a pizza place I was currently working weekends at in order to work at Club Gay on Saturdays and Sundays instead.

That was a bit wordy. Let's tell this like an epic tale, shall we?

ONCE UPON A TIME, there lived a girl named Provolone (that's me). Provolone was locked up in an evil castle that the village folk referred to as Club Gay (that's where I work.) At Club Gay, Provolone was ruled by Lord BMT, who was a powerful, powerful man. One day, Lord BMT realized how much Provolone helped around the castle. She washed dishes, she fed the village idiots, and she always suggested an upgrade to the medium-sized drink for only twenty cents more. So, Lord BMT decided to make Provolone an offer.

"Provolone! I have an offer of epic proportions for you!"

"Yes, Lord BMT?"

"Quit your job at the pizza place, and I will give you a raise!"

"Oh, but Lord BMT, I make a lot more money as a waitress than I do here as your slave..."

"Just think about it, Provolone! THINK ABOUT IT!"

"Alright, Lord BMT, I will think about it."

Two weeks later, Provolone decided that she would quit the pizza place, because her boss there yelled at her and called her an idiot for GETTING A DROP OF CAESAR SALAD DRESSING ON SOME LASAGNA. Since Provolone decided that it was not fair for him to yell at her over salad dressing when she could not yell at him for having a unibrow, she decided it was best to quit, especially since Lord BMT had offered her those extra gold shillings every week.

"Lord BMT, I decided to work weekends and get that raise."

"Oh, I am sorry Provolone, but I have hired 2 new people who have offered to work every single day of the week. It is too late for you. You can meet the new employees today."

Since Provolone was never told there would be a time limit on the offer, she became very angry and stormed out of Club Gay to calm down. When she returned, there were two new girls standing in the palace chambers. These two girls would soon be referred to as...

The Russians.

Alright, enough story time, the kids are asleep already and I'm ready to talk some grown-up talk.


Maybe this hatred has all stemmed from the fact that they stole my raise from me, but it didn't help that these two have it out for me. Why they do, I'm not really sure.

Maybe it's because I have a Russian name even though I'm not Russian and they find that offensive.

Maybe it's because I've been calling the tall one the blonde one's name and the blonde one the tall one's name for about a month now without realizing it was the other way around.

Maybe it's because I put 9 Splenda in my coffee. WHO THE FUCK KNOWS! IT COULD BE ANYTHING!

Woo! I'm getting this frustration out now, aren't I! AND IT WILL NOT END THERE.

First, it was little things, like when they were first introduced to the American concept of the "Yo Momma" comeback. This wasn't that bad, I don't expect them to know all the retarded jokes Americans have laughed about for years....and years...and years...but it was the fact that after they learned about it, they decided to put it to use. All. The. Time.

"Hey, will you hand me that tray?"



"Hey, can you grab me some onions out of the cooler?"



"Hey, will you ring this customer up?"



It never. Fucking. Ends. And they say it loud. And they say it WRONG. But everyone laughs. Oh ha ha, foreign girls misusing American phrases HA. HA. HA. No haha! No. Ha. HA! But I can't say anything! Because I'll look like a bitch! I can't say, "Hey, it's not "What is it you say about my mother," that doesn't even make any fucking sense, it's "Your mom" - and then you repeat what was just said."

For instance, "Will you grab me some onions?"

"Your mom grabs my onions."

See? That's kind of funny, whereas, "What is it you say about my mother" is not.

Because ONE, the 'yo momma' joke is supposed to end all conversation, because it's a comeback; you're supposed to have the LAST WORD. "What is it you say about my mother" is a question. TWO, it's "What did you say" not, "What IS it you say." THREE, IT'S NOT EVEN THAT FUNNY TO BEGIN WITH!

...God damnit.

Then, it escalated into them refusing to do what I tell them to do.

"Hey, will you grab me some bacon?"

Neither of them moves.

"Hey. I need bacon."

They both exchange looks with one another.

"Bacon. BACON."

They look at each other once more, then one of them says, "You get the bacon."

What? WHAT? Excuse me??? I get the bacon? I GET THE FUCKING BACON?!

So I make some loud noise that is kind of between the grunt of a caveman and the toot of a locomotive, like, "EUUHHHHGA!" and I throw my knife down. I've started doing that a lot since the Russians arrived, throwing my knife down. It's really a habit I should get out of...the whole throwing-knives-at-work thing...either way, I did it. I made a loud noise, threw my knife down -

...Then I went and got the bacon.

The third incident is a recurring one, which makes it that much worse. I walk up to the cash register to ring someone up. Russian #1 looks at me and yells,

"We need someone on cash register!"

"Um, hello? I'm right here. On cash register."

"We need someone on cash register NOW!"

"I am on. The cash register."

"Hello? Someone come ring this customer up!"


Then she finally gets the nerve to look at me.

"Only me, Russian #2, and Someone Else Who Hasn't Been Working Here Nearly As Long As You can be on cash register."

"Ha! I think I can handle it."



Again, I make the caveman-on-a-train noise and throw something. Who knows what. Money, maybe, since I was on cash register. That's right, I threw the mother-fuckin' money. I made it rain, bitches, right there in Club Gay. Toss me a stripper, I got the ones.

The next day at work, I walk up to the cash register and ring someone up. Then I look at The Russians, waiting for a good World War I reprise, but they just look at me and then go back to work. Ha! I'm thinking. I showed THEM! That's right, Stalin-Wannabes! You mess with the bull, you get its horns rammed right up your ASSHOLE! Or however that phrase goes.

So I leave to do something else, then later return to ring someone up again. That's when I see it, the most innocent-looking Post-It note ever to stare up at me, with the words,

"ONLY THE RUSSIANS ON CASH REGISTER" written in not-so-innocent handwriting, no matter how curly the Rs are.

This is when I freak.


I have it in my hand already. I don't know how long of a shelf-life that thing had, but it soon shortened to 0 days once I crumpled it in my fist and turned to The Russians.

"Who. Wrote. This."

They dare not speak up, so someone else does.

"Russian #2 wrote it."


Choo-choo-grunt, throwing of the post-it note, and I've again fulfilled my daily quota of loud noises and the sporadic tossing of objects that don't belong to me.

Then I go wash dishes and satisfy my vengeance by not responding to anyone who says they need help with the customers. It's immature, yes, but I am not at the age just yet where I need to act accordingly in a work environment. I like to look at my age as the age where I can get fired and laugh about it.

"But how does the story end, Mommy?"

"Well, sweetie, Provolone went mad and ended up going on a killing rampage throughout the entire castle and left no survivors. She was later arrested and sentenced to death, but then a magical pony rescued her from prison and now she lives in a world of gumdrops and sugar cubes and naked men feeding her grapes."

"Naked men, ew! I don't like that ending, Mommy."


The End.