A Dirty Video

UUuuuughhhhhh... so grossssss.... so we just had to share!




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Id8ZU6aM6JU

Our Virgin Pilot

The reason I know that God has a sense of humor is because he invented pilots. With that said, I feel the best way to tell a story regarding a pilot would be in form of a prayer:

Our Pilot, who art fly for some carrier
Virgin may be thy name (or not, I'm not pointing any fingers here).
The FAA come.
The test be done,
Our pilot, awaits his fate.
The FAA checks and gets ready to sign,
But a heart attack does stop his name.
To the hospital they run,
The doctors they begun,
to save our Dear FAA.
The next day arrives,
our Virgin Pilot (or not, but somebody said he was a virgin.. not sure what that means...) is ready to fly,
yet he has no FAA to sign.
To the hospital he run,
turned away by a nurse.
Family only, she begun.
Our Virgin Pilot (seriously, maybe he never finished his wedding vows. Maybe he really is a virgin. Hmmmm.. I wonder what airline he flies for) gets crafty and reaches for his purse,
To the costume store he goes.
Back to the hospital, all dressed as a priest,
"Last prayer" he tells the nurse.
His temptation has failed, to evil he turns,
and lies his way through the gates.
FAA signs, Virgin Pilot he flies (don't ask me who he flies for, I can't tell you...secrets).
Men, your bring me to heaven.

All Men.

Not sure where that last part came from...

Hong Kong Etiquette

Once upon a time in a land far far away.... there was a lady passenger. And she missed her flight. So we get to laugh at her. The End.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=50nNQdgkpTE



ps. This is not actually what she was saying, but it still makes me proud.

The day Holy Moley got Rolled

There are many silly laws out there. Ones that never should have been created, ones that should be reversed and ones that I agree with completely. To get a few suggestions, I googled 'dumb laws' and went directly to the 'Virginia' link which did not let me down. God bless Virginia. I meant it, this state needs to be blessed.

Here's a law I agree with: In the state of Virginia it is illegal to tickle women. Come on now. If you really want to see a woman squirm, make it worth her while. Show a little imagination. Bare minimum, show a little bit of skill or foresight on what a woman may want in order to squeal, giggle and toss her body around in ways that should really only happen after 2 am with enough drinks that makes it ok for her to say "I never do that" and perhaps have the chance to get away with it.

Here's a law that never should have been created: There is a state law prohibiting “corrupt practices of bribery by any person other than candidates.' Seriously, how could the men I date afford to take me out? Silly.

Here's one that should be reversed: stalking. It has recently come to my attention that I am past the traditional age in which a person is most likely to have a stalker. Supposedly, this age is 25. If you don't have a stalker by 25, you most likely will never have one. This makes me sad. I have always wanted someone to be so intrigued with every step I take, every move I make, every breath I take.... ok, that was dumb the first time. Regardless, there has to be at least one man out there that cannot bare to allow me to live on this earth if I refuse to be with him. Isn't there one man out there that doesn't want to wear my skin?!!!! Has anyone ever seen me?! I'm a F*bomb! What does a girl have to do?! Where is my Xanax?......phew.

Anyway, my point is, rules are rules. Here is one rule of the sky: Do not tell on other F*bombs. This, of course, leads me to Holy Moley.

Holy Moley was a spiritually led F*bomb with a mole on her face. We know she was spiritually led because she had decorated her temple in scripture and reminded all of us how F*bombs should behave. Additionally, if we forgot how to behave or dress (how dare she?!?) she would immediately inform a manager or supervisor of the indiscretion.

In her current domicile, this admiral task of helping her fellow F*bombs become that most perfect F*bomb on the line in the mirror image of our savior (aka the airlines), was not taken well. In fact, her discreet comments to supervisor became the talk of the domicile.

I need to sidebar here. In general, it is always my rule to be the talk of any circle. If they are not talking about you, you are not making anyone jealous of you. This, of course, would never lead to having your own personal stalker because you wouldn't become unattainable.

Back to my story.

The talk in the domicile became serious and threatening. My dear F*bomb was in danger. She needed to move. The managers, under much consideration, decided the safest place for Holy Moley to go was to Vegas. Vegas she would be safe. She would be able to perfect her craft of making every F*bomb follow the letter of all the rules. She would be accepted as an individual... strong and confident in her convictions.

Unfortunately, the Vegas F*bomb mafia beat her up in the parking lot.

She is know pregnant and hasn't returned from maternity leave.

I have to again speak in the defense of Holy Moley.

Dear Vegas F*bomb mafia, I do understand the distress Holy Moley caused and she did need to comply to the universal law of "no telling". Although, I do question your methods. F*bombs do not bring the roller derby ways to the line. No matter how much the environment indicates that you should bet on chicken fights, dog fights or whatever redneck Vegas mafia sideshow goes on, F*bombs do not become the subject of any bet that does not include a martini or 5 first and involving at least one man married or otherwise.

Again, and I mean this, God bless Virginia

Don't mess with a white girl's SPF

When I was twenty, my adorable boyfriend and I bought a truck, yep I said it...truck. It was this truck that we packed all our 18 years of accumulated worldly belongings, said good-bye to our families, our friends and my cat, Ginger (he was a male cat with either an identity disorder or smart owner that was trying to toughen him up to be a street cat by giving him a name handicap as a kitten) and moved out west to Montana. It sounds mildly like a country song until I add in the part where I tell you we both drank too much and he stole the truck. That should pretty much cinch the writing deal I have with Kenny Chesney.

So...what was I to do. I picked up my Birkenstocks and bought a new to me car. I bought a VW bug. It was so cute and exactly what I needed to park in my new sorority parking lot. Unfortunately, it was very moody and I was adventurous. Tough combination when you choose to drive this cute piece of trash across country. I'm talking about the car, not me.

It broke down a million times, but I made it back to Massachusetts to visit my family. This is where I got some of my best advice on self defense while traveling. My brother told me that the key to getting out of a dangerous situation is to surprise your assailant. He proceeded to give me an example. "Moon them", he said. Shortly there after I found out that my brother was a homo. I feel as though I can make non politically correct comments like this because I have a homo of my own. I have a homo trump card. Anyway, I'm not sure if the example my brother was giving me was suppose to scare them or if it was actually more of just a wave hello. None the less, I elected not to use his strategy and carried a switch blade.

Recently, I was in Spain and heard a similar story on self defense. I was sitting in an outdoor drinkery....much like an eatery, but I'm uncertain if they had food. Its irrelevant when Sangria is involved. Anyway, the girl next to us clearly needed to talk about her recent adventure and anyone that starts a conversation with a slur in the middle of the afternoon deserves my undivided attention especially when its in really bad Espanol. She was an English teacher and refused to embarass the english language with overconsumption of alcohol.

She was a cute, tiny girl from NY wearing a straw hat and sunglasses that was clearly used to protect us from going blind while looking at her skin which was so white I'm sure you could only see her under a purple light. She needed our advice. Sure...ask a stew...we'll tell you. She wanted to know if she should tell anyone that she got rolled by two 12 year old boys. Then goes on to explain that she didn't go down without a fight. See...these boys came up behind her, wrapped their arms around her to knock her down and steal her bag. Little did they know she is from NY and had some self defense moves she was willing to try out.

With one arm wrapped around her mouth, she did what she had to. She used her canine type chompers and bit down on her 12 year old assailants arm. To her surprise, she discovered it was not his arm, but her own arm that she bit. It's a little fuzzy from here, but she remembers them knocking her down...... Here's where I need to stop this story. My new friend whose name starts with J and rhymes with Phessica wants me to believe that she was coordinated enough to bit her own arm in self defense wants me to believe that she was knocked to the ground. My bet is on her tripping over her own feet or passing out in fear or possible arm pain..... In any event, she woke up so see her assailants running off...with her bag, but running none the less. As they should.

Clearly, intimidated by Phessica's kung fu ways they left her SPF for her knowing she would hunt them down for it. Phessica knowing that the only thing worse than getting rolled by two 12 year olds, is a bad sunburn, thoroughly applied a coat to spf 15 before going to the police.

Phessica set precedents. Don't mess with a white girl's SPF.

Fluffer

Well….looks like my dear friend, Schmen (refer to: First Class or Class Ass), has been outdone. Oddly, enough…..by the cleaning crew. Not just any cleaning crew. Not the ones that you normally see circling the door of the jet bridge waiting for the plane to land so they can knock you over to spray their room “deodorizer” in your face and push you back in your seat as if their job was with the national center of disease control and that flight had been red flagged. Not the ones that are short enough to play leap frog with. Not the ones that actually look like they wash their hair less than people that claim to be from Europe, as if that was some personal hygiene trump card. Not that ones that inspire high school line backers to work out more. We’re talking tall, blonde Polish chicas bonitas. F*bombs have nothing on them…well, except for myself and the crowd I go out to ice cream with.

Not only were these women beautiful they were complete professionals. They were always looking their best for work. They were always right where you needed them. They were always detail oriented. They were giving….always wanted to make sure everyone was taken care of. They always made sure their blankets were folded and their pillows were fluffy. These were the ‘take the shirt’ of their back type of women.

Unfortunately, all of those descriptions could be taken quite literally. One day these beautiful bombshell bitches, as I like to refer to them as, were gone. Dismayed that these beauties would nowhere to help us all inspire to be ‘cleaning crew’, someone asked one of our managers. Much like the typical managers that most people work with, these people knew nothing…… well, except that these natural wonders were discovered after hours on the plane, in the hangar, filming a porno with the plane as their stage.

I still haven’t found the video. God speed Polish cleaning crew. You’ll be missed.

What Not to Wear

The F*bomb career is the modern day “Mrs.” degree from college which was the only reason my Mother thought a young woman should even consider attending such an institution. It is inconceivable in her mind why a woman would waste her good child bearing years with her plump booty sitting in a library with her pretty little nose stuck in reading material or paying her own bills when she could be at home trying to get pregnant. Although, I do agree with her on the point not much beats “trying to get pregnant’.

You can’t imagine her delight when I told her I had been chosen among the 600,000 applicants to join the exclusive ranks of an F*bomb. I now have the opportunity to meet very rich men or, even better, celebrities looking to date someone that can appreciate their hectic schedule and enjoy a personal life out of the ‘lime light’. (Btw, where does that come from?)

I do meet celebrities. None of them, so far, have bettered my life in any way. Although one of them has given me a false promise so I am feeling that I have indeed had a relationship with a man of power and prestige. I’m not sure if I can say his name because he might sue me for all my collector marbles so I’ll make his name up. Flinton Felly. He looks a lot like, Clinton Kelly, the host of “What Not to Wear”. I did tell him he was going to be on my blog so I feel compelled to post a picture of him.

In a moment of despair, he arrived. In first class looking tall, handsome, perfectly dressed and very charming. You know, one of those guys everyone else’s mother warns them about. Not my mother. My mother taught me to tell your problems to the man and give him the support that he needs to make all your dreams come true. This will make the man want to ‘try to get pregnant’. In order to make my mother proud, I went through with it. I marched right up to him, spun around, posed and said, “What the hell are we going to do with this mess?”

I do remember seeing pictures where the F*bombs looked darling in the perfectly trendy and flattering uniforms. Today we wear tents made of polyester and wool that not only would catch fire should we need to bounce ourselves off an inflatable slide, but also burns you as it rubs against your skin with every move. After tears of dismay and laughter, he agreed to have a chat with my CEO. Lets face it, if I can’t laugh at the way they dress us than nobody can and that kind of entertainment needs be acknowledged. Recently it was pointed out that I had buttons on my sleeves, but yet I still must have lost my mittens. The uniform is just ridiculous.

To this day, no letter to my CEO. Here is my letter to him. 'Dear Flinton Felly, I am disappointed in you. I do not want to try to get pregnant with you. Love, F*bomb.'

Roller(bag) Derby

She's preparing for battle. She buttons up her blue crisp ugly uniform. Rolls up those 4 day-worn-in-tattered-nylons. Puts on those hooker heels. Tightens her grip on the Rollerboard/Rollerbag. And with a glint of revenge in her eye..... SHHHEEEEEE'SS OOOOOOOOOFFFF!! Down the Airport terminal she goes!! Weaving in & out of obstacles; aka annoying passengers!! Dodging stupid questions by inexperienced travelers; aka annoying passengers!! Stopping briefly to grab a Starbucks; YES!! Trying to time arriving at the gate perfectly so she isn't late, but isn't early!! Watch out mother's of crying babies! Watch out people that ring their call buttons!! Watch out people that take smelly shits on the airplane!! SHE. IS. COooooMING!! ...BUT ALAS! The beautiful and heroic F*Bomb comes across... *Dum*Dum*Dum... a freakin passenger standing in the middle of the moving walkway!! :^O (That's a shocked face) Oh No! What is the F*Bomb to do?! Her only choice. (this is where the "glint of revenge" comes into play) Run his ass over! Knock him over with the Rollerbag! Go sista Go! (And the crowd goes wild! YEAhhhhh!) Nothing can stop her!! Not even your toes!! They are mere casualties in the line of duty!
Moral of the Story: WALK/RUN on the left hand side of the moving walkway and STAND on the right side. DON'T take up the whooooole walkway. We will run yo ass over & enjoy it... so beware of Roller(bag) Derby.

One in the Clink

I’ve been told a few times that I have quite an imagination. Not by my 3rd grade teacher that gave me a check under ‘needs improvement’ under the ‘ability to use imagination’ part of my report card which was shortly followed with another ‘needs improvement’ under the ‘social skills’ section. I feel that I have overcome these obstacles and perhaps compensated for them in my adult life.

With that said, I have often wondered what happens to the items Customs finds in people’s suitcases that they haven’t claimed on their Declaration card or perhaps isn’t even legal. What kind of party do these people have with all the drugs they ‘confiscate’? Do they eat the birds that have been tranquilized in someone’s jacket from the Asia flights? Say for example, someone brought over a human skull for a religious ceremony, what do they do with that? Put in on the mantle in the break room? Then….what happens to these people? Are they sent home? Are they shot like they are in Thailand? Used for practice in the military? What happens? I have to know.

Well, after grilling a customs agent which includes what I would like imagine as him being in a dark room with only a cold, child sized, metal chair for him to sit on so that he looks up at me only to see the glare of a 1970’s light bulb blinding him and the sound of my booming voice throwing question after question at him. In reality, I rode home on the train with him and we only sat together because it was packed and he was the only safe looking person to sit next to. I thought perhaps he would be the type of person to rescue me from a homeless person that was trying to get me to sit on his lap like to good ‘dumb white bitch’ that other homeless people in the streets of San Francisco like to describe me as. I’m sure I deserve it, but is it really necessary to yell it in front of everyone? Give me a chance to prove it myself. They kill all my fun.

Anyway, coming to find out there are jail cells in the airport…in every airport. Actually, there are two types. One is a holding cell for people that are polite and just made a mistake. These types of cells are much like an apartment with food, television, couches…all the comforts of home. These are usually for the foreigners.

The other type is a real cell. These are for people that have meltdowns. People that think that by speaking at the customs agent in such a level that dogs will scratch through walls or hide in their kennels like its July 4th, they will back down and tell them that the United States Customs regulations is really just a guideline and that it certainly does not include people that threaten them or all their entire family with all the power of all their ones of dollars. These cells are primarily for indignant Americans…or f*bombs gone mad. I’ve attached a video for your reference. Enjoy.

Ps. The customs agent told me that confiscated materials are placed in an incinerator.

Pss. I don’t believe him.

Mile High Club...Be careful what you ask for