See Jill. See Jill drink AGAIN…

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Happy almost St. Patrick’s Day. Aka Amateur Day. AKA Palegurl’s FAVORITE lady-drunk, Jill’s day to shine! Like only she can.

This is Jill. See Jill drink until she throws up onto her parent’s carpet.

If you don’t remember Jill’s St. Patty’s Day escapades from last year, feel free to  scroll down and find her story.

This year Jill plans to party harder than she’s ever partied before. Actually she has been pre-gaming since Monday. Her drink of choice this year – Everclear and Diet Peach Snapple. This drink guarantee’s Jill will get so crunked, she won’t feel a thing. A thing.

I recently spoke with a clearly intoxicated Jill at 8 am this morning  about her plans for this, her most sacred week of the year.  Enjoy!

Palegurl:  So what’s on the agenda for this week?

Jill: Well, I feel like I’m a canary because I really like Tigers, but they don’t like me – ya know? (she briefly passes out) Do you want to see my cesarean scar?

Palegurl: You have a kid?

Jill: Doi. Like of course. I  wanted to be a mom since 5th grade. In 7th grade, my dream came true and I had a baby girl. But I gave her to my parents.  It’s not like I didn’t want her, but I already had to take care of my cat, Bubble Farter. And my parents have a pool. (Jill stares at me as if she has forgoten who I am) Do you know Dirtball Devin?

Palegurl: Can’t say I do.

Jill (squeals): You don’t know Dirtball Devin!?! She’s like my partner in shots. She can take like a bar full of shots and still not pass out while hooking up with dudes at after-parties in Tempe. (Spits on my lips as she whispers to me – almost touching my face) Sshh…like don’t tell her I’m telling you, but she told me her number.

Palegurl: Number of guys she’s been with?

Jill: Duh! What other number is there, bitch?

Palegurl: Quite a few.

Jill: Sshh. Her number is 269. Can you believe it? 69! It’s like fate.

Palegurl: I’m sure you’re close.

Jill: Totally. How old are you? Like 48?

Palegurl: I’m 31.

Jill: Dude!?! Do you have grandkids n shit?

Palegurl: No. I don’t even have kids.

Jill: Oh…I get it. It’s supes dupes late for you. You’re that thing…like you’re too dry to give life.

Palegurl: Sure. So where are you headed this year on St. Patty’s Day?

Jill: Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere with a bar and maybe a bull cuz that’s like authentic to Irish people and stuff. You should totally come with and show your tits. Sometimes I ride bulls at bars with a random  girl. We do it reverse cow-girl. After that so many  guys lift up our skirts. Last year it got so annoying so we just took them off.

Palegurl: That sounds fun for you.

Jill: Yeah. I’m sure we’ll be on Mill Avenue. But if any of those greasy, dreaded no homes people try to touch me before I get drunk, I’ll yell fire and then throw my cig on them. But like, I’m not a total bitch. After Midnight, I’ll give them some play. EXCEPT for that girl with the 3 teeth and the pit bull. I have standards n shit. 4 teeth and a Yorkie is one thing, but she’s like gag me with a meth pipe gross.

Jill changes into just a bikini top and makes me touch her cesarean scar and then brush her hair.

Jill: No, dumbass! You’re doing it wrong! You gotta rat the top of my hair  and then straighten my bangs and then spray the shit out of it. What are you from like the year 2000?

Palegurl: Yes.

Jill is now on her 9th glass of Everclear and Diet Peach Snapple.

Jill: Don’t you feel bad for fat people?

Palegurl: Um…

Jill: It’s like they are there, but no one wants bang them. That’s like a tragedom.

Palegurl: Do you mean a tragedy?

Jill: Show me your tits! Come on. You’re boresville to the max!

Palegurl: I would, but I’m pre-maturely lactating and I’d hate for it to squirt out into your eye and make you go blind.

Jill: Colorblind? Ewwwww.

Jill sits legs crossed on the carpet of her living room and pukes on the floor.

Jill: Oopsie. It just fell out.

Jill tries to clean it up with her hand.

Jill: Can you hand me that box of wine?

Palegurl: Maybe you should just chill for a second.

Jill: No way. Whenever I puke I know, it’s time for White Zin!

Palegurl: Are you celebrating with anyone this year?

Jill: Well, I was going to go with Moranica, Liberty and Kennedy. I work with them at Souper Salad, but it’s like they are supes jealous of me and can’t even fit into extra small dresses at Ross. I just don’t know if I can fly with that mess.  I really try to stick  to my morals.

Palegurl: Interesting.

Jill: If I don’t go with anyone, I’ll just probably get up on some bar and shake my ass until I get sleepy.  Someone is bound to pick me up off the floor.

See Jill celebrate St. Patty’s Day from 3/3/11-Easter Sunday, which is the day Jill refers to as God’s turn to get drunk.

This is how I found Jill ten minutes after our interview.

Jills “friend” Liberty was yelling at her: “Get up skank! You didn’t finish  your Irish Car Bomb.”

Jill’s “friend” Moranica:

I’m like so Jager-depressed.

Has anyone seen my eyeball?

Dear God, It’s me Moranica. Can you please make sure the urine I left in this corner of the bar disappears? If you help me today, I’ll never let another one of my boyfriends talk me into a six-some.

Jill:

Oh. My. God. This is my buttplug brother’s skeez of a GF. Aren’t her mint Uggs like super gross and stuff? Look at her knees – they’re so grody.

I mean, who barfs in a bathroom?

Jill:

This is just what I do before I drive home.

I’m fine. I can drive. I just need to shut my eyes for a second.

Who stole half the halter from my top?

The cement feels so good on my black-eye.

Tongue kiss me with your friends – I’m 47 and my kids live with their dad and his new wife.

Jill’s sister Jocelyn:

I’m too skinny to go to jail! I got this outfit at Baby Gap.

My sister is driving home with her feet, but I’m getting arrested!?

Random Dude Jill hooked up with Tuesday night:

This St. Patrick’s Day, I’m just looking for a chick who’s willing to close her eyes during sex.

Happy Amateur Black-Out Day to all those who prescribe to the religion of green beer and waking up in bodily fluids.

God Bless!

 

The White-Wash Effect.

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Have you ever been white-washed?

I have.

I was 8 years old when I came home crying one snowy March day. At that time, I walked to and from school everyday with the school patrol. Normally it was a fun walk home filled with laughter and the occasional snow angel. However, that day, Rusty Johnson (a sixth grader) decided it would be a good idea to push me down and white-wash me (for those unaware of this term, it means he balled up a bunch of snow in his GI Joe mittens and shoved it in my face). The snow stung my pale face and I think I went into temporary shock. Everyone laughed as I tried to get up and dig the snow out of my nostrils and ears.  I remember being embarrassed, confused, and angry. All I wanted to do was go home and tell my dad. However, he worked until late in the evening so I had to wait. Luckily, I was a melodramatic girl and was still able to conjure up enough tears once he got home to relive my horrible walk home.

My dad has always been my hero. He was always strong and very protective. He definitely had his own parenting techniques and enjoyed keeping it what most would define as old skool – an eye for an eye-type of mentality. So when he saw his little pale-faced girl crying, he demanded to know who had hurt me. When I told him what had happened on the way home from school, I expected a hug or a you poor thing, but instead he told me to follow him down into our basement. Once we got down there he introduced me to his 4-foot tall, hanging punching bag. This was the same punching bag that I’d observed my dad punching many a night after work as he worked out.  However, it was never one of his “toys” that I had ever considered playing with. It looked too boyish and I far preferred my Rainbow Brite doll or my Barbie Big Wheel. However, that night,  I had no choice as my dad positioned my feet on the ground and helped me to form my tiny hands into fists.

To begin, my dad held up the palms of his two hands in front of his face and said - Hit me. Show me what you got! I rocketed my best girly punch in his direction, hitting his fingers instead of his palm. My dad then spent the next 2 hours training me on the proper mechanics of boxing. I was then strapped into an over-sized pair of boxing gloves and was instructed to throw jabs, left hooks, combinations and uppercuts at the punching bag.

After I was pink from exhaustion and still very confused as to how a white-wash from a red-headed sixth-grader could be vindicated by throwing punches at a bag, my dad began to explain. He sat me down on our couch and started to explain to me something he referred to as the birds and the bees. I liked stories about birds so I listened intently. However, he never got into any specifics about birds, or bees for that matter, but he did repeatedly tell me that babies came from married men and women.  I had no clue how learning where babies came from would help me prevent or understand a random white-wash, but my dad had a master-plan.

My dad explained that sometimes boys pick on girls because they secretly like them. This seemed like the dumbest thing I had ever heard as I wondered, is this guy lying to me?  He then showed me how to knock the wind out of a guy by counting down from the top three buttons on his shirt and then punching him there. It was a lot of information for my little brain to process, as he made me repeatedly count out-loud – one, two, three buttons down and then punch him. After a while, I got better, and was able to throw punches that made my dad say things like – That Rusty bastard isn’t going to know what hit him. But I told my dad that I didn’t want to fight, I just wanted to tap dance. He then reassured me by saying, I don’t want you to fight either, but you have to be able to defend yourself. He emphasized his most important point - You should never throw the first punch. I’m teaching you to defend yourself, but not to start fights. Later in life, I wondered what would have happened to the movie Fight Club had my dad written it – First rule about fight club, never throw the first punch. I don’t think it would have had such box office success since there would most likely have been no fighting at all.

My dad’s training became useful as I grew up in a  neighborhood full of boys who seemed to enjoy picking on my younger brother and I. But these boys weren’t aware that my dad had me in full bully training mode. Throughout my childhood, my dad continued to coach me in boxing and strength training. He’d give me allowance not for doing chores, but for doing one-handed push-ups and demonstrating a perfect combination upon request.

Four years after the white-wash incident, my father experienced what he refers to as his proudest moment with me. While most parents are proudest when their kid graduates high school, college, makes the sports team or receives an academic award, my dad has always thought outside of the traditional parental box. His proudest moment occurred after he sent me out onto our East St. Paul, MN front yard to defend myself and my younger brother from a neighborhood bully.

At the time, my family lived next door to a family of boys who used to love bullying my younger brother and I. Our families were constantly feuding and our parents couldn’t stand each other. They were those neighbors that everyone in the neighborhood seemed to dislike. They were rude and always hosting large drunken parties, never mowed their lawn and let their kids run wild. One of the neighbor boys, Timmy was the same age as I was, 10 years old. While his older brother Dustin was 12 years old. Both Dustin and Timmy relentlessly tormented my brother and I. Earlier that week, Timmy had beat up my brother (who at the time was only 8 years old). Since Timmy was my age, my dad sent me out to defend my brother and that’s what I did. By the time our short fight had ended Timmy was crying and running to his side of our adjoining fence. I had hoped that this would be the last time we had to deal with the brothers, but I was wrong.

Timmy’s older brother Dustin had long bullied me and threatened to beat me up. One day on the way home from school, Dustin kicked me in the stomach and warned me that there would be more to come. I came home that night crying to my dad again who asked me why I didn’t defend myself. But I just didn’t want to have to fight. I was a nervous wreck as I told my dad, “But Dustin says he knows karate?!” My dad wasn’t impressed, “He doesn’t know any karate. He’s just trying to scare you and it’s working.” Later that week, Dustin appeared in our front yard looking for revenge for the fight I had earlier in the week with Timmy. But still, I didn’t want any part of that because despite my dad’s dismissal, Dustin’s supposed karate skills were really freaking me out. It didn’t seem like Dustin would ever leave me alone and my dad knew that as long as I continued to let Dustin kick me, threaten me and bully me, he wouldn’t stop. My dad then took action. He came into my heart-themed bedroom, turned off my cassette player (I was listening to Mariah Carey’s Vision of Love at the time), and pulled me away from my Barbie Ferrari. He told me that it was time for me to defend myself and end all of this bullying. I didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter as my dad pushed me out the front door, locked it and took a seat at a window so that he could watch what went down. When I got outside Dustin was still waiting on my front lawn. He looked mad as he walked towards me. Dustin’s dad Dan then came out of their house and yelled, kick her ass. Dustin then started hitting me in the head. He seemed determined to show his dad that he could beat up a younger girl (something I still don’t quite understand). I managed to break away, set me feet in the proper boxer stance and rocket a right hook toward his face that just brushed his chin. His eyes bugged out in surprise that this girl could actually throw a punch. He then tackled me to the ground. But unfortunately for him, I soon dominated the fight as I held him down with my knees and reluctantly continued to punch him and occasionally pull his hair (I mean hello, I was still a 10 year old girl). This continued until Dustin’s dad (uncomfortably watching his eldest son get beat up by a younger girl) yelled out – “Dustin, It’s time for dinner!” In the spirit of obedience and empathy, I then stopped punching Dustin, removed my knees from his chest and allowed him to stand up. Dustin, who appeared to be embarassed and crying, put his head down and ran towards his dad. It was at this time when my dad proudly openend our front door, walked outside, gave me a big hug and yelled across the fence - Hey Dan! What kind of wussies are you raising over there when my daughter can kick both your son’s asses!?!

That night I was the toast of my household as my dad relived every moment of his daughter’s victory over the two neighborhood bullies. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be able to top that moment in my dad’s eyes. Thanks to my dad, I never received another white-wash and both of the neighborhood bullies stayed a healthy distance away from my brother and I.

(Just because our skin is as fair as snow that doesn’t mean we appreciate a face full of it!)

How do you turn this damn thing on!?!

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(I don’t need spy-ware, I’ll kill any virus with my own liver-spotted hands)

Technology is hard or at least US Senator John McCain seems to think so. According to United States Republican presidential hopeful, “I am learning to get online myself, and I will have that down fairly soon.” That’s right, the man who hopes to be the ruler of the Free World has yet to master how to “get online.” I would think then that McCain also has problems with other aspects of the modern world like Tivo, cell phones, microwaves, and the flush toilet. However, I’ve heard he’s an expert on the electric typewriter. And he now regrets telling his former BFF Thomas Edison that inventing the electric typewriter was “an absolute waste of time.” John McCain has always much preferred his beloved ink well and feather pen, but now realizes the need for “documents to be printed electronically.”

Don’t be hard on the guy…sometimes it just takes a while to realize the error of your ways. Just this year John McCain admitted that he shouldn’t have vetoed the bill that created a national holiday in honor of Martin Luther King Jr. According to McCain, his position since his veto has “evolved.” His evolution may have come about 22 years too late, but it’s not like civil rights is a timely issue. Take your time Mr. McCain, it takes some men all their lives to do the right thing.  Or in the words of Kanye West, maybe you just “hate black people.”

Much like the interweb, civil rights seem to take a backseat to McCain’s current hobbies, which include: making more money than God; killing the Earth; getting “friendly” with lobbyists; and urging the working poor to take on more jobs. I know many John McCain fans love his pre-historic mentality, but just like segregated drinking fountains, John McCain is outdated and unwanted. But I guess when you run a presidential campaign based on the fact that you were a POW, nothing else really matters.