May 23, 2013

Everything is Covered in Slobber

About a year ago, my girlfriend and I reconnected after 8 long years apart - before you start asking yourself why my girlfriend slobbers so much, let me finish. In recent years, she acquired a dog named Roofus.  As a result, I have become a dog owner by proxy and I’m tickled fucking neon pink about it because he’s pretty much the shit. 

As a boxer, Roofus is predisposed to floppy, loose skin around his mouth. In other words, he has jowls.  I can honestly say that the term ‘jowl’ wasn’t part of my daily vocabulary before he came along.  It’s not that I had an aversion to the word, per se, but I simply had no reason to use it.  Now, the word is used in endearment, in frustration and in observation.

“Who’s got the smushiest jowls in town? Roofus does!”
“Fuck, there’s something caught in his jowls again.”
“Look at his jowls; they are all flattened on the floor.”

Now an expert at commenting on jowls, I’ve had to restrain my tongue from identifying floppy jowls on my fellow humans. Turns out, it’s much less endearing to tell the lady in front of you at Starbucks that her jowls remind you of your boxer’s.  Who knew?

I love that dog like I love my own tits - he’s soft, warm and loves a good rub down (wink). But let me tell you, folks: he drools more than a teenage boy at a Hooter’s.  As a result, I’ve learned to rock the ‘it’s-just-slobber-no-biggie’ look, since fighting against it has proven to be a colossal waste of time.  His favourite is licking clean laundry, so really, there’s no hope.

After about a year of dog ownership, the following is a list of things that have changed as a result of spending my time with The Smush. 
  • I am now one of ‘those’ people, who thinks everything Roofus does is the cutest thing and should be shared with the world. (Maybe not everything. Although he does look like a serious and concerned elderly man when he poops. Jussayin')  
  • My voice does this weird thing when he’s around. I think this is pretty common, but either way, it's not sexy. 
  • My girlfriend usually has a piece of paper towel in her pocket, just in case. 
  • I’ll ask friends, “Can Roofus come too?” when we have a low-key night planned.
  • I look at other dogs and compare them in cuteness. “Look at that tail. It’s not as cute as Roof’s nub.”
  • Little dogs are not real dogs. (Sorry- this isn’t really true. I just might break their whole body trying to play after playing with the beast.)
  • I’m on the ground a lot more often.
  • I snap my fingers in my sleep to get Roofus to be quiet... even when he’s also asleep. (Only my girlfriend has witnessed this, so her word against mine. I think I was just into some smooth jazz.)
  • My dinner is not just my dinner any longer. “But potatoes are his faaaavourite.”
  • When I’m walking home from a night of drinking, my girlfriend witnesses my exclamations of excitement when I remember that we have a dog. “I can’t waiiiiiiiiit to smuuuuuuush that faaaaaaaace.”  And then I stumble off the sidewalk and think about eating some pizza.

I’m still not used to his potent fartbombs and I’m not the dominant poop-picker-upper of the house, but I can proudly say that the little shit gets seriously excited when I walk through the door at 4:25pm, and my heart instantly grows to the size of a 26.

To those of you who aren’t ‘dog people’, I’m sorry for this absurd post. Having said that, YOU look at this face and tell me how you could ever possibly think of saying ‘no’.

And for good measure....

Here is a picture of Roofus wearing a tank top.  His manly chest gets all the ladies. 

Happy Spring, folks!

January 25, 2013

A Lot of People Google Tits and Booty.

If you’re still out there- there’s something I need to tell you.

I’m not dead. 

I also want to assure you that I’m not in a vegetative state where my fingers stopped working and my brain stopped producing funnies.  I still produce funnies. Although there’s nothing funny about being in a vegetative state, so I take that part back.

This is not going as I’d hoped.

Let’s put it this way: I’m balls-deep in life stuff.

I know you don’t want to hear my excuses, but too fucking bad. 

Here they are:

1-     I got a new job. A real job. A job that allows for very little blogging-while-working-but-I’m-not-really-working-but-don’t-tell-my-boss time.  Upside? I make more money and I get to intimidate the fuck out of people…but I’ll admit that I miss you guys. You helped me get through some pretty bleak times and writing this blog at work at home was a fantastic fucking waste of time. 
2-      I am back at school.  Yes. You heard me. School. Yours truly is back on campus, playing flip cup, beer pong and banging all the frat boys from here to Nantucket!*

*I’m not doing any of those things. Being in night school is like going to an Overeater’s Anonymous meeting in a church basement - full of greasy weirdoes and no motherfucking cookies. I’m totally up for a game of flip cup, though, guys. BRING IT. 

3-     I’m in, what some may call, a “serious” relationship.  Despite wanting to throat punch whoever coined the term ‘serious’ when it pertains to relationships, I will embrace the term because this is serious. fucking. business. Love is a whole lot of crazy, guys.  I know this blog isn’t here for me to ramble on about the perfect love of my life, but you know what? She is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, so deal with it. I’m talking about it.  I never expected to get so engulfed in someone. ever. But here I am. (Read: I’m too busy having sex and cuddling to write blog posts.)

I promise that I do still creep through your blogs to catch up and giggle. Although I haven’t completely disappeared, to those of you asking Where the FUCK have you been, Skank!? You now have your answer.  

I’m sorry that I cannot tickle your tonsils and diaphragms with my wit and charm like I used to (let me have that), however, I sincerely appreciate all of your encouragement and perversion over the course of this whole blogging experience. 

You guys are the motherfucking tits.

P.S. I also got my driver's license. After 10 years of procrastination. Watch the fuck out, world. Mama's gunna run you over.

August 23, 2012

If You Need Me, I'll Be Locked in the Bathroom.

I want to talk to you about my relationship with bathrooms.

Before you click away from this page with your nose high, thinking “I don’t need to hear about poop, thankyouverymuch”, let me assure you this post has nothing to do with bodily functions. At least that’s not the plan… I can’t make any guarantees. 

If you’re my sister or my parents, the content of this post will come as no surprise to you. I should mention, however, if you are my parents, please stop reading this blog and pretend you never found it. Your daughter is a sweet, innocent girl who hardly ever calls people motherfuckers. I promise. Probably.

Now back to bathrooms…

I grew up in an old house in Ottawa, with my mom, my dad and my older sister. That’s right, y’all, I’m the baby of the house. I’ll be the first to admit I was a temperamental little bitch of a child, and I had no problem letting people know exactly how I felt. About everything. All the time.  I know it’s pretty hard to imagine me as an outspoken little twat, but try and use your imagination.

When I reflect on my childhood ‘traumas’ two things come to mind. 1) I was very prone to getting the wind knocked out of me. 2) I was very prone to making shit hit the fan and losing my cool.

Let me clarify that the first of those two things is not related to some sort of health problem. I liked to roughhouse. A lot. And more often than not ended up rolling around on the floor, gasping, as my lungs tried to recover from the sudden shock of my body slamming against the ground.  It’s important to note that more often than not, I caused the fall on my own. I think it goes without saying that I was a pretty cool fucking kid.

Now let’s talk about the second item on that list. That’s right, ladies and gents, my childhood is rich in shit-covered ceiling fans*.  Every child deals with stress and anger differently. Some kids throw stuff. Some kids break shit. Some kids punch people. Some kids throw feces. I, however, would lock myself in the bathroom. Every. Fucking. Time.  I didn’t do this in a peaceful manner, I did this in the most bratty, slap-worthy manner possible. The door would need to be slammed at least two solid times, depending on how close the adult was on my trail. Rest assured I would also scream a lot, but only from behind the safe solace of a locked door coupled with a hefty supply of toilet paper to soak up the tears. To this day I can’t scream without crying. If I’m furious, I will weep like a little bitch. It’s just the way I’m wired, and it’s just what’s going to happen if I yell at you. Don’t be fooled by the tears. I will fucking cut you if I have to. But, you know, remorsefully.

*Not literally. Sweet jesus!

I couldn’t tell you how many times I ended up in a screaming fit with the back of the bathroom door. I’m pretty sure if I went to my parent’s basement bathroom, I’d find dents in the wall from my pounding fists/face.  The problem started at a young age. I can recall my babysitter missing an exam because yours truly was a jumbo piece of shit and decided a temper tantrum was more important than a future. Let’s not talk about what that babysitter is doing now.

My personal favourite bathroom incident took place in a hospital. Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, I was a jolly young tot who found a tree full of caterpillars. It was the best fucking day ever. The caterpillars lit up my world. So much so, that I got a plastic bowl and filled it with them. Then I proceeded to run the short block home, yelling bloody murder for my mother’s attention so she could witness my earth-shattering, delightful discovery.

The show and tell didn’t go quite as planned.

I fell. Hard.

I don’t even want to think about the caterpillar genocide that took place that afternoon.

With my mom standing at the edge of the porch, she saw her possibly-mentally-challenged daughter wipe out on the curb with a bowl full of caterpillars. Unluckily for me, there also happened to be broken glass and pebbles present at the scene of the crime. These things ended up in my knee.

Screaming and bleeding, I was rushed to the hospital. Once I finally got to see a doctor, they decided they would not be putting me asleep to remove the clutter from my knee.  What does an injured, traumatized child with a knee full of pebbles and glass do?  Make a b-line for the bathroom of course!  Using my advanced conversational skills, I informed the doctor that I needed to pee. I got up and began to saunter to the handicapped bathroom.  A light bulb in my mom’s head went off and she quickly began to follow me. The woman knew I was heading for the only bathroom I could lock. My injured leg did not hold me back. I got in there and locked the door. SWEET VICTORY.

My stay in that bathroom is a little bit foggy. I may have been losing blood, but I cannot be certain. I can recall a team of people outside of the door, trying to coerce me to come out. If memory serves, I indulged in a can of grape soda and a cookie after they fixed up my knee, so it’s probably safe to assume I was bribed.

Side note: You can no longer bribe me with grape soda and a cookie. Liquor, however, is another story.

Needless to say, locking yourself in a bathroom accomplishes very little, but man can it be a fun time. For years, I could have probably listed all of the ingredients in the shampoo and told you exactly how many bandaids were left in the medicine cabinet, but I don’t mean to brag.  

I’m proud to say that I no longer lock myself in bathrooms. On an unrelated note, I do have to look behind the shower curtain every time I pee. Oh look, a bodily function reference. Like I said, no guarantees.


 Did you have any special childhood hideouts when you got in trouble? 

August 15, 2012

That’s Probably Racist! Part I

Listen guys, I know this blog is full of words. I clearly have high expectations of you when it comes to your ability to follow my trains of thought. So far, I’d like to congratulate you on your efforts and continued patience with me.  I’d also like to pinch your nipples, but I’ll refrain (maybe.)

I know you’re all familiar with the internet and I know you must have a sense of humour if you’ve landed here and continue to subject yourself to this tomfuckery. So! With that in mind, I’ve decided to try a new segment on this here blog. It will exist for the sole purpose of turning your brain to mush, while your sense of humour (hopefully) gets a good workout. It’s like the perfect diet. Except you’ll probably get fat after you realize the world is going to shit and there’s just no fucking point on trying any longer. 

I’m not going to apologize for your rapidly deteriorating sense of purpose in this world.

When it boils down to it, I waste a lot of time online. I also happen to have a very handy unemployed friend who spends her time sending me gems she finds during her strenuous ‘job hunting’ sessions.  If I share these finds with you guys, it feels like our internet time is more like ‘research’ and less like ‘my parents would be so ashamed of me right now.’ 

Without further ado, welcome the newest segment to Polka dot Clovers: 

That’s Probably Racist! Part I 

 My Life

 Somebody hates you very, very much, ma'am. 
(I'll give you a hint: It's whoever sold you that hat.)

  Probably one of the douchiest bios I've ever seen. Someone slap the hipster.



 Classic 90's candy whoredom.

 Ever wonder what the fuck Rihanna would look like as a reverend? Look no longer. 
(Thanks Planet Hiltron.)

  You've probably seen this before, but it's pretty much my life's philosophy.

 "He looks like a thumb with hair." - my brilliant girlfriend.

 Life. Am I right, girls?! 

20$ says he held back his hair first and someone had to tell him to look more hardcore and less like a lady. 

*Breathes deeply* 

That's all for now, folks!

*** If you have anything you'd like to see on this segment, please send me a message!

August 8, 2012

Sex on the Beach! Everybody's Doing It!

The beach is full of whores. 

Found in all shapes and sizes, beach whores are a breed of women who lose all sense of dignity the moment they smell that breeze coming off of the water. Once the sun hits their greasy, orange skin, all bets are off. Except for slut bets. Those are still on. They're always on.

After spending an extended weekend at Wasaga Beach, a place near and dear to my heart, namely for the day drinking, my awareness of this slutnomenon (slut-phenomenon, stay with me folks) skyrocketed.  The most shocking discovery? Age is not a factor in ones whorability on the beach.  I’m 90% sure one of the skanky grannies even had her ladybits cornrowed. Why do I know this? Well, my friends, no one can wear a hot pink mesh thong and expect discretion.

Beach culture perplexes me. Everyone is nearly naked and covered in oil. Women lay straddling their boyfriends on their beach blankets, as if passersby aren’t being forced to imagine them bangers’n’mashing, as children sit nearby indulging in the delicacy of sand pie and lake tea.  You would think watching a bunch of screaming kids eat dirt and pick their wedgies would be enough of a bonerkiller, but it would appear that the beach whores are impermeable to such blatant reminders of their sexual indiscretions. Let’s go bang in the lake, baby! The water is pretty much a condom anyway.

You're doing it wrong.
Watching men and women interact in the sand is like watching Animal Planet. My homosexuality allows for objective observations. (It doesn’t really, I just wanted to use the word homosexuality today. It’s just one of those days.) Mating behaviours between men and women are not unlike those between two women. When it boils down to it, we all just really want to get it in. Am I right girls!? … Ok, so maybe some of us are also looking for companionship and other hot topic items I’ve heard T-Swifty sing the living fuck out of, but let’s be real. Generally speaking, when you’re flailing sand around like a drunk walrus with heat rash to get some beefcake’s attention, you ain’t looking for a hubby. You lookin’ for an STI scare.

Despite the overwhelming abundance of cellulite, I’ll keep the discussion of “beach bodies” to a minimum. Much like nude beaches, those who chose to bare all/close to all are rarely ‘sexy’(I realize this is a very big overgeneralization. Suck it.) This is probably going to surprise you, but I’m not going to complain about it. If you’re comfortable flaunting your stretch marks, saggy tits, microballs or thunder thighs, all the power to you. You’re a fucking rockstar and I hope you don’t get skin cancer on your labia. 

Regardless of what you wear or who you do on the beach, the most important thing is to be sure you keep hydrated... (before you start thinking I’m offering a piece of legitimately responsible advice, let me elaborate) with liquor.  If you’re not drunk, you’re not going to appreciate the beach whores or skanky grannies nearly as much as you should. Besides, sand tastes way better after a 26 of vodka and a handful of weed cookies.


Pop Quiz! 
What's your favo(u)rite beach moment?  
Me? Oh, you know, stepping on a used syringe is up at the top of my list... right behind getting my foot run over by a car. Ain't no thang. 


In the spirit of blog recognition, I have appointed a winner to last post's challenge! 
It was tough because I'm extremely in love with all of you, and your rhyming techniques do not fail to impress. 

The winner of the rap challenge is.... my dear fucking hilarious friend at Cerebral Milkshake!

Her submission: 
You know I fucking suck at rhymes
'Cause I don't do it all the time
Awe, don't throw a fit,
'Cause, chicka-check it, it's Britt
She all up in the boozing and baking
The writing she do is funny making
She lives up north in CanAyDia
And likes to drink Vodka and Gatoradia
Check her rockin' the fu manchu
She be in style when she says "achoo"
Now I gotta stop 'cause I'm laughing hard
'Cause this rhyme proves that Imma fucktard.


(She had me at 'fu manchu'.)

July 18, 2012

Let's Not Talk About Slapping Hoes

I’m going to admit something to you, and you’re going to judge me.  I want you to know that your judgment cannot permeate this tough, rugged exterior. I’m tough as nails, bitches, and you can keep your raised eyebrows and audible sighs to yourself.

Actually, no, wait. Please share them. I’m a sucker for a little abuse. (Ok. Seriously? Two posts in a row that talk about punishment and/or abuse? This is a whole new side to this blog. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m excited.)

Ok, where was I? Oh right.

I love hip-hop.  Seriously. I love it. 

I love how offensive it is; I love that it makes no sense, I love that it makes grown men make silly rhymes and pronounce words like ‘baby’ as ‘babay’ because it’s more badass. I love that grillz exist. 

Dayum, son, you look good.

I love that wearing a Band-Aid on your face can be cool. I love that even in all of my pasty-white glory, I get an obscene amount of joy out of shaking my ass like a poorly-endowed Beyonce while whipping my hair and making milkshakes. (We’ve talked about my dancing before. If you missed it, you can read about it here. I’m available for back up dancing anytime. Inquire inside.)

But my favourite thing about hip-hop is, hands down, the lyrics.

The beats are catchy, they’re hypnotic and they’re distracting.  That last one was the most important. By distracting listeners with make-your-hips-move beats, those motherfuckers can say anything they goddamn want to. They can tell me that they like fluffy pink slippers and sipping earl grey in their mom’s Jacuzzi, and it’ll sound fucking badass if it’s accompanied by a dirty beat and some sexy auto-tuned bitch singing about hundred dollar bills and private jets. And guess what? I’ll eat it all up with a giant fucking spoon because I love it all so much.  

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes the lyrics are hard to miss. They’re in your face like Christina Aguilara’s tits, and sometimes I’m okay with that. (The lyrics, not the tits. Ms. Aguilara needs to put those puppies to bed.)  Geniuses, such as the always-sexy Snoop Dogg, make no apologies for their disgusting, offensive, crude rhymes that make me want to shield old ladies’ ears. 

To say the very least, this dude is not subtle. Here is an excerpt from one of my latest favourite songs.

Disclaimer: It’s fucking poetry.

Can you be my doctor, can you fix me up?
Can you wipe me down, so I can lick you up?
Make you give it up, give it up 'til you say my name
Like a jersey, jersey, shittin' down the game

Make it, make it, make it wet
I wanna get you wet
Tell tell me, baby, are you wet?
I just wanna get you wet
Wet, wet

I can’t be 100% positive, but I’m pretty sure Snoop wants to make someone’s vagina wet.
I might be misreading this and making some pretty lewd assumptions, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Oh, Snoop, you sly dogg, you.
(See what I did there?)

The other great facet of hip-hop lyrics includes what I like to call ‘quick rhymes’. Awesome rappers do it effortlessly. They rhyme itch, bitch, witch, switch, snitch and junkwich* like no one’s business and you can’t even question it because they’re fucking pros.

*Why yes, junkwich is, indeed, short for ‘junk sandwich’. I’m glad you asked.

This song by the ever-talented David Guetta (Feat. Taio Cruz) is a great example of this kind of rhyming brilliance.  I never would have thought to rhyme stackin’ with slappin’. I’ll leave it to the professionals.

She got my heart jumpin'
And my adrenalin pumpin' and gunnin'
Like ain't nobody ever seen (seen seen seen…)
As a matter of fact I've seen this woman all up in my dreams
Whippin' and flippin' and stackin' and slappin'
I'm attacking after she back it up and make it DROP (Drop drop drop…)

I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never seen a woman all up in your dreams whippin’ and flippin’, but now I’m feeling like I’m missing out on some pretty valuable life experiences.  To say the least, this is a new life goal.  Makin’ mama proud, one dream at a time!

I’m 90% sure that some of you are probably closeted rappers. Maybe only when you’re shitfaced, and maybe only when you think no one is home, but regardless, you rap the shit out of a beat and you drop it like it’s hot.

With this in mind, I’d be interested to know if any of you have any real rapping abilities. I’d request a recording and/or video, but I realize that’s probably a lot to ask and none of you love me enough to do such a grand gesture of awesomness. (Why yes, I am using guilt to get you to do something. Is it working?) IF you don’t love me enough for that, but still want to show off some of your skillz, share some of your rhymes below! I will be forever indebted to you for the joy and entertainment it will bring me.

*Disclaimer: If you wish to leave a comment, it doesn’t have to rhyme, but, you know, you’d be a lot cooler if it did rhyme. But it’s your life. These are your choices.


Some of you participated in my last post’s word challenge.

I want you to know that each and every one of them made me giggle to myself in public like a drunk schoolgirl.

One in particular took the cake. I’m probably biased because it mentioned boobs.

Join me in giving a round of slaps to Méthodique Boisson of Scientific Facts... I just made up!

The winning submission:

"When I think about side-boob, it penetrates my brain until I want to rub myself so much it almost feels like punishment."

I recommend reading all of the comments, though, because you guys are flippin’ brilliant.

July 12, 2012

Sexual Chairs and Dumb Faces

I’ve been a very bad blogger.

No, that wasn’t a cue for you to get out your paddle and punish me for being neglectful and lazy. Ok, maybe it was, but you’re all the way over on the other side of the internet, so I’ll have to punish myself.

(Side note: Dear god, ‘punish’ sounds so sexual. Much like the words ‘penetrate’ and ‘rub’. I dare you to use all three in a sentence. GO!)

I’ll admit that summer takes away a lot of my normal ‘free time’ that I spend blogging. (read: I actually get off the couch to go outside when it’s nice outside, so I’m not on the computer all the goddamn day.)  I thank you for putting up with my unreliable blogging behaviour. If you’re ever in my neck of the woods, tequila shots are on me. If you show me your boobs.

It will come as no shock to you to hear that I’ve been steadily shaving years off of my liver.  Toronto Pride happened a couple weekends ago, and I think I heard my insides crying while I made sweet love to the porcelain gods and I prayed for sweet salvation. (In other words, I spent a day throwing up street meat and vodka. It was dreamy. I can tell you’re jealous.)

Lots has happened in my world as of late, and I thought I’d make a little list of important mentionables.  Think of this as our personal little update huddle time. No farting please. (Oh god, did I just make a fart joke? I must be rusty.)

10 Things Worth Mentioning (In No Particular Order)

1)      Technology is not indestructible, despite what you may have heard from Arnold Schwarzenegger. While my Blackberry put up a good fight, it eventually had to accept defeat.  (I dropped my Blackberry off of my balcony on the 24th floor. Suffice it to say, it did not survive the fall. WHADDUP iPhone.)

2)      Eating almost an entire carrot cake before bed, will make you have crazy dreams about tremendous poops and breakdancing. Not necessarily in that order.
3)      Instagram brings out your inner hipster, even if you don’t want it to. It’s like the STI of apps. You didn’t want to admit you’re a goddamn whore, but the warts are there, slutpup, so embrace it and move along.

4)      I spend a lot of time in the sun, but I’m still really pasty with the exception of my feet. Fact: Tanned feet will bring all the boys to your yard.

5)      If you tell a Starbucks barista that your name is Brittany, there is a high likeliness she will decide you’re better suited to another name.
Wrong. Try again.

6)      Channing Tatum has the dumbest face of all the faces.

7)      In related dumb face news: Someone decided that Anne Hathaway could sing and pull off a buzzed head. As far as I’m concerned, it was probably dumb Channing’s face who made that call. Regardless, she shat all over my favourite musical of all time. Seriously guys, the world might be over.  Stay tuned.

8)      Shopping in the USA is ridiculous. All of the allegations of Target’s almighty power were not even remotely hyperbolized. I was so tantalized by the deals I may or may not have purchased a solar-activated waiving Queen. Don’t judge.

9)      Don’t tell your dental hygienist you work in investments. You will have to sit there and hear about her investment decisions and you can’t do a goddamn thing about it because the bitch has her hands so far in your mouth, she may as well be filming it to make a profit.  In related news: investments are boring, but dentist chairs are very sexual. Who knew?

10)  Banana popsicles were sent to earth by the Gods of Mouthgasms.  Now I just need to find a way to add vodka to them. Please provide suggestions below.

I have lots of catching up to do on your wonderful blogs. I hope that you will remain patient with me and my douchebaggery. I promise to be much more reliable in the near future. There is just far too much sangria to be consumed and not nearly enough hours in the day to do so.

A small piece of advice: Vodkarade is your friend. Until it’s not.


June 13, 2012

An Open Letter to Hot Sauce

You spicy little bitch, you.  

I see the way you sit there on my shelf, taunting me with your red glow, beckoning me to pick you up and cradle you in my arms. I see the way your label warns me that you’re going to burn, and you know what? I don’t even care. I don’t love you in spite of the pain you cause, I love you because of the pain you cause.
You get me. You get inside of me like no one else. (Heh. Gross)

You play on my food like a drunk skank on the dancefloor. By which I mean, you’re messy and I like it.  You get all over my fingers (let’s back away from the skank analogy now) and I’m okay with that, but we have an agreement, remember? Stay the fuck out of my eyes. I know you’ve stuck your spicy self in there before, and we managed to get through it, but times were rough for awhile and I didn’t like not being able to trust you.   Please don’t make me question you again. We have something special. 

Together, you and I are invincible. The tasteless, grey world of cheap, shitty food is not of concern to us. We dominate that shit and make it our bitch. When all is said and done, I can bask in the orgasmic burn of my stinging tongue, satisfied by a job well done. You kick me from the inside to remind me you’re still there. Thank you for that. I remember you fondly when you’re gone. (Mostly. I’ll avoid talking about burning poop. For now.)

But you know what, you crazy, firey SOB? There once was a time when you and I were not friends. I’d look right past you in the fridge; I’d turn you down at restaurants. I’d walk by your slender, crimson body as I wondered what was missing from my bland, melancholic pizza. It was you all along. You were the banana to my peanut butter.  I could tell from your demeanor that you had been waiting for me to grab you and envelop your spicy, glorious juices with my eager taste buds. And you know what? I did just that. Oh yes, I fucking did. And you were everything a person could ever want in their mouth. And you still are.

Just stay away from my snatch, k?




I decided to surf the internetz to find other hot sauce lovers.  Together, we can conquer anything. (Especially Queen Booty. She looks like she could take a lot. Ifyouknowwhatimean.)

That's me, last weekend. (No it's not. I have a bigger beard.)

Enrique likes it hot. (That's his real name, guys. I'm not racist)

Dear Queen Booty, do you put that shit on everything?

THIS GUY wants some spice in his life.

Even Tits McGee likes it hot!

Tell me, friends, do you like it hot? 

June 8, 2012

I Like Your Necklace, Can You Cook? (Alt title: Everyone is a Slut)

A little while ago I posted about going through a break-up and all of the shitfuckery fun that that entailed. I got a lot of lovely words from readers (read: lots of useful advice on how to drink my problems away) and it helped a lot (my doctor might disagree).  Now that summer is upon us, it’s become clear to me that I need to push myself to get out there and meet some new motherfuckers.  What’s the best way to meet people? Online dating sites, of course!

I’m mostly just looking for more people to drink vodka slushies with while dodging the cops in shady areas of town… but apparently I’m supposed to play coy and appear like I have my shit together so that I will be elusive enough to draw in attention from unsuspecting girls on the internet.  (When I say ‘unsuspecting girls on the internet’ it really just makes me sound like a predator, doesn’t it? …Ya, that’s what I thought.)

I’m not going to dick you guys around and pretend online dating is a foreign phenomenon to me. I’ve rode that bicycle before… numerous times. I’ve met a lot of people off of the World Wide Web, and for the most part, it’s actually worked out very well (says the single girl.) I’ve made some great friends and my liver has met many highly capable contenders, but let me tell you, it takes patience.  And by patience, I mean balls of steel. Allow me to elaborate.

When you online date, you have to brace yourself to feel like a sack of shit, covered in boogers. In other words: You will take your time writing out a witty, concise message to someone you think you’d get along with, take a deep breath and hit ‘send’, and wait for their response. A day later you will see that they’ve since been online, they’ve looked at your profile and decided that you aren’t worthy of their time.  What the fuck? You complimented them and made it clear you were just looking for a friendly chat, but they’ve decided you’re a hideous beast from the depths of their nightmares and you should go fuck yourself. (Okay, fine, I may be overreacting, but I’m in a vulnerable place, guys, and these bitches be whack.)  Maybe I should consider adding more bling to my profile pics. I hear women like shiny things. (Why yes, I am talking about vajazzling.)

I have only been on the site for about a week and while I’m already pretty fed up with it, I’m trying to stay positive. I have learned, however, to steer clear of it after a bottle or two of wine. Trust me when I say that there is nothing but shame and horror emanating from the computer the following morning when you browse the ‘sent’ folder of your newly pimped-out profile. You probably should have reconsidered messaging that girl to tell her she’s “hot as balls”, or from sending that girl with the boyfriend and kid two ‘e-roses’ alongside an e-card reading “i cuold be yerrrr evreythinging.”

Live and learn, right folks?

While I’m not entirely ready to jump into the ‘dating pool’ just yet, I figured it’s worth getting my toes wet*. In keeping with this theme, I’d like to share with you some insight I’ve gained after reading Cosmo’s tips on how to make a good impression on a first date.  Everybody knows that Cosmo knows what’s best in the realm of dating and sex, so you’d be pretty fucking stupid not to listen to these tidbits of journalism brilliance.

*You and I will probably get along if your brain went straight to foot sex when I said “getting my toes wet”. Not because I’m into that (I actually hate feet), but because you’re a filthy sonofabitch and I love you for it.)

The focus of this ‘article’ was to warn women of the possible ‘red flags’ they are waving on first dates. All I can say is thank fucking god Cosmo has warned me of all this wrongdoing! I feel like my womanhood has been saved. 

Cosmo Says: You’re a Slut!

OMFG, your e-mail address is with Hotmail? I’m pretty sure that’s the internet equivalent to having sex with horses. Such a faux-pas.
Call me when you get an e-mail with another free e-mail provider that’s superior because Cosmo told me so. Maybe then I’ll look past your blasé attitude towards the internet and the evolution of what’s hip. 

Here, Cosmo is teaching us ladies the valuable skill of ‘settling.’  We should dangle shiny pendants between our sweater puppies to distract our gentleman callers while we overlook the fact that the douchebag doesn’t wash his sheets. That’s just science, guys. Pure and simple science.

I’m going to need to challenge Cosmo a little bit on the smoky eye thing. Applying the knowledge I’ve just acquired from this super helpful dating guide, I say that if a man is more concerned with getting your makeup on his pillow than he is about getting it in, he probably wasn’t successfully distracted by your bejeweled jugs. Try a shinier accessory next time.

Saying you can’t cook is the most blasphemous thing you can say on a date. It will make a man’s penis shrivel up and revert inside of him and you will forever be responsible for taking away his ability to throw his seed on the women of this nation.  Be a good bitch and whip up some Kraft Dinner like the rest of us so that your man can feel like he’s chosen a worthy mate. Everyone knows that men can’t cook. That’s just science.

With these neato tips under my belt and a pocket full of valium, I feel much better equipped to take on the world of dating. I will have to rework them so they apply to my homosexual ‘lifestyle’, but that should actually be quite easy. When women date, there are 2 sets of shiny tits, so who the fuck has time for e-mails or cooking, anyway?

June 4, 2012

The Prevention of Shit Bombs

I’m not homeless, bitches!

We’ve moved into our new apartment and so far, it’s fucking awesome. There is so. much. space.

Keep in mind that my roommate and I had been living in a glorified cardboard box for the past 2 years, so our concept of space has been seriously warped. We had a cubicle-sized living room and our hallway had a kitchen in it. Just the idea of having closets was luxurious. And guess what? We have a lot of fucking closets now.

I’ve danced at least twice to celebrate having a linen closet. Don’t even get me started on the broom closet. (No one said I was cool.)

As with any move, there will be a whole slew of things to get used to in the new building; the most notable adjustment will be the pigeons.  In case you were wondering, spending your Saturday morning hungover, scraping pigeon shit off of a balcony using a very potent bleach concoction is not as sexy as you might think.  In related news: what the fuck are pigeons eating that causes them to shit so fucking much?

It’s clear to us that the previous tenants never used the balcony. They obviously neglected it all together, leaving the pigeons to host whatever kind of shit party/feather plucking rave they desire. (Seriously, there were feathers everywhere… and shards of metal. I’m pretty sure they were building some sort of shit-bomb. We stomped on their dreams. You’re welcome, world.)   Soon, we’ll be putting up a net to keep the diseased beasts away, but for now we’ve decided to spend our time yelling at each one that lands on our balcony. (When I say ‘yelling’, I really mean “yell until you realize they don’t give a shit how much you yell, so you decide to go outside and start flailing your limbs around until they get nervous and move to the edge of the balcony and then you start kicking at them until they move to the balcony one unit over so they’re far enough so you can’t reach them, but close enough to mock you with their douchey cooing.”)

Remember that time my roommate suggested we could take over the world with pigeons? This may be the first step, guys. Stay tuned.

In other apartment news, I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it, but we’ve moved to the 24th floor. In case you haven’t been paying attention, that’s fucking high up.  I’m pretty much on top of the world when I sleep.  

My camera takes awesome pictures that make everything look itty bitty.

Being so high up means I have a great vantage point. It’s too bad I retired from my part-time sniper job, because I probably could have gotten a lot of work done from home. (Nothing says ‘dream job’ like snipering (that’s a word) in PJs and a housecoat, am I right, girls!?) Fortunately for me, I’m fully equipped to entertain myself with the second best thing: people watching with binoculars. 

A little back story

Before moving to Toronto, I lived alone in a fifth floor apartment in Montreal. While the view was measly in comparison to that of our latest home, it felt incredibly high up after living in a partial basement, and I was very excited by my newly acquired ability to spy on people. The next time he visited, my dad came equipped with binoculars for my disposal. To say the least, those bitches have gotten a lot of action over the years.

Before you say it, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a total creep. I shamelessly watch people and spend a lot of time listening to other people’s conversations. Naturally, people watching/stalking with binoculars from the 24th floor is exhilarating to me.  With endless amounts of targets in sight, there’s a very real possibility that my sleeping pattern is about to get all sorts of cray cray. Or I’ll get arrested. One of those.

Who knows, maybe I’ll catch a fellow creep binoculating* on me as I binoculate on them.

Yep. How’s that for a sexy sentence to kick off the week? 

You’re welcome.

*Binoculate/binoculating may or may not be real words.

May 29, 2012

Sweaty Tits and Heavy Boxes

Fact: If you make an awkward joke to your gynecologist when she’s doing her ‘business’, things will get uncomfortable.

Fact: It’s totally worth it.


So, it’s hot as balls in Toronto right now.  Walking around with sweaty tits and impending pit stains makes a girl feel pretty sexy, if I say so myself.  Nothing removes panties faster than tit sweat. 

Don’t quote me on that.

(Actually, I changed my mind, please do.)

There are many reasons to curse this heat, but overall it’s pretty awesome. The season of park drinking is upon us and that pretty much means that life is worth living again!  Nothing says vacation like a bottle of wine (vodka?) on a park bench surrounded by a bunch of crazy, strung out junkies. (I’m looking at you, Allan Gardens.)  Seriously though, fuck all y’all and your tropical vacation pictures on Facebook. I’m tired of looking at your stupid face on the stupid white sand beach in your stupid bikini. Befriend a junkie and lie in the sun in your underwear like the rest of us.


Since I’ve been bitching and moaning about moving for far too long, I figured it was worth throwing in a little bit of an update/you don’t have a motherfucking choice and you’re going to hear about my move whether you like it or not.


Update 1: Uhaul vans smell like corn.
Update 2: We kicked moving’s ass, and made it our bitch.

All of our shit is now sitting in our (soon to be) apartment with a stranger while I crash at my wonderful friend’s house until Friday.  I am 89% sure that the stranger will not steal/break/pee on my stuff. I probably should have put in a special request for ‘no urine’ when dropping off our shit, but what can I say? I like to live on the edge a little.

So now I’m covered in tiny bruises and a grimy feeling that doesn’t seem to want to go away. If I left the house 2 hours earlier this morning, I probably could have been mistaken as one of the hookers that hang outside of (endearingly nicknamed) Hooker Harvey’s.  (Yes, I did just compare myself to a prostitute.)

Moving out of the apartment was a little bitter sweet. I said my silent goodbyes to Keith and Roberta and thanked them for imposing their presence upon me over the past 2 years.  Without them, I never would have known what a raccoon fetus looks like, or what it sounds like to have something living in your wall, scratching inches away from your head at 5am. 

Sorry, I don’t mean to brag.

In honour of Keith, and leaving him behind, I’ve dug up an old text conversation my good friend Ivan and I had after one of my Keith encounters.

If you don’t want to lower your IQ, you should consider skipping this all together.

Raccoon Conversations
Interpreted and reenacted by Britt & Ivan

Britt: Do u think, when raccoons communicate, they ever talk about -or even have the ability to talk about- things that have occurred in the past? 
Ivan: Like, 'Hey man! Remember that pizza crust from last Thursday? IT TASTED LIKE TITTIES.'

Britt: Yes.

: ... then no. 
Britt: Example… Keith would be all "Yesterday this crazy fucking woman yelled at me that it was time to get up and told me to get my act together."


: "Oh no way, bro. I got poked by a child carrying a stick. Pretty annoying."
: "Daaaamn dude. That shit’s one of my pet peeves"

: "You should have seen this pigeon, homie. She was aaaaall up in ma grillz"

: "I hope you fucked that pigeon up. They play their games. Get all risky and fly all close for no reason."

: "I found me a boob slingshot. Epic, bro"

: "Do you mean a bra? Like, for boobs?"

: "Dude. Don't ruin this for me."

: "Let's go sling our shit at other animals. I got beef with a squirrel."
Britt: "Also: totally ate blue cheese today by accident. You know that shit makes me allll bloated, gurl."

: "IMMA CUT THAT BITCH SQUIRREL. She stole my nuts"
Ivan: (Wink)

: Aw hellz nah!


May 16, 2012

Craddle the Whiskey: A Fun New Game!

It’s hump day y’all, so you’d better be humping. And if you’re not humping, you’d better be thinking about humping and cradling a bottle of whiskey between your tits to make yourself feel better for having an inadequate sex life.  

I’m not going to apologize to you guys (I’m an asshole, remember, assholes don’t say sorry), but I am going to give you a heads up that my life is fucking crazeballs right now so my ‘free time’ has been stunted. This means that I’m finding less time to be funny, and more time to be insane. (On an unrelated note, does anyone have any suggestions on how to go about burning down a house without it being retraced to me? Just kidding! (Probably. LOLZ*))

*For those of you new here, I promise I don’t use LOLZ on a regular basis. Maybe.

My roommate and I have (I think) finally narrowed down an apartment to move into. This means that I’m in the throes of moving and all of the glory that comes along with it. (Listen, I know you don’t want to hear about it. Listening to someone talk about moving all the motherfucking time is extremely annoying.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that if you were in my general vicinity for even 2 hours you’d probably try to wrap my telephone chord around my neck and gag me with a stapler. Okay, fine, maybe that’s my fantasy. Whatever. You get what I'm trying to say.)

Stapler gags and office sex jokes aside, I should probably just admit to you that there is no point to this post and you’ve wasted however many minutes it has taken you to get to this point. (2 minutes? … maybe 10 minutes if you’re fucking slow and/or have been cradling aforementioned tit whiskey. I'm hoping for the latter.)

In the spirit of having nothing funny to talk about, I’d like to offer you a representation of what I look like most of the time these days. 

Damn that vodka was good.

*Disclaimer: That’s not me in the picture. 

If you need me, I’ll be on the floor in my rubber gloves. LOLZ ;) 

May 9, 2012

For Rent! 2 Bedroom Skankden!

Moving sucks balls.
More specifically, trying to find an apartment to move into sucks balls.

On the first of June, my roommate and I have to move out of our tiny, shitty apartment, and so far, we’re up Shitcreek without a fucking paddle. We’ve been on the lookout since March, and to put it bluntly, I might stab the next fucker that shows me a shitty apartment.

At the very least, I will pee on their floor.

Our list of ‘must haves’ is not obscenely long, and, in my opinion, it’s not too demanding. We need doors and closets… and a floor that doesn’t smell like cats/rotting food/feet.  I know that sounds pretty luxurious, but what can I say? I’m a pretty fancy lady.

I’ve grown to resent every ad that gets posted. They’re riddled with lies and omissions. People just need to be honest and upfront about the shithole they’re renting.

I decided to write a few ads that seem far more realistic based on my experience and my overactive imagination. 





Besides the depressing lack of apartments available, there are a whole slew of other things to keep in mind. Mainly: every motherfucking building in this city has bedbugs, cockroaches and an alcoholic landlord.  At best, they have 2 of the 3, and I’m 90% sure that if it doesn’t have all 3, it’s probably haunted with some sort of ninja/deathwish poltergeist. 90% sure, guys. For reals.

Now, somebody bring me a goddamn cocktail and a motherfucking place to live. 

May 2, 2012

I Hope You Like the Taste of Slaps

I’m going to be honest with you guys, there is a lot of shit that pisses me off.

You can pretend to be surprised by that statement, but I’ll know you’re just being polite- and quite frankly, if you’re the ‘polite’ type, I’m not sure we’d get along. You should just call me a crazy bitch like the rest of ‘em so we can move forward and develop a normal relationship.  


What was I saying? Oh right, a lot of shit pisses me off.

I don’t think I’d classify myself as an ‘irrationally angry’ person. Generally speaking, my anger is entirely rational and it spawns from other people’s ignorance and general douchebaggery. If you’re going to parade around like you’re the motherfucking king of Asshole Castle, then chances are I’m going to want to slap you. Really fucking hard.

I decided to make a list.

People I Want to Slap Really Fucking Hard

  • People who don't know how to walk

A word to those of you who decide to randomly stop walking to check your phone/pick your ass, if I’m behind you when you stop, you might wake up with a new hole.

  • Loud cellphone talkers

Seriously. Shut the fuck up. No body wants to hear about Becky’s questionable decisions and your inability to hold down tequila. You’re just as slutty as Becky and you know it.

  • People who let their kids run amuck in public washrooms

Your 4 year old can’t be trusted not to piss on everything. Keep that thing on a leash.

  • Girls who relentlessly look at themselves in the reflection of windows they're walking by

 Let me make this easy for you: You look like a bedazzled asshat. With a cameltoe.

  • My Landlord

To put it lightly, this man deserves a hot iron to the testicles.

  • Guys who are constantly 'adjusting' themselves

Everyone knows you have a penis. Congratulations! Chances are if you need to touch your junk that much, you should probably get that checked out. Or you need to lay off the G-Strings. One of those.

  • People who drink light beer

Fuck you. Drink better beer, pussy.

  • People who always try to top your story

Listen, I understand that something sort of, kind of, not really at all similar happened to you once, but I don’t want to hear about it and quite frankly, you’re about to learn what my foot tastes like. I hope you’re hungry.

  • People who breathe really loudly at the gym

Seriously, broseph, are you giving birth?

  • People who wear UGGs

You’re wearing boots named after the abbreviation of the word ‘ugly’. It is no coincidence that they’re motherfucking ugly.  People really will buy anything, won’t they? Maybe I should start a purse line named “VAG”. (You can bet your ass they’d all be made with a soft, pink lining.)

  • Elderly people who chew really loudly

Just kidding. I’d never hit an old person. Probably.

  • The guy that never toasts my bread correctly at the sandwich place where I get my breakfast

Who the fuck likes burnt toast? Probably your mother. I hope you like the taste of slaps.


I know you guys will have some good ones, so let me hear ‘em. What makes you want to shove your fist through someone’s face? (Now there’s a sexy mental image!)