CREATIVE LICENSE

Yesterday I saw a little blue VW Bug on the back of a tow truck and I thought to myself, Well, Pissy must have not paid her car payment again.

And then I saw a Honda Odyssey with license plates that said MOMBUS and I threw up in my mouth a little.

And while we are on the topic of license plates, I saw a Jeep this morning with license plates that said BLUMPKN

For those of your not in the know:

blumpkin
English

Noun
When fellatio is performed while the recipient is defecating on a toilet.
So there you have it. It is taken in Virginia, but for my out of state readers, you might want to see if it is available where you live.

Holla at your girl!

Why don't I have anything to blog about anymore? I am so boring and lame. I need to have an affair and develop a drug problem. Or hit the lottery. Depending on the jackpot amount that would make for some pretty interesting blog entries.

So today I will do some accounting type stuff, get a pedicure, eat a piece of chocolate cake, watch some Tivo'd nonsense (I can't get enough of Discovery Health these days) and spend inordinate amounts of time in front of the mirror marveling at how my new hairstyle makes me look younger. And let me tell ya, as an old 30-year-old battle axe, I'll take take all the help I can get.

Battle Axe, I like that. I might have to change my name. Or at least get that on my license plate.

Picture it: BATL AX or BTTL AXE or BATTL AX, so many possibilities, really.

An Odyssey Of Stereotypes

I just got lucky enough to hear good music everywhere I went today, all day long. I even had the good fortune to shake my bon bon to a little Samantha Fox I Want To Have Some Fun.

Now, you guys know that I don't like to brag, but I've got to toot my own horn for a minute. I'm a pretty open minded gal, accepting and loving of all God's creatures no matter their size, shape or color. I try very hard not to make sweeping over generalizations about a certain group of people based on their race, color or creed. Even though my beloved family dog was viciously run over by a car full of Ukrainian midgets, I in no way hold that against the Ukrains or our smaller statured friends.

But I'm afraid nobody is perfect. Not even Hot Lipz (ya'll might want to do a screen cap of that last sentence because I can't imagine I'll leave it up for long). And even though I am open to those around me, I have to admit that I do hold a couple of broad stereotypes and will go to my grave vowing that truer words were never spoken. The first is that all Russian women are whores and the second is that all doctors are arrogant bastards.

And then today as I'm driving down the street being cut off by some cunt in a Honda Odyssey minivan with a George W. Bush bumper sticker, I quickly added a third to that list. Everyone who drives a Honda Odyssey minivan is a fucker.

Ya'll can quote me on that.

I'm serious as a heart attack. I quickly started thinking of everyone I knew that drove a stupid Odyssey and I soon realized that I had a deep seated hatred for all of them. And they all had something in common. They all take themselves way too seriously, which is mighty awful when you are already a great big douchebag.

Quick. Do it. It is like Six Degrees To Kevin Bacon, once you start, you won't be able to stop. Think of everyone you know who drives a gay Odyssey. They are fuckers, aren't they?

I knew it.

And for those of you who still don't believe me, I found photographic proof of this theory.




See, all fuckers.

The Ides Of February

First and foremost, I think it is crucial that you know that I am suffering from salmonella poisoning. I wish I were just trying to be funny. The source: peanut butter. Delicious, creamy Peter Pan.

I had big plans to do a little Stacey Loves Me Two Year Anniversary Retrospective yesterday, but alas, I failed you. The good news, you should be getting used to it by now.

I think the fact that I started my blog on Valentines Day is a tiny little indication of how I'm the least romantic lady on earth. I'm such a guy in that department. I really can't even remember celebrating a Valentine's Day before.

But now, as a married woman, it isn't just about me anymore. I have a husband to take care of. So I wrote a little poem (Here's a little excerpt:
Dear honey,
I love you more than money,
Even if you were poor,
I'd still be your whore.
I love your sexy body,
Even when you are sitting on the potty,
I still think you are a hottie)
I filled the bathtub with bubbles and rose petals, made chocolate covered strawberries, and then somehow got stuck babysitting Dee's two bad kids all evening. Now that's Romance!

Try not to be jealous.

And if any of you have any birthdays, anniversaries or special occasions coming up and you want me to write a romantic poem for you, just let me know!

As it seems, celebrating Valentine's Day is not the only change that matrimony will bring to Hot Lips' life. There are a few more changes coming our way, including but not limited to: the building of a new house (so if any of you have any swamp land you want to sell me, now's the time), extrication from my job (just as soon as I learn how to quit a job when you own the company, until then, I'll just have to cut back my hours) and maybe, if I play my cards right, the adoption of a disadvantaged, black youth.

God Damn Motherfucking Son of a Bitch

My internet has been down for almost two days. At the office. And. At home.

God damn. It is driving me to drink.

It took me until almost 9 o'clock at night to figure out to just break out the laptop and jump on a neighbor's unsecured wireless connection.

I was really going to write you a long post telling Monk how Artie sucked and telling Echo my 6 weird things and telling Pissy about my impromptu wedding to Wayne Newton.

But instead I've lost my vigor.

And my vim, too.

I've got a busy day tomorrow and none of it involves cupid or chocolate or rose petals or Halmark. Whaaaa. It does involve stupid people, though.

All righty then.

I love ya'll.

What Happens In Vegas...

I'm back.

Thank God.

Of course I had a great time, but I learned that nine days in Las Vegas is about four or five days too many. But all of that time allowed me to sleep a lot, eat a lot, see a lot of good shows, drink a lot, gamble a lot and shop a lot. I wasn't prepared for the shopping in Vegas to be so good. I found a Coach outlet that brought me to tears. The poor little gay sales boy had to help me to my feet when I fell to my knees sobbing and clutching half-price designer purses and wallets like a crazed lunatic.

I love to exploit those with insecurities about their financial status, especially those who are clawing their way to upperclassdom from regularclassdom. Case in point, one of Big Daddy's friends that flew up from Arizona to play with us for a few days. I had never met him before and didn't particularly love him once I did. He's a young guy and nice enough, but still apparently reveling in the newness of his recent business successes so that you have to hear about it every five seconds. If you see a car you like and point it out, he, of course, is just about to buy one. If you mention an exotic tropical island that you would like to visit, he, of course has been there a thousand times before. You know the type. So anyway, unfortunately for him, I had about four margaritas in the hotel bar while waiting for him to arrive from the airport, and then a couple more while listening to him regale us with stories of being wooed by various pit bosses to come back and stay at their hotel/casinos the next time he was in town. Hot Lips had heard enough.

If nothing else, my one gift in this world (other than my great hair, tits and sense of humor) is I can read (most) people like open books. It is really more a curse than a gift, but in this instance let's call it a gift, mkay? It doesn't take me more than a minute or two from meeting someone before I can basically read their minds, which is what makes me such a personality snob, but I digress. This little gift comes in handy in my job, and it comes in handy on a daily basis when I need to relate to people and make them like me. But other than that, I try to be a responsible superhero and keep it tucked away where it can't hurt anybody. Unless of course I've been drinking, then I can't be held responsible for the ways in which this little gift rears its ugly head. You see, when you can read someone's mind, it is very, very easy to manipulate them into doing whatever you want them to do.

So yeah, Mr. Jim started a little business about five years ago that's now worth a couple of million bucks and I'm assuming he grew up poor, because it was very, very important to him to make sure everyone knew he was sitting on a little cash. I truly believe that he didn't mean to brag, he just very obviously drew his self worth from his bank statement.

When you can read people's minds it is very annoying most of the time. But you know what's even more annoying? When your dumb boyfriend just totally feeds into it. So, so annoying. And then drunk Hot Lips has to entertain herself at others' expense (excuse the pun).

So I had Mr. Jim take us to one of the casinos that was supposedly romancing him for his business, where I made several new friends, all funny little men that were in town for one business reason or another. So as Big Daddy and Mr. Jim were off doing "rich" man things in the casino, I was floating from table to table collecting friends. When I finally met back up with them, I had five new male friends in tow, and I was demanding we go to a titty bar.

Mr. Jim was, after all, a self proclaimed Mr. Vegas, so certainly he would not only be up for it, but know the best place to go. So I told Mr. Jim to go get us a car while we all cashed in our chips (this was one of the few nights I didn't lose everything I came with). And when we met him out front, just as I knew he would, Mr. Jim had secured us the biggest stretch Hummer limo I had ever seen. My five new friends, who are apparently easily impressed, kept oohing and ahhing and profusely thanking Mr. Jim, meanwhile, I just tried to stifle my evil laugh.

When we arrived at the gentlemen's club, my five new friends all started to reach in their pockets for their wallets, and I just did a little covert hand motion telling them to leave their wallets in their pockets, while, you guessed it, Mr. Jim paid the $30 cover charge for the 8 of us. I had a great time with my new friends, Rick, Eric, John, Ben and Matt in the $600 an hour VIP room running up a four-digit bar tab that Mr. Jim was more than happy to whip out his AMEX and pay for. And as the sun was starting to come up, we all climbed back in the same stretch Hummer and were dropped off at our respective hotels. I'm no mathematician, but I'd have to estimate that Mr. Jim dropped a minimum of $5,000 on me and my new friends that night.

The next morning (or afternoon as it were) Big Daddy said to me, You know, that really wasn't nice what you did to Mr. Jim. My response, Whatever, he had something to prove, so I let him prove it.

So you see, I'm not manipulative, I was just performing a public service.

I just so happened to fall in love with a stripper that night, like real, true love. But I'll save that story for another time.

So yeah, I had fun in Vegas, but I'm happy to be back.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot, I also accidentally got married in Vegas, too.

Love ya!

Today Is The Day Is The Day Is The Day

Last night I got stuck at a formal dinner with a bunch of people who aren't as cool as me and the only way I knew how to deal was to drink too much and make fun of them in my head. So that's exactly what I did.

Of course a couple more drinks and the making fun of wouldn't have been contained solely in my head. So I gotta predict I got out of there in the nick of time. (Is that how you spell that? Nick of time? It doesn't seem right, but what do I know?)

On a scale of 1 to 10, my hair was a 78.

If I had to guess, I'd say I'm only down somewhere in the $500 - $700 range, which if you'll recall the little algebraic equation down below, ain't too shabby.

We've got some more friends flying in today to spend the last few days with us.

Celebrity sightings:
Artie Lange
Todd Newton
MC Hammer

Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go shave my legs so I can take over the world.

Where's My French Toast?

Although I brought my laptop with me, it has refused to sign on the internet while I'm here, so I've been doing all my internetting from a friend's computer. As such, I've been hesitant to blog for fear that the blog's address will remain in the history and so the next time they go to type in something starting with an S- T my lovely blog will pop up. Ya'll know I'm in hiding. But I'm throwing caution to the wind to update my hotties on my daily goings on.

Due to prior engagements and obligations, I'm on my own today. I was on my own for half of yesterday as well and I used the time wisely to wander around Ceasar's Palace completely lost while alternately text messaging Joe and Sarah. I managed to find the mall in Ceasar's and ultimately purchased 4 more pairs of shoes. One of which I'm taking back if I can ever find my way back to that god damned store again because apparently they cost $395. Those sneaky devils at the shoe store never told me my total, it never even came up on the cash register. They are just a pair of Donna Karan flip flops that never occurred to me would be more than $100 so I never bothered to flip them over and look at the price tag. So imagine my surprise when I ran across the receipt last night. Those fuckers are crazy. This is Vegas Baby and $395 means approximately 2.5 hours at the $10 roulette table.

I have many activities for tonight and I'm half inclined to just sit around the room being slothlike and saving my energy for tonight. As it is, I'm sitting here waiting for my French toast to arrive via room service. Holla! And a side of bacon, so there. But I digress. I am flip flopping between thinking there is so much to do and see and I've got to get out there and pack it all in and whatever, I've still got 6 more days to see all that shit. The time change is starting to fuck with me because no matter how late I stay up the night before, my body is still getting me up around 5 or 6 a.m. because as far as it is concerned, it is like 9 in the morning. And west coast, east coast, Pacific, Eastern, Hot Lips just does not do 6 a.m. very well.

Where's my French toast?

So I'm thinking I need to go to the Palms if I want to see any celebrities. But I think I'd rather go to Mandalay Bay and see the shark exhibit. And I'll buy some postcards today. Raise your hand if you want a postcard.

Who can tell me how to erase a computer's history?

Seriously, Where's my French toast?

UPDATE:

There it is

Taking Over The World, Fuckers

I finally picked up a pair of red shoes today. They aren't exactly what I had in mind, but eventually my laziness won out over my desire to find the perfect pair of red shoes. But for what it's worth, I did find the perfect red sweater as a consolation prize. I also submitted myself to several beautifying procedures so that I can look my very best while taking over of the world.

So I guess since I leave to take over the world first thing tomorrow morning, I should finally break down and tell you what exactly I'll be doing.

In an effort to take over the world, I will be leaving tomorrow for a minimum of 4 weeks while I compete in the upcoming season of Survivor: Pulua Islands.

Just kidding.

Really I'll be tying the knot in what has recently become the hottest thing in matrimony: a destination wedding.

Um, kidding again.

I'm actually going to Malawi to adopt a little orphanage-bound boy, so that I can finally fill this big empty house with the laughter and love of a child.

Tee Hee Hee.

Would you believe a yoga retreat?

No?

Okay, how about a scrapbooking weekend in the mountains?

You aren't buying that either, huh?

How about if I tell you people that you mean so god damned much to me, that despite having several hours of packing to do and only 6 hours before I leave for the airport to go to Las Vegas for the next 9 days while I stay in a suite overlooking the strip, front row seats to Artie Lange, UFC 67 and Cirque de Soleil, an invite to an invitation only party at Pure Nightclub (and for those of you not intimately familiar with pinkisthenewblog or Perez Hilton, Pure is where Britney Spears passed out on New Year's Eve, duh) and because I'm a baller and limos are cheap in Vegas, going everywhere not in walking distance in the backseat of a black stretch limo for the entire 9 days, I'm sitting here updating this silly blog to entertain the 4 of you instead of preparing for the next 9 days of drinks, gambling, sex, gambling, partying, gambling and new shoes.

So there. I must really love you guys.

Arcturus, you are smart, maybe you can help me with this algebraic equation that I've been working on...

Solve for Y

If 4 Days x Atlantic City = $4,000 gambled away into oblivion

then

9 days x Las Vegas x Super Bowl weekend = Y

I keep coming up with $983,230,831 gambled away into oblivion. That can't be right, can it?



Big Daddy bought me this cute little (emphasis on little) Kate Spade for my birthday. His reasoning was that I wouldn't, couldn't or shouldn't lug around my huge behemoth of a Coach overnight bag purse while flitting about the casinos. I needed something more practical and compact. He was very, very proud of himself for actually thinking a gift out and not just calling up Circuit City and having them deliver whatever they had just gotten in that morning. But now I'm used to lugging around a purse that could easily fit two contortionist midgets and a litter of puppies. Even after scaling down, I need at least two of those damn things. So then I just got this bright idea. I would just put tiny little micro purse inside of giant big mama purse and take them both. And when I need to go flit around the casino, I can leave giant big mama purse in the room and just carry tiny little micro purse.

But then I made the mistake of reading the airline baggage policy. Holy mother of Jesus are we going to have an interesting time. First of all I can only take 2 checked suitcase?!?!! Da fuck? So far I've got one packed and I've only scratched the surface. It doesn't stop there. Nope, not only can I only take two, but apparently they can't weigh over 50 lbs. I put my one measly packed bag on the scale and it weighed, I shit you not, 49.5 pounds. Then there is the little issue of the carry ons. You are allowed one carry on and one personal item, ie, diaper bag, purse, briefcase, laptop. Well, I've got a carry on, a laptop and a purse. I'm pretty sure that I can get away with that if I just take tiny little micro purse, but there is no way I'll get away with it if I try to take giant big mama purse. Oh the trials and tribulations of being a woman with accessories aplenty.

Odds are I'll have to buy an extra ticket so I can check two more suitcases and carry one extra carry on.

You know I'll do it.