Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Psychic Readings..

I got my fortune told the other day, and in retrospect I am pissed off that I did it. I don’t understand why I paid some woman with saggy boobs and acne scars to tell me about how miserable my life is. I left there a little sickened with the thought that this woman was making so much money off people when I don’t even think she is legit. Below are some of the things that made me ask the question: “How ‘psychic’ is this bitch?” **NOTE** I DO BELIEVE IN THOSE WITH SUPERNATURAL ABILITIES, JUST NOT THIS FAKER.

1. My Love Life

This Miss Cleo wannabe told me that I was having issues in relationships, as if that was some ground breaking phenomenon. Hmmm...Ok, well, I counter that statement with “Who isn’t?” Are you trying to sit there and tell me that I am the ONLY person who is having love issues? Everyone else is completely happy? No Ma’am.

2. My Poor Life Decisions

She asked me why I didn’t go to school longer, “you should have kept going”. Now, for those of you who have the pleasure of listening to me have complete break downs about my second guessing of opting not to pursue a college education, you will know that this rattled me a little. This is when I started to doubt her though. I sat there for a hot minute and pondered how she could have known this. Well, one reason could have been that I look like I am 12, I mean I got a kid’s menu the other day, it’s not a secret that I look like a 7th grader. Aside from my cherubic demeanor, I am sure she also noted how soft and moisturized my hands were, due to my bi-monthly paraffin waxes, and thought that they could only be the hands of someone not withered and aged my the cruelties of time.

3. “You Hate Yourself, You Are Not Happy”

While hate is a strong word, I will give her this, I am not “in love” with myself, which is sad, I know. And while I do have difficulties embracing myself, I have to point out this tiny fact. If you were a borderline plus size gay man in West Hollywood, wouldn’t you find it hard to love yourself too? I mean, sure I have a personality that is pretty damn impressive, I must say, but WeHo is the pinnacle of gay perfection, which means you should only be seen, and not heard. I am not one of these 6’2 waxed, bleached, tanned, buffed, men in designer (although this is Yves Saint Laurent mascara, thanks for asking), who carries his teacup Chihuahua in a Louis tote. I am 5’8 wearing a Banana Republic bag and Jessica Simpson platforms, how couture am I? This bitch hit the nail on the head, but it is a bit of an exaggeration, because while all these men are gorgeous, they are equally as self loathing as I, for one reason or another. No big shocker, lady.


She put on quite a show I must say, I mean she was no Meryl Streep, but more like a Hillary Swank, doing enough work to get by, and still getting invited to parties just because she has been around long enough. Whatever.
I do need to love myself more, I am taking that lesson from the experience, but I am also telling myself that she is just some lady with a couch who “reads palms”. At least she didn’t start sacrificing a goat in front of me. I mean, I know that these are Jessica Simpson shoes, but do you know how hard it is to get blood out of suede?


Loving you, and myself Always. Ever so thankful for your support..

Xoxoxooxx
William

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Sock Scandal


I think I experienced my first heart attack this morning in my journey into work. I saw a girl wearing black peep toed Chanel knock offs, and some navy wool socks. Cut to my heart ceasing to beat and me gasping for air.

I sat down and performed a breathing exercise to keep the room from spinning.

Trying to give her benefit of the doubt,I carefully researched color blindness statistics in women and learned that it is very unlikely that she in fact is color blind, because it is more predominant in men. With this helpful tid-bit I was able to draw the conclusion that this know-nothing willingly paired black with navy.

While I am concerned about her poor decisions in color pairing, I'm more greatly concerned with the fact that this ding dong was wearing socks with open toed shoes. Wool socks for that matter,we live in Los Angeles not the Alaskan tundra .

If some of you have been inhabiting the same cave that this girl was obviously living in, let me go ahead and clarify this for you: if you are going to wear a shoe that shows any part of your toes, you should not be wearing anything but the shoe. No socks (wool or otherwise), no pantyhose (those are over), nothing. Some people try to argue that you can wear some chic leggings...no bitch, you can't. The whole purpose of a "peep toe" is so that we can catch a glimpse of you little piggies, not you K-Mart "Bare Necessities" brand nylons.


While this girl was a violent offender of this rule, she is not the worst. The worst would be the teenage girls that were shopping the mall the other day wearing tube socks with their gladiator sandals. I understand that their teenage angst may pardon their foul moods at times, but there is only so much you can blame on the hormones, there is no excuse for this footwear faux pas.

I may being praying a rosary for these victims.


I find no room for negotiation on this matter, and while some of you bravely defend your clogs and tube tops, let it be known that out of any of my rants, this one is ranking supreme.

Loving you long time.

xoxo
William

Monday, March 8, 2010

The Not So Little Mermaid...

I went skinny dipping in the Pacific Ocean on Saturday night, and I am not going to lie to you, I think I would make a terrific mermaid.

Of course there was alcohol involved in this endeavour, and it ended in some scabbing of my leg.

Let me tell you guys something, I think that I am one of the only people who can cause themselves pain in the process of swimming naked.

My friends Andrew and Amanda, partook in this event as well. However, those two assholes stood there and did NOT go on the count of three, like they swore they would. So I was the only one, running my fat white ass covered in nothing but the moonlight, straight into the deep blue sea.

Well, they did follow suit, thankfully, and Andrew in a fury of excitement busted his well toned Colombian ass, eating sand, but eventually making his way in to the water as well. Amanda kind of skipped in, leisurely.
Oddly enough I came out with blood all over my left leg, and was so thankful that sharks were afraid of blood...wait..damn...that was the champagne talking.

I think I was attacked by coral or some seashells. Or a shark..that would make an amazing story. We will go with that. I was attacked by a shark while I was skinny dipping in the ocean with two friends under a champagne fueled spree of spontaneity.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Parental Control

I hate to say this, but I am kind of an advocate of scaring the shit out of children. I think that children should be completely mortified of what their parents or guardians may do to them if they disobey orders.

These twin 7 year old boys were at the Post Office with a woman, who, I assume was their mother, given she had bags under her eyes, a lone hot roller stuck in the back of her head, and a chipped manicure. This girl hadn't slept in weeks it looked like. So I was standing behind them holding my package (ha) and waiting for the sea of people to move forward when one of the kids threw a pen at me. I kind of did that half-glare half-smile look to him and handed the pen to the mother who apologized.

Whatever.

So as we proceed forward one of the kids starts talking about how he has to use the bathroom and had to go right then. He was screaming, like squealing-screaming that he had to go at that very instant. He was pulling at his mother's already ill-fitting peasant blouse, and almost ripped it off. At the same time the other boy, who had thrown the pen, was now tearing up shipping slips and throwing them on the floor. The mother was horrified.

Now I know that I have never raised a child, nor am I a very patient person, but PARENTS LISTEN TO ME for I am about to tell you something that everyone in wants to say to you when you are that woman in the post office.

SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR KID. Please, do not make it a habitual occurrence, do not abuse them, but knocking them one time will keep them from doing it again. Also, if they are whiny, fussy, crying, etc., please don't hit them. BUT if they are raising hell in public, by all means, go on ahead. If a hippie cloth of the earth clad person tries to call you out for abuse and calls the cops, I will personally come save you.

If you don't agree with the open hand slap, fear not, because there is another tactic that you can use. If you are dealing with a small child, threatening them with a wooden spoon is one of the best scare tactics. My stepmother (Wendy) used to keep one in her car, in her purse, everywhere my sister went, the wooden spoon monster was lurking somewhere close by. If you can get the wooden spoons with the holes in it, they work best, according to Wendy.

The belt, the switch, the wooden spoon, all of these will spark a fear in your child, if they aren't afraid, you aren't doing it hard enough.

Maybe I am the only person this bothers, but we have all seen that poor woman once in our lives. The one with her kids running all over her, controlling her. HELLO LADY! You are in charge, take that Target brand flip flop off and whack your child with it. Show them what's up. Ugh.

I hate when parents don't take control of their kids, I guess they deserve what they get.

Shitheads.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Lessons of the Loo

I was once in a bathroom at Outback when my stepdad, who was wondering why I was taking so long, came in and found me belting out “Tomorrow” (they had great acoustics there), whilst I sat astride porcelain God, taking my sweet time. I was about 7…teen.

No, seriously, I was only 7.

While it is not uncommon to hear me belting show tunes, I have to say, singing “Annie” is not proper etiquette when you are relieving yourself, unless you are in the solitude of your own home. And, while I was only seven, I learned from my red faced stepfather that there are rules in a bathroom. And today, I took a minute and silently thanked God, that Miller (stepdad) had taught me these vital rules, because some people, who are much older than me, have STILL NOT learned them.
So, for all of you, right here and now, I am about to teach you the same rules that Miller taught me, those many moons ago.

1. Location, Location, Location- If you are the first person in a restroom and there is a line of 5 open urinals, go ahead, take your pick, the bathroom is your domain…until the next guy walks in. If you are indeed that next guy there are now only 4 open urinals left, it is your job to keep the most distance between you and the first guy, as possible. When the third man comes in, and the first two are STILL peeing, there should then be a urinal between each of you. This pattern should continue until all the urinals are occupied. This isn’t rocket science.

2. Assuming the Position- Why are you standing with your legs 3 feet apart? This isn't a ballet class. Why are you hugging the urinal? Why are you standing so far away? Keep it casual. Stand back, slightly, you don't want any of it to bounce back and land on your pants (embarrassing!),with your feet shoulder width apart, relax,and let it out…

3. Don’t Low Ride- There is no reason to pull your pants down, not even a little bit, if you are using a urinal. I honestly don’t care if you are wearing a unitard. There is no reason, as a grown ass man to pull your pants down. They make the “fly” for a reason…

4. No Peeking- Let’s be honest, we are all curious about who is packing more heat, but if you don’t want to get your teeth knocked down your throat, keep your eyes on YOUR prize or straight ahead, no one likes a nosey neighbor.

5. Keep It Mute- There is no reason to talk in the bathroom. Any words are fighting words. Humming, Whistling and Singing fall under this category as well. This requires no further explanation.

6. Touchy Feely- OK, so maybe I am the only one this has happened to, but when I am peeing I don’t need anyone slapping my back and saying “Hey Man! What’s up?” Don’t touch me asshole, I am holding my penis in my hand. This is violating not only this rule, but rule #5 as well.

7. Farting- I get that it is a “Men’s Room” but farting whilst peeing, is disgusting, not to mention, very rude. We may be men, but I am damn sure I don’t want to be smelling your stank ass gas, and I sure as hell don’t need it settling in my clothes.

8. Wrapping It Up- Two Shakes is all it takes, if you are jiggling it more than that, you are playing with it. No Questions Asked.

While I may be a bit of a stickler, I find that this is the best advice some people will receive today, and hopefully I have touched some of you. If you or anyone you know is a habitual breaker of any of the rules listed above, please feel free to cite this posting for reference. For those of you who are going to ask about going number two, my best advice is don’t. Wait till you get home.

Loving you Always.

My hair is still giving me the silent treatment.
oxxoox
William

A Big Hairy Ordeal

I am not one to brag.

OK, yes, on occasion, I brag, but I try not to make it a habit. On one such matter however I do have to give myself “props”…I have great hair. And since I am not the man with chiseled features or rock hard abs, I am going to go ahead and give myself permission to brag it out. My hair has a great natural coloring that is a mix between honey and maple, great shape and bounce that seems to glisten on demand, and it is outrageously soft, and thrives in the presence of hairspray..but since I was getting to the point that I could French braid it I had to get it cut, and now my hair won’t even talk to me…it is PISSED. This 30 year old trendy girl at Floyd’s in Hermosa, who shall remain nameless, for I am about to shame her, “did not pick up on the fact that I was gay”. That’s a direct quote, and should have been my first sign to stick the scissors in her leg and run out with my Rapunzel hair still intact. I believe in the bible some where it says “A gay man’s hair is his crown and glory…” or something along those lines, she obviously isn’t a Bible reader or else she would not have committed this mortal sin. This bitch cut the shit out of my hair, we are talking like, 3.5+ inches off. My hair is so pissed off at me that it is has decided to go on vacation to recuperate, so I am left to deal with the aftershock of this terrorist attack on my scalp.

I hyperventilated.

I am not this person. I am not the person with bad hair. I am supposed to be a gleaming beacon of hope for all the frizzy headed fuckers who only wish they could have this natural bounce and shine. I am supposed to be the person people call for advice when they over condition. I am supposed to be the Messiah of Hair Maintenance!

I have hit a low. After indulging in the Apple Pies from McDonald's (please stop judging me, I am in mourning), I did the unspeakable…I started wearing a baseball cap, BACKWARDS. I KNOW.I don’t even put product in it anymore! What’s the point?! I am a fraud. I washed up has been who used to be at the top of his game, and is now indulging in high caloric foods from fast food chains and wearing frat boy accessories. Just call me Delta Burke and put me out of my misery.

I used to be such a critic. I would call out the boys who highlighted their close to black hair with bleach, I would throw rocks at the ones who thought that frosted tips were ever in style, I would laugh at Jerry curls and rat tails, and I would berate anyone who voluntarily put their hair through the process of perming. Now, I am no better than any of them. I am a failure.

I used to talk to my hair, every morning. That is my secret, like people say you should talk to your plants to keep them alive, if you talk to your hair, it will respect you. It will be thankful that you are showing it the extra attention, and will work with you (rather than against you) to achieve the optimum “WOW” factor. I used to preach from the Gospel of Good Hair, that you are responsible for your bad hair days, you can keep them from happening if you respect the hair on you head, it will respect you. But now, since I disrespected my beautiful mane, and cut it all off, it is refusing to work with me, I am talking fly away central.

Ughskies, is there a Saint that you can pray to for your hair? Can we make one? Or does this count me as a martyr of my people for sporting such a wretched hair cut, that I automatically become the saint? I like the sound of that.

Please pray for me in these horrible times..

Amen.

Loving you All.
Saint William-Patron Saint of Hair & Hair Maintenance.