Feeling like a bit of a sket...

Greetings to all 9 of you who read my little ole blog,

So it's been sunny as all get out here. This afternoon, while losing my mind and attempting to stay in my lane while driving, I was listened to Amy Winehouse on my mad dash to an appointment. I love Amy Winehouse, and not in a "she's ever so generous with her smack and reefer" kind of way. I can honestly say that I bought Back to Black (her second album) right before it became really popular and all mainstream and shit.

[I really need to let off some steam today, so please ignore the random filth that will spew out as I type. I can't help it when I'm stressed. It's like a tic or something.]

But back to Amy, who I have renamed Amy Wineho. The Wineho thing started when I decided to make an Amy mii for my Wii. I don't think her full name fit the profile, so I shortened it. Lo and behold, my version is even better than her real name. Don't you agree? SO like I was saying... Amy is probably one of my top 10 artists of all time. Listening to her music makes me feel like I know her. And when I'm singing along with her at the top of my lungs as I drive, I feel like we're buddies. Not drinking buddies, just buddies. (I'm no Wineho...ha ha.)

Back to Black (BtoB) is a great album, but her first album, Frank, is where it's really at. After burning out my copy of BtoB, I decided that I must cop her earlier stuff. (She was only 19 when she wrote Frank. Pretty amazing stuff. BtoB didn’t come along for another 3 or 4 years. I wonder what she was doing between albums? Crack or Smack?) So I hunted for Frank everywhere. But I wasn't able to find it. And quite unfortunately my incredibly loose morals actually prevent me from pirating/illegally downloading music. I really am one of the 10 people left in the U.S. who still purchases CDs. And you know I don't give a fuck, I’m big and bad. I can steal anything. (In reality, I'm just afraid that the cops will arrest me. And I just am not the type who'd do well in jail. I'd be big Bertha's bitch before I'd even changed into my prison garb.)

Yet again, BACK TO MY MAIN POINT! During our yearly trip to Oz, Mr. Man actually found a copy of Frank in some shitty ass music store in Parramatta (Let me stop. He might steal my CD because he really likes Amy. Yeah, the mofo who can only appreciate songs from the Thin Red Line soundtrack or anything by Elvis Costello.) And once I listened to Frank, it was all over. I knew that Amy and I really are true friends, BFFs. And one day when she's not as cracked out, I will stalk her for a few weeks so I can let her know how much I love her. But seriously, Frank is such a great album. The lyrics sound like she's reading them from her diary. And it's just so, so GOOOD! Frank is a MUST HAVE for all of my spring jaunts in the car. It's one of my favorite albums...definitely a top 5 or 6 in my book.




Now on to the meat of this post. One of my favorite Wineho songs off of Frank is Fuck Me Pumps (FMP). (My mother-in-law likes the song too, but I don’t think she listens to the lyrics. She likes the melody or whatever. I sing the filthy lyrics while she hums along. It’s great.). I have pasted the link in for the video of FMP but I don't know if them YouTube bitches are going to remove the video from my blog again. Listen to the clip and you'll get the gist of what I'm talking about. (Ok you lazy mofos who can’t click on a damn link, the song is basically about those old broads, you know they're like 30 or so. The broads who frequent bars and clubs looking for their husbands among all of the dumb frat boys and secretly gay undergrads who are trying to front like they're straight when everyone within a five mile radius is twitching because their gaydar is going berserk. You know the Winehos that give it up without any hesistation with the expectation that they’ll be engaged on their next date with the stud they picked up who was one drink away from passing out in his own puke on the corner where his friends ditched him.)*

SO anyways, this reminded me of an outing with my BFF, Caffe. She used to live in an apartment located on a city block with this one chi-chi restaurant/club/lounge type thing. One night a couple of years ago, when we just didn’t feel like going to the local pub and then waiting for the food poisoning to set in, we decide to pony up the extra 10 dollars and pretend to be adults at this new “hotspot” up the street.

It was a Saturday night and after 10:00 or so, the downstairs of this place would turn into a nightclub. Caffe and I were feeling a little hot to trot (like we were looking pretty decent), so we decided to go down and have a drink, maybe dance a little and be home no later than 10:30. (FYI…after turning 27, my bedtime became 8:00. 7:00 during the winter time. So I was really pushing it on this particular night.)

Now we were wearing our casual uniform...semi-decent jeans and a sweater than wasn't completely moth-eaten and didn't accidentally expose any pertinent bits. So after our overpriced burgers we strutted our fine selves on downstairs. I ordered a gin and tonic, my drink of choice, and then we actually TOOK IN THE HOT ASS CESSPOOL OF I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT that we had entered.

Lord have mercy, it was like a flashback to freshman year when we used to frequent THE SPOT. (All you college buddies need to stop fronting like you never went to THE SPOT on "Saturdays are free to all of the stupid 19 and under college girls we can squeeze in here at one time" night.) The heifers, I mean WOMEN, were all wearing tank tops (and you know they were freezing because they didn’t bring coats because they couldn't afford to pony up the extra dollar for the coat check). Women, both fat and skinny, with their bellies and shit exposed. The sea of complete and utter dicks, I mean MEN, well I can’t even remember what they were wearing. But it really doesn’t matter because Caffe and I were HORRIFIED!!!!!!!!!! There is no other word, well except for maybe MORTIFIED, that can describe exactly how we felt. Not only was there not one single solitary person over the age of 30 in the whole place, I don’t even think there was anyone over 22 up in that bitch.

Caffe decided that I have 2 or 3 minutes to do whatever the hell it is I need to do with my drink (she would not allow me to pour it on anyone’s head so I decided to chug it down hoping for a little liquid courage) and then we were gonna be out that bitch. As I was about to put the cup to my lips and drink, up comes this motherfucker. And who does he decide to talk to? ME! Yes, the one in the stretched out XL Gap sweater that was sweating like a monkey (and probably looking like one too). The only person within a five block radius who was wearing a WEDDING BAND. Yes, he chose me. I must admit that I felt kinda special, even as Caffes eye almost fell out of her head because she was rolling them so hard. Right about now I need to take a quick break before I type this motherfucker’s pick-up line/drunken asshole conversation starter. I still don’t know what to make of the situation. Should I laugh or cry?

This motherfucker walks up to me and says, “Hi!” (Started out pretty well, didn’t it?) And then bam…the bitch says to me, “Why are you wearing so many clothes?” Caffe and I looked at each other and it was in that moment that I truly felt like one of the “skets” that Amy Wineho was singing about in her song FMP. I just have to tell you that along with my turtleneck I was wearing jeans, shoes, drawers and socks. Nothing more, nothing less. With that, Caffe and I turned on our heels and fled. And we haven’t even looked in the general direction of a club type place since.

It’s really not easy being 30. You’re old and dried up and even if you’re dressed in your birthday suit, you will always be too overdressed for the young and drunk. I’m sticking to Target and Friendly’s for my jollies these days. I’m still waiting for Target to open a Martini Bar. I guess a girl can always dream….


*I have absolutely NO EXPERIENCE with any of this sort of shit. I'm just going off of stories I've read and what I remember, I mean what I've heard from friends.

After typing out this story and thoroughly enjoying myself, I have decided that I will definitely write a book. And for no other reason than leaving it for my grandchirren to read. These silly hijinks will be tame as all hell by the time my grandkids are adults. But as God is my witness, if I see even a hint of these stories on anyone’s site or I even sniff someone trying to steal my shit, I will put the smackdown. And it won’t be pretty. Mofos need to stop stealing other people’s ideas and shit and selling it to Hollywood or claiming it as their own. And this isn’t any James Frey shit. Oprah won’t be bitching my ass out on live television any time soon. All 9 of you loyal readers are my witnesses. And I’m out.

Yours,
M.M. Misfit