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Posts Tagged ‘lame ass humor’

  1. Becoming a Third Wife in Los Angeles

    June 11, 2011 by Katie Schwartz

    A few years ago, I sorda swiped a brand new beige, yes, beige?!, Range Rover while driving my vintage 1983, beat to shit BMW, that I love, that is worth nothing financially and everything personally. When I exited the car to assess the damage, it was minimal at best. One panel was barely dented and there were a few scrapes. I noticed that the woman behind the wheel was in her early 20’s. The size and clarity of her diamond ring emitted a blinding glare. Everything about her was perfect in that thank God for plastic surgery, so I don’t have to look like a farmer’s, pastors, Amish daughter, kind of way. A face with high cheekbones. Skin whipped, stitched and tucked to perfection. Flawlessly spray tanned in effervescent-just-stepped-off-the-beach-at-2PM-glow. An impeccable coiffure that only a Hollywood zillionaire could afford. Not an ounce of fat—zero, nada, zilch. If fat was ever present in her ether, surely an overpriced non-physician-physician gave her a collection of pills to shield her from catching it. And to maintain a size 00, She’d become a Breatharian 10-years prior; draped in wildly expensive, trendy attire worthy of arm candy, but not a mother of additional loin fruit – that’s a second wife’s job.

    That got me to thinking about what it takes to become a third wife in Los Angeles.

    I guess it goes something like this…

    Scarlett (formerly known as B’Elana) wasn’t getting gigs in her chosen field and the Cheesecake Factory was downsizing their serving staff. At 20, she was deemed “a has been”. Off Scarlett went to make calculated adjustments to herself (on a nominal budget) in order to fulfill her destiny.

    She began working out and stopped eating. Scarlett went to mall hairstylists for a hair-do that said lookin’-for-money-honey.  Scarlett learned how to use her hands in dainty fashion by reading used, dated etiquette books. She learned how to do her nails and shave every hair on her body. Her diet consisted of sun, air and bulimia, that is, if she ate once a week, something so heinous and frowned upon, it was done in secrecy. Closet eating? I think not. Rather, private eating. Scarlett frequented upscale bars and soirées to catch her meal ticket.

    Becoming a third wife in Los Angeles can’t be easy. I mean, it’s a full time job. Rich and wealthy are worlds apart. How many women know the difference? A lot of time must be wasted dating men who drive expensive cars, yet live in one-bedroom apartments in the slums of Beverly Hills.

    Scarlett was determined, even if she was living in a $600 per month teeny studio, in Koreatown with three of her best friends who fled the confines of their Amish upbringing, She’d come so far. It was only a matter of time before she caught a fellah, and before catching an STD.

    Two-years later, on the brink of financial and emotional ruin, she found her money-mate and planned an ostentatious wedding.

    After the honeymoon, reality set in… She had to maintain an even higher standard than she’d become accustomed to. Looking perfect at all times. Never allowed to hang out in sweats and a T-shirt.

    Just chronicling the notion is exhausting, can you imagine living it?

    Category Observational Humor | Tags: ,,,, | No Comments

  2. The Way We Were

    September 8, 2010 by Katie Schwartz

    I realized I loved you unconditionally and how committed to you I was, despite my overwhelming fear of intimacy after it was too late to tell you. Resurrecting you was impossible; you were no longer within my reach. I tried talking to your ghost; though I wasn’t convinced you could evolve into ghostly material. A year later, I still mourn your death, when I should be celebrating your life; for that I am sorry. I’m hoping this will help me find closure because dear vibrator, you always delivered, and your model is obsolete, even at the vintage-of-vintyagest porn stores. I kick myself daily, faced with the truth: all you needed was two new Duracells.

    Category Observational Humor | Tags: ,,, | 5 Comments

  3. The Semitard Who Went Pro in Creeptardaree

    June 1, 2009 by Katie Schwartz

    It’s no secret that I’m Jewish. Anyone who reads my Jewchives from All The Way From Oy to Vey or my new site/blog right here, knows that I’m a proud Heebalicious Heebareena. Certainly, it’s not written on my face. Though I’ve been told that I look Jewish on many occasions, whatever that means. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding, I can spot 90% of my people within a one mile radius. Still. Some of us really don’t look Jewish, but we remain the Jewiest of Jews.

    Recently, I had an opportunity to visit a place I hadn’t been to since I was a kid, a Schwartz landmark, if you will. After walking the grounds (patch a’ grass), the new owner, gem that he is, came outside to greet us. We met him at the bottom of his stoop.

    To say that I was rattled by his appearance would be an epic lie. I could get past the faded, trying-to-be-blue Dickie’s and the grey, green flannel shirt, as well as the baseball cap worn so high, it was flirting with his forehead. I even overlooked his tooth. Yes, tooth, not teeth, one single solitary tooth and the ginormous mole on his forehead with two protruding grey hairs. What I absolutely could not get past was the dire situation manifesting between his legs, which I am convinced wanted to come out for show-and-tell: Elephantitis penis (EllyPeen). Or, perhaps it was Elephantitis ball sack (EllyB-Sack-Relidhj). I really don’t know and didn’t think I should ask. Though, as you continue reading, you’ll probably think what I’m thinking right now, “Bitch, after the way he behaved, ya shoulda fuckin asked.”

    EllyB-Sack-Relidhj who hadn’t seen the light of day or spoken with humans outside of his four walls in at least 30-years, explained that he bought the SL (Schwartz Landmark) from a couple a’ Jews. “Lot’s of them Jew people were here before we arrived.” I wanted to scream, “Hey, fucknard, I hate to break it to you, but you happen to be standing in front of two a’ them, Jewesses, to be clear. Lil fuckin’ FYI for ya. Oh, and PS: instead of Jewhatin’, you might want to tend to that creepy fuckin Ellypeen protruding from your never-been-washed Dickie’s, OVERWHELMING and TRAUMATIZING my lady balls for life, I assure you.”

    Of course the writing on the wall screamed Don’t go into the house, don’t, don’t, don’t do it. History’s pull outweighed our intuition. And so we entered. Inching our way into the foyer, memories flooding back for one. Sport nausea for both. Fab. After decades some things remained intact, exactly as they were remembered, those elements were resplendent.

    As we ventured into another room, out popped the semitard who truly went pro in creeptardaree (SWWPIC). And I’m not kidding. Imagine a 5×5, 40-year-old man stuffed like a sausage casing into a white tank top designed for women. His only pair of Lee jeans, streaked with food stains, urine droplets and oil smudges, as well as, acne, backne and arm acne. And thank God, I will remain forever in the dark about his other body part acnefestations. Oh, and he had two teeth — that makes three between them. I have every confidence they jointly chewed and faught over who got the swallow.

    In a high pitched, I-never-talk-to-people-unless-I-force-them-to-so-I-can-kill-them-with-my-screwdrivers-hammers-and-wrenches-in-the-basement, hiding under at least 30 dead women, buried underneath concrete, he eerily repeated, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, while folding his thick, unwashed clammy hand into mine.

    The tour didn’t end there.  Terrified, yet incapable of walking out, we peered into each room, until we hit a two-room pocket with no exit. The SWWPIC was inching so closely behind me, I could feel his unflossed, never been rinsed breath on my neck.

    Everything came to a halt when the other gazed at the ceiling and saw a ravishing, simple fixture, from their childhood. Memories as important to me to see and hear as they were to the other. Ellypeen reminded us that them Jews put it in, not them. After snapping multiple pictures, it became evidently clear that we needed to make like a leather clad republican, snorting Crystal Meth, while fucking two she-male hookers before getting caught. Or, in this case, killed.

    Traversing around them to extricate ourselves felt like we were playing the last game of the final 4. Worse, As they followed us out, Ellypeen said, “Them Jews left a Jew thing on the door. We smashed it with a hammer and burned the thing inside.” Seeing the front door before us, and seething from their audacious hatred, holding my tongue seemed moot. Stupidly, I said, “You are telling two JEWISH WOMEN that you destroyed a Mezuzah.” The Other looked at me with that what have you done, child, look.

    Of course Ellypeen didn’t care. Of course he didn’t hear me. He was preoccupied, flaunting his EllyB-Sack-Relidhj and spewing ignorance and hate. The Other grabbed my arm and dragged me out, willingly and gratefully, I’ll have you know.

    The house reeked of piss. I am convinced they dragged their cocks out for Daily Battle of the Urine Stream contests performed in each room, for variety sake, you know, to keep it fresh. And when they weren’t doing that, they were decpitating barbies, setting them aflame and jerking off in watermelons, gumming Hungry Mans and deuling for the final gulp.

    Safely in the car, the freakshows followed us out. The driver, a yummalicious Dominican, got behind the wheel as we drove off and ranted like banshees. Though he was quite familiar with cursing, he’d never quite heard cursing like this. Fortunately had a great sense of humor.

    In a weird way, I felt bad for the SWWPIC. He never really stood a chance. Raised in an insular, hateful world with no formal education, friends, or social skills, to speak of. What choices did he have?

    As far as that day goes, it was one of the most surreal, beautiful, haunting days of my life that I will treasure forever.

    –

    The Vey B-Roll (links) will be addd throughout the week, lovers, don’t break up with me and don’t think I’m dissin’ ya’s, cause I ain’t.

    Category Observational Humor | Tags: ,,,,, | 9 Comments