Friday, April 20, 2012


Cleveland friend: You were in my dream last night. Whats up with dat?

Me: Obviously you're not getting enough pussy.

Monday, April 16, 2012

I'm Not Allowed To Go To Stevenage

Years ago while I was planning my first trip to England, the comic, who enjoys both history and having an opinion about it, decided that he should tell me a little bit about the area I would be visiting. I thought this was a good idea as well having recently seen a map - it appears the English are incapable of building a straight road, and I thought it would be good to know something about the wrong places I would end up when I inevitably got lost. He broke it down for me: Hitchin is better than Letchworth. Letchworth is better than Stevenage. Actually, everywhere is better than Stevenage. Everyone is fucking mad in Stevenage. As a matter of fact, I could forget all of that because I wasn't allowed to go to Stevenage.

Upon arrival I met the beautiful Sulu. We became friends instantly and being the demure and conservative girls we are, we took off in her new car down the A1 to an adult store to stock up on various sex toys and have a cappuccino. All that artificial penis made us hungry, so we decided dinner was in order and since I was not yet aware of the appalling lack of decent Mexican food in that country I asked if there was somewhere we could get it. According to Sulu the only Mexican joint that would be open at that hour was in Stevenage. Always the rule follower, I told her, "I'm not allowed to go to Stevenage." We went for Italian in Letchworth instead, which was the better idea anyway: I've since seen the "Mexican" food on offer in that part of the world and it confuses me and makes me sad.

Years later when I regained control of my senses, I found myself in Hitchin sitting outside the Sunrunner with a coterie of fabulous lunatics and someone mentioned a shop that happened to be in Stevenage. "Back when I was with [the comic]," I told them laughing, "he used to tell me that I wasn't allowed to go to Stevenage." Conversation stopped as a dozen heads swiveled towards me with grave looks on their faces and all together collectively informed me, "You're still not allowed to go to Stevenage."

Since then it's become something of a thing with us. Anytime Stevenage gets mentioned in any context, someone (most of the time not me) will inform any newcomers "Amber's not allowed to go to Stevenage." This statement generally leads to one of several similar follow up questions:

  • Why not? ("Because it's Stevenage.")
  • Not allowed or don't want to? ("Not allowed.")
  • Doesn't that just make you want to go there? ("It doesn't matter, she's not allowed.")
Others don't bother to even question it. When I told the good doctor about it (who grew up in Stevenage but has since escaped) on his last trip to Chicago, he informed me it was a good rule since as likely as not I would get shot there. The best response so far came from someone who quite seriously told me "Neither am I," apparently having been banned from any number of establishments for various wrongdoings. It's nice to know I'm not the only one.

I'm currently in the process of planning my next trip over to accommodate the sure-to-be-off-the-hook birthday party of a friend (a friend who has to be physically restrained from rapping in public and injures herself more often than I do which would be impressive if it wasn't so ridiculous). I have no plans to go to Stevenage - I'm not allowed.

Everything You Need To Know About Sports

me: i think you might like hockey
especially if there's canadian announcers, they are HILARIOUS

StereoNinja: i was tempted to watch it but then i decided i wanted to see it with you
I am a hockey virgin
take me................
but treat me gently
its my first time

me: i'm sorry that's not how we do things in hockey


me: so i'm totally crazy with the hockey playoffs

H-town: ugh, i need ESPN
i'm so out of it

me: NBC has some of the games

H-town: i just mean highlights
so i know who in which sport is doing well and who sucks
and so on

me: yeah, that would be good
i can tell you this: the cubs? suck
the indians? also suck
lebron? is a penis

H-town: haha

me: there, you're caught up

Heather: ok good

You're welcome.

Monday, April 09, 2012

St. Pats And Barry The Leprechaun

I arrived in England on St. Patrick's Day and immediately set about trying to turn my friends into Americans. This was not at all on purpose. Before setting out on my journey, I had solicited from all my friends their requests for things they'd like me to bring over from the colonies. Apart from the hairdresser who had responded "Your country has nothing to offer me, woman", I had gifts for nearly everyone: Doritos for MrBalls (I gave these to him as something of an apology - I'd had a t-shirt I'd ordered shipped to his house which was posted in packaging more translucent than I had anticipated, causing his postman to say "I wanted to hand this to you personally" whilst giving him my new shirt, the words "I am someones fucktoy" clearly visible through the plastic. My bad, dude), Peeps for the Evil Lesbian (she'd asked me to bring her "something fun" and I luckily saw the Peeps on the shelf at CVS before going off in search of "something fun" for her at the adult toy store), and graham crackers for Sulu (which she adorably calls "Graeme's crackers"). Sulu had discovered S'mores last summer when she was in Boston. Neither Peeps nor S'mores are a thing in England, so I set about explaining the origin of Peeps and the fact that while everyone gets them in their Easter basket, almost no one actually eats them. The Evil Lesbian had already eaten half of them before I'd finished my explanation. We managed to wrestle a couple of Peeps away from her long enough for me to introduce the sport of Peep jousting, which everyone was quite taken with, apparently having never put marshmallows in the microwave before. The Peeps fought valiantly, but in the end, their melted carcasses were inhaled by the Evil Lesbian as soon as they'd cooled enough to touch. Sulu and I cut the heads off a few more of them and made everyone what I'm calling Peep Murdering S'mores TM.

Later that evening, we headed down The Vic for some St. Pats debauchery. Having been advised by the mutineer that wearing a "Fuck you, you're Irish" t-shirt may be more trouble than it's worth, I chose a different green t-shirt which read "I'd fuck me" which everyone seemed to agree with, especially Booth who expressed this by tongue raping my nose shortly after our introduction. I unfestively spent the night drinking Strongbow, mostly because I haven't got nearly enough patience to wait for a properly poured Guinness. This would prove to be the drunkest night of my entire trip, a trip I miraculously managed to get through without a single hangover, despite the best efforts of my alleged friends. I remember accidentally inventing a game called Tits or Knees? by zipping my hoodie up with my legs inside because I was cold and then waiting for people to do a double take, a drunk mutineer repeatedly taking his jacket off that everyone might admire his "swans", a photo of the Evil Lesbian and me taken under the sign for the ladies looking skeptical about being labeled as such, and I will never be able to forget the nose rape because, seriously, what the fuck, Booth?

The following evening, Sulu and I got the all clear signal from our darling Steve and drove out to visit him in his pub. Steve's pub is a mostly laid back comfortable joint in Luton filled with an assortment of characters and as such I did not wear vinyl trousers. I managed to draw attention to myself anyway, though, as no matter how hard I try to blend in over there, my accent makes me stand out, particularly in Luton which is not known as an international tourist mecca. Several grumbly men at the bar asked me where I was from and when I told them I was from Chicago and on holiday, I was met with disbelieving stares and incredulous questions: "You're on holiday from Chicago, and you came to Luton?" I didn't of course, I was only there to see Steve, but they didn't seem to think a holiday in Hitchin was a whole lot more sensible either.

Steve had been warned in no uncertain terms that he was NOT to get me drunk because I had unspeakably filthy plans for the next day and absolutely could not be hungover. He decided it was best to get the serious drinking out of the way at the beginning of the evening. "You have to try this, it's awful," he said, pouring me a shot of something I could smell from across the room that tasted for all the world like battery acid that had been fermented and distilled in a bathtub, an accusation he neither confirmed nor denied. Sulu was driving, so he wrapped her shot in a bunch of plastic wrap so she could dissolve her tongue with it later when we'd gone home. I switched to my standard amaretto after I'd regained my ability to speak and breathe.

Apparently, St. Pats weekend wasn't over yet. After Sulu and I tried out our snake handling skills on the snake Steve keeps in the bar these days we were ready to go, but Steve insisted that we had to stay for a while as "something" was going to happen that we wouldn't want to miss. This something was Barry the Leprechaun. Nearest I can tell, Barry the Leprechaun is just a drunk Irishman named Barry who had happened upon some green velvet trousers and a matching jacket in a thrift store which he bought for £10 and decided to pair said outfit with an outrageous wig and head to the pub. Barry had just returned from a rather long stint in Germany, so, already in his cups, he spent the evening talking shit and counting in German or occasionally slipping into a German accent and arguing with Steve over the value of foreign currency. Steve watched in wonder and amusement whilst Sulu and I spent the better part of two hours alternately taking the piss out of him. "I can't even see you tagging each other," he told us. "I don't know how you two know when it's time to switch." When we'd had our fill of that, we finally got up to say our goodbyes. Barry hugged me entirely too long and I eventually had to say "Barry, please sit down before you fall down." I hugged Steve goodbye without breaking his neck (he thinks I hug too hard, I think he should shut up and take it like a man) and demanded that he go to the Double Down Saloon in Vegas and drink the ass juice as if there were some chance of him giving that adventure a miss. He went, of course, and even tried the bacon martini because he does that sort of thing.

My Reputation Preceeds Me

Me: How was your Easter?

PCA: Good. How was yours?

Me: Also good.

PCA: What did you...?

Me: We had ham.

PCA: Oh. Ok. Good.

Me: Why do you look so relieved?

PCA: Well, I thought you might say something about...

Me: They don't LIVE HERE.

Office Manager: I can leave if you guys want to...

PCA: It's ok, she said ham.

StereoNinja Is Not Impressed With My Wine Pairings

Me: I am drinking red wine and wanted to tell you it goes with something else besides cheese. It goes great with Gummy Bears. That is all.

StereoNinja: So what you are telling me is that you took perfectly good wine and turned it into candy wine?

Me: That is not what I'm telling you. I'm telling you I took perfectly gross wine and ate some candy whilst drinking it, which made it less horrible. A little.

StereoNinja: I don't want to talk about the wine anymore. You are a philistine and you will be first up against the wall when the revolution comes.

Tuesday, April 03, 2012

There's Not Enough Nerds At Work To Fill A Space Cruiser

By tomorrow afternoon I will have been home from my latest trip to England for an entire week. I haven't posted about it yet, and it's not because I'm lazy (though I am), nor is it because I didn't do anything worth writing about (because I did). It's mostly because I'm struggling with the format for writing it. Normally I would write it up chronologically, you see, but in this case, my activities for all of both Mondays, Tuesday afternoon, most of Wednesday, the second half of Friday, a good portion of Saturday and the following Wednesday morning are the kinds of things better covered on an entirely different sort of blog (and they will be as soon as I remember to do some blogging at a time that I'm not at work). Anyway, recaps of the best trip anyone has ever taken to England ever will be along shortly.

In the meantime, this just happened:

BrownsFan (to the new guy): You're not into Star Wars at all, are you?

New guy: I wouldn't say not at all, but no, not really. (pause) This has something to do with Amber, doesn't it?

As he said this, I was standing in the hallway of my office holding up a massive sleeping bag shaped like a tauntaun that I bought from Thinkgeek late last week and had shipped to the office because it's where I tell people to ship things. It is the single greatest stupid-ass thing I have ever bought in my life and I was determined to force everyone to observe my joy, so I dragged the entire box into BrownsFan's office where she was suitably impressed because she is fucking awesome. New guy, on the other hand, was spectacularly disappointing. He only had a vague idea what the hell we were talking about, but not only that, he has no recollection AT ALL of Princess Leia's metal bikini (which was brought up by BrownsFan who wanted to know why, if I was such a big Star Wars fan (I had just announced that no one is a bigger Star Wars fan than me which is probably bullshit but whatever) I had done a photo shoot in a Star TREK costume instead of a Star WARS costume, an argument I totally won by pointing out that the only reason I didn't have a Star Wars costume for that shoot is that the metal bikini I am having custom made for me at a cost of literally hundreds of real American dollars wasn't ready at the time of that particular shoot. OBVIOUSLY.). And then I described it to him, and the fact that she clearly had no underwear on, and then openly speculated about how they kept her cooch from popping out when she went flying through the air hanging onto Luke. And then I sat down to write this and re-read that last sentence and was as surprised as ever that I remain both gainfully employed and free of sexual harassment charges.