The Men of Match Dot Com

My "friends" have encouraged me to put away the things of childhood and get a real, as opposed to imaginary, boyfriend.  Better yet, they want me to stop dating married men. 

Imaginary boyfriends and married men are much easier to manage than real ones-- who actually want to see you and go out with you, and be with you, and call you, and snore. 










Since I've been in 4th grade I've had a consecutive string of real (loser) boyfriends and/or husbands.  After the Fang debacle I swore off men forever. Forever lasted 3 months.

Here are my requirements:

1.  He's not gay (if you're reading this, you know who you are).
2.  He's not married (if you're reading this you know who you are).
3.  He has a J-O-B so he doesn't bug me all day long.
4.  He can afford to build me a large above ground crypt.

5.  Is funny, can make me laugh.

6.  Understands sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
7.  Doesn't drop his 'g s ala Todd Palin.

8.  I'd like  him to be tall and slim and look like this:

Or this:

A colleague of mine hit a real home run on Match Dot Com.  She is now going out with Bear Grylls.

 

What the heck, I thought, I'll give this online dating thing a try.  Well, needless to say it's not working out as well as I'd hoped.  Below please find a sampling of the real life matches I've received (and let me state for the record I've made it crystal clear to that goddamn match dot com robot what I'm looking for).

It's been an exhausting day of nursing a hangover, doing absolutely, nothing interspered with napping, and managing my match dot com dating life.  So I must bid you adieau and reiterate that, fellas, this bitch ain't never gonna respond to you in the real or virtual world, if you are, or do, or have, any of the following:

1.  If I have been  married to you, even for a short time.

2.  Wear lambchop sideburns (that's so 19th century).

3.  Wear a speedo bathing suit.

4.  Ride a motorcycle.

5.  Sport a comb over.

6.  Wear a rug.

7.  Obviously color your hair (Paul McCartney this means you).

8.  You are retired (way too much time to bug me).

9.  Don't know that "bogart" is a verb.

10.  Earn your living as a Mime or a Clown.

11.  Play duplicate, honeymoon, or any other kind of card game know as "bridge."

And last, but not least. 

12..  If, like King Tut, you suffer from gynecomastia. 

Look that one up in your Funk & Wagnalls. 

Jews Like To Cruise

Note to Our Lord and my fans, I have not strayed from my vow to use one pulse words. By now I have earned a at least ten thou sand years off my time in hell.

Note:  Babs has four kid sis':  Mame, Jane, Peg, and Gin.

To Jane,  a toast and shout out to you on the day of your birth!!  I'll get drunk for both of us, bitch.  May the leg of wood be with you.
(l-r Babs, Jane)




Let me just say:  Babs loves Jews .  Bad boy Jews with hot names get me all riled up.

Dick                                        Rahm                                       

Fang (the ex)

And of course the most cool Jew of all time:

Kid sis, Mame, who just got back from a cruise, is a Jew cuz of her spouse Toad (oops Ted).  Fang used to call Mame a "fake Jew" as she could "pass" as a JAP.

Mame is not a true Jew as she missed her flight ... Shame, shame, Mame!

Which leads me to muse on cruises.  Mame said that a large group of the tribe were on the boat.  I find this to be true:  Jews don't just like, Jews love to cruise.  Why do Jews love to cruise?

1.  A lot of bang for the buck.
2. JAPSs get to play dress up.
3. JAPs can go to the nail salon and spa.
4. Lots of bagels and lox.
5. Get served in the room.

Fang, who is as cheap as the day is long, loved to cruise.  In fact Babs and Fang met on a Match Dot Com Cruise.  That tale will be for some other day my sweet fans. 

Once this Lent gig is done, I'd like to go on a cruise with a hot bad boy Jew.

Dick, my man, what you up to on Spring Break?  Get back to Babs on this.

Hand Some Dick

Babs is fagged out this Fry Day.  She had to lift that barge and tote that bale-- which means she has shown up for her day job for two straight weeks in a row (played dress up).

Babs wants to crawl in the rack for a straight eight. But I can't let my fan base down, and I need to reach out to hand some Dick http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Manitoba.

Dick you know who you are.  You can run but you can't hide. Dick can be reached at  manitoba@undergroundgarage.com.

When not out on a hot date, or at the bar with my peeps, or passed out from wine and sleep aids, Babs tunes in to Dick's show on:

Dick if you're out there read Babs' blog, and read it again, and read the mail I have sent you, and give this bitch a high paid job in rock and roll.  You have true rock cred, and spin good cuts.  But me thinks thou dost boast way too f****** much.  As Rob-In is to Stern: Babs could be to Dick.  Your show is good, but it's way too much Dick.

You need some one to take you down.  I am just the bitch to do it.  Dick, hear what the J. Geils Band has to say, and "Give it to Me!!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch#v=JqoOVfqU7V0&feature=related

 

In Your Arms

http://www.youtube.com/watch#playnext=1&playnext_from=TL&videos=j-y9VubWEfU&v=3PU5Tsx36E0

His last words "Don't stop, hold me tight."

Books for a buck

You know the old saw, more "bang for the buck?"  Bitch done got bang for her bucks. Check out the used  books bought by the bitch for work:

  

Here are my "buck books" at home.

These books were all bought at a "Friends" used book sale.  All hep cats know what a "Friends" group is.  Join, or give lots of cash to a "Friends" group near you, soon, if not now.

Smart Bitch paid $6.00

Dumb bitch would have paid $150.00

In the Throes of Hose

Gals...or guys...

Need a way to add fun and flair to what you wear?

Want to add flash and dash with a wee bit o'cash?

Got to dress with taste? Work in a cold place?

Do you walk far from your car and have a sick scar?

Did the bare leg fad make you sad and not glad? 

Get out out of your rut-- you may look like a slut.

Get some free glee, and wear em up o'er your knee. 

                            

As girls 'twas a shame, the nuns made us dress the same. 

'Tis a tale of woe, a lot of us do know. 
It sho nuff did blow, but it ain't gwon a slow a ho who got show.                

If you seek a plan that will get you a man...

 You be on yo back...

Can't crawl out of the rack

Give your peeps a big smile

with your legs and your style.  

Oh yea, you got game, your style it ain't tame.  Make yo bad self a name-- o. k. this is lame.

Pick socks that rock!!!  Give a shock to your flock.

Give those boys a treat, on your sweet neat feet. 

It Sucks to Get Old- Back to One Pulse

This blog has to do with my Aunt Babs then, and my Aunt Babs now.  Some folk think she was a bitch, I think she was a saint to put up with my brat shit.  I love her and am proud to be a bitch in her name.

This dour gent is me Scots Gramps, Dan, in a green card pic.  He was NOT dour, in fact he was good for a lark, a laugh, and was known to hoist a dram or two (curse of both the Green and Orange).  We don't know how old he was when this was shot.  We think 40-50.  Life was hard when you worked in a coal mine, and had no teeth.  But he was slim and trim, since he had to gum soft food all his life, and was NOT too fat to fly.  Ha Ha, I crack my self up.  Gramps never had the chance to fly.

This hand some lass is my Aunt Babs (Dan's wee bairn) back in the day.  She was known far and wide in our small town for her great good looks.  She stayed a fox for a long, long, long time--good bones and genes.  She was 90 and men still hit on her, I shit you not.   And legs up to here!!  Her favorite color hose was "Town Taupe." 

By the way, a tease-- the blog on Twos Day will be about hose and socks.

This stroked out gal is Aunt Babs now.  A tube keeps her "a live." She would not like this one bitch!! 

She has no teeth and has to gum her soft food. The like ness to Gramps is a shock. 

What are you to do?  You can't live this life old girl, and you can't leave it. 

On Twos Day "hose, not hos."  Socks that don't suck.  Live large on a small scale. 

It's SHITE being Scottish!!

I've simonized the seat of the Schwinn, and had my nails done in a new color, "Kinky in Helsinski", and made the foray to Home Depot, where, no shit I saw a guy in a kilt. It was beyond serendipitous.  This guy was sporting the punk kilt look, which had just been acquired at the Renaissance Fair. He looked ghetto fabulous.

With all that work accomplished I'm about to enjoy a well-deserved flagon of cheap white boxed wine and opine about the land o' Scotland.

You may say to yourself, "bitch where do you get off laying down the smack on Scotland?"  Peeps, my cred derives from two primary sources:  1)  I am Scottish and 2) I've spent a lot of time there. Here's a picture of my Grandmother and her brothers with her old man, prior to her forever immigration with my Grandfather and baby Uncle out of that hell hole.   

There are certain inalienable bitching rights.  Let us agree that:
1) certain ethnic groups have the right to use the "N" word-- they belong to that ethnic group.
2) We Catholics can bitch about the Pope not letting us get abortions, but hey you Lutherans-- back off that shit.
3)  I can bitch about my sisters and what "See You Next Tuesdays" they are-- but you are fucked if you say a words agin those bitches in front of me.So legitimately it follows that I may kvetch about the land that sprung me Pa. 

I won't get into the details of how I ended up spending three "summers" in Scotland, suffice it to say, I wasn't there for a lark, or for a brief sojurn in a delightful bed and breakfast.  I did hard time there---from Edinburgh, to Glasgow, to the Orkneys, and all points in between.  But mostly I was confined to a wee little town by the name of "Dustbin" where I was taken by my husband Fang. 

It was downright like a bad acid trip when Fang drove with abandon on the wrong side of the road, flying about those crazy roundabouts.  But I straight up felt an impending sense of doom as we approached Dustbin and the road  fell off into a one lane goat path.

Things went from bad to worse, I won't bore you with the gory details, just let me state my opinion for the record, Scotland has a paucity of product, no nail salons, the food sucks, it is ALWAYS really cold, the sun NEVER shines, the language is unintelligble, the game of golf (wtf?), and the people have AWFUL teeth. 

I am not alone in my opinion-- several of my siblings who have trekked back to the Old Country have experienced the same sense of despair, and were thrilled to get wheels up the hell out of there.  We have an hypothesis that our genetic memory of the place is just too fresh.  We are in complete understanding and thankfulness to our grandparents who got the heck out of Dodge, and never went back. 

I'll close by sharing a video clip  from the always sanguine, hands down best sountrack movie of all time, in which the blokes muse on thier "pride?" in the fact they are Scots.  The movie, is of course, the classic "Trainspotting."  BTW, I had to turn on the subtitles to watch said master piece. 
 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1tJJO_pVvQ

P.S. Just remember "ALL the fresh air in the world won't make any fucking difference!"

P.P.S.  Surprisingly, Fang and I are no longer married.

Word Warriors Unite!

Greetings to denizens of the Blogoshpere Nation.  I have been freed from the shackles of monosyllabism and can this day indulge myself in all things magnificently polysyllabic.  Free at last, I find it disconcerting  to be inexplicably leashed by the self imposed monosyllablic protocol I have placed upon myself.

Kindly bear with me as I take baby steps back into the stratosphere of archaic fabulistic vocabulism.  Someone asked me once if I was from Britain as I used the word "askance."  True my questioner was an  idiot savant posing as a physical therapist, but "askance?"  That ain't much of a mental stretch baby.

I worship at the altar of polysyllabism and am an overt prosyletizer and adherant to the politically incorrect creed that advocates usage of a complex, archaic verbage. Friends, this ability to obfuscate and befuddle lesser mortals, indeed separates the wheat from the chaff. I encourage all my readers to follow and contribute to the following website:

http://wordwarriors.wayne.edu/

Speaking of worship--props and a shout out to all the monotheists out there on this fine Sunday.  I really want to go to Mass, I know it's one of the commandments, etc., but this flesh is weak.  Pardon me Lord, but I did get out of bed today.  Since it's  finally warming up here in the sunshine state I have no legitimate excuse to lay abed all day, under my electric blanket attempting to stay warm (in actuality ever since Fang shattered my heart into a million little pieces, I've indulged in hermentic, hubric, uber sloth, and generally naughty behavior on the weekends).

In order to atone for my numerous sins against the temple that is my body, and in honor of the Sabbath I will play with my "What Would Jesus Wear" refrigerator magnet set today, whilst pondering the sufferings of our Lord, and praying that Fang's wicked case of shingles re-emerges with temerity if not severity.

http://www.fridgedoor.com/whwojewemadr.html

First, I must make a foray into the white trash nation, specifically Home Depot.  Egads, it can hardly be borne, but needs be done.  To Claire, stay tuned for the highly anticipated Op Ed piece on the Land of Scots.

"You Can Stand Me Up at the Gates of Hell...."

You know the rest "And I won't back Down"

---Great song by Tom from Gains Ville
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKqO0FeaCFQ

Babs would wed this man if he asked.  Tom, if you're out there-- we don't even have to go through the "get to know you" crap on Match dot Com, AND you don't have to sign a pre nup if you don't want. 

Fans, the point of this post is to Claire-if-eye what it means to Babs to be Green (please see "Weak Words Love Stinks"), in which Babs and Claire have a chat 'bout Scots Band "Lick the Tins."

To be "Green" means to be a friend to the Earth.  The Earth is one of my best friends.  Once a week this bin is chock full o' my empt* wine bott***. Poor guys have to wear a her-knee-ya belt when they drive down my street

AND I smoke an earth friend-lee brand:

Made by a tribe from New York known for their hair:

             I am so green I buy my smokes from a Tribe who is an old friend to Earth:

But Claire, in Babs' heart this is what it means to be Green:

Which leads me to a tease for Sun Days Blog, which is "I HATE SCOT-LAND."  Babs does like to stir it up and that is what she hopes to do.  See you then!!

Hot and Cold

This gal is COOL l!!  I love her.

This guy is a  DOUCHE!! I hate him.

    http://www.youtube.com/watch#playnext=1&playnext_from=TL&videos=t-oJd1dRaHk&v=21Th2ZklDG0

Fry Day - Do the Twist

My Dears:
 
It's Fry Day!!  "The man" must  have his pound of flesh.  Thus, Babs is on a dead line.  Prod duct must be pro deuced.  Hence, my muse will be brief. 

On my way to the sweat shop this day I saw at least ten gross cars-- not clean, and all of them an orange or purr pill hue that makes me want to puke.. 

The car goes by the name of Pea Tea Cruise Er. 

Yuk.  My messed up cuz, Sal Doll, drives one of these eye scourge cars. It must needs be the ride of choice of "sell past date" fat old folk-- guys and dolls, you know the type, they think they look hot in wife beat errs and bad tats and pierced body parts, who want to feel cool when they pull into the lot at Wal Mart. 

Props to old beau CJ (who is old), you know who you are my man, who had a fit when Hertz gave him the keys to said crap ride.  In lieu of the Pea Tea, they gave him a pimped out Ford that smelled of stale hair gel, but at least he kept his cred.  Way to go CJ!!  You may be old but you are cool. 

Will you help Babs think of strong one pulse word that will serve to make it known how bad this car looks?