August 26, 2009

I've Got a Niiiiii-Kon Camera....

OK, OK!!! Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Key-RIST, Mickey B!! I do NOT handle guilt well. I feel that this is the direct result of a little incident that occurred when I was 12 and was captain of the Safety Patrol. As a joke, I told all the first graders that there was no talking allowed on the playground...and the little shits believed me. So some little tattle-taled fucker (who probably grew up to be a Fox News "analyst") ratted me out, my 6th grade ass got hauled to the principal's office, and I was "reprimanded." Holy was like going to school in fucking Pyongyang. Being, if you recall, a no-balls-having little coward, I was properly repentant and regained my exalted status as the only 6th grader allowed to wear the ORANGE safety patrol belt. In my head, though, I wanted to tell the motherfuckers to insert that shiny badge up their Kim Jong asses and find another dickless 12 year old to walk out in front of traffic holding nothing but a 6 x 6 piece of red poster board attached to a Popsicle stick with the inscription, "Slow, Children." Fuck yeah, we were slow. Some of us were too god-damned stupid to recognize what I admit was a pretty lame-assed joke and some of us were too busy jonesing to be important to notice that we were being used as fucking traffic cones.

I digress.

Since McB regaled you with the deets of his day, I've decided to make this "Itinerary Day" and save my good Hooterville stories for another time, another day.

So, my Friday night. Cowboy game, Arlington, Texas. Cowboys vs. Titans. First home game in the new It Cost A Gazillion Dollars Motherfuckers Stadium. Fucking awesome stadium, bitches. But before we got to the stadium, we had to park the Krispy ride. And do you know how much Jerry "The Toupee" Jones is charging to park a fucking vehicle at It Cost a Gazillion Dollars Motherfuckers Stadium? Holy Shit dollars, that's how much. And because Krispy dude is kind of a cheap bastard, we decided not to fork over Holy Shit dollars, but instead we drove pretty much all the way back home, parked there, and walked to the ICAGDM Stadium. And I, in all my Krispy wisdom and kick-assedness, was wearing some truly bitching high-heeled shoes. You never know who you're gonna see, fuckers. Dress for success.

So, a mile into the journey, after the last tradin' post had faded into the distance and we were keeping our eyes peeled for Apache, the shoes started to hurt. A little. But of course I could not get pissy about this because Krispy Dude would sigh and roll his eyes and claim that he TOLD ME NOT TO WEAR THE FUCKING CRUEL SHOES. Yes. Yes, he did. This is a man who buys shoes based on one criteria: Do they fit? Fuck that, motherfuckers. I will shove my size 7 into a fucking size 5 if the shoe is cute enough. And if it has a stiletto, ON, bitches.

OK, we were still at least several days away from ICAGDM Stadium and I was limping along, pretending that No, this is not a limp...this is a saunter, motherfucker. I am sauntering. Painfully, painfully sauntering. At some point, the stadium came into view and I was able to stop sauntering for precious seconds in order to capture the moment for posterity. And slide out of those motherfucking shoes for a teeny second of blessed, blessed relief. (Pretend that they make you too tall to get a good picture, you vain bitch.)

I whipped out my little dij camera and started snapping the giant-assed bitch on the horizon, when this dude with "I Just Got Kicked in the Balls" face and freaky mirrored sunglasses walked up and said, "You'd better take your camera back to the car. They won't let you in with it. I just had to walk all the way back to my car to leave mine."

Walk back to the fucking car? WALK BACK TO THE FUCKING CAR??? Are you SHITTING me? In these FUCKING JAPANESE FOOT BINDINGS? No. Fucking. Way. So I finished snapping my pix of the outside of the god damned behemoth and decided that the camera was indeed going inside with me, even if it meant shoving the fucker inside OF me. And so you get a clear picture of this, here's my get-up: skin tight jeans that are giving me massive camel toe and a form fitting tank top with jangly bead things all over it to disguise my lack of boobage. In other words, nowhere to hide, bitches.

Krispy Dude decided that he could stuff the camera down his pants ("Happy to see me?") only the dude wears boxers and the camera slid through like a bran-muffin doody. Nowhere to hide, bitches. I tried sticking it in my pocket, but my jeans were so damned tight that the fucker was pressing against a hip bone and turning the painful saunter into some kind of god damned Weeble-with-palsy-on-a-dinghy-during-a-hurricane pitch and roll. Not happening. I thought about stuffing it down the front of my jeans, but bitches, I am trying to look sexy here--Tony Romo in da house!--and blond hair, tight jeans, tank top, no tits and a bulge in the front of my pants might send a lot of messages, but "sexy" ain't one of 'em. So instead of the front, I stuffed the camera in the back of my jeans, right inside the waistband, and hoped like hell it wouldn't fall out in front of stadium security.

We FINALLY pulled up in front of ICAGDM Stadium, with me crying on the inside because my feet hurt like shit, and discovered that stadium security was not only checking bags--which we expected--but they were doing that Cheap Excuse for Feeling You Up pat down too. A pat down? For a fucking football game? I could not decide if this was truly for our safety in a search for the random Teabagger who decided to bring his weapon to the game to "Show some fuckers what health care reform REALLY means" or if Jerry Jones is such a money grubbing whore that he figures a bitch is gonna hide a camera down her pants and he won't make any dough off the Officially Sanctioned, Trademark Here, Copyright There, Every Square Inch of the Fucker is Mine Even the Images, Bitches photos that are for sale once you enter Valhalla.

So now, my feet are screaming loud enough to attract police attention, and my upper lip is starting to sweat as I remember that nasty little affair with the safety patrol and what getting caught with a camera up my ass might mean for my future in law enforcement. So I kind of scooched back against a barricade before it was my turn to be frisked and shoved that fucker all the way down my pants, from my waistband, all the way to my poop shoot. So at that point I had moved from being worried that I looked like a trannie to completely accepting--nay, embracing--the fact that I looked like I had a large turd in my pants. Because who's gonna frisk a turd?

I tried to look as nonchalant as possible as I made my way to the frisk station. And motherFUCK if I didn't get frisked by some 18-year old attention-deficit having, future cashier at the Mini-Mart with a reluctance to make human contact. Hoo Fucking Ray! Once "I Probably Won't Actually Make Physical Contact With Any Part of You During This Search for Weapons" girl finished up her thorough security procedure, I--with much mental relief--painfully sauntered my large-and-vaguely-square-looking-turd ass right on in to that bitchin' stadium. And as I looked around at the millions and billions of people mingling on the concourse and on the stairwells and the walkways and in the stands, I noticed that every motherfucking one of them had a camera. Out in the open. That they were holding up and taking photos with. Gleefully. And I, giant god damned Stranger With Mirrored Sunglasses-Believing retard , had to furtively stick my hand down my ass and pull out my camera, covered with sweat and panty lint so I could capture all those good times we were having.

But that stadium is awesome, bitches. And I took my shoes off and went barefoot when we walked back to the car.

Posted by Krispy_Kreme at August 26, 2009 11:06 PM

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