tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17565466850207547422024-02-02T01:47:10.587-08:00Special Times with BrennaBrenna's thoughts, stories, and minor crimes, all special.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-39565458777587007912011-01-07T13:55:00.000-08:002011-01-07T13:55:23.276-08:00The Dredges of Society Work Out in the Sauna<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMyy7cSaVoxfNq90OHG7dj3nrbgsi8gvtneW5UIyg_XYXSCE0ouE37M7QGPXiFSXkwemXincqi9q2seWuf8LGJGhHBpTJ_IuKH6-moEV4ilVgFDY6EC4NFmvj_k25RYehv16BWM3HXJCs/s1600/IMG_0199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMyy7cSaVoxfNq90OHG7dj3nrbgsi8gvtneW5UIyg_XYXSCE0ouE37M7QGPXiFSXkwemXincqi9q2seWuf8LGJGhHBpTJ_IuKH6-moEV4ilVgFDY6EC4NFmvj_k25RYehv16BWM3HXJCs/s200/IMG_0199.JPG" width="200" /></a>Have you ever gone to a gym and looked around at all the hot and <i>impossibly</i> fit people running on treadmills at a rate you know your tubby ass could never achieve? Does it make you bitter or give you low self esteem? Worry no longer my friends, your next ego boost in down one level - in the sauna.<br />
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I don't know how many of you go to a gym that even has a sauna, but I beg of you to check it out if you do. The scene that takes place in the swimming pool area is one of horrendous delight. That sweaty, fat, creepy dude from work that always stares at you? Yeah, he's down there.<br />
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Every time I go into the sauna, my eyes are assaulted by what awaits me; I always take an uneasy pause before entering. For example, today, Obese Fat Man with random patches of back hair sat wheezing away before me. After 30 seconds of sweating out what I can only guess was McRibb grease, he left only to be replaced by an Old Asian Man who curled up like a cat. Not too bad until I look down and realize that not one, but all of his toenails are 3 inches too long and very possibly dead. (Yum.) Finally, Anorexic Crazy Lady strolls in donning a fur coat. (Really?)<br />
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The plethora of questions I have can only be answered by the obvious - homeless people have finally discovered that there's a back door that's unlocked AND old, fat men refuse to do any more "exercise" than sit and sweat somewhere. It's a safe haven for these special people where their freak flags can fly high and proud. And I have to hand it to them, they don't give a fuck what you think, proving so by presenting their rockin' bods like a gift to the sauna gods.<br />
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Unfortunately, I love me some sauna. So I guess I need to start making friends... I think I'll start with one of the obese guys because then we can trade fast food combo secrets. Mmm, McRibb...Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-56248391961892985182010-08-19T13:59:00.000-07:002010-08-19T13:59:25.058-07:00Old, New, Borrowed, and Jew<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuxZrwtp_4RkhowIMKshKInk_6bS3ajGrxKcprkOdG0_6CV4LbWqkTrUYxqWHPQLNIiVrQDM_e2w_zI18sPxKStsrYKdxEilhmWaKtTQblI4L9tw9DfiPBbE2xusdCk7rCFq9_rC6hTBI/s1600/IMG_1341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuxZrwtp_4RkhowIMKshKInk_6bS3ajGrxKcprkOdG0_6CV4LbWqkTrUYxqWHPQLNIiVrQDM_e2w_zI18sPxKStsrYKdxEilhmWaKtTQblI4L9tw9DfiPBbE2xusdCk7rCFq9_rC6hTBI/s200/IMG_1341.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Have you ever had the pleasure of planning a wedding? How about being in one? Was there an open bar? Approximately how many times did you roll your eyes throughout the ceremony?<br />
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Our society has made weddings the equivalent of a very expensive circus. Flowers, dresses, food, cake, midgets. Do we really need all this crap to express our love and devotion in front of our friends, family, and legal system? Maybe Vegas has it right - wham, bam, you're married ma'am... oh, and you also have the clap.<br />
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My poor sister is getting married in less than a month. She's still trying to nail down the cake while I've been on a two week internet hunt for the perfect bling-y decorations for her peacock themed extravaganza. I think my mom is in a self induced coma over sticker shock and I've been invited to three bridal showers and a whole weekend of bachelorette festivities. Don't get me wrong, I know my sister is loving the attention and gifts, and none of this she planned, but why do we go to such lengths over <b>one</b> day?<br />
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What it comes down to is ME. And you. We go all out for other people's crap in the hopes that when our time comes, we'll get an entire year of ooh's, aah's, parties, and bridezilla bitchiness.<br />
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So I'm taking a stand and giving my sister a gift that costs nothing but means a lot:<br />
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Something old - My constant sarcasm and mockery throughout this whole ordeal, including the wedding day.<br />
Something new - A bump it. (Someone gave it to me but it won't work in my hair.)<br />
Something borrowed - Remember that cute shirt I stole from you a few years ago? I'm giving it back.<br />
Something Jew - My best friends, Nina and Kat (two of my all time favorite Jews - Sorry Barbara S!), are gonna be your little helper bitches at the wedding. Even though some of them are still bitter about not being bridesmaids...<br />
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CONGRATS Chris and Sarah!!! Can't wait for the big day! <3 <3 <3Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-17338545688307148272010-07-28T17:48:00.000-07:002010-07-28T18:55:25.148-07:00Awesomely Gay Songs I Listen to at the Gym<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHTwjO0FDBxOYc2HSf_RFdsg34Zp9Sf2tCSQSEVi3OOfxbM-KlQpO7Cxgt0PYBsVRPFSsxmhsstE6oe1iagjVfC5meXvXdbDonBXp3a0-K7S9RqkZVgH5osCEzfmUOgSxj93v9JKDcMQ/s1600/IMG_1339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHTwjO0FDBxOYc2HSf_RFdsg34Zp9Sf2tCSQSEVi3OOfxbM-KlQpO7Cxgt0PYBsVRPFSsxmhsstE6oe1iagjVfC5meXvXdbDonBXp3a0-K7S9RqkZVgH5osCEzfmUOgSxj93v9JKDcMQ/s200/IMG_1339.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Everyone has a playlist or a set of songs they listen to while working out and hidden within these lists are some pretty embarrassing choices. Below are some of the awesomely gayest songs that I LOVE to jam out to while I'm at the gym. Honestly.</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">Oh Sheila </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">by Ready For The World</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Qualifying awesome lyric: " I love you baby honestly/ Deedle, deedle, deedleee/ Deedle, deedle, do!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">Shake Ya Tail Feather</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"> by Nelly ft. P.Diddy</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Qualifying awesome lyric: "Is that ya ass or is ya mama half reindeer?"/ They be like he the man when I'm really a Thundercat."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">Summertime </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">by The New Kids On The Block</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Qualifying gay lyric: There really isn't one. It's just gay that I'm not even listening to their 80s/90s hits. I'm listening to the single they<b> just</b> released.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">True To Your Heart</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"> by 98 Degrees ft. Stevie Wonder</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Qualifying gay lyric: Again, there actually isn't one. This is super gay because not only is it the least successful boy band of the late 90s, but also the theme song of a Disney movie. Combined, the gay factor shoots off the charts.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">Love New York </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">by Madonna</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Qualifying awesome lyric: "If you don't like my attitude, then you can 'F' off/ Just go to Texas, isn't that where they golf?/ New York is not for little pussies who scream/ If you can't stand the heat, then get off my street." And of course it's gay, it's Madonna.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">Control Myself</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"> by LL Cool J ft. Jennifer Lopez</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Qualifying awesome lyric: "You know I know you like it/ Let me hit you on your sidekick/ Because the after party is at my body/ Meet me your invited....</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her top was short and purple/ Belly dancing in a circle/ When I feel like this I can't resist/ Stop it don't make me hurt you! (make me hurt you)...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Zezezezeze zezeze zezezezezezeze ze zez zezez ezezeze zezezez ze!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>What awesomely gay songs are on your iPod?</b></span></div>Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-4809833567813452372010-07-21T15:41:00.000-07:002010-07-21T15:41:39.363-07:00It's Called Magic, Bitch. Tricks Are For Whores.It was a trifecta of friends' birthdays this week and the result was a fabulous trip to the Magic Castle in Hollywood. For all of you who have never been, it's invite only to a 100 year old, multi-level mansion where you pay out the ass to be shown magic. The dress code is strict, the parking is valet, and the magicians are not fucking around.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwe6zi5d3z_Q-nVJEKjUogUMK_lLWB90Nupxtq7TdxVdDnytyBV1AhaJmu936JTPuOmBRA1lVsCxMF4nTl46tEeElp7EentIZgNV0lMGPh_aJacBkA_pr9xO6of0g7MesK_w58DfaYhRw/s1600/34876_446827697194_673202194_6062208_6302981_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwe6zi5d3z_Q-nVJEKjUogUMK_lLWB90Nupxtq7TdxVdDnytyBV1AhaJmu936JTPuOmBRA1lVsCxMF4nTl46tEeElp7EentIZgNV0lMGPh_aJacBkA_pr9xO6of0g7MesK_w58DfaYhRw/s200/34876_446827697194_673202194_6062208_6302981_n.jpg" width="200" /></a>Before the evening begins, our Jersey homeboy, Gasper, strolls up to us (and a crowd of old people) and loudly announces how "Some fuckin' guy just yelled at me 'Shorten your tie, douchebag!' and then I grabbed my balls at him!" Douche bags and balls are always needed to begin a night of class.<br />
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We get herded into a lobby and pay two stuffy bitches to scream at us that we're not good or rich enough to be at a place of this caliber. Someone screeches into a bookcase "Open Sesame!" and we enter a world of creepy portraits, rickety staircases, and fully stocked bars (yes!) where we immediately order drinks.<br />
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There are small 10 minute magic shows in every nook and cranny of every eccentric room. We catch one of an older Australian gentleman who refuses to perform any trick without involving a kangaroo, but his accent is so entertaining that we stay anyway. Quickly after, we hurry upstairs where our dinner reservations await... and more drinks.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ibzu_Biz-bdD7j26tbKvHeMLlYaU2xUvecbd6h5qAuk8UO2hYZYXM0B_fOq7-0QGRAJ_2t5T5lDLQ76UWjHKVU4IlIgwNuVc0O524mSKsOZ_dQfELTiypRttLIfM5sjvQZagM1Nw7p0/s1600/34876_446827712194_673202194_6062211_2007305_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ibzu_Biz-bdD7j26tbKvHeMLlYaU2xUvecbd6h5qAuk8UO2hYZYXM0B_fOq7-0QGRAJ_2t5T5lDLQ76UWjHKVU4IlIgwNuVc0O524mSKsOZ_dQfELTiypRttLIfM5sjvQZagM1Nw7p0/s200/34876_446827712194_673202194_6062211_2007305_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Next up, the main attraction. Justin Credible, host of <i>Cupcake Wars</i>, puts on a delightful show including a ring popping up in a lady's cleavage, a floating table, and a box that I suspect a fully literate midget may live inside. Then, he calls on Gasper. Justin proceeds to call him Casper, Jasper, Gasper, and then Jasper again for the next four minutes. I'm pretty sure those two hooked up after the show because they had quite a flirtation going on and Justin swore this mishap would be his FB status update. Oh, and I totally saw them making out later.<br />
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What next? More drinks! And more nook and cranny shows. We stumble upon an old school magician who's throwing back Jack and Cokes like it's Kwanzaa and telling jokes that intermix racial slurs with anecdotes about Frank Sinatra. Never have I heard such a creative use of the word "wetback." Classic.<br />
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I'm on my 100th glass of syrah when I'm yanked down into a possible sex dungeon where two ametuer magicians are doing quick sets. I try to hook up Devon with the first guy, but he leaves the room annoyed. (I thought I was being subtle.) The second magician notices my horrifically purple mouth and thinks it's a good idea to have me help with his set. After a few slurred suggestions at what card he should pull, I decide the eight of spades would be great. He pulls the eight of hearts. Unfortunately for him, the best magic trick in <i>that</i> room was me making yet another glass of wine disappear.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj78tF2a54KXQfg7jGHYAySQyylTBfteEtigXKWAesa3EgZDAgCCi-WVrIHXxOfK9ETjdvVzV5ky7i8icpBhc7cZoM1VKgm9JjoFr2OgO6v35vgkVMQ2tLSUdujuDOKdoPbqIDzt9RDI/s1600/0721101536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="71" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj78tF2a54KXQfg7jGHYAySQyylTBfteEtigXKWAesa3EgZDAgCCi-WVrIHXxOfK9ETjdvVzV5ky7i8icpBhc7cZoM1VKgm9JjoFr2OgO6v35vgkVMQ2tLSUdujuDOKdoPbqIDzt9RDI/s200/0721101536.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>The night ends with everyone sitting in the basement, listening to another magician talk about doing cocaine in his hay day at Studio 54. I sway to the melodic tunes from a Tina Turner look-alike on the piano and realize that my body is ready for Jack in the Box. Before parting ways, we reminisce over all the times we screamed things like "What?! That's impossible!" and "Where did his pants go?" A lovely evening indeed.<br />
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We couldn't truly end the night without a quick encounter with a wizard dog and a run in with some rent-a-cops on the 405, but everyone made it home safe, sound and full of magic (alcohol). Happy birthday to my beloved Freaky, the gorgeous Lori, and my BFF/<b>Boyfriend</b> Jeff!Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-9510915078522978022010-06-26T12:02:00.000-07:002010-06-26T12:02:46.292-07:00You Know What I Hate? Part Three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPGehiDd-eN-PIwsp6ZrExekzjxcfNp2BwJgGlxqQxZ439l5EcF-REhFxQ1ivWDCTKsl040BFCTcgE1pM0o9BWa36NL24-H93dpitIrcBNKrRG9JF7zcPB20uqWK48mh7v7ekqO3STA0/s1600/IMG_1354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPGehiDd-eN-PIwsp6ZrExekzjxcfNp2BwJgGlxqQxZ439l5EcF-REhFxQ1ivWDCTKsl040BFCTcgE1pM0o9BWa36NL24-H93dpitIrcBNKrRG9JF7zcPB20uqWK48mh7v7ekqO3STA0/s320/IMG_1354.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
These are <i>even more</i> things that I hate:<br />
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5. People who take sports games WAY too seriously. Crying over your team missing a goal or a touchdown is completely unnecessary. Are they saving someone's lives on the field? Did Beckam just rip his shirt off? No. You're just wasted and have been surviving off nothing but hot wings and cocaine all day and you're being a little overemotional, you man baby. Get off my street.<br />
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4. Guy that trained his dog to ride a skateboard and almost hit me with it. Okay, so it's pretty cool that your dog can ride a skateboard, but when you get drunk and decide to not look at where you're whipping your skateboard, that's when I start hating. Because as soon as I leave my apartment, if I have to dodge a 100 pound bull dog flying at me on a skateboard aiming at my right shin, it is likely to scare the shit outta me, not make me clap in appreciation. That could've ended badly for all parties if I had not been such a graceful athlete with a healthy fear of dogs. Brenna - 1, Skateboarding Dog - 0.<br />
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3. People who poop on my couch. (*See <i><b>Fuck Yo Couch, Birfday Girl</b></i> below.) Yep, still bitter.<br />
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2. I hate being on a diet and eating healthy. It's no fun. I want to be on a show like Man vs. Food where he gets paid to eat 6 pound burritos and multi level ice cream sundaes. On top of that, people are cheering on his fatness and impending diabetes! God, what I wouldn't give for his luxurious lifestyle. And a steak/french fry/egg/cole slaw/hot dog/fried jalapeno/onion ring/caviar sandwich without a side of guilt.<br />
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1. Hairy man backs. You know when you're a hairy man beast and it is a living breathing choice to expose your funky to the world. I don't want you guys getting any crazy ideas like "This is the way I was born and I shouldn't have to change according to society's standards" or "Who cares?" because I'll tell you who cares - EVERYONE ELSE. You look like you got cold one day, covered yourself with a fur blanket and kept it on so long it sunk into your skin. When you could be cast in <i>Teen Wolf: Spring Break!, </i>it's time to seriously consider your options... like waxing or just killing yourself.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-43761497472430390932010-06-08T18:12:00.000-07:002010-06-08T18:16:45.572-07:00Fuck yo couch, birfday gurl.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhupdFN-GVt537_ZMcws0nNZckqXu5yCtLaVWmRk9kdhVXQOAiXNGZGiysfzsgpZVG1nE953GczM-ElhvHY8a9Ur89qfOCqb1EgNhjpbqWK7OXaMha5MvI25zRcDCCH_UUxW_6k_isXM4I/s1600/IMG_4051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhupdFN-GVt537_ZMcws0nNZckqXu5yCtLaVWmRk9kdhVXQOAiXNGZGiysfzsgpZVG1nE953GczM-ElhvHY8a9Ur89qfOCqb1EgNhjpbqWK7OXaMha5MvI25zRcDCCH_UUxW_6k_isXM4I/s320/IMG_4051.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Birthdays. A day where each and every person can feel special, have friends and family celebrate their birth, and, most importantly, you get a free pass at Disney (The rides suck but there's a little thing called "drinkin' 'round the world" at Epcot that is pure de-light.). As a world renowned narcissist, I consider my birthday a thing of magic and wonder and free stuff. So when my special happy day goes wrong, people are going to hear about it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I won't bore you with the details of a severe sunburn, horrible weather, an earthquake, and a general lack of communication from a lot of important people, but I will fill you in on a much more interesting and disgusting reason why my 25th sucked balls.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I didn't plan on doing anything for my birthday but last minute I ended up going downstairs to a bar for a few drinks with the Nasty's and the Freaky's (a weekend routine). An outside friend was brought in - we'll call him Jerry - who no one knew but was welcomed all the same. As we hung out at the bar, everyone had some drinks and were feeling pretty good, but Jerry was was feeling GREAT. He danced and sang and downed drink after drink.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I was getting hungry (big shock) and wanted to pay a little visit to my not so secret lover, the quesadilla from Los Muchachos, so we headed back to my apartment - <b>my brand new apt with brand new carpet and brand new furniture</b>. Before I was done with my cheesy meal, Jerry was getting destructive and then started not to feel so well. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Do we see where this story is headed?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div>If you guessed that he would start barfing next, you'd be right. If you guessed he would take out my new, never been used pot to throw up into, you'd also be right. And if you guessed that he would use my beach towels instead of the roll of paper towels next to him to clean up, you would basically be psychic! So congrats on that. But like I said earlier, still, no one knew what was coming...<br />
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I woke up the next morning to discover three things: 1) Jerry was gone, 2) Jerry shit his pants while sleeping on my couch, 3) Jerry had left the vomit/poop mess for everyone else to clean. HE POOPED ON MY COUCH AND ON MY FLOOR AND ON MY TOWELS and then had the nerve to leave it for everyone else to clean. He left poopy underwear in my trash can. He left vomit in my pot in my sink. He left a smell that still haunts me to this day.<br />
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A lot of the mess had been cleaned before I had to deal with it, but after an ottoman was moved, a new stain was discovered - A POOP STAIN THAT LOOKED LIKE SOMEONE DRAGGED THEIR FINGERS THROUGH IT. (Did he scoop his poop and then wipe it on the floor? And then after that put my ottoman over it to hide the stain? And did I mention that this is the first time any of us had ever met him?)<br />
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So there I was, on my fucking birthday, scrubbing someone else's shit off my carpet. So <i>Jerry</i>, if you're reading this, I know I am super hilarious but you shouldn't find this funny in the slightest. And if you do think this is funny, I don't even need to insult you, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">you shit yourself</span>.<br />
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This may be a vengeance blog (the best kind of blog, in my opinion), but also an educational one. We all learned a lesson here - don't poop and run, it's rude. And if you do, at least offer to pay for steam cleaning.<br />
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***** ALSO: Actual birthday "card" I got from a family member suggesting I donate $10 to the Catholic Church for my birthday...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDyCFbIvzI-J3sWFH_bCNQ9_5AcOP1lvx5H-RHLadILegMAKLC-MLXmYz__JBQmL_glQYqmsg4orFB1bKlFJEb-mgZu5p6ON5_Rn6DPye_zvO0-ZFppfiB3oxomqcR_82aQKd0q809aaQ/s1600/card2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDyCFbIvzI-J3sWFH_bCNQ9_5AcOP1lvx5H-RHLadILegMAKLC-MLXmYz__JBQmL_glQYqmsg4orFB1bKlFJEb-mgZu5p6ON5_Rn6DPye_zvO0-ZFppfiB3oxomqcR_82aQKd0q809aaQ/s320/card2.jpg" /></a></div>Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-47785812972497208842010-04-30T20:00:00.000-07:002010-04-30T20:04:55.877-07:00Get Out My Face Space!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><i>"Facebook is like a hot tub time machine; it's an amazing invention that can bring joy to millions, but if abused, could tear down civilization as we know it." - Brenna E. Kelly</i></span></span></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28L9h4S-cPp1uyOpx2eMazEKJnmh8srDVYzRnRIu-CL9w_OkW2gEGyDdrvtSlJnaFkq76P3WgY-TSwtGaWG4LtMTlpJtDo5uKAcq7VFHnrN4ULF59XPGbwS-4Kmy1npHx6GojRr7v_kk/s1600/IMG_1158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28L9h4S-cPp1uyOpx2eMazEKJnmh8srDVYzRnRIu-CL9w_OkW2gEGyDdrvtSlJnaFkq76P3WgY-TSwtGaWG4LtMTlpJtDo5uKAcq7VFHnrN4ULF59XPGbwS-4Kmy1npHx6GojRr7v_kk/s200/IMG_1158.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><br />
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Most people use Facebook to share pictures with loved ones or to catch up with friends from the past. (I use the site to promote my many bidnesses such as comedy writings and an ever popular sticker club.) This site was given to us so that we may tell all of our friends what we're doing at any given moment of the day. So when the holy grail of internet stalking is being threatened, when is the time to take a stand for what's right?<br />
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It has become acceptable for small children, old people and even cats to have their own pages. This cannot be tolerated. The children bring in fan pages for "Sunshine" and "Flip Flops". (You want me to believe that <i>a pair</i> <b>or</b> <i>flip flops as an entirety </i>got together and decided to make a page on FB because they felt left out? Impossible - flip flops don't have opposable thumbs and thus cannot type.) The old people make fan pages about "God" and "Missing the days when I could see my feet". (No one cares. Die already and free up the space so I can make a fan page for my cat.)<br />
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These outcasts bring not only those inane fan pages but also appalling games like Mafia Wars. Then, when you don't join their dumb ass game, they repeatedly resend you the invitation over and over until you have to have an incredibly uncomfortable intervention via your blog page. (You know who you are, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">KRISTINA LAUREN PAULOS</span>.) Seriously, stop sending that shit out, everyone is talking about you behind your back on FB chat and calling you all those names you suspect.<br />
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The worst, by far, are the people airing dirty laundry on their status updates. I suggest not telling the world about your cheating husband and raging bout of hemorrhoids for fear of coming off as less than classy. When you write an entire paragraph detailing the minutia of your daily chores, everyone thinks you're a loser and your mother doesn't love you. Why? Because if you had people in your life, you would talk to them about your "way too hot cup of coffee" and not a computer screen. Song lyrics referencing a hostile situation you're in isn't any better, it just makes you a passive aggressive idiot. Taylor Swift doesn't want you using her words to tell your ex what's up in a public forum. In fact, she hates you.<br />
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With great power comes great responsibility. It is in our hands to keep prestigious networking sites such as Facebook a safe place to connect in the cyber world. After all, if we don't protect the integrity of this holy site, we'll be left with nothing but another Myspace. No one wants that. Not even Tom.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-89479191843912362742010-03-16T21:17:00.000-07:002010-03-16T21:17:24.821-07:00You Know What They Say...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mLqnkbJYAuVWGt2c5BKCyo5KUebML58VyU1DScfD55wKgLEsIC23XDBu-A_P64VUMIgPUGop2uSJB3NWqQXVp-sjOiSpR4AqAfHMAJbGIKYG5EZf9QZqgMxern7rj0IW2SOUcwwhTog/s1600-h/IMG_1218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mLqnkbJYAuVWGt2c5BKCyo5KUebML58VyU1DScfD55wKgLEsIC23XDBu-A_P64VUMIgPUGop2uSJB3NWqQXVp-sjOiSpR4AqAfHMAJbGIKYG5EZf9QZqgMxern7rj0IW2SOUcwwhTog/s200/IMG_1218.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Have you ever wondered to yourself, <i>who the fuck are "they"</i>? And where do<i> "</i>they" find the time to say all these things? I wouldn't mind getting hired as one of "them" and just start making shit up.<br />
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It's always the most bizarre sayings that get thrown at you in an attempt to make you feel better. "Be careful what you wish for, you may just get it". Ummm... I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;">know</span>. That's why I'm wishing for it. Otherwise, I would have revamped my wish to specify that I not receive it. "Have confidence in yourself and you can lick anything". That's just bad advice, destined to end in a porn career or a quick bout of H1N1. "What is meant to be will be". This may be true, however, you may be destined to be punched in the mouth by my fist-o-fury. Does that saying make you feel any better about it?<br />
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Then there are the obvious ones like "You can't buy love". It's like they've never heard of Russian mail order brides; it's a business where everyone wins. "You can't have your cake and it, too". I'm not sure what this crackhead does with their cake, but one thing is fo sho - if you put any kind of sugary goodness in front of my fat ass, whether it's yours, mine or unknown, I will eat it. "No news is good news". Erroneous. This person has apparently never called a guy expecting a second date and received nada in return. They also haven't had the joy of going to an acting audition. "Your time is the greatest gift you can give someone". Nope. Two words - free pizza.<br />
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Of course we can't ignore the sayings that don't make any goddamn sense. For example, "You are what you eat". The only way that this could be true would be to eat another person, but cannibalism is illegal. Tempting, but illegal. "Can't get blood from a stone". Who is under the impression that you could? While we're on the topic, if you could get something, anything, out of a stone, why would you choose blood? You don't know if that blood has AIDS and once you get the blood, what were your plans for it? Try to get money out of a stone, it's more productive.<br />
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"Never look a gift horse in the mouth" is by far the most bewildering of all sayings to me. Firstly, I have always had a healthy fear of horses so I was completely unaware that some of them gave out gifts. Or is that just slang for reindeer? Also, why can't you look it in the mouth? I would assume that that is where the gifts come out and would refuse to take a "gift" from the other end.<br />
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A "Word to the wise" maybe be"Just because everyone's doing something doesn't mean it's right" but "A little bird told me" that that's only true about everything <i>but</i> <b>Glee</b>.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-22250822385094159132010-02-28T15:58:00.000-08:002010-02-28T15:58:17.379-08:00Ugly Picture Challenge! UPDATE!And the winner is... ME!!!<br />
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You didn't think that any of you are weird looking enough to beat me at my own disturbing game... did you? HAHA!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshAEugQ66GrpQVPsvez5KzARc7mfcwfAHvXAJ8j6-L857kX7f3siyrF_geCinYqKLe6MUcuWA1Ff74EHqmS6FRPHzgcncTxogd4yZx_nhwH7q-yM5S0jnBrR82w-Hv3UHUq5mvn9YoG8/s1600-h/FL+License.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshAEugQ66GrpQVPsvez5KzARc7mfcwfAHvXAJ8j6-L857kX7f3siyrF_geCinYqKLe6MUcuWA1Ff74EHqmS6FRPHzgcncTxogd4yZx_nhwH7q-yM5S0jnBrR82w-Hv3UHUq5mvn9YoG8/s200/FL+License.jpg" width="151" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is my Florida driver's license. I look like Andy Richter and Lindsay Lohan's love child. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICIJCU6G5LbNHQ52tDbYgVtTe9qIBMWlPPu3WWVlvvPvs3_vGyl4PiMHKZEgdIGqgWVO-T4o2oSIigSjQzi4fYzHxf4fV843C49rypRCd9f0v5haeMHfoED0VOlzjgn_1DD1QjM8Hjo8/s1600-h/Andy-Richter1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICIJCU6G5LbNHQ52tDbYgVtTe9qIBMWlPPu3WWVlvvPvs3_vGyl4PiMHKZEgdIGqgWVO-T4o2oSIigSjQzi4fYzHxf4fV843C49rypRCd9f0v5haeMHfoED0VOlzjgn_1DD1QjM8Hjo8/s200/Andy-Richter1.jpg" width="125" /></a> + <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVWRaJw0rcLItSug9AM-5QkgJjJSq5223p3uZWjcssT6gN9iSHiKR1op_C3R4B4IgQzGD_VP4Ed0595eoGJOoHjRdD5fD-Yzhc6mbbweBWsTBNoZqgg8UcEULJSjUKKc_kDaSjI8iaKY/s1600-h/lindsay-lohan-drunk-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVWRaJw0rcLItSug9AM-5QkgJjJSq5223p3uZWjcssT6gN9iSHiKR1op_C3R4B4IgQzGD_VP4Ed0595eoGJOoHjRdD5fD-Yzhc6mbbweBWsTBNoZqgg8UcEULJSjUKKc_kDaSjI8iaKY/s200/lindsay-lohan-drunk-22.jpg" width="186" /></a> = ME</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Or that I ate this person...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj171Wga8wsEJtHR3WSteFXQce8TvXMut2yrSs2BLz_vVXFroZcOIZHwXz8L2tTl8kZhyIBl-RZk9Jb-Y1yoHm1kEKGC5_eMKusXikuqi1icgmYjqX3-wSSi6KrxQycbulidKvQfOJy10k/s1600-h/0216001028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj171Wga8wsEJtHR3WSteFXQce8TvXMut2yrSs2BLz_vVXFroZcOIZHwXz8L2tTl8kZhyIBl-RZk9Jb-Y1yoHm1kEKGC5_eMKusXikuqi1icgmYjqX3-wSSi6KrxQycbulidKvQfOJy10k/s200/0216001028.jpg" width="163" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What can I say? She looked weak and confused.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Pedro C.'s comment was my fave: <b>"</b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><b>Where is my umbrella ya'll? I gotta beat up some paparazzi!"</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Perhaps because it was the funniest or perhaps my quest to become like Britney has come full circle and my fans appreciate it.</div><br />
Don't pout that you didn't win people. In a contest like this, everyone is a winner.<br />
BUT VICTORY IS MINE!Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-80831167753685205452010-02-18T15:02:00.000-08:002010-02-18T15:02:41.471-08:00Ugly Picture Challenge!I am one of the most unphotogenic human beings the world has ever known. I can't even count the number of times I have taken a bad picture or how often my friends start "finding the most hideous picture of Brenna and post it all over the internet" contests. In light of that fact, and the fact that I am shameless when it comes to attention and funny things, I am going to show you my passport picture:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsABvEtBCfIOLqA06jcPIiciDib7YC0NWKliJn51JMjgPQWmEjgiYJLtyRUUOWNJ7B9cSR6qmR-QcmrmM6_4sEb_7qDopx2zwv6-gc3QTvSxadJO-7idfbvJydSgjjecxh0iCQApCMuLs/s1600-h/23947_1341629533551_1015572331_31020902_2463221_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsABvEtBCfIOLqA06jcPIiciDib7YC0NWKliJn51JMjgPQWmEjgiYJLtyRUUOWNJ7B9cSR6qmR-QcmrmM6_4sEb_7qDopx2zwv6-gc3QTvSxadJO-7idfbvJydSgjjecxh0iCQApCMuLs/s200/23947_1341629533551_1015572331_31020902_2463221_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSim43fUGK_UHDnz7jelADeERrFpjyKTqUXt2G9gUPlRmd8bz6DyYI6wHhouB3uo6xOaji6w1d8NgBhOdKe7AoZmhz31L24_DreN8J6PloeBuDco-0nZCNoGaicg17Uxa3x2hPRpjpuo/s1600-h/0216001028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSim43fUGK_UHDnz7jelADeERrFpjyKTqUXt2G9gUPlRmd8bz6DyYI6wHhouB3uo6xOaji6w1d8NgBhOdKe7AoZmhz31L24_DreN8J6PloeBuDco-0nZCNoGaicg17Uxa3x2hPRpjpuo/s200/0216001028.jpg" width="163" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div>You're welcome.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I challenge any brave soul to try and one up this HIDEOUS picture. Your picture needs to be some kind of official ID, school ID, driver's license or passport. Not just some drunk picture your asshole buddies took of you. </div><div>Email me at BrennaKellyFilms@yahoo.com or send it to me via Facebook. I will update this blog and announce a winner.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Another challenge is who can write the funniest caption to this photo in the below comment section.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The prize, you ask? <b>GLORY.</b></div>Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-86634557237561835432010-02-12T18:17:00.000-08:002010-02-12T18:17:46.955-08:00Be Funny or Die. Seriously.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebXWbFvWmOwgU2xGCh_dXfvlgsagpjpTCjIkrymnMlf1ZjvBlPhqxzXoHVdMgyfyIKBSAl94MenDvnPtPMHiUNbROCcrE8eFkec7gKjmhQqXK_dGRwvQPx95duFIQ9VXtL4Bg-2vxPt8/s1600-h/22638_786626008045_3412757_45805968_2552576_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebXWbFvWmOwgU2xGCh_dXfvlgsagpjpTCjIkrymnMlf1ZjvBlPhqxzXoHVdMgyfyIKBSAl94MenDvnPtPMHiUNbROCcrE8eFkec7gKjmhQqXK_dGRwvQPx95duFIQ9VXtL4Bg-2vxPt8/s200/22638_786626008045_3412757_45805968_2552576_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br />
Recently, I shot a bunch of skits/sketches/little videos to post on Funny or Die (and You Tube, etc.). It was so much fun and the only drawback is that I am not able to shoot more often because of schedules and work and bar hopping. When I was in college, I was able to create and execute lots of videos, movies and musical hoopla's and that was such a wonderful time because it was a way of living out my dream on a smaller scale.<br />
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Another perk to doing things like this is that in a strange way, I am able to exist in the same world as Will Ferrell. That is, without cold calling everyone in the greater Los Angeles area, becoming a pizza delivery chick near his neighborhood, and generally not breaking a bunch of laws by stalking him. I have idolized that man since such a young age and seeing him on SNL in the late 90s is what inspired me to become a comedian. Someone like him, so dedicated to the art form called comedy, inspires me every day to fight for what I believe in and he provides fighters such as myself a forum to do so.<br />
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I know a lot of people that work jobs just to pay the bills while waiting for their big break. Half of my LA friends are the very fashionable "starving artists" and the other half spend their daily daydreams on a life less traveled. Being that R&B music producer, becoming the hot shot lawyer that takes the courtroom by storm, or evolving into the pulitzer prize winning author of a harrowing autobiography.<br />
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To take away our creative outlets, whether it be our career of choice or our weekly pottery class, would be to take a large piece of our humanity away. We are creative creatures and we need to have that release. I realize that I fall toward the more severe end of the creative spectrum and the loss of my creativity would equal the loss of not only my mental well being but also my heart. I strive every day to achieve my passion and life's purpose and I encourage everyone to do so as well. While mine may be to make you laugh, yours might be your children or your community sports programs. Whose to say which one is more important or more relevant when a part of yourself is at stake?<br />
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Do not disregard your (day) dreams and remember that life is not meant to just be <i>survived</i>. And of course, keep your sense of humor. Life without laughter is no life at all. Seriously.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-54982178941433066662010-01-21T19:44:00.000-08:002010-01-21T19:44:55.002-08:00You Know What I Hate? Part Two<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-AU2OjCLmtxBQXn2Lpl6bBzhdEF7C8UtkS2NNvdsT_MbH3kdmuMKhqSCHnzV-98KNwpXICotdRc3WQ9BochnWtSWSf3v4wugLSs7XWSwsL1oH7KJURrUI5FPaz8nnOQJIH-i9hmPhM0/s1600-h/S7300023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-AU2OjCLmtxBQXn2Lpl6bBzhdEF7C8UtkS2NNvdsT_MbH3kdmuMKhqSCHnzV-98KNwpXICotdRc3WQ9BochnWtSWSf3v4wugLSs7XWSwsL1oH7KJURrUI5FPaz8nnOQJIH-i9hmPhM0/s200/S7300023.JPG" /></a><br />
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</div>These are some <i>more</i> things that I hate:<br />
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1. I hate watching the local Los Angeles news because the reporters all look so bizarre. I can't even concentrate on what they are saying because I'm trying to figure out why their eyebrows are trying to escape from their faces. They've had so much plastic surgery that the only way I know they're trying to show any emotion is by the flaring of a nostril. The left one usually indicates sympathy.<br />
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2. I hate when you ask for whipped cream and you get Cool Whip. Cool Whip is a nasty impostor and it tastes like plastic. Whipped cream is yummier and creamier and packed with way more sugar. It's like asking for a Swiss Roll and getting a Ho-Ho. Swiss Rolls are so much more moist and chocolatey. Ho-Ho's are dry and taste like plastic. Anyone who says differently is obviously a communist. Obviously.<br />
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3. I hate when you're on vacation and the only hot tub at the hotel is out of order because someone pooped in it. I mean, really? You couldn't just get out and poop in the pool? That would get fixed real quick because everyone lays around it and no one wants to stare at poo but the hot tub is always ignored because it's smaller, away from everything and only sexy people use it (Hey, everyone poops. Even sexy people.). So the next time you feel the hershey squirts coming on and can't sprint to the john in time, be polite, go in the pool. Preferably near a child.<br />
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4. I hate the "random" bag check they have before you board the plane after you've gone through security. Um, did we not just take off our shoes, jackets, and accessories, run through a metal detector, get felt up by Suge Knight, and x-rayed by the most invasive machine known to man to see if we had any weapons on us? I had to reveal that I was wearing socks with cats on them, was that in vain sirs? Now you want to check again. Well, I say nay. There's no way in hell a bomb got through that so if someone got any drugs through, I say let them have it, they earned it.<br />
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5. I hate when people have disturbingly long nose hair. It's like they don't have mirrors or anyone in their lives that care about them. No stranger wants you coming up to them, asking for directions, all the while your nose hairs are sticking out waving hello. That's victimizing another human being. Did they ask to be winked at by a rogue nostril strand? Hell no. So stop being so selfish and take a pair of GD scissors to it before it can hurt anyone else.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-9470384789065661072010-01-08T20:55:00.000-08:002010-01-08T20:55:01.162-08:00Werewolves Vs. Vampires<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_OcVgoyaxColx7olnanz4SZNP2IdQ1Zuc7aJkrSNy0O3VG6MoEFUx7AQUzvbIdd8ByNcgP1IEddj2-hbwNDNFy3oecmkSK57g6oJHRANfQFpzj4y_DSZrDTJOD-qEYpSWxD_KWENy5w/s1600-h/l_17dbb82bd158715012b5ba1220d2d865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_OcVgoyaxColx7olnanz4SZNP2IdQ1Zuc7aJkrSNy0O3VG6MoEFUx7AQUzvbIdd8ByNcgP1IEddj2-hbwNDNFy3oecmkSK57g6oJHRANfQFpzj4y_DSZrDTJOD-qEYpSWxD_KWENy5w/s200/l_17dbb82bd158715012b5ba1220d2d865.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There is a very intelligent debate currently sweeping our nation and as an expert on teenage lust and irrationality, I thought I would weigh in. The debate I am referring to would be of the werewolves vs. vampires kind. No matter which creature you prefer, there are pros and cons to both.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As a nation, we are quite seduced with the idea of a real vampire. No matter what vampire rules you play by, chances are, that vamp is a hot piece of ass. Being pro-vampire makes sense because they're crazy strong, flawlessly pale, excellent dancers, in some instances they sparkle, and if you are embarrassed to be seen with them, good news - they can't come out during the day (Talk about the perfect booty call!). However, there is a dark side to these folks as well. They have no souls, they're cannibals (drinking blood is fucking eating people, ok?), they're creepy old, and a lot of times they're British. Oh yeah, and technically, they're dead. There's nothing sexy about necrophilia, twi-hards.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Although werewolves aren't usually as titillating as vampires, our culture has been enraptured by this species as long as the other (I don't know that that is factually correct. But I said it so let's assume it's true.). I get the hype, werewolves are men that turn into wolf things at night or on a full moon. Too many rules to address here as well. But the basics are about the same - man beasts with a lust for adventure, giant claw paws, and that needy "I'm so misunderstood" vibe going for them. Again though, there is a con side to this eccentric lifestyle. They are mutants, they eat people (the lines blur with cannibalism), the howling is so annoying, they have dog breath, and usually they end up naked in a field after returning to human form which can present some pretty awkward situations for everyone involved. Oh yeah, and all you planning on sexing one up, look up the laws on bestiality.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My final ruling is that both werewolves and vampires can be pretty badass. Their drawbacks are only drawbacks by human standards. Which would I rather bang? Vampires, hands down. I'm really not an animal person and I would rather hook up with something that at least resembles a man, not a manimal. Which one would I rather go out with to a bar? Werewolves, most def. They're known for downing copious amounts of jello shooters, which always leads to hysterical stories the next day, and if you got into a bar fight, it's a no brainer who would come out victorious (and full).<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The verdict is in: werewolves and vampires are cool, the losers (like me) who debate over them, are not!<br />
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</div>Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-10663521852863296052010-01-06T12:50:00.000-08:002010-01-06T12:50:23.652-08:002010: The Year of the Breakthrough2009 was a year of great improvements in my life. For one, I was proven right that Britney would indeed have her comeback. More importantly, I fell in love with a beach town where I now live and wrote a bunch of stuff I'm very proud of. 2010 needs to be a year for me and for you where we buckle down and see the fruition of all our hard work.<br />
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If you're like me, you spent NYE reflecting on the past year and wondering what the hell happened to all the money you made. A lot of you will probably say student loans or new cars, but mine is mostly just going out to bars and paying secret mistresses to shut their whorish mouths. This year I will be 25 years old and I really don't have much to show for it besides 25 years worth of tattoos, drunken stories and terrible hair dying experiences.<br />
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When I traveled downtown for the NYE party that DNasty and I were to attend, I felt sorry for myself. I'm not where I would like to be in my career, I'm eternally single, and I'm still trying to suck in the chunk that I swore I would lose last year. I stared up at the full, blue moon and sang along to Lady Gaga hoping it would lift my spirits.<br />
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The feeling deepened when we entered the soundstage/club and realized that all the VERY expensive VIP areas were crowded with 18 year olds. It's not awesome to realize you are on the wrong side of 20 in Hollywood and seeing the black guy from Reno 911 was cool, but didn't pull me out of it.<br />
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Before midnight I took out my phone and realized I had a ton of texts and phone calls. So many people wishing the best, missing me, and telling me that they love me. I shut my phone and had an epiphany - I am one of the luckiest people in the world.<br />
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It doesn't matter that I'm not famous yet or that Ryan Reynolds hasn't realized his true feelings for me. I have a family and so many friends who love me unconditionally and have unwavering support for me, even when I'm in doubt of myself. I've made so many mistakes and fashion faux pas and yet I'm still here, aspiring and inspiring. I mean, WWBD? (What Would Britney Do?) She had so much more to battle and claw through to get her life back. Just when she was bald, crazy, a little fat and we were all losing hope, she turned it around and is kicking ass again (whether people like it or not). Are we so different? Well, yes, but you can see where I'm going.<br />
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Midnight struck and a cloud of sparkly confetti swirled around me. The year changed and so did I, because it was time. I need to focus more, be more disciplined, party a little less. This is to be the year I breakthrough and I would push others to do it with me. Whatever they've been striving for, I would help. Even if it's just with my words.<br />
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And so I urge you all to do what you love and pursue passion of any kind. By the time another strange, full, blue moon comes around, I hope we can all look back and see years of love, happiness, and fun. What will you do this year?Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-12201550815729517312009-12-16T01:23:00.000-08:002009-12-16T01:24:36.186-08:00A Musical Guide to the Holidays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb1-oBDd6auiT3gpk3PPq9gqpRNx4lVgWbvb45-3fUg5Hav1QiEo3-CXYgsEKwqqrbNJvnQdfYmS5Yqxt_8sxQk_nhTcoSBlbmr_ifF2rtD1n4v6-g2zoccjsYfnd7i7aELlVlX9ZNAqU/s1600-h/DSC_0266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb1-oBDd6auiT3gpk3PPq9gqpRNx4lVgWbvb45-3fUg5Hav1QiEo3-CXYgsEKwqqrbNJvnQdfYmS5Yqxt_8sxQk_nhTcoSBlbmr_ifF2rtD1n4v6-g2zoccjsYfnd7i7aELlVlX9ZNAqU/s200/DSC_0266.JPG" /></a><br />
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Ah, the holidays are upon us as we scramble to get last minute gifts done and pre New Year's botox injected. I know how hard it is for all of you out there to juggle responsibilities and drug habits, so I am here to ease your load.<br />
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In all of this hubbub, when do you get the chance to do something for<i> you</i>? You are a nice, magical person just like the rest of us, so sit back and let me check off something from your "To Do" list. I took it upon myself to suggest a compilation of my favorite holiday songs that are not only a treat for your ears, but one for your abdomen muscles as well. They are as follows:<br />
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<b>"</b><i><b>Funky, Funky Xmas</b></i><b>" by the New Kids on the Block</b><br />
This sweet jam, circa 1989, not only encourages you to enjoy yourself on Christmas, but to get funky with it. Assuming the word "funky" is supposed to mean cool or groovy, they missed the mark by being rapping white children from the 80s whose pants could be used a safety device in an emergency plane landing on the Atlantic Ocean. Needless to say, this group is the authority on classy apparel and musical epiphanies, so rockin' their album is the obvious choice.<br />
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<b>"</b><i><b>Jingle Bells</b></i><b>" by Barbara Streisand</b><br />
My favorite Jew took a classic holiday song and sang it to make you feel as though you just took a line of coke off your grandma's dresser. Trying to keep up with her while spewing out lyrics that have been ingrained in you since childhood is a hard feat. Instead of feeling like a loser, download this song and turn it into a drinking game. Anyone who can't sing - you'll end up shouting actually (trust me) - the first verse without sounding like a Mets player with a stutter, drink!<br />
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"<i><b>Christmas Tree</b></i><b>" by Lady Gaga (featuring Space Cowboy)</b><br />
This dance song is crazy and unsafe. She sings about tasting her Christmas tree and that it's "delicious". Do not chew or nibble on your tree. The pine leaves will scratch your face and the bark will kill you. Then, she claims she wants people to get under the tree! What? You put presents under your tree, not people. Finally, she wants to take off her clothes and "Fa la la la la"... um... oh, wait... <br />
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<b>"</b><i><b>Merry Xmas, Happy Holidays</b></i><b>" by *NSYNC</b><br />
I don't care who you are or how much you don't believe in God, it is impossible not get amped when pumping this track. This is the holiday song that no one wants to admit that they love because it's *NSync and the video showcases their ability to fly over the earth in a sleigh, feed a bunch of homeless guys (who are presumably gay), and dance through feathers without their hair moving a inch. Jealousy is an unfortunate thing and should not be present during the holidays. (Get it? Present? HA)<br />
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<b>" </b><i><b>I Wanna Rock You Hard This Christmas</b></i><b>" by the Dan Band</b><br />
If anyone knows me well, they know that I like my music chocked full of blatant, sexual innuendo. The Dan Band does not disappoint with this holiday romp encouraging us to enjoy our holiday "While the egg nog is all noggy, and the fire is all aglow, while our bodies are heatin' up in yuletide places down below!" And with a Christmas album entitled <b>"</b><i><b>Ho</b></i><b>"</b>, they've got my heart<i> and</i> my Christmas Tree! (I'm onto you Lady Gaga!)<br />
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<b>"</b><i><b>Dick in a Box</b></i><b>" by the Lonely Island (Performed by Andy Samberg and Justin Timberlake)</b><br />
I like this track mostly because it involves a smorgasbord of holidays - Kwanzaa (a personal fave), Hanukkah, the Country Music Awards and Christmas. Their message is equality. Everyone deserves such a fine gift on their religious, sacred holiday of choice. Maybe if our world leaders would take a hint from this song and video, including the amazing blazers, we would have a little more world peace and a little less aggression.<br />
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<b>"</b><i><b>Where are You Christmas</b></i><b>?" by Faith Hill</b><br />
Holy shit. Faith Hill lost Christmas. There are gonna be some pissed off gentiles come December 25th. Ironic that she sang this song for the <i>The Grinch Who Stole Christmas</i> movie because it wasn't the big, creepy green dude we had to worry about. Although belting out this number in my car, drastically off tune and at a frightening loud decibel, is a butt load of fun, my advice to you, Faith, is that the next time you lose a national holiday, don't sing about it. Just lie and say you swore you saw it on the counter before you left and either the dog or the baby got to it (Because no one can get mad at dogs or babies.).<br />
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<b>"</b><i><b>I'll Be Home for Christmas</b></i><b>" by any artist</b><br />
This is my all time favorite Christmas song. I have lived away, very far away, from home for so long that this always makes me nostalgic and happy. It's a great song for soldiers who are overseas or for anyone who is missing loved ones. Even if you don't celebrate any holidays or have any religious beliefs, it is so nice to be able to go home and visit friends and family once a year. You can reconnect with old acquaintances, stroll through your hometown, and most importantly, prove to your grandparents that you aren't a lesbian like they predicted you would be. Oh, and of course, free presents! Holla!Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-46543605074885994072009-12-11T20:42:00.000-08:002009-12-11T20:42:55.868-08:00This Christmas, BNasty!I'm constantly giving people advice on career moves, relationships, and how many tequila shots is too many. Since everyone wants to know how to have a fabulous holiday, it is only natural that they turn to me for the answers. Although Christmas is not my favorite holiday (Halloween is by far!), I still not how to rock the shit out of it.<br />
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Let's be real here, this holiday is all about traveling, booze, and trying not to get fat in the short span of time that you're home. I'll address the traveling first; no matter what, it's gonna suck. There will be lines, angry airline workers, and inevitably the fattest dude on the plane will try to sit next to you. Then he'll do his fat guy breathing all over you and steal your arm rest.<br />
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This brings me to my next point - booze. Don't wait until you're home with people who have a way of making you feel sympathy towards those who commit homicide. Start in the bar while you wait for your plane. Better yet, get a buddy to drop you off at the airport and start in the car. If you do that, you might even be able to take a cat nap on the plane while Jabba the Hut sucks up everyone's oxygen.<br />
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Once you are sufficiently sauced up, you arrive home and start stuffing your face with your mother's buttery mashed potatoes and your dad's secret stash of very expensive brandy. If you keep this up for days on end, the last month you spent sweating out your insides at the gym will all have been for nothing. And that dress you bought for NYE will literally scream when you try to squeeze it over your chunk. To counteract this glorious fatfest... dance bitches. DANCE. (See my blog about my fave Xmas songs for something to get that rump a shakin'!) I don't care when or where you do it, just do it. When you're gnawing on that titanic piece of ham, do the <i>Tootsie Roll.</i> When you're helping your sisters put up Xmas lights, do the <i>Roger Rabbit. </i> When you're giving the Christmas toast, do the <i>Sprinkler</i>. Just get creative and keep that fine fanny moving!<br />
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In closing, my advice to all of you is simple: love the ones you're with, enjoy whatever holiday that your parents have forced upon you, and most of all, BNasty!Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-30040019962990841392009-12-07T17:59:00.000-08:002009-12-07T18:02:33.538-08:00Top Ten Reasons I Will Probably Murder a Cab Driver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMBuS4wnZRyP90iqy85SP0VqVUIp4z63IQPsPSEPjCAQyNjzXb2amHPZYaBk0eLXH6nO5_heyU5swecCOAkoGYNptaaISGhz5htab4uG81xFiKp1lsd9wElRzpswSFYvL5evvUnH2JSw/s1600-h/009_15A.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMBuS4wnZRyP90iqy85SP0VqVUIp4z63IQPsPSEPjCAQyNjzXb2amHPZYaBk0eLXH6nO5_heyU5swecCOAkoGYNptaaISGhz5htab4uG81xFiKp1lsd9wElRzpswSFYvL5evvUnH2JSw/s200/009_15A.JPG" /></a><br />
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Have you ever had the utter joy of riding in a taxi? If not, get your country ass out to a city where you can have the grimy experience of riding in one and meeting the scum of the earth - cabbies! Here is a list of reasons that may lead to a guilty conviction of mine one day:<br />
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10. 98% of cab drivers do not speak English in America. Like, at all. Okay, they might know numbers, but unless you are a computer, it is hard to have a conversation based on about ten digits. They speak a common language all over the world - Asshole. (It's the secondary language in Canada, for the record.)<br />
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9. They never encourage you to wear a seatbelt. They don't care about your safety. All they care about is their POS car and that you don't puke in it. To counteract their lack of human emotion, I actively try to puke every time I am in a taxi, wether I've been drinking or not.<br />
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8. All cab drivers are on their blue tooths the ENTIRE time they're driving. I don't know who the hell they're talking to, but I know for sure it's not their mothers. You see, cab drivers are grown in factories overseas. They have no mothers. Or souls.<br />
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7. Speaking of no souls, one time I was in Vegas trying to get a cab ride to the hospital because my friend had been taken to the ER. Every time I told the driver I needed to go to the hospital, they sped off and left. You see, they would rather leave a person to die outside of a casino than to risk anything happening to their stained, booze covered shit mobiles. No souls.<br />
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6. Taxi drivers always try to take you the long way, hiking up the price of the ride. And when you correct them, they start huffing and puffing and before you know it, you're in a full scale cuss out session with the guy, threatening him, his family, and his beloved blue tooth. I really fucking hate having to cuss.<br />
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5. Cabbies are overly defensive. One time, I was leaving a club and some band was smoking a bunch of pot. As I stepped into the cab, I mentioned to my friend that it smelled like a pot factory outside. The driver turned and said "You have a problem with my incense?" and I was all like "Huh?"(He is one of the 2% of cabbies that speak English.) After clearing up what I was talking about, I then got mad because I had to explain myself to this cretin. So, instead of sitting there in silence, I made obnoxious remarks about him and his stupid incense for the rest of the ride. One comment was along the lines of "I hope your incense burns the car down."<br />
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4. All cab drivers have a bizarre tick. I have seen them shake, seize, blink excessively, growl, snore, sing, sit on the horn and hold the middle finger up the entire duration of the ride. My friend had a cabbie that barked at red lights. I had a cabbie that picked me up - he literally looked like a corpse - and mumbled to himself the whole time. When we came to a stop, he became quiet. I thought he died.<br />
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3. These creatures never respond to you, so you must assume they understand what you tell them. For instance, I told a cabbie my address. I fell asleep and 40 min later we are on the side of the rode and he was consulting a map. After I got us to my house, I demanded to not pay the full amount because he was driving in circles and never told me he didn't know where he was going. This resulted in me and him outside the cab in each other's faces. He claimed I was blackmailing him. Obviously, he was not apart of the 2%. So I gave him a good old fashioned verbal lashing and then went inside when he threatened to call the cops. I knew I was safe because he claimed that he would call 411.<br />
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2. In the great state of California, all taxis MUST accept credit cards as a form of payment. No matter what they tell you. They do not like to do this, however, because then they have to claim their tips. I have had more fights then I can remember (literally) with these drivers because they won't take a card. Then, when they finally give in realizing that they won't get paid if they don't, they bitch at you because you don't tip. Hey buddy, next time don't accuse me of being drunk and unruly and I won't insult you, your religion and I may just leave you a tip. But probably not.<br />
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1. Every taxi these days has a GPS. I'm not sure why this pisses me off so badly but I think it's because cab drivers are supposed to know where they are and where they are going. Also, GPS will take you the shortest route, so they have no excuse to screw you over by taking the long way. Mostly, it upsets me when I give them an address and the name of an infamous bar or restaurant and their GPS doesn't recognize it so they turn to you and shrug. Are you fucking kidding me? What do you suppose I should do? Just go somewhere else? That's like going to a lawyer and saying your 1st amendment rights have been denied and they tell you that their internet is down so they're not really sure wtf the 1st amendment is but if they had access to Wikapedia they could represent you. Maybe.<br />
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These are my reasons for hating the necessary evil that is taxis and their drivers. I hope you all join me in my efforts to puke in every cab I ride in. Make me proud!Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-47081452522387115432009-12-07T17:09:00.000-08:002009-12-07T17:09:24.121-08:00A Ghost Did It!One of my greatest fascinations and greatest fears in this life is the paranormal. I love it, study it, talk extensively about it and yet, God forbid, if I ever<i> saw</i> a ghost (spirit, whatever), I would shit myself.<br />
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Since I was a kid, I have laid awake at night, convinced that any noise in the dark is a ghost. I cannot accept that the house is settling. It's far more logical that a civil war soldier is re enacting his last moments on earth in the living room than the fact that it's winter and the wood frame is contrasting.<br />
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I blame my family.<br />
<br />
When I was young, my sister Laura, who I shared a room with, would talk in her sleep/ threaten me and my little brother John would sleep walk, resulting in a very active night life for my imagination. My oldest sister tells me that I claimed to have seen "Mary the mother of God" when my parents forced us to go on a trip to Catholic Family Land (Yes, that actually exists, but that's a whole 'nother story for a whole 'nother blog!) and ended up in a cemetery. And my parents and teachers told me that if I didn't take communion at church, then the devil would be able to not only possess me, but physically harm me. Good times.<br />
<br />
As an adult, I have a had a few weird, "ghostly" experiences. I have had a lot of those instances where you put something down, go back for it, it's gone, you search everywhere and then suddenly it's on the floor in the middle of the room. More so, I have had bizarre noises (a tapping on my coffee table while my room mate and I were talking), physical movements (I saw my phone move), Hank the ghost which is a long ass story, and a glass smash by itself in the middle of my kitchen. All of these situations scared me, but why should they? If you believe as I do, there is a life after we die here on earth. Can't these visits perhaps be nice people that I have loved saying "what's crackalackin'?"? (For the record, I am pretty sure my Grandpa wouldn't break a very expensive wine glass just to say hi.) I love the debate, either way.<br />
<br />
As you're reading this, you are most likely doubting me and what I "think" I've seen or heard. Perhaps your own spiritual beliefs would prevent you from thinking anything supernatural exists. I do, however, and one day I am gonna get my happy ass on Ghost Hunters, see a ghost and then freak out. It will be glorious and aired for the world to see.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I will keep my eyes and ears peeled for my next encounter with the afterlife. And when my room mate asks who drank the last of the vodka, I'll tell her the truth. A ghost did it!Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-45893432247895016542009-10-30T11:15:00.000-07:002009-10-30T11:15:27.059-07:00You Know What I Hate?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCTtCPJyubOuVFCmTMxfqjVbW82JhLWHawY744_Zwx3NIbb2iZTIzYxBcw0W1iA4oieQe2lzoBRYeTlEPudK8C8FROajcHcuzHZtgjoF24MML9pqSV0uF0L-XLL6m0Mc61RTpzKJBjo0/s1600-h/IMG_0236.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCTtCPJyubOuVFCmTMxfqjVbW82JhLWHawY744_Zwx3NIbb2iZTIzYxBcw0W1iA4oieQe2lzoBRYeTlEPudK8C8FROajcHcuzHZtgjoF24MML9pqSV0uF0L-XLL6m0Mc61RTpzKJBjo0/s200/IMG_0236.JPG" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These are some things that I hate:<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1. I hate when you tell people you don't like a certain food and then they insist on force feeding you their version of it saying "Well, you've never had MY ______ !" No bitch, I fucking hate pineapple. Putting Old Bay seasoning on it actually makes it worse.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">2. I hate when you are out with one of your girlfriends and two guys approach. Then they end up boxing you out to fight over your friend. What? Is that just me?<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">3. I hate my scar on my thumb. It's from this one time I was trying to open a dented can of ravioli and the can opener could only open it half way. So fattie here tries to pry the metal the rest of the way open and slices her finger. Probably should have gotten stitches. And yes, I ate that ravioli.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">4. I hate when men drive. People are always saying Asians and women can't drive. Sure, they may be slow, but it's always a man that just comes right over in your lane assuming that his giant truck will just scare you out of the way. It's always an elderly man holding up the left lane. And dudes always hit on you while your driving, too. That shit is unsafe AND unwanted. Oh, yes, please let me stop going 70 mph on this freeway, pull over onto the shoulder and talk to you, man I've never met before!<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">5. I hate when, for example, you're going shopping for a friend who is a plus size. You find a store that is specifically for them - 1XL through 3XL - and you are finding lots of great stuff, draping them over your arm. You make your way to the back of the store in the middle of your own conversation with your shopping buddy when the chick that works there asks if <i>you're</i> ready to try on <i>your</i> clothes. Um... no, I am not ready to try on this table cloth. No, madam, I cannot say I am ready to see if this flag will squeeze over my apparently enormous body. No, you fucking whore, I don't want to try on this tarp for a hover craft!<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What? That's just happened to me?<br />
</div>Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-69542229807535536372009-10-30T10:54:00.000-07:002009-10-30T10:55:09.588-07:00An Ocean and a PondRemember when our parents let us swim in the creek together? Despite suggestion from public safety officials? We were so happy there. But eventually, the water became too thick and muddy and you needed to find a bigger body of water. You found a pond.<br />
<br />
I met you at your pond and it was wonderful for so long. We helped each other swim laps. While no one could beat my canon balls, you had a mean flailing leap with which I could not compete. The days were endless and lovely there in our pond.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, a clock started ticking. An alarm. It was so loud and it made me mad. But I couldn't ignore it. I knew it meant that I needed to leave the pond.<br />
<br />
I found myself at the edge of an ocean. A brilliant, sparkling ocean full of blues and greens and even gold. I wanted to show you. I wanted you to see that I had found a better place, like when you showed me your pond. When I tried to though, you said you had built a pier over your pond. Better yet, you had found some floaties to keep you safe.<br />
<br />
While the clock seems to have lost it's alarm, I still hear it ticking. It takes away day after day that I do not have with you. These days, these years, I will never get back.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I walk to the shore, at the edge of my great ocean and pray. I pray that your pier would rot away and that your floaties would deflate. You would be left in the pond alone and a great tide would sweep you out into a river. That river would carry you into my ocean and pull you onto the sand. There I would be waiting to pick you up and take you home.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-90426086515550423252009-10-13T11:54:00.000-07:002009-10-13T11:57:48.559-07:00Killer Robots!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMxILK6DfKFrkpeveUj-3yZhYzTVoEBGAAjbneyO5b-g9Mzs7vaoXEfNL-Nj9eOgk1woMHvrf6VAun1JkKHIabSwQYWb284h9rZvOYV9cGtCPTWr53dYgz6-hGy1l8PmmhOd2JpXb7J8/s1600-h/006_19A.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMxILK6DfKFrkpeveUj-3yZhYzTVoEBGAAjbneyO5b-g9Mzs7vaoXEfNL-Nj9eOgk1woMHvrf6VAun1JkKHIabSwQYWb284h9rZvOYV9cGtCPTWr53dYgz6-hGy1l8PmmhOd2JpXb7J8/s200/006_19A.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><br />
It was brought to my attention the other day that I never discuss anything of real importance in my blogs, just my drunken shenanigans and "self loathing". But I am a deep person who has opinions on all kinds of world affairs. My stance on politics, religion, and New York Fashion Week is something that should be heard. Ultimately though, our greatest issue on earth, as a whole, is obviously killer robots. So, fasten your seat belts my good sirs, I'm about to blow the lid right off this issue!<br />
<br />
Anti - killer robot groups would have you believe that these robots are nothing but a terror to our society and a threat to our way of life. I am here to tell you that they're <i>not so bad</i>. Imagine, if you will, a world where you could create your very own killer robot to do your bidding. Let's not be naive here bitches, if these robots are evolved enough to kill, they are evolved enough to do your laundry and be your little slave babies.<br />
<br />
What would I do with my personal killer robot you ask? Good question. First, I would make it look like Ryan Reynolds and train it to work out sans most of it's clothing. (Some of you may find this creepy, but you must understand that I am doing this for the sake of humanity and there are some things that <i>I</i> need. So stop being so selfish, ok?) Then, I would teach my robot Spanish and call him Miguel. A bilingual robot will come in handy more often than not. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I would install a Gaydar system in it so it could find me new friends to dance with. (Naturally, my robot could also dance and would eventually join Dancing With The Stars. His team mate will be Mischa Barton.) And finally, I would put together a list of people for my robot to kill, making our planet a better place to live. The list is as follows:<br />
<br />
1. Carlos Mencia<br />
2. Paris Hilton<br />
3. My old religion teacher from high school. She was a real bitch.<br />
4. Terrell Owens<br />
5. Speidi<br />
6. Whoever invented Crocs<br />
7. That jerk that peed on my stairway last night<br />
8. Cats - the entire species<br />
9. Miss California<br />
10. Matthew Glen Kelley<br />
<br />
As you can tell, my list is thorough and well thought out. You may be asking why I would list one of my closest friends, Matt Kelley, however, so let me explain. Setting aside the fact that I hate him, I could give him no greater gift in this life then to let him be killed by a huge robot. He is such a hard core loser, that it would be his greatest moment, a gleam of true happiness in his eye, to fall at the hands of a metal monster who will conveniently be singing "Man in the Mirror" as he destroys Matt's very life force. Sometimes all we can do is murder our friends as an act of true selflessness. *sigh*<br />
<br />
In closing, killer robots are hardly the worst things that could happen to the earth. Sure, they wreak havoc on every country and do not have morals preventing them from mauling women and children. Sure, they have no emotions and cannot ever really love you back no matter what you force it to say to you. (This one is all YOUR fault James Cameron. You made me believe...) Sure, they will probably turn on you and rip your head off at any given moment. But what about all the robot piggy back rides you could get? Does that mean nothing to you people? Or all the lawn mowing and weed picking they could get done? Do I even have to mention the fact that you will NEVER have to get up for the remote again?!<br />
<br />
Don't hate on killer robots, it's not cool. I wouldn't want you to, Matt wouldn't want you to, and neither would Miquel. I rest my case.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-84047671352648553532009-10-10T16:30:00.000-07:002009-10-10T16:30:34.347-07:00No, These Are Just Leftover Flowers From Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1gZ5GLy8_f9Lua_rzhXi1tAsAA_iZzhTRn0nobrM1akQnZoseJWMihPRluOwhSi12IPT4G13e0EO4YUSUHWPjZELgEbsPG2AlZA3Cgd11xOsf_N6nAF7KgA-Y1jQ14_Y9xmmajJ16Th0/s1600-h/02_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1gZ5GLy8_f9Lua_rzhXi1tAsAA_iZzhTRn0nobrM1akQnZoseJWMihPRluOwhSi12IPT4G13e0EO4YUSUHWPjZELgEbsPG2AlZA3Cgd11xOsf_N6nAF7KgA-Y1jQ14_Y9xmmajJ16Th0/s200/02_2.JPG" /></a><br />
</div><br />
Recently, I worked a commercial that had a high profile talent and was sent to pick up flowers and magazines for the trailer of a man that could buy my soul three times over after taxes. Spending the rest of the day watching the trailer so that no one would thieve in it, I felt the familiar burn of bitterness and hostility creep into my chest.<br />
<br />
The day ended and the only thing left where the trailer had been parked was the bouquet of autumn flowers that I had arranged in a water filled pretzel barrel (Crafty was supposed to supply the vase and used this barrel instead. They make at least $150 more than me PER DAY and this is what they came up with). Being that my efforts were left for trash, I picked up the neglected flowers and put them in my front seat. As I left the lot for the evening, the security guard stopped to get my pass and hit on me in an incredibly unprofessional way.<br />
<br />
"Those from your boyfriend?" he asked.<br />
"No," I admitted.<br />
"This your last day on this lot?"<br />
"Yeah, so you take care now."<br />
"Well, maybe we could keep in touch."<br />
"Yeah, totally, I'll come back and visit you," I laughed, driving away while he yelled after me for my number. But it brought up an old and weathered thought - why is it that I attract guys like him? The creepy, weird ones? The night shift security guards, the physical trainers, the bouncers, the mentally unstable, the elderly?<br />
<br />
This question has plagued me for years, since I was a teen. My mother tried to reassure me that when I was older, men would appreciate who I was and what I looked like. She failed to mention <i>which </i>men, though, probably out of kindness. Time reveals all truths, however, including the bangs she cut me in seventh grade that were an atrocity of an epic proportion.<br />
<br />
I parked and got out to walk to my apartment. Passersby looked at me with questioning eyes and I could guess what they were thinking. Some nice man, an investment banker or a lawyer perhaps, bought me beautiful flowers. Was it my birthday? Anniversary? And what's up with the vase?<br />
<br />
Rounding the corner, another creepster waited in the dark with his creepy questions.<br />
<br />
"You gotta boyfriend?" he slurred.<br />
"No, these are just left over flowers from work," I barked. Why didn't I ever just lie to these people? I rushed past him, not eager to continue a conversation with a guy I'm pretty sure I've seen before on America's Most Wanted. Coming into my empty apartment, I set the flowers in my kitchen and fluffed them a bit. Even guys that I've "dated" never bought me flowers and I could only guess as to why, none of the reasons very flattering on either party.<br />
<br />
My friends say that if I don't want to be alone forever, I might have to start lowering my standards like every other woman on the planet. Maybe one day, I would have to say yes to the freaky dude at the club with the long hair or the Mexican guy whose been screaming sexual things in Spanish every morning on my way to work. I must trade happiness for companionship and abandon parts of myself for the sake of this. Because the women who get the guys that I want are amazing - they're beautiful, petite, smart, and socially tactful.<br />
<br />
I know what I am. I'm a loud mouth, a little dumb, lumpy and some have called me "man-ish". What I am not is someone who settles, unlike 90% of the population. So perhaps my flowers will always be left overs. But at least at night, I can eat Cheetos dipped in ice cream, read my paranormal books and write my weird stories. Girls who get first hand flowers might have men but they don't always have freedom. So suck on that bitches.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-34733450570234382152009-10-10T15:08:00.000-07:002009-10-10T15:10:50.806-07:00There Will Be Snickers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4hH5uaY9vW2FRGFxhs7CDsAA-d8F5h6oxSPi3uYvc_A5Jab9Noeqx17T7kPqUNV9UEuylNL37cs_6YtSWcOMR1nUEGDcuFuQslQS6LER2LR6uGzmuXFDu6Pzv6hOZXAI_kvLKydw4uAA/s1600-h/securedownload_4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4hH5uaY9vW2FRGFxhs7CDsAA-d8F5h6oxSPi3uYvc_A5Jab9Noeqx17T7kPqUNV9UEuylNL37cs_6YtSWcOMR1nUEGDcuFuQslQS6LER2LR6uGzmuXFDu6Pzv6hOZXAI_kvLKydw4uAA/s200/securedownload_4.jpeg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
If you're anything like me, you can gage how drunk you were the night before by what is laying beside you in bed the next morning. And no, we're not talking a bisexual situation here (this time). We're talking food my friends, food.<br />
<br />
My people tell me that once I am thoroughly drunk and I start demanding food, we have a ten minute countdown before I am face down, passed out asleep. Obviously, this time line does not always allow the proper amount of time to eat the food before I am asleep which results in evidence on my pillow. And as a horrific side note, this ordeal has no exceptions - not concerts, clubs, beaches, football games, or sobriety check points. My drunk waits for no one.<br />
<br />
It has gotten progressively worse/impressive over time and all the local fast food chains know me by name. But what do you do when you're wasted and you can't drive yourself (and no one else will either) to a combination Pizza Hut/ KFC, you ask? You either plan ahead or cook yourself.<br />
<br />
I have woken up next to half cooked meat, messy chicken nachos, a variety of Lean Cuisines, frozen pizza (literally), blocks of cheese (with gnaw marks in them) and a very elaborate plate of spaghetti. As you can imagine, the bigger the plate, the drunker I was. Usually, the plates like spaghetti would be partnered with a stolen street sign leaning against my door and the sinking feeling that I may have committed a few felonies the night before.<br />
<br />
No delicacy I could convince my roommates to cook me could ever compare to the morning I awoke next to a king sized Snickers bar. I woke up at about 8 am and rolled over to discover my lover - nay, my soulmate - for the night. Only a bite was taken out of it and I was glad to be able to enjoy it's chocolatey goodness with at least partial sobriety.<br />
<br />
"Well, hello there sir. I didn't catch your name... Mr. Right you say?" I cooed at the bar. A wide grin and a few chomps in, I passed out again, chin full of chocolate covered drool. Hours later, about noon, I woke up startled. Had I fallen back asleep and so rudely ignored my new house guest?<br />
<br />
With a sigh, I turned to face the Snickers. Although it was now halfway gone, I began to chew excitedly again, marveling at the peanuts and caramel.<br />
<br />
<i>I should really wake up. I have things to do and people to see... </i>I thought as I drifted back into slumber, letting the bar's tranquility take over.<br />
<br />
Waking up the third time that day, at about 2 pm, I realized that I seriously needed to get the fuck out of bed. But there he was, just staring at me, only a few bites left.<br />
<br />
<i>Why are you so good to me...?</i> I wondered as I finished the bar. I dragged myself out of bed and stretched. It was one of the best nights of sleep/ one night stands I have ever had.<br />
<br />
As time has passed, I have realized a few things: I can't stand people that drive slow in the left lane (it's rude and annoying and I don't care if you're old), I think asparagus taste like puke, and while there may not ever be boyfriends or husbands to be around when I'm drunk, by God there will be Snickers.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-21761890812153279952009-09-15T16:02:00.000-07:002009-09-15T16:02:34.331-07:00Ode to My Fanny Pack: The Underdog of BagsOh, sweet Fanny Pack. How do I love thee?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAVb7X5sTR4G03X6Qr-7U_KJvO4DgI9X-M_4aSPGXg7ToNT6vF1GmmV7hkWJ30IIp2dlzAqSJrMG_Rgv24l2EfTthRdK6QltVIG4052CKbQ-FiE8DlImSrvmD2oH74lQNXZWlXhqVQCQ/s1600-h/n3412757_43387828_2136883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAVb7X5sTR4G03X6Qr-7U_KJvO4DgI9X-M_4aSPGXg7ToNT6vF1GmmV7hkWJ30IIp2dlzAqSJrMG_Rgv24l2EfTthRdK6QltVIG4052CKbQ-FiE8DlImSrvmD2oH74lQNXZWlXhqVQCQ/s320/n3412757_43387828_2136883.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Your skin is weathered and licorice black<br />
Your zippers are strong and grounded<br />
You grip my waist with a sense of duty<br />
A sense of pride<br />
An attention whore for the decades existed<br />
And decades to come<br />
You demand to be front and center<br />
Drawing eyes, you hold steady in your position<br />
<br />
There you wait<br />
Ready<br />
Ready to hold my phone<br />
My lipgloss<br />
My flippy floppies, if need be<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>100% genuine leather<br />
Made in Mexico<br />
Found at a thrift store<br />
You were fated to be mine<br />
Fate<br />
Kizmet<br />
To join me at every dance party requiring tube socks<br />
Patent leather pants<br />
Mullet wigs<br />
<br />
You bring people joy<br />
Laughter<br />
Jealousy<br />
Pain<br />
You bring me nothing but satisfaction<br />
Pictures<br />
Adoration<br />
High Fives<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Those that say you can never be<br />
Let them be silenced<br />
Let them gaze upon your beauty<br />
And weep.<br />
<br />
*** If you'd like to see me rockin' a fanny pack via youtube, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQ7Lqo15aIUBrenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1756546685020754742.post-64667471855832058382009-09-09T15:06:00.000-07:002009-09-09T15:19:20.057-07:00Hermosa Fiesta: A Labor Day Celebration<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi25QyvMFci9Y-CI6kylxKFqX_zvNTpFeetXdbWG4Az7cclxvSOl1ODENeFIFIiTbncIzfMLAiYPhlW65ePEvzTjozck39uQ-ayWA0WhKvPRW4cVEutjIixhmcZld0wiWH9vNCtku2HtbE/s1600-h/0905091500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi25QyvMFci9Y-CI6kylxKFqX_zvNTpFeetXdbWG4Az7cclxvSOl1ODENeFIFIiTbncIzfMLAiYPhlW65ePEvzTjozck39uQ-ayWA0WhKvPRW4cVEutjIixhmcZld0wiWH9vNCtku2HtbE/s320/0905091500.jpg" /></a></div>This past weekend was Labor Day, a day to look back and honor all of those people who ever had jobs and fought for fair laws and hours in the workplace. In their honor, apparently, Americans feel the need to have barbecues, fireworks, and in the case of Hermosa Beach, CA, an enormous festival. This festival shut down the main streets leading to the pier where vendors could sell things and people could get shit faced drunk and not get run over. I was one of those people.<br />
<br />
Saturday morning, after hosing off my stairs because some drunk asshole decided to half die there the night before, I looked out upon the vast sea of tents floating along the street. A hot guy jogged by and I thought it my best interest to dive right in.<br />
<br />
A USC game was on, so Freaky and I left a screaming and hollering DNasty to her game so that she could freak out alone. We made our way through the free samples, a few times naturally, and decided to wade through the tents that were actually there for monetary gain. While some of these tents had cool stuff and unique artwork, I beg of you tell me: why in the fuck would someone put up an entire tent dedicated to sell nothing but cheap, wood, "funny" signs saying things like "Wine a Little Bit, You'll Feel Better"? Or a tent that viciously attacked defenseless hats and shirts with an enraged bedazzler? Or better yet, a tent that only sold thick, leather bracelets with yin yang symbols that only a member of Creed would be caught wearing? The answer: old people. (Side note: Watch yourselves. They're everywhere and they will buy anything that would fall under the category of junk.)<br />
<br />
As we made our way through waves of the excited elderly waving dollars, we came to the opening of a fair ground. To our left we saw that there was a beer/ wine garden. Exchanging a glance, no need for words, Freaky and I skipped to the garden where we got the biggest cup of wine ever sold to us in the continental United States. Plus, all proceeds went to charity so we'd tell people that was why we were there. Instinctively, we scoured the crowd that was enjoying the live band for hot guys. With a sigh, we realized that there were none and that those god damned old people infiltrated our shores once again. We'd have to just swig our wine and rock out to the 80s cover band "Heartless" that was playing. Man, they were awesome. The lead singer was a fatter, red haired version of Steven Tyler and her voice was made to sing "Barracuda". Obviously, this is what Labor Day was all about.<br />
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We were not the only ones enjoying the band's fortysomething enthusiasm for the music of their youth, however, and two heavily intoxicated twentysomethings with no self esteem got onto the grass dance floor and continued to dry hump the air and each other for an impressive five minutes (I believe they recreated a scene from Cirque De Soleil at one point.) as random, elderly men slowly staggered by . There was a lot of drink flinging, falling down, awkward gyrating, and cries from the crowd to "please God make it stop!" before a crazy, Asian tranny broke up the scene by trying to join. He/she was wearing a barely there red swimsuit and, quite frankly, I think her/his angry face and "sexy" face are on in the same. The crowd, as a whole, took a step back and the singer made a depressing yet utterly true comment about the fact that her life had brought her here to this moment. Best charity event EVER.<br />
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Our lips now purple from our massive drinks and a decent wine buzz in us, we decide that we want to get on a ride. (Bad idea after you've been drinking? Yes, yes it is. However, we're professionals, we know what we're doing so stop questioning it, ok?) After being told we were "too big" and "too old" to go on almost all of the rides, we found one that we were allowed to ride. Not without parents looking at us like we were creepy and *gasp* perhaps a little drunk. The man told us to climb into the giant green dinosaur and we did so. It was one of those rides that spin but have a steering wheel inside to spin you around faster. Whirling and whirling we went, laughing hysterically, and slamming our heads into the side, delighted at speed and sheer stupidity of what we were doing. Stumbling out, I thought it best to leave because apparently acting strangely around children is a good reason to get the police.<br />
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We made our way back through the tents again and met up with DNasty so she could get us more free samples. (I actually considered changing my clothes so that I could get more as well. Then I realized how pathetic it is to go to such lengths for a free carton of soy milk that I will never drink.) A guy popped out of nowhere and offered us free drinks at his tent. DNasty answered yes before I could go over the probability of this guy being able to maim and murder us in public without me being able to leave a trail to his warehouse where he would surely hide us. I don't like to think anyway (it hurts) so we all followed and had free drinks while they tried to sell us some cable bullshit. I wasn't listening because I couldn't care less. Jack Daniels wanted to make out and I had to plan my outfit for the night.<br />
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Awhile later, we came inside and began the long, music filled, make-up smearing, pregaming process of girls getting ready to go out. Finally, we were ready, and on our way out, ran into a buddy who got us into Sharkeez and paid our cover. The dancing began and so did the drinking and smack talking. We're having a great time when the girls spotted a dude that apparently looks like USC's new quarterback. (After Mark Sanchez left the team, a part of me died. That piece of man meat was basically the only reason I accompanied DNasty on the couch to watch the games.) Freaky was talking in a language the guy didn't understand, and to help, I translated. Actually turning to look at him, I was momentarily stunned. He was absolutely gorgeous. I'm not sure how I formed words after I saw his face but I managed. And for a reason at that moment I could not understand, he seemed interested in me. (Yes, <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> you asshole.)<br />
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He was nice, beautiful, tall, completely ripped, and a Navy Seal. A Navy goddamn Seal. Could he be any more perfect? As the night went on, I realized that the answer was no. I also realized why God would allow me to think this incredible god like creature would want to talk to me. The answer: to insult me. (Now I'm not sure why perfect strangers feel compelled to say rude, uncalled for things to me with no provocation, but they do. [It's been hypothesized that I make people feel very at ease and they feel they can say anything to me including the ugly truth. That makes <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> the ugly truth so this theory is not one of comfort.]) So, after being informed that I have "lumberjack hands", a question regarding whether I was a whore or not, and the overall sense that he had no respect for me or women in general ended my little bubble-o-happy. On a nice note, Freaky and DNasty both met very nice men who spoke to them like human beings and I assume told them they were pretty.<br />
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The next morning, I awoke from my whiskey haze feeling sorry for myself. After devouring an enormous burrito and two mimosas, my two girlies led me back home for a nap (not before I knocked over a bike in the street) and made me lay down. I felt better (aka sober) when I woke again and we all talked in my kitchen for a bit. We discussed the weekend and the fact that we didn't have to work the next day (Monday). I posed an asinine question : "What do you guys want to do tonight?" They looked at each other, rolling their eyes at my stupidity and internally questioned my patriotism.<br />
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DNasty: "Um, we're going out tonight, Brenna. It's Labor Day and in America, this is how we celebrate."<br />
Freaky: "Dance Party."<br />
DNasty: "Did you vote? Do you enjoy your freedom? Then how about you not be so selfish and let this country know how much you care by drinking."<br />
Freaky: "Dance Party."<br />
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They were right. I <span style="font-style: italic;">was </span>being unpatriotic, selfish. After all, my work, my writing, my labor, was based a lot on how I go out and drink so I would be doing this country a service by going out and dancing my ass off at Union Cattle. God bless all those workers, Americans, that came out to dance with me. I applaud you and so does Uncle Sam.Brenna Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14792359915252842035noreply@blogger.com4