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(for the record, I can think of at least two of these that fit me. Prolly more. So don’t be TOO offended, Pranksters)

Your last name is Winlkevoss.

You write a blog called “Mommy Wants Vodka.”

You actually LIKE the taste of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

You believe that your i(can’t fucking)Phone screen says something about you:

You still own a beeper.

“Hey, watch this” makes up 75% of your vocabulary.

You actually think energy drinks are good for “energy.”

You UN-ironically call yourself a “hipster.”

You wear your collar popped up.

You back in to parking spaces.

You require at least two spaces to park your car.

You bought Snooki’s book.

You use more product than your wife.

If you claim you can tell the difference between Hardee’s burgers and Carl Jr’s.

You say, “Happy Friday.”

You wear Ed Hardy – non-ironically.

You still use the phrase “Girrrrrlllllllllll” or “Wasssssupppp!”

You leave an open book of poetry on the coffee table all the time, just in case someone drops by, even though you haven’t looked in it since 2004.

You have a liberal arts degree, work in a coffee shop and hate all of your customers for constantly ordering in Starbucks terminology.

You like the band Nickelback.

You drive any car that you’ve put more money into upgrading than you did into buying it.

You have any apparel on that gives out the name of a restaurant, band, comedy troupe, radio station or manufacturer (besides FCUK, because that stuff is awesome).

You every dated someone from Craigslist.

You are a guy and you like to drink Appletini’s. (sorry, iHubby)

You’ve ever used the phrase “kernel panic” in conversation.

You’ve ever been to a Miley Cyrus ANYTHING.

You own anything that says Kardashian on it.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for American Idol and NOT gotten on camera.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for American Idol and GOTTEN on camera.

You’ve ever been to tryouts for The X Factor, at all.

You subscribe to “Walking” magazine.

Your Facebook wall is littered with semi-meaningless quotes, random snippets of unattributed conversation and song lyrics that make you seem “deep”. Don’t worry, Friday’s post about “CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU GUYS DOWN AT THE CLUB TONIGHT!!!1! WOO!!” removed THAT illusion for us.

You’re unemployed, but refer to yourself as “looking for the next step.”

You try to take photos or movies with an iPad or Galaxy tab.

You still use the terms “Winning” or “Tiger Blood.”

Then again….maybe not.

—————–

Tell me, Pranksters, what other douchebaggy traits can you think of? I’ll add ‘em to the Master List.

Now you’re probably not going to believe me, Pranksters, when I tell you that I occasionally bake. You’ve seen what happens when I try to cook (see also here and here) and we all know that while I’d like to PRETEND that what happened in those blog posts were just for show, they weren’t. Sadly.

But once or twice a year, I forget that I can ruin Jello and decide to bake something. This year, it was my mom’s famous Christmas bread.

Round about September, I got all, “IMMA MAKE HOMEMADE BREAD, BITCHES.”

Stop laughing.

I mean it.

Ass.

I carefully mixed up all of the ingredients. I even followed the recipe rather than throwing a bunch of shit into a pan like they do in those cooking shows.

(I learned the hard way that this is not, in fact, how one cooks)

I threw it into a bowl, after I beat the fuck out of it, and waited. I’d started in the mid-afternoon, my cobwebby-memory banks telling me that it took a couple of hours to actually rise. I waited. And waited. I watched some annoying cat videos. I waited some more. I shook my fist in fury at the three toys that randomly come to life and play music whenever the fuck they want, scaring the bejesus outta me.

Still, I waited.

By 6PM, a full five hours after I’d lovingly placed the dough in the bowl? Fuck nothing. It hadn’t moved a millimeter.

By 8PM, I got frustrated enough that I slapped it into a pan and was all, IMMA EAT THIS, YOU’RE GONNA EAT THIS, WE’RE ALL GONNA EAT THIS.

By 8:30, I admitted defeat. I pulled the bread from the oven, dumped it onto a baking rack and realized it could easily double as a brick (to throw through a window) or a paperweight (if people actually used such things). I tried to eat the thing, because I’m stubborn, but it was…it was not good.

A few weeks later, determined that it was, in fact, the YEAST that had fucked mah bread up, once again, I gathered up my ingredients, threw them together and practically sat there, trying to watch the bread rise.

It was like one of those optical illusions – if I looked at it with THAT eye, I could ALMOST see that the bread had moved. ALMOST.

After 8 hours (bonus points for being both stupid AND patient), I sadly accepted my fate: I would not be able to make this bread rise. Angrily I dumped the rock-solid hunks of dough, where, adding insult to injury, they succeeded in knocking over the garbage can.

Last week (or was it the week before), I picked up some frozen loaves of bread. I’m not certain if I was thinking, “Oooo! Bread!” or “Ooooo! Frozen weapon!” but I guess it doesn’t much matter. Same thing, if you ask the Atkins movement.

Yesterday, I dumbly was all, “IMMA MAKE SOME BREAD” because I’m still not on solid food. Fucking tooth socket.

So I pulled the frozen hunk of bread from the freezer and debated using it to kill someone. Seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, tho, I merely threw it into a pan to “let it rise.” Which, after all that time making UN-risen bread, sounded like a conspiracy.

And um.

Woah.

I’m now strutting around, feeling all accomplished, until I remember that I didn’t actually participate in the actual assembly of the bread.

Which, as I’ve learned the hard way, is how it should be.

—————–

So, Pranksters, tell me something. Anything. I’m in the mood for some stories.

I’m a big fan of Christmas. If I could find one of those Number One fingers and write “FOR CHRISTMAS,” on it, I would. THAT is how much I love Christmas.

Sure, it’s going to be weird this year. Got some familial drama that I cannot (apparently) speak of here, that’s got me a wee bit nervous, but I push on through.

I still get all misty-eyed when I see decorations up, and there’s frankly nothing like a good version of “Blue Christmas” to get me solidly in the mood for some festive motherfucking cheer.

You think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not.

I’m old now. I may get tearful whenever my Christmas tree is turned on (bear in mind it’s been up since LAST Christmas, which reminds me of that awful Wham! song, which is NOT something that makes Baby Jesus OR Your Aunt Becky smile), and I may wrap each present happily, open each Christmas card guiltily, but you know what?

I can never think of anything I want for Christmas.

Now I know what you’re saying, “Aunt Becky, Christmas – and Trix – are for kids. You don’t need any presents.”

And, o! Pranksters, my Pranksters, you would, indeed be correct. It’s a lean Christmas here at Casa de la Vodka, but the kids, well, they still have a butt-ton of small gifts to open. According to The Twitter, whom I trust implicitly, kids under ten prefer a fuck-ton of small things rather than one big present. So I have a ridiculous amount of tiny PlayDoh things to wrap.

Anyway.

When I’m asked, “Hey, what do you want for Christmas?” my mind goes blank. Don’t mistake me, I’m not one of those people who are all *waves hands dismissively* “Oh, give my gift to charity,” because, well, I like presents. A lot.

Problem is, I never know what the fuckballs I want. When asked, that is. It’s like my mind, normally filled with pictures of ponies and/or unicorns on roller skates, immediately empties and I’m stuck muttering the first few things that come out:

“Barbie Dream House.”

“Ball pit.”

“Shark pit.”

“Shark on Roller Skates.”

And the asker is left quizzically scratching his or her befuddled head, wondering if I have, at last, gone off my rocker.

Since I already HAVE a pony on Roller Skates:

I no longer need one.

Nor do I need anything else that I can think of on command. I tried, the other day, to create an Amazon wish-list. All the cool bloggers are doing it, so I figured THAT would be a great place to point family members to buy gifts for me.

Ha.

I have two things on it.

Two.

Things.

Apparently, I suck at life AND picking out gifts for myself.

But this morning, the heavens opened up and smiled down upon me. A good friend, who shall remain nameless because, well, I do not have a proper email address or name to thank this wonderful friend, sent me something. Something so incredible that I may never stop weeping with joy.

Something I want, nay NEED, for Christmas.

Behold, my Pranksters, and share in my joy.

If you think the 3-Wolf Moon PJ’s aren’t awesome enough, just read the description:

Pranksters! I can take a SHIT while wearing these glorious rags! These PJ’s come with a SHIT DOOR!

Frankly, I do not think that, once I own these, I will ever, EVER need to own another item of clothing in my life.

So WHAT if I find adult footie pajamas to be creepy? So what if I cannot imagine sleeping with cuffs around my feet again? I CAN TAKE A SHIT WHILE WEARING THEM.

THOSE ARE EPIC FUCKING PAJAMAS.

And *shakes fist at sky dramatically* they WILL BE MINE.

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