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“running in” to walmart. never without consequence.

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Not only did someone make the brilliant decision to assign this poor turtle to the “speedy” checkout lane, but this is a place that displays hemorrhoidal ointment, anti-fungal cream, and “Warm Touch” lubricating jelly at the register scattered among the typical point-of-sale purchases including gum, magazines and M&Ms.

Now by no means am I claiming to understand the buying habits of customers who voluntarily get stampeded to death on Black Friday for $1.88 paper towels.

But is your jock itch, bulging ass vein and dried-up Netherlands really something you forget about until you happen to be standing at the cash register tossing a tin of cinnamon Altoids onto the counter?

“I came here for a gallon of milk, but come to think of it…I haven’t had a sufficiently lubricated vagina since before my cashier’s back became a complete right angle.”

I know. I know. What did I expect from a store that is the inspiration for a website devoted entirely to horrifying the world with pictures of morbidly obese women sporting ripped, lace jeggings.

Besides. Just entering the threshold of Walmart should have indemnified my frustration toward the boxed-wine-stained-tooth hag in front of me, coughing up a Camel-coated lung and unsuccessfully attempting to hide her 400 cans of mixed vegetables beneath those two tablecloths.

Ten items or fewer is a difficult concept to grasp, but it’s there for a reason.

Specifically, I have a hair appointment in five minutes, and our cashier is averaging 12 minutes per can. That might not be a math problem I can calculate without a tutor, but it was sufficient time for me to realize why the typical Walmart customer doesn’t believe in evolution.

Not sure our cashier walked upright. Ever.

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Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

March 7, 2012 at 12:22 pm

whorlaween whorrors

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There are certain truths in life.

The yellow gum-ball should not exist.

Not a single “friend” on Facebook gives a shit that you’re making banana bread.

And Halloween parties were invented by men who want to mark an annual occasion for all women to dress like strippers.

Trying to avoid showing cleavage, leg and ass fat during Halloween is like trying to avoid the question, “You work today?” during a pedicure.

Not even overweight women get a free pass, as each costume site is brimming with “plus sized” get-ups that are nothing more than larger versions of the same slutty attire about .09 percent of our population should actually consider wearing.

Your husband just ordered Stripper Shortcake standing next to you in the Strawberry thigh highs.

Sure you can dress up like a traffic light or ATM machine, but you will be shocked at how quickly you’ll regret not taking the opportunity to sport thigh-high lace stockings without consequence or judgement. Not to mention you will feel invisible for failing to wear the requisite fishnets and not reading the Whorlaween Rulebook which clearly states: “dominatrix, stripper or some version thereof are the only acceptable costume choices for any woman over the age of 18.”

It may have taken me 30-cough years, but I’ve grown to accept the fact that during the Whorlaween season, there is a better than average chance a perfect stranger will see more of my cervix when I bend over than my Ob-Gyn. I’ve also learned that if somebody tells me my costume is clever, it’s the equivalent of saying my baby is big. It’s just code for ugly.

So the question has become less what costume am I wearing, and more: what cheesetacular porn star will I be this year? Or for Saturday’s Annual BrewHaHa Event: which BrewHaHottie will I attempt to pull off?

Well…as part of the Navy Seal Team Six Unit that turned Bin Laden into chum, “Commando Kim” will be storming the Farley Estate tomorrow night equipped with a plastic bullet belt and about 15 more pounds than anyone should have sporting this ensemble. I just hope no one mistakes me for a real military officer as my camouflage corset, leather garter belt and black tutu look strikingly similar to what any member of our armed forces would be wearing during top-secret missions to kill Al-Qaeda operatives.

Guess the tutu is supposed to be as short as your bangs

When my costume arrived from spicylingerie.com yesterday (along with a complimentary pair of crotchless panties that scared me more than a little), I was excited to try it on forgetting that when the weather dips below 75 degrees, I start inhaling Starbucks hot chocolates like they’re oxygen. This is unfortunate. As my tutu was shorter than my thumbnail, and there was seemingly no way to camouflage my inner thigh bulge despite Sara Blakely’s empty promises.

Knowing it was too late to get a new costume or swear off solid food, I this morning embarked on Commando Kim’s first mission: to locate the kind of tights Hooters waitresses wear. I didn’t know where to find them, but was confident they were strong enough to hold back a crash test dummy during a 110 mph collision.

My options at 9 am were fairly limited until I passed by the XXX store “Naughty by Night” across from the Tyrone mall. The neon “OPEN” sign seemed to beckon every pervert, pedophile and last-minute, desperate Halloween party guest in Pinellas County.

Normally I’d be nervous about doing so much as a u-turn in the parking lot of a place like this, but Halloween is really designed (by men) to bring out the whore in all of us. Thankful I hadn’t yet put the Shorecrest Preparatory School sticker on my new car, I entered the store wondering what sort of communicable diseases I could get from just breathing the patchouli scented incense burning inside. Trying not to guess what the smudges were on the glass door as I entered, I was met by a worker with a terrifying set of iridescent blue contact lenses straight out of Avatar. She greeted me with a certain hesitation, like I was an FBI agent on a sting. She asked me what I was looking for, and it felt less like an offer to help than part of an uncomfortable hazing process that led me to believe I was pledging the wrong sorority. I can only imagine this is because I was still carrying the GermX wipe I used to open the door. A possible indicator that I was not a frequent shopper.

Does this come with an instruction manual?

I blurted out what I was in search of like it was an apology. A confession of sorts. Luckily the Naughty by Night Na’vi seemed relieved I wasn’t undercover and walked me over to the pantyhose that she reminisced about once wearing during her stint as a Winghouse girl. Judging from the whimsical glow in her xenon headlight eyes, I think she may have wanted to chat with me about the good ole’ days of spilling pitchers of beer on intoxicated men as they played Golden Tee. But I really only needed to know one thing: will these tights hold in my thigh dough enough that I won’t be forced to wear a Burka to this party instead? She winked at me. Which either meant “yes” or “I can perform cunnilingus on you in the dressing room right now.” I’m not sure which, but I grabbed two pairs of my Winghouse tights and made my way up to the register.

It wasn’t until I waited for her to process my credit card that I allowed myself to look around.

I had never felt so Amish and confused in my entire life.

As I spotted whorrifying contraptions that resembled glass, phallic lava lamps, what I can only imagine were vibrators large enough to clog the Holland tunnel and leather paddles wider than my paddleboard itself, I couldn’t help but wonder… what is that for? Where does this go? Who? Why? I want my mommy.

So if you want a real scare this Whorlaween season, I suggest you skip the haunted houses and supernatural horror flicks and just visit your local adult novelty store where the Winnebago-sized rubber penises are sure to give you nightmares for years to come. In the meantime, I’ll be skipping my next three meals in the hopes that I can be more BrewHaHottie tomorrow night than BrewHaHeifer.

Clever. And your baby is ugly too.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

October 22, 2011 at 12:02 am

tampa bay succaneers preseason home opener

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Thousands of sweating, domestic beer-drinking football fans turned out last night for the Tampa Bay Succaneers preseason home opener at Raymond James Stadium.

It also kicked off a series of conversations I will have with myself about why paying the equivalent of seven pairs of Manolo Blahniks for season tickets is a move anyone not suffering from febrile seizures should make. Of course one could argue that seeing the scrumptious Tom Brady (not dancing at Carnival) was worth the $7k alone.

But if you’re still pissed at Brady for leaving a pregnant Bridget for that Brazilian freak of nature, then perhaps the $35 food & beverage credit per game is enough to entice you to jump on the Succaneer Pirate Ship as a club level season ticket holder.

Yes, that’s right. Each club 1 season pass is loaded with enough money to get you a bag of popcorn assuming you’re willing to suffer through a line longer than Jerramy Stevens’ criminal record. But please, whatever you do, do not expect ice in your fountain Coke because “they haven’t brought that up yet,” or order anything off the grill menu because the organization literally just scraped five homeless people off Himes Ave. three minutes before kick-off to work the registers.

After a small nap and threats of firing the cannons directly into my skull, I am pleased to report I got my “dinner” minutes before halftime or when we had passed for a total of two yards. My hot pretzel was somewhere between salted and renal failure. So in addition to suggesting the Sucs employ people who are not completely confounded by requests of ice or carbonation in their soda, I’m also going to recommend they offer free kidney dialysis for anyone who gets a salted pretzel.

Although that $35 is a huge incentive that is likely to entice readers to jam the phones at One Suc Place in efforts to secure their own season tickets this year, please first consider the following:

1. Where you are sitting: Sure you can choose seats on the West (shady) side under cover and on the 50-yard line, but when someone whose gender is questionable removes its Birkenstock sandals to scratch the bottom of its hooves on the padded seat in front of her/him, it’s important to understand this is the equivalent of a 350-pound elderly woman armed with a tuna salad sandwich and love of medicated body powders squashing her jelly rolls and ham-hocks into the seat next to you on your 4-hourlong Southwest flight. Only it’s for the next seven flights.

2. Row exiting/entering etiquette: Please understand that when someone pays thousands of dollars to behold athletic mediocrity in 100-degree weather, they do not expect their neighbors to enter or exit through the rows penis facing. Everyone knows you enter and exit a row sideways ass facing. I literally almost had a penis jammed into my belly button last night thanks to an awkward encounter with seat #7, whose beer run met his blatant disregard for only the most basic unspoken rules of stadium seating.

3. Your attire and how it may annoy me: I find it extremely distracting when people attending sporting events are confused about what team they are supporting. I am a Gator fan, but do not feel the need to wear my Gators gear to a Sucs game. So why then last night did I spot in the first five minutes shirts for the Crimson Tide, Pittsburgh Penguins, Chicago Cubs and the Brazil National Team, to name a few? If you’re going to a Sucs vs. Patriots game, you wear *Sucs or Patriots colors, gear or **neutral attire. Period. If you want to significantly increase my annoyance levels, wear unrelated items together such as a Tampa Bay Lightning visor and University of Miami shirt (um, I guess thanks to my buddy Nevin there are no fears of anyone sporting that).

4. You may be seated next to someone with olfactory superpowers: My Fairy Godmothers did not bestow upon me wishes for beauty, wit or musical talent. Instead they stood above my bassinet and granted me olfactories that could smell a mayonnaise jar that was just opened somewhere in a 3-story walk-up in Yonkers. So Row V, seat #2: your plate of pulled pork that sat festering on the concrete in this blistering Summer heat was the equivalent of someone eating a foot-long hotdog and burping in my face for two hours straight. Crimson Tide: I realize you may have been a little drunk and confused (the NCAA games are not actually played at Raymond James Stadium), but the 2-day old Clinique Happy perfume oozing from your pores combined with the spilled Bud Light soaking into your Forever 21 jorts, was enough to make me turn the cannons on myself again.

*Jerseys are allowed, but will increase your concentration of douchiness.
**Neutral attire is anything with the exception of Affliction, Tap Out or Ed Hardy (see above).

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

August 19, 2011 at 11:51 am

who goes to toys r us for this

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What’s next? The lotion aisle?

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

May 18, 2011 at 3:21 pm

maternal sacrifices

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You're bathing with THIS guy.

Ask any mother the meaning of maternal sacrifice and she need only point to her stretch marks and not-yet-lifted breasts to show you.

Long after we’ve lost the 50-cough pounds we gained during pregnancy and managed to endure enough Music with Mar classes to make anyone want to stab themselves in the ear with a Play-Doh knife, the sacrifices continue.

My daughter is now six, and I still marvel at what I’d do for this persuasive little person.

Take this weekend for example. Somehow our trip to Magic Kingdom turned into an inaugural visit to Typhoon Lagoon: one of Disney’s two reservoirs for liquid waste.

My daughter has developed a penchant for swimming in subzero temperature waters. A desire I think one loses roughly after the age of eight. So once I failed to convince her that Epcot and a convertible when she turns 16 was way more fun than swimming in Arctic cesspools, I found myself sporting a completely impractical bikini top (natch), paralyzed by the pimpled backs of strangers I knew I’d soon be “bathing” with in the park’s ridiculously dangerous wave pool.

A few glacial waves into the morning my fear of incurable skin diseases was overcome by paranoia that one of the typical turkey leg-eating Disney goers would crash into my 40-pound child splashing around like a water fairy blissfully unaware of the pool’s bacterial load. So I strategically positioned myself in front of her knowing I’d lessen the impact of whatever sort of beast washed over her with every wave. It was then that I spotted a man who I’m convinced could be mistaken for the Loch Ness Monster based on neck length alone. While I wondered how it was humanly possible for his torso to be as tall as it was round, he stared back at me licking his smacks like Chilly Willy eyeing Smedley-turned hotdog.

Sure as my nibbies were frozen into icicles stabbing holes into my string bikini, the next wave brought Nessie crashing into my cerebellum with the force of a tequila hangover. Once I surfaced from the Tsunami of blubber and hair, I looked around to first make sure my child was afloat. Only after I established that she was still breathing, did I assess my own shattered parts.

“Can we take a break from the wave pool?” I begged my little fish. “Mommy may or may not have a skull fracture, broken clavicle and six bruised ribs.”

My daughter agreed to the break, but only because just seconds earlier she realized that she needed to use the restroom. Judging from the look of alarm on her face and the knowledge we both had that the wave pool comprises 90% urine, I knew that her emergency would require a complete shutdown of Typhoon Lagoon if we didn’t exit that pool. Now.

So we Olympic hurdle jumped our way over Nessie’s offspring to exit the cesspool in search of a restroom, located (mother bitch!) on the other side of the park and nowhere near the lockers which housed our only footwear. Now would be a good time to admit that I contemplated which would be more disgusting: my daughter defecating in her swimsuit or me entering a public restroom barefoot.

Fortunately for her self-esteem, I did not mandate a detour to the lockers and instead beelined straight into the slimy-floored bathroom that I’m pretty sure will guarantee a toenail fungus so severe my nails will grow up instead of out.

Luckily, we made it. Sort of. I would be remiss if I didn’t include the part about me taking her swimsuit bottoms and scrubbing them out with fistfuls of hand soap in the Typhoon Lagoon showers so that we could return for another round of wave pool torture.

Now brace yourself for this: I entered the bathroom barefoot for the rest of the day. Sure, I was on tiptoes and more than a little grossed out, but even for a germaphobe like me, wearing sandals after already using the facilities without them seemed a bit like wearing a condom with a guy I already had sex with several times without. Logic screamed, “If you have heel herpes, sandals can’t help you now!”

So after a day of shivering and contemplating what sort of infectious diseases we’d bring back as souvenirs, my daughter and I finally made it to Magic kingdom for an evening of fireworks and a few shows.

As we sat watching Mickey’s PhilharMagic 4D for the 800th time, I caught a glimpse of her giggling as she reached out to catch the rubies Ariel threw to the audience. And I think it was in that moment of beauty and wide-eyed innocence that I realized getting neck fucked by the Loch Ness Monster was a small price to pay for her joy.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

March 15, 2011 at 12:57 am

newark: the armpit of our nation

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I don’t know what the actual percentage is of delays out of Liberty International Airport, but my personal record is approaching 300%.

This overheated, Sanka-serving abomination is like the Venus Flytrap of travel.

Everything seems dandy (albeit curry scented) until you pass through the 2-hour long security line naked and arrive at your Starbucks-free gate. Where 5,000 Affliction-sporting passengers are clamoring for a cup of instant coffee and a cream cheese bagel because that’s all there is. Unless of course you’re hungry enough to salt an “I heart NY” T-shirt, which I might do in a second to protest the lack of restaurants. Suffice it to say I’d settle for a salt water taffy kiosk at this point.

Here in terminal A, you should know there is only one bathroom with three sensor toilets that attempt to flush the tampon from the woman before you down into the NJ water supply, but instead just tear it apart and then cough it back up as a gift to you for waiting patiently in line. I guess maybe the lack of dining options can be a blessing.

Not until you arrive at this standing-room only gate with no first class club do you realize the oily haired man laying on the floor uncomfortably close to your Burberry messenger bag is fresh off a NYC subway, clearly eager to fly to a place where hygiene is completely superfluous. You resist the urge to tell him, “You’ve arrived, my friend.”

I finally score an empty seat facing the Hudson News stand equipped with three men’s interest magazines (Popular Mechanics anyone?) and a man telling the airport’s hotspot to “Fuck off” because he cannot log on to it after furiously tapping away at his iPad for what seems like hours.

The proximity of my head to the man seated behind me is disconcerting at best because I actually smell his unwashed hair. And besides looking into an ear canal filled with wax, there is nothing that turns my stomach more. It might be time to offer my seat to an elderly person and earn some good karma points in the hopes that I can cash in and get the fuck out of here this week.

Just as I’m about to get up to flee Sir Stinky Scalps, iPad starts to speak to me.

“Are you goin’ to Tampa?” he asks.

Finding the pores on his nose, as large as peppercorns, distracting, I pause for a second and stare.

“You look like you’re from Florida,” he adds.

I can’t help but wonder what looking like being from Florida looks like. Is it that I’m blonde? Less than 300 pounds? Not wearing a diamond-encrusted nameplate?

I tell him I’m going to Tampa. “If we ever get there. ” And then secretly will the airport’s WiFi to work so that I can slip away and attempt a potty break in a toilet that doesn’t look like a crime scene.

“You look like this girl I know named Stephanie.”

“Oh,” I answer. Wondering what his Biore strips look like.

“Yeah, she works at Sebastian’s in Clearwater.”

I’m intrigued since I immediately assume Sebastian’s is a topless bar and he’s going to proposition me for a blowjob any second.

“Yeah,” he explains. “It’s like a convenience store by Feathersound. You know…by the gas station.”

I sink back into my chair, never thinking that he could surpass the BJ proposition with something even more insulting.

To be fair, New Jersey is not kind to me. The toxic waste in the water might make for the best bagels and pizza dough, but it also deposits enough poison on my hair to turn it a brassy shade of pee. My face has been so swollen since I arrived last week that I actually resorted to applying Preparation H in the mornings so that I look less like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Float. But…

“A convenience store?” I ask. “I look like someone who works at like, a 7-11?”

Why can’t I look like somebody smart? Sure, maybe I wouldn’t feel exactly beautiful if my twin was the Pinellas Circuit Court judge, but at least I’d be confident she had all her teeth and could make change for a dollar.

As Biore Boy rambled off more detail about Stephanie than anyone wants to know (widow; husband was multimillionaire who committed suicide, et al) I realized that I should not be conversing with random travelers who were just in the down dog position over their iPads.

So I’m bidding my friend adieu and heading to the T-shirt stand. I just hope they have Dijon mustard.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

February 21, 2011 at 4:08 pm

top 10 reasons to boycott busch gardens

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10. The Tap Out/Affliction to non-douchebag ratio is alarmingly high.

9. There is a 100% chance you will eat something that has you running an extra mile tomorrow morning or at the very least to Walgreens to buy Prevacid.

8. You will spend $50 on games and still come home empty handed.

7. You will play one game and end up winning a husky the size of Winnebago that you are then forced to carry on your back through the park.

6. You will have to explain to your 6-year-old daughter at least three times why some boys think it’s appropriate behavior to spit on the sidewalk.

5. No drink lids may help save the environment, but they will not save your Badgley Mischka purse from lemonade spills.

4. Amazingly, all the sex offenders seem to congregate in the Jungala area where your daughter just crawled out of sight into a tunnel.

3. Thanks to the overabundance of tourists and popcorn, the odds of a bird pooping on you are about 80%.

2. The turkey leg concessions are scattered throughout the park, but concentrated in areas where you are already most nauseated from smelling the elephant excrement.

1. Public flossing.

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

January 15, 2011 at 5:16 pm

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