Um, no, YOUR brain went right to elf fucking…

Sent by a reader. See also: Current status.

(CAN I fuck while eating cookies? We’ve already established this week that I can find anything on the Internet. Surely someone on OkCupid is looking to get naked Keebler-elf-style. I won’t even make you do it in a tree — everything on me is over-tender, I couldn’t possibly fuck in a tree.)  

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, some good mood-altering substances.

I think I’m packed for Christmas, yeah?  

No, wait… You’re right. I need beer.

Also, I totally hear you — Xanax would’ve been great, but alas, there’s some shit about ethics where they won’t give it to me because I don’t actually have anxiety? I KNOW, right, what the shit? This IS America, right? Family gatherings + Jesus’ birthday = special dispensation. That’s in the Bible: “And lo, distributed among them, there were delicious medications, and yea, they were happy. OK, well…not really HAPPY, but they didn’t hit anyone, and so there was peace on earth, and sedated goodwill toward men.”

P.S. I will spend today baking MANY cookies; those are almost Xanax if you eat enough of them.

P.P.S. That whiskey is not for me. That shit is like having one of those hippie honey cough drops in your drink. Ugh.

Shut up, vending machine. You don’t know my life. 

Let the record show that I just got up to get cookies from the office vending machine, and I had to extract my belt buckle from the fat on my belly. (“Buckle” makes it sound like I’m a big burly cowboy swaggering into the saloon through swinging doors. It’s more of a “loopy bit,” but that’s not as clear.)

And then the vending machine took my dollar, twirled its swirly metal ring around my Famous Amos cookies, pushed them ALMOST to the front, and then just let them sit there. As if to say, “Hey, fuck you, fattie. Did you really just pull your belt buckle out of your fat and have the massive, chrome-plated balls to come to me for cookies?”

I know, right? My vending machine is a judgey whore.

Thoughts at breakfast 

“I’m rockin’ this diet… until I got upset about something and realized that fruit doesn’t cure sad. Cookies release endorphins that make you feel better. Kiwis remind you that nothing ever works out. It’s a dick of a fruit.”

Discerning Dairy Dating Dogma

Reasons I’ve Clicked “Pass” on OKCupid Profiles: Food Edition

— He writes too much about his healthy eating habits. (I do OK, but sometimes you need a damn cookie.)
— He referred to wings and ribs as “guy food.” Screw you, sir. Every woman I know will fuck some wings and ribs UP.
— He doesn’t like cheese. How do you not like cheese? I might date a vegan, because they don’t eat cheese for ethical/health reasons — I get that. But you don’t LIKE it? Have you HAD cheese? Are you sure? The words you’re using appear to be English, yet I do not understand.

Quotable cookie humor

“That’s what they have the nerve to call them: Thin Mints. Those are not Thin Mints, those are hydrogenated fat bombs. That is bikini cockblock in a box.”
— Lisa Landry

Just give me the Thin Mints and nobody gets hurt.

I’m at work, and some skinny bitch in HR just emailed the whole company about an inter-office Biggest Loser competition… WHILE I was emailing a friend to place my Girl Scout cookie order.

Fuck you, Universe.

P.S. I’m not really hating on the skinny woman. I’m just a cranky, chubby bitch who needs cookies to put the goblins to sleep.