I often refer to Google as my religion, so I really hope they pull their heads out of their asses here.
‘Cause, yeah, I can have principles and change my email addresses and use different search engines and storage sites, but…it’s fucking Google. No one cares. I’d be like those assholes who tried to boycott “Hamilton” — sure, sweetie, good luck with that.
Also, I mean…you can’t get that data? Can’t you just Google it?
George Carlin had a bit about the potency of farts — eg, “A fart that could eat the stitching out of Levi’s,” or “A fart that could end a marriage.”
And even though I don’t make fart jokes because I AM A LADY, my mind wandered to Carlin today, high fived that bit, and ended up here…
The kind of cramps where you Google a diagram of the human body so you know for sure which organs are absolutely going to fall out of your body at some point today.
The kind of cramps where you’ve never seen the movie Alien, but you just know something similar is happening in your abdomen.
The kind of cramps where you sing along with that country song about shootin’ your husband and really mean it, even though you’re single, because you just know, somewhere, somehow, a man is responsible for this. (JK, men — please come have sex with me in 3-4 days.)
The kind of cramps where you apologize to your liver in advance, because today’s definitely an Advil with a Bayer chaser kinda day. With Aleve sprinkles.
The kind of cramps where you’re like, “Fuck ME, did I eat knives that I forgot about?!”
The kind of cramps where “Fuck YOU, this chocolate muffin I’m eating for dinner is medicinal.”
New life goal: Rock someone’s chain.
Sub-goal: Learn what that means.
#Emmys2016
(Please don’t actually explain it. I know how Google works.)
Google News: Keepin’ it classy since…well, about an hour ago, apparently:
But I question Powell’s word choice. I know he’s probably not up on the latest locker room slang, but I’ve literally never heard anyone say they were “dicking” someone. I’ve said I was “dicking around,” meaning procrastinating or wasting time. But when it comes (heh) to sex, you’re fucking someone. Screwing. Banging. Nailing.
Here, wait… George Carlin can cover it more thoroughly: “Fuck, screw, lay, diddle, push, plow, hump, cut, bang, poke, batter, wham, beef injection, vitamin F, knock up, put out, dip your wick, hide the salami, laying pipe, polishing your rocket, squattin’ on the hawg, getting your pole varnished, a quickie, a nooner, a matinee, pop your cookies, bust your nuts, get your rocks off, bananas and cream, piece of ass, nookie, poontang.”
Today someone found this blog by searching “smug nipples.”
I fucking love you people.
I’d like to thank the Internet for helping me narrow my self-diagnosis to either: a harmless cyst that will go away on its own; a staph infection; or a tumor.
Very helpful, Google, thank you.
It’s a cyst. Probably.
But if I die of staph-infected tumor, it’s been fun, guys. Remember, “Baby Got Back” at the funeral, and make sure the obituary spells it “staphylocockus.” #ClassyAsFuck
Google News headline: “It’s unclear whether yearly pelvic exam is necessary, task force says”
Subhead/lead: “The annual pelvic exam is uncomfortable, invasive – and might not be necessary for healthy women. Or is it? There isn’t a clear answer.”
Well. Saved you a click, then. The full article likely explains both sides, but I don’t need to know details of “There isn’t a clear answer.” I’m just gonna keep being reassured annually that my business is up to code as long as insurance will let me, because symptoms of lady cancer are, like, being tired and getting your period, so…yeah. I’ll just continue being appraised on the annual, thanks.
Also, maybe I’m weird, but I don’t find the exam that uncomfortable or invasive. Sure, a stranger is in your bits, so that’s never ideal. But I’d rather be uncomfortable talking about the weather while someone is penetrating me once a year than be uncomfortable because I have cancer.
P.S. How do I become a part of a Pelvic Task Force? I enjoy pelvic tasks.
Me: “Google! Which foods can make one feel sluggish and puffy?”
Google: “Every food that brings you joy.”
*sigh*
Eat a dick, Google.
My OkCupid profile says I’m going to my niece’s birthday this weekend “with an irresponsible quantity of My Little Pony gifts,” and a man just sent me the following first message:
“Considering your propensity for my little pony gifts – do you worry you may be spurring your niece to be a brony in the making? (Yes, that is a real word – after the likely google search – you are welcome 😉 )”
Um, have YOU Googled it…? Shitheel.
I’d write back to correct him, and to remind him Bronies are awesome, but he already bugs me. You think you’re dropping some Pony science on ME? Pfft.
I have officially become a master of inferring probably-nonexistent condescension.
P.S. I emailed a friend about this, and she replied, “Idiot. Girls are Pegasisters. Duh.”
One of the dumbest things I’ve ever Googled is “abnormal vaginal bleeding.”
I know it happens. Just generally not to me, and not off and on for 6 days.
So I looked it up and WebMD says I’m basically dying. OR, helpfully, there could be “an object” in my vagina.
AN OBJECT. IN MY VAGINA.
I love how vague that is, as if there could be, like… dice in there. Butterscotch candies. Maybe a $20 bill I forgot about.
Get out of my vagina, Object. It is not for storage!
OMG, you guys…The Cuntainer Store.
Yep, that’s it. I’m never writing again. That was my Bill Hader score on LeBron James, right there.
P.S. There is absolutely no object in my vagina. My sex toys are all present and accounted for, and no other objects have been visiting the region.
Smug Singleton 