Who Wouldn’t Want Bacon Cologne?

In honor if International Bacon Day approaching and because I’m lazy busy, I give you these fun facts about the most awesome food item in the whole goddamn world.   Enjoy!

Via: Restaurant Coupons

Cheers! – SF

I’ve Been Published!

Hey Internets!  It’s a big day here at the SFT.  First of all, as the title implies specifically states, I’ve been published!  But we’ll get to that in a minute.  The other big thing is that WordPress informed me that this is my 100th post.  I’m going to trust WP on this because I don’t fucking keep track of shit like that.  So happy 100th, to me.

Now, on to the more important stuff.  I’ll start at the beginning so that you can get the full effect of it all. 

Last week I was at work and I was actually doing a work related activity for once which was mailing out something or other to a shit ton of employees which required me to make a shit ton of address labels.  I looked at the address for the next employee and this person lived on a street called Langworthy.  But my brain didn’t read “Langworthy”.  No, my juvenile brain read “Wangworthy”.  I chuckled alone in my office for a few minutes because I’m a child, and  then I decided that the 4 people that follow me on Twitter needed to know about it so I tweeted it.  Not the Hero responded immediately to the awesomeness of the word.  Then so did Jewels.  Then so did Maxwell.  NTH even worked it in to his weekend shenanigans and wrote a Hungover Monday post about it and Maxwell also wrote an awesome post where he managed to use wangworthy like 14 times or some shit.  Admit it, it’s a pretty sweet word.

Being ever so pleased with myself and my new word, I decided to share it with the masses.  Enter:  Urban Dictionary.  I wrote a definition, gave a few examples submitted it and waited.  

And waited.

Then today I opened my email right away when I got to work because there’s no way I’m getting to the office and getting all productive right off the bat, and there in my inbox was the email, “Wangworthy has been published.”  (Just disregard that other definition that I was shocked to see there.  It’s MY word goddamnit.) But DO take notice of the word “Wangxiety” on the left and have a good giggle.

Behold:

Now get out there and use the hell out of my awesome new word, Internets!  Make me proud.

Cheers! – SF

I Swear I’m Not Crazy

About a million years ago I was a hair stylist.  And just like every other stylist in the land I had a “station”.  And on that station sat a framed photo of me and the man who, at that time, was the love of my life.  It was a photo of the two of us at a dinner party and it really captured our love quite well.  It was my favorite. 

Whenever I would seat a new client in my chair they would see that picture there and ask, “Is that your husband?” and I would reply with a loving, “Yes.  Yes it is.”

The relationship only lasted a few years, what with him being away all the time trying to be an actor and doing actory things and me trying to cultivate my growing business.  There were also other women in his life, but that wasn’t why things ended as I had agreed to an open relationship from the beginning.  I, of course, never strayed.  I loved him too much for that.

There is another woman out there now who holds feelings for him that are similar to what I felt for him back then.  I hope that she knows that loving a man like him is not easy.  Though I’ve never met her personally, I do feel that I know enough about her to tell that she’s a pretty cool chick.   She’s a fabulous writer and also does some sort of work with dinosaurs or something.   I stalk her here on a regular basis.  Honestly, I probably do it because she has a picture of the two of them there and I like to torture myself by looking at it daily.  Or maybe it’s because she uses words like “sonsabitches”. 

Why am I writing about a man who was a part of my life that is now ancient history, you ask?  Because the other day I came across that photo of the two of us, circa nineteen-ninety-fucking-five and it made me feel a little tinge of sadness.  I miss the days when he was part of my life.  *sigh*

Laura – I hope that he makes you smile now,  like I’m smiling here.

–

–

–

–

What?  Having one green velvet sleeve and long acrylic nails was totally in for men back then.

Metro Handjob

I’m a bus rider.  I take the glamorous King County Metro number 358 to the city five days a week.  I do this because a.) Parking garages are structures of the devil, 2.) Rush hour traffic. (Do I really need to elaborate on this?) Plus, my company pays for my transportation if I take the bus and I never have to pay for gas or parking or industrial sized bottles of Xanax to quell the anxiety caused by driving in rush hour traffic. 

I’ve written about some of the crazy shit I’ve witnessed on the bus before.  Remember the cunty racist and the heroin princess?  Good times.

So although I see a lot of strange shit on the bus, nothing really actually happens to me on the bus.   Well, Internets, that shit changed a few days ago.

I hopped up the front steps of the bus on Pike St and sat myself down in the very first seat behind the driver and to the left of an average lookin’, middle-aged fella.  Several minutes go by and suddenly his head snaps to the left as if he’s just noticed me sitting there and he says, “Hi.  How are you?”

“I’m fine thank you.  How are you?” I replied rather generically.

Oh Internets, how I wish I had left off the ‘how are you’ part.

“Nasty.” was his response.

“What the fuck ever, dude.”, I thought to myself.  Nasty mood, I assumed.   Oh no, no, no, no my friends.  This guy was feeling nasty in a different kind of way.

Now this next part happened rather quickly and amazingly lacked any violence on my part.  For reals.  I can’t believe I didn’t smack the ever-loving shit out of this guy.  But violence on metro transit lands you in the pokey straight away and the last time I went to jail I think the bartender had called in sick because 5 o’clock came and went and not one cocktail was served, so I didn’t want to end up there again.

“You could help.”, he says.

My spine stiffened and I jerked my head to the right and in a most annoyed way said, “Excuse me?”

“You could help.” , he said again and glanced at his gross old man crotch. 

Yes, I know I said he was an average looking middle-aged guy before but I’ve got creative rule here and now I say he had a gross old man crotch.

“For a few dollars, you could help.”  he told me.

Now, I could always use a few extra dollars so I thought about this proposition for a minute.  No I didn’t.

“Don’t fucking talk to me you sick fuck!” I yelled at him.   Every head on that bus that wasn’t wearing headphones snapped up to see what was going on.  I’m certain that the fury and disgust showed on my face.  And in their heads they were probably chanting like children on a playground instigating a brawl; “Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.”   Or maybe not.

I have no idea what made that dickhead think I was the type of woman who would be interested in his skeevy proposition.  I mean,  I was wearing a fucking business suit and I can assure you it was not advertising that kind of business.  It wasn’t even made out of latex or anything.  All I knew was that the only person getting off on that bus, was me; at the next stop. 

Fucking perverts.

I seem to be having trouble with my link thinger soooo…..

Cunty Racist is here: http://sugar-free-thoughts.com/2011/03/16/sometimes-the-beatings-just-arent-severe-enough/

Heroin Princess is here: http://sugar-free-thoughts.com/2011/01/12/it-happened/

Crazy Larry’s Convict Emporium

Bruce and I arrived in Seattle and quickly realized we needed a dining room table for our fabulous little rental home in our new city.   We had to leave the old set behind because either it was a piece of shit that I may or may not have made even shittier by repainting or because we couldn’t fit it in the moving truck what with my cocktail supplies and porno collection taking up so much room.  Just kidding.  I don’t drink.

Yes I do.

Anyway, being in a new city, we didn’t know where anything was.  So we decided to just keep a lookout for something like a discount furniture store or even a cool thrift store that had “gently used” goods while we were out and about doing what people that are new to a city do.

While cruising up Aurora Avenue one day, Bruce says, “We need someplace that looks like it should be called ‘Crazy Larry’s Discount Furniture Emporium’.  It needs to be a legitimate store that has just enough shadyness that makes me feel comfortable.  Nothing fancy.”   Then we saw it:

Price Co.

No ordinary store? You got that right.

Let me tell you about our experience at this furniture, shoe and greeting card wonderland. 

You know how when you go to a furniture store or a car lot you get accosted by a sales person in less than 4 seconds?  Yeah, same thing here.  But these sales people aren’t your average working stiffs.  They’re all convicts on parole.

I’ll pause here while that sinks in.

*

*

*

*

May I continue now?  Yes?  OK, good.  So it started out with the average, “Hi, are you looking for something in particular?”  type of selling tactic.

Yeah, I’m most likely looking for a dining set since I’m in the fucking dining set area of the store, Slick.  [Seriously, he had slicked back hair so the name fit].

The buyer/seller conversation quickly went off the fucking map of normal and traveled into ‘where the fuck am I and how did I end up chatting with Mr. Shawshank Redemption about purchasing a dining set? type of situation. 

After the usual “this is the best price in town” and “look at the quality workmanship in this set” crap, Slick, without any segue at all, launches into the weirdest, most disconnected and unsolicited rant of how everyone that works there is an ex-con and they’re all just trying to get a fresh start in life and the past is the past, right? and doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance? and why are you clutching your purse a little tighter ma’am? and this table comes with four chairs. 

Oh!  And they have layaway!  Could life get any better? I submit that it could not.

I was also informed that there was a chain gang of happy, non orange-glow jumpsuit wearing, picnic table  builders toiling away upstairs just as we were speaking!  How fabulous!!

Without looking like a couple of judgemental weirded out douchers, we told Slick that we were just in for a look and would come back when we had the money to buy something. 

(“But we have layaway!”)

We sauntered through the shoe section, then pretended to be interested in the snack food section, (did I mention this was a furniture store?) then made our way casually past the caged cats for adoption area and out the front door.

Will I ever go back to Crazy Larry’s Convict Emporium?

What do you think?

Of course I will.  You should have seen their prices!!  And they have layaway!!

Cheers! ~ SF.