Someone's on his Way to Becoming a Youtube Star

It's not Justin Beiber; unfortunately, that's already happened.

 

Andrew and his best friend from childhood (who lives exactly 27 seconds away) are hickentical twins, which means that they like to drink beer in our shed, wear camo and talk about hunting together. The hickness is also exponentially multiplied when they are together for long periods of time. Which results in videos like this one.

 

Behold, the hickness that is Andrew and Justin:

 

 

Andrew will want to ensure that you all know that he is the one weilding the gun, not the Borat weilding the camera.

Sidenote: When Andrew found out that I was posting this on my blog, his immediate response was "Awesome! Then we can get more pageviews and get shown on Ellen [DeGeneres]!" Andrew apparently doesn't know how limited my scope is.

From our Non-Legally-Acknowldged-Family-with-Furry-Babies to Yours!!

Merry Hickmas!

 

The caption, plaid and cowboy hat were the only way Andrew was ever gonna let
this happen.

If You're Expecting a Meaningful Post, I'm Disappointed in you. When Have my Posts ever Been Meaningful?

So, I haven't posted in a week. While I'd love to have an awesome reason to be MIA, such as I was busy in Mexico trying to capture the Chupacabra or meeting up with Martha Stewart to teach that bitch how to party, it would be a lie. The actual reason I haven't been around?

I'm stubborn as hell and have a shitty memory.

While I've had the ability to keep the same password (or some variation of it) since middle school, the fact that a password change is required whenever I forget what damn variation I've used on a certain account has made the memorization of passwords impossible in the past month.

Example of original password from 6th grade:

• Waffles

Subsequent variations:

• Waffles28
• wafflewaffle
• Wafflywaffles (Oooh, so clever!)
• Crap, account won't let me use past passwords: waffles28waffles
• Woah, random symbol now required in password!: Waffle%28
•  %Waffles37 (Where the hell did I get this number?)
• %37Waffles

As you can see, by the end of it, I basically have to try every combination of a password focused on a delicious breakfast food (maybe X 2), ± capital W, ± one of two numbers, ± symbol. According to my calculations, this formula creates approximately one bajillion different arrangmentss.

Unfortunately, since the last post, I completely forgot which password I used for my Blogger account, and none of the previously mentioned password combinations seemed to work (it may be possible that I also kept forgetting which passwords I had already attempted, so that I kept trying the same four combinations over and over again). And since I had already changed my password three times in the last month, I was all, Fuck you Blogger, you are not making me do this again! It was then that I refused to recover my account by changing the password again; I vowed to uncover my Blogger password no matter what, even if it took blood, sweat and singing Cee-Lo Green Songs to do it.

And now, after six days of continuous attempts to beat my memory into submission and threats made to my laptop, blogging withdrawl made me weak and I have since reneged on my promise.

I now have a new password for this account. Mind you, I still have no idea what it is (even though I literally just changed it 20 minutes ago), but I've got it written down on multiple post-it notes for the next time my automatic log in doesn't work.

Sidenote: Since this isn't even a real post, I'm adding a random recreation of an animal that used to exist. Some people may call this one of evolution's many strange paths where physical adaptation went wrong; I call it God's creation after a crazy night spent mushroom tasting.

Behold! The Motherfucking-Chalicotherium!

 

As if Cats Weren't Already Paranoid Enought Without Needing a Reason...

Every couple of days, we wake up or come home to find our artificial Christmas tree kinda bent out of shape, with a few of its ornaments laying on the ground, as if the tree just came home from a Frosh Week binge.

And since Lucy isn't allowed to stay indoors unsupervised anymore, it's gotta be the cats. My theory is strongly supported by the evidence from when I caught Sako last Sunday on the top third of the tree, attacking a bell ornament. The fact that she was also on the outside of the tree, and not in the tree, makes me assume that she just pulled a Keifer Sutherland and fucking launched herself onto the tree.

 

They also have a history of using the tree as a vacation spot, as seen in this video from last year.
 

So when Andrew bought himself a motion-detecting hunting camera (you know, the ones you strap to a tree so you can find out if a lot of deer come by so you can slaughter them for antlers and burgers), I thought we could use it for more peaceful dectective work instead.

Result: the hunting/spy camera is now propped up on my piano and doing 24 hour monitoring of our Christmas tree and surrounding area. We're gonna catch these bitches in the act.

The suspected culprit of 90% of all tree-related incidents.

The other cat who is probably too fat to climb the tree anymore.
Also, we have like four pictures of her in that exact same spot
and pose, but during different times in the night.

So far, the only suspicious action the camera has caught is the mysetrious removal of two Christmas presents from under the tree (which were all strategically placed so that the cats couldn't get to the base of the tree).



Gifts there....

Gifts gone.

Tree-watching will continue until the gun-cats are caught in the act.

Sidenote: Not gonna lie, while Andrew and I were looking through all the nighttime photos on his camera, a small part of me was scared that we were randomly going to have a dead girl in a photo, proving that minihomes can be haunted too.

Sidesidenote: I don't even watch scary movies and thoughts like these pop up in my head. Could you imagine how permanently terrified I would be if I did?

Dr. Christine, Relationship Expert - I Need to Start Charging for this Shit

I have developed a highly scientific test to determine if your partner is compatible with your insanity. There are only four easy steps and require materials that everyone should have in their home*.

While searching for this photo, Google offered
"Breast Pump Disco Party" as a result. You read
my mind once again, Google. 

Materials Required:

• A small light. A pocket flashlight or cell phone will do.
• A little cow (Mine was a tiny metal figurine.)
• Using a real cow is ill-advised as they tend to poop wherever they want.
• *Everyone should have some sort of cow in their house. Everyone. It cow-pletes your home
• I'm sorry that just happened.

Alright, now that you're confused as to why the hell these two items are going to help you test your relationship, here is what you need to do:

Step 1: Wait for your partner to go to sleep. They should be asleep for at least half an hour.

Step 2: Enter the bedroom, sneak over to their side of the bed and place the cow near their face.

Step 3: Turn on small light, pointing it at the cow.

Step 4: Make the cow dance around on the pillow while you moo a song. (Preferably a disco song, such as the Bee Gees' "Staying Alive".)

Now, their reaction to this event will determine their awesomeness-score.

You have no idea how much time and effort it took to make this.

• They get angry: Ok, so it's kinda expected. Most people don't care to be woken up, especially by a dancing cow. The only things that should ever wake me up from a wonderful sleep are chocolate cake, unicorns or Joe Manganiello. Or Joe Manganiello carrying a cake while riding a unicorn.

However, regardless of how reasonable this reaction may be, it's clear that they lack the A-1 Mellow gene in their Awesome chromosome.

• Score: Awesome-deficient. They should learn to fly a jet, or hang out with Joe Manganiello. It's a well-known fact that Awesome can be transfered through osmosis.

They ignore you: Better than outright anger, but still disapointing. If they are committed to you, it means accepting and embracing all of you. Including nocturnal bovine karaoke sessions.

• Score: Unfortunately, you seem to have attached yourself to a normal human being. One that is used to your shenanigans, but does not revel in them like you do. What a boring, sad life. To cure this, you must force-feed craziness into your partner's life until they learn to appreciate it, goddamnit!

They are amused, let you finish your dance and then go back to sleep: Hurray, someone who appreciates your creativity and lack of self-control!

• Score: Awesomeness Enthusiast. Your partner is like a bird-watcher, except instead of looking for birds, they just live with a crazy person for their own personal amusement. Just be glad they don't keep you in a cage to watch you flit around and sing.
• Unless you're into that sort of thing.
• If you are, you're fucked up.

They take the cow away from you and make it breakdance as they join the singing: They are your mental soulmate. Your mentalmate. Not only can they easily handle the fact that you've got a one-way ticket to Looneytown, they've got a ticket too. You've probably rented a completely padded car for two on a train (since planes give you bigger nervous breakdown than drugged up Annie Walker in Bridesmaids.)

• Score: You need to keep this one in a cage, if that's what it takes to hang on to them.
• The comment about cages in the previous score only applies if you enjoy being in a cage; it's totally normal to want to cage certain people.

You're so welcome.

Let me know if you've attempted this test and please share your result.

Kittens at the Vet

Here are a few photos of the kitties when I brought them to the vet for their checkup.

Sidenote: Yes, I realize that they should no longer be referred to as kittens. I don't care.

Anyways, nothing too exciting happened at the vet; the cats acted the same as they always do.

As usual, Tika doesn't really give a shit what's going on around her.

And Sako runs and hides at the first sign of anything new.

She stayed hidden behind the vet's laptop until we pried her away to do the examination. She then hid again as soon as it was over. You know, in case the vet suddenly decided to amputate her for no apparent reason.

Seriously, it's like this cat is on a permanent crack cocaine binge.

However, the most stressful part of this yearly trip is always the ride home. The cats have this cute little tradition where they shit in their crate on the way back home from the vet, just to spite me.

Every. Fucking. Time.

On this visit though, they seemed to be doing good. Until we got about two minutes away from the house. Then all at once, the car was filled with a stench. The traditional gift-of-thanks-for-checking-on-their-health stench.

Time suddenly seemed to slow down. As I gagged and frantically rolled all the windows down, the two cats stared me down from their shared crate. The look in their eyes can only be translated as "That's what happens when you take us to the vet, Bitch."

Thanks for the shit, kittens.

Tip of the Day Concerning Pants

When visiting your in-laws (or almost-in-laws), don't wear jeans you bought when you were in 10th grade. Sure, they may still fit you. Sure, it's nice to know that you haven't gotten any fatter.

But chances are, when you sit down for supper, your 8-year-old pants will rip and essentially disintegrate due to pure age and use. And if this happens to your jeans, there's also an extremely high chance that it'll happen on the butt, thereby exposing half of a cheek to the world.

And if you're really unlucky, you won't even notice that your ass is hanging out of your worn out jeans until someone has to point it out to you.

Tip of the Day: don't wear jeans old-as-duck jeans. Your ass and pride will pay for it.

Sidenote: Yes, I said old-as-duck. I'm basing the life expectancy of my pants to that of a duck, more specifically, that of a mallard.

OMG SCROLL TEXT WITH ABSOLUTELY NO POINT!

I Guess I Should Acknowledge That the Holiday Season is Here...



This weekend, we're attempting to take a family portrait for our annual Christmas Card. We'll either look like gorgeous models, or total trainwrecks. (We never half-ass anything, we go all the way. Except for cleaning attempts: cleaning house is always done half-ass.)

 

Anyways, I just finished decorating my giant-sized wreath (which I love), but now I'm like "Where the fuck am I going to put this ginormous wreath?" So until I find a way to hang the wreath on the side of the house without making holes in the walls, I have to hide the wreath in Andrew's Man-cave. It's got to be put away because the cats seem to have a death wish involving eating as many glitter-covered pine cones and fake holly berries (not to be confused with fake Halle Barrys) as possible. They wouldn't last a day in the wild.

 

Because they're made of plastic, and you'll die.

Sidenote: Sorry there hasn't been any posts this past week. It's like the ridiculously small amount of daylight hours has made me all blah and meh. But I think I'm over that now.

What's Been Going on in the Hick/Crazy Household this Fall.

While picking my nicest pictures of the season, I now realize how much of a crazy cat/dog lady I am. There's an entire world out there, but I apparently would rather take pictures of the same three subjects over and over and over again.

Sidenote: This is why I should never take drugs. Well, non-prescribed drugs.

Sidenote sidenote: I don't not take drugs because I take too many pictures of my pets. It's because I think I have such an addictive personality that if I did do illegal drugs, even once, I would probably automatically get addicted to it and become a paranoid crackhead living under a bridge that would yell out warnings to passing cars about the inevitable apocalypse brought on by dragons.

Sidenote³: And also because of the pets. They shouldn't have to live with an addicted mother. They'll have self-esteem and trust issues.

 Annnnnnnd tangent is done. For this post at least. Here are some photos of the season:

Can you guess what Lucy was for Halloween?
Can you guess that I enjoy photobombing?

I told Andrew that the wings were much too small for Lucy to be able to fly. He couldn't argue. Or maybe he's just given up arguing with me because it's futile.

Tika cleaning herself while half of her face is drenched, once again, for NO REASON WHATSOEVER.



The boxer dogs of my not-technically-father-in-law-because-someone-won't-put-a-ring-on-it, plus Lucy.

Cocaine?

 

She's like the Megan Fox of dogs, but with talent!

I don't have any final poignant or clever closing statement, so I'll just let you all know that Andrew, who was quietly playing Angry Birds, just called out "cornucopia!" for no reason whatsoever. I swear he doesn't have Turette's.

An Open Letter to a Fellow Concertgoer (AKA, It was a Miracle that a Murder Didn't Occur by the End of the Night.)

Dear Woman Who Sat Two Seats Away from me during Last Night's Nylons Concert,

Thank you for enhancing the concert; you really made it a night I’ll never forget.
 

I’d like to start by congratulating your efforts to join the group. They may be an all-male a cappella group, but that didn’t stop you from trying. After everything you did, I'm sure that the Nylons' manager will call you soon with an offer to join to the group. They'll rename it The Nylons and a Pair of Leggings. Cause you're in a category all your own, you special snowflake.

 

The Nylons, also known as "I'm pretty sure 1/2 of them are gay."

 If you were worried that your attempts at fifth-person harmonizing weren’t heard on stage al the way from the balcony (where we were sitting), you can stop being concerned: everyone heard it. It was especially clear during the group’s cover of I’m Yours by Jason Mraz, where your ooohs and aaahs and Hey-ey-ey-AYYYYYY managed to ruin what was once one of my "happy place" songs. Because of you, I now have it filed under "makes me rage like I take a combination of steroids and bath salts" songs.

I also had to marvel at your amazing clapping skills; although everyone was happily clapping to the beat, you decided to show us up by making extremely loud and complex beats like a cheerleader on cocaine.

Hear me clap, hear some more,

Look at me, the attention whore!

 

Were I wearing this shirt with no bra underneath, I would
have ripped it off my bare body and exposed myself to the
world, as long as she promised to wear it to every concert
she ever went to in order to warn other audience members.
Cause I'm a giving person.

I also think you were trying to start a trend with your clapping. Another trend you attempted was getting the audience to wave their hands in the air during especially poignant songs. Even though you didn’t persuade a single person to join in, you kept blocking the view of the spectators behind with your wildly flailing hands for a full two songs. For that perseverance, I applaud you.

 

I would also like to commend you on your incredible focus. It is amazing that you never noticed the dagger-dipped-in-poison-that-will-slowly-melt-your-insides eyes that I gave you every time you managed to be louder than the singers on stage.

 

The rest of the time I looked like this, cause I'm
a polite Canadian. But really, I felt like this...



Your piece the resistance was during the group’s last song, which also happened to be one of their greatest hits, the Lion Sleeps Tonight. While you still continued your clap, clap-clap, clap, clap, clap-clap beat and your harmonizing, you also decided to make a noise that I could only describe as a mixture of Xena the Warrior Princess’ battle cry and a tropical parrot’s trilling. And let's not forget the reverential "wow" you cried out every single time someone hit a high note which, needless to say, was heard every other fucking minute during the Lion Sleeps Tonight.

 

So once again, thank you for making this concert so memorable. I'm sure that my future children and grandchildren will hear stories of you, and how you made me feel.

Love,

Christine.

P.S. I'd stop doing this shit at concerts, before someone bitch slaps you. Bitch. xox

If You're Hating Your Life Today.

Keep in mind that you are not a mattress.

We drove around the block twice so I could get a good picture of him.

Happy Monday!

And This is Why I Don't Take Taxis

This conversation happened today when I had to take a taxi from work to go pick up my car from the garage.

Me: I can't believe you guys have to deal with the horrible drivers in the city every single day. It would drive me crazy!

Taxi Driver: I'm already crazy. 

Me: *laughs* Well, that saves you the trouble then! 

Taxi Driver: *deadpan* I'm not allowed to carry a gun anymore. 

Me:

Oh my God, I'm going to die in this cab.

 Conversation pretty much ended there.

When Did this Happen?

HOLY FUCK, IT'S FUCKING NOVEMBER!

Sorry for the swearing, Tika is a bit lewd and foul-mouthed. She takes after her mother that way.

Seriously, where did the year go? I just got used to 2012!

Maybe Next Halloween?

Me: I have the best idea for a couples Halloween Costume. Ever. 

Andrew: Oh yeah? What is it? 

Me: I dress up like a hooker, and you give me a piggyback all night. 

Andrew: Ok... I don't get it. 

Me: What would I be in relation to you?

Andrew: ... A really clingy hooker? 

Me: A BACKHOE! 

A costume that would merge Andrew's interest in Heavy
Equipment and his love of scantily clad women.

 Yep, I'm the most clever person in the entire world.

In Case You Thought I was Joking About Being Invisible



 

I really wasn't. 

Proof, motherfuckers.

You know, Courtney only has three different letters than Christine. And four letters out of place.

But the C is definitely in the right place.

 

The Biggest Birthday Party Ever (A Person or Two Might have Called it a Local Bachelorette Party)

So last Friday, I went to my Birthday Party with two friends. It was fabulous. The bridal store really worked hard to make it the best party possible. Just for me.



Lawyer and Ginger, also known as Maid of Honour and Bride
to be, also known as awesome people to get drunk with.

We entered a beautiful banquet room at one of the best hotels in the city. There was a dance floor, a DJ booth, a Henna tattoo stand, a photo booth, the fashion runway, a lounge area and three separate bars (so I didn't have to wak more than 15 feet to get a cranberry-sourpuss-vodka, which I like to call a Party Hour Sweet & Sour).

There were also a bunch of servers offering hors d'oeuvres, but they kept presenting me with seafood, and I was all Haven't you seen The Little Mermaid? Shame on you for killing Sebastian and Flounder!

 

As soon as I got in, Lawyer started buying me drinks. I had no problems whatsoever with this.

 

After a drink or two and a visit to the photo booth, we watched the fashion show. Since I watch America's Next Top Model, I (irrationally) think I'm an amazing judge of runway-walking skills. This means I spent most of the fashion show critiquing the models for their sub-par walks. 

 

You're supposed to sell me the dress. Work it, damnit!

  

Horrible posture and arms, although great attitude.




After the show, there were multiple draws to win prizes. I won a $10 gift card for a jewelry store where bracelets start at around $150. When I got the card, I was like YAY BIRTHDAY PRESENT! Now I see that its basically like saving 7% or less on an item I couldn't afford unless I stopped spending money on cheese and chocolate. Which, let's face it, is never going to happen.

 

Oh, did I forget to mention that there were multiple half-naked men hired to throw lollipops at women and to socialize with the desperate single bridesmaids and the brides-to-be with low morals?

There was also a stripper that gave shows on her pole and taught some girls (and the half-naked men) some moves.

Sidenote: Before her show, the stripper was just walking around like everyone else. As soon as I saw her, I was like Bing-bing-bing! That's definitely a stripper. Turns out that I don't have much of a gaydar, but I do have a great stripperdar.

Us being women of incredible class, preferred to shun the men and grope each other instead.





There is 100% ass-groping going on in this picture.

We proceeded to drink some more.

 





I asked Ginger if it was appropriate to throw money at them.
She said it totally was.

Afterwards, we hit the dance floor, were I taught Ginger how to dance to Gangam Stye while Lawyer looked on disapprovingy (she is a hipster and absolutely refuses to join in any fads, unless they involve wine). After a while, the party planners kicked us off the dance floor so a Burlesque troop could perform.

Men were invited to attend the party after 10pm, but Andrew refused to join, so I sent him pictures of the show with the message See what you're missing? HALF-NAKED WOMEN SHAKING THEIR BOOBS AND ASSES!

 



We were clearly drunk at this point Also, notice the wasted
woman about to poledance in the background.

The night ended with some good old fashioned dancing to the Spice Girls. Then the girls said it was time to call the boys to take us all to our separate homes, since it would take them half an hour to get to us.

 

Because I was having a blast, I totally forgot that there were free limo rides, so as we got texts that our rides were here, the host of the party announced that the limos had arrived and were ready to take the first batch of drunk-ass girls home. Although I suggested that we could just send the boys back home and take the limo instead, both Lawyer and Ginger pointed out that that decision might lead to unfortunate consequences, such as ridiculously angry boyfriends.

 

Before we left, we took one last picture together:

 

 

This was the first attempt of the last picture of the night:

 

My liver didn't like me the morning after.

Blogiversary Year One: I'm Slowly Sucking Andrew into my World of Blogging.

I can't believe its actually been a year since I started sharing my neuroses and other abnormalities with the world.

I wanted to organize a Giveaway, but then I remembered I'm broke as hell. So instead, I'm sharing a Pinterest Board full of things Andrew likes. He refused to create his own account, but was willing to personally pick out things that he thought were awesome. So click here if you want to see pretty women and funny animal photos. Like this:

This picture makes Andrew laugh ridiculously hard every
single time he sees it. Every. Single. Time.

It's clearly a work in progress.

Sidenote: I was actually going to have a comment draw where the winner would get a creepy personal acronym poem like the ones I used to write in High School, but then I thought that might be pushing the envelope in the wrong direction. Pulling the envelope? I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore...

Thank you for loving my weirdness and sharing your own kick ass comments and stories.

Let's just Rename Andrew M. André Bibliothécaire and give him a Berret and Monocle.

Holy shit you guys.

I'm pretty sure Andrew was kidnapped last night and replaced by a clone/robot/cleverly disguised genius llama, cause some weird shit went on.

Sidenote: For those who didn't know/forgot, I'm French Canadian.

When talking to my dad on the phone, Andrew casually asked me Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?, which is French for "What's he saying?" Let me explain why this is so astounding. 

DIE, CHEVREUIL, DIE!

Andrew's knowledge of French can be categorized into three different subjects:

1. The basics, such as Bonjour, comment ça va, etc.
2. Most of the animals of the forest. That way, he can identify them in both languages before blowing their heads off.
3. Swear words. Lots of swear words. Pretty much all of the swear words.

This is the vocabulary of a French toddler, if that toddler happened to be raised by sailors with no parenting experience.

So the fact that Andrew was able to form an entire sentence completely on his own that, while being small in size, was filled with contractions and complicated structure is nothing short of a small miracle.

This is why I simply stared at him in awe, whispering "what did you say?!" Probably feeling extremely superior, he smugly repeated the question with a flawless French accent and walked away. I finished my call with my father and stayed on the couch, wondering who the hell I've been living with for the past 3 years.

Then, later in the same day, I turned away from the computer to find this:


Notice the bag of Teddy Grahams under the chair.
I was not joking about the Teddy Grahams.

Never, in the entire 4+ years I've been with Andrew, have I ever seen him read a book, never mind a novel.

Sure, I've seen him read books about guns and reloading gun shells, enjoy cowboy comic books and glance at hunting magazines, but never an actual book with over 100 pages. And no pictures.

I was so shocked, I took a picture of it as proof that it actually happened because otherwise, no one would believe me.

Two Days Before my Blogiversary, it all Comes Full Circle.

Remember when I created this blog in order to vent out my frustrations that I was completely invisible at my previous job? That, after 5 months on the job, I was called Courtney in a company email?

It just fucking happened.

Again.

At a completely different job, where I have now been for over 4 months, I have received not one, but two packages in the mail today on which I am refered to as Courtney C.

I... I have no words.

It's my Motherf***ing Birthday, Motherf***ers!

Every year, I get overly excited about my birthday, even though nothing tends to happen.

 

BUT WHO CARES IF NOTHING HAPPENS, ITS MY BIRHTDAY BITCHES!

It's the ridiculously amazing cleavage, isn't it?

I'd write more, but I can't. I'm too busy doing whatever the fuck I want to do. Like sleeping in, singing Disney songs to my pets and crashing a bachelorette party.

 

Talk to you soon, because I'm sure I'll have some stories to share after tonight.

 

Have an awesome Friday!

In Case you Thought the Crazy Wedding Bitch Left the Building

She definitely hasn't. She's alive and well and still crazy as fuck, making sure Andrew knows I'd like to be an honest woman before I reach menopause.

And what better way to let him know I want to become Mrs. Andrew Hick than by going to a city-wide Bachelorette Party hosted by a local Bridal Gown Boutique for my birthday!

 

HELL NO!

Sidenote: No, his last name isn't actually Hick.

Sidesidenote: After reading my first sidenote outloud, Andrew responded "That would be awesome."

I'M GONNA HAVE A SPARKLY BIRTHDAY!

So this Friday (IN THREE DAYS!), I'm spending the night getting drunk with Bride-to-be Swizzy and two other friends (another BTB and Maid of Honour) surrounded by glitter and gowns. Since this party just happened to fall on my birthday, I'm assuming that they organized this just for me, so I'm going to pretend that it's my own personal wedding-themed birthday party.

I have a feeling some brides might get angry with me by the end of the night.

After getting shitfaced, I plan on using their complimentary drive home because I think they might have gotten a limo, and I want to feel like P. Diddy, minus the ridonkulous amount of name changes. And since I live way out of town, I'm going to get the driver to drop me off exactly at the city limit, and have Andrew drive me the rest of the way home.

A camera will be brought to the event in order to capture the true beauty behind me getting trashed.

Add a Little Sex Appeal to your Front Yard this Halloween

Do you feel like your lawn needs more trashy seductiveness?

 

Do you want the atmosphere around your home to scream out bimbo! without having to resort to ridiculously skanky costumes that only vaguely look like the character they're supposed to represent? (Not that it will stop you from dressing up as that sexy nurse.)

 

Do you think to yourself "Pumpkins and Scarecrows just don't get me hot and bothered anymore"?

 

Do you just love whores?

 

If you said yes to these questions, consider purchasing the Halloween Hooker Skeleton!

 

Venereal disease and  18th century pimp not included.

We saw this at our local Canadian Tire. They were on sale and yet no one seemed to be buying them. Probably because prostitute chic is so last year.

"Hey baby, how much
for your honey?"

Sidenote: Do prostitutes actually dress up on Halloween night? Like, can you pick up the bumblebee and the ghost on the corner?