Time to Focus, Bitches.

Goldfish Note: This was a comment I posted in response to one of the first posts on this site, in which Stackhouse discussed a reality of college life, among other things… see the original post at http://jasonstackhouse.com/powerthirst-lol-how-about-snortski-thirst-the-way-the-modern-college-student-throws-down/ I felt the rest of my new reader base should get to see my response. This was also the post that solidified my friendship with a certain brilliant degenerate, who also posts on this blog, so it holds significance to me, personally. Get Some, bitches. <3———-
All I have to contribute to this is the observation that a major percentage of people who were in the 18-35 age bracket way back in the 80s were blowing sick amounts of remarkably pure cocaine. These people (most likely including my parents) who now function as supercilious assholes who forget what they were doing when they were our age, did this 24/7: before work, at work, during lunch, after work, during business negotiations, before sex, after sex, in the club, before the gym. It was a completely normalized aspect of society, especially in the early to mid-80s, when the purity of the yayo was off the charts and the getting was really good from the Columbians. What our generation has suffered, aside from the stigmatization of speed and glorification of shitty weed, is the general decline of quality blow available. In the 80s, coke was top quality, and it was cheap. Supply and demand, fuckers. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I don’t have time to break it down – go take an Econ 101 class, but I digress… Given the prevalence of scammers and crappy, cut-up coke in circulation, this is where the beauty of Adderall comes in. Pros: clean, focused, alert, coherent high. Cons: may cost up to $5 a pill if you’re a guy (I’m a chick so I always got them for free). How the hell do you think I researched and wrote a 25-30 page final paper for my “Feminism in Political Theory” class my senior year of undergrad? 18 hours of chemically-assisted focus. No suicidal nausea the next day from all the baking soda and baby laxative. Added Bonus: decreased appetite and boosted metabolism. Fuck the fillers, fuck the calorie/carb-laden Red Bull… get serious and pop an addy. And for the record, I got an A on that paper, bitches.
Get Addy-ed, Get Some. <3

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For Those Who Don’t Get It

After I began posting on this blog, I caught quite a bit of flak from people through inbox messages on Facebook, as well as emails from people who were completely scandalized by what I was saying. So, in the spirit of “fuck all,” here’s a blow by blow of the first sentence of an email I received. Note: This is not a grammatically correct sentence, but I have retyped it in its original form.

“Characteristic trailer trash ramblings of a malignant adolescent imprudently vying for peer acceptance from a clique whose social values are dubious, is demeaning.”

“Characteristic trailer trash?”  I wouldn’t consider myself trailer trash. Working class, yes. Dad worked on cars ever since I can remember, but I, for one, never lived in a trailer. Always went to private school (to the detriment of my family’s financial well-being) read the classics growing up, watched a bazillion musicals and documentaries, took ballet, gymnastics, figure skating, can distinguish Tchaikovsky from Vivaldi, put myself through an Ivy League university… meh…I guess not so trailer trash, after all, huh?

“Ramblings?”  All my posts have a point. Hopefully you get it. Unlike the terribly constructed sentence that is the subject of this blog. [shudder]

“Malignant?”  I’d say I’m pretty benign to be honest. I talk a big game, but it’s all in good fun. Believe it, and that’s your own problem, not mine.

“Adolescent?”  Why thank you, I’ve gotten to the point where I’m going to begin lying about my age, since I’ve passed 29, but I’m still being carded for my Parliaments at Walgreens. So maybe the adolescent part might be remotely buyable; although you are off by 13 years, I’ll allow it.

“Imprudently vying for peer acceptance?” Nah, not really. As long as I amuse myself, I’m happy. Usually there is a select group of my friends (many of whom are not even my peers, fyi) who gets what I’m saying and are amused as well. I’m not necessarily looking for their acceptance, but just glad my cleverness isn’t going to waste.

“A clique?” Nope, again. I am the clique. I make the rules; I am the queen bee who accepts and rejects. People audition their wit and humor to me, not vice versa.

“Social values which are dubious?” This part is totally fucking correct, sir. My social values are dubious at best. Seriously.

“Demeaning?”  No one can insult/demean/condescend to/hurt/or make you cry unless YOU allow them to. Enough said. That goes for this entire paragraph of criticism that I’ve deconstructed. Preach on. For anyone who doesn’t get it and prefers to hate, hear this: Fuck off, Get Some <3

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Separate Them from Us; Equality is a Non-Issue when It Comes to Good Looks

So I go to the gym tonight at peak time, not because I want to be there at 6 p.m., it’s just how my day panned out. The whole 5 minute drive there, I’m dreading it, because I know how busy L.A. Fitness in Lauderdale can be at that time of day. Plus, it’s a legs day for me, in addition to cardio. This means fighting for machines, weights, and a treadmill or elliptical. The only consolation is that I’m figuring all the pretty boy 9-5 schmucks who live for the weekend should be in there at the time, so at least I’ll have a lot of talent to observe. Obvi, I should be surrounded by beautiful people, especially if I have to wait for an elliptical. I was so motherfucking wrong. Now, don’t misunderstand me: I get it, if I go to the gym at 11 a.m. or 1 p.m., I expect to see the soccer moms, the fat chicks, the old dudes, the fat guys. NOT during high volume time between 6 p.m. and 7:30 p.m. WHAT THE FUCK. I felt like Danny Glover, when he’s out hunting big game at Planet Fitness in Ridley Park. Jesus fucking Christ. Talk about a huge square foot area filled with fat, ugly people, sweating their balls and drooping tits off (self excluded, of course).
The gym is a necessary evil; however, if I have to go in there and work out, I should not have to be subjected to a visual assault in the form of obese, busted-out, graceless human forms. I pay good money to be able to go in there, run, lift, stretch, and mock those who wear flip flops/sunglasses/Ed Hardy/fedoras/scarves while working out. I expect said subjects of mockery to be tan, jacked, and tatted up. Unfortunately, I did not experience that tonight, to my huge disappointment and utter disgust.
My solution is for L.A. Fitness to qualify the membership during certain hours… let’s make those who are above a pre-specified body fat percentage be forced to come in only during certain hours. For example, I rarely get out of bed before 11 a.m. The Fuglys could come in between 5 and 11 a.m., then be banned until 10 p.m., picking up Fugly hours from 10 p.m. to midnight. All the hot people are home at that point anyways, showering, getting ready to go out to the clubs. From 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., everyone who walks through those doors would be strictly attractive, fuckable, and part of the sexy clique of Ft. Lauderdale. I, for one, am motivated to run longer, better, faster, stronger on that treadmill if I have the stud of the month on the treadmill next to me. I will definitely squat a few extra reps if Miss February is doing her lunges next to the Smith machine I am monopolizing for 3 sets of 12. Pretty people belong together… so do the genetically cursed of society. Separate is never equal, nor should it be. Be Sexy, Get Some, bitches. <3

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Get out of my house, bitch…

So tonight, I’m staying in with my magically delicious roommate, and we decide to allow a Jew into our apartment. He shows up with our favorite, “Brack and Yerrow,” so that’s not a problem. We’re all drinking, having fun. About 5 minutes later, one other friend walks into the apartment (which admittedly we left unlocked). We call this kid, “Laying Down Crying.” We all go out onto the balcony to smoke a cig, and we see a brunette stroll past us and into my living room. After much hemming and hawing on the balcony, I walk into the living room and ask this bitch, “Excuse me, who are you?”

Her: “I’m A–.”

Me: “And why are you in my apartment?”

Her: “I’m with ‘Laying Down Crying.’”

Me: “Ok.”

So I go into my roommate’s bathroom which is in the master bedroom, not accessible to the public. Laying Down Crying is pissing in my roommate’s bedroom, not in the guest bathroom. So I stroll in while he’s pissing and ask him,

Me: “Who is that whore in my living room?”

Him: “My girl, A–.”

Me: “I don’t know her, get that bitch the fuck out of my house.”

Him: “Uhhhhh.”

I proceed to go back to the balcony w/ my roommate and the Jew and Brack and Yerrow… Where we watch both of them walk by, her pulling him by the hand. He tries to gesture as if to say, “what the fuck,” yet she drags him out. I follow and deadbolt the door.

After they get out onto the street, they stroll past our balcony, and “Laying Down Crying” flips us off. Like WE are the problem? What the fuck, seriously? Get Some… xoxo <3

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To the Dude who responded to my Cromartie rant and called me a Cunt

Dear Child Cock,

If you really were trying to double post in order to put me on blast for my team not winning… Idiot, you might want to change up your wording.

Pats played like shit, I admit it. Welcome to the world of being a Boston sportsfan, welcome to my life. Fuck off. I stand by my team, spit sugar smack with the best of the big boys, and I always will. Blow me, douche-bag.

And I do believe there were many, many other people, talking heads included, who had the same opinion of the Jets/Pats matchup. Tom Brady is phenomenally talented, but perhaps you don’t follow professional football and haven’t seen him play. I am sure I understand the game better than you do. So when you talk about cunts, stick to speaking strictly of your female relatives.

Xoxo Too bad you can’t Get Some. <3

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My Dislikes As Posted on Facebook: Expanded Upon, Part 2

  • When it’s 108 with the heat index: hence why there is no beach going in June and July.
  • My stress-induced insomnia: I am currently writing the first draft of this blog at 5:38 a.m. and contemplating going to the gym afterward. No… sleep…. till Brooklyn.
  • David Caruso (so smarmy): ugh, someone please make sure he OD’s in the next few years. Dear god(s), we will trade you Heath Ledger for David Caruso… AND give you Justin Bieber as a bonus.
  • When people make grammatical/spelling errors on their Facebook status and tweets: The entire cast of Jersey Shore, about 800 of my 1100 Facebook friends, and Mr. Jason Stackhouse (the big slinging dick himself, but it’s part of his charm, no?)
  • Guys who must have Splenda and skim milk in their coffee: be a fucking man and drink it black
  • Decaf coffee: is there any point? Seriously?
  • American Idol and any person who has ever been on it: the only one I know of is that cow, Kelly Clarkson, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on with her career
  • Conservative politics: I should live in Sweden
  • People who bandwagon when their home team finally is doing well: shut the fuck up I was a Patriots/C’s/B’s/Sox fan when they sucked
  • Any New York Yankees fan who did not grow up in NY: bandwagoning douche-bags
  • Any New York Yankees fan: period
  • Guys who “psst” me to get my attention: mostly Mexicans up north did this, not so much in Lauderdale
  • Cops: as Ice-T said, “Fuck the Po-lice”
  • People who drink virgin frozen drinks: are you fucking kidding me? A virgin frozen margarita is sour mix and lime juice with ice…Jesus Christ
  • Beautiful girls who are so fucking stupid they can only talk about their hair: most of the girls in SoFlo
  • People who can’t stay sober for more than 2 days in a row: so apparently I dislike myself and all my friends
  • Lateness: Mostly directed at one of my best friends up north, as well as my sneaky Asian bitch who is so late that the greasy-spoon-diner waiter pities me for pretending I’m going to have lunch with an imaginary friend
  • Poorly behaved dogs: I blame their lazy-ass owners
  • Men who act like boys: I blame their over-indulgent Italian mothers
  • The fucking New York Jets: see previous blog regarding Cromartie and Ryan. My sentiments still stand despite the outcome last Sunday. Jets suck.
  • Girls who are threatened by other pretty girls: you’re insecure, bitch.
  • Badge bunnies: If I don’t like cops, imagine how I feel about girls who get off on cops… eww
  • People who are ignorant of how to behave in a bar: please youtube.com “the bartender hates you” to educate yourself or click the link below, or risk a Goldfish fin slap to your fucking face. Get Some <3

The Bartender Hates You

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My Dislikes As Posted on Facebook: Expanded Upon, Part 1

  • Simple-minded people who do not get my sarcasm: prime example, if you are offended by any of my statuses, tweets, or blog posts
  •  Being cock-blocked: especially by gay guys or ex-boyfriends
  • Restaurants/bars that are nowhere close to maintaining any standard of cleanliness or able to stock any of the proper liquor: this refers to one bar at which I used to work, primarily.
  • All the fake posers and bullshitters in SoFlo: don’t try to sell it to me, I don’t want to hear your sob story about how you used to have so much cash, but now there is some excuse for your driving a KIA
  • Self-proclaimed “players” who have really weak game: get some new lines, that shit is worn the fuck out
  • Ed Hardy and anything that is more sparkly than something I’d wear: other than His Highness the Sparkle Princess, I really abhor all this rhinestone blingy-bling nonsense on the back of any other dudes’ shirts and jeans. Fagaliciousness.
  • Airhead girls – airhead guys: Stupid people bore me to death. Period. Regardless of their gender.
  • Boys who try to perpetuate the Guido Jersey Shore stereotype just ‘cause they think they’ll get laid: First of all, I’m from RI and I wouldn’t bang Pauly D himself, what makes you think I’d want to bang a Pauly D wannabe?
  • People who bitch and moan: I got bigger problems than you do, bitch.
  • Not being allowed to yawn without someone commenting on it: I’m tired – haven’t slept since I was an infant – friggin’ sue me. OR… your conversation is boring the shit out of me.
  • Hangovers: Uggggh…. Between the alcohol and the drugs, I paid a lotta money to feel this shitty.
  • Being shitfaced: I’m a control freak, don’t like to lose it. Worse yet – the stories the next day.
  • Shoveling snow: LOL, I live in South Florida, motherfuckers! Don’t have to deal with this ever again. Hope all my friends up north are currently enjoying it.


No Snow here, bitches. Get Some <3

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Cromartie, Do Me a Favor, and Go Fuck Yourself

Ok, so admittedly this is not typical Blonde Goldfish Diary Material, but as a New England Patriots fan for the past 20+ years (not getting my true age so easily, motherfuckers), I cannot remain silent on the subject. As quoted by espn.com and other reliable sports news sites, the fucking New York Jets cornerback Antonio Cromartie gave the following quip to the NY Daily News in reference to Tom Brady, “An asshole…Fuck him.” Oh really? Bwaahahahaha…

Seriously? And then their pussy-ass coach Rex Ryan and incompetent D-end Shaun Ellis want to get all Princess Pea-ish and bitch and moan about the manner in which Brady’s acknowledging of plays last December made every fan in Foxboro Stadium CMGI Field Gillette Stadium and watching on t.v. go absolutely fucking nuts? Sorry, Ryan, you don’t like his “antics?” Oh ok, his bad, sorry, last meet up in Foxboro, in December, I do recall Prince Brady threw 4 TDs and 326 yards, topping only our favorite cock-pic texting Brett Favre (fuck that whore Jenn) for most consecutive wins at home. Was the score not J-E-T-S [suck-suck-suck] 3 and the Patriots 45? Laughing out fucking loud at “Coach” Ryan’s quote after that game referring to Coach Belichick being “I came in here to kick his butt…and he kicked mine.” All I have to respond is, “Yes, you are fucking correct, sir.”

So,  I am not sure what is giving the fucking New York Jets so much confidence to be talking shit before Sunday’s game. I just want to leave you all with the name of the Facebook group I joined back in the Videogate scandal, back when people still joined Facebook groups. It was called (and still is) “Quit your bitching, the Patriots beat you ‘cause you suck.” There you go, “Coach” Ryan. Start your jaw stretching exercises or get out the lube and start slathering it on. Coach Belichick is the one true God, and Tom Brady is his Prophet. In the name of the Brady, the Connolly, and the Deion Branch, Amen, bitches. See you all on Sunday, it’s ON. Get Some. <3

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Acting like a Princess, Despite Dealing with Sea-Hags

About a month or so ago, I was bartending a very slow Sunday night. It was one of those nights that I only had a few sporadic customers between 8 and 11 p.m., so needless to say I was able to enjoy the Sunday Night Football broadcast and a few beers with minimal annoying interruptions. The bar was completely deserted by 11, but I (like the fucking trooper that I am) waited until 1 a.m. to actually lock the door, clean up, and close out the register.

Now, I have to stop right here and define a term for you. SEA-HAG. In my neighborhood, among my clique, this word refers to a woman over 50, who is a complete slutty, drunken, psycho Fort Lauderdale whore. Usually she dresses like a slore, MUST have huge fake tits, and a fucked up face. In general these women are high-maintenance bar customers who tip like shit. I must give props to Brett (my favorite Broski) for inspiring this term with his own coining of the “Slam Pig.” Basically, a Sea-Hag is an old, worked-over, burnout, aging Slam Pig.

To continue, right around 1:20, as I’m batching out the credit card machine and counting the register, I see two old, busted women banging on the plate-glass window. These drunken Sea-Hags both are insanely annoying and ridiculously tacky. They are waving at me, tottering on their ugly, cheap heels, and incessantly tap-tap-tapping on the glass.

Apparently, no one told them that knocking and tapping on the fishbowl or aquarium (a.k.a., bar windows or doors) is a quick way to provoke this Goldfish to wrath.

As fucking aggravated and pissed as I was, I walked over and smilingly told them (since it clearly was not obvious enough, with the barstools up on the bar, the floor shiny and wet, and all the lights blazing) I was closed out for the night. The one busted blonde, weighing in at 70lbs, her tits most likely 25% of her body weight, threw me a dirty look and informed me I should be open until 2am, while the cheap Brazilian told me she was going to call the owner. The Brazilian whips out her ghetto cell and proceeds to call the elderly owner. My response through the glass was, “Fine, call him, I really don’t care. I’m closed.” She then looked at me and said, “You are an ignorant bitch.” Exit stage left, two nasty, aging, plastic-surgery addicted, coked-up, and blacked-out Sea-Hags, fortunately for them before I unlocked that door and let loose with a crazy tirade.

About an hour later (as I’m four shots of Stoli deep at the bar next door to mine), the owner calls my cell. I tell him my side of the story… he agrees I did the right thing by closing at that particular time, and that was it. Obviously, the key part of this story the quote from that busted foreign Sea-Hag: “You are an ignorant bitch.”

Really. Really? Really?! REALLY!!!! Now, don’t get me wrong, this is about 75% amusing to me and 25% anger-provoking. This Brazilian bitch doesn’t know me personally or my background. I may be many things: neurotic, oversexed, caustic, narcissistic, and underpaid – and most definitely I AM a bitch – but I am not ignorant. I went to Brown University, you cunt. Where did you get your education? Oh wait, you didn’t even go to college did you? that’s right … Kiss my cute, Ivy-League ass. Get Some. <3

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Je m’appelle Jocelyn. Enchante, bitches.

Every single day of my life, one of my primary goals is to get off amuse myself, usually at the expense of someone else. If I don’t do it, who else will do it for me? Most of the posts to follow this one will expand on this theme: my own fucking amusement. Anything that varies from this will most likely be a Glover-esque rant, in which I rip to shreds whatever/whomever is pissing me off at the moment. Prepare yourselves for the Diary of a Blonde Goldfish. Here we go, bitches. Get Some.

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