Life, Liberty and Pursuit of Your Boyfriend

Penis Tuesday

Holy, Land of Four-hour Hard-ons, Batman!

Priaprism is the serious medical condition of having an erection for way longer than necessary (but just about as long as I could handle it). A persistent, painful, four-hour-long erection, mind you. And by the sound of it, fellas, it doesn't sound as if you can just tuck-it-in-your-belt-and-forget-about-it.

Doesn't make all those commercials with all the Viagara-happy poppers jumping around the neighborhood at barbecues with creepy smiley faces so joyful, does it?

And if that perverted notion didn't put an "ohmigosh" expression across your face, click here for the female version. Yes, news to me, we have our own... erection.

The Mel Hangover finally ends...

It was my birthday celebration weekend. Now aging gracefully and maturing to my ripening season, I figure I could handle my liquor a bit better. Rightfully, I'd like to "man up." This not having the ability to drink without a hangover for three days needs to cease-and-desist. This is why Mel had the Best Weekend Ever!
Let the martinis (with gin, please) commence!

Thursday night was the return to Maggiano's Little Italy in Beachwood with my family. Our experience last year (also for my big day) was wonderful, so we decided to return. The staff placed us in a separate family room, with pulled drapes for privacy. And let me tell you, even with discontent and frustrating results from my family members, the family-style dinner is the way to order. First off, the portions are HUGE -- you select two apps, two salads, two pastas, two meats, two desserts for the entire table. And, we fed seven guests, with enough take-out for another three people. With the exception of the veal parmigiana being horribly bland, over-cooked and dry, the chicken parm and spaghetti with meatballs were both great. Of course, I had to have the baked ziti with sausage, and I was nice enough to share. The bartender also makes a mean pineapple martini. Too bad the first drink had salt rimmed around the glass and not sugar; it made for an interesting drink combo.

Friday -- the official day -- started off wonderfully with my free Bou-Day white mocha at Caribou. The guys at work all got together and bought me a super-chocolate chocolate cake, which I ate until I practically puked. I really wanted to spend my birthday relaxed (and get a great night of sleep, despite all that chocolate). The boyfriend and I brought my free "Burger Day" coupon to Red Robin, where I pigged out on my regular  jalapeno-and-pepper-jack classic and a drink called, I think "Shorts in the Sand." Giddily liquored up and full, we went to see "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" (and all of Jason Segal's penis!!!) at the Solon Theaters. I cannot tell you how nice it was to be in bed before midnight... and sleep in on Saturday.

Saturday, we were all set up to stay downtown. I was super excited to get a room facing towards the inside of the arcade. After checking in, we settled up to the hotel lounge at the Hyatt, where I enjoyed my first taste of Tanquerey Rangpur (set in a lemon-line martini). OK, I love Tanquerey. Why haven't I heard of this lime-flavored gin until now? Then, we walked down to the Metropolitan Cafe, for what proves to be the BEST meal I think I have ever had in my life. I started with the tomato and mozzarella salad (I'm still trying to figure out what the green glaze stuff was in my vinaigrette) and a French 75 (of course, some lemon-y gin concoction finished with champagne). The restaurant and bar has switched to all natural juices in their cocktails and has also updated its wine list. For my main course, I chose the Metropolitan Filet -- cooked to my medium-rare preference, the steak is placed over spinach risotto, covered in goat cheese, mixed with cranberries -- and a cranberry sauce all over the plate. Needless to say, I had no room left for dessert.  Our waitress (I think her name was Sonny? Crap) was awesome! It had been years since I last went to Metropolitan. I will not wait that long to return.

After dinner, and a strange, awkward shared cab ride with a stranger, we got dropped off at Corner Alley on East 4th. Without reservations, we waited a little less than an hour for a lane (the expected wait time was even more than that). During that time, we found room for fried pickles (seriously?) and a Blue Moon Martini for me. Of course, I bowled crappier than usual. I blame the martinis. The boyfriend won the bets, but I got my prize regardless. After bowling and drinking for a couple games (and losing my balance into the slick lane), we finished up at Flannery's... with a beer. I also bummed a Misty from a random on the patio. I was, at this point, obnoxious, and carrying on loudly about inappropriate (read: sexual) topics.

On route back to the hotel, and apparently on the wrong street, I run into family members. Yes, folks, this shit seriously only happens to me. I run into my grandpa and my aunt and uncle after they left the Indians game. *sigh* I'm almost positive I told them we were heading back to the car -- instead of a hotel -- but I'm not sure it sounded any better, seeing the condition I was in... loudly. We ordered pizza, but apparently passed out before it was delivered -- and I ordered breakfast from a hangtag, but hung it on the INSIDE of the door. Gosh, I wish I took a picture of it. I circled things, crossed things out, wrote things in with asterisks and the like. That, folks, is a birthday celebrated to its best.

McDonald's breakfast sandwiches could not help my hangover Sunday morning. I stayed on the couch for majority of the gloomy day surrounded with coffee, water, cereal and grocery bags (yes, for puking)... and more America's Next Top Model.  I pulled myself together for The Swell Season at the Allen Theater. I was so excited for this concert (not-so-much for the headache), since seeing the movie "Once several months ago. I wasn't paying nearly enough attention when tickets went on sale, since upon reading concert updates some time last week, I informed the boyfriend. We were in the upper-deck area, but thankfully, not completely shut out, since most cities sold out.

I had the pleasure of being seated near a miserable twat that gave me Manson Lamps when she was ushered to her row because apparently my crossed-over foot crossed over her seating area. (Seriously, she could have said "excuse me" or even "move your damn foot," but glaring? Seriously. I am not your fucking daughter). There were also two Czech guys in front of us who were obviously drunk and uber-ecstatic to see Marketa ("She is from our country! YA, Marketa!"). The guys behind gave me the pleasure of talking like immature-young-20-somethings, smelly burps included, and singing along... horribly off-key. I came to see/hear Glen Hansard, thank you. Even more awesome, one of the Czech guys held a lighter up during one of the encores, and Miserable Twat actually smacked his arm away. How the hell could you be married to that?

Glen Hansard really lit up the stage last night. He is funny, quick-witted and without doubt, extremely talented. And the man did his own rendition of "Near/Far" (and did you catch his "menomona"?) from Sesame Street and a bit of Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory. What is not to love? There has not been an artist that has moved me with his voice, words and music so emotionally. Except maybe Babyface, in like 1995. God, I'm old now, right?

Something smells funny...

Most have heard that smell is closely tied to memory, but did you know there is also a part of smell that leads to a little more bedroom action? I've long heard the propensity for men to be attracted to women wearing certain scents; for example, vanilla (does my new Vanilla Cupcake body wash from Sephora make you randy?). But did you know that people were... FAKING it?

Human Pheromones exist to "woo" the opposite sex by simulating a mix of mammal-ready "vomodors" and androstadierones found in humans, bottled into a handy perfume/cologne. The scent promises (nee, guarantees) to stimulate all that naughtiness. I found this site about human pheromones, specifically the Pheromones Institute, and I became seriously interested in the fascination of smell in regard to sex, lust, and general over-friendliness to the opposite sex. Wikipedia defines "pheromones" as "to bear hormones." I wouldn't be surprised if products such as these contained some blend of steroids that seeped into bloodstreams and just made you feel manlier. Oooooohh. (I made that sound with my best Hans-and-Fran muscle face). In addition, there is no concluded study that verifies these pheromone-based products actually change behaviors to be more sexual (or perverse).

For a great laugh at all the losers you made fun of in the club with shiny shirts and popped colors, the testimonial page highlights those as despicable horn-dogs with nothing better going for them than trumping their buddies in the amount of times they get some hot action. Ironically, by using the "other head," they lost all skills to count the number of times they were a douchbag.

Is this desperation in dating at its worst? Or is it completely typical of the sexed-up male psyche to believe that "more means more"?

Stick around to crack up at lines like this: cheaper than inviting your mate at lunch and much worth it. Seriously.

So, if I want to go bang some hot chick, will the pheromones for men attract hot, sexy women work to ME? Then I have a few celebrities in which I would like to stalk... er, call.

Has anyone ever tried this stuff? What is your experience? Did it work?

When it comes down to my personal study on odor, I don't really care to smell a man's sweat, balls, boxers or otherwise. I'm more turned on by the picture of my boyfriend's penis I keep in my purse.

I don't know what kind of crack they're brewing in my coffee...

but for the second time this week, I realized I put my underwear on inside-out.

They only want you when you're 17; when you're 21 31, you're no fun.

I have gone and turned 31. It's not really a bad age; 30 was an amazing year for me. A lot of what I set out to do this year, I have accomplished, and I feel at peace with my successes. I am content that the motivation I felt will not diminish after this new number is added after that 3.

Unfortunately for everyone around me, I hate what I'm doing, not the work so much as the accountability and responsibility. My job is nowhere near what I thought I would be doing, but I love my office, the people who work with me and ultimately, what I am being paid for my services. BUT I'm just stressed out until all hours even after I leave the office. It's repulsive to me that in my 30s, I still do not have a job with any sort of medical coverage (and I cannot self-sustain with the budget I created), or any additional benefits, save for a week of vacation.

My mood swings last for days and usually end with anger tantrums or sobbing uncontrollably. I've tried to divest this energy into bike riding, taking long walks with the dog, punching the side of the house -- it doesn't work. My comfortable extroverted nature has left for nights in solitude, talking to the dog and crying over a good book.

I hate when I look in the mirror that my face looks older, that the powder folds into creases under my eyes now, and that it takes seventeen different applications to cover the circles underneath them. I hate my pores have stretched on my skin, opening up the world to my former acne scars, and that my face still is oily and ridden with breakouts worse than when I was a teenager. I hate that I've wasted good hard-earned money on every single skincare line that exists, to no avail. My ass is better than ever though (maybe because I finally have one).

I fear the resiliency I acquired while tending to myself for years has depleted. I go to bed at night, and have frequent bouts of insomnia, but have a consistent and overwhelming bouts of defeat. I tell the dog that "one day I won't have to leave you" when I'm walking out the door, wishing I could work from home in my jammies and fuzzy slippers.

I find it harder and harder to leave my bed every. single. morning. Except for today.

Today, I changed directions. I drove a new route to work. I grabbed a free "Bou Day" white mocha at Caribou in La Place. I drove the speed limit. I wasn't in a rush to get to a place I loathe, but just arrived in style -- looking and feeling good. I noticed how green the grass was in the medians, how bloomy the trees were hanging into Fairmount Boulevard. I wasn't even nervous for all the cars in the traffic circle. Maybe it was the great night of sleep, maybe it was the cute birthday note left on the kitchen table, maybe it was the mini-van that parked too close to my SUV that made me thankful I was thin enough to squeeze in between the vehicles. Maybe because all those Papa John's characters made me feel blessed in all the things I do have. Maybe it's because my boss is on vacation. *smile*

Maybe I've finally broke free from looking at all these things around me in a miserable or non-existing state and have accepted this transition as something... happy. I woke up this morning feeling refreshed, content, loved... and so unbelievably happy.

Here's to another birthday -- a new year of breathing life into myself.

A few thoughts on humanity... and my mother.

If there was a ever a question as to the reason we are the "fattest city in America," then you need to click here: NewsNet5 Live Video at Papa John's
UPDATE: OK, fans are waiting FIVE HOURS in line for a 23-cent pizza. Seems to me that time is much more valuable than saving a mere TEN DOLLARS on a freaking pizza. Seriously, do you people have JOBS? UPDATE: it is ten o'clock pm. There are STILL people in line at Papa Johns. I feel very sad for my people in this country.

I have a bit of a clue to give any female that works in sports: If you can't handle that males are already "immaturish" and "over-sexed," then you, milady, whom is offended by a freaking DOLL, should not be working in baseball. You sound miserable... and like you need to get laid. I mean, it might be against policy, but most the baseball players I know are up for a good shag. And fuck me for saying too much, but women should NOT be allowed in men's locker rooms. Call me old-fashioned.

Like, seriously? What the hell did the "Top Mom" group expect? Happy Mother's Day to MY MOM. She gets my award, with a gold star for my affliction for colored language (I take after her side on that trait). Love you mom! By the way, how cute is it that I'm a Mother's Day baby -- and I was my mom's first of seven. Yes, that folks, is a woman worthy of an award, not some bleached-out, tanorexic stage mom that uses her daughter to propel her own fame. While I am disgusted at the novelty of "Keeping Up With the Kardashians," I often wonder how hilarious a reality show our family would create. We got the hot sisters portion down pat!

But thankfully, my father is not Bruce Jenner.

And ANOTHER thing, I rode behind this chick this morning (doesn't that sound dirty?) in an AWESOME brand new black Jeep Wrangler with the words "I'm Bossy" written in fun, graduation colors on her rear window. Seriously though, the only thing she's "boss" of is her propensity to be obnoxious. Thanks for the graduation present, Moms and Dads! But where's the matching Prada bag?" Puke. OK, I may be bitter because my first car was an '88 Hyundai Excel hatchback. If anyone's the boss, it's me, learning how to change flat tires on freeway ramps and getting in through the back lift when I locked my keys in the ignition.

Mel de Mayo

I second the sentiment my friend made about having a diet entirely based on Mexican food. Even with an early leftovers lunch, I'm still skipping around the office singing "I Love Mexican." And no, my boyfriend's name is not Eduardo.

Last night we incorporated Ladies' Night, "Seis de Mayo" and my birthday celebrations all into one very special Nuevo Acapulco dinner. I swear I eat there until I am stuffed beyond what an average stomach holds. While I strayed away from my usual Cadillac Margarita with a Tecate (in a can) beer, I gorged myself on my typical three cheese-and-onion enchilada platter... with heavy sour cream.

It's not my birthday quite yet -- only a few days away. The brief mention of birthday celebrations for us going back two/three years was hilarious. It is so much nicer to have dinner and conversation with friends with a celebration that ultimately everyone will remember... and not be embarrassed by the photos -- with the exception of this one:



I mean, I (vaguely) remember my 29th when I passed out in handicapped stall, but it certainly is not memorable for the right reasons. God help me, I'm getting older.

My wonderful girls brought me a bouquet of sunflowers and other yellow flowers and two HUGE bags of Malley's chocolates of random varieties.

If I had the option, Malley's would be my second diet selection.

I be real a smart people!

A few news outlets were highlighting the latest trend in dating sites -- for Intelligent People only. Not surprisingly, an 18-question IQ test is required upon acceptance to find other smart folks. Intrigued, I took the test. This is what I received:


I never claim to call myself an IQ test whiz or anything (as I have scored with high IQ results in many other aptitude tests in years past), but this multiple choice exam was total BS! There is a time allotment of a minute per question (with a handy, annoying and distracting countdown timer above the question/problem). Most of the questions did not even appear for 10-20 seconds and Question No. 5 took over 30 seconds! Number 9 stumped me in a HUGE "WTF?!" as there was an obvious missing pattern (Yes, obvious, shut the hell up!). I am convinced many did not even have patterns -- or it would have taken me 20 minutes to find if one did exist.

I talked my co-worker into taking the test as well. Hilariously ironic, he spelled "intelligent" incorrectly when entering in the URL... twice. He also did not pass.

That's fine. I didn't want to date anyone smart anyway!

Penis Tuesday!

Shut up and sit down, you big bald fuck! Let's all get cozy for a little Penis Tuesday.

Today's hairy topic is full frontal nudity, specifically in films that are more-or-less accessed by the general public, rather than perverts in their basements. I am part of a generation that certainly said "Feel it! Feel it!" at the unveiling of Marky Mark's "Funky Bunch" in Boogie Nights and was further fascinated by a brief cock-in-mirrors shot of Heath Ledger in "I'm Not There" -- Lest his penis rest in peace. And I'm sure EVERYBODY laughed at the penis caricatures in "Superbad."

I talked the boyfriend into seeing "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," emphasizing Jason Segall's full-frontal "Woah!" in the movie.  He was less than amused in my thought process that it is "awesome." (Read: we did not see it).
Bring on more penises, Hollywood! I already see enough boobies. But oooh shit, I need to watch "Wild Things" again. I also love me some Bacon Penis.

The weekend that wouldn't end!

And only because for majority of it, I did not leave the basement couch. Ugh, more America's Next Top Model marathons... The only thing worse was watching Real World Hollywood. I feel sick for the next generation of college graduates.

In any event, Friday night I got my boobs done:

 

They do a surprisingly good job over there at Ballantine's in downtown Willoughby! Yes, I ended up on the far east side of the river, for what seems to be an epoch of age markers. We had another 30th birthday SURPRISE! party at the cute restaurant/bar on Erie Street for my great friend who I have known since FIRST GRADE. I always love hanging with this group of friends (and yes, their parents). They have this way of bringing this super goofy personality out of me, reminiscent of third grade.

I started off with Da Belgians beer flight which consisted of four four ounces of fabulous brew! #1 was Gulden Draak (a dark, caramelly-flavored beer), #2, CHIMAY!, #3 and #4 were two I have never tasted before: Piraat Ale (IPAs are ALWAYS a good choice!) and Maredsous which was a sweet-and-sour (yes, at the same time) Dubbel. The beer list at Ballantines is extensive, and you have a choice of about four beer flights from different regions (the East Coast vs. West Coast sounded equally as good) and there is a "make your own" version. Seeing as it wasn't necessary to be drunk off one beer at 10.5% ABV, I switched to Jack-n-Gingers and shots of vodka. The reasoning, see, it leaves me with the alcohol...

The table shared a few small plates for nibbling: the jalapeno and fig ribs were freaking tasty and the spinach and artichoke dip reminded us of something like split pea soup. I can't have fish/seafood, but Magma said the calamari was fairly decent as well. Although, he doesn't normally eat fish, so it made me nervous.

Thankfully, I quit drinking before I got on stage with the band at Willoughby Brewing Company and pretended it was my birthday.

And how can I forget chatting along on the outdoor patio with a spirited 23-year-old on the ease of quitting smoking after years of tobacco abuse... while I had a cigarette in my mouth. Classy, San Diego!

Saturday morning, devouring an early-morning McDonald's breakfast sandwich, I felt pretty good. The rain all day was relaxing and I took an awesome afternoon nap on the couch with all the windows open. And then I made myself sick by crying for about 24 hours straight. Seriously, I hate being a fucking woman.

And no, I was not watching "The Notebook."

Few things on Friday!

I'm a week away from my birthday, but keeping my mind off the older revelation by celebrating other things.

1. I did my hair again this week. It's totally cute and it doesn't look as though there's a box on my head anymore. Growing out my hair from a faux-hawk has been... interesting. I love the deep chocolate brown color and caramel highlights. Yes, it's like the fourth time I've changed my hair in four months. Nicole Jeffrey's rocks!

2. Yay! First pedicure of Spring. My feet are treasured items on my body. They're so soft and cute and red-sparkled. I only wish I could afford one once a month.

3. I totally pigged out at the Wing Warehouse in Akron Wednesday night: sampler app platter (LOVE cheesy potato bites!!), huge salad with two dump-loads of bleu cheese and a ten-spot of boneless hot wings. You can only follow that with a fried Twinkie, of course!

4. The wind being knocked out of my sails. I'm not really ready to talk about it yet (I know, bloggers HATE that) because I'll cry. I'm almost 31 now... and way too hormonal. I may as well be pregnant and 16.

5. Dresses on sale at Urban Outfitters online! Woo!

6. And behold, the cutest birthday shoe ever purchased:

Heard Around the Office

Day one:
BigMan: Are you going to have sex to that CD?
(laughter and some creepy sex movements)
M1: Definitely not a sex CD.
(said album was "Strawberry Jam" by Animal Collective)
M2: Do you remember Silk?
(the two M's sing some random lyrics to Silk)
M1: Great sex album! Never had sex to it though. I did have sex to Ginuwine "Pony."
(pause...)
M1: I lost my virginity to "Let's Talk About Sex." Ironic.
BM: I lost my virginity to "Copacabana."

Day two:
M2: I haven't had sex in so long, her arm hanging out the car next to me was sexy enough to beat off to.

Day three:
M2: I love being able to have sex whenever I want.
M1: And do you reciprocate whenever he wants to have sex? Like, when you're mad?
M2: Oh no, he doesn't even come near me when I'm mad.

He gets me... and he gets head.

I knew my boyfriend was the one when he uttered this phrase at Best Buy upon purchase of a flat-screen monitor:

That monitor is black; your computer is silver.  Are you sure you want the black one?

See? He gets my "matchy-matchy" personality.

Of course, I had already quietly gone through that very color debate in my head before selecting the better, black one. But I'm pretty sure when I asked him at Sam's if he wanted a blow job later, I was not quietly debating it in my head. Stop it, there's people...

To cheat or not to cheat?

Things don't get more "Pursuit of Your Boyfriend" than this... eh, unless it's Pursuit of Your Husband, I suppose.

A story about cheating was provoked by Monday night's episode of "How I Met Your Mother." (BROS BEFORE HOES!) I told my boyfriend about a cheating incident in which I'm truly embarrassed about -- a stupid mistake made OVER TEN YEARS ago that completely changed my thought process about the importance of friendships and relationships. Short story, I fucked around with a friend's fiance... and no, it wasn't limited to "just one fuck-up." It may have started with a drunken mistake, but the fling continued on a similarly sloppy course. My own relationship at the time was complete hell with already multiple instances (read: evidence) of cheating from his end. At the time, he truly broke my heart beyond repair, and I just didn't have an emotional regard to anyone, including myself.

Somewhere in that story, I cannot remember how it all came unraveled -- I'm sure there is a subconscious act of repressing that exact episode. There were nasty phone calls and public displays of humiliation and an LP named after me ("Four Year Tramp" with my mug inspiring all the cover art and liner notes).  But what I remember most is losing my long-term on-again-off-again boyfriend (who really cared?), the "new guy" who told me he loved me through phone sex (seriously, puke. no excuse) and almost every single one of my friends, all at once.

Years and many letters of apologies passed, and the friend and I slowly rekindled something resembling a fake friendship. She finally met a man that was fantastic and we all seemed to have moved past all the early-twenties bullshit. Of course, once they were engaged, I never heard from them again, but I do know they are still married today. I like to think I helped her make a better decision with her choice of man in which to settle down, but I wish it could have been under different circumstances.

Lesson learned to never, ever, ever, EVER go near a friend's husband/boyfriend... unless we're all drunk together and I'm invited to join.

If it is really a word, then it should not be.

 

Penis Tuesday

Warning for those that are the bearers of already small penises: BEWARE!

Belief in fatally retracting genitals, or a belief in genital theft, is usually known by the name Koro. The word is of uncertain origin but is thought to derive from the Malaysian word for tortoise, (sometimes locally used as a slang term for the penis), perhaps with a nod to the tortoises' ability to retract its head into its body.

          -- From this site

I was already leery of penises that acted as turtles anyway.

Hot like Tango

Congratulations to Paulius and staff for The Velvet Tango Room being selected to the Conde Nast Traveler Hot List Nights 2008!

You are so well-deserving of this honor.

Apple disappoints

For the first time in about 8 years of Mac ownership, I am pissed off. I was pissed once before during a massive hard drive kaput, but recovered, since it was fixable and another time when the woman kept referring to an amber light on my iPod, to which I've never seriously recovered. I was completely floored upon calling Apple Support yesterday to learn THEY COULD NOT HELP ME. Yes, that is actually what the support specialist told me. "SORRY, your product has expired in our database and we can't help you." Apparently, the AirPort Extreme Card I purchased at the Apple Store is, get this, no longer a product they sell. He tried to convince me that I did not actually walk into the Legacy Village location and wait for Geniuses to help, but purchased it online, "like ebay or something."

I know how to install the card, so that was never an issue (the very fact that I can open up the unit and do things myself is a huge perk in owning a Mac). Alas, my problem apparently lies with this new U-verse shit router from at&t.

Here's the deal, any techies that read my page:

• I own a PowerMac G4
• The card is properly installed AND recognizes my network
• When I try to get online, I get an error -- "server not found"
• at&t support could not help me (shocker)
• Both at&t support and Apple Support recommended bringing my computer into the store, but how the fuck do they know when and if I'm connected to my home network  (duh!) 
• There's another network support message that says some business about the IP address being self-assigned, which the router has to recognize multiple IP addresses from the router, which is the pure reason I cannot get online and god-help-me I have tried every network setting to no avail
• Fuck at&t for telling me to call Apple Support
• Fuck Apple Support for telling me to LOOK ONLINE FOR SUPPORT ANSWERS (seriously, does anybody see the fucking problem in this?)

So, can anyone help a sister out?

Will my degree also be mailed?

In the last few weeks I've received multiple letters and emails in reference to my impending graduation. I'm a few courses shy of leaving for good in May, and I probably won't hit commencement ceremonies for another couple semesters.

Apparently CSU did not get its own memo.

But they tell me I'm graduating with honors -- magna cum laude, bitches.

Office mumblings

What I said today:

Stupid mother-effin piece of fucking craphole.
I'm in love with my fax machine.

I'm glad his package is small...
Under any other references unrelated to loan closing packages, those words should n'er be uttered!