Thrift stores aren’t known for having the trendiest, cleanest, or most hair-free clothes, but occasionally you can find some cool stuff in them. You can also find really ugly stuff, as evidenced by the following photos:
This negligee appears to be from Bill Cosby’s new lingerie collection, Space Pudding. It debuted at Fashion Week in the “No More Faking Headaches” tent.
Guess what, folks? Something amazing happened to me, aside from the free ounce of froyo I got at Yogurt Story the other day because I found a spider in it. (I put the spider there. SUCKAAAS!)
I got a Mac laptop!
As everyone knows, Mac is actually an acronym that stands for Magical And Cakewalk, which doesn’t make much sense, but the bottom line is that this computer is the shit (or should I say, the shit my cake says? Har-dee-har-har).
But how I came to acquire this beautiful piece of hardware is a tale of tragedy and terror.
Yesterday (or today, depending on how you look at it, since I’m writing this at 2:34 am Texas time) was Oprah’s last show. Her last hurrah. Last shebang. Last housewife lovefest. Last time to gaze at herself longingly in her dressing room mirror, which is the size of my house.
Actually, no, she’ll probably still be doing that last one.
I say good riddance, but many people are in mourning. I’d like to remind you of my past Friday the 13th post, in which I predicted the outcome of the world after this catastrophic event (hint: the outcome is destruction).
Go buy beans, batteries, baby dolls, or whatever else you’ll need to survive underground while housewives everywhere rampantly destroy the world. The Y2K stuff you never put to use will do.
The Bruise (from left to right): Day 1, Day 3, Day 7
A couple weeks ago, I got a bruise so nasty it made Oprah’s face look like something that’s not disgusting. It happened when I was at work. I was outside telling my boss something (she was in her truck on a smoke break), and for whatever reason, when we were done chatting, I decided to run across the parking lot to get back into the building. I should probably mention that I was running on 4 hours of sleep for the past 48 hours. Sleep deprivation, clumsiness, my arm’s suicidal tendencies–whatever the reason, I rammed my arm into a brick column outside my workplace. And it hurt.
So that was how Shelby and I ended up walking home together, taking the back roads from the school to my neighborhood. Turned out that she didn’t live very far from me, only a few blocks away. With all the things I knew about her, I couldn’t believe I didn’t know that. Her house’s distance from mine created so many opportunities to… no, no. I was not a stalker.
Because I was the sexiest man alive, I managed to knock myself out twice in one day, and because I did this, I couldn’t drive. I had to wait for my mom to come pick me up while I watched everyone else in my class leave in their cars. Just call me Captain Lady-Killer. No… the ‘captain’ made me seem like a murderer instead of a sarcastic, self-deprecating dork.
I made this video for a school performance event (it was silent film-themed, sort of) to tell the audience to get the hell outta the room and go do something else for ten minutes, because it was time for intermission.
Shelby’s pre-cal class was about five feet from where we were standing, so the walk to her class was not a long one.
“Thanks for walking me all the way to my faraway class,” she said.
Loser, I thought to myself. What were you thinking? “Hey, Shelby, want me to walk you to your class that’s only a Verne Troyer and a half away from where we’re standing right now?”
“Look, what I was going to ask you earlier is if—”
“’Sup, Shelby,” Todd’s voice boomed, interrupting her. He put his meaty arm around her waist, and she immediately slinked away. He looked at me. “’Sup, Queer.”
After fourth period, I met up with Andy and we walked to lunch.
“Andy!” Christie screeched from down the hall. Andy cringed.
See, Christie was this annoying cheerleader who’d had a crush on Andy since, like, fourth grade. She was part of the Rice Kristies, a horrible pun and a group of three girls named “Kristie”—Christie, Kristie, and Criystee, the last of whom had parents who apparently never learned how to spell. All three members of the Rice Kristies (God, it pains me to even say those words) were cheerleaders, but Christie was the only brunette and, frankly, the only unattractive one. Kristie was dumb but hot, and Criystee defied her parents’ legacy by grasping the concept of phonetics. She was also cute and ranked number two in our class. Then there was Christie, who was both marginally ugly and painfully stupid, and boy did she love Andy.
A while ago, I made a list of a few bizarre search terms people used to find my blog. After seeing more weird words pop up over the last month or so, I selected my favorite search terms and categorized them by Misspellings, Monica Lewinsky, Questions, Creepy Fetishes, Whatever This Is, and Miscellaneous.
It’s Christmas Eve! You know what that means. Last-minute shopping! Many of you have yet to find that perfect gift for everyone on your list, but you’re in luck! There’s one universally loved gift that suits everyone: the cat sweater!
I’ve made a list of a few beautiful cat sweaters that everyone can appreciate. Your gift will touch the recipient so much, he or she might cry!
After a car ride engulfed in awkwardness, we pulled into St. Bartholomew’s Hospital of Beaver Falls, PA.
When Shelby had asked if we could listen to some music, I’d attempted the whole cliché as-she-reaches-for-the-radio-my-hand-will-brush-hers thing. Unfortunately, when we both reached for the radio, I stopped paying attention to the road and swerved into oncoming traffic.
Blasting car horns on all sides sounded as a sky blue Mercedes barely missed us. My tires screeched as I swerved us back into the right lane. Shelby looked like a scared rabbit, wide eyes and flared nostrils. When I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror, I looked like an even more scared rabbit.
“Whoops,” I said, trying to play if off like it was nothing, but I felt like she could hear me sweating.
She shot me a terrified glance, then turned on the radio.
“Trying to be my best, when I fall, it’s a mess!” screeched through my shoddy speakers.
WordPress allows me to check my blog’s stats. How many hits I get on my blog per day, which posts got the most views, what people click on, etc. It also allows me to see what you guys (or spammers) searched in Google to find my blog. I’ve compiled a list of the most WTF search terms that led people to Shit My Cake Says. Granted, the people who typed these particular keywords probably didn’t stick around to read anything, but for those of you who do, I give you this:
My Favorite Search Terms People Put in Google or Ask Jeeves (No, No One Uses Ask Jeeves Anymore) or Whatever to Find My Blog
Jacob Black, Bella Boringface, and Edward Cullen of the Twilight franchise.
We’ve all been plagued by nightmarish apparitions of teens wearing “Team Edward” and “Team Jacob” t-shirts, and we all want this headache of a franchise to die a fiery death. The only way to kill the Twilight phenomenon, though, is to solve the question everyone’s asking: Who’s hotter? Jacob or Edward?
I’d make a list of pros and cons, but neither candidate has any pros, so I’ll just weigh the cons:
BRMC no longer stands for “Black Rebel Motorcycle Club”. After their amazing show at Trees in Dallas, TX, last Sunday night, it now stands for “Badass Rockin’ Mind-Blowing Concert”. In other words, my new drug. Their concert was so good, it felt like what I imagine cult members think they’re gonna feel like after they drink the Kool-Aid.
When I woke up on Monday morning, the whole night felt really surreal, like a meth-head dream. I’ve never smoked meth though, so I have no idea what that feels like. The surrealism of the night before makes me think BRMC concerts are drugs in and of themselves, only better since they’re less likely to kill you. I’ve only been to two of their shows, and now attending more is an absolute necessity. In March earlier this year, they came to the House of Blues in Dallas, and the show was good, but Sunday night’s was way better. This was either because Robert Levon Been was on fire, or because this time around, there weren’t any douchebags asking for a tangerine to the face.
There was blood everywhere, and tears in her eyes.
God, that sounds like the chorus to a Hawthorne Heights song.
I didn’t mean to punch Shelby Waters in the face. I didn’t mean to break her nose. I didn’t even know I could break noses. I couldn’t even snap a pencil in two, which was pretty embarrassing when I tried in front of my sister, then the next day she told her whole second grade class.
Maybe I should back up.
I’ve been balls-to-the-wall in love with Shelby Waters for two years, ever since she transferred to my high school and lent me a pencil during sophomore year English. She smiled at me, and that was it. It was all over. I’ve never been able to look at another girl. I think I still have it. The pencil, I mean. It’s pink. Don’t tell her, though, ‘cause I don’t want her to think I’m a stalker. I’m not a stalker. I mean, I stare at her a lot, but I don’t wait outside her house in the rain dressed like the Unabomber.
I love cults. Okay, maybe love is a bit of a strong word. Let’s call it morbid fascination. I have a morbid fascination with cults. Since I’m such a nut about cults, I’ve spent way too much time researching them, so I can assure you I know my stuff.
Cults are a fascinating part of history but aren’t covered in the classroom, so today I’m going to educate you about a personal favorite cult leader of mine, Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo.
Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo was a cult leader and serial killer who killed many people around the Texas-Mexico border, including a Texas college student, so as a Texas college student, naturally I feel he is the most (ir)relevant serial killer for you to learn about.
In the middle of a Books-A-Million, I crouched down and started snapping photos of an allegedly straight man’s magazine I found. Forgive me, I don’t remember what the man-azine was called, but you wouldn’t either if you saw this:
Here we have a nice young man who appears to be modeling underwear while working out and simultaneously stuffing Pizza Hut condiment packets into his Hugo Boss briefs. Seems sensible enough.
I feel like there’s some sort of innuendo here, but I just can’t quite put my chopstick on it…
I’m sick. Since I’ve been sick, I’ve been watching plenty of TV, which means plenty of commercials. So, it is with great disgust that I give you the Worst Commercials of 2010:
1. Those F*CKING OLD NAVY MANNEQUIN COMMERCIALS: I hate these commercials with a burning passion. I really hate the one where they’re suddenly naked (um, ‘scuze me, Old Navy, but aren’t you supposed to be family friendly?), but there’s one I hate even more than that mannequin nudiefest. It’s the most recent addition to the abomination ads, the faux sitcom one where the creepy, lifeless-eyed mannequins move into a house together and are greeted by their flesh-and-blood real human neighbors. There’s a laugh track. I hate laugh tracks. Except for this one. My biggest beef with this commercial lies within the total lack of reality. No, I’m not talking about how mannequins gained the ability to talk and sign a lease. We all knew it was bound to happen at some point, as Wes Craven pointed out in his scariest movie ever, Mannequin. I’m talking about how mannequins from different racial backgrounds managed to live in harmony within one house. The only way this situation is plausible is if they were on The Real World: Mannequins. As far as I know, The Real World doesn’t have a laugh track, so Old Navy has no excuse for this horrible, terrible, disgusting, appalling, atrocious, frightening, deplorable series of commercials.
The Bruise (from left to right): Day 1, Day 3, Day 7
Jacob Black, Bella Boringface, and Edward Cullen of the Twilight franchise.
Behold, the Jesusmobile!
Why yes, that does appear to be about three separate nativity scene sets. Also a duck, because nothing says “I ❤ Jesus” like dead water fowl.
Shit My Cake Says 