When I Grow Up, I Want To Be This Guy.

That confidence, those shades, that sassy pose, those decorative hangy things, and that creative hanger bit with a real piece of fabulous, shiny material.

Hi. My name is Sharon. I don’t want to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m pretty fucking awesome and I hope to reach your level at some point in my life.

Because if I had to make a sign for anything, it’d probably look more like this:

That Awkward Moment When A Kid Couldn’t Figure Out A Three Piece Monkey.

You know, THIS.

 

     

And you’re sitting at home like –

And then you’re just like –

But at the end of it all, you’re like –

Stupid fucking kids.

It really should’ve been me. As a Green Monkey, a Red Jaguar, or a Blue Barracuda.

Can We Get Some Red & Gold Love Up In Here, San Francisco?

Shit, guys. The panic is starting.

I’m a lifelong San Francisco 49er fan, straight out of the womb, and for 18 years we haven’t been in a Superbowl game.

EIGHTEEN FUCKING YEARS. Our dry spell is of legal age and can vote now.

Granted, there are plenty of Cleveland Browns, Detroit Lions, and Buffalo Bills fans that would tell me to go fuck myself right now, but when your team’s history is filled with the likes of Joe Montana, Jerry Rice, Ken Norton, Dwight Clark, Deion Sanders, Merton Hanks, Brent Jones, Ronnie Lott, Steve Young, Bill Walsh, and five Superbowl titles (5-0 in the Big Game), you don’t want that history to stay in the past. You want it to repeat itself, again and again, with new players and amazing victories.

The past two seasons have been incredible, with this current roster being the best we’ve had in – oh, say, EIGHTEEN YEARS. And all I’m asking is for the great city of San Francisco to show a little bit of pride for these guys.

To my knowledge, this is the only real public display of 49er spirit in SF.

The pink you’re seeing is actually red, so there’s a wonderful red and gold display at City Hall. Thank you, City Hall! I’m literally petting you right now on my computer screen. You’re beautiful.

But then that’s about it. No lamp post banners, no bus signs. Where’s the 49er Faithful? Where are the signs reading, “Who’s got it better than us? Nobody.” I work in the Financial District in downtown San Francisco, and I was hoping the city would switch into 49er mode after the SF Giants kicked some MLB ass and won the World Series this year. There were street banners, bus signs, and Giants flare all over downtown. But everyday I walk out from Bart and see nothing red and gold. It’s as if the city doesn’t even know that it’s a big fucking deal right now.

Sure, it’s easier for SF to show love for the Giants since they’re literally right there in South of Market. AT&T Park is close, but we’re also the city with the San Francisco 49ers. And it’s been 18 years.

EIGHTEEN YEARS.

C’mon, San Francisco. Help this 49er fan live out this amazing experience of being an adult and seeing her Niners in the Superbowl. They might lose (I’M SO SCARED) but I want to relish in the fact that we’re all rooting for them to win (GOD I HOPE SO). If they become the Superbowl Champs, you’re gonna have to act fast and throw up a bunch of signs for when they parade down Market Street.

God help San Francisco if it’s a bandwagon city for its own 49ers.

How would you feel about that, Jim?

Exactly.

A Love Letter to Jennifer Lawrence, My Hypothetical New Friend.

Oh hey, Jen. Jenny. Jennifer. J Law. Which do you prefer? Maybe just J? Or perhaps we could get totally random and I could call you Miriam, then Miri for short? It would be sooo silly and end up being this inside joke that only you and I get. I think you’d love that, because you’ve got a few screws loose, and I dig that about you.

It comes as no surprise that I’m still abnormally invested in gaining some kind of friendship with Jennifer Lawrence (and Emma Stone, but she will get her own blog post at some point. The three of us would be amazing together, never fight, only eat ice cream, and watch bad television). Back in September 2012, I wrote a blog about how invaluable Miss Lawrence is to all of us, especially since the likes of Lindsay Lohan and Amanda Bynes are flying off the life wagon.

Now with J Law riding the success of the magnificent gem that is Silver Linings Playbook and, thus, parading through shit-tons of interviews and acceptance speeches, it’s become even more evident how perfect we are for each other. It’s clear that a friendship between us would make both our lives so much greater, and peace would begin spreading through the world as unicorns, once again, feel safe to roam the earth. Fireworks, people. That’s what I’m saying.

I’m not exactly in the market for more friends, I’ve got a handful of amazing pals and a really great guy, so I’m pretty well stacked. But sometimes there are people you’re struck by and you think, “Wow, I would totally risk a restraining order to become friends with that person.”

Jennifer, you’re totally that person for me – and by the grace of Google, if you find this blog post, I firmly believe you’d appreciate that restraining order bit. I mean, I’m kind of joking, but I just feel really sure that you’d like me, because if your voice is the combination of Fergie and Jesus (see above), then mine is the combo of will.i.am and God. So, basically, I sound like an autotuned Morgan Freeman.

First of all, we have a lot in common. For instance.

image

Ditto, Miri. We can go to McDonald’s, buy ten orders of large french fries, and then try eating them with only our elbows. This would probably only last for about 15 seconds because, let’s face it, those french fries smell too fucking good and we’ll need all ten fingers.

Secondly, even though I’m about five years older than you, I believe the way you react in all your fancy shmancy awards show red carpets and wins is exactly the way I would. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing and you say amazingly weird things that only reinforces the fact – yes, FACT – that we’d be friends forever. I’d love to introduce you to my husband’s handsome single brother who’s around your age. We could be neighbors and have movie marathons and reread Harry Potter every year. So good.

See, you thanked MTV in your SAG acceptance speech last night (OMG CONGRATS! I definitely screamed for you because I thought Jessica Chastain had it all locked up. I desperately want you to win an Oscar now), and, once again, you shot a friendship arrow right through my fucking heart. Stop teasing me, Jenny. Let’s just have lunch already and begin our happily ever after.

Anyway, you’re pretty awesome and I’m rooting for you because, by doing so, I feel like I’m rooting for a friend. I actually mean that seriously, because you seem legitimately great and I envy your stylists, makeup crew, and publicist for being able to hang out with you all the time.

So if you ever need a friend – let’s assume for the purpose of this post that you do – I’d be cool with dat.

Call me.

PS: I have two older brothers, too! WHAT ARE THE ODDS? (don’t answer that, I’m sure they’re high.)

This Is The Best & Weirdest Thing Ever Created.

Nothing says curling up by a warm fire with a book and a glass of wine like Nicolas Cage’s face, amiright?

Try to deny this set of eyes wrapping around your body.

Its ear to ear, faded hairline technology immediately locks in warmth where any Snuggie or normal looking blanket completely fails. Plus, it’s got soft eyes.

I don’t know whether it’s a wall hanging blanket, a couch throw blanket, or something to burn immediately after throwing it in a basket of bees.

What do you think Nic Cat?

tumblr_m3fc1bGHYT1rq84v4o1_1280

He seems unresponsive and unimpressed. And possibly choked?

How about you, Nic Baby?

I think he’s already laying on it and probably pooped a bit. That’s an IN.

And you, Nic Clinton?

You are in my nightmares.

That’s 2 out of 3 Nic’s voting yes, or so I’m assuming with that last one. No burning of the Nic Cage blanket – huzzah!

If this were my blanket, I’d fold it up differently everyday with a bit of Nic eye always showing and place it strategically around the world. THE WORLD.

There Should Be One Of These Next To All Fire Hydrants.

You know, in case of fabulosity.

What could be more amazing when walking down the street than someone smashing this box to pieces? It would even make Tommy Lee Jones crack a smile and give a snap.

Mind you, it could cause some confusion, too. I’m pretty sure if I saw glitter flying everywhere, I’d have three thoughts:

1. Someone slayed a unicorn.

2. A gay man sneezed.

3. Someone is feeling fucking fabulous.

I think I can say with 100% confidence that this sparkly box would help cure the world of narcissism, even though that glitter would still probably be stuck to your clothes and hair a month later. But wouldn’t that weeks later glittery find make you feel completely amazing?? YES. It would. Shut up, don’t deny the fabulous.

If the Irish can pass a motion to okay drink-driving, the rest of the world (and by that, I mean San Francisco) can put one of these babies on every street.

Wouldn’t you agree, He-Man?

Oh he’s already there.

He Who Must Not Be Calculated.

Wait a tec. I could’ve sworn Harry killed him.

FUUUUUUUUUU – Clearly, the holder of this calculator is the new Chosen One and now has to enter his school’s Chamber of Secrets, find a basilisk fang, and stab this evil fucking TI-84 Plus (it’s a PLUS, makes it so much harder).

This is the one and only option. There is no other explanation for this cryptic message. None.

It’s going to take you 6 years to do this, man. But you’ll probably hook up with your best friend’s sister by the end of it all, so there’s some incentive. Good luck to you, and may the odds be ever in your favor.

Wait…back up. Totally crossing over.

Ahem. Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.

Expelliarmus, bitches.

Well, Of Course They Did.

My ancestors know how to mind their P’s and Q’s, even when under the influence of some P’s and Q’s.

(Did you know that saying originated in Ireland and stand for Pints and Quarts? YEAH. I’m not just a pretty face with a wit that won’t quit, people.)

But seriously, only the Irish.

Anything else would be sacrilegious. Besides, I’m pretty sure drinking to the Irish is like hydrating to Americans. I also hope they name this motion, DUIrish: Drinking Under the Irish.

Being very Irish myself, I don’t actually know this feeling because the tolerance gene somehow missed my DNA strands as a tiny fetus baby. Instead, I manage to get drunk off sparkling cider every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thus, I am an Irish girl with a very low tolerance of alcohol.

I hope this qualifies me as some type of unicorn. Oprah, come find me.

Happy Friday! Love, the 1980s.

Before heading off for the weekend, I thought I’d do everyone a service and leave you with this high quality picture, straight from the 80s.

(Full disclosure, I just audibly laughed typing “high quality” so close to “the 80s”.)

Hey! It’s the lost boy band of the 80s, Permesticles. They were a one hit wonder with the timelessly sensual rock ballad, “Free Ballin'”. You should totally look them up.

Regardless, no decade has ever rocked white and unnecessary amounts of pockets like the 80s did. I swear the guy on the far left literally pinned purses to his shirt, right after getting that sweet perm.

But let’s face it, those shorts are fucking amazing.

I Want To Make Stuff Up For Local TV News, Too.

Hi.

How do I get the job of whoever gets to write the captions below a person’s name on the news? Because THAT – I want that job.

Just to clue you in on the power of this incredibly thorough and honorary position, some examples are in order.

“Goddamn wings with their beaks and happy songs and shit. BWAAAAAAP.”

 

Most likely to never, EVER succeed. In life. Ever.

 

Now appearing in “Westside Story”…ROBERT NELSEN, ladies & gentlemen!

 

FALSE.

 

 

Hey, Niklas HJaskdofieowanejg. Cool story, bro.

 

Well played, caption writing person shman. Well played. Iloveyou.

 

How does it feel to have the cutest fucking job in the world?

 

These people with their amazing caption writing jobs have to be laughing themselves into oblivion. Because, let’s face it – people do weird shit, and someone has to tell the world. I would probably just tell the world something mostly unrelated to the person being interviewed. There would be a lot of “Likes to sniff underwear” and “Has an extra pinky finger” and “Not his real face”.

The possibilities are endless! Sign me up.

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