yer mum called me a dick

I'll arm wrestle your mom whilst drinking tea and eating crumpets, discussing metaphysics, outlining my next scientifical experiment. Bounty Bitch, thats what they call me (nobody calls me that). Nerves of steel (!), if by steel you mean pasta-esque: when in boiling water, turning very limp, eventually disintegrating into a heap of carbohydrates most likely cancer causing. Also sticky. Very sticky.
I totally go good with red or white sauce though (EOE). Try me with garlic bread or those melty mozzarella sticks you can only have someone else prepare for you in a restaurant setting because the ones you bake at home explode in the oven leaving you with a hollow breaded shell and wilted sense of self for not being able to heat up tiny amounts of frozen food properly on your own.
Aw. Sad.

Every time I see a cockroach I have to call for back up. I scream, actually, like a little bitch. I ain't proud. I don't give a fuck. If you are a guest in my house and there is a cockroach, YOU are killing it. FYI.
Or, we are leaving together to hang out in a hotel room until someone else eradicates that pest and bleaches the furniture and walls. Get outside, creature of the night, you disgust me worse than George W. Bush, who is the origin of all wrong and badness and probably everything too sour or gritty. Who also probably, some how, some where, created a new strain of cockroach through an environmental fuck up on account of new policy created during his administrations reign to protect Hummer and Truck Nuts owners. I swear to heavens its like The Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, except GWB. And full of suck.
Blame Bush. It's my mantra, you know (you know). Toast burned? W's fault. Roof fall in? W's struck again. Herpes? That damn W.

The Best Fettuccine Recipe on the Planet.
Except as leftovers. For some reason, reheating makes it Jeff Goldblum. More weird yellow butter substance than you will have logical explanation for and cheese that will not ever come off the plate, no matter how many times you scrub it with a Brillo Pad.
Ok, seriously though. Revised:
The Most Beloved Fettuccine Recipe on the Planet That Makes Whoever I Cook It For Go Bonkers Like A Deranged Feline On Catnip No Matter What Mystery Molecular Breakdown Occurs To It Once Putting It In A Refrigerator Overnight.
(I wish the FDA or food manufacturers would allow me to work in their marketing departments)

Ingredients:
16oz. Regular Box o' Fettuccine Noodles. Cooked.
Stick of Butter (no margarine, fools). Melted.
1/2 Cup of Heavy (but he's my brother) Cream. Warmed.
1 Container of Kraft Parmesan Cheese (no generic shit, kids, trust me, you'll puke your guts out).
Directions:
Mix Noodles with wet ingredients, toss in cheese, mix mix mix.

Awesome Alternative that includes Vegetables:
Use a box of tri-colored rotini pasta (12oz.), add a cooked bag of frozen California Mix vegetables (broccoli, cauliflower, carrots), add another 1/2 stick of butter, increase heavy cream to full cup, throw in another 1/2 a container of Parmesan cheese and and additional 1 cup shredded sharp cheddar. Mix. Die happy and very full.

A creamy delight for the most discriminating palettes!!!
Seriously. Even your mom with her broken arm will eat it up.

Star Me Kitten, Kitten, and Cue the Applesauce

YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!
A gorgeous tattoo this weekend, Amen. Nothing says I love you quite like the repetitive poke of sharp needles and blood.
Except maybe a real penguin but the jury is still out on that one.

Friday night I had crawfish for the first time - weird. Very, very weird. I am used to eating shellfish: crab, lobster, shrimp, fish fish fish fish fish... so I am not sure why I am so bothered by the crawfish but I am, I seriously am. My sister swears it is the butter's fault; they gave us this yellow liquidy stuff for the crab legs (supposedly butter) which must have been the same oil they were cooking the crawfish in, or something just as vile as that. Butter. I require butter for my crab, not used oil from your kitchen of crustacean death. It offset everything and I couldn't get the taste or smell out of my mouth the entire night. Every beer I drank afterward was Crawfish Beer (hurl).
I am also unsure of how authentically NOLA the entire establishment was considering the staff, friends, and every customer in there (with the exception of our table) were asian. The sign outside said it was voted The Best and Most Authentic New Orleans Crawfish in Orlando but by whom? WHO says these things you advertise on signs; this should be backed up with data and sources revealed, WTF is wrong with a little transparency? I regularly poll my friends about random shit but this in no way makes me Orlando's Best Guacamole Chef or The Sexist Armenian in O-Town but fuck all if I shouldn't get my car wrapped with those accolades, just in case you know, they are giving out free money somewhere. I could get sponsored by Jamila Henna Powder or Tazah Grape Leaves JUST for being cute little ol' me.
(INSERT: Palin "You Betcha" wink of authentic retardation.
CUT TO: Child puking her guts out in the corner)

Guacamole To Make You Spontaneously Orgasm

Ingredients:
1 medium tomatillo (cut into 3-4 3/4 inch slices)
1 red onion slice (3/4 inch thick)
2 avocados, diced
4 cloves of garlic (1 heaping teaspoon), minced
1/8 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
1/2 lime
olive oil
Salt

Directions:
Coat tomatillo and onion slices with olive oil and grill (char) over flame until tender. Remove, cool and dice. Add garlic, cilantro, avocados and the juice of 1/2 a lime. Salt to taste.

Whoa. Just typing that out sent small earthquakes through my panties (giggle) BUT I am Martha Stewart when my clothes are on, lassies (wink), so next on Good Morning Bunnies is "Getting those gooey white packages of Satan out of your beloved silk, satin and lace". You won't want to miss this (finger point of exclamation).