Buh-Bye, 2011!

My effervescent little champagne bubbles--

2011 is about to be a speck in the rearview mirror, so say goodbye properly. Take it out, buy it some Thunderbird Courvoisier, rip off its clothes, throw it up against the wall, then...pass out, naked and disappointed. You know you totally will.

If you're headed out to someone else's house for New Year's, be klassy about it. Pick up a nice box o' wine from the Wal-Mart:

Or, for you hifalutin fancy types, take a nice bottle:

And, as they say in Arkansas, leave with the one that brung ya. Don't go to a party with one...

And wake up with another...

The best advice is to be careful, be responsible, and get home safely so you can crash out there:

And spend the next day chilled out, recuperating, watching porn "Bewitched":

And, for those of you hot pieces who caught the Courvoisier reference *cough*Bill*cough*Melissa*cough* in the beginning of the post (or if you're just looking for the best guide for gettin' a piece of New Year's ass), check out this hilarious SNL video.

Happy New Year! See you in 2012, kittens!

Bushes Update!

You guys. OMG. Remember all the drama with the bushes outside my house?

Here's what it looked like outside my house all spring, summer, and fall:

After one all of you dear bleaders contacted me after the original post to say that I MUST contact the property manager about the issue, I finally did.

Long story short, she said she'd have the bushes replaced, and she didn't. On 19 December--fed the hell up--I sent her this:

Hey, bitch Hi, Teresa--

Over two months ago, I wrote to you about the plants issue discussed above. You're lucky I didn't march down there in person and leave with your head on a stick. You told me that you discussed it with the board and the plants would be replaced this fall. Even though your email reeked of the unmistakable smell of bullshit, I was willing to accept that. A month later, I informed you that no action had been taken and you said that you were working with the contract landscaper to get them installed. Again, bullshit. It is now over another month later and still no action has been taken. See? Bullshit. Told you. Because of the weather, it is almost certain that no action will be taken for months to come. By the time anything finally gets planted, I'll already be my fifth year into my life sentence for the head-on-a-stick misunderstanding.

I would like a response from you before I take the issue further. No body, no crime.

Watch your back, Thank you,

Your Worst Nightmare Sweet Tea

Lo and behold. I came home on the afternoon of Friday the 23rd to this:

Oh, kittens. I can't tell you how happy I am about this. Don't get me wrong--I am royally, monstrously, unbelievably PISSED that I had to dry hump this woman just to get a response that is her job to provide before the question is even asked, but still.

And now I don't have to kill anyone. What a relief. I'm too delicate for prison.

Offensive Language

Tender kittens--

Here's a little smattering of language that's been fingernails down the chalkboard of my delicate ears lately:

Amazing: People use this word to mean great, fantastic, better than good. And they use it all the fucking time. But 1) "amazing" can just as accurately be used to describe something bad as it can be used to describe something good, and 2) if you're using it more than, say, once a day, then whatever you're decribing isn't amazing at all--it's commonplace. If you're looking for a word besides "good" or "great" and the best you can do is "amazing," please allow me to recommend a little book called "The Saurus." It's got all kinds of amazing synonyms in it. Zzzzzzzzzzzing! I'll be here all week, folks!

Literally: Idiots use this word to mean "very," but anyone with a sixth-grade education should know that it means the opposite of "figuratively." When you're nervous and you say that you feel as if your heart's about to beat out of your chest, we all understand that you are speaking figuratively. But when you say that, literally, you feel as if you're heart's about to beat out of your chest, well, then, people just assume you're stupid. (Why don't you just use "cock" instead?"

Lame: So there I was. Doing some fancy schmancy shopping at the Target when I encountered Douchey Dad, out shopping with his two young children, and he used the word "lame" in such a way that it made me want to rip his testicles right off.

His daughter was pushing his son along in the cart. Douchey Dad was walking in front. (Mom, no doubt tired of spending her weekends with this oxygen thief, elected to stay home, apparently.) The little girl wanted to push the cart faster and her father kept telling her that she could not.

(Side note: I believe there's a special place in hell for people who will argue loudly with their children in public. Not only are they annoying everyone around them, but they're teaching their children that it's perfectly acceptable, thus ensuring the perpetuation of the nastiness. Arguments should be saved for the privacy of your own home, an environment more conducive to hiding a body without arousing suspicion.)

Anyway, daughter says to Douchey Dad, "Daddy, I'm going to push the cart into you!" And Douchey Dad, sipping his Starbucks and responding in the most ask-me-if-I-give-an-eff tone ever, says...

"That would be really lame if you hit me."

Now you just KNOW that I wanted to get in the middle of this shit and say to the daughter, "Don't take that shit from Douchey Dad! Tell him that maybe you'd consider behaving if he had half a fucking vocabulary! Go on--shove that front wheel right up his ass!"

But I didn't. Like a loser, I just pulled out my fancy free-with-contract phone and snapped his douchey picture for all you good people to enjoy. You're welcome.

People Watching

So there I was. Had the day off. Decided to spend it doing one of my favorite things: poking around in other people's shit. Sometimes that means going to an estate sale (ooooh, dead people--THEY'RE MY FAVORITE!), a yard sale, a flea market, or any other such place, but today that meant going to a couple of antique/junk stores.

There's no question that I find it fun to shop for "pre-loved" stuff in much the same way that some folks love to shop at Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus, or the local feed store. But what I really love is the experience. The poking around (heh heh). The sifting. And...the people watching.

Remember how I called out grown women who wear the word "PINK" emblazoned across their asses? Behold. And in pink rhinestones, no less. KlASSy.

And check out this here hipster. Tight pants? Check. Scarf? Oh yes. Sideswept bangs poking out of his hat? You know it. Jackie O sunglasses worn indoors on a cloudy day? Yes ma'am. On the phone constantly? Believe it. Uses the words "amazing" and "fabulous" to describe every single thing? Ooooh, girl!

And: he was straight. Was there with his girlfriend, who was carrying a little dog in her purse (ugh). That's right, kids--straight men sometimes look like and act like this. I'm as disturbed as you are.

And it took me forever to check out at one store in particular. Like a loser, I apparently failed to understand how important the cashier was. She took a break in the middle of my transaction to text "LOL" to her friend. I wish I was joking.



And look at this bad-ass guard dog keeping watch at the register of another store:



And finally. There were two entire rooms of this one store (a converted old enormous house) devoted to vintage clothing, jewelry, and accessories. Check out this hot piece I encountered trying on a very sexy pair of glasses:

EXCUSE MY BEAUTY!

(Just so you know, I could not see A THING when I snapped that pic. Those glasses were so strong that the world was gray and blurry.) The shit I do to entertain you sexy bastards. I swear.

Random After-Christmas Crumbs

Weary kittens--

Was Santa good to you this year? Or did your little one matter-of-factly tell you that the jig is up, the Santa charade is over, as my niece told her mother thusly: "Mommy, I"m eight. I know how things work." Well then.

It's been a quiet weekend here around the Sweet Tea Castle. Not much to report, really, but I thought I'd share a few little crumbs that fell onto my plate from the bread that we all know as the internet:

Study less, party more. The first thing I do when I get home after work is take Lucy for her evening Glamour Walk. The second thing I do is sort the mail. The Victoria's Secret catalog was in there and I threw it in the trash pile, but the pages slid open and I saw a t-shirt from their "Pink" line, aimed at college-age girls (why grown women--much less college kids--wear the word "PINK" across their asses is a mystery for the ages, as far as I'm concerned) that said "STUDY LESS PARTY MORE." I went to the website for the pic to show you good people and it was not to be found. Fortunately, some studious young lady posted it on her blog for all to enjoy. Her parents must be so proud:

Don't worry that it seems to not be available any longer--you can still order this classy look:



Fat GI.  I was reading a heartwarming "returning home from war" story on MSNBC.com, and it had me all soft on the insides, but then I saw this:

Really cute, right? Look at that huge smile, the bear-hug squeeze, the expressions of...who the fuck is that in the background? Holy shit! Are we eating Taliban now??? My god. Is this GI Santa? 

Fuck Hitler. In cross-stitch. Ah, cross-stitch, an enjoyable way to pass the time that produces an heirloom that is both meaningful and lovely. The pasttime of ladies of leisure, homemaking enthusiasts, and Bad Ass Mutha Fuckas (BAMFs in internet speak).

Major Alexis Casdagli, a WWII POW held for five goddamn years by Nazis, embroidered "God Save the King" and "Fuck Hitler" in Morse code in several intricate tapestries. The story is beyond fascinating; I highly recommend reading it here. The lesson: Not all BAMFs pack heat in the form of a gun; some are armed with an embroidery hoop and a tapestry needle.

Speaking of needle and thread, you may or may not be surprised to know that there is a website celebrating embroidery (including the Major Casdagli piece mentioned above) called Fuck Yeah Embroidery. Here, someone has chosen to embroider a ridiculous Kanye West Tweet:

Josh Groban: While we're on the subject of Kanye West, here's a little video sent to me from my buddy Bryan, who was dismayed by my inclusion of Josh Groban's version of "O Holy Night" here on Sweet Tea ("Groban belongs with Neil Diamond, Rod Stewart, and other pieces of shit," says Bryan). Enjoy.

And the answer to your question is YES! Despite Bryan's criticisms of Josh Groban, I'd still hit it. Totally.

Hope y'all had a great weekend!

Merry Christmas

Precious jingle bells--

Christmas is upon us, so I thought I'd share one of my favorite versions of my favorite Christmas song with you. Here's Josh Groban singing "O Holy Night."

But first, a brief sidebar. Can we talk Josh Groban for just a sex? (I meant "sec," but it's a typo I'm willing to keep.) He's totally not my type. I'd never go for him. He's got floppy hair, long sideburns, a prissy manner of dress, and oddly downturned eyes. That being said, I'd totally hit it, so long as he'd sing this song for me every day of my life.

Ahem. Here you go. Merry Christmas, dearies.

Oh, and--sorry to break the Christmas mood, but--can we please agree that one of the best things about the internet is the comments section on everything? I swear. Here are some of the comments people decided to post about this song:

Whitney Houston (pre-crack), and Josh Groban have the BEST voices I have EVER heard! No question IMO.

Isn't Josh Groban Jewish?

It doesn't get any better than this! The first time I heard it on the radio, I literally had to pull over so I could close my eyes and enjoy it without any distractions. The only problem I have with it is I can not find an MP3 version of it to buy. I have only found it on 2 CD's but I don't want to buy the CD's just for one song!

My Moms favorite Christmas song . It makes cry. Imiss her so much

The best version. simply the best. From the very first time I heard Josh singing when he was around 16, I predicted many quality performances to come. This song resonates...

no, his father was Jewish but converted to Christianity when marrying his mother

awh you miss your mom what happen to her

I am 52 and an ex Royal Marine and Oil rig welder and it made me cry !

God bless you, Josh Groban has the ability to make you feel like the voices of Heaven are right there beside you !
1:28 A BIT OFF KEY

What an amazing voice.
Also he kind of looks like ALF.

isfhuskjfksf I LOVE HIM!!!!!!!  PLEASE MARRY ME, JOSH!

when he hit that last night i almost dropped my i-pod in my hand
I really wish I was able to sing.. Makes me sad I can't enjoy myself singing to the songs I like to sing with.. makes me cringe, lol.

he put as much feeling into the song as if he was singing under the shower

i hope hes not jewish. that wouldnt be right to sing this song.

His voice is second only to Elvis.

If I could wrap this and tie it with a bow, you know I totally would. Merry Christmas, dear bleaders.

Snow, Glow, Blow: A Poem

Fluffy, light-as-air snowflakes--

Today is the Winter Solstice, the shortest day/longest night of the year. On this day, Sweet Tea always treats herself to a street corner fireside reading of Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening."

This year, however, there's a twist. Seems that some rough drafts of Bobby Frost's greatest works were recently discovered, so--in the interest of literary edification--I've included his original draft of his famous wintry work right here on this esteemed blog. So put on your Snuggie, pour yourself a big ol' glass of Jack mug of hot chocolate, and enjoy!

First, the rough draft:

"The Shit I Put Up With" by Bobby Frost


The wife has pissed me off this year,
So I'm in freezing woods out here.
I hope the dick who owns this place
Won't see my busted trespassing face.


My horse said, "Holy shit, it's dark,"
Then hit a tree and scraped the bark.
Everything is frozen hard.
I wish we'd never left the yard.


The wife and I were up all night:
I say she's wrong; she says she's right.
She threw me right out on my ass--
No time to think--that bitch is fast.


But I'll head home; won't be a slouch,
Get blanket and pillow without a grouch,
And make my bed up on the couch,
And make my bed up on the couch.

And now, the published version:

"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost


Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.


My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.


He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.


The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Enjoy, dearies.

A Little Holiday Cheer

Sweet little Christmas stockings,

My bells could use a jingle. My holly is wilted. My sugarplum is getting cold.

Remember that hottie I hooked up with a while back? Sexy, handsome, hot ride, and...very elusive.

Well, he called. Finally. Told me to meet him under the mistletoe. Naked. And then he stood me up! I know it was silly to get my hopes up, but still.

Anyway, to put a little holiday cheer back in my life, here's a little something I always enjoy this time of year...hope you enjoy it, too.

And, just to keep the score even and because it's Hannukah, here's a little something for my Jewish bleadership:

And, if you happen to see my next ex-husband zooming along on his scooter, would you please be a dear and tell him that I'm getting cold here under the mistletoe with nothing but this Santa hat to keep me warm?

Hot Chocolate

Christmas kittens--

Have you destroyed the Christmas spirit around your house this season? Will you be doing your Christmas shopping at the 7-Eleven on Christmas Eve? Do gifts from you look as if they'd been wrapped by Helen Keller? Are you the embarrassment of your friends and family because you just can't resist the urge to wear one of those ridiculous effing Santa hats everywhere you go?

UGH. Time to redeem yourself, dipshit.

Apologize for cocking up the holiday season by making the best hot chocolate in the world for those who love you enough to overlook all your fuckery.

(I'm not about to tell you exactly how much milk or chocolate or marshmallow you should use, so I hope you're not looking for exact measurements. Figure it out. Sheesh, this is why no one likes you.)

Hot chocolate, done right:

Put your milk in a pan. Add a splash of heavy cream per serving*. Whisk over medium/medium-high heat just until bubbles start to form around the edges. Turn off heat.

Add chocolate. Use chocolate chips or shaved chocolate off the bar or a pulverized chocolate Santa or coins of Hannukah Geld--you get the point. I like about a small handful per cup, but kids like about 10 times that, so what do I know? Whisk until melted. Use an immersion blender, smoothie maker, or regular blender to blend until frothy, 10-20 seconds.*

Put marshmallows in bottom of cup. Pour hot chocolate over marshmallows.

Enjoy. Plot what you will do to redeem yourself the next time you fuck up the holidays, cuz you know you totally will.

Notes:
*Adding a splash of cream and using an immersion blender, smoothie maker, or regular blender aren't absolutely imperative, but they will most certainly take your hot chocolate from delicious to orgasmic. It's Christmas. Give somebody an orgasm, you stingy piece. (If you don't have an immersion blender, etc,. just whisk as fast as you can until your masturbation arm falls off.)

Feel free to incorporate any variations you see fit. A big ol' spoonful of peanut butter added with the chocolate makes you think you're drinking a peanut butter cup. A shot of peppermint schnapps will have you giggling like a schoolgirl with every sip. And a shot of Kahlua or plain ol' coffee will put the pierced, pretentious Starbucks fucks out of business.

Also, clean up after yourself. And when you do, be mindful of the dog. If you put the pan in the dishwasher and turn around for even one second, she will start licking anything that drips from it, even as chocolate continues to drip on her head:

Pie Crust

My dear little overstuffed holiday sweets,

Remember the mincemeat pie I made for my dear friend Michelle? Well, I have a gluttonous confession to make about that. I made a little more pie crust *cough*double*cough* than necessary.

Why, you may ask. Well, I'm a-gonna tell ya. One of my favorite desserts in the whole world isn't exactly a dessert at all--it's pie crust. No pie. Just crust.

Back in the day, my dear old meemaw used to handle pie crust that didn't make it into the pie thusly: she would brush it with egg or milk or butter (whatever is called for in the recipe) and then sprinkle it with cinnamon sugar and then stick it in the oven. That's it. That's the recipe.

You know how some people just LOVELOVELOVE chocolate? I mean, yeah, I like it alright, but that's about as far as it goes. (That said, pair chocolate with peanut butter and I will filet a puppy in front of an orphan to get in on that action.) But put something with cinnamon in front of me and I am in hog heaven. As far as I'm concerned, cinnamon beats chocolate like a Guantanamo detainee any day of the week.

Make some extra pie crust with your pumpkin or pecan or whatever pie this Christmas, douse it with cinnamon sugar, and see if I'm not lying. Enjoy!

Government Shutdown

Fucking politicians. These dicks whore themselves out to you just before an election ("I'm just like you--watch me roll up my sleeves, take off my tie, and kiss this here ugly baby), then--after you elect their otherwise unemployable asses--they disappear into the DC machine, enjoying $500 dinners with piece-of-shit lobbyists (whose pockets are deeper than yours will ever be), flying on campaign donors' private planes, and basically partyin' it up on your nickel. (Wanna have some fun? Go get your most recent pay stub and compare your gross income to your net income. Then do the following math: GROSS - NET = LINING THEIR POCKETS, or, you know, $175K a year--NOT A JOKE.)

AND THEY DON'T EVEN DO THEIR JOBS. Want proof? The federal budget: it was supposed to be passed on 30 September. THAT'S THEIR FUCKING JOB: to pass a goddamn budget. And they didn't do it. Because of these incompetent dicks, the government was going to have to shut down at midnight Friday. Sweet Tea would not have a job. No federal services (post office, Veterans Affairs, Homeland Security, national parks, nothing) would be open to any of us. Oh. And. Congress hasn't passed a budget on time in 14 years. You read that right. Fourteen. Years.

When they campaigned, they said to you, "Vote for me and I will do my job better than my opponent ever could." Well, they just showed themselves to be liars. Every fucking one of them. Republicans, Democrats, all of the motherfuckers.

Last night, they pulled their favorite trick: They fucked around, couldn't agree on a budget, had us all prepare for a shutdown, and then SWOOPED IN at the eleventh hour, agreed on a measure to put the shutdown off for another two months (they still have not passed a budget, people), and then held a fucking press conference about how, despite the OTHER SIDE (Democrat or Republican), they managed to pass a budget! As if they deserve a fucking medal for doing one of the most very basic things they were hired BY YOU to do in the first place.

And do you think they did it because they care about you and me? Here's what Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-Nev) said: "We hope that we can come up with something that would get us out of here at a reasonable time in the next few days." Do you see that? He wanted to make sure that they all got their holidays off without the public's noticing that they hadn't done their damn jobs!

These fuckers deserve a fucking pink slip. We hired them, let's fire them. What happens if you don't do your job? You get fired, right? Well...

Write to these motherfuckers. Fire up your email. Go here to find your piece-of-shit senators (upper right-hand corner) and here to find your douchebag congressperson.

Feel free to put "Update Your Resume" in the subject line. And feel free to copy and paste anything from here you want:

Dear Congressperson/Senator:

This letter is to address your failure of your official duties. Be advised that, due to your failure to pass a federal budget, not only will I never vote for you, but I will encourage everyone I know to never vote for you. I will do my best to ensure that we no longer pay you $175K a year to fail in your capacity to represent me and my interests.

All the best to you this holiday season,

SIGN YOUR NAME HERE, KIDS!

Feel free to include any verbiage you like--this is just an idea. Then, next November, be sure to vote for whoever runs against the incumbent prick in your state/district.

Mincemeat Pie

My hungry little holly sprigs,

Remember that I told you I was making a mincement pie for a dear friend? It was right after Thanksgiving when Ocean Spray quietly announced that their dried cranberries may have slivers of metal in them, when what they should've been doing was shouting from the rooftops, "WARNING: THIS SHIT WILL TEAR THROUGH YOU LIKE IT HAS CLAWS," but they didn't because making money is preferable to losing money, duh.

Well. My dried cranberries were not in the batches with claws, so I proceeded to make the mincemeat pie.

Back in the day (Victorian times, according to all I've read), mincemeat pie really did have meat in it. (Meat. In the pie. Heh heh.) Suet, too (don't click on that!). Apparently, the pie-eaters of the world were more accustomed to the marriage of the savory and the sweet than we are now. You and I flirt with a savory/sweet dish here and there, but the Victorians threw the combination up against the wall, ripped its clothes off, and made sweet love to it.

But I digress. Mincemeat pie. It's a bunch of fruit (apples, dried golden raisins, currants, cranberries) and spices...

...cooked in apple cider and rum...

...for one hour...

...two hours...

...three hours...

...and then baked in a double pie crust:

Listen, I know all too well that the term "mincemeat pie" may not sound like the most common and appetizing thing in the world--it's tough to compete with apple, pecan, and pumpkin pies--but trust Sweet Tea when she tells you that it is off-the-hook delicious. If you can resist the stuff, you don't deserve to eat.

Oh, and if you're too effing lazy to make your own mincemeat pie and you want me to make you one (my dear Michelle is the only one who gets an annual freebie), then come on over. BUT FIRST: Bring three things. Money (no specific amount, but you will most assuredly know if it is not enough), booze (no specific kind, but you will mose assuredly know if it is unacceptable), and a wild card (you decide what it is, but it better surprise me and it better be good).

The Holiday Party

Festive young fawns,

Sweet Tea is concerned. It's likely that your workplace is having a holiday party in the near future, and I'm seeing these Do and Don't lists popping up everywhere, telling you how you should behave at these mandatory functions with people you wouldn't even be talking to if you didn't work with them joyful opportunities to share some holiday cheer with your esteemed colleagues.

Allow me to address these Do and Don't lists, point by shitty, erroneous, who writes this stuff? point. Here's a smattering of what the "experts" say, followed by my sparkling, lucid rebuttals.

Don't assume you can skip the holiday party. Bullshit. Assume all you want. They hired you for your out-of-the-box thinking (hell, they probably even used that godless term when they handed you your welcome packet). They wanted someone who wasn't just a sheep, a follower. For all you know, this holiday party is one big test to see who in the company is Rudolph (leader of the pack) and who are the others (no one remembers their names). Be Rudolph, bitch. While everyone else is faking pleasant conversation and under-tipping the poor bastard at the bar, you'll be at home, on the couch, in your footed jammies, drink in hand, watching Elf. They've forgotten why they hired your rebel ass--remind them.

Don't dress provocatively. I hope this is a joke. If we're not supposed to dress provocatively at the holiday party, then I'd like to know what the hell else I'm supposed to do with my Mrs. Claus's Ho Ho Ho Sister outfit. That I bought for $9.99. At the Costume Barn. At the day-after-Halloween sale. Look, the invitation said "festive," and if a tinsel-trimmed top cut low enough to show almost all of my snow globes and a tinsel-trimmed skirt short enough to see my uterus aren't fucking "festive" enough for you, then I don't know what is.

Don't drink too much. Don't fall for this shit. It's a set-up. THE MAN came up with this so that he can a) have an open bar and look generous, AND b) save money on said open bar by guilting you into not getting wasted on his nickel. You've worked harder than a Christmas elf all year long for THE MAN's stingy ass--drink up! Hell, have another. Fuckit! Show up early and get the party started right! Then hit the dance floor and swing your candy cane around for all the corporate stiffs  and sober dicks to enjoy. And when you're puking in a potted plant at then end of the night, you can rest assured that, tonight, you fought THE MAN and you won.

Don't eat too much. The fuck??? Then why is there so much food, I'd like to know. You know how they're always saying, "'Tis the season"? Yeah, well, that means the season for gluttony, and I reckon you best get out the way before I run over you with my fourth plate in the buffet line, bitch. Unbelievable. You give them something nice to look at in your Ho Ho Ho outfit, and they won't even provide you a proper dinner? Unforgivable. Eat everything you can, then get doggy bags and bring those in for lunch all next week. Be conspicuous about it. That'll be the last time somebody tells your festive ass how much you can and can't eat. Damn.

Don't use this as an opportunity to pitch your "great idea" to the CEO. Worst professional advice I ever heard. How often do you even see the CEO during the year? That's what I thought. And tonight you're in the same room for the whole evening? Come on, snowflakes-fer-brains--get on over there and make your pitch! No, wait! First make sure you've visited the bar a few times. You want to seem confident and assured. DO NOT be intimidated. If you piss your pants, be sure it's not because you're scared, but because you told a sexist, racist joke AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS and oh, my God, it was sooooooo funny, you guys!!!

Do make sure your date is on his/her best behavior. Yeahokayrightwhatever. I advise NEVER taking your spouse or significant other to these things--you see them all the time. BO. RING. Do me proud and take a stranger. Head on over to the mall, pick up Santa (or Mrs. Claus) after his shift is over, and then go to the office party. He's already dressed, he's probably already liquored up--HUZZAH!--and he's probably ready to hit the buffet line and then hit the dance floor! Don't miss an opportunity here. If your date ain't lookin' to swing his jingle bells around and trim your tree, you may as well stay ho-ho-home.

See you at the bar, bitches!

Ice Cream Snuggie

My shiny little bits of tinsel,

The gift-giving season is in full swing. Why, just this past weekend, as I was stuck in traffic, cursing under my breath the entire time because MOTHER OF GOD is every single person in the fucking world scrambling to go shopping or what??? out and about, I was thinking of the song "Silver Bells":

     City sidewalks, busy sidewalks,
     Dressed in holiday style
     In the air there's a feeling of Christmas.
     Children laughing, people passing,
     Meeting smile after smile,
     And on every street corner you hear
     Silver bells, silver bells...

Only that's not how it is at all, amirite??? Christmas trees have been up since before Halloween, bitches are camping outside of goddamn Wal-Mart after Thanksgiving and fucking pepper spraying each other to save twenty measly dollars on some soon-to-be-outdated electronic piece of shit that's made by Chinese orphans, and ungrateful little mongrel children are getting friggen iPads for Christmas! Our lord and savior was born in a friggen manger and crucified on a cross and this is how we honor him on the day of his birth? Nice. Real nice. Thanks for all that hardship and stuff you suffered for us, Jesus.

Here's a better idea. Leave the car in the garage. Put on some Christmas music. Get the fireplace going. Mix yourself a cocktail or three. You're going to make something.

Surely you know someone who loves ice cream, right? There are so many great flavors: Dulce de Leche, Chocolate Peanut Butter, and Schweddy Balls. And who doesn't love to eat out of the carton? Well, here's a little snuggie for your ice cream and a snuggie for your ice cream spoon:

I found the mini spoon (maybe a baby spoon, maybe demitasse--don't know) at an estate sale for $1. (I love giving gifts I buy at estate sales. "Someone had to die so you could have this," seems so much more sentiment-filled than, "Here, look what I found at Target." That's love right there, folks.) Seemed like a good companion for the ice cream.

The fabrics don't match, but I thought they looked cute together. And I certainly didn't come up with the idea for either of these things: go here for ice cream snuggie directions (there's also a soda can snuggie set of instructions), and here for instructions on making the bag for the spoon. A sewing machine certainly makes things easier, but these are so small that you could just make them with a needle and thread, you lazy piece of crap.

And--even though I am a hateful and selfish wench--I can be coaxed into making you one of these if you want one. But you have to ask me nicely. And pay me with fried chicken. NON-negotiable, you cheap piece. Just let me know.

Viewing problems

My tiny, delicate snowflakes--

Have you found yourself curled up under a snuggly blanket by the crackling fire, sipping hot cocoa with marshmallows as Bing Crosby croons in the background, the dog snuggled up on your cozy feet? Have you thought to yourself that this would be a good time to enjoy a movie or read a book or masturbate in peace? Have you replaced that thought with the decision to check your email for your daily dose of Sweet Tea, Please only to be disappointed because--fuckshitgoddamnitsonofabitch!!--the embedded video or picture won't work?

Sorry about that. After one of you called me up, crying like a little girl because your "Family Guy" video didn't magically appear, I learned that, Apparently, if you get Sweet Tea by email (as opposed to going directly to the blog itself) the embedded pictures and videos may not work correctly. If that's the case, then just go directly to the blog to view/watch everything that I put out there to entertain your ass. Then you can say to yourself, "Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. She thinks this is funny? Yeah, about as funny as a kitten with cancer. Ol' girl needs to try harder."

Also: If you do not receive Sweet Tea in your inbox when there's a new post and you would like to, just let me know and I'll add you to the list. And if you DO receive it and you DON'T want to *cough*fuckyou*cough*, just let me know and I'll remove you.

Thank you, and please return to your regularly scheduled day.

Navy's Secret Weapon

Well, kids, it looks like Navy beat Army this past weekend in their annual match-up. Again.

Don't you think it's about time we threw down and called Navy on what they're doing? Give it up, Navy--we know all about your dirty little secret weapon:

Oh, ha ha. Relax. That's just a little friendly inter-service rivalry there, kids. Totally harmless. I don't really know enough about the Navy to talk any shit, but it does seem that every time I try to say something good about them, someone shoots my good thoughts down.

Example 1: Way back in the day, I was at Fort Huachuca, Arizona (all the services were there--I was Army, obvs), and this Navy guy asked me out. Tim. I thought he was cute. I said yes. As I was getting ready to go out with him, my roommate, Andrea, said, "Oh, yeah. I know that guy. He has shifty eyes." Shifty fucking eyes. I hadn't even noticed. But we went out and I swear to God, the only thing I could see were his eyes shift, shift, shifting all over the damn place. The end. Well, I mean, yeah, I let him hit it, but only from the back because there was no way I was going to be looking at those shifty eyes the whole time. Come on. I'm a girl with some class--give me some credit.

Example 2: My buddy Alan (retired Marine and Sweet Tea bleader) and I were discussing the different uniforms of the services a couple of years ago. I confessed that I LOVED the Navy dress uniform, blindingly white with creases so sharp you could cut yourself. And, just as Andrea had cut down my high Navy hopes years earlier with her shifty eyes comment, Alan also dashed any Navy love I had when he said, "Oh, you mean the ice cream salesman uniform." Now, of course, I see an ice cream salesman when I see Navy whites. Real nice, Alan--thanks for that, man.

And here's one final inter-service rivalry tidbit for you:

Pasta Night

Exhausted little bunnies,

Are you beat from a long week of work? Does the thought of heading out make you want to claw your own eyes out? Do you both mock and pity all the pathetic losers who think that Friday night is the night to head out and party? Do you think that being social is more overrated than a luxury handbag? Cock right. Finally, a peer.

Listen, if it's Friday night, then that can mean only one thing at Casa de Lucy & Emily: Pasta Night!

Here's how we do it (even easier when using dried or fresh pasta from the store):

1. Walk in the door, worn out as all hell. Pour yourself a glass of wine. Take Lucy for Walk of Glamour, knowing that the full little shit pick-up bag in your hand only accentuates how the week has taken a toll on you.

2. Wash hands. Have some wine. Make pasta. (SUPER SECRET RECIPE ALERT: Put two cups of flour and three eggs in a food processor. Whirrrrrrrrrrrr. Roll into a ball and put it in the refrigerator so it can rest for a few minutes.)

(This is about 1/6th of a whole recipe, just before being rolled out.)

3. Go upstairs with your wine and change clothes (sweats are the mandatory uniform for Pasta Night). You look like hell, so try to avoid the mirror. It's the end of the week. Be kind to yourself. Have another glass of wine.

4. Freshen your glass of wine. Put some water on to boil. Sip some wine. Roll pasta.

Have another sip. Cut pasta.

Go on, sip. Toss pasta in flour so it doesn't stick.

You know what to do--sip. If you're going to make a sauce, now's the time. And don't forget to sip.

5. While the pasta boils, set up your command center on the couch (no civilized eating at the table on Pasta Night). Make sure the wine bottle, your phone, the tv remote, and anything else you need are all within reach. Get your big fluffy tv-watching blanket out--you're gonna be here a while. Set up your movie, DVR, or whatever.

6. Hey, you friggen lush--your pasta is cock ready. Go ahead and get one more big swig and then do whatever needs to be done to your pasta: add your sauce or just use butter and parsely. It really doesn't matter--anything will do just fine. I ended up making a shrimp scampi because it is so easy and it can be done in the time it takes the water to boil (Plus, I had some shrimp in the freezer and a lemon on the counter that needed to be used. Wasted food pisses me off more than stupid cock license plates, if you can believe it.).

7. Stagger on over to the couch and snuggle up with your bowl of pasta, your glass of wine, your fluffy little doggy, and an episode of "Bewitched." Exchange drunk texts with your sister here and there.

8. Enjoy the rest of the pasta later in the weekend...maybe with a little pesto. There is no easier lunch, you lazy piece of crap.

Just don't lock yourself out of the house while your water boils. ;)

Happy Friday Night Pasta Night, dear bleaders! Let's all raise our glasses to an evening in.

Dick

Dick. One of my favorite words. It really is the perfect word when you're looking for something less emphatic than "asshole" but more emphatic than "ol' boy."

For example, you may have to explain your tardiness to a meeting by saying: "Sorry I'm late--dick blocked my car in."

Anyway, in light of my (heh heh) preference for dick, a sweet dear was kind enough to pick this campaign sign up for me AFTER the recent election. Doesn't it bug you when, long after elections are over, some dicks won't even get out and pick up their crappy cock sign? Dick.

Anyway, some background. Senator Richard Saslaw (D) had been the incumbent for 30 years in Virginia's 35th District. This past summer, Robert Sarvis (R) decided he wanted the job. And the race was on.

Things started out in a fairly civil--borderline bland--manner. Here was Sarvis's original campaign sign:

But things weren't looking good for our dear, pandering Sarvis, even though he was doing every cock thing he could do to appeal to EVERYONE. Bi-racial? Check. Father died young? Yup. Raised by a single, Chinese mother? You betcha. High school at Thomas Jefferson? Of course. Undergrad at Harvard? Nowhere but. Law degree? You know it. Disillusioned with law? Believe it. Black wife? Oh snap. Adorable baby boy, little girl on the way? Yes and yes.

Still...not working. Efforts had to be stepped up. So, shortly before the election, Sarvis intensified his campaign by covering the above good-citizen signs with a clear message for his opponent (our dear Richard):

And...

Kinda brings a tear to your eye, don't it?

In the end, the good people of Northern Virginia said, "I want Dick for four more years! Yay! Four more years of Dick! Give me Dick for four years! Dick! Dick! Dick for all of Northern Virginia!" And, apparently, Mr. Sarvis skulked home, too much of a sore loser to even pick up his cock campaign signs, leaving them for people like me to frame and hang over my fireplace.

Hey, how come Dick is the abbreviated form of Richard? I'm not complaining, mind you. Just asking. Same thing with Bill for William. Or Bob for Robert? Or Jack for John. WTF?

Cock

My delicate little flower petals--

Like the width of my ass during these precious holidays, my vocabulary is expanding. Not with a word I didn't know before; it's an old favorite used in a new way. Cock.

First, let's discuss a couple of ways that we're already familiar with cock. These are just some of the ways I loved cock already, before I learned to love cock in a new way.

Verb: You can cock your head to the side:

Or, in tender, private, special moments, you can cock the one you love.

Noun: You can build a giant cock in the snow:

Interjection: Say you're in a very serious meeting at work. Someone says, "We really need to improve our production output this quarter. Does anyone have any suggestions?" Just as someone says, "I was thinking maybe we could..." you pipe up and yell, "COCK!" and sit back and smile, watching the discomfort spread through the room.

(I made that last one up, of course, but don't act like you don't love the idea.)

And I'm sure you can come up with plenty of other examples on your own.

But today I'd like to focus on using cock as an adverb. See, I recently started watching "Bewitched" on DVD and ohmygodILOVEthatshow!!! Anyway, there's a neighbor, Gladys...

...and she is convinced that Samantha is a witch (SPOILER ALERT, bitches: Samantha is a witch). And Gladys's husband, Abner (two hottest names EVUH), thinks that Gladys is being absurd. In a scene that I had to rewind about a thousand times, Abner tells Gladys that she's just imagining things, and she demands to know how he's so "cock sure" that he's right. Cock. Sure. REWIND. Cock. Sure. REWIND. Cock. Sure.

"Cock sure": the phrase that fucking pays!!! AHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!! "Cock" has now replaced "damn," "very," "effing," and any other adverb used for emphasis in my vocabulary!

Am I excited to have a new phrase? Cock right, I am! Do I really think it's a good idea to use bad language in public? I'm cock certain! How do I like my steak? Cock bloody!

Imagine all the cock ways you can use this word! What's so great is that the word itself is cock familiar, but the usage is so cock uncommon, people won't know quite what to think of it.

Bring on the bewildered cock glances!

BITCH

My delicate little poinsettias--

So there I was. At the Wal-Mart. Picking up some necessities. I thought to myself, "My, my, what is that delicious smell?" I followed my nose and realized that a whole mess of fried chicken had just come out of the hopper. Dearies, I will sacrifice five orphans for a piece of fried chicken! Come and get it!

BUT FIRST. THIS woman was in line in front of me.

Doesn't she look like a total bitch? AND SHE WAS. She was barking at the little lady behind the counter fetching her goddamn chicken. Bitch wanted ten pieces of chicken and she wasn't going to stop until she had exactly the ten she was looking for. "NO, I SAID BIG PIECES!" Bitch! Then she had the nerve to look over at me and roll her eyes toward ol' girl behind the counter--as if she and I were somehow in this shit together just because we happened to be standing on the same side of the counter. Bitch, please. I tried to put on my best C-U-Next-Tuesday face and throw a nasty side-eye her way, but my side-eye is terrible. Lucy is much better at it:

Anyway, I don't feel the least bit guilty about posting that bitch's picture here and calling her a bitch. As a matter of fact, let this be a lesson. If you're an asshole, then I'm going to hop right up in your face and make you "famous" on this here excuse for a blog. Cutting in line in traffic? Famous. Not picking up your dog's shit? Famous! Being an insufferable C-U-Next-Tuesday to the poor unfortunate bastard behind the counter at Wal-Mart? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg famous, bitch.

Here she is again. Be on the look-out:

Locked Out!

Tender bleaders--

Your faithful Sweet Tea did something very dumb...

So there I was. Doing stuff around the house: changing sheets, folding laundry, unloading the dishwasher, normal weekend around-the-house stuff that Lucy is too fucking important to do. (She performs only supervisory duties when it comes to housework. I swear, if she didn't protect me from all the dangerous squirrels and birds in the neighborhood, I would put her fluffy little ass out on the street!)

One thing I'd been meaning to do was take an extra house key out to the (detached) garage in case I ever locked myself out. I took the extra key out and put it on the counter, but then I thought of some other stuff I needed to do first, so I went about that business. Also, I was getting hungry, so I decided to make myself some pasta for lunch (more on that in a later post), so I put some water on to boil. Anyway, I finally set out to put the key in the garage. Just as I walked out and heard the door close behind me, I realized the key was still on the counter.

Forty-five minutes and $104  later...

It could've been a lot worse. I gave them a sob story about there being a dog in the house and water boiling on the stove. Ol' boy got there in a hurry, so I was tres grateful!

Oh, and you just know that, since it was a Sunday and I hadn't left the house all day, I was looking off-the-hook foxy. Kittens, trust me when I tell you that I looked beat. Sweat pants, no make-up, slept-on hair... Still, not sure why I'm so embarrassed. I mean, some people actually leave the house looking like that. Don't believe me? Check out the super-sexy pair spotted by Sweet Tea Sis at the Wal-Mart in Harrison, Arkansas:

Shocking how plain it can be that two people are made for each other.