I've been watching soap operas.

Believe me: I know. But, in my defense, it's primetime hiatus and I've already reader-digested all the literature in my house. Incidentally, this charming literary collection is limited to someone's ancient stash of Playboy and a tattered copy of Little House on the Prairie. Is it wrong that I find the latter to be, however marginally, more titillating?

VS.  

I'm open to debate.

Sparse as my choices are, I've resorted to (don't-drop-the) soaps. And maybe I really have to be thirteen or sixty-five to fully appreciate the sweet subtleties of their dialogue, but I think the greatest crime of daytime (I rhyme!) is when the actors really believe in their lines:

Fabio: [poetically] I love me. And I's loving me and you together.

Faith: [touched] I'm touched by you.

Fabio: [growls] And I's will keep touching you.

Faith: [giggles] But I'm marrying someone else.

Fabio: [squinty-eyed] You can't marry my father. He only has one testicle.

Faith: [fat-lipped] Which?

Fabio: [huskily] The left.

Faith: [sultry] No, which father?

[Fabio glowers, contemplative. Then suddenly his Prada shirt dissolves and I forget why I complained.]


NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

I's can't believe it's not butter:

Oh, it's one of those days.

So, instead of moping around like some ass-heavy, job-light 22-year-old, I've decided to go to my happy place.

Shit. Wrong happy place. Uh, I love plants. Me and my green thumbs (huh, my middle-finger is super green). Yea.

But no, my happy place isn't really a place so much as it is a bunch o' things that make me high as a bird, legally. The countdown begins:

5. (I'm gay for) Bert and Ernie. Where do YOU think Bert's right muppet-hand is? Tsk.

   

4. People who guffaw at my lame jokes. Ha. Ha. I don't hear laughing.

3. Borderline criminal, how my (butt)cheeks hurt from...laughing:

   

2. Doing a massively ugly, reverse strip-dance to "Mr. Brightside." For those not yet in-the-know, a reverse strip-dance is when the offending subject starts off in a decent pair of granny panties and coconut shells, then PUTS ON more clothes as he/she knocks-knees and ass-grinds to The Killers. Nothing inherently sexy can't be destroyed by me. Ha. Ha.

...I don't hear laughing.

1. Flaab.com, o' course. What'd you expect? Blasphemy.

Psst. The Real #1:







Flaab.com. Tsk. Ye of little faith.

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag For the Maasses:

Are we human, or are we prancers?



I know what I am.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Should Be Employed

10. There's this ass I have. It's GARGANTUAN. That's useful in some professions, right?

9. I can somewhat rap not off-key to Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

8. Albus Dumbledore and I are like THIS ::crosses fingers and legs::



7. I can tie a cherry stem knot using only. My. Hands. Boo-dah.

6. If I get a job, I won't auction off my Flaab.com page to the highest bidder. This ain't a Senate seat.

5. I'm sure this is somehow related: I love Muppets.

4. I've lost two pounds (o' chest) in two weeks. That alone proves my character, perserverance, potential, loyalty, integrity, work ethic, exceptional ability, leadership skills, fluency in seven languages, and knack for using Microsoft Office.

3. You should hire me because I'msohungrydon'tmakemeeatyou.

2. Because, I can introduce you to E. Jean. I swear, she knows all about this arrangement. She'll even throw in a bag of peanut M&Ms. True story.

1. Because...I deserve to? I hope.


NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

She has a career. And me has a new role model:



Did anyone else read "Church of Lesbianism"? I need to get my eyes checked. Oh, wait...no insurance.

It's happened.

I get on the scale this morning and I'm a perky 125 pounds, which means I've shed 32 ounces of faat since the beginning. Not baad, I say. I make myself the customary breakfast (nothing) and top it off with some extra nothing, then I jog/cartwheel/pole-vault my way to the bathroom. By this time, I'm fully awake. All that eating must've paid off. Then...

I blink. Once. Twice.

It's true. MY LADIES ARE SMALLER. Just call me Chesty Light.

And my butt feels bigger, somehow. Turn it off, Sir Mix-a-Lot. No wonder I had an extra tough time standing upright this morning. Maybe, instead of SHEDDING flaab the normal way, my cellulite is funneling down my body. First stop: My ass. Well, I certainly can't wait for it to reach my legs. I want CANKLES:



the bosom < the bottom = tipped cow.
(Golden Rule of Dieting)

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

Travolta's tits are mocking me. And suddenly really like milk (not the movie):

Christian Bale better watch out.



NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

My weight, like the economy according to Obama, will worsen before it gets better.



I'm no economist, but doesn't eating LESS and ergo purchasing less goods and ergo refusing to stimulate cash flow somehow screw with the business model? Or, forgive the jibberish, because i'm HOOOONGRY.

As requested by E. Jean, a Shaakepearean saannet pour vous:

(Edited to remind: Tom is my former boss/mentor at a teaching program. No leadership integrity, and painful to look at. Translation: Sucks. Major. Asparagus.)

An Ode to Flaab(.com)

I desperately want to demolish flaab
Yet food and booze seem to get in the way.
Worse yet, when I think of that shrink-balled S.O.B,
I inhale the dessert aisle at Safeway.

Oh no, I mustn't continue like this -
Gorging away like a transfat beach whale.
I'll use my rage at that bucket o' piss
As incentive to get thin as a rail.

I'm betting Ben Franklin I lose five pounds,
And if I should fail, then T-O-M gets said dough.
These days I still like to stuff my face round,
'Stead with bird food, tea, and hatred for foe.

So flaabers, here's my vow to Flaab.com,
I'm bringin' sexy back for my friend Tom.

- Irene the Pleasant Peasant (Mother Pheasant Plucker)


NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

Butt Haiku (I'm such a BITER, George):

I stare at my butt
And I cannot tell a lie:
Big, round and juicy.

I delight in the juvenile activity of changing song lyrics. Sample artwork:

How do you solve a problem like Gonorrhea
How do you catch Mono and keep it down
How do you find a cure for Gonorrhea?
Amoxycillin, and take two aspirin - get wound!

or:

The meat on his buns go up and down
Up and down, all around
The meat on his buns fly up and down
I'm being so profound.

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

I change the lyrics to "God Save the Queen":

I wept reading this. W-E-P-T:

THE GOOGIES ARE COMING

The googies are coming, the old people say,
To buy little children and take them away.
Fifty cents for fat ones,
Twenty cents for lean ones,
Fifteen cents for dirty ones,
Thirty cents for clean ones,
A nickel each for mean ones.

The googies are coming, and maybe tonight,
To buy little children and lock them up tight.
Eighty cents for husky ones,
Quarter for the weak ones,
Penny each for noisy ones,
A dollar for the meek ones.

Forty cents for happy ones,
Eleven cents for sad ones.
And, kiddies, when they come to buy,
It won't do you any good to cry.
But - just between yourself and I -
They never buy the bad ones!

-Shel Silverstein

50 + 5 + 80 + 11 = $1.46 net worth

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

I feel weightier than Proust's prose:

Le MOJO retrouvé, s'il vous plaît.

Dear Morbidly Fascinated,

It's one of those days. I wake up to find the cosmos bird-dropping THIS on my front step:


Ah, my favorite kind of birdie. It wasn't even gift-wrapped. 'Tis the season.

"Why the proverbial middle digit?" you (don't) ask. Self-portrait time:
Cry me a liver.

There shall be no face-time with the scale today. Nope, daarlings. I only weigh in when I feel confident. Sassy. Lasciviously light.

Sexlessly Sighing,
Irene the Incessant Pheasant
(Peasant Mother Plucker)

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

Even gay muppets don't cheer me up:


Seriously? Seriously.

I credit Tiffany Michelle for the inspiration. What I lack in originality, I shall more than make up for with gratitude. Thaanks.

And now, without further ado-do, my love letter to TOM (Let's review: He Sucks.), the mortal enemy:

My Darling Tom,

It's been 892 days, 2 hours, and 31.74 seconds since last we corresponded. How are you? I wish...oh, how I wish things had been different. As I sit here gnawing on half a fig, gazing at shiny objects in the sky, and soaking in herbal tea shit and buyer's remorse, I can't help but be reminded of you - your sillhouette against the pale of day, your face (smeared against my classroom window), and those promises we never made to each other. And, you should know:

I've never stopped thinking about you. I...couldn't. Can't.

Without you, food just doesn't taste the same. (It tastes much better. Yuck!) The grief over losing you has turned my gray hairs black and brought a despicable rosiness to my once sullen cheeks. (Which cheeks, you might ask. A lady never tells.) To make matters worse, I now sleep like a Gerber baby. I have felt the loss viscerally, spiritually, pancreatically.

I miss you.

Tom, I don't want to beat around your bush. Ever. So I should probably mention that I didn't just write this letter to regale good times. No, I'm placing this letter in an old Jose Cuervo bottle, sealing it with my love and a cheap cork, and shot-putting it into the nearest neighborhood dumpster. From there, perhaps by a few turns of fate, it should end up in a dumping ground close to where you sleep. Maybe you'll read it then. If it does end up in your hands, then...what can I say? Except that we're meant to be. But if it doesn't, then Gawd willing, perhaps another dump squatter will find it and thusly my life can finally resemble a Nicholas Sparks novel.

(Up) Yours forever and ever,
Irene

...the Pleasant Peasant
(Mother Pheasant Plucker)

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

I uncover a Voodoo Magic Weight-Loss Ring:



Nobody better outbid me.

medium-sized banana = 86 calories

banana cream pie = +86 pounds

bananas in pajamas = priceless

banana hammock = disappointing

Remarkably Robust,

Irene the Pleasant Pleasant
(Mother Pheasant Plucker)


NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

This shit is bananas. B-A-L-L-B-U-S-...wait a minute:

It's time for a Mother Booze Rhyme:

There lives an old woman (?) who's stuck in a Croc;
She'd had too much Doritos and couldn't get up to walk.
Said they, "Climb in some shoes; go for a run!"
It seems they were right, for she's still havin' fun.

- Irene the Pleasant Peasant (a.k.a. Mother BOOZE)

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

Some food for thought:

Is it wrong that this makes me HUNGRY?

Aass rejuvenation and new food options. Bonus item: Snark.

Perfectly Proportioned,

Irene the Pleasant Peasant
(Mother Pheasant Plucker)
 

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

I discover a treadmill is very different from a windmill:

They're good for my heart. The more I eat, the more I'll, um...excuse me.

Nado, ladies and males. 65 calories per every satiating serving. Also known as BREAKFAST.

"Why the masochism?" you aassk. Because:

Yeesh, even the scale looks bloated.

Thaat's aall for now.

Irene the Pleasant Peasant
(Mother Pheasant Plucker)

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

I take voyeuristic photos of myself. And think it's cute:

 

Irene's Flaab Blaag for the Maasses:

Who: Irene, the Pleasant Peasant
What: Cellulite and small-talk.
When: Right...now.
Where: My tiny little world.
How: Meditative concentration. Can-do attitude. BRIBERY. Details to follow.


 Dear Morbidly Fascinated,

I am not F-A-T. I'm not your average Ho Sixpack. I'm not of the lager-guzzling, Cheetos-scarfing, nut-cracking variety. I'd like to believe I spend a healthy amount of time in front of the television everyday (23.999 hrs/day, 0.001 hrs put aside for yogalates and profound bathroom breaks). And, when I look in the mirror on Sexy-Hair Saturdays, I see someone who is imperfect, but still perfectly lovable. We shall not speak of Shiite-Face Sundays.

I preface by stating the above because I. Am. A. Maverick. By (campaign) defintion, mavericks are audacious. They push the envelope. They lack self-awareness and are mostly just cloying and obnoxious. BUT, they spark discussion. Thusly, I embark on this venture to shed a lil' ass and win a bit o' cash. Enter Ben Franklin:

Here's how it works. My phat self really needs a reason (besides common sense - tried that) to do something healthy. It's about discipline. It's about digging deep within to uncover the SOUL. It's about wanting to look like this:

   

I jest. Gross. More like this:

...minus five pounds. (127 - 5 = 122 solid lbs.)

That's right. The BET: Through the wonders of Flaab.com, I am $100-confident that I can lose 5 lbs. by January 4, 2009. Naturally, if (when!) I succeed, I'll be slipping Mr. Franklin in the assrear pocket of my new skinny jeans. Yikes. However, iffff I lose (puh!), said legal tender will be split 80-20 between my mortal enemy (TBA) and my friend (sister, actually). Enter sister:

"What."
 
If she catches me FAILING to lose the aforementioned five-pounder on January 4, 2009...she gets 20 bucks. Bring it, Audrey. Game face.

For the time being, she is the opposition. It's important to keep track of sides. You're on mine. Now, onto the mortal enemy. Tom, my former, uh, "mentor." For political reasons, I cannot post his picture here. Also, it would cause you to shit, run, and go blind. All at once. So, for the remainder of this project, picture said enemy to look like THIS:

"Saucy," Tom purred.

There isn't enough vomit in the world.

I was once an impressionable youth. And, though still youthful and vivacious, I have since learned that some people simply blow chunks. Mortal enemy a.k.a. Carrot Top a.k.a. TOM is living proof that some people should never be placed in a position of authority. During his two-month-run as my mentor in a teaching program, he taught me a great deal about how much he sucks. When it came time for us to evaluate him, he asked for our honesty and then in turn scorched our pretty little hides for being...honest.

There's a part of me that may never recover.

...But this is a start. If I lose the wager, 20 bucks goes to that bundle of joy, my sister. 80 flippin' dollars goes to Tom.

Say it ain't so.

(...I will not go turn the lights off. Carry me home. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na...)

80 dollars and a personalized note detailing just how much I admire his chunk-blowing ways. I fear my dignity may not survive the ordeal. Ergo, I MUST PREVAIL. No mo' Fridge Raids:

I salute thee with mine middle digit:

That is all for now. Thank you for reading with such engrossed morbid fascination. Much obliged.

Incorrigibly Insatiable,

Irene the Pleasant Peasant
(Mother Pheasant Plucker)

NEXT on Irene's Flaab Blog for the Maasses:

Irene drinks delicious green tea. Translation: Sublimates desire for cookies with liquid poo.