Welcome to Gingertown

My name is Chelsey, and I am a proud Ginger. You'd think I wouldn't toss around this highly offensive term, but it is now a word we use affectionately between Gingers. Kind of like the "N" word for black people.
Thanks for stopping by, but remember, don't get too comfortable because this is a Ginger only zone.

While you're here, I'd like to give you a brief history on Gingertown. Get you a little more acquainted. This is all fact.

The year was 1965 and Ginger bullying was at an all time high. Tired of roundhouse kicking everyone in the face, morning, noon and night, Chuck Norris decided something had to give. But what?
One night he settled into his rocking chair made of cobras, grabbed the sand paper blanket he's had since he was a tot and munched on his favourite snack of nails and needles. While channel surfing from 2-5 over and over again, he came across this sad looking Ginger boy on the television.
"3 year old Axl Rose, fetch me the telephone. I have to make an important telephone call to Hollywood."
You might think it's strange that Chuck Norris' slave child was Axl Rose. I think so too.

A week passed, and a small Ginger boy knock came at Chuck's front door. Big eared, freckle faced Ron Howard stood in the door way. Eyes wide with a toothy grin and his hand out stretched. "We have a lot of important work to do, friend."

Thus, the original Ginger alliance was formed. Chuck and Ron brainstormed into the wee hours of the morning. "What can we do to make people accept us for who we are, not for what colour our hair is?" Ron asked.
"There's nothing we can do." Chuck answered. "Everyone hates us. But we can start a new civilization, all our own. We can call it Gingertown."
Chuck and Ron super Ginger high fived and Axl had a turd in his diaper.
"Change my diaper, pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pleeeeeaaase? Pleeeeaaase?"

So there you have it, the origin of Gingertown. We are sitting at a cool 140, 000, 000 Gingers world wide, with a Gingertown population of about 500, 000. That's about the size of Hamilton, Ontario.

Old Papa Chuck is still active in the crimson community, participating in things like potato sack races and policing the entire city. You don't get thrown in jail here, you get a swift kick in the nuts. But by Chuck's standards, you're only going to learn your lesson if the end result is your testicles in your mouth. Crime is at an all time low.

I don't know why I associate bad eye sight with red hair. Oh wait, yes I do.

I was elected mayor of Gingertown on January 21, 2011. What a joyous occasion that was. Molly Ringwald danced barefoot doing ribbon gymnastics, while Tiffany and Reba McEntire sang their own rendition of "Red red wine". Danny Bonaduce and Lindsey Lohan got drunk on more than just the lyrics, and ended up making public whoopee. Yes, it was definitely as gross as it sounds. Chuck gave them both a knee to the fire crotch.

We like things simple here in Gingertown. We enjoy collecting glass figurines of all types, shapes and sizes. Cats, dolphins, salt and pepper shakers, dragons, roosters, people dancing ballet, unicorns, etc. You name it, chances are, we collect it.

For the most part, our town is virtually the same as yours, with some small differences. Our grocery stores sell hot dogs in packs of 12 as per usual, but hot dog buns also come in packs of 12. Barbecues go a little smoother here. Instead of the many possible choices of orange juice that you have, we have one. Nothing but pulp. The general consensus shows that the favoured food of Gingers is saltine crackers topped with ketchup and processed cheese slices. Fashion is a bit behind, but it's hardly noticable. Right now, the biggest trend among the ladies is high waisted jean shorts that go to your knee. You know, the kind that make your butt look about two feet long. And bandanas. We still think those are cool.

One of the downsides of living in Gingertown and being of Flaming decent is, we have a severe (almost critical) shortage of One A Day Soul Supplement pills. But I think I'm going to have a chat with the pharmaceutical company we deal with, because they taste an awful lot like brown sugar mixed with cod liver oil. I think they might be yanking my chain.
We live in a dome because the sun burns our skin and nobody likes us very much, but the overall quality of life is pretty good.
So if you like orange juice with nothing but pulp, bandanas and having no one like you, join us. Seriously. We need more friends.

Hey, at least I'm not bitter

To all of the people with their shit together, (ie. school, relationships, jobs, marriage, home ownership, children, you get up before noon) congratulations! On opposite day. Go fuck yourselves, is what I really meant. I'm a realist. I've accepted the fact that I'm not going to find the perfect job, or marry my best friend and soul mate. Chances are slim to none on having a big house with a nice lawn and a moron shaggy dog named Artie, chasing after his ass. I probably won't have 2.5 wonderfully spoken children, or go to an evening yoga class with the rest of the modern working mothers in my neighborhood. I won't drive a hybrid, be a part of a book club, or watch Sunday night HBO with my white collared husband.

What's in the cards for me, you ask? Well, I'm just ball parking here, but I have a feeling it's going to be something along the lines of a dingy apartment, furnished with milk crates, my grandma's old tv with a line through the top of the picture, a twin mattress, plastic forks, and not enough toilet paper. I'll start internet dating, meeting guys who are 40 years old, balding, who take care of their elderly mothers. I'll eat copious amounts of Chinese food and my fridge will be 90% condiments and vinegar packets. 9 times out of 10, my fortune cookie will tell me to “Lighten up, and enjoy life.” Dear fortune cookie; don't tell me my fucking business, is what I'll say. My cat Little Jerry Seinfeld with be the light of my life.

I'll turn 30, maybe have a one night stand and get promoted to battering onion rings. I'll upgrade my tv box with the red digits, and grandma tv with the pull knob, to a 28 incher from Cash Converters. Sans line through the top of the picture. All in all, it'll be a good year for me. I'll take up scrapbooking and maybe jogging for a couple weeks, but then I'll remember how much I hate people who scrapbook, and how I especially hate running.

I'll run into you at the grocery store while buying cat food and one ply toilet paper, your recyclable bags in hand. Your t-shirt will have a witty comic about your lack of a carbon foot print and you'll try to catch up on the last 6 years. The “Old ball and chain” (you'll laugh) is doing well, your bilingual 2.5 children are growing like weeds, little Jimmy just got a medal for track and field, and the new job is great! Company car and everything. You'll ask me what I've been up to, all this time. Chances are, I'll call you a hippie fag, poke a hole in your bag of milk and then yell “MARTIN RULES! Medal THIS, Jimmy!” and I will grab my crotch. I'm hoping they will have invented rocket skates by then, so I can make a quick getaway. If not, I'll rip open a bag of peas and throw them on the ground, in hopes you will slip on them like a Scoobie Doo cartoon. If there is any poetic justice in this world, you will.

I will be living proof that God has a sense of humour. But hey, at least I'm not bitter.

Despite popular belief, a contest is for entering. Dicks.

So, since you people suck major testicles at life, the winner and only fucking entry, is Alex! Thank you Alex, for being so wonderful and not as ball sucky as everyone else.


Here's a little about Alex:


Alex, born Alex Rodriguez Pasquel on June 9th, in the smallest town in the world called Hum, located in the central part of Istria, Northwest Croatia. Population: 23. At 14, Alex decided he no longer wanted to be a goat farmer with parents Lynn and Richard, so he opted for a good education. So he pillaged the small town of Hum, collecting every kuna (Croatian currency) and putting it in his travel to Canada jar. His travel to Canada jar being the skull of the last guy who told him he wasn't allowed to steal his kunas. So, he raped and pillaged for about 6 years, earning the name "Alex the raper and pillager". Sure enough, his perseverance paid off, and by 20 he finally arrived at his long sought after destination; The Great White North. But then he said "Screw education." and decided to work at a grocery store.
You're my boy, Alex. Without further adieu, Alex's funnies...

"Saying cheers instead of thanks is for retards and British people"

Fads piss me off. I hate the double down, I hate Suzanne Somers thighs, and I hated when people felt the need to call everyone "Boss" for 14 months of time. Unfortunately, the "boss" nonsense has toned itself down, but I still hear people using "cheers" instead of thanks. It makes no sense, it sounds retarded, and it really pisses me off.


When you are at the bar, drunk off your ass and you order another pitcher of Labatt fifty between incoherent pick up attempts of the waitress, you can let it slide when she brings the beer, likely infiltrated with three stds and six CCs of urine, and says "cheers". Alcohol is involved, so cheers makes sense.


Likewise when you are in Easter Gwillumburyfordshireton, England, and the jolly ol bar keep gives you some deep fried pig ears and a warm beer, and says "cheers" when you pay him, it is acceptable. Food is involved, alcohol, albeit poorly climately controlled, is involved, and you're in fucking Britain.


However. When you are in Brantford Ontario, and someone holds the door open for you, you do NOT say cheers. If I hold the door open for you, and you say cheers, you have 3.7 seconds to hand me a beer, or I will pick your ass up, place you back outside of the establishment, and reslam the door in your face.


Fads piss me off, and word-fads are the gnarly tentacled pude covered grandmothers of all fads. I fucking hate them. I would humbly plead that all people please end the cheers fad. It would make 2011 the most amazing year by having the double whammy of losing an unnecessary word-fad, as well as hopefully, and I pray to shit I don't jinx it, the first calendar year in almost a decade where I won't have to hear another shitty song by fucking Fallout Boy. Fat guys with lesbian haircuts hidden under military hats make me vomit fire.


Thanks for reading,


Horace G Rockafeller,


Cheers.


Aw fuck, delete that. My backspace button is broken or I'd do myself.
God dammit. If you see me running toward you with a pipe in the next 16 hours, it is because I'm banking on your having not read this yet, and I can knock you out and steal your computer, again banking on you still being logged into facebook, so I can delete this message and resend it Cheers-free.

Alex, you are delightful. Delightful, and you smell nice. If, like me, you would like to read more of Alex Rodriguez Pasquel's quirky humour, shoot over to Uncle Chunkle's Words of Wisdom http://chunkle.blogspot.com/

Sparkle Out.

"Learn to shave your legs for yourself" The female equivalent of "Be your own man"

I recognize that the majority of my readers are of the male persuasion, so instead of reading about lady problems and periods (Or Chuck Sauce as I like to write down on my Chuck Norris calendar), you can go ahead and scroll down and read the alternate I have prepared for my hairier, thicker brow'd friends. So, what do you say we crack a beer, scratch our balls (I'll substitute with scratchin' my cleav) and fart. All in unison, maybe the world will blow up.

Single now for almost a year and for the first time since I was 15, it's been quite the ride. You get so used to doing things for a joint cause that once that's over, you're left hanging. Like catching your belt loop on a nail, dangling 2 inches from the ground. You know you want to get down, and for once in your life, you actually wish your jeans would just give up and rip. Who reinforces their fucking belt loops, anyways? You're so close that your toes are scraping the ground. Getting down seems easy enough. But how does one unhook their belt loop from the nail of limbo?

You might have to scrap some of the things that you thought you knew about yourself. Chelsey, meet Chelsey. She likes cartoons, your mom jokes, pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
Hey, I had no idea that I liked pina coladas. This makes me happy to be me.
See? I told you it works.
It also helps to laugh a lot, love your friends a lot, dance a lot, sing a lot, watch movies by yourself a lot, drink a lot, throw up a lot, high five a lot, low five some (I wouldn't recommend going too crazy with those) and I promise, slowly but surely, that pesky little 'self loathing because you're single' problem will dissipate.

Here's our biggest problem. There are 3 instances why most women shave their legs.
1. It's summer, there might be men around, and we plan to wear shorts.
2. There's a special occasion, there might be men around, and we plan to wear a dress.
3. There might be men around and there is a possibility of getting up to some frisky business.
If none of these things are going on in our lives, and there aren't any prospects of a member of the opposite sex catching a glimpse, chances are we won't do it. 

Would you like to know the real secret to being happy with yourself, by yourself? You have to shave your legs for yourself. I know we've all had dry spells which of course are depressing. But doesn't it make it even more depressing when you lift up your pant leg and you look like you've gone straight up Amazon? God forbid we should look unappealing to a man (Or woman, I know I don't seem lesbian friendly, but I am) so why is it okay to knowingly look and feel sub par for ourselves? Make yourself happy, and the rest will all fall into place, eventually.

Be your own man, ladies. And just remember; Shave your legs for yourself.

                                         POUR HOMME

Boobs, ass, beer. Burp, fishing and wet tshirt contests! Titties, greasy food, hair in the sink? Mud wrestling... sex. Cigars and football. And I said nacho cheese! Pornography, changing channels, Chatelaine. Oh wait, that's not right. I meant Hustler. Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino! Masturbation? Well, that's just sports. Sports and dutch ovens. Bacon wrapped boobies. Can I get an amen?

Please God, if you love me, make life more like Footloose

If I had one wish, it would be for real life to be like Glee. Or maybe Footloose. What I wouldn't give to sing my problems at someone (“What the hell am I doing drinking in LA at twenty-si-hiiix”) or to dance out my frustrations in an old warehouse with a series of pelvic thrusts, shoulder rolls and no handed cartwheels; all while cursing John Lithgow's name. Not saying I couldn't actually do these things. But, let's face it. If you saw me gaying around a warehouse like Kevin Pigface, singing Bran Van 3000, wouldn't you question my sanity? Or at the very least, my song choice?

Real life sucks. As I grow older, I realize this. A little more each day. If a certain “buddy” who resides upstairs would like to to make it up to me, I would settle for a studio audience. A laugh track is as little as I would accept. He can be a real stickler sometimes. Just think, in my new and improved life, you make a funny, everyone laughs. You meet some crazy old guy who thinks dancing is the devil, and you bang his daughter. Is that how Footloose goes? I don't know, I've never actually seen the whole thing. On account of it being extremely gay. Anyway, after an hour and a half, tops, everything will have worked itself out. You will probably have gained a few friends, some life experience, and most importantly, you'll have some sweet dance moves under your belt. Seriously. Jason Derulo would be jealous. But don't worry, he's not invited.

The more I write and brainstorm about my new and improved life, the more I'm thinking of throwing caution to the wind and starting up a new world. A new world where if you have a problem, you don't have to stab each other, all you have to do is have a rap or singing battle. A new world, where when you're out at the bar and your girlfriend dumps you, when you start to sing “Love Hurts” by Nazareth, no one will look at you weird. In fact, everyone will know all of the words. And surprise surprise, it's choreographed! Everything will move in slow motion, there might possibly be a glitter explosion, and like I said, everything will work out just fine. Your now ex-girlfriend will later get hit by a car.

It will be called “Life: The Chelsey Edition”. I'll make flyers with my phone number on the tabs. If you see one on a telephone pole or at your local laundromat, make sure you snag yourself a tab. Spaces are limited.

Well friends, I'm late for a pep rally at East High. My sometime boyfriend Zac Efron and I have plans to hold hands and sing to each other while committing hate crimes. That school is way too PC if you ask me. Hey, it's my world, mother fuckers. You don't get to ask questions.

So, you guys like contests?

I know some of you have some really funny stuff to say, and I'm almost positive the rest of you think you have funny stuff to say. In an effort to get more readers and followers, I would like to start a contest. Write and send me something you think will make people laugh. If I think it's good, not only will I publish what you've written, I will also write about you. Chances are, I will make something up, like you're a prostitute, drug trafficker, tranny, etc. There is one catch. You must sign up to gmail and become one of my followers. I only have 4. I look like a fucking tool box. So get to writing, my friends. Don't forget, if you submit something to me and you have not become one of my followers, you are disqualified! That's a lie, I'd just be all like... "Follow me, dick." Racist jokes and swears welcome. Contest closes Friday, January 14^th .

Send to whatthechell@gmail.com

New Year's Resolutions are for suckers and Mexican people

Prior to 2011, I had the best intentions of making and keeping my New Year's Resolutions. They were to quit smoking, take my writing more seriously and to be an all around nicer person. But then I had a shitty night, so that went out the fucking window. I thoroughly believe that it is completely justified to vito your resolutions after a bush league New Years. In fact, I'm going to do the opposite, just to spite you, Baby New Year. You can suck it.

I no longer want a writing career, and I'm going to smoke 2 packs of cigarettes a day. I'll call your mom a whore, and throw little balls of tin foil at you. I'll aim for your mouth. The balls of tin foil will be from all the Hershey's kisses I will eat. The same Hershey's kisses that I have no intention of sharing with you. Then maybe next year, Baby New Year will think twice about hasslin' me.

Okay, so maybe none of that stuff is true. A tad fabricated. I do plan to put my nose to the grind, and hopefully get published at some point in 2011. If I don't, that's cool too. I'll just have to call your mom a whore AND egg your house. I have no qualms with that. I also plan to quit smoking. Not today, but I will. And if I don't, it's okay. I'll just call your mom a whore and egg your house. Still no qualms. But this whole being nice crap? I sincerely don't think I have it in me. There is literally the smallest fraction of niceness imaginable, in my genetic makeup. You might be able to tell on account of me wanting to call your mom a whore and egg your house. Nope. No qualms here.

Exhibit A: I was in the middle of a conversation last night, and a guy that I don't really like (we'll call him Fred Savage) yells “CHELSEY? CHELSEY MARTIN? IS THAT YOU? IT'S ME! FRED SAVAGE!”

So, I do the old 3 finger wave and try to continue on with my story. His friend sitting next to him (we'll call him the guy who looks like a frog, whom I've met a handful of times over the years) interrupts again, and says “And I'm the guy who looks like a frog! I don't know if we've ever met.”

I looked him square in the face and said “Nope.” And turned in the opposite direction.

Exhibit B: As it just so happens, I had my top of the line, state of the art, brand spankin' new Justin Bieber microphone in my back pocket. (Don't make fun of me, we're in love.) So, as the night progressed, I decided to practice my interviewing skills. How else am I going to hone my craft? I spotted a fella who looked very eager to be interviewed by yours truly. I walked up and said “So, you look like you belong on Jersey Shore. How do you feel about that?” Slightly taken aback, he asked why. I proceeded to tell him “You have a spray on tan, you're wearing a V neck t-shirt, and your hair might be 3 inches tall. How do you feel about that?”

Needless to say, the interview was over.

So, long story short, (or was that short story, long?) I just feel like being nice this year isn't going to work out. I have a lot on my plate. Lives to save, homework to do, hogs to feed, dishes to wash, periods to have, funny stuff to say, mirrors to look into... All in all, it's just not a good time for me. Maybe next year. Or maybe not. But it's okay, I'll just call your mom a whore and egg your house.



Happy 2011!