First, I threw up. Second, I emailed my tattoo artist. Third, I realized in the meantime I should probably bring sweatbands back

At least it wasn't his prison number. Because, I mean, *that* would be trashy.

My ex fiance and I were kind of sort of talking again and by talking, that is equal to him getting drunk, professing his love, and me talking him out of hanging himself off the nearest bridge.

(That would seriously put a damper on people's work commutes around here. You're welcome.)

According to the Holy Grail of Facebook, he's been in 3 relationships in just this past week alone. I don't know whether to be disgusted, envious, or proud. But the third time is apparently the charm and he saw it fit to commemorate the occasion by getting inked.

Because in Pennsyltucky, THAT is what we do, y'all.

Personally, I think it's adorable that he saw it fit to proudly display his affection right next to his half of OUR matching tattoos that were immortalized over 6 years ago, coincidentally, the night before old/new girl walked into the bedroom to say hi one prettyful summer's morning in where I was nowhere near the point of comprehension to fight with some ghetto raging psychopath, so I literally shrugged my shoulders and walked out of the house for him to deal with some wrathful words I couldn't decipher due to lack of caring at the time.

Also, I might have been hungover.

Anyhow, it's obvious that dude really takes his recycling seriously, because after the two new ones in just this past week that didn't keep his sinking boat afloat, and after I made it perfectly clear he was not making it into this cave of wonders even with a bigass magic lamp, he moved right on down the list to the girl with the huge schnoz from that fateful morning. (I really thought she had a cold the first few times I saw her, but that is clearly no longer the case unless her sinus infection is terminal.)

In the meantime, I've already contacted my own artist who's tattooing ability far surpasses that of Chicken's, and by far, Playboy's, and asked him for his help. Because this shit....has got to go.

Learn your lesson, kids. Don't be me. The end.

Times, they are a'changin'

Well hello there. You may have noticed that things are slightly different around here.

I got tired of the "Other One" riding my coattails and using my name to her famous advantage. I never really was good at sharing.

Actually, truth be told, trivial things such as $$ kept me from being able to renew therealmandymoore.com domain name on time. All of the sudden, it's now owned by Jessica Saenz of Santa Ana, CA. You can follow this link to write her nasty hate mail and to accuse her of drowning puppies and being that girl who pisses all over public bathroom toilets.

Seriously ladies? Get that one under control. You pee in the potty. Not on it. Chicken even gets that concept.

Anyhow, my Internet Gnome took it upon himself to write me one of his many awesome shit-glittering emails, and besides hooking me up with two complimentary Blink182 tickets, wrote down several ideas for a new domain name and slogan.

And here we are today. M2 = back in business.

As for the hot dog? I don't know really what to say about that except that a) I took the picture therefore cannot be sued for using it and b) It just felt right.

That's what she said.

So tell all your friends, because I'm severely lacking, and update your blogrolls because we're going to be doing some big things around here.

That's also what she said.

We're going from flip-flops to stilettos up in this bitch.

An open letter to Jonathan Taylor Thomas

I'll admit it. I wasn't above covering my childhood bedroom walls with the heartthrobs of the 90's. I loved me some Andrew Keegan, Devon Sawa, and Ryder Strong. Especially JTT. Oh yes. JTT.

My heart just fluttered at the memory. As well as other parts, but since this happened, we don't act upon those desires anymore.

But see? That's the problem. He's a memory. It's like he fell into a volcano or something and no one cares. But I do Jonathan. I DO.

Look. I'm not going to go all crazy stalker on you, so no restraining order action will have to be taken. That's totally way too much work and I'm far too cool to pull that goo-goo-ga-ga girl celebrity crush BS (which probably sent you into hiding in the first place...). I get it, Jonathan. I do. It was totally our fault for making you run away. So I apologize for my fellow species for scarring you.

I just want to know that you are alive. I mean, if you're straight and single, I'd totally be down to grab some Olive Garden or glow bowl or whatever people do when they're actually, you know, asked out on dates. Or we could skip all that bullshit and just head right to the alter. I could pop out a few kids and you can show me what you learned from growing up with Tim the Toolman Taylor around our house. Just throwing that out there.

I'm legitimately worried about you JTT. I just want to know you aren't living on Skid Row with a permanent needle in your arm. I want to make sure you aren't BFF's with that hot mess, Jeremy Jackson. It's just too late for little Hobe.

I've decided what Hollywood needs is a Jonathan Taylor Thomas comeback a la Jaleel 'Steve Urkel' White in Megashark Vs. Crocosaurus.

This could be your moment, JTT. Don't let that little nerd in suspenders overshadow your success.

I believe in you, Jonathan. I BELIEVE IN YOU.

I'll be eagerly awaiting your Twitter account to become active and verified. Now grab that handle you deserve and get on this boat. It's 2011 and you need to emerge. Vacation over. Hop back on that red carpet and show Urkel what a real comeback is.



He puts Bieber to shame.



East coast earthquake, uh.....what?

I was present for the 8/23/11 earthquake that struck the east coast from NC-PA-NY? (Don't quote me on that, because I'm not really smart, nor do I care enough to know specifics.)

I was present, but didn't feel a thing. My neighbors and just about everyone on my Facebook did. But nope. I did not.

Why?

Because of my life.

And unfortunately for me, but fortunately for you, you can laugh about the following confession...only because I just don't care to give a fuck about my under/undeveloped reputation anyway.

I had to go to court today to put a child molester away. Long story. Don't ask. He didn't touch Chicken or I guaranfuckingtee he wouldn't be breathing today.

Anyhow, I was just called to testify against him because of my badass Googling skillz, which are pretty much as close to awesome as the unicorn and liger species'.

I was supposed to work until said court appearance. I got off work an hour early and was feeling....a little "randy" (as they say wherever they use the word randy as a synonym for horny.) Last week was a rough Shark Marine Week (if you catch my drift.) So I go home and Chicken is at The Mom's/The Nana's/Angus' house (Angus, Btw, is what Chicken has taken to calling The Sister).

I looked at the clock. Time to spare?.....................Yes, please?

Alone time is precious around this bitch. So....I kind of decided to well...take care of some needs.

So blah blah blah, no details needed, you only wish you knew what I was into...blah blah blah....

All of the sudden, since my mother has the key to my apartment ONLY BECAUSE SHE IS THE ONLY ONE TO WATCH CHICKEN FOR FREE, comes barging in. Apparently to put Chicken to bed in her own crib because she is too lazy to take the pack'n'play in from her Brooklyn boyfriend's house to her....penthouse. (I will totally have to take pictures for you to understand this situation. It's worse than 7 college boys living in a 1 bedroom row home.)

The exact minute that I was caught getting down with myself on August 23rd, of 2011 the earthquake hit. And between embarrassment and awkwardness, we didn't feel a thing.

This shit just continues to write itself.

We didn't know about the earthquake until I shamefully sat here telling her to go anywhere but where I was, while I put my pants back on. To avoid talking about the situation after that, I checked Facebook from my iPhone in an effort to try and bring ANYTHING up that didn't relate to said previously-mentioned moment.

Go ahead and laugh. I just don't give a fuck.

Earthquake +1; M2 -3,000,000

Turning Italian and not becoming the mom that drives those cars

The job at the brew pub didn't work out. Why? Probably because my level of awesome exceeded their limits. Anyway, I must not be too bad, because now (less than a week later), I'm working at a very very VERY Italian fine-dining restaurant(e). It's literally been a week and I feel like I could totes give J-Woww a run for her money.

One thing you should know about me besides my bitter hatred towards the Ravens and birds, is that I pick up accents super easy. Like, I went to Vegas for less than a week and hung out with a Canadian for 48 hours and I come back and people are all, "Why the fuck are you talking like that?" It just rubs off on me.

See, my boss is not pretend Italian. He's the real salami. He lived in Italy and cooked food over there for years. I'm guessing he probably got lost on the way to somewhere else and said fuck it because he's managed this restaurant for over 10 years in this podunk town and it hasn't shut down (like the pub eventually will). People here love the shit out of this place and unlike them, he actually has a knack for something, you know, called: customer satisfaction. It's a concept, let me tell ya. Plus I get to look all professional-like in my fine dining outfit rather than a stupid t-shirt. M2 = classy.

I'm doing so well there, that not only am I breaking the bank, but I'm also like 3 seconds away from being invited to live at Seaside Heights with Snooki and co.

Working for those other people was almost as frustrating as driving behind a soccer mom with those FUCKING family decals. You know the ones:

It does not make it any better beause you are in a Range Rover. #Trust

Do you fucking realize how stupid you are? You might as well have slapped a bumper sticker on your vehicle's rear-end that says: "ATTENTION PEDOPHILES: CUM AND GET 'EM!"

Yeah, your daughter is an honor roll student. Obviously you are proud. Because you, my fellow mother, were not. Oh James T. Pimplestock plays lacrosse for FUPA high? Let me hit up the local Starbucks before I plant my ass on the school soccer field and conspicuously jerk off into a jacket. Exhibiting this kind of parental behavior pretty much earns you the Casey Anthony scholarship to attend The School of Bad Parenting.

Even putting the dog at risk? Shame on you.

Hide yo kids, hide yo dog and people who sell insurance should probably just stick to what they're good at. Which, is a far cry from restaurant management.

VIVA LA RESISTANCE! And Sunday Dinna is a fabulous tradition.