Tag Archives: Awkward Situations

How To Deal With Jerk Bosses (If You’re Bianca D.)

Over the last several months, a surprising number of people has approached me demanding I start posting again. I’ve honestly never felt more flattered and am telepathically high-fiving all of you right now. Can you feel it? I hope so. But guys, maintaining a blog is hard work. It might look like fun and games but it’s actually the worst. Writer’s bloc is a tough bitch to beat. Still, your comments have been so heartwarming that I decided to try to write again.

I should mention that things probably won’t be like they used to. The name ‘Bad Bangs’ doesn’t even really make sense anymore – I’ve outgrown my frustrating grade school haircut and Maria, having been in a committed relationship for years now, no longer has hilarious tales of sexual misadventure to share with us. I’d like to pick up where she left off but I never bang anyone. Everyone is gross. I’ll have to try to entertain you through topics of a different nature.

If you’re wondering what’s happened in my life over the last while, the answer is not much. I’ve had lots of ups (finishing university, great times with friends, memorable meals) and lots of downs (heartbreak, death, working out a lot and seeing my boobs shrink). I wish I could have a better update for you, but I don’t.

I do, however, have a story so good it made me laugh until I got a stomach ache. My good friend Bianca (whose ridiculous life I will no doubt dedicate entire posts to) used to work at a cafe  downtown. Her bosses were a married couple. Bianca hated them. They stepped all over her. After a while, they started giving her giving her less and less hours. It seemed as though they resorted to this because they didn’t have the balls to fire her. She eventually stopped working there altogether; I can’t remember if she quit or if they let her go.

At first she was relieved but as time went on, she couldn’t find another job. The money she’d saved quickly ran out and she was getting desperate. Ironically, the cafe called, begging  her to return to work. Obviously she would have rathered die in a fire than work there again, but the situation seemed to play out to her advantage. She needed money, and they needed her.

Her joy was short-lived. After just a few shifts, they told her something along the lines of, “fuck u lol we found someone else, go away” and she was out of a job yet again. Bianca was pissed. Who did these assholes think they were?

On her last shift, she called me asking how she could fuck their shit up. I told her to smear a turd all over the place. She agreed that this way no doubt the best thing to do. As she went to buy cigarettes on her break, she ran into a hobo she knows (?). He’s apparently doing well for himself now – has an apartment and a job. She told him about her day, and how she wanted to screw her bosses over. He said he could help her out.

Bianca returned to the cafe and soon enough, her friend appeared – and he wasn’t alone. He’d brought another hobo. A wasted one. Together they yelled absurdities, flailed their arms and the drunk one even barfed. The owners demanded they leave but the men weren’t having it. Bianca’s face beamed with happiness (note that she was ecstatic at the rush revenge provided; not at the possible addictions and psychological problems said poor men may sadly have).

Everything worked out in the end – Bianca got the last laugh and even ended up finding another job. She promised me that she’s dedicating her first paycheck to taking me to the shooting range. What a friend!

OK that’s all.



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Gyno Goosebumps

gynoI hate going to the gynecologist. I know some of the ladies reading this have never gone, so I thought I’d describe a typical appointment for you. I’m so kind. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll refer to the gyno as a ‘he’ in this post. Yes, my gyno is a man. Yes, I think it makes the whole thing super awkward, but he’s thorough and helpful. That’s what matters. Also, please keep in mind that I’m not some sort of gynecological master. I’m not familiar with all the medical vocab and whatnot; I’m just discussing the experience from my point of view.

OK, I don’t know what it’s like at all gyno offices, but at mine, you show up on time for your appointment and are seen about 3 hours later. Bring reading material, unless you wanna check out genital wart pamphlets (which are admittedly pretty informative). The first thing they do is take your blood pressure, which is no biggie. I actually like it. Sometimes I stick my arm in the blood pressure machine thing at the pharmacy. I’m like an old person like that.

So, after that fun experience, you’re sent to a little investigation room. I know that ‘investigation’ is the wrong word here, but whatever, the gyno is basically investigating your vagina. He’s like a private eye for your private parts. You’re told to take off your pants and underwear and cover yourself with a big paper square. I realize this is intimidating so take deep breaths, relax a little and just get it over with. My old gyno would always barge in as I was de-pantsing. So rude. That’s one of the reasons why I stopped seeing her.

The first time I went to the gyno, I hadn’t had sex yet. If this situation applies to you, you’re in luck! You might not have to go through the discomfort of a pap test. Basically, what happens is you get your boobs felt up. Then you get fingered (don’t worry; he uses gloves and lots of lube). And that’s it, you can leave after.

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My First Male Stripper

Our friend Nicole encountered her very first stripper peen this weekend. She was awesome enough to write about her experience and send it over to us. Now you get to read about it, too. Thanks, Nicole! Oh, and feel free to share your own stripper stories in the comments.

copI have never seen a male stripper before, only females. My female stripper experience happened once upon a time on a drunken adventure in Tijuana, but that’s a completely different story. My first male stripper experience happened this past weekend. You’d think it would be on a night out with the girls, right? Think again.

First off, let me set the scene. My boyfriend and I had just finished work. We met up with my mom at the terminus in Brossard. Once my dad picked us up, we were on our way to Chenoy’s for my aunt’s surprise birthday party, with all our family and friends. Intrigued and confused yet? Keep reading.

Allow me to clear things up by providing a detailed description of the birthday girl. She can pound ’em back with the best of them; she can polish off a 2-4 and still stand straight and have room for another 12 pack. Did I mention she’s 4’10” and 100 lbs soaking wet? She’s quite the wild one, and fun as hell.

So my uncle decided to throw her a big surprise party in the restaurant’s hall. The place was a decent size. We had our own wait staff, bar, dance floor and DJ… the works. And my entire gigantic family was there; even cousins of cousins. There was free wine on the tables and beer was flowing. They actually had to rush to get more beer ’cause we were pounding them back so hard.

After dinner (which was pretty good, to my surprise), my family played a slideshow for my aunt. It included a montage of lovely and sometimes embarrassing photos. What’s a 40th birthday party without those? We were laughing, we were singing, we were dancing, when all of a sudden…

The room went black.

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Farting In Front Of Your BF

A lot of guys don’t like when you fart in front of them. Sure, they love to try that “pull my finger” crap on you (that’s a dad joke, by the way – you can only use it on your kid so get some new material). They laugh hysterically at the sound and smell of their own anal accoustics. They play their farts off as doorbells or car horns. Granted, it can be pretty hilarious, but are you allowed to do this stuff? No. That’s because real ladies don’t poop or toot. Their asses are for grabbing, thong wearing and butt sexing.

All my boyfriends have taken the liberty of farting in front of me as many times as humanly possible. I’ve even seen them force a few out in my honor. There’s just something about me that makes people feel comfortable. I think it’s because I talk about taboo subjects very openly. I also burp a lot. For the most part, I accepted their constant crap dusting, but I never really farted in front of them. Well, I’ve let a few slip by. What? Sometimes you really have to let one rip.

So for all you girls out there clenching your ass cheeks on dates with your man, I’ve compiled a small list of when and where to fart without your jerk of a boyfriend complaining about your unlady-like ways.

In The Car
Duh, this is a prime trouser coughing location! God knows my driver’s seat has absorbed like, a bajillion of my farts. The car is good because it’s loud. If you or your boyfriend own a car that runs smoothly, just turn on the radio. Then let one out. If you think it might smell, roll down the window (or press that button that pulls the window down for you – my car knows of no such luxury). If it’s a real stinker, just beat him to the punch. Be like, “Gross, it stinks! Must be outside.” He’ll agree because it really does stink outside sometimes.

When You’re Drunk
There are certain rules one needs to respect when they’re wasted; don’t cheat on your loved one and um, that’s basically it. See how there’s no rule about farting? That’s because it’s tolerated. And extremely funny.

As You Cough
Sometimes you can tell when your butt burp won’t smell. That can backfire so be careful, but if you’re positive it won’t stink, pretend like you just got a mini-cough attack so he won’t hear any machine gun sounds. Even if he suspects that he may have heard a rumbling that sounded similar to a fart’s, he’ll think it came from your throat, not your ass.

When Your Stomach Hurts
I use this one all the time, mainly because my stomach is always hurting. It’s acceptable to blast gas when you’re in pain. Your boyfriend doesn’t want to see you hunched over, crying and complaining. He cares about you and wants you to get better. If that means evacuating a little extra air, then just do it and follow it up with, “I’m so sorry! My stomach hurts real bad!” He won’t mind. You can fake the stomach ache thing at any time, too.

In Crowded Places
Just get it over with. Blame it on someone else or be like, “Ew, did you fart?”. He’ll never know it was you, unless he recognizes your brand, which he won’t because you never fart in front of him anyway. If you’re walking around, try not to leave a trail because he’ll wonder why the smell is always around you guys.

I hope that helped. Whatever you do, don’t try to let it out silently. There’s a variety of worst case scenarios that can and will happen if you do this: you’ll succeed but it’ll be an SBD (silent but deadly) or it’ll come out as a long, loud trumpet-like sound. Those are the worst!

In all seriousness, most guys won’t care about your odor bubbles. Not after having dated for a while, anyway. If they complain about it, you might want to fart on their pillow (thereby giving them pink eye) and move on. Anyone who can’t accept you for the gassy person you are sucks.



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YM: Say Anything

I tend to use this blog as an outlet to complain. After reading many of my posts, you may think that I hate being a woman and that I bear a huge grudge against men. Well, that’s only partially true. In reality, I think being a girl is pretty awesome. Being able to indulge in juicy gossip, shopping to cheer myself up and experiencing the joys of multiple orgasms (a rarity, I’ll admit) are some of the more positive aspects of being a chick. My fondest girly memories are from that awkward pre-teen phase, where you’re on the brink of womanhood but are still pretty immature and childish.

Leo DiCaprioBeing a 12 year old girl meant innocent crushes, raisin sized boobs , your first ever period and an urge to be “cool”. My walls were plastered in BSB posters and magazine cut outs. I even had laminated pictures of Nick Carter and Leo DiCaprio (think Basketball diaries, pre-Titanic). Sleepover parties happened on a weekly basis and sending anonymous, glittery love notes to cute boys was something every girl did at least once a month or daydreamed of doing.

For my 12th birthday, I got some hair mascara, a walkman, a Garbage tape and best of all, a subscription to YM. I know what you’re thinking; yes, hair mascara. Mine was blue. Remember that stuff? Anyway, back to YM. It was your typical teen mag, filled with personality quizzes and tips on how to handle your first period. My fave YM section was ‘Say Anything’, which was a collection of embarrassing stories submitted by readers. I’m positive that if you’re a girl reading this you know exactly what I’m talking about. I can vividly remember sitting on my bed with my neighbor D reading out loud about other girls’ most humiliating moments. The formula was always the same: crushes, periods and involuntary flashing, but it always guaranteed a few gasps and giggles.

britDuring lunch one day, Melissa and I were reminiscing on how much we loved YM and how disappointed we were when the mag folded in 2004. Later that day, I scoured the net to see if I could find some reminder of YM’s existence. I was hoping their URL might still work. Maybe there was a chance someone had posted a few of our beloved Say Anything stories on a blog but no luck there either. Finally, I was lucky enough to find a book by the editors of YM called “YM: The Best of Say Anything” on Amazon but unfortunately for me, they didn’t deliver this particular book to Canada. I hate when that happens! My longing for nostalgia grew so strong that I decided to order it from Barnes & Noble, even though I had to dish out more money for delivery and for the conversion rate. Ten business days later, here I am holding the preteen bible of mortifying experiences.

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Period Pants

I hate my period. When my monthly gift comes along, I’m irritable, inexplicably sad and horny all at once. I scarf down Advil in a manner that can only be compared to the method in which the Cookie Monster gobbles down treats. I get cramps so excruciating that they’ve often caused me to throw up. And when someone tries to excuse my behavior and bad mood by saying something like, “Oh, she’s just on the rag”, I get even more upset. I don’t care if all this is natural and womanly or whatever, it’s my worst time of the month, every month. Fuck that commercial; I’ve never had a happy period.

I remember the first time I got it. I’d just turned thirteen, had never been kissed and had only recently started sprouting boobs. It was summer. Because my parents never believed in air conditioning, I would sleep in a tank top and underwear. One morning, my mother came to wake me up. I wouldn’t budge, so she shook me and moved my sheets around. I told her to go away. That’s when she surprisingly asked me, “Did you shit yourself?” Um, what? I freaked out and ran to the bathroom. When I got there, I realized that it wasn’t poop; it was what I’ve grown to refer to as ‘that brown stuff you get before your period’.

When my mom realized that she’d just witnessed my first menstruation, she decided to throw me a huge congratulatory party. JK, guys. She thankfully didn’t seem to care. If I remember correctly, she brought me a pad and told me to strap it around my underwear. That was that.

Since then, I’ve noticed that you always get your period at the worst times, no matter what. If you’re having a one night stand, you’ll stain a stranger’s sheets. If you’re wearing white pants, get ready to tie a sweater around your waist.

tampOver the years, I’ve learned to deal with my period in several ways. Like I’d mentioned before, I have a medicine cabinet stocked with Advil, Anaprox, Midol and even codeine. I also have a drawer full of period undies. Boys, don’t act surprised; every girl has this. Period undies are undies you don’t care about, so it’s no big deal if they get bloodied. And they will get bloodied. It happened to me last night, actually. Going for a morning piss and noticing that you have a big stain on your underwear puts you in a horrible mood and sets the tone for the rest of the day. How big do the pads have to be? Should I just be like, “Fuck it” and wear diapers?

I have somewhat of a confession to make, actually: sometimes I sleep with a tampon in. I move around so much in my sleep, I have to! I don’t want to have to wake up and scrub blood out of my mattress, you know. I’ve been trying to cut down on it because I’m scared of getting the period disease, also known as TSS.

I’m wondering if the Diva Cup will make my period a little more bearable. I think someone should write a guest post about it. Hint, hint.



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I’m Afraid Of The World

I think I have a little bit of a fear of people. Not all people, just some people. For example, I feel extremely uncomfortable if I’m sober and someone around me is really drunk or on drugs. I also can’t deal with people who may or may not be feeling well. It’s weird. Like, if a junkie and I are waiting for the same bus, I’ll walk to the next stop or, depending on how weird they’re acting, I’ll take a different route altogether. That might seem somewhat normal, but the littlest things set me off, too. For example, I’ll get up and change metro carts if the person next to me is breathing weird or even obsessively shaking their foot. People expressing the slightest discomfort in some way or another is difficult for me to watch.

I remember going to Pita Pit around 3 a.m. recently. As I was waiting in line to order one of their fine sandwiches, a super tall, drunk guy stood behind me. I could hear him breathing and he kept leaning over me. He had a Lurch from the Addams Family thing going on. It freaked me out so much that I basically ran out, waited ten minutes, then went back. But he was still there! He was waiting for his pita, wobbling and sweating all over the place. 

I think that on some level, these people seem troubled to me (even if they totally aren’t!), and I just don’t want our worlds to collide. I don’t want them bursting my feel-fine bubble. Essentially, I want to be left alone. Forever. 

Have you seen this video?

Seeing this guy faint (and give a fucking play by play on it) made me feel so uncomfortable that in turn, I also felt like fainting. For an entire day. 



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