Tag Archives: humor

How to Glitter a Cat

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So…whatcha doing?

Sitting around, eating some Doritos, wondering when that thing from Star Trek will be invented so we can say “I want a cheeseburger” and then it magically appears on a plate?

Me too!

Since we’re both just sitting around chilling like the iced out bitches we are (haha…naughty words!), let’s go ahead and talk about something near and dear to the heart of all Americans.  Cat glittering.

How to Glitter a Cat

Picture of two chihuahuas lying down.

You can tell these aren’t cats because penis.  Wait…what?  Oh right.  Penis.

  1. You think cat glittering starts with commandeering a cat, don’t you?  You arrogant son of a bitch.  Haha, no but really cat glittering starts off with making sure you have all of your equipment in place, including your cat glittering uniform.  Personalization is key so the cats can tell you’re no doormat that follows everything a beautiful lady on the Internet says because they are horrible self-centered creatures.  So let’s talk uniform:
    • Cats. Hate. Pasties.  One moment you’re taking off your shirt to put stickers on your boobs and the next they’re looking at you like your mother did that time you wore your her earrings and accidentally swallowed one.  They looked like licorice, mother!!!  How is a thirteen-year-old supposed to know any better???  Anyways, sticker away those boobies and show those cats who’s boss.
    • Sombreros.  You’ll need one on your head and one in your truck to lure those cats in with the delicious prospect of tacos and mariachi music.  I had not one but two mariachi bands at my wedding and let me just say I have never before had the pleasure of watching so many cats use Matthew as a human scratching post.  To this day he still finds stray whiskers.
    •   Galoshes aren’t just for rain anymore.  Really were they ever for rain?  Haven’t they always been for people to say “Hmm…that lady ain’t right in the head wearing those galoshes without a shirt on”?  Well now they’re also for cat glittering because cats just love scratching the veins right out of your ankles as much as they enjoy judging your choice of boobie accoutrement.  Bastards.
    • You should probably put on some pants.  Cats love dangly bits if you know what I mean…………………………………………penises.
  2. Be Kanye West.  Okay so I read this meme somewhere that said something to the effect of “I wish someone loved me as much as Kanye West loves Kanye West” and I was all like “Hey, I should really buy more pasties” and then I was all like “Ding, ding, ding, yes!  Kanye West has this shit figured out!” because cats hate nothing more in the world than someone who truly loves herself/himself and/or Kanye West.  And pasties.  And dangly penises.  Did I mention penises?   Penises.
  3. Don’t have a penis.

That pretty much covers it.  There are some extra details you should take in consideration like rolling in a vat of salmon and charmingly whispering things like “Meow, meow…meow meow meow…penises.” (These are also highly effective if you’re married to my husband.)  But really, cat glittering is all about having heart and knowing you’re doing something good in the world with a container of glitter.  And without a penis.

Dear Mom,

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Dear Mom, #funny | creativeliar.com

EVIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sleeping has become a thing that doesn’t interest me.  That’s what I keep telling myself.

It’s pretty much the same mantra I repeated while watching the royal wedding except I replaced “sleep” with “Prince William” and instead of saying it quietly in my bed at night, I yelled it down my street in a tear filled rage wearing the wedding gown I had made for myself in sixth grade while tearing at the sky with his royal highness’s dog eared poster that he signed.  And by “he” I mean my mother.

The thing is, I have a child, and apparently children are pretty evil.  You are the reason I was previously unaware of this, and by “you” I mean my mother.

Dear Mom,

Remember that time you decided to have one kid who was all things perfect and routinely entertained you by saying things like “Why are you obsessed with culottes?” and “Are you sure orange is your color?”

Well, guess freaking what.  Apparently not all children are helpful fashion critics because yesterday I dropped my daughter off at school and she didn’t even have the decency to tell me my pants had a hole in the crotch.  And that I had forgotten to put on pants.

Do you know how easy you had it?  Do you??  I’m over here dealing with Shirley McScreams a lot because I forgot to coat dinner in chocolate again while you could have made a side of string freaking beans and I would have eaten it.  As the side to my prime rib.

How was I to know children are terrors that think sleep is the archenemy of the human race?  There I was at twenty-four, reliving all the gorgeous times I allowed you to be seen in public with me, thinking how wonderful it would be to spend precious moments like that with my child when little did I know I was harboring a trained sleep assassin in my uterus.

Really, I blame you and TV and the parts of the Internet that feature unglittered cats and that guy at the Steak and Shake who said I can put the shake in his steak any time (what does that mean, Mom??  What does that even mean???) and hair spray.  For the love of unglittered cats, I just do not understand hair spray.

So this is what we’re going to do.  I’m going to start wearing orange culottes and burning pot roast like it’s my freaking job and you’re going to dress like Princess Kate on Wednesdays and Fridays and regale my neighborhood with your “blue blood ankles.”  And yes, you have to say “blue blood ankles” or they won’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

Maybe if we switch places then we’ll see what it’s like to be in each other’s shoes which from where I’m currently sitting, is just lovely.  Your daughter is intensely attractive and I’d make out with her if she weren’t me.  Plus I just tried and hit my head on my night stand.  It hurts.

So have fun wrangling a pint-sized war lord who doesn’t even know how to apply eye liner properly.

This pot roast won’t burn itself.

Yours in this life and in the next as long as the next life consists of talking roosters who compliment me on my posture,

Ericka Wilhelmina Clay

PS – Wilhelmina?  Can you imagine???  Haha, no but seriously, please stop wearing orange.

I just sent it to her.  Let’s just hope this puts us back on good terms.  Now to take a nice nap on that lady selling suede handbags.  No, wait.  That’s just my dog.

I am so tired.

How to Be a Girl, Part I

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Like glittered cats? Who doesn’t! Be sure to follow me on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram so you can sign up for my glittered cat giveaway! I’m just kidding. That’s illegal according to Texas state law. I checked. Twice. But follow me anyways. Because Dave Coulier said so. That’s why.

How to be a Girl #funny | creativeliar.com

Being a girl means wearing shoes that look like a drunk ass garden gnome took a dump on them. So pretty!

If there’s one thing I know how to do in this life, it’s to be fully and completely myself until someone not so politely asks me to stop.  Seeing that I am, in fact, a girl (despite what Brendon Schufflemier yelled out during our sixth grade assembly on proper hygiene) and that I’m pretty freaking good at it, I’ve decided to give you a step-by-step run down on what it’s like to be given the privilege of embarrassing yourself on a monthly basis by buying sticks designed to stick up your hoo-ha.

First, you should know that I’m fully qualified.  I’m so good at being a girl that I actually do research by watching one of the most notably awesomest shows to ever grace my television set: Girls on HBO.  This show is what it would be like if instead of one Alf, there were four and all of them had vaginas and instead of eating cats, they talked about how awesome it is to live in New York and barely wear clothes.  The fact that I’m not doing either of these things at this particular moment is making my heart break into tiny baby hearts that won’t stop crying.  It is so loud inside of my chest right now.

So seeing that I’m a certifiable CEO of girldom, let’s get busy.

HOW TO BE A GIRL

1.  You’ll need some boobs.  I know, I want to be all like “No, no you don’t need boobs.  Boys like the fact that you have a working limbic system and a penchant for not randomly pooping in public,” but let’s face it, boobs are the world’s currency plus pooping isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you in public.  Trust me.  Also, if I told you that you didn’t need boobs to be a girl, I’d be channeling my mother circa 1995 who wouldn’t let me shave my legs like the rest of my friends because a razor is, and I quote, “the devil’s match stick.”  Okay, she didn’t actually verbalize it but she did say it in the way she’d accidentally (and frequently) called me by my poodle’s name.  Fifi.  Seriously.  They let this woman have children.  So boobs and you.  How can you amplify what God/Buddha/nothing/thatmagicaldragoninthesky gave you?  Here are a few tips:

* Become friends with flat chested people.  But not real friends.  Their love of sports bras and book learning may rub off on you and you may start saying things like “I don’t know about you but I could really go for a venti latte and a shit ton of poetry right about now.”

* Speaking of bras, get one.  Fill it with boob-like substances like pudding or nacho cheese and put it on.  Then put another bra on top of it.  Then wonder why your parents decided to have children.

* Constantly cross your arms in front of your chest.  This says things like, “Under these arms are boobs bigger than my Uncle Victor’s head and he once drank an entire six pack of beer while yodeling the national anthem” and “I don’t like it when people hug me.  Also, people in general.”

 2. Care about things that don’t make sense.  Things like men who never call you back, men who think you need to lose weight, men who think you need to gain weight, men who have no clue how much you weigh even after you sent them a copy of your medical records because you were just being polite and thought the reason he was wearing that brown sweater when you first saw him at the library was a sign that he was deeply invested in your triglyceride count.  Basically, men. 

3. Don’t learn too good.  The great thing about being a girl is being able to do silly things like accidentally glittering the wrong cat (Trick alert: there is no such thing as “the wrong cat”) or filling your bra with too much nacho cheese and then rectifying the situation by screaming “I AM ON MY PERIOD MINIONS!!  BRING ME MY HOO-HA STICKS!!!!”  So it’s absolutely just fine and dandy if learning ain’t your thing.  I SAID SUPER ABSORBENT!!!!  Ahem.

Well, that’s all the time we have for today.  I have to go on a cat finding mission (don’t worry, it’s not too difficult.  After all, they live in other people’s houses!), but stay tune for the next installment when I break Brendon Schufflemier’s spirit once and for all and let you know what else makes you a girl.  Psst…it involves badly written novels…and not even the ones I write!

I’m So Tired I’m Starting to Laugh at My Husband’s Jokes

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Well hello there to the shitload of people who started following me this weekend!  Apparently one of my pins went viral on Pinterest and it had nothing to do with baking a ziti while doing crunches and making diaper paste out of a half used tube of toothpaste and a jar of Vaseline.  For all of you newbies who want a taste of Creative Liar go here, here, not here, definitely here, maybe a little bit here and then high five yourself in the face.

Since I’m super busy glittering a cat I bought off Ebay who looks exactly like Alf, I’ve decided to publish an oldie but goodie post from one of my now defunct blogs.  I’m also going to spray paint “Wow.  What a great idea.  Yard gnomes.” on the side of my neighbor’s house.

It’s hard being a girl.

***

My husband’s recently developed this character who has the ability to wear all our grocery bags at once while speaking in a Russian accent.  He can often be heard singing: “I have the food, the food to feed all of the hungry children.”  I’m really proud of Matt and think his attempt at method acting is really going to further his career as an idiot.

But I still laughed when he broke out into his impression of a man I’ve come to call Nikolai.  I’m tired.  So tired that I find everything funny and sad and frustrating and pleasantly perverted.  When they tell you to rest up during your pregnancy because you’ll probably never ever sleep again, they’re way too nice.  They should punch you hard in the teeth and say things like “Quit complaining about swollen ankles bitch because in the next couple of months you’d saw off both feet just to sit down.”  But sadly, they don’t.

I always find it funny (but only because I’m tired) when other people say having a baby is the greatest thing in the world and convince their perfectly happy unbabied friends to have babies because gosh, it’s seriously the bestest most happiest thing that can ever wever happen to you!  You know what I call those people?  Mean.  Because the only reason they want you to have a kid is so they don’t have to be alone in their miserable exhaustion.  Call me cynical but there’s nothing deliriously happy about bite marks, dark circles under your eyes and the impossible feat of having to remember your zip code at a moment’s notice (Did they have to make it five freaking numbers?  As if I don’t have enough to worry about as it is.  Like putting on fresh underwear.  That one’s hard, too).

But I’m lying a little bit.  There is one little thing that’s worth all the sleep deprivation in the world:

Cute child in a high chair at a restaurant.

On second thought, put that uterus to use why don’t ya!  Heh.

And if you happen to hear a Russian man singing in the street do you mind kicking him in the teeth for me?  Thanks.

That Vegan Douche

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Vegan stuffed mushrooms and green bean side dish.

See all this delicious vegan food? I made it just to throw at my neighbors door as punishment for barbecuing last night. Vegan douches for life mother fuckers!! I’m sorry. I’ve had too much kelp juice this morning.

Hey guys!  Welcome to the first installment of “That Vegan Douche”!  My name is Ericka Clay and you may remember me from all those cats that I glittered and that one time I failed math.  Three times.

I thought I would start a new series on my blog dedicated to what it’s like to be a vegan in a cruel, animal hating world.  Hahaha, no really, I just want you all to know how much better I am than you and watch your husbands’ slowly rip out their hair when you tell them you’re serving kelp for dinner because some girl on the Internet said so.

First off, we need to get you ACTING like a vegan.  So what you’re going to want to do is just flat out be a douche.  If you like the color pink, know any lyrics to a Justin Beiber song and/or have posted pictures of yourself in a bikini on Facebook with the caption “Ugh, ignore my fat!” then good news: you’re already there!

Now let’s go ahead and make sure that first coat of douchiness sinks in by applying a second coat of douchiness right over it.  Here you’re going to want to start staring at people while their eating.  Go ahead and channel your mom and that look she always had on her face when she realized she should have married that other dude and gotten her tubes tied.  Perfect!!    Now don’t forget!  When people say stupidly nonsensical things like “but meat gives me protein so I don’t die,” be sure to shout in their faces: “you are Satan’s baby and I’m going to put you in a straight jacket!!”  They will instantly ask you to share your tofu.

Before we wrap up lesson numero uno on securing a spot in vegan douchedom and maintaining perfect ankles (haha, this last part is a trick because your ankles aren’t perfect unless you’re me.  Hey, I’m me!  Yay!!!), let’s go ahead and start smelling like a hippie farted on another hippie.  Go ahead and get rid of all your hair and skin products that are laced with rat poison because the government is slowly trying to kill you.  This is also a great opportunity to squeeze all of the toothpaste into your husband’s shoes.  Because.  Now you’re going to want to start stockpiling things you find in your kitchen and put that crap in your bathroom.  Now cover your entire body with it and pretend you look/smell great.  Yay!!!  You’re a vegan now!

Seriously though, being a vegan is great because it teaches mere mortals that not only are your ankles not to be messed with, but that you’ve realized what’s truly important in this world: judging other people.

Get ready for future posts that list in detail recipes for dishes that will make your family cry and hair/body care products that will make your ex grateful he keyed your car in high school!

Live on vegan douches!  Live on!

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