Totes Rando

Friends, your Totes Rando is an adventurous lad, and his girlfriend is one too! That’s why this weekend, as we were celebrating our five year anniversary, we decided to visit a naked people’s resort in the middle of the desert. Now, I had read up on this place, and many of the reviews were filled with wink-winks and nudge-nudges about what REALLY goes on there. From these reviews, we got the impression that we wouldn’t be expected to “swing,” but that we also needn’t be offended should people ask us to join their uninhibited fuckfest.
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Here is an unnamed contributor to TotesRando.com showing off his neck strength in a battle of the minds:

Don’t worry kids, he’s totally unharmed. Those are regulation-size NNSA (National Neck Strength Association) cardboard boxes, carefully placed to break his fall. However, his neck is seriously broken and he is uninsured. If you’d like to send money to take him off the CA Uninsured Mandatory 30-Day Do Not Resuscitate list, send $100 via Paypal to totes@totesrando.com, and I’ll send whatever’s left after paying hosting fees to the hospital (St. Chino Prison Memorial in East LA).

Also, support stem cell research, as it may help him walk again someday!

I believe it’s important to keep positive and be mindful of your blessings.  So today I decided to get organized, and made some Top 3 lists of my favorite things!  As Charlie Sheen would say in that movie High-Five, these are my “Desert Island top 3’s!”

Top 3 immediate family members:

1.)    My older sister. Really nice hair. When we were kids, she’d take the heat for alot of our pranks. I truly wish we still spoke.
2.)    My older brother. Kind of a dick, but it was nice to have someone around I could swipe porn, booze, and small firearms from.  Get out soon Mikey, you are missed!
3.)    My father. I guess Dad makes the list by default, as there were only 5 of us, and it’s not too hard to edge out fucking mom.  I mean, really, if you can’t beat mom…Jeeeesus fucking Christ.
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Sometimes I wonder what my grandparents used to fantasize about. What was it like in the 30’s, before Hollywood CGI movies could create any landscape imaginable. I bet their fantasies were humble, by modern standards anyway. I decided to call them and find out.

“Hello, Grandma, it’s your number one grandson.”
“Oh hi, how are you? You still eating meat?” She said.
“Um, yeah. Listen Grammy, when you were a kid what did you fantasize about?”
“That’s a good question. Let me see here, well when I was a girl I used to imagine I would grow up to be a nurse.”

I swallowed and tried not to laugh. Was she serious, a nurse? That seemed like such an attainable dream, like if I had the genie’s lamp and I said I wished to be a lawyer. Sure, it would take a little work and time, but I’m fairly certain I could attain the goal.

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Not uniquely, I met Richard at a bar. Julio’s Paradise Shack in Cabo san Lucas, to be exact. I had turned 32 the week before, and to prove to myself that I wasn’t too old to party like a teenage whore with a trust fund, irregular boobs, and no self-esteem, I grabbed two of my closest girlfriends (ok, two women that I barely know but occasionally attend wine tastings with), and, after packing our favorite Oprah’s Book Club reads and two halter-top bikinis that were too tight three years ago, we jetted off for our own little spring break getaway.

Prior to meeting Richard, I had been single for well over six years. Three of those years I spent nursing a broken heart; my ex-boyfriend, Ted, whom I had dated steadily and exclusively for 26 days, decided to find God and change his name to “Tina” (as so many of us do).
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Where’s my post bitch?  Where is it?

I sent you something a week ago and I’m still waiting for that shit to drop.  Stop whining about how hard it is to format my shit, a fucking three year old can host a blog in this day and age.  So quit stalling and let the world see my genius, you fucking faggot.

Are you trying to censor me?  My voice will be heard and it’s going to echo through the streets and the hallways across this planet, and it’s so pure that it’s going to change mankind’s genetic makeup.  Is that something you want to censor?  Ladies and gentleman, apparently Totes Rando turns on the news and likes what he sees.  Boo this man!
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Hiyo short-tees!

Check out this vicious shitshow:

Dentists?  Fuck dentists.  Nary do I even brush my teeth before an appointment.  That’s like cleaning before the maid shows up.  He makes 6 figures, and probably has some oral fetish anyway, so let him earn it.  Hell, I’ll eat some stringy barbeque before I show up and let him sift through the wreckage.

Same goes for doctors.  Fuck em.  If I have to get my ass examined, I don’t even swab down the nether eye first.  I’m driving home in a Dodge Neon, he’s driving home in a BMW.  Let my insides haunt him a bit.

Being the only sober person at a bar or party is like being the last survivor in a zombie movie.
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Listen Dawgs,
I know I ain’t been keeping up appearances here. I was gonna get all up in this post and tell you that I’ve been unable to post anything due to sheer laziness combined with heroic doses of barbituates, but truth be told I’ve been travelling the country trying to find America’s Next Biggest Teen Prostitute Reality Star.  

TOTES RANDO RETURNS FULL FORCE TOMORROW.

Hello Shorties.

So you drank in excess. It’s ok, lots of great men and women do so: actors, pilots, senators, policemen, you name it. But like these great men and women, you too are likely to catch a hangover here or there. What follows is a lil’ guide for this unfortunate circumstance. While everyone has their own quirks, preferences, and rituals for hangover survival, I hope there will be something for everyone in here, as I have exhaustively researched this topic my entire stupid life.

The Calm Before the Storm

You were out carousing until 4am when you finally passed out, it is now 7am and you are wide awake and feeling wonderful. I guess you just lucked out this time, must have been the B vitamins in those twelve Bloody Marys that saved you…FALLACIOUS! This is the lube before the fist-fucking you are about to receive. That is not to say this pleasant lull can’t be enjoyed, just don’t be a hero and start eating leftover Chinese food. This time can be more effectively used to prepare:

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Dear Boyfriend,

I realize that in recent weeks I may have mentioned - repeatedly mentioned - that our sex life leaves something to be desired. “Robot-like” is a word I recall using. “Unbearable” may have been another descriptive I threw out there. I also realize that the other night when you went to grab my boob, I did, in fact, slap your hand away and call it an “awful alien tendril,” which, I’m willing to admit, may not bode well for us in the long run. However, despite my actions of late, I don’t exactly know what possessed you to invite this lovely new accessory into our lives:

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