It’s My Birthday And I’ll Get High if I Want To.

I started this blog a thousand years ago.  And due to things beyond my control, like procrastination and distractions of the tequila-fashion, I haven’t posted here in quite some time.  But that’s all about to change because it’s my FXCKING birthday and I decided to get high and blog about it.  The alternative was to sit here and stare at this screen and wait for inspiration to strike.  But as all amazing artists such as myself know, inspiration comes from external stimuli.  Sometimes found in the form of a muse, a song, or a big, FAT, joint!

Lately, I’ve been that asshole, vaping all up in your personal space.  I vape E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E!  Airports, Target bathrooms, (that %5 discount seems so much sweeter when I’m puffin’ the reefer!), your baby shower, funerals, you name it.  I’ve left a puff of wizard cloud in most places I venture to.  But for this special occasion, I decided to use my new paper roller to roll myself a proper “fatty”.  I couldn’t figure out how to use the FXCKING thing, which I’m sure, my 6 year old nephew could figure out right away.  (I’ll have to remember that for next time!) I scoped out a few paper rolling instructions videos on YouTube and realized there are A LOT of stoners out there! LOL!


Hey fam! I’m right here!  I should mention, I did smoke prior to using my paper roller.  I mean, come on!? Am I expected to roll a J without smoking one first? I’m a fxckin’ professional.  And my Honey Bear Farms ORGANIC weed never does me wrong!

How To Use A Joint Roller!

After about 437 attempts, I achieved success and rolled a delicate wizard-wand fit for this delicate birthday princess’s fingers!  Then I rolled another one, and another one.  Then, I thought, YO! I should smoke as many J’s as years I’ve accumulated in life.  Then I realized 34 joints would be a bit excessive, so I resorted to only making 5.  Which coincidentally, is the same number I smoked. (I shared one with my good friend, Justin Martindale who got as high as I am right now and did Delilah impressions.)  I think that was a safe compromise with myself.

Ok, here’s a photo of my wizard-wand:


Come to mama!

Birthdays are overrated anyways.  I sound like a such a cunt but they are.  What am I gonna do? Put on 67 lbs of chemically processed makeup and go pay an exorbitant amount of money for watered down blue drink at the latest “hot spot” full of dumb twats just looking for the right dumb cock to leach onto so they have to exert the least amount of energy possible to survive in this world as apposed to actually doing something with their lives to become an intrinsic part of society?  Nah. I’m good.  I’d rather sit at home,unshaven, with a bottle of wine and a jar of weed with my 3 rescue dogs who never judge me for being bra-less and dusty for the 4th day in a row.  That’s my true nirvana.

I’m not an angry person, I just don’t give a fuck about the social constructs of how I’m supposed to celebrate the day I was born.  It’s not like I did anything special, in fact, I put my mother thru an enormous amount of pain just so I could make her change my diapers for 16 years.  My math may be a bit off there, but you get the point.  Birthdays should be fun and spent with friends.  If that’s what you need.  For me and my over analytical brain, birthdays are a mere reminder that I am one breath closer to my last.  LOL! I bet you didn’t see that macabre turn, did ya?  Yea, DEATH!


Now there’s something to celebrate! How DOPE would it be if you could know when you’re going to die so you could throw a REAL “going away” party!  Especially if you’re already an adult?! You could plan THE BEST Dearly-I’m-Almost-Departed Party EVER!  I’d finally tell that one friend that no one give a FXCK that her 2 year old knows Spanish!  DUH! The nanny is raising Triston! I would shit on my mom’s neighbor’s lawn for being such a twat to her all these years! I mean this woman tried to sue my mom for squirrel damage. SQUIRREL DAMAGE!  I’d lit a bag of my own shit on fire and chuck it at her stupid face. I would also do nice things like tell my parents how amazing they are and that my sister is the reason I found comedy.  But I’d also invite my cousin “Diamond David” just to let him know I have always thought he was a thieving cunt and he smelled like every guy ever convicted of child molestation.

PHEW.  Hold on.  I need to take a puff…


I dye grass,

As I was saying..

I think as an adult, birthdays have taken on a different importance for me.  With each impending birthday I experience more anxiety about getting older and my gorgeous boobs starting to sag.  But I also think birthdays suck when you’re a kid.  You can’t drink booze, you can barely handle solids, and you’re DEFINITELY going to shit your pants! Well, I have shit my pant a-time-or-two during the more recent birthdays but none the less, it’s MUCH more socially acceptable to shit your pants at your birthday party if you’re within the ages of 0-12.


“Baby Trashes Bar in Las Palmas”


I’m not planning on dying soon, but I just think it’s strange that as I’m becoming more mature, the less important certain things become.  It’s also strange that weed has become more influential in my life ever since I moved to Los Angeles in 2014.  I’ve smoked weed for years but that sticky icky became more of a character in my life as of late.  When I lived in NYC, it was all about drinking your crotch off until 4 am and hopping your sloppy pirate-drunk twat into a cab, vomitting out of the car window on the way home not before threatening to turn the cabbie into immigration if he didn’t take you to a McDonald’s drive thru so you good get a ‘CHEZBURGR CUZ YOU DEZERV IT!’

I always treated them to a small fry for the troubles.

LA’s vices tend to center around cannabis, so instead of a baking a birthday cake, I got baked.  I realized that a joint is very similar to a birthday cake.  It has to be set ablaze.  Everyone gathers around it, sings songs and laughs.  You pass some around to share with your friends and family.  You celebrate the moment, and wishing for ones not yet celebrated.  And for a split second you can stop time and enjoy being present.  Either that’s really poignant or I’m THAT MUTHA FXCKIN’ HIGH!  I guess I realized I’d rather be present that get a present.


That being said, all birthday gifts can be sent to:



c/o Justin Edbrooke/Jessimae Peluso

2000 Avenue of the Stars

Los Angeles, C.A. 90067


It’s good to be back, and I love you all!





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By now, we’ve ALL seen Kim Kardashian’s ass, NUMEROUS times via various media portals.  Her ass has gotten more media attention than the Ebola crisis, cancer research and the ASCPA combined.  Kim’s “ass-tention” has even surpassed one of the first ladies to put ASS on the map, a TRUE O.G. of ASS and talent: J.Lo! That’s the thing! Kim Kardashian, among a few other chicks out there, was able and allowed to do all of this without ever holding any shred of an accolade.  She slipped thru the cracks, HA! HA!, never having to display any real skill or contribution to society other than her looks and…ASS! Having an “ass” has now become the same as having a “talent”, in this self-indulgent and social media-obsessed culture.

I’m fxcking annoyed because of how Instagram decides to handle their content “restriction”.  The content I’m referring to in this case is Kim’s latest photos taken for Paper Magazine.  If you haven’t seen these images you’re either: A: LUCKY or B: LIVING UNDER A FXCKING MOUNTAIN!  That could quite possibly be Kim Kardashian’s backside!  Her photos weren’t anything more (or less) than her leaving absolutely NOTHING to our imagination.  Classic K. Kardashian Style….

Kim K's famous Paper photo.

I MEAN ARE YOU KITTEN ME RIGHT MEOW?? (Let the record show, I LOATHE using socially trending phrases, but it’s TOTALLY warranted in this case!) Let’s state the obvious here, she is DOUSED in Crisco. Right?! I mean, there’s NO way that’s extra virgin olive oil, we all know no one is a virgin in that family unit.  You may be moaning right now. Don’t you even turn on me for stating the obvious based on the facts that we’ve been dining on for 10 seasons from #KUWTK ! She has her ENTIRE crack out for us to enjoy.  A crack longer than a sleek highway, just with a much cheaper toll.  HEYOO!  The one thing people have been asking, is she standing inside of a trash bag? Is that a Hefty right now? I can recognize an extra tall kitchen bag from a mile away!  That’s the ONLY appropriate part of the photo!  The trash being put out in the trash. (Come on! It was an easy joke, calm down!)  Her hair-do also REALLY pisses me off for some reason! It reminds me of how I try to get my hair to look when I haven’t washed it for 8 days. I love that she’s looking over her should as if surprised there’s a camera in the room.  That’s how she got into this mess, with her face near a camera and a giant black meat cleaver.

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Na-nu. Na-nu. No more?!

When I was a kid my father and I used to watch stand up specials and funny movies together.  We loved all the greats: Richard Pryor.  Joan Rivers. George Carlin.  Bill Hicks. Phyllis Diller. Robin Williams. It was how we bonded.  It was our thing.  We specifically loved Robin Williams. I grew up in awe of his boundless energy and seemingly limitless comedic brain and it was because of that I knew I wanted to be funny.  His comedy was some of the first I had ever seen and it made an everlasting impact on me.

For me, when I found out he passed away, It felt like an era had ended.  An era of true legends and boundary-pushers.  Comedians who challenged the injustices of the time and laid their hearts out on stage, and introduced us their darkest personal demons that they themselves mocked for our amusement. I literally sat on my toilet yesterday and sobbed for him.  Then I did the only thing that I knew would make me feel better, I called my father.

My father reading the paper at a convenience store in Gouverneur NY circa 2009.

My father reading the paper at a convenience store  near our summer camp in Gouverneur NY circa 2009.

Me: “Poppo?”

Pops: “Yea, babe?”

Me: “Robin Williams is dead.”

Pops: “I know, babe. It’s horrible.”

Me: “I’m just sad I never met him, now I never will. And I want you to know when I think of him I think of you and it makes me happy because those are our memories. And I love you.”

Pops: “You don’t have to worry about me, babe. I’m not going anywhere (laughing). I’m gonna stick around until I’m 90 and drive all you kids nuts.”

Me: “I love you.”

Pops: “I know you do, I love you, too.”


For me, though, death, like pain, is a motivator.  It’s life’s harshest reality check.  Reminding us of our fragile and mortal existence.  I never got to meet Robin Williams. He was on my list, though.   Williams was/is one of the reasons I got into comedy in the first place.  His physicality and unwavering ability to be both goofy and poignant, simultaneously, always left me feeling envious.  I wanted to do what he did.

Death is like a little reminder of our mortality and our ultimate fate. Wow! It’s rare to feel true sadness about about the death of someone you’ve never met.  I’m mourning a man I never knew. But, then again, he gave so much up on stage that you couldn’t help but to feel like you knew his darkest secrets.  I’m not going to focus on how he died.  There’s been some judgmental comments about suicide and it being a “selfish act”.  I won’t judge a person for succumbing to their own demons because I’ve seen it happen first hand in my family.  It so easy for someone to chop depression down to “an inconsiderate and selfish act” when you don’t understand just how deep it can permeate one’s soul.

I’m sad.  This was a big loss for the comedy community and for anyone who enjoyed his talents.  I went roller blading this morning, as I do every morning,  with my pit bull Carlin.  Instead of listening to my usual 90’s hip hop workout mix, I chose Robin Williams, “Live On Broadway”.  There’s a parking lot I always bring Carlin to because it’s big and open.  I arrived there just as his special started to play in my headphones.  I was laughing out loud along to one of my childhood hero’s stand up specials as I rollerbladed like an asshole in circles with dog named after my other childhood hero, George Carlin.  Carlin, my dog, responding to my jovial energy began to bark and jump up at me and it was then I felt tears running down my face.  I was laughing and crying at the same damn time.  I couldn’t stop myself.  I skated, crying and laughing like that until special had ended.  And I had a memory of my father and I laughing together and that’s an invaluable gift.  Thank you Mr. Williams.


Selfie taken by my longtime friend Juli Oliver of me,  rollerblading like an asshole, and my pit bull Carlin on Venice Beach, CA.

Selfie taken by my longtime friend Juli Oliver of me, rollerblading like an asshole, and my pit bull Carlin on Venice Beach, CA.  Yes, I’m wearing a hot pink fanny pack.


Robin Williams: Live On Broadway.

Robin Williams: Live On Broadway.  




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Paging Doctor McDelicious.

Who wouldn't want this guy checking your puss, I mean pulse?

Who wouldn’t want this guy checking your puss, I mean pulse?

Every time I walk into a hospital I always anticipate seeing ‘THE HOT DOCTOR’.  He comes walking thru the triage waiting area with his stethoscope, thick head of hair and form-fitted scrubs that show off his hard man-ass and masculine wrists (I have a thing for manly wrists, they’re truly underrated!) and then he whisks me away to examine my injuries.  I know I’m not the only chick who thinks about this fantasy!  I blame shows like Grey’s Anatomy for the anticipation of Dr McSteamy, McDreamy or McUnmarried to be present at any and every hospital that I enter.  Everybody remembers Clooney from E.R. and his infamous “Cesar-cut”.  From that point on, every woman throbbed at the thought of having ‘the hot doc’ examine her with his “stethoscope”!

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