A Lil Nugget of L-Nasty's Life

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_WfVzupotI

(We hated the movie version too-this is just for dramatic effect.)

The elusive DuzCuzzes have returned once again! We know we’ve lost a lot of our most passionate viewers (most of whom originated from Eastern Europe, especially concentrated around Slovakia and the Czech Republic. To those of you remaining-Zdravo! Ahoj!).

We thought we would give you guys a little sample of what your favorite celebrity writers/cat wranglers, R-Nasty and L-Nasty’s schedules have looked like since we moved out of our parents’ houses and into the real world (meaning liberal arts college and WWOOFing). L-Nasty is going to go first, since she cares more about this blog than R-Nasty does, and R-Nasty will follow up with what she's been doing on her "gap year" or whatever. I think it has something to do with farms or goats or something.

6:45 AM: I jolt awake to the dulcet tones of the Proclaimers’ “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” screeching from my iPhone. Who set my alarm ringtone to this? Who hates me this much? I manage to smack it off, just in time to hear my roommate hack up some phlegm, gag on it, then roll over. She has stripped naked during the night, and, in one of her signature moves, her eyes are open while she sleeps. Initially, I found it disconcerting to awaken and immediately make eye contact with an unconscious near stranger, but now that I have seen her vomit (repeatedly) and we have become close,  I find it strangely comforting to have her hollow, unseeing eyes follow me around while I get ready. I stagger to the bathroom, making it to the toilet only to discover that the Stealth Pooper has struck once again. I have spent several weeks trying to apprehend whoever has been leaving monumental, sculptural shits several times a week. It is a question that keeps me up at night (along with my roommate’s sleep talking), running over the list of potential culprits until I fall into a deeply troubled slumber. My plan to poop having been foiled, I try to put on some eyeliner. I stab myself in the eye. It hurts. Am I bleeding? Only a little. I sniff a crop top, find it acceptable, and put on some faded high-waisted jeans and clogs. I look like a skanky suburban mom from the mid '90s-my ultimate fashion goal. I go outside. It is approximately 15 degrees. I make eye contact with a squirrel and sneer at him.

This is what regret and winter in New England looks like.

7:30 AM: Breakfast. I avoid making eye contact with anyone I know, and head straight to the buffet. None of that granola bullshit for me, please. At the hot food, I make the dubious choice to take the grilled tempeh. I know this is a bad idea, but I do it anyways. This will probably come up in my next therapy session. Why do I insist on making choices that I know will negatively affect me? Dr. Kendall? I pour some coffee into my travel mug, only to find some curdled soy milk already in it. Okay. I sit down in the dining room, glaring at the acquaintance that looks like she might want to sit near me. I’ve made a huge mistake. This tempeh smells like ass and tastes of sadness and fermented bean curd. I’m over this.

8 AM: Physical Science. My first class. This is even bigger bullshit than the tempeh. Some kid is sitting in my spot. It’s fucking December. We’ve been in this class for four months. I am not playing musical chairs. There are twelve people in Physical Science, and my professor insists on calling me Sabina, the name of my friend who is also in this class. It is definitely a power play. She also seems to think that we are in a committed relationship, since she once saw Sabina (the original) stroke my back and whisper in my ear. I am okay with this, since she has become significantly nicer to both of us and seems to be really rooting for our relationship to work.
It is too early for this my professor's grating Boston accent, and I spend the two hours of class time drawing dicks with faces on my notes on nuclear fuel storage. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for paying for my college education. I am learning a lot.

10 AM: I walk past the blow-up sex doll in my dorm’s common room and go up to my room, only to find my roommate sitting on the floor with her head in her hands. There is an empty bottle of olive oil next to her. The room smells like salad. This is concerning. She looks up at me with an unsettling desperation in her eyes, and I realize that her hair is drenched in oil. I am reluctant to ask what has happened, but I do, and she screams, “This is your fault!!!!!!” I vaguely remember her complaining about her dry split ends, and telling her to rub a little argan oil on the ends. Instead, she has poured a 16 oz bottle of salad dressing all over her head. Choking back soft, soft sobs, she gets up and staggers to the bathroom. I hear a screech and know that she has found the Mystery Poop. I decide to relax by playing Neopets. I am this close to spending real money to buy more NeoPoints so I can buy an igloo for my Ogrin. I am not ashamed.

12:30 PM: Lunch. I make a concentrated effort to avoid the tempeh, or any meat substitute, really. I sit down at a table next to my friend Henry. He looks like a cross between Bambi and Satan. Another friend of mine has a plate of fries, and she reluctantly passes a few around. “Claire gets one, L-Nasty gets one, Julie gets one, and Henry GETS A DICK UP HIS ASS”. I check my phone to make sure my Neopets are all fed.

2 PM: I go to class. Some girl decides to raise her hand and tell an incredibly long personal anecdote, which after several minutes appears to have nothing to do with the discussion material, but rather is some charming story about some time she was petsitting for her neighbor's turtle, and it pooped on her hand. I find this to be one of the most deeply inane and uninteresting stories I have ever heard,  so I draw more dicks. Also, Neopets.

4 PM: I go to my Microeconomics professor’s office hours. She is meeting with another student, so I sit in the hallway. There is a corkboard and a thumbtack next to me, so I draw a dick with the tack into the board. She comes out and catches me, just as I am about to finish the tip. She clears her throat, and I spend the thirty minutes of our meeting desperately avoiding eye contact and sweating profusely.

6 PM: My roommate and I go to yoga. My roommate is a chain smoker, so she spends the hour coughing up a diseased lung and taking frequent breaks. This instructor is a sick bastard and likes to make everyone do partner work, and I end up having to drape across some random post-bac student’s back, so my face is right next to his butt. Please don’t fart. Please don’t fart. Please don't fart.

7:30 PM: We decide to go to the sauna, but when we walk in, the only other person is my house chair. Fuck. He is wearing nothing but some kind of towel made for a midget, or maybe a hand towel? A bath mat? and when he stands up, I see some serious cheek. Fuck. The tempeh is coming back up. There is nothing quite like sweating out gallons of water in a closet-sized closed space with a near-stranger who is dressed solely in a towel made for an infant. We try to make small talk, and I stare firmly at the ceiling, praying for a reprieve from another butt flash.

8 PM: We go to dinner. The sauna has made me look like a wrinkly red fetus. Is this what I looked like when I was a baby? Is this what I'm going to look like when i'm old? Concerning. I order an avotomacon sandwich, but I haven’t really recovered from seeing my house chair’s bubble butt, and the turkey breast reminds me of it a little. I love turkey. Will I ever be able to eat cured meats again?!?

10 PM: I finish my essay on whether we are approaching an Orwellian or a Huxleyan future. If I was dictator of the universe, I would brainwash everyone by making them play Neopets all day long. I am bored, so my friend Alex comes over and we give ourselves prison tats. This is what my life is now. I get a little high and overzealous and decide that it is a good idea to use a sewing needle to give myself a fairly large tattoo on my forearm in the shape of Totoro. I start bleeding profusely. When I’m done, it looks more like a molar from one direction, and a disfigured cat from the other. I hope I don't get hepatitis.

 This was the moment I realized I had made a huge mistake.

 12 AM: I put on my granny nighty and crawl into bed, exhausted by the number of funny dicks i've drawn today and heavy with regret and the realization that I now have a permanent molar tattoo on the arm I use to shake hands. As I drift away to sleep, several pressingquestions float through my head. Does this tattoo look like a gang symbol? What is my roommate muttering in her sleep? Why does the room smell like Cheetos? WHO IS THE STEALTH POOPER?

2 AM: I jolt awake to the deafening sound of my roommate's fart.

I hope you guys have enjoyed this lil nugget of my life! Every day is new and exciting and usually emotionally damaging in some subversive way, and best of all, I don't have hepatitis!

Love,

L-Nasty

P.S. Here is a visual description of my college experience thus far.

Perhaps L-Nasty was a lil Brash

Dear R-Nasty,
I am sorry if I offended you with what now seem like perhaps somewhat harsh words. I can see now that the increasingly aggressive actions I took against you were maybe a little dramatic. Next time, just text me back so I don't have to drive to your house in the middle of the night with a boom box and repeatedly throw large rocks at your bedroom window.
I have been working through my serious rage by reading a really excellent book entitled The Dance of Anger. It was court-ordered after hiring that hit man. I know that it's supposed to be about healing my compulsions to find you and then shank you with a knife I made from raccoon bones I found in my yard, whatever, but really, when I look at the title, I picture us in a dance to the death. I like to think it would be held around a roaring fire with sacrificial animals roasting in the pit. I would, of course, be victorious because I do a lot of power yoga, but that is beside the point.
My therapist(s) recommend that I compile a list of all the things I should apologize for. This list probably goes back to when we were much younger and I repeatedly called you stupidhead in my diary. I'm not really sure if you knew about that. I guess you do now. I also tried to organize a rebel faction of our cousins to revolt against you and tie you up with electrical cords and leave you in Grandpa's utility closet, but everyone ignored me and went to go play with the dogs, so I don't really know if I have to apologize for the intent.
So, here's my list, which was by entirely by choice and not court-ordered!
1. I'm sorry for stretching out your Crocs. I think my feet are a lot bigger than yours. I blamed it on your dog, but it was me. Sorry, Verbose Loaf.

2. I'm sorry for not inviting you to my birthday party. I really would have, but I don't like you that much.

3. I'm sorry that I don't smell like cheese like you do.

4. I'm sorry I said all those mean things in apologies One and Two. I just popped a couple (dozen) Valium and feel ready to go on debasing myself for your benefit.

5. I'm sorry for spray painting the words "Slore", "Skanky Ass Ho", "Not my Cousin Anymore", "Not a Friend", and "Flamingo" on your door. I would particularly like to apologize for the last one. It was inappropriate. I see that now.

6. I'm sorry for that time I wiped my nose on you while you were sleeping. I couldn't find a tissue.

7. I'm sorry for the 200+ raging voicemails I left on your phone. In retrospect, I was probably angry at myself for being so co-dependent and needy. I am also sorry I threatened and slandered your dog, Verbose Loaf. Through the light of several anti-psychotics, I can honestly tell you that he is a very nice, good dog, and unlike you, he does not smell like cheese, but rather only dead possum.

8. I'm sorry for hiring a hit man named Bruce to go kill you. I should have known a hit man with the name Bruce couldn't be expected to do the job right.

9. I'm sorry I stole your crocs that I stretched out, as outlined in Apology One. You can't really have them back. I need them for, uh, stuff.

I spoon it at night.

I hope we can move on and find a place of mutual trust and respect, as outlined in Chapter 8 of The Dance of Anger. Your opinions are valid, even if they are dumb as fuck and when you talk I want to karate chop a wooden block like I did that one time at the kindergarten talent show. I miss your face, your grating midwestern accent, your equine laugh, and most of all, getting to use you like a human tissue.

I miss when you were actually cute. I've always been this adorable.

I miss you, in a calm and rational manner, but no longer feel dependent on you for my personal happiness and self-fulfillment. However, if you don't call me back in approximately three minutes, I plan on commenting some choice words on your most recent instagram pictures of food and cats.
Love,
L-Nasty

Not in your closet.

HAHAHA JK I LIED I'M IN YOUR CLOSET.

ONE COUSIN WITH A WHALE SHARK?

Though the whale shark adventure was intriguing, what stood out to R-Nasty about L-Nasty's latest post was the claim that R-Nasty had abandoned not only duzcuz, but her beloved, overtly promiscuous cousin L-Nasty.  Whilst reading, all I/R-Nasty/giving up could think about were all the cousinly times we had shared together.  Not even the batch of pfeffernusse/bowel movements I stress ate seemed to be able to fix the emotional destruction I experienced while reading about the hatred L-Nasty expressed towards me in her last post.  I JUST WANT THINGS TO GO BACK TO NORMAL:

And then I logged onto the wonderful virtual world of facebook, and HAD MORE HATE MAIL FROM THIS GIRL I USED TO CALL FAMILY, AND PERHAPS EVEN A SISTER.  IT BROUGHT ME TO THE GROUND, OVERWHELMED WITH LOVING MEMORIES FROM THE PAST.  NOT EVEN F-DILLY AKA VERBOSE LOAF COULD RESCUE ME FROM THESE HEART WRENCHING SOBS THAT HAD BEFALLEN MY BODY.  I had no memory of abandoning the blog, apparent by the many hours I spent collaging photos of both L-Nasty and R-Nasty peeing in the unknown waters and mountains and Inuit teepees of Alaska.

This post sent me over the edge for good.  I wandered the dark alleyways of Chicago for what seemed to be days.  Without my cousin, what did I even have left in this world?  After unconsciously joining the street gang WCK (Windy City Killers), and attempting to graffiti our duzcuz URL on every public bathroom I saw, before an angry maintenance employee named Belinda yanked me out, I could not help reminisce about my cousin, and what she now thought of me.  She wanted me gone.  Never to be a part of this blog, or her life, again:

Undoubtably L-Nasty's plan for me

Whale Shark Hunting, or Why Am I So Alone

Today, L-Nasty's heart shattered into a million little pieces. These are not the kind of pieces you can pick up and reassemble. Nay, these pieces have ended up all over the place, like under the couch, and that stupid dresser that has the half-eaten sandwich stuck under it, and it makes you so angry, because, like, shit, it's moldy and it smells weird and nobody wants to visit you anymore because of the gross smelling sandwich under your dresser, and then even your cat leaves you (!!!), and then your therapist because one day you just ask her to hold you for the duration of your session, and you have NO ONE. NO ONE. That was the kind of shattering that happened to L-Nasty's heart.

Abandoned by R-Nasty, L-Nasty decided to take a restful and recuperative trip down to the Caribbean. This trip was completely by choice, and not at first strongly encouraged, then ordered by her therapist, and then she was not dragged away from R-Nasty's door by the local police. Whatever. Anyways, she took this trip down to the Bahamas of her own volition. So she decided she could win R-Nasty's love and affection back by finding a whale shark, then putting a leash on it and taking it home to R-Nasty, who would give her great big hug and make her some oatmeal cookies that smelled like a mother's love or something stupid like that. So one evening, she left the house under the pretense of taking a relaxing sunset beach walk, whilst in fact setting out on a journey of a lifetime. She walked for miles, becoming more and more addled and confused. Where was this godforsaken whale shark?

Embarrassing.

Was this my whale shark?

No, this was not my whale shark.

Was this my whale shark?

No, this was not my whale shark. I think it's a branch, maybe.

As she wandered, she made several friends. One was a small land crab, who she tried to cradle, before it bit her hand and ran off. She also become closely acquainted with an elderly couple from Wyoming (the equality state!) that asked her if she could direct them to the beach club. When she responded by hugging them desperately, they appeared concerned and tottered off.

Then! As she stood adjusting her hair for maximum blowability for selfie purposes, she saw it!

If you were wondering, our hair tip is that we don't really shower. Tell us how you feel about a possible beauty column.

The mythical whale shark! I swear she saw it! It looked a little something like this:

If you squint, like a lot, we're pretty sure you can see it in the photo of L-Nasty. Right beyond her ring finger. See it? Yeah, we thought so.

She immediately starting touching up her makeup so she could take a really great selfie with the whale shark so maybe then R-Nasty would think she was pretty AND love her. One can only dream. As she was applying my mascara, she accidentally stabbed herself in the eye. When the tears and blood finally stopped, Miguel, her whale shark and ticket to R-Nasty's heart, was gone.

Photos will never begin to express the agony we felt inside. Except maybe this one. It feels extremely accurate.

Emotionally Destitute: A Self-Portrait by L-Nasty

She fell to the sand and beat her fists against the unsatisfyingly yielding ground. She punched a rock. It hurt, like a LOT. She cursed the heavens. But we have returned, with more rage and determination than ever. We will find you, whale shark. We will find you, and THEN WE WILL TREAT YOU SO NICELY, BUT NOT BECAUSE YOU LIKE IT. BECAUSE WE LIKE IT.

The Prodigal Cousins Return

Yeah, we get it. We've been gone a while. Times are tough for two whale shark lovin' gals like us. The subforums on reddit no longer have a burgeoning whale shark community, and we have found significantly less fan art/death threats in our mailboxes lately. We're gonna be straightforward with you guys. We were about to hang up our hats. Yes. The rumors you saw on reddit, 4chan, Russian eforums, etc. were all true. We were just about to say adios!, ciao!, hasta la vista!, salve!, وداعا!, αντίο!, до свидания!, さようなら, güle güle! to all our work devoted to the preservation, the conservation, the safeguarding, the perpetuation, the sustenation, the upholding of the most excellent and noble of species, the whale shark. O! the whale shark. Merely invoking its name has a delicious shiver all down our spines. Just a glance, just a word, reignites the passion, the mystery, the awe. We shut ourselves out of the whale shark blogging world, in a desperate and futile attempt to ignore the whale shark's siren call. Alas, we could not. One gloomy, mournful night, much like every bland and gray day that had passed like sand through our fingers since we gave up our whale sharks, L-Nasty was stumbling down the street, emotionally destitute and devoid of any feeling but true, fresh despair. Too weak to carry on, L-Nasty fell to the ground, narrowly missing a steaming pile of dog shit. Looking up, she saw a filthy wall covered in graffiti. On it was this:

Ignore the graffiti about colonics and abortions.

The significance is clear. Our followers have risen up. They have called us back. And we must obey. We have given ourselves up, body and soul, to the whale shark's exquisite pull. We belong to the whale shark. We are the whale shark.

As a celebratory return post, we have created a montage of our best and brightest moments in Alaska. The times when after scaling a mountain, crossing a fjord, hacking through thickets, and hopping over a decently big puddle, we would celebrate by taking a nice, long cousin-to-cousin pee. There is a curious feeling of solitude combined with an interesting and unique bond that comes from smelling your someone else's pee from not a foot away from you, and feeling the lovely backsplash hitting and cooling your legs. Here are some beautiful moments we cherish and wish to share with our closest and best (Eastern Europeans, we're looking at you) followers. Welcome back.

We cannot tell a lie-we are pooping in some of these. In addition, in the bottom right image, L-Nasty is having a nose bleed while she pees. Whoever can correctly guess which ones are poop pics wins L-Nasty's cat (no one wants it anymore), and our signed and perfumed Alaska socks. We wore the same pair for a month straight!

Keep on twerking,
R-Nasty and L-Nasty