I just found this guy. He is hilarious. I have not been able to stop reading his blog. I hope it never ends!
Here’s a bit of a taste for you:
Look, why are you at the platform in MY spot at 5:52 on a Tuesday morning? It’s raining. You’re in threadbare sweatpants, mismatched flip-flops and a sleeveless “Shrek the Halls” T-shirt. Unless you work in a dumpster, you are not going to work. You’re thirty, Hispanic and you smell like diced onions and wet feet. Go back home and try and find a job. DO NOT stand in MY spot and force me to break my routine.
WOW! I seriously can’t handle it. I get tears in my eyes and laugh my old man laugh when I read this guy’s stuff.
Yesterday, my doctor was mad at me for getting a sunburn. She was shaking her head and clicking her little brown tongue at me for not wearing any sunscreen. “Someday, you will see!” Gayeshra said in her thick accent. She put one hand on top of her giant pregnant belly and shook the finger on her other hand at me. “You will wake up one day and say, MY GOD! How did I get so old and ugly??”
She recommended SPF 30 sunscreen, to be worn every day, even indoors, because of the harmful rays of fluorescent lighting. “Even those will give you the cancer of the skins!” she said, but I was chewing my lip to keep from laughing because when she chirps “SPF 30!” it sounds like she’s saying “turdy.” As in, “You have to get de turdy!”
Ha, ha! It’s like when people on TV say “homeowner.” It sounds like a mean name for gay people, “homoner!” Like, what are you, a homoner? Oh, well in that case, you may be eligible for a tax break.
I went to Target today. I hadn’t planned on venturing over there this weekend, since I went last weekend, which was bad enough, but I ran out of toilet paper. And the surgeon general says that you should wipe at least once a day. So I went to Target, where a kid was stocking the toilet paper shelves as fast as he could, while a row of fat-bottomed, pissed-off Latina mothers shook their heads and tapped their feet to hurry him along. They finally gave up and started ripping plastic off the pallets of toilet paper he’d wheeled into the middle of the aisle to grab their brands. I felt REALLY bad taking toilet paper off the shelf as soon as he put it on the shelf. Really, really bad.
I bought some makeup that I didn’t need and came home and wrote an email to the folks at Wet n’ Wild:
Dear Wet n’ Wild,
Do you realize that when you put it in different packaging, I have to BUY it AGAIN?
I think you do! Dammit!
A Wet n’ Wild Girl!
I wonder if they will write back?
I was supposed to go to Southern Illinois this weekend for my oldest best friend’s baby shower. I mean, I hate the trip down there, and I’ve got nothing to DO when I’m there, but I was looking forward to seeing my friends. And I really wanted to hang out with my nephew.
He’s kind of a genius, and at 18 months, already my favorite family member. He’s really very funny and entertaining. According to Babycenter.com, “at a year and a half, most children speak a dozen words (or more) clearly.” This baby can say over 30 words, and I’m not talking “wahwah” and “mama,” I mean, this baby says “Poor Grandmommy!” to my mom. He says “Wah-ter,” and if you ask him something he doesn’t know the answer to, he says “I don’t knowwww!” He’s already got the quirky kind of personality that I love, and when he is taken out in his stroller, he needs to stop at every light pole, touch it, and say “POLE” clearly before he can be moved forward.
Anyway, I’m not going now. My boss has pretended not to notice my request for the weekend off. I’m supposed to believe that it’s an amazing coincidence that I’m suddenly needed to work the first Saturday I’ve been scheduled for in over 12 weeks. Not only that, it’s a fucking 9 hour shift. On a Saturday. Thanks, you fuckweasel. She really is a wang. A few weeks ago, she gave me the choice of losing my job or giving up my full-time status (and insurance benefits). The issue was that I have limited availability within which the stupid place has been able to schedule me and use the hell out of me for over a year now, but suddenly that’s not okay. Basically, if I didn’t give up my other job and devote my schedule 100% to the workplace at hand, workplace at hand would “choose to end the relationship.” Like the HR department would break up with me if I refused to spend more time there.
So I told my boss on Thursday that I’d decided to go down to part-time, and she was so excited, she practically had the paperwork rolled up inside her asshole, because she pulled it out right then and there, made me sign it, and faxed it to HR. In the same breath she started talking about hiring someone to take my place. And I have to say, for the first time in all the time I’ve worked in that bleeding shit hole, I felt like I was doing exactly what I should be doing, and when she smiled and mentioned hiring someone else, I thought, Knock yourself out, cuntface. Really. What do I care?
Of course, now that I don’t have insurance, my left tit hurts, and it’s probably tit cancer. Great.
I can’t wait to quit. I find myself looking forward to doing my impression of my boss TO my boss. I think she may spontaneously combust.
I am watching another prison doc on MSNBC and I’ve lost count of the amount of inmates who have Polaroids of their chubby, bleach-blonde women in stretched out t-shirts and jogging shorts standing in front of those cheap, shitty, hollow sliding closet doors. Wish I had me one of them pitchers. Plus they all have cats that live in their cells, which is weird and fucking dirty, like prison needs to be more of either. I just don’t get it. They beat and kill women, but they feed cats, nasty, hairball-coughing, disinterested, disgusting animals who lay around all day and are only interested in eating and licking their own assholes. I don’t get it.
Speaking of pets, I CANNOT STOP WATCHING THE PUPPYCAM. It’s like pet voyeurism! I want to leave a snarky, ironic comment but it’s going to take me a minute to think of one that will go safely over the heads of any small children who may be watching the puppies, but will rape the minds of sixtysomethings in doggie sweatshirts.
Also, what the fuck is this???
Don’t people know that, in this economic climate, if they get a really good deal on property, THERE’S PROBABLY SOME MOTHERFUCKING ZOMBIE BODIES ROTTING IN IT???
And here’s the missed connection of the day! Yay! Fall in love!