Monthly Archives: June 2009

Friday Dance Party


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Vanilla Bullshits

Last night I had a dream in which my entire family, even the weirdo Tennesseean outback ones who don’t love me because I think there’s gay bars in Heaven, was in the car with me, and I played my favorite song for them and they all LOVED it.  It wasn’t my favorite song in actuality, it was a John Martyn song that I hold pretty dear and I think is a great song, but the point was that my whole family like the song a lot and thought I was awesome for bringing it to their ears.  They were all clapping for me and showing their appreciation when the alarm on my phone went off.  The phone was on vibrate, and was in a drawer, and was buzzing against something in such a way that did not exactly wake me at first, so in the dream the sound translated as an earthquake.  So the dream version of me yelled from the back seat of the car, “Oh COME ON.”

It seems that I am always having these dreams where I’m in a car with my family and there’s some kind of natural disaster but the family member in the driver’s seat simply refuses to drive away from the tornado/acid storm/earthquake epicenter, and the whole family is kind of like, Meh, let’s just wait it out, see what happens.  Jeez.

I have the BIGGEST zit today.  It’s like a nipple on my chin.  I might as well draw a little smile and a pair of sunglasses on it.  And it WILL NOT GO AWAY.  And it hurts a lot.  Good thing the chin strap on the mask for my cupcake costume covers it.  I wouldn’t dream of going out and terrorizing Gotham City with a shiner like this on my jaw.

When you order an “Italian Soda” from the menu at this Starbucks/NotStarbucks, they give you a Pepsi in a Starbucks/NotStarbucks cup.  I know because I SAW THEM POUR IT OUT OF A PEPSI SODA PUMP.  Italian soda, my ass.  Really?  Really?  What are they trying to pull?

I should have ordered a Vanilla Bullshit.

Now that I am a part-time employee, I am no longer eligible for hour-long lunch breaks.  I am told that this is the law, but whatever.  I have calculated that it takes approximately 17 minutes to order, pay for, and receive food on one’s lunch break, plus or minus two minutes walking time, depending on where you go.  This means I end up with 10-13 minutes to slam whatever I’m trying to eat.

I really miss having an adult job, with a desk and an office and an ass load of little green office supplies to make me smile all day long.  But mostly I miss being able to decide when I am hungry, where I want to eat, and when I want to come back.  I miss being treated like a 27 year old who can handle herself.  I will come back to work, trust me.  I will be reasonable about my unpaid lunch time.  Fer chrissakes.

It’s winter in Chicago still…right now it’s only 62 degrees and overcast, and the only good thing about that is the metal eaves of the sushi restaurant across the street are not reflecting the sun’s rays and fucking blinding me everytime I look up.

Here are some cupcakes:



They are really cute but they look like they are the kind of icing that is really sugary so it hardens all crunchy on top of the cupcake, so you peel it off and throw it out so you don’t get a toothache.  What a buzz killington.

Who the hell would post a missed connection like this?!  Gosh, I don’t know.  Sounds like a crazy bitch.

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Star Force One

I don’t think our president could get any more awesome if he tried.  I have two pieces of a Newsweek article to back up this assertion, both of which showcase his awesomeness in very different ways:

“That’s what satisfies me now, I think—being useful to my family and the people who elected me, leaving behind a legacy that will make our children’s lives more hopeful than our own.  Sometimes, working in Washington, I feel I am meeting that goal.  At other times, it seems as if the goal recedes from me, and all the activity I engage in—the hearings and speeches and press conferences and position papers—are an exercise in vanity, useful to no one.”

Excellence.  I always wondered what he thought of all of the PR shit that comes along with being the President.

But let’s shift gears:


Now, movies I’ve been doing OK [with] because it turns out we got this nice theater on the ground floor of my house…So Star Trek, we saw this weekend, which I thought was good.  Everybody was saying I was Spock, so I figured I should check it out and—[the president makes the Vulcan salute with his hand].


Yes, absolutely.

I don’t know what to say to that besides, well, Fuckin A, Mr. President.  Fuckin A.

Meacham, John.  A conversation with Barack Obama. Newsweek.  May 25, 2009, 36-43.


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Four Whores and Seven Sores Ago…

One of my associates, an agent who wishes to be identified in this blog only as It Won’t Suck Itself, so recently returned to the States from vacation.  I will only say that one of the places he visited on his travels was an island city-state located at the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula, lying 85 miles north of the equator, south of the Malaysian state of Johor and north of Indonesia’s Riau Islands.

Whilst enjoying himself, sightseeing and whatnot, Agent IWSI noticed that the whorehouses of this fair and bustling city were separated by the nationalities of the girls for hire within, each nestled into a separate district of the city.  A house in which one could find European girls, a house to visit if one were more interested in Asian varieties, so on, and so forth.  Perhaps the most interesting house, and I’m not saying it because I’m biased (pussy’s pussy, I always say), is the European whorehouse, which is quite aptly named “Four Floors of Whores.”

Can you find the whore in the Waldo hat?

Can you find the whore in the Waldo hat?

By the way, prostitution in these houses is legal, because it is regulated.  However, in the land of segregated sexytime, the punishment for two men engaging in anal sex is fifteen lashes and ten years in prison.

Tonight I had a hot dog to celebrate this new information about whore houses on tropical islands.  This blissful hot dog was preceded by an hour long, full-on nap in the windy afternoon.  Then I had a dip cone from Dairy Queen.  It was all quite nice, and if I could, I would repeat this formula every day:  Nap, hot dog, dip cone. It sounds like the lyrics to one of those songs where they shout at you what to do while the song is playing.

Here is a cartoon my sister made:


And that’s all you get from me today.  You’re stupid.  And that’s the last I’ll say about it.

Go fuck yourself.

THAT’S the last.

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Every day, first thing in the morning upon waking up, I do a Google search for “bret michaels crushed.”

Today, finally, I got somewhere:

It ain’t much, buuuut…

If he hadn’t had that cowboy hat on, his flesh bandanna would have popped right off.

I can’t help but wonder what Daisy thought about all of this when she heard.  Wasn’t she madly in love with him?

Wait, what??

Wait, what??

Meh.  She probably just queefed on her man-servant and went back to sleep.

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I work in this uh, library…for uh, children with tit cancer.

The Occasions When It May Be Inappropriate To Blast Lady Gaga’s Just Dance, OR When It Would Be Inappropriate For Lady Gaga To Bust Into The Room And Perform Just Dance

1. At a funeral.

2. At a small child’s funeral.

3. During a movie.  I paid my money.

4. In the waiting room of an abortion clinic.

5. At the scene of a terrible traffic accident.  Brains on the ground and stuff.

6. At the scene of a terrible traffic accident involving two vans full of teenage Vacation Bible School students.  Brains on the ground and stuff.

7. Outside the Holocaust Museum.

8. Next to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

9. In an AIDS clinic.

10. In the hospital, JUST after the doctor tells you you’ve got tit cancer.

Just dance!  Dadadee doo doo!

Today I told a huge lie! But it was only because I wanted something, which makes it okay.

I went to see that shitwad movie The Hangover because Andy Bernard from The Office, or, well, the guy who plays him, was in it.  Total waste of my time and money, of course, because, as it turns out, I’m a little over bachelor party hijinks stories.  Stripper jokes, drug jokes, bare dude butts, drinking jokes, masturbation jokes.  Then the whole dude-your-life-is-over joke.  And all of the girlfriends in these movies are mean assholes anyway.

Wait, but, first…I was handing my ticket to the ticket-ripper girl when I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask what they’re going to do with their giant Harry Potter character posters hanging from the ceiling.  I mean, if they’re just going to throw them out…

So I asked the ticket-ripper girl, who had to summon another girl, who waved over another guy, and pretty soon I was swarmed with Kerasotes employees, who each had a different story for what they do with the movie promo shit when they’re done with it.  The running theme seemed to be that the staff got first dibs, and whatever was left was trashed.  So I tried to appeal to them first.  “Well, see, I work in this…children’s library, see?  In um, Humboldt Park?  And well, we’re a really poor library, and uh, we’re always looking for stuff to put on the walls, to sort of, you know, brighten the kids’ days.”

One girl nodded in sympathy, two girls shuffled away, disinterested once they had been unable to give me a stock answer and get me out of their faces, and one boy whose eyes were looking in two different directions stood next to me and explained that the first girl was going to get the manager, who would be able to tell me exactly what they would be doing with the posters.  That’s when the manager, a tall black man in a green suit, giant black walkie in hand, strode across the spangled carpet to meet me.  “How you doin, ma’am?  My name’s Shelby.  How can I help you?”

I told him about the poor children at the library (which I relocated to the South side), and talked about how it would really just make them so excited about life if they had those posters in their library.  I don’t know if he bought it, but he told me that with any Harry Potter related promotional materials, the theaters were always bound by contract to pack them up and send them back to the movie studio when they were done with them.  “Well, you know how it is with the big movies, Harry Potter and Transformers,” (which I don’t even consider being in the same league or on the same level, but okay) “and people be sellin’ that stuff on eBay and all.”

And here I put my hand on my chest, a bit melodromatically, maybe, but I wasn’t faking, “On eBay??  Really?”

“Oh yeah, oh yeah,” said Shelby.  “People will do that.”

I felt like reassuring Shelby that if any one of these posters was in my possession, I would never, ever, EVER sell it on eBay, or in any other way.  I want them because I want to HAVE them.  So I just said, “Well, that’s too bad…”

That’s when Shelby seemed to soften a little.  “Ay, ay, aaight.  I’ma tell you what you need to do.  Here’s wassup,” he said, coming closer, lowering his voice.  “Everybody be leaving their name and number and stuff, that gets too crazy, you know, so girl, you just come on back and check in every once in a while.  You know, just come on over here after the movie come out, and if they down, ask for me, I’ll see if we can’t do something for you, girl…aaight?  Ay.  My name Shelby.  You ask for me.”

So I smiled an enormous smile, and thanked Shelby for offering to help, and shook his hand.  Then I sat through that stupid 90 minute fart joke they called a movie, and all I could think about the whole time was that giant Snape poster, and how good it was going to look on my bedroom wall.



And what I might have to do to get Shelby to give it to me.

Probably some of the stuff they did in that movie.

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Wifely Arts

Surrogate wife???

I’ll experiment in some wifely arts, you son of a bitch.  How about I stomp on your nuts for free?

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A Wet n’ Wild Girl!

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, “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!

That’s all.

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Take the candy.

As a child, I was given a lecture about strangers.  I was asked by my mother what I would do in the event that a stranger offered me candy if I would go into their house or get into their car.

My sister reports that I scratched my little head, looked off into the distance as if searching for the answer somewhere in the space beyond the couch, and responded:  “Welp.  Welp, ah guess ah would jes take the candy, then run away REAL fast.”

Well no one ever thought of THAT before.


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Drunk Tattooed White Trash – A Screenplay

Or, “Exactly What Happened as I Enjoyed Some Beers on Sunday Night”:

Scene 1: Drunk, tattooed white trash meets at bar on Milwaukee after work

Jacob: Tattooed white trash in all black, neck adorned with several silver necklaces.
Katie: Jacob’s girlfriend, tattooed white trash in all black with a skull bandana.
Vince: Tattooed white trash in all black with dreads and an oversized black ball cap, AAAAAND a set of contact lenses that make his eyes look like white snake eyes, in that “No-I-didn’t-play-bass-for-Static-X-OR-DID-I” kind of way.
Boss:  Tattoed white DRUNK trash, obviously a tad older than everyone else (his employees), and a shitload drunker than everyone else, in cargo jeans and a black hoodie.  And feelin’ bad about himself.  And possibly in love with Jacob.

Boss to Jacob:

“There’s somethin’ in you, Jacob, that reminds me of family…it uh, reminds me of honor…and tradition…and…intellectualism, and uh…sacrifice, and spirit.”

Boss to Katie:

“He is one of my most valuable…humans in my life.”

“There must be something good in you, because he’s a quality person.  QUA. LI. TY.”

Boss to Jacob and Katie:

“I’m not lying to you guys…I’m not lyin.  I’m not exaggerating, I’m not drunk.  I sincerely love him.  And I’m happy for you.  You guys deserve each other.  (Awkwardly places his hand on the side of her face.)  I would love to be your friend.”

Boss to Katie:

“I fired four of my best friends, which is a very difficult thing to do, oh my God.  Jake has Never. Given. Me. Shit.  Never.  He’s—he’s given me a good reason for any shit he’s given me, though.  He’s more than a good person, he’s an exceptional hu-human that is not…normal.  He is special.  He’s got something in him.  It’s a spirit.  I do apologize.  I get drunk.  Do you want another Sprite?  Or like a, a cola?”

“If you have a girl as a daughter, she’s gonna be a strong fucking woman, and no man is gonna fuck with her.  She’s gonna be uh, tough, and I’m not talking just guns.  She’s gonna be sixteen in a car with boys, because this is dating time, you know?  And you’re gonna have to say look, you know what?  Those boys?  They will tell you anything you wanna know all right?  Because you’re in a car.  Like, with my nieces.  You know?  You’re gonna have to raise her right, man.  Raise her right.”

“I will LOVE your daughter, if you have one, a daughter, you know, you guys.  I will LOVE your fucking daughter…like my own.”

“Jacob, I don’t know Katie, but I know you, so there must be some…virtue that I gotta see in her, okay?  Because you love her.  Just like, you know what?  I don’t know your sister, but I love your sister.  Because that’s how good you are.  We communicate.

Boss to a passing acquaintance:

“Hey, whoa, wait…do you know Jake?!  Jake is a bad motherfucker.  This motherfucker here?  BAD. MOTHER. FUCKER.  He is coming up with a graphic novel, a SICK graphic novel.  Have you seen it?  Sick.”

Scene 2: Drunk boss gets the shit beaten out of him in front of the bar.

In this scene, about two hours after the employee meeting, the drunk boss pushes one chick and supposedly slaps another, then gets his ass dragged out onto the sidewalk, mashed into a door, kicked in the head, and punched in the face until he is knocked unconscious for two and a half minutes.

He then stands and bleeds profusely from the mouth, all over his teeth, and therefore spits blood everywhere when he challenges his attacker, a big young buck in a Redwings t-shirt, to “TAKE ME ONE ON ONE!!!”  Which big young buck had already done, unfortunately.

Bar owner shows up, escorts drunk tattooed white trash boss across the street to his tattoo shop, and locks him in there to calm him down.  Meanwhile, the girl who had apparently been smacked around inside the bar, ex-girlfriend of the drunk tattooed white trash tattoo shop owner, thinks it’s a good idea to prance around in front of the tattoo shop, calling all of her friends and crying big crocodile tears about physical abuse.

Ex-Girlfriend, on cell phone:

“I’m just like, totally scared to go home because like, he’s gonna be WAITING for me!”

(Nevermind the fact that he was splattered all over the floor of his tattoo shop, which I now would not recommend to anyone who wants a safe and sterile tattoo experience, and nevermind the fact that the bartender was just then getting around to wiping up all of the blood and teeth on the sidewalk in front of the bar.)


“Soooo….sorry about that…you want one on the house?”


“Oh, well, okayyy…”

Scene 3: Katie and Jacob have a baby, tattoo it, and let drunk boss babysit it because he LOVES IT.


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