Monthly Archives: August 2009

Asshole Party

Dear Ms. Seelig,

Your boyfriend, Mr. Michael S. Gellar, just hit me up on a dating website.  Where he has a profile.  Which he uses to describe the type of women he would like to meet and date.

Miiiiight wanna look into that.


Cupcake Jones

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God, butt sex, weight lifting, cooking.

My apartment is such a shit hole right now…half of it is in boxes and the other half is a bunch of crap I MAY or MAY NOT want that is on top of boxes.  I was packing stuff I might need in the next week, thinking ohh I’ll remember which box that is in, but now everything is in boxes and there are not windows in the boxes and I don’t know where my underpants are!

That said, I am sitting here at 6pm with the biggest cup of coffee in the universe, waiting for it and the three extra-strength Excedrin to kick in and demolish the headache that is blinding me, and has been blinding me since I woke up this morning.  I had been doing this thing where I really really tried very hard to stop drinking so much coffee, swapping it again for strong green tea.  But it doesn’t work.  I get a stabbing headache that is followed by a horrible, morose mood.  I go out in public and hate everyone.  I went to Target today to pick up the aforementioned Excedrin, and I thought it would be a good idea to stop in at the Target Starbucks and get a gigantic espresso thing.  Well, guess what?  Those motherfuckers broke their espresso machine and couldn’t make any coffee drinks.  I almost threw myself to the floor and rolled around kicking and screaming.  So I ran over to the painkiller aisle and wouldn’t you know it, there were so many people blocking it with their carts that I actually, seriously, honestly considered yelling at the top of my lungs IF YOU FUCKING PEOPLE DON’T MOVE YOUR ASSES OUT OF MY WAY I AM GOING TO KILL ONE OF YOU.  LIKE SERIOUSLY.  Instead, I just stood there and waited, my face all red, breathing really hard and pulling at the neck of my hoodie.  It felt really tight.

Quitting coffee does not work.  It does not.  And the moral of this story is that Agent Ventura really wants a blog to read when she wakes up in the morning and even though I feel like someone is filling my skull with broken glass, I would hate to disappoint her.  Even so, this mood is nasty and evil and the Excedrin is not going fast enough so I HATE YOU.  Not really, but come on.  I got a text message blow off last weekend, spent the week in Southern Illinois, tried to quit drinking coffee, tried to pack for a move, and you wanna know why I haven’t written a blog?  BECAUSE I AM IN A STATE OF DESPAIR.

Not really.  I mean, packing is gay, but it’s almost done.  I have coffee now.  My sister reminded me that I didn’t like the guy that much and was only pissed off that he didn’t like me either.  Oh, and I got the best picture ever in Harrisburg, Illinois:


Fried bologna!!!

My mom makes her coffee with a French press.  I don’t know if you know about this but it’s very exotic.  You boil the water in a fancy teapot, then you grind the coffee beans in a fancy grinder.  You dump them into this glass pitcher, pour in the water, and stir.  Exactly (EXACTLY, YOU STUPID) four minutes later, you put the lid on the pitcher and push the middle down, which makes a strainer thingy squish through the coffee bean/water mixture.  In all, it takes about four hours.

There is no measuring system to speak of.  There is also no milk or sugar in my mom’s house, as she suffers from healthfoodrexia.  I could only find plain organic soymilk, which I mixed into my fancy unmeasured ratio of coffee and water.  Holy fucking shitballs it was terrible.  And it made me so crazy I thought I was going to die for about twenty minutes after I drank it.  Unfortunately, Mommy was at work and could not help her adult daughter make coffee.  I thought about calling her to have her direct me around the kitchen, but I figured she might get mad at me if she was busy explaining to a student that yes, you CAN take a library book home with you, that is what a library is for.  It’s totally weird when you realize that you don’t know where the spoons are in the house where you grew up.

I’m going to go ahead and admit that while I was at home, I ate McDonald’s, Hardees, Taco Bell, Sonic, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Denny’s.  I’m also going to go ahead and admit that three of them were in the same day.  Whatever, shutup!  I don’t care what you think!

Actually, I feel kind of disgusting.  I had three giant bottles of water today and I still feel like there are cheeseburger-shaped amoebas in my veins.

what is this?

Does anyone know what the hell kind of frosting this is?  I want to know.  It goes on cupcakes and it’s flat.  It’s so you can make cute designs on the cupcake.  I guess, anyway.

This is so shitfucking cute.

This is so shitfucking cute.

Also, who the fuck spends their time making cupcake batter, pouring it into cupcake pans, finding tiny stuffed animals, and arranging them with the batter so that it looks like it’s the stuffed animal that’s happily making the cupcakes?  I want to know because I would like to meet them, and maybe talk to them, and fine, okay, yeah, I want to fuck them.  You happy?

WHO is responsible for this??

WHO is responsible for this??

Okay, a boy in Australia took this next picture for me.  Not to mention the fact that there is an entire week dedicated to cupcakes somewhere in the world, I was unbelievably touched that aforementioned boy saw this sign and thought of me.  In one half of my brain, I am packing all of my stuff because I am moving to Australia to be his lover forever and ever because he is the most awesome guy I have ever NOT met and fallen in love with anyway.

Let's kiss.  NOW.

Let's kiss. NOW.

match dot bomb

Okay, so fine, yeah, I am now back in the online dating scene.  And not for any other reason but that I WANT TO GO ON A GODDAMN DATE.  Especially if it’s with someone I don’t know, who doesn’t know me, whose friends do not know me and think I’m a big ole bitch.  But you know, this means that I am now receiving emails from guys whose interests are “God, butt sex, weight lifting, cooking.”  In that order.

Today is my first day back on the online date pony, and already I’ve gotten an email about how I must be “a pretty sexy librarian” and been approached by a guy who just wanted to let me know that he is “an adventurous lover, wink wink.”  Do you fucking have something in your eye?  And what do you mean, “adventurous lover?”  You wanna do it in the Everglades or something?  Because nothing’s shocking anymore, boyo.  Not after the last six months of my dating life.

Anyway, I totally expect to meet a whole lot of the same pigfaced pussytwats I met the first time around, this time last year, but this time I’ve decided to be nicer to the boys who laugh at my jokes and buy me Sharpies and bring me candy on our first date.

And I will say that at least this website has a gigantic crop of those rugged, corn-fed, Midwestern boys I like to look at.  Woowee!

planes, trains, fuck you

So last night I began my journey back to the city from the Southern part of the state.  This meant that I had to catch an Amtrak train in Carbondale, Illinois.  Due to a car mix-up, I ended up finally securing a ride to the train station a mere eleven minutes before the train was supposed to leave the station.  So naturally, faced with the idea of being forced to spend another night in Southern Illinois and another $50 on another ticket, I freaked out and basically stopped breathing.  Luckily, they held the train for me when they saw me tearing across the parking lot, waving my reservation information in the air like a battle standard, almost crying (ALMOST) because I was sure they were just going to high tail it out of the station without me.  But they held the train, and everyone on it gave me shitty looks when I finally collapsed into a seat so I could put my head between my knees and breathe.

All eyes ceased to be on me when we hit Centralia, Illinois, and the train was immediately filled with the prisoners who had just been released from the Centralia Correctional Facility.  So everyone was paying a little more attention to their personal belongings than they had been before.  Look, if that’s offensive, I don’t care.  Because when a bunch of loud-ass motherfuckers in correctional facility uniforms, with tooth brushes and underwear in plastic bags, yelling about all the week they’re going to smoke when they get home get on your train, we’ll talk about it some more.  They wouldn’t leave anyone alone, as they weren’t allowed to purchase alcohol on the train, so they were hitting up anyone and everyone to buy it for them.  They were also very interested in using people’s cell phones, and I turned down four of them who had to make “real important phone calls.”  The guy who sat in front of me had those retardedly long and pointy and gross fingernails and set about befriending the two kids sitting across from us, who were traveling alone.  The kids went to the dining car, and the next thing you know, the little boy couldn’t find his cell phone.  “Oh, lemme help y’all look,” the ex-prisoner said, and proceeded to go through all of their things with them.  “At least my Nintendo DS is still here!” the little boy said.

“You know what you should always do,” says Ex-Prisoner, “is lock your phone so people can’t use it.”

“Oh, I do!” said the boy.  “I lock it all the time!”

“Oh, really?” says Ex-Prisoner.  “You got like, a code on it?”

“Yep!” says the boy, pleased as punch that he’s taken the necessary precautions.

“Oh, that’s good.  What is it?” asks Ex-Prisoner.

The boy smiles hugely, proudly, and says, “It’s the last four digits of my phone number.”

“Oh, that’s good, that’s real good,” says Ex-Prisoner.  “You should probably give me your phone number so I could call you if I find your phone.”

So they look through their stuff again and again.  They tear the train apart looking for the phone.  Finally, they decide to check the bathrooms.  Ex-Prisoner offers to watch their stuff for them while they look.  At that point, I was just like hey, kids, seriously…come on.  But they walked away, and when they came back, I heard the boy say, “Wait…wait! Where’s my Nintendo?!”

And the whole process started over again.

We finally landed in the White City, over half an hour late.  I finally caught a Blue Line, which sat in the station for ten minutes before chugging forward one stop, where it sat for another ten, after which an announcement was made that this particular train would not be going any further, and that a shuttle bus would be provided…a shuttle bus which was, of course, outside in the rain, and connected only to the Blue Line a few stops away.  After which I would have to walk home.  In the rain.

So I transferred to the Red Line and immediately found myself in the midst of six sorority girls on an outing, who were arguing over, and I shit you not, the fucking lyrics to Single Ladies.  You can imagine how I felt about that.  And, of course, the one who was their fucking tour guide was telling them all the great bars, and proceeded to list all the douchebaggiest places imaginable.

Look, there’s nothing wrong with having stupid conversations.  I’m sure that some of the things I talk about when I’m a little drunk and a bit too loud and stupid are annoying to those around me.  But I was wet and tired and rattled and sick of fucking train delays and I wanted to go home really really bad.  So I pretty much wanted to kill all of those girls.

Also, I was not prepared for it to be sixty degrees and pouring rain in the city.  So I was wearing a tank top and shorts.  And I ended up standing on a corner at midnight, weighed down by all of my shit, freezing my ass off, and THAT is why I kind of maybe possibly snapped at the guy in the swirly velour-covered gigantic Dr. Seussian top hat and sunglasses who leaned into my face and said, “Well at this time ‘o night ya can’t tell if people are starting their night or ending it!  Hyuk hyuk hyuk!”

I was nice about it.  I mean, I don’t understand why the freaks come crawling out of the fucking sewers in their Halloween costumes at 10:30 every night in the city.  I’ll never understand it.  And it’s a bit of culture shock every time I come back from a visit at home, in rural nowhere, where the only sound is the neighbor’s dog and a million jazillion crickets, to be greeted by some weird lonely motherfucker in an outfit purchased at a Six Flags gift shop.

I think I said “SHUT. UP.” and left it at that.  Because that’s when I decided to splurge and got into a cab, because the other freak at the bus stop was whining about how it was Obama’s fault that the bus was late.

bye bye, stinky!

Well, you may or may not know this, but last Friday was my last day in retail EVER.  I am so excited to start my librarian job on Monday that I am peeing a little bit.  I am peeing in my non-uniform pants.

I won’t miss any of the shit that came with that job.  What I will miss are the co-workers, the partners in crime, and, sometimes, inebriation.  One of my favorites, Agent It Won’t Suck Itself, put together a video that was pretty much the most awesome thing ever.  It’s unexplainable.  It’s amazing.  If you want to see it, you should add me on Facebook.  Because, of course, it’s got my name in it, which I’d rather not disclose on this here bloggy blog, because that’s what got me into trouble with the last bloggy blog.

Anyway, the video was very touching, and it made me happy and sad. Plus it had Hitler in it (of course).

So, Miss Agent Ventura, I hope this blog has filled your blog hole for the time being.  I hope you know that I start school AND my new job on Monday, that I move a week from Monday, and that I will probably go for a couple of days in there without internet access, so this blog may have to hold you over for a bit.

But I’m sure I’ll come up eventually with some sort of schedule for my complaints and bitchery, which I will be sure to puke all over this blog whenever I get a chance.

Also, please punch me in the face if I ever mention cutting back on coffee ever again.  This stuff is great!  YEAH!


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Ball Grinder

Last night I got dumped via text message. And it fucking SUCKED.

It’s made me think about some boys I haven’t been interested in, whom I may not have treated the best. I mean, I could have come out and been honest. I could have given them a phone call. Text messages are just so blow-offy and passive aggressive. They say the wrong thing all the time, no matter what the actual text says.

So I propose that we all adopt a new system of telling each other we aren’t interested: more of a round-table discussion type of thing. You just go to this place with a bunch of booths, you meet up for about half an hour and tell each other what’s up. Then you shake on it. Can you imagine how much better these things would be if people just did that? I mean, I guess the concern was that someone would lose their shit and fly through the roof and be a scary bitch, but in most circumstances I think it would work out pretty well.

I can confirm that this type of severance would be much more manageable than a 10pm Sunday night text message. But I guess this is what you get when you go around grinding boys’ balls into the pavement and laughing about it like a maniac. Someone comes along and grinds yours.

My inbox hurts!


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Friday Dance Party IX

This song is so ass-tarded and SO PERFECT.


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Shit Face Makes a Statement

This motherfucker brings a LOADED goddamn GUN to a town hall meeting, then he goes on Hardball wearing a MOTHERFUCKING T-SHIRT with a SUNSHINE ON IT.

Someone should spank his asshole.

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Twat Stamp

I am sitting outside my place of biznass (soon to be former place of biznass), leaning against the wall and stealing internets from the restaurant next door. I have to do this because there is no wireless connection at my work place because they are afraid we will contact someone in cyberspace and ask for help.

So I come out here and every fucking day this girl walks by in platform shoes with this giant smile on her face. I have no idea why she is smiling, ever, about anything and everything. I would call this a “shit-eating grin,” because that’s what it is.

The other day, I was sitting here and some girls in jewel-toned lycra-blend knit sun dresses pulled up in an SUV and climbed out with their sparkly handbags, ready for a day of shopping. When they realized that the parking meter accepted credit cards, the one in the shortest dress walked back to the SUV, which was in the parking spot directly in front of me. She opened the door, then stood on the curb and bent at the waist to lean across the seats for the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. Her dress was very short. She was not wearing ANY underwear, not tiny underwear, or a trace of underwear, NON-EXISTENT underwear.

I saw her vagina.

In full view.

On my lunch break.

It was really weird and scraggly and I thought someone (or everyone) should know.

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This vanilla chai tea tastes like hot pee.

Like hot alcoholic dad pee.

And I’m sorry I’m drinking it.

This is my next to last night at Job 2, and so far, the following has happened:

-A door-slamming man slammed the front door, waved his hand in my face when I tried to tell him which room his class was in, walked into the wrong room, slammed door, walked out, slammed door, walked into right room, slammed door.

-A member complained about not getting his member gift after watching me show another member her gift options, and when I said “Okay, well then which gift would you like?” he pulled his glasses to the end of his nose and stared down at me through them, then responded, “Well WHAT ARE MY OPTIONSSSS??”

-A co-worker copied the wrong page for an instructor, and I had to figure out how to make GoogleDocs recognize an image as a document and print it.  It was not easy and it was also kind of dumb.

-A woman reported a terrorist attack because someone left a cart with some boxes on it by the front door.  “And there’s NO ONE around!”  I promised to get “Maintenance” on it right away.  In my mind, Maintenance is this bald guy in a blue jumpsuit with an eye patch who just waits in this closet down the hall that says “Utility Sink” on the door until I call him on a special phone.  Which I have no intention of doing.  (Because he is not real…did you get that part?)

I gave my notice at Job 1 this morning.  My boss looked genuinely shocked for just a moment, then quickly masked her feelings with falsity, as she is apt to do, and her mouth just hung open in mock surprise for an uncomfortable amount of time.  So I said, “Sooo…” to jerk her back to reality.  She pushed hard for me to tell her exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing.  I gave her a really rehearsed answer which told her nothing at all, which pissed her off.  She told Veggie Tales the Dickless Wonder that I had just resigned, and he immediately began digging for information on where I was going.  I gave him the same story, and he continued to prod me.  “So, is it like, a lateral move, or what?”

So, do you know like, how inappropriate and unprofessional you are, or what?

I’m not trying to be a bitch, I just don’t want them to know because I know they’d immediately want to tell me exactly what they think of it.  And I don’t want to hear it anymore.

I’m at the point in the job-leaving phase when I feel like I deserve to say “No” and “I’m not going to do that.”  Fire me, you dick shit.  Fire me and go fuck yourself.  So basically this is the part in the job leaving where I burn the bridge, just to be sure that I can never go back.  So the snarky side is showing a little bit more at work.  Which is always fun for my co-workers.

I have a really bad habit of looking up and to the left when people ask me a question and I’m trying to answer it.  It keeps me from getting my thoughts all tangled.  I’ve been warned that it’s a bad thing to do, by the folks at Job 1, mainly, who are all about improving communication by pointing out what’s wrong with yours and “coaching” you on stopping it.

The problem is, I don’t know how many times I’ve sat down for a conversation on my performance or my development, and I’ve used the wrong word (“but” instead of “however,” because “but” is “more negative sounding”) or broken eye contact for a moment (makes the other person feel like you’re not being honest), and I have been stopped, mid-sentence, INTERRUPTED, only to be told exactly what is wrong with my communication skills.  A ten minute diatribe about the use of the wrong word or the wiggling of a foot or a facial expression ensues, and at the end of it you are supposed to remember what the fuck you were talking about.

How about I tell you what’s wrong with your listening skills?

It’s called a Sexy Mooch

Is it inappropriate to call someone and ask them if you can come over and make out with them and then watch their TV?  Because I would really like to.  He could even stick around for the TV watching if he wanted.  That would be kind of nice.  Because it’s cable.

(It might be inappropriate because I told him a lot of dead baby jokes in the middle of a Panera and he might not call me anymore.  MIGHT not.)

TV Ride

There’s this one channel on my freak television that is kind of like a TV guide.  It’s actually called TV Guide Network, and it’s actually on two channels, 4 and 5, but 4 is a little fuzzy.  Anyway, TV Guide Network gets its jollies from showing really old reality shows and then placing a hot model on a runway somewhere and having her talk about “ooooh what’s going to happen on Big Brother Season II?  Stay tuuuned!!!”  Lately they’ve been showing nonstop episodes of Punk’d.  Remember that show?  It’s basically where Ashton Kutcher would leap around and poop in his pants and talk to a camera in some backstage area while a nearby celebrity would be stepping into a practical joke set up by Ashton and about 12,000 other individuals who should probably have spent their time in some other way.  The practical joke usually involves the celebrity messing up in a way that will really be a PR nightmare, or indirectly messing up in some way that will cost a lot of money.  It’s funny, though, that every time a celebrity is accused of doing something really crappy, they first deny it, then try to blame their assistant, then try to buy their way out of the mess.  Or if they’re Ashley fucking Simpson, they beg their friends to say they did it. 

So I’ve been catching glimpses of these episodes of Punk’d, and I’ve begun to wonder what one has to do to actually get punked.  Do these celebrities know each other in some circle outside of going to the same awards shows and buying drugs from the same guy?  Do celebrities hang out with each other?  If they do, I’m going to puke right now.  I guess I just wonder, while watching these shows, who the hell would ever want to play a practical joke on Hayden Panettiere?  The girl has the personality of an empty trash bag.  Why don’t they just spend less money, go to her house, and ask her to do her “disbelief” look.  She’d do it, I bet.  Just shine a big light on her and holler “DISBELIEF.  ACTION.”  Done.

But I guess they’ll take any excuse to put her on TV because everybody watching the TV pretty much wants to ride her face.

I have been told that in Ye Olde Ancient Roman times, a “punk” was a young boy who served an older man, both as an apprentice on all things manly, a house servant, and a cum dumpster.  To be on the level of “punk” meant that you were being auditioned for upscale, polite society, and if you were a good punk to your master, you would one day have a punk of your own.

In that sense, to be “punked” was to be owned and screwed by an older man.  Basically you were in a very low position of servitude, the lowest, just above slavery.

I’d like to watch someone punk Ashton Kutcher.  Oh yeah I would.  You just got punked!  And punked again, and again, and again…


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