Monthly Archives: February 2010

The BM of the Year Award

whip stain

The Pants and I were tired and crankety after work the other night.  I wanted a veggie burger like nobody’s business, so we went to the place where they make ’em so fresh you get sunflower seeds in your teeth, but still cover them with grease and cheddar cheese so they might as well be a real hamburger.  We also ordered these ridonkulous cheese fries that were smothered with bacon, green onions, bleu cheese, and alfredo sauce.  Fucking alfredo sauce.  Was on them.  On the fries.  We agreed it was the type of dish one eats in the dark, by oneself, crying.

So as we unloaded the giant grocery-sized restaurant bag full of food from the back seat, The Pants asked if we were that couple who bought lots of food and ate it and went to sleep.  I said we probably were, and then we shared a moment of silence.

I hate it when people (including myself) start dating and suddenly their clothes don’t fit.  But what’s crappy about that is that I only ever see The Pants when it’s nearing dinner time and we like to make cheesy things and eat them together.  Is that so wrong?  Also, is it so wrong that I got Cool Whip on my exercise pants and the Cool Whip stain was my reason for not actually going to the gym?  What would the gym people think?!  They wash their sweaty hair in the drinking fountains, I can’t walk up in there with Cool Whip on my pants!

Anyway.  I kind of like how The Pants is always watching where we’re walking in our relationship, pointing out the dog  turds along the way.

Watch this, I said it’s fun.

This was my faaaaavorite Merrie Melodies cartoon growing up, and if it wasn’t yours, too, well I’m here to tell you that you don’t know nothin.

Likes: Jesus, Sarah Palin, the death penalty, and being a Mommy!

With some help from my sister, I found this blog, and it’s been like crack, I can’t seem to stop reading about this woman who adopts these special-needs kids and writes about Jesus and just basically wants everyone in her family to be happy all the time, no matter what.  I submit her un-prompted explanation of herself as evidence:

I am a pro-nursing, home birthing, alternatives to medicine believing, public school by choice promoting, non-circumcising, pro-life rejoicing, homeless people feeding, adoptive parent advocating, awesome cookie making, special needs loving, anti-child harnessing, 15-passenger van driving, Laura Ingalls-Wilder reading, death penalty supporting, light shining, family adoring, sex outside of marriage disapproving, Grey’s Anatomy watching, beach enjoying, Cinnamon Popcorn munching, Sarah Palin supporting, nose rubbing, Euthanasia discouraging, chit-chatting, fast driving, blog writing, dog loving, aluminum can collecting, size 10 wearing, non-hair coloring, respite providing, cuticle picking, black coffee drinking, hug giving, anti-homosexuality in school teaching, tree planting, picture taking, household bill paying, mega grocery shopping, frugal spending, child advocating, disciplining, husband loving, put God first believing woman of God.

(Her italics, btw.)

I hate these little comma-heavy lists people write about themselves.  Now that I’ve discovered this bottomless basement of daily-updated Blog Mommy web rants, this never ending network of bored, religious housewife banter, I’ve found that this “who I am” list is a key theme.  Then they’re all “This is who I am, okay?  Okay?  So if you don’t like anything in this list I’ll tell you respectfully where to stick your hat!”  But the deal is that in REAL LIFE, which is what we do outside of being Blog Mommies, nobody stands around in bookstores and at the movies giving each other three-minute orations on the foods they eat, books they read, politicians they support, shows they watch, blah blah blah.  And do you know why?  Because nobody gives a shit.

Blog Mommies don’t think so, oh no!  They sit around reading each other’s masturbatory comments about themselves and just LOL all the live long day.  But I ain’t hatin.  If my clitoris was mummified and I lived in the burbs and drove a minivan all over the place, I’d probably want to forge lots of cheap online relationships, too.  I’d want all kinds of people who don’t really know me telling me how much they love me.

What’s interesting about this woman, if you care to click that link I debated on adding, is that she seems wholeheartedly defiant of the fact that special needs children, or children in general, may have special emotional needs.  She writes sarcastically about how her most troubling child, the one she hems and haws (PUBLICLY.  ONLINE.) over having adopted in the first place, may have behavioral trouble as a result of being adopted.  Haha, just kidding!  I don’t really believe that!  That’s silly!  She just needs to shape up and accept that this is her life and BE HAPPY and LOVE MOMMY.

Oh, Christ.  Really.

Well.  She gets lots of praise from the other BMs (Blog Mommies) for following her heart and coming up with new and exciting punishments to show them the waaaalk of Jeeeesus.  Her most controversial punishment, in my (and her) opinion, is a very short haircut.  She seems to think that this is revolutionary in some way, and both the New York Times in 1912 and the Nazis will tell ya otherwise, Mama BM.

It’s funny, or maybe not as funny as it is sad, but as a child, the people in my family who caused me the most emotional suffering, who lied and cheated and manipulated, were those who considered themselves to be hand in hand with old J.C. himself, walkin’ along whatever foggy beach he happened to be vacationing on that Sunday.  That’s why I read this woman’s vapid, idiotic thoughts and think how she’d better hope I’m not ever in the same room with her.  My sister said she should be “in a cage, with her hair cut off,” and I can’t help but wish that I could put her there.

I guess, on the other hand, you could argue that Hell really does exist for people like this, that they build it around themselves and live in it every day, I just wish they didn’t have the right to adopt innocent children and throw them into the flames, as well.  Christian Family kids really creep my shit out, yo.  They’re always nervous about harmless shit like TV shows and certain words and sexuality and music a whole list of who knows what else.  They get so hammered down into the round hole of their parents’ faith that they don’t know what to do when it comes to real life situations.  They’re told to “aaaaaaaaaask Jesus!” like it’s a goddamn game show, and anyways if you’ve invited him to live in your heart then you should be able to hear him loud and clear!  But when your bat-shit crazy parents tell you what’s wrong and what’s right, and you’re a KID who’s supposed to be listening to a ghost in your chest, let me just guess what you’re going to decide is wrong and right.

And God forbid you’re a fag.  My Christian-school cousins weren’t allowed to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles when we were kids, or wear Halloween costumes, or even say “dang it.”  Now one of them carries a gun and blows his anti-homosexual, Evangelical right-leaning load all over anyone on the Internet who will fellate him for being “brave enough!” to do it, and the other is so obviously and painfully gay and lonely, yet still struggling to tough it out and walk with the Lord so that his obese mother and hate-mongering father will still let him live under their roof.

If anything could MAKE you straight, wouldn't it start with Donatello?

Poor thing.  I bet he’s got a secret pair of low-rise True Religion jeans in the bottom of his hamper.  The ones with the glitter on the butt pockets.  I bet his little fairy hands shake when he thinks about them, sitting down there under all those conservatively-striped Old Navy boxer shorts.

One ring to rule them all.

Monday was my first day back to work with my new haircut.  I walked into a LOST meeting (yeah, they sit around and “discuss” once a week, with notes) and all the ladies oohed and aahed over it.  So Junk Butt thought it might be a good time to whip out the engagement ring her man gave her on Valentine’s Day.  Then it was like, Haircut Over.  Somebody’s getting MARRIED!!!

Of course, the crazy-ass elderly receptionist from across the hall wasted no time going around telling everyone that I got my hair cut just like hers, inspired by her hair.  Which is funny because, her hair is A FUCKING WIG.  The sleek, shiny type that black women staple or glue onto their heads in the morning after they’ve flattened their real hair down as far as it will go.  She’s never done a very good job of the flattening, though, because it always looks like her head is sprouting gray and black pubes around her hairline, then there’s this waterfall of synthetic black oil pouring down, which she pulls and twists and sometimes, I think, puts on backwards.  She puts her wig on backwards and still refers to it as her natural hair.  But anyway.

Successfully trumped, I went to my desk, but overheard Junk Butt’s story of walking down to the pier, surrounded by chunks of “beautiful, crystal clear ice that looked like diiiiiamonds!”  And this is where her man got on one knee and whipped out The Most Beautiful Ring Ever and proposed.  Junk Butt brought her junk butt, and the ring, to my desk, where she asked me where my pointy elf ears were.  “You know, the ones that go with your SUPER CUTE PIXIE HAIRCUT HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAA!”  Then she showed me her ring, which looks to me like a, well, you know, a sparkly ring.  I asked her if she’d been surprised (since she always referred to her live-in boyfriend as “my intended”), and she said oh yes, definitely.  “I mean, there had been some ring shopping and stuff, but yes, totally a surprise!”

“You mean you picked that out?  You went shopping for that ring?”

“Oh, of course, are you kidding?  Boys don’t know about rings!  HAhahahhahaha!”

“But…you were surprised?  When he gave you the ring you picked out for him to give you?”

“Yeah oh my god it was so romantic!  Then I started crying and I was just like oh my god…”

I don’t know what else she said because I can’t get around how stupid and maybe brain damaged she is.  And I’ve mentioned before that I just don’t think I understand marriage in general.  I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it, really.  Do people do it for fun?  Or as a decision to have children?  Or for the free waffle iron?  I’d like to think that I deserve some kitchen accoutrements for NOT marrying my high school boyfriend.  Shit, I deserve a car for that.  Where’s my presents which I brazenly picked out at Target with a scanner and then emailed to you??

Anyway.  My pregnant Polish co-worker doesn’t seem to have enough to do between eating whole cans of Hormel chili off paper plates at her desk and making Powerpoint presentations in broken English that only serve to further confuse international students.  Because lately the bulk of her activity has been standing by my desk and commenting on me, my clothes, the things at/on my desk, and any fucking thing else she can think of.  After The Hair Cut, she told me to dye my hair.  “Lieeke a blahhck-red, dark, you know?”  I said I didn’t think so.  And whooo showed up today with a terrible Walgreens bottle dye job?  You guessed it!  Our favorite little preggers Polish sausage!  She frankly and honestly pointed out that she had Midnight Rose’d herself “for the one-upping” since I had received attention for my hair.  Then she sat down and asked me if I knew how old her husband was, told me that he’s 63, and then leaned in and confided that he had paid her a significant sum of money to come “from the Internet” to America and be his wife, and bear his “cheeldren.”  She quit her job writing for the Polish-version of Tiger Beat to come to America and this is the only “stupiding” job she could find.  She wanted to tell me this because, could we be friends?  And also because she is required to use the large sum of money he gave her to pay him back for half of their mortgage and half of the bills every month, and she is not allowed to have a credit card, and she’s noticed that I have bought some things online with a credit card, so would I please buy her some things with my credit card?  She would be happy to give me cash.

I responded that I had an appointment and really I just went across the hall and hid in the supply closet until I thought it was safe to come out.  She’s already sent me an email of the things she wants from J-Crew for when she loses all the baby weight.

Should I just give her fifteen bucks and a bus ticket to Detroit?

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Stevie Nicks and Mayer Dicks

I’m kind of awesome, ladies.

I mean, I get it.  I know that in order to be happy and comfortable, lots and lots of boys and men out there need to think, no, believe, that your idea of the most beautiful thing in the world is what they blast on the side of your face (and maybe a  little bit into your hair) and get all over your sheets.  I think there’s a bit of that to every dude, because hey, that’s part of human sexuality.  And sure, baby, if you’re happy, I’m happy.

But holy dong juice do I fucking hate John Mayer all of a sudden.  I’ve never even considered him before, and I couldn’t name a single John Mayer song if you asked me to, because I don’t listen to the radio, at all, ever, or read about music, or watch the music parts of Saturday Night Live, even.  But I do get bored at work, and clicking here and there brought me to what’s now been officially labeled a “controversial” interview with this motherfucker that was released by Playboy yesterday.  In it, the guy fucking brandishes his own cock like it’s the goddamn Power Sword and talks about women like they’re the occasional sock that gets stuck inside your pants in the dryer.

Fuck this asshole, if I had a He-Man sized cock, I’d slap him in the face with it until his pretty little puss had a big red cock welt on it.

Here’s why:

PLAYBOY: At this point, what’s your ideal relationship?

MAYER: Here’s what I really want to do at 32: fuck a girl and then, as she’s sleeping in bed, make breakfast for her. So she’s like, “What? You gave me five vaginal orgasms last night, and you’re making me a spinach omelet? You are the shit!” So she says, “I love this guy.” I say, “I love this girl loving me.” And then we have a problem. Because that entails instant relationship. I’m already playing house. And when I lose interest she’s going to say, “Why would you do that if you didn’t want to stick with me?”

PLAYBOY: Why do you do it?

MAYER: Because I want to show her I’m not like every other guy. Because I hate other men. When I’m fucking you, I’m trying to fuck every man who’s ever fucked you, but in his ass, so you’ll say “No one’s ever done that to me in bed.”

I don’t think John Mayer realizes how fucking typical he is.  I think I’ve slept with two or three John Mayers and definitely dated one for a couple of months.  These are the boys who fuck you and immediately ask you how it was.  I mean, I’m put off by that question to begin with.  You may as well hand me a printed score card from the stack on the table next to your bed, and one of those little half-assed pencils they let you use at the library to fill it out with.  But the real issue with this question is that, when you’re fucking a John Mayer, it don’t matter what you say, baby.  All he’s going to hear is that it was the best time you’ve ever had, and when he tells someone else what you said, he’ll describe how you were actually so hot for his dick that your face exploded, and when he tells two more people, he’ll talk about how you had four heads that were all just begging him to fuck you.  Just the fact that this particular John Mayer is going ahead and reporting to Playboy and its readers that he feels he is capable of giving a girl “five vaginal orgasms” (expressly pointing out that they’re “vaginal,” you know, the real kind, I’m the kind of guy who knows about stuff like this so mehh) is so totally ICKY.

(Besides.  I’m of the opinion, now that I’ve thoroughly studied the Ray-J and Kim Kardashian sex tape, that celebrities and their bedmates have the most fake sex in the entire universe.  You got old skinny-dick catfish-mustache Ray-J up there jabbing away at the realm beneath this girl’s enormous ass mound, and she’s practically whining into a pillow about how hard she’s coming, oh baby, yeah, uh huh, I reeeeeeally aaaaaam.  And he’s just like Yeah.  You are.  Baby.  What a fucking snore fest.)

And what’s with wanting to fuck other men in the ass while he fucks you?  I swear.  Sometimes all it takes to get a John Mayer hard is to talk about a crappy ex-boyfriend.  And it’s not like showing that ex-boyfriend up has anything to do with you.  It has everything to do with how tiny they feel, until they see an easy opportunity to at least be better than someone you think is crap.  Apparently the real John Mayer would like to use the women of the world as a big old jizz can to stand on and talk about how much better he is than other men.  Fuck you, I hope your jizz can falls over and spills everywhere and everyone laughs at you, stupid.  Don’t you dare stand on me, I’ll snap your dick off.

Then he goes on, after listing all the things he considers to be amazing about himself and his treatment of the women he dips his cock in, that the problem is an instant relationship.  He lures the little birdies in with a plate of hot sex and an organic omelet, then slams the fucking window on them.  Whoa, hey, I really love the way I feel about how you feel about me, but can we just be friends?  So that I can continue to get what I need from you?

“Look, I know I’m awesome, I know because I try to be.  I know I’m like, wayyyy better than other dudes.  What I need you to do is lay there and make me feel like that, okay?  So can you just love me and not expect anything from me?  God.  Sometimes it just hits me how wonderfully I treat you.  Come here.”

Oh, then he loses interest.  As some boys do when they feel like you might actually want them around.

Yeah, one of these douchewads used to make me breakfast.  For some reason, the John Mayers of the world fail to realize that all they’re doing is aligning with this Sensitive Man image, this bullshit fucking dating website cliche.  Which is why I always left before breakfast.  99% of the time the John Mayers of the world are just setting a mid-morning bear trap.  If you’re not stupid, you realize they’re just trying to get you to fall in so you’ll freak out when they dump you and they’ll soar on that high for weeks.  If you are stupid, you’ll hang around and play the game after you’ve figured it out.

Yeah, these are John Mayer cupcakes. Whoever made them needs to be Taken Care Of.

I guess Playboy is the perfect place to go if you want to talk about the incredibly hot women you’ve fucked and your resistance to “settling down.”  But I’m seriously going to puke if I have to read one more article about how some dude isn’t ready to be “tied down.”  No fucking shit, of course you’re not, you’re full of more hot cum than the trash can by my gay anorexic Evangelical cousin’s bed.  But is it so fucking hard for people to understand each other?  I mean come on.  I had a John Mayer buying me presents and making me free range eggs with olive oil and chicken sandwiches with little star-shaped cucumber slices from his faggy little porch garden, but if I were to say, I don’t know, “Want to come to a party at my friend’s house this weekend?” he’d be all “OH MY GOD I NEED SOME SPACE.  I’M ONLY 29.  I DON’T WANT THIS RIGHT NOW.”

At the time, I would banter about this with Agent Girl Detective.  We would laugh our asses off at the twats we were “seeing.”  Hers actually said “I don’t want a relationship right now.”  So she says, “Good, me neither.”  And he says, “Actually….I do want a relationship right now.”

What do you bet that this would have just gone on and on forever?  OMG JOHN MAYER INFINITY.  “I’m 32!  I’m only 32!  I don’t want to settle down!  I’m 32!!!”  Kind of frustrating if you have enough intelligence to look at dating someone as the opposite of the end of the road.  And, fuck, the point is: I don’t want to settle down either!  Why are the John Mayers of the world so convinced that their magnetic cocks have the fucking Midas touch when it comes to making women want to nest?  I am so so so SO tired of dipshit boys acting like they’re running for their lives around the Battle Royale island of the sexes, and women are these sad, bloodthirsty beasts who they feel “really bad” about depriving of their food.


I’m sorry.

But I’m going to have to show you what happens next:

PLAYBOY: Do you do something different in bed than other guys?

MAYER: It’s all about geometry. I’m sort of a scientist; it’s about being obtuse with an angle. It’s sort of this weird up-and-over thing. You gotta think “up and over.”

I sure am happy that this information has been made public, finally.  I hope every dude in the universe gets a chance to read it.  Because, as you know, every woman in the universe has the exact same anatomy, to which the exact same “geometry” has to be applied.

Something I also hate:

“I’m sort of a scientist.”

Self-aware pieces of shit who can do nothing but talk and write about The Things They Know They Are.  “Like, I know I’m really great at art and stuff, and I knowww I’m going to be really famous someday, but…”

This son of a bitch might as well be saying that he’s just reeeeaal good at sex and knows it.  And I think anyone who knows they’re good at anything is actually not very good at all.  If you *know* it, well, you’re doomed to suckage, my friend.

Also, what the fuck is up with these dudes wanting points for getting women off?  It’s like when they put a tip jar out at Starbucks.  You’re supposed to take my order for this six dollar cup of shit, so fucking take my order.  I don’t want to hear another word about it.  Stick your tip jar up your ass.

Fuck you, John Mayer(s).  I am so sad that you’re smart enough to talk.

Every time I think about the Buckingham/Nicks breakup, I smirk to myself that Stevie’s song about it was soooo wayyy fucking better than Lindsey’s.  Go your own way, dickhole, I ain’t gonna stop ya.

Yeah!  Stick it to em, you hot bitch!

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Queef it again, Sam.

My Final Semester of Grad School

(also titled I Am Going to Shoot You With  A Gun Now), starring Myself.

Have you heard of this thing called the Internet?  It is the word we use for a bunch of computers that are connected.  These connections allow people to rapidly move ideas and things back and forth.  Here is what the internet looks like:

Electric spaghetti = the Internet

The Internet allows us access to something referred to “e-mail” (the widely-used abbreviation for the term “electronic mail”).  Electronic mail is, for most people, a very confusing concept.  You know, people who are more comfortable with skinning a sheep, preparing a square of vellum, crushing berries and deer bones for ink, and then rolling the whole business up and sealing it with wax so that it doesn’t come loose when the courier takes it over the rocky hills into the neighboring fiefdom.  The problem is that e-mail is annoyingly quick and involves hardly any prep work, or walking, for that matter.  In light of this, most people do not like it.  Take the elderly receptionist across the hall, who doesn’t understand the concept of “forwarding” an e-mail.  She likes to ask me questions by forwarding an e-mail to me, any e-mail, from whenever, from whoever, appending her questions somewhere within the many responses attached to that e-mail.  The questions have nothing to do with anything that any parties involved in the original e-mail chain are discussing.  What’s great is that if I reply, she sends this reply back to me, as well as to everyone else involved in the original e-mail.

This type of situation calls for a fresh e-mail, a new e-mail, one unfettered by irrelevant banter or business.  However, my coworker is under the impression that the Internet is under ration, and that we must carefully preserve every sheet of digital paper we have, lest we run out.  Can you imagine??  What if you clicked Compose and your Computermatronic Machine barked back, “YOU HAVE USED ALL OF YOUR E-MAILS.  PLEASE RECYCLE.”

He will eat you if you don't.

(This same receptionist believes in saving newspapers.  They are removed from the shelf near my desk every week, and found stuffed around her CPU under her desk, in true A&E “Hoarders” style, which probably has something to do with the facts that 1. her desk smells, and 2. her computer has caught fire before.  Of course, the smell could be the clinically depressed fish in their tepid water, which she stirs with her fingers to “wake ’em up”, the rotting food given to her by her “connection” in the cafe downstairs at the end of the day, stockpiled in her file cabinet, or the 14 large fountain drink cups filled with Pepsi from God-knows-when sitting in her overhead shelf.  But I’m pretty sure that the newspaper hoarding caused the fire.)

Anyway.  This information is neither here nor there.  But it sure is stinky!

I expect this sort of reaction to technology when dealing with someone who’s almost seventy and is too lazy to write on anything but cartoon animal Post-Its, or write with anything that doesn’t have a plastic ice cream cone or fuzzy Santa head on the end of it.  I do not, however, expect this kind of absolute fear and aversion to technology from the people who work in the Graduate Admissions Program Evaluations office at the institute of higher learning to which I pay lots of money (to be spent on things like Internet connections and e-mail programs).

When I say “pay lots of money,” I mean that in a few short months I will be paying out the ass and bleeding out the eyes because tuition loans will come knocking like Jesus on your nasty old heart, and I most likely will not just be handed a job as easily as they hand me a piece of paper saying I’m qualified to do a job.  So, it’s a little frustrating when they make it harder to GET that piece of paper by burying a million forms in the big yucky backyard I like to call “my school’s website,” and expect me to first know how many there are, that I need to go dig them up, then to actually go and dig them all up.

Not only are the forms outdated, containing references to permission numbers and systems no longer used by the university, they are also written for students who actually physically attend the university.  I mean, hey, if you’re going to have a blossoming online program, why take the extra half hour it might require to update a couple of things so that people who rely entirely on the website will know what the fuck they’re doing?  No.  Instead, directions are as follows:

Want to graduate?  Follow these steps carefully, and DO NOT CALL US.

1.  Go to this website.  Turn up speakers and listen carefully to instructions.  DO NOT CALL US.

2.  Open all 12 pdf forms, then close them again.

3.  Open all odd-numbered forms beginning with vowels only and save to your desktop.  Be sure that your desktop background is a picture of a waterfall or a kitten, as the forms will not work otherwise.

4.  Re-name form A yourlastname_yourfirstname_streetyougrewupon.pdf.  Rename form E yourlastname_biddlenuts_wtf.pdf.  Re-name remaining forms I, O, and U with this naming convention, except substitute your last name with the maiden names of maternal and paternal grandmothers, and for the third form just make some crap up.  For the first name, use the name of imaginary nuts (be sure to follow up imaginary nut name with “nuts”).  In the third field, use the names of the three architects of the tomb of Henry VII in alphabetical order respective to the form.

5.  Fill out all forms, print them, pee on them, then scan, save, and re-name following the filename conventions CLEARLY outlined in Step 4.

6.  Send to your grad advisor in an email with the subject line reading I DON’T LIKE YOU, EITHER in all caps.  Find your grad advisor’s e-mail address here.

7.  Failure to complete all of these steps exactly and fill out all forms correctly results in late graduation or no graduation at all.

8.  Please do not begin step 1 until you have filed the Permission to Fill Out Graduation Forms with the Forms Permission Office located behind the dog factory in Dongguan Province, China.  **This form must be hand-delivered.  Please bring 8 forms of I.D., excluding passports, state issued I.D.’s, and pieces of registered mail.  Please allow 18 months for approval of this form, during which you must establish legal residency in China.**


It’s probably like this because, in order to make any changes, there are 1,520 other forms to fill out in order to secure permissions, publishing rights, and rights to wipe one’s ass or take a coffee break while editing old forms.  So, might as well just leave them the way they are for full-time, on-campus students, scatter them in the web wind for the online students, and set a rigid schedule of deadlines for the completion of each form.  Didn’t get that Permission to Fuck Yourself form in on time?  Well, guess what, you don’t get to graduate.  So, you know, permission granted, you poor asshole.  Enjoy your Ramen, because you’re coming back to pay us this summer.

So, yeah.  When my school attempted to tell me via a mass e-mail that I wouldn’t be graduating until next fall, I decided to pick up the phone and call them, even though they haaaate that.  After about an hour on hold, I spoke with a woman who sounded like she was sitting in a La-Z-Boy with her jeans unbuttoned, and answering my question was keeping her from reaching for that 2-liter of grape soda on her side table.  You know, lots of heavy sighs and “let me seeeeeeee here” and crackly, spitty mouth sounds on her end of the phone.  She informed me that I couldn’t take the final course I needed to graduate because I hadn’t submitted my permission form that is apparently required for admission to the course.  I told her I’d send it that very second.  She proceeded to tell me that since the form takes 4 months to be approved by everyone who needed to sign off on it, I would have to either send it 4 months ago or send it now and wait four months.

“So,” I said, “Let me get this straight.”  Then I went into this scary lawyer mode, repeated everything she said, only in a way that made it sound just like the bullshit it was.  “You people can’t be bothered to move that form through your office to fast enough get five signatures in under four months?  EVER HEARD OF E-MAIL?  DO YOU HATE IT AS MUCH AS PHONE CALLS???”

That’s pretty much where my explanation of e-mail, discussed at the beginning of this blog post, came in.  While explaining the concept, I demonstrated it by e-mailing the form to her.  “See how quick that was?  Now just bang that through to all 5 people who need to sign it, and we’re done.”

If you do enough bitching and make people feel dumb enough, you get what you want.  Normally, I hate that approach, having spent so much time in retail, but as a retail employee, I never said, “Aw, you know what?  My handbook, written by Moses, clearly states that before you can buy those pants, you have to stand on your head and queef the Star Spangled Banner.”

So, guess who got into the final class she needs to graaaaaduaaaate on tiiiiime?

It’s me.  I threw in a little something about how I’d sue the all-fired shit out of them if they tried to make me pay for another semester of courses just because of a pissfuck form.

3 more months of school.

9,341 more 2-liters of grape soda.

Remaining forms to fill out: endless.


Filed under Uncategorized

I Totally Did.

Last night I totally saw a commercial for high fructose corn syrup.  Like just advertising high fructose corn syrup.  Some guy was drinking juice or something and another guy was like Whoa, don’t you know what’s in that?  And the other guy was like Ummmm do YOU know what’s in it?  And the first guy, who was apparently supposed to act like some kind of total retard, was like High fructose corn syrup!  It’s like SOOOOO bad for you!  And the other guy is like Whyyyy is that?  And then the first guy is just like, Durrrrrr you know why, durrrr.  And he couldn’t come up with a good explanation.  So the end of the commercial was some kind of voice-over tagline of “High Fructose Corn Syrup: Some Stuff Is Worse, Dude.”  Or maybe that’s not how the commercial ended.  But that was the gist of it.  And then my brain fell out and I realized that I really don’t care what the TV says.

Then this morning, PepsiCo came by my office and dropped off a case of Mountain Dew that they had failed to hand out to students.  The PepsiCo rep asked if I would like this case of Mountain Dew, and I said “Do dogs pee on brick walls?”  But he just looked at me funny because I think he knows that I know that Mountain Dew is the dog pee that rolls off brick walls and into the gutter.

But this isn’t just any old Mountain Dew.  This is “Mountain Dew Throwback,” a special formula of the green stuff that is actually made with real sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup, just like it was made in the days of old.  The bottle says “LIMITED TIME ONLY” above a picture of a hillbilly guy getting a hole blown in his hat from the cork shooting out of his clay jug.  Kapoof!


I don’t know if you know this, but it was actually a bad idea for the PepsiCo rep to leave this case of Mountain Dew in my office.  Because now it’s under my desk.  And because (I don’t know if you know this, but) the last time I drank Mountain Dew (regular formula, even!), I ended up standing in the middle of traffic downtown without any pants on, throwing rocks at tourists in full scuba gear.  The time before that I threw a chair through a window on the 12th floor of a Columbia College Chicago building because I agreed with something someone said about a Tobias Wolff story.  And this shit under my desk has actual sugar in it.  And there’s 79 grams of it in each bottle.  So go ahead and prepare my spot in the Seacliff Heights Home for the Criminally Insane.

And yes, dear God, someone has come up with a Mountain Dew flavored cupcake.  But the thing that perplexes me is that they’ve flavored it all with lemon-lime stuff.  Anyone who knows anything about Mountain Dew knows that it’s based on orange juice concentrate.  It’s only COLORED like lemon-lime drinks.  Getcha citrus straight, stupid.

Desktop Management

So I filled my cubicle walls with buttons because they’re not only great push pins, they’re also interesting conversation pieces.  And I couldn’t think of a better way to use all of the millions of buttons I’ve collected through the years.  So far, however, the only conversation they’ve started is “Your buttons suck.”  Yeah, but did you see the Bruce Lee one?  You suck.  And why the hell do people see my partition, notice the little desk top area in front of me which holds my name plate and is an obvious place for them to stand and speak to me, and invite themselves to come and stand behind me, facing my computer screen?  It’s so weird.  But it seems like the motherfucking students at this school always ignore the fact that I have a little wall around me and just come around it.  I feel used.

I showed the Bruce Lee one to an Asian student who said, “Why’d you show that to ME?” and I said, “Isn’t he your uncle?” because I am playing this game where I am actually trying to get in trouble because I’m starting to think it’s not possible.

Last week, two of my coworkers who fancy themselves the funniest and coolest in the office went to lunch together, and came back with a desk calendar for me.  I assume they bought me a present because you can’t give a calendar away at this time of year, so it must have been hella cheap.  Anyway, it’s a daily rip-away calendar called Kittens & Friends.  It’s full of those weird scary pictures where someone picked up a cat and dropped it on top of a puppy and snapped a picture of the two animals at the exact moment when they realized they had no idea what was going on, or whether they were going to live through it.  And now every single day they come by my desk and ask what’s on the caaaaaaalendar todayyyy??  I’ve been ripping the pages out a day ahead and depositing them in a folder labeled “KITTIES ETC.” which I just leave on the corner of my desk so they can drop by and get their kitty fix without having to stop me from whatever it is I’m doing.  Like blogging or doing a Google search for “bunny rabbit cupcake” and covering it up with a really complicated spreadsheet and a really complicated look on my face.

Note to self: I have to remember to clear my search history daily because yesterday I got it in my head to Google “uterine prolapse” again.  I don’t know why I keep doing that, it just fascinates me.

Note to self: When dealing with unwanted cube visitors, do a Google image search for “uterine prolapse.”


Filed under Uncategorized