Fear and Writing in Lost Fakeness

So I’m back from the dead, and stuff.  Maybe not dead exactly, but definitely done with grad school (as in “finished”) and now having daily panic attacks about finding a job, paying back the retarded amount of student loans I took out so I could buy stupid shit, finding an apartment I can afford without assurance of said job and with assurance of said loan bills, and basically keeping my life together so that everyone I know doesn’t start to label me as Clinical and also Totally Fucking Crazy and stop calling me.  I mean, I spent all last weekend convinced that I was going to have a heart attack.  Like honestly thinking, “Welp.  Here it comes.  It’s been real, World.”

Lucky for me, I’m well aware of my body’s ability to manufacture symptoms of cancer and heart disease every time my brain is in turmoil.  I mean, if I get mad enough about my job or certain websites or anything else, I can pretty much make myself puke or make blood come out of my ears, because my superpower is psychosomatic illness.

But for now let’s talk about more of the things that make me puke the natural way.

Oh, and hi, Blog.  I missed you!

Rich Cunt Documentary Hour

My new favorite show is called Rich Cunts Arguing. Ok, well, no, that’s not actually what it’s called. But they should call it that. I didn’t watch it for the longest time because the title has something to do with real housewives. My fundamentalist Christian aunt is a real housewife, and she bores me to death. So I think they really could increase their viewer and fan base if they just changed the name to describe the show a little better.

But anyway, what they do is they set up all of these foundations for Poor People. They all seem to have some kind of foundation. They all go to bat for some kind of Poor People Cause. Then they show up at each other’s Poor People Events wearing dresses that cost about four times what I pay in rent every month and argue and tell each other they can’t believe Rich Cunt X had the audacity to show up and raise this kind of hell at an event for Poor People! Then they say, “Can you believe her, Poor People?? What a total lack of class!”

The other episodes are these complicated webs of the five or six of them (you can never count how many of the Rich Cunts there actually are on the show) calling each other and asking to get together for quick talks. One of them says to the other “Look, I called you and asked you to come here because I want you to know that I don’t like you anymore and I don’t want to talk to you because you? You have problems. And everyone else thinks so.” Then they all have separate meetings and every 3rd episode is like an episode of Survivor, except with cocktails and pills and facial injections, and whoever they collectively vote off one week is invited back into the circle the next because they were all pretty fucked up when that argument started, aaaaanyway.

I watched several episodes of Rich Cunts Arguing last weekend, because when The Pants is out of town I tend to indulge in awful television. I treated myself to 3 episodes and a reunion special, where the Rich Cunts argue in one place for a whole hour without drinks in their hands. They watch video of themselves arguing with each other from the previous year’s show, then they argue about that some more. It usually ends with somebody saying they’re done, and then America votes (or at least, somebody claims that “America voted”) on one of them to get their own TV show. This year’s prize goes to the one with a jaw like a steam shovel, which constantly flaps in defense of her class level because of her whirlwind marriage and almost immediate announcement of a “surprise” pregnancy.

Even Rich Cunts gots Poor People problems, yo.

In other exciting TV news, there is a new show out as of yesterday which is all about cupcake baking.  But not regular old from-the-box-mix cupcakes, those crazy as shit gourmet cupcakes that people put all kinds of crap in, like beer and rock salt and tortilla chips and mustard and shit.

Some of these people know what the fuck they’re doing, and the other ones are just kitchen retards who happen to know how to pipe icing and stuff.  They bring their families on there and scream at them and tell them what to do.  Like this one bitch who made some kind of pineapple squash cupcake monstrosity, but she made it in the “Presentation” round, which is all about, yeah, presentation, ya turkey.  She barked orders at her brother all the way through the challenge, and ended up failing in the end because all she did was pipe some real nice turquoise frosting on top and then stab a cocktail umbrella into it.

This is the real thing, Carol Sue!  You wouldn’t bring a bucket of turds to a county fair pie contest would ya?  Oh, you would?  Well.

So then this other lil Barbie impersonator (and, apparently, fellow appreciator of Things That Are Dollhouse Sized), who ended up winning, had sugar sand, fondant starfish, and fucking edible pearls on top of hers.  EDIBLE PEARLS.  Like a sugary beach.  A sugary, edible, heavenly beach.

Unfortunately, watching this show has reawakened my deep, dark desire for one of these.

Sigh. When’s MY turn, KitchenAid?!

Booger T. Kindle

The other day on the train, I watched a girl reading from a Kindle as she repeatedly dug in her nose for fat, slimy wads of snot, which she would look at for just a moment on the tip of her finger, then reach over and smear onto the wall next to her seat. I seemed to be the only person in the train car staring at her in complete horror. As I am a daily train rider, this disgusted and outraged me. “ExCUSE me,” I wanted to say. “Can you NOT do that??” Instead, I sat there staring, mouth-open, as she covered the wall with pale green smears of thick snot and boogers, then took to wiping subsequent chunks onto the front of the seat by the inside of her knees. All the while totally engrossed (hah) in her Kindle.

My brains were on fire, screaming SOMEONE ELSE IS GOING TO SIT THERE, and then, do you know what happened? Booger Kindle got up and marched off the train, and a very large, very tired looking woman got right on and sat down, and LEANED AGAINST THE BOOGER WALL. I almost puked into my purse. What do you bet if I’d done that, someone would have said, “Excuse me, can you not do that? Puke grosses me out.”

The whole time, I was IM’ing Agent Ventura on the Blackberry device.  She remarked “at least she’s not eating it,” and I replied that I’d rather someone eat that shit than wipe it all the hell over the places I might end up sitting someday.  Just put it right back where it came from, jerk.

Really it left me thinking about the rise in popularity of this Kindle business.  I mean, here we have this electronic book readery-thingy.  You load books in there with electronic magic and read from a skinny little rectangle that is supposedly lighter than a feather.  The world has advanced technologically enough to threaten the total eradication of print media, here we are on the verge of the digital revolution, people will pay $260 for this machine, yet, for some reason, those same people who are buying into the future of electronic inventions are STILL PICKING THEIR NOSES AND WIPING THEIR FUCKING BOOGERS ON EVERYTHING.

What the fuck.

A list of completely unrelated things.

1. I’d like to know where the hell Cedric the Entertainer gets off calling himself “The Entertainer.”  He should be calling himself Cedric Antonio Kyles.  Because that’s that smiling fuckwit’s real name.  And also because he’s never entertained me in my entire life.  Oh and I bet he’s got some obnoxious story about how he got that nickname, too.  Some kind of Tori Amos bullshit where someone told him he should be called that and he was just like “You know what?  You’re right!” and now he doesn’t look like a self-assured dickwad for appointing himself “The Entertainer” all the time.

2. Sharpies are neat.  So neat, in fact, that someone made one out of fondant and squished it onto a cupcake.

3. I might quit Netdix.  I haven’t decided yet.  It feels like a bigger decision than it actually is, though.  They’re stressing me out by constantly sending me glossy pieces of mail and e-mail “alerts” (ALERT!  MOVIES!) just to let me know that I can watch instantly on my computer or on the Wii any time I want.  What’s depressing is that I say “OK, Netflix!  Thanks!” and then I go look at the movies they’re gonna let me watch, and what do I see?  Oh.  Fried Green Tomatoes, which was on TV last week.  And The Breakfast Club.  And The Shawshank Redemption.  But how many fucking times can you watch The Shawshank Redemption before you shawshank yourself in the face?  It’s like they look up all the movies that are going to be on cable that week, plus they get a list of movies that most, if not all, Americans have on VHS somewhere in the basement, and they give you those, and they say “Look!  For free!”

Oh, I forgot, they also offer to show me 1-and 2-star rated documentaries that have similar cover art to other documentaries I have watched at some point.  If they recommend one more goddamn movie to me that involves a picture of french fries being manipulated in some stupid way, I’m going to quit.  That should put an end to the problems they seem to have with deleting my ex’s movies off my account.

4. A Facebook friend commented on the status of one of his friends today, and for some reason, even though I am not friends with that person, Facebook feels the need to alert me of this activity.  And here’s what the status message was:

$130,000,000,000,000. Say what you want about Bush but we weren’t this far in debt w/ him.

Which makes absolutely no sense.  It’s  not like the Obama administration did all of this.  And this is the kind of shit I wondered about at the beginning of his presidency, which was at a time when we were headed down the fucking shitter anyway, no matter which way you sliced it.  I had the sense at the time to know that Obama wasn’t going to make any miracles happen, what was more likely was that he’d get a bad rap no matter what he did, because this country is so far fucked anyway.  No matter who took office, they’d be dealing with the mess of this war and all of the other shit Bush dipped out on.  But, of course, so many people prefer to think of it as entirely Obama’s fault instead of carryover shit from Bush, now snowballing us into a Pit of Total Despair.

And lately, Obama is being kind of lame.  Lame in the way that I’m glad gay men are standing up and screaming at him, calling him a liar when he waffles on repealing DADT.  He needs to be yelled at and knocked about when he’s caught backing out of campaign promises.  He needs to clean up the goddamn ocean, because it’s soooo fucked.  And we need to keep  him in line.  All of us, not just half of us.

Or I guess you could just sit around and update  your Facebook status with some bullshit fact taken out of context.  Or you could start an angry Republican Christian conservative blog, wherein you claim to have read a lot of research yet fail to cite any of it.

But there’s got to be some kind of compromise here.  And I think, and hope, it should and will be on the Republican Christian conservative side.  I mean, what do you care if some fags get married?  How does that bother you?  Just keep going to your church and believing what you believe and doing what you’re doing.  It’s a bigger inconvenience for them to live in your America than it is for you to live in a free America.

Are people really that stupid?

I guess they are.

DJ D-Bag up there is,  I happen to know for a fact, an avid young Republican Christian conservative, who wrote this:

*I’m reposting this in it’s original context, but notice that it doesnt say you should speak up if you DON’T support gay rights, but rather simply ignore it. That’s the very reason this is posted to begin with, we ignore it. Nice try.* (inside the asterisks are my comments)
__________________________________________________
__

“Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?”
– Ernest Gaines

*Mostly because two men holding hands manage to currupt the society in which they are in, far enough to the point of accepting them even against current religion and prior cultural prefferences of THAT society. They also drive the culture in question to the point of making inane and asinine comparisons like this one stated by Mr. Gaines. There is no logical comparison in it and there is absolutely no reason to even question the notion.*

I would like to know who really believes in gay rights on myspace. There is no bribe of a miracle or anything like that. If you truly believe in gay rights, then repost this and title the bulletin as “Gay Rights”. If you don’t believe in gay rights, then just ignore this. Thanks.

Be who you are *(who you want to be they mean)* and say what you feel *(based on who you want to be)*, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind *(then my notes don’t matter either)*.

FYI – National Coming Out Day is October 11, and October is GLBT History month. 😀

__________________________________________________
__

*Please don’t lecture me on any half-minded notions involving “who you are”. You are who you want to be, just as you do what you want to do. Any argument based in-between is, merely, an excuse.*

Homosexuality is wrong.

Some of you might remember this back from the days of the great MySpace debate over this, which ended in me completely losing my mind and blocking this asshole, who, when I argued with him, sent me this:

lol Ok. I guess knowledge of proper ‘syntax and grammer’ usage makes up for the loosing of the bulletin message’s original context in an attempt to mire the intelligence of the writer by picking at the irrelevant? That’s usually the stereotypical way of defending eminent error.

Because that’s what you get when you point out to someone that their argument might be stronger and more compelling if they didn’t misspell every 4th word and come off sounding like your run-of-the-mill backwoods retard arguing against buttfucking: said backwoods retard misquotes you (I would NEVER spell “grammar” with an ‘e’!  How dare you?!), then pulls out his thesaurus and gets to work letting you know you’re the stereotypical  idiot, not him.

Anyway.  I enjoy the irony of the “JUST LIVE” scrawled across his fingers.  Just live…unless you’re gay, in which case you’re just choosing to live in a way that doesn’t align with my religious beliefs and you shouldn’t be allowed to because it creeps me out.  Just live, if you’re like me, straight as the day is long with the douchey facial hair and the screen printed dress shirt to prove it.  Just live the way I think you should.

I can’t wait to hear the fat beats you’re preparing for this month’s Rave for Him at the Holy Basement Teen Center.  Mix on, Christian soldier.