Category Archives: Uncategorized

June 22, 2010 · 12:51 pm

Wipe That Fucking Frosting Off Your Cake

Last night I left my filing cabinet key stuck into the lock on the filing cabinet in my office.  The filing cabinet key unfortunately shares a ring with my apartment keys.  So imagine my distress when, after my hour and ten minute commute home, I realized that I couldn’t get in.

So The Pants came to get me, like good Pants do, me and my bag of frozen stir-fry shrimp.  I collapsed into a little heap in his car and started crying like a big twat because it’s the worst when my brain, which I’ve considered to be a pretty good one before, doesn’t work the way it should.  It’s a wonder that I remember to put on shoes in the morning.  I once had a series of Post-Its on the back of my apartment door telling me exactly what to do that day.  And not just like “don’t forget your lunch,” but more like “write a list of things to do.”

Is there a way to rinse your brain off?  Because sometimes I’d sort of like to take off the top of my head and clean all of the barnacles out of my brain matter.  So I could remember my keys and get into my apartment after a long day of work and shit.  That would be so refreshing.  Maybe the canoe trip next month will be like a brain cleanse?  I hope so.  Because eventually there is so much shit going on in my head, and no discernible way to organize it, that I start to forget things, then I start to think that Bad Things Are Going to Happen pretty much all the time, then I just go to sleep and don’t wake up for a few days.

To: Target Stores

Attn: Customer Complaints

Hello,

I just thought I should let someone know that I don’t appreciate the way your check-out girl looked at me last night.  I was purchasing a fresh set of clothes, underwear, some makeup essentials, a toothbrush, and a six pack of beer.  Now I don’t know what kind of nastiness this young lady had in mind, but I was just trying to make it through my evening.  I don’t need to be judged by chirpy, red-shirted cashier girls who seem to have nothing to think about other than the possibility that complete strangers may be preparing for a pre-walk of shame.  How dare she?

I locked myself out, you bitch!

Sincerely,

C. Cake Jones

500 Ways to Suck

Everybody went to see that movie 500 Days of Summer last summer.   I went to see it and some of it was good but most of it was bad.  Anyway, everyone’s favorite dream girl was in it, and she was costumed in such a way that swept the young female nation, and made every girl want to be her, and every boy want to fuck her while she thought about maybe breaking up with him.

I ain’t gonna lie, I thought she was cute, too.  Her little outfits were pretty fucking adorable.  It was inspiring to think that maybe it’s that easy to just walk into a thrift store and find assloads of cheap clothes that are your size and your budget and look super cute and effortless with all of the other thrift store finds you have going for you and they don’t smell at all like thrift store, ever.  Sure, it gave me the whole “fashion is easy and will make you feel better” vibe for about two days until I realized that I just can’t seem to motivate myself to put out even the tiniest bit of effort to Be Cuter.  Sure, if someone wanted to come along and dress me, I’d wear something besides my Harry Potter t-shirt and ripped jeans from last year’s Gap sale.  If I felt like getting up earlier or staying up later to steam my Peter Pan collared shirt and find the brooch I want for my vest and make sure my patterned tights were clean and laid out, I’d do it.  Instead I say hell with it and wear the pants I wore on Monday and some flip flops.

So I was talking about this phenomenon with someone, saying that I don’t know how some girls do it, how they ended up always knowing what goes together, how they have A Style, one which makes other people say “that’s her Style”.  Maybe there’s some kind of guide they follow?  Maybe someone sat around and wrote up a guide for a wiki and maybe it includes a mention of a book you should “try to read” because it’s the book Favorite Dream Girl was reading when she met her husband.  Maybe that makes me puke a little and maybe the person who sent this how-to list to me, with whom I was dumb enough to have a conversation about a Zooey Deschanel dreamy dream girl character, should be killed and eaten by rapists.

And maybe I should have worn different shoes with this outfit because I have this sinking feeling that my life will never be like a hit summer indie rock movie and I think with different shoes I could ignore that feeling.

My Little Crazy

When I was eight I asked my mom if I could have a horse, with the promise that I would clean out a space in the basement for it.  I swore that I would go and find hay for it and build a pen for it in the corner by the water heater.  It made perfect sense to me.  I even had a horse picked out, an aging ex-race horse featured in the Pets section of the Dollar & Sense that had been turned out to pasture and was only $600 to the right owner.  “This horse would love our basement,” I told her when I showed her the grainy photo.  “It’s not too tall.”  My mother, of course, said no to the whole horse idea, but only because, she said, “race horses are too high-strung.”

I didn’t know what that meant at the time but I thought it had something to do with their legs, like maybe their legs were too long to fit in our basement.  But now that I am an adult, and have been referred to as “high strung” by pretty much everyone who has known me in a personal capacity, I know that it means “bat shit crazy” and also “easily pissed off by everything.”

I have been pretty high strung lately.

*Exhibition Opening*

Exhibit A.

Drunk dude walking two filthy little floor mop dogs down the street the other night, allowed both unleashed dogs to approach me and the people I was with.  Both dogs, of course, proceeded to do that weird dog sneeze thing where they splatter you with their spit, through their nose, over and over again.  Both dogs made runs for my bare feet and ankles, which, for some reason, dogs love to lick…and one of the only things that grosses me out is for dogs to lick at my toes, feet, and ankles.  I mean really grosses me out.  Like makes me want to peel off my skin and have it bleached while I beat myself in the head with a hammer to drive out the memory of cold dog tongue on my skin.  I’ve got that pre-puke lump in my throat right now just writing about it.  Both dogs crowded around my legs, scraping at my tights, trying to get me to pet them.  I backed away.  Repeatedly.  Waved my hands at them.  “Go on, no…go on now…don’t…no…”

So the drunk dude finally started talking to his dogs, who, I am sure, understand English perfectly well, especially slurred Tequila-stink English.  “Come on, she’s scared of you…come on now, she’s scaaaared.”  And, wouldn’t you know it, for some reason the dogs had lost their translation skills at the moment, and paid absolutely no heed to his half-assed commands.  He finally grabbed both of them by their slimy little collars and pulled them away.

“They should be on leashes,” I said.

“Oh well thanks for letting me know,” he said.

“Well,” I retorted, “it is the law?”

“Then CALL the POLICE ON ME.”

“Just put the dogs on leashes, and I won’t have to.”

And that’s when I basically got told to shut the fuck up by a member of my party.  The rest of the group I was with had been, for some reason completely lost on me, enjoying the presence of the animals.  Then I went and ruined it with my Strong Opinions About Strange Dogs.  And my Confrontational Methods of Communication With Strangers With Strange Dogs.  Then everyone was pretty much weirded out and pissed at me for being such a senior citizen about it.

I do not hate the dogs.  I hate the owners who fail to put them on leashes because they assume that everyone will love them.  They prefer not to see their pets as possible risks to other people (allergies, bites, holes snagged in tights, basic fucking preference to not touch weird animals), and will quickly ascend to a level of unholy anger if you even dare to suggest that you don’t necessarily want their dog’s company as much as they do.  Dogs are cool, but people fucking suck.  And when they have dogs and don’t train them, it’s annoying as fuck.  Like when you’re dating someone who’s mom has a bunch of little anklebiter Scottie dogs, who she allows to put their paws in your lap and reach up and lick the food on your plate when you come over for dinner.  Then you’re expected to still want to eat the fucking food that the dog managed to lick.  Or when you sit in a chair at her house and are politely told that the reason the fattest of the Scotties has sat on you and scrubbed dried dog shit from its exposed asshole all over your white skirt is because “That’s Smoopy’s chair, he likes to sit there, hee hee hee!”

Well guess what?  SMOOPY’S A FUCKING DOG AND THE FLOOR IS WHERE DOGS SIT.  PEOPLE SIT ON CHAIRS.

I’m not a total asshole about dogs.  I love them.  They are good animals.  When I was a kid, my dog was my best friend and I cried for months after she died.  (Then my sister drew a chalk outline of the dog on our front porch and I cried for a few more months.)  But my dog always knew it was a dog.  It didn’t crowd people who came in the front door, jump on the couch and sit on their laps, put its paws on their clothes, lick at their feet.  It didn’t sit by the dinner table slurping at the edges of plates.  I walked it on a leash and even off a leash it didn’t run up to people like a retard.  What it did do was let out a low growl when strangers approached, until it was told everything was OK.  It ate food out of its own bowl and ran to get my mom if any of the kids fell and hurt themselves.  My dog was like a big, loving Lassie.

Dogs are like kids, in a sense.  I don’t see why people hate on me for not liking obnoxious animals (i.e., obnoxious owners) but will roll their eyes and express distaste with obnoxious kids (i.e., obnoxious parents) in Target on a Saturday.  Nobody says “Awww, c’mere!” and gives big hugs to sticky, messy little shoeless children when they run into you and knock a bunch of shit out of your hands.  They look at the parents like “Can’t you handle your fucking kids?” So why am I a jerk because I won’t allow someone to let their pets claw at me and climb on me or even fucking approach me?  You wouldn’t be happy if a pantsless three-year-old climbed up onto your lap and wiped its ass on you.  So why is it okay if a fluffy little dog does it?  “Well doggies don’t know any better!” you could say.  Maybe not.  But neither do three-year-olds.  Kids and dogs don’t know shit until you teach them.  And if your drunk ass is too lazy to teach them, that’s what leashes are for, pendejo.

However, I probably could have politely asked Drunk Man to get his dogs.  I do have the capability to be polite, you know.

Exhibit B.

I was crossing the street on my way to work yesterday, and a man in a van was, of course, edging out over the crosswalk, looking the opposite direction from where I was crossing on MY LIGHT, trying to pull out in between bursts of traffic and run a red light.  I looked up just in time to realize that he wasn’t looking in my direction, and didn’t see me, and that’s why there was a large green van creeping up in front of me, barring my way across the street.  I stopped with my toes about an inch from the guy’s front fender, and when the shock wore off, my toes were about an inch from his front right tire.  So I said “HEY!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, sorry about that!” he claimed as I crossed the street.  I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, but I crossed the fucking street as fast as I could just to get away from him.

I don’t know about other humanoids, but almost being hit by a car really revs up my adrenaline and makes me a bit nervy.  And it happens from time to time because people are too stupid to walk in straight lines, let alone drive cars properly, and I have to cross streets often because I walk and jog everywhere.  And I know there’s a lot to think about when you’re driving, but holy fuck, there’s a lot MORE to think about when you’re driving and trying to do something illegal just to save yourself some time, isn’t there?

So anyway.  The dude was apologizing and I was walking away and THE SECOND I made it across the street around the front of his vehicle and my back was to him, he ceased his apologies and said “Now wipe that fucking look off your face.”

I guess the “fucking look” he was referring to is the look of someone who’s almost been hit by a van, and is understandably a little jangled.  I guess I was supposed to giggle and smile and say “Oh, no problem!” and skip along my merry way.  I guess I was supposed to be pleased that I wasn’t dead and just wink and smile like someone without a thought in their head.

So I turned around and yelled “LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU DRIVE ACROSS THE FUCKING STREET.”

Because I don’t think that’s too much to ask.  He looked a little surprised.  I can’t figure out if I would be  happier person if I just smiled at stupid people and pretended that my guts weren’t boiling.  I mean, normal people deal with this shit by being like “Ohhh it’s cool, thaaaanks” to the offending driver, then mutter “Wow, that guy was a douchebag” under their breath.

Normal people wouldn’t stand on a corner and yell back at him.  Okay, okay, I get it.

Exhibit C.

A certain Starbucks on a certain corner in a certain neighborhood of this city is the most depressing place on the planet.  That’s because I was in there this morning, and this loud woman in expensive jogging/yoga fusionwear was hollering her 4 espresso orders over my head from where she stood behind me in line.  I had to say “What?” twice to understand what the guy at the register was saying to me, because this bitch was obviously on crack, and was going on and on about “the great synergy you guys have going on behind that counter!  Look at that!  Look how he takes my order and he makes it and he rings it up!  What great synergy!  Don’t you agreeeeeeeee about the synergyyyyyyy!?”

I mean, what the fuck.

But I guess that the real mistake is going into a Starbucks in that particular affluent neighborhood and expecting something other than a bunch of totally bored, pilled-out, rich-piece-of-shit gaywad housewives in workout wear jostling for the position of Most Memorable Visitor of the Day.  Again, my fault.

*End of the Exhibition*

So there are three examples of my crotchety nature, which have all occurred in the span of the last three days.  Here are three examples of why I will end up alone, living on a hilltop behind the motel, pulling the curtains tighter every day and filling the downstairs bathroom with used adult diapers until the floor rots out.  It’s because nastiness and confrontation and sheer annoyance with the constant yap of other human beings in my path don’t make for cute anymore.  Maybe it’s one thing to read about it, maybe people think it’s funny when I write a Facebook status update about how I yelled at my neighbor for borrowing my mixer and failing to wipe off the red food coloring before returning it 2 months later.  But I think that’s where it ends, and lately I feel like people are sick of it.  Or they’re just really polite, positive, happy people, who don’t necessarily want to be around someone who’s always like “I don’t like the way you order your coffee, WANNA FIGHT?!”

“I don’t like your dog, WANNA FIGHT?”

“You almost ran over me, WANNA FIGHT?”

So this counts of Day 1 of my new experiment, wherein I force myself to be goddamn fucking positive about every annoying thing that happens to me until I don’t notice annoying things anymore.  At least, that is the outcome I hope for.  I will try not to be so affected by society.  I am going to relax and smile like a jackass when people almost run over me.  I am going to stand there and coo while strange animals lick at my feet.  I am going to block out the annoying sounds of other people in chain coffee shops.  I will not let hipster cunts at house parties get under my skin.  I am not even going to write about the hipster cunt at the house party over the weekend who got under my skin!!!  See?  I am already making progress!

Thus begins the Summer of My Ignorance.

I am officially not bothered by anything.

…..

sooooo…

what’s been going on with you?

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June 16, 2010 · 1:07 pm

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!”

How dare you make me call you a bitch, Bitch?!

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.

This is goddamn amazing. Why didn't I think of a cupcake tank!?!

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.

Unfortunately, they made all that other packing and shipping themed crap, too.

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 on the ones and the twos.

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)
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“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. 😀

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*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.

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March 8, 2010 · 3:13 pm

Bullshitty Crap

The Bird Cage

So the guy with the unfortunate task of being on the office birthday celebration list opposite the program director accidentally slept in this morning.  He arrived late to work empty-handed and sat dopily at his computer for half an hour before realizing why the buzzards were sloooowly slinking past his office door, giving him the eye.  It finally dawned on him that they were going to spread mayonnaise packets from the break room condiment slush bucket all over his ass and eat him for breakfast if he didn’t do something, and quick.  He ran out and bought four entire cases (CASES) of donuts from the bakery down the street, and two boxes of cupcakes.  He spread them on a table in the library, assuming there would be no students or resource needs for the entire morning, I guess.  The birds settled in and began picking at the boxes of sugary dough wads, laughing and yapping noisily as they joked about having seconds, hahaha, wouldn’t that be funny if I had a second?  But I won’t, oh no, I won’t…wait, are you going to?  I will if you will hahahahhahahahahaha.  But really…

No sooner had the birds flapped away than the power turned off, and the wolves descended.  Literally moments after my screen went dark, the shadows of the ten-ton bitches from Admissions darkened the doorway.  Guess who wanted to sit in the library and talk about minivans and eat donuts?  One of them even looked at me and said, “We’re looking for the food…is the food here?  We heard it was here.”  I pointed toward the darkened corner where the trays of donuts lay, a fatty dream: to eat a globule of shimmering fried dough in the dark.  They sat and sat and talked and snacked and joked about seconds and ate seconds and thirds and the moment the lights came on, they were gone like those black pterodactyls in that space movie about how it’s not safe to be in the dark because your ass’ll get eaten by black pterodactyls.

The allure of the donuts was lost on me, they smelled weird and looked like they’d been sprayed with glue and raped by everyone in the entire building.  So I picked up a chocolate cupcake with white frosting and crumbled up Oreos all over the top.  I struggled to bite through the chalky outer surface of the cuprock only to discover that the inside cake wasn’t halfway worth the effort, it was just as dry and crumbly as if they’d put a turd in a toaster oven for thirty-five minutes.  So basically what I had in my hands and all over my face was one of those horrible, poorly-baked pieces of shitty cake with a really fancy topper, made yesterday and left overnight in a bakery case and called a cupcake.  For shame.  I mean, does the coroner go around putting fancy hats on people who get splattered all over the road in traffic accidents?  Well, maybe he does, I don’t know, but he shouldn’t, because they’re still dead and splattered and nobody should have to look at them.

Well what if the poop looks like a cupcake, hmmmm?

I hate *everything* lately.

….everything.

But that doesn’t mean that the things I hate haven’t been worth hating.

For instance, I do realize that I’m hard to get along with.  I totally understand that I’m not the easiest person to be around.  For real.  That’s because I am very open about it when I don’t want to be a person that people be around.  And I’m hard to get along with because I hate crap, and I see no reason why I should keep my mouth shut and sit around and withstand bullshitty crap because that’s the friendly thing to do.  Well, who said I wanted to be friendly?  You suck.  Go away from me.  Let’s not be friends.

It’s just the worst when you’re around someone who cannot stop using your attention as their sounding board for who they think they are.  Someone who not only talks about themselves constantly, but who obviously spends hours every day reading celebrity gossip news, announcements of new works of fiction, film, and theater, every article on Wikipedia, and also has their ear to the ground on whatever it is that you’re interested in, and not only knows more than you do, but can’t wait to tell you just how much more.  And why it’s stupid that you’re into it.

I hate being interrupted.  I hate being one-upped and talked over and eye-rolled because I like something or don’t like something else.  It got to the point recently where I just have to go completely blank: I refuse not only to look this person in the eye, but also to state anything that could be relatively construed as anything resembling an opinion.  I tried not to make it sound like I knew anything at all about anything ever, because if I did, well oh boy, I’d be stuck in a corner with this asshole barfing everything he knew all over my face.  And it’s not as if I’d be stupid enough to come out swinging and challenge someone like this on anything they think.  It’s the simple act of breathing that sometimes sets it off.

Ick.  And it’s totally the type of person who listens solely to a very streamlined and specific group of musical artists, and knows eeeeeeverythiiiing about those artists, and carries around their fucking CDs, for chrissakes.  Who carries CDs?  The last time I saw someone carrying CDs, it was this forlorn, overweight, Nirvana-identified pre-Goth kid in high school who was desperate for everyone to know he’d just purchased that gaywad mini box set that the Smashing Pumpkins released with their singles in it.  He carried that goddamn thing like a purse.  Now I have to put up with this son of a bitch who actually knows SO MUCH about MP3 players that he has decided they’re a useless technology and is going to stick with compact discs.

Really, I’d like to make a game out of it.  I’d like to sit this person down with a panel of people who know what’s up.  You get points for getting him to talk about certain things.  Not like that’s hard, but it gets interesting when you get to the point in the argument (for every conversation with him becomes an argument) when he starts citing fake sources to support whatever claim he’s making (opposite of yours).  And holy mother of Christ, whoever wants to challenge him to a battle of early 90s music knowledge wins the fucking trophy.  Game over.  Now just try and shut him up.

I’ve always wanted to ask a certain five people I know if they realize just how much of a character they are.  I mean, you know that all of the characters from The Office are based on real people, right?  How does that make you feel, you shitbag?  You do realize that you are that annoying, yeah?

The bottom line is that some people are all around users: they’ll use your tab for some drinks, your coat pocket for some cigarettes, your car for rides, and worst of all, your ear and feigned attention for their sense of self.  And what’s worse is when they do all of the above and you’re expected to suck their dick for it, and if you decline, well, you’re the asshole.

So maybe I don’t hate everything.  Maybe I’m fucking exhausted and I need a sabbatical from people and how fucking…overwhelmingly…constant they are.

Maybe if I turn off my phone and pull the covers over my head for the rest of the day and night, I’ll be able to bite the inside of my cheek enough to hold onto a fake smile for fifteen seconds the next time I’m being told why my favorite author isn’t that great, actually.

Things That Are Currently Making Me Want To Have My Head Smashed Like a Berry Between Two Massive, Sharp Rocks

Volume 1

I went to undergrad with her and endured her listless slumping about in the hallways, her outdated, comical green chunks of hair, ironic nose ring, and overall punk rock prom queen attitude, and now I have to look at her books on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and read her horrible blog.

When one of our classmates died, she waited for his birthday to come around to post this on his MySpace:

Happy birthday. I got the advance copies of my book yesterday and would have loved to give you one as a birthday present. You really didn’t have enough birthdays. I’ll have a drink in your honor tonight. Miss you much.

Well.

How…thoughtful.  “You’re dead.  Let’s talk about me, though.”

Commence the smashing, please.

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February 18, 2010 · 12:37 pm

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?

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February 11, 2010 · 2:50 pm

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.

Ugh.

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!

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February 4, 2010 · 12:45 pm

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.**

9.  DO NOT CALL US.  NOBODY WILL BE AVAILABLE TO TAKE YOUR CALL.  WE DO NOT LIKE PHONES OR CALLS THAT ARE ON THEM.

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.

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February 3, 2010 · 5:59 pm

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!

Don't mind if I DEW. AHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!

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.”

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December 16, 2009 · 12:18 am

Mail Room Gang Rape – A Christmas Story

Jesus Hearts Shrimp Salad

What’s totally fucking gay about the holidays is that everyone at work gets this stupid fucking friendliness disease.  It makes them all want to spend a lot of time together.  So much time, in fact, that the ladies in this office have organized a Crochet Circle and a weekly meeting to recap all the events of So You Think You Can Dance.  And that’s not enough, we also have to have constant fucking holiday parties.  It’s inappropriate to NOT go.  It’s inappropriate to sit here in the office while everyone else is AT the party, and it’s also inappropriate to go home early while everyone else is getting drunk in a big awkward crowd.

So I stopped working at midday on Friday and went over to the conference center and ate weird butterscotch pudding stuff with white chocolate sticks stabbing it.  The whole room smelled like fish because most people cannot help but equate luxurious food with crabby lobstery shrimpy things.  So there was crab or lobster or shrimp in goddamn everything, from the “gourmet” macaroni and cheese to the “gourmet” papaya dip.  Apparently, to make something gourmet, all you gotta do is make it smell like a stank old pussy.

Anyway, there was a giant gingerbread house and a penguin made out of wasabi.  There were also quite a few unhappy looking catering employees.  There was also a splattery puddle of broken glass and seafood macaroni on the floor by the door.  There were also several employees from the mail room, and you can imagine what happens when mail room employees have access to an open bar.  “Wassup shawty how you been doin?  I been lookin atchu fo like two munfs, giiiirl.  When you gonna lemme holla atchu?”

Ugh.  So I snuck out early because if I’m going to take time away from work, I think it should be spent with the people I WANT to spend it with.  Or with the television shows I want to spend it with.  Not with a room full of awkward IT department freaks and gang rape mail room dickheads.

You know what else is totally fucking gay about the holidays?  I would sort of like to know why I got a crappy picture frame and my coworker got $300 in American Express gift cards.  I mean, it’s totally not the holiday spirit for me to be asking that question, but fucking A, even Christ himself would be like, “What the hell?  A picture frame?  A picture frame.  Awesome.  Thanks, but it would be nice if I could pay my goddamn heat bill.”

The gayness here is that now I have to buy my boss something, and it will probably be of the same value as the picture frame.  So I’m actually losing on this deal because I just bought myself a picture frame I didn’t want, if you think about it.  Yet, my coworker is skipping through the office, $300 richer than she was last weekend.  And yeah, maybe we shouldn’t have opened our Christmas presents at the same time, because they are so obviously different (mine being in the minority here).  But still, holy shit.  One thing that’s gay about Christmas is that people do all kinds of dumb stuff that’s not only offensive but also probably a little bit unethical.

I am reminded of the time in second grade when I brought a Hello Kitty stationery set for the mandatory gift exchange, and what did I get in return?  A dollar store Barbie knock off with a rat turd in the box, courtesy of the girl who ate her own hair and was obsessed with pulling everyone’s pants down.

Can we just not do the gift and card thing next year, you bunch of shit eating motherfuckers?  I could care less what you do with your free time, we only work together.  And someone will inevitably get a torn-up coupon for a Lean Cuisine with a half-assed holiday message scrawled on the back, while someone else gets a solid gold replica of God’s own gleaming cock.  So save me the fucking Christmas spirit dick shit and give yourself the ass-crappy pair of socks you so carefully selected for me at Walgreens because you pulled my name out of a fucking basket.

What’s kind of funny, though, is that I wasn’t aware that when newspaper delivery people give you a card, which is both in an envelope and contains an envelope, you’re expected to put a tip in the second envelope and leave it for the paper guy, like OH!  Surprise!  Here’s the tip you didn’t know we were going to give you in the envelope you gave us to put it in!  It’s dumb as hell, this tradition, this straight-up asking for a handout because it’s the hollllllidayyyyys crap.  So the guy who delivers the papers to the library (of which there are like 6 every day) left us not one, but SIX ENVELOPES.  No doubt in the hopes that he would be getting six tips.  What the fuck is that?  I thought it was kind of hilarious that his last name was Ortega, which immediately made me think of Ortega chips and salsa.  I thought about writing him a nice note that said, “Dear Mr. Ortega: Thanks for the awesome chips and salsa products.”

Poop.

The mouse problem is really starting to piss me off.

Apparently, the little green poison balls that the exterminator left all over the apartment are actually candy for mice.  Because now there’s little gnawed-down nubs of green poison everywhere, and then there’s little mounds of green poop, and there’s just as many mice as ever.  When I came home on Friday, bearing my crappy picture frame and an even crappier attitude, I was greeted by a tiny mouse who had accidentally attached his stupid little fucking face to a glue trap in my bedroom.  So, yeah, I had to get a trash bag, pick it up, endure its screaming and struggling as I did so, and throw it in the dumpster to die a slow death.  It was awful.  Why won’t they just go the fuck away?

Ugh.  Unfortunately, this week will be spent pulling out and going through every pile of sweaters, every bit of storage stuffed into closets and under beds, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, without the reassurance that this will be the only time I’ll have to do it.  Oh, no.  The mice will just love a clean apartment to shit all over again.

Not the best way to spend the first week after a fall semester ends.

So, yeah.  The fall semester has ended.  I was up late Sunday night at the kitchen table, screaming and crying and pulling out my hair because Microsoft Word “encountered an unknown error and closed unexpectedly,” and would I “like to report this error?”  I’ll tell you what I’d like to fucking report.

So what’s funny is that the paper was about personal digital curation, i.e. the steps individuals should take to both avoid losing important digital records and to preserve them for future use.  Kind of funny that Word should shut down, refuse to re-open anything but an early, 2-page draft of what had become a 22 page document replete with bibliography.  So I slung myself around the kitchen, screaming NOOOOO NONONONOOOOOOOOOO!!!  PLEEEEASE! with only an hour until the paper was due.  Then I relaxed and accessed everything I’ve learned about digital document management, and used that knowledge to successfully restore all 22 pages of the paper, and turn it in on time.

THAT deserves an A, nevermind the paper.  Yeesh.

SUPER HAPPY OK YEAH FUN DAY FROSTING PARTY YESSSSSSSS

On a more positive note, do you know what day it is?  Do you!?  It’s December 15th, and apparently, that means it’s National Cupcake Dayyyyy!!!  Woowoo!

I don’t currently have a cupcake in my hand.  I don’t currently have one in my life, and I don’t foresee one stopping by at any time in the near future.  I’d really like one.  It’s a national holiday, dammit!  But I’m broke as hell, so I think I’d better just look at some pictures of cuppycakes.

Have a look at these shits:

How about some coconut?

These totally look like a white lady's titties.

These are some ass-nasty looking turkey dinner cupcakes that came straight out of Paula Deen's butt. I would totally eat them.

That link up top will hook you up with the Huffington Post article on this most amazing and happy day.  I strongly suggest you peruse their cupcake pictures.  They got some cupcakes on there that I’d fuck for sure.

No, really.  I would fuck them.

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December 11, 2009 · 2:36 pm

Tit Tips

So what’s great about a little bit of extra padding around the holidays is that most of it goes to my tits and my ass.  Which is kind of awesome…fun for the whole crew.  Due to all of the pastry that is literally bulging out of every room in this office, my boobs have become more like those things people keep on their desks, you know, where you pull back one of the metal balls and swing it against all the rest, and they knock each other back and forth.  My boobs are kind of on the largeish side at the moment, is what I’m saying.  It’s kind of awesome.  Now I know how my sister, Hugetits McGee, feels.  And I have to admit that I’m going to be a little sad to start doing the whole get-thin-for-the-new-year routine, because they’ll be the first to go.  Bye bye, awesome titties.  We had fun, we really did.

The built-in boob shelf is not substantial.

So anyway, yeah.  I’ve been looking into some boob control solutions for my holiday dress, which is this skinny little black satin tube number which will need to be held up by some hook and strap combination that is somehow attached to my boobs.  I posted a little something something about it on my Facebook, but I can’t seem to get any straight answers out of anyone.  I can’t BELIEVE nobody wants to talk about my breasts as much as I do.  People need to get their goddamn priorities straight, what the fuck.

Yer outta milk.

Agent Big Guns and I realized that we had mice last weekend, when they started pooping in her dirty laundry.  The mice who inhabited our apartment are some inconsiderate sons of bitches.

Not only do they scratch around at night, but they DO NOT do tricks of any sort, nothing like that Mr. Jingles guy in the movie The Green Mile.  They just scamper and shit everywhere.  And once we realized they were around, I started seeing them constantly.  One of them walked out of my bedroom at 2 in the afternoon last week, wearing my pajamas and eating a bowl of cereal, just looking at me like, whaaaat?

They’re real assholes.  The exterminator came, and threw down every kind of mouse contraption that the Tomcat company makes, and what do these little jerks do?  Oh, they skip around the glue traps like they’re dancing around a Maypole.  They prop snap traps open with tiny Santa figurines they’ve whittled from pieces of our furniture and take the bait.  They leave personalized notecards that say “Dear Tenants: Happy Holidays!  Go fuck yourselves.”  But you know what else they do?  They eat the poison the exterminator left all over the place.  They eat it right up.  So laugh it up, douche mice, you’re about to have such a bad stomach ache, you’ll be praying for death.

Just don’t do it in my bedroom walls, stinkies.

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November 19, 2009 · 4:53 pm

Banana Cream Panties

I hate it.

I don’t know why the hell George Lopez is so important, or how he got to be where he is today, or who put him there.  I don’t get it.  I’ve only ever seen him yell things, like “WHO’S READY TO PARTY” and “LATE NIGHT IS FUN AGAIN” and “GEORGE IS HOME.”  Where the shit did he come from?  Why won’t he go back?  How do people get their own sitcoms when you’ve never heard of them?  And when that sitcom fails, how do they get ANOTHER show named after them?

You are not fooling me, George Lopez.

Oh, wipe that shit eating face off your head.

He always looks like someone colored him with crayons.  The bad crayons.  The ones at the bottom of the coffee can they pass around at youth group in the church basement…the broken ones in peach and orange that have been used to color over black and brown so they’re all smudgy.

Speaking of George Lopez, why does Keira Knightley always talk like she’s got a load of tobacco in her mouth?  Is her underbite that serious that she can’t speak properly?  If so, how the fuck did she get to be an actress?  Why do they pay her the big money to stand around and make that underbite face?

Exshhcuushe me?

Has anyone ever realized that in the movie Beethoven, the bad guy basically plans and plots for months just to fool a family into giving him their St. Bernard so he can shoot it in the head.  So that he can test a new kind of bullet.  To see like, what it does to a dog brain.

Sometimes I wonder why it couldn’t be ANY type of large dog.  Or why it couldn’t be ANY St. Bernard.  Why did it HAAAVE to be Beethoven?

I mean, you could argue that it’s because Beethoven got away from him when he was a puppy.  You could argue that, but that would be stupid.  How would anyone know which dog it was when the dog was full grown?

So anyway, obviously it HAD to be Beethoven.  Crazy Mad Scientist Bad Guy did not want to test the brain-exploders on any other dog.  So he spends several months, at least (because Beethoven’s all grown up when he comes collectin’) getting shit together to get Beethoven’s family to hand him over.  He masquerades as a veterinarian and somehow gets set up with his own vet’s office.

Another thing that bothers me is when people who are near pregnant women just CANNOT STOP bringing up the fact that there is a fetus in the room.

My Polish office-mate is knocked up, and hates it, and says to me every day “Theenk ov dis bevore you lie down wiz a man” before puking in her trash can.  She’s so negative and weird, and apart from the projectile vomit, I couldn’t ask for a better person to share my office.

So anyway, she’s been working on this project with this whore from Alumni Relations.  This fiftysomething cunt comes down to our office every single day and talks to her really loud, like she’s deaf because she’s Polish.  And then there’s the pregnancy thing.  She brings it up every chance she gets.  “Oh, if there’s wine at the event, I’ll need to have a glass or two!  But YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY, CAN YOU!?  NO, you CAN’T!”  Or she’ll take a stack of papers out of my office-mate’s hands and say “This is WAY too heavy for a pregnant lady!”

She uses entirely too much hair spray.  Her hair looks like some kind of fuzzy hat, like she takes it off a stand and screws it into a hole in her skull every morning.  She wears pantsuits in neutral colors with smart button down shirts and a little understated cross necklace.

Today she announced four times (the amount of times different people entered and exited our office) that she was going to remove the jacket segment of Sensible Neutral-Colored Pantsuit because she was “burning up.”  Every time she said this, she went on to say “It’ll happen to you someday!  It will!  I won’t go into detail!”  Most women chuckle out of politeness, but when she directed this at me I played stupid.  No, really.  I mean, you want to talk about every fucking stage of the life cycle of human female sexuality so bad, go ahead.  Tell me everything, you goddamn creep.  Want to do a demonstration on douching next?

She also sits at the study carrel in front of my desk and talks to the computer while she uses it.

“Now that’s not what I want!”

“OOOOH I didn’t mean to click there!”

“Wait…where is the…hmmm…OH!  Found it!  Hahahhaaha!”

If I needed a safe-sex reminder before putting my knees in the air, it would be this bitch.  If I got knocked up, she’d be in my face every day, trying to poison me with a cloud of aerosol hair products so she could slice me open with her raptor talon and eat my unborn child.

I like it, sort of.

Speaking of safe sex, Species and Species II are probably the best movies ever made.  Probably, but then again, probably not.  There are probably better movies, for better reasons.  Actually, nevermind.  You should watch them, though, if your boyfriend falls asleep and you’re in an uncomfortable position but you don’t want to wake him up by getting up to get the remote.  Yeah, in that case, watch them both, back to back, then watch a little bit of the beginning of the first one again.

Now that we’re on the subject of the things I do like, the things that are worth my time, we should talk about Yoplait.  Are you aware of how good it is?  Do you understand how they make yogurt taste like some kind of pie dessert, only it’s yogurt?  I don’t get it, but it’s good.  Pineapple Upside Down Cake?  Pina Colada?  Boston Cream Pie?  Are you shitting me?

Dear Yoplait,

Banana cream pie makes me banana cream my panties.

Love,

Bananacreamery

It’s just good, y’all.  You should try it.  Plus it’s LIGHT so you don’t have to worry about all those extra calories.

(Not that I do…yesterday at about this time I was dipping a shard of Crunch bar into a Mr. Pibb on a dare.)

(I dared myself.)

Okay, I also think that this is pretty fabulous:

It is a customizable cupcake go-kart.  You even get a hat to wear while you drive it, which is the top of the cupcake.  And Neiman Marcus is only charging $25,000 for it.  I’m starting a collection so I can afford one.  Not so much an official “collection” as a jar on my desk with a sign on it alluding to the fact that my 97 year old grandmother can’t afford the chemo she so desperately needs.  And a really sad look on my face.  Even though my granny ain’t 97 and she don’t got cancer, and when she dies it won’t be from anything but the piss and vinegar mixture she drinks every morning.

Pussy Crisis

There is a crazy receptionist on my floor.  She works across the hall from me and is older than shit and somehow finds something to cry about every single day.  Nobody puts up with her crap anymore, so anytime there’s a new person in the office who’s not used to her bullshit, who hasn’t yet had the chance to report her to HR,  she preys on their attention like it’s free hot bacon or something.  Because that new person doesn’t know any better and is usually trying to fit in.  She gets one whiff of someone who’s just trying to be polite and goes apeshit for it.

Oh, and by the way, she’s totally the type who fills garbage bags with any kind of free food left lying around for everyone to enjoy, to bring it home to her fatass husband.

She’s also the type who probably pushed her children down the stairs when they were little, or put mashed up heart medication in their food so they’d end up in the emergency room, and she’d get to sit at the nurse’s station and feed on everyone’s sympathy.

Anyway.

She called in on Monday.  As if that wasn’t enough, as if everyone would miss her SO BADLY and be SO WORRIED about her absence that they couldn’t carry on with their day, she had an email sent around to let everyone know that she wasn’ t sick, she was out because her cat needed to be put to sleep.

On Tuesday, someone in her department, someone who had worked there for a mere 3 years, resigned to work for PBR.  (HR at PBR…PBRHR?)

So since I am that unfortunate new person who still has to prove to her that I won’t take her bullshit, she shuffled over to my desk in her tiny little witch boots when she got the news on Tuesday afternoon.  “Did you hear?” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.  “Did you hear about Kaitlyn?”

I did.

“Oh, I’m just beside myself,” she sobbed.  “First my cat, now this?”

Uh huh.

“Well,” she sniffed, drying it up.  “When I’m feeling a bit more…you know, stable…do you think you could show me how to use my Blackberry?”

This, this right here, is what I refer to as a “suicide pig.”  It’s anyone who gets some kind of thrill out of sadness or loss or a big change.  Anyone who uses it as a chance to advertise themselves and their feelings to the entire world.

I came up with this phrase when I still worked at the fucktard writing studio.  A woman had, unfortunately, shared a story she wrote about her brother’s suicide, or a story that in some way mentioned her brother’s suicide.  Before the next class meeting, I overheard this other tubby cunt going over and over with the instructor the fact that she had been “inspired” by the story shared last week, and had changed her ideas, and then sat down and wrote an entire story about, what the fuck do you know, suicide!  “And I just, you know, I don’t want to be insensitive, I don’t want to, you know, like, make Diana uncomfortable, so I mean, could you just read my story and let me know if it’s acceptable?”  She was so excited, she could hardly get her poorly-chosen words to flap out of her big wet fish mouth fast enough.  The instructor assured her that whatever she’d written would be fine.  “Okay, because I think, you know, that maybe the three of us, you, me, and Diana, should maybe sit down together and discuss how I don’t mean to hurt her feelings by writing about a suicide…”

Then on the class break, the original Suicide Pig cornered Diana by the teapot and struck up another conversation about it.  “OH I was just so nerrrrvous that you’d be offended!  I really hope you didn’t take my story the wrong way!”  Diana assured her that it was nothing to be worried about, her brother’s suicide had happened a long time ago and she didn’t have any problem talking about suicide.  “Oh thank goodness!  Well, do you, um, mind if I ask what happened exactly?”  Diana shared that her brother had hung himself.  “Oh gosh!  That must have been so awwwful!”  And the look on her face, the candy-sweetness in her voice, her giant wet mouth…one of the most gruesomely sick things I’ve ever seen.  If you’d told her there was fresh blood dripping from the ceiling she would have looked up and opened her mouth as wide as she could.

I am so tired of people’s plastic emotions, worn around the arm like Gucci purses.  I’m so tired of people processing death and sadness like it’s a fucking McGriddle.

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