This motherfucker brings a LOADED goddamn GUN to a town hall meeting, then he goes on Hardball wearing a MOTHERFUCKING T-SHIRT with a SUNSHINE ON IT.
Someone should spank his asshole.
Tag Archives: assholes
My Humble Act Ends with a Tap Routine
Skankbaby
My new-ish neighbors are total assholes. I hate to sound like a really unfeeling human being, but I don’t understand how the economy could be so bad that a young couple could move out of a comfortable first floor apartment next door, and a family of fifteen could move in. These people are so goddamn skanky and loud. There is almost always a crowd in the 4×4 strip of front yard they have, up to the wrought-iron fence by the sidewalk, and a grill, and a baby pool, and trash, and a fat man screaming for everyone to take off their shoes before they go in the fucking house. Beyond the sidewalk is another strip of (public) grass, next to the street, where they have been depositing each turd lain by their three dogs in their enclosed lawn. I know this because I have been noticing the stink on my way past on particularly hot days. Finally, someone busted them for it, because I saw the landlady explaining to the fat patriarch that no, you don’t own that property by the street, and even if you did, you would be expected to pick up your dog’s shit and dispose of it. And the fat man responded by playing totally dumb, “Oh, really? Okay, yeah, because, I didn’t know that, okay, wow, uh huh.”
If I lived above or below these people I would be so pissed. I just live Next Door and I don’t like it.
Am I just a cunt for expecting a reasonable level of quiet? I must be old and crotchety because I can’t stand it when they leave the bathroom window vent open and I have to listen to the only words of “Single Ladies” that the neighbor girls know. And they have this new punishment for the baby when it cries, which is to leave it sitting on the sidewalk in front of my building, where its “time out” spot has been designated, while they destroy the sidewalk in front of their building with gang signs and tributes to Michael Jackson in pastel sidewalk chalk. So the little thing sits there in its filthy diaper, screaming in its frustration, and I’m at the point where I’d go out there and pick it up and play with it just to get some peace and quiet, as it sits directly in front of my open street level window. Mind you, that would be a sticky endeavor, because the skankbaby looks like it has been rolled in melted candy and dirt, in that order, and even has dirt between its little baby fat rolls and under its tiny fingernails. I would go over and ask if I could wash their baby for them, but then I’m sure they’d get uncomfortable as their shortcomings as parents were pointed out by a gringa, then come over and collect their baby, cooing and smiling, then in a couple of weeks they’d just start leaving it in front of the other neighbor’s house.
Do the Basil
I really, really don’t like it when people say they’re going to “do” food items, or when people use the proper names of places as verbs.
You know, as in, “Ummmm….um um um um ummmm…I think we wanna doooo the tomato? And basil? Yeah, let’s do the tomato and basil, and I’m gonna do the blackened salmon.”
“I’m gonna do the turkey burger.”
“We’re going to do the pinot.”
People usually say shit like this WAY LOUDER than they need to, and while they’re saying it, they’re pointing to a menu as if the waiter is going to need to read it, like even though their voice is LOUD, the menu must be utilized to illustrate exactly what they want. Sometimes, and this is the worst, they look across the table and nod, big-eyed, at whomever they happen to be eating with, like, “Do we agree that we’re going to do green peppers on the pizza? Did I get that right??”
Okay, but waaaay worse than this is reading on someone’s Facebook or hearing someone designate where they’re going to be by turning that place into a verb. Such as:
“I’m probably going to Denver it in the fall.”
“I’ll get in touch with you when we Chicago it.”
“We Seattled it in March…why didn’t you come?!”
This is quite possibly one of the most douchebaggy things a person can do.
Speaking of Facebook, however, it’s also really awful and annoying when people refer to it in public, in loud, open conversations, as “FB.” Now, I’m guilty of abbreviating it as such when I’m writing an email, but I swear to Christ that in my head I’m thinking the whole word. A tub of shit walked past me yesterday at the Art Institute saying, “Well then she put that thing on my F.B.” Just like that! EFF BEE. I emitted another, now famous, audible “yeuuugh.”
Once I was at a movie with Agent Ventura and, just after something funny happened in the movie, a girl in the midst of seven or eight friends just behind us said, “Oh my God I’m gonna post that on someone’s wall when we get home.” Like it’s not enough to laugh at it and enjoy it AS IT IS. We need to immediately plan to post it on “someone’s” wall. It doesn’t matter who. Just someone. Just get it done.
(As I recall, we thought that was really annoying, and we had plastic theater cups that were 1/4 Sprite and 3/4 Smirnoff. Then we went to the bar next door and had some beer and she told me she was going to New York, and we got all emotional and cried and stuff, then I went home and puked in the sink, then I went to work the next day feeling like someone had filled my head with nails. But I STILL thought the Facebook thing was annoying.)
Pancake Boots
I have now been job searchin’ for three months. I have not gotten so much as a phone call. I am seriously confused about this, as I have experience in things, and am a smart girl, and at this point I am even applying to places like that one place, which will not be named, which sells those famous pancakey looking boots with sheep wool on the inside. YEAH. I applied THERE.
It’s nice, though, that libraries which have not even offered you an interview send you a nice rejection letter to let you know they went with another candidate. Duh, assholes. But thanks for making me feel like I was, briefly, a candidate.
I don’t know, I guess I’m like, an artist, or whatever…
What bothers me sometimes is that I talk to these guys who have like a thing that they do…you know, like they’re drummers or photographers or painters or something. This is the problem with Chicago, it’s that every dude you meet is so far “into” something that he’s got his head twisted backwards and crammed up his ass. His art is the most important thing in his life. I mean, it’s typical for guys to basically be more focused on themselves and their stuff than they are on anything else, and for the most part, I think that’s the way it should be. I LIKE people who have a passion and are in pursuit of it. You’d be boring if you didn’t. But what annoys me are boys who are so focused on climbing, both socially and artistically, that they just become really phony and shallow. It’s really too bad. I don’t believe you can be true to any sort of artistic vision and still be into all that “networking” shit.
Uh, anyway, what I meant to say is that I always get myself into these “talking to” positions with boys who do stuff, and I never seem to like it, and I always have to pretend that I do. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of what these guys do is good, but it’s never exactly anything I find any interest in beyond appreciating what it is for that moment. Most of them can do their craft pretty well, they’ve got the technique, but son of a bitch, since when are technique and talent the same fucking thing?
So I smile and nod and say “Oh you’re really very good at it!” which is true, usually. But it always starts to wear on me, like, Ugh, if I end up dating this guy I am going to have to pretend for a million years to be really moved by whatever he does. And I can never be honest. It’s hard to ignore the lack of respect you have for someone’s thing.
I was once accused of having a “humble act.”
I was accused of this by a boy who I was face down, ass up in loooove with*. He was reminding me of something I’d written that he’d read, he was listing its merits and forgiving the things that were wrong with it, just going on and on about how greeeeaaaat it was. At the time, he had his hand on my upper thigh, and I don’t know about you but I don’t trust anything that comes out of someone’s mouth when their hand is that close to my lady bits. So I said he should stop it, that I didn’t want to talk about it.
He removed his hand from Lady Bit Zone, grabbed his beer, and as he brought it to his lips he looked away and said, “Oh, fine, go on with your little humble act then.”
This bothered me for kind of a long time, because I was in LOVE with him, so his simple opinions had the ability to tie me to a tree by my ankles and gut me and leave me draining blood and swinging in the wind. It bothers me sometimes to this day, a little bit, because I am often scared of being as fake as I see others being. But not so much anymore, because I’ve seen a true humble act now, officially. It has a lot to do with cultivating attention, which is what the most self-serving of “artists” needs in order to keep creating, which is why some people feel the need to be so goddamn loudmouthed and open and public about what they’re doing while they’re doing it. What keeps them going isn’t the drive to do what they claim to have the drive to do, it’s the attention they get for it along the way. It’s sickening to have someone’s half-assed crap shoved in your face before they’ve given it a second thought, or to be asked to follow the “development” of someone’s art project every step of the way, while assholes with no accomplishments except stupid tattoos and checkered scarf collections constanly fellate their comments section with stuff like “Dude this is looking so rad.” And they, of course, respond politely, humbly, “Aw, thanks guys!”
THAT is sick.
When did people forget about the benefits of solitude? If you’d shut the fuck up about yourself I might be inclined to look at what you’ve done.
*This same boy sometimes wore a t-shirt that said “I’M WORKING ON MY NOVEL.” What’s funny about that is that HE WAS.
Filed under Uncategorized
Rachel Bilsonned.
I’ve only ever written one love letter, and the boy I gave it to responded by “coming clean” about the fact that he had a girlfriend, and had the entire time we knew each other, and had just asked her to marry him. He confessed that his dalliance with me was a symptom of cold feet.* Then he told me that he’d used bits of the love letter, and other correspondence from me, to serve as dialogue for a female character (with a man’s name) in the script for a television show pilot he’d just sold to Fox for $7,000.
(Some of you already know this story. I know, I know.)
Do you know what it’s like to watch the new Fox show lineups on the off chance that this show is actually made, and some man-hating bartending actress ends up broadcasting my personal correspondence??
Now that guy was a stupid motherfucker.
I do not write love letters anymore.
*This is when I coined the term “Rachel Bilson” as a verb, as in “Don’t fucking Rachel Bilson me” and “Are you Rachel Bilsonning me right now?!” meaning, of course, don’t treat me like Zach Braff treats Rachel Bilson in that awful, awful, AWWFUL movie The Last Kiss, which is about pretty, successful, happy assholes who fuck around before they get married and make up for it with a Coldplay soundtrack.
Filed under Uncategorized
Of Front Yards and Bone Shards
My neighbor is a lawn revisionist.
He must plan all day long, painstakingly dissecting a blueprint layout of his yard, adding flowers and small trees and calculating the best sunlight at certain times of day. He must work on it all night long, when it’s not as hot out, rearranging shrubbery and tossing day-old geraniums into the trash like rejects from the bakery. I say this because I go home after work, and the yard looks one way. I go out at night, I come home in the dark, and he’s always out there with the hose, lurking in the shadow of the hedge, but not in a menacing way. In the morning, I leave for work, and the lawn has been reinvented.
I think perhaps “lawn” is not the right word for what this is. The man’s home is squooshed between a three story apartment building and a dilapidated church. I think that he is somehow affiliated with the church, because I’ve seen him locking and unlocking the front and side doors, going in and out. I’ve watched him dump garbage cans full of pieces of wood and dusty window coverings into the dumpster in the alley. I’m not sure what else he has time for between maintaining the brokedown house of God and revising his yard, and I would like to know how one goes about making a living from cleaning up after a nonexistent congregation, because there is yet another abandoned church right across the street from the one my neighbor has laid claim to, and another just a block away, and I would be happy to quit my job and care for either, if that’s all I would have to do. I would live on a street of dead centers of worship, pour rat poison along the baseboards once every week, and live happily ever after.
Anyway…what? Oh yes, well, my neighbor lives in this little cottage-style house between the big deceased church and the apartment building. It looks squatty and small in comparison, but it really is very shady and cute, and it has this path that runs along the side of it, over which he’s built an arbor of sorts for vines and roses (although he sometimes clears the arbor of all natural growth and starts over again, just the bare wood showing). The front rectangle of lawn is what he spends the most of his concentration on. He has outfitted the perimeter with a tiny fence. The fence holds flower boxes, which sometimes contain transplanted strawberries, and other times African violets from plastic grocery store containers, and neither for very long. Most of the patch of lawn is shadowed by the overhang of the little house, which provides extra shade as it’s covered with growth. There are a few small trees lining each side of the lawn, and all do their part to add more secrecy to the center.
Last summer, the neighbor got rid of the hippie-style wicker chair that consisted of a base, a bowl-shaped center that settled down into it, and a pink pad that went into the curved center. By “got rid of,” I mean he turned the seat parts into planters and threw out the pink padding. He purchased a small black iron loveseat type of thing, with a shade over it, and a wrought-iron fire pit contraption to go in front of it. The back of the seat faces the street, the front faces the fire pit, and beyond that is the giant picture window, the shade for which is always, always open, so that I sometimes see the neighbor and a friend playing a silent game of chess behind the glass on my way here or there.
A few days ago, the seat had been accented with a long, red satin cushion that looked like it was straight from Suleiman’s garden. Not only was the fire pit blazing, but there were about seventeen mini tiki torches sparkling with tiny flames all over the place. I couldn’t help but stop for a second and take it all in, it was very pretty. The fences were spilling over with blood red flowers, flat pillows with sparkling gold threads lay on the ground next to the fire pit, glittery gold curtains line the sides of the loveseat and the edges of the picture window. The tiny trees held mini strands of yellow lights, and the concrete path was overflowing with yellow and red flowers, bursting color like split arteries. The weird thing was that nobody was sitting in the yard, the house was dark, and I got the distinct feeling that my neighbor was not even home.
And the next day, it was all gone. Flowers, lights, cushions, curtains. The ground along the path, the dirt in the fence boxes, it all looked like it had been dumped out and poured back in. The fire pit basin was overturned on its stand, holding a giant Jif peanut butter can with a sick-looking sapling in it. A rat darted out from behind the fence and across the street.
Meanwhile, my other neighbor is training her toddler in persistence. I lay out in the sun, pretending to read, watching them in their yard. She drags the plastic baby pool out of the shed and sits back on the swing, watching while the baby wobbles to the rusty spigot on the side of the house, struggles to turn it on, fills his plastic cup with water, which always overtakes him and splatters all over him. With his cup half full, as the force of the water usually blasts off from the bottom and empties the cup, he strains to turn off the spigot. He wobbles across the yard to his baby pool, pours in the few drops that have survived the journey, and returns, slowly, to the faucet. Every now and then, she takes pity on him and puts the hose on a slow trickle and sticks it over the edge of the pool. But most of the time she just watches and smokes and smiles at passersby.
The booze closet.
I haven’t had a drink in 27 days, and from what I can tell, it doesn’t do much but allow you to see all of the fine details on everything flying out of the unhinged archives in your mind. I suppose that is the point.
Tomorrow I will have completed my self-imposed rehabilitation period. I almost didn’t notice it, the absence of beer. Sometimes on my evening jogs I will see a band of hipsters on their way to some lawn party, carrying black plastic bags from the liquor store, and thirsty and hot, I will think I’m going to die if I don’t get a freezing cold shot of Patron as soon as is humanly possible. But I think that’s just because I drink that so cold, and it’s more like water than alcohol on its way down, which is all I want on mile 2.
Unfortunately, I am not sleeping any better, and the 4pm panic that hits daily still carries the same intensity, and goes from “I am not doing enough” to OH MY GOD I AM NOT DOING ANYTHING. It’s the feeling of inertia that flattens me to the wall and sends me into a daily tailspin. I have the constant thought of I should be more than this, now, which does nothing but answer the question of “Who are you?” with Not enough. That’s enough self-inflicted pressure to drive anyone up the wall.
For instance: I feel extremely guilty for sitting here, on a Saturday afternoon, in the shade on this patio, analyzing the breeze and the human traffic and receding into my head, while there are people to be called and haircuts to be gotten and research to be done and emails to be written. In between each sentence I read or write is a repetition of You lazy fucking asshole! Get a job!
There is one change between my sober self and my actively drinking self, which is the amount of caffeine I take in daily. This, you could say, would be the reason for my insomnia and rapid-fire panicked thoughts. I basically swapped alcohol for extra caffeine. I drink it in the morning to avoid a day-killing headache, and again in the afternoon I will allow myself a quad espresso so that I can function properly, maybe even positively. I drink them all the time, but I don’t understand why quad espressos are legal. They should not be.
My mother told me that when I feel my thoughts dragging toward the negative, muddling my brain, I should try a little trick she read about in some women’s magazine. You’re supposed to snap yourself out of it by “thinking faster,” that is, speeding up the tempo of your thoughts. I suppose the point is to get them over with in a hurry, or blast them out of your head just by multiplying them until they cancel each other out, but I think I must be adept at this already, too good at it to trick my thoughts into being positive. If I sped them up any more, I’d be splattering everyone with gray matter and skull shards every five seconds, which is about the rate at which I remind myself that I need to be doing more, better, faster, sooner.
By the way
It’s not that I hate carefree or positive people, I just think they’re stupid. If I ask what you’re doing, and you respond that you’re “chillin’ and hustlin’,” or something to that effect, I am just going to think that you’re dumb. I wasn’t asking because I wanted to be entertained. I was asking because I genuinely wanted to know. This means either that you did not want me to know, or you do not want to know yourself. If I ask you what’s up, and you respond “You know, I’m just workin it, bangin it out,” you are catching your ankle on that trip wire in my brain that makes me think, “Ugh” and not want to talk to you anymore.
Maybe I’m just bored with endless niceties and meaningless conversation. Or maybe most people are just douchebags filled with cherry-scented antiseptic ointment.
At least it’s cherry. I don’t think I could deal with vanilla.
Filed under Uncategorized
Git yo money, kill somebod-day
I think I dated this boy:
He didn’t wear that black hat or have those pubic hairs on his chin, but he definitely talked like that when he drank too many Miller Lites, and he answered the phone “Yo” when his friends called, said “Peace” before hanging up, and called them “my boys” and me “my girl.” He wore a Cubs cap all the time and once referred to his “boys” as “my pimps and my nargles.”
I said, “What does that mean?”
He paused.
I said, “You don’t know what that means, do you?” And I left the room.
He was from Rockford, Illinois.
Filed under Uncategorized
The Wet Dildo Brains Book Club
As I was leaving, Mung Face asked me what book I was reading. She leaned exaggeratedly around my right breast, where I was holding the book with one arm, trying to read the title. I told her the title.
“Ohhhh. What’s it about?”
If there’s one thing I hate it’s small talk. If there’s another thing I hate it’s small talk with people who have wet dildo brains. Especially when they’re acting all interested in something they’re going to forget within ten minutes, and you’re just trying to get the fuck away from them.
I also hate telling people what books are “about.” Especially when they’re idiots like Mung Face who read action adventure paperbacks about sea voyages. That kind of shit is easy to sum up: look at the fucking cover where there is a picture of a boat on water and you GET it.
This had to be written by two people because it was too much "riveting" for one person.
(The weird thing is that Mung Face is clearly in the middle of her action adventure paperback, because that is where she opens it to start reading, but then she talks straight, pointless bullshit to whoever will listen while she holds the book in front of her. THIS is why people think I’m open to conversation when I’m reading, because when dumb motherfuckers “read” a book they don’t even pay attention to the letters and words and sentences within it. They just sort of, you know, hold it out, turn the pages. I don’t understand this. I wish they would stop, so that people would understand that silent reading is not an activity that should invite idiotic conversation. I’m not open to it. I consider you coming up to me and starting a conversation about your new flip flops from Old Navy to be an interruption of a very important conversation I am having with my book. Now fuck off.)
So, yeah. It’s dumb to try to explain the plot of Bel Canto, winner of the PEN/Faulkner Award, to someone who reads Clive Cussler paperbacks. And I’m not even saying that just because she’s a total idiot and I’m a smartypants. I mean, that factors in, of course, but I don’t see why I should waste my breath on someone who doesn’t even really actually care what I’m saying. So here is what I say:
“Oh, uhm, it’s uh, it’s about a dinner party. And some terrorists take everyone hostage, and they’re hostages for a long time…”
And here’s what Mung Face, that fucking pleasant piece of dumb shit, had to say in response to my answer to HER FUCKING QUESTION:
“Oh uuhhhh, WEIIIRD! Whatever!”
Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.
So, I wanted to say, “Eat fucking shit and choke on a rotten, diseased cock, you twat from Hell.”
Instead I just smiled and told her to have a good day. Sometimes my tongue hurts from biting it. So. Hard.
Today I got my new dress in the mail. It’s super cute:
This bitch don't look half as cute as I do in this dress.
I didn’t have a date for Agent Balboa‘s upcoming birthday celebration, so I bought a new dress to wear instead.
I have decided that it is best to throw money at my dissatisfaction with my late 20s until it goes away.
Filed under Uncategorized
Cupcake Heartbreak 