Tag Archives: political type stuff

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.

The BM of the Year Award

whip stain

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

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

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

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

Watch this, I said it’s fun.

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

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

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

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

(Her italics, btw.)

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

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

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

Oh, Christ. Really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One ring to rule them all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as big scissor, cartoons, political type stuff, rage, The Pants, work

September 10, 2009 · 1:20 pm

Swine Stew

So now every day I go and play Librarian. It is great. Now that I don’t work in the basement for a shoe company, I no longer have to wear the season’s hot sneakers and t-shirts with names like “Number One Logo Tee” and “Favorite Logo Tee.” (Honestly, nobody wants to meet anyone who has a “favorite logo tee,” you know why? Because those people are useless to society. Useless.)

Now I have to go buy Working Lady clothes, and though I try not to shop at the places where the real Working Ladies shop, I keep finding the same shit. And I would kind of like to know why every women’s shirt has to have a goddamn ruffle running down the front. It’s like, Here are my tits. They are like a giant cake. A giant, frilly cake.

If I had it my way, I’d be able to find the perfect sweater vest, and I’d wear a tie every day.

There is dried coffee all over my computer today because yesterday the train driver decided to brake hard and sudden for a rat or something to run across the track. So, naturally, whatever was in my cup was suddenly shot into the air. When it landed, it splattered all over my face, hair, computer, and new sweater. I’d like to find the son of a bitch that did it and kill his dog. I’d wipe my knife on my pants and say “A dog for a rat, man.”

(I wouldn’t wipe dog blood on my Working Lady pants. Those are good ass pants.)

Dear Jon

One of the mini headlines on the paper today is “Can Obama revive an ailing health plan?” I don’t know if you want to call it conditioning or what, but I immediately thought “YES HE CAN!”

I don’t get all the ass crap over this health plan. Is there a problem with taking care of everyone? Maybe I just don’t understand politics, but that one time when they kept playing that clip on the news of the lady going “SOCIALIST! SOCIALIST! SOCIALIIIIIIST!” all up in O-Bomb’s face, I was like…what’s wrong with that? I mean, okay, communism and Nazism are taking it a little far. But Socialism is a-ok, USA! Get on it!

Really, though. People are all kinds of worked up and crying and angry about all this healthcare dog shit. And O-Bomb is up 24 hours a day, trying to knock America’s dick out of the dirt. I feel bad for him. And I’m happy he keeps getting up in the morning.

If anyone shoots him, I’m going to be really mad.

It’s funny to think that I have family mixed in with that pack of healthcare protest assholes down in the Batshit Crazy States. I mean, my aunt would throw a gay baby out the window of a moving car, then sodomize a Planned Parenthood worker with a rifle just to prove a point. What point? I don’t know, something about the right to have a rifle.

There’s so much political bullshit to work out, and Jon Stewart is on vacation. He should not be allowed to take vacations.

Moutharrhea

Office Banter: I kind of love it. I’m very, very good at it, too. It’s like magic!

Like when I walk by Cheryl’s desk in the morning, I know that when we’re done with the good morning how are you’s, I’m supposed to say something like “Just getting my coffee…ugh! Big day! Big day, Cheryl!”

I do need a bit of practice with Office Eating, though. At the rare times when I have to eat at my desk, I need to learn how to take smaller office-appropriate bites. My problem with food is that it is SO GOOD that I see it and I grab it and I go NGARRRRRR!!! whilst shoving it into my face hole. No, really, I make that noise. Then, when someone asks me a question or begins to engage me in some Office Banter, I’ve got to hack up a Nutra Grain bar whole, and shoot a bag of pita chips out of my nose just so I can answer.

What’s weird about this job is that my former boss was an epic champion at the Office Banter…except hers was more like office oral diarrhea. And you could tell she not only didn’t give a fuck what your response was, she was kind of hoping you would die of spontaneous combustion while you were answering her, so she could roast a vegetarian hotdog on your corpse. She would ask you the same mundane questions about the same mundane things every single mundane day, and then tell you later that you had a “clipped tone” when you answered her about what you were eating for lunch/reading/wearing. Absolutely insane. I mean, I couldn’t even get a piece of mail at work without that dickshit woman screeeeeaming to anyone who would listen, “OHHHH MY GOD!!! WHAT DID YOU GET? DID YOU GET SOME MAIL? WHAT IS IT? WHAT’D YA GET???”

Where I work now, nobody has time to sit and analyze exactly what people said and how they said it and write to HR and worry about the fact that said person might see through their fake-ass corporate bullshit and maybe that’s why she had a TONE…eeeeeeekkk I don’t knowwww. Nobody cares. And I can honestly say that nobody has asked me ONCE what I am eating for lunch. And the other day, the real test happened: I got an envelope from FedEx for personal reasons, and NOBODY SAID A WORD.

You know why? Because nobody gives a flying fuck.

Because, lunch? Mail? Yeah, they happen every day. Like, around the same time. No big deal, dog.

Sub Woofer

Anyone remember that Snoop Dogg show? Doggy Fizzle Televizzle?

It was this show where Snoop Dogg walked around with his penis hanging out of his pants, dragging on the ground. He would go to the studio and listen to some fly ass beats and then go count some money and give quarters to teenage girls to blow him. And MTV or somebody similar filmed it all and put it on TV. It was kind of cool, I guess. He did that “izzle dizzle nizzle” shit a lot, which got old pretty fast, but I think he realized that. Which is probably why the focus of his next show was his bitch-ass wife, who had so many Asian women on her housekeeping staff, she just didn’t know what to do with herself and so always complained about having to clean her house.

Oh, and you were supposed to think of Snoop as this big old pussywhipped Father-Knows-Best type of dad…you were supposed to forget that time he taped a bunch of college girls eating each other out for that Girls Gone Wild idiot.

Whatever happened to that guy?

sick piggy party

OK SO it’s officially only the fourth day that students are back at This Place Where I Work Now That Might Be A Major University…and there’s ALREADY a campus alert because somebody has a confirmed case of H1N1. And every orientation session I’ve sat in on has been filled with nothing but the sound of coughing fits and sneezing and nose-blowing. It’s ridiculous. Some of these people are wearing goddamn surgical masks, and others are reaching across desks to grab an unwrapped piece of candy off someone’s notebook.

And, of course, about half of these douchebaggy B-school dudes just walk around coughing blatantly into the air in front of them without even an attempt to cover.

I’m not saying that smart people don’t get sick, I know that’s not true, because I get sick and I’m smart as shit. I’m just saying I think it’s weird that these people could build complex business models to measure and forecast all kinds of things I can’t even pronounce or understand, yet they seem unable to grasp the notion that you shouldn’t lick your finger after it’s been in someone’s asshole.

Especially if that someone has SWIIINE FLUUUU. HelLO?

Scab Artist

We were leaving our apartment, Agent Big Guns and I, and what walked to the door but this thing I think we’re supposed to consider Our Neighbor. He had scabby looking blonde dreadlocks, dirty Nike high tops, ripped cargo shorts, a reprinted (to LOOK worn out) Joy Division t-shirt, a sweatband, and hot pink sunglasses. AHhahahhahahah it’s too great! He’s probably a sidewalk chalk artist! Or a photographer who likes to take a bunch of pictures of his girlfriend’s arm or his bike chain or his dog’s turds. Ahahahhahahahhahahhahahaoowwwch!

Shit Face Makes a Statement

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

Someone should spank his asshole.