Tag Archives: tv

God and a Good Time

It’s listening…

The new Apple TV has a new feature that I’m sure lots of normal people would be interested in using but it only makes me more anxious. Or maybe I’m the normal person and all the rest of these freaks are the weird ones for talking to their televisions?

For starters, the whole remote experience is different. Where you once had a choice between three buttons, you now have a totally over-sensitive track pad, which is also a giant button. I’m so serious about this stupid track pad. If you so much as look at it, it pauses your movie or starts running it backwards at a seizure-inducing speed or just smugly turns the whole shebang off and drops you back into normal TV with a shudder, like oh fine are you happy now? Now nobody can watch HBO GO! The other buttons are the old Menu button that gets you in and out of apps, and the play/pause button, without which we’d all be stuck. I don’t have any fucking idea what that button with the little TV icon is for. I also don’t know why I need volume control when I already have it on the TV remote, but okay.



The offending and most confusing button is the one with the microphone. You’re supposed to talk to your Apple TV now, as if that’s just the most normal progression of technology in the world. I feel like a crotchety old lady about this stuff, but I’m going to resist this movement because I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to get caught standing in my kitchen, screaming MAKE TOAST MAKE TOAST at the toaster while it says “Here is what I found for baked roasts.” So now there’s this button smack dab in between the two classic and most oft-used buttons, and I press it accidentally all the time and before I realize what’s happening, the screen has gone black and a terrifying little message comes up that says LISTENING… and I’m just supposed to be okay with that.

You’re supposed to take advantage of this and become even more lazy and thoughtless about your television consumption. Or maybe it’s supposed to streamline your iTunes purchases and Netflix viewing? I don’t know. You’re supposed to say stuff like “Val Kilmer” or “Movies with a strong female lead” or maybe “Movies with Val Kilmer dressed as a female” and it’s supposed to think about it and get back to you and tell you to watch Willow for the 3,000th time. I’d like it to stop listening to snippets of my conversations when I accidentally hit the button and telling me to watch Guy Ritchie movies. So I have made a list of things to ask it.

Things I want to ask the Apple TV:

I like movies. Do you like movies?

Can you find me two things on Netflix that are not total crap?

Find me a movie in which the weather is what it will be like here tomorrow.

Did Steve Jobs tell you any secrets before he died?

Is Steve Jobs telling you secrets now?

Why do you keep suggesting that I watch the movie “Ouija”?

Is the movie “Ouija” about Steve Jobs?

You are listening to me at night, aren’t you?

leg hunt

When I was in junior high, I spent a week out of every summer at the Southern Illinois Christian Service Camp, “Where God and a Good Time Go Together.” As I recall, what we did there really didn’t have much to do with service, but okay. I just remember being super excited about being there because we got to go swimming every day and we stayed up late at night and those things alone were worth putting up with the endless barrage of Jesus crap they made us eat. I mean seriously, it was God o’clock all the tiiiiime in that shit hole. And it was a shit hole, one year I was putting my sister’s New Kids on the Block sheets on my wafer-thin plastic mattress, and when I lifted it up, there was a pile of sand and a calcified white hermit crab claw under it, as if some poor unfortunate crab had been forced to chew its own claw off to escape the place. The bathrooms smelled like sewers and the shower walls were moldy, mold upon mold upon years of mold, so it was like showering in a greasy cave.

The kids there thought I was funny but otherwise did not take me seriously. I never had a Camp Boyfriend and it seemed like everyone else did. I didn’t wear makeup and I didn’t know how to do my hair and my only Cute Outfit was a pink and white striped t-shirt tucked into white drawstring shorts that I pulled up to my neck. I didn’t wear a bra yet because I had no boobs and I was pretty sure you waited until you had tits to strap them down. But according to the girls at camp, you wore one because you were supPOSED to wear one, because how else will anyone know you’re a girl and want to date you? They were so right, with their French braids and Eastland shoes and bras. Having struck out hard core with the dudes at home, who thought I was weird, and then believing I could be totally different with a new group of kids a few hours away but falling flat on my face there, too, I realized that I would just have to deal with the fact that I was perpetually a weirdo and did not fit into any social groups. I was okay with being the funny kid, but I vowed to study what the others did that made them so successful with one another. Boys did sports stuff and said dumb things to make people laugh, and girls were mostly quiet and did their hair really good. I learned this by following around the established couples and taking pictures of them, which I would develop and study later, which was, admittedly, a bit weird, so maybe that’s why most of the kids and adults there thought I was a creep. It could also have something to do with the fact that one summer I found a pair of perfectly good Airwalks that someone had thrown over a power line and spent hours throwing rocks at them until they unraveled and fell, then wore them around even though they were two sizes too big for me because having nice shoes is one of the main things you have to do if you want a junior high boy to hold hands with you. So basically I was a church camp kid (strike 1) shuffling around in gigantic power line shoes (strike 2) taking clandestine photographs of prepubescent lovebirds and studying their hairstyles and mannerisms (I’m out. Fine! Okay.).


OPPORTUNITY: Don’t wait for your shoes to fall. Throw shit at them for a while.

(Now that I’m remembering all of this, I’m realizing I should have been nicer to the fat kid at school who told all of us one day that he had a girlfriend but we’d never meet her because she lived in North Dakota and her horse training job kept her too busy to visit. I should probably have recognized that he and I were mired in the same pit of total middle school despair and been kinder to him, or maybe I could have laughed a bit quieter, or not at all, but really I didn’t want to think that he and I were anywhere near one another on the spectrum. Because he was near the garbage end, in constant threat of being shot out the sphincter and joked about for the rest of his life, and I, having considered the old Fake Boyfriend storyline many times before, was by proxy only a hair’s breadth away from the same fate. I guess that’s why everyone is such a fucking asshole in school, though: everyone identifies with everyone else’s struggles, and it’s just too scary to think about so you say something mean and feel a little better? I’ll never be like you because I’m laughing at you! AHHAHAHAHHAHA cryinnnng.)

OK but anyway, Jesus Camp. It was really just a microcosm of the school experience, but God Was Watching All The Time so everyone had to be nice at least on a phony level. Like the really nice girl who came up to me at the pool and very nicely pointed out that I should start “shaving, you know, down there” because we were at the age where we were starting to get hairy and “you’re a little bit hairy now so you’re only going to get MORE hairy and I’m just letting you know because everyone is laughing” and everyone was laughing because now everyone was specifically looking for my crotch fluff at the most secret edges of my teal one-piece Wal-Mart bathing suit with the scuffed-up butt. Anyway, she said it really loud because she wanted to make sure God could hear her being so nice to me. It was a lot of stuff like this, interrupted every few minutes by a chapel bell ringing, meaning we all had to run to church and watch videos about Jesus or listen to a preacher talk about how touching each other was “Playing with FIYAHHHH” or watch skits about how to be friends with each other. There were these little classes we had to take during the hottest part of the day, where we sat wilting under shitty little awnings, listening to stories about Jesus and doing activities that were supposedly sanctioned by Him but conveniently came out of little workbooks that the camp counselors read from. You were supposed to be part of a giant group prayer about every five minutes. Every night, we suffered through Cabin Devotionals, which were just about the worst thing ever, because the best part about church camp was staying up late in the dark and not having any adults around to tell you what to do. But before you could do that, you had to sit in a circle on the floor and the counselor would tell you God stuff you were supposed to think about.

One year, our cabin counselor was a lady with one leg. Leigh Anne had that crinkly yellow 80’s hair that always looked wet with bangs that looked like some kind of scouring pad stapled to her forehead. She usually wore a prosthetic leg with a white New Balance shoe attached to the bottom of it, walking with a single crutch on that side to help her along. Sometimes, she went without the leg and zoomed across camp on two crutches, the empty flap of her shorts dangling loose on one side. Leigh Anne was nice, but she scared me because she had one leg and I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to talk about it or not.


My, what a nice and also realistic leg.

The leg was nice, I guess, but definitely not a top-of-the-line model, as far as  prostheses go. It looked like it was made out of the same material as those stretchy ankle bandages you wrap around an appendage when it’s sore but not broken. It was the same color of No. 2 pencil eraser, too. It was always a little bit dirty and it smelled kind of bad from the stump sweat and it sometimes had one of those scrunchy ribbed socks on it, the kind that you pull up then push down like some kind of poofy ankle decoration. Sorry to linger on the smell, because I know these things can’t be helped, but the thing definitely counted as a stanky leg.

One night during Cabin Devotionals, Leigh Anne lowered herself to the floor by sitting on a bunk and then scooting herself over to the circle on her butt. Her sweaty stump stuck out from under her nightgown and I was so glad when she sat far away from me, on the other side of the circle. Of course, that treated me to a view of the stump, but it was better than having the stump brush against my arm or being able to smell the dank air coming from her crotch, where the prosthetic had been situated all day in the 100 degree heat. As the leg looked on from its post, leaned up against some poor unfortunate soul’s bunk across the room, Leigh Anne shared with us the sad tale of losing her leg to cancer when she was in high school. She’d done a cheerleading stunt and landed on the leg, breaking it. The doctors found the cancer in her leg bone and amputated the leg and God and Jesus and “now I’m super happy to be here serving Him!” If you had asked me, which no one did, Leigh Anne got a shitty fucking deal. I’m pretty sure everyone else thought that, too, thereby missing the point of the devotional, but most girls were hung up on the whole “I used to be a cheerleader” thing because when you’re in middle school, that’s still a viable life goal and solid career path so the idea that there were such things as former cheerleaders, and through no fault of their own, now that was just too much to handle.

On the last night of camp, there was usually a scavenger hunt. We ran around in the dark with flashlights, screaming at nothing. My team had some clue about getting children to school, so OF COURSE we had to venture out to the old broken down school bus sitting at the edge of the property (doesn’t every church camp have one of those?) and look inside. We drew this creepy moment out longer than we had to by following the suggestion that maybe whatever we were looking for would be outside the bus, in the grass, maybe? So we shined our flashlights all around the bus, behind the flat, cracking tires, in the tamped-down weeds, but realized we’d have to look inside. So we reached up and yanked back the screechy bus door and climbed inside. I remember walking down the aisle of the bus, flashlight beams shooting around in all directions, when one of the girls near the front of the line screamed and ran out, quickly followed by the rest of us, but not before we’d all had a chance to lay eyes on it. There, in the last seat on the bus, by the exit door, was Leigh Anne’s stanky leg, foot on the floor and bent at the knee, as if some legless person had been sitting there when the rapture happened. You’re not going to sit here and tell me that rapture mindfuck wasn’t intentional. You could practically hear one-legged Leigh Anne cackling from some dark room where they’d hidden her during the scavenger hunt.


Get in! Jesus wants you to.

What was my big fear about the rapture anyway? Loneliness? A lake of fire? Maybe I wasn’t afraid of it, after all, because they never scared me bad enough to make me one of the kids who broke down crying and allowed themselves to be baptized in a giant tub in the chapel after dinner. Maybe I realized that earth after all these assholes would be slightly better than the assholey place it was at the time. You could wear whatever you wanted to the pool and have all the blow-up pool toys to yourself. You could break into the canteen and eat all the Whatchamacallits and WHO’S GONNA SAY SHIT? There won’t even be anyone left to punch your canteen card and keep track of what you owed. Boom. Sold! Later, y’all, have fun in heaven.

So, the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen was a prosthetic leg on a broken-down bus in the dark. These are the kinds of horrors reserved for your children at Christian church camps. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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Black Helmet II: The Dark Knight Takes a Nap

It’s winter. It’s cold. It’s dark. The ankle-deep snow and the boots and the pencil skirt make it increasingly difficult for me to stumble to the train every day. Everything leaks and stinks and drips and pools and soaks and is misery in its filthiest, most staining form. The dog is suffering from the Hot Monster Sharts which we’ve just discovered is a gastrointestinal parasite which causes urgency, diarrhea, and dog gas that is so bad you will have to burn your house down to get the smell out of the curtains, and while you’re standing there with your sick dog watching the house burn, you’ll wish you were inside letting the flames eat your flesh and clear your sinuses of the stink. So it’s a week- to two-week course of “treatment”, which is squirting chalky stuff down the throat of a struggling, scared, 60lb dog who just wants you to love him and gives you his WHY YOU PUNISHING ME? face the whole time. And then there’s the black helmet of clinical depression because my brain is fucking broken and won’t make enough of one chemical or another, and I’m eternally Vitamin D deficient even though they have me taking it twice a fucking day now, and I am STILL no fun to be around because all I do is stare at the TV and say things like “Her eyeballs are weird” and “I bet he’s such a fucking bitch in real life.” And a key part to fighting depression without brain-numbing, creativity-killing medication is to get your heart rate up for at least 30 minutes a day, which is literally the worst fucking thing anyone could tell you to do while you’re depressed, so cut to me at the gym every goddamn day, running on a treadmill in front of a gigantic television that only ever seems to show episodes of Duck Dynasty and that one show where poor people beg for money so they can develop their stupid ideas and sell them in a commercial at 4am. Except for that one time when the TVs were playing something different, one was a commercial for the Time-Life Johnny Carson Collection that played on loop, one was a documentary about mobsters with a lot of close-ups of the blown-apart heads and faces of gunshot victims from 1950s crime scenes, and one was some bitch with weird eyeballs eating french fries in front of her computer screen and talking into a headseat about hacking.

Glad we got that out of the way. What’s up with you?

Holiday Film Review, Part 2*

*I’ve been reminded that you maybe shouldn’t read these if you want to watch these movies and be surprised by stuff that happens in them. I believe that is called a “spoiler alert.” However, in my opinion, these movies are spoilers themselves, in that they spoil all that is good about film, and about the world in general. They will spoil your life. So there is your spoiler alert: these movies will make everything awful. Nothing in any of the movies I write about will surprise you if you go in with the knowledge that I hate everything and everything about the movie is horrible.

The Taking of Deborah Logan, 2014

What Netflix says happens in this movie: “For her Ph.D. thesis, Mia decides to film a woman’s Alzheimer’s battle, but when symptoms turn strange, the family suspects something more sinister.”

What really happens in this movie: Apparently when you get to medical school, they ask you to pick a disease out of a book or they spin a wheel and throw a ball that lands on one and then they make you go and figure out what it is and why it is. They also let you pick how you want to do that. For instance, if you want to make a stop-motion movie using some Play-Doh or old Ninja Turtles to teach people about Lou Gehrig’s disease, that’s cool. Apparently that is how we know everything we know about medicine. I for one am glad it works that way because if it wasn’t for that type of medical education, we would not have all of this excellent found footage, and plus nobody would have ever been able to get the devil or an evil spirit or anything on film! MEDICINE! It’s not just for taking at parties, y’all.

So this medical student wants to make a medical movie about Alzheimer’s because nobody knows anything about it or has ever seen it or studied it up close. I mean this movie takes place on a planet where we are totally in the dark about that stuff. So they hook her up with two camera guys and the three of them find a nice lesbian with an alzheimey mother. Mommy Skinflute’s symptoms so far have been a combination of forgetting things, wearing Ann Taylor clothes, and turning into a cartoon skellington. Daughter Lesbian is at her wit’s end because there’s bills and shit to pay on the farm and hospice care has been expensive and somehow the medical student has also been given money to pay whomever lets her attempt to film Alzheimer’s in motion. Maybe she’s just retarded and her parents are rich and they’ve given her some money and made her think she’s in medical school? Thus begins the greatest medical documentary of all time!



Mommy Skinflute is not cool with having a film crew and a nosy student in her house. Also she’s dealing with the fact that she’s totally dying of this disease and it’s making her do weird stuff and she’d rather not have it all caught on film. She’s right to feel that way because every time shit starts popping off, they run into her bedroom and she’s all naked and floating around or standing in the dark and slamming windows with her mind and shit. The student isn’t real sure but she’s thinking maybe this is not Alzheimer’s, and if it is, that’s messed up and also really cool that we got it on tape! Anyway, they’re getting a lot of embarrassing footage of Mommy Skinflute and the next day they insist on filming her while they show it to her, saying things like DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU TRIED TO PEEL YOUR FACE OFF, MOMMY SKINFLUTE? DO YOU REMEMBER THAT? and she’s fucking terrified and confused and also her face is half peeled off so she’s not feeling great. The medical student is like “We don’t want to be in the way” but naturally about 75% of the footage is taken through a window or peeking out from behind a door while Skinflute and Lesbian have a private conversation. “We will just be hiding behind the drapes here, filming you guys. Act normal.” So naturally Mommy gets mad and kind of annoyed with everyone because, let’s just pretend we’re dealing with a real Alzheimer’s patient here, I don’t think you’re supposed to follow them around and scare them and film them spacing out and then show that to them and be like “See how much your brain is deteriorating? Sad, huh?” But this is just for pretend so we’re going to do whatever we want.

So Mommy Skinflute goes for a brief stay in the hospital because of the flying around and growling and face-peeling. The doctor is like “Shit, guys, I don’t know what is going on here but clearly it’s probably the Alzheimer’s and it’s probably really aggressive. That’s probably what it is, maybe. Also, it’s totally fine if you want to film all of the goings-on in the hospital, including this private doctor/patient conversation, because HIPAA is not a big deal.” But of course, Mommy Skinflute can’t stay in the hospital, because more creepy things will happen at home, so home we go! Into about the third night of horror, Daughter Lesbian starts opening up about why she wears baggy jeans and flannel shirts all the time, and the answer isn’t because she’s a lesbian: it’s because her mom shamed her for being a lesbian! Oh no! Now the bitch is upstairs fucking spinning around on the ceiling! She also divulges that Mommy used to run a switchboard business to support her daughter’s flannel shirt habit and also there was this one guy who used to live in town who killed a whole lot of young girls? And threw them in the river out by the abandoned quarry? But he vanished years ago. Some say he moved to France and some say he is buried in Mommy Skinflute’s yard and his ghost haunts her brains and some say the whole thing was made up for the plot of a movie called The Taking of Deborah Logan. But sorry–what were you asking? What brand of adult diapers we buy for her?

I just want to know which evil spirit took my daughter away and replaced her with this lumberjack man.

I just want to know which evil spirit took my daughter away and replaced her with this middle-aged lumberjack man.

So they keep catching Mommy digging in the yard at midnight, or sitting in front of her old switchboard, naked as a jaybird, jamming the plug into the same switchboard number over and over until the damn thing explodes. She goes back into the hospital because of the explodey switchboard burns and begs to be killed, but everyone is like “Nope, we can’t, we have to film you doing stuff until you die.” One of her old buddies tries to grant her wish and a TV flies off the wall and smashes his head, but it’s cool because they put him straight into surgery and juuuuuust before he goes under, he tells Daughter Lesbian that Mommy Skinflute is harboring the spirit of the Little Girl River Killer! OH NO! IT’S NOT ALZHEIMER’S AT ALLLLLL. WHICH IS INTERESTING BECAUSE APPARENTLY POSSESSION HAS THE SAME SYMPTOMS?! But the show must go on, regardless of the change in diagnosis. Daughter Lesbian and the student filmmakers are now on a quest to find and destroy a bag of murder bones. They figure out that Mommy Skinflute murdered the killer when she found out Daughter Lesbian was going to be his next and final victim, and threw his bone sack in her yard. They go looking for it and realize that the bitch went out and dug it up a few nights ago and hid it in the attic. You know, when she was possessed by him, she hid his bones from herself. Make sense? I didn’t think so! Mommy Skinflute, you are henceforth required to tell us who you are at any given moment!

OK so are you like, possessed right now? Or did you just finish the rest of that baked ziti we had in the fridge? You have to tell us, that's the deal.

OK so are you like, possessed right now? Or did you just finish the rest of that baked ziti we had in the fridge? You have to tell us, that’s the deal.

They find the bag of stink bones up in the attic and then watch a documentary about how to properly dispose of a serial killer’s bones. I think they got it on Netflix. Anyway, the whole burn-them-in-the-fireplace operation does not go well. The fireplace explodes and throws them all across the room and one of the camera guys is like, “Fuck it, this is so dumb, I can’t be in this stupid movie anymore.” Everybody smiles nervously and they’re like “uhh you mean you’re not going to help us make this medical footage that is totally real heheheh?” and he’s like “No like I’m not going to be a part of this Millenium Entertainment/Eagle Films movie. You guys should leave too, this is the dumbest thing ever. I will drive you into town right now if you stop being in this movie.” You think you’re going to find him hanging in the woods behind the house later, you know, like nobody gets away that easily! but you’re wrong. He really did leave. He just straight up bailed on the entire thing.

Meanwhile, Mommy Skinflute is in the hospital repeatedly abducting a cancer child. She puts the kid into a trance and the two of them wander around the hallways into the Abandoned Part of the Hospital, which every hospital has, and if you didn’t know, now you know. They keep having to go get them and put Little Cancer Trance back to beddy-bye and strap Mommy Skinflute back to her bed. But! They didn’t think about the fact that Mommy Skinflute isn’t necessarily attached to her skin, and can remove it like a sock, and will do so in order to get out of hospital bed restraints. She can, and she does! Off they go, Cancer Girl and a skinless Mommy Skinflute, skipping up the mountainside to…duh duh DUHHHHHH…the Abandoned Quarry!

There are a lot of abandoned things in this town. If it were my hometown, all of this scary shit would be taking place in old Wal-Marts. At least this town has some cool things to abandon. The quarry is at the top of a hill in the woods and it’s flanked by some old lean-tos and boards. Scary boards! Our filmmaking medical student, her last remaining cameraman, Daughter Lesbian, and now some cops take off up the mountain after the hospital escapees. Of course, the first thing that happens is that Mommy Skinflute rips out the throat of one of the cops and instead of fucking calling for a helicopter with 20 guns on it and some tanks and RPGs like any other cop in the United States would do, the lady cop is like “I’m going to need your camera guy to take my cop buddy down the hill while we continue to track this elderly woman and mostly-dead kid through the woods.” So the camera guy is like “OMGOD, Medical Student! You have to film the rest of the movie!” She protests at first because she’s either being polite or she’s like me and she just honestly didn’t understand why, in this situation, first priority is making sure we get all this on film. They waste a bunch of time talking about “you haaaave to” and finally she takes the camera and the movie continues. There’s lots of running through the woods and climbing through shit in the quarry and screaming and stuff. You can pretty much fast-forward all of that. Just imagine some girl going OH MY GOD WHAT WAS THAT OH SHIT OH SHIT OKAY IT WAS JUST A LARGE FERN.

When you get to the part in the quarry where Daughter Lesbian and Medical Student crawl through  a long rock tunnel, you better fucking play that shit because your mind is about to get blown all the fuck over the place in ways you never saw coming. Holy hell. I cannot even tell you what they’re about to find around that corner, but I am definitely going to tell you what they find around that corner, because I have never cracked up so hard in my life. I almost fell off the couch and banged my head against the floor laughing. Because apparently, Little Girl River Killer has not only inhabited Mommy Skinflute’s body out of revenge, he also intends to finish the ritual he started 30 years ago. He is also part snake. And it is the snake part that is now inhabiting Mommy! So, of course, Mommy is attempting to fucking eat. the. cancer. baby. like. a. snake.



I have to say that I just started clapping at this part.  Motherfucker unhinged her own goddamn jaw just to eat this scrawny kid. That takes talent, and finesse. It’s sad, though, because clearly Mommy Skinflute is very hungry, and has been this way for the entirety of the movie, and what do these assholes do? They freak out and scream and make her barf up the kid’s head and bang some sticks together to chase her off into the quarry. It’s so fucked because you’re not really supposed to go out into nature and start messing with stuff. Who gave this medical student the right to go out into the wild and interfere with the circle of life, i.e., stop a nice lady who is possessed by a snake spirit and a murderer from eating what will likely be her only meal for 4-6 months that is something nobody will really miss because it was just sitting around in a hospital anyway?

Ugh, God. The movie ends with Mommy Skinflute in the nuthouse because the snake DNA scrambled her brain. What’s lucky though is that someone had the smarts to turn all of this helpful medical footage into a movie about a murdering snake spirit! Yay! And the movie ends with the little barfed-up cancer girl, who is no longer a cancer girl, but a totally normal girl who turns to the camera and glares like she’s saying “pssst: the murderer snake lives in me now.” I don’t know how that happened, but they will probably explain it all in a grainy 2-minute clip from an old documentary about murder snakes in the next movie. And there has to be a next movie because we never found out if having a snake mommy cured Daughter Lesbian of her flannel-shirt-and-Carhartt-pants addiction. Also we didn’t get to see our medical student “graduate,” meaning we didn’t get to watch her walk through her living room in her mom’s bathrobe with a square of cardboard on her head while her dad hummed “Pomp and Circumstance.” We need Part Two, dammit!

Any time Netflix has a movie that came out during the current year, I fucking watch it, because that trash knows no bounds. Especially if it’s some kind of supernatural trash. More trash! Keep bringing me trash! I want to put it all in my trash holes!

What other people are saying: “Very good scary movie and I am a pretty tough critic. This made me stop it at least 3 times to get my bearings and revisit it and didn’t finish the movie until the next day.” Maybe before you pressed play on this, you should have made sure you were not a GIGANTIC PUSS.

Divergent, 2014

What HBO says happens in this movie: “In a dystopian, post-apocalyptic world in which people are grouped within distinct factions based on their character traits, one girl stands apart. Shailene Woodley stars in this first adaptation of Veronica Roth’s best-selling book trilogy as the ‘divergent’ teen whose uniqueness makes her a threat to the conformist society in which she exists.”

What really happens in this movie: I’ll tell you what happens in this movie, Shailene Woodley happens in this movie, and she’s just like a big old baby face with a bunch of lip gloss smeared all over it. She lives in this world where nobody’s special, and everybody’s pre-destined to be whatever it is they’re going to be, and as if you didn’t already fucking know what was going to happen: she finds out in the first 10 minutes that she’s the EXCEPTION to all of this! She’s the most specialest in a world full of gray-and-navy colored dummies! She’s got all the courage and all the brains and all the heart and all the who knows what the fuck else because I wasn’t paying attention anymore to how their Future Society was broken down. It’s like watching the head cheerleader pull up in her new Mustang with her hot boyfriend and then get crowned Prom Queen and react like “oh my god, what? Me? Who knew it would be me?” Because, fuck off, of course it’s going to be her. The beginning of the movie is just a shit bucket full of Shailene Woodley looking at things like she’s thinking really sweet thoughts and then people saying “You’re so beautiful and wonderful, how did you get to be so beautiful and wonderful and also humble?” So she goes to take her futuristic Meyers-Briggs, which is done with needles and brightly colored serums in the future FYI, and the test administrator is like WOW you are all the things, a divergent (which is, oddly, the title of the movie??), go hide somewhere because everyone is going to be jelly of you and want to kill you.

This perm is going to look so rad, also it's going to let you know which vet school to apply for.

This perm is going to look so rad, also it’s going to let you know which vet school to apply for.

So right about the time you’re totally fucking sick of her shit and wishing she’d shut up, it’s Job Fair day, when all the kids of a certain age go down to the auditorium and decide what group they’re going to join for the rest of their lives. It means they have to move out of their parent’s house and get real jobs, so everybody’s real sad. They can choose to go to the Math & Science Academy where apparently everyone wears blazers that go down to the floor because what’s more intelligent than accidentally peeing all over your own clothes every time you go to the bathroom? They can also decide to join the Borings, who are actually two different clans of people: one group of them never looks in the mirror because they’re scared of ghosts or something, and the other ones are always picketing for world peace and handing out oranges, yawwwwn. Then there’s the group that always tells the truth about everything and of course nobody likes them because they’re always going to weddings and stuff and saying things like “I’m so happy for you but your invitation was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.” Finally there’s the Axe Body Spray club and these assholes just wear a lot of leather and run around jumping off shit and throwing collectible dragon knives they bought off the Internet. That’s pretty much all of your choices, unless you count the choice that nobody really wants, which is that you can just join nobody’s club and walk around on the streets all day with a bunch of mentally ill people. Not our girl! Not our specialest special!

Shoehorn Woodley chooses to join the Leather Daddies because they’re not scared of anything and she wants to show them what’s up. She also is quite fond of swishing her long beautiful hair around everywhere and wants everyone to see how great it looks when she’s jumping between concrete piles. Unfortunately, she finds out the first week that she has to shoot a gun and learn how to punch people and also piss and shit in an open bathroom area right next to everyone’s bunks. She was NOT expecting that. She gets the crap beat out of her a lot, but in a sexy way that doesn’t bruise up her face too much because nobody loves you if you’re busted. Mostly she gets beat up by this one bigger girl who is a total fucking bad ass at fighting but also is not very physically attractive because you can’t be both unless you’re Shinybean Woodley. On the bright side, they let her choose a new name for herself and she’s excited about that because she’s always hated being Sherbet Woodley and wants a new cool Axe Body Spray flavor for a name. She chooses “Tris” which I think is just about the biggest waste of a free name change I’ve ever heard of. You’d think she would go for Roboslop or Bangorn the Destroyer or at least Princess_Choppy117 or something. Nah, she shoots for the forgettable, because it’s not like she ever had the chance to get a degree in marketing, you guys.

"Can't I just beat her in like a waist measurement contest or can't we just ask all the dudes who they think is the prettiest?"

“Can’t I just beat her in like a waist measurement contest or can’t we just ask all the dudes who they think is the prettiest?”

Luckily, Twats doesn’t get banged up too bad and the hottest dude, who’s also kind of her training boss, starts to leave little notes in her locker and wink at her and stuff. He also notices that she’s a Divergent-type person and tells her to cut the crap or she’ll get herself killed. All the Leather Babies have to take these tests where they do a hit of acid and go running around in their own brains, which are hooked up to TV screens so everyone can watch everyone else deal with their worst fears, which is boring shit like getting attacked by birds and dealing with chronic IBS. Twats is, of course, the best at handling this scary stuff because she always remembers she’s on acid and remains level headed and is also perfect and beautiful and smart and aces the test every time and is then like “oh, what? What was my score again? I didn’t hear the announcement, I was busy being humble.” Fuck. But she has to knock that shit off and start faking bad test results because “Nobody’s ever scored that high!” of fucking course and it will look suspicious. You’re TOO GOOD, Twats! Simmer down!

Hot Leather apparently doesn’t care that she’s a stuck up asshole, because I guess her hair is SO pretty, and starts to hang with her on a daily basis. Some guy who’s jealous of her tries to throw her off a cliff, but Hot Leather saves her, and next thing you know he’s like “want to see all my tats” and she’s like ummm okay but this has nothing to do with me though? And his tats are all on his back so he has to take off his shirt and guess what! Now he’s shirtless and they’re making out and there’s NO RULES in this place, and he’s hot, and rarin’ to go, and I am sitting there screaming YEAHHH FUCK HER FUCK HER at the TV with popcorn chunks spraying across the room…but this fucking bitch pulls the plug because “I don’t wanna move this fast.”  I could not believe my eyes because WHAT’S THE USE OF HAVING GREAT HAIR AND WEARING LEATHER ALL THE TIME AND LIVING IN A PLACE WITH NO ADULT SUPERVISION IF YOU CAN’T DO SEX ON HOT DUDES.



Hot Leather has a heart of gold and puts his cock away and puts his shirt back on and is like “oh no totally I wasn’t even going there, are you kidding? I just want to watch you sleep because nice dudes have no sex drive, just like good girls, you silly.” He puts Real Housewives on the TV and respectfully sleeps on the floor whilst Twat spreads out in his king-sized bed and turns that thing into her own personal fart pocket. She leans down to look at him on the floor and coos “Who’s special? You’re special!” and taps him on the nose “boop boop boop!” before going to sleep. His dick falls off and rolls under the bed and by the time he finds it in the morning, it’s so covered with dust bunnies he doesn’t even bother putting it back on.

This movie could have ended right there, in my opinion. I figured if they were going to make everyone share a big wide open bathroom and watch each other poop and stuff they would at least talk about how everybody’s climbing into everybody else’s bunk all the time for a little bed spring squeaky-squeaky action. But it’s like there’s some kind of unspoken moral code that everyone’s following which is: be nice and tender to girls when they get their lips busted in combat and also NO FUCKING. But Twats and Hot Leather are destined to be together because they are BOTH divergent! What could be better than a pair of fuckfaces with all of the talents in the known world?! Oh god, just blow this shit up. I want this movie to be over with. It’s not, though. There’s a whole lot more to it. They hook Twats up to the acid machine again and this time her worst, deepest, darkest fear is…getting date raped by Hot Leather! What a fucking joke. Dude basically rolled up his penis into a little ball and put it in a Silly-Putty container the second she says ‘no thanks’ and she’s STILL such a fucking slice of baby cake, that’s her worst fear. Someone fucking tried to throw her off a cliff! She survived attempted murder and everyone around her has a gun or a knife and what’s she scared of? Rape. Because, women! Sex crime victims 4-ever!

Kate Winslet shows up and reveals that she is not Kate Winslet, she is the leader of the Math & Science Academy. She comes in and everyone ignores the pee smell emanating from her floor-length white drape business jacket, and urine stains aren’t all she’s got up her sleeve! She also wants to give all the Leather Daddies a hit of acid laced with a mind control drug that makes them go out and shoot all the members of the other clubs. She does just that, but it doesn’t work on Twats because I don’t know if you know this but she’s SPECIAL and so is Hot Leather. So the two of them are running around during the zombified melee like “what do we do?!” and it never occurs to them to get the fuck out of there and just go somewhere less fucked up and live on an island and have a million perfect children. They want to FIGHT. So this big war starts and Ashley Judd gets gunned down and then Twats’s dad gets blown up, but she manages to save Hot Leather and reverse the bad acid trip and save a bunch of Borings from extinction. Her brother shows up after being in the bathroom in the library at the Math & Science Academy this whole time and they all get on a train and ride away to some other shit hole beyond the giant fence that surrounds the city, where they’ll probably sleep in hammocks and poop in a hole in the ground and jerk off a lot because EVEN THERE you’re not allowed to screw. That’s the real tragedy, followed closely by the fact that there’s a second movie on the way, and it appears as if the main issue in that one is that Shingles Woodley’s hair has gotten caught in some kind of machinery at the hammock factory, so she has nothing left to shake defiantly at her challengers.

My beautiful tresses would have looked SO GOOD in this smog!

For the last fucking time…I’m not letting you use my head to scrub the dishes.

What other people are saying: “Dramatically, Divergent wanders, but over rich philosophical soil.” Oh give me a fucking break. Know what makes soil so rich? Poop.


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True Shart

Oh, I just hate the way True Blood ended. The entire last season was like one long drawn-out bloody fart that you’d have to go to the hospital after. It was like a minor medical incident involving a butt. Let’s explore this destroyed ass, shall we?

So first thing, like literally in the first couple of minutes, Tara gets her vampire ass blasted to pieces all over her mom’s lap, and the whole world goes “Woooo!” I don’t pay any attention at all to True Blood blogs or rumors or recaps or anything like that (I tried to use the True Blood hashtag to tweet reactions at Retta during the Season 6 premiere and IMMEDIATELY some bitch retweeted me to correct me: Apparently Ryan Kwanten is Australian so you’re not allowed to say he has a sexy British accent). But I still somehow managed to read all over the place that someone was going to die “in the first few moments!” of the season 7 premiere. The entire world held its breath, hoping it would be Tara, whom no one likes, even when they had her turn into a Sexy Lezzy Vampire and whore-out with Pam and a lot of MAC cosmetics and corset tops. But I thought oh god, they must really be hurting for a plot this season if they need to slap a death in there first thing. And I was so very sadly right.

After Tara dies, they spend all of the rest of the episodes coming up with reasons for all of the characters to all be together at once. It was like a goddamn endless parade of dinner parties “Because life!” and dinner parties “Because death!” And everyone was drinking and catching each other fucking everyone else and then Alcide got shot in the head while chasing Sookie through the woods naked.



That was no surprise. There was a little side-action building for about three episodes in which Anna Paquin would gaze into the distance and wonder aloud in her best Sookie voice if she reeeeally loved him enough and then BANG we don’t have to worry about that anymore, do we? Anyway, next thing you know, she’s driving his truck over to Bill’s house for some vampire dong. A most disappointing end for Alcide the wolf-boner.

Bill has some kind of vampire AIDS, so does Eric, which is the ACTUALLY SAD PART because Bill can go die but I kind of wanted Eric to give Sookie a bunch of money and be her servant-man until she was old and/or bored with him. Eric gets cured but Bill is on some kind of “time for me to go” mission because he is VERY concerned about Sookie’s chances of procreation if he stays alive (which is retarded because adoption and artificial insemination exist). So blah blah blah there’s about a hundred more episode-long dinner parties wherein every character has a moment to make a big meaningful speech (mouth farts) with some kind of alcohol in hand (partyyy! LIFE!) and everything ends with Bill having Sookie straddle him in his grave while he stabs himself and explodes into bloodmeat strings all over her funeral dress.

Well, that’s ALMOST where it ends. All of the above was the kind of bullshittery I could deal with. Whatever, you dumb show, so you lost your edge and got dumber. I couldn’t give a shit. Just wrap it up and move on. But no, they had to wrap it up with a bow made out of misogynistic turds and rub it in our stupid faces.

Of COURSE the final scene was a motherfucking dinner party in Sookie’s front yard with all of the characters (and the fruits of their procreative efforts together) four years later. She’s in her kitchen about fifteen months pregnant and I don’t think it showed her feet but I think barefoot was the idea, folks. So then she’s carrying stuff out to the 1,000th dinner party of the season and sits down next to some dude, who sits at the head of HER table in HER yard of HER house, after she’s SET the fucking table and MADE THE FOOD. She exchanges a knowing glance with this mystery motherfucker and that’s it! Series over. Go home.


Sit here, Nondescript Man.

I guess with so much of the series centered around who Sookie was giving that faerie poon to, it was only natural for everyone and anyone to be wondering who she was going to end up with. I figured after a while we were going to get some kind of half-assed finale that would at least strongly hint toward the dude she’d settle down with. Whatever. But to drop the curtain immediately after answering that question was so stuuuupid, made even more stupid by the other crap they tried to stir in to give Sookie more meaning. First of all, there was this whole “give up your faerie light” business which was dumb and I didn’t give a shit about it anyway, but before she stake-fucks Bill she goes on this whole diatribe about how it’s what defiiines her, which if you ask me was totally dumb because she didn’t even know she had it until like two years earlier. Also, it seemed like it was so volatile, she could sneeze and it would blast out of her and be done with, just like that. Then there’s the fact that she was so low on the faerie ancestry chart that she had so little of the magic faerie blasting solution that it could be worn out anyway. It’s like saying you’re “one twentieth Cherokee” and you only have so many clay pots from flea markets left and if you give them all away you won’t be able to say you’re Cherokee anymore and that means you’re not much of anything! Wahhhh!

There was also this weird scene where baby Sookie and baby Tara run in the rain to Gran’s house and are sucking down hot chocolate when Sookie says something about never wanting a boyfriend because they’re all nasty. I thought that was kind of funny, even though I was annoyed that we were so far down in the bottom of the final season trash can that we were having to supplement with flashbacks from God knows when. But I guess Gran didn’t think it was funny because she rushed in from her hiding place where she’d been eavesdropping to scold Sookie: “Don’t ever say that! Our only limitations are the ones we place on ourselves!” So, chill the fuck out, Gran. It’s stupid to yell at two little girls who think boys suck. Also, it’s kind of gross to insist that a little girl saying she didn’t like boys was placing a limitation. Because fuck you. What if Sookie was starting the process of coming out of the closet? Tara sure as shit was. So thank you, Writers, for that tasty little morsel of misogyny. Don’t limit yourself to a life without men! KEEP TRYING UNTIL YOU’RE HAPPY WITH ONE.

Anyway. I came away from that scene thinking that Sookie would sell her house and fly around the world, meet up with Eric in random places around the globe for a good bang every now and then, go to college, start a business. I thought she’d zap into action after that flashback faded and be like “Holy fuck, I still have a life, I can DO shit!” But what happens? She gets knocked up and has a dinner party. So apparently setting yourself no limitations = marriage & family. And probably a subscription to Martha Stewart Living which recommends the best outdoor lighting schemes for dinner parties.

Oh, right, and: meanwhile, Hoyt fucktardedly remembers that he used to bone Jessica and Bill says “I want y’all to get married before I die so I know you’re SPOKEN FOR” and even though Jessica is a killing machine who comes out at night to eat people, she needs a man to be safe, and despite protesting that this dude doesn’t remember fuck all about her, she marries him and Bill’s like “Cool. Got to die now just because.”

Well, also, another really misogynistic storyline was the girl Hoyt brought back to town with him, whom he unceremoniously dumps (after she hassles him about another woman THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS MOTHER’S FUNERAL which was weird). He rescues Jessica from getting tied up and fucked by Jason’s ex-girlfriend with a hot poker in the shape of a dong (I am so serious, this happened, or rather, almost happened) and they realize they are still in love. He dumps ol’ Outtatown Twatsy who has no other choice but to stay at Jason’s house in his t-shirt and boxers. And he’s like “don’t fuck her, don’t fuck her, hommina hommina” because fucking ruins everythiiiiing. So ol’ girl is like “I’m gonna teach you how to share a bed with someone without fuckin’ em” and holy hell if the Madonna/whore complex didn’t rear its ugly Madonna/whore head. Oh, this is a good girl, the audience breathed in collective relief. She’s perfect for fucknasty Jason. She’ll fix him!

Oh fucking hell.

The whole season, but especially the last episode, was like several pages from horny teen boy fan fiction, the worst kind: the kind that doesn’t recognize women as anything but either fuckable or loudmouthed (read: unfuckable). The whole torture-panty-dungeon scene would have been laughable if it wasn’t meant to be titillating that one sexy vampire was about to rape and murder another sexy vampire (they’re vampires, not women! Who CARES? This is for fun!). But really the entire ending was based on the idea that in order to tie up a loose end, a woman has to get married and be “spoken for.” What else is there, ladies? Really though, what else? Thanks for watching!

leggings of The cursed protector

For every comment this blog receives that is from a real person, not a robot, this blog receives 1,000 spam comments. For every comment this blog receives from someone who has tried one of my recipes and wants to let me know that I’m stupid and fat, this blog receives 2,000 spam comments. For every comment this blog receives from someone who just wants to tell me I’m stupid, this blog receives 3 billion spam comments. What I’m saying is that I get a lot of spam comments.

I’ve started looking and them closely and actually reading through them because 1. they’re hilarious, and 2. I don’t have any idea how they work or what they are supposed to be doing. Is there a computer out there with the sole purpose of creating fake email addresses (lskdjofiehlksjlfdkjflkj1389usdlkjdlj8sljdf@gmair.corn, for example) and randomizing groups of phrases to mash together to form a paragraph that smacks of a compliment with a hint of sales pitch and ends up coming out like it’s being typed by a Ukrainian with a minimal grasp on the English language? Is that how it works? Ok, so, what is it trying to get me to do, exactly? What does the computer want?!

Recently I got the very best spam comment I’ve ever gotten ever:


Cool! Want to talk about the cursed protector now?


There have been others that are just as confusing, here are some of the most recent:

I always spent my half an hour to read this web site’s content every day along with a mug of coffee.

Oh, how quaint! I hope this “web site’s content” has never made you spill that mug of coffee on yourself in horror. P.S. are you a stock photo of a woman at a computer? I thought you might be.

I do not even ƙnow how I ended up here, but I tҺoսght this post was great. I ɗo not know who you аre but definitely yߋu aгe going to
a famous blogger if you aren’t already 😉 Cheerѕ!

Ah, a famous blogger! Everywhere I go, people will know that I am there because I will put it on my blog that I am there and thousands of people will flock there and be like, what the fuck does our most famous of famous bloggers look like? And they will not know because how does a blogger even become famous? You did not think this through, pally, which is evident from the nonsensical character you have used in place of the “o” in “you.”

I get that you don’t know who I am (BUT I AM A FAMOUS BLOGGER, HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW ME?), but do you know who you are? Have you become sentient?

Thanks for sharing your thoughts on 60 day insanity.

Uh, anytime. But you may have me confused with someone else, I’m not sure insanity only lasts 60 days, in fact, I’m pretty fucking sure it doesn’t.

Most of the other ones say a mixture of the same phrases, which are “I’m going to bookmark this web site!” and “this web site has the best Information about this topic” and “I will tell my brother about this because he is researching this very thing.” What would happen if I responded? Would Ukrainian computer bots kick down my door and invade my house, screaming at me about MOST PREMIUM WEB SITES DOMAIN HOSTINGS and PLACE LINKING ON A PAGE IS THE MOST EASY and I MUST TELL MY BROTHER ABOUT THIS WEB SITE INFORMATION???? Probably. That’s probably what would happen. I will just keep deleting the spammies for now. FOR NOW.

Because if “leggings of The cursed protector” ever comes back, I’m following that shit to the ends of the Internets, you guys.

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I Totally Did.

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

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

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


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

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

Desktop Management

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

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

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

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

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


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This vanilla chai tea tastes like hot pee.

Like hot alcoholic dad pee.

And I’m sorry I’m drinking it.

This is my next to last night at Job 2, and so far, the following has happened:

-A door-slamming man slammed the front door, waved his hand in my face when I tried to tell him which room his class was in, walked into the wrong room, slammed door, walked out, slammed door, walked into right room, slammed door.

-A member complained about not getting his member gift after watching me show another member her gift options, and when I said “Okay, well then which gift would you like?” he pulled his glasses to the end of his nose and stared down at me through them, then responded, “Well WHAT ARE MY OPTIONSSSS??”

-A co-worker copied the wrong page for an instructor, and I had to figure out how to make GoogleDocs recognize an image as a document and print it.  It was not easy and it was also kind of dumb.

-A woman reported a terrorist attack because someone left a cart with some boxes on it by the front door.  “And there’s NO ONE around!”  I promised to get “Maintenance” on it right away.  In my mind, Maintenance is this bald guy in a blue jumpsuit with an eye patch who just waits in this closet down the hall that says “Utility Sink” on the door until I call him on a special phone.  Which I have no intention of doing.  (Because he is not real…did you get that part?)

I gave my notice at Job 1 this morning.  My boss looked genuinely shocked for just a moment, then quickly masked her feelings with falsity, as she is apt to do, and her mouth just hung open in mock surprise for an uncomfortable amount of time.  So I said, “Sooo…” to jerk her back to reality.  She pushed hard for me to tell her exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing.  I gave her a really rehearsed answer which told her nothing at all, which pissed her off.  She told Veggie Tales the Dickless Wonder that I had just resigned, and he immediately began digging for information on where I was going.  I gave him the same story, and he continued to prod me.  “So, is it like, a lateral move, or what?”

So, do you know like, how inappropriate and unprofessional you are, or what?

I’m not trying to be a bitch, I just don’t want them to know because I know they’d immediately want to tell me exactly what they think of it.  And I don’t want to hear it anymore.

I’m at the point in the job-leaving phase when I feel like I deserve to say “No” and “I’m not going to do that.”  Fire me, you dick shit.  Fire me and go fuck yourself.  So basically this is the part in the job leaving where I burn the bridge, just to be sure that I can never go back.  So the snarky side is showing a little bit more at work.  Which is always fun for my co-workers.

I have a really bad habit of looking up and to the left when people ask me a question and I’m trying to answer it.  It keeps me from getting my thoughts all tangled.  I’ve been warned that it’s a bad thing to do, by the folks at Job 1, mainly, who are all about improving communication by pointing out what’s wrong with yours and “coaching” you on stopping it.

The problem is, I don’t know how many times I’ve sat down for a conversation on my performance or my development, and I’ve used the wrong word (“but” instead of “however,” because “but” is “more negative sounding”) or broken eye contact for a moment (makes the other person feel like you’re not being honest), and I have been stopped, mid-sentence, INTERRUPTED, only to be told exactly what is wrong with my communication skills.  A ten minute diatribe about the use of the wrong word or the wiggling of a foot or a facial expression ensues, and at the end of it you are supposed to remember what the fuck you were talking about.

How about I tell you what’s wrong with your listening skills?

It’s called a Sexy Mooch

Is it inappropriate to call someone and ask them if you can come over and make out with them and then watch their TV?  Because I would really like to.  He could even stick around for the TV watching if he wanted.  That would be kind of nice.  Because it’s cable.

(It might be inappropriate because I told him a lot of dead baby jokes in the middle of a Panera and he might not call me anymore.  MIGHT not.)

TV Ride

There’s this one channel on my freak television that is kind of like a TV guide.  It’s actually called TV Guide Network, and it’s actually on two channels, 4 and 5, but 4 is a little fuzzy.  Anyway, TV Guide Network gets its jollies from showing really old reality shows and then placing a hot model on a runway somewhere and having her talk about “ooooh what’s going to happen on Big Brother Season II?  Stay tuuuned!!!”  Lately they’ve been showing nonstop episodes of Punk’d.  Remember that show?  It’s basically where Ashton Kutcher would leap around and poop in his pants and talk to a camera in some backstage area while a nearby celebrity would be stepping into a practical joke set up by Ashton and about 12,000 other individuals who should probably have spent their time in some other way.  The practical joke usually involves the celebrity messing up in a way that will really be a PR nightmare, or indirectly messing up in some way that will cost a lot of money.  It’s funny, though, that every time a celebrity is accused of doing something really crappy, they first deny it, then try to blame their assistant, then try to buy their way out of the mess.  Or if they’re Ashley fucking Simpson, they beg their friends to say they did it. 

So I’ve been catching glimpses of these episodes of Punk’d, and I’ve begun to wonder what one has to do to actually get punked.  Do these celebrities know each other in some circle outside of going to the same awards shows and buying drugs from the same guy?  Do celebrities hang out with each other?  If they do, I’m going to puke right now.  I guess I just wonder, while watching these shows, who the hell would ever want to play a practical joke on Hayden Panettiere?  The girl has the personality of an empty trash bag.  Why don’t they just spend less money, go to her house, and ask her to do her “disbelief” look.  She’d do it, I bet.  Just shine a big light on her and holler “DISBELIEF.  ACTION.”  Done.

But I guess they’ll take any excuse to put her on TV because everybody watching the TV pretty much wants to ride her face.

I have been told that in Ye Olde Ancient Roman times, a “punk” was a young boy who served an older man, both as an apprentice on all things manly, a house servant, and a cum dumpster.  To be on the level of “punk” meant that you were being auditioned for upscale, polite society, and if you were a good punk to your master, you would one day have a punk of your own.

In that sense, to be “punked” was to be owned and screwed by an older man.  Basically you were in a very low position of servitude, the lowest, just above slavery.

I’d like to watch someone punk Ashton Kutcher.  Oh yeah I would.  You just got punked!  And punked again, and again, and again…


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Get out of my house.

I’m watching Diane Sawyer on “When Daddy Becomes a Mommy” and it’s a pretty horrible way to wake up in the morning.  Or awesome.  Depends on how you look at it, really, it does.  I looked at it on mute and it was much better.

I had a job interview yesterday, for a job I really want.  I feel like a douche now because I kept saying, “WOW, everyone is so nice!  Everyone seems like they LIKE to be here!  I can’t believe…”  The lady who set up my interview, who would be my awesome boss, assured me that not every day was magical.  But I couldn’t exactly describe for her how absolutely awful every single day of my working life is at my current job.  I interviewed with seven different people over the course of 2 1/2 hours, and during that time I was asked no less than seven times to describe my current job.  I expertly wove a tapestry of shimmery bullshit about how “ohh, you know, it’s retail, but I love the people I work with…” and “I just don’t like the whole selling aspect of it.”

I have another interview tomorrow morning.  I swear that the sky opened and rained job interviews on me, just when I was starting to completely lose my grip on the reality of possibility, just when I was starting to think that I might be better off staying in bed every day.

If I don’t get one of these jobs, I’m staying in bed every day.

Alohomora, asshole.

Can I just say how awesome and great Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was?  Yes, I CAN, because this is my blog and I do what I want.

It was soooo great.  It was SO GREAT.  And awesome.  And I don’t want to hear any more mean-spirited criticism of the little cry session I had toward the end.  And the very little bit of a cry session I had at the very beginning.  Look, this is what happens, all right?  I have a LOT OF FEELINGS.

Awwww little magic bayyybyyyyy!!!

Awwww little magic bayyybyyyyy!!!

For Harry Potter, that is.

It’s funny, I often daydream about the short list of people I’d like to stab in the throat, and the longer list of people I’d like to hit with blunt objects.  However, show me any scene of Harry Potter, wherein Harry feels lonely and sad and like he can’t go on, and my little Gryffindor heart melts.  And that’s what it did, and that’s what it will always do.  So.

Enter Baldyballs

I showed my apartment all day on Saturday.  It was quite an experience, I must say.  The worst part was when this short, stocky dude with alopecia all but let himself in my front door, when I had been expecting a girl at that time, and started barking questions at me.  The girl hung back in the hallway, didn’t even introduce herself.  She was this timid chick with adult braces, still in her ill-fitting black work suit.  They both had on Chase bank nametags, and she introduced the completely hairless little ogre in my face as “my boss.”  Well, her boss proceeded to tear through my place, saying things like “Well, it is definitely cozy,” with an air of contempt, as if I’d lied to him personally about the square footage or something.  He spat so many questions at me, I finally had to say, “Wait, hold on, hoooold on a minute.”  I hate it when people ask you six questions in a row, or ask you any question and then continue to talk.  It makes me want to ask, “Sorry, do I even need to be here right now?”  Eventually, I got enough of Baldyballs’ superiority complex, his “we’re-probably-not-interested-so-get-nervous” act, and just said to the girl, “You know what, Vanessa?  There are a lot of people interested in this apartment,” (as there was a girl actually sitting AT my KITCHEN TABLE filling out an application at that very moment) “and it doesn’t sound like the place for you.”

Vanessa responded by cheerily saying “Oh, well, I’ll email you if I’m interested!”  But Baldyballs got the point and they left.

Ugh.  Get the fuck out of my house.

What the fuck is with the guys who work at Chase banks?  Is it like that at every bank?  Holy God, I hate them all.  They’re all such loud mouthed douchebags.  WHY?  Is it a prerequisite for getting that job?  I mean, there’s obviously no education requirement.  I bet they just put you in a room and see how loud you can talk and make sure you can write your name and then give you a polyester blend suit and a paycheck.  Going to a Chase bank to get anything done is, for me, like being in a terrible Viagra Triangle bar, only it’s during the day, and all the lights are on, but somehow I feel even more like I should protect my ass and not bend over to pick anything up.  Waiting in line, I get the unmistakable feeling that assholes are checking me out.  It’s because THEY ARE!  And they make no attempt to hide it!  They storm around like they’re busy and powerful and the latest contestant on The Apprentice, followed by a trail of CVS NightStorm cologne, they actually stare at you like you’re some kind of merchandise.  And they YELL at you.  I can’t go into a Chase bank without getting screamed at by some spiky-haired jagoff “YOU BEING HELPED?  ALL RIIIIIIIIIGHT!!!  YOU SURE??  JUST HANGIN’ OUT, HUH?  LEMME KNOW IF YOU NEED ANYTHING!!!”  It’s that, or I submit myself to the mercy of the angry black women tellers.  They flash their ridiculous nails at you and mutter everything while looking in any direction but in your eyes, and scream at you when you ask them to repeat themselves.

Conclusion: the bank involves a lot of yelling.

Anyway, there are two people currently fighting over my apartment.  I assume that the girl who is on unemployment will not be the winner.  And while it makes me sad to leave my cute little single bunny-hole, I can always comfort myself with thoughts of all of the life-sized things made of chocolate that I will soon buy with the money I’m saving.


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Bubonic technotronic

I Don’t Know Why…

…they always ask in a job interview “So why do you want this job?”  This is an eternally stupid question, especially if it’s a retail job, or a job at an establishment that serves 3 foods together in a paper rectangle which you order as a “basket.”  I mean, I haven’t sat through an interview for one of these jobs for a LOOOONG time (partly because I’ve been employed in retail ever since I can remember and vowed to cut my hands off before reaching the level of applying for a foodservice job ever again) so I imagine they’ve dropped this from the interview procedure.  Maybe not, because I’m pretty sure that The Company For Which I Currently Work still requires one to splop out something about loving sneakers, and enthusiasm, and winning, and, ugh, passion…and about really wanting to stick it to the Cambodians who have to make the shoes and deserve a life of torture, anywayyyy.

But when they ask you this question at an interview for, oh, say, an administrative assistant job, for, say, a moving company…what the fuck are you supposed to say?  “Oh, I just really feel alive when I’m administrative assistanting.”  I would find it delightfully refreshing to sit across from a girl who would say, “You know what?  I need the money.  And I am prepared to work for it.  So let’s get it on.”

Not that anyone has called me for any administrative assistant jobs, or any other of the five hundred million trillion jobs in Chicago and the suburbs I’ve applied for.  I’m convinced, though thorough testing and re-testing has proven otherwise, that when my resumé and cover letters are emailed, they translate into some freakish loser language, and the pages are stark white except for the words “Bloop, bloop, bloop!”

Would someone please call me and make sure my phone works?

I Don’t Know Why…

…I get some kind of pleasure out of watching Intervention.  I mean, it’s not funny to watch a fat bitch place bets on horse races while her four year old eats out of the trash can in the bathroom.  It’s not funny.  Come on.  It’s not.  Hey.

Aside from that, it’s just not entertaining to watch these jackoffs steal from their families, smoke crack, say stupid, boneheaded things into the camera, play some wacked-out songs on their guitars under a bridge somewhere, all for the last thirty seconds of the show, which only reveals a picture of their obese, sober ass fresh out of rehab, then a couple of lines about when they relapsed.  It’s usually like, thirty minutes after the camera crew left.

So whyyyy do I waaatch it helloooooooo?

I Don’t Know Why…


I Don’t Know Why…

…I can’t figure out which bills I forgot to pay this month, but I do know that yesterday in 1348 was the first day the bubonic plague showed up in England.  Hollerrrr!


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The Norwegian Queen

I am in a shit mood today.  Here is my mood in cupcake form:



I just turned on my TV for the first time in about a week.  “Win A Date With Tad Hamilton” was on, and I only saw about four minutes of it before yelling “OH GIVE ME A GODDAMN FUCKING BREAK.”

Now I remember why I stopped watching TV for a week.  It’s not even entertaining from an anthropological standpoint right now.  I either have no idea what’s going on, or I just don’t care.

Why do these dumb ass movies always have gag reels to some kind of Sugar Ray song?  I don’t want to hang out with these people, anymore, or ever.  They’re not funny.

Live action is much more entertaining.  Last night I watched a bunch of drunk girls in their party-dress finery attempt to dance to this trance-funk-hip hop fusion on a wet concrete floor.  They were doing that drunk-girl-in-heels dance, bopping back and forth, holding beer glass nonchalantly, stepping side to side on bent legs like big floofy swamp birds.  It was all fun and games before one of them misplaced a stiletto and belly flopped onto the floor, sending her glass flying and shattering in front of her.  As the crowd in the back yelled a simultaneous “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” she lay there, pretending to laugh, then rocketed back up as cutely as possible, trying to play off the floor slam like it was nothing.  Her friend ran to her aid, and they had a momentary embrace in the middle of the now-deserted dance floor, painfully aware that everyone was still staring at them, and would be staring at them until they made a move.  They mashed their faces together, and the one who had fallen suddenly got verrrrrry serious and said, “I canNOT believe…”

She attempted to make her exit, but not without slipping on her little silver heels and hitting the floor once again on her way around the corner to the bathroom.  Oh, the humanity.  It was way funnier than anything I have ever seen on TV ever.  Ever, ever.

Why is it so funny when people fall down?  I shouldn’t talk.  I haven’t fallen for a long time, so I’m probably due for a good one pretty soon.  I guess I shouldn’t say under my breath “please fall, please fall, please fall” every time I see drunk girls or people on rollerblades.

Oh, hey!  Here is a boy I like to look at:

Let's kiss!

Let's kiss!

If I had a poster of him in my bedroom, it would be on my ceiling.  Right above my bed.  Aww yeah.

If I were the queen of Norway I would make him be my slave.


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