Monday, January 31, 2005


Nuthin' like the smell of crazy peoples in the morning.


I really have to start walking or buy a unicycle or something, as the following incidents all occurred within the space of two days.

Whenever anyone decides to scream about white girls, do they always have to stand immediately next to me...? I am fluorescent!

The crazy in question was selling, yes, t-shirts with the above slogan. Also, he was bellowing said slogan along with something to the effect of if you see a white girl comin', run for the hills befo' you beats her head in and then you'll get all incarcerated-like. Unless you're rich, and/or a pro athlete, in which case you'll get off. Then, he kept bustin' a rhyme: white girl get a tan, then I'm her man. Huh?!

Crazy, Drunk, Falling-Off-His Seat Guy: hey girl! You gots *hic* somethin' on you BUTT!
Me: *ignoring him*
CDFOHSG: I said, GIRL! You gots something on YOU ASS!!!
Me: ...
CDFOHSG: I said, I said, GIRL...!
Me: Alright, alright! YOU CAN STOP LOOKING AT IT NOW!!!
CDFOHSG: *falls off seat*

Later, when I got to a mirror, I noticed that there actually was something all over my ass. And it was red. (Why did it have to be red?!) And I thought I was being all slick by sitting on the seat without the gum stuck to it.

Boy, is my face butt red.

This very morning, I a) missed my regular bus because stoOpid cow-like people wouldn't get out of my way, so the doors closed *poof*! in my face; b) got on the wrong bus because the next one was apparently a flukey stray bus taking a detour and I thought it was my bus, so next thing I know, I look up and I'm headed to West Hollywood. Fluck...!

How very like a Monday. So I pop off and on buses until I'm back in the right general area, only now I no longer have correct change, having given it all to Flukey Bus No. 5. (For those of you who aren't forced to use public transpo, the buses do not make change, but yes, they will take your $20 bill - they just won't give it back. HOW NICE!) So I have to go into ze skeezy gas station to get change.

Of course, since I'm in a hurry, Homeless Man and Afro Man are both in my way. Yo Homeless, hey Afro, move your destitute asses - some people gots to get to work here. But just my Monday luck, or MUCK for short, Crazy Screamer No. 9 wedges herself in front of me and starts screaming at the cashier, even though she didn't even buy anything:

CLERK: No, I do not.
CLERK: No, not anymore.

Uh. Yeah. They're also for torching gas stations. Fire hazard. Hello...?

I felt so bad, I bought some Vanilla Sweet Dreams and I don't even smoke. (Mange, you want...?)

ME: Good...morning.
CLERK: Uh...yeah.
ME: I guess I won't ask you for matches.
CLERK: No, I do not have any matches!
ME: *big grin*...I know.

I hope I at least made someone feel better. Since I have unidentified red substance on my ass, my day is pretty much for shit.


Sunday, January 30, 2005


And now, back to our regularly scheduled hate-filled program.

Breeders. I love to hate 'em. I probably just envy them, and their neat little family units. I also can't appreciate how hard it is to maintain one, 'cuz I don't have one. No one's trying to knock my butt up.

Anyway, a butt, last time I checked, cannot carry a pregnancy to term.

So while I can say I would do things differently, it's really all just speculation. What most likely will happen (if anything) is that I will develop a frozen smile and a strangely glazed stare focused off somewhere in the near distance, or the distant past - before I mistakenly spawned upstream.

Yeah, I'm just jealous because no one's going to slit my "t'aint" with a scalpel.

However, I would like to think that, after that blessed occasion, I would:

A single-file line. Maybe even a leash. It really puts me off when a family is blocking an entire aisle in the grocery store, escalator, or hallway with their collective ass.

To nicer restaurants and adult movies, I wouldn't go at all unless I could get a sitter. On the occasion this is unavoidable, the table with kids should be surrounded by a nine-foot wall of Plexiglass to prevent disturbing the other patrons, shameless "adorable" flirting over the sides of the booth, outright Helen Keller-style mooching, flying food, etc. Preferably, we'd head for a family feedbag type joint if we weren't eating in. On a tarp.

Furthermore, I will fart incessantly in the general direction of the next family I see with kids in an R-rated movie. The poor kids are going to be traumatized or worse. I am still scarred by scenes from PURPLE RAIN and HALLOWEEN because my father thought it was okay to drag a kid to a seamy/scary movie. That said, it is my own damn fault if I attempt to see a kids' movie in relative peace and quiet. Or go to (G*d forbid) Disneyland. Although I would like to propose Adult Days at Disneyland. You heard me. But then, the adults are usually the cranky ones at Dismalland, so now it's my turn to shut the hell up.

In the grocery store, where it is sometimes necessary to drag kids, I would beg, borrow, steal, or bribe to get the kid to shut up. If they ask for a toy, just give it. How expensive is a grocery store toy anyway? Besides the obvious choking factor and subsequent emergency room visit...?

Just because the singles in the vicinity have to share airspace with kids doesn't mean that they deserve perforated eardrums.

Kids with the lung capacity to make "that" noise should be injected immediately with a hormone to cause spontaneous puberty in order to lower their voice. Ever seen Farinelli? Like that, but the polar opposite.

Ever had a crusty baby thrust upon you? If so, you know that there is nothing worse than a crusty baby. People should keep their offspring clean and crust-free before they shove 'em in other people's faces. Since it wasn't their spooge that created that li'l squirt, others are not nearly as understanding about having dried-up snot or spit-up (to say nothing of the precariously dangling snot streamer) rubbed off on their particulars.

Me, I seem to inspire spontaneous and enthusiastic pooping in newborns. They should package and sell me as baby laxative.

Do not pass the baby if he/she has eaten in the recent past. Not even to a doting grandparent who pretends not to mind, because they really do. You already shat and spat your spooge all over your parents. They don't want a whole new generation of grandspooge to remind them of just how unpleasant the childrearing experience was for them. As grandparents, their job is to spoil your kids beyond redemption and then leave. And then send money.

I do not blame my Grandpa Hollis, for example, for being detached from us grandkids and/or a mean ol' sumbitch in his youth, followed by a short spell of sweetness proceeding immediately into Alzheimer's. Because once, he was playing "airplane" with my infant mom, and she spat up in his mouth. Moral of the story? As I parent, I would make damned sure all of my orifices were hermetically sealed before handling an infant. Your mouth should never be hanging open during play, or especially diaper-changing, especially if your bawling brat is male.

I plan to wear a sneeze guard on my head, earplugs, and protective goggles at all times. Hell, why not a full-on biohazard suit?

You can never be too careful around projectile-peeing and -vomiting babies. Their aim is deadly.

What is that funky smell that kids have? I would have to make mine go out back and roll in lavender bushes or some shit until that funk came off. No wonder they don't like to bathe - they want to overwhelm the world with their kid-stink. Which they already have.

Is it child abuse to make sure that the don't create noise pollution and/or boogerfy everthing...? Yeah, I guess pulling it off would hurt. Can somebody please make a kid-muzzle?

Sometimes they get bitey.

Thank you.


Thursday, January 27, 2005


How could we ever forget?

How could anyone ever claim that this didn't happen? It did, and it has, and it will. It is happening again.

I have the holes in my family tree to prove it.

I have an aunt who was chased down the street by other children near her border home until they caught her and felt her head...to see if she had horns.

I have met many survivors, who had the numbers tattooed into their arms. And yet there are those who tattoo hatred onto themselves deliberately. That is how cocked up we have become.

If only they knew that there where those who did not have the option to live or to die, to tattoo or not to tattoo, maybe they would understand.

They were stuffed into rail cars like cattle. They were ripped apart from their families. I remember watching this recreated in a scene from Arthur Miller's Playing for Time. Myself and several other Jewish kids fled the auditorium, crying hysterically. That had never happened before or since. It was awful - like an ancestral memory come to life.

And as for anyone who claims that I am a half-Jew, or not a Jew at all, I tell them that I would have died that day too. And not just half of me. I would be 100%, completely, d.e.d., dead.

People look at my nose, at my fair skin and hair, and say, you don't look Jewish.

Bullshit. There is no Jewish race. There is no one Jewish "look".

People make jokes, and sometimes I laugh. But mostly I just feel like shit for playing along with it. So I say, retroactively, fuck you. I'm a Jew. I may not look like it or sound like it, or feel like it half the time - and I may be broke, and I may even be uncharacteristically unmotivated and under-educated...

But I'm sure as hell not anything else.

And I can spell. F-U-C-K. Take your hatred and shove it up your fearful, ignorant ass if you don't believe.

Some people only believe in pain.

Well, there was plenty of that.

There still is.



Dear Colon Powell,

I know you have been feeling tense lately.

Well, the reason I know is that you are very uptight during the day, and then you fall all to pieces the second we get home.

In fact, you start freaking out slightly even before we get home, when we are within sight of the house. This is not good for our clothes, or our mental well-being. Or the people who have to share our hallway. I live in fear of them walking out some day when you are having one of your panic attacks, taking one whiff, and falling down the stairs. Really, Colon. It is time for an intervention.

Haven't I always been there for you? Yes. Well, I need you to work with me here.

I need you to consider letting loose before we leave work. I know, you have been very considerate of our co-workers by not dropping any bombs in the communal shitter, but everybody does it. C'mon. Light a match. Actually, don't - then it just smells like shit on fire. But seriously, Mr. Powell. There is no reason why we should be keeling over two blocks from home, next to the 7-Eleven where the crazy guys hang out (and yell "Rock 'n Roll Hootchie Coo!" at us) while you're experiencing a nervous breakdown. In my pants.

Please, please, for the love of all that's holy - just go when you've gotta go. If this means staying at work until 7 PM to set you more at ease, so be it. If you need a relaxing massage or something, I'm sure that could be arranged also, from one of the guys at work.

No, not Orlando Bloom. Sheesh.

You're a colon, remember? Don't get all uppity. Or I'll start eating Korean food again. You'll be sorry.

Read my lips, bitch. No more shitfits.

Your Other End.


Wednesday, January 26, 2005


After staring at a great deal of television last night, I have declared the following immensely irritating. I plan to send their respective companies the bill for my irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) treatment:

1) Jack in the Crack. Okay, Mr. Round-Head Executive CEO - you were funny the first nine times, but stop already. First of all, what kind of corporate prick (actually an ad exec) makes the executive decision to hire himself as the commercial spokesperson, padding his already bloated salary, and depriving poor, struggling actors of much-needed work? Besides, although the "Jack" commercials are the longest-running fast food campaign ever (no shit) you have been getting less and less funny. You already lost me with those post-911 reactionary AMERICA KICKS ASS! commercials. Then you had to go and hire a woman who can't even speak English for your annoying Southwest Chicken pita-regurgitate spot:

JACK: I like women. You're hot. Did I say that out loud...?
WOMAN: Thyeah. Jou thdid.

What is she - Slovakian?! And the director's girlfriend, probably.

2) I know this stoopid phenomenon of hiring people who can't even speak the given language from my own experiences in commercial casting. I was asked to do a cartwheel for a g*ddamn Kotex commercial, but they were more interested in a British chick, on the off chance that she could do an American accent. Question: why don't you just hire someone with the correct linguistic skills in place?! Because that would be too obvious?!

3) The Garnier Fructis girls. Once again, commercial casting agents delight in hiring models who can't act. They can't even go eeeeek! convincingly when their hair frizzes, as if that is the worst thing to happen in the world. And don't get me started on the prejudice against curly hair. Or how long you can listen to the woohoo! music without going crazy.

4) McDonald's Ba Da Ba Ba Ba I'm Lovin' It - First of all, what are you? A sheep?! Also, with all their efforts to appeal to various minorities, they might as well just make the slogan, "McDonald's. We're low-down, ghetto, straight slummin' it. Uh-huh." At least they'd be honest, for once.

Not that I'm above an occasional Filet-O-Fish. It's cheese...and tartar sauce! And I suspect, even mayonnaise...!? Now all it needs is cream cheese. Fried.

Their rap "poetry" style commercial for green salads is no better. I hate slam poetry. It's like open mike/improv jams, only suckier.

But at least they have clean restrooms.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go change my pad.


Tuesday, January 25, 2005


So Vampy wrote that yesterday was considered The Most Depressing Day Ever in the History of the Universe.

I don't know about that, but I would like to un-fondly dub it National F--- Me Up the A** Without Any Lube Day. And it didn't even take me to dinner first.

For starters (as you might have noticed) this thing was down, comma comma down doobie doo down down, waaaaay down. I would say it was without any warning whatsoever, but that is a half-truth. Insert technogeekspeak gobbledygook boring bullshit reason here: _____________. (Basically, try not to pick a hosting service run by a single guy who flakes and goes to Mexico on a bender with their entire revenue of 3 cents [in pesos] and a kick in the pants.)

Secondly, I had a doctor's appointment to find out what is wrong with me (Extreme PMS?) and after struggling to get across town for 2.5 hrs., was told that the good lady doctor (actually a shitty nurse practitioner from Flatonia, TX) wouldn't be able to see me. This isn't the first time this has happened. The first time, I had an appointment to get my bippy frozen off with liquid nitrogen, and they were out of liquid nitrogen. Good. Nice. Waste my time some more, you time wastreling weasels-!

As if that wasn't enough, the little shitsacksnotbooger of a front desk clerk claimed that I hadn't called ahead when I had, which is a slightly more polite way of calling me a filthy fartfelching liar. And I was already filthy and feeling like scum after felching farts all the way across town on the !@#$ city bus, thank you very much. So I had had enough, and loudly proclaimed that they were the shittiest shit shit practitioners on the face of the Earth, and that I wanted all of my medical files pulled, and also for the really snotty little Armenian office assistant to become my personal punching bag - I would start by scratching off her inch-thick layer of eyeliner and yanking the dated pee-yellow streaks out of her hair. I would actually be doing her a favor-! But no, she still wouldn't let me see the doctor/nurse practitioner/janitor named Guillermo. Hrm. I wonder why...?

Don't you just love it when people look at you like you're the crazy person, when it is the system that has made you nucking futs?! That's right, The Man, Big Brother, the HMO, the IRS, the JK, LMNOP, the QRS, TUV, WX, Y and Z - the City of Greater Los Angeles - that's what's making us go koo koo for Cocoa Puffs - it was certainly not our problem. It's them. Them. THEM. Taking our money and then making the system so complicated that we will never, ever be able to interpret or understand it in order to get any bang from our buck. THEY're trying to keep us down, and it's working...!


In my defense, you don't see me stampeding into Urgent Care, insisting that they have Guillermo the Janitor do a blood draw, and then demanding that the HMO reimburse me for the $300 "executive physical", do you...? Yeah, I know, I should have.

But that was enough rending of flesh, maiming, and killing for one day.

Please take away all my sharp objects.

Thank you.


Friday, January 21, 2005



I am in a stinky-bad mood. My right ovary hurts, and I do not, repeat, do not want to do "Girl's Night Out" this weekend.

It can only go terribly wrong. For one thing, it's all a ruse. Women misuse "Girl's Night Out" to complain about men. Gah. There is nothing I would rather not do right now, at a time when all the (I thought) hopeless saps and MC Hammer-pants wearing losers I once knew are marrying off and/or getting knocked up left and right.

Why would I want to spend an evening reminding myself of where I went wrong, and analyzing what things aren't working, and when, where, why, and how I need to change, birth control pills, whether we wear a pad, our hair, blah blah blahfucking blah?!?

Unsolicited advice is not my favorite thing in the world. Solicited advice is not much fun, either. Should I even listen to a bunch of women who are no better off than me...? I think not.

Plus girls can be very competitive. I'm lucky, for once, to know a group of gals who are fairly career-oriented and not so male-centric that it becomes all about he said this and he bought me that, but still...even comparing notes on sex peeves me off (and makes me fucking horny, which is frustrating, which pisses me off more, etc. etc.) And I have a feeling the guys wouldn't appreciate most of what is under, eh...the microscope, as it were. They probably think we're wearing pink babydoll pj's, painting our toenails, and pillow-fighting naked.

Bleggh. Yet, there is something to be said for the few, the proud, the People Without a Penis Who Do Not Suck.

I think I'll kidnap Jerky and go on a bender, instead.



Wednesday, January 19, 2005


In the tradition of Pt. I. Questions left unanswered, as referring searches from my stats. I pity the poor fools, so I will attempt to answer them here.

Q: FedExing sperm
A: While there is nothing on FedEx.com which specifically prohibits this, there is the small matter of this ruling. However, I would reconsider as sperm is highly perishable. Maybe look into freezing it first. Then you may have to put it in a special receptacle and label it BIOHAZARD. No, you cannot spooge into the FedEx® Drop Box.

Ask these people - they do it all the time. Or call call the FedEx Dangerous Goods/Hazardous Materials Hotline at 1-800-463-3339 ext. 81. I called it, but a woman answered. So I hung up.

Jeez. I guess you should just do it the old fashioned way.

Q: Parcel tape fetish
A: It takes all kinds. Incidentally, applying parcel tape to the genitals and then ripping it off suddenly is somewhat less dangerous than using duct tape.

Q: Farting whiles fucking videos
A: Hrm. I can't guarantee that these are adult films because of our firewalls here at the orifice office, but try these. I especially enjoyed the synopsis for FART: THE MOVIE: Russell has two passions: watching television and farting! He also loves Heather. Heather HATES farting. The eternal triangle!

Uh...indeed. So rent those. Or else, give me five minutes and a blank tape.

Q: Throwup on cock porn
A: See above. I did this once, but it wasn't intentional. Never again on an empty stomach.

Q: Reason behind why people get random body spazzes
A: They either have the deep, repressed urge to spaz, or they have epilepsy. Do not automatically make fun of spasmos, because they might have a disease. Thank you.

Q: Heloise sweat stains shirt underarm
A: Heloise has neither the remedy for your dirty, dirty pits, Smelly, nor the solution for cum stains on her website. I say take it to a dry cleaner.

Q: How do you get FLARP! noise putty out of clothes?
A: See the above. And in the future, I suggest you FLARP! naked.

Q: Blue assed baboon pictures
A: Dig it.

Q: Izod alligator polo shirt inventor
A: Actually, The Alligator™ belongs to Lacoste. There is an entire book devoted to this subject, if you're so bored inclined. Or you can just watch the video of the book of the story at lacoste.com.

Personally, I have a grudge against The Alligator™ polo shirt inventor. Damn you, Alligator Polo Shirt Inventor. I was ostracized in the 4th grade because I didn't have a Lacoste Alligator Polo Shirt. I only had one with some sort of cat above my prepubescent bitch tit bud - or worse - no logo animal at all. I spit on thee and your snooty alligator. Ptoo.

Q: Dominatrix shit eating diet
A: Eat shit, you maggot...!

Q: Paris Hilton baby laxative caviar diet
A: That would explain where her brain went. All I know is I wouldn't want to clean her litter box.

Q: The hamster dance with Ludacris with cussing
A: While this sounds delightful, I could find no such dahnce. Try this instead.

Q: Is snorting strawberry laces dangerous?
A: You should never put anything bigger than an angel fart on the head of a needle up your nose. Unless you are Quentin Tarantino. Then I say, go for it.

Q: Can two guys stick their penis into a girls vagina at the same time?
A: Why, yes. Yes, they can. Grinning.

Q: Bitch named Vamp?
A: She is here, but she's no bitch. Slap.

Q: Horny stories Bored Housewife
A: Here you go.

Q: Call Killy a sex site.
A: Killy, you're a sex site.

Q: Why am i getting a busy signal trying to call Italian cell phone?
A: Because it is probably up their ass. Those crazy Italians.

Q: Cuz my dog likes sticks and horse turds poem
A: No idea. I imagine it goes something like this:
My dog likes
Sticks 'n turds
Sticks 'n turds
Sticks 'n turds
My dog likes
Sticks 'n turds
And I don't like turds
at all.
Also, that's not a stick.
Bad dog.

Q: What to do when cat starts peeing everywhere except the litter box?
A: Move.

Q:Smoking kitty litter hippie song
A: Here is a song called "Smelly Cat", by Phoebe of FRIENDS.
B: Did you mean the Jimmy Buffet song that goes:
Nothin' here to make me stay
'Cause that Las Vegas glitter sure beats kitty litter
And countin' the cows every day...?

C: I rather like this one, and may elect to sing it, along with "Rock the Cat Box!" by the Clash, while scooping it.
D: I wouldn't smoke that shit if I were you.

Q: Tampon block intestines dog
A: I wouldn't do that, either.

Q: What is Gisele's natural hair color?
A: That is one of the mysteries of Nature.

Q: What is an infected hair on an elephant's butt called?
A: Supposedly a "dude", but I think that is urban legend. It is not mentioned in the origins here. Or there. Or anywhere, dude.

Q: Lysol is good for jock itch?
A: I wouldn't recommend it, although I have been known to spray myself with Lysol®. It is a violation of Federal law to use this product in a manner inconsistent with its labeling.

Correct me if I'm wrong on any or all of the above.

Thank you.


Tuesday, January 18, 2005


Is anyone else experiencing the delightful new phenomenon of pop-up ads with sound...?

I'll be contentedly pretending to work when all of the sudden, it's SALAD SHOOTER! Or SUPER BRA-!!! Or GRIP 'N FLIP!, "a unique new spatula with a precision gripping action" which helps you not flop when you flip or drop when you flop or something...wait, maybe that was the ad for the bra. In which case, I do need one of those.

But it's kind of embarrassing when I'm trying to go about my business of looking official and all of the sudden, salads shooters are shouting out my a**. People probably think I have late-night television Tourette's Syndrome.

What next, POOP 'N CHUTE!? Or FUCK 'N CLUCK!? Enjoy experiencing loving relations while frying up a chicken dinner at the same time! Or possibly CRAP 'N FLAP!? A unique new system which allows you to use the toilet while making fantastic flapjacks...!?!

I just don't want these poppity whack-a-mole guys popping up at work. Is that so much to ask...?

You're probably thinking, why doesn't she just tell the I/T guy...?

Because. The I/T guy hates me. Also, he is too busy herding his small child around and breeding pugs in his kitchen to bother to learn about this crap. So he probably doesn't know how to get rid of 'em, and if he does, he's not talking. And no, I cannot install any blockers, either. I have to get permission. But even though I have to get permission, various and sundry spyware installs itself wherever and whenever, like a hooker on Hollywood Blvd. Hence the pop-up infestation.

However, if molested, the I/T guy gets really irate (probably because he doesn't know the answer but is too defensive to seek help) and says that it is my fault that I have all these problems, because I've been "surfing". Which is part of my job, mind you.

When I question this, he changes his strategy from shifting the blame to me to outright denying the problem. For example, yesterday I said that my Outlook web mail is really slow. "No, it's not," was his reply.


Then, if I continue to annoy him, he will say something to my boss, who doesn't understand a damn thing he says, so he just repeats what Mr. So-Called I/T Guy said, word-for-word, as if he actually knows what it means.

And so the cycle continues. Singing "The Circle of Shite!!! Is a wheel of horse shiiiit...!"

Maybe I'll just haul off and buy one of those spatulas. Mr. So-Called I/T Guy, or at least a certain party of his anatomy, needs to be gripped and flipped.


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