Here is my latest collection of Things That Make You Go AGH-! MY DETACHED RETINAS...!

This should NOT be used as a holiday wish list, unless you care to explain to your employers that you were not looking at kink, you were just shopping for jeans. Really.

1. You do not need your boxer shorts to have pocket for your iPod. I do not care what the voices of Tom Cruise and the aliens in your head tell you to do. Put on a tinfoil hat and get over it.
2. Dubya tee eff...?! Is this necessary?
3. I just hate her. Adriana, klose jour mouf. She wants to, I can see it in her eyes. I also find it semi-amusing that there's a model nymphette running around with a portfolio containing a tear sheet that says "MAYBE". As in maybe I'll pass...the girl is clearly incapable of keeping her jaw hinged, is what the casting director will think. However, she should have no problem with men.
4. Diesel is a repeat, repeat, repeat offender. This is their recent attempt to sell shoes. Remind me to buy some so that I, too, can have an interracial ménage à trois.
5. Was the dead polar bear with the ball gag really called for...? You be the judge.

And tomorrow, a picture of a naked girl with a boy's head buried in her crotch, which I would normally be in favor of, except that it was from a teenybopper magazine I stole from the dentist's office, unless the cat* peed on it.

He has opinions.
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Jiminy Crapmas.

Everyone's broke this year and the impending holiday b.s. ain't helping.

NOT that we are getting anyone gifts this time. No frickin' way, Hose B. We'll be lucky if we get any g.d. food. Maybe some stale candy canes. And booze. Yes, we'll be needing the booze.

I barely even managed to snag a plane ticket home...the only reason I even did that was because the prices will only become more and more obscene, and then I would really not be able to get one, so I took the plunge waist-deep into a vat of Christmas poo pie and emerged with one partially soiled ticket with a return flight on Christmas Day.

Sweet.

So now I'm semi-happy, my employer is semi-unhappy (but will deal with it), my mom is semi-happy, and Cranky, who's been out of work, is semi-happy because now I can only ruin half his Christmas. My neighbor is semi-unhappy because I can only watch her cat part of the time and cannot take her to the airport. My landlord has got to be pissed because my last rent check bounced for some unknown reason (and I didn't find out until last night due to holiday weekend) but I hope they understand (I don't) and do not try to push the new check I gave them through together with next month's rent or I will be scrooged up the a**. My bank is happy because I have direct deposit and they can charge me an exorbitant fee and then return the check, anyway. My gas meter reader is happy because I suspect he is charging me for all the therms from the water heater which serves my entire building. I am not happy about this, especially since the gas rates have gone up 70%, and am actually thinking of having the gas turned off to retaliate but am not sure if this means I would have no hot water. Cranky is not happy because now he has to go down in my scary, spider-infested basement with a flashlight to look for my thermostat.

My dad is happy as long as he doesn't have to do anything for me or see me or acknowledge that I exist. My grandparents will all at least pretend to be happy to see me except maybe Grandpa Hollis, because he doesn't actually remember who I am and sometimes calls me Mary. But then he also thinks that dinnertime is at 4 a.m. and wants a beer and that it's perfectly acceptable to appear outside in public in your underwear as long as you always have your hat on.

My dentist is not happy because I will now be unable to afford the work I need done before my benefits run out for the year, but I'm sure they'll be happy when the new year comes and I need a root canal. My cats are unhappy because now they will be with a sitter for the holiday and he's not as comfy as me (they think I am their own personal waterbed and launching pad.) My houseplants will also be pretty pissed.

I don't know how you people with actual nuclear families even deal with this sh*t. Talk about spreading yourself too thin. I can't even be accountable to plant life.

You can't make everybody happy, people.
Not unless they get to charge you fees and an interest rate.

At least the electric company isn't asking me for a ride to the airport.
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Whut? Thanks + snack + ax. Makes sense.

Cranky: I've got a meat thermometer and some heavy cream-!

No comment.
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My jaw has been dropped so much in the past 24 hrs., I think the flies got in and are using my tongue as a bounce house.

I can only hope the following things I saw or heard were figments of my overly crummy imagination.

Exhibit A. Last night, on The History Channel, there was a program about cults. It covered everything from the cults of Isis and Dionysus to Christianity (yes, Christianity - apparently, most religions start out as cults) to the Shakers (who, as they did not believe in sex, mostly died out, but left us some really nice furniture) up to Jim Jones and the People's Temple, the Branch Davidians, and those Heaven's Gate guys with the tennis shoes.

One historian said, "cult is our word for a religion we do not like." Nice. However, they did not cover Scientology. WTF?! Those blue paint-huffing muthas are getting their creepy-assed tentacles into everything; they own an alarming percentage of the real estate in Hollywood. So where's the poop, History Channel? Were you bought off? Or was this thing just horrendously out-of-date? Didn't you watch South Park last week?! Jeez.

Exhibit B. I heard Christmas music. This morning. On the radio. Please, people. Let us at least choke down our damned Tofurkey and that nasty green bean French onion thing before we have to start thinking about dropping an entire paycheck or more on holiday crap. If I hadn't already done it last year, I would be severely tempted to sit this one out. (Isn't it weird how, when you're a kid? You can't wait for this shit to come, but as an adult? It's...aw, crap. Is it December? I need to pay my g.d. bills.) Eh. Anyway, it was a country music station that...uh, the cats were listening to...yeah. So the hell were they doing playing George Michael of Wham! (which is what I wanted to do when I heard it)'s "Last Christmas?!" Oh, well. I guess it is L.A. Even our country stations uh...swing.

Exhibit C. Fifty Cent, no, Fi'ty, no, 50 Cent - on Good Day L.A. this morning (again, it was the cats who were watching FOX, not me) compared himself to The Beatles. Nigga, please. (Notice I'm not calling him a n*gger.) Nigga, c'mooooon. "In da club, bottle full of bub" is hardly classic material. At least, I hope not. And I'd like to see you bust out an actual instrument and actually sing something, Thuggy McThuggerson.

Anyway, it was funny because he was being interviewed by the self-proclaimed "whitest people on Earth" and getting seriously pissed off because they weren't discussing his "music" and kept repeating, "you've been shot NINE TIMES?!!!"

But I'm sure he's a very nice individual, and that all that violence had nothing to do with him, personally.

I am old, and am going to listen to "Achy Breaky Fart" in my rocking chair and eat some Velveeta and crackers now. Then I'll turn off the radio and form a cult called You Can't Shoot People*. Ism.

*unless they are assholes.
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Why does the poop always move in a fan-wise direction during holiday time?

Trouble's afoot in this here workplace due to lack of coverage/bullshit and I think we're all looking at our vacation/time off/severance and wondering if it could get us through the holidays should we experience an unplanned lapse in employment. And the answer is: nope.

Blarf.

Too bad, as it sure would be nice to sit back and relax with family and friends and look forward to the yuletide/Hanukkah bush, or, at least, gin.

No such luck, however. One of my esteemed (actually, a lovely woman) co-workers has decided to schedule a hysterectomy during my proposed time off. Which is all well and good, except I suspect:

a) it could wait
b) it will completely scr*w everybody else's holiday plans
c) she just wants The Ginch that Stole Christmas removed so's she can drop 20 lbs. or so in tumor weight.

Hopefully it will all come out in the wash. Er, drainage pads. However, I will say that the last time I was threatened with not being allowed to go home for the holidays, I up and quit.

Runoft, as Sergei would say.

Or, as Jinky's mom put it so well, "Jesus! You can't visit your family because of someone else's ginch problem? Jeesh."
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Just got back from the gynecologist, and all I got was this lousy cuntwipe.

Wow. I am truly impressed by this collection. Too bad they already have one of these.

At least they did not give me a "Mammo-wipe."

However, I was subjected to the fastest professional groping ever. She was even faster than most guys. I was seriously wondering "is it in yet?" and "wha' happen? Was that it?" I cannot recall if she even used a speculum. I didn't feel a damned thing.

I feel shortchanged. Not even violated.
Then she gave me the wrong prescription and I was too bummed to even deal with it.

I want my $10 copay back.

Maybe that's what I get for leaving smartassed answers on all my forms.
Q: Do you do breast self-examinations?
A: Sort of.
Q: What is the date of your last period?
A: You really expect me to remember these things?
Q: Emergency contact?
A: Cranky.
Q: Relationship?
A: ??!??
Q: Have you ever had sex?
A: You tell me.
Q: Are your partners -men -women -both?
A: Mostly.

Well, my test results will be available online in 2-3 weeks. So impersonal. At least last year, I got a phone call.

Not even a finger up the butt for my trouble.
She wasn't very thorough.

Bitch, I only do this once a year. I expect to get my money's worth.
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I am so disorganized today, I did the following:

1) Woke up late slobbering on own self after dreaming my cat had turned brown
2) Looked for insurance card to fax to doctor's office...could not find
3) Looked for driver's license I dropped at doctor's office and had to have mailed to me...also unsuccessful.
4) Insisted on taking a shower...hate sitting in own filth all day.
5) To save time, instead of washing hair, rinsed and finger-combed some conditioner through my Brillo pad/half-Afro hybrid; was unable to locate claw clip to set, so now have crunchy, spooge-filled beastie on head.
6) Discovered "quick" shower had taken 20 mins; went to call in late
7) Discovered "pay-as-you-go" plan had gone and went, so had to find pay phone
8) Found pay phone at 7-11, but homeless and/or jobless man with all the time in the world was yakking away to Michigan, or some shit
9) Was dubious about finding a pay phone in chichi neighborhood, but pedaled there anyway
10) My bicycle chain fell off; is extremely difficult to put back on w/o getting oil all over yourself
10) Got oil all over myself.
11) Rode to Larchmont Village while steering with plastic-bag covered hand and two fingers
12) Actually did find upscale pay phone; snooty Hollywood types use it to curb their dogs. It looked like one of them had partially eaten the receiver.
13) Called in stupid.

Guess I'm not the only one with mechanical malfunction today. Two guys at work said their cars wouldn't start. Is Mercury in retrograde or some patchouli-smelling armpit haired crunchy granola shit...?
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Perhaps you're wondering where I've been...

Perhaps not.

Notice this progression: Dr. Horn ---> Dr. Beave ---> Dr. Dick. Coincidence? I don't fucking think so, Ralph.

Hey, I take my action where I can get it.

And then, with the Thai food.

GAH...!

Guess I'll be going back to the doctor soon.
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*that I did not want
**necessarily

Goatface-!
A hole in the crotch of my pants.
Saddlesore.
This e-card. Horrifying. Just...horrifying.
Hearing a helium-enhanced rendition of "The Lollipop Guild" by grown-assed men. Almost as bad.
Lack of even pity sex due to crotch malfunction.
Lots o' dead lobsters & crunchy crabs on the beach (otters?)
A rang for mah fanger. Plastic. Gots it out of that thar vendin' macchhine. Dang it, I wonted a pank one, (or a whoorrange one), but dis one, it's bluuue.
A turd.
Another turd.
Wow. Yet another turd.
Jeez. Thanks, cats-!
A giant birthday zit.
Beaned in the boob by a Nerf™ product.
Swatted in the boob w/ claws, by a giant cat.
Sh*t, my boobs just stick out too far.
Sexual harassment. Documented. In three forms. On my card from work.
Getting up close and personal with a horse vagina.
Seeing a possibly dead guy lying in the street while a very blasé construction worker unhurriedly put one orange cone by his head. Nice. I hate L.A.
Gay love. StoOpid gay beach.

Things I actually needed:
Pizza Rosa.
To eat an entire sack of Munchos brand potato crud.
A microdermabrasion kit.
Lime raspberry mousse thing in take-out carton from Beverly Hills Hotel. Like a Happy Meal, except $$$er.
Chocolate cheesecake butter brickle ice cream cake - wtf? accompanied by NO SINGING. I hate the !@#$ birthday song. I will leave the restaurant if pressed.
A gift certificate from Southwest.com (Thank you, Cranky)
Green horse spit in hair (thank you, Cranky)
Lush products, most of which look like a lump of poo. HoOray!
A Forest Lawn Funeral Home 2006 calendar.
About two dozen little lipstick-kiss shaped temporary tattoos that say "Frank's Red Hot Lover" which I look forward to adhering all over some unsuspecting sleeping guy's arse and forehead. Preferably a homophobe's.
An ass-flasher. I actually needed a new ass-flasher (for my bike, so that at night, I don't get hit because people think I am a bus.) Thanks for the ass-flasher, Timply.
Horse apples.

*hic*!
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DISCLAIMER: This is not a "it's my birthday...buy me crap" or "feed me a bunch of sweet bull hock that ain't true" post.

For one, it's not my birthday. Not today, anyway.

It's just that, having turned 30, and after years of trying to pretend like I had a viable circle of friends that didn't piss me off on a regular basis, I'm done.

I don't.

And I don't care.

Really. It's okay. I'm okay with it.

I would rather be alone than with crap people who can't be relied upon.

My friends are for shit. At least, here in Los Angeles. And even when, on the happy day I don't live here anymore, people just get on my damn nerves. I'm not becoming a shut-in or anything; I just honestly can't handle more than a couple of (crap) personalities at once. Er. Not at an "intimate" dinner, anyway.

And chances are? Even with two or three people? One of 'ems bound to chap my hide.

So, no more birthday parties, even if I still had a large group of friends in town. I'm sick of shelling out the dough and then worrying about whether people actually show up in this flaky damn place. Besides, I hate throwing a "party" unless it's an actual party, and not the suckass L.A. version (no food, everyone has to buy their own drinks and whatever.)

Rude.

So, I am thinking of doing one of the following instead:

Option A: Have a full-on crazy cat lady party. Make the cats wear pointy hats on their heads; blow tooters in their faces; attempt to dodge deadly swats w/ extended claws. Serve hors d'oeuvres made out of sardines, pickled herring, and fish paste on toast. Eat with cats until sick. Barf. Eat grass. Barf again. Repeat. Barf repeatedly.

Barf never disappoints.

Option B: Steal car. Go to Wild Animal Park. Let baboons steal my (stolen) bumper.

Big red-assers won't flake on you.

Alternatively: Go to petting zoo and let the goats eat my pants. Not sure why, but this would make me happy.

Pants-eating goats never let you down.

Option C: "Inform a male co-worker that he 'wouldn't make a good hooker.' Then piss in his coffee and tell him that he needs a good ass fucking." -forwarded to me (stolen from The Office?) This sounds mighty fine.

Yes. Yes, I think I will. And maybe a kick in the pants, to boot.

Thank you, Sir! May I have another...?
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It's a boringass Wednesday but what can I say. I almost never get tired of these things. They are like junk food for your blog.

I rarely look at those "Recently Updated" links on Blogger, but it appears that they've suddenly been overtaken by pr0n blogs, i.e. Harder Erection, Longest Nipples, and Women Who Squirt.

How nice-! those titles look scrolling by on an otherwise innocuous looking page.

Also, I am loath to pay $4/mo. to view my stats in more detail, but cripes I love these things. I get the most warped f**kers in here. Some of my more recent lovelies:

nerd kitty bucket bag
Vida Guerra farted
pubic demon tattoos
cat peeing on micro suede couch Kink is getting so specific!
spike heels crunch eggs
Flatonia horny ...yes, it is. What else is there to do there?
poening male scrotum gallery eh?, No, that's here!
shitcatcher woo...! We're #1!
fuckez francais Yes, that is but one of the many services we offer here at The Pissed Kitty Cometh.
bondaged and need to pee

Oh, my...!

Also, if you are the person from Yellow Spring, West Virginia, thank you for visiting.

Yours is possibly the worst name of a town I have ever seen.

Ever.

Better than Soddy Daisy, Possum Kingdom, or Hell, TX.
Or Hondo, where they have that sign that says Welcome to Hondo, TX: This is God's Country. Please don't drive through it like hell.

I think they should put a sign up right in the middle of town that says Yellow Spring: What a Sh*thole.

How nice-!

I feel much better about where I live now.
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Why is it every time I schedule an appointment with the crotch doctor, I get my period? It's like clockwork. Really gross clockwork. With an annoying, red cuckoo that pops out every time it smells a speculum in the vicinity.

Then, when I call to reschedule the appointment, why does it seem like the very first time that office person has made an appointment for anyone, ever?

And I just love trying to explain why I can't come in, sit down, and spread 'em in a room that is suddenly, spontaneously full of inquisitive male co-workers.

I am going to call it the Full Pants Effect, or something. I think in physics, it relates to displacement of vital, personal information creating a vacuum which must be filled by nosy ions, at the molecular level, or, as an element, Nosipantsanium.

Nosipantsanium particles are predominantly located within the cerebral cortex of older, bored, and randy old men. They are molecularly charged to be extremely attracted to your dirty business, i.e. what's in your pants. Feh.

Damn you, C in Physics.

Damn you, Viagra.

I hope they all get jock itch of the anal region and are forced to sit on a foam donut for three weeks, which causes them to miss voting in the special election for Schwarzenegger's damned propositions, and also creates a surplus of chocolate, icing-laced, real donuts in the kitchen which I will use in order to get me through this farkuckt week.

May your pants be with you.
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If I didn't go to damn hell already for making fun of a guy for getting flowers when his dog died, this ought to do the trick.

Please enjoy this jumbled mess of jellified poo.
Take it. TAKE IT, bitches-!

You LIKE it. Swallow. Goood.

Our show just finished up its glorious run, and by "glorious", I mean "-$722.54."

If you did not come and see our show, that is because you are a suckass. I do not care if this is because you didn't actually know about the show. You still suck hairy anus. Do not EVEN try to invite me to your lame cocktail party or God forbid, YOUR show, in the future, because I will not come. Hypocrite.

Anyway, it was fun and I will miss it, even though I have a shitty attitude about playing an inanimate object for a living.

It's not every day people say to you, "here is your tree-hole" and "I reinforced your pants."

Ahhh, th' theatar(d).

By the way, have I mentioned that we have a tard problem...?

Across the street is a Boba place. I think it is called Boba Land or Boba World or Jumbo's House of Warm Goo or some shit, but we call it Boba Tard*, because that is where the tard lives. Works. Whatever.

*not to be confused with Boba Fett. -Timpson

Actually, I think the tard's parents work there but nevermind.

Anyway, the tard does not work and he is belligerent. You do not want to be pissing off the tard because, as Cranky says, he has "tard strength."

Some well-meaning clueless actor types who were renting our space kept repeatedly inviting the Boba Tard in and it wasn't pretty. They were laughing and playing with the tard and feeding him Ritz crackers, and that was nice, but I don't think throwing Chex Mix into the tard's mouth was actually very safe. For the tard. Or themselves.

Sometimes, they bite.

So the door guy was expressly employed not to let the tard in but he is slippery, that tard, and LOUD. Plus he kept hitting us up at the bar for free drinks.

The tard did not really want free entertainment. The one thing the tard really wanted was sugar. Apparently, his parents feed him on defective boba. I tried ignoring his pleas of "wan' COKE pleez" but Cranky eventually gave in. But the tard was still not happy. He kept returning asking for "wam" Coke and/or "Dotta Peepa." Shiiiiit.

We don't even really know how old Boba Tard is (10? 25? 32? Who can tell? Tards age so well!) so we didn't want to be held liable should he decide to go on a murderous rampage or a drinking binge or into a diabetic coma or some shit, just because his Coke wasn't warm.

So we eventually succeeded in kicking the Boba Tard out, but it hasn't ended there. Our friendly neighborhood tard is being exploited by his parents to guard the "their" parking spot, otherwise known as the loading zone outside Poo Tea Tang, or whatever it's called.

Our esteemed colleague Hobbs had the following conversation with the Boba Tard:

CH: Doo dee doo, yay, I found a parking space!
BT: Yo canna pok dere!!!
CH: Hey, what's up, li'l tard buddy...?
BT: NO!!!! Canna pok! Wan' Coke-!
CH: Uh, yes I can. It's after 7.
BT: NOOOOOO!!! (screams and pulls hair)
CH: Uh...calm down, buddy... Attempts to leave
BT: Wayy...I tell you fodder...!
CH: My father is dead.
BT: I tell you mutter...!
CH: My mother has passed on, too. Leaves.
BT: ... ... ...wan' Coke.

In our defense, we may have contributed to hopping the tard up on Coke, but we ain't the ones who hooked him on crack. I think his parents have shafted him off on the medical marijuana clinic next door just 'cuz they tardsit for free.

Nice 'hood, no?
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A man here just got flowers.

Oh, please. I am so not dealing with flowers for a heterosexual male.

I said that to the delivery man. He looked at me funny.

They weren't even man flowers.

They were ugly.

Probably from a client.

I'm not jealous or anything.

I get flowers every Monday. Not from an admirer. We order them. From the florist.

When that delivery man brings them, I say, "oh. The damn flowers are here."

He looks at me funny too.

Also, screaming babies keep following me in the grocery store.

When Screamy's mom comes and stands behind me in line, I move to another aisle, far, far away from them, in a distant galaxy.

She looks at me funny, as well.

I think I have a personality disorder.

Screw 'em.
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