Monday, January 30, 2006
I'VE HAD MY PANTS FULL
I've been...busy.
Update: it's getting worse. I almost just dipped a cocktail weenie into a jar of Nutella.
Only thing that stopped me? It wasn't mine.
The Nutella, not the weenie.
Well, both.
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Thursday, January 26, 2006
TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT ME
Vampy tagged me but I'm starting my own meme, because I'm an asshole like that.
1. I hate people. Truly, madly, deeply, 3/4ths of the time.
2. Sometimes, I smell. Also? Back fat.
3. At times, my patience is for shit, even with small children and certain hairy animals named Yippy. The former make me twack out and my left pupil spasms uncontrollably if they're around me too long.
4. I can't let it go.
5. If you are: a) smarter, b) prettier, c) younger, or d) make more money than me, I hate you. Unless: you are a but not b; b and c but not a or d; e) really deserve it, or f) I want to f) you. If not, I just p) pee on you. You make me sick. I only like you if you are q) an impotent paraplegic named Crusty John who's missing a nostril and only able to pronounce one word (fuh...!) And let's face it, that guy probably gets more than me.
6. If you don't love me back, I will beat you to the ground and grind you into the dirt over a number of years until you at least pretend you do. Then, as you are preparing your half-assed and long-overdue proposal, I will leave you for a thirty five year-old Dungeons and Dragons enthusiast who wears green tights, goes to Renaissance faires, and collects comic books named Brian.
7. If you are a female, you probably inherently piss me off (see: 5). If not, I will probably develop a pseudo-lesbian crush on you (unless you don't happen to look like this) and, once spurned, deeply resent you. Then, I will punish you by introducing you to your future husband so you'll live miserably ever after, and no, I will not come to your wedding. I think people should be taxed on that shit. Don't even get me started on baby showers.
8. If you are a guy, I probably think you want to sleep with me. If you do, gross. If you don't, I hate you. There is no way to win with me. Except with brownies. Special brownies.
9. Have I told you lately that I hate you? Other than that, I'm all love. Yeah. Oh, and I try not to bag on people's appearance (see: back fat), but if they piss me off? That's the first thing I go for. Then, the throat, followed by the scrotum.
10. I'm a jerk with the attention span of a tsetse fly; I think I'm a late loser (as opposed to late bloomer); I think I've developed a learning disability, and I'm starting to think maybe I should have taken Crusty John's phone number. (Anyone know of a good sperm clinic...?)
SO THERE.
Now you...!
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TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT ME1. I hate people. Truly, madly, deeply, 3/4ths of the time.
2. Sometimes, I smell. Also? Back fat.
3. At times, my patience is for shit, even with small children and certain hairy animals named Yippy. The former make me twack out and my left pupil spasms uncontrollably if they're around me too long.
4. I can't let it go.
5. If you are: a) smarter, b) prettier, c) younger, or d) make more money than me, I hate you. Unless: you are a but not b; b and c but not a or d; e) really deserve it, or f) I want to f) you. If not, I just p) pee on you. You make me sick. I only like you if you are q) an impotent paraplegic named Crusty John who's missing a nostril and only able to pronounce one word (fuh...!) And let's face it, that guy probably gets more than me.
6. If you don't love me back, I will beat you to the ground and grind you into the dirt over a number of years until you at least pretend you do. Then, as you are preparing your half-assed and long-overdue proposal, I will leave you for a thirty five year-old Dungeons and Dragons enthusiast who wears green tights, goes to Renaissance faires, and collects comic books named Brian.
7. If you are a female, you probably inherently piss me off (see: 5). If not, I will probably develop a pseudo-lesbian crush on you (unless you don't happen to look like this) and, once spurned, deeply resent you. Then, I will punish you by introducing you to your future husband so you'll live miserably ever after, and no, I will not come to your wedding. I think people should be taxed on that shit. Don't even get me started on baby showers.
8. If you are a guy, I probably think you want to sleep with me. If you do, gross. If you don't, I hate you. There is no way to win with me. Except with brownies. Special brownies.
9. Have I told you lately that I hate you? Other than that, I'm all love. Yeah. Oh, and I try not to bag on people's appearance (see: back fat), but if they piss me off? That's the first thing I go for. Then, the throat, followed by the scrotum.
10. I'm a jerk with the attention span of a tsetse fly; I think I'm a late loser (as opposed to late bloomer); I think I've developed a learning disability, and I'm starting to think maybe I should have taken Crusty John's phone number. (Anyone know of a good sperm clinic...?)
SO THERE.
Now you...!
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Wednesday, January 25, 2006
L.A. OBITS ARE WEIRD
No, I am not one of those people who checks the obituaries to make sure I'm not in them (Grandma F!) I was just browsing for info on a gentleman who used to work for our company when I encountered these. I've been snorting and tittering ever since:
Names have been changed to protect the innocent(?).
Actor Fuckup Penn, 40, Is Found Dead - I am so sick of hearing about people being "found dead" in their apartments. -Cranky
Muffy Mufferson, 78; Writer, Psychotherapist, Activist Helped Establish L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center [hoOray!] R.I.P.
Dookey Hammyhock, Pioneer in Drag
Racing as Driver, Designer, Builder and Businessman - What unfortunate phrasing...R.I.P.
Dick Brown, 57; Ex-Ram Receiver Played 11 Seasons in the NFL - yet more unfortunate phrasing.
Dr. Beavis Snippy, 82; World Renowned Sex-Change Surgeon - "was known for turning tiny Trinidad, CO into the 'Sex-Change Capital of the World.' ...had said his sex-change patients included politicians, actors, models, police officers, judges, clergymen, teachers, a 245-pound linebacker, three Georgia brothers and an 84-year-old man 'who wanted to die as a female.' Over the years he refined the procedure and boasted...that his work was so good that one former patient was married to a gynecologist who didn't suspect a thing." Whoa. Dr. Beavis Snippy. Rest in Pieces.
Dino "Sore" Dong, 66; Artist Who Created Playful Dinosaur Skeletons From Car Parts Only in L.A. R.I.P.
Check here if you don't believe me.
I'm glad this isn't the only place people migrate to become professional weirdos.
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L.A. OBITS ARE WEIRDNames have been changed to protect the innocent(?).
Actor Fuckup Penn, 40, Is Found Dead - I am so sick of hearing about people being "found dead" in their apartments. -Cranky
Muffy Mufferson, 78; Writer, Psychotherapist, Activist Helped Establish L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center [hoOray!] R.I.P.
Dookey Hammyhock, Pioneer in Drag
Racing as Driver, Designer, Builder and Businessman - What unfortunate phrasing...R.I.P.
Dick Brown, 57; Ex-Ram Receiver Played 11 Seasons in the NFL - yet more unfortunate phrasing.
Dr. Beavis Snippy, 82; World Renowned Sex-Change Surgeon - "was known for turning tiny Trinidad, CO into the 'Sex-Change Capital of the World.' ...had said his sex-change patients included politicians, actors, models, police officers, judges, clergymen, teachers, a 245-pound linebacker, three Georgia brothers and an 84-year-old man 'who wanted to die as a female.' Over the years he refined the procedure and boasted...that his work was so good that one former patient was married to a gynecologist who didn't suspect a thing." Whoa. Dr. Beavis Snippy. Rest in Pieces.
Dino "Sore" Dong, 66; Artist Who Created Playful Dinosaur Skeletons From Car Parts Only in L.A. R.I.P.
Check here if you don't believe me.
I'm glad this isn't the only place people migrate to become professional weirdos.
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Monday, January 23, 2006
NOT IN THE MOOD
My attitude is so piss-poor today, I'm not even in the mood for enchiladas. Not in the mood for lunch with my co-workers. Not even in the mood for love.
So here, instead, is the beginning of a list I am compiling in collaboration with the lovely and evil genius, Avatar.
I think she already has the "winning" ditty, but I'll let you (and your rapidly shrivelling 'nads) decide.
THE TEN WORST SONGS TO GET IT ON...TO
Fuck you for saying I can't end a sentence with a preposition.
Now, remember kids, while you consider each of these songs, you must actually visualize ugly people boinking. "Enjoy."
1. Springtime for Hitler . I actually witnessed this happening once. Please don't ask me how.
2. The theme from Barney, The Teletubbies, Bear in the Big Blue House...basically any children's show theme would be incredibly disturbing. Except Sesame Street (not the 70's version. The modern one is kind of hip-hoppy. I think it even shows the Statue of Liberty bumpin' its butt...also disturbing.)
3. Howard, the Duck. I know. I'm an 80's reject. But even as an eleven year-old, I hated this movie, hated Lea Thompson's "rock star" and her stupid crimped hair, hated the mini-condom toting duck. Hate, hate, HATE. See also: "Macho Duck", from Mickey Mouse Disco, which I'm sorry to say I once owned.
4. Tiptoe Through the Tulips by Tiny Tim. Only about six things wrong with this one, four of those being: 1) Tiny. 2) Tim. 3) -toe. 4) ukelele.
5. The theme from Sanford & Son, as illuminated so graphically by Zombie Flyboy, wherever he may be. The theme from The Jeffersons is pretty bad too, judging by all the hate (voice)mail I got when I had it on my outgoing message.
6. The Lollipop Guild from The Wizard of Oz; pretty much anything else sung by midgets, dwarves, "little people", Oompah Loompahs, what have you.
7. Play That Funky Music, White Boy by Wild Cherry. Someone once described an ex of mine (very white, very un-funky, tragically unhip) dancing to this in an inebriated manner. Nearly put me off my feed for a week.
8. Tie: The Hokey Pokey & The Electric Slide. Remember doing these at the roller rink...? Can't you just smell the feet?!?
9. The Hustle. Someone once teased me that I was conceived to this in the 70's, which made me picture my parents not only having sex (eeyucch), but hirsute & wearing those horrid white polyester disco stretchpants. Hello, nightmares.
10. Super Trouper by ABBA (sorry, Anne...maybe it's just Swedish guys named Benny and the jumpsuit thing again.) This song could be used as an effective form of birth control. Not to mention the dumbest lyrics ever (language barrier?) To wit: Tonight the Super Trouper lights are gonna find me\Shining like the sun (Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)\Smiling, having fun (Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)\Feeling like a number one...[HOW, exactly, does one feel like a "number one"?! That can't be good.]
11. ("this one goes to eleven")...What is Love? by Haddaway or anything techno and typically played at bad Armenian wedding receptions. Unless you are a tweaker, this would just be embarrassing.
12. Dis-honorable mention: The Smurfs Theme. The la-la-la-la-la-la jobbie, not this number.
Pick a winna, pick your butt, leave your own suggestion, or fuck a duck.
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NOT IN THE MOODSo here, instead, is the beginning of a list I am compiling in collaboration with the lovely and evil genius, Avatar.
I think she already has the "winning" ditty, but I'll let you (and your rapidly shrivelling 'nads) decide.
1. Springtime for Hitler . I actually witnessed this happening once. Please don't ask me how.
2. The theme from Barney, The Teletubbies, Bear in the Big Blue House...basically any children's show theme would be incredibly disturbing. Except Sesame Street (not the 70's version. The modern one is kind of hip-hoppy. I think it even shows the Statue of Liberty bumpin' its butt...also disturbing.)
3. Howard, the Duck. I know. I'm an 80's reject. But even as an eleven year-old, I hated this movie, hated Lea Thompson's "rock star" and her stupid crimped hair, hated the mini-condom toting duck. Hate, hate, HATE. See also: "Macho Duck", from Mickey Mouse Disco, which I'm sorry to say I once owned.
4. Tiptoe Through the Tulips by Tiny Tim. Only about six things wrong with this one, four of those being: 1) Tiny. 2) Tim. 3) -toe. 4) ukelele.
5. The theme from Sanford & Son, as illuminated so graphically by Zombie Flyboy, wherever he may be. The theme from The Jeffersons is pretty bad too, judging by all the hate (voice)mail I got when I had it on my outgoing message.
6. The Lollipop Guild from The Wizard of Oz; pretty much anything else sung by midgets, dwarves, "little people", Oompah Loompahs, what have you.
7. Play That Funky Music, White Boy by Wild Cherry. Someone once described an ex of mine (very white, very un-funky, tragically unhip) dancing to this in an inebriated manner. Nearly put me off my feed for a week.
8. Tie: The Hokey Pokey & The Electric Slide. Remember doing these at the roller rink...? Can't you just smell the feet?!?
9. The Hustle. Someone once teased me that I was conceived to this in the 70's, which made me picture my parents not only having sex (eeyucch), but hirsute & wearing those horrid white polyester disco stretchpants. Hello, nightmares.
10. Super Trouper by ABBA (sorry, Anne...maybe it's just Swedish guys named Benny and the jumpsuit thing again.) This song could be used as an effective form of birth control. Not to mention the dumbest lyrics ever (language barrier?) To wit: Tonight the Super Trouper lights are gonna find me\Shining like the sun (Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)\Smiling, having fun (Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)\Feeling like a number one...[HOW, exactly, does one feel like a "number one"?! That can't be good.]
11. ("this one goes to eleven")...What is Love? by Haddaway or anything techno and typically played at bad Armenian wedding receptions. Unless you are a tweaker, this would just be embarrassing.
12. Dis-honorable mention: The Smurfs Theme. The la-la-la-la-la-la jobbie, not this number.
Pick a winna, pick your butt, leave your own suggestion, or fuck a duck.
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Friday, January 20, 2006
THE COW GOES MOO. THE GRANDPA GOES, WHO ARE YOU?!
Oh, what an enchanting week I have had: four gatos con herpes, multiple trips to the vet, 30 mins. just to force-feed a tablespoon of Moist 'n Meaty to the elder and sicker of the cats, and now I smell like fish oil.
Whatever hits the fan, for me, likes to do it in January. Ides of March? Neh. Ides of FART = January.
Unfortunately, the cats aren't the only ones who are sick. This time last year, my Grandpa R. was in the hospital. This year, my coverage at work just got back from a leave of absence in the hospital for a hysterectomy. Then, HysterSyster came back, but my cats ought to be in the hospital, and now my other grandpa is in the hospital, and pretty soon I am going to be in a hospital...for loonies.
What am I going to do with my sad bitch ass...?
I'm now at least 30 mins. late to work these days, reeking of tuna Friskies®, so my tardy hind end has enough problems. But I'm afraid my mom will be hurt if I don't go to Texas to see Grandpa in the hospital, especially since I spent all that time in the hospital with my other grandpa.
Hopefully, she sees the logic in this. If not, I have compiled this explanatory list.
TOP 10 REASONS WHY I DON'T GIVE EQUAL HOSPITAL TIME TO POOR GRANDPA H. ORVILLE ("YES, THAT'S HIS REAL NAME") F.
(OTHERWISE KNOWN AS "COTTON" "PNEUMONY" "CLEANUP ON AISLE 2"):
1) Grandpa R. had nasty, chemical pneumonia, and had already had open-heart surgery; Grandpa H. has, that we know of, pneumonia, congestive heart failure, and a mild heart attack at some indeterminate point in the past that he didn't even notice. ¿Quién es más enfermo?
2) Grandpa Rube only has 8-10 family members, most of whom are decrepit or in-laws or too young to give a sh*t (let alone a visit). Sometimes, I was the only one able to stay with him in the hospital as everybody else had exhausted their time off work. Grandpa F. has 20+ potential visitors/family members, including "too many damn grandkids."-Grandma F. Grandpa R. has just me and my on-again, off-again (she's teenagering) sister.
3) Grandpa R's family is mostly out-of-town; Grandpa F's are almost all local.
4) Grandma R. is housebound, but fretted over the love of her life while he was in the hospital. Grandma F., in typical Texas fashion, went to get her hair done.
5) Grandpa R. has money for a will. Grandpa F., not so much.
6) I'm totally kidding. Reallly. I don't want your dead grandpa blood money-!
7) Grandpa R. is still sharp as a tack. Grandpa F. has no idea what is going on. If I were to go visit, he wouldn't even know I was there. Who's that?!, he'd say, grabbing a fistful of my hair. On a good day, he thinks my name is Beth.
a. I don't want Beth getting credit for my visit.
b. Who's Beth...?
8) Grandpa R. likes to read and talk and watch TV. Grandpa F. doesn't say much other than, "I can't SEE!," enjoys sleeping, going "hrrrrgggACK!", and on occasion even makes it to the john in time. Sometimes, he thinks the bathroom is in the closet. Whoops.
9) Grandpa R. stays fully clothed at all times. Grandpa F. sometimes high-tails it out of the house to greet the mailman in nothing but his slippers, socks, and a newsboy cap. Grandpa F. has to be restrained or he may get up, goose the nurses, and shuffle right out of the hospital in order to attend a reserve meeting he hasn't had for 20+ yrs. With diarrhea.
10) Grandpa R. slips and falls; Grandpa F. slips and falls...in his own poo.
And no, the paramedic will not help you clean it (or him) up.
Ouch. We'll see what develops with The Grandpoo (-my friend Carole).
Let's just hope the hospital keeps their closet doors locked.
Whatever hits the fan, for me, likes to do it in January. Ides of March? Neh. Ides of FART = January.
Unfortunately, the cats aren't the only ones who are sick. This time last year, my Grandpa R. was in the hospital. This year, my coverage at work just got back from a leave of absence in the hospital for a hysterectomy. Then, HysterSyster came back, but my cats ought to be in the hospital, and now my other grandpa is in the hospital, and pretty soon I am going to be in a hospital...for loonies.
What am I going to do with my sad bitch ass...?
I'm now at least 30 mins. late to work these days, reeking of tuna Friskies®, so my tardy hind end has enough problems. But I'm afraid my mom will be hurt if I don't go to Texas to see Grandpa in the hospital, especially since I spent all that time in the hospital with my other grandpa.
Hopefully, she sees the logic in this. If not, I have compiled this explanatory list.
(OTHERWISE KNOWN AS "COTTON" "PNEUMONY" "CLEANUP ON AISLE 2"):
1) Grandpa R. had nasty, chemical pneumonia, and had already had open-heart surgery; Grandpa H. has, that we know of, pneumonia, congestive heart failure, and a mild heart attack at some indeterminate point in the past that he didn't even notice. ¿Quién es más enfermo?
2) Grandpa Rube only has 8-10 family members, most of whom are decrepit or in-laws or too young to give a sh*t (let alone a visit). Sometimes, I was the only one able to stay with him in the hospital as everybody else had exhausted their time off work. Grandpa F. has 20+ potential visitors/family members, including "too many damn grandkids."-Grandma F. Grandpa R. has just me and my on-again, off-again (she's teenagering) sister.
3) Grandpa R's family is mostly out-of-town; Grandpa F's are almost all local.
4) Grandma R. is housebound, but fretted over the love of her life while he was in the hospital. Grandma F., in typical Texas fashion, went to get her hair done.
5) Grandpa R. has money for a will. Grandpa F., not so much.
6) I'm totally kidding. Reallly. I don't want your dead grandpa blood money-!
7) Grandpa R. is still sharp as a tack. Grandpa F. has no idea what is going on. If I were to go visit, he wouldn't even know I was there. Who's that?!, he'd say, grabbing a fistful of my hair. On a good day, he thinks my name is Beth.
a. I don't want Beth getting credit for my visit.
b. Who's Beth...?
8) Grandpa R. likes to read and talk and watch TV. Grandpa F. doesn't say much other than, "I can't SEE!," enjoys sleeping, going "hrrrrgggACK!", and on occasion even makes it to the john in time. Sometimes, he thinks the bathroom is in the closet. Whoops.
9) Grandpa R. stays fully clothed at all times. Grandpa F. sometimes high-tails it out of the house to greet the mailman in nothing but his slippers, socks, and a newsboy cap. Grandpa F. has to be restrained or he may get up, goose the nurses, and shuffle right out of the hospital in order to attend a reserve meeting he hasn't had for 20+ yrs. With diarrhea.
10) Grandpa R. slips and falls; Grandpa F. slips and falls...in his own poo.
And no, the paramedic will not help you clean it (or him) up.
Ouch. We'll see what develops with The Grandpoo (-my friend Carole).
Let's just hope the hospital keeps their closet doors locked.
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Thursday, January 19, 2006
POOPED
POOPEDWednesday, January 18, 2006
IN BRIEF
Someone just gave me a wedgie.
Cat wedgie.
Oh, how it burns my hole.
My cat hole.
He said it was called a "Melvin." What's the diff? Discuss.
Awww. Doesn't this just make you want to bust out with a rousing rendition of "Ebony and Ivory"...? Too bad the hamster's name means "Lunch".
Hamster Sandwich? Gerbil-to-Go...?
All four of my cats now have herpes. I am beyond pissed as they are actually not promiscuous, and are strictly indoor cats. According to what I've been reading, 70-90% of cats have cat herpes. But just try telling that to the cat.
They need Valtrex. For their cat herpes.
Speaking of life sentences, I read this intriguing discussion this morning over at Maine's. I don't know about you, but I think the idea of sentencing someone to death, then resuscitating them only to have them killed again is just plain goofy.
Or, they might take that idea and run with it. They could kill the guy, resuscitate him, kill him again, resuscitate him, and then kill him daid again, depending on the number of victims.
But nooooo. That would be cruel and unusual. But so is cockfighting. I say, Let Them Eat Cock. And rapists should be pecked to death by chickens. And Colonel Sanders...wait. He's already dead.
Also on the list of Dead or Not? I Keep Forgetting:
Frank Sinatra
George Burns
Johnny Carson
The "Don't Squeeze the Charmin Guy"
Cat herpes?
Not to make light of stiffs 'n capital punishment, but why is it that the day you wear pants which are inclined to fall down, just so happens to also be the day you are wearing embarrassing Guido-type underpants, i.e. leopard print...?
Don't make fun of me. They're my cousin's.
You know you're from Texas when you're wearing hand-me-down (actually, hand-me-up) used, leopard print underwear from your cousin.
In fact, when this Miss Piss first pubertated, it was on panties formerly belonging to her cousin Whiffy Q. (who now breeds Labradors in Golden, CO for a living). Ma Pisser said, "but you're only eleven! Are you sure it's not Whiffy's...?"
Ew. Too much informa-shun. Squishy.
No wonder I have cat herpes.
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IN BRIEFCat wedgie.
Oh, how it burns my hole.
My cat hole.
He said it was called a "Melvin." What's the diff? Discuss.
Awww. Doesn't this just make you want to bust out with a rousing rendition of "Ebony and Ivory"...? Too bad the hamster's name means "Lunch".
Hamster Sandwich? Gerbil-to-Go...?
All four of my cats now have herpes. I am beyond pissed as they are actually not promiscuous, and are strictly indoor cats. According to what I've been reading, 70-90% of cats have cat herpes. But just try telling that to the cat.
They need Valtrex. For their cat herpes.
Speaking of life sentences, I read this intriguing discussion this morning over at Maine's. I don't know about you, but I think the idea of sentencing someone to death, then resuscitating them only to have them killed again is just plain goofy.
Or, they might take that idea and run with it. They could kill the guy, resuscitate him, kill him again, resuscitate him, and then kill him daid again, depending on the number of victims.
But nooooo. That would be cruel and unusual. But so is cockfighting. I say, Let Them Eat Cock. And rapists should be pecked to death by chickens. And Colonel Sanders...wait. He's already dead.
Also on the list of Dead or Not? I Keep Forgetting:
Frank Sinatra
George Burns
Johnny Carson
The "Don't Squeeze the Charmin Guy"
Cat herpes?
Not to make light of stiffs 'n capital punishment, but why is it that the day you wear pants which are inclined to fall down, just so happens to also be the day you are wearing embarrassing Guido-type underpants, i.e. leopard print...?
Don't make fun of me. They're my cousin's.
You know you're from Texas when you're wearing hand-me-down (actually, hand-me-up) used, leopard print underwear from your cousin.
In fact, when this Miss Piss first pubertated, it was on panties formerly belonging to her cousin Whiffy Q. (who now breeds Labradors in Golden, CO for a living). Ma Pisser said, "but you're only eleven! Are you sure it's not Whiffy's...?"
Ew. Too much informa-shun. Squishy.
No wonder I have cat herpes.
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Tuesday, January 17, 2006
IT CHARS MY BACON
Cranky says there are two types of assholes: cunts and douchebags. I tend to agree.
I, for example, am a douchebag. Douchebags don't mean to be assholes. They just don't think.
Cunts are underhanded, malicious bitches. I aspire to be a cunt but am too nice half the time. Which results in much douchebaggery. I hate douchebags. I wish they'd just come right out and be cunts instead of putting up that false front of douchedom. It's so much more direct, and saves everyone valuable time otherwise wasted on beating around their cunty bushes.
To this end, I would like to say to the Douches and Cunts in my life:
DO NOT EVER FUCKING DO THIS SHIT TO ME EVER, EVER AGAIN OR I WILL REAM YOUR PUTRID FUCKHOLE WITH A 2x4 WITH A NAIL IN IT, regardless of whether or not you are actually female:
Ask this lady if this is my natural hair color or I'll forcibly bleach your pubes and eyebrows, you social retard. (Cunt.)
Ask anyone how much money they make. Ever. (Douchebag.)
Chew audibly. (Douchebag.)
Ask me shit that has nothing to do with me and then act put off when I can't find your answer, though I might try. (Cunt.)
Bring your vicious dog into my facility (or other public area) and then berate me for not "asking" before I pet it. (Cunt.)
Criticize my relationship(s) unless I am truly asking for an honest opinion. (Cunt.)
Touch me, ever. Especially in my Danger Zone (belly or below), unless I am sending some very specific physical signals, such as I am carrying your child. But ask first. See: cunty vicious dog owners. (Douchebag.)
Say you will "reimburse" me for any expense, ever. You can't reimburse money that I don't have. You thoughtless cuntwipe. (Cuntwipe.)
Send me e-mails suggesting I participate in "National Body Challenge" or e-diet.com. On the company e-mail, no less. Right after we just got another e-mail from HR entitled Reminder on Company policy regarding e-mails. And this person is in HR. Obviously they HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE. (Douchebag.)
Belittle someone else's job, even if they scoop Fritos for a living. They probably put up with nine times the shit for a fraction of your pay minus all of the benefits. Plus, the next time you need your Fritos scooped, you will only get a bag of stale Funyuns and a boot in the ass. (Cunt.)
If you are my neighbor, do not order a piece of furniture that you cannot fit through your own door without opening my door and then expect me to be at your beck and call when you decide to move it in. Oh, and by the way, you already "introduced" yourself to me...twice. And stop leaving your garbage bags on my balcony. Stupid crackhead. (Douchebag.)
Jesus Christ. Do I have to bundle all these Kibbles 'n Kunts up in a Havahart trap and send them to Texas in order for them to acquire some freaking manners?
That'll learn 'em.
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IT CHARS MY BACONI, for example, am a douchebag. Douchebags don't mean to be assholes. They just don't think.
Cunts are underhanded, malicious bitches. I aspire to be a cunt but am too nice half the time. Which results in much douchebaggery. I hate douchebags. I wish they'd just come right out and be cunts instead of putting up that false front of douchedom. It's so much more direct, and saves everyone valuable time otherwise wasted on beating around their cunty bushes.
To this end, I would like to say to the Douches and Cunts in my life:
DO NOT EVER FUCKING DO THIS SHIT TO ME EVER, EVER AGAIN OR I WILL REAM YOUR PUTRID FUCKHOLE WITH A 2x4 WITH A NAIL IN IT, regardless of whether or not you are actually female:
Ask this lady if this is my natural hair color or I'll forcibly bleach your pubes and eyebrows, you social retard. (Cunt.)
Ask anyone how much money they make. Ever. (Douchebag.)
Chew audibly. (Douchebag.)
Ask me shit that has nothing to do with me and then act put off when I can't find your answer, though I might try. (Cunt.)
Bring your vicious dog into my facility (or other public area) and then berate me for not "asking" before I pet it. (Cunt.)
Criticize my relationship(s) unless I am truly asking for an honest opinion. (Cunt.)
Touch me, ever. Especially in my Danger Zone (belly or below), unless I am sending some very specific physical signals, such as I am carrying your child. But ask first. See: cunty vicious dog owners. (Douchebag.)
Say you will "reimburse" me for any expense, ever. You can't reimburse money that I don't have. You thoughtless cuntwipe. (Cuntwipe.)
Send me e-mails suggesting I participate in "National Body Challenge" or e-diet.com. On the company e-mail, no less. Right after we just got another e-mail from HR entitled Reminder on Company policy regarding e-mails. And this person is in HR. Obviously they HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE. (Douchebag.)
Belittle someone else's job, even if they scoop Fritos for a living. They probably put up with nine times the shit for a fraction of your pay minus all of the benefits. Plus, the next time you need your Fritos scooped, you will only get a bag of stale Funyuns and a boot in the ass. (Cunt.)
If you are my neighbor, do not order a piece of furniture that you cannot fit through your own door without opening my door and then expect me to be at your beck and call when you decide to move it in. Oh, and by the way, you already "introduced" yourself to me...twice. And stop leaving your garbage bags on my balcony. Stupid crackhead. (Douchebag.)
Jesus Christ. Do I have to bundle all these Kibbles 'n Kunts up in a Havahart trap and send them to Texas in order for them to acquire some freaking manners?
That'll learn 'em.
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Monday, January 16, 2006
HAPPY SNARKIN' MOOCHER KINK DAY
You people disgust me.
Raise your hand if you have the day off.
Now, raise your hand if you are out celebrating the life of Martin Luther King, Jr.
You can't, can you. That's because first, you would have to take it off your genitals.
I know what you've been up to. You've been busy little beavers and woodchucks. YOU'VE BEEN SELF-ABUSING, HAVEN'T YOU. Don't lie to me. The truth is in my site meter. I know that just today, you were trolling for:
-women eating Tampax
-pantsed camel toe
-about donkey penes
-Nicole+ helicopter+ stunt+ horse+ intestine+ Fear+ Factor
-Asian earwax scooper
-farting cum videos
-boy cock girl cock e-i-e-i-o
Don't deny it.
Actually, I am not all that bitter about not having the day off, considering we get the day after Thanksgiving, instead. No, that doesn't mean I don't like black people. It's just that in the race between turkey and political correctness, turkey always wins out. Sorry. I'm a little food-centric.
What really chafes my crotchial area is when the company lets some, but not all, of its employees go home early prior to a holiday. This means that some are getting paid to do God-knows-what while others, usually myself and a few more lowly unfortunates, are stuck swatting away like sucker chimp-chumps. Meanwhile, our co-workers could very well be, and probably are:
-pulling their pud(s)
-screwing the pooch
-spelunking with sperm
-pegging their boyfriend(s) whilst wearing a cockskin robe
-contemplating their navels
-slinging goulash
-suffering succotash
-rationing ratatouille
-changing their ballcocks
-flogging their flanges
-petting their Pulis
-sweeping their chimneys
-flensing their spleens
-utilizing their hoof picks
-administering enemas to evil spawn
-poufing their Standard poodles
...and getting paid for it.
So I queef vexedly in the general direction of all you holiday wankers.
I hope your squandered spooge fossilizes your hard drives and your keyboards crust over.
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HAPPY SNARKIN' MOOCHER KINK DAYRaise your hand if you have the day off.
Now, raise your hand if you are out celebrating the life of Martin Luther King, Jr.
You can't, can you. That's because first, you would have to take it off your genitals.
I know what you've been up to. You've been busy little beavers and woodchucks. YOU'VE BEEN SELF-ABUSING, HAVEN'T YOU. Don't lie to me. The truth is in my site meter. I know that just today, you were trolling for:
-women eating Tampax
-pantsed camel toe
-about donkey penes
-Nicole+ helicopter+ stunt+ horse+ intestine+ Fear+ Factor
-Asian earwax scooper
-farting cum videos
-boy cock girl cock e-i-e-i-o
Don't deny it.
Actually, I am not all that bitter about not having the day off, considering we get the day after Thanksgiving, instead. No, that doesn't mean I don't like black people. It's just that in the race between turkey and political correctness, turkey always wins out. Sorry. I'm a little food-centric.
What really chafes my crotchial area is when the company lets some, but not all, of its employees go home early prior to a holiday. This means that some are getting paid to do God-knows-what while others, usually myself and a few more lowly unfortunates, are stuck swatting away like sucker chimp-chumps. Meanwhile, our co-workers could very well be, and probably are:
-pulling their pud(s)
-screwing the pooch
-spelunking with sperm
-pegging their boyfriend(s) whilst wearing a cockskin robe
-contemplating their navels
-slinging goulash
-suffering succotash
-rationing ratatouille
-changing their ballcocks
-flogging their flanges
-petting their Pulis
-sweeping their chimneys
-flensing their spleens
-utilizing their hoof picks
-administering enemas to evil spawn
-poufing their Standard poodles
...and getting paid for it.
So I queef vexedly in the general direction of all you holiday wankers.
I hope your squandered spooge fossilizes your hard drives and your keyboards crust over.
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Friday, January 13, 2006
DRINKY DRINKY AND THE CAT CLAP
Three out of three taste testers agree, drinking urine is not the way to go.A couple of events in The House of Piss have driven us to drink.
Unfortunately, we are drinking pee.
Some of the contributing factors:
-My cat has a social disease.
-It's a full moon out.
-It's Friday the 13th.
-I'm ovulating.
-Look out.
-Someone stuck his tongue out at me and I almost lunged across the desk, ripped it out of his face with my teeth, and made a deli sandwich out of it.
-Korean barbecue is delicious, but they sure do hate us white peoples in there.
-And who could blame them, since our friend Chris went in and started singing, "ching chong, ching chong, ching chong...!"
-Kill me.
-For revenge, they once gave us a free squid appetizer with extra tentacles.
-If the lovely complimentary dessert beverage, pictured, was urine, it was awfully sweet.
-Maybe the chef has diabetes.
-If it wasn't the chef's urine in this lovely complimentary beverage, what was it then?
-I think lychee.
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Thursday, January 12, 2006
I NEED A TARP
Birdie, birdie, up so high
Why'd you do that in my...?
More ridiculousness.
This morning, inside of 10 minutes, all before 9:00 a.m., the following befell my bosom:
1) The cat clawed a hole in it while I was poking him with a needle (don't ask).
2) A pigeon pooped on it.
3) I slobbered water or ?!? all over it.
Sexy.
It's not like it's even all that big, but it somehow has a gravitational pull all its own - especially poor Lefty. Everything is attracted to it: hydrogen, airborne sputum (that isn't mine), bat shit, footballs.
Is there a home for the chronically icky...?
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Wednesday, January 11, 2006
NERVOUSMESS
I feel so normal now that I've read that many of you have the same little twitchings of anal-itching OCD. Now I wonder if you have the same bizarro fears of the improbable happening, or weird I'm-afraid-of-heights-but-let's-jump-off-that-cliff-anyway compulsions. Let us see.
I haven't always been total socially-phobic spazmo. This is a recent development. Hormones? Age? The later stages of syphilis? You decide.
I blush, sweat, and exude some kind of toxic sludge if I get cornered by someone I have furtively developed a crush on. Kind of like what happens if you pick up a slug or a grasshopper and it spooges all over you. Is this a defense mechanism...?
I think this stems from my horrid 4th grade crush on Ryan Ohls, which was found out by the creepy, cootie-linfested Ben Schenk, who had an unrequited crush on me. So he proceeded to call me on the phone, at my grandmother's, and ask me to go with him, while impersonating Ryan Ohls, and then hang up on me. How he even got my grandma's phone number, I will never know. I suspect he was in cahoots with Claire Hansen, who also hated my guts for no good reason. I should have put Nair in her shampoo bottle.
When I'm driving, I'm afraid I will leave the window down or cell phone off the hook and someone will accidentally overhear my horrid singing.
I think this is my 6th grade choir teacher's fault for making us sing in Hebrew. This just sounds stupid. Especially to a 6th grader.
I squirrel things away (in the desk, my pockets, etc.) Am repulsed by the pack rat thing but I do actually think I might "need" it later. This includes Post-It notes with indecipherable squiggles on them which I cannot make out later even though it is my own handwriting.
This is Mrs. Weems fault, for giving me poor penmanship marks in 2nd grade. My lettering was PERFECT. Uptight fucking cunt.
I keep receipts until the ink either fades away or the cat pees on it.
I blame the cat, for peeing on it.
If you give me something to hold, I will refuse because I will the find the most improbable way in the world to lose it. For example, what happened when I took the hall pass from Mr. Wise in 7th grade and somehow managed to flush it down the toilet. It was one of those clip-on jobbies and it fell right off my shirt exactly one nanosecond before I flushed. Try explaining that one to your teacher in front of a classroom full of heckling peers.
I blame Freud.
There is a part of my brain that thinks it can't control what comes out of my mouth. Consequently, I fear the office paging system. That small part of me wants to scream, "PENIS! PENIS! PENIS!!! HAIRY SACKS! BIG, FLOPPIN' UDDERS!" over the intercom and then flee the building at high speed.
I think this stems from my nightmare adolescence, when my 8th grade Cuban Spanish teacher, Mrs. Steele, asked me how to say peenus in Espanol. Which was my worst fear, considering my pubertating brain was constantly muttering, "penis. penis. penis," to itself, anyway.
By the way, she had a really heavy accent, and what she actually was looking for was cacahuetes. Peanuts. Peenuts. Peenus. See...? I wasn't the perv.
But I think that part of my brain died that day after it turning about three shades of purple, plaid, and black from the horror. Then it fell out.
Do you fear this sort mishap or is it just me and penis...?
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NERVOUSMESSI haven't always been total socially-phobic spazmo. This is a recent development. Hormones? Age? The later stages of syphilis? You decide.
I blush, sweat, and exude some kind of toxic sludge if I get cornered by someone I have furtively developed a crush on. Kind of like what happens if you pick up a slug or a grasshopper and it spooges all over you. Is this a defense mechanism...?
I think this stems from my horrid 4th grade crush on Ryan Ohls, which was found out by the creepy, cootie-linfested Ben Schenk, who had an unrequited crush on me. So he proceeded to call me on the phone, at my grandmother's, and ask me to go with him, while impersonating Ryan Ohls, and then hang up on me. How he even got my grandma's phone number, I will never know. I suspect he was in cahoots with Claire Hansen, who also hated my guts for no good reason. I should have put Nair in her shampoo bottle.
When I'm driving, I'm afraid I will leave the window down or cell phone off the hook and someone will accidentally overhear my horrid singing.
I think this is my 6th grade choir teacher's fault for making us sing in Hebrew. This just sounds stupid. Especially to a 6th grader.
I squirrel things away (in the desk, my pockets, etc.) Am repulsed by the pack rat thing but I do actually think I might "need" it later. This includes Post-It notes with indecipherable squiggles on them which I cannot make out later even though it is my own handwriting.
This is Mrs. Weems fault, for giving me poor penmanship marks in 2nd grade. My lettering was PERFECT. Uptight fucking cunt.
I keep receipts until the ink either fades away or the cat pees on it.
I blame the cat, for peeing on it.
If you give me something to hold, I will refuse because I will the find the most improbable way in the world to lose it. For example, what happened when I took the hall pass from Mr. Wise in 7th grade and somehow managed to flush it down the toilet. It was one of those clip-on jobbies and it fell right off my shirt exactly one nanosecond before I flushed. Try explaining that one to your teacher in front of a classroom full of heckling peers.
I blame Freud.
There is a part of my brain that thinks it can't control what comes out of my mouth. Consequently, I fear the office paging system. That small part of me wants to scream, "PENIS! PENIS! PENIS!!! HAIRY SACKS! BIG, FLOPPIN' UDDERS!" over the intercom and then flee the building at high speed.
I think this stems from my nightmare adolescence, when my 8th grade Cuban Spanish teacher, Mrs. Steele, asked me how to say peenus in Espanol. Which was my worst fear, considering my pubertating brain was constantly muttering, "penis. penis. penis," to itself, anyway.
By the way, she had a really heavy accent, and what she actually was looking for was cacahuetes. Peanuts. Peenuts. Peenus. See...? I wasn't the perv.
But I think that part of my brain died that day after it turning about three shades of purple, plaid, and black from the horror. Then it fell out.
Do you fear this sort mishap or is it just me and penis...?
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Tuesday, January 10, 2006
NEUROTIC DISCO
They say that women become increasingly neurotic as they age. I, for one, hold this truth to be self-evident.
Some of the sexy OCD-like behaviors I have developed:
1) Checking and rechecking. It takes me forever to leave the house. Am unable to exit without counting kitty noses and checking to see that all the appliances are off and/or unplugged. I get this behavior from my maternal grandpa, who can no longer see, so he just pats the stove burners to make sure they're off to OFF and jiggles all the knobs on the doors to see if the locks are locked. This drives my grandma nuts even though she's almost had her house burned down three times by a toaster. So if I come to your house, look out. I may unplug your toaster.
I tell myself, don't do that, you are driving yourself nuts, but don't you know that will be the day Mr. Black & Decker decides to torch the place.
Also, I'm almost invariably late, because I'm busy forgetting things. Cranky once made fun of me when, during an argument, I stomped out, but had to come back three times to get various things. Note to girly drama queens of both sexes: this is much less effective than one sweeping exit.
2) Sniffing that which should not be sniffed. Examples: The cat's feet, which smell like stale Fritos tossed with Feline Pine in a cat pee vinaigrette. The crotch of my pants (don't ask. You do it, too. C'mon, admit it.) My wrist, which has been on a mouse pad shared with others and sometimes one desperately reeking, Susan security guy. I know it will smell like ass, and yet I sniff it anyway. Have been known to spray self with Lysol. Am thinking of purchasing own mouse pad. Am thinking of purchasing own chair. There's nothing worse than a chair warm from someone else's Moist 'n Meaty hindquarters.
3) Looking up my nose in the mirror 42x/second. Makes me look extremely vain, but I'm just paranoid because every time I don't check it a big, gross stalactite appears and I have a five minute conversation with my boss and nobody tells me.
When going to the dentist, this behavior multiplies x3000 because at that angle, those fuckers can see all the way up into your brain.
In combination, these three moves must appear similar to "the junkie shuffle". This is ridiculous. I need meds.
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NEUROTIC DISCOSome of the sexy OCD-like behaviors I have developed:
1) Checking and rechecking. It takes me forever to leave the house. Am unable to exit without counting kitty noses and checking to see that all the appliances are off and/or unplugged. I get this behavior from my maternal grandpa, who can no longer see, so he just pats the stove burners to make sure they're off to OFF and jiggles all the knobs on the doors to see if the locks are locked. This drives my grandma nuts even though she's almost had her house burned down three times by a toaster. So if I come to your house, look out. I may unplug your toaster.
I tell myself, don't do that, you are driving yourself nuts, but don't you know that will be the day Mr. Black & Decker decides to torch the place.
Also, I'm almost invariably late, because I'm busy forgetting things. Cranky once made fun of me when, during an argument, I stomped out, but had to come back three times to get various things. Note to girly drama queens of both sexes: this is much less effective than one sweeping exit.
2) Sniffing that which should not be sniffed. Examples: The cat's feet, which smell like stale Fritos tossed with Feline Pine in a cat pee vinaigrette. The crotch of my pants (don't ask. You do it, too. C'mon, admit it.) My wrist, which has been on a mouse pad shared with others and sometimes one desperately reeking, Susan security guy. I know it will smell like ass, and yet I sniff it anyway. Have been known to spray self with Lysol. Am thinking of purchasing own mouse pad. Am thinking of purchasing own chair. There's nothing worse than a chair warm from someone else's Moist 'n Meaty hindquarters.
3) Looking up my nose in the mirror 42x/second. Makes me look extremely vain, but I'm just paranoid because every time I don't check it a big, gross stalactite appears and I have a five minute conversation with my boss and nobody tells me.
When going to the dentist, this behavior multiplies x3000 because at that angle, those fuckers can see all the way up into your brain.
In combination, these three moves must appear similar to "the junkie shuffle". This is ridiculous. I need meds.
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Monday, January 09, 2006
WHAT I CAN CONTROL
Due to the over-eventfulness of this past weekend, I will only be posting about the highly superficial today.
Commercials. I have noticed a distinct set of oddball trends which I find increasingly disturbing.
1.) Mexicans. I am not even a little brown, so why do I feel somewhat offended? All of the sudden, it has become politically correct to use the cliched Cheech and Chong Mexican gangbanger voice in commercials. A good example of this is one of the super-freaky, if lovable, PSP (not PCP) commercials featuring talking rats, squirrels, hairballs, etc. These animated figures are clearly under the influence of some kind of substances. I believe I heard one of the hairballs, which just so happened to be Mexican, going off about some Grand Theft Auto-type game in which he intended to blow up the world and make it his woman.
Yes. A talking freaking Mexican hairball on mysterious substances. Need I say more. Why don't they just say, Hey Mexicans! PSP! It's crack you can smoke OUTSIDE-! Which I thought you could always do with crack, acorns, cheese, etc. anyway, but what does my honky white bitch-ass know? Maybe it's fun to play video games in the street and get mowed down by a car.
Another badly exaggerated Mexican papi chulo voiceover was on a commercial for a bail bonds place I heard in San Antonio. Shiiit, man, I gots WARRANTS. Busted-! I practically expected it to say, "yo quiero Taco bell," but I guess he couldn't get any, since being a Mexican, he was obviously in JAIL.
Also, what kind of Mexican eats Taco Bell...?
2.) Orange balls. Clinique Happy. Cingular. Jell-O. What is with the orange balls?! Is this some sort of an inside joke? Did the same design house work on all these commercials? Or do I just need to get my eyes checked for floaters? Sheesh.
3.) Hyper-annoying females. Several of these specimens, which were seemingly chosen based on how much the casting directors hated them, are apparent in the following spots: 1) T-Mobile. 2) T-Mobile. 3) Radio Shack. These characters are, by profession, 1) a real estate agent. 2) a cheerleader. 3) Paris Hilton. Okay, 3) is not actually Paris Hilton, but it might as well be. I guess I should be thankful that they hired some half-assed actress and a Jeeves type instead of the actual Miss Crotch Rot U.S.A.
All three bitches are doing the last thing which they should ever be allowed to do, which is to talk. EVER. In their high, squeeky, giggly, cutesy-girly voices which make you want nothing so much as to scratch your own ears off and cram them down the garbage disposal with those Mexicans and some orange balls.
Even now, I feel the overwhelming need to slap the shit out of all three of these girly creeps. Which only goes to show you that being annoyed makes more of an impression than not. So we can expect this disturbing trend to continue, unless we all get TiVo. NOW.
What is this unholy trinity, and what does it mean...?
I don't know, but I am pretty sure it has something to do with the aliens.
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WHAT I CAN CONTROLCommercials. I have noticed a distinct set of oddball trends which I find increasingly disturbing.
1.) Mexicans. I am not even a little brown, so why do I feel somewhat offended? All of the sudden, it has become politically correct to use the cliched Cheech and Chong Mexican gangbanger voice in commercials. A good example of this is one of the super-freaky, if lovable, PSP (not PCP) commercials featuring talking rats, squirrels, hairballs, etc. These animated figures are clearly under the influence of some kind of substances. I believe I heard one of the hairballs, which just so happened to be Mexican, going off about some Grand Theft Auto-type game in which he intended to blow up the world and make it his woman.
Yes. A talking freaking Mexican hairball on mysterious substances. Need I say more. Why don't they just say, Hey Mexicans! PSP! It's crack you can smoke OUTSIDE-! Which I thought you could always do with crack, acorns, cheese, etc. anyway, but what does my honky white bitch-ass know? Maybe it's fun to play video games in the street and get mowed down by a car.
Another badly exaggerated Mexican papi chulo voiceover was on a commercial for a bail bonds place I heard in San Antonio. Shiiit, man, I gots WARRANTS. Busted-! I practically expected it to say, "yo quiero Taco bell," but I guess he couldn't get any, since being a Mexican, he was obviously in JAIL.
Also, what kind of Mexican eats Taco Bell...?
2.) Orange balls. Clinique Happy. Cingular. Jell-O. What is with the orange balls?! Is this some sort of an inside joke? Did the same design house work on all these commercials? Or do I just need to get my eyes checked for floaters? Sheesh.
3.) Hyper-annoying females. Several of these specimens, which were seemingly chosen based on how much the casting directors hated them, are apparent in the following spots: 1) T-Mobile. 2) T-Mobile. 3) Radio Shack. These characters are, by profession, 1) a real estate agent. 2) a cheerleader. 3) Paris Hilton. Okay, 3) is not actually Paris Hilton, but it might as well be. I guess I should be thankful that they hired some half-assed actress and a Jeeves type instead of the actual Miss Crotch Rot U.S.A.
All three bitches are doing the last thing which they should ever be allowed to do, which is to talk. EVER. In their high, squeeky, giggly, cutesy-girly voices which make you want nothing so much as to scratch your own ears off and cram them down the garbage disposal with those Mexicans and some orange balls.
Even now, I feel the overwhelming need to slap the shit out of all three of these girly creeps. Which only goes to show you that being annoyed makes more of an impression than not. So we can expect this disturbing trend to continue, unless we all get TiVo. NOW.
What is this unholy trinity, and what does it mean...?
I don't know, but I am pretty sure it has something to do with the aliens.
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Thursday, January 05, 2006
SUPERMARKETENCOUNTERAPHOBIA
I have a pathological fear of running into one of my co-workers (or other close-but-no-banana acquaintances) at the grocery store. I don't know what else to call it.
Today, my fear was confirmed when I ran smack - really, almost ran over - The Only Other Attractive Person in my Workplace®, who arrived at the exact same time.
GotdamnsumbitchIcouldn'tfindawhore-!
This only served to remind me that God™ is fucking with me.
Although it could have been worse. Much worse. I could have run into him with my items - Fancy Feast (Tuna in Gravy), batteries, and a lone cucumber - in my sad little single person's handbasket. That would have been worse. I guess.
So I flipped out and ran away and hid in the produce section with all the other fruits. As I paced between the casaba melons and the kumquats, I thought momentarily about joining him at the checkout to establish what a normal, non-social-anxiety afflicted individual I am, but realized I would have to write a check and I don't want him thinking I am a welfare queen in addition to an angry weirdo, compulsively masturbating, cuburbit-humping lesbian shoe-wearing cat fancier on Wellbutrin.
This was measurably worse than the time I ran into the co-worker who was purchasing Just For Men and Rogaine and banana-flavored condoms, only because I don't give a crap about what that guy thinks. He is a prissy, high-maintenance cheesewad, and his purchases only confirmed this.
But stomping up to someone and glaring, about to say something snotty because you think they might be a gangbanger and they won't get their brick shithouse-like posterior out of your way, then realizing it is your marginally attractive co-worker (made more so because they also happen to be your sort-of boss)? No es bueno, chiquititos.
It's just a bad scenario. Almost as bad as running into someone you know, who is just there to clean the fish tank, in an abortion clinic. Which has happened to me, also.
I must feel that I have something to hide, or else I just really hate bad lighting.
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SUPERMARKETENCOUNTERAPHOBIAToday, my fear was confirmed when I ran smack - really, almost ran over - The Only Other Attractive Person in my Workplace®, who arrived at the exact same time.
GotdamnsumbitchIcouldn'tfindawhore-!
This only served to remind me that God™ is fucking with me.
Although it could have been worse. Much worse. I could have run into him with my items - Fancy Feast (Tuna in Gravy), batteries, and a lone cucumber - in my sad little single person's handbasket. That would have been worse. I guess.
So I flipped out and ran away and hid in the produce section with all the other fruits. As I paced between the casaba melons and the kumquats, I thought momentarily about joining him at the checkout to establish what a normal, non-social-anxiety afflicted individual I am, but realized I would have to write a check and I don't want him thinking I am a welfare queen in addition to an angry weirdo, compulsively masturbating, cuburbit-humping lesbian shoe-wearing cat fancier on Wellbutrin.
This was measurably worse than the time I ran into the co-worker who was purchasing Just For Men and Rogaine and banana-flavored condoms, only because I don't give a crap about what that guy thinks. He is a prissy, high-maintenance cheesewad, and his purchases only confirmed this.
But stomping up to someone and glaring, about to say something snotty because you think they might be a gangbanger and they won't get their brick shithouse-like posterior out of your way, then realizing it is your marginally attractive co-worker (made more so because they also happen to be your sort-of boss)? No es bueno, chiquititos.
It's just a bad scenario. Almost as bad as running into someone you know, who is just there to clean the fish tank, in an abortion clinic. Which has happened to me, also.
I must feel that I have something to hide, or else I just really hate bad lighting.
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Wednesday, January 04, 2006
THE ONLY TIME I'VE EVER BEEN CALLED "NORMAL"
Just when I thought it couldn't get any more impersonal, I have to go online and login to my own queefing cavern of echoes:
I don't even remember getting jiggy with the big Q-Tip.
Was it even in?
Not to mention that my breast exam went like this: *pat*PAT*pat*. And it was over like that. Please. I've had 21 yr. old drunken fratboys fresh from church camp last longer.
I feel so cheated by this unremarkable lesbian encounter. Guess I'll just have to keep changing doctors until I find someone a little more...thorough.
Hmph. At least last year, I got a phone call.
What next? A text message, sent directly to your twat...?
CONGRATULATIONS! Your pelvic exam tested positive for...FLARP.
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THE ONLY TIME I'VE EVER BEEN CALLED "NORMAL"
I don't even remember getting jiggy with the big Q-Tip.
Was it even in?
Not to mention that my breast exam went like this: *pat*PAT*pat*. And it was over like that. Please. I've had 21 yr. old drunken fratboys fresh from church camp last longer.
I feel so cheated by this unremarkable lesbian encounter. Guess I'll just have to keep changing doctors until I find someone a little more...thorough.
Hmph. At least last year, I got a phone call.
What next? A text message, sent directly to your twat...?
CONGRATULATIONS! Your pelvic exam tested positive for...FLARP.
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Tuesday, January 03, 2006
I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU
She's a loser, baby. So why don't I kill her...?
I am utterly, utterly awed by the EXTREME! douchebaggery I have experienced as of this, only the third day of the new year. I don't know if I'm up for 2006, folks:
1) My neighbor chick whose cat I'm taking care of is, as one of you said, I think, a major douche. Evidence:
a) She let her cat's prescription run out for me to refill to the tune of $50 out-of-pocket that I do not fucking have.
b) Her cat is an asshole and bites me and yet she expects me to trim his claws
c) She is somehow never around to take care of my cats; I wouldn't trust her, anyway
d) My incentive for this b.s.? She left me the car "to use", but not the car keys. By the way? Last time she did this, I got a minor glitch fixed, her oil changed, and refilled more cat meds, all of which she seemed to expect and none of which she paid me back for.
e) She also expects to be picked up from the airport tonight, and...you guessed it...left no fucking gas in the fucking car. I'm giving her $2, that's it - and saying, "by the way, you're out of gas, and you owe me $50 fucking dollars" when I pick her up. I am neither her mommy nor her boyfriend, and now I'm the douche if I continue to allow her to use me as her toilet/doormat.
2) Please tell me I did not. DID NOT see that H&R Block commercial, theme: "Oopsie," what with the baby's diaper being changed and the fucking STREAM OF URINE spewing through the shot. Please, in the name of all that is holy! Make this only a bad dream I had last night.
a) Okay, I realize that hopefully, no actual urine was used or harmed in the production of this commercial. Still, the mechanics of producing said stream are fucking absurd. I'm glad I wasn't that P.A. "Okay, Sally, SQUEEZE THE SQUIRT BOTTLE...in 5, 4, 3, 2...*splurt*...nice shot, Einstein! You hit the principal-! Hair...makeup!...going AGAIN in 5, 4, pee, 2..."
b) While urine and taxes are not totally unrelated, isn't this somewhat...I don't know. Unprofessional? Do they really want us to associate streams of urine with H&R Block? If so, why not poo...? You know it's coming, folks. Brace yourselves, bridies.
c) When did it become socially acceptable to show actual (real or simulated) streams of urine on television? I remember seeing a still photo of one on a Barbie box, being squeezed out of Barbie's plastic cat, into Barbie's plastic cat's plastic cat box, but this is ridiculous. Aren't the slews of (really more relevant) diaper commercials, which allude to pee (uh-oh...) but never actually show it, bad enough...?
3) While innocently shopping for a gift for my...cousin's bawling brat, whatever the fuck that is, once removed...I saw these. Again, for the love of all that is holy, let this not be real. I was just starting to sleep through the night without nightmares of clowns and babies, and now they're back with a vengeance.
Lord, get us through this year without needing a partial or full frontal lobotomy. Cheese and crackers. What an effed-up world we live in.
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I CAN'T BELIEVE YOUI am utterly, utterly awed by the EXTREME! douchebaggery I have experienced as of this, only the third day of the new year. I don't know if I'm up for 2006, folks:
1) My neighbor chick whose cat I'm taking care of is, as one of you said, I think, a major douche. Evidence:
a) She let her cat's prescription run out for me to refill to the tune of $50 out-of-pocket that I do not fucking have.
b) Her cat is an asshole and bites me and yet she expects me to trim his claws
c) She is somehow never around to take care of my cats; I wouldn't trust her, anyway
d) My incentive for this b.s.? She left me the car "to use", but not the car keys. By the way? Last time she did this, I got a minor glitch fixed, her oil changed, and refilled more cat meds, all of which she seemed to expect and none of which she paid me back for.
e) She also expects to be picked up from the airport tonight, and...you guessed it...left no fucking gas in the fucking car. I'm giving her $2, that's it - and saying, "by the way, you're out of gas, and you owe me $50 fucking dollars" when I pick her up. I am neither her mommy nor her boyfriend, and now I'm the douche if I continue to allow her to use me as her toilet/doormat.
2) Please tell me I did not. DID NOT see that H&R Block commercial, theme: "Oopsie," what with the baby's diaper being changed and the fucking STREAM OF URINE spewing through the shot. Please, in the name of all that is holy! Make this only a bad dream I had last night.
a) Okay, I realize that hopefully, no actual urine was used or harmed in the production of this commercial. Still, the mechanics of producing said stream are fucking absurd. I'm glad I wasn't that P.A. "Okay, Sally, SQUEEZE THE SQUIRT BOTTLE...in 5, 4, 3, 2...*splurt*...nice shot, Einstein! You hit the principal-! Hair...makeup!...going AGAIN in 5, 4, pee, 2..."
b) While urine and taxes are not totally unrelated, isn't this somewhat...I don't know. Unprofessional? Do they really want us to associate streams of urine with H&R Block? If so, why not poo...? You know it's coming, folks. Brace yourselves, bridies.
c) When did it become socially acceptable to show actual (real or simulated) streams of urine on television? I remember seeing a still photo of one on a Barbie box, being squeezed out of Barbie's plastic cat, into Barbie's plastic cat's plastic cat box, but this is ridiculous. Aren't the slews of (really more relevant) diaper commercials, which allude to pee (uh-oh...) but never actually show it, bad enough...?
3) While innocently shopping for a gift for my...cousin's bawling brat, whatever the fuck that is, once removed...I saw these. Again, for the love of all that is holy, let this not be real. I was just starting to sleep through the night without nightmares of clowns and babies, and now they're back with a vengeance.
Lord, get us through this year without needing a partial or full frontal lobotomy. Cheese and crackers. What an effed-up world we live in.
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