Allow me to begin today's entry by expressing my sympathies to our runnersworld.com friend Steph. Because Mother Nature is continuing to be a nasty fucking bitchface and brewed up another Snowpocalypse or Snowmaggedon or Chersnowbyl or The Snowlocaust or whatever witty politicians will be calling this storm, Steph didn't get to go to Florida to run Gasparilla. (I'm sure that Pat Robertson will insist that this storm is God punishing New Jersey for Snooki, but that's not important right now.) She will probably be drunk all weekend, and I don't think she even reads my blog, so she won't see this; but I figured that since she was really upset about the whole thing I would show an ounce of humanity and not mock her for missing yet another race. I'm a good friend like that.
Now that I'm done being what I would call nice, I will move on. Thanks to comedian Daniel Tosh and a repeat of his Tosh.0 show on Comedy Central, I was introduced last night to chatroulette.com. The premise of chatroulette is that you log in with your webcam on, and the system randomly connects you to another person with their webcam on. You can click "next" at any time to run away from whatever you see, so there is a safety. The potential for abject hilarity is there, so I decided to check it out.
I was quite disappointed. In my 40 minutes or so of experimenting, I was subjected to 1 fat, hairy, naked male torso (Really, fat fucking man-sweater? This is how you get your jollies on a Friday night?); 1 dude wearing a black wife-beater and nothing else (Nice, you fucking whack-job. The wife-beater really accentuates your lack of arm definition and completely distracts from your lack of penis size...); 4 individual, random guys sitting with their faces about 2 inches from the camera (Hey guys, it's called soap, and you can use it on your faces); 1 person who had the webcam pointed above their head so only the crown of their head and the dead flowers on a shelf behind them were visible (Psst...you can adjust the angle...); 1 group of 4 dudes sitting on a bed (fully clothed, but still...a little fucking lame, guys, that you're sitting on your friend's bed scanning chatroulette on a Friday night); 2 young chicks who made some weird screaming/cattle dying sound when their camera turned on (Yeah, I know I'm ugly, but lowing like you're cattle and the bolt gun didn't do it's job? That kinda hurts); and 3 young, somewhat attractive chicks who quickly clicked "next" when they saw me (take that, ego). At no point did I actually get a chance to interact with any of these people, and I assume that it was because they were just looking for the same random craziness I was or I wasn't naked enough. My search for something hilarious fell quite short.
I also spent a lot of time waiting for the system to find a random stranger to connect with, which was annoying, considering that it said there were 20,000 people online. There had to have been plenty of random fucking goofball strangers for the system to connect me with. I was let down by what could be a very funny site. I think I may get drunk and try again the next time I have a free night. Maybe I'll take the reverse angle and be the freak...I could paint my face to look like a clown and wear a dress or something to inspire reactions...maybe I went about this search for comedy all wrong. Maybe I need to be the comedy, and just document what happens. Stay tuned, this might be an idea.
Anyway, I got to thinking about the whole chatroulette thing and realized that I am not quite as in touch with pop culture as I might need to be for this blog to be truly EPIC. Yeah, I made a Snooki reference, but I've never watched that dumb fucking show. You would think I would love watching people make complete asses of themselves on television, but I don't. It actually pisses me off. I don't like stupid people, I certainly don't enjoy watching them further dumb down society by broadcasting their idiocy for the world to see.
However, I think I may need to start tuning in more to those types of shows. It would be solely for the sake of comedic blog writing material, of course. I don't want to be that grumpy old blog guy, standing on my e-porch, yelling at the cyberkids to get the fuck off my server just because I'm out of touch with the world outside of my Ben Gay and microwaveable chicken pot pie scented bubble. So, with an admittedly begrudging spirit, I will do my best to watch some horrible reality TV in the next few weeks. You will either (eether, which is the proper way to pronounce that word, if you didn't know) see some brilliant fucking assessments of these shows or you will see the beginning of my descent into complete fucking anti-social madness because I just can't take it anymore that dumbfucks like that are getting rich off of their stupidity. Either way, it should be entertaining for you bitches to read.
Check out chatroulette.com for yourself. Perhaps you will have better luck than I did. If you see bottomless wife-beater guy, maybe don't click "next" too fast. Say hi. See if his personality is bigger than that silly little vienna sausage looking thing he calls a shlong.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sweet Chili Shut the Fuck Up
In a revisiting of a previously ranted upon theme, I am going to discuss another fast food commercial that pisses me off more each time I see it. The commercial of choice today is a McDonald's commercial; one in which some douchecake walks into a McDonald's where a bunch of people dressed in various Winter Olympic sports uniforms sit around feasting in the processed, greasy, pseudo-food that is McDonald's cuisine. The voice-over is stating that McDonald's wants to give the fat-asses sitting on their couches a taste of the Olympics, and then proceeds to introduce some sweet chili dipping sauce for McNuggets.
What the fuck? How the fuck is sweet chili dipping sauce at all relevant to the motherfucking Winter Olympics? How is sweet chili dipping sauce supposed to make anyone anywhere think about Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Skiing, Luge, Hockey, or those stupid fucking wastes of air-time and human energy that are curling ice dancing? Yeah, McDonald's, when I think of an event where elite athletes from countries full of thousands of years of culture gather together to compete in ridiculously difficult tests of their athletic abilities, I think of sweet fucking chili dipping sauce. I am going to drive my fat ass to McDonald's right now so I can get in touch with the Olympics by dipping my deep-fried chunks of what may or may not be ground up chicken sphincter in sweet fucking chili dipping sauce. Thank you for making me feel like I'm in the heart of Vancouver, McDonald's.
The commercial then goes on to say at the end that you don't have to be an Olympic athlete, "...but you can eat like one." Really? Really, McDonald's? I know you have a gajillion dollars that you've invested in sponsoring the Olympics and advertising and finding ways to lie to the general public so they don't find out that you're Satan's slightly more evil twin brother, but this is too much. Olympic athletes eat at McDonald's? Yeah, these elite athletes who spend most of their days training without oxygen running up hills while carrying boulders in the fucking Himalayas so they can dominate their respective sports eat McDonald's. Nothing helps an athlete maintain peak physical condition like a box of greasy deep-fried shit and a side of greasier deep-fried shit; all washed down with a 600 ounce Coca-Cola. It's not like these streamlined, physically perfect athletes need to eat anything specific to maintain their athletic edge, they're all just cramming Big Macs down their necks any chance they get.
No, I do not think that none of the athletes ever indulge in fast food. I'm sure that when one trains as hard and as religiously as they do, they are allowed a few moments of culinary indiscretion and they probably eat some fries. But, what pisses me off is McDonald's implication that their food is quality enough that Olympic athletes eat it on a regular basis. Or that these athletes are gorging on Chicken McNuggets (dipped in sweet chili dipping sauce, of course) while preparing to compete in the games. It is not, and they are not. Of course, anyone with any semblance of intelligence would know this, but these companies wouldn't make these commercials if they didn't have evidence that the stupid shit they say affects someone. Somewhere, there is some fat fucker who plays golf twice a year who will see this commercial and think "I'm an athlete, too, I should eat at McDonald's because that's where Olympians eat!" That fat, stupid piece of shit should do the world a favor and get hit by a bus on his way to the golden arches. Maybe if all the dumb fucking morons who buy into the stupid shit commercials say were to be eliminated, those of us who don't live our lives with our heads up our asses when we're not cramming food in our mouths could stop being subjected to these stupid fucking commercials.
Fuck you, McDonald's. Fuck you for dropping an exorbidant amount of money in an effort to further fool the ignorant general public into thinking that your food isn't shitty heart-attack death in uniformly cut meat by-product patties or nuggets. Or that you don't only make these commercials so you can continue make 500% profit off of the cheap shit you buy from corporate run farms. Fuck you for continuing to be a great big player in the "What's Wrong With Society?" game.
Suck it, McDonald's. Go ahead and slather some sweet chili dipping sauce on it if you need to.
What the fuck? How the fuck is sweet chili dipping sauce at all relevant to the motherfucking Winter Olympics? How is sweet chili dipping sauce supposed to make anyone anywhere think about Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Skiing, Luge, Hockey, or those stupid fucking wastes of air-time and human energy that are curling ice dancing? Yeah, McDonald's, when I think of an event where elite athletes from countries full of thousands of years of culture gather together to compete in ridiculously difficult tests of their athletic abilities, I think of sweet fucking chili dipping sauce. I am going to drive my fat ass to McDonald's right now so I can get in touch with the Olympics by dipping my deep-fried chunks of what may or may not be ground up chicken sphincter in sweet fucking chili dipping sauce. Thank you for making me feel like I'm in the heart of Vancouver, McDonald's.
The commercial then goes on to say at the end that you don't have to be an Olympic athlete, "...but you can eat like one." Really? Really, McDonald's? I know you have a gajillion dollars that you've invested in sponsoring the Olympics and advertising and finding ways to lie to the general public so they don't find out that you're Satan's slightly more evil twin brother, but this is too much. Olympic athletes eat at McDonald's? Yeah, these elite athletes who spend most of their days training without oxygen running up hills while carrying boulders in the fucking Himalayas so they can dominate their respective sports eat McDonald's. Nothing helps an athlete maintain peak physical condition like a box of greasy deep-fried shit and a side of greasier deep-fried shit; all washed down with a 600 ounce Coca-Cola. It's not like these streamlined, physically perfect athletes need to eat anything specific to maintain their athletic edge, they're all just cramming Big Macs down their necks any chance they get.
No, I do not think that none of the athletes ever indulge in fast food. I'm sure that when one trains as hard and as religiously as they do, they are allowed a few moments of culinary indiscretion and they probably eat some fries. But, what pisses me off is McDonald's implication that their food is quality enough that Olympic athletes eat it on a regular basis. Or that these athletes are gorging on Chicken McNuggets (dipped in sweet chili dipping sauce, of course) while preparing to compete in the games. It is not, and they are not. Of course, anyone with any semblance of intelligence would know this, but these companies wouldn't make these commercials if they didn't have evidence that the stupid shit they say affects someone. Somewhere, there is some fat fucker who plays golf twice a year who will see this commercial and think "I'm an athlete, too, I should eat at McDonald's because that's where Olympians eat!" That fat, stupid piece of shit should do the world a favor and get hit by a bus on his way to the golden arches. Maybe if all the dumb fucking morons who buy into the stupid shit commercials say were to be eliminated, those of us who don't live our lives with our heads up our asses when we're not cramming food in our mouths could stop being subjected to these stupid fucking commercials.
Fuck you, McDonald's. Fuck you for dropping an exorbidant amount of money in an effort to further fool the ignorant general public into thinking that your food isn't shitty heart-attack death in uniformly cut meat by-product patties or nuggets. Or that you don't only make these commercials so you can continue make 500% profit off of the cheap shit you buy from corporate run farms. Fuck you for continuing to be a great big player in the "What's Wrong With Society?" game.
Suck it, McDonald's. Go ahead and slather some sweet chili dipping sauce on it if you need to.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I Quit. Again.
The past few days, tat2brat has been complaining about a pain (that I won't discuss in detail because HIPPA laws prevent me from doing so). The wife decided to take her in to the pediatrician today. The short diagnosis: tat2brat is going into puberty. Seriously. Let me repeat that shit for effect: tat2brat is going into motherfucking puberty. According to the doctor, we can expect her to start developing breasts in the next 6 months or so, and she will probably start her period within the next year or two.
FUCK. THIS. BULLSHIT.
I thought it was bad when she was discussing Miranda Cosgrove's dating choices, but now there is physical evidence and a guy with about 100 years of college telling us that puberty is on it's way. I'm not ready for this. How the fuck can she be starting puberty at 9? I thought for sure we had a few years left for us to ignore the warning signs and live in denial that our kid is growing up and the teenage years are coming.
I'm not ready. At all. I mean, I could kill some pimply faced teenaged shitface fucker trying to date my daughter tomorrow and not even lose any sleep over it, so I'm ready for that part. I'm not ready for the emotional trauma that is dealing with a pre-teen and teenaged girl. I'm not ready for the wild fucking mood swings where she goes from loving and cheerful and fun one minute to a demon-possessed fucking terror hell-bent on fighting and scaring the shit out of the devil the next. I'm not ready for the emotional breakdowns over ridiculous girly shit. And, even though "disappearing" some young punk would be easy, I'm not ready to have to explain myself when every boy who tries to talk to her goes missing.
I'm pretty shocked that this is happening so early, and I'm ready to pack up and take a 9 year sabbatical. I don't want to play this game anymore. The rules are changing, and it's not fun. The deck is clearly stacked against me, and the dealer is an angry motherfucker who is going to enjoy watching me squirm in my seat while I lose over and over again.
However, I am not taking it as hard as tat2wife is. She's a wreck. All crying and mopey and shit (and, this may shock some of you, but I am notoriously bad at comforting anyone. I fail at finding anything remotely right to say in times like these...). She's truly shocked by this happening so soon, and she is lamenting the fact that her little girl isn't going to be her little girl much longer. The days of peaceful fun and happiness are about to be replaced with epic battles of hormone and estrogen powered will, anger, and "fuck you." They already have those days when they butt heads like pissed off rams over anything and everything, it's only going to get worse; because that's what mothers and daughters do, I'm told. I am certainly not ready to be a part of any of that fun. (When I say "fun," I'm being as sarcastic as I possibly can, I imagine this whole thing being about as enjoyable as having an IV put in my penis by a blind epileptic.)
So fuck me, this whole parenthood thing is about to get harder. I've sucked at the easy shit, I can't imagine how badly I'm going to fail this little test. And why wasn't I given any fucking study guide or anything? This shit is unfair. Can I drop out and get a GED or something?
FUCK. THIS. BULLSHIT.
I thought it was bad when she was discussing Miranda Cosgrove's dating choices, but now there is physical evidence and a guy with about 100 years of college telling us that puberty is on it's way. I'm not ready for this. How the fuck can she be starting puberty at 9? I thought for sure we had a few years left for us to ignore the warning signs and live in denial that our kid is growing up and the teenage years are coming.
I'm not ready. At all. I mean, I could kill some pimply faced teenaged shitface fucker trying to date my daughter tomorrow and not even lose any sleep over it, so I'm ready for that part. I'm not ready for the emotional trauma that is dealing with a pre-teen and teenaged girl. I'm not ready for the wild fucking mood swings where she goes from loving and cheerful and fun one minute to a demon-possessed fucking terror hell-bent on fighting and scaring the shit out of the devil the next. I'm not ready for the emotional breakdowns over ridiculous girly shit. And, even though "disappearing" some young punk would be easy, I'm not ready to have to explain myself when every boy who tries to talk to her goes missing.
I'm pretty shocked that this is happening so early, and I'm ready to pack up and take a 9 year sabbatical. I don't want to play this game anymore. The rules are changing, and it's not fun. The deck is clearly stacked against me, and the dealer is an angry motherfucker who is going to enjoy watching me squirm in my seat while I lose over and over again.
However, I am not taking it as hard as tat2wife is. She's a wreck. All crying and mopey and shit (and, this may shock some of you, but I am notoriously bad at comforting anyone. I fail at finding anything remotely right to say in times like these...). She's truly shocked by this happening so soon, and she is lamenting the fact that her little girl isn't going to be her little girl much longer. The days of peaceful fun and happiness are about to be replaced with epic battles of hormone and estrogen powered will, anger, and "fuck you." They already have those days when they butt heads like pissed off rams over anything and everything, it's only going to get worse; because that's what mothers and daughters do, I'm told. I am certainly not ready to be a part of any of that fun. (When I say "fun," I'm being as sarcastic as I possibly can, I imagine this whole thing being about as enjoyable as having an IV put in my penis by a blind epileptic.)
So fuck me, this whole parenthood thing is about to get harder. I've sucked at the easy shit, I can't imagine how badly I'm going to fail this little test. And why wasn't I given any fucking study guide or anything? This shit is unfair. Can I drop out and get a GED or something?
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Withdrawals.
I know all 16 of you who follow me are going through them right now. "He hasn't posted anything in a week! Why? Where is he? Did he OD on thin mints? Why doesn't he love us enough to give us a fix?!" Well, settle down, bitches, Daddy is back.
It has actually been a pretty disappointing week as far as things to muse upon, and I even made a couple trips to WalMart. Shit, I can almost always find something mock in the groups of people at WalMart...but this week everyone was reasonably normal. Which is OK, I guess, but it sucks if you're trying to entertain people with comedic rants based on observations. Even worse than people around me not being completely fucking retarded, no one has really pissed me off this week. This has to be some sort of record. No, it's not that I'm feeling Zen after gorging on thin mints. If anything, I should be even more on edge now because I got a fix, but haven't had any since. Those little bitches haven't been out there again. Bitches. Where are my cookies?
I have been watching a little of the Olympics, and I must say...it doesn't really seem like other countries are trying all that much anymore. The US is pretty handily leading the medal count so far, which didn't used to be the case in the Winter Olympics. It used to be that countries like Germany, Sweden, France, and Russia (South Korea has the same number of medals as Russia....what the fuck, Big Red?) would dominate the games, and the US would get a few Bronzes here and there, maybe a lucky silver in figure skating or something, and one or two random golds. Now, it just seems as though the other countries have decided to say "fuck the Olympics" and not even try.
Yeah, Canada is completely owning Curling. They're the Curling powerhouse. Great job, Canada. Way to dominate in a sport than people love to mock, eh? Seriously? Curling? Canada, you should be ashamed. It's cold 9 months out of the year in your country, you should own these games. In every sport, not just the bastard child pseudo-sport of fucking Curling. Disappointing, Canada.
(Just because: You would think Mexico would have a great curling team, but I guess all of their most talented broom handlers are working for hotels in the US. Yeah, I went there. Horribly inappropriate joke? Check.)
The Germans are pretty easily owning the Luge and Skeleton, which just goes to show that fine German engineering isn't reserved solely for their automobiles. They can make their people more aerodynamic, which is pretty fucking awesome, really. Farfegnugen indeed, Germany. Yeah, Germany has a few other medals in some of the other sports, but they just don't have that "Fuck you" attitude that they once did in the Olympics. The Fuhrer would be pissed, Germany.
Russia. Dear God, Russia, what the hell has happened to you? I know, you're going to throw out those excuses of internal collapse, losing various states to independence, and complete economic ruin, but I'm not really buying it. There has to be some talented athletes left, and even though you're not forcing them to start training 18 hours a day to be figure skaters when they start crawling doesn't mean you guys should suck this badly at the Winter Olympics. Like Canada, it's always fucking frigid in your country, you should dominate anything that has to do with ice and snow. Or at least be competitive. Step it up, Russia. The world wants to hate you again.
The other thing I've been noticing is that figure skating has gotten even more gay. It's always been a pretty gay sport, even back in the day when the skaters couldn't openly admit they were gay. It is obviously a very difficult sport, and requires a shitload of talent. I absolutely respect the athleticism. But fuck, figure skating, do you have to be all about pageantry and glittery costumes and guys who are more feminine than any female athlete at the Olympics? I know that the premise of the sport is grace and fluidity and shit, but I'm sure the dudes could be graceful and fluid while dressed in something that doesn't look like it was recently used by a Vegas showgirl. In fact, I would be more impressed by figure skating if those dudes wore cargo pants and a Foster's T-shirt when they were doing that shit. Triple Lutz while wearing board shorts? That would be impressive. Your costume that looks like the glitter fairy had diarrhea all over you? Not impressive. Just once I'd like to see some dude get on the ice in a Ghillie Suit. THAT would talent.
I won't even address ice dancing, because I'm trying hard to forget that I ever watched 20 seconds of that shit.
It has actually been a pretty disappointing week as far as things to muse upon, and I even made a couple trips to WalMart. Shit, I can almost always find something mock in the groups of people at WalMart...but this week everyone was reasonably normal. Which is OK, I guess, but it sucks if you're trying to entertain people with comedic rants based on observations. Even worse than people around me not being completely fucking retarded, no one has really pissed me off this week. This has to be some sort of record. No, it's not that I'm feeling Zen after gorging on thin mints. If anything, I should be even more on edge now because I got a fix, but haven't had any since. Those little bitches haven't been out there again. Bitches. Where are my cookies?
I have been watching a little of the Olympics, and I must say...it doesn't really seem like other countries are trying all that much anymore. The US is pretty handily leading the medal count so far, which didn't used to be the case in the Winter Olympics. It used to be that countries like Germany, Sweden, France, and Russia (South Korea has the same number of medals as Russia....what the fuck, Big Red?) would dominate the games, and the US would get a few Bronzes here and there, maybe a lucky silver in figure skating or something, and one or two random golds. Now, it just seems as though the other countries have decided to say "fuck the Olympics" and not even try.
Yeah, Canada is completely owning Curling. They're the Curling powerhouse. Great job, Canada. Way to dominate in a sport than people love to mock, eh? Seriously? Curling? Canada, you should be ashamed. It's cold 9 months out of the year in your country, you should own these games. In every sport, not just the bastard child pseudo-sport of fucking Curling. Disappointing, Canada.
(Just because: You would think Mexico would have a great curling team, but I guess all of their most talented broom handlers are working for hotels in the US. Yeah, I went there. Horribly inappropriate joke? Check.)
The Germans are pretty easily owning the Luge and Skeleton, which just goes to show that fine German engineering isn't reserved solely for their automobiles. They can make their people more aerodynamic, which is pretty fucking awesome, really. Farfegnugen indeed, Germany. Yeah, Germany has a few other medals in some of the other sports, but they just don't have that "Fuck you" attitude that they once did in the Olympics. The Fuhrer would be pissed, Germany.
Russia. Dear God, Russia, what the hell has happened to you? I know, you're going to throw out those excuses of internal collapse, losing various states to independence, and complete economic ruin, but I'm not really buying it. There has to be some talented athletes left, and even though you're not forcing them to start training 18 hours a day to be figure skaters when they start crawling doesn't mean you guys should suck this badly at the Winter Olympics. Like Canada, it's always fucking frigid in your country, you should dominate anything that has to do with ice and snow. Or at least be competitive. Step it up, Russia. The world wants to hate you again.
The other thing I've been noticing is that figure skating has gotten even more gay. It's always been a pretty gay sport, even back in the day when the skaters couldn't openly admit they were gay. It is obviously a very difficult sport, and requires a shitload of talent. I absolutely respect the athleticism. But fuck, figure skating, do you have to be all about pageantry and glittery costumes and guys who are more feminine than any female athlete at the Olympics? I know that the premise of the sport is grace and fluidity and shit, but I'm sure the dudes could be graceful and fluid while dressed in something that doesn't look like it was recently used by a Vegas showgirl. In fact, I would be more impressed by figure skating if those dudes wore cargo pants and a Foster's T-shirt when they were doing that shit. Triple Lutz while wearing board shorts? That would be impressive. Your costume that looks like the glitter fairy had diarrhea all over you? Not impressive. Just once I'd like to see some dude get on the ice in a Ghillie Suit. THAT would talent.
I won't even address ice dancing, because I'm trying hard to forget that I ever watched 20 seconds of that shit.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentine's Day
Meh, it's Valentine's Day, which is nowhere near as exciting as the fact that I got my first box of thin mints yesterday. Thank you, khaki clad dealers of cookie death for braving the cold so I could get my fix.
I would write more about that sweet cookie euphoria, but I'm just going to revel in my gluttonous state of hyperglycemia for today.
I would write more about that sweet cookie euphoria, but I'm just going to revel in my gluttonous state of hyperglycemia for today.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Mother Nature, Revisited
Alright, Mother Nature. I don't know what it's going to take. I know, I've called you some terrible things. I've said some mean and hurtful things about you. I can see now that such an approach is only making you angrier and more intent to unleash some sort of cold, windy, snowy, icy, bitch-fit of rage upon me and everyone within 800 miles of me. So I'm going to try to ask nicely this time. Pretty please, with sugar on top (or gumdrops or cookies or dried prunes or whatever the fuck your old ass likes on top), stop this madness. Stop with the snow storms. Stop with the 25 mph winds making 20 degrees feel like 0. Just stop. Winter was fun for a little bit, but you have to be getting bored. So just dig deep, find whatever trace of nice old lady you can find in that dark pit of despair you call a heart, and stop. Your winter tantrum needs to be over. Seriously.
Actually, you don't even need to stop. Just take that shit to British Columbia so those fools in the Olympics can actually have some snow to ski on. Why would you feel the need to dump 68 gajillion tons of snow on every state east of the Mississippi but not any on the place where they're holding the Winter Olympics? They want the snow. They beg for it, and when they don't get it, they create the shit. I think this just proves my point that you are acting like a vindictive cu...wait...no...I'm being nice. You're just not being very nice, and everyone would appreciate you changing your attitude a little. Pretty please, with that nasty, cheap hard candy that every old lady has sitting in a bowl on her table on top; stop.
Speaking of the Olympics...Canada. Oh, Canada. Seriously? What the fuck was up with that opening ceremony last night? I tuned in just as the US team was walking in, so anything that happened before that which might have been cool, I missed. What I saw after that had me thinking I was watching a bad version of a failed Vegas show producer's LSD-inspired dream.
The tribal stuff? Not awful, and although you could have left Global Warming out of it, the iceberg breaking apart effect was pretty cool.
The Orcas? Not bad, except that the blowholes moved along their backs as they swam, making it a little cheesy.
The terrible Peter Pan wannabe guy who looked like a poorly drawn anime character? What did that have to do with anything other than some rich guy's kid wanting to be in the opening ceremonies? Dad donated a few hundred grand and his goofy ass looking kid gets to fly around for a few minutes. Neat.
The crazy tatted up guys with Mohawks doing fucking clogging or tap-dancing or river dancing or whatever the fuck they were doing? What the hell, Canada? What was that bullshit? If I wanted to watch some tatted up douchebags dance around like fucking morons, I'd go to any club near any college campus on any weekend night. I certainly wouldn't watch the Winter fucking Olympics in hopes of seeing such retarded behavior.
The Rocky Mountain sequence? Yeah, the part where you hung some sheets from the ceiling...impressive. My daughter has built equally impressive tributes to the Canadian Rockies in her room, but hers have pink and purple stripes and weren't boring a bunch of athletes and the 68 people still too lazy to reach for the TV remote to change the channel.
And, my personal favorite...the big fat dude with the beard that couldn't quite seem to make it up to his jawline from his neck who sounded like a bad tourism board presentation and stood and proclaimed that "We are the True North!" in a manner that would make any American redneck who believes the South will rise again head for the bunker to prepare for the next invasion...brilliant. You realized that by that point, most people had tuned out and this guy's rambling about Canadian ownership of "The North" would go unnoticed. Well, I saw it, and I'm telling Greenland, Finland, Sweden, Russia, and all of those other countries who are just as "North" as you are what you said. They're going to want to kick your ass, Canada. You'd better be ready, and you better have something better with which to defend yourself than that that faulty torch tower thing. Yeah, I saw that too.
I will say this, Canada...thank you a million times for not involving those fucking bastard children of yours called Nickleback in any of the opening ceremonies. I would have forever lost any respect I might have for you as a friendly neighbor had you had those talentless fuckholes doing anything on my TV. You don't want to lose my respect, Canada. Just ask that bit...er...Mother Nature.
Actually, you don't even need to stop. Just take that shit to British Columbia so those fools in the Olympics can actually have some snow to ski on. Why would you feel the need to dump 68 gajillion tons of snow on every state east of the Mississippi but not any on the place where they're holding the Winter Olympics? They want the snow. They beg for it, and when they don't get it, they create the shit. I think this just proves my point that you are acting like a vindictive cu...wait...no...I'm being nice. You're just not being very nice, and everyone would appreciate you changing your attitude a little. Pretty please, with that nasty, cheap hard candy that every old lady has sitting in a bowl on her table on top; stop.
Speaking of the Olympics...Canada. Oh, Canada. Seriously? What the fuck was up with that opening ceremony last night? I tuned in just as the US team was walking in, so anything that happened before that which might have been cool, I missed. What I saw after that had me thinking I was watching a bad version of a failed Vegas show producer's LSD-inspired dream.
The tribal stuff? Not awful, and although you could have left Global Warming out of it, the iceberg breaking apart effect was pretty cool.
The Orcas? Not bad, except that the blowholes moved along their backs as they swam, making it a little cheesy.
The terrible Peter Pan wannabe guy who looked like a poorly drawn anime character? What did that have to do with anything other than some rich guy's kid wanting to be in the opening ceremonies? Dad donated a few hundred grand and his goofy ass looking kid gets to fly around for a few minutes. Neat.
The crazy tatted up guys with Mohawks doing fucking clogging or tap-dancing or river dancing or whatever the fuck they were doing? What the hell, Canada? What was that bullshit? If I wanted to watch some tatted up douchebags dance around like fucking morons, I'd go to any club near any college campus on any weekend night. I certainly wouldn't watch the Winter fucking Olympics in hopes of seeing such retarded behavior.
The Rocky Mountain sequence? Yeah, the part where you hung some sheets from the ceiling...impressive. My daughter has built equally impressive tributes to the Canadian Rockies in her room, but hers have pink and purple stripes and weren't boring a bunch of athletes and the 68 people still too lazy to reach for the TV remote to change the channel.
And, my personal favorite...the big fat dude with the beard that couldn't quite seem to make it up to his jawline from his neck who sounded like a bad tourism board presentation and stood and proclaimed that "We are the True North!" in a manner that would make any American redneck who believes the South will rise again head for the bunker to prepare for the next invasion...brilliant. You realized that by that point, most people had tuned out and this guy's rambling about Canadian ownership of "The North" would go unnoticed. Well, I saw it, and I'm telling Greenland, Finland, Sweden, Russia, and all of those other countries who are just as "North" as you are what you said. They're going to want to kick your ass, Canada. You'd better be ready, and you better have something better with which to defend yourself than that that faulty torch tower thing. Yeah, I saw that too.
I will say this, Canada...thank you a million times for not involving those fucking bastard children of yours called Nickleback in any of the opening ceremonies. I would have forever lost any respect I might have for you as a friendly neighbor had you had those talentless fuckholes doing anything on my TV. You don't want to lose my respect, Canada. Just ask that bit...er...Mother Nature.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Guys, Only 2 Shopping Days Left!
That's right, guys, you only have 2 more days to find that perfect gift of overpriced chocolate, ridiculously overpriced flowers, or "you're a fucking idiot for paying this" overpriced jewelry to prove to that special lady in your life that you do in fact love her. It's time to make some grand gesture in the middle of February to make up for the rest of the year when you take her for granted. I mean, it's not like you could really do anything for her the other 364 days of the year to prove your love, you definitely need to blow your money on a "romantic" dinner at a high priced restaurant that doesn't have wings and the game on TV above your table.
Valentine's Day in its current, Americanized, mass-produced, commercialized "you're a bad person if you don't spend $60 on chocolate covered strawberries for your girlfriend" bullshit incarnation is fucking stupid. The fact that so many people buy into it and cause themselves needless stress, debt, and totally fucking pointless fights with their significant other is equally fucking stupid. Just because Kay Jewelers tells you that the only way to show her that you care is to drop $700 on some necklace doesn't mean it's true. In fact, if you do buy that necklace, it means that you are dumb motherfucker for not knowing better.
What I really don't like about the current state of the holiday is the unrealistic expectations and feelings of obligation that commercialization has created. (I feel the same about Christmas, but you'll have to wait until December to get that rant...yeah...like I'll really still be doing this in December...HA.) A gift loses its meaning if it is given out of obligation. A gift should be a sincere token of your appreciation for someone, it should not be something bought in hopes that it is good enough to keep the receiver from being mad at you for either not getting them something or not getting them the right something. A gift given out of obligation is little more than a shallow token of unoriginality and forced recognition. A gift given out of obligation is worthless (even if it does get you a blow job; because next year, that blow job will be more expensive).
However, this feeling of obligation wouldn't exist without the expectation. It's not inherently wrong for someone to want a gift on a day that normally dictates people exchange gifts. What is wrong, however, is for a person to expect something and then be upset if they don't get what they think is "good enough." If you are basing your love and happiness on your partner's ability to drop $100 for roses and a stupid fucking stuffed red bear with some cheesy "I WUV U" bullshit embroidered across its fluffy belly, you are doomed. You will never be happy in love, because you are defining it in the wrong manner.
Loving someone is knowing who they are, what they like, and what will make them happy enough to want to know who you are, what you like, and what will make you happy every single day of the year; not just on a random day in February when Hallmark tells you that you have to pour out your soul to your lover in the form of a $2.95 piece of paperboard that 62,000 other unoriginal bastards will be giving to their lovers that day. If you know your significant other well enough, you should be able to give them enough small gifts (and "gifts" can be defined in myriad ways) throughout the year that Valentine's Day is little more than another day on which to tell them you love them. It should not be a day to break the bank on some trinket in hopes of proving your love is good enough to not get yelled at because FTD told you that you should. If your significant other is shallow enough to be angry at you if you don't get them the exact right thing...run the fuck away. You will never be good enough. (No, guys, don't get your chick Madden 10 if she's never picked up an XBOX controller, there is something to be said for not being a total fucking moron when it comes to giving gifts.)
I'm not saying that giving your significant other something or taking them out to dinner on Valentine's Day is wrong. Just don't buy into the commercialization and mass-production of it all. Be original. Know your partner well enough to come up with something that isn't just another crappy piece of pink shit that any douchebag in a rush tomorrow night could pick up at the grocery store. Then, if they're mad at you because you didn't buy them diamond earrings, you know that it's time for you to kick them to the curb, because they just don't get it. Just don't be surprised if they kick you to the curb if you don't know them well enough to know that they aren't interested in the first 19 seasons of Survivor on DVD.
Valentine's Day in its current, Americanized, mass-produced, commercialized "you're a bad person if you don't spend $60 on chocolate covered strawberries for your girlfriend" bullshit incarnation is fucking stupid. The fact that so many people buy into it and cause themselves needless stress, debt, and totally fucking pointless fights with their significant other is equally fucking stupid. Just because Kay Jewelers tells you that the only way to show her that you care is to drop $700 on some necklace doesn't mean it's true. In fact, if you do buy that necklace, it means that you are dumb motherfucker for not knowing better.
What I really don't like about the current state of the holiday is the unrealistic expectations and feelings of obligation that commercialization has created. (I feel the same about Christmas, but you'll have to wait until December to get that rant...yeah...like I'll really still be doing this in December...HA.) A gift loses its meaning if it is given out of obligation. A gift should be a sincere token of your appreciation for someone, it should not be something bought in hopes that it is good enough to keep the receiver from being mad at you for either not getting them something or not getting them the right something. A gift given out of obligation is little more than a shallow token of unoriginality and forced recognition. A gift given out of obligation is worthless (even if it does get you a blow job; because next year, that blow job will be more expensive).
However, this feeling of obligation wouldn't exist without the expectation. It's not inherently wrong for someone to want a gift on a day that normally dictates people exchange gifts. What is wrong, however, is for a person to expect something and then be upset if they don't get what they think is "good enough." If you are basing your love and happiness on your partner's ability to drop $100 for roses and a stupid fucking stuffed red bear with some cheesy "I WUV U" bullshit embroidered across its fluffy belly, you are doomed. You will never be happy in love, because you are defining it in the wrong manner.
Loving someone is knowing who they are, what they like, and what will make them happy enough to want to know who you are, what you like, and what will make you happy every single day of the year; not just on a random day in February when Hallmark tells you that you have to pour out your soul to your lover in the form of a $2.95 piece of paperboard that 62,000 other unoriginal bastards will be giving to their lovers that day. If you know your significant other well enough, you should be able to give them enough small gifts (and "gifts" can be defined in myriad ways) throughout the year that Valentine's Day is little more than another day on which to tell them you love them. It should not be a day to break the bank on some trinket in hopes of proving your love is good enough to not get yelled at because FTD told you that you should. If your significant other is shallow enough to be angry at you if you don't get them the exact right thing...run the fuck away. You will never be good enough. (No, guys, don't get your chick Madden 10 if she's never picked up an XBOX controller, there is something to be said for not being a total fucking moron when it comes to giving gifts.)
I'm not saying that giving your significant other something or taking them out to dinner on Valentine's Day is wrong. Just don't buy into the commercialization and mass-production of it all. Be original. Know your partner well enough to come up with something that isn't just another crappy piece of pink shit that any douchebag in a rush tomorrow night could pick up at the grocery store. Then, if they're mad at you because you didn't buy them diamond earrings, you know that it's time for you to kick them to the curb, because they just don't get it. Just don't be surprised if they kick you to the curb if you don't know them well enough to know that they aren't interested in the first 19 seasons of Survivor on DVD.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
PSA: Too Much Estrogen is Dangerous.
Here's a little setting that may excite some of the male readers in my little group of followers: A room with about 900 people, 800 of them women, many of them drinking heavily and dancing and kissing each other...
...Sounds pretty nice, right guys? WRONG. It was bad. Very, very bad. And I am thankful to be alive today to tell this tale of warning to any man who might have to attend a Brandi Carlisle concert in the future.
Before I go on, this is not a critique of the performances by Amy Ray (of Indigo Girls fame), who was the opener, or Ms. Carlisle. Both ladies are very talented musicians and Ms. Carlisle has an amazing voice. She and her backing band did a very solid, rocking cover of Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" during the encore that was the highlight of the night as far as I am concerned. But, as I said, I am not writing a critique of their part in last night.
No, this is a tale of what may have been my most dangerous night ever at a concert. "But Matt, it's a bunch of chicks, how could that have been dangerous?" Of the 800 women in the club last night, probably 786 of them were lesbians. Not the lipstick types from all of those late-night Cinemax shows, but the scary dude-ish kind. Before I go any further, I do need to state that I do not harbor any animosity towards the gay community, I don't give a fuck who anyone sleeps with. I'm all about personal choice and freedom and doing what you need to do to enjoy your life. But, this is a comedic blog, so I will now commence to negate my precursor by making some very broad generalizations in the name of getting a laugh or two.
There were a lot of angry eyes on me and my fellow men last night. Not that we ourselves had done anything to deserve the seething Amazonian stares of hatred, but, because we carry the Y chromosome, we were the enemy. There was a lot of anger and estrogen in the air last night. So much so that I actually started to hate myself for being a man. But, before I could act upon the rage I felt towards my gender, I started to cry uncontrollably at the beautiful melodies being made by the guy on the cello. Then I got angry again, but didn't know what to do with these feelings, so I just lashed out at someone for no reason and spent the next 30 minutes apologizing to them. It was a roller coaster night.
I did take notice that there is a distinct difference between a largely gay female crowd and a largely gay male crowd. No, the screams and cheers are all the same pitch in either crowd, so it's not that. The men are dressed better, of course, there is much less flannel, far fewer chain wallets and a lot more shiny shit in the gay male crowd. But that's not it, either. No, the biggest difference is the attitude. The gay male crowd is hyper and flashy and giggly and they grab everyone's asses like it's a handshake and it's just pretty chaotic; as if the Skittles rainbow exploded all over the Teletubbies and the sugar rush made them dance to YMCA for 5 hours straight. But the lesbian crowd? Far more somber. A lot of angry looking bitches in that crowd. Uh, I mean, some very unhappy looking women (I don't want to get caught calling them "bitches," some of those bitc...er...women could easily kick my ass). As I said, there was some drinking and some dancing and some making out, but it was just a very different vibe. Granted, Neither Amy Ray nor Brandi Carlisle really brings the type of music that would incite an orgy of lesbian bumping, grinding, and "HEY GIRLFRIEND," but did they all have to look so mean and angry? I was really a little afraid for my safety at some points.
Maybe it's just because I have a penis and felt that the anger was directed at me that I noticed the mood of the room, but it was also noticed by other guys who were there, so I don't think I imagined it. I was never directly attacked, wasn't shanked when I had to move through a crowd, didn't get jumped outside the women's restroom when I walked by, and some of them were just downright friendly (which I'm still not convinced wasn't a ploy to lure me into feeling comfortable before shanking me...). But, I know some were plotting. I could feel it. All of those eyes...
So guys, take note. If your girl asks you to accompany her to a Brandi Carlisle show, politely decline. Tell her you need to drink beer and watch sports and scratch yourself for 6 hours to make quota for the month or you need to help change the oil in your neighbor's FA-18 or something manly to avoid going to that show. You don't want to be there. It's not safe, it's not fun, and you will feel the need to kill something afterward to make up for whatever manhood you lost during the show. Just don't kill one of the lesbians, because they have a posse, and those bitc...er...women will hunt your ass down and sacrifice you to Martina Navratalova before you even have the chance to scream like a little girl. Which you wouldn't do, of course, because you're a man.
(It's OK, scream, those bitches are scary.)
...Sounds pretty nice, right guys? WRONG. It was bad. Very, very bad. And I am thankful to be alive today to tell this tale of warning to any man who might have to attend a Brandi Carlisle concert in the future.
Before I go on, this is not a critique of the performances by Amy Ray (of Indigo Girls fame), who was the opener, or Ms. Carlisle. Both ladies are very talented musicians and Ms. Carlisle has an amazing voice. She and her backing band did a very solid, rocking cover of Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" during the encore that was the highlight of the night as far as I am concerned. But, as I said, I am not writing a critique of their part in last night.
No, this is a tale of what may have been my most dangerous night ever at a concert. "But Matt, it's a bunch of chicks, how could that have been dangerous?" Of the 800 women in the club last night, probably 786 of them were lesbians. Not the lipstick types from all of those late-night Cinemax shows, but the scary dude-ish kind. Before I go any further, I do need to state that I do not harbor any animosity towards the gay community, I don't give a fuck who anyone sleeps with. I'm all about personal choice and freedom and doing what you need to do to enjoy your life. But, this is a comedic blog, so I will now commence to negate my precursor by making some very broad generalizations in the name of getting a laugh or two.
There were a lot of angry eyes on me and my fellow men last night. Not that we ourselves had done anything to deserve the seething Amazonian stares of hatred, but, because we carry the Y chromosome, we were the enemy. There was a lot of anger and estrogen in the air last night. So much so that I actually started to hate myself for being a man. But, before I could act upon the rage I felt towards my gender, I started to cry uncontrollably at the beautiful melodies being made by the guy on the cello. Then I got angry again, but didn't know what to do with these feelings, so I just lashed out at someone for no reason and spent the next 30 minutes apologizing to them. It was a roller coaster night.
I did take notice that there is a distinct difference between a largely gay female crowd and a largely gay male crowd. No, the screams and cheers are all the same pitch in either crowd, so it's not that. The men are dressed better, of course, there is much less flannel, far fewer chain wallets and a lot more shiny shit in the gay male crowd. But that's not it, either. No, the biggest difference is the attitude. The gay male crowd is hyper and flashy and giggly and they grab everyone's asses like it's a handshake and it's just pretty chaotic; as if the Skittles rainbow exploded all over the Teletubbies and the sugar rush made them dance to YMCA for 5 hours straight. But the lesbian crowd? Far more somber. A lot of angry looking bitches in that crowd. Uh, I mean, some very unhappy looking women (I don't want to get caught calling them "bitches," some of those bitc...er...women could easily kick my ass). As I said, there was some drinking and some dancing and some making out, but it was just a very different vibe. Granted, Neither Amy Ray nor Brandi Carlisle really brings the type of music that would incite an orgy of lesbian bumping, grinding, and "HEY GIRLFRIEND," but did they all have to look so mean and angry? I was really a little afraid for my safety at some points.
Maybe it's just because I have a penis and felt that the anger was directed at me that I noticed the mood of the room, but it was also noticed by other guys who were there, so I don't think I imagined it. I was never directly attacked, wasn't shanked when I had to move through a crowd, didn't get jumped outside the women's restroom when I walked by, and some of them were just downright friendly (which I'm still not convinced wasn't a ploy to lure me into feeling comfortable before shanking me...). But, I know some were plotting. I could feel it. All of those eyes...
So guys, take note. If your girl asks you to accompany her to a Brandi Carlisle show, politely decline. Tell her you need to drink beer and watch sports and scratch yourself for 6 hours to make quota for the month or you need to help change the oil in your neighbor's FA-18 or something manly to avoid going to that show. You don't want to be there. It's not safe, it's not fun, and you will feel the need to kill something afterward to make up for whatever manhood you lost during the show. Just don't kill one of the lesbians, because they have a posse, and those bitc...er...women will hunt your ass down and sacrifice you to Martina Navratalova before you even have the chance to scream like a little girl. Which you wouldn't do, of course, because you're a man.
(It's OK, scream, those bitches are scary.)
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Ugly People and Loud Talkers at the DMV.
Holy shit. If you want to feel better about yourself; your life, your looks, your ability to form a semi-coherent sentence...go to the DMV. Yeah, it's annoying as fuck to have to stand in line for 35 minutes to conduct 14 seconds worth of business, but dammit if my self-esteem didn't get a huge boost by being there today. There are some ugly motherfuckers in this world, and a large portion of them were at the DMV today. Oh, shut up, like you people don't look at ugly people and thank them for being so fucking repulsive that it makes you look better. Don't act like I'm being mean. Ugly people are just ugly. They know they're unattractive, and if they don't, then they're delusional and ugly. Bad combo. Anyway, it really was amazing that in a room full of about 30 people, I was the only one who didn't look like I had suffered my face being repeatedy bashed into the trunk of the ugly tree. I'm not some great looking guy or anything, but damn, I felt like fucking Adonis standing in there.
Then, some of the goofy looking monkey-trolls started talking to each other. Now, I live in the south, so I expect to hear things like "Y'uns", a little bit of poor grammar, and words that should be one syllable being drawn out into three or four; but damn, these fools were borderline unintelligible. Not that I was trying to listen in on their conversation, but when they're talking loud enough for people 3 buildings over to hear them, it's hard not to.
Which brings me to a habit that annoys the living fuck out of me every fucking time I have to deal with it: Loud talkers. Hey, dumbshit, that guy you're talking to? He's standing 2 feet away from you. There is no need to talk to him as if he is across the fucking state. I'm guessing that you could use your inside voice and he would be able to hear it, and if he can't, then fuck him, MiracleEar is just a call away. There is no reason to yell, ever. Those of us within earshot do not give a fuck that your boy Tim is a good worker and he's been making good progress towards getting a full time job. We don't care that you're working two days a weeks stocking shelves somewhere. And we certainly don't care, dumb bitch with the stringy hair, that you failed the part of the test where you're supposed to keep your mouth shut. Yeah, we know you failed that part because your illiterate ass hasn't stopped butchering the english language since we walked in. Shut the fuck up and stand in line. This is the DMV, not some social group where any of us might want to pretend to give a fuck about you. We don't. We don't want to hear your conversation.
Although, I will say that I smiled and almost laughed when the 80 year old dude she was boring with her life story (I know he was 80 because he told her. Twice.) said something about having to "mimiograph" his inspection form. HAHA, "mimiograph?" I don't think anyone has used a mimiograph machine in 25 years, much less actually said "mimiograph." I can't wait until I'm old enough to use obsolete terms when refering to shit that all the young people around me have probably never experienced and rock overalls like they're the most fashionable thing going.
I digress. Loud talkers, tone it down. Please. Your point is not more valid because you say it louder. Your humor is not wittier because you tell your joke loud enough for deaf children in India to hear it. That's especially pointless, because they wouldn't get the joke anyway. Seriously, be quiet. Especially if you're talking to me. I'm standing right in front of you, and my hearing works just fine. I hate small talk and probably don't even want to be interacting with you, I certainly don't want you yelling the stupid shit with which you are boring me. Stop fucking shouting.
I never thought I would see a day where I was thankful for having to go to the DMV. But, I can approach the rest of this day with the solid assurance that I am neither the ugliest nor dumbest person on the planet. Thank you, DMV.
Then, some of the goofy looking monkey-trolls started talking to each other. Now, I live in the south, so I expect to hear things like "Y'uns", a little bit of poor grammar, and words that should be one syllable being drawn out into three or four; but damn, these fools were borderline unintelligible. Not that I was trying to listen in on their conversation, but when they're talking loud enough for people 3 buildings over to hear them, it's hard not to.
Which brings me to a habit that annoys the living fuck out of me every fucking time I have to deal with it: Loud talkers. Hey, dumbshit, that guy you're talking to? He's standing 2 feet away from you. There is no need to talk to him as if he is across the fucking state. I'm guessing that you could use your inside voice and he would be able to hear it, and if he can't, then fuck him, MiracleEar is just a call away. There is no reason to yell, ever. Those of us within earshot do not give a fuck that your boy Tim is a good worker and he's been making good progress towards getting a full time job. We don't care that you're working two days a weeks stocking shelves somewhere. And we certainly don't care, dumb bitch with the stringy hair, that you failed the part of the test where you're supposed to keep your mouth shut. Yeah, we know you failed that part because your illiterate ass hasn't stopped butchering the english language since we walked in. Shut the fuck up and stand in line. This is the DMV, not some social group where any of us might want to pretend to give a fuck about you. We don't. We don't want to hear your conversation.
Although, I will say that I smiled and almost laughed when the 80 year old dude she was boring with her life story (I know he was 80 because he told her. Twice.) said something about having to "mimiograph" his inspection form. HAHA, "mimiograph?" I don't think anyone has used a mimiograph machine in 25 years, much less actually said "mimiograph." I can't wait until I'm old enough to use obsolete terms when refering to shit that all the young people around me have probably never experienced and rock overalls like they're the most fashionable thing going.
I digress. Loud talkers, tone it down. Please. Your point is not more valid because you say it louder. Your humor is not wittier because you tell your joke loud enough for deaf children in India to hear it. That's especially pointless, because they wouldn't get the joke anyway. Seriously, be quiet. Especially if you're talking to me. I'm standing right in front of you, and my hearing works just fine. I hate small talk and probably don't even want to be interacting with you, I certainly don't want you yelling the stupid shit with which you are boring me. Stop fucking shouting.
I never thought I would see a day where I was thankful for having to go to the DMV. But, I can approach the rest of this day with the solid assurance that I am neither the ugliest nor dumbest person on the planet. Thank you, DMV.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Fuck You, Cable Guy...and Congrats, New Orleans.
Unlike a majority of the working populace, I don’t normally hate Mondays. Monday is the first of my two days off. Because I work late at night most of the time on Sunday, and because we home school (A rant about the horrific quality of public schools at a later date), the family stays up late and we all sleep in on Monday morning. Typically, Mondays are nice and quiet and relaxing around here.
Today is not typical. I didn’t sleep well at all, and just as I was actually getting some solid sleep, I was awakened by the beautiful serenade of the neighbor’s rat terrier losing her fucking mind. I love these neighbors. They are the same age as the wife and I; they have a daughter almost the same age as ours and they are best friends; they are laid back and we often just hang out and chill. We take turns watching each other’s kid as needed. We walk each other’s dogs as needed. They help out the wife when I’m not around. Seriously, I couldn’t ask for better neighbors. Except that they have this annoying abomination of a dog who yappy barks like a maniac at anything, everything, and probably a lot of shit that doesn’t exist. She’s like the old homeless lady downtown yelling about the second-coming of Christ and the evils of cheeseburgers at people that only she can see. Yeah, we get it Daffy, there is evil outside your door and all 12 pounds of you is going to protect your house by annoying it into submission with your bark. Way to go, dog.
The drilling starts at about 8:03. Well, I say “drilling,” but it sounds more like someone has rigged a jackhammer with a jet engine and is trying to break apart granite, directly outside my front door. Fuck. This is obviously the evil that Daffy is going bat-shit crazy over, it is very real. It doesn’t excuse the fact that her bark is like 6,000 jagged fingernails on a chalkboard at 8 o’clock in the morning, but at least I know she’s not drunk and imagining shit. I decide to move to the couch, turn on some SportsCenter to drown out the mayhem outside, and hopefully, fall back asleep. I then find out that the source of all of the outside chaos is directly related to cable television. My cable is dead (which means my internet is also dead, so you’ll not really get this in a timely manner). I take the dogs out and find some dude has the community cable box completely disassembled. Ah yes, they warned us that the upgrade was coming, but I didn’t expect it would be first thing on a Monday. Usually, the only time the cable company does anything is between the hours of 1 and 4 three weeks from Wednesday. Way to be motivated this week, cable fuckers. Fuck you and whatever the fuck you're doing to the cable box. My cable experience had better be infinitely better after all of this nonsense. Fuckers.
So, here I am. I’m tired, I’m annoyed, and I have no access to instantly gratifying, mindless entertainment to distract me from feeling shit about stuff. And, as usual, my daughter feels the need to narrate her every move and tell me every thought she’s having the minute she wakes up. I love my kid, but damn, does she really need to talk non-stop from the time she opens her eyes? Daddy needs to be left alone right now. Seriously. Stop talking. Fuck this Monday.
Of course, my Monday morning probably pales in comparison to the massive hangover that likely has half the city of New Orleans calling in sick this morning. There are a bunch of people in New Orleans promising God that they will never drink again as they are hunched over the toilet throwing up the poor choices they made in the revelry following last night’s Super Bowl victory by the Saints. I’m not a Saints fan, but it was cool to see them finally win something after professionally sucking the rest of the NFL’s ass for the past 43 years. It’s also pretty cool that the poor souls who are stuck living in that shithole of a city finally have something to brag about beyond being the murder capital of America and the place where thousands of women drunkenly sacrifice their dignity for worthless plastic beads every March. Don’t get me wrong, I like titties, and if some chick wants to show them to me and 1,000 other strangers on a street after pounding a couple of Hurricanes, I won’t stop her; but I hope she doesn’t expect me to think highly of her for doing so. If as a city, all you have to brag about is “Chicks come here to get drunk and flash their titties” or “People come here to get shot,” you need something else. Now, after 43 years of abject suck, the Saints have given the city something else. Drink up, New Orleans. Enjoy it. Next week, life will be back to its normal level of suck and you’ll be back to wishing you lived somewhere else.
Today is not typical. I didn’t sleep well at all, and just as I was actually getting some solid sleep, I was awakened by the beautiful serenade of the neighbor’s rat terrier losing her fucking mind. I love these neighbors. They are the same age as the wife and I; they have a daughter almost the same age as ours and they are best friends; they are laid back and we often just hang out and chill. We take turns watching each other’s kid as needed. We walk each other’s dogs as needed. They help out the wife when I’m not around. Seriously, I couldn’t ask for better neighbors. Except that they have this annoying abomination of a dog who yappy barks like a maniac at anything, everything, and probably a lot of shit that doesn’t exist. She’s like the old homeless lady downtown yelling about the second-coming of Christ and the evils of cheeseburgers at people that only she can see. Yeah, we get it Daffy, there is evil outside your door and all 12 pounds of you is going to protect your house by annoying it into submission with your bark. Way to go, dog.
The drilling starts at about 8:03. Well, I say “drilling,” but it sounds more like someone has rigged a jackhammer with a jet engine and is trying to break apart granite, directly outside my front door. Fuck. This is obviously the evil that Daffy is going bat-shit crazy over, it is very real. It doesn’t excuse the fact that her bark is like 6,000 jagged fingernails on a chalkboard at 8 o’clock in the morning, but at least I know she’s not drunk and imagining shit. I decide to move to the couch, turn on some SportsCenter to drown out the mayhem outside, and hopefully, fall back asleep. I then find out that the source of all of the outside chaos is directly related to cable television. My cable is dead (which means my internet is also dead, so you’ll not really get this in a timely manner). I take the dogs out and find some dude has the community cable box completely disassembled. Ah yes, they warned us that the upgrade was coming, but I didn’t expect it would be first thing on a Monday. Usually, the only time the cable company does anything is between the hours of 1 and 4 three weeks from Wednesday. Way to be motivated this week, cable fuckers. Fuck you and whatever the fuck you're doing to the cable box. My cable experience had better be infinitely better after all of this nonsense. Fuckers.
So, here I am. I’m tired, I’m annoyed, and I have no access to instantly gratifying, mindless entertainment to distract me from feeling shit about stuff. And, as usual, my daughter feels the need to narrate her every move and tell me every thought she’s having the minute she wakes up. I love my kid, but damn, does she really need to talk non-stop from the time she opens her eyes? Daddy needs to be left alone right now. Seriously. Stop talking. Fuck this Monday.
Of course, my Monday morning probably pales in comparison to the massive hangover that likely has half the city of New Orleans calling in sick this morning. There are a bunch of people in New Orleans promising God that they will never drink again as they are hunched over the toilet throwing up the poor choices they made in the revelry following last night’s Super Bowl victory by the Saints. I’m not a Saints fan, but it was cool to see them finally win something after professionally sucking the rest of the NFL’s ass for the past 43 years. It’s also pretty cool that the poor souls who are stuck living in that shithole of a city finally have something to brag about beyond being the murder capital of America and the place where thousands of women drunkenly sacrifice their dignity for worthless plastic beads every March. Don’t get me wrong, I like titties, and if some chick wants to show them to me and 1,000 other strangers on a street after pounding a couple of Hurricanes, I won’t stop her; but I hope she doesn’t expect me to think highly of her for doing so. If as a city, all you have to brag about is “Chicks come here to get drunk and flash their titties” or “People come here to get shot,” you need something else. Now, after 43 years of abject suck, the Saints have given the city something else. Drink up, New Orleans. Enjoy it. Next week, life will be back to its normal level of suck and you’ll be back to wishing you lived somewhere else.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Dollar Store Stupidity and Merging.
While out running a few errands before work this afternoon, I drove past some poor chick who was wearing a Statue of Liberty costume and holding a sign advertising Dollar Palace or Dollar Kingdom or Dollar Shithouse or whatever stupid fucking dollar store inhabits that particular strip mall. She was standing outside, in a stupid fucking Statue of Liberty costume, in 35 degree weather, amongst the 2 foot deep files of snow that had recently been plowed from the road. What the fuck, Dollar Shithole? Is this method really supposed to get me to slam on my brakes, turn into the parking lot, and drop in to spend $6 on worthless crap?
Let me let you know, Dollar Shitstain, it doesn't work. If anything, it makes me mad at you for having business practices that allow for some poor minimum wage employee to be forced to stand outside in a ridiculous fucking costume on an overcast day with near-freezing temperatures. I certainly won't shop at your store if that's what you put your employees through, you ruthless bastards. I understand that as a dollar store, your advertising budget is likely limited. But making employees freeze their asses off while they suffer the humiliation of standing on the side of the road being ridiculed and having half-empty Burger King cups thrown at them by high school punks? Bad form, Dollar Shitface. I don't ever shop at any dollar store because I am content to spend an extra few bucks on window cleaner, but I certainly will never step foot into your den of employee degradation. Let that poor girl come inside, give her a cup of dollar hot chocolate, and maybe assume that your lighted sign on the strip mall marquee will draw in those people desperately seeking a place to buy shit for a dollar.
So, I continued driving, quite irritated by the whole statue of lame advertising failure episode, and then I get to the on-ramp for the highway to go home. Since I got my driver's license on the day after I turned 16 (fuck you, Labor Day), one driving habit that others have has driven me absolutely insane every single time I have seen it happen. I am not normally prone to road rage, but people who don't understand the concept of entering a highway/freeway and merging with traffic set me off every single time.
First off, you non-merging piece of shit drivers, the on-ramp is made as long as possible for a reason. That reason is to allow drivers the chance to get up to the speed of traffic on the highway. You see, when cars are going 60-65-70 miles per hour on a highway, a car (like yours) entering the highway at 35 mph really fucks a lot of things up. Your fear of the accelerator and inability to comprehend the very simple concept of merging could potentially cause an accident, and will certainly cause road rage in others. It's a fairly simple concept, but obviously you dumbasses don't get it. Speed the fuck up. Simple enough?
Second, you stupid fuckers, the Yield sign at the bottom of the on-ramp IS NOT A STOP SIGN. It is a yield sign. It clearly says "YIELD" in big red letters. That simply means that you are not to cut off a car in the right lane when you get on the highway. It does not mean stop your fucking car at the bottom of the ramp. It especially does not mean stop if you don't see any cars on the highway anywhere near the on-ramp. Just keep fucking going and get on the fucking highway you dumb bastards. This line of cars behind you is expecting you to get on the highway without stopping, so you stopping for no reason whatsoever really fucks a lot of things up. Your inability to read and understand the basic premise of the word "yield" could potentially cause an accident, and will certainly cause road rage in others. It's a really simple concept, but obviously you dumbasses don't get it. Keep fucking moving. Simple enough?
I don't think I'm expecting you non-merging dumbasses to understand any sort of abstract theories of physics or anything by thinking you should know how to merge into traffic at an acceptable speed. Or that you should know the meaning of "yield." But, apparently, it is rocket science; and you stupid assholes are trying to build a spaceship out of balsa wood and thumbtacks. Until you grasp the simplest concepts of driving, get off the road, you dumb fuckholes.
Let me let you know, Dollar Shitstain, it doesn't work. If anything, it makes me mad at you for having business practices that allow for some poor minimum wage employee to be forced to stand outside in a ridiculous fucking costume on an overcast day with near-freezing temperatures. I certainly won't shop at your store if that's what you put your employees through, you ruthless bastards. I understand that as a dollar store, your advertising budget is likely limited. But making employees freeze their asses off while they suffer the humiliation of standing on the side of the road being ridiculed and having half-empty Burger King cups thrown at them by high school punks? Bad form, Dollar Shitface. I don't ever shop at any dollar store because I am content to spend an extra few bucks on window cleaner, but I certainly will never step foot into your den of employee degradation. Let that poor girl come inside, give her a cup of dollar hot chocolate, and maybe assume that your lighted sign on the strip mall marquee will draw in those people desperately seeking a place to buy shit for a dollar.
So, I continued driving, quite irritated by the whole statue of lame advertising failure episode, and then I get to the on-ramp for the highway to go home. Since I got my driver's license on the day after I turned 16 (fuck you, Labor Day), one driving habit that others have has driven me absolutely insane every single time I have seen it happen. I am not normally prone to road rage, but people who don't understand the concept of entering a highway/freeway and merging with traffic set me off every single time.
First off, you non-merging piece of shit drivers, the on-ramp is made as long as possible for a reason. That reason is to allow drivers the chance to get up to the speed of traffic on the highway. You see, when cars are going 60-65-70 miles per hour on a highway, a car (like yours) entering the highway at 35 mph really fucks a lot of things up. Your fear of the accelerator and inability to comprehend the very simple concept of merging could potentially cause an accident, and will certainly cause road rage in others. It's a fairly simple concept, but obviously you dumbasses don't get it. Speed the fuck up. Simple enough?
Second, you stupid fuckers, the Yield sign at the bottom of the on-ramp IS NOT A STOP SIGN. It is a yield sign. It clearly says "YIELD" in big red letters. That simply means that you are not to cut off a car in the right lane when you get on the highway. It does not mean stop your fucking car at the bottom of the ramp. It especially does not mean stop if you don't see any cars on the highway anywhere near the on-ramp. Just keep fucking going and get on the fucking highway you dumb bastards. This line of cars behind you is expecting you to get on the highway without stopping, so you stopping for no reason whatsoever really fucks a lot of things up. Your inability to read and understand the basic premise of the word "yield" could potentially cause an accident, and will certainly cause road rage in others. It's a really simple concept, but obviously you dumbasses don't get it. Keep fucking moving. Simple enough?
I don't think I'm expecting you non-merging dumbasses to understand any sort of abstract theories of physics or anything by thinking you should know how to merge into traffic at an acceptable speed. Or that you should know the meaning of "yield." But, apparently, it is rocket science; and you stupid assholes are trying to build a spaceship out of balsa wood and thumbtacks. Until you grasp the simplest concepts of driving, get off the road, you dumb fuckholes.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
It's Called the Express Lane.
The sign clearly says "Express Lane - 12 Items or Less." Hey, crazy white chick wearing a turban, I see that you only have 7 items, and in that respect, you are following the spirit of the Express Lane. However, crazy white chick wearing a turban, you counting out the $4.57 you are short in change is not at all in the spirit of the Express Lane. In fact, your change counting ways go against everything the Express Lane stands for. You see, crazy white chick wearing a turban, the idea behind the Express Lane is that it's a line designed specifically for those of us who don't want to spend all afternoon waiting to check out when all we want to buy is one scrumptious GreenLife chocolate chip cookie. You get in the line with less than 12 items, you have your method of payment ready, and everyone who wants to quickly get out of the store is happy. When you spend 4 minutes digging change from the bottom of your purse, then counting it out and trying to do math in your head to figure out how much more you need, you are absolutely fucking up the flow of the Express Lane.
Now, I can be patient for a little bit. I've been broke before, so I know what it's like to have to scrounge up some change for food. I can smile and pretend that I'm not picturing the chick in line behind me delivering a perfect roundhouse kick to the side of your head. I can give you a half-assed smile when you look and say "Sorry" to the 6 or 7 people who have mistakenly stepped into the Express Lane thinking that it would indeed be express. I can even refrain from making sarcastic comments about your penny counting fucking the express right out of Express Lane. What I will not tolerate, crazy white chick wearing a turban, is you running out to your car real quick to look for another dollar when you find that you are a dollar short. So here, here is a fucking dollar. It is worth it to me to spend this dollar on getting you the fuck out of my way.
Oh, really? You want to say something like "This guy is in a hurry" when I give the dollar to the cashier? Yes, I am in a fucking hurry, you crazy white bitch wearing a turban, that is exactly why I brought my ass to the Express Lane. If I wanted to stand around and watch people count change, I'd hang out at the bank or at WalMart when the Senior Center brings all of the old fuckers in for shopping day. I am not interested in watching you spend any more time counting change. That is not why I am here. I am here to pay for this delicious fucking cookie and get the hell out so I can get to work on time. Just say "thank you," bitch, get your shit and move the fuck on. No need for any commentary about my being in a hurry, just go. I didn't comment on your goofy ass turban that couldn't look more awkward on anyone anywhere than it does on your pasty white noggin, so shut the fuck up about me being in a hurry when I'm standing directly under the fucking Express Lane sign. No. You do not need to go to your car to find a dollar to pay me back; like I said, it is worth it to me to spend this dollar on your dumb ass. I don't need your nickle and 93 pennies in return. This was a random act of "get the fuck out of my way" based kindness, now go away; or this bitch behind me is going to Chuck Norris that turban off your fucking head.
Now, I can be patient for a little bit. I've been broke before, so I know what it's like to have to scrounge up some change for food. I can smile and pretend that I'm not picturing the chick in line behind me delivering a perfect roundhouse kick to the side of your head. I can give you a half-assed smile when you look and say "Sorry" to the 6 or 7 people who have mistakenly stepped into the Express Lane thinking that it would indeed be express. I can even refrain from making sarcastic comments about your penny counting fucking the express right out of Express Lane. What I will not tolerate, crazy white chick wearing a turban, is you running out to your car real quick to look for another dollar when you find that you are a dollar short. So here, here is a fucking dollar. It is worth it to me to spend this dollar on getting you the fuck out of my way.
Oh, really? You want to say something like "This guy is in a hurry" when I give the dollar to the cashier? Yes, I am in a fucking hurry, you crazy white bitch wearing a turban, that is exactly why I brought my ass to the Express Lane. If I wanted to stand around and watch people count change, I'd hang out at the bank or at WalMart when the Senior Center brings all of the old fuckers in for shopping day. I am not interested in watching you spend any more time counting change. That is not why I am here. I am here to pay for this delicious fucking cookie and get the hell out so I can get to work on time. Just say "thank you," bitch, get your shit and move the fuck on. No need for any commentary about my being in a hurry, just go. I didn't comment on your goofy ass turban that couldn't look more awkward on anyone anywhere than it does on your pasty white noggin, so shut the fuck up about me being in a hurry when I'm standing directly under the fucking Express Lane sign. No. You do not need to go to your car to find a dollar to pay me back; like I said, it is worth it to me to spend this dollar on your dumb ass. I don't need your nickle and 93 pennies in return. This was a random act of "get the fuck out of my way" based kindness, now go away; or this bitch behind me is going to Chuck Norris that turban off your fucking head.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
No.
Warning, this entry is about my kid. It's not some bragging bullshit update about her executing cold fusion in the kitchen or anything, but it is about my kid.
This evening, as I was making dinner (some kick-ass Italian pork chops that Christina over at "She Runs, She Eats" would be proud of...), my daughter was on the phone with her best friend. Why they need to speak on the phone, I don't quite understand, since we live right next door to her family, and they spend more time together than most sisters do, but whatever. My kid is a wandering phone-talker, meaning she doesn't sit still while on the phone. 30 seconds on the couch, 30 seconds in her room, 30 seconds wandering aimlessly...if we didn't have doors she would likely wander the neighborhood while on the phone. As I'm cooking, here are two snippets I hear from her conversation:
"...I don't have any problem with him being shorter than her, it's not that big a deal since he's so cute..."
And:
"...That way I don't have to be mad at him for dating Miranda Cosgrove..."
I just kinda laugh it off and attend to my killer pork chop dinner. Then she comes out of her room and says "L--- and I are SO MAD, you know that shaggy haired James that we both like? He's dating Miranda Freakin' Cosgrove!" Because I'm a good dad, I make a face as if I'm about to cry and say "NO! That is TERRIBLE!" Her response was something along the lines of "You don't even care, so don't bother talking to me about it." I affirm for her that I don't care at all and life goes on.
Then I think about it. FUCK, my kid is a pre-teen and acting all girly about some douchebag TV kid, which can only mean that soon, she will be a real teen acting all girly about real douchebag kids.
No.
I am not ready for this. I am not at all ready to start dealing with this shit. When she was a cute little baby just being cute and shit, being a dad was the greatest thing ever. Now that she is on the verge of making my life miserable for the next 10-12 years (I'm not so dumb as to think it will stop when I kick her ass out at 18), I am not so enthused about being a dad. I hate drama, I hate dealing with it in any way, and I know that I am about to have to deal with it in Biblical proportions. It's like I'm watching the tsunami coming, but know that running is as useless as standing still. I am fucked.
Not surprisingly, my proposal to my wife that I check out and do my own thing for the next 9-10 years was immediately shot down without consideration, so it looks like I'm stuck. Which really sucks, because I am not at all interested in playing this game. Yeah, I know, good influence, strong role model, blah blah blah, but at this point, I'm not convinced that demonstrating a "turn and run like a panicking bitch when you're outmatched" approach is a bad thing. This isn't Sparta, I don't have shit to prove. I mean really, is it that bad to recognize when you don't stand a chance and just cut your losses? Pride has killed a lot of motherfuckers throughout history.
So I stand on this precipice of teenaged girl stress-fuck insanity, and I am mortified. I don't remember this mentioned when I signed for this parenthood thing. And if it was mentioned, maybe I thought I would trade this model in for a newer one long before it became an issue or something. I was obviously misled on that being an option. I really should read fine print.
So there it is. Shaggy haired James is dating Miranda freakin' Cosgrove and my life is fucked. The worst part of it is that I don't like hangovers enough to drink my way through this whole timeframe, and being sober during it all sounds positively horrific. No, the worst part of it is that she's only 9 fucking years old. This tsunami is going to get infinitely larger before it hits the beach, and I just get to stand there and watch my impending demise. When I think about it like that, the hangovers sound like something I could get used to.
Fuck you, shaggy haired James.
This evening, as I was making dinner (some kick-ass Italian pork chops that Christina over at "She Runs, She Eats" would be proud of...), my daughter was on the phone with her best friend. Why they need to speak on the phone, I don't quite understand, since we live right next door to her family, and they spend more time together than most sisters do, but whatever. My kid is a wandering phone-talker, meaning she doesn't sit still while on the phone. 30 seconds on the couch, 30 seconds in her room, 30 seconds wandering aimlessly...if we didn't have doors she would likely wander the neighborhood while on the phone. As I'm cooking, here are two snippets I hear from her conversation:
"...I don't have any problem with him being shorter than her, it's not that big a deal since he's so cute..."
And:
"...That way I don't have to be mad at him for dating Miranda Cosgrove..."
I just kinda laugh it off and attend to my killer pork chop dinner. Then she comes out of her room and says "L--- and I are SO MAD, you know that shaggy haired James that we both like? He's dating Miranda Freakin' Cosgrove!" Because I'm a good dad, I make a face as if I'm about to cry and say "NO! That is TERRIBLE!" Her response was something along the lines of "You don't even care, so don't bother talking to me about it." I affirm for her that I don't care at all and life goes on.
Then I think about it. FUCK, my kid is a pre-teen and acting all girly about some douchebag TV kid, which can only mean that soon, she will be a real teen acting all girly about real douchebag kids.
No.
I am not ready for this. I am not at all ready to start dealing with this shit. When she was a cute little baby just being cute and shit, being a dad was the greatest thing ever. Now that she is on the verge of making my life miserable for the next 10-12 years (I'm not so dumb as to think it will stop when I kick her ass out at 18), I am not so enthused about being a dad. I hate drama, I hate dealing with it in any way, and I know that I am about to have to deal with it in Biblical proportions. It's like I'm watching the tsunami coming, but know that running is as useless as standing still. I am fucked.
Not surprisingly, my proposal to my wife that I check out and do my own thing for the next 9-10 years was immediately shot down without consideration, so it looks like I'm stuck. Which really sucks, because I am not at all interested in playing this game. Yeah, I know, good influence, strong role model, blah blah blah, but at this point, I'm not convinced that demonstrating a "turn and run like a panicking bitch when you're outmatched" approach is a bad thing. This isn't Sparta, I don't have shit to prove. I mean really, is it that bad to recognize when you don't stand a chance and just cut your losses? Pride has killed a lot of motherfuckers throughout history.
So I stand on this precipice of teenaged girl stress-fuck insanity, and I am mortified. I don't remember this mentioned when I signed for this parenthood thing. And if it was mentioned, maybe I thought I would trade this model in for a newer one long before it became an issue or something. I was obviously misled on that being an option. I really should read fine print.
So there it is. Shaggy haired James is dating Miranda freakin' Cosgrove and my life is fucked. The worst part of it is that I don't like hangovers enough to drink my way through this whole timeframe, and being sober during it all sounds positively horrific. No, the worst part of it is that she's only 9 fucking years old. This tsunami is going to get infinitely larger before it hits the beach, and I just get to stand there and watch my impending demise. When I think about it like that, the hangovers sound like something I could get used to.
Fuck you, shaggy haired James.
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