I hate people who don't update their blog on a regular basis. I mean, why the fuck are you going to go through all of the effort to sign up for an account if you're not going to make the effort to continue the endeavor? You obvioulsy seem to think that the stupid shit in your head is important enough for the masses to read, Mr. Blogger Guy, why keep that brilliance from us for weeks at a time? You lure people in with promises of comedic ranting and humorous observations, then you disappear. Well fuck you, you non-blog-updating piece of shit. You suck. I hope your "Last updated 10 days ago" blog becomes an example of everything that is wrong with the idea of people thinking that others give a shit what they think.
Fucking loser.
Seriously, people start following you and expecting certain things from you and you just let them down? How dare you, you selfish fuck. Don't think about your followers...oh no, it's all about you and you living your life and not updating people on every mundane thing that pisses you off, isn't it? Prick. I hope you've enjoyed whatever it is you've been doing the last few weeks that you haven't been updating your blog, because everyone else has really enjoyed clicking the links to your page only to be disappointed again. That was sarcasm, if you didn't catch it, fucker.
Update that shit, you non-blogging bastard. Don't welcome the responsibility of entertaining a minute fraction of the internet if you can't carry the load.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
It's Raining, Call the Fucking Game.
OK, I can understand professional soccer players having to nut up and play in the rain. It's their job. It's a multi-gajillion dollar global enterprise. Some of them get paid ass-tons of money. Sack up and play in the rain. My nine year old daughter is not a professional, and this is a county league that is nothing more than formative soccer at best. None of her teammates are professionals (as evidenced by the excess of "swings and misses" at routine kicks). There is no fucking reason that any of us should be standing anywhere near a fucking soccer field on a rainy Sunday afternoon. None.
Why this game was played is mind-boggling. It was fucking raining. Not just a drizzle, but full-on non-stop rain. It had been raining since mid-morning. The rain wasn't a surprise. It didn't just happen to start falling halfway through the game. That might have been o.k. But when we show up and the rain is already falling and it's cold and puddles have already started forming near the goals...call the fucking game. It's not really that important. The universe will somehow continue to survive another week if you don't get this 9 year old girls soccer game completed. Everybody was fucking miserable, especially the girls. The parents who weren't hiding in their cars in the parking lot (fucking pussies) had umbrellas, so we were able to stay somewhat dry. The poor girls were stuck running around in the rain chasing a ball while probably wanting to be anywhere else but playing soccer while (to paraphrase my daughter) "feeling like [they] took a shower in [their] clothes."
I don't know what dumbshit was responsible for making these poor girls play soccer in the cold rain of mid-March, but fuck you, whoever you are. Next time, call the game. Or I will find out who you are and deliver the fuck you in person...in the form of throwing you in a river along with a soccer ball. Have fun playing, dickhead.
However, I will take a moment to be a proud dad and brag that tat2brat received the Sportsmanship Award for the game because she played her best and not once did she whine about being subjected to waterboard soccer.
Why this game was played is mind-boggling. It was fucking raining. Not just a drizzle, but full-on non-stop rain. It had been raining since mid-morning. The rain wasn't a surprise. It didn't just happen to start falling halfway through the game. That might have been o.k. But when we show up and the rain is already falling and it's cold and puddles have already started forming near the goals...call the fucking game. It's not really that important. The universe will somehow continue to survive another week if you don't get this 9 year old girls soccer game completed. Everybody was fucking miserable, especially the girls. The parents who weren't hiding in their cars in the parking lot (fucking pussies) had umbrellas, so we were able to stay somewhat dry. The poor girls were stuck running around in the rain chasing a ball while probably wanting to be anywhere else but playing soccer while (to paraphrase my daughter) "feeling like [they] took a shower in [their] clothes."
I don't know what dumbshit was responsible for making these poor girls play soccer in the cold rain of mid-March, but fuck you, whoever you are. Next time, call the game. Or I will find out who you are and deliver the fuck you in person...in the form of throwing you in a river along with a soccer ball. Have fun playing, dickhead.
However, I will take a moment to be a proud dad and brag that tat2brat received the Sportsmanship Award for the game because she played her best and not once did she whine about being subjected to waterboard soccer.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Drive-Thru Etiquette
As I have mentioned before, I am fairly strict with what I eat. Because I am, I almost never eat fast food. I try to plan my days and my meals in a manner that I can easily limit my need to utilize the near-instant food convenience of these purveyors of artery clogging crap. In the very rare case that I find myself needing to grab something quickly to stop the hunger pangs from annoying me, Chick-fil-A is my choice. This morning was one of those rare occasions. A late shift last night at the club and an early morning shift today at my "real job" made me have to choose between breakfast at home or the beauty of the "snooze" option on the alarm. I chose snooze.
On my way to work, I stopped at the Chick-fil-A that is on the way (hey, that rhymes) and went to the drive-thru. The drive-thru has been a staple of fast food joints for what, 40 years now? Long enough to be considered a very simple concept. They've done their best to further streamline the process by providing two menus to look at; one at the ordering point, one prior to the ordering point so that presumably, you'll know what the fuck you want when you get to the ordering point. A place like Chick-fil-A, where they pretty much only serve various forms of chicken shouldn't be a place that ordering in the drive-thru is difficult. However, the bitch in front of me today has either never utilized a drive-thru, never eaten at a Chick-fil-A, or is just dumb enough that the state should reconsider her having a license to drive a vehicle.
First off, dumb bitch: You should be somewhere within 10 feet of the speaker box in which you speak to make your order. The acoustics on those things are shit to begin with, you throwing in the debilitating factor of distance just makes the process more difficult. Your car is fairly new, so I know you have power steering, you could have easily made that difficult gradual left turn and found yourself in the same zip code as the speaker.
Second, dumb bitch: It's Chick-fil-A. They serve chicken. Just decide if you want your overgrown chicken nugget on a bun or a bagel and order. You shouldn't need to study the menu for 4 minutes.
Third, dumb bitch: The time which you wait behind the two cars in front of you while they get their food is the opportune time to get your method of payment ready. Waiting until you pull up to the window to count the change from your center console is not appropriate. They tell you when you complete your order how much you owe...maybe if you had been somewhere near the speaker box, you would have heard that.
Fourth, dumb bitch: Once they hand you your food, immediately drive forward. If you want to check your food because Quentin Tarantino says "they fuck you in the drive-thru," that's fine. Just do it 15 feet in front of the delivery window so the rest of us can get our food and move on with our days. My order is simple (I decided on the chicken), I have my money ready, and it should only take me about 8 seconds at the delivery window to complete the transaction. Why it has taken you over a minute to move forward is perplexing and pretty fucking irritating after all of the other ways you've fucked up a very simple process in front of me this morning.
Seriously, the drive-thru is not as difficult as this woman made it, but it did remind me of one of the reasons I choose not to frequent fast food joints. I will now go another 3-4 months before going back to Chick-fil-A, at which point I am certain someone else will find a way to amaze me with their inability to conquer simple tasks.
For the record, I got the chicken, egg, and cheese sandwich on a sunflower wheat bagel. It was pretty fucking good, quite honestly. It is also probably the sandwich that most says "Fuck you, chickens." A deep fried chicken breast and an egg? "Damn right, chicken I'm going to kill you and your baby and eat you both at the same time because I am one deranged motherfucking human. If they could make this bagel out of your feathers, feet and beak, I might even enjoy it more. Fuck you, chickens."
Next time, I need to avoid the snooze.
On my way to work, I stopped at the Chick-fil-A that is on the way (hey, that rhymes) and went to the drive-thru. The drive-thru has been a staple of fast food joints for what, 40 years now? Long enough to be considered a very simple concept. They've done their best to further streamline the process by providing two menus to look at; one at the ordering point, one prior to the ordering point so that presumably, you'll know what the fuck you want when you get to the ordering point. A place like Chick-fil-A, where they pretty much only serve various forms of chicken shouldn't be a place that ordering in the drive-thru is difficult. However, the bitch in front of me today has either never utilized a drive-thru, never eaten at a Chick-fil-A, or is just dumb enough that the state should reconsider her having a license to drive a vehicle.
First off, dumb bitch: You should be somewhere within 10 feet of the speaker box in which you speak to make your order. The acoustics on those things are shit to begin with, you throwing in the debilitating factor of distance just makes the process more difficult. Your car is fairly new, so I know you have power steering, you could have easily made that difficult gradual left turn and found yourself in the same zip code as the speaker.
Second, dumb bitch: It's Chick-fil-A. They serve chicken. Just decide if you want your overgrown chicken nugget on a bun or a bagel and order. You shouldn't need to study the menu for 4 minutes.
Third, dumb bitch: The time which you wait behind the two cars in front of you while they get their food is the opportune time to get your method of payment ready. Waiting until you pull up to the window to count the change from your center console is not appropriate. They tell you when you complete your order how much you owe...maybe if you had been somewhere near the speaker box, you would have heard that.
Fourth, dumb bitch: Once they hand you your food, immediately drive forward. If you want to check your food because Quentin Tarantino says "they fuck you in the drive-thru," that's fine. Just do it 15 feet in front of the delivery window so the rest of us can get our food and move on with our days. My order is simple (I decided on the chicken), I have my money ready, and it should only take me about 8 seconds at the delivery window to complete the transaction. Why it has taken you over a minute to move forward is perplexing and pretty fucking irritating after all of the other ways you've fucked up a very simple process in front of me this morning.
Seriously, the drive-thru is not as difficult as this woman made it, but it did remind me of one of the reasons I choose not to frequent fast food joints. I will now go another 3-4 months before going back to Chick-fil-A, at which point I am certain someone else will find a way to amaze me with their inability to conquer simple tasks.
For the record, I got the chicken, egg, and cheese sandwich on a sunflower wheat bagel. It was pretty fucking good, quite honestly. It is also probably the sandwich that most says "Fuck you, chickens." A deep fried chicken breast and an egg? "Damn right, chicken I'm going to kill you and your baby and eat you both at the same time because I am one deranged motherfucking human. If they could make this bagel out of your feathers, feet and beak, I might even enjoy it more. Fuck you, chickens."
Next time, I need to avoid the snooze.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Happy St. Green Beer Guy Day
Welcome to another holiday that has been bastardized into little more than a reason for people to drink way too much and wear completely fucking ridiculous holiday themed garb. Most people couldn't even begin to explain St. Patrick's relevance to Ireland, all they know is that it's a chance to get really fucking drunk drinking beer that is dyed green (yeah, just like the beer they drink in Ireland...only not at all like it) and act like an idiot while wearing stupid fucking leprechaun hats or dumb-ass headbands with foam shamrocks bouncing around on springs. (For the record, St. Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, a missionary who grew Christianity in Ireland but did NOT drive snakes from the country or invent Lucky Charms or Irish Spring or whatever else folklore says he did. Being that he was a man of God, I'm sure he would love how the holiday bearing his name is celebrated today...)
So, if you go out tonight, be prepared to deal with a bunch of morons who probably couldn't find Ireland on a map getting fucked up and pinching you if you aren't wearing green. Just like St. Patrick himself would have. "No green? God hates that you don't wear green! Allow me to pinch your forearm as a symbol of God's wrath, you non-green wearing heathen!" I don't know where the tradition of pinching someone who isn't wearing green started, but I hope the fucker who started it is being subjected to an eternity of Purple Nurples and steel-toed boot kicks to the balls in Hell. Dumb bastard.
I don't have any problem with people celebrating something, and it's easy to understand how St. Patrick warrants a holiday in Ireland. Of course, it's only been the last 20 years or so that the holiday has morphed into the debauchery-riddled drunk-fest that it is now at the hands of people who likely couldn't tell you the capital of Ireland or anything else about the country other than Guinness (which isn't green) is brewed there. It just strikes me as silly that people seem to need to find a reason to go out and get fucked up. Or make everything green. Or buy stupid trinkets from Hallmark or WalMart or whatever other fucking store has a litany of stupid holiday themed shit. Yeah, the shamrock banner that reads "Erin Go Bragh" really does show your allegiance to Ireland, black lady from Detroit in accounting. Excellent job. Your Gaelic brethren appreciate you and your $3.99 banner of pride.
I need to branch off a little here, and address a very real problem in American society (and I assume other societies, but can't speak for them)...holiday related clothing. I don't know when it became acceptable for older women to wear sweaters with Christmas wreaths or Easter eggs (yeah, just wait for the Easter blog...) or shamrocks or pre-slaughter turkeys or whatever other dumb fucking holiday related symbol upon them, but stop. Stop it, middle-class white bitches. Stop wearing those stupid fucking holiday sweaters. We all know what time of year it is, and I can promise you that 99.999% of us don't give a fuck that you're brimming with holiday spirit. That .001% who does? Other dumb bitches wearing stupid fucking holiday sweaters. They're not cute, they're not stylish, and they certainly don't put people in a cheery, festive fucking mood. They make people want to kick you dead in the poorly fashioned reindeer antlers that adorn the sweater across your chest.
Even worse, holiday socks. Why are these worse? Because nobody can see the stupid fucking things unless they are shown, and every dumb bitch who wears them feels the need to show everyone. "Hee-hee, Did you see my spooky Jack O' Lantern Halloween socks?" No bitch, because I don't give a fuck what socks you are wearing. Those aren't spooky, they're fucking retarded. You have pumpkins on your feet. That shit might be cute on a baby or something, but you are a grown fucking woman (most likely overweight, because for whatever reason, fat bitches seem to like to do silly shit like this...I don't know why...but pay attention...you'll see that I'm right), you do not need to wear those dumb-ass socks. I don't need to see those dumb-ass socks. Put your fucking Crocs back on and leave me the hell alone. I am not amused by your cheery fucking hosiery.
Whatever. Go out tonight and drink your green beer while you wear your green shirt and your stupid fucking head wear that screams "Look at the drunk bastard who has no problem looking like a complete fucking idiot in public!" Then, tomorrow, when you're hungover and feeling like you have a thousand Leprechauns jack-hammering green clover marshmallows out of your skull and you can't remember why your fingers are dyed green, you can start planning your outfit for Big Bird's Birthday (3/20) or Chocolate Covered Raisin Day (3/24) or Something on a Stick Day (3/28) (I'm surprised this holiday doesn't coincide with Gay Pride Week...yep...totally went there...) or whatever the next "holiday" is that will justify your gluttonous binge drinking and ridiculously poor clothing choices.
And, I double-dog dare you to pinch me, motherfuckers.
So, if you go out tonight, be prepared to deal with a bunch of morons who probably couldn't find Ireland on a map getting fucked up and pinching you if you aren't wearing green. Just like St. Patrick himself would have. "No green? God hates that you don't wear green! Allow me to pinch your forearm as a symbol of God's wrath, you non-green wearing heathen!" I don't know where the tradition of pinching someone who isn't wearing green started, but I hope the fucker who started it is being subjected to an eternity of Purple Nurples and steel-toed boot kicks to the balls in Hell. Dumb bastard.
I don't have any problem with people celebrating something, and it's easy to understand how St. Patrick warrants a holiday in Ireland. Of course, it's only been the last 20 years or so that the holiday has morphed into the debauchery-riddled drunk-fest that it is now at the hands of people who likely couldn't tell you the capital of Ireland or anything else about the country other than Guinness (which isn't green) is brewed there. It just strikes me as silly that people seem to need to find a reason to go out and get fucked up. Or make everything green. Or buy stupid trinkets from Hallmark or WalMart or whatever other fucking store has a litany of stupid holiday themed shit. Yeah, the shamrock banner that reads "Erin Go Bragh" really does show your allegiance to Ireland, black lady from Detroit in accounting. Excellent job. Your Gaelic brethren appreciate you and your $3.99 banner of pride.
I need to branch off a little here, and address a very real problem in American society (and I assume other societies, but can't speak for them)...holiday related clothing. I don't know when it became acceptable for older women to wear sweaters with Christmas wreaths or Easter eggs (yeah, just wait for the Easter blog...) or shamrocks or pre-slaughter turkeys or whatever other dumb fucking holiday related symbol upon them, but stop. Stop it, middle-class white bitches. Stop wearing those stupid fucking holiday sweaters. We all know what time of year it is, and I can promise you that 99.999% of us don't give a fuck that you're brimming with holiday spirit. That .001% who does? Other dumb bitches wearing stupid fucking holiday sweaters. They're not cute, they're not stylish, and they certainly don't put people in a cheery, festive fucking mood. They make people want to kick you dead in the poorly fashioned reindeer antlers that adorn the sweater across your chest.
Even worse, holiday socks. Why are these worse? Because nobody can see the stupid fucking things unless they are shown, and every dumb bitch who wears them feels the need to show everyone. "Hee-hee, Did you see my spooky Jack O' Lantern Halloween socks?" No bitch, because I don't give a fuck what socks you are wearing. Those aren't spooky, they're fucking retarded. You have pumpkins on your feet. That shit might be cute on a baby or something, but you are a grown fucking woman (most likely overweight, because for whatever reason, fat bitches seem to like to do silly shit like this...I don't know why...but pay attention...you'll see that I'm right), you do not need to wear those dumb-ass socks. I don't need to see those dumb-ass socks. Put your fucking Crocs back on and leave me the hell alone. I am not amused by your cheery fucking hosiery.
Whatever. Go out tonight and drink your green beer while you wear your green shirt and your stupid fucking head wear that screams "Look at the drunk bastard who has no problem looking like a complete fucking idiot in public!" Then, tomorrow, when you're hungover and feeling like you have a thousand Leprechauns jack-hammering green clover marshmallows out of your skull and you can't remember why your fingers are dyed green, you can start planning your outfit for Big Bird's Birthday (3/20) or Chocolate Covered Raisin Day (3/24) or Something on a Stick Day (3/28) (I'm surprised this holiday doesn't coincide with Gay Pride Week...yep...totally went there...) or whatever the next "holiday" is that will justify your gluttonous binge drinking and ridiculously poor clothing choices.
And, I double-dog dare you to pinch me, motherfuckers.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Being Sick Sucks Ass
I had almost made it through the entire winter without getting sick. Almost. It caught me today, and I feel like shit. I'm stuffed up and lethargic and having hot flashes like some menopausal woman (but no random crying fits...whew). I can't taste anything, but I am hungry as fuck. Seems pointless to eat if I can't enjoy the taste, but my stomach keep getting pissed off if I'm not cramming food in my word hole. This sucks.
I took some liquid Tylenol Cold shit, holy fuck that stuff is awful. "Refreshing Mint Flavor" my ass, Tylenol, that shit tastes worse than...well...pretty much anything I've ever tasted in my life. And I've eaten in the Middle East. I imagine that if you could somehow bottle baboon ass funk with a hint of rotting fish it would taste better than this medicine. Clearly there are no medicinal properties in the stuff, the scheme is simply to make it taste so fucking horrible that the body says "Fuck it, I'll get well right now, just don't throw any more of that God-forsaken mint-flavored liquid shit down your throat." Good job, Tylenol, finding something that pierces any cold symptoms that negate the ability to taste and sucker punches the taste buds. I can't taste this snack mix I'm throwing down by the handfuls, but I can still taste the sewer in a bottle I choked down 4 hours ago.
I suppose it is wise to not make that shit taste good, people would get addicted. If that shit tasted like chocolate chip cookies, I'd be chasing breakfast with it every morning.
I was supposed to do my long training run today, but I will not. I am sitting my fat ass in this chair and doing nothing until I have to go to the club to work the Rodrigo y Gabriela show tonight. I am excited for this show, it should be incredible. If you've never heard of them, look them up. No, I will not link you to them, I'm sick. I don't have that kind of energy. Find it yourself, this isn't a full service blog. It's worth the effort, they are exceptionally talented guitarists. If you like the guitar, you will like this duo. If you like attractive Latinas with fingers that move faster than the eye can comprehend, you'll at least like half of this duo.
So yeah, I'm going to have to work the show while feeling like shit, which sucks. I may get one of those white masks that most of Asia was wearing during the SARS outbreak just to scare people at the door. "Can I see your I.D., please...the mask? Oh, I have Swine Flu. Don't worry about it. Enjoy the show." I bet I could get people to behave inside with that method..."You want me to breathe on you, Motherfucker? That's what I thought."
Shit. It's time to take more of the piss in a bottle. Let me tell you how excited I am about that. You know that feeling you get when you're stranded in the wilderness and you have to pull an abcessed tooth with some make-shift pliers you fashioned out of tree limbs? Me neither, but I imagine that feeling would inspire more enthusiasm than does the thought of swallowing 2 more tablespoons of that liquid Tylenol taste bud rape. Fuck you, Tylenol.
I took some liquid Tylenol Cold shit, holy fuck that stuff is awful. "Refreshing Mint Flavor" my ass, Tylenol, that shit tastes worse than...well...pretty much anything I've ever tasted in my life. And I've eaten in the Middle East. I imagine that if you could somehow bottle baboon ass funk with a hint of rotting fish it would taste better than this medicine. Clearly there are no medicinal properties in the stuff, the scheme is simply to make it taste so fucking horrible that the body says "Fuck it, I'll get well right now, just don't throw any more of that God-forsaken mint-flavored liquid shit down your throat." Good job, Tylenol, finding something that pierces any cold symptoms that negate the ability to taste and sucker punches the taste buds. I can't taste this snack mix I'm throwing down by the handfuls, but I can still taste the sewer in a bottle I choked down 4 hours ago.
I suppose it is wise to not make that shit taste good, people would get addicted. If that shit tasted like chocolate chip cookies, I'd be chasing breakfast with it every morning.
I was supposed to do my long training run today, but I will not. I am sitting my fat ass in this chair and doing nothing until I have to go to the club to work the Rodrigo y Gabriela show tonight. I am excited for this show, it should be incredible. If you've never heard of them, look them up. No, I will not link you to them, I'm sick. I don't have that kind of energy. Find it yourself, this isn't a full service blog. It's worth the effort, they are exceptionally talented guitarists. If you like the guitar, you will like this duo. If you like attractive Latinas with fingers that move faster than the eye can comprehend, you'll at least like half of this duo.
So yeah, I'm going to have to work the show while feeling like shit, which sucks. I may get one of those white masks that most of Asia was wearing during the SARS outbreak just to scare people at the door. "Can I see your I.D., please...the mask? Oh, I have Swine Flu. Don't worry about it. Enjoy the show." I bet I could get people to behave inside with that method..."You want me to breathe on you, Motherfucker? That's what I thought."
Shit. It's time to take more of the piss in a bottle. Let me tell you how excited I am about that. You know that feeling you get when you're stranded in the wilderness and you have to pull an abcessed tooth with some make-shift pliers you fashioned out of tree limbs? Me neither, but I imagine that feeling would inspire more enthusiasm than does the thought of swallowing 2 more tablespoons of that liquid Tylenol taste bud rape. Fuck you, Tylenol.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Roller Derby.
If you like watching a bunch of marginally attractive chicks with creative names and a few not even close to potentially attractive chicks (also with creative names) skating in an oval and knocking the shit out of each other, roller derby is for you. If you like watching chicks fall on their asses on a regular basis, roller derby is for you. I like those things, so I enjoy going to watch the local roller derby team.
I'm not overly fond of the asinine prices the bitches at the Civic Center charge for concessions, but that's typical for those types of places, so I just don't bother buying anything while I'm there and that problem is solved.
The problem that obviously hasn't been solved since last season is the completely fucking awful announcers during the event. If you've ever been to a roller derby, you know that they have a couple of announcers pretty much narrating the action, explaining some of the rules and such. Ideally, the announcers would be witty, funny, and enhance your roller derby experience. The announcers at this particular event were not witty, not even in the same neighborhood as funny, and did not enhance the experience. If anything, they made it harder to enjoy, because wishing they would shut the fuck up took away from the amusement of watching any one of the fat chicks on the Kentucky team trying to remain upright.
Speaking of this, I feel as though I need to provide a little bit of unsolicited, completely amateur advice to the opposing team:
1.) Roller derby is an athletic event. I understand that there are some blocker positions that are probably better filled with heftier chicks, but you might want to stock your line-up with a few athletic chicks. It is impressive that the bigger girls can maintain balance and stop that momentum without falling down or needing a runaway truck ramp, but maybe just get a few toned, fit chicks onto your roster. Might help you score some points in the next match.
2.) Roller derby is an athletic event that takes place on roller skates. It's in the name, so it's not like it's a surprise. Perhaps you should ensure that all of your chicks can actually skate. Especially if you are going to put them in the scoring "Jammer" position. That's clearly the position that requires the most skating skill, you should probably keep Happy Gilmore on the bench until she can keep from eating shit on a straightaway when no one is around her. Or maybe one who can generate enough momentum to actually keep moving without having to use one of the other chicks to sling her around. Roller derby should be a fast-paced event, your Jammer shouldn't be struggling to maintain forward motion.
I know, I'm just some dude who may not understand the intricacies of roller derby, but judging by the fact that you were down by 100 points at halftime, I may be onto something.
I digress. Back to the dumb fucking announcers. The jokes were lame. The attempts at pop-culture references were feeble. The only entertainment that could be taken from any of the lame-ass shit they were saying was mocking them. The "like a rhinoceros in a tree" joke wouldn't be funny to you bitches at this point, but in the moment, that shit was funny, because of the mock value. Trust me. But, as funny as it was, it still didn't overwhelm the utter stupidity of the announcers who had the microphones. Fucking microphones, amplifying the completely unfunny bullshit of a couple of droning motherfuckers. I hate you, microphones.
Kinda like internet blogs, amplifying the completely unfunny bullshit of rambling motherfuckers...hmm...
Anyway, go check out some roller derby if you get a chance. Watching people fall is always funny, so even if you have to endure two dumbasses and a microphone, you can still have some fun.
I'm not overly fond of the asinine prices the bitches at the Civic Center charge for concessions, but that's typical for those types of places, so I just don't bother buying anything while I'm there and that problem is solved.
The problem that obviously hasn't been solved since last season is the completely fucking awful announcers during the event. If you've ever been to a roller derby, you know that they have a couple of announcers pretty much narrating the action, explaining some of the rules and such. Ideally, the announcers would be witty, funny, and enhance your roller derby experience. The announcers at this particular event were not witty, not even in the same neighborhood as funny, and did not enhance the experience. If anything, they made it harder to enjoy, because wishing they would shut the fuck up took away from the amusement of watching any one of the fat chicks on the Kentucky team trying to remain upright.
Speaking of this, I feel as though I need to provide a little bit of unsolicited, completely amateur advice to the opposing team:
1.) Roller derby is an athletic event. I understand that there are some blocker positions that are probably better filled with heftier chicks, but you might want to stock your line-up with a few athletic chicks. It is impressive that the bigger girls can maintain balance and stop that momentum without falling down or needing a runaway truck ramp, but maybe just get a few toned, fit chicks onto your roster. Might help you score some points in the next match.
2.) Roller derby is an athletic event that takes place on roller skates. It's in the name, so it's not like it's a surprise. Perhaps you should ensure that all of your chicks can actually skate. Especially if you are going to put them in the scoring "Jammer" position. That's clearly the position that requires the most skating skill, you should probably keep Happy Gilmore on the bench until she can keep from eating shit on a straightaway when no one is around her. Or maybe one who can generate enough momentum to actually keep moving without having to use one of the other chicks to sling her around. Roller derby should be a fast-paced event, your Jammer shouldn't be struggling to maintain forward motion.
I know, I'm just some dude who may not understand the intricacies of roller derby, but judging by the fact that you were down by 100 points at halftime, I may be onto something.
I digress. Back to the dumb fucking announcers. The jokes were lame. The attempts at pop-culture references were feeble. The only entertainment that could be taken from any of the lame-ass shit they were saying was mocking them. The "like a rhinoceros in a tree" joke wouldn't be funny to you bitches at this point, but in the moment, that shit was funny, because of the mock value. Trust me. But, as funny as it was, it still didn't overwhelm the utter stupidity of the announcers who had the microphones. Fucking microphones, amplifying the completely unfunny bullshit of a couple of droning motherfuckers. I hate you, microphones.
Kinda like internet blogs, amplifying the completely unfunny bullshit of rambling motherfuckers...hmm...
Anyway, go check out some roller derby if you get a chance. Watching people fall is always funny, so even if you have to endure two dumbasses and a microphone, you can still have some fun.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
It's Called a Bra, Bitch.
Hey bitch coming through the door at the club last night, I know you know they exist. You are a woman in her late 20's, and I don't give a fuck how hippie you think you are, you have to have heard of those wonderful items called brassieres. They have them in all sizes, even the 46GG you probably need, you fat, disgusting fucking hippie. Part of me is curious as to how you got so fat on your earth friendly, sustainable vegan diet anyway, but I cannot ask you anything because I am distracted by the fact that your gigantic tits are almost tripping you. I am disgusted by the fact that you not only decided that your gargantuan knockers needed to be free to sweep the ground, but you decided that you needed to wear a very low-cut, flowing hippie dress so everyone could gag a little more by seeing the skin on your chest stretched like a fucking over-filled Hefty trash bag. Nothing wimpy about your chest skin, that's for damned sure.
What the fuck, you dirty fucking hippie bitch? I know that you subscribe to the anti-establishment mantra, and that bras are simply a way for The Man to oppress the breasts, but come on. Even in your marijuana and patchouli induced funky stupor, you have to acknowledge the fact that your knockers are far to big to just "hang out." How can that be comfortable? How can your back take it? Do you have to do something similar to a pitcher's wind-up to get some inertia going to turn around? I can't imagine those things just move (or stop) on command, do you have a warning system in place to let people know when you're about to swings those wrecking balls around? How do you get out of bed? Do you sling one over the side and let gravity roll you out? Fuck, so many disturbing, disgusting questions that should never have to be asked.
Seriously, get a bra, bitch. Even Betty Friedan or Helen Gurley Brown or fuck, even Germaine Greer (the leader of the bra-burning movement, for my less feminism knowledgeable followers...you're welcome) would say "Bitch, control those fucking puppies." Ms. Greer would probably take you to WalMart herself and buy you a bra, because even she understood that going braless as a rule was not a good idea. Especially for a chick with jugs as big as yours. You tripping over your tits while walking up a flight of stairs does nothing for equality or world peace or Tibet or saving fucking Brazilian Mergansers or whatever noble battles you fight via bumper stickers on the back of your piece of shit VW bus that barely passes emissions testing. Put them away.
Look, I know you think that every living creature is beautiful (you are seriously fucking misguided) and that everyone has the right to be free and blah blah fuckity blah, but in your case, bitch, you need to take a look in the mirror and understand that some things are a socially accepted rule for a reason. No one wants to see your big, fat, venous fucking udders banging your knees. And don't say "well they just shouldn't look," because you know that's impossible. Some things are so fucking freakish that you just can't help but look. God knows I didn't want to look. I had no desire to see all that you showed me last night. But I couldn't look away. I was just in awe at the nerve you obviously have to walk out the door in some sort of poorly chosen fight against gravity and physics and physiology and common decency. I was also amazed at your Lumbar strength, because it was incredible that you were upright.
It's called a bra, bitch, and for the love of God or Mother Earth or Vishnu or Cernunnos or whoever the fuck you believe in, please buy one. Then wear it. Any time you go out in public. Any time. Never ever walk out of your commune without it on again. Inside your fucking hippie haven of circus freaks, you do whatever the fuck you want. Out here in the real world, put the girls in a sling. Please. Society begs you. Our eyes beg you. Even the fucking Mergansers beg you. Yes, ducks that are on the verge of extinction want you to control your mammoth fucking mammaries, bitch. Do it for the fucking ducks, hippie.
What the fuck, you dirty fucking hippie bitch? I know that you subscribe to the anti-establishment mantra, and that bras are simply a way for The Man to oppress the breasts, but come on. Even in your marijuana and patchouli induced funky stupor, you have to acknowledge the fact that your knockers are far to big to just "hang out." How can that be comfortable? How can your back take it? Do you have to do something similar to a pitcher's wind-up to get some inertia going to turn around? I can't imagine those things just move (or stop) on command, do you have a warning system in place to let people know when you're about to swings those wrecking balls around? How do you get out of bed? Do you sling one over the side and let gravity roll you out? Fuck, so many disturbing, disgusting questions that should never have to be asked.
Seriously, get a bra, bitch. Even Betty Friedan or Helen Gurley Brown or fuck, even Germaine Greer (the leader of the bra-burning movement, for my less feminism knowledgeable followers...you're welcome) would say "Bitch, control those fucking puppies." Ms. Greer would probably take you to WalMart herself and buy you a bra, because even she understood that going braless as a rule was not a good idea. Especially for a chick with jugs as big as yours. You tripping over your tits while walking up a flight of stairs does nothing for equality or world peace or Tibet or saving fucking Brazilian Mergansers or whatever noble battles you fight via bumper stickers on the back of your piece of shit VW bus that barely passes emissions testing. Put them away.
Look, I know you think that every living creature is beautiful (you are seriously fucking misguided) and that everyone has the right to be free and blah blah fuckity blah, but in your case, bitch, you need to take a look in the mirror and understand that some things are a socially accepted rule for a reason. No one wants to see your big, fat, venous fucking udders banging your knees. And don't say "well they just shouldn't look," because you know that's impossible. Some things are so fucking freakish that you just can't help but look. God knows I didn't want to look. I had no desire to see all that you showed me last night. But I couldn't look away. I was just in awe at the nerve you obviously have to walk out the door in some sort of poorly chosen fight against gravity and physics and physiology and common decency. I was also amazed at your Lumbar strength, because it was incredible that you were upright.
It's called a bra, bitch, and for the love of God or Mother Earth or Vishnu or Cernunnos or whoever the fuck you believe in, please buy one. Then wear it. Any time you go out in public. Any time. Never ever walk out of your commune without it on again. Inside your fucking hippie haven of circus freaks, you do whatever the fuck you want. Out here in the real world, put the girls in a sling. Please. Society begs you. Our eyes beg you. Even the fucking Mergansers beg you. Yes, ducks that are on the verge of extinction want you to control your mammoth fucking mammaries, bitch. Do it for the fucking ducks, hippie.
Monday, March 8, 2010
About Damned Time
Thank you, Mother Nature, for finally taking off the bitch slippers and giving us some good weather. The last three days have been damned near perfect, and I appreciate that. I got to run outside today in shorts and a short sleeved shirt...awesome. I got to take the dog for a nice walk in the woods without freezing my ass off. Such a beautiful day.
But, then I got to thinking. People don't read this shitty, randomly updated blog to listen to me be happy about shit. None of the readers want to read me praising good weather and having had a good day outside. It's a bit of a conundrum, made even worse by the fact that nothing silly or stupid or retarded has happened to me in the past few days. While I know I should blog, I can't just bring some paragraphs of happy to this wasteland of cycnicism and anger.
That being said, Mother Nature, don't do anything stupid. I like this gentler you, I like not freezing my ass off every time I open the front door. Other people will take care of the stupid shit I need to blog about, you just go on not being a wicked cunthole. I work at the club tomorrow night, surely something will happen then. I'm good. Mother Nature, just keep doing what you've done the last few days.
All the other retarded, annoying fucking shitstains around me need to step up the stupid. Do some shit for me to blog about, anonymous dillweeds. Not you, bathroom masturbator guy, I've had enough of you. But come on, I live in a melting pot of unintelligible hillbilly and pseudo-hippie and pretentious yuppie fucks...there has to be someone that can give me material out there. I know, I could always do the watching TV thing I said I would do last week, but I still haven't been able to bring myself to tune in to one of those shows. It looks like I may not have a choice anymore.
OK, I'm off to find something stupid on TV. I'm sure I'll have no shortage of choices. I hope to bring you something better than a few paragraphs of me complaining that I have nothing to blog about tomorrow. But, I must say, making an entry on not having anything to enter...that's skill, bitches. A useless, pointless, completely fucking stupid skill. Kinda like that thing I can do with my toe...
But, then I got to thinking. People don't read this shitty, randomly updated blog to listen to me be happy about shit. None of the readers want to read me praising good weather and having had a good day outside. It's a bit of a conundrum, made even worse by the fact that nothing silly or stupid or retarded has happened to me in the past few days. While I know I should blog, I can't just bring some paragraphs of happy to this wasteland of cycnicism and anger.
That being said, Mother Nature, don't do anything stupid. I like this gentler you, I like not freezing my ass off every time I open the front door. Other people will take care of the stupid shit I need to blog about, you just go on not being a wicked cunthole. I work at the club tomorrow night, surely something will happen then. I'm good. Mother Nature, just keep doing what you've done the last few days.
All the other retarded, annoying fucking shitstains around me need to step up the stupid. Do some shit for me to blog about, anonymous dillweeds. Not you, bathroom masturbator guy, I've had enough of you. But come on, I live in a melting pot of unintelligible hillbilly and pseudo-hippie and pretentious yuppie fucks...there has to be someone that can give me material out there. I know, I could always do the watching TV thing I said I would do last week, but I still haven't been able to bring myself to tune in to one of those shows. It looks like I may not have a choice anymore.
OK, I'm off to find something stupid on TV. I'm sure I'll have no shortage of choices. I hope to bring you something better than a few paragraphs of me complaining that I have nothing to blog about tomorrow. But, I must say, making an entry on not having anything to enter...that's skill, bitches. A useless, pointless, completely fucking stupid skill. Kinda like that thing I can do with my toe...
Friday, March 5, 2010
What. The. Fuck.
As previously mentioned in the estrogen-powered lesbian gaze of death post, I work part time at a music venue. It is a wonderful gig, I get paid to listen to live performances and check out hot chicks in the club and sometimes ruin someone's night. I have a lot of fun most of the time, and my love of music has been greatly increased by this job.
I've been doing this for a year now, and I have seen a lot of interesting shit. Every show has a unique mix of people; sociologists and/or aliens watching from above could spend years dissecting the behavior of people who come to the club. What I saw last night would make the aliens say "Fuck it, we'll find another planet with intelligent life somewhere else." Of course aliens say "fuck." It's a universally perfect word.
One of the job requirements of a door person is to randomly check the bathroom for anyone doing drugs, sneaking in liquor (retarded NC liquor laws don't allow the club to serve anything but beer and wine), washing the X marks they get for being under 21 off their hands, or anything else that would be considered unacceptable behavior. It's very common to find several people doing any of the above at any show. However, what is uncommon is to walk into the bathroom and find some black dude standing in a stall, door open, facing outward, with his dick in his hand, stroking that thing with reckless abandon.
Perhaps I should repeat that as the beginning to a new paragraph so you can grasp what really happened. I walked into the bathroom and caught some guy spanking his monkey. I was at a loss for words. The only thing I could get out was "What the fuck are you doing?" His reply? "Sorry." Sorry. All that motherfucker could say was "Sorry." I suppose if I really cared, I could have grilled him about why the fuck he was greasing his wheel in our bathroom, which might have been an interesting story, but I didn't care. All I cared about was getting that masturbating bastard out of the club.
Of course it was funny as hell, and once I told the guys at the door why I was kicking that guy out, it became the entertainment of the night. Tales of it happening spread through the club staff faster than herpes through a prostitute orgy. I walked backstage and somehow the guy working back there had already heard. Naturally, when I walked back there, he acted like he was having a stroke (and I don't mean his left side was limp and he was drooling on himself).
I understand that people have fetishes. I understand that some people like to dress in PVC and asphyxiate themselves with a bungee cord while a morbidly obese chick spanks them with a cheese log. Some people like to wear diapers and act like a baby. Some people have foot fetishes and like to lick toes and drink vodka from ladies' pumps (which is fucking disgusting, you fucked up foot fetish freaks. Feet are nasty.) Apparently, this guy is an exhibitionist. Or, he is a black guy who likes to come to southern rock shows and choke his chicken while watching rednecks take a piss at the urinals. Maybe flannel and trucker hats turn him on (he would have had a blast at the lesbian festival show, but none of that flannel would have been in the mens room...). Whatever the fuck it is, I was not prepared to see some dude fapping vigorously when I went to work last night. If his fetish is shocking people...he definitely got his.
Looking back on it now, I'm a little upset that the best I could come up with in the moment was "What the fuck are you doing?" I'm normally pretty witty, but I just didn't have anything quick and funny come to mind (no pun intended). However, even now, I can't think of anything else to say. What does one say when they walk in on a black guy with his jimmy in his hand? Other than "What the fuck?"
I had to do some mind-cleansing exercises last night, but even after taking a mental train to my Happy Place, that image keeps popping into my head. I am scarred. I may need therapy. Or, if I see that guy in the club again, I just need to kick him in the chest. Once for scarring my mind, once more for making me doubt the skills of my wit. Fuck you, you disturbed, cock-stroking motherfucker.
Happy Place...I'm coming. (Again, no pun intended.)
I've been doing this for a year now, and I have seen a lot of interesting shit. Every show has a unique mix of people; sociologists and/or aliens watching from above could spend years dissecting the behavior of people who come to the club. What I saw last night would make the aliens say "Fuck it, we'll find another planet with intelligent life somewhere else." Of course aliens say "fuck." It's a universally perfect word.
One of the job requirements of a door person is to randomly check the bathroom for anyone doing drugs, sneaking in liquor (retarded NC liquor laws don't allow the club to serve anything but beer and wine), washing the X marks they get for being under 21 off their hands, or anything else that would be considered unacceptable behavior. It's very common to find several people doing any of the above at any show. However, what is uncommon is to walk into the bathroom and find some black dude standing in a stall, door open, facing outward, with his dick in his hand, stroking that thing with reckless abandon.
Perhaps I should repeat that as the beginning to a new paragraph so you can grasp what really happened. I walked into the bathroom and caught some guy spanking his monkey. I was at a loss for words. The only thing I could get out was "What the fuck are you doing?" His reply? "Sorry." Sorry. All that motherfucker could say was "Sorry." I suppose if I really cared, I could have grilled him about why the fuck he was greasing his wheel in our bathroom, which might have been an interesting story, but I didn't care. All I cared about was getting that masturbating bastard out of the club.
Of course it was funny as hell, and once I told the guys at the door why I was kicking that guy out, it became the entertainment of the night. Tales of it happening spread through the club staff faster than herpes through a prostitute orgy. I walked backstage and somehow the guy working back there had already heard. Naturally, when I walked back there, he acted like he was having a stroke (and I don't mean his left side was limp and he was drooling on himself).
I understand that people have fetishes. I understand that some people like to dress in PVC and asphyxiate themselves with a bungee cord while a morbidly obese chick spanks them with a cheese log. Some people like to wear diapers and act like a baby. Some people have foot fetishes and like to lick toes and drink vodka from ladies' pumps (which is fucking disgusting, you fucked up foot fetish freaks. Feet are nasty.) Apparently, this guy is an exhibitionist. Or, he is a black guy who likes to come to southern rock shows and choke his chicken while watching rednecks take a piss at the urinals. Maybe flannel and trucker hats turn him on (he would have had a blast at the lesbian festival show, but none of that flannel would have been in the mens room...). Whatever the fuck it is, I was not prepared to see some dude fapping vigorously when I went to work last night. If his fetish is shocking people...he definitely got his.
Looking back on it now, I'm a little upset that the best I could come up with in the moment was "What the fuck are you doing?" I'm normally pretty witty, but I just didn't have anything quick and funny come to mind (no pun intended). However, even now, I can't think of anything else to say. What does one say when they walk in on a black guy with his jimmy in his hand? Other than "What the fuck?"
I had to do some mind-cleansing exercises last night, but even after taking a mental train to my Happy Place, that image keeps popping into my head. I am scarred. I may need therapy. Or, if I see that guy in the club again, I just need to kick him in the chest. Once for scarring my mind, once more for making me doubt the skills of my wit. Fuck you, you disturbed, cock-stroking motherfucker.
Happy Place...I'm coming. (Again, no pun intended.)
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Your Kidney Stones Do Not Impress Me.
Apparently, somewhere, sometime way back in the beginning of human interaction, someone decided that telling another person every little physical ailment they had was appropriate conversation. Over time, people have perfected the art of boring other people with inane tales of kidney stones or gall stones or sciatica or diarrhea or achy penis or whatever. In my time on this planet, I have perfected the art of not giving a fuck. I do not care about your trivial personal ailments. At all.
I can understand some things are fairly big and traumatic and become a major part of someone's life and the life of those around them. Cancer? Yeah that's a big deal, so I can understand conversing about it. Your arm got ripped off by a bear? Yeah, that's an interesting story. I want to hear that shit. "Your friend" somehow got a light bulb stuck in his ass? Fuck yeah, I need to hear that story. But, you feel like you're pissing a flaming bowling ball because you have stones? Your Carpal Tunnel is acting up again because you spent 7 hours surfing porn on the internet last night? I don't give a fuck. Really. Don't tell me about that shit, I don't want to hear it. Just like I don't care about your kids and the cutesy bullshit thing they did last week at Chuck E. Cheese, I don't care about your stones. Or your Carpal Tunnel. Or your achy penis.
What is even more torturous than someone just randomly telling me about their most recent hernia is when I'm near two people who seem to think that these topics are appropriate conversation. It makes me cringe when one person asks the other "How's it going?" and the other goes into a lengthy description of their kidney stones; which then invites the other person to talk about their uncle and his kidney stones; which then turns into a one-upping contest of mundane medical bullshit that is usually exaggerated for effect. "Well, my grandpa once had a tapeworm the that measured 63 feet long and craved buttermilk..." It's never an intelligent conversation, and it's usually riddled with one of them butchering any number of medical terms that may or may not be accurate and/or related to the ailment being discussed and one or more completely stupid Wives' Tale. "My Granny says the only way to get rid of a malignantated tapeworm is to set your ass hairs on fire and the smoke chases it out." I was subjected to similar conversation recently, and that shit made me want to choke bitches like Wayne Brady. I ended up leaving the room because I was very close to losing my mind and crushing their feelings to the point that kidney stones felt like a massage with a happy ending.
In hindsight, maybe I should have. Then they would have had something else to discuss with their friends, family, and random strangers in line at the grocery store. "My sternum hurts because Matt kicked me in the chest because I wouldn't shut the fuck up about my fucking kidney stones. My Granny says the only way to fix a perforatiated sternum is to mix some bleach, Vicks Vap-o-rub, and whiskey with a turnip green and pink Play-doh and rub it on your lower back. I don't how it works, but it does."
Fucking dumbasses. I think from now on, I'm just going to bitch about a headache caused by an annoying sound in my ears every time someone wants to tell me about their random ailments. Or just kick them in the chest and get it over with.
I can understand some things are fairly big and traumatic and become a major part of someone's life and the life of those around them. Cancer? Yeah that's a big deal, so I can understand conversing about it. Your arm got ripped off by a bear? Yeah, that's an interesting story. I want to hear that shit. "Your friend" somehow got a light bulb stuck in his ass? Fuck yeah, I need to hear that story. But, you feel like you're pissing a flaming bowling ball because you have stones? Your Carpal Tunnel is acting up again because you spent 7 hours surfing porn on the internet last night? I don't give a fuck. Really. Don't tell me about that shit, I don't want to hear it. Just like I don't care about your kids and the cutesy bullshit thing they did last week at Chuck E. Cheese, I don't care about your stones. Or your Carpal Tunnel. Or your achy penis.
What is even more torturous than someone just randomly telling me about their most recent hernia is when I'm near two people who seem to think that these topics are appropriate conversation. It makes me cringe when one person asks the other "How's it going?" and the other goes into a lengthy description of their kidney stones; which then invites the other person to talk about their uncle and his kidney stones; which then turns into a one-upping contest of mundane medical bullshit that is usually exaggerated for effect. "Well, my grandpa once had a tapeworm the that measured 63 feet long and craved buttermilk..." It's never an intelligent conversation, and it's usually riddled with one of them butchering any number of medical terms that may or may not be accurate and/or related to the ailment being discussed and one or more completely stupid Wives' Tale. "My Granny says the only way to get rid of a malignantated tapeworm is to set your ass hairs on fire and the smoke chases it out." I was subjected to similar conversation recently, and that shit made me want to choke bitches like Wayne Brady. I ended up leaving the room because I was very close to losing my mind and crushing their feelings to the point that kidney stones felt like a massage with a happy ending.
In hindsight, maybe I should have. Then they would have had something else to discuss with their friends, family, and random strangers in line at the grocery store. "My sternum hurts because Matt kicked me in the chest because I wouldn't shut the fuck up about my fucking kidney stones. My Granny says the only way to fix a perforatiated sternum is to mix some bleach, Vicks Vap-o-rub, and whiskey with a turnip green and pink Play-doh and rub it on your lower back. I don't how it works, but it does."
Fucking dumbasses. I think from now on, I'm just going to bitch about a headache caused by an annoying sound in my ears every time someone wants to tell me about their random ailments. Or just kick them in the chest and get it over with.
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