Everyone is entitled to their own personal choices in music. There are more than enough genres to satisfy hundreds of musical tastes. And that's a good thing. To a degree. I am not a fan of speed metal, country, bluegrass, hair bands, and did I mention any and all COUNTRY?? So if you are inclined to listen to your private collection of "Death Metal Pussy Lips" or "Cousin Redneck Lovers", have at it. Blast that shit till your ears bleed. If you can scrounge up a basement full of friends with permed mullets and acid wash jeans or Wrangler jeans and shit-kicker boots, even more power to you. It is only when the volume of your (shitty in my personal opinion) taste in music overflows onto the soundwaves of my OWN personal space, I take issue. Turn that fucking shit DOWN.
I recently walked 39.3 miles over the span of two days for the Avon Breast Cancer Walk. That is a lot of hours walking with thousands of women all over Chicago. Some ladies (and gentleman) took it upon themselves to become DJ's for the surrounding walkers. In a very vague way this in nice. But if their own mix of music does not please my ears and in fact makes me want to punch a baby, should said public mix perhaps be kept to themselves? I say FUCK YES. It would never happen that I would willingly walk into a country bar to listen to that type of music without someone drugging me, knocking me unconscious, and gagging me with a dirty sock. So why in God's name do you think I remotely want to hear your twangy, jingly-jangly "my man done me wrong" song sampler for as many miles as it takes me to speed up, pass you, and get within earshot of silence from your redneck remix?!!! The answer is I do not. So thank you for your generosity but save your inspirational jams for your own headphones or your roommate who will be paralyzed with blisters and dehydration after walking all those miles. She will either tolerate it because she is defenseless or suffocate you with her pillow as you slumber. I say sleep with one eye open, Shania.
Another musical sound violation I cannot fucking stand is when guys blast their booty jams and talentless rap with all the car windows down for everyone to enjoy. Typically offenders have some sort of SUV with obnoxious rims the size of a John Deere tractor. It looks like you bought the car from Toys 'R' Us and then went to the big boy car store for your wheels. You look like a huge asshole. And I think it's particularly classy when you have that ear-splitting bass cranked so high that my nipples vibrate when you are a parking lot away. No really, between your giant sparkly rims, your posse of 5 guy friends hanging out the windows, and that awesome music blaring, "Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch!" over and over it is a true conundrum as to why you cannot get laid. I am shocked you do not have a pussy posse lined up to carpool with you.
I know there's plenty of music I listen to which would annoy the shit out of some of you. (Cue Erasure, Yaz, Depeche Mode, and Abba now..) So I listen to it in my car, on my Ipod, or in my home or seek out places, parties, and dance clubs in which my own musical preferences are played. That's my prerogative. If you invite me into your home for a party and want to choose your own music, coolio. I can drink enough Patron to erase any memory of having to head bang or do the two step in your living room. If you are thinking about doing a bass-pumping drive-by and you notice me, be forewarned, I do not take kindly to this gesture. I will hunt you down and throw a flaming dog turn in the shape of a spinning tire rim into your open window. And no amount of Axe body spray, Kanye West shades, or "Get Up, Bitch" mega-mixes will rid you of the shame or odor. Roll up those windows and shut the fuck up.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Would You Rather?
Ever play that game? I love playing the "would you rather get explosive, gut-wrenching diarrhea OR spontaneously vomit" game. Totally gross and entertaining for the kids. But lately I have been wondering. Would you rather be really slim, I mean we're talking size 0 or a 2 (yes, that's damn skinny if you happen to already be that size, bitch) but be ugly as fuck? OR would you rather be slightly chubby (maybe a 14 or 16) but have a really "pretty face". And by this I mean truly a pretty face, not just what grandmas say about their fat grand kids. Which would you choose?
The fuel which made me ponder this was from watching an episode of Say Yes to The Dress. There was a teeny tiny bride who was waif-like in stature. But she has the schnoz the size of a Twinkie and too-close eyes, complete with a cackling Fran Drescher laugh. That was a bonus because it made her seem uglier. This bitch could have used that mega nose for a doorstop or a paper weight or even a bottle opener. But she was skinny. That's a conundrum.
But then I've seen sweet women with dazzling smiles and impeccable taste, they just happen to be large and in-charge. I've never ever been a size 0 or 2 in my own natural life. But I like how I look and as a matter of fact how I feel in this rather curvy body of mine. I certainly do not crave more fat or curves, I struggle daily with eating and diligent workouts. I cannot drive my body to another level of 7 days-a week fitness. I think eating organic and vegan could could be great and cleansing and spiritual and all that bullshit. I see my Food TV Magazine every month and I declare how delicious and fresh and easy it all looks. But pictures in a damn magazine do not translate well into my life. I am busy, often lazy, terribly disorganized, and busy during the point of most days were those all-American families are sitting down together to enjoy a nice meatloaf, a salad, mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, a veggie from their communal garden, and tofu blackberry cobbler with soy ice cream for dessert. I applaud them.....with only my middle fingers for being such show-offs. 6 nights a week show-offs.
We had Portillo's last night. I hurt my back today so though I was ambitious in making a shrimp Mediterranean pesto pizza for lunch and the kids assembled their own, complete with raw pizza dough spun in the air. The pain got worse, as did my giving a flying shit as to what the dinner menu would be. It's call "Mommy doesn't have to fucking figure it out every damn night. Mommy's medicated and drooling and would feed you raw pasta if it was up to me. Does that make me mean or a bad mommy? No, I am hurting and someone else can figure the nourishment needs up in here. I am done for tonight.
As we sat on the benches overlooking the channel feeding into Lake Michigan enjoying our Dairy Treat cones this weekend, I have to people watch. It is hilarious fun, somewhat immature, and definitely not Christian of me. And I cannot merely watch, I feel the need to maintain a running commentary going to analyze certain scary/misfit/short a few chromosomes people as they de board from their vessels or subject me to watch their potpourri of problems manifest themselves right before my eyes. I referred to a rag tag dinghy as the SS Food Stamp. Yes I am stereotyping folks but it you witnessed the abundance who really should have a tether and police warrant barring from fornicating. You can so easily predict when a deadbeat, jail-hopping dad hooks up with a woman who has 3 kids from different daddies. It is a slew of ugly babies with problems and no future . Do us taxpayers a favor and head to school first. Get a job, save some money. And wear a damn condom.
I suppose I get my own coming to me whether I know it or not. I will preach forever, I do not think I'm perfect. I am mathematically retarded. I cannot count change. I suck at sports and have no hand/eye coordination. I dress inappropriately for my age and act younger that I am. So the fuck what? Is there a guidebook on how to act at a certain age? Keep it real, people. If you find it funny, laugh your ass off. Someone will join in. Because politically correct or not, it IS funny. Today I walked into my nail salon, annoyed another woman stepped in front of me. Then I noticed she had only one real arm, the other was prosthetic. My immediate though,"Well at least her manicure will be short because it will take half as long..." does this make me a bitch or just practical?
The fuel which made me ponder this was from watching an episode of Say Yes to The Dress. There was a teeny tiny bride who was waif-like in stature. But she has the schnoz the size of a Twinkie and too-close eyes, complete with a cackling Fran Drescher laugh. That was a bonus because it made her seem uglier. This bitch could have used that mega nose for a doorstop or a paper weight or even a bottle opener. But she was skinny. That's a conundrum.
But then I've seen sweet women with dazzling smiles and impeccable taste, they just happen to be large and in-charge. I've never ever been a size 0 or 2 in my own natural life. But I like how I look and as a matter of fact how I feel in this rather curvy body of mine. I certainly do not crave more fat or curves, I struggle daily with eating and diligent workouts. I cannot drive my body to another level of 7 days-a week fitness. I think eating organic and vegan could could be great and cleansing and spiritual and all that bullshit. I see my Food TV Magazine every month and I declare how delicious and fresh and easy it all looks. But pictures in a damn magazine do not translate well into my life. I am busy, often lazy, terribly disorganized, and busy during the point of most days were those all-American families are sitting down together to enjoy a nice meatloaf, a salad, mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, a veggie from their communal garden, and tofu blackberry cobbler with soy ice cream for dessert. I applaud them.....with only my middle fingers for being such show-offs. 6 nights a week show-offs.
We had Portillo's last night. I hurt my back today so though I was ambitious in making a shrimp Mediterranean pesto pizza for lunch and the kids assembled their own, complete with raw pizza dough spun in the air. The pain got worse, as did my giving a flying shit as to what the dinner menu would be. It's call "Mommy doesn't have to fucking figure it out every damn night. Mommy's medicated and drooling and would feed you raw pasta if it was up to me. Does that make me mean or a bad mommy? No, I am hurting and someone else can figure the nourishment needs up in here. I am done for tonight.
As we sat on the benches overlooking the channel feeding into Lake Michigan enjoying our Dairy Treat cones this weekend, I have to people watch. It is hilarious fun, somewhat immature, and definitely not Christian of me. And I cannot merely watch, I feel the need to maintain a running commentary going to analyze certain scary/misfit/short a few chromosomes people as they de board from their vessels or subject me to watch their potpourri of problems manifest themselves right before my eyes. I referred to a rag tag dinghy as the SS Food Stamp. Yes I am stereotyping folks but it you witnessed the abundance who really should have a tether and police warrant barring from fornicating. You can so easily predict when a deadbeat, jail-hopping dad hooks up with a woman who has 3 kids from different daddies. It is a slew of ugly babies with problems and no future . Do us taxpayers a favor and head to school first. Get a job, save some money. And wear a damn condom.
I suppose I get my own coming to me whether I know it or not. I will preach forever, I do not think I'm perfect. I am mathematically retarded. I cannot count change. I suck at sports and have no hand/eye coordination. I dress inappropriately for my age and act younger that I am. So the fuck what? Is there a guidebook on how to act at a certain age? Keep it real, people. If you find it funny, laugh your ass off. Someone will join in. Because politically correct or not, it IS funny. Today I walked into my nail salon, annoyed another woman stepped in front of me. Then I noticed she had only one real arm, the other was prosthetic. My immediate though,"Well at least her manicure will be short because it will take half as long..." does this make me a bitch or just practical?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Why???
I realize it's been a long-ass time since I wrote. Why the fuck is that? I've been busy but who isn't? I haven't felt inspired, motivated, funny or like I have a purpose. What the hell do I need, a God damn Dr. Phil intervention? Christ.... I need to get back on this shit already. What a pussy.
I was watching some videos on YouTube today, a venue for a shit pot of folks lacking any sort of talent. There's a funny-ass girl who goes by the name of Jenna Marbles. She rants about everyday shit with quite a colorful vocabulary, one I am also fluent in. Trouble is I cannot possibly post anything remotely similar because I am a parent and teacher and have far too many people who will probably think less of me. Well maybe not think less of me but maybe have a hard time with me as their kid's dance teacher just because I want to say "cocksucker" or "Fucktard". That really, really blows. Son of a bitch.My mouth never ceases to get me in trouble.
Frankly I am tired in general of pussyfooting around, afraid to possibly write anything that people might fucking assume is about them. To use a phrase that my husband hates (and has nothing to do with sexual orientation), that is so gay. Everyone is so God damn touchy nowadays. Annoying as fuck if you ask me. Get over your damn high school self already. I have had people see a post on Facebook, the crack pipe of this era, and try to guess who it's about. This starts a gossip frenzy of assumptions, madness, accusations, total mayhem. And when I allude to something, don't take it seriously. Have you ever even MET me?? I am sarcastic as fuck. It's not like I'm spreading rumors you are a necrophiliac or have a crusty underwear collection. Unless you DO keep your yeasty panties after you screw corpses, then you really deserve public humiliation. Everyone takes themselves so God damn seriously!!!!!!!!!
I wish I could be more honest about my humor. But though I can be crass and raunchy, I try to keep it in the proper venue. I'd love to post a link to my blog on my Facebook page. But not everyone, like your cool-as-shit selves reading this and laughing, are as open. I have some friends who are Jesus freaks. Don't get your ironed, white cotton panties in a wad, I struggle with my faith so I guess its cool you post biblical quotes and praise-your-Lord phrases all day long. I don't read all of them because sometimes it feels a little preachy (being honest here). I try to lead a good, honest life and all that koom-ba-ya shit. I just have a hard time making it to church on Sunday when it is boring as all holy hell and if I can't get into it and even understand what the priest is even talking about, how do I push that on my kids???? Maybe I'm in the wrong church, I don't know. I'm cool having my Sunday mornings free right now. Do I think I'm going to hell for it? No fucking way.
I often rant about my kids, another topic some people find taboo. And suffer my frustration in silence?? I don't think so. This is a generation of emotional dysentery in which spewing forth that which ails you causes immediate relief. It's like I've said, moms and dads who NEVER complain about their kids and life once in awhile are raging fucking liars. Get it off your chest, your daughter acted like a raging bitch this morning and you wanted to nail gun her to the wall for how she talked to you. I GET IT. Not the "bite your tongue and ignore her while you remain angry and hurt for a day". Fuck. That. I love my kids, I seriously am enjoying the ages they are right now more than any phase or age they've been so far. But I have my moments. Some weeks LOTS of them. So I'm being real here. Fake is for tits and tans, not emotions.
This is a tangent here, no rhyme or reason as to what the fuck I'm writing. I just know that making people laugh till they cramp up or piss their pants gets me going. So I will seriously make more of an effort to be on this whole blog shit again. I apologize for my delinquency. If you are friends with me on Facebook, keep topics flowing so I can have material to bitch about. If you aren't friends with me and are a total creeper who I have NO friends in common with, piss off. I don't friend people for sheer quantity. (Another rant for another day...) And for you people who are fans of "Jesus Is Awesome", don't be offended if I have to block you for awhile. Your holiness is God damn annoying. Peace........
I was watching some videos on YouTube today, a venue for a shit pot of folks lacking any sort of talent. There's a funny-ass girl who goes by the name of Jenna Marbles. She rants about everyday shit with quite a colorful vocabulary, one I am also fluent in. Trouble is I cannot possibly post anything remotely similar because I am a parent and teacher and have far too many people who will probably think less of me. Well maybe not think less of me but maybe have a hard time with me as their kid's dance teacher just because I want to say "cocksucker" or "Fucktard". That really, really blows. Son of a bitch.My mouth never ceases to get me in trouble.
Frankly I am tired in general of pussyfooting around, afraid to possibly write anything that people might fucking assume is about them. To use a phrase that my husband hates (and has nothing to do with sexual orientation), that is so gay. Everyone is so God damn touchy nowadays. Annoying as fuck if you ask me. Get over your damn high school self already. I have had people see a post on Facebook, the crack pipe of this era, and try to guess who it's about. This starts a gossip frenzy of assumptions, madness, accusations, total mayhem. And when I allude to something, don't take it seriously. Have you ever even MET me?? I am sarcastic as fuck. It's not like I'm spreading rumors you are a necrophiliac or have a crusty underwear collection. Unless you DO keep your yeasty panties after you screw corpses, then you really deserve public humiliation. Everyone takes themselves so God damn seriously!!!!!!!!!
I wish I could be more honest about my humor. But though I can be crass and raunchy, I try to keep it in the proper venue. I'd love to post a link to my blog on my Facebook page. But not everyone, like your cool-as-shit selves reading this and laughing, are as open. I have some friends who are Jesus freaks. Don't get your ironed, white cotton panties in a wad, I struggle with my faith so I guess its cool you post biblical quotes and praise-your-Lord phrases all day long. I don't read all of them because sometimes it feels a little preachy (being honest here). I try to lead a good, honest life and all that koom-ba-ya shit. I just have a hard time making it to church on Sunday when it is boring as all holy hell and if I can't get into it and even understand what the priest is even talking about, how do I push that on my kids???? Maybe I'm in the wrong church, I don't know. I'm cool having my Sunday mornings free right now. Do I think I'm going to hell for it? No fucking way.
I often rant about my kids, another topic some people find taboo. And suffer my frustration in silence?? I don't think so. This is a generation of emotional dysentery in which spewing forth that which ails you causes immediate relief. It's like I've said, moms and dads who NEVER complain about their kids and life once in awhile are raging fucking liars. Get it off your chest, your daughter acted like a raging bitch this morning and you wanted to nail gun her to the wall for how she talked to you. I GET IT. Not the "bite your tongue and ignore her while you remain angry and hurt for a day". Fuck. That. I love my kids, I seriously am enjoying the ages they are right now more than any phase or age they've been so far. But I have my moments. Some weeks LOTS of them. So I'm being real here. Fake is for tits and tans, not emotions.
This is a tangent here, no rhyme or reason as to what the fuck I'm writing. I just know that making people laugh till they cramp up or piss their pants gets me going. So I will seriously make more of an effort to be on this whole blog shit again. I apologize for my delinquency. If you are friends with me on Facebook, keep topics flowing so I can have material to bitch about. If you aren't friends with me and are a total creeper who I have NO friends in common with, piss off. I don't friend people for sheer quantity. (Another rant for another day...) And for you people who are fans of "Jesus Is Awesome", don't be offended if I have to block you for awhile. Your holiness is God damn annoying. Peace........
Friday, April 29, 2011
Fuck Running
I loathe running with every sense of my being. I don't get it. I have tried and tried but I never get that Oprah "Aha!" moment where I think, "Damn! Why haven't I tried this before?? This is fun as HELL!"
Nope. Instead every time I try to run I get the horrible burning in my lungs as if I smoked a pack of unfiltered Camels last night. (I didn't.) My legs feel like they weigh 300 lbs. each. My hips begin to ache and I already know the SHORT amount of time I have committed will make me so tense in my lower extremities tomorrow I will walk like I had a double hip replacement. And then there's the side cramps. And the inevitable "holy-shit-I-really-hope-I-don't-yack-my-shit-all-over-this-treadmill" sensation.
Fuck running.
I've heard the "I'm an adrenaline junkie!" Or the "It's SOOOO good for you!" Or "It feels so great! I could go all day!"
Shut your God damn, lightweight, overpriced Nike track shoe-wearing pie holes. I like the adrenaline I get when I ride a roller coaster. Or see a scary movie. Or before I go onstage. Running "adrenaline" is my body's way of saying, "Slow the hell down, bitch! Those tits are WAY too big to move like that!!" And let me add that to my long list of anti-running reasons. Big boobs and feet slapping on the pavement while your body bounces up and down can only lead to a few things: bad back, nipple erection/tig ol' bitty wardrobe malfunction, or black eyes. I will power walk ANY day to save my tits from beating the shit out of myself.
Running is good for me? So is a colon cleanse but I sure as shit can't do that every day. I will choose things that are good for me and make me GOOD to be around. Like copious amounts of caffeine, new shoes, and vacations to tropical islands. Run next to me and you will hear me whine more than Demi Lovato at eating disorder camp. Not cool.
You know what feels great? Taking a good shit every morning. Or sleeping through the night without insomnia. Or wearing your skinny jeans and being able to zip them up without sweating. Running does not feel good. I imagine getting ass-raped by an elephant would be more soothing.
I've tried the treadmill, I've tried a track, I've tried the sidewalk and the street. Unless I can run and use someone else's body to get the same energetic bullshit adrenaline crackhead results, it will not be happening. I am not signing up for any "short little 5K's" or plan on training by running and walking with you. I will run for only a few reasons: if I am about to shit my pants, if I am on fire, if anyone is trying to fuck with my kids, or if there is an All You Can Carry Jimmy Choos For $10 Sale. Other than that, yes, the treadmill I am standing next to is free. Enjoy your torture, you masochistic freak.
Nope. Instead every time I try to run I get the horrible burning in my lungs as if I smoked a pack of unfiltered Camels last night. (I didn't.) My legs feel like they weigh 300 lbs. each. My hips begin to ache and I already know the SHORT amount of time I have committed will make me so tense in my lower extremities tomorrow I will walk like I had a double hip replacement. And then there's the side cramps. And the inevitable "holy-shit-I-really-hope-I-don't-yack-my-shit-all-over-this-treadmill" sensation.
Fuck running.
I've heard the "I'm an adrenaline junkie!" Or the "It's SOOOO good for you!" Or "It feels so great! I could go all day!"
Shut your God damn, lightweight, overpriced Nike track shoe-wearing pie holes. I like the adrenaline I get when I ride a roller coaster. Or see a scary movie. Or before I go onstage. Running "adrenaline" is my body's way of saying, "Slow the hell down, bitch! Those tits are WAY too big to move like that!!" And let me add that to my long list of anti-running reasons. Big boobs and feet slapping on the pavement while your body bounces up and down can only lead to a few things: bad back, nipple erection/tig ol' bitty wardrobe malfunction, or black eyes. I will power walk ANY day to save my tits from beating the shit out of myself.
Running is good for me? So is a colon cleanse but I sure as shit can't do that every day. I will choose things that are good for me and make me GOOD to be around. Like copious amounts of caffeine, new shoes, and vacations to tropical islands. Run next to me and you will hear me whine more than Demi Lovato at eating disorder camp. Not cool.
You know what feels great? Taking a good shit every morning. Or sleeping through the night without insomnia. Or wearing your skinny jeans and being able to zip them up without sweating. Running does not feel good. I imagine getting ass-raped by an elephant would be more soothing.
I've tried the treadmill, I've tried a track, I've tried the sidewalk and the street. Unless I can run and use someone else's body to get the same energetic bullshit adrenaline crackhead results, it will not be happening. I am not signing up for any "short little 5K's" or plan on training by running and walking with you. I will run for only a few reasons: if I am about to shit my pants, if I am on fire, if anyone is trying to fuck with my kids, or if there is an All You Can Carry Jimmy Choos For $10 Sale. Other than that, yes, the treadmill I am standing next to is free. Enjoy your torture, you masochistic freak.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Lazy Fucking People
I really am annoyed at the complete lazy nature of people I encounter these days. It is occasionally because they are grossly overweight but not always. You know how irritated I can be if you are obese AND lazy. Sheeeeiiiiit....
I cannot stand it when I go to my car after spending way too long at the dreaded grocery store only to find some douche cock has neglected to walk the 2 extra car lengths to the cart corral to put their cart away. Instead they find it perfectly acceptable to rest it on the bumper of the front of my car. I don't give a shit if it's a monsoon and I have a sick kid in the car, I ALWAYS put my damn cart away. And a friend pointed out sometimes these lazy mother fuckers have the gall to leave the cart in a HANDICAPPED space. I think many of the people who do this are not just lazy but self-entitled as well. They are too good to have to "clean up after themselves". If you able to shop for your own Polish deli ham and generic Fruit Loops with an envelope of coupons then you are not a diva. You are thrifty and lazy.
As we enter this pre-spring ugliness I am noticing a few things. One, the brown dead landscape is enough to make me want to go into a Xanax/Zoloft/Wellbutrin coma. I need something to make me happy and the dead-ass nature spread ain't cutting it. Two, to top off the complete lack of greenery as the snow is now gone I am noticing everyone in the city has decided it is suddenly PC to toss any and all trash from their cars, especially as they drive past my subdivision. I will occasionally throw a banana peel or an apple core out my window but only if we are near woods or a corn field. Some animal might eat it and also it is biodegradable. I'll tell you what is NOT biodegradable--a smelly Pampers diaper full of your two year-old's dookie, that's what. Neither is an empty case, bottles and all, of Coors Light. I'd like to shove those 12 empties of silver bullets right up your ass, you fucktard. I see entire bags from McDonald's, coffee cups, plastic bottles, even a pile of old clothes someone was too fucking lazy to drop off at Goodwill. As far as I know we do not have some scavenger refuge in the woods whose inhabitants create artwork or building materials out of your trash so kindly wait until you get to your own fucking house and throw it in the TRASH. If I see you toss a diaper steamer I am going to buy one of those metal grabber tools people use to reach things, carry that turd bomb to your house, carefully open it, and spell out "SHADOOBIE BRIGADE" with your toddler's feces on your car.
People who take up 1 1/2 car spaces in the lot also make me want to swear a lot. What makes your car that much more special than mine? Nothing. And when my kids cannot get in because they don't want to scratch your car and they have a backpack and a school project and it's pouring rain, then a big fat FUCK YOU to you, kind sir or madam. It's not a Ferrari you are driving, it's a God damn Explorer. I recall being 7 months pregnant with Sophie when I came from my OB appointment at Northwestern Hospital only to find someone has parked a mere inches from my little car. I physically could NOT get in. After yelling, swearing, and eventually crying a bit, I keyed the shit out of Mr. Close Parker's car and had to climb through the passenger side to fit my fat ass in. If I had a freshly laid diaper bomb you can bet they would have gotten that as a gift also.
Another behavior I will qualify as lazy is when you are behind someone who has been standing in line at a restaurant for a lengthy amount of time like yourself and they get to the front and HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY WANT. You have had fifteen minutes to peruse the 10-foot menu board, at least have an IDEA of what might please your palate for lunch. Do you have random amnesia and forgot you were hungry? Did you forget your wallet and are trying to come up with ways to beg for free food? Are you trying to clench your butt cheeks because you have spastic colon problems and are trying not to shit your skinny jeans? Let me help you out, she'll have the Pick Two---a bowl of fucktard soup with an asshole baguette and a douche bag sandwich with extra dipshit sauce.
I cannot stand it when I go to my car after spending way too long at the dreaded grocery store only to find some douche cock has neglected to walk the 2 extra car lengths to the cart corral to put their cart away. Instead they find it perfectly acceptable to rest it on the bumper of the front of my car. I don't give a shit if it's a monsoon and I have a sick kid in the car, I ALWAYS put my damn cart away. And a friend pointed out sometimes these lazy mother fuckers have the gall to leave the cart in a HANDICAPPED space. I think many of the people who do this are not just lazy but self-entitled as well. They are too good to have to "clean up after themselves". If you able to shop for your own Polish deli ham and generic Fruit Loops with an envelope of coupons then you are not a diva. You are thrifty and lazy.
As we enter this pre-spring ugliness I am noticing a few things. One, the brown dead landscape is enough to make me want to go into a Xanax/Zoloft/Wellbutrin coma. I need something to make me happy and the dead-ass nature spread ain't cutting it. Two, to top off the complete lack of greenery as the snow is now gone I am noticing everyone in the city has decided it is suddenly PC to toss any and all trash from their cars, especially as they drive past my subdivision. I will occasionally throw a banana peel or an apple core out my window but only if we are near woods or a corn field. Some animal might eat it and also it is biodegradable. I'll tell you what is NOT biodegradable--a smelly Pampers diaper full of your two year-old's dookie, that's what. Neither is an empty case, bottles and all, of Coors Light. I'd like to shove those 12 empties of silver bullets right up your ass, you fucktard. I see entire bags from McDonald's, coffee cups, plastic bottles, even a pile of old clothes someone was too fucking lazy to drop off at Goodwill. As far as I know we do not have some scavenger refuge in the woods whose inhabitants create artwork or building materials out of your trash so kindly wait until you get to your own fucking house and throw it in the TRASH. If I see you toss a diaper steamer I am going to buy one of those metal grabber tools people use to reach things, carry that turd bomb to your house, carefully open it, and spell out "SHADOOBIE BRIGADE" with your toddler's feces on your car.
People who take up 1 1/2 car spaces in the lot also make me want to swear a lot. What makes your car that much more special than mine? Nothing. And when my kids cannot get in because they don't want to scratch your car and they have a backpack and a school project and it's pouring rain, then a big fat FUCK YOU to you, kind sir or madam. It's not a Ferrari you are driving, it's a God damn Explorer. I recall being 7 months pregnant with Sophie when I came from my OB appointment at Northwestern Hospital only to find someone has parked a mere inches from my little car. I physically could NOT get in. After yelling, swearing, and eventually crying a bit, I keyed the shit out of Mr. Close Parker's car and had to climb through the passenger side to fit my fat ass in. If I had a freshly laid diaper bomb you can bet they would have gotten that as a gift also.
Another behavior I will qualify as lazy is when you are behind someone who has been standing in line at a restaurant for a lengthy amount of time like yourself and they get to the front and HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY WANT. You have had fifteen minutes to peruse the 10-foot menu board, at least have an IDEA of what might please your palate for lunch. Do you have random amnesia and forgot you were hungry? Did you forget your wallet and are trying to come up with ways to beg for free food? Are you trying to clench your butt cheeks because you have spastic colon problems and are trying not to shit your skinny jeans? Let me help you out, she'll have the Pick Two---a bowl of fucktard soup with an asshole baguette and a douche bag sandwich with extra dipshit sauce.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Suck My Bad Mood, Bitches
Today is our first day back to our "normal routines" after Christmas break. My mood is mopey, crabby, and pissy with a dash of melancholy. If you don't like it, are having a zippity-doo-dah kind of fucking day, or don't feel like reading words that take the name of your lord in vain, kindly go read some Bible verses and shut it. Although it does bug the flying shit out of me how everything is all "Winter Festival" at public schools, even though we would never have two weeks off if it weren't for Baby Jesus' birthday. Just pointing that out.
I am not having a good day. I am first of all really, really tired. Not just ordinary tired. I am too much caffeine after 4pm, racing thoughts of my inadequacies as a choreographer, flipping my shit and screaming at my kids 3 times today, skipping going to the grocery store with only one rotten orange left in my fridge, kind of tired. I dropped my kids off at school, came home, and slept on my couch for an hour and a half. I woke up feeling neither guilty nor rejuvenated. Which exacerbated my mood even more.
My husband is traveling this week. I hate it when he travels. The knowledge of his impending 4:30am alarm clock prevented restful slumber. Once he was up, though I could have slept another hour, I told myself fuck it and got up. I had an unsuccessful bathroom session during which I somehow chose to read an article on mother fucking serial killers. Because there's nothing better than paranoia, exhaustion, and flashing thoughts of getting strangled and dismembered as I have to walk my 10-pound dog in the pitch blackness of my neighborhood at 6am. But even the fear and my brisk pace were enough to make me shit. God damn it.
My Internet seems to always go out completely when my husband walks out the door for a week. I have done all the trouble-shooting I am physically capable of doing. Nothing. I have no job that requires my direct access to the internet. But I have a pitiful existence (not all the time, just currently..) and my lame obsession with checking emails and Facebook is a sad way to fill my time. Make fun of me as you will. A week without internet is a sad, bad thing for me. I am currently draining my phone battery typing this little post. Cocksucking Internet.
I stood in line behind a bizarre Indian man buying a single bag of candy at Target.
He lectured me about how I needed to make sure the bar code was visible because that's how the cashier needed to ring up my giant Rubbermaid containers. Because this is the very first time I've ever been shopping at a store
before. Thanks for the update, Professor Tikki Masala. Wanted to punch him
because that's just the sort of day it's been.
I came home and attempted one last, futile time to plug some hard line or hard-on fucking cable into my computer. I have rebooted my computer more times than Naomi Campbell has bitch-slapped her personal assistants for bringing her a
lukewarm cafe Americano. Surprise, surprise, it did not work. And as I stood from
the floor where the impossibly short cable connected my computer to electrical
nothingness, I jacked my fucking lower back. This is an indirect result of yet
another thing I will bitch about... Sick of listening to my rant yet? Almost done, hold
onto your thongs..
I am an on again/off again workout whore. Right now I'm off duty. As in not motivated, don't give an iota of shit, rat's ass, or flying fuck. I am off the wagon.
The wagon has left town and is in another time zone. I'm not worried, that ol'
wagon will circle back and may need reinforced shocks to drag me back to the
gym. But it's made this trek before, the wagon and me will survive. In the mean
time, my lack of engaging any abdominal activity other than to laugh or force a fart
consequently renders my back weak. Thus doing something as ridiculous as
STANDING upright causes me to have jarring, muscle spasming pain in my lower back. Nothing a little reclining, Alleve, and Oprah while folding laundry won't cure.
So....,
Until I can wake up with abundant energy, motivation to care about fitness, and the ability to have a healthy bowel situation, just nod your head in acknowledgement when you pass me. Wouldn't want to add to my list of grievances, Miss Zippity Doo Dah.
I am not having a good day. I am first of all really, really tired. Not just ordinary tired. I am too much caffeine after 4pm, racing thoughts of my inadequacies as a choreographer, flipping my shit and screaming at my kids 3 times today, skipping going to the grocery store with only one rotten orange left in my fridge, kind of tired. I dropped my kids off at school, came home, and slept on my couch for an hour and a half. I woke up feeling neither guilty nor rejuvenated. Which exacerbated my mood even more.
My husband is traveling this week. I hate it when he travels. The knowledge of his impending 4:30am alarm clock prevented restful slumber. Once he was up, though I could have slept another hour, I told myself fuck it and got up. I had an unsuccessful bathroom session during which I somehow chose to read an article on mother fucking serial killers. Because there's nothing better than paranoia, exhaustion, and flashing thoughts of getting strangled and dismembered as I have to walk my 10-pound dog in the pitch blackness of my neighborhood at 6am. But even the fear and my brisk pace were enough to make me shit. God damn it.
My Internet seems to always go out completely when my husband walks out the door for a week. I have done all the trouble-shooting I am physically capable of doing. Nothing. I have no job that requires my direct access to the internet. But I have a pitiful existence (not all the time, just currently..) and my lame obsession with checking emails and Facebook is a sad way to fill my time. Make fun of me as you will. A week without internet is a sad, bad thing for me. I am currently draining my phone battery typing this little post. Cocksucking Internet.
I stood in line behind a bizarre Indian man buying a single bag of candy at Target.
He lectured me about how I needed to make sure the bar code was visible because that's how the cashier needed to ring up my giant Rubbermaid containers. Because this is the very first time I've ever been shopping at a store
before. Thanks for the update, Professor Tikki Masala. Wanted to punch him
because that's just the sort of day it's been.
I came home and attempted one last, futile time to plug some hard line or hard-on fucking cable into my computer. I have rebooted my computer more times than Naomi Campbell has bitch-slapped her personal assistants for bringing her a
lukewarm cafe Americano. Surprise, surprise, it did not work. And as I stood from
the floor where the impossibly short cable connected my computer to electrical
nothingness, I jacked my fucking lower back. This is an indirect result of yet
another thing I will bitch about... Sick of listening to my rant yet? Almost done, hold
onto your thongs..
I am an on again/off again workout whore. Right now I'm off duty. As in not motivated, don't give an iota of shit, rat's ass, or flying fuck. I am off the wagon.
The wagon has left town and is in another time zone. I'm not worried, that ol'
wagon will circle back and may need reinforced shocks to drag me back to the
gym. But it's made this trek before, the wagon and me will survive. In the mean
time, my lack of engaging any abdominal activity other than to laugh or force a fart
consequently renders my back weak. Thus doing something as ridiculous as
STANDING upright causes me to have jarring, muscle spasming pain in my lower back. Nothing a little reclining, Alleve, and Oprah while folding laundry won't cure.
So....,
Until I can wake up with abundant energy, motivation to care about fitness, and the ability to have a healthy bowel situation, just nod your head in acknowledgement when you pass me. Wouldn't want to add to my list of grievances, Miss Zippity Doo Dah.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Deadly Sin
Gluttony. It is a trait that is not attractive, not ladylike, not morally sound. And I'm pretty sure it is a sin, depending on how you look at it. The holidays have come and gone. We have gorged ourselves with Christmas fanfare in the form of parties, treat bags, cookie exchanges, alcohol consumption, socializing, over shopping, over wrapping, over giving, and most of all, over eating. I plead guilty on all counts. What will my sentencing entail???
Every year I try as I may to rebuke the temptations like a born-again Christian denounces the booze, hookers, and pills and replaces the addictions with a love for Jesus, I fail miserably. I have hosted a big party and attended a few, all of which had more tables laden with more fattening foods than a National Mayonnaise Festival. Good Christ there was some yummy shit. And then there are the drinks. It adds up like a really bad statistics equation that makes no fucking sense but causes even your fat pants to give you camel toe. That sucks.
I read all these do-gooder athletic coaches quotes, "Don't have too much to drink!" or "Add some soda water to your glass of wine and it will last longer and keep you hydrated!" or "Munch on those carrot sticks and avoid the dips!" Excuse me but I do not know what planet these bitches live on. Want me to do walking lunges around the buffet table, too? Are they drugged to keep this willpower strong?? And if so please spread that little pill around. And don't fucking tell me it's only available in Mexico on a shelf next to your HGH hormone that is keeping your body fat below 3% but is causing you to grow a SLIGHT penis.
I have bought the diet pills. Nothing legal over-the-counter here in the states will do much more for you than make your heart feel like you drank three cups of Starbucks. Whoop dee shit. I have done Weight Watchers. It did work but I have led a lifelong battle with mindless snacking so unless one of those coaches moves into my house and sets up a tent next to my pantry,it will never come naturally to portion control and not eat Stacy's Pita Chips straight from the bag. So sue me. I guess I will live with my bad eating habits until Jennifer Hudson moves next door and becomes my singing, sista' Weight Watchers coach.
Things could be worse. I could be so fat that my gelatinous ass is completely bed-ridden and they have to saw a chunk of my bedroom wall out to hoist my beached whale booty out into daylight. I could be one of those Freaky Eaters who consumes Comet, only French fries, raw meat, or even toilet paper. Or who only talks to others through her ventriloquism and puppets. I suppose these are real problems but I cannot even comprehend this shit. I almost think it's fake but then the crazy Comet cleanser-snarfing bitch is in denial until her dentist tells her she has to pull all her upper teeth. Bummer. If some freak-ass loser came up to me and started talking to me without her lips moving and a giant rag doll with yellow yarn hair, I'd first slap myself to make sure no one slipped LSD in my Vitamin Water. Then I would slap her for being a such a raging bag of dork shit. Then I'd rip the head off her doll and shit down its neck. Or I could be a hoarder, either of trash, knick knacks, or even pets. My family could disown me for having mountains of unsorted Christmas decorations piled so high you need to repel to find my kitchen. Or 67 cats running rampant and the ammonia smell of piss so strong it masks the odor of dead kitty carcasses under my turd-covered couch.
Glad I'm normal. At least I don't watch too much TV....
Every year I try as I may to rebuke the temptations like a born-again Christian denounces the booze, hookers, and pills and replaces the addictions with a love for Jesus, I fail miserably. I have hosted a big party and attended a few, all of which had more tables laden with more fattening foods than a National Mayonnaise Festival. Good Christ there was some yummy shit. And then there are the drinks. It adds up like a really bad statistics equation that makes no fucking sense but causes even your fat pants to give you camel toe. That sucks.
I read all these do-gooder athletic coaches quotes, "Don't have too much to drink!" or "Add some soda water to your glass of wine and it will last longer and keep you hydrated!" or "Munch on those carrot sticks and avoid the dips!" Excuse me but I do not know what planet these bitches live on. Want me to do walking lunges around the buffet table, too? Are they drugged to keep this willpower strong?? And if so please spread that little pill around. And don't fucking tell me it's only available in Mexico on a shelf next to your HGH hormone that is keeping your body fat below 3% but is causing you to grow a SLIGHT penis.
I have bought the diet pills. Nothing legal over-the-counter here in the states will do much more for you than make your heart feel like you drank three cups of Starbucks. Whoop dee shit. I have done Weight Watchers. It did work but I have led a lifelong battle with mindless snacking so unless one of those coaches moves into my house and sets up a tent next to my pantry,it will never come naturally to portion control and not eat Stacy's Pita Chips straight from the bag. So sue me. I guess I will live with my bad eating habits until Jennifer Hudson moves next door and becomes my singing, sista' Weight Watchers coach.
Things could be worse. I could be so fat that my gelatinous ass is completely bed-ridden and they have to saw a chunk of my bedroom wall out to hoist my beached whale booty out into daylight. I could be one of those Freaky Eaters who consumes Comet, only French fries, raw meat, or even toilet paper. Or who only talks to others through her ventriloquism and puppets. I suppose these are real problems but I cannot even comprehend this shit. I almost think it's fake but then the crazy Comet cleanser-snarfing bitch is in denial until her dentist tells her she has to pull all her upper teeth. Bummer. If some freak-ass loser came up to me and started talking to me without her lips moving and a giant rag doll with yellow yarn hair, I'd first slap myself to make sure no one slipped LSD in my Vitamin Water. Then I would slap her for being a such a raging bag of dork shit. Then I'd rip the head off her doll and shit down its neck. Or I could be a hoarder, either of trash, knick knacks, or even pets. My family could disown me for having mountains of unsorted Christmas decorations piled so high you need to repel to find my kitchen. Or 67 cats running rampant and the ammonia smell of piss so strong it masks the odor of dead kitty carcasses under my turd-covered couch.
Glad I'm normal. At least I don't watch too much TV....
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