Okay, so maybe I got a leetle bit pissed off when I saw this image on Pinterest tonight.
And maybe I went a leetle bit overboard on the “description” when I repinned it.
and the princess didn’t have her heart broken by a man who couldn’t keep his dick to himself for more than five seconds because she was smart enough to say no to the pretty face that was hiding the vile creature behind it. And she had all the time in the world to then pursue her own interests and be the person she was meant to be, reveling in her identity and fulfilling her aspirations fully. She spent as much time as she wanted with the best girlfriends who always built her up and cared about what she was saying rather than pretending to listen and hoping she was soon done. And she hand selected the finest young men to keep her company (and then sent them on their way when she was bored with them) and she read books and made beautiful art and sun bathed and nobody ever left the fucking toilet seat up or made her have to drag their feelings out of them like driving nails into brick because they were such poor communicators that she just wanted to scream into infinity in those miserable moments of complete relationship hell when she would rather be twirling through the living room, singing her favorite song at top volume. She didn’t have to share the remote or watch any sports she didn’t want to, and she only got foot rubs with her pedicures and nobody expected her to have sex with them just for doing it. She smiled every day because she wanted to, not because she was pretending she was happy, and nobody needed her to fetch them a beer or make their food first so that by the time she ate hers it was cold. She played with lady bugs and stopped to smell the flowers every day. Her friends and family thought she was fucking awesome because she was able to live her life to her full potential instead of for some loser who resented her for not wanting him to drink jack daniels every fucking night. And she never had to sleep in the goddamned wet spot. THE END.
Yeah, maybe a little too far.
(Who am I kidding?! That shit had it coming.)
I’m sure that you, the reader of my website, are not a jerkhole of any sort, including the temperature/climate type. Surely, someone with your impeccable taste is intelligent enough and nowhere near enough of an asshat to engage in the behavior I’m addressing with this post. So please, just let this post serve as a place that you can direct the temperature/climate jerkholes you come into contact with towards, as necessary.
When someone says it’s cold where they are, that means >>news flash<< IT’S COLD WHERE THEY ARE. As in, the temperature is such that they have made the judgment that it’s frickin’ freezing, Mr. Bigglesworth. Or at least very cold. To them. Which is all that matters about their comment. This is obvious to people who don’t have their heads up their asses, I’m guessing, but what do I know?
If someone says it’s cold (or hot), I’m thinking, just accept it and move on. Whatever the temperature is where you are / depth of cold (or intensity of heat) you can withstand / number of brain cells you wish you had horrific weather conditions you are experiencing/have ever experienced – COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT. Feel the need to make a snide remark that insults the person and/or comment that makes everything all about you again? Please, please resist the stupidity you feel nagging you at that moment.
No, really. The next time you have the urge to say something like “that’s not cold – you don’t know what cold is” or “pfft, that’s nothing, you know how cold it is where I AM?“ to someone, punch yourself in the face one time (both because you deserve it and because you can do so without feeling any pain). Really! Rest assured that it won’t hurt, because somewhere, someone is getting punched in the face HARDER and even MORE THAN ONCE.
You think it would hurt to punch yourself in the face that once? Pffft. You don’t know what pain is.
Oh, Raw Honey, look at you sitting there waiting for me! I heard you whispering for me to come over, Raw Honey. And you are sounding soooo really, very good to me right now. Let’s get better acquainted in a situation involving bread and butter, m’kay?
What the hell, Raw Honey…
Why would you toy with me so, Raw Honey? Why would you sit there, practically beckoning to me with your sweet, delicious Raw Honeyness… and then… and then… be… EMTPY?
How cruel you are, Raw Honey!
How. Very. Cruel. You have hurt me deeply, Raw Honey.
*deep, heavy sobs*
What is that you say, Raw Honey? You mean, you didn’t do this to me on purpose? You say it was beyond your control, Raw Honey? You were just sitting there, being Raw Honey and someone came along and emptied all the delicious Raw and sweet Honey inside of you out?
You are telling me that someone scraped you clean, selfishly enjoying every last drop of you, Raw Honey? Someone didn’t share you, but just ate you all in private? Someone ELSE did this to you and then PUT. YOU. BACK?
Just to fool me?
What is that you say, Raw Honey? Yes, Raw Honey, you are right, I *am* feeling rather stabby.
Don’t worry, Raw Honey. I’ll get even. I make all the meals around here after all, right, Raw Honey? People eat what I prepare, without question.
What is that, Raw Honey? You say there’s a funny tone to my laugh? Oh, Raw Honey, just ignore that. Everything is just fine. I am in a peaceful state, don’t you worry. Just overlook the strange new element in my laughter, Raw Honey. I promise, I’m okay. You just rest. Shhh, shhhh, now, Raw Honey.
Someone else better watch his Raw Honey Thieving, Trickin’ a Bitch Ass, though, Raw Honey.
But you? You just sleep now, Raw Honey. Shhhh.
Don’t worry, I know your time is valuable, but I assure you, this is a very important matter.
Let’s say HYPOTHETICALLY that I was sitting on the couch watching TV. I’m watching, ohhhh, let’s say Big Bang Theory.
Then, what if John, my husband, came downstairs, grabbed the remote, and started flipping channels. WHILE THE SHOW WAS ON, NOT DURING A COMMERCIAL.
Would you think that it would be overreacting for me to FREAK THE HELL OUT and start snatching at the remote? How about if he gave me a shitty look and then both refused to let me have it back and did NOT return to the channel and show I was enjoying before he entered the room like some kind of Assholian Dictator?
If this kind of a scenario, or you know, something like it, happened, then would it be kind of over the top if I lost my shit and yelled, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!??” while visualizing myself strangling him until his lips turned blue and fell off? Would that just be too much?
I mean, it is only television after all. What do you think?
You know, I’m just wondering, in case something like that ever actually happens and I had the strong urge to beat my husband about the face relentlessly with the remote once I finally did snatch it back.
This way, I’ll know if it’s justified or not.
Thank you for your time.
And when I say “blows” I am not thinking about bubbles or dandelions.
Or even that hot guy I saw standing in line at the grocery store the other day. Rawr.
I’m referring more to hairy ballsacks, possibly even diseased ones.
I have a good running list of reasons (39756385 items long, clearly) for this particular brand of Makes You Want To Vomit All Of Your Meals From Ever suckage, but today let’s talk about:
“When Shit Breaks And Doesn’t Get Fixed In A Timely Manner”
When shit breaks and you own your own house, the reason why it sucks is because you have to FIX THAT SHIT YOSELF. So that means, get off your lazy ass and determine the cause of the problemage and then do something about it.
When shit breaks and you rent, you’re often NOT ALLOWED to fix that shit yoself, nor are you allowed to hire someone else to fix that shit for yoself. Because, of course, when you signed the lease you did no less than admit that your judegment is not to be trusted, m’kay? And you signed an agreement that says “I am a dummee and cannot fiss thingies goodlike and also I can not has enough smart parts in my head to find any other good peoples to help me fiss thingies eether. ever.”
I swear that’s what the thing said, and normally I wouldn’t sign a document rife with such horrible spelling mistakes, for chrissakes, but if I remember correctly I had diarrhea that day so I was kind of in a hurry to get things wrapped up, because there is really nothing worse than sitting in a realtor’s office with a hot wet ass that ISN’T just a euphemism for how damn sexy you are.
But I digress.
So, basically, we’re not allowed to fix broken things. Instead we have to call and report them to property management, and they will send someone to the house to fix what’s broken.
Wait, no. I wrote that incorrectly.
They will THINK ABOUT HOW THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO send someone to the house to fix what’s broken FOR ABOUT A WEEK, but they will not do anything about it.
Then when your husband calls them and says, “Uh, did you get my two messages about how the kitchen light is broken and my wife has already set 4 fires in there trying to cook in the dark because she’s an idiot, and could you please just go fix it before she accidently builds an atom bomb trying to make Mac & Cheese in the dark? I know it sounds improbable, but really, you don’t know her. And it is not at all improbable. That kitchen light is SO MUCH MORE important than you realize” they will be like, “Huh?”
And then they’ll be like, “Oh, we need approval from the owner since it’s just lightbulbs.”
This is the part of the story where I tell you how I almost threw the phone across the room when John was relaying things to me. Because I was in the room the day that John called them and left a message, and I heard him saying, “Hi, our kitchen light is broken and we thought it might just be the bulbs, so I went out and bought new ones, but it still won’t turn on, so it’s not the bulbs. We need someone to come out and have a look at it and fix it.”
1) See that part where he said IT’S NOT THE BULBS? Yeah. I HEARD THAT.
2) John hasn’t been home since October 16th. I just want to go ahead and point that out.
3) As I type this, the light is STILL BROKEN.
After he set them straight in a much more polite way than I’d ever be capable of, they promised him someone would “be out tomorrow” to have a look at it.
“Be out tomorrow” in Property Managementese CLEARLY means “sit around with a thumb up one’s ass.” Either that or “laugh at your dark kitchening ass while we pretend like we care about you and your broken thingies, when if fact, we so very much do not. Buy a lamp, asshole.” I’m not sure, but it’s definitely ONE of those.
A WEEK LATER he called again to find out if they would prefer that we:
A) Burn down their building.
B) Set bull weavels loose in their office.
C) Poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.
D) Get H1N1 first and then poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.
They asked if there was an option E, and while I told John to say, “Yes, All of the above, you sons of bitches,” instead he just asked if they could please come fix the light in the kitchen.
He is such a pussy.
So finally, someone came the next day and looked at the light.
(Technically, they said someone would “be out tomorrow” again and so I got all pissed off because I AM LEARNING THEIR LANGUAGE. But they decided to mix things up to keep me on my toes. I am on to you, anyway, Property Management.)
On Friday, a nice man came to the house, stood on one of my chairs and looked at the kitchen light fixture.
He told me it was broken.
I almost had a hysterical breakdown at the delivery of this news because I had no idea the kitchen light was broken and I thought frantically, “Holy crap, how am I going to make dinner now, in the dark???”
But really, he said the ballast is fried and that he’d have to remove it and replace it. Then he took it off the fixture and he left, saying, “If I don’t see you again later today, I’ll see you Monday!”
It’s Wednesday. I have not seen the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy yet.
I’mma gonna go into the kitchen later and whip up that atom bomb.
Hope you fuckers liked your lives. Some shit’s ‘splodin’ tonight.
UPDATE: So after I wrote this, but before I could publish it, the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy actually showed up, except it was the same guy who came before and told me the ballast was broken, so I was a little bit disappointed. I was hoping for something with wings and a tutu or at least a glittery wand or a Pegasus waiting for him in backyard while he was inside working. Regardless, he had a new ballast with him and the knowledge necessary to install it.
Fortunately, while he was working, Braden made sure to point out loudly to me that “that’s not Daddy!” saving me from making the horrible mistake of pestering the poor guy to rub my feet. Of course, this is nothing new from Braden; he’s always screaming that information at random times, like when I’m on the couch making out with boyfriends, and also sometimes when my pimp comes to collect.
Duh, Braden, DUH.
Oh, but apparently the Ballast Replacing Fairy IS a fireman. Braden said so. Which clearly means he needs to be reported to the fire chief for his Fairy Side Gig. I’m 97% sure that there’s a “No Fairies” rule in the Fireman Job Requirements. It’s right next to the part that says you have to have really big muscles and the ability to grow masculine patterns of facial hair on command. I’m not sure whether it’s more or less important than looking sexy while you slide down a big metal pole in a hurry. Anyway, he’s breaking the rules.
PS: You’re a bunch of lucky bastards. There’s light in the kitchen now, so I probably won’t be blowing up the earth tonight.
Just a sampling.
I said every one of these damn things out loud in the span of 3 days last week.
Not necessarily in this order.
- Do NOT put that in your mouth.
- Don’t sit on the table.
- Stop yelling.
- Pee goes in the toilet.
- That’s not nice.
- The dog doesn’t like to be kicked.
- No matter how many times you scream, you’ll still have to take a nap.
- But that’s what you just asked me for.
- You pooped in your pants?
- Why did you put that in there?
- No, I won’t kiss your poo poo bum. (????)
- Hahaha. Ok, really, don’t honk Mommy’s boobies. Hahahahahaha.
- Seriously, you really did just ask me for this exact thing, why are screaming no when I give you what you wanted?
- That is NOT edible.
- You can’t fly!!!
- I have no idea what you’re talking about. Repeating doesn’t help.
- If you stand on that again I will take it away from you.
- No, we are not going in the car. We just got out of it.
- No, Daddy doesn’t drive a bus. He RIDES on it.
- You are being too loud.
- You need to go make a pee pee. Yes, you do! Then why are you dancing and holding your crotch?
- Get your fingers out of your mouth.
- Why did you spit on that?
- No, you may not spank my bum.
- You already flushed 3 times.
- Yes, you have to wash your hands.
- Please do not lick your hands.
- It’s ok to use the toilet in public, it won’t hurt you.
- No, that is a tampon. Give it back to Mommy, please.
- Do not fill up your mouth with milk and then let it drool out onto the floor on purpose.
- That is not dry.
- Don’t hit people with your head!
- What is that smell?
- I have no idea what you’re trying to say. I’m as frustrated as you are, REALLY.
- The dog also cannot fly. Really.
- It’s “WaNt the foRk,” dear. The N and the R really need to be pronounced.
- Some people don’t like it when you yell at them about their boobies.
- Say you’re sorry. You need to say, “Sorry for locking you out, Mommy.”
- That is NOT where you use your crayons.
- You are not supposed to ride on that.
- It’s not nice to smear your poop on the mirror.
- The ball will not come out from under the table no matter how loudly you scream at it.
- I will not respond to you if you don’t stop growling and screaming.
- Time out for 2 minutes for *insert an endless list of reasons*
- If you keep screaming, you’ll get another 2 minutes.
- I think you just said NO for the 239,785,349,823rd time. Stop it.
- Do NOT tell ME to stop it.
- Mommy needs a time out now.
- It is going to last MUCH LONGER THAN 2 MINUTES.
- And I am totally going to scream so I’ll get more time.
I’m here to help you all out with a bit of friendly information for bloggers and those who use social media applications for business or networking with others. This is also good information for halfwits who have access to a computer and whack at the keys in random order.
Having some type of contact information on your website and your social media pages is a good idea if you’re interested in interacting with the outside world. And I’m assuming that if you use things like Twitter, etc, then that is most likely the case. Especially if you send out @’s to people.
One might want to contact you about something – elaborate her feelings. Maybe relate to you something FYI. (By the way, since I’m being helpful today, FYI means “For Your Information.”) A person might want to do that privately, between you and her, out of respect for you. Because hey, that’s the decent thing to do, right? So she looks for your email address.
But if you don’t leave your contact information anywhere, this becomes difficult.
It doesn’t have to be your personal email address – set up a business account, whatever.
I can’t find an email I need right now. And I can’t shut this.
So here I am! Lucky, lucky you. You feel so lucky, don’t you? Come on… tell me you do.
And by the way, I have a general rule of not calling out specific people on my website, but damn it, if you belittle my friends publicly? When you stand up in a public forum and go out of your way to put down someone I love – someone who is a damn fine person, both intelligent and compassionate? You’re pushing me.
This was brought to my attention yesterday:
And it is bullshit.
Because, hai! You can follow and unfollow whoever the hell you want on Twitter. But announcing it as a Tweet is about the most STUPID ASS THING you can do. You deserve an immediate STFU when you do that.
I was not happy. Leslie is a close friend.
photo credit: Angie
So, anyway, she is a close friend and she doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment.
So. I checked out this Keyboard Whacker. Here is her bio:
And you know, I have no problem with that, whatsoever. I want to say that at the outset here. I am not a Believer Basher or a Jesus Hater. If you know me, you know that. But, and here’s another FYI moment for you, know this: Your Twitter Bio represents who you are, and everyone visiting your page will take it as that. Because this is how you’re representing yourself in a nutshell. So, hey, if you write it there, people are going to refer to it. Doubt that not.
Ok. Taking out the name, but I’m well aware you can easily find it. Just don’t see the need for it here.
from Keyboard Whacker
Someone forgot the daily challenge they typed in their own bio. Rut-roh!
As far as I can gather, he didn’t separate himself from sinners, either.
from Keyboard Whacker
from Keyboard Whacker
Just for FYI. You know, in other words, just for for your information.
Man, I think those might just be the most sincere apologies I’ve ever seen.
from Keyboard Whacker
Pioneer Woman Blog College? LMMFAO Oh, my.
from Keyboard Whacker
You might want to revisit the process.
Wait. What the? Hold on. Okay. “you got did from my bio…” *scanning, scanning* Nope. Does not process.
That is, more or less, what unfolded. It’s ridiculous, and yes it’s drama. Oooh, the gossipy drama. Which, yeah. But I had to go there this time. (Please to be scrolling back up and reviewing the Flinger Kissing photo and the part about she’s mah beesh forevah.)
And then the rest of that crap just left me needing to talk to this woman a little, but not really out there, or only in 140. But I couldn’t nail down her damn email address.
And so here goes it, the open letter to Keyboard Whacker.
I definitely don’t hold Christians to a standard of perfection. However, most “followers of Jesus” generally aim to be more like Him. Is that not what you are challenged to do every day? Enlighten me to your different way of following Him if that is not the case. If you are announcing these things about your relationship with and to Jesus on your Twitter page, you might want to try harder to represent his ideals appropriately to the public as you use your account. You make a very poor example for others if you can’t even filter yourself enough to avoid attacking other people for minding their own business and being themselves on their own turf. Jesus’ aim is to deliver us from sin, not belittle us for it. I have high doubts that he would say to anyone “You cuss, I can’t hang with you because I don’t like foulness.” Instead, I’m thinking He would show that person love and compassion. Do you think he would publicly humiliate a person for their sins? Personally, I don’t. So get a clue. You’re not perfect, we get it. But I’m calling bullshit on you this time, because it needs to be done. Even your apology to Leslie (mrsflinger) is a cop out – you apologized “if you offended her” – you didn’t apologize for belittling her. And you claimed she needed to know why you were unfollowing her – as if she needs to change who she is comfortable being so that she doesn’t lose followers. Some things are more important to people in life than their number of Twitter followers – Leslie is secure in who she is, and she doesn’t need your “for FYI” comments. But if you really feel the need in the future to connect with someone and let them know why you are unfollowing, I suggest you email them. Most of us have really easy to find contact information on our websites. And that’s probably the decent thing to do. I’m thinking it’s likely what a modern day Jesus would do. So your challenge continues – and yes it IS your mission, unless you were lying on your Twitter bio. So I hope you’re better able to accomplish it today, tomorrow, and every day after, if that is what you find fulfilling.
So that’s that. And I feel better having gotten it out.
But I saved something delicious for you to end with.
There’s a Tweet Bot that auto-retweets certain user tweets – somehow I ended up on this list. (I know, I’m SO HONORED. Yeah.) Well. It retweeted my earlier messages to Keyboard Whacker.
And? She actually talked back to it.
from Keyboard Whacker
The Blogher 09 Conference Weekend is over. I flew home on Sunday, to an empty house. My son was elsewhere, and I was going to have to fly the next day to get to him. My husband was still making his way across the country back to our home from his most recent gig.
Being in the house all alone after the Blogher09 weekend was seriously weird. My family wasn’t there, and yet? There were also no head-splitting squees to make my ears bleed, no free drinks being shoved into my hand, and no one at all was smacking my ass. There weren’t even oodles of women photographing themselves kissing one another.
I was really not at Blogher09 anymore. Wow.
I know some of you are waiting to hear what I thought about the conference. That will come, but not just yet. I have some things to process… I have a mixed bag of feelings. I will tell you that there were fabulous times and there were also definitely not so fabulous times. I’ll try to find time soon to talk a bit about it – bear with me as I’m away from home right now.
On Monday, I flew to where my son was being cared for while I was in Chicago. After getting myself situated, I sat on the airplane which would take me half of the way to see my son again, waiting for it to take off. I was relaxed, with my head back and eyes closed, just waiting.
That’s when it happened.
A female passenger in the row directly in front of mine let everyone know that she does not, in fact, have a brain in her head. Or perhaps just enough of one to drive her life-sustaining organs and physical movements.
But forget rational thought.
The hobag was spraying perfume. On an airplane. A lot of it.
As what seemed to be every molecule of perfume in a full bottle flew right up my nose, my eyes snapped open. I glowered at the back of her seat, thinking, “Really? No, really?” and “I wonder if they kick a person off a plane for strangling another passenger while intermittently beating them with their own bottle of perfume.” And when the mental answer I gave myself to the latter question was “Uh, probably.” I continued by asking myself, “So, do you think you could get away with just cramming it up her ass?”
I told me that this was, most likely, also a bad idea. I am such drag.
Yes. I am volatile inside my mind. As anyone who has can tell you, though, I’m just a peach when you meet me. *wink*
But there I sat, willing the back of her seat to explode, taking her head with it.
I’m sensitive to smelly things. As the perfume invaded my nasal membranes and infested my brain, the physical symptoms began.
First the intense disgust and nausea set in. And look, if my stomach is going to be doing the “oh baby, we might need immediate evacuation” dance, I better have at least had a full night of partying like it was 1999 (perhaps even in close proximity to a unicorn shaped confectionary item?) while drinking 7x my body weight in liquor and passing out in places other than my own hotel room. (Thereby worrying a large number of people who end up wondering if I am dead, kidnapped, or sitting in jail with a black eye and ripped fishnets.) *coughcoughbloghercough*
Not that I’ve ever been in such a situation, mind you. *COUGH* But, you know, I’m just sayin.
After about 10 minutes of feeling like I was going to puke the puke of outrageous proportions (while repeatedly, mentally ripping the skin off perfume bitch’s face and then making her eat it) the nausea subsided.
Then the sinus headache began.
Ohhhh, the glory of the in-flight sinus headache.
While I willed that to go away, the pressure in my head sang to my internal thoughts, driving them into ever more violent imaginings of how the perfume bitch needed to be punished.
I’m all better now, though, so I’ll just say that there’s a job waiting for her at a Perfume Counter in Hell, but if I ever see her on a flight again, I will grab her carry-on and restrict her access from it. Forever. Because I am going to burn it.
Possibly while she’s crammed inside of it.
Of course all of this and more is worth enduring to see my son again. As I wrote this, I was almost halfway there.
I’d be willing to snort 10 perfume factories and be beaten with a million raw fishheads just to get back to my boy.
I only want to cram him inside a suitcase every once in awhile.