Monday, November 8, 2010

Bitch, I Will Cut You

Dear Jenny,



I know you’ve addressed the issue of getting stabby with co-workers, but what if it’s your boss? Alarming amounts of body hair where no woman should have any aside, this woman is a raging thunder cunt. She’s making me dislike ______ people in general. She’s literally making me racist. She’s managed to accomplish what being raised in the South could not. We have weapons at work. Bo staffs, nunchucks, and an honest to God “I will cut you bitch” sword. I’d honestly rather lather myself up in seal fat, dance provocatively in the ocean, and have my leg gnawed off by a shark than ever speak to her again. How do I control the urge to cut a bitch?



Signed,



Heather Heartless


This was posted to the now defunct Ask the Bloggess portion of The Bloggess just days before I was quit/fired. One would think that threats of violence and insults to ones furriness and heritage would warrant that, but rest assured dear readers, my ex-boss would never have seen that. That would take time and some sort of intelligence.


You see, I was fired for a medical condition, which we’ll be getting to shortly.


The defense will present to the court much evidence in the case of Random vs. Raging Thunder Cunt, a.k.a I can’t figure out why all of my employees quit after two weeks.


Exhibit A: The hiring process.


I found out about this job on Facebook at a time when I was just about to run out of money completely. I have a bankruptcy to pay off people and I can’t grow my own cigarettes. This was posing a problem. I snapped it up. I called and scheduled an “interview”. This interview consisted of me shaking her very limp hand (Danger, Will Robinson!), handing her my resume, and being hired. To be a receptionist and work with/shuttle small children/spawns of Satan/rabid wombats. With no background check. No ID required. Just, BAM! Hired. What if I was a Chester?


I drove the hour back home where I received a phone call telling me to come back in for a follow up interview. Que? Follow up after being hired? Enter most epic fail of an interview conducted by an asshole who mutters insulting things about you REALLY LOUDLY (which kind of defeats the purpose of a mutter, now doesn’t it?). Okay, we’re all set to start on Monday!


Exhibit B: The part where I find out she’ll be paying me less than minimum wage and no overtime.


That’s right. I was scheduled to work no less than 48 hours a week. FORTY. EIGHT! Which is more than 40. My weekly salary? $300 before taxes. That works out to a dollar below minimum wage there, Skippy. She even shorted me 6 hours on my first check, which was hourly. The next few checks I received were for $478. For 92 fucking hours of work! NINETY TWO!


Exhibit C: Where I found out she’s bipolar.


“The Labor Day Parade is next Saturday.”


“Uh… I don’t have to go, right?”


“No, no, you don’t have to.”


“Good, because I wasn’t planning on it.”


Fast forward to the Friday before.


“Heather, we’ll need you to do this, this, and this at the parade.”


“You said I didn’t have to go. I made plans. I’m going to be out of town.”


“Oh, well you’re expected to be at all of our events. You should know that. You need to make your plans better. You’re required to be there.”


“You said I didn’t have to be there.”


“Oh, well I changed my mind.”


*Blinks owlishly for a good minute*


She did this at least once a week to EVERY employee. Every underpaid, overworked, and abused employee.


“You said I could…”


“I don’t know what I was thinking. I changed my mind.”


AND DIDN’T TELL ME?! And then got mad at ME for doing what YOU said? Drugs. You need them. She was also a fan of doing things wrong, conveniently forgetting, and then blaming me for them in front of customers that knew she did it.


Exhibit D: Where I figure out she’s really just stupid.


I understand that you’re foreign and that English is your second language. I get that. But do you have any idea how irritating it is when you CONSTANTLY put the emPHASis on the wrong sylLABle? Do you? Beginning. Bah- gin- ning. Not Beggin-ning.


“We want to put the focus on corrector building.” Corrector building? Corrector? What the fuck is corrector building? It wasn’t until after two weeks of that did I see a poster that said “Character building exercise” and put it together.


“Oh, I’m so smart!”


Five minutes later…


“How do you spell medal?”


A girl at another location quit so I was transferred over there, without forewarning, to take her place. I was always in charge of writing the e-mails, especially the ones with more than five words. That didn’t change. Except sometimes, she would sneak one out past me. This has to be my absolute favorite:


“Winters are coming and we have Crew Sweatshirts are on Clearance Sale.”

A. I didn’t know there was more than one winter, but apparently they’re coming.

B. She thinks capitalizing words makes you want to buy things.

C. It’s like she had two completely different sentences, one raped the other, and this is their baby.

Seriously. Prepare. WINTERS ARE COMING!


Exhibit E: She made me slightly racist.


The murderous rage was building up over time, but on one single day she out did everything she had done before put together. I honestly can’t even remember what it was now, I think my rage caused me to black out for a bit and forget. She gave me a handwritten pay check. I take it to my bank. Nope, we can’t cash this without a five business day hold. I take it to the bank it’s drawn on. Nope, we can only cash this if you pay a percentage to us because it’s a business check. I go to Wal-Mart, forgetting that even though it’s a business check, it’s still a personal one as well, so no go. I’m sitting at a red light when a woman of RTC’s race wanders into the walk way. I thank God that there was a car in front of me because it took everything I had to not gun the engine and mow her down. Not because she had done anything to me, but because of what she represented. I ended up having to pay the damn fee to the bank I hate to have it cashed.

Exhibit F: The part where I ended up in the hospital.


The day I was transferred was the most glorious day of my life. I didn’t have to look at her face. I didn’t have to hear her grating voice hurling abuse and random orders that changed every five minutes. For once in my life being at work was like being on a fucking pleasure cruise. Until the next day. When she called. And called. And called some more. To tell me how to do my mind numbingly simple job and remind me to do things I had already done the day before. I know you like to think that we’re all stupid and can’t figure things out, things that I showed you a better way of doing by the way, but we’re not. This continued every. Single. Day. Over the course of a week, I had this really irritating and at times extremely painful feeling on my left side, then my back, and then my right side. That Saturday it felt better until it felt like something near my pelvis exploded and I almost cried. And yet, I continued to work. The next day the pain was so horrible that I couldn’t walk, sit, stand, cough, sneeze, or blink without screaming in agony. I did what any person would do. I ignored it. At around 3:00 am on Monday the pain became so bad that I called the ER just to make sure that it wasn’t gas. The nurse had me press my hand into my lower right quadrant and let go. I screamed. Apparently it wasn’t gas and they’d see me soon. Fast forward through the doctor repeating that, me getting shot through with dye that made me think I was peeing my pants, and a CT scan and we find out that I have a 4x2 hemorrhagic ovarian cyst that is slowly but steadily pumping blood into my abdominal cavity. INTERNAL BLEEDING!


They gave me pain killers and an antibiotic and sent me on my way. I call in and tell her all of that, that I’m on opiates, and that I can’t get in the car to drive there because it hurts so badly. Plus, I have a note from the hospital excusing me from work for two days.


“So, can you still come in and pick up the kids?”


What part of I’m on drugs, in pain, and fucking HIGH do you not understand? So no, I will not be driving an hour to work, driving around small children in a 1987 14 ton van for an hour, and driving the additional hour back home. Sorry.


That Friday I had a follow up with my gyno that I had scheduled during our weekly meeting where we accomplish nothing. Nothing like a surprise pelvic exam first thing in the morning. When I return to work I am told that I need to find a new job, but she’ll let me keep this one until I do. She was worried that between the stress of working at the other place alone, the drive I made every day, and my “issue”, that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Also that my commute was inconvenient for her. For her? MY hour long drive is inconvenient for YOU? “Is anyone helping you with this?”


“With this what? Financially? No, my parents are disabled.”

“No, no. Helping you with your issue.”


Helping me with my ovary? You’re aware that it’s an internal organ, correct? How does one help me with my ovary? I told my mom this and her reply was “What was I supposed to do, hold its hand?” “Ooh, tiny little ovary hands!” She drew a picture and everything.


The next Friday I was told I had two weeks to find a job. It ended up being a week.


Exhibit G: Where I almost ran her through with a sword.


The last few days I worked there, she was there. Every day. Every single day. This was a martial arts studio. We had weapons. WEAPONS! She was rearranging EVERYTHING in a place that she didn’t even work, to the point to where I couldn’t find ANYTHING when I needed it, when she started to move the sword around. I watched it wobble, I watched it dip; I prayed fervently that it would fall down, unsheathe itself, and stab her in the face. I would then laugh maniacally and refuse to call 911. But it didn’t. She ran her mouth on, and on, and on, and on until it became an act of will comparable to that of Jesus in the desert to keep me from taking down the sword and stabbing her to death with it. It was just sitting there, mocking me. And there was nothing I could do.


Exhibit H: Where she fired me and wanted me to keep working for free.


That’s right. You heard me. Miss Susie Sunshine didn’t understand the complexities of minimum wage laws, overtime laws, OR salary, which is what she said she paid us thinking that none of us would be smart enough to call her on it and also because she probably thought salary negated both of those things. I was out for two days with a doctor’s note, ended up working over 80 hours in that two week pay period, which I figured evened it out in the end. She paid me my regular salary for that week, which for once was legal. On my last day she calls me to say that she’s going to need me to come in for a few days next week to train a new girl. I wouldn’t be paid for this because, after all, she DID pay me for those two days I was out. SERIOUSLY?!? You FIRED me! For being in the hospital! What. The. Fuck.


The day that I was supposed to get my last check she held it from me until I drove all the way back home and picked up the uniform (which I PAID for) and the t-shirts that were given to me and brought them back to her. She swore she’d be there when I arrived, but evidently she had a stroke of unfucktardedness and left before I got there. I wasn’t going to threaten her or touch her, but I had some things to say. It ended with “Shave your fucking fat furry face”. Alliteration is a beautiful thing.


THIS is why I’d seriously rather have my leg gnawed off by a great white than ever speak to her again. I think I’d rather make sweet, sweet love to Kenny Roger’s beard, stab myself in the eye with a pen, hot iron my vagina, exchange needles, and contract gona-syphi-herpe-laids than be near her.

Do you think I showed up? No. The day I collected my last check I reported her ass to the labor board. So did the other guy she fired while he was in the hospital recovering from emergency surgery.


Also, she never changed the password to the e-mail account and apparently she can’t figure out what she told ME to change it to. But she hasn’t thought of calling me to ask what it is. I’m tempted to go in and change it to something like “SuckMyNuts”.

This concludes my novel. I’m sorry about the length and probably the lack of funny, but I had to get this out. Feel free to send me your horror stories about work.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Effie Mae Goes Banking

A stunning, and yet totally not surprising, streak of lazy (and alliteration) has taken me by storm... again... and left me with no motivation to blog.  The material is there (Shark bait, ooh haha!) but the will to write it has vanished.  This is where the concept of Guest Blogging comes in at.  I poke someone repeatedly with a stick while belting out the refrain from Oklahoma! until they give in and write things FOR me. 

I lied.

It pretty much went like this:

Me:  You should do a guest blog for me.

Effie Mae:  Okay.

....

EM:  But you'll have to post it anonymously.  I don't want to get fired.

Me:  Okay, I'll just call you Anonymous ___________  (Her actual name.)

EM:  .... I don't think that's how it works...

So I've decided to call her Effie Mae.  Her love of cast iron pans ("They're versatile.  You behave and you get cornbread, you don't and you get the skillet upside the head") and refusal to travel above the Mason Dixon line makes this fitting. 

Sweet Effie works at a bank and was somewhat inspired by my Adventures in Retail Hell, so she wrote this.

EM:  I e-mailed you a blog, or half of one.  It should be a recurring guest spot as its going to take up seven pages when I'm done.

So dear readers, without further ado, I present to you, Effie Mae.


No, I Don't Need You To Help Me Count That

... or ...

What It's Really Like To Be A Bank Teller

 
• "No, I don't need you to help me count that." ; "No, I'm afraid I can't add any zeroes to your deposit slip." ; and, my personal favorite, "I'm sorry, unfortunately we don't have any 'free samples' today."

I think this speaks for itself. I'll admit, it was kind of funny when I started in banking 3 years ago. It was even slightly amusing the next 342 times I heard one of these precious gems of cleverness. Now, I want to stab you. So stop already. I'm losing my ability to smile politely.


• Yes, there is a fee to cash a check at our bank if you don't have an account with us. People -- this isn't exactly a new game in town. Is it fair? Probably not. Do I agree with it? Not entirely. Which is why I make no attempt to bank where I don't bank. Here's the kicker folks... if you have a check to cash, take it to your bank. Or, we'll be more than happy to open you an account with us. Otherwise, we're gonna charge a fee. Period. If you're one of those bury-your-money-in-a-Maxwell-House-can-in-the-back-yard or hide-it-in-the-mattress-and-hope-the-house-doesn't-burn-down people, I've got nothing for you. But rest assured, these check cashing fees never fall far enough down the corporate ladder to reach our pockets, so getting pissed at us lowly tellers will do you absolutely no good. So pay the fee, take what's left of your money, and go on quietly about your day. Just sayin'.

• If you don't have an account with us, we are required to document your ID and get your thumbprint. "No, we don't need a blood sample or your first-born child", so there's no need to get sassy. It's just a thumbprint. "No, of course it's not because we think you're a criminal" (although your beady little eyes and generally suspicious demeanor might make me think otherwise).

• Deposit slips. Withdrawal slips. You will literally find hundreds of these little suckers hidden in plain sight in various convenient locations between the front door and the teller line. And yet, you will manage to bypass all of these, walk directly to me, and hand me your debit card. I wasn't aware that I had magically transformed into an ATM, since that is obviously what you have mistaken me for, but thanks for letting me know. Yes, we are here to help you with these sorts of things, and I understand completely if you don't have your account number memorized. But can you not at least write your name on there and date the damn thing? Help a sista out once in a while, ya know? My carpal tunnel thanks you in advance.

• Drive-Through etiquette. If you need a deposit slip, withdrawal slip, pen, rolled coin, 6 months' worth of statements from your 14 different accounts, or have more than 3 transactions... come inside the branch. The people behind you who are actually prepared for quick service thank you.

• More drive-through etiquette. Don't ring the bell. Brace yourselves... most days, we actually let the drive-through tellers have a lunch break. If you happen to select this hour to come to the bank, you may find the drive-through unattended. But wait! The world has not yet reversed on its axis. If you can see us, we can see you. We know you're there! If we haven't come to your aide after about 45 seconds or so, that means we're either on the phone or helping customers in the lobby who are [*gasp*] just as important as you. So don't ring the bell. And there's certainly no reason to ring it twice. There's even less of a reason if your car hasn't even come to a complete stop. Studies have shown that the number of times you choose to ring the bell to notify us of your presence is directly proportional to the time you will sit there unacknowledged as well as the time it takes to process your transaction.

• Overdraft fees. They happen to the best of us. Well, not to me, because I actually know how to balance a checkbook, but more on that later... So here's the thing. If you write a check, or have an automatic payment drafted from your account without sufficient funds to cover said item, you will incur fees. Even if we return the check unpaid (i.e., "it bounces"), you will still be charged a "Returned Item" fee even if your account is back to a positive balance. We charge fees. That's how banks stay in business. But, [**insider secret alert**] there are ways around these. Through a complex system of mathematical formulas (addition and subtraction) as well as the magic that is the internet (online banking), it is now possible to know how much money you have at any given time before gallivanting off to spend it... all by balancing your checkbook. Who knew?

Let's not misunderstand here... some days I do love my job. In all fairness, those days are usually Saturday, Sunday, and federal holidays... but you know...

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Of Course I Have a Fork in My Hand

There came a point in my life where I found myself lying in bed in the middle of the day, eating a danish, and crying over Cupcake Wars.


That was last week.

Two days ago I found myself lying in bed in the middle of the day again. No danish this time, Oprah instead of Food Network, and I’m crying because Paula Deen walks onto the stage with a plate full of cookies. I can’t say that I’m overly emotional about food, there was a back story to these events, and after all, I’m not a complete waste of space yet. The winner of the war between the cakes in cups induced tears not because of the sheer beauty of the cupcakes themselves, but because I really wanted that woman to win damn it and she did and it was beautiful and the charity director who was judging was crying and the woman was crying and I was crying. Oprah had a little boy that loved to cook in honor of his twin that died from a brain tumor at the age of nine and Paula Deen was his hero.

It’s not an every day occurrence that I find myself in bed in the middle of the day, although it happens more than I would like, and it’s definitely not every day that I find myself openly weeping over baked goods on television. This however should have been some kind of turning point in my life, it very well may turn out that way, but it hasn’t happened yet. It was just last week after all.

Several things came together to lead me to the point where I felt I needed to pour my little fat girl’s heart out on paper, or screen if you will. I am considered fat by skinny people and skinny by fat people. There is no whining for the chubby girls and there is no solace. There is no group that we fit into except with each other and we don’t like each other very much because there can be no fat friend when we’re all the same size. No one of us looks any better solely because we are next to each other. I have chubby friends that have fat friends because the fat friend makes them look smaller by comparison. I have skinny friends that have collection of us in varying shapes and sizes for the same reason. The only way the fat friend can come out ahead is if the skinny friend is ugly, and those of us that are homely have no chance at all.

Another factor that played into this “sudden” realization of self was a trailer for the film version of “Eat, Pray, Love.” Well, of course you’re on a “no carb left behind” experiment, you’re a stomach virus away from sudden death there, Karen Carpenter. Oh, the joy of having an unlimited cash flow that enables you to travel around the world “discovering yourself”, eating everything in sight, and sleeping with strange men with horribly faked accents. This story is not empowering. Poor women are not empowered by the “trust fund baby” like journey of a beautiful, well off woman in her prime. This train of thought took my ADD riddled mind on a journey of epic proportions and no passport was needed. Rich women who have always been rich try to empower the poor that have always been poor. Lower class people do not want to hear how you’ve managed to keep and grow your money when they can’t find any to begin with. Overweight women do not want to have a slew of skinny bitches showing them how to tone up and KEEP in shape when our shape changes every time we move.

The third and probably not even final contributing factor was a picture that was taken of me at a friend’s bridal shower. I’m standing behind a counter, a plate of fruit in one hand, a fork in the other and because I was slouching and my shirt was not suited for my body and because my bra fat was poking out I noticed several discernible but small rolls, some of them were possibly wrinkles in my shirt, but do we really think about that when all we see is “Oh my God, why did you post that to my Facebook, you nasty freaking hag?” The picture isn’t even bad. I won’t say that it’s terribly flattering but I have definitely seen worse. It actually made me laugh out loud and I decided to post a comment that said, “Of course I have a fork in my hand.” Well, of course I did.



I’m not an anxious eater, I’m rarely an over eater, and there are many, many days where I barely eat at all. I used to have a problem with eating when I was bored because I had nothing better to do. That lovely little problem is starting to crop back up. I mean Jesus; I’ve been unemployed for over a year, I have to have hobbies. I quit drinking soda a few months ago because I wanted to keep the teeth I have for as long as I possibly can and switched to water with the occasional Coke when dining out or when thirst was about to kill me and water wasn’t cutting it. I miraculously, quickly, and without any effort on my part managed to drop between 10-20 pounds.

There is a common misconception among the thin that all fat people must want to lose weight because, well, they’re fat. This does not hold true. There are many, many overweight people that are perfectly content with their sizes and shapes, many that feel beautiful in spite or even BECAUSE of their size and shape. You can be fat and healthy. You can be fat and happy. I’ve always been fond of the saying “I’d rather be fat and happy than skinny and miserable.” Do you know why these quotes exist? Because they are true. I can’t say that I’m ecstatic about my size and shape because I’m not. I FEEL fat, I feel gross, and I feel… bulgy, but damn my ass looks good in that pair of jeans. There is nothing worse than feeling like a misshapen sack of wet flour except looking like one, which I often feel that I do. Yes, I want to lose weight but I don’t want to lose it badly enough to do anything about it at this particular moment in time. I’m not a huge fan of exercise as it requires me to get off of Facebook and… move…

I sometimes find myself jealous over women that are larger than me. Yes, larger. Why? Because these women are gorgeous, they’re usually much better looking than their skinny counterparts, they have this air of supreme confidence, and their bodies are proportioned exactly right for their height. This is where the lumpy sack of wet flour comes in at. When I gain weight it is not evenly distributed. It goes one place and then it goes another, often with mixed results. I have skinny parts on my body and I have some really disgustingly odd shaped parts on my body. I have unsightly bulges that are not at all uniform with the rest of my body. That’s why I call myself fat. I have fat, I possess more than my height and the BMI charts dictate that I should have and I would be completely fine with this if it would just calm the fuck down and even out somewhere. Even my fat cells have ADD.

The mother of one of my friends has a saying; it goes as follows “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” Bitch, have you ever eaten a Big Mac? Cheesecake? Mother fuckin’ deep fried Oreos? I didn’t THINK so because if you had you would know that there are endless stores of things that most definitely taste better than skinny feels. Think about your lover(s) here… I bet that rack of ribs probably tasted a hell of a lot better than ramming his pelvis into your razor sharp hip bones last night. It is a primal urge for men to want to “conquer” their mates, which generally leads to cervical annihilation and a lot of unfortunate pounding. Men fantasize about making that pounding happen with supermodels but they’re also afraid that they might break them. Men secretly want a woman that’s built like a brick shit house because the big bad wolf can’t blow the damn thing down no matter how hard he, uh, huffs and puffs.

Adventures in Retail Hell Part 2

stupid Pictures, Images and Photos


More happy work related topics. Please welcome our next guest: Mr. or Mrs. Oh boy am I clever. I hate this person. I want to kill them. At the very least, stab them in the eye with a pair of scissors.


You’ve all been to a store at some point recently where they have to mark your money with what I like to call my “secret decoder pen”, or as the rest of the world calls them, counterfeit pens. They poke your money and if it stays yellow, or light brown, you’re good to go, if it turns black, you become Big Bertha’s Prison Bitch.

Side note, these pens do not work. It told me, yes, the pen turned its head and said plain as day “Hey, it’s real, come on, believe me. Would I lie to you?” Yes, yes you would magic pen. So anyways, magical talking decoder pen told me that this rather odd looking fifty dollar bill was real. It said the same thing to my manager. The bank however, did not agree.

But I digress.

Boss man told me that I had to start marking EVERYTHING except one dollar bills because there is no way to tell if they are fake. (Who would waste the time? “Woo hoo! I bet that stripper/waitress is gonna be real pissed off tomorrow.” Way to stick it to the Coca-Cola man!) So five dollar bills and up got poked and checked for a water mark before I can accept them.

Well, Mr. or Mrs. Oh boy am I clever, comes into the store, and assumes at least fifty new identities a day.

Me: Hey, how y’all doin’ today?

Clever: Purty good, you?

Me: Spiffy

I ring up merchandise, give them their total, they take out bills of any denomination, except ones. I take out secret decoder pen and mark their money. This is where my day takes a nosedive.

Clever: Oh… I just made that this morning (last night, today, last week, a little while ago…they’re exchangeable here.)

Now, if you’ve never heard this before, you’re probably thinking that it’s kind of funny, and a little clever, perhaps even ballsy. This is where you are wrong, and where I also envy you for your innocence in this matter. The first fifteen times I heard it, I could laugh. The second fifteen, I could force a laugh. The next hundred, I pasted on a slightly amused smile that says “It’s really not funny, and I can’t even force myself to laugh, so I’m just smiling to keep from hurting you’re feelings.” After that, I could only glare, which is what I’ve been doing the 1,254,349 times since then. So here’s the thing… You’re not clever. And I’m going to give you the rules about saying the dreaded statement. The only time it is acceptable to say “oh, I just made that….whenever” is this:

The store you are in has just opened its doors to the public for the very first time, and you are the very first customer and your cashier has never worked a register or done any sort of work with the public and money before. THEN you can say it, but only once, and never again. If someone has beat you to it, I am sorry, but you must forfeit your sacred right to be a stupid fucking asshole.

So Mr. or Mrs. Oh boy am I clever, this is for you.

You are not clever, it is not funny, I am a humorous and fun loving person, I love stupid jokes and I can’t even force myself to SMILE at you, in fact it is all I can do to keep from beating your head into the counter. So stop saying it, I hate you. All cashiers hate you. I want to post this at my register:

Attention Customers:

Due to recent attempts to use counterfeit money in this store, we at * place I work* will no longer tolerate jokes about making and/or distributing fake currency.

If the jokes continue you will be given a choice of actions we can take.

1. Cashier reserves the right to refuse your business. She can and will slam the drawer, throw all the change you so lovingly laid down piece by piece on the counter instead of her hand back at you to pick up and scream at you to get the fuck out.

2. We can call the local, state, and federal authorities to investigate. Meaning: We can detain you at the store while they investigate every piece of money you currently possess, your checkbook, your wallet, your credit cards, all accounts connected to these items, your car, your home, and possibly various orifices on your body, all with out the luxury of Vaseline. In short, we will turn your life upside down and leave you to clean up the wreckage. Counterfeit money is a federal offense and is not to be taken lightly. Wish you’d never even opened your mouth now?

3. I can and will stab you in the fucking eye with a pair of scissors.

I personally vote for number three. It just seems so much more satisfying. But once again, you are not clever, IT is not clever, it wasn’t clever two minutes ago when that guy said it, it wasn’t clever five hundred times ago either.

I have two different things I want to try out on these people.

1. “I’m very interested in statistics, and I have calculated that you are the forty-third person to say that to me… this hour alone. Now, we get, on average, around six hundred customers a day, would you care to do the math and figure out how many times I have to hear some “clever” person say that to me?

2. “CONGRATULATIONS! You’re the millionth customer to say that to me THIS WEEK! You’re about as clever as the dialogue in a low budget porn flick, your prize is: feeling like the dumb ass that you really are, now get the fuck out my store and don’t come back until I think I can see you and not kill you.”

I mentioned something above about putting change on the counter.

It puts me into a murderous rage.

Your total is $7.96.

You lay the bills on the counter… this is fine.

For the rest of it, you decide to pay with dimes, nickels, and pennies, which is also fine. But what is not so fine is the fact that even though you see my hand sitting right there beside yours, palm up and waiting, even though you see me scrambling to pick up the penny you just laid down so my hand will be readily available for you to put the rest of the change in it, you see me constantly moving my hand under the hand that is distributing change AND YOU STILL LAY IT ON THE FUCKING COUNTER!

It’s like the damned tango or something, I have no idea what is going on in these people’s minds at the time. They must be mentally deficient or something. They’re mostly old, but still, geriatric is not a disability. I pick up the change and put it into my hand, and then I move that hand under the one that is putting the change down, RIGHT UNDER IT! So what do they do?!?

They move their hand away from it to lay the change on the counter, which means, I have to go and pick the shit up piece by piece. AAAGGGHHH!!!!!! It drives me fucking crazy. I hate when people do this, I really, really, really just want to kill them. Mostly, just strangle them for a while, while banging their head into hard objects and shaking them.

Murderous rage. You people play a dangerous game.

Monday, August 2, 2010

They put it WHERE?!?

scarred for life Pictures, Images and Photos


I need therapy.



I need a lot of it.


And I need it now.


All of my life my parents have been telling me things I never, ever, EVER wanted to know about. Other people seem to do this as well but it’s never as disturbing as someone telling you how good (or bad) one of your parents is in bed.


I KNOW that I am not a miracle of God. I KNOW that I wasn’t the product of an immaculate conception; but I REALLY REALLY REALLY like to think that I was. Can’t you say that you found me in a cabbage patch? Can I not be one of those magical babies that were air mailed from God via carrier stork? These are the things that children need to hear, not, “He wasn’t very well endowed… if you know what I mean” (this isn’t about anyone in particular, by the way). OF COURSE I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN!


I do not want to flip through old family photos and reminisce about the picture where there’s a dildo sitting on the table beside my step-father! Where did it come from? WHY WAS IT EVEN THERE?!?


Five year olds tend to have a lot of questions when you send them to get the mail and an hour later you find them sitting in a corner, a look of sheer horror on their face, while they flip through an Adam & Eve catalogue.


I had “the talk” when I was seven. I knew what penetration was and that it wasn’t required in order to conceive. I had to use my little brain that was full of Power Rangers and genetically enhanced crime fighting sharks and turtles and Care Bears to try to figure out the complexities of things like “pre-cum”, “just the tip”, “sperm”, and “OH MY GOD, they put it WHERE?!?” instead of wondering why Stacey in the Babysitter’s Club seemed like such a slut and why dorky Mary Anne had the hot boyfriend who probably spent way too much time with small children on a regular basis. (I’m pretty sure the Asian one was a stoner, who else has 15 hidden stashes of candy in several different locations across town. And who was watching THESE kids?)


I blame the movie “Milk Money” for that one. Who knew that a quick screen shot of porn in the background would lead to so many life altering discoveries? Who else started to “bloom early” and had their mother ask them if they had any hair down there yet? WHO?!?


I have inadvertently seen each of my parents and step-father naked more than once in my life. It’s traumatizing as a child and it was traumatizing when I got up to go to the bathroom and saw the moon reflecting off of my step-dad’s lily white ass as he tried (too late) to plaster his front into the cabinet where he had been foraging for food naked. WHO DOES THAT? To this day I don’t like to touch anything at waist level in this house.


People don’t seem to realize that little pitchers have ginormous and bat-like radar ears that hear every single thing you (and they) didn’t want them to hear. Seriously Mom, I’m like five feet away. Stage whispers don’t work and I know how to spell. “I can hang on for more than an 8 second ride.” Fuck. My. Tiny. Life.


Ever walked in on your parents having sex? Ever woken up in a hotel room to your parents having sex in the next bed? Ever been forced to give up your bed for company and sleep on a hard ass pallet on the floor beside your parent’s ancient, squeaky, creaky brass bed while they were going at it? You know how to stop that? Wake up in the morning, sleepily rub your eyes and ask “Mommy, what’s a pussy?” I never had to give up my bed again.

“Your mama used to like it rough.” “Your mom…. (Insert variety of disgusting sexual proclivities)”. “We used to have sex all the time.” “If I could get it up…” *Grabs boob* *Grabs ass* *Grabs crotch* *Grabs own crotch* “Oh, honey, he just says those things because he knows it bothers you.” Fuck yes it bothers me! YOU’RE MY MOM!!! And he’s… *insert vague hand gesture*... him…


My dad though… my dad takes the fucking cake here. From an early age I have refused to sleep in his bed when visiting. By the time I was 9 he had figured out why and would make a point of informing me that he had washed the sheets that day and they were clean and not to worry about it. Fuck yo sheets. This bed has been tainted. This bed has seen so much action that I fear that sleeping in it alone would constitute as an act of incest in some states.


My dad is a self-proclaimed man whore. He takes his job seriously and he likes to tell me about it. I’m not exactly glad that our definitions of “graphic detail” do not match. I’m afraid that his idea of graphic detail would include instructional videos, a pamphlet, and personal testimonials from people who have tried out the product.


I never really wanted to know what an Eiffel Tower was, much less that you’ve experienced it with a person that shall remain nameless. I don’t want to know what you’d do to that bartender, that waitress, or that homeless lady on the corner. I don’t want to know what you’ve already done to them. I don’t need to know the side effects of your blood pressure medication or how insatiable your “lady friends” are. And I definitely do not want to know positions, smells, sounds, toys, and about what you have in your glove box!


Facebook has recently taken this to a new level. I always said I wouldn’t add my parents or many close relatives because I post things I either don’t care to have them know about or don’t care to explain. Oh boy, it turned out I didn’t need to worry about it on my end. Over our family vacation (where I learned the length and girth of my cousin’s penis from his girlfriend and where my dad went skinny dipping with them and my sister’s 19 year old friend) I had to add my dad on Facebook because I had taken pictures he wanted to be tagged in. I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to add him, and I will now present to you four of those reasons. I will not be editing these.

1. “Here's my day. Iy started out wonderful had a 9am bottie call. God bless those Rutherford County women!”

2. “So i stopped the leak washed my ex G friends trike i've been rideing 4 a month so i can take it back 2morro and 4 the first time in 3 months its frigging RAINING I guess i should stoped after the bootie call1 I'm just to old 4 all this shit.” (YES YOU ARE!!!!)

3. Good night all the day has finally taken it's toll and i'm done! On the bright side so there's another Booty call 4 2morro....................”

4. I'm takeing a lady friend to my x girlfriends for dinner hmmm I wonder how this is going to play out?


Why are you turning your Facebook into a Penthouse Forum?!? WHY DO YOU HATE ME?!? Oh God, I think I just threw up in my mouth again.

I feel like I need to take you to the free clinic and never touch you again unless I’m wearing a body condom. At this point you’ve traumatized me so much that I’m pretty sure my children are going to come out messed up.

I’ve not even written about the really good stuff either. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. One more status old man, one more, and it’s ALL going in the book. Even the thing you said you’d disown me for telling people about. If you don’t want anyone else to know then why in God’s name did you decide that your youngest daughter should be your target audience? I know that alcohol loosens the tongue but there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to erase that mental image from my mind! Nothing will ever kill this pain, nothing.

Friday, March 12, 2010

The Inside of My Head Would Scare You... Part 1

“What are you thinking about?”

“Eyebrows."


“Eyebrows?”


“Yes.”


“Why eyebrows?”


“Well, I mean, have you ever just thought about them before? They’re weird…”


“No… I haven’t. How are eyebrows weird?”


“They’re weird because… I mean, they’re really just random patches of hair growing on your face. Why not on my cheek instead? Would we do with cheek brows? Just a random patch of fur on your cheek instead of over your eyes. What is the point of eyebrows? They’re weird, but we would look weird with OUT them, but still. What purpose do they really serve? Did God get finished with a person and then go, ‘You know what? Something is missing… on the face… that’s a good five inches of head space, four would look better… hold on … wait a second, OH! Let’s put a line of HAIR across this area… there we go.’?”


“Sometimes I worry about you”.


“Maybe that’s why they’re called foreheads. God decided that the five head just didn’t look right, so He gave us eyebrows; to break up the monotony of the forehead. But some people, coughs Tyra Banks coughs, still have the five head though. Makes you wonder.”


“About your sanity.”


“But seriously, what other reason would there be for random patches of hair in the middle of your face?”


“To keep sweat and rain out of our eyes so our vision isn’t blurred and we survive longer?”

“Oh… I like mine better.”

Monday, February 15, 2010

Three Compelling Reasons I Use to Justify Not Exercising

Fat People Pictures, Images and Photos

Every weekend I tell myself I’m going to start working out on Monday and every Monday I take a nap instead.

I obviously have my priorities straight.


Everyone always says really negative things about fat, so I'm going to list three positive things.


1. Loestrin (the birth control that doesn’t make me throw up on a daily basis) has made my boobs borderline amazing.

- Seriously. They’re close to being what I want them to be. Stairs are a little tricky if I try to take them with any amount of speed, but my God the bounce! Losing weight will only jeopardize this love affair I have going on with my boobs. I KNOW that when I lose any amount of weight, it will come out of my boobs. Karma is a nasty hag.


2. If I lose weight, my cheeks won't be so fat and I'll lose my dimply/creasy things when I smile.

- My cheeks have always been pudgy, many people think that it’s endearing and like to pinch or poke them. I think it’s cute sometimes. Other times… I wonder what’s going to happen in ten years when the collagen is really starting to break down in my face and it can no longer support the massive weight of my cheeks and I have jowls. But that is neither here nor there. The thing that is both here AND there is this… my fat cheeks do great things for my smile. When I scrunch my cheeks up into a smile it squishes all of it together and I get these lovely creases around my mouth. My Granny calls them the parentheses of my mouth. Hmm… Since gaining some weight, I have now also developed dimples underneath the corners. I don’t want to lose my creases and dimples. I’m afraid that if I lose weight I’ll lose those bonus points of cuteness and have to start all over.


3. My winter body keeps me warm.

Polar Bear Pictures, Images and Photos
-Dude… bears totally have the right idea. During the summer and fall you just eat and eat and eat and nap and nap and eat and nap some more and maybe steal some honey and piss of some bees, eat the face off of a tourist or two, get to be on “When Animals Attack” and then during the winter… you stay warm. Just. Because. You’re. Fat. It’s like a reward for being so bad ass and awesome. If it’s ok for bears it’s ok for me. If I were to lose this winter body I could waste away and perish in the temperate winters of the South.


Those are three highly compelling reasons to not ever exercise again. Great boobs, cute smile creases, and survival.


Although the bonus chin does tend to cancel out a great deal of all that awesomeness.


And sometimes… my fat attacks me. It literally attacks me and causes pain. It’s generally in the bra fat region of my back but can also sometimes occur in the mid to lower back region, depending on the angle at which I bend.


This is a serious matter. It’s really quite painful and no one ever wants to admit what really just happened… that your fat actually just turned on you and attacked.

You know… one minute you’re standing there and the next you bend over backwards for whatever unknown reason anyone ever bends over backwards in something other than a metaphorical sense, and the next thing you know… your fat has actually doubled back on itself, rolled inwards, and pinched you.

Don’t even act like it hasn’t happened.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

We All Float Down Here...

Shining Pictures, Images and Photos


I could use being snowed in as the perfect opportunity to do some “serious writing” the way Nora Roberts did on that fateful winter’s day when she first put pen to paper in an effort to salvage her sanity and then went on to write an entire library shelf worth of books. But… I have a somewhat irrational fear that it will involve violence with roque mallets, a smashed door, and ultimately end with my icy death in the middle of a hedge maze.


I’m also pretty sure that I just mixed details from the movie and the book, but both were so awesome that I can’t seem to bring myself to care.

This brings me to a point, not THE point, but a point all the same… Literacy… can sometimes be overrated.


Yes, I just went there.

Without books my life would be a sad and meaningless cycle of sleeping, eating, smoking, mindless internet games and hours of mind numbingly stupid television shows.

Except without being literate it would all be a big jumbled mess of frustration because I couldn’t type in web addresses, read the names of TV shows, or figure out how to work the remote.

Ok, that was so not a point, but it’s there now and I’m sorry you had to go through that with me, but it’s done now.

The literacy thing… Back to it.

Without literacy, my life would be nowhere near as enriched as it has been but I would also not have the veritable treasure trove of phobias I currently possess.

Number A: Bath tubs. Now, one could get picky and throw out that Psycho could have given me an irrational fear of bathing devices, but Psycho had very little to do with my current phobia. Stephen King’s “The Shining” has EVERYTHING to do with it though. Well, dammit, the movie did play a factor in it too, but only so much as to give my mind a more startlingly real picture of the horror that I faced while reading the book. Jack Torrance, pre-bat shit crazy stage, decides to check out “the room that must not be entered” because little Danny, pre-psychic talking finger stage, has shown up with some colorful bruises around his fragile little neck and says that the lady in the bath tub did it. The dead lady in the bath tub to be exact, so, still more or less sane Jack enters this room and goes into the bathroom and lo and behold, thar be an arm hanging over the rim of the tub! He pulls back the curtain and Holy Polaris, Batman! There’s a hot naked chick there! Hot naked, but totally alive chick comes sauntering out of the bathtub and tries to seduce poor Jack. She’s slipping him a little tongue and I guess her breast-eses must have felt a leetle strange because he pulls back and… Holy Necrophilia, Batman! Yous be sexually assaulting a zombie slut… who then tries to kill him. This may have had something to do with the final steps into Bat Shit Crazy Jack, but one can never be sure of how they’ll react to making out with a dead chick.

So now, every time I go into the bathroom, any bathroom with a shower, I have to bat at the curtain to make sure there isn’t a dead lady in it who will try to Katy Perry me, turn dead-er, and then try to murder my ass.

Number B: Bath tubs part deux. This next one is actually less bath tub and more drain related. It’s not even limited to shower drains either. Sink drains, floor drains, and especially storm drains. Bitches can’t even sail their paper boats down the flood water for fear of a clown with balloons ripping their arm off and possibly eating you while you’re still alive. Now, “It” gave most people a pretty rational fear of clowns, but for me… it was Pennywise’s preferred mode of transportation/child abduction that got me. I have to admit that I watched the movie when I was a toddler and this may or may not have had an unhealthy influence on my still forming psyche, but still. I tried to read the book as a teenager but had to stop at page 75, after It is seen walking through the river eating the arm pit of a gay man, and hide it until my return trip to the library. Last year I revisited that fear and I finished it (kind of). For Christ’s sake, the book is 1078 pages long, involves a gang bang with 12 year olds, kids being turned into Snack Packs, and around 700 pages of bad writing. You can’t really expect me to read every single word of it. So, this pretty much goes in the “Fears brought on by movies” category, but the book was a lot worse and I didn’t have to look at Richard Thomas’ face the whole time, so I ignore that and throw this into my “Irrational phobias brought on by reading” category anyways.



I have many, MANY, other literature related phobias which I may or may not get into at a later date, but I can safely say that Stephen King is to blame for roughly 85-95% of them. You crazy bastard, I can’t even take a shower or go to the bathroom without worrying that something is going to try to lure me away with the promise of floating down there or that some woman is going to try to turn me into a dead necrophiliac lesbian.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Resolving More Than My Carpet

So, people are making their New Year’s Resolutions with all the sincerity their little hearts can muster all the while knowing that after the initial week of doing good or at least better things is up, that they have absolutely no intention whatsoever of following through on any of them.


Knowing that I never keep my resolutions prompted me to take a stand last year. I made reverse resolutions. I made resolutions that I did not ever want to keep with the hopes that, like every other year of my life, I wouldn’t keep these either.


A short list of those resolutions:


1. Gain twenty more pounds.

2. Go completely broke.

3. Get raped and killed.


And you know what happened?


I kept them. Obviously with the exception of getting raped and killed, but I substituted that with “Getting attacked and almost killed” which is an acceptable alternative.


I gained twenty more pounds. I filed for bankruptcy. I was also attacked and robbed.


I lose at the Resolutions game. My resolutions made me their bitch. The one year that I keep my resolutions and I resolved to do horrible, horrible things.


At least I got a blog or two out of it, right? A few jokes, a lot of therapy, and I now owe people money for funding aforementioned bankruptcy.


Awesome.


2009 rocked!


Like a massive earthquake in a big city.


Having been given the hope that, yes… I CAN keep my resolutions, I decided to change the game again this year and resolve for better things… I would say more easily obtainable, but dude… those things were incredibly easy to obtain, all it took was a lot of chewing, spending, and looking helpless and defenseless… all things I excel at.


So, this year… I am going to resolve more than my carpet.

2010 Resolutions (in no particular order):


1. Learn 10 songs on the guitar… and be able to sing them at the same time.

2. Write at least 2 full songs, music and lyrics.

3. Lose an unspecified amount of weight in excess of 10 lbs and NOT gain it back.

4. TRY to let go of the past.

5. TRY to let go of toxic friendships.

6. Call people out on lies and bullshit.

7. Finish my fucking book.

8. Get out and experience more of life so my book will have more pages.

9. Keep my 4.0 GPA.

10. Take chances.

11. Save money.

12. Have more intelligent conversations.

13. Ask a famous person out on a date… and make them go.

14. Let people take more pictures of me… I want to leave my memories.

15. Learn how to be more photogenic.

16. Get my teeth fixed.

17. Get a passport and use it… Canada and Mexico count.

18. Learn how to properly shoot a gun and practice when I can.

19. Re-learn a martial art and learn self-defense.

20. Use my newly acquired skills on friends that annoy me.

21. Do a cartwheel the correct way (and not the fall down and get rug burn way).

22. Write a letter to a famous person and demand a hand written letter in return.

23. Send a message in a bottle.

24. Take up painting.

25. And… that’s a lot of fucking resolutions, we need one more: Be published in some fashion OR be on TV, and NOT the surveillance video like last time.

26. Oh, and not gain weight, be poor, or get attacked again.


Some of mine might be simple, some a little more difficult, but they’re all designed so that I can try to enrich my life in some way.


So, what are your resolutions?

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