The Randomist

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 wou...

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 ...

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 ...

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...

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...

There are many things in this world that drive me into a violent rage. One of those things is stupid people. Stupid people account for the majority of my stress. They can’t drive, speak, or write well, but insist on doing those things as frequently as possible and in my general vicinity. I don’t claim to be smarter than everyone else, just the vast majority of everyone else. Ever since I learned to read, I’ve been in love with language. There are so many ways to use and abuse it. I’ve been a human dictionary and spell check for most of my life, and I am rarely wrong. Don’t let those old spelling bee videos fool you; I tend to choke under that kind of pressure. I need to get some things out of the way here. I tend to overlook a LOT of things because I am Southern and I happen to live in the South. We speak a little differently down here. I’m actually guilty of saying “It’n it” instead of “isn’t it”. But there are things that I absolutely can NOT stand. These things will send me i...

I posted the last grammar lesson and then I even went so far as to post the link on Facebook with an urgent message to all of my friends to read it, it could save lives. Not an hour after posting this, I saw this on my news feed: “I hope your well”. I’m sorry, come again? You hope their well whats? Did you mean to say, “I hope you’re well”? This is unacceptable. On to the next! To, Too, and Two. I have this friend, and the title of her blog is “Two Much of a Good Thing”. This is the ONLY time I find this abuse of grammar acceptable! THIS, my friends, is what we like to call “a play on words”. She has twins, which means, there are two children. Ha ha, get it? TWO much? Ok, moving on. To: To works in one of two ways, as either a preposition leading to a noun, or an infinitive when it precedes a verb. (Do I really need to post another lesson for “Nouns, Verbs, and Infinitives”? I will if I have to. God, just don’t make me throw in a split participle!) So, it’s either in conjunc...