The 1% are Fucktards.

I don’t really know what people like Warren Buffet or Bill and Melinda Gates are like, and it’s not really important here. I’m sure that they, like most obscenely billionairy people would buy their way out of any negative situation that encroached upon their comfort, but what I’d like to highlight right this second is the spectacularly odorific species of rich celebrity dicktards who BELIEVE that they are somehow inspirational in the way that they handle life’s setbacks by throwing a wad of cash at the bad times. I am pretty sure that most of these bimbonic assbots think that paying money to solve problems is what “going green” really means. Whatev. It just proves that having a shit-ton of Benjamins does not a genius make.

Exhibit A: Bill and Giuliana Rancic. First, what the fuck? Did Guiliana’s parents have some kind of obsession with fucking vowels? Damn. Who can spell that shit? I had to look it up multiple times. Second, these two “people” are products of television. Bill’s claim to fame is a stint on Donald “Psycho-comb-over” Trump’s inane Apprentice series, and the girl shills for E!, which is the lamest name for a network ever. Okay. And then the couple turned their minutiae into yet another reality show. They met, got married and then found out while undergoing fertility treatments that the female-half had breast cancer. So. First, unlike gazillions of women who can’t conceive and have to buck it up and adopt, say, a crack baby because they can’t afford to order a baby from Cambodia, Ethiopia and Vietnam, the Rancic’s are in a position to funnel large amounts of money into the fertility-treatments machine. That shit ain’t cheap, let me tell you. And then, once they discovered the breast cancer, Mrs. Rancic had a double-mastectomy and recorded it all for posterity and reality T.V. And probably some cash.

NOW. Do not mistake my grousing for a dig at Mrs. R’s having cancer and being compelled to choose such a frightening and radical surgery. I can’t imagine her horror and fear and vacillation over what course to take. It’s the stupid shit that Bill Rancic said after the surgery that rankles me. In an interview in Glamour, Billidiot said that the cancer scare “turns down the volume on the things that don’t matter.” All right. I can get behind that. But then he totally fucked up all credibility with these conflict-free gems: “We’re going to do fun things this year. I told Giuliana, ‘We’re going to make sure every vacation day you have at E! is used.’” And “I want a house on Lake Geneva, and we’ll all spend our summers together up there.” Ohhhhhh. Bill, Bill, Bill. Don’t you see how out of touch with reality you are, yet you keep appearing in REALITY shows?! Yes, wouldn’t it be lovely if real women who suffer through breast cancer could concentrate on what really matters after their hideous ordeals: vacations and a house on Lake fucking Geneva!

And Mrs. R casually threw out this telling tidbit that shines all kinds of spotlights on her inner-workings: “My first day back [at work], I walked in and these girls I’d seen every day—my assistant, my hair and makeup girls, who I’d have fun with and be crazy with—all had this sad look in their eyes. It was like, ‘Hey, guys, cut the bulls—t. I’m the exact same person I was before. I’m still shallow, I still love clothes, I still want to talk fashion, I still want to gossip, so lay it on me.’ They were like, ‘Thank God.’” Yeah. No one wants that downer of having to deal with deep shit.

To top it all off, the Rancic’s announced today that they are expecting! Yay, right? So, they froze some embryos, which, you know, practically anyone can do these days, and then they purchased a GESTATIONAL SURROGATE. Yes, you read that correctly. The Rancic’s can’t conceive the regular, free way—if you count dinner and drinks as technically “free”—so they are paying some woman to let their fetus grow in her uterus-for-hire. Awwww. Isn’t that sweet? It’s like we are living in some freaking sci-fi nightmare! Isn’t it exciting and thrilling what money can buy these days?!

For the complete Rancic article, read More http://www.glamour.com/health-fitness/2012/03/glamour-exclusive-interview-giuliana-rancic-bill-rancic-diary-of-a-mastectomy#ixzz1svfP4wDI

I HATE Fricking Needles, Bitches. Damn.

Oh, sure. You think you’re all prettiful, don’t you, with your colorful tips? But you are nothing but a rainbow of HELL.

Remember when one or both of your parents used to say, “This is going to hurt me a lot more than it will you,” right before said parental whooped your ass? Yeah. Right. My own mother said that to me one time, and unless that hand that she was using to beat my tender buttocks had been stripped down to its fucking raw nerve endings, that bitch sure as shit did not hurt more than I did, especially in the cold, little cockles of her lying heart. And yet, that fabrication of a flaccid excuse carries on as if it’s actually fooling folks. My favorite provocateurs who utter those deceitful words are doctors, armed with nuclear-warhead-sized syringes.

I’ve had to endure the following injustices:

upper-palate shots which pinch and sting like a mother;

two epidurals, which spineless needle-wielding assholes swear will not hurt, but which really feel like a drinking straw of poison and death being stabbed into the most delicate part of your back;

the jamming of a needle the size of the one on the far left in the picture above INTO a nice, fresh, bone-exposing wound on my right thumb;

a hot embrodiery needle dragged through each ear lobe so that I could hang fucking cheap jewelry from the resulting holes;

and my favorite of all time: The vicious needle of annihilation through which an endless stream of novacaine was loaded into my right EYEBALL. Twice. I must say that having a sharp, metal cylinder enter my EYEBALL without my express permission and with the intent of injecting a burning chemical into my EYEBALL fucking sucks. Picture it now and try to feel it for yourself. Now multiply that times infinity. And you still won’t have the complete pain. Doctors LIE about that shit so you won’t have a heart attack and cause them to lose some fees.

I have recent experience with the lying skanks who profess to be all about my well-being. I have had a little injury, the result of which is a knee gone bad. It is trying its damnedest to kill my ass, and it’s doing a superb job of keeping me from, say, sleeping ever or not writhing around in agony most of the time. So, of course, I visited an orthopedic specialist to see what might be going on and what immediate remedies he might offer. And, goddamned if he didn’t saunter into the room a couple of days ago with his smarmy smirk and his “We’re going to put some medicine in the knee that is really going to calm it down and help you heal.”

IN my knee? I instantly realized that there is only one way to get shit inside my knee, and so the whimpering began. I am not kidding when I say that my sweat glands are seriously successful at their job. I protested, but to no avail. I explained that I have a horrible aversion to being impaled, but the dude kept coming. He even said he’d given himself a shot in the ol’ knee before and that it didn’t hurt that much. Buttfucking asshole.

He didn’t even give me time to panic adequately before he “froze” the area (not!) with some spray shit and then drove that metal rod of misery into my knee with that old bullshit line, “Little pinch.” My ass! And then he said, “This may sting a little,” as he pumped liquid fucking purgatory under my kneecap. Oh, and THEN he had to bend the knee back and forth to make sure the waters of perdition flowed copiously through all nerves in the area. 

I didn’t breathe through the whole ordeal; I tried unsuccessfully to push his torturous hand away; I considered ramming a baseball bat up his rectum to check for polyps or just to kill him anally. It was a sports clinic. Surely there was a bat around there somewhere. Oh, and I would have been sure to give him a little local anesthesia before the carnage. And I’d swear it wouldn’t hurt a bit.

NO MORE Crotchberries!!

Oh, Levi. Levi. PLEASE keep the sausage in its casing, the Whopper Junior in its wrapper, the man-missile in its silo. For the love of GOD and the sanity of all humans, please do not procreate any more. Stop sticking your polluted phallus of scuzzery in the woman-tunnels of girls with whom you share an I.Q. category. Can't you see that there are enough crotchberries from the left side of the Bell Curve already?