Welcome, Whiners!

Welcome, Whiners!
Are you tired of hearing, "Quit yer bitchin'?" Goood. You've come to the right place. Whiners, moaners, complainers, venters, and crybabies are all welcome and invited. No matter how petty and immature and insignificant your rant, you now have a place to post it. Or you can just enjoy my daily grousing. Yay. Let the bitching begin.

Friday, May 24, 2013

10,000 Page Views Coming Soon to a Blog Near YOU!

I want 10,000 of THESE. But the page views are nice too.


Okay. Blu hoo is closing in on 10,000 page views, so I’ve been toying with what in the HELL topic I want up when that happens. Yeah. I’ve got nothing.

I had been planning forever to post about Angelina’s boob-removal, but that is so five minutes ago. There seems never to be any time to write Blu hoo posts anymore. I have officially turned into a friggin’ dog. I eat, sleep, and work, and that’s about my day, every day. I substituted “work” for “poop” because dogs don’t work, and apparently someone has stuffed my ass with Sakrete ® again, for God’s sake. I realize that in order to have non-ashy skin, eyes that don’t feel like they are full of glass shards, and a working digestive system that I desperately need to drink more water.

But there just isn’t time.

I mean, it’s such a goddamned chore to get up and go to the kitchen and take down an ugly plastic cup and turn on the filtered water faucet and wait for-freaking-ever for the cup to fill up only to have to do it all again in, like, seven seconds. What I need is an IV. I’ve been saying this for years. If I had one of those nice permanent port thingies, my life would be so much easier. I could throw some saline in there and some nutrients from time to time and maybe some pain killers on days like today. Then I would never be dehydrated again and have to embarrass my husband by making him go down to the Marsh and buy industrial strength Fleet ® products in front of all the snobs. Those folks get their colons cleansed weekly in between the pedicures and root touch-ups and tennis lessons. I’ll bet their colonoscopy pictures look like one of those tunnels that people see when they have a near-death experience what with the smooth, clean walls and bright light and dude dressed in all-white at the end. MY colonoscopy picture is going to look like a fucking Baby Ruth ®.

Does that mean I should give up good eatin’ just so that I have a clean butt tube and unclogged arteries? I don’t know. My theory is that even if I eat tree bark and tofu for my whole life and never savor a bite of it, I will still die. I might as well enjoy my life experiences while I’m here. I guess that’s one of the reasons Angelina cut off her boobs. She is definitely enjoying the fuck out of her life experiences, so who can blame her for wanting to prolong life for as many moments as possible? I’ll bet that more women would elect to have preventative surgery if they knew the first and last thing they’d see before and after going under would be Brad Pitt.

Plus, Angelina and Brad have more money than God and can expect the best possible care. I’ve had two friends who bravely fought breast cancer and opted to have the additional reconstructive procedure after their mastectomies. The options have changed since these two darlings had their stomach muscles re-routed to form the appearance of new boobs. One chose to have her nipples tattooed on. I know this because she yanked up her shirt to see what I thought. She didn’t warn me either. Just ripped that shirt right on up in the middle of a conversation. The boobs looked pretty good, but the tattooed nipples were a poor substitute.

Angelina was lucky enough to have the time and funds to test her nipple tissue so that she could retain the real deals. Then, she had the “new” tear-drop-shaped implants for optimum boobage. I think what she did took a lot of guts because undergoing any surgery—elective or not—is scary. Plus, she removed almost all chances that she will die young of female cancer like her mother and grandmother, leaving her children devastated and unmoored. But she now has perfectly sculpted tits that will remain forever perky. Both of my friends died despite their efforts. The rebuilt boobs didn’t help.

So. I ended up talking about Angelina anyway. Figures. Here’s to the next 10,000 page views and to living life with grace and beauty and acceptance and juicy cusswords and incredible food and without fear and hatred. Except for hatred of bad grammar and constipation and Charlie Sheen and no vacation time ever and the pain and suffering of people I love. Those are still fair game.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Why I Hate Whiny-Assed People

Don't you just KNOW he has a tiny, little trust fund?


I hate injustice more than anyone else in the history of injustice haters. If you come to my house—and for those of you with restraining orders, I’m not talking to you—you can see my shiny, golden statuette with the little engraved plaque that reads, “World’s Greatest Injustice Hater.”

That makes it true.

Just ask anyone who has ever received a shiny, golden statuette. For example, Halle Berry. Even though I dislike the way Nicole Kidman keeps melting her face, I admit that she has put forth some incredible performances, and I don't just mean her marriage to Tom "Scary as Charlie Sheen" Cruise. Nicole really was robbed of the best actress Oscar ® for Moulin Rouge! in 2001 because Halle Berry turned in her inspired masterpiece in Monster’s Ball. So because Halle got the gold, that makes it TRUE that she was the better actress that year. But not really. I mean, there should have been a freaking TIE just like the year that Katharine Hepburn won for The Lion in Winter and Barbra Streisand won for Funny Girl. See, that right there is an injustice. (Damn.) So much for the truth-is-a-tiny-golden-statuette argument. But I digress.

My point is that even though I despise injustice and used to fight tooth-and-what-would-have-been-nails-if-I-hadn’t-chewed-them-down-to-nubs for every, single grade point I knew I deserved in school, I hate WHINERS more than I hate injustice.

I may or may not have a student who is a class-A, mother-fucking, ass-licking whiner. He or she may or may not have emailed me today something similar to Why did you take off ¼ of a point? My OTHER teachers have never taken off points for that before. This same person is highly likely to whine, My OTHER anal lovers let me suck the dick afterwards! or MOTHER always cut my crusts off! Yeah, well, then you should still be living in Mommy’s house with your head in her panty drawer. Ass.

I don’t give a rat’s butt-seepage about what OTHER teachers/wives/girlfriends/employees/customers do! I have very high standards for EVERYTHING other than clean, wholesome language and disturbing images.

I’m so sick of the dumbing-down of every institution in America, especially our educational system. God forbid we fail to reward mediocrity with a tiny, golden statuette. We might hurt someone’s tender, fucking feelings if everyone doesn’t walk away with a prize for participation,” or if we have the nerve to criticize. So when some dumbass writes 5(3 x 17/43 x -.03) = 17, I’m just supposed to IGNORE that?!? Come on!

Or some fucktard writes, In this essay i will write about my son illness and who the doctor toll us we sopose to do and reason for illness, and I’m required to say, “I think you have a great start to your essay, and your introduction makes your paper’s focus clear,” and what I reallllllly want to say is “Please, please, please for the love of God, don’t procreate, and stop sending me cryptic messages that are obviously encoded for Al Qaeda, you fucking terrorist.”

One of these days, I’m going to have some hideous Freudian slip when I mean to say, “Good luck in your future classes and career,” but what comes out is, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck and your fucking mother for fucking that garden slug and giving birth to a smear.” Seriously, I have to be constantly on my toes.

In the meantime, I’ll be all nice and maintain my composure. I will just allegedly think alleged evil curses against your alleged paternity and species-identification, but I will smile sweetly and say, “I understand your point of view. Let’s see how we can reach a resolution that makes sense.” Even though you wouldn’t understand sense if it crawled up your ass and out your eye sockets. But I promise to keep that to myself.