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.
Showing posts with label Wal Mart. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wal Mart. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

What IS It with Me and P?

This post brought to you by my bladder.


Day before yesterday, I was minding my own business when out of nowhere, I was bombarded by pee. First, before I could mute the t.v., that stupid Tena Twist ® commercial came on. You know what I’m talking about. Tena ® is a product for bladder control issues, and the embarrassing commercial features several average women (read: NOT thin) dancing with abandon to the twist, made popular by Chubby Checker in 1960. 

On a side note, Chubby was recently in the news because he strongly (and legally) objected to a new phone app called the "chubby checker" with which men can check the thickness or their...yeah. You get it. The problem with the app is that any guy who uses his phone for that purpose is a dick all over. But I digress.

Tena Twist ®. That's where I was. The point of Tena Twist ®, I guess, is that while you are dancing, and pee is just squirting out, the bladder control pads or briefs (gaaaaaccckkkkkk) will sop it up so you can continue looking like you are having spasms more-or-less to the beat of a 50-year-old tune. Because there is nothing more mortifying than visiting your doctor to learn the physical reason behind your leakage except maybe enduring a price check over the intercom in Wal Mart after you plop down a package of pee-leaky pads in front of guy buying a pack of Marlboros and a foreign couple who consistently ignore the "20 items or less" sign and haul up two buggies of supplies for their restaurant.

Not that I've had that experience. Yet.

My second urine run-in happened just seconds after I saw the
Tena ® ad. I got up from the couch because I'd had to pee for, like, an hour, and now could no longer hold it because people on t.v. were all excited about having to pee. It must be noted that due to my recent knee injury, it takes a few moments for me to adjust to standing. So before I could quite get into fully erect mode (i.e., in which I can clamp together my gargantuan thighs in order to "hold it" when I have to go), my bladder went on the offensive. 

I didn't have that regular sensation that occurs when I pee with permission. This was more like an imaginary imp pouring a 2-liter of warm something down my legs. There were no tissues nearby--which seems impossible since I keep Kleenex ® in business with my allergies--so I had no choice but to wad up the bottom of my nightgown to stanch the golden gift. Class-saaaaaaaay. Needless to say, I will be burning that garment.

So then, in my effort to make it to the potty before the coming deluge, I was stumbling down the hall clutching my peeful crotch when I stepped in a huge, cold, wet patch of carpet. My extra-thick sock wicked so much liquid that some ground water came up. I snapped my head back to glare at my poodle, and she slinked her 14-year-old bladder out of view. Bitch.

I can't tell you how much fun I had hopping on a damaged leg while trying to hold a gallon of urinary juice inside a sack with no cut-off valve. I was like a palsy victim trying to run while carrying a giant mixing bowl of sloshing water. Pee everywhere!

I finally made it to the bathroom, but it was academic. In the end, I could not get the pee to go in the one place it was acceptable. Screw incontinence! If you need me, I'm sure you can find me cleaning something. But at least I won't have to pee.





Sunday, December 23, 2012

Judgment, Smudgment

Obviously, the idiot on the far right wasn't even paying attention to the performance, and the asshat next to her has a painful hemorrhoid that makes him a dick.

So I was in Wal Mart today—which anyone who knows me will hardly believe because I spend such a small percentage of my time in Wal Mart (i.e., 99.3%)—and this husband and wife were waiting at the photo developing counter while I staggered up to return a wrong-size fitted sheet in the adjacent customer-service area. First, the wife scanned me from head to toe with a look on her face that clearly indicated she had recently soiled herself and was just now getting a whiff. Then she elbowed her husband and, still sneering my way, said something under her probably ass-scented breath that made him turn and look at me. And he was a real looker too. Lush, salt-and-pepper hair. All three of them. Tall and dark. In an ethnic Hobbit sort of way. She’s a very lucky bitc…woman.

Fortunately for him, he noticed that I noticed the two of them in their judgment, so he rapidly turned crimson and stopped in mid-comment. Both of them appeared momentarily flustered and then turned their backs, presumably to talk with the photo employee who wasn’t there yet. I was so shocked that I’d just been dissed by these two fellow Wal Marters that I laughed heartily and tsked in their general direction. Then I loudly recounted the incident to my husband and then to my daughter so that anyone in the vicinity of my voice (i.e., in Indiana) could experience vicariously the judgment to which I’d just been subjected.

And the whole sordid event got me thinking. What judgmental assholes! First of all, who even gets photos developed anymore? Haven't you fuckers heard of digital cameras? Join us in the 21st century, dick-suckers!

Second, who the fuck in Wal Mart has any business judging anyone else in the entire world? Wal Mart shoppers are poor and have visible ass-cracks. I should know because I have 27 dollars in the bank, and my jeans tend to inch down in the back when I ride on those motorized carts that I have to use since my unfortunate fall in a big box store that shall remain nameless.

Third, I have seen enough judgmental bullshit in connection with my mentally ill daughter whose medications have caused her to gain over 100 pounds in the past year to last until we work our way through the goddamned Mayan calendar again. Let me tell you, one of the most awesome things a person can ever do is to snigger condescendingly and sling personal insults at my challenged child. That’s because I have a fucking claw hammer I haven’t really broken in quite yet.

But you know, I just hate judgmental assholes because they don’t realize the obvious: they are fucking smears of wormy dogshit on a bathroom floor in a really scuzzy bar in some sleazy part of a drug-infested and lawless Mexican town. Judgmental assholes think that physical attractiveness or athletic prowess or a fat wallet and North Face ® fleece make them something. The truth is that NO ONE is anything. We are all just flawed, struggling pieces of a big puzzle trying to get back together. All of the pieces are necessary to complete the picture, and no piece is any more important than any other. Even you corner pieces, so shut the fuck up. As for you, you sorry-assed, sack-nuzzling, shit-licking mother fuckers at the Wal Mart photo developing stand, keep your fucking worthless judgment to yourselves.