Stupid, Fucking Tunnel Vision

And to think I'm Pro-Choice.

So I’m driving in a mini-blizzard the other night, and my headlights shine on the following bumper sticker up ahead:

A cartoon-version Virgin cradling Child with a big star behind them. All red and green and gold. And these words: If Mary had been Pro-Choice, Christmas wouldn’t exist.

Holy Mother of God. What? What? Raise your hand if you see the fallacy in that statement. Anyone? Anyone? I get so wound up over crazy, assbackwards thinking like that I could spit stainless steel surgical staplesssssss.

So the driver of that car, who, by the way, was slogging along like a four-hundred-year-old who should have officially retired her license in, like, the late 1600’s at the very fucking latest, BELIEVES that if Mary had been Pro-Choice that she would automatically have aborted her baby? Jesus Christ! What kind of twistfuck is that? You know, Mary might still have wanted to give birth to the Savior of the freaking world if given a choice, AND she may also have had a friend who was knocked up from some Philistine, and she might just have supported that friend’s decision to choose not to have the enemy’s bastard child. Or not. Just sayin’.

And as if that bumper sticker weren’t enough to turn my entire blood supply into a frothy, pink mess, the very next day I almost rear-ended this gem of Christian love and acceptance: TRUE Christians are PRO-LIFE. I actually sped up with the full intention of wiping that stupidity off the rust heap to which it was attached. Fortunately, I have more sense than the pre-tard[1] driving the thing. I don’t want to go to jail, and it sure as hell isn’t worth smashing up my hubby’s Subaru just because some people are dumber than a box of gnu nuts. But, are you fucking kidding me? Who gets to say that I am not a true believer in Christ just because I don’t think abortion should be illegal? I’m not standing on some Mount proclaiming that all preggers should rush to the nearest abortionist to have those unwanted fetii sucked out. Pro-Choice people are not advocating that EVERYONE should have abortions. But that’s exactly what strict Pro-Lifers would have you believe.

The world just is not that BLACK and WHITE. Just because you are Pro-Choice does NOT mean that you are not also Pro-Life. You can fucking be both. Damn. Pro-Choice means that I don’t get to decide what is right for YOU. Or YOU. Or YOU. And, gosh, I even agree with the Pro-Lifers on a tiny part of one of their points: I don’t necessarily want my tax dollars to be spent on abortion-as-birth-control for some drug-addled dumbass who just doesn’t have the energy or brain cells to keep from getting pregnant in the fifth place. But my tax dollars are spent on so much shit I don’t even know about and probably hate anyway. Our government buries untold amounts of crap on which to spend our gazillions in taxes in the tiny print of big bills so that when those pass, our loyal representatives are signing us up to fund unwittingly some guy who took a picture of a dude pissing on a Crucifix in a toilet and called it art. Yeah. Piss Christ it was called. Masterpiece, my ass.

You don’t see Christ going around judging people. He forgave EVERYBODY. Even the guy who pissed on Him in the john. Okay. I think we can all agree that murder is wrong most of the time except for when it comes to idiots with stupidass bumper stickers, so I get that there has to be some judgment in order to keep the order.  But just because I don’t think like you think, or love what you love, or hate races or creeds or sexual orientations you hate, or condemn those you condemn does NOT make me wrong. Or you right. So for Christ’s sake, quit showing your complete and utter lunacy on the tail end of your car.

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[1] Too dumb even to qualify for “retard.”

Next Up: I Got 15 Kids & 3 Babydaddies-- SOMEONE'S GONNA PAY FOR ME & MY KIDS!!!

Superstition Review Launches Issue 8

Heyyyyyyyy! One of the LINKS WE LOVE has just issued its 8th edition. Check it outttttttt.
http://superstitionreview.asu.edu/n8/

Sandusky Says...

Photo provided by the Pennsylvania Office of Attorney General.

Read more: http://www.foxnews.com/us/2011/11/14/sandusky-admits-showering-with-boys-but-says-hes-innocent-sex-abuse-charges/#ixzz1dk0l5hS5

All right. All right. Sandusky says that he is not a pedophile and that he "shouldn't have showered with those kids." Also, under his breath, he might have muttered something like, "And maybe it wasn't such a smart idea to use my dick as a roto-rooter." But I'm deaf, so I could be wrong.

The Morons are Coming, Part 2!

It’s not like that wedding ring just walked off by itself. Some dumbass put it in the trash. But if the ring had stayed on the goddamned finger where it was supposed to be, I would have nothing to bitch about today.

There are morons, and there are total, fucking morons. Exhibit A: Brian McGuinn, the Florida dude who accidentally threw his future wife’s engagement ring in the trash with his used razor blade this week. Who hasn’t done stupid shit like drop the car keys into the trash can along with the refuse that was in that same hand or put the milk in the pantry instead of the fridge or put the baby in the microwave instead of the stroller? I mean, everyone, practically. But McDummass’s dumbassness didn’t just stop (or start) with the innocent brushing of the ring off the bathroom counter into the Hefty ® bag, although how fucking drunk was he if he couldn’t tell the diff between a chunky ring and flat and rectangular razor blade?

No. In the first place, the guy paid 10,000 fucking dollars for said ring. What? 10,000 dollars. What piece of ass is worth 10 motherfucking thousand dollars? None. That’s like rent for a Harlem family of five for ten years. Damn. Buy a hundred-dollar CZ and get her a wardrobe that doesn’t come from WalMart, asshole. Do you honestly think it makes any difference to anyone whether the rock in that ring is a priceless gem or a really pretty piece of glass? Do you think you are buying 10,000 dollars’ worth of fidelity or everlasting love? I’m willing to wager that if you check the jewelry receipts of all the couples who ever got divorced, you’ll find just as many multiple-zero totals as you will hundred-dollar bottom lines.

Sinking yourself into that much debt for a stupid ring? Moron-move number 1. Number 2, of course, was scooping the ring into the trash. I still don’t believe that dorktard didn’t notice. And, number 3 is that he DID notice after the trash had been picked up and hauled off to the dump. His glacially-paced neurons finally fired, and he recalled where the ring might have gone. (Sure as shit, the shrieking of his wife-to-be provided the jump start. Perhaps a nice Taser to the testicles would be a better solution next time.)

Then, the next brilliant blunder: Brainless McGuinn trucked it down to the landfill and plunged into the sector where his condo’s trash pile rose towards a sulfur-scented sky. He tossed aside used nasties and discarded ickies until he noticed what he believed to be a screw covered in remnants of obscene Taster’s Choice ®. Lo! Behold! It was THE ring! He proclaimed that it was like winning the lottery. Umm. Not. You didn’t win anything, you shit-filled-ninny. You are no better off than you were the day before you tossed the ring, and, in fact, you are now covered with who knows what diseased muck and feculent filth and probably AIDS.

And another thing: Why the hell didn’t you purchase insurance for the big “D” in the first place? Dickshit. And then. And THEN, you took the story to the news. Of course you did. Because what better way to show the woman you love how much she means to you than to skewer your intelligence in front of the entire fucking world? Now everyone knows what a complete assbag you are! And the rest of her flipping life, every single person your fiancée encounters will think, “Aww. That’s the poor girl who is married to that guy who is too stupid to wipe his own ass. Aww.” Yeah! That’s the thing you want the world to think about the man whose penis you let into your girl cave to deposit baby seeds. Yeah. And don’t tell me that woman isn’t going to be just a teeny-tad worried the whole time there’s a timer in the turkey that it isn’t going to pop out dumber than daddy. God, I hope someone with an iota of smarts gets to that girl right away to stop her from making the biggest mistake of her life. She’s got a $10,000 ring! She can walk away right now and do all kinds of shopping after she hits Jerry’s Gold and Pawn!

The Morons are Coming!

So. Yeah. If you just drop that ONE little letter, these suddenly ubiquitous billboards make WAY more sense.

Oh, You Poor, Poor Thang

If this image appears blurry to you, perhaps you need to lay off the weed/crack/booze.

So a couple of days ago, I saw an article about how one of the 33 Chilean miners who got rescued in 2010 after a gazillion days of being trapped almost 2300 feet underground has “suffered” from alcoholism and drug addiction since he’s been back on terra firma. Boo hoo. Oh, how awful that the miner had to go through such a horrible experience! And now the poor dear will have to deal with all the extra attention and money he’s going to make in the sea of celebrity where talk-show sharks can smell the blood of recovery for miles.

I know. Many times, people suddenly inundated with unusual money and attention blow through it like a supermodel with an eight-ball of nose groceries and a straw. But what kills me is that anyone—especially anyone who has been poor since birth—would think, Heyyyyyy. Lots and lots of money! The first thing I’m going to do is buy super addictive substances that fuck up my brain! Does it matter that said previously-impoverished’s children walk around in something-stained, infant-sized t-shirts that leave their pee-pees exposed, and they’ve never had shoes, and they have pet flies? Perhaps the sight of their tiny beer bellies (because they are starving) provided a subliminal suggestion. Whatev. The truth is that no one ever, ever touches drugs unless he or she is a completely fucking selfish shitforbrains because when was the last time a bender or a visit to the crack house on the corner turned into anything positive?

Everyone knows that there is an enormous probability that introducing drugs into one’s system will result in a dependency that compels the addict to seek more and more and more of the high, so to hell with jobs and families and communities and stability and society and the law. One hit, one shot, one snort all mean the same thing: Fuck everybody and everything but me. The only thing important to me is me.

So. I have a terribly hard time feeling sorry for the motherfuckers who become addicts. I apologize to the .00000000000000000000000000001 percent of the addicted population who got hooked by force. If there are any junkies reading, and you were held at gun- or knifepoint, or your loved ones were threatened in any way if you didn’t take that first toke or whatever, please accept my heartfelt plea for forgiveness. You got a bum rap.

But alllllllll other drugwhores, you can’t have my sympathy. I will not weep while you pour out your drug-addled heart to Tinseltown pimps. You may have truly suffered, but you asked for it. You started it. No one said you had to. Cocaine or heroin or crack or alcohol addiction is not in any way comparable to the suffering of any other disease. You aren’t recovering from having a brain tumor removed or from the agony of chemotherapy-laced veins. You aren’t hairless and fragile and sterile because the only way to prolong your life was to poison your body. You poor, sick fuck. Your suffering was a choice.

Isn’t it time that those of us who have elected to eschew drugs in the first place or even those of you who have kicked the habit and should know better, quit doling out our attention to the wretched, whining wimps who are simply looking for another high? They have only replaced the addiction to drugs with the addiction to sympathy and book-signings. We need to stop behaving like drug addicts—celebrity or otherwise—have done something noble. Stop buying their tell-alls. Stop labeling them “inspirations.” And as for that Chilean miner, if he wants to wind up underground permanently because he doesn’t give a shit about anything but himself, then let’s not dig him up this time.

Die, Depression, Die.

This is the CARTOON version of Depression. Is that a ball and chain? Who knows? And what is up with that monocle? Clearly the artist did not have personal experience with depression.

Whatever ass-licking son of a bitch it was who invented depression deserves to be stripped bare of all skin so that the body’s billions of super-sensitive nerve endings are exposed— to air and daylight and, perhaps, a little acid for extra effect—and then slowly lowered into a vat of percolating, putrid, pathogen-loaded pollution, the object of which is to boil and maim and destroy at a glacial pace for maximum pain and suffering. For eternity. Just like the farcical, fictional hell that Bible-thumpers want you to believe awaits you when your memory and emotion and knowledge outlast your cells’ capacity to contain them.

Yeah. It would be an agonizing, torturous death, but boo fucking hoo. I don’t hate much, and I don’t relish the idea of causing anguish to anyone or anything other than wretched roaches or that fucktard, Charlie Sheen. But in this case, I’ll make an exception. If depression were personified, it would look like that Sheen asshole anyway. So. Yeah. 

And I say: cut off its balls. With nail clippers. Take your time. Snip. Snip. Snip. And then, sauté said nuts briskly in a broth of aged poodle shit and Munster. And anchovies. Then, purée until blenderific, and inject into the oral and nasal cavities in one fire-hosing flourish. Any proceeds that reappear in vomit must be re-injected! Waste not, want not! If the personification of debilitating despair chokes to death on its own pukefied testicles, at least wait until the misery of the suffocation and the very idea of what caused it to fully settle before resuscitating.

“Resuscitating?” you ask. “Why on earth would I revive that reptilian bastard once I’ve succeeded in annihilating it?” Well. There is so much more pain to be delivered! Why should the foul and feculent bane of my existence get such an easy out? It’s one of the same reasons that capital-punishment is so utterly stupid. The dumbshit who came up with the death penalty probably also invented depression. “I know,” said the dumbshit. “Let’s take criminals who rape and murder folks and give ‘em an I.V.! Oooo. And then, drip some prisoner-Valium into the line so they can relaxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. And then, we’ll throw in a controlled substance that will gradually put ‘em to sleep forever. Yeah. Dropping off to sleep! THAT will teach those fucking criminals not to hurt other people to death.”

Depression does not deserve a gentle tucky-tuck. It merits at the very least a thorough fucking in all orifices with a California redwood. Because that is what the goddamned piece of shit does to me. All the time. It sneaks in and around and under and through; and it rips and shreds and rents and tears; and it slams and hacks and stabs and breaks; and it guts and shatters and crushes and extinguishes. Depression is the fucking devil. And I hate it.

Political Correctness is Retarded

You know what sucks old, diseased, flaccid warthog dicks? Stupid, fucking, immature humans who enslave other people, or who abuse the vulnerable, or who degrade the meek, or who revel in the misery of others, or who rejoice at the downfall of the powerful (unless the powerful are evil), or who get any satisfaction out of the humiliation of ANYONE who has ever made a mistake (unless said someone is an idiot celebrity who chooses to fuck up and brag about it and whose name rhymes with Barley Bean).

Yes. It SUCKS, goddammit, when someone who isn’t Caucasian or who isn’t heterosexual is harassed or bullied or shamed or even murdered for being NOTwhite or NOTstraight. It bites when someone handicapped is singled out and ridiculed for being crippled or deaf or mentally ill or whatever. Who the fuck says it is okay for anyone to consider themselves superior in the first place?

A few years ago, I worked as a one-on-one aide for an autistic middle-schooler whose supposed “best friend” was a rich little shit with an entitlement syndrome probably brought on by his genital deficiency. The utter meanness that son-of-a-bitch unleashed on my fragile student still roils my blood. And the fact that the instigator intentionally embarrassed his “friend” for being different and strange just to make other kids laugh makes me want to track down the prick and beat the shit out of him with a crowbar to this day. I don’t get what is in a person’s DNA that signals a thumbs-up when the choice to destroy another person becomes available. And the fact that I am a hearing impaired girl who has an autistic child causes me to be ultra-sensitive to personal attacks on individuals or groups who are considered anything less than “perfect.”

But Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph. It is just the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard that people get so bent out of shape when someone utters the word retarded. Or gay. What’s next? The cripples of the world are going to come after me with their canes because I said that the arguments of the politically correct are lame? The Policitical Correctness Police have twisted the use of these words to mean something that was never intended. The PCP has actually MADE the terms offensive, so fucking thank you PCP for ruining practically everything funny in the world. And I am in NO way referring to ANY ethnic slurs here because those terms and phrases ARE intended to mean that a particular race is inferior. There’s no other way to interpret those.

But we all know that when we say something is retarded, we mean that it is stupid or shallow or goofy or ridiculous. It can’t possibly mean that it is mentally challenged for fuck’s sake. And anyone with half a brain knows that nobody means that an idea is homosexual when they say it’s gay. It means that it is LAME, and you all know exactly what that means!

Remember when that pseudo-celebrity dumbass Omarosa got pissed off and threatened a fricking lawsuit because one of her teammates on The Apprentice said she was "the pot calling the kettle black"? The opponent did not mean anything negative about being black, but that didn’t stop that idiot bitch from immediately jumping on it. SHE was the one who assigned the negative connotation to the word black. And that is just what the PCP love to do. They turn our words inside out just looking for some way to milk ‘em for a lawsuit. God forbid anyone refer to God in this country anymore. We might offend someone who doesn’t believe in God. Well fuck them. We live in a free country where it is guaranteed that we have freedom of speech. If we regulate what might offend every single soul, God help us. Lighten up people. And quit being so fucking retarded.

Photo credit: Vaquer, A. (Photo). Armand’s Ranch Del Cielo. Retrieved from http://armandsrancho.blogspot.com/2010/08/politically-incorrect-warning-sign.html

Boobs. Just boobs.

Damn. Put those torpedoes away before someone loses an eye.

You know that television show, Mad Men, starring Jon Hamm and Christina Hendricks’s boobs? Even if you don’t watch the paean to the heyday of 60’s cool advertising execs on Madison Avenue, you’ve no doubt still seen Christina Hendricks’s boobs. Jesus, but they are everywhere. And there’s so much of them. I am starting to think somebody manufactured Christina after one too many viewings of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Am I the only one who sees the eerie resemblance between the cartoon bombshell and Ms. Hendricks? But. Don’t get me wrong. I never said there was anything positive about the overabundance of mammaralia or the shameless display of said glands.

Since approximately 1971, I’ve had cumbersome bosoms. I used to tug them over to the sides when I was lying down so that I could see what it was like to be flat like my best friend, Donna. She was dying for a training bra, and I would’ve killed to get rid of the excess flesh that I had to wrangle into a tight undergarment every morning. Stupid, idiot, asshole sixth-grade boys thought it was all the rage to reach up the back of my shirt and snap my bra strap. Those mother fuckers have no idea how lucky they are that they didn’t grow up a couple of decades later when I’d have been suing their sorry asses for sexual harassment.

In my senior year of high school, I had a slight change of tune about my honkers, hooters, headlights, paw patties, ta-tas, whatever you want to call ‘em. I was in a variety show that required quick costume changes, so I didn’t have time to go to a dressing room. I had to change just off stage, and I remember the furtive, feral glances from the boys in the orchestra pit, their glimmery eyes half-lit by the music-stand lamps. I specifically selected insanely gorgeous and sexy lingerie just for the occasions. I had discovered the might of the melons. 

And as I aged (not fucking gracefully, I might add), I grew to enjoy a well-placed neckline and super-push-up cups. It is kind of funny to conduct scientific experiments in the field to see how many people cannot make one second of eye contact when there are cupcakes on the counter. But, damn. There is a time and place for everything. And apparently Christina Hendricks has never been told.

That woman—whose warheads are actually natural—cannot attend a single event without displaying her goddamned Pointer-Sisters on a shelf. At one of the recent premiers for the soon-to-be-released Sarah Jessica Parker film, I Don’t Know How She Does It, Ms. Hendricks pink-satin-encased funbags were clearly vying for top billing. We get it, okay? You’ve got humongous hood ornaments. But you do not have to wear every single neckline at the tippy top of your nipples. It’s actually unappealing to see all that smushed flesh with its criss-cross of blue veins spurting out under your chin like two exploded cans of Hungry Jacks. Sometimes it’s okay for the girls to stay inside.

Photo credit: Jessica Rabbit. (Cartoon image.) Retrieved from http://www.empireonline.com/100-greatest-movie-characters/default.asp?c=88

Being a Mother is a MOTHER.

And as soon as Deidre got her hands on little Frederick, she beat his ass for all of the upcoming pain he would cause her, not to mention the 37-hour natural childbirth and the episiotomy.

I think I’m pretty clear about the fact that I love my children. I tell them both every chance I get, and I frequently think I love my daughters at random times during the day. Aside from the desire to stab out with kebab skewers any remaining hearing I have to escape their whining and the occasional suggestion that they go play in traffic when they annoy me, I have cherished every single second since they were carved out of my flesh. I adore being a mother.

But goddamn. Who the fuck designed this job? How is it that I can be light years away from the scene of a clusterfuck, and yet I am the one who has to fix it? I’m thinking that three years, tops, per child for wiping of, handling of, disposing of, cleaning up shit is puh-lenty. Anything beyond that is clearly in breach of contract, and I want to speak to the manager.

Was I the one who slammed on the brakes and destroyed key components that make my car go? No, I was not. Was I the one who slammed on the brakes of my daughter’s car, destroying key components that make it go? No. I was not. Was I the one who refused to take the dog out to pee, and then placed her on my brand new, $300 comforter so that she could unload her overnight-full bladder? No. I. Was. Not. Was I the one who put the not-securely-closed gallon of milk on its side in the refrigerator so that it pooled and congealed all over every surface below it? What do you think?

But guess who had to haul both daughters around because we only had one car between us? Me. Guess who had loads of spare time to do so? Not me. Guess who had to figure out how to stuff a king-sized comforter into a queen-sized washer? Guess who had to disassemble the entire refrigerator and chisel fucking solid milk off the plastic? The only upside to that is that I don’t have to buy cottage cheese for a while. But the point is that I constantly find myself working like a cat in a sandbox, an image I despise for its reference to God-forsaken cats and the reminder of shit-mixed-with-litter odor.

It’s not like I am fucking June Cleaver, which sounds REALLY wrong like I meant “having sex with June Cleaver.” Ew. I meant it’s not like I am the stay-at-home matron who cooks and cleans and shops and consoles and arranges and manages and doctors and repairs and creates and encourages and takes care of EVERYthing all while sporting heels, a starched skirt and genuine pearls. No, no. I have to be Ward too. Work full time, try to fit in some soul-saving hobby like writing, AND do all of that other shit to boot. It’s some kind of magic that women survive without their brains exploding and splattering all over supper. You know, it just occurred to me that if my head’s contents had exploded during dinner, some of my former husbands would’ve kept right on eating. But that’s another post.

The fucking women’s libbers are to blame for this whole debacle. Yes, women should be able to do alllllll the things a man can do. But when they were planning this great liberation, the bra-burners should have made sure that they’d get equal pay AND that men also had to be able to do everything a woman can do. If you want true equality, it has to be reciprocal. Well. I still detect that glass ceiling on women’s salaries, and the last time I checked, babies still can’t squeeze out of that tiny penis hole. How is that fair? And kiss my ass with your “no one ever said life was fair” bullshit. You sound like someone’s mother.

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner...Again.

"Sit down, Jake," says Baby's mom to her husband just seconds later after she finally grows some cojones.

No. Fucking. Way. I want to know what in the dadblamed world is wrong with the people in Hollywood besides the fact that they are all plastic and shallow enough to be used as Tupperware ®. Is there really nothing new under the sun? Can the moronic millionaires who’ve brought us such creative and inspiring fare as Hall Pass, From Justin to Kelly, Glitter, Daddy Day Camp, Battlefield Earth, Freddy Got Fingered and Gigli NOT come up with something that doesn’t smell like that pan of potatoes I accidentally left wedged under a seat in my car one summer until it smelled so much like rotten something that Casey Anthony’s parents thought I did it.

What? Too soon?

Anyway. I saw in the news recently that some fucking brain dead yahoos are planning a remake of Dirty Dancing, that amazing, brilliant, classic ode to a simpler time when abortions were only $250 and a guy like Patrick Swayze’s Johnny Castle was not immediately swept up by a vacationing sleazy producer to star in a cheesy reality show. I went to see that movie every single afternoon from the time it was released until it finally left the theatre. I kid you not. Many, many days, I was the only patron in the room, and I loved the experience of having a private showing just for me. The pairing of incomparable stars Swayze and Jennifer Grey was clearly sanctioned by God or at the very least Oprah, whom I think we’re all going to find out in the end is God.

How in Oprah’s name can anyone actually toy with recasting that piece of pure gold?! Has no one seen Psycho (1998)? Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005)? The Stepford Wives (2004)? Arthur (2011)? You do NOT fuck around with the classics, people. And nobody better put Baby in a corner again.

Aaaaagggh. I can just imagine the agony on celluloid that a remade DD would truly be. The same tired old fucks who think we need yet ANOTHER version of Spiderman have just reshot Footloose, for Chrissake. Kevin Bacon must be rolling over in his career’s grave. Just who in the hell would even be considered remotely worthy of stepping into Baby’s shoes? I’ve seen the rumors that Glee’s Lea Michele is in the running. All I can say is that she BETTER be running. Away from that project. I cannot be responsible for the vitriol that may spill from my soul if this insane idea comes to fruition. Alas. I know it is going to be. The controversy and buzz and possibility of large amounts of money to be made (squandered) will be too much for the Charlie-Sheen-penis-sized minds of Tinsel Town to withstand.

What the...? Is it POSSIBLE that Bloggurl is back?

Well. Yes. It is. I can scarcely believe that it has been nearly a solid month since I’ve posted a scathing indictment of anything or anyone. Fuck me. I have been rolling around in a hell of proportions I never imagined achievable. Anything that can keep me from writing for a whole fucking month is obviously the work of Satan. Or Charlie Sheen. Wait. That’s the same.

Torture is what I’ve been through. That’s right. Witnessing utterly stupid shit in the world and NOT being able to comment has been torture worse than having my skin ripped off, although I rather like that idea if the underlying fat comes off with it. Hmmm. But I digress.

I previously reported that I moved from the unholy, apocalyptically hot and humid, cock roach breeding ground that is Georgia to the much more temperate-but-so-far-right-wing-its-inhabitants-all-walk-with-a-starboard-list land of Indiana. What? There IS more than corn here. It’s just all really conservative and thinks you’re going to hell.

The weather has been pretty pleasant, and we’ve only had three tornado warnings since July. But the physical move to this new home full of promise felt more like a series of catastrophic illnesses requiring surgery without anesthesia. And on top of that, before I’d even recovered, our fam decided to take a cross-country vaca. In the car. Yes. Yes. 70 + hours of sitting on summer-warmed leather seats, crammed up to the dashboard as far as the seat would take me. Mm mm mm. I want to do that again really soon. Because I like for my ass to appear even wider and flatter. And the muscle and joint pains that have settled in for the long haul are simply welcome reminders that I am fucking ALIVE. (Bullshit. People who think that way are reformed crack addicts anxiously eyeing that new meth lab on the block.)

I can’t even begin to explain all the vexation that has blossomed like a vaginal yeast infection in swimsuit season since we got back from the West Coast. So I won’t. Suffice it to say that if you look up that Biblical complainer, Job, in the dictionary, it says, “You pussy. You call that suffering? You have no idea what it is like to truly agonize, you son of a bitch. Why don’t you strap on a tenth of the adversity that Bloggurl has had in the last month, and then see if you’re still worthy of being called a man. You fucking whiner.”

Yes, huh. It really does say that.

The good news is that I’m baaaaaack. I have so much to do my brain is close to detonating, but I’m back. Yay. Let the bitching resume.

Good Ol' Nebraska

The good life? For whom? Tornadoes, maybe.

Do you know why all the trees in Iowa lean to the left? Because Nebraska sucks. I’ve been in some really suckass places in my life, but you know what sucks more than Nebraska? Fucking nothing.

Three times now I’ve been forced to drive the total distance of the state on one of the loneliest stretches of interstate in the country. That means 455 miles of utter, desolate shit. The speed limit is 75 for a reason. So you can hurry the fuck up and get out of Nebraska. I’m pretty sure the residents are fully cognitive of their suckiness too because we stopped at a Mickey D’s, which was one of the only locations in the state with actual live people—although all of the specimens were ancient with their gnarled, liver-spotted fingers wrapped around their steaming Styrofoam ® coffee cups and their yellowed, mistrusting eyes peering just over the brims—and the bathroom was so goddamned cold that my pee turned into an icicle as soon as it hit the air, and it just broke off and fell in the toilet. Only business managers who intend their customers to rotate rapidly in and out keep their thermostats on fucking frigid.  I completely understand why hundreds of Nebraska’s cities have less than 1,000 residents. Not many people care to advertise so blatantly that they are 100 % sucky.

Guess what early Nebraskans used to call homes? Sod houses. You know what those are, right? Anyone? Anyone? Okay. Y’all suck too. Sod houses are humble abodes made of large cubic chunks of sod. Like bricks, but made of dirt with a little grass on top. The worst thing about sod houses besides the dank smell and floors that never come clean no matter how many times you mop is that when it rains and you are lying on your straw-filled mattress under a moldering quilt, snakes and worms and bugs fall out of the dirt on your head. In your hair. In your mouth if it happens to be open. The creatures that live in dirt like to burrow deeper when it rains to get away from the water. Unfortunately, there isn’t that far to go when the sod is no longer attached to the ground. Hence the sudden pile of slimy, crawly things all over your bed. Gackkkk. Good ol’ Nebraska.

We made the mistake of booking a hotel in Lincoln on one of our jaunts through the nation’s asshole, and there were lumps in the carpet. Large, creature sized lumps that were spongy and extremely disconcerting to discover in the darkness on the way to the bathroom to drop an icicle. There is no way that the carpet installers didn’t notice that they were covering palpable piles, and where else but Nebraska would allow carpet mounds?  The only good thing I’ve ever heard about Nebraska is that it sports the world’s largest porch swing. 26 children or 18 adults can fit on it at one time. That seems cool, and I’d like to see it. But it probably has a seat of poison-tipped nails, and all the children just cry for the whole ride and then die. Good ol’ Nebraska. 

Picture from newsroom.unl.edu.

Being on Time is Against my D.N.A.

Elizabeth Taylor and I have so much in common. The double rows of eyelashes. The multiple marriages. The millions in jewels. All right. That last one is bullshit. But here’s a true third similarity: Elizabeth and I are notoriously late for everything. I’m so going to copy Ms. Taylor’s last wish too. She had her burial service start 15 minutes before her remains arrived, so that she’d even be tardy to her funeral. God, I love that.

My lack of punctuality goes back a long, long way. I’m pretty sure that I grabbed the inner walls of my mother’s uterus so that I wouldn’t pop out, and she could stop and have Salisbury steak for lunch at the S & S Cafeteria on the way to the delivery ward. After her gyno told her that she was already dilated and needed to hoof it to the hospital, she made it clear to anyone in a twelve mile radius that she was starving and that the medical staff wouldn’t let her eat once she arrived. God knows I always wanted to do every fucking thing in my power to make sure my mother was happy. So I latched onto some womb and racked up my first tardy.

In elementary school, my daddy actually drove out of the driveway and left my ass because my slothful morning routine kept making him late for work. And my daddy hates, hates, hates being one nanosecond late for anything. He warned and scolded and pleaded and threatened. And then he made good on his promise. I was horrified for about no minutes before I realized that I’d have the house and the television (tuned to cartoons) all to myself for the day. I had just settled into the recliner as Josie and the Pussycats started, and I’d almost gotten the spoonful of Lucky Charms ® to my lips when Daddy came back to get me. Damn his heart of gold. Fuck his guilty conscience. I just know that ten hours of T.V. watching and junk food would have taught me a lesson for sure. Alas.

In high school, Mrs. Cherry, my homeroom teacher finally wrote me up and sent me to the principal’s office after my 52^nd tardy. Yes. 52. It was nearly the end of my junior year, and the only reason I didn’t have over 100 tardies is because most of the time, I’d pull into the senior parking lot—which was right outside my homeroom windows—and park illegally in a fire zone, rush into the room as the bell was ringing, and then make up some creative excuse for why I had to run an errand. Then I’d move my car over to the proper parking lot across the street and amble back over just in time to be late for first period.

When I meandered to the principal’s office that morning, it was my first-ever visit as I was a classic over-achiever and had never been in an ounce of trouble in my life. Fortunately the head-asshole wasn’t in, so I had to see the assistant principal. Things started awkwardly as my skirt got caught on the edge of his desk, and he had to come around and release me. His laughing at my expense did not help. Then he assigned me one afternoon of detention. One. I scooted into the detention room after school that day…late. There wasn’t even a monitor in the room, and my mom came to pick me up, so the two of us sat in there chatting up all the losers and then cut out early after 15 minutes. So much for my second chance for a life-changing lesson.

I got into mucho hot water during my first teaching tenure because I could not get my sorry ass to work on time. And I was incredibly immature about the whole thing. I just couldn’t understand why everyone had to ride me about being on time and why it mattered in the first damned place. It wasn’t like I purposely overslept or took too long to get dressed or drove the long way. If I rolled out of bed three hours before my usual wake-up time, it would be the very day that my dog had massive diarrhea, which would take me three hours and fifteen minutes to clean up. No one at work gave a shit about my best intentions.

I think the moment that finally made me actually work towards getting places on time was one morning when I was supposed to pick up my priest’s wife to go to a meeting at the Diocese of Atlanta. I was running late, and I called her and made up some crap about being “almost there.” But then my car wouldn’t start, and I had to call Mrs. Holy back and explain that I’d never even left my driveway and that I had lied to her and that she had to come pick me up, which would make us late for the meeting. Shit. It was so chilly in her car on the trip that we didn’t even need the AC.

I have gotten better over the years, especially when it comes to being punctual for work. But I still have my promptness issues when I am scheduled to meet someone for a social occasion. I was supposed to meet my best friend, Lisa, for lunch at 12:30 a couple of weeks ago, and I woke up at 12:20. I actually get all bent out of shape and frantic when I realize that I am going to hold someone else up now. But apparently that isn’t good enough. My darling friend wasn’t even really mad, but I wouldn’t blame her if she quit speaking to me.

And that same damned week, I made a date to meet another Lisa, one of my dearest buddies from high school, for lunch. We hadn’t seen each other in 30 years, and when I walked in late, she said, “Well. If you had been on time, you wouldn’t be you.” Damn! I wanted to explain that I’m not always late anymore, that I really have grown up a little, that I am not as rude and inconsiderate as I used to be. But people hate excuses almost as much as they hate folks being late. I’ll just pretend that my unpunctuality is one of my endearing qualities. And no matter what anyone says, I am still going to do my best to be late for my funeral.

DIY Moving Sucks Big Balls

Notice that these people are NOT smiling. And they have only unloaded two fucking boxes from the van. Wussies.

Where the hell have I been for ten fricking days?? Ohhhhh ho ho. I’ve been moving, that’s where. Son-of-a-bitching moving. Godforsaken moving. The apocalypse of moving.

You know, I don’t mind physical exertion or even really hard work at the end of which I realize that 12 or 14 hours has elapsed, but I was so busy and focused that I didn’t notice. I don’t mind sweating—even though it shorts out my hearing aids—or aching muscles or a few cuts and bruises. But. You know on Looney Tunes cartoons when Wile E. Coyote gets squashed by an anvil and then blown-up into bits and then run over by a train, and then he falls off a tall cliff and stabs his body into the hot, hard floor of the desert? I am Wile E. Coyote. And I wasn’t even trying to catch Road Runner. I just wanted to save $5000 by moving myself instead of hiring a goddamned moving company to do all the loading and driving for me.

In the words of Vivian Ward from Pretty Woman, Julia Roberts’s incredibly realistic gorgeous and innocent prostitute—because no real hookers have meth-addict skin, straggly hair, yeast infections and fat rolls: Big mistake. Big. Huge.

I won’t name names here to keep my ass from getting in some kind of legal boiling pot, but the move-it-yourself company we chose is the kind where you stuff your shit in a truck, and then YOU haul it to your new town, and then you unload said shit into your new or gently used home. Our first mistake was thinking that we could squeeze all the crap we own into a 26-footer. Yeah. That’s the biggest fricking truck available, but I should have forseen that the smarmy bastard who rented us the thing was full of shit when he ever so smugly replied to my concerns, “So you have four couches, three beds, a washer and dryer, a refrigerator, two dining room tables, 20 chairs, and 2000 boxes. I still don’t see where your problem is.” Then when I mentioned the odds and ends and clothes and 10,000 framed pictures, he added, “You aren’t going to have any problem because the 26-footer fits a 4-bedroom house.” Well. Fuck him. What about the shit in the garage?

So after our possessions would NOT fit in the mammoth truck as I suspected, we had to go back and rent an additional 14-footer. Plus, we had to get two auto transports on which to place the cars we couldn’t drive. Locating and procuring the second truck took three hours out of our loading time because even though the smarm-master swore that there were plenty of smaller trucks available, we had to go to another town 20 miles away to get apparently the last motherfucking small moving van in the state of Georgia.

Finally, at close to 9 P.M. we had the vans full, and we needed to put my daughter’s car on the auto transport. Unfortunately, the instructions that make the hook-up look so easy that any consumer should be able to follow them are so full of horse shit that they could keep the entire South fertilized through 2020. Or the equipment was defective. I don’t know. All I DO know is that when my husband drove my daughter’s car onto the transport, the hitch sprang up from the ball causing the whole transport to fall and slide under the truck, at which point the transport buckled and severed the fucking fuel line on the car. 

Add to that the fact that now the only way to get the potentially explosive vehicle off the transport was to push it, and when we did, my husband fell off the transport and smashed his right elbow into the asphalt, resulting in the sudden appearance of murder-scene amounts of blood, and you can see why I can’t wait to move my own household shit again really soon.

Waiting for the tow truck to come pick up the car and the auto transport was so much fun! Around 2 A.M., we finally left the baking heat of the South.

Fast forward nineteen hours. All three drivers in the move-it-your-own-damned-idiot-self convoy almost fell asleep at the wheel various times, so we had to pull over and grab snatches of snooze; but we finally rolled into our new state at about 8 P.M.

It only took until 9 A.M. TWO DAYS LATER to unload the two trucks and return the first one before its 9:37 A.M. turn-in time to the local move-yourself-only-if-you-stopped-developing-at-the-brain-stem-in-utero store. Because renters are required to fill up the gas tank before returning the truck, and the truck’s turn radius is fucking negative something, the first truck got wedged onto one of those concrete and steel barriers that protect the gas pumps at a Marathon station. The tow truck for that debacle got there in a speedy 3 ½ hours. Oy.

Returning the second truck only took an hour and a half. Yay. But it should have been about ten minutes. The dealership where we were supposed to return the truck was approximately 2 miles from the house. Our turn-in time was 7:03 P.M. So when we arrived at the dealer at 5:10 P.M. to discover that the motherfuckers were CLOSED, we called the parent company, whose rep directed us to another dealer about 20 miles away that would be open until 7 P.M. We hauled ass over there…to discover that it was fucking CLOSED. If only I could have driven the goddamned van into the store’s showroom without civil and criminal penalties! Alas. I had to settle for slamming the door to the key dropbox really hard after I shoved the key into it with great force.

So. Yeah. It’s been a crazy ten days. But at least I am free of that horrid moving van, and I plan never to go near one ever again. As it is summer, A.K.A. the moving season, though, I keep seeing the damned vehicles every fucking where. I have to down a handful of those new mini-Reese’s cups, which are unwrapped for your convenience, just to calm myself down. I may have an extra-fat ass, but at least I am serene while I unpack these 2000 boxes of crap.

Fat Privates

Fuck. You.

Hey. We’ve all seen women—and the occasional man—who have that really low hanging front pouch of fat that looks like a butt on the wrong side. I always want to go up to these folks at WalMart and ask what’s in there (an illegal immigrant? one of those quick-set pools?) and how they feel pale pink stretchy pants are helping the situation. I used to have a female teacher in high school who not only had the pouch, but also a receding hairline and a pretty substantial mustache. When she was at the board, we’d be all Where’s her butt? And then she’d turn around to explain something, and there it was! The whole thing was fascinating. But it isn’t so goddamned funny anymore now that I am starting to develop fat privates.

You know it’s impossible to get your ass clean when you can no longer reach it. That’s one of the only excuses I can see for owning a large dog. It is ridiculous to need a fucking garden hose with decent pressure in the bathroom, and I demand a recount. My ass has gotten so fat that in the event that I pass gas, which seems to be happening more and more in my old age, it takes a really long time to surface; one slipped day before yesterday, and it was from broccoli I had in 2008.

And you know another thing? My private parts doctor should not have to use scuba gear to find my cervix. But do you know how hard it is to exercise vagina flaps? What moves work that area exactly? And don’t get me started on the boobs. I specifically did NOT check pendulums on the order form, and you know how when skin rubs together all the time, those little nasty, boogery-looking skin tags form without permission? Yeah, well, I just cut those fuckers off when I find them. I don’t give a shit if rivulets of blood run down my belly all day. I am just not going to lift up my tits and have Morgan-Freeman-face up under there. Not going to have it.

I just don’t know. I could have the boobs lifted, and I know that there is even surgery to rejuvenate the vay-jay-jay. But slicing and stitches in the privates doesn’t sound so appealing, now, does it? I suppose I will just have to go chafing along. And I apologize in advance for those beans I ate last summer.