Saturday, April 24, 2010

You Found Me Here. . .

but, now I've moved. I'm wily like that...

You can now be bored by fresh, new drivel at

Friday, April 17, 2009

Simon *Hearts* Singer

I am sure you've seen or heard about that nice Scottish Susan Boyle woman with the simple life and the stunning voice. While her lovely voice and sweet story makes me all teary eyed, this is the bit I love:

He fucking looks like he's imagining how her heart would taste coated in breadcrumbs and sauteed in butter.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Friday, A Vignette

The Yam* was chatty today, feeling helpful. He had to give advice, express appreciation, ask questions so that he could ignore the answers. The Yam does not respect personal space; he stands in my bubble. I think about stabbing him in his eyebrow, and wonder how his wife can stand to be around him. I expect she drinks, and that she has a lover. Maybe several.

The Chatterer* talked on the phone about her child who will soon be attending a party. There is much concern over what the girl will wear, over selecting the right color of jaunty cowboy hat. The girl is under two. The Chatterer does not know that her daughter will one day come to hate her. Eventually, the girl will come home with a shaved head, a bondage collar, and a girlfriend in flannel. Either that, or she will grow into the worst kind of spoiled princess. A young woman capable only of narcissism and avarice. No matter how this turns out, there will be screaming and recriminations.

The Chatterer is contemplating divorce, although she might not even know this yet. She does not like her husband, and likely never did. One day, in a year or 18 months, she will finally find a "reason" to leave him. I wonder if he knows.

I love my job.

*The V.P.
*His assistant

Monday, April 6, 2009

Blue Monday

Boring night here in the NoCo. After a rather shit day at work, I find myself decompressing on the couch and trying to convince myself that I don't really want to eat the remaining Thin Mints in the house...or at least not all of them.

It's been a boring and rather quiet evening. The Boy was good enough to fix dinner for us while I managed to get in and out of the grocery store without even once considering punching someone in the face, which any more is the best I hope when interacting with the general public. Since then I've planted myself on the couch, surfing the internet for utter bullshit and a few recipes.

Clearly, I need a hobby.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Annnnddd . . . We're Back!

I haven’t written. Again.

I have parted ways with Corporate Happy Fun Job, and I find that the decompression caused my brain to get all . . . fluffy . . . Not to mention, the sudden dearth of day-to-day contact with douchebags and morons has left me at a loss for things to write about. It seems that without someone actually in my presence being a dickwad, I can’t work up the necessary amount of irritation to write about anything.

Which means that my writing is like a pearl--an un-grammatical, profane pearl. Letters are the nacre I use to lessen the irritating grit that is Other People’s Bullshit. Or something. Doesn’t that sound nice? I think it sounds nice.

The intervening weeks have also seen me take a much needed trip to visit The Esteemed Liquor Fairy in her coastal lair; as well as winter entering its final death throes (even if it is supposed to snow tomorrow, which really? Fuck a bunch of that). April might be the cruelest month, but March turned into a most eventful one.

Now that I’m getting settled, more or less, in the new job and the new season I find that I’m somewhat more inspired to write and participate. Also, although the new job—CHFJ.2, if you will—is in no way as idiotic as the last, working for a living still pretty much sucks.* My new bosses are not either of them swaggering dildos, although the one does have that unfortunate spray tan addiction that makes one look all sweet potato-y. I see in my future many exciting days of self-control followed by evenings of profane venting.

*Currently accepting applications for a patron. Contact me through this blog.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

On The Eight Baby Lady

Ok, so the mother of octuplets? Batshit crazy. The woman exhibits many or most of the classic signs of an animal hoarder. Really, it's uncanny and rather terrifying.

“I know I'll be able to afford them when I'm done with my schooling.” I'm not sure which is more laughable, her plan to support a family of 15 on less than $50,000 a year (even with food stamps and Medicaid), or the the idea that she is going to go back to school in the fall with 8 seriously premature babies under 1 year and 6 other kids under 10.

I would almost feel better if she would just own up and say she was planning to exploit the fuck out of the kids for Discovery Channel and shitty Wal-Mart books. At least then I'd believe she had a plan.

All I wanted was children. I wanted to be a mom. That's all I ever wanted in my life. I love my children.” Well, fucking AWESOME. You know, animal hoarders claim to love the animals that are suffering in their care. The difference between normal people who love animals and people who hoard animals is that normal people recognize that their means, their space, and their energy are all finite.

Do people manage to successfully raise and provide for exceptionally large families? Yes. However, it's pretty un-fucking-likely that she is going to join their ranks. Most people who have 14 children don't have them under the age of 10--biology doesn't often work that way. Further, most people who choose to have not only older children to help the household run, but an adult partner.

Do I think that there is something wrong with single parenthood? Nope. I don't. Do I think there is something wrong with having really large families? Not exactly. I sort of question the ethics of bringing so many lives into the world from a an environmental standpoint, but really? People can choose to raise their kids to consume little and tread lightly, and maybe that huge family will consume less than the West County trophy family and their 1.1.1 ratio of individuals, bathrooms, and Humscalades.

I do think that there is a fundamental problem with bringing children into the world for whom you cannot provide--regardless of how many children are in question. The only way that this woman can ever hope to provide for those kids is by exploiting the holy living shit out of them, and that's a pretty fucked up plan.

Suleman? Yeah, batshit crazy. Her doctor? Should have his license balled up and shoved up his ass. I have not experienced the pain of infertility. I cannot imagine what that's like. Per her statements, Suleman had difficulty conceiving. Who knows why? I don't believe she's shared her diagnosis.

Whether she needed help to conceive or no, she could obviously carry a pregnancy--the woman already had 6 kids. So her doctor placing six embryos into her 33-year-old body is completely fucking ridiculous. This was not some last ditch Hail Mary attempt. This was a woman with SIX children. Two split? WHO GIVES A SHIT? Even if they hadn't, she still would have had sextuplets. How the fuck is THAT a good outcome, for mom, for babies, or for the community?

Clearly, what we need is for the medical community to step up to the plate and police themselves--with rules and guidelines and big-like-the-hand-of-god consequences for those who flout them. Like I said, I've never experienced infertility, and I'm not a reproductive endocrinologist. There might be cases where it makes a certain amount of ethical and/or medical sense to transfer that many embryos into a woman. This was CLEARLY not one of those cases.

However, if doctors don't do something about themselves soon, then lawmakers will. Don't believe me, and think personal choice will prevail? We have in place all manner of laws to protect people from their own stupid fucking choices. Example? Suicide is illegal. Call 911, say you plan to kill yourself, and soon the cops will be at your house to lock your crazy ass up for your own good.

I've read on various blogs and online communities that this is an issue of reproductive freedom and choice. And to some extent, I agree. Further, laws are very rarely subtle or sophisticated, and by design they are not meant to deal with the individual, but instead the aggregate. It would be a bad thing for lawmakers to regulate the use of these technologies because they really won't be able to do a very good job, but it would be a worse thing for no one to do anything.

Monday, February 23, 2009

The Resignation Letters I Wish I Could Send

Dear Immediate Boss,

I know you're going to miss me, my knowledge, and the opportunity to take credit for my ideas. However, because you're an ass-kissing yes man, I feel confident that you have a future of middling achievement ahead of you here at Corporate Happy Fun Job.

While I do regret that I will not be present to witness your future grammatical flights of fancy, I can only trust that your tangential understanding of the English language will continue to serve you and your unending pursuit of mediocrity.

I cannot thank you enough for all the important things you've taught me, including exactly how much alcohol a 32-year-old woman can reasonably expect to consume and still make it into work the next day. In return, please do contact me here if you should need assistance in my absence.


Dear Swaggering Dildo,

I really do not know how to thank you for the opportunity to labor in in the unventilated mine shaft of your team for the past . . .god, it's so hard to tell time in this place without light. . . let's just call it a year.

Your inability, nay, unwillingness to listen to anything but the throbbing of your own engorged-yet-tiny penis has been an important lesson to me. To wit, that knowledge is secondary to swagger, and that knowledge is secondary to swagger.

When in my new role I am compelled to make a decision I will follow your fine example and simply masturbate--because input from knowledgeable actors invested in the process is for communists and losers.

In short, fuck you. I wouldn't piss in your mouth if your teeth were on fire.


Dear Co-Workers,

God help you. You're all so fucking stupid that I can't imagine how you don't just die because you forget to breathe.

Please note: before my final departure, all inquiries will be filtered through the ticking clock of my remaining days and answered accordingly. Following my departure, please seek your answers here, or when in doubt, here.

Word to your mother,

Dear Corporate Happy Fun Job,

Behold, my sublime left tit.

I'm out. Peace.