Oh dear God! I finally did it!
After hours of mind-bending labor, I managed to muddle through the process of putting up my ****ing picture topside. At first, I thought I had done it correctly, but then I realized that my giant, moonlike face was appearing as a daily post. Arrrgh!
I am exhausted. I never did talk about the way Christmas music makes me feel, or blather on about our annual Christmas Eve bash, but damn. I need a nap. And somebody drank all the bourbon. I blame the penguins.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
'Tis the Season to be Jolly
The saddest part about Christmas is the turning out of the tree lights before going to bed. I do it, because I am a responsible adult who does not want to wake up dead tomorrow on accounta a fire caused by cheap wiring.
But first, I dance along to a couple of tunes from A Charlie Brown Christmas. My new wood floors were made to be danced upon.
Christmas time makes such a child of me.
But first, I dance along to a couple of tunes from A Charlie Brown Christmas. My new wood floors were made to be danced upon.
Christmas time makes such a child of me.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Today's Horoscope
Aries: Today, you will want to kill someone. You will do so, as you have done so many times before. Many people hate you, but they are afraid to tell you so. You love this. Avoid Leos. They will not only tell you that you suck, they will probably punch you in your mouth.
Taurus: You will sleep through the alarm, and upon arising, you will decide to eat some cereal and watch cartoons. Then you will take a nap. Do not worry. You will wake up in plenty of time for dinner. Try not to eat too many starches, Tubby. Avoid Aries when that vein in their forehead is throbbing.
Gemini: You are at war with yourself again, so you decide to sleep in separate rooms. Later, you will fight with yourself about what mixer to use in your drink. Happily, you will both decide to drink it straight from the bottle. Listen to Libras. Then laugh at them.
Cancer: You have never stopped being bitter about your sign's name. Get over it, you weepy, hormonal bitch. Have some chocolate and find someone with money to take you shopping. Yes, you are pretty. Avoid sarcastic people.
Leo: Oh, fuck you. You think you're hot shit, don't you? Well, okay...but you know, a little bit of humility could go a long way towards easing people's dislike of you. Eat more vegetables; it will keep you regular. Wear fur and diamonds, but never at the same time, unless it's after six p.m. Avoid everyone, unless you are wearing a Kevlar vest.
Virgo: Pure as the driven snow, eh? Yeah, right. We know what you do when all alone...heh-heh. You alphabetize your soup cans, ha-ha! Freak. Get a hobby that involves body parts. Other people's body parts. Wear bright colors once in a while. Beige is boring. Like you. Avoid Leos. They will only hurt your feelings.
Libra: You are the most balanced of signs. This may be why you have difficulty deciding how to part your hair. Sometimes, when the ugliness of the world overwhelms you, it is best to stay at home. Tomato soup is your friend. Call your mother. (Unless she is a Leo, Aries, or Scorpio. If this is the case, she will only hurt your feelings.) Call the suicide hotline instead, and volunteer to help.
Scorpio: What can one say about the zodiac's most notorious pervert? (Besides, "Congratulations.") Try to behave yourself in public, however. Not everyone needs to see your "special place." Yes, everyone probably does want to sleep with you, but it would embarrass them to admit this in the middle of mass. Go home and look at yourself naked in the mirror. You'll feel better.
Sagittarius: Fun-loving, athletic, muscular. Are you the most popular gym teacher at Central High, or that weird guy or gal who keeps posing all the time? You're buff, okay? Let it go. Eat a stick of butter. In fact, hang out with that lazy Taurus. Sloth can be fun!
Capricorn: I would gladly insult your boring, pedantic, adding-machine-for-a-heart ass, but I am afraid that you might turn me in to the IRS. Why did I hire you as my accountant? Oh yeah. Because you are the best. Yes, you are. (You won't report those excessive deductions for canola oil, will you?)
Aquarius: The Freak of the zodiac! Your mind is strange; labyrinthine; composed of more layers than an LSD-soaked onion. Good news! This translates to someone who perfectly navigates this bizarrely constructed world of ours. You would make a great tycoon, or you might just kill your wife in an ingenious, untraceable way.
Pisces: You booze-addled, sweat-soaked loser. Sooner or later, either your addictions or your free-floating anxieties will kill you. Until then, try to relax. Try yoga. And eat some meat. It makes you strong. On that note: Avoid strong people. They will only make you tired.
Taurus: You will sleep through the alarm, and upon arising, you will decide to eat some cereal and watch cartoons. Then you will take a nap. Do not worry. You will wake up in plenty of time for dinner. Try not to eat too many starches, Tubby. Avoid Aries when that vein in their forehead is throbbing.
Gemini: You are at war with yourself again, so you decide to sleep in separate rooms. Later, you will fight with yourself about what mixer to use in your drink. Happily, you will both decide to drink it straight from the bottle. Listen to Libras. Then laugh at them.
Cancer: You have never stopped being bitter about your sign's name. Get over it, you weepy, hormonal bitch. Have some chocolate and find someone with money to take you shopping. Yes, you are pretty. Avoid sarcastic people.
Leo: Oh, fuck you. You think you're hot shit, don't you? Well, okay...but you know, a little bit of humility could go a long way towards easing people's dislike of you. Eat more vegetables; it will keep you regular. Wear fur and diamonds, but never at the same time, unless it's after six p.m. Avoid everyone, unless you are wearing a Kevlar vest.
Virgo: Pure as the driven snow, eh? Yeah, right. We know what you do when all alone...heh-heh. You alphabetize your soup cans, ha-ha! Freak. Get a hobby that involves body parts. Other people's body parts. Wear bright colors once in a while. Beige is boring. Like you. Avoid Leos. They will only hurt your feelings.
Libra: You are the most balanced of signs. This may be why you have difficulty deciding how to part your hair. Sometimes, when the ugliness of the world overwhelms you, it is best to stay at home. Tomato soup is your friend. Call your mother. (Unless she is a Leo, Aries, or Scorpio. If this is the case, she will only hurt your feelings.) Call the suicide hotline instead, and volunteer to help.
Scorpio: What can one say about the zodiac's most notorious pervert? (Besides, "Congratulations.") Try to behave yourself in public, however. Not everyone needs to see your "special place." Yes, everyone probably does want to sleep with you, but it would embarrass them to admit this in the middle of mass. Go home and look at yourself naked in the mirror. You'll feel better.
Sagittarius: Fun-loving, athletic, muscular. Are you the most popular gym teacher at Central High, or that weird guy or gal who keeps posing all the time? You're buff, okay? Let it go. Eat a stick of butter. In fact, hang out with that lazy Taurus. Sloth can be fun!
Capricorn: I would gladly insult your boring, pedantic, adding-machine-for-a-heart ass, but I am afraid that you might turn me in to the IRS. Why did I hire you as my accountant? Oh yeah. Because you are the best. Yes, you are. (You won't report those excessive deductions for canola oil, will you?)
Aquarius: The Freak of the zodiac! Your mind is strange; labyrinthine; composed of more layers than an LSD-soaked onion. Good news! This translates to someone who perfectly navigates this bizarrely constructed world of ours. You would make a great tycoon, or you might just kill your wife in an ingenious, untraceable way.
Pisces: You booze-addled, sweat-soaked loser. Sooner or later, either your addictions or your free-floating anxieties will kill you. Until then, try to relax. Try yoga. And eat some meat. It makes you strong. On that note: Avoid strong people. They will only make you tired.
'Tis the Season of Caring and Giving
I will now share with you the true meaning of life Prepare yourselves.
Now we need to figure out how to wedge more bourbon in there.
THE MEANING OF LIFE
(!!!)
Ahem. Life is 80% tedium, 10% toil, 6% joy, and 4% bourbon.
Now we need to figure out how to wedge more bourbon in there.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Short Note Re the Holidays
What is all this nonsense about how one speaks of the holidays? Silly me, I always thought that common etiquette and common sense dictated what one wished others during the season. If I am Christian, I shall naturally wish you a Merry Christmas, and expect nothing more in return than the same, or some equally felicitous reply. If I am Jewish, and I wish someone a Happy Hanukkah, I do not want an unkind response. If my pagan heart is moved to wish you a Merry Yule, do not burn a cross on my lawn. The happy coincidence of several holidays occurring at once should bring more joy to the season.
Enjoy yourselves, people!
Unless you truly find pleasure in being a horse's ass.
Enjoy yourselves, people!
Unless you truly find pleasure in being a horse's ass.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Grumpy Deals With a Household Problem
While the slacker world sleeps, Grumpy is on the job. His alarm shrills promptly at 3:40 a.m., which is just the first of many things that will make Grumpy, well, grumpy, all day long. Startled awake, he lunges for the alarm button, falls out of bed, and knocks a glass of forgotten bourbon off the nightstand onto his head. He says some very bad words.
"What fresh Hell is this?" moans the Savage Chef, wrenched deep from a savory culinary dream.
With a damp snarl, the Grump lurches to the bathroom and turns the shower tap on as high as it will go, as it takes some time to heat up water here at the Big Pink Pile of Stucco. His usual M.O. is to shave while the water is heating. The bathroom is on the second floor; there is only a tiny slit of a window near the ceiling. There is a door between the shower room and the sink area; it automatically pulls itself shut. These facts are important.
In the sink room, Grumpy shaves, and so forth. A few minutes have gone by; enough for the water to have heated. Grumpy tries to open the door. It will not open. He twists at the glass knob and pulls and tugs, but mysteriously, the door is stuck. Not as in swollen-wood shut, where a good, hard yank should take care of it; it seems that the door latch is not moving from its berth. Grumpy is a dignified man of some years, with a responsible supervisory position, so he does what he usually does in any frustrating situation.
He yells.
Once again, the Savage is torn from the arms of Morpheus ("Call me Mor") who, in the guise of a handsome young cabana boy, had just been about to serve her a tropical drink, little pink umbrella and all. Savage staggers into the sink room and finds the love of her life pounding furiously at the stubbornly shut portal. Steam is billowing from under the door.
"It won't open! What the hell?" screams Grumpy.
Grumpy shoves Savage aside and charges downstairs, naked as a caveman. More yelling and much banging emanate from the kitchen. The Grump returns, with the Savage Chef's good meat thermometer. The bathroom door has a safety feature, a tiny hole through which you can release the lock button, should a small child or suicidal spouse lock themselves inside. Leaving her brilliant mate futilely stabbing away at the tiny hole with the much-too-large thermometer, the Savage goes downstairs to fetch the ice pick. Upstairs, the pounding and cursing has resumed. Savage peeks out the front window to see if the police have arrived yet. She trudges back upstairs.
"Out of my way!" says Savage, brandishing the unsheathed ice pick. Grumpy has seen that movie too; he gets out of her way. Poking and picking at the lock-release hole doesn't do a bit of good. The walls are slick with moisture. One can barely see in the thick, steamy fog. Mushrooms begin sprouting in the corners, ferns curl from the floor tiles. Perhaps twenty minutes have passed since the nightmare began.
"I'm going to be late for work!" shouts Grumpy. He lives in terror of being less than punctual. In the Grumpy world, "punctual" means "at least half an hour early." His loving spouse frequently lies to him about the starting time of events lest they become social pariahs. Grumpy cannot be late. He makes an executive decision.
"I'm going to kick the door down."
He goes downstairs to get his boots. A few well-placed thuds from his steel-toed stompers, and much of the door lies scattered on the shower room floor. Grumpy reaches in and wrenches the door open. The water that has boiled from the shower head for almost a half hour has cooled to a refreshing tepidness. A few minutes later, the head of the household is out the door. Now, in addition to a Christmas tree, we get to buy a new door at the hardware store this weekend.
That afternoon, the Little Princess complains of all the noise, which disturbed her slumber. She asks what on earth went on. She is shown the door. She rolls her big, blue eyes.
"You people sure like to kick in doors around here!"
That is completely unfair, Savage Mom tells her. This was an emergency. About that other little incident, well, all that needs to be said is that a Savage has her reasons.
"What fresh Hell is this?" moans the Savage Chef, wrenched deep from a savory culinary dream.
With a damp snarl, the Grump lurches to the bathroom and turns the shower tap on as high as it will go, as it takes some time to heat up water here at the Big Pink Pile of Stucco. His usual M.O. is to shave while the water is heating. The bathroom is on the second floor; there is only a tiny slit of a window near the ceiling. There is a door between the shower room and the sink area; it automatically pulls itself shut. These facts are important.
In the sink room, Grumpy shaves, and so forth. A few minutes have gone by; enough for the water to have heated. Grumpy tries to open the door. It will not open. He twists at the glass knob and pulls and tugs, but mysteriously, the door is stuck. Not as in swollen-wood shut, where a good, hard yank should take care of it; it seems that the door latch is not moving from its berth. Grumpy is a dignified man of some years, with a responsible supervisory position, so he does what he usually does in any frustrating situation.
He yells.
Once again, the Savage is torn from the arms of Morpheus ("Call me Mor") who, in the guise of a handsome young cabana boy, had just been about to serve her a tropical drink, little pink umbrella and all. Savage staggers into the sink room and finds the love of her life pounding furiously at the stubbornly shut portal. Steam is billowing from under the door.
"It won't open! What the hell?" screams Grumpy.
Grumpy shoves Savage aside and charges downstairs, naked as a caveman. More yelling and much banging emanate from the kitchen. The Grump returns, with the Savage Chef's good meat thermometer. The bathroom door has a safety feature, a tiny hole through which you can release the lock button, should a small child or suicidal spouse lock themselves inside. Leaving her brilliant mate futilely stabbing away at the tiny hole with the much-too-large thermometer, the Savage goes downstairs to fetch the ice pick. Upstairs, the pounding and cursing has resumed. Savage peeks out the front window to see if the police have arrived yet. She trudges back upstairs.
"Out of my way!" says Savage, brandishing the unsheathed ice pick. Grumpy has seen that movie too; he gets out of her way. Poking and picking at the lock-release hole doesn't do a bit of good. The walls are slick with moisture. One can barely see in the thick, steamy fog. Mushrooms begin sprouting in the corners, ferns curl from the floor tiles. Perhaps twenty minutes have passed since the nightmare began.
"I'm going to be late for work!" shouts Grumpy. He lives in terror of being less than punctual. In the Grumpy world, "punctual" means "at least half an hour early." His loving spouse frequently lies to him about the starting time of events lest they become social pariahs. Grumpy cannot be late. He makes an executive decision.
"I'm going to kick the door down."
He goes downstairs to get his boots. A few well-placed thuds from his steel-toed stompers, and much of the door lies scattered on the shower room floor. Grumpy reaches in and wrenches the door open. The water that has boiled from the shower head for almost a half hour has cooled to a refreshing tepidness. A few minutes later, the head of the household is out the door. Now, in addition to a Christmas tree, we get to buy a new door at the hardware store this weekend.
That afternoon, the Little Princess complains of all the noise, which disturbed her slumber. She asks what on earth went on. She is shown the door. She rolls her big, blue eyes.
"You people sure like to kick in doors around here!"
That is completely unfair, Savage Mom tells her. This was an emergency. About that other little incident, well, all that needs to be said is that a Savage has her reasons.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Where were you?
Yes, you. Where were you, when you first heard important national news? For years, people talked about where they were, and what they were doing, when they heard that JFK had been assassinated. I was in kindergarten, and my memories of him dying are all confused with memories of the death of Pope John XXIII, who died on the third of June in that same year of 1963.
When they lowered the American flag for the president, I thought it was for the pope. (Okay, I wasn't the brightest child. I lived in a dream world most of the time.)
Anyway, I got to thinking: How many times did I first hear "big news" on my car radio, while driving through the endless SoCal traffic?
Things I first heard about while driving: John Lennon's murder. John Belushi's death. Asshole murdering teflon creep driving really slowly in a white Bronco. President Reagan's near-death experience at the hand of a flaming psychotic.
The day the towers collapsed, I was listening to the radio at home. (No internet yet, and we had no tv.) Since I was listening to a classical radio station, I heard nothing for hours and hours and oddly enough, no one telephoned me. Then, the station mentioned that a plane had crashed into one of the towers. I thought they meant a small craft. A while later, an embarrassed-sounding announcer announced that they would were going to a direct feed--all news report, and I heard all the horrifying details.
When they lowered the American flag for the president, I thought it was for the pope. (Okay, I wasn't the brightest child. I lived in a dream world most of the time.)
Anyway, I got to thinking: How many times did I first hear "big news" on my car radio, while driving through the endless SoCal traffic?
Things I first heard about while driving: John Lennon's murder. John Belushi's death. Asshole murdering teflon creep driving really slowly in a white Bronco. President Reagan's near-death experience at the hand of a flaming psychotic.
The day the towers collapsed, I was listening to the radio at home. (No internet yet, and we had no tv.) Since I was listening to a classical radio station, I heard nothing for hours and hours and oddly enough, no one telephoned me. Then, the station mentioned that a plane had crashed into one of the towers. I thought they meant a small craft. A while later, an embarrassed-sounding announcer announced that they would were going to a direct feed--all news report, and I heard all the horrifying details.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Savage Housewife's Handy Holiday Decorating and Party Tips
1. Take down the black bat Halloween garland from the library chandelier. It makes the baby Jesus cry. Show some class. Decorate the light with those iridescent plastic snowflakes you got at Wal-Mart, instead.
(Sorry. that was supposed to go on my To Do list.)
2. Folks, that big blow-up Santa on your lawn is ugly and its motor makes a noise like that vacuum cleaner that the Salvation Army thrift shop refused. It also scares the dogs and little children.
3. Lime green is not a good color for a Christmas tree. Trust me on this one. I don't care if you saw one at the mall. I saw a mooning Santa doll there, too. You don't see me buying one though, do you?
4. That Redneck Christmas cd was kinda cute the first time-- maybe-- when we'd had a whole bunch of Uncle Billy's Everclear punch, and someone called the police, and we turned off all the lights and didn't answer the door--remember? No, I didn't think so, so I'll just tell you this one time: Put on some Bach or some Bing Crosby or something, or things are gonna get ugly.
5. Do not purchase and festively wrap up underwear for your little children. Do not give them sugar-free soy crunchies or toothbrushes in their stockings. If you do, they will remember this later, when they are selecting your nursing home.
6. If you have extremely loud relatives who, bless their dear hearts, give you a splitting migraine when they are all screaming at each other at the top of their lungs at holiday parties, you shouldn't have to hide in an unused bedroom. Wear small earplugs, the kind members of our armed forces wear on the flight line. Nod and smile a lot. Sometimes, drinking a bit helps. Fill a Coke can with bourbon. Refill every fifteen minutes, or sooner, as needed.
I shall update this list whenever I deem it necessary, or you good people out there could send in your own handy hints and timely tips.
(Sorry. that was supposed to go on my To Do list.)
2. Folks, that big blow-up Santa on your lawn is ugly and its motor makes a noise like that vacuum cleaner that the Salvation Army thrift shop refused. It also scares the dogs and little children.
3. Lime green is not a good color for a Christmas tree. Trust me on this one. I don't care if you saw one at the mall. I saw a mooning Santa doll there, too. You don't see me buying one though, do you?
4. That Redneck Christmas cd was kinda cute the first time-- maybe-- when we'd had a whole bunch of Uncle Billy's Everclear punch, and someone called the police, and we turned off all the lights and didn't answer the door--remember? No, I didn't think so, so I'll just tell you this one time: Put on some Bach or some Bing Crosby or something, or things are gonna get ugly.
5. Do not purchase and festively wrap up underwear for your little children. Do not give them sugar-free soy crunchies or toothbrushes in their stockings. If you do, they will remember this later, when they are selecting your nursing home.
6. If you have extremely loud relatives who, bless their dear hearts, give you a splitting migraine when they are all screaming at each other at the top of their lungs at holiday parties, you shouldn't have to hide in an unused bedroom. Wear small earplugs, the kind members of our armed forces wear on the flight line. Nod and smile a lot. Sometimes, drinking a bit helps. Fill a Coke can with bourbon. Refill every fifteen minutes, or sooner, as needed.
I shall update this list whenever I deem it necessary, or you good people out there could send in your own handy hints and timely tips.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Fever Dreams
I've been sick. How sick? Too sick to write. That, for me anyway, is pretty damn sick. I was in a bad way. Fever fancies and delerious declarations--since I am rarely ill, and then usually only for a day or two, I make up for it by being quite dramatic about it. First came a creeping incoherency (I at first blamed the bourbon), then the realization that I was both hot and shiveringly cold, then nausea, blorping, and general collapse.
Well, enough about that. (I'm making myself feel sick all over again, just typing this.) I'm feeling a tad better, now, and almost ready to start bitching about things once again.
Well, enough about that. (I'm making myself feel sick all over again, just typing this.) I'm feeling a tad better, now, and almost ready to start bitching about things once again.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Local Fun in Tumbleweed Junction--I Love a Parade
So, we woke up this morning, still drunk from the night before, and someone (I think it was me) screamed, "Oh my Gawd! The parade starts in thirty minutes!"
We had promised the little blossom that we would attend, to see her bang the brass with her high school band. We bathed and dressed quickly--no time for breakfast, of course, and raced downtown in the truck.
*Added note here for clarity, as SOMEONE (I won't embarrass you by mentioning your name--unless you annoy me again, that is-- was appalled.) So, let's get this straight, once and for all: the possibly still drunk "we" would be the royal "we," as in me, the Queen. The good old boy who went to bed early was the driver. Hell, he never lets me drive his truck, anyway. He doesn't even let me drive my own car, when his old fart self is present. Anyway, on with our story...
An hour and a half later, our child and her crew finally trudged by. "Where is she?" said Grumpy. (He needs new trifocals.) I, cool as always, was jumping up and down screaming, "Hi, Honey!" She ignored me magnificently, like the baby goddess that she is. I thought I heard the girl marching next to her say, "Wow. Who is that loud old lady?"
It was a great parade. We had fire trucks. We had a cement mixer. (No, I don't know why we did. We just did.) We had Shriners. They were not in their cute little toy cars, though. I was sooo disappointed! They rode in stupid dune buggies. I mean, really! I'm sure some of them weren't too fat to be able to shoehorn themselves into the proper bitty cars.
(We also had a horse that took the world's longest pee in the middle of the street. That animal must have been saving it up for days!)
The brutally unseasonable sun beat down on my black velvet dress, until I thought I would faint. Some Hell's Angel-looking types pissed off the cops when they halted and did some cool maneuvers on their bikes. Turns out, they were actually Christian ministers--Hogs for the Lord, or somesuch.
Whew! I may have to lie down for a while. I'm not used to this level of excitement!
We had promised the little blossom that we would attend, to see her bang the brass with her high school band. We bathed and dressed quickly--no time for breakfast, of course, and raced downtown in the truck.
*Added note here for clarity, as SOMEONE (I won't embarrass you by mentioning your name--unless you annoy me again, that is-- was appalled.) So, let's get this straight, once and for all: the possibly still drunk "we" would be the royal "we," as in me, the Queen. The good old boy who went to bed early was the driver. Hell, he never lets me drive his truck, anyway. He doesn't even let me drive my own car, when his old fart self is present. Anyway, on with our story...
An hour and a half later, our child and her crew finally trudged by. "Where is she?" said Grumpy. (He needs new trifocals.) I, cool as always, was jumping up and down screaming, "Hi, Honey!" She ignored me magnificently, like the baby goddess that she is. I thought I heard the girl marching next to her say, "Wow. Who is that loud old lady?"
It was a great parade. We had fire trucks. We had a cement mixer. (No, I don't know why we did. We just did.) We had Shriners. They were not in their cute little toy cars, though. I was sooo disappointed! They rode in stupid dune buggies. I mean, really! I'm sure some of them weren't too fat to be able to shoehorn themselves into the proper bitty cars.
(We also had a horse that took the world's longest pee in the middle of the street. That animal must have been saving it up for days!)
The brutally unseasonable sun beat down on my black velvet dress, until I thought I would faint. Some Hell's Angel-looking types pissed off the cops when they halted and did some cool maneuvers on their bikes. Turns out, they were actually Christian ministers--Hogs for the Lord, or somesuch.
Whew! I may have to lie down for a while. I'm not used to this level of excitement!
Friday, December 02, 2005
Savage Dos and Don'ts
First in a continuing series of hints on proper behavior, by your Arbiter Of All That Is Correct...
If you have a permanent peplum of blubber around your middle, no low-rise pants and no belly shirts for you, Tubby.
If you sport well-earned stretch marks on your tum-tum, do not pierce your navel and display it for all of us to see. Geez, Moms!
If you are a trick-or-treater and you need a shave, at least wear a fucking costume, you lousy teenaged hoodlum.
If you are candy, and you are sugar-free, you have no reason to exist.
If you are a salesclerk and you hate your damn, boring, ill-paid job, please remember: Your crappy job is not my fault. Slacker.
If you are a married man, do not ask your wife where the duct tape is. She neither knows, nor cares. Contrary to popular male belief, women do not have GPS installed in their ovaries at birth.
Also, married guy, do not attempt to ease your wife's empty-nest syndrome by acting childish yourself after the real kids grow up and leave home.
If you have a waterbed with a mirrored canopy, do not allow your parents in your bedroom. You don't want to know about your parents' sex life; believe me, the feeling is mutual.
If you are my neighbor, and you keep a loud, vicious dog for "protection," keep the mutt in the house, please. He can't save your stupid ass from the backyard.
Do not talk on your telephone while driving. If I catch you at it, I just may have to ram your witless yuppie ass. My car already has so many dents, a few more won't bother me.
While visiting my home, do not ask where my television is. I don't have one. If you wanted to watch TV, why didn't you stay at home?
When someone dies, the correct funeral attire is something covered up, fairly formal, and DARK. Black. Dark brown. Navy. Dark gray. Your glittery skank-ho club dress or your "Look Ma, I got on clean boxers" jeans will NOT cut it.
When shopping with your little darling, and he/she begins to throw a screeching fit, take the little bastard outside, ASAP, or I will be forced to demonstrate my proven method of post-natal birth control.
Silence is golden. So, STFU. If you are wondering if this is directed at you, it probably is.
Cut people some slack. Nobody is perfect. Except me, of course.
If you have a permanent peplum of blubber around your middle, no low-rise pants and no belly shirts for you, Tubby.
If you sport well-earned stretch marks on your tum-tum, do not pierce your navel and display it for all of us to see. Geez, Moms!
If you are a trick-or-treater and you need a shave, at least wear a fucking costume, you lousy teenaged hoodlum.
If you are candy, and you are sugar-free, you have no reason to exist.
If you are a salesclerk and you hate your damn, boring, ill-paid job, please remember: Your crappy job is not my fault. Slacker.
If you are a married man, do not ask your wife where the duct tape is. She neither knows, nor cares. Contrary to popular male belief, women do not have GPS installed in their ovaries at birth.
Also, married guy, do not attempt to ease your wife's empty-nest syndrome by acting childish yourself after the real kids grow up and leave home.
If you have a waterbed with a mirrored canopy, do not allow your parents in your bedroom. You don't want to know about your parents' sex life; believe me, the feeling is mutual.
If you are my neighbor, and you keep a loud, vicious dog for "protection," keep the mutt in the house, please. He can't save your stupid ass from the backyard.
Do not talk on your telephone while driving. If I catch you at it, I just may have to ram your witless yuppie ass. My car already has so many dents, a few more won't bother me.
While visiting my home, do not ask where my television is. I don't have one. If you wanted to watch TV, why didn't you stay at home?
When someone dies, the correct funeral attire is something covered up, fairly formal, and DARK. Black. Dark brown. Navy. Dark gray. Your glittery skank-ho club dress or your "Look Ma, I got on clean boxers" jeans will NOT cut it.
When shopping with your little darling, and he/she begins to throw a screeching fit, take the little bastard outside, ASAP, or I will be forced to demonstrate my proven method of post-natal birth control.
Silence is golden. So, STFU. If you are wondering if this is directed at you, it probably is.
Cut people some slack. Nobody is perfect. Except me, of course.
I'm So Cool, I Think I'll Go Put On a Sweater
I love this technology-rich time that we live in. It used to be, when you were out in public and started talking away and there was nobody with you, it meant that you were a freeze-dried whackaloon, and sane people would shun you. Nowadays, however, you're just another jerk with a cell phone. I love that I don't have to feel embarrassed when passersby catch me having a spirited discussion all by myself. They see the little thingy in my ear, and they are reassured. All is well.
The way I see it, no one has to know that I have never owned a cell phone, and that the little thingy in my ear isn't connected to anything.
The way I see it, no one has to know that I have never owned a cell phone, and that the little thingy in my ear isn't connected to anything.
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