Update-
So last Saturday, as I lay in bed trying to forget my weekend (updates on that gem forthcoming) I was startled to hear the sounds of really loud herking. You may recall the freaky warning that I received from Peculiar Neighbor regarding noisy vomiting, I certainly did at the time.
Here is the basic scenario:
God my night blew. Could it actually have blown more? Not likely. Poor me. Boo hoo.
HERK!!!!
What the fuck was that?
Bleh... bleh... herk.
Mother of God! Jabba was right, he sounds like he's right outside my window.
HERK HERK HEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRK!!!!!!!!!!!! SPLAT!
What the fuck???
herk. splat. heeeerrrrrrk. spllllaaaaaat. HEEEEERRRRRRRK!!!!!! SPLATTTTTTT!!! sploosh sploosh.
Fuck. And I peep out my window. Double Fuck. That better not be a huge puddle of puke two feet from my window.
But alas, in the morning the Lake Superior and Lake Eerie of vomit had been lovingly placed before my window.
Before I continue, I think that it is important that I mention that I have had problems in the past with public herking. I used to live in a quite nice apartment a few years ago and there were several exciting tenants such as Ginormously Fat Loud Sex Guy. He lived with Skeezy Guy From My Gym and Surprisingly Nice Guy From The Loud Party Apartment. One Friday I returned from clubbing or whatnot quite late at night/early in the morning to find that someone (probably Ginormously Fat Loud Sex Guy) had nicely vomited out their slider. The vomit fell through their grated porch creating a two foot wide chunk/slime trail down my balcony window and splattering onto and through my porch and down the windows and porches of the three floors below me.
The next day I went to the office and politely related what had happened. They said "thanks for notifying us." I stared at them in disbelief.
"Is there anything else?"
"Yes, Actually. I want that vomit washed off of my window."
"Oh. Well, I guess we can have someone go out there or something."
"Ok, that sounds great. How about my porch and windows are cleaned, oh say... TODAY."
After that they were never friendly and were somehow shocked that the vomit incident and the multiple parties held across the courtyard where I was cat-called/ living on the same block as a project/ having my newspaper stolen every damn day/ the beer cans everywhere were reasons that I might not want to renew my lease....
Anyway, to avoid a repeat of that situation, I wrote a note to my manager that basically went thusly:
Hi!
I'm sorry to bother you, but last night VERY late I was awakened by the noise of a man on a porch above vomiting onto the patio a foot from my window.
I desire two things:
1. I would like the vomit removed expeditiously.
2. I would like the vommitters discovered and notified of the inappropriateness of vomiting off their porch.
My apologies again, and thanks in advance.
I delivered the note and went to lunch with Monica. By the time Monica and I had arrived back at my house, post-lunch, the vomit was gone.
I left a nice note for the manager to thank him for his efficiency.
But keep this in mind, Mystery Puking Neighbor, the next time I hear herking outside my window I am going to run out in the courtyard and take a picture of you and post it on Craigslist.
PS- My high school mascot was Herky The Hawk.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Friday, September 16, 2005
Smart People on Ice!
I’ve been listening to the John Roberts senate judiciary hearings that NPR has been podcasting. Yes, I am a HUGE geek. This is not the point.
The point is that Roberts is my absolute hero. He is incredibly quick and flat out just too damn smart. In fact smarter than our legislators, who have been assigned to grill him on issues such as right to life, legal torture, prisoner of war rights.
He has been notoriously picky about which questions he will answer, and while his inquisitors seem to be upset about this, none of them can force, persuade, or trick him into it. Everyone knows that he is perfectly qualified and he is clean as a whistle, so this is just an opportunity of partisan posturing. Here is an actual transcript chunk from when Schumer, loses it:
Charles Schumer (D-NY): May I just say, in all due respect sir and I respect your intelligence, and your career, and your family, this process is getting a little more absurd the further we move. You agree we should be finding out your philosophy and method of legal reasoning, modesty, stability, but when we try to figure out what your modesty and stability means, we don’t get any answers. It’s as if I asked you what kind of movies you liked, tell me two or three good movies, and you say “I like movies with good acting, I like movies with good directing, I like movies with good cinematography”, and I ask you to give me an example of a good movie and you don’t name one. And I ask you to give me an example of a bad movie, you won’t name one. And I ask you if you like Casablanca and you respond by saying lots of people like Casablanca. You tell me it’s widely settled that Casablanca is one of the great movies.
Arlen Specter (chair) calls for a break, but there is an interuption...
Judge John Roberts: First, Dr. Zhivago and North by Northwest.
It is hilarious that this guy is slipping free of the most powerful democrats in the nation (and some republicans too) without breaking a sweat. Too bad my new personal hero will probably remove my right to control my uterus.
If you missed the exciting Senate Judiciary Hearings: Roberts Trial, you can still get the podcasts on NPR.
The point is that Roberts is my absolute hero. He is incredibly quick and flat out just too damn smart. In fact smarter than our legislators, who have been assigned to grill him on issues such as right to life, legal torture, prisoner of war rights.
He has been notoriously picky about which questions he will answer, and while his inquisitors seem to be upset about this, none of them can force, persuade, or trick him into it. Everyone knows that he is perfectly qualified and he is clean as a whistle, so this is just an opportunity of partisan posturing. Here is an actual transcript chunk from when Schumer, loses it:
Charles Schumer (D-NY): May I just say, in all due respect sir and I respect your intelligence, and your career, and your family, this process is getting a little more absurd the further we move. You agree we should be finding out your philosophy and method of legal reasoning, modesty, stability, but when we try to figure out what your modesty and stability means, we don’t get any answers. It’s as if I asked you what kind of movies you liked, tell me two or three good movies, and you say “I like movies with good acting, I like movies with good directing, I like movies with good cinematography”, and I ask you to give me an example of a good movie and you don’t name one. And I ask you to give me an example of a bad movie, you won’t name one. And I ask you if you like Casablanca and you respond by saying lots of people like Casablanca. You tell me it’s widely settled that Casablanca is one of the great movies.
Arlen Specter (chair) calls for a break, but there is an interuption...
Judge John Roberts: First, Dr. Zhivago and North by Northwest.
It is hilarious that this guy is slipping free of the most powerful democrats in the nation (and some republicans too) without breaking a sweat. Too bad my new personal hero will probably remove my right to control my uterus.
If you missed the exciting Senate Judiciary Hearings: Roberts Trial, you can still get the podcasts on NPR.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Oooooh does'ums kitty have a tummy-ache?
Dear Steve and Addy,
I hope you will understand why I am giving you your keys back. Your cats just didn’t want anything to do with me. After unsuccessfully trying to coax them from their hiding spots, I decided to pour them some of their scientifically formulated dirt-chunk style food, in order to lure them into the open. This was completely ineffective.
I had just set my non-dirt-chunk style lunch on your table when my phone rang. It was you Steve. I swear to God that your cat is seriously fast. I turned my back for literally 8 seconds and when I turned back I found my self on the crappy end of a rather sloppy hostage situation. You see one of your cats, the tiny one, was on the table with its face in my lunch. I was frozen for a moment and then I said, “No kitty, that’s my lunch.” I slowly approached and in a panicked coup de grace she grabbed the remainder of the fajita and ran under your bed. I could not coax her out from under there without risking severe blood loss. She seemed a little bit grouchy, possibly because she was enduring a bout severe gastro-intestinal distress. I think this quite adequately explains the strange odor you noticed.
Good luck finding a new cat-sitter… and carpet.
q.
I hope you will understand why I am giving you your keys back. Your cats just didn’t want anything to do with me. After unsuccessfully trying to coax them from their hiding spots, I decided to pour them some of their scientifically formulated dirt-chunk style food, in order to lure them into the open. This was completely ineffective.
I had just set my non-dirt-chunk style lunch on your table when my phone rang. It was you Steve. I swear to God that your cat is seriously fast. I turned my back for literally 8 seconds and when I turned back I found my self on the crappy end of a rather sloppy hostage situation. You see one of your cats, the tiny one, was on the table with its face in my lunch. I was frozen for a moment and then I said, “No kitty, that’s my lunch.” I slowly approached and in a panicked coup de grace she grabbed the remainder of the fajita and ran under your bed. I could not coax her out from under there without risking severe blood loss. She seemed a little bit grouchy, possibly because she was enduring a bout severe gastro-intestinal distress. I think this quite adequately explains the strange odor you noticed.
Good luck finding a new cat-sitter… and carpet.
q.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
patriot games
I made the lamentable mistake of going to the Mariners game on Sunday. No, it wasn’t a mistake because they suck. Suck to the point that even with 6 players in trouble over their use of performance enhancing drugs, we still lost over half our games so far. It was a mistake because I had not remembered that Sunday was THE day. Sunday, as everyone else in America knew, was September 11. I have usually hidden somewhere far from tributes, TV movies, or memorials. I don’t feel ownership of that tragedy. I don’t think that the pain and fear of that event should be tied up in a bow and delivered to everyone in America every year like a reward for being a citizen. I think that this glorification somehow sullies the truth of the event. I guess I want to rave from the clock tower- “this isn’t about you!” And while I don’t want us to forget September 11, we have made NO policy changes to try to keep it from happening again, so what I want people to remember is WHY September 11 happened.
When the adorable autistic child at the outfield entrance tried to give me a flag I said with a large smile, “No thank you!” I know that sounds bad, but I do not want to keep the tiny plastic flag forever and have no proper means of respectfully disposing of it. I also think that what the flag is supposed to say is not what the people handing out flags are trying to say. And I don’t want to feel that I have been misusing the symbol of our hard-won freedom to support troubling foreign policies. We arrived at our seats just in time for the tear-jerking tribute to 9/11. They pulled some returned service men from Iraq, some of our fireman who flew out to NYC to relieve theirs for funerals and continuing to deal with rubble, and all the players onto the field. We were treated to a lovely view of a huge American flag, while serenaded with several patriotic songs and a POETRY reading. All around me people were sniffling as someone spoke of the buildings falling. Then a cheer and applause went up for our service men and women, protecting America at home and abroad.
Of course, because I am a terrible person, I couldn’t get choked up about thinking of all the men and women who died on September 11, because I was too busy ruminating on Cuba. “Protecting America… abroad?” I stood there pondering the statement. All the while growling, “They better be referring to Afghanistan.” Come on guys, don’t you remember? Afghanistan was harboring our terrorist enemies (not like Syria), we simply “liberated” Iraq. I bet all the Cuban and Puerto Rican players on the field, hats off and gazing at the giant flag were feeling very liberated too.
Hey guys, remember that one time we liberated Puerto Rico, then we realized that Puerto Rico was so cool that we just decided, “What the hell, let’s keep it! But we better restrict their privileges, like electing high level officials. You know to protect them and some shit.” Or that one time we liberated Cuba. That went super great! Hey, what’s the name of the guy we put in power… starts with a C and rhymes with Astro? Awesome, we rock at this!
As the tear jerker ended I kept feeling like a failure. I try my best to be a good and patriotic citizen, but I guess maybe being a patriot means something different to me.
When the adorable autistic child at the outfield entrance tried to give me a flag I said with a large smile, “No thank you!” I know that sounds bad, but I do not want to keep the tiny plastic flag forever and have no proper means of respectfully disposing of it. I also think that what the flag is supposed to say is not what the people handing out flags are trying to say. And I don’t want to feel that I have been misusing the symbol of our hard-won freedom to support troubling foreign policies. We arrived at our seats just in time for the tear-jerking tribute to 9/11. They pulled some returned service men from Iraq, some of our fireman who flew out to NYC to relieve theirs for funerals and continuing to deal with rubble, and all the players onto the field. We were treated to a lovely view of a huge American flag, while serenaded with several patriotic songs and a POETRY reading. All around me people were sniffling as someone spoke of the buildings falling. Then a cheer and applause went up for our service men and women, protecting America at home and abroad.
Of course, because I am a terrible person, I couldn’t get choked up about thinking of all the men and women who died on September 11, because I was too busy ruminating on Cuba. “Protecting America… abroad?” I stood there pondering the statement. All the while growling, “They better be referring to Afghanistan.” Come on guys, don’t you remember? Afghanistan was harboring our terrorist enemies (not like Syria), we simply “liberated” Iraq. I bet all the Cuban and Puerto Rican players on the field, hats off and gazing at the giant flag were feeling very liberated too.
Hey guys, remember that one time we liberated Puerto Rico, then we realized that Puerto Rico was so cool that we just decided, “What the hell, let’s keep it! But we better restrict their privileges, like electing high level officials. You know to protect them and some shit.” Or that one time we liberated Cuba. That went super great! Hey, what’s the name of the guy we put in power… starts with a C and rhymes with Astro? Awesome, we rock at this!
As the tear jerker ended I kept feeling like a failure. I try my best to be a good and patriotic citizen, but I guess maybe being a patriot means something different to me.
Friday, September 09, 2005
I remember
When I was tiny I used to get cards from my dad for every single holiday. His checks were on time. And I always thought that my dad loved me, because my mother said so and his cards said so. Dad had beautiful cursive handwriting.
And one day the checks started coming late or not at all. And they were different. Not animals, just plain. And they came without cards. I thought my dad had stopped loving me. But he hadn’t. He had never loved me. It’s a funny thing though. His wife, who had never seen me, barely spoken with me, never held me as a baby and cooed over my tiny little feet, loved me. But I guess, like my mother, she realized dad would never love her right, because I guess he can’t. And she was gone.
All my life I wondered about her. I think it is amazing to love someone so much that you want them to look like the kind of man you wish they could be. A doting father. A generous giver. To care so much about a man that you can pour out love in gifts and letters to some child that didn’t even occupy his thoughts. I’m glad that she escaped. I’d gladly trade all the gifts, cards, and affection for the hope that she is off somewhere being loved by a genuine soul.
Love is an amazing thing.
And one day the checks started coming late or not at all. And they were different. Not animals, just plain. And they came without cards. I thought my dad had stopped loving me. But he hadn’t. He had never loved me. It’s a funny thing though. His wife, who had never seen me, barely spoken with me, never held me as a baby and cooed over my tiny little feet, loved me. But I guess, like my mother, she realized dad would never love her right, because I guess he can’t. And she was gone.
All my life I wondered about her. I think it is amazing to love someone so much that you want them to look like the kind of man you wish they could be. A doting father. A generous giver. To care so much about a man that you can pour out love in gifts and letters to some child that didn’t even occupy his thoughts. I’m glad that she escaped. I’d gladly trade all the gifts, cards, and affection for the hope that she is off somewhere being loved by a genuine soul.
Love is an amazing thing.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Gobo may jobo, Solo.
Yesterday as I was slinking out of my apartment to go on my daily jog I was intercepted by my next door neighbor. In fact this neighbor is why I slink out of my apartment as it is.
The day I met her I was carrying boxes into my shiny new apartment, hoping for a sexy young stud/librarian as a neighbor. I was very bummed when a quite middle aged rotund (we’re talking ‘Violet you’re turning violet, Violet’ on her way to the juicing room rotund) lady leapt out of the doorway.
“Uhm, hi. You must be new.”
“Yeah, I’m just moving in.”
“Yeah, about that. You know you shouldn’t leave your door open. I’ve been watching it for you, ‘cause Green Lake isn’t a safe neighborhood you know.”
“Well, I’m just moving here from Lake City, so it’s a major improvement. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Well, we had a rape here last year.”
“In this building?”
“Well no, over on Aurora (notorious for prostitution etc. also not near my house at all).”
“Oh, I see. Uhm. Well. I’m just unloading these boxes, so the door will be shut when I’m done.”
“Yeah, well, you should make sure you keep your door locked at all times. And your windows. I don’t even open them all the way. Only as far as the low setting on the lock. You know a lady living alone can’t be too careful.”
“Of course.”
“Being on the ground floor as well.”
“True.”
“A girl simply must protect her virtue.”
LOOOOOOONG pause.
“You’re absolutely right.”
2 thoughts:
1. Darling, I’m plum out of virtue.
2. You have got nothing to worry about because unless the mad rapist you fear specifically has a thing for fat/old chicks (to the point that he absolutely prefers them to young thin girls i.e. the other inhabitants of the building) your virtue will be intact when they put you in the ground.
So since then I’ve been avoiding her craziness. Until she got me yesterday- she must have been waiting with her ear to the door.
“Uhm, wait, uhm, Quiana, uhm, did you hear er… noises last night?” I shrank back inside the happy spot in my brain fearing that this woman was out there threatening the world by procreating. “Uhm, what noises?” She leaned in and whispered “Vomiting noises.” “Uhm, no,” I responded inching towards the hall door. “Oh. Well good. Because it wasn’t me. It was my upstairs neighbor. He must be sick. I just didn’t want you to think it is me.” “Of course not, I would never… anyway, I must er… run. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ahem.” What I wanted to say was: look honey buns, something tells me I’d be able to tell if you were bulimic.
The day I met her I was carrying boxes into my shiny new apartment, hoping for a sexy young stud/librarian as a neighbor. I was very bummed when a quite middle aged rotund (we’re talking ‘Violet you’re turning violet, Violet’ on her way to the juicing room rotund) lady leapt out of the doorway.
“Uhm, hi. You must be new.”
“Yeah, I’m just moving in.”
“Yeah, about that. You know you shouldn’t leave your door open. I’ve been watching it for you, ‘cause Green Lake isn’t a safe neighborhood you know.”
“Well, I’m just moving here from Lake City, so it’s a major improvement. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Well, we had a rape here last year.”
“In this building?”
“Well no, over on Aurora (notorious for prostitution etc. also not near my house at all).”
“Oh, I see. Uhm. Well. I’m just unloading these boxes, so the door will be shut when I’m done.”
“Yeah, well, you should make sure you keep your door locked at all times. And your windows. I don’t even open them all the way. Only as far as the low setting on the lock. You know a lady living alone can’t be too careful.”
“Of course.”
“Being on the ground floor as well.”
“True.”
“A girl simply must protect her virtue.”
LOOOOOOONG pause.
“You’re absolutely right.”
2 thoughts:
1. Darling, I’m plum out of virtue.
2. You have got nothing to worry about because unless the mad rapist you fear specifically has a thing for fat/old chicks (to the point that he absolutely prefers them to young thin girls i.e. the other inhabitants of the building) your virtue will be intact when they put you in the ground.
So since then I’ve been avoiding her craziness. Until she got me yesterday- she must have been waiting with her ear to the door.
“Uhm, wait, uhm, Quiana, uhm, did you hear er… noises last night?” I shrank back inside the happy spot in my brain fearing that this woman was out there threatening the world by procreating. “Uhm, what noises?” She leaned in and whispered “Vomiting noises.” “Uhm, no,” I responded inching towards the hall door. “Oh. Well good. Because it wasn’t me. It was my upstairs neighbor. He must be sick. I just didn’t want you to think it is me.” “Of course not, I would never… anyway, I must er… run. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ahem.” What I wanted to say was: look honey buns, something tells me I’d be able to tell if you were bulimic.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
I’m bad, but I’m not that bad.
Ok, look buddy. You called me from Kansas while I was at work to ask me the following question:
“So if you were Ebaying 8 Quantum Leap comics, what would you start them at?”
I protested that I had no idea. You said guess. I told you to look online. You asked where. I facetiously said, “I don’t know search for an online comic emporium.” I know that when comicsemporium.com popped up on your screen, it didn’t do much for my “street cred.”
I admit I like comics and I admit I am a nerd; in fact, at the bumbershoot festival, while my friends were cruising to the toons of popular bands I was attending lectures by Dave Eggers, Sarah Vowell, Mike Doughty, and Nancy Pearl. But let me make it abundantly clear that I am a NPR binging, documentary film obsessing, polictics arguing, x-box playing, indie music listening, bookworm type nerd who happens to read comics. I am not an elvish reading, quiddich playing, wing wearing, Klingon speaking, anime jerking off while denying that it is porning, kind of nerd.
I swear to God I’ve never said/thought/moaned: Scott Bakula in a tutu? Comedic genius.
“So if you were Ebaying 8 Quantum Leap comics, what would you start them at?”
I protested that I had no idea. You said guess. I told you to look online. You asked where. I facetiously said, “I don’t know search for an online comic emporium.” I know that when comicsemporium.com popped up on your screen, it didn’t do much for my “street cred.”
I admit I like comics and I admit I am a nerd; in fact, at the bumbershoot festival, while my friends were cruising to the toons of popular bands I was attending lectures by Dave Eggers, Sarah Vowell, Mike Doughty, and Nancy Pearl. But let me make it abundantly clear that I am a NPR binging, documentary film obsessing, polictics arguing, x-box playing, indie music listening, bookworm type nerd who happens to read comics. I am not an elvish reading, quiddich playing, wing wearing, Klingon speaking, anime jerking off while denying that it is porning, kind of nerd.
I swear to God I’ve never said/thought/moaned: Scott Bakula in a tutu? Comedic genius.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Good things come to those who wait... and wait... and wait....
Last night as I was searching my bed-stand for a pen I knocked a small black box out of my drawer. It is a jewelry box- the paper kind that fits around the clamshell case that finer jewelry comes in. It says the Bon Marche, which dates it a bit since the Bon was bought out by Macy’s (bastards) a while ago.
The box had fallen onto its top and was resting upside down. As I leaned out of bed to pick it up I read small silver writing, that I’d never noticed before. The bottom of the box reads: “Good things come in Bon Marche boxes. Please reuse yours.”
It’s my condom box.
The box had fallen onto its top and was resting upside down. As I leaned out of bed to pick it up I read small silver writing, that I’d never noticed before. The bottom of the box reads: “Good things come in Bon Marche boxes. Please reuse yours.”
It’s my condom box.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Get off my panda, bitches!
Everyone who lives in the Washington DC area, stop hogging the baby panda. You can take the metro to go see it. I can’t. I HAVE to watch it be fucking ridiculously cute over the internet. It is the only cute thing I see all day and damn it, it’s the NATIONAL zoo. That means it’s my zoo too, so quite taking up all the bandwidth! Bastards.
http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/GiantPandas/
Yay! Now I don’t have to go to federal pound me in the ass prison for your murder!
This morning I emailed Married Man at Work Who Sucks at Adultery a file for a project that we are collaborating on- the lag time was literally 24 hours. His response:
"You’re fast. Thanks. Fast computers and fast wom… I mean bright wom nothing."
Might I mention that while I am not a "fast woman”, I'm not slow kid either and I am going to get your filthy lying cheating ass fired with these harassing emails. Keep typing, bitch. You'll need the practice for revising your resume.
Oh, and for the record: I'm not fast, I’m ambidextrous.
"You’re fast. Thanks. Fast computers and fast wom… I mean bright wom nothing."
Might I mention that while I am not a "fast woman”, I'm not slow kid either and I am going to get your filthy lying cheating ass fired with these harassing emails. Keep typing, bitch. You'll need the practice for revising your resume.
Oh, and for the record: I'm not fast, I’m ambidextrous.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
What kind of useless shit do I have to invent to get a little respect around here?
For quite some time I have had this nerdish obsession with the Hoberman Sphere. No seriously, I have. It’s just fucking cool. I mean look at it!!!
You can use it as a child cage! Hurrah!
Anyway, so I am a geek and a few weeks ago I decided to go online and finally buy a replacement for my Mini-Hoberman Sphere that I didn’t want back after my ex boyfriend’s frat brother used it to… well nevermind that. Sufficed to say he kept it…. That is where I found out about why the sphere was actually created: retractable roofs. Fucking Brilliant. Here’s a picture that isn’t that great, but if you go to: http://hoberman.com/fold/assoc/profile.htm there are some awesome pictures of the large scale retractable objects.
Furthermore, according to the website the Hoberman Sphere was featured in Y Tu Mama Tambien; being in soft-porn is sooooo cool!!!!!!!!
Chuck Hoberman, I salute you!
Then, a few days ago, on my jog, I was meditating on the Segway Idiot Mover (I live by a park where you can rent them and apparently run over joggers with them) and I wondered, is it possible that Dean Kamen (inventor of said device) is not a complete ass-hat?
Apparently it is possible(from website):
Dean Kamen holds more than 150 U.S. and foreign patents related to medical devices, climate control systems, and helicopter design. He's an inventor whose rebellion against convention has consistently yielded smart solutions. As a high school student, he developed an audiovisual control system that was used in New York's Hayden Planetarium. While in college, his brother—then a medical student—told him how difficult it was to administer intravenous drugs to cancer patients and diabetics. Dean thought about it and invented the portable infusion pump, enabling these patients to receive their medication without being confined to a hospital bed.
Dean built on this success to form DEKA Research & Development, where he and his team went on to solve a wide range of medical problems. They designed a portable dialysis machine the size of a VCR to replace one larger than a dishwasher. They created a vascular stent that provides arterial support during angioplasty procedures. Then came the IBOT™ Mobility System, a balancing aid for people confined to wheelchairs that gives them new freedom while raising them to eye level with the rest of the world.
All the while, Dean pursued his other great passion—cultivating the next generation of scientists and engineers. He founded For Inspiration and Recognition of Science and Technology (FIRST) to inspire high school students to pursue careers in science. The effort is popular with science teachers, and enjoys wide support from corporate America.
Well Dean, I guess I owe you an apology…
These people are ass hats,
but you are cool.
(Dean, 'I feel the need... the need for speed,' Kamen)
Extra geeking for super nerds.
You can use it as a child cage! Hurrah!
Anyway, so I am a geek and a few weeks ago I decided to go online and finally buy a replacement for my Mini-Hoberman Sphere that I didn’t want back after my ex boyfriend’s frat brother used it to… well nevermind that. Sufficed to say he kept it…. That is where I found out about why the sphere was actually created: retractable roofs. Fucking Brilliant. Here’s a picture that isn’t that great, but if you go to: http://hoberman.com/fold/assoc/profile.htm there are some awesome pictures of the large scale retractable objects.
Furthermore, according to the website the Hoberman Sphere was featured in Y Tu Mama Tambien; being in soft-porn is sooooo cool!!!!!!!!
Chuck Hoberman, I salute you!
Then, a few days ago, on my jog, I was meditating on the Segway Idiot Mover (I live by a park where you can rent them and apparently run over joggers with them) and I wondered, is it possible that Dean Kamen (inventor of said device) is not a complete ass-hat?
Apparently it is possible(from website):
Dean Kamen holds more than 150 U.S. and foreign patents related to medical devices, climate control systems, and helicopter design. He's an inventor whose rebellion against convention has consistently yielded smart solutions. As a high school student, he developed an audiovisual control system that was used in New York's Hayden Planetarium. While in college, his brother—then a medical student—told him how difficult it was to administer intravenous drugs to cancer patients and diabetics. Dean thought about it and invented the portable infusion pump, enabling these patients to receive their medication without being confined to a hospital bed.
Dean built on this success to form DEKA Research & Development, where he and his team went on to solve a wide range of medical problems. They designed a portable dialysis machine the size of a VCR to replace one larger than a dishwasher. They created a vascular stent that provides arterial support during angioplasty procedures. Then came the IBOT™ Mobility System, a balancing aid for people confined to wheelchairs that gives them new freedom while raising them to eye level with the rest of the world.
All the while, Dean pursued his other great passion—cultivating the next generation of scientists and engineers. He founded For Inspiration and Recognition of Science and Technology (FIRST) to inspire high school students to pursue careers in science. The effort is popular with science teachers, and enjoys wide support from corporate America.
Well Dean, I guess I owe you an apology…
These people are ass hats,
but you are cool.
(Dean, 'I feel the need... the need for speed,' Kamen)
Extra geeking for super nerds.
finders keepers, losers weepers
I ran down to the IT department today. IT is the land of sorrow and murrishness, for within the darkened depths are people to avoid:
1. Ex-boyfriend.
2. Married man at work who sucks at adultery.
Having successfully completed my mission and evaded the ex, I was cruising out of IT feeling VERY smug, when I heard “Hey, stranger.”
Damn.
“So... I saw this girl upstairs and she looked HOT, so I thought I would just go over and introduce myself, but then I realized that I already know you. Bad me- I was checking you out.” Married man who sucks held his hand out to me to be slapped. I stared at it momentarily and walked off without responding.
Well married man who sucks, let this be your first warning. Do not thrust any appendages at me because I guarantee that you will not get said appendages back.
1. Ex-boyfriend.
2. Married man at work who sucks at adultery.
Having successfully completed my mission and evaded the ex, I was cruising out of IT feeling VERY smug, when I heard “Hey, stranger.”
Damn.
“So... I saw this girl upstairs and she looked HOT, so I thought I would just go over and introduce myself, but then I realized that I already know you. Bad me- I was checking you out.” Married man who sucks held his hand out to me to be slapped. I stared at it momentarily and walked off without responding.
Well married man who sucks, let this be your first warning. Do not thrust any appendages at me because I guarantee that you will not get said appendages back.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
World Penis Survey canceled after local man destroys all will to live
Mostly naked hippie man, why were your friends throwing your accoutrements upon the street? Perhaps they desire you to wear pants? I know I did. Your angry junk waggling went far to communicate your displeasure at this forceful eviction, but why did you run at my friend Monica who was hobbling on her crutches with amazing speed towards the secured lobby of her condo? As you charged her like a deranged bull (well, a very poorly endowed deranged bull), and I began to open up the car-door to jump out and kick the shit out of you, all I could wonder was "why us?" (Well, that and "where did you get that sweet Grateful Dead tie-die shirt?") Monica and I didn't force you to suffer the indignities of partially nude unexpected homelessness, so why should you thrust your penis at us so aggressively?
We are all about the free love endorsed by the hippie crowd, so long is comes after no less than four cocktails (nice ones) purchased for us by an attractive, employed, pleasantly smelling young man at an at least marginally swanky bar. See. We are on your side. But, it was a good thing you turned around at the last minute and ran back to your friends to angerly gesticulate at them with your penis; otherwise they might have thought you had forgotten about them or something.
You must have been surprised when the police showed up. I know I was. Well technically I was taken aback, though I do acknowledge that the other sense is gaining increasing currency through its use. I bet you didn't realize that junk wagging would necessitate 5 cop cars. I didn't either! In my old neighborhood not even one car would show up to respond to violent brawls/gang activity in the street, but one tiny (and I do mean that double-entendre) hippie will summon a veritable flock of cops. I suppose that the white woman in distress clause comes into play in Monica's neighborhood more often than mine. Maybe that's just sour grapes talking; I'll admitt that I am a mite jealous of the all that police attention that Monica received, considering she called about a penis and I called about assults both with and without weapons.
Well, anyway, I hope you're doing ok, pantsless hippie man. Even though I know you should repulse me, I can't help but feel a tiny bit of warmth towards you. It's almost as if you remind me of something...
Alternate titles:
Local blogger stymied by surplus of pithy titles
Entire SPD responds to hippie-penis emergency crisis
Christmas comes early for local blogger
Alleged similarities to characters entirely coincidental says Disney spokesperson.
Local woman loses childlike innocence/lunch
We are all about the free love endorsed by the hippie crowd, so long is comes after no less than four cocktails (nice ones) purchased for us by an attractive, employed, pleasantly smelling young man at an at least marginally swanky bar. See. We are on your side. But, it was a good thing you turned around at the last minute and ran back to your friends to angerly gesticulate at them with your penis; otherwise they might have thought you had forgotten about them or something.
You must have been surprised when the police showed up. I know I was. Well technically I was taken aback, though I do acknowledge that the other sense is gaining increasing currency through its use. I bet you didn't realize that junk wagging would necessitate 5 cop cars. I didn't either! In my old neighborhood not even one car would show up to respond to violent brawls/gang activity in the street, but one tiny (and I do mean that double-entendre) hippie will summon a veritable flock of cops. I suppose that the white woman in distress clause comes into play in Monica's neighborhood more often than mine. Maybe that's just sour grapes talking; I'll admitt that I am a mite jealous of the all that police attention that Monica received, considering she called about a penis and I called about assults both with and without weapons.
Well, anyway, I hope you're doing ok, pantsless hippie man. Even though I know you should repulse me, I can't help but feel a tiny bit of warmth towards you. It's almost as if you remind me of something...
Alternate titles:
Local blogger stymied by surplus of pithy titles
Entire SPD responds to hippie-penis emergency crisis
Christmas comes early for local blogger
Alleged similarities to characters entirely coincidental says Disney spokesperson.
Local woman loses childlike innocence/lunch
Monday, August 15, 2005
Ver Clemped
“What do you think he’d like?” my grandma asked me in the floral section of Fred Meyers.
“Uhm…” I said nervously looking at the book of balloon designs. “Well, these are nice,” and I pointed to the balloons in the shape of hearts. All I could think was that this whole situation was utterly absurd.
“What about this one?”
“Uhm, that’s nice too.”
The teenager helping us at Fred Myers stared off into space as we debated the various designs.
Having never bought a balloon for a dog I was unsure of which he would prefer. Dogs are color blind, aren’t they? Anyway, I just picked one that read ‘You’re so Special.’ When you buy a balloon for a sick old dog you can’t buy the same kind of balloon that you would buy a person. Somehow buying Dodger a ‘Get Well Soon’ balloon seemed messed up since we all knew we'd be putting him down the next day.
Normally I am all about mocking the grandparents about their mutt herd, but somehow I didn’t want the balloon guy to look at grandma like she was nuts; I didn’t want her to feel like this loss was any less significant than if it were any other gray haired, wrinkled old man with a penchant for bacon.
When we got home I found grandpa sitting on the floor of the dining room, force feeding broth and water to Dodger with a turkey baster. Grandpa never looked so desperate or sad. He’d bought Dodger to keep him company after he divorced his first wife and Dodger was his only company for a few years.
Over time Dodger had grown to favor me. He pushed me out of bed every night, sat on my feet all the time, and barked at me when I’d get home as if to say, “Bitch, get in the kitchen and bake me a pie.” Having Dodger as a pet was like living being married to a tiny, fat, bad-tempered Jewish man with gray chest hair peeping out of his track suit. When I had arrived at my grandparent’s house yesterday, Dodger heard me in the hallway and tried to come over, but he couldn’t make it and collapsed on the linoleum. I picked him up and set him on his bed and patted his head. He was so weak he couldn’t wag his tail. Tears welled up in my eyes when he wouldn’t take a bit of roast beef off of my fork.
After dinner grandma gave Dodger his balloon, forcing him to hold the string with his little paw while they watched World Championship Poker. But the whole time Dodger watched me, looking at me as if to say, “Oy vey, woman! Get off your tuches and help me! These people are crazy!”
“Uhm…” I said nervously looking at the book of balloon designs. “Well, these are nice,” and I pointed to the balloons in the shape of hearts. All I could think was that this whole situation was utterly absurd.
“What about this one?”
“Uhm, that’s nice too.”
The teenager helping us at Fred Myers stared off into space as we debated the various designs.
Having never bought a balloon for a dog I was unsure of which he would prefer. Dogs are color blind, aren’t they? Anyway, I just picked one that read ‘You’re so Special.’ When you buy a balloon for a sick old dog you can’t buy the same kind of balloon that you would buy a person. Somehow buying Dodger a ‘Get Well Soon’ balloon seemed messed up since we all knew we'd be putting him down the next day.
Normally I am all about mocking the grandparents about their mutt herd, but somehow I didn’t want the balloon guy to look at grandma like she was nuts; I didn’t want her to feel like this loss was any less significant than if it were any other gray haired, wrinkled old man with a penchant for bacon.
When we got home I found grandpa sitting on the floor of the dining room, force feeding broth and water to Dodger with a turkey baster. Grandpa never looked so desperate or sad. He’d bought Dodger to keep him company after he divorced his first wife and Dodger was his only company for a few years.
Over time Dodger had grown to favor me. He pushed me out of bed every night, sat on my feet all the time, and barked at me when I’d get home as if to say, “Bitch, get in the kitchen and bake me a pie.” Having Dodger as a pet was like living being married to a tiny, fat, bad-tempered Jewish man with gray chest hair peeping out of his track suit. When I had arrived at my grandparent’s house yesterday, Dodger heard me in the hallway and tried to come over, but he couldn’t make it and collapsed on the linoleum. I picked him up and set him on his bed and patted his head. He was so weak he couldn’t wag his tail. Tears welled up in my eyes when he wouldn’t take a bit of roast beef off of my fork.
After dinner grandma gave Dodger his balloon, forcing him to hold the string with his little paw while they watched World Championship Poker. But the whole time Dodger watched me, looking at me as if to say, “Oy vey, woman! Get off your tuches and help me! These people are crazy!”
I get paid to do the Wild Thang.
Say what?!
Guys Gone Wild??
Getting a guy naked is easier than breathing, so here’s my question:
Why would anyone want a video of guys whipping out their vacuum cleaner-like genitalia and wagging it on VHS?
I mean who owns a VCR anymore?
Well, besides me.
Apparently a whole fuck-ton of people bought this video because according to the Overstock.com Top One Hundred Movies, this was in the top 50.
Three thoughts:
1. Please Dear God let there not be anyone I know on there.
2. When I was dating Greek, did I really believe that my frat boy boyfriend wasn’t like all those other frat boys?
3. The last time I viewed one of the fine “Gone Wild Videos” it was a spring break one of college girls, one of whom was pulling her pants down to give everyone a view of her merchandise apparently without remembering that she was wearing a tampon, the string of which was hanging out of her thong underwear. Only God knows what frightening things may be lurking in these ‘wild guy’s’ genitals.
Guys Gone Wild??
Getting a guy naked is easier than breathing, so here’s my question:
Why would anyone want a video of guys whipping out their vacuum cleaner-like genitalia and wagging it on VHS?
I mean who owns a VCR anymore?
Well, besides me.
Apparently a whole fuck-ton of people bought this video because according to the Overstock.com Top One Hundred Movies, this was in the top 50.
Three thoughts:
1. Please Dear God let there not be anyone I know on there.
2. When I was dating Greek, did I really believe that my frat boy boyfriend wasn’t like all those other frat boys?
3. The last time I viewed one of the fine “Gone Wild Videos” it was a spring break one of college girls, one of whom was pulling her pants down to give everyone a view of her merchandise apparently without remembering that she was wearing a tampon, the string of which was hanging out of her thong underwear. Only God knows what frightening things may be lurking in these ‘wild guy’s’ genitals.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Midnight in the Garden of Yuppies and Evil
Once you get what you want, you don’t want it.
The entire duration of my stay in my last apartment I longed to be free of it. Though the building was nice the neighborhood was awful. Sirens, motorcycles, fights, screams, breaking glass, and gunshots punctuated my phone calls with my mother. My proximity to the red-neck bar drove me nuts, adding to my insomniatic ramblings; I need at least 4 hours of sleep for coherent speech.
While I was in Lake City I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of:
“Bitch, where’s my hat, you fucking stupid bitch!”
“Fuck you, asshole, fuck your hat.”
“Fucking cunt, something something unintelligible hat….”
“Well fuck you.”
“You don’t fucking come near me, or I’m gonna mess you up.”
“Fuck you. I’ll fuck you up.”
“Come here, asshole.”
“Fucking, asshole.”
“Where’s my fucking hat, fucker?”
In Green Lake I hear…. NOTHING. Occasionally a car passes and I can dimly hear the hum of the freeway, but primarily the only noises in my new place are coming from my incessant yacking and the TV or stereo. I have no urban lullaby to sleep to. Consequently, I am sleeping even less than usual, which is really quite ridiculous. In fact I was so exhausted last night that I actually considered putting on clothes and going all the way back to my old apartment. But I was too lazy to find pants.
Perhaps like the main character in the movie version of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, I should record the sounds of my old home and play them at night. Imagine my new neighbors’ confusion at the sounds of fat spiral-permed blondes being assaulted, men scuffling for no discernable reason, and my personal favorite, the randomly screaming woman, all pouring from my windows and traveling across the waters of my clean new pool.
The entire duration of my stay in my last apartment I longed to be free of it. Though the building was nice the neighborhood was awful. Sirens, motorcycles, fights, screams, breaking glass, and gunshots punctuated my phone calls with my mother. My proximity to the red-neck bar drove me nuts, adding to my insomniatic ramblings; I need at least 4 hours of sleep for coherent speech.
While I was in Lake City I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of:
“Bitch, where’s my hat, you fucking stupid bitch!”
“Fuck you, asshole, fuck your hat.”
“Fucking cunt, something something unintelligible hat….”
“Well fuck you.”
“You don’t fucking come near me, or I’m gonna mess you up.”
“Fuck you. I’ll fuck you up.”
“Come here, asshole.”
“Fucking, asshole.”
“Where’s my fucking hat, fucker?”
In Green Lake I hear…. NOTHING. Occasionally a car passes and I can dimly hear the hum of the freeway, but primarily the only noises in my new place are coming from my incessant yacking and the TV or stereo. I have no urban lullaby to sleep to. Consequently, I am sleeping even less than usual, which is really quite ridiculous. In fact I was so exhausted last night that I actually considered putting on clothes and going all the way back to my old apartment. But I was too lazy to find pants.
Perhaps like the main character in the movie version of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, I should record the sounds of my old home and play them at night. Imagine my new neighbors’ confusion at the sounds of fat spiral-permed blondes being assaulted, men scuffling for no discernable reason, and my personal favorite, the randomly screaming woman, all pouring from my windows and traveling across the waters of my clean new pool.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Here, take this orally before bed and you'll be asleep in no time at all.
This is a houseplant.
This is me. (Ok, me dressed as a pirate...)
The resemblance is pretty poor.
I say this in order to clarify that, in fact, I am not a houseplant, nor do I aspire to become one. Colleagues, friends, aunties, grandma, mom, please stop implying that I need some one to take care of me.
I pretty much raised myself, put myself through college, and support myself at the highest standard of living that I have EVER had with a job that I got… all by myself. (Ok, my job essentially blows, but I’m working on that.) My point is that I never had a Daddy, and I don’t need one now.
So please don’t try to make me feel incomplete without a husband. Don’t try to assert my helplessness to inspire me to desperately search for a man. Don’t use your imaginary M.D. to diagnose that my insomnia would be cured if only I had a strong man to alleviate my anxieties. Sex will not cure my insomnia. Trust me.
This is me. (Ok, me dressed as a pirate...)
The resemblance is pretty poor.
I say this in order to clarify that, in fact, I am not a houseplant, nor do I aspire to become one. Colleagues, friends, aunties, grandma, mom, please stop implying that I need some one to take care of me.
I pretty much raised myself, put myself through college, and support myself at the highest standard of living that I have EVER had with a job that I got… all by myself. (Ok, my job essentially blows, but I’m working on that.) My point is that I never had a Daddy, and I don’t need one now.
So please don’t try to make me feel incomplete without a husband. Don’t try to assert my helplessness to inspire me to desperately search for a man. Don’t use your imaginary M.D. to diagnose that my insomnia would be cured if only I had a strong man to alleviate my anxieties. Sex will not cure my insomnia. Trust me.
Ohhhh Mexico, I’ve never really been, but I’d sure like to go.
The Anti-Defamation League wants you to know that Mexico is not dirty. Apparently they’ve never been to Mexico.
T-shirt said to be offensive to Mexico
Claims ‘New Mexico: Cleaner Than Regular Mexico’
T-shirt said to be offensive to Mexico
Claims ‘New Mexico: Cleaner Than Regular Mexico’
The Anti-Defamation League has asked Urban Outfitters, a Philadelphia-based retailer which targets 18- to 30-year-old shoppers, to stop selling the shirt.
The Associated Press
Updated: 3:28 p.m. ET July 26, 2005
PHILADELPHIA - The Urban Outfitters retail chain is once again upsetting some people with a T-shirt it’s selling. The shirt reads: “New Mexico, Cleaner than Regular Mexico.”
An official with the Anti-Defamation League wants the retailer to stop selling the shirt -- because it suggests that ”Mexico is a dirty place.”
Urban Outfitters has run into similar controversy before. Two years ago, it stopped selling a game called ”Ghettopoly” after black civil rights leaders protested. Last year, it stopped sales of a T-shirt that read, “Everyone Loves a Jewish Girl,” surrounded by dollar signs. The Anti-Defamation League objected to that one, too.
It also angered pro-voting groups with a shirt that said, “Voting is for Old People.”
Now I know what you’re thinking, here goes Quiana and her Anti-Defamation League prejudices. Damn straight. I can’t help but be angry about how, according to the ADL, it’s apparently ok for Falwell and Santorum to vilify homosexuals, but God forbid you pick on Mexico. God forbid you use your right to free expression to offend other people. Good thing being a bitch is illegal in America (I’d better go into hiding). Good thing that the ADL’s right to sue and be little whiners supersedes our rights to obnoxious garb. “Harold that man’s T-shirt is too glib, quick call the ADL!” I feel like the ADL is a bully that can run around telling people that creating funny t-shirts (although a bit outrageous) is wrong—quick accuse the makers of anti-Semitism, racism, sexism, ageism. Tie them up and burn them at the stake!
I know that the ADL is concerned that people will believe that all Mexicans are dirty if they see that t-shirt (not that the shirt is even implying that), but let’s be serious, if I see a lady with a t-shirt with a picture of a beaver on her shirt and an arrow pointing down, I don’t think that there is an actual beaver in her pants, nor will society at large begin to think that all ladies have large flappered mammals in their pants. Likewise I think that people who hate Mexicans are stupid assholes who not only have the right to any stupid t-shirt they want, but who the ADL can’t make not be assholes no matter how many clothing retailers they blackball. It’s every American’s God-given right to be an asshole if they feel like being an asshole and no amount of t-shirt destruction will stop that. So while I can see where the ADL is going with this (even though I think that they are a bunch of liberal art major, bourgeois, ass-clowns) I still stand behind Urban Outfitters. The American government set the precedent for picking on Mexico so why should our retailers take any more care? Mexico’s condition is appalling. Its government is fundamentally corrupt in every fashion, from the president down to the neighborhood police force. Things are so terrible in Mexico that leaving your family, swimming a river and risking death in the desert to come here, live in fear, not be able to communicate, to be the victim of atrocious racism, and pick our fucking berries is the best possible opportunity available for people to improve themselves. This sob story may make you believe that the ADL is right, quit picking on Mexico. Well fah, I say. I think that Americans would do well to remember that Mexico isn’t really Cabo and Mazatlan, Mexico is Tijuana and tiny towns full of desperate dirty people.
About 8 years ago I went to Tijuana to work with orphans and the destitute at the Tijuana dumps. The dump used to be a pile in a valley with mountains all around. They’ve filled the valley, to the point that the mound of refuse is a mountain now. Countless poor live next to this mountain making their living by sorting through the trash. Eating what they can, selling anything worth money. I bathed children for the first time in their lives because water is too precious to waste; I deloused them and gave them the only new clothes they will probably ever own. These are kids with scabies, worms, and appalling health problems and deformities that are so awful that, were your pet to have them, you would have it put down. I didn’t know that there was that much puss in the entire world, and I sat and squished it out of sores on babies so the staff doctors and nurses could figure out what the hell was wrong there.
There is a cemetery at the dump for people who are born in the trash and die in it. The people are so poor that they don’t know what to do with their loved ones when they die, so they bury their dead children, parents, and friends in cardboard boxes or just leave them on the ground knowing that if they buried them someone would just break in and steal their clothes anyway. There are decaying corpses on the ground and the children play on the other side of the road. But don’t worry, the cemetery will probably be swallowed by garbage soon if it hasn’t happened already. At least then they will be buried.
I know that Mexico isn’t even the poorest place in the world, but remembering this experience makes me feel despondent so deep inside I can’t even express it.
ADL, don’t you fucking dare sit in Manhattan in tailored suits drinking Starbucks and tell me that Mexico isn’t dirty. Or that that t-shirt isn’t funny just because it’s true.
Sorry guys, this was going to be knee-slapping funny, but I just got pissed off instead. Don’t fret, more poop and sex entries to come.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
And I said, I don't care if they lay me off either, because I told, I told Bill that if they move my desk one more time, then, then I'm, I'm quitting
Below is an ACTUAL email that I received at WORK from a COWORKER. Let me preface this all with the statement that this went out to at least 300 other people who also work with us. Additionally, aside from omitting names (i.e. trying to not get fired) I have made absolutely no changes to the content, punctuation, spelling etc. of this email. Continuing in my preface might I add that this woman is a 45 year old white chick and is also quite large.
Oh and incidentally they just moved my desk and I'm hopping mad. Now people can sneak up behind me and catch me updating this blog. Bastards!
_____________________________________________________
First.... August 11 in the AM I will be unavailable to answer the phone. Additionally, (program she manages) will be unavailable. Here's the scoop-a-rooney, I will be working with (company that makes program that she manages) that morning to beef up a few things and learn a few more tricks to impress you with! One thing that we will be doing is adding more report options for you! Neat Huh? I thought you'd like that!
So in order for me to not loose my little mind trying to answer questions and fix all sorts of other stuff, I need to focus on this so that I can be the best that I can be! I do this out of love for all my peeps! :)
***************************************
Ok... Second......
I am going to give you more power... yep.. you heard me right. More power... but with more power you can cause MORE damage.... so I need to give you a stern lecture, warning, directive, call it what you like..... if you goof it up.. I will have no choice but to remove that power..... got it? Sorry to be such a "parteey peewper" but for the safety of all concened it has to be that way. With that said here's the deal;
After payroll upload tomorrow I will flip a switch on your (program she manages) adminstrator profile that will enable you to make fabulous changes to your employee files. Changes like addresses, phone numbers, job descriptions, work hours and stuff like that. Stuff that will make your job easier. Like the ability to print mailing labels and other fun things. You will no longer have to wait months on end for me to dig through a pile of changes to get to your site. You have the power!!! Wahooooooo!
The problem is that this will give you power to change (certain variety of employee) records as well. This must not be done!!!!! Do not under ANY circumstance change a (certain variety of employee) record. Nadda, Nyet, Nein.... Don't eeeeven think about it! Even if it seems non invasive. There may be a good reason that their name is not spelled the way they write it. Perhaps that's what their social security card has it spelled. You don't know... so don't touch! Don't change their phone number or anything! Call me if you have a question.
Cuz.... if you change it... the change log will reflect YOUR name! That's right! So you can't even do a sneaky! I'll be all over you like mustard on a ball park dog!
Live long and prosper... but keep your hands to your own site information!
Sheesh... I need a nap... being such a dictator is brutal! I'm all tuckered out!
If you don't have your Password and User name to access (program she manages) yet.... let me know.. I'll do it post haste! (or at least after payroll has been uploaded!)
Naptime.... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
:)
Name of Coworker Withheld
Oh and incidentally they just moved my desk and I'm hopping mad. Now people can sneak up behind me and catch me updating this blog. Bastards!
_____________________________________________________
First.... August 11 in the AM I will be unavailable to answer the phone. Additionally, (program she manages) will be unavailable. Here's the scoop-a-rooney, I will be working with (company that makes program that she manages) that morning to beef up a few things and learn a few more tricks to impress you with! One thing that we will be doing is adding more report options for you! Neat Huh? I thought you'd like that!
So in order for me to not loose my little mind trying to answer questions and fix all sorts of other stuff, I need to focus on this so that I can be the best that I can be! I do this out of love for all my peeps! :)
***************************************
Ok... Second......
I am going to give you more power... yep.. you heard me right. More power... but with more power you can cause MORE damage.... so I need to give you a stern lecture, warning, directive, call it what you like..... if you goof it up.. I will have no choice but to remove that power..... got it? Sorry to be such a "parteey peewper" but for the safety of all concened it has to be that way. With that said here's the deal;
After payroll upload tomorrow I will flip a switch on your (program she manages) adminstrator profile that will enable you to make fabulous changes to your employee files. Changes like addresses, phone numbers, job descriptions, work hours and stuff like that. Stuff that will make your job easier. Like the ability to print mailing labels and other fun things. You will no longer have to wait months on end for me to dig through a pile of changes to get to your site. You have the power!!! Wahooooooo!
The problem is that this will give you power to change (certain variety of employee) records as well. This must not be done!!!!! Do not under ANY circumstance change a (certain variety of employee) record. Nadda, Nyet, Nein.... Don't eeeeven think about it! Even if it seems non invasive. There may be a good reason that their name is not spelled the way they write it. Perhaps that's what their social security card has it spelled. You don't know... so don't touch! Don't change their phone number or anything! Call me if you have a question.
Cuz.... if you change it... the change log will reflect YOUR name! That's right! So you can't even do a sneaky! I'll be all over you like mustard on a ball park dog!
Live long and prosper... but keep your hands to your own site information!
Sheesh... I need a nap... being such a dictator is brutal! I'm all tuckered out!
If you don't have your Password and User name to access (program she manages) yet.... let me know.. I'll do it post haste! (or at least after payroll has been uploaded!)
Naptime.... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
:)
Name of Coworker Withheld
Monday, August 08, 2005
you stink
Came into the office this morning and went to wash my coffee mug and there was new soap. That's fine. Whatever, however if you have ever puked Smirnoff twisted orange vodka or Absolut Citron, don't use this shit:
Dawn Direct Foam
Citris
I seriously almost snarked into the sink. It gave me the same reaction as smelling tequila after heavy drinking....
Also possibly the fucking freakiest graphic ever:
It's like the resulting baby if Snuffy from Sesame Street was making love to a soap bottle during a radioactive space wind storm.
Dawn Direct Foam
CitrisI seriously almost snarked into the sink. It gave me the same reaction as smelling tequila after heavy drinking....
Also possibly the fucking freakiest graphic ever:
It's like the resulting baby if Snuffy from Sesame Street was making love to a soap bottle during a radioactive space wind storm.
I'm not with Stupid*
You guys want a post?! Well fine, here's a post, but it ain't gonna be funny. Whiners.
Today I was meditating on Rick Santorum (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rick_Santorum). Guys like him make me embarrassed to admit to being an evangelical Christian, even though I'm a barely practicing, jubilantly sinning, tragically liberal, practically not Christian at all kind of Christian.
I won't rant about what a self-indulgent ass-clown Rick Santorum is, but it suddenly occurred to me that this is one tenth of the embarrassment that my Muslim friends described to me whenever terrorists use the Koran to excuse their sins. When Santorum and other Christian extremists equate being homosexual with being a child molesters it must feel frustrating and ludicrous in the same way as when Muslim extremists claim that their martyrs are treated to some 20 virgins or whatever. (Being that most of my Muslim friends follow Islamic law with the same enthusiasm that I follow Christian law, they are aiming to get their 20 virgins now.)
Shouldn't a common enemy bring us together? I feel like we are all in the same boat. We, as religious groups, are being embarrassed by a disturbingly large portion of our fellows being manipulated in their beliefs by a minority of ass-holes (and in this case, their contents).
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savage_Love)
*Alternate title intended for the entertainment of Steve: "Dude that was so NOT extreme."
Today I was meditating on Rick Santorum (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rick_Santorum). Guys like him make me embarrassed to admit to being an evangelical Christian, even though I'm a barely practicing, jubilantly sinning, tragically liberal, practically not Christian at all kind of Christian.
I won't rant about what a self-indulgent ass-clown Rick Santorum is, but it suddenly occurred to me that this is one tenth of the embarrassment that my Muslim friends described to me whenever terrorists use the Koran to excuse their sins. When Santorum and other Christian extremists equate being homosexual with being a child molesters it must feel frustrating and ludicrous in the same way as when Muslim extremists claim that their martyrs are treated to some 20 virgins or whatever. (Being that most of my Muslim friends follow Islamic law with the same enthusiasm that I follow Christian law, they are aiming to get their 20 virgins now.)
Shouldn't a common enemy bring us together? I feel like we are all in the same boat. We, as religious groups, are being embarrassed by a disturbingly large portion of our fellows being manipulated in their beliefs by a minority of ass-holes (and in this case, their contents).
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savage_Love)
*Alternate title intended for the entertainment of Steve: "Dude that was so NOT extreme."
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Chilled Cheese with a Twist of Limey
Sometimes you hear a story and you think that there is no way that this could possibly be true. If you knew my buddy John Hepburn, you’d understand that with liquor, shrooms, and John, anything is possible. John was from Manchester and acted like it. He was cheap as hell, had an incomrehensible accent, and cursed like a marine. He had NO sense of any kind, common or otherwise.
At the time of this story John is living with my boyfriend of the week, Sam, and their Canadian friend, Tim, in a small three bedroom flat in the outskirts of Tokyo. This was one of the many points in my life where I mostly shopped and partied. (If you can believe it, I am actually much calmer now.) Anyway, a bunch of us expats (5 Brits and myself) decided to go to a nomihodai (a restaurant/bar where you pay a fee to drink all you want) then clubbing. The night progressed much as it normally did, with the exception that John decided to buy shrooms (which are perfectly legal in Japan) off of some skeezy guy (think the weird guy from Big Trouble in Little China) on the street.
We had a good time at the club and left there sometime between 3 and 4. We went to a nice little curry joint to wait for the subway to start running again (it quits at like 2:30 and starts at 4 or so). We are all very very drunk, and nearly all foreigners (though most of us speak nearly fluent or fluent Japanese) so we are attracting tons of warranted attention. Most of the attention was directed at John. This would be because John was white and 6’5,” kneading his curry rice like bread dough, and muttering angrily to no one in particular. Oli, his neighbor, is leaning on the table, focused on pretending he can’t smell curry, when out of nowhere John (who is a good foot taller) hurled his entire plate of steaming hot curry in Oli’s face. John lurched violently from his chair and lumbered out into the street like Frankenstein’s Monster. I ran out after him (who cares if Oli is blinded by a vindaloo, John is loose on the streets of Tokyo!) As we watched in silent horror, John ran across 6 lanes of traffic, jumped the subway turnstile and was gone.
After about thirty seconds we all shrugged, put Oli in a cab and the rest of us went to karaoke. I tried calling John a few times but I couldn’t get a hold of him on his cell phone. When the trains started running again we returned to our neighborhood and I went to my boyfriend’s apartment (Sam hadn't joined us that evening due to a hockey game).
The next morning someone started pounding on the door. Sam looked out the peephole and started laughing hysterically. He opened the door and John stormed in. He declared “Fuck all” in his impenetrable accent and stormed into the shower room. He had been dressed in black sweats and a white t-shirt, except that they were clearly made for a Japanese guy, not a giant Brit. He was also orange.
After his shower he sat down to tell us how this happened. This morning he woke up and it was freezing cold and pitch black. It also smelled terrible. The last thing John could remember was at the club. Suddenly he noticed that he felt very cramped and suffocated. He started to struggle, trying to kick out, only to come tumbling out of a fridge. Having short and long fridges to fit under counters is not completely abnormal.
He lay there for a moment staring at the ceiling of a room he had never seen before. He looked at the floor and noticed that there was food and bottles all over it. It was then he noticed two other things.
1. He was completely naked.
2. He was completely orange.
His first instinct was to get the hell out of this place, except he was orange and naked. He went to the sink and tried to wash some of the orange off. He then crept around the house looking for his clothes, wallet and cell phone. He couldn’t find any of that. He did find a Japanese couple in their early twenties naked, somewhat orange and asleep in one of the bedrooms. On the floor were several containers of squeezy cheese. John panicked grabbing clothes from a pile on the floor and decided to consider his keys, phone, wallet and clothes as a negligible loss.
He got out into the street and had no idea where he was. After wandering around for a few minutes he finally found a train station. He stared at the map realizing that he was in a suburb on the opposite side of Tokyo. In fact he was pretty much at the end of the line. He started walking up to Japanese people and in his best Japanese would say, “I’m sorry to bother you so rudely, but it’s that I have lost my wallet. Would you loan me the money to ride the train to Mitaka. I would mail it back to you.” This of course incited the Japanese housewives he was addressing to run away or at best say in bad English “English no good. I no speak English.” Which of course cause John, who was feeling kinda of crappy at this point to say in a loud and rude voice, “I’m speaking Japanese. Right now. See.” Which if they hadn’t already run away would quite ample inspiration to do so then. Finally a Kiwi came by and John was able to persuade him to give him the money he needed. John offered to pay him back, but apparently these sorts of things simply don’t happen in New Zealand and aside from this one good deed he wanted nothing to do with John.
John rode the train to the end. He looked at the map. He rode the next train till the end and into the heart of the city. Then the next back to Mitaka-Osawa (our neighborhood). As he exited the train station John saw his bike sitting forlornly on the corner. He walked over and realized his bike key was gone. The last of the Kiwi’s monkey was spent on the train ride back and John was not certain that Sam, Tim or I would be home to cover the cost of a cab. To cap it all John walked home (at least 2 miles) that day to cancel his cards, call the bank, get a new resident foreigner card, get new keys made, and finally to return two days later for his bike, to find it was stolen.
John never found his wallet, clothes, keys, or memory of what transpired that night.
At the time of this story John is living with my boyfriend of the week, Sam, and their Canadian friend, Tim, in a small three bedroom flat in the outskirts of Tokyo. This was one of the many points in my life where I mostly shopped and partied. (If you can believe it, I am actually much calmer now.) Anyway, a bunch of us expats (5 Brits and myself) decided to go to a nomihodai (a restaurant/bar where you pay a fee to drink all you want) then clubbing. The night progressed much as it normally did, with the exception that John decided to buy shrooms (which are perfectly legal in Japan) off of some skeezy guy (think the weird guy from Big Trouble in Little China) on the street.
We had a good time at the club and left there sometime between 3 and 4. We went to a nice little curry joint to wait for the subway to start running again (it quits at like 2:30 and starts at 4 or so). We are all very very drunk, and nearly all foreigners (though most of us speak nearly fluent or fluent Japanese) so we are attracting tons of warranted attention. Most of the attention was directed at John. This would be because John was white and 6’5,” kneading his curry rice like bread dough, and muttering angrily to no one in particular. Oli, his neighbor, is leaning on the table, focused on pretending he can’t smell curry, when out of nowhere John (who is a good foot taller) hurled his entire plate of steaming hot curry in Oli’s face. John lurched violently from his chair and lumbered out into the street like Frankenstein’s Monster. I ran out after him (who cares if Oli is blinded by a vindaloo, John is loose on the streets of Tokyo!) As we watched in silent horror, John ran across 6 lanes of traffic, jumped the subway turnstile and was gone.
After about thirty seconds we all shrugged, put Oli in a cab and the rest of us went to karaoke. I tried calling John a few times but I couldn’t get a hold of him on his cell phone. When the trains started running again we returned to our neighborhood and I went to my boyfriend’s apartment (Sam hadn't joined us that evening due to a hockey game).
The next morning someone started pounding on the door. Sam looked out the peephole and started laughing hysterically. He opened the door and John stormed in. He declared “Fuck all” in his impenetrable accent and stormed into the shower room. He had been dressed in black sweats and a white t-shirt, except that they were clearly made for a Japanese guy, not a giant Brit. He was also orange.
After his shower he sat down to tell us how this happened. This morning he woke up and it was freezing cold and pitch black. It also smelled terrible. The last thing John could remember was at the club. Suddenly he noticed that he felt very cramped and suffocated. He started to struggle, trying to kick out, only to come tumbling out of a fridge. Having short and long fridges to fit under counters is not completely abnormal.
He lay there for a moment staring at the ceiling of a room he had never seen before. He looked at the floor and noticed that there was food and bottles all over it. It was then he noticed two other things.
1. He was completely naked.
2. He was completely orange.
His first instinct was to get the hell out of this place, except he was orange and naked. He went to the sink and tried to wash some of the orange off. He then crept around the house looking for his clothes, wallet and cell phone. He couldn’t find any of that. He did find a Japanese couple in their early twenties naked, somewhat orange and asleep in one of the bedrooms. On the floor were several containers of squeezy cheese. John panicked grabbing clothes from a pile on the floor and decided to consider his keys, phone, wallet and clothes as a negligible loss.
He got out into the street and had no idea where he was. After wandering around for a few minutes he finally found a train station. He stared at the map realizing that he was in a suburb on the opposite side of Tokyo. In fact he was pretty much at the end of the line. He started walking up to Japanese people and in his best Japanese would say, “I’m sorry to bother you so rudely, but it’s that I have lost my wallet. Would you loan me the money to ride the train to Mitaka. I would mail it back to you.” This of course incited the Japanese housewives he was addressing to run away or at best say in bad English “English no good. I no speak English.” Which of course cause John, who was feeling kinda of crappy at this point to say in a loud and rude voice, “I’m speaking Japanese. Right now. See.” Which if they hadn’t already run away would quite ample inspiration to do so then. Finally a Kiwi came by and John was able to persuade him to give him the money he needed. John offered to pay him back, but apparently these sorts of things simply don’t happen in New Zealand and aside from this one good deed he wanted nothing to do with John.
John rode the train to the end. He looked at the map. He rode the next train till the end and into the heart of the city. Then the next back to Mitaka-Osawa (our neighborhood). As he exited the train station John saw his bike sitting forlornly on the corner. He walked over and realized his bike key was gone. The last of the Kiwi’s monkey was spent on the train ride back and John was not certain that Sam, Tim or I would be home to cover the cost of a cab. To cap it all John walked home (at least 2 miles) that day to cancel his cards, call the bank, get a new resident foreigner card, get new keys made, and finally to return two days later for his bike, to find it was stolen.
John never found his wallet, clothes, keys, or memory of what transpired that night.
Married man at work who sucks at adultery, are you mad because you figured out that it’s never going to happen?
Wow, after almost 3 years of trying to get me to have an adulterous affair, you’ve finally figured out it’s never going to happen. That’s quite the learning curve, pumpkin.
When you sat next to me for today’s all day meeting, I will admit, I wanted to poison you, but didn’t have any poison on my person. The part that I thought was really painful was when you noticed me secretly update my blog and commented that you wish you had enough free time to run a blog at work. I countered with “How’s your golf game coming along?” I’ve got to say that I could have done better than picking on the fact that you regularly dick around with your putting set instead of working. What I wish I could have said was, “Well, it’s funny that you bring up my blog, because my entry about how pathetic you are is one of my funniest so far.”
Oh well. It’s time for a break now and I’m just gonna toddle up to the break room and see if we have any nice pesticides or cleaners to put in your Snoopy mug.
See you in ten, big boy.
When you sat next to me for today’s all day meeting, I will admit, I wanted to poison you, but didn’t have any poison on my person. The part that I thought was really painful was when you noticed me secretly update my blog and commented that you wish you had enough free time to run a blog at work. I countered with “How’s your golf game coming along?” I’ve got to say that I could have done better than picking on the fact that you regularly dick around with your putting set instead of working. What I wish I could have said was, “Well, it’s funny that you bring up my blog, because my entry about how pathetic you are is one of my funniest so far.”
Oh well. It’s time for a break now and I’m just gonna toddle up to the break room and see if we have any nice pesticides or cleaners to put in your Snoopy mug.
See you in ten, big boy.
I don't need no stinking permission
Reprinted from a response to my email about friends not letting their friends date me (and for good reason) about 2 minutes ago:
Brief theatrical interlude in the stylings of Top Gun:
Loren: "You know why people don't want to date you Quiana? CUZ' YER DANGEROUS!"
Quiana: "That's right! Iceman!...er...LORAN!!!! I AM dangerous"(Quiana emphatically shoves Ice...er.. Loren in the chest and walks quickly towards her awaiting F-14 Tomcat fighter pausing only briefly to flip him the bird)
*fade to black-- next scene
Brief theatrical interlude in the stylings of Top Gun:
Loren: "You know why people don't want to date you Quiana? CUZ' YER DANGEROUS!"
Quiana: "That's right! Iceman!...er...LORAN!!!! I AM dangerous"(Quiana emphatically shoves Ice...er.. Loren in the chest and walks quickly towards her awaiting F-14 Tomcat fighter pausing only briefly to flip him the bird)
*fade to black-- next scene
This is not the droid you’re looking for.
A couple years back a friend of mine introduced me to a guy who was getting a divinity degree and was working as a youth pastor. Yes, I know I should know better.
We started hanging out a lot, in what I perceived to be a non-date type fashion. Eventually we were sitting next to each other at the beach and I was blah blah blahing about God knows what when he took my face in his hands and kissed me. I was like, ok I should worry about this, but I’m having such a good time. Yes, I should have known better.
Then we started meeting up and he would play his guitar and we would hang out and one thing would lead to another, as ‘one thing’s always do and we would be making out. Part of the problem was that he was just a damn great kisser. The other part, and probably the larger part was that I am a huge idiot.
Eventually we are sitting on his couch and he decides to have a relationship defining talk. This catches me off guard, mostly because I am a huge idiot. Transcript of conversation:
E-“You know I’ve been thinking.” Twiddling with the guitar.
Q-Panic/ repression of snide comment. “Yes…?”
E-“I really like you, (long pause) and I think I can tell that you really like me, so you know, (twiddling guitar) I think maybe we should be official.”
Q-Blank expression (I hope- more likely an expression of panic) You know I adore you Erik, but (for one thing your 20 and for another you’re the kind of guy who spells Erik with a K) I don’t think you really want me to be your girlfriend. (you really want your stupid truck to be your girlfriend) Maybe you just feel like you should.”
E-“I don’t want you?”
Q-“No, you don’t want me, I think you’d be happier being single.” (I don’t want to be a pastor’s wife, Stupid. God, why are you so hot?!)
E- “I am happy being single.”
Q-“We probably shouldn’t be doing this.” (I would prefer your roommate. I’d date him for sure, he’s got that whole indie kid thing going for him.)
E- I think I don’t really want you to be my girlfriend.
Q- *sigh* you’re probably right. (Yes he totally bought that! I’m a Jedi Master.)
He was married to his ex-girlfriend 6 months later.
We started hanging out a lot, in what I perceived to be a non-date type fashion. Eventually we were sitting next to each other at the beach and I was blah blah blahing about God knows what when he took my face in his hands and kissed me. I was like, ok I should worry about this, but I’m having such a good time. Yes, I should have known better.
Then we started meeting up and he would play his guitar and we would hang out and one thing would lead to another, as ‘one thing’s always do and we would be making out. Part of the problem was that he was just a damn great kisser. The other part, and probably the larger part was that I am a huge idiot.
Eventually we are sitting on his couch and he decides to have a relationship defining talk. This catches me off guard, mostly because I am a huge idiot. Transcript of conversation:
E-“You know I’ve been thinking.” Twiddling with the guitar.
Q-Panic/ repression of snide comment. “Yes…?”
E-“I really like you, (long pause) and I think I can tell that you really like me, so you know, (twiddling guitar) I think maybe we should be official.”
Q-Blank expression (I hope- more likely an expression of panic) You know I adore you Erik, but (for one thing your 20 and for another you’re the kind of guy who spells Erik with a K) I don’t think you really want me to be your girlfriend. (you really want your stupid truck to be your girlfriend) Maybe you just feel like you should.”
E-“I don’t want you?”
Q-“No, you don’t want me, I think you’d be happier being single.” (I don’t want to be a pastor’s wife, Stupid. God, why are you so hot?!)
E- “I am happy being single.”
Q-“We probably shouldn’t be doing this.” (I would prefer your roommate. I’d date him for sure, he’s got that whole indie kid thing going for him.)
E- I think I don’t really want you to be my girlfriend.
Q- *sigh* you’re probably right. (Yes he totally bought that! I’m a Jedi Master.)
He was married to his ex-girlfriend 6 months later.
Monday, August 01, 2005
global existence of penises continues to threaten feminists
*WARNING* Potentially deadly rant below. Blame NPR, they’ve got me all riled up today.
Bryn Mawr is going to withdraw my diploma for this but, as I listen to news coverage about the recent appointment of a man as the Chair of Women’s Studies at the University of Washington, I can’t help but feel that the whole thing is appallingly fitting. Does everybody actually believe that one must be a woman to study women? Do herpetologists need forked tongues? Well I guess you can never understand the nature of snake-ness without being a snake…?
Women’s Studies is not really about the question “what does it mean to be a woman?” Women’s studies is about learning and documenting things having to do with women, a group historically ignored. Can I write a book illustrating what it is like to be an American, what American-ness is? Of course not. People are different; people have different experiences and different natures. What is it that these people are really implying: that a man can never understand women? No shit. That men and women are different? Yea, I noticed that in Junior High. Nope, they are asserting that no member of the privileged male gender can empathize with the ‘subjugated woman.’ How about a guy who didn’t get a job because he was Mexican, or too old, or gay, or short? Nope, Women’s Studies is a snatch only club. Sorry guys, no willies allowed.
Apparently the possibility that men and women are both capable of doing the same level of work is not part of feminism anymore. The kind of drivel I heard touted as feminism at Bryn Mawr was apparently not the rants of women with senses of entitlement larger than the state of Texas and mouths large enough to swallow a Princess cruise ship, but mainstream feminism today.
These are the same people who believe that only white people are racist. You want to see widespread commonly accepted racism? Be white and move to Japan or any crap neighborhood in Philadelphia. My male friends are more “Feminist” than my female friends and my black relatives are the WORST racists I’ve ever suffered.
I have always believed that the basic premise of feminism is that while men and women are different from each other, that neither gender fits into cookie cutter definitions, and that everyone should be free to do as they believe and desire without gender based constraints.
When women talk about the entitlement of the male patriarchy do they forget the meal they were bought the night before? Do they forget the doors held open for them? How about the being able to act utterly insane and then write it off as hormones?
I guess feminism is about chicks bitching about how men are being treated better while showing a little cleave to get a free beer.
Well, if I’m going to get free beer out of it, “Here’s a toast to our titties ladies.”
Bryn Mawr is going to withdraw my diploma for this but, as I listen to news coverage about the recent appointment of a man as the Chair of Women’s Studies at the University of Washington, I can’t help but feel that the whole thing is appallingly fitting. Does everybody actually believe that one must be a woman to study women? Do herpetologists need forked tongues? Well I guess you can never understand the nature of snake-ness without being a snake…?
Women’s Studies is not really about the question “what does it mean to be a woman?” Women’s studies is about learning and documenting things having to do with women, a group historically ignored. Can I write a book illustrating what it is like to be an American, what American-ness is? Of course not. People are different; people have different experiences and different natures. What is it that these people are really implying: that a man can never understand women? No shit. That men and women are different? Yea, I noticed that in Junior High. Nope, they are asserting that no member of the privileged male gender can empathize with the ‘subjugated woman.’ How about a guy who didn’t get a job because he was Mexican, or too old, or gay, or short? Nope, Women’s Studies is a snatch only club. Sorry guys, no willies allowed.
Apparently the possibility that men and women are both capable of doing the same level of work is not part of feminism anymore. The kind of drivel I heard touted as feminism at Bryn Mawr was apparently not the rants of women with senses of entitlement larger than the state of Texas and mouths large enough to swallow a Princess cruise ship, but mainstream feminism today.
These are the same people who believe that only white people are racist. You want to see widespread commonly accepted racism? Be white and move to Japan or any crap neighborhood in Philadelphia. My male friends are more “Feminist” than my female friends and my black relatives are the WORST racists I’ve ever suffered.
I have always believed that the basic premise of feminism is that while men and women are different from each other, that neither gender fits into cookie cutter definitions, and that everyone should be free to do as they believe and desire without gender based constraints.
When women talk about the entitlement of the male patriarchy do they forget the meal they were bought the night before? Do they forget the doors held open for them? How about the being able to act utterly insane and then write it off as hormones?
I guess feminism is about chicks bitching about how men are being treated better while showing a little cleave to get a free beer.
Well, if I’m going to get free beer out of it, “Here’s a toast to our titties ladies.”
Up Next, Real World: Riyadh
I would like to settle once and for all, that "Islamic" and "terrorist" are not interchangeable words. The terrorists who are bombing shit are not part of a Islamic network, they are part of a terrorist network. An Islamic network would show interesting reality TV shows and dubbed Sesame Street, not be made up of criminals who are planning to murder non-combatants.
Rant courtesy of NPR's Morning Edition.
Rant courtesy of NPR's Morning Edition.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
book reports speed dating style
So my book report project is not going well. Similar to high-school I am reading my books and failing to actually report on them. So here are all the books that I have read since my last book report (that I can recall) and a tiny blurb about them. Moreover, unlike speed-dating or meeting someone in a club I will tell you which one will turn out to be a Republican, 7th Day Adventist, or Journey fan before you're trapped in a restaurant.
DON'T READ:
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell- don't read- too long, for what you get out of it- could have great- but wasn't.
READ:
Partly Cloudy Patriot- non-fiction essay collection about America
Dress Your Family in corduroy and Denim- non-fiction essay collection about the author's childhood
Faith of My Fathers- account of the John McCains' (1, 2, and 3) military careers, focusing mainly on his time in a POW camp in Vietnam.
Freakonomics- an economist addresses various issues using his economics background to justify counter-intuitive arguments
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time- a fictional story about an autistic teen who is writing a book about solving the mystery of a dog's murder
Harry Potter 6- very well written and truer to life than the series has been in the last few books.
DON'T READ:
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell- don't read- too long, for what you get out of it- could have great- but wasn't.
READ:
Partly Cloudy Patriot- non-fiction essay collection about America
Dress Your Family in corduroy and Denim- non-fiction essay collection about the author's childhood
Faith of My Fathers- account of the John McCains' (1, 2, and 3) military careers, focusing mainly on his time in a POW camp in Vietnam.
Freakonomics- an economist addresses various issues using his economics background to justify counter-intuitive arguments
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time- a fictional story about an autistic teen who is writing a book about solving the mystery of a dog's murder
Harry Potter 6- very well written and truer to life than the series has been in the last few books.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
the worst thing I've had in my mouth... lately
Starbucks Green Tea Frappuccino Blended Crème, you are an abomination. You are a beverage abortion. When I asked the Barista if you were "vile," she gave me not even the tiniest of clues that you would violate my tongue in that fashion. You started with a peculiar vanilla-like taste, then bloomed into a Fruit Stripe Gum-like strange fruity flavor, chased by a tea-like after-taste. You tasted nothing like "good," your promised attribute, nor did you taste, as I had rather hoped you would, like the green tea ice cream I used to get in Hawaii.
Starbucks Green Tea Frappuccino Blended Crème, I did not hesitate before deciding, "This time I refuse to swallow!"
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Koo Koo Kachoo Mrs. Robinson
Dear Manufacturer of the Regal Prowler Camper Trailer,
In my recent stay in one of your campers I was amazed at its level of sophistication. Built in TV antenna, surround sound, and a microwave; your camper may be nicer than my apartment! Your ingenious storage solutions put my Ikea and Storable products to shame. However, I have a design suggestion that will revolutionize the camper trailer industry.
Imagine with me that you are a ten year old boy who has needed to pee all the way through Koopa’s Castle. Finally, having beaten two Koopa Kids, you save your game and innocently skip to bathroom.
Now imagine that you are a twenty five year old woman who, having recently come back to camp after a long hike, is enjoying the soapy solitude of a nice hot shower.
Now imagine these two events happening concurrently in one of you trailers. This brings me to my amazing design suggestion: bathroom door locks.
In my recent stay in one of your campers I was amazed at its level of sophistication. Built in TV antenna, surround sound, and a microwave; your camper may be nicer than my apartment! Your ingenious storage solutions put my Ikea and Storable products to shame. However, I have a design suggestion that will revolutionize the camper trailer industry.
Imagine with me that you are a ten year old boy who has needed to pee all the way through Koopa’s Castle. Finally, having beaten two Koopa Kids, you save your game and innocently skip to bathroom.
Now imagine that you are a twenty five year old woman who, having recently come back to camp after a long hike, is enjoying the soapy solitude of a nice hot shower.
Now imagine these two events happening concurrently in one of you trailers. This brings me to my amazing design suggestion: bathroom door locks.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Good morning Starshine, The Earth says, "Hello."
Went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with my friend Loren last night. The movie was excellent. Though my favorite part was the coming attractions- not that the creators of the offending movie trailer deserved any credit for it. The movie trailer was for Must Love Dogs, another romantic comedy in the tradition of… well I can’t remember any of their titles, since they blew, but rest assured if you watched anything with Kate Hudson, John Cusack, or Meg Ryan from the past 10 years, this will be the same, but with dogs. In fact it uses that same Natalie Cole song, This Will Be (an Everlasting Love) that has been used in at least 3 movies I can think of off the top of my head (Parent Trap, Charlie’s Angels, While You Were Sleeping).
Anyway, the trailer opens up with a single lady in her mid-late 30’s at the butcher shop….
Lady: One chicken breast please.
Butcher: You know they are much cheaper if you buy two.
Lady: I am pathetic and single and don’t want excess meat loitering around my fridge reminding me of my pitiful lonely life. I have a career, good friends, and interesting hobbies, but without a man I am nothing. (Fit of Hysteria) I just wish I had a sister/female friend/plot device to alleviate this….
Butcher: I’d pork ya. (ok, that wasn’t in the trailer- but that would have actually been funny.)
New montage of the sister/friend/plot device putting the lady on the internet and the lady getting mad action—action from men who apparently love dogs. Including John Cusack who, wait for it, doesn’t have a dog. But who cares about the “plot,” let’s get to the funny part. So the last scene of the trailer shows the s/f/p popping over to the lady’s house to drop off meat and yelling to the lady from the kitchen, wait for it, without knowing John Cusack is there….
S/F/P: Lady, I brought over extra meat for you to share with all of your new men.
S/F/P comes out of kitchen inexplicably holding the packs of meat. Sees John Cusack and freezes in fright. (No, he really isn’t aging well, is he?)
John Cusack: Can I have my meat now?
Lady Behind Me in the Movie Theater: Cause I’ll be giving you the meat later.
yo ho ho and about 5 bottles of rum
Pirate Party Pics Part 1
Melody gets back at Mebbie's comrade in arms, Scurvy
Jen threatening Q
Mark and Jen
Sarah shows Winston and Amine who's boss
Q and Addy
RAWWWRRRRR
Mebbie in a fit of rage attacks Addy's superior breast.
Loren, Mebbie and my fridge
Loren attacking Czarina attacking an apple
Emily, Yan, Matt, Luka, Q
and the top of Kelly's head
"Mad Eye" Mebbie and Scurvy the Flying Rat
Johanna and Loren. Arms courtesy of Steve and Monica
Johanna, Loren, and Steve "Bilbo" Powell
Melody gets back at Mebbie's comrade in arms, Scurvy
Jen threatening Q
Mark and Jen
Sarah shows Winston and Amine who's boss
Q and Addy
RAWWWRRRRR
Mebbie in a fit of rage attacks Addy's superior breast.
Loren, Mebbie and my fridge
Loren attacking Czarina attacking an apple
Emily, Yan, Matt, Luka, Q
and the top of Kelly's head"Mad Eye" Mebbie and Scurvy the Flying Rat
Johanna and Loren. Arms courtesy of Steve and Monica
Johanna, Loren, and Steve "Bilbo" Powell
that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it
*WARNING: Brothers of roommate, herein may lie a vicious overshare capable of rendering you completely unable to look at your sister without thinking of her sex life. Have fun with that.
Last week in a fit of bitterness I decided to not purchase the fancy piece of kitchen equipment I had been planning to buy my roommate for her wedding. She had been acting like, well, a complete pain in my ass for the last couple months and I decided her gift would be under twenty dollars. It was then that I realized what the girl who has every imaginable kitchen gadget in the world, yet can’t make pasta would need: nothing. Let’s be honest, who are weddings for? How about the wedding registry items? How many guys care about their dishware? You know who is getting all the gifts? My roommate. Poor fiancé didn’t get anything, so I decided to get him the one thing he would actually want: a sex life.
Having never had sex before, my roommate was justifiably nervous and knowing her, if sex was uncomfortable, her poor husband would never be allowed to touch her with “that thing” again. I figured the best way for me to ensure that the poor guy got to have sex twice was to discuss lubrication with my roommate.
Eeep! That being utterly impossible I decided to just buy her a nice bottle of lube and assume she was innocently unaware of such things. Yet lube is scary stuff sometimes… have you seen a bottle of AstroGlide? “Now in Cherry Flavor!” Incidentally, does that bug anyone else? Cherry?!? Flavor??? Anyway, I brow-beat a friend of a friend into accompanying me to the XXX Hollywood Erotic Boutique, conveniently located two blocks north of me to purchase a bottle of their finest lube. After buying what was described to me as the “lubricant, preferred by most gay men” I noticed that lube, even in a cute ergonomically shaped bottle, could still be scary. (Don’t ask me how this friend knew statistics on homosexual lubricant preferences… but we went shoe shopping later. That’s all I am saying….)
Then it hit me: the Bedazzler. Once in a fit of drunken stupidity (known as “college”) we got wasted and were watching QVC. Well about two weeks later every imaginable infomercial product began arriving on our doorsteps. George Forman grills by the score (in complimentary colors), a food dehydrater, a phone in the shape of SpiderMan, the entire Bevis and Butthead DVD set, a chopper thingy and one top of the line Bedazzler. All returned except the DVDs which I Ebayed. I would bedazzle the bottle. Using lace and rhinestones leftover from previous craft projects I designed a total makeover for my roommy’s lube.
Unfortunately I couldn’t find my glue gun. Shrugging off that minor setback I opted to use super glue. And I swear that is how I ended up super gluing myself to that bottle of personal lubricant.
Last week in a fit of bitterness I decided to not purchase the fancy piece of kitchen equipment I had been planning to buy my roommate for her wedding. She had been acting like, well, a complete pain in my ass for the last couple months and I decided her gift would be under twenty dollars. It was then that I realized what the girl who has every imaginable kitchen gadget in the world, yet can’t make pasta would need: nothing. Let’s be honest, who are weddings for? How about the wedding registry items? How many guys care about their dishware? You know who is getting all the gifts? My roommate. Poor fiancé didn’t get anything, so I decided to get him the one thing he would actually want: a sex life.
Having never had sex before, my roommate was justifiably nervous and knowing her, if sex was uncomfortable, her poor husband would never be allowed to touch her with “that thing” again. I figured the best way for me to ensure that the poor guy got to have sex twice was to discuss lubrication with my roommate.
Eeep! That being utterly impossible I decided to just buy her a nice bottle of lube and assume she was innocently unaware of such things. Yet lube is scary stuff sometimes… have you seen a bottle of AstroGlide? “Now in Cherry Flavor!” Incidentally, does that bug anyone else? Cherry?!? Flavor??? Anyway, I brow-beat a friend of a friend into accompanying me to the XXX Hollywood Erotic Boutique, conveniently located two blocks north of me to purchase a bottle of their finest lube. After buying what was described to me as the “lubricant, preferred by most gay men” I noticed that lube, even in a cute ergonomically shaped bottle, could still be scary. (Don’t ask me how this friend knew statistics on homosexual lubricant preferences… but we went shoe shopping later. That’s all I am saying….)
Then it hit me: the Bedazzler. Once in a fit of drunken stupidity (known as “college”) we got wasted and were watching QVC. Well about two weeks later every imaginable infomercial product began arriving on our doorsteps. George Forman grills by the score (in complimentary colors), a food dehydrater, a phone in the shape of SpiderMan, the entire Bevis and Butthead DVD set, a chopper thingy and one top of the line Bedazzler. All returned except the DVDs which I Ebayed. I would bedazzle the bottle. Using lace and rhinestones leftover from previous craft projects I designed a total makeover for my roommy’s lube.
Unfortunately I couldn’t find my glue gun. Shrugging off that minor setback I opted to use super glue. And I swear that is how I ended up super gluing myself to that bottle of personal lubricant.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Viva la Revolucion!
Yesterday as I was leaving the office I heard “Pssssst. Quiana, come here.” I walked back to the receptionist’s desk and she said, “No come behind my desk.” And there she showed me her…
… secret light up flip-flops. I was too excited. She told me she got them at Wal-Mart. And my tiny pitiful world shattered.
I HATE WalMart. HATE IT. There are only 2 in the Seattle area and they are both at least 40 minutes from my house. And it’s not the travel time. It is the chaos that bugs me. People everywhere, products mixed up, children screaming and touching me with greasy salty fry-fingers. And the people are the dregs of society: red-necks, ghetto mamas, scary soccer moms who look like hookers in Winnie the Pooh t-shirts, women with ten children and their own gravitational pull. Gack. I mean sometimes at Target you pass a good looking guy who even smells nice. At WalMart everyone smells like Cheetos and pleather.
But it just so happened that I already had plans to go to Ikea with my friend Monica (I HATE IKEA) (HATE HATE HATE IT) and since they are both in Renton I could combine my sorrows into one trip. I hate Ikea’s crowded chaos, unpronounceably named items, and fiendishly irritating radio-spokesman. Nasty twenty something couples guarding the furniture as though you might steal it, nose picking Gymboree children, women with cheekbones and arms like boiled chicken explaining to their children at great length why mommy doesn’t want them to stand on furniture with their shoes on: they are all standing IN THE ISLE. You know why you don’t stand on furniture with your shoes on, Junior? Because the furniture monster will come and eat all your shoes, including the pair your feet are in! He will gobble up your feet like gummi-bears and slurp down your shoe-laces like spaghetti.
Anyway, so I had low expectations for enjoying this excursion, but light-up flops and a new shoe storer were totally worth it. Actually, this time, Ikea was kind of fun- though it could have just been good company. In good spirits Mon and I headed towards WalMart. The one thing that I really like about WalMart is the dollar DVD bin. I collect old movies and old cartoons and they can often be found there.
So as soon as we had carefully examined every pair of flops we raided the dollar DVD bins. By far our best find was the cartoon version of the novel Animal Farm. It had the most darling little farm animals on the cover and was smack-dab in the middle of the children’s section, nestled between Betty-Boop and Bugs Bunny. I have this feeling that WalMart is probably one of the few places where nobody will notice George Orwell’s anti-Communist parable in the CHILDREN’S section.
Well, I hope the children who unknowingly pick this DVD like the part where the horsey gets sent to the glue factory so that the piggies can buy more liquor. That’s my favorite part.
Four legs, good! Two legs bad!!!
… secret light up flip-flops. I was too excited. She told me she got them at Wal-Mart. And my tiny pitiful world shattered.
I HATE WalMart. HATE IT. There are only 2 in the Seattle area and they are both at least 40 minutes from my house. And it’s not the travel time. It is the chaos that bugs me. People everywhere, products mixed up, children screaming and touching me with greasy salty fry-fingers. And the people are the dregs of society: red-necks, ghetto mamas, scary soccer moms who look like hookers in Winnie the Pooh t-shirts, women with ten children and their own gravitational pull. Gack. I mean sometimes at Target you pass a good looking guy who even smells nice. At WalMart everyone smells like Cheetos and pleather.
But it just so happened that I already had plans to go to Ikea with my friend Monica (I HATE IKEA) (HATE HATE HATE IT) and since they are both in Renton I could combine my sorrows into one trip. I hate Ikea’s crowded chaos, unpronounceably named items, and fiendishly irritating radio-spokesman. Nasty twenty something couples guarding the furniture as though you might steal it, nose picking Gymboree children, women with cheekbones and arms like boiled chicken explaining to their children at great length why mommy doesn’t want them to stand on furniture with their shoes on: they are all standing IN THE ISLE. You know why you don’t stand on furniture with your shoes on, Junior? Because the furniture monster will come and eat all your shoes, including the pair your feet are in! He will gobble up your feet like gummi-bears and slurp down your shoe-laces like spaghetti.
Anyway, so I had low expectations for enjoying this excursion, but light-up flops and a new shoe storer were totally worth it. Actually, this time, Ikea was kind of fun- though it could have just been good company. In good spirits Mon and I headed towards WalMart. The one thing that I really like about WalMart is the dollar DVD bin. I collect old movies and old cartoons and they can often be found there.
So as soon as we had carefully examined every pair of flops we raided the dollar DVD bins. By far our best find was the cartoon version of the novel Animal Farm. It had the most darling little farm animals on the cover and was smack-dab in the middle of the children’s section, nestled between Betty-Boop and Bugs Bunny. I have this feeling that WalMart is probably one of the few places where nobody will notice George Orwell’s anti-Communist parable in the CHILDREN’S section.
Well, I hope the children who unknowingly pick this DVD like the part where the horsey gets sent to the glue factory so that the piggies can buy more liquor. That’s my favorite part.
Four legs, good! Two legs bad!!!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Oompa loompa doompity do, I've got another puzzle for you...
Yesterday on NPR a man called in and asked the producer of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory if Johnny Depp's portrayal of Willy Wonka was intentionally Michael Jackson-esque. The producer defended Depp with the following:
"Now Michael Jackson really likes and has always really liked children. Willy Wonka doesn't like children at all."
Oh I see, that is the critical difference. Phew, I was kind of upset.
Don't worry Willy Wonka is just a flamboyantly dressed semi-gender-neutral soft-spoken unattached reclusive millionaire megalomaniac who lives in a theme park with unusual pets and occasionally invites children over with ulterior motives. See everyone, Willy Wonka is absolutely nothing like Michael Jackson.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Howdy Neighbor, Nice Titties
Well neighbor, I couldn’t help but notice the porn you had on your giant TV last Saturday night. Do you have HD TV, because the picture was super clear? I was totally surprised when they built a luxury condo building a block from the projects, and so close to our windows- a mere building away. The line of sight into your living room totally rocks. I can see your living room from my living room, dining room, kitchen and roommate’s bedroom. She’s a lucky dog! I see you like girl on girl action. Yea, I can understand that, if I had a penis I wouldn’t want to watch someone else’s penis either.
I admit, we were mooching your TV last Saturday. I hope that wasn’t one of those pay-per view porns; I would feel totally unethical watching porn without contributing to the fee. And it wasn’t just me, it was a bunch of my friends too. You see, we were having a party, kind of a big one, actually. The whole party was having a great time trying to figure out what was happening over there. Were you alone? We wanted to invite you over, but we didn’t know how to get you to look out your window. Probably pretty hard to turn away from that, isn’t it? We couldn’t see you, but we figured a sly dog like you probably had a bunch of honeys over-- after all you must have good credit to have such a big TV, and your lamp is pretty sweet too.
Anyway, we just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. Our new across the hall neighbors only brought us some smelly candles, but you brought us oral sex. That’s so thoughtful of you.
I admit, we were mooching your TV last Saturday. I hope that wasn’t one of those pay-per view porns; I would feel totally unethical watching porn without contributing to the fee. And it wasn’t just me, it was a bunch of my friends too. You see, we were having a party, kind of a big one, actually. The whole party was having a great time trying to figure out what was happening over there. Were you alone? We wanted to invite you over, but we didn’t know how to get you to look out your window. Probably pretty hard to turn away from that, isn’t it? We couldn’t see you, but we figured a sly dog like you probably had a bunch of honeys over-- after all you must have good credit to have such a big TV, and your lamp is pretty sweet too.
Anyway, we just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. Our new across the hall neighbors only brought us some smelly candles, but you brought us oral sex. That’s so thoughtful of you.
Thar They Blow
Dear Dr. Von Doom,
The people of Latveria would like to humbly thank you for your wonderful humanitarian works in your home country. Though we are saddened by your complete loss of accent, we will still give you one of our finely crafted extremely scary metal masks, the principal export of our tiny European nation.
Please use it in good health.
Sincerely,
The People of Latveria
The people of Latveria would like to humbly thank you for your wonderful humanitarian works in your home country. Though we are saddened by your complete loss of accent, we will still give you one of our finely crafted extremely scary metal masks, the principal export of our tiny European nation.
Please use it in good health.
Sincerely,
The People of Latveria
Dear People of Latveria,
Thank you so much for the lovely mask. It really matches the outfit you got me for Christmas last year. I will treasure it always. As you see it’s getting lots of use.
Yours truly,
Victor Von Doom
So, yea I did see Fantastic Four last Friday. Yea, it did blow, funny that you noticed it too. I can’t even manage to criticize it any more. The only parts that didn’t completely blow involved partially nude hot people (or Spandex-clad hot people).
The best part of the entire movie was when Chris Evans burned off his clothes and was hopping around in an improvised mini-skirt made from a pink ski jacket. (Picture to be posted pending my finding one.) Also, this constitutes the best Halloween costume ever for a guy with a decent body.
Fudd/Cheney 2008- not even possible
I don’t know if you remember Wayne’s World too well, but I’m with Garth; Bugs Bunny is attractive when he plays a girl bunny.
As part of my self-improvement plan I’ve been trying to do the kind of snotty high-brow garbage that I used to indulge in during college. Yesterday I went to the symphony. It is called Bugs Bunny on Broadway; a performance that centers around Warner Brothers cartoons from the 30’s through the 50’s. They show cartoons on a giant screen and play the audio tracks (minus the music), while the orchestra plays the music. You’ve never seen a real symphony until you’ve seen a full orchestra playing Wagner, in front of a 15 foot tall Elmer Fudd yelling “Kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit!”
Cartoons and live music, nothing is better than that, well… maybe liquor and comics. The show itself was amazing. I don’t remember when I’ve laughed so hard. It was wonderful to see the wide range of people attracted to this show. It was especially funny when the conductor made the most interesting point:
You never see Elmer Fudd and Dick Cheney in the same room:
Thursday, July 07, 2005
I am too a patriot you fat yuppie breeder
Mommy, what’s a patriot?
Well, Bobby, a patriot is someone who puts a yellow ribbon on the back of their car and defends everything the president does and says, because he’s our President and thus completely infallible!
Now, in answer to the unasked question, Dear Readers, yes, I have finally had it with the post 9/11 patriotism extravaganza. No, fat yuppie breeder at work, I will not buy a magnetic ribbon proclaiming that I support troops for my American Vehicle. Why? Well, since I have to work with you I will tell you that I think bumper stickers are tacky and ineffective. Which is true. However, fat yuppie breeder at work, the honest to God truth is that I am not actively supporting troops. I’m not. I have not sent one letter, one cookie, or one piece of body armor to any troops at all. I have allowed many to buy me beer and firmly believe that they would get laid (which they didn’t), does that count? I think that’s incredibly supportive of me.
In fact I am super-supportive of lots of things:
Things I support:
Abortion Rights
10 Commandments where ever the hell people feel like throwing them
Several comic book companies
Right to Die/euthanasia
The liquor makers of the world
Fiscal conservatism
The Democratic Party (although I’m quite frankly at a loss as to why at this point)
Death Penalty
Stem-cell research
The Boys and Girls Club
Indian gaming
Gay marriage
Public Radio
PAWS
Books for Crooks (reading materials for inmates)
Public Television
Local stores and bands whenever possible
It’s not that I want to be unsupportive, or that I lack the desire to send letters of comfort and support to our troops. I appreciate the work that our military does. I am not a peace-monger. I would love to support the troops, but somehow I feel that your magnetic ribbon fails to do that. I’m also willing to put money down that you don’t support the troops at all. I’d bet that while your ribbon says "support our troops" it’s really saying: “support whatever the government says is right at the time.” I certainly don’t agree with that.
So I guess in fairness, I am a very super-unsupportive person too:
Things I do NOT support:
Chinese Magnetic Ribbon Manufacturers
Bad foreign policy
Anyone blindly
Bad fiscal policy
Jingoism
Legalization of Pot
Artificial raspberry flavoring
MFN for China
Fruitless warfare
Bovine Growth Hormone
Non-organic farming
Juvenile incarceration
Making flag burning illegal
BUT let me be clear, I am a HUGE patriot. One of the wonderful things that I love about America is the freedom. The freedom to vote, to protest, to fair trial, to hold our own religious beliefs- all without persecution- now that is some cool shit. Being a patriot is doing your duty towards your county and exercising your rights. Refusing to buy a bumper sticker that makes false claims about my beliefs does not make me unpatriotic.
Let’s look at unpatriotic acts:
Disagreeing with government policy can be unpatriotic- if the policy is constitutional.
Agreeing with government policy can be unpatriotic- if the policy is unconstitutional.
Uninformed voting is unpatriotic.
Not voting is unpatriotic.
Ruining the land or killing American people is unpatriotic.
Not paying taxes is unpatriotic.
Refusing to follow your military orders is unpatriotic.
Dodging the draft is unpatriotic.
Dodging jury duty is unpatriotic.
Quick and Dirty Patriot Quiz With Bonus Morality Questions(*):
Martin Luther King disagreed with the Government. Patriot or not? Right or Wrong*?
Susan B. Anthony disagreed with the Government. Patriot or not? Right or Wrong*?
Millions of Germans agreed with their Nazi Party led government and millions of people died. Patriots or not? Right or Wrong*?
Millions of Germans did not agree with their government Nazi Party led and did/could not stop it. Patriots or not? Right or Wrong*?
Well, that’s enough of this political nonsense for a bit (I hope). I promise I’ll be back to talking about poo, shopping, and sex starting tomorrow.
Well, Bobby, a patriot is someone who puts a yellow ribbon on the back of their car and defends everything the president does and says, because he’s our President and thus completely infallible!
Now, in answer to the unasked question, Dear Readers, yes, I have finally had it with the post 9/11 patriotism extravaganza. No, fat yuppie breeder at work, I will not buy a magnetic ribbon proclaiming that I support troops for my American Vehicle. Why? Well, since I have to work with you I will tell you that I think bumper stickers are tacky and ineffective. Which is true. However, fat yuppie breeder at work, the honest to God truth is that I am not actively supporting troops. I’m not. I have not sent one letter, one cookie, or one piece of body armor to any troops at all. I have allowed many to buy me beer and firmly believe that they would get laid (which they didn’t), does that count? I think that’s incredibly supportive of me.
In fact I am super-supportive of lots of things:
Things I support:
Abortion Rights
10 Commandments where ever the hell people feel like throwing them
Several comic book companies
Right to Die/euthanasia
The liquor makers of the world
Fiscal conservatism
The Democratic Party (although I’m quite frankly at a loss as to why at this point)
Death Penalty
Stem-cell research
The Boys and Girls Club
Indian gaming
Gay marriage
Public Radio
PAWS
Books for Crooks (reading materials for inmates)
Public Television
Local stores and bands whenever possible
It’s not that I want to be unsupportive, or that I lack the desire to send letters of comfort and support to our troops. I appreciate the work that our military does. I am not a peace-monger. I would love to support the troops, but somehow I feel that your magnetic ribbon fails to do that. I’m also willing to put money down that you don’t support the troops at all. I’d bet that while your ribbon says "support our troops" it’s really saying: “support whatever the government says is right at the time.” I certainly don’t agree with that.
So I guess in fairness, I am a very super-unsupportive person too:
Things I do NOT support:
Chinese Magnetic Ribbon Manufacturers
Bad foreign policy
Anyone blindly
Bad fiscal policy
Jingoism
Legalization of Pot
Artificial raspberry flavoring
MFN for China
Fruitless warfare
Bovine Growth Hormone
Non-organic farming
Juvenile incarceration
Making flag burning illegal
BUT let me be clear, I am a HUGE patriot. One of the wonderful things that I love about America is the freedom. The freedom to vote, to protest, to fair trial, to hold our own religious beliefs- all without persecution- now that is some cool shit. Being a patriot is doing your duty towards your county and exercising your rights. Refusing to buy a bumper sticker that makes false claims about my beliefs does not make me unpatriotic.
Let’s look at unpatriotic acts:
Disagreeing with government policy can be unpatriotic- if the policy is constitutional.
Agreeing with government policy can be unpatriotic- if the policy is unconstitutional.
Uninformed voting is unpatriotic.
Not voting is unpatriotic.
Ruining the land or killing American people is unpatriotic.
Not paying taxes is unpatriotic.
Refusing to follow your military orders is unpatriotic.
Dodging the draft is unpatriotic.
Dodging jury duty is unpatriotic.
Quick and Dirty Patriot Quiz With Bonus Morality Questions(*):
Martin Luther King disagreed with the Government. Patriot or not? Right or Wrong*?
Susan B. Anthony disagreed with the Government. Patriot or not? Right or Wrong*?
Millions of Germans agreed with their Nazi Party led government and millions of people died. Patriots or not? Right or Wrong*?
Millions of Germans did not agree with their government Nazi Party led and did/could not stop it. Patriots or not? Right or Wrong*?
Well, that’s enough of this political nonsense for a bit (I hope). I promise I’ll be back to talking about poo, shopping, and sex starting tomorrow.
how’s that war on terror thing goin’ for ya?
*WARNING* INFLAMATORY POLITICAL RANT AHEAD!!!
There’s a joke my mom used to annoy me with as a child:
A man goes to the doctor. He says to the doctor, “It hurts when I do this,” as he raises his arm. The doctor replies, “Well, don’t do that.”
Now, insert ‘reads Seattle Umbrella Conspiracy’ where it says “raises his arm” and ‘Quiana’ where it says “doctor.”
I’ve been listening to the coverage of the London bombings all morning on NPR. Finally an analyst gets on and says what every analyst has known all along: you can’t stop terrorism. You simply can’t. We can be vigilant, wary, and prepared, but people will always feel subjugated and where they feel subjugated there will be terrorism.
Anybody read, oh say the Bible? Moses and Pharaoh ring any bells? Moses makes threats and then wipes out the first born sons of both combatants and non-combatants alike. Terrorism. How about US history? Native Americans massacre a bunch of missionaries and settlers. Terrorism. How about the guys who dressed up as Indians and started destroying British property then sneaking around blowing up the law and order sent from abroad to protect the property? Funny how history picks good guys and bad guys isn’t it? We love the underdogs, until they’re blowing up our stuff.
England is used to living as a terrorist target. Anyone remember the IRA, or am I alone in this? America has a major incident of terrorism (not to be insensitive or devalue 9/11) and now all of the sudden we care about global terrorism (how about the plane hijackings of the 70’s and incident at the ’72 Olympics- I guess we didn’t care about terrorism then because it didn’t affect “us”). Just like in WW2 we sit around picking our noses completely ignoring the problem and just like then, in another “date which will live in infamy” (anyone even remember that first date o’ infamy?) we get wounded on our home territory and go in guns blazing. Except terrorism isn’t like WW2. There isn’t a field, no homeland to bomb, and no allied armies to bolster. THERE IS NO WAR TO WIN.
Just like Israel has accepted terrorism as part of daily life, so must we. Just like Israel, we have been playing hardball and now when our enemies start pushing hard we get offended. Unfortunately this is what happens when you go from being the righteous and plucky underdog to the shady global power hidden behind flowery ideals. I guess it’s tough being a hegemonic global regime. Poor us.
Luckily, being one of the wealthiest countries in the world means that we can afford expensive precautionary measures. Lord knows that policy change would be “letting terrorists win.” As we all know diplomacy doesn’t ever stop American military campaigns, except that one time in Vietnam, and that other time in Cuba, well, and that other time when we seceded from Britain.
Oh and another thing, now that I’ve brought up Vietnam…. Hey let’s do that again. Let’s get involved with another country’s civil war, by waging a largely unpopular and completely unsuccessful campaign in the enemy’s home court, until, at great length, we are forced by global and internal pressure to sign an embarrassing cease fire, with no discernable benefit for America other than making the war stop.
Chris Rock has this sketch about the Backstreet Boys, the punch line is: “Backstreet Boys? Why would you wanna do that? Didn't you see New Kids on the Block? Don't you know how this movie's gonna end?”
12/7/41
There’s a joke my mom used to annoy me with as a child:
A man goes to the doctor. He says to the doctor, “It hurts when I do this,” as he raises his arm. The doctor replies, “Well, don’t do that.”
Now, insert ‘reads Seattle Umbrella Conspiracy’ where it says “raises his arm” and ‘Quiana’ where it says “doctor.”
I’ve been listening to the coverage of the London bombings all morning on NPR. Finally an analyst gets on and says what every analyst has known all along: you can’t stop terrorism. You simply can’t. We can be vigilant, wary, and prepared, but people will always feel subjugated and where they feel subjugated there will be terrorism.
Anybody read, oh say the Bible? Moses and Pharaoh ring any bells? Moses makes threats and then wipes out the first born sons of both combatants and non-combatants alike. Terrorism. How about US history? Native Americans massacre a bunch of missionaries and settlers. Terrorism. How about the guys who dressed up as Indians and started destroying British property then sneaking around blowing up the law and order sent from abroad to protect the property? Funny how history picks good guys and bad guys isn’t it? We love the underdogs, until they’re blowing up our stuff.
England is used to living as a terrorist target. Anyone remember the IRA, or am I alone in this? America has a major incident of terrorism (not to be insensitive or devalue 9/11) and now all of the sudden we care about global terrorism (how about the plane hijackings of the 70’s and incident at the ’72 Olympics- I guess we didn’t care about terrorism then because it didn’t affect “us”). Just like in WW2 we sit around picking our noses completely ignoring the problem and just like then, in another “date which will live in infamy” (anyone even remember that first date o’ infamy?) we get wounded on our home territory and go in guns blazing. Except terrorism isn’t like WW2. There isn’t a field, no homeland to bomb, and no allied armies to bolster. THERE IS NO WAR TO WIN.
Just like Israel has accepted terrorism as part of daily life, so must we. Just like Israel, we have been playing hardball and now when our enemies start pushing hard we get offended. Unfortunately this is what happens when you go from being the righteous and plucky underdog to the shady global power hidden behind flowery ideals. I guess it’s tough being a hegemonic global regime. Poor us.
Luckily, being one of the wealthiest countries in the world means that we can afford expensive precautionary measures. Lord knows that policy change would be “letting terrorists win.” As we all know diplomacy doesn’t ever stop American military campaigns, except that one time in Vietnam, and that other time in Cuba, well, and that other time when we seceded from Britain.
Oh and another thing, now that I’ve brought up Vietnam…. Hey let’s do that again. Let’s get involved with another country’s civil war, by waging a largely unpopular and completely unsuccessful campaign in the enemy’s home court, until, at great length, we are forced by global and internal pressure to sign an embarrassing cease fire, with no discernable benefit for America other than making the war stop.
Chris Rock has this sketch about the Backstreet Boys, the punch line is: “Backstreet Boys? Why would you wanna do that? Didn't you see New Kids on the Block? Don't you know how this movie's gonna end?”
12/7/41
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Married Man At Work, You Suck at Adultery
One would think that inviting me out for drinks after work, only to have me tell you I am busy every time would become discouraging after 2 YEARS. I understand tenacity. As a child I played Castlevania until I kicked that vampire’s evil undead ass, even though it took me weeks and weeks. But Married Man At Work, your determination to trick me into an adulterous relationship with you is quite inspiring.
However, I think that the effort which you so recently put into leaning on my desk and peering down my shirt could be put towards, oh I don’t know, your work…. Here is a list of thoughts that I'd love to put up on the server:
1. You are not that good looking anymore. While I am sure you were dead sexy in your twenties, now you are in your early 40’s and you’ve turned into a kinda pudgy dad type with an eerily trendy haircut. While I’m sure you used to bat in the majors you were booted back to the minors some time ago.
2. Quit showing me pictures of your adorable daughters in a ploy to make me like you more. Good daddies don’t sleep with girls from work behind mommies backs. I’d hate for your youngest daughter’s first sentence to include the phrases “lying cheating sack of shit” or “stupid whore.”
3. If you are trying to get a girl drunk don’t tell her in advance that you are going to “drink her under the table.”
4. Telling me that I can crash at your place if I get "wasted" because “the wife is out of town,” tipped me off to your questionable intentions fairly early on.
5. While from your perspective as a 40 something year old man I am a wee naïve little doe of 24, in reality, I am a grown woman. I am actually worldly and intelligent enough to figure out what you are up to. Additionally, such phrases as “if I was your age” do tend to highlight the two decade age difference.
6. You suck at your job. You do. We have the SAME JOB and I am 24. And I do it better than you do. If we worked in the private sector, you’d be fired for incompetence. I’m looking for a guy who is diligent and hardworking. The kind of man that if we were married and I lost my job or got pregnant could support his family.
7. I’m pretty sure that you’ve noticed that there are only 5 attractive women under 35 in the office. Of course I’m only sure of this because the 5 of us enjoy commiserating about having to deal with you all the time. Has it honestly never occurred to you that in addition to sexual services, women’s mouths can be used to speak to each other?
8. You’re married. You even wear a ring; way to not be sneaky! While I am not focused on getting married anytime soon, I’d like to only date men that I COULD marry. You know if I fell in love with them, and the sex was good, and they asked.
9. Clearly, you are dishonest. I’m sure when your surprisingly pretty wife asks what you did today you don’t tell her you spent about ten minutes looking down my shirt and begging me to hang out with you. I prefer honest men, the kind that only lie when I ask them if I look fat in these pants.
10. I think I may be smarter than you. You can't even get your adulterous relationship started, something that 50% the Simple Life watching married idiots of America can manage. You don’t read and I know for a fact that you watch Survivor. You didn’t vote in the last election, even though the funding for your program was on the ballot. I like smart men. If a man can discuss foreign policy, history, literature, indie music, and the Fantastic Four, I will pretty much jump him. Hell, if he can discuss even two of those things I'd still jump him.
So, to conclude, I will NEVER hang out with you because you are boring, old, dishonest, not terribly bright, and incompetent. I will never touch you because you are MARRIED- even if you weren’t married, you are still dishonest, boring, old, ugly, incompetent, and not terribly bright. I’m also not stupid enough to sleep with someone from work or slutty enough to sleep with a virtual stranger. The closest I would ever come to touching you would be if the next time you looked down my shirt you got too excited and had a heart attack and someone needed to flip over your body to check for your pulse. And even then I would have reservations.
However, I think that the effort which you so recently put into leaning on my desk and peering down my shirt could be put towards, oh I don’t know, your work…. Here is a list of thoughts that I'd love to put up on the server:
1. You are not that good looking anymore. While I am sure you were dead sexy in your twenties, now you are in your early 40’s and you’ve turned into a kinda pudgy dad type with an eerily trendy haircut. While I’m sure you used to bat in the majors you were booted back to the minors some time ago.
2. Quit showing me pictures of your adorable daughters in a ploy to make me like you more. Good daddies don’t sleep with girls from work behind mommies backs. I’d hate for your youngest daughter’s first sentence to include the phrases “lying cheating sack of shit” or “stupid whore.”
3. If you are trying to get a girl drunk don’t tell her in advance that you are going to “drink her under the table.”
4. Telling me that I can crash at your place if I get "wasted" because “the wife is out of town,” tipped me off to your questionable intentions fairly early on.
5. While from your perspective as a 40 something year old man I am a wee naïve little doe of 24, in reality, I am a grown woman. I am actually worldly and intelligent enough to figure out what you are up to. Additionally, such phrases as “if I was your age” do tend to highlight the two decade age difference.
6. You suck at your job. You do. We have the SAME JOB and I am 24. And I do it better than you do. If we worked in the private sector, you’d be fired for incompetence. I’m looking for a guy who is diligent and hardworking. The kind of man that if we were married and I lost my job or got pregnant could support his family.
7. I’m pretty sure that you’ve noticed that there are only 5 attractive women under 35 in the office. Of course I’m only sure of this because the 5 of us enjoy commiserating about having to deal with you all the time. Has it honestly never occurred to you that in addition to sexual services, women’s mouths can be used to speak to each other?
8. You’re married. You even wear a ring; way to not be sneaky! While I am not focused on getting married anytime soon, I’d like to only date men that I COULD marry. You know if I fell in love with them, and the sex was good, and they asked.
9. Clearly, you are dishonest. I’m sure when your surprisingly pretty wife asks what you did today you don’t tell her you spent about ten minutes looking down my shirt and begging me to hang out with you. I prefer honest men, the kind that only lie when I ask them if I look fat in these pants.
10. I think I may be smarter than you. You can't even get your adulterous relationship started, something that 50% the Simple Life watching married idiots of America can manage. You don’t read and I know for a fact that you watch Survivor. You didn’t vote in the last election, even though the funding for your program was on the ballot. I like smart men. If a man can discuss foreign policy, history, literature, indie music, and the Fantastic Four, I will pretty much jump him. Hell, if he can discuss even two of those things I'd still jump him.
So, to conclude, I will NEVER hang out with you because you are boring, old, dishonest, not terribly bright, and incompetent. I will never touch you because you are MARRIED- even if you weren’t married, you are still dishonest, boring, old, ugly, incompetent, and not terribly bright. I’m also not stupid enough to sleep with someone from work or slutty enough to sleep with a virtual stranger. The closest I would ever come to touching you would be if the next time you looked down my shirt you got too excited and had a heart attack and someone needed to flip over your body to check for your pulse. And even then I would have reservations.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
breaking up is hard to do
Dear Cow,
Sure, we had our day in the sun. Yesterday I felt magically transformed by your sassy top sirloin and the sexy bacon burger and kabobs that followed. Perfectly cooked and well seasoned, you were a beautiful thing to behold. But come evening, where was the blissful feeling of satisfaction? Where were you, Cow, as I rolled around in agony? Were you there to hold my hand, Cow, or was that you assaulting my digestive system?
I know it’s hard for you to understand; but last night I watched Club Dread and realized that the intense nausea and stomach pain wasn’t just the most obvious side-effect of watching that movie; but in fact was you, Cow. As I lay there feeling as though you might erupt from my stomach Pinatubo style—I knew it was over.
I can’t deny that I’m attracted to you, and I know there will be times when I come running back for a cheeseburger during happy hour or a tiny filet mignon wrapped in succulent bacon on a date; but Cow, you and I are through.
I’m sorry to hurt you this way and I hope you understand that I’m doing this for the both of us.
Be strong for me, Cow.
q.
Dear Pig,
I know you’re upset about these rumors you may have heard, and you have every right to be upset. But that thing with Cow, that meant nothing to me. Cow is nothing to you Pig. I guess I was just confused- this Cow did come with bacon. Really it was the bacon that convinced me to have the Cow in the first place. You know I lose all control around bacon. When I was with Cow, all I could think of was you, Pig. I know it will be a while before you can forgive me, but I think things can go back to the way they were. I know I may have lost your trust, but I’ve got a twice baked potato and nice spinach salad at my place if you want to come over tonight, and I swear I’ll make it up to you….
With Undying Affection,
q.
Sure, we had our day in the sun. Yesterday I felt magically transformed by your sassy top sirloin and the sexy bacon burger and kabobs that followed. Perfectly cooked and well seasoned, you were a beautiful thing to behold. But come evening, where was the blissful feeling of satisfaction? Where were you, Cow, as I rolled around in agony? Were you there to hold my hand, Cow, or was that you assaulting my digestive system?
I know it’s hard for you to understand; but last night I watched Club Dread and realized that the intense nausea and stomach pain wasn’t just the most obvious side-effect of watching that movie; but in fact was you, Cow. As I lay there feeling as though you might erupt from my stomach Pinatubo style—I knew it was over.
I can’t deny that I’m attracted to you, and I know there will be times when I come running back for a cheeseburger during happy hour or a tiny filet mignon wrapped in succulent bacon on a date; but Cow, you and I are through.
I’m sorry to hurt you this way and I hope you understand that I’m doing this for the both of us.
Be strong for me, Cow.
q.
Dear Pig,
I know you’re upset about these rumors you may have heard, and you have every right to be upset. But that thing with Cow, that meant nothing to me. Cow is nothing to you Pig. I guess I was just confused- this Cow did come with bacon. Really it was the bacon that convinced me to have the Cow in the first place. You know I lose all control around bacon. When I was with Cow, all I could think of was you, Pig. I know it will be a while before you can forgive me, but I think things can go back to the way they were. I know I may have lost your trust, but I’ve got a twice baked potato and nice spinach salad at my place if you want to come over tonight, and I swear I’ll make it up to you….
With Undying Affection,
q.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Damn it! Say MY name, bitch.
I understand that I have a difficult to pronounce name, and if you mispronounce it, I will POLITELY correct you. But people seem incapable of even mispronouncing my name. It is apparently so traumatic to the average individual that they will change my name to an entirely different name.
Example 1: Scene- My cube, I am typing and a man approaches.
Man: I’m looking for Juanita.
Me: visibly cringing with the inward knowledge that I will turn out to be Juanita. There isn’t a Juanita in this department; but what do you need help with?
Man: Project of Doom paperwork.
Me: I handle that paperwork, my name is QUIANA. (pronounced quite clearly)
Man: Well, Juanita...
Example 2: I sent a letter to a woman asking her to properly fill out her Project of Doom paperwork (which I returned with instructions for completion—including the instruction “please sign on the line that says ‘signature’”).
The letter and incomplete paperwork came back:
Dear Susan, I am certain that I filled out this paperwork completely and correctly in spite of my lack of reading comprehension skills. Please go to a lot of effort to prove me wrong even though I can’t manage to read your name off of the memo upon which it was TYPED. PS- I make more money than you do in spite of the fact that I am a complete idiot. How’s that $120,000 education treating you, fatty?
SUSAN?! SUSAN?!!!!
Damn it all to hell.
I’ve even started going by the name my family calls me: KIKI. You would think Kiki would be a cute and simple name, but no.
Example 3: Today at Starbucks
Me: May I have a Grande Nonfat Chai Latte? Thanks.
Barista 1: Your name?
Me: Kiki
Barista 1: What?
Me: Kiki, K I K I.
Barista: ok
Later:
Barista 2: “drink up for uhm, kih, whatever, grande nonfat chai.”
So which should I go by ‘uhm,’ ‘whatever,’ ‘kih,’ ‘grande,’ ‘nonfat’ (blatant false advertising), or ‘chai?’ ‘Chai’ has its appeal, it is pseudo ethnic sounding at least.
Example 4:
Now, today I discovered a cool new art website/web comic:
http://www.chrisyates.net/reprographics/
I liked it A LOT, so I sent him a very brief ‘good stuff’ type email. He replied:
I appreciate your kind words, Colleen. I aim to please.
-Chris
WHAT?! Colleen?!? Damn you Chris, don't please this Colleen person. PLEASE ME.
WAIT, AM I COLLEEN?!?!
I signed the email “q.” which would be very not how you spell Colleen. Oh don’t worry, I know he got it from the poetry that I use as a ‘signature’ at the end of my emails:
On days when she smelled like a muffin, he found her cute and charming. He'd say,
"You smell like a muffin." He'd say, "Muffin Head."
On days when she didn't smell like a muffin, he wasn't sure he loved her at all.
Muffin Head by Colleen Marlow
I guess it could have been worse, he could have thought my name was Muffin Head.
Example 1: Scene- My cube, I am typing and a man approaches.
Man: I’m looking for Juanita.
Me: visibly cringing with the inward knowledge that I will turn out to be Juanita. There isn’t a Juanita in this department; but what do you need help with?
Man: Project of Doom paperwork.
Me: I handle that paperwork, my name is QUIANA. (pronounced quite clearly)
Man: Well, Juanita...
Example 2: I sent a letter to a woman asking her to properly fill out her Project of Doom paperwork (which I returned with instructions for completion—including the instruction “please sign on the line that says ‘signature’”).
The letter and incomplete paperwork came back:
Dear Susan, I am certain that I filled out this paperwork completely and correctly in spite of my lack of reading comprehension skills. Please go to a lot of effort to prove me wrong even though I can’t manage to read your name off of the memo upon which it was TYPED. PS- I make more money than you do in spite of the fact that I am a complete idiot. How’s that $120,000 education treating you, fatty?
SUSAN?! SUSAN?!!!!
Damn it all to hell.
I’ve even started going by the name my family calls me: KIKI. You would think Kiki would be a cute and simple name, but no.
Example 3: Today at Starbucks
Me: May I have a Grande Nonfat Chai Latte? Thanks.
Barista 1: Your name?
Me: Kiki
Barista 1: What?
Me: Kiki, K I K I.
Barista: ok
Later:
Barista 2: “drink up for uhm, kih, whatever, grande nonfat chai.”
So which should I go by ‘uhm,’ ‘whatever,’ ‘kih,’ ‘grande,’ ‘nonfat’ (blatant false advertising), or ‘chai?’ ‘Chai’ has its appeal, it is pseudo ethnic sounding at least.
Example 4:
Now, today I discovered a cool new art website/web comic:
http://www.chrisyates.net/reprographics/
I liked it A LOT, so I sent him a very brief ‘good stuff’ type email. He replied:
I appreciate your kind words, Colleen. I aim to please.
-Chris
WHAT?! Colleen?!? Damn you Chris, don't please this Colleen person. PLEASE ME.
WAIT, AM I COLLEEN?!?!
I signed the email “q.” which would be very not how you spell Colleen. Oh don’t worry, I know he got it from the poetry that I use as a ‘signature’ at the end of my emails:
On days when she smelled like a muffin, he found her cute and charming. He'd say,
"You smell like a muffin." He'd say, "Muffin Head."
On days when she didn't smell like a muffin, he wasn't sure he loved her at all.
Muffin Head by Colleen Marlow
I guess it could have been worse, he could have thought my name was Muffin Head.
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