Don’t Speak

The following was originally posted on September 10, 2018. Enjoy!

I went to a yoga class.

I know yoga is supposed to be good for you, but honestly, that’s based on a lot of variables. For example, if you have a really good instructor and you’re practicing your yoga in a beautiful, peaceful location with no interruptions, then yeah, it’s good for you. However, if you have a crappy, annoying instructor, and you’re hmm… let’s say, outdoors, at a fucking kid’s park, with no shade and it’s too damn hot, then no, it’s not good for you.

Case in point: my yoga class this morning.

Okay first of all, it was free, which should have been an indicator of how things were gonna play out. Now I’m not saying all free things are shitty, it’s just that…

… well hang on a sec… yeah, I am saying all free things are shitty, because nothing good comes free. If you’ve ever paid for sex and compared it to the sex you had for free, I’d bet money the paid sex was ten times better than the free sex!

Don’t lie, because I’d want to know if that’s actually true or not.

Secondly, the instructor was from Minnesota and she had that annoying Minnesotan accent, and if you’re from Minnesota, you should never teach yoga because your accent sounds awful teaching yoga (amongst other things, like having sex and ordering food). It’s not meant to utter sentences such as “Now gently lower your body onto the mat.” It’s more suited to saying short, clipped phrases like “cheddar cheese” and “Boy, that was a lot of snow.”

She ended her sentences on an up note, so it sounded like she was asking a question rather than making a statement, and her voice was high and sing-songy. I kept waiting for pink heart emojis to come flying out of her mouth. Not only that, she struggled with the yoga terminology, so she kept tripping up on the sequences, sputtering and stopping and restarting again. Listen, a yoga instructor should be always be in control; they need to be urbane… smooth… like a sexual predator lulling you into trusting them, that’s when the magic happens.

I kinda think you should prepare ahead of time how you’re gonna phrase things when you’re instructing a class also. During one particular pose, our hands reaching towards the sky, she asked us to pay attention to where our middle fingers were and boy, did I ever! It took all my will to keep my mouth shut, as you can imagine. You might also want to check in with your students before you begin the class to see what level they are and not expect them to twist themselves into a pretzel while you show off your chaturangas, or whatever the hell they’re called.

Is it inappropriate to burst out into laughter during yoga? Because if you’ve ever practiced yoga, you’ll know that when you twist and turn and bend yourself into various poses, it releases a lot of trapped gas. Thank God we were outside.

Actually, I take that back because doing anything outdoors is hit or miss since you’re bound by the weather. Well, it was really hot outside! (please imagine that being uttered in an annoying Minnesotan accent). The sun was trying to burn a hole through my black yoga pants while I was attempting a downward dog. Did I mention we were at a kid’s park? I think I did. So yeah, a bunch of screaming mouth-breathers showed up to play on the swing sets, and it completely interrupted my karmic energy.

Well, that did it. As I was coming out of the pose, I was adding up all the reasons why I would want to stay to finish the class, of which, there were none, and all the reasons I should leave and go stuff my face with a cinnamon roll because that sounded like an infinitely more satisfying activity, and does anybody ever really need a reason to eat a cinnamon roll? I think not. So I rolled up my mat and left with zero guilt whatsoever for doing so.

If there’s one thing I learned from yoga, it’s to release all guilt, because as all yoga instructors will tell you, you are a peaceful, light-filled being with freedom of will, and I remembered this as I was stuffing my face with a pastry while simultaneously emanating my light to everyone around me.

I Always Deliver

I was sitting at home yesterday contemplating my empty fridge.

I needed to go to the supermarket but I was putting it off because it’s not my favorite thing to do. Don’t get me wrong, I love going shopping, and anything that involves food is a worthy endeavor. It’s just the people I don’t like; the ones that get in the way of accessing the food… 

… and the parking spaces, and the shopping carts, and the checkout line. 

And the roads getting there.

Along with world peace, this is what I was contemplating after looking at my empty fridge.

Then I remembered I could shop online and have my groceries delivered, and I uttered what I suspected was a huge sigh of relief. It may have been gas, not sure.

It was short-lived though, because nothing annoys me more than having to navigate online shopping… other than doing it in person, of course. It’s constant scrolling and scrolling and using the search bar, only to have it return a “can’t find that item” response. Sheesh, it would’ve taken me less time to actually go there and do it myself.

But then, you know… people.

So I sucked it up and logged onto my local Vons website. They have free delivery. At least, they did, but now they charge ten bucks, and I only found this out after I filled my cart and was ready to check out. 

Ten bucks? I only had two bags! I’m only one person, it’s not like I’m Catholic and have ten fucking kids to feed and I’m going to have twenty bags of groceries loaded onto the delivery truck. Come to think of it, all those people crowding the markets are probably the adult children of Catholics, which just goes to show you, there’s something to be said about abortion and birth control, am I right Pope Francis?! *snicker *snort *snort


Anyway, I’ve never been one of those people who needs to have a Costco membership so I can stock up on stuff ahead of time. I don’t feel the need to purchase a hundred roll package of toilet paper like the rest of these suburbanites who hoard shit because they believe the end of the world is coming. Listen people, if that’s the case, you got a lot more problems than running out of toilet paper.

You know what shopping is like for people like that? It’s like scoring a victory. I’ll bet they cream their pants when they get a hold of that giant package of toilet paper, especially during this pandemic bullshit. It probably feels like smoking crack to them; they get all tingly and euphoric… and greedy. Once they get it inside their house, they start caressing it and calling it “my precious”. They just one-upped their neighbor because Mr. and Mrs. Smith didn’t get the hundred roll package (probably because they were doing online shopping!) Back in the day, you got to gloat when you parked your new car in the driveway, now it’s about how much toilet paper you own.  

Got off topic there for a second… sorry, my precious.

Back to my groceries. Not only did Vons charge a delivery fee, they couldn’t deliver until six o’clock that night, and it was 10am and I had no food, so I said screw you Vons, you can suck it, and I logged out and went to Instacart because they deliver within two hours and their delivery fee was free, but only for that day. I guess they were doing some promotion.

But there’s always a catch. 

The delivery was free, but they added a two dollar “service fee”. Look, I know these giant corporations need to make a buck or two, so I’m not knocking that (yes I am), but don’t come at me with a promotion and then at the checkout, squeeze me for a couple more bucks, know what I mean? Plus they added an “option” to tip your delivery person, which was automatically pre-filled with two bucks. Presumptuous, no?

Tips, tips, tips, everybody wants a fucking tip these days. I’ll give you a tip: never ever… never ever… um…  

… hmm, I was trying to think of the stupidest thing I’ve ever done to use as a tip, but for the life of me, I can’t think of anything.

This Instacart thingy is interactive, too; the delivery person is in constant communication with you because the store may be out of an item you ordered and they need you to approve a replacement. It kind of defeats the purpose of choosing everything online, I mean, it was a hassle, I was getting notifications every couple minutes. I thought about subtracting a quarter from the delivery person’s tip every time she notified me they were out of something and I had to approve her replacement. 

Now before you all accuse me of being unreasonable, I kept the tip at two bucks and gave her two bucks in cash when she showed up with my groceries, okay? I realize it’s not her fault, she was just doing her job. It was fun thinking about it though, I got it down to a buck fifty!

I may be a realist, but I’m not cheap…

… and I always deliver.

Holy Shit!

Horseshit has value.

No seriously, it does, and not just as an expletive; it has tangible value. 

Horseshit does wonders for fertilizing a garden. If you’re a gardener, you already know that, but for all you lay men and women out there, maybe you didn’t… so now you do. There’s been talk from scientists that we may be able to derive energy from horseshit in the future; it could be the next gold bullion.


Yes, bullshit has its place too, mainly for fertilizing lawns though. If you use it in a garden, it burns the crap out of your plants…  pun intended *snort *snicker

Okay, maybe horseshit won’t be as valuable as gold, but did you know it has controversy? Yep, it sure does. 

Let me tell ya a little story. 

Some time ago I went to find some horseshit for my compost pile; it’s great for quickly breaking down compost. And I live in the country, sort of, so there are lots of horses around. In fact, I used to have a horse and would ride him around town. That’s how us teens got around before cars; we rode our horses. 

Well this particular day I drove to the horse arena to find some and I had my shovel and bucket in the trunk. I always carry those items around in my trunk to shovel all the bullshit out the way because there’s so much of it *snicker *snort

But it’s also convenient to have when I need to scoop up horse… poop. I’m trying to switch it up here a bit; there are only so many times one can use the word “shit”. Not really, but stick with me. 

When I arrived, there was nobody around except some dude sitting in his car near the entrance of the dirt parking lot. Strange. Anyway, I drove in and slowly made my way around the lot which sits adjacent to the arena, and as I looked around, I didn’t see one single pile of poop… not one. How could there be no horse poop at the horse arena? 

As I circled around the very large parking area, I noticed a big pile of heavy duty black plastic garbage bags at the far end, and I said to myself “I’ll bet that’s where the horse poop is.” Clearly, someone scooped it all up, bagged it, and put it over yonder, so I drove over to the pile.

I opened one of the bags, but instead of horse poop, it was filled with this rich, dark, loamy soil, the kind that’s perfect for planting. I should mention that adjacent to the horse arena is a community garden, and it was obvious this soil was taken from there. Why it was bagged up and set on the far end of the parking lot was curious though; why would someone want to get rid of all this wonderful soil? Well when I looked more closely at the contents of the bag, I noticed that mixed in with the soil was a bunch of weeds.

And when I say weeds, I really mean “weed”. 


I thought I’d smelled something other than the earthy, loamy smell of planting soil! 

I started to giggle because there were a bunch of bags, like, at least twenty, so clearly someone was doing a lot of planting in the community garden, and more than just cucumbers and tomatoes, sneaky bastards. 

Some of you may be thinking, wow, you really hit the jackpot! 

The problem was, it was only just beginning to flower. It had been pulled before it had time to mature into full buds. But besides that, I don’t even smoke the stuff… that often. No really, it’s true, I only ever do it occasionally. However, I had a friend who smoked it regularly, and I figured my friend may be able to salvage the plants and I could keep the soil for my garden.

I would’ve taken more than just one, but I was nervous as hell, I didn’t want to get caught with the stuff. I can just hear it now: “Officer, it’s not mine, I swear! No, I got it from the horse arena when I was looking for horseshit and I just happened to find it bagged up and ready to go!” 

As I was exiting the parking lot though, that lone guy, who was sitting in his car near the entrance, exited immediately after I did. For a split second, I was worried. Was he lying in wait, waiting for the growers to come get their stuff? Naw, it was just a coincidence, right? But as I sped off down the road, he caught up and started tailgating me, and it was then I realized he thought I was the perpetrator and was following me.

Holy horseshit. Was he a cop? 

Then I got stuck at a stoplight and when I looked in my rearview mirror, this old guy had the expression of somebody who’d just won a jackpot. Plus, he was writing something down: my license plate number! When the light turned green, I took off, but he was tailing me and I couldn’t shake him. This went on for a few miles and I knew this guy just wasn’t going to give up, he wanted to bust the person who bastardized the precious community garden with weed.

At this point I figured he wasn’t a cop, and even if he was, he was off duty, so I decided to pull over and end the chase; I wasn’t doing anything illegal! 

Okay, that’s not true.

So I pulled over, and through my side view mirror, watched as this goofy asshole, who’d been tailing me, open his car door, step out, and walk slowly towards me like he was goddamn Sheriff Buford T. Justice about to capture The Bandit. The only thing that would’ve made it more authentic is if he spat chewing tobacco out of his mealy mouth.

Turns out, the guy was stupid as fuck because as soon as he got within a few feet of my car, I took off, leaving him with his jaw hanging open… hahahaha! The guy had just fallen for the oldest trick in the book, what a moron! 

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared though. I drove to a secluded area and dumped the bag. When I got home, I spent the next hour waiting for the cops to show up. They never did. I figured the guy would have to explain to the cops how an alleged weed-grower left him eating dust, and he’d be humiliated

Did I go back later and get the bag? You bet your sweet ass I did, I wanted that soil! I gave the plants to my friend, which eventually died, but my plants thrived in that rich soil, lemme tell ya! I wanted to go back and get a few more bags but I figured my luck would run out and left well enough alone. 

Besides, I got a great story out of it, and that’s worth its weight in gold. 

A Cold Shower

Originally posted Sept. 19, 2019

I was on Twitter this morning when I noticed someone’s tweet about manners. This person said, and I’m paraphrasing here, “People should hold themselves to a certain standard, courtesy boils down to having good manners, and just because someone else is acting like a douche, it’s no reason for you to do the same.”

Rather than calling the guy out on Twitter, I thought I’d just call him out here behind his back like a normal person. That way, he can’t get into an argument with a stranger online. Who’s got time for that?

I’d like to point out this guy’s use of the word “douche”, because it’s so sophomoric, it begs to be addressed by someone with brains. It means “shower” in French, and I’ve never understood why people think it’s a good word to call someone they’re aggravated with. It’s like screaming “You’re a shower!” at them.

It’s from the term “douche bag”, which loosely refers to a particular feminine product; one that essentially showers the inside of your banana basket in order to clean it, which is ludicrous to think that our banana baskets are considered dirty things that need be cleaned to begin with.

If they need cleaning so badly, why are men are constantly trying to get inside of them? And just because there’s an opening “down there”, doesn’t mean dirt gets “up there” or that all manner of dirty things can’t be shoved inside of it, ’cause believe me, I’ve shoved all kinds of dirty things up there with no problem at all, so I should know!


Uhhh… what I mean is, there are plenty of dirty objects that get shoved into all kinds of places and there’s nothing wrong with… let’s move on.

As a young girl, I remember wandering down the feminine products aisle at the supermarket and seeing them on the shelves and wondering why the hell women needed to do that to themselves (*spoiler alert: they don’t). These were just thoroughly misguided products marketed to women to make them feel badly about their pink panthers.

Anyway, I’m pretty certain that word was never intended to be culturally hijacked by the lesser gender as a slur used towards others, but here we are.

It quickly turned into mockery and used to shame or insult, but why did some dude decide that the word douche (or douche bag, for that matter) would be the best way to cut another dude down? Bitch is another word that comes to mind, but that’s for another day. Right now, let’s focus on the cold shower!

When you men use that word to insult another guy, it is essentially insulting women at the same time, just so you know. By the way, last time I checked, there were still only two genders: men and women. Everything else is just stuff confused people made up.

Although I kinda get a woman wanting to become a man, because let’s face it, it’s still a man’s world (just ask those two shower bags; Brett Kavanaugh and Donald Trump), but if you’re a man, why on earth you would want to make your life more difficult by becoming a woman?

This Twitter guy is preaching about having manners and holding oneself to a higher standard, but he negates that very proclamation by name calling… with a misnomer on top of it. That shows a lack of manners, amongst other things, like proper education, elocution, and a clear understanding of a woman’s anatomy, am I right?!

Wait, the doorbell is ringing, meaning: don’t answer that because I don’t give a ding dong whether you agree with me or not.


Get it? Doorbell… don’t answer… ding dong? *snicker *snort


The way I remember it, people showing manners meant doing such things as holding the door open for someone, introducing yourself and shaking hands with the person you’re meeting, and using formal language as a sign of respect, like “Pleased to meet you Mrs. Basket.”

Now having manners means you name call in a tweet instead of to someone’s face… or perhaps refraining from running some jerk off the road because he cut you off, like that guy in the Camry this morning…


It’s okay, he didn’t hear me.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have a shower.

It’s Too Hard To Go On Any Longer

There are a lot of things I don’t understand about computers, the internet and how things work as far as those two things go. Not because I’m not tech savvy, I am tech savvy, it’s just that… okay, I’m not tech savvy, but I know enough to get by and that’s all that counts… supposedly. 

However, there are some things I’ll never understand, like spam, and how it manages to land in my inbox! Until just recently, I never got spam. Well, at least not since like, the 2000s. Remember those days? There were some pretty awful things that came out of that decade: Hurricane Katrina, MySpace, chunky highlights coupled with pencil-thin eyebrows… eww. Oh, and 9/11!

That was a horrible day, it was the day I found out I had IBS and lemme tell ya, it was just awful! I had to completely change my diet and permanently exclude things like caffeine, chocolate, dairy, and all the other things that irritate the hell out of me. Well, the diet obviously doesn’t exclude everything that irritates the hell out of me; there are still plenty of people lollygagging around *snicker *snort! 

Anyway, the 2000s were spam’s heyday. Back then, you got spammed simply by plugging in your computer… I think. I’m referring to the email type of spam, but there are countless other types of spam that have asserted their presence, for instance, through social media, robo-calls, pop-up ads, and the worst offender: a resurgence of the highly unpopular canned pork product.

Hahahahahaha *snort… hahaha *snort… haha, ha… 


Then some smart people figured they could go after the spam jerks who made your life miserable by cramming your inbox with an assortment of adverts, scams, and cheap vacations, and had laws created to make it illegal.  

Okay, I’m simplifying it, but you get the idea.

But like all laws, they were created to address certain criteria during the time of enactment, so as the spam people evolved, they discovered ways to get around these laws, which is funny because that’s exactly the type of characteristic you’ll find in a good criminal, corporate leader, or politician. 

And why you still get spam in your inbox. 

But again, I never got spam until recently. 

So what happened? Well it’s not a coincidence that it started around the time I bought a new Mac computer, because until then, I was still using my old Mac, which was ancient in technological terms, so I wasn’t able to get spam because my computer was so old… I’m pretty sure.

Computer nerds, do not email me.

Anyway, I was surprised to see what kind of spam was landing in my junk folder. Yeah, I have a junk folder. Obviously I’m tech savvy enough to know how to make one, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it! Or, you know, whatever you put in your pipe to smoke nowadays… just add that to it.

The other day I looked over some of these spam emails and was surprised to see how things haven’t really changed all that much since the old days of spam. For instance, they’re still sending emails promising a cheap vacation, but instead of one of those all-inclusive resorts for hot singles where an STD is included in the price, it’s a vacation rental, aka VRBO. No hot singles, no itchy-scratchy burn-burn.

Then there are the ones who claim to improve men’s sexual performance, making them harder and longer. Nothing new, right? But this time around their product supposedly makes them last up to two and a half hours, rather than the one and a half hours back in the day. Clearly, they have no idea who they’re dealing with, firstly, because I’m not a man… but more importantly, if I had a man, I certainly don’t want him banging into me like a jackhammer for two and a half hours and likely screaming something to the effect of “Look at me murdering your pussy, Baby!!” 

Maybe when I was in my twenties… I probably wanted my pussy murdered by a jackhammer… you know, because… because I had the time and the flexibility, but not now. Now things have changed, now I have things I gotta do, like stand up and walk a straight line.

Not to mention the fact that doing that kind of activity at this age would resemble an actual murder. Do you realize when you’re being jackhammered, things on your body are being jiggled and jerked around so violently to the point that it starts to look like a struggle between perpetrator and victim? I’m certain the screaming alone would have the neighbors calling 911, and not for the police either, it’d be for animal control.

Now I’m not saying that after reading several of those spam emails I didn’t think about getting jackhammered harder and longer for a brief moment. I just know I wouldn’t want it to occur over a period of two and half hours. How about allocating, say… around twenty minutes, Jack? And it’d have to take place in the dark. Preferably with blackout curtains.

And no, that time is not including foreplay, Tonto. Get it together, Jeez. Let’s take the focus off of shooting the arrow straight into the bullseye and work on warming up the banana basket first, shall we?

I thought the first rule of advertising was to know your audience; they’re barking up the wrong panty leg. This, of course, all pre-supposes I believe there’s actually a product that can do that in the first place and… well, one can only hope.

Princess AF

This was originally posted in June, 2018.

There are several indicators that show someone is high maintenance. To be helpful, I’ve created a list of those indicators for you to refer to:

1. They’re a woman

2. They’re needy

3. They require constant attention

4. They’re a pain in the ass

4. They’re a woman

Hmmm, did I repeat myself in there somewhere?

Anyway, I know I’m not gonna win any Feminist of the Year awards for this one, but maybe I’ll win an I Don’t Give a Shit of the Year award for speaking the truth… or uh, writing the truth… so yeah, maybe I’ll get an award for that. How can I betray women when I am a woman and claiming this as truth? Because I know how to spot someone high maintenance specifically for that reason. Women have strong tendencies to become high maintenance, what can I say? But it’s not our fault because we were lied to through make-believe…

… and it’s all because of one person:


Cinder fuckin’ rella!

A fictional cartoon character, based on a fairytale created by a man, influenced entire generations of young minds which helped to create The High Maintenance Woman. It’s true, and the fairytale continues to have that effect on women and society to this day and I don’t see her stopping anytime too soon either unless parents pull the plug on Disney, which they should if one of the major things it’s contributed to society is teaching women to become high maintenance.

Let me explain:

Cinderella was portrayed as this helpless victim who had something missing from her life (supposedly, a man) and she would not become whole until she found one (a man). She had a mean family, she was poor, she only knew how to sweep a floor. She had style she had grace, Cinderella gave good face. Then one day she heard about a ball, and along came a man, dark, handsome and tall. She…

Okay, that’s enough.

Anyway, she was brought into wealth by a prince and then she was considered beautiful all of a sudden. She got her hair done, her nails done, got a new wardrobe, some facials… see where I’m going with this?

Walt Disney created this ideal around how he viewed women, which was helpless, ugly and unwanted until marriage to a man saved them. That lead to further victimization of women by society and the media because we were portrayed as being unable to take care of ourselves and were not valued unless we could get a man, and a lot of us women didn’t fight back right away.

We were fed this image as children and took it into our adulthood. We bought into the whole “One day my prince will come and save me and then I’ll live happily ever after!” What a crock! Disney was an asshole. Sure, he delighted millions of children around the world, but he was a misogynist, nazi-sympathizer who portrayed women as slovenly ash-sweepers until men came into their lives, rendering them beautiful and lovable all of a sudden. 


We’re supposed to buy into all this from a guy who manifested his homosexual tendencies in a gay rodent called Mickey Mouse?

Not that there’s anything wrong with being a gay rodent. 

The Cinderella fairytale has created an entire social system of high maintenance women that has perpetuated throughout the decades. This belief we are incapable of doing anything ourselves has made us constantly need reassurance, attention and assistance… and when I say “we”, I mean the “royal we”. I, personally, am not high maintenance. I’m an independent, free-thinking, do-it-yourself woman!

Until it comes to plumbing. Then I require a man to come over and snake my pipe.


I recently had an experience with one. No, no, not a plumber… I mean, not this time anyway. Of course I get my pipes regularly snaked… but right now I’m referring to a recent experience with a high maintenance woman. Someone I don’t even know who wanted to participate in an event a few of us were doing, but she wanted to make sure we she wouldn’t be able to participate in all aspects of the activity and wanted us to know how much of a problem it was going to be, which begs the question, why do you want to do it then? She didn’t really want to do it, she just wanted to draw attention to herself.

High maintenance.

I’ve found the best way to handle these types is to ignore them and they’ll go away. They’ll soon figure out you won’t feed into their drama and they’ll never bother you again.

Now, if you’re already married to one, that presents a slightly trickier situation. You probably already do try to ignore her, but it doesn’t work. She keeps yapping away, driving you crazy. Well, sorry Prince Charming, but you can’t complain about her now, you were the one who picked up her crystal shoe! Oh right, glass slipper. Whatever… you’re the one who pursued this nightmare now you gotta deal with it.

Yes, I realize Prince Charming was the man in Sleeping Beauty, another stupid movie. Seems like men have fallen for the same trap us women were lured into with these inane fairytales.

Basically, if you’re “royalty” with lots of “assets” and you married a beautiful woman based solely on her looks and how it would make you look, lured her into a life of leisure and wealth, and now you can barely keep up with her demands, you get what you deserve. If you’re really unlucky, you got married in one of the nine states that has community property. Actually, bad luck has nothing to do with it, I mean, let’s just call a spade, a spade: You were stupid and not thinking properly… or property *snicker* *snort* Be careful in the divorce, your assets might get “Frozen” *snort, snort, snicker*

I just love happy endings!

Spare Some Change?

People should not change things and screw ‘em up.

I mean, yeah some change is good. We all need a little change from time to time, like, okay for instance, getting a new hairstyle, that’s a good change, or getting an oil change for your vehicle, that’s really good. Changing out all the old, white fuckers in Congress every two years… oh well, that’d be the absolute best change of all!

But there are certain things you just shouldn’t change… ever. 

I’ll give you an example. One day I happened to mention to one of my dear guy friends that I make a really delicious cherry almond coconut granola, and I… oh I know, it sounds amazing, doesn’t it? It’s really delicious, this is how I make it: I take organic oats, shredded cocon… hang on a second, I’m not giving you my recipe!

Anyway, he said well that sounds really good, how much did you make? and me not realizing this question was a trap, told him I made a huge batch of the stuff and then he went on to ask, well can you bring me some?

I immediately felt my sphincter muscle tense up because I didn’t want to give him any of my hard-earned granola, because, well, I’ll get to that in a minute, so I mumbled something about it not lasting very long ‘cause I eat a lot of it and left it at that. I realize this response was risking the fact he may very well be astounded at the amount of granola I could pork out on, especially since coincidentally, he’d just asked for some, but I can live with that.

However, the next couple weeks it was gnawing at me because I questioned why I was being so resistant to giving him any of my delicious granola, and then it occurred to me: I swore I wasn’t ever gonna be cookin’ for no goddamn man again!… and sorry for the horrible English, but it just spewed out that way. Look, I spent way too much goddamn time cooking for all my loser ex-husbands, so I am Dee Oh eN Eee DONE! I refuse to cook for another man ever again.

Okay… allow me to clarify that last part a little because I know I sound really harsh and it could be misconstrued that I’m not a good person: I was only married twice, so when I say ALL my loser ex-husbands, well, it came out wrong. Whew, glad I cleared that up! I mean, I don’t want to come across like I was a whore who only cooked for men! 

Okay, back to not wanting to cook for a bunch of creeps: I just didn’t want to give him any of my granola on this principle. 

But the gnawing persisted and then I realized the reason was because my friend is super kind and generous, and I know those are totally annoying qualities to have, mainly because it makes me look bad, but he’s just that way, and anyway, it was then I had remembered he fed my cats for me when I went away and it would be a really great gesture if I gave him some of my goddamn granola. Then I started feeling some things I hadn’t ever really felt at the same time before: kindness and reciprocation. 

Luckily feelings never last, but… you know what? In my defense, I am a stellar human being. Just because I don’t want to play nice all the fucking time does not make me a, does not make me… 

… well now I lost my train of thought.

So I concluded I’d better give him some of my granola if I ever wanted him to watch my cats again. As it happens, I had just made a brand new batch and since I had some left over from the previous batch, I could wrap up the old stuff and give that to him to insure his services in the future. Plus, I’d have a brand new batch left over for me.

I called him a few days later to ask how he liked the granola and he said it was “good”. Not delicious, not spectacular… good. How lackluster! He could have at least said it was yummy. But this is where things turn really dark, because he told me he added a bunch of stuff to it, like cashews and some other stuff I can’t remember because once I heard the word “cashew”, I completely shut down. How disgusting!

I’m being dramatic?

No… you don’t understand. Now every time I make my goddamn granola, I hear his voice ringing in my head saying “It was… good. I added some cashews…” and then I picture his smug face peering over a bowl of my bastardized granola, it’s ruined my breakfast forever!

There was absolutely nothing that needed to be changed yet he felt compelled to add more to it, because for some reason, men think they always need more of things… more blow jobs, more nuts… more… well, who doesn’t need more nuts, but… that’s not my point!

He essentially ruined my view of granola for the rest of my life and insulted me in the process. 

You know, if anything needs to change, it’s people’s attitudes, not someone’s granola. 

Thanks for the Memories

I want to talk about my Thanksgiving. 

I’m not a drinker so I don’t know exactly what went down… but apparently, a bunch of things happened. 

Let me just preface this by saying I don’t drink alcohol, by choice. I’m not in recovery, I don’t have to attend AA meetings because of some legal infraction, no one took out a restraining order against me because I tried to fight them drunk, and I never wandered around naked like some drunks do. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with being an obnoxious drunkard who gets into nothing but trouble and likes to be naked. 


Anyway, I was planning a Thanksgiving dinner and one of the dishes included wine, and to be honest, I can’t remember which dish. All I know is, I had to get a bottle of red wine as part of the preparation. 

So when I was at the supermarket standing in front of the reds, which looked delicious by the way, and… what? Am I not supposed to comment on how delicious red wine looks just because I don’t drink the stuff? Anyway, I was trying to decide which one to get, but there were a lot of really good ones and it was making it tough to choose, so I decided to get two bottles because I wasn’t sure which one would work best with the dish I was making.

When I got home I realized how foolish it was of me to buy two bottles of red wine when I only needed one. I mean c’mon, the second one was obviously an impulse buy, and we all know how that goes.

So I went back to the supermarket to return one of the bottles, only to discover you can’t return alcohol; the supermarket won’t take it back as a return. They probably assume no one in their right mind would want to return a bottle of alcohol… I mean, how stupid would that be? 

Since I had two bottles of red wine to cook with, I decided to make two dishes that included red wine, although for the life of me I can’t remember either of them. All I know is that when Thanksgiving rolled around, I was in the kitchen tasting all this red wine to make sure it was suitable and everything, and boy was it ever!

Well the next thing I know I’m downing a bunch of the stuff ‘cause I had forgotten how delicious red wine can be. Now, when I say “a bunch”, I really mean a very small glass, because I don’t drink. It tasted pretty damn good to me and I knew it would go really well with the steak I was about to grill.

Oh yeah, that was one of the dishes I was cooking – steak! 

But this is where it started to get really weird, because I’m a vegetarian.

Not only that, I have no idea where I got the steak, either. I think I may have slaughtered a cow. Now please don’t get upset with me for saying that, I mean, it’s not like I go around murdering cows. What I’m saying is, I don’t know for sure if I did or not because a lot of fucked up shit went down on Thanksgiving!

For one, I remember I had an early dinner because I needed to get some food in my stomach right away…  clearly I’m not used to dishes made with red wine… and then everything was over by eleven a.m. Only, I can’t remember who my guests were. I know my two cats were there… 

… and I think I may have had words with my neighbors on their front lawn… but again, I don’t know

I do remember getting in my car at some point and driving somewhere, and the only reason I remember that is because of how relaxed I felt behind the wheel. Normally, I get really agro because people are such shitty drivers and I hate them… but not this time. This time I was waving to everybody, wishing them a great day, and reminding them to have red wine with their meal. Plus, my driving was impeccable!

Eating that early in the day meant I went to bed really early too. I needed a nap, Thanksgiving cooking is exhausting! Well I woke up around eight p.m. with my cat licking me on the lips, which only leads to one conclusion: 


Okay, there’s probably more than one conclusion, but anyway, when I rolled over to look at the time, I heard a crunching noise and pulled a foil bag out from under me, and I noticed there were a bunch of them strewn across the bed. They were empty bags of chocolate drizzled peppermint popcorn and there were at least twelve of them, probably representing the Twelve Days of Christmas… 

… but this is where it gets really weird, because I don’t eat popcorn… 

… and it’s not fucking Christmas yet.

I didn’t realize how much you gotta pee after eating dishes containing red wine either. I mean, I really had to go. But when I got to the bathroom, I felt a string hanging out, you know, down “there”, and realized I had used a tampon. I can assure you, I’m not on my period. I don’t even have tampons in the house, which only leads to one conclusion:

Okay, there’s probably more than one conclusion.

At this point I realized I needed to get some fresh air and clear my head, so I went out front and when I looked over at my neighbor’s house, they were outside decorating a big statue of Santa Claus on their front lawn, and when they saw me they waved. Clearly the words I had gotten into with them earlier was just water under the bridge. Right? I mean… I couldn’t have had words with a Santa statue, that would be completely stupid and…

… no, of course I didn’t.


Personally, I am so thankful this holiday only comes around once a year because otherwise, it could be misconstrued that I drink alcohol, and I do not.



As a talented and gifted writer, I’ve managed to attract a lot of followers (at least a hundred) and I’ve become somewhat of a word master because I’m super, um… extremely… uh… well, good with the words ‘n stuff.

But sometimes words alone just don’t cut the mustard because words can get misconstrued, especially when reading them in print, which is mostly where words occur. Mainly where words occur. Actually, the only place words occur.

For instance, words get misconstrued all the time in texts, emails, or the biggest offender: comments in the comments section, which is the most annoying misconstruing of all the misconstruct… misconstrar… misunderstanding of them all. Someone writes one simple comment another person doesn’t like, and boom, everyone’s panties are all bunched up!

Jesus Christ, people. Listen, it isn’t always about you…

…it’s about me *snicker* *snort*

Seriously though, I know you know what I’m talking about because we’ve all been guilty of doing the misconstruing, and I’m pretty sure that’s the reason emojis were invented: To assist us in replacing what we would normally express in real face to face communication. Things such as expression, emphasis, tone of voice, etc., and we punctuate our words with a corresponding emoji so that they aren’t misconstrued.

Wow, did you read that? I really am good with words!

But some people use emojis to make others believe that what they wrote, isn’t really offensive the way it’s coming across… it’s much nicer. Bullshit.

Have you ever been to the South? You know, the bible belt states like, Alabama, Kentucky, Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, Georgia and all the rest of those fuckin’ weird places?

People from those fuckin’ weird places, do not email me.

Anyway, all those states where I’d never want to live in a million years because they have their own way of doing things that don’t fit in with the rest of society, like they have laws that make absolutely no sense whatsoever. For instance, you can’t go Greek in some of those places, can you believe that?

Not that I ever want to go Greek, I mean, ugh… how barbaric! 

But I’d still wanna have the choice to go Greek if I wanted to, so if one day I decided “Hey, let’s give this fuckin’ weird Greek business a go.” well then, that’d be my choice and my business and I wouldn’t be arrested and thrown in jail because of it, then consequently ass-raped by the prison guard… I mean, how wrong is that?!!

See what I mean about going against the rest of society? I mean, everybody goes Greek, even your grandma… and who the hell makes it illegal to go Greek and then sets the Greek prison guard loose on you? Not that I’d ever go Greek in a million years… just, uh… well, it’s really awkward and uh…


Look, I’ve totally gone off track from my point right now. 

My point is, if you’ve been to the South, you’ve heard at least one woman utter the phrase “Bless her heart”, right? Well that phrase doesn’t mean what it means on the surface, know what I mean? It’s got major subtext, and that subtext is: “She’s a fuckin’ idiot”, something they’d never say out loud, God forbid. 

It’s Southern Comfort, if you will. A way of not saying what you really wanna say because that would be too East Coast, and we all know Southerners would never want to sound like people from the East Coast – those loud motherfuckers. 

I’m pretty sure some Asian techie dude invented the emoji because that’s what Asians are good at, which is completely understandable considering how difficult it is for them to read their own language, much less the English language. ‘Cause if you think about it, the Asian language essentially is, all emojis. I should say, all the Asian languages, since there are more than one, which may not be immediately apparent to some of you racists out there.

So we use emojis to help us illustrate our point and even offer subtext. For instance, if I write something like: “Hey guys, I know I’ve said this before but I guess you didn’t hear it the first time.” the underlying subtext could be: “Hey guys, I’m pissed off you didn’t hear what I said the first time, you goddamn morons!” But if I add a smiley emoji to the end of it, it clearly shows I’m not really pissed off with you morons after all. It makes it all nicey-nicey, doesn’t it? and that’s perfect for someone like me!

So the moral of the story is, I can use them to address people and not be offensive. At least, that’s what my credit card therapist said. Emojis are in place to make sure you understand that when we refer to you as an idiot, but follow it up with a warm, smiley emoji, we’re letting you know we really mean it, but we’re subtly trying to make you believe we don’t. 

I mean, how genius! 


Herstory Lesson

Originally posted August 23, 2018:

School is back in session and I couldn’t be happier and more annoyed at the same time. Talk about a dichotomy… almost bipolar.

Hell no I’m not bipolar! There’s nothing wrong with being bipolar. It reminds me of the two-toned popsicles you used to get from the ice cream truck. I happen to be a vanilla ice cream cone, thank God. They say some of the most interesting people are bipolar and are considered borderline genius. I mean, I don’t know if that statement is actually true, I’m just using it to emphasize my point, or whatever. My point being, it’s perfectly okay to be a two-toned popsicle… just as long as you don’t mix them with vanilla ice cream cones. 

It’s all about balance and compassion. Probably not balance. I mean, let’s face it, there’s nothing balanced about two-toned popsicles, but it’s definitely about compassion, which I practice daily.

I don’t have any stinkin’ kids (thank God) so you’re probably wondering how I know school started. Well, for two reasons. One is that all the stores, parks and ice cream shops are quiet and peaceful again, and two, my route to and from work is now packed with the idiots who insist on driving their goddamn ice cream cones to and from school rather than making them take the bus or walk!

These parents are cramming the roads with their Audi crossovers, making the time it takes for me to drive to work, twice as long. I barely have time to finish picking blueberry oatmeal out of my teeth before I have to rush out the door so I can navigate the extra traffic.

That’s how I know.

I’m not the type to regale people with stories of how I got to school when I was younger. I mean, how boring right? 

Well aren’t you gonna ask? For your information, I either walked or rode the bus!

That’s because my family was normal, okay? well… except for my dad, who, looking back, reminded me a lot of a popsicle. But everyone else was normal… well, my mom had her little idiosyncrasies but uh… I wouldn’t necessarily call her a popsicle… she was more like a momsicle.

hahahaha *snort*.… hahaha *snicker *snort… haha… ha…


Anyway, lemme just say that you shouldn’t drive your kids to and from school because they’ll miss out on a fun learning experience. Kids need to get exposure, to learn to toughen up a little bit, ya know? Let ‘em get tripped or shamed on the bus. It’s a wonderful introduction to how life’s gonna be once they have a job, or get married.

Personally, I used to have the best time taking the bus to school. It was the better part of the entire school experience, frankly. The bus stop was right down the street from my house and my friends and I would meet there and socialize before we were carted off in a dangerously balanced long yellow vehicle with an agitated driver who didn’t necessarily like kids. Anyway after we boarded, we’d make our way all the way to the back because that’s where the long bench seat was located… you know the one I’m talking about, right?

You don’t? Well you would Harry Potter if you weren’t being chartered to school like a frickin’ wizard!

There’s a long bench seat at the very back of the bus, for your information. Anyway, we liked to sit there because along the route to school we’d cross a big giant dip in the road, and as the back end of the bus was coming out of the dip, it would bounce up really high, so we’d launch ourselves off the seat simultaneously with the bus coming out of the dip on the upswing, which would propel us really high into the air. It was so much fun! We’d even have a contest to see who could go up the highest, and everyone on the bus would watch in awe because, well we were pretty awesome.

You can’t do stuff like that in your mommy’s car Harry! How the hell are you supposed to learn shit about physics if you’re strapped into an Audi looking cross-eyes at the screen of your iPhone?

Kids need to toughen up a little bit, stop being so protective. Let Harry walk to school and burn off some of that McDonalds crap you’re feeding him. Don’t tell me you’d rather have him be bullied on the schoolyard because he’s got moobs over walking.

Luckily I love kids, they’re wonderful! Every time I come into contact with one, they leave the encounter knowing something they didn’t before. Let me give you an example: I was in the drug store the other day buying stuff I didn’t need so I could get one of their ridiculously long receipts to use as toilet paper for the week, when I noticed this adorable little six year old girl running down the aisle tightly clutching a Barbie Doll.

Clearly, she was looking for her mom, who’d left her alone in the toy aisle so she could continue shopping undisturbed, which I think is another great way to toughen up a kid! Leave ’em alone for a long period of time and when they get panicked and start crying, they’ll be forced to get resourceful and strategize; it builds character. 

Anyway, I knew this little girl was looking for her mommy so she could beg her to buy the Barbie doll. What little girl isn’t infatuated with Barbie? So I approached her, got down to her eye level, and said “Little girl, I know you really want that Barbie doll right now, but in ten years, you’re gonna hate her because she’s skinnier than you and has bigger tits. Barbie represents a standard of beauty you’ll never achieve. Now put the doll back and let’s go look for your mommy.” 

We got into a little back and forth and… well, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a tug of war with a six year old before, but they’re a lot stronger than they look. I finally managed to wrestle the doll away from her and ran out of the store with it. The manager came running after me but I lost him ’cause I was too fast for him. Probably from all that walking to and from school!

I gave that little girl some real food for thought, you know what I mean? I was proud to be such a good example.

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