Piece ‘O Cake

There are two things in life that annoy me and one of them is… wait, there are a lot more than two things in life that annoy me… but anyway, one of them is when I happen to call someone and when they don’t answer, and I leave a voicemail message asking them to return my call, they send me a text message instead.

Ooooooh no.

No, no, no… that’s bullshit. If I go to the trouble of overcoming the fear of picking up the phone, dialing your number, and dealing with the possibility that you’ll answer and we’ll actually have to talk… then you need to go through the same ordeal. You need to give me the same respect I’m giving you, Mister… or Missus! (mostly Missus since I have more women in my life than men on account of being single in my Fifties). 

Speaking of being in my fifties, I had a birthday this past week (thank you, I appreciate it) and I’m a year older now, which is how birthdays work, but anyway, I used to be able to do this other thing that I can’t do anymore, which is one of the other things that annoys me.

You follow?

But before I get to that, I want to further describe how bullshit it is for you to reply to my phone message with a text: That’s like if you came to my home for a visit, knocked on my front door, and instead of me actually opening it up to talk to you face to face, I just spoke to you through the closed door. 

What’s wrong with society if we can’t communicate with one another other than electronically? Can’t you see I’m trying to communicate with you through my blog right now?! I’d call but you’d probably reply with a text!

The other thing that annoys me: Every year on my birthday, I’d go to the same car wash I’ve been going to for the past 30 plus years, to get a free birthday wash (for my car, not for me, I bathe at home), and anyway this place, the one I’ve been going to for over 30 years, no longer offers the free goddamn birthday car wash. I don’t wash my car any other time of the year; I wait all year for this and so does my car!

By the way, I finally got a new car (thank you, I appreciate it). I guess it’s a birthday present. Not to me of course, to the credit union I’m financing it through, since they’re the ones who are going to make a big chunk of change off of me. Happy birthday, fuckers.

I’m upset about this car wash thing. People don’t realize how fun it is for me to get something for free on my birthday… you know, other than birthday wishes on social media, which is sorta like wishing someone Happy Birthday through a closed door. 

But since I’m a resourceful person I decided to hit the internet highway to find out what kind of other free stuff I could get and you know what? I discovered I could get a cupcake! Sure, I could get a scoop of ice cream from Baskin Robbins, or some shit cookie dessert at BJ’s; a place I’d never go to by the way.

It’s their name: BJ’s. I kinda feel like there’s some sort of expectation there and I’m not into that kinda thing… but a cupcake? That’s right up my alley! Not just any cupcake though, a Sprinkles cupcake. They’re way better than any BJ’s since I’d be the one receiving the cupcake and they’d be the ones giving the cupcake. So I got in my car and headed over.

Come to find out, you can’t just walk in and get a birthday cupcake. No, you have to be part of their “Sprinkles Club”, which sounded like some sort of activity you’d do with the Furries… another thing I’m not really into. I mean, I don’t think I am, I’ve never tried it. I’ll have to see if the hole in my bunny costume is still there.


Anyway, I asked them if I joined right then could I still get a birthday cupcake? and they said no, I’d have to be a member for at least three months before they’ll give one to me, and at first I thought that was stupid. But after I thought about it, it sounded reasonable. Afterall, I’d make someone wait three months before I gave out my cupcake too. Hell, they’d be waiting at least a year before they got to BJ’s. 

Welcome to Camp Hypocrisy!

I passed by a truck that had a Ted Nugent sticker on it today 

This wasn’t an old truck, this was a new truck… and the sticker was new also. So what I’m wondering is, why are they still making Ted Nugent stickers?

Don’t get me wrong, I was a fan of Ted Nugent… when I was fourteen. Look, just because Mr. Loincloth is a barbaric and senseless animal killer doesn’t mean he didn’t make great music… on one album… once. 

I think he got his image from watching Conan the Barbarian movies with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Okay, I can’t confirm that, but I can see him taking one look at that loincloth and saying “That’s what I’m wearing!” At some point he thought it was a good idea to add a cowboy hat.

Whenever I hear one of his only two good songs, it reminds me of the time I went to a religious camp with my friend. You know me, I can’t stand religious dogma, so you may be wondering why I’d agree to go to a religious camp for the weekend in the first place. Well, I didn’t know it was a religious camp when I agreed to it. I only knew it was “a total blast” as my friend described it. 

What really sealed the deal was when she told me that on the last night of the weekend, the girls would sneak out of their cabins and go raid the boy’s cabins. I asked her what exactly would we do once we got there, and she said maybe kiss some boys, so I was in. It was all innocent fourteen year old fun. 

Turns out, it wasn’t a total blast after all. 

One afternoon, the entire camp of three hundred gathered at this outdoor forum and the counselors got up on stage and started talking all this religious stuff. Then they brought up other counselors to talk about their experiences through the church; how it changed them and made them better. 

One woman went up and confessed that she used to be a lesbian, but discovered she was just a sinner and was saved by the church and no longer a lesbian. Tears were streaming down her face during her confession, which led me to believe she wasn’t changed at all, just frighteningly confused. 

I’m pretty sure you can’t become un-gay.

My friend sat through this entire debacle like it was no big deal so I leaned over and asked her if she believed this crap. She just smiled and said something about not believing “all of it”. Then the woman sitting on the other side of me, who had been crying tears of salvation, asked me if I wanted to go up on stage and get “saved”. 

What? Hell no! Firstly, let’s get something straight; I’m not a sinner (excluding this blog, of course), and secondly, how did she know I wasn’t part of “them”? I must’ve been singled out early on. I replied I wasn’t ready. What I was ready for though, was to get the hell out of there. 

It did get slightly fun after that. There were camp games and competitions and things lightened up a little. Hmm, maybe a little too much. On the second day, one of the male camp counselors was standing around talking to a group of us girls, and he seemed to be really enjoying himself. We were giggling and talking about how cute we all thought he was. Then one of the girls dared him to kiss one of us, and he immediately pointed at me. 

I got giddy; he chose me out of the whole group! I was just a young, innocent girl expecting a peck on the lips by the cutest counselor in the camp. Instead, he leaned in, pressed his lips lightly against mine, then proceeded to stick his tongue in my mouth. He was in his twenties, I was fourteen. 

Nothing says “pedophilia” like a church camp weekend.

The final night came; the night when we were supposed to raid the boy’s cabin, but on the way there, we got caught and was chased by the cult leader and his minion. So they led us into an auditorium where two hundred folding chairs were set up, and told us for our “punishment” we had to break them down. It was fun at first, even though I had stubbed my toe during the chase and it was bleeding. 

We were joking around, laughing while accepting our fate, and when we finished, we thought it was over, time to go to bed. But no, they commanded us to break them down and set them up again… four times. It was one o’clock in the morning by the time they allowed us to go back to our bunks. I never did get first aid treatment for my bloody toe, but they got a huge boner out of being sadistic assholes. 

I really, really wanted to have a good time at this fucking asshole camp, I really did. My friend blasted Ted Nugent the night before our departure so it seemed promising. Instead, I was almost indoctrinated into a cult, slightly molested by a pedophile, and mistreated by the cult leader. 

It Takes A Village

I really like trees. Actually, I love trees.

People who don’t like trees might as well wrap their lips around a tailpipe and start sucking, because that’s what our air would be like if we didn’t have them.

There are people out there who like trees, but should still suck on a tailpipe.

I’ve noticed so many trees being cut down lately, it’s alarming… and it’s a damn shame, too. Cutting down a tree is like cutting your own arm off. Sure, you have another one, but you’re likely to need both of them, so why would you?

Okay, maybe that’s not the best simile, but you get the idea.

The building where I work is next to a very busy street, and on this street, there are some very large trees, and these trees have been here before most people moved to the area. There was one particular pine tree right on the corner which must’ve been about 150 feet high. It was majestic and imposing in its beauty; its roots crumpled up the asphalt it was so big, and it had been that way for probably over a hundred years. You can probably tell the tree isn’t there anymore by the way I’m referring to it in past tense.

So anyway, the name of the town where I work has the word “village” in it, which is quaint isn’t it? It was a village at one point, now it’s a bustling city replete with rich assholes driving around in their Land Rovers and Teslas. Nothing wrong with rich assholes, I wanna be one someday.

Someone once told me that every village has an idiot. Do you think that’s true? I think it may be true because whoever decided it would be a great idea to cut down that magnificent tree so a sidewalk could be put in its place, could only be a village idiot… and that’s exactly who runs this town. I knew if they put in a sidewalk, no one, and I mean absolutely no one, would use it, and do you know how I know? Because it’s a fact that rich people don’t walk… just like every village has an idiot.

Rich people pay lots of money to gyms and personal trainers and yoga and cycling studios to get their exercise, they don’t go outside, that would be ludicrous. They’re the ones cutting down all the trees, so they know the air quality isn’t good.

So they cut down the pine tree and replaced it with a concrete sidewalk that absolutely no one uses (except for me… once) and I mean, how fucking stupid is that?! I wanted to take the arm I cut off and beat the village idiot with it!

Of course, the sidewalk isn’t the only excuse that was used to cut down that amazing tree. You just know those tailpipe sucking rich morons complained about the tree’s roots that caused the bump in the road. They didn’t want to drive their Land Rovers over it and I guess it’s because those cars aren’t built for roving over land.

I thought about that woman who, in the 1990s, climbed a 150 ft. redwood tree in northern California and lived in its canopy for over two years, refusing to move until the logging company agreed they wouldn’t cut it down, along with all the other old-growth redwoods… and thank God for wackjobs like her because we still have those amazing trees! Then I thought about the pine tree and how there was no fucking way the thing was 150 ft. high because the California redwoods are the tallest trees in the world and this was just a regular pine tree (totally my mistake, I misjudged it).

Anyway, I thought about climbing the pine tree and staying there until the village idiot promised he would preserve it for future generations because I care so much about our environment and its preservation, but who’s got time for that? I have shit to do, like maintain this blog for our future generations so they can look back and say, “Who was the fucking village idiot?”









Saturday, In The Park…

I spent my youth in a quiet little town; the same town where I currently reside, having returned here quite a number of years ago after a lengthy time away, apparently to commit a slow suicide by boredom. As it happens, my quiet little town isn’t so quiet or little anymore. Still boring as fuck though.

One of the things myself and my friends liked to do to occupy ourselves during our youth (besides look for boys or trouble), was to go to the park and have a barbecue. Let me just say that teens don’t necessarily know how to barbecue. At least, we didn’t on one particular barbecuing day. 

As we got older, we got better at it of course, and by then, our little cookouts grew into big ‘ol parties complete with kegs of beer and stolen hot dogs and hamburgers. And no, I personally didn’t steal any food, it was my boyfriend at the time who worked for the school district supervising supply and delivery of cafeteria food. 

He had access to everything so he would steal boxes of burger patties, hot dogs and buns. We had Saturday barbecue parties all summer long courtesy of our little school district. Do I feel badly about partaking in stolen goods? No. The people at the school district are the ones who should feel badly considering they knowingly fed burritos containing pork fillers to Jewish kids, who are probably going to hell now. 

Maybe you’re wondering why a bunch of teens would want to barbecue at the park anyway, as opposed to going to the mall, movies or wherever else teens hung out back then. That’s what kids do in a town where your mode of transportation, pre-automobile, is your horse, which we could ride just about anywhere we wanted. 

Mind you, this town isn’t Hicksville in the middle of nowhere; we lie just outside of Los Angeles about 30 or so miles, but it felt like the middle of nowhere. It was the type of place where it was so quiet, you could hear the soft breeze slip through the canyons and at night you could see so many stars, it would dazzle you and take your breath away. It made you realize how infinitesimal your place was in the Universe.

One day, myself, my sister, and our friend, decided to do a burger cookout so we put all our dollars together, walked to the store and bought all the food we needed, plus some plastic ware, paper plates and cups, and a couple liters of orange soda, which was not my preference, but my friend could be persuasive (meaning she wouldn’t shut the fuck up until she got her way). We also got charcoal briquettes and starter fluid. 

We made our way over to the park and everything was great. Well, except that our friend dragged her little brother along; he was a bratty little whiner that wore diapers well into his boyhood… and I couldn’t stand him. When he grew up, he became a big weirdo creep with a mean streak, which didn’t surprise me in the least because any mother who would make her son wear diapers past the age of six meant there was a good chance he was gonna grow up to be a school shooter.

Shortly after we set everything up, we realized we had no ice for our beverages, and why would we when everything was brought over in paper bags? If there’s anything worse than orange soda, it’s warm orange soda on a hot summer’s day. We started to prepare the charcoal by dumping almost the entire bag in the park’s barbecue, which closely resembled prison bars that had been horizontally stuck onto a metal pole. We squirted copious amounts of fuel on the briquettes to make sure they caught… fire.

Wait, don’t you need a lighter to start a fire?

Okay so we forgot a lighter. Luckily, there’s always a child molester lurking around neighborhood parks, standing around nonchalantly, smoking cigarettes and waiting… We asked ours if he could lend us his cigarette lighter. 

A note about cigarette lighters: They’re not a good idea.

A note about perverts: They’re always really nice and helpful.

After burning through most of our fingertips, we got it started. Did we clean the grate off before we started cooking? Nah, we just burned off the previous user’s crusty barbecue remains by lighting a massive bonfire. It was so big, some Indians came riding by on their horses to find out who was making strange smoke signals.

When we finally got the burger patties on the grill, they started to burn very quickly, so we decided we should remove them until the flames died down, which was the moment we realized we had no spatula. A spatula is a very important component of barbecuing, turns out. 

I think we went through all of our plastic forks before we moved onto the plastic knives trying to get the burgers off.  By then, they were completely blackened. We managed to get a couple off the grill and waited for them to cool down enough so we could remove the melted plastic from them. Luckily, the insides of the burgers weren’t burned… they were raw. 

Suddenly, the child molester’s friend showed up, so now there were two of them hanging around. Being the worldly young girl that I was, I voiced my concerns to my compadres, at which point my sister said, “Don’t worry, if they try anything, we’ll just feed them some of our hamburgers.” which sent all of us into hysterics! Our friend laughed so hard, orange soda squirted out of her nostrils. I wish I had come up with that line.

Defeated, we threw everything in the trash and headed home, unaware that in a couple years, we’d become experts at cookouts and accomplices to stolen goods and under-aged drinking.

Then we grew up, and things changed, as they do. It’s impossible to ride horses around town anymore; too many cars and people. Teens don’t do things like have cookouts in the park, they’re online all day and barely understand what it’s like to spend time outdoors. All the child molesters are online, too. But that pretty little park… the one where we had our infamous barbecue…  it’s still there and looks exactly the same as it did those long summers ago. 



A Walk in the Park

Driveways are very personal spaces.

They belong to the person who parks his or her car on the property where they reside, and no one should assume they can park there. I would never be so presumptuous as to pull up onto someone else’s driveway and leave my car there, and you know why? Because it’s not mine.

Not that this is breaking news, but not everyone feels the same way I do. 

For instance, last night I went out to my car to leave and found I was blocked in by someone who decided to park his car behind mine. This person doesn’t live where I live, he was visiting my neighbor who’s in the main house (I live in the guest house and we share the driveway), but he decided for some stupid reason he could park in the driveway.

Even though I needed to leave right away as I was on a tight timeline, and this car really shouldn’t be there in the first place, it would just take a second to have him move, it was really no big deal.

No big deal.

I was preparing myself to remain calm as I approached my neighbor’s front door to ask if he could tell his guest to move his car. I didn’t want to show that I felt slightly put out by this thoughtless action because my neighbor is super nice, and we get along. Plus, it was no big deal.

When he apologized for the hassle, I replied, “Don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal.” but it came out sounding tight and really high pitched because I guess it was more of a big deal than I initially thought, and that was not what I wanted to say in the first place. 

What I really wanted to say, was “Could you tell the fat, lazy bastard who blocked me in not to park in the fucking driveway anymore since it’s not his and it’s annoying that I have to wait for him to move his goddamn car when it shouldn’t be there in the first place?!!”

ahem… which I realize would show a complete lack of control on my part.

That ever happen to you? You know, when you get so irritated and flustered and… fucking pissed off, the words don’t come out like you’re calm and in control of the situation, they come out like you’re a short, angry dictator who’s trying to keep his cool in front of a bunch of goddamn idiots and you end up sounding like a whiny bitch?!!


Being the magnanimous person I am, I kept my thoughts to myself… my thoughts being: I suppose it would be too difficult for the fat bastard to walk an extra 20 feet should he have parked on the street directly in front of the house instead of someone else’s driveway. Furthermore, there’s nothing wrong with the person that I can see… I mean, physically. Mentally he’s a dumbass, but physically, he’s a grown man with no limitations other than being a moron.

It’s always a good idea to keep your thoughts to yourself… or share them on a blog, but never with anyone who wouldn’t understand.

This is not my first time at the driveway rodeo. I used to live across the street from the urgent care entrance of a medical office, and every single day there’d be an idiot who would park in my driveway, rather than walking half a block down the street to the parking structure, because that would be a put out for them.

People like that must lead pretty boring lives. Seriously. They must park in someone’s driveway to see if they can get away with it to make life more exciting, which is pretty benign if you ask me. C’mon, if you want to make life more exciting by attempting to get away with something, why not do something that’s really worth it, like robbing a bank? That would give you some excitement.

Instead of saying: “Hey, you’ll never guess what I did today… I parked in someone else’s driveway! Yeah, it was awesome… I totally got away with it!”

You could say: “Hey, you’ll never guess what I did today… I robbed a fucking bank, dude… it was awesome, I totally got away with it!”

And really, which one is better? Which one makes you out to be a gutsy risk-taker who grabs life by the balls?








Plumb Crazy

I hate plumbing.

Let me rephrase that: I hate fixing plumbing.

As soon as you start to fix whatever is wrong with your plumbing, you’ll find something else that needs fixing because as soon as you touch one thing, another thing breaks. That’s because the way plumbing is designed is that it’s all connected. It’s fucking retarded if you ask me, and we all know who designed this crap, right?

No, I’m waiting for you to say it. 

Look, you know I’ll say it, I’m just waiting to see if you’ll say it. 


I think they must’ve designed pipes and plumbing around what they think a woman’s reproductive system looks like, without ever having actually seen it except for maybe in pictures at the doctor’s office. It must all be very confusing to the novice male to learn this about women, so maybe one of them decided they would try to decode it by attempting to recreate it in the plumbing system, then get as many young men to serve an apprenticeship as possible. You know, to prepare them for what lay ahead. 

Laying pipe.

Anyway, I had to replace the stopper in my bathroom sink, but before I could do that, I had to figure out what the stupid thing was called, and to my surprise, it wasn’t “stupid thing”, it was “stopper”. Look, if you want me to know this shit, you’ll have to pay me $150 bucks an hour, which is what a plumber makes.

I learned a couple things in the process of changing my bathroom sink stopper. One: You always bring the old part with you to the hardware store so you don’t have to make two trips, and two: I hate fixing plumbing, it’s fucking retarded. 

I watched a video on how to do it, but it’s never as easy as they portray it. Once you touch one simple thing, like for instance, the cap of a pivot rod, it unleashes a whole series of unexpected things, like say, a leak from a goddamn a pipe I didn’t even touch! Plus, I had to learn what a “pivot rod” really was when all this time I thought it had to do with the male reproductive system.

Taking apart the workings under your sink involves being willing to go to a very dark place. I’m talking really dark, like, darker than your worst nightmare… like, darker than suicidal thoughts. Have you ever smelled the pipes of your bathroom sink? Okay, well you need to try it in order to really appreciate how bad it is. 

I nearly threw up when I undid the pipe and a long strand of some foreign material came streaming out, along with a foul smell of rotting corpses. If you ever want to know what dying feels like, smell your plumbing. If you ever want to know what a murderer feels like, try fixing it.

To top off this lovely activity, when I got up to the register at the hardware store, the checkout lady had to point out the cold sore on my lip. Yeah, I got a huge fucking cold sore on my lip for Christmas, how was yours? It’s so big and painful, it has its own heartbeat, so no one needs to mention it because it’s pointing out the obvious. 

And this woman points it out, like, literally points at it with her finger and makes a comment about how big it was. She happened to be Indian and had a strong accent, so when she said my cold sore was very big, it came out like “werry big”. So anyway, I’m thinking to myself “Lady, you have some nerve pointing out my cold sore when you can’t even pronounce the English language.”  

Now, if I had to criticize her appearance, it would be that she was short. Furthermore, I would go on to say that she shouldn’t be pointing out cold sores on others when I’d be more worried about the fact that it’s a lot worse wearing an awful hardware store t-shirt in that hideous color that doesn’t look good on you… and, and… well, you’re an immigrant!


I took on this whole project because I didn’t want to bother my landlord, seeing as how he had to replace my toilet over the summer due to an unfortunate accident (it’s not what you think). What happened was, I placed one too many objects on the shelf that sat above the toilet and it couldn’t hold the weight and came crashing down, splitting the tank in two and causing a minor flood. That was something else I learned. Anyway I didn’t want to bother him with this minor, shitty goddamn thing.

You’re probably wondering if I got the pipe to stop leaking. You bet your sweet ass I didn’t!


It’s Too Fucking Big!

On the street where I live, there’s a lot of construction going on. 

Let me preface this by saying, this used to be a nice, quiet little town where there was no such thing as obnoxious leaf blowers blowing leaves off the expensive landscaping of neighboring McMansions, or traffic composed of BMWs and Audis zooming by on the roads at all hours of the night. You know, simple, small-town life without rich assholes.

There’s nothing wrong with being rich, by the way. I want to be a rich myself, minus the asshole part. Right now I’m poor and an asshole, not a good combination. No, I’m not an asshole all the time, that would be exhausting. I’m just enough of an asshole to make life interesting and fun.

What’s that? Okay yes, I realize I may have mentioned once or twice that I thoroughly dislike suburban, small town living… but I never said I disliked the peace and quiet, okay?

Can we move on? (asshole). 

Anyway, one of my neighbors is a builder and he’s been contracted by other neighbors to do additions on their houses, one of whom is right next door to me, which I previously mentioned in this posting. He’s still not dead, by the way. 

It all started with one neighbor having Mr. Builder add a second floor to his already massive house… and we all know what happens when one guy in the neighborhood has what could be perceived as the biggest cock on the block… I mean, house on the block: The others get jealous and/or competitive.

Mr. Builder decided he didn’t want anyone outdoing him, so he began an addition on his own house by digging about fifteen feet into the bedrock, which is never a good sign. Now he’s in the process of adding on a monstrosity of an addition which blocks out half the fucking sky. 

So I’m driving home yesterday and what do I see? A sign on another neighbor’s front yard stating a city permit has been submitted to allow for an addition to be built on the already big fucking house (maybe those weren’t the exact words) and I couldn’t be more disgusted.

So currently there are, let’s see… one, two, three, four, five… five goddamn houses on one block having construction going on! I live in a cul-de-sac too, it’s not like I live on one long street where it’s dispersed; there’s no getting away from it.

I’ve had to tolerate construction noise for the past year while these men waggle their weenies in front of one another and get into a pissing contest. Meanwhile I’m just trying to live my best self!

Jesus Christ, if I knew there were all these huge cocks hanging around in my neighborhood, I would’ve gotten busy a long time ago! 


I’m seriously thinking of relocating, which is just awful because I love my little street and neighborhood and so do my cats. But now the three of us (myself and my two cats) are so freaked out by the trucks and the noise and the destruction of life as we knew it, I’m considering leaving this little haven of mine. 

Don’t men realize that bigger is not better? Well okay, that’s not true. What I mean to say is, bigger houses aren’t better. A huge house doesn’t make a man great or proves anything, it just annoys the fuck out of your neighbors and their cats, so put it away already!


Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I don’t shave that often.

Well okay, I shave my face because everybody can see that right away, but not necessarily my legs, bikini line or underarms. I’ll let those slide for a few weeks until the leg hairs start poking through my pant legs… baggy pant legs.

What? Is that bad? 1-800-I-don’t-give-a-shit.

Yes, I shave my face. No, I do not have a beard. I have peach fuzz that women of a certain age get, barring the occasional tree branch that tries to grow out of my upper lip. I used to be a beautician and would have to tweeze those things out of my older client’s faces, now I have ‘em.  

Life is cruel.

Actually, life isn’t cruel. If it was, I’d have hairy knuckles. 

I’m single so why bother shaving? When I was in my youth, shaving was something I did religiously; I was in the shaver hall of fame! I started a shaving cult, because hair on a woman is evil, God be praised! For a long time I believed women weren’t supposed to have hair on their bodies, even though we do have hair on our bodies, for fuck’s sake. 

We have hair everywhere men do (yep, same places) but women are made out to believe it’s some sort of genetic mistake; something grotesque that should be permanently removed. That’s how effective the media is. They make women believe they’re hideous creatures so we’ll spend thousands of dollars on their products.

“Hair on your body? You’ll never get a man! Here, buy this overpriced pink razor, which will appeal to your feminine side, and you’ll get rid of that unsightly body hair at the same time!”

“Gained weight? You’ll never get a man! Here, go on this diet for $300 dollars a month, which you’ll gain back within a year anyway because these diets don’t work.”

They’re all centered around getting a man too, as if being single is a crime. If it is, then lock me up and give me twenty! *snicker* *snort*

I mean, what man doesn’t want a chubby woman with hair all over her?! Shit, maybe that’s why I’m single. Naw… couldn’t be. 

I’d shave if I had a man in my life. He has to shave too, though, and no, I’m not talking about shaving “down there” because that is so wrong. Look, if I wanted to sleep with a hairless, pubescent boy, I would. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. What I mean to say is, I’m not afraid of getting a pube stuck between my lips! 


I like a man with hair on his body. Some hair, not a lot of hair. I’m not crazy about a mass of chest or back hair. 

Hairy bastard.

What I mean is, the man has to shave his face. He doesn’t have to be clean shaven; a goatee or Fu Man Chu is great, just no full on fucking beards. Jeez, I can’t wait ’til that goes out of style.  

You know how when you’re at a restaurant enjoying your meal and then you feel a hair as you’re chewing your food and you go to pull it out and it’s long and not your color and you can’t eat your food anymore and you start to feel queasy? I can imagine that’s how having a beard is.  

Gosh, I hope you’re not reading this while you’re eating something.

Thanks for Stopping By

Why do people ruin things by doing something stupid when you’re just trying to be nice or polite? For instance, when someone thanks you for asking how they’re doing.

I’ll give you an example: 

Person on the phone: “Hi, it’s Jason from (whatever company, who cares) how are you today?”

Me: “I’m doing well, how are you?”

Person on the phone: “Hey, I’m doing great, thanks for asking!”

There it is: Thanks for asking. Why are you thanking me for engaging in a societal norm? Should I thank someone for holding the door open for me? I think not. Well, okay I probably should.

If I thanked them for thanking me (which would be ludicrous) it would go something like this:

Me: “Thank you for thanking me for asking.”

Person on the phone: “Oh, well thank you fo…”

Me: “Stop.”

I just want to ask these people: Has the world become so full of apathy that no one ever asks you how you are, including your parents, so you have to thank some stranger on the phone because they asked? Is it that bad Mister? 

If you’re hanging all your hopes on me, you’ll be very disappointed to find out I don’t really give a shit. I’m only asking because I’m responding politely to your question (I may be apathetic, but I can still be polite… to an extent).

By the way, not only do I not give a shit, I’m also annoyed that you’re being obsequious and you sound way too perky. I hate perky, it’s contrived. I know you want something from me; something I’m not prepared to give, and I don’t want to be bothered by you, so let’s get on with it already.

This whole thing… this, “thanking me for asking how you are” thing… reeks of corporate drivel. I’m picturing some bored executive sitting at his expansive desk, in his equally expansive office (you know, something big enough to contain his massive ego) thinking of ways to make people’s lives more miserable, when he comes up with this asinine idea and decides it would be wonderful if all his minions would respond to the question in this manner.

Memo from the office of Mr. Jackass, of The Jackass Corporation:

Dear Staff,

From now on, when you address someone, ask how they’re doing, and when they ask you how you are, thank them for asking you! 

Don’t ask why, just do it.


Mr. Jackass

“What a great idea, thank you!”

“Thank you!”

“Thanks for thanking me!”

“Why are you thanking me for thanking you?”

“Because you told us to.”

How ‘bout this one: 

When someone is wanting to cross the street where they’re not supposed to, so you stop in the middle of the road for them so they can (illegally, but safely), cross… but then they ruin it by impatiently waving you on with these over exaggerated arm gestures (suddenly they’re a goddamn traffic cop) instead of just giving a wave of thanks and crossing. Is this a power play? Because it’d probably be safe to say I’d win since I’m in a car and you’re not. 

I impatiently wave you on because I’ve already stopped in the middle of the street to be nice, and I’m trying to get you to understand that, but you’d rather make me feel stupid for stopping for you in the first place. Don’t you dare wave me on again Mister… just cross the fucking street already, I’m not getting into a waving contest! You created the problem, now you need to see it through. 

As soon as they start to cross, that’s when I like to gun my engine and watch them run for their lives. 

You’re welcome.

Hot Sauce

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that most of us single women are sick and tired of dating and all the work that’s involved.

That’s a no-brainer.

It takes a lot of time and effort for not a lot of return. As the proverbial saying goes, “You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your Prince Charming”. Well ladies, you’re in luck! I’ve come up with an effective vetting system that’s been personally tested, over and over and over… pant, wheeze… and over again, and it’s based on one simple principle: The type of take-out food the guy orders correlates exactly with how he treats women.

If a guy doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about what he puts into his body, do you think he’s going to spend a lot of time thinking about what he puts into yours? Uhhh, what I mean is, if he doesn’t take care of himself, he’s not gonna take care of you either. If he eats a lot of shitty fast food, well, “You are what you eat”. 

I’ve discovered that you can rate what kind of man you’re dating solely by the take-out sauce packets he has in his kitchen. I know, sounds too simple, but remember: KISS. No, no, no… not your favorite rock bank from the eighties… it’s an acronym, Keep It Simple, Stupid.

Let’s start with his kitchen: He’s gotta have one… and it’s gotta be his own, not his mother’s. Once you’ve established that, you’ll need to do some investigating, so start opening drawers. How do you snoop around without it being obvious? Easy. Well, the way you get into his drawers *snicker* is by bringing over a bottle of wine and conveniently forgetting a wine opener. That way, you have an excuse to go into the kitchen to look for one.

You’ll know you’ve found what you’re looking for when you get to the drawer that has nothing in it but some crumbs, a book of matches, a plastic fork, and some napkins. Bingo! This is where he would keep the take-out sauce packets. 

And if there aren’t any, you ask? Don’t panic, that’s a good thing. It means he doesn’t keep them for ten years like some men, and/or doesn’t get take-out that often, which means he knows how to cook (bonus!!!) Hang on, before making that assumption, check his fridge to see if he’s actually savvy enough to store them in there. If there are none, there is a slight possibility his mother still cooks for him. If she does, I strongly suggest reconsidering the relationship; guys like that, have sex with their socks on.

If he does have take-out sauce packets in his fridge, carefully remove them using oven mitts or a set of tongs… you don’t want to touch them with bare hands. Take note of what kind of sauce packets they are. Are they taco sauce packets from Taco Bell?


Yes I’m serious, have some self-respect! Make an excuse, it doesn’t matter if it’s believable or not, you’ll never see him again. If you can’t identify where the sauce packets are from, they may be from a restaurant that delivers, which could be a really good sign: He orders something decent from a local joint, like the Thai place a few blocks over.

Take another gander in the fridge. Does he have large bottles of ketchup, mayo, yellow mustard, and a corresponding package of Oscar Mayer bologna? He’s a fucking savage and great in the sack, so have sex with him, but don’t hitch him to your trailer. The only thing you can expect with this guy over the weekends is a lot of meat sandwiches on shitty bread while you sit on the sofa to watch the game. No amount of great fucking is worth that. 

If you see a basket of fresh strawberries, some champagne and imported cheeses, with a pepper grinder and an espresso maker on the counter, you’ve just scored! No, not a romantic partner, a gay best friend! And hey, sometimes that’s better than a boyfriend anyway.

Pass the hot sauce, hot stuff.


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