You wanna know how to create a frenzy over something? Make it scarce.

Limit its accessibility to the public and create the illusion of scarcity, which in turn, creates the illusion that the thing is more valuable than it really is, that there’ll be a shortage of that particular thing, and if people don’t act right away and go out and get it, they’ll lose out. All of a sudden that thing becomes a highly valuable commodity, because it’s human nature to want something that others don’t have, and… to be able to get it first.  

FOMO, basically (Fear Of Missing Out).

We want to own something others don’t, we want to have the first edition, we want to say we bought something first, and we want to make sure we have that thing, whatever it is, before it falls off the “Most Wanted” list.

Why? So we feel superior to others. We want bragging rights because otherwise we’ll be losers, and let’s face it, nobody likes losers. I certainly don’t.

Remember the Cabbage Patch Dolls from the Eighties? There was a buying frenzy for those things, it was a complete phenomenon! Those dolls were hideous too; the ugliest things I’ve ever seen… well, next to our President. Now that I think about it, there’s quite a resemblance *snicker, snort*  

Anyway, I couldn’t understand why a child would even want that thing in his/her bedroom; it looked like a mushroom grew a face… and it was fat! Nooo… there’s nothing wrong with being fat, it’s just that… well… it’s just that… fat isn’t really in style, is it?

Fatso. Fatty. Porko.

Rotundabadunda!

ahem… sorry. It’s a compulsion.

Anyway, the company that sold these hideous things created a tremendous feeding frenzy by limiting distribution. They created the illusion of lack, and people just went nuts trying to get one. Toy stores were bombarded and there was complete mayhem; people were crying, hair was pulled, punches were thrown! Personally, I never wanted one but I couldn’t resist getting in on the action.

God, I miss those days…

I’m sure the asswipe who invented ‘em made a fortune. He probably took a dump and that’s where he got the design idea, ‘cause they looked like crap. They did, they looked like a do-do.

Now that I think about it, that’s how people must’ve felt when I took myself off the dating market for a little while. NO, not that I looked like do-do, that there was an illusion of lack! No, no, no… that doesn’t sound right either; that they were going to miss out (that’s better). I can only imagine what frenzy ensued. No, I don’t have any actual data, but I would bet money… pennies, I would bet pennies… that it left a resounding void in the entire, um… block…

…of houses…

…somewhere.

When I got back on the market, I strategically put myself on a couple of the online dating things simultaneously, just to give everyone the most opportunity to get with me.  One was an app where you had to swipe either left or right depending on prospects or rejects. That one’s loads of fun because you could spend the entire day just thumbing through all these idiots without a care in the world!

In the whole online dating process, I discovered a few rules I didn’t know about beforehand. For instance, when trying to catch a man, I’m only supposed to post pictures that least represent how I actually look in real life, they should be from around 5 to 7 years ago, and only during times I was skinnier… because, ya know, the “fat” thing.

Also, I’m not supposed to tell a guy how much I weigh. I had no idea! Supposedly, women lie about their weight all the time, usually taking off anywhere from 15 to 20 lbs. That’s a lot, my friends! So when this one guy sent me a message with his stats… you know, how tall he was, his weight, etc., I felt compelled to send mine. I told him that I weighed… uhhh… well, I’m not gonna tell you because I don’t want to astound you… but anyway, he must’ve added on the 20 lbs. women normally subtract because he deleted me right away… the nerve! I must have seemed like some giant cow to this idiot. He didn’t even give me the chance to show how amazing I actually am.

Loser.

The guy, not me.

Of course, two can play that game because it seems men like to add a few inches here and there too; to their height, their biceps, their… well anyway, after months of swiping, I finally met someone face to face, which is apparently comparable to scoring a big win in Vegas or winning the lottery. We decided to meet for an afternoon coffee for a quick look-see, and of course, I was disappointed, even though I’m sure he felt like the cat’s dinner. We really didn’t have much in common other than the fact that we both found myself attractive. There wasn’t much conversation either. Finally, after a few long moments of silence, the guy asked me if I had anything at all to say, so I said “Well, I happen to love broccoli stems much more than the florets, and I say this because in life, you have to stand for something, otherwise you’ll fall for anything.”

Like Cabbage Patch Dolls.

 

 

😁

As a gifted writer and, um, word master, I’ve managed to attract a lot of followers and I’m super popular because I’m a very, um… extremely… um… cool person. So I have this large following because, like I said, good with the words ‘n stuff.

But sometimes words alone just don’t cut the mustard because words can get misconstrued when you’re reading them. For instance, with texts or emails or comments in a comments section, which is the most annoying misconstruing of all the misconstru… misconstrar… ahem, misunderstandings. Someone writes one simple comment another person doesn’t like, then boom, it panties all bunched up all of a sudden! Jesus Christ, people… listen, it isn’t always about you, ya know…

…it’s about me *snicker*

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 do in real, face to face communication, things such as expression, emphasis, tonality, etc., with what we write, so that our words aren’t misconstrued. Either that, or it’s for making people believe that what you write, isn’t really what you mean, it’s nicer.

Know what I mean?

I’m pretty sure some Asian techie dude invented the emoji too, because one, they’re all yellow, and two, 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. If you think about it, the Asian language is, essentially, all emojis. I should say, all the Asian languages, since there’s 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. 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.” it could be read as: “Hey guys, I’m pissed off you didn’t hear what I said the first time, you goddamn morons!” if I don’t use a smiley emoji to clarify that I’m not really pissed off with you morons after all. 

But if I put a smiley emoji after it, well then, it makes it all nicey-nicey, doesn’t it? Even when I don’t mean it, and that’s perfect for someone like me! I can use it to address my peeps and not be offensive. At least, that’s what my therapist said anyway. 


Emojis are in place to make sure you understand that when we refer to you as an asswipe, but follow it up with a warm, smiley emoji, we’re letting you know we really don’t mean it. Or… we do mean it, but we’re trying to make you believe we don’t. That way, we can take out our frustrations with your idiocy by calling you an asswipe, but completely get away with it (ostensibly) by following it up with a big, fat smiley emoji… or wink emoji… or heart emoji! 

Genius! 

😁

 

Hit the Road, Jack

I was sitting here trying to remember what I wanted to talk about and then this annoying song that’s been stuck in my head started playing again. It’s been playing in my head over and over, even during my sleep. Jesus Christ, that’s just way too much brain activity. I’m a blonde, I’m not supposed to have that much brain activity!

The song is “I Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weeknd… or, whatever the hell the title of that song is. It’s about his love affair with cocaine, in case you didn’t get that by the lyrics, which I have mixed feelings about quite frankly; they’re playing a song that’s catchy, but glorifies drug use. I’m certainly not innocent, I had my own love affair with cocaine back in the Eighties… I used to pack my face with the stuff every Weeknd.

God, that was a lot of fun!

Well, it was fun and games, but after awhile you get to a point where you become what’s called an “adult” which means you adopt an attitude of disgust towards teenagers, 20 somethings and young people in general (you know, the ones doing the drugs and listening to that shitty music) so you come to look at drug use with disdain. And if you don’t, you’re what’s called an “addict”.

Anyway, as catchy as the song is, it’s driving me crazy going around and around in my head, so I figured I’d try to get rid of it by replacing it with an instrumental song that was hugely popular back in the disco era of the Seventies. I couldn’t tell you what the name of the song is since there aren’t any lyrics, but if you really wanna know, just pick a disco instrumental from the Seventies (make sure it’s got horn) and it’s basically the same thing.

(I’m playing the song in my head right at this moment, give me a minute)

Oh my God, it worked!

I think I’ve just discovered how to get rid of any annoying, pesky songs that get stuck in your head… goddamn it, I’m brilliant! Now if I could only patent this, hmmm… anyway, it’s a three-step process:

Step 1. Just think of another song that is similar in style and beat to the one that’s stuck in your head, but it has to be an instrumental piece, no lyrics. Then, replace the tune stuck in your head with the instrumental one and continue to play it in your mind until the other one stops completely.

Step 2. If someone points out to you that the other song will now get stuck in your head instead, tell them to go fuck themselves.

Step 3. Get off the cocaine.

Oh, I remember what I was gonna talk about: My annoying boss. Yes, yes, yes… of course I have one, whaddya think, I make millions as a writing hack? Anyway, he had given me a task but purposely left something out ‘cause I guess he was testing me to see if I could figure out how to do it, so I asked him a question about it and he says “Well, I purposely left something out ‘cause I was testing you to see if you can figure out how to do it.”

How stupid, of course I know how to do it… at least, this time… and I got a bit annoyed at little Mr. Napoleon and his little Midget Emperor game, so I was trying to come up with a few new names to call him, ‘cause every week I come up with something different, like, Huff ‘n Stuff, Mr. Not Gettin’ Jiggy Wid It, Hamster Ass, etc., when another song popped into my head, this one called “Hit The Road, Jack, and Don’tcha Come Back No Mo’, No Mo’, No Mo’, No Mo’!”

Yes, I do realize those are the lyrics, not the title of the song itself, sheesh, give me a break, who the hell actually knows the name of that song?! Everyone knows it by the lyrics, and anyway you’re missing the point; the point is this song popped into my head for a reason: The name Jack is often used in a manner to suggest that the person to whom it is referring, is an ass, like in Jackass, Jack ‘n the Crack, Jack-off, Jack, Jack, Jack (I just like saying it) and if you say it with enough intention and authority and… no, not hubris… chutzpah, it really gets the point across

Jack

and I’ll bet that’s exactly what that woman in the “Hit The Road” song was thinking when she was singing it, which is why it popped into my head, so now I know what to call my boss for the week. See, everything does happen for a reason!

Shit. Now that song’s stuck in my head.

 

Fo’ Sizzle

I’m getting hotter.  

Yes, yes, yes… of course my looks! I’m hot, I’ve always been hot. But lately, I’ve been getting even hotter.

It happens either when I’m sleeping, or sitting in one place doing absolutely nothing (two of my favorite activities, by the way) and I’ll start getting really hot over my entire body. It starts from the top of my head and spreads down my body, like a disease. Comes outta nowhere, just like that *finger-snap* …it’s driving me crazy!

Someone told me it’s because of my age and um… you know… the things that happen to a woman when she gets older… and I burst out laughing when they said this! Can you think of anything more ridiculous than that? Why on earth would my temperature rise along with my age? Stupid Gynecologist… he doesn’t know anything, he’s just guessing, that’s why they call his office a “practice”. What the hell does a man know about a woman’s body anyway? They can’t even find the taco berry most of the time and when they finally do, they don’t know what the hell to do with it. They go in like it’s a job they gotta tackle, or a race or something. Men say women talk a lot… ha! Men wag their tongues waaay more than women do, just in the wrong manner.

“Slow down, Tonto… this isn’t Cowboys and Indians!”

Which leads me to another thing: Young guys are always hitting me up for sex so I can “instruct” them on what to do ’cause I guess that’s a “thing” now. Are you kidding me? Like I want to spend my time trying to teach another man how to properly treat me in bed. No thank you, I’ve already spent the last thirty… I mean, twenty… twenty years trying to teach men how to do it properly, why would I want to teach another one of you morons?

Okay, you want me to teach you something? How ‘bout I teach you how to clean a goddamn toilet? Afterwards you can bathe my cats… and then get the hell out.

That’ll teach you something.

Jesus Christ, I’m starting to get hot again. Did the dinosaurs all of a sudden get really hot, and then go extinct? Is that what this is about? No, no, no… I cannot use that analogy. One, it’s not really an analogy, it’s more of a question. Two, it completely lacks any sense, and three, I’m not going to compare myself to a goddamn dinosaur.

Someone gave me a gift for my birthday which has turned out to be the best thing on this planet right now. It’s a towel. No, I’m being serious… it’s the best thing! It’s called a Chill  Pal and we’re totally buddies right now. I can’t remember who gave it to me because it was from last year’s birthday, and anyway, I can’t keep track of everyone who wants to impress me. So it’s a towel, but not just any kind of towel; this thing is made of some special PVC polymer fiber woven crap that keeps cold when you wet it, even when it’s in ambient temperature. I just run it under cold water, squeeze out the excess and keep it right next to me at all times… like white on rice… and when I start getting hot, I wrap it around my neck and it immediately quells the heat… it’s friggin’ amazing! Now that I think about it, I could probably wrap the thing around those beef thermometers… that’ll cool ’em off. 

Listen, if they’re going to behave like a Tyrannosaurus Sex, they better have a Gigantosaurus! *snicker… snort*

I kept the damn towel in my closet for a year because I couldn’t understand what the hell to do with it. Now I realize this person mistook me for the type of woman who would need this sort of thing and I’m not sure if I should’ve been thankful or insulted. Turns out I coulda used the thing a long time ago.

I’m not old, I’m just getting um… uh… more, uhh…

hot.

You know what I don’t understand either? Runners. People that like to run for health or attention, or whatever. You get really hot running, why on earth would you want to run? The only running you should ever be doing is running towards something… like donuts. Or away from something… like the cops. And it’s pretty safe to say, if you’re a wanted felon, you shouldn’t be running towards donuts.

Donut tell me you need me to explain that one!

*snicker… *snort…

 

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