"Brrrr it's cold." Um, no shit, it's the middle of fucking winter. I do not comprehend why it is necessary to state the most obvious things for hundreds of people to see. Just because weather is a non-controversial topic that won't infuriate anyone does not mean it's socially acceptable to turn your profile into an ignorant version of the Weather Channel. I mean, if a tornado just swept away your house, feel free to enlighten the Facebook Universe, but if you are merely making an assessment of the fucking temperature, shut the fuck up because the University of Dipshits does not offer a degree in Meteorology (trust me, I checked; I need a bullshit degree just as much as everyone else does). At the very least, personalize your statement a bit more, such as, "Damn, the silicone in my enormous fake tits is about to explode, it's so cold outside." That would be far more accurate and insightful.
"So ready for collage." This type of status leads to an immediate deletion of our friendship by me. Unless you're actually making a "collage" of all the fucking words you are incapable of spelling correctly (which would probably take several centuries), you are most certainly not ready to go to "college." Sure, you may be ready to get drunk every weekend and have non-memorable, non-commital sex with other "collage" students, but you are not ready to make a meaningful impact on society and are therefore wasting your most likely loaded parents' money on classes you are destined to fail as well as on Natural Light and LifeStyle condoms because you're probably also too stupid to even spring for Trojans and Bud Light (hence why you will likely end up knocked up by the end of freshman year before you've even cracked a book). Go back and graduate elementary school; they let you make real collages there.
"I am just trying to find myself." Bitch, please, I already fucking found you at the corner of Dumbass and Skank. My search for you yielded positive results more rapidly than your STD test did, and that is saying something remarkable. Don't use "finding yourself" as an excuse for shitty decision making. Chances are fairly solid that you aren't lost at all; you are merely very stupid and simply need to locate a rich man to feed, clothe, and fuck you since you clearly can't accomplish jack shit on your own seeing as you can't even manage to find your damn self. I can honestly say it would take some genuine talent to lose yourself. You can lose your keys, your shoes, and your dignity (as you probably have on multiple occasions), but your self generally stays intact unless you pull a Voldemort and make some Horcruxes. However, I think you make a better whore than a Horcrux, so like they say, you should just stick with what you know.
"Eating Chinese food." I'm sorry, I'm supposed to give a shit why?!? Unless you're warning me not to suck your dick because your jizz is going to taste sickeningly teriyaki-esque (which would be a pointless warning since anyone lame enough to post such an inane status isn't going to have his dick anywhere near my mouth), I'm not interested. For your information, homeless people, the only ones who would be concerned with what sort of food you will be throwing in your trash can tonight, typically have neither Facebook accounts nor exceptionally picky tastes, so the highly specific update on your dietary intake is about as wasteful as your semi-functional brain. Just because it's called a News "Feed" doesn't mean we want to gorge ourselves on the recipe for how boring your life is.
"I have no clue how I'm going to get through this." Let me guess, either your boyfriend cheated on you or you ran out of Ramen noodles or you are constipated?? Something super important like that, right? Something truly life-altering that will be positively impossible to survive? Either put the razor down or start wearing long sleeves because emo is so 2000 and late. The cool kids are suffering in silence these days, so go do something productive, like burying your sorrows in greasy McDonald's food so that you become too obese to have a boyfriend anyway and will never be cheated on again. The solution for unnecessarily super-sized sadness is not publicizing it on Facebook but rather consuming a super-sized hamburger made from plastic cheese and cardboard meat. Oh and if Ronald McDonald sitting on a bench outside the restaurant isn't enough to scare the emo kid out of you, I don't know what is. Please see the above paragraph though, and do NOT post details on what you're eating; I would like to repeat that I do not give a shit.
"I love my girlfriend so much." Hmmmm, that's really interesting; since you're so in love, I wonder how your cock just happened to find its way into my vagina three days ago? Just curious. (FYI, this is hypothetical and not referring to an actual situation) I love super romantic types like that; it really gives us all hope. Good to know some guys will post super sweet statuses about you even after they cheat and lie to you; the loving statuses thoroughly overrule any and all deception. Yup, you can really count on dudes these days; chivalry is evidently not dead after all. You better hope that status annoys me enough to delete you before I end up tagging you in my own status: "I love my fuck buddy _______ so much."
Now, on a quick side note, it would be highly hypocritical of me to claim that I myself never post stupid Facebook statuses; however, mine are generally a product of inebriation. Admittedly, when I drunkenly update my Facebook status, my profile ends up reading like the diary of a particularly retarded high schooler. "Omg is it bad that the tequila is starting to make his unibrow give him character rather than ugliness??"........three drinks later........"He is a grenade, but I'm suuuuuper horny, think I'm gettin it in 2night ;)"..........two more drinks........."Hloy shit, this guy is serouisly hot; 3 inches hvae never looked so seyx." So yes, I'm guilty of sounding like a dumbass on the World Wide Web sometimes, too, but I try to keep it to a minimum.
Finding inspiration for this topic was pathetically simple; I barely even had to scroll down my Facebook News Feed at all. That's because a majority of my "friends" are fucking morons, and the only reason I do not delete them is a combination of laziness and the need to have some people to insult. So before you go "Check in" at Total Dumbassery, please keep in mind that I'm fucking sick of stupid Facebook statuses.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
I'm Fucking Sick of False Advertising
I remember when Glad ForceFlex trash bags first came out; I booked the first flight available to Africa so that I could go stuff a rhinoceros in one of those magical bags and bring him home with me. I knew the flight attendants would not suspect a thing because there was just no way in hell that his horn could ever break through the bag since Glad had used (and trademarked) The Force in the making of this product. So imagine my surprise when, upon purchasing my first pack of these bags, I discovered that the pussy ass bags (Hefty hefty hefty, my ass) couldn’t hold a fucking Styrofoam cup without screaming for their mommies and ripping to shreds.
I, like any other American, have been known to fall victim to clever marketing schemes from time to time. That’s why HSN and QVC have stayed in business for so long, why it’s still financially beneficial for marketers to spend the money for an infomercial, why TV commercials are so effective, and why Bernie Madoff made a killing in Hollywood (well the fact that most actors are fucking morons had something to do with that last one as well, I suppose).
If I take the time to sit down and watch a thirty minute infomercial, it doesn’t matter if the product is a sack of golden dog shit; I’m buying it and bragging about what a great deal I got on it to all my friends. They lure you in with their understanding voices and their assurance that this product will change your life in a multitude of ways. You can just tell that an infomercial host has truly walked a mile in your shoes (shit, they walked so long and hard, they wore holes in your shoes and must therefore convince you to purchase new ones), that he or she was once just a silly little insomniac like you, staying up unnecessarily late watching infomercials and eating absurd amounts of popcorn and candy (you can’t tell me you don’t watch HSN just for the pure entertainment value sometimes), until he/she found that golden dog shit.
Then, with that dog shit panacea, they were cured; loserdom was a thing of the past. I just love that these hosts and I can always connect on such a deeper level. They are probably all psychics, actually, now that I really think about it, since they know that if they charged me one penny more, their products would suddenly be out of my price range ($19.99 is so much more affordable than $20.00).
I knew that I had found my own personal cure when I first saw an advertisement for Smooth Away. In case you aren’t quite as much of a connoisseur of bullshit products that don’t work as I am, Smooth Away is a no shave hair removal product, and it was a sure fire way to take me out of my loserdom for eternity. Just wait til all my haters see me and my lack of hair, I thought. What the hell will they have to hate on then?? Not a damn thing ‘cause I’ll be hairless as a fucking baby. Who cares if I still have a bad attitude and no college education? Complain about that to my hair…oh that’s right, bitches, I don’t have any!! Yep, this was the fix. I knew that the only reason I hadn’t dated the quarterback in high school or made the cheerleading squad was that I hadn’t been using Smooth Away. The lady in the commercial looked infinitely happier than me; in fact, she’d probably banged the entire football team.
Shit, I figured this product was going to be so great (the commercial said it, so obviously it had to be true) I would probably just go on ahead and use it on my eyebrows and scalp as well for a nice consistent look. Words can hardly describe my shock when, after using my precious $19.99 Smooth Away for the first time, I felt sandpaper scrape all down my legs and, with wide eyes, saw every last motherfucking hair still attached to my red, burning skin. Heartbreak doesn’t even come close to describing my feelings; I felt that cheerleading scholarship slip that much farther from my grasp.
I’ve even caught myself on the verge of buying Cialis before just because the idea of sitting in a bathtub and holding hands with a man in a separate bathtub is such an appealing notion. Especially in the middle of a beautiful countryside; I mean, I know I typically take my baths in the fucking wilderness, don’t you? So turned on by the ad, I had to calmly and rationally recall that I do not possess a penis and am therefore incapable of experiencing erectile dysfunction. Thank goodness I hadn’t fallen in the trap……. But then they agreed to sell me twice as much for the same price!!! I could hardly believe my good fortune. Like they said on the ad, I was special; this offer was meant just for me.
Oh, fuck it, I thought, pressing 1-800 on my phone, I do NOT have to have a penis to purchase this; there’s a reason all those Feminazis started that women’s rights movement deal…..it had nothing to do with voting or some other horseshit; it was so that we women could buy whatever TV products we wanted, no matter our gender. I heard Susan B. Anthony was a huge HSN fan. As I proudly typed in that last digit so that I could get my orgasmic capsules on the way (hot, separate bathtub sex was in my near future!), I suddenly remembered that time I took too much Viagra and had to have my stomach pumped.
I mean, the Viagra wasn’t doing anything, so the only rational solution was to keep taking more. That’s how any sane person would react. After all, I knew anatomy couldn’t be responsible for its lack of success since the guy in the ad had told me how much happier Viagra had made him and his wife had smiled knowingly. Dammit, I thought, shaking my head with a small smile at Cialis’ wittiness, they almost got me again! It sucks when reality sets in and ruins a perfectly good erection.
I remember the time I called Geico to get my free rate quote. When a woman identifying herself as Katherine answered the phone, I politely requested, "I’m sorry, there must have been a misunderstanding; I was actually calling for the gecko, so if you could just transfer me over, that would be great!" As she stuttered around awkwardly about bundling insurance policies, I became a bit more insistent, "Yes, yes, that sounds like a bundle of fucking joy, but if you could just let the gecko know I’m ready for him, that would be lovely, thanks."
Well, Katherine then had the nerve to giggle lightly and say, "I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t think you understand; the gecko isn’t exactly here..." I began to rant at top volume, "Oh you think this is funny, bitch?! I just heard you roll your eyes at me! You getting a real kick out of spreading your venomous lies?! Well, I’m not amused; in fact, I’m downright angry, and I’m about to tell your supervisor to give you a swift kick right in the balls for me…wait, no, he can’t do that because you don’t fucking have any balls because unlike the gecko, you’re a fucking bitch!!!"
As Kathefuckingliarine gave me nothing but clearly astonished dead air to work with, I caught my breath and opened my mouth to continue the rant when I heard a knock at my door. Oh, thank God, I thought, the gecko must have overheard Katherine eavesdropping and commentating on the phone call intended for him. I immediately pressed the End Call button, smoothed my hair down, checked the mirror to make sure I looked doable (I remember those ads where the old lady bitched out the gecko for not calling after all those long nights they spent together, so I wanted to make a good impression so that he would call me back after the fact), and answered the door with a huge grin.
My grin quickly faded to a glare as I took in the view of the middle-aged, balding man standing before me holding a large wooden crate. The enormous "Fragile" printed across the box made it clear that this was an Italian product. Fuck. The gecko is British. Also, the gecko is as civilized as you or I; I seriously doubted some sort of barbaric crate was necessary for his transport, so I knew that this had to be another of Katherine’s tricks (sending a caveman rather than the gecko, perhaps?…not fucking funny).
"Who are you? Who sent you?" I shouted accusatorily at the man. He jumped, obviously flustered from my unanticipated irate tone, and replied, "Geez, lady, I’m just making a delivery; FedEx sent me." I squinted my eyes at the man suspiciously. Fuck, if I keep doing that, I’ll have to buy that new non-surgical eye lift product I just saw during the commercial break, and eighty-five payments of $14.95 isn’t really in my budget right now, I realized. I stopped squinting immediately and reached over to sign for the crate with all the eagerness of a death row inmate. If this wasn’t the gecko (and I’d already established that it wasn’t since this was a crate not a limousine and the man a forty year old virgin not a chauffeur), then I didn’t fucking want it.
I opened the door fully so that he could promptly place the delivery inside my apartment and leave. "Um, is there anywhere in particular I should put this?" he asked, glancing around while attempting to tread lightly across the floor that was cluttered with all the ingenious products I had recently purchased. The Techno Puppy 6.0 wagged its metallic tail, remarkably sensing my presence, and then a loud crunch and an, "Ouch! Furby hurt!" cracked the silence.
I shifted three Ahhhh Bra boxes out of the way to get a better look at this bold, bold man (they shaved two bucks off the price of my Ahhhh Bra if I agreed to purchase every single color of the rainbow and send the company a pint of blood every month; it was an offer only a fool could refuse!) and shouted with pure rage, "Are you accusing me of being a hoarder?!?!?!? Get the fuck out of my house! NOW!"
"Okay, okay, I’ll go!" he replied, now openly alarmed by my outbursts. He left the crate right there in the middle of the room among all the As Seen On TV boxes and vacated the premises before I could reach for my commemorative model grenade (The sixteenth anniversary of the Three Little Pigs’ death was a valid excuse to purchase a semi-plastic, semi-cardboard grenade, I had rationalized; after all, it came with a Certificate of Authenticity signed by the Big Bad Wolf’s grandson himself who confessed that his grandfather had actually used a grenade rather than his breath to destroy those little fuckers’ piece of shit houses….a fascinating story all outlined in the accompanying brochure).
As I used one of my crow bars to open the crate (I had a collection of pink crow bars in varying sizes; 0.3% of the proceeds would go to breast cancer research, so naturally I purchased six sets to be delivered over the course of 563 months to prove that I’m not only a brilliant shopper but also a humanitarian), I spied lots of packing peanuts and became very anxious to see what was in the crate. Two antlers popped out suddenly, and I jumped backward, in disbelief that some sort of creature was in this box. Then, as I hesitantly moved more packing peanuts (a gift within a gift, if you ask me) out of the way, I realized this (drum roll, please) was the Tony Little Gazelle!!!!
This incredible piece of equipment was going to have me looking like a supermodel in just two weeks, as Tony had assured me through his powerful, moving infomercial that I had watched perhaps a couple hundred times. The pony tail, tight ass cheeks combination kept me glued to the TV for hours at a time. I would be looking like a celebrity just in time for court. For some inexplicable reason somebody had subpoenaed me to court; it had something to do with repossessing my car, house, and artificial heart (it had only cost $39.99 plus a small installation fee on QVC’s Daily Special!!) I think………I had tried to explain over the phone that there is absolutely nothing wrong with opening 244 credit cards over a six month time span, but they just wouldn’t listen.
However, before I could get my work out on, I had some business to attend to. I dialed Geico’s number once again, preparing to ask the gecko to serve as my character witness in court (the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus had both written replies announcing that most regrettably, they would be unable to attend my court date since they were both on seasonal vacations, so I was in desperate need of a reputable witness). As the phone stopped dialing out, I waited with bated breath and was then greeted with, "Thank you for calling Geico; this is Katherine, how may I help you?" "Motherfucking KATH son of a bitch asshole ER piece of shit INE," I swore with all the enthusiasm and believability of the most severe Tourette’s patient, "I’m fucking sick of false advertising!!!!!!!!!!!"
I, like any other American, have been known to fall victim to clever marketing schemes from time to time. That’s why HSN and QVC have stayed in business for so long, why it’s still financially beneficial for marketers to spend the money for an infomercial, why TV commercials are so effective, and why Bernie Madoff made a killing in Hollywood (well the fact that most actors are fucking morons had something to do with that last one as well, I suppose).
If I take the time to sit down and watch a thirty minute infomercial, it doesn’t matter if the product is a sack of golden dog shit; I’m buying it and bragging about what a great deal I got on it to all my friends. They lure you in with their understanding voices and their assurance that this product will change your life in a multitude of ways. You can just tell that an infomercial host has truly walked a mile in your shoes (shit, they walked so long and hard, they wore holes in your shoes and must therefore convince you to purchase new ones), that he or she was once just a silly little insomniac like you, staying up unnecessarily late watching infomercials and eating absurd amounts of popcorn and candy (you can’t tell me you don’t watch HSN just for the pure entertainment value sometimes), until he/she found that golden dog shit.
Then, with that dog shit panacea, they were cured; loserdom was a thing of the past. I just love that these hosts and I can always connect on such a deeper level. They are probably all psychics, actually, now that I really think about it, since they know that if they charged me one penny more, their products would suddenly be out of my price range ($19.99 is so much more affordable than $20.00).
I knew that I had found my own personal cure when I first saw an advertisement for Smooth Away. In case you aren’t quite as much of a connoisseur of bullshit products that don’t work as I am, Smooth Away is a no shave hair removal product, and it was a sure fire way to take me out of my loserdom for eternity. Just wait til all my haters see me and my lack of hair, I thought. What the hell will they have to hate on then?? Not a damn thing ‘cause I’ll be hairless as a fucking baby. Who cares if I still have a bad attitude and no college education? Complain about that to my hair…oh that’s right, bitches, I don’t have any!! Yep, this was the fix. I knew that the only reason I hadn’t dated the quarterback in high school or made the cheerleading squad was that I hadn’t been using Smooth Away. The lady in the commercial looked infinitely happier than me; in fact, she’d probably banged the entire football team.
Shit, I figured this product was going to be so great (the commercial said it, so obviously it had to be true) I would probably just go on ahead and use it on my eyebrows and scalp as well for a nice consistent look. Words can hardly describe my shock when, after using my precious $19.99 Smooth Away for the first time, I felt sandpaper scrape all down my legs and, with wide eyes, saw every last motherfucking hair still attached to my red, burning skin. Heartbreak doesn’t even come close to describing my feelings; I felt that cheerleading scholarship slip that much farther from my grasp.
I’ve even caught myself on the verge of buying Cialis before just because the idea of sitting in a bathtub and holding hands with a man in a separate bathtub is such an appealing notion. Especially in the middle of a beautiful countryside; I mean, I know I typically take my baths in the fucking wilderness, don’t you? So turned on by the ad, I had to calmly and rationally recall that I do not possess a penis and am therefore incapable of experiencing erectile dysfunction. Thank goodness I hadn’t fallen in the trap……. But then they agreed to sell me twice as much for the same price!!! I could hardly believe my good fortune. Like they said on the ad, I was special; this offer was meant just for me.
Oh, fuck it, I thought, pressing 1-800 on my phone, I do NOT have to have a penis to purchase this; there’s a reason all those Feminazis started that women’s rights movement deal…..it had nothing to do with voting or some other horseshit; it was so that we women could buy whatever TV products we wanted, no matter our gender. I heard Susan B. Anthony was a huge HSN fan. As I proudly typed in that last digit so that I could get my orgasmic capsules on the way (hot, separate bathtub sex was in my near future!), I suddenly remembered that time I took too much Viagra and had to have my stomach pumped.
I mean, the Viagra wasn’t doing anything, so the only rational solution was to keep taking more. That’s how any sane person would react. After all, I knew anatomy couldn’t be responsible for its lack of success since the guy in the ad had told me how much happier Viagra had made him and his wife had smiled knowingly. Dammit, I thought, shaking my head with a small smile at Cialis’ wittiness, they almost got me again! It sucks when reality sets in and ruins a perfectly good erection.
I remember the time I called Geico to get my free rate quote. When a woman identifying herself as Katherine answered the phone, I politely requested, "I’m sorry, there must have been a misunderstanding; I was actually calling for the gecko, so if you could just transfer me over, that would be great!" As she stuttered around awkwardly about bundling insurance policies, I became a bit more insistent, "Yes, yes, that sounds like a bundle of fucking joy, but if you could just let the gecko know I’m ready for him, that would be lovely, thanks."
Well, Katherine then had the nerve to giggle lightly and say, "I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t think you understand; the gecko isn’t exactly here..." I began to rant at top volume, "Oh you think this is funny, bitch?! I just heard you roll your eyes at me! You getting a real kick out of spreading your venomous lies?! Well, I’m not amused; in fact, I’m downright angry, and I’m about to tell your supervisor to give you a swift kick right in the balls for me…wait, no, he can’t do that because you don’t fucking have any balls because unlike the gecko, you’re a fucking bitch!!!"
As Kathefuckingliarine gave me nothing but clearly astonished dead air to work with, I caught my breath and opened my mouth to continue the rant when I heard a knock at my door. Oh, thank God, I thought, the gecko must have overheard Katherine eavesdropping and commentating on the phone call intended for him. I immediately pressed the End Call button, smoothed my hair down, checked the mirror to make sure I looked doable (I remember those ads where the old lady bitched out the gecko for not calling after all those long nights they spent together, so I wanted to make a good impression so that he would call me back after the fact), and answered the door with a huge grin.
My grin quickly faded to a glare as I took in the view of the middle-aged, balding man standing before me holding a large wooden crate. The enormous "Fragile" printed across the box made it clear that this was an Italian product. Fuck. The gecko is British. Also, the gecko is as civilized as you or I; I seriously doubted some sort of barbaric crate was necessary for his transport, so I knew that this had to be another of Katherine’s tricks (sending a caveman rather than the gecko, perhaps?…not fucking funny).
"Who are you? Who sent you?" I shouted accusatorily at the man. He jumped, obviously flustered from my unanticipated irate tone, and replied, "Geez, lady, I’m just making a delivery; FedEx sent me." I squinted my eyes at the man suspiciously. Fuck, if I keep doing that, I’ll have to buy that new non-surgical eye lift product I just saw during the commercial break, and eighty-five payments of $14.95 isn’t really in my budget right now, I realized. I stopped squinting immediately and reached over to sign for the crate with all the eagerness of a death row inmate. If this wasn’t the gecko (and I’d already established that it wasn’t since this was a crate not a limousine and the man a forty year old virgin not a chauffeur), then I didn’t fucking want it.
I opened the door fully so that he could promptly place the delivery inside my apartment and leave. "Um, is there anywhere in particular I should put this?" he asked, glancing around while attempting to tread lightly across the floor that was cluttered with all the ingenious products I had recently purchased. The Techno Puppy 6.0 wagged its metallic tail, remarkably sensing my presence, and then a loud crunch and an, "Ouch! Furby hurt!" cracked the silence.
I shifted three Ahhhh Bra boxes out of the way to get a better look at this bold, bold man (they shaved two bucks off the price of my Ahhhh Bra if I agreed to purchase every single color of the rainbow and send the company a pint of blood every month; it was an offer only a fool could refuse!) and shouted with pure rage, "Are you accusing me of being a hoarder?!?!?!? Get the fuck out of my house! NOW!"
"Okay, okay, I’ll go!" he replied, now openly alarmed by my outbursts. He left the crate right there in the middle of the room among all the As Seen On TV boxes and vacated the premises before I could reach for my commemorative model grenade (The sixteenth anniversary of the Three Little Pigs’ death was a valid excuse to purchase a semi-plastic, semi-cardboard grenade, I had rationalized; after all, it came with a Certificate of Authenticity signed by the Big Bad Wolf’s grandson himself who confessed that his grandfather had actually used a grenade rather than his breath to destroy those little fuckers’ piece of shit houses….a fascinating story all outlined in the accompanying brochure).
As I used one of my crow bars to open the crate (I had a collection of pink crow bars in varying sizes; 0.3% of the proceeds would go to breast cancer research, so naturally I purchased six sets to be delivered over the course of 563 months to prove that I’m not only a brilliant shopper but also a humanitarian), I spied lots of packing peanuts and became very anxious to see what was in the crate. Two antlers popped out suddenly, and I jumped backward, in disbelief that some sort of creature was in this box. Then, as I hesitantly moved more packing peanuts (a gift within a gift, if you ask me) out of the way, I realized this (drum roll, please) was the Tony Little Gazelle!!!!
This incredible piece of equipment was going to have me looking like a supermodel in just two weeks, as Tony had assured me through his powerful, moving infomercial that I had watched perhaps a couple hundred times. The pony tail, tight ass cheeks combination kept me glued to the TV for hours at a time. I would be looking like a celebrity just in time for court. For some inexplicable reason somebody had subpoenaed me to court; it had something to do with repossessing my car, house, and artificial heart (it had only cost $39.99 plus a small installation fee on QVC’s Daily Special!!) I think………I had tried to explain over the phone that there is absolutely nothing wrong with opening 244 credit cards over a six month time span, but they just wouldn’t listen.
However, before I could get my work out on, I had some business to attend to. I dialed Geico’s number once again, preparing to ask the gecko to serve as my character witness in court (the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus had both written replies announcing that most regrettably, they would be unable to attend my court date since they were both on seasonal vacations, so I was in desperate need of a reputable witness). As the phone stopped dialing out, I waited with bated breath and was then greeted with, "Thank you for calling Geico; this is Katherine, how may I help you?" "Motherfucking KATH son of a bitch asshole ER piece of shit INE," I swore with all the enthusiasm and believability of the most severe Tourette’s patient, "I’m fucking sick of false advertising!!!!!!!!!!!"
Saturday, December 31, 2011
I'm Fucking Sick of Unrealistic New Year's Resolutions
As we reach the end of yet another year, it’s time to reflect on the past and look forward to the future. Since most of us are too ashamed of our pasts to take too close of a look and actually learn legitimate lessons, we spend a lot more time looking toward that future. That’s the beauty of the New Year’s Resolution. However, as this time next year rolls around (assuming that the Mayans are indeed as full of shit as I have always assumed them to be), most of us will be sitting here looking back and wondering in astonishment at how we managed to fuck up our New Year’s Resolution. It’s so funny that each year we set these lofty goals and are then surprised that we cannot fulfill them. How the hell did I manage to not lose fifteen pounds and instead actually gain ten pounds?? Did I seriously have sex with five and a half people this year (sometimes if I’m really drunk and kind of just lie there moaning like a wannabe porn star because I’m too inebriated to fully participate, I just consider it a half) after I set my goal of three?? Did I drink alcohol even after I made it my resolution not to touch that shit?? As they (not sure who the fuck "they" are, but they sure know what they’re talking about, so maybe we should listen to them) say, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. Therefore, in an effort to not only prove my sanity but have a fabulous 2012 (just in case those crazy Mayans turn out to be correct), the cure for next December’s disappointment is to be proactive now and not set an unrealistic New Year’s Resolution.
It’s human nature to rally around the opportunity to start over; that’s the whole reason why we so love starting a new year. That’s because we are all naturally fuck-ups. It’s true—if you really think about it, the primary thing about life is that we make mistakes, learn from them, make more mistakes, learn more, etc. So, naturally, the opportunity to start brand new, to have a second chance, is a wonderful thing. However, this is my nineteenth motherfucking second chance, and I’m kind of tired of desperately needing to start over each year. After all, it’s not like January First is a reset button that gives you this "Tabula Rasa" or blank slate that erases all your past transgressions. It’s more of a reassurance that said transgressions have not doomed you to a life wrapped around a stripper pole, that you can still dig yourself out of this hell hole (yeah, I’m optimistic like that).
As I force myself to look back on 2011 (and oh Lord, there are some moments that weren’t pretty), I realize a common theme; I was too afraid of change to truly embrace it even though I swore that the year would be so much better than 2010. Let’s see…I rang in 2011 exactly the way I spent a majority of 2010—drunk as hell and in bed fucking a complete random just to give myself something to do. From there, I managed to fuck up college……..again. I spent a large portion of the year living out of my car or living off some guy just because I didn’t have a whole lot of other options since I couldn’t get my shit together enough to financially support myself. I retreated back to Alabama a couple times just because I didn’t have a clue what else to do. I sucked a lot of dick (just saying). I let people get by with things they really shouldn’t have. I escaped a DUI just because someone felt like cutting me a break out of the goodness of their heart. I passed up a lot of opportunities just because I was afraid to change.
I don’t list all these things out of some sense of pride at my "badass" actions. No, looking back, the emotional damage I brought upon myself (not that many people actually notice that aspect of it) far outweighs any badassness I established. I lived 2011 just as I lived 2010, with reckless abandon and an immature "fuck the world" attitude that is not practical in reality, yet I expected different results. I expected to be satisfied with my life at this point just because I made some "resolution" at the beginning of the year about embracing change. Yet I lived the same unhealthy way as before. The definition of insanity, plain and simple.
That’s why we cannot be too hard on ourselves with these resolutions, or we are guaranteed to fail. As I look ahead to 2012, I must make myself be realistic. I know that at some point I will drink alcohol, I sure as fuck won’t hit the gym every day, I will still masturbate a ridiculous amount of times a day, I just may have a one night stand or two, I will still suck a lot of dick, and I will most certainly still make a huge number of mistakes. However, I will set a simple resolution for myself that will ultimately extend to every aspect of my life: live as honest of a life as possible. I believe from the bottom of my heart that honesty really is the best policy. That’s not just some bullshit they told us in grade school. Upholding the truth makes life less complex and better for all of us. Because truth mirrors reality, and living in reality and not in your own fantasy world (although those flying cars and chocolate rivers are far more appealing than paying rent and car insurance) is far more successful, truth must be honored.
I vow to admit when I am in the wrong, confess mistakes rather than denying them, show my true friends that they can trust me without question, and not accept anything less than honesty from others.
Straight up, I will go ahead and say: guys with girlfriends should go knock on somebody else’s door if they are looking to cheat because my little honesty obsession just might turn into me being real honest with your girl about your extracurricular activities. I’ve had just about enough of cheaters and am in no mood to deal with them in the upcoming year.
Also, no really does mean no, and if you are one of those people who can’t take no for an answer and decide to do whatever the fuck you want anyway, your ass will be in jail, no bullshit. I am not going to sit here and allow anyone to demean me or anyone else I know by using size, strength, or simply inebriation to take sexual advantage of someone. Been there, dealt with the aftermath in silence, no longer have any tolerance for it.
2 a.m. booty calls will go unanswered because a huge part of being honest is being honest with oneself, and I have to admit that my absurd lust does nothing but bring me down. And no, not just down on a dick but down in the metaphorical sense as well. Living an irreverent lifestyle does significant emotional damage. Never thought I’d say that, but as I force myself to truly think about things, I must admit that I wouldn’t be nearly as jaded and cynical of a person if it weren’t for some of the promiscuous things I’ve done.
So like I said, I know I’ll have my slip-ups on occasion; some of those may include occasionally accepting one of those 2 a.m. booty calls (sorry, I’m not perfect), but for the most part, I’m going to make a valiant effort at being honest. Lying is like being a drunk, inept spider: you weave a web of lies that ends up only entangling you and leaves everyone else to fly free while you yourself must suffer from the consequences of your actions. Thus is God’s will. You must pay for your sins; you cannot eternally push them off on other people even if you do feel like you’re currently skating through life by doing so. Therefore, I will be a sober spider and attempt to weave a web around me that is consistent with reality. And only people with similar goals will be allowed inside this web (yeah, I mean that in both a sexual and a nonsexual way). I’m sick to death of liars, and I’m fucking sick of unrealistic New Year’s Resolutions.
Friday, December 23, 2011
I'm Fucking Sick of Paranoid People
Parents who hover over their children are starting to really get on my fucking nerves. They think I don’t notice those little sideways glances they give me whenever I get within a 100 yard radius of their children. Um do I really look like I want a fucking kid? I have cum in my hair for a reason, and it’s not as a substitute for hair gel; it’s as a testament to the success rate of the pull out method. So, if I don’t want to take care of my own accidents, then I sure as hell don’t want to take care of someone else’s child. Also, hello, it’s the twenty-first fucking century; get that fucking Sex Offender App for your iPhone, you filthy rich bastards, and you’ll quickly observe that there aren’t many young blonde females listed as child molesters.
Being paranoid about having your child kidnapped is usually very much unnecessary anyway because the fact is, most of the children of such paranoid parents are hideous, and nobody wants to kidnap an unattractive child. I mean who wants to parade some ugly child around, claiming it as their own? That is just advertising that you either have a shitty gene pool or that you slept with someone disgusting looking in order to produce this mutant offspring. "Oh, he’ll grow into his ears." Like hell he will! Dumbo is going to be insulted about his little inheritance from grandma for the rest of his life, so you might as well get used to it and accept the fact that nobody wants to kidnap a child they would have to purchase hats for every time the kid hit a growth spurt.
Also, no one wants to abduct a fat child. Hypothetically speaking, from the perspective of a prospective kidnapper, why the fuck would I want to kidnap a kid whose elephant-sized stomach would consume half my salary? Most kidnappers are not selfless enough to sacrifice their own eating habits for the sake of a fatass Cartman-looking kid. "She’s just going through a phase; that baby fat should go away in no time." No, no, you better hope your job has some good ass health coverage because she will be a drain on your insurance from that chubby toddler "phase" until the day she gets on some reality TV show about being obese and adolescent or some shit. With fat children, it’s like cultivating the biggest pumpkin in town; you spend all your money up front on feeding them so that one day they can earn you back your money along with a little interest for the pain and suffering (at the county fair in the case of the pumpkins and on reality TV or at the carnival in the case of fat children). So, no, the rest of us do not want to capitalize on your ability to overfeed your child by stealing the bastard.
I’ve been out of my house since I was seventeen, but my mom still thinks that if I don’t answer the phone or reply to a text, I’m dead. Not sure if she perhaps possesses some psychic ability I’m unaware of or if she just has the general assumption that I’m up to no good, but she tends to worry to great excess. Now, I’m not going to sit here and bullshit around and deny that her assumptions about my bad behavior are generally correct, but still, the repeat phone calls are over the damn top. Like really, Mom, I pay all my own bills, so yeah I have shitty ass cell service on my shitty ass cell phone, and most of the times you are sitting there hitting the speed dial over and over again on your decently modern phone, I’m not answering because my tin cans and string are in a dead zone, not because I’m literally dead.
Either that or I’m dead asleep. And I’m tired of having to pay to have the damn windows replaced because she alerted all the authorities again that I was abducted or dead, and the SWAT team burst in to investigate. As though I’m not grumpy enough being woken up in general, the sound of shattering glass certainly does little to boost my mood. Mom, I’m pretty positive Amber Alerts are for those cute kids that get stolen (not the fat or ugly ones but the ones who do pageants and dress like thirty year olds at age three) not lazy ass adults who like to sleep until three in the afternoon. So yeah, chill out with the whole calling the CIA and FBI thing; they are getting tired of waking me up and having me not even feel courteous enough to give them a blowjob for their trouble.
Another group of paranoid people who annoy the ever-loving shit out of me are girlfriends who are obsessed that their boyfriends are cheating on them. Give it a rest; if you’re that paranoid about them cheating, they probably are cheating just so they can get a damn handjob from someone who isn’t shining a flashlight down their dick to make sure some other chick’s lipstick isn’t on it. I especially hate those skanks who pull that little maneuver where if I check out their man in public, they tighten their claws around his hand as some little attempt at a power move to keep me away. Oh yeah cause your strong ass hands over there are really going to discourage me…..if I want to tighten my pussy around your man’s cock, chances are good that his pants will be down within the next hour. I don’t say this out of arrogance or narcissism; I simply say this because I know that men of all ages are really just like hormonal little boys observing titties for the first time.
Yes, your boyfriend probably has naked pictures of me on his phone. No, you should not be excessively concerned about this. Neither he nor I am to blame for this exchange of pictures; generally, as Jamie Foxx will confirm, Grey Goose is to blame. And even if he has said pictures, so what? There’s still about a 30 percent chance that he and I are not fucking, so don’t get your panties in a wad! See, that’s another thing these bitches need to learn; those of us who are smart and don’t wear panties never have to worry about getting ours in a wad.
Let’s say for argument’s sake, though, that I am fucking your boyfriend. Again, you still should not be concerned! You know why? I have approximately zero interest in stealing your man. If I wanted a boyfriend, then by God, I’d have me a damn boyfriend. I have my fair share of options. Sure, I’m difficult to get along with, but I also like to fuck a lot, so guys are willing to overlook my more obnoxious qualities. The fact of the matter is, I love the freedom of being single, and if I tried to steal every girl’s boyfriend rather than just casually fucking them, I guess I wouldn’t be so happily independent anymore. Why fuck up my own world just to fuck up yours? That would be counterproductive, and we all know I’m smarter than that. So instead of worrying so much about if I’m fucking your boyfriend, just go fuck him yourself and leave me the hell alone because I’m fucking sick of paranoid people.
Being paranoid about having your child kidnapped is usually very much unnecessary anyway because the fact is, most of the children of such paranoid parents are hideous, and nobody wants to kidnap an unattractive child. I mean who wants to parade some ugly child around, claiming it as their own? That is just advertising that you either have a shitty gene pool or that you slept with someone disgusting looking in order to produce this mutant offspring. "Oh, he’ll grow into his ears." Like hell he will! Dumbo is going to be insulted about his little inheritance from grandma for the rest of his life, so you might as well get used to it and accept the fact that nobody wants to kidnap a child they would have to purchase hats for every time the kid hit a growth spurt.
Also, no one wants to abduct a fat child. Hypothetically speaking, from the perspective of a prospective kidnapper, why the fuck would I want to kidnap a kid whose elephant-sized stomach would consume half my salary? Most kidnappers are not selfless enough to sacrifice their own eating habits for the sake of a fatass Cartman-looking kid. "She’s just going through a phase; that baby fat should go away in no time." No, no, you better hope your job has some good ass health coverage because she will be a drain on your insurance from that chubby toddler "phase" until the day she gets on some reality TV show about being obese and adolescent or some shit. With fat children, it’s like cultivating the biggest pumpkin in town; you spend all your money up front on feeding them so that one day they can earn you back your money along with a little interest for the pain and suffering (at the county fair in the case of the pumpkins and on reality TV or at the carnival in the case of fat children). So, no, the rest of us do not want to capitalize on your ability to overfeed your child by stealing the bastard.
I’ve been out of my house since I was seventeen, but my mom still thinks that if I don’t answer the phone or reply to a text, I’m dead. Not sure if she perhaps possesses some psychic ability I’m unaware of or if she just has the general assumption that I’m up to no good, but she tends to worry to great excess. Now, I’m not going to sit here and bullshit around and deny that her assumptions about my bad behavior are generally correct, but still, the repeat phone calls are over the damn top. Like really, Mom, I pay all my own bills, so yeah I have shitty ass cell service on my shitty ass cell phone, and most of the times you are sitting there hitting the speed dial over and over again on your decently modern phone, I’m not answering because my tin cans and string are in a dead zone, not because I’m literally dead.
Either that or I’m dead asleep. And I’m tired of having to pay to have the damn windows replaced because she alerted all the authorities again that I was abducted or dead, and the SWAT team burst in to investigate. As though I’m not grumpy enough being woken up in general, the sound of shattering glass certainly does little to boost my mood. Mom, I’m pretty positive Amber Alerts are for those cute kids that get stolen (not the fat or ugly ones but the ones who do pageants and dress like thirty year olds at age three) not lazy ass adults who like to sleep until three in the afternoon. So yeah, chill out with the whole calling the CIA and FBI thing; they are getting tired of waking me up and having me not even feel courteous enough to give them a blowjob for their trouble.
Another group of paranoid people who annoy the ever-loving shit out of me are girlfriends who are obsessed that their boyfriends are cheating on them. Give it a rest; if you’re that paranoid about them cheating, they probably are cheating just so they can get a damn handjob from someone who isn’t shining a flashlight down their dick to make sure some other chick’s lipstick isn’t on it. I especially hate those skanks who pull that little maneuver where if I check out their man in public, they tighten their claws around his hand as some little attempt at a power move to keep me away. Oh yeah cause your strong ass hands over there are really going to discourage me…..if I want to tighten my pussy around your man’s cock, chances are good that his pants will be down within the next hour. I don’t say this out of arrogance or narcissism; I simply say this because I know that men of all ages are really just like hormonal little boys observing titties for the first time.
Yes, your boyfriend probably has naked pictures of me on his phone. No, you should not be excessively concerned about this. Neither he nor I am to blame for this exchange of pictures; generally, as Jamie Foxx will confirm, Grey Goose is to blame. And even if he has said pictures, so what? There’s still about a 30 percent chance that he and I are not fucking, so don’t get your panties in a wad! See, that’s another thing these bitches need to learn; those of us who are smart and don’t wear panties never have to worry about getting ours in a wad.
Let’s say for argument’s sake, though, that I am fucking your boyfriend. Again, you still should not be concerned! You know why? I have approximately zero interest in stealing your man. If I wanted a boyfriend, then by God, I’d have me a damn boyfriend. I have my fair share of options. Sure, I’m difficult to get along with, but I also like to fuck a lot, so guys are willing to overlook my more obnoxious qualities. The fact of the matter is, I love the freedom of being single, and if I tried to steal every girl’s boyfriend rather than just casually fucking them, I guess I wouldn’t be so happily independent anymore. Why fuck up my own world just to fuck up yours? That would be counterproductive, and we all know I’m smarter than that. So instead of worrying so much about if I’m fucking your boyfriend, just go fuck him yourself and leave me the hell alone because I’m fucking sick of paranoid people.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
I'm Fucking Sick of Being a Muggle
Accio Oreos. Dammit, why are the Oreos still sitting in the cabinet? Why are they not soaring into my hand at this very moment? Do you mean to tell me that snapping a branch off the tree outside most similar-looking to the Whomping Willow is not how wands are made these days? Since Ollivander’s shop has now been closed down for a lengthy time period, and Voldemort took it upon himself to murder Gregorovich (wow, thanks so much for killing the only other wandmaker I know), I assumed that creating my own wand was basically the only way to go. I even took the extra initiative to borrow my neighbor’s gun and attempt to shoot a phoenix out of the sky so that I might have its tail feather to add to my wand. Instead, I’m still sitting here perplexed, with a stick of wood with a parakeet tailfeather (I figured my pet parakeet Pigwidgeon wouldn’t mind me jacking a feather or two "for the greater good" as Dumbledore and Grindelwald would say) glued to it lying next to me and no Oreos in my hand. What a shitty situation.
Unfortunately, I am forced to deal with such shitty situations on a daily basis because as much as it pains me to admit, I am a muggle. Well, since I simply cannot stand having that much common ground with the Dursleys, I like to consider myself a more of a squib actually. Even though squib is a derogatory term in the Wizarding World, I much prefer it to muggle because at least squib implies that I’m in on the secret, on what’s really going down in the world. Because shit is definitely going down. Harry Potter is definitely in the process of defeating Lord Voldemort as I type these very words, but since I’m just a pitiful little squib, I can be of no assistance to him.
If I could just locate the whereabouts of the Ministry of Magic, I’m sure we could work out some sort of deal where I could borrow an inept witch or wizard’s wand for a while so that I could take my place in the Order of the Phoenix. Unfortunately, my search is not lending me many results. The last place I went to investigate turned out to genuinely be an empty warehouse and not a clever guise put in place by Kingsley Shacklebolt to keep muggles away. The owl hooting loudly in the warehouse was in fact not delivering me The Daily Prophet but was in all actuality merely looking for prey. I learned this the hard way when Hedwig’s evil twin elected to swoop down on my head as I walked around the warehouse, flicking my flashlight on and off , casually whispering Lumos and Nox each time I did so, desperately searching for clues of that bullshit Dumbledore says about how "magic always leaves traces." I left the place with a bruised ego and a talon-scraped scalp. Well, on a more optimistic note, at least I didn’t have to give up any Knuts to that stupid bird for a newspaper I don’t even get that much pleasure out of reading anyway. The liberal bias of it kills me (the moving pictures are nice to look at, though, I confess).
Other attempts at finding the M.O.M. as I like to endearingly refer to it since it is comparable to a close family member in my heart have turned up equally empty. I can’t even count the number of phone booths I’ve walked into, punched in the code, and then walked out of with disappointment upon merely hearing some stupid robotic voice tell me to insert dimes to place a call rather than having the floor sink inward and turn into an elevator into the Ministry. Um, yes, I’d like to place a call to the phone company and inform them that normal people pay in Sickles, not dimes.
Bus drivers are starting to get offended that I call them all Stan Shunpike; I mean, what do they expect? I stuck out my fucking wand arm, so I assumed that when the bus pulled up it would be Stan…is that really too much to ask for? Even taxi drivers, who are supposed to be the most easy going people around, are starting to get pissed off at me. The last cab I hailed, when the cab driver asked where I was going, I replied perfectly rationally, "the Leaky Cauldron, that’s in London." He then had the nerve to look at me like I was insane when he was clearly the crazy one for not knowing the location of such a popular pub. The balls on some people! It astounds me!
Attempting to bribe government officials (I figure some of them are secretly Ministry officials) with Galleons in exchange for telling me the location of the Ministry is proving to be an ineffective method as well. Some jack wagon actually had the nerve to say to me, "That’s only good at Chuck E. Cheese, you know, right?" Um, no, I don’t fucking know, right, sir, I just fucking know that you’re in on the damn secret and are hiding behind a smug expression and that you possess a creepily accurate knowledge of what Chuck E. Cheese tokens look like (Hmmm do we have a Jerry Sandusky on our hands perhaps?). Even when I whipped my wand out of my pocket and shouted Crucio at the man (Unforgivable, I know, but sometimes necessary), all that occurred was the man rolling his eyes and walking away and Pigwidgeon’s bright blue feather falling off and floating away with all the drama and heartbreak of that feather scene in Forrest Gump. If I’d been able to simply Accio some fucking super glue, that never would have happened just like how if Forrest had been able to Accio the heroin away from Jenny’s whore ass, she never would have gotten AIDS and died.
I get the feeling that people are really starting to judge me. At first I took the hushed whispers of those around me as a sign that they were magical people who sensed I was one of them, but after borrowing a pair of Extendable Ears off a bloke at a gas station, I came to the conclusion that the whispers were actually about my lack of sanity. Oh helllllll, no. That is not even close to the truth. Just because I have sprinted head-on into the brick wall at Platform Nine and Three Quarters a few too many times doesn’t mean that I have no brain cells remaining. I know the real story, and I'm fucking sick of being a muggle.
Unfortunately, I am forced to deal with such shitty situations on a daily basis because as much as it pains me to admit, I am a muggle. Well, since I simply cannot stand having that much common ground with the Dursleys, I like to consider myself a more of a squib actually. Even though squib is a derogatory term in the Wizarding World, I much prefer it to muggle because at least squib implies that I’m in on the secret, on what’s really going down in the world. Because shit is definitely going down. Harry Potter is definitely in the process of defeating Lord Voldemort as I type these very words, but since I’m just a pitiful little squib, I can be of no assistance to him.
If I could just locate the whereabouts of the Ministry of Magic, I’m sure we could work out some sort of deal where I could borrow an inept witch or wizard’s wand for a while so that I could take my place in the Order of the Phoenix. Unfortunately, my search is not lending me many results. The last place I went to investigate turned out to genuinely be an empty warehouse and not a clever guise put in place by Kingsley Shacklebolt to keep muggles away. The owl hooting loudly in the warehouse was in fact not delivering me The Daily Prophet but was in all actuality merely looking for prey. I learned this the hard way when Hedwig’s evil twin elected to swoop down on my head as I walked around the warehouse, flicking my flashlight on and off , casually whispering Lumos and Nox each time I did so, desperately searching for clues of that bullshit Dumbledore says about how "magic always leaves traces." I left the place with a bruised ego and a talon-scraped scalp. Well, on a more optimistic note, at least I didn’t have to give up any Knuts to that stupid bird for a newspaper I don’t even get that much pleasure out of reading anyway. The liberal bias of it kills me (the moving pictures are nice to look at, though, I confess).
Other attempts at finding the M.O.M. as I like to endearingly refer to it since it is comparable to a close family member in my heart have turned up equally empty. I can’t even count the number of phone booths I’ve walked into, punched in the code, and then walked out of with disappointment upon merely hearing some stupid robotic voice tell me to insert dimes to place a call rather than having the floor sink inward and turn into an elevator into the Ministry. Um, yes, I’d like to place a call to the phone company and inform them that normal people pay in Sickles, not dimes.
Bus drivers are starting to get offended that I call them all Stan Shunpike; I mean, what do they expect? I stuck out my fucking wand arm, so I assumed that when the bus pulled up it would be Stan…is that really too much to ask for? Even taxi drivers, who are supposed to be the most easy going people around, are starting to get pissed off at me. The last cab I hailed, when the cab driver asked where I was going, I replied perfectly rationally, "the Leaky Cauldron, that’s in London." He then had the nerve to look at me like I was insane when he was clearly the crazy one for not knowing the location of such a popular pub. The balls on some people! It astounds me!
Attempting to bribe government officials (I figure some of them are secretly Ministry officials) with Galleons in exchange for telling me the location of the Ministry is proving to be an ineffective method as well. Some jack wagon actually had the nerve to say to me, "That’s only good at Chuck E. Cheese, you know, right?" Um, no, I don’t fucking know, right, sir, I just fucking know that you’re in on the damn secret and are hiding behind a smug expression and that you possess a creepily accurate knowledge of what Chuck E. Cheese tokens look like (Hmmm do we have a Jerry Sandusky on our hands perhaps?). Even when I whipped my wand out of my pocket and shouted Crucio at the man (Unforgivable, I know, but sometimes necessary), all that occurred was the man rolling his eyes and walking away and Pigwidgeon’s bright blue feather falling off and floating away with all the drama and heartbreak of that feather scene in Forrest Gump. If I’d been able to simply Accio some fucking super glue, that never would have happened just like how if Forrest had been able to Accio the heroin away from Jenny’s whore ass, she never would have gotten AIDS and died.
I get the feeling that people are really starting to judge me. At first I took the hushed whispers of those around me as a sign that they were magical people who sensed I was one of them, but after borrowing a pair of Extendable Ears off a bloke at a gas station, I came to the conclusion that the whispers were actually about my lack of sanity. Oh helllllll, no. That is not even close to the truth. Just because I have sprinted head-on into the brick wall at Platform Nine and Three Quarters a few too many times doesn’t mean that I have no brain cells remaining. I know the real story, and I'm fucking sick of being a muggle.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
I'm Fucking Sick of the Under Appreciation of Teachers
Now that I’ve been out of high school a sufficient amount of time to consider myself an adult (this term is highly debatable among anyone who has witnessed the drunken version of me, of course), I often think back fondly upon the things I learned in high school. Well, when I say often, I really mean only when all the planets and stars align, and Johnny Depp is fucking me from behind, but you catch my drift: though rare, it happens. You see, concepts like calculus derivatives and the functionality of the hypothalamus were not the things that stuck in my mind. Perhaps if they had, I would be along the path to pursuing a career in rocket science or something productive rather than along the path headed straight to pornography or prostitution (From what I’ve heard, the path typically goes Hooters, Tilted Kilt, strip club, Playboy, pornography, prostitution, so I’m well on my way). Anyway, as I pursue this equally admirable path I speak of, some of those intriguing things I learned in high school come back to me in interesting ways.
For example, I recently fucked this guy, and guess what? We had sex in Spanish!!! Had I never taken Advanced Placement Spanish in high school and aced my exam, I never would have felt comfortable screaming "Si" (Yes) as I came. I wouldn’t have initiated things by saying, "Lo quiero"(I want it) and grabbing his cock and moaning "Eso" (That) when he asked "Qué te quieres?" (What do you want?) Call me sentimental, but I just felt a glowing sense of pride for my high school Spanish teachers as I said "Lo me encanta" (I love it!) while riding his dick. I was so impressed that I busted my ass para cuatro anos en la clase de español (for four years in Spanish class) so that some Hispanic guy could bust a nut and yell words I could actually comprehend while he did it. If it weren’t for my fully capable Señoras, that just wouldn’t have been a possibility, and missing out on that diverse moment would have been earth-shatteringly disappointing. Without my teachers, I would not have been able to sit back afterward and discuss with him the magnitude of what had just happened (him fucking his first blonde and me fucking my first Hispanic guy sober….aww what a special moment). Had it not been for my Spanish teachers, I would have simply mumbled an awkward "Adios" and sent that muchacho on his merry way, wishing him a Feliz Navidad and maybe offering him a Corona for the road. Gracias, mis profesores de español (Thanks, my Spanish teachers).
Another hugely important thing I gained from high school mathematics was the full comprehension of the movie Mean Girls. Now call me cliché, but I fucking love the movie Mean Girls. Not only do I love that my twin Amanda Seyfried is in it and that she shares both my name and my love for predicting the weather with my tits, but I also love that she and her friends are bitches just like myself. Being a bitch is so enjoyable, and I really do not give two fucks if anyone disagrees. Now, if it weren’t for Advanced Placement Calculus, I would never have been able to fully grasp the beauty of the film. The line, "The limit does not exist" would have gone right over my blonde, Amanda Seyfried-looking head. Instead, every time that line comes on, I chuckle with the force of Kendra, that Playboy slut turned reality TV star with the overly obnoxious laugh, just to show everyone that I am in on the secret of what this little math line means, that I am of the educated populus. Of course, if you asked me to explain it to you, I would merely smile and say, "You know I know what it means." The reality, however, is that I’ve killed far too many brain cells since high school to remember a motherfucking thing about what limits are. All I know is that my own personal limits prevent me from going back to school and ever taking another Calculus course.
From Environmental Science, I gathered the eternally useful tidbit of information that I fucking hate nature. I tend to avoid the not-so-great outdoors at all costs. Even at a bonfire, I am the one being stalked by the smoke the entire time so that I’m forced to play musical chairs and look like a complete buffoon. The outdoors loathe me, and the feeling is mutual. Sure, it’s super sad and all that the globe is gradually dying, but when I see news reports about global warming and whatnot, I like to merely pretend that I am tuned in to the Lifetime Movie Network and am witnessing a D-List actress have a meltdown about her lost love. This image I produce in my head is actually quite comparable to Al Gore’s little environmental movie. I forget what it’s called…Whiny Rant From A Pathetic Washed-Up Politician or something along those lines, I believe. It is incredible how that man’s voice can simultaneously lure one into a sleepy stupor and an enraged fury. If I eventually murder Al Gore in my sleep, I’ll simply blame it on the Ambien combined with watching with his gut-wrenchingly dull documentary (Apparently he invented PowerPoint along with the Internet). Shit, if he’s so convinced the world is ending, I’d be more than happy to make it end for him. It didn’t even take a year for me to realize all this, so AP Environmental Science was clearly a highly effective course.
As for English classes, I learned that it’s okay to be too lazy to finish your essays properly. By the time you reach the conclusion, your choices are either to kill yourself because writing one more paragraph would just be too painful or to simply half ass some rephrasing of the rest of the paper. So uh yeah, basically, I’m fucking sick of the under appreciation of teachers.
For example, I recently fucked this guy, and guess what? We had sex in Spanish!!! Had I never taken Advanced Placement Spanish in high school and aced my exam, I never would have felt comfortable screaming "Si" (Yes) as I came. I wouldn’t have initiated things by saying, "Lo quiero"(I want it) and grabbing his cock and moaning "Eso" (That) when he asked "Qué te quieres?" (What do you want?) Call me sentimental, but I just felt a glowing sense of pride for my high school Spanish teachers as I said "Lo me encanta" (I love it!) while riding his dick. I was so impressed that I busted my ass para cuatro anos en la clase de español (for four years in Spanish class) so that some Hispanic guy could bust a nut and yell words I could actually comprehend while he did it. If it weren’t for my fully capable Señoras, that just wouldn’t have been a possibility, and missing out on that diverse moment would have been earth-shatteringly disappointing. Without my teachers, I would not have been able to sit back afterward and discuss with him the magnitude of what had just happened (him fucking his first blonde and me fucking my first Hispanic guy sober….aww what a special moment). Had it not been for my Spanish teachers, I would have simply mumbled an awkward "Adios" and sent that muchacho on his merry way, wishing him a Feliz Navidad and maybe offering him a Corona for the road. Gracias, mis profesores de español (Thanks, my Spanish teachers).
Another hugely important thing I gained from high school mathematics was the full comprehension of the movie Mean Girls. Now call me cliché, but I fucking love the movie Mean Girls. Not only do I love that my twin Amanda Seyfried is in it and that she shares both my name and my love for predicting the weather with my tits, but I also love that she and her friends are bitches just like myself. Being a bitch is so enjoyable, and I really do not give two fucks if anyone disagrees. Now, if it weren’t for Advanced Placement Calculus, I would never have been able to fully grasp the beauty of the film. The line, "The limit does not exist" would have gone right over my blonde, Amanda Seyfried-looking head. Instead, every time that line comes on, I chuckle with the force of Kendra, that Playboy slut turned reality TV star with the overly obnoxious laugh, just to show everyone that I am in on the secret of what this little math line means, that I am of the educated populus. Of course, if you asked me to explain it to you, I would merely smile and say, "You know I know what it means." The reality, however, is that I’ve killed far too many brain cells since high school to remember a motherfucking thing about what limits are. All I know is that my own personal limits prevent me from going back to school and ever taking another Calculus course.
From Environmental Science, I gathered the eternally useful tidbit of information that I fucking hate nature. I tend to avoid the not-so-great outdoors at all costs. Even at a bonfire, I am the one being stalked by the smoke the entire time so that I’m forced to play musical chairs and look like a complete buffoon. The outdoors loathe me, and the feeling is mutual. Sure, it’s super sad and all that the globe is gradually dying, but when I see news reports about global warming and whatnot, I like to merely pretend that I am tuned in to the Lifetime Movie Network and am witnessing a D-List actress have a meltdown about her lost love. This image I produce in my head is actually quite comparable to Al Gore’s little environmental movie. I forget what it’s called…Whiny Rant From A Pathetic Washed-Up Politician or something along those lines, I believe. It is incredible how that man’s voice can simultaneously lure one into a sleepy stupor and an enraged fury. If I eventually murder Al Gore in my sleep, I’ll simply blame it on the Ambien combined with watching with his gut-wrenchingly dull documentary (Apparently he invented PowerPoint along with the Internet). Shit, if he’s so convinced the world is ending, I’d be more than happy to make it end for him. It didn’t even take a year for me to realize all this, so AP Environmental Science was clearly a highly effective course.
As for English classes, I learned that it’s okay to be too lazy to finish your essays properly. By the time you reach the conclusion, your choices are either to kill yourself because writing one more paragraph would just be too painful or to simply half ass some rephrasing of the rest of the paper. So uh yeah, basically, I’m fucking sick of the under appreciation of teachers.
Monday, December 19, 2011
I'm Fucking Sick of Prudish Bitches
Whenever I start a conversation with girls about sex, in particular masturbation, there’s always that one bitch who turns red (about the color of the cherry she has that desperately needs to be popped), crosses her arms in total discomfort, and says (in a sort of hushed whisper that plainly displays her embarrassment at being associated with even my name), "Karen!" while glancing around to make sure that no one else is overhearing the "disgusting" things I’m saying. Um, bitch please, I know your perfectly manicured little fingers are sticky sometimes just like the rest of ours because let’s face it: we all masturbate. So quit judging! I mean seriously if you don’t masturbate then I judge you because it means you’re missing out on a wonderful time.
The clitoris is hands down (pun intended—hands down there are so very useful) my favorite organ of the body. It really ought to be every woman’s. The little son of a bitch is powerful! Fingers, tongues, penises, vibrators…all capable of stimulating the shit out of it; you don’t get much more versatile than that. Hell, even the mullet with its business in the front, party in the back style is not as versatile as that. Not completely sure why I picked the mullet as my analogy there (must be an Alabama thing), but point made. I think clit may even be my favorite four letter word other than "fuck," which is really saying something because as anyone who knows me can attest, I love the word "fuck," and it makes up a gargantuan percentage of my vocabulary.
I personally will masturbate just about any time, any where. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but nature calls. If I’m driving to work and realize that I’m about to have to work an eight hour shift without getting off (both in the work day sense and in the cumming sense), you bet your happy ass my hands go right down my pants. Sure, I’ve had moments where I’ve gotten a bit excessively distracted and almost crashed the car, but that orgasm damn sure made it worth the near collision!
The worst is when I’m on a crowded interstate trying to change lanes and dodge around cars just so that I can get ahead of the pack so that my fellow drivers don’t realize that the weird fuck next to them has her hand down her pants. These are the times when I mentally slap myself for being too cheap to get my windows tinted (I cannot physically slap myself because my hands are otherwise occupied). I have mastered the art of driving with my knees; I deserve some sort of award, I believe.
Of course, audiences have never done a whole lot to stop me from doing my business. If people notice, oh well. I return their shocked looks with a quick shrug of the shoulder as if to say, "Well, if you had any clue how stressed out I am right now, you’d totally understand the necessity." It’s just one of those unavoidable things. Hell, sometimes a good, kind audience willing to offer a helping hand gets me there faster. There are some generous people out there, especially at parties and other drunken get-togethers! As people who have ever partied with me are aware, alcohol flows straight to my vagina rather than my liver, so public masturbation is more common when my Blood Alcohol Content is riding high.
I never need a particular sound or image to really get the horniness flowing. I think merely breathing in air is enough to do the trick. Sure, I do love watching porn, but I have masturbated to anything and everything, much to the chagrin of many people I know. Filling a dead silence with the buzzing of a vibrator could be embarrassing, I suppose; I can at least see it from their point of view. It is even a running joke with my roommates; if Nickelback is playing, it means I’m going at it. Of course, I have progressed far beyond the confines of Nickelback CDs.
I have attacked myself to the tune of every single Jason Aldean song there is because his voice just does it for me. It’s not "Tattoos on This Town" anymore; it’s more like "Slug Trail on These Sheets." Even the sad, depressing songs just make me want to fuck Jason or, in his absence, fuck myself. He can be moaning on and on about the "Heartache that Don’t Stop Hurting," and I’m over there moaning equally loudly about the "Orgasms that Don’t Stop Flowing," in my mind orgasms given by Jason’s tongue on my pussy. A girl can dream, right? Oh and dream I do! And for all the people who think it’s sick and perverted that I have such dreams and that I take these fantasies out on my vibrator with the strength of an army of men, I’m fucking sick of prudish bitches!
The clitoris is hands down (pun intended—hands down there are so very useful) my favorite organ of the body. It really ought to be every woman’s. The little son of a bitch is powerful! Fingers, tongues, penises, vibrators…all capable of stimulating the shit out of it; you don’t get much more versatile than that. Hell, even the mullet with its business in the front, party in the back style is not as versatile as that. Not completely sure why I picked the mullet as my analogy there (must be an Alabama thing), but point made. I think clit may even be my favorite four letter word other than "fuck," which is really saying something because as anyone who knows me can attest, I love the word "fuck," and it makes up a gargantuan percentage of my vocabulary.
I personally will masturbate just about any time, any where. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but nature calls. If I’m driving to work and realize that I’m about to have to work an eight hour shift without getting off (both in the work day sense and in the cumming sense), you bet your happy ass my hands go right down my pants. Sure, I’ve had moments where I’ve gotten a bit excessively distracted and almost crashed the car, but that orgasm damn sure made it worth the near collision!
The worst is when I’m on a crowded interstate trying to change lanes and dodge around cars just so that I can get ahead of the pack so that my fellow drivers don’t realize that the weird fuck next to them has her hand down her pants. These are the times when I mentally slap myself for being too cheap to get my windows tinted (I cannot physically slap myself because my hands are otherwise occupied). I have mastered the art of driving with my knees; I deserve some sort of award, I believe.
Of course, audiences have never done a whole lot to stop me from doing my business. If people notice, oh well. I return their shocked looks with a quick shrug of the shoulder as if to say, "Well, if you had any clue how stressed out I am right now, you’d totally understand the necessity." It’s just one of those unavoidable things. Hell, sometimes a good, kind audience willing to offer a helping hand gets me there faster. There are some generous people out there, especially at parties and other drunken get-togethers! As people who have ever partied with me are aware, alcohol flows straight to my vagina rather than my liver, so public masturbation is more common when my Blood Alcohol Content is riding high.
I never need a particular sound or image to really get the horniness flowing. I think merely breathing in air is enough to do the trick. Sure, I do love watching porn, but I have masturbated to anything and everything, much to the chagrin of many people I know. Filling a dead silence with the buzzing of a vibrator could be embarrassing, I suppose; I can at least see it from their point of view. It is even a running joke with my roommates; if Nickelback is playing, it means I’m going at it. Of course, I have progressed far beyond the confines of Nickelback CDs.
I have attacked myself to the tune of every single Jason Aldean song there is because his voice just does it for me. It’s not "Tattoos on This Town" anymore; it’s more like "Slug Trail on These Sheets." Even the sad, depressing songs just make me want to fuck Jason or, in his absence, fuck myself. He can be moaning on and on about the "Heartache that Don’t Stop Hurting," and I’m over there moaning equally loudly about the "Orgasms that Don’t Stop Flowing," in my mind orgasms given by Jason’s tongue on my pussy. A girl can dream, right? Oh and dream I do! And for all the people who think it’s sick and perverted that I have such dreams and that I take these fantasies out on my vibrator with the strength of an army of men, I’m fucking sick of prudish bitches!
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