Once again, our government has reported that they “almost” did what they promised they’d do regarding promise # (fill in the blank) that’s never been kept. It “almost” happened… We “nearly” acomplished… It was “within” our reach. But all we ever get is a Promise Fail notification, like this headline from yesterday’s “apprehend” update on Osama – an update that’s 8 years late to boot:
Speaking of Osama. Or Obama. Or your mama….COME ON A – tell us the truth Oh Mighty Whitehouse. He doesn’t really exist, does he? I mean seriously, does HE?
Think about it - the government has to be covering up something else, and using a fake beard named Osama to do it. God knows what it is. But it’s probably something like two of the security supervisors to the White House getting together and coming up with this:
“Hey, The People might find out we’re really (fill in the blank), so let’s distract them with a “terrorist named “OSAMA”. What? Of course he doesn’t EXIST. It’s a ruse. The TV appearances are just Barbara Bush dressed up in a fake beard, turban and holy robe – she volunteered, can you believe it? Isn’t she authentic? The guy? Yeah, she’s modeled after a real GUY. His name’s Gurtandeep …something…he’s a famous Iraqis soap star back there, he volunteered to be the model in exchange for getting to break into Lifetime Television for Women. Look at this news footage of Mrs. Bush as “OSAMA”. Dressed up she could be his twin brother!” This should distract The People from our (fill in the blank) for sure.!”
Just kidding. I just thought it was something the Mrs. Bush might go for - to keep her mind off her offspring’s presidential booboos and all…
Anyway, back to our conundrum – Logic dictates that our national security should consist of the finest minds in world, right? We’re always hearing about how “top-notch” Homeland Security is right? If that’s true then it stands to reason that there’s NO WAY our Homeland Security geniuses could lose someone THAT MANY TIMES in one decade, is there? The most infamous, feared and hated U.S. enemy in the world? It Just Couldn’t HAPPEN!
Then on the other hand, remember the offspring previously mentioned. Maybe is is true and our Homeland Security people are that lame and the To Catch a Turbin show is really run like this:
Special Agent Shitheels: “Special Agent Shitheels to Special Agent Retard, come in Retard”….(walkie-talkie noise….ssssssshhhhhhht)
“SPECIAL” Agent Retard: (walkie-talkie noise……..sshssssht….duhhhhhh) “Uh dur…..hello? HELO? HELLLO! (oh yeah, depress button and speak….) “This is Special Agent Retard calling from the Short Bus. Project Discount bin Lauden is a washout, repeat, he got away again”…
Special Agent Shitheels: “Got away again? What do you mean “got away again”?”
“SPECIAL“ Agent Retard: “He was within our grasp, sir….then…..”, We “nearly” got that towel-smack when we got word of his location at the new Wal*Mart superstore. Special Agent Clueless saw said offender disappearing behind a rack of double-knit stretch-pants, women’s, size XX-large, evidently attempting to flee the scene. At this point, Agent Clueless attempted to overtake said offender by diving into said “rack”. But when Clueless finally came to from being knocked out by a pair of all-purpose granny pants, he was all jumbled up in 6000 yards of polyester. Have you every waded through 6ooo yards of polyester sir? It’s damn near impossible to walk. Anyway, Agent Clueless FINALLY broke free and emerged from the other side of the rack, but by then ….well, the suspect was GONE!”
Ok if it’s really like that with our Homeland Security Department then I don’t blame them for just saying “we nearly caught him” and leaving it at that. But if they’re playing that game, then what ELSE aren’t they telling us the truth about? I’m not worried about the safety of our country (a lot of wine takes care of that) I’m just curious. At any rate – If it IS like THAT - Osama has got to be laughing his ass off at the antics of the idiotic Keystone Cops and Barney Fifes our government’s entrusted our national security with. And since they’re so easy to fool, he probably taunts them every chance he gets. And maybe send them postcards “from the other side” like this:
Kind of creepy yet fascinating in a Saudi*Mart kinda way, isn’t it…
I’ve been thinking about something for a while now – ever since I saw the movie “Norbit” back in 2007. anyway. As funny as Eddie Murphy was as Norbit - the nerdy and timid “girly-man” main character of the movie, it was the character Rasputia who definitely stole the show. “How You Doin?!” became my catchall phrase the moment I first heard Rasputia screech it the movie. I say it so much I’ve gotten Rasputia voice inflections down perfectly – if I say so myself.
Because I’m kinda dingy and scattered, I don’t always pay attention to my surroundings – I tend to just blurt out whatever ’s in my head. And Rasputia is once again on my mind, having been there for about the last month – and I’ve been crowing “How YOU doin?! every chance I get, no matter where I am. I have to remember to break that little habit. And the perfect place to put this resolution into play is where we currently live at the moment. And it would be wise for me to remember that we are the minority white couple on the block. A block that’s none too stable resident-wise to begin with. Fluffy’s size and ferocious growl are probably the main reasons we’ve been left alone so far, but it’s only a matter of time before people start realizing that Fluffy is actually “fluffy” – then it’s all over.
I’ve had Rasputia on the brain for a reason other than having rewatched Norbit for the 100th time this year. It’s a reason you’d never guess for it’s random weirdness. But believe me when I say the random weirdness is hysterical for it’s random weirdness. It’s also dangerous for the bubble-headed tourette’s-like clueless like MOI – the explanation of which I will give you now.
We recently discovered that our fair street, in addition to being party central for a slew of family activities - drive by’s, cop car chases, and drug addicts knocking on your window at 4 a.m. trying to sell you your own tools, to name a few – is also the favored location for large, angry black women to administer a little “home correction” on their idiotic, skinny and scared to death boyfriends and husbands – who have either been caught cheating or spending the welfare money on drugs. These cans of whoopass – which are frequent events with different participants each time – are open to the public for viewing and accentuated by extremely vocal taunts and insults hurled by both parties at the other – and what’s more is they have a duration life of at least 30 minutes – a lot of times longer. And they’re as funny as hell to watch! Todd and I sit there in amazement every time we witness another “Rasputia -instigated ass-whoppin’” visited upon a hapless man.
An upcoming event is announced the same way each time. Either Todd or myself (or both) know to stop whatever it is we’re doing when we hear the high-pitched scream of a terrified girly man out in the street that gives us the heads up that we have about 5 minutes or so to grab a couple of beers and a bag of chips before showtime. The show consists of a very public, very vocal and very, very physical display of a large woman’s rage against life being taken out on her skinny weakling husband for whatever cardinal sin he’s committed this time. It’s a one woman cage fight of body blows, loud slaps, and impressive right hooks connecting with cheek bones and nose cartilage. And for course everytime the blushing bride delivers a particulary perfect uppercut or kidney punch, I’m screaming ” How YOU DOIN?! as encouragement out the window. Not smart I know, and I fully expect that one day that angry black woman will forget all about her man and turn her sights on me – but it’s funny enough that I’m willing to take the risk.
The video below unfortunately, isn’t one of any of the characters from my story. I stole it off of You Tube for it’s striking similarities to the details of my story. Except for the existance of growing vegetation, the presence of children and the fact that the street looks inhabitable by actual human beings - the content of this video contains an exact blow by blow of the wife-hubby smack downs that grace our street with their festivities. From the insults both scream at each other, to the physical make up of the characters involved – from the deer caught in the headlamps look of a man as he becomes paralyzed at the sight of his woman coming at him like a 300 baby rhino – and even the ending – the cop car driving down the street and slowing down to check out the domestic going on in front of it before deciding to head over to Winchell’s donuts instead – and speeding up and out of there. All of the things on this video happen on my street.
Anyway, this brings me to my last point. Why I keep thinking about Rasputia.
In Norbit, the character of Rasputia paints an accurate, yet admittedly exaggerated, picture of the turmoil a lot of african-american women must feel to this day about their lives. Sure – things have changed for the better for all of us as women – in different ways for black women because of past injustices and challenges. But I’ve read books and seen firsthand the ramifications of the chaos many still carry around - for reasons too numerous to list. So in that way, I believe that Rasputia is a worthy poster child for their existing anger today.
But there’s more.
A few weeks after having laughed my ass off watching Norbit for the first time, I saw an ad for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup on TV and mused that those ads had been in one form or another, since my grandmother was born in the late 1800s. But even though they’ve updated Aunt Jemima’s wardrobe colors and changed her bottle to that spiffy brown plastic easy pour - the expression on her face has always stayed the same. She’s always maintained the same cheerful and welcoming enthusiastic look on her face - as if she can’t wait to serve hordes of hungry people pancakes and syrup, continually around the clock never stopping, until either the end of time commences or she dies suddely of a massive coronary mid-syrup pour.
But there’s something else as well.
Besides the expression of continual servitudal bliss, the Jemima of the ad is has always been portrayed as a heavy woman. Now if you’ve spent the last 100 plus years in the same clothes, serving endless pancakes with syrup to scads of the whiny, self-entitled and their offspring, it would stand to reason you’d eventually lose a pound of two during your indentured serventhood. So I don’t buy a fat cheerful Aunt Jemima whose smiling face looks for all the world that she’s where she’s always wanted to be. Not with the anger I’ve seen from the black women on my block, and from Rasputia of couse. I know now what large angry black women are capable of in their rage.
So I have to admit, I’m kinda irked that we’ve been lied to by the syrup company all these 100 plus years. Just so we would buy their syrup. In fact, I’m going to venture out and say something else. Not only do I believe the advertising companies stretched the truth about sweet and cheerful Jemima – I think they outright lied about Jemima. I don’t think Jemima was happy or cheerful at all. I mean the real Jemima. The Jemima whose name probably hasn’t ever been Jemima. I couldn’t guess what she felt back then, but I bet my last dollar it wasn’t happiness. I mean, think about it. If a great deal of african-american women in this country are still pissed off about everything this late in the game, then just how angry must Not-Jemima have been back when things were REALLY HORRIBLE for a black woman? I can bet she didn’t care shit about “How YOU was DOIN!”
So without further ado, may I present to you my opinion in pictures of the “real” Not Jemima who was the model for smiling Jemima and her pancake syrup. Maybe she would have told us what she really felt, had she been asked and had she been given the opportunity to have a life. So Syrup Queeen, although I don’t know your real name – my hat’s off to you and all the crap you’ve gone through just to make sure one more fatass has syrup for their pancakes.
Back in ..whenever it first came out – I thought it was the lamest song I’d ever heard. Here we had a stupid looking guy (I think he may actually be Mr. Bean – but a younger one – with an 80’s perm)
He didn’t even appear to know or care, that he was stupid looking. And his song was just a bunch of obsessive compulsive dribble he repeated over and over and over like a retard with a lobotomy. And as far as 2 am shut the bar down extended tunes went? Forget it! I wouldn’t have danced the last dance to THAT crap if David Lee Roth had suddenly appeared by my side and begged me to. I put that song down to another example of a lapse in reality via disco, and forgot about it.
Then while watching National Lampoon’s Las Vegas Vacation, I heard it again in one of the first scenes in the movie – and it called to me like a siren song. I was so struck by it this time that i almost missed the hilarity of Chevy Chases daughter getting stuck in the moon roof of the car when Chevy closes the window on her mid section in his scattered way. Such was my sudden obsession with that song. It was like it was my time to look beyond Mr. Bean with a Perm – really listen to his message. So today I share this with you.
Now’s that time to please click on the video, if you will – and read along with the lyrics. Which first appear to be a waste of words that contain no depth whatsoever, I know. But read them again..and ask yourself if they make sense to you, wherever you are in your life, and in your head right now. And see, if like the elusive Popes in da Pizzas, you can find the wisdom on his face - which at first makes him look like a dick, and ellicits an urge to slap him hard for attempting “smartass chic” while wearing an utterly ridiculous suit):
BORN TO BE ALIVE
WE WERE BORN TO BE, ALIVE WE WERE BORN TO BE, ALIVE
BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE (BORN TO BE ALIVE)
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE
PEOPLE ASK ME WHY I NEVER FIND A PLACE TO STOP AND SETTLE
DOWN DOWN DOWN
BUT I NEVER WANTED ALL THE THINGS THAT PEOPLE NEED TO FIND THEIR
LIVES LIVES LIVES
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE (BORN TO BE ALIVE)
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN
IT’S GOOD TO BE ALIVE, TO BE ALIVE, TO BE ALIVE
IT’S GOOD TO BE ALIVE, TO BE ALIVE, TO BE ALIVE
IT’S GOOD TO BE ALIVE
TIMES WAS ON MY SIDE WHEN I RUNNIN’ IN THE STREET IT WAS THE
BY BY BY
A SUITCASE AND AN OLD GUITAR AND SOMETHING NEW TO OCCUPY MY
MIND MIND MIND
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE (BORN TO BE ALIVE)
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN
YOU SEE WE’RE BORN, BORN, BORN TO BE ALIVE (BORN TO BE ALIVE) BORN TO BE ALIVE
OK this particular sensei will NEVER be sexy, I admit. But still his statement is a strong one. I wonder how many people out there can answer that question honestly – or if they even think of it as they go along their ever-deadening path from the job to home and back. I’m aware there’s a lot of us who wont’ even admit to the existance of anything we think is out of reach in our lives.
And what does our hippy Mr. Bean mean by being ”born to be alive” anyway?
This is where you have to look beyond the one dimensional ordinary world visible to our eyes, and part the veil to find what’s been hidden from us..but not hidden, most of our lives ….and look for it. Seek and ye shall find – I promise. And some of you already know what I mean by this. Some of you know that to BE ALIVE means to immerse yourself in anything that makes your heart beat faster, your blood run quicker, makes you laugh out loud in delight…like you did as a child…when you instinctively knew you were born to be alive – and to hell what everyone else thinks. Want some examples? Ok.
Like …….taking whatever your mind has created as a icon of a true expression of yourself – (be it the elegant or raw and left-field) and throwing it out there – knowing it may drown without anyone ever knowing it was there – but you. And not expecting anything to wash up your beach looking for a home, except for maybe some garbage. But then all of a sudden finding out that maybe there are really 100 billion castaways looking for your home-o. (And by the time you’ve done the first step in throwing yourself out there to begin with you’ve probably come to realize that solitude ISN’T a bad thing after all – and the company that seeks you out is an added bonus – a wonderful added bonus because now you have someone else to share parts of your spirit with).
And it’s also …discovering that you’re really OK with not having the world’s acceptance of you (or that of most people, come to think of it). But finally knowing you’ve always had the only validation of your existance you’ve ever needed - that of yourself. You just couldn’t see it until it was time.
And it’s…being glad that you don’t KNOW everything about life, or even yourself yet. This means that you still have so much more to look forward to. The universe will always have so much more to reveal to you – and the fascination with “what’s next?” (yes – even the bad things, ) this willingness to accept and embrace them – this is what not only helps us grow into who we were meant to be but makes us feel and keeps us ALIVE!
I think Patrick just KNEW what being alive meant …and tried to tell us in terms a Bocefus would understand. I think he dressed and acted in a kind of stark relief contrast to the meaning in the simple lyrics of his song. (Then again, I could be all wrong about everything – Maybe I’m wasting time romancticizing a clueless idiot whose B-MOVIE mama was owed a HUGE favor by the famous music producer who knocked her up back in the day - and his dribble about being “born to be alive” was only brought to fruition as it was included in part of his mother’s “hush” deal with the studio….but I don’t think so…)
So anyway, listen to this song maybe a few more times for courage - and if you’re up to it make a mental list of the things that keep you from “being ALIVE” – and work on cutting them out of your life, one by one, like the cancers they are. Don’t let them consume your spirit. Start doing what we are all born to do. What are we all born to do? Be Alive:
Leave that one-sided boring relationship that’s holding you back. If you feel guilty, picture the person in their underwear…(hey, it worked for Marsha on the Brady Bunch)
Tell your know-it-all brother in law to bite you. If you can’t do that, trip him down a flight of stairs by accident…
Throw away that ugly un-sexy “power suit” and wear some G-strings over some tight jeans to the office tomorrow. (I mean you guys too!)
Call the white house and leave a personal message for our Commander in Chief to bite you – you QUIT! (Make sure you blame that one on your brother in law – HINT: if you tripped him down the stairs as I suggested he might be in a coma by now and won’t be able to deny the charges)
If doing any of these things causes an unexpected move to another country and a change of name – WHO CARES? Just do it! Just Be Alive…
Thank you for your time, see you in Mexico in about a week:)
OH and P.S. – Here’s the Extended club version of Born to be Alive – I think based on where I’m at in my head today – I would gladly dance to this WHOLE song, drunk off my ass, with a full bladder and be happy to spend the next several hours dodging Roxbury boy for old time’s sake. …
DISCLAIMER: ALTHOUGH THIS POST IS BASED ON A TRUE AND CORRECT OPINION OF WHAT “BEING ALIVE MEANS TO ME - THERE IS SOME HUMOR INTERJECTED HERE. FOR INSTANCE – EVEN A HALF TARD KNOWS THAT “WHITE HOUSE” IS CODE FOR “AM/PM” AND “COMMANDER IN CHIEF” IS CODE FOR THAT DOPEY TEENAGE MANAGER YOU WORK FOR…that’s all…….duh
I’ll let the injustices speak for themselves. Number #1 is random, not a big deal, I admit but it’s something that could only happen to me – so I’m incensed!!
INJUSTICE #1 “I see your a cat lover…”
Have you ever done someone a favor and it backfired on you? I’m talking about a favor that wasn’t even a very big deal – not like loaning someone you might never see again $2000 for a car or co-signing an apartment for someone with bad credit who might make your credit worse. Just a favor..
Well that old adage “No good deed shall go unpunished” is actually a true one, as I found out the other night when I added a video to “favorites” on Todd’s You Tube page. Here’s the quick story -
I had written a post about my favorite club song turning to HATE after the night I got stuck dancing the long version at the end of the night, trying to escape the sweaty greasy clutchtes of some sweaty drunken clown no one wants to dance with because he would try to put the “roxbury” moves on them every time. Anyway, one of my freak buddies – another blogger - sent me a video of a song that the night clubs played at the end of the night back in HIS hey day, and Todd and I played it – as we had never heard of this band.
It was a great song. The lyrics were full of innuendo – and the video cover was an up close and personal in your face of a nearly naked women’s lower half – none to subtely hinted at, over suggestive and geared towards the male gender – (and Rosie O’Donnell). It was definitely a song a female wouldn’t want to get caught singing out loud to herself at a dockside bar and we both loved it! We kept playing and trying to sing along with the words for the better part of an hour, then Todd asked me to add it to his favorites on his You Tube page so we didn’t lose it somehow. No problem, I was already there. …..click. And that was that.
I forgot all about the video it until I was surfing one of the many blogging networks I belong to the other night. I was reading the updated newsfeeds of my friends (which includes whats going on with myself of course) and…well hell – let me direct your attention to the “Not So Subtlely Disguised Vagina” directly below you. Yes, that’s right – the one next to my proudly smiling picture with the announcement that Surveygirl46 has bookmarked the video Lords of Acid – Pussy:
Kind of cute in a cheesy way (no penecillin pun intended, really). Not a big deal, no way! I’ve made many, many jokes and comments – all of which which can be construed as highly offensive to most people (in fact many of my relatives no longer extend the invitation for Thanksgiving after the highly inappropriate photoshopped 2009 calendar debacle of last year) – so this is vanilla zingers! Easy breezy. And naked? Please. I’ve shown more in church. It’s just that it took me by surprise…
It just sort of jumps out at you!! surprise!! THe Vagina is here!! WOOWEE! The Hooha is here!!…
I’m not startled easily. But this was like an unexpected giant VAGINA balloon in a 1962 Macy Day parade….scary…. All because of one click of the button. I know it’s kinda lame. But it’s my injustice – I can say whatever I want.
Maybe you’ll relate more to Injustice #2. The VAGINA THAT DWARFED THE WORLD ties in closely with Injustice 2…
INJUSTICE #2
What follows shortly is the worst case of animal abuse I’ve ever seen, in my opinion. And for what? All to sensationalize a music video by some Lords on acid. (They’re probably not even Lords by the way) Maybe they didn’t realize in their purple haze that most people with the gift of sight would get their meaning loud and clear the first time. If they never ever heard of the lords of acid again, who could ever forget the Attack of the 50 foot Vagina as it proudly stood tall. Waiting in it’s silence for someone to touch it’s button and play the video.
And sure, we all know there are some really slooooooooow people out there. But most of them function quite well…well …well enough to be our supervisors and sometimes even our nation’s leaders. And they all know what a VAGINA is and looks like – (even if they haven’t seen one that looks like THAT in their bedrooms for a 100 years – they still remember!) And even tards – even the neighborhood Goober – who rides the short bus, pisses his pants on a daily basis (just because) and recommends boogers as a tasty mid day snack – even HE knows what a vagina is.
NOTE: For my “splogger” friends who come from other continents and wish to be anatomically correct in using the term : You also have heard of the VAGINA; only you know it as “FUDDI’ as in, “Take vagasil for your “Fuddi” infection”…
But back to the Lords on Acid. LORD! They want to make sure that the VAGZILLA did her job, and made her presence known loud and clear. So they added a polite little title up in the left hand corner of the VAGCASE that informs us that they ARE the
and this is their friend, the
And just in case your deaf grandpa in the Phillipines didn’t quite make that last thing out you’re informed a second time, “HEY, WE SAID WE ARE the
AND THIS IS OUR FRIEND the
Can you hear me now?
Loud and clear. But I draw the line at the cat.
Why in God’s name did they have to throw kittens into the mix? This is extremely cruel. How is that kitten supposed to survive? How is the cat going to get to it’s food and water now? How is it going to use the catbox? My God is it even breathing?
What were they thinking when they thought up this …this ….perversion of nature? In the name of all that’s holy!! A kitten is not a Russian nestlng doll!
GO ON! Click PLAY. Leave the song on in the background - it’s an accessory to this post. It doesn’t matter if you love it or hate it – or that it’s not from your generation. No matter what kind of music you obssessed over back in the day, this tune will guide you into my world, so you RECOGNIZE and RELATE when you read this post – you’ll remember you’ve BEEN THERE too…
This song rocks! Ok, it actually “discos” but still – it’s a great song. I haven’t listened to it for many years – until tonite – but I STILL LOVE this song!
For those of you close to becoming an official “oops i crapped my pantzer” in the not-so-distant future, you remember how it was back in the day before the advent of personal computers and You Tube instant gratification downloads. Back in the olden days kiddies, if you wanted to hear a song over and over and over…there were fewer options to choose from. So unless you had a kick- ass cassette tape player in your own car and no curfew…you had about 3:
1. You could buy the tape or album and drive your parents crazy with the melodic redundancy of one song - until your father came unglued and so did your cassette.
2. You could hope to be able to magically locate the song on the car radio on command which, come on…Who are you, Harry Pothead? Anyway, this procedure was hit and miss at best – and if you did manage to find it out of the blue it was usually during a time you had to leave the car in order to be somewhere on time. (i believe this was how my lifelong “tardy” problem was created)
OR
3. You could take your butt to the local night club on the weekends – where it’s almost scriptural that they play ALL songs at least 20 times each on both Friday and Saturday nights.
I usually erred on the side of caution and picked the sure-thing - the club thang. If you think about it - it really was the most sensible choice of all. Two birds for the price of one could be slaughtered by “clubbing” on the weekends. First off - I might get lucky again and manage to meet yet another ”really cool guy who turns out to be an idiot stalker – showing up in the middle of the night to throw rocks at the wrong window of the wrong house for a couple hours before dousing everything around with gas and burning the house down to the ground in a fit of rage - because “I ignored his pleas for me to come out and talk to him at 3 a.m. , causing him to do this HORRIBLE thing (Hey STUPID…you’re the asswipe that got the wrong house, remember? ), that he really didn’t want to do!” And secondly - - I’d be dressed up and looking good. I knew I’d be out on the dance floor ALL NIGHT and with a buzz! Gettin’ down to the tunes with a hot guy - especially every time they played my song all weekend. And Friday night couldn’t come fast enough for this girl… …
By the way…just in case you forgot to click the video…here it is again…
Ok let’s switch gears here and I’m going to take you for a nostalgic ride through Realities Past – (Ladies, most of you will more than likely be able to completely relate to this next part)
So let’s talk about Friday nights spent going clubbin’. You’re already there in your mind aren’t you? Pumped up - hanging with your girls. Ready to do some drinking – will be looking GOOD out there burning up the dance floor – gyrating to that SONG you can’t wait to hear. But sometimes Friday nights don’t always go as you had hoped, isn’t that right? Remember THOSE nights?
There you’d sit – all dressed up, looking totally FLLLLLLLLYYYYYY, slightly buzzed from a 2 hour head start sucking down Jose. Talking SMACK with the Freaks and the rest of the clowns at the bar. And you’d heard at least 10 songs that were played twice already - not yours yet. But it’s ok. It’s Friday night! The night’s young. You’re patient. You know how it is clubs. You wait it out. Everyone wants their song played NOW – but you know it’s gonna happen - you’ll hear it when the time’s right. Just relax and keep drinking. …
All this waiting and drinking is getting you a bit drunker, isn’t it? The DJ should be getting ready to play your song pretty soon – it’s getting near midnight. So there you sit….So there you drink…waiting..drinking….Once in a while you mix up the waiting room by dancing with random guys to songs that are OK, but not great like THE song… It’s hot out on that floor…isn’t it?
Oh hey! Remember that “guy”? Who you ask? WHO? O MY GOD come on girl…That dude you used to call “Jerky Boy”…the ONE NO ONE WANTED TO DANCE WITH???? Yeaaaah…that same sweaty slob with the hands that was hanging around your table earlier…drooling…is he retarded? Oh my God …He was pestering you for like 15 minutes to dance with him…Did you see him when you came out of the bathroom, trying to catch your eye…What is he doing? TRACKING your ass? ugh… He’s probably in the bathroom, plucking his vienna saugsage…fantasizing about you doing the Humpty Hump all over him….eewwwww….
You keep drinking…where the HELL is that song? …it’s 12:30 am…
Sorry to bother you in your reverie, but I almost forgot ….Remember why you and your girls call him “Jerky Boy?” No not that…too obvious already…No, the other thing..you remember..Every Friday and Saturday night, at THIS club, there he is …performing his sadASS rendition – SOLO no less - of that idiotic “night at the roxbury” move – trying to half-sandwhich every traumatized female stupid enough to try to be “nice” and give him just ” one” dance ..you know so he stays the hell off their cases….. Oh My God..what a dweeb. I can’t believe he’s still doing that same old shit …hasn’t he been coming here like ..for ever?… But you’re not going down that road though, are you? When your song’s ON, you’re gonna grab a guy who’s F-I-N-E fine-enough to be seen with your ass, right? !
But meanwhile back at reality ranch…..
The Humpty Hump’s been humped 56 times – isn’t anyone sick of it YET? And you’re still waiting for thatDAMN song to be played ONCE before 2 a.m… Thank God for booze. Feeling well-past tipsy are we? Maybe a little blurry ?
Shit, it’s almost 1 a.m….With that one eye that’s still a bit open you see all the fine guys…and shit! most of the random ones too have pulled an Elvis and left the building. Not good…. OH wel…Wait! what’s that?
Oh My God….They’re finally playing IT!….FINALLY! Oh Holy CRAP! There’s No ONE to dance with ….(look around, remember this part?) …except..ughhh…Goober here. Dammnnn… he’s already caught your eye and he’s coming this way. Oh hell, it’s just 5 minutes of your life – a small sacrifice to pay for finally your turn with YOUR SONG! Just ignore him while you’re out there…pretend he’s not even here…sorta “dance-hop” away from him gradually…. ….and…Shit, maybe he won’t even notice your gone – he’s so into being such a ….dweeb sandwhich…
Remember those nights? Gotta love em’ girl. So what happens next again? Something like…
THIS maybe?
Alright! You made it to the floor and your’e gyrating with all you are to the beat of that one song you’ve been obsessing on ALL freakin’ week….and fighting off this fucking yo-yo, who’s ruining the experience for you by pulling a daily double – trying to get some “sandwhich time” with the area around your ass …grabbing at it with his sweaty palms… Look at this asshole!…watch as he jerks around like…like some spastic COLON trying to get his moves down…barf…..Jeez is this loser SO pathethic he can’t even find another dweeb willing to play the OTHER half of the sandwich? What a fucking TOOL..
Uh oh…You’re getting tired and you’re sorta drunk, huh? OK…you can admit it..REALLY DRUNK.. That’s when you feel it. Something semi- hard but limp too, poking you right in the small of your back… Fuck! It’s that freak again, still trying……that’s OK girl…just shimmy away….there you go…now keep moving till you’re right about….THERE! move a little bit to the left…OK now you can hide behind that fat chick dancing in one place, shaking like jello…and wearing a OH MY GOD is that a Crop Top she’s squeezed into? But..come on, shit……You’ve never been SO happy to be behind a big behind in your life! Admit it…No shithead…don’t move…just …stay….right….here…
Look at him. He’s jerking around like a …jerk…looking everywhere for your ”fixins”. Ooops..better stay still… Damn…..Is that hot BEER BREATH you feel on the back of your neck? Crap…he’s right next to you…isn’t he? Well, no where else to dance off to now. Just slap his stupid hands away and make sure to keep a space between you..it’ll be fine…God, won’t they hurry it up and finish this God Damn song already? Shouldn’t it be about over? Stop bitching…didn’t you dream of this moment all freakin’ week? Hey look at it this way – now you can say you got to dance – or in your case, STUMBLE - to your song…
OK now….Yep…feels like it’s winding down…Glance at your watch…hmmm…that’s strange – it says it’s 1 a.m. right NOW. HUH? It was 1 a.m. an hour ago wasn’t it? Yeah, an hour ago if this was still FALL! Forget to set your clock back didn’t you? Whatever. Just close your eyes…and wait for the song to wind down..come on DJ wind the song down….OK don’t obsess on it just keep…moving with the beat. that’s it…..and keep moving with the beat…and moving.with the beat..and moving with the beat…and ..move…and the beats picking up….WHAT?
OH GOD DAMN! NO! This is the ONE HOUR extended “club” version of that song you couldn’t live without. …hahahaha…WHAT are the fucking odds of THAT happening tonite? And you still have 35 minutes to go - lucky girl. See? The DJ didn’t forget you after all, did he? He was just saving a special surprise for you till the end of the night. Whatever…I swear if that asshole doesn’t stop touching me with his …Oh, just suck it up girl! It’s all good, or it could be worse anyway…. Just keep that space between you ….No. Don’t dance off again…not a good idea…why? Well you got a sitch here…If you move any farther left Subway will be at optimum level to access your “toppings” – and if you shimmy RIGHT you’ll be front and center target for that girl who’s just about to puke on everyone within a 5 miles radius.
SO…
When you finally wake up in your own, THANK GOD, bed 15 hours later with that hangover and pieces of that weird dream you were having about a giant spastic salami in Wal*Mart pants trying to get you, you realize two things. You’ve lost a serious 5 pounds. And you never want to hear that fucked up song again…..
Posted in Uncategorized on November 9, 2009 by surveygirl46
NOTE: It occurs to me that I should put my disclaimer HERE instead of at the end of the this post. I have to warn anyone reading this – this is a post about ALZHEIMERS – a joke post. I am a supreme smartass and I actually talk to my Mom and Dad in the same tone this post is written in – and they love it – it’s me. But I wanted to let you know up front that this may be extremely offensive to some people who have a loved one with this disease – so I just wanted to say this: If you aren’t prepared to open your mind and laugh at the absurdity of the imperfection of the human body than leave now – FORGET ABOUT IT …Just like your loved one with Alzheimer’s would…
I haven’t really gone into any detail about any of my family members - not counting Todd of course - except to whine to you via post whenever they have the nerve to inconvenience or annoy me. But today I would like you to meet my Mom.
Say hello to Mom. .
My mother has always been the sweetest, and most insecure, mother on the planet. She would do anything for my sister and I because she genuinely loved us. She would also do anything for you (even if she just met you) because she wanted you to like her, but didn’t believe she was good enough to be liked for herself. It was funny, annoying and sad all at the same time.
I remember when I was 19 years old and still mooching off the parents at home, I ran into my mother one day as we passed each other in our cars on a small street in our neighborhood. We both stopped and pulled over to say hello, and I asked to see what she had bought at the mall. As she was showing me her old lady shoes and “mature woman” clothes, I noticed a new curling iron in a box on the back seat. For the sake of making conversation more than anything else, I exclaimed, “Oh you got a new curling iron, cool!” Immediately she insisted I take it and placed it in my hand – she wouldn’t take NO for answer. Ignoring the fact that she and everyone else were fully aware I hardly EVER curled my hair – or even combed it for that matter.
Hell, this was during the 80’s when long, extremely layered hair was left UNWASHED to allow the three days worth of hair product get thick enough to set the hair vice-ike in place until it was “ratted” out with a comb – keeping that glorious rat’s nest as huge as possible was the goal – no curling iron required. All I had to do in the morning was roll out of bed and make sure it was still messy enough to look like I had just been “rock star FUCKED” – and voila! I was good to go to work. But I took the curling iron anyway, that’s how I WAS – a brat used to being spoiled. Anyway, that incident sticks out in my mind as a testament to my mother’s sweet and sad puppy dog need for approval. And it makes me feel bad. I feel bad that she felt she always had to pay people to like her. It makes me feel especially bad that it didn’t occur to me at the time to use that knowledge and trick her into thinking she had to give me her 2 year old Lincoln Towne car she had gotten the year before – or I just wouldn’t like her anymore! Looking back I could kick myself – I KNOW I would have scored on that one for sure! Anyway, my mother has Alzheimers but it wasn’t diagnosed until last year. All of us had noticed she had been doing some whacko things lately, and getting bitchier over the years, but we just kind of put it down to the “I’m going to DIE SOON!” breakdown that hits all old people the moment they can no longer deny that time for them, is running out – that coupled with the knowledge that it’s too late to try most of the things they had always “meant to look into” someday, once the “kids are out of school and I have my life back again”. So knowing that life in many respects has passed them by and their tommorrows are numbered pisses them OFF! – and they sometimes throw temper tantrums in a sort of “Life envy” fit of rage - and it’s usually aimed at those of us who are yet marked for natural death anytime soon – and their spouses, who catch flak “just because”. So we all thought Mom was “just getting old, cranky and senile”. But this wasn’t the case. By this time, Mom had started to act REALLY crazy. For instance, one night she picked up a bunch of KFC at the drive through as she had invited my sister and her family for their routine Sunday night dinner at their house. Frequently these dinners would include my brother-in-laws random musician friends and any stray brazilian relatives that happened to be living at their house that week. On this particular night, I believe she had 4 extra people coming for dinner – all of whom she would be meeting for the first time that night. So it’s dinner time and my perfect hostess mother is serving up the food personally, as usual, one plate at a time. Everyone’s at the table just about ready to dig in and enjoy some getting -to- know- you family time, when my Mom suddenly realizes that the idiot teenage server at KFC has forgotten to put in honey packets for the biscuits. So out of the blue she raises the pepper shaker she’s holding and slams it down on the table and screams “DAMMMMMMN!” at the top of her lungs – showing her displeasure vocally at the God Damn inconvenience of the situation – and nearly succeeds in giving everyone coronaries. And that’s not normal behavior for my Mother.
There were other things too. Like forgetting her way home from the grocery store. Like attending her routine Wednesday hair appointment - then going beserk in the middle of her haircut and screeching at her hairdresser of 20 years – suddenly demanding to know WHO she IS, and what the HELL is she doing bending over her with scissors - and then trying to slap her. Yeah, it was things like that got her carted off to the doctor’s and diagnosed. And her bad behavior also cost her her driver’s license. Such is the way with Alzheimer’s patients – sad but it happens, right?
Then a couple of years ago she started telling people – family, perfect strangers and anyone else who would listen - that she had known Adolph Hitler. Here’s the skinny:
She met Hitler as a result of a months- long vacation she took with four girlfriends when they were RNs in Chicago. What astounds me is the fact she had the guts to hop that plane and fly off to Germany, ALREADY AN RN AT 13!(I did the math regarding the war years and the year she was born) to drink martinis – that she’s a minor is a minor detail and hobnob with the citizens of our nations’ then-number one adversary. And she did this all in the midst of the bloody action known as WWII. But the story gets better… Not only did she get to meet The Fuhruer in person, but when he heard she had just “shown up” for a drop-in visit on the steps of his governmental suite – Adolph dropped everything he was doing (probably important war plans to bomb the US capitol) and ran down the stairs like a man in love – and kissed her on the cheek, giving her a hug. And all the while they conversed in German - I guess she somehow was able to learn the language during her 18 hour flight from the US to Germany. But the story isn’t quite over yet.
After my mother tells this story (and she tells it a minimum of 100 times a day), she ends it with “you know, Hitler wasn’t as bad as people said he was – in fact he was a really nice person.” “I think they exaggerated a lot of what they said he did.” When she does this in front of strangers and their faces blanche, one of us will hasten to whisper “She’s CRAZY…” and make a circle with our finger at our ear – while the other distracts Mom so she doesn’t see.
Most of the people are very nice and understanding. They smile, nod and back off slowly before bolting in the opposite direction. There was one thing, though, about her Hitler story that nagged at me a little. Of course it’s obviously delusional on so many levels yet the way she tells it you can actually picture her there. With every repeat, and I mean EVERY TIME – she never wavers in a different direction from the original details or changes one iota of the subject matter. If you try to trip her up with a trick question she pops right back with the answer. Each detail of their trip, every description of people, the nazi marching parades and her dialogue with Hitler - is verbatim with the other thousands of times she’s told the tale. Then again, all she has is time on her hands to memorize it to perfection.
(By the way, My mom was saying for a while that she met Abraham Lincoln, but I guess she dropped him in favor of the more interesting Adolph). Anyway, I totally accepted her Alzheimer’s diagnosis – I had worked with AZ patients in the past – and her behaviors were typical of those with AZ. People get it all the time. Right? I was cool with it (but I don’t have to live with her 24/7). And I know where to get the resources to combat it, herbal alternatives to try to combat it and how to locate a trillion forums on the internet where you can garner support from each other – and of course, share Mother’s “I love Hitler” stories over a cyber-martini. All and all, my Dad was taking everything in stride - his denial of the situation finally beginning to wane.
In the beginning, he would say things like “If she would JUST vacuum the living room.” The vaccum’s standing right there in front her but it’s like she doesn’t see it!” Or my favorite, “You know, I need to tell you, your mother’s been running around wearing her bra on her head, I don’t know what’s gotten into that woman – its not some new fashion I don’t know about, is it?” (Oh Dad, so much denial involuntarily on the parts of the spouses of Alzheimer’s patients). So I would remind him again and again and again, (having worked with these patients for a number of years in the hospital) that it’s all a part of the disease process we talked about.
But over the last year and a half Dad’s continued to progress in his understanding of the disease. We talk about the inevitable and having to witness the process, and he admits that it’s hard to be a yet-healthy 82-year-old that could still go “anytime”, without having your spouse of 45 years decline faster and faster right in front of your face. But the normal anxiety and sadness aside, he’s been in his usual off-the-wall good humor (he’s the source from which MY humor was born) and he teases my mother about Hitler even when she’s not obsessing about her time with him.
If a commercial comes on adverting a book on WWII or PBS is running a WWII week of programs on the Nazi regime, he’ll pipe in with “Hey Jean, da fuhuer is looking for you – he was just on TV calling your name” and we’ll all crack up, even my Mother – while she’s answering him like he’s being 100% serious in his remarks. So I was proud of my old Dad. He’s lots of fun to be around in general, and impressed me with his proven ability to still be able to laugh in the face of one of life’s shitty little “Golden Years” jokes. But tonite I found somethingon an old laptop he gave me, and I’m a bit concerned. In fact, I’m starting to question this whole Alzheimer’s thing with my Mom. Is it the disease that’s making her imagine the whole Hitler saga? Or was it something or someone else? … I’ll explain.
My Dad’s old laptop is ancient enough to have been built before the birth of the ones with newer wireless capabilities, so Todd’s still trying to determine if it’s even a possibility I’ll be able to use it for the internet. So with my dream of endless internet surfings away from the distractions of Playstation 3 noise dying, I decided to break into the files it still had on the harddrive, and snoop around a bit.
After the obligatory two hour loading period the dinosaur insists on, I managed to access a weird word processing program I’d never heard of before. Scanning the files it contained, it appeared that it was a reasonable facisimile of Microsoft Word. All of a sudden a window popped up and asked me if I’d like to finish retrieving my “lost documents”. I was bored so I thought, what the hell – What’s another 2 hour “loading” period compared to the titillation of viewing one of my Dad’s bank statements or dry old accounting lists – I had the rest of the day to kill.
So the computer actually finishes loading the lost documents in the record time of ONE HOUR and then a list pops up with 6 items instead of the supposed one item – all for my viewing entertainment, at my leisure. The unopened documents are all unidentified but each is marked with a date in the 2001 to 2006 range. I click to expand the files and that’s when I see the titles my Dad has given each of them – complete with some personal notations he’s attached to each:
There’s:
Nazi Marches –‘play on continual loop’ 2/12/01
AND:
Hitler da Fuheur, Hitler my friend: – a personal account in detail by Olga Gottlieb, R.N. –‘play 3 times a day every day all year’ 3/08/2002
And this nostalgic tune: Songs for the patriotic German –‘play in background at dinner when it’s just us’– 9/27/03
And:The human side of the Nazi regime –’show on Saturday nights when falling asleep’ – 7/1/04
Oh yes, almost did’nt see this one:German for the beginner –’suggest as a necessity for our future trip to the Fatherland’ 4/19/05
and my personal Fave:
Stranger in a strange land: The dramatic story of Four friends decided to fly to Munich for vacation during WII –‘mention this a few times for mental stimulation’ 5/5/06
OK. I know what it looks like. But wait. My Dad has always been a HUGE war buff who loves to read all history. That would be common for someone who retired at 52 – having been a full bird in the air force for many years, right?
And every weekend without fail, no matter where we lived in the US – we’d be greeted in the morning with classical and opera; marching tunes, patriotic songs and the like – as my Dad made sour cream pancakes for all of us and conducted an invisible orchestra simultaneously. So these “file discoveries” are actually in the “scope” of where his historical interests lie.
But…
Then again, he was gone most of the our early years – away doing officer things, while my mother raised us and worked and never got a break. And over the years, especially after he retired and was home all the time – she often let him know throughout the day that she’s resented him for years. Of course now she SCREAMS her resentment at him, wherever they may be, due to her illness – but she never lets up.
And…
Constant harping gets old. Fast. And my Dad’s probably had quite a bit of time over the recent decade or so to become annoyed with my Mother’s “resentment” and may even harbor a bit of his own towards her. And I can understand. I mean, I love my Mom and all - don’t get me wrong. But I CAN understand.
So…
I can also understand if one day, he just thought to himself…Hmmm…Let’s give her a little something to keep her off MY ASS! Give him a break - he was probably just bored and needed a little diversion from the nightmare of her illness. And he needed to have a little well-deserved fun. Who can blame him? At any rate it’s kept Mom occupied.
(You don’t want to be around Mom when she has nothing to keep her busy, trust me)
I’ll ask him about it next weekend..maybe.
NOTE:( In case any of my family reads this, i have to cover my tracks) Everything in this post is pretty much true except for the “list” of my Dad’s. The ACTUAL list was two pages long and i discovered this is what made that computer so damn slow…
I’ve got big news! After helping so many others, Mr. Hankey’s time for fame is here! I’ll tell you the details in a moment. But first I just gotta say that we’re all SO proud of him!
I admit, I was one of his many friends who was against it when Mr. Hankey just decided to do that “brown” movie” out of the blue. I told him, “Hankey - This isn’t going to be like a Southpark episode, ya know. THIS is a totally different ballgame. You’re going to be doing a hole lot more than floating in and out of toilet bowls and popping out to say HiDEE HOOOO boys and girls! Merry Christmas! every 5 minutes.” ” I mean, sure the movie script I read looks kinda cute, corn-y in it’s own way, but they might just treat you like you’re a piece of shit and take advantage of your innocent nature!” “Did you ever stop to think about that?” Well Hankey just gave me a sweet chocolate smile and told me not to be so anal, he’d be just fine – so I shut up. And it turns out he knew what he was doing.
So anyway, on to the news!
“Mr. Hankey makes Booty calls” was such an overnight sensation at the Kitty Kat theatre last month that a national publishing house (Sorry, I can’t mention the name but it’s a big one!) caught the scent of Mr. Hankey’s rising star, interviewed him, and immediately signed him for a 5 year contract co-writing ‘advice and commentaries for men” in the field of relationships and dating in the millenium. They want him to co-write a couple of books with another writer, THEN they want him to write 3 of his own! Seems there’s a market for men out there who can’t seem to hook up with any quality ladies. We all know how hard it is to be single these days, but if anyone can help with advice for the lovelorn - it’s Mr. Hankey with his compassionate heart. He’d been gone for weeks before I heard anything from him. I knew he was working around the clock – co- writing, doing some filming, and posing for those Hollywood glam shots, and whatever else they had him doing. But I didn’t realize he’d be able to accomplish SO much in such a short period of time. Then late last night, I got an email from him telling me UPS would be dropping off a package for me tomorrow. He said I’d be very impressed with what it contained. Well, the package arrived at noon and I couldn’t wait to tear into it!
Well, it turns out not only has he been a busy little turd writing his advice for the lovelorn, but his work is absolutely brilliant! After you see the prototypes for some of his work, I know you’ll agree with me that Mr. Hankey is blessed with great talent. And throw in his natural love and compassion for his fellow-man and those lonely hearts will all be announcing their engagements to a nice girl in no time at all. Mr. Hankey is a saint!
Anyway, first things first. This is a copy of the an advertisement for the book he’s co-writing “How to pick up Chicks”. It’s that ”how-to” piece on successful love relationships for lonely men. It’s the one I was telling you about earlier. It comes out in January 2010 and I’m going to get the very first copy!
See? Look how they’ve linked back to his booty movie – those book agents are so smart! And by the title of the advertisement it looks like women just adore Mr. Hankey…
Now this is a copy of the cover of the actual book “How to pick up Chicks”…
See the publicity link to his movie again? (It’s 4th down on “Related Blogs”.) This is so exciting!!
But I saved the best for last. Here goes..
You all know that popular skin magazine Hustler?
Here’s a copy to refresh your memory, if you’ve forgotten.
Well there’s a NEW magazine coming out this Christmas, and it’s also put out by Hustler. However, it caters to a slightly more “exotic” crowd. AND –
And they’ve asked Mr. Hankey to be the very first cover story and cover model for their first issue! It’s a big big honor - just like being asked to pose for Playboy!
Doesn’t he photograph well?
HIDEE HO! Mr. Hankey’s making history and we’re all here to see it!
Member of Private Furr’s ANTI-INJUSTICE Maker’s burrow
“We start our work day promptly at 8 am, no excuses!!”
OK management, supervisors, and self-appointed Top Dawgs of EVERY office job I’ve ever held – I need to say this and get it off my chest – This “be here at 8 am” bullshit is BULLSHIT!
In fact, it’s one of the top 5 contenders on my list of unjust demands that one person is allowed to demand of another. Especially when that other person has to wake up even earlier at 6 am in order to make it to the stifling prison of the office at 8 am - in an effort to stay way under your radar and get through another miserable day. Do you think I want to hear it AGAIN from you? Do you think I yearn to see you in your “fat” dress lurking at the door? Your hair curled up like stupid little Jimmy Dean sausages due to that ridiculous perm that I hope for the sake of my vision is very temporary. I know you’re just WAITING for me to appear, right? So you can make yet ANOTHER example of my tardiness to the rest of my co-workers who are just as bored with this neverending broken record as I am. Do you think I look forward to the same old scene where you slowly shake your head while pointedly glancing at the wall clock, pausing dramatically as its second hand makes a homerun sweep past the 5 -second –after- 8 -am position - JUST as I’m skidding into my desk at 80 miles an hour at 8:00 and 15 seconds? Umpire what’s your call? She’s OUUUUUUT!
I’m tired of all the drama I go through every morning just to keep a job that’s starting to make me seriously consider becoming one of the local street people. People who aren’t only missing their teeth, but also rigid schedules, and who probably don’t remember HOW to tell time or even care if they recognize a wall clock again.
What a LOAD of injustical CRAP you dump on us (I as well as my brothers and sisters in work-slavery) with this ‘be here at 8 am every day’ nonsense. (Yeah, I know “injustical” isn’t in Webster’s dictionary yet, but I just made it up this very moment, so give it a few days)
And WHY 8 am? Why not 8:15? 8:10? Or even 8:01 am? What’s the untold story behind it? Will worlds collide and the heavens fall if 8 am isn’t successfully synchronized by every drone, every day? Do we prevent the coming of the anti-Christ by our mute and methodical obedience to this annoying hour?
Give me “THE” reason – that’s all I’m asking. The ONE reason that causes a light bulb to suddenly light up my brain cells and VOILA! I get it! It makes perfect sense! MAKE ME understand the logic behind this non-negotiable 8 am work doctrine. Present your argument, I’ll listen, I promise. But I have to tell you – the cards are stacked against you so far. Your redundant comment “that’s just our policy” is starting to stink like a 3 day visit from my in-laws.
What’s the use anyway? I already know I’ve gotten all I’m going to get from you explanation wise on this subject – but that’s OK. I’m quite happy to give you my opinion of the 8 am thing loud and clear.
First off it’s the pinning of my hell down to one specific hour FOREVER that bugs me. Did it ever occur to you that I’m only ONE of the billions of workers in California upon who this same demand is made by boring asswipes like you? And I’m not counting the demands made of us by you assholes in the other 51 states. So figure in Cali there are approximately 7 million or so of us stamped indelibly on the forehead with a “666″ satanic demand to be at the office at promptly 8 am every day – just like the rest of the drones. BORING…
Would it kill you to be different from the rest of the sheepherders for once? Give me one good reason you can’t stand apart from the crowd - be unique and jazz the “time thing” around a little? Like say – DEMAND we come in at 6:30 am, or PM? I’d go for that. I can have a life in between, even WITH little situations arising in my day. But you won’t. And I need to inform you that your “set in stone” passive conformity with all the rest is not only mind-deadening and sleep depriving to us – it’s also dangerous for everyone involved, including you. Why? Well consider this.
Every day 7 million suckers are focused on one thing and one thing only – we HAVE to be at our offices, seated at our desks at promptly 8 am to keep the job with “security” – the one that drains us of more life every day we’re forced like cattle to return to it. That’s 7 million of us who drive by ourselves or carpool. 7 million of us who all end up on the same roads together, at the same time every morning. All driving erratically and trying not to spill our coffee while attempting to block out last night’s shocker announcement by our previously college-bound daughter that there’s been a slight change in plans, Mom and Dad! Turns out she’s confirmed what she’s suspected for the last 5 years. She’s an alien from the planet Merknoid, and instead of San Jose State next month, she’ll be traveling invisibly to Boise, Idaho at 3 am this Tuesday morning to meet up with the space ship that’s scheduled to land in a corn field at 4:30 am earth time, to take her back to her real home. Sorry about the non-refundable first semester deposit Mom and Dad…or whoever you are.” ” Oh, that’s OK R2D2-ette; all that matters is that Mom be in her seat at the office by 8 a.m. tomorrow. Sorry I can’t stay up to say a long goodbye but be sure to say hi to your people from Dad and me, and have a safe trip!” So all that turmoil we feel when one of life’s unexpected but certain to happen little disasters happen just sits on our mental shelves. Gosh, it could actually be dealt with if we had but a little extra time to absorb, reflect and accept it. It could be marked off as complete and filed away. But instead it’s visibly gone, but not forgotten – all to make sure we accomplish our main purpose in life – which is to get to the job and be in our desks no later than 8 am every day. And because our problem hasn’t been dealt with, our minds drift back to it even as our feet accelerate on the gas pedal to make our cars go even faster – and that’s when accidents, big ones, happen- causing traffic jams that tie up the freeways for hours. Maybe the lucky ones get taken away to hospital or maybe just…away…The rest of us still have to face YOU.
Then there’s the question of why one human being would make such an asinine demand on another human being in the first place. All I’m able to discern from my unsuccessful quest for the Holy 8 am grail is this: You must have a sadistic need to see us lined up and sitting in a perfect row. Your little clique of office automatons – doing your bidding without question in your secret fantasy of power and intrigue. 10 or 12 of us – our eyes bright and alert, ears perked up, pencils in hand and poised, quivering, over our legal tablets, as we wait with bated breath for your next batch of pearls to fall upon our tender ears. What will you impart to us that we can’t live without knowing about this time, O great one? Shall it be the usual 45 minute “10 second staff meeting” to whine about “some of us forgetting” to sign up on the list you posted in the break room for our turn to clean the refrigerator on Fridays? Or will you this time be thrilling the masses with your recycled life-affirming informational essay on how drinking coffee at our desks is a no-no as it leaves rings on the ugly fake plastic wood (I call it plood) finish?
Well I have news for you. No one in the office “forgot” about the fridge clean up list. We just ignore it. And another thing, we don’t drink coffee at our desks….while you’re there anyway. However, the minute you leave the office for longer than 10 minutes we bring out the coffee, creamers and mugs, like we’re partying at Starbucks on someone else’s dime. And in my case, it’s not coffee that makes an appearance in my contraband mug, but Smirnoff Vodka. But my desk continues to be “ring free”. You won’t ever see a hint of a ring on MY desk.
BUT, I always take care to make sure that YOUR desk gets a few professional coats of vodka varnish – which I lovingly apply with your sweater or coat …whatever you have hanging in your office closet that day. Then I apply the ring end of the coffee mug I pilfered from my co-worker’s desk drawer when her back was turned. She won’t notice her “Worlds best Lesbian Grandma” mug is gone for at least another hour. And I make sure to push that cup ring REALLY hard into the thickening vodka varnish coating your desk , and I twist it in several different places – till there’s 5 or 6 perfect rings illuminating the cheesiness of Wal*marts finest example of office furniture - from their ”Pieces of Shit” collection. Then I return the cup to my co-worker’s drawer, my ass to my seat and it’s like I never even left my desk at all.
I figure since I can’t expect justice from someone like you – whose vocabulary doesn’t contain such a word – I have to invent my own. You’ll never look hard enough between the lines to investigate the molester of your fine plood furniture, or even question what the rest of us might have been up to for that matter – you’ll only notice us if we’re not at our desks every day at 8 a.m.
You're so evolved, you're not even here. Congratulations. These are people who are on their way to the next dimension and probably spend a lot of their time there already.
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Poodle with a mohawk…..:) Originally uploaded by Natashalatrasha I remember this from 1989. It brings back memories of Sunday afternoons spent stumbling around Old Sacramento, really buzzed on rot-gut Andre chamapagne from mexi-CANT brunch, tripping around with my boyfriendand trying not to fall through the slats in the wooden floor boards from 1846 (that […]
Aunty Social's Teabagging Network: This is a social network for bloggers who don’t mind humor and ribaldry of every type. This is not a network for the easily offended as we say what we want and post what we want - all in the name of humor as each of us sees fit. If you are easily offended please don’t knock on our door. If you like to have fun and are […]
And it’s gone! This is a clip from an extremely funny SouthPark episode from a couple months ago. And as always, we’re hearing the truth about the state of our country, (our world), through the wonders of a cartoon a lot of people don’t watch as they find it crass. Hmmm… Anyway, this is as sad as it is funny. Everything we used to have in America and tak […]
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I’ve got big news! After helping so many others, Mr. Hankey’s time for fame is here! I’ll tell you the details in a moment. But first I just gotta say that we’re all SO proud of him!
