Reasons NOT to join Match.com if you’re a woman

Meet Brad:

Match.com profile #1:

“Hi, I’m Brad. I’m a successful executive in the gaming industry.  Not only do I DESIGN the games for virtual online playing, I also market them all over the world!  I am into my health, I’m hygienic, and I believe in the sanctity of the body. I am looking for a woman who is sure of herself, believes in her own inner beauty, has a plan for the future, and is looking for a one on one relationship with a quality human being.  I love dogs, children and living life in general.  If this is you, I want to meet you as soon as possible!  All beautiful women of every size and shape are welcome to reply – I love them all!”

MISmatch.com #1 profile reality:

“My name really is Brad, I’m 26, and I live in my Grandmother’s basement.  I am into playstation 3 games, and I play them ALL day, while I’m telling that old bitch I’m online looking for a pizza delivery job.  I only WISH I had the talent to design the new arrivals, like Call of Duty, but SHIT! I can’t even spell my last name!  In fact, I don’t really even know what my last  name is. My Grandma justs keeps referring to my father as that “transvestite bastard”, and tells me…Carla, SHUT UP and quit asking questions!.  Anyway, I’m healthy enough to sack away a dozen donuts every morning and I even remember to take a shower once in awhile.  I am looking for a woman – ANY WOMAN – to get with me so we can “go steady”  I don’t have much experience in the intimacy department- except for that time with my grandmother’s poodle Coco, but then he ran away. (Kids don’t like for some reason, but I can’t put my finger on it!) Please, ANYONE! Call me! as you can see I LOVE breasts and have my own! So, even if yours aren’t so great, we can kill time playing with mine!  Hope to hear from you soon!

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The postman always rings (the panic button) at least twice…

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We’ve all experienced the JOYS of certain little inconveniences meted out by those in the “public service sector”: the fat DMV worker wearing Wal*Mart stretch pants and day-glo shimmer pink nail polish, who bathes you in rancid coffee breath as  she informs you of all the additional “fees” you now owe the DMV in order to get your 1971 Ford Pinto registered; the pimply face McDonald employee who makes you late for work every morning by holding you up in line as he slooooowly counts his money drawer 5 times, yet still manages to get your order for coffee wrong; that one special teller at your bank who should be held up at gunpoint and pistol whipped in the face based soley on principal, and of course one or two of the lovely people who make up the employee population at the Post Office. 

After our experiences with OUR local post office spanning a period of almost a month, I now understand the term “going postal” , and why some of us may have no choice but to give in to its siren call. (Or maybe I’m just justifying Todd’s reactive behavior…you be the judge). 

THE SAGA OF TODD AND THE POST OFFICE – A PlAY IN THREE POSTS

Part One: For Whom the Bell Tolls..

It’ a beautiful day in the Gangsta Hood, and for once the bullets over Broadway can’t be heard so  Let’s Go Get Our Mailbox Key!  Since I’m out-of-town this day, Todd decides to take on this task even though it means taking a risk of getting run over by the NASCAR race of endless Black and Whites that speed down our street from 3 am to 5 pm, eradicating every living thing that gets in their way as they head to The Donut Ranch for that one last jelly crueller and cup of Joe before heading back to a bottle of whiskey and a bitchy spouse.  Thankful with their cut from a stash of really good street dope that helps blurr the red pill vision of their home lives.

Anyway, the destination is less than  2 blocks from our cinderblock drive- by  target, and since we’ve been expecting a check for the last 2 days, Todd and the Fluffster head out in the badass Mustang for a pleasant little visit to our friendly neighborhood post office – proof of residency documents in hand. 

Once there, Todd stumbles over a panhandler who’s set up a kind of  hopeful “toll booth” at the post office door, and takes his place at the end of  the line behind a mustachioed, portly gentleman in curlers and a Wal*Mart flowered moo moo who’s muttering to himself about Crisco. So far there’s only one postal clerk on duty (cutbacks? union breaks? who knows) but since there’s only 5 or 6 people in line before him, he figures it could be worse.

One by one the people are called up in traffic court-like fashion to be assisted in a painfully sloooow manner by the same one clerk.  The barely-moving dream state atmosphere is greatly enchanced by the autistic-like behavior of the one clerk – who takes “time outs” in between helping each customers to adjust underwear that’s crawled into his butt crack and then  inspect what he’s found there,  check the ink on his time stamp and compare it’s quality with a sample stamped on a change of address card from a previous day, and of course, count his drawer money again and again in the true fast food OCD tradition that has  made so many pimply-faced grease flippers so annoyingly memorable.   

Finally a creaky voice calls out “neeeeext” and Todd comes face to face with  the clerk.  A circus-quality “smidge”  of a man (about 4 11′), who’s uptight and cranky – due to either his chaffed butt crack or because he’s still pissed off at being forced yearly into the role of  “lollipop kid” in the Post Office annual Summer Fest employee version of the Wizard of Oz.  “Can I help you?” asks the man, like his heart really isn’t into it. Todd explains we just moved here and need to pick up our mailbox  key, AND he’s brought the proper residency-establishing documents!

“OK, says the bored federal smurf, here’s a list of requirements you need to fill, then I need $30 in a check or money order and THEN it’ll take about 7 days”.   He hands Todd a pre-printed list but Todd ignores it – he’s still stuck on two things only- “$30 dollars”  and “7 days”.  “For WHAT?”, my proper victorian gentleman asks, a bit loudly.  “For The…. Key… To..Be…Made..” the minute man explains in a Can-You-Believe-This-Moron tone of voice.

“No, that won’t do – we have to pay bills and we’ve already changed our address!” “I have the $30 for you, but there’s one problem – it’s in MY MAILBOX and won’t be available for SEVEN DAYS! Why 7 days? Did you misplace the key? Does the Union allow you 7 DAYS TO DIG THAT FAR UP IN YOUR ASS TO FIND IT?  Hint…It’s probably kitty corner to the gerbil you haven’t been able to find since last Christmas” 

“Try Crisco, yeah, Crisco”,  mutters Moo Moo man, who never left the post office after his turn in line.  He’s leaning up against a wall being a spectator, adjusting his Moo Moo hem and making himself at home.

“WTF?!! No one can help me out here?” At the last part of WTF (the F part) Todd literally hears bells go off. At the back of his mind he’s thinking ‘either it’s time for another bi-hourly Union mandated employee break or there’s a robbery in progress here and I’m gonna see some SHIT go down now!’

Then he notices Billy Barty has a frozen deadpan expression on his face and not only has his right hand disappeared behind the service counter, but the muscles in his forearm are bunched up and twitching like he’s by himself on a rainy Saturday, just he and a batch of clown porn. 

FOR WHOM DOES THE BELL TOLL? In a flash Todd realizes the bell is tolling for Todd.

Since Todd doesn’ t have the $30 in order to begin the postal’s anal cavity investigation for his mailbox key, he bravely decides to return to fight another day – and leaves while things are still friendly and he’s still cuffless.

Sneaking out the door Todd whispers “Try Karo syrup instead of Crisco”, to Wal*Mart Curler Man who’s STILL at the Post Office and standing back in line again.   “Crisco!” the man smiles exurberantly, like he can’t believe he didn’t think of that before!

As Todd unlocks the Mustang he realizes that Fluffy’s earlier request for an open window had nothing to do with needing air, but played  the escape route in his planned disertion of his appointed post as faithful driving companion.  “Where the FUCK is my dog?” Todd yells at the panhandling toll-booth keeper, who’s swaying way too close to the car to be completely ignorant in his knowledge of the whereabouts of Fluff.  “You mean tha’ dog o’er there?” slur/burps the panhandler.  Todd looks around and there is the Fluffster, waiting patiently for Todd at the door of the  neighboring establishment “Sticky Pricky Love You Long Time Massage Parlor”.

“Fluff!” LOAD UP!”  Fluffy comes running over joyfully and leaps into the car for a ride his next adventure. Ignoring the angry cries of “Hey DOG!  You owe my girl $25!” from the Massage Parlor Madam who’s at the door shaking a fist, Todd shakes his head at Fluffy and drives off, thoughts on making alternative plans to free our hostage check.  He leaves a polite little note in the mail slot for the postman to find the next day.

At 11 am Friday morning, our street’s postman delivers our mail personally to our residence. He asks how our newborn is doing and recommends a couple of price-friendly, low-fatality,  grocery stores in the area.  Todd says “Fluffy is fine and thriving!” and thanks a confused-looking Mr. McFeely for his help.
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And…our check is there in the mail. Todd discards the bills into the trash and kisses the check! We’re saved for a moment….BUT the saga continues in Chapter 2.  Stay tuned….

 

TODD’S HINT FOR THE UPROOTED CLUELESS:   “When you move and don’t want to deal with the bureaucratic red tape 2 to 3 “business days” to establish or transfer services – SMUD, PHONE, CABLE, PG&E (whatever.. except the Post Office apparently)  – tell the rep you speak with you had to move, you have a newborn, you NEED electricity AND CABLE as your job is done via the internet.  Also throw in you have no transportation and no food and don’t know what to do.  The service rep stops hearing anything after the word “newborn” and will go to great lengths to help your fictictious “little one” grow up to be a healthy pain in the asses of it’s parent’s as it strives to be “all it can be” in it’s contribution to the drain on society…”

STOOPID INFOMMERCIALS THAT MAKE ME SICK…

This is a post from when I very first started blogging… I saw this infomerical again last night, and it reminded me of why I don’t watch TV that late anymore LOL

 

INFOMMERCIALS THAT ARE TOO STUPID TO FATHOM YET THERE’S A MARKET!!??…

ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW IS:  

 

 

THIS……….

PLUS THIS……………..

PLUS EVEN THIS……

WILL NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER…..

EQUAL THIS…….

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I was falling asleep after a glass of wine (ok – passing out after a bottle as is my evening custom) the other nite to the mindless drivel on TV; why I had it on that late (or early if you want to split hairs – 4:30 am OK????), was anyone’s guess. I had long ago given up hope of being able to find that late, anything spiritually soothing, like South Park, to help rock me to sleep in my drunken stooper. But hearing the start of something hilariously idiotic that wasn’t a spoof but should’ve been, caused me to sit up straight in a stone cold sober moment of clarity! (NO, it was’nt “I should give up drinking”, sorry)

It was the infommercial for the NEW Kymaro BodyShaper and it was claiming that all a fat woman had to do was put this on under her clothes, put said clothes back on, VOILA! instantly up to 4 INCHES of ugly fat bulges and rolls were magically smoothed away.

It was then, while hearing the claim, that I finally realized my purpose for this day/nite. I was MEANT to view it, Judge IT! and publish my insulting comments and one-sided personal views of the udder (yes pun) stoopidity, of not only the purveyors of this crap, but also the rather naive, large consumers, happily answering interview questions about their weight and body image, while being pushed and yanked until they were finally tightly trussed up into their very own personal walking body bags (toe tag NOT included).

Now, I caught on right away that the KyJOKEO Body Shaper was just a Super Long and Extra Stretchy version of the old-fashioned girdle that women had been donning since the 1940’s. Almost a badge of honor, the girdle marked a woman’s transition from firm-muscled, smooth fleshed cheerful girlhood, which always starts out with such hope! into the often decades-long final agonizing role before her death, the one called Lucky Gal! – Everything she never wanted for the rest of her days, plus absolutely free of charge – Proper husband I can’t stand, six ungrateful brats I never wanted, it’s OVER for me, shoulda screwed that fine James Dean lookalike my senior year, gonna drink whiskey starting at 10 am, gonna eat, and eat and eat and drink, gonna sit and watch TV whenever the assholes are out of the house, till its just me, my food and my fat from now on, and oh yeah, my girdle, cause, Damn, sometimes I’m going to have to stuff it in and attend those stupid family gatherings.

Now then, the part of the GyroeatMORO infommercial that made me sit up and take notice is when one light-hearted heavy gal stated gleefully that her husband just could’nt STOP taking second looks at her when she was in her new bodyshaper!! Now, you can pull the wool over the eyes of some guys about some things. “Like honey, the cat must have eaten the tv remote! I swear, have you seen it’s fangs lately? and the amount of food it’s been sneaking from the dog’s bowl? The dog is scared.. and thin! ” ..Ok, maybe hubby could buy that. But do you think for one moment that when it comes to his 400 lb wifey, who that very day had to slide with difficulty through doorways in three public places they visited, that his thoughts were of newfound lust for his suddenly slender and light-as-air goddess? The same one who had only been getting fatter since god damn Crispy Kreme opened up across the street last year?

Or more to the point, do you think his thoughts might be anchoring on where he would be standing in ratio to the position of his queen, when her KyaHOLDNOMORO Body Shaper body binding finally split open after getting tighter and tighter during a few more donut eatoramas. Those previously tightly compressed rolls and bulges suddenly springing forth at the speed of light, making wet squishy noises like an exploding vat of rotten pudding, decimating everything and everyone in it’s path, the G forces causing the weight of the subject to double in density and become a deadly unnatural disaster.

Yeah, i think that’s hitting the proverbial nail on the head…I have found that when someone keeps glancing at you and then away repeatedly they are usually pondering a confusing conundrum involving you, and sex surprisingly isn’t in the equation for once. My ex-husband did that quite often before we split.

The solution I’ve come up with is very simple in it’s design and I’ve practiced it myself most of my life…

Put the donuts, cake, pizza, lasagne, cookies, chips, small asian man, whatever down, and back away slowly….

YOUBEDISSED-CLAIMER: AS USUSAL AFTER I POST SOMETHING THAT TOTALLY MAKES ME LAUGH I REALIZE LATER THAT IT IS PROBABLY GOING TO BE CONSIDERED HIGHLY INSULTING TO SOME READERS. HOWEVER, BECAUSE OF MY NEED AND LOVE TO LAUGH AT EVERYTHING AND ANYTHING MORE THAN EVEN BREATHING, AND THE FACT THAT I HAVE LOTS OF PERSONAL STUPID GERBIL THINGS I’VE DONE AND TURNED INTO MATERIAL THAT I SPEW FORTH GLADLY ON MYSELF, I HAVE NO FEELINGS OF REMORSE IN IGNORING THE IDIOTIC POLITICALLY CORRECT DRIVEL FORCED UPON ME BY A SOCIETY THAT WANTS TO MAKE SURE THAT NO ONE EVER CRACKS A SMILE AGAIN.

BESIDES, IF YOU WERE ONE OF THOSE LADIES THAT ACTUALLY CONSENTED TO BE IN THAT HUMILIATION OF AN INFOMMERCIAL AND AGREED TO PUBLICLY WEAR ONE OF THOSE GARMENTS ON TV, THEN YOU HAVE TO KNOW HOW RIDICULOUS IT LOOKED AND HOW FUNNY IT IS FOR SOMEONE LIKE ME TO BAG ON IT.