FACEBOOK: To de-friend, perchance to block


With modern technology the way it is, there is a whole new way to tell someone you used to be friend’s, or lover’s with, to go fuck themselves.

It’s sneaky and covert, and all it takes is a click of a button to oust that person from your public life forum!

It’s happened to me several times already.

Some were former “partiers” I knew in high school, who, having found Jesus late in life, decided that I was a sinner who wasn’t worth having as a friend because they read some risqué quote on my wall. Others were former co-workers that were cutting down their lists and must have decided that we had nothing to say to each other (which was probably true when I worked with them as well – as boring now as they were then). An ex boyfriend whom I broke up with – that makes sense. Once, even my own sister because we had a disagreement about my lifestyle.

Although I sometimes scratch my head and wonder why a certain person all of a sudden decides I’m not friend material, I usually don’t give a crap when I see I’ve been deleted.  After all, it gets tiring trying to come up with cute, yet supportive comments for someone’s ongoing posts regarding their chronic halitosis, and if I no longer have to participate in shit that I could care less about, so much the better.

I too, have ousted people from my list, but for good reason. So far, these people have been psychopathic men who kept sending me suggestive messages, even when they knew I was seeing someone. (Hard to miss because I posted my relationship on my wall!)

But when I oust someone, I choose to block them. I do this for a couple of reasons. First, if you simply “de-friend” someone, you run the risk of them messaging you asking why you de-friended them. I HATE confrontations, and if some loser I ousted doesn’t realize that I was getting sick of his “I know you want me” messages, then I am not going to waste my time cluing him in.

Secondly, there will be none of this “friend/de-friend/friend” drama for me. If I block you from my page, it is an absolute certainty that I have decided we will be having no more conversations in the future, and therefore, I am willing to let you go completely.

I have seen so many cases of “rational” grown-ups who choose to have an “on-again/off-again” face book friendship with people they share nothing but a passive-aggressive relationship with – and it’s retarded!

In my opinion, if you don’t like each other enough to work through your issues without the assistance of the add/delete button, then you really aren’t friends to begin with, are you?

So, have fun with your chronic halitosis updates and  your lewd suggestive messages, I WON’T be seeing you!


A new Face Book Crap Gift for the religious types

This is for all those religious types that have Face Book pages and want to join the rest of us sinners sending Crap Gifts, but can’t.

Those certain holier than thou types who are  unable to even entertain the horrific thought of sending dead fish, an STD lip, or even a sock puppet to someone on their friends list,  as it goes against their RELIGION –  and all that is Holy.

The ones who somehow know that if they  participate the  normal way, they’ll be going to hell with the rest of us sinners.  And we can’t have that, can we?

But it isn’t really fair to leave them out of the fun of Crap gifts, is it?

No, it’s not. So, I have come up with an idea to combine the Crap Gifts of we common sinners with the piousness of those who love and follow our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ – and ram it down the throats of the rest of us, DAY after DAY after DAY…. 

And, I do this from the heart -  so all the Jimmy Swaggert, Al Sharptons, and  Tammy Faye Baker-wannabees can participate in sending crap gifts in their own personal – and Holy – sort of way, without fear of a firey brimstone retribution when they die.  (That is for the REST of us to bare…). 

So, without further ado, I give you the …..

HOLY CRAP! crap gift… 


What do you think? Will it fly at Church Bingo?

Jesus, hellbound, bills, dementia and farts

You fucked up AGAIN!

Last night, I suddenly got teary over a memory of how my parents would take us kids to Baskin Robbins for ice cream every week on Sunday, after dinner.  Sweet yes, but they had an agenda.

They were trying to make up for forcing Cheryl and I to go to Sunday School – EVERY SUNDAY – without fail, where we had to sit out an hour dressed in scratchy clothes and too tight tights to learn about Jesus,  sing songs to praise him, and to hear the breaking news the day after we’d already comitted the latest childhood sin to be put on the list of  unforgivables that guaranteed the the perpetrators hellbound status when he died. 

And Sundays did go on forever.   After this torture was over, we were driven like devastated cattle to the slaughter and  forced to sit with the grown ups who didn’t seem all that concerned about hell, and in fact snored, farted, slept, and burped during the the pastor’s lecture – and then woke up long enough to sing out of tune to the endless songs of praise they tried to fool us into beliving they knew by heart.   And this  occurred in between the stern lecture of an angry pastor who tried to convince us that Yes, Jesus loves us – and no, he didn’t WANT to send any of us to hell – but how could he do anything BUT – when all of us continued to disappoint him every minute of every day?  

We kids would finally be put out of our misery when the collection plate got to us, and each of us put our whole weeks’s allowances in it –  hoping that our buck fifty’s would somehow cause Jesus to change his mind about sending us kids to hell – but we weren’t optimistic about the outcome.

And, of course after that weekly reminder of doom,  neither Cheryl nor I was in the mood to watch the Wonderful World of Disney hour  – the show that signaled the end of the weekend,  and the start of another week of school and eating paste with boogers in it.

So I guess I would have to say that taking  two future hell bound occupants to Baskin Robbins to get their minds off their fates, wasn’t too high a price to ask . But anyway, I digresss.

I called my Dad to tell him that I loved he and Mom, and to thank them for being the best parents in the world – I swear that was my only intention.  But as soon as my Dad answered the phone he started in on how the cable company had sent my bill to their house and I was being cut off on July 9th if I didn’t come up with $100. Next came my auto insurance cancellation notice, and did I know my tags were expired on my broken down Mustang in the driveway? How were Todd and I going to pay our rent? Also, there was a bill from the phone company, did I know that I had to pay 98 dollars by the 10th, or else…..dial tone?

Trying not to cry, I gave up playing dutiful daughter and told him the rest of it. The bank fees that kept accruing even after I dumped my last unemployment check for $76 to cover the SEVEN CENTS I was overdrawn on, and then finding out that they were charging me $35 because I didn’t put it in the day of the withdrawal, which then caused me to bounce a check. The fact that we didn’t have rent, and Todd was sick again from worrying over bills. I told him about how we each had at least 17 job applications a piece floating around online, that no one had responded to. Oh, and our electricity bill that doubled because they charged us a DEPOSIT for a mistake THEY MADE the month before by taking our payment out of the wrong debit card. I told him about how I found out unemployment was over the day I applied to go to school. How I was out of cigarettes and had drank my last sip of wine the night before. How everyone in the neighborhood who had been our best friends when we had money, were now no where around to pay us even a dollar back of what they owed us. Hell, I let it all out.

After sympathysing with me, he told me my mother wanted to say hello. I got all ready to tell her how wonderful I always thought she was and how much I loved her, and said Hello Mom. She says to me, Well, Lisa! How nice of you to call. It sounds like everything is going so much better for you!  I’m so glad!  

I wanted to laugh out loud and almost did – but then for the grand finale to a perfect day, I didn’t realize  I was laying with my face right next the Fluffy’s ass until the second after he farted in it.   So, I called it a night and went to sleep.

A brief commentary on some search words that brought HERPES visitors to my blog

My search engine terms from today 6/23/10

I  want to make just a brief commentary on some of the search terms that people are using  that subsequently land them on my blog. I think they all tie into our nations new obsession – and yes, crazy love – with herpes.  Here are my favorites as I see them:

GENITAL HERPES IN WOMEN – Now, I don’t know if this is a female person who truly wants to find out about her predicament – or if this is a person who’s LOOKING for a female with genital herpes. And, I really don’t want to think about it beyond this mention.

BLACK ASS – At first glance, this key word item looks like someone was looking for a porn site, and ended up here by mistake.  But upon closer reflection, I’m wondering if the BLACK ASS isn’t a result of a combination of the above terms .


Genital herpes + pubic lice + genital herpes in women +  pubic crabs = BLACK ASS (What do you think?)

Now MILD GENITAL HERPES is certainly a more optimistic search term than just GENITAL SORES, isn’t it? Could you imagine the “love connection” dating site intro:

Hi, My name is Tina. I  have herpes, HOWEVER, I would just like to say it’s MILD genital herpes. I swear, it’s SO light, you won’t even notice.  How about giving me a try? I will send pictures upon request.  I’m just itching to meet you! Toodles!

Now, maybe Tina should  hook up with the person looking for WOMEN HERPES GENITAL PICTURE because this person really seems interested in seeing them – I mean, he or she, went to all the trouble to hunt them down, right? But I don’t get what GENITAL HERPES PICTURES ON WOMEN means, do you? The closest thing I can come up with is that it’s one of the “niche fetishes”, where a secret click of horny men – or women – want to glue GENITAL HERPES PICTURES on a woman, and masturbate to them. But do they want the picture wearer to be WITH or  WITHOUT clothes?

GENITAL HERPES ON FACE? OK, Tina isn’t that pathethic, there’s actually someone out there who is broken out with STD ACNE! And it’s probably NOT mild. In fact, she – or he – is probably also dealing with PUBIC FAT. Now THERE is a person who will be living with Mom and Dad for a few years out of high school.

And, what about GENITAL UCUK? Do Russian people have this obsession with the itchy vaginal netherworld too?

Is South Park and it’s gone, some poor infected asshole’s (pun? perhaps) way of trying to use that “Wizard of Oz” move?   You know – click 3 times and say “there’s no place like home” and then voila! You’re home again. So maybe this guy watches episodes of South Park – naked from the waist down – then, as soon as the credits start rolling, closes his eyes, says “abracadabra, and it’s gone!” – and then peeks hopefully at the offending critter infested parts below. But we all know what happens, don’t we?  For all his optimistic enthusiasm, what he sees when he opens his eyes is that – ALAS  it’s NOT gone.

And my favorite (near the end) – Someone in cyber land is interested in fucking an UGLY VAGINA with a VINTAGE DILDO.  However it appears they’re having trouble finding the real thing, because they’re actually thinking of using an old Aunt Jemima bottle.  But FIRST, they want to know OLD AUNT JEMIMA BOTTLES VALUE before they stupidly commit to that “ugly vagina” and end up ruining an irreplaceable antique on a bad piece of poon tang!

I have to be in the office and at my desk by 8 AM every DAY?..(That’s INJUSTICE!)

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.


Mr Hanky makes booty calls…

Coming to the KittyKat Theatre on November 1st, 2009…It’s Mr. Hanky as you’ve never seen him before! (and probably wouldn’t want to see him again…)



“You can flush the SHIT out of Mr. Hanky, but he never gets backed up! 

Just you, me and our STD


Ya know – since DWD (Dating with Diseases) is all “a-flame” lately,  local businesses, and hopeful future entrepreneurs as well,  could really up their earning potentials or start a successful business even in the midst of these tough economic times. 

Think about it.  People with “extras” have dating sites that cater to those who wish to meet others with the same specific physiological  “squatter” as they.  Plus there’s dating sites that are a free for all; just one big crab feast! Pot luck! Varieties welcome…Since people are openly swarming to these social venues and we KNOW they have the ITCH to connect with a special someone –  what about businesses that specialize in the romance portion of a couple’s getting-to-know-and-scratch-you relationship?  

Romance is especially important to the fairer sex, as we all know.  And all women LOVE flowers.  So how about a 1 800 flower shipping service center – created especially for those with louse-y histories?

BEHOLD the first prototype:










OK OK…maybe I’m going a little overboard with the photoshopping….but these are the best pictures I’ve EVER TAKEN…


Save (Mart) yourself a trip if your looking for convenience…(or courtesy)

DISCLAIMER NOTE: With the exception of a few of the assistant mangers at my local store,  I have always found the employees at  Save Mart food chain to be pleasant and very helpful.  This is really just a few people that I have run into. So please, if you’re reading this and you happen to be employed by Save Mart, take it as it’s meant – a saracastic yet truthful post on just  a type of person you’ve probably worked with,  if not there, then at some other place of business.     If you’re reading this and you recognize yourself – SHAME ON YOU, YOU NAZIs!!





Things that piss me off. Let’s start with Save Mart. Witness what their logo statement would profess IF the corporation were to be truthful, which no corporation is, especially these days.


 Look, I know the personnel working in grocery stores have nothing to do with writing policies and protocol.  I know they’re just following the rules as dictated to them by their upper management.  It’s usually nothing personal.  But my neighborhood Save Mart grocery store sure seems to have hired  an overabundance of fat and sloppy, pasty faced, yellow-toothed unattractive female assistant managers who act super pissed off every time they’re interrupted from their frequent bathroom breaks to authorize courtesies for customers – courtesies that used to be the rule instead of the exception. 

And we’ve all seen these types of “management” gals in action – a surly lot normally, who only seem to smile like they really mean it when they’re telling you what you don’t want to hear at the most inconvenient time.  

Just some quick background as it adds to my outrage: Todd and I have shopped at this particular Save Mart for over a year, and many of the personnel know us by name or at least recognize us to say hello to.  A couple of the young female courtesy clerks consider me an older confidant of sorts, and seek me out whenever I’m there to relay their latest parent and boyfriend woes.  Two of the checkers are massage clients of mine and have been to my home.  And last night was the straw that broke the camels back.  Here’s  the  story leading up to the broken back of the camel:

Back in June, someone got a hold of my checking account number and ran up over $500 at WalMart and Walgreens.  I had to cancel my bank accounts and was issued some temporary checks that had no personal information other than my new account number on the bottom.  And the checks (there were 10 of them) were numbered 1 – 10.  Since I had to wait 7 – 10 business days for my new ATM card to arrive, and it was Saturday after banking hours I had no way of getting any cash, so I decided to use one of my checks for grocery shopping at Save Mart.  After an hour of rummaging through items that all looked pretty pricey to me, including dog food, I spent another 45 minutes in a long line while the assistant manager “Tammy”, a short fat grumpy mess of a woman,  pissed off at having to play a lowly  “CHECKER”,  hurries customers through the checkout like she’s marking cattle for the slaughter (or maybe like Hitler sizing up  victims for the next round of  “showers”.)

When it’s my turn, she rings up my purchases quickly without making eye contact, then barks “$74.80, please.”  I pull out my checkbook and license and start to write my name and license number on a check.  Suddenly she announces LOUDLY,  “Excuse me MAM – We can’t take temporary checks here, it’s against policy!”  “OK, next customer please!”  You can see that getting to say this to someone is making her day.


When I try to tell her a digest version of WHY I’m using a temporary check in the first place, and add the fact that I’m a regular customer here, she cuts me off with “I don’t need to know your life story MAM. Policy is We Just Don’t Take Temporary Checks”.  So now a bit irritated I apologize to the line of people behind me, and ask to speak to her supervisor.  She waddles off mumbling”SHIT!” and comes back with an equally pissy, grayer and fatter version of her unhappy self.

“What seems to be the trouble, Mam?” this crab says in a barely civilized tone.  I run through the same story again, faster this time as not to waste her time (I know it takes a LOT of concentration to pop each zit perfectly in the limited space of the bathroom mirror and only 8 hours in the  work day).  I also add that half  the employees on the clock right now KNOW me by name,  and the fact that I have NEVER bounced a check! (Not in a few years anyway).  She looks at me, annoyed and SIGHS a BIG HEAVY OVERBURDENED sigh and says “Sorry, that’s just our store policy” and walks off.  Now I’m on the verge of tears because I have no way to buy food till Monday at 9 a.m. So in front of the 20 people in line who have heard the whole exchange, I do just that and storm off to the parking lot – peeling out of there in my mustang and making a vow to NEVER shop there again. A vow I break  two weeks later when I need to throw an impromptu dinner together for one of our friends and Save Mart is the closest store to our apartment. 


The second event goes something like this:

I’m in the self-checkout and realize that Todd has my ATM card but LUCKILY I have my checkbook!  And even better, the checks are the actual bonafide, all inclusive informatory documents that contain my name and demographics as well as bank information.  My check, the sacrificial VIRGIN check, is number 157.  At the checkout point, I start to write it for the exact amount until I realize both of our vehicles are running on empty and I write it for it for $40.00 over the amount instead.  Well, of course the nice little checker CAN’T authorize my check overage request without a MANAGER’S approval…(Of course, how could I be SO stupid as to forget that?) So I wait with baited breath for the grotesque Tammy, or her equally grotesque older clone,  to coming thundering over.  But instead, it’s a nice looking hispanic lady who looks to have a pleasant personality.  I think maybe I got lucky and will be dealing with a person happy enough with her lot in life not to feel the need to take it out on the customers, but I’m wrong.

Like a nazi war pig she circles me slowly and looks at the check with the printed information on it. “She wants $40”, says the cute young checker.  “NO! I can’t authorize $40! $25 only and HAVE YOU WRITTEN A CHECK HERE BEFORE?”  I almost smart off with, “Well, I tried to but it seems Tammy didn’t like the color scheme or design of my checks”, – but I need the cash so I say only, “Of course, many times.  Would you like to see some I.D.?”  She’s about to put a strong bitch- whammy on me when one of my little courtesy clerk pals comes up to her and says, “This is one of our best customers, give her the $40”.  Winks at me, and walks off.  Surprisingly enough, NWP montones “Fine” and slithers off to instead destroy the “cash on hand” dreams of other hapless customers.  This time I don’t cry.

So after this incident, I figure I’ve done my time at Save Mart as far as being singled out for “checksnubbery”.  In fact, two days ago I actually wrote a check there for $25 over the amount and the whole experience was pleasantly boring and hudrum, like the everyday occurrence it used to be.  The check number I use is 158.  So I figure I’m home free.  (Oh yea of little knowledge in the powers of ASSHOLES…)

Event 3:

After a stressful week of finally getting a place that will take Fluffy, pit or no, and stuffing things into boxes, I find I’ve packed the bread and condiments, along with my ATM and bank transcipts, into a box already transported 10 miles away to our new digs.  So again I have to write a check.  This time the check number is 159.  (I even write in sequence! I’m that careful…)

Of course I’m in a hurry as we have one more trip to make to the new place  before crashing for the night.  I go through self check and write a check for the amount due, only to have the checker tell me, “Sorry, she (whoever SHE is) shut down my till already so I can’t take checks here, you’ll have to wait in line”.  I assure her that’s fine and run over to the only line open.  Taking  my place behind a slow moving line of 10 people with loaded grocery carts, I tell myself to be patient as nothing can be done on my end to speed it along. 

However, when I’m third in line from the check out, the two persons with loaded carts ahead of me graciously allow me to go ahead of them – seeing I was carrying only bread and milk.  Thanking them profusely, I approach the checker and tell her what’s happened at the self-check.  That  takes 20  minutes while she calls the girl over and pummels her with questions about why she wasn’t taking checks from customers. Feeling the heat of the crowd behind me, I mouth ” sorry” and shrug my shoulders. They’re a pretty nice bunch and all but one smiles back. The diatribe between clerks finally finished, my checker reads me the total and I write the check.  She runs it through and is about to hand me the receipt but instead gasps! “Oh no, we can’t accept this check!”  “What?”!!!  I tell her it’s a Wells Fargo check with my name, bank account blah blah blah.  She cuts me off to explain that the problem is the check NUMBER.  Their policy is to refuse any check that isn’t numbered 200 or over.  What?!!!!!!

 I counter back with my usual apologies to the crowd behind me, keep reiterating my disbelief in what I just heard, and ask to see her manager.  Who is another zombie washed out grump; although this one has the start of a faint gleam to her eyes – most likely at the unexpected pleasure of having the personal opportunity to ruin someone’s night with one word – NO!

We engage in the same song and dance. I apologize to the crowd and state my case – and my confusion to why there even is a case  – I again explain I wrote an even lower numbered check here  two nights ago without anyone so much as farting in return.  She ignores what I’ve said, still doesn’t answer my question –  just keeps saying over and over, “We don’t accept any checks with numbers below the 200’s.” 

Now I’m fed up with the absurdity of this crap.  So i look at the crowd and ask if anyone has a pen – I can fix the number right now.  A couple of them giggle. She-Devil is not amused. She starts to say, “Its our pol…” and I come back with, “Hmmm.  So you feel comfortable taking a  check from any  stranger, as long as it’s number is 200 or higher. Did you ever stop to think they may have been bouncing the first 199 left and right?”

I go on, “Or does any number over 200 magically transport the check writer to an beyond-reproach ” status?  Does this “magic number” exempt any check a person writes from being run in your system – the one all groceries have to expos bad check writers who BOUNCE checks?”  “Do you even check those checks?”  Do you want to check my bouncing status? You have the Chex Fax, go for it – but you won’t right?  My check is merely numbered 159.”  Now she’s pissed and I don’t care – I don’t need bread or milk THAT bad. 

SO I part company with the bitch, but not before leaving her with one more thought.  Loudly, so the line of people behind me can hear, I quip “You should know that your “check number checking  system” has a bd leak.  I know for a fact that check 158 slipped through your ranks just 2 days ago.  Right now it’s probably making it’s way through your accounting system, infecting it with viruses and whatever else it can do to foul everything “Save Mart” with it’s evil.  AND I WROTE IT FOR GROCERIES!   BWAH HAAHAHAHAHA… 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed but now I’m happy as well –  I’ve ruined her night like she and others like her at Save Mart have ruined a few of mine, AND I have a great NEW idea for a post – the one you’re reading now.

Just one more thing….The very next day I go back to Save Mart, yes – the same one –  and write them a check for 65.00 using check 270;  which I’ve pulled out of sequence from the box for just this occasion…Two can play at this game..

The Four (Dis)Agreements – and their disagreeable followers


Be Impeccable With Your Word

Don’t Take Anything Personally

Don’t Make Assumptions

Always Do Your Best



 We’ve all heard of this little book, in fact I’ve read it myself – over and over and over.  I agree whole-heartedly with it’s message.  I think it’s “proverbs” aren’t only eloquent in their simplicity but their simplicity is too grandiose, for some reason, for a lot of people to “get”.  

And strangely enough, I’ve  found through my layman’s study of this subject that all the major  spiritualities of our world – christianity, moslem and buddhist, etc, based their teachings, more or less, on these very fundamental principles – this was before man came along and created the “polluted” religions from their need to control, of course.

But mankind had to butt in where they didn’t belong, and now so shall I – and take some victims with me as usual – just for fun.

So without further ado, I present for your satirical bagging pleasure:

The “scripture” followed by all those wonderful men and women who daily make our lives a living hell.  
Recognize anyone you know?

1. Be IRRATIONAL  With Your Words – this for one is a precept followed by the bosses and supervisors we’ve had the displeasure of doing business with over the years. You know who I mean – They give you totally illogical tasks like….oh, go  “doodle” flowers on each of the pages of the budget report – and have it ready for the budget meeting in an HOUR!  Disbelieving, you ask them several times over to clarify exactly ‘what they mean’ only to get an impatient  “JUST DO THE DOODLES like I asked!” 

Because your teenage daughter REALLY needs the dentist to fix her screwed up grill and you REALLY don’t want to have a snaggled-toothed spinster on your hands later if you don’t do-odle  something now – you go ahead and “doodle” on the budget report.  After all, does a hooker question her kinky John when he dresses up like Little Bo Peep?  It’s his dime, his right to be weird, and you’re getting paid – so no questions asked.  Until an hour later when you appear in the middle of  the budget meeting,  to present him with his daisy-filled report consisting of 400 flowered sheets, and he looks at you like you’ve gone  crazy and denies the whole incident in front of 40 outraged, already uptight budget crunchers.  Who are they going to believe if you even knew how to defend yourself in this surreal situation?

Although not that exact scenario, I’ve actually had supervisors who did things like this to me. Why? Just because they could. This is the type of person who deserves to be cornered alone at night in a dark alley and thrown down semi-unconscienctious to a bunch of angry delusional trolls who will slowly nibble on his genitals with sharp little teeth while large sewer rats eat his liver – but even nutless, bleeding and blind he’ll probably deny the attack ever happened.  He’ll probably try to deny his own death too – but it will happen – though maybe not soon enough for his victims.

2. Take EVERYTHING Personally – “Dear Jesus – Thank you so much for the needy, bitchy, and whiney you’ve seen fit to so lovingly place in my life path over and over and over…”  Oh sorry…I got lost for a moment in my daily meditations.  (Is it obvious the second Dis-agreement is my personal fave?)  

These hemorrhoidal annoyances are ususally women (although lately some metrosexuals have hopped on board as if in fear of being left out of the whine-a-thon). This is the SOB sister who gets insulted if someone in the presence of her company walks off to the LOO without saying goodbye. They appear SO sensitive and SO easily hurt they cause the normal people around them to rearrange their own work and personal schedules, along with any behaviors, hairstyles and personality traits that might offend or make little Lori cry.  People also feel the need to coach others to give in to the manipulations of this idiot. People don’t really like her-  they just want to get her 1 million needy needs met so she doesn’t detonate, and they can go home.  She’s SO tender don’t ya know.  I say bull crap!  These ass-wipes know exactly what they’re doing – these kings and queens of Passive-Agressive Land. 

I like to deal with this kind of person in a one-on-one personal way:   “Why didn’t I call you back right away when you rang at 1:11 am to tell me your cat finally pooped? Was it because I was out cold from exhaustion and didn’t hear the phone ring?”  Um no.  It’s because you simply don’t stir up that kind of concern in me, Lori.  I don’t think about you at all until the hairs on the back of my neck start tingling about a minute before the smell of your rancid breath fills the room,  and I’m suddenly clued in to your arrival. Ya know Lori, I’m GLAD your cat pooped, I really am.  Now eat (its) shit…”  That’s all I have to say about people like this.

3. ALWAYS MAKE ASSUMPTIONS – Yeah, keep on making those assumptions that another person will always pay for dinner and lunch AND drive a whole  state away to come get your drunk puking ass where it’s fallen sloppily over in front of some waterfront dive bar at 3 am AND watch your kids at a moment’s notice – so you can go out and make some more brats to pawn off on them and so on.  Oh, I almost forgot – keep assuming that someone else will always pay your bills because you don’t work.  And above all, always assume it’s understood by the world that’s it’s always been and ever shall be ALL about YOU. Hmmm.

I ASSUME you also know that someday that other person will most likely snap, and at some point plot your abduction – in which you will be bound and gagged then driven miles and miles away to some undisclosed and forgotten but incestually- populated Bayou swamp, in  Louisiana.  You will then be dropped off  all by your lonesome until the  pop-eyed, slooooow, big headed boys show up to use their banjos on you however they see fit.  If you then assume that you’ll be thrown to the gators about 5 hours later when along with all the other party treats, you’ve been drooled on till  half-drowned, rest assured  you’ll be 100% correct in your assumption!

4. Always Do Your Best.. (to Cover your Ass And let someone else take the blame for your stupid mistakes…)

A plethora of cowards probably take this one to heart but this mantra, in all it’s glory, can best be witnessed by the shenanigans of well-known coroporate CEO’s, insurance companies, some hospitals, the rich and famous (and their “entitled” and spoiled glam-brats), and most definitely by 99% of the idiots who hold, or who have held, public office in our nation over the years. 

We really don’t need to dream up our retaliations in their cases – they always hang themselves eventually – they even bring their own rope! And are never taken seriously again.


At last Osama was found...hiding in a Bush...


Do you think I should write a book and publish it just for sadistic fun?  What would Jesus do?


Thanks for the Red Pill, Gran and Gramps!




  I was thinking the other night that I sure do bag A LOT on senior citizens.  I know it doesn’t seem fair,  but they’ve always called to my heart as one of my favorite subjects to satirize.


I never really reflected on why that was.  I mean I’ve never felt guilty about it either.  It’s kind of like they deserved it for some reason. Then last night as I’m cruising the internet for any pictures of Richard Gere where he ISN’T photographed with a gerbil, a flashback hit me with perfect clarity.  All of a sudden – BOOM! I’m stuck reliving a part of my childhood that was buried on purpose for a reason .. 

After reliving  lovely detail of the event, I find it boils down to one thing. I’m still not done exacting payback from my decades-dead grandparents, nor do I expect to ever BE done.  I now realize I’ve been using the geriatric population vicariously to exact vengeance from “Gram and Bumpa”, but as you’ll see by my story, I’m still feel quite justified in doing so.  And yes, I’m aware that the senior population  itself is innocent of any wrongdoing against me, but so what.  They’re here, they’re old, my grandparents are dead,  they’re PAYIN!

Just so you know, I’m not about to unburden myself of a deeply buried story of grand parental incest – ( old women baking cookies, a photo-happy takin’ Granddad, bottles of Mrs. Butterworth syrup, crying kids, and jazzy porn back ground tunes, oh yeah, and lace doilies) – don’t worry.  Those memoirs were written and posted years ago on an Amish “Anything Goes During Barnraising Season” -themed blog which resides in an forever-undisclosed location in cyberland.


Get the Crisco, the brownies and the litt'uns...

Franklin! The littl'uns are here. Grab the CRISCO, that 1970's Traffic Album, your Kodachrome and those brownies!


So anyway, let’s go on. 

Remember “The Matrix”?  Although the movie was greatly  exaggerated in the interest of the story, it isn’t that far off the mark with the “blue pill/red pill” theory.   For example, in certain situations in your life, you can choose, if you wish, to swallow a blue pill (figuratively speaking) and stay as  ignorant as you can of whatever reality you don’t care to know about. 

Example?  OK.  Say, you don’t WANT to acknowledge facts that your husband is screwing your best friend.  You can “blue pill” yourself and live in denial about it in a variety of ways:  Believing whatever your husband tells  you, getting drunk and staying drunk 24/7, eating yourself into the size of a small tent, devoting yourself to the teachings of Dr. Phil – anything to distract yourself from dwelling on one of life’s little ugly truths is a “blue pill”.    And if you work super hard at it, you can sometimes achieve “blue pill blissful unawareness” –  of not only certain realities BUT also unawareness of your surroundings as well, permanently – or at least long enough for death to kick in and carry you to the official land of  What’s Next – Anything?   Most anyone can accomplish this if they set their minds to it – and the blue pill IS a perennial favorite with a lot of folks. 

But sometimes…

Sometimes you happen to be a poor defenseless little girl – innocently engaged in the happy acts of childhood – chasing butterflies, giving little sister a bloody nose just because, thoughtfully writing out your  Christmas toy wish list 8 months in advance so Mom and Dad have adequate time to prepare themselves for a really EXPENSIVE toy-filled Christmas – you know the usual stuff kids find fun at that age.

And collectively as children, we are happy in our simple, logical views of our world. We’re confident in the order of the universe – Mom and Dad are here and  we’re loved and secure, blah blah blah.  It’s all a certainty to us that the future holds nothing but toys and other fun stuff.  Then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, someone pins you down and force feeds you a “red pill” that tastes nothing like you thought the color “red” would taste…

And after you experience whatever trauma your red pill revealed, you now find it forcing  you to  reflect on life and what you’ve been told is real so far; and you reason to yourself that there’s probably many more “red pill” realities in life than anyone’s ever let onto you.  This is what happened to me.   I was “red pilled” when I was far too young to accept calmly the atrocities of what I witnessed. It not only stripped me of my child’s-fantasy life – that by rights should have continued on for at least a few more years -but it also ended up coloring the way I will always view old age, old people, and every other thing reeking of decay and rot that goes along with it. 

That having been said – May I present “My Editorial Justification for the literary  “gunning down” of  ” the oldies”:

I was 7 at the time.  My grandparents had arrived at our house  for a 3 day visit with the family. The rule was – anytime when they came to visit, one of us kids would be expected to give up her room to them and bunk with her sister for the duration of the visit. We were given the usual bull crap reasons  as an excuse – they were old and frail and my parents didn’t want to “inconvenience” them by making them sleep on the couch and with no privacy.  (Notice my parents never offered to take turns with us and give them THEIR BED).  Whatever.  But my sister and I  adored our grandparents who spoiled us, loved us, told us interesting stories and were just plain fun to be around.  Plus Gram’s hair was always nicely done and her clothes elegant.  Bumpa always smelled good and they both had bright friendly smiles.  I lived for their visits.

So sweet and clean

Such lovely grandparents

My complete disappoint in them, however, came to life on a Cartoon  Saturday –  it must have been around 8:30 a.m. because I remember being excited that Scooby Doo was on. 

Because my grandparents were staying in my room this time, I had bunked with my sister the night before.  When I awoke that Saturday, I quietly dressed and went down the hall to my parents room with the intention of asking my mother if I could have pop tarts for breakfast – (she was always frazzled by Friday and MUCH more easy for us kids to manipulate on the weekends). I knocked on the door once, and  slowly opened it.  The room was empty and the bed had already been made,  but since I could hear a woman’s voice coming from the bathroom dressing area, I figured Mom was in there still getting ready, talking to herself again.  So I rounded the corner …..

OK hold on now – just want to be clear about one thing. What I probably REALLY saw when I came around the corner expecting to see my mother was something like this:

Still scarey - but without the imaginery head of my nightmares..OR is this actually scarier?

VERY scarey...no doubt about it! In fact, I'm scared now...









But what my CHILD’S eyes saw as I rounded the corner was THIS:  


OR is Grandma #1 SCARIER in actual reality?







 Two monsterous stars of a double whammy creature feature too frightening for even late night TV.  


(NOTE: Just to not sicken you further, I’m NOT going to show a picture of my Grandfather  at this time…real OR imagined – Weren’t the last two enough? DON’T feel cheated – Feel Greatful!)  Anyway…

Turning towards me in obvious alarm, and yelling at me in stereo screech, “GET OUT! We’re not dressed yet!” were two mummified-looking creatures. Their ancient heads with sunk-in eyes, prune-lipped  mouths and corpse-colored pallor,  sat  atop  two obscenely wrinkled and sagging bodies – with bulbous  appendages  reptilian in appearance – a veritable smorgasbord of skin tags, scattered sparse hair and nipple-esque growths.  They were both completely naked, except for socks.  Starting to get the picture yet?  No? Let me continue.

The “woman” didn’t have breasts like Mom or my barbie dolls had – you know, perky and high up on the chest.  Instead her “uniboob” was ONE single wrinkled bag of hanging skin – lumpy and mole-covered – that nearly reached what I know now was her HooHa.   The “bag”  grotesquely swung to and fro – like a pendulum keeping time with the jiggly underarm jello that swayed gently back and forth as she pointed a bony skeletal finger at me to LEAVE!  The “man” was especially frightening but in an almost comical way – the black knee hi trouser socks riding up on his bony ankles with a hole in each toe served only to exaggerate a pale, fleshy worm- tube thingy that was growing to a misshapened grey-haired skin pouch. And the whole damn nightmare appeared to be growing out of his  “pee pee” area, and it looked mean as hell!  As he took a step forward his “worm thingy” suddenly caught air and started moving back and forth in a rhythm,  as if to a pop tune only it could hear.  

I had just been eye-slapped by the double-visual of  both grandparents butt-NAKED!  Fully expecting to turn into a pillar of salt, I did’nt dare look back as I ran out of that room – like the very hounds of hell were after me. 

Just to reiterate to the reader:   My psyche was damaged AT SEVEN YEARS OLD by this sight.  And because I was a bright little thing even back then, I had already figured out within the 5 seconds it took for me to blow that popsicle stand of horrors –  this kind of old age and decay was inevitable.  And it would even happen to me, if  “I was lucky and the Lord blessed me with a long life”, as Aunt Anne used repeat every 15 minutes to whoever was in earshot at family get-togethers. 

And I certainly didn’t need to be hit with that reality at 7 – Come On!  Couldn’t this one have waited to be revealed to me at …say…36?  By then I would have already come to terms a few years before that “it’s all downhill from here!!  Seeing naked, wrinkled, bumpy, toothless, death-masked old people without their cover of false teeth, wigs and clothes to hide the evidence of decay wouldn’t have phased me one bit then! But noooo.   It  had to happen while I still believed in Santa Claus.  

That cherished childhood rite of passage was ruined for me too, by the way.  Thanks Gram!  Thanks Bumpa!  

Starting that Christmas season I was the only kid on the block that couldn’t be made to sit on any Santa’s lap at any mall.  And I absolutely refused to wait up for Santa on Christmas Eve anymore.  I was positive wherever Santa showed up – mall or other, he would be toothless, spotted with growths and hanging worm things, and of course buck- naked except for black trouser socks with the holes in each toe.  And no way was I planning to be within 50 feet of him if  he came down our chimney with his bag of presents  – I’d already seen an old man’s bag of presents, remember? I didn’t need to see it ever again.     

Climb up on old Ruldolph here! I'll give you a present ..my worm th....I mean CANDY cane!

Climb up on old Ruldolph here! I'll give you a present ..my worm th....I mean CANDY cane!









In springtime, I also added to my “realities to avoid” list, areas in my neighborhood where kids had reported seeing the Easter Bunny – No easter candy was worth taking the chance of seeing an Old Rabbit’s Peter.  And finally, whenever I would lose another baby tooth it went secretly  into the garbage instead of under my pillow.  I wasn’t going to be trapped in bed one night, waking up suddenly to see the gummy toothless grin of a cackling ancient Tooth Fairy looking down at me – not  for a freakin’ quarter a tooth.  And I knew for a FACT the Tooth Fairy I’d see would have no teeth – hadn’t he’d been buying them off kids left and right forever? 

Yep, fantasy land for this girl was over… and she was just a baby.

And the geriatric population will continue to pay for the sins of my grandparents…


DISCLAIMER: Obviously this is just a joke.  I love old people – I have several working for me right now – cleaning the bathroom and kitchen tile with their unused Depends.  And although it’s true I really did witness the horrifying vision of seeing my grandparents naked when I was just 7, I never ran out screaming like I had seen the devil, like I implied in my story.  What actually happened was I had a grand old time pointing and laughing at Grandpa’s “worm thingy” until Grandpa broke his false teeth when they fell out of this mouth as he was yelling at me.  When he stormed off to “read Field and Stream” in the bathroom, I then started in on my grandmother …and her ugly old UNIBOOB.

See?  Everyone PROTESTS them, not just me!

See? Everyone PROTESTS them, not just me!

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