Thursday, December 31, 2015

It's NOT 2016 Yet, Assholes

I live on the WEST COAST. The PACIFIC NORTHWEST coast.

It's only fucking 9:03 PM here and some shitholes have been blowing up fireworks for the past three minutes like they don't know where the fuck they're at.

Go back to the fucking east coast if that's the way you want it, dickstains. And you better pack up all your fear-of-nature noise-polluting New Yorker bullshit and take it home with you. I don't want to hear it, and I don't want to see you wearing ballcaps and jerseys supporting your fucking east coast sports teams, either.

Happy fucking new year, assholes.

Barking & Bitching

I'm *really* excited about the dog barking in our neighborhood. At THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MOTHERFUCKING MORNING.

Oh ... nice. It just stopped AFTER, LIKE, FIVE MINUTES or whatever as soon as I typed that. I guess five minutes isn't a really long time. UNLESS YOU WERE FUCKING SLEEPING.

I wasn't. So it just gave me something great to exuberantly bitch about!


I've got a lot of bitch drafts in the hopper, just waiting for the right time to post them.

One of these days ...

Friday, May 09, 2014

Splurging on Dinner Out with YOUR FUCKING BABY

Dear assholes who take your fucking babies to fancy restaurants: PAY FOR EVERYBODY'S MEAL.

When you bring your crying infant or noisy child to an expensive restaurant YOU ARE EFFECTIVELY RUINING PEOPLE'S NIGHT OUT. One they may have saved for a month for. That they are not paying $17-$50 a plate to eat accompanied by the sound of you trying to baby-talk your child out of screaming, or train them how to sit in a high chair ("sit your bottom down :: sit your BOTTOM down :: SIT your bottom down :: SIT your BOTTOM down! :: SIT YOUR BOTTOM DOWN!") or endure the drama of your precious toddler choking while you throw it over your knee and whack it repeatedly in the spleen.

What kind of a fucking asshole are you? You're a shitty self-centered fuckwad with too much money. I'd be happy to relieve you of all of it minus cab fare to get you the fuck home and away from everybody's else's grown-up dinner.

There is a difference between The Old Spaghetti Factory or a family diner and a pricey restaurant with walls lined with drugs (aka alcohol). Your little fucking child does not belong there. If the average price of an entree is over $15, YOUR BABY SHOULDN'T BE THERE. *****ASSHOLES*****

This is for you, mouthbreathers at The _____ Grill on this Friday in Seattle tonight. I don't know if it was the parents' choice, or the grandparents perhaps insisting NO IT WILL BE *FINE* KIDS! OUR TREAT!! LITTLE FUSSY HONEYPANTS WILL BE JUST FINE THERE!!

Actually I really blame restaurants for this. You have no fucking business allowing barefoot people, dogs, folks with their dicks hanging out of their pants or wee ones into a restaurant where you charge those kinds of prices. Your food is delicious and worth it, but you should comp everyone or give the whole house deep discounts if you compromise the entire dining experience by letting morons in with their noisy little creatures.

Now that I think about it, I would MUCH rather sit next to a barefoot dog with its dick hanging out of its pants in a nice restaurant than a baby, okay?


Tuesday, January 14, 2014

No. You DO NOT actually REALLY REALLY LOVE Books

I just saw this stupid fucking headline and clicked on it:

11 Incredible Bookcases For People Who Really, Really Love Their Books

It's stupid as fuck, like every "incredible" list of bullshit Huffpo & other shitty "news" & hack click-monkey page-view-driven sites concoct is. Let me explain three reasons why:
  • *People who really love books don't fucking waste space arranging them into minimalist flower and treble clef arrangements- they have entirely too many books for that kind of pinteresting bullshit
  • *People who really love books PUT THEM IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER, or have another system which works best when not forcing the books they love into ridiculously ornate geometric patterns on little tiny stupid shelves
  • *People who really love books usually know better than to write shit like REALLY, REALLY!!

But just for the record, I really love the reclaimed ladder the best. Though it's totally annoyingly impractical because the "shelf" isn't deep enough to line up the DIFFERENTLY-SIZED books (nobody who loves books has books that are all the same size) so that their spines are smoothly faced; you can't do that when the books need to touch the wall in order to rest normally rather than balancing just on the ladder. Also: tiny books won't work on that.

So yeah. Totally fucking STUPID. If I see this in your house, I will know you DO NOT, in fact, LOVE BOOKS. Not yours, not anybody's. Fuck off.

Try Saying Thank You, You Self-Absorbed Entitled Fucking Bitch

I just held the door open for a lady walking out of a store carrying a big box.

I did not hold the door open IN ORDER TO receive praise, I did it because it's the nice and right thing to do when someone has their hands full.

She acted like I wasn't even there. No eye contact, like I was put on earth simply to pave her way towards the smooth and easy life she deserves.

Even worse, she had two little girls following her so was teaching them how to be inconsiderate pieces of shit.

I know she is endowed with the gift of speech because I heard her finish a sentence to someone else. And it wasn't like her kids were talking a lot to her (they weren't talking at all) or she was multitasking or carrying on conversations with other people - she wasn't. There was plenty of time and opportunity and silence to fucking say THANK YOU.


She was pretty. With long blonde hair.

I wonder if I'd have felt more or less disgusted if she hadn't been attractive, wearing glasses and pricey winter casual-country wear that seemed like movie props to make her seem crunchier when you know if she were in the city she'd have on a cashmere sweater and contacts. She was dressed like a character on Frasier would dress to go to the cabin with him and Niles, and she put her box and children in her environmentally-sensitive car.

I had a rebuke on my lips (a snotty "you're welcome - have a nice day!" or "don't even say thank you, huh?") but I didn't say anything. And I wonder about that, too. Was I intimidated because she looked "high class"?

Since we started living part-time in Seattle I've been struggling a lot as I see more frequently how fucking shitty people with money are. Like, seriously fucking subhuman.

I know I shouldn't get so mad about things like this, but THIS IS WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD! Isn't it? At least part of it?

Thursday, October 03, 2013

Shitty Receipts with USELESS Information

So we're in an era where
  1. we pay for things with plastic (and we have LOTS of different cards)
  2. STORES PRINT OUT "RECEIPTS" THAT ARE AS LONG AS SANTA'S FUCKING NAUGHTY LIST and you need a special trapper keeper to file the fucking things
So how is it that these fucking stores can spew a mile of tape with all kinds of info on it at you BUT NEGLECT TO INDICATE WHICH CARD YOU USED TO PAY FOR YOUR PURCHASE???

Seriously??? What the fuck is wrong with this stupid world? It makes NO MOTHERFUCKING SENSE.

I shouldn't need to log into every single one of my credit card and debit card accounts online to try to cross-reference every fucking purchase in an attempt to figure out which account was charged or debited for my motherfucking  tampons and new shoes and wart removal and what-have-you.


I could throw a fucking ticker-tape parade with the vast quantities of yards of receipt-ribbons and coupon bullshit cashiers have handed me in the past month BUT I CAN'T GO TO THE PARADE. Because I have to sit here reconstructing every fucking shopping trip like a super sleuth just to balance my fucking checkbook.

FUCK YOU, stores.

Also: handling those receipts give you fucking CANCER.

Oh god you fuckers please SPARE ME the bullshit about how fucking thankful I should be about how much shopping we get to do and I'm so LUCKY to have so many worthless receipts and there are children starving in Detroit who'd give ANYTHING for my binders full of receipts. SPARE ME. If  you want me to do penance and mortify myself before the blessed virgin saints of poverty FINE but this is NOT the way. I'd rather go make cheese out of monk-smegma in a monastery, and that's saying A LOT considering I'm lactose intolerant.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Your Friend Lost Your Customer

I spot an AWESOME quirky fantastic magical-looking little fortune-teller's cart. It's the end of the summer tourist season, so I go to ask her how long into the future I can find her here.

She's great and magical-fantastical-looking herself,  personable, and answers my question saying, "for sure today and tomorrow but I'm having problems with the city issuing me a permit . . . "

:: insert her friend or sidekick or whatever looking bored with me and steampunk-stylish beside her, fiddling with phone, and trying to get her attention, prodding her with the phone ::

"Oh wow," I say, "they should totally issue you a permit! I've been wondering . . . "

:: friend or sidekick or whatever keeps nudging her with phone and trying to make her look at the phone ::
" . . . for years why there isn't an old-fashioned fortune-teller or psychic with a sign up or shingle in town."

:: distracting phone nudging continues ::

As the fortune teller encourages me to write a letter to the editor or something I am pretty much backing away and trying to just leave before I say something to the friend or sidekick or remark on the whole phone business. Knowing that walking away now IS actually a remark on the whole rude phone business.

Seriously. TOTALLY FUCKING RUDE! It's not like I was standing there wasting her time for ten or even five or even two minutes. Not more than thirty seconds and this asshole was basically telling me to go away, and/or couldn't figure out how to say, "I'm sorry to interrupt but you have an important call/text coming in" or "I'm so sorry but you told me to tell you when it's blank o'clock" or "shuttup lady because we have an amazing dick pic to look at". It was like I walked up to the popular exclusive snobby goth table at lunch in junior high to talk to someone cool while her insecure cunt of a friend glowered at me and pantomimed my unimportance. I would far rather she just SAY something rude or tell me to go away rather than having to endure that bullshit.

It's possible the person just has no clue how behavior like that comes across / is perceived and/or is mentally not up to the challenge. I hope she learns to cut it out if her IQ allows for such growth. It really spoiled the magic for me, and I'm glad I didn't have my heart set on getting my fortune told because that rude presence would have totally wrecked it.

One possible explanation that occurred to me as I was walking away was that maybe rude girl recognized me from my porn site or a dating site ad or something, and really wanted her fortune-teller friend to be able to compare the picture to the person (me) standing before her. That's a long shot, though. And still a super rude way to handle it if so.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

YOUR Feces in MY Garbage?

I commend you, asshole, for picking up your dog's shit. But it's not okay to put it in a stranger's garbage can, you brainless, selfish jackass.

I guess this is the punishment I get for not immediately bringing the garbage can in from the side of the road on garbage day. A bag of FECES at the bottom of the can that we have to pull out, set aside and save to put on top lest the weight of OUR garbage smash it leaving a stranger's feces to soil and stink up our garbage can.

Who are you? Why are you such a fucking asshole? Where's your car? I'd like to shit in a plastic bag and put it in there.

There is no such thing as civilization. I'm telling you. People think nothing of littering the world and other people's spaces with feces. You're disgusting!

Wednesday, December 26, 2012


Just after midnight. Christmas day comes to a close. Nearly-full moon.

I step outside to enjoy the stillness of this night, AND SMELL YET AGAIN THE HORRIFYING SCENT OF LAUNDRY CHEMICALS PERMEATING THE ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD. Like I walked into a giant chilled box of dryer sheets.

I cannot fucking live in a land of vaporized douche powder. It's disgusting. I hate people. I want to get away from them. I don't want to smell you. You sicken me.

The lack of appreciation for clean backyard air, the inconsiderate freedom people have to needlessly, unproductively pollute each others' outdoor homes perplexes, alienates, depresses, poisons and angers me.

I don't want to be near any of your shitty all-night bright lights, your noisy leafblowers and lawnmowers, your desires to febreeze every inhabited tract of land. Fuck off. Go pitch a tent in the detergent aisle of your nearest discount or grocery store if that's what you want your world to smell like and be lit up by a thousand migraine-inducing fluorescent lights. I hope you sanitize yourself until your skin melts off.