I'm sure that everyone is tired of my "I hates", so I gave it a different title. Kind of like false advertising, but not. I didn't even realize I had quite enough material for another rant, but as I'm sitting here, staring at the water, my mind started going.
I hate parents who don't teach their children to NEVER run up to a dog and start petting it. I am a responsible pet owner, and my dog is always on a short leash, as well as under my voice command. My dog not only looks mean, he IS mean. He tried to eat my face. So, go ahead, let your kid run up to him. Just don't get pissed at me when I yell at your child to back off. Perhaps a leash should be in your kid's future as well.
I hate people who haul a truck load of shit to the beach. It's the beach. It is a place of simplistic beauty. How relaxed can you possibly be knowing you have to haul six coolers, two shovels, eight beach chairs of varying heights, a canopy, an umbrella, a rebel flag, a 6-cd Sony stereo, a pack of smokes, twenty two bags of arm floaties, rafts, sunscreen, deep tanning oil, lip balm, ass balm, sunglasses, towels, buckets, nets, fishing poles, bait, cameras, phones, condoms (just in case), books, magazines, sand castle making gear, a caribou, four life jackets, grandma, and thirteen kids? Sounds like a blast. Shit. You forgot your beach blanket. I know of these people because they flock to set up camp four feet from my measly towel and shorts.
I hate people who ask me why I don't have children. My response to you is, "It's because I'm selfish. I don't feel like coming home to deal with whining and tantrums. I don't feel like cleaning a shitty diaper. I don't feel like being responsible for the rest of my life when my kid turns out to be a crack head. I don't feel like having to take family vacations to Disney, or Smurfs on Ice. I don't feel like sitting up all night worrying about why my 11-year old daughter isn't home from her date with the 16 year-old. I love my life. I come and go as I please. I don't have to be responsible for how someone else turns out. That's why I don't have kids. Oh, and mind your own God Damned business."
I hate people who ask me if I'm married, then reply, "I'm sorry" when I say I'm divorced. Why are you sorry? I'm not a widow ( I would have been if I stuck around long enough to kill him-that's a joke, people. I'd never harm anyone.) I didn't cry when you asked me that question. Why not say, "Congratulations"? I'm free to come and go as I please, and I'm fine with that. I'm sorry for you. You're obviously stuck in a time where divorce was unacceptable and a woman could never make it without her husband.
I hate people who compliment me, and then feel the need to ask how much the item they're complimenting cost. Again, this is none of your business. I will answer you, but not truthfully. "Oh, this old thing? I picked this up at the flea market. Paid $900 for it. The vendor told me it was the real deal. He said Louis Vuitton changed the spelling of his name to Louie Vitton. It's a collector edition."
I hate people that think their children are the cutest thing in the world. Let's just be honest here. Every single kid looks exactly alike to me. Throw me in a room with 100 babies (actually, don't), and I won't be able to tell any of them apart. This is probably why I don't work in the nursery at the hospital. There would be all kinds of baby mix-ups going on. I never know what to say when someone shows me a picture of their baby. I fake enthusiasm, and usually say something like, "Oh my gosh, she looks just like you!" When in all actuality, I'm thinking, "Oh my gosh, that baby looks just like every other baby I've ever seen!"
I hate people who feel the need to comment on my eating patterns. I work out. A lot. I don't believe in depriving my body of whatever it craves. Moderation is the key. So the next time you see me eating a caramel, banana, hot fudge, marshmallow walnut, peanut butter, ice cream waffle sandwich, turn and look the other way. Life is too short to not indulge every now and again. I don't care how much sodium is in my turkey. If it tastes good, I'll eat it. I will never criticize your reasons for not eating meat. I respect that decision. I also, however, respect my decision to order the 14oz. T-bone steak, instead of the 22oz.
I hate people who Facebook fight. This is when they talk shit in their status about a friend or family member, said person comments back angrily, and an all-out virtual battle begins. As much as I enjoy the laugh, how lame are you? There's a tv show for that. It's called Ricki Lake (you thought I was going to say Springer, huh?) I'm pretty sure social networking sites aren't meant for social feuding. There's a time for family fights. It's called Thanksgiving. Or weddings. Hell, sometimes even funerals. How about growing a pair and actually confronting the person face-to-face? Maybe that's not quite dramatic enough.
I hate skin tags.
I hate that Activia yogurt doesn't do what the commercial says. I don't feel the need to move my hand in a downward motion over my belly when I eat it. How does moving your hand in a downward motion over your belly aide in digestion, anyways? Is it a magical power?
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Eh, Why not? I Hate, take 4 (I think)
I hate that my snot nose has turned into what appears to be bronchitis, judging by the color of the mung I've been hacking up over the last few hours. This is also why I am laying here, whining (which I also hate). Since I'm laying here, I thought I'd gripe. I need to humor myself, and hopefully you, too. Enjoy...or not.
I hate that every stereotype I hear about crappy trailer park residents is true. Guys-where do all your shirts go? There must be some mechanism in the aluminum threshold entering the trailer that either removes your t-shirt completely, or just rips off the sleeves. I guess it depends on which model Airstream you rent. Most parks must include the (un)dress code in the lease. I'm pretty sure it reads something like this: "Tenant shall obey dress code at all times. Denim shorts, no longer that 3 inches above the knee, must be worn. Shirts are prohibited. In the event that a shirt must be worn, i.e., to go on a beer run, the sleeves shall be removed. Noncompliance may be grounds for eviction". I'm pretty sure it's also mandatory that these men not shower for a week prior to removing their Dale Earnhardt shirt. Women-why is it okay for you to wear a bikini top when you're 500 pounds and 8 months pregnant? Is it to divert attention from your three teeth and mustache? Also, why can't you save the money you're spending on your Virginia Slims and put a down payment on a newer (1983) Camaro? It would save your bare feet from being permanently stained black if you actually drove to Wal-Mart.
With enough Marlboro miles, I'm pretty sure you're eligible to upgrade to the mobile home with the gym included (aka the weight bench under the car port). This always amazes me, because the occupants of these upgraded models are always the twig-armed meth-heads that weigh all of 71 pounds. These are the units that always smell like the combination of ammonia, cat shit, and greasy hair when you walk by them. If you look under the unit, you will always see insulation and the subfloor caving in. When talking to these occupants, as I frequently do (again, everyone has a story), they almost always ask me for a handout of some sort. You are capable enough to walk out here (barefoot), holding two slimy kids (which you were physically able to produce). You are also capable enough to get a job. I will listen to your story and converse with you; however, I am a civil servant, not a money-bags philanthropist. I am not going to give you a hand-out...Unless you are a veteran who has served our country, then I will do whatever I can to assist you.
I hate cockroaches. I deal with them on a daily basis, as I have for the last six years. I should be desensitized to them by now. Nope. Still hate 'em. Makes me shiver just writing this. Ew.
I hate wet paper. Of any kind. It makes me gag.
I hate close talkers. You're creepy. Nobody should be in my bubble. I may have a terrible reflex and punch you in the throat. Just sayin'. I have been accused by co-workers of having personal space issues. It's no issue. I just don't want you close to me.
I hate people who creep up on me and try to scare me. Reminder: I am trained to defend myself. Legally. You're not funny or original. You'll be less funny with a .38 shell lodged in your jaw.
I hate cars with bass. Hey, if you didn't have that shitty stereo, you could probably afford four matching rims for your 1988 Caprice with fake Louis Vuitton tuck-and-roll upholstery.
I hate hair on a wet bar of soap.
I hate hair on the bathroom counter that sticks to my wet hands while I'm trying to clean.
I hate stale ice cubes that make your glass of water garlic flavored, even though you have never kept garlic anywhere near your ice, let alone in your freezer.
I hate that I know what the inside of most ice machines in food service establishments look like. It's not pretty.
I hate tartar on teeth of a person I'm conversing with. Really? I see 413 floss picks on the ground a day...None of them are yours, obviously.
I hate tartar. Period.
I hate finding stray eyelashes on table surfaces.
I hate finding holes in the plastic bags I use to pick up Moose's poop. Usually because I discover the holes a few seconds too late.
I hate too many lawn decorations. One Virgin Mary is plenty. I get it. You're Catholic.
I hate fake flowers planted in window boxes. Really? Who are you fooling? Do you also pretend to water them? They look tacky.
I hate owners of Assisted Living Facilities (ALFs) who drive brand new Mercedes-Benz and dress in Armani suits, yet the residents of the ALF are living in filth and squalor because the owner won't pay for quality staff, or to have anything fixed or cleaned.
I hate that I form a bond with many of the residents in these ALFs, because it breaks my heart when I go in to see them, and they have passed away.
I hate that so many people were so pissed off about the NFL lockout. Who cares? It's a sport, not the end of the God Damned world. Those assholes make way too much money anyways. Suspend the season and give their salaries to those who need it, like our teachers and those serving our country. Better yet, bring our troops home and send the NFL players to Afghanistan and Iraq. They can run fast, and most of them carry guns anyway. Let them do something helpful for once.
I hate monkeys.
I hate that every stereotype I hear about crappy trailer park residents is true. Guys-where do all your shirts go? There must be some mechanism in the aluminum threshold entering the trailer that either removes your t-shirt completely, or just rips off the sleeves. I guess it depends on which model Airstream you rent. Most parks must include the (un)dress code in the lease. I'm pretty sure it reads something like this: "Tenant shall obey dress code at all times. Denim shorts, no longer that 3 inches above the knee, must be worn. Shirts are prohibited. In the event that a shirt must be worn, i.e., to go on a beer run, the sleeves shall be removed. Noncompliance may be grounds for eviction". I'm pretty sure it's also mandatory that these men not shower for a week prior to removing their Dale Earnhardt shirt. Women-why is it okay for you to wear a bikini top when you're 500 pounds and 8 months pregnant? Is it to divert attention from your three teeth and mustache? Also, why can't you save the money you're spending on your Virginia Slims and put a down payment on a newer (1983) Camaro? It would save your bare feet from being permanently stained black if you actually drove to Wal-Mart.
With enough Marlboro miles, I'm pretty sure you're eligible to upgrade to the mobile home with the gym included (aka the weight bench under the car port). This always amazes me, because the occupants of these upgraded models are always the twig-armed meth-heads that weigh all of 71 pounds. These are the units that always smell like the combination of ammonia, cat shit, and greasy hair when you walk by them. If you look under the unit, you will always see insulation and the subfloor caving in. When talking to these occupants, as I frequently do (again, everyone has a story), they almost always ask me for a handout of some sort. You are capable enough to walk out here (barefoot), holding two slimy kids (which you were physically able to produce). You are also capable enough to get a job. I will listen to your story and converse with you; however, I am a civil servant, not a money-bags philanthropist. I am not going to give you a hand-out...Unless you are a veteran who has served our country, then I will do whatever I can to assist you.
I hate cockroaches. I deal with them on a daily basis, as I have for the last six years. I should be desensitized to them by now. Nope. Still hate 'em. Makes me shiver just writing this. Ew.
I hate wet paper. Of any kind. It makes me gag.
I hate close talkers. You're creepy. Nobody should be in my bubble. I may have a terrible reflex and punch you in the throat. Just sayin'. I have been accused by co-workers of having personal space issues. It's no issue. I just don't want you close to me.
I hate people who creep up on me and try to scare me. Reminder: I am trained to defend myself. Legally. You're not funny or original. You'll be less funny with a .38 shell lodged in your jaw.
I hate cars with bass. Hey, if you didn't have that shitty stereo, you could probably afford four matching rims for your 1988 Caprice with fake Louis Vuitton tuck-and-roll upholstery.
I hate hair on a wet bar of soap.
I hate hair on the bathroom counter that sticks to my wet hands while I'm trying to clean.
I hate stale ice cubes that make your glass of water garlic flavored, even though you have never kept garlic anywhere near your ice, let alone in your freezer.
I hate that I know what the inside of most ice machines in food service establishments look like. It's not pretty.
I hate tartar on teeth of a person I'm conversing with. Really? I see 413 floss picks on the ground a day...None of them are yours, obviously.
I hate tartar. Period.
I hate finding stray eyelashes on table surfaces.
I hate finding holes in the plastic bags I use to pick up Moose's poop. Usually because I discover the holes a few seconds too late.
I hate too many lawn decorations. One Virgin Mary is plenty. I get it. You're Catholic.
I hate fake flowers planted in window boxes. Really? Who are you fooling? Do you also pretend to water them? They look tacky.
I hate owners of Assisted Living Facilities (ALFs) who drive brand new Mercedes-Benz and dress in Armani suits, yet the residents of the ALF are living in filth and squalor because the owner won't pay for quality staff, or to have anything fixed or cleaned.
I hate that I form a bond with many of the residents in these ALFs, because it breaks my heart when I go in to see them, and they have passed away.
I hate that so many people were so pissed off about the NFL lockout. Who cares? It's a sport, not the end of the God Damned world. Those assholes make way too much money anyways. Suspend the season and give their salaries to those who need it, like our teachers and those serving our country. Better yet, bring our troops home and send the NFL players to Afghanistan and Iraq. They can run fast, and most of them carry guns anyway. Let them do something helpful for once.
I hate monkeys.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Moose
Moose is a subject I could write chapters about. For those of you who may not know, Moose is the apple of my eye, my favorite thing in the whole world. He is my dog.
I have been facing a lot of judgement regarding my recent decisions with Moose. Most of this judgement has come from the last place I expected, but I won't get into that. Rather, I will get into Moose's story, and maybe then my decisions will be better understood.
Moose found me on March 11th, 2003 at the SPCA. This was exactly two days after I made my courageous move to the Sunshine State. Upon discovering that my newly rented apartment was NOTHING like the brochure presented, I decided I was going to need some protection (and a companion-seeing as how I knew no one here).
My friend "Ruff" and I made our way through the shelter. After about an hour, I decided I couldn't find the right match. I thought I'd make one more run-through. At that very moment, a big, brown, floppy eared dog walked through the outside doggy door, sat down, and gave me his paw. "Found him!", I yelled. Ruff and I took him to the interaction area, where he immediately commenced kissing me. I signed the papers, paid my $35.00, and left with my new best friend, Moose.
The next few days were a learning experience, just getting to know one another. He was very intelligent, and thought to be about a year and a half old. He chewed some shoes, gnawed on a hair brush, but didn't get much more destructive. We went to the beach, where I learned he LOVED to swim. On several occasions, he continued to swim out into the Gulf, not obeying my command to come back. I would swim out, get him, and together, we'd doggy paddle back, both out of breath. He ate a rock once, which blocked his lower intestine, resulting in surgical removal of the rock.
Had I listened to Moose the first time he met Ken (my asshole ex-husband), I would have ended it right there. Moose hated Ken, but eventually, they grew to like each other. A few years later, Moose started having seizures. He would get aggressive following the seizure. This resulted in him biting part of my lower lip off in 2005. It left a cool scar, and we both recovered (with the aide of a plastic surgeon on my behalf). I was criticized for not giving Moose up then. Why? So he can be euthanized for a condition that's beyond his control? No. Parents don't give up on their children when they do stupid shit, why would I give up on my dog?
He has always loved road trips. He loves his belly rubbed. He loves doing tricks. Moose has seen me through some of the darkest moments of my life-things that shall not be discussed on public forum. If it wasn't for him, I am certain I would not have survived these ordeals. He gave me reason to get out of bed in the morning. He made me smile. He didn't judge me for crying. He gave good hugs (yes, that's one of Moose's many tricks). He didn't care if I was having a bad hair day, or if my jeans made me look fat. Moose is the only one who has been with me the entire time I've lived in Florida.
Most people have family nearby. If not family, friends. Since all of my family and true friends are far away, I count on Moose. He counts on me. We need each other.
Moose was diagnosed with Cushing's Disease two years ago. Cushing's has no cure, but can be treated. He must be monitored by a vet for 8 hours every six months, and takes two pills a day to maintain cortisol levels in his body. This disorder affects his immune system. Over the past couple of months, Moose's health has deteriorated. He has had inner ear infections and urinary tract infections. He has lost 34 pounds. I have had him examined by two very reputable vets, both of which have assured me that he is not suffering by any means.
I know that Moose's days with me are numbered. I will never see him suffer. The day he starts suffering with no remedy, will be his last. I will not keep him here on earth for my own selfish reasons. With that being said, I will do whatever it takes to keep him happy and healthy for the remainder of his life. He eats what I eat. I give him a bath, he runs out and rolls in the grass. I mop the floor, he drags sand in. He lays across the width of the bed, I sleep in the one square foot left. I owe him this. Words will never express what this dog has done for me. It is because of him that I have meaning here. Without him, I am completely alone.
So, feel free to ridicule me for spending my last dime to get him well. That's fine. It's not his time yet. He will let me know when it is.
I have been facing a lot of judgement regarding my recent decisions with Moose. Most of this judgement has come from the last place I expected, but I won't get into that. Rather, I will get into Moose's story, and maybe then my decisions will be better understood.
Moose found me on March 11th, 2003 at the SPCA. This was exactly two days after I made my courageous move to the Sunshine State. Upon discovering that my newly rented apartment was NOTHING like the brochure presented, I decided I was going to need some protection (and a companion-seeing as how I knew no one here).
My friend "Ruff" and I made our way through the shelter. After about an hour, I decided I couldn't find the right match. I thought I'd make one more run-through. At that very moment, a big, brown, floppy eared dog walked through the outside doggy door, sat down, and gave me his paw. "Found him!", I yelled. Ruff and I took him to the interaction area, where he immediately commenced kissing me. I signed the papers, paid my $35.00, and left with my new best friend, Moose.
The next few days were a learning experience, just getting to know one another. He was very intelligent, and thought to be about a year and a half old. He chewed some shoes, gnawed on a hair brush, but didn't get much more destructive. We went to the beach, where I learned he LOVED to swim. On several occasions, he continued to swim out into the Gulf, not obeying my command to come back. I would swim out, get him, and together, we'd doggy paddle back, both out of breath. He ate a rock once, which blocked his lower intestine, resulting in surgical removal of the rock.
Had I listened to Moose the first time he met Ken (my asshole ex-husband), I would have ended it right there. Moose hated Ken, but eventually, they grew to like each other. A few years later, Moose started having seizures. He would get aggressive following the seizure. This resulted in him biting part of my lower lip off in 2005. It left a cool scar, and we both recovered (with the aide of a plastic surgeon on my behalf). I was criticized for not giving Moose up then. Why? So he can be euthanized for a condition that's beyond his control? No. Parents don't give up on their children when they do stupid shit, why would I give up on my dog?
He has always loved road trips. He loves his belly rubbed. He loves doing tricks. Moose has seen me through some of the darkest moments of my life-things that shall not be discussed on public forum. If it wasn't for him, I am certain I would not have survived these ordeals. He gave me reason to get out of bed in the morning. He made me smile. He didn't judge me for crying. He gave good hugs (yes, that's one of Moose's many tricks). He didn't care if I was having a bad hair day, or if my jeans made me look fat. Moose is the only one who has been with me the entire time I've lived in Florida.
Most people have family nearby. If not family, friends. Since all of my family and true friends are far away, I count on Moose. He counts on me. We need each other.
Moose was diagnosed with Cushing's Disease two years ago. Cushing's has no cure, but can be treated. He must be monitored by a vet for 8 hours every six months, and takes two pills a day to maintain cortisol levels in his body. This disorder affects his immune system. Over the past couple of months, Moose's health has deteriorated. He has had inner ear infections and urinary tract infections. He has lost 34 pounds. I have had him examined by two very reputable vets, both of which have assured me that he is not suffering by any means.
I know that Moose's days with me are numbered. I will never see him suffer. The day he starts suffering with no remedy, will be his last. I will not keep him here on earth for my own selfish reasons. With that being said, I will do whatever it takes to keep him happy and healthy for the remainder of his life. He eats what I eat. I give him a bath, he runs out and rolls in the grass. I mop the floor, he drags sand in. He lays across the width of the bed, I sleep in the one square foot left. I owe him this. Words will never express what this dog has done for me. It is because of him that I have meaning here. Without him, I am completely alone.
So, feel free to ridicule me for spending my last dime to get him well. That's fine. It's not his time yet. He will let me know when it is.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
I Hate, Take 3
As with all my other rants, I am pretty sure I'm fixin' to piss some people off. This blog is based off of my personal experiences, not scientific fact (although I'd like to think I'm right all the time).
I hate when I have to pee really bad, and the fat woman (who looks as though she just devoured four other women) in line ahead of me at Target backs up her fat mobile (aka electric wheelchair) over my foot. Adding insult to injury, fatty bo-batty, you're really going to pay with a check? I didn't even know banks still made checks. Oh, but wait, you changed your mind and decided to apply for a Target credit card? Right now, in line? Perfect. And you don't remember your own phone number and have to fish your address book out of your saddle bag? Take your time, Bertha. I'm in no rush...May I please borrow one of those Depends you just bought with your coupons?
I hate people who are too lazy to return their shopping cart to the store. Really? Pushing it that extra twenty feet back (because I know damned well you were too lazy to park farther away than that) is going to devastate you physically? Hey, stupid, I can see you trying to stealthily shove that cart in front of that Chevy Impala. It always rolls. Usually into my front quarter panel. I hate you. Walk the cart back, you worthless piece of fecal matter.
I hate the woman I watched for five minutes trying to get the front end of her cart over the grassy curb in the parking lot to prevent it from rolling. She was sweating. Profusely. She could have just pushed it the twenty feet back to the store (see above), and not messed up her clown make up.
I hate that I had to explain to my mom what FUBU meant after she bought a pair of FUBU tennis shoes. FYI-it means, For Us By Us (it's an African-American company). My mom is white.
I hate when nurses think it's okay to keep a plastic ice cream tub overflowing with used syringes in their kitchen. Sure, go ahead and continue to serve food. Who cares if Gertie gets poked in the tongue with a dirty needle? What's a little Hep C between friends?
I hate when we're doing crunches at boot camp and I have to fart. Have you ever tried holding in a fart while your sphincter is being pushed to it's limit? Mmm Hmm. That's what I thought.
I hate crafts. I associate crafts with hoarding. Really, you're going to save 327,052 bread ties so you can make all your friends (and 47 cats) necklaces? Also, lets stop with the beaded necklaces you're trying to sell at art shows. You're stringing beads onto wire. I did that when I was 6. You didn't see me charging $75 a pop for one of those awesome necklaces. Hey, why not make some friendship bracelets and pot holders while you're at it? Don't get me wrong, I do have a friend who is VERY talented, and I love her knitted goods:). This takes talent. Stringing beads is done by retarded kids daily...Not that retarded kids aren't talented. They give good hugs.
I hate that my phone auto-corrects the word "hon" to the name "Jon". The person to whom I am texting this term of endearment is not named Jon. Thanks, auto correct.
I hate that I had to mention to someone today that chicken wing bones do not belong in a swimming pool. Nor does the gallon (glass) bottle of Seagram's. I understand that you're a slum hotel that is filled with pedophiles, so (hopefully) no children are present, but you still have to play by the rules. I mean, I'd really hate to see one of your pedophile renters slice their dick off on that broken bottle.... On second thought, leave that bottle there.
I hate that one of my clients won't host a gay pride night at his bar because his Caribbean crowd said they'd boycott. If they're that uptight, maybe they should go back to the Carribean. I'm sure there are no homosexuals there, you closed-minded idiots.
I hate that one of my licensed mobile home parks lied and told about half of their occupants that I was requiring them to remove all the plants from their lots, or I was going to fine them. I also hate that after lying about this, the manager proceeded to give all the residents (456, to be exact) my phone number. They're 84. They have nothing better to do than call and yell at me for harassing the elderly. They can't hear, so I have to yell to explain to them that I didn't write that.
I hate that my next door neighbors always look wet. No matter what time of the day it is. I'm pretty sure they have a perpetual shower.
I hate that my across-the-street neighbors are just the opposite. A two year old should not have dread locks. Give that greasy, sticky kid with no pants a shower, please...And while you're at it, shave your legs and armpits, mom.
I hate that people use obesity as a disability and a reason not to exercise. There are amputees that still work out. Hell, I know one that does triathalons. Put down the quadruple bacon stacked, fried chicken -for-a-bun-cheeseburger and go swimming. No joint impact, you won't sweat, and it's fun. What's your excuse now, crybaby? Not enough time? How much time does it take you to savor the taste of that chocolate dipped, sugar wrapped, butter filled, breaded, deep fried twinkie? Boom! Five laps.
I hate when people push vitamins on me. I eat a balanced diet. If you're so into purity, why are you popping these microcrystalline cellulose filled capsules? I was a chemist at a pharmaceutical company before making it big. I know a thing or two about this subject. Just because your product was reviewed by the FDA, it does not mean it was APPROVED by the FDA. FDA neither regulates nor approves vitamins. Keep that in mind when you decide to flush your money down the toilet on a bottle of pills made of nothing more than filler. If you want to get your vitamins, learn to eat right.
I hate when I have to pee really bad, and the fat woman (who looks as though she just devoured four other women) in line ahead of me at Target backs up her fat mobile (aka electric wheelchair) over my foot. Adding insult to injury, fatty bo-batty, you're really going to pay with a check? I didn't even know banks still made checks. Oh, but wait, you changed your mind and decided to apply for a Target credit card? Right now, in line? Perfect. And you don't remember your own phone number and have to fish your address book out of your saddle bag? Take your time, Bertha. I'm in no rush...May I please borrow one of those Depends you just bought with your coupons?
I hate people who are too lazy to return their shopping cart to the store. Really? Pushing it that extra twenty feet back (because I know damned well you were too lazy to park farther away than that) is going to devastate you physically? Hey, stupid, I can see you trying to stealthily shove that cart in front of that Chevy Impala. It always rolls. Usually into my front quarter panel. I hate you. Walk the cart back, you worthless piece of fecal matter.
I hate the woman I watched for five minutes trying to get the front end of her cart over the grassy curb in the parking lot to prevent it from rolling. She was sweating. Profusely. She could have just pushed it the twenty feet back to the store (see above), and not messed up her clown make up.
I hate that I had to explain to my mom what FUBU meant after she bought a pair of FUBU tennis shoes. FYI-it means, For Us By Us (it's an African-American company). My mom is white.
I hate when nurses think it's okay to keep a plastic ice cream tub overflowing with used syringes in their kitchen. Sure, go ahead and continue to serve food. Who cares if Gertie gets poked in the tongue with a dirty needle? What's a little Hep C between friends?
I hate when we're doing crunches at boot camp and I have to fart. Have you ever tried holding in a fart while your sphincter is being pushed to it's limit? Mmm Hmm. That's what I thought.
I hate crafts. I associate crafts with hoarding. Really, you're going to save 327,052 bread ties so you can make all your friends (and 47 cats) necklaces? Also, lets stop with the beaded necklaces you're trying to sell at art shows. You're stringing beads onto wire. I did that when I was 6. You didn't see me charging $75 a pop for one of those awesome necklaces. Hey, why not make some friendship bracelets and pot holders while you're at it? Don't get me wrong, I do have a friend who is VERY talented, and I love her knitted goods:). This takes talent. Stringing beads is done by retarded kids daily...Not that retarded kids aren't talented. They give good hugs.
I hate that my phone auto-corrects the word "hon" to the name "Jon". The person to whom I am texting this term of endearment is not named Jon. Thanks, auto correct.
I hate that I had to mention to someone today that chicken wing bones do not belong in a swimming pool. Nor does the gallon (glass) bottle of Seagram's. I understand that you're a slum hotel that is filled with pedophiles, so (hopefully) no children are present, but you still have to play by the rules. I mean, I'd really hate to see one of your pedophile renters slice their dick off on that broken bottle.... On second thought, leave that bottle there.
I hate that one of my clients won't host a gay pride night at his bar because his Caribbean crowd said they'd boycott. If they're that uptight, maybe they should go back to the Carribean. I'm sure there are no homosexuals there, you closed-minded idiots.
I hate that one of my licensed mobile home parks lied and told about half of their occupants that I was requiring them to remove all the plants from their lots, or I was going to fine them. I also hate that after lying about this, the manager proceeded to give all the residents (456, to be exact) my phone number. They're 84. They have nothing better to do than call and yell at me for harassing the elderly. They can't hear, so I have to yell to explain to them that I didn't write that.
I hate that my next door neighbors always look wet. No matter what time of the day it is. I'm pretty sure they have a perpetual shower.
I hate that my across-the-street neighbors are just the opposite. A two year old should not have dread locks. Give that greasy, sticky kid with no pants a shower, please...And while you're at it, shave your legs and armpits, mom.
I hate that people use obesity as a disability and a reason not to exercise. There are amputees that still work out. Hell, I know one that does triathalons. Put down the quadruple bacon stacked, fried chicken -for-a-bun-cheeseburger and go swimming. No joint impact, you won't sweat, and it's fun. What's your excuse now, crybaby? Not enough time? How much time does it take you to savor the taste of that chocolate dipped, sugar wrapped, butter filled, breaded, deep fried twinkie? Boom! Five laps.
I hate when people push vitamins on me. I eat a balanced diet. If you're so into purity, why are you popping these microcrystalline cellulose filled capsules? I was a chemist at a pharmaceutical company before making it big. I know a thing or two about this subject. Just because your product was reviewed by the FDA, it does not mean it was APPROVED by the FDA. FDA neither regulates nor approves vitamins. Keep that in mind when you decide to flush your money down the toilet on a bottle of pills made of nothing more than filler. If you want to get your vitamins, learn to eat right.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Get A Life
I swore I wasn't going to even acknowledge the Casey Anthony ordeal. After reading so many Facebook posts, I can't take it anymore. Get a life, people. On July 4th, we celebrated this country's independence and everyone was so proud to be an American. On July 5th, verdict in the trial was reached. All of a sudden, people were distraught over the unfairness of the outcome. This country, which you claim to be so proud of, was founded on the basis of theUnited States Constitution. Perhaps all of you throwing tantrums should actually educate yourselves on the Sixth Amendment to the United States Bill of Rights. The jury did exactly as they were told, providing an impartial judgment in the case based on the evidence presented. So, for all of you proud-to-be-Americans-when-things-go-my-way-bandwagoners, suck it. Try reading. Be proud of America and all it stands for all the time, not just when it's convenient. If you don't like it, leave. I hear France is looking for a few good people.
While on the subject of bandwagons and Caylee Anthony...Let's stop the nonsense of petitions to stop moms from killing their kids. Let's stop leaving on our porch lights in honor of Caylee. If it really means that much to you, why don't you actually volunteer time to children in need, try mentoring, or look into a Guardian Ad Litem program in your community. Do something that makes a difference to a living child. Do something that actually doesn't make you look like a stereotypical "stupid American" (in the words of my former French teacher). If as many people cared about the living children being bounced from foster family to foster family as cared about this media-bloated Anthony case, fewer children would be dying. Believe me, there are living children in your community that need a voice, not the dead ones. Get real and get your priorities straight.
And on a totally unrelated subject-I am proud to be an American. I, however, am so happy that tomorrow is the last freakin' shuttle launch into space. Maybe we can use those funds from NASA to build a 9/11-Caylee Anthony-Oklahoma City-Katrina-flood-tornado memorial on the former grounds of the World Trade Center. We have no business in space.
While on the subject of bandwagons and Caylee Anthony...Let's stop the nonsense of petitions to stop moms from killing their kids. Let's stop leaving on our porch lights in honor of Caylee. If it really means that much to you, why don't you actually volunteer time to children in need, try mentoring, or look into a Guardian Ad Litem program in your community. Do something that makes a difference to a living child. Do something that actually doesn't make you look like a stereotypical "stupid American" (in the words of my former French teacher). If as many people cared about the living children being bounced from foster family to foster family as cared about this media-bloated Anthony case, fewer children would be dying. Believe me, there are living children in your community that need a voice, not the dead ones. Get real and get your priorities straight.
And on a totally unrelated subject-I am proud to be an American. I, however, am so happy that tomorrow is the last freakin' shuttle launch into space. Maybe we can use those funds from NASA to build a 9/11-Caylee Anthony-Oklahoma City-Katrina-flood-tornado memorial on the former grounds of the World Trade Center. We have no business in space.
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