Christmastime in the Emerald City











(editors note, WordPress appears to be fucking up, and I can not reformat this post to have any spaces between the paragraphs, this is not because I am retarded, it’s because the internet is retarded. Thank you for your time)

There’s a lot of damn things out there that make me happy, but I think I’ve been spewing enough lately about how awesome my boyfriend is, how cute my rabbits are, and how I’m so awesome my farts smell like Cinnamon Buns (seriously, Josh made a shirt telling me so.)

Yes, I am this awesome

Yes, I am this awesome

It is time, I feel, to get back on the rant wagon once in a while. It’s not good to keep all that well-worded rage bottled up inside. It wouldn’t be fair for me to clock a preppy blonde soccer mom in the face just because she reminds me of that bitchface in the Tostitos commercials. I’d at least have to clock her for the right reason – being a preppy blonde soccer mom in the first place. So lets get this show on the road.
The Tostitos Bitch
I can’t find anything on Youtube for this, mostly because only funny and worthwhile stuff is on Youtube, not mindless media propaganda. But I’m sure you can imagine it: some ridiculously well manicured preppy blonde is standing in her kitchen while a gaggle of healthy teens and doofusy dad barrel through – clearly she is super busy, just like EveryMom. Oh but she has the solution for that after school or mid game snack, oh yes! And it’s quick too, that’s the whole premise of these commercials: she finishes whipping up a Tostitos themed masterpiece with time left on the clock and cutely retardedly stands there looking at the camera.
Firstly, I don’t know about you, but it takes me a fuck of a lot longer than 30 seconds to blend expensive brand name shit in a food processor, pour it in a bowl and surround it by expensive brand name chips. Secondly, this attempt to appeal to EveryMom and give her the impression that she should be able to do the same pisses me off *almost* as much as the clear indication that she will turn into superefficientperfectlycoordinatedeverymom if she only adds Tostitos products to her next grocery list.
Fuck you! Do you know how expensive that shit is? Do you have any idea how quickly those three and a half dollar jars of fake cheese add up? Do you really think that once I squeeze out a few kids I’m really going to care about whipping out the food processor every day after school? Or quickly slicing up some buffalo mozarrella with a leaf of fresh basil and placing it daintily on a chip thirty times over? You better believe that if I have that kind of energy, it’s because I don’t have to work full time in which case I A) won’t be able to afford Tostitos brand products on a near daily basis and B) would rather spend the time, energy and money on something far more creative. Like a pie.
You want a quick and easy snack? Open a bag of chips you overachieving cow. Shut your thirty second face.
Middle Aged Suburbanites on the Subway
Okay, all you mommies and daddies that have to spend a fortune on a babysitter for your spoiled brats and then justify it by leaving your gas guzzling SUV in the driveway and taking the subway into the downtown core for the first date you’ve had since the drugstore ran out of condoms eight years ago, listen up: You’re not cool or hip, or whatever else you used to call yourselves back when you had a life. Your pressed jeans and new top freshly purchased at Winners piss me off, and you stick out like a fat chick at an anti-carb convention. Likewise your cheap highlights, fake leather jacket and tendency to compete for the SAME GODDAMNED HAIRCUT AS EVERYONE ELSE ON YOUR KIDS HOCKEY TEAM! Have you ever seen these creatures? These suburbanite flocks that all do the same weird over-the-age-of-30 shuffle on a bar-and-grill dance floor? Because that’s what they do on their big trip into town, and they talk about it ALL THE WAY THERE!
Pizza Pops
Because they go out the same way they go in. Orange and greasy ūüė¶
Beer Bottles Without Twist Tops
Do I really need another device between me and my beer? If I’m having a beer it’s because it’s been a long ass day and I feel like hanging out and being a lazy ass. Why is it necessary, so absolutely essential, that I now have to get up and get the fucking bottle opener that I forgot to get on the way back from getting the beer since it’s so unnatural to have to stop and fetch an implement to facilitate drinking the beer that I’ve already spent the effort on getting into my hand? That was a long sentence, did you catch all that? I’ve already spent all the energy I want to spend today on GETTING THE BEER TO MY HAND. And now you want me to do more stuff? Does this not crush the spirit of beer? Some of you are nice, some of you play by the rules! Them other ones, the ones I can just pop off with my sweaty little girl hands, those guys are alright. But you assholes who give me some excuse about how it affects the bottling process or flavour or some such micro-brewery connoisseur bullshit, you motherfuckers slice my drunken hand open with your sharp non-twist edges! I hate you guys.
And if you want to know why I don’t just get beer in a can it’s because I already feel trashy enough drinking beer by myself with dirty hair in an un-airconditioned apartment next to a bag of cheetos without the can of Pabst or whatever you get in cans. I might as well just prop a car up on cinderblocks in my non-kitchen.
Cars with Ridiculous SubWoofers and the Assholes Behind the Wheel
So what’s the first thing you think when you see that sweet upgrade on your tiny dick little ride? “Oh fucking sweet dude, now everybody I drive past is going to instantly hate me for interrupting their movies, sleep, conversation, and awkward sexual advances. I rule!” What the fuck? If you’ve got this sound system, you’re automatically an idiot. If you weren’t an idiot, you’d know that you can only hear to a certain extent, and below this frequency you can’t hear a thing – you can only feel it, and you can only feel it twenty feet away where you AREN’T! You’re paying for a system that does not much extra for you, but does fucktons to irritate people nowhere near enough to your proximity to have done anything to deserve your overpriced interruption. If you’re paying to be an asshole, you suck.
And lastly, my personal favourite:
Motherfucking Greyhound
I don’t have near enough energy to go into the precise details of how much I hate Greyhound, but let me put it this way. Greyhound kept me waiting from 1am to 5:45 am in Richmond, Virginia surrounded by blaring TVs going into incessant depth on the latest Hulk Hogan death threat. Greyhound doesn’t seem to understand how to tell crazy bitches who clearly just had their hair did that their tater tot kids don’t get to strut in front of the other 150 people in the lineup – some of whom also have kids. Greyhound apparently pissed me off enough in Washington that I can’t remember a thing about the city. Greyhound had me run around the New York City bus stop with unidentified gates and passengers trying to get to Switzeland. Greyhound advises their new drivers to wander away from the vehicle when it breaks down for two hours at a truckstop halfway to Syracuse to better facilitate the crazy toothless truck driver who feels like climbing aboard to tell everyone all about the horrible bus crash he saw three weeks ago where eleven people died, despite my insistent questions “Who are you and why are you on my bus?” Greyhouse likes to advise dispatch of the wrong directions, sending my driver into the wrong end of some asswipe of a town nowhere near where I’m supposed to be. Greyhound likes to say “‘Dat ain’t mah prawllum, ma’am” instead of “this query of yours does not pertain to my job description, please go to the help desk where nobody is waiting to assist you.” Greyhound throws your shit to the ground hard enough to send your lipstick rolling through the gutters of the US Border Patrol. Greyhound doesn’t clean their bathrooms. Greyhound likes to thank me for choosing them. Greyhound is how I kicked my hardshell suitcase hard enough to break my toe.
Greyhound, you suck.
*Shakes fist*
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I’m going to qualify that header with a little bit of information: I dropped out of University after my first year. Yeah, I know. Me, the prodigal child who went to gifted school, was in all advanced classes and spent most of highschool on the honour roll.

Was it too hard? Well it kicked my ass, but I probably could have plowed through – I passed a history course without even going to the exam, clearly I was doing something right. Did I spend all my money and time partying? No. I was poor and didn’t like anybody in my residence building. Did I decide to switch my major from Forensic Psychology to Interpretive Dance? Kind of, I guess. I did spend a fortune going to the best school for makeup artistry in North America before realizing that the Toronto beauty market is completely oversaturated. But hey, people spend that kind of money on vacations and I¬†acquired some serious skills. No regrets at all. So why did I drop out?

Because it sucked.

Plain and simple, I didn’t like it. It’s not that I don’t have the wherewithall to haul my ass through difficult times in the hope of a great future ahead. I just didn’t see a great future ahead. Sure, I could have had a career as a forensic scientist, growing slowly more obsessed and insane (my fellow apartment dwellers were disturbed¬†by the¬†“motivational” photos plastered to my wall on the rare occasion I opened my door). But I lived with this lingering fear of spending all that time and money only to change my mind. I saw so many people achieving degrees only to find them useless, and so many people doing alright without them. I’m not saying higher education is useless. I’m just saying I was disillusioned. Everything I learned was through¬†textbooks, holing up in my tiny bedroom for literally months at a time.¬†The daily get up and go process, the classes and interaction with other humans only served as an example of why an education doesn’t make you smart. So I shunned it all very quickly, moved out on my own and threw myself into the real world for a whirlwind tour of poverty, uncertainty, adventure, heartache, exploration and a few good life lessons that all the overpriced tuition in the world could never have afforded me, and as is becoming increasingly obvious, has not been afforded to a great many of the more educated ‘others’.

THINGS UNIVERSITY DOESN’T TEACH YOU:

 

When it comes right down to it, your electric bill is the last one that needs to be paid. At least in Toronto where they will go for over a year before sticking that orange tab of paper on your door. On a related note, your account number is attached to your address, not you personally. So when you move, it’s not a very good idea to keep making online payments to the old account number because even though you will be credited for it, it’ll take them a year to figure it out and it’s a super pain in the ass.

 

 

 

 

¬†To prevent crack addicts from rummaging through your shit, don’t put out your recycling until you hear the truck coming. Empty beer cans are like gold. This of course, depends on where you live. If you can’t figure out whether or not you are surrounded by crackheads, you should probably just give up and wander into traffic. They don’t all look like Dave Chapelle, by the way.

 

 

There is no greater skill than being able to lie.

 

It’s all about who you know. I got this job because someone I made a brief impression on called me up to offer it. Talea got her job because I¬†got that same someone to call her. At our previous place of employ, I was promoted from lowly phone monkey to reception because Talea knew me and¬†my¬†hyperorganization. Sure, the job was posted and technically available to anyone, and plenty of more educated and more senior people were a little miffed, but¬†at the end of the day people hire you, not your resume.

 

 

 

Experience trumps education. I suppose some kind of college degree in business administration (What the hell do they teach in those classes? How to file? Did we not learn the alphabet and therefore how to alphabetize in kindergarten?) might beef up my salary. But if I walk into an interview with years of customer service and a list of references attesting to my skills, that meek little girl in her first suit and a newly framed degree doesn’t stand a chance.

 

Don’t bring your parents to a job interview¬†you stupid, stupid twit.

 

You really, REALLY¬†don’t need a swiffer.¬†

 

 

 

If you live in a sketchy place, make friends with the scariest looking person you can find. Again, it’s all about who you know.

You have to start doing the job you want before they will start paying you for it.

 

A four apartment quadplex with simple slots at the door for mail is going to be more secure than a two level series of bachelor apartments with 12 locked boxes. The former indicates an established level of trust. The latter…well, lets just say that I can still go back to my old apartment and open up most of the mailboxes with my fingernail.

 

 

 

Knowing city by-laws like the back of your hand is very useful, especially with jackass neighbours. Also become familiar with any rules and regulations pertaining to renting and lease agreements. Landlords will fuck you the minute they can.

 

 THERE IS NO SUBSTITUTE FOR GOOD LUBE

 

OH GOD MY EYES!!!!

 

When scouting for a dwelling, check all the taps and flush the toilets. Sure it might have a great view and tons of amenities, but you won’t care so much about the concierge service when you have cold shampoo running in your eye and you end up tripping on the shower curtain and are found by the paramedics staring blindly up into the still running ice cold spray. “Oh God, my eyes!” should never be anybody’s last words.

  

 

Learn how to break someones nose. You probably won’t ever have to, but it’s a good skill to have.

Not doing your own laundry by the age of 20 is wrong. Sending your laundry home to your parents makes you a sad, pathetic individual. Girls at school, I’m talking directly to you.

 

 

Find a good doctor. Don’t assume they all know what they’re talking about,¬†¬† because a frightening percentage of them don’t. That nagging feeling of frustration like you’ve spent three hours trying to assemble a shoddy piece of Ikea furniture except you’ve been doing nothing of the sort? Yeah, it’s not the product of allergies and isn’t going to go away any time soon. It’s probably¬†the sinking realization that you’re grown up and have to start acting like one, but you should still do something about it.

 

 

A good pair of heels can get you further than you think. So will a good tie and a good set of cufflinks. So will a chainsaw.

Get it in writing. People will doublecross you for a latte, nevermind a dollar.

 

If you’re getting calls from a collections agency, you probably already know that you’re fucked. You don’t have to stay on the line with them or let them scare you – feel free to hang up, laugh maniacally or make animal sounds. See that guy there? He’s screaming about the¬†Manson muders and their relation to his mothers favourite Borscht recipe. And he’s having a grand old time. You can too!

 

 

Your printer didn’t just run out of ink on the day that you’re expected to bring a resume to an interview, and you don’t have a family emergency. For the love of all the is decent, just learn to say “I’m no longer interested in the position.” You’re not going to hurt anyone’s feelings.

 

Stop being afraid of hurting the feelings of people you are never going to see again. It’s very liberating. Feel free to walk out on a bill when the service was really that terrible. You don’t have to be nice to your ex. That pizza guy doesn’t need to be tipped 20% unless you have the same delivery guy all the time. If you do, make friends with him, man, make friends. You never know when a pizza guy is going to come in handy.

 

 

 

Nobody is interested in your regurgitation of the social theories you learned in school. If confronted with such a character, ask them if they’re going to introduce any original thoughts any time soon or if you should just break out the Communist Manifesto and get it over with.

 

If a taxi driver forgets to put the meter on, you don’t have to pay him out of sympathy. In this and in many other situations, asking for a name or employee number will get you a hell of a lot. If your cab gets in an accident you do not owe him anything other than a screaming shitfit. Learn how to throw a screaming shitfit, they can be very, very helpful. If your taxi driver happens to be a squirrel, pay the fuck up. Squirrels will lay the smackdown.

 

 

Return policies in most stores are more flexible than you think depending on how long you are willing to stand in line and argue.

 

 

Your first apartment isn’t going to come with a garbage can, toilet paper or a mop. You’ll also find yourself amazed at all the shit you need that you would never have thought of. Whether you’re a do-good bakeasaurus rex moving into a cute little condo or a hash smoking layabout living in the slums, YOU WILL NEED ALUMINUM FOIL.

 

 

 

A life well lived is the best revenge, but paired up with¬†a wad of spit in the eye it’s damned near perfect.

And lastly:

BEING EDUCATED AND BEING SMART ARE TWO VERY DIFFERENT THINGS!!!

 

 

 



Dear Miley Cyrus:

I despise you quite a bit right now. Your tarted up face is everywhere, and your vapid lyrics are put forth through your mechanical voice everywhere I fucking go. I’d feel sorry for you if you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself so much. My problem with you is that you’re a fake. That’s right, a great big phony. Let’s investigate the walking pile of lies that is you and everything you hold dear. Hold my hand on this journey child, your training bra doesn’t give you the right to cross the street by yourself just yet.

Firstly is your alter ego, Hannah Montana. I know you’re not much more than a walking Disney creation, but now that you’ve decided to crack your Mickey Mouse shell and start singing vaguely sexual lyrics (since those budding boobies are nothing more than two chubby cash cows in this industry), I don’t want to hear the name Hannah Montana ever again. Miley isn’t your real name either, but it’s sure as hell better than Hope or Destiny, so take the damn name and run with it.

Secondly, you can’t sing. You can’t even pretend to sing. I fully realize that when I was thirteen I had a crush on the Backstreet Boys, but at no point did I accredit them with any sort of artistic merit. They were fodder for my blooming sexuality and innocent daydreams of holding hands in parks. I’m quite sure there aren’t that many thirteen year old budding lesbians, and am not at all certain if one even knows if they are¬†a lesbian at that point, so your celebrity confuses me greatly. Why do flocks of fans buy enough of your prefab albums to skyrocket your ass to the cover of enough magazines to even make it onto my radar, let alone piss me off? The Backstreet Boys could at least bust out with a decent a capella harmony, there being five of them and all. You can’t even sync up with the Studio Magic background track that makes you sound worse than Cher’s half-ass Framptonesque warbling on “Believe”. It’s bad enough that you rely so heavily on the post-production vocal version of photoshopping, but you can’t even do that right!!! STOP IT!!!

Thirdly, when you do sing, you sing shit. I don’t mean you sing poorly, we’ve already covered that. You know how “talking shit” implies slanderous, overdone untruths? Well you sing shit. You sing about rainbow flavoured love and make vague references to deep internal feelings like you’ve discovered your G spot for the first time. YOU’RE FIFTEEN!!!! I could probably go to jail for even MENTIONING that! Have you even gotten your period yet? Your meaningless lies about the cute boy at school are an unforgiveable insult to the great artists of our time who have loved and lost and written a decent fucking song about it! Go listen to Janis Joplin’s “Bobby McGee” you air headed little twerp. Now THAT is some soul! How the breath coming out¬†of your glossed over mouth hasn’t turned bubblegum fucking pink yet is absolutely beyond me, but I would greatly appreciate it if you kept it in the schoolyard where it belongs.

Fourthly, and most offensively, you’re fucking stupid. I know Daddy is a country star and that’s why you’re famous, but being famous in the country-star sort of way is nothing at all like being¬†famous in the pop-star kind of way. Country has it’s own flavour of soul and generally comes from authenticity. As a poptart, you’re no more than an oversized piggy bank.¬†You’re pretty and sparkly, and so¬†Industry Execs¬†put money into the entity that is Miley Cyrus Inc. in order to get more money out in the end. That money pays for your wardrobe, your tourbus, your makeup and hair, and enough Studio Magic to make your voice palatable enough for incessant radio play. Sure you’re getting quite a few bucks out of it, but they’re getting even more. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be giving you your shiny pink big-girl pants in the first place, would they? They make money off you. It’s that simple. You’re a cash cow: they feed you lies¬†and you shit them gold, with enough left over for you to tell yourself that it’s all okay.¬†If you’re¬†fine with that, alrighty then. We all have to abandon a few of our morals in order to pay our rent. What you don’t seem to realize is that as soon as you become an actual grown up, your appeal will have worn off and you’ll be dumped quicker than Britney after a crying jag. And that, my dear, makes you stupid.

Since stupid people generally understand concepts a little better with pretty pictures, lets take a look.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Disney’s Hannah Montana…¬†

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

¬†Plus lots of cash…¬†

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Equals Little Miss “I’m going to shake my booty even though I don’t really know what it’s for yet, and give millions of teenyboppers the impression that they know what the hell they are talking about when they get all lovestruck up in their not-yet-completely-formed brains and start making everyone else’s life a living hell with their sparkly lipgloss drama.”

Please note THE LACK OF BOOBAGE! THE LACK OF WAIST! THAT TORSO IS STILL NOTHING BUT A KIDDIE¬†TUBE! SHE HASN’T EVEN FINISHED PUBERTY YET! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!?!?

Please also note the byproduct of this equation:

10

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That would be money to the power of ten.

Unfortunately, this is not a stable equation. With the addition of TIME the BYPRODUCT decreases, resulting in less money for professional hair, makeup, wardrobe and sound.

The final outcome looks more like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s right! It’ll happen to you too! Stop now and spare yourself the humiliation.¬†And spare my ears while you’re at it.

Regards,

Me.

P.S. In case you still don’t believe me, I’m pretty sure my bff Talea is just about to rail on your ass for your parade of shittiness as well. Please click here for further demonstration of your inability to produce anything of worth to society.



So there’s a couple of things in life that are pretty unavoidable. Death and taxes, for example, at least until I finish up with the cryogenic reasearch (not for me, I’m already immortal, but for the bastards who keep taking my money).¬†Another is¬†celebrity gossip, at least in snippet form. I know none of you would dream of picking up the US weekly going on about Brangelina’s latest addition to their multicoloured genetic sampling, or Oprah’s most recent weighing in. But the information still manages to worm its way into your innocent bystander brain. You know Beyonce and Jay-Z got married whether you give a shit or not, and that Britney has gone from being tasteless to flat out fucking nuts. Because when you’re in a lineup at the grocery store and the feeble old lady in front of you insists on counting out her pennies, your eye will naturally wander to the giant bold font of every colourful magazine with its scantily¬†clad wares on full display. You know Lindsay Lohan is about as classy as a puke filled tobacco spittoon, and I can guarantee that nobody wants to hear the name Miley Cyrus ever again.

Frankly, it’s getting a little old. I really can’t see much of a difference between Britney and Lindsay. They’re both blonde, strung out fodder for magazine punchlines, and neither of them have a smidgen remaining of any potential they may have once had. Mariah Carey is STILL struggling with her image and posing with the exact same facial expressions that she’s been carrying around in her luggage for the past decade and a half since she decided to flatiron her hair. And yes, J-Lo still has a great big booty. BORING!

You know what I miss? The fun-tastic celebrities of yore. The face-slapping antics of Macaulay Culkin and the goggle-wearing goodness of the entity forever known as “that Urkel kid”. We all know where Will Smith is nowadays, but what about Carlton? Or Hilary, who once made a huge deal over a boyfriend with a mole and was given the snappiest line ever: “You’re making a mountain out of a mole, Hill!” What’s¬†Emilo Estevez up to these days? I haven’t heard anything about him since Will Ferrell drunkenly rambled his name back at the Roxbury. And Screech! Come on! Why aren’t these guys on the Surreal Life?

Well fine then. I’ll do it my damn self. I’ll find out what the hell happened to these people. And in the meantime, I’ll think up some fun alternate endings that would have ensured their lasting memory instead of their imminent disolve into obscurity.

Macaulay Culkin:

I really don’t know if I can come up with anything more¬†insulting or outlandish than this photo, but just for the sake of morbid curiosity, I’ll switch from Google images to just plain Google.

Let’s see. Well firstly, he was arrested for marijuana possession back in September of 2004, probably still self-medicating after his harrowing Michael Jackson ordeal. He’s had a failed marriage or two, but who hasn’t? Oh here’s an interesting tidbit: he apparently bought Marilyn Manson his first pack of cigarettes for his role in Party Monster (yeah, I’ve never heard of it either). And it seems he stopped accepting roles while his parents were seperating because they were squabbling over his money like wonderful parents do, and after the flop of such atrocities as Richie Rich, never made it back into the limelight.

Cause of Obscurity: Fucked over by parents. It seems all the fame and money in the world can’t stop the inevitable.

Far Better Explanation: While he may have thought it ironic that he was corrupting a previously cancer free Marilyn Manson with his bad boy smoking ways, the tables were clearly turned shortly thereafter when Macaulay was roped into the Mechanical Animals as an understudy. He never got a chance to wear the boob-suit however, because his outlandish choice of personal styling was what Marilyn describes as “just a little too weird for my taste.” Macaulay currently remains in Marilyn’s employ by licking makeup brushes clean in exchange for petty cash and vitamins. Jackson is coming for him soon, he promised, he promised.

Steve Urkel:

Although the irony of the actors name – Jaleel White – does not escape me, the simple truth is that you probably didn’t even know what it was. He is, and always will be, just plain Urkel. But after his final nasally rendition of “Did I do thaaaaaat?” he was never heard from again. At least not so that anyone would notice. Did you know Bea Arthur performed the Urkel dance with him on stage at the American Comedy Awards? That’s cause Bea Arthur kicks your mothers ass.

After Family Matters got the boot, Urkel tried to write and star in his own show called GrownUps, which was a clearly failed attempt to carry along his childhood fame into adulthood. Bringing along Punky Brewster didn’t help, and the show tanked. Since then, he has managed to get a few bit parts here and there instead of tastefully hanging up the suspenders and calling it a day.

Cause of Obscurity: Cancer of the pseudonym. Without Urkel, there is no Jaleel White. I’m sure his friends and family will claim otherwise, but they are wrong.

Far Better Explanation: Urkel and Bea Arthur got married on the hills of Pasadena and now own a ranch known affectionately as “Burkel.” They have three children, all named “Argyle” and rivalled only by Michael Jackson’s kids for the collective title of “Most Obscure and Probably Really Ugly”. We’re not quite sure how, but they are in fact responsible for the crisis in the Middle East. Something about¬†a¬†Burkel brand Burka, with a terrible, terrible misunderstanding along the way. A camel was also involved.

Alfonso Ribeiro:

You probably didn’t know his real name either, but it was mentioned on Family Guy, so that’s good enough validation for me. I do know he was on another show, since that was the point of the reference, but I can’t for the life of me find it. And by “find” I mean “click more than one Google link”.

At any rate, Alfonso went through a divorce as well, and handed physical custody of his daughter over to his wife while still insisting on joint legal custody. Clearly this child is being primed for showbiz and a future battle over the assets gained by her no doubt gapped teeth. Alfonso himself appears to have never gotten over the loss of fame once promised him when he was cast in one of Michael Jackson’s Pepsi commercials, and has most recently been seen in a McDonalds’s ad.

Cause of Obscurity: Graciously exited the scene after McDonald’s told him he wasn’t black enough for them. He is now a professional dancer. I’m not even kidding.

Far Better Explanation:¬† Are you retarded?!? He’s doing the Carlton Dance for a living! What could possibly be better than that?!?

Hilary Banks:

Unworthy of any mention of her real name, not much is known¬†about this elusive character except that she was a bit of a jerk on Fresh Prince. She was also on Blossom before that, as clearly indicated by the headgear, and had a brief stint on Melrose Place as well. Nobody has seen or heard of her since she appeared in The Ladies Man back in 2000. It was filmed in Toronto, and yet I don’t recall it – either a testament to our more presitgious productions or to just how lame a gig one gets after sporting ridiculous hats for a decade. Either way, she seems to have been filtered out of the far more talented (term used liberally) ranks we see on television today.

Sidebar: IMDB member blaque108 informs us that Hilary was on the cover of Ebony once upon a time. Thanks blaque108.

Cause of Obscurity: The hat, clearly. Whereas Michael Jackson absolutely made his career by sporting a mysteriously bedazzled¬†white glove, this atrocious number never made it out of the early 90’s. Not seen in this photo are tendencies towards spandex, wild prints, mirrorball earrings, parachute pants and other era-approrpriate faux-pas including the themesong to Darkwing Duck playing constantly in the background.¬†

Far Better Explanation: Anything to do with Michael Jackson because that fucker has clearly ruined the life of every single celebrity I once loved and cherished.

Emilio Estevez:

We all remember Emilio Estevez from his days as the Mighty Duck Coach. But do you remember in the third installment when the story replaced him for the most part with a tight-ass college coach who looked distressingly identical to him? Yes my friends, it was a sign of the times to come. Our most recent recollection of¬†Mr. Estevez¬†was his not-quite-cameo in A Night At the Roxbury with Will Ferrell screaming Emiliooooo!!!!! Emilioooo!!!! Before that, and before Mighty Duck fame, he was an apparent member of what was known as the Brat Pack. I’m a tad young for this to have any bearing on my consciousness whatsoever, and only know this as a fact because I was too lazy to turn off a biography on Demi Moore a few weeks back. I also recall it having something to do with Molly Ringwald whose cause for celeb I still can’t figure out.

Since hanging up the skates that were never his in the first place, Emilio has actually continued to act, just not in anything worth mentioning. His name does not conjure up the same initial absence of recognition that Alfonso Ribeira does, but rather a feeling of “Awww, yeah, I remember him!” We remember his talent fondly.

Cause of Obscurity: Suckage. While his most recent stint “Bobby” ¬†actually did fairly well, Emilio made a crucial mistake by abandoning the Mighty Duck bandwagon all those years ago. Apparently he only agreed to appear in the third installment¬†at all in exchange for Disney’s financial backing in his actor-director fiasco “The War At Home.”¬†Critics liked it, but nobody else did. And thus began his tailspin. His failed engagement and marriage to Demi Moore and Paula Abdul respectively didn’t do much for him either.

Far Better Explanation: It’s a little-known fact that his engagement to Demi Moore failed after she discovered Emilio canoodling with fellow Brat-Packer Molly Ringwald. Unfortunately, Molly also had a severe case of ringworm, as indicated by her unfortunate family name. The medication involved in the treatment affected his ability to make clear decisions later on in life. Emilio is currently a stockholder in Neverland Ranch, a further testament to the devastating effects of this illness. Please contact the author of this blog for info on where to send your charitable donations. A food drive will also be set up, as Mr. Estevez claims to be shockingly low on Doritos and Mr. Pibb

Screech:

This guy goes by a whole plethora of awesome names. Firstly, the character he played was actually Samuel Powers and would have been a super mega hunk with a super rad name like that if the writers hadn’t already decided to turn him into Screech. The actor himself is named Dustin Deschaine or Dustin Diamond, depending on which Wiki article you look at. And considering that he was with Saved By the Bell right from its early inception in ’88 to the final curtain on several modernized versions in 2000, he’s had a fairly good haul. Since then he’s apparently been trying to get his standup comedy routine up and off the ground, and was also a member of Celebrity Fit Club Season Five. His shitty attitude during the latter and tardy arrivals in regards to the former have kept¬†him well out of the public eye. Apparently he was also a bass guitarist for the now-defunct band “Salty Pocketknife” but of course just because you and your friends got drunk in a basement within proximity to some instruments and gave yourself a clever name, it¬†doesn’t constitute a “band”. Especially since Salty Pocketknife isn’t really that clever.

Most recently, Screech has been seen in his own sex tape scandal, leading one to wonder how anyone would get in bed with someone most notably associated with the name Screech. Assuredly, a bad vocal pun was made somewhere in the film. He has also been on radio shows explaining how broke he is, and hawking $15 Tshirts that say “I Gave Screeech Fifteen Dollars to Help Save His House,” explaining that there is an extra e in Screeech because he does not own the legal rights to his namesake.

Cause¬†of Obscurity: Poor financial planning, the plague of most child actors. Anybody remember how Will Smith was nearly bankrupt after Fresh Prince went off the air? And how he resorted to cheesy feel-good rapping? Well, apparently the original Mr. Smith had a few things that Screech here didn’t, including talent and work ethic.

Far Better Explanation: Never got together with Michael Jackson.

So there you have it folks. I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane. Wasn’t it far more adventurous than seeing Lindsay in her umpteenth teary-eyed snot-nosed photo, or speculation over Mariah’s actual weight? And it was far more informative too. Knowing Brangelina’s exotic humanitarian vacation getaway details is not going to save your own children. Realizing that Michael Jackson secretly controls the world is vital to their survival. Remember these important things people. And now, just because I’m so generous:

 CREEPY BONUS ROUND!!!!

The Zodiac Killer:

Instead of continuing on with the shoddy actor theme, I decided to go a little more morbid. This fun little fellow killed a few people in Northern California back in the 60’s, and is most notably known for stumping police with his cryptic messages, some of which have never been deciphered. Five confirmed killings are on the record, as well as two survivors and his own claim to as many as 37 victims.

He was never apprehended, and the killings stopped inexplicably. To this day, nobody knows exactly who he was or what his motives were, though he still retains his boogeyman status with frequent pop culture references including a movie with Jake Gyllenhaal. Interestingly enough, the Zodiac Killer himself once told the media “i am waiting for a movie about me i wonder who will play me the world is in my hands now.” Fantastic grammar and everything.

Cause of Obscurity: Stopped killing. This freaks people out because serial killers usually continue until they are caught, as it is a terrible compulsion not easily ignored by even the smartest of fiends. Some speculate that he went into hiding or simply moved to a different state and continued his plan unrecognized.

Far Better Explanation: Hit by car on the way to pick up a box of cat food.

 



So I’ve found myself a little stuck with writing lately, only because I’ve been generally less pissed off thanks to my awesome boyfriend and my overall improved ability to not let the world’s jackassery spin me into a trauma that’s much less eloquent outside these virtual perameters.¬†And unfortunately,¬†it’s when I’m pissed off that I write my best. It gives me the outlet to be snappy, sharp-witted, and sarcastic in my observations; to provide¬†helpful suggestions as to storage places within various bodily orifices for the¬†idiodic ideas of the masses; in other words, the chance to be a bitch.¬†

On a day to day basis, I am actually very nice. Karma and such – I go out of my way to help friends and complete strangers where I can. Even when I call someone an asshole on the subway, it’s for the greater good. But there is a side of me that just really gets a kick out of being mean. Not to “people” really, because when I get pissed off enough,¬†you’re no longer human, and I can be as mean¬†as I want. This doesn’t work well in person though, because people cry and leak and stuff and then they’re human again and I feel like I’ve stepped on a starving African orphan. With AIDS.¬†

But¬†if they don’t blubber and wail, or if they are distant somehow¬†I’m GREAT. On the phone, for example, I can be as aggressive and mean as I wish I could be in real life. I had a super proud bitch moment a few weeks ago. Our internet went down and everyone was pissed. After an afternoon/evening of disarray, we figured out that a single phone¬†number had been disconnected by mistake. The next morning it was my job to get on the phone with Bell (who we no longer use) and figure out what the hell happened. The fun part is that these people on the other end of the phone aren’t real to me, so I had an absolute blast. “No, we aren’t waiting for a tech, 4-6 hours is unacceptable. I don’t think you realize the severity of the situation or precisely how much it has cost my clients so far. I need to know why this line was cut, and I need to know immediately. No, that’s not good enough. Your employee number please? Listen, we’re going to get a MASSIVE bill for tech support, and I need to know who’s going to pay for it. Yes, I realize you are just doing your job, but so am I and I have 60 people breathing down my neck – you have one, me. Then put me through to someone who can.” One hour and five different phone monkeys later I was put through to someone who told me exactly who’s fault it was, and it was AWESOME. A fantastic feeling of accomplishment. Me, *I* figured out who’s fault it was. And it was an important person. Delicious.

Last weekend, my internet blipped for thirty seconds. Twenty minutes on the phone later, I was discounted up the ass. “I’m sorry but this is not at all what I plan to continue paying for. You’re¬†automated menu has mentioned internet difficulties in my area since the¬†minute I signed up. But I give¬†you the benefit of the doubt and am left with unreliable service in return.¬†Do you think I¬†feel like a valued customer at the moment? No, I don’t.¬†No, discounting me for the offline time is not acceptable. It¬†doesn’t matter that I¬†couldn’t get online for thirty seconds. It matters greatly that for¬†several weeks, I have been unable to write an email, or transfer funds¬†between my bank accounts (right, because I’ve got SO many with SO MUCH money in them) or go about any of the activities I pay for the convenience of having online access to without wondering if my internet will go down. Really? That’s what I’m paying for? One more thing to worry about? I want these charge reversed. Your name and employee number please”¬†So the bill comes along¬†with two months worth of phone charges, and only ONE month of internet charges.¬†Because my internet went down for thirty seconds. I wasn’t even online at the time. If I hadn’t been in the room, I wouldn’t have noticed the little light blip off and then on again. SWEET. Next time they ask if they may know to whom they have the pleasure of speaking, those faceless little monkeys will be calling me Princess HottenTots.

Notice the absence of any swearing or personal attacks. These are ineffective measures in getting what you want, because they make you look desperate and flawed. I’m right, and perfect. The insects on the phone, they are not. And don’t give me shit for dehumanizing people, you all know you hate those headset wearing liars. They do lie, they hold out the serious discounts for the people who demand them. And if you are one of these people, well hey, I would probably hold the door for you out in the real world somewhere, but as soon as you adjust your little foam covered mouthpiece, your ass is MINE.

In real life, I sometimes get a rare chance to fuck with people legitimately. Because it’s not about being a bitch. I’m really an awfully nice person. But there’s that funny little side of me that needs to be let out once in a while, so if I’m given good reason to fuck around with someone, I’ll take it and laugh with glee. One of our very pleasant clients came up to my desk and said “I just got a call for someone asking for someone I used to work with. It’s a very unpleasant matter, and I don’t wish to speak with them. Is there any way to screen those calls out?” I said absolutely, it would be my pleasure, and proceeded to demonstrate: “Hello? No, I’m sorry but there’s nobody here by that name. No, you have a wrong number. I can’t imagine how you just spoke with him, there’s nobody here by that name. No, you weren’t just speaking with me. I can’t imagine what you dialed earlier, but you simply have a wrong number. No, you can’t. No. No. No. Well I hardly think your opinion of my personal character has any significance in the matter. Goodbye now.” He was quite pleased.

We’ve got someone in the office who likes me to screen people for her. She’s got me on instant messenger and will often send me instructions.

Client: “She’s here for an interview, I’m still trying to find an assisstant who isn’t a total retard. What does she seem like?”
Me: “Rather timid, really. You seem like you’re looking for someone aggressive. She seems frightened of me, and mispronounced your name.”
Client: “I don’t want her.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to reschedule your interview. She was called away a few moments ago, I just spoke to her on her cell phone. There’s no need to leave your resume, we’ll be in touch. Bye now.” Nothing personal. I don’t dislike you as a person. But you’re unnecessary, so you can continue being a pleasant individual elsewhere.

Client: “Thanks, you’re great. Can’t you be my assistant?”
Me: “I like realistic pay and benefits.”
Client: “Shit.”

The same client had someone show up a day or two ago. I greeted her very politely, asked who she was here to see, and then her name. I left a voicemail and within ten seconds received an instant message:

Client: “She had an appointment hours ago and didn’t show up. She’s been jerking me around and it’s wasting so much of my time and money. Get rid of her, feel free to be rude.”
Me: “Yes ma’am!”

Me: “Ma’am? Hi. Unfortunately, you missed your appointment this morning. So you won’t be able to speak with anybody. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “But I just need to speak with her for five minutes.”
Me: “She’s unavailable. You were expected at 9:30 this morning, and it’s nearly noon.”
Her: “Yes, I was unable to come in. I just need a form. It’s very urgent, my court date is tomorrow.”
Me: “You should have called.¬†She’s unavailable now, and won’t be available any time today.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yeah, she’s STILL not available. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “Okay, I will come tomorrow morning then.”
Me: “No. How do you know she’ll be here? You could drive all the way for nothing. Call and make an appointment, and show up on time.”
Her: “Can you make the appointment for me?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Well then what time tomorrow she is here?”
Me: “I don’t know. Call to make an appointment with her.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yes. It is. Call to reschedule. Thaaaank You!”

Saying thank you at the end of a sentence is a really good way to indicate that the conversation is over and the other party must now leave. And they can’t even say you were rude – they just didn’t like the answer you gave them.

Anyways, I’ve rambled enough. You see, the thing is, this sort of ability to see someone as not so much a human but more of a bundle of cells comes in very handy when you work for a corporation. Corporations are recognized legally as seperate entities – this being the benefit of incorporating. But if you look at a corporation as a seperate individual and run a few diagnostic tests, you’ll find that¬†they are quite psychotic. Cold, emotionless, unable toform any lasting bonds.¬†They will be super nice and bend over backwards for you as long as you have something they want, but the minute you bounce a cheque you’re dead to them. No love lost. Goodbye corporate luncheons, hello call to security the moment you step foot back in the door. As Talea put it so well “If I took my job personally, I’d be on the floor crying all day”. So it is really an asset to be able to detach yourself in this manner when you need to wring necks in order to find out who’s going to foot the mile high tech bill for pulling the plug on everyones life internet.

Outside of work, it’s considered a ‘problem’. A ‘symptom’ actually if you want to get up close and personal. It’s actually pretty nice that my job gives me an outlet for the dark side. But I figure I should probably work on other outlets as well. What if I don’t need to squeeze answers, discounts and apologies out of people? What if I start lashing out at people I like because I just haven’t gotten my bitch-fix lately? This is not good.

So I’ve decided on some new goals. For my very nice wish-I-could-fix-the-world side, I’d like to have my finances in good enough order by this approximate time next year so that I can buy one of those $100 lottery tickets that donates proceeds to childrens hospitals. And for my holy-shit-I-am-SO-good-at-bitching-people-out-and-secretly-really-LOOVVVE-it side, my goal is this:

I want to make a collections agent cry.

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s true: I would make an excellent collections agent. But I’ve been on the other end of that, and while I was never intimidated I know there are a ton of people who are just trying to make ends meet to feed their kids. So the morals of that don’t sit right with me. I want to use my evil for greater good. But I’ve already gotten rid of all the creditors in my life. So I need some Karma. If anyone has someone out there who owes them money, or who’s hassling them for money, let me know. Is the phone company threatening you? Is your internet bill astronomical? Well I can help, because I am good at being a bitch for constructive purposes.

It’s a new marketing campaign. Call me. Please.

 



When’s the last time you got a raise? Just a general survey here, is anyone absolutely rolling in it? Is anybody else encouraged to simply stop doing their job because they don’t get paid enough? No? Well all y’all are apparently schmucks, because it seems all you need to do to get whatever your little heart desires is sign up for a pair of grey shorts as a member of one of several unions related to various job positions within the Toronto Transit Commission, hereafter known as “you jackass sons of whores.”

Let me back up and explain a little bit of what’s going on. The TTC employees, responsible for running our busses, streetcars and subways, as well as all the eletrical work and safety considerations etc. that go hand in hand with running any large-scale organization intended for public benefit, have gotten a little pissy lately. Like everyone on this great green earth, they want more money. They also want more benefits, and whatever else they’ve been yammering about. Currently, they¬†only receive 70% of their income if they have to take time off due to a work related injury, including assault from shadier members of Toronto’s vast public.¬†And yes, it might suck to¬†have your income drop because of¬†an incident beyond your control – but you’re still getting paid¬†despite your absence in¬†the economy, just like everyone else fortunate enough to work for an organization that provides these benefits in the first place. A hell of a lot of us are shit out of luck if we break our leg or sprain our ankle. And you may run the risk of having some punk ass kid take a swing at you because he doesn’t like your face or system, but my job isn’t without it’s risks. I’ve had some serious nutcases in my little reception area, and I’m pretty sure one of them declared Jihad on me. More than once I’ve had to have security escort someone out, but that’s just part of my much-slimmer-in-the-general-wallet-vicinity type¬†job, now isnt’ it?

Now, I’m not saying¬†how it currently goes is necessarily¬†right. After all, it’s not my fault I fell down the stairs (maybe….) But I do think that’s one of those things where¬†it’s just the way it is. And if you do want to change it, simply not doing¬†your job isn’t really the way to go. Shit, if you don’t like a law, change the way you vote.¬†You could maybe go against the law if you’re willing to spend some time rattling your donation cup against the¬†bars and¬†having your friends hand out pamphlets up about two blocks from me, but it’s not all glitz and glamour behind those iron rods of injustice.¬†The simple fact is that the majority of us have no choice but to suck it up and do our jobs in order to pay our bills and put our kids through college.¬†

But no. The TTC can decide to strike. If I were to go on strike, you know what would happen? I’d be replaced within five minutes by the next doe-eyed multitasker ready to abandon all hope for the future of humanity in exchange for a meagre paycheque. Yes, that does give you a glimpse into my average day. If I wasn’t so good at ranting about it, I wouldn’t love my job so much. But I digress: the point is, I can’t go on strike. It wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t work for just about anybody. The TTC on the other hand, has the city by the short n’ curlies¬†and so can just up and walk away and get handed whatever the fuck they want. Why? Because we as a city had the super smarts to think “Hey, cars aren’t really the best option around here. Gridlock and terrible smog, and the rising cost of fuel and parking and such.¬†Lets build a city-wide infrastructure to support the commute of MILLIONS of people every day at a fraction of the cost of driving.” Good idea! So many benefits with just a few downsides, one of them being the apparent superiority complex given to every beer gutted bastard sitting behind the wheel of a bus.

Some people don’t get to strike. Some jobs are considered an essential service. The nurses went on strike once, back about the time I smashed my clumsy toddler head into the wooden arm of a couch and needed stitches – put in by my DAD, thanks a lot. Traumatizing much? (For him, not me.) And since then, they’ve been made an essential service. This means they can’t strike, but they do get paid a lot (Yes, I know our health care system is ridiculously underfunded, that is a systematic flaw. I know how much nurses make, and I’ll dip my hands in guts for that kind of dough any day.) And there has been a lot of talk about making the TTC an essential service. I know it seems kind of odd to look at the roster there: firefighters, nurses, doctors, policemen, and the¬†TTC unions. Four out of five save your lives on a daily basis. The other one gets you to work. Yeah, sweet, that job I’m sure you love so much. However, as a city, we do need the TTC to function. So there are a lot of pros and cons to making them an essential service, because while it would prevent strikes, it would also give them the right to a lot of stuff – not for stitching wounds and dragging babies out of burning buildings, but for driving a bus all day. And while it is essential, something about that just doesn’t sit right with me. And something apparently doesn’t sit right with those who actually make the decisions, because our government has been hemming and hawwing in their quintessential Canadian sort of way.

Anyways, carrying on. They nearly went on strike about a week ago, and there was a whole shitload of “Will they? Won’t they? What the hell are we going to do?” going on. And so the TTC agreed to at least give the city 48 hours notice before going on strike so that the majority of us who rely so heavily on them could make alternate arrangements. Last weekend, they decided not to strike. They accepted the deal on the table for the time being and kept on truckin’ (or bussin’, rather) throughout the week until it could be officially voted on. Friday at midnight: not a fucking bus in sight! Stranded! Not me, personally, once I’m home I don’t really go anywhere I can’t walk to, because, um, I live downtown and that’s the benefit of paying ridiculously high rent. But yeah, right out of nowhere! Never mind two days notice, we got about two hours notice.

This, tactically, was a shitty move. Firstly, who the hell are you trying to paralyze in a city of commuters on the weekend? I’m not denying that some people were very definitely fucked, but overall, not very effective. Secondly, that gives the city 48 hours to retaliate to your ongoing bullshit. So what did our government do? Well, they didn’t declare them an essential service. That’s a very permanent move to make¬†on such short notice. Instead, all three parties of our provincial legislation got together and put a nifty little bill on the table that was passed within half an hour. It said essentially this:

Dear TTC,

You have officially pissed us off. Yes, you may have the city by the short hairs, but you’re forgetting who can smack down the law ’round these here parts. You didn’t hold up your end of the 48 hour deal. So you want to play hardball? Here’s hardball: either get your asses back to work on Monday and settle your shit, or pay $2000 per employee (of which there are a LOT) and $25,000 per union for every single day this idiocy carries on. You also have five days to find someone to help you settle your shit, or we’ll pick one for you. You also owe the city of Toronto an apology.

Dear Toronto,

Please don’t beat up transit workers on Monday, that’ll only give them more fuel for their whining, blubbering fire.

So there! Take that you assholes! Try to hold my life hostage, will you? Just because we need you to function on a daily basis doesn’t change that fact that you DRIVE A BUS!!!!!! I still love my TTC as a system, because I love that we have taken on such a green, sustainable, economically friendly infrastructure and made it something that is really essential. But goddamn if I don’t hate the day-to-day assholes who¬†yessssss keep it running (*clenches fists*), but who whine ceaselessly about it.

My solution? Get a couple of blogs, jerkfaces! Venting does the body good.

 



{March 26, 2008}   Spitz or Swallowz

Are we seriously still talking about this guy?!? Holy God, it’s been over a month since this whole Eliot Spitzer shiznat barreled its way onto that unavoidable little tv in my corporate elevator, and while the coverage has decreased to the status of satire on This Hour has 22 Minutes, it’s still hard to believe that the squawking box hasn’t tired of this yet. Are you guys in need of a little more excitement maybe? Hmm? Not getting enough in the bedroom?¬†It seems¬†that¬†as soon as a political figure admits to having a dick you go absolutely apeshit, and I just don’t understand.

Now don’t go thinking I’m defending the idiot. There’s nothing I love more than seeing the life of a douchebag go up in media flames. We all love car wrecks, we slow down to gaze at the carnage¬†– don’t deny it –¬†and at the end of the day, I get a certain sick little kick out of all the shebang. Does that make me a bad person? Well, maybe, but my ass isn’t on the news now, is it?

My question is why does it always have to do with sex? I know other shit is going on, but with my ongoing attempts to avoid a steady influx of political crap, only the most outrageous incidents filter through. It’s a decent gauge, I find: if I know about it, then holy crap it must be a HUGE story. And it’s not¬†as though¬†we Canuck’s don’t have our own scandals. It’s just that they’re not about sex, so¬†why would¬†the American media notice? Not that they notice much about us, a fact that sometimes pisses me off and sometimes makes me grateful that the world doesn’t hate us. If anything,¬†our scandals are¬†far more interesting. Everybody knows what hookers are all about, but how about a political party trying to gain the support of a certain important figure by offering him a million dollar life insurance policy? The catch – the guy’s on his deathbed. I know, freaking Days of Our Lives or what?! Now that is awesome.

But no, you settle for the humdrum. Oh wow, look, another public figure who claimed that he was SO not about the paid-for poontang up and got himself caught with his dick in a borrowed pot of honey. Fantastic. And on Valentines day too! Double trouble! I bet all those years of sneakily ruining people lives, stock value and reputations in the press instead of in the actual courtrooms looks pretty regrettable now, doesn’t it you two-faced douchebag? And when you settled things out of court, effectively beefing up your own reputation while still letting people you called criminals go free, why didn’t anybody call you on your douchebaggery back then? Because you managed to keep your dick in your pants, that’s why. America loves a good dick story. Don’t you have better things to worry about? For example….hey, do we have that clip of ANYTHING GEORGE BUSH HAS EVER SAID?

But admittedly, there are a few things that caught my interest. The story did, after all, manage to worm its way into my consciousness. Firstly is the bill he footed. Holy fuck. If you have that kind of money, good for you, but in all honesty, there are only so many tricks Cosmo can teach you, and only so many orifices on the human body. Unless her pussy was gold fucking plated, I’m not buying. And even then I’m not buying because who wants to fuck a gold plated pussy? Was it stuffed with blow? Small children willing to do your gardening? Elves? I’m not only assuming she swallows, I’m assuming she swallowed several balloons worth of peruvian heroin to be marked up and sold on the streets, because that is only justification I can see for spending thousands of dollars on one overused funbox. What the hell?! You can get it cheaper!!! I’m not saying go for the Costco version but shit dude! Maybe if you spent a little less on the hookers and a little more on paying off the press you wouldn’t be in such hot lube right now. And maybe if you spent a little more on your wife’s Valentines Day present, you might have had a little more support from her – something the public tends to appreciate, we women have funny little powers that way – instead of winding up in this memorable photo, in which she is instead very clearly plotting his demise.

 

It’s a patient, smug, cold look. It’s the kind of look I like to think I wear whenever I succeed in getting someone fired. It’s the kind of look that let’s you know you’re in serious, serious shit. Obviously, she got a card. Obviously, he lost his testicles later that evening.

The other thing that caught my attention and honestly bugs me the most, as immature as it may seem, is that he was known as Client 9. Why? There’s nothing impressive about single digit numbers. I, for example, live in apartment number 3 in my particular little flat. You didn’t think apartments came in single digits, did you? That’s because they usually don’t. When you live in a real apartment building with things like elevators and fire escapes and garbage chutes and laundry rooms, you get numbers like 103, 1408, 217, fun things like that. When you go to a hotel, you get suite numbers of the same variety. When you go to a shitty motel, you get room number 4, maybe even 11 or 12. You get the idea. I can’t imagine such a high class escort service wouldn’t have hundreds of clients, so why such a low number? I don’t suppose he happened to be their 9th client, this is the oldest profession in the world we’re talking about. Seriously? 9?

I know you’re all thinking it. Why the fuck wasn’t he Client 007? COME ON!!! How cool would that have been? If absolutely nothing else, it would have given him a clever out by way of the good old Section Eight*. Clearly he’s got some delusions of grandeur, right? And we all know that politicians need only the most transparent of excuses to get away with downright murder, so why the hell didn’t he think of this?

Really, to be completely honest, if he had been known as Client 007, I would totally have been on his side, because that is just plain rad.

*By the way, if this image didn’t come immediately to mind when I mentioned Section Eight, then you suck and Alan Alda is coming after you in your sleep.

 



{March 18, 2008}   Starbucks fails again.

You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?

Welcome to my daily grind: I wake up on a crappy futon because I haven’t gotten around to getting a nicer one even though I can easily afford it. I am greeted with the scent of bleach because ever since putting all the rabbits in a room of their own I have become slightly obsessive about keeping the rest of the apartment clean (let’s all take bets on how long that will last, huh?) I watch a bit of news on one of my five fuzzy channels, get myself in some sort of hygenic state, and put on some relatively clean clothes. I don’t even bother with makeup until I get to work.

I’m supposed to get to work at 8:15am. I get to work at 8:22 on most days. And my boss doesn’t notice because she usually rolls in far later than I. On the rare occasions she shows up earlier, I get some mild faux-friendly¬†chiding about my arrival time. I snort to myself and ignore. My first task is to tidy up the boardroom for the daily 8:30 meeting for one of our clients. I change the newspaper in reception, make sure it’s all tidy. Then I go to the kitchen to clean up after the slobs that apparently don’t show up until well into the wee hours of the night to dump disgusting grime covered dishes into the sink for me to touch. The dishwasher has usually been run overnight, so it’s my job to empty it, put away the clean dishes and put in the herpes-riddled mounds of bacteria left for me. All this while, I’ve also got a fresh pot of coffee brewing and forcing polite chit chat with the early morning seekers of clean mugs, trying to figure some way to determine those that rinse their dishes and those who surely leave spit in the sink. There must be some telling sign of such gross disregard for civility: a twitch, surely, perhaps a tendency to drool? Alas, nothing so far. One night I’ll snap for certain, and end up camping out in fatigue gear with an infrared camera to catch these perpetrators.

Also, right now, I’m pretty sure there’s black fax toner in my coffee. Super.

Right, coffee. I usually end up getting a grande at some point during the day. Because once I finish cleaning the kitchen, turning on my computers, putting on makeup and reading my morning email from my super sweet boyfriend (seriously, retardedly adorably sweet – more on him later when I’m in less of a foul mood), there’s really not that much for me to do. Sure, I’ve got phones to answer, maybe an email or two. But nothing that really requires very much attention. And so it doesn’t take very long for the inevitability of last nights insistence on staying up to watch The Hour to kick in, and I start feeling that doziness.

I needs mah caffeine.

Here’s the kicker: we HAVE coffee here in the office. It’s free. It’s better than free: it’s paid for by the same bastards who leave their slime covered flatware in the kitchen every night. Well, it’s actually paid for by all of our clients, even the ones¬†kind enough to rinse their dishes or *gasp!* actually put them in the dishwasher with a grain of courtesy. The coffee used to cost $1.25 a pop, but now every client pays a flat monthly kitchen fee, and that’s just how it goes. The downside is the constant pissing and moaning from some of the less gracious of our inhabitants. The upside is free coffee for me.

But I don’t want it. I might frothy up myself a hot chocolate in our wee little nook, perhaps even an herbal tea or two. But I don’t want a hazlenut flavoured cup of cheap. I’m not interested in some ‘House Blend’ or some other signature series of whatever-the-hell. I want Starbucks. I want my overpriced goddamned status symbol. Why? Because I woke up on a crappy futon with crappy cable, and put on expensive enough clothing to convince those around me that maybe I’ve got my shit together. I feel the need to add that one little extra accessory to complete the ensemble: a ridiculously complicated sounding helping of overpriced steamed milk with that zealous little green logo on the side to make sure everybody knows that I can afford to pay four dollars for my beverage. That’s right people. Look at me go.

“But that’s retarded!” I can hear you all thinking. Yes. Yes, it is. So why do I do it? Because I’m a girl and therefore allowed a certain amount of irrational behaviour. I’m not heavily medicated anymore, I haven’t even used the word fuckbag in this post (yet), and haven’t made any stabbing gestures in a fairly long time. Let me have my crazy fucking coffee, okay?

One of the reasons I like my fancy ass coffee is that I’m really not a fan of the taste of coffee. I know, I know. More irrational chick shit. But it’s like alcohol¬†– you may want to get yourself good and toasted, but that doesn’t mean you want to be sucking down some sort of gasoline-and-cinnamon flavoured mixture. I want the caffeine without the taste of some Ethiopian nation or another, thank you very much. And yes, I’m willing to pay for it.

Now Talea, being my best bud and all, usually scores herself a coffee by the mere fact that everytime I get myself one, I grab her something because that’s just how I am. In return, she often fills me up with Chilean red wine at her less bleachy smelling abode. She also doesn’t have¬†a mouse in her kitchen (but I bleached!!! I BLEEEAAACHED!!!). So, fair trade. We both tend to go through phases in what we order, myself moreso¬†than her. She’s more likely to switch it up, whereas I am a little more steadfast. For several months I would¬†order nothing except a Grande Non Fat Extra Foamy Vanilla Latte, until I realized the majority of their foaminator monkeys sucked ass at their trendy job and couldn’t whip up a decent foam if their self-aggrandizing art school documentary or the¬†proper healing of their most recent piercing¬†depended on it. So I switched to a Venti Caramel Apple Spice avec Whipped Cream. This ceased immediately after realizing that I was drinking over 400 calories worth of warmed up apple juice every morning. What, I asked Talea, should I drink now? Her latest thing has been a Grande Triple Shot Caramel Macchiato for those times when she reeeeaaally needs the caffeine. That sounds good, I commented, but does it taste too coffee-ish? Even without the extra shot? Well, she explained, a Grande usually comes with two shots of espresso, but you can ask for just one – called a Solo, apparently. More jargon to make my order sound even more complicated? I am so there!

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So down I go to get this more-caramel-than-coffee cup of sweet sweet wakefulness. And I enjoy it, and decide to make this a regular purchase.

This ends today, and makes for my shortest Starbucks trend yet. Perhaps one of these days I’ll kick this foamy monkey off my shoulder and suck up the free shit in the kitchen.

Today, you see, I actually paid attention to what they were keying in on their fancy little machine before I paid. Two grande caramel macchiato, check. A bit extra for Talea’s extra espresso shot, no problem. And then! The BASTARDS!!! You’d think maybe, just maybe, they would knock a few cents off for the fact that I only wanted half the espresso. But no, that would not be in accordance with the ass-raping ways of the Starbucks we’ve come to know and love. Okay, regular price then. Oh no! Not so! Those sons of bitches actually keyed in AN EXTRA SHOT OF MILK AND CHARGED ME EXTRA FOR IT.

Are you retarded? Did you think I wouldn’t notice this and perhaps find several shots worth of fault in this logic? You are charging me extra for my decision to use less of your core ingredient and more of your cheap filler? Your cheap filler that doesn’t even come in shots, but is simply poured until full? No. No, no, no, no, no.

You know what? This is the last straw. Three strikes and you’re out. No more Starbucks. I’ll spend that money on a manicure and a fancy ass haircut and find other ways to convince an uncaring public that I’m all swank and hip and whatnot.

Starbucks? Fuckbags.



Ok, I had planned to do this post a few days ago. I had certainly planned to do this post before the big Super Tuesday hoo-ra. However, as you all know, I do my blogging at work. I consider this to be an accomplishment, what with all the corporate spyware these days. Unfortuantely, there are times when I actually have to do my fucking job, so whatever. You get to read my opinions loud and clear on this glorious Post-Super-Tuesday Extravaganza.

Also, I’m not the type of person to waste any more of my time doing research to back up my opinions. That’s what school is for, and I’m not in it anymore, so you may feel free to simply take my opinion as truth without all the fancy facts and figures.

If you’ve been following the U.S. Election brouhaha at all, you may have guessed that I am about to rant away about Oprah’s full-frontal support of Barack Obama. And I am. I just want to clarify a few things first.

Firstly, I am Canadian, and goddamned proud of it. And that means that I am less emotionally invested in this election than many. Although I heard somewhere – again, no proper research here – that the last election managed to call out fewer voters than that season’s¬†finale of¬†American Idol. Sad commentary my friends. Sad indeed. But at any rate, it’s true: I am Canadian, and don’t particularly care a huge amount about your election. I’m rather impartial. As such, I’m not going to say that I’m all for one politician over another. This brings me to my second point.

When voting, I do not vote based on individual politicians. I happen to be a very left wing person, for all the pros and cons that may bring about. There is a reason for this lack of individual support: party platforms are going to be more consistent than specific politicians. This is because individual politicians are humans. Humans are lying, cheating, thieving bastards prone to fucking up and covering their own asses (except for maybe Gandhi and Mother Theresa, but there haven’t been too many of them lately). We like to elect people into office, dump all the last guy’s fuck-ups on them, and then get pissy and boot them out when they can’t fix it all without breaking some of the promises they fed us to get into office in the first place. I’m not saying they don’t have good intentions to make the world a better place – I’m just saying they’re human. And I dislike humans.

So, moving on. Having been given all this info, I’m sure you can postulate that while I would certainly vote Democrat were I afflicted with an American passport (sorry, I likes my health care), I cannot say whom I would prefer between Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton. I refuse to vote for a singular person. I can’t even give my hypothetical opinion, because I am completely in the dark in regards to their views on various issues.

HOWEVER. I can say this much: if you are going to vote for a particular politician, you should be doing the research into their political stance on the issues that matter to you. Oprah’s motherfucking opinion SHOULD NOT BE ONE OF THEM!!! What the fuck?!?! Since when does owning¬†a massive conglomerate founded on the basis of gathering a bunch of sweater-set wearing housewives together for a daily chit-chat equate to a fucking degree in political sciences? Sure, you’re a ‘people person’, but so was Hitler – he talked people into way worse shit. Not that Oprah is necessarily on par with Hitler, although many a husband may disagree on that point.¬†She does have the minority thing going on (sort of), and I do have to give her credit where due for building up a massive media empire out of next to nothing. Kudos to her. I can’t say much for her book club, but kudos. And yet, the fact remains that all the kudos in the world does not make you an expert on who should be in charge of a sickening amount of¬†global power. BE CAREFUL AMERICA. YOU ARE ONE STEP CLOSER TO VOTING HER INTO OFFICE. DO YOU REALLY WANT A PRESIDENT OPRAH?!?!

I remember the last election and all the media hype thereabouts. I also clearly recall that my favourite band at the time had a little daily blurb on their website about their daily goings-on. Alright, fine, the Goo Goo Dolls, okay? Sure, they’re not Oprah-big, but they’ve had their moments in the sun. What did they have to say about the election? “VOTE!!!,” they said.¬†“My god people, vote!!! These turnouts are horrendous! We’re not going to tell you who to vote for, just make sure you make your voice heard!” True, if you know anything about the band, it’s pretty obvious they’re on the left-wing side of things. They may be all GQ’d up as of late, but¬†they had some pretty impressive mohawks back in the day. Not to mention they paused in the middle of their concert a while back to say “Oh! Yeah, um…sorry about Bush, guys. We really appreciate your patience with all of that. God, what a moron! Anyways, carrying on…” But during the election itself? Not a word! And that’s how it should be! If you want to show support, put a motherfucking sign on your lawn!!! Does the average American get to go on television to try and talk the nation into voting for¬†his or her¬†favourite? No. Why does Oprah?!?!

Don’t even try to pretend I’m wrong about this. You’ve seen Oprah whether you meant to or not. You know her power. You know the flocks of fans that run to the store to pick up whatever book she’s recommended as of late. There are hordes of people who latch onto any Official Oprah Opinion and make it their own. Sure, there are tons of people who may have picked up a Britney Spears opinion and made it their own, but they were about 11 at the time, and they’ve been hopefully disenfranchised with her latest incarceration in the loony bin. Oprah, on the other hand, is a squeaky clean respectable menace to society!!!

People. Are going to vote. For Barack Obama. BECAUSE OPRAH FUCKING SAID SO!!! YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE!!!

Now, again, I don’t necessarily have a problem with Barack Obama. I have little opinion one way or the other. But what is so incredibly wrong with you that you are going to let some television personality who doesn’t know you and your cute fucking manicured poodle from Joe Blow Secret Espionage Drug Dealer tell you who should run your fucking country!?!? And the huge problem is that Oprah fucking knows this!!! Ohhhh, she’s black AND a woman, WELL THEN, she must certainly have an objective view on the whole matter. No, she clearly fucking doesn’t. I have an objective fucking view because I’m not even a fucking voter! I don’t have a say in who wins, so what do I care? I don’t. But you should. You should care enough to do your own goddamned research!¬†

What the fuck are you doing using your celebrity to push your personal opinion on who should run your fucking country? Especially the U.S.!!! Sure, I may be uber-Canadian, but even I’m well aware that the U.S. is the head world power. It’s true! You’re the new Roman Empire. Which of course means that you’ve got orgies and vomitariums to look forward to, followed by a massive, bloody decline.

Let the president lead the way!



Okay, you know that whole “Murphy’s Law” business? Whatever can go wrong will? I used to think that was retarded. My mother would work herself into hysterics with the whole “I’m running fucking late, why do I have to get EVERY SINGLE RED LIGHT!?!?!?” schpiel. And I used to think “Well, chances are that you’re only noticing it more because you’re running late.” So smug in my seven year old ways.

Well, I’ve unfortunately reached that point in my life where I’m starting to realize that my mother was right about an awful lot of things. Having kids ruins your life, getting married is a pointless and expensive waste of time, once you get to work you forget to make any of the personal ‘my kid is at home sick today’ phone calls because your brain just fries, the smell of cat piss will never come off those antique pearl christmas decorations, and most importantly THE WORLD CAN FUCK YOU UP AT RANDOM INTERVALS. (I love you mom!)

Now really, none of this story is horrific. Nobody is dead, I’m still employed, and I’ve managed to laugh most of this off. Because really, it’s gotten to the point of hilarity. I’d say it started with the addition of a second computer at my reception. I’m supposed to use the phone-answering program on one computer, and do everything else on¬†the second¬†computer so the powers that be can watch everything I do. Right guys, sure thing. So I give the new computer a try – ordering up and printing a Purolator waybill for a client.

The tech dude didn’t install my fucking printer. Fuck me! Alright, fine, cancel the order, sign out, log in on my old computer, redo the order, print. My printer runs out of ink. Right then. And I had JUST placed a Grand and Toy order. Fuck! Okay, save the waybill, email it to my boss so she can print it. That doesn’t work. Running out of time. Purolator has this retarded thing where shit has to be in the box by 5pm for pickup. Hello??!! What person in an office gets off before five? Ugh. Okay, boss sits at my desk while I run to hers to redo the order again. HER FUCKING COMPUTER FREEZES ON ME!!! GAHHHH!!!! I make an attempt to run downstairs with a manual hand-written thingy, but of course I don’t know our account number so it’s pointless. We miss Purolator. Not my fault at all, nobody is pissed. Except me. Ugh.

Alright. Survived that day. Yesterday, have to do a bank run for work. No biggie except it means taking the subway. Normally I have my head phones to drown out the idiocy, but more on that later. I run into a client along the way, one of my favourites, and we get to talking about our mutually shitty weekends. (His involved bowling and a pissed wife, so he has my sympathy.) Get to the subway, I need to buy a weekly pass. And of course, the little ‘swipe your debit card and skip the line’ thing was broken. UGH!!! They’ve got a debit swiper at the booth itself, but the line….and I need to buy lunch, so let’s just head back to the lobby and hit the ATM. Not very far.

The ATM has disappeard for construction. DAMMIT!!! Alright, go back up to the mezzanine level, hit the ATM inside the real bank, go outside, back down the stairs, into the subway to hit the line up. I hate lines, this is why I have a metropass! When I get to the window the following conversation ensues:

Me: “Weekly pass please.”

Her: “I don’t have any at this window. You need to go the other window.”

Me: “He’s not there!”

Her: “He’ll be back in just a minute.”

Right. So more than a minute later this retard comes back. With a bag of potato chips. I don’t take fucking lunch when it gets busy here. But of course, IIIIIIIII don’t work for a UUUUUNNNNNNIIIIIIOOOONNNNN!!!!!!!!! Grrrrrr. I give him my money, he starts talking like I can hear him through the glass, and is still talking when I go through the turnstile. Idiot. Go down to the subway, and everybody is confused because there is a train there but it’s got the doors closed and is obviously not going anywhere any time soon. Of course, a good portion of these people don’t realize that we are at the end of the line and that the train pulling into the other side of the platform is just as good and going in the same direction. Stop standing there like confused cattle!!! I’m actually getting pretty damned hungry, and I have to hit the bank before I even think about lunch. It’s 3pm.

Issue at the next stop as some crazy old lady who just missed the train decides to start whacking on the doors as though the person who opens them can hear her from his little cubby at the other end of the train. Crazies now, awesome! Ugh. Get¬†to the bank, the lineup is retarded and the person in front of me has struck up a conversation with the person in front of him. The laugh. This….laugh. I can’t describe it in words. It’s an onomatopoeia, and an ugly one at that. Try to make a gurgling hissing sound in the back of your throat. Now imagine that for about ten minutes. Then he turns his head over his shoulder and COUGHS INTO MIDAIR!!!!!!!!! What?!? What the hell does that do to prevent me from getting your damned herpes or whatever is making you sound like that??! You all know I’m not a germaphobe, but seriously, enough is enough.

Well, I survive the day and manage to make it home in one piece to my fabulous apartment. My apartment is tiny, inexpensive, not quite up to code, but in an awesome area, and I love it to pieces. I love it enough to renovate it so I can live in a pretty place for the next decade until I can buy a house. I don’t love my neighbours. At first it was just Jane, in number one. She has filed noise complaints because I play music at 10:30 pm. She goes to bed early. Too fucking bad, the law says quiet hours start at 11pm. Not my fault the walls are thin. By the by, playing your obnoxious jazz at 6:30am does not comply with said law, so BITE ME!!! Number four apparently has 23 different immigrants living in his tiny one-bedroom, at least according to his mail. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, is there a number I can call about that? Anyways, the girl in number two is actually quite nice. She’s the only one who says hello in the stairwell. However, she also leaves her door wide open, with her disgusting mess of an apartment on display. She has one cat. I have two cats and five rabbits. How the hell can you smell HER apartment even when the door is closed, and not mine? GROSS!!!

On top of not knowing the magical powers of bleaching your floors, she apparently does not know how to cook. For the second night in a row, she has burnt the shit out of something and set of the fire alarm. Incidentally, it’s right outside my door. Ugh. Well, last night, she set it off again. But remember, my place is not up to code. So am I surprised when the craptacular safety system REFUSES TO TURN ITSELF OFF AND BLARES FOR OVER HALF AN HOUR?!?!??!! No. I’m pissed, but not surprised.

It’s at this point that I figure I better rant away about it today and make a joke out of it. I don’t want to make any rash door-pounding phone-calling letter-writing decisions and get my ass thrown out for being a psychotic ranting nutjob.

Now the iPod thing. Backing up a bit. Anyone remember Awesome Dude Guy? The birthday monkey thing? Anyways, he’s hellof busy as usual, which is no biggie since we talk fairly often. But he’s also in a band. And on Saturday, he had a gig just a few blocks from me. So what the hell, it’s about time I see him play. I coerce Sassy Friend Talea into going with me. We get there, the place is packed, and it’s someone’s 40th birthday. Joy. Everyone knows each other and is elbowing me in the head. NOT GOOD!!! I can’t shove or be rude because he knows most of these people! (Plus, he’s super sweet and kind of makes me want to be a nicer person…I know!!! WTF?!?!?) So we don’t stay long, just long enough for him to take a break so I can actually say HI to the dude, then take off for Prailine Cheesecake and red wine and the bakery around the corner. Too much red wine = slept through Sunday Brunch with the Ladies the next day ūüė¶

On top of that, it was FREEZING that night. How freezing? I had a can of mousse in my purse that someone at work gave to me. It exploded. In my purse. All over my stuff. Hence, my iPod being fucked. It’s better than it was…at least it plays now. I just can’t turn it off. At all.

So yeah….Murphy? Bite me.



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