Wednesday, August 31, 2005 just can' can't BE...

Now...I have seen some truly awful footwear in recent years. It seems the women's shoe market has made a massive turn to the unwearably ugly, and don't even get me started on the fucking flip-flops, it's been done to death and I'm in good company when I say they are only appropriate on the beach and in the privacy of your own back garden. I guess I'm in the minority on that, because that's a trend that isn't going away anytime soon. And I have seen some boots and shoes that would make a hooker say, "no," I can accept that my taste, at least in footwear, is probably very staid and conservative, and that others may want to make more of an impression with their shoes. Fair enough. Have at it, my darlings, and bless your tasteless little hearts.

But what...dear lord, WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? Are you fucking KIDDING ME?

Yes, that's right, drag queens

A friend wonders about the mention of drag queens in the interests section of my blogger profile. (Thanks, N.P., for the idea, I was at a loss for something to write about today.)

He wonders what this means, why would someone like me possibly be interested in something like them, interested enough to put it in a profile. First of all, those profiles are really stupid, and generally, the blogger profiles seem self-indulgent and a bit too much like personal ads for my humble, bashful, why-would-anyone-care-about-that, shallow little self. I just wanted to put something in there that would throw a bit of humor and color into the mix.

More importantly, though, drag-queens are the exact polar opposite of me, and the interest not so much interest as...admiration. They are wonderful, colorful, exotic beings, who clearly go to great lengths to put their looks together, primping, shaving, binding-things-up, tying-things-down, making-up, decorating, and just mind-bendingly time-consuming preparation to be seen. And the result is sometimes hilarious, but most often just amazingly gorgeous. I mean, look at RuPaul. Just LOOK at her. There is also an emotional flamboyance that goes along with the visual, that I clearly do not possess. Christ, I'm female and it's all I can do to get up and get to work in the morning with eyes open, shoes that match, with my wallet and keys, and my boobs both pointing in the same direction, and roughly the same level. Never mind when some rare occasion happens that I have to dress up.

God, I fucking hate dressing up.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005


I just popped on to check my counter, see if anyone left any comments overnight, make sure I haven't been flagged for anything (my language really is atrocious), and I was at 1,001 hits. Which means all three of you are reading fairly regularly. Which means I'm not talking to walls here.

Gentle readers, I thank you!

Monday, August 29, 2005

Spamming scum

Got spammed in the comments by the same asshat that spammed Twenty Major in his comments last week. This Northampton Wedding Photography site. Inexplicable, since I am clearly nowhere near that part of the planet, and were I...and not married already, his company would be the LAST I would contact to be my photographers.

Checked out the site, got this e-mail contact from it. Here's another homework assignment for everyone. Let's everybody e-mail this fuckwit, let him know how much we hate him.

You are the lowest form of life, sir, and were I a resident of your unfortunate area of the globe, I would come a-calling, through the front window of your office, without the courtesy of getting out of my truck first. You miserable worm.

EDIT: I have now added word verification to the comments section. Now, in order to comment here, you will have to be human. Which we know spammers aren't. Right, gang?!

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Who in the name of fuck...

C'mon everybody, here's some homework.

For the past several months I've been getting these annoying voice mails on my cell phone. It's a recorded message that says, "Please call John Barkley at 1-800-709-8625 as soon as possible." And then it gives a referencing number to use when I call. I've gotten about 10-20 of these messages, over about...oh, say the last 4 months.

Well, I don't know what kind of IDIOT they think I am, because I am NEVER going to call this number, for the following reasons:

1. They never identify the company's name
2. They never say what it's about
3. They never identify ME by name
4. They shouldn't even be calling that's a cell phone, for fuck's sake

What I DID do is Google the number. Fellas! These bastards are apparently a company called NCO Financial, fuck knows what they do, I can't find anything on them online except complaints about their practices. What I suspect is that they get gullible, FLEECEABLE people to call back, and tell them they owe money for something or other, get them to 'confirm' their social security number and there it is, you're fucked. Apparently, while they're fucking you over, they're also rude and abrasive. Insult to injury, wha?

I say, let's have a little fun with these guys. Let's all call them up, make up names, social security numbers, sob stories (I bet they get a rise over those), alternate personalities...whatever. Then when they're thinking they've got you, shout out: MY HEAD'S EXPLODED, and hang up.

Here's the thing: They're not even looking for me, because I never get these calls on my home phone, and I'm in the damn book, pretty easy to find. When I first got the cell phone and set up the account, I would frequently get calls and messages for someone called "Crystal Perry." I think they just re-issued the number to me after she'd changed accounts. Whoever this woman is/was, she apparently failed to notify her friends, family, even her kids' school that she'd moved on. Perhaps it was a mob hit, I don't know.

CRYSTAL: A few messages arrived for you while you were out.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Charming. Just...fucking charming...

Why is it that the neighborhood crazies, you know the ones I mean, only spew their insanity at deafening volume when we can get the least enjoyment out of it? Five-thirty PM, after a long, monotonous day of work, I can handle a little bit of screeching and dementia coming at me from a safe distance on the other side of the back fence. Better than TV, and more visceral than books. Nothing like a Guinness or a nice voddy on the back porch, listening to the Fairfield Street Batshit Crazy Hour.

But: Five-fucking-thirty-fucking-A-fucking-M. This is right out. Snoozing soundly, those last couple of hours before the alarm goes off, the most restful time of sleepy rejuvenation, the birds are beginning their cheerful chorus, the rosy-fingered dawn is creeping quietly forward...and out of nowhere comes the shrill, strident, whisky-voiced call of "MAX!!!!!!!! MAX!!!!!!!!!!! Wheya the fuck ahhhh you? MAAAAAAAX!!!!" followed by incoherent blather about social security, missing keys, and any number of things I can't fully comprehend in the early morning haze.

Whoever you are on the other side of that fence, please adjust your schedule.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Crappy Celebrity 2

Is there anyone else out there who loved Dogma riiiiiight up until God was revealed to be Alanis Morissette? Suddenly, the whole movie sucked.

Still, at least she didn't sing.

Father/Daughter conversation

Me: Dad, what was that breakfast concoction you used to have before going to work? The egg, and the brown sugar?

Dad: What?

Me: When I was little, I saw you do it a few times. You'd beat a raw egg in a bowl, throw in some brown sugar and drink it.

Dad: Oh, yeah.

Me: Well, what was that?

Dad: It was a raw egg beaten with some brown sugar.

Me: *grumble* No shit. But what was that about? You have to admit, it's unusual. No one I know has ever heard of it. Is it a hangover cure?

Dad: Oh, it's just a French-Canadian working man's breakfast. Kind of an easy way to get some protein when you don't like eating first thing in the morning.

Me: So it IS a hangover cure.

Dad: Shut up.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

"Give an infinite number of monkeys an infinite number of typewriters..."

According to Hungbunny :

"In 2003 scientists at Paignton Zoo gave six monkeys one computer for one month: they hit it with a rock, shat and pissed all over it, then produced five pages of text, mainly consisting of the letter 'S'."

What Hung fails to mention is that four of the six monkeys started blogs.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005


Faithful readers (both of you, you know who you are) will notice that I've got two new links over there. (The THRILL of being able to edit html has made my little luddite heart go all pittery-pattery and I feel so techno-savvy and all gwown up!) I'm adding them slowly, seeking a wide variety of subjects, from the arts, to bile-filled rants, to sports, to hot-diggity good writing, and whatever else I think is funny at the time.

Basegirl: Good sports rants, humorous insights, clever wordplay (...and good grammar. Yay!) whose humor wouldn't go down half so well if we didn't support the same teams, but I would still have to say "yeah, nice point," even if I didn't agree. But I do. 'Specially about Tek.

TwentyMajor: Hilarious angry tirades. And some scatalogical humor, and some more rants, and drinking, and foul language, and occasional politics. Bless 'im.

Will we never be set free?

Found out yesterday that some asshole fan injured herself climbing up a pole and falling at the Rolling Stones show at Fenway Sunday night. Apparently, after breaking a wrist and both ankles, it was reported that she was belligerent and verbally abusive to the rescue personnel and paramedics. If she'd popped her clogs in the fall, I'd put her up for a Darwin Award, but no such luck. She'll live, and probably breed.

I wonder if she's related to the drunken, shrill, half-witted harridan we passed on the way out, who was screaming "Yankees suck*" to the departing crowd.

*The fucking moronic fucking chant. Bad enough we have to hear it at ball games when the Yankees are IN town. Now we have to hear the fool thing at concerts too? When the Sox aren't even playing the Yankees? When we have the lead in the AL East? Sox fans: let's retire it. They don't MATTER anymore. It's old, it's tired, it's untrue, it's stupid. Even the Red Sox players and organization hate it. Fucking stop. Please.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Surprising old bastards

Can you believe it? I actually went to see The Rolling Stones at Fenway Park? And I actually enjoyed myself?

Now, I'm not a huge fan of big, arena-filling bands, and "classic rock." I tend to prefer obscure, or up and coming acts, in smaller, more intimate venues (read: bars, where the beer line doesn't span 3 zip codes.) It was a lark. We had tickets, tried to sell them, couldn't make enough on them to make it worthwhile...Eh, might as well go, right? For shits and giggles. So, I went in prepared to cast my reproachful eye upon the scene, make some scornful cracks about "skeletons with guitars," and chuckle derisively at the extravagance of the staging, lights, and pyrotechnics, which I usually find wasteful and silly.

Well, I mean to say...those old fellas can still go. Yes, the staging and effects were over the top, but so is this band, so it was only fitting to have them playing on a stage the size of an airport runway, with lighting and fireworks that can be seen from space. Mick, Keith, Ron, Charlie, bless them, still seem to be enjoying what they're doing, actually having fun, playing a predictable, but varied selection of their biggest hits, for probably the eleventy billionth time in their careers... Can you imagine how many times they've played "Satisfaction"? Enough times to be sick of it, and no one would blame them. And I've seen bands one third of the respective ages of these guys, who didn't have a tenth of the energy, sense of fun, and You've got to hand it to them. I'd be tired.

Good for you, you old bastards. Good for you!

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Yeah? Well fuck you, too.

You know when you have a fairly close friend, not a BEST friend maybe, but someone you like, and you see eye to eye on enough, and respect their intelligence enough, that it's easy to make an effort to keep that person in your life, and that friend just suddenly, one day, no warning, no reason, no explanation, just stops being your friend? After a few years of post-work drinks, pub trivia nights, barbecues, dinners, laughs, bored-at-work e-mailing, philosophical musings, the occasional word of advice or favor...that person just stops answering your e-mail, stops communicating altogether, never says why, never contacts you again to even say "I don't want to be your friend anymore, here's why..."?

Well, to that pissbag I say: "YOUR LOSS, FUCKTARD. I have plenty of friends, you lift right out. Put that in your shallow, materialistic, pretentious pipe and smoke it. You suckety suck suck suck suckbag."

Friday, August 19, 2005

Get a job

Jesus Christ on a motorbike and Mary in a sidecar, I fucking hate street performers.

How to make a person implode, series 1

If you have a friend who is a musician or music critic or some other type of musical expert, try this:

Choose a good moment in the middle of any discussion on musical taste, look away from him wistfully, sigh, and say, "Ya know...I really do like the Monkees better than the Beatles."

POP! Ooops, there goes another one.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Nothing better on TV

All those channels and everything is SHITE.

The Red Sox played (and lost, my poor boys) yesterday afternoon, so without a baseball game to watch last night, I was forced to look around for something else to watch. The spouse wasn't home, so the TV wasn't, by default, on some other ballgame (I have no interest in the National League until the playoffs, and I've stopped living and dying by how the Yankees are doing, since we have our World Series and they are no longer an I-S-S-U-E).

Yes, I know, I COULD have just turned the TV off, put on some nice Baroque and picked up a book. I will be pretentious enough to admit, and proudly, that I do that from time to time, sometimes I even listen to opera, so fuck off, TV snobs. Sometimes you just want to watch the tube, let the mediocrity wash over you, you know? But I digress.

So what did I find to watch but "Ghost Hunters." I mean to say...what a load of absolute CAK! I watched 2 hours of this rubbish, and not one ghost revealed itself, not one cold spot that couldn't be explained, not one chilling finger of death tapped the shivering shoulders of our intrepid investigating crew. All that equipment, EMF readers, digital temperature gauges, cameras, audio, a "psychic," and they couldn't even FAKE one for us. I mean....fellas! You've got advertisers paying you to russle up some spooks, and you couldn't even give us one ghostly voice? Not one ectoplasmic strand or spot? You couldn't breathe on some dust in a dark closet and stir something up for the camera?

I mean, I wasn't asking for this:

ALL THEY DID is throw in the occasional frame of film with a skull on it, that old submliminal trick, hoping to inspire the 'frisson' of fear on the way to commercial break. What a disappointment. Ghost Hunters...Bore the Viewer to Death, more like.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

More egregious writing mistakes

More mistakes found in shitty writing. This one makes me fecking livid.

Every day. Two words. Adjective, noun. A daily occurrence. "I wish I could get shitfaced every day and never get hangovers."

Everyday. One word. Adjective. Commonplace, conventional, customary. "I'm not your average, everyday drunk."

Writers, proofreaders, and publishers take note

Back yard. Two words. One adjective, one noun. This is the yard that is in the back of your house. "I have a still in my back yard."

Backyard. One word. This is an adjective, describing something informal, hand-made, perhaps not mainstream or legal, OR is located in one's back yard. "I make kick-ass moonshine with my backyard still."

Good will. Two words. Adjective, noun. Benevolence towards another. "I have feelings of good will towards you, so I will give you some money to help you out."

Goodwill. One word. Noun. Formal. Non-profit company. They take donations of clothing, housewares, etc., and sell them cheap. The proceeds go towards education and job training, non-specific other purposes. "I donated some old clothes to Goodwill today."

More later. I read a lot, and I will see more to bitch and moan about on my lunch break.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Truck envy

Within the past year, I made my first ever automobile purchase. Yes, I'm 39 years old, and this is the first automobile I have ever owned. To be fair, I've only been driving for a few years, since I moved to the Boston area in 1984 with a Maine drivers' permit and soon realized that A) I wasn't going to move back to Maine, so no need to bother getting a Maine license, and B) I was sure I'd never be able to afford an automobile in Boston, much less find a place to park it.

So, my first ever car is a truck. A 2001 Ford Ranger, extended cab, 4WD, V-6, steel gray... I feel very proud and tomboy-ish about it. I drive around in a baseball cap, listening to the Dropkick Murphys or maybe some trucker music, thinking I'm shit-cool.

Then I go to Maine, to show my truck off to my Ford pick-up loving family, and find that my brother (pictured in a previous post, resplendent, in his blue cowboy outfit) has recently purchased his latest truck, and well... here are our two trucks, side by side. Yep, mine is on the left.

Talk about penis envy.

Monday, August 15, 2005

There's this girl who takes my bus

She wears cat ears. I've been noticing this for a while. At first, I thought it was just some kind of novelty head band. She's young enough (perhaps late teens), and I suppose cute enough, to pull it off, if it IS just a novelty head band. And for months now, I have just been thinking, "oh, well, sooner or later the thing will get ratty and old and she'll stop wearing it. Perhaps she'll outgrow it first. No harm done, we've all worn silly things in the past and outgrown them. It would be hypocritical to make fun of the girl for letting the freak flag fly." Fair enough.

But then I noticed something new.

She also wears a tail.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Crappy celebrity

Who the fuck is Jessica Simpson and why is she famous? She's a homely little stick figure, without the brains God gave a guinea pig, but I guess she's got good tits. Presumably she's a singer or something? I have never heard anything she's produced, but I bet it's crap. I know it must be, because it's that market, isn't it? I mean, shitty songwriting, mediocre production, and too much melisma. Oh, and shaking her teeny little ass around in the videos. The formula for success, I guess. I caught a few minutes of her on TV, where this vapid little cotton ball was confused about whether tuna was tuna or chicken because of the brand name. I couldn't look away, it was a train wreck. It is embarrassing to think of her being rich and famous, because her svengali of a father (who MUST be a perv) pretty much inflicted her on us, the cynical bastard. The fact that the world has bought it, and gives her money to peddle her mediocrity and bad makes us all look like idiots.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Why I hate pink

Explains a lot, no?

Spotty teen e-speak

I am heartily sick of this abbreviated, IM speak that I'm seeing all over the place these days. I see it in e-mails, mostly, but it's seeping into other areas as well. Is it supposed to be cute or funny or something? It is not.

Here is an example: "LOL" I take this to mean the writer is "laughing out loud." Now, are you really? Are you really laughing out loud? More likely you are merely sitting smugly at your keyboard with your pinky on the shift key, thinking you're cute. And you are not cute, you are a pillock.

Or: "OMG!" (any number of exclamation points, depending upon the level of shock, horror, amazement, surprise, glee, or extreme emotion the writer intends to convey), which I take to mean "Oh My God," and given the type of pubescent twat who generally uses it, is pronounced "Ewmigaaawwwwdddd." Clearly, anyone using this one is a fool, and doesn't mind looking like a complete asshole.

By far the worst is this one: "ROFLMAO," which I'm told means "Rolling on the floor laughing my ass off." Bollocks! You are clearly NOT rolling on the floor laughing your ass off, you are trying to make your equally stupid, vapid, lazy, asshole friends think they're funny.

I can't recall very many other examples, because I don't use this spotty teen e-speak, and whenever a friend uses it in an e-mail to me, I generally have to ask for a fucking translation, if I bother at all.

It is not cute, it is not funny, it is not clever. It is laziness, and stupidity. I mean...

WTF?......oh, shit.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

What the fuck are mesclun greens

I do not believe that people are meant to find bitter things tasty. If it tastes like fucking poison, we are not meant to eat it, because it is likely bad for us, if not downright lethal. This is probaby a selection trait. If it's bitter and nasty, it's probably bad, therefore anyone stupid enough to eat poisonous plants should be weeded out of the gene pool, and the taste for bitter shit should lessen with each subsequent generation. So I do not understand why it's suddenly trendy to want to eat these salads that are made up of greens that look like they've just been yanked out of someone's window boxes, and taste like carpet cleaner, with one fucking miserable cherry tomato for color. I want a real salad, not your fucking geranium leaves with dandelion stalks and brillo shavings. Fuck off with it, Jean-Claude, I want salad, not poison.

Virgin Post

Well, setting this up was pretty easy. Oddly, though I'm usually full of vitriol about any number of things, I find myself without anything to post today. Pretty fucking lame for a virgin post, on what will no doubt be the blog that raises the bar on blog cleverness and yuks.

Perhaps I should break the ice by revealing a little bit about myself, what makes me tick. I've been giggling about this for a while now:

....erm....anybody want a tic tac?