Is It Still Called My Happy Place If There Are Shivs and Shin Kicking Gnomes Involved?

This week has found me saying "a-hole" more than the average amount. Whether it was in the rain-soaked traffic or muttering it under my breath, just out of ear shot of my almost two-year old as he threw his 800th fit of the day. Yes, I called my adorable son an asshole. Because he was. Being an asshole that is.

What I'm saying is I've had it with all you assholes out there. And, I don't know if that means you, but if you think that it might then just stop being an asshole and we'll all be okay.

Monday started the week in fine form with layoffs in my office. We all sat around waiting to see if we could kiss our asses good-bye, so by the time they got around to telling you what percentage your pay was going to be cut, you were dancing for fucking joy that you still had a paycheck. It was only later that you stopped and thought about it and went, "Hey! I just got screwed!"

After wading through the mounds of COBRA paperwork and making sure I was all up on the new COBRA stuff (which would be more fun if I could be all hip hop and singing, "I'm all up in your cobra stuff"), I sat around with shaking hands for the rest of the day to drive home to Young Wheezy and his full-on fuck you attitude.

And then? The rest of the week went like this:

* The kid stayed sick and wheezy and grumpy and just schmucky and junior douchey in general. This morning he laid on the floor, face down and screamed for an undetermined amount of time.

Undetermined because by that point, I ceased to care about whatever it was that he completely invented on the spot to get pissy about.

* Jason went into Monk's room with a box of trash bags and went to town. Now our garage is filled with bags and bags of all things pink, glittery, fluffy and girly until she goes through it all and decides what it is that she can't possibly even think about going on living without. And, because "the puberty" is imminent she's been a joy to be around.

* Proofreading multiple replacement window brochures, multiple times. Who knew you could write 20 pages on windows? Well I know, I also know that degrees MUST be spelled out and for the love of all things zombie, why the fuck can you not stop hyphenating that fucking word? I circled it over 100 times already.

* Ants, fucking ants. Why? Because the people in my office drop things like pecans on the floor and then just leave them there. Simply so they can come up to my desk and whine about all the fucking ants in the kitchen.

* And apparently eating all those fucking pecans makes them stop up the toilets which then again, becomes my problem because evidently no one can wield a plunger except for me.

* Speaking of toilets, it's common courtesy to put the toilet seat down in shared bathrooms. I mean unless you're a hobo. And if you're a hobo then go piss in the alley where all the hobos take our trash out of the dumpsters and just leave it there so we can hand pick it all up. I don't want to touch the toilet seat every time I take a whiz. Seriously, it's just a little like touching every ass in this office and I'm not down. Especially because it seems you are hobos, dirty, hobos. Besides, there is trash in the alley I have to go pick up now. Scooping up old spaghetti and used tissues is just my idea of a righteous time.

If all of that wasn't enough, then my red, swelling, itchy eye and my also swelling fat ass should be. Because as it turns out, I also eat when I'm stressed out. Which meant that, yet again, this morning as I went to put on my jeans all they did was groan and say "fuck you, lard-o". Being curvy isn't always grand. Actually, it's mostly not grand. Also? I didn't know that denim could actually groan and creak, but look at that, it just did.

I am now sitting here, fashioning plunger handles and pecans into shivs. Pointy-ass shivs. I've gone on to create a hobo assembly line, with all those dirty, drunken hobos just a whittling away. Because if you're going to do it, you do that shit right.

I'm An Asshole And It ACTUALLY Is News To Me

A little over a week ago I swore I would never guest post again. And I meant that. Because it's done not much more than bite me in my fat ass. But, then I was asked and of course I did.

I was asked to do another blog review and here's the thing about those reviews. They tear me up inside. Evidently, I'm way too kind of a person to love tearing someone a new asshole.

This time around, I wanted to love the blog. And when I clicked over and saw that the reviewee was sarcastic and funny I thought I went to freaking heaven.

Not so much.

In the course of reading every single post on her blog I discovered that not only did she liken Democrats to child molesters, but she nary went a day without making fun of overweight people.

She was coarse and shallow. She's spoiled and rotten.

And fuck!

I liked her.

Do I truly like her? No, probably not. I just don't give a big enough shit about how I look, what I wear or what anyone around me is wearing. I don't think calling people fat is a fucking riot nor am I concerned when said fatty wears a bikini.

I don't think that making fun of your Asian manicurist's grasp on the English language is funny because, hell, can you speak her language? Like at all? No? Right, she speaks two languages and you are making fun of her.

You are an ass.

So, at first I was torn up because I laid into her and called her a spoiled twat.

Which I stand by.

Wholeheartedly.

But then? Then I kept reading and reading and reading. I read the whole fucking thing.

And I liked her.

And that tore me up inside even more.

I would have a beer with this broad.

Because, evidently, I'm an asshole.

UPDATED!!! Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday

Here's the thing about yesterday? Yesterday was bitch. Yesterday was the kind of bitch that could make a girl face plant into a bag of mini candy bars and come up for air only to complain that there was not one single solitary drop of bacon grease to be found in that fucking bag.

Yesterday left me with two choices.

Get drunk
Eat a lot of shit.

This morning came really fucking early and found me feeling hollow - well except for the bacon covered peanut butter cup that I could be making up. But am I?

So this jerk face, ass wipe Tuesday also found me laying in bed, sobbing hysterically because I ended up watching one of those Dateline shows where they put actors in horrible situations and then watch mankind fail miserably at being anything close to human. And when they had the homeless actor, lay dead on the sidewalk and not one asshole stopped to help because he was homeless I decided I no longer wanted to be human.

The good thing that happened was when Sunday, Bloody Sunday came on the radio, for the first time in 3 years I smiled at the song. Mostly, because I had this entire Twittersation with someone that I'm just going to go ahead and put in the same category as knees that belong to bees, about how Bono is totally her imaginary husband and how Michael Hutchense makes your soul ache and bleed with his beauty. So when that song came on I smiled instead of feeling the pointy little bitch dagger that usually just turns itself inside my bruised and broken heart.

The thing about that song is that it's forever burned into my being and is simultaneously on my highlight and lowlight reels of life because when I hear it, when I feel it, all I can see is the night my husband swayed and danced with my now dead son around our tiny little living room while this video played behind him.

That's a total bite, isn't it? I know, fuck me and my sadness today. As a matter of fact?

Fuck you sadness.

But that wasn't about sadness right? It was about new found goodness.

Yesterday's big suck factor was mostly due to this really insanely stupid meeting we had with our financial planner that made me want to gouge out an eye, kick a shin and then just made me cry like a baby. And here's the thing about crying, I hate it and try to not do it.

This morning, I might have said something to Jason about how buying Depeche Mode tickets might not be our best plan of action and that left a big gaping hole in my belly. Then I stopped to get a Diet 7-up (which is my new crutch in life) and stood there, grinning like a jackass when the guy in front of me plopped to tall boys down on the counter and started to count his pennies to pay for them at 7:30 in the am.

Because hell? Life could be so much fucking worse, right? I waited patiently because no matter what, I wasn't doing that and I knew if I saw that guy laying on the sidewalk, with his can in hand, I wouldn't hesitate to call 911 and check his pulse. I'm a hella good person, I know it. And then? Then I reached in my pocket to pull out the dollar and some change I had to pay for my drink and all I pulled out in the first handful was a few pennies, a partial Kleenex and a mother fucking button.

I pulled out a button.

Like Charles Fucking Dickens was writing my bacon lacking life story.

Fuck you, little street urchin button!

I found my dollar and clutched the cold bottle as I walked into the cold air and got into my car. I looked at the car with the broken window next to me, smiled, again thinking, look, worse, right? Look at my pleasure over other's misfortune. Oh and maybe I should consider moving.

As I reversed my car, I turned up the volume and this is where I just wonder what the hell I've ever done because the haunting drum of Sunday, Bloody Sunday started tearing into my ear drums and I burst into tears.

So you know what? Fuck you, Wednesday. Fuck you hard.


Hold the Mah'fucking phone. My day just got better. I found THISSSSS!



Or even better? Huey Mah'fucking Lewis!



Thank you cracked.com

How To Feel Like The Walking Dead In Two Easy Steps, And Not The Awesome Zombie Dead, Just The Dead Dead

"With Fervor!" is how I would describe the way I bit into a piece of moldy bread this weekend. In my defense, I didn't notice the giant, green pond of mold until after I had thoughtfully chewed and swallowed. (It was so not thoughtful at all. It was a feeding frenzy, if you could have a feeding frenzy on one piece of bread.)

That first bite? Delicious, yet nearly vomit inducing. I noticed I had a fraction of an inch between my teeth marks and the penicillin packed punch of moldy fantastic that I had somehow failed to notice.

None of this is the point though, so I should really move on. The reason I was shoving whole grain bread down my gullet like it was something ten times more awesome than bread (like Cool Ranch Doritos, Mutha) is because after my pants declared that I'm an asshole and that they couldn't stand to be around anymore, I put myself on this crazy, no bitch ass calories, fuck you processed foods diet that has made me reclaim my prized Calorie Nazi title.

I'm not going to get into details. Mostly because I know I'm not alone in finding it annoying when bloggahs go on and on about their awesome fat fighting wars.

What I'm trying to tell you, in a really wordy and less than intelligent way, is that if you are going to go on a mad crazy detox diet, don't start on Daylight Saving Suck Ass Weekend (DSSAW - which I'm also going to refrain from rattling on about because everyone on the net is pissed, we get it).

Otherwise? You might find yourself, standing in your office on a Sunday, devoid of all life sustaining energy, shoving moldy carbs down your throat just so you can muster the energy to scrub a toilet that may or may not have other people's short and curlies thrown about it like confetti (seriously? These people lose underhairs like mad, wolfen freaks).

Really, I think the only way to end this is with an illustration. You are most freaking welcome, my little Love Cats:



Also? I'd give away someone else's left testicle for some cheese right now. This? Is going to piss "someone else" off and I don't care.

Suck it, someone else, suck it.

PS - I watched Gangland - Aryan Brotherhood this weekend, rather listlessly but still I watched. Oh the shivs I saw. It was shiv heaven. You know, if shivs were in anyway at all heavenly and not creatively crafted mechanisms of death.

My fascination with shivs has got to end but I'm just all amazed at the inventiveness of it. There is no place on Earth that the phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" is more relevant than in prison.

I didn't know I could write disappearing messages in my own urine.

Now? You are excited for tomorrow's blog post, I know. Boss Urine Messages!

My Pants Hate Me

I don't have a lot of time today because I've wasted a good portion of my morning sobbing and pulling every. single. clothing. item. out of my closet and throwing it back in.

I was the girl that I totally hate this morning.

Moving on, I'm going to keep this really short and bitter.

To my pants I just have one thing to say. Fuck you pants.


PS - Oh and to the cupcake that I ate at 10:30 last night...

You were delicious, you mother fucker. That's why I gave your twin brother to my daughter this morning. I'll show you, asshole cupcake.