RbW Poster Child of the Week
Do you ever wonder where some people get their strange, distorted, erroneous, dumbassed views on some subjects? I do but I've been at a loss as to how to highlight the most truly deluded specimens. Of course, I wouldn't be writing this post if I hadn't found the solution.
I'm starting the Raised by Wolves Poster Child of the Week.
This week's Poster Child came to my attention via a blog I've never run into before, The Daily Blitz. I'm going back there in a bit to do some reading, but this Craigslist ad just begs for someone to answer this ad, claiming to be June Cleaver's porn star sister, who happens to have two degrees from Harvard, only to reveal that he's actually a 6'10" professional wrestler when they finally meet.
One small quote, sufficient to set the Women's Rights Movement back 100 years:
I have heard girls get upset about this. They say, "it is not my job to be sexy all the time," or "It is not my job to meet your definitions of sexy." And I say, bullshit. Have you never stepped outside? Who raised you? It IS your job. It may not be your job to be sexy ALL the time, but you better believe it is your job to be sexy when you are around me, my friends, our friends, and the neighbors. I am not saying you have to dress up, I am only saying you need to figure out where/what and how to create your sexiness and make sure I agree with it.
I would have to hurt this clueless motherfucker. No, it wouldn't be the "I've tried and tried and I'm afraid we're just not as compatible as we first thought when I tossed your salad and let you spooge all over my breasts." It would be the, "Why, yes, it is a new baseball bat. I bought it with your credit card so that after I beat you to a bloody pulp with it, I can dump it beside your lifeless, clueless ASS!"
That, for me, would be truly finding my inner sexiness. Fuck him if he doesn't approve.
Better than shaking the baby
You know there are folks who just need to be shaken until their noses bleed and their grandchildren are born silly. But, since that shit’s illegal, you’ll have to settle for this:
Go shake them. Now. Shake them hard.
Swiped from Chris
Serra’s Beer Cheese Soup
After getting all mouthy and shit about this recipe being on a friend's website the first time this recipe ran here, I discovered that apparently I fergot to give it to her, so it's not there. UPDATE: It's there now. Here it is, best as I can estimate my amounts. It's not for either the faint of heart or vegan campers; lacto-ovo vegetarians may substitute olive oil to saute the veggies in and add whatever floats your boat instead of the meat.
1 lb bacon (maple and apple flavors aren't good–get a nice meaty one)
1 onion, minced fine
2 ribs celery, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 carrot, chopped fine
1qt. chicken stock (use low-salt; can use low-fat for all the good it'll do ya)
3 lbs white potatoes (Yukon gold would be delicious here too), diced large
2-3 c. milk
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
1 lb Velveeta cheese, cubed
8 oz cheddar cheese
12 oz beer
1/2 bunch fresh parsley
1/2 stick unsalted butter
Salt, if you really think it needs it–often this soup doesn't
Chop bacon (scissors work especially well), place in bottom of 6 qt. stock pot. Fry until golden brown and fat is rendered. Add onion, celery and garlic. Saute vegies until onions are translucent. Add potatoes, then add broth just until the potatoes are covered. Bring to boil and cook until potatoes are just barely done–usually takes about 7-10 mins.
Turn heat to simmer and add milk until the soup is a little thicker than you like it. Grind in a good portion of black pepper, then heat until milk is hot but not boiling. Stir in Velveeta and cheddar cheeses. You can also add whatever other cheese you like or have on hand here also–the more the merrier. Stir and watch closely until cheeses are melted. Add beer, allow to come back to simmering, then add butter 1 Tbsp at a time, stirring in very well. Toss in fresh parsley. Taste–it's not likely you'll need salt but wait until here at the end to add it! Cheese and bacon tend to be high in salt and you may not need or want more.
Chow down!
Note: This soup's a great way to clean the fridge–if you think it might be good in here, it probably will be. My all-time favorite version of this soup was made with Guinness Extra Stout and bratwurst added to the mix!
Tuesday Morning Quickie
Hi, folks,
This is just a general update, just so you know Silly Scented Serra shits her pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else…
~SMACK~ Get back in the can, YPF–it's not Friday yet!
Anyhow, Project Shining Soap (you know the one–the one where all four of us work together so that I can make soap in the kitchen like I was promised months ago) is progressing a tad faster. I've refused to tell anyone in this house what I want for Christmas until I've poured a moldful of Peach Green Tea, so there's been a little action. I'll keep you updated on progress here. Phase II will be tested the next time Honey brings six grocery bags into the house and I kick his ass if they sit around more than five minutes.
I spent most of the day yesterday trying to get Garand's porn machine working–turns out it was so full of spyware, uncleared caches and in such sick need of a defrag that his widdle puter just wouldn't stay online. He'll be spending his next day off eliminating redundant software. I doubt he'll see max performance ever, since his #1 activity is running around pr0n sites, but hopefully it won't be as bad as it was. In return for giving his pr0n machine so much attention, he lifted a finger around here last night–smacked Honey upside the head for me, just once. Little does he know he's going to be lifting a LOT more than that today when I go ballistic on the kitchen again.
I actually got to do a bit of cooking over the weekend. I made a gallon (literally) of Beer Cheese Soup Saturday. It lasted less than 24 hours, mind you, but I ate very well that whole day. I also started a batch of Kahlua, which looks promising so far but I might have put a tad too many vanilla beans in (I doubled them). We'll see what the final result is. I also filtered out the batch of vanilla extract I've had brewing for the past several months–turned out yummay!! I did an 8 oz batch in an old DiSaronno bottle, so we have plenty for a long time to come. It's much stronger than commercial vanilla, no sugar added, and I find I don't need to use nearly as much.
I'm nearly done with Honey's balaclava. I did manage to get the face hole knitted in right thanks to help from the owner of the website I found the pattern on. Elmore-Pisgah's Black Watch cotton self-striped into a nice but not blinding pattern, so it's looking VERY cool! I'll post pics once it's done–Honey may have to download them out of the camera, but he'll love his burglar mask so much that I shouldn't have to kick him in the ass more than twice. Evil Science Chick's stitch markers worked wonderfully–easy to use, no snags on the yarn or the knit, and I still want to make earrings out of them.
I've also been working on another washcloth order, in and between doing some for Katrina survivors. The group I'm working with has sent out over 1300 to shelters around the country. I have a boxful that I haven't sent yet but think I'm going to send along with some quilt squares I did for Squares 4 Survivors. I've had to set the squares aside for now, until the balaclava's done and Christmas is a little more in the bag, but I'll be picking them up again soon.
I'd write more, but there's only so much anger I can write down before you all catch onto the idea that I've lost my mind in more ways than I want to admit here. I'm going to just say that the happiest I'll have been in a long time will be the day we move back into our own place, if our relationship lasts that long. Between not having my own place for the first time in many, many years, having no car and being so voiceless (much as I'd love to tell everyone off, I have no choice but to live here and I can't let my mouth get me kicked out) I'm not sure I wouldn't have already packed the car and left all this if I were able to.
As I write this, the most perceptive life form in the house jumped into my lap and demanded scritches, so I'm going to go kill things over at http://www.pqcomp.com and pet my cat and hope I feel better sometime soon.
Sayonara, Mooch-acha
As we speak, Matt Millen, organization President and CEO, is holding a press conference to announce the end of Steve Mariucci's reign as head coach of the Detroit Lions.
I have three words for this:
About
Dog-Damned
TIME!
SPT: One Less
Cast: SSS, H'sMa in Kitchen. Honey in living room, having a post-work veg-out. Garand upstairs; you don't want to know what he's doing since he had the porn machine running constantly all day downloading…you don't want to know.
SSS: Contemplating yet another box separated from the long endless parade of boxes scattered throughout the house…Is anyone romantically involved with the box we got Turkey Killin' Day Dinner in?
H'sMa: Nope.
SSS: Good. Means I don't have to wait around for someone to kiss its ass goodbye. She tears it apart and it joins its broken-down mates, awaiting garbage pickup.
And…scene.
AOHell adds blog ads–deluded users surprised
from Fark
This article addresses the shock and dismay of people who have been shelling out their hard-earned sheckels to Internet Service Provider AOL at finding ads on their blogs. It seems these deluded individuals still think Uncle Hell is in business to toss their salads every time they log in, and finding ads on their blogs doesn't make them happy.
These folks sure want a lot of the wrong things for their $23.90 a month, don't they? They don't want a lot of advertising on their blogs or their other services, but they're perfectly willing to put up with the most invasive required downloads in the industry, the most restrictive access offered anywhere, massive censorship, more cookies than the Keebler hollow tree, the most difficult customer service, and the online environment least conducive to doing anything outside AOHell's realm.
What these users don't realize is that AOHell's not doing so well. They've suffered a decline in gross revenue, mostly due to offering Netscape internet access at over $10.00 less than it actually costs them to provide same.
From an article at ISP Planet:
Costs were $235 per subscriber per year or $19.62 per subscriber month. Revenues were $258 per subscriber per year or $21.52 per subscriber per month.
Even though AOL will probably eke out net profits of $740 million, that's only $22.85 per subscriber per year.
Any rise in costs or decline in revenues would hurt. Although there is no foreseen rise in costs, there is an obvious cause of declining revenues: AOL's $9.95 per month Netscape service.
Just looking at the finances, it's obvious that AOL cannot sell its cheap service the way it sells AOL because it cannot accrue costs of $19.62 per subscriber for a service that it's selling for $9.95. The company will have to use the cheaper marketing tactics that small ISPs know so well, such as radio and newspaper ads and local events.
I don't know anyone who runs a business who's willing to stick their tongue up ANY customer's ass for $22.85 a year. After all, that's a lot of tongue-shaving, even for the whores who run AOHell. That profit-per-customer figure includes their advertising revenue, so it's obvious that those little rimjobbers are far, FAR too busy licking the bungholes of their almighty advertisers to care whether or not their bread-and-butter customers object to big screaming ads flashing at the top of their blogs.
The solution here is the same as it would be for anyone dissatisfied with a given company's policies/service/prices/tonguefucking–go elsewhere, shut up and deal, or wait for the bypass hack to come out.
Ask Your Psychic Fiend: “The Godpappy” version
Greetings and Salivations, fans! It’s time once again for Ask Your Psychic Fiend.
Serra found an interesting marathon on TV yesterday, while she was knitting that balaclava her Honey is nagging her about. It seems that Greg the Bunny has escaped the obscurity of sitcom canceldom and there are bunny-spankin’ new eps over on IFC. She’s happy as a pig in shit—the snark level isn’t quite as good as Mind of Mencia, but they say “fuck” a lot more and don’t bleep it out.
Personally, I just don’t get the point behind knitting, especially this burglar’s mask Serra’s making. It’s all just round, and round, and round, and round and…you get the point. It strikes me as a small, boring activity for small boring minds…
Now, you hold on, you little ham-packed dumbass! Knitting’s a time-honored way to supply loved ones with lovingly crafted, warm, functional garments and coverings! Our grandmother taught us to knit, and she made some of the…
Yeah, lardass, she made some of the FUGLIEST….
Ignoring YPF…warmest mittens and sweaters and affy-ghans….
…stuff known to mankind! There’s a reason our family calls gaudy clothes and shit products of “Grandma’s School of Design” so don’t get all teary—
Plus she loved us all enough to sew…
Yes, Serra, she sewed—this is the woman who made you wear a RAYON, Blaze Orange PAISLEY fucking PONCHO to your great-grandmother’s funeral! Didya forget about that little slice of love?
Look—Grandma was a wonderful woman who did the best she knew how for her family. She loved us very much, and the next time you open your pie hole to say anything different you’re going into a Chock Full O’Nuts can full of Newport butts, got it?
Sighs…Fine. I’ll behave ‘til the questions are answered. Then you can kiss our Opium Clone-scented ass.
All right—on with the answers, beginning with the obligatory asswaiver:
As you begin your journey with Your Psychic Fiend, please keep in mind:
1. It’s Psychic FIEND, not Psychic FRIEND. With friends like YPF, who needs enemas?
2. All answers are for entertainment only. If you don’t want to be entertained by smartass answers, don’t ask serious questions. Hell, don’t ask questions at all—anyone expecting serious answers on Ask Your Psychic Fiend Day will just piss themselves off.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those inbred spawn of Larry The Cable Guy who pretend to have psychic gifts in order to make a buck and run up your phone bill. I have the utmost respect for those truly gifted with the sixth sense. I can completely respect folks who accept money for readings of Tarot and other divination arts, as honest, respectful and caring clairvoyants who serve a purpose in the Universe. However, lying-bitch penisbiters like Miss Cleo and her ilk should have been smashed against a rock at birth.
Let’s take our first question. This one’s from Seamus. Ladies, this guy’s a hot one—he’s got the biggest, prettiest, best…
…Bernese Mountain Dog I’ve ever seen!
What?
Oh, for shit’s sake—what’d you think I was going to say? Perverts.
What? First on YPF???? Woo Hoo!
!st – tell the Serra wench Happy Thanksgiving and save some for yourself as well!
2nd – I have a dryad in my tree, now what? (qualifier: I do like dryads, I do, I do, I do)
3rd – the Buffledog is smiling as we speak!
Let’s contemplate Da Grounds to find the answers for this guy.
Answers:
1st: Happy Turkey Killin’ day to you too—H’sMa bought a pre-made din-din at the grocery store so Serra ate FAR too much and her tummy still hurts this morning. But she knows there’s a pie in there she hasn’t had a piece of yet so she’ll be changing that shortly.
2nd: Ooooooooh, cool! Just feed her—clear spring water, lots of it, and sometimes a little bit of sugar in it. Be certain to play nice music for her too—Serra’s thinking Head East, but Serra’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer either.
Hey!! One more crack like that and it’s the Folger’s can for your ass!
What-eva–I can do what I want. Anyhow, be kind to her, and if the cat climbs up in the tree, talk it out gently—what a cat can do to a tree should be a sin.
Thanks for stopping and scritch that smilin’ pup for me, ok?
Next up is Ian. Serra got your email and wrote back. YAY for you!
Dear ypf
why we don’t have turkey day in Argentina?
Answer: Because your country’s founders didn’t pillage the land, kill the original inhabitants with syphilis and rap music, and didn’t steal the land they now claim?
Well, at least not until the 1880’s.
No, I don’t know squat about the history of Argentina. Please take this in the spirit it was meant–just to be an asshat. You know me; it’s what keeps you coming back.
Next up we have a question from Clora Clairvoyant. I’m surprised she doesn’t run a similar feature to my time here—she’s probably much better at it. We’re flattered to have her and here’s her question:
Are old people incapable of seeing what is right for them? Do they want to waste the rest of their lives?
Answers:
1. Yes. Utterly and completely incapable.
2. Certainly. They also want to waste as much of yours as possible too. They’re not being nasty; they just want to make sure you pass the tradition on when you’re old, gray, demented and pissing yourself.
Our next query comes from Lisa B. Lisa, we’ll get you on the blogroll in the next update—love your blog and we’ll keep visiting. Over there in the sidebar is a notice list for the Ask YPF feature—feel free to sign up. It’s announcements only, Serra’s the only one who can post to it, and there’s no way for a spammer to pick you up from there.
Will I meet the man of my dreams this year? If so WHEN
Answer: Da Grounds are confused, Lisa B. They’re not sure which dream dude you’re referring to. If it’s Heath Ledger, it won’t be this year—that restraining order, you know. HINT: Don’t email celebs asking for pictures of them in assless chaps—not even if you offer to supply the chaps. Especially not if you offer to spank that fine ass in return for photographs.
As far as the man you’re truly destined to be with, the future is vague. Don’t try too hard to force that meeting (see above). Instead, do some of those things off your “Before I die I wanna…” list.
Just don’t do that one where you spank Heath Ledger while he’s wearing assless chaps (see above).
NEXT!
Oh, hiya Se7en—when you’ve decided to do YPF Personals, have your people call my people. We’ll do lunch.
Hey Lisa, that sounds very similar to my question last week! hehe
My question: Is it true that there is a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow?
Answer: Da Grounds shows that most rainbows end in a pot of gold, with a few exceptions. Rainbows in Acapulco end at gold pot, rainbows in Ireland end at a leprechaun’s pot (but that’s not gold in there, so don’t be stickin’ yer hand in it), and rainbows in Wisconsin end at Lambeau Field. Rainbows in Michigan, though, end at Serra’s ass, and you KNOW there’s no fucking gold comin’ out of THERE…
SLAM!
THUDthudthudthud…mumblemumblemumblefuckmumble…
That’s it for this week, folks—fortunately the little bitch held her tongue until she’d answered that last one.
Stay tuned for next week’s edition of Ask Your Psychic Fiend, where YPF answers the question, “What essential oil is good for removing stale cigarette smells from your hair, clothes, ass and skin?”
Comment Me Now!
Ask Your Psychic Fiend Rides Again!! Once again I’ll be letting the insane little psycho that lives in my head, Your Psychic Fiend, answer questions that my readers ask.
Here’s the asswaiver:
Note that the “Ask Your Psychic Fiend” feature is for entertainment purposes only. “Ask Your Psychic Fiend” is water-soluble, non-non-toxic, and Haz Mat Category IV. If “Ask Your Psychic Fiend” catches fire, do not attempt to fight it–call 911, scream your death scream, put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye. Do not ask questions which might expose any confidential issues, identities, relationships or other sensitive topics. If you’re easily offended, don’t post a question, because you’re likely to really fucking hate the answer. Do not taunt Your Psychic Fiend. Psychic Fiend is a trademark-pending product of Knightdreams, Inc. All rights and copyrights are reserved to D. J. Lovely. All answers are meant in good fun–in other words, if you can’t take a joke then don’t Ask Your Psychic Fiend anything because you won’t like the answers.
Oh, and fuck you if you can’t take a joke.
I’ll stick this post to the top of the blog, with more recent posts under it. Since it’s a holiday here in the US and my life being the hell that it is, I’m sure to have another post–just go lookie under here.
If this is something that interests you, do sign up over there on the sidebar for the mailing list. You’ll only get two notes a week unless I decide I have to send more. No one can see your usernames, emails or post spam to the list.
Adventures in Driving in Southeastern Michigan
Can you drive well in the snow? 'Tis the Season, ladies and germs–the first snow that's sticking to the ground is falling outside my window.
I knew it was coming, because that's just how I roll (and that's just how my fucked-over back and newly-complaining knee roll too). I made a point of making sure I have everything I need to make what I'm supposed to tomorrow. I even did a "don't forget" list for Honey.
So much for my planning ahead. Honey launched into his planned clam chowder this morning, only to decide 10 minutes into the job that he doesn't have enough milk. He's already got his mom slaving away peeling his potatoes, which is what she tells him.
"But I don't have my shoes on, Mom" is his brilliant comeback.
Nice. All that money spent on an Engineering degree and he can't figure out how to go from shoeless to shod. This guy can build one of the six parts used on the Ford Explorer that has never been under recall, but it doesn't occur to him that putting on a pair of shoes is fairly easy stuff. I'm not amused–I know Honey well enough to know this is Honeyspeak for "I don' wanna goooooo."
So, I go put on a bra (I don't give a shit if I'm seen in sweats and a shirt that says, "I wanna be like Barbie–the bitch has everything" but I won't be caught dead in pubic without a bra except under extreme duress), get the car keys to H'sMa's Lumina, and head out. "No problem," I vaguely recall saying, "Hel*Mouth's only a mile away."
I really should know better.
On the way there, I wind up behind a 4WD Ford pickup whose driver clearly thought he was fine because, well, he's got that nifty-assed four wheel drive, so he's not going anywhere but on the road.
I bet he thought that all the way to the ditch. I reach for my purse to get my useless cell phone, only to realize I'd just grabbed my wallet and left the shitcarrier home. Oops. See you on the way back, dumbass. Hope you remembered yours.
Hel*Mouth was not a fun time either. It was full of folks who just have no conception of the concept of them not being the only people with things to do in that store. The customers were even worse–I nearly got rear-ended again when a guy holding a list that his wife obviously wrote, in VERY large print, decided that the best way around a cart is through it. This prize catch (thank you Jeebus for this man already having a woman to make life hell for) yelps, "Hey!" after he taps the back end of my cart, like it's my damned fault he's trying to read and push the cart at the same time. Buddy, would you do that in a car?
On second thought, maybe the better question is, "Do you own that white Ford pickup sitting in the ditch about 1/4 mile from here?"
Anyhow, I get out of the place, managing not to throw anything or invent new swear words, get in the car, brace myself, decide to forego the stop at Caribou (no WAY am I going to try to maneuver that six-foot-wide parking lot today. I'd have to hurt someone if I did) and just get the car home before someone wipes me off the road.
BLEAH! That's about the only way to describe the trip home. Between the yuppie scum talking on their cell phones instead of paying attention to who they're about to rear-end, the car next to that pickup who thought he didn't have to get the ass-end of that Beamer out of the road, and the little old lady (least I think it was a lady–sometimes it's hard to tell) who just stopped in the middle of the exit from Hel*Mouth, apparently unable to decide if it was true that if you press the foot pedal on the far right if the car would move, I began to mumble the mantra that got me home.
"Next time, I bring the Mauser."
Ten Tips for Driving Amongst the Stoopid
1. Don't think that they'll (insert smart driving technique here). They won't.
2. Don't think they won't (insert typical dumbassed stunt here). They will.
3. They will (insert typical dumbassed stunt here) every fucking time it's certain to be the absolute worst thing to do in their situation.
4. They will (insert typical dumbassed stunt here) every fucking time it's certain to be the absolute worst thing to do in your situation.
5. No matter how hard you pray, the dipshit bleached blonde yuppie driving the Kinderschnootzenvagen ahead of you will not fold her cell phone and jam it through her temple as hard as she possibly can. She will not suffer the instantaneous body death state you're petitioning God to grant her to match her brain's lack of electrical activity.
6. If you have not been to the store yet for the last-minute Turkey Killin' Day goods, you're offically screwed before you leave the house.
7. Special 4WD owner note: Your ass is not invincible. Your mass does not behave any differently in slippery conditions than a non 4WD of the same mass, and in spite of your vagen's equipment you are every bit as likely to fishtail out of control and damned near hit the Lumina I'm driving as someone without 4WD.
7a. See? You're also just as likely to find your sorry ass in a ditch when you over-drive your ability to stop. By the way, did you remember your cell phone? No? Well, I didn't either.
8. Another note: You're going to hate yourself when you get your next insurance bill. Your insurance agent, however, will love your sorry, stoopid, "I'm in the ditch with less than an inch of snow on the ground–I suck dirty green donkey dicks" 4WD ass, because your premiums for the next three years will put all four of her children through college.
9. Hel*Mouth does not stock replacement brains, Dear PuttingMyMascaraOnWhileDriving. I tried very hard to get their pharmacy to order one for you, but it's just not possible. Your current state of brain failure makes you ineligible for a transplant.
10. Um, see that white shit on your car? The law encourages its removal from your vehicle before putting it in motion. CLEAR THE FUCKER OFF BEFORE YOU HIT THE ROAD, SHITSMEAR!
This, I want
Master Yoda’s Blog is a daily source of giggles for the geek that lives inside me. The Master’s now selling some excellent goods–THIS is the one I want, and Beo, I bet they’ll ship it right to me.
(Yes, that’s a big-assed hint)
Tales from The Back Door: Women don’t tip?
ACW reminded me of this little incident–iron-clad proof that absolutes in the service industry are never a good idea. Absolut, on the other hand…
I got to work at The Back Door one night to find a large woman, a large man and two smaller guys in a large pile in the middle of the floor. Everyone was screaming, which made it difficult to figure out who was getting the worst end of the deal, until I saw a great big white thing fly in the air–a massive brassiere! OK, three men just took E-Cup's bra off of her–I know it's not sex because two of those guys are dating and the third runs this insane "alternative lifestyle" establishment.
Everyone stood up, E-Cup crossing her hands over her massive chest (hence the nickname) and screaming obscenities at the guys. The guys fling the US-flag sized monument to "Lift and Separate" on top of a cooler, then turn around, catch sight of me standing there, and grin at each other before slowly advancing on me. I hear "Run, SSS, You're NEXT!"
Usually, that's enough to make me run. I'm a D cup (see "Hooray for Boobies") and NEVER appear in pubic without a bra. This time I'm curious. What the frell do these guys want with our bras–they have nicer ones! I stand there, contemplating the three men, one without eyebrows in preparation for the festive evening ahead, the other two not ready for Prime Time. It's soon explained to me that the evening's bartenders, no matter what gender genetics has handed them, will not be allowed to wear a bra tonight.
Fuck me running! I'm screwed and not in the fun way! I'm wearing a black velour button-down shirt with fringe and silver buttons down the front–one that there have been attempts to rip off my bod before! They're still coming at me and my bra's not going to stand up to being yanked off my tits. I sigh, try begging just once to allow me a shred of dignity. No dice–not here. Off it comes–away it flies, to join my bartending bud's rack-manager on top of the wine cooler.
Later, I've been schlepping bottles of beer and delicate cocktails for a couple hours, when a short break in the rush lets me look around a moment. That's when I see two Native American women, obviously waiting for someone to serve them, while my co-worker sails on by before pausing to talk to a known big-tip customer. This isn't unusual–E-Cup doesn't believe women tip. I'm used to it–I don't mind if folks don't tip, and if people who don't normally tip choose to toss me some money, I'm flattered. I hop over to the ladies, fill their drink orders and announce the total, trying to get out of the way of a huge drag queen in a Jane Jetson skirt and beehive hairdo, who's got her silly ass on my fucking bar while my boss yells at her to get the FUCK DOWN! I will not look up…I will not look up…as I accept the money I hear, "What are you drinking?"
Nice! I'm about due for a 7&7 tall, so I tell them that's what I want, and turn to make it. Turning back, I set my drink on my side of the rail and hand them their change from the $50 I just broke for them. I see a $20 come back?!? I pick it up, smile and start to show the woman what she laid out on the bar. Before I can get my mouth open, she tells me, "We saw that other bartender walk by us four times before you got your hands free and waited on us. Thanks for the great work–we don't get out where we can be ourselves very often, and we appreciate the good treatment." She waved the $20 off, which found a prominent home in my tip jar.
As I talked to the ladies a bit, it turns out their lifestyle wasn't taken very well in their culture, so they spend most of their days hiding it while working every available hour at the tribe's casino (which has a website but will remain nameless and stateless for obvious reasons). When they've saved enough money and time to go have some fun, they pick a lifestyle-friendly destination, go out to eat, drink, dance, have fun and most importantly relax, blow as much money as humanly possible and enjoy being out with each other.
Over the course of the night they wouldn't let anyone else wait on them (guess the $20 in the tip jar changed a braless mind), each time tipping well, buying me a drink too, and most emphatically NOT commenting on the lack of bra! They did show appreciation for what looks I have, but not in any way that made me uncomfortable even before the raft of whiskey I put down that night. I've had worse nights tending bar, MUCH worse. I chalked this night up to one of the better ones very early in the evening.
After work, I went over to my boyfriend's house–I showed up at 4:30 am, drunk beyond belief, my bra hanging out of my coat pocket, $250 in tips in my jeans, and one confused man looking at me and saying, "What the HELL happened to you at work tonight?"
I just giggled and said I'd met some nice folks at the bar.
Little Old Lady Logic
This one has bitten me in the ass far too often in the last six months, so it's rant time.
First, get yourselves comfy, folks–go get a latte, something to munch, and settle back. It's been brewing awhile so it's going to be long.
Ready?
Exasperated sign…then get ready. Sheesh! You should know better than to think I'm fucking kidding here.
OK. Here we go.
Over the past six months a phenomenon has been making my life a screaming hell–Little Old Lady Logic. Little Old Lady Logic is the thing that goes on in a 60+ year old person's head that makes them think all their actions are perfectly fine, showing no signs of mental decrepitude or dementia, but which in fact highlight the fact that they should be strapped to rocking chairs unless accompanied by a younger adult smart enough (and large enough) to take away their car keys when the time comes.
I've been a victim of LOL Logic more times in the last six months than I have fingers, toes, breasteses, and pubic hairs .
YOU–stop trying to count my pubic hairs–that's Honey's job and he gets cranky when someone else fills in.
Anyhow, last night was the topper–once again supper sucked. While I'm getting used to this, and in defense of it I've taken to stashing Pop Tarts and Doritos in my room, last night's incident was avoidable. I actually caught it right in the act, tried to put a stop to it, and fell victim anyhow because I wasn't forceful enough to prevent it from happening. Before you criticize me, though, email me a picture of you smacking an old lady upside the head with a baseball bat, because that's the only thing I did NOT try last night!
I was taking a break from my favorite version of Kill-Maim-Dismember when I noticed H'sMa trying to read a measuring pitcher. She had some milk in it, but was tilting it to read the measurements. I pointed out that she was tilting it and wouldn't get a correct measurement that way.
"I know I'm tilting it, it's the only way I can read it."
"Try using your other, readable, pitcher."
"I like this one."
"But you can't read it and you're going to get too much of whatever you're measuring."
"No I won't."
Since I absolutely REFUSE to sit and play "Yes you will–No I won't" with a septugenarian, I let it go for a minute and headed to the bathroom. This gave me a few minutes to picture yet another totally shitty supper, which I would end up feeding to Honey rather than throwing it the fuck out like I would want to, plate and all, so once I'd pulled up my pants I'd decided to give it another whirl.
"When you tilt the container the level isn't right in the pitcher and you'll get too much in the mix"
"No I won't–I know I'm tilting it."
Stopping the video…There's the LOL Logic in action. Right there. She's tilting the container, knows she's tilting the container, hence she'll get the measurement right because she knows what she's doing. See that–right there–where she totally misses that she won't have the correct measurement because she never looks at a level liquid measurement?
Restarting the video, we watch H'sMa set the pitcher down, add milk, lift it, tilt it, then shake her head. Once again she sets the pitcher down, adds milk, then tilts it again to see if she finally put enough in. We note that when the pitcher's level there appears to be about 2 cups inside; when tilted the milk hits the 1/2 cup mark.
Rather than risk jail time over the irrepressible urge to beat her with the pitcher, I decide to go back to my game and hope she catches her mistake (yeah, the one she's making, I told her she's making, but "No, she's not" making).
Half an hour passes, and H'sMa brings me a bowl of beef stew and biscuits. I smile, thank her, then wait for her to get the hell away from me before I look at the biscuit. The top is nearly burned, but the bottom is the expected gooey, undercooked, hideously gross mass I knew I'd get.
I take the bowl to Honey, swap it for his empty plate, ignore his questions about the meal, and with remarkable restraint take myself back to the computer room, snagging a piece of paper towel to cry into. I was fucking HUNGRY last night.
Sunday Stoopids
Looking for love online? Guys, make sure you find out where the wench works, and make sure that hot woman winking at you isn't a shill! Apparently there's some people suing over some farked-up shizz done by two major online dating sites.
from Fark
NEW YORK (Reuters) – It's not easy finding love in cyberspace, and now some frustrated online daters say they were victims of fraud by two top Internet matchmaking services and have taken their complaints to court.
Match.com, a unit of IAC/Interactive Corp. (Research), is accused in a federal lawsuit of goading members into renewing their subscriptions through bogus romantic e-mails sent out by company employees. In some instances, the suit contends, people on the Match payroll even went on sham dates with subscribers as a marketing ploy.
"This is a grossly fraudulent practice that Match.com is engaged in," said H. Scott Leviant, a lawyer at Los Angeles law firm Arias, Ozzello & Gignac LLP, which brought the suit.
Match "promotes the policies of integrity to protect members, and yet they themselves, we allege, are misleading their entire customer base," he said.
The company said it does not comment on pending litigation. But Match spokeswoman Kristin Kelly said the company "absolutely does not" employ people to go on dates with subscribers or to send members misleading e-mails professing romantic interest. The company has about 15 million members worldwide and 250 employees, she said.
In a separate suit, Yahoo Inc.'s (Research) personals service is accused of posting profiles of fictitious potential dating partners on its Web site to make it look as though many more singles subscribe to the service than actually do.
The Match lawsuit was filed earlier this month in U.S. District Court in Los Angeles by plaintiff Matthew Evans, who contends he went out with a woman he met through the site who turned out to be nothing more than "date bait" working for the company.
The relationship went nowhere, according to his suit. Evans says Match set up the date for him because it wanted to keep him from pulling the plug on his subscription and was hoping he'd tell other potential members about the attractive woman he met through the service, according to Leviant.
Leviant said his client found out about the alleged scam after the woman he dated confessed she was employed by Match. The lawsuit also claims the company violated the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act, a law best known for being used in prosecuting organized crime.
The most telling statement for me in the article is the protestations of Match's spokeswoman. I met Honey thru Match, and I do remember quite clearly (and so does he) receiving emails from the minute we cancelled and for awhile afterward, claiming that someone was interested in us and if we'd only resubscribe, we could find out who and possibly find the people of our dreams. We took it as the utter bullshit it was, of course, but I remember thinking it was a pretty shitty thing to do for the sake of the Almighty Dollar.
Guess I'm not alone.
Ask Your Psychic Fiend: The “I love my dead gay son” version
Forgive the theft in the title, please, it’s that dipshit Serra’s idea. Just because her body hates us all and she watched a certain cult classic movie last night, she’s changing the reference in the title.
YPF will give a shout-out to anyone who knows what movie it’s from.
With that said, with good coffee made (because Serra woke up at 5 am and couldn’t get back to sleep and made it) and with malice aforethought, here’s this weeks answers to your Ask Your Psychic Fiend questions! On time (at least on the right day), well-done (of course) and now with Exfoliating Crystals!
Here’s the usual asswaiver:
As you begin your journey with Your Psychic Fiend, please keep in mind:
1. It’s Psychic FIEND, not Psychic FRIEND. With friends like YPF, who needs enemas?
2. All answers are for entertainment only. If you don't want to be entertained by smartass answers, don't ask serious questions. Hell, don’t ask questions at all—anyone expecting serious answers on Ask Your Psychic Fiend Day will just piss themselves off.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those inbred spawn of Larry The Cable Guy who pretend to have psychic gifts in order to make a buck and run up your phone bill. I have the utmost respect for those truly gifted with the sixth sense. I can completely respect folks who accept money for readings of Tarot and other divination arts, as honest, respectful and caring clairvoyants who serve a purpose in the Universe. However, lying-bitch whoremongers like Miss Cleo and her ilk should have been smashed against a rock at birth.
Now, on with the show!
First up is “Lovelorn in N.O.”
Dear Psychic Fiend,
Hi hi!
I want and need some really good loving from an attractive and willing female, preferably brunette, will my desires finally be realized before Christmas?
Please help me if you can!
signed:
Lovelorn in N.O.
All right, it’s time to not use Da Grounds to answer this one.
Answer: Sure, YPF would love to hook a guy up! Seriously! Howsabout giving Serra a good recent pic, a list of what she must like (or what at least she must not force you to pretend to enjoy), your basic stats, your likes, your “I will not compromise on this in a lover” list, and we’ll write you a “Come find the man of your dreams” post and put it right here on Whiplash Smile.
YPF is being a perfectly serious bitch here, Se7en, my friend. You’re a fantastic guy and if Serra and I didn’t live so far from you and already have a man, we’d be all over you like buttermilk on Southern Fried Chicken! If a friend can't pimp out her other friends, what good is she anyhow?
Email me—you know where.
Next up is Seamus, the man who talked Serra into deciding that if she ever has another dog it’ll be a Berner.
Dear PF,
I find myself between a rock and a hard spot. Which soap should I use to slide out of this predicament and how the hell did I get here to begin with?
Let a bitch check The Awesome Coffee Grounds of Spiritual Augury (hereinafter knows as Da Grounds):
Answer: This one really needs to be answered backwards, Seamus. Da Grounds show how you got there before they show how to get out (they’re fucked up that way). As I gaze into Da Grounds, I see before me a wonderfully nice guy who just can’t disappoint people. Serra used to be like that, so we’re familiar with the predicament. The best way to slide from it is, of course, not to allow it in the first place, but sometimes that’s just not possible. Once you’re there, however, the only honorable way out is to negotiate a do-able compromise. Not everyone is 100% happy, but everyone gets something.
Hope that helps. Honestly.
Our next contestant on Ask Your Psychic Fiend is Right is AliceBabylon:
The Marine Corps Birthday Ball is this Monday, will I be the "belle (bell?) of the ball"?
Answer: Serra used to date a Marine—boy, that birthday is some serious shit for those Marines, isn’t it? Bigger than Christmas and more spit and polish than R. Lee Ermey. Da Grounds show you being incredibly hot, popular and a credit to your jarhead (as if you have no other reason for living…Dog, that sounded awful. But you will make Kryptonite look GOOD!). Wear the second dress in your list, make sure the shoes fit perfectly, and have a ball!
The next question comes in from Clora Clairvoyant:
Will people ever pimp MY blog on their blog?
Answer: Don’t need Da Grounds for this one, hon—go look under Hot Bloggers in the sidebar. The only reason it took so long is that Serra was waiting for you to give folks the go-ahead to post the link (knowing about your outlaw stalker), then did it in the next update. You do deserve more pimpage than that, but it’s what we’re able to do here.
That, and this:
Run, don’t walk, to go check out House of Snark—she’s funny, she’s smart, she lifts and separates!!
Next up is a question from MoeThat’sMe:
Think "Corporate America" will ever embrace **Pirate Friday** instead of "casual friday?"
YARR!
Answer: Considering that Serra’s such a lame bitch that she didn’t even participate in “Talk Like a Pirate Day” she’ll never embrace Pirate Friday. I think it’s mostly because she’d look like a cow in wench’s garb…
Oh, don’t even start with me, you little bitch! Wanna spend another two weeks in a can full of cigarette ashtray dumpings? –Serra
Ain’t happening, Boring Betty.
Don’t bet on that, Clueless Cleo! I’ll dump an ashtray in a Pringle’s can and put you in THAT—less room and more concentrated ash dust. So don’t fuck with me. –Serra
Sighs…As I was saying, Pirate Friday could get pretty boring every week, but it’d be fun to watch for awhile, wouldn’t it? I think something would be missing if this man didn't work in your office tho.
Our next query’s from Ian:
Dear Psychic Fiend,
IM PLANNING A HUGE TRIP, and for the first time in my life, I´m fucking terrified.
what can I do to ease the tension?Please dont say Pills cuz I´ve hadd enough of them already…
Answer: YPF sees you in some new clothes—something sharp, updated, and ass-enhancing. Do some shopping, my hot Latino buddy—Da Grounds show you in something red to set off the new hair color.
Have a blast, good luck, and get laid—best wishes from the staff here at Ask YPF.
NEXT!
Next up is Anonymous Coworker:
Can I post a question here? If the answer is yes, then my question is, "Is there a way for me to make more money quickly and that way not be a scam?"
Answer: You can ask—doesn’t mean YPF will answer. Actually, yeah, I’ll answer, cuz that’s the way I roll.
Da Grounds are very very clear on this one: Get your cat a shot at the next cycle of America’s Next Top Model. (Dog KNOWS your cat sure as hell can't do any worse than anyone else they've had on that show) They’ll decide she’s a fresh, new face and piss themselves to pimp her out for you. Don’t be a cat-stage-mother about it though—rhinestones will work perfectly well on a collar, no need to resort to diamonds, screw the limo—let her run around town in a padded carrier in your Explorer (which you’ll buy with all the money you’ll be getting in fees for The Cat Goddess’ services) instead. Above all, remember—too much catnip will make her smelly.
Oh—and if the cat’s a he, there’s always renting him out so someone with more money than sense can make their rented mansion feel like home.
Shit, the little fucker did it again, didn’t it?
We have an as-usual late entry from Mona Buonanotte. Mona, the alert list is over there on the sidebar—feel free.
Loves ya, hon—Serra
I'm late as usual, but some time in the future, can you answer this question?
Will the boss of the company EVER pull his head outta his butt long enough to realize that buying drinks for total strangers on the company's dime is STOOPID???!??
Gracias!
Mona
Answer: If we’re referring to the same assbag that throws a Christmas party for loyal, underpaid employees and CHARGES them to get in, then no, he will not pull his head out of his ass without the aid of Jaws of Life. To this bitch’s way of thinking, if he can afford to get the clients drunk at every meeting, he can damned well afford to get the employees drunk once a year. His clueless ass needs a shakeup, which might come about if someone drops this link in his email. Don’t do it yourself and warn a bitch so she can take yours and Sergei’s links off the sidebar so neither of you gets Dooced.
One last note—go lookit the pic on Special K’s blog, the refrigerator. I lust after one of these—it’ll scare the piss out of everyone here. Maybe if they realize that Serra has FAR too much time on her hands, they’ll put a little fucking effort into making the kitchen workable like they fucking promised her six months ago.
Besides, it’s just a cute idear.
And that wraps it up for this edition of Ask Your Psychic Fiend! Leave applause in the coments, throw money via PayPal at serrathescented@gmail.com
Comment Me Now!
Ask Your Psychic Fiend Rides Again!! Once again I'll be letting the stupid spoiled whore that lives in my head, Your Psychic Fiend, answer questions that my readers ask.
Here's the asswaiver:
Note that the "Ask Your Psychic Fiend" feature is for entertainment purposes only. "Ask Your Psychic Fiend" is water-soluble, non-non-toxic, and Haz Mat Category IV. If "Ask Your Psychic Fiend" catches fire, do not attempt to fight it–call 911, scream your death scream, put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye. Do not ask questions which might expose any confidential issues, identities, relationships or other sensitive topics. If you're easily offended, don't post a question, because you're likely to really fucking hate the answer. Do not taunt Your Psychic Fiend. Psychic Fiend is a trademark-pending product of Knightdreams, Inc. All rights and copyrights are reserved to D. J. Lovely. All answers are meant in good fun–in other words, if you can't take a joke then don't Ask Your Psychic Fiend anything because you won't like the answers.
Oh, and fuck you if you can't take a joke.
I'll stick this post to the top of the blog, with more recent posts under it. My life is full of dipshits and asshats, so there's likely to be more ranting under here.
If this is something that interests you, do sign up over there on the sidebar for the mailing list. You'll only get two notes a week unless I decide I have to send more. No one can see your usernames, emails or post spam to the list.
Tales My Site Meter Tells
I've been flipping thru my Site Meter again, wondering at the rise in readership. I usually get one with these LN posts, or if I mention an American Idol, or Canadian porn, but I haven't done anything like that in quite awhile. It made me wonder, so I looked at the hits. As usual, there's some that make sense, and sprinkled in between (like sand in the vaseline) there's some that make no sense at all.
1. "How to make whipped shea butter" This one makes total sense, because back when I first started blogging I did a post on trying a new method of making it. For the person looking, check here for a great formula, one you can alter to match the oils you have on hand. My riot-starting Shea Lip Balm is also there, third formula down.
2. "Electric Bong" Considering I've only ever even used one once, never owned one and in the face of hideous Michigan seizure laws sure wouldn't dream of doing it now, I have no idea how someone got here from there. I couldn't actually find my link in the search, but I only looked thru 10 pages and got bored. I do suspect that it has something to do with this article about using Google as a way to break into computerized household systems, but the only computerized system here is Garand's porn machine. Note to the searcher: You're seriously barking up the wrong tree here. Better luck elsewhere.
3. "HALO 2 pitchers" Again, I'm not sure how I got a hit from this since nothing linking here appears. I haven't even so much as played this game.
4. "Eddie Guerrero" This one's pretty obvious. What's not obvious is why I'm getting all the hits. As an update on the cause of Eddie's death–heart failure from a hard life. All the sources I find say Eddie Guerrero was clean at the time of his death.
5. "Drunken Sex Slunts.com" Even stranger, I'm the #1 result.
In other interesting searches, I'm the #48 Yahoo hit for snootch. I'm surprised I'm ranked that high, but finding this blog linked anywhere but on the blogrolls listed over there on the left still makes me grin like a retard.
By the bye, if you're in my blogroll and haven't linked me yet, could you please do so? Thanks.
Whiplash Smile 
