Oh Hell No Again

August 23, 2005 at 3:31 pm (Die Yuppie Scum, Funny Shit)

Yep, I still go to Hel*Mouth, mostly due to a total lack of choice. While H'sMa is generous about allowing me to use her car, the $2.79/gal gas prices keep me on a short leash, since I do put gas in the car every time I use it. Putting gas in every time I use the car causes her to cuss and yell (mostly the words "I told you not to do that!"), but she doesn't play Bingo so she needs another reason to cuss. Like the nice daughter-in-law in training that I am, I do aim to keep her happy, hence the gassing of the Lumina when I use it.

Anyhoo, I usually catch a ride to the Hel*Mouth with Honey, and once there I try to limit the pain shopping can put me in by using one of those motorized carts. I've found if I decide "I'm doing fine, I don't need the cart" I'm in hellacious pain by the time I'm done shopping, so I just say screw those who don't like it, I'm using one. This particular story picks up toward the end of tooling around the store a few weeks ago, just as folks are settling in for the siege that is back-to-school shopping, and one woman's got four children with her, all in various stages of rip and tear about the store, in and out of the cart, all yelling "Mommy Mommy Mommy" simultaneously.

I'd missed mowing down each of those wild-grown children several times during the shopping trip, and I'd finally passed them one last time and was headed to the checkout lanes, Honey in front scouting out a decently short checkout line. We'd just about made it when….

CRASHTHUNK!

I let off the throttle immediately, which I'd had going full-bore in an attempt to get the fuck out of Dodge, mostly because I'd just been shoved violently, cart and all, from behind. Cussing and not giving a shit what anyone thought of the words, "What the total fucking…" as I turned around, I see the woman dumbassed enough to bring four children into the store and not smart enough to make the little bastards behave like they weren't raised by wolves. She'd run full blast into the ass-end of a cart moving at top speed, hard!

I looked at her, saying something stoopid like, "What on Earth…" I was just floored. How in the HELL do you miss me when a 6'3'' man is directly ahead of the cart? I'm not short, these things don't sit all that low (they'd be hard to use if they were, since a lot of mobility-impaired folks have trouble standing up from low seats), and my plus-size ass is very hard to miss. She still rammed me from behind.

She had the nerve to look at me and say, "Oh–I didn't see you there."

No SHIT you didn't see me there, you classless dipshit! You didn't SEE me because you weren't facing FORWARD while shoving that cart as fast as you could move it while yelling at your kid! Yeah, that yelling's been working SOOOO well so far tonight–keep it the fuck up, you dizzy yuppie moron! That's something else she'd been doing the whole time she was there–pushing the cart while trying to track her hellspawn. Why didn't you just make the kids behave or take them the fuck HOME where you should have left their Mowgli asses in the first place?

She stared at me a moment more, then resumed the bitching and pushing routine. No apology, not even an "Oops, my bad."

I'd have blown it off as a freak accident if it hadn't happened again, about a week later. THAT entire excursion was spent with me trying to stay in front of Honey, while he tried desperately to stay behind me, to prevent a reoccurence. The moment he stepped in front of the cart to look at something in a refrigerator case, some jackass and son rear-ended me again!

It's enough to make me want one of those stoopid flags to plant in the back of the cart, just to keep shit-for-brained asshats from trying to run me over.

I'd spring for one, but shit, if these trainable but mentally-impaired jackasses could miss me, Honey, and a 500 lb. cart, one little dumbassed flag isn't going to improve the situation.

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What the HELL is WRONG with you?

June 14, 2005 at 3:22 pm (Die Yuppie Scum, Rant Goodness, WTF)

An Open Letter (Yeah, I do this a LOT–shhh!) to the A&W on Grand River Avenue near Wixom, MI:

What the HELL is WRONG with you? Since when does a damned A&W Root Beer stand run OUT of root beer?

Did you have NO clue how difficult it is to talk Honey into a totally unproductive trip anywhere? He doesn't like just picking his happy ass up to satisfy my whims–he does it because of reasons that will make Beo go blind should he read them here!

I managed it, though. I managed to get him to take me to your establishment, promising bribes of cold, frosty root beer, as only you're able to peddle it (with an additional Beo-blinding inducement).

How did you repay me?? How DID you repay three people lusting for just a taste of your sugar-filled, icy, creamy smooth root-flavored crack? You fucked up, that's how! When I arrived at your little hole in the wall, the nice lady behind the counter informed me only once I'd ordered everything else that your fine restaurant was deficient in the very thing that makes driving Grand River Ave. worth putting up with–ROOT BEER! Instead she taunted me with, "We do still have the Diet.."

Fucking inbred, borderline-autistic LOSERS! I can get fucking DIET at the gas station less than a mile from home! I can get a can of Liquid fucking PAIN at any of a hundred places along the pain in the ass route I had to take to get the real deal from the syphilitic tit-squeezers at your restaurant! If I could DRINK fucking DIET I'd just have DONE that instead of braving 90 degree weather in order to get a mug of your fabulous root-goodness. I was even going to have you dose it liberally with ice cream, you taste-blocking, numb-nutted excuses for purveyors of pure heaven!

It did not help my disposition, nor my displeasure at finding you rootbeer-less, to hear the woman behind the counter call out unflattering things about my size in Spanish. Some Serras would have waited in the parking lot for you to get off work after you called them fat bitches no matter what language it was in. Personally I don't think you're worth the sweat off my tits it would take to do it, so you live another belly-crawling day. That should be retribution enough.

In closing, I leave you with this: May the slobbering significant others of all your employees plague you with requests to see your flabby, saggy, grease-stained tits, especially if you're a male A&W manager of this particular store.

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Asshats will be Asshats, page 1

February 25, 2005 at 3:49 pm (Die Yuppie Scum)

Well, spring hasn't sprung yet, but it's warm here in Michigan. We're having snow in my personal area code, but other parts of MI are having just enough warmth to cook up the top Asshat Outdoorsman stunt: Getting stranded on thin ice.

A soaper I know posted to a list about some folks on Lake Erie (thirty of them, no less) who became stranded on a chunk of ice that broke away from shore and floated out approximately 1/2 mile. To quote the WDIV website and the Associated Press:

"Most of the anglers had to leave behind on the ice their all-terrain vehicles, fishing shanties and the rest of their gear."

Now, what in blue hell possessed these dipshits to not only go out on ice during conditions that anyone with a half-ounce of sense would know are not safe, but to take along their very expensive vroom-vroom toys AND A DOG? I don't know, but I do have some consolation.

Most organizations that are called on to go running after morons like this now have a policy/ordinance/law stating that if stupidity necessitates a rescue, the stupid will pay full costs of same. Since this happened a lot at Half Moon Lake in Eau Claire, the City Council instituted the Dumbass Tax several years ago. The local paper estimated the rescue costs at $3500 per dolt, and the City Council instituted a $2000 fine on top of that.

No word on what happens if you don't pay up after your butt gets saved.

I vote for putting their butts right back where they were found. Take the helicopter used in the rescue with the same men who saved these ungrateful clowns, pick up Duncy McVillageIdiot, tell him off with all due acidity on the way, then just shove his ass out the door. *

*No, I'm not a nice Silly Scented Serra today. Deal.

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Killer Bedding

December 11, 2004 at 4:19 pm (Die Yuppie Scum, Rant Goodness)

Hiya Fiends of all sorts.

Well, it's been a helluva 24 hours. I hate dust ruffles. You see, that's where this rant starts–where it ends is at the end of a long story.

I'm still trying to figure out why there's a dust ruffle on a pedestal bed. My fiance picked out the bed, right after he closed on our 3 bedroom house just south of beautiful, bucolic (formerly anyhow; then from what the local campers tell me the Yuppies spoiled it by moving here), strange, fascinating, severely RACIST (but that's another rant) Brighton, Michigan. For some reason the sales-bitch talked him into covering perfectly beautiful walnut with a pastel, rainbow, dust ruffle. Normally this guy might have bought the dust ruffle, but used it to polish Baby, his 1995 Impala SS. I personally think he popped for it just in case his brand-new fiance (moi) might like one on the king-size bed. (He knows better now and after the last 24 hours wishes he'd gotten one in a nice Woodland Camoflauge, sans the ruffle part).

Anyhow, we keep neglecting to pull off the dust ruffle when we flip the matress and change the bed because it's under the damn box spring–a big job at best, absolutely awful in small quarters. We usually say, "screw it–next time we'll pull that ugly waste of fabric off and tear it into car-polishing rags, OK honey?"

Well, that silly thing's been there four years now and starting to show wear and tear–as in the tear right by where my feet hit the floor. I've lost my slipper in it a few times in the past week, but didn't think it was out to get me until yesterday.

The first time I caught a foot in it was about 3 pm yesterday–ran like a bitch for the phone and was tugged to an abrupt halt amid the shredding of further seams on that stupid ruffle. Cussing, I pull my foot out (slipperless as usual) and catch the phone. Not the promoter. So I go back to working again…only to decide I'm already sore and it's time for a short break.

I'm not sure the mistake was taking the break or making sure there was nothing to run for. I pick #2. Once again, an hour after the first assasination attempt, I have to dash for something again.

BAM!!! No, Emeril wasn't at the door–but my treacherous bed accessory has made another attempt on my life!! I find myself hitting the floor rather hard, landing on my left knee (my "bad" leg, which is yet another rant). I find out standing is really a problem when one leg won't hold your weight–instead of letting me use it, my left leg is now calling me names like those kids I used to babysit for in high school (I have a fairly foul mouth, but I STILL don't know what half that shit even meant). Long story short, I'm toast and I have two shows scheduled for the weekend.

Shit.

I crawl back on the bed and patiently await my Knight in Shining Armor's return from the salt mine that is a Meijer store. Once he arrives, I spell out the problem–basically, that I have one functioning leg and we need to do something about it unless he wants to carry me around a school in Ann Arbor the next day. So, we head for the nearest hospital–30 miles from home.

Once we get there and I'm checked in, the triage nurse explains she's sending me to "Fast Track". Folks, Fast Track is only Fast for the doctor–the goal is to see how "fast" he can get your (and his) ass out of the hospital. I might add that there's been times these yahoos have been out the door BEFORE I have!

Well, this jackass decides that walking for a Goddess-sized woman is highly overrated, and so is not curling into a fetal, whimpering ball. I'm doing both of these all during the exam, X Rays and the subsequent time when the very-nice RN is asking if the steroid and light muscle relaxant have "done the job." I was nice–I know who the asshat (Gods, Moo, I love this one) is here. So, she talks the doc into a shot of something else–he still has a thing about actually relieving pain, so it's Valium this time, not something that'll actually work on the PAIN that's making everything from the hip on down a mass of knives with midgets jumping on them.

Three shots in my butt's two more than I can put up with, so I give up. That's when I'm presented with two pieces of paper, the medications named on them adding up to over $100 worth of pills. I am still nice. I explain that I am the one paying every red cent for the medicines named on those prescriptions–can they be changed to meds I don't need a home equity loan to buy? The nice nurse comes back; one prescription is changed, the other is the same, with reassurance that Norflex "isn't that expensive".

Bullshit–that one alone is $50 and I didn't know that until I checked with my fantastic pharmacist today. The other is for Tylenol 3 and the little bottle they gave me on the way out the door meant I'm not curled into a fetal ball and I can get to the bathroom myself, but that's about it–even my nice office chair sucks today…

…and so does that nice big gorgeous bed. The dust ruffle??? Baby's gonna look gorgeous!! We still have to pull out the part that is under the box spring but no one can see it anyhow–the beautiful finish on the pedestal is finally out where we can see it.

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