Conversations #1

May 17, 2006 at 9:25 am (WTF)

I know there's going to be more than one of these Conversations I Can't Believe I Had to Have, so here's the first of a series.

Knock-knock-knock, at 10 pm. I'm in massive pain, as I usually am at night, this night's torture caused by shagging around looking for ear candles and ear drops, then slaving over the plugged ear of my ex-fiance (yeah, I know, he's not my fucking problem but I'd still have to listen to it until I did something).

Me: What? Grabbing for the covers because even in nice weather the furnace still cranks out heat because the Little Old Nazi thinks she's cold when it's 70 out, so I'm naked and trying not to sweat to death.

Honey: It's me.

No shit it's you, you're the only one who knocks before coming in and Garand no longer touches the door after the time he just walked into the room. Being a bitch has its uses.

Me: What?

Honey: Can I come in?

Me: Like I can stop you?

Honey: FINALLY opening the door…I thought I'd come spend time with you.

Me: We spent hours together today. I'm hurting a lot tonight…Tugging covers tighter.

Honey: Plops down on bed I'm forced to share for lack of other space to sleep in…I thought we'd spend some time together.

Me: You said that. What do you want?

Honey: Just came up to…

Me: I know. We DID spend time together, and now I'm paying for it. I'm hurting and your nutso mother has the fucking heat on so I'm sweltering under this comforter.

Honey: Well, just shove it off. I don't mind.

Me: I do mind.

Honey: You can be naked, it's ok, I'm totally comfortable with that…said with absolutely no clue that it's not his comfort I care about here.
Me: I just said I'M not comfortable with that. I gave you your ring back and I'm trying to find a way to move out. That means I don't want to get nude with you anymore. I don't have a choice when your mother turns the place into a sweatbox, but that doesn't mean I'm going to lounge around with you in the raw.

Seriously, I had to actually HAVE this conversation last night. Again.


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April 11, 2006 at 10:13 am (WTF)

I occasionally look at my hit counter to see what search engines are hitting me and how, watching for strange ones because usually they make me giggle. Of course, there’s the every once in awhile that I just shake my head and wonder…

To the person who found me thru “actress enemas:”

WTF? And, by the way, EW! Who CARES, and gee I hope you never find images of that. There has to be better pastimes in Quebec than that. There just HAS to be.

In other news, I’m hoping my new Boca Java order is shipped today, because I’m ~sniffle~ ALL out of coffee goodness and I’m having to resort to inferior caffeine. Honey demo’d a major store chain’s store brand extraordinaire over the weekend, so while I have passable French Vanilla coffee on hand, it’s not anywhere near as luscious as Boca’s Vacation Villa Vanilla.

As for the batch of all Boca’s Blogger’s Blends pack coming my way, I haven’t gotten a ship notice and it hasn’t shown up yet, so I’m anxiously awaiting that goodness as well, because I’m really looking forward to trying those out and doing some more reviews.

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March 13, 2006 at 8:26 am (Pop Culture on Parade, WTF)

When I watch TV these days, I often find myself asking, "Who is the stoner who thought THAT up?"

Take, f'rinstance, the new Booger King commercial (name smudged on purpose–don't need reading here). What, pray tell, were the ad execs who thought their new jingle up SMOKING?

You can bet your buckin' ass the original lyric they pitched to Booger King didn't say, "Biiiig BUCKIN' Chickennnnn…"

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It’s just too easy

March 7, 2006 at 8:33 pm (Funny Shit, WTF)

It’s just too easy to find things like this on the interwebnetz. Thanks to Fark and The Smoking Gun.

And I wonder why I need a bleach shower every time I look at my search engine hits…

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March 6, 2006 at 11:29 am (Funny Shit, Pop Culture on Parade, WTF)

Pamela Anderson Objects to Breeding for Large Breasteses

Oh, quit it, you know you had to go look.

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And the prize

March 5, 2006 at 1:50 pm (Funny Shit, WTF)

…for the grossest search engine hit ever to turn up this blog is:



And I’m the #1 hit. You can be proud of me too.

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February 17, 2006 at 1:27 pm (The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

I sincerely do not want to know why this was in the bathroom after Garand's shower this morning. I just don't want to think about it. You don't either.

Image hosting by Photobucket

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You’re not fooling anyone

January 20, 2006 at 2:00 pm (Pop Culture on Parade, Raised by Wolves, Rant Goodness, WTF)

Hat tip to Towleroad for this one

Tom Cruise is whining again, folks, like that should be a fucking surprise to anyone who's had his jumping on couches and strange relationship press field days shoved down their throats. I just thank Dog for Netflix–anytime some dumbass makes the mistake of thinking this dillhole's life is worth reporting on I have something else to watch. The difference this time is that the reason Slapnuts is in the news reeks of censorship.

It seems that the Scientology poster assface doesn't like an episode of South Park. I'm sure you all know which one he doesn't like. Well, in the US, if a public figure doesn't like being made fun of, that's just tough shit. According to the laws, celebrities don't get to object when they're made fun of because it's a side effect of making all that Undogly money that they make. Good for all us cranky, snarky bloggers, isn't it? Unfortunately, it may not work the same way in the UK. It seems Mr. Cruise is threatening to sue if the episode airs again, and reportedly Paramount has agreed.

Aw, hell, Paramount–suck it up. If one looks at the literal content of the episode, Tom Cruise is literally in (Stan's) closet and all his friends are just begging him to come out. It's an (animated) representation of (a badly drawn) Tom Cruise in a (pretend) closet in a (non-existent) house in a (made-up) little white bread mountain town.

In other words, "What's the big fuckin' deal, bitch?"

If it's the overall implication that he's actually gay but not telling anyone that bothers him, that's just tough shit. After all, if two marriages, two children, innumerable relationships and a massive pile sprinkling of talk concerning Tom Cruise having relationships with men and the assload of video and still pictures tiny little small snippets of images that really aren't him at all supposedly in gay-looking positions don't convince the world that Tom Cruise is not gay, how will one more lawsuit manage it all by itself?

After all, most legal opinion is that while Tom can certainly try to sue, most of the approaches his legal team can take to a lawsuit miss an important link somewhere along the line. While he can be mad all he wants about the episode, it's clear that its intent is satirical, not defamatory. He would also need to prove any harm to his reputation or his career by either picturing him unwilling to get his sorry ass out of a little boy's closet or by the scene's use as a euphemism for a man hiding his homosexuality. Seems to me it'd be pretty difficult to prove that one little cartoon trashed his career, in the face of all he's done to destroy his credibility as an action star all on his own.

In short, I was never crazy about the little whiner, and I've become less crazy about him because his behavior in the past year has not been that of a stable individual. Normal people do not jump up and down on Oprah's couch, moon repeatedly over a woman they've only dated a month, get into bitchfights with NBC interviewers based on little more than being asked to back up a line of bullshit Tom came up with in the first place, nor do they go buy fucking home ultrasound machines when their girlfriends are pregnant.

Tom Cruise did these things, not anyone he may choose to sue for piss-taking him on a stupid (but hilarious) cartoon show. If he doesn't want people making fun of him, he should quit making it so fucking easy to do so.

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I am in Hell

January 17, 2006 at 9:26 pm (The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

H'sMa broke the flask on my press pot–the one present sent to me by my family this past Christmas. When I heard the crash, she told me it was "just a bowl."

I'm in Hell. I'm so furious that I'm nearly speechless.


UPDATE: This might seem pretty minor to some readers, but it's not to me. I treasure gifts, especially ones so well-suited to my needs (in this case, the need for drinkable coffee without having to listen to bitching). Those who know Beo know how much thought he puts into gifts, and with the disappearance of my espresso machine in the move (after asking SPECIFICALLY for it to be one of the first things unpacked and handy) it was especially welcome.

It made matters worse to be told lies about what was broken. Sure, I'd have been mad about being told my press pot's flask was busted, but being told, "Oh, it's just a bowl" and knowing it was a lie immediately just boiled my blood more. I know I must sound like a freakin' two-year-old. My days are filled with dealing with piles of other people's bullshit, and having their malfunctions fuck me over like this is pushing the limits of what I can take.

I have ordered a replacement flask (which HONEY is paying for–he says he'll "get it out of Ma") from the maker, so I'll have it working again in 6-8 days.

The topper here? She has not even said she was sorry for wrecking my gift from my brother.

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I’m My Own Grampaw

January 15, 2006 at 6:04 pm (WTF)

Remember this post where I asked my fan in Ypsilanti to come out and play?

I'm a total redneck inbred loser moron dipshit.

No, really I am.

Check it out: Apparently the ignore I placed on my own IP with Site Meter either expired or my IP's not as static as I imagined it was, because those hits from Ypsi are My. Fucking. Hits. I realized this when I went to HaloScan to see if my lurker buddy had commented on the blog. I compared about a handful of IPs to the SiteMeter info and sure as a dog returns to the scene of a shit, those are all my stoopid hits. Here I thought I'd picked up a new reader to join you other two, and it's just me.

Sorry to get you all excited. Maybe we'll get a new reader someday.

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To my fan in Ypsi

January 14, 2006 at 10:11 am (WTF)

I never ask lurkers to out themselves here, because I think it’s mostly futile–people who want me to know they were here leave me comments. Those who don’t, well, don’t. But once in a great while I check out my hit counter and wonder about certain recurrent hits, like the one I’m seeing a lot of from Ypsilanti, MI. So, this once, I’m asking about a lurker.

Hi, whoever you are!

I’d love to return the honor of all your visits here, but I don’t know who you are or what blog you write on, so if you’d like to tell me either holler in the comments or email me please.

I promise I won’t bite.

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The 2005 Darwin Awards

January 11, 2006 at 7:44 pm (Funny Shit, Pop Culture on Parade, WTF)

My favorite time of year is here–the list of the four most ridiculous accidental deaths have been released here at the Darwin Awards website. As the website says, “We salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who remove themselves from it. Of necessity, this honor is generally bestowed posthumously.”

This year’s recipients are:

1. The newest recipient of the “Most Likely to be Shot by His Own Troops” Award goes to a Second Lieutenant in Switzerland who thought a surprise lesson in hand-to-hand combat was totally the best thing to do immediately after a live fire exercise. The Looie was shot by one of his own soldiers as he sprung a suprise knife attack on the guy. Gee, good thing he’d trained the guy so well in how to turn the safety off on his weapon in case of sudden attack, now isn’t it? We could also call this award the “Don’t Bring a Knife to a Gun Fight” Award. Awarded posthumously, as all the best Darwin Awards are, since the single shot ended the officer’s life.

2. This winner truly earned his Darwin Award as well as the “Tim the Tool Taylor” Award for Home Maintenance Errors. Seems an enterprising soul in Croatia decided to make his own chimney-sweeping tool. He had nearly everything when he realized that his broom was far too short to tackle the job. Once he’d pondered, he figured that if he attached a chain with a weight welded to it to the broom, he could handle the job with no problems. As happened on “Tool Time,” though, the job blew up in his face as he welded a fucking grenade to a chain for the apparatus. I don’t think so, Marko.

3. In the Jon-Erik Hexum category, a Vietnamese man decided that a rusty old detonator couldn’t hurt anyone. In fact, he was so certain of this fact that he had his buddies hook the two wires dangling from the explosive to a 220V outlet. As Emeril would say, “BAM!” and this dumbass met his Maker on the way to the hospital for treatment of injuries resulting from a blast that blew out his cheeks and smashed all his teeth.

4. Finally, we have one of the rare deaths caused by a Lava Lamp. A 24-year-old man in Washington, for reasons unknown (since there were no witnesses, no drugs or alcohol involved and no way of knowing what was going on in his mind), put a Lava Lamp on a stove and turned the stove on. Police found him dead with a shard of glass thru his heart and absolutely no explanation of why he tried heating the lamp over an open flame.

I don’t see any 2005 Honorable Mentions, but the 2004 ones involve a pair of fishermen who can’t tell the difference between the hole for the gas tank and the one for the rod holders and a group of soldiers too damned dumb to find out if that white powder is poisonous before using it. [Turns out they’d powdered their noses (inside and out) with Thallium.]

As wonderful as I think it is that past and current honorees have seen fit to excuse themselves from adding to the population of the planet, I could still argue a case for arranging such accidents for those who stubbornly refuse to fuck off and die. True, it would do no good since it’s not likely to be legal any time soon, but it would amuse me and let me practice my debating skills.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

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January 11, 2006 at 10:39 am (WTF)

Does anyone have the slightest clue why I'm still getting search engine hits for this ditz? Mikalah Gordon was on LAST year's edition of American Idol, and I only wrote TWO posts concerning it. Even so, I'm getting one hit a day minimum from it.

Shit, last year's AI is dead and buried, and the peasants rejoice–just quit it already, willya?


1. Fox 2 You Ignorant Sluts

2. Ignorant Slut Update

3. Google's hits for "Mikaylah Gordon" (yeah, I misspelled it–suck it)

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January 9, 2006 at 9:48 am (WTF)

I was sitting here, swilling excellent coffee (Michigan Cherry, for those who care–Meijer is running a sale on their gourmet coffay line and the Chocolate Macadamia Nut is also gorgeous shit) and taking a stroll thru my Site Meter hits when this one jumped out at me from the referrals:

Teens fucking dogs.

Yippee. I'm the third link on the search too. I have now accomplished everything I ever set out to do in blog-dom. I'm a top hit in a category I've never blogged about. Sure, I talked about my fucking dogs until you're tired of them, but nowhere in that post was the word "teen." Yay, me.

And oh, by the way….


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Instant Karma

January 4, 2006 at 11:43 am (The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

I should have known I'd be paid back for gloating over someone else's upset. I should have expected it–after all, I'm the one who wound up the target for discussion in group therapy sessions because I believe heartily in the concept. I had the facilitator pissed for three days. She claimed it was arrogant to believe in karma; I held that the believe that "what goes around comes around" was a basic tenet in most religions and believing in karma was no more arrogant than believing that a Supreme Being exists and He/She/It/They are on the side of their true believers. She gave up, so I took that to mean that I won. She wasn't getting much backup from the group, aside from her normal sycophants, so I was likely right.

Anyhow, my adventures in rehab are another blog's worth of posts, so I'll move on to the point for a change.

WARNING: ICK ALERT. If you've got a weak stomach, simply hit "Next Blog" up there in the corner. I purposely did not make graphic descriptions, but some may consider the post below this oversharing.

Ah, good, you stayed. Proceed.

When last you visited, my two dogs had scarfed FAR more fresh meat than I eat in a month in the space of half an hour. Anyone who has dogs can guess how their bodies reacted. The big dog's body was more pissed off than my Beagle's–she managed to hold it all in until time for walkies while Zeke just couldn't swing it. Honey had told me he'd left a little pile outside the bedroom door. I wasn't upset about it, since I expected at least one accident while their fuzzy forms dealt with the meat they'd snarfed down.

I wasn't prepared for my bedroom last night, not even a little bit. I worked in nursing homes for 8 years, and even that training didn't prepare me for the inside of my bedchamber. I don't know of anything that could.

When I walked in to crash last night, I was greeted by what has to be the worst odor I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. I won't describe it–I'm mean, but I'm not that mad at anyone who reads here, so I'll say it was worse than the time Honey turned a room's air green and leave it at that. I quickly located the source of the stench–seems that little pile in the hall wasn't the only one he'd left.

I'm proud of the boy, though. He landed his huge accident squarely in the middle of the sheet Honey threw on the bedroom floor yesterday morning. If I didn't know better I'd swear the dog aimed it there in retribution for the screaming he had to endure (that wasn't his fault), because the little lardass didn't get a single bit on the bedroom floor. That aroma, however, kicked my veteran-poop-remover's ass in no time flat–I had to yell for Honey to come get it out of there between steps in my mad rush for the upstairs bathroom.

Honey's a little slow on the draw for being such a smart guy–I not only had to yell for him to come up, I had to say "NOW, Honey–I (bleh) can't deal (ick) with…oh, shit EW!" While I exiled myself for some meditation in the presence of the Porcelain God, he dealt with his bedsheet. Surprisingly enough, he didn't yell at the dog, me or anyone else–he just sucked it up and bundled the offending mess for transport downstairs.

Once I'd blasted an ounce of room spray around my bedroom, it was habitable again (no exaggeration–I was using one Melissa made for me last Christmas and I could see in the clear bottle how much I went thru trying to kill the stink), but just barely. I must have checked the floor half a dozen times to assure myself I didn't have stealth shit anywhere else in there.

This morning, Honey had the upstairs bathroom occupied, so I headed downstairs for my morning ablutions. As I took care of this and that, I noticed a garbage bag perched on top of the dirty clothes hamper. Huh? Not another lesson to write about, is it? Surely these people can take a bag of…wait, I know what it is.

That's right–Honey just shoved the crappy sheet into a trash bag and pulled the drawstring tight rather than deal with the mess. As much as I hate admitting that I just can't do something, I was forced to admit that Zeke's poo kicked my ass. Having said that, I don't feel one bit bad about having informed Honey that all present and future doggie accidents are now his problem. I've cleaned up after these dogs since the first time their terrified little asses soiled the beige shag rug at the old house–it's his turn.

After all, what goes around, comes around.

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Bad Dogs?

January 3, 2006 at 7:32 pm (Rant Goodness, The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

Last night’s blogging was difficult for me. It wasn’t difficult because of the subject matter (I’m sorry for all the “EW” reactions but some things just need to be said and no one in this house is listening). I had to make that post and the ones which will follow. It was really hard to blog last night because there was hours upon hours of screeching going on all afternoon and evening. It was all the same ear-splitting phrase, over and over and over.


So, what did the dogs do to incur everyone’s wrath? They snagged a 3 pound package of hamburger out of a grocery bag left on the floor for two hours, dragged it into H’sMa’s bedroom and had themselves a high-pro party.

Read that again.

MY dogs (they’re suddenly MY dogs when they misbehave) got screamed at by everyone but me for fucking HOURS because they took off with a package of meat that was left sitting ON THE DOG-DAMNED FLOOR. That’s right, it was on the floor for two hours, and three people busted THEIR chops for succumbing to the temptation that THE YELLING PEOPLE laid out for their doggie asses.

Why didn’t I put it away? Because when my back bitched about bending down to the floor to do exactly that, I got the shrill screaming treatment (I made the mistake of allowing a yelp out of my mouth when my leg wouldn’t hold me up, which makes it all my fault, right?). I had two people bitching that I’d even attempted to make sure people ate the food instead of the dogs. What would you do? Damned straight you’d leave it right where it lay.

I did too. I bit my tongue, left the bags right where they’d been left, and went back to killing things standing between me and my favorite dragon. Fuck ’em if one small yip offended them so much. Don’t leave shit in the floor and I won’t be yipping trying to clean it up.

Another half hour later, the shrieking started. “Where’s that hamburger?” “Zeke, you BAAAAD DOGGGGGGG!” “Dani, put that down NOW! Baaadddd DOGGGGGG!” “You two get NO LOVE from Daddy!” Eventually the dogs found that the only room in the house not full of insane noisy humans was the computer room, so I had two dogs looking at me, liquid eyes begging for a kind word. I knew better–if I’d said one word about it not being their fault I’d still be getting yelled at, and so would the dogs. I couldn’t just sit there and watch my Beagle shake like Michael J. Fox either–the whole thing would never have happened if that food had been put where it belonged.

I compromised. After all, the humans were too busy listening to themselves bitch at the top of their vocal ranges to hear two dogs being petted, scritched and loved on. I scritched, I petted, I used my softest voice to tell them it wasn’t their Dog-damned fault the higher life forms were too lazy to put groceries away and too proud to let anyone else do it. I let the dogs know that Daddy would get over this fucking snit before bedtime, or I’d be starting some screeching myself.

I know my dogs didn’t understand my words anymore than they understood the ones being hammered at them by everyone else. It did seem like the tone of my voice did calm them a little, but they looked at me so strangely every time I’d giggle over how mad my fiance and his mother got. I’d snicker. The dogs would eye me suspiciously, as if I were about to join the shriek party. I’d go back to scritching them and watch them relax until another giggle snuck out.

Yeah, I laughed to myself over how mad they were at the dogs, when in fact it was their own lazy damned fault that the dogs were able to reach the meat in the first place. I’m evil, vile, and likely going straight to Hell.

Scritch…scritch…pet…I can live with that.

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Six More Pseudo-Shopping Days

December 19, 2005 at 12:23 pm (Rant Goodness, WTF)

Well, I can't say I was bored Saturday. I can say I was annoyed, angry, frozen, pissed-off, put-upon, had my time totally wasted, hungry, chilled to the bone, and ready to kill.

Honey and I had planned to go Xmas shopping Saturday. We'd planned it for a week, ever since we found out he had a reprieve from Hell (YOU work at a Meijer's during the Silly Season and tell me it's not Hell) scheduled for that day. Finally, I'd be able to get out of MY personal Hell and get the bits and pieces of shopping done that I hadn't been able to do with no car. Sure, I could have made someone ship me the stoopid stuff, like the chocolate-covered cherries I love this time of year and the cans of cashews, but it's ridiculous to pay shipping when there's places close by that have them cheap.

Saturday dawns, clear and cold, two days after piles of snow shit down from the sky. Honey decides he's not going anywhere, because he had trouble getting in the driveway due to his tires needing replacement. Beautiful–does that mean Honey's never going anywhere ever again (shudder)? Why, no of course not–he has to work Sunday. "And your tires are going to fucking GROW tread overnight? Just get the new tires you need and we'll go shopping afterward."

I'm a fucking moron. I really should know better than to think anything will be that easy these days.

Of course the tire shop is PACKED, which made for excellent people watching but really sucked the southbound end of a northbound, syphilitic donkey when it came to getting tires put on. (Remind me sometime to tell you how I know that men look absolutely ridiculous in green rubber clogs.) Anyhow, Honey gets the guy to admit there are tires for Baby, the store has them in stock, and that the people in their employ can be empowered to put them on the car. This takes approximately half an hour longer than it should, due to the jerk not believing that an automotive engineer actually knows what kind of tires his car TAKES, plus the obligatory ooh-ing and aah-ing over one of Detroit's finest hunks of sheet metal.

The male admiration dance done, we sit down to wait. Did I mention that the heat in Honey's car is out? Neither did he–I got a wee little bit cold during the 20 minute drive over in the teens-temperature weather. By a "wee little bit" I mean I froze my fat ass off! Good DOG it was cold out there! By the time we arrived at the tire shop I'd talked myself out of the Caribou run I was going to ask for and decided hot coffee at the tire shop would only suck taste-wise, but it was hot and we wouldn't have to wait for it.

Wrong again, Serra. They had run OUT of coffee in the cute little stainless steel air pot they usually serve it in. Not only that, but it seemed to take three of the little dillholes to help the bleached blonde with the fake tits pick out tires, leaving zero to go make any more. They weren't dissuaded by her husband being on the cell phone talking to her at the time either. It took one of them half an hour to tear his eyes away from her false mammary glands to make coffee, and that was because SHE wanted some! Aw, fuck you running, bitch. I bet the heat in YOUR kinderschnoozenvagen works!

TWO hours later, these morons finally admit they're too dumb to pour piss from a boot with the directions written on the heel. They come out and tell Honey that they just can't get one of the lug nuts to budge and they have no equipment to make it budge. You heard me right–a place that does nothing but tires has no equipment that will let them remove a stubborn lug nut. Nice. They suggest we take it down the road to Tuffy's, where they're competent and have more than a tire mounter and an air wrench for tools.

We arrive at Tuffy's less than an hour before both Dipshit Tire and Tuffy's close. The nice man inside (no sarcasm here, folks–this guy was truly nice, if acting a little like an artist in the process of painting the next Mona Lisa) has Honey cough up Baby's keys and sets to work. Just before closing, we get the bad news.

The guys at Dipshit Tire weren't quite as incompetent, stupid and weak as we'd thought, because OTHER incompetent, stupid weaklings had managed to cross-thread that lug nut. Yep–picture someone screwing the lid onto your favorite pickles crooked, only they used an impact wrench so it was tighter than a virgin's ass. Turns out that Spunkass Tire, the folks who put the last tire on, fucked it over so that no one else could possibly work on it. What they failed to realize is that they won't be able to work on it easily either.

We're told that tire is not coming off today, and it's not coming off at all short of a torch job to sever the bolt the nut screws onto, which will need to be followed by putting a new bolt on. This job will be lengthy and expensive. Honey thanks the man, who very nicely cut the usual fee in half as he'd only put labor into the car at that point, gave us his card, and we trundled off into the night.

At 5 pm on Saturday, here's what I'd accomplished:

SEVERAL rounds of muttering about asswipes who were programmed to say "We only do tires"
FOUR hours of sitting in colder than necessary places
TOO many choruses of "You will NOT point and giggle" to myself
Two visits to places where not a single thing was sold for holiday gifting or frolicing but were packed with folk whose destiny was to piss me off
THREE searches of my purse for quarters to purchase junk food to tide me over until the nightmare ended.
ONE blurt of "You're fucking kidding me!" in an appropriate but not necessarily welcome point in the conversation at Tuffy's.

While we were waiting at Tuffy's, I resigned myself to no shopping being done. I was tired. I hurt like I'd been beat with a tire iron. I was shivering even in a heavy leather coat. Dog-damnit, I hadn't had a decent cup of coffee all day! Stick a fork in the bitch, I was DONE. In between apologies for the total lack of shopping glee, I talked Honey into a stop at Big Boy (best Country Fried Steak I can get here) once we left Tuffy's, then MAYBE, IF I fucking felt like it, we'd hit Hel*Mouth.

Turns out that's what we did–I resisted the urge to drink my dinner (Livingston County has a new smoking law, but it doesn't apply to places with bars, so Big Boy has a bar), pigged out on deep fried meat, potatoes and some of the best coleslaw I don't make myself, and went to Hel*Mouth before going home. On reaching home I decided that throwing my still-frozen ass in bed, covering it with every blanket we could find, supplying me liberally with hot chocolate and good movies was the best plan I could come up with.

Next year, screw it–if I can't buy it online, I'm not giving it.

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Sunday’s Silly Thing

December 4, 2005 at 10:34 am (Funny Shit, WTF)

from Fark

I'm afraid, very afraid to show this one to Honey. You see, he's the kind of guy who would want to take an old toaster and do this, or make ice cream using liquid nitrogen, or do this, or this. On the other hand, it'd be a blast to watch, wouldn't it? It'd only take a bottle of pop and roll of Mentos, a few minutes' time outside, and a little bit of convincing me to let him do it. The latter's half in the bag already. I'm tempted to call him just before he finishes work tonight.

We'd certainly have to do it outside. That means the neighbors would see. One set's a pretty nice bunch, so it'd be somewhat embarrassing to have them wonder what the hell we were doing. The neighbors on the other side, though, can just suck my ass–they want to be the Griswolds when they grow up, judging by the garish light display next door. It's just not good enough for them to have a security light that is so bright the LOL can suntan in her own bed, no! They must, simply MUST get every single strand of lights Hel*Mouth sells and string them all. THEN they had to get a blow-up snow globe large enough for a family of four to go live in…but I digress. Long story short, they've got no call to think anyone else on the planet is strange when they put their complete lack of taste on display for the world.

That article I linked to above says to use diet soda because there's less sticky stuff to clean afterward.


Dialing the phone…Honey? Grab me a 2-liter bottle of something really sugary and fizzy and a roll of mint Mentos, would you please? Yes, I'll pay you back, if you think what I'm going to do with them was not as fun as I think it'll be…

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Adventures in Driving in Southeastern Michigan

November 24, 2005 at 10:12 am (Funny Shit, WTF)

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."

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Sunday Stoopids

November 20, 2005 at 9:36 am (Pop Culture on Parade, WTF)

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., 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 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.

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