The Comedian recently lost her job. It was Taylor Swift's fault. I know I blame her for a lot of things, but this time, that squinty-eyed weirdo really is the cause of The Comedian's problem. So now, I have to find a new job, or I won't be able to pay for Netflix anymore.
But it turns out writing a resume for OTHER types of jobs when you've only done one thing for all your adult life is, like, hard and stuff. Here's what I have so far.........
The Comedian
123 House with a lot of Spiders Right Now for Some Reason
(123) 456-7890
Objective: To continue to live indoors and eat food
Education: Must have been good, since I didn't finish paying for it until I was 30
Work Experience: Yes
Skills and Abilities: - I talk words good
- Experience being yelled at for no reason by angry people
- Can listen to the same fucking song eight times a day without
crying
- Can speak for up to five minutes at a time without swearing
- Extensive experience pretending I don't think the Kardashians
should all fall in a hole
References: They'd just lie anyway, since they're sick of me asking them to be references, and they just wish I'd get a fucking job already and leave them alone.
Friday, January 2, 2015
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
In the Future, You Will Legally Have to Act Out Everything You See on Porn Sites: The Comedian's Obituary
Attention, future-people:
If you are reading this, I am dead. I died on (DATE) of (THING). I was either surrounded by loved ones or a bunch of weird pornographic publications.
If the thing I died of is one of those things that people hold fundraisers for, please leave me out of it. I think fundraisers are great, but as soon as someone figures out the password on my computer and sees my search history, you're not going to want my name associated with whatever it is you're trying to cure. It won't help. People who made donations years ago will probably ask for them back.
If the thing I died of is hilarious, please make horrible jokes about it. That's what I would have done if you died before I did.
If the thing I died from is NOT hilarious, please make fun of how lamely I died.
Since Viking Funerals are illegal, I want my body to go to one of those body farms where they bury carcasses in a field and teach dogs how to sniff them out. Before you bury me, though, please have someone dressed as David Caruso from 'CSI: Miami' stand over my body and say a not-very-clever quip while putting sunglasses on. Then kick him in the balls and tell him his mother was never proud of anything he did. Don't tell him you're going to do it, though -- I want it to be a surprise.
In lieu of everything, please don't do anything. Y'all did enough while I was here, and there's no reason for you to do a bunch of stuff that I'm not around for anyway. Go home, have a beer, and watch TV (or consume media in whatever way you future-people consume media.) I hope 'William Shatner's: Weird or What?' is still on. That's a great show.
Before you get on whatever social media you future-people use now to tell everyone how I was your best-good friend, please don't. At the time of this writing, there are about nine people on this planet who have any business doing that, and none of them are going to do that because they're not lame. I don't believe in ghosts, but if I'm wrong, I will come back and haunt the ever-loving shit out of you. It won't be one of those movie-hauntings than ends when the short lady with the munchkin voice comes and does stuff and then Carol Anne isn't inside the TV anymore and Coach from 'Coach' is all happy because his family is saved. It will be one of those hauntings that ends with you standing with your face in the corner in a dirty basement right before the witch eats you.
I'm not religious, so please don't do any religious stuff unless it makes you feel better. In which case, have at 'er.
I would like a headstone, and I want it to read "I'm right behind you" in teeny tiny letters so people have to get really close to read it. Hide one of those Hallowe'en doormats that screams when someone steps on it under some astroturf right in front of the headstone. Set up a video camera nearby.
That's all I got. And now that it's in writing AND on the Internet, you legally have to do everything you just read. That's not the way the law works as I write this, but I'm pretty sure in the future when you read this, that's exactly how the law will work. Anything you see or read online, you have to do. So you might want to stay off the really weird porn sites.
x x
-----
(That little dude with the x-eyes above this sentence is me, dead.)
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Drowned Squirrels, Porn*, and Grocery Tetris: Why My Uterus Should Not Matter to You
Sometimes I really want yogurt, but I also don't want to move my jaw very much. So I buy that liquid-drinkable-yogurt that is probably mostly poison. A recent trip to the grocery store that included the purchase of the poison yogurt drink led to a discussion about my uterus. Sort of.
SCENE
The Comedian approaches checkout, places items on conveyor belt that always smells like onions and usually has hair stuck to it. The Comedian plays Grocery Tetris while Old Lady in front of her tries to remember how Interac works. (For the uninitiated, Grocery Tetris is an important game I play where I place all of my groceries in as little space as possible. If I don't do that, something horrible will happen, similar to how horrible things will happen if I buy even numbers of things or don't lock my car doors three times in a row.)
Old Lady finally remembers four numbers, leaves with Ensure and every prune in the store.
CASHIER: How are you today?
THE COMEDIAN: Fine, thanks. How are you?
CASHIER: It's Friday!
***THE COMEDIAN does not kill woman for answering question with unrelated answer***
CASHIER: (scans poison yogurt drink) Getting this for the kids?
THE COMEDIAN: Nope. They're for me. I don't have any kids.
***THE COMEDIAN immediately realizes she has made a horrible mistake***
CASHIER: Oh well! There's still time!
The rest of the conversation is unimportant. I also don't remember most of it, because I was thinking of really shitty things to say to the cashier. Most of them involved how she could fuck right off.
Before I get the usual WHY DO YOU HATE KIDS?????? comments -- I don't. I like them just fine. I like lots of things. Horses. Swimming pools. Porn. But I don't want horses or swimming pools. I do not want to be responsible for keeping them alive or getting drowned squirrels out of them. I like horses and swimming pools better when they are other people's horses and swimming pools. And I like kids better when they are other people's kids.
What pisses me off THE ABSOLUTE MOST is when people act like my life is missing something because I don't have kids. I guess technically they're right -- my life is missing the unhappiness I would feel if I had kids. Luckily, my life is also missing the unhappiness my non-existent kids would have if I had kids. Again -- I have no problem whatsoever with the existence of children. I know several children that I like an awful lot. I. Just. Don't. Want. To. Have. Any. And I'm sick as fuck of people who push their noses up my ass about it.
How about we try something COMPLETELY FUCKED UP and assume that I'm living my life the way I want to, and that I'm perfectly happy with it? I don't have kids ON PURPOSE. I live by myself ON PURPOSE. I don't spend five hours ripping three eyebrow hairs out of my face to attract guys ON PURPOSE. (Side note: guys don't actually give a shit about your eyebrows really. As long as you have two of them and they're more or less in about the same place on either side of your face, you're good to go.)
Perhaps those pushy, nosy shits could take a page from my mother's book. My mother is the one person who, as far as I'm concerned, is actually allowed to pick apart my life and try to move the pieces around to make it better.....but she doesn't do that, because she is not an asshole. Here, as far as I can tell, is my mom's thought process when it comes to my life:
1. Is Daughter alive? Yes.
2. Is Daughter in jail today? No.
3. Does Daughter have tattoo on face? No.
Conclusion: Daughter is fine. Leave Daughter alone.
(*Perhaps be concerned that Daughter is apparently too lazy to chew yogurt.)
*I put PORN in the title because most of the people I know like things better if there's porn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
SCENE
The Comedian approaches checkout, places items on conveyor belt that always smells like onions and usually has hair stuck to it. The Comedian plays Grocery Tetris while Old Lady in front of her tries to remember how Interac works. (For the uninitiated, Grocery Tetris is an important game I play where I place all of my groceries in as little space as possible. If I don't do that, something horrible will happen, similar to how horrible things will happen if I buy even numbers of things or don't lock my car doors three times in a row.)
Old Lady finally remembers four numbers, leaves with Ensure and every prune in the store.
CASHIER: How are you today?
THE COMEDIAN: Fine, thanks. How are you?
CASHIER: It's Friday!
***THE COMEDIAN does not kill woman for answering question with unrelated answer***
CASHIER: (scans poison yogurt drink) Getting this for the kids?
THE COMEDIAN: Nope. They're for me. I don't have any kids.
***THE COMEDIAN immediately realizes she has made a horrible mistake***
CASHIER: Oh well! There's still time!
The rest of the conversation is unimportant. I also don't remember most of it, because I was thinking of really shitty things to say to the cashier. Most of them involved how she could fuck right off.
Before I get the usual WHY DO YOU HATE KIDS?????? comments -- I don't. I like them just fine. I like lots of things. Horses. Swimming pools. Porn. But I don't want horses or swimming pools. I do not want to be responsible for keeping them alive or getting drowned squirrels out of them. I like horses and swimming pools better when they are other people's horses and swimming pools. And I like kids better when they are other people's kids.
What pisses me off THE ABSOLUTE MOST is when people act like my life is missing something because I don't have kids. I guess technically they're right -- my life is missing the unhappiness I would feel if I had kids. Luckily, my life is also missing the unhappiness my non-existent kids would have if I had kids. Again -- I have no problem whatsoever with the existence of children. I know several children that I like an awful lot. I. Just. Don't. Want. To. Have. Any. And I'm sick as fuck of people who push their noses up my ass about it.
How about we try something COMPLETELY FUCKED UP and assume that I'm living my life the way I want to, and that I'm perfectly happy with it? I don't have kids ON PURPOSE. I live by myself ON PURPOSE. I don't spend five hours ripping three eyebrow hairs out of my face to attract guys ON PURPOSE. (Side note: guys don't actually give a shit about your eyebrows really. As long as you have two of them and they're more or less in about the same place on either side of your face, you're good to go.)
Perhaps those pushy, nosy shits could take a page from my mother's book. My mother is the one person who, as far as I'm concerned, is actually allowed to pick apart my life and try to move the pieces around to make it better.....but she doesn't do that, because she is not an asshole. Here, as far as I can tell, is my mom's thought process when it comes to my life:
1. Is Daughter alive? Yes.
2. Is Daughter in jail today? No.
3. Does Daughter have tattoo on face? No.
Conclusion: Daughter is fine. Leave Daughter alone.
(*Perhaps be concerned that Daughter is apparently too lazy to chew yogurt.)
*I put PORN in the title because most of the people I know like things better if there's porn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Why I Keep Bugging You to Give Me Money
Well, not ME, exactly. The money isn't for me. The money is for Greg, and for Grady.
In December, 2012, my friend Greg died after fighting cancer for three years.
In June, 2013, his son Grady was born.
Grady won't ever meet his dad. He didn't get the chance to know his dad while he was in this world, but I did. Greg's family did. Greg's friends did. A lot of what Grady learns about his dad he will learn from us.
One of the things I want Grady to know about his dad is that Greg had an incredible way of bringing people together. Whether it was a bar on a Friday night after work (and then the following Saturday night....and sometimes the Sunday night) or a charity run on a hot Sunday afternoon in June, Greg could get people to come together. I didn't fully understand that until Greg got sick, and the coming-together became less frequent. He was a force that drew people together, and that is rare.
I want Grady to know that.
I want Grady to know that his father left such a mark on the people around him, that we kept doing something he really wanted us to do -- even after he was gone. We kept running on that one day every year that Grady won't get to celebrate the same way many of us do. I get to call my dad on Fathers' Day. I get to buy him a present. Grady doesn't get to do that.
What he DOES get to do on Fathers's Day -- and what I hope he gets to do every year -- is see a group of people wearing T-shirts with his dad's nickname printed on them, running because Greg asked us to. Raising money to help fight cancer because Greg asked us to.
I miss my friend. I don't want other people to miss their friends. I don't want other little boys to grow up without their daddies. If we keep doing this -- and if people keep donating -- then maybe Grady will grow up knowing that because of his dad, someone still gets to go out for a beer with their friends on Friday night (and Saturday.....and sometimes Sunday). Grady will be able to say that because of his dad, another little boy's dad is still with him.
So that's why for the next month, I'll be asking over and over and over for money. If Grady can't have his dad here physically with him, then I'd like to make sure he gets to see that his dad helped change the world.
If you'd like to make a donation to Team Greggybear, you can do it here: Donate to Team Greggybear
In December, 2012, my friend Greg died after fighting cancer for three years.
In June, 2013, his son Grady was born.
Grady won't ever meet his dad. He didn't get the chance to know his dad while he was in this world, but I did. Greg's family did. Greg's friends did. A lot of what Grady learns about his dad he will learn from us.
One of the things I want Grady to know about his dad is that Greg had an incredible way of bringing people together. Whether it was a bar on a Friday night after work (and then the following Saturday night....and sometimes the Sunday night) or a charity run on a hot Sunday afternoon in June, Greg could get people to come together. I didn't fully understand that until Greg got sick, and the coming-together became less frequent. He was a force that drew people together, and that is rare.
I want Grady to know that.
I want Grady to know that his father left such a mark on the people around him, that we kept doing something he really wanted us to do -- even after he was gone. We kept running on that one day every year that Grady won't get to celebrate the same way many of us do. I get to call my dad on Fathers' Day. I get to buy him a present. Grady doesn't get to do that.
What he DOES get to do on Fathers's Day -- and what I hope he gets to do every year -- is see a group of people wearing T-shirts with his dad's nickname printed on them, running because Greg asked us to. Raising money to help fight cancer because Greg asked us to.
I miss my friend. I don't want other people to miss their friends. I don't want other little boys to grow up without their daddies. If we keep doing this -- and if people keep donating -- then maybe Grady will grow up knowing that because of his dad, someone still gets to go out for a beer with their friends on Friday night (and Saturday.....and sometimes Sunday). Grady will be able to say that because of his dad, another little boy's dad is still with him.
So that's why for the next month, I'll be asking over and over and over for money. If Grady can't have his dad here physically with him, then I'd like to make sure he gets to see that his dad helped change the world.
If you'd like to make a donation to Team Greggybear, you can do it here: Donate to Team Greggybear
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Men Are Not Bad and I Would Like to Bang The Doctor
I yelled at The News today. I do that between five and one thousand times a week now, because I'm getting old and getting old means you yell at your TV and get a weird hair that grows out of the same place on your face every couple weeks and eventually you get to smell like piss all the time and no one bothers to tell you because fuck it, she's 90 -- she's allowed to smell like piss if she wants to.
(Side bar: Sometimes I yell at commercials for The News because in the commercials they play bits of old news about big stories that happened FUCKING WEEKS AGO but for a second I'm worried that the thing DIDN'T actually happen before and is just happening now, so maybe I foretold the thing that just happened. Then I remember it really did already happen, and I'm not psychic, and I'm glad because I don't think I'd be good at telling people a plane is going to crash into their house next week.)
Today I yelled at The News because The News was talking to some people who were all happy that more women than men are graduating from post-secondary schools. That was Yell #1. Is it a fucking competition now? Is going to school a competition between men and women, and now WOMEN ARE WINNING!!! TAKE THAT, PEOPLE WITH TESTICLES!!!!! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO GREAT, WITH YOUR BALLS AND YOUR WIENERS AND YOUR ABILITY TO GROW PERVY MOUSTACHES, BUT NOW WE ARE BETTER THAN YOU!!!!!!!!!!
Shut up. Fuck off. Go away. People are going to school and getting edumacations and jobs and all that stuff that enables them to eat name-brand food. That's great. Please don't turn it into some battle of the sexes bullshit.
Yell #2 came when Some Fuckhead brought up the fact that women still tend to do "women-y" jobs and men tend to do "men-y" jobs. But mostly people who bring that up don't actually give a shit what men do. They're mad because more women aren't firefighters or mechanics or Bull Castration technicians or whatever the fuck. So? SO????? FUCKING SO?????
When I was in high school, my school had an auto mechanics class. Anyone could take it. Even girls. And a few did. I didn't. Know why? Because I didn't fucking feel like it. Not because some big mean man told me I couldn't. Not because no one bothered to tell my stupid girl brain that I was also allowed to take that class. I knew I could take it, and I didn't want to, so I didn't.
Women aren't fucking morons who need to be told that they are allowed to do the same jobs men do. We know that. Some of us do those jobs. Lots of us don't. That's neither a bad nor a good thing. It's just a thing. It's neutral. It's ambivalent. It's not worth getting your panties in a bunch.
On a you-won't-think-it's-related-but-it-kinda-is note, there's been a bunch of pissing and moaning online recently about Doctor Who. If you're not familiar with the show, here's all you need to know for this particular parallel: The Doctor is an alien who has a really long lifespan, and every once in a while he regenerates and looks like a completely different person even though he's the same guy. The actor who's been playing The Doctor the last few years is leaving, so there's going to be a new Doctor. What will he look like? Will he be black? White? One of the many, many ethnicities we have in our world? Who knows. Could be. Doesn't matter to me one bit. What apparently DOES matter to some people is that The Doctor be a woman.
NO.
Here's the shallow Melanie-reason why: 87% of the reason I watch Doctor Who is because (so far) he's been played by hot actors who I would like to boink. Nothing against women, but I don't want to boink any of them except for Gillian Anderson because she's Scully and that would be awesome.
The real reason, though? Because The Doctor is a dude. He is a guy. He is a man-alien, and that is OK. IT IS OK FOR SOMEONE TO BE A MAN.
When I hear someone saying women are being held back because we aren't all mechanics or firefighters or Bull Castration Technicians, it pisses me off. We are NOT being held back. The jobs women predominantly do are good jobs. They are important jobs. If we want to do them, then shut up and let us do them. By saying we should be doing "man jobs," you're saying the jobs we're doing aren't good enough. Clearly, we must be doing "man jobs" in order to matter.
When I hear someone saying 'not enough' women are doing jobs men predominantly do, it pisses me off. If more women do these jobs, does that somehow make the jobs more valid than if men are doing them? Are those jobs not worth as much to us right now because they're mainly done by men?
Why does The Doctor need to be played by a woman? Why isn't it good enough that he's a man? Why will making him a woman make him better?
It won't. Doesn't work like that. Doesn't work like that on TV shows, doesn't work like that in real life. Be a woman, and do what you want to do. Be a man, and do what you want to do.
And if you don't like how I feel about it, you may blow me, even though I am not a man, and am technically un-blowable. THAT'S equality, fuckers.
xxx
(Side bar: Sometimes I yell at commercials for The News because in the commercials they play bits of old news about big stories that happened FUCKING WEEKS AGO but for a second I'm worried that the thing DIDN'T actually happen before and is just happening now, so maybe I foretold the thing that just happened. Then I remember it really did already happen, and I'm not psychic, and I'm glad because I don't think I'd be good at telling people a plane is going to crash into their house next week.)
Today I yelled at The News because The News was talking to some people who were all happy that more women than men are graduating from post-secondary schools. That was Yell #1. Is it a fucking competition now? Is going to school a competition between men and women, and now WOMEN ARE WINNING!!! TAKE THAT, PEOPLE WITH TESTICLES!!!!! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO GREAT, WITH YOUR BALLS AND YOUR WIENERS AND YOUR ABILITY TO GROW PERVY MOUSTACHES, BUT NOW WE ARE BETTER THAN YOU!!!!!!!!!!
Shut up. Fuck off. Go away. People are going to school and getting edumacations and jobs and all that stuff that enables them to eat name-brand food. That's great. Please don't turn it into some battle of the sexes bullshit.
Yell #2 came when Some Fuckhead brought up the fact that women still tend to do "women-y" jobs and men tend to do "men-y" jobs. But mostly people who bring that up don't actually give a shit what men do. They're mad because more women aren't firefighters or mechanics or Bull Castration technicians or whatever the fuck. So? SO????? FUCKING SO?????
When I was in high school, my school had an auto mechanics class. Anyone could take it. Even girls. And a few did. I didn't. Know why? Because I didn't fucking feel like it. Not because some big mean man told me I couldn't. Not because no one bothered to tell my stupid girl brain that I was also allowed to take that class. I knew I could take it, and I didn't want to, so I didn't.
Women aren't fucking morons who need to be told that they are allowed to do the same jobs men do. We know that. Some of us do those jobs. Lots of us don't. That's neither a bad nor a good thing. It's just a thing. It's neutral. It's ambivalent. It's not worth getting your panties in a bunch.
On a you-won't-think-it's-related-but-it-kinda-is note, there's been a bunch of pissing and moaning online recently about Doctor Who. If you're not familiar with the show, here's all you need to know for this particular parallel: The Doctor is an alien who has a really long lifespan, and every once in a while he regenerates and looks like a completely different person even though he's the same guy. The actor who's been playing The Doctor the last few years is leaving, so there's going to be a new Doctor. What will he look like? Will he be black? White? One of the many, many ethnicities we have in our world? Who knows. Could be. Doesn't matter to me one bit. What apparently DOES matter to some people is that The Doctor be a woman.
NO.
Here's the shallow Melanie-reason why: 87% of the reason I watch Doctor Who is because (so far) he's been played by hot actors who I would like to boink. Nothing against women, but I don't want to boink any of them except for Gillian Anderson because she's Scully and that would be awesome.
The real reason, though? Because The Doctor is a dude. He is a guy. He is a man-alien, and that is OK. IT IS OK FOR SOMEONE TO BE A MAN.
When I hear someone saying women are being held back because we aren't all mechanics or firefighters or Bull Castration Technicians, it pisses me off. We are NOT being held back. The jobs women predominantly do are good jobs. They are important jobs. If we want to do them, then shut up and let us do them. By saying we should be doing "man jobs," you're saying the jobs we're doing aren't good enough. Clearly, we must be doing "man jobs" in order to matter.
When I hear someone saying 'not enough' women are doing jobs men predominantly do, it pisses me off. If more women do these jobs, does that somehow make the jobs more valid than if men are doing them? Are those jobs not worth as much to us right now because they're mainly done by men?
Why does The Doctor need to be played by a woman? Why isn't it good enough that he's a man? Why will making him a woman make him better?
It won't. Doesn't work like that. Doesn't work like that on TV shows, doesn't work like that in real life. Be a woman, and do what you want to do. Be a man, and do what you want to do.
And if you don't like how I feel about it, you may blow me, even though I am not a man, and am technically un-blowable. THAT'S equality, fuckers.
xxx
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Goose Murder, Fucking Audis, and a World That Doesn't Totally Suck
I live in a kinda shitty neighbourhood, completely surrounded by less-shitty -- and in some cases, frigging ridiculously nice -- neighbourhoods. When I go for a run, I can see everything from mansions full of diplomats to the Governor General's house to some guy smoking something brown through a hollowed-out Bic pen tube in the span of half an hour. That pen-thing is something I have actually seen TWICE during my ten years in Ottawa. Fucking TWICE.
Anywho, today's run took me through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land -- a gorgeous stretch of road lined with huge homes and beautiful trees. I like running through there because it's quiet, and there's very little chance I'll get smoked by a little old lady in a big-ass Buick. Getting smoked by little old ladies in big-ass Buicks is tied for the 19th leading cause of death in my neighbourhood. The other 19th leading cause of death is goose murder.
I keep running through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land despite being frequently treated by many of its residents like I'm a carrier for some sort of flesh-eating virus. In their defense, I do look pretty diseased when I run. Five minutes in, I'm basically comprised of sweat and desperation. I breathe like I have one of those hot dog whistles lodged in my throat. And I'm usually kind of singing/swearing under my breath just to remind myself that I'm still mostly alive.
Still, that's hardly any excuse for that woman that told me I was running too close to her lawn. Or the uppity bitch who yelled at me because I scared her precious little snowflake of a dog. Or the jerkoffs in their Audis who honk their horns at me because I'm selfishly taking up .03% of the road they're trying to use. It's not my fault they don't have sidewalks there. I guess they're afraid sidewalks attract poor people or something. Poor people do seem to like walking places. Probably because they can't afford fucking Audis.
About 15 minutes into a 45-minute run (so at this point, I look and sound like something furry and sweaty that got hit by a car but only a little bit, so it can still kind of run and make squeaky noises) I see a black sedan parked on the side of the road ahead of me. When there's no sidewalk, I run on the same side of the road as the traffic that's approaching me, so I can see the little old ladies in big-ass Buicks coming toward me, should they get lost on their way to the Orthopedic Shoe & Hard Candy Store and end up in Mansions Full of Diplomats Land. I can't always rely on the scent of Goldbond Medicated Powder to alert me to their presence.
Because of the side of the road I'm on, I'm going to have to run right by Black Sedan Man. Based on previous experience, I assume he's not going to like me. He's not going to want me in his fancy neighbourhood, burning holes in his street as my poverty-sweat drips down like the acid of the unwashed masses.
As I get closer, I see the window of the sedan go down. Well fuck. This fucker's going to yell at me. He's going to tell me to get off the road. To go home and wait for my welfare cheque to show up. (Joke's on him -- I'd probably make more if I was on welfare.)
I could have swerved to the other side of the road to avoid the confrontation. Let him yell across the street at me and just ignore him. But fuck that -- I'm in a shitty mood, and I wouldn't mind getting into a screaming match with some rich asshole who thinks he's better than me in his fancy car with his fancy hair and his fancy clothes and probably some fancy fucking cat at home that has hair made of silk and can shit golden rainbow turds. A fight would feel good. A fight would feel GREAT, after two days of seeing nothing and reading nothing and reporting on nothing but some piece of shit (and/or pieces of shit) that blew up a little kid who just wanted to watch his daddy finish a marathon. He'd JUST HUGGED HIS DADDY, for fuck's sake. Now he's dead and his mom is hurt and his little sister is hurt and we're left living in a world that's full of fucking monsters and just generally sucks overall.
I've seen enough to know that this world is fucked and it's just going to get worse. Every year -- every DAY -- it seems like things are getting more and more horrible. Whatever happens next, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.
I've had enough rotten experiences with people along this street to know that whatever this guy has to say, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.
As I get closer to his car with its open window, I make eye contact. I'm ready, fucker. I know exactly what to expect.
He puts his hand out the window to give me a high-five.
I high-fived him back. I said thank you. Then I ran for the next half hour in a state of almost-crying, because I had been so terribly, terribly wrong.
Anywho, today's run took me through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land -- a gorgeous stretch of road lined with huge homes and beautiful trees. I like running through there because it's quiet, and there's very little chance I'll get smoked by a little old lady in a big-ass Buick. Getting smoked by little old ladies in big-ass Buicks is tied for the 19th leading cause of death in my neighbourhood. The other 19th leading cause of death is goose murder.
I keep running through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land despite being frequently treated by many of its residents like I'm a carrier for some sort of flesh-eating virus. In their defense, I do look pretty diseased when I run. Five minutes in, I'm basically comprised of sweat and desperation. I breathe like I have one of those hot dog whistles lodged in my throat. And I'm usually kind of singing/swearing under my breath just to remind myself that I'm still mostly alive.
Still, that's hardly any excuse for that woman that told me I was running too close to her lawn. Or the uppity bitch who yelled at me because I scared her precious little snowflake of a dog. Or the jerkoffs in their Audis who honk their horns at me because I'm selfishly taking up .03% of the road they're trying to use. It's not my fault they don't have sidewalks there. I guess they're afraid sidewalks attract poor people or something. Poor people do seem to like walking places. Probably because they can't afford fucking Audis.
About 15 minutes into a 45-minute run (so at this point, I look and sound like something furry and sweaty that got hit by a car but only a little bit, so it can still kind of run and make squeaky noises) I see a black sedan parked on the side of the road ahead of me. When there's no sidewalk, I run on the same side of the road as the traffic that's approaching me, so I can see the little old ladies in big-ass Buicks coming toward me, should they get lost on their way to the Orthopedic Shoe & Hard Candy Store and end up in Mansions Full of Diplomats Land. I can't always rely on the scent of Goldbond Medicated Powder to alert me to their presence.
Because of the side of the road I'm on, I'm going to have to run right by Black Sedan Man. Based on previous experience, I assume he's not going to like me. He's not going to want me in his fancy neighbourhood, burning holes in his street as my poverty-sweat drips down like the acid of the unwashed masses.
As I get closer, I see the window of the sedan go down. Well fuck. This fucker's going to yell at me. He's going to tell me to get off the road. To go home and wait for my welfare cheque to show up. (Joke's on him -- I'd probably make more if I was on welfare.)
I could have swerved to the other side of the road to avoid the confrontation. Let him yell across the street at me and just ignore him. But fuck that -- I'm in a shitty mood, and I wouldn't mind getting into a screaming match with some rich asshole who thinks he's better than me in his fancy car with his fancy hair and his fancy clothes and probably some fancy fucking cat at home that has hair made of silk and can shit golden rainbow turds. A fight would feel good. A fight would feel GREAT, after two days of seeing nothing and reading nothing and reporting on nothing but some piece of shit (and/or pieces of shit) that blew up a little kid who just wanted to watch his daddy finish a marathon. He'd JUST HUGGED HIS DADDY, for fuck's sake. Now he's dead and his mom is hurt and his little sister is hurt and we're left living in a world that's full of fucking monsters and just generally sucks overall.
I've seen enough to know that this world is fucked and it's just going to get worse. Every year -- every DAY -- it seems like things are getting more and more horrible. Whatever happens next, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.
I've had enough rotten experiences with people along this street to know that whatever this guy has to say, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.
As I get closer to his car with its open window, I make eye contact. I'm ready, fucker. I know exactly what to expect.
He puts his hand out the window to give me a high-five.
I high-fived him back. I said thank you. Then I ran for the next half hour in a state of almost-crying, because I had been so terribly, terribly wrong.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Still Waiting For A Facebook Ad About Weird Porns
An ad popped up on my Facebook feed today, telling me not to worry -- if I just follow this ONE SIMPLE TRICK AND NEVER GIVE UP I will not end up alone!!! Specifically, judging by the photo that accompanied the ad, I will be proposed to by a douchebag on a beach. I'm basing the Douchebag Assessment on the fact that he's wearing a suit on a beach and kneeling in flower petals, and those things seem douchey when you combine them.
Now, I was under the impression that Facebook ads are somehow catered to the things I put on Facebook using algorithms and science and fucking unicorn magic or some damn thing. I'm not able to figure out how my status updates about McDonalds, porn, Cheerios and crying babies led Facebook Ad God to decide that I was concerned about being single. I can only assume that Facebook Ad God (who, upon realizing what it would be, will not be getting an acronym) uses the same formula as 95% of people who have ever or will ever speak to me: She is single. She must be pretty sad about that.
I'm fucking not.
Before someone starts pissing down their leg and screaming about how I hate couples and it's because I'm jealous blah blah blah fuck off blah -- that's just not true. I don't give a shit. Are you in a relationship? OK. I don't give a shit. Are you not in a relationship? OK. I also don't give a shit. Did you once have an orgy with George Clooney, some midgets, and a guy in an Oscar Meyer Wiener costume? I would actually like very much to hear about that.
I kinda wish the "You'll Find Somebody Someday" people would all get rampant gonorreah or something. Or big sores in their mouth that would prevent them from talking. They all have one thing in common: They all say "you'll find somebody someday!" even though at no point in the conversation did I say anything that would lead to them saying that. They're the Relationship Expert equivalent of the dummy that says "It's Friday!!!" when you ask him how he's doing. The response has nothing to do with what came before it. "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Nope." "You'll find somebody someday!" "Don't recall saying I fucking wanted to."
Lucky for me, I have friends who understand that I'm perfectly happy being uncoupled. But for the rest of you, and for the sake of all people like me who aren't going to shrivel up and die in a puddle of Ben & Jerry's Oh God Why Won't He Love Me Chocolate Cherry Chunk while watching Bridget Jones' Diary and crying into my dog, here's a handy-dandy checklist I suggest you print off and carry in your fucking wallet In case you ever feel like saying something stupid.
And yes -- these are actual things that actual people have actually said to me.
1. Q: Why don't you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?
A: Because no one wants to voluntarily love me after I show them where the pus comes from.
2. Q: Don't you get lonely?
A: Sometimes. But then I remember that living alone gives me the freedom to watch TV in my underwear and try to fart in time with the theme song for the 6 o'clock news without anyone judging me.
3. Q: But you'll die alone! That's so sad!
A: Fuck off.
4. Q: Doesn't it make your friends uncomfortable when you're the only one there who's single and they're all there with their wives and husbands and stuff?
A: No, because my friends aren't fucking stupid.
5. Don't worry -- you'll meet Mr. Right someday!
A: Wasn't he the guy who invented airplanes or some shit? I'm pretty sure he's dead.
Stop it. Just fucking stop it.
You can thank a stupid Facebook ad for this rambling bullshit. Hopefully they put up an ad soon about porn inspired by the TV show Anderson Live, because I have what some might call "too fucking much" to say about that.
Now, I was under the impression that Facebook ads are somehow catered to the things I put on Facebook using algorithms and science and fucking unicorn magic or some damn thing. I'm not able to figure out how my status updates about McDonalds, porn, Cheerios and crying babies led Facebook Ad God to decide that I was concerned about being single. I can only assume that Facebook Ad God (who, upon realizing what it would be, will not be getting an acronym) uses the same formula as 95% of people who have ever or will ever speak to me: She is single. She must be pretty sad about that.
I'm fucking not.
Before someone starts pissing down their leg and screaming about how I hate couples and it's because I'm jealous blah blah blah fuck off blah -- that's just not true. I don't give a shit. Are you in a relationship? OK. I don't give a shit. Are you not in a relationship? OK. I also don't give a shit. Did you once have an orgy with George Clooney, some midgets, and a guy in an Oscar Meyer Wiener costume? I would actually like very much to hear about that.
I kinda wish the "You'll Find Somebody Someday" people would all get rampant gonorreah or something. Or big sores in their mouth that would prevent them from talking. They all have one thing in common: They all say "you'll find somebody someday!" even though at no point in the conversation did I say anything that would lead to them saying that. They're the Relationship Expert equivalent of the dummy that says "It's Friday!!!" when you ask him how he's doing. The response has nothing to do with what came before it. "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Nope." "You'll find somebody someday!" "Don't recall saying I fucking wanted to."
Lucky for me, I have friends who understand that I'm perfectly happy being uncoupled. But for the rest of you, and for the sake of all people like me who aren't going to shrivel up and die in a puddle of Ben & Jerry's Oh God Why Won't He Love Me Chocolate Cherry Chunk while watching Bridget Jones' Diary and crying into my dog, here's a handy-dandy checklist I suggest you print off and carry in your fucking wallet In case you ever feel like saying something stupid.
And yes -- these are actual things that actual people have actually said to me.
1. Q: Why don't you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?
A: Because no one wants to voluntarily love me after I show them where the pus comes from.
2. Q: Don't you get lonely?
A: Sometimes. But then I remember that living alone gives me the freedom to watch TV in my underwear and try to fart in time with the theme song for the 6 o'clock news without anyone judging me.
3. Q: But you'll die alone! That's so sad!
A: Fuck off.
4. Q: Doesn't it make your friends uncomfortable when you're the only one there who's single and they're all there with their wives and husbands and stuff?
A: No, because my friends aren't fucking stupid.
5. Don't worry -- you'll meet Mr. Right someday!
A: Wasn't he the guy who invented airplanes or some shit? I'm pretty sure he's dead.
Stop it. Just fucking stop it.
You can thank a stupid Facebook ad for this rambling bullshit. Hopefully they put up an ad soon about porn inspired by the TV show Anderson Live, because I have what some might call "too fucking much" to say about that.
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