We Have Nothing to Fear but Fear Itself. And Toilet Squirrels.

I was thinking the other day about how most of the stuff you’re afraid will happen, never does. The everyday things we worry about mostly don’t ever come true. Things generally turn out alright. I have days where everything is a big fat pain in my ass, but life is generally good. Maybe that’s why they call certain fears “irrational.” Because they would never, ever happen in two billion years of incidents. I have a couple of crazy irrational fears. Now that I think of them, most of mine are completely insane. None of the standards faze me a bit – heights, spiders, enclosed spaces, crowds, public speaking, guns, etc. – no fucking problem. Bring ’em on.

One is fish. It stems back to an incident in my childhood where I was brutally attacked by a zombie salmon. I swear to God, I am not making this up. The fact remains that I cannot so much as walk through the fish section of a pet store without getting the heebie-jeebies, because – get this – I envision all of the little suckers leaping out of their tanks and latching onto my skin somehow. (Yes, I’m revealing myself for the complete whack-job I actually am.) Fish are creepy. They never blink, and the ones that have teeth? Forget about it. I couldn’t even walk through the beautiful restaurant in Honolulu that has the giant aquarium with the manta rays in it. Steve Irwin’s fate aside, I envisioned the tank bursting and one of the rays (gasp!) accidentally touching me. I nearly had a reltney.

Do you know how hard it was for me to image-search “fish with teeth”? Seriously, I may not recover.

Another crazy thing I’m still kind of freaked out by? Toilet squirrels.

There was a picture of it on the internet, so that means it is TOTALLY a real thing. ZOMG, you guys.

I heard a story when I was a kid about a woman who sat down in a park bathroom, and a squirrel was hiding in the toilet bowl and bit her um…more sensitive regions multiple times. Talk about feeling violated! She had to get tested for rabies and everything. It’s not a debilitating fear, per se, but I do always check public toilets for deviant evil rabid squirrels who are waiting to bite my business. I hear some people are the same way about toilet snakes.

I’m also not crazy about big ugly bugs. Particularly ones that fly. But I don’t get all girly and freak out, either. Mostly it’s the fish thing.

They totally have these (Wetas) in New Zealand. If they could fly, nobody would ever go there, ever.

I’m trying to think of stuff that’s freaked me out as an adult. The idea of lepers kind of freaks me out, not that I’ve ever seen one in person. Same goes for Siamese twins. Ever see the movie “Twin Falls Idaho”? Good flick, if you like creepy independent films. The nazi villian guy from the movie “Hellboy” freaked me out. The fish man was tolerable because the guy who played the brother on Frasier did his voice, and he seems pretty harmless. Oh! I just thought of another one! ALIENS.

I can watch blood, gore, violence, etc., but I can’t watch Close Encounters. It’s the modern-day pop-culture depiction of aliens I can’t take. They haunt my dreams, with their big black eyes and mean little mouths. I’m literally shuddering as I write this. I can’t even watch shows with aliens on them, or look at those cheesy bumper stickers, or 311 logos. Brrr! I hate it! Another thing that sort of creeps me out is being alone in a bathroom in the dark. Maybe it’s the “Bloody Mary” legends that do it, but I can’t stand being alone in the dark with a large mirror.

I can’t even look at this. If the aliens ever land here, it won’t be me trying to make friends; I will be hiding and crying in the basement.

Little kids are famous for insane irrational fears. I had nightmares when I was a kid about somehow being mistaken for a magician and being burned alive while I was chained inside of a coffin I was supposed to escape from. (Yeah, I was a morbid little kid.) Freddy Krueger used to scare me. I think it was the melty face and the razor fingernails.

The wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz used to send me running screaming from the room when that part of the movie was on, and hide in the bathtub with the shower curtain closed. I think it was the green skin. I don’t know why the bathtub. Apparently Psycho didn’t upset me. I also had recurring nightmares as a kid about suffocating – in a fire, or drowing, or sometimes, I’d somehow get sucked into the sky and slowly suffocate as the air got thinner and thinner.

The worst when I was a kid though was being afraid of a monster my cousin had dreamed up to scare me. She called him Blueberry. The idea of being afraid of a monster named Blueberry seems hilarious now, but at the time, I would hide under my covers, shivering with fear that he was under my bed. I wouldn’t so much as sneak my little toe out from under the covers. I pictured this guy – remember the big-headed alien guys from the original Star Trek?

I found out when obtaining this picture that they’re apparently called “Tosbaloks.” That’s a little more fear-inspiring than blueberries.

In my mind, his skin was bright blue and he had razor-sharp teeth and a huge mouth, and I believed that if I hung anything off the bed in my sleep – a hand, a foot, etc. – that he would snap it off and eat it. And cackle. Cackling is a big part of inspiring fear, I think. All the great villains cackle. The moral of the story may be to not let your already-kind-of-weird 6-year old watch Star Trek.

“I’ll get you for this, Wonka!”
Posted in Comedy, Crazy People, Humor, Just for Fun, Life | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

Imperial Wisdom at Work

I write down snippets of conversation I have with my husband that I think are particularly bizarre, for future reference and my own amusement. I used to believe that every married couple has conversations like this, but after collecting a number of them, I’m beginning to suspect that neither of us is terribly normal. Also, we make an inordinate number of fart jokes. Observe:

(as he is making bizarre laughing/gurgling noises…)
Me: What are you doing?
Him: This is how you would sound with my balls in your mouth.
Me: Like the Cowardly Lion?
Him: Yeah, ha ha. Hey, how come there isn’t ‘Wizard of Oz’ porn?

Side note: Do NOT Google “Wizard of Oz porn.” You have been warned.

(as he is sucking a finger, preparing to give me a “wet willy”…)
Me: That finger better be going up your own ass.
Him: (thinks for a moment, then starts sucking two fingers)

(as I am working…)
Me: Honey, I want you to have a look at this and see if you have any ideas.
Him: Is it gay porn?
Me: No.
Him: Then I’ve got nothing.

Him: Maybe we should buy you Rogaine.
Me: I’m not going bald.
Him: I know, I just like to fuck with you.

(while shooting foam-rubber discs at the cat…)
Him: I’m going to modify this to shoot metal washers instead.

Him: Instead of getting a dog, we should just have kids and train them to fetch stuff. They could eat dog food too.
Me: That seems complicated. Why not just get a dog?
Him: Our apartment complex doesn’t allow dogs, but they allow kids.

(while pinning me down and poking at me with his fingers…)
Him: You’re my prisoner! Try to escape!
Me: Stop it, you’re poking me in the kidneys.
Him: I know! Wheee!

Him: Let’s take a nap.
Me: A “nap?” (exaggerated winking)
Him: No! A REAL nap! I swear to God woman, all you ever want me for is my body.

(as I’m trying to get friendly…)
Him: Stop coming on to me. I’m tired and I’m an old man.
Me: I’m older than you.
Him: I know, you’re like fucking my grandma.

I am one year and two weeks older. Not exactly a cougar.

(as I’ve accidentally passed gas under the covers, he promptly dutch-ovens me…)
Me: It’s not funny if it’s your OWN farts!
Him: It is for me!

(at an all-you-can-eat buffet, where we’d both saved room at the end for another bite of something we liked. I was having broccoli soup.)
Me: Are you going to have something else?
Him: Pizza and apple pie. Witness the fury!

I thought at the time that he’d decided to have a slice of each. No. He’d chosen to take a slice of cheese pizza, top it with a slice of apple pie, and then coat the entire thing in hot fudge and nuts. Witness the fury, indeed.

(as we’re snuggled up in bed…)
Him: You’re especially hot tonight.
Me: Is it like sleeping with a space heater?
Him: You’re far more attractive than a space heater.
Me: Mmmm….
Him: And just as easy to set on fire!

(he’s talking in his sleep…)
Him: We never get to order pizza again!
Me: Why not?
Him: (ominously) Because we ordered them ALL last night!
Me: What? What are you talking about?
Him: They’re all gone.
Me: Are you asleep?
Him: (indignantly) NO!

Him: I’m growing a beard.
Me: You promised me no more beards until you’re old and weird!
Him: (silence for a second…) Where do you think I could buy a Jesus costume?
Me: (thinking this is an unrelated discussion) I dunno…the costume shop? Or you could probably make your own.
Him: Because you can’t deny me a beard if I’m JESUS!

(the remote control for the tv in our room does not work, except for the volume buttons)
Him: So, you have pretty strong muscles in your vagina, right?
Me: Ummmm….I guess so? Why do you ask?
Him: If we stuck the remote in there, do you think you could turn the volume up and down?
Me: No.
Him: That’s why the remote doesn’t work in the first place, isn’t it.
Me: You caught me.

(drunk and carrying home a box of leftovers)
Him: I’m tired of carrying this stupid burrito. (carefully hides it in the bushes, continues walking.)

Me: I dreamt last night that you broke the coffee grinder on purpose and I was all pissed off at you.
Him: That’s funny, I actually thought about purposely breaking the coffee grinder this morning!

(after torturing me for several minutes)
Me: You only wanted to get married so you had someone around to give shit to all the time!
Him: That’s not true. Giving you shit all the time is just a perk.

(in bed, almost asleep, I hear bizarre slapping noises…NOT, mind you, the telltale sounds of entertaining oneself…)
Me: What are you doing?
Him: Playing with my wiener!
Me: Yes, I can hear it flapping about.
Him: (in a spooky voice) The sound you are hearing is imperial wisdom at work!
Me: What?
Him: Ha ha! *rips a fart*

(as we are riding in the car)
Him: Do you smell that?
Me: Yeah, sorry, that was me.
Him: Look at the mountains!
Me: Uh, what?

Him: I need you to remind me of something I have to do this weekend.
Me: Okay, what?
Him: Make a video of myself seductively eating fruit.
Me: What?
Him: Yeah, you should be in it.
Me: Do I have to seductively eat fruit?
Him: Of course not, your job is to hold the cat and look creepy.

Him: We have to buy a series of fake skulls.
Me: Why?
Him: So I can make them wear wigs!
Me: So, according to this plan, we’d have to buy a series of wigs, too.
Him: I guess so.
Me: How about no?
Him: But there’s nothing cooler than skulls in wigs!
Me: (sigh)
Him: You never let me have any fun!

We now have two fake skulls, one of which wears an afro wig in our living room. The other one peers out the back window of our car.

(snuggling up to him)
Me: Kiss me!
Him: Kiss me! Hug me! Stop hitting me! I swear, you’re always wanting something!

Him: So, I’ve got a new pet name for you.
Me: Aww, that’s sweet. What is it?
Him: Bruce the Tumor!

Posted in Comedy, Humor, Life | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Dexter’s Justice League and Other Fine Ideas

Yesterday, I was thinking about ideas for television shows. The current situation on television is so dire (see what I did there? Jersey Shore reference, anyone?) that my ideas couldn’t possibly be any worse than what’s already on, so here are some ideas for shows I’d actually watch. Y’know, if there was nothing else on.

The easiest idea for a television show would be to create a spinoff of an already successful show. I like the television show “Dexter.” It’s about a serial killer who only kills other serial killers. So I started thinking that you could have a spinoff about a serial rapist that only rapes other rapists. That’d be sweet, right? Or a serial arsonist who burns down the houses of other arsonists. Or a combined spinoff of Dexter and Robin Hood where you have a serial burglar who only burgles other burglars’ houses (say THAT sentence three times fast), and gives the stuff he stole to people who had their stuff stolen. Eventually, you could have a show called “Dexter’s Justice League”, where all of the serial criminals who victimize other criminals band together in the name of an eye for an eye.

Another show you could totally spin off even more without anyone noticing is the “Law and Order” franchise. They already have the original, one geared around sex crimes, and one geared around violent crimes. You could have “Law and Order: Madoff Style”, which centers around white-collar non-violent crime. Or “Law and Order: Wife Beaters”, which centers around domestic violence. Or “Law and Order: Traffic Violations.” Okay, maybe not that last one.

You could trade on the inexplicable popularity of shows like “Trading Spouses” and “Wife Swap” with shows about trading other people in your life. I’d watch “Boss Swap.” Watch, as these two bosses are thrust into running business they don’t know anything about! Wacky shenanigans and hijinks ensue! Or how about “Trading Grandpas”? Or “God Swap”, where two families with opposing religious beliefs have to become practicing members of the other family’s religion for a month?

My favorite idea, however, is a show I’d call “Social Niceties.” I’m picturing a cross between candid camera, a game show, and Jackass without the stunts. The premise is this – most people know how to act right in public, and do so without thinking too much about it. I’d create a show where the contestants purposely violate social norms, and compete for money based on how long it takes someone to call/cuss them out (worth $), punch them in the face (worth $$), or go completely apeshit ($$$.) If the victim maintains decorum, the contestant loses and the victim wins. The best part is coming up with violations of polite social code, ranging from mildly disturbing to completely unforgivable.

Interestingly, when I image-Googled “Violating Social Norms”, this is the picture that came up. Now, all I can think about is sexually assaulting poor Mr. Peterson.

– Farting in a crowded elevator. Taking it up a notch by exclaiming “Whooo-y!” and waving your hands behind you.
– Asking women their age and/or weight.
– Telling strangers offensive and/or racist jokes.
– Clipping your toenails on the bus.
– Mowing your front lawn in a Speedo. Then mowing your neighbor’s lawn.
– Remarking to people that their kids/spouse/etc. are ugly.
– Smelling others.
– Taking your own fork to a restaurant and insisting on tasting from everyone else’s plate before you order.
– Seeing a smudge on a stranger’s face, then licking your thumb and rubbing it off for them.
– Cracking open a beer in church.
– Loudly discussing your latest grotesque medical procedure in public.
– Walking around a public place with an extremely apparent erection.
– Wearing a Hitler mustache.
– Posing as a Wal-Mart cashier and loudly commenting on people’s purchases. Particularly if the purchaser is overweight and buying junk food.
– Visiting the produce section of the supermarket, and conspicuously sniffing and licking all of the fruit as you are choosing it. Put back the ones that didn’t “pass.”
– Posing as a Jehovah’s Witness and knocking on someone’s door, then asking to use their bathroom. Loudly take a shit with the door open as you tell them about Jesus.

Posted in Comedy, Humor, Just for Fun, Miz Parker Muses, Pop Culture | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Everything’s Better When You AdCock

Or, “Why I also don’t live in Nebraska.”

So, the husband and I took a business trip down to Florida for a couple of weeks. Which, from where we are, required driving our asses 2,900 miles in a tiny-ass car with another adult who works with us and two pugs. It was a tad crowded. We drive an old Saturn, which in terms of horsepower is essentially a lawnmower with doors.

The thing about enormous road trips is that you have to pee in a lot of public bathrooms. I seem to have a knack for something weird going on in every single one I use. (See here.) Some bathroom and other highlights from the trip:

1. It is 1am somewhere in Nebraska. We pull up to the only building we have seen in about four hours. There is a sign on the door of the gas station which proclaims “YOU ARE NOWHERE.” This is, of course, just after we passed the giant hand-lettered road sign which read “OUTLAW SODOMY.” Apparently, they don’t care for sodomy in Nowhere. Also, last I checked, sodomy IS technically against the law in most places, but no matter. Anyway, the door to the ladies room was wide open and boasted a sign which read “Please do not closed door.” I guess in addition to not caring for sodomy, they don’t care for conjugating verbs properly, either. Or whizzing in private.

He teabags with the door open.

2. The three hours of dick jokes we made when we drove through Dix, Nebraska. Seriously, how depressing would your life be if you had to explain to people that you grew up in Dix, Nebraska? At least it is entertaining when you say it. We made up fake headlines like “Local woman bids fond farewell to Dix (dicks.)” Har har har.

3. I walk into a restroom about 20 miles south of Valdosta, Georgia, just outside the Florida border. Not only did it smell like ass so badly that my eyes were watering, but I go up to wash my hands and there is a double sink and two soap dispensers, which are labeled thus: “This one works.” “This one don’t work.” Apparently if people try one soap dispenser and it doesn’t work, they assume the other one is broken as well and forgo cleaning themselves? In addition to that, there was a woman at the sink to my left literally washing her dirty dishes with the soap from the one working dispenser. She was scraping something that smelled a lot like sweet potatoes that have gone bad out of a glass casserole dish. Ugh.

We ended up in a lot of places which required signs like this for the locals.

4. Somewhere in Missouri: I walk into the restroom and sit down and do my business, and the toilet paper is slightly out of reach. I lean over to reach it, and the toilet literally tilts up and almost falls over. It isn’t bolted to the floor, it’s just sort of perched there. I’m thinking “Oh my God, I’m going to knock this toilet over and shatter it into a million pieces and there is going to be pee everywhere and my shoes will stink for the rest of the trip.”

5. AdCock Pecans, in Georgia. These guys advertise “pecans by the handful or truckload.” Are those my only two choices? Could I literally back my truck up and order a truckload? Do they charge more if you have big hands? My favorite slogan I made up for them – “Everything’s better when you AdCock.”

6. Bee Bee Ann’s diner, whose billboard boasted “Livers and Peach Cobbler!” Can you imagine the intestinal situation you would have on your hands if you wolfed down a big plate of liver, then chased it with peach cobbler? I hope Bee Bee Ann’s toilet is bolted to the floor, fo’ real. Particularly if one partook of the fare after downing a truckload of pecans.

7. The bathroom in Kentucky, which had all kinds of nifty dispensers of items one apparently can’t live without on the road. I’ve seen the perfume dispensers which dispense a sample packet of perfume you can open and rub on yourself, but this one had a dial you could turn to the fragrance of your choice (all of which had names like “seduction” and “happiness”), and you put your quarter in and stood in front of the machine, whereupon it would shoot a stream of “seduction” in your general direction. They also had a condom machine. Now, not much gives me pause, and I’ve heard of flavored condoms before, so that wouldn’t have surprised me. This machine dispensed coconut-scented condoms. Ummm…really? Perhaps if your personal odor situation is that ugly, you should consider hopping in the shower before you get down to business, rather than slapping on a coconut-scented condom. Because honestly, how good can fake coconut lube and dirty crotch combined really smell? I can see that turning a woman off, personally. Perhaps they should put a perfume shooter in the men’s room and they can just aim it at their penises. It can’t be any worse than smelling like swamp dick and artificial coconut.

8. My personal favorite: We rented a horrible, horrible “otel” room (the sign was missing its ‘m’) in Gotherton, Nebraska, right off the freeway. The little old woman running the joint was wearing some kind of muumuu and chain-smoking while on an oxygen tank. She asked how many. I said “Three adults, two dogs.” This woman looked me straight in the eye and said, without any trace of facetiousness,

“Y’all want one bed or two?”

Posted in Comedy, Crazy People, Humor, Life, Miz Parker Muses, Stupid People | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Cutting Funding for Planned Parenthood Doesn’t Make You Pro-Life, it Makes You an Idiot

It seems that we narrowly avoided a government shutdown late last week, but will undoubtedly need to revisit the issue. The major disagreement appears to be that Republicans and Democrats can’t seem to agree upon what to do about Planned Parenthood. For the blissfully ignorant, Planned Parenthood is a semi-publicly funded outlet for public health care, which centers around family planning. In short, a place where the uninsured and/or of limited means can go in order to get their needs met with regard to reproductive health. This includes birth control, certain types of prenatal care, cancer screenings for both men and women, gynecological exams, pap smears, disease and infection screening, and yes (gasp!) abortions. The hullabaloo surrounding the issue seems to be that Republicans wish to discontinue public funding to this organization because they “don’t want to fund abortion.” I could go on and on about the idiocy of the Republican party / religious right / conservative population in general, but in this case, they are resorting to hate and fearmongering tactics to support their position, and succeeding to a certain extent. Here’s what they’re not telling you on Fox News:

1. NO ONE supports abortion. No one likes abortion. Pro-lifers seem to see in only black and white, where they believe that the opposite of being against abortion is being FOR abortion. “Well, if you’re not pro-life, you’re pro-killin’ innocent babies!” Sorry, Scooter, but that just ain’t true. What the non-insane segment of the population is “for” is CHOICE. Would I ever get an abortion? Probably not. But for damn sure if you want an abortion, I think you should be able to do that, within the confines of the law (not after a certain number of weeks, etc.) and within a safe environment. I have many arguments for why choice is the best option, but that’s not really what this is about. What you should take from this particular point is that being pro-choice does not equal being pro-abortion.

2. They’ve failed to mention to you that the government DOESN’T subsidize abortion, and never will. It’s kind of illegal. About 33% of Planned Parenthood’s income comes from the government, and the rest comes from donations and other sources. Planned Parenthood is literally NOT ALLOWED to use government funding to provide abortion services. So, continuing to allow the government to fund Planned Parenthood does NOT fund abortion, in any sense of the word. What you’d be cutting is funding for the million-plus pap smears, the hundreds of thousands of breast exams, the four million tests and treatments for sexually transmitted infections, and education provided. You’d be cutting BASIC HEALTH CARE for millions of people. You’d be cutting necessary tests for detecting cancer early enough to treat it. You’d be cheating hundreds of thousands of people out of affordable birth control, thereby resulting in more unwanted pregnancies, and more people seeking the abortions you dislike so much.

3. The majority (83%, according to their website) of Planned Parenthood’s clientele are seeking birth control and other methods of preventing unintended pregnancy. Approximately 612,000 pregnancies are prevented each year, because Planned Parenthood is able to operate and educate people in an affordable manner. Ignoring the fact that this is 612,000 UNWANTED babies each year who would potentially be born into, if not an overtly abusive or neglectful situation, at least much of the time into poverty, let’s do the math: (Abortion, by the way, accounts for 3% of services provided.)

The figures differ on this, but the general number I keep seeing is that Planned Parenthood received about 300-350 million dollars from the government last year. Let’s be generous and say 350 million dollars.

The cost of raising a child to 18 years of age in a single-parent home where the parent makes less than 45K per year before taxes is approximately 118K dollars. That’s the lowest figure I could find. 612K unprevented pregnancies X 118K per instance is $72,216,000,000. Holy shit, that looks a whole lot like $72 billion dollars, give or take. But wait, that’s if none of those families receive government assistance.

Figures put the governmental budget for welfare services at about $396 billion dollars. In California, welfare affords you $645 per month, per child. Cost to the taxpayers of raising one child to the age of 18: $139,320. Let’s say that half of the preventable pregnancies are to families who receive public assistance. Cost to the taxpayers: $42,631,920,000. What do you know, that 350 million in funding you’re cutting to Planned Parenthood had the opportunity of saving you nearly $43 billion dollars over eighteen years. That’s about 2.3 billion dollars per year saved for your 350 million dollar investment. If MORE than half of the families who wanted affordable birth control receive public assistance, the figure climbs rather quickly.

We also haven’t taken into account the millions of dollars saved by providing preventative cancer screenings to hundreds of thousands of men and women per year. Sure, a prostate screening might be a little expensive, but it’s a lot cheaper than treating prostate cancer. Without insurance or an affordable place to go, how many thousands of people may not catch their cancer until it has become an enormous and EXTREMELY expensive problem? Who’s going to pay for that? Worse yet, how many people would fail to catch a sexually transmitted disease before they had spread it everywhere?

Suddenly, that $350 million dollars doesn’t seem like such a poor investment after all.

Posted in Crazy People, Current Events, If I Ran the Zoo, Miz Parker Muses | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Reasons I Am Going to Hell, #8,532

I am generally too humiliated to tell this story, but on the occasions where I have had enough drinks to tell it at parties, it always gets a laugh at my expense, even though I am definitely, irrevocably going to hell. It is only at the request of several friends that I am writing this. And I already know I have doomed my eternal soul for it, so please don’t write me and tell me that.

Here’s the scene: I’ve been partying for two weeks in Hawaii with my brother. I managed, at one point, to fall asleep on the beach and my entire back including my ass and all, is covered in blisters. I have spent the last two days rubbing aloe vera on my ass, cursing, and wearing a muumuu. That’s right, I went fat Homer Simpson style in a flowered robe, because it didn’t touch my back much. The night before our red-eye flight home, we stay out too late and can’t sleep on the flight either, so when we get to our San Francisco layover, I have been awake for about 30 hours, my ass is peeling, I’m wearing a muumuu for the fourth day in a row, and I am in generally poor humor.

The San Fran airport is gi-normous, and we have approximately five minutes to get from one gate to the next, and they are about two miles apart. So we’re booking it through the airport as fast as our little legs will carry us, in a throng of people speeding in all directions. I’ve got a rolling suitcase and an enormous forty pound purse that I’m dragging along.

Since we were kids, my brother’s favorite trick to make me insane is, when we’re walking someplace and there’s no way I will be able to get around him, to get in front of me and slow down, forcing me to either slow down or step on his heels. I HATE when he does this, and have told him so, ergo he does it with more glee each time. So as I’m carrying my bright red ass through the airport at warp speed, he does this. Gets in front of me in this giant crowd of people and slows down. I growl “Bro, I am NOT in the mood for this.” I hear him laugh. Oooooooh, it’s on.

I say, a little louder “I’m warning you!” and flat-tire one of his shoes. (That’s when you step on the back of someone’s shoe so hard that their heel comes out and they have to walk on the back of their shoe.) I hear him laugh again. He still has not sped up. He is dragging one of his feet like he’s fucking Igor or something. I say “I swear to God, I’m going to beat your ass!” I flat-tire his other shoe, hard enough to scrape the skin off of his Achilles tendon. He is now bleeding and has two flat tires. More giggling. Still no more speed. I lose it. I bellow “Stop walking like a fucking retard!” and proceed to heft my forty pound purse and round-house him in a giant arc, right between the shoulder blades. He falls over. Only….

After he falls over and turns around to face me, I realize that IT’S NOT MY BROTHER. It is a complete stranger. And the reason he was walking funny? HE HAS A CLUB FOOT. I have clubbed a handicapped person in front of Jesus and everyone.

Mortified, I burst into tears as my brother (who was indeed who I heard giggling, but from off to one side of me), helps the poor man up. I blubber “I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else!” The man snaps “I should hope that you wouldn’t purposely treat ANYONE that way.” At any rate, we get him dusted off and reassembled, and get on the plane, and I am still crying; I’m so humiliated. My brother turns to me as the plane is taking off and smugly says “You’re going to hell.” I said “I heard you laughing the entire time! How could you let me do that?!?” He says, as if it were the most sensible thing in the world, “Well, I didn’t think you were going to HIT HIM!” I wail “I wasn’t hitting him, I was hitting YOU!”

Yes, I am a stellar example to humanity. *sigh*

Posted in Comedy, Crazy People, Humor, Life | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Popular Myths Debunked: Hot Does Not Trump Stupid

People are insane. I’m walking into the bank today and this man is standing outside the bank, shouting into his cell phone. I don’t understand why people want to shout into their cell phones in public and then act like you shouldn’t have overheard, but I digress. This guy is yelling (okay, maybe not so much yelling, but talking VERY loudly) the following:

“Honey…no! Honey…are you out of your fucking mind? Honey, Jesus. No, I…No! No…honey! Oh, for fuck’s sakes!” He hangs up on her, or her him. He catches me looking at him and I say “Hello….” kind of nervously. He shakes his head at me and says “It’s a good thing she’s fucking hot.”

I burst out laughing and, when done at the bank, call my brother to regale him with the tale of this fine event. Now, my penchant for making an ass of myself is really only rivaled closely by my brother’s. Seriously. The guy tazed himself once. But that’s another story. I love my bro, but he tends not to give a rat’s ass what is socially acceptable.

So I relate the story, and he’s laughing, and I said “I’ve gotten off the phone a time or two with a guy I was seeing, thinking to myself that it was lucky for him he was fucking hot.” Bro says “Not me. I’ve never been on more than one date with a woman I thought was retarded.” Well, as we all know, that’s a bold statement. I said “I’m not saying ‘rides the short bus’ stupid, but surely you’ve dated women who are out of their minds, or at least kind of dingbats.” He says “Nope. I have occasionally had conversations with stupid women in the hopes that I will get laid, but I have never gotten involved with one.” Feeling like this is a serious raft of bullshit, I quiz him about the ex-girlfriends he’s had that I’m familiar with. Lo and behold, he’s charitable about each one. Phenomenal. I’m slightly less charitable about the dullard exes I’ve had. The following conversation ensues:

Me: Yeah, hot will work for you for about an hour and a half.
Bro: Two hours, if you’re at the movies and don’t have to talk.
Me: Yeah, I didn’t think about that! After that first hour or so though, you’d better either have big boobs or a big cock. (Yeah, I’m a great example to young girls everywhere.)
Bro: Fuck that. Ten minutes. After ten minutes with your retarded ass, if I’m not getting laid, I’m out. And if I DO get laid, I’m out directly afterwards.
Me: Ignoring the fact that it’s ridiculous and unsafe to sleep with someone you’ve known for ten minutes, I suppose you’ve done this.
Bro: Yeah. I was out drinking with my bros once and talking to this girl, and she has one of those really annoying high voices, and is clearly a complete moron, and I can’t even stand talking to her, even though I know if I last another ten minutes or so, I’m totally getting laid.
Me: See, I thought that guys would put up with any amount of annoying if it meant they would get laid.
Bro: It’s a popular myth.
Me: So what happened? Did you get laid?
Bro: Fuck no! My buddy Dave came to rescue me. He says “T, it’s time to go to another bar.” And this chick says “Ooh, where are you going? I’ll come with you!” I said “There really isn’t room in the car.” She says “I have my car. I’ll follow you and you can ride with me.” I say “No, that’s okay, it’s kind of a guy’s night out.” And she’s so stupid that she doesn’t know that if a guy is into you, he will sell his boys down the river for a shot at being with you, and his boys will understand. And she says “Are you sure?” I say “Yeah, I’m sure.” She whines “Why can’t I just meet you there?” I snap and say “Because you’re horrendously annoying, mildly retarded, and just BARELY hot enough for me to justify having spoken to you for even the last ten minutes.”
Me: (laughing my ass off) You did NOT say that to her.
Bro: Yeah, I did. Sue me, I was drunk. And Dave is pissing himself, right? So she gives me the “you’re a horrid asshole” look, and we leave.
Me: I’m surprised, if she’s that dumb, that she could muster up a proper “you’re a horrid asshole” look. The best I can picture is the “kicked puppy” look.
Bro: I can’t be sure it was that look. It COULD have been the “Oh man, I’m not as hot as I thought I was” look.
Me: You’re fucking rotten.
Bro: I know. The ladies love my ass.

Sarah Palin is the trifecta: Hot, stupid, AND batshit insane.
Posted in Comedy, Dating, Humor, Life, Stupid People | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

How I Almost Got My Ass Kicked by a Drunk Pregnant Woman

Everyone has days where they’d like to beat an ass for no good reason. Hell, most of the days I spend at work, I leave at the end of the day feeling like I could whoop somebody just because I’m grumpy and they probably have it coming. I’ll freely admit that I myself have it coming a good deal of the time. I’m obnoxious (duh.)

I have been called upon to whoop an ass once or twice. And ordinarily, I am a passive person. Well, not passive, per se. But I’m unlikely to rip your arm off and shove it in your piehole for no good reason. In fact, I have only one or two incidents where I have ever done such a thing; one of which resulted in my being permanently banned from a Fred Meyer (don’t ask. And no, I wasn’t loaded.) Ass that I am, I even got into an argument with a pregnant woman once. Before you judge, I DID NOT decorate a pregnant broad with knuckle prints. That’s just rude. But I’d had a cocktail or two, and I cruise into this funky basement bar with a buddy of mine so he can use the bathroom – one of those joints where the smoke is so thick that you might as well throw your T-shirt out when you get home. Or just never wash it again and christen it your “drinking shirt.” (A bad idea if you ever plan to get laid again.)

So I smooth up to the bar to order, and a pregnant-out-to-here lady is standing at the bar, obviously drunk and swilling scotch on the rocks (a CLASSY drunk pregnant broad?), and smoking a cigar. And if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s people fucking up their kids before they’re born. People do enough of that after their kids are born. At least bring ’em into the world with a fighting chance of one day outsmarting your stupid ass and rising above your fetus-abusing station in life. Indignant, I think “Obviously it is my societal obligation to say something!” So I interrupt the conversation she’s trying to have with the slobbering, trucker hat-wearing retard who is leaning his elbow on the bar to remain upright.

Being stupid and selfish doesn’t actually PREVENT you from getting pregnant, but it should.

Me: (in an extremely rude tone) Excuse me, are you aware that drinking while pregnant causes fetal alcohol syndrome?

This is the part where It. Was. ON. This broad steps to me, BLOWS SMOKE IN MY FACE, pokes her finger in my chest, and slurs “Mind your own fucking business.” Oh damn, you say. No she didn’t. I tell you, friends, yes she did.

Me: It IS my fucking business! Because one day you’re going to come crying to society when your fucking flippered-ass baby needs our taxes for support!

Yeah, I went there. I actually used the phrase “flippered-ass baby”, which is kind of awesome. So pregnant broad makes like she’s gonna swing at me. At this point I realize two things:

1) This is my fault, and I should have minded my own business. (Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen)

2) Since I can’t in good conscience hit a pregnant woman even if I think she deserves it, I’m about to take a shot, and not the kind that makes me take my pants off in front of crowds.

See, there’s the problem with drinking. You never START OUT the night intending to get socked by a loaded pregnant lady, but occasionally it happens. Lo and behold, however, my friend is now out of the bathroom and we wisely opt to make our hasty exit. So no ass was kicked, mine or otherwise. Which is good. You lose your license to be an obnoxious asshole when you take it as far as swinging at a pregnant woman.

I joke, but the entire affair upset me. Shouldn’t bartenders reserve the right to refuse service to the obviously pregnant? Should I have minded my own business? Is there anything CONSTRUCTIVE one can do in a situation like this? Any more, I know that hospitals can charge you with child abuse if you give birth to a kid who tests positive for drugs, but I’m not sure you can call a pregnant woman out on something she’s doing and have someone do something about it.

Posted in Comedy, Crazy People, Humor, Life, Stupid People | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

How I Nearly Wet Myself in a Chinese Drive-Thru

Recently, I had the misfortune of running into possibly one of the stupidest individuals on the planet, possibly stupider than the ham moron. Stupidity is an epidemic, folks, and it is everywhere, and there is no escape. Observe:

I order Chinese food from the local joint, and graciously offer to pick it up myself, because despite the fact that this place is less than a mile away from my abode, if you pick it up, you can do so twenty minutes after you called and ordered it, but if you ask them to deliver it, it requires an hour and a half for some reason. Anyway, I give them my name and phone number, and trundle down there in my car half an hour later to pick up my food (around 10pm.)

The restaurant is pretty much empty at that hour, so I drive up to the pick up window, and ask for my food. The teenage retard operating the window and I had the following encounter, and I seriously believe that she owes me large sums of money for not choking her until she was dead. For the purposes of this writing, I will refer to her as “CFM” – Chinese Food Moron.

CFM: Whaaaaaaaat?

I repeat my name. CFM disappears for EIGHT MINUTES. CFM reappears.

CFM: What did you say your name was again?
Me: Miz Parker.
CFM: I’m sorry, we don’t have an order under that name.
Me: Maybe you should check under my phone number. It’s XXX-XXXX.

CFM disappears for another four minutes. I start to have to pee.

CFM: Ummm…..we don’t have anything under that phone number either. Could you give it to me again?
Me: Yes, it’s XXX-XXXX, and if it’s not under that it’s possible I gave you my cell number instead of home. It’s XXX-XXXX.

CFM furrows her brow, looking confused. I sigh loudly and look at my watch in an obvious manner. Three and a half minutes pass while she is presumably looking at a computer screen.

CFM: Ummmmm, could you like, give me your name again?

At this point, I hand her my ID because I am trying to be helpful. Perhaps it would help her to have my name right in front of her. She peers at it as if she has never seen a driver’s license before. The peering requires another minute and a half.

CFM: I’m sorry, I can’t find it.
Me: (getting frustrated) Well, how many orders do you have sitting back there waiting to be picked up?
CFM: Just one.
Me: (refraining from slapping my own forehead in consternation, knuckles clenching) Well, at this hour, doesn’t it make sense that the order you have back there for pickup might belong to the ONLY PERSON ASKING TO PICK UP FOOD?
CFM: (stupid look, blinking in silence)
Me: Well?
CFM: Umm, I can’t just give you that order, I have to verify that it’s yours.
Me: Look, you or someone else told me over the phone told me that this order of food was worth $23.06. What does the receipt taped to that order back there say it’s worth?

CFM disappears for another three minutes, just out of my sight. By this time, I am crossing my legs because I REALLY have to pee.

CFM: Ummm, it’s worth $23.06.
Me: Terrific, I’ll take it! I don’t even care what it is.
CFM: Well, I guess I could let you take it, but I really should verify….
Me: No. No verifying. I GUARANTEE YOU that the food is mine. I’m the only person here, and it’s the only food you have, and they’re worth the same amount. Make sense? (I nod my head in an exaggerated fashion, hoping that CFM will monkey see, monkey do and nod in agreement.)
CFM: (looking uncomfortable) Well, I guess….

CFM disappears for another six minutes. What the fuck is going on back there? Is there some kind of space vortex inside the Chinese restaurant that requires her to travel to another dimension to find the food, and each trip shaves off a few more IQ points? Is she afraid that the Chinese food police will arrest her if she doesn’t verify each order? At this point, my back teeth are floating and 26 minutes has passed since I pulled up to the drive-through window. I could have cooked the Chinese food myself faster than this. I am having a hard time not leaping through the window and beating her senseless. CFM reappears with a bag of food.

CFM: How will you be paying for this?
Me: (handing her my VISA) Here.
CFM: (peers at it for about thirty seconds) Umm, can I see your ID?
Me: You mean the ID that you spent three minutes looking at when I first got here?
CFM: Yeah, I have to verify your VISA card.

I hand her my ID, again. She compares the names, and hands it back. She runs my VISA. I’m developing facial twitches at this point. She hands the receipt and clipboard out and I sign it, and she says (get this)

CFM: Ummmmmm, can I see your ID one more time? I have to match the signatures. Sorrreeeeeeee!

Blood shoots from my eye sockets and I bathe her in my wrath. I have never hated another human being as much as I hate this one. I speed home, pee, and open the food. It is cold.

Posted in Comedy, Humor, Life, Stupid People | Tagged , , , , , | 7 Comments

How Christopher Walken was Inadvertently Responsible for Warping Me

Over the course of my…career, we’ll say, I’ve had the pleasure of working with some rather entertaining individuals. I worked with one woman who once ate bat with the King of Tonga and shot her ex with a crossbow. Not on the same day, I should imagine.

I was reminded today of an ex-co-worker who was, shall we say, one of the more entertaining individuals I’ve ever met, let alone worked with. She’s long since left the company for (hopefully) greener pastures. I realize that I’m going to sound like I’m poking fun as I write – I’m not – I actually did like this woman a lot. But she was a strange duck.

To give you a quick mental image, this woman was in her mid-sixties, wore big, round dark glasses everywhere, and had long, wild gray hair. She was also, to put it as politely as I can, an extremely large woman. The day I was informed that I was to be sharing a cube with her, I knew her by reputation only – she was described as whip-smart, which she was, and eccentric, which she was in spades. “Eccentric” might have been a kind euphemism for “weird as hell.”

For starters, she might have been A.D.D. and not on anything for it. She was in constant motion. She twiddled, she twitched, she hummed, she sang under her breath, she fidgeted, she jiggled her knees. It was like sitting next to an enormous hummingbird. She also, on occasion, would whirl around in her chair and exclaim “Wheeeeeee!” I’m not kidding. On my first day with her, we had the following conversation:

Her: (abruptly, out of nowhere) “Do you believe in yogurt?”

Me: (confused, after a long pause) “Do you mean, do I believe that yogurt exists, or do I believe that yogurt is a viable food product? Because yes on the first, no on the second.”

Her: (sucking yogurt from a tube) “So you don’t want a yogurt tube, then? I think these are clever.”

Me: “No, thank you.”

Side note: If you ever catch me eating any food product from a tube, just kill me. Humans shouldn’t voluntarily eat from tubes. There may be exceptions to this rule, but I can’t think of any right now.

Anyway, you can see what this woman was like. Highly entertaining. This is a woman who got her nipple pierced in San Francisco on her 60th birthday. Thankfully, I was not a witness to this event, or the proof thereof. She was merely content to TELL me about it. The following conversation, however, put the icing on the cake as far as her level of batshit-insane went, and quite possibly may have warped me for life. I’m sitting there one day, minding my business, when she asks me if I have any tattoos. A fair question, albeit perhaps not appropriate for work.

Me: “Yeah, I have two on my back.”

Her: “What are they of?”

Me: “One is a big neon blue dead fish with boxing gloves on, and one is a big star.” (For those of you who are punk fans, the fish is the Hagfish logo.)

Her: “Coooool. I have a tattoo too. I got it on my birthday recently.” (I have no idea which birthday. 62? 65?)

Me: “Oh yeah? Of what?”

Her: “I’ll show you!”

At this point, I am filled with a sense of impending dread. I was praying that the tattoo was on her ankle or something. Don’t forget, this is an extremely large person we’re talking about. Much to my deepening horror, she partially unbuttons her blouse, to reveal, on the top of her left breast, a tattoo. Of an eye. A giant, creepy, leering eyeball. I have NO idea what to say at this point.

Me: “It’s…an eye.”

Her: (indignant) “It’s Christopher Walken’s eye, I’ll have you know!”

Me: “Ahhhhhh……”

Yeah, YOU try getting that image out of your head. Let me know how that goes for you.

Like this. Only just the eye. On an old lady boob.
Posted in Comedy, Crazy People, Humor, Life | Tagged , , , , , | 8 Comments