Category Archives: Ren
(Contributions from Jane Lane)
There has been a “controversy” rampaging the shit out of various segments of the media. The wool was pulled over your eyes, people. We’re talking cover-up you easily fooled sacks. A sham! Flim-flam! Even a semi-syndicated talk show exposed this farce. I can’t think of any synonyms for sham, flim-flam, and cover-up, so let’s get to the point.
Ren is not real.
Depend on your personal choice of media outlet, you heard it hear first. The little blonde Irish elf does not exist. Sorry, people. It was bound to be discovered sometime. FWTC did its level best backstopping a cover story for “Ren” and build a solid base for our house of lies. But, you were too smart. The Geraldo Riveras in podcast and Internet land Sherlock Holmes-ed themselves to uncover the truth. Hats off to everyone who has a degree in criminology. Degrees from un-accredited schools from Indonesia on a distance learning program. But, who am I to judge. Apparently, nobody. You can’t make judgements when you don’t exist.
No, friends, Ren does not exist. I… I mean, “SHE” is just a practical joke. A combination of industry logos and urban legend. You’ve all been duped. I am….. shit, I mean, “SHE” is a scam. No one can agree on what kind of scam or who the hell “she” really is. It could be some sort of Irish pyramid scheme. Perhaps, some twisted person or persons came up with the idea to josh an entire nation just to create a publicity stunt to sell prophylactics made of bison scrotum.
Just like Roswell and Bigfoot, there are a few leading theories about who I… fuck! Who “she” really is. Here are just a few:
1. “She’s” a fat guy
This is, probably, the most obvious I mean, come on! We all know the vast majority of the “women” on the interwebs are fat, sweaty fucks with a tiny dicks. Christ, 90% of the “women” on Facebook are guys. It’s completely conceivable that this “Ren” character is really just some fat slob desperate for attention. Come on! This “girl” likes to drink, bang her “husband,” and loves the meat. Get it? Loves the meat?
There’s NO WAY a “woman” like that in the world. Check that. NO FUCKING WAY! That shit is like turning lead into gold. It’s all a myth. Hearsay. It’s just not possible that a “female” can actually enjoy meat and meat byproducts along with alcohol and and steady stream of fucking the husband.
So, yeah. That’s got to be it. Unless…
2. “She’s” a
Bots are annoying. Bots are cunning. Bots are fucking sneaky. How many times have you gotten a message from “Eliza Dushku” or “Avril Lavigne” or.. I don’t know… “God?” Well, we all sure as hell know it’s really some sweaty programer with more body odor than appeal.
This makes sense. First, you just scour the Net, and find a random girl on Facebook and second, pirate the fuck out of any pics set to “public.” Throw in a dash of spyware and a sprinkle of rerouting virus then, fucking viola! You got yourself insta-Ren!
The main issue with these bots is that many of them are programmed to adjust to new perimeters. To adapt to new spam filters. To… evolve. If this, “Ren” is a spam bot, it’s more than just your basic con to worm its way into your hard drive. Come on, people! That’s one more fucking step towards sentience! Christ, we’re all focused on the wrong issue!
3. “She’s” a fat chick
Dude, just re-read #1 and replace all the “guys” with “chicks.” You can leave the “tiny dick” part. Depending on the fat chick.
4. “She’s” is really a government conspiracy
It’s not unusual to suspect the government, any government (except Canada, I guess) in a shit ton of covert operations and secret programs that inject nanobots into unsuspecting children’s flu shots to build a perfect combination of man and machine.
5. “She’s” a celestial or atmospheric phenomenon
The less plausible theory being proposed by the most plausible stalkers (and their sad sad lives). This “Ren” is closer to the aurora borealis or some sort of Helix Nebula… The Eye of God, if you will.
It has been proven or, at the very least, conceptually kicked around that celestial physics can theoretically influence a person’s consciousness. Don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t. I don’t fucking care. See it for yourself. Pony up the dough to attend the “Toward the Science of Consciousness “at the University of Arizona‘s Center for Consciousness. Take the kids and come on down to God’s misshapen ash can. Takes pictures of an honest-to-god astrophysicist! But what’s fun without some learning? It’s bullshit… that’s what it is. Included in this dream package you will have your choice of murderously boring lectures. Oooooooo will it be the on discussing quantum influences on the brain. No wait! The lecture about electromagnetic flares hurdling to Earth like New Jersey Governor Chris Christie warp speeding to the Buffet King. We’re onto you, “science.”
6. “She’s” a incorporeal essence within us all
How do we know God exists? How about Allah, Buddha, or whatever the fuck the Vikings worshiped?
When annoying push comes to asinine shove, you don’t. As a “modern” society, we tend to incredulously cast looks toward our ancestors and remark on how “quaint” their beliefs were.
Every society does that to the society that came before theirs. We’re not running around worshiping the sun or offering our children to Yahweh on a funeral pyre. Not often these days, anyway. However, we cling on to our “enlightened” (enough with the fucking quotations, already) religious philosophies. Jews KNOW God exists. Muslims KNOW Allah is watching over them. Christians KNOW Jesus was the Son of God. Throw the Dali Lama in there while we’re at it. His followers KNOW he is the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the first… um… Lama?
OK, so what’s the fucking point? Each and every follower of every religion can’t produce concrete proof that their god(s) exist. Shiva isn’t in the directory and Thor doesn’t have a Facebook page.
Even atheists believe that there is no higher power to the point where that disbelief turns into their beliefs. So, is it possible that this fictitious “Ren” actually exists in the hearts of man? Does “she” exist in our actions? Our thoughts? Our dreams? Is it possible that there is a little bit of “Ren” in all of us? How the fuck should I know? I don’t exist. Ask someone who isn’t a figment of your imagination.
*When not writing for the Fuse Was Too Cold, “Ren” exists only in the world of imagination.
*When not contributing, Jane Lane exists to make you miserable to the point of embracing the sweet release of death..
The economy sucks a pair of used transvestite thongs. Trust me, I know. I’m a poor law school student. Well, “poor” is a relative term. I’m on a scholarship, my parents help me out, and I bleed my husband dry. Fucker got to marry ME. The least he can do is sign his pay check over to me. HA! Perpetuating female stereotypes is FUN!
So, what can you do about Christmas presents when you can barely feed yourself or can’t afford to put a dent in your three-bottle a day whisky habit… I mean indulgence?
You don’t want to be “that guy” during the family Christmas gift opening extravaganza. You know, the stupid shit getting gifts while NO ONE seems to be able to find ANYTHING under the tree from you. Normally, I advocate the getting without giving scenario. But, it’s Christmas! Even I can’t stand to phone it in on this one.
So, I figure there must be a shit ton of other people out there in the same boat. In the spirit of giving, I decided to give you poor schleps some help. These ideas have worked for me in the past… just not well. Who cares? It’s the thought that counts, right? Well, prepare to have that adage stretched to it ever-loving limits.
Look, we all have gotten gifts that were on the meatier side of a shit sandwich. “Oooooooooo! School supplies!” How about that box of socks from Aunt Mimi? Don’t even get me started on that goddamn tub of Oxy Clean I got when I was 16. Just what the fuck were you trying to imply, Uncle Merl? Such an asshole.
This doesn’t even have to be stuff that you, outright, threw into the “reject” bin. But, let’s face it, it’s going to be. Just mix it up a bit. Don’t give Aunt Hortense the leg wax she gave you last year. Give that gem to Uncle Pete. Remember that box of bath beads sitting in the closet collecting dust? Well, hell, that’s a great gift for you 15-year-old cousin. Kids huff bath beads these days, right?
Free stuff you got at work/school
If you travel around for work and attend various useless trade shows or subject yourself to the joy that is a vender show at a university campus, you know what I’m talking about. These places are teeming with useless bullshit people can’t stop taking. Little flashlights with their company logo. Knock off Beanie Babies with their company logo. A travel mug… with their company logo. The whole point of this is to plant your company in the subconscious. What better way of doing this than using free shit no one has a need for?
If you look hard enough, you’ll find some practical shit mixed with the fake beanie babies and mini Breathalyzers. Who wouldn’t love to get a USB drive with almost no space? What kind of loved one would not want a leaky travel mug with the Halliburton logo? Take it a step beyond and mix and match. What cousin wouldn’t be grateful with a hand sanitizer/hand lotion combo? Come to think about it, that sends out a bunch of messages not association with the Christmas Spirit.
Stuff from around your house
Are you a shut-in? Do you want to be? Are you too poor, cheap, or lazy to actually step foot outside your house to go to conventions to get free shit? Does the thought of another year of mall shopping for people you barely like sink you into a deep depression? Well, good news Droopy! There’s not need to mingle with the rabble! Just look around you house. Do it! You live in a fucking sty. You should be ashamed of yourself. God I hate you.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I hate you. No! Wait! Oh yea. Christmas presents. My article about icky shut-ins is next month. Anyhoo… your house is a treasure trove of goodies. It’s a time capsule filled with outdated interests and failed life goals. Just because you failed doesn’t mean others will. Give that pair of roller blades to little Jimmy. That calligraphy set you never opened? Well, wrap that sommabitch! Remember that typewriter you use as a door stop? Give that ancient bastard to your nephew and call it an antique.
Stuff from around other people’s houses
Okay, look, I’m not advocating the act of breaking into someone’s home and stealing their shit to use for Christmas presents. I’m merely suggesting you do it when you’re already in the house for a visit. Let’s face it, you looked around your house for things to wrap up and dump on loved ones for Christmas, but your junk is sad. YOU don’t even want it. Maybe it’s not even that. Perhaps you’re a scrappy little transient without a permanent residence. Well, jingle balls! That’s what friends are for!
Odds are that your friends’ place is a considerable upgrade from the hovel you live in. There’s no shame in that. Remember, you don’t have to enjoy the finer things in life in order for you to find good Christmas gifts. Your friends do. Next time you drop by, bring an empty pillow case. Come on, they won’t miss it. That neat little cat statue would be perfect for crazy aunt Sofia. The commemorative plate they got on their trip to Pearl Harbor? Whammo! Instant collectors item for the history buff in your family. It’s Christmas. They’ll understand. It’s all about giving.
Wait a second there, partner. Don’t forget to get something for that someone special, too. There you are, thinking about others and you plum forgot all about yourself. Awwww. That’s so sweet. Tis the reason for the season! Treat yourself. It’s alright for Santa to take a kick back every now and then. Go on, treat yourself. After all this Christmas shopping you deserve a little present of your own.
Yeah, that’s right. Read that title again. It’s for fucking real, baby. I is a married chick, now. I have joined the ranks of domestic married women, everywhere. I am one with all the Suzy Homemakers the world over! Yeah! Betty Crocker and some shit.
Alright, we all know I’m not the poster chick for domesticity. When other little girls were planning their fairy tale weddings, I was drawing up plans to free Northern Ireland through a complex, yet sexy series of events. I never really gave two shits if I ever got married. Never wanted to, never cared, didn’t need the bullshit. Some girls go through, “this is the one” syndrome with every guy they date. Mine was more, “this is the one for now.” No, that’s not a polite way of saying I was a super horny sorority vixen. Fuck, it totally is.
Fuck it, whatever. Who are you to judge me? Damn it, stop being an asshole! Son-of-a-whore!
OK, sorry. I’m better now.
So, I’ve been seeing this guy for a good while. He’s manly, hot, and hung (too much info?). It started out as a semi-regular booty call situation. I say “semi-regular,” because it started off as a long distance relationship. He lived/lives in central Alberta and I live on the ass-end of humanity in Western Montana. That’s a good ten hours apart. But, Momma has a way of becoming a life crippling addiction to men, women, and a few transsexuals. It may not be a record, but the Canuck would drive the ten hours every time I flashed the booty call signal.
The Ren addiction became overwhelming. The hoser fell for me. That’s not anything new. I can’t go a day without someone writing a marriage proposal in the sky via old-timey skywriting plane.
What I didn’t count on and never really had to deal with was the addiction going both ways. This is some sappy shit. I apologize for being all lovey-dubby. It’s out of character for me, I know. Deal with it. I’ll go back to the normal sexist, self absorbed sex kitten you all have come to know and love with your very being.
I figured that after my long life on this planet, I might as well settle for this dumbass. He’s already demonstrated his complete and baffling devotion to me. Who hasn’t? But, as I mentioned, I sorta kiiiinda liked this guy in more than just my pants. Yeah, it’s the L word.
The OTHER L word. Momma fell in love. Fuck you! Why not? Why can’t it happen to me, too? Judgmental prick.
After some deep soul-searching, we decided to get hitched. The reason being.. I don’t have to justify our decision. Doode, I’m going to come through your computer and bitch slap you.
We planned to spend a portion of my spring break in Las Vegas for a super-dooper romantic trip. Hey! Vegas! Home of the drive through wedding. No hassle, no complications, no fuss. Just the two of us, a couple of witnesses, and an official that may or may not be an Elvis impersonator.
We were sold. What’s the point in waiting? No, there is no point. Momma knows what she wants. If she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t happen. I was determined. He was ecstatic for the privilege and honor of marrying me.
Bing, bam, boom; we had our suite at the Luxor reserved, the 20 minutes at the chapel reserved, and a whole assortment of wedding night lingerie to make him praise God for the blessing of being in my life. No wedding dress, tux, or reception. Simple, baby. Expressing our love by making the ultimate commitment in the eyes of our Irish Lord, Jesus O’Nazereth. We know full well that, being both Catholic [IRISH Catholic for me], death is the only way out after the deed is done.
Knowing that this was the only thing that a couple can do in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas, we figured it was a good idea to keep all of this a secret. Why? Well, we didn’t want to put up with a bunch of bullshit from family, friends, my army of devoted followers, etc. I say “bullshit,” to encompass all the possible reactions one can expect when proclaiming a quickie marriage in Vegas. That’s something you want to do after the fact.
The whole thing was set in motion. We were giddy, knowing the big secret. Don’t get me wrong, no one was going to start a war or disapprove vehemently of our union. Well, one person would. But, more on that fucker later. I wanted to do this on our own terms. I guess that’s some of the reason we felt drunk the entire time. That and, well, actually being drunk. But, at least half of that feeling was the complete control of our destinies. We had some awesome pre-wedding ceremony sex. I mean, awesome. Fuck… earth shattering super banging. I think it was the worst kept secret in the entire hotel.
We went to the hotel chapel, had a short run down of what was going to happen, added the cost to our hotel bill, then pulled the trigger. It was easier than getting a gun permit in California. We were Mr and Mrs Whatsits. That intoxicating feeling we had before our wedding just EXPLODED to the nth degree. The Luxor comped a dinner and $100 worth of gambling chips. That’s it. It was awesome. We had rings and just glowed with excitement. Oh yeah, we fucked each other stupid in private and public places.
It may not have been a traditional wedding, but it was OUR wedding set at our speed. We partied everywhere! We took in some burlesque shows, some dirty version of Little Bo Peep with Holly Madison, a topless comedy club, some gambling, and then more things that involved women without tops. It was a recurring theme on our trip.
Before I go any further, I feel the need to debunk any unauthorized rumors floating around. I know “Ren got married,” means different things to different people. This is rumor control; here are the facts:
- I am not pregnant
- He is not pregnant
- We were NOT drunk during the ceremony
- This isn’t part of a Witness Protection Program deal
- I AM NOT PREGNANT. Drop it. Fuck!
I think that may have crashed Facebook for a few hours. The amount of cell phone and internet traffic coming from Edmonton, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Northern Ireland was enough to completely jam up the works, A´ la major terrorist or natural disaster. When you get a bunch of Irish Catholics who have been duped into not participating or attending a wedding of one of their own; it’s war.
We enjoyed our remaining few days off the grid. That is, until my mother informed us that she took it upon herself to book a flight from Las Vegas to Spokane, the nearest grown up airport Northern Idahoans have. I pointed out to her that we didn’t have a car. We planned on flying right back home and get my ride from the airport lot. No worries. Once we land in Spokane, there would be “a car” waiting for us. OK, fine. I owe my family a little leeway here. They want to meet my new husband; their new kin. The husband, on the other hand, smelled a set up.
The Husband, some how, must have heard stories about my family that didn’t put us in a very peaceful and understanding light. Every family has their history. Some were involved in bootlegging during Prohibition. Some were involved with assembling explosives and blowing up columns of British trucks. So maybe there are still some out there fighting for the Cause.* Of course, it may have something to do with some of my family being members of a fairly known MC in those parts. I grew up with bikers. That explains my charm and precociousness.
*Editor’s Note: No one in 21st century Northern Ireland can pinpoint what “The Cause” means. There are a dozen or so out there. Take your pick. Find one that feels good to you! Don’t like it? Trade it in for a brand new cause!
The entire flight, The Husband was preoccupied with facing his own death a lot sooner than he hoped. Getting our bags at Spokane, we meandered to the ground transportation area. A large man in a black suit held a placard with our names written in flowing fashion. OK, so maybe a scene or two from “The Transporter” popped into my head.
We got into this black town car that drove us all the way to my parents’ house. I spent the 45 minutes assuring him that he was creating a scenario in his head that couldn’t possibly play true in real life. [note: I was completely fucking wrong] I was excited! I’m a newly wed and so pumped to show off The Husband, our rings, and share all the stories. The house was coming in sight. I guess my smiling and giddiness was a little infectious. The Husband, for a moment, had forgotten to be scared. Not to worry. That wouldn’t last.
Our car made the last bend and my parents’ home came into view! Wow, there sure are a lot more cars in the driveway than I thought would be in the middle of a weekday… in the middle of the week. Well fuck me running, there’re like a dozen motorcycles hanging around the driveway, too. Oh, it’s a welcome to the family party! We got out of the car and made our way to the front porch to find twelve angry-looking men in MC kutten with club colors standing on the porch like it was a parade review. Among these big, angry cowboys of the road were two of my cousins, Reece and Aodh. I knew The Husband’s train from funtown was now heading for Ass Beating Butte.
Nothing was said. They grabbed Husband and threw him in a van, then took off like the wind. A wind that just kidnapped my brand new husband. None of us would see him for a good 24 hours. But, whatever. My Da was grilling steak and had an open bottle of whisky for his little girl. I’m sure The Husband was fine.
Oh, come on! Stop thinking the worst. He didn’t die. They just pushed him off a bridge. Come to think of it, that is something a guy just has to go through in order to prove his worth. It wasn’t anything too illegal. A long time was spent berating him and pissing all over his manhood. Figuratively. No one was actually pissing on his dick. That’s just fucked up.
*Note from photo research staff: There are just some illustrations we refuse to find.
They tied his foot to a cinder block and asked him if he could fly. Their theory was, that if Husband really loves me, he wouldn’t be afraid to take a leap of faith. Then, without an answer, they pushed him off. Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhh! Splat.
No. There wasn’t a “splat.” With all the commotion, Husband didn’t realize that the brothers hooked him up to a bungee dealy and not a cinder block. He bounced back. His jeans may have been a little more urine soaked than normal, and I am damn sure the boxers he had on had to be burned. They returned him the next day, drunk, sweaty, and dry heaving. Back off, ladies. He’s MY MAN!
That’s sort of how it went over the next several weeks. My mother is very adamant that we have a Catholic ceremony to “strengthen our … something or other.” Something about getting officially married in the eyes of the Church. Now, that will be fun to coordinate. Good luck to them figuring out how to get two families 1000 miles apart to come to a consensus on something like this. Oh well, don’t care. Just more alcohol and meat products for me. I did manage to spend a good week or so with The Husband’s family in Edmonton. As expected, they fucking love me. I’m so charming. Tee hee. Even one of his older brothers was completely enamored by me. I fucking ROCK Alberta!
Oh, that guy I mentioned earlier in the article that would lose his shit when he found out Husband and I got married. It’s the middle child of the family. He is known by many names; newfie, tool, anger-man, the tirade king… But, we here at FWTC call him Roode. That’s right bitches. I married into Roode’s family. Try to stop me now, motherfucker! Your nightmare is now a reality! I’m on the inside, entrenched. There is no way to escape me. Roode, my big brother-in-law, life as you know it has ended. Enjoy!
*Editor’s note: Ren was last seen preparing for her Saint Patrick’s Day dumbassary Thursday morning. She instructed us to publish this “farewell” letter in the event of her disappearance. Since we haven’t seen her for well over 24 hours, we figured now is as good of a time as any. That and Roode wants to get started deleting all her articles as soon as possible.
Dear friends, admirers, worshipers, family, and the various stalkers I’ve grown fond of,
If you are reading this, then I am already (circle all that apply) gone/dead/passed out/in Yakima/detained by Canadian authorities. I assure you that I was awesome until the very end. But, you would expect nothing less of me, your reason for living.
Saint Patrick‘s 2011 feels different from all the others in the past. I feel that I may not make it back. There is something in the air. Some sort of morose stillness envelops the town. It’s as if fate is telling me that this may be the Normandy of Saint Patrick’s Days. That and the $2 Jameson and $3 Guinness special I saw in the paper. Let’s face it, that’s just putting a lit match next to a whisky soaked powder keg.
As I prepare for what may be my last day (circle all that apply) on earth/ in Montana/in the United States/in the Pacific Northwest/outside of federal custody, a calmness washes over me. This is something I must do. If not for me, then for my Irish ancestors. Saint Patrick’s Day was never an Irish holiday. No, Micks don’t need to have a “holiday” as an excuse to drink. I mean, I’m drinking right now. Even so, the Irish are under a lot of pressure to show you wannabe Irish how it’s d0ne. We have to kick it up a notch. While you swill on Coors, we gulp Guinness. While you drink your Jack Daniels, we up the game with Shannahan’s. Long after your sorry asses are carted off to the ER to have you stomachs pumped, we’ve tapped our fourth keg. You’re fucking lightweight Irish posers is what I’m saying.
Sure, many of you will end up with a skull shattering hangover the next morning. I assure you, my kind is still fucking drinking. After you’ve spewed the technicolored yawn into your toilet (or in your roommate’s shoe), we’ve had our fifth bar fight… that morning. Your mortal way of killing your liver and drinking years off your life means nothing to us. We, as a people, need more. Much more.
Quick, ,where is the strangest/most awkward place you’ve ever come to after an all night bender? Shut up! I don’t need to hear it. I already know it’s lame. Unless your story includes ice skates, a Canadian Mountie, or something with a tennis racket and the windshield of a car, spare me. Amateur.
Anyhoo, what the hell was I saying? Oh yeah, I’m better than you. But, you already knew that. Don’t get me wrong, I love you little people. The obscene letters help get me through the day. I know it has been your privilege to know, nay, LOVE me. My absence will make your lives shallow and meaningless. Quite frankly, I’m not sure how you can go on without me.
Alas, I enter this Saint Patrick’s Day wide-eyed and packing a ton of Excedrin. It will be a battle of wills. On one side you have every drop of alcohol in the county. On the other, me; a little blonde Irish girl with big dreams. If I go down, I’ll go down fighting. Or, I may go down on one of those hot bartender chicks. I’ll do that before I go down fighting. Shit, I lost my train of thought now.
So, as you hear the news of my (circle all that apply) death/detainment/immigration/enlistment/crime against humanity by way of (circle all that apply) family/friends/co-workers/classmates/CNN/Interpol, please know that I went out MY way; yelling Gaelic curses and double fisting whisky bottles. Maybe there was a moose involved? I don’t know, my track record for drunken chicanery is pretty extensive.
So, always remember me. Don’t just remember me as a writer, a student, or a sex object. Remember me as awesome. And as a sex object. I like that one, too.
Póg mo thóin!,
PS: Of course, I could have just made an ass of myself and woken up in the lap of a mime (again). If that’s the case, disregard all the above. Well, except for the parts about me being awesome and a sex object.
Lest we forget:
FWTC Amnesia Lane: A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday
P.S. We are obliged to publish Ren’s emergency article in case we don’t see her again after this year’s Saint Patrick Day’s shenanigans.
That’s right. Read that title over again. Again. One more time. Got it, now? I fucking rule. Of course, this is no surprise to you readers. How many other little blonde Micks can mock international law, escape molestation by a clown on Saint Patrick’s Day, and manage to rub elbows (among other body parts) at a Playboy Mansion Halloween extravaganza? None. You know none. Don’t even try to pretend you do. You’re just embarrassing us all.
2010 will be known for a lot of things: um, something about whales, maybe? There was a lot of bullshit surrounding the IPhone. Then, again, 2010 was the year when people, the world over, were smacked in the taint by the roughest recession since the years of Warner Brothers cartoons in movie theaters and cars were built to last. Come to think of it, 2010 sucked a major amount of yak ass. Companies downsized, business went broke, government lost its mind, and that Justin Bieber fucker was everywhere. 2010 was such a shitshake, even my own Da pined for the “good old days” of the Cold War.
There is one shining part of 2010 that must be remembered and recorded for the sake of future history. We don’t want our future history only talking about gun fights at Florida school board meetings or devoting an entire chapter in a text book to the cluster fuck that is BP. There was one brightly burning light that 2010 emitted during its waning hours filled with party goers blowing chow then trying to get into the pants of someone who just might end up being a distant cousin. What was this shining beacon of hope? Where was it? What did it mean? Calm the fuck down. I’ll tell you.
It was ME. That’s right world, ME. I joined FWTC in 2009. I did what I had to do to get on the ground floor of something that will never make a dime or win any journalism awards. That kind of shit is gold! After the arguing, death threats, and constant hazing I clawed my way to the top! I made it to “COLUMNIST. There’s no pay, no perks, and little in the way of publicity. But, Momma was determined to break the racial barrier and shoe horn a nutty little blonde Irish chick into the ranks of FWTC. Roode and Tresckow bitched and moaned about it. Roode didn’t want more chick shit on the site, being that Adel had that covered. Tresckow was convinced I would use the site as a soapbox to spread my anti-loyalist beliefs to the masses. (if hating Loyalists in Northern Ireland is wrong, I don’t want to be right). The point I heard time and time again was, “You’re not a writer. There’s a difference between doing funny things and WRITING about them.” Fuckers didn’t believe I could translate my drunken comedy of errors into an article. What BULLSHIT!
After a bit of whining and the occasional exercise I like to call, “Total War” (steel Roode’s tires, sign Tresckow up for a fuck ton of large and lovely women catalogs to be sent to his home, and harassing Adel every day by rearranging her furniture in innovative and surprising ways) they finally threw me a “guest writer” gig. It got a good amount of hits and FWTC decided to keep me on. Like I was some sort of lost fucking puppy. Like adding The REN would have done anything but make this piece of shit, dime-a-dozen blog rocket to the stars!
I had a bit of a handicap going for me; the other writers having a year head start and all. Adel, Roode, and Tresckow already found their niches and some “loyal” readers. That didn’t deter me. I jumped right in to hammer out some flaming awesomeness in 2009. Then, I decided that 2010 was going to be Momma’s year!
Interesting thing is that after I was two or three articles in, the site’s readership went up. On our Facebook Page it seemed that my articles were getting passed around a lot more than the others. What could that mean? Am I eons funnier than the other writers? Is it because I am witty and urbane? Perhaps it’s because I have been elevated to FWTC‘s sex symbol? Yes. Yes, to all of these. I’m fucking fantastic. The readers know it. Our sponsors know it. Future history knows it.
Perhaps, the best indicator that tells us 2010 was the year of the Ren are the readership stats. The boring side of any blog is, without a doubt, the admin side. That’s where our geeks look at all the statistics to see which article was the most popular in any given week or month; which author was the most popular, etc. Tresckow and Adel are the number crunchers; plowing through it to get the quarterly stats and come up with a game plan for the site’s sponsorships and whatnot. Well, as most sites are want to do at the end of the year, we wanted to connect all the dots and see just who among us was the most “popular.” Which one of us had the most read articles, who stayed on top the longest, blah blah blah. I have no interest in calculations. I’d rather drink the better part of a bottle of Shanahans and wake up with a stripper (a HOT stripper, please). I’m the sort of girl who just wants to hear the end result.
I tuned out just about everything Tresckow’s said about growing our sponsorship base, advertising, topic and writer expansion… JUST GET TO THE FUCKING END! Flipping to the next slide, a table was shown listing all our articles, writers, and topics in order of popularity and readership. I looked up, expecting Roode to start tap dancing; fucker always thinks he’s the one who puts butts in the seats. All I heard was, “Are you fucking kidding me?” bellowing from Roode’s mouth like the words were on fire. The top author of EVERY quarter of 2010 AND the number 1 author for the entire year was
I wasn’t ahead by a small amount either. No, baby, Momma holds a 60% lead over everyone else. ME! Fuck you, Roode! I’m putting butts in the seats now! Always bet on the tiny Irish dark horse. ALWAYS! She’ll ruin your shit every time. EVERY TIME!
So, what will 2011 bring for the NUMBER 1 writer on FWTC? I’m not sure. Maybe a series of video blogs instructing the viewer on the proper ways of peeling a potato. Or a pod cast where I can dispense my worldly wisdom of the most efficient and orgasm-tastic sexual positions. Oh, yeah. Bacon. Bacon must be a steady theme throughout 2011. Shit, maybe I’ll contract with cable and launch my own reality show. Well, “surreality” show”
It seems like only yesterday we flat-out refused to let Ren write for us. Now, we don’t have a choice.
Amnesia Lane→ Facebook: The Slum Lords of Social Media
September 3, 2009
Allie Brosh is giving Mamma menstrual pains. In the past two weeks, I’ve had friends send me links from her site, Hyperbole and a Half . Don’t know who Allie Brosh is? Fucking loser. She’s an internet sensation that racks up millions upon millions of visits on her site. People love her. She’s funny. She’s hot. She’s blonde. She’s a nut. Motherfucker, I’m a funny, hot blonde nut and people fucking love me. I SHAKE MY FIST IN ANGER!
That pic is from her article God of Cake. God of Cake? Oh sure, the entire piece is set up perfectly and makes you laugh until you pee. But, consarn it! Her childhood experience completely mirrors mine. I discovered cake when I was 5. I stole a hunk of it before my mother could put it away. I went completely fuck-shit berserk, too. OK, Allie was a child prodigy and worked all the angles she could; guilt trip, instilling fear in grandma, and taking an excursion to the summit of the refrigerator where her mom put the cake for safe keeping.
FINE! My cake story veers off course here and there. While Allie used her devious cake obsessed intellect, I added brute force to the mix. Oh, don’t worry, this little Mick was scheming like it was NOBODY’S business. Using the stories I’ve heard about our family and possible IRA connections, I made a rudimentary bomb, then… Shit. No, I didn’t. I just used my cousin, Joey, as a battering ram. Who cares? I got in and ate me some cake. I guess since it was a German chocolate cake with HEAVY amounts of brandy is why things really stepped off the curb. Have you ever seen a rowdy drunk 5-year-old Irish girl?
Look, I’ve worked my entire life to the “that” little blonde nutjob. You know, randomly running down the street with plaid boxers on my head or filling my brother’s socks with pudding. Now, I’m “one of those little blonde nutjobs.” There’s only room on the Interwebs for one of us!
- Love to harass the men in our lives
- Love to play games with a brick
- Break into random private golf courses to play in the snow
- Energetic to the point of being institutionalized
- Pride ourselves on our ability to non sequitur like champs
- Rubber toothbrush
I smell a secret government-funded cloning project!
The conspiracy doesn’t stop there. Our hometowns are less than an hour apart, we both were on our school/university’s respective track teams, and we can run like Hermes with his ass on fire. You know, the messenger of the gods in Greek mythology. No? Was I the only one paying attention in world cultures?
Shit, we both lived in the same town in Montana at the same time for a while. I’m so wigged out. Could my title of “Little Blonde Banana-Sandwich-Making-Crazy Nightmare“ be up for grabs? Roode gave me that moniker. I think he meant it to insult me. The joke’s on his dumb ass. I had that phrase put on a t-shirt and wear the hell out of it!
Do I need to dye my hair? Put on weight? Move to a different region? The Pacific Northwest just isn’t capable of handling the two of us. I’m pretty sure the universe will implode at some point in time. Or, at the very least, it’ll rain fish.
The two of us have even been “detained” by the authorities. Well, she got slapped by Johnny Law out of no fault of her own. I was busted by the RCMP for violating international law. That shit still pisses me off. Fucking racial profiling. At least my experience didn’t involve an angry farmer with a shotgun. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.
OK, Allie cranks out some funny computer art. She does it all via laptop touch pad. I guess that takes some skill. Hmmm… I can’t draw worth a shit. I tried paint by numbers once. It didn’t end well.
Allie also bares her soul to her readers. I, alternatively, have no soul to bare. Most of my inner workings are fueled by whisky and hatred of the British oppression of Northern Ireland. And bacon. Allie has the affection of her readers. I’m not even sure I have readers. To top it all off, she responds to some of her harshest critics in funny and irreverent ways.
I usually just tell people to fuck themselves then hire a contract killer. Hey, I never said I was clever.
Fuck it! I’ve broken my own argument like a yeti clubbing a piñata with a mountain goat . I love the girl. I can’t hold anything against her; unless it’s my body… but that’s another issue, entirely.
Who am I kidding, Allie? You had me at, “mandatory sex party.”
I take voting very seriously. I believe it’s every American’s civic duty to decide who their elected officials are. OK, would you believe it’s everyone’s civic duty to stand inside a curtained booth and push buttons?
I have no delusions about the voting process. Too much bullshit exists to trust the system completely. Poll workers make mistakes, voting officials “misplace” ballot boxes, and a fruit salad of other shit falls to pieces.
But, my Da taught me to embrace my God-given rights (or the illusion) and vote my ass off. Sure, when he first got to this country and became a citizen, he was a little confused by the “Green Party.”
Northern Irish nationalism aside, I come a voting family. I was born and raised in Idaho (insert potato eating Mick joke here). There are about six people in that state and none of the elections are exactly thrilling. The rest of the country and the Electoral College doesn’t give a goat’s shit about Idaho’s votes. Now, I live in Montana, a state with four people living in it. The races are a little more hectic and up in the air. Usually. This was a midterm election. Some states vote for a shit ton of elected officials during a midterm. Some don’t. There were states in the Union that, flat-out, didn’t have any elections. The sadder states had one. Guess which state Montana was?
That’s right, there was one office up for grabs and two people running for it. And by “two people” I really mean one guy that didn’t have a prayer in Protestant hell of winning… and the other one. The kick i the ovaries was that the majority of universities were closed for the big election. Think about it. Every single college institution closed their offices and suspended classes so the staff, administration, and students could race to the polls and push the button for the dude who was going to win or the poor bastard that already lost. That’s time well spent!
I like my elections the way I like my riots: mobbed, confusing, and violent. Call me a sentimental little girl, but a tear comes to my eye when a bar fight breaks out during a presidential primary. Someone cares enough about the election to smash a beer bottle over another dipthong’s head. That’s patriotism!
I want excitement, damn it! Momma wants to have fun while casting her constitutionally guaranteed, if not somewhat useless, vote. Voting doesn’t have to be a chore! It can be a big bowl of OK. So, I went to my designated voting place determined to make the most of this wonderful event. Democracy, baby! It tastes delicious!
It was fucking cold. We don’t get fall ’round these parts. It goes straight from 90 degrees to Ice Age. The line extended out the door and down the sidewalk a bit. I thought, maybe, I could promote voter bonding by lighting a fire to huddle around. No. Apparently, even suggesting that will get your ass carted off to jail. Fine. Fuck you. Am I the only one who cares?
A round of beer pong was out; no one had a table or cups, for that matter. I thought a round of shots would relax my fellow patriots. When the hell did it become illegal to offer alcohol to strangers in public? Fucking seriously? That cop hanging around the entrance was a serious buzz kill.
As I got closer to the entrance, I realized I was hungry. I sure as hell couldn’t do my duty (doody) as a citizen on an empty stomach. So, I broke out the hotcakes meal I got from McDonald’s. Momma loves her pancakes. The bitch of it was that it’s really hard to hold that little tray of pancakes, use your fork, and sneak a sip from your bible flask at the same time.
Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I mastered the art of two-handed sidewalk breakfast and whisky drinking, it was my turn. I put my shit on the table surrounded by blue hairs. I don’t know if it’s a requirement on the state or federal level, but I think every poll worker has to be 70 and above. The old bag I talked to got bent out of shape when I handed her my driver’s license covered in pancake syrup.
I don’t know how they do this voting booth thing in other states, but the booth you go to is a big fucking deal. The one next to me was free. But, nooooooo. I had to wait in ANOTHER line to get to the assigned one. Here’s another thing I’ve learned: most people don’t take kindly to you asking who they’re going to vote for. In fact, making a guess then shouting it out so everyone can hear is frowned upon too. Everyone was such a friggin grump.
Finally, I was permitted to step inside the little curtained peep show-esq booth. Before a voter goes in, for some reason, they have to announce your name. Well, I thought the least I could do was give some sort of acceptance speech. I thanked my parents, my brother, alcohol, bacon… you know, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t get to finish. Fucking geriatric fascist cut me off and made me go in.
There I was, about to unload a pile of democracy on the nation. But, I had to finish my pancakes first. I don’t like to rush, so I took my time. Cripes, take more than ten minutes in a voting booth and everyone gets bent out of shape. I didn’t know what to do with my trash, so I tossed it over the curtain. I carefully reviewed the race and the two people running for it. This was a big deal. Whoever I chose would have the potential to be a success, like that Chocolate Rain guy, or a failure, like Brett Micheals.
I couldn’t make up my mind. I pressed both buttons, but the machine-made some sort of disapproving noise at me. I tried to select a blank button, but again, disapproving noise. At this time, Jessica Tandy who was monitoring the booth outside, was giving me shit for goofing around.
I was at an impasse, so I did what any other red-blooded American would in such a situation. I flipped a coin. Well, sort of. Instead of a coin, it was my cold cup of coffee and instead of heads or tails it was “if I managed to hit the old bitty giving me shit.” The decision was made for me and I pressed the button. There! I have carried out my obligation to the nation. I’m awesome!
I learned a few very valuable lessons. Voting is serious business. People get all touchy when you talk about making a campfire outside an elementary school, and pancakes aren’t the best breakfast to eat while waiting for your turn to vote.