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!
You would be surprised how often an artist had to try before he came up with his masterpiece. Michelangelo had to carve countless dongs out of marble to get “David” just right. I don’t know what he did with all the extras, but I’m pretty sure I have a guess.
This is also true with FWTC. As Tresckow pointed out here, many an idea for an article is shit canned, dies on the table, or sits in the queue until someone takes responsibility for it. It’s not that all of these ideas suck (well, none of mine). It’s just that, sometimes, we can’t make them work. Even if we can, something comes along to ball- tag us into submission. The server could shit its pants just before we hit “save.” One of our computers will lock up and give us the finger. Some dipshit (Tresckow) could click the wrong button and end up using a later version of the write-up and derail the train. In any case, it happens to me, sometimes. This instance isn’t because the subject sucked or that I couldn’t make it work. It’s more like it was killed with an over abundance of laziness and cyber-bullshit clusterfuck.
Towards the end of 2010, Facebook’s Friend Finder bullshit was on everyone’s monitor. It would outright lie and do its best to con your dumb ass into signing up for their thinly veiled market research campaign. It pissed me off. I know, it’s hard to imagine. But, I shit you not, it sent me on more than one curse filled rant. So, I figured I’d write an article about it. Why not? If Ren can pull a bit about ConAir out of her ass, I surely can spin hate-fueled gold.
At this point, I’ve got a pretty good handle on things. I’m raring to go and stayed up all night looking for new ways to say, “dick bag.”
I remember when I never used Facebook. Those were wonderful times. I’m naturally pretty adverse to most technology; smart phones, navigation systems, online social media, shoes… Look, the point is that I like life to be simple.
Here, I proudly admit to my complete monkey-dumbassary as far as technology goes. As with most pieces on comedy websites, a well-trained author will throw in a little self-deprecating humour in an effort to pretend he’s on the same level as the readers. That’s not true. In actuality, the author is on a completely different plane of existence; too advanced to be understood by simple mortals and their love for ass-chapping reality television shows.
It took many a round of convincing by the wife that Facebook was a good tool to keep in touch with family and friends. You know, the fuckers I try to stay away from. But, as usual, I caved. Yeah, I’m a complete sucker for my wife. From angrily watching Glee with her to removing the frozen pizza from the box BEFORE I put it in the oven.
Yes, another jab at my baffling incompetence with being a functioning part of society. Please note that I have, once again, put my wife on a pedestal, calling notice to her ability to both deal with my shit and walk through life doing every-ever-fucking-loving thing perfectly. That, and I figured it’s a pretty good half-assed attempt in getting laid. You know, build her up while making myself look like a stooge. In case you’re wondering, it didn’t work.
I signed up for FB, after answering a thousand shit eating questions. Sure, I could have just opened an account and left it at that. But, FB doesn’t play that game. It mocks you every time you sign on. “Hey! Your profile is empty!” “Why not add some interests? Everybody else is doing it!” Even if I can manage to avoid that social networking bastard’s taunts, fucker goes ahead and tells the world that I’m a slack ass.
Now, I still have a pretty tight grasp on where this article is going. Remember, 1. I hate technology, 2. I hate Glee, 3. Facebook is a bag of dicks.
After I waded through all that touchy-feely bullshit I Ronco-ed that bad boy; set it and forget it. One of the reasons I chose FB (other than my wife’s mysterious, yet sexy power over me) is that it didn’t have as many of those annoying aps as MySpace. As soon as I got somewhat comfortable with my virtual existence I was hit by a shit storm of game invites, survey results, and constant advertisements calling me by name.
Yeah, another compliment to the wife. Look, I need all the help I can get. I tend to get banished to the couch a lot. But, my point is clear. Facebook exploits a human’s basic need to play online games that aren’t worth two shits in Wyoming.
Oh, Adel questioned the reference to Ronco; saying no one born after 1978 was going to get it. As with everything else I’ve written, my philosophy is “Fuck you.”
Fuck it. It’s not 100% intrusive. These fucktarded ads are just in the left column. There are ways to ignore bullshit Mob Wars and Whose-it-fuckis FarmVille/town/empire/concentration camp. Wait. FarmVille Concentration Camp may be something I’d get into. Build your barbed wire fences little by little. Earn enough funds from the government to hire all the guards you need. And bullets… lots and lots of bullets.
I’m particularly proud of this section. “FarmVille Concentration Camp” is the best idea in the history of social networking. Someone get on this NOW! I once hammered out a complete schematic of how this game would work. I had to draw it in pencil, because as you can tell, I suck royal ass at photoshop. Once completed, I showed it around to a few friends for their take on it- you know; railway stations, mines, labour groups, random executions… No one really said anything. I just got a call from Amnesty International.
Then, that’s it. It went off the rails. No, my writing didn’t spiral down into a pit of hellishness not seen since Ugly Betty. I banged out another page or two of ball-grabbing hilarity. But, oh no. Life gladly took my efforts on top of Mount Son-of-a-bitch and threw them over the side.
My computer and the FWTC server decided to have a pissing contest. It didn’t matter who won, because I lost. FireFox told me that my session lasted a little too long, so it had to shut it down. So what? The FWTC server generously supplied by wordpress updates and saves every few minutes. I may lose that last joke about vagina hockey, but I can add it once I reopen the file. See? Easy!
Firefox decided it was imperative that I leave the website’s dashboard IMMEDIATELY! Something got its panties in a bunch and it wanted to shut the whole fucking system down. Alright. Fine. I’ll just click “save” on the dashboard and Bob’s your uncle. Wait a second…
What in fuck’s name just happened? the WordPress dashboard won’t let me save my work. In fact, it’s just staring at me like a retarded kid during a school bus ride. I click “Save” once. I click it twice; the little bastard just stands there. The “Save” button doesn’t give a shit about me or my needs. I can’t go forward, because Firefox won’t let me. I can’t reason with the dashboard, because it, flat-out, wants to see me in a rage that will take the house and half the block with it. Hmmm. The back arrow isn’t all grayed out. It’s my only choice, I guess. Otherwise, I’m going to be sitting in front of this fucking computer forever.
So, as I usually say when cars, computers, alcohol, and kids are concerned, Fuck It! The back arrow is my friend. It has to be. I just lost a day’s work here. Something has to still be hanging around on one of the previous windows. Right?
FUCK! That sure as hell didn’t work! It skipped a few dozen pages and took my ass to a page visit from two days ago? Why? Who’s fucking with me? One of the greatest masterpieces of all times is getting shit-canned because, the cyber-world is being a little bitch. All I wanted to do is complete this article, get it copy edited, then click “send.” BAM! Off to the next.
Well, when there’s hope, there’s someone to kick you in the head with an iron boot! I backtracked all the previous versions of my article. WordPress makes it relatively easy to compare and contrast versions just in case you want to include that line about that fat lady being arrested for causing a ruckus (to all you motherfuckas- sorry, I was channeling Busta Rhymes for a second) on that quiet car on that Amtrak train going from Oakland, CA to Salem, OR. I can’t quite remember if I called her a “douche bag with a phone attached” or “illiterate, obnoxious fat ass.” So, I go back into my archives (or versions as WordPress calls them) and check the older saved versions. That would have worked on any other day. Today is not any other-fucking day.
The most recent version that was saved was waaaaay back when I first started the article. It had a title and the by-line. That’s it. I was miffed. Maybe, a tad upset. Fine! I threw my keyboard out the window.
But, I couldn’t let my loyal fans (fan?) down! I diligently pieced together the article, calling upon my photographic memory to fit the puzzle together. After a couple of hours I was stoked. Screw the last version of the article! This one is IT! THIS ONE! It’s funnier, more offensive, and more ROODE than all the other versions combined. I AM ALL THAT IS MAN!
I hit “save” and sent a message to Tresckow that my future Nobel Prize worthy article was ready for copy editing. Now all I had to do was sit back and wait for the final product; a few funny pics here and there, some grammar correction, maybe a new variation on the term “ball sack…” That’s right, Jack. I was sitting pretty.
Somehow, some way Tresckow managed to fuck it up. Who the hell knows what happened? He hit the wrong key? Spilled whiskey on the keyboard? Called the server a reach-arounder? In any event, once again, my article was thoroughly punched in the taint. Half of it disappeared like in a bad Chris Angel sketch (sort of redundant). What I was left with was the original half of the article I lost a day before. Whether I was sabotaged, because of jealousy of my AWESOME writing skills or the server really wanted to dick me over; one thing was very clear:
For decades, hell, for centuries adults have uttered the same phrase over and over again. For the Greeks it was Εκείνοι δεκάρα παιδιά κάθαρμα! For the Vikings it went a little like Þeir sem fjandinn börn fantur! The Germans, the planet’s nation of Hallmark card poets gutturally spitting out their words use the phrase Jene verdammten Bastardkinder! We English speakers just say: Those damn bastard kids!
I hated it when “old” people told me to do shit. “Don’t run.” “Don’t play in the street.” “Don’t smash a land line telephone junction box.” And my favorite, “Don’t gouge obscene messages on someone’s car,” even though you assumed it was a gesture of trust and understanding.
But, then I grew older. I’ve matured. More or less. OK, I still think it’s hilarious when I shove someone’s [read: Ren] camera into a mini bar fridge and lock it. I still giggle like a 5-year-old when I watch Adult Swim. And, as you read this, my latest mission in life is to see a movie about a supernatural, mass murdering tire.
A complete and utter conspiracy that this movie wasn’t even nominated for that piece of shit farce that is the Academy Awards. It’s because Robert the Tire is black, isn’t it? Fucking racists.
But, I am fully aware that in the eyes of the US federal government that I’m an adult. I’ve got a mortgage, car payment, gym membership, and all that good shit grown ups have to shell out money for in order to sit comfortably with society. Hell, even if you wanted to start your own militia in the middle of Montana somewhere you would still have to cover your initial expenses. You work hard to set up a state-of-the-art security fence with sensor flood lights and barbwire. That bunker isn’t going to dig itself. Next thing you know, some jackass is going to charge you $50 a gallon to haul all the necessary armor and collapsible guard towers to your Bartertown that will surely be a feature story on CNN one day (if you play it right).
Apartment or estate, condo or compound in the middle of Idaho; there is one common denominator. Everyone is protective over what they have. Stuff breaks. Sometimes it’s shit that can wait a few years until it REALLY has to be fixed or replaced (screen doors, toilet seats, starter motor). Other times it’s shit that needs to be repaired ASAP. We’ve worked hard on our hovels and already have two strikes against us. With all the snow storms, heat waves, floods, and Yeti attacks, the last thing any of us needs is to have some snot nosed little bastard breaking our shit, because he’s bored.
One fine morning in the Tresckow home (read: way too fucking early) I was woken up out of my normal drunken stupor after a night of mixing whiskey and vanilla extract. Apparently, our kitchen window was broken. OK. Fine. I’ll do something Roode never does and take a deep breath. I won’t jump to the worst conclusion. There was one hell of a windstorm the night before. Shit was flying everywhere.
It was completely reasonable that the wind from hell slammed something into our window just so Mother Nature could have a good laugh. Suck a dick, Mother Nature. I had hope that was the case and I wouldn’t have to start hating so early in the morning. I mean, if I start hating before 10 AM I get burned out by 3. It throws me off kilter. But, I should have known better.
I went outside to find the branch or squirrel, or whatever that the wind sent smashing into our window. My plan was to set it on fire and damn it to hell. Sifting around through the rubble of broken glass and morning sleep, I saw it there. Staring at me. Mocking me. It was a big ass rock. Not just any rock. It was a throw’in rock.
Let me clue you in on some of the mouth-breathing fucktarded children that roam around the neighborhood. They do not deserve to exist. They walk in the middle of the street, laugh at on-coming cars (surely 2 tons of SUV can’t hurt them), and break shit when they’re bored. You know those big boxes Verizon uses to carry land phone lines and the internet? Those shit grinning dicks demolish them on a weekly basis. Writing racial epithets on the side of someone’s house? We’ve got that too. Throwing rocks through car windows? We fucking have that! In fact, the first week we moved into this little paradise, one of those snot flinging dipshits broke the rear window of our truck. And, before you smartasses say something about my winning personality being a magnet for rocks, keep in mind that we were in the house for less than THREE DAYS when this happened. Trust me, three days isn’t enough time for the Inner Tresckow to shine. Mother f’in Theresa could have just moved in. Those shit stains didn’t know either way.
I know what you’re thinking. No, I don’t live in downtown Beirut or somewhere along the Gaza Strip. It’s your average neighborhood filled with a mixture of hard-working people, retirees, assclowns, and bored groups of free-range children. These ape shits wander around the neighborhood like it’s their job. Their parents don’t seem to give a shit. Ma and Pa are nowhere to be found when little Jimmy is taking a nap in the middle of the street or when Leroy is playing a rousing game of “dump the trash cans.” Nice parental guidance, cornholes. Prepare for the day when the only time you get to talk to your delinquent is through a sheet of plexiglass while he’s sporting an orange jumper.
The rock still sit there. I’m not sure why. Maybe as a reminder that the next generation is full of assholes. Maybe I’ll use it as a weapon. It’s quite possible that I’m too lazy to pick it up. If I knew how Voo Doo worked, I’d stick it with pins or something on the off-chance the jackass who threw it end up in blinding, mind crippling pain.
It’s not just the damage to the window that put chocolate pudding in my trousers. It’s the fact that I had to call all God’s creation to report it. I’m not paying for this shit. You have to call your homeowner’s association, insurance company, the police… Oh, yeah. The police. Maybe, if they applied themselves and really worked hard, they could give even less of a shit. Here’s a hint that the police have no interest in your little vandalism problem: they take your report over the phone. You don’t know what the hell is really happening on the other end. For all I know, the desk jockey was washing his taint while occasionally saying, “Uh-huh.”
I, suppose, the lesson I learned is that today’s kids can roam free and do whatever they want without any consequences. And, I’m still not allowed to shoot them. How is this fair?
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”
As we’ve pointed out before, Hell’s Kitchen has become, to us, a necessary evil. I stated watching since season 4. I don’t remember why. Some combination of being drunk, bored, and… well, that’s really it.
Whatever the case, I was drawn in. Maybe, it’s because I enjoy seeing dumbasses getting their chocolate chutes stuffed with Gordon Ramsey‘s shoe. Maybe, it’s because of the occasional cute female contestant.
One thing I’ve noticed, over the seasons, is that there are a few enduring contestant personality types. No matter how many seasons the show has aired, these fuckers don’t learn. It’s like they go on the show without ever have actually seeing it. I’m not even sure how that shit is possible. Doesn’t it make sense to do a little research on the company that’s about to interview you? You want to know everything there is to know; especially who their ideal candidate is. Above all, you don’t want to make the same mistakes previous applicants have made. But, fuck that. If you’re going to crash and burn, do it Hindenburg style.
The Over Confident Douche
Confidence is important in many avenues of life. It shows that you know what you’re doing and, at least, have half of your shit under control. However, when you don’t have any of your shit under control, it’s down right ridiculous. If you consistently and constantly fuck up there is no reason to be full of yourself. OK, I’ll concede that (most of) the chefs wouldn’t be on the show if they at least didn’t know their ass from a stock pot. Even so, their ass-chappingly outrageous hubris smothers their talents like a fat man on a scooter.
One second they’re on the “confessional” cam talking up their mad skills and referring to themselves with bat-shit retarded nicknames (See: K-Greese from season 2 above). Sure, they have the world by the balls, until it’s go time. Then see how fast they go from “I can rock this shit!” to crying in the fetal position.
The Pretentious Asshat
Over confidence is one thing. Being an outright fuck-tastic asshole about your skills is another. Fine, you’re a good chef. Maybe you’re even one of the best ones in the contestant pool. Stop being a condescending bastard about it. Take the chuckle head above, Benjamin from season 7. This guy ended up with a god complex Bill Gates would envy. When not belittling the skills and ideas of others, the little turd actually tried to usurp control from sous chef, Scott. That’s sort of like making a grab for R. Lee Ermy’s bullhorn.
The other thing that irked the piss out of me was his incessant use of the word, “Oui.” Fucking say YES like every other human being in LA! That, alone, justifies a colonoscopy with a rusty pipe.
The Clueless Wonder
As good old Bonnie from season 2 shows us, Hell’s Kitchen is chocked full of clueless dipshits. They wander around from station to station in the kitchen with a perpetual “Huh?” look stamped to their faces. These people can’t tell time, remember what they’re cooking, and consistently confuse Chef Ramsey with someone who gives an ape shit.
Think back to high school (assuming you graduated/attended). If you’ve ever taken a science class with a lab assignment there’s a good chance you were saddled with a clusterfuck partner with a perma-duh expression. Maybe YOU were that kid. Hey, I’m not judging here. In any case, these dopes are less than dead weight. In the event of a nuclear attack, we can cram ourselves into their thick skulls to stave off radiation.
Oh, and there is NO way I’m not mentioning the waste of precious oxygen and space, Lacey from season 5. The pant load shuffled from station to station, hoping no one would notice that everything she did turned into a steaming pile of suck.
The Delusional Dipshit
This dillhole refuses to accept reality. No matter how many times they get a verbal beatdown or a vocal raping, they honestly believe that Chef Ramsey wouldn’t have done so if he didn’t “see potential.” OK, so you set fire to the kitchen, accidentally ground Ramsey’s dog into pate, and took a dump on the fish station. You’re only getting yelled at, because he BELIEVES IN YOU!
“Chef Ramsey wouldn’t take the time to read me the riot act, call me a donkey, then throw my raw fish in the air where he proceeded to shoot it like a clay duck with a .45 pistol he conveniently on him, because I’m a walking fuck nut. I KNOW he see something in me. He wouldn’t have shot my raw fish if he didn’t care.”
While we’re at it, let’s kick over a few corpses and look at each season’s clusterfuck who has destroyed everything he’s touched. I’m talking; everything was raw, except for the things that were SUPPOSED to be. He sneaks undercooked meat into the microwave with fingers crossed to fool the chefs into thinking it came out of the oven that way. Oh, my personal favorite, absolutely knowing what he’s doing is wrong but attempts to make some sort of Vegas casino Harry Blackstone shit to slide his monstrosity across the hot plate. Then, during their confessional sessions, they tell the audience how he rocked the service or challenge. He’s going to be the winner hands down! Christ, people! You fuckers as supposed to be chefs. The third time you bring a piece of meat to the hot plate, still cold and horrifyingly under cooked you need to get the fuck out of Hell’s Kitchen and never walk into any kitchen again. March straight to a doctor and get tested for autism or cholera or something. There has to be a physical reason for that much stupid.
This fucker is a combination of the delusional dipshit and pretentious asshat. On one hand, he knows he’s a cooking abortionist. On the other, their ego won’t allow them to admit it. So, in order to succeed, this slap happy fart knocker has to throw a monkey wrench or two into the works.
This joker has thrown so many people under the bus he might as well be charged with serial homicide. It’s not just that he Bill Clintons his way around the rules, it’s that this sick bastard actually gloats about it on camera. Hey, numb nuts, you think you’re super cleaver, right? Has it ever occurred to you that Chef Ramsey could be watching the dailies of the show recording?
The Near Dead
For the love of all that is holy, if your ass can’t walk up a flight of stairs without needing to camp out midway and finish the trip the next day DON’T FUCKING WORK ON A REALITY SHOW! Hell’s Kitchen has been a sad parade of the morbidly obese, infirmed, and plaque ridden. Many a season has had a contestant that needed to go to the emergency room for some sort of debilitating issue. Robert had to drop out of the finals in season 5, because he was two steps away from a full on heart explosion. In season 6, this portly summabitch almost passed out when peddling some sort of bicycle contraption. Season 2’s Larry didn’t even make it to the first dinner service before his ass was bounced to the hospital.
Don’t get me started on Tom from season 5. This hapless turd had to have come from 15th century England, because he had a constant and inexplicable case of sweating sickness. Let’s just say he put a little bit of himself in every meal.
*Side note: Being sweaty is perfectly forgivable in certain cases.
This sexless wonder-tard unleashes a never-ending barrage of sexist comments, but doesn’t understand why women think he’s a pig. Take Jason up there from season 4; this whiny, snail-like, Humpty Dumpty motherfucker had enough problems cooking Spam and not shitting on the floor. The sexism is really the only quality the series could showcase. Take a look for yourself to see this train wreck of a ball sack at the 1:55 mark.
In an effort not to be a one hit wonder, Tom from season 5 joined the “I hate bitches” train. Sweaty got all pissy when he was chosen to be on Virginia’s team in the finale. But, what did he care? That handsome son-of-a-gun could get any woman he wanted.
Finally, we’re at the most entertaining, albeit banana sandwich nuts, Hell’s Kitchen personality. Whether this window licker is talking to the voices in his head, getting into a karate fight with imaginary friends, or just plain losing his shit one thing is clear– they’re all making sandwiches without bread.
Let’s take Matt from Season 4. There were more than a few times when it was completely conceivable this fucker could have gone completely ballistic and wore someone’s pancreas as a hat.
In, not surprisingly, his last appearance as a contestant, this simple bastard started what can only be described as a nuclear grade meltdown. Check the video, below. At the 3:07 mark he starts smacking himself on the head and whimpering. Not crazy enough? At 3:39 he makes an oh so subtle death threat to Christina. NO? You fuckers want blood. Alright, how about at 3:05 mark where he can be seen going through a range of pants-shitting emotions, all of them insane?
Then, there’s Raj from the current season (8). It became quite evident after his third karate fight with the refrigerator that he was destined for the laughing academy.
But, the elite of the giggling shit-flingers is most definitely Joseph from season 7. This chuckle head went through too many obstacle courses without a helmet. Not only does he seem completely incapable of answering a question without going completely John Rambo, he decides that this whole Hell’s Kitchen thing is bullshit. It’s time for motherfuckers to throw down!
Hey, I’m all about throwing a dash of UFC into Hell’s Kitchen. That’s appointment TV! But, Joey comes off as a slightly retarded steroid popper. This whole scene was so goofy-stupid, yet enthralling. I’m still not sure it wasn’t completely rigged.
As long as this damn show is on, I’ll watch. It’s a long spiral to hell. I don’t want to watch it. I’m an educated man. I know better. But, it’s like a traffic accident on the interstate; no matter how gruesome it is, I simply cannot look away.
I’m just going to come right out and say it. I am out of work. Got a problem with that? Conservatives would say I’m just too lazy and spoiled by unemployment. Liberals would say I can’t fend for myself. I say eat shit.
Roode alluded to this situation late last year. The difference is that Roode found a position that allows him to carry firearms and wield the law as his own, personal nightstick. You got it right, he’s a guard at one of the many strip clubs in Western Montana.
As “Chief Editor/Head Writer,” this whole situation is particularly aggravating. I am supposed to set the standard for the FWTC writing staff. You know, lead by example and shit. Sorry, I had problems keeping a straight face on that one. As long as Ren is on staff, I could live in a cardboard box while eating day old donuts slamming Thunderbird and I would STILL be the normal one.
Personally, I abhore the welfare state. I hate the nanny state, too. There are some horrific ham-fisted deals going on behind the scenes (if Cracked.com can be believed). Too many people take advantage of the system and take what they didn’t earn. But, I can’t bring down my household because of my ideals. Besides, it’s insurance. I paid for it. Fuck if I’m not going to use it. Still, getting less than half your old salary is a nutshot to the ego and severely limits your ability to buy and stockpile weapons for a Red Dawn-esq scenario..
But, your state’s department of labor is there to help you! Help you feel worse, I mean. What? Does your state actually help without inducing mind shattering shit-pissed rage? Then, you’re living in a fantasy land! Name one thing that government involvement has streamlined? The department of motor vehicles? Building permits? Highway construction? How about paperwork to eliminate the need for paperwork? It’s pretty much a given that government intervention designed to make your life “easier” is about as useful as an overflowing toilet without the charm.
Earlier this month, our president signed the unemployment extension legislation into law (I’m not here to debate that, because I really don’t care what you think). OK, great. It doesn’t look like it really impacts me. But, what the hell? Every little bit helps. Every state took the extension and ran with it. Not only were there thousands of thousands of people already in the system that had to refile, there were thousands that needed to file for the first time. Something this serious and complicated needs to be thought out. A proper plan needs to be drawn up so the state can wade through the throngs of citizens who were career raped. So, LET’S SQUEEZE IT ALL INTO ONE WEEK! It’s a raffle. Everyone gets their ticket and has to show up on their designated day. It’s sort of like jury duty, but less organized.
So, I did what I was told. I need, at least, some income. Christ knows this website doesn’t pay dick and I’m not pretty enough to whore the streets. I stupidly figured that the state had a plan. Come on, with that many people in the system, they surely had some sort of efficient process in place. It was as efficient as carrying water in a bottomless bucket. I decided that I needed to play this well. It’s like Christmas shopping on Black Friday. Get there before the doors open and you’re golden. WRONG! The 400 people before me had the same idea. There was a line leading all the way to the parking lot and little shanty towns set up under the trees. Fine, whatever. I’ll wait in the waiting area that smells like the steerage section on a 19th century steamer. I was number 88. They were on number 40. It’s not ideal, but it’s doable.
What the staff failed to tell me and everybody else, is that they ran out of tickets. They had to break into new rolls to have enough for the ever-growing crowd. So, there were blue tickets, green tickets, pink tickets, yellow tickets… it was a rainbow of pain. That’s the sort of thing you want to keep a secret. Instead of being number 88, I was 388 (pink ticket 88). That number 40 on the little display screen? Well, that was another color. There were roughly 348 pissed off people in front of me. Good times!
True to form, every chair had a sweaty ass in it. So, I stood. I’m a big boy. Sometimes you just have to stand. There were four staff members on duty attempting to process 500 people by 4:30. I’m no math wizard, but something about that shit doesn’t add up. Especially if you consider they were only processing less than 26 people an hour. Good thinking state bureaucrats!
After about two hours of this shit, I decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I did some quick math and figured that I could leave, go back to my house, eat lunch, watch some Futurama, and be back roughly two hours later and my number still wouldn’t have been called. By the time I returned, the crack staff at the Department of Labor should have gotten through enough mouth breathers to close the gap. Why, I bet I’ll be back with 20 people still in front of me. Weighing the odds and tired of standing in a strangely un-air conditioned building (it was only 98 degrees that day. That’s window opening weather) I beat cheeks like BP dodging real blame.
My plan was perfect. I laughed to myself as I pictured all those suckers in the state run cattle car. I’m the smart one! The amount of time I had to spend with a room full of “colorful” people from around the state was drastically reduced. I’m a fucking genius! I drive back to bureaucratic hell a little more energized. I’ve been gone almost two hours. They had to have made some serious progress during my absence.
Somehow, they seemed to have gone BACKWARDS while I was out. There were still over 100 people in front of me. How is that possible? Oh, right. They reduced the amount of staff on duty. It seemed like the right thing to do. It’s not like you need more than a few people to process a few hundred sweaty, annoyed, and smelly applicants.
At least this time around I found a chair. Hoo-hah! I get to sit down. Now, do you really think it would be that easy or painless? Not only do I have the worst luck with airline seating, my ass chaping misfortune seems to extend to seats of all kinds. To my right: an impossibly fat man that smelled like spoiled milk. To my left: an extra from the Road Warrior. In the middle of that mess was me, trying like hell not to physically touch either ass clown. I sucked in my extremities and got into what can only be described as a sitting fetal position.
What’s a long line leading to the mouth of hell without some dill weed throwing a monkey wrench in the gears? It never fails, whether in line for the movies or in the bank, there is ALWAYS someone who has to argue with the ticket monkey behind the counter. There we are, a shit ton of people waiting for our glorious turn. Then the brakes slam and the car comes to a screeching halt.
Following the rules the state sets for unemployment paperwork doesn’t require a rocket scientist, believe me. Literally, it’s:
- Fill out form
- Wait in line for as long as it takes for the earth to make one revolution around the sun
- Show your driver’s license and social security card (or something official with your name and the ssn on it)
- Say “yes” to a bunch of questions.
But, noooooooo! An old fiber muncher was having a debate with one of the clerks. I was close enough t o hear what was going on (so much for privacy). The hag was quibbling over something that was written in black and white in front of her friggin eyes! You know the type of person that just doesn’t get what you’re saying no matter how many different ways you try to explain it? This crone was the queen of that tribe of retards. It took three clerks to tell her that she needed her social security card. Not satisfied, the blue hair demanded to ask for the person in charge. So, not only was this jackhole tying up FOUR clerks, she wanted to sit there and argue with a fifth. The crowd behind her started to collect pitchforks and torches to get this bitch out of the way.
As the clocked wound down and the staff slogged through the numbers, all I could do was send SOS messages through my cell. I normally keep to myself in situations like these. I don’t want to talk to people and I sure as hell don’t want people starting random conversations with me. Just because we’re waiting in the same line doesn’t mean we’re buddies. Unfortunately, not everyone shares my cardinal rule. The fat bastard to the right of me was yucking it up with an old bitty behind him. It was like being a fly on the wall in a retirement home. Ceaseless discussions on how the “new” generation doesn’t work as hard as they did and their baseless feeling of entitlement. I wasn’t quite sure which generation they were talking about. Both were old enough to be referring to the baby boomers, gen x, gen y, and whatever the hell the subsequent generations are called. I managed to suppress my urge to slap both of them across the face, Three Stooges style. I’m not saying I totally disagree with what they were saying (every generation has their group of whiny little bitches). I had an issue with something else coming out of the rotund dude’s mouth.
Each stale word he pushed out of his mouth was accompanied by new levels of ass breath. At first, I wasn’t sure what the hell it was. Did someone leave a sandwich in the sun? Did a dog take a dump in the waiting room? Wait a minute, the putrid odor gets stronger whenever this dude speaks. Son-of-a-bitch! Really? Who’s messing with me? The smell was a cross between spoiled milk and dog ass. How couldn’t he know? This shit made my eyes water. I’ve been near paper plants with more pleasant smells. Good Christ, pop a Mentos!
As the funeral procession of the damned waned on, they were slowly getting closer to my number. I was hot, sweaty, and pissed off about the carnival of errors unfolding before my very eyes. Twenty numbers away from mine, I got up stand by the counter. I wanted to be ready to spring into action as soon as they called sweet number 88. Some people gave up over the course of the day and left. At this point, they were sailing through numbers, skipping over the no shows.
A new crop of fucktards populated the waiting area. As soon as I saw the douche wearing a wife beater, I KNEW he was going to fuck something up. With the captivating scent of Marlboro and Wild Turkey, he stood there jawing with another member of God’s forsaken. He was loud. He was smelly. He was a dick. His voice boomed throughout the room, obscuring the voices of the clerks. Number 85 rolled around. This was it! I’m three numbers away from ending this bullshit. 85 was no where to be found. Neither was 86. Well, wife beater douche thought it was hilarious that the clerks were skipping numbers. So, in the classiest of styles, he started shouting out the next numbers. For no fucking reason. He was so loud and obnoxious, he drowned out numbers being called by the clerks and proceeded to yell out, “87, 88, 89!” The problem was that either the clerks weren’t paying attention or they we confused by this tool bag. Whatever it was, those assholes picked up where he left off and started from 90. Wait? What the hell!? They skipped my fucking number completely!
To this day, I’m surprised I didn’t completely lose my shit. I went to the chick handing out the forms and told her what happened. The security guard reassured me and said he would take care of it. Why the security guard was involved in the first place, I don’t know. He was the only employee there that actually gave a shit. The man actually handed water out to people earlier. Somehow, the state hadn’t crushed his soul.
So, there I was, waiting. Again. At least I knew I was next. There was an opening at the counter and the guard waved me to it. OK, great. Finally, someone was helpful. he told me to sit tight and the clerk would be right there. Oh she was right there, alright. Right there and bitchy.
With the eye of Satan and the attitude of a state worker on crack, she asked me what I was doing there. I told her my sob story about being skipped. Oh no, that wasn’t good enough. She couldn’t believe that such a thing happened. I must not have been paying attention. I’m the asshole. Who said I could sit in front of her desk, anyway? She has important papers there. I could have rooted through them and stolen social security numbers. This shit was really happening?
Trying to be the good guy, I explained myself for a fourth time. I told her the guard sat me here and told me to stay. Oh, that unleashed a shit storm of cataclysmic proportions. She then launched into this tirade about how the guard isn’t in charge. He doesn’t call the shots. Who does he think he is? Why would I do what he said? This turbo-bitch was on a Sherman’s March to the Sea type roll.
To show me who was REALLY in charge, she called the guard over and gave him a load of demeaning shit. This took five minutes. Five pain filled minutes. For a person who goes all out not to be noticed, this was hell for me. This shit was drawing attention. After the spirited debate [read: pissing contest], the security guard won a hollow victory. I say hollow, because she was mumbling about putting him in his place. Being that I was involved in the guard’s insubordination, I quickly became the focal point of her wet pants pissiness.
I waited in line (more or less) for seven hours, braved harsh odors, and sweaty numbnuts just to be cock blocked at the very end. The only way I can describe this is by using the phrase, “paperwork rape.” Don’t bitch that I’m making light of actual rape. It’s the only term that comes close to doing justice to the sorry experience this colon puncher put me through. She violently threw form after form at me while snarling, “Sign this!’ There was nothing I could do. I was guilty by association. All that time invested for five minutes of a Doctor Mengele– style review.
I felt like the lone survivor of an A-Bomb attack. I staggered to exit with a mix of Irish car bomb rage and car accident victim. I had to go to, yet, ANOTHER office to wait in line. This branch of the department of labor is responsible for making sure I am properly oriented to my jobless situation. Properly oriented? Assholes, I’m already in the program and have been sitting with my unemployed thumb up my ass for MONTHS. None of this shit was new. Alas, I had to go through the motions just to go through the motions. I was ordered to create an account on the state’s job site, even though I already had one open. That one didn’t count. I had to open another one, because those were the rules. I wasted my time and tax payer money to re-do everything I did eons ago. WTF?
As if to make sure the sting from the state’s ball tagging was felt long after I left, there was a mandatory orientation to sit though. Why in the hell were they putting me through a “welcome to unemployment” presentation so far after the fact? I asked, but the only answers I got sounded a lot like the responses at the Nuremberg Trials.
We filed in the small room with no light and a running PowerPoint presentation. Alright, it’s always possible that there is something to learn. Maybe, I’ll be able to get some useful information. I’ve had the luck of a one-armed paper hanger in the job market. Perhaps, there is a nugget of information waiting to be mined.
It was 15 minutes of a job hunter special ed class. Ten of those bile filled minutes were spent on explaining the technological innovation that is the computer. I’m dead serious. Most of the presentation revolved around basic computer skills. It was designed for people who have never graduated to audio CDs, let alone realized that punch cards were phased out.
This is what our tax dollars are paying for; hours of wasted time, useless resources, and state employee blood feuds. As I said, I believe the majority of unemployment is going to the career-fuckedified. These people don’t want to be on it, they were shit canned due to no fault of their own, and have the sad privilege of being a statistic for pro and anti government spending advocates. Sure, I was up to my eyeballs in the vo-tech class at every high school. I was also in the mix with former high ranking execs that were bounced out of their companies after 20 years of service. Despite all our difference- wife beaters, misspelled tattoos, the smell of homemade alcohol- we all shared one thing. We are are being boned by the recession/not a recession/kind of a recession/recession- rebound/ boarder line 1930’s depression. It’s awesome being used as a data point in a debate! Rest assured this whole thing is going to be written about and philosophized to death in future history books.
Not that our kids are going to be able to attend college to read them. I’ll still be paying off my ridiculous student loans ten years after they put me in the ground. I seriously questioned the quality of my education and its expense when my alma mater decided it was better to pass a clusterfuck tragedy of a student, because they didn’t want to deal with him anymore.
I’m on a roll! To continue my “Things on TV I Want to Physically Hurt, Then Shit On” series, I’d like to expand my musings beyond brain hemorrhage causing jingle jangle commercial jingles. Yes, once they get into your head, you’ll cut your own ears off to be free of the pain. But, we can do without ears. You tell me what the shit in this world is really worth listening too. Don’t give me that artsy fartsy answer of “music.” I love Alice In Chains just as much as Ren and Tresckow, but I would sacrifice hearing some of the best heroine and death oriented lyrics in the known universe if it meant no more shit grinning jingles.
He would only have to hear 50% of these ear canal rotting songs.
*Note: If you are blind and offended by my statement… No. Forget it. What the fuck are you doing on the web in the first place. This shit doesn’t come in Braille.
Why would anyone even consider plucking out their own eyes? Seeing your parents bumping uglies on the kitchen table? Getting a glimpse of ANY man in a speedo? Well, yeah. But, what are the odds of that shit happening. Eh, the speedo thing plaques Europe, I’ll give you that. However, there is a more sinister force that penetrates your inner sanctum like Michael Jackson… NO. Not this week. I’m nixing all MJ jokes from this damn column.
What the shit was I saying? That’s right. There’s a more sinister force out there that knows where you live and can get to you anytime it wants. It comes disguised as sequential images of douche bag wanna be celebrities, chefs, and (not enough) Hayden Panettiere.
Burger King: The “King”
You know what’s a brilliant advertising idea? Give up? How about creating a mascot that embodies every viewer’s childhood fears? Smooth job, Burger King. You fuckers are making sandwiches without bread.
What is this thing supposed to communicate? It’s sure as hell isn’t the flame broiled taste of a grill kissed bacon cheeseburger. Using a stone faced, silent, pantsless creep with all the charm of a rapist doesn’t quite hit the mark. The King is there, watching some dude sleep. He’s there at some chick’s bedroom window. The fucker is shoving his hand into random people’s pants pockets on the street. Right, he’s “giving money back.” I’m sure it has nothing to do with copping a feel on an unsuspecting pedestrian’s junk.
While we’re on the subject of outright nonsensical bullshit, let’s devote some time to this bugged eyed, Mysto & Pizzi jamming motherfucker. Why, it’s the money you could be saving with Geico! You asshole! That’s cash you could have spent on porn, Quaaludes, or a hooker (sometimes the three come as a package).
This is another creepy bastard that just stares. It doesn’t say anything, it’s an inanimate stack of filthy 5 dollar bills. What the fuck does it want? So what? You opted for State Farm instead of Geico. Does that mean you’re going to be haunted by this googly eyed prick until you switch? Here’s an idea, pick the fucker up, rip his eyes off, and hit a strip club. Tear him apart, one bill at a time and cram them in a stripper’s g-string. Now THAT makes financial sense!
Geico is such a mascot shit generator, I had to put it on the list twice. I was on board the Geico caveman commercials in the beginning. They were short, funny, and semi witty. But, just like everything else on TV, the Man had to bludgeon our skulls with a once good thing. These mop heads are almost as tired and played out as Paris Hilton. Or, pretty much anything on the E! network (except The Soup, although McHale’s NBC show sucks a massive amount of slug sphincter).
When did it all go downhill? The commercials were still bearable until around 2007. Shit, I was still drinking the Neanderthal kool aid when they launched their own micro site. Then, the executives had to piss all over it. They threw the caveman concept down on the ground, unzipped, and rained yellow all over its parade. You know what I’m talking about. This piece of rotting warthog shit: the TV series. I knew this was going to be the death knell for the whole concept. What made the commercials work was the quick timing and brevity. Stretch out that concept for a full 22 minutes and you have a televised suicide note. It redefined bad and not in the “so bad it’s good” way. This was Teddy Z bad. OK, some of you children may not get that reference. How about this one? The show was “Jay Leno Show” bad.
Aflac: The Aflac Duck
How do you move insurance? Dub one of the most annoying voices in the history of mankind over a duck. I don’t have anything against the duck, per say. I like ducks. Ducks are fine. I guess this is more of a hatred for Gilbert Gottfried.
Wikipedia identifies his “distinctively loud, obnoxious, rasping, grating voice” as a trademark. OK, fine. If that’s the case, then sufferating pustules are the Bubonic Plague‘s tradmark. Barbed wire and zyclon b are Germany’s. While we’re at it, we can say male on male rape to banjo music is the trademark of the US South. No? Those aren’t trademarks? Just because something’s associated with a person, a place, or a thing doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a trademark. It just means Godfrey’s act is a big old pile of annoying smothered in shit sauce. I wish that fucking duck would peck your larynx out.
Six Flags: Mr. Six
Take a good, long look at this fucker. That’s right, take it all in. We don’t even have a Six Flags within a thousand mile radius of here. But, that doesn’t stop those corporate ass cracks from barraging us with this creepy, latex laden, fake geriatric ball buster.
Mr. Six, as they call him, dances like a scary epileptic patient to shitty Euro-trash pop music. If that wasn’t enough, they gave the asshole his own bus to, apparently, roam around the country and pick up children. I wonder if this guy hangs out with the King. Jesus, now I feel unclean.
It’s no wonder why these dill holes have gone bankrupt. Hey! Assholes! Your mascot is freaking everybody the fuck out! What the hell is wrong with you? You would have a better chance of dragging people to your playground of death if you advertised all the random animal attacks and appendage severing incidents.