Jesus Wants Steve Jobs Dead Just As Much As You Do, Sprint. Let’s All Work Together. (Updated)

Dear Sprint:

The Big Bean and I have been customers of yours for like ten years and that’s mostly because we’re lazy but for the purposes of this conversation let’s call it “customer loyalty.”  Over that time we’ve been through lots of phones and talked to you a lot on those phones for help with those phones and for the most part you’ve been pretty helpful, at least, you haven’t completely FUCKED US like some other people (cough*AT&T*cough) have. For example, YOU’VE never forced me to talk to 28 (not an exaggeration) DIFFERENT ASSHOLES (one of whom HUNG UP ON ME OH YES HE DID) to get an issue resolved that YOU created, right before Thanksgiving, when you’re supposed to be nice to people and give them presents and candy and customer credits and stuff instead of making them cry and scream and beg.

I might be getting my holidays mixed up but you get my point. 

What I’m trying to say is that over the years I’ve developed high expectations of you, Sprint.  And by “high expectations” I mean “I expect you to not fuck me.” 

But then my new phone, the phone that I love and want to marry and make babies with because it’s so amazing and solves all the problems of the world with a simple touch of the screen – you know, kind of like Jesus, but better – THAT PHONE DIED this weekend.  JUST LIKE JESUS.  Well, not EXACTLY like Jesus, but still.  They’re both dead, aren’t they?  They might as well be related.

So I went to your store with my dead Jesus phone and high expectations but you just scoffed at me, Sprint — and by “scoffed” I mean “made me wait while you helped other customers.”  Which is LAME.  Jesus thinks so, too.  He says you’re going to hell unless you get some more stuff in your store to keep people entertained while they wait, like a few magazines and maybe some Sudoku or Jenga or something.  Jesus LOVES Jenga.

Also, if you have a big screen HD-TV in your store it’s just WRONG to show nothing but your stupid marketing video with the fat guy.  You can’t expect people to NOT die of boredom when all you give them to stay entertained for 45 MINUTES is a bunch of Sprint phones that don’t even work half the time (like the WORST MARKETING STRATEGY EVER, by the way) and a fat guy in HD hawking whatever crap you’ve got out this week to try and compete with Apple (which, whatever it is — FAIL). 

So basically it’s like you’re murdering people.  With boredom. 

And don’t think Jesus and I didn’t notice that you spent WAY more time with the cute girl in the short skirt (which, really?  It’s 30 DEGREES OUTSIDE, idiot) than you did with the weird smelling guy who was there before her.  We noticed, Sprint.  It’s why I flashed my boobs at you.  Because you’re skeevy and that was obviously the only way to get your attention.  And also because Jesus told me to.

And then when I finally HAD your attention you just scoffed at me again, and this time by “scoffed” I mean “stared at my boobs while I explained that my phone was dead like Jesus and needed resurrecting.”  SO disrespectful. To both me AND Jesus.

And THEN you told me you had to order a new phone and it would take at least 24 hours for the new one to arrive and during that time I WOULD HAVE NO PHONE, and when I started the ugly cry and threatened to punch you in the nads you just covered your groin with your clipboard and asked me to put my boobs away.  No hug or anything.  It’s like you didn’t even CARE that you were hurting Jesus.

And now it’s been 24 hours and I tried to wait patiently, I really did, Sprint – but I think I might have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Just like someone who’s lost a limb, you know how sometimes they can still feel it like it’s there?  Well I keep having these phantom vibrations but when I reach for my phone it’s not in my back pocket and then I remember that it’s dead like Jesus.  I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is.  Otherwise, I have no idea how to explain all these ass vibrations.  So obviously I HAVE to call you every fifteen minutes to see if my new phone is there yet.  I don’t have any choice, it’s part of my illness. Stop being such a DICK about it, okay?  Show some compassion, for Christ’s sake. 

What I’m trying to say is, it’s been well over 24 hours now and I still don’t have my phone and JESUS IS PISSED AT YOU, SPRINT.  This is fair warning.  Get me my phone back so I can start mating with it.  The sooner I start making half-breed human-phone babies, the sooner I can sell them on the black market and put Apple out of business because hey, Steve Jobs may be the shit but even HE can’t top half-breed human-phone babies, and then WE ALL WIN, Sprint. You and me and Jesus. 

Otherwise, you’re gonna BURN, dude.  I’m just sayin’.

Sincerely,

  .                   

  .                 

UPDATE:  It should be noted that my new phone DID finally arrive, and Sprint Store Dude wasn’t skeevy at all when I went to pick it up.  In fact, he was kind of awesome.  That didn’t stop me from publishing this post, though, because I’m a bitch  writing a new post would’ve involved work, and I think we all know how I feel about that  I felt it was important to document the experience, which of course was all true except for the parts about Jesus, Jenga, my boobs, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and murdering Steve Jobs.  And some other bullshit that I totally made up but can’t remember right now.

Anyway, because I obsessively sometimes stalk keep an eye on my blog stats, I saw today that someone FROM SPRINT had read this post, and in a sick  pathetic  desperate attempt to drive more people to this blog, which some people would call incredibly funny and insightful  and by “some people” I mean “me and absolutely no one else”, I tweeted this:

I know, right?!  It’s CONFOUNDING that more people don’t read this blog, with how hilariously funny I am!  But the thing is, someone from Sprint actually saw that tweet, and they tweeted this back to me:

And I’m all, Are you KIDDING ME right now?  Sprint seriously wants to HELP me?  What happened to the shitty customer service I totally made up spent an entire day writing a blog post to bitch about  document?   They’re jacking with the whole superior-to-the-multi-billion-dollar-corporate-conglomerate vibe I had going!  SHUT UP SPRINT DAMMIT YOU ARE HARSHING MY GIG. IX-NAY ON THE USTOMERSERVICE-CAY.  KAPEESH?

And they were all

FUCKING TOUCHÉ, SPRINT.  Humor points.  They even included the little semicolon smile to show me that they mean business.

And that’s when they stopped but I’m pretty sure it’s just because now they’re busy exploring new ways to credit my account with hundreds of dollars because I’m so hilarious  murder Steve Jobs  provide excellent customer service.  And whatever they decide to do, I’M IN, SPRINT.  I’M TOTALLY IN.

And so are my boobs.

And so is Jesus.

The End and Amen.

Tags: god loves me, Jesus has a brother and his name is my cell phone, Steve Jobs is dead if I ever figure out how to mate with my phone

So last week I wrote this post, about how the people of IKEA shun forks and refuse to eat anything but soup and ice cream because of their weird, fucked up Switzerlandish culture.  And also, about how the Big Bean’s an asshole. 

I’m paraphrasing, of course. Mostly.

Anyway, in that post I included a picture of the insanely disproportionate cutlery set the Fork Bigots forced me to buy, and it was hilariously funny, if I do say so myself.  Which I do.

See?  Hilarious, right? Especially that part about the spoon being the size of my head.  THAT was fucking HYSTERICAL.  Because it was HYPERBOLE, people.  I was exaggerating for comedic effect.  I do that sometimes to be funny.  The spoon wasn’t really the size of my head! That would be ridiculous!  My head is SOOO MUCH LARGER than that spoon!  Get it?  Ha ha ha haaaa! 

GOD I’m funny. 

BUT.

My husband’s 40^th birthday was this weekend and, as anyone who knows me or follows me on Twitter or Facebook or ran into me at the grocery store or met me for more than five seconds over the past couple of weeks knows, I threw him a BAD ASS surprise party.  I mean seriously, it BLEW his mind.  It’s amazing he didn’t have a heart attack because you know, a surprise like that? At his advanced age? Kind of a heart attack just waiting to happen.  But he survived it, and the food was spectacular and the wine flowed freely and everyone had a good time and my ass looked FABULOUS in the jumpsuit I wore—

Yes, I said jumpsuit.  Okay, yeah, it sounds weird but trust me, it wasn’t.  It was cute.  No really! Shut up.  Stop snickering.  YOU WEREN’T THERE.  YOU DON’T GET TO JUDGE ME AND MY ASS AND OUR JUMPSUIT.  

BUT.

I digress.

The point is, I had this party for the Big Bean, and everyone was amazed at how wonderfully marvelous I am to have pulled it off, as they should be.  And I was the big hero and they all lifted me up on their shoulders and chanted “Beej! Beej! Beej!” while tickertape fell from the sky (finally) and I got to wear a superhero cape and the Big Bean promised to clean the toilets and do the laundry for the rest of our days together, to repay me for my incredibleness, and everyone forgot the Big Bean’s birthday while they celebrated the amazingness of ME.

Okay, that’s not really the point.

And none of that actually happened. 

BUT.

It should have.  At least the laundry part.

Anyway, the point is, LOTS of photos were taken, and the Big Bean and I appeared in a lot of them, because he was the guest of honor and we’re married and stuff.  And the next day I was going through them and found myself pleasantly surprised because in at least one or two of them I didn’t look like a circus freak, which is how I usually appear in photos, especially the really important ones documenting major life events that I wish to share with family and friends.

So I was happy.  I didn’t even flinch as they uploaded, uploaded, “Upload complete!”

BUT.

As I clicked through my new Facebook album, tagging photo after photo – “Here I am!” “Look at me and my jumpsuit!”  “See? I’m NOT a circus freak!” — I started to notice a pattern. 

Do you see it?  You see it, don’t you?

My head is alarmingly tiny.

I mean, no kidding, that noggin is CRAZY small!  Look at me!  I look like Pepe the Prawn from the Muppets!

THE HELL?!?

WHO SHRUNK MY HEAD??!!??

And before you say it’s not my head that’s small, it’s the Big Bean’s head that’s HUGE, let me just point to Exhibit C:

Note similar, normal head sizes of husband and husband’s friend. 

Note abnormally tiny head on Beej.

I don’t care HOW smoking hot I might have looked in my super groovy jumpsuit – with a head that tiny, I promise you, nobody was looking at my ass.

OHMYGOD HAS MY HEAD ALWAYS BEEN THIS SMALL?  Jesus, it has, hasn’t it? How could I not have known?  Why has no one ever told me?  This is really the kind of thing you should tell someone, you know?  If my BFF’s head was this fucked up, I would totally tell her.   It might be hard for her to accept at first, but I wouldn’t just let her run around looking like Beetlejuice dude without realizing it!  That’s SO wrong!

(now accepting applications for new BFF)

Shit! I think that spoon ACTUALLY MIGHT BE the size of my head! 

I’m thinking maybe I owe the Switzerlandish people an apology. 

.  

.

P.S. Just to add hellish injury to rapidly hurled insult, in the few photos where my head doesn’t look like it’s been shrunken by voodoo ninjas — I look scared.  I mean, like really scared.  Like, I’m pretending to be happy and having fun, but on the inside I’m fucking terrified.  Just look:

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO ME AT THIS PARTY?!?

Call me if you have info.

Tags: abnormally large heads, clown hookers, jumpsuits

IKEA: Hi there! Can I help you?

ME:  Yes! Finally!  I’ve been walking around this store for half an hour and I’m completely turned around. I’ve never seen so many secret passages. It’s like the house from Clue.  I keep looking for Mrs. Peacock, but she’s probably in the men’s room.  har har Get it? *snort*

IKEA: Yes. Well. Is there something specific I can help you find?

ME: Yeah, I’d like some forks please. 

IKEA: You bet! Follow me… Cutlery is just right through this secret closet compartment and around the cafeteria – did you want a meatball? No? Cinnamon roll?  No? Okay, well, here we go… through this little pretend bathroom pantry, you might have to suck in your tummy a bit and oops! watch your head! and… All right, here we go.  Here’s a 60-piece set of flatware with 12 forks included.

ME: Yeah.  Great, but listen, I don’t want an entire SET, I just want forks.

IKEA: Right. Here they are. Along with the rest of the 60-piece set.

ME: No, I don’t want the other stuff – I just want the FORK part of the set.

IKEA:  Just the fork part?

ME: Did I stutter? 

IKEA: (disapproving look)

ME:  Yes. Just the fork part. Michael Jordan’s been sneaking into my house and stealing my forks and now I have to replace them.

IKEA: ?!??

ME:  (using fake sign language, speaking slowly) Mi-chael. Jor-dan. Stole. My. Forks. He’s in cahoots with Kanye West and Jay Leno to drive me bananas and together they all teamed up to distract me and steal my forks. ¿Comprendé? 

IKEA: ???!!!???!

ME:  Just give me some fucking forks.

IKEA: Well I’m sorry ma’am, but we don’t sell just forks.

ME: Why not?  You sell just SPOONS, I see them right there. A package of eight spoons, right there.  See it?  I want exactly that, but with forks instead.  Get it?

IKEA: Yes, but we don’t sell forks like that. 

ME: Why not? 

IKEA: Well, we just don’t.

ME: Why not?  Is it because you’re Switzerlandish?  Do Switzerlandish people have something against forks?  

IKEA: Actually, we’re based in SWEDEN.

ME: Whatever. What’s your problem with forks?

IKEA: We don’t HAVE a problem with forks.

ME: Yet, you refuse to sell them.

IKEA: We DO sell them. Just not alone.

ME: This all sounds very prejudicial against forks, if you ask me.  The Switzerlandish people have a lot of explaining to do.

IKEA:  Ma’am, we’re SWEDISH.  Also, “Switzerlandish” is not a word.

ME: BUT DO YOUR PEOPLE USE FORKS?

IKEA: Yes, of course we use forks!

ME: So why don’t you SELL the forks?

IKEA: We DO sell the forks, just not on their own. We sell them as part of this nice 60-piece set.  See? 

ME: I don’t want your shitty 60-piece set.  It doesn’t look right, anyway.  Those spoons are unbelievably HUGE.

IKEA: All the better to enjoy a hot bowl of delicious soup!

ME: Look. I don’t want to ladle delicious soup into my mouth with a spoon the size of my head.  It’s weird.

IKEA: Well you’re in luck, because this set ALSO comes with much smaller spoons!

ME: Those spoons are incredibly tiny!  What do I want with incredibly tiny spoons?

IKEA: Well, they’re perfect for stirring things like coffee and tea.

ME: Can’t I just use a regular-sized spoon for that?

IKEA: You can if you HAVE one.

ME: Huh. (processing)

So then what’s up with the tiny forks in the set?  What are THOSE good for? 

IKEA: You’ve got me there.

ME: So, let me get this straight.  You sell regular-sized forks, but only as part of a 60-piece set. 

IKEA: Yes.

ME:  The 60-piece set also comes with really really HUGE spoons, really really TINY spoons, and really really tiny forks that no one can explain. 

IKEA: Yes.

ME:  If I want regular-sized SPOONS, which I don’t, I can only have them if I purchase a separate package of just spoons.

IKEA: Yes.

ME: But I can’t get regular-sized forks that way.

IKEA: Yes.

ME: A sphincter says yes?

IKEA: (dead silence)

ME:  Fine. Just give me the stupid fucking goddamned 60-piece set.

IKEA: You bet! Great! That’ll be fifty dollars, please!

ME:  You’re an asshole.

(later, at home)

BIG BEAN:  Did you get forks?

ME: Yeah.

BIG BEAN: What’s this?

ME: It’s a 60-piece set of flatware, okay?  I couldn’t get just forks because apparently Switzerlandish people really love their soup and have something against forks, so they forced me to buy this 60-piece set, okay?  I was LOST and CONFUSED and the IKEA guy was a big sphincter and he didn’t laugh when I said “Mrs. Peacock” even though I snorted to show him how funny I was, and I just didn’t know what else to DO, okay? I just wanted some FORKS, okay?  So don’t give me a hard time about it, okay?  I had NO CHOICE, OKAY?!?

BIG BEAN: Who’s supposed to use these tiny forks?

ME: You’re an asshole.

BIG BEAN:  Why are these spoons so big?

ME:  (head explodes) 

Tags: I just wanted some forks, I'll never understand the Switzerlandish

 
The actual lyrics to this song, as performed by Golden Earring: 

Somewhere in a lonely hotel room there’s a guy starting to realize that eternal fate has turned its back on him. It’s 2AM.

It’s two a.m., the fear has gone
I’m sitting here waitin’ the gun still warm
Maybe my connection is tired of taken chances

Yeah there’s a storm on the loose sirens in my head
I’m wrapped up in silence all circuits are dead
I cannot decode, my whole life spins into a frenzy 

(chorus) 
Help I’m steppin’ into the twilight zone
The place is a madhouse
Feels like being blown
My beacon’s been moved under moon and star
Where am I to go
Now that I’ve gone too far 

 Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone
Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone

I’m falling down a spiral, destination unknown
A double crossed Messenger, all alone
I can’t get no connection, I can’t get through, where are you?

Well the night weighs heavy on his guilty mind
This far from the borderline
And when the hitman comes
He knows damn well he has been cheated 

(chorus)
Help I’m steppin’ into the twilight zone
The place is a madhouse
Feels like being blown
My beacon’s been moved under moon and star
Where am I to go
Now that I’ve gone too far 

 Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone
Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone

(Repeat chorus to fade) 

The way I’ve been singing this song since the 1980s: 

(mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble)

It’s 2 AM, the feeling’s gone
I’m somewhere wailing, so go on, stew on
Picking my confection, tired of taking iffy chances

Yeah there’s a stone on the loose, sunrings in my hand
Wrapped up inside and saw the circus, all dead
Cannot tea cold, my whole life spans see two one friends yeah 

(chorus)
Hell I’m stepping into the twilight zone
The flesh is a mess
And it feels like beaming coned
My bean man can’t move
Under moving scars
Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?

So you will come and go
When the bullet hits the bone
So you will come and go
When the bullet hits the bone

I’m falling down a sty roll, destination unknown
Fell across a messenger, all alone
Can’t get no connection, can’t get through, where are you? 

Well the dike plays heavy on its kilty line
Vest’s far from dahpohrrrawrhhine
When the hip man comes
HE KNOWS DARNELL HAS BEEN CHE-HEE-TEEEEEEEEAD

(chorus)
Hello I’m stepping into the twilight zone
The vest is a mesh
And feeds my beanie flow
My pee man can’t move
Undone moonounshpar
Where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far?

So you will come and go
When the bullet hits the bone
So you will come and go
When the bullet hits the bone

(Repeat chorus to fade)

I am an idiot.

Tags: I really have no idea what I'm doing, still confused by that whole "wrapped up like a douche" song

New Year’s Resolutions, 2010:

1. I resolve to lose my keys or glasses or some other item essential to my daily life at least twice a week and then embark on a mad search through the house while uttering vile curse words under my breath but just loud enough that the impressionable child who likes to repeat everything will be sure to hear them. 
    
2. I resolve to later find said object(s) either in the door, on my head, or in some other painfully obvious place, which will then unleash a second round of under-the-breath-but-still-too-loud cursing.
    
3. I resolve to feel terribly guilty when the Bean repeats, in mixed company, the curse words he heard when I was searching for/finding my goddamnedbitchassmotherfuckingshitty keys/glasses/important-life-related-object.
    
4. I resolve to whine about a lot of stuff.
    
5. I resolve to walk around with a letter, check or other item that I’m supposed to mail to someone but can’t because I don’t have a stamp and keep forgetting to buy one, only to find it a few weeks later at the bottom of my purse and throw it away, defeated — five times or more this year.
    
6. I resolve to spend way too much money on iTunes.
    
7. I resolve to forget the name of every single new person who starts work at my office this year, knowing them instead by the names I assign them in my head.  Past examples include: “Eyebrows,” “Jabberwocky,” “Pornstache,” “Creepy Dude,” “Way Too Happy to Not Be High Guy,” “Myrtle,” “Wouldn’t You Be Happier in a Nursing Home?” and “MakeMeWannaYawnaYvonna.”
      
8. I resolve to piss off many people with my driving inabilities.
    
9. I resolve to forget the birthdays of at least three people who matter and then try desperately to make it up to them by spending way too much on belated gifts and overnight shipping.
    
10. I resolve to sit at my desk, having to pee, until I absolutely can’t stand it anymore, then race to the bathroom and *almost* pee my pants – at least once a week.
     
11. I resolve to eat my weight in cake during my birthday month.
     
12. I resolve to fly backwards off the treadmill at least two more times this year.
     
13. I resolve to make it through the entire year without winning ONE blogging award (not counting the ones I award to myself).
        
14. After the winners of each blog award are announced, I resolve to obsess for at least two days over what those people have that I don’t.
     
15. I resolve to find a new kind of food that I really like, then eat it every day for several weeks until I find it completely disgusting.
16. I resolve to totally screw up the alignment of this blog post.
      
17. I resolve to kill at least four plants through sheer neglect.
     
18. I resolve to commit myself to at least ten tasks that I’m sure at the time I will do but then will forget all about until the people I’ve promised ask me about them, causing me to smack my head with my hand and go “FFFFFFFUCK!”
19. I resolve to kiss the asses of those people for at least three weeks, post-head-smack.
     
20. I resolve to post at least 50 totally annoying and assholish status updates on Facebook, motivating at least 30 people to hide my updates or unfriend me altogether. 
      
21. Beginning in September, I resolve to ask the Big Bean at least 20 times to explain the game of football to me, only to immediately forget everything he just said so I can ask him to explain it again the next time a game is on, probably at a point in the game when big things are happening and he will be the most inconvenienced.
     
22. I resolve to finish a whole bunch of sentences with prepositions.
     
23. I resolve to get hopelessly lost in my own hometown, forced to call the Big Bean for directions and thus endure his incredulous “Seriously? You’re lost AGAIN?  But YOU GREW UP HERE” comments, at least once a month.
     
24. I resolve to hold my cell phone up to my ear and pretend that I’m having an important conversation with someone when I’m really singing an 80’s song at the top of my lungs in my car at least 37 times.
     
25. I resolve to trip or fall down in a public setting at least seven times (at least two of which will involve the explosion of my purse and random dispursion of its contents, especially tampons).
     
26. I resolve to feel old, ugly and inadequate every time I walk past an American Eagle store.
     
27. I resolve to cringe and cry every time someone posts another photo of me looking like a chinless goose-man on Facebook.
     
28. I resolve to laugh and snicker at unflattering photos and profiles of other people on Facebook, once again begging Karma to smack me around like its bitch.
     
29. I resolve to watch obscene amounts of television at unreasonable hours.
     
30. I resolve to ask at least 143 really, really stupid questions.  
31. I resolve to be unbearably obnoxious about how amazingly smart/funny/awesome my kid is, regardless of how much the person or people I’m talking to might care.

(see?  totally justified)

Tags: I can't remember SHIT, I look like a chinless gooseman in MOST of my pictures, my kid is amazingly awesome despite me, not really my new years resolutions

So is it just me, or is this Baby New Year thing totally disturbing?  I didn’t even know what Baby New Year was until I saw the Holiday Sweater Lady in her huge blue sweater today, with a baby taking up like half her chest in its top hat and beauty pagent sash, and I was all, “Why is there a fucking BABY on your sweater?” and she was all “That’s the Baby New Year” and I was all “??!??” and she was all “Seriously? You don’t know what the Baby New Year is?” and I was all “Shut the fuck up, Myrtle, obviously I don’t know or I wouldn’t be asking” and she was all “You know my name’s not Myrtle, right?” and I was all “Well, in my head it is” and she gave me a really dirty look and walked away. 

And then I was confused so I consulted the Internet because it knows everything and would nevernever lie to me, and it told me that Baby New Year is part of the New Year’s tradition that I have somehow managed to miss out on for the past 30-something years (note to self: blame parents for this in future therapy sessions).  This little dude apparently starts out a baby on January 1st, but he ages at lightning speed throughout the year and by December 31st he’s grown into an old man – Father Time – and then when the clock strikes midnight there’s suddenly a NEW Baby New Year running around in his shitty diaper and hat. 

The Internet never really explained what happens to the old guy then, but I’m guessing he is murdered and that’s why they have the fireworks, to cover up the gunshots.  So remember that this year when you’re drinking your champagne and kissing your honey and barfing into the toilet of some random acquaintance — an old man just took a BULLET for you, dude.  Happy New Year.

So anyway, then the Internet laughed and pointed at me and called me stupid for not knowing all that already, and then it showed me some pictures of Baby New Year and I’ve been completely messed up ever since because nearly every picture showed Baby New Year in some insanely terrible situation that I’m pretty sure Child Protective Services would freak the fuck out over. 

For starters, don’t even TRY to tell me this baby’s not totally drunk:

And if he’s not drunk, he’s in some other kind of mortal danger:

So what I’m trying to say is, Baby New Year should really be in foster care. 

But on the plus side, I finally understand all those dudes who run around in diapers and top hats on New Year’s.  It doesn’t make them any less idiotic but at least it makes sense to me now because before, let me tell you, I was WICKED CONFUSED.  So, there’s that.

Also, the Creepy Dude kept asking me today what my plans were for New Year’s Eve even though I’d already told him repeatedly that I don’t give a shit about New Year’s Eve, because the clock is going to switch over from 2009 to 2010 tonight whether or not I’m stupid drunk, so I’d really rather just get some sleep and spare myself the embarrassment of the slurred speech and random falling down and barfiness that always seem to result when I collide with champagne.  But he kept asking, because he obviously missed that whole “I don’t give a shit” part and also because he really, desperately wanted me to ask him about HIS plans for New Year’s, which I DID NOT DO and would NEVER DO unless someone set me on fire and told me the only way they would extinguish me is if I asked the Creepy Dude about his plans for New Year’s.  And even THEN I’d have to ask for a little time to think about it. 

And you probably think it’s just because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but really it’s because I’m absolutely terrified that his New Year’s plans might involve some kind of diaper and top hat.  And if you have a mental image of that floating around in your head now, you’re welcome. 

Happy New Year!

Tags: New Year's Eve Can Suck It, New Year's Eve is the most annoying holiday ever when you have a baby

Mid-November

JETT SUPERIOR:  Hey, people on Twitter!  Wanna do an ornament exchange?  It’ll be FUN!  I’ll organize it and everything, all you have to do is buy ONE ornament and send it to the person I pair you with.  Okay? Wanna?

ME:  Oh, Jett Superior, I love you so much, you’re like my favorite blogger ever and I’d do pretty much anything you asked.  Even though I’m the laziest, most disorganized and forgetful motherfucker on the planet, I’m going to volunteer because it’s YOU.  It’s Christmas!  There will be a Christmas miracle and I WILL REMEMBER! 

JETT SUPERIOR:  Great!  Just be sure your ornament’s in the mail to Trout Towers by December 4, so it’ll get there in plenty of time!

ME:  You bet!  I’ll pick the best ornament that ever existed and have it in the mail even BEFORE December 4, that’s how serious I am!  I’m going to the best ornament exchanger EVER!  Trout Towers will hear angels sing when she opens my ornament!  You will all cry tears of happiness and rejoice in my wonderfulness!

JETT SUPERIOR:  Okay, yeah, whatever.  Great.

ME:  Wanna make out?

JETT SUPERIOR: Umm, I have to go now.

ME: Oh, okay, maybe later.

Later that afternoon

ME: (to the Big Bean) Dude, DO NOT let me forget this ornament thing, okay?

BIG BEAN: Huh?

ME:  I’m doing an ornament exchange and I don’t want to fuck it up.

BIG BEAN:  What the hell is an ornament exchange?

ME:  Are you high?  It’s exactly what it sounds like. People exchange ornaments for Christmas.

BIG BEAN:  Why would you do that?

ME: I don’t know, it’s for Jett Superior, and I love her and I want her to love me too, so I said I’d do it.

BIG BEAN: Yeah, but you’re the laziest, most disorganized and forgetful motherfucker on the planet.  There’s no way you’re not going fuck it up.

ME:  I KNOW THAT’S WHY I’M ASKING YOU TO HELP ME, DUMBASS.

BIG BEAN: (watching TV) Oh.  (scratching balls)  Okay, whatever. 

Thanksgiving

VISITING STEPMOTHER:  What are you doing?

ME: (surfing Internet) I’m finding the PERFECT Christmas ornament for an ornament exchange I’m doing!

VISITING STEPMOTHER:  YOU’RE doing an ornament exchange?

ME: Yeah. So?

VISITING STEPMOTHER:  I just wouldn’t expect YOU to participate in an ornament exchange.  You’re the laziest, most disorganized and forgetful motherfucker on the planet.

ME:  I know but this is for Jett Superior.  She’s badass and I love her and want her to make out with me so I’m doing this.  I have to find the best ornament ever for Trout Towers.  What do you think of this one? I found it at a site called “Pornaments.”

VISITING STEPMOTHER:  (shocked silence)

ME:  I’ll take that as a no.  What about this one instead? I love this one.

VISITING STEPMOTHER:  I don’t think you’re understanding the point of the ornament exchange.

ME:  Come ON! Don’t tell me you don’t LOVE that one?!?!  It’s hilarious!!! 

Seriously?  You don’t like it?

VISITING STEPMOTHER: (continued silence)

ME:  Oh okay, Buzzkill.  Fine.  I’ll tone it down.  How about this one?  This one’s nice and lame.

VISITING STEPMOTHER:  Well, you’re getting warmer…

ME:  Look, I can’t go any more appropriate than that.  It just wouldn’t be me.  I get it, I can’t be SUPER awesome because some people (accusatory glance at Visiting Stepmother) can’t handle it, but this is as far as I go into Lame Ass Territory.  I’m ordering it now.  Look at me!  I’m, like, responsible and shit!
 

December 5

ME: Yay! My Bite Me ornament is here!

BIG BEAN: Huh?

ME: You know, my ornament?  For the exchange? The one I told you about?  The one I asked you to remember?

BIG BEAN:  Huh?

ME: GODDAMMIT YOU ARE USELESS.

BIG BEAN:  Did you say something?

ME: I’m just putting it here in my purse so I don’t forget to send it tomorrow so it gets to Trout Towers in plenty of time for Christmas.  I’m going to send it tomorrow.  I’m going to send it tomorrow.  I am. I really am.  don’tforgetdon’tforgetdon’tforget.

BIG BEAN: (scratching balls) Huh?
 

December 12

ME:  (checking the mail and finding a fantastic Grinch ornament from the exchange)  SHIT!!!  I completely forgot to mail my ornament!!

BIG BEAN:  Huh?

ME: I FORGOT!  I said I wasn’t going to forget but I did, and my ornament is still at the bottom of my purse and I didn’t mail it, and now I’m LATE, and I said I wasn’t going to fuck off this time but I did, and no way is Jett Superior going to make out with me now.

BIG BEAN:  You should really get a different purse. You’re always losing stuff in that black hole.

ME:  Hey hon, why don’t you go open yourself a big can of Shut the Fuck Up?

BIG BEAN: (scratching balls)

ME:  (regrouping, sadly hopeful) Okay, I can still do this.  I’ll mail it tomorrow.  I’ll send it express, and it’ll still get there in plenty of time.  I can totally recover from this, I know it.

December 17

JETT SUPERIOR:  Hey Beej, ummm, did you forget something?

ME: (silently, to self) SHIIIIIIITTTT!!!!!  I really AM the laziest, most disorganized and forgetful motherfucker on the planet!

(panicked, digging through purse for ornament, pulling out sad, broken gingerbread man)

(totally lying) Oh, HAHAHA yeah, I KNOW, Jett Superior, I wouldn’t forget YOU!!  I’m just running a little *late* that’s all!  HA HAH AHAHAA!   It should be there in the next few days, swearsies!  (fingers crossed behind back)

JETT SUPERIOR:  (silence)

ME:  Please don’t hate me, Jett Superior.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you. 

JETT SUPERIOR:  (no response)

ME: Can we still make out?

JETT SUPERIOR:  (stone cold, silence)

ME: (to Big Bean) Great. Now she’ll NEVER make out with me and IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT.

BIG BEAN: (farts)

December 18

ME: (desperately hunting for an ornament that I can ship two-day express)  All these ornaments SUCK!  All the good ones are sold out or not available for two-day shipping.

BIG BEAN: You shouldn’t have waited so long.

ME:  Shut the fuck up.

NOW what do I do?  Even the pornaments can’t be sent to get there by Christmas.  I’m so screwed.

Wait! What about the gingerbread man? I can just RE-ORDER it and have it sent directly to Trout Towers! Ohmygod I’m brilliant!  That will totally work!

BIG BEAN:  Why didn’t you just do that from the beginning?

ME:  Exactly what part of “Shut the fuck up” do you not understand?

December 21

ME:  I should probably check and make sure my ornament got there okay.  Hey, Café Press, is my ornament at Trout Towers’ place yet?

CAFÉ PRESS:  Sorry, we can’t tell you that.

ME: What do you mean, you can’t tell me that?  I paid for express shipping.

CAFÉ PRESS: No you didn’t.

ME:  ??!?!  The hell?  Of course I did!

CAFÉ PRESS: No, you didn’t.

ME:  Yes I did.

CAFÉ PRESS: No, you didn’t.

ME:  Yes I did.

CAFÉ PRESS: Look, idiot, we can go on like this all day, but you didn’t pay for express shipping, and we can’t tell you if the ornament has reached its destination, or if we’ve even mailed it, because we’re stupid and we suck big balls and you should have just had the ornament sent directly to Trout Towers from the start, then this conversation wouldn’t be necessary, Trout Towers would already have her ornament and Jett Superior would be making out with you RIGHT NOW.  You’re the laziest, most disorganized and forgetful motherfucker on the planet.  You suck.

ME: I want my money back.

CAFÉ PRESS: Get fucked, loser.

ME:  BITE ME.

BIG BEAN:  (suddenly attentive) Hey, isn’t that what your ornament says? That’s funny.

ME: SHUT.

THE.

FUCK.

UP.

BIG BEAN: (shrugs) (farts)

***

My apologies to both Trout Towers AND Jett Superior, on behalf of both myself AND shitty ass Café Press.  We both suck big balls.  Trout Towers, I hope you have a very Merry Christmas, even if your Bite Me ornament doesn’t make it in time.  May it at least bring you joy NEXT year, and many more Christmases to come.  And Jett Superior, I hope you will still make out with me one day.  I am an excellent kisser.

Happy holidays, one and all!

(AKA “The laziest, most disorganized and forgetful motherfucker on the planet”)

Tags: I am an excellent kisser, pornaments are awesome

So this is like, the BEST thing I have ever seen, and I love it and I must have one and if it’s not under the tree for me this Christmas I’m kicking someone’s ass.

Brookstone SAYS it’s a head and scalp massager, but I’m pretty sure it’s really alien brainwashing technology.  Or possibly a zombie brain-eating serving dish.  Or maybe some kind of device developed by sexually frustrated giant people to use regular-sized humans as dildos.  All of which are SUPER COOL and make this a MUST HAVE this holiday season, and I would know because WHO called the Snuggie the best Christmas present EVER last year?  ME, that’s who.  And now look around you — people are giving out Snuggies like candy canes.  Christmas morning is going to look like a soft, velvety KKK convention in houses across the country this year. 

So clearly I know awesome shit when I see it.  Just like Oprah.

And you know, if I was Oprah, I would immediately resurrect the old “Free Shit for Christmas” show and give everyone in the audience a Dildo Helmet.  At first they’d probably be a little confused but I’d explain to them that it’s awesome and hey, I’m fucking OPRAH so I’m sure they’d warm up to the idea really fast. And then the entire audience would be screaming and clapping for me in their Dildo Helmets, and my life would be complete.

So anyway, my point is, I desperately need a Dildo Helmet for Christmas.  I KNOW with absolute certainty that it will make me happy because look:

Just look at how HAPPY these people are!  Have you ever seen ANYONE so happy?  This thing must make you high or put you in a trance or something, because these people don’t seem to even notice or care at all that they shelled out nearly 200 bucks to listen to shitty new age music while looking like giant dildos.  I wish I could be that happy!

Oh, and did I mention that Brookstone is offering FREE SHIPPING?  I know this because it says so on every single one of the 5,000 emails I’ve received from Brookstone this month.  But hurry, it’s only free shipping for the next 48 hours, if you don’t order now you’ll have to wait until the NEXT 48-hour free shipping period starts.  Which is tomorrow.  Obviously.

So get on it, folks!

P.S.  Also, the Dildo Helmet uses magnets for something, I’m not really sure what they do but by the time it’s done lobotomizing you, you won’t care anymore, anyway.

P.P.S. Some of the customer reviews mentioned that you might want to be careful not to fasten the Dildo Helmet too tight.  Because I think your brains might pop out or something.  And then the aliens win.

P.P.P.S.  Or maybe Hannibal Lecter will show up and spoon your brains out and feed them to you for dinner.  Or dessert?  I don’t know.  Ask Ray Liotta.

P.P.P.P.S. Are brains sweet, like pie?  Or are they more meat-like?  Would Ray Liotta know?  Does anyone have his number?

P.P.P.P.P.S.  This Brains: Pie or Meat? question is important.  I think everyone who reads this post should call the Brookstone customer service line at 1-800-926-7000 and ask a representative.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S.  Also, while you have them on the line, you should ask about this item, which was featured on the “Other Brookstone Solutions” list:

Be sure to ask exactly when Brookstone became the “Totally Unnecessary Stuff that Looks Like Dildos” store, and why that isn’t their tag line.  Because, seriously, “A World of Innovation”? LAME.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.  Also, ask them if they know Ray Liotta.  I always liked that guy.

Tags: must-have products this Christmas, Oprah still freaks me out, Where IS Ray Liotta?

Listen, I love the holidays as much as the next guy, I really do.  And I love them even MORE this year, because this year my little Bean is discovering Christmas for the first time, with the trees and the tinsel and the gifts and the stockings, and we’re suddenly VERY concerned about our status on The List, and we’re keeping watch out the front window in case Santa should arrive, and we want to watch the Grinch and Snoopy and wrap presents and sing Jingle Bells and MY GOD THE CUTE, PEOPLE.  I swear this kid could take down an entire city block with all that cute.

BUT.

Every year there’s got to be some douche bag out there ruining Christmas for the rest of us.  And this year the “Douche Bag Ruining Christmas” Award goes to MAJIC 95.5, the so-called “easy listening” station that doesn’t even know how to spell its own name, which plays non-stop Christmas music the entire month of December, which would be fine if there were more than three Christmas albums in the world that didn’t suck, but there aren’t — it’s Bing Crosby, George Winston, and Vince Guaraldi, and everything else SUCKS BALLS, and that is that.  (And if you’re going to comment now that some other Christmas album is just as good, don’t even bother because I’m not listening to your bullshit. Bing. Vince. George. The. End. Shut. Up.) 

I swear to god if I hear Kenny Rogers ask Mary if she “knew” ONE MORE TIME, I’m going to beat someone to death with the baby Jesus from the nativity scene down the street.  Why don’t you leave Mary the fuck ALONE, Kenny? Hasn’t she done enough?  Now she needs to answer YOUR stupid-ass questions too?  I’LL tell you what Mary knew, she knew that she was nine months pregnant and riding a fucking DONKEY in the middle of nowhere, and some dickass innkeeper made her sleep in the BARN, where she was trapped with a bunch of farm animals and some random dudes in robes just standing around with their smelly spices and shit, ogling her junk while she gave birth with NO EPIDURAL. What Mary KNEW was that she wanted that kid out of her pronto and probably for everyone else to just shut the fuck up about it.  THAT’S what she knew, Kenny.  Okay?  Kapeesh?

I’m actually not sure how historically accurate that is (OR how to spell “kapeesh”), but you get my point.  Kenny Rogers is the devil.  That’s my point.

Also, hey, MAJIC 95 – 1986 called and it wants its lame bullshit song about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer back.  That shit wasn’t funny the first time we heard it and it’s DEFINITELY not funny now, 20-plus years and 5,987,658 plays later.  I would rather eat an entire jar of Baconnaise in one sitting than hear that fucking song again, yet there you go, playing it over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, like you don’t even KNOW how much it sucks.  But you DO know, MAJIC 95, don’t you?  Yeah.  You know.  And I know you know.  And you know that I know that you know.    

Oh, and while I’m on the subject of over and over and over and over and over again, can I just say this?

Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime

Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime

Know why I said that?  Because I CANNOT GET THAT SHIT OUT OF MY HEAD.  It’s like a hot branding iron burned those words into my brain and they will forever mark me as a slave and a victim.  And Paul McCartney is also the devil.  That’s my other point.

I bet YOU’RE singing that shit now too, aren’t you?  You thought I was overreacting before, didn’t you?  But now you understand, don’t you?  There really IS such a thing as too much Christmas.  Even my KID gets it (“Mommy, I donWANT that song! Tun OFF! Tun OFF!”), and he’s two and a half.  It doesn’t take a mental giant to understand that MAJIC 95 is trying to kill us all, one crappy holiday song at a time.

But wait!  You thought I was done, but I’m not, because there’s this:

What the FUCK, Dan Fogelberg?  What the hell kind of crack were you on when you wrote that?  Can you say “Most Depressing Christmas Song EVER”? 

This may be the most annoying blog post I’ve ever written.  I don’t know, I’ve written some pretty annoying shit, but this has got to at least make the top five.  I’m going to stop now before I get started on Bruce Springsteen and John Denver and the dogs THOSE GODDAMNED DOGS – because I think that just *might* send me over the edge, I mean, really, OVER. THE. EDGE — and I don’t think anyone wants that.

Except MAJIC 95.  Apparently.

Tags: Kenny Rogers is the Devil, Paul McCartney needs to get out of my head

MEMORANDUM
To:  All Employees
From:  Management
Re: Holiday Safety and Behavior Guidelines

Dear Employees:

As we all know, the holiday season is upon us, and while we encourage you all to participate in the office potluck and gift exchange, we have noticed some disturbing trends over years past and need to reiterate some common-sense guidelines for you to follow when decorating your workspaces and attending company Christmas functions.  We’ve learned some important lessons over the past few years and it’s important that we all keep a focus on safety and decorum this year.

Please follow these guidelines to the letter.  Failure to do so WILL result in a reprimand.

1.)  Candles or other decorations involving fire of any kind are NOT permitted when decorating your cubicles.  We do not want a repeat of the incident last year when Marlon lost his eyelashes.

2.)  Please do NOT test 9-volt batteries to see if they still work by placing them on your tongue.  It took Jarvis 3 weeks and massive amounts of conditioner to get his hair to stop standing on end after the 2007 incident.

3.)  Please refrain from using decorations representing your co-workers or superiors.  While the “Festivus pole” displayed by the Communications department last year was amusing, stringing a noose around the neck of a voodoo doll that strongly resembled the Division Director and hanging it from the pole was NOT appropriate. 

4.)  When putting up holiday lights, please DO NOT attempt to install them yourself with the use of a staple gun.  If you need reminding of why this is unsafe, please visit George on the third floor and ask him why he only has eight fingers.

5.)  Also on the subject of staples, please DO NOT attempt to staple antlers to any of your co-workers’ heads.  This cruel joke was performed on Sally at last year’s Christmas party, and she still has to wear a hat every day.

6.)  At the company potluck, please refrain from providing “entertainment” of your own, especially around the food.  Related note: Christmas music WILL be piped in through the conference room this year, after Norman made several people sick last year (literally) with his “nose flute” rendition of Jingle Bells.

7.)  Please do NOT choose a crotchless Santa lingerie costume as your gift in the White Elephant exchange.  Our receptionist Mrs. Graves was not amused last year, and we believe that may have had something to do with her early retirement in January.

8.)  The company holiday party will be held off-site this year, and we cannot stress enough how important it is for you to represent our organization in a responsible manner.  If the company CEO finds you passed out on the floor of a bathroom stall with your pants around your ankles, for example (*cough*STEVE*cough*), you WILL face termination.

9.)  Finally, please leave the fruitcake at home.  Nobody likes that shit.

Wishing you all a very happy and safe holiday season!

Sincerely,

The Management

Tags: happy holidays, unfortunate office mishaps