Inventions (and lepers)

Posted on December 29, 2011 | Leave a comment

Greeting and salutations, bitches! Hope you had an incredulous and awe inspiring Holidaze. I was temporarily pressed into service as a gift wrapping machine/sweater wearing maniac- now pass the bubbly and let’s get down to the dishing, shall we?

  It appears that the Glamazon bank of unlimited glam funds may be running low- but fear not oh bedazzled souls. I have a few nifty devices that I am in the icky process of patenting (paper cuts? So not sexy!) that will ensure the speedy delivery of enough moolah to make Oprah weep into her cashmere Kleenex.

A)     Every invention should solve at least one big ass dilemma- or possibly two. Here in the Glam-hood, we don’t have many intrepid souls who are willing to risk a hearty stiletto beating in order to grasp any of my property. But there are cretins abounding in our fair country who will go after a car and nab it whilst you are toting your happy ass home from doing some good shoe sorties.  The nerve!

I propose that we attempt to scare the hooligans and also eliminate a hazard for handsome outdoorsmen with “The Ultimate Carjack Solution”. One third of all vehicles in each town will be outfitted thus: a rather innocuous little button is camouflaged near the driver’s reach- and a big ass steel cage is welded onto the floor near the back seat. A wily (yet oh so frickin’ hungry) badger is lured into the back seat. When Thugster decides to scare the wits out of some hapless motorist, said driver gets to push the button- and get the fuck outta the Dodge. The badger gets a snack, and the carjacker learns he doesn’t have much of a defense against the p.m.s.  badger.

 

B)      Dilemma one: With our hard working heroic peeps in uniform coming home, we will need to create more jobs. Preferably jobs that can utilize their excellent training that they have honed in the field of battle.

Dilemma two: there are tooooo  many instances of professional jackwads flapping their gums in public and getting paid to be loathsome (case in point- the government has not forcibly sterilized the Kardashians or moved them onto some hideous leper riddled/ zombie infested/ no cameras allowed island).

So my pretties- the deal is pretty simple. Using the existing fire towers strewn about the nation, we give the men and women who have scored highest in marksmanship special “Shut The Fuck Up” duct tape slinging guns-with the tremendous long range ability to slap some grey shiny “justice tape” onto the heathen lips of any one who is either A) a Kardashi-skank, Hilton or their ilk, B) Anyone who is in the midst of bratty or bridezilla behavior. The general public could be given special “Hey get a  look at that asswipe over there” sensing phone apps to alert the sharpshooters- and presto- no more insipid flapping lips! Beautiful silence until Mac invents Goo-Gone lip gloss. Le sigh.   

 Well, auvoir and so long for now- I’ve got some more moony eyed scientists frothing at my door, begging for me to sign their lab coats.

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After receiving 3 emails from the Honda dealership

Posted on September 18, 2011 | 2 Comments

All in the same day, from one Honda salesperson…… I received three identical messages, each one calling me “Maria Maria”.(If my parents were THAT twisted to name me Maria Maria, I would be even more of a freak than I am now.)

So I crafted a sweet reply, in hopes that she learns to dig a wee bit deeper for contact names when sending “Bidness” letters:

Dear Cindy,
A) My life might be much easier and forms would take less time to fill out if my name was “Maria Maria”. But I’d hear 10x more annoying old men singing me stupid Maria songs. A little digging and you would have found my correct last name- spell it like an eye chart and you’ll do ok.
 
B) I am amazed/amused/preplexed as to why this is one of three emails I got from you today. Bossman is being a dickweed about how many emails you

Really? I have to email everyone who ever said the word "Honda"?

have to send out? Slip him a midol and hope that he gets transferred to Alaska soon.

 
For the record, I am not in the car buying mode right now- since my salary is a sad, sad joke.Hopefully yours is better than mine. Hopefully mine will be better than what I used to make babysitting as a teenager-sometime soon.
Peace and chocolate,
Maria (juuuust one Maria:)

— On Sat, 9/17/11, cindy.rosado@headquarterhonda.com <cindy.rosado@headquarterhonda.com> wrote:

From: cindy.@headquarterhonda.com <Subject: A Personal Message from Cindy To: maria.com
Date: Saturday, September 17, 2011, 5:22 AM

Car Care Month at Headquarter Honda

 
 
 
   
 
Dealer Specials
 

Dear: Maria Maria 

October is Fall Car Care Month and we’re are offering free vehicle inspections *. Forward this to as many people as you know and help spread the word!



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Posted in Things that make me want to get all slappity

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Dr. Noooooooo

Posted on August 27, 2011 | 2 Comments

            I was utterly (yet fabulously) alone. Something had to be done-stat. I perused the lonely hearts internet, awaiting some semblance of human male -the non mouth breather variety, preferably one who could form whole sentences without the usage of words or phrases such as: “Nascar” or “garnished my dang wages again”. I received a very sweet and compliment laden missive from a fellow who seemed suitable- until he candidly pointed out the fact that he was only 5’4’. But Mr. “I can’t reach the steering wheel” mentioned that he showed his tall buddy my online profile-and said Tall Guy was a youngish Doctor who wished to email me. Skeptical, I allowed Dr. Mystery man to email me.

            He said that he was divorced, no kids, and attending some classes at night to keep him busy. Oh, I thought, not a bar-hopper but a scholar. Things seemed ok even after he said that he resembled a “much younger version of Donald Sutherland”. Did I mention that I used to find Sutherland’s stoner professor in “Animal House” weirdly hot?

            We agreed to meet at a restaurant I insisted on driving myself to meet him, (Why the hell would I let you see my casa and squire me to the eatery? Do I look like my flaming desire is to be on the cover of ‘Stalkers Monthly”?…I got there early, hoping to scope out a good vantage point to se him arrive (and several exit points lest he be completely heinous). He had arrived earlier, and the teenage hostess assured me that he was in the men’s room. I asked how he looked and she wouldn’t meet my eye when she stammered,”Uhh, like, nice and stuff”.

            When he appeared out of the men’s room, I was praying that it wasn’t him. This wasn’t my hot professor fantasy, this was Kramer!!!On top of that, he was sporting some rather orthopedic (read- Frankenstein) shoes, and a shiny disco shirt, plus he wouldn’t stop sweating and mopping his brow. Eww and double  eww.

            I had googled him prior to this disaster date, and he was really a doctor. But when we got seated at a horseshoe shaped booth (I wisely suggested  insisted that we sit at opposite ends of the table); he started telling me about his great plans to become a lawyer “so he could get back at all of those damn lawsuit happy patients”. He also expressed his admiration of a local well publicized (hello, waaay too many commercials for one cheesy lawyer) ambulance chaser/M.D. with creepy unblinking zombie eyes. He said he wanted to be like that guy, “the M.D./J.D”. Ugghhh. 

            Things went from hellish to freakazoid when he kept moving closer in the booth towards me, explaining his grand plans of “when we get married” and “when we have children”. I felt like the female black cat being cornered by Pepe le Pew. I excused myself to the ladies’ room, and panicked when the bathroom had a tiny window (even Nicole Richie couldn’t wriggle through that sucker). The bathroom faced the kitchen, and I feebly tried using my rusty Española to gain access to the kitchen’s back door portal to freedom- but no va- I was stuck going back to the table o’ doom. 

            I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t backed into the parking space a short hop away from the front door. Mustering my courage (and quick as hell gate), I rushed past the table blurting “I had an emergency come up, gotta run”. Burning rubber out of the parking lot, I was thankful to be free of the grand plans (and was that cretin marinated in cologne?) and future ambulance chasing of Doctor Nooooooo.

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Posted in Dispatches from the Planet Glamazon

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The Zoo Zinger

Posted on August 20, 2011 | Leave a comment

    Hello Dahlings, welcome back to my soiree. It’s only yesterday that my ever-so glam sister checked out the Cleveland Zoo with her adorables daughters. Just hearing that reminds me of the time when my wonderful friends and I endured a (cue ominous/creepy organ music) brat quake!

       We had  a great time at the zoo, until it started to rain. As we ducked into the nearby primate building, I told my friend Joe and his amazingly sweet boyfriend , Clark, to watch for the cage with the “headgame gorilla”.

The Real Psych Gorilla

He was the biggest, most badass of the bunch, so much so that he had a cage  all to himself. Behind the über thick glass of his enclosure, he would wait until he was the center of attention, start pacing back and forth across the width of his roomy cage, then suddenly  POW he would bash his meaty shoulder into the glass. I had seen him in action before, and he was undoubtedly the impetus for many a soiled pantaloons.

      Clark had broken his foot a few weeks earlier,and was sweetly enduring the many “look way up here ” zoo attractions from his wheelchair. Joe  and I craned our (oh so swan-like) necks above the hellish crowd of Cleveland public school hellspawn that were smashed into the building with us- and we finally spotted the great badass gorilla. 

     Good Sir Simian Psych-out was just starting to simmer and glower at the amazingly loud group of demonic brats in front of him. He was starting his warm up for a good glass thudding freak out. Clark was trying to politely make his case for the brats to stop pounding their grubby little fists on his cast-  to no avail. I figured it was time to spell out consequences for the little snots.

     In a very loud and authoritative tone, I stage whispered to Joe and pointed to the humungo cockroach inside the cage “Say, too bad there’s a good chance of that gorilla escaping. What we have going on in there my friend, is a rare North African Glass Sucking Cockroach doing it’s best to weaken the glass. They only suck glass when the noise level around the is too high, or when they sense someone pounding on a hard surface”.  The cretin that was pounding on Clark’s hapless foot stopped dead in his tracks, and asked us if this was true. “Of course” Joe replied” She’s a professor of bug science”! The faces of the nearby brats grew ashen and alarmed as the gorilla quickened his pace.

    We beat a hasty retreat to the quieter bat area amidst swirling rumors of the incredible power of the glass sucking cockroaches. I’m thinking that right now, there’s a few people  who grew up in the inner city of Cleveland who are terrified of seeing a cockroach on any  windowpane.

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Posted in Things that make me want to get all slappity

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Lord Farquad’s Little Sister

Posted on August 14, 2011 | Leave a comment

   Hello Dahlings,

    Having recently been sprung from the netherworld known as retail, I can confidently say the following: I truly loathe & despise you! This applies to the complete Ass-weasels who used to get their jollies by pissing me off on a regular basis at the consignment shop…. I hope you get to spend eternity shoveling out Satan’s “Beezlebub’s Bargain-o-Rama” fitting rooms.

   To the regulars who were actually decent, cool chicks that I now miss more than my 9th grade hips- You are the most uber-cool pack of crazy bitches I will ever have the privilege of knowing(and I am soooo sorry to have abandoned you & stuck you with the anorexic/fake/annoying/devious yet idiotic new owner).I can’t name her publicly, but “Lord Farquad’s Stupider Little Sister”  doesn’t realize that great/amazing customers don’t waltz in every day- and that YOU (the regulars) won’t put up with being dissed/ lied to by a moron.And I’m truly sorry that you will have to suffer her complete idiocy. I really did try to teach her how to do a layaway- 5 times.

    Said  “Lord Farquad’s Stupider Little Sister” person of NO brains can suck K.C.’s greasy  disco balls in hell (her fave band was KC & the Sunshine Band - sooo wrong on sooo many levels, unless you are a brain-damaged squirrel in 1979). Blasting non-stop disco music in a store doesn’t make it cuter- or profitable.(I knew I was in trouble when she gushed about meeting KC himself- I doubt even his own Mama is hapy to see his has-been ass.)

     She took over a shop I had slaaaaved at for over two years, and asked me about decor. I suggested minimal decor, with a SLIGHT hint of a barely there pink. She made the place look like a Tinkerbell threw up a box of Good & Plenty’s.

Behold, a few decorating atrocities from the store-

little mind, big sign

    Hmmm, why not hang signs meant for a 6 year old’s bedroom all over  a grownup’s store?

 

 

 

Beyond icky- Bitch, put down the glue gun & no one gets hurt!

       I truly tried to make a more “boutique” statement in the shop prior to her arrival.When a buttload of heinous ”whore pink” feather boas mixed with (gag) zebras became the motif of the store- I recoiled in horror as fresh new unspeakably cutesy tackies multiplied in the store.

Are we FIVE?? And no, you are not a freakin' princess!

I truly can’t stand to see anything with “princess” or zebras on it. My gag reflex was hard to mask in front of Lord Farquad’s sister…What can one say when a so-called adult asks you what you think of an abomination like this hanging on a store wall?

Why not get children's ratty zebra slippers from a yard sale & proudly display them?

And yes, every time I opened the door, more fresh hell awaited me- mostly in the form of scary decor.Ummmm, aren’t we supposed to be worrying about profit instead of adding more tackies every day? 

I reaaally tried to tell you 2x- that “black cat sculpture” is a toilet brush holder.

Decorations on the UN-USED backroom desk(aka sound financial planning)

All is well that ends well- I no longer have to open the portal of tacky hell and see new abominations every day!!!

Have another Mai-tai, Dahlings, and don’t let anyone near you with a glue gun!

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Posted in When Retail Happens to Good People

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Watch Wench vs. The Giggling Zombie

Posted on August 6, 2011 | 1 Comment

            Hello again, Dahlings. After much ado this week, it’s time your Glamazon shares another (cue thunder sound) retail horror story. I found myself managing a watch outlet store in the bowels of Orlando’s outlet center hell. My week of training at another watch store (that plaza was so busy that you basically had to pimp yourself for a parking space on a daily basis) hadn’t taught me much about anything. I was used as cannon fodder on the front lines of retail- selling countless pricey watches to salivating watch freaks.

            When I got back to my own store in the decidedly more crack-a-licious part of the outlets, I had some serious issues to deal with. Cheap sun-burned tourists (Dear British tourists: it’s called sunscreen. You should try it sometime) were drawn there by cheap shopping, but the cheap hotels brought a cast of dirt bags that were probably rejected by the producers of “Cops” for being too scummy. I watched “Intervention” one night and thought it was sad when a certain druggie with mad potential rejected the offer of rehab- I saw him limping around a few weeks later in my plaza, begging while wearing the kind of shiny shoes they rent you with a tuxedo.

      On top of that, my store had a staff of ne’er do wells left over from the previous manager: a massive whiny Pakistani assistant manager guy who hated most everyone, a morbidly obese supervisor who was always being bitched out by his wife on his cell phone, a sullen “Tomboy” woman with an attitude problem (she refused to even greet customers, but damn could she fix a watch), a multi-lingual gossipy drama queen, and a few other malcontents.

     Anywhoo, it was the weekend after Thanksgiving (or stress fiesta weekend for all of us retail peeps) and the watch frenzied shoppers were packed into my store. The whiny assistant, the hen-picked supervisor, the drama queen and the Tomboy were all doing their best to keep up behind the counter. I was doing my rounds on the sales floor. A maelstrom of noisy shoppers, shoplifters, stupid questions and snarling brats swirled about the sales floor.  Doing my best to keep up- and keep the staff on schedule- I didn’t see him come in. Two uptight suburban shoppers (Mr. and Mrs. Thurston Snobwell III I presume) tapped me on the shoulder and alerted me to a six-four skeletal crack head,  giggling in a four year old girl’s voice while hassling my shoppers with a stupid tiny clipboard (aka begging in my damn store, OH HELL NO).

     The supervisor and the assistant were both big burly dudes, but they both acted like they were selling watches to save their lives. I stopped him near the back of the store before he could beg from a pair of tattooed Brits, and said in a low voice “You need to get out, now, before I call the cops”. Skeletor only giggled more and careened in a wobbly manner a few more inches toward the door- and started begging again.  I didn’t want to alert the entire store of paying customers to the crack zombie and blow a day’s worth of sales (plus screw my payroll budget for the week) – so I looked at the Skeletor with a bitchy face and demanded again that he leave, while pantomiming a phone call at the drama queen- and mouthing “call the cops in the back room”. Again, the zombie only shuffled a few more feet, giggling and trying to do more begging.

I had never shown my truly bitchy self to my new store’s staff- but I finally had to stop holding my Mount Vesuvius of bitchiness in. Now, your Glamazon can have an incredibly loud/masculine voice- thanks to my Dad not being able to hear anything without his hearing aid in. I snapped and got in the zombie’s face, bellowing “GET OUT OF THIS STORE RIGHT NOW AND DON’T LET ME CATCH YOU BEGGING”. The din of the store was replaced by a shocked still quiet- and yet he careened only a few more feet, then the dumbass turned around to get back into the store. Both the assistant and the supervisor were turning pale and cowering, so I yelled even louder at the zombie “GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW! MARCH YOUR DUMB ASS OUTT HERE BEFORE THE COPS COME!” (I swear to God I even said “Rauss! Mach Schnell” in my fit of bitchy furor. Nothing like a bit of German nastiness to dispatch zombies.)

     The zombie clumsily race-walked toward the street, and I turned around to face my store of stunned shoppers and staff. Plastering a smile on my face, I wove my way through the shoppers and got a few “Well done” comments from the U.K. rugby jersey wearing dudes in the corner. Funny thing was, I never got any guff from the whiny assistant after that.

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London Calling (Let’s Hope it’s Not a Collect Call)

Posted on July 31, 2011 | Leave a comment

       Let me first say that I am proud of the people whom I call my family. Ok, most several of them. My Mom’s cousin has compiled four hefty volumes of our ancestry, tracing our Great Grandmother’s roots to 1700’s England. I kind of wonder if they are all looking down from heaven, shaking their collective heads because all I can remember about Great Grandma is her asking for ginger ale in the nursing home where we visited her, and her ferocious burps that careened down the hall. But here’s a little bit about the less belchy peeps in my family that I am proud of:

*I’m proud that My Mom could probably knit gasoline if she tried- although I am craft disabled. If the fate of the world depended on me being able to sew, we’d all be toast. Plus she has a great sense of being able to handle any situation- neighbor kid has paper wedged into his eardrum? No problem for Mom. Raising seven of your own kids and babysitting six of the neighbor’s kids? Piece of (homemade) cake.

       The best part of her nifty qualities is her cast iron “don’t fuck with me” look she can give an unruly brat- even over the phone. In my (pre-caller i.d. days) high school years, some assaholic hormone rattled boy had been making obscene phone calls to older women in our town. The phone rang, and Pervy McPervpants was panting on the line when Mom answered. He whispered “What color is your underwear?” (Ooooh, nice sexy dialogue from the Sears catalog, perv boy.) Mom didn’t seem fazed. She answered in a rather bored tone “yellow in the front and brown in the back”, and hung up. The town’s phone lines were made safe by my Mom.

* I’m also proud of my brother Mikey’s amazing, ceaseless brotherly concern for his plethora of sisters. Oh, the way he smiled at our accomplishments- and the fact that he will never let down the “pool of horrors” story. When I was a toddler and my sister was about two, he was upset beyond belief when he thought that someone had been casting stones at “the babies” in our plastic wading pool. He objected loudly “Who’s been throwing stones at the babies?” as he picked up the pebbles from the bottom of the pool. Only Dad had the heart to tell him that the “stones” leaked out of one of our plastic diaper covers.

There are sooo many more stories, Dahlings, but that’s for another day. Have a nice margarita with someone you love- and watch out for stones in your pools.

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Posted in Dispatches from the Planet Glamazon

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Job Interview Hell (or How to “Get Back at The Man”)

Posted on July 27, 2011 | Leave a comment

       After years of Retail management had worn my soul to a nasty black nub of seething bitchiness, I answered an ad for a desk job (oh sweet Lord Let this be a job with some decent perks-say, oxygen in the building). “It’s an inside sales job, mostly inbound calls” spouted the recruiter (who sounded like she was either on helium or possibly an eight year old).  Yes, I did ask them if they offer a base salary for this position. Oh sure, the Bimbess on the phone said, and gave me directions to an office in the vast office complex sprawl hell zone of “You are SO going to never find this place” Florida.

       I wedged on my last pair of pantyhose (invented by the Marquis De Sade, I’m certain) and a “hire me” looking A-line dress with a full skirt- and paid through the nose for tolls on the way to this fiasco. My mood didn’t improve when I reached the mega complex and found every single space full- except one so far away I thought I might have reached Wyoming by the time I parked. I tried to think about happy confident thoughts/puppies/a Coach Handbag falling from the sky on my way back to the concrete behemoth building. Of course my skirt actually decided to flip all the way up to my freakin’ head due to the only freakin’ gust of wind in all of Florida. Oh, but Dahlings, it gets worse.

     The receptionist should have had a cartoon thought bubble over her head that read “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that 102,345,789 times today about your damn appointment- shut the fuck up and go away”. I reached the room where I thought I would be interviewing job-begging with one or two people. Oh HELL NO-it was a damn cattle call! Twelve other heads turned (thanks, parking lot of doom) as I grabbed the only chair available. In walked a spindly little “Gawd those Olsen twins are like, sooo fat” version of a recruiter. She told us her name (did she really say “Shitney”?), and tried to interact with us while demonstrating the amped up energy only accessible to denizens of  Meth and Red Bull-Ville, USA.

          We were encouraged to tell her why we were like, here, like, ya know…I swallowed some bile and tried my best not to answer “I’m here to preach the gospel of chocolate, good tummy control spandex, Doritos and Bud Light”. Then it got even more pathetic- Shitney led the whole desperado pack of suckers job applicants around the two story office, expounding non-stop on the glorious position we were applying for (which, like, yeah, doesn’t exactly have a base salary or any mofo compensation at all until you made an obscene amount of sales)…She led us up to the peak of the asshole empire –the head douche in charge’s suite, the Zanadu of all predatory prick’s office. I think his oiliness was only surpassed by his excessive repetition of the phrase “You gotta want it bad enough to run with the big dogs” or some kind of lame shit (stuff that should have automatically expelled him violently off the earth’s gravitational pull by merit of extreme ass-holishness). His so-called assistant was busy spackling her face with more powder whilst swinging her skinny jeans clad legs over her chair. The crowning “respect my professional abilities” piece of attire was her extreme slut shoes- horrid (emphasis on first syllable) platform s that laced up her calves-with feathers on most of the shoe. ”Some poor birdie died for skankiness:” I thought.

          Shitney concluded her Grande tour with a visit back to the same lame-o conference room, where we were all instructed to fill out the requisite job applications (aka identity theft invitations) en masse. I excused myself, claiming an urgent need for the bathroom- and high-tailed it back to the Douche-Meister’s suite. Slutorella was still spackling away at her face when I asked to speak to His Greasiness NOW in a very un-quiet voice (thanks to my Dad for being hard of hearing- I probably could have been heard in Botswana, and I wasn’t even shouting). The Prickster was less aghast than bemused (typical oily over-confidence) at the sight of me. I firmly told him that I was a real job-seeker here to collect on the toll and gas money that I had wasted on a no base salary lie/non-job interview. Cash will be fine- and I have all the time in the world to wait in your office for it. He gulped, and asked me how far I had driven/how much I had spent in tolls. I calculated ten bucks- he tried telling me I could have a check-but I didn’t spend a check. He ran into the nearby office, where three guys in polo shirts looked at me like I was about to smoke a fatty near the Hindenburg. A second later, one pulled a bill out of his wallet, Greasy McDouche handed it to me, apologizing. I smiled in the elevator on the way to my car- it was a crisp twenty. I highly recommend that you follow suit if faced with a stupid non-interview, Dahlings. The pricks deserve it, and YOU deserve a nice margarita after a wasted interview.

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It’s called a “blackout” period for a reason……

Posted on July 23, 2011 | 1 Comment

Hells Bells Dahlings!!!! It’s sooo freakin’ hot! But does that deter utmost stupidity? Sadly, no. Being a maribou slipper’s throw from Disnee World, I have run across some decidedly stupid tales of tourons. The stupidest of all? Being so hard up for entertainment(or being a total obtuse idjiot/being an utter masochistic fool) that one would spend their vacay days at Disnee during our lovely summer. I am not amused by the reports of a dozen tourists passing out from the heat in one day (thanks to my wonderous pals at RetailHellUnderground.comfor that stat). Gee Clark, it doesn't look crowded....

   Anyone with a modest amount of sense would wait until the average Orlando temperature dips somewhat below “nuclear inferno” to visit Disnee. After all, what’s more fun than waiting in horridly long lines pressed up against sweaty tourons with no sense of the term “personal space”? Or waiting for eons in the hot sun to enter a queue(mostly resembling a cattle shute).If you must drag your happy ass/your whining offspring to the theme parks- tell the school system to eat hot death and drag little Bezzus outta school during a cold weather month in the school term.

     The dear leaders at  Disnee have instituted a slightly reduced price ”Florida Resident Seasonal Pass” for Florida residents (as penance for foisting fanny pack laden tourons who actually run to their desired attraction, guide-book in their  foaming jaws). The passes won’t allow you into the parks during the hellishly hot/insanely crowded times of the year(when no sane mortal dares venture into Disnee anyway). They call these “Blackout” periods. I suppose this is called that so that you don’t “blackout” from heat/rage at the crowded conditions.

   I’m going to stay in the A/C and try to get the song “Rock Me Amadeus” from playing in my head – but the words have somehow turned into “Smack Me I’m a Tourist”.Sighhh.

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Posted in Florida is a whole 'nother story

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Control Your Womb Boogers!

Posted on July 21, 2011 | Leave a comment

       It has come to my attention that a musty phrase from (gasp) MTV’s Real World should re-enter our dialect- “It’s Time to Stop Being Polite and Start Getting Real”. Yes, this means that we are all suffering from the same impolite assholes who barrage us, day in and day out, with their selfish, short-sighted annoyances. They call themselves “parents”- but PARENT IS A FRICKIN’ NOUN AND A VERB, DAMNIT!!!!!!! They are out there, toting their devil brats to every place we frequent- we can simply call them “brat bringers”.  For the sake of expediency, we can refer to them as BB’s. . It’s not the brat’s fault that they are being raised with the houseplant mentality of parenting “plant the seed, then ignore the fuck out of it, except for some water and fertilizer (food) now and then”.

    The BB’s of this planet have cornered the market on self-righteous, bullshit write-offs of their horrible, heinous kid’s behaviors. In our overly politically correct society, one cannot grab said BB by the hand and force them to actively parent instead of yapping away on their cell. I recently had to tell a Hoochie Mama BB to “Come with me, your 3 year old boy is about to pull the fire alarm in the store”. Did she cringe in embarrassment that he could have easily ruined an entire store’s worth of merchandise with the sprinklers-or even worry that her (several) minutes of inattention to said brat could have gotten him spirited away by some lecherous ne’er do well? No- I was given a very withering dirty look as she loudly marched him out of the door, explaining to little Sir Bratenstein that “The mean lady said we have to leave”.

     Further dirty looks and condemnation were ladled out to me by a different  cell-phone addicted BB- it seems her conversation about what to wear that night was more important than watching her three sons (all under the age of 5). The middle son was about to PEE (zipper down, pecker in hand)all over the front window mannequin (and the newest/most expensive outfit in the store) when I caught a horrified glimpse of the whizzer to be. I loudly said “Oh no, little boy, we don’t go to the bathroom on the mannequins”; causing the miffed BB to finally make a mad dash for the front door. Did I mention the assaholic moron BB’s who insisted on plugging in a flipping portable DVD player with loud cartoons whilst dining with their horridly loud/whiny bitch 5 year old recently?

No Brats Allowed

     The point is- we don’t have to accept this kind of bullshit anymore. We the Republic of “Fed up with Demon spawn Brats and Lazy Ass BB’s” have spoken loudly and clearly. A recent article on CNN.com caused a flurry of supportive missives to be sent in, firmly supporting a restaurant manager who banned kids under 6 from his dining/ golf establishment. Enough of his paying customers were aggravated by BB’s and brats that he issued the edict (explaining that kids aren’t safe when they are running amongst the tables, can’t truly enjoy the dining ambience meant for adults, etc.) banning the hellspawn. Sir, you deserve a raise, a medal and a good roger-ing from your significant other.

     Oh tired masses who yearn to eat without hearing any screaming, marauding brats- rejoice! America has spoken-firmly on the side of We the ‘I’m sick of this bratty bullshit/pathetic excuses for parenting”.Dahlings, we can and must take back the world as we know it. Don’t be afraid to let a few lame-ass BB’s know that they are pissing you off/being shitty parents. Feel free to let the BB’s know that YOU have a right to not be annoyed when you are paying good money for a movie (Bitch, your infant REALLY needs to listen to deafening car crashes! By the way, you owe me $18; since I paid for a movie, and only received the crying of your kid!) – or dining, shopping or doing anything but babysitting. I was trying to gain entrance to my car on a recent sweltering day when the BB parked next to me had to let her 6 year old son RE-close the car door (he wailed like he had been bludgeoned after SHE had the gall to close the damn door). His caterwauling whiny bitch screaming made my ears wince- and after the BB finally allowed me to gain entrance to my car; I loudly yelled after her “No, I didn’t need that ear, thanks anyway!!!!”. The BB went on to further solidify her BB status by telling her brat “Oh grow up,(insert horrid newfangled yuppie name that will hound him for eternity/ensure a good beatdown on the playground),You didn’t need to close the door”- as if I was asking her for a show of parenting.

     My advice, Dahlings, is to simply remember that YOU have the right not to be terminally vexed in public- and the BB’s had better start  actively parenting lest we “remind them” of their choice to raise their litter.

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