Oh, God. We’ll ALWAYS have Paris.

Jesus. When ugly old Humphrey Bogart snarled out of his overbite the words, “We’ll always have Paris,” to his torn-between-two-lovers dame in Casablanca, NEVER did he imagine the heinous association that would forever taint the word “Paris” four decades later. Mona Lisa, the Eiffel Tower, even buttery croissants cannot redeem their homeland because any mention of its name conjures up that other Paris. You know. The one with the pocket pooches. The one with the mouth-breather stare so utterly blank that there simply can be no other explanation than this: Fred Flintstone lives inside her hollowed-out carcass, working the controls like he used to on the dinosaur down at the rock quarry. Or maybe the little bird inside Fred’s camera needed a new job. Whatever. There is clearly no one home inside that vapid blight. Her show wasn’t called The Simple Life for nothing.

Why is this skinny sack o’ money constantly in the fricking news? The possibilities:

  1. She has a new reality series coming out, so we all need to know exactly when to tune in to see her keen mind working about as fast as dead mule. With ankle weights.
  2. She has been arrested, and we all need to tune in to see her spend a harrowing eleventy seconds in jail.
  3. She has to appear in court to testify about the “scary” incident of waking up to find that she was in no danger whatsoever because some stalker tried to break into her “mansion,” but her “security team” dispatched his ass in less time than she’s spent in jail.
  4. Some stalker (i.e., skank she screwed, who probably expects lots of money) has “assaulted” her current boyfriend (i.e., skank she is currently screwing, who probably expects lots of money)…and it was surprisingly caught on tape! Just like that time she screwed that skank who then sold the tape to the tabloids because he expected lots of money! That’s fucking news. Literally.

Why doesn’t she just go away? How does she continue to perambulate to and fro even though I am positive L.A. uses those pesticide trucks to fog its neighborhoods? And do you suppose she ever flits around the room like a balloon when her security team lets all the air out of her at night? Just asking.

C*nt Never Could

Holy shitwads, y’all! Gwenyth Paltrow appeared on Chelsea Lately—the only late, late night talk show with a woman behind the main desk—a couple of nights ago. This is, apparently, BIG news. Or the uproar could be that while on the show, Gwynnie called her grandmother a really, realllllly nasty name for the female genitalia. In case you are too chaste to know what the word is, then I’ll give you a hint, and perhaps you’d like to tell me what the fuck you’re doing reading this in the first place. Hm? Nothing? Mm-hmm.

For you sheltered mama’s boys, the word that Ms. Paltrow said begins with a “c.” It rhymes with “cunt.” Do you think you have it figured out? I’ll give you a sec. Thaaaaaat’s it. Yeah. Gwyn called her own grandmother that derogatory name because she was trying to riff off some stupid shit that Chelsea said about her grandma, which wasn’t even funny like 90% of what Chelsea says.

Well, my grandmother could kick both their grandmas’ asses in the kitchen; she smoked Marlboro Reds for sixty-five years; and she said things like, “Cain’t never could,” which means “Stop yer fucking bitching and whining and saying, ‘I can’t,’ and just do the goddamned thing I told you to do.” Whatever she told me to do generally concerned picking shit out of the garden in the Georgia heat and then shelling it for dinner as if I didn’t have better things to do in the air conditioned den where the t.v. was. “Peas cain’t shell themselves,” she’d bleat. To which I’d think, “Cain’t never could, you fucking peas.” I never said anything out loud, or I sure as shit wouldn’t be here whining today.

The thing that gets me about Gwyneth Paltrow’s c-word utterance is that every damned body is so shocked. Is there really anyone who still believes in the sparkling, studio-spun celebrity persona? Rock Hudson screwed boys, people. The jig’s been up for years. Gwyneth does not shit diamonds or have gold for blood. She isn’t immortal, as far as I know, and she calls her grandmother a cunt. She is one of the greatest actors I’ve ever seen, but since when does pretending well mean you’re better than everyone else? Shit. If that’s all it takes, where’s my fucking limo?  I’ve been married four previous times. Don’t tell me I cain’t act.

Plumbfucking Plumbing

I have a problem with my plumbing, and, no, I do not mean that plumbing. Although at my advanced age, I could technically be talking about that plumbing. But I’m not. You don’t need to know the status of my goddamned vayjayjay. I’m talking about plumbing. You know: water issues in my house.

The first problem is that the water pressure in the kitchen sink used to be about as strong as the stream of an 80-year-old with a bowling ball for a prostate. Then the phenomenally gifted maintenance staff at our complex fixed it. Now when we turn on the faucet, water firehoses out with intermittent jackhammer bursts of nuclear power. The sound is especially pleasing.

My bathtub’s pressure, on the other hand, changes with its temperature. I can choose freezing-ass dribbles or a scalding-ass spray. Neither one can rinse the dry off a cotton ball, but clean is so overrated anyway.

Another fabulous feature of my bathroom is the unintended bidet. You know what a bidet is, don’t you? You in the back? No? Has your head been up your ass until now? Maybe if you had a bidet you would know these things because it would have washed your head out of your ass.

That’s right. A bidet is a separate potty-looking thing that shoots a plume of water up your ass so that you don’t have to sully your hands or precious sensibilities with toilet paper like the little people. My father had one installed in his master bath once, and I thought, Oh, how cute. His-and-her toilets for the couple who can’t bear to be apart for even one shitting second. Literally. And then I used the weird looking toilet because I didn’t know it was a bidet, and water shot all up my…wait. I said I wasn’t talking about my goddamned vayjayjay. Nice try.

Anyway, my current toilet has a vicious pressure when it’s flushed. Water blasts out of the front at the speed of light, and I swear I don’t have a single wrinkle in the privates anymore because of the defacto laser treatments. And the shock of an unexpected tepid torpedo of H2O to the pelvis-y area is an extra little wake-up call each morning. It’s difficult to go back to sleep once your loins have been bitch-slapped. Plus, it’s hard to argue with the supreme clean of a sand-blasted genital. Wait. What? Am I talking about my…Dammit.

If You Cannot Speak Correctly, Shut the Fuck Up.

And, now. A moment of bitching about the state of the English language in 21st Century America.

I’m so tired of the phrase 24/7, and its ugly stepsister, 24/7/365. I work tirelessly 8/5 to teach my students to avoid overused words and phrases (cliché’s) like the plague. And, Lord knows, I try my darnedest to get them to avoid using just the plain wrong word or phrase. A student of mine once wrote, “…is it self-exclamatory?” WTF is that?!

One of my former bosses used to say malapropisms like, “It’s coming down the pipe,” and “We really have to treat these students with white gloves.” Holy shit. Are the students DUSTY? How many people even know that the phrase is “treat ___ with kid gloves” because KID is leather made from baby animals? So it’s softer, and therefore will create a gentler handling? Goddddd. (And kiss my ass PETA. I don’t wear fucking fur.) If I see one more freaking lower case personal pronoun I, someone is going to lose a nut. I mean it. At the very least, I think capital punishment is in order.

What is going to happen to our future generations? People don’t read anymore, except crap like tabloids, which have the grammatical finesse of a toddler from NOT America. If people don’t read, then they write dumbshit things like “should of” instead of “should’ve” because that’s how it sounds.

And, get this. A COLLEAGUE of mine stopped me in the hall one evening to tell me that while I was visiting the potty (because, YES, goddammit, teachers have to PEE sometimes), a student had been searching for me. And I quote, “You must have just went out because she had went to your room looking for you.” Thank goodness I had just peed, or I would have sprinkled during the mini-fucking-stroke I had. I’m thinking this whole idea in the news lately about educators being allowed to carry firearms sounds better and better every second.

Wait Hate

I hate waiting. Waiting sucks large beefy balls with coarse hair. I spend at least fifteen minutes waiting in traffic on the way to work, one way. I make the trip twelve times a week. That’s…a lot of minutes, which adds up to hours. You do the math because I’m tired. But the point is that I could be doing all kinds of exciting and productive things with the hunnnnnndreds of hours I waste each year waiting. I am sure that cures for cancer, poverty, AIDS, illiteracy and chin hairs on women have not been discovered because researchers were in fucking lines instead of back at the lab discovering miracles.

My favorite type of waiting is at the doctor’s office because there is nothing like flipping through a two-year-old golf magazine to pass the time. Doctors continue the practice of populating their waiting rooms with mindsucking materials because they allow their staff to book sixteen patients for each fifteen minutes in the day, and they’re hoping that the crowd will thin out a little from boredom-related deaths.

The best waiting ever is at Walmart. I just cannot beat standing in the 20-items-or-less (“FEWER,” Walmart! FEWER.) EXPRESS lane with my ONE item for 35 minutes while the couple who came over from the old country unload twin buggies of supplies for the apparent start-up of their soon-to-be-robbed convenience store. I know they probably can’t read since they don’t know the language yet, but how hard is it to learn Spanish? And aren’t numbers uni-fucking-versal? How difficult would it have been for a WM employee to  direct the assholes kindly to a regular line? Noooo. It’s way better just to prevent the discovery of the secret of string theory. I almost had it too but I had to go to Walmart for some string.

Funny Girls Write Books.

Well. I’ve been KINDLING lately, and I don’t mean I’ve become firewood. Or that I’ve recently turned anyone on. I really should say “Kindle-ing” if I want to be accurate, since I’m talking about all the reading I’ve been doing on my Amazon Kindle. I’d toyed with getting one for awhile, and a few weeks ago I snagged a deal at Big Box. As soon as I plugged that puppy in, and whole books and magazines appeared in microseconds, I frothed at the mouth and scheduled some near-future rehab.

The first thing I did was order a whole slew of books penned by comediennes (women comedians for all your dumbshits). I’d been anticipating the arrival of Tina Fey’s Bossypants like a gaggle of gay teens pining for a Kurt-Blaine tongue wrestle. But because I had a couple of days before Bpants’s release, I quelled my desire with Kathy Griffin’s Official Book Club Selection: A Memoir According to Kathy Griffin and Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life.

Kathy r-o-c-k-s. I laughed laaaaaate into the night reading her surprisingly sweet and intimate memoir; but I can say with unvarnished truth that Chelsea Handler’s book was so unfunny that I resent the fact that I cannot even use it as toilet paper if I run out. I want my fucking five dollars back, bitch. (Although perhaps the reality that it was five dollars should have been a clue to its suckassness.)

Tina Fey, now, is just as wicked as Kathy Griffin; but because her humor is a little more cerebral, and she’s selected a better class of friends, Tina isn’t on Oprah’s and David’s and every-damned-body’s shitlist. Hey. Both of those girls swear way more than I do, but nobody’s having a stroke about it. So be quiet, Daddy. (Who do you think taught me all those words anyway? Yeah. That’s right. Bathroom bitches at Parkwood Elementary. But you should have warned me about sixth-graders.)

My conclusion #1- If you’re looking for pee-in-your-panties fun, grad a box of Depends ® and a Griffin- or Fey-produced product.

My conclusion #2- The only upside to anything by Handler: If you need to lose a few pounds before an upcoming special event, read Handler’s shit, and you can puke up food you haven’t even eaten yet. Slimming.

My conclusion #3- If they can sell books, so can I. Go, girl writers.

Keep Your Pants On. Really.

Thursday, I was exposed to two very unwelcome penii. The first man-tube belonged to a fellow who was trimming weeds on the college campus where I work. As I was winding down from an argument with a student who simply could not accept that there is such a thing as an action word ending in “ing” that is not employed as a verb, I glanced out the window. Three floors below, a fellow had a weed whacker in one hand…tally whacker in the other. He was vigorously peeing. While students milled nearby and even passed him on the walkway to his left. Yeah.

 

I couldn’t tell much else about the guy because of his hat and bandana-covered face. His weeeeeeeeeeeener was either insanely dirty or he’s spent major time tanning. But honestly. Did I need to see that? Was it just too fucking far for him to walk the thirty yards to the building? I realize we are talking about an educational institution in Georgia, but, shit. We HAVE indoor plumbing.

 

And, then. As if the universe felt the need to underline the episode, I saw yet another urinary offering that very evening. There’s a Sonic drive-in close to home, and a road cuts up one side of the parking lot. Traveling that road to get to K. Roger for an unrotten avocado, I witnessed a boy, five-ish, obviously celebrating his birthday because he was wearing the suit. He joyously waved his hips back and forth as he fountained the grass with what minutes before had probably been a slushee. He had his little paws propped proudly on his naked hiney and his head thrown back in pure glee. Where were his parents? Where were his manners? Where were his freaking pants?

 

I think the scariest thing about the twin tinklers is that ALL things ALWAYS come in threes. Plane crashes. Hurricanes. Unsuccessful Baldwin brothers. And now this. Any second there will be another uninvited phallic faucet lurking around my field of vision. Awesome. Fucking awesome.

Haters Unite!

So. In the category of shit-we-should-all-hate, let’s begin with those plastic seals on the inside of bottled/tubbed products like sour cream or cold medicine tablets or canola oil. I know. I know. The seals protect us from people who get spurned by a stalkee and then set out to kill said stalkee by lacing a bunch of containers of some common product at Wal-Mart with rat poison. If the seal is broken, you might want to choose some other opportunity to show all those assholes from work that you are not a pasty, paranoid, spineless wuss. This is no time to be all risky and dare-devily. That seal did not pick itself open.

And do you know how I know that? Because those goddamned things require a blow torch and an advanced degree from MIT to open. And there’s no way some plastic seal got into MIT. All right. Maybe if it were made in China. But I digress. Whoever invented those things clearly has sadistic leanings. There is never, ever, ever enough hangover to make a substantial tab, plus your hands are probably going to be wet or ooey in some way, and you won’t be able to grip the slippery fricking film anyway. Then you have to go find a knife and cut the damned thing off, and you can never get all of the shards. Is there no one out there who can design an easier seal for God’s sake? It’s the 21st century. We are supposed to have flying cars and robot maids by now and a dog named Astro. Jesus.

And speaking of that, another thing we should all hate is when people use the Lord’s name in vain! God, that makes me furious. But almost nothing gets under my skin like when people make fun of the mentally ill. I get crazier than a psyche ward full of schizophrenics off their meds. The worst, though, the WORST is when writers end their pieces without a conclusion. Any good writer worth a crap knows to sum up everything she’s previously said and leave the reader with a “final-sounding” thought. But a lot of times