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:
- 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.
- She has been arrested, and we all need to tune in to see her spend a harrowing eleventy seconds in jail.
- 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.
- 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.
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.
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.
I blame America. If it weren’t for the pervasiveness of our national language, Spanish, I would not have to be assaulted daily by clueless minions of the service industry who toss off that overused phrase for which life imprisonment in the hold should be the minimum punishment: “No problem.” Oooooo. I just want to pummel within a millimeter of death anyone says those three little syllables.
I thank the waiter for bringing my food. “No problem.” I tell the girl who let me in front of her in line how much I appreciate her kindness. “No problem.” I hand the doctor my entire life savings to pay him the ten-fucking-thousand dollars I owe him for a ninety-second surgery. “No problem.” Well. I’m thrilled as holy hell that no one has to put forth any effort on my part these days.
The phrase, “No problem” is the ugly twin-sister of the Spanish answer to “Thank you.” Gracias for the taco. De nada. Gracias for the boost over the border fence. De nada. The Spanish phrase means literally “of nothing” or “It was nothing.” In other words, “I didn’t have to expend any unnecessary energy to do that for you. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it.”
Every time someone hurls a “no problem” at me, he/she is really saying that I’m not worth his/her spending any real time/money/labor/thought. Every “no problem” is a personal diss, which just gets my goat. And I have a problem with that.
The number one thing in the world I hate, despise, and abhor more than poverty, illiteracy, prejudice, torture and unwanted facial hair COMBINED: sonofabitching, buttfucking, asslicking cockroaches. How DARE there be a cutesy cartoon version in Wall-E!? I officially detest Pixar’s art department for implying that those godforsaken cretins could have any redeeming qualities.
It’s painful even to write about the motherfuckers. But! I was just fishing for topics, and the universe—bitch that she sometimes is—threw one my way. Literally. I went to my closet to find a cord for a hearing aid device, and I pulled down a box from the top shelf. I haven’t visited that box since we moved it here from Cucaracha Villa, the rental house we shared with four million roach bastards last year. When I retrieved the box, I knocked down an old make-up container, which had a partially opened zipper.
A millisecond later, I spied out of my eye corner a ginormous, black behemoth scurrying across the closet carpet. My usual spastic fit ensued, which my husband and daughter noted with the blithe expressions of flush septuagenarians nursing juleps on the fucking veranda. You know, they could have moved their asses because that cocksucker isn’t going to kill itself.
My poor daughters. If they are anything like me, they will realize one day while in the middle of watching some cleverly penned half-hour of workplace comedy that they have multiple facial hairs that did not get proper permission before sprouting from their secret lairs. I discovered my chin-buddies because of the following conversation:
My grandmother, Kitty, to my mother, Charlotte: “Chaaaaahlotte, pull this hay-uh fuh me. I cain’t see up under thay-uh.” She juts out her chin for better viewing.
My mother: “Pull mine first.”
Holy shitballs. If both of them have one…My twenty-year-old self hightailed it to the nearest mirror and strained to see what lurked beneath my jiggly jaw line. And there it was! The fucker had been there so long it was spiraling. Spiraling, people. I almost puked. I snatched that sumbitch out of my fatty flesh faster than a naked toddler wandering in traffic ends up at DFACS.
I have a right to know, and I want to know NOW. Why, why, why if hair has to go away as we age, why can’t all the hair in my legs fall out? Or the mustache hair? Why can’t that go? Shit. I can donate the hair on my face to Locks of Love, but I look like a seventy-year-old man at the crown. There are only so many ways a girl can pull off a comb-over.
You know what adds insult to injury? I have to lift and separate my chins to find those little follicle-fucking bastards these days. God forbid anyone catches me laughing in a picture. I tend to pull back my head so that there’s no neck within 500 yards. The only discernible features are teeth and eye slits floating in a puddle of flesh, barely visible. They are eclipsed by the shadow of my monster chin hair.
Oh, good GOD. People are such inconceivable pustules sometimes. I swear I felt like an Iraqi village today, all besieged and molested. First, this guy who obviously has a wee little peepeepee cut me off on Interstate 75 lest I arrived three-point-six frucking seconds ahead of him at the light at the end of the off-ramp.
Then, once I made it to a parking spot after following an idiot on the other end of the speed spectrum who insisted upon taking seven hours to go over each of the four-hundred speed bumps in the school lot, I watched this guy light up a cancer stick right in front of the sign that says, NO SMOKING: Because we care. My ASS. The campus security guys smoke right there all the time! And this jerk today happened also to have those preposterous low, low riding jeans puddled around his ankles. What is the point of those? Don’t these nimrods realize they look like they’re walking around in a Depends®-sized shit-diaper?
But then! The best thing EVER happened. I wheezed through the asshole’s wall of smoke and headed to the elevator, which is at the far end of a third-floor breezeway. The lift door opened, and out stepped a young woman…with a cigarette to her goddamned lips. She whuffed out a copious cloud of the second-hand variety and glared at me with her super intelligent eyes filled with “I love humanity” attitude. No matter that it is against the fucking law to smoke here and that there are five billion signs with the little red slash through the lit cigarette. Why, why wasn’t I brave enough to push her ass over the rail? She slipped on her sliminess, officer.
After class, I found myself forced to go to my favorite place, Walmart, home of vraiment chic people with whom I want to have wine and cheese. Vexing experiences today at Wally World! I turned a corner in the sock section only to run into a buggy that some slumbag had left blocking the aisle. In it were the desecrated remains of some high-fat, processed food products. That’s stealing, slumbag! And I can’t even express without apoplexy the lagoon creature who barked into a cell phone the entire time it was in line. It did not acknowledge the cashier or the fact that it was not at home in its mudbog. I. DO. NOT. UNDERSTAND. PEOPLE. The upside is that nothing’s bad enough that a few good funerals won’t take care of it.
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.
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.
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.