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.
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.
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
Dear spring weather in Middle Georgia,
You are usually such an enjoyable season what with your plethora of fragrant blooms, your gentle breezes that whip my hair lightly from my face so that I go around looking like a celebrity in a music video, and your temperate sunshiny days that crisp up nicely after cool-enough-not-to-need-the-AC nights. So I really appreciate your completely considerate shift to one million degrees this afternoon just as I was leaving for work. Keep up the trend! It’s awesome sweating so much that the raging rivulets carve an actual valley between my boobs. A family of deer and a couple of sparrows have moved in. Thanks.
Dear every single red light from my house to work,
Thank you for managing to turn red immediately before my car arrived at each of your intersections and for staying red as long as possible even when no other vehicles were visible for three hundred miles. Great work!
Dear air conditioner in my car,
Thank you SO much for fucking up. TODAY!
Dear April 13, 2011,
The only way you could suck any more is if you were on Friday.
Apparently, there has been some fucktastic mix-up in my recent communication with God. I distinctly remember asking for MORE money coming IN, but noooo. Somehow, some celestial assistant doesn’t know her/his/its divine shorthand because not only is my bank account hemorrhaging green shit, but Alexis’s car is in the shop, and they’ve set bail at $400. AND the asssuck insurance company to whom we give our monthly premium for their “anorexic coverage plan” just declared my recent surgery bill “ineligible.” In tiny, little 6-point Calibri down at the bottom of the page by a 1-point asterisk is the reason for the denial: “This amount exceeds the annual maximum in plan. Because your annual maximum is 67 cents. And we are asssucks.” So. Yes. I owe TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. For a ninety-second surgical procedure. Out fucking patient.
I LOVE insurance companies and want to marry them and then catch them with the nanny so that I can divorce them immediately in Vegas and take every single cent they ever made plus the his-and-hers hand towels that were a wedding gift from their liver-spotted great aunt Eula.
I’m not mad. What makes you think I am mad?
I hate whiners. That’s why I work hard to keep my whining to myself or only to share it with a few poor, trapped family members. But where is that getting me really? What has burying anger and dismay ever done for me? Excluding the procurement of a Maalox/Tums addiction and expensive stays in “health spas,” not a damned thing. So. What do I have to complain about today?
How about the four fucking dollars per gallon that I just spent putting half a tank in my car? My car gets roughly a half a mile to the gallon, so the forty dollars I stuffed into its tank will get me to work and back a little less than twice. I guess I will have to hitch that last couple of miles. On the Interstate. At fricking night. Considering that I pull in a whopping $20 per hour as a RESPECTED adjunct instructor (NOT), it costs more to drive to work than I’m making by going to work. See why people go on Welfare? It PAYS to sit on your ass and eat cupcakes infused with high fructose corn syrup and fried in lard. I’m in!