Dear Volkswagen Drivers (and rednecks in pickup trucks with tool chests),
I don't think you've noticed yet, but when white fluffy stuff falls from the sky, and especially when it's less fluffy and mixed with freezing rain, the roads get a tad slick. I am under the impression that this tidbit of information has escaped you because when I drive to work in such conditions, I usually find one of you planted firmly up my rectum.
Most of the time you drive so close that I can count the knuckles buried in your nostril by looking in my rear view mirror. Fortunately for you, I'm far too busy paying attention to the road to care. You may be capable of swigging your Starbucks, starting a cartoon for your backseat poop machine, chatting with your boss on the Bluetooth and adjusting your eyeliner, all while drafting me like you think you're in the Tour de France. I, on the other hand, find the challenges of stopping at red lights, yielding at crosswalks, and avoiding the wide swath of beligerent plow drivers during a storm just a little more important. Do you think your aggressive bumper rape will make me drive faster? I'll warn you now, I've left early enough that I can slow down to 30 for the entire 60 km drive and I'll STILL make it to work in time to grab a coffee on my way.
I pray, Mr. Volkswagen Driver (or redneck pickup truck owner), for your vehicle to end up sideways in a snowbank. I don't wish you bodily harm, but a little bent axle and a few 360s in the middle of a four lane highway would do you a world of good. You may be a rebel right now, impervious to snowy roads and wallowing in the delicious righteous feeling you get from blasting your high beams through the back of my car, but somewhere, sooner or later, you are going off the road.When that happens, I want to be right there to drive on past at my slightly-less-than-the-speed-limit when you do. I might even stop, pretend to offer you some assistance and then drive away with an 80's worthy "NOT!".
Back off, Volkswagen Driver (or redneck pickup truck guy). I may be slow, but surely your kids deserve a better view than my ass while you drive. Of course, with an ass like you in the seat beside them, I guess they're screwed either way.
Never mind.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Battery Operated Pants
I think I've finally figured out why more and more people are having trouble existing without a cell phone on their person. I'd like to tell you people that it's ok, I understand. Sex addiction, like typhoid fever, black lung and psychosis is a disease. It's time to swallow the bitterest pill and take back your life without phone.
Cell phones have never made me happy. The thought that I am obligated to answer the phone no matter where I am or what I'm doing seems counterproductive and sinister, but nowhere near as evil as the little electronic bleat my first cell made when someone demanded my attention. Like jamming a Q-tip in just a little too far to dig out that elusive ball of wax, my cell phone ring annoyed me to the point of anguish. So I turned it off.
Unfortunately not everyone has mastered that button with the circle-encompassed line. Realizing the soul-wrenching tone of those rings, cell companies installed what the addicted refer to as "options", also known as downloads. If Muzak didn't kill Iron Maiden surely Rogers will. The annoyance increased exponentially, and so the vibrating phone was born.
At first it seemed a godsend. No longer did phones blurt out in movie theaters, the world seemed at peace once again. But as pockets across the continent started to silently stimulate, the reluctance to leave home without a fully charged phone grew. Soon asses were shifting in classroom chairs and under boardroom tables as a society with a sickness danced to the vibe. Addicted to the pleasant stroke of the ring, people young and old mastered the glance and dash, racing for a private spot where they could act on the sensations in their pants. The world became ill, unable to function without the caress of the vibration mode.
The cell phone companies would have you believe that you can't live without it, you need that buzz in your pants. You may believe it too, already addicted to getting off at the fingers of your lover, your parents, and strangers who hit the wrong key and wait to see who answers. But realize that you have the power to turn it off, take the phone out of your pants. There's a whole sensual world that has nothing to do with the vibration mode. Try it, leave your phone at home, make plans in advance, savour the anticipation of catching up over coffee instead of spilling your guts to a plastic battery-operated device. The longer you can last without that buzzer in your boxers, the easier it will be to get off on real people and real things.
Is that a Virgin in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? Seriously, figure that one out and then we'll talk. I've got your number.
Cell phones have never made me happy. The thought that I am obligated to answer the phone no matter where I am or what I'm doing seems counterproductive and sinister, but nowhere near as evil as the little electronic bleat my first cell made when someone demanded my attention. Like jamming a Q-tip in just a little too far to dig out that elusive ball of wax, my cell phone ring annoyed me to the point of anguish. So I turned it off.
Unfortunately not everyone has mastered that button with the circle-encompassed line. Realizing the soul-wrenching tone of those rings, cell companies installed what the addicted refer to as "options", also known as downloads. If Muzak didn't kill Iron Maiden surely Rogers will. The annoyance increased exponentially, and so the vibrating phone was born.
At first it seemed a godsend. No longer did phones blurt out in movie theaters, the world seemed at peace once again. But as pockets across the continent started to silently stimulate, the reluctance to leave home without a fully charged phone grew. Soon asses were shifting in classroom chairs and under boardroom tables as a society with a sickness danced to the vibe. Addicted to the pleasant stroke of the ring, people young and old mastered the glance and dash, racing for a private spot where they could act on the sensations in their pants. The world became ill, unable to function without the caress of the vibration mode.
The cell phone companies would have you believe that you can't live without it, you need that buzz in your pants. You may believe it too, already addicted to getting off at the fingers of your lover, your parents, and strangers who hit the wrong key and wait to see who answers. But realize that you have the power to turn it off, take the phone out of your pants. There's a whole sensual world that has nothing to do with the vibration mode. Try it, leave your phone at home, make plans in advance, savour the anticipation of catching up over coffee instead of spilling your guts to a plastic battery-operated device. The longer you can last without that buzzer in your boxers, the easier it will be to get off on real people and real things.
Is that a Virgin in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? Seriously, figure that one out and then we'll talk. I've got your number.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Dear Britney Spears
Dear Britney Spears (and I use the term "dear" with great hesitation),
Surely you must realize by this point that you are pure and utter skank. I would say "udder skank", but I mean no offence to the bovine creatures with whom you are lucky to share this planet.
Ms. Spears, did you realize that you have no talent whatsoever? I mean, really, none! It's actually a little shocking. I'm not a big fan of Justin Timberlake, but the dude can dance, and he actually knows how to put a beat or two together. I'm not crazy about Madonna's tunes either, but she's one smart cookie and I respect her ability to combine sex and sass to turn herself into a viable business venture. But you, Ms. Spears, I have yet to figure out your contribution to art, culture, life on the planet, or even amusement as a concept. You are Jerry Springer in fishnet stockings - completely scary but impossible to stop looking at. You completely boggle my mind.
Sure, Britney (if I may call you that), you have tits and ass covered - or uncovered - as the case may be. But really, don't you find that's getting old? I mean any 8 year old worth his Bic lighter can find all the porn he needs for free on the internet without even Googling you. Where's the "value added" in your product? Most 80 year old grandmas would look hot if they hid behind as much makeup as you do. Remember Tammy Faye? You're only a few years and a televangelist husband off, Brit.
As for the "entertainment" end of your schtick... c'mon! If you looked like Roseanne your sales would be right up there with salt and vinegar soaked Bandaids. All these 12 year old girls buying your "music" see your image on the cover, but shouldn't they be searching Limewire for the guy who programs your beats, the dude who writes your songs, the producer who knows how to work a miracle and make it sound like you actually can hold a tune? Where are the credits for the person who duct tapes your boobs together so when you pretend that you can dance your cleavage goes along for the ride? You should be marketed as "Britney Spears and Friends". I'll bet you have a lot of them, too.
I keep trying to understand the appeal, Britney, I really do. But if I wanted half the drama involved in being you I'd just watch daytime TV. If I wanted something as braindead as your lyrics I'd buy a 40 of rum and a straw. If I wanted a beat that everyone and their dog was using I'd just rip you off. Oops... I think I did it again. Sorry.
Someday, Britney, maybe you'll learn that self-respect doesn't have to involve stripping, shaking and turning pre-teen girls into the next whore wannabes. Maybe you'll understand the fact that with 3 chords the Ramones made far more complex music than you could pull off with an entire studio of professionals. Maybe, Britney, just maybe, you'll aspire to be a role model, not a pole model. Or maybe I'm asking too much.
I apologize, Ms. Spears, for being so forthcoming (or to use a word you might understand, bitchy). Thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns. I know that you must be busy trying to figure out which pile of lingerie you left your brain cell under. I hope I haven't offended you in any way, but truth is, your existence offends the hell out of me. Leave the lowest common denominator alone and pick on someone your own size. What is that anyway, 32D? Oh sorry, didn't mean to confuse you with numbers.
Kindest Regards,
Sue
Surely you must realize by this point that you are pure and utter skank. I would say "udder skank", but I mean no offence to the bovine creatures with whom you are lucky to share this planet.
Ms. Spears, did you realize that you have no talent whatsoever? I mean, really, none! It's actually a little shocking. I'm not a big fan of Justin Timberlake, but the dude can dance, and he actually knows how to put a beat or two together. I'm not crazy about Madonna's tunes either, but she's one smart cookie and I respect her ability to combine sex and sass to turn herself into a viable business venture. But you, Ms. Spears, I have yet to figure out your contribution to art, culture, life on the planet, or even amusement as a concept. You are Jerry Springer in fishnet stockings - completely scary but impossible to stop looking at. You completely boggle my mind.
Sure, Britney (if I may call you that), you have tits and ass covered - or uncovered - as the case may be. But really, don't you find that's getting old? I mean any 8 year old worth his Bic lighter can find all the porn he needs for free on the internet without even Googling you. Where's the "value added" in your product? Most 80 year old grandmas would look hot if they hid behind as much makeup as you do. Remember Tammy Faye? You're only a few years and a televangelist husband off, Brit.
As for the "entertainment" end of your schtick... c'mon! If you looked like Roseanne your sales would be right up there with salt and vinegar soaked Bandaids. All these 12 year old girls buying your "music" see your image on the cover, but shouldn't they be searching Limewire for the guy who programs your beats, the dude who writes your songs, the producer who knows how to work a miracle and make it sound like you actually can hold a tune? Where are the credits for the person who duct tapes your boobs together so when you pretend that you can dance your cleavage goes along for the ride? You should be marketed as "Britney Spears and Friends". I'll bet you have a lot of them, too.
I keep trying to understand the appeal, Britney, I really do. But if I wanted half the drama involved in being you I'd just watch daytime TV. If I wanted something as braindead as your lyrics I'd buy a 40 of rum and a straw. If I wanted a beat that everyone and their dog was using I'd just rip you off. Oops... I think I did it again. Sorry.
Someday, Britney, maybe you'll learn that self-respect doesn't have to involve stripping, shaking and turning pre-teen girls into the next whore wannabes. Maybe you'll understand the fact that with 3 chords the Ramones made far more complex music than you could pull off with an entire studio of professionals. Maybe, Britney, just maybe, you'll aspire to be a role model, not a pole model. Or maybe I'm asking too much.
I apologize, Ms. Spears, for being so forthcoming (or to use a word you might understand, bitchy). Thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns. I know that you must be busy trying to figure out which pile of lingerie you left your brain cell under. I hope I haven't offended you in any way, but truth is, your existence offends the hell out of me. Leave the lowest common denominator alone and pick on someone your own size. What is that anyway, 32D? Oh sorry, didn't mean to confuse you with numbers.
Kindest Regards,
Sue
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Guy on the Bus Sings Again
This morning he was back. Singing large dude on the bus. Now, I'm not normally one to judge, but this guy, well, he's over the top, and you'd have to be traveling sealed in a beef bucket not to notice what he's got going on.
It began just like last time. Mp3 player clamped to his ears and the occasional outburst of a line or two, totally out of tune but without any self-conciousness at all. I'm pretty sure it was Great Big Sea. But this time he also had a hand held video game, and sporadically he turned off the MP3 player and sang along with the video game instead. There were no lyrics, just typical video game music, but he made some singing noises anyway. Very curious.
The singing was ok. After the last incident I was somewhat prepared for that. What I wasn't prepared for this time was the step dancing. He stayed in his seat but his legs were full on step dancing without any question whatsoever.
When the big yellow bottle of prescription pills comes out it's still shocking. Pour out a handful, work up some saliva in that big grinning mouth, and down the hatch.
I don't know what they do, but they don't help the singing and dancing. Maybe next time I'll ask.
It began just like last time. Mp3 player clamped to his ears and the occasional outburst of a line or two, totally out of tune but without any self-conciousness at all. I'm pretty sure it was Great Big Sea. But this time he also had a hand held video game, and sporadically he turned off the MP3 player and sang along with the video game instead. There were no lyrics, just typical video game music, but he made some singing noises anyway. Very curious.
The singing was ok. After the last incident I was somewhat prepared for that. What I wasn't prepared for this time was the step dancing. He stayed in his seat but his legs were full on step dancing without any question whatsoever.
When the big yellow bottle of prescription pills comes out it's still shocking. Pour out a handful, work up some saliva in that big grinning mouth, and down the hatch.
I don't know what they do, but they don't help the singing and dancing. Maybe next time I'll ask.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Exercise Sucks When You're on a Diet
I'm trying to lose some weight and so far I've been doing everything right - 13 pounds already, in 2.5 months! Not bad.
Losing weight is easy - at least the theory behind it is easy. Burn more calories than you eat and your hips will slide right off.
So I've been hitting the gym in the mornings and I'm picking up the pace. It feels good, I always end up a little sore but nothing serious, and I'm sweating like a horny toad in a porn shop. This should totally contribute to the calories burned and weight lost formula.
But there's a problem.
Exercising makes me friggin' hungry. I'm not talking a little nibbly or even pot-smoker munchy. After a good workout all I can think about is a Costco-sized bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, a plate full of chocolate chip cookies, a fat cinnamon bun smooshing under the weight of too much cream cheese icing, and steak - a big bloody barbecued Porterhouse, black on the outside and blue in the middle, laden with mushrooms and onions and a side of homemade fries.
Somehow I am managing to avoid these cravings. Somehow, I peel my half red grapefruit, nosh on a 90 calorie Special K bar, and pretend that Colonel Sanders is not the patron saint of all that is good with the world. Somehow, I ignore the fact that Boston Pizza and its fake garlic and olive oil perfume is brazenly located straight beneath my office window and air conditioner. Somehow the thought of size 5 shorts and ripped arms and abs is keeping temptation at bay. For now.
Frustrated, I ponder the tipping point - the place where exercise becomes counterproductive and spurs on bouts of junk food Bacchanalia and desire-driven excess. I'm not there yet, but every delicious picture on Epicurious, every exotic ingredient in the supermarket is driving me just a little closer to the edge.
Which comes first - ripped or ravenous? I'll take a bucket of biceps with 11 secret herbs and spices, thank you. I think it was Miss Piggy who said "Never eat more than you can lift." I guess I'd better start doubling up on my weight sessions.
Losing weight is easy - at least the theory behind it is easy. Burn more calories than you eat and your hips will slide right off.
So I've been hitting the gym in the mornings and I'm picking up the pace. It feels good, I always end up a little sore but nothing serious, and I'm sweating like a horny toad in a porn shop. This should totally contribute to the calories burned and weight lost formula.
But there's a problem.
Exercising makes me friggin' hungry. I'm not talking a little nibbly or even pot-smoker munchy. After a good workout all I can think about is a Costco-sized bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips, a plate full of chocolate chip cookies, a fat cinnamon bun smooshing under the weight of too much cream cheese icing, and steak - a big bloody barbecued Porterhouse, black on the outside and blue in the middle, laden with mushrooms and onions and a side of homemade fries.
Somehow I am managing to avoid these cravings. Somehow, I peel my half red grapefruit, nosh on a 90 calorie Special K bar, and pretend that Colonel Sanders is not the patron saint of all that is good with the world. Somehow, I ignore the fact that Boston Pizza and its fake garlic and olive oil perfume is brazenly located straight beneath my office window and air conditioner. Somehow the thought of size 5 shorts and ripped arms and abs is keeping temptation at bay. For now.
Frustrated, I ponder the tipping point - the place where exercise becomes counterproductive and spurs on bouts of junk food Bacchanalia and desire-driven excess. I'm not there yet, but every delicious picture on Epicurious, every exotic ingredient in the supermarket is driving me just a little closer to the edge.
Which comes first - ripped or ravenous? I'll take a bucket of biceps with 11 secret herbs and spices, thank you. I think it was Miss Piggy who said "Never eat more than you can lift." I guess I'd better start doubling up on my weight sessions.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
