Tag Archives: consumerism

Mood Swinging

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lambchop

I have been so angry lately. Ready to put my fist through glass when people talk to me. Well, I can pick a cliché to excuse myself- It’s because I am Irish. It’s because I am a Scorpio. It’s because I am bipolar. It’s because of hormones. It’s because I am just like my mother, who was a bipolar Irish Scorpio with unbalanced hormones. I am glum from waking up from a dream in which a woman in a supermarket was getting on my nerves and I smashed her head in with a can of peas, stuffed her body in my cart, and continued shopping. When the gruesome corpse in Aisle 4 was noticed by others, I was depressed and surrendered myself, weeping.

I don’t think I will be doing any shopping today.

smooch.

A broth of a different color!

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One of the best parts of my day as an underling for an international soup concern has got to be dealing with the foreign language stuff. Today I had to swap out a picture of a can of soup for…a new can of soup. All the writing is Japanese, and it’s a brimming bowl of yellow liquid. I started tittering at the possibilities. Let’s play “What’s! In! The Can!” shall we? Could it be…Cream of Dog? Tincture of Eel? Extract of Cock? Or, as my office pal suggested, that old standby, Rat Oil. Mmmm!

You’d think there would be exotic products like that, but actually it’s just boring shit like clam chowder and chicken noodle. Ho hum. So much for diversity. I guess I could link to the humorous foreign soup pages, but I’d probably get “canned.” Ahahahahaha. Then how would I pay for my drugs?

Yes, Lambchop, work is a funny thing. You used to make fun of me for wearing sneakers with my suit, but once you tried it you admitted there was no going back. The world of banking was not for me….I could write a novella out of my failed careers. Soda Jerk, Grease Monkey, Exotic Dancer, Roustabout. I really lost the love for the hot $9/hr world of bank tellering when I realized you are behind glass not so much because of the threat of robbery, but because people spit at you!

Sample Workaday Dialogue:

Me: How may I help you today?

Disgruntled Vagrant: I wanna take out all my money

Me: Account number please, and I’ll need 2 forms of ID.

DV: ARGHRRRPHHMMMPHPHHH! Cunt! Whore!

I can’t tell you what was in the briefcase. But just the other day I saw a guy handcuffed to a Louis Vuitton monogrammed case. In the checkout line at Stop n’ Shop. I wouldn’t fool about something that weird.

xxoo

drop a boulder on me, lord, or whatever method your might prefer

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Ok, this is not a typical rant, but I need to vent. I’m planning a motherfucking wedding, and I’m awash in a bilious sea of taffeta and shrimp puffs. $120 per person to feed Uncle Burt, Aunt Henrietta, and Big Fat Cousin Susie and her own unruly brood? I haven’t seen these people since New Year’s Eve 1986 (I’m not even kidding). I really see why women freak out (who watched Bridezillas last night on FOX? Admit it!) when confronted with all of these horrendous options for commemorating your nuptials. Today I’m at the point where I realized I just don’t care anymore, I want to hire a wedding coordinator, give them a budget, and we’ll just show up on the right day, stinking drunk. So I go Googling for Boston wedding coordinators, and I find…drumroll please….Klasi Events of Attleboro, MA….Dorna Love’s Wedding Daze of Lynn, and most notably Phat Katt Productions. Holy Fucking Shit. Not only do they cater to the big fat bride, they remind you that a basket of ladies toiletries in the restroom is a must for one’s guests!

Yes, you can’t throw a wedding without handiwipes. Now I don’t think I’m asking for much…an outdoor location in September for 75 people that will allow us to bring our own booze and have bar-b-q catered by Redbones. So if anyone out there has a palatial backyard they feel like renting out, let me know! Believe me, I’ve already lobbied for Vegas. Shot down. We are destined to have some unholy jamboree. Stay tuned as I unravel mentally over the next few months.

Oh, and yes, I’ve been to Indie Bride. Didn’t help! Feh. A pox on wedding bullshit.

Unfriendly-ass Boston

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Who would have thought the Friendlyass Bear would ever cease to grace Boylston street with its ponderous bronze bottom? I used to work right across the street from old FAO, and when I wasn’t watching homeless people coupling in the BayBank ATM (another woefully absent institution!), there was ol’ Friendlyass, carefree and ample cheeked. And there was the company president sneaking up behind me and screeching at me to get back to my terminal before she throttled me with my headset.

Man, was she a bitch.

Speaking of bitches and muddy bears, I have monthly blues pretty badly. But I am not all moon womanly jazzed about discussing such topics, so look elsewhere for a rant about tides and bad moods. lets just say there are no chocolate chips in my cookie today.

However, nothing cheers one up more than tales of ‘tards. I myself went to a Special School. See, I was in an accelerated program with kids from all over jersey city, and we got booted out of the normal public school where we collected (for knocking a baby out of a stroller and onto the tarmac during a game of touch football. Accelerated kids and their high spirits!) Anyway, my orphaned program was taken in by a Special School. We occupied the top floor of their building, shared their stinking cafeteria, and tried not to stare at them openly masturbating in the nurses office. We did not have much contact with them- but they would come up to our auditorium for holiday parties. Halloween was the best. All the mongoloids and pinheads dressed like animals, and plants. I remember them gathering around to sing a song. Picture all those raised tuneless voices, out of sync- and a really gangly pinhead dressed up like a bumblebee dancing, antennae bouncing, and moaning out the words to “Lean on Me”.

yeah.

New, in snacks

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Today I am having some off-brand Muddy Bears from the Kandy Shanty next door. So far so good, but I am not enjoying them as much because of the lack of packaging. Sure, it is more economical to get one’s chocolate-covered Gummis from a bulk bin, but I am missing out on the picture of the demonic, scatalogically inclined cuddly bear. Look how his eyes raise heavenward as he contemplates the brown manna plunging down on his gummi hide! Trust the Germans to come up with such a filthy treat. Incidentally, you can purchase Muddy Bears in their rightful packaging at the candy counter of your finer Blockbuster outlets if you are interested.

Oh, I also tried a sugar-free chocolate covered almond. Someone at work is on one of those no sugar diets. The purported downside of eating sugar-free candy? Anal leakage! It didn’t taste particularly good, or particularly bad. But now I am positive I can feel it worming its way through to victory! Me, paranoid? Of course! It’s what I do best! No standing for the rest of the day, just in case.

Now back to bears…I have had the distinct pleasure of working next door to the FAO Schwartz Friendly-Ass Bear statue for quite a while now, but apparently the store is going to close! People were simply not buying enough action figures or $80 stuffed whales in these tough economic times. What is to become of the Friendly-Ass Bear? His plump bronze buttocks shall be ignominiously pried off the sidewalk! He may be sold at auction. I am going to find out when and where so I can take him home. He’d make a lovely addition to any front yard or cathedral ceiling’d rumpus room, frightening children and adults alike. And he’d look so bitchin next to my Silver Spoons train set. Oh, the memories. What’s next, paving the dog field?

xxoo