Tag Archives: stupid

Trouble Loves Me

I woke up on election day wide awake, thinking “I get to vote!” Normally I laze about as long as possible, cramming a pillow over my head to drown out the little creatures and their pesky whining for food. Learn to work a can opener. Bootstraps and all. But damn, do I love voting. All the ballot questions even went my way for a change. I love paying taxes, love pot, and hate people with jobs. My sister hates the schools, but her question lost. Have fun with the slaaaaaahts.

Yesterday, I woke up, and my first thought was “Barack Obama is going to be the president.” What an amazing feeling. Whenever something went wrong, and many things did go wrong yesterday, I thought of that.

I took the whinier of the two little creatures out to buy newspapers, and there was not a single Times to be found in my town. They don’t hold with fancy walking around here. These sidewalks are for regular walking. I got one Boston Globe, the local rag, and a Boston Herald (headline: “O baby”). Keep it classy, world.

Then I was struck down with a pestilence. Either that or my body is purging the last eight years like one of those “as seen on TV” cleanses. I got verklempt during the speeches on election night, of course, but everything did not really hit me until I found myself bawling in the shower yesterday morning. This arresting image popped into my head, and all was lost. Maybe it’s only arresting if you have a small human of the same age, but surely you can project a bit.

I ended up with a full-blown migraine, even making good on the vomitola. I lurch and spew for you! I spent the rest of the day and night draped over various soft surfaces, moaning and swatting away the child trying to climb on me. There was sitcom-style drama with Mr. H attempting to bring an ex-girlfriend home for dinner. Nothing against her, I’d just prefer not to be encrusted in my own filth when I host! Called a friend in Virginia to hear tales of “I thought it was called the WHITE house, hur hur hur,” from her co-workers. Some say the best way to diffuse a racist joke is to play dumb, so I don’t get it. What does that mean? Can you be more specific? I’m sorry, I still don’t understand. Why is that funny?

Anyway, my head still hurts today, and I seem to have blown through all the expired vicodin. Maybe the pain is something to do with those 55 million folks who thought it would be OK to have Sarah Palin next in line to run the country. Maybe I am channeling the angst of people thrown in jail indefinitely without a trial. I nunno!

Also: WTF, California, Arkansas, Arizona, and Florida. Especially Arkansas, actually. We get to hear all this pap about how gay couples can enjoy all the same legal rights as a married couple with a little finagling, but now they can’t adopt children?
At least Connecticut gets a pat on the back for dissing Question 1, plus chasing the last Republican in Congress out of New England. Lotta work to do out there. I’ll be the one in dark glasses, whimpering softly.

You know what? Just no. I’m going the hell home.

Yeah, blah blah blah, everyone should vote. Important, historic, your voice, bleebity blee. However, if you are undecided a day before the election, just stay home! What are the odds that you can turn the door knob successfully, anyway? Do not get all eenie meanie on us. Please use your political voice for something besides gargling in front of the bathroom mirror. No, scratch that, even gargling has a point.

The Kevin Sheen featured in this article has got to be a proud under-bridge dwelling American. I can see no other explanation for “”I’m actually still wrestling with moral issues,” says the 29-year-old registered Democrat, who voted for George W. Bush in 2004.”

Sheen, of Lincoln, Nebraska, says his vote is coming down to one issue: abortion. Sheen says he’s “definitely pro-life” and he’s trying to decide whether Democrat Barack Obama or Republican John McCain is more in line with his views.

Yeah, OK, it’s funny to jerk CNN around, troll pants, I’ll give you that. Earlier I made a Bob Barr voter feel bad about not having the balls to write in Ron Paul. I’m no angel. If this guy is not a troll, then I need to speak with his parents and every school he ever attended. I need to find a very important YouTube clip for this troubled young man.

And there is no way I am going to click on “Watch the psychology behind undecided voters.” I have the answer already. Dropped on head as child. I see the future! And it’s full of people running into doors, falling down, and doing it all over again. Maybe wire mother will be nicer to me this time!

In short: conservatives are paranoid that someone is out to get them (and then give their TV to a shiftless non-white teen mother), and liberals feel everyone else must be incredibly stupid. Gonna go lie down.

I had a dream

In my dream, I was grocery shopping, and Sarah Palin was there defending herself against the newly exhumed fact that she did not graduate from high school (N.B.: this is in a dream, I ain’t be starting any rumors). Of course this led to her supporters showing up and chanting “Sarah Palin graduates! Sarah Palin graduates!” Now here’s the bummer: a rudimentary Google search shows that my dream is not even that original! Sigh. I want to do whatever common people do. Step it up, 90s loving subconscious.

We dragged a ybab to the great state of New Hampshire yesterday to see Barack Obama. Joe Biden didn’t come, and that was too bad, because a ybab was much better at pronouncing Joe Biden. I got my “Million MILFs for Obama”* t-shirt, and ybab chose an unlicensed Peanuts “Obama for Kids” button, and we installed ourselves on a grassy knoll to watch.

Hearing Obama in person was inspiring. He’s a phenomenal speaker, and the energy of the crowd was so comforting. We didn’t even see any hecklers, except for one random homeless couple. Who knew the homeless favor big business and trickle down economics?

I am beyond sick of hearing this campaign fought via spin in the media. I checked the Boston Globe for pictures of the event later in the afternoon, and of course there was a quote from Tucker Bounds at the end of the article (fair and balanced and all) saying that Obama campaigning with a hurricane going on was essentially despicable, and the “scathing personal attacks” were a new low. Huh? I was there, was Tucker Bounds? I missed the scathing, and usually I know from scathing. Trust me, I love scathing! And I am sure that Sarah Palin’s event in Nevada on the same day featured zero scathing remarks. Obama opened his speech with discussion of the hurricane situation, and he urged everyone to contribute to the American Red Cross.

My one wish is that people would review the positions put forth by candidates right from the websites of the individual candidates. I am weary of hearing facts come out crushed in a game of telephone, facts from friends and acquaintances who are normally very together people. It brings us all down. We can’t rely on sound bites and “Well, my friend read that…” We have unparalleled access to primary source information these days.

Let’s say you are worried about taxes? We should absolutely be worried about what the government intends to collect and how they want to spend it. Go read the Obama tax plan. It won’t take much longer than updating your fantasy Project Runway team (mine is doing really well, thank you!). There’s a link on that page to the full PDF, as well as a comparison chart. This is McCain’s tax policy. Do you see any mention of the poor or middle class? I don’t. Read, read, read. Make up your own mind on this one. We are all in this together as hard workers and people who want the best for our families.

If you are able to, please consider contributing to the Obama campaign via my financing link.

Now a ybab is awake, and I have to hear the story of how Mr. H converted a Republican in the checkout line by quoting actual facts. Not that it really matters, stupid electoral college.

*Apparently no one has printed this shirt yet. I am glad I fact-checked myself. And I call dibbs.

All the children are above average

Large Hadron Collider, you’re our only hope! I am painting my “Antimatter #1” foam finger right now. Actually, a ybab is doing that. You might say “No, she is eating the tongue depressor with a sticker on it that she got at the doctor’s office this morning.” You’d be right.

My head did not split open and manifest a black hole during the pro-drilling commercial that was on during “Meet the Press” yesterday. The ad proudly proclaimed that we need more energy, and we are sitting on 60 years of oil! Sure, some of it may be under cute animals, but that is really their poor choice. Am I daring to stare into the face of God when I wonder what happens once 60 years are up? Oh well, I’ll be dead then, killed in the mutant crusades. The other thing I don’t get are all the big ups for compressed natural gas. Yes, cleaner burning energy, lovely. Do people think natural gas floats serenely above the surface of the earth, like Casper the Friendly Ghost? There is drilling involved, no? Some of the gas can be obtained as a by-product of existing land raping, and that’s an efficient thing to do. But some of these ads remind us, my fellow Americans, that we have a lot of shale. Let’s just drill several states off the map, yielding a need for smaller government indeed.

Speaking of being dead, I am turning 25 again in a few weeks. I am fit as a fiddle. I eat omega-3s by the fistful. I have the maturity to delete all the “Fwd: FWD: Fwd: FWD MUST READ THIS: Fwd: Fwd: FWD can you believe these clown’s: Fwd” emails that spew forth from the AOL accounts of elderly relatives. OK, I reply all with Snopes links once in a while, but only if I haven’t taken my omega-3s. In short, some people are still pretty sure that Barack Obama is going to win and then rip off his suit on inauguration day to reveal some loose and flattering Jihadist wear, ready for climbing monkey bars or flying a plane. He may or may not say “Gotcha, honkies.” There is an animated GIF that offers insight.

And speaking of looking at the face of God, I am getting in on some of that action. It’s working for a lot of people, so why not me? In fact, I am becoming a Republican too. I don’t want the federal government spending my money, now that you mention it, if is is going to continue spending it the way it has been. Maybe this states’ rights thing has legs. I’ll be waaaay over here, walking places and using reusable bags like a stupid jerk. Don’t worry, I can’t afford organic arugula anymore. It must be the fault of those tax and spend Democrats in the White Hou– what’s that you say? Oh.

Here in Depraved Massachusetts, Channel 7 interrupted Sarah Palin’s RNC speech to cut to a segment on the transsexual on the new season America’s Next Top Model. The anchor all but said “Well, that’s enough of THAT, let’s move on to the important things.” There really is a place for all of us, doing special work.

In short, up is down, Cylons are scary, white is still and will always be white, and I need to counteract the effects of Disgusting Massachusetts with some small town values [Daily Show clip]. Like fishing. And drinking. Oh yes, there will be drinking. Can you believe I wrote this mess sober? Ha!

Let’s sue some bears, or arm them, or something. It hurts.

I haven’t discussed politics as they relate to this presidential election as of yet. I have thought about writing something down about a zillion times, and I end up feeling sick and queasy and just inarticulate and angry. Friday’s Republican VP pick actually filled me with cold fear. Here is someone who has the charisma and “spunk” that a certain segment of America loves to see, bringing a zeal and energy that John McCain cannot muster. She shoots the bacon, brings it home, fries it up in a pan. Just remember, Moxie is actually rather vile in the end.

I find her brand of ideology repugnant, and yet people are urging me to give her a chance because she is “nice.” Why is it always a woman who trades in nice? Why is this a redeeming quality when you have nothing ideologically in common with a person? Do Republicans sit around and say “Well, that Barack, I sure do disagree with him, but he is SO NICE!” I think not. Would I enjoy chatting with Ms. Palin? I am sure we could crack wise and yuck it up over some bourbon. Hot tub at the ski lodge all the way! Does this have anything to do with how I vote? Not in a million years.

Sadly, many people get their news exclusively from TV and interpreting photos of smiling, accessible looking people, and maybe she looks and sounds more like their America than the Democratic ticket does. To me, she sounds snide in her delivery (which I kind of like, as long as it’s not in an elected leader), inexperienced and full of contradictions, but different strokes, I guess. Her speech last night was certainly rapturous for a group of the homeliest white folks I have ever seen, so she’s on to something.

Anyway, I got off my ass, made my Obama donation
til it hurt, and I hugged my little girl, filthy abortion-seeking slut that she may turn out to be. The irony of Ms. Palin “choosing” to have her son despite his medical condition and her daughter’s “decision to have her baby” is priceless. Apparently it IS a choice, unless you’re everyone else. Probably 75% of the women I know have had abortions. I must run with the wrong crowd.

Miserable depression greeted some of us the day after the 2004 election, and I had actually allowed myself a ray of hope this time around, that maybe people would realize that we as a nation are NOT better off than we were eight years ago, not by a long shot. Me, eh, I’ve never been without private health insurance. I’ve never been afraid of not paying my rent. I’ve never gone without food or delicious, delicious prescription drugs. My credit card pays ME. I bet I’ll be fine, no matter who wins.

Until, I dunno, the economy contracts further, there’s no more budget for stupid web applications, we lose our jobs, blow through our emergency fund paying for our own health insurance, and walk away from our mortgage. And eat the caaaaaaat, if she doesn’t eat us first. Unless you are at a McCain level of wealth, chances are you’re closer to the edge than you might like to consider. It’s the economy, stupid. The endless beast of a war. The environment. Social services. Equality. Possibly three Supreme Court justices. I have never been more scared than in realizing that the majority of the country may not be happily champing at the bit to undo the last eight years. I just can’t picture these two chatting up foreign leaders, but I guess after W, anything really is possible. Let’s just go ahead and put an addition on the double-wide and park it on the White House lawn and call it a day.

JetBlue is DEAD TO ME

Internet, give me the strength not to scream at the Mormon CSR trying to charge me $15 to do the thing I am supposed to do on the website, yet the feature on the website DOES NOT WORK. Happy Jetting, you perky fucks. Thanks for not flying with us today. Thanks for JETTING. Yeah, we will indeed not be flying with you today, because you cancelled our flight. I assume this is because our particular plane is routed efficiently from the seventh layer of Hell, as the skies above Boston are rather lovely this morning. Give me back my money! The Utah accent is not helping me process my loss. Don’t make me send my Zellweger down there.

Have you given up?

It is a banner day when one gets personally invited back to the Republican Party by embossed stationery. I wonder how they found me? Perhaps from my subscription to “Entitlement Quarterly?” Or my presence on the Klan roster? Glory be.

It’s a sad day. Estelle Getty has left this earth, and a small child has figured out how to use a kazoo. I did scare someone into giving me half off a custom framing order though. He even carried it to the car. And I received a preliminary attractive person’s discount on a fine product! At last, acknowledgment that my eyebrows start at the exact proper point on my face. Life is so, so bittersweet.

I am never leaving the house again.

I am not who I think I am

Apparently, I managed to buy $220 worth of gas at a place in the Bronx that also hosts a check cashing place starting on the same day I bought groceries at Whole Foods in Massachusetts. I guess I *could* have nipped on down and returned in time for a ybab’s birthday party, stomach virus and all, but eh. And sure, my H2 is expensive to fill, but I have never spent more than $60 on a tank thus far, and I only fill up once a month since we walk to stuff. The plot thickens. Could it be that someone is playing funsies with me? I cannot imagine. According to the helpful American Express representative, these were pay-at-the-pump transactions, so I must have physically been there, buying $75 worth of gas once a day for three days running. There is no chance, none whatsoever, that my card details were re-encoded on a new card, or that some shady fucker has a shady fucker of a friend who works at a gas station/payday loan place in the Bronx.

I have got to get off the Ambien. If I can’t stay out of the Bronx, what’s next? Sleep fucking in order to get the hobo semen necessary to join the Gloucester High pregnancy pact? I have a few things to say to those poor girls: meet my ybab. I took her to her two-year-old well visit the other day, and she screamed and wrapped her legs around my waist like a monkey and would not stand on the scale. She fell asleep from sheer rage in the exam room, and thus and only thus was the doctor able to physically approach her and listen to her lungs and look in her ears. Perhaps my special purpose is to do ybab “Baby Think It Over” demos around the state.

Of course the “pregnate” issue is being muddled in with birth control access. Birth control access = good, as far as I am concerned (and I make sure to access it as much as possible), but what do you do about a fifteen-year-old who thinks having a child is a good idea? They are not interested in using birth control. Women may control their bodies, but deeeeeee-amn. Shee-it. What a mess. I also don’t understand the concept that there is only one dead-end community to live in for the rest of your life in all this great land. Why, move to Lowell! You could work at the CVS favored by 90% of the city’s methadone users and steal my credit card info from the Express Pay reader. And my ybab will have a fit on the floor and then bite you.

Gorgeous ladies of Craigslist

It’s that time of year where I troll for summer help on Craigslist, a process not unlike slamming your head in a storm door. The storm door emails you in pink capital letters, eschews punctuation completely, and inquires “What is this job for? How much does it pay? When do you need me to start? Why am I emailing you again? A/S/L? Is it OK if I commute from another state? Is it OK if I am only 12? Gas is expensive: can you pay more than you stated you would in order to assist me in my unreasonable commute to your town?”

Well, you get the idea. Pesky storm door. It’s only a slight deviation from the “selling something on Craigslist” response template. Of course some people shock me by being competent! I don’t know what to do with that! I fear success! But not exclamation points.

My personal formula for Results seems to be “email address with some combo of numbers or xnamex” + “lack of standard English” = “hilarious inappropriate Myspace profile.” Do people really think that a prospective employer can find Craigslist but not Facebook and Myspace? Is it that hard to refrain from putting a photo of your butt smoking a cigarette on a public website? The formula is never wrong.

I keep forgetting to call about the results for my back scab hole. Wouldn’t they call me if something were awry? Surely this is need-to-know stuff. Uh, it’s not getting any smaller. Does skin stop regrowing at a certain age? After all, this year I will be 25 again.

Also, ybab said “Go to store. Buy cake.” Uh, twist my arm!

If, when, why, what?

My ass has been kiting checks again, if you know what I mean. And I hope you don’t. I have a series of impossible choose-your-own-adventure dealings with which to deal. Please pull up a chair.

The largest problem is probably our ridiculous living situation. Let me tell you it: we live in a beard of bees. No, we live in a loft in a charming old mill with a recycling program and a contentious owner message board, steps from a body of water that did not even flood this year, a lovely park, and old world charm-y cobblestone streets! There are now restaurants where you can get shiso on everything, if that is a kind of thing you like.

In short, my lovely home is a fantastic place for anyone who does not own a toddler. It is RATHER SMALL for raising a team of helper monkeys as well, so be warned. But people are all concerned with “mortgages” and “credit” and “interest rates” and do not seem keen on buying anything these days. That’s too bad. I would like to sell you my bee beard. The bathroom was recently painted by a man who could pass for Perez Hilton. There are numerous other selling points, including the fact that we would get out anytime you wanted, even in the middle of the night, and we would leave any items of furniture you fancied. I might do your grocery shopping and other unpleasant errands for a year. Do you need your taxes done? I got a guy. We recently discovered the image of the Blessed Virgin in the ceiling over our bed, if that helps.

We have hit upon a plan to kidnap Ricky Gervais, namesake of a local car dealership and famous actor/director, before he leaves this lovely town when his movie finishes shooting. He taunts me with posts about using a private jet and house hunting in New York. He clearly has no idea he needs a Lowell pied-à-terre. We will convince him of the beauty of this area by taking him to the Blue Moon, a windowless cinderblock strip club out on 3A, and then to Club Thirtysomething across the way for a nightcap. There you will be able to find a woman with a tattoo reading “The only things getting between my legs are a hard dick or a Harley.” I assure you, she is out there. Then we’ll take a tour of where they print The Lowell Sun. We could start with the proofreading department, but the donkey died several years ago. Very sad.

From there, we’ll attend a Lowell Spinners game, participating triumphantly in dizzy bat, and after this, some skanky townie friend of a relation is probably having a “Jack and Jill” shower at a VFW.

Perhaps some of you more worldly types are concerned and wondering why I am not pushing the martinis and the shiso a bit harder, but honestly, you can get that anywhere. I moved here for the local color, or colour, if you must. I moved here to live next to a minor league ballpark and a methadone clinic. It speaks to me. You just can’t make this crap up, except when you exaggerate a little. You people who can have nice things don’t know what you’re missing.