Thursday, July 29, 2004

Scratch N' Sniff

At the gym this afternoon, I was huffing and puffing away,  38 minutes into my 60 minute cardio workout, when suddenly my sweat pants were being simultaneously sucked into my pussy, cooch, clam and my ass, rim receiver, gloryhole......Damn.  That digital clock couldn't have been ticking fast enough.

5.....4......3......2......1....... Beep Beep Beep...


Thank God.

So then I walk down the hall to the aerobics room to do a little stretching on the mats and some crunches on the exercise ball. 

That's when it happens. 

We all know how Jen is about her "Personal Space".  In walks this dude wearing blue jeans.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a dude wearing blue jeans while working out.  What exactly IS that about, anyway?  Now I know it's not just a southern thing 'cus I've seen it in gyms in California and in Boston.  Why on earth would someone work out in blue jeans?  Come on people...

My Stepson the Sociopath

I got married last May for the first time at the age of 38.  I had a somewhat wild,  sometimes great, sometimes miserable time being single and never thought I would marry.  However, in October of 1999, at the constant urging from my half-sister, (whom I had meet for the first time in our lives 2 months prior, but thats another story...) I agreed to go on a blind date with one of her coworkers.  I was never much of one to get set up on blind dates.  Not to toot my own horn or anything,  but I never was without a guy/girl around, in some way, shape or form. (i.e. fuck buddy, drinking buddy, stripper buddy,  gay big-dicked (bisexual) shopping get the idea.)

So we meet, fall madly in love, move in together, get married and all of that.  Very Cool. Everythings great.  I got a big, phat ring, a big, nice house, financial security and best of all, a wonderful, loving husband.

However, with this new marriage, I also became a step-mom (I refuse to use the word mother for any other reason  than within the context of "Mother Fucker".  More on that some other time.)  My husband has two grown sons, 20 & 21, who mostly grew up in the Northeast after he and his first wife  divorced.  When they were younger, they used to travel here to stay during Summer Vacation (which was, by the way, before I was around).  But once they were in High School, they had their own friends, summer jobs, and girlfriends.  Traveling 1500 miles to stay with their father for the Summer didn't look all that appealing anymore.  Which I can totally understand. 

Well, the 20 year old stepson, let's call him Robert. Rob.  Robbie.  He's a doll.  Tall, good looking in a Farm Boy way (like his father) he's got that reddish/blond hair that you don't see that often, really smart kid, straight A's, going to college, steady girlfriend that he shares an apartment with.  And he can swear like a truck driver (he inherited that from his Dad also).   

Then, there's the 21 year old stepson, let's call him little bastard, uhhhh, I mean Thomas. Tommy. Tom.  He's a drug addict.  And a Sociopath.


Kirby's ready for his walk this afternoon. He's beginning to destroy things.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Spoiled Little Rich Girl

I spent the better part of Sunday afternoon reading this.  Rather wordy at times, but brillant none the less.

Letter of Resignation

Dear Mr. Johnson,

As a graduate of an institution of higher education, I have a few very basic expectations. Chief among these is that my direct superiors have an intellect that ranges above the common ground squirrel. After your consistent and annoying harassment of my coworkers and me during the commission of our duties, I can only surmise that you are one of the few true genetic wastes of our time.

Asking me, a ____________, to explain every little nuance of everything I do each time you happen to stroll into my office is not only a waste of time, but also a waste of precious oxygen. I was hired because I know how to _________________, and you were apparently hired to provide amusement to myself and other employees, who watch you vainly attempt to understand the concept of "cut and paste" for the hundredth time.

You will never understand computers. Something as incredibly simple as binary still gives you too many options. You will also never understand why people hate you, but I am going to try and explain it to you, even though I am sure this will be just as effective as telling you what an IP is. Your shiny new iMac has more personality than you ever will.

You walk around the building all day, shiftlessly looking for fault in others. You have a sharp dressed useless look about you that may have worked for your interview, but now that you actually have responsibility, you pawn it off on overworked staff, hoping their talent will cover for your glaring ineptitude. In a world of managerial evolution, you are the blue-green algae that everyone else eats and laughs at. Managers like you are a sad proof of the Dilbert principle.

Since this situation is unlikely to change without you getting a full frontal lobotomy reversal, I am forced to tender my resignation, however I have a few parting thoughts.

1. When someone calls you in reference to employment, it is illegal for you to give me a bad recommendation. The most you can say to hurt me is "I prefer not to comment." I will have friends randomly call you over the next couple of years to keep you honest, because I know you would be unable to do it on your own.

2. I have all the passwords to every account on the stem, and I know every password you have used for the last five years. If you decide to get cute, I am going to publish your "favorites list", which I conveniently saved when you made me "back up" your useless files. I do believe that terms like "Lolita" are not usually viewed favorably by the administration.

3. When you borrowed the digital camera to "take pictures of your Mother's birthday party," you neglected to mention that you were going to take pictures of yourself in the mirror nude. Then you forgot to erase them like the techno-moron you really are. Suffice it to say I have never seen such odd acts with a sauce bottle, but I assure you that those have been copied and kept in safe places pending the authoring of a glowing letter of recommendation. (Try to use  spell check please.  I hate having to correct your mistakes.)

Thank you for your time, and I expect the letter of recommendation on my desk by 8:00 am tomorrow. One word of this to anybody, and all of your little twisted repugnant obsessions will be open to the public. Never f*** with your systems administrator. Why? Because they know what you do with all that free time!

Wishing you a grand and glorious day,


Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Fluff & Serve

As a relative newcomer to the Blog community, I suppose I should do the courteous thing and begin my first entry with an introduction. 

Too bad.

I'm not in the mood today to write my biography in 50 words or less.  I would rather write about something that happened to me today......


Personal space is high up there on the pleasures of life for me.  Perhaps that's due to the fact that I previously lived in Los Angeles for 10 years in a series of shitty, studio apartments.  Ahhhh the 80's!!! Didn't you love them!  Why is it, that when there are a zillion pieces of cardio equipment available at the gym, some hairy, smelly shmuck gets on the stairs/treadmill/stationary bike right NEXT TO ME!!! WHY??? Doesn't he know that this is the one time of the day that is  all about ME and my personal space?  No phones, no boss, no cat shit on the carpet, no traffic, no lines,  nothing. Nada.  Just me and my headphones doing a little cardio for stress relief.  I know this must happen to other when you're on an empty bus or train and some wack job comes and sits right next to you.  What IS IT with people now days?