Uptown Hurl

Something truly bizarre struck me today. While on hold for a "Customer Service Representative", I was forced to listen to Billy Joel crooning out his popular 80’s ode to the blue-collar romantic – ‘Uptown Girl’.

What a fucking odd thing to have on a business line where most people are calling in to whine, bitch, and complain about their current credit cards monthly interest rates, available credit limit, transaction fees or finance charges?

Here I am, holding for my opportunity to give what-for, and I’m listening to a song from a guy whose face has permanently been frozen into that of a whipped puppy, waffling on about how he needs more money in his humdrum back street life so that he can continue impressing his uptown girl living in her white bread world?

Shit, apparently she’s not getting that tired of her high-class toys or all the presents from her uptown boys if I still have to call in to beg for further financing so that I can spend the money that I haven’t even made yet in order to impress her!

More correctly, I should just drop the prissy store-bought daddy’s princess off on the nearest street corner and instead take out some toothless downtown broad with runs in her nylons to ‘Jimmy’s Back Alley Bar & Grill’ for some cheapass 'chitlins n’ grits'...or something a bit more easy to finance with the meager pittance that I have left on my available credit?

I could then just leave a big tip in order to demonstrate that I’m a big spender at heart; even if my pathetic credit rating says different.

The Empire Strikes, Bitch!

I just had a strange thought:

Imagine being the happy housewife; married to Darth Vader. Anything and everything he should ever want, you would be automatically obligated to comply at fast as you fucking could lest you should fall victim to one of his patented Jedi two-fingered throat chokeholds.

Dinner would be ready the second he’s hungry, you'd play the accordion while he takes a dump, you'd see that his helmet is spit-shined and his cowl is properly pressed, you'd perform lap dances for him during episodes of ‘Monster Garage’, always vacuum the Death Star in high-heels and fishnets, and maybe even a little swinging with the Emperor’s Guards…you’d have no choice! Bitch, complain, or moan and he’d simply crush your throat like a crusty marshmallow.

And it’s not like you could ever seek a divorce, now could you? The moment you raised any objections at all over your treatment and he’d simply snap your neck like a chicken bone from across the court room without raising so much as a thumb and forefinger.

You be his eternal bitch! You’d be just like the Tina to his Ike Turner…except there’d no more hit singles after that break up. Just another shallow grave in a long line of dead, incompetent Imperial Officers.

"Delicate" Doilies

What exactly is the “Delicate” setting on the dial of a washing machine for anyways?

I don’t know about you, but any garment that has spent more than a few seconds in close contact with my body I wouldn’t want to trust to anything other than, say, the “Boil and Vigorous Scrubbing” setting on the machine’s dial. In fact, I would want my socks and pairs of underwear to be worked over thoroughly by a team of juiced up raccoons with scented industrial formaldehyde during the machines ordinary laundry cycle. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just dowse it all in kerosene and light a match. Know what I'm saying?

Clearly, this is a machine setting that no man in his right mind would ever consider using.

What kind of limp-wristed doily would ever want to use the “Delicate” setting a machine down at the local Laundromat anyways? Heaven’s forbid their precious man-made polyester blends should ever be callously subjected to good ‘ol powdered detergent and the usual wear and tear of a normal rinse cycle! Or that their oprecious sensitive gonads should ever have to grate up against the course freyed fabric of their stiff and worn boxers after it's been put through only a dozen or so Economy Coin Washes.

Pansy-ass!

Access Denied!

Between my home computer, my telephone banking accounts, and all the necessary access codes and logins to the main operating computer systems at my place of employment each day…my life has suddenly become something akin to Dustin Hoffman in Rainman.

For somebody not as well versed or patient with complex Operating systems such as myself, trying to retain all these important special logins and passwords is like trying to memorize the Chinese telephone book! By the time I can actually recall and successfully input all my necessary information it’s time to undo it all again to take my regularly scheduled lunch break.

Honestly, I spend more time just stumblefucking my way through the vast series of complex login information like a blind man through a Garden Maze, with such well-thought-out codes as ‘Boobies2’, ‘Boobies3’, ‘Boobies4’, and ‘TabithaSmells’ than I do actually working the accounts and being productive.

On top of these random passwords, there are most detailed and cerebral computer logins that ignite deep philosophical conundrums that manifest and consume my total conscious thought processes until my poor ill-equipped brain implodes in on itself like aneutron star. I never know if I’m logging into my computer or attempting to crack an intercepted Cold War spy code or something…sheesh!

When did my life become so “Access Code” dependant? The way this world is going, soon you’ll need a login code in order to pull up your own socks or a password to flush the toilet…fuck, by the year 2012 I fully expect that we’ll be scanning eyeballs just to simply use the waffle iron in your kitchen!

Shit, why aren’t we just issued with ONE universal PIN number upon birth and have it tattooed to our fucking foreheads so that it’s instantly recognizable and available to the rest of the world for immediate login to whatever the fuck banal task we are next required to perform?

Inconvenience Fees

I am ready to take up arms, and by “arms” I mean a well-feuled flamethrower, against all Provincial or City Banks and National Credit Unions. I am so frustrated at being constantly bent over and royally fucked by my financial institutions that my rectum puckers each time I hear loose change drop on a solid counter surface. I am fed up to the eyebrows with overdue charges, transactions fees, and my favorite of the grand "Financial FuckYou's": “convenience fees”.

In the last four years with my branch of CIBC, I must have spent the equivalent value of Courtney Love’s entire monthly crack bill in convenience fees alone…so what’s so fucking “convenient” about that?

What’s so fucking “convenient” about having a bank whose minimal hours of operation are situated in exactly the same hours as those of my own place of employment so that there’s never a “convenient” window of opportunity to conduct normal banking business without the unnecessary transaction or “convenience” fee’s? So now, I’m left with no other option but to continue using my bank card and incur a king’s random in financial fees along the way! Yeah, that's fucking convenient!

They have me by the short n’ curlies here... FUCK! I’d would consider just keeping my money stashed in my mattress like a old widowed washer woman, but with my back the way it is I wouldn’t be able to sleep comfortably on the cold, hard, flat surface of my bed.

What can you do?

Telephone Terrors

Telephones have become the overwhelming Bain of my existence. Apart from the usual eight hour drudgery of working over the telephone with whiney bimsters who are barely capable of tying their shoes, much less negotiate past due balances and financial strategies, the only phone calls that ever invade my quiet humble abode are those from evil telemarketers. Every time the phone rings in my apartment, my blood runs cold and my testicles retract into my chest in fear like a startled gopher.

If it’s not someone trying to sell me credit for money I haven’t even earned yet, it’s some mulyak attempting to convince me to have my carpets or drapes cleaned, or subscribe to some trendy craft magazine in order to learn how to crochet cute bunny sweaters, or maybe to help and sponsor needy and hungry children by purchasing tickets to a Circus or a Shriner’s Rodeo or something just as camp. It’s getting so that I never, EVER, want to answer my telephone ever again!

I wonder what the great Alexander Graham Bell would have thought had he known for what evil purposes his new invention would serve in our modern fast-paced consumer crazy society? Had he ever had to face being woken up at the crack of dawn by someone trying to sell him long distance plans (or was ever forced to listen to any dragged out performance of ELO's 'Telephone Line' for that matter) , he probably would have destroyed his candlestick model prototype right then and there with a sledgehammer and simply convinced people to string up tin cans attached on a wire between their homes instead!

The Myth of the Female Assgasm

On my lunch break today, I was eavesdropping on a conversation between fellow female co-workers of mine all talking about their various nocturnal mating habits with their boyfriends and husbands…and in particular, something called an “Assgasm”.

Now, I’m not sure what the fuck an “Assgasm” is exactly; some things are just too deplorable and disturbing even to be contemplated. All I can really say for sure on the subject is that I’m extremely confident that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere within an entire city block of me if I were ever to find myself in the throws of any such “Assgasm”!

One other thing that I am pretty confident about in the event of any such future nasty “Assgasm” of mine, is that you would most certainly NOT be casually reminiscing about it fondly the next day at lunch break with your work peers…that’s for sure!

Sounds like the title for some uber-kinky porno film directed by Clive Barker or something. Definitely a perverted ‘Pandora’s Box’ that I would feel much happier NOT opening.

Ointment Overture

I HATE the fact that my life has become so “ointment orientated”.

When this sudden metamorphosis happened I’m not exactly quite sure, buts omewhere along the way gels, salves, balms, creams, liniments, and lotions entered the picture and my masculinity has been on the decline ever since. I feel like I’ve been steadily devolving for the past few years with each additional prescribed steroid cream and medicated ointment, so that soon I expect to wake up one morning with a solide unibrow and have this mysterious urge to fling feces at the mailman.

After each shower, it begins: medicated non-alcohol deodorant in my armpits, Vitamin-E enriched pliable pomade to my dry split ends, and then a good liberal slathering on my balls and ass with this yellow anti-fungal steroid crotchrot formula. And this is not even including any of those really exciting special occasions where I have to bring out the 'Preparation H' or 'Gold Bond' from hiding deep in the recesses of my medicine cabinet. Yeah, I feel sexy alright!

Fuck, if this is a sign of future things to come I’d be willing to forego the gumming graham crackers in the lobby of a Retirement Village right now and just level the barrel of a Winchester rifle to my head and pull the trigger.

Baby Land Fills

This past evening I was able to visit with some friends and their two lovely babies. During the course of my visit, I was able to actually observe particular aspects of this whole “baby” thing from a close proximity. Most perplexing, was the initial necessary rituals involved for feeding these little pink balls of doughy flesh.

By saying that it was just merely “feeding” them just doesn’t seem to do the whole process justice however…it was more of a Land Fill operation if you ask me.

It was a constant shoveling of colorless formula into their waiting maws, before catching it back in the spoon off their chins as it immediately comes spitting back out again, and then reshovelling it back home until the whole gooey mess is gone.

Shovel...scoop...dab with napkin...repeat...

Luckily, I was on my way home again before I was able to witness the Mining Extraction operation that will inevitably follow later in the evening will all the subtleness of a runaway natural disaster.

Hook Up Headache

VHS, CDR’s, DVD’s, mini-discs…WTF? Who can keep up with this continually evolving world of home electronics? Just as soon as I buy something it seems to immediately go obsolete for a newer, fancier model, that for only $250 more will not only do exactly all the same things as the old model, but it will also make you French toast in the morning! Whoopee shit.

“You mean to tell me that that little tray that pops out ISN’T a beverage holder?”

I have just been informed, now that I have finally decided to replace my beloved old faithful VHS video machine with a new swanky DVD machine, that I am also going to have to update just about every fucking electrical appliance I own in order to successfully connect it all together for any actual use.

Fuck!

I just want to watch the newly released directors cut of ‘Smokey & the Bandit III’; and now I need a special power converter in order to connect the old tuner to the new DVD player and then new splice cables to reconnect the old television to my ankle bone which is connected to my leg bone…and then my leg bone connected to my knee bone…and my knee bone connected to my…

…oh fuck it! Just shoot me already! I don’t need Jerry Reed that badly!

Pediatric Critical Care?

When I last crossed the border to visit Buffalo, I was perplexed to notice a ‘Pediatric Critical Care Unit’ vehicle parked outside the local KFC. What the fuck goes on in Buffalo that they need a special emergency Pediatric Unit?

How many foot injuries occur here exactly? Or are Buffalonians just that fucking vain about their feet that they have to have an emergency response team to primarily cater to foot related injuries and crisis's?

“Come in, Unit #1. We have a boil that needs lancing in North Tonawanda. Repeat…we have a boil that needs immediate lancing! Kkkkkkkft…over!”

"Unit #1, this is Foot Control. We have a downed ballet dancer with a cracked toenail and possible pinched pinkie toe...please respond."

Apparently, if the look of exhaustion in the eyes of the Pediatric attendants as they ate their chicken in silence inside their emergency vehicle was anything to go by, it had already been a busy night of blisters and ingrown toenails in downtown Buffalo.

MENTAL NOTE TO SELF: Always wear protective footwear in Buffalo.

Political Correctness

What exactly is “Political Correctness” anyways? To me, it’s just a popular moniker that pussies use to hide from the truth.

Why can’t I refer to someone as “fat” if they actually equal the same approximate body girth as ‘Shamoo the Whale’; because I might hurt their feelings unnecessarily? Shit, has this person NOT looked in the mirror for the past fucking decade and has no idea that you could show Drive-In movies on their ass or something, and it’s suddenly rude to point out the obvious?

Think of the confusion and communication breakdowns that could be avoided if we all started referring to the obvious and spoke freely about things as they really are!

"Linda? Oh, she's the fat smelly chick that works in Accounting. You know, the one with the snaggletooth."

No mistaking that particular correctness is there?

Post-Election Empathy

Isn’t all this Presidential Election horseshit over yet? The campaign months leading up to the election itself was tedious enough, but now that the final tally is in and the polls have reached an official decision…can’t we all just forget about now and get on with our lives mindlessly marching down the path to global annihilation?

Now there are people protesting openly in public squares, people killing themselves with shotguns at Ground Zero, and people weeping and tearing out their hair in despair. C’mon, let’s get it together! It’s only a Presidential Election people…not the death of some Egyptian Pharaoh or something! CHILL THE FUCK OUT!

Something tells me that these people who we are still reading about in newspaper articles days after the election, protesting and bitching about the election results are the kind of people who probably acted this same way when they cancelled ‘Friends’ from Prime Time television. They were the ones who threw temper tantrums as children by kicking the air and pounding the living room floor with their fists every Christmas morning when Santa failed to bring them a new ‘Millennium Falcon’ or a ‘Cabbage Patch Kid’ with red pigtails.

Sure I’m distraught at the election result myself! As a matter of fact, I’m still tempted to lock my cat and I into a fallout shelter for the next four years eating tins of cold Spam rather than suffer through another term with the idiot man-child and Robodick at his side. Just as I'm sure that the prescriptions for Xanax will skyrocket out of the cosmos; I am sure that I, and everyone else will just have to learn to deal with it.

These other nutbars probably weren’t exactly that well adjusted in the first place is what I’m hinting at. Who else would allow themselves to get this excited over the voting between two billionaire ding-dongs who would just as soon be the contestants on the popular game show ‘Wheel of Political Injustice’?

Well, Well, Well...

Another child has been rescued from a well. This time a 22 month old boy from Alabama remained trapped for 13 hours before Emergency Services could safely remove him from harms way.

Now, what the fuck do you supposed they are baiting these wells with that there is so many children falling in and becoming helplessly trapped on such a regular basis? Is there some malicious news reporter luring impressionable, naïve children into the well shafts by dangling a Snickers bar over the well's opening?

“C’mon, Billy. Just a little more...that's it..."

Or is this just a case of a cruel pre-school initiation hazing ritual gone a rye, where all the new children are required to wedge themselves into a dark and restrictive place in order to stage yet another mass media frenzy? Is leaping into wells the popular fad thing to do among pre-school toddlers?

Man, next time I need a little attention I’m taking a page out of these juvenile attention-seekers book and just leap headfirst into the nearest abandoned well shaft and simply wait for the bevy CNN reporters and Emergency Medical Services teams to arrive on location.

What's Eating Terry Nash?

I found a granule of Kitty Litter in my bellybutton this morning. My life is OVER!

“Oh, the shame of it all!”

I have never felt more white trash than I do right at this moment! You know you are not exactly “living the dream” when you begin to find weird foreign objects lodged in the folds of your body fat. Before you know it, the television remote control will turn up wedged in my ass and I’ll have an entire bowl of Ruffles stored under each huge man tit.

Now unless my cat is having an early Easter Egg hunt with his litter, I think it’s time that I go on a diet before I finally turn all ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?’ and they have to bonfire my apartment when I shuffle off this mortal coil.