journal
contact
credits
View My Stats, bitch.
I have a new pet peeve! As if everything in the universe didn�t already annoy me! It�s when people preface what they are about to say with �Can I just tell you�?� Because they are going to tell you no matter what you say. I usually respond to this with �Can I just stop you?� and I always fail at stanching the flow of confession. So can I just tell you that I found a show on Comedy Central called �Man Bites Dog� that is just as funny as �News Radio� only waaay more twisted because it�s on cable? This new pet peeve joins my eternal pet peeve of people who say, �I thought to myself�� If I could think to other people, then I�d have something worth talking about.
To prove that I do other things than watch tv (did you see Hell�s Kitchen on Monday? I am so pulling for Heather!), my review of �Marley and Me� by Somebody Grogan may shock you. Because a) I read a book, and b) the first time I heard that someone wrote a book about the World�s Worst Dog, I felt robbed, violated, and cavity-searched because duh!! I have the Worst! Dogs! Ever! and I did not write the book. This book falls into the category of If You Don�t Cry, You Have No Soul. Because I may have lost a whole pound in tears and snot at the end (I really needed to lose more like 30 pounds, but for fuck�s sake, it wasn�t like reading �Night� or anything). (And by the way, if it would allow me to lose 30 pounds, I would read Charlotte�s Web every day.)
I discovered during my weekend in Big Square State that ski resorts install big slides that go down the mountain to generate revenue in the off season. I did not slide down the big slide, however, because I spent the whole fucking weekend in hot hot hot (NOT the Buster Poindexter version) meeting rooms and/or babysitting clients, and because I was pretty sure my ass would get wedged into the curved slide (looks like a water slide) and the maintenance crew would have to come out with some bacon grease and a plunger to get me out. I can�t take any more humiliation right now, due to the fact that my eye doctor is an evil Nazi zombie bitch. Lipless freak. Thick ankles. Whore. She wanted me to wear my glasses for two weeks. No contact lenses. For two weeks. Do you have any idea how painful that is? I�m telling you (can I just tell you?), no one spoke to me in public EVER until I got contact lenses in the 11th grade. No one looked at me, no one wanted to be my partner in foreign language conversation simulations, and certainly, I never had a date until grade 11. I got grades from elementary school to grade 10 based on NOTHING because no one knew I existed. Whore. Today my boss, Cap�n Wacky, told me to tell my evil Nazi fascist whore bitch eye doctor to LET ME WEAR MY CONTACTS BECAUSE SHE DIDN�T WANT TO LOOK AT ME WEARING MY GLASSES ANYMORE. So that�s the sum of the hard work I�ve done, my life accomplishments, my intellect. I�m a four-eyes.
I have been quite (concerned or upset or preoccupied by the fact that I was able to take a life with my own hands. Few normal people can say that (hunters are definitely NOT normal [Ain�t that a purty critter! Can I just tell you I�d like to kill it?]) have actually killed another living being. I have been present or participated in more death than I care to recall, and I don�t know if that means that I callous or not.
Can I just tell you? Do you understand upside-down digging? Here�s how you do it: shove your forehead against the rug. Dig like your life depends on it. For variety, you may turn your head sideways and shove your cheek against the rug.