For love or money

If you’ve never had the pleasure of purchasing new home furnishings out of necessity, let me tell you why it sucks balls.

I’ve got an 11-yr. old child. He’s pretty much the male version of me; so basically, an asshole with a curfew. Much to my chagrin, keeping him locked in a closet and feeding him protein shakes and vegetables is frowned upon by child protective services. I’d come up with something less savory, but believe me, these foods are torture for him; that’s enough for me. The thing with kids is, they grow up. In so doing, they require new furniture. This twin size bed he’s in isn’t cutting it anymore. Poor little asshole’s feet hang over the end of his bed. It’s not my fault his father is a sasquatch. Won’t make that mistake again. If this most recent marriage fails, it’s nothing but midgets for me from here on out. *Sorry honey*

I’ve had to do research on the different types of mattresses out there. I’m old now and shit's changed since the last time I bought one of these. Spring mattresses, I’m familiar with. Memory foam, I’ve heard of. In fact, that’s what’s on my son’s frame. What the fuck is a latex mattress?! Fools are allergic to latex, right? How fucked up would that be? Get a bed, unbeknownst to you it’s latex, and for the unforeseeable future your shit is fucked up 7 ways to Sunday. Or, at least until you figure out you’re sleeping on a giant condom.

After much debate I decided I wanted an old school spring mattress. Or do I? My rational was that latex was expensive, and well, the whole condom thing. Then I started thinking about sex. That’s right, sex. If you’re a family member, you may want to close out this application and just walk away now, before it’s too late.

Spring mattresses provide “assistance” to my partner when he’s on top, so that’s a tally mark in the spring category. Spring mattresses also tend to blow out over time and sag, like my boobs and ass, so we can safely strike that tally. Blank slate. Let’s talk memory foam. If you’ve never had an opportunity to defile a memory foam mattress, we’re in the same boat. I have been able to sleep on one though. In my experience the bed conforms to your shape. It kind of sucks you into it. It’s quite comfortable…unless your trying to have sex, I imagine.

So, my husband and I talking pros/cons about memory foam and it occurs to me that if I’m on top, and my knees sink into this mattress, this is going to create a fuck ton of work for me without the spring-back action that our old mattress provides. I already don’t like this idea. I feel like Artax in the swamps of sadness, unable to go further, so tired, giving in to the mattress. I don’t give a shit if it’s hypoallergenic, it’s unsuitable for lovemaking. There Mom, I didn’t call it fucking…are you happy? (Of course, she’s still reading. I said stop, so naturally she grabbed popcorn)

I should have just taken my chances locking my spawn in the damn closet. It would have been much easier than deciding between comfort, price, and whether to cripple our coupling. No need for new furniture, this broom closet suits the child just fine.

And that is how I wound up being investigated by CPS…

A Star Is Born: A review of some other asshole's review

We can have differences of opinion. Secretly we both know the winningest one, the one with the most weight in any argument, is mine. It stands to reason that the appraisal of the movie, A Star Is Born, should be no different.

Office talk on Monday’s is always the same; I pretend to be interested in their sports talk, and they pretend to give a shit about what I did with my kid over the weekend. It’s no-win situation. I need at least 1.5 cups of coffee before the desire to shoot myself in the face subsides. I’ve also learned that after 3 cups, that desire turns outward and becomes homicidal, so it’s a precarious balance. Learning is fun.

This Monday we got on the topic of MoviePass and how we wish it would lick our balls with its fucked-up restrictions. Fast forward a bit (because I don’t feel like writing a saga) and we’re discussing A Star Is Born. For those of you that live under a fucking rock or don’t have a girlfriend who has dragged you to see this yet, it’s the story of Lady Gaga…but before she became The Gaga. It’s her humble beginnings. For me, it was about her husband. Wanna know why? Of course you do! Nosy motherfuckers.

In this film her husband, played by Bradley Cooper, is a drug & alcohol addict. Naturally, I’m all in. I don’t really give a shit about Gaga anymore. I mean, sure, her story is compelling, and she can sing. I’ll give her that. But for me, the real story is the relationship with her husband and his struggle with addiction. Admittedly, there are parts of this film that are hard for me to watch. I identified with his character. I also wanted to scream at how poorly he snorted his drugs. How fuckin’ wasteful!! I guess if you’re filthy rich, you can coarse chop your dope not worry about dropping rocks in the carpet; must be nice – fucker.

My co-worker tells me that the movie isn’t believable, that’s its major flaw. He says to me that Bradley Cooper’s character would never have reacted to the events that took place in the way that he did. I’m trying not to ruin it for those of you gentlemen who still have plans to take your lady to see it in hopes of getting laid.

Here’s the thing: I’m an addict, you Richie Cunnigham, have never known the hurt of wanting anything more than the occasional soda that’s been stricken from your diet by your doctor. I take that back; there’s the time your wife wouldn’t put out for a whole 2 weeks because you swore in front of the kids and gambled the “date night” money on soccer bets. That must have been rough. So, don’t tell me that you know how an addict would act, or react after coming out of a rehabilitation facility. YOU don’t have a fucking clue. Please refrain from assuming you understand how anyone who has suffered addiction and sought treatment will react. YOU don’t.

His indignation irritated me, clearly. To toss a movie entirely on this one bias seemed really fucking stupid, especially considering he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. I didn’t think it was the best movie ever written, but I thought it was good. I certainly thought it was good enough to get a dude laid for taking his girl to see it and being the “sensitive type.” I cried like a little bitch.

You’re entitled to your opinion of this movie too, just know that mine is rooted in experience and therefore more valid. If you have experience and your opinion differs from mine, well…kindly keep that shit to yourself. No one asked you anyway.

Halloween Halldark

Once a year you’re allowed to show up in costume and make demands of others. This year why don’t you show up as someone with a conscience and I’ll give you what’s left of my attention and time.

Happy Halloween,

Your fucking doormat

#Halldark, for when you care enough to send whatever

Aging apathy

They say as we get older we become more confident – more comfortable in our skin. We perhaps spend less time focusing on the trivial details of our physical self and see the whole of our existence and our accomplishments as the more important evidence of a well lived life. I’d like to declare bullshit. Complete and total bullshit!

I’m nearly 39 and I’m no closer to being “okay” with aging than I am with letting a stranger watch me take a shit. I don’t have a cabinet full of expensive anti-aging serums or wrinkle creams, I’m not made of money; I’d honestly rather spend my cash on good food. Then, I can get fat, feel shitty, complain, buy expensive running shoes, then run until I feel terrible again, and finally gloat. It’s painfully fucked up, really. It’s nowhere near confident, that’s for damn sure.

I really miss my 20-something year old complexion. I remember what it felt like to not have to use moisturizer, to just be naturally supple. There was a time when I had natural color in my cheeks too. Now if I want color, it’s store bought. My natural shade these days is something comparable to Behr Complacent Studio Clay MQ2-27. Sallow skin – sallow, sad, skin. If eating small children was guaranteed to give me my youthful glow back, I’d start looking for recipes. No one is going to miss the little asshole that screams at his mom from the front of the cart at the store. Don’t look appalled, you know you’ve rolled your eyes at the inattentive mother and the unruly child.

Oh, you’re confident about the aging process?? Great!! Let’s find a casting director and get you in a commercial for advanced age Maybelline! Me? I’m busy being cast in the next commercial for antidepressants; we’re reading the 3ft long list of possible effects. *This is actually listed as a possible side effect of Zoloft “trouble concentrating, memory problems, weakness, fainting, seizure, shallow breathing, or breathing that stops.”* Last time I checked, breathing that stops, is dying.

https://www.rxlist.com/zoloft-side-effects-drug-center.htm

At this stage in the game, I have more products in my cabinet to ease the discomfort of occasional urinary tract infections, yeast infections, hemorrhoids, and constipation than I have things to increase pleasure. That is to say, I own one pair of CFM (come fuck me) pumps - those poor things are collecting cat fur in my closet, and I own zero lingerie, seems so impractical. I have 17 varying sizes of gauze pads but have zero personal lubricant. Strike that. I have coconut oil. Even that, I used for medicinal purposes. Don’t ask.

A while back I consulted my husband about buying a yoga swing. If you think anyone really uses those things for yoga, well, bless your pea-pickin heart. What a simple sweetheart you must be. I thought I’d like to spice things up a bit. Really, I was desperately trying to hold on to whatever notion of sensuality or being a sexual being that I had. All of that came screeching to a halt when I played the tape through in my head and envisioned myself getting caught in the straps and injuring myself, possibly breaking an arm or an ankle. Never mind the completely unattractive visual of being snared in this contraption naked and twisted, fighting to keep balance and eventually face-planting or pulling a groin muscle.

Also, did you know that some people have complete playlists on their phones for sex? People create mood music playlists and I don’t mean like one or two songs. What the fuck is that? Don’t people just listen to the dishwasher anymore? It took me a long time to realize that listening to my upstairs neighbors was creepy. In my defense I didn’t know Pornhub was free so I was making the best of my situation.  Yes, Tom and Diane, I know what you two like. Shame on you guys for not walking your dog more frequently too. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.

So, to recap: I’m a super creepy neighbor and I’m not very exciting. I am however, the person you want to be in the company of if you should injure yourself. I have plenty of gauze and various other medical supplies.

Social media zen

I decided to conduct a little experiment. I recently cut back on my social media masturbation. I decided that there must certainly be better things to do with my time than troll shitty posts made by shitty people; thereby making me, a shitty person. This is that account.

There are several social media sites that I toy around with. Some are easier to stomach than others. Reddit is easy. It’s for cute clips of animal videos and the like. That’s all I use it for. I don’t engage with others on this site. I don’t read bullshit comments and I don’t care about cliques or groups. In fact, my husband does most of the research & development for me – he’s usually the one to send me video clips. Our relationship works best when he does the heavy lifting.

Facebook is high school where everyone is running for class president. Everyone is a fucking expert and their ideas just need to be heard. Above all else, their opinion is King Shit. Sprinkle some political Kool-Aid in there, add a pinch of intolerance, a huge helping of ignorance, and there you have it – Facebook.

Twitter – at least here people are straight up about not giving a shit about you. Unlike Facebook, messages of support and well-wishes are few and far between. If you get one, you can almost be certain that shit is for real and not some fake, bullshit, comment someone posted while eating a sandwich & watching a video of a cat and a hamster playing together. If someone on Twitter takes the time to write something kind instead of “Quit crying, it’s not like I fucked your Mom again,” chances are, they meant it. For this reason, I enjoy Twitter. I can count on people being openly hostile. I’d much rather have someone tell me to go fuck myself than have them feed me some bullshit about “Hope you feel better soon. If you need anything, just ask,” and when I do, they fucking ghost.

Change was imperative. I was getting sucked into the back and forth drama of people who couldn’t spell correctly and were arguing against their own interests, but clearly weren’t aware of it. Easy fucking words too. I won’t go into much detail just in case you’re one of the unfortunate assholes I’m talking about. It must be a terrible way to find out that you’re stupid; reading my bullshit blog and finding yourself here. Oh, fuck, there I am.  *refer to why I spend more time on Twitter* So I set out to make changes with the best intentions at heart.

I thought that if I stopped logging onto these social media sites I would be forced to get in touch with nature. I would spend more time outside. Maybe I’d be mindful or whatever the fuck spiritual bitches do. I pictured myself going on some earthy hike and munching on granola. Maybe I’d take a break and meditate on some rock and joggers and bicyclists would pass behind me and be like, “Wow, that chick is deep and grounded.” I’d be all Zen and one with the universe. The key to earth’s mysteries would unlock themselves. But that’s not what happened. Not. At. All.

My “refresh” finger has been super itchy. I’ve tried flipping through pages on the Kindle. Not. The. Same. I’ve tried flicking my kid in the ear. I think that’s child abuse. I tried borrowing a book from the library and turning pages in real a book and while that’s slightly more satisfying, I’m not enlightened, I have no desire to eat granola, and the world still perplexes me. So, I’m no closer to being better than any of you. What’s the point in punishing myself then? I was happier sitting on my couch yelling into my phone about some twat not understanding what the hell they were talking about and why don’t they just walk off a bridge. *refer to why I spend more time on Twitter* What else did I do with my time?

I was able to spend a shit-ton of time invested in mediocre films on Netflix. A big thanks for that. I rented films from the Redbox that I returned on time. Probably because they sucked, and I had nothing better to do with my time. I did a lot of running, not outdoors like I thought I would, because that would be too outdoorsy. I ran inside on the treadmill where I could compete with the jerks next to me. I’m so fucking far from spiritual. I’m not sure why I ever thought this experiment would work. Bottom line: I’m just a miserable bitch. Social media doesn’t change that. If anything, staying engaged keeps me from interacting with the public, and that’s probably best for all involved.

The microwave standard

I probably shouldn’t be a dick about this, but let’s talk about the office microwave.

Listen, if I wanted to drink an El Monterey egg & sausage burrito, please know that I’m fully capable of making that happen all on my own. But when you, office co-worker, stink up the microwave with your hydrogenated trans fat, artery and ass blaster, you kill my coffee. Every. Fucking. Time. My chamomile tea tastes like artificial egg and rabbit pellet sausage. That shit they’re calling cheese is a crime against humanity, and you’re leaving remnants of it on the turn table because you’re so fucking eager to put that brick of death into your stomach that you can’t clean up after yourself. And now what? Now, my coffee cup is stuck in that primordial ooze. What a lazy and inconsiderate piece of shit you are. Shit in, shit out, as they say.

The inside of our microwave here looks like someone stuffed a Gremlin in it and turned it to the popcorn setting. I refuse to clean the shit though. I don’t even like cleaning the microwave in my own home, I sure as shit don’t intend to clean up after a bunch of grown ass men who refuse to grab a spray bottle occasionally. For fuck’s sake, we have Clorox wipes! It’s not even a multi-step process; ya lazy bitches.

I don’t care if the science project growing in there makes all these guys sick, it’s not as if I didn’t warn them. What I do give a shit about is the integrity of my coffee. I’m 38, I don’t drink anymore, I’ve given up the hoards of candy I was eating, and I don’t put shit up my nose anymore – let me have my coffee, I don’t have much else that I derive enjoyment from. 

I will re-heat my cup of heaven three or four times. I truly want to savor it. I tune you assholes out when I drink my coffee too. I may look at you, I may even nod, but I haven’t heard a damn word. That’s how it ought to be.

Most often in workplaces you hear rules put into play about the reheating of fish or vegetables. I, personally, would rather have you use the microwave for these purposes than to zap your prepackaged sodium stink bombs. Your leftover Tilapia and broccoli aren't likely to leave crusty cheese on the tray or exploded pepperoni on the sidewalls of the microwave. If it does, you’re more likely to clean that shit up out of shame and incomprehensible demoralization. No one likes to be the person that brought the banned food AND left it painted all over the inside of the communal cancer spreader.

The stuff that’s growing stuff in our microwave has started growing its own little baby stuff. Our microwave is an ecosystem. Scientists are going to be contacting us to harvest Penicillium from John’s crusted cheese, Tim’s lasagna sauce, and Steve’s pepperoni explosion. Fuck it, maybe I’m the asshole here and should just let these guys contribute to science. I’ll get a single burner coffee warmer for my desk and shut the hell up about it.

It’ll be lunchtime soon. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what anyone puts in that hotbox, it must all come out tasting like El Monterey, Italian mold, and plastic eggs. Glad I stick to a strict diet of swear words, caffeine, and 7-11 bought delicacies.

Practiced restraint - a day at work

It’s shameful the amount of joy I derive from catching fools in their bullshit or bold-faced lies, truly. In my personal life, I love being able point out the errors in what you thought was a well-laid out plan. Here, dumbfuck, let me show how that was never gonna work. When it happens in my professional life it’s like winning the fucking lottery.  

I’m not a patient person; it’s in line with that of a 4-yr. old with a full bladder and toys in the shopping cart that need opening. Gratification, now! Answers, now! Action, now! Sometimes it’s as simple as fuck off, now! I don’t let that get in the way of doing a good and thorough job, however. So, when you tell someone that I haven’t completed a task you stand to gain from financially if I were to fuck it up, believe I will challenge you.

I’m anal retentive about my work. A monkey could do this job. A smart monkey, but have you seen primates in the wild? Resourceful motherfuckers! Don’t pay attention to zoo primates, that’s an act. They play dumb on purpose. They’re getting paid extra for the antics they put on, don’t be fooled. That’s terrible and I’m going to Hell for the insinuation that they’re there voluntarily. Add it the list of horrible shit I’ve done or said. I’ve lost count but I’m sure someone out there is keeping track. I’m anal retentive about a job that is remedial, so when you say I haven’t fulfilled my duties, you’re damn straight I’m offended.

Today at work some asshole decided that they’d try to take advantage of the system. Asshole, I am the system. I guess they figured some 15-yr. old was on the other end of the email chain and would rather upload photos to their Instagram account than take the time to do a little research on the matter at hand. This unscrupulous piece of shit wrote a letter declaring their discontent with our corporation because we hadn’t refunded them. They were still receiving the product they had asked to have cancelled months ago and were still waiting on the refund. Here we go…

I’m certain these shady shit bags don’t think someone will spend the time chasing down payment details on a check that’s almost three months old and only $59.95. I certainly don’t get paid enough to do it. Wanna know why I do it? Because I’m a perfectionist and I absolutely love receiving the email confirmation from my girl at the bank with the endorsement on the back showing that this lying piece of shit deposited our check into their account the day after they got it. I want to circle their signature and email it back to them with the words: YOU LYING COCKSUCKER on it, but I’m pretty sure that’s bad for business and we may get another “bad” review. At the very least I think I’m owed an apology. Maybe they ought to buy my girl at the bank a Starbucks card too, that seems fair.

So, from where I stand, you’re still getting the product AND you got your money back? Maybe you owe us a little sumthin, huh? Next time you decide to try to pull one over on someone, do it to someone who isn’t completely neurotic and hellbent on proving themselves right. Or maybe just try being a decent human being who doesn’t try to scam the system, you morally bankrupt bucket of monkey feces.

ich verstehe nicht

There is nothing I love more than being told I understand something that I’ve just finished explaining I don’t.

It’s not humiliating enough for someone like me to look another person in the eye and say, “Yo, I don’t get it, do you think you could explain that to me?” I want to make sure there isn’t a shred of self-confidence left, so can you look at me like I’m an imbecile and insist that I do? That would be great, thanks!

Most people don’t have the issue that I do with admitting that a concept is beyond their grasp. I would rather saw off my own foot with a marginally sharpened popsicle stick. When I tell you that I don’t understand something, I’ve already had 17 internal conversations and played out at least a dozen scenarios where I have lied to you about my knowledge and comprehension. That, in and of itself, is impressive. Now, you want to add water to my grease fire? Okay, but I can’t guarantee your safety.

My sanity on any given day is delicate at best. I’m never certain when I wake up if I’m going to feel like I can take on the world or if a pet food commercial is going to make me cry and question societal norms. You’re better not speaking to me until after you’ve established the following: a) have I been to the gym? b) have I had coffee? c) am I menstruating? You want the answers to the first two questions to be yes, and if you really need help with the third, then you deserve whatever fresh hell I serve you.

I was in a relatively good mood today. I say “relatively” because with me, it’s always relative. Are you hungry? I could eat. Are you in a bad mood? I’m not in a terrible mood. Relative: it keeps me from resolve or backing myself into a corner of being one way or the other. It allows for wild mood swings. I change moods quicker than soccer moms change panties in park bathrooms after the game before going home to their husbands. Like most things though, it was relative, so its lifespan was short lived.

Presented with a task I didn’t understand, we locked eyes and I said those three magic words. I. Don’t. Understand.

The nerve of this motherfucker! I was in disbelief…

Me: I don’t understand.

Them: Yes, you do.

Did you not just hear me say that I didn’t understand some shit? Sound the fucking trumpets! Don’t stand there looking at me like I’m speaking another language. My ass will jump on Amazon and purchase you Rosetta Stone – which edition do you need? Clearly, we have a breakdown in communication. I’d like to help resolve it, but I’m not certain I can do anything about it without either bawling or throwing something directly at your face. Jail time is probable for me. I’m already thinking of places to bury the body.

I’ll wait till they leave the room to start throwing shit…they’re bigger than me. I’ve already copped to being stupid, my ego can’t take my losing a physical fight too.

Note to self: always fully sharpen popsicle sticks and keep several on my person.

Cat tinder

On a scale from 1-10 how pretty is your pet’s anus?

Don’t re-read that, you read it correctly the first time. I want to know if your pet has a pretty asshole. Not pretty, like you want to thumb it, but is it aesthetically pleasing enough that you’d consider adopting it from a shelter? Is it so disgusting that you’d leave the poor beast to live out its days in confinement, or at least until some other lonely bastard with failing eyesight wanders in and, being unable to stand another night of Swanson TV dinners in front of Wheel of Fortune alone anymore, walks out with a new companion. A new companion with a gaping asshole.

I was talking to my husband last night; I try to do that about once a month. We have sex about as often. Keeps the marriage alive and my name fresh in his mind. That time he called me by some other bitch’s name was awkward and uncomfortable for both of us. We were discussing our none-too-bright cat. We adopted the little bag of shit and catnip from the shelter about 3 years ago. I don’t regret choosing him, I regret not interviewing other cats for the position more thoroughly. Pickings were slim at that shelter, but was I hasty?

We walked through the shelter and did a meet and greet with several potential roomies. Many of them were very sweet. There were a few that I would have taken in a heartbeat had it not been for some serious deal breaker shit. There was a bonded pair; that was unfortunate. One was super fucking cute and I would have snatched in hot second, the bonded cat however, was bonded for a reason. No one was going to adopt that sad sack of shit as a standalone. I’ve seen prettier sewer rats.

Two doors down there was a lovely Calico. I love Calicos but wasn’t fond of the formation of this one’s markings. They were asymmetrical in a way that really bothered my OCD. I wanted to rearrange all the little patterns on its body. The light and dark patterns seemed off balance and it was really pissing me off. I drew a big line through that cat’s name on my mental list.

Then there was the white cat. Soft and perfectly gentle. No asshole in their right mind with a wardrobe like mine adopts a white cat. When you own more black clothing than a Catholic woman in a perpetual state of mourning, you DO NOT adopt a white cat, unless you’re braindead. I told myself that I could make do with lint rollers. I’d keep tape in my car and at my desk, it would just become a way of life. Then the cat meowed. Nope. Fuck off. Get lost. Eat shit and go fuck yourself. If New Jersey had a sound, you, my little furry friend, would be it. I won’t bring that hostility into my home. Next!

The last cat before Mugen.

My husband and I had already visited with all the cats once over. There was one left. I had saved what I thought would be the best for last. I have a fondness for orange cats. There he was. My knight in shining armor. He was going to be our hero of the day. We walked into the kennel to make our introduction. First sniff. Okay, rad…that went well.

I’ve heard him meow. Sweet! He has a tolerable sound. I don’t want to drop kick him. This is going swimmingly! I feel so good about this meet and greet. My husband lets me do my thing. You see, this was my idea and he understands that if I don’t get my cat, I’m going to be a total bitch. I’m talking bitch on an insufferable scale. So, my husband is in the corner watching. I’m playing with the cat. It’s a Garfield cat; a bit on the chunky side. Even chunky cats need love. It’s cool. Garfield and I are talking, and things are well. Then it happens, he turns around. It’s. Fucking. Over.

This cat has the most enormous ass I’ve ever seen. Protruding anal glands are now visible. I back up a full three feet and exclaim “Whoa, what the fuck is that?!” The shelter volunteer looks and assures me that it’s normal. Not in my world, lady. Protruding anal glands are about as “normal” and acceptable to me as a vestigial tail. So, you, lady, can go fuck right off and take me back to the cat with no fur on his hind legs. The one that looks like a bag of bones. I want that one.

I’m shallow as a motherfucker and will not, no matter how much I love orange kitties, bring an abomination with swollen anal glands into my home. I don’t want it dragging its nasty ass all over my furniture. I don’t want to feel its little asshole on my thigh when it sits in my lap. We just can’t do any real bonding that way. No Sir, you can keep your ugly ass right here in this shelter until someone with failing eyesight comes in and with great mercy, takes you home. Remember to be grateful to that blind sonofabitch. I know I am.

Is bleaching your cat’s ass considered animal cruelty? Oh, go fuck yourselves, it was just a hypothetical.

and judgement for all...

People say “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” Those people are a) balls deep in self-deception, b) usually the first motherfuckers to grab the heaviest stones to cast, or c) so busy seeing everyone as equals that they didn’t notice their wallet just got lifted by the unassuming elderly man they were talking to in the doctor’s waiting room. This is real life, not fiction. If you want a perfect society go read H. G. Wells, A Modern Utopia.

I try not to judge too much. I try; doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. When it does, it’s typically funny as hell. I’m human – I won’t apologize for that shit. I’ll also judge the fuck out of you if you look like you’ll beat and rape me on a city bus or if you have a tattoo anywhere on your body that’s incorrectly spelled. The first is self-preservation; the latter is common fucking sense. You paid for that? No one has told you it’s wrong yet? You need friends of a better caliber and to crack a book once in a while.

There is a base level of healthy judgement that is necessary to properly navigate through society. The stuff that keeps you from getting shanked, robbed, or otherwise endangered. Anything beyond that, you’re judging not for perseverance, but for amusement. This is where I’m most culpable. I build entire storylines around the unfortunate souls that I single out. I bet you’re wondering if I might have an example for you. *wicked grin* Silly bitches, you know I do.

Two days ago, at the gym, I saw a CHUD in the flesh. If you’re unfamiliar with this term, a) I’m sorry, and b) now that you do know, I’m even sorrier. You’ll want to watch the film – do so at your own risk. CHUD is an acronym for Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller. There is a movie, it is terrible, you should see it, and they are real. This dude looked like he fell off the inbred truck and then got beaten mercilessly with the stupid stick. Speak up…I can’t hear you. Be more descriptive? Alright…buckle in.

Lurch was about 5’11” and a nice egg shell shade of white. He had long limbs, almost arboreal in appearance. They were much too long in proportion to the rest of his body. He was bald. Bald like he at one point had the Caesar balding pattern, but one night, after too many Coors Lights, he decided to Bic the rest of his head. Now his dome reflects the florescent lights from above.

Lurch is sporting some glasses from 1984, the kind your PE coach wore. In fact, I think I just nailed it. Lurch was your gym coach. He’s wearing the athletic shorts and the basketball t-shirt you’d expect him to be wearing. Even though he’s not got them on today, he looks like the kind of asshole who’d wear black socks pulled up to mid-calf with white shoes. Ladies, are your hearts palpitating yet? Are you wet? Fuck! I almost made myself throw up.

By far, the smoothest thing about him is the way he chews his gum. I can’t stop staring. He’s an open-mouth gum chewer. It’s obnoxious. Fuck that, it’s repugnant. This motherfucker smacks his jaw around in a circular, slack-jawed motion, all the while, rolling his tongue around the inside of his cavernous facehole. I’m torn between being fascinated and wanting to vomit.

Clearly, a mental giant, he has spent two minutes on a broken treadmill pushing buttons. The fucking thing isn’t lit up at all, nimrod. All the other ones have pretty lights on them that make up words like “begin” and “workout,” I wonder what it means if yours is all dark and unresponsive? Was this what the end of your marriage was like? You kept trying to turn something on that just wasn’t having it?

After a painful two minutes on one machine with no success, he moved over one machine. Guess what? That machine was broken too. And here we go again. Pushing a rock, pushing a rock, pushing a rock. I watched Lurch try to will another treadmill to life for two minutes. It’s like he couldn’t remember what had just transpired with the one immediately to his right. I gotta wonder what was in the water that his mother was drinking while she was carrying him.

Don’t judge a book by its cover? Okay, but I’m pretty sure I nailed this one.

*I saw Lurch yesterday and secretly photographed him, just in case he turns out to be the next Loch Ness.

**I’m still fully aware of my reserved seat in Hell