You Just Might Be a Moron If.......

You think there is no such thing as "white privilege" , OR, if you find it offensive when people call you white because of your European ancestry.

Current Events

It's obvious to me that SCOTUS has never seen Idiocracy, for if they had, they might have a different opinion on Corporate Campaign Sponsorship......brought to you by Carl's Junior.

Fun with Colleagues

I love my job. I do. It's right up my alley, near my home and I have a lot autonomy in a huge building.

However, the microwave in the kitchen is always the nast. It's disgusting and nobody ever cleans up after themselves.

Today when I went to heat up my lunch, I almost retched when I opened the microwave door. There were chunks of tomato like stuff caked to the top of the microwave, just waiting to unhinge and take up residence in my soup.

I had had enough, so I cleaned the damn thing which took 32 minutes. After I was finished, I sent the following to my colleagues.

Hello colleagues and friends,

As with many other people in the world, I decided to make a New Years Resolution for 2010. My resolutions were to stop smoking (3 weeks so far), lose weight and save money. As part of my plan to lose weight and save money, I decided that I would make healthy, home cooked meals for my lunch instead of paying $6 for an overrated sandwich from the cafeteria. I would save about $12 per week as well as have total control over the portion size and fat/calorie content of my luncheon meal. I felt that this was a sure way to shed pounds and pay off student loans from the 1990's, so I was elated.

As January 4th rolled around, I excitedly packed my lunch in the morning with a Tupperware container of pumpkin chili I had made to heat up at lunch time. When lunchtime arrived, I excitedly headed to the kitchen to warm up my chili and munch on some seriously delicious lunch. When I popped open the microwave door, much to my chagrin, the inside of the oven was totally disgusting. Foul. Raunchy. Funky.

I decided to ignore the grossness of the device and went ahead and warmed up my lunch. When I finished, I WIPED UP any chili that had popped out of my container during the heating process and headed to enjoy my lunch. I played like nothing was wrong for the rest of the week. Ignorance is bliss, no?

However, the charade was wearing thin as I imagined the chunks of dried food falling from the top of the microwave and into my lunch. My stomach churned as I imagined finding such an unpleasant surprise on my spoon and I could no longer swim in the waters of deNile.

Today I took up the arduous and revolting task of cleaning the microwave. Underneath the rotating plate was an inch of what looked to be coconut flakes or Parmesan cheese. There was an inch thick layer of a tomato sauce like substance crusted to the sides of the machine and I had to use a Brillo pad to get the device as clean as I possibly could. I am currently suffering from over dried hands and itchiness due to winter itch mixed with the harsh chemicals of the Brillo pad. It's a tough existence, however, I think can muster up the strength to manage.

So, the next time your Lean Cuisine explodes, or your mom's secret chili overflows in the microwave; think of me and my dry, chappy hands and the sacrifices I made for YOU and the microwave.

WIPE UP YOUR MESS.

Thanks a bunch,

TCD

TRIBE CRYSTAL HUFF

“If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.” John Quincy Adams.


The 1980's were a decade that defied reason. The culture, the music, fueled by the contradicting excess/abstinence perpetrated by the Reagan Administration; was a place in time where it was perfectly acceptable to snort a few lines before delivering inspirational speeches at "Just Say No" rallies under the approving eyes of a clueless Nancy Reagan.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

The children of the eighties are coming of age and the crows feet are beginning to cackle. As the invitations to the 20 year reunions start to dry up in the wake of the blossoming 25 year reunions, their offspring bust out the old high school year books to see what mom and dad looked like in the "olden days"..... The first thing to catch the eye? The hair, oh sweet Mother of Mercy, the fucking ginormosity of the hair.This was an era funded by Aqua Net, where the romanticism of the hunky Man's Man was replaced by men in drag, wearing Italian suits colored like Easter Eggs. The hair of the eighties overshadowed any kind of foreign policy gaffe, political scandal, celebrity death, etc. Who the fuck cares who shot JR, did you see how high Sue Ellen's bangs were? Iran-Contra wha? Is that Ricki Rocket in a boys name? Or Ricki Rockett in a girl's name?

As the eighties wound up and the nineties began, Seattle started to brew the thunderstorm of grunge that would wash away the broken spirits of bankrupted drug addicts that were searching to find the tranquility that would replace the emptiness that their repossessed yellow Lamborghini and foreclosed beachfront condo left in their souls. The party was over and it was time to read poetry in the coffeehouse.

Only a select few of the ever-faithful followers of hair metal remained, as those more fickle minded shampooed out their teased tresses in favor of a more "now" appearance. Once the many, were now the few and they stuck out like a sore thumb. In any given town, especially in New Jersey, Kentucky and Southern Ohio, you would be able to find those steadfast in the their love for Kip Winger and Dingo boots, traveling in caravans of Monte Carlos and Camaros, to roadside bars to catch a Ratt tribute band.

In my Junior High School, we had our own tribe of Hair Metal Disciples roaming the halls. Our school was fairly divided as the majority of students either lived in a cluster of brand new, middle to upper middle class subdivisions; or they lived in a smaller, older, middle to lower-middle class, to downright impoverished, town that consisted of persons of Appalachian descent. The school district had separate elementary schools for the suburban kids and small town kids, yet made the genius decision to combine the schools into one junior high in the sixth grade.... Because pre-teens are known to function with high levels of tolerance and understanding for one another. Needless to say, junior high was a little tense.

The Tribe of Disciples seemed to all hail from the little Appalachian town, which combined with their fashion choices, kind of made life a tad hellish for them. My gang of stuck up, white bitches with weekly allowances to the Gap were unrelentingly bitchy towards the Disciples and the Disciples in turn, took great joy in beating the shit out of us. Those girls were fierce, there was no denying that.

As time traveled on for me, I replaced my Guess jeans with camo-pants, and my permed hair for shaved hair dyed with Manic Panic. My fashion choices exiled me to a status lower than that of the Disciples, but I really didn't seem to care. I found camaraderie with many of these young women and new found respect for someone willing to sit all day in a non-air conditioned classroom wearing Lycra, zebra-stripped pants and a ten pound hair-do.

As it usually does, time slipped away and the once awkward fashion rejects of Kings Junior High, grew up and moved on. The 90's turned into the new millennium, the Towers went down, and the Gulf War warped into Operation Iraqi Freedom. As the beat marched on, the notion that much money could be made from nostalgia started to surface. Metal Heads were soccer moms and Bret Michaels needed a nest egg to fund his European hair extensions. What once was a decade of songs, stories and life, has now made the strange transmutation from time to commodity, not unlike the decades that preceded it.

Now teenagers and twenty-somethings rock those Lycra, zebra print pants without even a hint of irony while they jam out to Cameo, much like how I rocked bell bottoms and kicked my heels out to Kung-Fu Fighting in 1995. Bands are reuniting and labeling their tours as the "Second Chance Concert Series" and marketing to the parents of today who were either grounded, or broke, the first time that tour came to town. Acts from Pat Benatar and Debbie Harry to Poison and Def Leopard are strapping on their youthful spandex, applying spray tans, and bleaching their teeth before hitting the road to relive the glory days with their graying, adoring fans. Steven Tyler was even hospitalized last week for taking a tumble off the stage, which would not be too out of the ordinary if weren't for the fact he was stone cold sober and the reason for the fall was because his hip went out.

People who had experienced the eighties firsthand now bask in the joy of what they loved being socially relevant again. In 2002, mother's were dragged onto talk shows, ostracized, and made over into Jenn Anniston look-a-likes for dressing like this:



This picture was taken a week ago.

Now these women have the social acceptance to break out their Limited Express fold over, frosted, denim, mini-skirts and banana hair clips! I envision The Disciples breaking out the old year books with pride replacing dread, and bragging about how cool they used to dress. The Eighties are fucking back man.

Which leads me to the inspiration for this post, my muse.

A few weeks ago, my town embraced the come back of the ever mighty, Hepatitis-ridden rockers, Motley Crue, hosting "Crue-Fest" at the local, outdoor arena. The energy in the air was palpable by 12:00 pm as mini-vans invaded the parking lots of nearby sports bars, their passengers donning denim mini skirts and half shirts, as they stood up straight trying to camouflauge the tell tale tummy of a recent, or not so recent, pregnancy. Lips that had denied themselves the sweet sensations of Southern Comfort for the past decade, in favor of something more socially acceptable for mothers, like Chardonay or Crystal Light, were reunited with the sweet elixir of their youths, and did it feel so good. So good. So good, that the alcoholic beverage became a catalyst for time travel. No longer were Breighdon, Kaileigh and Teegan waiting at home with a sitter for Mom in 2009; Tommy, Vince, and Nikki were primed for a lap dance at the after hours shin dig in 1985! The women had gone wild and chaos ensued.

In tabloid fashion, the buzz of chaos perked the media's ears and the headlines of the morning papers declared:

THREE WILD WOMEN ARRESTED AT RIVERBEND

Hamilton County Sheriff's deputies arrested three woman Friday night during the Crue Fest 2 concert at Riverbend in three separate instances for crimes ranging from obstructing official business to assault.

The first arrest happened at 6 p.m. when a woman from Hamilton allegedly refused to leave. According to court records, it took several officers to remove 31-year-old Jessica Bryant from the concert. She told police she only consumed one pint of Captain Morgan. She is charged with disorderly conduct while intoxicated.

Deputies arrested a second woman around 11:30 p.m. after she allegedly wouldn’t leave. Police say the woman was arrested but then got out of her handcuffs and tried to run from police. Deputies say she refused to give police her name, address, or date of birth. After arriving at the justice center, she claimed her name was Crystal Huff, guessed her date of birth, and she said she lived at the Drop Inn Center.

The third woman was arrested for assault just before Midnight. 40-year-old Barbara Evans from Centerville was allegedly thrown out of Riverbend because of her behavior, then punched a female employee in the right side of her face.

With headlines like this, who needs the weather?

Crystal Huff, here's to you bitch. Let's fucking party like it is 1985.

Self Importance..........i.e..................... Suck it, David Crosby

If I have to suffer through another "flower child's" self important diatribe one more time, I may become Amish just to avoid popular media. Seriously, there is no generation more stuck on themselves than the Baby Boomers. We get, you had sex before marriage and smoked a ton of weed, good for you, now SHUT IT.

I understand that the sixties were groundbreaking in knocking down rigid social structures, facing the evils of inequality head on, and realizing that there are choices in life. As a woman and a daughter of that generation, I DIG IT. However, in looking back at history long past and recent, there is no other generation so stuck on pontificating about their extreme awesomeness more than the children of the sixties.

God bless Tom Brokaw for taking the zeal out of their swagger and focusing for a time on our grandparents. There is a lot to be said about the children of the Great Depression and WWII. Then was a time that all the United States possessed was a dream and the follow through to obtain that dream. We were not a super power, but by inspiration, collaboration, and a common philosophy, our grandparents worked together to dig this country out of the worst rut it had ever faced. All the while still nursing those wounds, we banded together with the rest of the world to fight and defeat one of the greatest evils this world had ever seen.

Not only did they accomplish this, they steered clear of Time Life specials reminiscing about how AWESOME they were. They just wanted to dance during those informercials, and I can totally get behind that.

I do have to admit, I can kind of see where this need to express to the world how your generations part in history, was by far, the most profound time to exist. I know that I look at people who are younger than I am, and I shake my head while muttering "back in my day"while completely discounting their experiences for five minutes, until I finally get a grip back. I grew up in the eighties and the nineties, too young for Gen X, but too old for Gen Y. I remember Adam Walsh, and the hysteria that ensued from that awful tragedy.... Getting finger-printed, making an ID card in kindergarten, and working with my parents to come up with a "fool proof", safe word.

I remember when my parent's good friend died suddenly from a very severe and unmanageable pneumonia, later finding out that this was a disease that was going to and continue to kill many of the world's population. Because of AIDS, I knew what a condom was by second grade, which may or may not be appropriate. We chanted "Just Say No!" while marching behind Nancy Reagan and a stoned Drew Barrymore. We challenged authority after being inspired by Henry Rollins and "fought the power" while being directed by Chuck D .

It was a groundbreaking time, in a long line of groundbreaking times throughout human history. That's the crux of this post; humans are amazing... amazingly inventive, destructive, strong, cruel and kind... Human history is ever-changing and to single out one generation as being more important than another is purely self serving..... So, all of you people who burned out on the Haight-Ashbury, just SHUT IT.

That means you too, Peter Fonda.

I Don't Watch Telelvision

HA!

I'm just kidding. I am a big fan of the TV, I just think it is the most fantastic invention ever.

I want to address the people in the world who not only do not watch Television, but who also spend hours on Facebook /Myspace /somewherejustasequallygoofy.com, pontificating about the evils of television, dropping snide remarks riddled with self importance, usually in Italics, "I do not partake in TV", on friends and family member's pages.

You guys are adorable,

My question is this:

Though I appreciate your concern for my brain cells (hint, it's not the T.V. that's killing them, it's the vodka and the huffing), but are you not utilizing a tool that serves colossal time wasters like message boards, BLOGS, vanity pages, etc? A medium that lead to the rise of Tila Tequila, Paris and PErez Hilton?

Do you think anyone here is going to be impressed with your self-serving sacrifice to not watch TV? Because I am willing to bet that each person who reads that post could care less.

The majority of people on the internet are not able to spell "YOU'RE", okay? Know your audience. This audience lacks the ability to appreciate, let alone be affected by, your lack of TV viewing...... This is not the coffee house and nobody here really cares, Neitzsche.

On a somber note, why don't you like TV? Do you hate fun and happiness, too?

Please spare me the self important, "I find my entertainment in the written word" statements.......*sigh*.... Don't get me wrong, I too, love to read . I have also found that if I read a book and then watch TV, my mind does not explode and can totally handle the change between written words and moving pictures..... Surprising, I know.

I have also found in the past that people who own a TV, yet claim to hate and never watch said TV, are usually big, liars. I dated a guy who used to lament the television.....He would go on and on about how worthless it was and how people who watched it were zombies, and "yaddayaddaconspiracydoublecappucinowithsoy"
It was really obnoxious.

Anyhow, one day I came home early to find him not only watching TV, but he was watching the E! Channel's Talk Soup.

Words of truth.

He tried to act like it was an accident, but I knew. He not only watched TV, he watched the lowest common denominator TV shows and then watched the weekly shows that re-capped those shows! I was SO onto him. It even made me like him more... I was, as the kids say, really starting to "feel" him after that and found a new hope for our union. Alas, I think the shame of being discovered as a closet, trash-TV watcher, was too much for him to live with. After the discovery, he never really looked me in the eye again, and physically connecting was sparse if existent at all.....So, we broke up a few days later.

So, you don't watch television.
Good for you.

Maybe with all of this extra time you have, you can go pick up litter, or cure cancer, or something? I don't know.... Have a ball, be crazy and not watching TV with your bed self.. Just stop yammering about how awesome your non-TV-watching skills are on the INTERNET. Instead of giving the impression that you are an intellectual, you come off more as a conceited prick. It doesn't make you a more valuable member of society and it certainly doesn't win you free pizza or anything, (which I would bet that winning free food has more to do with watching TV, than not watching).

Also, remember your audience. You are trying to impress upon the community of MYSPACE, that television is bad and that pursuing more intellectual activities, is good.

The community of MYSPACE.


really?

Dear Urban Outfitters,

We need to talk.


When we first made eye contact in 1998, I was smitten. It was love at first site, instant attraction and chemistry; I was sure you were "The One." Your style was just like mine, I felt like I was finally a united Gemini, I was whole. I mean, come on! A black cowl-neck sweater, with special THUMB HOLES on the extra long sleeves? I usually have to rip thumb holes in my sweater to accommodate and warm my opposing digits. But you, with your infinite style wisdom, had taken the extra step to bring comfort and warmth to the body part that separates humans from animals. WELL DONE.

It was the beginning of an incredibly, beautiful, friendship.

Through the years I have depended on your sales rack in times of trouble and despair. I have exulted in the arrival of your catalog and down right laid on the ground and cried tears of elated joy at the grand opening of your store in my town, located down the street from my house. LESS THAN A MILE AWAY.

WE WERE PRACTICALLY NEIGHBORS!

We were reunited and it felt so, so, good.

Housewares, underwear, shoes, sundresses and giant sunglasses, OH MY! I was in heaven.

Fast forward five years and the world has changed, but do I still feel the same? I still get that little rush of excitement when I see the "UO" symbol sticking out in my pile of mail, yet that rush is soon followed by an empty feeling of indifference. The bees of excitement that would go crazy in my belly have been replaced by a regular, squishy feeling. The thrill of the first scent of commerce upon walking through your doors used to make me giddy and now makes me feel nothing.

It's over.

This conclusion was not an easy one to come to. I came to this conclusion after much denial and personal anguish.

I have outgrown you.

I know, I can't believe it either.

I was born in 1976, and though I was only in "short pants" when 1980 rolled around, I remember the Eighties quite well. I also remember what people were wearing whether fashionable, or questionable. There are many trends in the Eighties that I liked, and still think are flattering and beautiful.

HOWEVER, there are many trends from the Eighties that should be erased from our memories, vaulted in a nuclear bomb shelter, never to be remembered again. Unfortunately, these trends make up about 88% of your summer and fall line for 2008.

The truth in my outgrowing our relationship, is evident in the old adage, "If you remember a trend the first time around, you are too old to wear it the second time."

Such infinite wisdom from such clichés, I know.

BUT..........

Your line is seriously fugly, completely unflattering, and the materials you are using are egregiously cheap.

Pardon my French, but where the fuck do you get off? In order to wear any of these shapeless frocks without looking like a hippo in a mu mu, a young woman must only weigh about 90 pounds. Young women like to be "hip" and "cute" many, who have healthy, beautiful, bodies, don these garments and they look like shapeless, blobs with no waists, curves or butts. Not a good look for 90% of American women.




Also, let's talk about that hemline. Did Patsy Darling finally snap her fingers to raise hemlines so high that we are all now aspiring gynocologists? I am down with a "mini", I am not down with being able to spy a strangers dungarees in the event of a cool breeze.

Also, what is up with the banded bottom?


Anyone who tries to wear this dress that has even the slightest shape in their hips and thighs, ends up looking like a bubble sack. In fact, the last time I saw someone wearing an outfit like this was when Blanche Devereaux pranced around the shuffleboard deck on the Swinging Seniors cruise she, Dorothy and Rose took to Mexico.

NOT A GOOD LOOK.


And finally, may I present the most damning of evidence that you, Urban Outfitters, are perpetuating the "fugly".



You cannot be serious. Please, please, please tell me this is a joke!

HEAVY METAL MOCCASINS?

The only people who should ever adorn their feet with these abominations are those terminally lost in the crowd at a Tesla concert in 1987, Native Americans during a peyote ritual, or trailer park Satan Worshippers/Renaissance Fair actors.

They are just WRONG.

Based on all of this damning evidence, I have come to the conclusion that it is time to sever all ties with you and not just because I have outgrown you, but because your beauty has worn off, the looks have faded and you are a shell of your former self. I hate to be harsh, but I have to be strong.

I will miss you and the times we had together. I may reunite with you in the future for brief flings with drastically-reduced-in- price picture frames and bedroom quilts, but our apparel days are over.

It was good while it lasted, but now, it is time to bid "adieu."

Take care of yourself and tell your sister, Anthropologie, I said "s'up."

The Confused Dildo

Men in Cars

Dear Men in Cars,

When I am running down the street, wearing a jogging suit and headphones without a Ben And Jerry's delivery truck in front of me or a heard of elephants chasing me, it is safe to assume that I am doing it on purpose.

So, I don't need a ride, thanks.

Now, I know gas is expensive these days and you just circled around the block three times to "make sure" I didn't need a ride, (thanks for your concern and diligence, by the way), but I really don't want a ride. I know that sometimes when you are being generous and your random act of kindness is rejected, it can be frustrating! However, it is probably better for you to quell your disappointment, lest you say something unnecessarily MEAN.

You see, the reason I am running down the street is because I am aware of the fact that my ass if fat. Maybe you were pointing that out for my benefit, in case I was not aware? If so, thank you for your concern, I know I have a big, fat ass, running usually alleviates this condition.

Now, when I suit up to run, I wash the make up off of my face and throw my hair back, haphazardly, in order to keep it out of my face, as well as keep the sweat out of my pores. I will admit, I don't look so hot. When you add this to the fact that my blood is pumping and my smokey, "pool hall", poor excuses for lungs, are in overdrive to get oxygen to my blood cells; the tendency is that my face is usually a disturbing shade of fuscia, or puce, if you will.

Not the best look, I know, but I am aware of it. When you pointedly informed me that I was an "ugly bitch", thanks for the information, but the proper authorities had already been notified and appropriate measures were being implemented, i.e. the firing squad was lining up in my backyard getting ready to humanely put me out of my misery.

So, men in cars, I want to express my deepest gratitude for your concern for my well being and for the offer of the ride. I know that these gestures are coming from a place of love and concern, and God is smiling down upon you and your deep concern for society not having to be exposed to my "Fat Ass Ugliness". Your determination and powers of persuasion (i.e. driving around the block three times to try to get me into your vehicle) were not unnoticed. Thank you for taking the time and for the environmentally harmful emissions expelled from your car on behalf of little (well not so much, due to my big fat ass), old me and my welfare. Thank you, thank you, thank you, men in cars, but may I leave you with some words of wisdom? If I am ever in need of a ride within the city I live, I will take the bus.

Kindest Regards,

Me.

The Sexual Revolution: In Its Infancy.

I am an empowered woman. I am an independent woman. The shoes on my feet? Yeah, I bought them. I like to look at the world through "Kate Colored Glasses" where people really are not homophobic, racist or sexist. That is absurd! How 1950's!

Today I embarked on a solo mission to the Home Depot. I was feeling empowered, confidant and ready to pick out the various hardware items I needed. A couple of gallons of paint, check. A big, two-gallon bucket of primer, check. Now I was in need of three pieces of wood, 1 1/2 inch by 1 1/2 inch. A task I found rather daunting, but hey! I am a strong, independent, professional, thirty year old woman! I not only "ROAR!", I follow it up with a "WHOOT WHOOT!" and a sassy, "HOLLA!"

I could totally do this.

As I left the safety of the paint aisle, an aisle consisting of many of my female compatriots, which was comforting and non-threatening, I followed the main aisle to the, dark and scary land, also known as the lumber aisle. The lighting became grey and ominous, as I clutched onto the note card relaying my careful instructions. I felt a lump, deep in the pit of my belly, as I made a left turn into the dreaded, " Den of the Contractors".

I chanted to myself as I chugged cautiously down the aisle...."I think I can, I think I can, I know I can, I KNOW I CAN!

The independent construction-contractor, a person most likely of the male persuasion.Not just a male, but a redneck, Alpha Male.*shudder*

I walked tentatively up the aisle, looking at all the lumber, (which may as well have been ancient, Egyptian Hieroglyphics, because I was not comprehending what I was looking at, at all), as I was approached by two, very scary, and very dirty contractors. "Hey pretty", I smiled and turned away as fast as I could. " I am Helen Keller.......... I see no one, I hear no one. I am lumber, I am an inanimate object, I have no senses."

But seriously, what the hell are men thinking? Think about guys, are you really going to "pick up a chick" in the lumber department of the Home Depot? Especially, with your super sexy, super dirty coveralls? I mean, nothing is HOTTER to me, than I man with fingernails as dark as tar and with a scent of turpentine and Camel Filters. You don't see women in the tampon aisle trying to lure that one member of the opposite sex who has made a wrong turn into the menstrual-dome, do you? Come on!

As I stood there, still as stone, I looked out of the corner of my eye to make sure they were at a safe distance, so I could high tale it the hell to the next aisle! As I turned in the next aisle, relief set in. I was sure I found what I was looking for! The heavens opened, the heavenly light poured down from the rafters, and I even heard Christmas Muzak! I had found my wood (natch). I was headed for the promised-land of the check-out aisle.

I felt relieved. I felt amazing. I felt like Gloria Steinem. I had faced the oppressor, and I had fucking, survived! I walked out of the exit of the Home Depot, trying to look graceful and confidant, as I struggled to maneuver the 500 lb cart with three, 15 ft., pieces of wood in it. In order to regain control of my cart, I had to circle around the truck lane where, *GASP*! The contractors loaded up! GOD NO!

As I fumbled with the cart, trying to put my sunglasses on, because these men were not going to see the FEAR IN MY EYES, though they could sense it... They are just like dogs, those contractors.... As I struggled to keep my confidence, I heard the most, ridiculously, absurd statement, I have heard:

"LOOK! It's a girl! She can't even push the cart!BAWAHAHAHAHAHA!

I was mortified, horrified, embarrassed and frightened. I tripped over my feet, and was thrusted into oncoming traffic. I was almost hit by a car. After regaining my composure, I then found my vehicle, loaded up, and got the hell out of there.

When I arrived home, I was proud to have accomplished my task, and relieved to have made it out of there alive and un-groped.

As I sat down to relax by way of Cafe Vienna instant international coffee, for the ex-pat in all of us, the Little Honey broke the bad news.

I picked out the wrong wood.

Out Of My Way, Sister.

Since the early 1990's, this country has been in the grips of a coffee drink epidemic. I have never paid much mind to this, being the "all American girl" that I am. But as I become older, albeit, wiser, I am more conscious of our societal ills and ways to cure them.

I am not undertaking the battle of Starbucks vs. Independent Coffee Houses, I really could care less, plus Starbucks has good coffee. They never burn the beans, the espresso, or the milk, nor do they run too much water through their grounds. ( I AM LOOKING AT YOU, K-HOLE!) Also, being that I worked at one of the first, established coffee houses in my city, I know that this does not entitle me to act like a pretentious, twat, and give bad service to people I deem as "Yuppie Scum". (I AM LOOKING AT YOU, SITWELLS LESBIAN BARISTAS! DON'T MAKE ME TAKE OUT MY EARRINGS!)

The epidemic consists of the late teens, college, working, whatever girl, with the cheap, low rise, jeans, acrylic nails, and glitter encased cell phone. (Oh, you know who you are bitches) These ladies have watched one too many Jennifer Love Michelle Gellar Lohan Duff Hilton, movies and are now embarking on the world of coffee drinks, by way of the Frappucino, at 7:30 in the morning, much to my dismay.

Here is the deal, toots. You don't want coffee. You don't like coffee. You want people to perceive you have one ounce of intelluctual integrity, by way of carting around a to go coffee cup. What ruins this ruse for you, is when you plop down and start licking the whip cream off of the top of your drink. You look ridiculous, plus it is just bad manners. What you want, is a piece of chocolate cake, with a glass of milk. For the love of all that is holy, get out of my COFFEE line and hit the nearest bakery.

I need coffee. I especially need it at 7:30 am. I don't take coffee regular, i.e. two sugars and one cream ( oh the nostalgia that term stirs up for me. When coffee came in a bottomless pots, and sorority chicks stuck to diet coke, like GOD intended.) I drink it black. I like the taste, though I know it does not taste "good", that is not why I am fucking drinking it. I am drinking it for the buzz, the buzz that I need, so I don't chase these chicks out of the coffee shop and smack them silly. The buzz I need, so I don't see my first client, and proceed to tell them what a giant TURD I think they are and how they have a face only a mother can love. I NEED COFFEE FOR THE SAKE OF MY FELLOW MAN.

What I don't need, is to be stuck in line, behind you, having to hide behind sunglasses because the glare from your *giggle* OMG SPARKLE PHONE!!@!@, is blinding me, your cheap perfume is making me sick, while listening to your innane conersation that motivates me to move to the country, never ever to see another soul again. All of this, while you ask for a shot of mocha, a double shot of vanilla, a shot of caramel, extra whip and sprinkles, grande, DECAF frappucino. (Just typing that makes my blood pressure rise to dangerous numbers.)

Seriously, this is a problem of epidemic proportions, America. I believe the dye contained in fruppucino sprinkles has dumbed down the average, young, American intellect (not like it was high before!), making it socially acceptable to say "LOL" in real life conversations, for LaLohan movies to be critically acclaimed and for Paris Hilton to have some societal redeeming value. I believe this can all be traced back to the Frappucino, AKA, Public Enemy Number One.

Only we, the people, can curb this gross epidemic, plaguing our society. We must take action and not sit back idly, while these women keep polluting our coffee lines in the morning, on the way to their casting calls for "Blind Date" or "Flava of Love". We must knock them down when we see them coming, and stick a chocolate chip cookie in their mouth, while screaming "BEAT IT" in their make-up caked, faces! We must lure them away from away from the Starbucks with supplies of Diet Cokes and Three Musketeer Bars. IT MUST BE DONE.

It can be done.

You can help.

Former Position

Monday, March 27, 2006
They are so lucky. Current mood: amused Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
That AT&T has not come up with a way for me to reach through the phone and ring someone's neck.
I am so over leasing this space next to Urban Outfitters.
And now we return to: Stupid People Should Be Sent To Their Own Island and Sterilized.
***Phone ringing
Me: "This Is Cheapshot Von Picklebottom Hotbuns"
Caller: "Yes I was calling about the church for lease in Clifton."
Me: "Well the former Coldstone Creamery, 1243 s.f is available for $45 per s.f. NET at a five year term."
Caller: "How big is 1243 square feet?"
Me: "Um, well, 1243 square ft.. What?"
Caller: "Is it the whole church?"
Me: "Oh no. Urban Outfitters has about 8000 of the total there and Clifton Heights Community Improvement has about, 2000."
Caller: "So, are those businesses?"
Me: "Um, yup...?"
Caller: "But it is a church?"
Me: "Um, yeah, it used to be, then we bought the structure and re-habbed it, then we leased it out as retail.." ****getting really curious at to just where this is going to go****
Caller: "Do you feel that is right?"
Me: "Do I feel what's right? I don't understand?"
Caller: "To desicrate a house of the Lord?"
Me:"Oh, I see....Well, we here at JRARE joined a Satanic Cult about 9 years ago in summer of 1997. In the practices and teachings of the almighty Beelzabub, we have learned that the best way to smite the Holy Father and his son JC, is with hip Urban Wear, Kicky Suede Sneakers, Kitsch and Designer Jeans.....It pleases the Dark Lord....Any other questions?"
*click*


FIN