Oh The Douchebaggery

I was strolling the aisles of Whole Foods today when I heard a woman say the following bon mot into her cellphone: "Books are always so long and boring. I just can't stand them". Awesome.

Two aspects of this seriously profound observation bothered me.

1) This bitch is walking around having the most dull and half-assed conversation I have heard in a while and at a decibel level that is just inappropriate for public consumption. Do you think your anecdotes are so clever that they need to be shared? I understand that you need to use a cell phone in public at times. I'm guilty! But to have an ENTIRE fucking dialogue about the random doldrums that constitute your daily life within earshot of EVERYONE is just rude. Either put the phone down or develop a personality that could potentially make a voyeur out of me. I mean if you were talking about a burning sensation down south, a contract killing, or something even remotely eaves-drop worthy I might not mind listening.

2) Books are boring? Wow, that's a pretty broad statement.
Ever thought of trying a variety? Or do you just stick to the Encyclopedia and/or Ian McEwan novels (Yes, that's right, the toolbag responsible for Atonement...um, I feel the naseua coming...must ride the wave 'til it passes...good thoughts, good thoughts...okay, better now)?

That creative writing degree is looking pretty silly right now.

No, really. The student loans were worth every penny.

I use my degree everyday.

It's flat surface makes it the perfect base for rolling cigarettes on.

Guys are confusing.
And god help me, I still can't get enough.

I was having lunch with a friend and her daughter today and the conversation inevitably turned to men and how downright mystifying they can be.

So, we are talking about "playing games" as it relates to dating. Oh fun times! I just love having my mind fucked. It's so awfully romantic.
And because said daughter is five and actually plays "games", I felt the need to describe to her the adult definition of "playing games".

I explained that when adults play games, it means that they are saying one thing while thinking another (this is the abridged version---I can't be blowing a child's mind with all my knowledge on human behavior as it relates to the opposite sex....oh wait, yes I can---boys are weird--Nuff' said).

And all of a sudden it was like we were at a seance because that little girl was channeling Jung. This little pillar of wisdom opined, "Girls always listen but boys never do".

Aaah, from the mouths of babes.

I love you guys. I really do.
You challenge my mind to work differently. And by "differently" I mean in a When Rabbit Howls type of way.

Remember in junior high when you'd get a note from an admirer and when asked if you returned the affection you were prompted to check one of three boxes---yes, no, and the unfailingly frustrating maybe?

I suggest we return to that route. It would make things a whole lot less confusing.

About a year ago I got totally turned on to a band called The Knife. They just rock and rule.
Well, not rock so much as play keytars and dress funny. In the best possible way.

And I have done my best to promote their music by putting it on as many mix-tapes for as many friends as possible. I have probably also offended countless

So I am hanging out with my nieces who are just the best company ever.
They are three and because we share the same D.N.A., they are straight-up Einstein smart. They don't want to talk about Barney or hop-scotch, or whatever less evolved three-year old kids talk about. No, they want to talk geology. More specifically, volcanoes.

They are petrified (much like volcanic rock---zing!) of lava.
I guess maybe it was a dinosaur movie that tipped them off to the very real danger of volcanoes. I kid!
I don't want to minimize your phobia, Nico and Lena--- I was absolutely debilitated by my fear of pirates, yes--pirates, when I was your age. Who wouldn't be? Wily sea hounds!

It puts fear into perspective.

I wish my main fear was volcanoes. I could soooo deal with that.
Hell, avoiding the Pacific rim is damn easy.

Other stuff, not so much.

Oh and, cause' this post teetered on the verge of bleakness, I decided to punch it up with a nod to Celtic Thunder!

Have you seen these guys?

I'm not exactly sure what makes their act "Celtic" or ,thunderous, for that matter, but they are truly a sight to behold.

Nico, Lena....fear not volcanoes!
Nothing can rival the force of Celtic Thunder!

Link to awesomeness and what-the-fuckitude...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ToVUVWDdyys

I like to think that my unofficial job title is coiner of terms .

Sadly of late, it has turned to owner of coins.

As in, "That's all I got, Mr. resident of the front step of City Liquors! I know I was generous before. Sorry! Back then I was flush. I have issues of my own right now".

Shit, I'm broke.
I hear there is a creek out there. And every other sonofabitch has a paddle.

Where did you guys get those things?

They seem handy.

a.k.a. the worst communiques' of all, thank you!

We haven't had an actual conversation in months (sometimes years---you know who you are) and you think it's okay to text me some inane musing, out of the blue, in the evening hour on a random Sunday?

Just because you didn't actually call doesn't make it any less than an erroneous attempt at getting some pirate's treasure.

You are history. I should be history to you by now, for chrissake. I know I am the most woman you are ever gonna' know, but chillax! If I don't respond the first---mmm, 5 times---best thing for your self-esteem is to erase my digits. I know it's hard. I am indeed fly.

I'm not at work which is normally where I'd be this time of day on any average Monday.

And yet I am not utterly thrilled.

Far as I can tell, I am paying the price for some funky sushi. I'm gonna' need an exorcist to get this unholy beast out of my stomach. Oh the unpleasantry.

And this has happened to me before.
The place where I got the sushi is in the clear right now, as I took the food to go and grazed on it for well over four hours after it was prepared. I know. I'm kinda' like the evil knievel of gastronomy.

But onto another entrails offender..

People, heed my advice, never ever eat at Shanghai on Thayer.
I vowed never to eat Chinese food again following my meal and it's subsequent effects.
Oh, and the owner is a total shit head. I used to wait on him when I was working at Andrea's. He sucked so hardcore that I would literally say a prayer every time he came in that he would not sit in my section. And the almighty and I are not exactly B.F.F.'s.
Jackass would always come with about 4 women half his age, get belligerently drunk, and send all kinds of barbs in my direction. Then the tool would try to qualify his behavior by assuring me there would be a big tip in my future as a reward for dealing with his ass-hattery.
Here's a tip for you, genius...

Thirty percent is not gonna' make me write any letters home. In fact, it's kind of a slap in the face when you pull out your giant guido wad of twenties and, HELLO!, own a fucking restaraunt which , I'm assuming, employs waitresses. Waitresses talk about a lot over the course of a shift but the number one thing we talk is TIPS!
And now that we are conversing about one of my many awful customers at Andrea's, let's just go ahead and dive right in to that pool of fuckage.

They have mice. Many many mice.
But they are comfortable with that cute little factoid.
They have even given them names.

The food is so regurgitaterrific that I ate it on my first day and never again.
But my favorite part of working there was the owners. Oh yeah, they ruled!

I am a waitress, not a prostitute, so why the hell are you so concerned with my skirt's length?
Apparently my skirts were never short enough, and, not to make myself sound like a hootchie but I have been known to show a lot of leg. What can I say? I have long legs. Most skirts can't contain these stems.

On my third day of work, the randy old fart who owns the establishment comes up to me while I'm standing on a chair to write the specials on the board and touches my thigh! Hunnhh? I mean, ummm?
I whipped my head around with, what I'm sure was a "you better remove that paw right now mister before you get a smack-down" look on my face. The clown explains that he is just making certain that I was wearing nylons.
Holy fucking panty-hose.

Jesus-H., that requirement alone probably should have tipped me off that I was working for a suburban Hooters with none of the benefits that whoring one's self affords you.

I don't wait tables anymore. It was my gift to myself on my thirtieth birthday.

Please, everyone who reads this...if your waitress looks of a child-bearing age, tip the gal big time. Even if she forgets to bring you another soda. She's got bigger shit on her mind than your belly. And if you are, yourself, a food-slinger, you must check out bitterwaitress.net.

And if you are just a Providence resident who likes to eat out and knows how to tip, contact me. I have worked at almost every restaurant in this city and it would be my pleasure to serve you up some serious dirt.

I've already written a bit about driving in RI.

I fondly refer to it as death cheatin'.

But parking is a whole other dirty prospect.
I have accumulated too many tickets to fathom over the course of my time here whilst (oh, yeah, I'm fancy now---read below) fostering a hefty pile of ill will for the losers whose job it is to nit-pick my closeness to the curb.
What can I say? I have peripheral vision issues.
So, I have one of these aforementioned losers who frequents my place of hell-ployment.

We'll call her George, because She looks like George Costanza in pleated shorts and a pony-tail.
George, I have your number and it has been called!

I came into work about fifteen minutes early after my pre-work party-in-my car dance session.

Cigarettes and a wee bit of hip-hop were consumed before I was dead-lady-walking it.

And I see George!

She's strolling her beat with a shifty "gotta' write a ticket right now" look in her eyes just as some unassuming guy pulls up on the curb to use the ATM. This happens every twenty minutes to little avail, so this dude has just been dealt a really unlucky hand. I think about warning him but he's wearing designer sunglasses, rocking a little too much Abercrombie, and leaving a trail of some really awful cologne.

God must hate me 'cause I just sat back and watched.

The offender gets out of his car as the lioness approaches.

He fiddles with his keys and she hides.

She bends down behind a car and pretends to tie her shoe!
Smarmy whore! I saw it go down.

As soon as this guy walks in to use the ATM George literally sprints to his car, leaves a ticket, looks both ways and runs off.

I hope you enjoy your next life, George. Because judging by your karma, you're coming back as a herpes sore.

Just like high school all over again.

No, really, peep below post.

It's just the latest side effect of my sick Mac's plague. Unhinged bitch has decided to make my F's all Victorian and fancified. Yay!
I called the Mac store today and have it on somewhat shaky authority (I talked to an automaton) that I will be reuniting with my thinkin' machine soon.
Wait for it, people.
No. Seriously.
I got all kinds of rants consuming me.

This is going to be brief because I don't have much time---to quote a troubling RI slang--beƒore my computer shits the bed. My BRAND NEW computer has apparently been inhabited by the spirit oƒ Long John Silver. The past couple oƒ days, the thing has been making angry pirate sounds every times she's roused. I gotta' say, I have a giƒt ƒor making inanimate objects incensed.
Watch out Janice Dickinson!

That's right. I made a seemingly oƒƒ the cuƒƒ reƒerence there. Little did you know that our little city will be hosting the most supremely awesome oƒ events this Sunday. Yup, the try-outs ƒor America's Next Top Model!

More on that slice oƒ awesome pie later....

I've got an appointment with a mac genius later today.
By the way, that is the mac tech's actual job title.
I have been telling people ƒor quite a while now that my ƒull time job is being a genius. Turns out, I'm not alone.

Now's about time to go about ƒinding a name-tag.

Because I seem to be lost.

Holy existential crisis!

I have been questioning a lot lately. It's been like an Ethan Hawke movie up in my cranium and trust me, I hate that emo vagina more than I hate okra...and that's one reprehensible vegetable.

I wait on people all day long who are just bad, bad, seeds. No social grace, no sense of humor, no real wit or intelligence as far as I can see, and yet they have nothing concrete to worry about. They drive huge environment destroyers, rock seriously gratuitous bling, and somehow still can't manage to throw their change in my tip cup.

They scowl and demand and then TAKE THE TIME OUT OF THEIR PRECIOUS LIVES to call my work and complain about my attitude.

I would love to see you dealing with people like you. You wouldn't survive.

I must say I thought things would be different.

I had hope when Forrest said life is like a box of chocolates. But times have changed, my friend.

Life is a box of shit. And those little turds are not tasty at all.

Patience is a fucking gift.

I am forced to demonstrate it about ninety times a day because I deal with people who are straight-up Tom Cruise batshit. But my coworker Alize (name changed to make actual name 5x cooler) has been dealing with the brunt of the lunacy lately. Poor thing has been a saint in the face of extreme nutrageousness.

Today a woman of East European descent (not to blindly generalize, but Slavic bitches have perfected the angry scowl and wild hand gesturing) came in and demanded black bread.
So Alize points out the closest thing we have to a "black" bread, whole wheat. The little lady got all guttural and groans, "No, BLACK BREAD" ! Then she makes Alize take every single loaf of bread (and, folks, we have a lot of bread...you might even say it's our business) off the shelf so she can get a closer look and then chides Alize for the bread not being black enough. It was like a fox news item about Obama. Oh yes I did!

The entire time Alize is dealing with this woman I am trying with all my might not to crack the fuck up. Tears are welling in my eyes and my bladder is positively on the verge of doing something cataclysmic. I'm doing my best not to explode at the sheer ridiculousness of it all because I have already gotten in trouble at work for, shall I say, visually and/or verbally expressing my bemusement/irritation over other people's insanity...usually accomplished with a now-uncontrollable eye-roll, smirk, or downright 'tude.

Ms. Alize is stoic.

After about twenty minutes of back and forth (I counted at least 4 statements of We don't carry black bread here), the angry midget decides to go terrorize some other poor shop attendant for some Nubian bread.

Alize, I raise my glass to you.

It might be filled with city tap water and tears of utter desperation, 'cause that's how I'm rolling tonight. But one day, my friend in the slave trade, we will feast on the spoils of victory! Because I know it's going to be one of us (hopefully both and at approximately the same time so we can share in said feast immediately) that snaps and lets out the mighty torrent of rage that is plaguing us and we will be given the heave-ho, tout d'suite!

Oh, what a beautiful fantasy.

And in it, my boobs are stunning.

There is a total nut sac who frequents the daily nightmare that is my job.

This guy slobbers all over every woman below the age of 300. He is totally non-discriminate in his lechery. Just foul.

And this guy walks up to my friend and tells her he caught me staring at him.

Like there is a fucking chance! I mean, I know that sounds like I am tooting my own horn but, yeah, that horn is soooo honked!

I feel dirty when a gross perv thinks he's got a shot and will waste no amount of bravado trying to prove it. Where are the imagination police? I want out of whatever steamy scenario you got going on in your head.

Dude, I might have been staring at ya', but it was only 'cause I was looking for your tail.

Move over Floriodiots and brace yourselves, Rhode Islanders...you're safe from my tirades today.

and then gets you bludgeoned in the brains while you're sleeping.

I watched the Jetsons when I was a kid.

I was talking politics today which I don't often do because the shit tends to get heated. You will not convince me to change my views because they are always right. MmmHmm. But yesterday was our little nation's birthday and I got to talking about how angry I am about gas prices, the Olympics, the Scarlett/Obama thing...

Happy Birthday, America

I just got back from gassing up my car in preparation for out of town festivities which left me feeling a little bit raped. $50 just gone. Bye-bye 20% of my paycheck (you heard that right! My life rules!). When I get home, I'm in the mood for some company, so I turn on my t.v. (again, totally awesome life here) and am bombarded by ads for the upcoming Olympic events in China. I think it's about time China got their turn at hosting. I don't care what people who know anything have to say about it! I'm just glad our dear leaders saw fit to do what was right and send our support to the Chinese. Perhaps next we can rally up enough volunteers to pool their urine until we have enough of it to dump a mighty maelstrom of piss on the Tibetans.

And then we can send weaponry to this hot new group out in Afghanistan. They have a real funky name. What was it, Al Qaeda? Oh, my bad. We already did that! Time's to go about blaming someone else. How's 'bout Iraq. They were mean to us once, weren't they?Oh, yeah. My silly, silly short-term memory.

Clearly, I jest, and it's the last time I get political on here, I promise...but
I was all for Hillary.

I'll be on the Obama train now that it's the only one not departing from crazy station headed to awful-ville.

Fingers crossed here that what happened in '04 doesn't happen again 'cause Canada's looking mighty fine. And what with global warming, it's bound to be the next hot spot!

No offense to my friends who still reside in the sunshine state---but I am watching this show which may or may not be entitled Dumbest Dumb-asses Caught on Tape and am reminded of all the reasons why I have not returned to the isle of idiocy. This leather faced WWF freak is bragging about how he and his equally douche-tardy friends are going to repel off the Sunshine Skyway. For the Floridians in the know, that is a high mother' effin bridge. The shit of suicide pacts and such.

On three separate occasions at work today I had my mind downright boggled. This happens to me often on the streets of Providence. Today a girl came in wearing some super-grandma-high waisted jeans that were acid-washed and tapered with those zippers at the bottom whose job it is to keep your pants as tight around your ankles as possible...why? I dunno. She rounded out the ensemble with a pair of Keds and a sailor hat. What the fuck?
I honestly couldn't tell at first if she was being ironic or if she was mentally disabled/blind.
But she was coherent enough when she ordered and she was able to make eye-contact, so let me reiterate, what the fuck? There is an epidemic of some seriously ugly fashion going on in Providence. It's epicenter is the Whole Foods at University Heights. Have you seen the crimes of fashion committed there? Every time I go to the hot bar I have to tell myself to keep looking straight ahead lest I want to get my eyes angry.

Where is the connection between being creative and dressing like an ass-clown?

And ladies, I love that you are rocking your curves. Embrace your junk! But for the love of god, if it doesn't fit, no amount of trying to make it fit is gonna' help your case. So it was the only Debbie Gibson t-shirt they had at Goodwill. Sorry it was a child's size 3x...clearly it was meant for your boyfriend.
No ill-will intended towards the dude you're dating. I get it, he's skinny. No harm, no foul. After all, it never stopped Humpty from gettin' busy! And, he too, liked the girls with the boom.
But really, guy...your tight pants are painful for me to look at. Could ya' size up next time you're at Urban Outfitters? God, the people who work there are doing so much damage to everything Buddy did to beautify our community.

Also, it seems to me that you guys are aiming at different decades. All this anachronism is making me dizzy. And I'm sure it's because you're young and ,retro is, for you, is the nineties---dear Christ---but skinny jeans/anorexia was the late seventies punk scene. Fucking stupid, flamboyant and ugly was the eighties. I lived the eighties. The fashion was idiotic the first time around.

I'm not suggesting you go to the Gap or anything drastic like that. But maybe if you tried, really tried, listening to your mom and dad the next time they tell you that you look like a ridiculous shit-for-brains, i won't have to question your mental health.

Prepare to be preached to, choir.
If you are like me, and therefore rule, you have caught yourself, on a daily basis, giving a vehement tongue-lashing to some jackass Rhode Island driver at the top of your lungs. You probably also know that Rhode Island has topped Nationwide's annual list of worst drivers for at least the past three years that the local news on Cox.net has reported it. Um, duh. Now that it's been affirmed, I'd like to ask, "What the fuck is wrong with these people". I'm waiting to cross the street. I'm standing in front of a blinding white crosswalk which means I have the right of way. You are supposed to FUCKING STOP YOUR CAR! I know you see me. Your shades don't cover up your shiftiness. And when I have a green light at a four way stop, YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO KEEP MAKING LEFT TURNS AFTER YOUR LIGHT HAS TURNED RED just because you feel like you have waited long enough. We live in the smallest state in the nation! Where are you in such a hurry to get to? Because this is a Rhode Island epidemic, I am supposing it's in your blood. I'm from South Carolina, where folks might be a tad bit slower, but they have manners, and, oh yeah, respect for traffic laws. That red light is NOT a suggestion. What's your hurry, loser? Twenty-percent off sale at Spardello's? Legs and eggs at the Foxy? You forgot your wicked-pissah' awesome pomade at home with your axe body spray? Oh, yeah. I am full of stereo-types and prepared to scream them at your stupid face. Of course, because you are in a moving vehicle going at least triple the speed limit I am reduced to the disappointed head-nod. Here's the translation for this gesture, "Fuck yourself and your ugly car. I hope you godspeed in your travels because where you are going you are going to need all the help you can get, douchebag".