So I Skipped Another Day (AKA 5-Day Song Challenge: Day 4)

Yesterday was insanity at work. Mostly good insanity. I love when I get to not do my job and do something completely different. (Not even sarcasm.) I interviewed several people for a management program we’re kicking off in about two weeks, and then the dreaded meetings (which I actually like when the people are normal, productive and cool).

So yeah, no posty. And now today, some fucked-up I hope it’s not a medical emergency shit going on with me. But I’m posting anyway, because damnit I’m trying to be here.

And since I’m in a fuck society punk rock place at the moment, I’ll share some with you.

The Song:

Smallpox Champion – Fugazi

A nice, solid, damn-the-man punk rock song.

The Lyrics:

Smallpox Champion of the U S of A
Give natives some blankets warm like the grave
This is the pattern cut from the cloth
This is the pattern designed to take you right out

This is the frontier with winter’s so cold
Greed informs action where action makes bold
To take all the cotton that’s cut from the stalk
Weave in the the disease that’s gonna wipe you right out

What is good for the future
What is good for the past – won’t last

Bury your heart U S of A
History rears up to spit in your face
You saw what you wanted, you took what you saw
We know how you got it- your method equals wipe out
The end of the future and all that you own
Under the blankets of all that you’ve done
Memory serves us to serve you yet
Memory serves us to never let you wipe out

Cha-cha-cha-champion you’ll get yours
Wipe out

~

So this is a heavy one and more than a bit “political.” I wrapped that word in quotation marks, because I think it’s a cop-out to dub genocide a political issue as a justification of sidestepping uncomfortable topics.

If you’re into punk rock, you’ll dig it. Love me some Fugazi.

5-Day Song Challenge: Le Troisième Chanson

What up, peopleaneous! I’m sleepy but hopped up on truckstop caffeine (and not of the coffee variety because spew). I gotta stay awake so I can tutor after work and then go to a comedy show. Yeah baby!

This post is the third of five songs I’ll offer up for the 5-day song challenge. (By the way, you’re all challenged to join in. If you wanna.) Let’s get into today’s song selection.

Today’s Song:

Not Afraid – Eminem

It’s tough to choose one song – or hell, even just five songs for this challenge. I wanted to use Pearl Jam’s Black. Or DMB’s Grey Street. Or Bob Marley and The Wailers’ Three Little Birds. But bleh. I keep changing my mind. Hmph.

This one, though. Eminem’s Not Afraid, while not my favorite of his tracks, is an important song for me. For where I’m at. For flipping the middle finger to the world and holding my head up high, walking tall and strong so I can keep on keepin’ on. Some days are easier than others – today is easier than yesterday. And some weeks are harder than others. This week is tough as fuck compared to last week. One day at a time. One hour at a time. One motherfucking minute at a time. Right this minute?

I’m not afraid.

Let’s dive into the lyrics. Do y’all love lyrics as much as I do? I’m a lyric fiend. Love the tunes, the melody, etc. But the lyrics? That’s where I live. If you’re one of those weirdos that hates words but has a fucking BLOG, then just listen.

The Lyrics:

I’m not afraid (I’m not afraid)
To take a stand (to take a stand)
Everybody (everybody)
Come take my hand (come take my hand)
We’ll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just letting you know that you’re not alone
Holler if you feel like you’ve been down the same road (same road)

Yeah, it’s been a ride
I guess I had to, go to that place, to get to this one
Now some of you, might still be in that place
If you’re trying to get out, just follow me
I’ll get you there

You can try and read my lyrics off of this paper before I lay ’em
But you won’t take the sting out these words before I say ’em
Cause ain’t no way I’ma let you stop me from causing mayhem
When I say I’ma do something I do it,
I don’t give a damn what you think,
I’m doing this for me, so fuck the world
Feed it beans, it’s gassed up, if it thinks it’s stopping me
I’ma be what I set out to be, without a doubt undoubtedly
And all those who look down on me I’m tearing down your balcony
No ifs, ands or buts, don’t try to ask him why or how can he
From “Infinite” down to the last “Relapse” album
He’s still shitting, whether he’s on salary paid hourly
Until he bows out or he shits his bowels out of him
Whichever comes first, for better or worse
He’s married to the game, like a fuck you for Christmas
His gift is a curse, forget the Earth, he’s got the urge
To pull his dick from the dirt, and fuck the whole universe

I’m not afraid (I’m not afraid)
To take a stand (to take a stand)
Everybody (everybody)
Come take my hand (come take my hand)
We’ll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just letting you know that you’re not alone
Holler if you feel like you’ve been down the same road (same road)

Okay quit playing with the scissors and shit, and cut the crap
I shouldn’t have to rhyme these words in the rhythm for you to know it’s a rap
You said you was king, you lied through your teeth, for that
Fuck your fillings, instead of getting crowned you’re getting capped
And to the fans, I’ll never let you down again, I’m back
I promise to never go back on that promise, in fact
Let’s be honest, that last “Relapse” CD was ehhh
Perhaps I ran them accents into the ground
Relax, I ain’t going back to that now
All I’m trying to say is get back, click-clack, blow
Cause I ain’t playing around
It’s a game called circle and I don’t know how, I’m way too up to back down
But I think I’m still trying to figure this crap out
Thought I had it mapped out but I guess I didn’t, this fucking black cloud
Still follows me around but it’s time to exorcise these demons
These motherfuckers are doing jumping jacks now!

I’m not afraid (I’m not afraid)
To take a stand (to take a stand)
Everybody (everybody)
Come take my hand (come take my hand)
We’ll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just letting you know that you’re not alone
Holler if you feel like you’ve been down the same road (same road)

And I just can’t keep living this way
So starting today, I’m breaking out of this cage
I’m standing up, I’ma face my demons
I’m manning up, I’ma hold my ground
I’ve had enough, now I’m so fed up
Time to put my life back together right now! (now)

It was my decision to get clean, I did it for me
Admittedly, I probably did it subliminally
For you, so I could come back a brand new me you helped see me through
And don’t even realize what you did, ’cause believe me you
I been through the ringer, but they could do little to the middle finger
I think I got a tear in my eye, I feel like the king of
My world, haters can make like bees with no stingers
And drop dead, no more beef lingers
No more drama from now on, I promise
To focus solely on handling my responsibilities as a father
So I solemnly swear to always treat this roof, like my daughters
And raise it, you couldn’t lift a single shingle on it!
Cause the way I feel, I’m strong enough to go to the club
Or the corner pub, and lift the whole liquor counter up
Cause I’m raising the bar
I’d shoot for the moon but I’m too busy gazing at stars
I feel amazing and I’m…

I’m not afraid (I’m not afraid)
To take a stand (to take a stand)
Everybody (everybody)
Come take my hand (come take my hand)
We’ll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just letting you know that you’re not alone
Holler if you feel like you’ve been down the same road (same road)

~

I’m gonna let these lyrics stand on their own. It’s difficult for me to select specific parts that mean more to me than others, but I’ve boldified the ones that touch me the deepest.

Enjoy. And remember; you’re not alone.

First Comes Pinball, Then Comes The Fuckening

One of my new favorite things to do is go to a barcade. It’s a place for grownups, where distinguished ladies and gentlemen meet up to…whoop each others’ asses at arcade games, while getting nice and toasty on beer (ahem: cider for me, please) and sharing some sloppy-ass nachos (not to be confused with sloppy ass-nachos).

Louisiana girl here had never heard of barcades before. (Do y’all call ’em barcades? Cuz that’s just me doing my portmanteau thing. But I bet I’m not the first on this one.) One of my date people person dudes took me to one, and I’ve been hooked ever since. You wanna see The Stephanie in full form – giggling, talking smack, cursing and laughing and choking on cider, raising fists into the air – in either victory or defeat (people are SUCH cheaters, I swear) – take her to a barcade.

I’ve only been twice now, but I will be going back. With sacks of quarters (hehe she said sacks), a 15-year-old mentality and a winning streak itching to be released. Hashtag suckmytopscorebitches.

The second time I went was just a couple of weeks back, and it kickstarted a wave of drama that I semi-anticipated but am still supremely disappointed by. People are such brainless dickwhistles. It would be fun to watch them running around, scratching their heads (you know, the ones between their legs) and launching all sorts of wild accusations…if I weren’t one half of the target.

A former coworker (from Louisiana – formerly known as P. Whipped right here on Stephellaneland) and semi-friend was passing through Portland. He was on an epic Road Trip slash Personal Quest slash Work Assignment, and he messaged me on his last night in Portland – letting me know he was in town, asking if I’d be interested in meeting up for drinks. I’m like, dude. Dude, Yeah! Where’s the fire! I told him about the barcade, and he was down. Because DUH BARCADE.

We met there, and I commenced to smashing him on pinball and old-school arcade games. He cheated a few times and “won.” We had drinks and laughs and traded stories about the shitty stuff that lead us each to begin our Personal Quests. He took a selfie of us – aka The Selfie Heard Round the World. And then? You guessed it. He posted in on Facebook. Made it a public post so the whole world can see it.

So. Fucking. What.

Right?

Wrong.

Because apparently, nowadays, first comes pinball, then comes marriage the fuckening. Back in Douchetown, Louisiana, I’m becoming known as the girl who banged Anklebiter’s fiance relationship detritus that she threw away for the dude she was (allegedly) cheating with. What. On Earth. Gave them that idea?

Why, the smiling selfie taken in a barcade on “Henry’s” last night in Portland, of course! Nevermind the fact that we were at the same shindig maybe three times when I still lived in Douchetown. Nevermind the fact that I didn’t think the dude even knew my name before that night. NEVERFUCKINGMIND the fact that PINBALL shouldn’t imply that I was interested in playing with HISBALLS.

For fucks sake, what is wrong with people? I had two ciders. He had about five crown & cokes. We played arcade games for about 2 hours, then chatted for about an hour. He gave me a hug just before I walked back to my car and drove back to my apartment, and he took an über back to his hotel. He left the entire state the next morning. And guess what? I don’t owe that explanation to anyone.

But nooooo. I’m a homewrecker (in a situation where there is no home to wreck). A PINBALL PLAYING WHOREMOUTH. I need a Scarlet P. I’ll sew it onto my homewrecker cape, right above my high score. And a new selfie of me flipping off Senorita Anklebiter and her minions.

Signed,
The Pinball Prostitute

*Thanks to Tikeetha for reminding me of this gem. I used to go around singing it, but I’d forgotten about it somewhere along the way. Highly appropriate for today!

 

Go on, set my money on fire, bitches.

I like fireworks as much the next guy, okay. They’re pretty and all that shit.

But you know what fucks me right off? Setting my fucking tax money on fire.

Fireworks are pretty, sometimes. But every time I hear them going off, the sound of my tax dollars going up in smoke drowns out even the loudest of the explosions.

I’m all for privately funded explosions. I am American, after all. But I don’t want my motherfucking city tax dollars going toward them, when they can’t even fix the sewage lines and the fucking potholes and the ridiculous areas that need new stoplights, but they let the fancypants rich pricks dictate what happens in this shithole town.

So go on, motherfuckers, set my money on fire and send it flying into the sky in colorful explosions while I struggle to pay the fucking flood insurance for a house that has never flooded.

Cocksucking monkeyfuckers.

Happy Day of Murdering Your Own Family – We were British, remember? At least the ones who came over to do the mass slaughtering and land-stealing.

I mean.

Happy 4th.

I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole. Or just Shank a Bitch. Or both. Good Idea. (AKA I’m gonna rant my ass off.)

You know what I hate?

I hate bitches who don’t know their place. Bitch gon’ try to throw me under the bus. What she has yet to figure out is I’m now driving that fucking bus. And she’s Target Numero Only. I was asked to advise my supervisor on a situation that has arisen. You see, apparently the company is hemorrhaging money (which is nothing new – but the source is new). And Queen Bitch is the primary suspect, only she’s doing what she always does: pointing fingers. She pointed fingers in both my direction and that of my former department. I was called into the meeting, and I stated clearly that this is the first I’ve heard of any issue (dudes, this issue is massive and jeopardizes our largest account…which would shut this subsidiary down, period). I explained exactly what the problem is and what needs to happen to fix it. Queen Bitched huffed and puffed, and guess what. Nobody’s fucking house blew down. But the air around us got suspiciously smelly. Next I’m called into my supervisor’s office privately, where he asks for my full analysis of the situation and what we should do to move forward. I didn’t even have time to be flattered, because I launched right into it. I don’t care anymore. I’m not here to placate Queen Bitch, and I’m certainly not interested in scratching anyone’s back or licking anyone’s ass. I carefully explained exactly why it is not in fact my former department’s fault, as it is QB’s responsibility to provide them with the information they need for the projects in question. When it looked like I was losing it, I brought out my secret weapon: an overstuffed folder full of the exact information QB used to provide to my former department. I had that shit because those jobs used to be my responsibility in that department. And because I strongly believe in good ole CYA (Cover Your Ass) in Corporate America, I still had all of it. So he’s shocked. “Queen….Queen Bitch did this? When you were in x department?” Yup. How else was I to know what the project consisted of? “B-b-b-but she says she’s never done anything of the sort.” *points to QB’s initials* She shoots. She scores.

Cunt.

Tomorrow should be entertaining. I really fucking hope that bitch steps up on me. I’m burning that bitch down.

59fc51ad1efcbf3c1b5ab460cb0fb470753368cf35016887b46679366b92544a.jpg

You know what else I hate?

FedEx
I’ll tell you why not. Because they’re ass sucking penis wrinkles. That’s why.

Motherfucking FedEx. Motherfucking FedEx put a heavyass box down against the porch today. Against it. Not on it. No no. It wasn’t on the porch. You know what it was on? My motherfucking twenty dollar azalea bush. You know, one of the ones I just fucking planted. Speaking of bitches that need burning down. Those motherfuckers are about to feel my wrath. Not that they’ll give a fuck. Still. I’m done being a doormat. I’m gonna practice telling motherfuckers off when they act like motherfuckers. Well guess what, I bet my mother has the herp. How do ya like me now, MOTHERfuckers?

You know what else I hate?

Motherfucking Comcast. I ditched AT&T for the same fucking reason I’m about to ditch your useless, lying ass. When your twatnose rep promises me something and you do the exact fucking opposite? Don’t act shocked when I ask for the number to your Retention Department. Heh. Didn’t think I knew about Retention Departments, did you? Think again, shit snorter. Where’s Ted Kaczynski when you need him? (Too soon for that kinda joke? Fuck you, I’m American. Apparently all I’m good for is getting thrown under buses and shooting people or blowing them up. Speaking of things I hate. Fucking douchecanoes.)

You know what else I hate?

That I forgot the rest of my list. There’s a lot to be said about making handwritten notes. Ahem, Ezekiel. Make fun of my handwritten lists. You little shit. So now I have something else to hate: my lack of post notes. Fucksticks.

Anyway. Yeah. Believe it or not, I’m in a pretty damn good mood. Now.

However. I Really Fucking Hope that rotted cuntwhore has the audacity to get in my face tomorrow. She will regret forgetting the last time we spoke, when I said, and I quote, “If you ever speak to me again, it should only be to apologize for what you’ve done. Otherwise, you keep my name out of your filthy mouth.” Oh yeah. That was a huge feat for Ms. Pushover. I finally allowed myself to stand up for myself, and that’s what came out.

Fuckyeah.

Bonus thing I don’t give a fuck about: editing. Fuck editing. I’m letting this bitch fly. I’m all hardcore and shit.

beaker

Humanity I Love You

Humanity i love you
a poem by e e cummings

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than inquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death
Humanity

i hate you

~

I love e e cummings, and I love the pure irony and sarcasm of this one. One could say it’s quite timely as well, but when hasn’t it been? Truly, has there ever been a time in which the ideas presented here haven’t been true? I am quite the cynic and am myself disgusted by the state of humanity.

However.

I also struggle to force myself to trust. To stick my neck out and believe that perhaps it isn’t quite so terrible as it seems. Or rather, that one perhaps shouldn’t disregard the exceptions to the rule simply because there is a rule.

It’s a lonely way to go about life. I know this to be true, firsthand. Still, we should at least be cautious and informed.

Look at me blathering on. I meant to drop the poem and go, allowing it to stand alone. And here I am. Alas, I’ve run out of things to say.

Perhaps more later. Perhaps even about a party to which I’ve been invited. Ah. But humanity.

Graffiti

Graffiti is a kind word for artistic vandalism. And I love it. I don’t exactly know why, but I’ve always loved graffiti (well-done graffiti, that is). Hmm. Now I’m curious.

I’m attracted to rebellion.
I’m attracted to people and ideas that buck convention (so long as there’s logic behind it).
I’m attracted to art, especially avant-garde, industrial and/or urban art. Something about people making urban spaces their own, adding art and flavor and sometimes critical social commentary…I’m drawn to it. Statement pieces are my favorite.

Tom Eversley Urban Art.jpg

I have a love/hate relationship with cities. There’s a strange, unnatural beauty to modern cities: the way so many people are gathered and crammed into tight living spaces.  Shoulder to shoulder they walk the sidewalks and street crossings. And yet, they’re anonymous. You can walk through a throng of people, and no one even notices you. You’re just another unit of humanity in a faceless, nameless sea. There’s so much cultural variety, it’s thrilling and enriching. But it’s so fucking impersonal. Hence the love/hate. It’s unnatural.

I have a certain appreciation for beautifully done architecture, though I (mostly) disdain purely functional forms. Give me some flavor. Allow me to see the artistry of the architect’s vision. And if you give me bland, industrial, utilitarian space?

Graffiti the shit out of it. Somehow, someway, I want to see the art of humanity shining through the bleak, gray spaces. If we’re going to “pave paradise,” shouldn’t we make it our own?

My favorite graffiti that I’ve seen has been that found on trains, on the side of horribly mundane industrial, horribly inhuman (yet all too human) facilities, bridges, canals, etc. I love the resistance it shows, people fighting back against the bleak, faceless commodification of humanity.

~

That said, you know what I hate? I fucking hate this shit:

image

See what it says? I found this at the park today. Someone carved “Homecoming?” into a tree. Someone later came behind and carved a response, “NO.” I was so fucking angry when I saw this. This is nature. Look at the word “nature.” NATURAL. Industry is unnatural – and I’m okay with bringing humanity into it. And it can be painted over. Urban art can be painted over. This? This tree is damaged for good. There’s no undoing this.

Heh. And it only got worse from there.

image

This entire tree was covered from the ground to about seven feet. I was livid. And then, I was so so sad. The people who damage trees in this way are the ones who have so little respect that they’re threatening future generations’ access to our national parks. They’re the people who break through the travertine crust in Yellowstone or approach bison to take selfies. Entitled fucking morons who have zero respect for this beautiful earth we get to call home.

Grab your cans of spray paint and beautify and personalize a train or the underside of a bridge. But we must be better stewards of our planet.

Maybe I’ll go back tomorrow morning and flip that tree off. Yeah. That’ll show ’em.

Fuck it. I’m too mad to focus on anything but Orlando, etc.

I don’t usually write about topics like what happened last night. Massacres, terrorism, bullshit politicians and elections, the shitty state of education, etc. I avoid inflammatory or just deeply troubling events here on the blog. There’s plenty of the rest of the shit all over the media.

I briefly entertained the idea of starting writing a travelogue today, but I can’t. I’m too angry to focus on anything but what happened last night and everything else that it calls to mind.

Last night/early this morning, yet again a lone gunman perpetrated an act of terrorism, this time in a nightclub in Orlando, Florida.

Right-wing media and individuals are focusing on gun control. HA! Yeah fucking right. They’re focused on the fact that this time, the shooter was a Muslim man. My thoughts on Islam (or any other organized religion, for that matter) are not the topic I want to discuss just now. However, it’s a fucking outrage that so many are focused on the man’s religious beliefs.

How dare we allow Muslims to live in America! This is what happens when we let brown people in! Build the wall! Ban non-whities! And while we’re at it, let’s send some camouflaged crusaders to shoot up and take the belongings of the rest of ’em all over the world! Look at what has happened to our Christian nation! Those sand-niggers and faggots all deserve to die, but they’re gonna use this as an excuse to take my guns from me! They’ll pry them from my cold, dead hands!

Ha. Bunch of fucking hypocrites. Yes, by all means let’s not add any more amendments to the constitution. It was a perfect document, wasn’t it? PERFECT. You know, all except for that pesky First Amendment. Freedom of and from religion? Pffft. This is a Christian nation! By which we mean that we can slander, murder, imprison, drag behind our cars, shoot, rape anyone…so long as the perpetrator is a good ole white Christian and the victims some marginalized minority class or ethnicity.

How dare we allow a Muslim into this country! But it’s perfectly acceptable to give him the right to purchase and wield assault rifles! Wait. Oops. Shit. I mean. Keep Muslims out, and let the rest of us wield assault rifles! Wait. Fuck. I mean, except them blacks. The rest of us have the right to bear arms! Motherfuck. Except anyone who is even remotely brown! Yeah! The rest of us get to shoot all you no-account, non-Christian, homos! Yeah! Except women. They should be in the kitchen. Sos the rest of us have full bellies to go out and do some justice!

I don’t hear anyone talking about stripping the nation of all firearms. Would increased gun control laws lead to that? Who fucking knows. Maybe so. But right now, the primary focus is on shit like fucking assault rifles. Seriously? You think the price we pay to be allowed to have shit like that is worth it? Men, women, children of all faiths, all ethnicities, all beliefs and ideologies, all classes…are losing their lives at ever-increasing rates. Right here from good ole home-grown terrorism. And we’re protecting the rights of the murderers! Would you be singing a different tune if it was your son or daughter who was slaughtered? If it was your spouse or cousin or favorite coworker? I bet you would. You sit there in your cushy armchairs, proclaiming your ignorance and vowing that you would feel the same no matter what. But you wouldn’t. You’re too blind to see it, too drenched in your hatred.

People are dying. People are suffering. But you don’t give a fuck. You high-and-mighty, self-righteous pricks.

And the rest of us, what are we gonna do about it? Lemme guess, you’re working on a rainbow flag filter for your Facebook profile photos. Yes, because that’s so fucking effective. Good for you; you’re such a mindful citizen. That’s going to do so much to help replace the lost blood and organs and sense of safety and self-worth of the survivors. It’s going to do such wonders for the mental illness epidemic sweeping the nation.

Go ahead and go to work on Monday and talk about how you could have seen this coming, that those people wouldn’t have died if they hadn’t been in a gay bar in the first place. Really? Have you seriously fucking forgotten the movie theater? The schools I’ve lost count of? The military bases? Really? Are you that fucking delusional? Or were all of them gay or brown, too? No, you fucking fucktards.

I can’t wait to go in to work tomorrow and hear about how Obama invited another “Islam” terrorist into our country. Nevermind the terrorists every fucking president ships out of here every fucking day to give some good ole fashion democracy to people whose countries we’re invading. Yeah. Our fucking guns are named democracy. That’s what we introduce them to. Lemme give some democracy in exchange for oil and puppet governments. But at least we ain’t gay, ain’t that right, Archie?

I’m angry. I’m rambling. And I’ve completely forgotten the mostly structured set of points I wanted to address. I’m too incensed to think straight about it. Anyway. Yeah. That’s enough. I can feel my blood pressure climbing to the ceiling, so I need to provide myself with a good diversion. Stick my head back in the sand for some mind numbing.

Stuff I Think Is Bullshit (Because It Is)

I love lots of things, really I do. Flowers and bumblebees and the color of carrots and precocious kids and witty adults and mountains and cheese puffs. But this post isn’t about things I like.

This post is about bullshit. “But Stephanie,” your innocent minds inquire, “why do you think it’s bullshit?” Because it is, children. Because it is. So grab your blankies and your juiceboxes and gather round for Ms. Stephanie’s Lullabies of Bullshit.

~

People who scratch their nuts in public. They really get down, don’t they? I mean, they really get in there. And look, I don’t discriminate. People who scratch their nuts in public are bullshit; I don’t care if they’re man or woman. The people, not the nuts. Henuts, Shenuts, I don’t care. If you’re scratching your nuts in public, you’re bullshit. Seriously. You look me in the eyes, scratch your nuts, reach out to shake my hand with that shiteating grin, and you really expect me not to call stranger danger on that one? I don’t know where the fuck your henuts or shenuts have been – I don’t want the slimy residue of those sweaty fuckers on my hand (or anywhere else for that matter). It’s bullshit. Keep your nut shenanigans to yourselves, please.

People who attempt to master the art of conversation…while you’re taking a piss. Seriously, Potty Paula, you’ve never spoken to me a day in your life. Why the fuck do you think I want to have a conversation with you about this year’s crop of turnip greens…while urine trickles out of my body? It’s bullshit. Shut the fuck up.

Mammograms. People, people, people. Listen. We can print entire legs. Print them. On printers. But we can’t identify breast cancer without pancaking our boobs in Satan’s fist? You know what that is? Say it with me, boys and girls: It’s bullshit!

Parents with fat kids. You’ll notice I’m not talking about fat kids. I’m talking about the parents of fat kids. The ones that are fat from eating. Yeah. Those. I don’t give a fuck about fat adults. I rank among them. But I do give a fuck about fat kids. I was a fat kid. I know what that shit felt like. I know what it’s like to be bullied or invisible. And you know what? Most of you parents with fat kids are also fat, so you know what it’s like, too. I don’t give the asses of all the rats how many ho-hos and dingdongs you smoosh down your gullet. Stop setting your kids up for a lifetime of struggles, you abusive pieces of shit. Yeah, that’s right. I’m looking at you, little sister. I’ve seen the pictures of my nephew. And you know what I think? You’re bullshit.

People who say chemicals are dangerous. Dude, your fucking FACE is a chemical. (Fine, a mass of chemicals. Semantics.) You’re bullshit. That is all.

Microaggressions. Fucking seriously? Are you fucking shitting me right now? I’m so sick of hearing and reading about microaggressions. You’re either the victim of aggression (active or passive), or you’re not. The only thing I wanna read about being micro- is a microwave or microbiology. Microaggressions are bullshit.

Meta. Oh my god, Becky. Her analysis. Of her own ass. Is like. So. Meta. Please fuck off with this meta shit. It’s bullshit.

People who say shit like, “I’m not racist, but…” We all know what you’re really saying is, “I’m not racist, but I’m about to say something so fucking racist you’ll think I invented racism.” Yeah. So next time you say, “I’m not racist, but I think all niggers should be in prison”? I swear to fuck I heard the second part, and you’re not even bullshit, Archie. You’re the festering maggot sputum drizzling down the top of the pile of bullshit. Yeah.

Having to upload a resume and filling out an application with the exact same fucking information. Guess what that is? Complete and utter bullshit. Do you want me to show you how good I am at copying down shit from my resume? Verfuckingbatim? Kudos to you, then. Look how good of a copier I am. Do I get a gold fucking star? You douchecanoes.

Parents who let their spawn play on xbox live chat. Listen up, thundercunt. When your precious angel calls me a fat whore when I whoop his ass, don’t get your granny panties in a wad when I call little Billy a nob swallowing penis wrinkle. It’s bullshit. Demote that little fucker back down to Candyland until he can learn how to respect his fucking gamer elders. The little prick.

Deconstructed coffee. Are you shitting me right now? I don’t even drink coffee, and I’m offended at this insult to coffee. If I want a cup of coffee, I don’t want three fucking glasses. One with hot water, one with milk or cream, and one with liquefied coffee beans. “It’s so you can make it how you want it!” Oh please. That’s why people go to Starbucks and order their Venti Grande Shorto Hot Iced Decaf Skinny Caramel Macchiatos with Extra Whip and two shots of Espresso. Fuck your deconstructed coffee and do your jobs, you bullshit hipster twatnozzles.

melbourne-reaches-peak-hipster-with-deconstructed-coffee-805x426
This is not coffee.

There. I feel better. Do you have anything to add? Pile on the bullshit, Peopleaneous. I’ve got extra shovels.

Bitchass Old Ladies: Yield for Oncoming Rant

I don’t often issue warnings, but this time I will: if you continue reading, you are going to run into flagrant ignorance – including, but not limited to, overt racism and use of racial epithets. This post will also be the closest I’ve come to making any sort of political commentary on this blog.

Stephellaneous House Roles in effect: As always, anyone is welcome to disagree with me at any time. I appreciate and welcome varying perspectives and challenges of opinions and ideas. But anything even approaching blatant racism or hatespeak will be blocked outright. None of the regular traffic here needs that kind of rule…but you never know who may stop by.

~

The Scene: One dimly lit makeshift office, roughly the shape and size of a small, narrow walk-in closet. One long built-in desk along the length of one wall, just enough room for two people, three computers, six monitors and a bigass printer. I’m on the end, far side from the door. Office supplies, plants, and gnomes to my left, bitchass old lady to my right near the door.

The Players: One Stephanie, One Bitchass Old Lady, One Slightly Less Bitchass Middle-aged Lady, Several Garden Gnomes of varying size, a tiny plastic alligator and a tiny white goat named Garry bearing witness. Let’s call Bitchass Old Lady “Archie Bunker.” You know, the bigoted and racist prick from that old TV show. Let’s call Middle-aged Lady “Edith,” who – while softer and sweeter – was like-minded enough with Archie to have married him.

Archie may be the first old lady I’ve ever fantasized about punching in the face. But Edith…I love Edith to pieces, but she’s still…Edith.

I’m angry and stalling. Here goes. Take no prisoners.

~

It’s mid-afternoon, and I’m sitting at my desk. I’m bored out of my skull, head pounding, and I’m alternating between staring at my bank of four monitors, replying to you awesome people here on WordPress and getting lost in Facebook hell (you know, looking up family and shit from your past, an exercise you know good and fucking well will only end in pain and tears).

Archie is to my right, snoring off and on and listening to Fox News broadcasts at full volume. She’s semi-deaf. Because ancient.

Edith comes in at the Witching Hour. That is to say, at 3:00 all the coffee hounds have a fresh batch. So she came in with her steaming mug of burnt office coffee and leans against the wall, ready for chitchat and scintillating conversation about how slowly time is moving, but TGIF.

First the Bunkers share the ubiquitous gossip about our resident pill-popper (the most notorious of them, anyway). (White guy. Everyone in the fucking building is white. It wouldn’t make me mad if I didn’t know for a fact that it’s intentional.)

They then moved on to another drug topic. Bear in mind, please, that none of this was said with any hint of irony.

Listen in as Archie tells Edith about one of her Fox News reports. When I heard the topic, I turned the music down (I had my earbuds in – my only armor against Bill O’Reilly and cohort).

Archie whispers conspiratorially, “Did you hear about that…that guy the troopers pulled over?

Edith laughs, “Which guy? Guys are pulled over all the time.”

Archie snorts, “Don’t make me hit you, sassy mouth. I mean that…hoodlum they pulled over with all that….that marijuana!

Stephanie stops the music but keeps the earbuds in, still facing her monitors.

Edith shakes her head, “No, but it doesn’t surprise me anymore.”

Archie: “Well, as you can imagine…it was a Mexican.

Stephanie pops her earbuds out, still facing her monitors.

Edith: “Still doesn’t surprise me.” (Note: One of Edith’s sons-in-law is Mexican.)

Archie: “47 pounds! He had 47 pounds of marijuana! He swears it was all his own personal marijuana, but I don’t believe him.”

Stephanie chimes in, still facing her monitors, “He’s trying to shake a distribution charge.”

Both sets of eyes look over, and Stephanie gives a sidelong glance back.

Archie: “Well of COURSE he intended to distribute it.”

Stephanie: “Was it broken down? Or was it in bricks?”

Archie: “Bricks? I’m talking about MARIJUANA, Stephanie!”

Edith looks at Archie’s computer monitor, “Looks like bricks to me.”

Stephanie: “Mhm. Then they can’t prove it’s for distribution. Smart guy; he’s angling for a lighter charge.”

Archie: “SMART GUY?? He’s a MEXICAN with MARIJUANA. I hope they lock him away for good.”

Stephanie: “I don’t see what his ethnicity has to do with it.”

Edith skirts, “After a day like this, I may want to find that guy and go smoke one with him!”

Archie: “Stop making jokes. This is serious! All these…these…WEEDHEADS and and PEDOPHELIA TYPE PEOPLE are RUINING America! These Mexicans and that Islam Nigger President!”

Stephanie: “You cannot compare pot use with rape and molestation of children. Nor do I see how ethnicity has anything to do with any of this….Oh. And pot should be legal.”

Archie clutches her chest and goes pale, “STEPHANIE! You CANNOT be serious. Race has everything to do with it. And that drug has ruined lives and killed people!”

Stephanie (who rarely says anything): “That’s what you’re supposed to believe. Your fear of a literal weed that was supposedly brought here by Mexicans and Natives allows for the existence a multi-billion dollar industry run by our government.”

Edith: “She’s joking, Archie. She’s just trying to get you going.”

Stephanie: “No I’m not.”

Edith glares, Archie looks on the verge of a heart attack and Stephanie pops her earbuds back in but leaves the music off.

Archie: “Anyway. Them..them weedheads and pedophilias [sic] are everywhere. I bet you couldn’t even find a place to live on the moon without having one for a neighbor. It’s not safe anywhere anymore.” If she had pearls on, she’d be clutching them.

Edith: “Sooo…have y’all heard about that movie about assisted suicide?”

~

If blatant, inexcusable ignorance is this rampant in the PNW, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do. But I’ll tell you one thing: I’ve had it with sitting quietly while the people I’m surrounded by speak in this manner and think they can get away with it because my skin is the same color as theirs. I will no longer lend tacit agreement with my silence. I’ve been the quiet one all my life, especially when it comes to my elders. And I’m fucking ashamed of it.

The whole “respect your elders, Southern Charm” bullshit has overstayed its welcome with me. Just because Archie is 74 doesn’t mean she’s earned the right to spew ignorance and hate as gospel. That “good little Christian woman” is anything but. I’m Fucking Over It.