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.

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.