My boss is an epic bitch. I don’t mean like one of those passive aggressive bitches. I mean a full on, in your face, self-proclaimed bitch bitch.
For the most part, I’ve been fortunate enough to not be on the receiving end of her first-class bitchery. I usually witness it from the sidelines, as an anecdote, or just watching her lambast some poor fuck.
Today, that poor fuck was me. And I almost let her have it, right in front of her precious little committee. Fucking committees. I’m a fucking committee person now. Why couldn’t I be a gangsta? Huh?
The skinny little cunt insulted me in front of her favorite little pet committee. Repeatedly. Had I done anything wrong? Au contraire. She’s pissed off because someone else is leaving the company, so she’s taking it out on those closest to her. And as her rightfuckinghand, I’m the closest one at work to take it out on.
If she keeps the shit up, I’m gonna volley Little Miss Former DA’s shitstorm right back at her. She thinks I’m sweet and quiet. She has no idea what simmers beneath the surface (and boils on days like today).
I can hang with her on most days. And at least I didn’t take it personally – like getting upset or crying or thinking I was a fuck-up. I just got pissed. I’m mostly calm now. Mostly.
Good thing the weekend cometh. There’s a cider or three with my name on it.
Y’all. Something is up with Oregon. I mean aside from triple-decker man buns, obsessions with microbrews and whiskey, and wannabe hipster bro-boys. I’m talking about the ridiculously high ratio of gingers to the rest of the population. At least, I mean that’s at least a thing in the dating pool. Not that I’m complaining; some of these gingers are smokin’ fuckin’ hot. (Uhm. Maybe most of them. Which is weird, because as an aesthetic, I was never interested in gingers. I mean, I’ve always been a fan of ginger flavor – ginger beer, ginger snaps. But ginger boys? Too…pale. Oregon is changing my mind.)
If you stacked all of my dates up on a weirdass live human bar chart, the tallest bar would be gingers, by far. (This is not intentional.) At one point, I may or may not have been casually dating three gingers at once. One of them was pretty simple, but funny and wild as hell. Another of them was a super country libertarian boy (yeah, I passed pretty hard and fast on that one). The third was fucking brilliant – this weird dichotomy of former military and current anarcho-philosopher turned psychotherapist with a fucking PhD. Oh…was he yummy. Lemme tell ya… Too bad he was emotionally inaccessible and a bit of a sociopath.
Last night, I had a date with yet another ginger. A math professor. Yep. Another weilder of a PhD. (No, stop picturing a 65 year old in a tweed blazer with elbow patches. Fuck, I just planted that image, didn’t I? Stop picturing it!) Shy and awkward over text. Funny, witty, and deep in person. In between covertly checking him out (holy shit – since when do nerdy geek boys lift??) and getting coached on how to play pool, I was alternately laughing my ass off and diving off into deep conversations about math, the universe, string theory, self, other, the Bhagavad Gita, and Eastern Philosophy. With wild fucking abandon. Yeah, that’s the kind of thing that rocks my socks.
We did a bar crawl – my first ever, I think – and drank. A lot. Well, my a lot is just a little compared to seasoned drinkers. I don’t drink often. So, the two jumbo-sized ciders and the sangria had me in orbit. (Oregon makes sangria with wine AND tequila, y’all, at least at rooftop bars in college towns. My name is Stephanie, and I approve this message. (That fucker also came in an oversized, don’t think you can call that a pint glass anymore, pint glass.)) I wasn’t wasted – those three drinks were spread over about three hours – but boy, I got spirited and (only slightly) wobbly.
We walked it off, then looked at the stars. Man, there’s so much less light pollution in that little town than where I live. It was glorious. We listened to Irish folk music and Ravi Shankar and had the deepest conversation I’ve had in ages, punctuated with sass and smartassery, crude jokes, and ribald laughter.
It was incredible.
That charming, brilliant, Irish bastard.
And it’s almost a 100% certainty that I’ll never see him again.
Why? Because out of this abundance of gingers, only one of them has been interested in more than a single date (see simple but wild boy – and he’s not in it to win it, either). And it seems the smarter and more philosophically inclined they are – ginger or not, but especially the gingers – the less likely they are to be interested in anything even remotely serious.
Unfortunately, what dating is teaching me is that my interests border on the fucking unattainable. If the guy isn’t a deep thinker, I’m not interested. If the guy can’t banter, I’m not interested. If we can’t talk until 4 in the morning (yep, last night was a late one) about anything and everything, with no filter, I’m not interested. If we can’t enjoy comfortable silences, I’m not interested. If all conversation is all about him, I’m not interested. If all conversation is all about me, I’m not interested. If conversations are about things or people, I’m not interested. If conversations aren’t about ideas and thoughts and philosophies and weird little eccentricities of self and universe, I’m not interested. If I’m not laughing until I’m doubled over in pain, I’m not interested. If he isn’t a little….wild, rough around the edges, I’m not interested. And every. Single. Motherfucker. That I’ve met that has those qualities – the ones I AM interested in, are “ethically non-monogamous” or “polyamorous” (welcome to fucking Oregon) or strictly interested in an “FWB” or “NSA” situation (yeah, I’m learning a lot of fucking acronyms lately).
And it feels strangely like the longer this carries on, the less interested *I* am in something long-term and serious. Sometimes I think I’m *too* fucking adaptable, because I don’t want to compromise my personal convictions, the ones I have just for me. But at the same time, I don’t want to go back to being a complete and utter hermit, either, afraid of the opposite sex and what they do or don’t want from me.
Dating is nice. But it’s also terrible and unpredictable and scary. And I’m fucking sick of it. And also wish I had one tonight. (Oh wait, I did. But after the stellar night with the Jacked and Ginger Buddha, there’s no way I could meet this other guy. It would have been a soul-sucking exercise in tedium. So I canceled.)
See. If I don’t even know what the fuck I want, how can I expect others to know what they want? I mean. Every time someone does want something serious with me, I’m the one that’s not interested. I “don’t feel a connection,” or something on that laundry list of elusive but critical qualities is missing. I’ve totally ditched boys for lack of banter. And I just ditched one for lack of depth/connection. I don’t wanna talk about tv shows and YouTube political commentators all the damn time. I wanna talk about Plato and Buddhism and Experiencers/Enlightenment. Fuck those fucking gingers for dangling that fucking carrot and running off because they wanna be deep…with a shallow girl.
Fuck those fuckers for making me think it’s possible, because there’s no way in fuck I can settle now. I know what’s out there. I’ve known it for a long time, and I’m just getting it reinforced now and then. (Don’t get me wrong, most of the people I’ve been on dates with are horrible. I have some horror stories to share with you people! But sometimes…the veil is parted, and I get a glimpse of what could be. And I know…fucking. I know, I’m not digging too deep or searching for something imfuckingpossible.) So fuck those guys…and thank those guys.
People are going batshit fucking crazy over the impending apocalypse solar eclipse. Freeways are backing up like a motherfucker. Stores are already selling out of staples like water, toilet paper, and marij…yeah, just the water and toilet paper. This is Oregon; nobody’s selling out of pot or potsnacks any time soon.
Traffic here is already unpredictable. Some days, it takes 15 minutes to get to and from the office. Other days, it takes 45. (I’m not necessarily bitching about the commute time – I have a damn short one for the area. But what would be nice is some modicum of predictability. First world problem, I know. Shhhhh. I need a rant. Err. A rantlet, because this is definitely weak compared to my usually rantypants nature.)
But now? NOW? Pfft. It’s either 15 minutes or 2 hours. As we crawl further into the week, the big number gets bigger. More people come in to claim their $300 primitive campsites (not even an exaggeration). And why the fuck are the eclipse chasers clogging up the roads during rush hour?! Do they LIKE IT? Is it a big fat fuck you to Oregonians for price gouging the shit out of private and public properties alike to profit off of these eclipse wankers? GRRR.
I think I’ll carry my fussygrumps ass to the grocery store after work. Wait any longer, and I legit won’t be able to find any potsnacks water.
Oh. Oh! I’m thinking of following one of those writing prompt idea thingamajigs in an attempt to get myself back into it…. if anyone’s still lingering around here (first off FUCKING HI)…any suggestions?
P.S. It’s fucking sweater weather. In August. Fuckyeah.
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.
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.
The Pinball Prostitute
*Thanks to Tikeethafor 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!
Move across the country, leaving behind (nearly) everything you’ve ever known. Oh wait, that totally doesn’t count as adulting.
Job hunt for three months, because you refuse to settle (at least until your shekels run out).
Land a job from your shortlist of “dream” jobs…then promptly find the negatives (even though you actually kinda love the work – don’t worry. I anticipate rants aplenty.).
Commuting an hour each way, in good traffic – only taking one week to get sick to death of that aspect. To death.
Keeping your after-hours tutoring gigs because bills. Because money. Because adulting. Because your “dream job” is highly underpaid.
Become a slightly better-functioning night-owl/pseudo-insomniac and running on four hours of heavily medicated sleep-aid sleep at best.
Start adding a shot of espresso to your usual vanilla chai latte because tired as fuck, even though the taste makes you want to spew chunks.
Neglect the things you like, again, but this time with legitimate excuses (such as the schedule that has me running from 5 AM to 8-9 PM (which is usually when I finally make it back to basement)).
Get used to being abandoned by those whom once claimed they’d be by your side forever. Grow just callused enough to make it through the day, but sometimes still cry yourself to sleep at night. Whoops, that got dark. My bad.
What I meant to say was something along the lines of: being lonely as fuck. And also something else to do with that “fuck” word. I want a buddy, a companion, a partner-in-crime, a lover. I’m sick of waiting around for things that I thought were something they weren’t. And I refuse to join some dating service. So that leaves me…right here, bitching!
Hmm. I know there’s more, but I have to get back to work. I took a brief lunch break…a break from writing to write. Heh. Fuck, I’m braindead. I’ve written roughly fifty pages this week – stuff like newsletters, newspaper articles, ad blurbs, radio scripts, and now I’m about to start on blogging. I’ve helped perform interviews. I’ve assisted in ad-buying decisions and helped negotiate contract prices. I’ve improved departmental organization. And I’ve been here a week! I’m fucking tired! And pleased – with my job.
So yeah. Break’s over. Enough writing. I have writing to do!
I took myself to a movie last night. Masturdation, yay!? Yeah, no. You’d think this would be cause for celebration. Alas, no, for I watched a “film” that I never intended to see. One of those where you see a teensy snippet of a preview, and you go…”That looks stupid as fuck.” You scornfully scoff at the screen, because your cinematic tastes are far too refined for such drivel. So why, pray-tell, did I take myself out to see Passengers?
Why. The Fuck. Would I do this to myself? I’ll tell you why. One of my besties (yes, I said “besties,” because I’m pretty sure it will annoy the shit out of him) is a bully. That’s right. The author of stupidityhole bullied me into going to see this “film.” You see, he wanted me to be enlightened by the…no. I just snorted. No. I can’t even finish that sentence. He wanted me to share in his misery about this film, because that’s how bullies behave!
I wasn’t gonna do it. No. Fucking. Way. I’ve been wanting to take myself to a movie, but not this…this thing.
I refused. I outright refused.
And then he said the three magic words. You guessed it. “Cryognically-frozen chicken.” Motherfuck. I was undone, and he knew it. He refused to tell me what that meant. I’d simply have to see the film now in order to understand that. So. Over the course of, I dunno…a couple days. (He says it was more like an hour. Pfft.) He tormented me by randomly blurting out, “cryogenically-frozen chicken”…or…”ice-cold bock-bock if you prefer.”
And I caved. WHO WOULDN’T?! I had to know what the fuck he was on about. Look, I’m weak, okay? I mean. What the fuck is he talking about?! ARE THERE CHICKENS IN CRYO-CHAMBERS?! WILL THEY FROLIC AROUND IN SPACE?! IS THIS A MOVIE ABOUT SPACE-CHICKENS?! OHMYFUCK I’VE SEEN THE FUTURE, AND IT’S CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN! Fucking hell. This is what happened to my brain after being bullied for days. Weeks. Months. (Maybe two hours.)
So I acquiesced: I’d see the “film.” I’d resist the urge(s) to walk out before it was over. And I’d sit through at least forty-five seconds of the end-credits. I already knew, going in, that this was probably all some big trick. One of the many schemes I’m subjected to on the regular.
In Dreams become…
Two or three days ago. Maybe last week. Look, we already know I’m shit with time, okay? At some point in the not-so-distant past, I even dreamed about this shit.
In the dream, I saw the damn cryobock movie and never understood the cryochicken reference. I panicked. In the dream. Because I knew what this would mean. That shit would make me watch it again!
Also in the dream, Laurence Fishburne looked just like his Morpheus character from The Matrix and simply wandered around, shaking his head and muttering “damn” at random, unexpected intervals. (We can also blame this one on stupidityhole, who told me “Morpheus is in the movie. And he says, “damn.” Now you have to see it.”) (What is wrong with me?)
At another point in the dream, Laurence Fishburne was actually more like HAL in 2001. And all throughout the ship, anytime something pseudo-dramatic happened, his voice would echo throughout the ship…”Daaaamn.”
I woke in a cold sweat. Holy fuck. Okay. The Fishburne/Morpheus/HAL shit was funny. But missing out on cryobock and being heckled eternally until I watched it again? Fuck. This can’t happen.
…Reality (Spoilers ahead and blah blah)
It was all I could do to stay awake during this…this thing. But I knew falling asleep would be signing my death warrant (aka: having to see this fucker again). And oh did I get restless. I even messaged stupidityhole shit like this randomly during the movie:
MAY I PLEASE WALK OUT
-Something about punching his face off.
And, SHOCKER, he didn’t reply to any of those. He was reveling in my misery. Fucker.
Space Ghost Notes
I entertained myself by jotting little notes on my phone. Would you like a sampling? Sure you would!
Jock wakes after asteroid collision
Wonder how long it will be before they show his ass
Ship is to travel 120 years (total) and can’t get through a MFing asteroid belt?
CALLED IT. Jock boy nudie shower shot.
Oooo Bob Dylan music playing…while Jocky McGee models clothes?!
What the fuck am I watching
HOW COULD BOB DYLAN AGREE TO LEND HIS MUSIC TO THIS
Thank you for a moment of peace Bobby
He passenger not crew
I do like the scene where he wanders out in space, thinking, feeling, lost…adrift, afraid, alone, desperate, hopeless
Nearly suicides afterward w/o spacesuit
I would too if I was in this fucking movie
He woke blondie on purpose!
Also WHERE’S THE FUCKING CRYOBOCK! I WANT CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN RIGHT NOW I NEED TO LEAVE
“It’s the ultimate geographical suicide.” This is her line, and she’s a writer?! i’m gonna piss myself
Hm. I wonder when spacehumping begins
I’M SORRY HE WENT WOMAN SHOPPING FOR FUCKS SAKE AND SHE HAD NO CHOICE
space flying yay
CUE SPACE HUMPING
ugh lots of space humping
OH YAY! MORPHEUS!
“How long were you alone?”
~ A year
OKAY. I GOT MY DAAAAAMN. WHERE’S THE FUCKING CHICKEN?!
how many times do i have to watch blondie swim?!?!?!
crazy half-naked gravity field failure in pool
yay i get to watch blondie suspended in a spacebubble…dangling in her swimsuit
on the bigscreen
WHY AM I HERE
Ship falling apart
that wasn’t predictable at all
morpheus bites the dust
holes in the ship
“How’s that even happen? I thought this ship was supposed to be meteor-proof.”
“I guess one got through.”
who the hell wrote these lines
There was one other dude in the theater. He either fell asleep or slid down in his seat to whack it to spacehumping. Ew. He’s nasty. Nasty dude. Bad.
Three chicks came in at some point. Looked like mom and two daughters. They laughed at the “serious” moments. That was entertaining.
In conclusion… NO. JUST. NO.
So remember that dream I told you about?’
Sometimes dreams do come true.
No. Fucking. Idea. What the hell he meant by “cryogenically-frozen chicken.”
Credits start, and I’m thinking…it better be in the forty-five seconds of this he told me to sit through.
I’m the last one in the theater. The others hauled ass.
I sit through half the credits.
I get up. Walk down the aisle and am about to leave. But then, I think…what if this is part of the trick? I’ve sat through all this, no way am I leaving yet.
Prop myself against the wall (ewww, why is it sticky?) and watch – EVEN READ – the credits until it’s completely over. Screen goes black. Lights come on.
There’s a simple solution to all this.
I’m gonna kill him.
Best part?! My car is stranded there at the theater. The snowstorm that was supposed to start at 10 PM started several hours early.
Yeah. I called an uber, and he got me almost “home.” Then I walked the rest of the way. Only about half a mile. Was kind of fun, actually.
Car is still there, because there’s been over a foot of snow where I am, and I can’t get out.
But I got to be out and about in the snowstorm! Driving around Portland, chatting with a cool driver. Then walked the rest of the way in the snow!
AND I STILL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK STUPIDITYHOLE MEANT BY CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN.
You know what he said, right? Guess you’ll have to see it again, hey? Dreams do come true! Or something.
Question for Peopleaneous
Did anyone see this movie and actually LIKE it? I’d love to know what the hell I missed that has like twelve people on earth raving about it.
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.
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 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.
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.
There. I feel better. Do you have anything to add? Pile on the bullshit, Peopleaneous. I’ve got extra shovels.
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.