Opinions, Assholes, and Whatever Floats Your Boat

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I can’t help it.  But if the cars/owners involved were Camaros or Corvettes, that would be even funnier.

I don’t think that I will ever be shocked again.  It’s been awhile since anything really shocked me.  There aren’t too many things that really rattle me.  The problem is that the things that do rattle me really rattle me.

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With the exception of rare genetic or congenital anomalies, gender is male or female.

Pick one.  Preferably the one that matches your plumbing.

I can’t say that I am celebrating in the streets or bathing my profile pic in a rainbow colored filter on Facebook. Nor am I shouting doom and gloom and proclaiming the end of the world because now Adam and Steve (or Annie and Eve) can get “married.”  Personally I believe that same sex relations are wrong in any context (and to me, positively vile)- but so are opposite sex relations out of their proper context (but I’ve been there with the heterosexual fornication and done that, hypocrite that I can be.)  I am not the Judge, nor do I want to be.  I’m guilty of “doing it wrong” too, just in a different way.

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Two dudes.  Wonder who will clean up the piss splatters around the john?

However,  I don’t make a hobby of rubbing my straightness in everyone’s face and Making Them Like It.  I even use the term straightness almost lightly, as “asexual” is probably closer to what I am now.  I really don’t have any desire for physical contact with anyone.  I don’t like strange people touching me, and it’s been more years than I’d like to admit since I did anything other than sleep (or watch TV) in bed. The older I get the more averse to such things I become.

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Even so, if you have found your “soulmate,” and you want to have at it like rabbits in heat, whether it be male, female, mechanical, inflatable, or gerbil, I don’t care.  Maybe I am a bitter, old, frustrated bitty, but I just don’t want to hear about it.  That’s in the same category as wondering whether or not your grandparents still have sex.  Some things should remain a mystery.

I don’t care if you have the hots for a ’93 Ford Escort.  I really don’t care how people get their jollies for the most part, or who they choose to land in bed with, or why.

It only bothers me when you expect me to call it normal.

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You celebrate your holidays, I’ll celebrate mine.

I do have to wonder about the World Rabies Day thing.  Is this observation a call to inform people about rabies and to prevent the spread of rabies?  I can’t imagine anyone wanting to celebrate Rabies, but there are some real freaks out there.

In all seriousness, I don’t believe anything good or healthy is going to come out of legalizing same-sex marriage.  I don’t think it’s healthy to teach children that this an acceptable lifestyle.  I don’t want my grandchild witnessing gay groping and make-out fests in public.  Celebrating same-sex attraction to me is sort of like celebrating heart disease or cancer- or getting excited about rabies.  We know things like heart disease or cancer or some things that some people do in the bedroom (gay OR straight) are not good for you, and eventually any of those things can kill you- but then human beings can be destroyed by things that society has traditionally condoned.

For instance, overwork can kill you- (been really close to that one) but nobody has ever gone to great lengths to morally condemn those who live to work even though that can be just as much idolatry- and positively poison to your physical, spiritual and mental health as anything else.  Nobody really puts up an argument to exclude or demonize the addicted-to-work.  Especially when that work-addicted person is doing your work for you.

Overeating can kill you- and gluttony is a sin- but do we actively seek to exclude and shame the fat?  If fat shaming really worked, we would be a nation of Calista Flockharts, and I don’t see that happening.

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Fanny is allowed to experience the feline lifestyle.  Fat and lazy is OK- for cats.

Perhaps the silver lining in the gay marriage movement is maybe the whole gay pride in-your-face attitude will become passé and less “trendy” now that it’s legal. Nothing serves so much as a buzz kill than making something once forbidden legitimate.

Maybe that’s why I pretty much gave up binge drinking by age 23.

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Sometimes Mom does not realize the absolutely horrendous double entendre she brings up.

Mollycoddled, They’re YOUR Kids, and a Culinary Milestone

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I blew coffee out my nose this morning while perusing my coupon circulars!

This reminded me of Benny Hill’s “Therapist” skit.  Yes, it is worth it to click on the link to the You Tube video.  Especially if you appreciate Benny Hill’s sort of humor as much as I do.

Art may be anal (I know plenty of artistic types who are) but when the word “anal” is found anywhere near the words “breakfast sandwich,” that’s where my culinary curiosity ends.

I get that the creator of this hilariously named morning comestible was meaning to use the word “artisan” without realizing how funny the addition of “al” would make the word appear.  I have to wonder why the grocery store’s advertising editor didn’t spy that and substitute a phrase free of such enjoyable double entendre, such as,  “Artisan Inspired Breakfast Sandwich” or, “An Artisan’s Breakfast Sandwich.”

Then again most “artisans” are probably smoking a bowl, then scarfing down an organic granola bar and a 20 ounce diet Mountain Dew for breakfast.  The artificial food coloring, various other impurities, and caffeine in the diet Mountain Dew are cancelled out by the organic wholesomeness of the granola bar.  Or so some people like to think.  Just like the two liter of diet Dr. Pepper cancels out the calories in the large stuffed crust supreme pizza you had for dinner.  Right.

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Large stuffed crust supreme pizza.  That sounds good, but I will behave and enjoy my planned evening repast of grilled tilapia, steamed broccoli and penne pasta- with sugarless iced tea.

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I would like to know why most parents assume that the state (i.e. government in any form) is responsible for the education of their offspring.  The last time I checked, the bare minimum goals of parenting should consist of being sure that one’s offspring becomes potty-trained, literate and gainfully employed, preferably on or before the age of 21.

Perhaps my sentiments verge on violating child labor laws, but it’s no wonder Jimmy is uneducated, unemployed and staying up at all hours playing “World of Warcraft” and “Call of Duty” while still camping out in Mommy’s basement – at age 35.  Apparently it’s verboten these days to give one’s freeloading spawn a rousing size 7 enema when he or she richly deserves it.  (For those who are wondering what a size 7 enema is, it’s a polite way of referring to me putting my size 7 boot up someone’s ass.)

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Kids should have to work.  My Dad made me, and I turned out – ah, never mind.

I had many, many grievous failings as a mother.   I’m not claiming to be the perfect parent, or even a moderately good one.  If I would have been, I would have home-schooled and gotten access to whatever resources I could to make my son some sort of prodigy in something.  The only problem with that is I had to (and still have to) work.  I didn’t have the luxury of the time and resources to home-school, which is entirely a failure ON ME.

But in spite of him having to endure public school, (I really, really regret that, except for the last 2 years where he actually learned something- in vocational school) somehow my kid ended up being capable of critical thought, fiercely independent,  able to support himself and his daughter, and to a degree, his tastes for high faluting German cars.  He even ended up with a strong work ethic.  Imagine that.  Whether that was luck of the draw, or my insistence that he become as independent as possible as early as possible, I’m not sure.  It could also be that he inherited my penchant for skepticism, (and a healthy dose of the cynical eye) because he questioned “the system” from day one.

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Oh, yes it is.  Daily.  Right now, constantly.

Kids who are taught critical thinking skills (hint: NOT taught intentionally in public schools, at least not any more) are going to be harder to deal with.  They will be disruptive.  They will do weird things.  They will piss you off.  They will be impudent, disrespectful and just plain a thorn in the side.  I wanted to disown my son between the ages of 13 and 16 for all his creative behavioral exploits, believe that.  They will need swift and sometimes harsh correction.  BUT- in the long run- children taught to think critically will mature into confident and capable adults, rather than overgrown, obese children, who become both endless money pits for their parental units to support, and mushy, whiny depositories for whatever drivel they’re spoon fed.

It’s a parent’s responsibility to see that their children not only get an education, but also that they get the critical thinking skills necessary to navigate the world for themselves.  The government is NOT responsible for the education of your children, (and they are doing a predictably abysmal job of it,) and as each day passes I trust the public educational system even less than I did when my son was involved in it.  Public education is no longer about equipping young people for life and imparting meaningful information and vital skills.  Now it’s all about making sure the kiddies know that Heather’s two mommies are just lovely, that gay is OK, and that religious freedom is something everyone has a right to, except of course, Christians.

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But a teacher- even a good one who isn’t a union thrall- can’t do squat if Mom and Dad don’t care.

Beauty Tips for the Bar Fly, Better Thee Than Me, and Double Entendre

I am by no means anything to look at.  I try not to leave the house without makeup lest I traumatize small children and dogs, but I’ve not been shitfaced drunk since that fateful morning sometime in 1993 when I woke up submerged in a bathtub full of cold water next to a half-eaten Domino’s pizza.  Blood pressure meds and rotgut liquor don’t mix too well.   More than a half a glass of wine and I pass out these days.  So, it sort of shocked me when I got e-mails with these subject lines today:

Top  10 Bar Hopping Hairstyles

How to Get Bar Stink Out of Your Hair

and my favorite- How to Look Good Hungover.

I don’t look good stone sober.  If I would look better with a hangover, perhaps I should try it out.

I also wonder what kind of hairstyles are kind to the bar fly?  Sinead O’Connor’s? 

It’s low maintenance, there’s nothing there to absorb the bar stink,  and if someone pukes on your head, it just wipes off.  I do sort of wonder about her, though.  She shaves her head, but lets man-fur grow on her arms?  Ewww.  Let a little bit of hair grow on your head, but shave your arms!

There are a number of things in my life I am quite thankful for.  Saying goodbye forever to the purveyors of certain feminine products comes to mind.  I don’t miss one minute of Aunt Flo and the curse, believe that.  

Why do they try to make the packages seem to be so damned cheery?  Should the Naproxen bottles have stoned people and flowers on them too?

Maybe they just didn’t give me good enough drugs to enjoy all the swimming, horseback riding, kitten-cuddling, butterfly-and-unicorn watching, and lacrosse playing (???) that everyone else seemed to be doing during that “special time” of the month.  It seemed no matter how many Midols or Naproxens I managed to down that I was 1.) sitting in a sticky glob of my own stinky coagulated blood that always seemed to defy containment in those lovely feminine hygiene devices, and 2.) using every ounce of restraint (whilst inwardly writhing in pain) to keep from throttling Jerry and/or everyone else who happened to piss me off.   I don’t miss that shit one bit.  In this regard, menopause, surgical or otherwise, rules.

I love my granddaughter, don’t get me wrong, but I am quite thankful that I’m not the one dealing with car seats and diapers and so forth all the time.  Then again in a way I can sort of appreciate her more because I’m not doing the Mom thing 24-7.   I watched her for a few hours yesterday while the kids ran some errands which was very nice, but it was also very nice to go home to sleep in my own bed and only having to worry about the dogs.  Getting up and having to get Sheena out at 4AM is bad enough.   I have to wonder how Steve-o survived being an infant as insane as my schedule was, but I also admit I really regret not being able to spend much time with him other than getting the necessary things done.  I am reminded so much of how much I missed with him, but there’s nothing I can do to change it now.  I can be grateful that he’s not a serial killer, he is a straight man, and he seems to have a decent head on his shoulders -at least once you get past those nasty earrings.

I think double entendre is one of the highest forms of humor, especially when I always seem to be around people who don’t quite get it.  Mom is notorious for letting such innuendo go right over her head.  I can only hope that Steve-o does not try what he was joking about last night for a variety of reasons.  Just because it’s a pump and it generates suction does not mean it’s suitable for a certain part of the male anatomy, so leave the breast pump alone.  Ewww.  I don’t think he would do it.  Mom never even got the hint which was probably a good thing.  Catholics regard oral sex as a sin, so I am pretty sure her mind didn’t go there.   They don’t even condone masturbation the old fashioned way, so I’m pretty that any hanky-panky involving a machine of any kind would be a sin too.  Sex is only OK if you’re procreating and not enjoying it. I bet Mom would freak if she knew that (long, long ago) I actually had sex with a man, with the lights on, not in the standard missionary position, AND, I liked it. 

Now I know why I’m not Catholic.   If the opportunity for sex ever arises again (unlikely, but who knows?) at least I will be free to enjoy it.  (sans critters, of course!)

Funky Wiring Has Its Advantages, The Un-Birthday, and Please Practice “Safe Text”

I have to laugh.  As I was reviewing my birthday request list , I noted to my dismay that I didn’t even get the 12-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper.  No cougar cruise, no waterpark fun day, no three pack of Hanes Her Way hi-cut granny panties, no gas card, but it doesn’t surprise me.  My oldest sister, the childhood sadist, sent me a redneck themed card, because she gets such a hoot out of the fact that I married into the Most Redneck Family Ever.   Apparently she doesn’t understand that when you go fishing without appropriate bait you catch whatever bottom feeder the hook manages to snag.  At least she was lucky enough to look good from the neck down and was able to land a decent man.  Ironically, she treats him like shit.  It doesn’t surprise me. Apparently in relationships someone has to be the shitter and someone has to be the shittee.  I know all about #2- literally.

Mom didn’t get me as woefully inappropriate a gift as the cookie cutters.  I still don’t get why anyone would think a diabetic would want cookie cutters.  Why not the whole cake decorating kit and the candy thermometer too while you’re at it?  Mom got me a particularly nice pair of Isotoner driving gloves that actually fit my big meaty man-hands- which is surprising as it is difficult for me to find womens’ gloves that fit.  That is a useful gift.   I did get a phone call from my illustrious offspring, to remind me that February is a short month and he needed his rent money.  Although he and Jerry share no DNA whatsoever, they are both blissfully ignorant of dates.  Unless of course, there is money involved.

Dad finally remembered that he forgot my birthday last night (28th) and asked me (in all seriousness) how I liked being 44.  I reminded him that I’m only 42.  Apparently he is 23 years older than me and more senile than I am.  Now I see what I have to look forward to.  Mom at least knew she would probably forget and gave me the gloves the last time I was up there.

I happened upon a most amusing website today which really cracked me up.  Steve-o and his friends communicate almost exclusively through texting.  Steve-o is a particularly poor speller.  Most technicians are dismal spellers and poor writers- but as a trade-off, they generally have mathematical and spatial skills that far surpass mine.  It was always fun to interview techs, if only to critique the fashion and hair faux pas.  GQ, these guys ain’t.  I should have actually requested them to fill out their resumes using crayons and a Hello Kitty coloring book  just to make reading them more entertaining.  I almost always ignored their resumes, took face to face interviews with a grain of salt, and hired techs off of whatever good recommendations I could find from others in the business, combined with whether or not they could pass a BMV check.  It worked better for me that way.

This being said, I have to laugh at those who use auto-complete or other spell-check features on phones.  Those features for the lazy or inattentive generally suck- but they suck in occasionally hilarious ways.  Damn You Auto Correct is a nice little site where people post all the ridiculous ways that “smart” phones fill in the blanks. 

My funky wiring gives me a few advantages- such as speed-reading and an uncanny ability to spell correctly almost all of the time.  I don’t use auto-complete or spell-checks because I generally don’t need them.  If I really am in doubt over the spelling of a word I will usually verify it on Merriam-Webster’s site, because I truly want to be correct.  I  wouldn’t generally refer to myself as a spelling and grammar Nazi, but I do try to maintain a high personal standard.   The irony of the auto-complete and spell-check programs is that to use them effectively one has to have some sort of idea of the correct spelling or usage, otherwise one may end up with an entirely different meaning to one’s message.  Therein lies the humor.

I think double-entendre to be the most hilarious of the forms of humor.  The more off-color the reference the funnier I find it, even though it may be puerile and sophomoric.  Everyone needs a hobby, and the more things I can find to laugh at, in the depths of my pathetic life, the better. 

I have to wonder, as I troll the Damn You Auto Correct site, what the hell are the people who program the auto-correct and/or spell-check software thinking?  Is English their first language?  Or do they have as dark a sense of humor as I do?  I’d like to think the latter.  We geeks are masters at passive-aggressive revenge, and what better way to exact passive-aggressive revenge on neurotypical society than to humiliate those who struggle with the written word? Why not transform their  attempt to spell “penne” (as in pasta) to “penis?”  Who wouldn’t want to be invited over for “Salad with Vinagrette and Penis?”  I’d make a special trip for that.

Does anyone ever proofread their texts, even a little?  Or do you just hit “send” with wanton glee?

How about a little “safe text?”  Or not.  It’s funny when it gets screwed up!