Thursday, March 6, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
So Sayeth the Maven
Life, by its very nature, is a character building exercise. Some folks
choose to be Jiminy Cricket, whereas others can't help but personify
Cruella Deville.
So Sayeth The Maven
Relationships are like bank accounts: if you
put nothing/nothing but negative shit into them, you’ll get
nothing/nothing but negative shit out of them.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
On Dildo Advanced Directives
Channeling my inner Sophia Petrillo:
Picture this: The Jersey Shore. 1977. A nine year old me, helping my parents empty out my great* aunt's house which we inherited, and I was tasked with emptying out the cupboards in the bathroom. I emerged with an item not unlike this item, and demanded my mother tell me how the hell does one dry their hair with this?
The memory unearthed in the previous paragraph is no doubt the genesis of the fact that I, in fact, have an advanced directive for my *ahem* adult novelties. Yes. Advanced directive. I've got all that shit in a brown paper sack with the words, "In case of death, dispose in trash directly without looking." And inside the bag has a note that says, "fuck you for peeking. I shall now commence haunting your nosey ass. See you on the flip side, fucker."
*Great? Or is it great great? Or great grand aunt? She was the sister of my dad's grandmother. Even though I'm the family genealogist, I get a wee bit bogged down in this particular distinction. If my great grandmother had a sister, is she my great grand aunt, or just great aunt? Ruminate. Or not.
Picture this: The Jersey Shore. 1977. A nine year old me, helping my parents empty out my great* aunt's house which we inherited, and I was tasked with emptying out the cupboards in the bathroom. I emerged with an item not unlike this item, and demanded my mother tell me how the hell does one dry their hair with this?
The memory unearthed in the previous paragraph is no doubt the genesis of the fact that I, in fact, have an advanced directive for my *ahem* adult novelties. Yes. Advanced directive. I've got all that shit in a brown paper sack with the words, "In case of death, dispose in trash directly without looking." And inside the bag has a note that says, "fuck you for peeking. I shall now commence haunting your nosey ass. See you on the flip side, fucker."
*Great? Or is it great great? Or great grand aunt? She was the sister of my dad's grandmother. Even though I'm the family genealogist, I get a wee bit bogged down in this particular distinction. If my great grandmother had a sister, is she my great grand aunt, or just great aunt? Ruminate. Or not.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
You Might Be An Asshole If...
If you work with me, and it's clear to all that I do not have an office, hence I lack an actual DOOR, you might be an asshole if, you interrupt what I'm doing by prefacing your request with "KNOCK KNOCK!" Because I'll tell you what, asshole, it just makes me want to KNOCK KNOCK your big fat bucked teeth right out of your head.
STFUAGDIAF!
See also: Horsey McBigtooth Edition.
STFUAGDIAF!
See also: Horsey McBigtooth Edition.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Mavenism of the Moment: Post Traumatic Haiku Disorder
What the fuck IS Post Traumatic Haiku Disorder? Well, it's this weird-assed response I have when I'm repulsed or traumatized by something. And today that "something" is the fetid pit stank of a co-irker.
Super nice guy. And no, he doesn't have a disorder. He doesn't stink like this every day. At least if he did stink like this everyday, I'd prepare myself ahead of time with a swipe of Vics vap-o-rub under each nostril, like morgue workers do when dealing with ripe cadavers.
My point is, he IS capable of goodish hygiene.
My problem is the CONSISTENCY of said hygiene.
So, this string of haiku is borne out of my olfactory bulb being used as a punching bag by this co-irker's stank glands.
Enjoy! (And by "enjoy" I really mean, "bask in the schadenfreude, bitches.")
How can you not smell
Your stink sticks to everything
Resinous armpit.
At first glance, normal
Otherwise fastidious
Oh! The pungency!
Singeing my nose hair
Nice guy with not-so-nice pits
Set my ire ablaze.
Why are you single?
No one need ever to ask that.
Regrettable whiff.
Indoor plumbing, soap
Detergent, deodorant
No excuse for stink.
I've met homeless men
Who did not stink like you do
Do you NOT smell it?
I feel bad. (I do!)
Bu-di-ssy meets All-be-damned!
Please! Don't wave hello!
END NOTE: This is all some weird assed, trippy, karmic riddle or joke, along the lines of "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" Corollary: One of life's lessons I was taught at a very young age was, "If you can smell yourself/your stink, OTHERS can, too." Well, here it is OTHERS can smell it, and yet, from the looks of it, he cannot smell his own stink or is otherwise immune to it, or the possibility is he thinks it's normal or he just accepts it. And sadly, there is NO polite or kind way to bring this to his attention. The object ISN'T to cause him more suffering; however, I *would* like to diminish my own suffering. And since I cannot make him stink less, my post traumatic haiku disorder kicks into high gear.
Super nice guy. And no, he doesn't have a disorder. He doesn't stink like this every day. At least if he did stink like this everyday, I'd prepare myself ahead of time with a swipe of Vics vap-o-rub under each nostril, like morgue workers do when dealing with ripe cadavers.
My point is, he IS capable of goodish hygiene.
My problem is the CONSISTENCY of said hygiene.
So, this string of haiku is borne out of my olfactory bulb being used as a punching bag by this co-irker's stank glands.
Enjoy! (And by "enjoy" I really mean, "bask in the schadenfreude, bitches.")
How can you not smell
Your stink sticks to everything
Resinous armpit.
At first glance, normal
Otherwise fastidious
Oh! The pungency!
Singeing my nose hair
Nice guy with not-so-nice pits
Set my ire ablaze.
Why are you single?
No one need ever to ask that.
Regrettable whiff.
Indoor plumbing, soap
Detergent, deodorant
No excuse for stink.
I've met homeless men
Who did not stink like you do
Do you NOT smell it?
I feel bad. (I do!)
Bu-di-ssy meets All-be-damned!
Please! Don't wave hello!
END NOTE: This is all some weird assed, trippy, karmic riddle or joke, along the lines of "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" Corollary: One of life's lessons I was taught at a very young age was, "If you can smell yourself/your stink, OTHERS can, too." Well, here it is OTHERS can smell it, and yet, from the looks of it, he cannot smell his own stink or is otherwise immune to it, or the possibility is he thinks it's normal or he just accepts it. And sadly, there is NO polite or kind way to bring this to his attention. The object ISN'T to cause him more suffering; however, I *would* like to diminish my own suffering. And since I cannot make him stink less, my post traumatic haiku disorder kicks into high gear.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
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