Part One: SJ is a Bitchy Ass-face and a Semi-Sucky Party Planner
I had a knock-down-drag-em-out with my student groups’ treasurer today. Who’d have thought that renting tiki gods was FRIVOLOUS? Not me. She wanted to see ALL of the receipts? Unreasonable. Everyone had a freaking good time at the party, and I came in at under a thousand dollars less than my predecessor. I am nothing if not a cheap-ass. The Treasurer called me obnoxious (pot is to kettle as kitten is to anal beads).
The Treasurer and I kissed and made up (read: I gritted my teeth and apologized; I swear my teeth should be little, jolly, candy-like nubs by now) and all is well. I have to give major props to my good friend who came over today and listened to me vacillate between love and hate for all of mankind. Though I have forgiven the Treasurer, my friend has not, and I love her for that.
Part Two: Gloat
BOO-YAH-KAH! We at the Offices of I, Asshole now actually have an office. After the Treasurer Battle Royal, I pestered the Facilities Manager Dude today: “Hey, man, what’s happening with that office?” Him: “It’s the new Writing Center.” Me: “WHOOP!”
Now I just have to find someone to have sex with on my new desk, because people don’t actually work in academic offices, do they? I mean, I can’t think all the time, can I? (Answer: No.)
Part Three: Update, Or, The Piano Hasn’t Been Drinking
I didn’t fail cataloguing, I got a three. My half-assed, toss-off paper earned me a 3.2, my highest grade in the class. Jesus Christy.
I still have two very sexy roosters.
After all my running and baklava eating, I gave myself shin splints. I am better now and ran tonight. If I couldn’t run I would STAB PEOPLE IN THE NECK.
There is no Part Two to “What Happened in Kenosha.” It was a one-off, like “Interview with an Umpire.”
I want you to look at the most disgusting, stomach-churning images ever collected on the Interneck: Weight Watchers’ Recipe Cards from 1974. Take the tour, and check the funny, funny commentary. Do NOT attempt to eat whilst viewing.
Part Four: One Bad Mother (Shut Your Mouth)
We have entered the Question Phase. Frannie asks deep, probing questions. They are often followed by: “And then what happened?” I have to suppress the urge to yell “NO AND-THEN!” just like in Dude, Where’s My Car? I also frequently want to stuff cotton in my ears, or run off with a sterile knife salesman.
Today we were heading down into the basement at my school. I was going to get Frannie a bag of trail mix to keep her busy while the Treasurer and I were taking turns ripping each others’ heads off.
“Where are we going, Mom?”
“To the basement.” (She used to stop with one question.)
“What are we doing there?”
“Getting something.”
“What, what are we getting?” She was hanging off my hand and jumping down each stair so we were going extra sloooowly. “Something for ME? Are you getting something for ME, Mom?”
“Yep.”
“What?” Excitement! Hopping!
“A pony covered with scabs.”
“You are not getting a pony covered with scabs, Mom! You are getting me some water!”
I amuse myself, or I go unsane.
I’m pretty afraid of Mia when she grows up and starts asking us questions.
“Aren’t you gonna call that car ahead of you a ‘dirty fucker’, Daddy?”
It’s like that Dennis Miller joke:
“Why did that man have to die, Daddy?”
“Well, he was bad, and all rats have to suck the pipe, baby.”
Do you have trouble watching your mouth around Miss Frenchie?
A Carrot Top picture that features a clear picture of his neck? And then a comment in all CAPS about stabbing people in the neck….hmmmm O:)
::sad::
I want a pony covered with scabs! some kids have all the luck….
I thoroughly enjoyed the Weight Watcher’s cards. Yuck!
We have answers!
Scott-san: Yes, I do have trouble watching my mouth. It’s like everything they do that’s freaky or naughty…you just have to not make a big deal and it goes away. I think they know early on what is a swear and what is not. Her big thing right now is “oh my goodness!” which tells me I am schizo. I should change my name to Pollyanna Crowley.
Svarit: Sadly, the Carrottop thing was in reference to the clandestine office sex. I was VERY tired. And, no, Carrottop is not part of my Ugly Man Love.
Hello, everyone else. ;)
ooohhhh an office… you have arrived baby…
that WW link is a true gem.
how ya been?
I could use a little Frenchie in my life. I often forget where I am going and why. Her presence might keep me from driving aimlessly and the like.
But my parents made those ironic-type jokes and…well, I still remember them…Not only is she making you aware of your present but she will someday be a (perhaps not entirely reliable) recorder of your past.
She’s really useful, that Frenchie! I think everyone needs a kid like her.
Who’s this vilely unattractive carrot-top guys anyway? I should google, shouldn’t I. He looks really obnoxious. Like one of those ‘I’m funny, just LOOK at me’ props comedians. How I hate props comedians…
I had a My Scabby Pony(tm) when I was a kid. aww.
Good lord, Monkey! You’ve nailed Carrottop exactly! He is a prop comic. And now I must give you props: PROPS.
“I came in at under a thousand dollars less than my predecessor.”
Soooooo – like ten cents?
Still – you pay peanuts – you get squirrels.
I know it’s not a popular opinion, but we were allowed– even encouraged –to swear in my house when I was a kid. My dad once ran down the argument for why, specifically that there’s no good reason not to. The two main arguments against cussing is that it’s A) profane, and B) vulgar. The idea of profane hinges on religion, and there’s nothing in the bible specifically forbidding the use of the term “goat fucker”. The idea of vulgar hinges on class: “vulgar” means common. But if you’re a good democrat (little dee), then vulgar is a compliment.
My dad’s last point was that, while there’s nothing wrong with swearing from a moral standpoint, there can be social consequences. That I needed to make a distinction in my own mind between social consequences and actual personal wrong-doing. And that, as long as I was willing to deal with the consequences, I should go right on swearing and offending people and thinking for myself.
Anyway. That’s what my dad told me when I was six, and I got tossed out of school for calling the teacher a dried up old cunt. Needless to say, this topic was revisited several times.