Top Aggros This Week #2

In no particular order…

1. Makers of the Playstation. We recently joined the rest of the universe and bought a PS3 and it does not play Playstation 2 games, but will play some of the original Playstation games. Smarty pantsies who make this shit, that doesn’t make any type of goddamn sense. I would like to add, thanks for the streaming Netflix ability. It really…well…doesn’t suck.

2. Uninvited Acquaintance Door Knockers: Do not hop, skip, jump, walk, or drive your happy ass to my front door on a Saturday morning if we are not true friends, and you have not given me a heads up. Courtesy is quite easy to look up on Dictionary.com. I say that because I fear a lot of homes do not have a physical Dictionary anymore.

3. Idiot School Parking Lot Drivers: My daughter’s school has a very small, uncomplicated parking lot. Unfortunately, many parents at 8am have their heads up their ass.

Why for the love of all that is holy, would you stop two feet into the entrance. Common-sense should tell you to pull all the way up near the doors. On top of your original cluster-fuck-dick-move, you then refuse to look over your left shoulder and almost hit me. For some reason it doesn’t occur to you a line is quickly forming into the street, so some of us with god given sense go around, and pull up all the way.

After my child is safely inside the school I quickly get home, and into the shower, so I can wash the dumb off that you dumped all over the parking lot.

I’m going to do some research in this town, and find out which body shop people like the most, and then I’m going to let your ass hit me. That will then give me an excuse to get out of my car, and burn you with rampant, verbal violations.

4. The Cinnamon Challenge: Up until last night I had no idea what this was. For those of you that are clueless to this consider yourselves lucky. But if your curiosity gets the best of you, simply type in Cinnamon Challenge on YouTube and delve into the insanity. Basically the challenge is to swallow a spoonful of cinnamon without choking. So of course when a claim is floating around the internet that you can’t do something without the possibility of hacking up your life essence, everyone must make a video challenging the grim reaper. Honestly, I don’t know if it would kill you, but I’m just being extreme, because the whole concept is some fucktard bullshit. But hey, whatever it takes to pass the time. More power to all the participants. Good luck, and don’t let your mother find out.

P.S. If you want real factoids, the Cinnamon Challenge started back in 2001 and had been posted on a blog of someone I’ve never heard of. The earliest YouTube version was supposedly in 2006. The Actual dare of this genius game is to swallow without vomiting or inhaling the powder.

But I am not a fact fairy. I am a writer who enjoys putting a humorous spin on life. These facts were a courtesy.

You Think Your Job Sucks?

I’m standing in front of a toaster. (Intrigued yet?) Oh, it’s also the size of a mammoth, and it’s one of the most medieval devices I’ve personally come across in my life. This large rusty metal contraption rotates about 40 pieces of bread at once, and gives birth to toast after a few rotations. The thing is, you have to stand in front of it, as it radiates heat burning your face off to catch the bread at the bottom. After each rotation the bread falls out, you catch it, and throw it back into slits, trying very hard not to burn the flesh from your hands. Like I said, medieval.

At this time, I am seventeen years old, working at a retirement home during the summer of 1995. I work 5 days a week, from 7am-6pm. I make $4.25 an hour. It blows. Hard. I’m one of the many teenage waitresses serving the folks breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’m also one of the many teenagers the manager of this place treats like donkey bleep.

But, this story is not about the a-hole manager, or the scary toaster.

Scene: Back to tussling with the menacing toast maker.

As I’m performing daredevil tricks with bread to prevent myself from ending up in the E.R., I hear some disagreeable voices going back and forth from the other waitresses.

A bit of back story: I’m the newest employee. Why do you think I’m performing one of the most undesirable duties as a waitress in this place. Little did I know, there was actually one more duty that had it beat. Beat by, like, a lot.

I yell over to the girls and ask what the problem is. One exclaims it’s the other’s turn to take Mr. Johnson his meal, and of course the other waitress disagree’s and says it is not.

“Who is Mr. Johnson, and why won’t he be in the dining room?” I ask.

Their heads quickly whip towards each other locking eyes, and I could see evil manipulating light bulbs going off.

“Well, the thing is, he kind of has a special condition, so we have to bring him all his meals.” One finally pipes out.

“Okay, so why are you arguing about it, just take the man his food.” I say, a bit frustrated.

“He has elephantitus of the balls.” The other waitress blurts out.

(This is what she said, and what I called it for years, but in later research I discovered it is commonly mispronounced that way. The actual term is elephantiasis.)

I had never heard of that before but my logical brain had a pretty good idea what it meant.

“Alright, so.”

“I mean, you just don’t know. You just don’t even know. It’s all out there. And then there is the smell. It’s so gross.”

“Just give me the food. I’ll take it to him. The man has to eat.”

They both look very satisfied. When I begin towards the elevator one yells, “Hold your breath!”

As I’m going up to the third floor I think, how bad could it be, okay, I haven’t seen too many balls period, but whatever, and what part of this place doesn’t smell like piss. Huh…she didn’t actually say the smell was…ugh whatever…

I get off the elevator and start down the hall to Mr. Johnson’s room. What a convenient color for the carpet. Shit brown.

Two doors away from his room and my nostrils are already catching a whiff of something. Directly in front of his door my senses are being assaulted with a pungent aroma that is more wretched than anything I could imagine. This is not okay. This whole thing. I shouldn’t be here taking all the B.S. that comes with this job. And someone should be in there disinfecting, cleansing, powdering…or whatever.

I knock on the door. No answer. Oh come on. I decide to just go in. I open the door and walk over the threshold. As I catch a glimpse of Mr. Johnson sitting upright on the edge of the bed–I turn around and power walk my ass right back out, closing the door behind me.

Not because of the sight of his naked from the waist down body, and crusted cantaloupe sized balls, because I forgot to hold my breath.

The smell as bad as it was outside of the room, was a completely different situation inside of the room. Words will never be able to fully explain what that bouquet was like. I can’t even explain why it smelled like that. The only thing that ever made sense was, whoever had the responsibility of cleaning that room and Mr. Johnson, were terrible at their job.

I swallow traces of vomit down my throat and prepare to go back in. This poor man.

I take a few deep breaths and hold it. I power walk back in like nothing happened.

– Put his tray of food down.

– Nod. Force tight smile.

– He doesn’t acknowledge my existence. Sad. But okay with me at this point.

– Grab tray left from last meal. Place dirty dishes on it.

– Freak out internally because all dirty dishes have unexplainable white crust-like substance around the edges.

– Realize I’m being an idiot because what I’m thinking can’t be possible.

– Think: Anything is possible.

– Realize I’m about to pass out.

– Power walk out of the room. To the elevator. To those two damn dirty bitches.

– Express to them they are horrible people.

– Quit 3 weeks later.

 

Hot Booties: Proof The World Really Is Coming To An End

Last night at 10:55 P.M. my world changed forever. I encountered a commercial that was a sign for “The End Times.”

Because let me tell you something–when a product is created that requires for the consumer to place it in a microwave, and THEN goes from ones microwave to ones feet, then I am sorry, but something has gone terribly wrong, and humans no longer deserve the earth.

I am speaking of a product obviously from the devil himself called, Hot Booties. “Soothing heat to treat your feet,” says the commercial. Yeah, okay, heat on your feet to prepare your ass for fire and brimstone because you fell for this fuckery.

Alright, let me get real about the product for a second. The devil booties are filled with linseed that supposedly absorbs and holds heat. Each set comes with a bootie bag that is used to place the booties in the microwave to heat. The bag is supposed to be so your microwave stays sanitary, but seriously will the bag never end up on the floor? And yes, you can wash the bag, but then do you want your microwave to smell like a spring day?

You can purchase not one, but two pairs for $14.99. The deal being, buy one get one free, but you pay almost $16.00 in processing and handling for two pairs. And if you think that the linseed won’t start to get all “funny” in a short time, then you would be so very wrong.

The cherry on top of this idea are Tim and Taylor, who do the online commercial. Where do they find these infomercial people? Do they send them to How To Be Annoying As Fuck And Brainwash America school? Either they both did a line of crack-cocaine before the camera started rolling, took a handful of Ritalin, or got shot with B-12 right into their bloodstream.

Maybe I’m helping sell this crime against heaven and earth but check out the commercial for yourself at the link below. Beware: You might get sucked in and order them. And I won’t even hold it against you.

https://www.orderhotbooties.com/?tag=im|sm|go|tm&a_aid=011&a_bid=6151f0c2

Evil Creatures

To be serious about my health/weight loss kick, I may have to consider counting calories and carbohydrates. Now for someone like me who loathes math in all forms, counting anything is mental torture.
If someone had a gun to my head, and started a statement with,
“Billy was at a train station…”
And ended that statement with,
“How many…”
I would yell, “Just pull the trigger!”
I hate math. I’ve always hated math. Guess it’s time to bust out and dust off my calculator.
Actually…

Nope. Who am I kidding? I’m not counting shit. I know what NOT to eat. I just have to not eat it. Done.
(P.S. Counting may work for some. Oh yeah, and this is mainly a humor blog mixed in with my truth. So shush, people who swear by counting calories.)
Yours Truly,
Hater of Numbers Big and Small
Ha ha…I knew it!

Do They Put Meth in Vitamins?

Yesterday, I felt like I had been on my vitamin regiment for a week, but I checked where I marked the calendar, and it had only been 3 days. I then wondered if I was a time travelling demon, because I could have sworn it had been a full week. Anyhow, I can already feel a difference. I’ve started a liquid multi, B-12, and 4 various tablet vitamins. I also bought a bottle of flaxseed oil, because the tablets I found only came in boulder size.

I should have gone with the possibility of choking to death. You will never see me on the reborn Fear Factor, because I couldn’t even get a little liquid omega 3, 6, and 9 down my throat. It smells like fish oil, and the taste, and texture is horrid.

Back to the difference I’ve noticed. I’m experiencing a get up and go, go, go, now, now, now sensation. I had opened my eyes around 4am on a day my husband was off from work. I laid in bed thinking, wow I am so freakin’ ready to get up, and if I do, think of all the extra crap I could get done. I could barely see his face but I still stared through my hubs wondering, when is HE going to get up, Jeez, come on already! I’m up–why isn’t he up! I eventually talked myself out of rising, because if I did the dogs might have went off like hungry hell hounds, and disturbed the whole house at 4am. My daughter doesn’t have to get up for school until 7am so I didn’t want to chance it.

Through out the day I’m finding myself having the urge to clap and cheer to the family, like an overly perky high school cheerleader. Now, anyone who knows me would never use the word “perky” to describe me. I have no desire to even be “perky.” Honestly, the word “perky” makes me think of the type of white girl that I am not, nor ever have been.

But, it’s these goddamn vitamins!

The thing that’s really weird is even with all this new found excitement coursing through my veins…I still bleeping hate exercising. As the kids say these days…FML.

10 Confessions Of A Heavy Housewife

1. Once again I’m determined to lose weight and live a healthier life style. I vow to workout at least five days a week, and vacuuming, scrubbing the toilet, and folding laundry totally count. As a matter of fact lets add cooking dinner as legit exercise.

2. I ordered two of Jillian Michaels exercise dvd’s from Amazon. And seeing them sit on top of the dvd player makes me feel good about myself already.

3. I’ve considered becoming an alcoholic to lose weight. My grandmother lived on boxed wine and never gained a pound.

4. Dairy Queen’s menu is not very accommodating to my new life style. But I make it work for me by asking for extra lettuce and an extra tomato on my heavily battered crispy chicken sandwich.

5. I’ve told my husband, who is a slender man, that he better not get too skinny, but if he ever told me I better not get too fat, I would shank him in his sleep.

6. If I’m having a bad day or getting down on myself that’s the perfect time to go channel surfing for mind numbing T.V., because I’d always rather be me than any “Real Housewives of (Insert City)” Or “(Insert Whatever Husband Does So Wife Has Plenty Of Time To Fight With Other Women Over
Shit That Doesn’t Make Any Sense And Could Simply Be Solved With The Slightest Bit Of Basic Communication) Wives.”

7. A year ago I bought a pair of skinny jeans and still haven’t tried them on. I just feel it was a lapse in judgement. You can say as long as it’s in your size, you should be able to wear what everyone else is wearing, but no, this is not always the case. At this time nothing with the word skinny attached to it should be anywhere near my body. Skinny jeans in a size 18 are like a fake friend who says you look thin and lovely. When really you look like your ass is suffocating, and have a camel toe violating the eyes of the general public.

8. In the last few years I’ve gained weight making me the heaviest I’ve ever been. I practically live in sweat pants since I refuse to buy new clothes with the hopes of losing the weight. Right now I have two pairs of jeans I can still wear. And when I do squeeze into a pair, that means I am “dressed up.”

9. Hiking with my husband is annoying as bleep. He doesn’t even break a sweat, breathe heavy, need to take a break, lose the feeling in his legs, or feel like his heart is going to burst into flames. F.y.i. I experience one or more of the above. Bleep hiking. Bleep trails. I like flat land walking, thank you very much.

10. Yes, we (fat women) passionately loathe skinny twats who can eat whatever they want, all day, all night, and never exercise. Especially when they’re shoveling food in their tiny mouths they talk about how they eat so much, never gain weight, and never exercise. We consider causing them bodily harm. A little nudge into traffic here, a little push down some stairs there, and perhaps a little sharpy, stabby, in the corner over yonder.

P.S. Most of this probably shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Let’s eat some red velvet cake! Just kidding, no cake. How about some yogurt that turns your home into a house of lies with its promise on the container to taste like cake. Yum.

What We All Need Less Of In 2012…In My Opinion

Let’s start with less of these things in 2012:

– The never-ending black hole of celebrity news and the convoluted media.

– Reality show personalities getting rich for being train wrecks.

I do not want to-be-all-up-in any celebrities personal business. And no one else should want to be either. I don’t give a bleep if Justin Bieber fathered a child. I don’t give a bleep if he cheated on his girlfriend, and I definitely don’t care what they did on a date night. I’m sure he is a swell human being, but all that needs discussing is his music, not where the hell he took his girlfriend for dinner. I don’t care about Kim Kardashian’s wedding nor do I give a flying crap about her divorce a few months later. Why the world feels this is such a priority it must be announced every 2 minutes in the media, and gets air time on news tickers is beyond my comprehension. Some celebrity news is fine to a degree, but the subjects being reported on and the amount of time spent on such reports have gotten out of hand. Way, way out of hand.

If an alien race looked down upon the earth from space and studied us they would believe us to be the easiest mind controlled sheep in existence, and they might be right. The media have led us to believe we must know every single move a person in the spot light makes. It also pushes upon us that they are more important than anything else on God’s green earth and may in fact be Gods themselves.

Another thing that would make the world a better place, is if we could cut back on the amount of people getting ridiculously rich off of being train wrecks. For example: The cast of Jersey Shore. Let me add I have watched this show, and I have even caught a few episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, but shit has gone beyond a place it should have never been allowed to go. Not only does the Jersey Shore cast get paid an unreal, underserved, amount of money per episode, but then most of them come out with these crap products. They’ve “written” books, (put their names on a cover of a book) have spray tanning, lotions, beauty products, slippers, all attached with their names. And some of you out there have the audacity to purchase these items and allow them to continue to laugh their butts off all the way to the bank.

This irks the bleep out of me, when people with real talent are trying to make things happen, and when I think about hard-working bastards just trying to provide for their families, and these douchebags (who might actually be very lovely people in “real” life) come along taking advantage and manipulating society into allowing them to make a living acting like idiots, getting drunk, and fighting on television.

Look, all the reality shows full of nonsense can last forever for all I care. I watch some of them, but that doesn’t mean they should get paid enough to buy an island. They also shouldn’t be worshiped like they have done something that actually matters.

As far as celebrity news, I know it’s not a new subject but It seems to be getting worse. We do not need every detail of someone else’s life. Complete loss of privacy should not be what a celebrity is signing up for. It should not be part of the job. We don’t need to be up in their marriages, divorces, births, etc. I especially think the media needs to stay out of their kids faces. The only entertainment news that is required should focus on movies, television, and music that a celebrity is involved with. For the love of God please stop telling me what someone is saying, wearing, eating, purchasing, who they stood next to, and who they are rumored to have slept with every five seconds.

Sometimes too much media coverage on a celebrity has turned me off from their work that I had previously enjoyed. The media kept violating my mind with his quotes and actions and have now ruined my viewing of his movies.

When all is said and done I know the media coverage of celebrities and “celebrities” will not lessen. The public demand for it will most likely never waver. It makes us feel closer to who we view as “awesome” people and maybe makes us feel a little awesomer. But the public needs to realize we’re all awesome in our own right and don’t need a reply on twitter from Snooki to be important.

P.S. I wrote this while watching a Jersey Shore marathon…haha.