Category Archives: WTF Friday

WTF Friday: Our bacon obsession is officially out of control.

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Before you start posting irrational hate mail, hear me out. I love me some pork product. When cooked properly, bacon could bring about world peace. No joke.

But then I found this. And I’m confronting the demons of my greatest culinary love.

Yes, that is a real, taxidermied piggy turned piggy-bank. For the reasonable insane price of $4000 (not including packaging or shipping), you can have a “died of natural causes” piglet hollowed out, preserved, and fitted with a coin storage pouch and cork plug. Oddly enough, it is not mentioned where said plug is installed. And I’m not sure I want to know. Half the money is due up front and the other half is due 12 months later when Pork Knox is finally complete. You know, so you can spend an entire year drinking away the nightmares of that sweet little porcine face looking deep into your eyes and consuming your soul like so much salty bacon.

Pork may be off my menu for a while.

And if that’s not enough fuckery for you this week, here are a few more love letters of doom from the walking, talking mental disorder that is my day job.

 

So you have “cash flow problems.”

Your rent was due 2 weeks ago, and despite numerous phone calls, you haven’t felt the need to pay up. So it should come as no surprise to you that I won’t be letting you make payment arrangements on the day that we filed your eviction paperwork. Given all the drugs/paraphernalia in your apartment on a daily basis, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where rent is and I’m more than reasonably certain that the judge won’t buy your sob story either. Court is really just a formality at this point. You should probably just pack your bags and call mommy to get your room ready for you.

Hopefully, she can make enough room for your tiny penis and enormous ego.

Adulthood is a bitch, ain’t it?

I know you’re all butt hurt that I just sent you an invoice for a few grand worth of damages you did to the building, but suck it. This ain’t my first rodeo, wank blanket. Having your lawyer parents call to drop hints about their legal careers and making vague lawsuit threats clearly isn’t very effective. Also, I took the liberty of emailing them police reports and photos naming you as vandals and drunken public nuisances. So now that you’re grounded at the age of 22 because you’re still attached to your parental units at the purse strings, your next best option is not to call me with fabricated work orders. I know that your dishwasher isn’t broken because I know that you don’t have a dishwasher in that apartment. And that rotten ass smell you keep complaining about? Given that nobody in the building likes you, I’m pretty sure that another resident in the building has been spraying it under your door intentionally. See, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that there’s a big contest to see who can make you the most miserable. Hell, I’d play the ultimate endgame card and set your dumb asses on fire, but seeing as how you’re Jewish, I’m pretty sure they’d try it as a hate crime.

If you’re micromanaging, you clearly don’t have enough of your own work to do.

Easily 85% of my job is to rent property, and to that end, I’ve already done a damn fine job this year. That said, it would go faster and much more smoothly if property owners would stop arguing with me when I say that the property is overpriced compared to the comps, and stop ignoring that beautiful fucking spreadsheet that I gave you outlining the proof. If I keep pushing your numbers, you will have many, many vacancies for which you will blame me, and try to deny me a well deserved raise. I will respond by setting my resignation to an interpretive dance that ends with me shitting on your desk. Then I will cite this very conversation when I’m giving you the finger on my way out. I know you have trust issues with anyone in possession of a vagina, but I also have some brass balls and I know what I’m doing. Now let me do my damn job.

Like a For the Boss.

Frustrated? Tearing your hair out? Rolled your eyes so much you’ve had an aneurysm? Lost your innocence? Let your hate flow into the comments.

WTF Friday – Valentine’s Gift Edition

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Valentine’s Day, as we all know and dread, is a day to celebrate the great rollercoaster… of love. (Rollercoaster! Ah woo woo woo!)

Love go slow, love go fast. Licorice whip gonna whip yo' ass!

In the great American tradition, you can be a part of this joyous occasion by doing the following: Find an ATM. Withdraw double what you’d normally spend on a night out with your husband/boyfriend/booty call. Now show that fat wad of cash to the person you love (or like, or enjoy sex with enough to call at 2:00 am). Got it? Cool. Now locate your nearest toilet, drop it in there, and flush.

Oh, I’m sorry! Is that dreadfully un-romantic? Maybe a tad on the jaded, cynical side? Have you seen what passes for romance lately? I love me some bling. I’m a girl it’s just part and partial to having a vagina. I also love flowers, but dammit, I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend more than $12 for my 3 bundles from the floral department at the grocery store unless it’s for my garden. Candy? No thanks, I’ll make my own. Even dinner out on V-day has become a sham. Your favorite restaurant has dumped all your favorites from the menu in favor of a special V-day menu of boring crap with no flavor, just to cycle as many love-struck fools through the restaurant as possible without triggering a murderous psychotic break from the kitchen and wait staff.

By and large, I’m all about the useful gifts. If Ken were to get me a new Dyson, I’d lose my clothes faster than he could blink, vacuum the carpet, ravish him on the carpet, and then vacuum up our mess. If he got my kitchen knives sharpened for me, I’d carve him a nude model of myself entirely out of a chateaubriand. If I came home one day to find that he’d replaced my reading chair with the $800 La-Z-Boy recliner I’ve been pining for this past year, I would let him make the first stain on it with me.

This is pretty much what my meat sculpture would look like, only with bigger tits.

But the American public doesn’t do useful gifts for Valentine’s Day, and I feel like that completely violates the spirit of a holiday where the entire point is to give your love their heart’s desire. Don’t deny bitch – you’d love that diamond journey pendant, but you’d absolutely swoon if you got monthly maid service for a year. But until people start being honest about their expectations for this faux-holiday, you’re going to be saddled with the status quo year after year. In case you’re still on the hunt for the perfect Valentine’s gift for the object of your affection/mutual masturbatory satisfaction, let me give you a run down of “popular” gifts.

This year’s hot ticket is yet another obvious ploy by jewelry companies to part you from your money using trinkets of whimsy and playfulness. And I’m sorry to say that it seems to be working. Charm bracelets are the new big thing in adult jewelry.

Oh, look! This one spells, "I'm a pedophile with terrible taste in jewelry!"

Um, okay. Great! Maybe you can get the charms to spell out “I’m an unoriginal jizz snorcher and can’t pick out a decent gift!” Seriously, in the time you’ve been together, have you ever seen her wear a charm bracelet? No, you have not. Because only 10-year-old girls still wear charm bracelets.

Chocolate

Can this be the year that we stop this shit? Let’s be honest – even if you’re shelling out $100 on the “premium” box of See’s chocolates, that chocolate is still swill in terms of overall quality.  Given that most women are perpetually on a diet, or at least suffer incredible amounts of self-inflicted guilt over their chocolate obsession, why are we still wooed by faux chocolate crap? And if your lady is a V-day Chocolate fiend, you owe it to her to get her something good. My recommendation on that front? Pischinger Finest Bitter Dark Chocolate, and a bottle of Mont-Olivet Chateau Neuf-du-Pape.

Flowers!

Yeah, that vase totally makes it worth $160.

God, consumers really are sheep, aren’t they? For starters, roses are not a gift. They are a warm up. Either you’re building to something great, or you’re trying to warm her up to the idea of letting your sleep in your own bed again, but they are not a final destination.  Next, are you high? You’re going to drop $60 on a dozen roses that cost $10 at the grocery store (and grocer’s flowers are usually in better shape), and absolutely won’t be alive in 2 weeks when the pee stick reads positive? There’s only one reason that anyone should spend $60 on flowers – you bought all the seeds, soil, and pots that she needs to start her summer garden.

Or maybe your significant other is also about the useful gifts. Then let me be clear – this next batch of crap doesn’t qualify either.

Crispy Bowl

WTF is this thing? You need some extra whimsy in your meals, so you give your food a slide? You can’t figure out how to eat your soup fast enough to keep the crackers from getting soggy? Please kill yourself. Preferably by drowning in this bowl.

Kymera Wand Remote Control


We are a society made dumber by Harry Potter. If you are so hopelessly beyond figuring out a normal remote control and you honestly believe it would be easier to teach a wooden stick 99 commands for flipping between Dr. Phil, Maury, and Hoarders, then you need the kind of help that can only come from a house with rubber rooms and electro-shock therapy.

Air Guitar


This is the kind of gift that you give yourself. If your gift to yourself is ensuring a swift, yet endlessly painful end to your relationship. And if you find yourself in a relationship with someone who would get endless hours of enjoyment from this kind of thing, you might the kind of person who gets off on pain.

Gun Alarm Clock


This scenario ends only one way.

It’s 6:00 am. The alarm starts chiming whatever obnoxious beeping you select and the target pops up, daring you to hit that snooze button. But you’ve just been rattled out of a dream where a bevy of half-naked Swedes were about to become fully naked and fully devote their attention to your every whim. You swing for the alarm clock, hoping to get the snooze button before the dream completely slips from your subconscious. But there is no snooze button. There’s just a little plastic gun that you knocked on the floor in your flailing attempt to get back to the Swedes.

Now the alarm is blaring, you’re wide-awake, and all hopes of getting that oily, full body rub down from Hotty McHotHot have been obliterated. You locate the little plastic gun halfway under the bed, pick up the alarm clock and toss it out the window, giving the newspaper delivery guy a concussion in the process. Then you use the little plastic gun to beat your significant other to a bloody pulp. Now you’re in prison for aggravated assault on your SO and the paperboy, being rubbed down in the shower by a violent inmate on powerful anti-psychotics who’s taken quite a shine to you.

For the love of love – don’t kill your loved ones with cheap plastic toys this Valentine’s Day. Put some thought into your gift and give as you’d like to be given.

WTF Friday: Some (not so) Minor Pet Peeves.

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Remember from Wednesday where I’m a sick, short tempered twat? Yeah, it was bad enough this morning to justify calling in sick. I can’t get comfortable, nothing is helping from medicine, to ice packs, to hot showers. I can’t hear, I can’t breathe, I can’t walk a straight line to save my life. So I’m relegated to a day of misery on the couch with my friends Internet and Television. Unfortunately, the content of our conversation is making me angry.

This tempest in a teapot has been a week in the making and it all sort of culminated in a shrill screeching cry for relief yesterday. College kids are total flakes, so I had a few no-show appointments, then a cancellation. I dropped a whole chunk of French Baguette into my bowl of chicken soup and splattered everything within a ten foot radius of my desk. While I was cleaning that up, my ginormous ass knocked over the only soda I’d seen in 2 days and robbed me of that comfort too. My body is now eating its fat stores since I can’t seem to handle real food, no pun intended.

And then of course, you have your run of the mill fucktards shitting their usual rainbows and unicorns. I got 2 invitations to quit Facebook today, and someone inevitably posts a gripe once a week like clockwork about how the new timeline is ruining Facebook. And to these snot rags, I say this:

You’re going to flip your lid over a LOOK? Alrighty then. Don’t let the door knock you on your ass on the way out.

Seriously, it’s a free service and one that people use because it satisfies a need they have to be unrepentant attention whores. Facebook will do as they always have, which is to say they’ll do whatever they want. As the “consumer” you reserve the right to speak to them in the only terms they understand – stop using their free service.

But can you do it while maintaining at least a semblance of self respect and leave without the melodramatic theatrics and feigned righteous indignation? All I hear when you bitch about this free entertainment option on which you spend several hours of your free time is “Waaaaah! I’m not comfortable with change! Stick a boob in my mouth and soothe my impotent rage!”  I’ve met 5 year olds whose temper tantrums were more justified than this drivel.

And then there are the cuntscicles who seem to believe that I’m only saying mean things to them because I’m sick. No, fuckstick, I’m saying these things because you’re a douchecanoe and someone needs to do you the service of telling you so. The fact that I’m sick just means I’m too weak to stab you with a car key while I tell you.

 

But  the thing that actually makes me feel a little sick inside is this:

The Susan G. Komen Foundation no longer has anything to do with Cancer.

It’s been pretty widely covered recently that Susan G. Komen foundation stopped providing funding to Planned Parenthood and research facilities which make use of embryonic stem cells in their research. And then they “apologized” and reversed their decision to defund PP when the internet at large started shooting holes in their policies. I’m not going to mount a full scale soap box sermon over the subject because while I’m completely pro-choice, I also support a person’s right to be on whatever side of that fence they want to be on, even if it’s completely opposite of my own feelings. No, my issue with the foundation’s recent appearance in the news is that it means they’re using people’s donation money for their own political purposes.

This foundation should be at least somewhat close to my heart because I had a brief, yet terrifying bout with cancer. And yet I stopped expecting anything good to come of their ministrations years ago when it was revealed that more money goes into funding education, awareness, and screenings than actually goes into the research which could lead to prevention. Yes, it’s extremely important that everyone know about breast cancer, and every cancer in general, really. But at this point, I think the cat’s out of the bag about cancer, breast or otherwise, so how about kicking a little bit of that excessive marketing budget into researching the cure you’re so fond of citing? We’re talking less than a shiny quarter for every dollar donated.  That’s like telling a starving child that someone donated some money to get them some food, but that you found it more important to use the money to tell people why starvation sucks.

  • The Gateway for Cancer Research donates 99 cents on the dollar to straight research which can produce an immediate impact on the lives of cancer patients.
  • Stand Up 2 Cancer which donates 100% of proceeds to the American Association of Cancer Research.
  • The Stefanie Spielman Fund for Breast Cancer Research which goes into researching more effective treatments.

Ever heard of these? Maybe you have, but most likely you haven’t. Because they don’t sell useless, pink ribbon emblazoned garbage to shamelessly promote an organization that has made fewer strides toward progress on the cancer front than non-cancer related researchers. The high functioning sociopaths heading up their marketing department have convinced people to donate money to their organization, and they’ve started using this money for political ends having nothing to do with cancer. And any organization who won’t be the champion of the very cause they’re shilling for doesn’t deserve my money, or the right to be my voice.

This is not a call to stop donating. On the contrary, we need more people who want to make a positive contribution. Who want find ways to more effectively treat these cancers with less pain or suffering. Who hope to see cancers eradicated, if not in their lifetime, than their children’s or grand children’s lifetimes.

This is a call to do your homework. I know, most of us cherished the idea of leaving homework behind after high school/college/etc. But when it comes to your money, don’t you want to know that it’s in good hands? Ask where your money’s going. And be specific. A lot of these groups will tell you that more than 80% of donations go to research, education, and prevention, but they’ll fail to tell you, or bury it in some obscure document, that research only gets 10-25% of the funding.  What can you get with 10-25%? Not a lot. Ask my husband. Scientific research is incredibly competitive when it comes to funding because funding is very, very hard to come by, and what funding is available is barely enough to buy new pipettes. Stifling budget restrictions are no way to treat the people we count on to search for better solutions, and with some luck and a lot of hope, a cure.

So give generously. But give smart too.

WTF Friday: Do you hear yourself?

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Ken just returned on Wednesday from a 10 day trip to UCLA for some mad scientist shit, and I’m pretty sure the petri dish flavor of the week destroyed his “Are the words coming out of my mouth a good idea?” filter. I mean, it’s never been top notch*, but now I think it’s completely b0rked. Observe the progression into madness:

*My filter hasn’t worked in years, but that’s not what we’re talking about. Today, anyway.

April 21, 2011:
Gesturing at my breasts: “There’s too many babies here. Put those things away!”

At lunch
Poking his finger into my cleavage: “Oh, yeah…”

At Target
Me: “Last time I showed cleavage, you told me to cover it up because there were too many infants around. This is Target, home of soccer moms with twins in wide by side shopping carts.”
Ken “Hey, it’s dark there’s a lot of fog, and there’s a good chance there could be some ships lost at sea right now. Maybe if you let those puppies shine, we’ll have a better chance of bringing those boys home.”

Watching TV
Me, responding to a comment about the Zoot Suit Riots: “That’s actually a pretty hilarious song.”
Ken: “What’s that hell song about the afterlife or whatever?”
Me: …
Ken: “You know – “Iiiiin the afterlife!”
Me: “You mean Hell? By the Squirrel Nut Zippers?”
Ken: “That’s who does Zoot Suit Riot, right?”
Me: “No. That’s Cherry Poppin’ Daddies.
Ken: “So what does Brian Setzer do?”
Me: “Jump, Jive, and Wail. ‘Tard.”
Ken: “Whatever! I don’t listen to this swing shit!”

Which is exactly why he knows the lyrics to all three, and the genre to which they belong. No, Yeah, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.

These are a few lines from the archives*:

*I cannot honestly remember what some of this was regarding, but it’s somehow funnier now that I can’t remember the context.

March 26, 2007:
“Sounds like they might be trying to dress up a lot of beef chuck as prime rib.”
“I think you just called me beef chuck, and by extension a cow.”
“Well, you’re definitely filet mignon. You don’t need any dressing up. You’re as sexy as steak comes.”

March 17, 2009:
Ken, Regarding Cookie Monster/Sesame Street Kids Clubs at Beaches Resorts: “Yeah, that’s exactly what I need when I’m on vacation – some big, blue, furry retard with a cookie fetish bugging me while I’m trying to relax.”

I took the crime scene photos when cookie monster killed himself at the Temecula Sears store a week later.

May 24, 2008:
A random conversation about episiotomies:
Me: If they don’t make the snip and the woman tears during childbirth, then they have to do some restructuring and you won’t be having sex for a while. So you get the joys of new parenthood and a prolonged case of blue balls.
Ken: Why? You have a mouth. (At this point, Ken realizes what he’s just said and gets a horror stricken, panicked look on his face.) I’m sorry! That didn’t come out right! It wasn’t me that said that! It was Evil Ken! IT WASN’T ME!

I honestly don’t know which was funnier – the fact that he said it, or watching him drown in his own back pedaling wake.

There you go – more than you ever needed or wanted to know about the inner workings of my husband’s mind that should leave you saying, “WTF?!?”

Now go hug your perfectly normal husbands/boyfriends/sons.

WTF Friday: A week in pictures

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I woke up this morning in a funk, probably because I slept like shit last night. As productive and calorie free as I’ve been in the last 3 days, I think I’m over the bachelorette lifestyle and if the husband is listening, he’s welcome to come home early if he likes.

I started this day with a bad attitude. It was on my ass from the second I opened my eyes – literally. And it bit my hand when I tried to push it off. Then it ran to the kitchen and demanded that I feed it. Furry little bastard.

So I’m half a pot of coffee deep into this day already and it’s only 9:30 am. The world at large is fucked today because I have only two settings right now – consume coffee and destroy all who fuck with what little calm I have.  Case in point? I’ve been calling around town all morning looking for a specific ballast for a fluorescent light replacement that we’re not even sure is necessary yet. My first notion on that front was “Change the fucking light bulb first and see if that fixes the problem.” Why am I making phone calls for a $75 part if the problem can be solved with a $7 one?

Now, before I proceed, I need to make a full disclosure: I hate it when men – especially handyman types – hover over me and talk down to me like a clueless, helpless woman when I’m trying to take on DIY projects. Nothing makes me lose my shit faster than some condescending wank blanket questioning what I’m doing that I’d need that particular part for it.  I’m trying to retrofit a deck clamp to railing that’s narrower than the clamp. Point me to the fucking mending plates, and get out of my way, and so help me if you try to sell me a different deck clamp I’ll wrap your nutsack in it.

Disclosures fully made, I also had to make several phone calls to a few sign companies to replace a sign plate. I finally managed to get in touch with a company we’ve worked with before for custom sign work and my contact there passed me over to their production department. Our conversation went a lil’ something like this:

Me: Bridget said you’d be able to help me out with this. I’m looking for a custom lexan sign plate replacement to be screen printed with a particular graphic.

Buddy Cock Socket: Well, you’d have to meet with our design department to have them digitize your artwork and then bring in your replacement sign so we can measure it for cutting and printing.

Me: The artwork is already digitized and I have measurements for you right here if you have a pen handy and can give me your email address.

Knuckle Dragger: Hold on there, dear. Design needs a special format for their work. You can’t just use a digital photo for screen prints. We also need very specific measurements. We can’t take rough dimensions.

Me: Yeah, got it. I turned it into a vector file for your convenience. The measurements are 4 3/8″ tall, 12 3/8″ wide, 1/16″ thick. Lexan. Two-color print job.

Monkey Felcher: And how did you get these measurements?

Me, making the transition to unholy bitch: Well, I reckon mah daddy taught me how to read a tape measure when I was in grade school. How did I get these measurements… what the hell kind of stupid question is that? You know what, don’t answer. I can’t handle anymore stupid. Honey, be a doll and put Bridget back on the phone, will you? Thanks, sweetie.

Me, to Bridget: Where did you find him? A 1930s women’s suffrage protest? I can’t work with that douchenozzle. Do you have anyone else that doesn’t turn into a misogynistic redneck chicken fucker the second they open their mouth?

Thus playeth today’s first moments of WTF?!?. For the preceeding days, I’ve found that pictures truly speak louder than words. And so I present to you: More random shit encountered on the job.

Yesterday was damn cold. I like sleeping in a cold bedroom, but it was so damn cold that I wore thermal underwear to bed and kept the heat on all night. This is an infrared temperature gun which is accurate to within +/- .2 degrees. I shot it into a snow bank outside one of my properties. I thought snow was supposed to have insulating properties.

Diamond tipped nipples, y'all. I think I ruined a bra.

This next one I found on a tenant’s fridge. To be fair, his apartment was chilly, and I left him encouraging words of hugs and puppies and dialed up the thermostat for him. They are paying for the heat, after all.

Then there’s this one from the apartment across the hall, also voted “Most likely to be holding a decomposing hooker under the mountains of bottles, fast food wrappers, and dirty clothes.” I love the righteous indignation, considering that his room would make a rock star’s hotel maid weep.

I believe I have truly saved the best for last. This was found during a showing of one of my frat boy apartments. I love the strategic placement of baby lotion and tissues.

Yes, that is a guido blow up doll.

And with that, I’m out of funny for the week. My head is killing me, lunch is at least half an hour away and my first showing isn’t until 3:45. I’m bored. Entertain me, bitches.
***EDIT*** I found a few more fucks to include for your entertainment.
This one is from my friend Carla on Facebook. And it comes with a ready made caption: “Yes, only I would take a country drive and see this. Almost killed my two friends and daughter by driving off the road in laughter.”
Moo Love

Moo-love.

A package we sent to a friend in Seattle. How many times are you going to see a delivery exception like that?