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.

My coffee pot has a more impressive sex life than I do.

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I’m still dying over here, hence the blog silence lately, but I think I’m starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Whether that means I’m getting better, or there really is a god and it’s seen fit to take some of my pain away as I float toward the light remains to be seen.

Anyhoo… Not a lot of cooking or crafting going on lately, since when you can’t taste or smell anything, nothing is terribly appetizing. (Dani, you wanted to know the secret about people who can’t eat. There it is.) That said, I did scrub down my kitchen last night because I’m getting a little tired of snacking on Jelly Bellys to keep myself alive (and we just ran out). I’m ready to make dinner again. I even lovingly scrubbed down the coffee pot, filter, and burr grinder, and this morning it brewed a delightful pot which may well have been the best part of my day so far.

But as I lay in bed this morning, listening to my coffee brewing, it occured to me that the noises that appliance makes are quite sexual in nature, and I think that my coffee pot is more sexually satisfied than I am. How so? Well, it sighs! Little contented sighs, almost like happy cooing noises, followed by loud, satisfied moans. I half expect that when it beeps at me to signal its doneness, that it retreats into itself and has a cigarette. Or maybe that’s what all that steam is. What I’m saying here, is that clearly, my coffee pot is female.

But at least that appliance is happy. Compare that with my bitch of a teapot which has to be coaxed into a hot, frenzied state, and even then it just screams at me. And somehow, I always equate that screaming with some form of steamy tourette’s.

Cock! Dong wiggle! Fuck Sticky twat bricks!

My waffle iron is the pornstar of the kitchen, seeing as how that whore beeps at you every few seconds when it’s hot, begging for you to drop your batter in it.

The Kitchen-Aid mixer is also a chick, and really, it’s the only one in the kitchen with which I have a give and take relationship. I have to actually turn it on and work it up to a fever pitch, but once it’s going it’s just a matter of time before there’s a gooey explosion all over the walls. Okay, so maybe the mixer is a tranny.

The dishwasher has to be loaded before you can turn it on, not unlike some women I know.

The fridge is constantly stuffed with more meat than it can handle, despite the fact that it’s a frigid bitch.

The oven only takes minutes to get hot and ready and then you can stuff whatever you want in it. It’s not not picky. Sort of like the fat chick in the bar at last call.

Then there’s the microwave. The microwave is like the dildo of appliances. It’s not really cooking, but it gets the job done, even if the result is somehow less satisfying.

Yeah. This guy knows what I'm talking about.

And seeing as how all my kitchen appliances except the dildo of a microwave are female, does this make me the unfortunate victim of gender brainwashing, or just the byproduct of a conservative household? And the real question here – should I be more questioning of my coffee pot’s secretions?

I’m obviously a broken woman.

Bonus love for Charity. I know how she lurves this shit.

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.

Love Letters of DOOM (Part Two)

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It seems that everyone has been a little blah lately – blame the winter doldrums or whatever. I’ve never been prone to seasonal affective disorders, myself. What I can say, however, is that I’m sicker now than I’ve been since the (not-so) Great Cancer Debacle of ’05. We’re talking 3 days and counting of feverish, incoherent babbling intermingled with half-hearted attempts to throttle Ken for infecting me with this misery, hocking up big chunky mouthfuls of lung (OH MY GOD! IS THAT BLOOD?!?), and 10 hour nights of delirious fever dreams (I totally dreamt that I junk punched a frat boy last night and laughed so hard that I woke myself up hacking up a phlegm ball.)

Imagine the fireworks these bad boys are holding back!

In short, I am completely useless right now. I haven’t cooked or cleaned. I haven’t crafted.  I haven’t blogged. I haven’t even played Angry Birds. I go to work and use what little energy I have to get shit done (5 leases signed this week so far… woo!), then I go home and give myself over to my inevitable death, and while it’s taking its sweet ass time in picking me up, I yell at Ken incessantly for killing me.

 This morning on the car ride to work, he offered to peel the safety seal off my juice bottle, which I managed just fine on my own, thank you very much.

 Ken: You were probably a delight anytime you were sick as a kid. “Nyeh! I can do it myself. Leave me alone! I don’t feel good! Kill me!”
Me: I didn’t really get sick very much as a kid.
Ken: But when you did…?
Me: Oh, I’m sure I was an insufferable bitch.

You heard it here first, people.

So to recap, I’m sick and/or dying; I’m short tempered; I’m an insufferable bitch. Are we all on the same page? Okay then, here we go –

Love Letters of DOOM to the monkey humping shitfucks in my life who so righteously deserve them:

 Dear Husband,

                I haven’t become infected any of the last 3 dozen times you’ve found yourself beset by unidentifiable malaise. But you take one business trip to California and suddenly it’s the rhinovirus apocalypse up in our shit. I suppose I should be thankful that you didn’t bring me herpes or something equally unsavory from one of your Petri dishes, but I’d be ecstatic if, in the future, you could bring me flowers or a snow globe instead of the CDC’s least wanted virus. Thaaaaaanks.

Flowers for me? No, no... that's the herpes virus.

 Dear Frat-tards,

                When I got 3 voice mails and an email on Monday telling me that you little knob slobberers threw an epic kegger in my building on Friday AND Saturday night, I wasn’t really surprised. I expected the broken windows and discarded Solo cups. I could not, however, have realized that I would open the doors later that day to find what can only be described as ground zero of Jonestown with shitty beer instead of Kool-aid, 14 days worth of the Wall Street Journal shredded all over the building (seriously, wtf?), and the smell of dirty kitty litter rolled in unwashed jock strap. I started entertaining elaborate fantasies of myself pissing in your juice bottles, and hocking phlegm into your cereal boxes. Then I remember that I’m your landlord, and fuck you – enjoy the $2500 invoice for building repairs. I look forward to your eviction proceeding with the glee of a fat child devouring a tray of brownies. Shalom, motherfuckers.

You let me know when you're ready for this kind of party. I'll promote the shit out of that, free of charge.

 Dear Spineless, Cunt puffin’ Carny Jerkers,

                I know you think you’re trying to be all cool and laid-back landlord by letting these whining bitches out of their leases every time they have a change of heart about the apartment, but I’m over all this extra work you’re dumping on me. I don’t have time to keep showing and renting these places for you. I’ve done the work once (and in this case, twice!) already and you’re going to be paying the commission every single time. But don’t let that fool you into thinking you’re somehow a more important customer now. Newsflash, Sugar Tits -  when I told you that I’d get right on it, I was actually sitting back with my feet on the desk and filing my nails. And what I really meant is that I’ll get to it when you get around to paying us for the last 6 leases. Stifle yourselves, bitches.

Anyone else have a backhanded love letter they’d like to deliver, postage paid? Pour your heart out in the comments.

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.