Some Commercials That Need to Be Punched in the Colon

Fucking commercials. Seriously, fucking commercials.

There's a series of commercials about dental products designed to reduce acid erosion. There's a pretty women with a drinking vessel, usually with a group of people. She's pretty, she's smiling, she's laughing. Then the narrator pops in with something moronic like "Jillian loves soda. But she doesn't know that it contains acid. Blah blah blah. Acid erosion of dentin. Blah blah blah. Protective mouthwash!"

If you don't know that soda contains acid, you don't deserve your fucking teeth. Not saying "Don't drink soda." Soda's awesome. Drink all the soda you want, because I sure as Hell am going to. But seriously. SERIOUSLY. You gotta know that shit contains acid. There's another advert in this series, "Becky loves coffee. But she doesn't know it contains damaging acid." Really?! Really, Captain Obvious Commercial Whore?! Does it contain acid?! Is it slippery? Does it smell like fucking bleach? Hmm, must not be a base! Does it have a neutral PH, no taste, and no smell? Must not be water! Does it produce carbon dioxide when it has MOTHER FUCKING CARBONATION added to it?! BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Acid, bitches!

The other commercial I want to punch in the cunt is a diaper commercial. It's kind of a before and after scenario of a mother with a young child. Part One: First time mother is breast-feeding her new baby in a restaurant. She's hiding in the corner, has a breast-feeding tent, looks all ashamed and nervous. Narrator says something like "You want to do everything right for your baby as a first time parent." Part Two: Same mother has a second baby; the first one is about three. In this scenario, the woman is sitting in the same restaurant, this time at a table in the middle of the dining room. She has her breast pulled out the neck of her shirt and is openly feeding her baby. The waiter comes over, looks surprised by what's going on, but doesn't say anything. Bitch mother snaps her fingers at him, points at her face, and says "Up here." Narrator says, "By the second  one, you have things figured out. Live and learn and get our brand of diapers."

Okay, first off, I have nothing against breast feeding. At all. It's awesome that mothers breast feed. I mean, all the biological coolness of it aside, there are so many studies and so much evidence proving how beneficial breast feeding is to your child, developmentally and emotionally. This is a beautiful, natural thing, and there shouldn't be any shame about it, because it's not a shameful thing. I think it is indeed a damn disgrace that women feel they should have to hide in a corner or under a drape or, worst of all, in the restroom, to feed their child. You don't tell the three year old to sit in the corner in the bathroom and eat his grapes or whatever children eat. Babies deserve to eat in a clean environment, too.

My problem with this horrible fucking commercial is what a rude, nasty bitch this woman is. She shouldn't be ashamed of breast-feeding, but it's not out of line for somebody to have a moment of surprise when seeing a breast out. The waiter in the commercial wasn't going "Ewww! Gross!", "That's inappropriate!", or even "Whooooo! Titties!" Just a brief moment of surprise, and apparent contemplation of "Should I stay and ask for her order or should I leave her alone?" And the woman's response to this moment of surprise is to snap her fucking fingers in his face and snap "Up here." "By the second child, you have things figured out." What do you have figured out? How to be disrespectful to waiters? How to be rude in general? How to teach your children that you don't need to be polite to strangers? "It's okay, Johnny, he's just the waiter. You can always snap your fingers in the waiter's face." Hope that baby bites your nipple off, fictional bitch.

Rene Descartes Walks Into a Bar...

Last night I posted on my private Facebook account that I felt unsafe in my home at that particular moment. Not that anything was seriously going on, just one of those uncomfortable feelings and some weird sounds down the hall. Then somebody I knew if fucking middle school commented on that status, essentially saying "That's stupid and invalid, because I willingly went someplace unsafe and there are actual things to be scared of here."

Okay. You know nothing about what's going on in my life. You know nothing about what has gone on in my life. You don't know if I'm up at 5:00  in the morning freaking out because:

- I have acute intermittent porphyria and am having an attack

- I have a really severe anxiety disorder that goes out of control when it's silent and my mind can wander

- I'm slowly turning into a cricket

- I was sexually assaulted in my bedroom at night as a child

- My dog is barking at a strange orb outside the window

- I consume too much caffeine to live

- I was raped in my own bed in this very apartment

- There are gunshots outside

- Two years ago, I abruptly lost my partner, my family, and my home in the middle of the night and I sometimes panic about the aspect of abruptly losing everything else that is important to me

- Shit's going on at work and I'm terrified I'm going to get fired

- I watched somebody climb up the outside balconies and into my neighbor's apartment the other day

- My neighbor has a history of setting her kitchen on fire

- I can see a demon sitting on top of my bookcase staring at me

- I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve

- I have a history of losing my shirt

- Oops, those last two were Barenaked Ladies lyrics.

You don't know if some of these are true, all of these are true, or none of these are true. You don't know a single damn thing about my situation. Because I haven't had an actual conversation with you in five years because every conversation we had in the five years before that you've been increasingly condescending? And not in a "Haha, that was a dumb thing to do" way, but in an "I don't think your feelings are valid, so watch me belittle you as a person" way. And the stupid thing about this is, I care. I care what you think about me. I mean, if you don't agree with everything I do, whatever, nobody will ever agree with everything anybody does. If you see I've made a mistake and call me on it, okay. Disagree with me on politics or religion? Neat, tell me your thoughts, I want to know why you feel the way you do. You won't sway me, but I care about your point of view. But when you suggest my feelings aren't valid, that's not cool. That's tantamount to you thinking I'm just a worthless excuse for a human being.

I'm now just going to go off in a tangent. If you understand how I've come to this point, I will totally give a cookie.

Rene Descartes walks into a gin bar. Bartender says, "Hey, want a martini?"

Descartes says, "I don't think--" and disappears.

No. Just No. So Very Fucking No.

So, my ex-boyfriend called me last night. He told me he wants me back. I'm going to call this guy Dwight.

Dwight's sweet, he's just a child. No, not literally. He's, like, three months younger than me. He just doesn't have or want adult responsibilities. And he tends to be a little narcissistic. I don't know, read old entries if you want to hear about it. One thing never mentioned is that I paid for something really expensive to help him out of a bad situation, because I'm stupid, and he had no intention of paying me back and made no attempts to pay me back. And yes, that was a major part my decision to end things. So when we broke up, I thought it was really the most mutual break up ever. I went to his house (well, the house his friend owns that he's renting a room in) to end it, and he greeted me with "So, this is hard..."

I cut him off. "Nope. It's not." We hugged, I took my stuff back, the end, yay!

So last night he calls me, saying horrible, stupid shit like "I made a mistake. I changed my mind."

You changed your mind? That's nice. It's so fucking nice to know that I'm a passing fancy for you. "Eh, I thought I wanted you to go away, but I changed my mind. Come back now." Um, no. I'm not a book that you posted for sale on Amazon.com but decided, no, you didn't really want to sell it and have the ability to unlist. I'm a person and so very not your property.

"I made a mistake." Yes. Yes, you did. Several of them. However, darling, our break up was not entirely your decision. I was on my way to break up with you. Remember how I told you the night before I wanted my keys back? Was that your decision? No.

Now that we have the "Here's why you treating me like property is offensive" out of the way, let's move onto why I wouldn't take you back if you paid me.
1) You owe me so much money, Bill Gates couldn't afford to dupe me back in after paying me back.
2) We broke up for a reason. You. You were the reason. Can you provide me an itemized list of the things about you that you have changed about yourself? Can you show me proof? Do you have character references?
3) I want to get married. Not to you. To an adult. Who can function in reality. And isn't a narcissistic asshole.
4) That time you were mean to my dog.
5) That time you were mean to my dog. Yeah, I know I just said that. Really, really not okay.

Please Get Out of the Dating Pool.

I'm not sure what I want more - the be out of the dating pool myself or simply to get rid of the prevalence of assholes.

The following is mostly about an acquaintance of mine, who we'll call Ignar. Now, Ignar has a lot of truly wonderful qualities, but for the sake of this entry, I won't be discussing a single one of those qualities. 

So, Ignar cannot hold a job for shit. He gets hired, keeps a job for about six weeks on average, then gets fired, luxuriates in unemployment for a few weeks before searching, gets another job, keeps the job for six weeks, you get the gist of this cycle. Because of this cycle, and a lack of motivation to be a productive adult, Ignar still lives with his parents and is in his thirties. So on paper, even, Ignar is not a desirable mate. Yet he's out there. He's trying. He's on all of the dating sites and inexplicably, he gets dates. Consistently. And he's totally fucking insane about it. He gets really, really possessive, really, really quickly.

Ignar recently was paired with a friend of mine from college on one of these dating sites. I have no idea why the site would allow this match. My college friend, who I'll call Alex, is a tremendous person. Extremely attractive, going to law school, works three jobs, very nice, great taste in music. All around good person. When Ignar told me they had gone on a date, I had to fight every instinct to not call Alex and scream "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!"

So, Ignar and Alex talk on whichever site they met on. Ignar adds Alex on Facebook. They go on their date. Then Ignar proceeds to text Alex about a dozen times a day, getting mad when Alex doesn't respond. The texts basically go as follows:

Ignar: Hi, what's up?

Alex: Hey, I'm at work. Can I catch you later?

Ignar: When are we going out again?

Alex: Let me check my schedule and get back to you after work.

Ignar: When's your next day off?

(At this point, Alex doesn't even waste time by responding. After about five minutes, Ignar gets mad and texts again, every five minutes)

Ignar: When's your next day off? 

Ignar: When are we going out again?

Ignar: HELLO?!

So then, Ignar gets mad and goes to Facebook (remember, folks, he has added Alex as a friend on Facebook). After a series of posts about "Dating is dumb", the following pops up (of course, it has been edited to protect Ignar's true identity. It was rife with spelling error, lack of punctuation, and some incoherent words):

Ignar Dingleberry: It's been a week and a half since what I thought was a good first date. I have sent texts and made all attempt to get together for a second time. Am I expecting too much or should I just give up and move on to the next person? 

The following day, Ignar makes another Facebook post.

Ignar Dingleberry: On to the next. Wanted one good partner. Scared little children need not apply.

::facepalm::

Then the following occurred in comments, between Ignar and my friend we'll call Perri.

Perri Socially Acceptable Behavior: You realize by texting him a bajillion times and posting these things for him to see, you pretty much made sure you have zero chance of ever seeing that guy again, right?

Ignar Dingleberry: I'm just being me. If a guy can't handle it, that 's his problem.

Perri Socially Acceptable Behavior: But if you can in a way that doesn't let a guy get to know you, it becomes your problem. There are certain forms of dating etiquette that if you follow, allows your personality to come through so guys can really get to know you. And when that happens, you will find a guy who super likes you because he will get to see who you are.

Ignar Dingleberry: We met on Particular Dating Site where we answered a tong of questions for each other, so much that we weren't sure what to talk about on the first date. I guess I figured if you're on a site like that, you are ready and wanting the real thing. And not to mention you have time for someone.

Okay. I assume that if you're not in a mental institution, you're more sane than to believe it is okay to get that fucking scary and possessive so quickly. Or ever. It's not okay to get that scary and possessive EVER. At now point in your relationship is your partner EVER your property. Your partner is always a person and is always allowed basic freedoms to do shit like go to work. Perri put it about right. When you're that fucking possessive, why would anybody ever call you again? Oh, you're intense so your date is wrong for going to work and actually doing their job? Great. Are you also just intense when you break into their fucking bedroom window at night? This is PPO behavior, not "We've gone on one date" behavior!

So, I met this guy who we'll call Bob. Because that's actually his name. I'd talked to Bob for a bit, stupidly gave him my phone number, he asked when I got out of work yesterday so he could call me. When Bob called me, I was on the other on a rather important call that I wasn't going to terminate. Before I finished said call, I received a text message from Bob, reading "Are you available to talk right now?" Um, obviously not, Douche. If I were, I would have answered the damn phone. I finish my call and check my voicemail. The voicemail irritated me so much that I deleted it, but in retrospect, I wish I had saved it so I could copy it here. It was basically, "Hey, Roz. This is Bob. It's 5:00, and I'm calling you, like we agreed on. So, call me back so we can talk. Like we agreed on. It's Bob." I'm annoyed by this and opt not to call him back right away. I hop online and see an email from Bob, reading (this is not edited. Note the different font? Direct copy and paste): Did you think when I meant "tomorrow" that I meant Saturday? Don't want to bombard you with phone or text messages. Message here, text or phone.

• 
  

Oh, Bob. Guess you will never be hearing back from? I hope you enjoy pursuing your restraining order from some unfortunate woman in the near future.

So, when I venture out a date, I'm left asking myself "Is it safe?"

What in the Name of Sanity Just Happened?!

Sadly, the following is a completely true story. There is genuinely no hyperbole involved.

Quick backstory: My dog likes cats. My dog really likes cats. Like, will sit at the door and whine if he hears a cat meowing outside because he wants to bring it inside and cuddle with it. My dog, by the way, is a St. Bernard.

Proper Story:

I came home from work tonight, ran upstairs and got my dog to take him out for a walk. As we're coming back up on the entrance of my apartment building, I see a long, skinny as all get-out, pure white cat sitting outside my downstairs neighbor's window. My dog, who we'll call Lenny, because if people get fake names, he can too, runs at this cat. Cat doesn't respond at all. Lenny literally licks the cat's back. Cat doesn't respond at all. And then the most ri-goddamn-diculous thing I've ever seen happened. LENNY PICKED THIS STRANGE CAT UP IN HIS MOUTH. Like a mama cat, by the scruff of the neck. CAT DIDN'T RESPOND AT ALL. My dog has this strange cat slightly off the ground, and the cat is still just chilling, like it's still sitting undisturbed on the ground. After some sharp scolding, Lenny puts the cat down, but starts whining. Not like one sad little whimper. Like, eardrum shattering, devastated whining. If he could say words, they would have been, "But Mom! Kitty! Look at the kitty! Kitty is so skinny! He needs a home! Let's take him home! PLEASE MOM PLEASE MOM PLEASE MOM!" I unlock the door, drag my enormous dog to the door, get him halfway in, and he stops. While he's stopped, with the door propped open by his giant frame, the strange cat ran past his legs and into the building. Fucking brilliant. 

I try to catch the cat, but Lenny is going apeshit, chasing this cat up and down the halls. Need I remind you, readers, this is still a St. Bernard, crashing down the halls of an apartment building at 12:30 a.m. I decide my best option is to wrangle the dog and get him into my apartment. As I'm running up the stairs with the dog, the cat is running back and forth on the floor beneath mine. Lenny is trying to break away to go play with the cat. I get my apartment door open and shove Lenny inside, as my own cat, Banana, bolts out the door, into the common hallway. So I scream, "Nononononono!" and chase after her. Banana gets to the top of the stairs, and I hear this super loud, long, drawn out "MMMRRRRRRRRRREOOOOOOOOOW!" Banana is terrified and turns around and runs back to me. I grab her, get my apartment door open, block the dog from getting out with my own body, all but chuck Banana inside, and then a white blur streaks between my legs, and into my apartment. Lenny starts jumping up and down, again virtually screaming "Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!" Seriously. Jumping straight up and down. So, White Cat is terrified and makes a beeline for under my sofa. Lenny takes off after him and tries to get under the sofa with White Cat. WC is totally fine with this. Giant dog? Whatever! However, Banana is unhappy. She's growling and hissing and approaching WC. I have no idea what the deal is with the random cat and I don't want my cat anywhere near him, fearing he'll bit her and give her some horrible disease. So I jump in between them, which scares WC, who bolts from under the sofa, jumps on my end table and jumps on the back of my sofa, and runs across the back of my sofa. At this point, I grab WC from the back of my sofa, grab my keys and run out the door.

White Cat starts out totally fine with the fact that he's in my arms and being run down the stairs, but around the first landing begins to wig out and start squirming. He jumps from my arms and runs back up the goddamn stairs! Thus starts Benny Hills, Round Zillion. I run up the stairs, WC freaks out, runs across the hall, and runs down the back stair case. At this point, I'm thinking about just leaving it in the building, but figure my neighbors are already pissed. Then, Lenny starts barking. Loudly. Because, y'know, St. Bernard. Lenny is barking and jumping against the door. WC is scream-meowing in the hall. It's a lovely cacophony of BARKBARKBARKBARK SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! MRRRREOOOOW! BARKBARKBARK! SLAM! MREOW! SLAM! BARK! I recapture WC and successfully get him outside. I get back to my apartment and Lenny and Banana are just chilling on the couch, like nothing ever happened. Right now, Lenny's sleeping on the floor, dream running and Banana is chasing a bottle cap. 

The kicker is, I was on the phone with El Zacho (of elzachorocks.blogspot.com fame) the entire time. His experience through this was "Lenny. Lenny! Lenny! NO! Lenny, come on. Come on! Inside! GODDAMMIT, NO! SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT! Come here! Come here! Get back here! LENNY! Get inside! Get inside! INSIDE! SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT! NONONONO! NONONONONO! Come back come back come back!" MRRRRRREOOOOOOW! "BANANA! Get in there! No! Stay in there! Fuckity fuck fuck, not you! Get out! Oh God no!" MRRRREOOOOOOW! BARK! BARKBARKBARK! Bang bang bang! HSSSSSSS! 

BLACKWIDOWBLACKWIDOWBLACKWIDOW!!!!

A few years ago, I was working in a theater in middle America. I use the term "theater" loosely here - it was a barn that had been converted. Poorly. It still had the architecture of a barn, but now had a stage shoved in the middle of it, some seats, and wires. It was still a very flimsy, very flammable, very wooden building. While working in this theater, most of the crew was living on campus at a local university, so the vast majority of us lived in the same small, two story dormitory.

I was working on the lighting crew. One day I was cleaning lighting instruments with our master electrician, who came from the deep south. Theater lighting instruments are pretty large and generally quite heavy. In addition to the normal elements you would find in a light, theatrical lighting instruments have steel shutters that you can adjust to alter the size and shape of the beam. After spending a year in a closet in a wooden barn, these instruments were quite rusted, so the Master Electrician, who I will call Mark, and I were scrubbing the steel shutters with rubbing alcohol and steel wool. Mark went into the closet to get another instrument and I suddenly heard him screaming. Like a little girl. I jumped up and ran to him, fearing something had collapsed on him. I arrived to find Mark pointing at the ground, still screaming.

"Mark?! What's going on?!"

"BLACKWIDOWBLACKWIDOWBLACKWIDOWBLACKWIDOW!"

"Mark, that's not a black widow. It's just a little house spider."

"IT'S A BLACK WIDOW!"

"Okay, Mark, calm down. I'll kill it."

So I go to step on this tiny little common spider. Now, I thought Mark had already lost his shit completely, but he got worse. "Roz! No! Oh my God! Nonononononononononono! What are you doing?!"

"I'm going to kill it for you. It'll be fine."

"It's not going to be fine! You're going to step on it, it's going to hide in the treads of your shoes, it's going to come back to the dorms, it's going to get in my room, and it's going to kill me!" (Note: I lived on the top floor, at the far east of the building. Mark lived downstairs on the far west.)

Before I can explain to Mark why this is stupid, I see the dumb son of a bitch, our master electrician, grab a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and start shaking the bottle, trying to splash rubbing alcohol onto the spider. Then he takes his motherfucking lighter out of his pocket. So I tackle him. "Mark, you fucking idiot! We're in a barn! Don't set anything on fire!"

He starts weeping and shrieking about the black widow and I pry the bottle of rubbing alcohol out of his hand and smash the spider with it, grinding it a little bit. I can see the spider's legs have detached. Mark is still shrieking as I lift the bottle to reveal bits of spider exoskeleton falling from the bottom of the bottle. Bitch is clearly dead and all sorts of torn apart. At this point Mark begins screaming about the bottle of alcohol being contaminated and what if the "black widow" secreted poison onto the bottle and whine whine scream scream. I threw the bottle away.

And people wonder why I chose not to work in theater for the rest of my life...

Holy Shit, You MUST Be Employee of the Month

A few weeks ago, I got this report of an incident that occurred on my day off from my retail job. As always, the names are made up, but the story is, sadly, real.

Nate, Samantha, and Anne were closing the store. Samantha was running the main register, and therefore stuck up front. A customer was being creepy and harassing Samantha, so Anne, as closing manager, was up front, keeping an eye on this guy, preparing for the possibility of throwing him out. Nate was straightening up the store when he heard two girls giggling and screaming in the ladies' room. Anne and Samantha were both trapped up front, so he couldn't ask either of the ladies to see what was going on and wasn't about to walk in himself. Finally, the harassing man left and seconds after, two teenage girls ran out of the ladies' room, past my workmates, and straight out the door. The crew all looked at each other, locked the doors because it was closing time, and walked back to the ladies' room together. Anne opened the door and they discovered human feces EVERYWHERE. The floor, the walls, even the ceiling in places. So Anne, again in her capacity as manager on duty, told the others not to worry about the mess, that they don't get paid enough to literally deal with shit. So, Anne went to deal with the cash so the others could leave on time. Nate verified the deposit, and Anne went to the ladies' room to clean up the mess...and found Samantha was almost done taking care of it. Way to go, Samantha.

So, Samantha was showered with accolades for going so far above and beyond what is required of her. Anne was grateful, Nate was grateful, even the staff members who weren't present were grateful. Thank you notes were posted all over the breakroom. So, in my capacity as a manager, I mentioned to my boss how far Samantha went and how much we all appreciate her. My boss responded with "Yeah? So?"

And that, bitch, is why you have people requesting to transfer out of your store all the time.