I have a job interview, and I am panicking. I had a dream last night that I was standing perched on a toilet in a public restroom being shot at. I could feel the bullets buzzing past my ankles. The truly disturbing part of this was not the shooting, rather that I was somehow misguided enough in my own dream to be inside an undoubtedly revolting public washroom.
I have done my nails, fixed my clothes, and shined my shoes. I have tweezed every rogue hair to be found on my person, including my Chuck Norris sideburns which all of my loved ones have neglected to mention for the past two and a half decades. It makes me wonder if I have a third eyeball somewhere that they have all avoided staring at and continue to discuss in disturbed and quiet tones when I'm not listening.
I have secured transportation, planned a pre-interview meal, and have post-interview relaxation plans.
I have memorized every applicable and completely irrelevant but perhaps interesting fact that I can latch on to. Which, can I just say, is a lot of information in this google-age we inhabit.
Truth be told, none of this is why I am nervous.
I have no script.
Over the years, I have observed and catalogued enough human behaviour to get me through almost any situation with ease. Sitting in a workshop? No problem! I have a casual yet interested posture (thieved from a girl I can't remember in high school), my legs crossed at the knee, hands in my lap, head slightly tilted to left, making occasional eye contact with the speaker. Mingling? I'm golden! In a move stolen from a to-remain-nameless serial killer, I latch on to some aspect of a person and inquire with calculated but seemingly genuine curiosity (e.g. "when did you realize your passion taxidermy?" or "tell me more about your pussing and infected boil".)
I've managed to carefully craft a social persona that reads as witty, intelligent, and non-threatening. I am the girl that hangs out by the punch bowl, well liked but forgettable, save for that one-liner about male anatomy you will use at all your future gatherings.
Without such techniques firmly in place, I end up saying things like "What's in this taco salad? Feline? Should I put it in a tortilla or just go lick a cat?" Which, clearly, is followed by a completely tasteless sexual innuendo. It's often unstoppable and generally idiotic, and it can strike at anytime. One minute I'm ordering a sandwich, the next I'm inexplicably telling the waitress I inappropriately poked a wallaby one time.
And this, my friends, is the true reason why I am facing acute job interview panic syndrome. I have no "job interview" moves. No witty malapropisms, no classy compliments, no comical yet intelligently insightful stories hinting at my job readiness.
I may very well ask the interviewer a completely inappropriate question relating to their undergarments or their family pet or both. I will probably inadvertently insult their mother, and the subject of body fluids is almost a given. Undoubtedly, I will reference The Biggest Loser, Anderson Cooper, or Spiderman.
Simply put, I cannot be left to my own devices in uncharted waters and expect an acceptable outcome without some kind of debilitation on the part of my audience. So, cross your fingers kids, and let's hope this interviewer is good and drunk.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Under-Medicated & Over-Fed
I'm in Portland for the weekend, and I'm looking for somewhere to eat. When I travel, I lose all ability to feed myself on any regular basis, so it has been approximately 32.5 hours since my last meal. I have finally discerned my need to eat after barely refraining from mugging a stranger for her cookies. I am also slightly unhinged, and have a modicum of despair regarding my future as a human being.
I find a non-descript coffee shop and stagger inside clutching my stomach with a distinctly deranged look in my eyes. I fail to notice the 7 foot berth of space other patrons warily grant me. I order a turkey sandwich from a cashier who is certainly wondering whether or not this would be an appropriate time to push the panic button.
I contemplate telling him my life story.
I think he knows.
I slink away to a table in the corner, furtively eyeing the sugar packets with lascivious intentions.
I tell myself I will eat on a more regular basis, which means I don't need to have dessert. No need to make myself sick. I mutter under my breath, waiting for my sandwich with the same level of patience displayed by a hungry orca whale.
One meal, I tell myself, like an alcoholic tells himself it’s just one rum ball...and then ends the night with no pants and a gaping wound trying to remember his own name.
Only the sandwich. And maybe a few bites of the potato salad, because you know, it is Portland and everything’s in season and there must be some vitamins in there I'm sorely lacking. Don’t want to get the scurvy.
And as I’m salivating over the sandwich, and planning it's timely demise, I’m overwhelmed by the need for a hazelnut brownie. Because I'm on vacation and it’s a vacation brownie, and I'm all alone in a foreign state, and hazlenuts grow in Oregon, you all. It’s not a shot of whisky or a puff of a Marlboro, but everyone knows empty calories take away the empty feelings. And, as far as I'm concerned, feelings are a far greater threat to humanity than that osama fellow (who, by the way, shares a birthday with one of my best friends. Coincidence? I think not).
And as I open the pandora's box of baked goods, I feel the panic setting in. The inevitable neurotic mania has begun, which sounds a little like this:
"Brownie!"
"Should I move to this city?"
"Quiet. Brownie. Now."
"Am I going to die alone? What is a Associate's degree and do I need one? Where are my socks? What am I going to do with my life? my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches".
"Bbbbbbrrrrooooowwwwwwnnnniiiieeeeeeeee"
And that’s where a giant baked good claims victory over my psyche with the mollifying prozac power of chocolate. And, of course, I eat 4.
Moral of the story: Eat a fucking meal, for godssake.
I find a non-descript coffee shop and stagger inside clutching my stomach with a distinctly deranged look in my eyes. I fail to notice the 7 foot berth of space other patrons warily grant me. I order a turkey sandwich from a cashier who is certainly wondering whether or not this would be an appropriate time to push the panic button.
I contemplate telling him my life story.
I think he knows.
I slink away to a table in the corner, furtively eyeing the sugar packets with lascivious intentions.
I tell myself I will eat on a more regular basis, which means I don't need to have dessert. No need to make myself sick. I mutter under my breath, waiting for my sandwich with the same level of patience displayed by a hungry orca whale.
One meal, I tell myself, like an alcoholic tells himself it’s just one rum ball...and then ends the night with no pants and a gaping wound trying to remember his own name.
Only the sandwich. And maybe a few bites of the potato salad, because you know, it is Portland and everything’s in season and there must be some vitamins in there I'm sorely lacking. Don’t want to get the scurvy.
And as I’m salivating over the sandwich, and planning it's timely demise, I’m overwhelmed by the need for a hazelnut brownie. Because I'm on vacation and it’s a vacation brownie, and I'm all alone in a foreign state, and hazlenuts grow in Oregon, you all. It’s not a shot of whisky or a puff of a Marlboro, but everyone knows empty calories take away the empty feelings. And, as far as I'm concerned, feelings are a far greater threat to humanity than that osama fellow (who, by the way, shares a birthday with one of my best friends. Coincidence? I think not).
And as I open the pandora's box of baked goods, I feel the panic setting in. The inevitable neurotic mania has begun, which sounds a little like this:
"Brownie!"
"Should I move to this city?"
"Quiet. Brownie. Now."
"Am I going to die alone? What is a Associate's degree and do I need one? Where are my socks? What am I going to do with my life? my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches. my eyeball itches".
"Bbbbbbrrrrooooowwwwwwnnnniiiieeeeeeeee"
And that’s where a giant baked good claims victory over my psyche with the mollifying prozac power of chocolate. And, of course, I eat 4.
Moral of the story: Eat a fucking meal, for godssake.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
It's 3:50am somewhere...
Employment insurance, whilst seemingly fabulous in concept, is the devil.
Sure, it sounds great...get paid a somewhat fair portion of your prior wage for doing no portion whatsoever of your former work. But hear this, content laid-off workers: EI will fuck you up good.
It will begin slowly, much like any insidious pathogen. Like, why isn't it reasonable to stay up a few hours later than you normally would? It's not like you have to be anywhwere...You'll just take a few days off to enjoy a well-deserved break. Plus, late-night infomercials are pretty much the crack of the television world.
And then, well, you did stay up a bit late. That crystal rosary with the Lord's prayer built in? Riveting! For an hour! So it's perfectly logical that you would rise at 11am. Which means, of course, that it's past breakfast...but not quite lunch. The only obvious solution is to eat a little bit of both. We all know skipping breakfast leads to fornication which clearly leads straight to hell. Have the doughnut, for godssake. And maybe a glass of wine.
You've finished your doughnut (/ramen/potato chips/ice cream) and it's time for the next step of any ordinary day: shower...But all of a sudden, you hear a little voice saying "Why? why shower?" You've already established you don't really have to be anywhere, your cat is still willing to sit on your lap so your smell musn't be that offensive, and who's going to notice if you skip one shower? In fact, it's a good thing! water conservation, and all that. You're so environmental.
By this point, it's approximately 4pm, which means that the only thing on television is a re-run of Days of Our Lives. Unless you want to clip your nails or something equally as thrilling, this is what you'll be watching. After approximately one week of regular viewership, this too will be completely reasonable.
After a dinner ineveitably consisting of tuna fish, frozen dinners, and/or 17 cups of coffee, the evening awaits. And sure, by evening you mean 10pm onwards, but why not? If people weren't meant to be somewhat nocturnal, no one would know about the ShamWow! And what a sad, sad world that would be. No, seriously. It would.
Cut to nine months of unemployed life:
3:32am is an early night. And by early I mean going to sleep.
If you're up by noon, you feel an exhilerhating sense of victory. 1pm, while slightly less thrilling, is also a laudable accomplisment.
You have not eaten anything that had a mother or came from the earth for approximately 8.5 months. Also, you can open a can one-handed. Or perhaps with your teeth. You have adopted a way of par-cooking ramen noodles using only the radiation from your television screen.
Mondays are shower days. But only the ones that fall on odd-numbered days. And, of course, excluding statutory holidays.
One word: Bourbon.
You know who Sami is, who stole her baby, amd 7,000 other inexplicably brilliant soap opera plots.
You own a crystal rosary, 3 ShamWows, a George Forman grill, 5 pieces of miscellaneous gym equipment, and 7 cats.
You fail to see any need whatsoever for exercise, sunlight, or pants.
Eventually, you will die of radiation poisoning, be abducted by aliens, and/or become that news story about "person who dies in bed and wasn't found for 392 days".
the moral of the story: get a job.
Oh, and the crystal rosary? it's a total sham.
Sure, it sounds great...get paid a somewhat fair portion of your prior wage for doing no portion whatsoever of your former work. But hear this, content laid-off workers: EI will fuck you up good.
It will begin slowly, much like any insidious pathogen. Like, why isn't it reasonable to stay up a few hours later than you normally would? It's not like you have to be anywhwere...You'll just take a few days off to enjoy a well-deserved break. Plus, late-night infomercials are pretty much the crack of the television world.
And then, well, you did stay up a bit late. That crystal rosary with the Lord's prayer built in? Riveting! For an hour! So it's perfectly logical that you would rise at 11am. Which means, of course, that it's past breakfast...but not quite lunch. The only obvious solution is to eat a little bit of both. We all know skipping breakfast leads to fornication which clearly leads straight to hell. Have the doughnut, for godssake. And maybe a glass of wine.
You've finished your doughnut (/ramen/potato chips/ice cream) and it's time for the next step of any ordinary day: shower...But all of a sudden, you hear a little voice saying "Why? why shower?" You've already established you don't really have to be anywhere, your cat is still willing to sit on your lap so your smell musn't be that offensive, and who's going to notice if you skip one shower? In fact, it's a good thing! water conservation, and all that. You're so environmental.
By this point, it's approximately 4pm, which means that the only thing on television is a re-run of Days of Our Lives. Unless you want to clip your nails or something equally as thrilling, this is what you'll be watching. After approximately one week of regular viewership, this too will be completely reasonable.
After a dinner ineveitably consisting of tuna fish, frozen dinners, and/or 17 cups of coffee, the evening awaits. And sure, by evening you mean 10pm onwards, but why not? If people weren't meant to be somewhat nocturnal, no one would know about the ShamWow! And what a sad, sad world that would be. No, seriously. It would.
Cut to nine months of unemployed life:
3:32am is an early night. And by early I mean going to sleep.
If you're up by noon, you feel an exhilerhating sense of victory. 1pm, while slightly less thrilling, is also a laudable accomplisment.
You have not eaten anything that had a mother or came from the earth for approximately 8.5 months. Also, you can open a can one-handed. Or perhaps with your teeth. You have adopted a way of par-cooking ramen noodles using only the radiation from your television screen.
Mondays are shower days. But only the ones that fall on odd-numbered days. And, of course, excluding statutory holidays.
One word: Bourbon.
You know who Sami is, who stole her baby, amd 7,000 other inexplicably brilliant soap opera plots.
You own a crystal rosary, 3 ShamWows, a George Forman grill, 5 pieces of miscellaneous gym equipment, and 7 cats.
You fail to see any need whatsoever for exercise, sunlight, or pants.
Eventually, you will die of radiation poisoning, be abducted by aliens, and/or become that news story about "person who dies in bed and wasn't found for 392 days".
the moral of the story: get a job.
Oh, and the crystal rosary? it's a total sham.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
In the Interest of Transparency...
After one too many awkward questions, I have devised a grand master plan to ensure smooth relationship sailing forever more. I call it "Things you should probably know before you commit to knowing me"...
"To Whom it May Concern:
I like Anderson Cooper just a little too much. And yes, to the chagrin of my mother, I do have a few (tasteful, easily concealable) tattoos. I drink a lot of coffee and no, it's not always fair trade. Sometimes it's even from Starbucks. And sure, maybe I watched Days of Our Lives, but it was only for a few weeks(months)- and didn't you want to know who had Sami's baby? Plus, I didn't drink bourbon whilst watching most(some) of the episodes, so they don't even count. I may or may not be a little obsessed with hand sanitizer, and I sometimes sneeze at inappropriate times for longer than is humanly possible.
I tend to get body parts stuck on or in immovable objects, and I often unintentionally say really idiotic and embarassing things in front of waitstaff in restaurants. I hate sharing my bed, and would more often than not prefer the company of goats over humans. I listen to Journey on an appallingly regular basis, I know every word to every Celine Dion song, and I saw Titanic 14 times in the theater. I also rely on special drops to make my crap not stink.
When I find a song/tv show/person that I enjoy, I will listen to it on repeat until I am bored - which takes awhile. I do not want to talk about "feelings", I don't like baby animals, and the sound of small children laughing makes my ears ring in a disntinctly uncomfortable manner. I am suspicious, fickle, and inherantly edgy. Also, I really hate the Pittsburgh steelers.
I like Marie Osmond, but I think her doll collection is really creepy. Sometimes, I pretend to be talking on my cell phone so I don't have to acknowledge someone speaking to me. I change my sheets more often than I should, and I am very much addicted to Coke Zero. I watch a lot of reality television, I'm allergic to nickel, and I'd really rather you didn't hug me. Ever.
If you have any remaining questions, please submit an information request in writing five (5) days in advance of anticipated answer date.
Thanks!
-M"
I think this eloquent missive has great potential to eliminate the need for awkward discussion anytime in the near future, don't you?
I'm so proud.
"To Whom it May Concern:
I like Anderson Cooper just a little too much. And yes, to the chagrin of my mother, I do have a few (tasteful, easily concealable) tattoos. I drink a lot of coffee and no, it's not always fair trade. Sometimes it's even from Starbucks. And sure, maybe I watched Days of Our Lives, but it was only for a few weeks(months)- and didn't you want to know who had Sami's baby? Plus, I didn't drink bourbon whilst watching most(some) of the episodes, so they don't even count. I may or may not be a little obsessed with hand sanitizer, and I sometimes sneeze at inappropriate times for longer than is humanly possible.
I tend to get body parts stuck on or in immovable objects, and I often unintentionally say really idiotic and embarassing things in front of waitstaff in restaurants. I hate sharing my bed, and would more often than not prefer the company of goats over humans. I listen to Journey on an appallingly regular basis, I know every word to every Celine Dion song, and I saw Titanic 14 times in the theater. I also rely on special drops to make my crap not stink.
When I find a song/tv show/person that I enjoy, I will listen to it on repeat until I am bored - which takes awhile. I do not want to talk about "feelings", I don't like baby animals, and the sound of small children laughing makes my ears ring in a disntinctly uncomfortable manner. I am suspicious, fickle, and inherantly edgy. Also, I really hate the Pittsburgh steelers.
I like Marie Osmond, but I think her doll collection is really creepy. Sometimes, I pretend to be talking on my cell phone so I don't have to acknowledge someone speaking to me. I change my sheets more often than I should, and I am very much addicted to Coke Zero. I watch a lot of reality television, I'm allergic to nickel, and I'd really rather you didn't hug me. Ever.
If you have any remaining questions, please submit an information request in writing five (5) days in advance of anticipated answer date.
Thanks!
-M"
I think this eloquent missive has great potential to eliminate the need for awkward discussion anytime in the near future, don't you?
I'm so proud.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Box Stores, Dinosaurs, & Jillian Michaels
I have a crush on walmart. I used to feel a moderate level of shame about this; what with my semi-hippy(ish) leanings towards supporting local economies & avoiding making purchases from "the man"...But I can deny it no longer: I love me some big box stores.
I cannot seem to pinpoint what inspires the almost chemical high that fogs my brain upon entering this Valhalla; yet like an excellent bourbon, the experience is always reliably the same.
It's that fight or flight thing I think - my body knowing that, despite much learning to the contrary, walmart really is the best place to be in the apocalypse. Food, shelter, a change of clothes, air freshener, tweezers, and a place to charge my iPhone - All I need in the world. And much to my slight embarrassment, I really do spend a lot of time worrying about the end of the world. I'm sure it relates to some deep childhood trauma, but nonetheless. Walmart is better than Prozac for chilling this neurotic, anxiety ridden type-A creature.
And so it has gone, for many years...When life sucks, head to Walmart. A sure-fire path towards satisfaction and/or a new pair of socks. Until yesterday.
I ventured in to my friendly neighbourhood wally world (well, it wasn't really friendly. And it wasn't my neighbourhood.) and immediately felt my eyes go slightly and joyously out of focus. Like a rat to a sewer, I had once again found my safe place.
I began to wander aimlessly; first the refreshing freezer aisles, then the bounty of the sock section, onwards to the nirvana of electronics, and on and on it went, my mind emptying and my walmart meditation deepening. (If I ever discovered the key to world peace, I'm sure it'd be in the shampoo aisle.)
I continued in my trance, happy as a pig in mud. I somewhat coherently decided to wander towards the pharmacy - surely the prospect of anti-bacterial something or other would calm the last stray thoughts in my mind. I sniffed at the soaps, poked at the hair brushes, and then spotted it, my ultimate joy: the shrine to hand sanitizer. I picked up my pace, within reach of the sweet success of procuring yet another bottle of alcohol-based joy...and that's where it all went wrong.
I was trapped. My sedated brain could not comprehend what had happened. I tried to step forward. I tried a fancy little side step. Nothing. Finally, a little more alert (and aware that I had a growing audience) I peered behind me to see what had dared to impede upon my sanitizing satisfaction and was met by two unblinking jade eyes staring back at me. Quelling the panic at someone standing so! close! to me! I wriggled back a little farther and discovered the culprit: Jillian Michaels. Yes, that Jillian Michaels, of Biggest Loser fame. I had managed, in my altered state, to firmly and irrevocably attach the plus-sized ass of my pants to a life-size cardboard cutout of the fitness goddess herself.
At this point, as I'm sure you can imagine, there were a fair number of folks who had snapped themselves out of their walmart wonder to stare at my compromising position. And, can I just take a moment to recommend that, should one ever get oneself stuck to a cardboard cutout, do not choose Jillian Michaels. Your ass will resemble a small triceratops. Or one of those turkeys you make in preschool.
I wiggled. I squished. I jumped, I pried, I yanked, I swiveled. Yet here I remained, firmly placed, for all to see. "I'm ok, no really. It's all good. I'm just having a little rest. Yep, just hanging out. Isn't Jillian great? Have you tried her supplements?"
I was running out of ideas. In fact, I was in a serious mental debate about whether abandoning my pants was a viable option. But oh, there was a better one. Kandie, your walmart supervisor, came to my rescue with a large pair of scissors. Finally, after way too much touching and far more intimacy than I'd ever wanted with anyone at all (let alone in Walmart), I had my freedom and Jillian had one less finger.
Walking out of the store shielding one dinosaur-sized butt cheek from the wind, I knew it'd never be the same.
I cannot seem to pinpoint what inspires the almost chemical high that fogs my brain upon entering this Valhalla; yet like an excellent bourbon, the experience is always reliably the same.
It's that fight or flight thing I think - my body knowing that, despite much learning to the contrary, walmart really is the best place to be in the apocalypse. Food, shelter, a change of clothes, air freshener, tweezers, and a place to charge my iPhone - All I need in the world. And much to my slight embarrassment, I really do spend a lot of time worrying about the end of the world. I'm sure it relates to some deep childhood trauma, but nonetheless. Walmart is better than Prozac for chilling this neurotic, anxiety ridden type-A creature.
And so it has gone, for many years...When life sucks, head to Walmart. A sure-fire path towards satisfaction and/or a new pair of socks. Until yesterday.
I ventured in to my friendly neighbourhood wally world (well, it wasn't really friendly. And it wasn't my neighbourhood.) and immediately felt my eyes go slightly and joyously out of focus. Like a rat to a sewer, I had once again found my safe place.
I began to wander aimlessly; first the refreshing freezer aisles, then the bounty of the sock section, onwards to the nirvana of electronics, and on and on it went, my mind emptying and my walmart meditation deepening. (If I ever discovered the key to world peace, I'm sure it'd be in the shampoo aisle.)
I continued in my trance, happy as a pig in mud. I somewhat coherently decided to wander towards the pharmacy - surely the prospect of anti-bacterial something or other would calm the last stray thoughts in my mind. I sniffed at the soaps, poked at the hair brushes, and then spotted it, my ultimate joy: the shrine to hand sanitizer. I picked up my pace, within reach of the sweet success of procuring yet another bottle of alcohol-based joy...and that's where it all went wrong.
I was trapped. My sedated brain could not comprehend what had happened. I tried to step forward. I tried a fancy little side step. Nothing. Finally, a little more alert (and aware that I had a growing audience) I peered behind me to see what had dared to impede upon my sanitizing satisfaction and was met by two unblinking jade eyes staring back at me. Quelling the panic at someone standing so! close! to me! I wriggled back a little farther and discovered the culprit: Jillian Michaels. Yes, that Jillian Michaels, of Biggest Loser fame. I had managed, in my altered state, to firmly and irrevocably attach the plus-sized ass of my pants to a life-size cardboard cutout of the fitness goddess herself.
At this point, as I'm sure you can imagine, there were a fair number of folks who had snapped themselves out of their walmart wonder to stare at my compromising position. And, can I just take a moment to recommend that, should one ever get oneself stuck to a cardboard cutout, do not choose Jillian Michaels. Your ass will resemble a small triceratops. Or one of those turkeys you make in preschool.
I wiggled. I squished. I jumped, I pried, I yanked, I swiveled. Yet here I remained, firmly placed, for all to see. "I'm ok, no really. It's all good. I'm just having a little rest. Yep, just hanging out. Isn't Jillian great? Have you tried her supplements?"
I was running out of ideas. In fact, I was in a serious mental debate about whether abandoning my pants was a viable option. But oh, there was a better one. Kandie, your walmart supervisor, came to my rescue with a large pair of scissors. Finally, after way too much touching and far more intimacy than I'd ever wanted with anyone at all (let alone in Walmart), I had my freedom and Jillian had one less finger.
Walking out of the store shielding one dinosaur-sized butt cheek from the wind, I knew it'd never be the same.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Letter to Limbaugh
Dear Rush Limbaugh,
I don't hate you on principle. I don't wish you a slow and agonizing death, nor would I take immense pleasure in seeing you covered in painful and unsightly boils...Though I did, once, suggest on twitter that I would not be offended were you to contract food poisoning.
So far, so good. I'm not one of those crazy leftist wingnuts who has "tampons stuffed in her ears" (So clever on the radio today; a dash of sexism when no one expected it! I am continually amazed, Mr. Limabugh.)
Now, Rush Limbaugh, I must ask; Why are you such a tool? In what part of your angry little brain did it seem like a good idea to make the comments you chose to make regarding Haiti? Could you picture your eloquent political arrow zinging president Obama right in his "light-skinned" chest? Did you get to put a big ol' check mark next to "Capitalize on Immense Human Tragedy" in your day planner? I'll bet that was darn tootin' wonderful wasn't it, Rush?
Oh, and we can't forget to thank Mr. Pat Robertson! Without his initial moronic misstep, You would have pulled the first "asshole" card! Thank God for the martyrs of the Christian Right! (ed. note: I have nothing against the majority of the Christian Right, A smidgen of bitterness notwithstanding.)
And we must take a moment to thank Free Republic for backing you up. Whatever would we do without a legion of zealous, oppressive, hate-mongers to spew rhetoric and meandering justifications. So! Great!
Also, I didn't know my income tax was going to Haiti. Are you sure it isn't sponsoring sex education? Oh, wait, it was gay marriage, wasn't it? Abortion! No? You must forgive me, between plotting how best to capitalize on Haiti's destruction & all the other leftist deviousness, I'm losing track of President Obama's Grand Master Plan of Progressive Evil.
Now I know you didn't really say not to donate to Haiti...There's that silly progressive-controlled media again, hmm? You were just giving us all a friendly heads-up that if we innocent little lambs contributed our hard-earned dollars to Haiti through our corrupt federal government, those dollars were more likely to be used to pay for a campaign aide's gay hooker in Vegas, right? Because, I mean, that's clearly what will happen. Clearly.
So Thanks, Rush Limbaugh, for clearing that up for me. I always wondered how many dead bodies it was ok to slander in order to take advantage of a so-so political slam!
Awesome.
Most Sincerely,
Molly
I don't hate you on principle. I don't wish you a slow and agonizing death, nor would I take immense pleasure in seeing you covered in painful and unsightly boils...Though I did, once, suggest on twitter that I would not be offended were you to contract food poisoning.
So far, so good. I'm not one of those crazy leftist wingnuts who has "tampons stuffed in her ears" (So clever on the radio today; a dash of sexism when no one expected it! I am continually amazed, Mr. Limabugh.)
Now, Rush Limbaugh, I must ask; Why are you such a tool? In what part of your angry little brain did it seem like a good idea to make the comments you chose to make regarding Haiti? Could you picture your eloquent political arrow zinging president Obama right in his "light-skinned" chest? Did you get to put a big ol' check mark next to "Capitalize on Immense Human Tragedy" in your day planner? I'll bet that was darn tootin' wonderful wasn't it, Rush?
Oh, and we can't forget to thank Mr. Pat Robertson! Without his initial moronic misstep, You would have pulled the first "asshole" card! Thank God for the martyrs of the Christian Right! (ed. note: I have nothing against the majority of the Christian Right, A smidgen of bitterness notwithstanding.)
And we must take a moment to thank Free Republic for backing you up. Whatever would we do without a legion of zealous, oppressive, hate-mongers to spew rhetoric and meandering justifications. So! Great!
Also, I didn't know my income tax was going to Haiti. Are you sure it isn't sponsoring sex education? Oh, wait, it was gay marriage, wasn't it? Abortion! No? You must forgive me, between plotting how best to capitalize on Haiti's destruction & all the other leftist deviousness, I'm losing track of President Obama's Grand Master Plan of Progressive Evil.
Now I know you didn't really say not to donate to Haiti...There's that silly progressive-controlled media again, hmm? You were just giving us all a friendly heads-up that if we innocent little lambs contributed our hard-earned dollars to Haiti through our corrupt federal government, those dollars were more likely to be used to pay for a campaign aide's gay hooker in Vegas, right? Because, I mean, that's clearly what will happen. Clearly.
So Thanks, Rush Limbaugh, for clearing that up for me. I always wondered how many dead bodies it was ok to slander in order to take advantage of a so-so political slam!
Awesome.
Most Sincerely,
Molly
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Next Time
I am fairly certain that, in my next life, I would prefer to be a small, angry, and startingly stealthy crocodile.
I'm sure you can see the appeal; endless opportunities for amusement, minimal threat higher up the food chain, excellent swimming capacity, varying locational options....
However, I cannot be sure that I would choose to use my destructive reptilian powers for good. In fact, it's probably a forgone conclusion that I would take the evil route. Temptation is not my strong point.
Does this mean I need to compensate in this life with an abundance of good deeds? And exactly what would the ratio be of good deeds vs. acceptable crocodile misbehavings? Most importantly, how do I ensure that a small child will not keep me in a kiddie pool in their backyard as a pet?
These are the important questions.
I'm sure you can see the appeal; endless opportunities for amusement, minimal threat higher up the food chain, excellent swimming capacity, varying locational options....
However, I cannot be sure that I would choose to use my destructive reptilian powers for good. In fact, it's probably a forgone conclusion that I would take the evil route. Temptation is not my strong point.
Does this mean I need to compensate in this life with an abundance of good deeds? And exactly what would the ratio be of good deeds vs. acceptable crocodile misbehavings? Most importantly, how do I ensure that a small child will not keep me in a kiddie pool in their backyard as a pet?
These are the important questions.
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