tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6176775509891823192024-03-05T11:51:06.315-05:00The TrbobitchCompletely random hilarity from an awesome wench with an awesome name that's not even hers (but hard-earned none the less)Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-36681987979530338912019-10-01T00:00:00.000-04:002019-10-07T15:33:29.736-04:00It's Halloween!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ok, it's not<b> </b><i>quite </i>Halloween yet... But do you think I am going to be the loser sitting at home on the Saturday before Halloween writing blog posts? If you answered No, you don't know me very well. But I digress, let's <i>pretend</i> like I am not that pathetic, k?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So Halloween... Candy, scary decor, pumpkins, pagan sacrificial rituals and COSTUMES! The one time of the year you get to be whatever you want to be. (Unless you're like me and have a seasonal job that requires you to wear a costume to work and think that there would be nothing more completely awesome than being a pirate, which, of course, there isn't). <i>Whatever you want to be, people!!</i> I mean, think of the possibilities! When I was a little kid, for a short period of time, I wanted to be a nurse. I don't know why I wanted to do that... Blood, shit, needles... ugh. Maybe that's why I stopped wanting to be a nurse. I think, actually, I wanted to be a nurse because my mom was a nurse and when they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had no fucking clue, so I said nurse. Anyway, you would think this is leading to me dressing up as a nurse for Halloween, right? WRONG!! I didn't. Instead, I was a witch or a cat or some other stupid, uncreative thing that involved makeup. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So where am I going with this? I'm not entirely sure, but between us, we'll get somewhere eventually. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ok, so you can be whatever you want to be. And, much like my story above, most people choose the standard, boring costumes or something that has to do with some stupid movie that was popular that year. Maybe this is lost on me because I never watch these movies and I always end up asking people "So what the hell are you supposed to be?" and I get these incredulous looks because, as it turns out, their costume is totally dead on for said movie and I probably should have figured it out by looking at the 15 other people dressed as the same thing - or at least realized there was something going on that I wasn't privy to and kept my mouth shut. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then you have the chicks. It seems that the favorite costume for Halloween is the prostitute, I'm sorry, <i>Lady of the Sidewalk</i>, outfit. Which is fine, the problem is, these chicks try to disguise these as different costumes. Like Firefighters or Pirates or even Nurses. Be careful, because you too could be </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">unwittingly </span>sucked into dressing like a street walker. I am going to let you in on a little secret I have discovered. You see, when you're shopping for a costume, you could be sucked into dressing like a hooker without even trying! I know, this is a huge conspiracy. Thankfully, I am here to put a stop to it. You see, many perfectly acceptable costumes are actually prostitute outfits. You don't want to be dressed like a prostitute. Here's how you find them:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">1. First and foremost giveaway: the name of the costume includes the word "sexy". Now, some costume manufacturers will cleverly try to hide this by putting it in parentheses, ie. Cat Costume (Sexy) or (Sexy) Witch. This, to you - the smart, well-educated enjoyer of fine literature that reads my blog - should make it all the more glaringly obvious. Others will simply label it as Sexy Nurse or Sexy Maid. Other misleading terms include, but are not limited to: Diva, sultry, adult and in some cases, teen (?!?!?!?!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2. The size of the package: This matters. Yes, as in most occasions, the size of the package matters and, when you're trying not to get picked up on a street corner (and other, obvious occasions) smaller isn't better. If your costume comes in a smaller package than your 4 year old's - especially if it includes a wig - you are about to attend that "kid friendly" party as a Lady of the Night. If the costume includes nothing but a wig and makeup, you're in serious trouble (or you're going to get propositioned for a "movie" role, in that case, Congrats! if you're into that sort of thing).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">3. Is it something a woman wouldn't normally dress up as? If this is the case, please check your costume carefully. Women don't usually dress up as <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sultry-Sailor-Costume-Womens-Gloves/dp/B002HSYS2E?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">sailors</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B002HSYS2E" height="1" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gangster-Halloween-Costume-Vintage-Naughty/dp/B002DW32PS?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">gangsters</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B002DW32PS" height="1" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Convict-Adult-Costume-RG-Medium/dp/B000TDO8A6?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">convicts</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000TDO8A6" height="1" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Halloween-Costumes-Police-Costume-Womens/dp/B000W5P8U0?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">cops</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000W5P8U0" height="1" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /> or<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Camouflage-X-Small-Double-stockings-included/dp/B0015ZTCBW?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank"> grunt level infantrypersons</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B0015ZTCBW" height="1" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That being said, ladies, if you <i>really</i> want to be a prostitute, then your choices are unlimited. Otherwise, feel free to write to these costume manufacturers and let them know you are on to their little scheme of selling you as little fabric as possible for an exorbitant amount of money and causing you to unwittingly portray that your highest aspiration in life is to become a Lady of the Sidewalk.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Bird</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFtWrG3KnW0n8VpB73n2-BUUAjHSqLMWZfxEHOigG-mTf-bf72p8RZbfl3_Ubxw68AaFHsDCBGe2IypsD3BXurINlSAp0j0hjjvAPy-4hl8eSh_-Gkks6inGiq1ofvkZ7Mjj5ud05I4EHH/s1600/slutbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFtWrG3KnW0n8VpB73n2-BUUAjHSqLMWZfxEHOigG-mTf-bf72p8RZbfl3_Ubxw68AaFHsDCBGe2IypsD3BXurINlSAp0j0hjjvAPy-4hl8eSh_-Gkks6inGiq1ofvkZ7Mjj5ud05I4EHH/s1600/slutbird.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slut Bird</td></tr>
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Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-90045330670997165062019-06-07T10:01:00.003-04:002019-06-07T10:14:40.153-04:00A Song of Disappointment and Bullshit: How HBO Ruined an Epic Regardless of how you felt about the second to last episode - I for one, found it wonderfully unpredictable and satisfying - I think there are few who would say they are happy with the series finale. Not for the same reasons as "Jaime Lannister should have gone out in a hero's death" (he kind of did) or "You made Dany a bad guy!! Waahh!". The reasons to hate the finale are more practical and less emotional. You may hate that Jon killed his queen and former lover. You may hate that the dragon melted the throne... But these things pale in comparison to the storyline and continuity issues that litter the episode. And don't even get me started on missed opportunities.<br />
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Let's start with the thing that personally bothers me the most, because this is my blog and I can do what I want, and what I want is to bitch about the meaning behind the animals, particularly the direwolves. Or, I should say, LACK of meaning. I kept waiting and waiting for the significance of the direwolves to be revealed. I felt like I got a glimpse of it early on when it seemed that the howling of Bran's direwolf, Summer, was what kept him alive. Not to mention Summer saving Cat from the knifeman. Rob dies, his wolf dies. Rickon dies, his wolf dies. Sansa's wolf dies, and nothing. Bran's wolf dies saving him, but Bran has become the Three Eyed Raven so he's technically no longer a Stark. And Ghost? He's badass, just like Jon. But none of it means anything except these are some Starks and they have giant pet wolves. It never really goes beyond that except in some instances where the wolves save them or someone else. And what about Nimeria? Why is there no meaning or significance to the fact that she is still alive but estranged from Aria? I would say it means Aria becomes estranged from her family, which she does, but Sansa becomes fucking QUEEN of Winterfell and her wolf is dead!<br />
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Then there are the dragons. I found some significance in the fact that Viserion was the one that got turned into a wight. Afterall, he was described as the smallest dragon and he was named after her shit of a brother who her husband, Khal Drogo, killed by dumping molten gold onto his head when he demanded the Khal give him his crown. I also thought there would be some significance to the fact that Jon rode Rhagal, the dragon named for Daenerys' brother, Rhagar, who also happens to be Jon's secret father. But it seems that was only the case because he was the only other dragon left.<br />
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Speaking of Jon and the dragons, let's talk about that for a second. Dragons only allow Targaryens to ride them and Dany knows this. Yet, she doesn't blink an eye when Jon gets on Rhagal; in fact, <i>she</i> suggests it. Either she is incredibly arrogant in thinking that the dragons will accept him because he is her lover, or someone really dropped the continuity ball.<br />
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And is it me, or does Daenerys not seem to show the proper amount of grief when one of the dragons dies? These are her <i>children</i> and the most we see or hear of it is "my dragon died so that...". She never really mourns either one of them. Yet, when Missandei dies, she locks herself in her chambers and refuses food. I mean, I get that they were close and that Missandei is human, but the dragons are her <i>children</i>!! The only children she will ever have!<br />
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Maybe I just set too much stock in the animals as something more symbolic than they were, but it really irritated me. And why would Drogon not have melted Jon instead of the iron throne? He's clearly the one who killed Dany and the dragons are supposed to be quite intelligent. Did he spare him because he's actually Aegon Targaryen? Which brings me to...<br />
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It's for nothing that Jon is Aegon Targaryen, the rightful heir to the throne. The biggest fucking bombshell in the entire series and it means <i>nada</i>. But I am getting ahead of myself. Other than the fact that the entire finale was a snoozefest, aside from the one scene where Jon offs the Mad Queen, it was just rife with things that made zero sense.<br />
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We watch Drogon spare Jon's life, melt the iron throne, then pick up Dany's lifeless body and fly off with her - perhaps to Valyria to find a red priest? Then cut to Tyrion and all the "lords" of Westeros. What? Where is Jon? Then we find out he was taken prisoner by the unsullied... Right, because Grey Worm was executing prisoners in the street but we are supposed to believe he spared Tyrion and Jon, who, oh by the way, killed his beloved Queen and Liberator. And how did anyone find out? I mean, ok, it's not out of the realm of belief that Jon told on himself, but they really leave that one up to imagination. They're clearly lazy like that. Especially about stuff that doesn't make any sense. Like how the unsullied have suddenly become so powerful that the Northerners allowed them to imprison the King in The North without a word of protest.<br />
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Then the Unsullied just leave. See ya, goobye. But we're still going to send Jon north anyway. And that brings me to the final major point. Why is Jon being sent to the Wall? Number one, the wall was melted by zombie dragon ice fire and number two, the Others are dead. The Wall isn't even needed any more. It just doesn't make any flippin sense!!<br />
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Look, I can deal with an ending I don't like. I could have dealt with all of this if it had a logical explanation. And maybe it does, but the writers did a poor job of conveying it, instead leaving us with a boring, unsatisfying and somewhat infuriating end to what was, up until now, an epic. Hopefully Martin saves us with his countless-years-in-the-making final books. The thing that makes all of it most disappointing is that you know exactly why they whiffed on the ending so badly... Spin-offs. Can't something ever just END? Oh no, not when we're making all this money.<br />
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Shame. Shame. Shame. HBO. I want to parade you naked in the streets and throw garbage and excrement at you.<br />
<br />Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-56306320920844552722015-07-28T19:56:00.000-04:002017-07-18T19:45:11.915-04:00Fun at the Airport[This is one from the archives. I wrote this after the fun with Truthers and Becktards.]<div><div><br></div><div>Now that I am done making fun of truthers, let's get back to the funny...<br>
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By now, you've all heard of the drama with the new TSA "security" measures. It seems now, in order for us to be absolutely safe on a flight (and make sure that no shady Arabs board a plane with explosives in their underwear) "random" people must either be subjected to a virtual strip search via high doses of x-ray radiation or receive an enhanced <strike>groping</strike> "pat down". I'm sure you all see the first flaw in this plan... Random people get searched. So, if I am a diabolical terrorist mastermind who wants to blow up a plane, I should put 3 or 4 people on the plane and put them all in line with each other, but have them tell the TSA they are not all "together". The chances of all 4 of them being searched are little to none. Maybe the TSA should hire me to figure this shit out for them...<br>
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Anyway, if you have to fly, you might as well have some fun with this. Obviously, any reasonable person would not choose to be exposed to an x-ray sans lead vest, so, if you're selected, you're going to have to opt-out of that and go for the "enhanced <strike>groping</strike> pat down". Now, I don't want to alarm anyone, like people who have been molested or victims of rape or people who are afraid of sex in general, but this procedure involves a complete stranger examining your private parts... If you don't want to be denied the ability to get on your flight, that you PAID for, here are some things you can do to avoid this humiliating experience (or at least make it even <b>more</b> humiliating for the person <strike>raping</strike> <strike>groping</strike> <strike>assaulting</strike> screening you):<br>
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1. Eat lots of Mexican food (or whatever gives you uncontrollable, stinky gas). When they get to the leg portion of your "pat down", rip one right in their face. To pull this off, you need to be able to fart on command. If you cannot do this, or think you might be subject to performance anxiety, keep reading.<br>
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2. When your <strike>molester</strike> screener approaches, tell them you'd like to ask them some questions before you are searched. Proceed to inquire about their sexual orientation. Tell them that they appear gay to you and you are not comfortable with a homo feeling your junk. Find some physical characteristic to point out and tell them it seems suspiciously gay to you, and that it defeats the purpose of having a same sex groper if they are gay.<br>
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3. Tell them you are the virgin daughter of a devout Mormon fundamentalist. Ask if this screening procedure is the equivalent of dry humping. When they give you a perplexed look, explain that dry humping is a sin and that you can only dry hump with your father until you are married. Ask if your father can perform the screening.<br>
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If you want to entirely avoid the pat down, here are some suggestions for things to tell them:<br>
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1. I have a horrific yeast infection.<br>
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2. My herpes decided to flair up this morning, before I could take my valtrex. My junk is 4 times the normal size and extremely painful and I would appreciate if you didn't touch it.<br>
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3. My holiday hemorrhoids are acting up, please don't touch them or they will rupture, and them we will have a big mess and I am sure you don't want that.<div><br></div><div>You should avoid telling them you have any sort of highly communicable disease, like leprosy or ebola, because you might get banned from your flight and be subjected to an even more invasive molestation by the CDC.</div></div></div><div><br></div><div>Some of you might try to appeal to my better nature (as if I had one) and tell me that these are awfully mean things to do to someone who's just try to do their job. To that I say... One, what the fuck kind of sadistic, made fun of in high school person takes a job molesting people instead of just becoming a cop? And two, if they can't find people to do it, no one will get groped until they teach robots. I'd rather be groped by a robot than by a 300 pound black woman with 3 inch finger nails.</div><div><br></div><div>I hope this little guide has helped you have a less humiliating and possibly entertaining if not pleasant experience at the airport. (Look, I just write, I don't work miracles).</div>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-45315863791862191162015-07-28T11:14:00.000-04:002015-07-28T19:58:21.466-04:00Real Texts - Office Edition<i>Note: If you observe the timestamps on the emails, this is clearly old... I am, in fact, no longer employed (not because of this, but wouldn't </i>that<i> be funny (not funny-haha, of course)). I believe I did pblish this after it was written but took it down of my own accord after said "secretary" somehow stumbled upon it, during work hours, and complained to my boss, who, if I remember correctly, found it quite hilarious. </i><br />
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So my job usually fluctuates between insanely busy and mind-numbingly boring. In either case, I couldn't resist replying to this email from our Secretary... Wait, they don't like that word, do they? I'd call her an Administrative Assistant, but she really doesn't do anything, nor does she ever "assist" anyone. Mostly, she walks around the office with her stinky old lady perfume that she bathes in, makes a lot of noise and bothers us via email about RSVPing for company lunches and such. Anyway, I'll just call her Bozo, she has the hair for it...<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">From:</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> The Clown, Bozo<br />
<b>Sent:</b> Friday, April 20, 2012 10:07 AM<br />
<b>To:</b> Pittsburgh<br />
<b>Subject:</b> Snacks</span></div>
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The company provides a limited amount of snacks for us to enjoy, along with coffee and tea. However, certain items - like the caramel cream candies and peanut-butter-filled pretzels - do not last as long as they should, which indicates that some of you may be pigging out (I have no idea who)! Please limit yourself to just a couple pieces of candy or pretzels per day so that we can continue to provide snacks on a limited basis for everyone.</div>
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Thanks!<br />
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Bozo</div>
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<b><span style="color: #1f497d;">Bozo The Clown</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #1f497d;">Administrative Assistant</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">From:</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Trbobitch<br />
<b>Sent:</b> Friday, April 20, 2012 10:10 AM<br />
<b>To:</b> The Clown, Bozo; Pittsburgh<br />
<b>Subject:</b> RE: Snacks</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_2_0_1_1334932503615124" style="color: #1f497d;">How long exactly are we expecting them to last? Maybe we should come up with a formula for how many pieces each person can have per day so that they last the appropriate amount of time… Anyone found taking more than their share per day can be publicly humiliated by wearing a rubber pig nose the rest of the day ;-)</span></div>
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(Obviously said facetiously to demonstrate the absurdity of bothering hard working professionals with such ridiculousness)<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">From:</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> The Clown, Bozo<br />
<b>Sent:</b> Friday, April 20, 2012 10:18 AM<br />
<b>To:</b> Trbobitch; Pittsburgh<br />
<b>Subject:</b> RE: Snacks</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">Great idea, Trbo! I’ll order one of these: </span><span style="color: #1f497d; text-decoration: none;"></span></div>
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[this was a picture of a pig nose mask]</div>
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=617677550989182319&postID=4531586379186219116&from=pencil" rel="nofollow" style="color: #234786; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span style="color: black; text-decoration: none;">I</span></a> don’t actually keep very close tabs on it. But when a big jar of regular pretzel sticks last several weeks and the peanut-filled ones are gone in three days – well, you do the math!</div>
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Bozo</div>
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(So I did the math... It's a 2.75 lbs jar of pb filled pretzels (pretzels are fairly dense/heavy). The distro for our office has 30 people on it. Assume 10 of these people work from home at least some of the time. That's 20 people taking a handful out of this jar on a daily basis... She's LUCKY it lasts 3 days)<br />
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And because I can't leave well enough alone:<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">From:</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Trbobitch<b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>Sent:</b> Friday, April 20, 2012 10:20 AM<br />
<b>To:</b> The Clown, Bozo; Pittsburgh<br />
<b>Subject:</b> RE: Snacks</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">Buying the regular pretzel sticks sounds like a logical solution to me. Everyone can then bring their own jar of peanutbutter </span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
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(What I really wanted to say was, if it stops these stupid emails from going out, buy the fucking regular pretzels!!)<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">From:</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> The Clown, Bozo<br />
<b>Sent:</b> Friday, April 20, 2012 10:22 AM<br />
<b>To:</b> Trbobitch; Pittsburgh<br />
<b>Subject:</b> RE: Snacks</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">It is a logical solution. But when we all prefer the other kind, it kinda sucks that we have to stop ordering them because we can’t control ourselves! However, if it comes to that, I can certainly order snacks that no one likes very much. Problem solved : )</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">Bozo</span></div>
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<br />
(OH boy! Threaten the one other person besides you who cares enough about this to be scared that you won't order the peanut butter filled pretzels!! Give me a fucking BREAK!)<br />
<br />
After some deliberation, H and I decided that Bozo, herself, is in fact the notorious pretzel thief. We came to this conclusion based on the following:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>According to the other email respondents, no one knew these pretzels existed in our office.</li>
<li>One of these people has an office right outside the kitchen</li>
<li>On Bozo's desk is a jar filled with these elusive "carmel cream candies", Bozo's desk is actually in the reception area, which is a separate part of the building from where everyone else is.</li>
<li>Even though we supposedly have a "snack budget" - it seems that snacks are purchased sporadically. We have gone several months without any snacks in the kitchen from Staples. Either that, or they are purchased regularly and not put in the kitchen... hmmmm.</li>
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So I have solved the great mystery of the Pittsburgh Office Snack Thief, can I have a peanut butter pretzel???</div>
Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-65845403333769205742011-11-17T14:49:00.003-05:002011-11-19T16:18:12.869-05:00Muddy Penishead?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A real conversation I had with my non-state-sanctioned husband over Gtalk at work today** (yes, I am muddslider, don’t judge): </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: I know right AND she's not mild to moderately retarded either</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">your god loves me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: my GOD loves everyone</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">thats why he amde us</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">made</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: um, have you SEEN carrot top?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: variety</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">if we were all cool no one would know the difference***</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: oh yeah, god loves the people of walmart</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: they are probably so much happier than we are</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: or maybe he loves me so much that he tortures others for my amusement</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">that is actually a pretty awesome god</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: you are a twisted twisted person</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: you're just now figuring that out?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: no i knew it</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">i just need to point it out to you</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">maybe you will mend your ways</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">haha</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: hahaha dreamer</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: Adam still loved Eve so I guess im ok</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: even if you have to wear a fig leaf now</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and all of our children will have to have sex with each other to populate the Earth</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: ugh</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: but at least WE'RE not inbreds, right?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: thats why we are so fucked up</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">no wonder we cant create a Utopia we're the people from WalMart</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: yep</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">thanks god</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: and its all eves fault. cunning woman</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: No, I'm pretty sure it's god's fault for letting Satan put the apple there</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">or wait</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">GOD put the apple there</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">just to be a manipulative bastard</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">"oh here, look at these yummy apples, but don't touch them"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: the apple is a metaphor for the woman having sex with satan</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: what??</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">what kind of Freudian bible school did you got to?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">go to</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: its enoch</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: who?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: Enoch</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: yes I read that, WTF is an enoch, sounds like something from starwars</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: he was eliminated by King James and the niceans from the bible</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: little midget people with plasma guns</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: The Book of Enoch</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: "Oh no, here come the Enoch! Cover your crotches!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: HAHAHA</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: this is so going on the blog</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: just stop</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: being funny? I can't</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">that's like asking me to stop breathing or stop painting my nails</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>penishead</b>: my name is never to show up in your Blog ever</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">haha</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>muddslider</b>: you have an alias, you know that</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Well, you have several now</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">but for this one, I will call you penishead</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
** This was totally a work-related conversation as "penishead" is my unpaid adviser and source of inspiration.<br />
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*** I didn't bother pointing out to him that if we were indeed "all cool" then no one <i>would</i> know the difference; ergo, no one would ever get made fun of. Why bother having a serious philosophical conversation when it can degrade into making fun of the lost books of the bible? </div>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-5211172137501508122011-11-15T17:08:00.000-05:002011-11-15T17:08:42.441-05:00Why America Kicks ASS!Once, America was a beautiful nation. Not because of the idea of American exceptionalism or the arrogance that comes with such an idea. Oh, she was exceptional, but not because of her power. She was exceptional because she was the only nation built on the idea that all men are free. America once believed that other nations are also sovereign and that it wasn't in her power or right to be involved in entangling alliances, nation-building campaigns or out-right crusades against any other nation, peoples or ideas.<br />
<br />
There was once a time when people minded their own business, but helped each other when needed, welfare was in the form of charity and you respected other people's property (partially because there was once a sense that stealing was wrong and partially because your neighbor would blow you to Kingdom Come without batting an eyelash - or getting sentenced to hard time - if you tried to take his shit). Now we have a government that gets 100% of its funding by theft, throws you in jail for protecting your family and property and tells you what you can and cannot eat and how your children should be educated. They then take your stolen money and distribute it around the world in the form of foreign aid and nation building campaigns, all to "keep you safe".<br />
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What do Americans have to say about this?<br />
<br />
"Amerika, fuck yeah!" quotes one toothless gentleman from Alabama.<br />
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"We have to get the terrorists before they get us!" quotes a housewife from Illinois, while she browses the latest issue of Cosmo. "My government is keeping me safe."<br />
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"I am making fortune on my Blackwater stocks!" says a businessman from New York, while he climbs into his BMW.<br />
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America, it's awesome, oh yes. We're straight up asskickers and everyone hates our wealth and freedom. I mean, shit, have you walked into a <i>Walmart</i> lately? Have you seen the ultra-cool people and the super cheap Chinese goods?<br />
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If I were a radical Muslim terrorist, I would be shaking in my boots after I was finished being totally jealous of this display of sheer AWESOME.<br />
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I can definitely say I would NOT fuck with this lady. Especially if my skintone was darker than the paint on the White House. Just sayin.<br />
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We raise our kids here in America with not only love and nurturing, but with judicial discipline and ninja training. Now shut the fuck up and get Mommy another beer before I slap those tears out of your god forsaken eyeballs!! Incidentally, if you'd like to purchase the <strike>child leash</strike> <i>3-in-1 Harness Backpack</i>, <a href="http://www.walmart.com/ip/Jeep-Puppy-Backpack-Harness-Brown/15862798#ProductDetail">Walmart does carry them</a>. They're even made by Jeep, can that get any cooler? I mean, Jeep is probably made in Somalia or something, but who really cares? We're America, we don't need to make fluffy kid leashes when we have this:<br />
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That's right. Do you think they make asses like that in China? I don't think so. In fact, given the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One-child_policy">One Child Policy</a>, I will bet that female ass (of any shape/size) is a <i>hot</i> commodity in China. Anyone seeing a business opportunity here?<br />
(All photos courtesy of <a href="http://peopleofwalmart.com/">http://peopleofwalmart.com</a>)<br />
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Ok, so that was funny, right? Really? Are you sure?<br />
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I find it quite sad, because many of these people really do represent the vast majority of "American Culture". the Japanese have samurais and ninjas, Italy has pasta and gondolas, France has wine and french toast... What does America have? Trailer trash, rednecks, 5th generation welfare recipients driving Cadillacs and lots and lots of bombs.<br />
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Why aren't you all very, very scared right now?Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-71842227612351912952011-09-16T17:21:00.000-04:002011-09-16T17:21:52.922-04:00Open Letter to the Liberty "Movement"Dear Liberty "Movement",<br />
<br />
Why did I put movement in quotes? Because the first thing I think of when those words come out of my mouth (or off of my keyboard) is <i>bowel movement.</i> Right or wrong, all of this shit has left a very bad taste in my mouth and I do not believe any of us are accomplishing what we want (and I wonder what some of "us" actually <i>want </i>to accomplish...).<br />
<br />
All too often I see or hear Libertarians, Truthers, Anarchists, Voluntaryists, etc etc calling people "stupid", "sheep", "sheeple", on and on. I hear them telling people they are not educated and they are brainwashed, yada yada. All you people do is run around pretending like you have all the answers. Why? Because you read the Internet?? The tool given to us by social engineers and controlled by social engineers. You spend hours each day reading infowars.com and arguing with others on facebook (probably while sitting in your mom's basement)... Get a life! Those people you call stupid sheeple actually have a better idea than you do about enjoying life. You are proof that those in power are winning when you spend your entire existence fighting them (and each other) instead of living the one life you were given (or, at least, will remember)!!<br />
<br />
You are dogmatic like the Christian who wants to save the immortal soul, or the atheist who wants to free people from religious constraints. You want to "save" people by insulting them. You expect them to listen to you, fighting against the "elite" while you, yourself, are behaving far more elitist than anyone they have ever met in their lives. While people are watching American Idol, you are insulting them for celebrity worship, while at the same time, you are worshiping your own subset of celebrities (I like to call them quasi-celebrities). You stand in line to get books signed, shake hands and get pictures that you frame and put on your mantle. You brag on Facebook about meeting some guy that 95% of the population has never even heard of. You flock to their youtube pages and blogtalk radio shows to listen to them preach about "thinking for yourself", and afterwards you spew their talking points to others, insisting YOU are right.<br />
<br />
"Big L" Libertarians play the politics game like any neocon or Deomocrat, without any of the same power or funding. Anarchists chastise Minarchists for being "uneducated statists". Ron Paul supporters alienate 911 Truthers for having the balls to stand up and demand the truth because it "hurts" their political game. Truthers berate LIHOPers for not being "awake". Alex Jones listeners hang on his every word and think because he says to "go check it our for yourself" that they don't have to. The Paytriots want you to fund their lives as "full time activists", like Liberty Welfare. People in the Ron Paul and other "Liberty" campaigns work behind the scenes to gain power and control, destroying anyone who dares get in their way...<br />
<br />
All the while, we ALL profess to be working toward the goal of freedom for humanity. Why do those in power keep winning? Because they are unified in their agenda of control, global domination (<i>Pinky: Gee, Brain, what are we going to do tonight? The Brain: Same thing we do every night, Pinky. Try to take over the world.</i>), social engineering and depopulation. They have a common goal, and they don't argue about it. They do it, and they do it right in front of our fucking faces. So while you all are arguing about whether 911 was an inside job or if Gary Johnson is better than Ron Paul, you are being controlled, manipulated and brainwashed just like everyone else, except at least <i>those</i> people are living their lives in ignorant bliss.<br />
<br />
You guys can keep your cliques, your cult of personality and your dogma. You are all equally as manipulative and <i>shitty</i> as any other body of power. You are all equally as controlled as Republicans, Democrats and the apathetic. I'm not above it either, no one is. We have lost our humility (if we ever had any) and turned into exactly what we are trying to fight against, and I think a lot of people enjoy it. It's their way of gaining power and fame when they are not good enough to do so in the "real world".<br />
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I hope we can all find peace within ourselves, despite the other things going on in the world. I hope we can all never stop searching for truth and being open-minded, that we don't become the dogmatics we rail against. I hope we can all gain a scrap of humility and realize we are not perfect, nor do we have all the answers. Above all else, I hope that you can all learn to work together for freedom, instead of fighting each other insisting that <i>your</i> version of it is the "right" one. After all, freedom is the ability for each of us to do as we please, as long as we hurt no one else.<br />
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With as much love as I can muster,<br />
TrboTrbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-39207256226375995732011-07-26T19:00:00.000-04:002011-07-27T18:08:54.839-04:00How To Successfully Be A RedneckI'm not sure why I chose this title... Because the more I think about it, the more I realize I actually kinda failed at being a redneck. See, you'd think being a redneck would be pretty simple since it doesn't involve money, fashion sense, basic hygiene or a firm grasp of the English language (or any other language for that matter) - perhaps these things were my downfall. I have come to the realization that it takes equal part skill and bad genetics to be a successful redneck and I am evidently seriously lacking in both.<br />
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The weather this weekend in da 'Burgh was immensely torrid and, because I a. don't have cooling system that is centrally located which distributes sweet relief throughout my entire home and b. didn't have a swimsuit that would be appropriate for a genteel young lady such as myself to wear in public, Awesome Boyfriend and I were stuck brainstorming ways to cool ourselves off in the midst of the Worst Heatwave EVER. Since I have children and quite frequently make use of their toys and gadgets for my own enjoyment, it seemed perfectly natural to use their inflatable water containment device for my own personal comfort. Unfortunately, by the time I got done blowing up the pool and filling it with water (which I forgot to turn off causing it to overflow and creating a small mudpit in the backyard) it began to storm and by the time ABF got there, I was in the midst of a hormonally induced psychotic meltdown, so while swimming in lightning seemed like a completely rational idea to me at the time, I was once again saved by the unending rational and non-impulsive mind of my male better half. <br />
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The next day however, proved to be equally as sweltering and hyperthermia inducing. Swimming (and I use that term lightly, only because water and semi-submerged bodies are involved, it was more like "lounging") in the kiddie pool commenced. We sat in the "pool", drank beer and watch Redheaded Bitch and Chinashop Bull (dogs, people... dogs - their names have been changed to protect their inherent canine right to privacy) make one another's acquaintance for the first time. This involved Bitch attempting to hump Bull from behind... When that didn't work, she went straight for the full facial. This seemed to be more gender appropriate and socially acceptable to Bull, and he allowed it. It was almost as good as watching a cockfight or horse race or some other illegal gambling activity involving animals. Just imagine a 47lbs Husky attempting to hump a 100lbs Rottweiler and getting away with it.<br />
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Now you might be thinking that, so far, we are totally winning at being rednecks... You would be right, except that we were drinking craft beer instead of Old Milwaukee and we were sitting outside a 3 bedroom house with a basement instead of a doublewide on cinder blocks. There was also no trace of old tires, rusted out truckbed caps or half-naked filthy children running around the yard in saggy diapers nor was any country music being blared from a pickup truck with the doors left open to better hear the tunes. I even exchange my white-trashy, too-small-topped swimsuit which was showing more of my boobs than it was covering for a fancy number from Victoria's Secret (specifically designed for the mammarily "gifted") that had just come in the mail. Rednecks don't wear $100 swimsuits. Rednecks don't own anything that costs over $20, unless it's a shotgun and even those are usually passed down from their great great grandpa who was only somewhat affected by redneck genes yet still managed to put in his hours coal-mining or digging trenches or something that made him some sort of sustainable income. <br />
<br />
We completed our adventure in backwoods hillbilly bliss by going to dinner at the Texas Roadhouse. What we lacked earlier in auditory resemblance to redneckedness we surely made up for in this place. "I lost my truck and my dawg and my pickup 'cause that woman done left me and now I gotta drown my sorrows in a pitcher of Coors in a bar with a sawdust floor" was blaring from what seemed like the very building itself. Delectable cuts of bovine were prominently displayed behind a glass (probably plexiglass or just plain old plastic) display case where you could choose your own dinner, peanut shells were strewn across the floor throughout the entire place (I think this may have been staged - you know, to make it look more redneck than it really was, cause there weren't any in the bathroom and surely rednecks would definitely eat peanuts in the shitter) and the drink specials were pitchers of cheap beer and different "sweet tea" flavor cordials mixed with things like Jack Daniels and Southern Comfort.<br />
<br />
To add to this authentic Texas experience, we were seated directly next to a table full of Mexicans and our waiter seemed a little... "slow". Maybe he was just nervous to be in the presence of the extreme awesomeness of the Dynamic Duo... or maybe a little of both. When I asked about a drink on the menu, he told me that the people who just left his other table had 3 of them. I looked at him very seriously and told him that he should not have served them so much alcohol and then permitted them to drive home. He looked very nervous and stated, "Oh, haha, no, they had three altogether, each of them had one." How each of them ordering only one each demonstrated that said drinks were so fantastic was entirely beyond me, so he either really believed that I was someone from the Liquor Control Board or he was just not the sharpest tool in the shed. "A" for effort, sweetheart, "A" for effort. <br />
<br />
Despite being a little slow, quite talkative and a bit socially awkward, he was a good waiter. That is why I chose to express my concerns to him about the rest of the "staff" there. It was beyond me how anyone working in redneck heaven could seemingly hate their job as much as most of the adolescent girls there... When it came time for someone to have a birthday (which invariably happens if you choose to dine at one of these mid-range franchise restaurants on a weekend), the saddle on wheels was rolled out, a little girl was lifted onto it by a reasonably enthusiastic young male member of the staff, an announcement was made and the birthday singing began. Sadly, the girls singing weren't even a micro-fraction as enthusiastic as the young man, otherwise, I would not have been torn between being completely embarrassed at the pathetic performance and fighting the urge to stand up and give that poor little girl the birthday song she deserved.<br />
<br />
Not being paid minimum wage to do so, I successfully resisted the latter, but my righteous indignation at the former caused me to have a little chat with our waiter when he came over. I told him that the poor little girl sitting there should have been sung to with some gusto and he should tell those girls that work-ethic is very important in America, as is customer service, and that they should be ashamed of themselves for ruining that poor little girl's birthday. Now she'll probably grow up to be a welfare bum because they'd set a bad example and her crushed faith in humanity will probably cause her to become addicted to heroin (ok, I didn't tell him all this, but this was the point I was trying to get across to him). To my surprise, he came back and said he told the non-singing girls what I said. Awesome BF just kinda glared at me and was all "Great, now we're going to be eating spit". To which Waiter replied "Oh no, they'd never do that! They'd get fired if they did that!"... Evidently, though they tolerate staff that sings to small children less than half-assed, the Texas Roadhouse has a very strict "no spitting in customers' food policy" that is vigilantly monitored and promptly punished by termination. Good to know.Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-3114910948128577982011-07-11T18:01:00.000-04:002011-07-11T18:01:06.569-04:00Gross PeopleLet's talk about gross people. When I say gross people, I don't mean fat, ugly, stinky, hairy people who eat their boogers and wear spandex (we'll talk about them later)... I mean couples who make you want to vomit in your drink because, when they are out in public, no one else seems to exist in their world but the two of them. They're all hand-holding, face-sucking, snooky-wookying, OMFG-would-you-two-get-a-fucking-room and it pisses me off. No, I'm not jealous, I just think if you're going to be all over each other and ignore everyone else and the fact that they are trying in vain to hold down their lunch in your presence, you should just stay home and have sex til you can't stand to look at each other any more.<br />
<br />
Seriously, no one needs or wants to hear your "I love yoooou" "I love you moooorrrre" "I love you the mostessst" waste of oxygen dialog. We get it, you love each other... Get over it, move on and talk about something meaningful you fucking kitten licking unicorn humpers. You can't eat love... and while the both of you were sitting there drooling all over each other, I ate your $50 filet mignon that you were going to share. Fortunately for me, you didn't notice; even though the only thing either of you has eaten for the past week is each other's face.<br />
<br />
And why is everything "ours"? Why do you speak as if the two of you are one entity? Yeah, yeah, I get the whole "two become one" blah blah bullshit, but seriously... "we had to pop a nasty zit on our back before we got here, sorry we're late" is not only completely disgusting, it's entirely inaccurate. It's not your collective back... He has a back and you have a back. ONE of your backs was infested with said zit and ONE of you popped it. For fuck's sake!<br />
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My favorite is "we're on our period"... Ummmm, last time I checked, men don't have uteri and cannot bleed from their nether regions once a month (well, technically, I guess they could, but far from being the normal course of things, I'd say that would be a pretty significant cause for concern). Besides all of that, any man who would even <i>want</i> to own something like that has quite evidently been pussy-whipped into a state of complete patheticness and is an utter humiliation to the entire male species.<br />
<br />
That shit gets old... It was already old for everyone else the first time they saw you together, it'll be old for you two soon enough. It will go from "My darling pookie-poo" to "you god damn asshat motherfucker!!" in no time. We'd all appreciate if you'd just stay home and boink each other's brains out until you at least get to the just calling each other "babe" part and spare the rest of us your disgusting, vomit-inducing, brain curdling infatuation fest. We all know you're going to be having knock-down, drag-outs over the color of the curtains and how often you no longer have sex in a few weeks.<br />
<br />
In an effort to avoid this with the object of my affection, I solemnly vow to boink his brains out on a semi-daily basis for the next year or so. You're welcome.Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-33167413978678056232011-06-13T14:14:00.003-04:002011-06-14T17:31:12.320-04:00It's All Just Ambiguous Expendable Bullshit<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Ever have a life situation where it's like you're playing a game and the game is fun, then one day you're thinking "wait a minute, this game is getting old, it's not fun anymore!"? The game ceases to be fun when there is no end, when there is no WINNING. At the same time, when you can't define what winning is, you're forced to continue playing a frustrating game. Then you think to yourself, "fine, I'll just stop playing." But, doesn't that mean you lose? And what is worse? Losing or playing a game you can't win? Yeah, I'm gonna go with losing on this one.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'm hoping that putting a couple of $5 words in the title makes up for the rambling pity-fest you're about to read. I probably shouldn't even be writing about this... Maybe it's just <i>yet another</i> overreaction. Seems I have been assuming something for the past year that evidently wasn't true. I'm not talking something trivial like assuming that everyone loves bacon, I'm talking something that makes me think of the cliche "assume makes an ass of u and me", except this time I'm kinda the only one who has been made an ass of. It's not the first time, it won't be the last - it's certainly not hard to make me look stupid and naive (even if I am neither), especially if you have a penis and a few choice, suave words (I'm a sucker for an ego stroking).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As it turns out, just because you are sleeping together on a regular basis, talking on the phone a few times a week and showering together occasionally doesn't mean that you are an actual couple. In fact, you're probably nothing more than glorified fuck buddies and no matter how much you want to believe differently, when nothing is being said it's just a stupid stupid move on your part to assume you are anything more. He might tell that Mexican dude in the bar that you are his girlfriend, but that's just so the other dude doesn't try to take you home with him (as if you would go home with that dude, anyway). See, if it's been like a year and his friends aren't really sure what to call you and just end up assuming you're "special friends" then he obviously doesn't think highly enough of you to present you, unambiguously, as his "girlfriend", "lady", "partner" or even "better half".</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The best part of all of this is finding out from someone else. Enjoying some good music (that you busted your ass to get home in time to see your "special friend" play) and basically having the bomb dropped on you. It's not as if it's anything more than confirming what you already knew deep down, but after this long, it would be nice to hear it from the source. Then you have to spend the rest of the evening smiling and pretending like nothing is wrong while you're sitting there working all of this information out in your head and it begins dawning on you that, yeah, you knew this - but that still doesn't make it any less difficult to swallow. You feel like a vibrator that's seen too many sets of D batteries - your battery door is held on with duct tape and the only setting that still works is supersonic jackhammer. You don't get much use any more and you're rotting away in a drawer. That was a stupid analogy but you get the point.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The best part of this all is... (Wait, I had a "best part" already, yeah well I guess it just keeps getting better!!!) ...When the realization of being had comes one day before the semi-official one year mark (consummation if you will) of this ambiguous union. I'm probably supposed to be angry. Most people would probably agree that I would have every right to be downright livid. Thing is, I chose to make assumptions based on equivocal, at best, information and subtleties instead of growing some fucking balls and asking that things be made 100% clear.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Today, I feel like someone has played the cruelest possible joke on me... The worst part of this feeling is the realization that <i>I've</i> been playing the joke on myself. I've been warned from every possible angle and I <i>chose</i> to ignore it either because I am naive or because I believe in things greater than myself, in giving the benefit of the doubt. I'm a fucking SUCKER, either way.</span>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-17932897357081564202011-06-06T17:48:00.001-04:002013-05-06T08:54:10.120-04:00Actual Run-in With a Cop (I didn't make this one up and I have the ticket to prove it)<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">As most of you know, I recently picked up 2 other Freedom Fighters in the TrboMobile and traveled to Washington DC to stand with other activists at the Thomas Jefferson Monument in protest of the ridiculous ruling that we cannot dance with or in honor of our favorite Founding Father. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I drug myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 5:00am, a time I rarely see unless it's in a drunken stupor following an all-nighter (preferably with my legs thrown over the shoulders of a HBG). I couldn't leave until 7:00 and I had to drive North first to grab my first passenger. We then stopped in the uh, quaint little village of Morgantown, WV to pick up another lovely lady. About 2 hours into the trip a fascist swine in the beautiful state of Maryland decided to harass me for harming no one. The official charge is "Exceeding maximum speed: 100 MPH in a posted 65 MPH zone". They are extorting $290 from me, presumably to pay for donuts and coffee. I was simply doing my patriotic duty in an attempt to make it into DC in time for the festivities which were to begin at 12:00 sharp.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">My original plan was to make the 2 hour drive down to Maryland to fight the ticket, this would require me to take a day off of work (that I could otherwise take and spend doing productive things like sunning myself and getting drunk) and spend another $50 in gas (more donut taxes). My fear was that I would end up with 4 points on my driver's license (and how awful would it be if I couldn't drive???). However, after speaking with my insurance agent today, and sharing stories of getting pulled over for speeding, I was informed that out of state tickets do not put points on my license and they do not make my insurance go up. That being said, I would still normally fight the ticket, but the added hassle and expense of taking an entire day off, finding a babysitter and driving down there to probably lose the case anyway (and probably piss of the judge and the fascist swine and get thrown in jail in bum fuck Maryland) has made me determine that the best thing for me to do is pay the ticket.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Friends suggested that I start a chip in to get help with this. It's not normally something I would do (my awesomeness prevents me from asking for help, even when I need it), but I have to pay this ticket in 30 days or face a warrant for my arrest and suspension of my license. This is where you come in, fellow cohort in World Domination: if all of my friends can chip in even $1, I'll be saved from rotting in a cell with a metal toilet and urine stained cot, getting molested by toothless lesbian convicts.</span></span></span></div>
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Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-64320666368035135212011-05-21T21:12:00.004-04:002011-10-22T00:02:37.049-04:00Not the End of the World, Just the RaptureSo did you guys hear that the rapture took place today? I know what you're thinking... "Everyone's still here, this is bullshit". My friends, this is NOT bullshit, Jesus really did come to Earth today and take those who are "worthy" according to the bible. No really, I'm super serial.<br />
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Let's start at the beginning: Some holy man, whose "organization" has received about <a href="http://money.cnn.com/2011/05/19/news/economy/may-21-end-of-the-world-finances-harold-camping/index.htm">$80 million in donations</a> since 2005, has used his divine critical thinking skills to kindly inform us of when the bible tells us the world will end. By some very creative interpretation, we get that the the flood that took place back in 4990 BC (and I can in no way verify that the Good <strike>Fairytale</strike> Book actually gives this date) will actually take place again in 7000 years because the man upstairs was actually relaying a message to the future people, knowing that his book would survive many thousands of years perfectly intact and accurately interpreted and translated (since he decided at one point all people couldn't speak the same language because then they would become more powerful than him). So when he said the rain would begin in 7 days, what he <a href="http://www.ebiblefellowship.com/outreach/tracts/may21/"><i>actually</i> meant</a> was 7 <i>thousand years</i>. That god, he's such an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, deep fried in riddles!<br />
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So anyway, when you do the math (look at the link I don't have time for such brain work!), it turns out that today is the day. Yeah, Jesus came today, and since you're reading this, I'm sorry you missed him! Don't feel bad, I was hoping he'd come save me from having to cut my 3ft high grass *sadface*. So I did some of that praying, and I asked Mr. Omnipotent Being why everyone was still here. He told me that the following excludes people from being included in the rapture:<br />
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1. Those who don't love thy neighbor, banging his wife does not count as love even if you DID mow their lawn.<br />
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2. Those who don't honor thy mother and father. Which nursing home did you send them to again? Oh, and remember that time in high school? That thing you said to them? Yep, you.<br />
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3. Those who have had sex during "that time of the month". You know you're guilty. In fact, if you've even sat on something that she just sat on, you're guilty.<br />
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4. Sodomy. Yep, you again... Thought that would be a clever way of getting around the blood thing? Guilty! Doesn't matter if you used a condom.<br />
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5. Ever said "Jesus christ!" or "god dammit!" in a fit of rage? No? Think you're safe? Nice try fucker... even "piss" makes you... GUILTY! (Fuck and any variation thereof that does not include the words "Lord", "god", "Jesus" or "piss" is ok, god fucking dammit!)<br />
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6. Ever cut your grass, exercise, clean or go to work on Sunday? GUILTY!<br />
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7. Ever tell you mom the cat broke her favorite Betty Boop knick knack? Or maybe that your belly hurt when it really didn't and you just wanted to get out of going to school? LIAR! No rapture rescue for you!<br />
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8. Ever tell your hubby the steamy gossip about the lady next door cheating on her dying husband? Not only is Jesus not coming to save her, he's not gonna come get you either! BAM!<br />
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9. Ever eat shrimp, lobster, bacon or locust? (You ate the locust, didn't you???) You lose.<br />
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10. Not going to church on Sundays? Oh you do? GOOD! Are you giving God his 10%?? Are you? God's not the IRS there are no exemptions! He doesn't care if you needed your oil changed and your kids live off ramen noodles... CHEATER!<br />
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He told me a bunch of other stuff, but I asked him to stop because it was all making sense now. I asked him if Jesus took anyone. God told me that 3 people made the cut: one was in a coma since birth and the other two were solitary, celibate monks who lived off of nothing but spring water and took vows of silence.<br />
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It's ok though, we only have to put up with hell on Earth until October. I imagine that means it's not going to stop raining (flood maybe), it will be 95 degrees in Pittsburgh every single day and my air conditioner will die. He's also planning to blast Justin Bieber and Katy Perry music from the trumpets of heaven for all to hear. Oh, and spandex will make a come back.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 15px;">Pimp Daddy Jesus... He's coming to give you some gospel. That is not a crucifix in his robe, he's just happy to see you.</span></div>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-79811211624994980802011-05-02T13:25:00.006-04:002011-10-22T00:09:12.221-04:00Osama Bin Dyin'So we finally killed Osama Bin Laden.... Again. Yes, you heard me. This isn't the first time <a href="http://educate-yourself.org/cn/2001/riconosciutoandtimosman8nov01.shtml">Mr. Tim Osman</a> has kicked the bucket. This guy's got more lives than a Hindi cat channeling Jesus. Considering he's <a href="http://www.activistpost.com/2011/05/osama-bin-laden-pronounced-deadfor.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+ActivistPost+%28Activist+Post%29&utm_content=FaceBook">died like 15 times</a>, THREE times in 2002 alone, I'd recommend that <s>Der Fürher</s> Obama (Barack, not Osama, no overt allusions here *cough* Faux News *cough cough*) not start hoisting the "Mission Accomplished" banner just yet. Seems that Mr. Bin Laden is channeling <a href="http://www.mariowiki.com/Bowser">Bowser</a> (or King Koopa, that thing's name seems to have changed from the days when I played Mario Bros.), no matter how many times you make it through the castle and kill him, he's always waiting at the next one, still hiding the princess.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0xOYYuauo2Eu4SWC8gV2UJARturSzrP9GzxsW3mx-qiz7RvLtNaz4mKtSZdqLcqa8FtVBu_fbvpywtyGO4xML6aFjt2ArdIBjAkYM207JzkCDkKOsRAmwiX1UydvrT3Tf2UwPLLQWwBvr/s1600/18923.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0xOYYuauo2Eu4SWC8gV2UJARturSzrP9GzxsW3mx-qiz7RvLtNaz4mKtSZdqLcqa8FtVBu_fbvpywtyGO4xML6aFjt2ArdIBjAkYM207JzkCDkKOsRAmwiX1UydvrT3Tf2UwPLLQWwBvr/s320/18923.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Next is the question of WHICH Bin Laden has been killed this time... See, it seems this guy has at least one other "twin" who really doesn't even look like him. We've got the traditional grey bearded <a href="http://www.dvorak.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/osama-bin-laden-2007-picture5.jpg">Osama</a> and the more metro-sexual black beard (Just For Men FTW!). Then we've got the fat nosed and the skinny nosed... of course, I'm sure it's the same guy who just got punched in the face by a bad-ass American Marine, who didn't bother capturing or killing him then. Or maybe that happened one of the times they "killed" him but he was then resurrected by Mohammad, who couldn't be bothered with making him look the same... I mean, that works out in their favor right? Cause you know, those dumb Americans will believe anything and they will be so busy calling the people who actually pay attention "crazy conspiracy theorists" that they totally won't notice that the <i>new</i> Bin Laden is right-handed even though he is listed as left handed.<br />
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Conveniently, after not even 24 hours, we couldn't find anyone who would bury Bin Laden (I mean, what respectable, America-hating Mosque would want to bury a the Martyr who single-handedly abolished Western infidel freedoms in their backyard!), so we decided to just <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/world/2011/05/02/islamic-scholars-question-bin-ladens-sea-burial-1416556677/">dump his body in the ocean</a>. This will surely not spark outrage amongst the evil terrorists, considering they are fanatical Muslims, but would be totally ok with their leader not being given a proper burial. There surely won't be any blowback from this! In fact, they'll be thanking us, those sand-dwellers, for giving him an awesome funeral. I've always wanted to be buried at sea, haven't you? And it's also saving them tons of money on funeral costs... It's not cheap to die these days. Damn, we're just a bunch of fucking stand-up guys, aren't we?<br />
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So we're all happy this guy is dead, right? I mean, why not? He was responsible for 911, even if the <a href="http://www.fbi.gov/wanted/topten/usama-bin-laden">FBI's Most Wanted listing</a> of him makes no mention of this. I mean, he's only responsible for the biggest act of terrorism in the history of the US, I don't really see any need to mention that in his fugitive credentials, do you? Now we can all cheer because we've spent about $1.2 Trillion dollars, killed hundreds of thousands of people and "showed those fucking camel jockies that you don't mess with the US!"<br />
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Remember, this is a never ending war, much like the War on <s>Inanimate Objects</s> Drugs, until we get rid of ALL the drugs, we haven't won. Don't forget, these people hate our freedom. The government was kind enough to pass the <a href="http://www.aclu.org/national-security/usa-patriot-act">Patriot Act</a>. That's the one where they store our freedom in a locker (much like they did with our retirements in the form of Social Security) to keep it safe for us so the terrorists can't steal it. Don't worry, you'll get your <a href="http://www.scn.org/ccapa/pa-vs-const.html">First, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth and Fourteenth Amendment Rights</a> back just as soon as we rid the world of Jihadists.<br />
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This also means that terrorism has ended, right? And we can all come home now...? No? Well of course not, you idiot! Now all the terrorists are REALLY mad at us and if we don't kill them ALL, they will come here and rape our babies and eat our women! So while it may be a time for celebration, singing National Anthems and chanting <a href="http://sports.espn.go.com/new-york/mlb/news/story?id=6463361&campaign=rss&source=MLBHeadlines">"USA USA USA!!"</a> like a bunch of <a href="http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/154473/aramaic-cool">brainwashed drones</a>, we still have to send other people's kids to die fighting wars on transient verbs. It's ok though, because you can still play Facebook General and watch the blowing up of innocent sub-humans on your TV while you drink your piss-water, fluoridated beer and eat your GMO corn chips. Don't forget to wave your flag and yell "God bless the USA!! Turn that sand into glass!!" (because God, of course, blesses those who kill other people to steal their natural resources).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-47907491451331041102011-04-28T18:26:00.002-04:002011-04-29T18:38:06.395-04:00Open Letter to Covert Celeb WatchersDear People Who "Don't Care" About the Royal Wedding,<br />
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Evidently, you care more than the average person, like me, because up until a few days ago, I had only a vague notion about some "royal" (I mean, they're not even real monarchs anymore, are they? It's all just for ceremonial purposes and so the Brits can keep saying "God save the Queen" (from what exactly, no one knows... Poisoned sweetmeats, perhaps?)) wedding taking place somewhere in Europe between some royal dude and some chick who I am not sure is royalty (whatever the fuck that even means any more... Maybe she's a Duke or some shit). Now, however, my Facebook feed is littered with crap about how much people "don't care" about the royal wedding and people who do are "stupid sheeples" or whatever. Seems like the people who "don't care" are talking about it more than anyone else.<br />
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Anyway, I get it. You really <i>do</i> care but you don't want people to know you're a secret celebrity stalker with a subscription to People magazine ("it's my wife's" ain't cuttin it, honey, because we all know you're a fat 44 year old loser sitting in your mom's basement). This is like the latest trend in being cool, totally pretend like you're not into whatever you keep talking about, so you look way cooler than the people who are all about it and also the people who really <i>don't</i> care because you can be all like, "yeah, I'm worldly, I know everything that's going on in the world, but I actually know what things are important and what things aren't. Like, you know how the Reptilian Freemason Illuminati headed by Dick Cheney and his demon cat have fabricated Obama's birth certificate and if you argue, your ass is going in a FEMA CAMP motherfucker!! The fact that Kate is springing for a $3.5 million Vera Wang gown and $1.8 million Prada shoes is totally unimportant and I totally don't care because I am cool like that!"<br />
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And now I just wrote an entire blog post about it! See, you fuckers turned me into one of you! And this is why I fucking hate people (cue the anarcho-hippies singing some stupid Peter, Paul and Mary song and trying to hug me while I beat them with their "Love Police" bullhorns).<br />
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Please just go read some tabloids and stop posting on Facebook about how much you "don't care".<br />
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Die,<br />
Trbobitch<br />
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P.S. Here's a wedding <i>I</i> care about:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-66724800910045256812011-04-25T18:48:00.001-04:002011-04-25T18:53:36.956-04:00Trbo Needs a New RideSo I went to Philly this weekend.<br />
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Wait a sec, that's the most boring statement ever. First of all, none of you give a flying fuck what I did this weekend unless it involved strippers and heroin (if I tell you it did, will you keep reading? Because it may have involved drugs (not heroin) and/or panty flashes and butt cheeks (not mine)... so yeah, you probably don't care). So maybe if I rephrase that...<br />
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So I jumped in the End The Fed mobile and drove 90 miles an hour (or so) down the Tyranny Pike to an epic event in a city that is the epitome of all that is wrong with the state of Pennsylvania. (Not perfect, but better.) I was a bit nervous about making this trip because the ETFmobile isn't exactly a spring chicken any more. Plus, I was too lazy to get an oil change and get her inspected... I mean, never mind the fact that the oil hasn't been changed for about <s>4000 7000</s> 10000 miles and the inspection was due last month, I was also travelling with my <s>e-cigarette tackle box</s> personal vaporizer supplies (so much cooler sounding) which include hypodermic needles and enough nicotine liquid to kill several orphanages worth of small children (meh, who would miss them?). I also never wear a seat belt and talk on my cell phone.<br />
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I can imagine, had I gotten pulled over (which I didn't because I have a fucking radar detector because I am fucking badass and every time I pass a cop I say "Trbobitch 1 - <s>piggies</s> <s>cops</s> <s>Tyrants in uniform</s> <s>Guys who were bullied in highschool and use their position to exact revenge on innocent people</s> Officers of the "law" 0 ZE-RO!") it would have gone something like this:<br />
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Officer of the "law": Ma'am, do you know why I pulled you over?<br />
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Me: Nope, I sure don't officer. It couldn't possibly be because my inspection has expired, I was going somewhere around 95 in a 55 - I'm not entirely sure because my speedometer always says I'm going either 115 or 20 mph - and/or I am on some sort of government watch list... By the way officer, you look dashing in that uniform, do you press it yourself?<br />
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Officer: Actually, I clocked you at 105 mph.<br />
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Me: Well, now that <i>is</i> interesting, because my radar detector didn't pick up your radar, so you obviously used some kind of unapproved "clocking" method which makes this entire situation null and void. Thanks for your time officer, glad I could help, I'll be going now.<br />
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Cop: Actually, your radar detector probably didn't go off in time to warn you because you were going so fast. Can I see your license and registration please?<br />
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Me: Well of course! You're in luck because I am a licensed driver without a stain on my record and I just so happen to have renewed my registration yesterday! It cost me extra because it was 6 months overdue, but I paid it because I am a good, law-abiding citizen like that! I even spend my days visiting old people! Well, my mom's not really old, she's only 56, but that still makes her a Senior Citizen, and I'm not really visiting her, because I live with her...<br />
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Cop: I will be right back, you just stay right here, ok?<br />
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Me: Considering my car is about to fall apart and yours is one of them there fancy "Police Interceptors", I don't think I can outrun you, so yeah, I guess I'm not going anywhere. Is it ok if I pick my nose while I am waiting?<br />
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Cop: *looks disturbed and walks away*<br />
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10 minutes later...<br />
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Oinker: Ma'am, I ran your plates and it appears you have a bench warrant for some parking tickets from 2005...<br />
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Me: What exactly is a bench warrant? Are you going to like, bench press me or something? Because I hate to tell you, I'm pretty heavy and your arms don't exactly look like you've been doing more than lifting coffee and donuts into your mouth, ya know?<br />
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Piggy: Ma'am I am going to let you go with a warning on the bench warrant, but I am going to have to give you a ticket for speeding...<br />
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Me: I don't really think I was doing 105.<br />
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Swine: You were.<br />
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Me: Ok well, we're pals, can we say I was doing like, I dunno, 70?<br />
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Kid who was bullied in high school: No, I don't think so... What do you have in that tackle box there?<br />
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Me: It's not a tackle box... It's a <i>case of supplies.</i><br />
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Bacon boy: Supplies for <i>what?</i><br />
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</i><br />
Me: My personal vaporizer?<br />
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Piggy: Are you <i>asking</i> me?<br />
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Me: Why are you answering my question with a question?<br />
<br />
Oinker: Are those <i>hypodermic needles?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Me: I'm diabetic?<br />
<br />
Hammy: *sigh* Ok, look, here's what I am giving you, a ticket for a high speed offense, driving without a seatbelt, driving an uninspected vehicle and I won't bother with one for talking on your cell phone.<br />
<br />
Me: Gee, you're awfully kind *bats eyelashes*<br />
<br />
Officer: Well, I can see that you are obviously the most awesome person in the world and any chick with a tattoo like that is OK by me... Now just promise you'll pay your parking tickets, ok? Oh, and here's my Facebook, add me *creepy smile*.<br />
<br />
Me: Uh, right....<br />
********************<br />
<br />
Well, that didn't go <i>too </i>bad I guess...<br />
<br />
So anyway, the ETFmobile is not in the best shape and considering the lack of preventative maintenance, it probably wasn't the most genius plan I have ever come up with to drive it 600 miles in the span of a weekend. It was actually going ok until I got to a stretch of the Tyranny Pike and my car started doing this bouncing thing. Like, I'm talking I felt like I should have been wearing a sports bra because I am doing jumping jacks on a trampoline kind of bouncing. I started getting nervous and looking at the other cars ahead of me to see if their cars were also bounding like Kenyan hurdlers over the asphalt. Unfortunately, no cars stayed ahead of me long enough for me to gauge their level of springing... I slowed to 80 mph. I saw other cars behaving like Chinese bobbleheads, so I figured I was ok.<br />
<br />
When I arrived at my destination and actually had to make 90 degree turns, I realized that my car sounded like a medieval dungeon with all the fixins... There was a grinding sound that bore a striking auditory resemblance to a stretching rack, complete with a squealing, screaming prisoner (who was being tortured for high treason, naturally). I noticed these sounds were the worst when turning or stopping... So I figured I could make it back home ok, because there really isn't a lot of turning or stopping on the highway, especially at 97 mph.<br />
<br />
Of course, I was right, and my car made it home. As soon as I pulled up to the curb, it collapsed in a heap of unrecognizable parts and twisted hunks of metal:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NwyUUZinoCdJ0QsXOBvgME0_42jfkd5d4WwGGn2uUAJh17630MxbOM8fUpq1nCZf1bXo84S6yZ7vQPaKca385o6wdUeCtO-jOvV1MdochpZtoJEzSFysItL18VuT32tPWFErzcvO4Iy0/s1600/boob-job-wreck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NwyUUZinoCdJ0QsXOBvgME0_42jfkd5d4WwGGn2uUAJh17630MxbOM8fUpq1nCZf1bXo84S6yZ7vQPaKca385o6wdUeCtO-jOvV1MdochpZtoJEzSFysItL18VuT32tPWFErzcvO4Iy0/s320/boob-job-wreck.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Ooops! Wrong one:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpWeyw-eXrPqX5d4Bsar-5f9RqcMEDRDNG7HU8MjPGXS8Aw0kNfnDVQ513sBmSuQoiBMhrWem7xuyLYSKCzUCK7ImFfMTnC7gAU_kOHwfd8tFDVmnrPEIH9gSQIxiMzoHQdJDlQMZBWZBR/s1600/10743car-wreck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpWeyw-eXrPqX5d4Bsar-5f9RqcMEDRDNG7HU8MjPGXS8Aw0kNfnDVQ513sBmSuQoiBMhrWem7xuyLYSKCzUCK7ImFfMTnC7gAU_kOHwfd8tFDVmnrPEIH9gSQIxiMzoHQdJDlQMZBWZBR/s320/10743car-wreck.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Ok, yeah, I totally made that up. Come on, would I really drive a gay ass car like that? Look at that thing! It's got, "my parents live in a trailer but still got me a car for my 16th birthday 9 years ago because I am a trailer park princess" written all over it... (Yes, NINE years!! Dammit! Shut the fuck up! I'm 25, motherfuckers!)<br />
<br />
So anyway, ETFmobile gets looked at tomorrow. Might be time to retire her.... But it was totally worth it, because now I know how truly sexy grapefruits can be....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGlYp6VShAazdda9ruaXyIc2ViLUHHsfFX6oW__QrKcCXHQgiwzuz6QKy3KdUOSiSnuaRhXRlaIfVfZs9lBnEXfzD0UEiADn1uOq4PtwxuVVTwZVMOQOw-O0-TJe0b_0zp8RgPTJ8Wz0p/s1600/219843_10150156858286415_583466414_6921147_4228593_o+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGlYp6VShAazdda9ruaXyIc2ViLUHHsfFX6oW__QrKcCXHQgiwzuz6QKy3KdUOSiSnuaRhXRlaIfVfZs9lBnEXfzD0UEiADn1uOq4PtwxuVVTwZVMOQOw-O0-TJe0b_0zp8RgPTJ8Wz0p/s320/219843_10150156858286415_583466414_6921147_4228593_o+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
....I totally ninja'd this picture...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkVYSTk8djyTSwsLOpfi_B48i4SY3150NGawa36UGYL4OjMI7DeSljNldsHvUrTRoEL9ybNSYKC-VKocWChzO_ybbK5y5VIDgvJzwp5Q6jRlb5g89Nrgk3_Fp6B98kAUhXMUkv8hfal_kW/s1600/209912_10150156860696415_583466414_6921175_5628438_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkVYSTk8djyTSwsLOpfi_B48i4SY3150NGawa36UGYL4OjMI7DeSljNldsHvUrTRoEL9ybNSYKC-VKocWChzO_ybbK5y5VIDgvJzwp5Q6jRlb5g89Nrgk3_Fp6B98kAUhXMUkv8hfal_kW/s320/209912_10150156860696415_583466414_6921175_5628438_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
...and I look really hot in this one:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiepeSqGjCxiCW9OopLz1sLlMlnoL5pHJ7qSzt9XRfWbKFvwwvkUjR-luDsBIsAZ8ruiDnAwjLHmZCMqgo8YS3jMPdqa1135T44fvVQkO5Vic-CJifR78VgzGs0z6AxSK4ZwvCG3GoZb4I4/s1600/221170_10150156859431415_583466414_6921161_1840135_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiepeSqGjCxiCW9OopLz1sLlMlnoL5pHJ7qSzt9XRfWbKFvwwvkUjR-luDsBIsAZ8ruiDnAwjLHmZCMqgo8YS3jMPdqa1135T44fvVQkO5Vic-CJifR78VgzGs0z6AxSK4ZwvCG3GoZb4I4/s320/221170_10150156859431415_583466414_6921161_1840135_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Even that guy in the background is like "Damn! Who is that lucky dude who looks like Adam Kokesh with his arm around that super HAWT chick?!?!?"Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-88446159171697494242011-04-07T22:14:00.000-04:002011-04-07T22:14:35.692-04:00Open Letters: Vol. 2Dear bald Rent-a-Cop at O'Shea's in Vegas,<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrqmVgfBpWS3g6kcaQHN8Na2pzPhx0Ud_dRyqrsMZiJGdvV42Uh6eUvmglTs0RmJycFbNiMYfzNJK7qOpmEY_7WWJzTO9t4o-ESWgiPD_RXS3lB1784bftvvX9fMYY8YfRM57EqCWRg0uv/s1600/rentcop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrqmVgfBpWS3g6kcaQHN8Na2pzPhx0Ud_dRyqrsMZiJGdvV42Uh6eUvmglTs0RmJycFbNiMYfzNJK7qOpmEY_7WWJzTO9t4o-ESWgiPD_RXS3lB1784bftvvX9fMYY8YfRM57EqCWRg0uv/s200/rentcop.jpg" width="134" /></a>Rubbing your bald head does not mean I want to sleep with your grody ass. In fact, when you start throwing your weight around and acting like a douchebag, no amount of baldness would even make me want to look at you. Look, I understand that you're a Rent-a-Cop, but seriously, that doesn't make you anything but a loser who couldn't find a real job (no offense to other rent-a-cops). I only flirted with you because a. you're bald and I just can't resist a clean, smooth head and b. it's always tactical to be in good standing with the folks who can throw you out (not that I have ever been thrown out of a bar before *ahem*).<br />
<br />
Thing is, I know no man can resist putting his hands all over me, but you can't even use the excuse that you were drunk (and if you were, I hope you get fired), and no one hits on a security guard expecting (or wanting) to get laid. To further augment your douchebaggery, you proceeded to give my friends a hard time after I left (for reasons that cannot be disclosed without full security clearance), knowing by then that I would not be going back to your one bedroom "efficiency" slum-hole somewhere in the armpit of Vegas. Do everyone a favor and quit pretending like your job gives you any authority or social clout.<br />
<br />
Thanks!<br />
Trbobitch<br />
<br />
***********************************************<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkaP_ltRhfe1pzgsDDbteOVbXQbXL1hAMCJ6SqzPsez1Vsad3uPFef8-BUSqHmMnEdLitCXa0v63cosuoR0SUgWp74C8G2jLvDKrUoFIGrRuBKzrjyzV77sU1ZI_LegJej_dbtka1EU5m/s1600/drunk-girl-toilet-copy1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkaP_ltRhfe1pzgsDDbteOVbXQbXL1hAMCJ6SqzPsez1Vsad3uPFef8-BUSqHmMnEdLitCXa0v63cosuoR0SUgWp74C8G2jLvDKrUoFIGrRuBKzrjyzV77sU1ZI_LegJej_dbtka1EU5m/s200/drunk-girl-toilet-copy1.jpg" width="133" /></a><br />
Dear Drunk Girls in Skimpy Dresses,<br />
<br />
You got nothin' on me ;-) (But please continue to make me look even hotter by comparison)<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Trbobitch<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
***********************************************<br />
<br />
Dear Swimsuit Manufacturers,<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdOf4L_9dfwi-uYlPHQxOXi7vVPVhlFFQGnZRZyFZNfnft-UIytZyBlchDmIhUNduwujzeI3x-3aunAPiq8BzcbWvNeNRCTtQU3mS9thXPM_b9IxL7GSvo870FlNkI1ct4yYAJOyMsvIw/s1600/janet-jackson-wardrobe-malfunction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdOf4L_9dfwi-uYlPHQxOXi7vVPVhlFFQGnZRZyFZNfnft-UIytZyBlchDmIhUNduwujzeI3x-3aunAPiq8BzcbWvNeNRCTtQU3mS9thXPM_b9IxL7GSvo870FlNkI1ct4yYAJOyMsvIw/s200/janet-jackson-wardrobe-malfunction.jpg" width="185" /></a>Please make a swimsuit that covers my boobs sufficiently. Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. It's one thing that I can't find shirts that fit properly, but surely there are swimsuits that will cover at least most of the side boob without hanging loosely from the rest of me...? Evidently not. You see, I like to leave a <i>little</i> something to the imagination, I like to reserve the knowledge of the color of my mammilla for <i>special</i> people, but apparently you think everyone wants to be like the girls mentioned above. Either that or you, like the shirt manufacturers, think that everyone under a size 20 has B cups or has silicone bosoms that don't give way to the pressure of tight synthetic fabric biting into them. WTF? All I want is a bathing suit fit for a 20 year old that covers my damn boobs! Please attend to this matter promptly and send me a free prototype.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Trbobitch<br />
<br />
************************************************<br />
<br />
Dear Voice,<br />
<br />
Ok, this was funny for a minute, especially when I sounded like a phone sex operator. It's not funny any more. I can't yell at my kids, I can't talk on the phone, I can't sing in the shower and I can't tell myself how awesome I am when I look in the mirror. Come back. Please?<br />
<br />
Missing you,<br />
Trbobitch<br />
<br />
************************************************<br />
<br />
Dear Brain,<br />
<br />
Stop getting fantastically bright and insanely labor intensive ideas. I know we could go far if we stuck to just one, but all this jumping around is leaving projects half-finished. I would appreciate if you didn't get any more "great ideas" until I finish the 200 things on your list.<br />
<br />
Yours in genius,<br />
TrbobitchTrbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-56568178701560218392011-02-22T20:41:00.002-05:002011-02-28T10:17:22.840-05:00ArmageddonYou're standing on the street corner. You don't know how you got there. Your surroundings are completely familiar, yet something is off, as if it's a combination of places you know well. There are two people with you, people you know but who seem completely random. You look up to see a building with gold-toned mirrored windows. The building does not belong there, at that vantage point from the street corner, but even more frightening is what is <i>happening</i> to the building.<br />
<br />
You don't know what to think of what you are seeing before your very eyes, then the terror hits you. Even then, the full weight of what is happening doesn't hit you. There is a dragon, a very <b>large</b> dragon, destroying the building. It's completely absurd, but all your brain can register is fear and panic. You and your companions turn to run. You know this is it. The proverbial shit has hit the metaphorical fan.<br />
<br />
There is a car, you can't think of anywhere else to hide. You get in the car and you all curl into the fetal position in utter terror. There are blankets in the car, you pile them on top of you, much like a frighten child believes hiding under the covers will protect them from the boogie man. You don't know exactly why, but for some reason, your companions leave you. You're not getting out of that car, so you stay, whatever fate shall befall them is no matter to you; you know this is the safe spot.<br />
<br />
From under your sanctuary of blankets, you peek out, through the car window and what you see further solidifies your belief that this is <b>it</b>. You have never in your life felt so scared, so helpless, so terrified. You see the buildings rising up out of the concrete jungle like fence posts. Behind the buildings, from the spaces between you see more dragons, marching in a line. In addition to the dragons are gigantic demons. Your brain doesn't register the absurdity that these things are bright purple, all you can think of is your own survival in what appears to be playing out as the equivalent of the biblical apocalypse. Beelzebub is the first word that comes to mind to describe these things.<br />
<br />
You are completely transfixed, so captivated in fact, that you do not see the line progressing toward your position. You see a purple creature coming towards you and your immediate instinct is to play dead. The creature doesn't see you, but decides anyway to use the vehicle you've taken sanctuary in as a chair. As the weight bears down on the roof of the car, you are pinned inside. Trapped, with nowhere to run (as if you had any intention of running and exposing yourself anyway).<br />
<br />
It seems that, while the dragons are the destroyers, the purple creatures have a great deal of intelligence, even if they have the appearance of stupid ogres. They are not out to destroy, they are out to <i>convert</i>. While you were standing on the street corner, with no recollection of how you got there - while you were hiding in the car like a child under the blankets - these creatures had destroyed humanity. You are among a slight few survivors. Somehow, you already know this, but you also know there is something else. Something about getting bitten.<br />
<br />
Somehow, the creature becomes aware of your presence. It more than likely has smelled fear seeping from your pores like the stench of a rotting corpse, and <i>you</i> know it knows. You know, at this point, if this were a dream you'd awaken in a sweaty fear, heart racing. You don't wake up. Instead, the creature collects you.<br />
<br />
You must black out, because you cannot remember how you got into the warehouse. At least, you <i>think</i> it's a warehouse. There's random stuff everywhere, none of it important or significant enough to take note of it or for you to remember what it is. There is a man. But it's not a man. It's certainly not the purple creature your brain christened "Beelzebub". He's going to know you've awakened and you know this. For some reason, you are standing, you've <i>been</i> standing, which doesn't seem to make any sense. Suddenly, you see yourself, but it's not you, but it <i>has</i> to be you, because the only people in this room are you and the man-thing.<br />
<br />
"You" are wrestling the man-thing, trying to take him off guard. You find something to strangle it with and quickly wrap it around his neck and take him down. You tie it off while it struggles for air. Yet, you can see, it's going to break free. The complete amazement at your own bravery doesn't stop you from taking off... But you don't know where to go. Again you black out.<br />
<br />
When you come to, you realize it has caught you. Again, you know, if this were a dream, this is where you would wake up in a terrified sweat. You don't. You look at your surroundings and realize you are in one of the most beautiful buildings you have ever seen. A cross between a church, an historical building and a brilliant marble mansion. I'm in a bright, white, marble circular room with a vaulted ceiling. It's beautiful and comfortable. I realize I am not being held captive. There are others there with me. I don't recognize them, yet I know them. I am no longer afraid.<br />
<br />
I know what's going on outside. I know that civilization is gone. Our buildings are destroyed and our people are dead. It's the utter destruction of the world. Armageddon has just taken place, but I am at peace. I am in this beautiful building, surrounded by these (non)strangers. A man takes you by the hands. You take note of his long dreadlocks. He tells you everything will be ok, you can live here. You <i>want</i> to live there. You remember thinking "the Devil's in the Whitehouse in a big fat comfy chair", you must have heard it in a song.<br />
<br />
I think to myself, I can do this, this will be ok. All the while, I don't realize, I have been bitten. I have become one of them.<br />
<br />
You are now responsible for what's going on outside, and you're ok with it, because you're still alive. You've survived the terror, it doesn't matter what happened to the others.Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-26057234425724186712011-01-20T21:37:00.002-05:002011-02-28T10:14:28.053-05:00Trbobitch Gives Relationship AdviceOk, putting the random hilarity aside for a moment... Sorry guys, but it was inevitable, my brain just hasn't been in funny mode, but I need to write. So you're all just going to have to suck it up and play along.<br />
<br />
Not to say this won't be funny, just probably not <i>as</i> funny.<br />
<br />
I want to write about this because I see so many miserable people whose misery is caused by their spouse, significant other or lesbian life partner. Now, I'm not pretending to be Dr. Phil (he's the relationship guy, right?) or trying to say I have this shit all figured out, but I figure if I can share some of what I have learned, it might help someone (it will certainly help the rest of us who have to put up with your misery).<br />
<br />
Things that will make your relationship fail:<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>1. Lack of and/or bad sex</b><br />
You can go ahead and sit there and pretend like sex isn't important, and that's your problem. Sure, maybe neither of you want sex, and that's fine, but chances are your man is masturbating to large breasted, small waisted beauty queens getting it up the shitter while you're in bed with a "headache". Eventually, he's going to get sick of his hand. You giving in once every few weeks to keep him happy isn't keeping him happy, hate to tell ya. Laying there making token moaning sounds doesn't qualify as good sex, either. Then you're going to bitch when he cheats. WTF is wrong with you?<br />
<br />
<b>2. Jealousy</b><br />
Yes, he just checked out that waitress, and yes, she is way hotter than you. You already know both of those things, so why do you bother fucking asking? Is he going home with her? No, he's going home with <b>you</b> and if you want to keep it that way, stop nagging him every time he does something as instinctual to a male as breathing. If you want to take it out on someone, go puke up that double cheeseburger you just ate, you pathetic fatass, then maybe you'll look like the hot waitress.<br />
<br />
<b>3. Laziness</b><br />
Remember when you were trying to catch a partner? Remember how you went to the gym and didn't eat double cheeseburgers (yeah, fatty, I'm talking to you again)? Remember how you showered and shaved your legs? You think now that you "caught" a man you can stop? That, my dear, is bait and switch. It's fucking <i>FRAUD</i>. If he proposed to a hot, healthy chick, he expects to be married to a hot, healthy chick, not a fat, lazy slob who doesn't want to have sex. And <b>that</b> is why he is checking out that waitress.<br />
<br />
<b>4. Controlling/Possessive behavior</b><br />
Look, let's get one thing straight right now... No matter how much that ring cost you, no matter how much you "love" that other person... <i style="font-weight: bold;">You don't own them</i>. You don't own anyone, except yourself. You don't, and can't, control their thoughts, feelings or actions and when you try, you officially become a psychotic, manipulative freak. You don't have the right to dig through her purse because you are married. You don't have the right to read his text messages because you're married. Furthermore, if you feel the <i>need </i> to do these things, you have bigger problems...<br />
<br />
<b>5. Trust</b><br />
Enough already! If you don't trust the person you're married to, WTF did you marry them for?? Seriously, are you that pathetic and unsure of yourself that you have to commit to spend the rest of life with someone you don't trust? What's going to happen when you're hanging off a cliff with a playboy bunny? Who's he gonna save? This goes back to #1... Are you giving it to him? Good? Or are you a jealous, controlling, manipulative bitch?? Well, let's all hope, for your sake, you're no where near the edge of a perilous cliff with a playboy bunny.<br />
<br />
<br />
So, in conclusion, as you can see, I have this shit all figured out. Honestly, it's worked thus far. I just don't worry about it. You have to enjoy the person you're with, not sit around worrying when they are going to leave you or cheat on you... Don't give them a <i>reason</i> to leave or cheat on you! Retard! This shit is not that difficult, but it requires confidence in yourself, because, at the end of the day, you are all you have. You can't turn someone into what you want them to be, but you can turn yourself into whatever you want to be.Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-84504238593331730492011-01-12T22:16:00.004-05:002011-10-22T00:20:38.449-04:00The Crazy Cat LadySo, as many of you know, I had a brief stint as a Crazy Cat Lady. I figured, I was divorced at the ripe old age of 25 and I would never get laid again, So I would take in every cat I could. GREAT FUCKING IDEA!<br />
<br />
A (not so) Brief History<br />
<br />
Before I moved into my house, I had a cat that was bought for me as a Valentine's Day present. It was actually a very sweet gesture by my now ex-husband (he was good for the Hallmark gestures, bad at being faithful and doing dishes, but I digress). I grew up with a Siamese cat named Whiskers (yeah yeah, I know) and she ran away after 13 years, so my ex bought me a "replacement". I promptly named her Guinevere, forgetting that this name was reserved for my first born daughter... Before you make fun of me, remember that this woman caused a war that made Arthur a legendary King by cheating on him with Lancelot (who was a total tool!) and leaving the land without a king, which caused the quest for the holy grail and BAM! an entire culture centralized around the actions of <i>one woman</i>. If that isn't badass, I don't know what is. (We'll go ahead and forget the fact that she spent most of the better years of her life - hello sexual peak! - in a nunnery begging penance for her sins). So anyway, Ms. Guinevere is now 7 years old and I still love her dearly.<br />
<br />
Then came Maksim. The summer before my divorce, my offspring and I were out shopping. In the parking lot of the local Petsmart, Animal Friends had a little soiree going on, so we decided to attend for the free drinks and fuzzy bundles of animal cuteness. I wasn't in the market for a cat and I didn't think the husband would exactly approve, but I didn't give a flying fuck because <i>I</i> paid the bills. There was a litter of kittens, just left their momma, and being the animal lover that I am (and you fuckers thought I was a heartless bitch, hah!), I fell in love with a little grey kitteh. I decided to adopt him, paid the $65 and took him home. Home to a temperamental Siamese bitchface and a predatory Husky who was bred to kill and eat small animals (and, at one point, chased down, killed and dragged home a fawn, true story). I named him Maksim after my favorite pro dancer on Dancing with the Stars (and told my husband I was just keeping with the "Russian theme" in the family). We made Maksy a cardboard box with a little hole in it to hide in. This worked out well, until I found Nikita dragging him around by the neck. I decided she would be spending more time in the great outdoors until Maks got bigger.<br />
<br />
Guin was always able to hold her own against Nikita, even given her small stature, after all, she didn't divide an entire Kingdom and cause the need for an epic quest because she was a weak-ass wuss. I remember one time, we brought Nikita home from being spayed (or spaded, as my mom would say... Sounds kinky). She had also had her dewclaws removed and was quite miserable. She had an E-collar (the cone thing around their neck) and plastic bags on her hind legs so the incisions wouldn't get wet. She refused to lift her head up and walked like a chicken (literally, not figuratively) because of the bags. So basically, I walked her to the car with the entire cone dragging on the ground and her lifting her hind legs dramatically in a staccato motion. When I got her home, my compassion got the better of me and I removed the E-collar. She was completely out of it (remember getting gassed to get your wisdom teeth removed??) and sat, staring, by the dining room table. Well, Guin, not one to miss the opportunity to capitalize on the misfortune of her arch-nemesis (any doubt she is <i>my</i> cat?), jumped up on the table and decided to see how much fun she could have. She started sniffed Nikita, then start batting at her ear with her paw. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying this revenge, and all Nikita could do was sit there and occasionally look back, no doubt saying to herself, "I hate you, you small furry thing with a pleasant smelling ass. When I stop seeing things in triplicate, I will exact my revenge by eating you until there is no evidence left and telling the humans you ran away."<br />
<br />
So Maks got bigger, much bigger, and Nikita evidently forgot her sedative induced plot for revenge on Guinevere. Guin remained the enemy of both Nikita and Maks, being the emo loner she is. Maks, however, realized that if he didn't act afraid of Nikita, she wouldn't bother him. Either that, or he is slightly retarded and thinks she's a giant teddy bear because he rubs against her and tried to sleep next to her. Or, maybe he has so much fur that she decided it would be too much trouble to eat him.<br />
<br />
The Newbies<br />
<br />
Then came Squeege. I didn't name this cat. I have a Faerie friend (another story for another time) whose cat had kittens and, of course, I <i>had</i> to take one. So into my life and home came Squeege. The cute little grey Kitteh.<br />
<br />
This was followed, not long after, by my adoption of my brother's cat. They <i>hated</i> this cat and wanted to get rid of it. (Keep in mind, by this point, I am a divorced mother of two with a full time job). I had met it once or twice and he was an absolutely beautiful and lovable, long haired ginger cat.<br />
<br />
The funniest thing with both of these cats was their gender confusion. The orange cat was known to be a girl. They called her Honey. When I got her, I decided to name her Ginny (Harry Potter FTW!). Then, one day, she/he/it is rubbing against me and I get a good close up of the nether regions. The was no mistaking the two furry orange things I saw. Ginny was definitely a boy. By this time, this cat had started driving us all nuts. It had eaten through every single loaf of bread/bag of buns I bought. In addition to being a total attention whore. We finally settled on calling him Lucifer.<br />
<br />
Squeege was originally a boy. We called him Sir Edward Squeege. After a while, I didn't notice anything, um, noticeable, so I decided he must be a girl. Apparently Squeege was just a late bloomer, because the vet informed me that "Lady Squeege" was, in fact, Sir Edward Squeege.<br />
<br />
So now that we had all that cleared up... Remember how I reminded you that I was divorced mother of 2 with a full time job? Well, now I also had 4 cats and a very rambunctious dog. By this point, I had also taken to sleeping on the couch. A regular sized sofa with my 3 year old beside me and my 45 lbs. Husky curled up behind my bent knees... And Squeege... Sticking his ass in my face and demanding my attention while I was trying to sleep, cramped in the fetal position with Southpark playing on the TV (the TV I had to replace because Dickfur decided to steal the one I had while I was at working, making money to, presumably, pay the Spousal Support that he sued me for...). Meanwhile, the stench of Stupid Orange Cat would be wafting from somewhere...<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's right... Both parts. "Lucifer" had decided to stop cleaning himself and we took to calling him Stupid Orange Cat, because none of us really liked him. Probably because he smelled like week-old Spaghetti-Ohs (which probably don't smell much different than "fresh" Spaghetti-Ohs). He also had this thing where he would bite blankets. You know how cats "knead" to get comfortable? Well, Stupid Orange Cat had this thing where he would bite whatever blanket was on the couch while he kneaded enthusiastically to get comfy. He was very, very lovable, but try as we might, we just couldn't get past the smell or the greasy residue in his fur. Even Squeege, who was one of the only reason we tolerated Stupid Orange Cat - because Squeege LOVED him, stop hanging around him. Maks, the infamous cleaner of the younger cats, stopped trying to clean him. Basically, the entire family completely shunned him. Only the dog would go near him, presumably to try to eat him because he smelled like the kind of thing the dog would eat (i.e. garbage).<br />
<br />
It got to be too much for me, between stinky Stupid Orange Cat being, well, stinky and stupid, Squeege waking me up and peeing on my carpet, changing 3 litter boxes, buying cat food in bulk, Stupid Orange Cat spreading his diseases that he contracted from being filthy and vet bills, I <i>had</i> to get rid of some pussy.<br />
<br />
I was able to pawn Squeege off on a friend and I kept throwing Stupid Orange Cat outside, hoping he'd run away. If I didn't see him for 2 days, I'd start celebrating, only to hear his obnoxious tomcat meow outside the door moments later. I'd finally let him in out of sheer compassion. I tried to like him, I really did, but the smell and the simple fact that he took <b>no</b> pride in being a feline completely turned me off.<br />
<br />
When I moved in with my mom, I took Maks and Guin, as I had every intention of keeping them and I knew Squeege was in a good home. I had called the Humane Society to make arrangements for Stupid Orange cat, and they were full. I also tried Animal Friends, they required and application and I know Stupid Orange Cat would never be accepted to what is, essentially, kitty Harvard. I finally found a shelter an hour a way that I had planned to take him to. Stupid Orange Cat wasn't around on the day I moved out of my house, so, I hate to say, I kind of left him there. At first, I went back every couple of days to check for him and leave him food. I saw him a couple of times and didn't have the carrier with me to take him back (or so I made the excuse). Eventually, I was only going back every week or so, always leaving food and water outside. The one time I actually took the carrier, Orange Cat was gone. I haven't seen him since. There is a part of me that feel like a horrible, cat-abandoning asshole. There is another part of me that says no one in their right fucking mind would have wanted that cat anyway.<br />
<br />
There is a moral to this story. It's not anything against cats, either. Cats are great. I love the two I have and they give me absolutely no trouble. The moral of this story is that I had better find a MAN to settle down with, because I don't like the smell of cat piss and am <i>not</i> cut out to be a crazy cat lady.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEDaVRjsBfgiTMx1Ct_5uCf4Be-b54Nc-cq1DXCwvR1SsNh9ZeRG6JWfpsiepHxlxqwlTTQD43tNwUhBwoSV9Ap_VYuqcknjtZ1azMZimbkJQgXJfJ_DRa3fk5FhniyjVT-_buIB3bSjC/s1600/15696_350396814899_677784899_3680326_2784975_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEDaVRjsBfgiTMx1Ct_5uCf4Be-b54Nc-cq1DXCwvR1SsNh9ZeRG6JWfpsiepHxlxqwlTTQD43tNwUhBwoSV9Ap_VYuqcknjtZ1azMZimbkJQgXJfJ_DRa3fk5FhniyjVT-_buIB3bSjC/s640/15696_350396814899_677784899_3680326_2784975_n.jpg" width="474" /></a></div>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-32839960389438503092011-01-04T19:30:00.001-05:002011-01-04T19:45:42.330-05:00A Filler for You Lovely PeopleSo yeah, obviously I haven't written anything for a while. It's not really writer's block, I just haven't had that "aha!" moment where something strikes me as particularly hilarious enough to write about. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten those damned cookies and done some heroin instead... I figured I'd better post something though, so I don't lose all 17 of my followers (who probably don't read my crap anyway).<br />
<br />
So update on what I've been doing... Same shit. Next.<br />
<br />
I do have one bone to pick here, where the FUCK are all the Hot Bald Guys? I know damn well that I know a lot more Hot Bald Guys than the two who submitted pics!!! Ok, 3, but one guy didn't follow directions. Sooooo.... I need some Hot Bald Heads to go <a href="http://trbobitch.blogspot.com/p/hot-bald-guys-i-know.html">here</a>. If you'd like to submit a Hot Bald pic and be featured (I'll even include a personal ad for you if you're single!) on my page, all you have to do is <a href="mailto:muddslider_98@yahoo.com">email me</a> your best Hot Bald pics and at least three sentences about how awesome I am. Easy. Do it. The only stipulation is that you must be <u style="font-weight: bold;">completely</u> bald, comb overs and beard heads are automatically disqualified. Same goes for receding hairlines.<br />
<br />
That being said, I left a Hot Bald Guy off of my <a href="http://trbobitch.blogspot.com/p/hot-bald-guys.html">Hot Bald Guys</a> post. I am going to remedy that now.<br />
<br />
I am actually getting ready to work on a more serious project... So I may not be so funny for a while.<br />
<br />
Don't tell me "Happy New Year(s)", it's January 4th, that shit got old at 12:01 am on January 1st. Further more, I don't make resolutions. I learned a long time ago not to make promises to myself that I cannot keep. I've learned to accept the fact that I am eccentric and lazy and I am OK with it.<br />
<br />
Hopefully soon I will have a real post for you. Until then, please send Hot Bald Pics!!!!<br />
<br />
Here's a pic of me having a great hair day:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2TJoma17Bq68JPMQ3XFUyJedVeT2IaH1xfzL8lb9XRWMeFCLprb-JqJiCvTde02WpDgfLDdtgKGVYa_KFlLCfqGuXsWFkemS1OUByRmrwPpyIzGaWsTqecoAdpogkKt1GUrPRXenGZC6m/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2TJoma17Bq68JPMQ3XFUyJedVeT2IaH1xfzL8lb9XRWMeFCLprb-JqJiCvTde02WpDgfLDdtgKGVYa_KFlLCfqGuXsWFkemS1OUByRmrwPpyIzGaWsTqecoAdpogkKt1GUrPRXenGZC6m/s400/003.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-42581819857499078222010-12-18T01:05:00.004-05:002011-04-08T22:22:59.581-04:00Fuck HealingHealing is overrated. Cookies. I fucking HATE motherfucking goddamn fucking shit fucking cookies!<br />
<br />
But it's not the cookies. It's the lack of sense of accomplishment, right?<br />
<br />
No, it's the fucking cookies. Fucking those stupid fucking cookies!<br />
<br />
What Jew motherfucker decided it was a good idea to make <i>honey</i> cut-outs? Seriously, WTF? And before I get accused of being an anti-Semite, they were fucking Hanukkah cookies!! OK?!?! Obviously that recipe was made by a Sadistic Jew, or someone who wants me to hate Jews. WTF EVER! I fucking hate those cookies with the passions (of the Christ). Jews killed Jesus, Mel Gibson said so. Fucking Jews, validating the Bible, WTF? Honey is fucking <i style="font-weight: bold;">STICKY</i> which is not conducive to rolling it out on a counter top or scooping up the star-shaped pieces with a fucking spatula, ok? Get me?<br />
<br />
And I burned my hand. I think I may have burned off my goddamn <i>fingerprint!</i> For fuck's sake, what in Thor's name possessed me to make these fucking cookies?<br />
<br />
Yeah, maybe you read my last post and you were thinking "Go, Trbo! Take back your fucking life!" (but maybe without the fucking because maybe you don't have a friggin sailor-mouth like me).<br />
<br />
Yeah, I thought the same thing, and we are Disappoint together.<br />
<br />
If cookies were the metaphor for my life, if anyone smelled what I was cooking with the last post, then I am fucking <i style="font-weight: bold;">doomed</i>. I suck at cookies and I suck at life. There is no redemption here. No epiphany. Just some fucked up cookies, an aching back and a shitty mood.<br />
<br />
I told myself I wouldn't do this. I am more than a little tired and I have a buzz going. I'm <b>not</b>, and by not I mean <b>NEVER</b>, an angry drunk. Something, many things, clicked tonight. And here I am, seething like a fat lady cheated out of a couple double cheeseburgers. So I told myself I wouldn't post a blog. After all, I felt the last post was insanely inspirational (for those of you who actually fucking <b>got it</b> for what it was) and I was hoping for a happy ending.<br />
<br />
We all hope for these stupid fucking romantic comedy happy endings. This is real life, there are no happy endings. There are death and taxes. That's it, fuckers. No prince charming that falls in love with you despite you acting like an emotional douchebag and we all live happily ever after blah blah blah. Doesn't happen. You keep trucking, taking "one day at a time" until the days pile up on your to-do list like dirty diapers until you can't stand the stench and move out of your house leaving the mess for the landlord. And you keep running. Ok, maybe not you, let's be real here because we're talking about me. You keep acting like the charming bitch with a mouth that may be a bit too big and outspoken, yet has it all fucking together.<br />
<br />
Guess what? It's not all together. It's been FAAAARRR from all together for a long time. And there is only so much pretending you can do, bitches, before it all comes back and bites you in the proverbial ass. I'm not going to lay out my gripes. I am going to let you chew on my convoluted metaphors til you choke.<br />
<br />
Schadenfreude!<br />
<br />
************REAL TEXT EDIT:***************<br />
<br />
I text my mom:<br />
<br />
Me: I will clean up tbhe rest of my mess in the morning. And if you so much as look at me like you wanna bitch at me I will shove a tray of goddamn cookies up ur ass... love ya mom.<br />
<br />
Mom: Ok!<br />
<br />
I literally rolled on the floor laughing hysterically and crying at the same time. I need help. for realz.Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-55844333388905558872010-12-17T19:26:00.005-05:002023-03-10T10:43:31.336-05:00The Cookies3/10/23: read to the end for an update.<div><br /></div><div>One of my favorite adult memories of Xmas is baking cookies. Coincidentally, one of my favorite childhood memories is helping my mom bake cookies. I guess it's not so coincidental. You see, I have this need for perfection, and I was naturally good at baking, so one year I decided to make my own cookies that would blow everyone away, and I am pretty sure they did.<br />
<br />
It was a testament to my freedom, my independence from my parents, my creativity and my skills, all rolled into one, and I loved every fucking minute of it. Maybe that's why it's been so hard for me the past couple of years. I haven't made cookies since my husband left me. It's been three years since I've made cookies. This might not seem like anything to you, but it's a big deal to me... and I will tell you why.<br />
<br />
Every year, since the first year I started making cookies, I had a routine. That routine was mine, my kitchen was mine, my cookies were mine. I owned it. I would look up recipes online and decide which cookies to make. They were usually the most ridiculously involved ones, because, again, I was a perfectionist who would not be outdone. I had one simple recipe, and those were the best, the peanut butter thumbprints with a hershey kiss in the middle. Everyone loved them, after I stopped making them, for a few years, everyone asked for them. I even made some for a wedding 2 years ago, but not for the holidays. Eventually, everyone stopped asking. This saddens me (again, I will get to that and why this is such a big deal to me that I am going off my obnoxious beaten path of humor writing).<br />
<br />
I would plan for days when I was going to bake cookies, and everyone was to leave me alone. On cookie day, I would go to the grocery store and purchase my ingredients, one of the rare times that the grocery store doesn't make me an anxious, frustrated mess, capable of homicide with a shopping cart. I'd then stop at the liquor store for a bottle of champagne. When I got home, I would set everything up, then I would put the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Christmas-Other-Stories-Trans-Siberian-Orchestra/dp/B000002JX6?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Trans-Siberian Orchestra</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000002JX6" style="border: medium none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="1" /> on the kitchen CD player, pour my champagne into a ludicrously fancy etched, iridescent blue flute (I remember always filling the glass too much and having to suck the foamy bubbles off the top) and get to work. Every now and then, while cookies were in the oven, I would wander out into the dining room to admire the white-lighted tree with the burgundy velvet bows at the end of its boughs, woodsy, rustic ornaments, golden bulbs and aromatic pine scent.<br />
<br />
That was always my favorite part of the Holidays: the decorations. My husband and I coordinated everything. A rustic, gold and burgundy theme with rich fabrics and sparkling metallic trims. It turned our little cape cod into a slightly magical retreat. And it was mine.<br />
<br />
Actually baking the cookies was a serious chore. Oftentimes, I would be up until all hours of the night before finally crumpling into bed with achy feet and back, but not before I admired all of my handy work, beautifully laid out in huge aluminum turkey pans and eventually covered in tinfoil. There were usually 3 of these pans, filled to the brim with assorted cookies.<br />
<br />
I always felt accomplished. ALWAYS. This is, sadly, one of the fews things in my life that has ever given me that feeling, without fail.<br />
<br />
The next day, I would wake and clean my mess, without a hint of dread or complaint. That mess was the result of a huge accomplishment, there was no need of complaint. And everyone always loved those damned cookies. It's almost like childbirth, lots of pain, a huge mess, but completely worth every push and stitch (or dishes and mopping, if you will).<br />
<br />
When my marriage fell apart, I felt completely defeated. I stop baking cookies, bought a fake tree and always hated cleaning. You see, I had my own little domestic routine. <b>I</b> was the one who made the best goddamn cookies and everyone wanted them. I made them with my own hands, with ingredients that I purchased, in my own kitchen of my own house that I worked my ass off to buy and keep. I had my own family. I was the wife who made the best friggin cookies in the family. Even though people asked me for them after that, I could never bring myself to go through the motions, because I<i> knew</i> it would hurt too bad, to be doing it on my own, even though I had always forbade my husband to help me or even come near me while I was making The Cookies.<br />
<br />
Since my divorce, and the death of my father in the same year, I feel like my life, and my drive to accomplish, has gone downhill. I felt like I was no longer normal. I felt like I had the white fucking picket fence and someone came in with a fucking bulldozer and smashed it to pieces.<br />
<br />
A friend invited me to a party this weekend. Usually, I just pick something up, but he told me not to bring anything. Then I thought about The Cookies. It turns out, this group of friends has become very much like family to me. I was driven to make The Cookies. Instead of looking upon this task with dread, I found myself wanting my old routine, my old tradition, that was solely my own.<br />
<br />
So here I am, ingredients on the counter of my mother's house, glass of champagne (in a less pretentious glass, because the flutes are packed, but don't think for a moment I didn't contemplate popping over to Target to see if they had any) The <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-Christmas-Eve/dp/B00123D6GY?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Trans-Siberian Orchestra</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B00123D6GY" style="border: medium none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="1" /> on the kitchen CD player, and the same feeling of excited determination to make the best goddamn cookies.<br />
<br />
I don't need a husband or a "traditional" family to be happy. I don't <i>need</i> to own my own little cape cod with hardwood floors. I don't need, nor do I <i>want</i>, to be "normal".<br />
<br />
I am going to make The <i>motherfucking </i>Cookies, and they are going to kick ass.<br />
<br />
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Happy Solstice, my Fellow Cohorts in World Domination.</div><div><br /></div><div>Update 3/10/23: the "friend" who invited me to the party is now my husband of almost 12 years :-)</div>Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-8959151307057682412010-12-11T15:01:00.000-05:002010-12-11T15:01:32.302-05:00Proud Mary - I Love You!So my sister-in-law graduated from nursing school last night. Evidently this school is something akin to Hitler's Concentration Camps and getting through it is a miracle (getting through it with your marriage intact is like the immaculate conception), instead of a tattoo, you will forever bear the emotional scars of Abu Ghraib pyramid sessions. This was made very evident by the first nursing graduate who got up to "speak". I use the term speak loosely because it was more like squeaking out a barely intelligible word or two in between sobs. I mean, seriously, chicky... You're graduating, not giving a eulogy. It's even more unsettling that this emotionally unbalanced woman may one day be tasked with saving my life. If she's crying because she's graduating, what's going to happen if she sees my half split open body and brains seeping out of the side of my head from a horrible car crash with a semi-truck??<br />
<br />
Thankfully, that part of the evening didn't last long.<br />
<br />
We then end up at some hillbilly bar in Bum Fuck Egypt. I swear, I have never seen so many rusty pick-up trucks with over-sized wheels (with Confederate Flags in the windows, no doubt) packed into one parking lot. Compared with those and the occasional early 90's beater sedans, my brother's black Subaru STI, sparkling clean and sporty, looked quite out of place. As did all of us who still had all of our teeth in tact.<br />
<br />
As the nurses pile into the bar with their cute little nurse hats, there was many a call for the need for CPR by the locals (whom you couldn't pay me all the money in the world to put my mouth on). This made me infinitely glad that I choose to fix computers instead of people, because I would have left most of those morons laying on the street dying... Regardless of the fact that it took about 15 minutes to get a drink, causing us all to wise up and double fist, the bartender was a nice guy with several facial piercings who took to calling me "love".<br />
<br />
We were accompanied by my mother and my sister-in-law's gay boyfriend who, as it turns out, was my boyfriend for a short period of time in 7th grade. After many accusations of turning him gay and discussions of the dorky photo of the two of us, I was well into my third or fourth vodka tonic. Things started getting interesting when I was having a discussion with a chubby bearded guy at the bar who was somehow part of this nursing graduate party. I remember him bitching about the bartender and me loudly exclaiming that the bartender was awesome and busting his ass to do his job that night, to which chubby beard guy looked a bit embarrassed and scolded me for announcing his displeasure so loudly. It was quite evident that me and this guy were going to clash and, being the instigator that I am, I of course took it to the next level by letting the bartender know, in front of chubby guy, how awesome he was.<br />
<br />
It was soon revealed by SIL's gay boyfriend that chubby guy and I were going to clash because of our political views. That's when he started trying to argue politics with me. Knowing better, I just continually taunted him with the fact that I would PWN him in any argument, instead of actually saying anything political. He kept trying to actually argue with me and the SIL stepped in. It was one of those scenes that was completely amusing, but might look like an actual heated argument to an outsider. That's when the pussy whipping started. His wife came over in a fury and dragged him away from the conversation. I chuckled to myself as they sat in a corner and "talked" for an extended period of time. Needless to say, he didn't talk to me for the rest of the night and even abandoned his beer instead of coming near me to collect it. His wife also refused to engage in conversation with me and pretty much shunned any attempt I made at being cool with her, as if I wanted to hook up with her man-boob husband (admitted my him, I don't want to seem like a total asshole here)... (actually, he seemed like a pretty nice guy, despite our differences of opinion and I would have gladly engaged in a political discussion with him under different circumstances and relished in owning his ass).<br />
<br />
Then the dancing started... Fortunately, I can handle my liquor and never got drunk enough to actually repeat my last failed attempt at dancing. All I remember from that time was ending up in a headlock by some guy who had the unfortunate desire to engage me in some sort of swing dance maneuver. It was followed by an annoyed glare from him at my inability to twirl around on a dance floor while drunk, lack or rhythm and complete clumsiness and the statement "I'm not supposed to be choking you". No shit, Sherlock. Ever since then, I have preemptively refused to dance, for any reason whatsoever. Even when hot guys ask. Though, I did engage in singing a horrible rendition of some Hootie and The Blowfish song, thankfully not on a microphone.<br />
<br />
Things start getting a little fuzzy at this point. One of my SIL's reads my blog and I remember, distinctly, mentioning several times that I was going to put whatever funny thing that was just said or occurred in my blog and how epic it was going to be... Regrettably, I don't actually remember any of those funny things. I do remember where I got the title for this post, and only because my SIL posted it on my wall. It was, however, one of those things you just had to be there for. It involved horribly loud singing on our part to the Proud Mary song which was met with irked gazes from some hot bald guy and his friend. I also distinctly remember being very loud. Actually, it may be more that I know my volume levels are directly proportional to my blood-alcohol level and because everything was fairly fuzzy at this point, I must have been <i>really</i> loud.<br />
<br />
Now things really get blurry... I remember having a conversation about sex with one of the gay guys (who happened to be <i style="font-weight: bold;">bald</i>) and another guy (who, I remember thinking was pretty damn hot and told me I had a nice smile, which I evidently took as an offer to buy me a drink and took him up on it, much to his dismay). Something about "throwing her legs over your shoulders". I remember being accused by the bald gay guy of thinking he (the gay guy) was hot and being "moist" in his presence. And I remember me and the bald gay guy scoping out some dude in a flannel and a hat (that may or may not have had a John Deere logo on it).<br />
<br />
We were discussing whether or not he'd be good in bed. I pointed out the fact that he was a redneck, as obviously indicated by his flannel shirt (which was not being worn in the ever-popular "grunge" style). Gay guy stated that he was good looking (he was) and could probably go home with anyone he wanted in this bar. To which I pointed out that most of the "regulars" in this particular bar were probably toothless trailer trash. He said something about toothless being a benefit and we kind of left it at that. This conversation prompted the next memorable scene.<br />
<br />
As we are leaving the bar, I approach Mr. Flannel Shirt with a mischievous grin on my face and proceed to explain, rather poorly, that me and the gay guy were talking about his "abilities" in "certain situations". (Now, I feel the need to reiterate that I just said "gay friend" to a dude in a flannel in a redneck bar) He was smiling, but there was a gleam in his eyes that indicated trouble. Being the badass that I am, I totally ignored this and continued to prod him about how <i>he</i> felt about said abilities. To which he responded "ask her" and pointed to the stereotypical redneck, straw-haired, nasty toothed (ok, I am assuming on that one, because believe me, <i>she</i> wasn't smiling), muffin-topped chick. Rather than leave well enough alone and make a dignified exit, I proceed to go over to her, put my arm around her and explain the conversation me and my "gay friend" had... Trailer-trash was <b>not</b> amused. With a homicidal look in her eye, she ordered me to "get the fuck out of here". I didn't need to be told twice. With the same mischievous grin on my face, I <s>walked</s> ran out of the bar.<br />
<br />
We proceeded to cause more drunken mayhem at Kings. There was talk of nipples and being stabbed twice. These might be very painful memories for some (aka my brother/chauffeur, who doesn't drink), so I will not reopen old wounds. Let's just say, despite pissing off at least 2 women, I managed to get through the night with my awesome face still intact.Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-67623697077727241992010-12-09T21:16:00.001-05:002011-02-28T10:31:45.048-05:00Letter to SantaDear Santa,<br />
<br />
Listen, you're a cool guy, but we need to talk. You see, I'm having some issues with the whole concept of me shelling out hundreds and you getting all the credit. That being said, I have told my offspring that you are not real. I'm sorry, but it had to be done. To make up for all the years of me not getting credit for the debt I have put myself in, in your name, I am sending you my <s>list of demands</s> wish list. I have carefully calculated, and the following should, at least partially, make up for all the money I have spent on gifts from you:<br />
<br />
1. A year's supply of vodka. 182.5 fifths should do it. Don't be cheap either. Get the good stuff: Rain Organic, preferably, if not, then Gray Goose will do. Also, throw in a bottle of that Crystal Skull stuff, I <i>really</i> want one of those skull-shaped bottles.<br />
<br />
2. A tummy tuck. That 8lbs 10oz thing that I popped out, who gave you many years of credit, has caused my abdomen to have a striking resemblance to a deflated balloon. You can help me fix it.<br />
<br />
3. A Mitsubishi Lancer EVO... <b>EVO</b>. Don't think you're gonna pull off the lesser model on me. Make sure it has a sunroof.<br />
<br />
4. Heroin. Yes, you heard me. I really want to try some heroin and since I don't know any shady drug dealers (and if I did, I wouldn't want them to know I actually want to try heroin, because they would turn my into a drug addict prostitute and I would be stuck with all of the toothless, old and/or stinky clients because of my deflated belly), you seem to be my last hope of fulfilling this wish. If you can't pull that off, maybe some shrooms?<br />
<br />
5. Sweetmeats. Just find them and bring me some.<br />
<br />
6. One night with David Draiman. Make it happen. We'll need to time this before my tummy tuck in case I become impregnated with his love child.<br />
<br />
7. Front row tickets (and backstage passes, like 10 of them) to a Pink Floyd concert. You're Santa, you can bring Richard Wright back from the dead, right?<br />
<br />
I think that should do it. Please note that I expect these on or before December 25th. (That's the day we celebrate Jesus' birth, even though he wasn't really born then.) Actually, I celebrate the Solstice, so have these to me by December 21st. You can't discriminate based on religious beliefs, the Constitution says so. No need to bother with the reindeer, goofy costume and all that. You can come in sweats or just mail it. If you send it UPS, please let them know they are not allowed to hold my shit in New Stanton for a day or two, k?<br />
<br />
Yours truly,<br />
Trbobitch<br />
<br />
P.S. If you can't pull any of that off, for whatever reason, just make Ron Paul president and we'll call it even.Trbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-617677550989182319.post-80461512715070587082010-12-08T18:44:00.002-05:002011-02-28T10:32:54.133-05:00Open Letters: Vol. 1When you write Open Letters to people like Brett Favre (Faaaaahhhh-v), they deserve their own post. Sometimes, though, things piss you off and you just need a quickie to express your vexation. Since I like to keep my posts fairly long, I decided to condense several open letters into volumes. Why am I even explaining this? It's MY blog! If you don't like it, go play in traffic.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Cg4sw9XfPqokpZPVobNn8LJALaJAqYdvP_Qkmb_xavc5OZIsyNsbdoyYuMfNRJbsl1K37EcMLbN12e-h5NQYnsNpP9_7fLkjpAL0UmUpXeuIao7FiSWziVb2My8ha50peRh85IdPFeUb/s1600/UPS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Cg4sw9XfPqokpZPVobNn8LJALaJAqYdvP_Qkmb_xavc5OZIsyNsbdoyYuMfNRJbsl1K37EcMLbN12e-h5NQYnsNpP9_7fLkjpAL0UmUpXeuIao7FiSWziVb2My8ha50peRh85IdPFeUb/s320/UPS.jpg" width="320" /></a>Dear UPS,<br />
<br />
Let me start by saying that I love you for delivering my many packages in a timely manner and not using them to play <a href="http://www.amazon.com/DOZEN-Assorted-Hackey-Sacks-HACKY/dp/B000E60T92?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">hacky-sack</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B000E60T92" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /> or <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tachikara-Soft-Rubber-Playground-Balls/dp/B002RTAIOK?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">dodgeball</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B002RTAIOK" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /> (as I am convinced the assholes at USPS do, because they are always late and wrapped in that plastic that says, "Gee, we're sorry we fucked up your stuff. We certainly hope it wasn't anything valuable, or fragile - as the box indicates with the big <a href="http://www.amazon.com/FRAGILE-Handle-Shipping-Labels-Stickers/dp/B002ALR9SS?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">FRAGILE sticker</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B002ALR9SS" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />, though we're sure that's just decoration. We'll be more careful next time. Maybe.").<br />
<br />
However, I do have a HUGE gripe with you... Why, UPS? Why do you insist upon holding my package in New Stanton for a day (sometimes 2!!)?? You do understand that New Stanton is less than an hour away from me, right? I mean, I could see if it got there at 5:00pm... but they get there at 2:00 or 3:00am. You mean to tell me that you can't throw that bad boy on a truck (not <b>really</b> throw it) and deliver it to me that day?<br />
<br />
I understand what you're trying to do. You don't want my expectations to be too high, because you guys are so fucking <i>fast</i>, but come ON... One more day isn't going to have me expecting to receive my packages an hour after they're shipped! Besides, you do realize that your tracking page shows me where my shit is, right? When I consistently see it sitting in New Stanton for a day or two, it makes me sad - and angry. Whatever awesome thing I am anticipating is sitting in the armpit of Pennsylvania, so close, yet so far away, instead of in my hands where I can admire it. How would it make you feel if I died that day, without ever getting to see whatever awesome thing I purchased, all because <b>you</b> decided to hold it in New fucking Stanton for an extra day? Not too good, I suspect (or maybe you <i>would</i>...).<br />
<br />
I want to also add that I especially hate when you do this on Friday, because my package inevitably sits until Monday. Even though you <i>do</i> deliver packages on Saturday, evidently you feel whatever paltry thing I have is not worthy of being delivered until Monday. I am pretty sure it's a conspiracy to torture me. I get all excited seeing that my stuff made it to New Stanton by Friday until I look at the estimated delivery date and it's not until Monday. Then I spend the entire weekend in anxious anticipation of the item and distressed by the fact that I am spending my entire 2 days off without it when it is sitting in some shithole less than an hour away from me.<br />
<br />
Why do you enjoy torturing me? <span id="search" style="visibility: visible;"><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Schadenfreude-Baby-Delicious-Misfortune-Pleasure/dp/1599212358?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Schadenfreude</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=1599212358" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />?</i></span><br />
<br />
Going forward, please just drive the extra 40 minutes and bring me my stuff, k?<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Trbobitch<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Dear Coworker (you know who you are),<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbU96qazB6iAB1esVhTrb2Jq_BybnrMwym0bpUr8F3n80g79Q50gMs0HwqCwR5H_2xE4SLEAcQSGf1m3NP2HGxb7QxEHlVgtwzSeNdK7nCuHWYKm7MMoNCKHQjNb4mPjEmoIfmhqPKyq9V/s1600/darth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbU96qazB6iAB1esVhTrb2Jq_BybnrMwym0bpUr8F3n80g79Q50gMs0HwqCwR5H_2xE4SLEAcQSGf1m3NP2HGxb7QxEHlVgtwzSeNdK7nCuHWYKm7MMoNCKHQjNb4mPjEmoIfmhqPKyq9V/s200/darth.jpg" width="200" /></a>Please work from home. Every day. If you can't do that, please stop turning up the A/C in summer and turning down the heat in winter. Seriously, I know you're old and chubby, but I thought old people were supposed to be cold all the time? Maybe if you would stop eating all that questionable Chinese Food, you wouldn't be hot all the time? Just please stop making me wear gloves at work, it's hard to type.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Trbobitch<br />
<br />
P.S. Please stop breathing like Darth Vader. I will buy you <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Breathe-Right-Nasal-Strips-30-Count/dp/B001G7QPX2?ie=UTF8&tag=thetrb-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">breathe right strips</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=thetrb-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B001G7QPX2" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpr_mpDw95P6qylxmTz3kbsZ0zgyJNl-NCmMbAyH0UCJ__53H4Q6XlMJheq0rHWx2upKIET36pzXs1Zlh-rg4ny7ONLJEMntujH-KMfugTwM6wD0g7JmRTYEMZKyWEHBlr_csJRb7qtC2s/s1600/martini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpr_mpDw95P6qylxmTz3kbsZ0zgyJNl-NCmMbAyH0UCJ__53H4Q6XlMJheq0rHWx2upKIET36pzXs1Zlh-rg4ny7ONLJEMntujH-KMfugTwM6wD0g7JmRTYEMZKyWEHBlr_csJRb7qtC2s/s1600/martini.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Dear Vodka,<br />
<br />
<br />
I love you, don't ever change (being on sale doesn't count as change).<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GXHQqnjPRjj1FHWnoYrF-RoS1CU4me4Ycmf_fsWhrznwg_8qIbjdbF7yN79BdXvR28Xsqo_CHVlgMIsdcdtWu-qHKostvVKRN8cJIhIWVCCWLHAdPRHFU-z9Rl6wwbtIw8mniM1gfmo1/s1600/absolut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GXHQqnjPRjj1FHWnoYrF-RoS1CU4me4Ycmf_fsWhrznwg_8qIbjdbF7yN79BdXvR28Xsqo_CHVlgMIsdcdtWu-qHKostvVKRN8cJIhIWVCCWLHAdPRHFU-z9Rl6wwbtIw8mniM1gfmo1/s1600/absolut.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a>Your loyal consumer,<br />
TrbobitchTrbobitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978243818309040654noreply@blogger.com3