Living With a Teenager: My Mother's Revenge

I am officially living with a teenager. A teenager who is 30 years older than me. Please, Universe, what have I done to deserve this? I mean, I understand that I was once a teenager who did bad things like come home drunk and stoned (my parents, however, never had a clue), smoked cigarettes in my room and once tried to pierce my own belly button, but never was I at the levels of teenage patheticness (spell check says that's not a word, I say it is, so bite me spell check) that I am living with now.

I didn't realize my mom was a teenager until she found her ex-boyfriend on Facebook (courtesy of me, so yes, I brought this all on myself). Via my own Facebook page, I contacted him and what ensued was something like the time in middle school where your friend had you talk to a guy she liked for her and all of your time was consumed by either composing messages to him with her breathing down your neck or listening to her tell you how much she "likes" him or how "cute" he is. This situation was caused by the fact that my mother is hopelessly technologically challenged, not because she was afraid to talk to him herself. I figured I could easily remedy this, after all, I am a technology guru and my mom is not completely retarded...

So I try to teach my mom how to use the Internets. This proved to be much more difficult than it sounds. Between her opening 300 browser windows (by clicking the easy access icon I put on the desktop EVERY time she wanted to read her email) and me having to show her 17 million times how to sign out of my Gmail account and into her own, I was ready to drink a bottle of Windex and call it a life. To boot, I had to defile my own laptop by installing AOHell instant messenger so she could talk to her boyfriend. I thought this would make things better, you know, because they could now talk directly to each other. Oh no, suddenly, my laptop was no longer my own. I got kicked off of Facebook nightly, at the ungodly early hour of 10 pm. What was I to do with my life? No Facebook after 10 PM? Am I being grounded from my own computer?

It only gets better worse. They began texting each other. Yes, texting, on a cell phone. I am no stranger to the occasional text conversation. However, these conversations should be limited to the occasional funny quip or quick question. If you're telling each other every grueling detail about your day via t9, you really need to learn to pick up the goddamn phone and call!! You may think I am exaggerating, in which case, I ask you: is 1500+ texts in 2 weeks an exaggeration? I mean, WTF can two old people talk about (no, no, don't tell me, I really don't want to know, that was totally a rhetorical question)?? And just imagine a technologically challenged person texting this much... You have to remember, it probably takes her about 10 minutes (ok, ok, exaggeration) to compose a text, 10 x 1500 = 15000 minutes worth of texting in two weeks time! What could I do with that time? Write a hilarious blog post, take a shower and shave my legs, argue with 15 people on Facebook, talk on the phone and have a real conversation, work on my Eddie Vedder voice for Karaoke... The possibilities are endless.

Aside from the obvious pain I have experienced from my mother's lack of 21st century survival skills, you have the romance aspect of this situation. I, personally, have never seen Letters to Juliet but I have heard that this cringe-worthy old-person romance is much like this situation. Not that I am against love, or romance, I just don't want to associate it with two senior citizens. Although, you would never know by the way she acts that she is a grandmother to an actual teenager. Which, again, is fine, because I am certainly no advocate for acting one's age, but not when I have to deal with the incessant giggling every five minutes after she receives some presumably naughty text message he sent her. The exchange that happens usually goes something like this:

*BLIINGG* (noise Mom's phone makes when she gets a text)

Mom: Oh, it must be Eugene*!

Me: (oh gee, it must be Eugene because you hated cell phones, computers and text messages before Eugene came around)

Mom: *high-pitched hysterical giggles*

Me: What's so funny?

Mom: Nothing, Eugene just said something funny.

Me: Well, if it's so funny, and Eugene is such a comedic genius, surely you want to share with your daughter, the Queen of All Things Funny...?

Mom: no, I can't tell you *sheepish grin*

Me: Oh boy, I don't wanna know...

This exchange happened a few times before I realized that she was not laughing to express that Loverboy had said anything actually funny and that it was probably something that would belong on a GILF hookup site...

I also now understand what it feels like to worry about a teenager. She and Loverboy went out for a moonlit stroll one night when he was here visiting. My sister came over and was waiting here for them to come back. We waited for what seemed like hours. We were wringing our hands and checking our watches before one of us finally said "Ok, that's it! I am calling!" So we call mom's cell phone. Apparently, when the object of her texting affection is in her presence, she has no reason to carry her cellphone while she's out for a walk, at night, down a very secluded trail, with a guy she hasn't seen in 30 some years, who could very well be a psychotic axe-murderer. Just as I am about to grab my Samurai Dagger of Doom (which, as I think about it rationally, would have been no match for the barbed 16-bladed machete of a psychotic serial killer) and head out into the night to tackle Norman Bates head-on, they walk up the driveway (holding hands I am pretty sure, though I try to put such images out of my already disturbed mind). Life, at that point, entered into the 180 realm of complete role-reversal. My sister and I proceeded to thoroughly scold our mother for irresponsible behavior. Such phrases as "something could have happened to you and we would have had no way to find you!" and "we were worried sick!" escaped our mouths in a scene straight out of my own teenage years.

So I get it now, mom, I know what I put you through, but this is no way to exact your revenge on me. Next thing you know, I'll be uttering such cliches as "have her home before midnight" and "you're not dating til I'm 30!" while cleaning my guns at the kitchen table. Mom, I draw the line at taking you to shop at Hot Topic and allowing you to dye your hair purple. And that skirt? It's too short, go change it. At least I don't have to worry about you getting pregnant...

*names have been changed to protect the elderly

Voting Day!

I'm not feeling terribly funny today. I'm not even feeling terribly human today... Oh, and it's voting day. I don't vote. Voting is a waste of time and I will let George tell you why:

Trekkies Vs. Rennies: Why Medieval Nerds Are Superior to Space Nerds

There are many reasons why lovers of The Lord of The Rings are waaay cooler than lovers of Star Wars. The most obvious reasons relate to methods of ass kicking. Let's take a look first at weapons used by space geeks: Laser cannons, lightsabres, gigantic spacecraft with laser cannons, ray guns. All things that don't exist (at least as far as we know). Not to mention, how epic are those battles? One blast with a laser cannon and you're all disintegrated! But not to worry, because you have a Plasma Particle Energy Deflecting Forcefield of Doom! That's right, you just turn on that forcefield before the laser hits you and you're safe... I mean, what fucking fun is this? You get to just make shit up as you go along, because, you know, this is the future and anything is possible! Plus, most of the characters in these space things aren't even human, so they don't bleed, WTF kind of epic battle doesn't involve blood??

Now let's take a look at medieval weaponry. First off, it's real. It actually existed and, to this day, you can decapitate someone with a Battle Axe. And it's not point and shoot, it takes some mad skillz to swing a 60lbs. battle axe in the right manner to decapitate a moving target. And what happens when you decapitate someone? Copious amounts of blood. A headless human fountain of crimson delight (because, of course, when you chop off someone's head, they remain standing long enough for you to see this awesome display). War hammers, maces, swords, bows... And, to boot, there are about a hundred different variations of each weapon type, take swords: katana, dagger, broadsword, great sword, scimitar and my personal favorite, the Claymore. As far as large weapons of mass destruction? Oh it only gets better: Trebuchets, catapults (can your Death Star launch plague infected dead cows over a castle wall? I think not), pirate ships (nothing says badass like roughing it on the high seas on a rat infested hunk of wood, bravely manning out a storm). 


So that competition is easily won, let's move on to the chicks:


This:

Or this:




































I rest my case.


Let's discuss cuisine. In medieval times, there were turkey legs, fruits, cheeses, these awesome sounding things call sweetmeats (Incidentally, if anyone knows what these actually are and would like to send me some, email me), cakes, pastries... What do space people have? Pills. They are far too evolved (and too busy fighting intergalactic space battles) to actually enjoy food, and the end result is all of your daily nutrients, vitamins and calories packed into one convenient little capsule, taste buds be damned. Back in the days that actually existed, you also had a plethora of tasty alcoholic drinks: grog, ale, meade, wine... Space people don't drink, it's not healthy and they might crash their giant ship into a planet causing it to veer off it's orbit into its Sun, where upon said sun will explode creating a blackhole that will suck in the entire Universe. Drinking and intergalactic driving is a huge no no. Besides, space people, again, are too evolved to enjoy the unhealthy benefits of an alcohol induced stupor. (Can Aaamazzarites even get drunk?).


Speaking of Aaamazzarites, WTF is that? You just throw a bunch of letters together with a sticky keyboard and call it a race? No way, elves, orcs, faeries, dwarfs, wizards, hobbits, ogres and trolls are far superior races. And everyone knows what they are without Googling. Could you tell me what a Uxali is without the help of the Google machine? (Or how to pronounce it?) If you can, far from being proud of yourself, you should probably reevaluate your priorities in life and get the hell out fo your mom's basement.


As far as in modern times, well there is no competition. Go to a Renaissance Faire then go to a Star Wars Convention. Tell me which one you enjoyed more. Don't worry, I'll wait.................... See? No contest. 

Open Letter to Brett Favre

Dear Brett,

I probably should have said "Dear Mr. Favre", but I have drooled over enough pictures of you for me to believe we are on a first name basis. Also, you have done something that should remove any expectation of formality you had from anyone. I know, Brett, you probably get a hundred letters a day from people foaming at the mouth saying "how could you do this!?", you're about to get another, but, please, read on, I promise you haven't received one like this.

I'm sure your wife is as lovely as a sweltering summer's day and this girl you hit on is as innocent as Pee Wee Herman playing doctor at a child's slumber party, but I don't really give two shits about them. I am not going to rail on you for cheating on your wife (cause, you know, let's face it, I'm sure this isn't the first time... Kudos, though, on not getting caught before now). I would have gladly gotten naked with you at one point in my life, with no regard for her feelings (sorry, Mrs. Favre - see, SHE gets some formality here). I'm not going to rail on you for your choice of flirtations (although, it might have been better to choose someone like me, who doesn't have a failing TV show and stands to gain nothing but humiliation from outing you).

No Brett, I am not going to do those things. I am only going to tell you, Brett, that I am Disappoint. You see, I looked at the pictures you sent to this girl and all of my hopes and dreams of one day meeting you, jumping on top of you and having monkey-like acrobatic sex with you were shattered. Seriously, you would have done better to send her a picture of the guns and not the water pistol. Now, I will give you this, it certainly wasn't in all of its erect glory, and we all know how that goes right? I'll even give you that you somehow lost hot water in your house (how much do you make a year? I mean, I know times are tough but a couple of mil isn't enough to pay your gas bill??) and you had just gotten out of a cold shower. That being said, though, WHY choose that time to take pictures of Mr. Winky and actually send them to someone?

C'mon, you know this chick works for the NFL, right? You do realize that you are probably not the first player she has had intercourse interactions with, correct? You do realize, given the racial dynamic of the NFL, and the implications of said racial dynamic, that it is statistically probable that she has had these interactions with a man whose Mr. Winky is at least slightly larger than yours, even flaccid, RIGHT??? Brett, what were you thinking???

I could lecture you about the proper way to be famous and cheat on your spouse with a younger, hotter member of the opposite sex (or same sex, whatever you're into), but I won't, because you have gotten away with it up until now so you obviously know the rules of playing that game. I will commend you for that and chalk this little incident up to you maybe thinking that this girl was totally worth taking the risk, or maybe you were high on meth (which would also explain certain other anomalies here).

I just want to close this by letting you know that if I ever see you, my plans of attacking you with acrobatic monkey sex are off the table. These plans are now exclusively reserved for Bruce Willis. I won't even shake your hand, because then I will have to think about how a certain something fits in that hand, barely peeking out over the top.

Yours in Disappoint,
Trbobitch

Things People Do (or Do Not) at Work that Make Their Coworkers Want to Murder Them

1. Eat crunchy food that comes in a crinkly bag. Between your loud chewing (unavoidable with such foods) and the obnoxious crinkling noise of the bag, you are making people want to throw themselves off the nearest tall building. Save the chips for when you're sitting at home in front of your TV, fatty.

2. Chew anything with your mouth open. Gum, food, candy. Were you raised by hyenas???

3. Slurp, click, gulp or any other obnoxious and completely unnecessary action while eating/drinking. You're foul.

4. Breathe heavily. Whether you're breathing into a conference call, sitting at your desk sounding like you're getting off, or sighing loudly after taking a drink or whatever, IT'S CREEPY and ANNOYING! Learn breathing control so the rest of us don't feel like we're stuck in a horror movie waiting for Darth Vader to say "I know what you did at the company Christmas party...".

5. Clip your nails, clean your ears or floss your teeth at your desk. OK, sure, the occasional clip of a hang nail, filing of a broken nail or getting food out of your teeth is necessary, but don't groom yourself at your desk. Not to mention, the sound of nails being clipped is just disturbing in an office.

6. WEAR DEODORANT - I do not care what culture you come from, NO ONE should have to suffer day in and day out with the smell of B.O. It's foul, it doesn't smell natural or sexy or whatever your reasoning is, it's quite distracting if not nauseating and there is absolutely nothing the people around you can do to block it out (at least the noisy stuff can usually be counteracted by headphones blaring Disturbed while they are contemplating your murder). Smelly ass.

7. Talk in your pookie voice to your kids or significant other. Seriously, no one wants to hear that.

8. Use speaker phone - unless you use it to dial then pick it up. I don't care how important you think you are, no one wants to hear the messages you got from whatever VP about the great job you did or how much someone needs your help. Besides, you know you don't get those kind of messages anyway. In fact, you'll probably just end up getting something embarrassing and not be able to turn off the speaker before everyone hears your wife/husband saying "Honey, I just got back from the doctor. It IS herpes...".

9. Fart, burp or any other socially unacceptable bodily releases... If it slips, excuse yourself, but don't think that it's cool to just burp loudly every 15 minutes an say excuse me, you disgusting pig.

10. Drum on your desk. Need I say more?

11. Pound on your keyboard. Hitting the keys harder will not speed up your hung application, nor will it do anything besides annoy the people around you. If you're frustrated, get up, go outside and shoot yourself, or just learn to have some fucking self control you psychopath! (this would also apply to slamming doors, drawers or anything else out of anger/frustration)

12. Play loud music or radio shows... I don't care how awesome you think your country music is, I don't want to listen to it while I am working! If you're that deaf that I can hear it through your headphones, get a flippin hearing aid, gramps!

13. Eat other people's food. If your name is not on it, it's not yours. If there is no name on it, it still is not yours (unless it actually IS yours, in which case, put your name on it, retard). This applies to beverages too. That 12 pack of Coke Zero that says Trdomski? Not yours, you fucking thief.

14. Wear too much perfume. Ok, there is a rule about applying perfume: If you, yourself, can still smell it full force 20 minutes after you applied, you're wearing too much. If I can still smell it in the bathroom 15 minutes after you were there, again too much. In fact, one squirt is more than sufficient, really. You don't need to use half the bottle. In fact, if you'd take a shower, you may not feel compelled to use that much, dirt ball.

15. Make up stories and brag to seem cool. No one cares or BELIEVES that your credit score is 846, dude. If you're going to make something up, make it sound believable. If you are a 300 pound, balding, dirty, smelly, fat kid making $10/hour and driving an '84 Buick, no one is going to believe that 2 strippers came to your place last night and gave you a private show, jackass. And wash BETWEEN the rolls, PLEASE!

Some Awesome Lingo That People NEED to Use

People aren't creative enough, especially with insults. I mean, yeah, asshole has it's place, but could anything be more insulting (or funnier) than fucktard? I mean, try it, when some dude who is bigger than you is hurling insults and getting ready to pound your face into the ground, just call him a fucktard. He'll either be so confused or so overwhelmed with how completely hilarious that word is, he'll forget all about why he wanted to punch you and buy you a beer (or so YOU hope anyway, I have never tried this method because I don't have a ridiculous amount of testosterone coursing through my veins causing me to get drunk and pick fights with guys that are bigger than me. Maybe you are the fucktard?)


Let's move on to an oldie but goody: fugly. You guys remember fugly!! Like, "omg, those plaid shoes are so fugly!" Fugly stands for Fucking Ugly. Yes, capitalized. It's an extreme statement of how hideous something is. Now, normally, I am not a big fan of not saying fuck when it's incorporated into something. Like "It's so effing hot out here!!" No, it's fucking hot, say it. However, fugly is a great term for those times when the F-bomb is not appropriate. However, I would like to propose a new use for this term. I happen to like my plaid shoes, so if we're going to call them fugly, I'd like it to mean fantastically fucking ugly. Like saying "your plaid shoes are so ugly they are awesome!" (BTW, nothing in leopard print will ever fall into this category)


Asshat is another favorite. Why? Just say it. "You're an asshat." It's insulting because no one has any fucking clue what it means. I mean, what's wrong with hats? If I called you a hat, would you be insulted? Probably not. Adding the word ass in front makes it insulting. It's one thing to just be an ass (and, I mean, let's face it, that could be a compliment. What if I am a nice, well rounded ass that fits snugly into some low rise jeans? That would be like calling me sexy). But an asshat? Is that like a hat so ugly I'd only wear it on my ass? Is it a hat you wear on your ass like a diaper? Maybe a diaper that has pictures of hats on it? Excuse me while I go shop for panties with hats on them, so I can say I have an asshat.


On to one of my personal favorites: Dickfur. You are the fur on a dick. I have never personally seen a furry dick (the fur, as far as I know, shouldn't be on the dick), but I would imagine it's pretty fugly (and not in the Trbobitch meaning). I don't use this insult on just anyone. There is a very special person that this one is strictly reserved for. The Ex Husband. Maybe because I first heard it from him. So thank you, Dickfur, for giving me the perfect nickname for you!


So next time Bubba tries to make you eat pavement, just call him a fugly, fucktard asshat. You're still going to get a couple of teeth knocked and and spend the night in the ER, but you'll make someone laugh, and laughter is good for the soul. Besides, you might get a hot nurse and a painkiller buzz. And remember, chicks dig scars.

My Conversation with Sheriff Mack

Sheriff Mack is awesome. (If you don’t know who he is, click this: http://tinyurl.com/26dr4yg) My introduction to Sheriff Mack was courtesy of Hot Bald Guy. I was at Hot Bald Guy’s house a while back, sitting on the couch, probably waiting for him to get done primping (he’s worse than a woman sometimes, but it’s OK because it’s always better to have a clean man who takes care of himself instead of a “musky” macho man that thinks showers are for sissies and soap is for wusses). Anyway, he had Sheriff Mack’s book, The Proper Role of Law Enforcement, sitting on the coffee table (which is actually some sort of steamer trunk looking thing). I picked it up and started reading – and I am pretty sure I finished it before Hot Bald Guy came down. I fell in love with Sheriff Mack.

Now, imagine my excitement at getting to meet Sheriff Mack! I drove all the way to Philly - well Big Daddy drove, but I navigated! – just to meet him (OK, maybe not just to meet him but he was definitely the highlight of the trip, much better than room 803, but that’s another story for another time). The big day finally comes, I am hung over and tired but still in all of my excited glory at meeting the Sheriff. During one of the speeches, I went out into the lobby area and BOOM! There is Sheriff Mack!!! All alone! Just me and him! I might actually get to have a decent conversation with him. 

So here’s how it went:

Sheriff Mack: Hi there! (I think he tried to sell me a book and asked if I knew who he was)

Me: (DUH! Of course I know who you are!!) Yes, you’re Sheriff Mack, I read your book and you are AWESOME!

Sheriff Mack: Your hair is red. (No, just like that. Don’t imagine any sort of tone to this, none. Just a simple statement, like “The sky is blue”)

Me: Yes, yes it is.

Sheriff Mack: Haha, sorry, I am good at pointing out the obvious!

Me: (Said something profound and engaging, at which point we were going to begin a totally awesome conversation about relevant things – not about my hair, although my hair is very relevant.)

Then what happens? Andy Maul. Andy MOTHERFUCKING Maul!! You guys (I say this like I have more than one follower), look, you don’t even get it. Andy Maul is like my arch-nemesis. This dude lives in da ‘Burgh and used to basically stalk my Facebook and post nasty, douchebaggy comments on pretty much everything I posted. Believe me, he's much more brazen sitting behind that keyboard. In person, he appeared to be the type that would shit himself on the spot if you walked up and said "BOO!" Eventually, I got him to delete himself from my page, and I thought I was done with him. 

NNNOOOOOOOO! In walks Andy Fucktard Maul  like a true douchebag (looking much like a reluctant yet excited little fat kid) with his ounce of silver to buy a Sheriff Mack book and totally fucks up my mackin’ on Sheriff Mack!  


So thank you, Andy Maul... Thank you for ruining my life. You suck.