This post was originally started in mid-December 2009, before Mamacita Nature hit Balmer with two more cray-cray blizzards. So....consider this one the warm-up.
Mid-December 2009
Before I begin this post I have to say that even though the Jesus Syndicate has moved away I'm still receiving their CHRISTMAS CARD MAIL! Yes, I have actually had a Christmas card for the JS dropped in MY mailbox as clearly nobody lives in that house anymore. So, I now know, even the mailman is in on the conspiracy to NEVER let the JS actually be gone from my life. Maybe it's time I contacted The Savage Nation to let them know that wacko conspiracies afflict us lefties as well.
OK, so the actual topic of this post is around the notion that "if you didn't have a shovel in your hand it's not your space". This is the kind of petty shit I have to be consumed with by living, as I do, in a Balmer rowhome with no access to even a parking pad let alone a fucking garage. We got 24 inches of snow in Balmer a couple of weeks ago which basically meant that the city (excluding my job) shut down. Fine. We paid two yahoos a decent wage to dig us out of that dump of snow, including and especially, our two cars. Once the plows come through, however, they redeposit a foot or so of a snow cliff right next to the car. We shoveled out again and, thinking everything was now hunkydory as there was no further snow predicted, went to bed to dream the ABIB's dreams of anarchy and such. But NO! The person I let use my car to go out for the evening rang the house phone at about 12:30 A fucking M to query:
"Um, where should I park your car?"
To which I groggily replied:
"In my fucking DUG-OUT parking space."
"Theres a truck parked there." Was the reply.
"WHAT THE FUCK???!!!"
So, now it's 12:30 A fucking M on a work night and I'm fully awake and across the bedroom floor in seconds, peering out the window only to see that, indeed, there is a motherfucking TRUCK parked in MY DUG-OUT SPACE!!! Not a truck, really, but one of those useless fucking SUVs that do nothing but suck up our gas, pour shit into the air at a great big rate, and pretty much block my view whenever I'm stuck behind one of them. GIANT HEMIs!!!! BIG TIRES!!!!! YOU CAN EXTRACT GIANT TREE STUMPS WITH THEM!!! I'm guessing that they generally serve as the manhood-consolation prize for having a little dick.
It took me all of 45 seconds to pull on some sweats over my nightgown (attractive image, I know, but HEY an ABIB's gotta do what an ABIB's gotta do), step into my clodhopper snow boots and throw on my ski jacket. Out the door, into the frigid night, at 12:30 in the FUCKING morning on a work night, where I see MY CAR now, tires spinning, stuck in a snow drift, while a FUCKING SUV is parked in my paid-for, dug-out parking space. Oh, MOTHERFUCKER I don't THINK SO!
I also notice that my uber-creepy neighbor is out there (at this hour) calmly clearing the snow off of his wife's car windows. It doesn't occur to me immediately that it's HIS SUV, since it's fucking dark and it's fucking 12:30 A fucking M.
What does the ABIB do in a sitch like this one? The ABIB, being the ABIB, announces her status and her intentions. At the top of my lungs, in the middle of the street, at 12:30 in the A fucking M, here's what I screamed:
"WHATEVER MOTHERFUCKER HAS PARKED THEIR FUCKING TRUCK IN MY PARKING SPACE BETTER COME DOWN HERE AND FUCKING MOVE IT. I'M GOING TO STAND HERE AND KEEP SCREAMING UNTIL YOU FUCKING MOVE YOUR FUCKING TRUCK! AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!"
I screamed for about 25 seconds before I hear Uber-Creepy say:
"Hey, calm down!"
What the what? Man, I don't know how old you are but the last thing you want to tell a hormonal, middle-aged, sleep-deprived WOMAN is to "calm down". As they said in one of my favorite movies, "Galaxy Quest", "It's like throwing gasoline on a flame."
I stalked over to him and asked what he said. Foolishly he repeated it.
"Calm down."
"Is that your fucking truck in my space?"
He chuckled. "Your space?"
"Did you shovel that space out?"
"What?"
"DID YOU FUCKING SHOVEL THAT PARKING SPACE OUT?"
"No."
"Then it's NOT YOURS!"
"What are you saying that you OWN the parking space?"
How I didn't stroke out on the pavement at that moment was a miracle that told me that I clearly was doing the Lord's work. Someone had to set this fucking dipwad straight and I was apparently getting the green light to go ahead and do it. So be it.
Well I took the next several moments to explain to shit-for-brains, that, if you want a parking space, you DIG OUT a parking space for yourself, you don't wait for a neighbor to have a parking space dug out and then assume it's for YOUR LAZY ASS! He backed up a few steps and incredulously said:
"You PAID to have this space dug out?"
"Yeah. I PAID to have this space dug out. Plus, considering that you're driving a fucking lunar vehicle, you can pretty much park wherever you want, asshole. So move your car."
To make a long story short, he at first refused but then I got closer to his house and presumably his sleeping spouse and kid, and started screaming again, so he reconsidered. Atta boy! My car was still stuck in the snowbank but I got it dislodged and went back in the house where I was then wide-awake and up until after 2:00 AM. Next day I saw freakjob and he apologized for not understanding the "culture of the neighborhood" in spite of the fact that it was fuckwad's third freaking winter with us. I wished him a barely audible "Merry Christmas" and continued on my way. So, you see, even threatening scare-oids can ultimately be cowed by a screaming banshee in a nightgown, sweatpants and clodhopper boots. As "Cathy" once said: "Never underestimate the power of going a day without makeup." Or indeed, in the case of the ABIB, even a few moments on a cold winter's night.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Curse That Lingers
OK, so I haven't told you all - don't you love how I say that like I assume I have readers - I haven't told you all that The Jesus Syndicate finally MOVED AWAY! Is it blasphemous to thank the Baby Jesus that they finally packed up all their shit into a big ass truck and LEFT? So here I am, thinking, well, FINALLY, Easy Street, USA but then the owner of the house through the wall (the JS were just one in a 12 year string of renters) decided to get out of the slum lord biz and puts the fucking property on the market. So far so good, right? Owners are better than renters, property values rise when everyone owns, blah, blah, blah.
Well, that would be true if only the FUCKING OWNER WOULD STOP WORKING ON THE HOUSE! I want to ask him if he's building the Taj Ma-FUCKING-Hal in there or what? For at least a month there have been workmen in there daily, DAILY! - through the wall - banging, Roto-rootering, drilling, and belt sanding the whole place beginning at roughly 7:30 AM on MY DAY OFF!! The owner, his wife (daintily painting the exteriors of the windows) and a team of about 10,000 workmen have been at this - need I remind you - 50-something-year-old ROW HOUSE from dawn to nightfall. I tell you it's enough to drive a sane person crazy and I am The ABIB, so youze be knowin' what be happenin' to MOI.
So the incessant, daily noise threshold is roughly that of a revving 747 but I'm cool, I can deal; an extra pillow over my head and some heavy-duty earplugs can work wonders. But on the heels of the noise, comes the fumes and when I say fumes I mean everything from poisonous wood lacquer to whatever it is that Roto-rooter dudes snake out of the toilet, K? These old houses have very porous walls; these walls can, as demonstrated in past posts to this blog, clearly transmit noise down to the emoryboard-on-fingernail level, and they can also transmit fumes down to the ingredient level! It's a fucking direct pipeline from that side of the wall to ours. How lovely! I come home and my house is filled with the smell of wood floor lacquer that permeates EVERYTHING: the air, the air coming out of the dryer, the air coming out of the pre-heating oven, and eventually, the air coming out of my fucking trying-to-recover-from-the-flu lungs! I couldn't cook for three days since whenever I turned on MY oven in MY house out came 400-degree, heated toxic chemical fumes. We ate out. I tried to present the owner with a bill but he breezed past me like the slumlord that he is, figuring that if I actually LIVE in this neighborhood, in which he merely deigns to be a rental owner, I must be barely above the poverty level and collecting foodstamps. Fucking arrogant jackass.
So you see, it never ends. Never. The JS finally move their fat fucking asses out only to be replaced by the Toxic Chemical Workteam lead by the slumlord from hell himself. So I've decided that the best way to fight passive agressive shit is with more passive aggressive shit. I put our third car up on blocks in our backyard and left two major appliances (dishwasher and old dryer) on my front porch along with various bags of dogshit and a decomposing carved pumpkin from Halloween. Since it's the day before Thanksgiving I guess you can imagine what that's looking like. Insects that I'm pretty sure are not native to this area. HAH! Try to sell the place now, ASSHOLE! So you see, The ABIB may get momentarily thrown for a loop but that doesn't last, bitches. I can wait it out. I've got a kid in college so I have a third mortgage on this fucking place. I can wait you out Mr. "I Live In Columbia and Only Own a RENTAL Property In This Pathetic Part of Town". I can wait you out, boo; The ABIB Abides. Pour me another White Russian, would ya and Happy Thanksgiving!
Well, that would be true if only the FUCKING OWNER WOULD STOP WORKING ON THE HOUSE! I want to ask him if he's building the Taj Ma-FUCKING-Hal in there or what? For at least a month there have been workmen in there daily, DAILY! - through the wall - banging, Roto-rootering, drilling, and belt sanding the whole place beginning at roughly 7:30 AM on MY DAY OFF!! The owner, his wife (daintily painting the exteriors of the windows) and a team of about 10,000 workmen have been at this - need I remind you - 50-something-year-old ROW HOUSE from dawn to nightfall. I tell you it's enough to drive a sane person crazy and
So the incessant, daily noise threshold is roughly that of a revving 747 but I'm cool, I can deal; an extra pillow over my head and some heavy-duty earplugs can work wonders. But on the heels of the noise, comes the fumes and when I say fumes I mean everything from poisonous wood lacquer to whatever it is that Roto-rooter dudes snake out of the toilet, K? These old houses have very porous walls; these walls can, as demonstrated in past posts to this blog, clearly transmit noise down to the emoryboard-on-fingernail level, and they can also transmit fumes down to the ingredient level! It's a fucking direct pipeline from that side of the wall to ours. How lovely! I come home and my house is filled with the smell of wood floor lacquer that permeates EVERYTHING: the air, the air coming out of the dryer, the air coming out of the pre-heating oven, and eventually, the air coming out of my fucking trying-to-recover-from-the-flu lungs! I couldn't cook for three days since whenever I turned on MY oven in MY house out came 400-degree, heated toxic chemical fumes. We ate out. I tried to present the owner with a bill but he breezed past me like the slumlord that he is, figuring that if I actually LIVE in this neighborhood, in which he merely deigns to be a rental owner, I must be barely above the poverty level and collecting foodstamps. Fucking arrogant jackass.
So you see, it never ends. Never. The JS finally move their fat fucking asses out only to be replaced by the Toxic Chemical Workteam lead by the slumlord from hell himself. So I've decided that the best way to fight passive agressive shit is with more passive aggressive shit. I put our third car up on blocks in our backyard and left two major appliances (dishwasher and old dryer) on my front porch along with various bags of dogshit and a decomposing carved pumpkin from Halloween. Since it's the day before Thanksgiving I guess you can imagine what that's looking like. Insects that I'm pretty sure are not native to this area. HAH! Try to sell the place now, ASSHOLE! So you see, The ABIB may get momentarily thrown for a loop but that doesn't last, bitches. I can wait it out. I've got a kid in college so I have a third mortgage on this fucking place. I can wait you out Mr. "I Live In Columbia and Only Own a RENTAL Property In This Pathetic Part of Town". I can wait you out, boo; The ABIB Abides. Pour me another White Russian, would ya and Happy Thanksgiving!
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Which Tomato Should I Pick?
The title of this post was an actual question that a young woman spoke into her cell phone today at Wegman's tomato bin. How many things are wrong with this picture? Uh, let me help you: 1. I was at Wegman's, a store that I love which also is a store that I hate, more on this later; 2. A young woman was chatting on her cell phone while grocery shopping; and, 3. She was asking for food selection advice. Now, quite apart from the notion that there is literally probably NO activity in which a cell phone conversation is now inappropriate (including in the can, which I have personally heard with my own ears and posted to this blog), how on fucking earth did this ninny expect to get any useful advice on food selection from the person at the other end of her cell phone?
And assuming that any useful advice could be gotten (go for the red, round one), how did it come to this? We are now unable to choose produce without first dialing a number on our cell phones and consulting with someone at a distance. I'm guessing that this person sustained this conversation long after she left the tomato bin with, presumably, the freshest, most lovely, most PERFECT tomato in the well-organized pile of hundreds. Yes, hundreds; it is, after all, Wegman's. I hear people on their cell phones all over every retail establishment I find myself having to endure. I hate shopping for ANYTHING, largely because it puts me in direct contact with other people which, I'm pretty sure I've made very clear here, I HATE.
"Do you think the white bra or the pink one?"
"I can't remember which shoes I have that will match teal silk can you go check?"
"Do we use Cottonelle or the brand that advertises with the bears that get pieces of toilet paper stuck to their asses?"
I CAN'T REMEMBER is generally the refrain that I hear in retail cell phone convos, that and seeking an opinion from afar on something that the other person can't see, smell, taste or feel. I think this whole obsession with checking via cell phone arises when people think that others judge them to be friendless losers if they aren't continuously engaged in a conversation with someone, ANYONE, rather than just, oh, I don't know, WALKING? through a supermarket-drug store-fast-food-emporium-department store conversation-free! People: it's OK...you're not being judged...we DON'T FUCKING CARE!!!
The worst, however, is when that ubiquitous cell conversation continues into the check-out phase of the shopping experience. This is the most heinous abuse of the technology of cell phones EVER IMAGINED...ANYWHERE! Here you have some hapless, minimum-wage slave checking out your pathetic purchases and you can't even give them the fucking courtesy of PRETENDING to pay attention. Halfway through the perp will do something like this:
"What? Oh, wait a minute...no...no...I didn't want that...take it off the bill. OK, I'm back"
This is ALWAYS uttered in the most annoyed tone possible as if it's the checker's audacious rudeness that is causing the cell phone talker to have to break off their critially important conversation to correct said checker's stupidity...they didn't read the cell phone talker's mind and take out that third gallon of ice cream which will now sit and melt until some other sad wage-slave gets stuck with the "shop back" cart. Let me say it here and now: these people should be zapped through their cell phones until their fucking little ears bleed. I mean, really...for the FIVE MINUTES it takes to check you through the grocery line you can't delay your cell phone conversation? Who are you, THE POPE?
So there you have it; cell phones aiding tomato selection. What could be more ridiculous? Oh yes, one thing could be more ridiculous, The ABIB in a place like Wegman's whose every aisle is crammed with other cart-wielding....people. But it's Wegman's, so I endure. Because Wegman's has a specialty area for everything from artisan breads to handmade friendship bracelets from some cooperative in Guatemala. Wonderfully helpful Wegman's employees in their Wegman's shirts offering me free samples of the most delicious sharp cheddar cheese from a boutique cheese maker in Frankfurt. How can I hate a store that has an entire SECTION devoted only to olive oil? I can love the message and hate the messenger, can't I? Can't I? Oh wait! Maybe I should call my friend Deb and check. Hello, Deb? I can't decide...
And assuming that any useful advice could be gotten (go for the red, round one), how did it come to this? We are now unable to choose produce without first dialing a number on our cell phones and consulting with someone at a distance. I'm guessing that this person sustained this conversation long after she left the tomato bin with, presumably, the freshest, most lovely, most PERFECT tomato in the well-organized pile of hundreds. Yes, hundreds; it is, after all, Wegman's. I hear people on their cell phones all over every retail establishment I find myself having to endure. I hate shopping for ANYTHING, largely because it puts me in direct contact with other people which, I'm pretty sure I've made very clear here, I HATE.
"Do you think the white bra or the pink one?"
"I can't remember which shoes I have that will match teal silk can you go check?"
"Do we use Cottonelle or the brand that advertises with the bears that get pieces of toilet paper stuck to their asses?"
I CAN'T REMEMBER is generally the refrain that I hear in retail cell phone convos, that and seeking an opinion from afar on something that the other person can't see, smell, taste or feel. I think this whole obsession with checking via cell phone arises when people think that others judge them to be friendless losers if they aren't continuously engaged in a conversation with someone, ANYONE, rather than just, oh, I don't know, WALKING? through a supermarket-drug store-fast-food-emporium-department store conversation-free! People: it's OK...you're not being judged...we DON'T FUCKING CARE!!!
The worst, however, is when that ubiquitous cell conversation continues into the check-out phase of the shopping experience. This is the most heinous abuse of the technology of cell phones EVER IMAGINED...ANYWHERE! Here you have some hapless, minimum-wage slave checking out your pathetic purchases and you can't even give them the fucking courtesy of PRETENDING to pay attention. Halfway through the perp will do something like this:
"What? Oh, wait a minute...no...no...I didn't want that...take it off the bill. OK, I'm back"
This is ALWAYS uttered in the most annoyed tone possible as if it's the checker's audacious rudeness that is causing the cell phone talker to have to break off their critially important conversation to correct said checker's stupidity...they didn't read the cell phone talker's mind and take out that third gallon of ice cream which will now sit and melt until some other sad wage-slave gets stuck with the "shop back" cart. Let me say it here and now: these people should be zapped through their cell phones until their fucking little ears bleed. I mean, really...for the FIVE MINUTES it takes to check you through the grocery line you can't delay your cell phone conversation? Who are you, THE POPE?
So there you have it; cell phones aiding tomato selection. What could be more ridiculous? Oh yes, one thing could be more ridiculous, The ABIB in a place like Wegman's whose every aisle is crammed with other cart-wielding....people. But it's Wegman's, so I endure. Because Wegman's has a specialty area for everything from artisan breads to handmade friendship bracelets from some cooperative in Guatemala. Wonderfully helpful Wegman's employees in their Wegman's shirts offering me free samples of the most delicious sharp cheddar cheese from a boutique cheese maker in Frankfurt. How can I hate a store that has an entire SECTION devoted only to olive oil? I can love the message and hate the messenger, can't I? Can't I? Oh wait! Maybe I should call my friend Deb and check. Hello, Deb? I can't decide...
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Facebook: A Baby Boomer's Fountain of Youth
So, I have, like every, single other baby boomer in the United States, become a denizen of the sometimes informational, occasionally funny, and too often creepy world that is Facebook. We boomers are convinced that we never age and remain continually youthful, sparkling and current. So something like Facebook, which was started and, previous to our multi-million old-codger invasion, inhabited by actual young people, is right up our alley.
"I love Facebook because it allows me to reconnect with folks from high school!"
Subtext there is, of course, if you haven't seen someone in over 30 years the chances are pretty good that they don't want to "reconnect" with you even in cyberspace. Stalking behaviors are imminent.
"I love Facebook because I can keep up with what my friends, family and coworkers are doing in their lives."
Generally I couldn't give a fat rat's ass what anyone is doing in their lives so this wasn't my draw either. This one is especially annoying when you've got some asshole in your friend's list who fills your daily newsfeed with the pathetic, boring and downright creepy minutiae of their daily little lives. To wit, some recent ones on my newsfeed: "Having lunch with BooBoo in the food court at the mall. Waiting for my cousin."; "BooBoo just woke up and now he's crabby but still cute." "Wondering why I'm still awake at 12:30 when the alarm goes off at 3:30." See, Facebook needs to mail each member free barf bags if they're going to allow that kind of insipid crap to be posted and read by unsuspecting eyes. Which brings me to probably my most infuriating Facebook annoyance: Facebook Quizzes.
"What Disney Character Are You?"
"How Many Times Have You Crossed Paths With Your Soul Mate?"
"What's your Myers-Briggs Personality Type?"
"Eddy Has Just Passed You A Margarita!"
And on and on and on until I seriously fear for my ability to walk upright due to the loss of brain cells just from being momentarily exposed to this ninny food. You know what? I don't want to know how you're doing in Jewel Puzzle, Farmville or Bejeweled Blitz and I NEVER want to participate with your fucking sorry ass in Mafia Wars so QUIT SOLICITING MY HELP!!!
Why just this evening I was presented with one on my newsfeed and it in fact inspired this post.
"What Do Your Eyes Say About You?" I should remind you that the person who took this quiz and whose results are now posted to my computer screen is 55 FUCKING YEARS OLD!!
The little results teaser answer says: "When people look into your eyes they see mysteries galore. You're a deep and intellectual person (PROOF THAT THIS IS NOT TRUE IS THAT SHE HAD JUST TAKEN THIS MINDLESS QUIZ) and others can see that through your sparkling eyes.
Well, I just can't write anymore of this because it's just too...I don't know...ICKY?! Here's what I want to post to this "friend's" wall in response to her sharing this absolute pap with me:
"Watch out! I've heard that this Facebook Quiz is actually a black ops government retinal scan to get you into a national database of douchebags!"
So there you have it. Facebook is a wonderful space on the internet where all of us old farts can now go to feel young again. For those of us who can no longer lower our fat asses into a kayak or step into snow skis without dislodging a hip joint, we can watch all of our other old-ass "friends" post pictures of themselves trying with various levels of success to do those things. And laugh when they clearly miss the mark. And we can stalk their photo albums and feel all superior because "thank Christ WE don't look that fucking old". And we know for a FACT when a posted profile picture was taken AT LEAST three chins ago. But you know what? I have actually learned something from Facebook and all the "reconnections" with people I knew in my youth. Age does lots of things but apparently it doesn't make you any fucking more interesting than you were when last I avoided you at our lockers in high school. And now I know for a FACT that there's a reason I lost touch with you 30 freaking years ago.
Now I know that you're wondering: "Well, ABIB, why don't you just stop using Facebook if it's so annoying to you?" And my answer to that is: I will just as soon as I watch the video that just appeared on my newsfeed called: "Octuplets Mum: I've Screwed Up My Life".
"I love Facebook because it allows me to reconnect with folks from high school!"
Subtext there is, of course, if you haven't seen someone in over 30 years the chances are pretty good that they don't want to "reconnect" with you even in cyberspace. Stalking behaviors are imminent.
"I love Facebook because I can keep up with what my friends, family and coworkers are doing in their lives."
Generally I couldn't give a fat rat's ass what anyone is doing in their lives so this wasn't my draw either. This one is especially annoying when you've got some asshole in your friend's list who fills your daily newsfeed with the pathetic, boring and downright creepy minutiae of their daily little lives. To wit, some recent ones on my newsfeed: "Having lunch with BooBoo in the food court at the mall. Waiting for my cousin."; "BooBoo just woke up and now he's crabby but still cute." "Wondering why I'm still awake at 12:30 when the alarm goes off at 3:30." See, Facebook needs to mail each member free barf bags if they're going to allow that kind of insipid crap to be posted and read by unsuspecting eyes. Which brings me to probably my most infuriating Facebook annoyance: Facebook Quizzes.
"What Disney Character Are You?"
"How Many Times Have You Crossed Paths With Your Soul Mate?"
"What's your Myers-Briggs Personality Type?"
"Eddy Has Just Passed You A Margarita!"
And on and on and on until I seriously fear for my ability to walk upright due to the loss of brain cells just from being momentarily exposed to this ninny food. You know what? I don't want to know how you're doing in Jewel Puzzle, Farmville or Bejeweled Blitz and I NEVER want to participate with your fucking sorry ass in Mafia Wars so QUIT SOLICITING MY HELP!!!
Why just this evening I was presented with one on my newsfeed and it in fact inspired this post.
"What Do Your Eyes Say About You?" I should remind you that the person who took this quiz and whose results are now posted to my computer screen is 55 FUCKING YEARS OLD!!
The little results teaser answer says: "When people look into your eyes they see mysteries galore. You're a deep and intellectual person (PROOF THAT THIS IS NOT TRUE IS THAT SHE HAD JUST TAKEN THIS MINDLESS QUIZ) and others can see that through your sparkling eyes.
Well, I just can't write anymore of this because it's just too...I don't know...ICKY?! Here's what I want to post to this "friend's" wall in response to her sharing this absolute pap with me:
"Watch out! I've heard that this Facebook Quiz is actually a black ops government retinal scan to get you into a national database of douchebags!"
So there you have it. Facebook is a wonderful space on the internet where all of us old farts can now go to feel young again. For those of us who can no longer lower our fat asses into a kayak or step into snow skis without dislodging a hip joint, we can watch all of our other old-ass "friends" post pictures of themselves trying with various levels of success to do those things. And laugh when they clearly miss the mark. And we can stalk their photo albums and feel all superior because "thank Christ WE don't look that fucking old". And we know for a FACT when a posted profile picture was taken AT LEAST three chins ago. But you know what? I have actually learned something from Facebook and all the "reconnections" with people I knew in my youth. Age does lots of things but apparently it doesn't make you any fucking more interesting than you were when last I avoided you at our lockers in high school. And now I know for a FACT that there's a reason I lost touch with you 30 freaking years ago.
Now I know that you're wondering: "Well, ABIB, why don't you just stop using Facebook if it's so annoying to you?" And my answer to that is: I will just as soon as I watch the video that just appeared on my newsfeed called: "Octuplets Mum: I've Screwed Up My Life".
Monday, June 15, 2009
Put That Freaking Shirt Back On!
And while you're at it, step away from the wife beater t-shirt, too. Holy Crap but I hate summer! The bugs, the heat, the humidity and the shirtless men. White chests, black chests, brown chests, it don't matter. COVER THAT SHIT UP!!! I mean really, summer around here turns the whole world into one big chest fest and I'm here to say IT NEEDS TO STOP! NOW! Why just this afternoon I was driving through Catonsville and lo and behold I pass a group of local teens and one of the guys is shirtless. I have to ask: why, man, why? That look works on NOBODY, but besides that: NOBODY NEEDS TO SEE YOUR ICKY BARE CHEST! And I'm not saying that just some body types need to forget the word "shirtless" ALL MALES...OF ANY AGE! Whether you're fat or thin, muscular or scrawny; the shirtless look SUCKS!
First of all it just plain looks low class. I don't care if you have a PhD in Astrophysics, if you're sportin' the "bare chest in public look" you might as well just go ahead and get yourself a doublewide. Everyone thinks you're living in one, anyway. In West Virginia. Second of all, it can't be comfortable. The sun beating on your repulsive, fish-white skin, your five chest hairs on vulgar display or worse: your copious back hair on what should be illegal display. Just what is the draw of the shirtless look in public? If you're not getting ready to jump into the ocean or a swimming pool within the next eight seconds: KEEP YOUR SHIRT ON, MOTHERFUCKER!
You don't look sexay, (which I'm sure in your addled imagination you do) you just look stupid. And ignorant. Well, both. Now I'm not saying that the male world has to look like a J Crew catalogue, hell I don't care if you're wearing a white undershirt, just so long as it has some sleeves on it and a nice round neckhole. No v-necks; they're just tacky. Plus they make you look like your grandpa.
So to close: summer is bad enough what with the weather, the insects and the never-ending bad television. Please, in the name of all that is holy, don't make us look at your bare chest. EVER.
First of all it just plain looks low class. I don't care if you have a PhD in Astrophysics, if you're sportin' the "bare chest in public look" you might as well just go ahead and get yourself a doublewide. Everyone thinks you're living in one, anyway. In West Virginia. Second of all, it can't be comfortable. The sun beating on your repulsive, fish-white skin, your five chest hairs on vulgar display or worse: your copious back hair on what should be illegal display. Just what is the draw of the shirtless look in public? If you're not getting ready to jump into the ocean or a swimming pool within the next eight seconds: KEEP YOUR SHIRT ON, MOTHERFUCKER!
You don't look sexay, (which I'm sure in your addled imagination you do) you just look stupid. And ignorant. Well, both. Now I'm not saying that the male world has to look like a J Crew catalogue, hell I don't care if you're wearing a white undershirt, just so long as it has some sleeves on it and a nice round neckhole. No v-necks; they're just tacky. Plus they make you look like your grandpa.
So to close: summer is bad enough what with the weather, the insects and the never-ending bad television. Please, in the name of all that is holy, don't make us look at your bare chest. EVER.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Fighting for The Lord
Hey ya'll, it's PAULA DEEN!! Not really, it's just the ABIB but Paula Deen's as crazy as a bedbug and I find her "southern belle on crack" routine pretty amusing. Anyhoo...today's post returns us to one of the ABIB's most favoritest topics, namely her next door neighbors, The Jesus Syndicate or, for this post: the JS. I have written about the JS in the past and they are one of the most venom-inspiring of the ABIB's fonts of angry inspiration. They of the "She's A Child Not a Choice" fucking bumper stickers in crass juxtaposition to their endless screamfests at their endless brood of homunculi masquerading as children. The JS piously attend church every single Sunday; I know this because the noise level through the wall reaches a crescendo at around 8:30 or so every Sunday morning. What with the screaming facistic commands its pretty hard to mistake:
"RAY RAY! DID YOU GET YOUR SHOES ON? DID YOU? DON'T MAKE ME COME UP THERE AND PUT THEM ON YOU!"
"Ray Ray" is four.
"PETER! GET OFF YOUR ASS AND GET THAT FOOD INTO THE TRUCK!!!!"
"SYDNEY!!!!! KNOCK IT OFF AND SHUT UP!!!!"
It goes on and on until they all pile into the gigantic Jesus Van and finally fucking leave. One guesses that they go to church to pray and find some kind of spiritual meaning and...and...Christ I can't go any further. The JS haul their hideous asses to church so that they can piously meet up with other like-minded abortion clinic bombers-in-waiting to pray for the souls of the rest of us headed-directly-to-hell-heathens and to eat crappy homemade cookies and deviled eggs (how ironic, but you know they ARE a church picnic staple). So today being Sunday they were blessedly out until early afternoon and the quiet was delicious.
I vaguely heard them stampeding back into their house at around 1:00 PM but what caught my ear began occurring about 30 minutes after they had returned home. I kept hearing things like:
"NOW IN THIS CORNER! JORDYN SMITH! AND IN THIS CORNER, PETE SMITH!" And then:
"DING DING DING!"
Followed by the grunting sounds of human exertion accompanied by slapping noises. I couldn't help myself and assumed the position at my window of the "weird old lady spying on the neighborhood" that in actuality I am. What I saw surprised even jaded me and that's saying something.
The JS parents also known as White Whale and Brunhilda and lately known collectively as "The Fat Fucks", had tricked their kids out in BOXING GLOVES and were presiding over BOXING BOUTS on their FRONT LAWN! There were other relatives there as well, up to and including GRANDPARENTS! Well you can imagine the ABIB's reaction to this; I became convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that I had finally somehow migrated into The Twilight Zone. Even for the JS this was fucking beyond the pale!
I watched, mesmerized, as, one by one the children were told to challenge each other to fight. They laced themselves into the gloves and then sister on sister, sister on brother, kindergartner on RAY RAY they proceeded to beat the fucking crap out of each other! It was breathtaking. And all the while the adults, like the Jerry Springer audience that they so clearly are, are screaming instructions and cheering as one after another their kids were transformed into their parents' own personal Sunday Afternoon at the Fights. Who knows? Maybe only the winners got to eat dinner.
Now I am aware of the bizarro-world disconnect between people who are self-described "Christians" and also self-described avid hunters and card-carrying members of the National Rifle Association. Which always begs the question: do any of them actually READ Jesus' guidance? Assuming they CAN read which I admit is a stretch. Wasn't he kind of an advocate of peace, mofos? Turn the other cheek and all that? I mean, give me a break, I'm a fucking JEW and even I know that!
Once one of them had been beaten to the ground and pinned there for a several second count the round was deemed won. The oldest, the one we call "Peppermint Patty", clearly now, without a doubt, destined for greatness on either the roller derby circuit or a woman's football team, if fucking not the straight-up NFL, was generally the winner. Her butch ass clobbered her brother, her twenty-something uncle (and I don't think he was handicapping himself, he looked all in) and anyone else who dared to enter the "ring" with her bullneck self. It was positively horrifying and it went on for at least an hour. At one point White Whale himself laced into the gloves for a bout with his brother-in-law. Watching that fat fuck dance around the lawn taking swings and dodging fists, was actually one of the most grotesque things I have ever witnessed. But you know I kept watching; freak shows are hard to ignore.
Finally after about an hour it ended and I left my post at the window, amazed that I had resisted the almost unbearable urge to dial 911. I mean, isn't shit like this even a little bit illegal? Holy crap, if it isn't it should be. Anyway, I had to post this one just to give you all a glimpse into a typical Sunday afternoon in my neck of the woods, where a simple afternoon with the family somehow takes a wrong turn toward a darker, more frightening place where everything you've ever learned is wrong and the damned write the rules: Look! On the signpost up ahead: The Twilight Zone!
"RAY RAY! DID YOU GET YOUR SHOES ON? DID YOU? DON'T MAKE ME COME UP THERE AND PUT THEM ON YOU!"
"Ray Ray" is four.
"PETER! GET OFF YOUR ASS AND GET THAT FOOD INTO THE TRUCK!!!!"
"SYDNEY!!!!! KNOCK IT OFF AND SHUT UP!!!!"
It goes on and on until they all pile into the gigantic Jesus Van and finally fucking leave. One guesses that they go to church to pray and find some kind of spiritual meaning and...and...Christ I can't go any further. The JS haul their hideous asses to church so that they can piously meet up with other like-minded abortion clinic bombers-in-waiting to pray for the souls of the rest of us headed-directly-to-hell-heathens and to eat crappy homemade cookies and deviled eggs (how ironic, but you know they ARE a church picnic staple). So today being Sunday they were blessedly out until early afternoon and the quiet was delicious.
I vaguely heard them stampeding back into their house at around 1:00 PM but what caught my ear began occurring about 30 minutes after they had returned home. I kept hearing things like:
"NOW IN THIS CORNER! JORDYN SMITH! AND IN THIS CORNER, PETE SMITH!" And then:
"DING DING DING!"
Followed by the grunting sounds of human exertion accompanied by slapping noises. I couldn't help myself and assumed the position at my window of the "weird old lady spying on the neighborhood" that in actuality I am. What I saw surprised even jaded me and that's saying something.
The JS parents also known as White Whale and Brunhilda and lately known collectively as "The Fat Fucks", had tricked their kids out in BOXING GLOVES and were presiding over BOXING BOUTS on their FRONT LAWN! There were other relatives there as well, up to and including GRANDPARENTS! Well you can imagine the ABIB's reaction to this; I became convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that I had finally somehow migrated into The Twilight Zone. Even for the JS this was fucking beyond the pale!
I watched, mesmerized, as, one by one the children were told to challenge each other to fight. They laced themselves into the gloves and then sister on sister, sister on brother, kindergartner on RAY RAY they proceeded to beat the fucking crap out of each other! It was breathtaking. And all the while the adults, like the Jerry Springer audience that they so clearly are, are screaming instructions and cheering as one after another their kids were transformed into their parents' own personal Sunday Afternoon at the Fights. Who knows? Maybe only the winners got to eat dinner.
Now I am aware of the bizarro-world disconnect between people who are self-described "Christians" and also self-described avid hunters and card-carrying members of the National Rifle Association. Which always begs the question: do any of them actually READ Jesus' guidance? Assuming they CAN read which I admit is a stretch. Wasn't he kind of an advocate of peace, mofos? Turn the other cheek and all that? I mean, give me a break, I'm a fucking JEW and even I know that!
Once one of them had been beaten to the ground and pinned there for a several second count the round was deemed won. The oldest, the one we call "Peppermint Patty", clearly now, without a doubt, destined for greatness on either the roller derby circuit or a woman's football team, if fucking not the straight-up NFL, was generally the winner. Her butch ass clobbered her brother, her twenty-something uncle (and I don't think he was handicapping himself, he looked all in) and anyone else who dared to enter the "ring" with her bullneck self. It was positively horrifying and it went on for at least an hour. At one point White Whale himself laced into the gloves for a bout with his brother-in-law. Watching that fat fuck dance around the lawn taking swings and dodging fists, was actually one of the most grotesque things I have ever witnessed. But you know I kept watching; freak shows are hard to ignore.
Finally after about an hour it ended and I left my post at the window, amazed that I had resisted the almost unbearable urge to dial 911. I mean, isn't shit like this even a little bit illegal? Holy crap, if it isn't it should be. Anyway, I had to post this one just to give you all a glimpse into a typical Sunday afternoon in my neck of the woods, where a simple afternoon with the family somehow takes a wrong turn toward a darker, more frightening place where everything you've ever learned is wrong and the damned write the rules: Look! On the signpost up ahead: The Twilight Zone!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Backer-Inners - Arrogant Pricks of the Driving World
Hello again, Happy New Year and all that crap. As can be seen from this post's title, today's venomous spleen-letting has all to do with drivers ( I HATE THEM ALL) who back into parking spaces. First of all, what the fuck is wrong with driving straight into a parking space in the first place? The two little white lines, like the runway lights of the driving world, show you exactly where either side of your car is supposed to be. You just look, and you fucking park. Front end first. Couldn't be simpler. But oh HELL'S NO, some assholes just have to make EVERYTHING complicated, don't they? They have to SHOW OFF to the rest of us that their ability to crane their fucking necks around like the green vomit girl in "The Exorcist" is somehow something that we all wish we could do. It literally makes no sense. For one thing, it HAS to be way more trouble than just parking straight in. You have to position the car rear-end first, you have to crane your neck around with or without your arm rakishly hooked over the passenger headrest, and you have to reverse into the spot. Funny, we don't fucking DRIVE backwards, we don't fucking WALK backwards, so why all of a sudden do these fuckwads have to PARK backwards? Are there really that many quick getaways needed in the typical driver's day?
"I'm parking backwards here at this local Starbucks because at any given time I have to be able to rocket out of my parking spot in order to evade the M3 goons who trail me 24/7."
No, I'll tell you why: because they're fucking show-offs, that's why.
Somehow I've always gotten the impression that anyone who would take the trouble to back into a perfectly good drive-straight-in parking space, has something pathetic to prove. Because let's face it folks, if your ego is teetering on the brink of whether or not you can show up other drivers with your outstanding rear-end-first parking skills, may I suggest something you might have overlooked: we don't GIVE A RAT'S ASS!
Whenever I see one of these bozos getting ready to park next to me in this bewildering manner, I always start a slow burn, figuring it's just a matter of time before their "excellent" rear-view mirror skills begin to atrophy and they miscalculate by a few inches thus plowing into my vehicle. So I sit there and wait as they size up the distance, mentally calculating just how to manuever, in reverse, that tiny trajectory that the rest of us just fucking drive into and call it a day. I watch as their reverse lights come on, telling me "here I come mere mortal; watch and envy as I do BACKWARDS what you can only muster the regular way." I watch, in fact, until the stupid fucker turns his/her car off and, smug-stupid-ass expression on their face, meanders over to whatever place of business has drawn their backward-parking ass self to it's doors.
I think I'm going to get little business cards printed up that I can leave under the windshield wiper of every backasswards parking dorkward I encounter. One set will be pink and the other blue. The blue ones will say:
"Congratulations on parking backwards today. Sorry your dick's so small."
The pink ones will say:
"Congratulations on parking backwards today. Sorry your ass is so huge. And/or you're so fugly."
I mean someone's gotta bring these morons down a notch or two, right? And who better than The ABIB herself? As I always say, righteous anger's a fulltime job, kids and I'm out there bringin' it for you every, single day. You're welcome.
"I'm parking backwards here at this local Starbucks because at any given time I have to be able to rocket out of my parking spot in order to evade the M3 goons who trail me 24/7."
No, I'll tell you why: because they're fucking show-offs, that's why.
Somehow I've always gotten the impression that anyone who would take the trouble to back into a perfectly good drive-straight-in parking space, has something pathetic to prove. Because let's face it folks, if your ego is teetering on the brink of whether or not you can show up other drivers with your outstanding rear-end-first parking skills, may I suggest something you might have overlooked: we don't GIVE A RAT'S ASS!
Whenever I see one of these bozos getting ready to park next to me in this bewildering manner, I always start a slow burn, figuring it's just a matter of time before their "excellent" rear-view mirror skills begin to atrophy and they miscalculate by a few inches thus plowing into my vehicle. So I sit there and wait as they size up the distance, mentally calculating just how to manuever, in reverse, that tiny trajectory that the rest of us just fucking drive into and call it a day. I watch as their reverse lights come on, telling me "here I come mere mortal; watch and envy as I do BACKWARDS what you can only muster the regular way." I watch, in fact, until the stupid fucker turns his/her car off and, smug-stupid-ass expression on their face, meanders over to whatever place of business has drawn their backward-parking ass self to it's doors.
I think I'm going to get little business cards printed up that I can leave under the windshield wiper of every backasswards parking dorkward I encounter. One set will be pink and the other blue. The blue ones will say:
"Congratulations on parking backwards today. Sorry your dick's so small."
The pink ones will say:
"Congratulations on parking backwards today. Sorry your ass is so huge. And/or you're so fugly."
I mean someone's gotta bring these morons down a notch or two, right? And who better than The ABIB herself? As I always say, righteous anger's a fulltime job, kids and I'm out there bringin' it for you every, single day. You're welcome.
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