Directly From The Face Of The Sun

Hi kids; ABIB here. Yo, now that it's summer you might find yourself thinking, "Hey...I wonder what it's like on the face of the sun?" Well, I have the answer for you kiddos: Baltimore in July! Yes this post is coming to you directly from the fucking face of Old Sol himself, brought to earth for your sweltering pleasure and located directly WHERE I LIVE! Hateful motherfucking summer weather; the bane of my existence from roughly May until whenever global warming decides to release us from its gaping hellish maw. Round these parts that would generally be October at the very earliest. I hate to sweat, I hate the wall-to-wall, smothering humidity, I hate how everyone's tongue clicks when they're talking because they're constantly suffering from heat-induced dry mouth. Did I mention that I hate to sweat?
It reached a zenith here last week when we accrued the - what - 15th, 20th, 5,000th straight day of 90+ degrees? Yes, it topped out one day at a balmy 104 degrees. Combined with the 57% humidity it made every step outdoors akin to slogging your way through hot oatmeal. Even CNN reported on the heatwave plaguing the East Coast and darned if Baltimore wasn't ALWAYS the hottest temperature on the map from Maine to Florida. Also, weather people: STOP BEING SO FUCKING CHEERFUL ABOUT THE WEATHER!! "Hey folks, looks like another scorcher out there today with no real end in sight! Slather up on the SPF 50, grab some water bottles and head to the pool!" Um, what FUCKING POOL?! Don't most of us WORK for a living? So I'm reduced to dashing (except you can't dash in 104 degrees without seriously courting heatstroke) from one air-conditioned reality to the next. Car to work to car to house. Don't be so crabby, ABIB, at least you HAVE air conditioning. To that I say: hey, mofo, it's 2010, if you STILL don't have ready access to air conditioning why not hitch up that horse and buggy and get the fuck back to the 19th century? Folks, the heat brings out the worst in me and as you surely know by now, the BEST of me is pretty dicey.
I had to deviate from the car to work to car to house pattern last Thursday and let me tell you, it was not a pretty picture. Errands should be banned when the temperature rises above 85. But an errand I had so before I could escape into the no-shades-open-72-degree interior of my house (yes I keep it at 72 degrees and it's well worth the privations needed to achieve that blessed inside temperature - who needs food?) I had to make a stop at the local Walgreens.
Out of car - FULL BODY HOT OATMEAL SLAM: FUCK ITS HOT - into the Walgreens - where the PA system was positively BLASTING some random CD of oldies but at least it was cool in there. Got in line with - Christ Almighty - other people. Other people who have been outside in the boiling Sargasso Sea of weather called Baltimore in July and, well, to put it delicately: MANY OF THEM STUNK!!!
The ABIB prides herself on her pristine personal hygiene habits and is sadly often let down by the not-so-pristine personal hygiene habits of others. Which is why I try, as much as possible, to avoid public places once the temps hit, oh, about 80. Blasting muzak, the accursed dry-mouth, a line wait (which is hellish for the ABIB in the BEST of circumstances) and fellow sweating, odorous line waiters. As you can probably guess it didn't go well. By the time I was done with my errand I had reached the threshhold where being even remotely pleasant was a distant memory. A very distant memory. Paid up, gathered my stuff, pushed past the line of olfactory miscreants waiting behind me (FOLKS: IT'S CALLED DEODORANT! USE IT!) and exited the building. WHAM! Back into the muggy, hot wall of hideousness that is Ol' Sol's loving breath, into my now reheated car, whose AC will not have the oommph to blow cool enough to matter before I get home. The next person who cheerily states: "Well at least it's not SNOWING!" Is going to get a karate chop to the solar plexus.
Yes, folks, it's the ABIB in mid-July, cheerless and resentful as ever, posting from the face of the sun, aka Baltimore, MD.

The Snow's The Thing

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.

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!

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...

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".

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.

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!

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.

A Most Unwelcome Emission

Ladies and germs, if I may: this post is devoted to another in my ongoing, albeit seemingly random, public service announcements but I heard something today that absolutely has COMPELLED me to write. As you know I have been, for some time now, a purveyor of information that some may dismiss as nothing more than bathroom humor. Literally. To that I say: go fuck yourselves; this shit is fo real, yo! There's folks out there getting bombarded with the most heinous of offenses and frankly someone has to speak up and in some small way, alert the world that perps of this grotesque magnitude exist, indeed, walk amongst us.

Today a coworker came to me extremely distraught (understandably as you will learn) and proceeded to unload (pun intended) a most disturbing story. Said coworker (for what it's worth, a guy...since I've dissed the dirty ladies twice I figured I'd go ahead and spread the shame around) had just come from the men's room where he had encountered, no ENDURED, a horrific event that will most probably leave a permanent mental scar on this poor fellow.

There he was, standing at one of the urinals...doing your typically urinal kind of thing, when out of nowhere comes a very high-ranking MANAGER with whom this employee has extensive dealings. To put it bluntly, it's critical that my coworker maintain the proper sucking-up posture with this miscreant at all times. So, MANAGER saunters to the next urinal, whips out his dick and also begins to do a typically urinal kind of thing. Likewise he begins to engage my unwitting coworker in a conversation. Now, how many times do I have to repeat that TALKING IN THE STALL IS DISGUSTING!!! Unless you find yourself sliding irretrievably into a comatose puddle, it is NEVER APPROPRIATE TO ENGAGE FELLOW CRAPPERS OR PEE-ERS IN CONVERSATION OF ANY KIND!!! For one thing, there are times when breath is a precious commodity, such as when one is squeezing the equivalent of a ripe watermelon out of of one's ass, one needs to reserve ALL one's breath for that very arduous activity. The rare exception is again: help me, I think I'm dying in here or can you spare some toilet paper I'm completely out? And that's only if you're also out of those toilet seat covers, which, by the way, double nicely as toilet paper in a pinch. HAH! Pun intended. But seriously, THAT'S IT!!

Well, apparently this management moron was raised on another planet (as, sadly, so many of them seem to have been) because as soon as his golden stream began it's liquid descent he engaged my coworker in a very hearty conversation whose topic(s) demanded responses. My coworker, being a decent fellow, was understandably completely unnerved by the turn of events but, being the good, upwardly mobile young professional that he is, stammered out some appropriate answers and tried to finish up as quickly as possible. Everything was moving toward as decent a conclusion as could be expected when, like a thunderclap from Hades itself, and, without losing a syllable of his surely inane conversation, MANAGER lets out what has been described to me as the biggest, loudest, LONGEST fart you can imagine. Coworker went so far as to say "he really had to work to get it all out."

Shocking doesn't cover it. Appalled, deeply offended, intimidated and downright terrified begin to address how my poor, unwitting coworker felt. Where to turn? What to say? How to successfully hold one's breath while still trying to maintain the conversation that ABSURDLY was still ongoing once the ass trumpet had concluded it's horrific symphony.

I'm exhausted just writing this, so I can only imagine the trauma that my fellow laborer-in-arms felt, surely must STILL be feeling, to have been exposed to such an inhuman experience. Bewildered by how to proceed he simply finished as quickly as possible, zipped up and excused himself with some mumbled reference to being late for a meeting. He didn't even WASH HIS HANDS properly, so disoriented was he by what had just transpired.

Well, I offered him some Advil and what was left of my Diet Coke, after having given him full use of my Purell hand sanitizer. (Hey, I'm sympathetic, not a fucking saint, he DID say he didn't wash properly, Jeez). He accepted my ministrations and I told him he should seriously consider heading home early which I hope he did; an event like that needs longer than just an evening from which to recover.

To conclude and please spread the word: BATHROOMS ARE FOR ELIMINATING BODILY WASTES, they are NOT CHATROOMS! Do your fucking business and get the fuck out!! Nobody wants to fucking "catch up" with you in there; it's a godamn, fucking bathroom for crying out loud. And please, please, please, if you think that there's even a REMOTE chance that you're going to crack one off, get your sorry, lame, ignorant ass into a STALL!!! This is a civil society we're trying to live in here, either participate in good faith or log off the grid, motherfucker! (Log! HAH!)

Get A Clue Lame Ass

OK, so The ABIB is driving to work yesterday doing what she always does in the car on that route, listening to the DC all news radio channel. Yes, yes, I know it's probably not the best choice for such an angry bitch, and I know I should be listening to some nerve-soothing classical music but truthfully it puts me directly to sleep.

So here I am, not a morning person, and it's the morning, and here I am when I'd rather still be in bed, and I'm on my way to my insipid job, and it's October 31 in a presidential election year and I'm listening to an all-news radio station. I think you know where this is going. Already looking forward to my Pinky-provided DunkyDoo morning libations I hear this shit coming out of the car's squawk box:

"Polls show that a full 14% of American voters still say they are undecided four days before the election."

It's a miracle I didn't wreck the car into the nearest shabby Woodlawn, MD telephone pole. Or bus-waiting person. And in Woodlawn, MD there are many, many bus-waiters to choose from. The saying "I saw red" literally and quite suddenly made sense to me. ONE IN SEVEN AMERICAN VOTERS STILL SAY THEY'RE UNDECIDED ABOUT WHO TO VOTE FOR!! Motherfuckers can I get a witness!? What kind of a lame-ass, fucked-up, wishy-washy, pansy-ass R-FUCKING-TARD do you have to be to still be "undecided"? These two men (well, one's a man, anyway, the other is, I'm pretty sure, a reanimated corpse of a former man who died in an apparent horrible Jawbreaker accident of some kind) have been stating their political case in the public eye for close to TWO YEARS. PICK ONE, ASSHOLE!! It's not hard; you listen, you think, and you choose. Jesus Christ, I mean, five-year-olds at last night's Halloween candy fest in my neighborhood were able to make fucking choices among way more than two delectable options. Normally in five to ten seconds or fewer.

What a sorry life these losers must lead. I mean, how do they get through the day?

OMG, should I wear the brown pants or the black ones?
OMG, should I have the cereal or the hot oatmeal?
OMG, should I take the Beltway or the back roads?
OMG, should I bring my umbrella or my raincoat?

Holy Crap! Life has to be one, unending horror fest of indecision from the moment they wake:

OMG, should I crap in the upstairs or downstairs bathroom?

to the moment they close their eyes again at bedtime:

OMG, should I sleep on my back or my stomach?

But I feel zero pity for these fucking whack-jobs because I've met them, I wait behind them in everything from Pinky's DunkyDoo, drive-"thru" line to the local Walgreen's. They are infuriating and they are everywhere. Waiting in line, my lower back already starting to give me grief, arms juggling the 15 or fewer (unlike other shoppers I DO FUCKING READ SIGNS) items because I erroneously did NOT get a cart upon entering the store thinking - HAH! - that it would be a quick trip, I get up to one person more before I can check out and...and...OH HAPPY DAY...it's one of those 14% undecided motherfuckers who can barely make it out of bed in the morning without worrying about which foot to put on the ground first.

Oh, NO!! I didn't know there would be TWO kinds of micro-point ink pens available, I thought there was only one! Do you know which one is better because I did not expect to have to make a choice!

This is addressed to the barely-awake, gum-chewing, minimum wage slave who is running the register and who literally looks like she could drop dead at any second. This is the person that "Ms 14%" is asking to help in this terrible, terrible decision. Minium wage slave could clearly not give a rat's ass and just shrugs. I'm doomed and I know it. My back, by now screaming at me to "SIT THE FUCK DOWN, BITCH!", is joined by my arms in the cacophany of ache that has become my lot in life at this moment. Killing this person in front of me becomes a real possibility in my mind but instead I offer, in as pleasant a voice as I can muster at this moment:

My husband buys the Rollerpoint ones and he really likes them.

I realize that the fake brightness in my voice is not fooling anyone. I feel murderous and I sound it. "Ms 14%" belies a certain shock at my tone and looks querulous:

Really? Because I was leaning toward the Bics. Hmmmm....has he bought many of them?

The rest is a blessed haze in my memory because, like when you break your arm or experience childbirth, the pain part kind of fades away. Suffice it to say that I've been up close and personal with this 14% of our fellow Americans and let me tell you, it's not a pretty picture. But I did get my petty revenge in a small, small way. As I finally lowered my big ass into the car and sighed a gush of relief that my back could finally shut up, I watched as 14%, Rollerpoints safely in the bag, spent a few seconds deciding if said bag should go into the front seat or the back and I had to smile to myself. Those Rollerpoints suck; shoulda gone with the Bics. Hope it won't come back as bad karma to bite me on Election Day. ON NOVEMBER 4th GET OUT AND VOTE!! GO OBAMA!!!!

And Layla, Too

Laylaaaaaaaa......you got my on my knees!

Every Now And Then

ABIB is overhearing "Dream On" from Aerosmith and every now and then the Angry Ass Bitch gets her good 'ol karaoke sing-along ass going!!!

DREAM ON!!
DREAM ON!!
DREAM ON!!
DREAM UNTIL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!!!

Truly, peeps, truly.

A First For The ABIB

OK, the ABIB, by nature, is a largely apolitical creature. It's not that I don't have my political point of view it's just that I normally don't make a habit of foisting it on others. Today, since I'm posting, is clearly somehow different. The New Yorker magazine has made what the ABIB considers to be one of the hugest miscalculations of judgment in publishing since the Dewey Beats Truman newspaper headline of a few years ago.

The cover of the latest New Yorker, as many of you have certainly read, will be composed of an illustration of Barack and Michelle Obamba dressed as a Muslim and an armed terrorist, in a traditional head scarf and giant-ass 'fro respectively. Now the ABIB is not one to normally cast aspersions on most any kind of humor but she has to draw the line at this one, only because she has so little faith in the intelligence of the American voting public. I mean, folks, if someone as fucking innocuous as Rachael Ray is raked over the coals by her sponsor Dunkin' Donuts for wearing such a scarf around HER NECK for Christ sake, don't you think MAYBE that a political figure cartooned with it AROUND HIS HEAD might be so scrutinized??

Barack and Michelle are fist-bumping in front of a fireplace wherein Old Glory is ablaze and above this kindling is a picture of Osama Bin Laden. Now, the ABIB is aware of political irony and she's able to grasp the whole concept of the New Yorker putting out there an image meant to be so ridiculously preposterous as to be "funny". The ABIB gets it. The ABIB's problem is that for the last eight years the American voting public has proven not once, but twice, that it's ability to judge right from wrong and ridiculous from sane and everything in between to be seriously, if not irreparably, broken.

The American voting public, let the ABIB remind you, has TWICE voted in the current administration. What a joy! What a trip! What a nation of IRRATIONAL NUDNICKS!!! Having said that, Dear New Yorker magazine, what makes you think that these same retards will "get" your smarmy little joke of a cover about Barack and Michelle? How irresponsible does American journalism need to get before we finally react and say: DUMB ASSES!!! THE AMERICAN VOTER GETS HIS/HER VISION/OPINION/WORLD VIEW FROM FOX TV!!!! They're probably looking at your fucking dumbass cover and thinking: "AHA!!!! JUST LIKE RUSH TOLD US!!!! HIS MIDDLE NAME AIN'T HUSSEIN FOR NOTHING, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!"

New Yorker magazine if you're listening, which in your summerinthehamptonsormarthasvineyardorgodforbidcapecode world you're most likely NOT, WAKE THE FUCK UP AND TAKE STOCK OF YOUR JOB AS JOURNALISTS!!! The Fox-informed world of voters don't need any help to be stone cold idiots so STOP IT!!!!

Weebles Wobble But They Don't Fall Down...Or Ever Shut Up

I've mentioned in another post that I work in a typical cubicle farm whose bureaucratic culture supports a caste system the currency of which is privacy. All offices are inhabited by managers or quasi-managers who are sometimes called team leads, which itself laughably implies the whole "We're all in this together, right TEAM? Except of course that I get an office and get to CLOSE MY DOOR!" Well, as if constructed to add insult to injury, some of these prized oases of sanctuary from the teeming masses are located mere feet away from some poor sap's open-air hovel. I am, as you probably have guessed by now, one of those poor saps. My little home away from home from which I can hear, see and smell just about every human experience save perhaps a gangrenous limb, is a cube as they are affectionately known. Somehow cube is even worse than cubicle; it really brings home the whole notion of tiny confinement, like something out of an old episode of Star Trek where the crew were captured by a vastly more intelligent species with giant, pulsing heads to prove how smart they were, and held in a zoo where they all lived in their own, little clear plastic cube of imprisonment for the bemused public to view at their leisure. At least we aren't made to procreate. Well, at least not ALL of us, but that's another post.

Anyway, here I am, day after day, sitting and "working" and waiting for lunch to begin in my cube when right across the aisle, so close I can almost reach out touch the cheap doorjamb, is an office occupied by one of those quasi-managers. Decent enough guy, keeps to himself, bad jokes are present but blessedly few. So far so good, right? WRONG! On any given day this joker has a steady stream of VISITORS that do NOT share his penchant for quiet obscurity. They talk, they laugh, they "banter" (hateful word) and they basically DRIVE ME FUCKING CRAZY!!! One sap comes by at least four times a day to check in on "the market", as in "how's the market doin' BIG GUY?" And then proceeds to blather forth as if he's some kind of Harvard business school grad hedge fund manager and it's all I can do to keep myself from grabbing the ubiquitous coffee cup out of his hand and smashing it into his stupid little skull.

"How's the market doing now, DICKWEED? You see any answers to your investment questions floating around your head with all the little stars and birdies? How about this for an answer: SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The ABIB is not the ABIB for nothing, folks. I am one Angry Ass Bitch and depending on the day of the month, the position of the planets and the general functionality of my digestion I can be downright eeevul. Anyway, this post did not promise to be about a coffee-cup toting, self-deluded dabbler in the market, but about WEEBLES!

So, of all the visitors that "Team Leader With Office" gets, the one who inspires the most outrageous combination of hatred, bewilderment and downright freak show curiousity level of interest has got to be, hands-down, the one I call The Weeble. I've described him to others a million times but just like you can't tell a man who's cold what it feels like to be warm, this freak of nature is just, plain undescribable. I will begin the the physical facts as I observe them:

Dude stands about 5'7" tall
Waist circumference: roughly 75 inches
Pants size worn: probably a 42" waist

Wait, ABIB, you cry out with dismay! How can this be? A waist of 75 inches and pants with a waistband of 42 inches! Even you, with your math phobia must see the mistake there! Not so, Doubting Thomases, not so. The Weeble wears his pants around his 42" ASS!!!!! The 75" belly is hanging out there like some kind of freakish, giant sandbar. I mean it is HUGE!!! The only way he doesn't fucking fall forward is by leaning way back when he walks and then waddling from side-to-side. Is it coming to you? Weebles WOBBLE, BUT THEY DON'T FALL DOWN!!!

I've tried to surreptitiously take pictures with my cell phone camera but I've never been able to catch the absolute ridiculous view that is afforded by an in-person peep at this moron. The most amazing power that he seems to possess is that he can somehow defy gravity with his belt. Those pants are literally, LITERALLY, fastened at the crack of his ass, if he has an ass, that is because what appears below the belt line is totally flat. I can't believe I admit that I actually looked! But again, it's like a car wreck YOU CAN'T NOT LOOK! So, how do his pants stay up? The ass is flat, the belly is of an otherworldly proportion and that single, little belt keeps those fucking khakis from just dropping down around his (almost surely) hairless little ankles.

I've told coworkers that for $100 I'd run up behind him one day (he's a real slow mover) and just give those pants a good yank and down they'd come. One good yank, that's all it would take. Probably not even a good yank; maybe even just a fucking strong tug would do it. So far no takers. Did I say that he's somewhere between 55 and death in age that he's sports a rockin' comb-over and wears Mr. Magoo glasses? I'm totally not making any of this up, not one iota of it. I work for the Federal government; unemployable wierdos of all types are our specialty. And frankly, they don't come much wierder than The Weeble.

He's married, recently in fact and I get to hear all about THAT TOO. Oh joy, I think as The Weeble finally wobbles out of the office inches from my chair, now I get to spend the afternoon alternating between mental pictures of Weeble and his Wife trying to find his surely tiny dick underneath all that belly (maybe after awhile with no light or air they just fall off?) and my own sick imaginings of how exactly that freak of nature wipes his ass. I mean, for sure he can't possibly reach it around that 75 inch hot air balloon encircling his waist. Unless, wait a minute, maybe, in addition to the anti-gravity belt The Weeble's found a way, like Marvel Comic's Mr. Fantastic, to stretch his arms waaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy around to the back and take care of business. The Weeble is a mystery, for sure, and as soon as I get a taker, those pants are coming off!

The Courtesy Flush – An Update (Risking Life and Limb)

Dear Reader, or on my more upbeat days: Readers, as the title of this post suggests, today I had an experience that serves to update one of my seminal blog posts: The Courtesy Flush. You may recall that the subject of that post was the decidedly unfriendly habit among many of my co-crappers here at work to continue to sit amid the fetid air of their business, allowing it waft poisonously into the air of everyone else in the bathroom, until they are totally and completely finished. Then and only then do they flush that horrific mess down. Unfortunately their stench remains for quite some time, almost like the hint of a perfume that lingers in the air after someone has walked by. ALMOST. Because, of course, in this case it lingers like a curse in the air, sometimes for nearly AN HOUR after the perp has left. Absolutely no hyperbole in that last statement. Almost an hour.

OK, so what I didn’t tell you back when I originally posted about the CF, is that, although many of my co-crappers fall guilty of this terrible sin, there is ONE among the many who truly inspired me to blog the original post. I call her “Mother Earth” (for reasons that will go unrevealed) and there is seriously something wrong with her bowels. I have never known Mother Earth to enter the restroom and not unleash the lower GI tract version of World War III. I have learned, through hard, hard experience, that once Mother Earth enters the bathroom, lose all hope ye who enter behind her. No pun intended. HAH! Anyway, not only does she go for a really, really, really long time, her movements are ALWAYS accompanied by unreal volumes of gas. Now I don’t have to tell you what happens to gas: IT RISES!! AND SPREADS!!!

Mother Earth ALWAYS fouls the bathroom for AT LEAST 45 minutes after she leaves. UNSPEAKABLE! I don’t dare to conjecture what kind of food (or not food) a person has to eat to create that DEFCON Level 4 of havoc inside their body. I’ve been trapped in there more times than I care to admit, finding myself the unwitting victim of that hellish expulsion, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but finish as quickly as possible and pray that the uncontrollable gags don’t reach the point of retching.

I feel like I’ve painted a picture for you. Good. Fast forward to this morning. A regular workday, not unlike any other, in the anonymous, grey federal building in which I work. For no discernable reason, word begins to spread among the workers on my floor, that security is evacuating the building. Pish Posh, I think, having heard no official announcement broadcast by the disembodied, flat voice of a barely literate GS3, over the tinny public address system: “Hello? May I have your attention please? There will be a presentation in honor of Huspanish Heritage Month this morning at 10:00 in the Auditorium. Please join us for an hour dedicated to celebrating the Huspanish life. Olee! Thank you.” None of that so I figure this is all just a bunch of bored employees trying to inject a glimmer of drama into their otherwise drab day. I continue “working”.

But the rumor won’t die and eventually the chorus of worker voices is joined by a few managers who intone in the self-important way that only managers can: “We should go”. Okey dokey! You don’t have to tell federal workers twice that it’s time to vacate the building. People begin streaming out in hordes, keys jangling (you never know when its going to stretch into an early lunch or, even better: a whole day). Unfortunately I had finished 24 ounces of coffee five minutes prior and really had to pee. I gathered my things and began to sullenly make my way against the tide of humanity headed for the stairwell, in the general direction of the bathroom.

“You’re going in the wrong direction!” a chorus of voices gaily reminds me. As if I’ve forgotten how to get out of the building.

“Yes, well, I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right down.” BUZZ OFF YOU NOSEY ASSHOLES WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM SOME KIND OF RETARD? is what I really want to say (I am the ABIB, after all) but refrain.

I’m almost to the corner, beyond which by a few feet is the bathroom, when a woman’s voice rings out directly behind me:

“I REALLY have to go to the bathroom!”

A cold chill runs down my spine and, as if in slo-mo, I pivot on one foot and look behind me directly into the face of MOTHER EARTH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

What kind of luck do I have to have to be trying to beat this human crap bag into the bathroom so that I can take a fucking PISS and leave the building along with every other living thing? Right then I realize it: I’ll never make it. I’ll rush into the stall, sit down and start to go, but I’ve 24 ounces of coffee to get rid of along with the orange juice I drank at home before work, but MOTHER EARTH will already have her huge ass spread across one of the toilet seats groaning for its life and within a nanosecond will be eliminating what I can only guess (from the smell) is partially digested roadkill.

At that moment I turned on my heel and retraced my steps, barely registering her startled expression as I bump into her to rush past, heading to the next closest bathroom, at the other end of the building’s hallway. What if we’re being evacuated due to a noxious gas spewing through the vents? What if it’s a fire alarm that’s announcing the fast spread of an electrical fire through the walls? I don’t fucking care if it’s RADIOACTIVE KRYPTONITE, I ain’t going anywhere NEAR the evil domain now claimed by Mother Earth.

I made it to the other bathroom and did my business. By the time I came out the “emergency” was already over and my coworkers had begun to file back into the building with all the enthusiasm of a chain gang.

Yes, I took a risk. Yes it could have turned out badly. But I know for one thing: if I had gone where I was originally headed I may not have made it out at all. If you look at it that way, I took no risk at all.

Venting the Spleen-O-Matic

For the umpteenth time I straight up HATE MY JESUS FREAK MOTHERFUCKING NEIGHBORS! This past weekend I finally went on the rage bender that these assholes have been provoking for the past four years. I screamed! I howled! I name-called 'til the cows came home. And it felt GOOD people; it felt SOOOOOOOOOOOOO good.

Likely for the past few days they've been alternately praying for my sad, heathen soul and plotting their blue collar revenge.

I'd say the hoopdee with no rear window, expired Pennsylvania license plates, and two kids that run wild in varying stages of undress are an excellent start. Good times, motherfuckers, good times.

Monkey Tits

OK, first: anyone that reads this post is going to, at some point in the future, thank me. Not unlike my post titled "The Courtesy Flush", I would put this post in the "public service" category. All in a day's work, people; I'm out there for YOU!

Anyway, by now you're likely wondering just what the fuck I'm talking about when I say "Monkey Tits". Ironically you've all seen them: normally on a gal quite a ways past the prime of her physical life, but not necessarily. Some of the fairer sex are cursed with Monkey Tits from day one. A Monkey Tit physique is one in which the boobs are triangularly shaped, usually no larger than a "B" cup, and basically point to the floor at all times. Now you're getting the picture right? Just in case you're not, flip over to Google and do an image search on: "monkey, female" or "ape, female". Trust me; it'll come clear to you.

Well far be it for me to chastise folks for something over which they have no control, which by now you're saying "That poor gal is BORN with Monkey Tits! There's nothing she can do about it! Back off, Angriest Bitch in Baltimore!" To that I say, loudly and proudly: "BULLFUCKINGSHIT!" Yes, she may be BORN with Monkey Tits but my sympathy goes out the fucking window when they, in all their hideous glory, assault my eyes. We're talking about the basic, common decency of hiding that big -ass butt crack, or getting that lazy eye looked at (or at least covered by a jaunty pirate eye patch), trimming that nostril hair and for the love of god tying down those fucking Monkey Tits! Ladies, any department store on EARTH has at least 250 bra styles to choose from, at least half of which are designed to COVER BOOB FLAWS! Use them! Get fitted! Give us a goddamn fucking break from those eyesores! Also: sorry to be the one to inform you, but Monkey Tits are anathema to clingy, jersey-type t-shirts so popular at this time of year. Repeat after me: hiding NOT flaunting is the key here!

Just yesterday I was unlucky enough to be visually accosted by one of the worst pair of Monkey Tits I have EVER seen. What's even more horrific is that IT WASN'T THE FIRST TIME! Oh, no, this particular gross offender displays her Monkey Tittage virtually daily! Picture if you dare, this image, forever burned into my retinas, that I know I'll be dreaming about for weeks to come. She's fat; never, ever a good combo with Monkey Tits, because those flat, triangular wedges just lay on the big ol' belly like some kind of pair of beached fish on a sandbar. So you've got the big belly, the (maybe) B-cup Monkey Tits, all wrapped up in a light-colored sleeveless (porker arms another post topic, no rest for the weary), rayon knit shell clinging to that giant belly and those hapless boobs for all that fabric was worth and stretched to within an inch of it's knitted life.

I happened upon that view and gasped, averting my eyes moments too late. The perp just stared at me with one lazy eye (didn't we TALK about this earlier) googling around like some kind of lonely last gumball in the glass jar. She greeted me with a wan smile and I breathed a half-hearted "hi" and sped past, bumping into the cubicle wall of the sad little person she was visiting. What a nightmarish situation THAT must have been...trapped...unable to politely extricate oneself...from a seemingly endless encounter with, with, AUGGHHHGGUUGHHHH MONKEY TITS!! Sorry...I just need to compose myself.

Ahem. So, let me just conclude with this thought: If you are Monkey Titted, and trust me, you know if you are, first accept my sincerest sympathy, then please, I beg you, for the love of all that's good and wholesome and pure in this life: KEEP THAT UGLY ASS SHIT TO YOURSELF!!

Re-Gifting: When You Care Enough to Send the Very Used

Just the other day it was the ABIB's birthday. Which birthday, you ask? It is of no concern. Those among you who get that reference know who you are. The ABIB received many jolly cards and wishes from family and friends, but she's writing this post to BITCH (Jesus, you're thinking, even on her fucking birthday?) about a particular birthday scandal. I'm talking about the regift. You know the drill: someone gets some heinous piece of shit for some commemorative day or another and, rather than taking the dreck directly to The Salvation Army (or the landfill), they stash it somewhere hoping it'll magically disappear.

Well it doesn't, of course and days turn to weeks and weeks to months and before they know it the monstrosity has been collecting dust and taking up precious gewgaw space for long enough. Its time to take action, thus the regift is born. Thinking the potential recipient to be some kind of freaking r-tard, the regifter assumes that nobody will be able to discern that their secondhand piece of shit is actually used because, well, it's WRAPPED isn't it? Sometimes well, sometimes badly, but the crap always arrives in wrapping paper, or a box with a bow or even, as in the case of the ABIB last week, in a gigantic birthday-festooned bag.

There I was, surrounded by my birthday haul, when a co-worker peeped around the cubicle corner and croaked: "It's your birthday?"

"Why, yes" the ABIB coolly replied, "as a matter of fact, it is."

"Wow....well, happy birthday!"

Little did I know that my birthday admission was about to lead to receipt of an utterly useless totchke that was FUCKING USED! Lo and behold, following lunch, the same co-worker appears back in my cubicle, this time in possession of a huge birthday gift bag. The giant bag was thrust upon me with an ear-to-ear grin that only later, in retrospect, I realized meant: HERE YA GO, SUCKER!!!

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!" the co-worker chirped loudly, "I hope you like it!"

The subtext being "Because I sure fucking didn't!!" The package inside the giant bag was badly wrapped in, I realized with a sinking feeling, wrapping paper that looked like it had seen better, or should I say NEWER, days. Peering into the cavern of a bag I pulled out the badly wrapped, ill-shaped package and a metal stand that looked oddly like those things that they sell in the grocery store to ripen bananas. Hmmm...I thought, this looks kind of scary.

I smiled weakly and began to tear at the haphazardly wrapped blob of a thing. What emerged was a stained glass bird-house-y kind of contraption with one side open and a small metal bowl perched on the inside.

"It's a candle-holder!" The regifter screeched. "Do you love it? I totally thought of you when I saw it AT THE STORE!" These last words were said a little too loudly and a little too brightly as if to convince herself that she didn't just haul this useless crap out of storage in her attic.

"Oh, a candle-holder. Cool. Hey, thanks so much!"

"You're welcome. Enjoy!"

With that she was gone and I was left with the most useless item I'd ever seen. Suddenly the banana ripener was looking pretty good. Just as I went to stash the whole mess under my desk I realized that there was something else rolling around inside the birthday bag. I reached in and felt what clearly was the tealight candle that was supposed to sit inside the glass birdhouse's metal bowl. I pulled it out and the regifter's fucking cover was completely blown: the candle had been burned down to a nub; there wasn't an iota of wax left inside.

The only thing more insulting than getting someone's unwanted regifted crap is when they don't even try to conceal it. Christ almighty, every fucking dollar store from here to Oregon carries bags of 50 tealight candles for a buck! At least give me a goddamn new two-cent candle! So there I was in proud possession of a yard sale reject that I would never in a million years use. As I looked at the junk I suddenly recalled this same co-worker, a couple of years earlier, bringing in a dress for me stashed in a plastic grocery bag.

"Here", she had said back then, "I can't wear this anymore, it positively floats on me...way too big. I think it would look great on you, though!" At the time I marveled at her ability to leave out the "fat ass" part of "it would look great on you, though!" As in: "I can't wear this tent anymore, it's way too big for me, but you could probably squeeze your fat ass into it."

"Enjoy!"

So here I am, looking at a stained glass birdhouse that inexplicably houses a burning candle. As someone aptly noted: "How convienient: the bird flies in to lay an egg and gets cooked at the same time."

Whatever. It's just a matter of time before someone I can't stand has a birthday or an anniversary or Christmas and then my little regifted birdhouse will fly the coop and become someone else's hideous problem.

I'll tell you one thing, though: at least I'll put in a fresh tealight. I mean, really, it's called manners.

What's That? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!

HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHHAHHHAHHHAHAHAHHA!!!!

MICHAEL!!!! THAT'S FUNNY!!!!

DID YOU SEE WHAT HE DID??? TOO FUNNY!!!! DO IT AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN!!!!!

I heard that all day today. Yep, it was them: The Jesus Syndicate out on their back porch with their godforsaken (wouldn't that be ironic?) pals laughing those loud guffaws that always mean that someone is forcing enjoyment. And why not? It was the anniversary of White Whale and Brunhilda: they of the endless brood of gremlins masquerading as human children. Probably time to fuck and pop out another homunculus in the name of the Almighty and his son.

"Be fruitful and multiply". Jesus Syndicate members know in their holier-than-thou black little hearts that not only did God himself intone those words but he meant them to go on forever and EVER. In spite of the fact that our little Garden of Eden is getting a little crowded, a little hot and just a tad pushed to its natural limits. "But not for us! Because we're HOLY! The Lord made the Garden of Eden FOR HIS CHILDREN to LOVE!!!!"

I'm sure He also meant for the Jesus Syndicate to keep crapping up the Earth with their giant smoky vehicles that are required since they're so scrupulous about the whole "fruitful and muliply" thing. Need those honking big-ass monsters just to haul your godly brood to the local grocery store. Or, certainly, to CHURCH. Hells yeah, expecially to church.

I've said in this blog that all religious zealots piss me off, but that Jesus freaks are probably the worst of the lot. Maybe that's because I fucking live next to Holy Water Central and have to be up close and personal with their freakish beliefs every fucking day of my life! I figure it's their cross to bear that they have to live next door to a filthy-mouthed cursing Jewess. What a trip! Here's what I do in the shower because I know that they can hear me loud and clear because I can hear their little demons crapping on their fucking potties day and night. Here's a typical daily shower script special delivery from me to them:

Don't be a fucker, go blow a trucker, kiss my ASS mother, mother, mother fucker!!!! Yo, bitches: Whassup in there motherfuckers? Having a fucking good day ya freaking a-holes?

And on it goes. Look, it's incredibly cathartic for me and it has the added benefit of potentially making their ears bleed. I know Brunhilda hears me because halfway through one of my ditties I generally hear her slam the bathroom door in what I can only imagine is Jesus Syndicate-worthy righteous indignation.

And so it goes: they piss me off with their constant, obnoxious, over-populated, incredibly selfish lives and every now and then I get a good one in. Hell, at a minimum I figure I give them something to pray about.

All together now:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!

Another Dunkin', Dunkin' Day

Hi there! Been a few days, but here we go. Different day, different Dunkin', roughly the same vaguely Indian/Pakistani owner/operators as the other one, the one that I drive through. This one I walked into and was greeted by the omnipresent, over-bright cheer- (and donut eating?) inducing music piped overhead in a constant stream of oafish, too-loud "music". I mean really, does ANYONE call "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy I've Got Love In My Tummy" music?

I walk in at precisely the same time as approximately five other customers. We approach the already formed line of three others in orderly, Dunkin' fashion. I immediately resound to the familiar cadence of my drive-"thru" Dunkin'. Namely, nearly incomprehensible English by way of over-dubbed Bollywood movies. There are four people behind the counter servicing the line in a dizzying fashion, talking over each other louder and louder in an attempt to be heard over the other voices, the shrill announcements of "Lite 98", and the voices of the customers. Some are ordering, some are talking on cell phones and some are (like me) standing in stunned silence waiting for our turn to enter this cacophanous fray. I'm already calculating which "worker" will be barking at me to, very soon now, place my order and quickly move to the side. You gotta get the fuck outta the way cause the next customer is already screaming in your ear in response to several urgent demands:

"What is ya ahda?"

"What did ya ahda?" Presumably a different person calculates what you owe and a third person,

"Cash? Credit?" takes your money.

Now I'm scared; there's only one person between me and the three-ring circus of this Bizarro World Dunkin'. I'm sincerely regretting having come in here.

"YOR ORDA?" He's yelling these word-ish syallables at me, now and I realize it's now or never.

"Large ice coffee."

"CREAMANDSUGA?" Painfully it sounds exactly the same cadence as the tinny voice that I now realize I've forsaken, betrayed and deeply long for as it daily comes out of the little Dunkin' squawk box in the drive "thru" line. Too late; forge ahead.

"No sugar, extra cream!" I yell brightly at his stone face. He rushes off as I shout: "I ALSO WANT A SANDWICH!"

Another worker, a woman this time, addresses me. Her face is stern to the point of being angry and I briefly imagine that the little red dot on her forward is positively glowing in parallel to her angry face:

"Sandwich? What kind? Egg and cheese and sausage?"

I'm deeply insulted that she has assumed that I'll have the biggest, fattest breakfast sandwich in the lineup just by looking at me and it makes me instantly surly.

"No. I'll have egg and cheese on an English muffin."

At just that moment the high-school age valley boy directly behind me gets waited on by worker number three and begins to shout in my ear the specifics of his two dozen donuts order.

"Ummmm, I'd like four of the glazed, two jellies, three with the sprinkles and three of those cruller-things."

"FOUR GLAZED, THREE JELLY, TWO SPRINKLE AND THREE WHAT?"

"THREE OF THEM CRULLER THINGS!!"

"OH, CRULLERS!"

The noise level at the front of this line has reached roughly the level of a revving Boeing 747. Now the woman behind me has to raise the volume of her ongoing cell phone call in order that her INCREDIBLY CRITICAL INFORMATION be heard at precisely this instant by whatever jackass is on the other end of her cell conversation.

"OH TOTALLY! REPORT CARDS CAME OUT YESTERDAY AND I WAS NOT HAPPY WITH ETHAN! WHAT? REPORT CARDS CAME OUT YESTERDAY! OH SHIT, HOLD ON!"

Now another worker was yelling at her wondering "CANIHEPYOU?" and I figured I was close to collapsing when my original guy arrives back in front of me with a large ice coffee that is as black as the ace of spades. Clearly he thought I ordered an ice coffee with no cream and extra sugar.

"I DIDN'T ORDER THAT! I ORDERED A LARGE ICE COFFEE WITH EXTRA CREAM AND NO SUGAR!"

He stops in his tracks and for one dizzying moment I truly believe he's going to fling that large, icy coffee directly at me. At that point it would probably be a relief. This place is an insane asylum. Instead he stomps off, clearly angry that I had wasted that .03 cents worth of perfectly good coffee and prepares me another one. I watched him the whole way to make sure he didn't add anything special to it, like his own spit.

At the same instant he arrives back with my correct coffee order the woman who took my presumed-to-be-a-gluttonous-fatso sandwich order arrives back as well and their voices combine in a perfect storm of unintelligible noise. It's gibberish on speed.

"LARGECOFFEECREAMNOSUGAEGGCHEESEMUFFINANYTINGELSE?FIVEOTREE!"

The orders are still richocheting around my head like an angry swarm of bees as I throw my money on the counter and turn to escape from this loony bin of commerce. As I turn to go I see the line, now out the door, and briefly consider sticking around just to see if anyone's head explodes, but in the end decide it's safer to get the fuck out of there.

Tomorrow I'll be back in the drive-"thru" line at my very own wonderful little Dunkin', thankful for the blessed anonymity afforded when I don't have to leave my car and rub elbows with the great unwashed. Who knew that what lurked inside the actual store was a caffeine-fueled nuthouse of epic proportions? Either that or I accidentally stumbled on the portal to the parallel universe that exists in the tiny little droplets of blue water on the leaves of every tree that isn't green and...heyyyyyy...wait a minute....I think he DID put something special in my coffee!