Hallway Etiquette

This will likely be one of my shorter rants today, folks, because, in all honesty, it's such a straightforward bitch that I can't imagine it's going to take all that long. Today we'll be discussing hallway farts at work. Yes, that's right; hallway farts at a workplace where ONLY GROWN MEN AND WOMEN WORK. This is not a daycare center, elementary school, middle or high school where one MAY be able to forgive such behavior. No, this is the same federal facility that you've read about here before with the unfunny "comedians" and the screaming, door-blocking conversations and the hallway obstructing slow walkers. And it's populated by only adult employees.

Now I don't know about you all but I learned that it's rude to fart in a public place at a pretty young age, not least of all because of the high risk of horrifying ridicule and public outing. "He who smelt it dealt it" was always my favorite as it provided the novel twist that someone might try to outwit the rest of us by being the first to accuse but that we were having none of it. We always knew it was that person not least because the cloud of odorous shame hovered in their general vicinity. And don't try to walk away from it, mofo, that bitch be followin' your sorry ass. Literally.

So, here's the thing: I've mentioned before that my federal building has a bomb shelter-y basement within which you can walk from the elevator exit to the cafeteria. As a result there's normally a decent number of people traversing that underground cinderblock mecca going to and from the gym/cafeteria/coffee bar that exist on the ground floor. Two days ago I was walking that path with two co-workers who I am thankful to have working with me as they provide a blessed diversion from the normal caliber of others that I have to deal with on a daily basis. Anyway, there we were, walking from the elevator to the cafeteria when we passed another person walking in the opposite direction, toward the elevator. I nodded with a silent congeniality that I in no way actually felt, as we crossed paths with him.

Not 15 seconds later I and my two friends walked into the most fucking heinous fart cloud I have encountered in some time. And being a person (as all people do) who farts, I feel fairly sure that I can safely call a heinous fart when I smell one. The hallway seemed to constrict as we all gasped for air (an involuntary but dreadfully inappropriate action considering it brings MORE of the stench into your nose) and I believe I actually gagged.

"OH MY LORD!"
"WHAT THE FUCK!"
"MOTHERFUCKER THAT IS HORRIFIC!"

It was everywhere and seemed to last forever. We walked faster; it followed us. It took us to round a corner and travel another good 50 feet to finally escape that wall of stench. Now, you know as well as I do, that the person that we had just crossed paths with was the cretin who had left that carpet bomb directly in our path. I know that because it was too fucking fresh, the air still too saturated to be anything other than very, very recent. So, I'm thinking, that fucker probably figured that as he was moving away from the offensive cloud, that he could never be pinned with the crime. Wrong, motherfucker! I remember your face and now I know that you cracked off that nasty fucking explosion and that YOU. ARE. NASTY MOTHERFUCKER! How much of a rude, ignorant asshole do you have to be to think that something like that is OK? Where were you raised...in an OUTHOUSE?

When I see him again, and it's just a matter of time, I'll probably do something childish like make a loud farting noise on my bare arm as I get just past him. I suppose I could confront him like an adult and demand to know, face-to-face how on earth he thinks it's OK to fart in public and then flee the scene of the crime like the chump that he is. Not unlike a crime scene though, this perp leaves behind air that points a finger with the authority of a good DNA sample. I figure that the loud, childish fart noise might make him think twice before he does it again. But maybe I run the risk of offering him up the kind of secret handshake known only to members of a hidden cabal, as in "yes, I too engage in our forbidden pasttime, fellow dweller of the underground fart chamber".

Whatever, if it makes him at least think twice before he does that again I will have done my job. With my luck though, he'll stop doing it in the hallway and wait until he gets in the elevator. Now THOSE are the worst! The door is closing as it hits you and then it's TOO LATE TO GET OUT! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The World Continues to Fill With Ignoramuses (or is it Ignorami?)

Greetings all, tonight I'm here to talk to you about, as the title of this post says, ignorant-ass people. Now, I've touched on the specifics of tonight's tirade in another post about suffering the indignities of Wegman's. But I have to say, this most repugnant demonstration of ignoramussity (made that one up, you betcha) really calls out for it's own, full post. I'm talking about people who continue to talk on their cell phones while they are being waited on by service personnel.
Can I get an AMEN! people? Here's the way it went down. Yesterday I was at a local movie theater waiting while my other half got us a couple of tickets to see The Fighter (good movie, BTW, super call-outs to Melissa Leo and Christian Bale). Anyhoo, I'm standing around idly trying to decide if I want to spring for the $40 snack of popcorn and a soda, when I happen to see the BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS in the lobby saunter up to the ticket window where a perfectly visible ACTUAL PERSON sat taking money and dispensing tickets.
BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS was, whot? whot?, of course yakking on her (yes, it was a her) cellphone. Now, you'd think that common courtesy would dictate that BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS would conclude the call prior to reaching the window but that she would, at a MINIMUM, conclude the call, OR AT LEAST PUT DOWN THE FUCKING PHONE, for the fraction of a few moments that it would take her to speak to the ACTUAL PERSON behind the glass, give said person her money and take the ticket(s).
But apparently BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS was at that moment either: A) Dictating the landing instructions for the Space Shuttle, AS IT LANDED; B) Leading peace negotiations between Israel and the Palestinians; or C) Providing the final variable in the equation that would result in the cure for cancer. Because, quite frankly, anything less would have meant that BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS was just a common, ignorant douchebag so convinced of her own importance that NOBODY and I mean NOBODY was going to come between her and her critical conversation. Not even a LIVING, BREATHING PERSON with whom she was having an IN PERSON CONVERSATION.
I watched with amazement as BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS continued to chat as she barely acknowledged that the woman behind the ticket counter glass had addressed her; did not fucking stop talking INTO HER CELL PHONE as she sloooooooowwwwly extracted some bills from her wallet, and KEPT ON TALKING as the person took her money and gave her the tickets. I heard, WITH MY OWN EARS, the theater employee cheerfully thank her and extend her wish for BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS to "enjoy the movie!" Needless to say, BIGGEST, FATTEST, RUDEST ASS just kep' on truckin', motherfucker, truckin' and TALKIN', that is.
Now for those of you who have been reading this blog, it should come as no surprise when I say that I find most other people to be barely, BARELY, tolerable. They're everywhere, they get in your way, and more often than should be allowed in a civilized society, they smell. But THIS! This was beyond the pale, I mean what kind of a FUCKING BONEHEADED DIPSHIT can't figure out the basic comportment required to be out in public? Bitch got her enormous ass into her incredibly inappropriately tight jeans. Bitch got her fat arms into her incredibly inappropriately tight sweater. Evidently bitch got her BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS to the fucking movie theater. But apparently bitch don't gotta stop her convo for no-fucking-body up to, and including, someone with whom she is engaged in a person-to-person interaction.
I have to tell you folks, it took every ounce of my self-control and my ongoing desire to not get myself arrested, to keep from marching over to that self-satisfied, ignorant asshole and ripping that phone from her skanky-ass ear. And if an earring came away in my hand, all the better. But of course, I didn't; I simply stared at her and shook my head in the way of all curmudgeons. Problem was BIGGEST, FATTEST ASS didn't even see me and if she had I'm sure her tiny, ameoba brain wouldn't have made the connection that I was staring with my shaming expression at her. And really, even if she had I'm sure she couldn't possibly have cared less. Because truth be told, that Space Shuttle wasn't going to land itself.

Google Instant Search Will Make Your Head Explode

How do I know this? Because it happens to me every, single, fucking time I use Google since they've instituted their "Instant Search" browser. OK, so not literally. But I'm pretty sure that Google Instant Search is actually a secret plot to thin out the Earth's population since every time I or anyone I know uses it, it clearly shaves seconds off of our lives in straight up stress. And when you're fucking GOOGLE, those seconds really add up.

So what is it about Google Instant Search that pisses me off? What doesn't? But at the top of the list has GOT to be the whole "as I'm typing and Google Instant Search is thinking for me, it fucks up my typing by guessing what it is I'm about to type and making what I'm ACTUALLY planning to type not make the cut". Because by my anecdotal evidence, Google Instant Search NEVER FUCKING GUESSES CORRECTLY! So it COSTS me time, Google ASSHOLES! IT FUCKING COSTS ME TIME!

How ironic. This from Google's helpful page wherein Instant Search's vast array of advantages is detailed. Oh, and I'm going to equally "helpfully" pick them to pieces.

Faster Searches: By predicting your search and showing results before you finish typing, Google Instant can save 2-5 seconds per search. WRONG! Here's the thing, as stated above: this has NEVER worked for me and only bungles the search criteria I'm typing in WHICH I FUCKING ALREADY KNOW! Also, whose life is so crammed with activity that the savings of, by Google's own estimation, FIVE FUCKING SECONDS makes a measurable difference? To that I say: Hey asshole, if you actually believe that five seconds per search is slowing down your life I'm pretty sure that you're either a meth addict or a hallucinating mental patient. Sorry to break it to you this way.

Smarter Predictions: Even when you don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, predictions help guide your search. The top prediction is shown in grey text directly in the search box, so you can stop typing as soon as you see what you need. WRONG! Um, I don't particularly NEED predictions that can outthink me. That's just plain creepy. I mean we all saw (and were terrified by) the dystopian future depicted in 2001: A Space Odyssey where HAL kind of took it upon himself (itself?) to make "smarter predictions" to Dave. We know where that ended up. And while I'm on THIS particular gripe can I also mention the DROID for Verizon Wireless whose actual SELLING POINT is to illustrate how the DROID actually is a couple of nanobytes away from being HAL? I mean, really, a couple of nanobytes...sheesh.

Instant Results: Start typing and results appear right before your eyes. Until now, you had to type a full search term, hit return, and hope for the right results. Now results appear instantly as you type, helping you see where you’re headed, every step of the way. WRONG! Again, see above tirade about Google Instant Search "helpfully" providing that NORMALLY WRONG set of results based on what it "thinks" you're trying to search for. Not helping, Google nerds, not helping at all.

So there you have it people. Google Instant Search dissected. I'm not impressed and actually I'm annoyed since I CAN'T TURN THAT FUCKING PROGRAM OFF. Oh, they tell you you can turn off Instant Search. They helpfully point you to the Google preferences page where there is, indeed, a link to turning off Instant Search. Bromides! What they DON'T tell you, of course, is that you have to do it EVERY SINGLE, FUCKING TIME YOU USE THE BROWSER. Once you close out Google for the day, it conveniently "forgets" your preference request. "Ooooops!" Google Instant Search says, "Sorry but my AI tells me I'm sure you didn't mean to turn off my 'helpful to humans' Instant Search so I'm going to 'helpfully' turn it back on for you. You can thank me later when I'm picking out your mate and calculating the number of offspring you can afford." Can we say: "The Matrix"?

Not me, kids, not by a long shot. I am by no means some curmudgeon Luddite, but I'm going to find a way to outsmart that fiendish "helpful" application before it starts deciding what I'm going to have for dinner and what I should plan to wear tomorrow. Not that I'm paranoid or anything.

The Dumb-ering Down of America

As if that's possible...our little experiment in democracy is already pretty fucking dumbed-down, but that's another post. Today's tirade, kiddies, has all to do with the notion that vanilla do-gooders can just decide one day to muck around in someone else's authorship for whatever wrong-headed PC reason occurs to them. I'm talking, of course, of the publisher who is planning to issue a new edition of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and expunge every use of the word 'nigger'. Oh, for the LOVE OF...REALLY PEOPLE? REALLY? This from today's New York Times:

A new effort to sanitize “Huckleberry Finn” comes from Alan Gribben, a professor of English at Auburn University, at Montgomery, Ala., who has produced a new edition of Twain’s novel that replaces the word “nigger” with “slave.” Nigger, which appears in the book more than 200 times, was a common racial epithet in the antebellum South, used by Twain as part of his characters’ vernacular speech and as a reflection of mid-19th-century social attitudes along the Mississippi River.

I am so offended by this on SO many levels that I hardly know where to begin. First of all..motherfuckers, it's NOT YOUR LITERARY WORK! It was written by perhaps the most deservedly beloved of American authors, Mark Twain, a man who, in his writing turned the society of his day on it's head and ironically made them look into the face of their own dirty little prejudices. Mark Twain used the word 'nigger' to illustrate the absolute banality of the word and the absolute banality of those who in his time used it. He clearly was onto something that today's cranially challenged "educators" can't begin to grasp. Namely if you call something by its name, if you turn a brightly lighted mirror onto the absurdities of societal prejudices masquerading as "norms", you serve to effectively drain them of any power.

Mark Twain is dead; he can't stand up to this pea-brained little band of sadly mistaken do-gooders and say: "Hey! Keep your grubby little mitts off of my words! I am the author of that book and I chose each and every word in it with deliberation and purpose!" How cowardly, now that he's no longer able to defend his creation, to begin picking it apart in the name of some lame-brained ideal of creative revisionism.

More from The NYT:

Mr. Gribben has said he worried that the N-word had resulted in the novel falling off reading lists, and that he thought his edition would be welcomed by schoolteachers and university instructors who wanted to spare “the reader from a racial slur that never seems to lose its vitriol.” Never mind that today nigger is used by many rappers, who have reclaimed the word from its ugly past. Never mind that attaching the epithet slave to the character Jim — who has run away in a bid for freedom — effectively labels him as property, as the very thing he is trying to escape.

Isn't Huckleberry Finn a better tool as written, for teachers to open an honest dialogue in the classroom about how people use words to subjugate others and how words can offer a direct light into the societal norms of a bygone era? My goodness, books like Huck Finn are historical documents! Should we go back and rewrite history so that nobody will be offended or feel diminished or otherwise disenfranchised? Sheesh.

The larger comment, of course, embedded in this wrong-headed move is that we have become so afraid of looking at truth that even words as written by those long dead are not immune from being hacked at in order to get them to conform to our current appetite for "niceness". MOTHERFUCKING YUCK I say!!

Clearly all of this politesse is absolute anathema to The ABIB, whose very existence is rooted almost entirely in political UN-correctness. So go ahead, whack away at classic literature to your hearts' content, reform everything in the boring, bland image of "Everyone's Happy Valley", but I'm here to tell you it's not right and if we're not careful we'll all be drinking the Koolaid in the name of "what's appropriate". Gives a bitch the shivers...

I Can't Stand It Anymore?

Here's an idea that can't lose: create a chemical that can be aerosolized and dispersed across the entire nation and once it hits people renders them unable to phrase EACH AND EVERY FUCKING SENTENCE in the form of an interrogative. Something as simple as giving directions becomes an adventure in the misplaced question mark.

Now: So, you head north on Main Street?
Post Chemical Dispersal: You head north on Main Street.

Now: And then you make a right on Elm?
Post Chemical Dispersal: And then you make a right on Elm.

Now: It should take about 10 minutes on foot?
Post Chemical Dispersal: It should take about 10 minutes on foot.

When and fucking where was it decided that every moron in the country needed to sound like a retarded Valley Girl 24 hours a day? I hear it everywhere! At work, on the radio, on the TV and its driving me INSANE!! There is no verbal communication immune from this idiotic affectation. To wit:

I'm trying to take a shit? It's looking like I'm going to run out of toilet paper? I'll head over to the linen closet and take out a new roll? That way when I sit down to take that shit I mentioned I'll have sufficient toilet paper to clean up after said shit? Cause it's a drag? To run out? Of toilet paper? When you really need it?

Haven't we suffered enough? (That's an actual question, by the way.) Isn't it about time we regained our national, minimal IQ and stopped insisting that we all have to sound like high school mean girls? To these valid questions I say: YES! Not, Yes? So, ladies and gentlemen. Put down the question marks and slowly back away. It's for your own good, trust me on this. But of far greater importance: it's for MY OWN good! Break the insidious habit of the question mark, I beg you.

You'll be glad you did. I guarantee it?

Phaedra Parks: Woman on the Verge...of Overacting

Aaaight, Imma make this one brief: Phaedra Parks is now officially the WORST ho that's ever been on any Real Housewives series and that includes Danielle Staub. I mean, I LOVE me some Real Housewives of Atlanta, I actually want to hang out with Nene like 24/7, but this year's dumbass award has got to go, hands-down, to Phaedra "I AM A Lawyer" Parks. This week Phaedra's in the hospital having her gigantic baby, being induced at 7 months because it's just too big already. Huh? Well, finally tonight the doc weighs in (see how I did that?) and calls it true: this baby is TERM, motherfucker! We're talking 40 weeks! So Phaedra is, as Kim Zolciak would say: "a lying sack of shit." Apparently Mommy Parks who is some kind of...uh...clergyperson...doesn't approve of pregnancy out of wedlock. Uh...OK. Yo! Ma! Welcome to 2010, babe! Guess Phaedra was too busy eating her Lady Fingers with "Barbarian" Cream to clue you in to her...condition. Whatevs.

Anyway to get to the point, this week Ms. Thang had her baby taken out of her by way of tasteful (low incision, you'll still be able to wear a bikini) C-section. Now I've had an actual C-section and I'm here to tell you that you are numb brothers and sisters, numb as in, DO I STILL HAVE ANYTHING BELOW MY ELBOWS THAT IS ATTACHED TO MY BODY? But Ms. Phaedra, once drugged and on the table, commences to whining and crying and gets all: "Ow...Ow! Ooooch! Gasp!"

Phaedra, can we tawk? Time to focus girl. You got the chiseled ex-con husband. You got the borderline "celebrity" law practice (if you count Bobbie Brown and some chick who got kicked out of Destiny's Child before they became Destiny's Child), you've even had the Twilight Zone baby shower replete with ballerinas and...a bizzaro-world courtly dance with Dwight "The Man With No Face" and your gigantic pregnant belly. Time to invest in some acting classes. Heck, hook up with Sheree; she's all about the "work" this year, all about the "craft". Do whatever you have to do bitch, because when you start whining in "pain" during a C-fucking-section, you're poised to become the most ridiculous joke in a veritable SEA of ridiculous jokes. Shit, you're making Kim look normal. And BTW, who knew that Kim was a NURSE? Working a pole in a nurse's costume, by all means, YES, but a real, actual nurse!? Wow....OK, then, nuff said. I'll leave it at that, but stay tuned to this channel which may very well become a weekly comment on the wacky, wonderful, jiggly world that is The Real Housewives of Atlanta!

Does The ABIB Have to Go There?

Yes, The ABIB has to go there. And frankly it's probably overdue. So I'm reading about this whole "don't ask don't tell" issue that's got everyone's shorts up their crack and I gotta say: Ya'll are FUCKED UP!! Jeez O Man what is wrong with people? Isn't it enough that gay folks can't marry the person that they love in a ceremony of their choosing, in a place of their choosing and have that sanctified union recognized in EVERY FUCKING STATE IN OUR NATION?! And, oh, by the way? Have the same civil rights AS EVERY OTHER TAX PAYING CITIZEN WHO JUST HAPPENS TO FUCK A MEMBER OF THE OPPOSITE SEX! What is wrong with us? As a people? As a culture? Are we really that frightened and narrow and just plain bigoted? Really? Makes a bitch sad I gotta tell you.

So back to the military thingie. I think that every fucking asshole who thinks that gay people should have to serve in silence regarding their true selves, in, oh I don't know....Afghanistan, Iraq, anywhere our military serves on the whole globe, I think that those bigoted, messed-up and just plain confused assholes should have to personally take the fucking place of a hidden gay person serving in the sand of wherever those brave folks are serving. Just to shut them the fuck up. For real.

I keep waiting for us as a culture to do the minimally right thing and recognize folks' rights to live their lives as they choose. Within the law. ALL THE LAWS. To marry openly and be afforded ALL OF THE SAME RIGHTS as tax paying citizens that their heterosexual neighbors are afforded. To not have to hide who they are and who they love for fear of being passed over for a promotion or not being able to adopt a child who needs two loving parents. Regardless of their genders. LOVE IS LOVE, PEOPLE! This is the irony that the haters never seem to grasp: its all about being able to love and love openly and make choices that are right for you. No matter what.

The current rash of suicides among young gay people is the part of this awful story that is the worst. Our cultural inability to reign in bigoted hatred is poisoning the structure of our society at such an elemental level that young gay people are choosing death rather than going forward into a world that should be open to their bright youth, their hopeful enthusiasm and the fresh vibrancy that their souls are ready to bring into our world. This is the most painful outcome of all and I'll leave it at that.

Enough is enough.

I know The ABIB is normally all about the crazy shit but this stuff is serious and it is heartbreaking to me. So, please, do a bitch a favor and STOP IT. Open your hearts and open your minds and I promise you...if you do...you'll see that its right and that it makes you feel better. More connected. More human. And isn't that what's going to make or break us? Give a bitch a break and try acceptance for a change. I promise you it'll be bitchin'.

Who's Got Parking Issues? The ABIB, That's Who!

What up? ABIB here with today's Gripe Du Jour: people who employ handicapped parking hang tags when their fat asses are more than capable of walking from a regular parking space. I mean, first of all, where the fuck are all of these handicapped hang tags coming from? Is there some vendor stand somewhere in Baltimore that sells these suckers to anyone with cash to spend? Don't you think that the whatever-the-fuck-agency that oversees such things would wonder: "hmmmm....there is an alarming increase in handicapped people in Baltimore based on the number of parking hang tags we're unloading here. Perhaps a study of the air and/or water is in order." Oh, but wait, I'm talking about your average John or Jane Q. Municipal Worker. No such analysis going on there, probably barely the basics of cognition are going on there. Or worse, they're printing the fucking things in their basement.

Anyway, it never fails, there I am at work, shopping, anywhere there's a parking lot and invariably some gigantic-ass SUV (they seem to especially proliferate among SUV drivers, another SUPER PET PEEVE of the ABIB as regular readers know) rolls into the right-next-to-the-fucking-door handicapped parking space and BINGO! there's the little blue and white hang tag. The door opens and out steps some gigantic-assed PERSON, however, and don't wring me out here over this its strictly observational: NORMALLY A FAT ASSED WOMAN or womyn, or woomin or whatever the newest gender-normative spelling is. Yes, I'm here to say it out loud: mostly I see big, fat women lumbering out of their giant, gas guzzling SUVs and parking a mere few steps from the door of whatever retail or office emporium they have chosen to visit. A MERE FEW STEPS. Shit, most of these big berthas could REALLY use the fucking exercise it takes to WALK the normally relatively short distance from any other parking space to the front door.

They lumber their big asses out the door and shuffle on in to...wherever. I'm seething, of course, because, let's face it, I AM the ABIB, after all and just about anything makes me seethe. And when I seethe I seem to amost always imagine...imagine...imagine what could happen...

"Ma'am! Excuse me: MA'AM?!"
"Huh?"
"Ma'am I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the vehicle."
"Wha?"
"Step your ass away from your vehicle, is what I'm asking."
"Who are you?"
"I'm someone who has been appointed to verify the validity of your handicapped parking hang tag and, if deemed invalid, to CONFISCATE IT AND MAKE YOU PARK OUT IN THE LOT WITH THE REST OF US NON-SCOFFLAWS and...oh, I don't know...WALK?!"

I can see her startled, slightly annoyed expression and of course, being The ABIB, it fills me with unbridled glee, but I press on with the bust making her prove WHO she has to haul around that is ACTUALLY HANDICAPPED. Is it your Grandmother, your Mother, your Father, your Auntie Ruth? Who is the actually crippled person whose inabilty to WALK has afforded you that golden parking pass?
Of course I would expect that answer to be in the negatory and then I would get to CONFISCATE IT! Bwhaahahahahahahahahahaha!

Plus I could offer some healthy eating suggestions (lay off the Doritos and lace up the sneaks, sister) to go with her newfound WALKING REGIMEN! HAH! Now, don't get all whackjob on me here, I know that there have to be SOME GIANT GAS GUZZLING SUVs that haul handicapped Gramma to the mall but I'm guessing that that number is somewhere right around three...out of the whole lot of them. But ABIB you ask, how can you just pull a random number like that out of your ass? To that I say, and it's strictly anecdotal observation here, I admit it, but of all the GIANT SUVs sporting handicapped hang tags I've seen in how many cases have I watched an actual handicapped person emerge from the vehicle? Um....exactly ZERO! So my estimation of three is pretty darned generous.

So there you have it, ABIB's Gripe Du Jour and tiny little revenge fantasy all in one post. Can it be that this will be the new format? That I bitch about some asshole doing something moronic and then I get to picture the inevitable ABIB-delivered course correction? Me likey the sound of that! Stay tuned, folks, I'm already mentally plotting the denouement of hapless suckers everywhere.

This Just In...

Rolling Stone reports that singer Phil Collins said in an interview that he has contemplated suicide. Hmmmmm...well Phil, I'm pretty sure many others did too after having to listen to your shitty music.

Asshole told his wife he wanted a divorce via fax. What a wanker.

Guys, (and Frighteningly, Some Gals) Can We Tawk?

OK, I've begun this post by specifically CHOOSING to be gender biased. This blog post is almost exclusively aimed at da mens among us. Although I reference gals in the title of this post, I have to say here and now that if you are indeed a female and you suffer from the topic of this post it may be time to just go ahead and have that X/Y matchup done. Fer real, yo.

So, guys, can we tawk (as the title inquires) about a scourge to humanity that is almost (I say ALMOST for a reason) as repulsive as the dreaded skidmark? I'm talking here about...GAG....fucking EAR HAIR!! Yes, you know what I mean...those sickening tufts of...is it really hair?...that are poking out of your ear canal? For the love of everything that is sacred can you...PLEASE...JUST...DEAL...WITH...IT?!?!

I mean, what's up with this mess? You get up in the AM, you shower (prayerfully), you brush your teeth (beseeching you all to do this AT LEAST daily, if not for your own oral hygiene then for those that have to deal with the resulting death breath of not brushing) AND FLOSSING WHILE WE'RE AT IT, and you...oh, I don't know...SHAVE? Comb your hair? What I'm getting at here guys, the common thread that's uniting the beginning of this tirade, is that you have ample MIRROR TIME EVERY FUCKING DAY!!

As in, you're gazing at your own reflection and not recoiling in horror once you get a good, solid look. So, you're in front of a mirror and in spite of every decent opportunity you fucking don't notice the incipient thatch of wheat emerging from your ear canal. WHEAT MOTHERFUCKERS!! And sometimes that wheat is holding onto some absolutely terrifying...I can't say it...earwax? So, um, it's the equivalent of ignoring a giant zit or a coldsore or a WEN in the middle of your fucking mug. All together now: eeeeeeewwwwwwwwww!

I mean, what's the deal with ear hair anyway? Is this some long lost holdover from the pleistocene era when gnats the size of tissue boxes were divebombing our heads? Was the purpose of those ear tufts to keep those fuckers out? Or was it to keep the ol' ear canal warm during those long, cold winters spent inventing fire and the wheel? If so, CLUE UP BITCHES! Them days is long gone! We've had Mr. Schick and Mr. Gillette and Mr. Ronson around for fucking DECADES! They have been creating products to take care of this problem since who knows when? I mean, really, exactly how long has human civilization had the razor? A long, long, loooooooooooooong time, my friends. A long ass time.

So come on, guys...help a bitch out wouldja? Trim that unsightly troll-ass looking forest from your ears and spare all of us the indignity of having to openly avert our eyes whenever we're stuck having to look at your sorry ass. Those tissue box gnats have been gone for millions of years but your ears are still stuck in that earwax-laden, follicularly challenged past. Really? Grab a set of shears and DO WHAT HAS TO BE DONE! The ABIB has spoken; don't make me come at you with a hedgetrimmer!

Did Something Last Night...

that I'm not particularly proud of. I...I...watched an entire movie on THE LIFETIME CHANNEL!!! Cue scary music and that slicing sound when the crazy dude went off on the chick in the shower scene in Psycho. I can't believe I'm admitting this to anyone let alone blogging about it. Jesus it was just like eating something really fattening but that isn't all that great but you just keep eating it anyway because its brainless and repetitive.

I won't go so far as to divulge the name of the "movie", but since it was on Lifetime you can probably get pretty close just by guessing any title about surviving abusive spouses or surviving abusive parents or surviving abusive drug dealers/pimps. But that last one is only if the protagonist is a teenage girl. What someone SHOULD make is a movie about Lifetime Channel's abusive movies!

So anyway, I sat there on my couch and before I realized what had happened I was actually watching this thing and, well, kind of, wondering how it was going to turn out. In spite of myself. I get the same vaguely shame-filled feeling whenever I watch Ghost Hunters. Holy crap, the "hunters", eerily lighted by a greenish night-vision glow (as if ghosts will only EVER appear in total darkness..what do you mean, ghosts don't exist? philistine!) 'DID YOU SEE THAT??? IT WAS JUST OVER THERE A SPLIT SECOND AGO!!' The camera lamely swings in the direction of the "sighting" which of course is no longer visible but I continue watching all the same. And feel ridiculous yet weirdly powerless to stop. Sheesh.

So I figure that by watching an entire "movie" on the Lifetime Channel I have irrevocably taken that step firmly into post-menopausal middle age. How depressing. I thought I had insulated myself what with the repeated viewings of Family Guy, The Simpsons and South Park. Hey motherfuckers, I watch GLEE for crying out loud! And yet none of those youthful choices kept me safe when the channel changer brought me to the Lifetime Channel and left me there, foundering amongst all the bad dialogue and scenery-chewingly dreadful "acting", the bombastic music and the over-wrought camera work. At the end I felt like one, big bottle of something from Mary Kay. YUCK!!

All the purveyors of the 900 channel reality that is modern television offer parents the option to block what they deem to be inappropriate viewing for their children. Let me say, here and now, that said purveyors would do well to offer we baby boomers who like to think of ourselves as endlessly youthful and hip, (case in point: Old Farts on Facebook) a service that would warn us IN LOUD VOICES WITH LARGE LETTERS that HEY!!! YOU ARE ABOUT TO SWITCH TO A CHANNEL THAT WILL MAKE YOU, HEAVEN FORBID, FEEL YOUR ACTUAL CHRONOLOGIC AGE!!! BEWARE!!! UNLESS YOU WANT TO SPEND THE NEXT 90 MINUTES FEELING TERRIBLE ABOUT YOURSELF MOVE ALONG!!! MOVE ALONG!!!

Hells at least we'd be warned. At least we'd KNOWINGLY commit to bad, soporific old people television. I mean I'm actually scared. What's next: bedtime at 8:30, dinner at 4:00, anything on CBS!? Maybe I'll just hang out on YouTube for awhile, watch some stuff on Hulu, anything to keep me from helplessly turning toward that insidious siren call that I hear even now: Lifetime Channel Presents: The Devil's Teardrop, Bond of Silence or The Client List. Putting down the remote...backing away from the TV...suddenly wondering what's on the Early Bird Special today at Olde Country Buffet. Nooooooooooooooo!

*****NEWSFLASH******

YO, BEEYOTCHES!!! The ABIB is immensely gratified and proud to report that she actually witnessed (with her own ears) the utilization of The Courtesy Flush in the bathroom at work today!!! This, my friends, is a HUGE step forward in the struggle against public bathroom miscreants who from this point forward shall be known as Stink Hoarders.

The ABIB is deeply touched ...wiping a tear from her eye...to learn that her tirades are actually making a difference. Not to mention, being read.

Trapped in the Slowly Moving Humor Free Zone Also Known as “The Elevator”

OMG!!! OMG!!! OMG!!! OMG!!! I’m finally free of the Elevator of Slow Death by Trite, Stupid Humorless “Jokes”. ABIB here in, as you may know by now, a federal workplace that I go to every day to do….whatever people do at work. So, sometimes I have to ride one of several elevators in my building, generally transiting from my cube to the cafeteria and back, a trip that traverses three floors. The elevators, as many in older buildings, are painfully slow. So when you get on in the basement and have to ride to the third floor you could possibly grow grey as the tiny space stops on floor 1, then on floor 2, and finally, BLESSEDLY, on floor 3 where I speedily exit into the processed, controlled air of the mauve-colored hallway. I generally hope for, and mightily try to achieve, being a lone elevator rider, as in NOT HAVING TO SHARE THAT TINY, AIRLESS SPACE WITH ANY OF THE SEVERAL THOUSAND NITWITS THAT CONSTITUTE MY COWORKER POPULATION.

Riding with others in silence, while not ideal (again, always shooting for that LONE ridership) is at least bearable, albeit a little awkward. Silent co-riders are surely almost palpably aware that they are not alone and are, in fact, in nearly obscene physical proximity to someone who is likely a total stranger. Can do. Even the multiple floor stops are livable especially since each floor means another person is going away.

Soooooo….today I found myself riding up to floor three from the lower lever, a.k.a. THE BASEMENT with not one, not two but FIVE other drones. But not just any five other drones, five of the most cretinous, repellent, downright scirry drones to occupy this particular federal facility. In other words, some fairly normal federal workers. I should have taken the worrisome cue as we all waited in the cold concrete floor, white cinderblock , bunker-ish reality that is THE BASEMENT. The worrisome cue was the “I can’t stand the sound of the normal silences that occupy the spaces between people who don’t know each other so I’m going to fill it with ENDLESS, HORRIFIC “FUNNY” GIBBERISH!!!” that began almost immediately after the moment one of us pushed the button to call the elevator. There I was, in a physical space that, again, most resembles a bomb shelter circa 1962, surrounded by a group of lamebrain idiots whose idea of “humor” is to make exceedingly moronic observations about what’s happening around them.

“Hey is there only ONE of these elevators working?” This barked out in front of the bank of two elevators in front of us.

“HAHAHAHAHA, Yeah! One’s the backup in case the other one doesn’t work!”

“Haven’t you heard about federal contracts going to the lowest bidder?! Welll, we only CONTRACTED for ONE of these to WORK at a TIME!!”

“Let’s make sure that we SAVE A TREE WHILE WE’RE AT IT!!”

The slow descent into hell has begun and although my ABIB-Senses tell me to FLEE MOTHERFUCKER!!!! FLEE FOR YOUR LIFE!!!! I instead stand there, already too numb to move. Within a brief period of a few seconds it was already too late to escape.

“Hey should we try a rain dance?”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Now that one doesn’t even make sense in Stupid Fucker World! A rain dance? Here comes the bile, right on time, ready to spew forth onto this crowd of fucking ninnies if someone doesn’t strike them dumb. Or dumb-ER. Hee Hee.

Finally the ONE WORKING ELEVATOR arrives and everyone jovially piles in to begin the ride to: I see with dawning horror: ALL THREE FLOORS! The hilarity continues unabated once the door whooshes closed with an ominous hiss.

“Here we are; hope everyone put on their deodorant today!”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Oh for fucks sake.

I begin to beam hate waves to every pinhead in the car now moving with agonizing slowness to the first of three stops and YES, mine is the last. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE MOTHERFUCK UP!!!! My silent powers of mind control are not working.

Ding! The electronic “female” talking elevator voice is now announcing for any blind person in the cab (it is after all a FEDERAL facility) Level One: Going Up! No-one moves.

“Hey did someone let a ghost on here?”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

The thinnest thread now exists between my sanity and my self control. Two floors to go.

“Maybe that rain dance did it! Are we on some kind of Indian burial ground?! Cheap land, one working elevator. YEP! Lowest bidder!”

Pencil-necked geek DID NOT JUST DO A CALL-BACK and to some ignorant-ass shit that wasn’t even remotely funny the FIRST FUCKING TIME!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Why do people laugh at shit that isn’t even remotely funny? I mean, COME ON, a rain dance? Ghosts? Indian burial grounds? What’s with the automatic, instantaneous hale and hearty, too loud laughter? I say: remain silent and maybe this corny-ass lame mother fucker will SHUT UP. And then I remember: same as always ABIB, it’s you against the world: all these morons actually find this crap comical.
Well the rest of the ride went by in a blurry haze as I’m convinced that all of my hate beams were backing up on me since none of the dipwads in that elevator from moronic bad joke hell were even remotely fazed, keeping up the hideous barrage of verbal mayhem:

“Here’s your floor! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“OR ANYTHING YOU WOULD DO!!!”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

until I escaped onto my floor. Plus I’m pretty sure I developed TMJ from the jaw grinding that began downstairs in the 60s air raid bunker.
If I wasn’t so fucking lazy I’d force myself to take the stairs. Maybe the solution is earplugs. Or MAYBE , just maybe, the solution is for moronic assholes who don’t have anything of any interest to say to just SHUT THE FUCK UP MOTHERFUCKER! The ABIB can dream, can’t she?

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!