When and Why Did I Cease Being a Bitch?

It has recently come to my attention that I am too "nice."

When the fuck did this happen?

OK, I'll admit, every so often, the Southern hospitality that was beaten into me comes back to haunt me. But who in the hell wants to be the "nice" girl? What did the nice girl ever get? I see a future ahead of me that includes tacky ass bridesmaid dresses, and I'm not going there.

So, in the spirit of the many years of overpriced therapy I've received, I think it's time for my bitch list. Similar to those lists of reasons not to kill yourself/keep trying to reach your goals/whatever else you want to piss and moan about.

The Bitch List.

1. People who presume I will automatically drive them somewhere, babysit their kids for free, or just entertain you when you are bored. I am not a court jester and you are not Henry VIII. If you were, and therefore could actually imprison me for failure to do so, I would humbly beseech Your Highness to cut off my bloody head. Fuck you, I hate you.

2. Service employees who bitch about customers in front of me. Yeah, when I am the customer. Do you hear me bitching about you when you're in my territory? Hell, no. So, since you are too lazy, stupid, or have too long a criminal record to get a job that does not include customers or minimum wage, shut the fuck up and learn to brew my damn latte faster. Fuck you, I hate you.

3. People who think that my years of therapy qualifies me to listen and offer advice on their problems. You dumb bastards. Therapy was supposed to teach me to let go of craptastic relationships like the one you and I have. Apparently, I need another dose of $360 a session. Especially since when I give it, you won't listen because I AM NOT QUALIFIED. Stop asking, stop being a dumbfuck. Fuck you, I hate you.

4. People who won't hire me. Obviously, holding back all this bitchiness doesn't make me a more desirable candidate. So how about I show up for the interview shit-faced with vomit in my hair? No? Then why did you hire the girl who showed me in? Fuck you, I hate you.

5. People who talk about their online, one-year degrees like they just got their doctorate. Yes, you should feel proud. You should not feel that you are suddenly entitled to lord it over us. I went to school longer than you. No, I do not have a degree, because I wanted a REAL one. Maybe when you're filling out fields for H & R Block every spring, you won't act quite so pompous. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for bettering yourself. I'm talking about those dipshits who just want to feel superior. If you're pressed for the time and money, then do these programs. If you're just lazy, well, then, no piece of paper is ever going to help you. Fuck you, I hate you.

6. Teenagers. I despise teenagers. Hell, I hated myself when I was a teenager. Now I realize what smug, smart-alecked, rude little bastards we were. But hey, at least I respected my elders (unless they didn't deserve it) and customers. Guess what? I get that you're just at this crappy minimum wage summer job to pay for your car/cell phone/clothes/whatever. But when I am taking money away from bills, savings, or so forth to spend it at your establishment. I WILL NOT HESITATE to do my damnedest to get your obnoxious ass fired when you curse at me or cop one of your hormone-driven hissy fits. I do not care that Daddy wouldn't buy you a car and made you work for it. He's trying to teach you VALUES and I am happy to help. So smile, be polite, and I will be too. In fact, many times I'll remember the hell that is a summer job and leave you a ridiculous tip because I know that it will probably be the highlight of that miserable work experience. But do not think I won't take down a snotty little shit without an ounce of remorse. Fuck you, I hate you.

7. Nancy Grace. You sensationalistic, yellow journalistic cunt. I should respect you, after all, you make no qualms about being a bitch. But you're not a bitch, Nancy, you. are. a. CUNT. You are not judge and jury, so stop alluding to the guilt of every significant other of a missing woman. Sure, men are sometimes scum, but they're not all O.J. Get over it already. I could have dealt with that, seeing as you're just following the thought pattern of any middle-aged disillusioned woman who didn't go as far as she once thought. But then, you get Elizabeth Smart on the show. Now, it was obvious that she was not there to talk about her own experience. She deserves mad props for getting in the public eye to speak for missing children. I guess when you're a spotlight whore, you don't realize that it may be a little bright for someone who came to the public's attention for being abdubted by a psychotic fanatical pervert and his equally so wife. Smart handed your ass to you for it, too, and your nasty little, "Well, I'm sorry, Elizabeth, I just thought you'd like to share your experiences with other victims but I guess I was wrong," was too fucking far. You could give a flying fuck about victims. You want your ratings to go up to feed your own gluttonous vanity (which, by the way, isn't the only thing that's gluttonous). Smart showed amazing strength and character, which maybe you should learn from. Fuck you, Nancy Grace, I hate you.

8. Companies who outsource. If a presidential candidate steps up and says they're going to tax the hell out of these bastards, I will vote for them IMMEDIATELY and I may even get a lil bumper sticker. If Americans buy, use, sell, and believe in your product, then don't make us speak to someone in India when it fucks up. Oh, and when I get on the phone and immediately say it's plugged up and been restarted, they SHOULD NOT ASK ME ANYWAY. Yet, they always do. You want to know why? BECAUSE ENGLISH IS NOT THEIR FIRST FUCKING LANGUAGE. They don't know slang or jargon, and no offense, but sometimes, it's like trying to explain the problem to an eight year old. Except an eight year old from an English-speaking country has spoken the language longer. Why don't you just bring back child labor? It would be less of a hassle. The ineptitude is not even my biggest problem. It's taking jobs away from Americans when it's an American product. Fuck you, I hate you.

9. VH1. Flavor of Love. Rock of Love. I Love New York. A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila. Flavor of Love Girls Charm School. Damn. Admittedly, the worst of the bunch comes from the male-centric shows, but Tila had her fair share of disgusting displays. Bret Michaels shows that he can still be a drunkien manwhore despite his middle age status. It's probably not that difficult considering he's surrounded by a horde of bleached, implanted, fake-and-bake skanks. But the Flavor of Love girls are something else. Maybe it's because they'll rip your hair out, maybe it's because it's over Flavor Flav. Either way, the gag reflex kicks in every time. That show has set women back not years, but centuries. I'm surprised none of them have been burned at the stake yet. In any case, the trashiest of the trash is embodied in New York (with honorable mention to the psycho schizoid from Rock of Love 1). New York, or Tiffany, is the epitome of everything a woman should. not. be. I'm willing to chalk it up to metal imbalance but only if someone puts her in a straightjacket. So thank you, New York, for singlehandedly fulfilling EVERY negative stereotype ever thought about a woman. Congratulations, you make woman hate being women. Fuck you, New York, I hate you. Oh, and Flave, Bret, Tila, and those who comprise your reality harems, I hate you too.



So there you have it, my current bitch list. It is frequently added to and rarely is something taken away. Guess what? I'm pissed off. You may deal with it, or you may join in. In fact, I love it when someone can out-bitch me.

HA! I told you! I told you!

Did I or did I not say that Marie Osmond's "fainting" spell was fake? Did I? Well, now TMZ is reporting that their moles are stating that this is in fact the case. Apparently, a representative for the evil Osmond spawn denies everything, but here's the lowdown via the site.

"Our moles say Marie has a writer on set at all times, prompting her with witty conversation. One on-set source says he was in position when Marie went down- and didn't miss a beat.

Of course, her "peaople" claim there is no writer, no fake fainting, whatever. Yeah, right. Osmonds will do anything to cling onto their 15 minutes of sugar-coated middle-aged cutesy crap.

How to Be Rid of Mormons/Jehovah's Witnesses

So, in the spirit of my last post, I give to you my means of getting rid of religious hawkers at your door. In such a way that they almost never come back. We all have those moments where, in the middle of the day, a couple of Mormons on bicycles or little old lady Jehovah's Witnesses show up to your door and want to share with you the love of Jesus Christ. Okay, I have no problem with them, but quite frankly, I'm not buying. My family is Southern Fundamentalist Protestant Crazy Folk (I go to a Baptist Church. Actually, I enjoy it in comparison). Needless to say, when you get down to the basics, they're going to look at you the same way an average person looks at a Scientologist.

Extra Tip: How to Be Rid of a Scientologist: "I'm hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. I can't even get a credit card. Can you people help me find my way again?"

Okay, back on topic, with apologies to Cruise, Travolta, & Company (I'm sorry you're crazy, and I named a dead possum on the side of the rode Xenu). I've developed a surefire method of getting rid of our religious friends. While I realize what I'm about to say will offend our pagan friends, oh well, deal with it. If they're that closed-minded, admit it, you'd freak them out too. That's right.

We tell them we're witches.

But we don't stop there, oh no. You see, I delved into the wiccan religion in high school. I still remember the terminology. So, when I start mentioning spells, circles, Winter Solstice, Eostre, et cetera, they get nervous. Usually by this point, they're just trying to find a way off our lawn. My mother once put a sign on her door stating that the coven would meet an hour later, when she saw the Witnesses coming up the street. They didn't knock.

A few "Blessed Bes" are often all it takes to have these people praying quietly to themselves. Once, a pair of Mormons seperated and one talked to my mother as the other talked to me, as I was on the other side of the yard. Funnily enough, we both launched immediately into our Goddess-inspired lines. You know how Mormons on bikes get in front of your car and they're slow as all hell? These two looked like they were training for the Tour de France once they got away from us.

In times of desperation, I suggest invoking the Horned God. To Wiccans, this is a good guy, the male incarnation of the Spirit. No baddy or anything. To Christian-based faiths, they immediately think it's the devil. Boy, can they run when they want to! So, as a little treat, I'll give you a sample dialougue. It's been awhile since I've seen one of these folk (see? my method is effective), so I can't give you any direct quotes.

From this point on, the Mormon and/or Jehovah's Witnesses will be referred to as MJW.

MJW: Hi! I'm here today to tell you all about the love of yadda yadda yadda....

ME: Oh, how wonderful! I'd love to tell you about the love of the goddess as well!

MJW: What?

ME: Oh, I'm a witch. Witch, Wiccan, whatever you prefer. In fact, our coven is going to convene shortly in order to call down the moon. Would you care to join us?

MJW: (Usually, at this point, they mumble an excuse and leave. I'll proceed for your more stubborn cases).

MJW: Oh, no. I just wanted to spread the word of yadda yadda yadda...

ME: Oh, I know of that. We call Him the great horned god.

MJW: (At this point, you'll get one of two reactions. One, they leave, by making an excuse or just running like hell. Two, they start lecturing you on how hot hell is. If they do the latter, at that point, you are able to slam the door in their face for their rudeness).

Every so often, you'll have a persistant one determined to save you from yourself. Here's what you do:

1. Mix some sort of concoction in a bowl (leaves, spices, whatever).
2. Burn it.
3. Use your hand to waft the smoke over them while chanting a faux spell.
4. Tell them you've just asked the god and goddess to be with them, and to help them find a deeper understanding. Tell them whatever you want, actually. Once they've got dirty pagan smoke on them, they'll want nothing more than to get away and wash it off. Keep doing this any time they come up, they will give up rather than fact having a spell put on them or something.

Enjoy the tips and give your doorbell a break!

How To Be Rid of an Indian Telemarketer

We all know how annoying telemarketers are, right? Well, how much more annoying are they when you can't understand a SINGLE WORD THEY'RE SAYING? Pretty heinous, right? I've actually had a few instances where a telemarketer based in the good ole U.S. of A. called and I told them that they were still evil and I hated them, but I was wholeheartedly glad they were American.

We as a family have utilized multiple means of dealing with telemarketers. The "I no speaka," is one often abused. My mother is an inventor of telemarketer tortures. Her favorites include telling the telemarketer, "Sure, hold on," and then sitting the phone down. She returns every few minutes to say, "Hold on, she/he's coming," and this can go on for HOURS. My favorite practice (of her design, of course), is the blitz. The blitz is our family practice of blowing a whistle or setting off the smoke detector into the mouthpiece of the phone. It works better than the Do Not Call list!

Today, however, my mother and aunt in tandem surpassed even my greatest ideas. I'm actually going to give you a play-by-play, with dialougue. Because it's too funny not to.

RING RING, RING RING!

MOTHER: Hello?

TELEMARKETER: Hello, ma'am, I'm calling to offer you a free Sprint PCS phone.

MOTHER: Free? Sure! I'll take it if it's totally free. As in, I pay nothing.

TELEMARKETER: Well, ma'am, it would cost only $39.95 per month for service...

MOTHER: No, I want my free phone. You told me it'd be free. I'm not paying every month for a damn phone. Not forty bucks. The one I'm talking on cost me ten!

TELEMARKETER: Well, ma'am, the free phone is conditional on....

AUNT (Using a deep, gruff voice): Who is this? Woman, who's on the phone with you?

TELEMARKETER: (I don't know, just starts his pitch over)

AUNT: What the hell you doin' talkin' to mah wife? Is this the guy who I caught her with?

MOM: No, baby! He wants to give us a free Sprint phone!

TELEMARKETER: (recites pitch again.)

AUNT: Who's this? Who is this? Boy, I'll meet you right now!

TELEMARKETER: (at this point, he's obviously at a loss. He just recites his pitch through the rest of the conversation)

MOM: No, honey, I swear! He ain't doin' nothin' but tryin' to give us a phone!

AUNT: That's what you said last week! Is this guy the baby's daddy? Huh? He ain't mine, is he?

MOM: No, I swear Junior's yours! You're the baby's daddy!

AUNT: Yeah, uh huh, I'll just bet! You been foolin' around on me?

TELEMARKETER: OK, you have good day. Good-bye.

AUNT AND MOTHER: Laughing hysterically.



Okay, so maybe they lost 10 minutes out of their lives. But hey, they just traumatized yet another outsourced telemarketer.

So....

Arguing about the true definition of "free": 3 minutes

Getting your sister to act like your pissed-off redneck husband: 11 minutes

Scaring the hell out of a foreign phone whore: priceless.

The Osmonds Rant

Yeah. I'm going off on the Osmonds. Again. Why? BECAUSE THEY'RE FUCKING EVIL!

Seriously. I think that the Osmond siblings merge together into one entity. The Antichrist. There's something sickeningly perfect about these people, isn't there? So perfect and wholesome, so adorable and lovable. And yet, we still haven't heard whether they're inbred or perverts or anything. Trust me, any family THAT perfect is hiding something deep, dark, and probably nasty.

But for now, let's just discuss why they're evil. We're going to leave the whole Mormon thing out if, plain and simple. Why did I mention inbreeding? Well, I'm sure this will piss some of you off, but I don't rightly give a flying fuck, so here goes. There are nine of these bastards. Two are deaf. One has multiple sclerosis. One had a brain tumor. One had a kid who was deaf. Two suffer from mental illness. Seriously, that sounds like some screwed up DNA to me. Oh, and they breed like it's going out of style. Oprah put the whole clan on her show, weren't there around 120?

Easily, their evil is epitomized in the brother-sister duo of Donny and Marie. Donny's a man who's probably pervy and is a walking mid-life crisis. Since his teens. One thing I remember clearly about Donny is his appearance on "The Rosie O'Donnell Show" way back in the day. Rosie loved her some Donny (and look what's happened to her now). Donny called her chubby. When Rosie expressed her upset. Donny returned to the set dressed in a dog costume to sing "Puppy Love." She forgave him. Considering he just became her bitch (and dressed the part, too!), I doubt she had any choice.

And Marie. Oh, dear God, Marie. This woman is like the perky cheerleader... from HELL. Nobody can be that annoyingly cheerful all the damn time. Oh, and let's not forget her dolls. I can't explain to you the trauma one feels when flipping past QVC and accidentally get a glimpse of one. They are the creepiest fucking dolls ever. The have big evil eyes and a sick look on their faces. They look like something out of an X-file. I would not be shocked if a Marie Osmond doll tried to kill me in my sleep.

Oh, and eight kids? WHAT THE HELL is wrong with you? Afraid you'd run out or something? Marie can currently be found on a celebrity dancing show, where she'll fake a fainting spell to keep from losing. Go ahead and watch, any day now, she may give birth on the dance floor. I'm betting the little bastard will have red glowy eyes or something.

Hi, My Name is Fookers and I'm a Crackwhore

I doubt that any of us realize that we're addicted to something before it's taken away. We simply love these things. We may "have to have it," but we're not addicted. We can stop anytime we want to.

It was upon moving to West Virginia that I discovered that, yes, I am an addict.

You see, there are very, very few Starbucks in WV. So few, in fact, that one must drive around two hours to find one from my present location.

And I have. Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?

The first day wasn't so bad. Hell, the first three days were bearable. It was only that forth day, when I found myself irritable and shaky, that I realized something was wrong with me. It was only the teeth-grinding that clued me in.

I was addicted to Starbucks coffee. I was withdrawing from my Iced Venti non-fat no-whip White Mochas. My caramel Frappicinos. My Iced Vanilla Lattes. And even those little fucking scones. Damn those scones. There's a dimple on my ass for every scone I've ever had. I've apparently had enough scones to make me resemble an enlarged golf ball.

By the end of the week, I was scouring the Wal-Mart looking for alternatives (hey, this is WV, there ain't no Harris Teeter round these here parts). The little bottles of faux Frap and stale bags of coffee were pale alternatives. I finally settled on some mocha smoothie crap which I've proceded to guzzle like a marathon runner with a checkpoint Gatorade. It's not that great; it's NOTHING compared to the original. But it's kind of like methadone for a heroin addict. It's not the same, but it's better than nothing, right?

Apparently, a relapse is far more horrible. I went home for a visit a few months ago. I knew I was going to do it again before I ever left. In fact, I lost an hour of travel at the first major city searching for that place. I'm not kidding, it was like I was a Muslim who'd finally made the pilgramage to Mecca. I was practically bouncing while standing in line. By the time I made it home, I proceded to imbibe so much Starbucks that I was on a caffeine high for the entire trip.

Not helping the fact is my friend, who works for Starbucks and was always glad to offer a freebie. Especially if I watch her hellspawn for a lil while. I should have realized that when I'll willingly babysit, it's obvious that I have a serious problem.

She is the one who informed me that the coffee is, in fact, laced with crack. Hey, at least it finally makes sense. How the hell else can coffee cost five bucks a cup? Columbia's killing two birds with one stone. They're unloading the beans and the blow at once, and that's just brilliant.

Needless to say, when I found out the other day that she was fired, I was heartbroken. My habit at its peak was probably the equivalent of a quarter of my income. What financial advisors tell you to invest in real estate, I invest in espresso. The only thing that saved my finances on any level were the freebies. Having a friend who works at Starbucks is the equivalent of screwing your dealer. Everybody wins.

So now, I face a dilemma. I move back in about a month. I realize that if I don't get a handle on this, I'm going to end up on the street shaking a little cup and praying I can come up with $4.88 by the end of the day.

I'd better start reciting the Serenity Prayer, because right now, all I want is a fix.

Oooh... Those Osmonds is slick folk....

OK, so literally just this moment, I look over to the television, where "Dancing With the Stars" is on. I'm not really a fan of the show, but I'll watch a few minutes of it here and there. I just don't have the patience to sit through the same dance again and again. I'd rather just look up the interesting ones (and the falls a la Heather Mills) on YouTube later.

But now, I suddenly realized why people watch NASCAR. It's for that rare chance you'll see somebody hurt themselves, look like an idiot, or a combination of both, live and on national television.

So I'm watching Marie and her partner doing a really stiff and boring samba. I'm confused, because I've heard that Marie Osmond's so great, and so on and so forth. Personally, I think the woman is as creepy as those little evil dolls she hocks on QVC. Anyway, they finish up the dance and face the dances. The old guy (no clue what his name is) starts critiquing their performance, not unkindly, but it's obvious he's not impressed. Then, it happens. Marie Osmond keels over like one of the few remaining trees in the Amazon Rainforest.

Her partner looks shocked and leans down over her, while the host (whoever) is obviously completely useless. He cuts to commercial less than gracefully. When the show comes back, Marie's backstage and perky as ever. And boy, when I say perky, I mean she's like that cheerleader who needed to have a pompom shoved down her throat. "Sleeping Beauty" quickly explains that when she gets out of breath or winded, she sometimes faints. However she's okey dokey hunky dorey now!

I have only one thing to say. WHORE!

The dance sucked, and she couldn't have been "winded" through the whole thing. I think she got wind that this week, the judges weren't going to be quite so in puppy love with her, and she pulled a fast one. Say what you want, but I'm not buying it. Especially since that crap-ass performance was rewarded with straight 7's. That dance wasn't a 7 for anyone. It was a seven for a panel of judges who realized that the dance was crap, but that they would A: Catch hell for scoring a woman who "fainted" as she deserved, and B: Catch hell for scoring a really bad dance too many pity points. Perfect pity point number? 7! And the two of them weren't even happy with that!

I seriously have a visual image of them in rehearsal:

Partner Guy: Listen, Marie, you really suck. You're going to have to pull something to get some pity points so we can get through this week and to another dance. Osmonds just can't do sexy.

Marie: Yeah, I know. What about falling?

PG: No, that kinda bit Heather Mills in the ass.

Marie: It worked for Jennie Garth!

PG: Jennie Garth is hot.

Marie: Oh, fine, I'll faint then.

Seriously, were we really supposed to buy that? Because I actually did, until I saw how perfect she was backstage. She wasn't even flushed.

Or it could just be that I think that Osmonds are evil. My mother still hasn't fully recovered from their influence so many years ago.

DAMN YOU OSMONDS! DAMN YOU!!!!