Tidbits o’ crap:

• I’ve decided that I’m going to automatically delete each and every email I get where the subject line begins with “Fwd”. People, I outgrew forwarding everything ever to cross my inbox about, oh, four years ago.
  • there is NO computer virus that I don’t know about from a legitimate virus alert site
  • there ARE WEBSITES that you can go to so you can see the ridiculous story about the guy waking up without a kidney is an urban legend BEFORE you forward it to 20 people
  • I’m not interested in some made-up statistic from the NRA about how the right to owning semiautomatic weapons and cop killer bullets will end world hunger
  • there is NO WAY someone’s going to give me a trip to Disneyworld if I forward your email to 30 people, and they can’t track how many people you send email to anyway, let alone find out where to mail the check
  • NO CHARITY donates money TO ITSELF (like one nickel for every forwarded email) — THINK ABOUT IT
  • There is no dying kid that needs postcards (any more)
  • there is no school project that tracks how far around the world an email gets (the schools that tried it found it crashed their server)
  • there is no African leader that needs your help laundering money
  • There is no cookie recipe, there is no Outback coupon, and I don’t give a flying shit if a dancing baby will cha-cha across my screen if I forward the email, I’m not doing it
  • It’s lovely that you send me forwarded stuff that you didn’t write to profess your friendship to me, but threats of “I’d better get this back!” in the subject line will fall on deaf ears. I’m not sending that drivel back to you, or inflicting it on anyone else. If I want to wax poetic and get all sentimental about how much a friend means to me, I’ll write the words myself, and not take 0.05 seconds to hit a “forward” button. What, do you think I print that out and put it in my scrapbook?
  • I’m not worried about someone slashing my Achille’s tendon in the shopping mall parking lot, and deodorant does NOT cause breast cancer.
  • I have 15 years experience in health care. I do NOT NEED TO BE FORWARDED THE WARNING SIGNS OF A HEART ATTACK. That was covered in my first aid course. Since then I’ve had EMT, Paramedic, nursing school, and yearly CPR and ACLS classes to drive that point home, not counting the hundreds (maybe thousands) of patients I’ve cared for with the warning signs of a heart attack. What the hell are you thinking sending me that?
• I’ve decided to ignore those that give me dirty looks for not immediately picking up my dog’s poop in the grassy area in front of my house. I pick it all up at the end of the day when I take out the trash. What, you think the magical poo fairy comes overnight and picks it up? I’ll pick it up as soon as the gag-inducing stench has wafted away, K? Bite me.
• I’ve decided that how tall or how short men are doesn’t bother me. I don’t understand society’s fixation on it. I went to homecoming in high school with a man who was shorter than me and I didn’t think about it for a nanosecond because he was HOT. My ex-husband was a full foot taller than me, which was OK, but frankly sex-wise, there are advantages to being close to the same height. WINK! So any short men reading this: get over it. Don’t go all Napoleon Syndrome on us, OK? Ignore the superficial dorks who care about that crap, and come find us GOOD women.
• I’ve decided that people who get judgmental of me just because of my FILTHY FUCKING MOUTH need to just get the hell OVER THEMSELVES. “You don’t have to use profanity to express yourself.” Oh yeah, WHY NOT? Cuss words to me are like exclamation points, only stronger. I don’t like words that express hate for hate’s sake (like the n-word, or cunt, or faggot), so you won’t see me using those words. Otherwise it’s all fair game baby. If a cussword would be useful in making my point, it’s in there! You’re offended? Bite me. You have a TV, you’ve seen movies. You do NOT have virgin ears, no matter how much your sanctimonious ass wishes to believe you do. Quit getting offended at the drop of a hat. I don’t care how much you enjoy being self-righteous, it’s a sucky hobby so give it up. The human language allows us to express ourselves to each other. Sometimes I need to express an emotion beyond “oh, darn!” Plus, I’m sorry, but cuss words are funny. Drew Carey gave an example: he told the same joke twice. Once he used the word “fuck” and the second time he didn’t. The “fuck” version was much funnier.

  I’ll demonstrate with my own favorite joke:

  Two racehorses were walking back to the track stables after coming in dead last in yet another race.

  First horse says to second horse: “I don’t know why we always lose. We have the best bloodlines, the best trainers, eat the best oats, and have the best jockeys. Yet we lose constantly.”

  Second horse says, “I know! I don’t understand it!”

  A dog trots up to the horses and says, “Hey, couldn’t help but overhear. This is what you’re doing wrong. You’re spending all you have right out of the gate. You need to pace yourselves so you’ll have energy for one last sprint at the end of the race. So… what do you think?”

  First horse looks at the second horse and says:

  “Well, fuck me! A talking dog!”

  See?! FUCK IS FUNNY!

• I’ve decided that someone needs to tell teens the secret that everyone has been keeping: HAVING KIDS IS OVERRATED! It’s ok if you have kids, don’t run and hit the “comment” button because someone dares to have a lifestyle choice different than yours. I’m just saying NOT EVERYONE NEEDS TO HAVE THEM! In fact, I think probably 25% of the parents out there should have never had kids! All you good parents out there cringe along with us childfree people when you see a bad parent in action, so you know it’s true.

  I lost my desire to have kids when I was 22. In Paramedic school, we had to do 2 weeks in labor and delivery. I was all, “I love kids! Can’t wait to have em! Can’t wait to see the magic of birth!”

  The first live birth I saw was a 16 year old (her first baby) who had arrived at the ER on the back of her boyfriend’s Harley cycle just 10 minutes prior to delivering the head (fine place to have end stage labor if you ask me). The boyfriend (age 42, his fifth kid) was enchanted, smiling at the wonder of the birth process. She was screaming and couldn’t fathom the fact that she couldn’t have an epidural because it was too late. She screamed like a banshee when she found out she was going to have to get an IV and have blood drawn. Hello! Did you not think needles and discomfort were involved in birthing a child?

  It wasn’t beautiful, or magical. It was disgusting. Nine-month pregnant bodies are just gross in (ahem) that area down there. Blood, crap, meconium, placenta, pain, hemorrhoids, tearing from vagina to asshole… all to pop out a kid who only thinks about his OWN needs. Waah, I need fed. Waah, I can’t sleep more than five minutes at a time for the first eight months of my life. Waah, my crap smells worse than nuclear waste. Oh and by the way, hope you have $100,000 to put me through college. (HOLD IT angry commenters who love to have no sense of humor so they can get offended by things: the baby being self-centered part was a joke.)

  NO THANK YOU!

  Plus, I had a miscarriage once. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. It likely rivaled the pain of kidneystones. And I was only like 9 weeks along. I can’t imagine what labor pain would be like, and I hope to never find out.

There are two types of mommy blogs.

The first type consist of the cool moms who blog about funny kid stories and all aspects of their lives. These women are more than just a uterus and working eggs. They’re people with brains.

I enjoy reading these blogs, and I respect these types of parents. You GO, awesome moms!

Then there’s the second type. The type of mommy blog that I can’t fucking STAND. I call them the “martyr mommy” blogs.

Somewhere in their blog title, tagline, or header graphic is something to the effect of “The daily stresses of an overworked and overtired mommy-wommy!” Their entire identity is wrapped up in one aspect of their life: the fact they reproduced. They have globbed onto the fact that their eggs work and have made it the only basis of their self-worth. So that’s all they blog about. Ever. And most of the mommy martyr bloggers consider themselves to be the first person to reproduce ever, because surely no one knows of the stress and strain they go through every day! NO ONE has ever worked as hard as they do, even other parents! To hear them tell it, every day is stress, stress, stress and they are frazzled! They are so busy, they don’t know whether they’re coming or going! They’re losing their minds!

You could have the most stressful job on the planet. You could dismantle bombs for a living as your full-time job, perform kidney transplants for orphans on the weekends, and work a third job at night, but that’s NOTHING compared to the work and stress martyr mom has looking after little Johnny.

Every day they sacrifice tirelessly for their husband and children, and by God they’re not going to let you forget about it for a second! But then, at the very last minute, their child gives them a kiss or looks like an angel while sleeping, and it’s moments like those that make all of the mommy martyrs’ saintly sacrifices worth while.

These people only want to talk about their kids and their workload in attending to said kids. They don’t want to talk about their own feelings (unless it’s resentment over being overworked), their hopes and dreams, their hobbies. Their personality or any other aspect of life is unimportant now.

They’re not only doing their kids a favor by raising them (excuse me, these kids didn’t ask to be born), but they’re doing the WORLD a favor because their DNA is so superior that they had the duty to reproduce, and we should all be in awe over their sacrifices, and thankful that their superior genetics are being propagated.

(more…)

Open letter to a varitable potpourri of fucktards:

• To the lady who cut in front of me in line at Starbucks this morning: I know you are a better person than me, and thus have more rights. But seriously, how do you stand your obnoxious self? You think some sense of shame would encourage you to do the right thing, if doing the right thing itself does NOT. I could tell from your no makeup, hair in a ponytail, and shorts that you were NOT worried about harming your career by being late for work. You know what bitch? Some of us do NOT have a man that buys our Suburban and our house and our clothes, and YES, our Starbucks. Some of us have to do this all by ourselves, so step the fuck off.
• To most companies in the U.S.: Why do you refuse to promote from within on a regular basis? Sure, I may have no full-time project management experience, but I knew the product, have stellar sales experience, and I am smart. Youcould have taught me in 3 months everything I need to know. But instead you went outside the company. Thanks for letting me know that I would have forever been a peon if I had stayed at that job. Thanks for rewarding company loyalty with a dead-end job.
• To the people who give me dirty looks when my dog is taking a dump: Do you not see this bag in my hand? I’m the only one in the entire neighborhood that picks up after my dog. Bite me. Oh, and I’ll have you know that I don’t leave my dog outside to bark 24 hours a day. In fact, my dog only barks about once every two weeks. He’s the best dog you’ll ever see. In fact, I’d rather have his company than yours, white trash. Go screw yourself.
• To the idiot who cannot comprehend how to use that left turn lane: First of all, the left turn lane is a lane. It can fit your whole car, if you’d just give it a chance! Second of all, you are not a semi-truck making a tight corner. You don’t need to suddenly swing out to the right (and into my lane of traffic) so you can “clear” your left turn with your 2-door Acura.
• To public restroom users: How flippin’ hard is it to turn around and make sure your flush is sufficient? I don’t want to see the size of the kids you dropped off at the pool, I don’t want to see the massive amounts of toilet paper you think it’s necessary to use, and most of all, I don’t want to know that you’re on your period. So take some responsibility for your own refuse and make sure the flush “took”!