Attack of the Internet Trolls!

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Last week I had a kerfuffle with a stranger on the Internet. It was hardly anything worth reporting but it encapsulates a much bigger issue that bugs me enough that I can’t think of anyone better to share with than y’all, my interweb kitten pals.

I was perusing through the job listings on Craigslist as I am wont to do, like 10 times a day. I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING: Why are you looking on Craigslist for jobs, aren’t the only people on that whack site crazy serial killers, like Buffalo Bill from “Silence of the Lambs” plotting to lure you into a dark lair to murder you and make a meat dress from your starved hanging flesh? Probably. Every so often I find a job that I think I would like and yes, I will send a resume and witty cover letter and I will inevitably hear the sound of interweb crickets. I often wonder if my applications are going straight into a SPAM box but then every once in awhile I will get a response. A couple of times even, I had interviews and thought everything went swimmingly well and would be perfect for the job(s) but then never heard from the prospective employers again. I can only assume they called me to check out the size of my ass to see how my hide would fit into their designs. Still crazy that I didn’t get hired because I have enough flesh to last for weeks in a hole in the basement. Trust.

I found a job title that caught my eye: STUDIO MANAGER IN LESLIEVILLE. Pretty generic, so I clicked on the description of requirements which was all check: Must have computer skills blah blah, social media, blogging, Facebook, blah blah, MUST HAVE RELIABLE CAR…$11 an hour, hours from noon til 5, MUST BE AVAILABLE FOR “OVERTIME” WHEN ASKED.

First of all, before we comb through the true crime of this ad, I really hate it when job listing don’t actually list the company’s name because then when you are writing your witty and personalized cover letter, you have nothing to research so you can throw in some inside knowledge. We are only going to have to assume that Buffalo Bill of Craigslist was placing the ad, and his “studio” is where he makes his meat dresses. Except Buffalo Bill is most probably female which I will explain later, so we will now refer to her as “Buffalo Billie” from now on. If you know it’s Buffalo Billie’s human meat dressmaking studio, you can write a little personal nugget: “And I loved your last year’s winter collection of wrap dresses made from the hide of Italian men, so luxurious!”

So I read the ad, even though it’s the kind of job I would want whatever it was, I let it go and kept scrolling on because part-time/minimum wage is not really going to work out long term for moi. Why would Buffalo Billie not just put “Internship” on the listing like everyone else? That way you know they are looking for university graduates desperate enough to work for shite pay, or no pay at all, or a hilarious “stipend” that you carry to the bank at the end of a term that can maybe cover your metropass, a can of Arizona Ice Tea and a lottery ticket at the corner store.

But whatevs, so what? Buffalo Billie can pay whatever she wants, it’s her business. Besides a lot of people have two jobs. They can work for Buffalo Billie in the day from 12 to 5 and then trot over to their servers job at night. BUT! Then I thought, how can you have a second job when Buffalo Billie wants you to work over-time at her whim? I did my maths in my head and calculated that at $11 an hour, which is basically minimum wage, and 5 hours a day, you are making $55 per day, $275 a week, a little over $1100 a month! AND she wants you to own your own car so you can fetch her some twine at Staples to topstitch her latest collection of Chinese Cheongsams made from the flesh of…well, you know. SHE WANTS YOU TO OWN YOUR OWN CAR AND WORK FOR MINIMUM WAGE! IS THIS CRAZY OR WHAT? Unless you won your car on “The Price is Right” and live in your mother’s basement, I fail to see how this is even possible.

Well, I let all that sink in and before I knew it, I had a bee buzzing in my bonnet, and when that happens, my fingers turn to scorpions and I will lay wrath where wrath is due.

You know I am a salty bitch and swear (in writing) like a longshoreman and I am unapologetic about it. The smartest people in the world (Louis CK and my friend Lorraine) will lay an “F” bomb here and there and it sounds highly intellectual. I’m just telling you this now because, I answered Buffalo Billie’s ad like this:

“I am responding to your ad on Craigslist for studio manager. I understand you are offering $11-12 per hour  for a 5 hour work day and require that the candidate “must have a reliable car.”
Are you high? Perhaps you should pull your head out of your asshole and realize the position and wages you are offering for what you offering is disgusting.
People are actually looking for jobs so they can live, not run their cars so they can suck your dick. You should be ashamed.”
I SIGNED MY NAME WITH MY PHONE NUMBER. I am not an anonymous internet troll after all. I know, it’s harsh, but when I get the feeling of righteous indignation, I will act upon it. I will sign your change.org petition about missing girls, I will kick a Sharpei off a Shiba Inu (what? long story but trust, the Sharpei had it coming), and I will go to court on your behalf to fight the douches of the world. This is what makes me awesome, if nothing else. So I wrote that email and pressed the send button and thought nothing of it because it is Craigslist after all and nobody ever answers back.
Well wouldn’t you know it, the one time I write a profanity-laced email is the one time I get a response. I can tell you for absolute sure if I sent Buffalo Billie my resume with a generic cover letter, I would have made the trash pile. But Buffalo Billie responds! And it is woefully and sadly disappointing. Let’s go through it together:
“Hi Kristin,

Thanks for taking the time to respond – I’m sorry you had such an emotional response to my posting and felt that a verbal attack was warranted.
Being a small business owner I wish I could offer more. The benefits that come with this position are pretty stellar but I choose not to make that the focus of the job posting online because I don’t want to attract people similar to yourself. The vehicle costs are also covered, in case you’re wondering.The wages do get increased as time goes on, depending on the level of commitment and dedication and hopefully not long after hiring, the person would become an integral part of a team of fantastic and appreciative people, hopefully with a full salary and a long-term, two-way commitment.”
There’s more but we’ll stop here and do some maths again:
THE BENEFITS ARE STELLAR!!! I have 32 teeth in my mouth, so unless you are paying for all them to get $500 veneers, 80% coverage (one of the better plans) on a  $200 dentist bill twice a year is not going to make minimum wage look like delicious gravy. AND who the fuck under-promises when advertising for a job and expects to attract people unlike myself, who I assume she means ugly internet trolls? Buffalo Billie places an ad for shite pay and crap hours and figures she will attract the cream of the crop of eager minions, like all her other employees who are grateful to work for a such amazing Her Majesty. They are probably all dead, hanging on hooks in her basement, turning into leather, and she probably uses the veneered teeth for her accessory line of earrings and matching necklaces. So appreciative of that kick-ass dental plan.
And then she writes:
“I’m not high, my head is atop my shoulders and not stuffed into any orifice, nor do I have a dick that needs sucking, but thank you for for covering all bases. I won’t be ashamed, but for you.”
She doesn’t have a dick that needs sucking, that’s why she is a she and not a he, because no man would write that sentence, am I right? And yes, I should have wrote “proverbial dick.” Oh my God, some people take things so literally.
The sad part was that she googled me and found my now-defunct career as a real estate agent and said that she would spread the word to everyone NOT to buy a house from me as my “personality is not classy.” Sweet Jesus, what does she think real estate agents do? The good ones fight tooth and nail to make shit happen for their clients. I have seen one of my very favourite agents push and shove another dude off a porch while swearing at the top of his lungs. It was epic and awesome and he has his own brokerage now. SIGH, those really were good times come to think about it.
Anyway, my sadness and disappointment lies in the state of employment in this city. I am afraid it is a place where milquetoast and mediocrity rule the game. And nobody wants to hire a salty old broad who is actually really quite sweet in person. And would make a really chic meat dress.
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What Ever Happened to All Those Van Pattens?

YOU HAVE TO BE A SEVENTIES KID TO GET THIS.

In between angry hot flashes, I had this major mind-blowing IMDb Trivia experience yesterday and I had no one to share it with because my kids grew up on Hannah Montana, so I’m just going to lay it all out here for us all to groove to, or not, but if you care at all about Salami from “The White Shadow” keep scrolling:

It began with John Slattery from “Mad Men” on “The Kelly and Michael Show” promoting his new first-time directorial film, “God’s Pocket” which by the way, has Philip Seymour Hoffman in it as his last completed project…so SAD! Okay, but let’s focus: They bantered on about Mad Men, which you probably don’t watch but I do but I never knew that in REAL LIFE, he is married to his TV ex-wife, Mona, played by TALIA BALSAM (pay attention, the Van Pattens are coming) here they are in civilian garb:

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And here they are as Roger and Mona Sterling:

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So awesome.

AND HERE IS TALIA BALSAM WITH HER FIRST HUSBAND, GEORGE CLOONEY, CIRCA 1990, HOLY SHIT:
george-clooney-4Why am I just finding this out now? Did you know this? Why didn’t you tell me?

And now comes the Van Patten tangent. I actually brought some post-it notes and created a Van Patten family tree on my laptop. I know, crazy.

Okay so TALIA BALSAM, born in 1959, is the daughter of the late great MARTIN BALSAM (1919-1996):

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Psycho, 12 Angry Men, super-prolific in the 1970s but yet, no epidsodes of ‘The Love Boat!”

and her mother is JOYCE VAN PATTEN (b.1934):

Unknown-1She did a whole whack of 70s tv, no “Love Boat,” but “Love American Style”…oh, how I loved that show…and she is the SISTER of:

BIG DADDY DICK VAN PATTEN (b.1928):
Dick_ClassicOh my God, “EIGHT IS ENOUGH” was my 70s jam, love love love! Dick was on a few episodes of “The Love Boat,” fun fact: He was supposed to play “Gopher” but changed his mind for “Eight is Enough” which was smart hockey, fo sho. He is married to Pat Van Patten and hold on to your titties, here comes the good part, THEIR MAN SPAWN! Again, if you watch tv in the 70s, you most probably have a pair of panties you wrecked yourself dedicated to one of these dudes:

VINCE VAN PATTEN (b.1957):

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I’m getting all retro swoony. Totally hot in the 70s (yes, appeared on “The Love Boat”) and became a pro tennis player! Married soap opera actress Eileen Davidson (blech, tacky ho) and now is on “The World Poker Tour.” I don’t know what to think about that but yes, I would still hit it. If I was playing Fuck, Marry, Kill with the Van Patten boys, this is the one I’d Fuck:

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Next up, JIMMY VAN PATTEN (b. 1956):

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He was in the original “Freaky Friday” with Jody Foster as a cashier. Hot. 66% of those Van Patten boys seemed to have gotten their start on “The Odd Couple tv show,”  interesting. Lately he has been in the “Saw” horror franchise. Would I still hit it? Why not? I have nothing else going on. Oh, and in the game Fuck, Marry, Kill, I’d Marry this one, he has kind eyes and seemingly zero douche-factor:

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And then the first born bro, NELS VAN PATTEN (b. 1955):

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I’m not sure I have any feels for this Van Patten but he is a Van Patten, so yes, yes, I’d probably hit it. He’s had an obscure 70s tv career, was also a tennis pro, and here is is now:

2005 TV Land Awards - Arrivals

I don’t know, on second thought maybe I’ll just pass on this one, and sacrifice this Van Patten to the gods of 70s Hotness.  I would Kill him, obviously.

Which brings us to the final Van Patten, TIMOTHY VAN PATTEN (b.1959). He is NOT a Van Patten bro, he is a Van Patten Uncle. Seriously! He and Big Daddy Dick are brothers from another mother. He is my very favourite Van Patten of them all:

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SALAMI FROM “THE WHITE SHADOW” OMG OMG OMG! To die for! Nowadays he is a director:  Sex and the City! The Sopranos! Rome! The Pacific! Game of Motherfucking Thrones! Boardwalk Empire! I watch none of these shows, except for SATC of course. Here he is now and he is so cute, I would Fuck, Marry, AND Kill him with my hot-flashing pussy:

MV5BMTk4MDM0NDg4NV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMzgwNTgxOA@@._V1_SY317_CR12,0,214,317_AL_

You know how I feel about beards. Sweet Jesus.

The Tale of the Invisible Lady

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I’ve been gone from the Bloglands for a month for a number of reasons, have you even noticed? I have been kind cheating on you with Yelp, I’ve been getting my rocks off there because there is a live audience. Last week I got a “Review of the Week” which is like getting an Oscar in the context of mass internet drivel. When this happens, you get messages all day from total strangers who send you accolades in the form of virtual “badges.” For this honour, you are chosen based upon your “FUC” rating. Unbeknownst to me, because until last week I didn’t understand Yelp and its convoluted game plan, my FUC rating (Funny Useful Cool) was high in relation to having only 12 reviews, which are just shorter versions of this blog because it’s all about ME, ME, ME and that $3 donut I just ate and yelped was just a collateral subject. So anyway, I’ve been yelping rather than blogging because like a lab rat, I work for rewards, even if they are full of shit.

Also something has been happening that I wasn’t going to tell you about because it is so awful and I hate it so much and I am full turmoil and shame and misdirected anger and general rage. It’s actually not funny at all.

I am drying up.

The last time I had hosted my tender lady time, Santa was in town. That’s 4 months ago! There is no upside to this, if you’re thinking that at least my underwear is stain-free. They aren’t. I go through at least 3 pairs a day in urinary seepage. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

At first I thought I was having a lot of drunk sweats. You know that hangover feel when your body wants to sweat out the poisons and replenish with grease? Well it was happening all the time. I went “on the wagon” whatever that means, just to be sure, and yes, okay some of these episodes were probably drunk sweats but some of them were not. THEY ARE MOTHERFUCKING HOT FLASHES! Fuck my life. I thought escape this fate and I would be invincible and now I have to deal with the harrowing disappointment that I am not. And by the way, being on the wagon is really boring and I still have insomnia and I’m more bloated than ever, what the fuck?

Here is what is bullshit: I can deal with the hot flashes. In fact, they amuse me. You’re out there in the world, minding your business and suddenly, from deep inside, your core starts to heat up, like from zero to inferno in one second. THIS IS HOW I SURVIVED THE POLAR VORTEX, BITCHES. I can deal with this, just breathe and it will pass. Even though I feel like running out into traffic, it’s okay. But what kind of evolutionary joke is going on when you feel like your innards are having a caloric pig roast, and yet nothing is actually burning? In fact, you are gaining weight, right through where all the heat is happening, comes the dreaded middle-pudge menopausal swell. Gone is that precise waist-hip ratio that when men look at you, they overtly want to plant their magical seeds inside you because subliminally they think that somehow you will be a good mother. I don’t really get it either, but it’s a fertility law that we must respect. Your waist is supposed to be smaller than your hips but these trolling hot flashes are making your waist explode like a tin of Jiffy Pop Popcorn. I’M ON FIRE, I SHOULD ACTUALLY BE MELTING! It’s fucked up is what it is. Nature is an asshole.

Breathe.

AND THEN THERE IS THIS DICK:
johnny-depp-300What the ever loving fuck is this? Am I the only one around here who sees this fool for the pathetic loser he is? “Oh, Johnny Depp, can you believe he’s 50? He’s so hot!” YOU ARE DELUDED! He looks every bit 50 and then some. He looks like he’s been rotting in the bottom of the ocean and then slapped on pancake and a costume from “Death in Venice” with Indiana Jones’ hat (WTF?)  to take his bovine trophy snatch to some function so everyone will see he has a hole with a proper waist-hip ratio where he can plant his creepy seeds. Fuck him.

Breathe.

 

I had an epiphany about the phenomenon of middle aged men and their tendency to dump you for a younger woman just when you think you have it all going on: The kids are in college and you can do some traveling, maybe buy condo in Florida, take up golf. But that goes all tits up because he “has a right to change his mind!” When it happens, you think it’s your fault because you’ve succumbed to the aging process and he wants someone younger and hotter. And then after a while and thousands of dollars in therapy, you run into them at Starbucks one day and you are shocked to see a) she might be young but she’s actually not that hot (Telly Savales in a wig!) and b) she’s pregnant, what the fuck? He had a vasectomy 20 years ago right after you gave birth to Spencer or whatever name was popular back then and he vowed he didn’t want any more kids, no way, no how, even though you could have squeezed out another despite the fact your waist hip ratio was already showing serious signs of inversion.

It’s not that he want a younger woman PER SE, it’s that he wants another breeder. Biology wins. It’s menopause for men! I wish it had an ugly name of its own because it deserves one. Dickopause or something. Men AGE and they go through hormonal changes as they AGE because they AGE and get all estrogeny and soft and pillowy and girly and feminine and slopey shouldered and the moobs! Why, they are ripe for lactation!  Probably some primal signal in their AGING brains gets all desperate and maternal, like a 35 year old woman does with her achey breaky ovaries. Old fucking men don’t even think of the consequences, oh no:  Quick! Spread the rancid spunk around before death comes, who cares if the teachers call you grandpa in the schoolyard and you’ll be in a walker at your precious loin spawn’s high school graduation: TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE and you got to keep on splooging. Ugh, fucking gross.

Breathe.

This theory does explain whatever is happening with George Clooney. He has been okay by me until recent news, I like the way he’s aged gracefully and even the way he had serial beards (no judgement) or whatever and said he would never get married because it kept hope alive, that you or me might be the game changer, assuming he isn’t gay. AND THEN he gets engaged after dating some smug lawyer for two minutes whose name looks like “Anal” in the tabloid headlines and we, as a collective force, are never going to remember it. She’s supposed to be some kind of star lawyer (eye roll) who represented Julian Assange. How do you have time lawyering celebrities when it looks like you spend all your waking hours managing your uni-brow and then somehow get to “date” and lube George Clooney up for marriage in the time it takes most people to scroll through a day’s worth of Dlisted? I hate her, I don’t care what you say, and already I told you I’m filled with irrational rage. Suddenly this Anal is the game changer?  She is the 36 year-old with a ticking time clock and he is the 53 year-old spawn bomb. This isn’t love, it’s biology and disaster. Fuck him and Johnny Depp.

Breathe.

I have high hopes for Zac Efron. He’s soooo cute! *sucks self into a pair of Spanks*

That lady on the left looks much better from the back. That makes me sad that I just said that, I AM SUCH A BITCH.

N0UVRUm

 

 

 

What Kind of Buzzfeed Quiz Taker Are You?

Oh Buzzfeed, so many questions. Is all this social media quiz-mania killing our brain cells or guiding us through our stagnant and unexamined lives? Here’s some help for you to understand the meaning of it all! Take this test and find out:

1. You scroll on your Facebook newsfeed and see that the goofy nerd from high school has posted his results to the Buzzfeed quiz “Which Gilligan’s Island Character Are You?” and he is, true to form, Gilligan, so you:

a) Pound your fat fist on that “Like” button and/or add a comment: “LMFAO! Little Buddy!” and move on. If you had bothered to take the test, you most likely would have been The Skipper. Even though you were his bully in high school, 20 years and the onset of the Type 2 Diabetes has mellowed you out a bit and now you have a lot of penitence on your plate, asshole.

b) Take the quiz yourself and find out your are the Professor AND Mary Ann, how did that happen? You snort, keep it to yourself, and scroll on for some cat video action.

c) Take the quiz yourself, find out you are Mrs. Howell, freak out, as if! You are still hot, you gave up gluten, 40 is not old! So you retake the quiz adjusting your answers, and you are of course: Ginger! You post it on your own wall and wait for the pokes to begin.

d) Are late to the proverbial party, in both life and on Facebook, and see all the likes and comments on whatever this nonsense is and notice that the one who calls herself Ginger was the girl who gave you an awkward handjob in back of the sugar shack in Grade 10. She’s 25 years older now but you recognize her smug face, you click on her profile photo album and land on the one where she is wearing yoga pants and is fully expressing “camel pose” because of course she is, you zoom in and catch the formation of a tiny bit of toe. The internet is a vast sea of porn but this!  This is what keeps you coming back. Sweet Jesus.

Castaways

 (art: Scott Scheidly)

2. Your sister takes the “What Color Are You?” Quiz and finds out she is “White” but says she would have “preferred another colour.” You:

a) Worry about her a little bit. Being White must be the worst thing ever, poor thing. Okay, it’s the worst, this signifies an unspeakable failure. You will not tell your parents even though being White is not nearly as bad as being Blue. Can you imagine?

b) Roll your eyes and review the questions. Snort. Of course she is White, all her walls in her house are beige for godsakes.

c) Clap yo hands! Take the quiz yourself, find out you are Purple. You pinch your nipples in gratitude and thank the gods for the details that they meticulously put in creating you. Tonight, in front of the mirror, you will practice winged eyeliner, with the liquid formula and a brush!

d) Get mad. WTF? White isn’t even a color, per se. Is Black even an option? You are 100 shades of grey! Why is this happening? Is this real life?

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3. In order to find out which city you should live in, one of the questions is “Which Beyoncé?”  You are stumped because there are like, 5 photos of  Beyoncés to choose from and you don’t know any Beyoncés, not because you aren’t cool, you just don’t listen to mainstream music and all that shrilling in the satellite radio at the mall sounds the same, so you:

a) Guess which Beyoncé is most New York because New York is cool and you should live in New York, everybody should live in New York at least once in their life because New York is where everything happens. You totally need to live in New York because…..

” …da da da  NEW YORK!

Con! Crete! Jung! Gull!  Where! Dreams! Are!  Maaaaaaade of

There’s la la  yuh cahhh do

Na-naah-nuh in New York

These streets will mah-muh-mah,wauh uhuha

Big luuhs-uh will ta la uuh

Huuuhla it from New York, New York, New York!”

That’s Alicia Keyes, stupid.

 b) You choose Afro Beyoncé because that is the only Beyoncé you recognize but it’s from Austin Powers which means Buzzfeed will send you to London. You are nervous to live in London because you hate the rain and are afraid of terrorists. What? Terrorists! Grow up! You shouldn’t be so afraid of things, and what do you mean you hate rain? You hate sun! You complain about it all the time: ” The sun, it’s so bright, I can’t see!  The sun, it’s so yellow, it offends my purple sensibility!” You should definitely move to London, don’t even bother finishing the rest of the quiz, just go, you chicken-shit idiot.

c) You download and listen to all of Beyoncé’s “greatest” hits, you really want to get the most appropriate answer, like a sign from the gods, because you are tired of living in limbo. Maybe Buzzfeed is the I’Ching of the Internet, a spiritual guide if you will. You light up a fatty, and blow the smoke out the window…of your parents basement. You end up watching 7 episodes Season 3 of “How I Met Your Mother” on Netflix and completely forget all abo

d) You choose any old Beyoncé and will probably, somehow randomly, end up getting Portland because that’s where all the roads arbitrarily lead anyway, so it seems, even though you retake the test, tweaking your answers. WTF, why is Portland even an option? Is is it because you are pro-pubes?

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4. You’ve had a bad day, you take the “What is Your Spirit Animal?” quiz and find out you are a BEAR, you:

a) Take it literally, and drink some beers.

b) Take it personally, and drink some beers.

c) Take it philosophically, and drink some beers.

d) Drink some beers.

Gee28

5) You vow not to take anymore frigging Buzzfeed quizzes EXCEPT this one more: What Job Should You Have? Just for shits and giggles you take it and much to your surprise, it is straight forward, no dumbass peripheral Beyoncé-type questions that trip you up, and you actually get what you want! So you:

a) Quit your job as a waitress and pursue actressing because you are a natural, sweetheart. Dreams R Made 4 U.

b) Apply for Teacher’s College because teaching is in your blood. And the summer vacations!

c) Clap yo hands! Finally you can parlay your OCD into a career of Computer Software Engineering. Your mother said you would never get a date being on the computer all day but hello?! Palo Alto, California! Why did you get Portland in that other quiz?

d) Keep on blogging, Writer, don’t stop, submit, submit, submit.

*welp*

SIGH! My internet kittens, what are we going to do with each other?

uTPZrlz

 

 

 

 

The Tale of the Lady and the Land of Smoke and Hogs

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This is a cautionary tale.

Once upon a time, like last July 30, 2014 at precisely 8:31 in the a.m, an ever-so-slightly wretched (in a hot mess kind of way), somewhat old (but not so old that you wouldn’t poke her on the Facebook in hopes she would poke back and you could have some casual Skype-sex with, good times) lady of a certain age was driving north up Bayview Avenue in her boxy Scion chariot. She had just dropped off her daughter, the fair maiden(ish) Evangeline, at her summer job at Bayview Glen where she taught music at the day camp for the wealthiest children of the Land of Smoke and Hogs. Taking public transportation to said job was bullshit, according to the fair maiden Evangeline, because you had to take a bus, then subway, then another bus that meadered like a drunk beast in and out of the glens and valleys and the rest of the fuckery that is the urban sprawl designed from the minds of evil white men WITH A PISS-POORLY EXECUTED TRANSIT SYSTEM. It takes over an hour and a half by TTC and only 20 minutes for her mommy to drive her so that is what the lady did that summer when she wasn’t otherwise occupied working at the iniquitous dusty box known as the Home Depot, which is a whole other tale of whoa-fuck-this-shit (see archives).

This particular day, the lady dropped off her daughter and continued her journey northbound to visit her parents who lived in the faraway land up the hills of new developments and Asian strip malls.

It was a fine summer day, sunny and warm, the roads were clear of traffic with exception of the ubiquitous construction clusterfucks in various spots jackhammering your tax dollars away for the sake of make-work projects. The lady was cool with that for the greater good, all this construction is a productive thing, she thought, whatever keeps their hands busy and those forearms so muscular!. As she made her turn from Finch to Bayview Avenue, a burly (plural) of men were working in the right lane, the jackhammers were singing the song of their people: rat-tat-tat-tat-fucking-tat at deafening levels. The lady stayed on the left lane, motoring along at her usual lady-like pace which is maybe only slightly faster than your grandma’s, because that summer she had 3 flat tires and one broken clutch and she was completely convinced that her engine would spontaneously explode or all four wheels will fall off at once and she would die a messy roadkill death and her precious but maybe slightly spent organs would not be intact so they would have to be trashed instead of donated to a needy recipient to start a new and better life, happily ever after. That would be tragic and the fair maiden Evangeline would have to take TTC or get her driver’s license once and for all. Oh my God, her younger brother, the dashing burger eater, Frederick, is just as feckless with this endeavour, if not more so as he still has to finish up his driving lessons after an entire year hiatus. Come on, children, help your old mother out. Honestly.

As the lady approached the intersection of Cummer and Bayview at the speed it took for you to read and process that last paragraph, she noticed the traffic lights were flashing red.

What does one do in this situation? The lady knew all too well because back in the day, when she was taking driving lessons at the tender age of 16, she was faced with the same scenario on a quiet Sunday night in some scuzzy industrial part of Montreal approaching the Champlain Bridge. She was nervously driving through the city in Lauzon’s Datsun hatchback with her instructor, Jean-Claude Diqueface, clucking like a fishwife at her for every little thing which in retrospect was for her own benefit, but at the time, SUPER ANNOYING. She was following another car in front of her, probably fuelled by copious amounts Pepsi, lol because it’s true, the driver sailed straight through the flashing red BECAUSE THAT IS HOW THEY ROLL IN QUEBEC. She did the same thing. Jean-Claude slammed on the extra set of breaks and turned and screamed at her until the veins popped out of his head: YOU NEVER RUN THROUGH A FLASHING RED LIGHT! YOU TREAT IT LIKE A STOP SIGN! YOU STOP! MAUDIT CRISS TABARNAC!

Oh, how the lady (as a young maiden) cried when he yelled at her. What a nasty motherfucker was Jean-Claude with his slicked black hair, thick 70’s moustache and his leather jacket with a pack of Export A peaking out of the pocket. Looking back at the situation in present day, the lady thought, would she hit it? Why yes, yes she would, that Datsun would steam, rock, and roll. Good times.

At the flashing red lights on Cummer, she stopped. For the briefest moment, in her imagination, she saw the thick, pulsing vein on Jean Claude’s forehead. Something deep inside her stirred as she looked to the east, then to the west. All clear, she released the clutch and gently pushed on the gas and rolled through the intersection. SIGH! Unbeknownst to her, the red light camera above took a picture of her chariot’s red hot ass and so the tale begins.

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Many weeks later, the lady opens her mailbox which is always a nest of serpents, you know how it is in modern times. Nobody writes letters or postcards anymore, anything that comes in the mail has an envelope with a window on it and a demand for some minimum payment due in two weeks or else we will call you on your land line incessantly during Dr.Oz and then again during Modern Family.

The lady comes across an envelope that says “Toronto Courts” on the top left: ‘”Yes! It’s jury duty!” she squeals as she frantically  fantasizes about packing her lunch with strange and inconvenient fruit and being the twelfth angry juror with no air conditioning and Gregory Peck and Reese Witherspoon, like it’s a big Hollywood diversion and even if it isn’t, it’s better than working at the odious dusty box known as Home Depot.

She opens up the envelope and to her shock, it is a traffic infraction, and there it was: the photo of her car running a red light , clear as one of those hyper-realistic paintings that show up on your Facebook newsfeed by somebody with too much time on their hands and no social skills of a hairy man shaving his beard and his every single pore and hair follicle painstakingly etched with pencil: “You Won’t Believe What You Are Seeing!”  WELL, YOUR WORSHIP,  BECAUSE SHE WAS GOING LESS THAN 10K ON A FLASHING RED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT, of course it a was a beautiful, perfect, and incriminating shot. And they are requesting a payment of $325. Why, that literally is highway robbery.

“Of course I am innocent!” she thinks, “I am not worried at all! It was after all, a flashing red. The court will hear my story and understand totally and clear me of my falsely accused wrongdoing because we are living in a good and fair kingdom!”

She requests an appointment to discuss her case with a prosecutor. Surely he or she will see the truth. She has to find a stamp, when was the last time you mailed anything, seriously? She goes to the Shoppers Drugmart and buys a fucking stamp for $5,932 and with great confidence in the system, mails her request and goes about her day/weeks/months with zero fucks given UNTIL:

She gets an appointment to see the Prosecutor in December. Again she thinks: “I am not worried, the truth will prevail, and justice will be had!”

Also as a sub-plot during this time, the malevolent coque-suckers at the dusty box known as the Home Depot have sent her off on the ice floe and now she is piss-peasant-poor but still holds hope of justice.

If the court doesn’t have mercy, the lady thinks, the gods will pull something out of their intricately hairy asses. Right?

So the date with the prosecutor arrives. The lady takes the streetcar because she fears parking downtown will result in more highway robbery of some kind. The prosecutor, who is a lady of a certain age also, but even more wretched and probably not inclined to have Skype-sex with you so don’t get excited, tells the lady of our story, in a cryptic way, ‘Based upon the evidence, I cannot allow you to plead guilty at thispoint, you must request a trial.” In the meantime, she instills the fear of authority and the fine could go up to $1,000 if the court thinks you are liar pants on fire. YOU ARE GUILTY UNTIL YOU CAN PROVE YOURSELF INNOCENT.  Pictures don’t lie, so it seems.

WTF? If the lady pleaded guilty at that moment, she could pay a reduced fine of $200 instead of $325 with her Christmas money and be done with pompous charade of “Operation Get Money, Bitch” by the Kingdom of Smoke and Hogs, she could save herself time and energy. And the weird humiliation of being treated like criminal cattle.

Some weeks later, the nest of serpents produces a letter with her court date: March 17, 2014, 9 a.m. ARRIVE 30 MINUTES EARLY OR OFF WITH YER HEAD!

Whilst waiting her day in court, the lady tells various fellow citizens the details of her story, they all respond disbelief, as though she is making shit up. “Why would the camera go off if the lights are flashing?” The lady begins to doubt herself and slams on the breaks when the lights turn amber. She will get rear-ended soon, and not in the good way.

On March 17, she arrives at the court house, a half an hour early as per requested and checks in the with the prosecutor before her appointment with the judge. The prosecutor is a lady leprechaun, played with malevolent spunkiness by Amy Sedaris. It is St. Patrick’s Day after all and she has raided her closet of all that is green. Her sweater is minty green with a cartoon bunny on the front, her MINI skirt is loden, LODEN IS NOT ST.PATRICK GREEN, and she is wearing dangling earrings that upon close inspection are actually Keibler elves. Her eye shadow is green. Okay, and then this: She has a mullet. The front of her hair is short and brown and the back is a blond Mrs. Brady-flip with green bits. The prosecutor, who has been to law school and passed the bar, has on ombre mullet. AN OMBRE MULLET! From here on in and forever more, her arguments must be rendered invalid. You know, the citizens of the Land of Smoke and Hogs paid for her toddler get-up with their tax dollars.

The leprechaun asks the lady if she will plead guilty or what up?

The lady explains about the flashing red but before she could finish, the leprechaun interrupts squinting her cold black eyes:

“The City of Toronto GUARANTEES there were no flashing lights on Bayview Avenue. If you want a trial, you’re going to have to wait until afternoon to see the judge. If you plead guilty, we will request a minimum fine of $200.”

Really? Lies!

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“Well if the City of Toronto “guarantees” there were no flashing lights, then it must be true and I must be guilty, ” the lady said, resigned just because she wants to go home and stay there for ever more. By the way, the lady was tastefully wearing an emerald green scarf as an homage to St. Paddy’s, there really is no need to drag every mismatched thing out of the closet just because it is green or greenish. Mint and loden together on one body? Jesus Christ.

The leprechaun got her way but only for so long. The court room was filled with”guilty” red light runners and the first one was an immigrant woman who barely spoke English: “I am poor,” she told the judge, played with compassion by Robert Guillaume of TV’s Benson fame. His Worship reduced her fine to $100…hey, not bad, the lady would be happy that, although the leprechaun piped up: “Two hundred dollars is what we are asking!” Does she get a commission? His Worship looked at her like she was a frog on a highway; “One hundred dollars is appropriate and so this will be the fine set for today!”

Well that would have been the moderately happy ending to the story except the court room was jammed packed, a busload from the jailhouse arrived. One red runner needed a Farsi interpreter, another fainted, someone else barfed, it became clear the day would take over Guinness time.

The leprechaun read out a list of 12 names to go into another open court room. The lady’s name was called last. They all trotted across the hallway like a deflated chain gang.

The new judge was played by the woman from any given soap opera who is always sabotaging your favourite character’s chance at true love. She is bitter and vindictive although she would most definitely probably have Skype-sex with you so go ahead and fantasize about her, she was wearing a black robe. As it turned out, crossing the hallway just cost each of the red runners an extra hundred dollars, she was a stickler for the $200 set fine. The lady was last to approach the bench.

“How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” the lady flinched. You know her, she is not one to contain herself.

“Is there anything you would like to say to the court?” Her worship didn’t seem like such a bad egg. The lady went for it.

“Yes, Your Worship! I am poor! I am so poor, it’s not funny! I lost my job months ago! I am so poor! They fired me for blogging, seriously, there is no such thing as free speech in this country!” The lady’s voice cracked as she borderline hysterical at any given moment.

“Alright then, your fine is reduced to $150, do you wish to pay today or do you require more time?”

Getting it over with, the lady paid that day, grumbling about the extra $50 but then at least it wasn’t $200, she rationalized that she saved $50, which is like 5 or 6 pints of free Steamwhistle that afternoon at Murphy’s Law…although with fees and whatshit, the entire thing came to $180, it is still highway robbery no matter how you crunch the numbers.

It really was a flashing red. Crooks.

 

 

 

 

 

Girls in Bikinis and Boys Doin’ the Twist

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Only one of you out there will get the reference of the title of this post and you and I will laugh together at the misery of it all. For the rest of you, suffice to say it’s SPRING MOTHERFUCKING BREAK and it is snowing projectile polar bear diarrhea outside, how’s that for IRONY? If there was actually school, it would be cancelled and declared a snow day for sure…oh, the weather trolls win at this one. Yesterday was sunny and warm and we were wearing shorts and waving to the light at the end of the tunnel and calling it in for some cocktails while we sucked in our stomachs and maybe shaved our armpits…and then today, jokes. Trololol.

*pulls grey sweat pants out of the laundry*

Something exciting happened last week though. I got a message from a reader named Erica from TASMANIA. I know y’all know your geography and are aware that Tasmania actually exists outside a Bugs Bunny cartoon and is the island state south of the main giant blob of Australia, but I am just grooving to the fact that she and her awesome flatmate (Hi, Meagan!) read this blog from such afarness and found it by googling “hot ginger men.” Hot. Ginger. Men. HOT. GINGER. MEN. Sorry, that’s my SEO whore coming out, stay with me and we will be discussing GIRLS. IN. BIKINIS.  

Anyway, Erica was on vacation and travelling through parts of Canada and the U.S. and asked if I would meet up for a coffee (lol) or a pint (YES) when she comes to Toronto. I love this kind of thing!  We bantered back and forth while she was in Quebec and I encouraged her to try poutine there because they have the authentic cheese curds and don’t get all pretentious and add foie gras and charge you $17.  I think Quebec is a nice place to visit, even in the winter because both cities, Quebec City and Montreal, have that old scary wretched architecture which compliments the brutality of the freezing cold, it’s like being in a thrilling Gothic horror film. Like you could be brutally murdered at any moment. In a good way. AND THE CHEESE CURDS SQUEAK ON YOUR TEETH! How magical is that?

But here in Toronto, the shite weather is an embarrassment.  I know that sounds weird because the weather is not anyone’s fault *per se* but on the other side of the coin, isn’t it strange to run around with Canadian Pride because “we” won at hockey in the Olympics? Seriously, the day of the men’s final, I did nothing but wake up at an obscenely early hour on a Sunday and drive around trying to find a spot in a bar that served beer at 7 a.m. I am so Proud of my contribution to the Olympic gold medal. As a Canadian citizen, I bitterly pay my taxes and enjoy the “free” healthcare and the rest of the time I grumble about the weather and the shitty potholes ruining my tires. Maybe I am Canada’s insolent teenager and should be Grateful (freedom! diversity! microbreweries!) but seriously, fuck this town. I do not belong and sometimes it takes a visitor to make you realize that.

I met her at the Eaton Centre, and we drove around the city, showing her some main bits that are normally charming but that day was all kinds of depressing shades of grey that don’t involve melting candle wax and orgasms. Who knew what the city really looks like when you actually look at it? I am a happy hermit, normally all I see in January and February is my tv screen. Kensington Market in winter looks like a bleak version Borat’s village but at least there were no righteous neo-hippies banging on my car yelling that I am “idling” and “ruining the environment” at a stop sign…But! Get this: As we were driving around, Erica said: “The snow is so pretty!” And I’m like, wow, this girl is CRAZY! She’s also hilarious and smart and if that’s what Aussies are like, I want to move to Australia. Anywhere but here.

Soon.

*scratches bum through grey sweatpants, opens new tab to Netflix*

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Now it’s Spring Break, or March Break, whatevs, it’s technically not really spring yet and may never be if the weather trolls get their way. The level of despair here has given me my first ever actual  panic attack. Yes, I have anxiety like everyone else, I have insomnia where I ruminate, fret, and number crunch at night, and by morning I’m so beat up, I don’t care anymore. This little episode was different. On Sunday, the Golden Boy, aka Freddy, left for his school trip to Cuba. Cuba! So jalooooz! We got up early, had a leisurely breakfast watching Comedy Central because we both have impeccable time management and organizational skills and  then I drove him to his GF’s house to catch the cab to the airport. I got home, walked into the kitchen and noticed a puddle of water by the dog bowl. I had turned on the dishwasher before I left and was gone a half an hour and jumped to the conclusion that the pipes exploded and some plumbing disaster had occurred and I immediately got wound up so tight (like the Tasmanian devil!!!) that I went into a tailspin. I started to hyperventilate, I couldn’t breathe, and I lay down and made a whole lot of noise of some sort that Betty the dog took notice and jumped up and sat on my chest. Wagging her tail like a helicopter, she forced her snout in my face and licked furiously inside my mouth. Thank gods for furry friends and their awkward methods of resuscitation because otherwise this would have gone on a lot longer and seriously, once I came to my senses, I realized the puddle wasn’t a plumbing disaster of epic proportions but merely some tea kettle spillage. What the hell???  I can’t logically reason with my brain when I get in middle-of-the-night insomnia/fret/mathematic-number-crunching-manic mode, but this little meltdown was in broad daylight and for no good reason. Is this just the tip of the Titanic’s iceberg?  Is my mental state in peril? And why am I the only bat I know over 40 I know who isn’t medicated?

Thank gods of mental health for HBO and Netflix. Let’s cheer up now, shall we?

GIRLS IN BIKINIS!

You know what’s actually a good movie? Spring Breakers. It is chockfull of drunken party gratuitous frontal nudity that you would hope and expect because why else would you click on this:

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I guess the American release poster made me think it was a trollop-in-training parade of ex-Disney starlets making duck faces but no! It was a cinematic masterpiece, who knew? Freddy knew. “It’s an art film,” he said when I asked him if he had seen it. Which meant no. I guess kids today don’t need to bother with “art” bikinis when there is so much floppage to scroll through on Instagram. It was dark and moody and really scary and James Franco is sinister as fuck. I had just finished watching “Freaks and Geeks” for godsakes, was not expecting postmodern Marlon Brando.

And then there was the episode of “Girls” where Lena Dunham wears a green bikini in almost the entire episode, even when they go grocery shopping, which now makes hilarious sense since it was filmed after Spring Breakers was released. Her character, Hannah, says “Spring Breakers was a beautiful blend of art and commerce.”  Genius:

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Go Hannah, shake yo jello. You make me happy to have HBO.

Also normally I like to  boost my slumping blog ratings with an homage to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue but I think we can all agree that not a single gym sock in any of the Americas was soiled with this year’s cover:

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Ugh, it’s painful to even look at these starving girls. I am not buying the contrived sex appeal here. They are arching so hard, they look like 3 bony centaurs. And oh, how I laughed because my local magazine store opened up all the magazines and displayed the inside cover instead:

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MUCH BETTER! Home girl, Kate Upton, the mighty blog whisperer herself! Go, Kate, spike my ratings!

Why do girls in bikinis sell? Hope. Hope for warmer days and sunburns on the top of your feet and bug bites and sand in your cracks and orifices. I think everybody should just shut up already and put on our bikinis and go walk to the store and hang out, Spring Breakers style. If we all stand united, maybe the sun will finally shine. Or we can just warm up and build a massive bonfire and throw our parkas in it.

SIGH

*spills wine on grey sweatpants, laughs, pours another glass.*

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Inside a Snatch of Beavers

Shannon Szabados

Some hot dude on my Facebook newsfeed posted something the other day about women hating each other and listed ways that they sabotage each other by translating their back-handed compliments, this was one example:

“Is that your man? Damn, he’s gorgeous.”
TRANS: He must be part BLIND bc you are one UGLY bitch.

He listed 7 more, each one more brutal than the next, of what we say to each other with what we “really mean” which is always “bitch, you is fat AND ugly AND dumb AND did I say FAT?” … his statuses always have the “read more” icon on the bottom and ramble on with random caps and ghetto spellcheck…Seriously, get a blog like me, windbag, and I mean it as a compliment. His posts make me laaaaaaugh. I refuse to believe that he is your regular garden variety hot-but-dumb dude but a brilliant intellect whose Kanye-esque rhetoric provides us with insightful social commentary. Also I fell in love with him a couple of weeks ago when he blathered on about how the only way to please a woman is to go “deep sea diving” and then described the vagine as a “seductive pink grotto,” imagine that! *swoon.* If I was to describe my lady parts as a place it would be the scary burnt out church ominously surrounded by a swirling murder of crows in episode 2 of “True Detective.”  Omg, I found it on youtube, this is a metaphor of my abandoned poon, so poignant:

“There was a fire in here a long time ago,” Woody Harrelson  drawls. I AM LOVING THIS SHOW SO MUCH IT HURTS.

I am going off on a tangent though, back to Ghetto Jesus’ point, “WOMIN HATE WOMIN.” I have to agree to a certain point. There is something about being in a group of vaginarama that makes me very nervous.

A gaggle of girls.

It’s not like you’re socially conditioned as a child to be a bitch but I think it’s something inherent in our human nature to ostracize the weak and the freak. It starts in the schoolyard playground…Me in Grade 1 playing “Red Rover” however that goes, I forget, but it involves hand holding and shouting out names. I am holding some girl’s hand but I am dying of shame because I have a worry of gross warts on my palm that Compound W can’t kill. I think my older sister ended up gouging them out with nail scissors, that is right up her alley.  But then and there, I have a carbuncley cluster of them on that fleshy part at the base of the thumb and I am holding hands with this second-grade girl with blond pigtails…she looks down at our hands because it probably felt like all moist and toad-like and she saw my bouquet of verruca and she dropped my hand like anybody would and bolted to the other side of the game. Needless to say, I never got to play “Red Rover” again and spent the rest of elementary school with the other lepers banished to the back corner, building forts in the gravel. THIS IS HOW IT GOES, BITCH, GET USED TO IT.

A conniving of cunts.

Sometimes when you are in a small group of women friends, say a trio, at some point, two of them might turn on you. This is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is typical high school girl behaviour and can range from the subtle to the all-out cruel. My worst one happened in CEGEP (that is Quebec’s version of Grade 12 and 13 fyi, my foreign friends) when I had inadvertently “stolen” my best friend’s crush. I know that sounds bad, but this girl had a panty-raid of crushes and a new boyfriend every week and I am not exaggerating, I can count on one warty hand the number of sad dates I have been on in high school, so what if I poached her crush? Grow up, there’s a surfeit of dicks out there (no, there’s not), choose another one. So she had our other friend pretend to be on my side so I would confide in her so she could report back the things I said. So after she warmed me up with charlatan sympathy, I told her I thought she was being selfish and why can’t she throw the one bone, and I am going to lose my virginity once and for all. When bitch ratted me out to the crush hoarder, our friendship ended in a huge fight where a boiling pot of mac ‘n’ cheese was hurled in my general direction. For the rest of the school year she would stare at me like a wounded cow from across the caf. The guy in question ended up dumping me not once, not twice, but three times over the course of two years so she had that to be smug about. Serves me right, I guess, plus I got fat when I had to go on the pill.

A hag of hens.

Fucking book clubs. Do I even need to elaborate on this one? What is it about a roomful of wine-drinking middle aged ladies that fills me with anxiety? There is always one rotten apple in the bunch. Once, during the infamous battle of “Eat, Pray, Love”  I got angrily shushed by one when I interjected a remark in agreement to her raging tearful rant against all the haters. We were the only two who liked the book and she shot me down when I was trying to support her. What a dumb, ugly bitch.

A racket of  cooch.

A group of tennis ladies eating salad for lunch, a terror of twat or what? A horror of snatch! A fright of gash! A while back, before you knew me, I took up tennis because my beloved friend JHo described our future: Old ladies who play doubles in the morning and drink pitchers of iced Pimms  in the afternoon on the veranda  in our tennis whites, cable knit cardigans wrapped around our bony shoulders, we leave red lipstick stains on our glasses, and we talk in old timey mid-Atlantic Hollywood accents and say things like: “Shall we ring round the waiter and have another round?” until we start slurring. Good times! Well that dream died quickly. I joined a round robin which was kind of fun because everyone was the same level of  crappy and we played and laughed and went home. But then something happened and cliques were formed. Some of the women became obsessed and made up teams. It was just like high school and these grown women reverted back to their 16 year-old selves where there was a hierarchy of social standing. There was no room for goofball round robin. They became viciously elitist. Seriously, it’s a gym where people waddle on treadmills, not a Slavic tennis farm. All the hos were getting private lessons and I was left behind in the land of tennis misfits, the wretched ones who missed the boat, the old and the crazy. And those bitches weren’t so nice either. I overheard one old lady in another locker bay talking trash about me: “She always misses the ball, she swats it like she’s trying to kill flies.” Fuck her and her thicket of varicose veins, I never played after that. Now I just watch the chosen ones, they take over the restaurant after their vigorous court play, glowing and giddy like they just fucked a Serbian tennis pro all morning. How do they even tell themselves apart? They are all blond with horse faces and you just know that when they finish their lunch salads, they hit the drive through on their way home. One good thing though, JHo and I are enjoying our afternoon pints together, which means our future is on the right track. I love her so.

So while certain groups of women scare me, presently I do cherish and find all my comfort-slash-mental health therapy in the company of my true lady friends. Unlike what Ghetto Jesus might say on the Facebook, we don’t have hidden agenda when we compliment each other. In fact the other day,one of my friends said: “I am loving the colour of your hair, KP, but fuck, you need to wash it. Girl, it is greeeeeeezy!” Oh how I laaaaaaaughed. Power to the sisterhood!

A riot of pussy and a team of hockey players, how about them bitches? Huzzah!