This site not intended to be helpful, nor does it only contain many valuable hints.
I'm just a fan of irony, sarcasm and alliteration (and myself
This is where most of my day-to-day blogging will be (if you scroll down a bit my latest post will always be there).
Everything on this site is owned and copyrighted by me. Feel free to link to my site or refer friends to my site, but if you copy from my site I will hunt you down and kill you.
H3ather's Helpful Hints 2011
If you’re standing next to me at the grocery checkout line
I’m judging you based on what you’re buying. No exceptions. Doesn’t matter what
I’m buying. Whatever you’re buying always somehow makes you inferior to me. If
it’s a self-check-out line, I’m also judging your intelligence based on how
long it takes you to figure out how to find the produce code for the cucumber
you are no doubt going to be shoving in your ass later.
Costco is an especially good place for this because shit
purchases are one thing, but shit purchases in bulk make for some majorly
awesome judgy-ness . The shit people buy at Costco is fucking horrifying. Eight quadruple packs of Wonder bread and a
gallon jug of mayonnaise? Why not just pour sugar and lard down your gullet
Regardless, I was at SuuuuuuperTarget yesterday picking up a
few items (tomatoes, an avocado, some Amy’s frozen things and tampons if you’re
curious and want to judge) and so I’m standing there minding my own business
quietly judging the guy in front of me who apparently had a checkout belt
phobia because he was cradling all his shit (vitamin C drops, a fancy pink
mother’s day card, and Fiber Choice pills) like it was a fragile infant
and passing each item to the cashier one-by-one so it wouldn’t touch the tainted
belt. And as I’m sizing the guy up
(35ish year old, uptight constipated germaphobe who probably lives in his mom's basement),
bam! a “family sized” bag of Fritos gets tossed onto the belt (like literally heaved) behind
my (far superior) purchases, followed by bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! - 9 more bags. Fucking ten giant
bags of Fritos! TEN! Now let me stop right here and say I love me some Fritos. Love.
Them. Those BBQ Frito twists are like motherfucking crack. I could eat Fritos
all day every day but I don’t for (what should be) obvious reasons….
So naturally I then turn to look at the person who is clearly living my dream to find a whole lotta
woman wearing a whole lotta animal print with what I call a Lego hair
– you know, hair that looks it was snapped on like a helmet via a round
connector at the top of your head - a "hair helmet" if you will...
the Fritos came industrial-sized cans of refried beans (a size that I didn’t know existed,
especially at Target, though I guess I don’t peruse the refried bean section that
often), paper plates, and plastic spoons.
Well at this point the rusty gears in my head are turning.
Is she making a shitload of some sort of Frito/refried bean casserole? The Frito-to-bean
ratio seemed off to me. Was she planning
a party to serve this casserole? Or was she just too lazy to do dishes? How efficient is it to eat Fritos with a
plastic spoon? Or maybe the spoons were to eat the beans out of the cans, but
then what were the plates for? My curiosity was so piqued at this point that
the words, “What the hell are you gonna do with all those fucking Fritos???” started forming in my head until my hatred for
people and conversations with strangers kicked into gear.
Now I realize that she probably had other stuff at home to
compliment her purchases… and who doesn’t have a bunch of things already on
hand that could go with vats of Fritos and refried beans, right? But then my
mind takes a horrific turn and goes to this: Frito bath.
GodDAMMIT! Why did my mind have to go there??? Now I have
this picture in my head of this woman crawling into a bathtub full of Fritos
and the spooning refried beans from the can into her cakehole (still no idea
about the plates, though….).Awesome. Now I'm going to have nightmares... and perhaps now you will too!
Anyway, the point of all this is that I’m judging you,
whoever you are, at the grocery store.
Case of bottled water? Environment hater.
Lots of frozen dinners? Lonely loser.
Case of Ramen Noodles? Poor lonely loser.
Sugared cereals? Horrible parent.
Lots of Greek yogurt? Douchebag.
Tofu and Asian pears? Huge douchebag
And the list goes on…
and then when I’m done judging you for what you’re buying I’m judging
you for how you look.
I guess the moral of this story is to do all your shopping
online…. Though I guess the order fulfiller will also be judging you.
So I guess the moral of this story is that I’m a horribly
judgmental person… but really. Admit it. You are too, aren’t you?
I knew it!
Fucking judgy mcjudgerton asshole….
What does your car say about you?
On my generally soul-sucking commute to work this morning, a
Tesla S blew by me like I was standing still only to be slamming on his brakes 10 feet later because, you know, there are lots of other cars at 8AM on a
Thursday morning in a city whose claim to fame (among many others) is having
the worst traffic on the face of planet.
Note here that traffic was moving at about 70 MPH, which was slower than
my liking as well, but what can you do?
Apparently if you own a Tesla S, you can use exit lanes to pass people and pretend like all the other cars on the
road are part of your giant slalom course.
Well this got me thinking... who are the biggest assholes on
the road? It’s sort of a tossup between
people who drive performance cars and people who drive hybrids (and I can say
this because I drive one of these types of cars). So it seems that these two
types of people mated to create the king of all asshole drivers: the
performance electric car driver. I mean really, what does owning a Tesla S say
about a person?
It says he (or she) is a speed-crazy prick AND a holier than
thou tree-hugging douchebag.
Obviously this revelation prompted me to look up prices on the Tesla S as soon as I
got to work with the intent to possibly purchase one. Well apparently they’re not insanely expensive. I mean, they’re
pricey, but not like Maserati or Ferrari pricey (which explains why the dude
seemed to not care about almost driving right into me to get back into my lane when his lane came to a screeching halt and mine was still moving (slowly)). And as I sat there
contemplating a purchase, I realized that it didn’t have a gearbox and thus no
stick shift. Now I realize that it’s not necessary in electric cars for optimal
performance, but I just like being able to angrily jam a car into a gear and
stomping on the gas and hearing the rev of the engine….
Anyway, the other thing is that I’ve never had a laptop or
phone or electronic doohickey with a battery that’s lasted anywhere near as
long as its claim. I also suck at remembering to recharge shit, so I’d have this
nightmare of being constantly stuck in the middle of the highway with a dead
battery… or even worse: stuck at work <shudder>.
So I’ll not be purchasing this car anytime soon, but if anyone
out wants to give me one I would graciously accept.
So I was in New York City this past weekend to see a concert with some friends. The concert was yesterday, but I figured I’d make a mini vacation out of it and spend the weekend there.
At some point in my recent life I fancied myself a runner. These days I kinda sorta run. Sometimes. At a pace many might not consider really “running”.
Anyway, yesterday was one of those infrequent occurrences when I decided to run. This is a big deal because travel tends to make my running an even less frequent occurrence, even though I always go through the motions of packing up my running gear with lofty ideas of actually using it that rarely come to fruition. Recently, running shoes have made great underwear and sock holders for consolidated packing, but that’s pretty much it. Too bad sports bras don’t make fashionable hats…
But because I used to be a runner I knew that yesterday was the Boston Marathon – a race that has always been my white whale because I just haven’t had the dedication to train well enough to qualify for it. But, somewhere in the back of most runners’ minds is the goal to one day qualify for and then run Boston, regardless of how realistic it actually is. (There are a few bullshit ways for contemptible bastards to get into Boston without actually qualifying, but that’s a different discussion for a different day.)
And so, as thousands of runners were lining up in Boston with the sole purpose of running 26.2 miles, I woke up to a cool, cloudy New York City spring morning - after a late night of too much food, sloth and wine - resolved to put my running gear to use and go for a run at exactly 10AM – the start of the elite men and wave 1 runners.
I couldn’t have asked for better weather or a better location to run and as I was cruising* around the Jackie O reservoir I wondered to myself why I didn’t do this more often….ummm, because you have become a lazy-ass fuck.
I managed to eek out just over 5 miles (not quite 26.2 but super super close in the land of delusion), before heading back to my hotel on the edge of the park to start thinking about how to spend the rest of the day.
As it turns out, me and my friend R ended up eating a leisurely lunch and then tooling around the park until making a spur of the moment decision to go see the Hayden Planetarium show. All I’m going to say about this decision is that it was the best $25 nap I’ve ever taken. There was just something about the moving stars and Whoopie Goldberg’s soothing voice that just lulls one into a very restful and peaceful sleep.
Little did I know that while I was taking my expensive (but totally worth it) nap, there was some horrible fucking shit going on in Boston.
Now, I write a lot about how much people suck and even though I generally say this in jest, we actually really do. We have the potential to be a super horrible species – terrible beyond words - and it’s not just a select few of us. Every single one of us has this evil lurking inside. Some of us are good at quashing it, others notsomuch.
But we also have the potential to be so incredibly awesome. It’s a shame that it often takes horrific tragedy to bring it out. It’s almost as if we need to have a common enemy to work together and act selflessly. And I don’t know whether the beauty of the selfless acts outshines the ugly fact that it takes pain and bloodshed and tragedy to bring them out. I tend to think that it does not, unfortunately.
And now as I come to the end of what I have to say, I don’t know where I was really going with any of this (which is clearly nothing new).
I guess my point is that I found my inner runner again yesterday, which is really to say that I found my inner humanity and I’m guessing that perhaps some of you did too. And I really hope it doesn’t take another act of inhuman atrocity for us to find it again. *the use of the word ”cruising” may be a bit of an exaggeration
Do you remember what your Myers-Briggs personality type is?
You must have had to take this test at least once – perhaps in school or maybe because
you worked for some dipshit company that decided they could more effectively
manage your ass based on your shitty personality.
If you’re unfamiliar with this test, I’m not going to
explain it to you in detail. Fire up the Google machine and do your own fucking research. Contrary to what my blog name would seem to indicate, I’m not really here to be helpful - just ironic, bitchy and marginally entertaining.... but in a nutshell, back in the day a psychologist named Carl Jung came up with some psycho-babble-type theories about how we as humans experience our shitty existence. Then two chickies (Myers and Briggs) took Jung's theories and created a test that was supposed to determine each person's personality type and they broke this down into 4 pairs of traits: Extrovert/Introvert, Sensing/iNtuiting, Thinking/Feeling and Judging/Perceiving. Their theory is that everyone is more strongly one or the other of each of these trait pairs, so then they break people into 16 categories based on these traits. If you don't understand why there are 16 categories, you are a math idgit and I can't help you there.
Regardless, you can take a test which will spit out the four letters indicating your personality type. For example, I'm an INTJ (Introvert, iNtuiting, Thinking, Judging) . I'll get into what that means in a second, but just based on those words you can probably see that my test results would seem to indicate a lack of warm and fuzziness in my personality. Clearly you can tell, based on this blog, that that is 100% incorrect. I'm the epitome of warm and fuzzy, dammit! If I could hug every single one of you, I totally would - and not one of those lame one-armed bro-hugs. No sir! In fact, I'd be gettin' all handsy trying to cop a feel!
So, in order to take a "reputable" version of the test you generally have to front up some cash to do so. However, there are tons of free ones floating around the interwebz (like this one) but most people will say they are BS, though most people don't know what the fuck they are talking about, so there's that...
Anyway, the point of all of this is just for me to say that to me, these
personality types are really just a tiny, microscopic step above a horoscopic profile. And in my
case both are similarly accurate in describing my personality, probably yours as well.
And really, the thing is that some people’s personalities just
suck. Plain and simple. I mean if you
really think about it most of us have shitty personalities. But both the
Myers-Briggs and horoscope profiles tend to make everyone seem like a fucking
prince. I mean sure they mention some less-than desirable traits, but they spin
them as good things.
Case-in-Point, a dude named David Keirsey took all these personality profiles and assigned roles (names) to them, which makes them seem even more horoscopic (and thusly, hokey as fuck). Below is a graphic from Personality Desk depicting them:
Ooooooooo doesn't it make everyone sound fabulous? Congratulations, you are "The Dynamo"! How fucking great is that? It's so much better and more scientific than being a Capricorn or a Dragon, isn't it? Of course it is! And so much more meaningful! And look at all the other personality types? Aren't they wonderful? You're awesome. I'm awesome. We're all fucking awesome!
Well as I've said before, we're not all awesome. In fact we are all mostly the antithesis of awesome. Don't hate. You know it's true. So after doing an extensive amount of research (we're talking several minutes here), I've come up with my own, much more accurate personality profile names.
Ah, so now you see it, don't you? Now it all makes sense. Now you see your true colors for what they really are, eh? You're welcome. Maybe I really AM providing helpful hints after all!
Anyhoooo, if you've taken the test and know your fo shizzle personality type, you might also be wondering how common yours is. I've made a super cool Excel graph depicting the personality type distributions (numbers courtesy of The Myers & Briggs Foundation - I figure they're probably one of the more reputable sources, other than me of course, being that they took the time to pay $10 bucks to GoDaddy.com* for that web address).
Note that just because your personality type is common or uncommon doesn't prove you are any more or less of an asshole than the next guy... well, unless you're MFing Hitler. In that case it's probably safe to assume that you are a ginormous asshole.
*Disclaimer: technically the bit about GoDaddy.com is probably not true.
Ever heard of the Holstee Manifesto? Perhaps not by name, but you may recognize it.
It’s been around since 2009. You can
read about it on their website where they pimp out various and sundry wares
bearing touchy feely proclamations inciting people to give The Man a big “fuck
you”, thus blissfully plummeting into a life of peace, love, understanding, and
poverty. If you haven’t seen it, take a
Sounds great, doesn’t it? It’s fucking utopia, isn’t it? And
so so easy when it’s written out like that. Don’t you read it and then suddenly
feel like “aha! HERE is the key to my
happiness. I’d never THOUGHT that such
things could make me happy. All of the
answers to my life are written here!” It almost brings a tear to my cynical
But just for shits and giggles, let’s break this down a bit.
Do what you love and do it often!
Done! I like watching TV, eating fattening food and fucking (not necessarily at the same time). How about
If you don’t like something, change it.
OK. Well....I’m not a fan of Dan Snyder owning the Redskins. Being
that later in this manifesto it suggests that I quit my job, I can’t really hope
to afford to buy the Redskins from him, so I guess I’m just going to have to hunt him
down and run him over with my car. (Disclaimer, KIDDING! I am not threatening
anyone’s life nor well-being here. At least not officially. Also: please don’t
sue me, Mr. Snyder.)
I also don’t really like skinny jeans on guys. Or cats. I
don’t like cats. So should my new life’s mission should be to eradicate cats and men
in skinny jeans? hmmmm….. OK maybe it should. Who knew?
If you don’t like your job, quit.
OK, so this is where things start breaking down. Are they
suggesting I default on my mortgage? Ain’t no way doing what I love is gonna
net me the kinda cash I make at my current place of employment. Plus, nobody
likes working for a living. Nobody. People who say they do are liars. People
tolerate their jobs. That’s as good as it gets with very few exceptions.
On top of that, there’s a lot of shit in this world that
needs getting done that nobody wants to do. If the people doing those jobs all
up and quit this world would suck way more than it already does.
This statement is just irresponsible and dumb.
If you don’t have enough time, stop watching TV.
There aren’t enough hours in a day to watch the amount of TV
I want to watch, so I should stop
watching TV to be able to watch more TV?
This makes no sense whatsoever. Fucking morons.
If you are looking for the love of your life, stop; they will be
waiting for you when you start doing the things you love.
First of all: “THEY"??? Am I a reverse Mormon? Is a harem of
men just waiting to do my bidding? Holy shit, that sounds freaking awesome!
But hold on a sec…
Are these men just stalking me waiting to pop out of the
shadows the day I get my shit together? That sounds pretty fucking creepy if
you ask me. Dammit, now I’m going to be
a paranoid mess. Thanks a lot, Holstee
Why? This is what smart people do. Stupid people under-analyze
things and get killed doing stupid shit that they should have analyzed more carefully before doing.
All Emotions are Beautiful
Oh really? Well how about psychotic rage? I guarantee you
that nobody on the other side of that axe-wielding emotion stops to admire its
When you eat, appreciate every last bite.
Oh I do. I appreciate the fuck outta a bag of salt and
vinegar potato chips. It’s only after that last bite that I start hating
Life is Simple
So this is just dumb. Life is only simple for simple people.
And “simple” is just a polite way of saying "moronic". Then again, if ignorance
is bliss…. Eh. I’m still going with my first statement. This is just dumb.
Open your mind, arms and heart to new things and people, we are united
in our differences.
OK, I can dig re: new things but notsomuch people. As a
general rule people suck. I suck. You suck. We all suck. THIS is what unites
us. And then we bond together in groups of people with similar types of
suckitude. Why would I want to mingle with other groups? That’s like
introducing an unnecessary contagion into an already shitty little mixture.
Ask the next person you see what their passion is, and share your
inspiring dream with them.
The fuck you say? No thank you. I’ll pass on this one. Most people have some
fucked up shit going on in those squirrely little heads of theirs (notice the
correct use of plural pronouns here v. the incorrect use of them in the manifesto)
and I don’t want some yayhoo stealing my dreams and passing them off as his own.
Fuck that noise.
Travel often; getting lost will help you find yourself
Well thanks to your previous suggestion, I’ve just quit my
job and can’t fucking afford to travel. Also, I have genius level spatial
skills. I don’t get lost because I know how to read a map.
Some opportunities only come once, seize them.
Well this might be true, but it’s probably prudent to be a
bit selective here. After a rather unsatisfying one night stand, I had the
opportunity to provide the young gent with the means to call me again. I didn’t
seize that one. I’m certain I’m better off for it.
Life is about the people you meet, and the things you create with them
so go out and start creating.
Up until now I haven’t complained about the horrible
punctuation. I tend to be comma happy so it’d be much like a pot/kettle thing, but
the comma in the above statement irks me to no end. No end I tell you!
Regardless, I think this is telling me I need to go out and make babies. If
that’s the case everyone on this planet should be happy I’m not heading this
advice. I also think that this would be better worded as follows: “Life is
about meeting people and fucking like rabbits.”
Live is short.
Maybe, but it’s the longest thing you’ll ever do. Also: cliché
Live your dream and share your passion.
Anyone remember the theme song to Flashdance? I know I’m
dating myself here, but I’m sure some of you remember. Well, there’s a line in
it that says, “Take your passion and make
it happen.” One of my friends thought the words were “Take your pants down and make it happen.” I prefer my friend’s
version. I don’t think I need to elaborate any further here.
OK, based on the havoc I’ve wrecked on my body, I don’t
expect to live past 60. If I’m lucky. So this means that I probably hit my
midlife about 10 years ago. Regardless, I think the term is a misnomer. One
would think (assume?) that people go through their midlife crises when they are
middle-aged, right? And that both should occur smack dab in the middle of one’s
life. Are you following me here? If not, please peruse the following:
The term “midlife” should indicate the MIDdle of your expected LIFEspan.
“Middle-aged” seems to indicate the
same general timeframe as “midlife” since when you are at your “middle age”
that would seem to also indicate the middle of your expected lifespan.
∴ the middle of your expected life span =
midlife =middle aged.
(Ahahahah, see that? I threw in
some nerdy-ass shit right there! When was the last time you saw THAT symbol? If
your answer is either “never” or “uhhhh…WTF are you talking about?” GET THE
FUCK OFF MY BLOG! There’s some shiny shit somewhere that needs starin’ at. GO
FIND IT NOW!)
It all makes logical sense, no? As a result, most people should
be middle-aged between 35 and 40 and this is when they should start going
batshit crazy and contemplating the meaning of life and worrying that they’ve
somehow missed the proverbial boat of happiness. Note here, that this is not to
be confused with one’s teenage years where you go batshit crazy and start
contemplating the meaning of life and worrying that the boat of happiness sank
before it ever set sail… I know it sounds exactly the same, but it’s not. For
one thing, teenagers as a general rule are assholes. On the other hand,
middle-aged adults are… uh… well… OK there IS a difference. Just trust me
on this one.
But when you think about someone going through his midlife
crisis, what do you think of? Some 50+ year old d00d running after 18 year old
chicks, with his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel to showcase his collection
of gold chainage nestled in his grey chest-hair dickey, driving a ridiculously
fast and expensive extension of his (now completely flaccid) penis. That’s what
you think of, right? And most
definitions of middle aged agree, as they define it as: the time in your life right before you become an old-ass fuck.
Seriously. That’s what it says. Look it up if you don’t believe me, bitches.
Those words EXACTLY!
So what does that mean? Basically it’s the age where you
start to feel age creeping up on you, but you’re not yet ancient and decrepit.
Generally this is narrowed down to the ages between 45 and 65.
OK, so let’s stop right there. How the hell is 65 “middle
aged”?? How many people do you know who
live to be 130? How many even make it to 90, for that matter? Basically what
I’m saying here is “middle-aged” is a moronic term with regard to what it
actually represents. It should be called something like “pre-geezer” or perhaps
“ junior crypt keeper”.
Anyway, the point of all of this is that I think I’m going
through my midlife crisis right now even though I’ve not yet reached middle age according to the
completely fucking illogical definition of it. Actually I think I’ve been going
through it for quite some time. But what is making this extremely evident now
is that I just got a new job. I know most of you will find this hard to
believe, but I’m actually a fairly successful professional. And no, my
profession does not include a pole or inspiring people to “make it rain”.
Believe me; if it did I would be far far less successful than I am.
At one point in my life, not too long ago, I had aspirations
and dreams of climbing my way up the corporate ladder – to the point that I
made goals of exactly where I wanted to be at various and sundry ages. I may
have even written this down somewhere.
And surprisingly enough, I achieved most of those goals. And
all was well and good with the world…
….and then at some point as I began tap tap tapping on that
glass ceiling (which does still exist by the way, and don’t let anyone fool you
into believing otherwise, though I can’t say necessarily that I’ve been a victim
of it per se) I stopped giving a fuck.
Now this is not to say that I stopped giving a fuck about my
job (though I can’t lie – I’ve had a few gigs where a flying fuck was not given
by yours truly). I just stopped giving a fuck about my career growth in general.
So in case you haven’t surmised this yet, I’m in the
software business. At one point in my young career, I could find satisfaction
in the most boring mundane shit. Oooooooooo
software for calculating paint drying time! How scintillating and rewarding! But
I’m sad to say that such bright-eyed, bushy-tailed-ness is short lived. At
least it was for me. And as I became better at what I did, it became harder and
harder to hold my interest. Systems for
launching large-scale, nuclear-hardened, cyborg attacks in a post-apocalyptic,
zombie-infested world? Yawn. What else you got?
Luckily during the time when my interested in my career
started to wane, I found a job building software relating to one of my great
loves: sports. Yes, I’m a chick who likes sports. I also like beer and action
movies. No, I’m not a lesbian… well except for that one time back in… but I was
young and… eh, nobody wants to hear that story, right? Interestingly, my
current main squeeze isn’t much of a sports fan. He doesn’t *hate* sports
(except basketball – he does actually hate that particular sport), but other than liking
to go to the random ball game here or there he finds watching sports completely unnecessary and (!!) somewhat boring. And so, we spend a lot of our quality time sitting on the
couch while I watch sports he surfs the web on his phone. Match made in heaven,
that one, eh?
Anyway, the sports software gig ended and so I found myself
in need of a job. At this point, I contemplated becoming one of Romney’s 47%. I
mean, I’ve gotten raped by taxes for a good long while now. I don’t have kids
to edumacate. I’m never going to see social security – even if it’s magically
still around for a few more decades, as I mentioned above, I’m not expecting to
live that long. It’s high time I get my turn to suck off old mother-government’s
teat for a while, am I right?
Unfortunately that wasn’t a viable plan. As it turns out,
our social programs don’t really pay out enough to fund overpriced German cars
and obscenely large McMansions and apparently most fine dining establishments
don’t accept food stamps (CRAZY, I know!).
That being said, I was forced to go out and find a new job. During
this exhausting (woe is me), pavement-pounding job search, I quickly learned
that an apathetic attitude really puts a strain on one’s ability to find decent
employment and ∴ (see! look how I snuck that shiz back in?!) I
also found out that I can be a pretty decent actress. I may not be
Oscar-caliber, but I can pretend the shit out of caring with the best of ‘em.
And so after many many* interviews and many many* companies,
I persevered and obtained gainful employment. Not only that, I was able to
negotiate more than what I was making before. How’s THAT for acting like I
But now here’s the dilemma. And here’s where that whole
mid-life crisis thing fits in….
Whenever I started previous jobs, I was stoked. I was all
about getting in there and proving myself so that I could hopefully advance up
the food chain. I was eager. I was motivated. I was raring to go!
Fast forward to today.
...well, I’ve been here for a couple of weeks. I’ve done the
stuff that I know I need to do. I’ve
walked through all the motions of being a good new employee. But quite honestly:
on a scale of 1-10, my motivation level is a negative gazillion.
More than that, I find myself thinking about selling the car
and the house and just packing it in. Maybe I could get some sort of mindless
job somewhere. I think janitorial services would best suit me, save for the
fact that I generally live in filth until I just can’t stand it because I hate
cleaning. But I need a job where I don’t have to deal with people. If I were a
janitor, I could even pretend that I couldn’t speak English. How glorious would
it be if I didn’t have to talk to ANYONE at my job? Fucking amazingly glorious.
That’s how glorious.
Or maybe I could just sell the car and the house, pack it in
and live off the state for a while…
….well, maybe I’d keep the car.
*3, possibly 4
Courtesy USA Today/EL James
So I was perusing people.com because every now and again I like to experience what its like to do what the simple folk do and I came across an article on these books that seem to be all the rage with the cool kids these days. Apparently they are thinking about making them into movies. I think they will suck as anything but softcore porn movies (which also inherently suck, but in a different way - no pun intended), but whatevs.
Anyway a brief summary of the books is that a woman is seduced by a rich guy who has a BDSM fetish. If you're unaware what BDSM is, that would be bondage, domination/discipline, submission/sadism, masochism - you learn something new every day! If you're still unclear what that is, follow this link
(should be work safe, but anything you click on after following this link will most likely not be). That's really all you need to know about the books because there's not a whole lot more going on.
For shits and giggles, I decided to read them. I read the first book in an evening and what follows is my review (which you can also view on Amazon.com unless/until someone flags it as offensive). If you read some of the reviews on there you'll notice that they are broken into 4 general categories: 1) the person LOVED IT (gotta question these people's IQ), 2) The person was offended by it, 3) the person thought it was too tame as far as BDSM pr0n goes or 4) the person was expecting it to be a literary masterpiece and was therefore sorely disappointed (gotta question these people's IQ even more than category 1).
Regardless, this is my attempt at addressing all the various readers and reviewers:
First off, some people need to realize that you have
to take these books for what they are worth. At the root of it all they are
romance books. The fact that there's not a picture of Fabio bowing over some
sprawled out chicky with her cleavage busting over her dress doesn't change
their genre, so for all you literary snobs, get over yourselves. It's a romance
novel. It's not going to be great literature.
Also, it's obvious that they were meant to be
mainstream, so even though it touches on BDSM there's nothing incredibly
scandalous going on, so for all you hardcore BDSMers upset that it's so tame as
far as BDSM goes you have to get over yourselves too - put the book down, back
away slowly and then console yourself by rearranging your nipple clamp drawer or
perusing the interwebz for kinky hogtie pr0n or something. (On the opposite
side, if you're a prude with a disdain for all things sex-related, then I don't
know why you'd even be reading reviews for this book and I'm sorry you choose
to live such a horrible existence. Perhaps you should live a little. Poke your
head out of that frigid little shell of yours and go out and get laid.)
In a nutshell, these books are quick, easy,
entertaining reads aimed at chicks (yeah chicks - I can't see many d00ds
wanting to read this crap) who 1) dont mind romance novels, 2) aren't offended
by somewhat graphic sex descriptions and 3) aren't expecting extreme, hardcore
BDSM porn. If these things don't apply to you, don't read the effing book.
So as mentioned, they aren't literary genius and
they aren't supposed to be. That being said, there are predictably some irksome
things about the writing. First of all, why are people murmuring all the time?
She murmured this. He murmured that. Someone is murmuring something to someone else
on every single page. And with all that murmuring going on, nobody ever says,
"Huh? What? I can't hear you! Speak the eff up! You're murmuring,
dammit!" So I guess all the characters must have better hearing than I do.
Also, Ana (the female protagonist) loves to say
"oh my!" It seems to be the only exclamation she knows, in fact,
which is odd because I don't really remember the last time I uttered those
words, except in jest. I expect it said in cases like: "Oh my! What big
teeth you have, grandma." or, "Oh my, whatever will I do?" [back
of hand thrown over eyes in a dramatic fashion] "Alas Alas I do not know
how I will find the will to go on!" but in cases like, "Oh my! What a
large member you have bulging from your pants!" I expect a different
exclamation than "Oh my!", but maybe that's just me...
And lastly, people's breath "hitches"
a lot in this book (as in, "This discussion is so hot and scandalous that
my breath hitches in excitement and surprise!"). The first time I read it,
I thought - "hey, what a nice description!" But after the 587th time
it's used, it tends to get old.
I realize the author is never going (nor trying)
to be confused with Conrad or Dickens and that there are no red suns pasted in
the sky like wafers (if you get this reference, congrats - you just passed 7th
grade English), but having a variety of verbs and adjectives could have made
the book far less distracting to read. For whatever reason, the murmuring thing
was the most distracting to me, especially because people are often murmuring
in places where (IMO) they shouldn't be, so I have this mental image of the
characters with smirky smarmy grins on their faces soft talking during all
their conversations to each other which sort of ruins the general sentiment of
the book for me.
As expected from the genre, the character development is
trite. The story line and the "shocking" revelations are predictable.
And, aside from the BDSM part, it's pretty much the same old scripted romance
novel story line: unexperienced women who doesn't realize how beautiful she is
gets swept off her feet by a womanizing cad who's somewhat effed in the head.
But there's something "different" about her that changes him and
makes him realize that she's not like all the other women because they are star
crossed soul mates who are so in love with each other that it allows them to
have sex with each other way more than would otherwise be humanly possible .
Anyway, I tend to be a horrible literary snob,
but sometimes serious and thought-provoking are too much after a long day of
work and so every now and again I like to read mind-numbing (but entertaining)
trash that requires very little brain power to get through and pretty much,
that's what these books are.
Which shitty cut-off sleeve sweatshirt is Belichick going to wear tonight?
Who knows how many different fucking names there are out there for what is commonly known as the groundhog?
Well, let me enlighten you with a few:
- whistle pig (WTF?)
and everyone's favorite <insert drum roll please>
! Holy shit, why didn't this one catch on? From this day forth, I declare that this should be the official name.
But seriously, how did the other names come about anyway? Groundhog? Whistle Pig? What part of this animal looks porcine? (For the idgits out there, "porcine" = pig-like.) I mean, I realize that some of them are little fat fuckers, but come on... if we used that same logic, "groundhog" would also be a fitting name for humans.
And when have you ever seen one of these animals chuck wood? They have tiny little paws and short stubby arms. They aren't chucking jack shit. They probably couldn't hurl an acorn more than a couple of inches.
Regardless, for those of you unaware, Land Beavers are actually a type of ground squirrel... indeed they are merely chunky squirrels with stumpy little tails. One might say that they are the Samoans of the squirrel world. Though technically I guess the world's fattest nation is Nauru, but nobody's ever heard of that fucking place. Though if you're interested (or even if you're not). Nauru is a Pacific Island with a 95% overweight/obesity rate. But don't be feeling too superior just yet. The US isn't too far behind at about 75%. (Samoa is at about 80%.)
But getting back on topic, they're also mean, nasty little fuckers - Land Beavers I mean, not Samoans nor Naruans nor Americans.
In any event, it looks like that little land beaver fucker saw his shadow today, so if you're a moron who believes that a random rodent can predict the future based on stupid made-up completely bullshit criteria, it looks like we're in for 6 more weeks of winter...
It's the year of the dragon, bitches!
Now’s your chance to make any resolutions you failed to make
on Jan 1, but honestly, New Year’s resolutions are stupid anyway, no? I mean, if you need to make changes in your
life, why wait until Jan 1 to do it? If one day you suddenly realize that
you’re a complete fuckup shouldn’t you try to remedy that as soon as you make
this discovery? Does it make any sense
to just continue along your merry path of fuckupery fuckiing up even more shit until
the first of the year?
Of course not.
Regardless, if you’re not the person you want to be yet,
then it’s a safe bet that you’re never going to be. Let’s face it, most of you have pretty much
cultivated the body and personality that you’re gonna have for the rest of your
life, and it’s not gonna get any better.
It’s only gonna get worse.
Oh sure, you can make a few small changes here and
there. Maybe you can stop stuffing your
face long enough to lose 5 or 10 pounds.
Maybe you can take that class in creative ass scratching that you’ve
already wanted to take. Maybe you can
take a stab at trying to reign in your spending on Cheetos and porn.
But at the end of the day, how much have you really changed? And is it really that much of an
improvement? If you’re a dickwad today, you’ll be a dickwad tomorrow and most
likely you’ll be an even bigger dickwad in a year. Sure you might be a slightly lighter dickwad
who can creatively scratch his as like a champ with a few extra bucks in his
pocket, but you’ll still be a dickwad. Some things just can’t be changed.
It’s all about inertia, my friend. And most of us are a bunch of weak-assed
motherfuckers who are pretty much incapable of affecting the kind of change it
would take to make any sort of discernable difference.
Every year, come Jan 1, just so I’ll have something to tell
the shit-ton of fuckwads asking me what my New Year’s resolution is, I
“resolve” to be nicer to people. Now,
whether you actually know me for reals or just from this blog, you’ll realize
this is pure absurdity. Me? Nicer to people? Ahahahahahahahahah. Let’s pencil that in right after that
snowboarding trip to hell.
So you might be inclined to think that I just say that I’m
doing this without making any sort of actual attempt to follow through, but every
year I actually do make a valiant effort to be nicer to people. Well, “valiant” maybe a slight exaggeration,
but if you catch me on/around Jan 2 or 3rd you might be one of the
few who can bear witness to the kinder, gentler me. Of course any other day of the year you get
the same old ornery asshole that everyone else gets the pleasure of meeting.
So you might now ask, what
then is the point?
And my response to that might be: Are you a fucking moron? There
is no goddamned point. Try and keep up
Anyway, my window of niceness came and went this year in the
blink of an eye leaving no residual evidence behind that it ever really
happened. You’ll just have to take my
word for it.
Maybe if you catch me early next year, you’ll sniff out a
subtle whiff of sweetness in the air, but until then you’re pretty much stuck
with bitter old me, though on the flip side of that, you probably aren’t any
kinda picnic either.
Maybe next year we should just all resolve not
to make any resolutions.