Abortion Protesters

I’m sorry, because I do believe we all have a right to be heard, but I have a real problem with these bitches carrying signs in front of the Supreme Court today saying “I Regret My Abortion”.  Not A Valid Argument.  Just Not.

That’s like saying “I Regret My First Marriage, so You Can’t Get Married Either” or “I Regret Having Children, So You Can’t Have Children Either” or “I Regret Eating That Unripe Mango For Breakfast, So You Can’t Buy Mangos or Eat Breakfast, Ever” or “I Regret Not Buying Charmin, So You Can’t Wipe Your Ass”.

Your Regrets are Your Regrets.  Not Mine.  Not Hers.  Not His.  Only Yours.  Deal With Your Own Regrets and Leave Me Out Of It.  Bitch.  Deal with your own guilt, but do not dare try to drag the rest of the world in with you.  Get a fucking therapist.

I don’t know any woman ever singing “Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah I Had An Abortion”.  It has got to be the most difficult decision any woman might ever have to make.  But it’s HER decision.  You made your decision, now live with it.  Let Her live with her decision.  And keep your fucking laws off her body.

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Wheel of Fortune

So, we get stuck watching Wheel of Fortune fairly often, while waiting for Jeopardy to come on the air, because we can only stand the first 5 or 10 minutes of our local news before we get disgusted at yet another car crash or accidental child shooting or drug overdose, so the choice of choices in that particular time slot is Vanna and Pat, because we still watch Network Television.

One notices a decidedly different quality of player on the Wheel, as opposed to Jeopardy.  On the Wheel, the only males who ever play are dumb straight guys or gay guys who are not the brightest crayons in the rainbow box of colors.  Usually, males do not win this game.

Women are either fat and white or pinched and white or black and fabulous.  White women seldom win, because the puzzles are just too darn hard, but fabulous black women are here to play and know their stuff and usually win the whole shebang.

The game is obviously fixed.  There is no statistical way that “Bankrupt” could come up as often as it does otherwise.  If the dumb straight guy or the dull gay guy or the non-fabulous white woman starts to win too many rounds, POW, there’s Bankrupt to save the day, because this is a game show, dammit, and we want our winners to be fabulous.  But sometimes, if the dumb straight guy is vaguely hot, or the dull gay guy is not hot enough to be threatening, or if the white woman is dressed in an even vaguely appropriate manner for game-show television instead of Saturday Night At The Bimbo Olympics, they might actually have a chance and the fabulous black woman will get Bankrupt.  In any case, you can always tell early who is the top dog of the day based on the other two Bankrupting out early on.

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The Unhealthy Cook’s Healthy Cookbook

So, I have to have something to take to work for lunch next week, because our parking lot is so over crammed that if you leave at lunchtime to indulge your fast food addiction, you will not find a parking space when you return and have to park in the overflow parking which is a mile away.  Seriously.  And we do actually have a cafeteria, but unfortunately it is very much like the grade school cafeteria I remember from fourth grade and nothing like the glorious Google cafeteria that is the stuff of legends.  So you brown bag it.

So I look in the fridge and find a bag of baby carrots that are fast drying out and turning a chalky white color.  Carrots Are Healthy.  Must Be Used.  Cut those in half and then in half again into matchsticks.  Throw them in a deep pan with a stick of butter and a little oil and a whole lot of cinnamon, because cinnamon was a healthy thing, wasn’t it?  Cover and let that steam/boil/brew for about 10 minutes.

Red Cabbage.  Anything red or purple is good for you, yes?  One fourth of that, sliced thinly.  The very last big of a celery heart that is getting pretty droopy.  Celery has something or another in it that’s supposed to be good for you, so chop that up as well.  A forgotten bag of unsalted sunflower seeds.  Those MUST be good for something, they certainly kept David Duchovny an active member of Sex Addicts Anonymous for the past 20 years.  A big handful of those.  And some garlic.  Everyone knows garlic is good for you.  And some oregano, too.  Isn’t it currently a health thing?  Throw all that in the pan with the carrots and recover and cook for five more minutes.

Black beans.  Protein.  Drain that can and let is drip dry in the strainer.  Mustard.  This salad must have a sauce of some type.  Add some balsamic vinegar to the mustard, which now ensures the salad will NOT be pretty but will have an interesting mix of tastes and textures.  Dump that in a bowl and pour in the cabbage mess and stir until well mixed.  Add a handful of that Nutritional Yeast Seasoning you bought last year that was supposed to taste like cheese and actually tastes nothing whatsoever like cheese.  Stir some more, then dump it into a plastic container and store it in the fridge to “develop the flavors”.

Eat that shit for lunch every freaking day next week.  Farty afternoons guaranteed, but then, everyone is state government is farty so who the hell cares?


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Green Pants

So, I’m walking down the street here in Nowhere, Kentucky, and I hear a conversation behind me:

“Look, there’s Steve!”

“I don’t think that’s Steve.”

“Of course it’s Steve! Who else would wear green pants like that!”

And she runs up behind me and spins me around and then says accusingly “You’re Not Steve!”

And then, just to make it all really weird, she asks me “Do you Know Steve?”

And I just nod my head in the negative, and walk away quickly, because I’m ABOUT TO START READING HER BEADS FOR BAD-TALKING MY GODDAMN PANTS.

Kelly Green.  Izod.  Walking Shorts.  Nothing outrageous.  Not uncommon.  But because I’m walking here in Nowhere, Kentucky, I must be someone else because nobody else would wear something anything like these perfectly normal green shorts on a warm spring day.

Stupid Bitch.

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Career Accomplishments in State Government

All you ever accomplish working in state government, no matter where you work, no matter what you do, is basically keep the seat warm.
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Hopefully, this very minute, ants are eating poison ant food from poison ant food traps that I scattered throughout the house yesterday, and they are dying in mass, a near extinction, of at least this particular tribe if not the entire nation.  Because that gives me some sense of power in this powerless world.
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I am so much NOT a Straight Middle Aged White Guy.

I’m walking toward the building after lunch, and it’s raining, and there is nobody else coming in at the same time as me except my ex-boss Guy, but he’s moving across the parking lot pretty fast with his huge oversized blue and white UK Wildcats umbrella, so he catches up with me just about the time we reach the sidewalk.  So now we have to converse.  About, what else, the weather.  And I say something about nearly unpacking my summer clothes yesterday, and he says he had on shorts and a t-shirt and was mowing his lawn yesterday afternoon.  And I make some comment on getting an early start on lawn care.  Oh No, he Had to mow yesterday because the grass was So Thick and if he hadn’t mowed yesterday, why who knows….

So I can sense he’s absolutely Dying for me to Please Ask Him about his Fertilizer, because why else would his fucking lawn be so thick on the last day of fucking March, and then he can tell me about how his fertilizer Also Kills Weeds or maybe he makes it himself using Dish Soap and Beer and Sawdust or maybe he can claim he doesn’t Use Any fertilizer but that his holy garden grows thick and early because he’s a Straight White Middle Aged Guy just like his dad and his dads dad and maybe then we can move on from discussing Fertilizer to the upcoming Game and Am I Going to watch the Game and Did I See the Game and What About That Game and there is the potential for Male Bonding going on here and I’m so uncomfortable I can’t stand it.

Luckily, just at that point, we reach the door, and he goes thru to the elevator but I take the stairs two at a time so we don’t have to repeat the entire awkward episode on the second floor.  I’m Terrified.

It makes me just want to run home and watch every single old episode of Queer As Folk back to back until I forget once again that straight men still wander the earth.

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Pillow Talk

“What in God’s Name have you done to my pillow?” he asks.

“I sprinkled it with Lavender Essential Oil and then threw it in the dryer for 10 minutes.”

“And why would you do that?”

“It disinfects and helps you sleep.”

“How could this possibly help me sleep?”

“Lavender oil just does that.  It’s aromatherapy.”

“If I can’t breathe because my pillow reeks of a scent I don’t normally associate with sleeping, how is that going to help me sleep?”

“Don’t be mean.  It just does.”

“But I don’t have any problem sleeping.  You make fun of me all the time because I say I’m not sleepy when I come to bed and then I’m out in five minutes.”

“Well, this will help you sleep Better.  Deeper.”

“Unless my lungs close up completely and I can’t breathe and I die in my sleep.”

“Shut Up and Go To Sleep Dammit.  I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

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Wally World On Sunday

Here in Nowhere, Kentucky, I tend to avoid trips to Wally World as much as I humanly can, because I basically hate the store and their personnel policies and the fact they’ve destroyed small town America, and the fact that here it is, Sunday morning, and I need freaking Milkbone Dog Biscuits for my dogs, and Wally World is the closest place to go so that I can return quickly before the dogs heads explode.

You have to wear special clothes for Wally World.  Dress clothes of any type are inappropriate.  Colorful pants are likely to have you recognized as “that old gay dude” and end with your car keyed or possibly a cross burning on your front lawn later tonight.  So you try to blend in, wearing all the awful clothes your mother has bought you over the years, usually from Wally World, that you keep in a special place for just those occasions when you actually have to visit that world.

Many people have no teeth at Wally World.  They sell guns and ammunition at Wally World.  Most the cars in the parking lot are oversize trucks or monster SUV’s that nobody on the planet needs but poor people think of as necessary, to make up for the fact they live in a trailer parked behind their mother’s house.  I saw a mother and daughter shopping for groceries together, each with their own Wally World Mega-Cart, walking down the aisles side by side with no acknowledgement of the fact that there might be people coming the other way or trying to get around them as they stopped to chat about nothing while completely blocking the aisles.  This and more is why I hate Wally World.

So today, to fight back, to take back some iota of power, I walked up to the mother and daughter and asked “Why aren’t you in church today, sisters?” and they both turned pale and quickly moved toward the check out aisles.  So I tried it again, with a hung-over looking couple who most likely don’t remember each other’s names but they hooked up last night and are both trying to get some Gatoraid in them to stop the shakes this morning.  “Why aren’t you young people in church today?”  And they turned pale and quickly moved away.

And so it went.  I asked dozens of people.  Not one of them turned the tables and asked me the same exact question.  They all, every one, looked guilty and ran.  Because this is Kentucky and this is Sunday and Church is where you Are all morning before Noon.

I’ve never enjoyed myself more at Wally World.

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Should We Ever Meet Again

So, there was this Big Guy at work, big in the sense he was actually taller than I am but also about 100 pounds heavier, so I have no idea where he ever found a belt that fits.  But this year, I’ve noticed he must be on the same break schedule as I am, and there I see him, in the halls, speed walking with his earphones in, and I always smile broadly at him, hoping to cheer him on in his quest to become more proportional and less round.

But then, earlier this week, we ran into each other in the men’s room, and it was just the two of us, and he looked around and saw that it was just the two of us, and even though we’ve never spoken to each other, he grabs me by the lapels, throws me up against the wall, and says “Once I finish dropping this weight, I’m gonna make you my Dick Slave”, which is actually a huge compliment for folks of my generation, that he would actually work to physically change his appearance and use me as his muse and fantasy along the way.

But, times being what they are today, I had to report him to HR instead of just gloating to myself, for sexual harassment, and he got fired, which is really a shame since a friend of mine knows this guy and told me today that he actually has a humongous cock that I will now never see with mine own eyes, since I suspect he will not remember me fondly, should we ever meet again.

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