2006 March Archive at untitledlife

Archive for March, 2006 Page 3 of 3

Big ups to the Duggars.

Published

on March 13, 2006

. 19 Comments

Every time TLC airs their documentary on the Duggars, untitledlife gets a wave of hits from Google. So let’s all take a moment to thank god for Michelle Duggar’s ever-blossoming uterus. Praise BE!

Some of these new visitors are Duggar supporters, so I can imagine the toes curling when they stumble across my posts on cockrings, poop etiquette and my tampon-eating dog. I have no idea who these people are or where they live, but I imagine them all in calico dresses and braids. One of the commenters wrote me a nastygram and DECIDED TO SHOUT HER ENTIRE POST. Jesus fuck, lady. That’s pretty much the equivalent of grabbing me by the throat and shitting down my neck. Not very Christian of you. But on the positive side, it gives me comfort knowing you broke a commandment (or at least came damn close) in my name.

Seriously, I enjoy reading dissenting opinions, in the same way I enjoy listening to Rush Limbaugh. But I do feel an ethical responsibility to repeat the obvious — having 16 children is wrong on so many levels. Environmentally, you are taking more than your fair share of earthly resources. Plus, it is not humanly possible for two people to properly care for all of the physical and emotional needs of 16 children. I have one child, and there are many times when I feel like I could be doing more for him, if only there was more time. I don’t care how peachy things look like in the documentary. Inevitably, things will fall through the cracks — which is exactly how the Duggars got themselves into this situation to begin with.

Open letter to the Outbreak Monkey.

Published

untitled

on March 8, 2006

in Rants and Work

. 11 Comments

What is it with people refusing to stay at home when they are sick? I mean, GODDAMN, people.

Last week, the Diet Coke Bandit insisted on coming to work regardless of the fact that she was packing the black death. Since I grew up in a household with two smoking parents, the slightest cold sends me on a journey into the Shadow of Death. This last week, I spent a total of three full days on my sofa in a viral-fueled hallucination, coughing out husky reditions of Salman Rushdie’s “Satanic Verses.”

But what really pisses me off is the fact that I can’t talk in anything but a whisper, lest I break out in uncontrollable hacks. I can’t taste food, not even hot wings, which is a goddamn shame. And I pee my pants just a little bit every hour, on the hour, due to the sheer force of my coughing. In fact, I’m feeling a little trickle right now. Or is that an air bubble. Fuck. Me.

Following each indignity, I find myself cursing the name of DCB. Given the depths of my discomfort, I have made a conscious decision to sully DCB’s name until her dying day. Or mine. Whichever comes first. And since the lung I just coughed up is lying in repose on top of my keyboard in a heaving, steaming pile, it seems I’ve only got a few more minutes to say my peace.

First off, there is no shame in staying home from work when you are sick. It’s not considered cutting or ditching when you’re protecting the rest of us from your nastiness. On the contrary, it is a show of respect for your co-workers and their spouses and their kids and all the little minions at daycare whose soft pink lungs would be far better off without infected green loogies hanging like unripe bananas off the branches of their bronchii. But since my outrage is brutally outweighed by my amiable nature and wussiness in general, tomorrow will find me silent at my desk. But make no mistake — I WILL find the time to commando my way to the mailroom and wipe my sticky kleenex all over her mailbox when she’s not looking. Take that, beotch.

The tenacious double d’s.

Published

untitled

on March 6, 2006

in Family

. 7 Comments

For a woman whose titties have not seen daylight since Wink Martindale had a full-time gig, untitledmother sure has a fancy collection of bras. She has a few practical bras — the ugly yet comfortable ones you wear every day. The rest are the kind that look best on the bedroom floor, which is a tad unnerving.

Lace, satin, push-up, microfiber. In every color from basic white to seafoam green. The carpet may not match the drapes, but on any given day, you can bet the boulder holder matches the sofa. Which is an ideal situation, since that is where she spends most of her time, eating dry roasted peanutes, digging in her ear with a bobby pin and watching re-runs of “Gunsmoke.”

This is a woman who spends more on spandex than some countries spend on foreign trade. You know how people often have a tall boy dresser in their bedroom? untitledmother has an entire tall boy dedicated solely to bras, panties and socks. What’s a woman to do with more than five bras, anyway? I mean, bras are kind of like shoes — no matter how many you have, you end up wearing only two or three of them anyway. Besides, having this much stretchy material in your life is never a good thing.

Personally, I think she has ordered every possible article of clothing available in her size, and now there is nothing left to buy except underwear. I don’t care if she’s wearing a $75 Wacoal — untitledmother’s titties still look like two Virginia hams that would be best left strung up in the smokehouse. I wonder what she does with all the old models. I’m guessing she throws them. And you know that shit don’t biodegrade. They’ll be sitting in a landfill, until an archaeologist finds them in 1,000 years and mistakes them for yarmelkes.

Hmmm. Perhaps I can convince her to recycle or re-use. Let’s see — she could could cut them in half and fashion coin purses or maybe hobo bags out of them. She could hang them from trees, creating nests for wayward condors and bald eagles (the voluminous cuppage might throw smaller birds off their migratory path). I know — she could give them to her granddaughter to use as papsan chairs or space pods for her Barbie dolls. Coming from a girl who once used a Kleenex box as a Barbie Corvette, I think I like that idea the best. Now, if we could only find a place in Barbie’s world for grandma’s half-used tube of K-Y…

Two words: fucking awesome.

Published

untitled

on March 3, 2006

in Family and untitledeye

. 2 Comments

This here is why I do business with a car repair shop owned and operated by two Greek brothers (who look exactly alike, and are both named Nick. True story.).

Two Words: You Lose!

Take me to the creative team behind this masterworks, which is posted in the brothers’ waiting area. Share with me the vision. Are the flames emanating from a secret bunson burner somewhere — or did they spontaneously ignite after the oxygen came in contact with the awesomeness of the GTO? Did the car break the sound barrier upon takeoff, creating a sonic boom and a road of flames in its wake? I want to know.

There’s something about this piece that warms my cockles. It reminds me of when I was a kid, and I’d sneak into untitledbrother’s room while he was at football practice. I’d hopscotch around his Dungeons and Dragons game pieces, dirty tube socks and fossilized Totino’s Party Pizza remnants. A crusty bottle of Oxy would be tipped over on his desk, alongside a copy of “National Geographic,” opened to a photograph of an African woman with pointy boobies and neck rings. I’d walk past his album collection — which included John Lennon, Bob Seger, The Charlie Daniels Band, The Beatles and Pink Floyd. Sometimes I’d listen to his records, making sure to steer clear of “The Wall” and “The White Album” (the artwork gave me nightmares, like any good rock album should).

On the paneled walls of his room were all these pictures of muscle cars — Chargers, Super Bees, Mustangs, Furys — all suspended with yellowing Scotch tape. The photos would be accompanied by headlines like “Out to Launch” and “Pony Up.” I can’t make this shit up, people.

It wasn’t long before he graduated from the pictures to having a motor hanging from the ceiling in our garage and a carburetor on his bedside table. I was careful to get the hell out before he returned, lest he pin me to the floor and fart on my head. My reconnaissance gave me a narrow glimpse into what was cool and important in this world, be it right, wrong or indifferent.

So when I see a poster like this at my mechanic’s, I can’t help but think that when I drop my keys off, he and his brother are scurrying to the back room to eat Doritos and glue together model hot rods until their mother says it’s time for dinner. Tell me — knowing this, how could I take my business anywhere else?