Archive for the 'Rants' Category Page 4 of 6



White lines.

What is your ONE thing? You know — the one thing that pisses you off more than anything else in the world?

Mine has to do with parking. More specifically, messy parking.

I’m thinking of this one white minivan that parks in my ramp at work. Five levels there are, and somehow, this same fucking minivan manages to hunt me down and park next to me almost every day. I’ve even changed levels to escape it, but with no success. Mother. Fucking. Sienna. Minivan.

Whether I arrive before or after the Sienna, I somehow always find myself next to it. Sure, I could drive on past and search for another spot. But alas, no other spots are convenient. Every day, the minvan’s right rear tire encroaches into my parking space — to the point where I can’t even open my car door fully. Nothing like having to crack open the jaws of life just to get out of your vehicle every morning.

But on a broader level, I have questions. Questions that demand answers. How can you NOT steer your way into a space marked by six-inch white lines that are placed six feet apart from each other? Where are the parking ticket police when you need them? And for god’s sake, when did Mr. Magoo ditch his jaunty sedan for lame-o minivan?

untitledeye: Sticker shock.

Free Tibet Bumper Sticker on Lexus SUV

OK, this just strikes me as wrong. While I believe that everyone has a right to an opinion, and that there very well may be a few rich fucks out there who have ascended to filthy stinking richness with hearts intact, I also believe that when you choose to emblazon your vehicle with a bumper sticker like this, you need to be aware of the rules.

Of which rules do I speak? Why, the Universal Rules of Bumper Stickers, of course. The URBS. Almost always unwritten, and usually unspoken, the URBS are pretty much understood by most drivers of reasonable IQ. These are the same rules that state Hummer drivers have no bizness slapping an American flag on their rear window. Likewise, they go on to explain the 10 shades of wrong at play when a 1989 Aerostar minivan, complete with a coat hanger for an antenna and honest-to-goodness Fred Flintstone floorboard action, sports a “Bush/Cheney ‘04″ sticker.

Bush/Cheney 04 on Ford Aerostar Minivan

So, if you have the plums to display a “Free Tibet” bumper sticker and you’re not driving a 1982 Volvo, at least make sure:

1. Your vehicle is at least more than a year old.

2. Your vehicle absolutely, positively is not a LEXUS FUCKING SUV.

If you truly understood what was going on in Tibet, you would feel like an ass, driving around in your earthfucker. Somewhere in the mountains of Tibet, monks are being massacred. Innocent children are being abducted. Prisoners are being tortured. But hey, at least you got your woodgrain cupholders and vibrating leather seats with ergonomic crotch massage action, the parts of which were undoubtedly manufactured in China (the country from which Tibet needs to be freed).

Now, I love my SUV as much as the next person. But you don’t see me polluting it with fashionable political statements. I bought my vehicle in 2000, when the only hybrids available looked less like a car and more like the Millenium Falcon. And believe me, the next vehicle I buy will be a hybrid. But until then, I will keep my gas-guzzling tail between my legs and my vehicle sticker-free until I’ve earned the right to butter it up fender to fender, and roll the muthafucka entirely in granola.

Meet the Duggars.

Meet Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar. In the past 18 years, they have had 16 children — Joshua, 17; John David, 15; Janna, 15; Jill, 14; Jessa, 12; Jinger, 11; Joseph, 10; Josiah, 9; Joy-Anna, 8; Jeremiah, 6; Jedidiah, 6; Jason, 5; James, 4; Justin, 2; Jackson Levi, 1; and as of last week, Johannah.

Wait — did I read that right? Jinger and Jedidiah? No need to give your kids normal names, for your homeschooling will keep them safe from the daily ass-whoopings they’d receive on any public school playground.

Now, one might look at these pictures and say, “Holy shit! Look at all those kids!” I look at these pictures and say, “Holy shit! Look at that HAIR!”

It’s unearthly. It’s unhygienic. Four horsemen be damned — it’s the seventh sign of the apocolypse. Not since witnessing the horror that is Crystal Gayle have I felt such a consuming urge to sneak into someone’s home and shear them like a Merino sheep. Small animals have become ensnarled in shrubs less knarly than this woman’s mane. Her uterus may have the resilience of a bomb shelter, but after 16 kids, it probably looks like an old catcher’s mitt. And let me be the first to say that perhaps it’s time to hang up the cleats. But a word of advice, dear Duggars, better hold on to the nut cup, as it is obvioiusly the closest you will get to birth control.

There are federal laws that mandate child-to-teacher ratios in daycares. I believe it’s 4-1 for infants and 6-1 for toddlers. These people have 16 children. With that level of parental imbalance, I can imagine that the Duggar household has seen its fair share of lightsocket licking and knife juggling.

Where oh where is Trojan Man? There are children out there that need you.

Update 3/21/2006

No matter which side of the Duggar fence you might fall, I think everyone’s had a chance to state their beliefs so I’m going to close the comments on this post. However, the beauty of having your own blog is that you get the final say. Here’s mine:

  1. I stand by my claim that what the Duggars are doing is harmful to their children. I saw a documentary on TLC this weekend that showed the Duggars building their own house. School, schmool. The children were enlisted to help build the house. The kids were riding around in the bucket of a loader (imagine if one would’ve fell out — the loader would’ve rolled right over them). One of the boys (who looked like he was 10 or younger) was charged with welding beams for the new house. And the kids who were old enough to hold a power drill were given their own, so they could all help out. I don’t think this is cute — I think is dangerous, and shows poor judgment on the parents’ part. In the documentary, the Duggars came across as sweet, albeit naive, people. Thinking two people can properly parent 16 children is downright delusional.
  2. I still think it’s environmentally unsound to have this many kids. They do 10 loads of laundry a day (and you guessed it — one of the girls who can’t be more than 12 does ALL the laundry. 10 loads a day. Tell me she has time for a normal life.).
  3. I LOVE being a member of the “internet scum-of-the-month club” (scroll down to the end of the post titled “MEET THE DUGGARS: THE BANE OF SECULAR HUMANISTS”). Isn’t there something in the 10 Commandents that says you’re not supposed to call people names? Sure, I do it. But I’m not hiding behind the cloak of religious indignation, either.

Golden child.

I admit it. I go to the tanning bed. Not all the time, mind you. Just 15 minutes, once a week. I’m not there to get all George Hamilton on your ass. I’m just there to keep my acne at bay, and to put a wash of color over my pasty Nordic skin. You know you’ve spent a few too many weekends in front of a glowing computer screen when your perfect shade of foundation is called “Kabuki.”

Before I started tanning, I was all self-conscious about it. I thought I’d be a pariah in there, rifling through the Cosmos in search of the sole copy of Good Housekeeping, waiting until bed 14 opened up. But as it turns out, all you muthafuckas out there are tanning. How come you never said anything! Jeez.

Your co-worker who comes in on Monday with rosy cheeks and impossibly tan forearms? Tanning bed. The guy who says he golfed all weekend? Fake bake. The admin who claims she has naturally golden skin (along with naturally platinum blonde hair)? UVB whore. Look for the telltale “reverse racoon” — white circles around the eyes, while everything else is dark. It’s a dead giveaway.

I mean, rarely do I see a 20-something hardbody there. It’s all these geriatrics, like me. What a mindfuck! I can’t tell you how many times I’d see these other people, all bronzed out, and wonder what they hell they were doing all weekend while I was getting down with the Scrubbing Bubbles. Surely, they must be laying in the sun somewhere, soaking up rays and margaritas all weekend.

Well, now I, too, am part of the golden sorority. Our mascot — an lifesized bottle of tanning accellerator wearing purple eye goggles (strapless, of course). Whenever he enters a room, the song “Kokomo” starts playing and coconut-scented air freshener jizzes out his cap. So do I break the code of silence? Hell no. People, I am too busy lying in the sun all day. Starting a revolution, that would be, like, too Che Guevara for a woman of leisure like myself.

WWBD?

In watching W’s pathetic “Too Little, Too Late” address the nation last night, I kept wondering WWBD (What Would Bill Do)? Blow jobs and cigars aside, Saint Clinton could lead himself a country. Tell me you don’t miss him. TELL ME.

When Bill was at the helm, we were safe. We were cared for. And Bill would never have let what happened happen. Bill would’ve had a plan. His action would’ve been swift, complete and without hesitation. I imagine the highlights would’ve played out like this:

On the weekend before the storm, Bill would lead dozens of Winnebagos around the city, in an effort called “Katrina Karavan.” Perched atop the lead vehicle in a lawn chair and a megaphone, he’d lure holdouts out of the city with free rides, free BBQ and a video loop of “Girls Gone Wild.”

One day after the storm, he’d sic a machete-wielding Janet Reno on the asses of anyone hauling electronic equipment out of stores.

Two days after the storm, Bill would address the country live from the French Quarter. Backed by a brass band, he’d bust out his sax ax for a jazzy rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Within the hour, the MP3 would be posted on iTunes, with all proceeds going towards hurricane relief.

Four weeks after the storm, he’d dissuade returning residents from drinking the tap water with an educational media campaign called “Since the water’s not clear, let’s have a beer.”

All things being said, we’ve got ourselves a serious situation down south. How sad that it took our President three weeks to figure that out.