Tag Archives: Bite Me

Saor Alba

Full Disclosure:  I am, on my Poor Ol’ Dad’s side, a bloody Jacobite — as Scarlett O’Hara said, “run out of Scotland with Bonnie Prince Charlie…”

Of course you KNOW I’m watching “Outlander” — #1, I’m a huge history nerd and #2, I read the books back when they came out (and am reading them again).

Leaving aside my personal name for the series: “Everyone in the Known World Wants to Fuck Jamie Fraser” (if you’ve read the books, you get it, and if not… well, I give you this:)

Lord, that lad is FOINE!

Lord, that lad is FOINE!

… so at least you’ll understand why I gladly count myself among the “Everyone” — GREAT casting, by the way!

But anyhoo, I can’t help but find it hysterically coincidental that this series came out just as Scotland is voting on independence.  So, Dear Sweet Mama being just as much a geek as I am, we found ourselves transfixed as all get out at the idea.  So we got to talking about it at the Bob Evans.

What?  Where do YOU discuss global politics?

So far, we’ve been able to discern 3 major points of contention in the matter – these being what the rest of the world (i.e., not Scotland) seems to think ought to matter:

  1. WHO GETS ENGLAND’S NUKES???  Um, England does.  They’re England’s nukes.  But they WILL need to be makin’ an arrangement about the back rent…
  2. WHAT KIND OF MONEY WILL THEY HAVE?  I’d guess whatever money they want, euros, pounds, whatever.  Although I do have to come down as strongly against going back to the Live Pig Currency Standard.
  3. THE DEBT??? WHAT PORTION OF BRITAIN’S DEBT SHOULD SCOTLAND HAVE TO TAKE ON???  This one I’m quite clear on.  NONE.  That debt was paid at (and after) Blar Chuil Lodair.

So, for what it’s worth, I say saor Alba.  And while we’re at it, tabhair Eire ar ais go dti na hEireann.  And am ddim Cymru, if they like.  The time has come.

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Stone Tablets, Aisle 10

MISSED CONNECTIONS

To the crazy bitch behind me in line at the self-checkout:  You know who you are.  You were standing so close to me I feel like we’re dating now.  Seriously, you were all up in my bubble, man.  Don’t act like you don’t know what you did, who raised you?

Oh, and I guess your mom must be coming over for dinner – I noticed you got that wheat-grass-gluten-free-organic-locally-sourced bullshit pasta she likes.

My parents were right.  I never should have married you.

But seriously, it’s obviously time for some new Commandments up in here.  I mean, no offense to Ol’ Mo’, but the Patriarch just never had to deal with shit like this, so I present to you:

THE COMMANDMENTS OF SELF-CHECKOUT

1.  THOU SHALT NOT STAND TOO CLOSE TO OTHER PATRONS

Really, I think that woman got me pregnant, that’s how close she was.  We’re all grown folk, we all know the rules about personal space – every culture has its own, you know yours, FUCKING OBEY THAT SHIT.

And recent immigrants?  You get 6 months to learn the rules in your new country.  After that, you’re just being a dick like everyone else.

And to top it all off, Standy McTooClose starts scanning her shit before I had even picked up my shit!  Which brings us to…

2.  THOU SHALT WAIT THY GODDAMN TURN, THOU HEATHEN

Yes, I know self-checkout is intended for the speediness, but jeez Louise.  I shouldn’t be ripping off my receipt in mortal terror as you start slinging soy milk in my general direction.  Let me clear the bagging area, for fuck’s sake!  It’s like the water slide – I have to get out of the pool before they can let anyone else come down.  Otherwise, someone’s gonna get hurt.  AND IT AIN’T GONNA BE ME.

And while we’re on the subject…

3.  THOU SHALT NOT BRING FULL CARTS THROUGH THE SELF-CHECKOUT

I’d say, 15 things.  15 things is how many you can reasonably have.  Maybe 20 if you have someone with you who can bag while you scan, but you’re fucking pushing it, Janine.  15 THINGS IS PLENTY.

Oh, and every 5 coupons takes 1 thing off your allowance.  Because you know why?

4.  THOU SHALT NOT HOLD UP THE LINE

Speediness, remember?  I’m not talking about someone’s ol’ Pop-Pop who’s baffled by the newfangled machinery – although I do think that’s what regular checkout clerks are for, but then, how would he learn?  But when you think you’re gonna roll your ass up to the self-checkout with an entire Amazon Rainforest-worth of coupons, um, 2 things: 1) You have clearly exceeded your 15-thing allowance; 2) I WILL END YOU.

C’mon, man, you KNOW at least one of those motherfuckers is gonna jam up the slot and then the girl is gonna have to come over here.  NO ONE WANTS THE GIRL TO COME OVER HERE.

This is also why…

5.  PRODUCE IS FOR ADVANCED CUSTOMERS ONLY

Anything you have to weigh and/or look up is GOING TO SLOW DOWN THE LINE.  That happens even when the actual checkout clerk does it, it’s adding an extra step to the process so it naturally takes longer.  So, if you’re at all overwhelmed by the Brave New World of Self-Checkoutery, play it safe and take that shit to a human clerk.

And if you DO deem yourself ready to look up your own veggies, be advised.  You get TWO.  That basket full of 10 different things for your famous Arugula and Assholes Lima Bean Salad?  NO.  You put that nonsense back and you buy salad in a bag like decent people.

 

 

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Filed under I Rule You, Jesus and Pals, La Vida Loca, SCIENCE!, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

STEP. THE F**K. BACK.

So I think it’s safe to say that by now we’ve all seen this:

aladdin-free-genie

Complete with the rip-my-heart-out-and-stomp-on-it caption: “Genie, you’re free.”

Hell, I shared it myself the minute I saw it — To me, it perfectly summed up the way most of us felt when we heard Robin Williams had died:  Something magical had gone out of our world.

Now, I’m seeing site after site after site criticizing this image as glorifying/glamorizing/rationalizing suicide and I have just two words for those people:

FUCK.

YOU.

Fuck you SO hard.  That image DOES NOT in any way make suicide into a “happy ending” (as the articles from such outlets as “The Washington Post” and “The Independent” contend).  It expresses our collective sorrow at the passing of an iconic film and comedy legend, who happens to have provided the voice for the Genie.

And if you REALLY want to get all nit-picky, as those articles and others do, then let’s dance:  Do NOT go off on a tangent about how the starry sky visible in the background of some of the versions makes suicide seem like a good and/or desirable outcome.  SERIOUSLY?  Dude, they’re animation stills from a movie that came out YEARS ago, there’s no sinister subtext.  If that’s really all you’ve got to back up your argument, then get the fuck over yourself.

I can only speak as one specific fan who found that this picture and the accompanying quote perfectly expressed my feelings of sorrow and loss over a man who struggled with depression and addiction throughout his life.  I have been there.  I have looked at that particular “Exit” door and chosen not to open it — BUT I UNDERSTAND THE FEELINGS THAT WOULD MAKE SOMEONE PULL THAT HANDLE.  So, regardless of how Robin Williams made his own personal “exit,” one thing is for certain:  He’s done with all that pain now.  HE’S FUCKING FREE.

Second star to the right, Robin, and straight on until morning.

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Filed under At the Movies, I Rule You, Reality Bites, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

The Joys of Broke-Folk Insurance

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am ABSO-FUCKIN’-LUTELY a staunch supporter of the Affordable Care Act.  I would not have any goddamn health insurance at all without it, and I’ve been there, it sucks.  And I know the healthcare industry is all fucked up, and I know there’s not enough doctors, and everything.

But still… this ain’t right.

CALL #1 (Yesterday, ’round noonish)

Voice:  “Hello, Doctor ___’s office.”

HoodyHoo:  “Hi, I need to make an appointment?”

V:  “Okay, have you been here before?”

HH:  “No, my insurance company assigned me to y’all.”

V:  “Okay, what’s your name?”

I proceed to tell her, then spell my whole real name three times, then my first name an additional three times, because A) 5 letters is too hard or B) I have a speech impediment.

V:  “And what insurance do you have?”

HH:  “Broke-folk Insurance.”

V:  “Okay, can you hold please?”

Note:  When there are this many “okays” in a single conversation, things are not going to end well.

V (returning):  “What was your name again?”

I spell the whole name one more time.

V:  “Okay, do you have your card in front of you?”

HH:  “I sure do.”

V:  “Okay, can you read me your ID number?”

I do.

V:  “And the doctor’s name on the card?”

HH:  “Doctor _______.” (um, the same name you said when you answered the phone…)

V:  “Okay…”        <long pause>    “And what’s your phone number?”

I give it.

V:  “Okay, we’re going to have to look something up on the computer and call you back.”

HH:  “Ohkaaaay….”

I am somewhat perplexed.  Surely she could look and see whether or not they took my insurance WHILE we were on the phone?  But… maybe they have dial-up, whatever.

TWO HOURS LATER, WITH NO RESPONSE

CALL #2

HH:  “Hi, I called earlier today to make an appointment and someone was supposed to call me back?”

New Voice:  “You called today?”

HH:  “Yes, a couple of hours ago.”

NV:  “Hold on, I’ll get her.”

Short hold, then a Different Voice:  “Susan?”

HH:  “No, this is Hoody.  I just needed to make an appointment as a new patient?”

DV:  “Oh, okay, hold on.”

At this point, I licked my insurance card and stuck it to my forehead because that suddenly seemed to make more sense than what I’d been doing.

Third Voice:  “Hello?”

HH:  “Hi, I needed to make an appointment?”

3V:  “Okay, hold on.”

After yet another hold, FOURTH FUCKING VOICE:  “Hi, this is Linda.”

HH:  “Hi, Linda.”

And Linda was finally able to make me a goddamn appointment… in October.  Now, granted, all I need is a new patient checkup, but she told me there’d be a 3-month wait BEFORE she asked if there was anything wrong.

And people wonder why us Broke-Folk use the ER as our regular doctor.

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More Lessons Learned…

… from “The Last Ship.”

Yeah, it’s been awhile, but hey, most of the funny/fucked up shit that happens to me has to do with The Concubine (without her knowledge), and I almost feel bad shaming her on Teh Interwebz.  I know, weird, right?  Me feeling shame.  But anyhoo…

LESSONS LEARNED FROM “THE LAST SHIP”

Episode 1

  • The CDC is never here to save YOU, dumbass.  They’re here to save other people. FROM you. (Actually, I already knew this.)
  • Jason Dean is still smokin’ fuckin’ hot.  My argument:
And still WAAAAAY too hot for Phoebe Halliwell.

And still WAAAAAY too hot for Phoebe Halliwell.

  • Don’t even fucking THINK about killing the dog, inexplicable Russian ninjas.  I WILL CUT YOU.
  • Two words:  JAYNE COBB! That is all.
The Hero of Canton

The Hero of Canton

  • Jason Dean and Jayne Cobb manage to make up for that actress who looks like she smelled a fart.
  • We are, at this moment, potentially 2 months away from President Boehner.  Wait, wait, stop cutting yourself, I said POTENTIALLY.
  • Radio silence is NEVER for your own protection.
  • When all else fails, fucking do it yourself.  Fear of electrocution is for PUSSIES.
  • If you fail to answer your phone, I’m totally allowed to come over to your place and steal your popcorn and mac n’ cheese.
  • We get issued protective face shields for a reason.  DUMBASS.

(although you did make the right choice, ma brotha.  ain’t goin’ out like that.)

BONUS:  Having kids and a wife is NOT. FUCKING. WORTH IT.  The Night’s Watch has the right idea.

AND ONE CAVEAT:  Naming a character “Dr. Scott” makes me want to throw toilet paper.

I love you, my Hooligans.  And I’ll try to do better!

HH

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Bar Lessons – Stone Pony Edition

Last Friday, Dear Sweet Mama and I ventured to the legendary Stone Pony to see one of her favorite bands, Black 47.  And Bar Lessons ensued.

STONE. PONY. BITCHES.

STONE. PONY. BITCHES.

1.  These kids today, they don’t dance, they don’t even sway… they just stand.

2.  Drunk white chickies don’t know from an Irish jig.

3.  When you do a jig in their general direction, they become frightened.

4.  The lead singer of Black 47 may in fact be a leprechaun (he’s SO WEE!)

5.  Whoever it was that reviewed the Pony online and raved about the food was VERY. FUCKING. DRUNK.

6.  DSM is hilarious when hammered (of course, this is not news).

7.  There are jobs out there worse than mine – one of them is Bathroom Attendant at the Pony.

8.  Even while asleep in the car on the way home, Hoody will still keep her finger on the station scan button and play DJ.

9.  3 hours of sleep looks like PLENTY from the front side.  From the back side, not so much.

10.  Last night’s eyeliner looks like hammered fuck at work the next day.

 

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The Wonderful World of Broadcasting, Episode II

As promised, here is “the rest of the story,” when it comes to the truth behind my ostensibly-glamorous career path.  Let’s see, where were we…

5.  I am essentially slave labor.

Yes, I do get paid (the aforementioned no money)… for my regular job.  But as anyone who has ever been referred to as “talent” can tell you, it don’t stop there.  For example, when I was a TV producer (NOT an on-air job, mind you), I was frequently dragooned into “voicing” in-house commercials and PSAs… for no additional money.  Which translates into “fo’ free.”

All the ads you hear on the radio?  The DJs did them… fo’ free.  Voiceover work is a PAYING job, yo.  But once The Man owns you, sure ain’t he gonna use you.  FO’ FREE.

6.  I have almost no goddamned privacy.

Like it or not, once strangers know your name (even if it’s fake, as mine is and most are), you’re at least a quasi-public figure.  This means your every move – even in your so-called “real” life – can be subject to public scrutiny.  Case in point, I myself have been arrested.  For a nonviolent, victimless misdemeanor that, while infinitely stupid, most of YOU could chalk up as a lesson learned.  But MY mugshot was on the motherfucking teevee… because I was a “public figure.”

Further point, the infamous Chuckweasel and I were once at a baseball game in another fucking state, when someone recognized him by voice alone.  My day-to-day “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” quotient is ABNORMALLY high, mostly just from my voice.  Of course, it gets much worse for my brothers and sisters who are actually on TV – I’ve had friends harassed and even stalked, one to the point where the cops had to come walk her to her car every night.  And you wonder why my avi is a fucking cartoon???

7.  I am consistently undateable.

Yes, yes, part of that is my charming personality.  Bite me.  But a fairly large part of it is the horrible hours I work – part of the appeal of goddamned Chuckweasel was that we had the same butt-crack of dawn shift.

Another part is what the job – the news part – does to you.  I’m fairly callous and unfeeling about just about everything now, and apparently potential partners like someone who at least PRETENDS to have human emotions (huh.  Pussies.).  Fine, Sonny Jim, you watch live Ground Zero feeds all by yourself in the middle of the night for over a week straight and tell me you have fuck one left to give about people’s petty fucking problems.

But I do have some, emotions, that is – which generally come pouring out in an awful cathartic flood when some major can’t-take-this disaster becomes the lead story.  The only way I’ve found to deal with this is to date people who are also in the industry (See Gilbert, the Evil Ogre, and CW).  But this produces its own problems, in that A) You both work ridiculous hours and never see each other; B) You end up in competition for the same jobs and/or C) Your general self-protective disdain for all of humanity extends to each other.

Or you’re just a total bastard who bolts when shit gets real, like someone this blog used to know very well… but I digress.

So, E-Harmony, Match.com… um… J-Date? (note: not Jewish but fascinated by the whole Orthodox thing).  Huddle up, you guys.

I’m a 37 year old news professional who will never work normal hours, make any goddamned money, or give more than half a fuck about #FirstWorldProblems.

A life with me will mean an endless cavalcade of “real” FB pages versus “professional” ones, and even so, strangers will masturbate to the sound of my voice.

Get used to being alone (again) at important family gatherings, and embrace the fact that, while I will seldom shed a tear in relation to our own crises, I am extremely likely to start hysterically bawling over a mine disaster or similar.

I will know the names of our state and local lawmakers better than your family’s.  And I’ll have their cell phone numbers.

 

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