Well, isn't THIS pleasant!

Youngest Child is sitting on the couch, happily watching Nickelodeon while I mop up dog puke. Yes, Casey the Retarded Wonder Corgi decided to throw up all over the kids' play room. Not in just one spot, mind you...he made a huge circle around the room and literally puked every 2 feet, hitting a toy and/or a book with every steaming pile. I ushered the dog outside and prepared to survey the damage.

As I walked around the room, my fury grew with each heaping portion of partially digested Purina One.

K: [muttering] "Fucking retarded fucking piece of shit monkey fucking purebred leg-humping motherfucking fuck of a shit-eating MAN'S BEST FRIEND MY ASS!!!"

Oh look! Tard dog threw up on Youngest Child's favorite Little People board book! It was at this point I started to get slightly irrational.

K: "FUCKING SHIT MUTT! AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! DIE YOU WHORE! GO BACK TO THE FUCKING QUEEN WHERE YOU'LL HAVE SERVANTS TO SCOOP UP YOUR ROYAL VOMIT!!! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

I discovered a duplo block with a bit of puke on it, and figured I would toss it into the sink to later go into the dishwasher. Too bad Shitty decided to not only puke ON it, but puke IN it. Dog vomit was strewn across my counter as the duplo hit the sink. This was when the real insanity set in.

K: "AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK YOUR MOTHER FUCKING DIE YOU $800 WASTE OF FUR! I SHOULD MAKE YOU INTO A FUCKING HAT, YOU BRITISH PIECE OF SHIT!!!"

Needless to say, the dog is banned for the day, and possibly for the rest of his life if my blood pressure doesn't start to level out shortly.

But hey! Let's try to find the silver lining, boys and girls...at least I happened to be home so the puke bombs didn't have a chance to ferment all day.

Ok. That's not working for me. Fuck the silver lining. And I hate dogs.

Home sick

Last night, Youngest Child was a bit pissy. He cried over stupid shit and acted like his world was crashing down around him when he lost his train toy. Drama drama drama...when you have boys, drama usually means that they're not feeling like themselves, and I had a sneaking feeling that I would be keeping him home today. I sent a note to his teacher to call me at school if he got sick, and left for work.

10am: classroom phone rings. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...I knew what was coming. I answered to find my heavily accented Vice Principal on the other end of the line, apparently covering for the secretary.

VP: "K?"
K: "Yes?"
VP: "I 'ave your son's school on zee other line."
K: "Uh oh..."
VP: "She called earlier, and I deed not realize who she was asking for, so here she eez." [connects]

The school nurse got patched through, and she was pissed. Apparently, when she called earlier, she asked for me and my VICE PRINCIPAL had no idea who I was. What the fuck lady, YOU HIRED ME a month ago, yet you don't know who I am? Brainy Vice Principal directed the nurse to another school that sounds kind of like mine. Nurse called the other school, where I obviously was not to be found. She called my husband, my father, and she was just short of calling all of my neighbors when she finally got in touch with me. Youngest Child puked all over the bus and was sprawled across his nap mat, moaning dramatically, and I had to get him out of school.

I called my Grandmother to see if she could possibly watch him for a couple of hours until my husband got back into town, and she refused. Apparently, she "wasn't feeling up to it". Bah. Fine. Thankfully, my Vice Principal felt guilty enough for not knowing who the fuck I was to let me go home for the day.

I broke the bad news to my class.

K: "Boys and girls, I have to leave to pick up my son, so Mrs. Jones is going to stay with you the rest of the day."
Boy: "Is he sick?"
K: "Yes he is."
Boy: "My mom could watch him for you."
K: "That's very sweet to offer up your mom, but that's ok."
Girl: "Can't you bring him back here?"
K: "That wouldn't be a good idea. He's pretty sick."
Boy: "Is he PUKING???"
K: "Yes, actually."
Boy: "COOOOOOOOOL! That would be so awesome if he puked in our class."
K: "Ummm..."
Girl: "No it wouldn't, stupid, then he'd get the rest of us sick."
Boy: "Well then we could miss school, right?"

[silence, as the class absorbs this possibility]

Class:

• "COOOOOL!!!!"
• "BRING HIM IN MRS. K! WE'LL TAKE GOOD CARE OF HIM!"
• "I WANNA STAY HOME SICK SO I CAN WATCH MY DAD'S 'FAMILY GUY' DVD'S!!!"
• "WHAT IF HE PUKED ON OUR HOMEWORK? AWESOME!!!"
• [chanting] "Puke...puke...puke...PUKE...PUKE!!!"

I hastily left their work with the substitute and ran out amid the vomit madness.

I picked up youngest child, who I found laughing and frolicking in his classroom. Of course. Home to watch Blue's Clues and ply him with juice and cookies.

I'm not all that heartbroken to be home today, since I worked at the hellhole until 4am, but it still sucks to have to use up a sick day to care for a kid who's practically doing cartwheels in the middle of my living room right now.

Oh well. There's worse things than catching up on laundry while watching daytime television. Too bad Springer doesn't show the fights anymore...

Gimme yer tots!

Every now and then, an Ebay auction comes along that makes you ask at least one of these questions:

• Why?
• Who has the time?
• Who the fuck is this guy?
• Has he ever gotten any pussy at ALL?

Today, loyal readers, I give you an auction that begs each and every one of these questions:

The Napoleon Dynamite Lego Mosaic







He spent, like, 3 hours shading the upper lip. It's clearly the best work he's ever done.













Ghengis forced me to watch this movie. Well, I saw most of it anyway, and I wasn't overly impressed until I thought back to some of the scenes later on and belatedly realized the comedic genius. Stupid? Abso-fucking-lutely. Hilarious? You bet your sweet ass. Though I can't say I like the movie quite as much as THIS guy...

For all your crotch rot needs...

I was perusing my stat counter and came across a visitor from Omaha, Nebraska who found my blog in the most peculiar way. (click to enlarge)


Apparently, my blog is the first hit if you're looking for "rottin crotch".

Looks like my post about Charles shipping his aunt's dead body (rottin) and my pseudo-post where I mentioned a small lump where it didn't belong (crotch) were somehow lumped together, producing the very first hit.

We strive to be one-stop shopping here at The Daily sKWeez, so if your internet needs include websites that involve crotch rot, then by God we're here for you.

Surrounded by 'tards

I was at a relative's house yesterday, and Oldest Child was disappointed to discover that his favorite apples were not in the fruit bowl. The child lost his two front teeth last month, it's a mystery to me how he thinks he's gonna effectively polish off an apple with the gaping hole he has in his maw, but whatever. He decided to question the female relative who was hosting the get-together about the absence of his previously requested favorite fruit.

OC: "Where'th the golden delithiouth appleth?"
FR: "They're right there!" [points to fruit bowl]
OC: [holding red apple] "Thethe are NOT golden delithiouth appleth."
FR: "Yes they are! I specifically asked for them at the market."
OC: [looks at her like she is from another planet]
FR: [confused, looks to me] "Well what do golden delicious apples LOOK like anyway???"
K: [snickers] "Uh, they're yellow."
FR: [stares]
K: "Hence the name."
FR: "Then what the hell are THESE?"
K: "They're red."
FR: [stares]
K: "So they're red delicious apples. Hence the name, again."
FR: [getting pissed] "Well I'VE never heard of YELLOW apples."

And she stomped off, defiantly waving what she believed to be a golden apple.

OC: "Mommy, I don't think sthee knowth her colorth."


I don't think tho either, thweetie.

You, sir, can F off!

One of my superiors at the hellhole just called. Fucker blocked his caller ID, so I didn't let the machine pick it up.

S: "Hi K, this is [so and so] from [hellhole]."
K: [thinking..."ooohhhh shiiiiiit..."] "Hi."
S: "Listen, we have an emergency on the afternoon shift."
K: "Uh huh."
S: "We're processing 25,000 more packages than expected."
K: "Well that sure sucks."
S: "Can you come in for 5:45?" [my normal shift is at 10]
K: [hits mute button so Supervisor doesn't hear hysterical laughter]
S: "K?"
K: "My husband is working late, I really can't."
S: [silence]
K: "I have nobody to watch my kids."
S: [silence]
K: "I'll try, but there's no way I can be there so early."
S: "Well do what you can, we'll see you soon." [click]

Let's see...it's the night before Thanksgiving, and any extra hours I work wouldn't even be overtime because I'm salaried. As it is, I'll probably be there until 5am on my normal shift.

Yeah. I'll do what I can.

Turkey Balls

Yesterday, my students were in music class and I was sitting at my desk grading papers...again...when the Vice Principal walked in. Vice Principal has a very heavy accent and was waving a bunch of papers around, so this was all I got out of the conversation.

VP: "I need you to have the students write about sweat."
K: "Excuse me?"
VP: "Sweat, they need to write about sweat. And balls."
K: "Ummm..."
VP: "I need it right away." [rushes out of the room to the next class]

I sat dumbfounded...what the fuck...

I walked next door to the other fourth grade teacher.

K: "WHAT does she want us to do???"
T: "Oh, she needs a writing sample. From the bathroom incident the other day."
K: "oooohhhh...I see..."
T: "We need to make up a sentence for the kids to copy down."
K: "What kind of sentence?"
T: "One that uses 'ugly', 'sweaty', and 'balls'."
K: [stares]
T: "Yeah, I know. I'm still trying to come up with something myself."

What could I possibly have them write? Possibilities raced through my mind:

• The ugly boys played soccer and ended up with sweaty balls.
• The boy's balls were ugly and sweaty.
• The sweaty girl laughed at the ugly balls.
• Ugly balls can't be sweaty.
• Sweaty balls are always ugly.

fuck...fuck...fuck...

Finally, I came up with this:

The ugly turkeys played with basketballs
until they were sweaty.

"Gobble?"

The children were greeted with this festive message as they came back from music class.

Girl: "Mrs. K, WHAT is THAT?"
K: "Here's some paper, boys and girls. You need to copy this down."
Girl: "But WHY?"
K: "Just do it. Make sure your name it on it."
Girl: "Sweaty turkeys? That's DISGUSTING!"
Boy: "It's not 'sweaty', stupid, it's 'sweetie'."
Girl: "Is not."
Boy: "Is too."
Girl: "Is not."
Boy: "Is too."
[repeat 10 more times]

K: "OK! That's enough. Just cut it out. We need to write this down." [proceeds to make the mistake of reading the sentence aloud]

Boy: [whispering] "Haha, the teacher said 'balls'."
K: "You just lost your recess, pal."

I collected the papers and asked my most dependable student to bring them to the Vice Principal. I proceeded to have a very mature conversation with one of my girls.

Girl: "Are we going to write more about sweaty turkeys?"
K: "No, open up your reading books."
Girl: "But why did we have to do that?"
K: "Just because."
Girl: "That's not a real answer!"
K: "Yes it is."
Girl: "But WHY?"
K: "Because I said so."
Girl: "But WHY?"
K: "Because I'm bigger than you. Reading books, page 157 boys and girls!"
Girl: [walks away, defeated]


I can make 22 nine year olds write about sweaty turkey balls and not even have to tell them why. Teaching rocks.

Teachers suck at words, too

My cooperating teacher is stupid.

• She is horribly disorganized, yet she labels her shelves...fruitless, since the books are never on the right shelf. Anyway, her "Grammar" shelf is labeled "Grammer". Jesus fucking Christ, you look at the fucking book EVERY DAY, lady, and you're like 60, you don't know how to spell Grammar YET???
  

"Why you stupid bitch."

• The children were taking turns reading the science book aloud, and one child came to the word "lemur" and actually pronounced it properly. Too bad Miss Dumbass had to come to the rescue. "It's leh-MER, not LEE-mer," she said. Several students spoke up in protest, only to be told to put their heads down for being insubordinate. Argh. I figured if I spoke up, I'd probably have to put MY head down too.

"Screw up my name again and
I'll smear my poo on you, whore."

• I was grading papers, and found that I had to divide 100 by 15, so I grabbed a scrap of paper and worked it out. Now, I knew off the top of my head that it was about 6 and a half, but I wanted the exact decimal so I wouldn't screw the kids out of any points (turns out it was 6.667). "I have a grading sheet, do you want that?" "No, it only takes a second to work it out on paper, keeps my mind sharp." She looked at me like I was out of my mind and walked away. It didn't occur to me until later that she probably doesn't have the necessary equipment for mental math.

• Last week, I was again grading papers (I'm pretty much her paper bitch) and it was a test covering a story they'd read the week before involving hurricanes. Now, I didn't read the story, but I've got enough general knowledge to be able to mark third grade papers. "You're not using the answer key?" "No, I can handle it." Again, she looked at me like I was nuts and walked away. I even caught her double checking my corrections after the fact. Teachers shouldn't need answer keys, lady! Christ.
  

And here I sit wondering why her students can't spell "fuck".

Horror in the Girls' Room

Today one of my female students came to my desk and asked to speak to me "privately".

S: "Can I show you something?"
K: "Sure. What's up?"
S: "I need to take you to the girl's bathroom to show you."
K: [not quite sure where this is going] "ummm...where is it?"
S: "In the stall."
K: "Ok. Let's go."

[Student & Teacher travel to the girls' bathroom]

S: [points at the wall] "LOOK! It's a B-A-D word!"

On the wall of the 4th grade girls' bathroom, I found the following, in poorly written cursive:

Fuk U Rachel Schultz! Fuk [sic] yer ugly mom!
U suck swetty [sic] balls!

I walked out in semi-shock and informed the custodian, who just about took a stroke right where he stood. He literally sprinted down the stairs to get the vice-principal, whose shriek could be heard all the way down the hall.

"LOCK THE BATHROOM MR. JONES! THERE WILL BE A FULL INVESTIGATION INTO THIS MATTER!!!"

Bathroom stall slander starts in fourth grade these days? Jesus Christ! And the spelling...so horrendous...if kids today can't even spell four letter words properly, what the hell are we teaching them??? I mean, come on... duck, suck, stuck, luck, truck, fuck... this isn't difficult, people!

This day sucked.

Today, one of my children took a shit on my office chair. No, I'm not joking.

Today, I matched 96 pairs of socks. Yes, 96, I counted. And I've still got about 30 odd socks in the basket. HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN???

Today, I found out that we're having Thanksgiving at home, by ourselves, because nobody in either of our lousy piece of shit families wants to trek to OUR house for a change. Oh, and let's not forget BlackLung Grandma, who refuses to have a meal in a house she can't smoke in. 2 of my children don't even eat turkey, why are we fucking bothering?

Today, I found renegade gray hairs hiding behind my ears. Fuckers.

Today, I started with a tickly cough that sends me into hacking fits, which in turn causes a sinus headache that makes my head feel like it's going to explode.

Today, I sucked down 4 mixed drinks. I should have had more.

Hit me! Hit me!

Oldest Child got into trouble at school today. Before I go into it, the back story.

He had to play a card game for math homework. We played for a while, and I got bored.

K: "Hey, wanna learn another game?"
OC: "Ok."
K: "It's called Blackjack."
OC: "What's that?"
K: "It's almost the same, except you have to get as close to 21 as you can."
OC: "Ok."

So I taught him the basics: anything with a face on it is worth 10 points, aces are worth 1 (didn't get into the whole 11 thing, too complicated), and we started playing. He had a great time smacking the table and yelling "HIT ME!!!" We played for a while and he went to bed. Didn't think too much of it.

The husband just called to inform me of a phone call from the principal. Apparently, he had been explaining the game to a girl in his class, who took a particular liking to the "hit me" aspect, so she started yelling "HIT ME! HIT ME!" Oldest Child asked her to shut up, but she kept at it and wouldn't leave him alone.

So he hit her.

Now we have to meet with the principal on Monday. And I have to somehow explain to her that I was the one who taught him how to play Blackjack.

So! Let's sum up: I not only allow my 3 year old to read men's magazines, but I also teach my 2nd grader how to gamble and smack bitches around.

Someone print up my mother of the year award. Quick.

Raisin' my boys right

My husband was giving the boys a bath this evening, and I was lying on the couch, half comatose from having worked 12 hours every day this week on 3-4 hours of sleep per night. He yelled for me to come, and I grumpily refused at first, but decided that it had to be something good for him to risk pissing off a sleep-deprived crazy woman.



Youngest child sat on the toilet (we have to make him do this before a bath or he'll pee on his brother) and my husband walked out to get something. While he was gone, youngest child discovered the magazine stash.


Here you see my toddler flipping through the pages of this month's Maxim.







We decided to get his attention so he'd crack a smile...he didn't look up right away, he flipped the page and THEN looked up.







We pretty much had to drag him away to get him into the tub.


I think it may be time for Daddy to stash his magazines elsewhere.

In honor of my 10,000 unique visitor...

...who happens to be a regular from Cherokee Village, Arkansas...

I give you, my loyal readers...

An Ode to Provolone

Oh Provolone, so fragrant and round
I've been known to eat you by the pound
Other cheeses could never compare
Not Monterey Jack, nor Brie or Gruyere

Limburger, Munster, & Swiss all suck
Disagree? Go fuck a duck
Mozzarella's got nothing on you
Feta cheese can go to hell, too

Oh Provolone, so carefree and fun
Desire a hand job? Consider it done!
Everybody wants some, hands off, bitch!
Goes so nice with my roast beef sandwich

Oh Provolone, so fragrant and round
When I'm with you, fat cells abound
Just one more slice...which really means ten
Shit, I'm all out...to the deli again!

Mmmm...provolone...in bondage...

Consider this my fucked up way of saying "thank you" for laughing with me as I trudge through a mad, mad world full of people crazier than shithouse rats. There are some days that your comments make me feel like the funniest bitch on earth, and it feels good to know that there are people in the world (all 120 of you) that will appreciate even a horrible poem that recounts my unnatural affection toward an imported dairy product. Bless you people. You're a rare breed.

Out of the mouths of heathens

My cooperating teacher was out again today, leaving me with no lesson plans and a class full of kids who have only known me a week and don't care to see me as an authority figure just yet. The day was pretty rough, I won't bore you with the details, but I did come away with a few comedic gems that I thought I'd share.

• Boy called me over for help with a worksheet. It was a "fill in the blank" type deal, with a bank of words to choose from. The sentence read like this: "The happy ______ floated down the river," and the words to choose from were children, boats, logs, tires, and sunshine. "I'm confused," he said. "Boats can't be happy, and if I use children, then it'll sound like they're dead." Good point kid, nobody wants to read about dead kids floating down a river, so just use boats. We'll pretend that boats can be happy for today.

• As I was helping the kid with the dead children, I heard a kid next door tell his teacher to "shut yer piehole". Now, maybe I'm old fashioned, but if I'd ever had that kind of nerve at 8 years old, I wouldn't have lived to see 9. What I find most peculiar is that the teacher didn't even send the kid to the office, nor did she call the parents. "I kept my cool," she said proudly. Uh, maybe that's your problem, lady. Ah, how I yearn for the days when a good ass-beating was acceptable...
  

• Another gem from next door...the children were asked what they wanted to be when they grow up. Doctor, lawyer, teacher (what a kiss ass), dentist...such ambition in the room. Then, it was Charlie's turn.

T: "What do you want to be when you grow up, Charlie?"
C: "I wanna be like my dad."
T: "How nice! What does your dad do?"
C: "Nothing. He's on disability."


It's no wonder this country is going to shit.

Supermarket

So I decided to go grocery shopping for the second time this week, primarily because my boys are pigs and eat everything in sight. Seriously, they're like locusts, and they work as a team to get the loot. I've hidden around the corner and seen them in action on more than one occasion; middle child gives youngest child a boost, and oldest child is waiting to catch the goods as youngest child throws them down. Then they smuggle it into the living room and stuff their faces as they watch Spongebob Squarepants, passing the shit back and forth, filling the couch with crumbs. This normally goes down while I'm having the nerve to do the laundry or clean the bathroom, and we're seriously considering padlocking the fridge like those parents on the "I have a 200 pound toddler" episodes of Maury Povich. They're not fat yet, but they're sure as hell gonna be if this keeps up.

Anyway, back to grocery shopping; I hate it. I'm too much of a fucktard to remember to double check my list before I leave a section and always end up running back and forth when I realize I've forgotten something. There's always a line at the deli. I ALWAYS squish the bread (which has become a running joke, my husband gives me endless shit for this), and I ALWAYS manage to somehow break one lonely egg out of the dozen, just enough to make a mess and piss me off. The worst part is that even if it's an "in-between" shopping trip, like it was tonight, I'm guaranteed to drop at least $80-$100. I might as well just walk up to customer service, drop my pants and bend over, because Hannaford Supermarkets owns my ass outright.

The first section is produce: ha, fuck this shit, produce rots in my house. I grab a bag of potatoes, as those are probably the least perishable of all vegetables and are almost guaranteed to survive long enough to be cooked.

Next, we have the "processed deli" section, which is where I have to snag hot dogs for youngest child. We've tried buying him the "good" hot dogs from the deli, all beef and such, but he prefers the cheap shit, so I grab a package of processed lips and assholes and toss them into the carriage.

On to the deli, which I monopolize for a full 15 minutes with my gargantuan order. It never fails that if, on the rare occasion, I happen to hit the deli with no line, that some poor bastard holding a basket with obvious intentions to order one or two things happens to end up behind me. The deli associates never seem to care.

K: "Maybe you should take this guy's order so he can get outta here."
D: "We'll finish your order first. What else did you want?"
K: "It's a biggie, I'm telling you, take him."
D: [annoyed] "So you don't want anything?"
K: "No, I want lots, trust me. But this guy..." [voice trails off as I realize that the deli guy doesn't give a shit and just wants to get rid of me]
K: "Fine. A pound of bologna. The cheap stuff. Because my kids prefer lips and...um...well you know."
D: [stares, starts slicing my order]

I run away from the deli, feeling the death glare of the single guy with the basket on my back. I pick up some bread that I know will get squished on my way to the meat section, and snag a 4 pound chunk of ground beef for my little carnivores. I walk back and forth, looking for Italian sausage, cursing because I can't find it. Tard.

K: [muttering] "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fucking fuck your mother fuck..."

[Old woman comes around the corner, looks at me with disgust]

Making friends everywhere I go...

On toward the snack aisle. I must stock up for a week's worth of bag lunches, and Little Debbie, like an old and faithful friend, is there for me. $1.29 for 8 Cosmic Brownies...bless you Debbie. At least some things are still cheap in the world.

Condiments are next. Mustard, ketchup, mayo...into the carriage. Almost done. I round the corner and see a display with an aura of glorious light around it..."Coke Zero, 78 cents 2 liter". Cherubs sang. My cheeks flushed; COKE ZERO FOR 78 CENTS, HOT DAMN! Six 2 liters went flying into my carriage with such gusto that I actually broke one of the caps (which I discovered when I got home). Now Coke Zero is the greatest fucking invention and between my husband and I, we got through a 2 liter a day. Awesome shit. With my luck, we'll find out in 10 years that it causes ass cancer or something. I dismiss the thought of my rectum rotting away and throw a couple more in for good measure.

Coke Zero: No Lips, No Assholes
Just Pure Awesomeness (and ass cancer)

Onward, to frozen food! I find the one single brand of chicken nuggets that picky middle child will eat...more processed shit! Beaks and chicken butt, no doubt...into the carriage post haste, your friends from the magical land of lips and assholes await! I search through the dairy case for American Cheese slices...not cheese food, not cheese product, fucking CHEESE, people, should this really be so HARD??? I might feed my children chicken ass, but goddammit, they WILL have real cheese!!! I finally find it (after muttering a few more 'fucks') and toss it in.

To the checkout! By this point I am slightly panicky and feel the need to get the hell out ASAP. I start throwing things onto the conveyor and discover that I've forgotten the paper towels AND the Pepto. FUCK!!! FUCK FUCK FUCK!!! More dirty looks from old ladies...goddamn, isn't it past their bedtime? Isn't Golden Girls on Nick at Nite or something? Leave me in my vulgar peace, people, I'm a woman on the edge at this point.

At the checkout, I spy the two heavily pierced individuals in front of me marveling over the collector's edition of "Office Space". Mental note: check Half.com for that masterpiece later. Paying $24.99 for a DVD at a supermarket checkout is for suckers.

Grand total: $119.77. WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT??? More fucks ensue as I collect my carriage and run for the door. These kids are eating us out of house and home. Hell, if we'd discovered the joys of anal earlier in our relationship, we'd probably be driving Bentleys by now.

Could I have a #1...sodomized, please

Teenager Strip Searched, Sodomized at McDonald's

I encourage you to read through this (and there is video to boot), but I'll sum up:

So this 18 year old girl was working the night shift at McDonald's when a phone call came in to her assistant manager from a "police officer" who accused her of stealing a customer's purse. He instructed the assistant manager to conduct a strip search, and she subsequently told the girl to empty her pockets, and then remove her clothes and underwear.

The restaurant was busy, and the manager complained that she had customers, so the guy on the phone demanded that she get another employee to watch the girl. She chose another employee, a 27 year old GUY, who took the phone and refused to take part after the "police officer" told him to tell the girl to drop her apron. Then the caller asked for another guy to come in to watch her, so the manager sends in her fiance (aka 43 year old pervert), who was all too willing to help out for a couple of HOURS.

Pervert ordered her (because the voice on the phone said so) to drop her apron, stand on a chair, do jumping jacks (to dislodge any loose objects, of course), then he SPANKED HER for 10 minutes straight because she didn't call him "sir" (again, on the advice of "law enforcement"). Finally, he forced her into a sexual act...now, they don't specify which act, but seeing as the guy was charged with sodomy, I figure a cavity search must have been part of the mix.

While this was going on, the manager occasionally came in to check on the progress of the "investigation". Pervert would throw the apron over her and tell her to be quiet. The girl begged to be set free; the manager refused, saying "we're still waiting fo the cop."

Then, the phantom caller ASKS FOR SOMEONE ELSE to help out. So they call in the 58 year old maintenance man, who promptly told the caller where to go.

Summers frantically called her manager, Lisa Siddons, who the caller claimed had been on the other line all along. But when Siddons answered her phone, she said she'd been sleeping.
It was then that Summers realized, she'd been had.

~~~~

WHAT KIND OF FUCKING MORONS ARE WORKING AT FAST FOOD RESTAURANTS THAT WOULD ACTUALLY FALL FOR THIS SHIT?

And the manager...what the fuck! Did the strip search not tip her off? Did the odd instructions not give her a clue that MAYBE, just MAYBE, there wasn't a cop on the other end of the phone? Did the fact that her FIANCE was left in the room alone with the girl for 2 HOURS, NAKED, give her a little bit of cause for concern??? In the end, the only thing that made a light go off in her shell of a fucking brain was that her manager didn't know what was going on.

"Well, this DID happen in Kentucky," you may be thinking.

But guess what, fuckers? This has happened 70 TIMES over the last 10 YEARS, all over the damned country. Coast to coast, even right here in good old New England. So we really can't put all of the blame on Kentucky, there's equal retardation to go around.

It's no wonder the rest of the world laughs at us on a regular basis. It's because we deserve it.

New Job: Week 1

Monday I started my first real job. I mean, I've had other jobs before, but this is the first one that I've sought out and accepted with my actual "career" in mind, so I'm pretty excited about it. I had envisioned my own desk complete with an apple...an assortment of colorful stickers and stamps with sayings such as "Great Job!" and "Wow!"...a mug full of freshly sharpened pencils. I went to bed Sunday with visions of red marking pens dancing in my head. Glorious.

I came into school to find that I didn't even have a chair. I am working in another teacher's room for the year, as she will be out of the room a lot for professional development and other projects. My reason for being there is to back her up, so I guess nobody thought I needed my own space for such a purpose. Whatever, no biggie. I'm sure they'll get me a chair at some point.

The first day began with "Vicky", my cooperating teacher, greeing the students in the most annoyingly nasal, sing-songy tone of voice I've ever heard. Think Victoria Jackson, only not funny, about 20 years older, and with a heavy Jersey accent. One of the children, "Andy", stormed right over to where I was standing.

A: "Are YOU the new teacher?"
K: "Uh..." [thinking carefully about how I should answer this question] "Yes."
A: "Then THIS is for YOU."

He proceeded to reach menacingly into his backpack, staring me down, not taking his eyes off of me the whole time he dug around for whatever automatic weapon he was searching for. Longest 5 seconds of my life. This kid bore a little too much of a resemblance to Christopher Walken in "The Deer Hunter" for my liking. He finally found what he was looking for, pulled it out, and dramatically held it up in my face.

The little psycho-looking kid brought me my first apple.

K: "Thank you, Andy."
A: [looks at me suspiciously, stalks off to his desk]

This would not be the last of Andy. The rest of the week was marked by Tourrette's-like episodes of Andy giving me shit one minute ("YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME! YOU'RE JUST A LOUSY SUB!") and being apologetic and sweet the next ("I'm sorry, Mrs. K. I didn't mean it.")

Andy is not the only head case in my class. "Cindy" (aka Drama Queen) had a half-hour long crying fit because she couldn't finish an assignment. Even after I told her it was no big deal, she still wouldn't stop. She ended up sprawled out on the floor, body wracked with sobs, kicking the cabinets while the other children ignored her.

Kid: "She always does that."
K: "Really?"
Kid: "Probably a few times a week. Perfectly normal."
K: [stares in disbelief]
K: "Jacy, go to the bathroom and wash your face. You'll feel better."
C: [crawls out of the room, still sobbing. Teacher across the hall stares.]

After Cindy's performance, "Sara" decided to put on a little show of her own.

Kid: "Mrs. K, Sara said if we don't stop talking to her, she's gonna kill herself."
K: "Ummm..." [walks over to Sara, who is gnawing on a pencil like a wild animal]
K: "Sara, what's the matter?"
S: "THEY WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!"
K: "Come to my desk and talk to me." [not really my desk...trivial details]

[We talk at the desk. Other children are ignoring us, apparently this is perfectly normal too.]

K: "What's going on, Sara?"
S: "I'M ALL STRESSED OUT."
K: "Why?"
S: "I'VE GOT TOO MANY ACTIVITIES AND I CAN'T GET MY HOMEWORK DONE."
K: "Have you talked to your mom about that?"
S: "SHE HAS TOO MANY ACTIVITIES TOO. SHE WON'T EVEN SIGN MY HOMEWORK IN THE MORNING." [breaks into sobs]
K: "We'll talk to Miss Vicky in the morning. Right now, just go wash your face, you'll feel better." [my solution to all little girl drama: cold water]
S: "Ok." [starts walking out, stops] "YOU'D BETTER TELL THEM TO STOP TALKING TO ME."
K: "Consider it done."
S: [muttering] "I'll kill myself, I'll do it..."


That night, the husband asked the fateful question.

H: "How was your day?"
K: [stares catatonically]
H: "That bad?"

[K takes a deep breath]

K: "There was this kid who practically attacked me with an apple and this girl who decided to take a fit on the floor and this other girl who threatened the rest of the class with suicide if they didn't shut up and I didn't even get a desk and my feet hurt from these fucking shoes and I DIDN'T EVEN GET MY OWN RED PEN."

H: [stares]
K: "SO YEAH, IT WAS THAT BAD."

Even though my first week kinda sucked, I'm still in the honeymoon stage of my first teaching gig. I photographed my first apple. I wore my embroidered denim teacher shirt with the apples and rulers and numbers all over it. I plan to go shopping today for school supplies, as I will not be denied my stickers OR my red pen.

On the up side, I managed to clear off the extra desk AND snag a teacher chair while Miss Vicky was out on Thursday. I don't think she'll be too pleased to see that I displaced her dust-covered Rubbermaid bins full of crap. I wish I cared. *snicker*

Dancing Queen

I am so fucking bored today. Can you tell?

Make K Dance

"My afro brings all the boys to the yard..."

Today's Gadget: The iBoob

Musical Breast Implants: The Wave of Plastic Surgery Future

MP3 player in one tit, music catalog in the other. Bluetooth wrist controls. Very fancy.

File this under "What'll they think of next."

iBoob:
1,000 songs in your bra,
and impossibly buoyant

Hypothetical Questions

Charles quit the other night. I'm actually a bit sad over his departure, as his antics have been a constant source of entertainment. On his last night of work, he had the following conversation with Pat:

C: "So what kinda thangs can a person ship 'round here?"
P: "Just about anything you want."
C: "What about 'splosives?"
P: "Uh, generally we don't ship anything dangerous like that."
C: "Ok...well 'sposin...just 'sposin...ah happened to have mahself a dead body."
P: "Ummmm..." [look of horror, backs away slowly]
C: "No no don't misundahstayand...it wouldn't be like rottin' or anythang like that."
P: "That's a relief."
C: "Say it was all embalmed and whatnot. Could ah ship it?"
P: "I don't think we do that, Charles."
C: "Well 'sposin I wrapped it up good with lots ah packin' peanuts."
P: [stares]
C: "and if I put it in a crate, packed up good...would they open it up?"
P: "Probably not. Unless it started leaking."
C: "So plastic wrap...packin' peanuts...and a crate. S'all I'd need?"
P: "I...I...guess you could maybe get away with it."
C: "Well that's inneresting."

[continues loading truck as Pat stares at him, open-mouthed]

C: "Well I don't REALLY have mahself a dead body. I was just wonnering."


Yeah. Sure.

"Ah shit...we got a leaker."

Does anyone else think it's no coincidence that he left the day after that? I think maybe his "Ant" got to be too much of a bitch and he iced her. Who knows, we probably shipped her old bones last night.

Whores: Training 'em young

I saw a 4th grader wearing this shirt today at school.

Hey, stupid piece of shit parent! Why don't you just velcro a flashing sign to your daughter's head that says "Welcome Pedophiles" and get it over with?

9 year olds in suggestive t-shirts...Jesus Christ...you have no idea how thankful I am to have boys right now.

Tuesday, November 8th

I got NUTHIN'. I'm on day two of a new job, day three of a hangover, and day 10,619 of a generally useless existence. I worked, saw the gynecologist, and couldn't even muster up the energy necessary to vote.

I have a small lump in the "reproductive region" that my husband insisted I should get checked out. I put it off because I wasn't looking forward to discussing exactly how this lump was found with a medical professional. My female readership, I'm sure, can appreciate the awkwardness of having to start a conversation with a miniature Korean man about problems with the 'ole hoo-ha.

"So my husband found this small lump in my...uh...you know...and well you know he's forraging around in that area far more often than I am, so I guess he would know if there were something odd in there, right? Anyway, could you check that out?"

Small Korean Man seems to think it's just a teeny tiny bump that is nothing to worry about. He even drew my husband a diagram on a sticky note to illustrate where the bump is in the grand scheme of my anatomy.


SKM: "Everything's fine, it's probably a blocked duct or something like that."

Me: "Ok, thanks." [puts shoes on, collects purse and coat]

SKM: "If it bothers your husband, then I can prescribe some lubricant."

Me: "That's thoughtful, but I think we're all set, thanks."

SKM: "It shouldn't become a problem unless your husband gets a little crazy with you." [makes somewhat of a jackhammer motion with his hand]

Me: "Uh, ha, yeah, I don't think we'll be doing much of that, so thanks." [edges out the door]

SKM: [loudly] "ARE YOU SURE YOU DON'T WANT THE LUBRICANT?"

Me: [tears past receptionist, runs to the parking lot]



Think my insurance plan would pay for our yearly supply of strawberry-flavored Astroglide if it were deemed medically necessary?

Anyway, enough about my crotch issues. For today, I direct you Natalie Dee, who is far funnier and much less useless and lumpy than I.


I hope to be inspired (and conscious) enough to tell the story of my first days of school tomorrow. For now, it's back to bed, gotta be at the hellhole for 10.

Yvonne's Birthday: Drunk Bitches UNITE!

Yvonne's birthday was coming up, and she had chosen me to plan a night out with the girls. I had planned dinner at the Cheesecake Factory followed by hitting a couple of bars, but Martha (being the alpha-bitch of the group) decided to take over without consulting anybody. My toes were quite trod upon, but Yvonne seemed satisfied with the plans so I didn't make an issue out of it. I did, however, claim "I told you so rights" by making it clear to the group that I would be the first to complain if Martha fucked it up.

Martha arranged for Yvonne's brother to cart us around town in his father's Suburban so 8 of us girls could drink to our heart's content. Then we were to have dinner at the Cheesecake Factory (not the one I had planned on going to, but another one that is in a more metropolitan area), and then go to a bar in the city where another friend works (hence she had offered to get our names on the VIP list). We all had a few plastic cups full of "magic punch" (no idea what was in it, but it was magic enough to cause my fall from the running board of the truck) and piled into the 'burban for a night of drunken debauchery on the town.

The token chubby girl in blue is me.

After several phone calls for directions (party planner hadn't thought to mapquest the route to the Cheesecake Factory, fuck-up #1), we found our way into the city and into a parking garage. After driving around for 15 minutes, it became clear that parking would be a challenge. My small-bladdered comrades made an executive decision to ditch Yvonne's brother and make a run for the bathroom.

K: "We're leaving Mikey?"
Y: "Yeah, let's go."
K: "That's not really very nice..."
M: "I HAVE TO TINKLE! LET'S GO K!"
K: "Um, alright...but I am going on record as saying that this is really shitty..."
M: "MOVE YOUR ASS!"
K: *sigh*

We told our downtrodden chaffeur to meet us there and tore down the aisle toward the ladies' room. We actually got stuck shoulder-to-shoulder in the door, just like in a cartoon. We relieved ourselves (Hazel peed for a solid 60 seconds, it was quite impressive) and found our way to the Cheesecake Factory, where we were greeted by a 3 hour wait (fuck-up #2, going to the busiest Cheesecake Factory in New England). After a unanimous decision of "fuck THIS," we walked down the street and found an Applebee's. Classy shit, nothing but the best for our Yvonne. 9 seats miraculously opened up at the bar, so we plunked ourselves down and took the place over. It was at this point that Mikey finally caught up with us. Poor bastard finally found a space in another parking garage after half an hour of driving around. We could almost see the steam pouring from his ears. Dinner, drinks (2 Long Island Iced Teas for me), and 2 more trips to the powder room and we were off again.

We had to take public transportation to get to our next destination, which is always a colorful experience in itself. Graffiti is indeed the voice of the people, and I found some in the unlikeliest of spots: between Yvonne's legs.


I got a few funny looks when I yelled "HEY YVONNE! SPREAD YOUR LEGS!"

Upon arrival, we informed the bouncer of our VIP status, and were introduced to the concept of the "VIP line". Apparently, we weren't important enough to blow off the fire code, and had to wait until enough people left for the club to accomodate us. Upon entrance, Busty Bartender (friend of Yvonne) had something called a "Chocolate Cake" shot waiting for us. A Chocolate Cake is 1/2 oz Frangelico® hazelnut liqueur, 1/2 oz vodka and a sugar coated lemon, and is effective if you're looking for a puckered-up faced followed by an immediate buzz. Drinks in hand (another Long Island for me), it was time to party.

2 shots and 2 more drinks later, Yvonne decided she was drunk enough to bust out the "Love Guns". This is a running joke. At a local bar, there is this well-built male bartender who does a little cowboy dance for the ladies that has been dubbed the "Love Guns" dance. There were some present who weren't privy to the joke, so Yvonne did the responsible thing and demonstrated.

In this shot, you can also one of the colored whistles we were all sporting. We brought these along to increase our group's level of obnoxiousness.





Afterwards, she attempted to sit and fell right off of her stool:















This is my fourth Long Island Iced Tea. And yes, that is my hairclip. No, I have no idea how it got in there, and I think it must have been a few sips before I realized.














An additional shot convinced me to comply when Yvonne yelled "HEY K! SHOW ME YOUR TITS!" (notice the bling.)






Things really got interesting when we suddenly became enamored with each other's breasts:


"Hey, how come SHE gets her boobs grabbed??? What's wrong with MY BOOBS?!"

Equal opportunity boob-grabbing abounded:


By 1:15, we were well past shit-faced, and made the executive decision to head home. We all pig-piled into one cab, and were reveling in the hilarity of the situation when someone more sober than me made a horrifying discovery:

"WHERE'S DEANNA?"

We started screaming at the cabbie to go back. ( I count this as fuck-up #3: not taking a head count, but this was really all of our faults. We're shitty friends. But in our defense, Martha was most sober, and had a responsibility as party planner to account for everyone.)

Us: "GO BACK! WE LEFT OUR FRIEND!"
Cabbie: "She can find her own cab."
K: "EXCUSE ME??? Don't you work for US???"
Cabbie: [ignores me]
K: "HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

I started trying to dig my way out from the bottom of the pile to give him a piece of my drunken mind through the hole in the bulletproof glass, but by the time I freed myself we were already at the parking garage, so I had to be satisfied with screaming obscenities at the back of a cab as it screeched away. While I had my episode, 5 cell phones were frantically dialing Deanna, who was not answering her phone. We also discovered another problem; nobody knew how to get back to the bar, since we had taken public transportation to get there (fuck-up #4; not having some kind of map), so we drove around like assholes for a solid half an hour before we found our way back.

We pulled up to the bar and somehow decided that I was the most functional out of the 8 of us (and that Martha was the most lazy), and that I should go in to fetch Deanna. As I was exiting, I forgot that I was 3 feet off the ground and fell out of the truck. I stumbled up to the bouncer and told him my sad story.

K: "We forgot our friend inside."
B: "Uh huh."
K: "I need to go back in."
B: "$5 cover charge."
K: "Dude, I'm just going 6 feet inside. It's almost 2am. Do you really think I'm trying to scam you out of your cover charge?"
B: [stares at me]
K: "Jesus Christ, you can come with me if you want. 2 minutes."
B: [reluctantly lets me in. what a hero.]

I walked in just in time to see Busty Bartender dancing on the bar to "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Needless to say, I was slightly sidetracked, hypnotized by the bounce, but the daggers coming from the eyes of the bouncer brought me back to the task at hand: search and rescue. I found Deanna at the bar, drunkenly making out with some random guy. I dragged her outside and found that she was unable to find her way up to the running board, so I had to grab her ass and physically stuff her into the Suburban.

On the way home, we screamed the words to Fleetwood Mac.

"AND IF YOU DON'T LOVE ME NOW, YOU WILL NEVER LOOOOOOVE ME AGAIN! [melodic, unintelligible drunken babbling] NEVER BREAK THE CHAAAAAAAIN..."

"YOU CAN GO YOUR OWN WAAAAAAAYYYYY....YOU CAN...uh...LALALALAAAAAAAAAAAAA....A LONELY DAAAAAYYYY....."

On my way out of the truck, I fell...again...it had become a running joke at that point. I collapsed into bed at 3am and woke up in the morning with my shirt wrapped around my neck. I guess I passed out before I got it all of the way off.

The next morning, I had to be up at 7:30 to go to the flea market with my grandmother. Sounds hellish, I know, but preferable to dealing with 3 small children while hung over. I think I might have still been a little drunk at that point, but I earned myself a few points toward my spot in heaven by taking grandma bargain hunting in that condition.

I don't think I've ever been so polluted. I've sworn off drinking. Well, at least until next weekend. Oh who the fuck am I kidding, I have three kids, I probably won't drink again for months.

Frappr! Frappr! Frappr!

As I was perusing my stat counter, I started to get curious as to how many states are represented in my loyal readership. Probably not that many, but I started a Frappr just for shits and giggles anyway.

The Daily sKWeez Frappr

Please feel free to add yourself. I think it will be amusing to see if it really takes off or completely fucking tanks. I'm banking on the latter, but hey, it'll be fun finding out!

2005: The Year of the Glue

Krazy Glue has been getting tons of play in the media this month:

Man glued to toilet seat, sues store

A Colorado man who had a panic attack when he found he was glued to a toilet seat in a Home Depot restroom has sued the home improvement giant for negligence, saying staff ignored his plight.

He explained his plight to an employee who came into the restroom but other Home Depot staffers thought it was a hoax and he had to wait until someone else came in to again summon help.

"Home Depot not only ignored my plight, they refused my plight," he said.

Ok...hang on a second...

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

ok...ok...I'm cool...oh shit hang on...

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

All right...all right...I'm composed.

"My ass was stuck to a toilet, and Home Depot ignored my plight." Just awesome all on it's own, no color commentary here.


Woman glues man's penis to abdomen, nuts to leg, and buttocks shut; loses lawsuit

An act of revenge against an ex-boyfriend, pretty standard. The best part of this story is that the crazy bitch claims that it was a consensual sex act.

"Oh baby...get that krazy glue...yeeaaaaaahhhhh rub that shit all up in my ass crack...don't forget my balls..."

Right.


Sleeping Swede injured in glue attack

The ultimate shaming: gluing a drunk guy's face shut. The fact that he's Swedish somehow makes it funnier. Ya.


In parking lot, glue becomes a weapon

A handful of New England College students woke up this week to find an interesting poem of sorts glued to their car windows.

The sign, typed in black letters in halting, unpunctuated prose read: "I park illegally and I am a litter bug I am a selfish idiot and can not follow rules." It was glued to each window of the cars, twice on the back.

"Who does that?" said Matt Brisk, 19, as he and a friend scraped at the signs on his maroon Toyota Camry. "I park illegally, but I don't consider myself an idiot. Definitely selfish, but not a selfish idiot."

But Brisk and at least two other students have crossed a man who doesn't appreciate when students park illegally in the lot of the apartments he manages. And it really "torques him off" when they throw his notes on the ground.

"They were warned," said Michael "Irish" Burnett. "I'm not hurting the car - I'm making my point."

Glue deemed culprit in costume blaze

A Lisbon man who faces painful skin grafts as he recovers from burns suffered when his costume caught fire hasn't let the episode dampen his enthusiasm for Halloween, his mother said.

Just hours before being burned, Kenneth Jr. had won the grand prize for the fifth year in a row at a Sabattus pub thanks to a sheep costume he created by gluing 1,800 cotton balls onto a pair of long johns.

It wasn't the cotton balls that caught fire. Instead, it was the glue that ignited, causing second- and third-degree burns over much of his body.


Just when you think somebody couldn't be THAT STUPID, the specter of Darwin has a little chuckle at our expense. Unfortunately, modern medicine has assured the possibility that he still may procreate; pure Darwinism would have had him removed from the gene pool STAT.

"Stupid fucks."

Who knew that glue could be used for so much evil? I hereby declare the year 2005 OWN3D by Elmer's.





"Should I be afraid?" you may ask.







Hell yes you should be.

Convincted of a felony? COME ON DOWN!!!

We've become convinced that Charles is on the lam, using an alias to duck the law... probably for raping, torturing and dismembering college co-eds (i.e. loose bitches) somewhere down south. Those in charge have assured us that thorough background checks rule out such a possibility...to this I can only say to them..."Have you MET Charles?"

After the shift last night, a bunch of supervisors were sitting in the office shooting the shit, throwing around our conspiracy theories, when my boss (the resident big mouth) came out with quite a revelation.

B: "We've got a felon working here right now."
K: "WHO?"
B: "Remember Raul from last week's orientation?"
K: "Yeah..."
B: "Served 20 years for murder. He out on parole for good behavior."
[stunned silence befalls the room]

K: "Are you fucking kidding me?"
B: "Nope."
K: "How did he make it past H.R.?"
B: "Felons need work, too."
K: "Ok, great. So when the felon filets my midsection and trusses me up like a Thanksgiving turkey, can my family sue the company for gross negligence?"
B: "Probably."
K: "Good to know."


Hopefully I'll be able to quit before I piss him off.

So now we're even more convinced that Charles is a fucking serial killer. I mean, hey, if they'll take one murderer, why not another? If I suddenly stop blogging, then you'll know that I've been deemed a "loose bitch" and probably gotten myself choked.

Charles the Ladies' Man

As you may recall, Charles is a new employee at my workplace who is a little off, to say the least. Honestly, I had hoped he would have quit by now, but unfortunately he's too stupid to realize that the job sucks and that he'll probably never be good at it anyway. To everyone's surprise, he's approaching his fourth week of employment. Go figure.

Anyway, all of our trainees get one-on-one supervision for their first week, and that task was left to Rachel, the other female trainer. I begged my supervisor NOT to put Rachel alone in a trailer with Charles. I mean, after his "where the bitches at?" declaration, I didn't think it would be a good idea to stick him on Rachel. Of course nobody ever listens to me, so it was Charles & Rachel for 5 days of hell.

Charles is a "close talker". Pair that up with body odor, the occasional twitch and his affinity for bitches, and you've got some pretty freaky shit. He consistently worked at half speed, leaving Rachel to clean up his packages while he stared at her ass. When he WAS working, he'd turn the package over and over, shake it, talk to it, and try to figure out what was inside. Rachel got fed up and pulled Charles aside to review his production for the week.

R: "Charles, you're loading 80 packages an hour."
C: "Wow, that's purty good."
R: "No, actually, it's not. You need to be at around 160 packages per hour."
C: "Well that's an awful lot."
R: "It sure is. So you need to step it up. Now."

Charles stepped in close, close enough that Rachel could tell he'd had pot roast for dinner. Ugh.

C: "Do you find this amuuuuzin'?"
R: "Yeah, actually, I do."
C: "Why's that?"
R: "Because you're about the laziest person I've ever met, that's why. Get back to work."
C: "Are you a single gal?"
R: "That's really none of your business."

[Charles loads packages for a few minutes, stops]

C: "Can you get me some of them new fangled anti-anxiety pills?"
R: "WHAT?"
C: "You know, so I could con-cen-trate a little better."
R: "Really can't help you there, pal, sorry."

[loads some more. stops again.]

C: "Rachel, how old are you?"
R: "23."
C: "Well I'm 31. Am I too old for ya?"
R: "I don't date people at work."
C: "I wasn't talkin' 'bout datin'..." [winks]
R: [runs out of the trailer]

This was enough to convince the boss to put a male trainer in with Charles. Next up: Pat, known as being the kind of guy who can convince the shittiest of new hires to quit.

C: "What happened to Rachel?"
P: "She's working with another new employee."
C: "Well that's too baaayaad. I think she kinda liked me."
P: "Uh huh."

[Charles loads for a while. stops.]

C: "You know where I can find some women 'round these here parts?"
P: "What kinda women you lookin' for, Charles?"
C: "Well, you know...loose bitches. I kinda like them Spanish ones."
P: "So you want a prostitute?"
C: "I'd rather have one fer free."
P: "I don't think you'll have too much luck with that, Charles."
C: "How 'bout that Rachel? What's her last name?" [side note: Rachel is Portuguese, hence she has a Portuguese last name. It was at this point that Pat decided to fuck with Charles.]
P: "It's Rodriguez." [first Spanish name that came to mind. what a dick.]
C: "Ooooohhhh...so she's Spanish. She loose?"
P: "I don't know, Charles, but I'll find out."

Since that night, he's been asking all over the building for Rachel. When I told her that Pat was the one who had led Charles to believe that she was just the loose Spanish bitch that he was looking for, she got him back by hitting him in the nuts with a 40 pound box.


Charles stays with his "Ant", whom he has described as a "real bitch" because she'd like for him to pay rent and pick up around the house. Can you imagine? Every night, she insists that he call home when he leaves work at 3:30 in the morning...why, I have no idea...but every night without fail, he comes to the supervisor's office to use the phone.

Last night, he bypassed the phone and came straight over to me. I kept staring at my paperwork and hoped he'd go away.

C: "Ha there."
K: "Hi Charles."
C: "I was wonderin'...do you think you could get on the phone and tell ma Ant that I'm gonna be needed to work on Sunday?" [we work Monday-Friday only]
K: "Huh? Why?"
C: "Well, she's a real bitch, and I'd like an excuse to get away for a while."
K: "Ummm..." [looks over at boss who, instead of saving me from said situation, is too busy turning red as he holds in laughter]
K: "Uh, boss...any thoughts on this one???" [I give him my "You'd better do something about this, you fucker" death glare]
B: "Uh, yeah Charles, stop asking my supervisors to talk to your Ant. We can't do that." [apparently, I was the fourth one that he'd asked]

At that point, Charles took his leave, but not before asking another male supervisor where he could find "a lady friend for the evenin'."

I have a feeling this won't be the last I write about this yahoo.

Truth is always stranger than fiction...

I came across an interesting tidbit on my cable provider's homepage today. I can't seem to find a way to link the video, but I've got a few screenshots to share.

Meet Mario Dulceno, the Senior Stripper.


At 89, Mario is the world's oldest male stripper. He is the opening act for the "LA Hard Bodies" at Joey's Cabaret in Gretna, Louisiana, and has been at it for at least 10 years from what I can tell. A google search brings up a few news articles from way back in '97, when he predicted he'd be taking it all off for "maybe another 2 or 3 years", or "until he drops dead".

Joey's Cabaret attracts women of all kinds...mostly there for special occasions like birthdays or bachelorette parties...but all with a common goal: to ogle the naked male goodness that is LA Hard Bodies.

This bachelorette is certainly ready to party.

Reporter: "Do you like older men?"
Penis Bride: "Sure. As long as they're hot!"

Get ready for some sizzle, you wanton hussies! Here comes SUPER MARIO!

"WHO'S YOUR GRANDDADDY, LADIES...WHO'S YOUR GRANDDADDY!" the MC booms over the loudspeaker as Mario makes his entrance.

Be afraid, ladies...be VERY afraid...

Off come the shorts, revealing a SPEEDO. It's gettin' hot in here...

Look! He's even got his own stripper pole, how cute! Careful Mario...don't wanna break a hip!

Even the old washed up strippers get tips at Joey's Cabaret. Just look at this blushing bride giving generously to the local Senior Center.

Reporter: "So is this a good way for an older man to meet women?"
Mario: "Oh, no no..."
Reporter: "Why not?"
Mario: "I couldn't do no good for 'em!"


I dunno Mario...a little Viagra and you'd be back in business, your bitches await!

Bling Bling! CZ in da HOUSE!

I just got this in the mail from Bidz.com.


I had a $50 promotional coupon, so I only ended up paying shipping on it ($8). It's a princess-cut tanzanite center stone surrounded by luxurious cubic zirconias and set in sterling silver on an 18" chain.

Now, it's bigger than I expected...solid 3/4" from top to bottom...gaudy by my normal standards...but it's so pretty and sparkly and BLUE that I'm completely in love with it. Seriously, the picture does it no justice.

Of course, I have no practical use for it. But if I ever have occasion to buy a gown, then I'll have the perfect accessory.

Christ, I'm like a pigeon. I collect shiny objects that I have no use for. Tard.

BUT ISN'T IT PRETTY???

I'll shoot yer eye out, kid!

Boys get gunshots, not treats, for Halloween

Wed Nov 2,10:04 AM ET

Two Italian boys were recovering in hospital on Tuesday after a 70-year-old man shot them with his hunting rifle because he was frightened by their Halloween costumes.

The 14-year-old boys, dressed as demons, had knocked on the man's door during an evening of "trick or treat" near the northern town of Turin and set off a firecracker.

When the door opened, instead of a treat, the man fired four shots at the boys having been scared by the noise and their strange outfits, the news agency ANSA said.

Police arrested the man, who lived alone and was the victim of several robberies, for attempted murder, ANSA said. Police said the boys' lives were not in danger but one risked losing an eye.

The tradition of asking neighbors for sweets or money on Halloween is relatively new to Italy but is gaining popularity.


~~~


Some glaringly obvious observations:

Trick or Treating is not a standing tradition in Italy

If I lived in a country that didn't celebrate Halloween, I'm not sure I'd know how to react if two people dressed as demons showed up on my doorstep holding bags.

Um, yeah. I'd shoot the little bastards too.


The guy had been robbed before

If I'd been robbed several times, I'd keep a shotgun by the door too.

He's elderly, and lives alone

Having been a victim several times before, and being old and somewhat helpless, the guy has a legitimate gripe.

The idiots set off a firecracker on the guy's doorstep

Think about it; this poor old bastard, living alone, having been a victim of a violent crime before, hears what he may mistake as a gunshot right outside of his front door. When he looks out the window, he sees two guys with masks. He grabs his gun and fires. Not entirely illogical.

The little shits were 14

14 is too old to be trick or treating, in any country. Many 14 year old boys are as tall as adults, and the old guy would have had no way of knowing if they were kids or adults because they were in costume. I'm sure if it had been a couple of short kids, the guy wouldn't have opened fire.

These stupid fucks need to take some responsibility. Honestly, if that was my son, I would blame myself for raising such a moron. I mean, what do you say? "So you dressed up like demons, went to an old man's house, set off firecrackers, demanded candy, and got yourselves shot? OH YOU POOR BABY!!!"

I can't even believe they're holding this guy on attempted murder. Hopefully someone will come to their senses and reduce the charge. Crazy.

K is a loser no more

I had an interview for a teaching position this morning. I told Yvonne about it last week, and she offered to blow the principal for me if that's what it took for me to get it. She's so sweet! This is the conversation I had with her via Instant Messenger when I got home.

K: 'afternoon beeyatch
K: :D
Y: hey
Y: how was the interview
Y: i've been dying to hear
K: oh, and I've been dying to tell you
K: you've been freaking idle for like 3 hours!
K: would you believe me...
K: if I told you...
K: that I not only GOT the job an hour after the interview
K: but that they scrapped the other interviews because of the unanimous decision to hire ME
K: AND
K: it gets better, brace yourself
K: are you bracing???
K: I'm not going any further until i'm sure you can handle the awesomeness
Y: hang on i just fell off my chair
K: k. let me know. take your time.
Y: ok
K: ready???
K: FULL FUCKING BENEFITS, BITCHES
Y: OMFG
K: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Y: CONGRATS
Y: I AM SOOOOO HAPPY FOR YOU
K: I think I may faint. I'm seriously numb over here.
Y: I KEPT MY FRIGGIN TOES CROSSED FOR YOU WOMAN
K: AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN HAVE TO BLOW THE PRINCIPAL
K: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Y: WELL THAT WAS LAST NITE
K: now THAT's a true friend

THAT'S RIGHT, LOYAL READERS.
K HAS A BRAND NEW BAG.

I think that this is a good development for the blog. Think of the wealth of comic material dealing with crazy parents and ass-backward administrators. I start Monday, stay tuned!

Trick or Treat!

Halloween has come and gone, and of course it was a huge pain in the ass as always.

The week started with Oldest Child whining about what he was going to bring for the party at school. You see, in second grade, your social status is not determined by the clothes you wear, but by what baked goods your mom sends in for parties, so naturally Oldest Child was concerned.

The social hierarchy goes like this:

Mom sends nothing

These kids are usually deemed "poor", or "loser", and are ridiculed as such. The bigger kids in this group usually end up beating the shit out of whichever kids made fun of them at recess.

Mom sends something lame

These kids are taunted even more than the "loser" types. Normally, these kids have the sense to ditch the lame snack on the way to school and pretend to be in the "Mom sends nothing" crowd. Better to take your licks and move on than be known as the kid who brought in a half eaten box of Lucky Charms to the Christmas party.

Mom sends a passable snack
This is usually the homemade cupcake crowd. Mom remembers at 6am that she agreed to send something, and throws a quick batch into the oven. You can usually tell these cupcakes from normal cupcakes because 1) the frosting is all melted because she didn't have time to let the cakes cool 2) they usually come in cupcake cups that don't match the occasion (i.e. Easter cups for the Valentine's Day party). These kids are left alone, because even though it isn't a culinary masterpiece, it's sugar, and that's what's really important.

Mom sends a store-bought bakery snack
These kids are a little higher on the social scale. The snack is usually something like chocolate chip cookies or an occasion-appropriate cake, conspicuously packaged with the name of the supermarket and the price on the side. Your worth is measured by how much your mom spent, plain and simple. Smart kids peel the sticker off before school starts, and try to be judged on the merit of the snack itself instead of the price.

...and finally...

Mom sends a kick-ass homemade snack
These kids are the elite, the trend-setters, the ones whose moms are saavy enough to subscribe to Martha Stewart Living and actually follow some of the recipes. Cakes in the shape of superheroes, giant homemade chocolate chip cookies that you can TELL were not store bought, hand-poured chocolate lollipops with a curly ribbon lovingly tied to the stick...this is what the kick-ass mom sends for the party. These kids get inundated with requests for playdates and sleepovers because of the possibility that the kick-ass snack mom will deliver again.

Usually, I make chocolate chip cookies, but seeing as I have three classes to bake for this year, it would be much more work than normal. The prospect of mixing, molding and shaping 200 cookies didn't sit so well with me, so I did what any sensible modern mother would do and headed to the supermarket bakery. This would prevent my son from being ridiculed, yet give him a nice little boost in the pecking order.

I found this giant cookie-looking type things with Halloween decorations, much like the Mrs. Fields version you see here:


Only waaaaay fucking better. The Mrs. Fields version is $30 bucks! At $6.99 a pop for the supermarket fare, they could each feed a class, so I scooped up the last three and loaded them into the family wagon. Nothin' says lovin' like mommy slaving over a hot checkout line.

Store-bought snacks in hand, I headed out the door Monday morning to make my deliveries. I first stopped in Oldest Child's class. You see, I had to make the grand entrance, baked goods clearly visible, so the children would know exactly who brought them. Oldest Child was pleased. I heard a few "Wow, that's so cool, I can't wait to eat it!" comments as I walked out the door. I felt relieved; Mommy mission accomplished.

My next stop was Youngest Child's class, which was down the hall. This is a whole 'nother story, which I will probably get into in a separate entry. Long story short, I was booted from the party, and his teacher is a bitch. Moving on for now...

Final stop was Middle Child's school, which is across town. Dropped his cookie, said a quick hello, headed home. Mommy duties completed, I went home to prepare for Trick 'n Treats.


Trick or treating itself was uneventful. Oldest Child greedily ran from house to house, Middle Child obsessed over his flashlight, and Youngest Child tripped over his costume every time we had to climb stairs.



We saw this little kid dressed up like Chewbacca, which was easily the awesomest costume I've ever seen.


So here I sit, surrounded by Blow Pops, Fun-Size Snickers and various treat bags...great, just what my fat ass needs, materials for expansion.