http://tv.yahoo.com/news/toddlers-cuss-word-modern-family-draws-ire-024407751.html
Woah woah woah. Who the hell is this "anti-profanity crusader" Brigham Young University guy? Oh, wow. Nevermind about the show, I need to interview this guy. Or have dinner with him. Even better, he and I need to grab drinks - strong drinks. Strong drinks that transform my mouth into a volcanic eruption of swear words. I absolutely live for this kind of ridiculous person.
It seems as though while I was plotting my weekend bar crawls back in 2007, he was inventing sweet groups like the No Cussing Club. This cannot be serious. I'm looking him up on Facebook right this second. Score - found him. I'm extremely tempted to friend this guy. Should I friend him? I think I owe myself the entertainment of friending him. If I go through with this, I can't promise I won't message him after an evening of drinking homemade wine. There is something exciting about knowing someone will find me completely offensive.
Let's talk about his theory relating swearing to bullying. That's a pretty heavy weight to place on swearing. I would be more adamant to flip it around and say in cases of bullying, more swearing occurs and when bullying increases, swearing increases. Where is my college sociology professor when I need him? He always seemed kind of drunk and definitely liked to swear - maybe he could swear some sociological sense into Mr. BYU.
Nevermind the fact that the young actress isn't even saying fuck, she's saying fudge; the word is going to be bleeped out for effect. Let me cut to the part where I say something so logical and astounding that you will be on an intelligence high for the next 7 hours. If there is something on the television you don't like, then pick up your remote, and change the *fucking* channel. This "crusader" needs to shift his efforts toward actual societal problems.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Shut The Hell Up
Per Wikipedia: "Shut up" is a direct command with a meaning similar to "be quiet"', but which is commonly perceived as an angrier and more forceful demand to stop making noise or otherwise communicating. The phrase is probably a shortened form of "shut your mouth up", and its use is generally considered impolite.
I don't know how your household runs, but swearing at our place is more common than...well, let's just say it is part of my natural wordage. Sometimes I swear because I'm pissed, or I swear if I'm physically hurt. Other times, I swear as part of humor and more often than not, I simply swear to swear. (Note: I was once made aware that swearing is classless and unncessary - I promptly *fucking* disagreed with that particular person.)
For reasons I'm unaware of at this point in time, the phrase "shut up" has made it's way into our conversations with a vengeance and while said phrase isn't technically considered swearing, it has a nasty undertone and from what Wiki tells me, is generally considered impolite. Some of the derivations I've heard over the years include "zip it up", "put a sock in it", "zip it", "know your role and shut your hole", "hush", "hush up", "watch yo mouth", "you shut your mouth", "shut yo mouf", and most recently, "lock it up". I can blame that last one on our friend PMC for bringing it to our attention.
More importantly, I believe Rigatoni is on to the fact that while "shut up" and all of the glorious derivations are perfectly acceptable in most situations, "ShhhHHH!", is the one that makes my body burn with rageaholic wrath. When I hear this amped-up, crescendo version of "shut up" exit his mouth, I absolutely lose my mind. The first thought in my head is usually, how quickly can I throw all of Rigatoni's shit down the stairwell? Or how long does it take to file for a divorce? Or next time I need toilet paper and we are fresh out, I'm totally using his favorite Penn State sweatshirt. If it's irrational, it goes through my head.
Speaking of irrational, I need Jennifer Hudson to shut the hell up. Right this second, Jenn: I need you to stop singing, and exit my television screen immediately. What's worse than watching you sing for WW cash? Watching you sing TO YOURSELF for WW cash. I would probably be a size 6 too if thousands of dollars were being dangled in front of my hungry face. Please and thank you.
I don't know how your household runs, but swearing at our place is more common than...well, let's just say it is part of my natural wordage. Sometimes I swear because I'm pissed, or I swear if I'm physically hurt. Other times, I swear as part of humor and more often than not, I simply swear to swear. (Note: I was once made aware that swearing is classless and unncessary - I promptly *fucking* disagreed with that particular person.)
For reasons I'm unaware of at this point in time, the phrase "shut up" has made it's way into our conversations with a vengeance and while said phrase isn't technically considered swearing, it has a nasty undertone and from what Wiki tells me, is generally considered impolite. Some of the derivations I've heard over the years include "zip it up", "put a sock in it", "zip it", "know your role and shut your hole", "hush", "hush up", "watch yo mouth", "you shut your mouth", "shut yo mouf", and most recently, "lock it up". I can blame that last one on our friend PMC for bringing it to our attention.
More importantly, I believe Rigatoni is on to the fact that while "shut up" and all of the glorious derivations are perfectly acceptable in most situations, "ShhhHHH!", is the one that makes my body burn with rageaholic wrath. When I hear this amped-up, crescendo version of "shut up" exit his mouth, I absolutely lose my mind. The first thought in my head is usually, how quickly can I throw all of Rigatoni's shit down the stairwell? Or how long does it take to file for a divorce? Or next time I need toilet paper and we are fresh out, I'm totally using his favorite Penn State sweatshirt. If it's irrational, it goes through my head.
Speaking of irrational, I need Jennifer Hudson to shut the hell up. Right this second, Jenn: I need you to stop singing, and exit my television screen immediately. What's worse than watching you sing for WW cash? Watching you sing TO YOURSELF for WW cash. I would probably be a size 6 too if thousands of dollars were being dangled in front of my hungry face. Please and thank you.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Sociopathic Raccoon
Wildlife is not scarce in Columbus. It is completely common to see deer, squirrels, rabbits, and raccoons on a weekly basis. Columbus, Ohio: equal parts city, country, and suburb.
There was a raccoon living near our place and we would see it from time to time sneaking around the yard or scampering off past the garage. Rigatoni eventually brought it to my attention she was now living and not paying rent near the outside set of stairs leading to our 2nd floor porch. Being the problem-solver I raised him to be, Rigatoni placed a rather large rock to block the space the raccoon was using as an apartment.
I woke up one sunny fall morning about a week later and headed to the kitchen for some aftermath cleanup. I put on some coffee, opened the blinds, and pushed back the curtain on the door that looks out onto the porch. Amongst the bags of recycling, the grill, and the lawn chairs, I saw tiny clawed footprints. Glancing toward the right, I saw more remnants of the claw prints all the way down the entire two flights of stairs leading into the backyard. Upon further inspection of the porch, I saw a massive pile of shit that didn't appear to be anything resembling human fecal matter.
Clearly, we had a passive-aggressive raccoon on our hands. What the hell kind of sociopathic animal walks up two flights of stairs, ignores enticing bags of recycling and a delicious smelling grill, and does a #2 (borderline #3) in the corner of a porch? Since Rigatoni came up with the "spectacular idea" to block the racoon's apartment with a massive rock, I nominated him for back porch cleanup. Good luck with that Rigatoni, let me know how it goes!
An olive branch couldn't hurt the situation - maybe when the weather warms up, I will place some air freshener and some moist wipes out for the little guy.
There was a raccoon living near our place and we would see it from time to time sneaking around the yard or scampering off past the garage. Rigatoni eventually brought it to my attention she was now living and not paying rent near the outside set of stairs leading to our 2nd floor porch. Being the problem-solver I raised him to be, Rigatoni placed a rather large rock to block the space the raccoon was using as an apartment.
I woke up one sunny fall morning about a week later and headed to the kitchen for some aftermath cleanup. I put on some coffee, opened the blinds, and pushed back the curtain on the door that looks out onto the porch. Amongst the bags of recycling, the grill, and the lawn chairs, I saw tiny clawed footprints. Glancing toward the right, I saw more remnants of the claw prints all the way down the entire two flights of stairs leading into the backyard. Upon further inspection of the porch, I saw a massive pile of shit that didn't appear to be anything resembling human fecal matter.
Clearly, we had a passive-aggressive raccoon on our hands. What the hell kind of sociopathic animal walks up two flights of stairs, ignores enticing bags of recycling and a delicious smelling grill, and does a #2 (borderline #3) in the corner of a porch? Since Rigatoni came up with the "spectacular idea" to block the racoon's apartment with a massive rock, I nominated him for back porch cleanup. Good luck with that Rigatoni, let me know how it goes!
An olive branch couldn't hurt the situation - maybe when the weather warms up, I will place some air freshener and some moist wipes out for the little guy.
Friday, January 6, 2012
How To Benefit From A Lie
Just a heads up - this is a long story.
When I originally signed up for my gym membership, I was informed by my HR department that the gym offered a corporate discount to the employees of my company. Score! After double checking this information, I drove to the gym to sign Rigatoni and I up for the discounted rate. An hour later, Sales Rep Round 1 printed out the documents while I inquired as to when he would need my work ID for the discount. Sales Rep Round 1 looked at me like I was bat-shit crazy, said he was unaware of the corporate discount my company offered, and handed me the paperwork to sign. This was where my palms started sweating.
I pressed on for the next few minutes in semi-bitch mode, using my conversation with HR two days prior as proof of said discount. Fifteen minutes later, the paperwork was being signed - without the discount. What can I say? It was a rare, weak moment for me. I needed to join a gym - immediately. Maybe the brand new shiny equipment was to blame.
A handful of months after I initally joined, my co-worker and I were discussing which gyms we belonged to, what we liked about them, and what we didn't like. I began bitching about how HR told me that our company had a corporate discount agreement with my gym, but when I signed with them, Sales Rep Round 1 acted as though he had never heard of such a thing. This was when my co-worker told me that she had been working out at my very same gym under the corporate discount for almost a year. Oh, hell no.
That bastard.
It took 24 hours for me to calm my crazy ass down. I walked into the gym after work and asked to speak with someone from the sales department. After explaining the situation in full-length detail (including the part about how I was utterly offended someone could lie to my face so easily), Sales Rep Round 2 explained that he was sorry this ever happened and offered to cancel my current membership and simultaneously sign me and Rigatoni up for new memberships under the corporate discount. Huh? This may have made sense to anyone else that hadn't WORKED AT A GYM FOR TWO YEARS like I did. I mentioned that in my lengthy experience, there was zero need to cancel our memberships, rather, they needed to be transferred to the new pricing.
Sales Rep Round 2 "promised" to get the new pricing in order before the next billing cycle was applied to my credit card. Since I was already in a big pile of shit without a shovel handy regarding this situation, I figured that requesting a full refund of the overcharges during the nine months prior was the very least they could do for me. Although Sales Rep Round 2 exthusiastically agreed a refund was absolutely in order, he mentioned it would need to go through the Club Manager and then through Corporate before anything could be finalized. From here forth, we will call the Club Manager by her real name: Candy Cane. As was expected, once the billing went through for the next cycle, there was no adjustment on my credit card. Magically, Sales Rep Round 2 was nowhere to be found during the next two weeks, thus my having to now communicate with Candy Cane.
Candy Cane was a gem: a doe-eyed blondie that appeared to listen well, yet she only reponded with "uh-huhs", head-nods, and excessive blinking. Helpful. My monologue to Candy Cane sounded like this:
"Here is the deal: We have been members of this gym for 9 months. When I signed up, a member of the sales staff lied to me about the corporate discount being 'unavailable' to me for a reason that he clearly made up on the spot. The last sales rep I spoke to *promised* to handle this and still, it was handled properly and I'm started to get pissed. I don't *want* to quit this gym. I want to stay, but I won't be staying if I'm going to continue to be lied to. I have zero problem quitting on principle. I need *you* to process this *today* and call me on my *cell* *phone*, which you have on file, to let me know if you need any other forms of identification, credit card numbers, etc so this can happen immediately."
After all the bullshit the gym had put me though, I decided that my conversation with Candy Cane would not be resolving the issue. I opened up my email to compose the classiest/bitchiest, email of my life addressed to all four corporate head honchos. To the mattresses I went. Exactly thirteen minutes after I pressed send on the email that described my experiences during the last thirty days, I received an email from one of the corporate guys asking me to please call him right away on his personal cell phone to discuss the matter.
Yes, this conversation was happening.
To speak with an intelligent person within customer service is a rare occurence. Head Honcho listened to every word of my monologue - it was an extrememly enjoyable conversation. At the very end, he assured me that the corporate discount would be applied to our account from now on. He then offered to "do a little math" for me to compute how much I deserved in refunds from the overcharges. Our math matched and came to approximately $190. Head Honcho - being the awesome dude he was - offered to refund the money or to give Rigatoni and I three free months at the gym. I graciously thanked him for the time he spent out of his day righting the wrongs that were caused by other staff members and also for offering us the free three months. Then I explained that because I had been drowning in customer service/intelligence issues for the last month, Rigatoni and I would need six free months to make this negotiation worth while.
Head Honcho replied with, "Sounds good to me".
JD = 1; Gym = 0
When I originally signed up for my gym membership, I was informed by my HR department that the gym offered a corporate discount to the employees of my company. Score! After double checking this information, I drove to the gym to sign Rigatoni and I up for the discounted rate. An hour later, Sales Rep Round 1 printed out the documents while I inquired as to when he would need my work ID for the discount. Sales Rep Round 1 looked at me like I was bat-shit crazy, said he was unaware of the corporate discount my company offered, and handed me the paperwork to sign. This was where my palms started sweating.
I pressed on for the next few minutes in semi-bitch mode, using my conversation with HR two days prior as proof of said discount. Fifteen minutes later, the paperwork was being signed - without the discount. What can I say? It was a rare, weak moment for me. I needed to join a gym - immediately. Maybe the brand new shiny equipment was to blame.
A handful of months after I initally joined, my co-worker and I were discussing which gyms we belonged to, what we liked about them, and what we didn't like. I began bitching about how HR told me that our company had a corporate discount agreement with my gym, but when I signed with them, Sales Rep Round 1 acted as though he had never heard of such a thing. This was when my co-worker told me that she had been working out at my very same gym under the corporate discount for almost a year. Oh, hell no.
That bastard.
It took 24 hours for me to calm my crazy ass down. I walked into the gym after work and asked to speak with someone from the sales department. After explaining the situation in full-length detail (including the part about how I was utterly offended someone could lie to my face so easily), Sales Rep Round 2 explained that he was sorry this ever happened and offered to cancel my current membership and simultaneously sign me and Rigatoni up for new memberships under the corporate discount. Huh? This may have made sense to anyone else that hadn't WORKED AT A GYM FOR TWO YEARS like I did. I mentioned that in my lengthy experience, there was zero need to cancel our memberships, rather, they needed to be transferred to the new pricing.
Sales Rep Round 2 "promised" to get the new pricing in order before the next billing cycle was applied to my credit card. Since I was already in a big pile of shit without a shovel handy regarding this situation, I figured that requesting a full refund of the overcharges during the nine months prior was the very least they could do for me. Although Sales Rep Round 2 exthusiastically agreed a refund was absolutely in order, he mentioned it would need to go through the Club Manager and then through Corporate before anything could be finalized. From here forth, we will call the Club Manager by her real name: Candy Cane. As was expected, once the billing went through for the next cycle, there was no adjustment on my credit card. Magically, Sales Rep Round 2 was nowhere to be found during the next two weeks, thus my having to now communicate with Candy Cane.
Candy Cane was a gem: a doe-eyed blondie that appeared to listen well, yet she only reponded with "uh-huhs", head-nods, and excessive blinking. Helpful. My monologue to Candy Cane sounded like this:
"Here is the deal: We have been members of this gym for 9 months. When I signed up, a member of the sales staff lied to me about the corporate discount being 'unavailable' to me for a reason that he clearly made up on the spot. The last sales rep I spoke to *promised* to handle this and still, it was handled properly and I'm started to get pissed. I don't *want* to quit this gym. I want to stay, but I won't be staying if I'm going to continue to be lied to. I have zero problem quitting on principle. I need *you* to process this *today* and call me on my *cell* *phone*, which you have on file, to let me know if you need any other forms of identification, credit card numbers, etc so this can happen immediately."
After all the bullshit the gym had put me though, I decided that my conversation with Candy Cane would not be resolving the issue. I opened up my email to compose the classiest/bitchiest, email of my life addressed to all four corporate head honchos. To the mattresses I went. Exactly thirteen minutes after I pressed send on the email that described my experiences during the last thirty days, I received an email from one of the corporate guys asking me to please call him right away on his personal cell phone to discuss the matter.
Yes, this conversation was happening.
To speak with an intelligent person within customer service is a rare occurence. Head Honcho listened to every word of my monologue - it was an extrememly enjoyable conversation. At the very end, he assured me that the corporate discount would be applied to our account from now on. He then offered to "do a little math" for me to compute how much I deserved in refunds from the overcharges. Our math matched and came to approximately $190. Head Honcho - being the awesome dude he was - offered to refund the money or to give Rigatoni and I three free months at the gym. I graciously thanked him for the time he spent out of his day righting the wrongs that were caused by other staff members and also for offering us the free three months. Then I explained that because I had been drowning in customer service/intelligence issues for the last month, Rigatoni and I would need six free months to make this negotiation worth while.
Head Honcho replied with, "Sounds good to me".
JD = 1; Gym = 0
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Minor Irritations
Attention all low talkers, leg twitchers, and snifflers: this entry is for you. Please read on.
Low Talkers - What's that? I can't hear you. No, really, I still can't hear you. Maybe if you mumble whatever it is you need just one more time, I'll be able to hear. Nope, still can't hear you. No, no, no, you don't need to yell, you just simply need to speak clearly. It's called enunciation. You should try it sometime.
Leg Twitchers - Where did this phenomenon originate? It looks like some sort of derivation of pen-tapping. One day I looked around and it seemed like everyone's body was shifting left then right then left then right just enough for me to notice. Is it an anxious mannerism? Is it a way to burn extra calories? Having a physical disability is completely different from what I'm talking about here. Leg Twitchers have no purpose except to irritate me. SIT STILL!
Snifflers - You are the worst. *Sniff* Yeah, I know it's getting chilly outside *Sniff Sniff* and the extreme temperature changes between inside and outside result in runny noses, but it is completely unacceptable. Walk yourself to the nearest restroom *Sniff* and wipe that landslide clean before I take the liberty and hand you 22 tissues myself, like I used to do when I was younger. Believe it or not, I used to be way more obnoxious *Sniff* than I am now. There were multiple times during elementary, middle, and high school when I would get up from my desk in the middle of class, grab the box of classroom tissues, and walk it to the offender's desk *Sniff Sniff* just to put my brain out of its misery.
This has been a public service announcement.
Low Talkers - What's that? I can't hear you. No, really, I still can't hear you. Maybe if you mumble whatever it is you need just one more time, I'll be able to hear. Nope, still can't hear you. No, no, no, you don't need to yell, you just simply need to speak clearly. It's called enunciation. You should try it sometime.
Leg Twitchers - Where did this phenomenon originate? It looks like some sort of derivation of pen-tapping. One day I looked around and it seemed like everyone's body was shifting left then right then left then right just enough for me to notice. Is it an anxious mannerism? Is it a way to burn extra calories? Having a physical disability is completely different from what I'm talking about here. Leg Twitchers have no purpose except to irritate me. SIT STILL!
Snifflers - You are the worst. *Sniff* Yeah, I know it's getting chilly outside *Sniff Sniff* and the extreme temperature changes between inside and outside result in runny noses, but it is completely unacceptable. Walk yourself to the nearest restroom *Sniff* and wipe that landslide clean before I take the liberty and hand you 22 tissues myself, like I used to do when I was younger. Believe it or not, I used to be way more obnoxious *Sniff* than I am now. There were multiple times during elementary, middle, and high school when I would get up from my desk in the middle of class, grab the box of classroom tissues, and walk it to the offender's desk *Sniff Sniff* just to put my brain out of its misery.
This has been a public service announcement.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Bride Crossing Part 2
After a few weeks, I was able to pick up my wedding dress from Chinese Lady. The work was completed beautifully: Chinese Lady agreed that deciding to shorten the gross floor-length to a flattering knee-length was perfect for the look I was going for. Well, no shit Chinese Lady, I always know what's best - ask anyone.
The next step was to drop the ivory gown at the dry cleaners - I drove to another nearby location suggested by Chinese Lady. I walked into the facility, layed the plastic-covered dress down on the counter and said hi. There was no hi, no alternative greeting, no smile, no questions as to what I needed coming from the lady behind the counter. And she looked as though she had not showered in 17 days or visited her stylist for a root touch-up since 1992. If I couldn't trust her to take a shower before work, how could I trust her with my wedding dress? This was the exact moment I realized I didn't like the lady working the counter and our relationship was most likely not going to improve: we're going to call her "Roots" from here on out.
I told Roots that I was was dropping off my dress to be cleaned and pointed out a few marks around the bust area. We went over pricing, what kind of chemicals are used, whether or not the marks would come out, and the date of pickup. I was pretty much running the conversation since all Roots had to say was the ever-helpful, "Uh huh". It was beyond difficult to concentrate and not look at Roots' roots during that interaction. Anytime I meet someone I don't like, the same thing physical reaction occurs: my eyes narrow, my palms become cold and sweaty simultaneously, my heart thumps quickly in my chest, and my brain freezes up. Over the years, I've learned to control these symptoms, but yet they remain. (More about why I hate everyone later.)
Two days later, I strolled in to see Roots with the looming feeling that something big, something small, or just something has happened to my dress. There is reasoning behind my craziness and here it is: Roots brought the lovely ivory cocktail-length beaded bust dress out from the back and hung it on the rack for me to view. My eyes honed in on the bust immediately and saw that the formerly beige beads on the bust area were now virgin-FUCKING-white. My eyes narrowed, my palms sweated, my heart thumped, and I could barely think: Roots and her shitty root job fucked up my wedding dress.
To be continued...
The next step was to drop the ivory gown at the dry cleaners - I drove to another nearby location suggested by Chinese Lady. I walked into the facility, layed the plastic-covered dress down on the counter and said hi. There was no hi, no alternative greeting, no smile, no questions as to what I needed coming from the lady behind the counter. And she looked as though she had not showered in 17 days or visited her stylist for a root touch-up since 1992. If I couldn't trust her to take a shower before work, how could I trust her with my wedding dress? This was the exact moment I realized I didn't like the lady working the counter and our relationship was most likely not going to improve: we're going to call her "Roots" from here on out.
I told Roots that I was was dropping off my dress to be cleaned and pointed out a few marks around the bust area. We went over pricing, what kind of chemicals are used, whether or not the marks would come out, and the date of pickup. I was pretty much running the conversation since all Roots had to say was the ever-helpful, "Uh huh". It was beyond difficult to concentrate and not look at Roots' roots during that interaction. Anytime I meet someone I don't like, the same thing physical reaction occurs: my eyes narrow, my palms become cold and sweaty simultaneously, my heart thumps quickly in my chest, and my brain freezes up. Over the years, I've learned to control these symptoms, but yet they remain. (More about why I hate everyone later.)
Two days later, I strolled in to see Roots with the looming feeling that something big, something small, or just something has happened to my dress. There is reasoning behind my craziness and here it is: Roots brought the lovely ivory cocktail-length beaded bust dress out from the back and hung it on the rack for me to view. My eyes honed in on the bust immediately and saw that the formerly beige beads on the bust area were now virgin-FUCKING-white. My eyes narrowed, my palms sweated, my heart thumped, and I could barely think: Roots and her shitty root job fucked up my wedding dress.
To be continued...
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Crapslist Part 1
Seriously, have you read some of the shit that people post in the "free" section of Craigslist? Go there right now - it's under "for sale". You'll thank me later for the laugh.
Let's review some of the treasures I've been browsing -
Chicken Beverage Coasters: There are so many ways to read this one. Is it a coaster that holds chicken-flavored beverages? Or maybe it is a coaster shaped like a chicken? Or is it a coaster hand-whittled out of slices of chicken? Luckily, there is a shitty photo and it appears to be a set of four crappy circular coasters accompanied by a very large, awkward chicken-shaped coaster holder. The poor papa chicken doesn't even have feet. The insanity! Wait, it gets better. I can only assume this is a passive-aggressive cat lady trying to make a few bucks so she can buy more cats, thus the threatening ALL CAPS lock on certain phrases: "YOU MUST PICK UP" and "TOO MANY NO SHOWS". Idiot.
Dog Bones: This sounds fairly normal, right? Maybe their dog passed and they want the bones to go to a nice home. Apparently these items for sale are not the traditional dog bones I'm thinking of. No no no, these are described as "previously chewed beef femur bones". What the fuck? I'm officially creeped the fuck out. This dude also has an issue with sentence construction and grammar - "If your interested, please tell me how many your interested in if pieces and a phone number". I would rather swallow phosphoric acid then give this creeper my digits.
100 Gallons of Vegetable Oil: OMFG this can't be real. This posting says that this poor schmuck purchased the seemingly empty tank at an auction for "a project" and when he got home it was filled with vegetable oil. How pissed would you be if you were trying to design a spacecraft and when you bought a tank, it turned out to be filled with cooking oil? PISSED! I should give this dude a call, he left his digits for me: "330- 988 - zero five two eight" Thank you Jesus - he typed out the last four numbers - I was growing tired of reading actual numbers anyway.
Stay tuned for Crapslist Part 2.
Let's review some of the treasures I've been browsing -
Chicken Beverage Coasters: There are so many ways to read this one. Is it a coaster that holds chicken-flavored beverages? Or maybe it is a coaster shaped like a chicken? Or is it a coaster hand-whittled out of slices of chicken? Luckily, there is a shitty photo and it appears to be a set of four crappy circular coasters accompanied by a very large, awkward chicken-shaped coaster holder. The poor papa chicken doesn't even have feet. The insanity! Wait, it gets better. I can only assume this is a passive-aggressive cat lady trying to make a few bucks so she can buy more cats, thus the threatening ALL CAPS lock on certain phrases: "YOU MUST PICK UP" and "TOO MANY NO SHOWS". Idiot.
Dog Bones: This sounds fairly normal, right? Maybe their dog passed and they want the bones to go to a nice home. Apparently these items for sale are not the traditional dog bones I'm thinking of. No no no, these are described as "previously chewed beef femur bones". What the fuck? I'm officially creeped the fuck out. This dude also has an issue with sentence construction and grammar - "If your interested, please tell me how many your interested in if pieces and a phone number". I would rather swallow phosphoric acid then give this creeper my digits.
100 Gallons of Vegetable Oil: OMFG this can't be real. This posting says that this poor schmuck purchased the seemingly empty tank at an auction for "a project" and when he got home it was filled with vegetable oil. How pissed would you be if you were trying to design a spacecraft and when you bought a tank, it turned out to be filled with cooking oil? PISSED! I should give this dude a call, he left his digits for me: "330- 988 - zero five two eight" Thank you Jesus - he typed out the last four numbers - I was growing tired of reading actual numbers anyway.
Stay tuned for Crapslist Part 2.
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