It sucked rotting ostrich teats.
Seriously.
But wait, now that I think about it, actually watching live ostrich teats ROTTING ON SCREEN would've been a better use of my time (and made a better movie). Or, even better, cutting off my OWN TEATS and filleting them in a nice olive sauce with rum-filled raisins and then silently chewing them while shaking and crying WOULD'VE MADE ME A MUCH HAPPIER MAN.
Really.
There is nothing else left to say.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
3.17.2009
1.08.2009
I'm Even Better Than The Real Thing
Y'know when you have one of those days...where nothing goes right...AT ALL...and you wish, for just one minute...that you knew some sort of Knife-Fu...and you could go all "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Bloody-Fucking-Lobotomy" on someone's ass?
Yeah, that was today.
I mean, not EVERYTHING was horrible, but it was pretty fucking bad. Even my therapy session, which usually puts me in a much better mood, just made me sad and anxious and wanting to hit someone.
That's not good.
Also, I got to write a REALLY vicious e-mail at work today that eviscerated this company for fucking up on one of my orders and I usually enjoy writing those type of e-mails (heck, I am KNOWN for those type of e-mails) and even THAT didn't make me feel any better. I must be coming down with small-pox or something.
Or maybe I'm just depressed. *sigh* Again.
So, instead of going to the gym today after work (like I promised myself I would), I headed home and stopped off at Burger King on the way and got a giant Whopper value meal. I'm sure eating THAT will put me in a better mood.
(The answer is: NOT)
But the most interesting thing happened to me at the drive-thru. I pulled up to the window to pay and this young guy was at the cash register, just smiling away. Of course, I immediately hated him. So I rolled down the window to pay and the guy suddenly jumps back and yells at me, "Wow! Did anyone ever tell you you look just like that guy from You Tube?"
I'm immediately confused. I'm trying to come up with a name but I'm drawing a blank -- there are SO many You Tube people! Does he mean that guy who sings, "Chocolate Rain?" Or the Star Wars Kid? I can't think, but none of them sound flattering. Could it be that I just got dissed by the Burger King drive-thru guy? Could my day GET any worse!?
I just smile back at the guy, pass him my money, and say, "No, I've never had anyone say that."
He just keeps on grinning and points at me, "No, you do. You look like him! I can't think of his name..."
I'm still at a loss, and getting more insulted by the minute. "Which You Tube guy were you thinking of?"
He laughs back at me and says, "NO! No! The guy from U2! The BAND! What's his name, the lead singer."
I'm kinda shocked. No, wait, I'm IN SHOCK.
"You mean Bono?" I ask, disbelieving every surreal word coming out of my mouth.
"Yeah, that's him! You look just like him! Do you get that all the time?"
I practically do a spit take in his face.
"NO, NO, I've never had anyone say that. That would be nice." I understate, not believing for one second I look 1/1000th as good as Bono does, even on his worst day.
He comes back to the window, handing me my change, "Dude, you do, seriously. You pulled up to the window and I was like, 'WOW.' Especially from the side you look exactly like him. You must get that all the time."
Now I'm just scrambling for words, any words. "Yeah, I wish. No, I've never gotten that before but that would be great. I'd love it."
Understatement. Of. The. FUCKING. Century.
Drive-thru guy just waves me off, "Cool, dude. Have a nice day!"
I smile back at him and say, "Thanks, you too!"
and then I ponder this incident alllllll the way home.
?????
??????????????
?
And the only conclusion I've reached about this whole thing?
Well, I WAS wearing sunglasses at the time...so that must be it.
Or I must be one smokin' hot stud.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Yeah, that was today.
I mean, not EVERYTHING was horrible, but it was pretty fucking bad. Even my therapy session, which usually puts me in a much better mood, just made me sad and anxious and wanting to hit someone.
That's not good.
Also, I got to write a REALLY vicious e-mail at work today that eviscerated this company for fucking up on one of my orders and I usually enjoy writing those type of e-mails (heck, I am KNOWN for those type of e-mails) and even THAT didn't make me feel any better. I must be coming down with small-pox or something.
Or maybe I'm just depressed. *sigh* Again.
So, instead of going to the gym today after work (like I promised myself I would), I headed home and stopped off at Burger King on the way and got a giant Whopper value meal. I'm sure eating THAT will put me in a better mood.
(The answer is: NOT)
But the most interesting thing happened to me at the drive-thru. I pulled up to the window to pay and this young guy was at the cash register, just smiling away. Of course, I immediately hated him. So I rolled down the window to pay and the guy suddenly jumps back and yells at me, "Wow! Did anyone ever tell you you look just like that guy from You Tube?"
I'm immediately confused. I'm trying to come up with a name but I'm drawing a blank -- there are SO many You Tube people! Does he mean that guy who sings, "Chocolate Rain?" Or the Star Wars Kid? I can't think, but none of them sound flattering. Could it be that I just got dissed by the Burger King drive-thru guy? Could my day GET any worse!?
I just smile back at the guy, pass him my money, and say, "No, I've never had anyone say that."
He just keeps on grinning and points at me, "No, you do. You look like him! I can't think of his name..."
I'm still at a loss, and getting more insulted by the minute. "Which You Tube guy were you thinking of?"
He laughs back at me and says, "NO! No! The guy from U2! The BAND! What's his name, the lead singer."
I'm kinda shocked. No, wait, I'm IN SHOCK.
"You mean Bono?" I ask, disbelieving every surreal word coming out of my mouth.
"Yeah, that's him! You look just like him! Do you get that all the time?"
I practically do a spit take in his face.
"NO, NO, I've never had anyone say that. That would be nice." I understate, not believing for one second I look 1/1000th as good as Bono does, even on his worst day.
He comes back to the window, handing me my change, "Dude, you do, seriously. You pulled up to the window and I was like, 'WOW.' Especially from the side you look exactly like him. You must get that all the time."
Now I'm just scrambling for words, any words. "Yeah, I wish. No, I've never gotten that before but that would be great. I'd love it."
Understatement. Of. The. FUCKING. Century.
Drive-thru guy just waves me off, "Cool, dude. Have a nice day!"
I smile back at him and say, "Thanks, you too!"
and then I ponder this incident alllllll the way home.
?????
??????????????
?
And the only conclusion I've reached about this whole thing?
Well, I WAS wearing sunglasses at the time...so that must be it.
Or I must be one smokin' hot stud.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
12.12.2008
Short(ly) Fired Stories
I'm a writer.
Yeah, you'd never tell from this blog, but I've been writing for most of my life. I'm not the best writer in the world, I'll admit that, and I've never claimed to be. I either write what I know or I write what I like. That's it. Some people say I don't "stretch" myself enough, but I'd look like a fool writing about anything else. (I am considering a book for next year that may contradict this statement, but that story is for another post.)
Since some people in my life know I am a writer, they sometimes ask me to become involved in writerly things. Things that I inevitably end up saying "no" to. Not because I don't want to help, it's just that writing is a passion for me, an enjoyable creative escape that I don't want to spoil by making it into -- work. If I don't feel something for what I am writing about (pick your emotion - it doesn't matter what motivates you, as long as you feel it) then the writing escape is completely soured. At another point in my life, I was an artist and used to enjoy art in the same way as writing, until my escape became my work and now I haven't drawn anything for myself or anybody else in many, many years.
So, seriously, fuck that shit.
But one of my relatives decided to try and bother me again recently with a project he was working on - a collection of humorous short stories about people and their teen-age years. It was bad enough I didn't want to contribute anything to his collection (i.e. fuck that shit. Remember that? Hello, is this on?) but like I seriously wanted to revisit the fresh Hell dimension of my youth. Seriously. And, as a "bonus," this relative knew how bad my childhood was and he still asked!
He could go fuck himself sideways through a meat-cleaver waterfall.
Which would have been the end of it (in a satisfyingly gruesome way, I might add), BUT he wouldn't take no for an answer. OH, NO, THAT WOULD BE TOO EASY! He just kept asking, which was doubly weird because he was also a writer and had plenty of material for the book. So why pester me? Nobody knows who I am! My writing style is completely different from the rest of the book! His stories ideas were (to me) painfully unfunny!
I finally got rid of him this past week with a strongly worded e-mail, but the whole situation got me thinking. What if I HAD written something? Something that was in MY style, with MY sense of humor. Would he really be so happy with me then? Let's see...
My Childhood
Me and Ricky ran the last few blocks, our breath escaping in huge gasps from our thin chests. The cold night air burned in our lungs as we looked back through the thin layer of fog hovering over the streets we had just escaped through. There was no sign of pursuit. I smiled at Ricky, who smiled back while wiping a smear of blood off his cheek. Ricky counted out half of the cash in his front pocket and gave it to me, his hands still shaking. We talked quietly about what happened and, after a quick hug and some sloppy tongue action, Ricky quietly disappeared into an alleyway further down the block. He said his Mom was waiting for him at home and that he was late. I knew it was a lie, that his Mom beat him brutally with broken liquor bottles and ribbons of razor wire every night, but let him go anyway. I had someplace to be as well, so I didn't care.
Later, I met up with Sinky and Front Flap Pete at our usual stomping grounds. Sinky had just blown sixteen sailors in an abandoned car on fifty-fourth street so he was flush with cash. He even bought me a Diet Coke and some Chapstick from the local Duane Reed. The tube said it had a new "plumping action" which was nice and might come in handy when Ron stopped by later. Pete was taken away by some leather guy in a car right after that and we ended up never seeing him alive again. Well, except for his foot. And a chunk of his thigh. I don't know if that counts. Oh, and later I found a part of his ear in a dumpster, which I dried and made into a decorative fob for my keys. I miss Pete.
Sinky sank into a depression after Pete died and was never the same. He eventually joined a religious cult and disappeared for almost a year. We heard that he had moved to California but that one day he snapped and went on a rampage, castrating eleven men before being trampled to death by a rhino freed from the local zoo because of the fires. I ended up moving to Long Island and lost contact with most of my old friends, which was sad. I still compulsively blew random men in my spare time, just not for cash anymore. That had to stop once my left arm was amputated. My foster parents were very strict about that, at least until they were killed. But the sores never did seem to dry up completely. It was soon after that I bought my first computer and discovered hacking. The guards keep saying that my parole should go through soon. High School was so much fun, I wish I could've stayed a teenager forever.
The End.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Yeah, you'd never tell from this blog, but I've been writing for most of my life. I'm not the best writer in the world, I'll admit that, and I've never claimed to be. I either write what I know or I write what I like. That's it. Some people say I don't "stretch" myself enough, but I'd look like a fool writing about anything else. (I am considering a book for next year that may contradict this statement, but that story is for another post.)
Since some people in my life know I am a writer, they sometimes ask me to become involved in writerly things. Things that I inevitably end up saying "no" to. Not because I don't want to help, it's just that writing is a passion for me, an enjoyable creative escape that I don't want to spoil by making it into -- work. If I don't feel something for what I am writing about (pick your emotion - it doesn't matter what motivates you, as long as you feel it) then the writing escape is completely soured. At another point in my life, I was an artist and used to enjoy art in the same way as writing, until my escape became my work and now I haven't drawn anything for myself or anybody else in many, many years.
So, seriously, fuck that shit.
But one of my relatives decided to try and bother me again recently with a project he was working on - a collection of humorous short stories about people and their teen-age years. It was bad enough I didn't want to contribute anything to his collection (i.e. fuck that shit. Remember that? Hello, is this on?) but like I seriously wanted to revisit the fresh Hell dimension of my youth. Seriously. And, as a "bonus," this relative knew how bad my childhood was and he still asked!
He could go fuck himself sideways through a meat-cleaver waterfall.
Which would have been the end of it (in a satisfyingly gruesome way, I might add), BUT he wouldn't take no for an answer. OH, NO, THAT WOULD BE TOO EASY! He just kept asking, which was doubly weird because he was also a writer and had plenty of material for the book. So why pester me? Nobody knows who I am! My writing style is completely different from the rest of the book! His stories ideas were (to me) painfully unfunny!
I finally got rid of him this past week with a strongly worded e-mail, but the whole situation got me thinking. What if I HAD written something? Something that was in MY style, with MY sense of humor. Would he really be so happy with me then? Let's see...
My Childhood
Me and Ricky ran the last few blocks, our breath escaping in huge gasps from our thin chests. The cold night air burned in our lungs as we looked back through the thin layer of fog hovering over the streets we had just escaped through. There was no sign of pursuit. I smiled at Ricky, who smiled back while wiping a smear of blood off his cheek. Ricky counted out half of the cash in his front pocket and gave it to me, his hands still shaking. We talked quietly about what happened and, after a quick hug and some sloppy tongue action, Ricky quietly disappeared into an alleyway further down the block. He said his Mom was waiting for him at home and that he was late. I knew it was a lie, that his Mom beat him brutally with broken liquor bottles and ribbons of razor wire every night, but let him go anyway. I had someplace to be as well, so I didn't care.
Later, I met up with Sinky and Front Flap Pete at our usual stomping grounds. Sinky had just blown sixteen sailors in an abandoned car on fifty-fourth street so he was flush with cash. He even bought me a Diet Coke and some Chapstick from the local Duane Reed. The tube said it had a new "plumping action" which was nice and might come in handy when Ron stopped by later. Pete was taken away by some leather guy in a car right after that and we ended up never seeing him alive again. Well, except for his foot. And a chunk of his thigh. I don't know if that counts. Oh, and later I found a part of his ear in a dumpster, which I dried and made into a decorative fob for my keys. I miss Pete.
Sinky sank into a depression after Pete died and was never the same. He eventually joined a religious cult and disappeared for almost a year. We heard that he had moved to California but that one day he snapped and went on a rampage, castrating eleven men before being trampled to death by a rhino freed from the local zoo because of the fires. I ended up moving to Long Island and lost contact with most of my old friends, which was sad. I still compulsively blew random men in my spare time, just not for cash anymore. That had to stop once my left arm was amputated. My foster parents were very strict about that, at least until they were killed. But the sores never did seem to dry up completely. It was soon after that I bought my first computer and discovered hacking. The guards keep saying that my parole should go through soon. High School was so much fun, I wish I could've stayed a teenager forever.
The End.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
I Had "The Gay." I Got Over It.
So, everyone in my office who is remotely human (There are some who aren't. Don't make me describe them.) is getting sick. It's just that time of year, when people are stressed out from spending too much money on gifts, plowing themselves into crushing debt for stuff they don't want for people they despise and wish would die a horrible whooping-cough death, which then lowers their immune system and causes them to stay home and become secret egg-nog alcoholics while watching Oprah reruns.
Y'know, the American Holiday Season.
Or, it could be that people are so damned tired of working all fucking year that they just need a fucking day off to rest and escape the haranguing of their mental-patientesque co-workers for one measly day.
Either/or. You choose!
So, this past Tuesday I was out of work because of SOME REASON and when I came into my office bright and early Wednesday morning one of my co-workers came running into my office and closed the door behind her.
That's never a good sign.
Either she's going to suddenly reveal a horrible secret -- i.e. "I have a horrible case of shingles on my vagina, wanna see!?" or she's going to tell me to quickly pack my desk items before the boss nazis come and fire my delicate (but perky and firm!) ass. Neither option is wanted.
But surprise! It wasn't either one of those. She had a serious look on her face as she sat down in the chair opposite my desk and blurted out, "Were you out yesterday because you are gay?"
".......?"
Is this a new excuse I hadn't heard of? Can I really tell my boss that I had a case of "The Gay" and would be fine in a couple of days? What was the prescription -- take two cocks (orally) at night and rim the Doctor in the morning? Suddenly I was all excited that my sexual orientation, instead of being a hardship, could now be used as a get-out-of-work free card! How exotic! How unexpected! How nippilylicious!
But my co-worked quickly explained that Tuesday was some "Gay Missing" or "No Gay For You" or "I Can't Get No (Satisfagtion)" day or something where all the gays in the all the workplaces were supposed to stay home to show people how much we actually contribute to society.
Or something. I totally missed it. Whatever.
I did notice that some of the "100% completely hetero married straighties that stare an oddly long time at me in the halls and make questionable statements in my vicinity" at work were out that day as well. Hmmmmmmmmm.....makes ya think, doesn't it? What were they doing at home, all alone...for all those hours...I mean, Manhunt.com doesn't pay for itself, you know...
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Y'know, the American Holiday Season.
Or, it could be that people are so damned tired of working all fucking year that they just need a fucking day off to rest and escape the haranguing of their mental-patientesque co-workers for one measly day.
Either/or. You choose!
So, this past Tuesday I was out of work because of SOME REASON and when I came into my office bright and early Wednesday morning one of my co-workers came running into my office and closed the door behind her.
That's never a good sign.
Either she's going to suddenly reveal a horrible secret -- i.e. "I have a horrible case of shingles on my vagina, wanna see!?" or she's going to tell me to quickly pack my desk items before the boss nazis come and fire my delicate (but perky and firm!) ass. Neither option is wanted.
But surprise! It wasn't either one of those. She had a serious look on her face as she sat down in the chair opposite my desk and blurted out, "Were you out yesterday because you are gay?"
".......?"
Is this a new excuse I hadn't heard of? Can I really tell my boss that I had a case of "The Gay" and would be fine in a couple of days? What was the prescription -- take two cocks (orally) at night and rim the Doctor in the morning? Suddenly I was all excited that my sexual orientation, instead of being a hardship, could now be used as a get-out-of-work free card! How exotic! How unexpected! How nippilylicious!
But my co-worked quickly explained that Tuesday was some "Gay Missing" or "No Gay For You" or "I Can't Get No (Satisfagtion)" day or something where all the gays in the all the workplaces were supposed to stay home to show people how much we actually contribute to society.
Or something. I totally missed it. Whatever.
I did notice that some of the "100% completely hetero married straighties that stare an oddly long time at me in the halls and make questionable statements in my vicinity" at work were out that day as well. Hmmmmmmmmm.....makes ya think, doesn't it? What were they doing at home, all alone...for all those hours...I mean, Manhunt.com doesn't pay for itself, you know...
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
12.02.2008
You're Too Late, I Already Signed Up
My new favorite commercial just aired again on E!. It's for a Nursing program at some online college I forget the name of the minute they say it. The only part I care about is when the announcer begins to wrap up the commercial and talks about the fantastic job opportunities available for the current (or future) graduating Nursing students. He gets really excited and then booms out this gem:
"All across the country, there are openings ready to be filled."
Oh yes, Mr. Announcer, there definitely are.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
"All across the country, there are openings ready to be filled."
Oh yes, Mr. Announcer, there definitely are.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
11.30.2008
Bank of Evil
It is a long-known fact that I fucking hate Bank of America. They are a shit-filled cancer on the ass crack of America, a pus-filled boil brimming with diseased liquid ready to explode onto the riddled skin of our great nation, randomly spreading its acidic, clotted bile all over our deformed corpse.
Yes, they are that bad.
Not that they’ve done anything to me lately, it’s just that in the past they have instituted such infamous “customer-friendly” rules as actually charging their customers for deposit slips. Yeah, those slips of paper that other banks give away for free because it costs them next to nothing to print and, since you are being a good customer and LENDING THEM CASH TO MAKE A PROFIT ON, they should be happy to provide. But no, Bank of America got rid of all the free ones in the lobby and then used to charge you A WHOLE FUCKING DOLLAR for each one you asked the teller for. I mean, really, what’s next? Charging me for the “privilege” of walking in your fucking lobby? Is that 25 cents/step refundable if I take out a loan over $100,000 and/or suck the manager’s cock? Is he at least cute?
Fucking dicks.
Just to fuck them over, I used to take my last deposit slip from my checkbook and copy it over and over on a Xerox machine and use the copies. They’d even have ragged edges where I intentionally, sloppily cut them out with scissors. When I handed the faux slips to the teller and they didn’t work (each slip has magnetic ink in it to be scanned by the bank and mine didn’t) I’d just smile and say, “Huh, it doesn’t work? That’s sooooooo weird.”
So I was in the bank this weekend as usual, just trying to get a fucking roll of quarters for my fucking laundry. The line was, of course, 3,000 miles long and it took fucking forever to move. Granted, not all of the problems were Bank of America’s fault. Sure, they could not have possibly hired slower human beings to man the teller stations, but the customers were also not helping. They tied up the lines while trying to get their checkbooks to balance, causing all of us to waste what little weekend we had left standing in a fucking line. HEY, IQ DEFICIENT, YOU KNOW WHAT I DO WHEN I CAN’T BALANCE MY CHECKBOOK? I SIT DOWN WITH A CALCULATOR AND FUCKING PEN AND FIGURE IT OUT FOR MY FUCKING SELF!
Which reminds me of a movie I watched last night, Drumline. “Who in the what now?” you say confusedly. Yeah, this is quite possibly the last movie I would ever want to watch, rent, or view. Seriously, I would rather watch a documentary on Alaskan whale farts than sit through this shit-filled experience, or so I would’ve thought before last night. I was surfing the web at the time, so fuck you too.
Anyhoo, the main character in the movie was some drumline protégé or something but he couldn’t read music and was all boo-hoo about it for the whole movie and I just wanted to carve out his brain with a cement trowel because all he had to do to solve the problem WAS LEARN TO FUCKING READ MUSIC, DICKSHIT. I mean, suck up the tiny man-sacs between your legs, sit the fuck down, and learn it! It’s not like he was born with half a brain or was in some bloody thrasher accident, he was just too fucking lazy to learn the shit. I have no patience for people like that.
Which brings me back to the people at the bank. See, that little diversion had a point! Really! Moral of the story: Learn to use your IQ-deficient brain or I will teach you what a real-life thrasher accident feels like, in person. It ain’t pleasant.
Which (again) brings me back to my original point: what was I thinking about while waiting for eternity in the fucking bank line? Good question! I was busy trying to come up with a new, dramatic insult name to call Bank of America. I mean, sure, “Fucking, Sucking Cockworm” or “Infected Anal Man-Gash” was good, but I wanted something original, something never before heard by the ears of Man. Something that got to the core of what the Bank really was, something that described what could be found down deep in its cold, dead heart. Y’know, near where Dick Cheney lives.
Also, something that I could enjoy saying while giggling maniacally as the words rolled off of my glistening, honeyed tounge. Hee!
Or at least something like that. Yeah.
So I stood there and thought and thought, but all of my expletives turned out to be too pedestrian. I was shocked, flabbergasted, dejected. Could it be that I, master of the put-down, had failed? It was inconceivable!
Then it finally came to me. The Holy Grail of insults, the Crème De La Crème of fuck-yous, the Muy Delicioso of disgusting putdowns. It suddenly floated down out of the Ether and graced me with its powerful, revolting presence. I was complete.
I greeted the teller with a smile, gleefully knowing that the secret name of Bank of Amercia had finally been revealed to me. The curtains in the sky had parted, and it was all good.
The Bank of Satan’s Gunt was now open for business.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Yes, they are that bad.
Not that they’ve done anything to me lately, it’s just that in the past they have instituted such infamous “customer-friendly” rules as actually charging their customers for deposit slips. Yeah, those slips of paper that other banks give away for free because it costs them next to nothing to print and, since you are being a good customer and LENDING THEM CASH TO MAKE A PROFIT ON, they should be happy to provide. But no, Bank of America got rid of all the free ones in the lobby and then used to charge you A WHOLE FUCKING DOLLAR for each one you asked the teller for. I mean, really, what’s next? Charging me for the “privilege” of walking in your fucking lobby? Is that 25 cents/step refundable if I take out a loan over $100,000 and/or suck the manager’s cock? Is he at least cute?
Fucking dicks.
Just to fuck them over, I used to take my last deposit slip from my checkbook and copy it over and over on a Xerox machine and use the copies. They’d even have ragged edges where I intentionally, sloppily cut them out with scissors. When I handed the faux slips to the teller and they didn’t work (each slip has magnetic ink in it to be scanned by the bank and mine didn’t) I’d just smile and say, “Huh, it doesn’t work? That’s sooooooo weird.”
So I was in the bank this weekend as usual, just trying to get a fucking roll of quarters for my fucking laundry. The line was, of course, 3,000 miles long and it took fucking forever to move. Granted, not all of the problems were Bank of America’s fault. Sure, they could not have possibly hired slower human beings to man the teller stations, but the customers were also not helping. They tied up the lines while trying to get their checkbooks to balance, causing all of us to waste what little weekend we had left standing in a fucking line. HEY, IQ DEFICIENT, YOU KNOW WHAT I DO WHEN I CAN’T BALANCE MY CHECKBOOK? I SIT DOWN WITH A CALCULATOR AND FUCKING PEN AND FIGURE IT OUT FOR MY FUCKING SELF!
Which reminds me of a movie I watched last night, Drumline. “Who in the what now?” you say confusedly. Yeah, this is quite possibly the last movie I would ever want to watch, rent, or view. Seriously, I would rather watch a documentary on Alaskan whale farts than sit through this shit-filled experience, or so I would’ve thought before last night. I was surfing the web at the time, so fuck you too.
Anyhoo, the main character in the movie was some drumline protégé or something but he couldn’t read music and was all boo-hoo about it for the whole movie and I just wanted to carve out his brain with a cement trowel because all he had to do to solve the problem WAS LEARN TO FUCKING READ MUSIC, DICKSHIT. I mean, suck up the tiny man-sacs between your legs, sit the fuck down, and learn it! It’s not like he was born with half a brain or was in some bloody thrasher accident, he was just too fucking lazy to learn the shit. I have no patience for people like that.
Which brings me back to the people at the bank. See, that little diversion had a point! Really! Moral of the story: Learn to use your IQ-deficient brain or I will teach you what a real-life thrasher accident feels like, in person. It ain’t pleasant.
Which (again) brings me back to my original point: what was I thinking about while waiting for eternity in the fucking bank line? Good question! I was busy trying to come up with a new, dramatic insult name to call Bank of America. I mean, sure, “Fucking, Sucking Cockworm” or “Infected Anal Man-Gash” was good, but I wanted something original, something never before heard by the ears of Man. Something that got to the core of what the Bank really was, something that described what could be found down deep in its cold, dead heart. Y’know, near where Dick Cheney lives.
Also, something that I could enjoy saying while giggling maniacally as the words rolled off of my glistening, honeyed tounge. Hee!
Or at least something like that. Yeah.
So I stood there and thought and thought, but all of my expletives turned out to be too pedestrian. I was shocked, flabbergasted, dejected. Could it be that I, master of the put-down, had failed? It was inconceivable!
Then it finally came to me. The Holy Grail of insults, the Crème De La Crème of fuck-yous, the Muy Delicioso of disgusting putdowns. It suddenly floated down out of the Ether and graced me with its powerful, revolting presence. I was complete.
I greeted the teller with a smile, gleefully knowing that the secret name of Bank of Amercia had finally been revealed to me. The curtains in the sky had parted, and it was all good.
The Bank of Satan’s Gunt was now open for business.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
11.19.2008
Oh, and FYI: Chuck Norris Hates You
Yeah, found out today that Chuck Norris doesn't really like and isn't a big fan of The Gays. Due to some ancient, medieval belief that the Bible told him so. Which is his right, obviously, to believe that, but he also came out in support of Prop 8 in California and believed it was the correct decision to strip away the rights from gay people to marry and treat us like second class citizens.
Whatever, Chuck, you are now dead to me. The only name I will now recognize you by is Fucker: Texas Ranger. I hope you accidentally stick your head in a Total Gym and choke to death.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Whatever, Chuck, you are now dead to me. The only name I will now recognize you by is Fucker: Texas Ranger. I hope you accidentally stick your head in a Total Gym and choke to death.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
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