Monday, September 27, 2010

Open Letter to the Guy I Just Totally Impressed

Dear Guy I Totally Just Impressed,

Hi Bro! I wanted to start this letter off super-casual and friendly, because that's how I roll, yo. And even though when I sent you that last thank you email after you gave me my interview, I made a hysterical "your mom" joke, I think it's okay because we are such good buddies. See how I called you "bro" a few sentences ago? We ARE tight. Trust me on this one, Dog. It's totally acceptable to have such a fun-loving relationship with your future boss. In fact, I just read a huge article on the benefits of fraternization in Forbes or Inc. Or Hustler or something. You are totally cutting edge, Man. Like so cutting edge, Japanese school girls would use you on their wrists to symbolize their inner turmoil about being so hot or their periods or whatever.

ACTUAL "Thank You for this interview, Yes I can kiss ass" email I sent to him.

I also totally appreciate you not freaking out and punching a hole in my face when you showed me that soccer picture and I was all "oh yeah! I wish I could get me some of that!" because obviously your daughter's breasts came in super-early and there's no good way to tell she's only 14. I know you said the team being called "The Fighting Buttercups" was a pretty good clue, but I maintain my contention that it sounded like an ironic roller derby kind of name, and all those chicks are sexy temptresses, so you really can't blame me. Besides, how would I ever know that girl was your daughter? She's not even fat like you. Maybe you need to spend more time teaching your daughter how to not be a huge whore, and less time acting all judgey and harsh to your future employees. Also thanks for not making a big deal about how I said your wife looked "tore up from the floor up". I just meant she was ugly, not that she looked like she'd been passed around at a convention for men with STDs on their face. With a little make-up she'd be like a 4 if you could figure out a way to disguise her hump.

And finally, all those questions I asked about needing time off for legal reasons were totally about jury duty and not about 6 to 15 pending date rape cases that allegedly may or may not involve me. I get called for jury duty all the time and as long as (*fingers crossed*) the DA keeps fucking up chain-of-custody for his circumstantial evidence, I should only have to go there for a few days at a time. Allegedly.

So in conclusion, don't be a horse dick puller and give me the job. I don't know that a horse dick puller is an actual thing, but if it was it wouldn't be anything you want to be... trust me, because no matter what your friends tell you, the horse doesn't always like it and sometimes they kick because you pull too hard and then you get head trauma and spend the rest of your life in bullshit jobs like the one I just applied for with you.

Hugs Not Drugs,

Thursday, September 23, 2010

C is For Cookie. And Some Other Stuff (*wink*)

I'm going to try and be super delicate here, because maybe you don't know it but we are about to talk about a sensitive subject and reveal ancient secrets of maleness and if you don't like a certain word that start with the letter "c" and rhymes with "shunt", (hint: "cunt") than maybe peel off here and go read "Family Circus" or something. Those adorable roundheaded kids! What will they say next?

Here's the thing. There are certain euphemisms in the blue collar world that I'm pretty sure most women have no idea about. For example: When spot welding, if too much metal drips off a joint and leads to an improper seal, it's called "a tit-banger".

I made that up. That was a test. I just wanted to give you girls a sample of the kind of reckless misogyny you are in for. Man. Men sure are jerks, huh? (*lights incense. flips page in "What to Expect When You're Expecting*)

Okay, for real this time. When something is very close to the correct position but still off by a little, the amount of adjustment necessary is "a cunt hair". This is NOT a joke. I'm being serious. Let me us it in context so you can roll it around your tongue a little. "Jeez Dave, you almost have the timing set right. You just need to move it a cunt hair more clockwise." or "You almost crushed that prostitute's trachea! A cunt hair more and it would have gone from auto-erotic asphyxiation to "lawyer time"*.

I've also noticed a trend lately, in more PC work environments, where people refer to that distance as a "c-hair" so as not to say the possibly offensive word and get themselves fired for sexual harrassment. It's like Louis C.K. says though...if you don't say the offensive word but just abbreviate it, than you'r making ME say it in my head, and thereby making me a sex torturer or woman hater without my even meaning to. Not that saying "cunt" makes anyone either of those things, just that's how people treat you if you say it in public. (or shout it at the Homecoming Queen as her float goes by because you've had one too many banana daiquiris by 9am. Sheesh! I said I was sorry!)

*This is misogynistic because a) she was a prostitute and therefore being compensated for her strangle sex, and b) I said so.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Swayze From the Heat

Sometimes I spend long days contemplating the nature of man's inhumanity to man in the framework of certain socio-political trends that remain prevalent from the mid-portion of the 20th century. And other times I think about To Wong Foo Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar because while some people waste their lives not focusing on meaningless bullshit mid-90s bad movies, I think it is my duty to think of anything other than what I am supposed to.

It's a gift really.

Like when I'm supposed to be getting dinner for my kids and I instead think about how awesome it would be to be Wile E. Coyote and then actually catch that mother-effing, dick-head roadrunner. Or when I'm at mass and instead of contemplating the divine something,something of Jesus I wonder who I would eat if the church were suddenly locked from the outside by a gang of post-apocalyptic thugs. I mean...I wouldn't have to worry about water, because we Catholics have loads of the magic kind, but food might be a problem because those skinny wafers won't cut it. Maybe they are the transubstantiated body of our Lord and Savior*, but they probably only have, what...20 calories at best? I think I'm gonna eat Mrs. Murtough. She's put on quite a few pounds since her kidneys failed.

No. Just NO.

To Wong Foo Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar is of course, the story of Priscilla Queen of the Desert as told by the following non-Australians: John Leguizamo, Patrick Swayze, and robustly non-Australian Wesley Snipes. All dressed in drag. And no I don't mean dressed up as drag racers, because that would be really cool to each actor could be dressed up like a car and then run really fast in a sprint against the other actors. That would have a lot of dramatic tension because everyone would want the underdog, Wesley Snipes car to win, but he would be sabotaged by racists in the second act and then the Patrick Swayze race car would have to race to win in the climax of the film. And then some song by Night Ranger would come on when he won and there would be a freeze-frame of the two surviving cars jumping in mid-air, hands together like champions. Not that kind. The "men dressed up as chicks" kind.

Was Wong Fu** awesome? No. No it was not. I barely remember it. But will that keep me from focusing on what it was that made Patrick Swayze chose it as his project after the success of Dirty Dancing and Ghost? Nope. I'm totally fixated on it like it was the leg of someone dressed in a fancy suit at a funeral and I am a horny dog who's walked in off the street and need to get my hump on.

Moral: Wesley Snipes makes an ugly woman.

*This might be bordering on sacrilegious, but God has a good sense of humor about blasphemy according to my complete ignorance of how many people have been stoned to death for it over the centuries.

**I abbreviated it in the interest of not wanting to type out that whole big long thing out again and also so you think I am best friends with that film and therefore my smack talk is done in playful fun, and me and the movie go way back and we drink beer and play cards together and never argue about having what it would classify as "semi-gay" experiences in the movie theater that one time.

Aside: Hey! Don't forget to read the Roaring Dork. Today I talk about Resident Evil: Afterlife and how Milla Jovovich could sell me her used tampons and call them "Fire Mice" that are genetic mutations of actual mice with red coats and even though they totally look fake and the googly eyes she's glued on the one are starting to come off, it's Milla Jovovich so who even cares.

Thursday, September 9, 2010


So I'm totally starting a new review site and it's called The Roaring Dork*, and in it I'll be discussing whatever i've been watching and then telling you all my fascinating opinions and I know that sounds revolutionary, but I'd like you all to settle down because it's just the Internet.

I should probably add a few caveats because I'm not ALWAYS going to be watching the movies I review and sometimes I'm just gonna be making up a bunch of stuff and phoning it in, especially when I've had too many Brandy Alexanders, or if I've sniffed too much marker, or if it's a choice between giving an honest review or writing something quick because the heavy-set lady across the street is about to get ready to shower but she still hasn't figured out about turning off the lights in her bedroom or pulling the shades before undressing, and when she undoes her bra clasps it's pretty much a tit-valanche in there and there are no St. Bernards to rescue people from under the massive spill of jugs, so everyone in the room dies from having been suffocated by rolls of giant booby. She does this every night. I bet under her floorboards she has the bones of at least ten people who died with a surprised look on their face because they didn't know nipples could get that big and pale.

But all that is besides the point, because the point is that if you all could go and check out my very funny new blog with it's whole one post so far, than I maybe don't always have to write about period clumps and farting all the time, and while those might seem like Pulitzer Prize© winning topics to you, I'd like to point out two things. First is, I'm a genius reviewer and if you don't believe me ask anyone whose name rhymes with "dirt" and has a blog that you are reading right now with the word "monster" in it. I'm sure they can vouch for me. They'll tell you how I just recently left Mama Pop where I wrote for almost two years and was super funny and respected there, even though all my old posts are attributed to someone named Marilyn now, who may or may not even be a real person. The second reason I shouldn't be writing all that tits and orgasm stuff exclusively is your mom only has SO MANY stories and she's starting to repeat herself so I'm running out of material and besides it's rude of her to talk with her mouth full.**

This picture represents my feelings about the kind of greatness The Roaring Dork will aspire to.

I know there are some people out there who don't want to go somewhere different to read my posts, and to them I say PPPpppPppPppPPpPppPpppp! I have a grand scheme and you can either be a part of it or you can be food for us someday. Your choice.

* There's an awesome badge over on my sidebar you can even click, because maybe "links" of the non-sausage variety are intimidating to you! HAHAHAHAHA! I made fun of your poor nutrition and your love of processed meats, implying I am superior for NOT loving those things even though I do.

** Get it? (*points at Wang***. Winks. Points at Wang. Winks again*)

*** For some reason my computer has started auto-correcting "wang" by capitalizing it, making it a proper name. Something, something "capitalize on THIS (*grabs Wang*)"