Archive for August, 2011
I got an invite to a sparkly, shiny new fantasy football league last night and I was all WHEEEEEEE!!!!! because I love sparkly, shininess but mostly because this would be my fourth league — my fourth team this fine football season, which would be just a sparkly, shiny shade of WHEEEEEEETOINFINITY!!!!!, so I point and click my way to the Join This League page, where I carefully keyboard in the League ID and password and get ready to get all kinds of included …
… but instead I got this:
There was a problem
There is not room in this league if all teams from last year return. To join, get the commissioner to increase the maximum number of teams, or remove teams that will not be returning. (Error #638)
I rub my eyes.
Surely I didn’t see what I just saw.
I look again.
It’s still there.
So I’m all ‘how can this be?’ — but then my beady little eye found the devil in that detail …
Not enough room *IF* all of last year’s teams return.
Excuse me, but what is this *if* shit?!?
This league has a cap of 16 teams and, last I heard only 11 had returned.
As in 11.
As in actually returned.
As in actually signed up.
As in actually going to draft.
Now, I think it’s a well-established fact that The Cookie is no mathematological genius-type ‘ho or anything, but I do know the difference between 11 and 16, people. I did pass the second grade, after all!
First – they LOOK different! One’s skinny and one’s got a belly.
Second – they SOUND different! One has three syllables and one’s got two.
Third – they COUNT different! One barely breaks into a third hand and one’s gonna need four.
They are DEFFERENT, as in not the same, as in one is less and one is more, as in — if we’re gettin’ technical here — there is, like, actual ROOM in this league for Cookie’s Coffin Cornerers.
Because there is!
Because 11 is not 16!!
So cut the crap already and
Not that you didn’t know that obvious obviousity alfuckingready, but apparently some folks didn’t … and had to get their study on to get a gat damn clue.
So here’s the nugget:
If you start bringin’ the crazy all of a sudden – don’t panic.
Because it’s, like, 100% Mother Nature’s fault.
::: subsitute teachers, guidance counselors, babysitters and parents everywhere breathe a sigh of relief :::
A report being released today titled ‘A Climate of Suffering: The Real Cost of Living with Inaction on Climate Change’ says the past 15 years of planet cracking has been a ”preview of life under unrestrained global warming”.
FUUUUUCK – this shit’s gonna get worse?
::: rhetorical question, of course it is – you thought 2010 was an anomaly?! :::
The report is the culmination of someone’s idea of serious researchological determinerifficality, prepared real special-like for the Climate Institute, and it puts the loss of social cohesion in the wake of severe weather events related to climate change squarely in the center of the blame circle of things that could possibly, likely be linked to increased rates of anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress and substance abuse.
”What we have seriously underestimated is the effects on social cohesion,” said Professor Ian Hickie, the executive director of the Brain and Mind Research Institute. “That is very hard to rebuild and they are critical to the mental health of an individual.”
Dude, being stranded in your own flooded house with no running water (YUCK!) during a three-day power outage (BLECH!) with only a few gallons of wine to drink (PTOO .. oh wait, that was just good planning) wondering how the hell you’re even going to get out of your own neighborhood (SCARY!) if you run out (SCARIER!!!) clued The Cookie in to that whole anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress and substance abuse ACK!!! after Hurricane Jeanne upended my shit in 2004!
Save yourself the next few thousand and spend some time in SoFla during a truly heinous hurricane and you can studerifically conclusionize for FREE all day long!
I roll my rubber over ^this mess^ every day and ask myself this question:
What in idiotic indicatory indication hell is this fucked up shit?!?
After many weeks and much thought, I have decided there is only one possible answer.
It is the fucked up indicatory indication that some jive-ass fool in the Palm Beach County Engineering and Public Works Department thought was just this side of ‘ehh, s’good enough this close to Happy Hour’ to be permanently placed on the pavement, thus perplexing passers-by in perpetuity.
Two lanes arrow left … into southbound Military Trail. Ok.
One lane arrows right … into northbound Military Trail. Good.
One lane arrows ahead … into … a … concrete wall. Uh, notsomuch!
::: Although I’m sure it’s a certain kind of tee-hee to see Sylvia all wide-eyed and
white-knuckling it while bringin’ the ”turn Melvin” ”It’s a turn, Melvin”
Last I checked, that long road that runs up and down the East Coast, stretching from Florida to Maine is one of those do-hickeys called an Interstate and is assigned one of those two-digit numbers (key word there, peeps — NUMBERS) that gets bigger as you travel West to East, explaining why it’s all the way up there at 95 everywhere it’s referenced.
Because on the day this bit of the byway was being branded, Mr. Jive-ass fool must have been hittin’ the pipe pretty hard because — and I’m no super-sleuth or anything — that looks like a P … a backwards P … which makes it, like, a LETTER instead of, you know, a number, which makes me sad because I have to conclude Mr. Jive-ass fool is the product of a Mississippi public school education that came to what I can only conclude was a rather convulsive end at about the 6th grade.
But hey, you know me. Always looking for the silver lining; The Rainbow; THE BRIGHT SPOT!
That’s not me.
That’s my green-eyed friend.
But if I was like that I’d have to say a silent prayer of PRAISE JESUS Mr. Jive-ass fool isn’t responsible for directing traffic to, say, Ichnetucknee Springs or some shit.
*hat-tip to JR for puttin’ jive-assery on the menu 😉
You bitches are hangin’ with bitches who are, well, BITCHES!
And this time I am not using one of my all-time, ultra fave words in a good way.
Because I can’t.
Because TODAY.com and SELF magazine got themselves a certain kind of together and surveyed a big ol’ BUNCH of you (18,000 women and 4,000 men to be precise) and found out that y’all are straight up pallin’ around with some seriously poisonous peeps, yo!
Which makes me all WHY, BITCHES?!?
A full 65% of you admit enduring that douche who has THE best car, THE hottest wife, THE best job, THE answer for everything, THE douchiest douchness of all douchiosity – AKA: The Narcissist.
::: Seriously Blaine, can’t ya just shutthefuckUP for a skinny little sec?! :::
Fifty-nine percent of you kowtow to The Critic. You know the one — that cunt who’s always correcting, chastising, castigating, condemning or otherwise cutting your shit down every chance she gets. Yeah, her.
::: Oh but thank you sooooo soverymuch Bethany for always being the first to know exactly how eeeeeveryone in the office should have done eeeeeverything, aaaall the time, eeeeevery minute of eeeeevery day. Your colleagues truly can’t WAIT to pay your cunt ass back. Truly. They talk about it aaaall the time, eeeeevery minute of eeeeeevery day. :::
And Darla Depressesme? A fucked up 55% of you admit giving cheese to her whine, while 45% are spending time with some sick trick whose sole aim is to undermine your every move and 37% are apparently friends with some dumb flake who spends her days roping you into her never ending whatamigonnaDOOOOO mylifeissuchamess dramathon you just can’t turn off.
Because that’s a serious question.
Because after reading the results of the TODAY.com and SELF magazine survey, I surveyed mySELF and mySELF has conclusionized, decisionized and all-out prophesized that you are being force-fed one ginormous slice of WASTE OF TIME PIE any time you acquiesce to the demands of fool friends or encourage their emotional exhaustion or criminal attacks on those precious clock ticks that constitute your LIFE.
So, like, fucking stop it already, ‘kay sweets?
Because I don’t want to have to tell you again!!
::: she shouts … stepping down from the bully pulpit 😉 :::
But it’s not who you think.
I mean, you’d think it’d be Brianna here for gettin’ her panties in a BIG ol’ bunch over some messages on her cellphone, channeling her inner Tyson, breakin’ out a wooden nut cracker and schooling her boyfriend on the art of DON’T DO THAT!
I mean, I could see how you’d think that.
Because it’s a pretty dumbass thing to do.
And a pretty dumbass reason to do it.
But Brianna Del Rio isn’t today’s dumbass.
Her boyfriend is.
And you know why.
Because any normal, sane, sober person over the age of FETUS can take one look at that hot slut and know Bri’s a bitch with which you do not fuck.
Drink. Her. IN!
If confronted by a woman with eyebrows so razor sharp even drag queens won’t go there, eyes so dead they’d burn a hole right through your soul and lips so perfectly pursed she doesn’t even NEED to give you the hand – would you for one millisecond of a nanosecond even consider giving her anything close to resembling the likeness of a hard time about … fuck, ANYTHING?!?
Of course you wouldn’t.
But he, apparently, did.
And you know what?
I bet the lovebirds are back in the news as soon as she makes bail …
… and he tries to make up …
… the dumbass
Well, sort of.
In a way.
If you cock your head to the right and squint REAL hard while staring out a dirty window at dusk on a foggy night it could kind of potentially maybe seem like something along the lines of a request type deal.
Yeah, if you do that.
Which I did.
So it did!
And, while I’m normally all ‘you’re not the boss of me! I do what I WANT!’ when you bitches make demands on my time … this one had legs!
“Another blog idea,” my friend John wrote me last night after I told him I was shoe shopping.
“Why do people have to pay money for something that hurts their feet?”
My first inclination was to school him on the business of being fucking FEMALE, which means a life lived at the whims and mercies of the gods and fate and DNA and history and cupcakes and motherfucking nature and everything else out of our control that controls us most of the time.
But that seemed like a lot of effort, so I went another way.
“Paying for something that hurts – SO many places to go with that one!” 😉
“Yep. That would be a conversation starter for your readers,” he responds.
Ed. Note: John has seen certain posts by yours truly but doesn’t have a link to the ludicriousness we call LIAC because John practices actual journalism with all it’s journalism-y ethics and principles and shit and he would probably suffer some kind of anaphylactic shock or something if he read what basically is to journslism what Tara Reid is to acting or Rebecca Black is to the music industry and I can’t have that on my conscience so really what I’m doing here (aside from concocting the most gloriously lengthy and unjustifiable runon sentence in the entire and whole known history of the written word) is a totally unselfish act on his behalf because, you know, I’m a life saver – A HERO – like that.
But I digress …
“Give them the five stupidest things people pay good money for that brings them pain,” he wrote, which made me wonder what SpringDaddy would look like in a submissive’s hood …
“In no partciular order, these come to mind:
1. Sex, of course. And you can have a field day with that.
::: I usually do, John! 😉 :::
::: Well, umm yes … but if we didn’t put them on, what would you get to take off, John?! 😉 :::
4. Life insurance. Come on people, paying YOUR money to give to others when YOU die. I know it serves a purpose to help survivors, but what a racket.
::: TRUTH!! Which is why I spend all MY money on hookers and blow, John! :::
5. Fiery hot foods with peppers than burn your mouth when eaten.
::: Wait. That doesn’t work. I mean, how else can I justify the gallon of Pinot I washed it down with, John?!? Hellloooo — that’s straight up strategerie right there! :::
And what about you bitches?
What are you out there blowin’ your wad on that’s bringin’ the oweez?
Enquiring minds John wants to know 😉