The One Where My Friend Is Writing A CV

Here’s a conversation you might enjoy.

Friend 1: writing CVs suck ass.

Friend 2: I concur.

Friend 1: what does “interpersonal” mean

Friend 1:  god I’m lying so much already and I’m only writing the cover letter

Friend 3: Lying about your age again? ; )

Britpoptarts: ‘Interpersonal’ is workspeak for “I do not plan to do mental things or be a prat in the workplace.”

Britpoptarts: Most of my former co-workers lied like rugs answering that bit.

Friend 1: oh fuck

Britpoptarts:  ?

Friend 1:  I am totally the mental case in the workplace!

* Friend 1 deletes that bit

Britpoptarts:  LOL

Britpoptarts:  It also implies that you do not plan to kill and eat them for at least two months.

Britpoptarts:  After which, all bets are off.


Girl Fights Versus Boy Fights

So this one blog talked about how the Internet doesn’t make you an asshole, but that human nature + the illusion of anonymity + minimal personal risk = assholish behavior. Same blogger is an anonymous crankypants, but whereas the tone isn’t what I’d choose, and the topics are those that I’d avoid lest they pissed off people I care about (who can’t separate a difference of opinion from a personal attack, even if the opinion stated was shared WITHOUT THEM IN MIND), I am finding her ranty-rants well-written and entertaining. (Also? I want to kick her abusive, selfish, neglectful, competitive, substance-impaired, crazy, kidnapping, bitchy bio-mom in the teeth. HARD. But she can handle herself just fine without me getting my hackles raised on her behalf.) Said blogger told a story or two about school-era conflicts that she handled with, well, direct violence to the perpetrators.

The interesting thing here is that this was effective, because, as a girl, she was expected to play by girl fight rules. Well, Girl Fight Rules SUCK.

I’m not adverse to an intellectual debate. I DO, however, despise whiny girly fight tactics. (Not all participants utilizing these tactics are girls, mind.)

Girly fights require that you do subtle, nasty things, preferably with a horde of cronies nearby to back you up and you get bonus points if you gesture towards your victim a lot. Say, they’ll pointedly gossip about the victim–who is RIGHT THERE–and then, if confronted, claim that the victim is being egotistical and paranoid. It’s gaslighting and cattiness. It’s not fighting an honest battle. Girly fights require emotional and psychic assassinations, not being able to trust your “friends” and the primary bully is always gathering forces around herself through the collective fear of her posse that the next victim may be one of the current “in” crowd.

Girly fights are lame. It’s all about being fakey-nice while in reality being a conniving shrew beating up on others with innuendo and rumor and shunning and stomping off in a huff and dropping drama bombs and crying and using emotional blackmail instead of, say, fists. Not that fisticuffs are better. But girl fighting is all about fighting indirectly and with a pack of harpies at your side, rather than sorting things out directly one on one.

Note that homophobic boys ganging up on less-than-jock-like peers and torturing them for real or imagined “gayness” is, in truth, a girly kind of fight.

Boy fights are more direct. First of all, the insult that triggers the fight must be rather grave. Mothers or girlfriends must be insulted. Property damage might have occurred. The offense is never “you looked cuter than I did today, so I hate you” or “I am secretly horribly insecure about my own popularity status, and how better to maintain it than by making everyone around me quake in their shoes?” or “you defended an unpopular person I was picking on and revealed me to be the ass I truly am, and now you must pay”.

Boy fights may involve a quick tussle or fist fight. Afterwards, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that two guys who were eagerly bashing each other into concrete walls and trying to kick each others’ gonads concave (low blow that it is) a few hours ago might wind up sharing a couple of beers later on. Boys are generally direct, if slightly more violent.

There will always be ladies asking their girls to hold their earrings, pinning up their wigs, ponytails or weaves, and putting Vaseline on their faces, sure, but that’s still boy-style fighting: actual blood might get spilled. It’s direct and not prolonged. There’s something to it.

Internet fights tend to be girl fights. Take a typical forum fight. There is a lot of frenzied IRC chatting and PM-ing and whinging on other fora. There’s the archivist, digging up past hurts and fights from whatever cobweb-strewn corner of a dead thread they were buried in. The pissheads who claim to be all in favor of peace, love and understanding, and then (often within minutes or hours) start “calling people out” and “naming names.” There are the backstabbers revealing personal information designed to embarrass former friends and then swearing anew that they really, really, really want a shiny, happy forum. There are idiots who just won’t leave even if they hate the way the forum is run by the owner and have other places to hang out, and lamers who create sock puppet accounts and bitch and whine and complain that others are shit-stirring, and…well, if you aren’t somewhat exhausted after just reading that shit, then you are better than I am.

Girly fights are doomed to fail where I am concerned. You pull that shit, you immediately lose as far as I am concerned. I label you as a jerk, and have no more interest in your arguments.

This is not to say that boy fighting ranks any higher, but, on the Internet, there are no real fists. Also, I may be a cat, sitting here typing. You don’t know. That’s the beauty of the Internet. P.S. Please send tuna, KTHXBAI.

There’s always the adult fight technique, where you stick to the disputed issue at hand, back your opinion up with facts, and don’t take a difference of opinion so darn personally. You don’t poll your buddies before you form your opinion. If your buddies disagree, so what?

The whole “enemy or pal” thing online is lame as well, because the likelihood that you will ever talk face-to-face is slim. 90% of what is said online is probably bullcrap, and that includes how people present themselves and the points of view they claim they hold. Some people just don’t have enough excitement in their daily life and need MOAR, and the Intarweebz is the perfect safe venue to troll, bitch, flame and be an ass. Again, human nature.
Even if you fight like a girl with someone who typically fights like a boy, they can’t sock you in the nose to shock you into behaving yourself if you get insulting and illogical and personally offensive and thereby bypass all the bullcrap and drama.

Girl fights failed with me in high school because I was blithely unaware of them, more often than not. Someone not liking me (or liking me) was not my problem. I didn’t share any secrets I didn’t want to risk having leaked far and wide, so there was nothing to embarrass me with (and it was already becoming more and more impossible to embarrass me, even then). If someone was being shunned by a pack of she-wolves, I either didn’t know or care. People from all groups were welcome to sit with me at any time, and they did. Lunch hour was pretty rockin’, what with the diverse group of folks at my table every day.

I still seem to be the recipient of everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets (because I don’t tell them) as an adult. I still stay out of fights that involve shunnings. When it was supposed to be my turn to be shunned by a group of much younger folks in Atlanta–and I still don’t know why, or really give a shit–I felt slightly hurt (“what did I do?”) and a bit put-upon (“I wouldn’t treat other people like I am being treated”), but that didn’t last long at all. I didn’t depend on only one small group of friends when I wanted to socialize, after all. My self-worth was never really diminished. If anything, I felt a little indignant because I hadn’t done anything wrong, nor had I behaved any differently from before. Once I identified to myself that I was displeased, and what behavior was annoying me and why, that was that. I decided the situation sucked, and moved on, and thought little about it thereafter. When the same group apparently decided the shunning was over and done with, it took me months to figure that out…because I wasn’t paying much attention to any of them any more, even when we attended the same events, other than to be polite as always, but preoccupied with other people or things. I didn’t trust them not to pull the same stunt again, and made no plans that depended on any of them to follow through.

I learn fast.

Often I spend far more time trying to figure out what, precisely, I am feeling about a situation, because I am very much a Think-y type and any kind of new or unexpected emotion that is less than pleasant sometimes takes me a minute or two to define and analyze. If the behavior I’m irked about is illogical, I sometimes just have to give up figuring it out. Odd, but true.

Then I rant for a while, if still annoyed, which often made my former roommates laugh more than anything else, and then I’m done.

Like now.

Obnoxious Fans Make Me Want To Go Take A Long Nap

I’m a Serial Obsessive, which means I rarely continue a strong interest in any one topic for more than a few months at a time.  Casual interest in a topic means I don’t quality as being in any particular “fandom,” really. I’m not saying my way of doing things is better or worse than anyone else’s, and having interests and hobbies is not a bad thing, either.

That said, most fandoms simply exhaust me. Been there, did that. I actually do have some t-shirts, too.

Things about fandom that really piss me off:

1. Other people don’t give a crap. Please get other (completely unrelated) interests, so you do not bore everyone.

2. Being a Big Name Fan is a generally empty prize, much like winning the Doesn’t Sweat Much For A Fat Chick gold medal award. Speaking as one who was thrust into BNFness and took years to escape from it, if you have had BNFness thrust upon you, for whatever reason, be it visibility, or knowledge, or active participation within fan circles, don’t let it define your entire being. I do know that you can’t escape from BNFness, whether you want the label or not, unless you withdraw completely from the fandom. Did that.

3. Melodrama about how your fandom saved you from social retardation, illness, mental illness, suicide or self-harm really make me worry about you. Save the drama for your mama.

4. Insisting that you know better than the participants involved (actors in a film, writers of books/scripts/etc., band members, team mates) what “really” happened is delusional. It goes beyond speculative fiction at that point.

5. If you are not twelve, then banding together with socially retarded peers and feeding off of each other’s social retardation to annoy other members of your fandom or outsiders is BAD. Just STAHP, okay? You make non-socially retarded members of your fandom look stupid by association, and it is a sad fact that the loudest and most outspoken fandom members are typically those with the fewest other interests in life, and the most free time.

6. Feeling jealous rather than happy for peers who have had an enjoyable fan experience you wish you had experienced is childish.

7. Sock puppetry for fun and profit is the sign that you are taking your hobby FAR too seriously. You are not “more right” if you and all twenty of your alter egos show up to argue that you are right.

8. Refusing to acknowledge any flaws your fandom or objects of interest in your fandom might have is silly and a way of avoiding critical thought and perspective. Example: “Arena” was embarrassing. Sane Duran Duran fans acknowledge this. Insane ones think it is high art because it has a reference to a softcore French comic book that was later a film. Ooh. Art.

9. Shipping in general is tiresome to me, but that is a personal gripe. If the writers put a couple together, I accept it. If they don’t, I accept it. I don’t spend a lot of time poking at the possibility. In fact, I generally dislike situations that make a big deal about relationships. Example: X Files jumped the shark when Chris Carter pandered to Philes and got Mulder and Scully to hook up and breed.

10. A real person’s sexual inclination and preference isn’t really cool to speculate about unless it is generally known and discussed by said person. Example: No, Merry Whosits is not secretly sucking Frodo’s toes behind a bush in Chapter Twelve. Or in the trailers between takes. “Gandalf”, however, has a truly hot real life boyfriend. It is entirely possible there was some hot boy on boy lurve in the Wizard’s Winnebago occasionally.

11. If a character is supposed to be 12, what possesses you to spend hours lovingly sketching him or her having sex with an adult and not seeing that there may be a slight problem with this? If nothing else, it is distasteful. Quick guideline: can you show this to your grandmother and your pastor (or imam or rabbi, or whatever)? It’s probably not okay to upload to Teh Intarweeblez. Srsly. What’s your motivation for this, if not to titillate someone (if only yourself)? Which is gross. And illegal.

12. Characters are not paper dolls that you can write absolutely anything about. Well, you can’t do it convincingly or well. Also, spelling, grammar, punctuation, paragraph breaks, plot, characterization, showing rather than telling and lack of cliches are all required in GOOD writing. They are not optional.

13. Mary Sue and Gary Stu can go get bent.

14. Lack of well-roundedness in life, when reflected in obsessive fandom-ness, can make you boring. There are things outside of your fandom ‘verse. Truly. A sense of perspective is useful in life. Enjoy your fandom. Just give it a rest once in a blue moon.

15. Just because you want something to be true, it does not make it true.

16. Speculation and satisfaction with said speculation is no substitute for actual research, logic, and, when appropriate, canon.

17. Don’t expect outsiders to understand fandom-specific slang, acronyms, band member names, footnotes, the name of the gaffer on the set, your favourite character’s girlfriend’s birthdate, and so on. Why would outsiders care? Conversely, don’t be surprised if an outsider does happen to know some of the Sacred Secret Insider Information, as s/he probably saw the same TV show / website / interview you did.

18. Do not tattoo your fandom on your body. It is unkind to name your children after your fandom. Example: If your dog is named after a Hobbit or a Jedi, do not be surprised if Obi-Wan the poodle bites you.

19. Tips for writers: “Rape” is not a synonym for being 100% willing and OK with being talked into having sex so you don’t feel guilty or dirty because you have some prudery issues or whatever. It is, however, rape is someone says no or is unable to consent.

20. Tips for writers: “Incest” is not healthy or sexy or titillating. Family members who are close do not inevitably secretly desire to have sexual intercourse with each other.

21. Tips for writers: Even if two characters you find attractive are gender- and sexual-preference-appropriate for each other, that does not automatically mean they “should” hook up. If they are not sexual-preference-appropriate partners, bending the laws of space and time to make them bi or gay when they are not is not “being gay positive,” it is called “having a sexual kink that is sparked by writing or reading about fictional people getting it on”.

22. Tips for writers: Relying on death, sex, or soap opera plots to insert Dramatic Tension in your story is rarely going to result in a fine result. It’s been done to death, it’s been done very badly, and there are other ways to construct plot and dramatic tension and excitement into a story.

23. Tips for writers: Mixed metaphors, especially inserting quotes from another obsession or fandom ‘verse into your writing, is generally a bad idea. Strive to be original and to speak in your own voice when writing, without neglecting the natural voice and character development set forth in canon for your borrowed characters. NOTE: Crossover fic has its own rules, but it is still a good idea to remain true to the various established personalities and ‘voices’ of your borrowed characters.

24. If cosplay is part of your fandom, glamour bombing and freaking the mundanes is an attention-seeking ploy that makes your fandom peers look bad by association. Try to restrict your urge to run around like a vampire or fox person to your private gathering spot.

25. If you are a furry, don’t bother non-furries or try to win converts, and, for god’s sake, please don’t mongle your dog.

I’m just sayin’, man.

I could go on, but I’m getting repetitive.

What To Give Creators Of a Brand New Human

Hi there!

So there’s a friend who is due to bring forth new life into this world within a week or two, we already know it will be a miniature woman-in-training (i.e., a girl child), and I’ve done my fair share of thinking about What To Get The Baby.  This, translated, means What To Give The Parents, because The Baby is going to be lolling about like a bologna loaf  (with perpetually leaky holes in it) for at least a few months after leaving the soft, warm, pink, slooshy place. The Baby is unlikely to be happy about these new developments, and even less unlikely to be able to clearly articulate her needs until she turns, say, seventeen or eighteen years old, so your task is to make the new parents’ jobs less onerous so they can focus on the ickle toesies, and being confused over totally contradictory advice from the experts who write Baby Care books, and playing the “From Which Side Of The Family Did The Baby Inherit That Nose?” game during the two or fewer hours they will have to themselves each day for the next six years.

Rule Number One of the New Parents Club is that you don’t talk about The New Parents Club.

Rule Number Two of the New Parents Club is that you don’t talk about The New Parents Club, except when around barren singleton relatives. (You should then strive to make baby care sound like it is all sweetness and light, because if we don’t ALL keep reproducing, the human race will, like, totally die off! And that would, like, TOTALLY suck.)

Rule Number Three probably has something to do with taking videos and pictures of The Baby every five minutes, but I forget. (At any rate, it only applies the first child. The second and subsequent Babies can just suck it, because they are clearly not loved as much as The Number One Babybun.)

So, yeah, your friends are having A Baby. You do not, conversely, have (or want) A Baby. What on earth should you, the Childfree person, purchase for The Baby to welcome it to planet Earth? Bear in mind that The Baby won’t give a crap, whatever you do. Or, more accurately, The Baby will be entirely too busy frequently giving the gift of varied forms of crap to have the time to write Thank You notes, so what on Earth should you give the parents?

Here’s A Handy “What To Give The Baby” Guide.

What To Give The Baby (if you DO like the parents):
1. A trust fund
2. The World’s Largest Washer And Dryer
3. Schoolhouse Rock CDs
4. Four billion diapers
5. Crack-flavored pacifiers
6. Baby jail Playpen
7. Cashmere designer onesies
8. Silver spoon
9. Buttload of Wet Wipes (no pun intended)
10. Bling-bling Pimpin’ Ultra-Fly Phat Dope Car Seat
11. No-name Teddy Bear (and three identical replacements)
12. Collapsible stroller that actually collapses when you want it to and doesn’t collapse when baby is in it
13. 100% cotton receiving blankets
14. Extra grandparents
15. Maximum security Baby gate
16. Wee booties that will fit The Baby for an entire week before being outgrown
17. Bell collar
18. High-tech surveillance devices (listen to Baby breathing at night! Listen to your neighbors’ mobile phone conversations during the day!)
19. Zweiback (whatever the hell that is*)
20. Dr. Seuss books and Little Golden Books
21. Plug covers
22. Digicam
23. Ella Fitzgerald singing nursery rhymes
24. Night light
25. Rocking chair

What To Give The Baby (if you do NOT like the parents):
1. A drum kit
2. A tattoo (Born To Raise Hell! Biker Babe! Gangsta! Porn star!)
3. A chemistry set
4. A carton of Kools (see: What To Give The Trailer Trash Neighbor)
5. Barney. Anything whatsoever having anything at all to do with Barney.
6. Happy Fun Ball
7. Rottweiler
8. An STD
9. Bumwine or WINE CUBE
10. Circular saw
11. Days of the Week thongs
12. Lead paint
13. Toy hammer with bench and pegs
14. Cactus
15. Teletubbies videos
16. Tequila
17. Litter box
19. Nipple piercing
20. LSD
21. Alarm clock
22. Bicycle horn
23. Vat of tapioca puddling
24. Kerosene space heater
25. Crystal meth

Hope this helps!

ETA: One Of My Online Palz weighed in via IM.

R:  I was going to blog about cat macros, but I think I might need to vent about marking instead.
R:  “You will be surprised to learn that AA Milne also wrote poetry.”
R: Well, since I set some of his poems for you to read, that would be another NO
Me: I blogged about baby gifts
*R goes to read*
Me:  I sent $$$ of gifts, and my etiquette-obsessed friend has yet to acknowledge receipt of same
Me: But they were all on the approved list.
Me:  No grenades.
R: Heh.
R: I like the list for if you don’t like the parents.
Me: Amirite?
R: Yes
Me:  That one was easier to write
R: Your pro list lacks some things.
Me:  yes?
R: Lamaze toys.
Me:  ew
R: No, it is a brand.
R: They have really good stuffs.
Me:  You stuff it up your noo-noo so the baby is born with something to do?
R:  lol

And therefore I learned something new!

In other news, I also learn that already touched on this subject. Oh well.

* Please don’t write in to define “zweiback” for me. It’s a sweet, hard cracker. Kind of. They’re actually pretty tasty, if you can get to one before The Baby has drooled all over it. 

The Hunt for Yohn Yohnson: The Worst New Year’s Eve Party EVER

Let’s time travel back to 2003.

My worst New Year’s Eve ever.

Like most best-laid plans, my New Year’s Eve started off quietly. I’d been working my arse off all week talent scouting–my job at the time (don’t do it!)–and was actually looking forward to an excuse not to work for a few hours. (To illustrate: most new talent scouts get two or three “shows” at their Open Calls…I had SIXTEEN.) Dennis and I got invited by our friend Suze to come out to Ackworth (translation: we got invited to drive nearly an hour to go to her parents’ house in Deepest Darkest Suburbia) and we were both up for seeing Suze and having a mellow, pleasant New Year’s Eve with friends. We both love Suze and her boyfriend Marty and one of Susan’s greatest gifts is taking a diverse group of people and turning them all into close friends within an hour or two. We figured we’d meet some old friends and make some new ones, and the added lure of being able to spend the night (after presumably downing many Ab-Fabs (Stoli-Bolly cocktails) all night to welcome in the New Year) was the clincher.

So Dennis and I pack up our kit bags and stop off for provisions and set out for the nether regions of Atlanta. When we arrive, Susan and her friend Heather (and, lest we forget, Susan’s family’s dog, Chewie) were the only attendees.

Which was actually fine with Dennis and me. I was worn out from having to approach hundreds of strangers a day, and from walking miles and miles through malls and bars and clubs and grocery stores (I even recruited talent at the movie theatre and a Waffle House). Dennis was looking forward to being able to drink freely and then not get pulled for a DUI. We all settled in to watch “Cujo” and “Poltergeist”, waiting for Marty to get off work and join us.

It was far too quiet for Susan, though, and she and Heather started calling up friends, former bosses and a mall maintenance man they befriended and who they call “D’oh” because of his startling resemblance to Homer Simpson. It’s a tribute to Susan’s friendly and well-meaning personality that D’oh embraces his nickname and likes it.

After a few dozen phone calls, people started to arrive en masse at Susan’s place. Her parents, knowing full well that Suze can be a hellion, nevertheless entrusted their lovely home to the mongol hordes that would inevitably descend. We all wrote a collaborative, artistic “thank you” to Mom and Pops V to thank them for their hospitality even while in absentia.

The hordes actually consisted of less than two dozen people, but that was the perfect amount to invite over. No one was at a loss for someone to talk to. In fact, some of us would rather not have been talked to quite as enthusiastically. That would be me.


If you see this guy, that is a sign that your party has gone

quartet of men showed up, two hailing from Wisconsin. Of the two Wisconsinites, one was well-behaved and charming.

Which leaves, of course, the other one. He took a shine to me, which shows his lack of selectivity overall, and would NOT leave me alone all night. I’m not talking about merely flirting with me and me being disinterested, though that was certainly accurate.

He got off on the wrong foot with me immediately by grabbing me far too intimately within the first two seconds after being introduced to me and not taking a hint when I disengaged and walked away. He further pissed me off by declaring that my name was too difficult for him to retain and that he’d call me by an annoying nickname that he preferred instead. To which I replied, “I’d rather you did not, I want to be called by my real name. Only my close friends are allowed to call me nicknames and you are not a close friend.” He did not learn from either of these two “you’re being annoying” reprimands and continued to harass me all evening.

At first I dealt with The Annoying Man by merely avoiding close proximity. Everyone else at the party was civil and well-behaved and interesting. It was just the one clown who was being insufferably boorish. I’d see him coming and duck into another area as fast as I could. This was my way of being tactful, and it failed miserably.

At one point, things improved when The Annoying Man demanded that Susan, a beautician and hair stylist, break out her scissors and tools and give him a haircut in her parents’ kitchen. Susan, being an accommodating soul, did so.

Dennis came out to the back porch where the smokers (i.e., everyone) were hanging out and told me I was being paged to the kitchen. Foolishly, I assumed that he meant I was being summoned by our hostess, Susan. So I trot in there and make the mistake of getting within lunging reach of The Annoying Man. I soon discover that Susan wasn’t the one seeking me out, it was him. Dorkus Maximus. And he lunged, and I was dragged bodily onto his lap, which was the last place in the universe I wanted to be at the moment (unless the possibility of facing down an angry, hungry, fang-endowed basilisk in a disgusting, nasty, swilly sewer pipe a la Harry Potter was my other choice).

I didn’t haul off and clobber him immediately, actually. I sat there for about thirty seconds and hated every moment of it. If loathing were visible to the naked eye, you’d have seen waves of it streaking out in all directions looking just like vile green oily tentacles.

I tried to make a joke out of it, to give the guy the option of wriggling out of his social blunder. I asked “Santa” if I could have a Barbie, since I’d been a good girl all year. And Santa Fuckhead said no, but he’d bring me some crotchless underwear.

Not even remotely funny.

And, of course, if this dork insists on playing Santa six days too late AND refuses to grant me my Christmas request, then friendship is not in the stars for us.

I escaped and resolved that the time for gentle hints and evasion was now over. Direct and forceful rejection would perhaps work better. I’d tried politeness, hints, humour and hiding, and none of those methods was getting me anywhere. Much as I dislike being openly negative, I could see no other way. But I wasn’t in any hurry to deal with it, so I attempted evasion and distraction instead.

While I was busily evading the fuckhead, the time for the New Year to arrive drew nigh and we all stopped listening to Dennis’ kick-ass music DVDs and started tuning into Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, where the 2,000 year old Clark beamed in a frankly non-geriatric manner and then proved his continued mental agility when he managed to count backwards at the appropriate moment without a hitch.

Meanwhile I was busily fending off The Annoying Man in the kitchen, while I was trying to remove delicate glassware from a high cabinet. He felt that this would be the perfect time to press up against me and grab things he shouldn’t. “For god’s sake, will you PLEASE fuck OFF,” I snarled, juggling stemware.

Too bad that was the last thing I said in 2002. Not a great way to end what was essentially a crappy year for me overall, but at least I saw the year out assertively.

The Annoying Man then attempted to follow me around and force a kiss on me and I managed to escape that fate, but it took about thirty minutes for him to give up on the concept. He managed to put his hands all over me and several other people who were just as unthrilled with the bodily assault as I was.

Things got worse after someone broke out some pot. No names will be mentioned. In fact, so we can continue to receive generous funding from family-friendly advertisers, let’s revise that and say “things got worse after someone broke out the funny cigarettes”.

If you’re confused about what a funny cigarette might be, here’s a helpful chart:

Funny Cigarette (a.k.a. Mary Jane, The Chronic, Cheeba):
Je suis un transvestite executive! Le singe est sur le table! J’aime la plume de ma tante. Anyone slower than you on the highway is an idiot. Anyone faster than you is a maniac. I’m picking out a thermos for YOU…

Mildly Amusing Cigarette (a.k.a. Those Damned Sampoerna Clove Things):
Take my wife, please! I just flew in from Wisconsin and BOY are my arms tired! Jalapeno on a steeek! S’okay? S’all right. *sledgehammer to a watermelon*

Plain Ol’ Ordinary Cigarette (a.k.a. Available at all fine gas stations and grocery stores near you):
Knock, knock.

Wait a minute…WHAT generous funding?! “Family friendly”? How can my blog be family friendly when my favourite word is “fuck” and variations thereof? (YOU know. Fuckity, fuckwit, fuck-all, fuckhead, fuck it, fukt, you fuckin’ fuck…you get the idea.) Geez, did I get into the wacky weed, too? (I plead the fifth.) Well, hell. Never mind. It was marijuana. We’re all adults here. All nine of us. Me and my eight faithful Gentle Readers. (Hello. How Are Ya?)

So we’re all on the back porch watching Susan’s creepy neighbors The Swingers blow shit up in their driveway and we’re drinking Stoli-Bollies (champagne + vodka = make happy nice), and The Annoying Man keeps trying to pull me aside to explain why he’s being so persistent. I tell him I don’t give a damn, and that he needs to chill out.

“There’s no such word,” he slurs.

“I’m telling you to back off, you’re freaking me out, you idiot,” I say.

“No,” he says, petulantly sticking his lower lip out and trying to grab my body parts.

“YES,” I say, and I squirm away and vanish.

Meanwhile The Swingers are happily setting their lawn on fire with high-tech explosives. It’s a great big happy pyrotechnic joyfest at The Swingers’ Pad.

…. ? ….

Oh, did I not explain about them? The Swingers are these creepy neighbors of the V family. Among their many sins:

1. The Swingers attempted to ingratiate themselves with the V family and friends by leaning over the back fence and repeatedly bragging on Madam Swinger’s culinary prowess. Finally, in a fit of boredom and misplaced optimism, some of the Vs and friends took them up on their dinner invite, whereupon Madam Swinger opened up a can of pork ‘n’ beans and a can of corn and nuked them both in the microwave. Emeril she is not.

2. The V family cut down some trees on their property and installed a fabulous pool and sun deck. The good news is that the pool is awesome. The bad news is that the missing trees enable them to see more of their neighbors and vice versa. The Swingers took it upon themselves to build a stone walkway from their property to the V’s pool gate. This means that they were constructing a walkway across the V’s land as well as their own, all without benefit of an introduction first, getting permission from anyone or even having a casual “Hi-diddly-doodly-ho-howdy there, neighbor!” relationship beforehand. The Vs removed the stone walkway in hopes that the presumptuous arseholes would take a hint that the Vs had not just invested thousands of dollars to build the community swimming pool.

3. Failing to grasp a clue, The Swingers invited themselves over, skanky female friend in tow. The skanky female friend then ostentatiously hit on Pops V in front of Mom V. This did not go over well in the V household, or with the friends of the Vs who were visiting at the time.

4. There are numerous other tales of woe, but most of them involve The Swingers playing the role of The Fat Naked Guy As Seen On The TV Show “Friends” (i.e., failing to close their blinds) and, conversely, peeping out of their unclosed blinds at Susan and the other Vs and their friends at all hours of the day and night in a rather creepily scary manner.

We chose not to engage The Swingers in cheery New Year’s Eve saluations. Marty said that they were probably trying to lure innocent neighbors over to their squalid shack d’amour with loud noises, flashing lights and scary sex toys.

All that they succeeded in doing is getting another neighbor, a redneck, ganked up on macho firework-related showmanship, and the two households proceeded to try and blow each other (and the few remaining trees on the block) up all night. Big fun. Poor Chewie hid under a table after a few hours of this nonsense.

Dennis put the music back on and lots of pictures were taken, including one of The Annoying Guy passed out under a bonsai on the back porch.

Shortly afterwards, his friends noticed he was missing. He’d wandered off. There was speculation about whether The Swingers had found him or not. We decided that we didn’t much care.

He, unfortunately, turned up again after we’d all enjoyed about a half hour of relative peace and tranquility, and he honed in on Yours Truly once more. At this moment, we all heard a loud crash coming from the bathroom. Susan’s friend Peaches had managed to break the shower curtain rod and tear the shower curtain down. This provided some welcome distraction, as far as I was concerned. I fled towards the noise and by doing so managed to evade the octopussy grasp of Yohn Yohnson, Annoying Man from Wisconsin.

Peechee’s husband Clegg was holding forth about The Jesus on the back porch, and it says a lot that I was more willing to hear all about how The Jesus was the only viable religion and how all others, including those humans who might choose to be pagan, Jewish, agnostic, Catholic (!?), Buddhist or Other, were wrong, than I was to endure close proximity to the scary Cheesehead. Of course, I couldn’t stand it for long.

Places to hide were becoming fewer and fewer, and the Annoying Man was becoming bolder and bolder. He grabbed me again while I was talking to Marty and Dennis about Urban Legends, interrupting a particularly amusing Marty Anecdote.

“Back off and leave me alone NOW,” I said, angrily. His friends apologized profusely to me and took him aside and told him he was being an arsehole and to cut it out.

“No,” he said.

“YES,” they said.

“I don’t WANNA,” he replied.

Then he bolted, ran down the back porch steps into the night and vanished again. This resulted in a collective sigh of relief from everyone except the poor guy who drove everyone to the party, as he envisioned spending the rest of his evening hunting down Yohn Yohnson somewhere in the neighborhood while it was raining.

“This is the third time he’s wandered off,” said Mike, who was looking like he regretted having friends from Wisconsin…even though he, too, was actually from Wisconsin. (He also claims to have been employed as a cheese-maker for the government. This is not helping the stereotypes die down, you know.)

At about three am, everyone was ready to call it a night.

Unfortunately, Yohn Yohnson had not yet returned from his night wanderings. His friends all trooped to the front door and fanned out through the neighborhood, combing it for signs of wanker spoor.

Much later, they returned and announced that they had had no joy, he was still missing. Someone had the bright idea to search the house again and lo, the miscreant was sleeping like a baby in a bedroom downstairs, having apparently slipped past his friends and snuck in through the garage. They all decided that perhaps it would be best to just leave the idiot there to sleep it all off, and they bid us adieu and the folks who had opted to spend the night (Dennis, me, Marty and Suze) all filed into our respective bedrooms and passed out from fatigue and too much party.

I had forgotten to bring night clothes (I usually don’t bother with any when I’m sleeping in my own bed) but I had been given a big pile of blankets. I decided that I didn’t want to remake a king-sized bed the next day, so just took off my jeans and shoes and made a little warm blanket nest and curled up on top of the spread with some blankets over me. And that was extremely cozy, so I managed to fall asleep easily.

At four am or so, the door to the bedroom I was staying in burst open and the crazy man ran in with wide, red-rimmed eyes. Shit! I thought I’d locked that door! Needless to say, I woke up immediately. He then jumped on top of me, ripped all the covers off me and tried to pin me to the mattress, all while sobbing incoherently about some man being downstairs with a gun trying to sodomize him.

I was not very sympathetic, as you might imagine. I asked, rather stupidly, what the fuck he was doing in my bedroom. He didn’t respond, he just wailed and thrashed and tried to grab some of my limbs. I then leapt out of the bed and told him to get the fuck out of the bedroom, and he, unsurprisingly, didn’t. I then got the fuck out of the bedroom myself, leaving him to do whatever he had to do by himself, which seemed to be sobbing, screaming, yelling, flailing a lot, and tearing up the Parental V’s nicely made bed. (And yes, I was unable to knee him in the balls, though I tried.)

I grabbed my coat, put it on, picked up my purse, jeans and shoes, and then I stomped downstairs in what can only be termed “a high dudgeon” where I found Dennis clutching his clothing to his naked bod. He’d been awakened by all the screams and banging around upstairs. I turned my back while he got dressed and we both went back upstairs to try and prise the crazy man out of the Parental V’s bedroom so I could get back to sleep. He refused to depart, and took a swing at Dennis. I spoke in my Stern Voice to him and he still refused to straighten up and get the fuck out. (Well, that shouldn’t have come as a shock–the Stern Voice technique didn’t work in “Cujo” either. What was I thinking?)

He tried to kill Dennis again, throwing him into the Patental V’s nice dresser, scattering some no doubt expensive knick knacks and toiletry items hither and yon. Dennis and I glanced at each other and wordlessly agreed to retreat to the kitchen.

We then tried to make sense of what had just occurred. It wasn’t really possible, given our collective shock, fatigue and annoyance. And before we could come to any useful conclusions, the crazy man found us in the kitchen and started jabbering about the man with the gun trying to give him head. Needless to say, there was no masked, gun-toting ween-sucker in the household. The only armed and dangerous person in the household at that moment was the crazy man.

Here is an example of Unfairness and Bad Luck. Earlier in the evening, I asked Susan’s boyfriend Marty if he could get me a fork. It took him three tries to find the correct drawer, and he’s been dating Susan for over a year now. It’s not like he hasn’t ever been in the kitchen when utensils were removed from their designated spot. Unfortunately for us, the crazy man found the appropriate drawer on his first try and started brandishing a huge and very scary steak knife at us, still yammering away about his imaginary trauma.

And when you’re on the wrong end of a sharp pointy thing, it tends to look even larger and more pointy than it really happens to be. Take my word for this.

“We need to leave now,” I said, quite reasonably. Dennis concurred. We slipped out of the kitchen and went to collect our things. When the crazy man left the kitchen as well, I went back in and got the bottles of alcohol I’d brought that it turns out no one but me actually liked. (Every other alcoholic substance in the house had long since been consumed and I figured that the last thing the crazy (drunk) man needed was access to more booze.) And then when he went back into the kitchen, presumably to corner me again with tales about his psychotic fantasies, I again slipped out the other entrance and ran off, picked up all my things in the bedroom, and met Dennis in the foyer. At this point, we fled, shrieking, into the night.

Well, okay, there was no shrieking. But we got the fuck out of there. With great haste.

Ten seconds later, Dennis realizes that he’s still too drunk to drive, and we can see cop cars everywhere. I, on the other hand, am nowhere near being drunk. Even if I had been, I think that the attack by the large, sweaty, stinky, screaming man would have sobered me up. Our first order of business is to pull over so I can drive instead, which we do. Then we debate what we should do next.

See, Marty and Suze were sound asleep throughout all this commotion, and we started to worry about them. After all, they are unconscious in a house with a crazy person running around. And the crazy person is ranting and brandishing a big, scary, serrated knife. And he’s seeing people who aren’t there and sobbing and, in general, acting like a big dork, and these are all Bad Things.

We debated about what we should do for about ten miles, and then decided to go back. This is what you should never do in a horror movie, of course. Needless to say, we were a bit scared. Remember, we’d been watching “Cujo” and “Poltergeist” earlier in the evening. I suppose that there were some after effects from this.

Oh my God, The Crazy Man could be carving up our drunk, unconscious (and probably nekkid) friends RIGHT NOW!!!

We also realized that I’d left my only watch and two expensive rings, and that Dennis had left without some of his CDs, but, of course, the foremost deciding factor was our growing concern for Marty and Susan. We planned to park the car across the street and go around to the back door of the house (which leads into Susan’s bedroom) to let them know there was a problem. I tried calling Susan’s mobile, and no one answered. This freaked us out more. Then I tried calling the house phone.

V Household: *heavy breathing*

Me: Hello?

V Household: Jeremy!

Me: *puzzled pause* Um, Marty?

Oh, it’s The Crazy Man: *wailing* Jeremy?

Me: May I speak to Marty, please?

The Crazy Man: JEREMY! HELP ME!

Me: Um, no, I need to speak to Marty.


Me: NOT Jeremy! Marty!

The Crazy Man: Jeremy!


The Crazy Man: *screaming and sobbing* JEREMY! JEREMY! JEREMY!

Me: ….

The Crazy Man: *more shrieking and hiccoughing* JEREMY!!! AIIIIEEEEEERRRRGGGHH!!!!

Me: Oh, for fuck’s sake! *click*

I called twice, and that’s pretty much how both phone calls went.

When we returned, the house was ominously silent. Using Secret Squirrel Spy Signals, Dennis and I sneakily crept into the garage and then into the downstairs of the house where, fortunately, Marty and Susan were now awake and alert. Better yet, they did not appear to be traumatized.

Unfortunately, they had been awakened by the crazy man, who ran into their room, ripped the covers off of them and screamed. They were both butt-naked, and the crazy guy still had the knife in his hand. Marty had better luck with his Stern Voice than I did, and the crazy guy dropped the knife and curled into a fetal ball, giving Marty and Suze enough time to dress themselves.

At this point, Marty had had enough nonsense out of this reject and threw him out of the house into the rain. Eventually he also dialed up the crazy man’s friend, who arrived back at the house shortly after Dennis and I returned.

We all shared our exciting experiences and collected our forgotten belongings and then I drove Dennis’ car to the Waffle House, where we both ate and giggled somewhat hysterically for a while. And then we went home.

Dennis tells me that whatever you do on New Year’s Eve sets the tone for the rest of your year. I say that I hope that this only applies to events prior to the Big Ball Drop, because otherwise I’m majorly screwed. I don’t think I have the stamina to fend off psychopaths for the next 365 days. Besides, prior to midnight, we all had a great time. The curtain rod was still unbroken. Clegg had not yet begun to proselytize on the back porch. The Annoying Man was merely annoying and persistent, not crazy and holding a knife and jumping on people in the middle of the night.

That, dear readers, was the worst New Year’s Eve party EVER.

The end.

Some Funny ‘Overheard’ Conversations

I love the “overheard in…” communities, even if they make me feel bad about the level of stupidity and oddness going on all the time. No one place is immune. When I was in college, I took a long bus ride home and listened to a fascinating story about a crazy family who lived in a cave in Ohio, were stalked by goats, and threw their kids out of the cave if they mouthed off. The frightening thing is that the storyteller seemed sincere.

The world is a weird, wacky place.

Nobody in New York Knows the Difference between At-Home and Outside Conversations

Yuppie kid: Mommy shaves her hoo-hoo!
Yuppie dad: Okay, honey. Look, do you want your book?
Yuppie kid: I came in the bathroom this morning and asked Mommy what she was doing and she said shaving her hoo-hoo. Mommy shaves her hoo-hoo!
Yuppie dad: Dylan, remember when we discussed at-home conversations and outside conversations?
Yuppie kid: Yes.
Yuppie dad: Well, this is an at-home conversation.
Yuppie kid: Okay, daddy. [Sings to herself quietly] Mommmyyy shaves her hoo-hoooo…
Black lady: See, home conversating, outside conversating — that’s bullshit. My kid says shit like that, I smack him. He won’t say shit like that again.
Yuppie dad: Okay, thank you, but I think our method works just fine.
Yuppie kid: Lady, do you shave your hoo-hoo?
Black lady: Oh, yeah, that shit is workin’ just fine. She’s all kinds of polite.
Yuppie dad: Okay, Dylan, this is our stop.

The subway doors open. A hobo enters, holding a bottle of Windex in one hand and a tube of toothpaste in the other.
Hobo: Which is the better time to read Dostyevsky? Winter?
He sprays the Windex.
Hobo: Or Spring?
He squeezes toothpaste out of the tube.
Japanese girl: Spring!
Hobo: You are correct.

Chick: How come we’re always talking about how the Jews were persecuted? Lots of people have been persecuted. My people have been persecuted, too.
Professor guy: Um…This is “Introduction to Jewish-American Literature.”
Chick: …Yeah, but still.

Girl #1: I’m funny.
Girl #2: No you’re not.
Girl #1: Yes I am. Everyone says I’m hilarious.
Girl #2: Of course they do. That’s because you aren’t pretty.

Guy: I was seeing her for a while, but it just wasn’t working out. I guess I’m not over Jessica.
Girl: What?
Guy: What do you mean, what?
Girl: I thought you were gay.
Guy: Oh, because I’m a hairdresser. How original. Just because I’m a hairdresser you think I’m gay.
Girl: No. I thought you were gay because when I stayed at your house four years ago I woke up and saw you fucking Matt in the ass!
Guy: Oh my God. Matt and I have never talked about that night.

Chick #1: Dude, everyone’s popping out babies these days. JLo, TomKat, Britney. It’s like they’re the new fucking accessory.
Chick #2: Yeah, who wants a fucking baby anyway? You just turn into a fatass with stretch marks and saggy tits with a screaming infant who no one wants to be around.
Very pregnant passenger: I’m due in two weeks.
Chick #1: Aww! Is it a boy or a girl?

Girl #1: Ben’s hot, but I think he’s gay.
Girl #2: No way. Why?
Girl #1: He asked me if my carpet matches my drapes.
Girl #2: … I don’t think he’s gay.
Girl #1: Oh yeah?
Girl #2: Call him up and tell him he can chew on your carpet!
Girl #1: … What?

Middle-aged woman: Tradition brings us all together and makes us feel close.
Twenty-something woman: That’s not the tradition; it’s the Jack Daniels.

Girl #1: As Shakespeare once said: “Thou shall not kill.”
Girl #2: No, that would be God.

Girl on cell: Wait, was this the eating disorder cousin or the crack dealer cousin?…Oh, she’s having a baby? Wow, I hope it doesn’t die.

Kid #1: Paper beats rock. BAM! Your rock is blowed up!
Kid #2: “Bam” doesn’t blow up, “bam” makes it spicy. Now I got a SPICY ROCK! You can’t defeat that!

Guy #1: I’d totally hit that.
Guy #2: Dude, I’d hit that so hard whoever could pull me out would become the King of England.

Mother: Don’t you ever do that again! [slaps child hard]
Child, calmly: Well, are you happy with yourself?

Woman on cell: No, I mean, whatever. I cried for that baby when it died and all. Shit! I even went to its funeral and the damn thing wasn’t even born! Who the fuck has a funeral for a baby that wasn’t even born?…Whatever, that’s not the point. The point is, I’m sure as hell not going to a birthday party for a baby whose funeral I went to a year ago. That is fucking morbid…and they had better not be expecting presents.

Drunk guy #1: What’s the closest star to Earth?
Drunk girl: The Sun!
Drunk guy #2: No… It’s Alpha Centauri.
Drunk girl: I just don’t think I can agree with you on that. Anyway, Alpha Centauri is a galaxy!
Drunk guy #2: Let’s bet on it.
Drunk girl: Okay. But only money. No sexual favors.

Small child, trying a Sprite: I don’t like it.
Dad: If you don’t like the taste, just spit it out.
Mom: I’ve heard that one before.

Older woman: Excuse me, miss?
Younger woman: Yeah?
Older woman: Your veil, your burqa is very beautiful. I didn’t know your people were allowed to wear it in bright colors.
Younger woman: It’s not a burqa, it’s a poncho. I’m Jewish. It’s for the rain. I got it at TJ Maxx.

God Squad lady: Praise Jesus! You won’t be saved without Jesus! You have to start believing in Jesus to be saved! Jesus will always be there for you!
Suit #1: Would it be so awful if we pushed her out when the doors open?
Suit #2: No. Jesus will save her.

Girl #1: So when was your first kiss?
Girl #2: My 17th birthday.
Girl #1: How about your first time making out?
Girl #2: Also my 17th birthday.
Girl #1: …first blowjob?
Girl #2: This is awkward. 17th birthday, again.
Girl #1: How about when you lost your virginity?
Girl #2: 17th.
Girl #1: How about the first time you —
Girl #2: I know what you’re about to ask, and the answer is “my 17th birthday” again.
Girl #1: God damn! What the hell did you do for your 18th birthday?

Chick #1: Omigod, like, if I like your earrings, why should I tell someone else I like your earrings? I should just tell you.
Chick #2: Omigod, I’m just like that too. But really it’s because I love getting compliments.
Chick #1: Omigod! Me, too! It’s the only reason why I say nice things to other people.

Crazy: So I had to get fillings in all of my teeth.
Passenger: Uh huh.
Crazy: But I figured, why let them do that to me after they drilled holes in my brain, ya know?
Passenger: Sure.
Crazy: But I figured, might as well! Although if they were going to fill my teeth, I’d want them to use jelly.
Passenger: Yep.
Crazy: But the guy at the counter said they were out of jelly. So I got a blueberry muffin.

Conductor: This train is very crowded. If you cannot fit, please step back and wait for the next train. If you manage to get onto this very crowded train, look at the person next to you and tell them, “Howdy!”

Conductor, angrily: Yo, stand clear o’ the closing doors o’ my choo-choo!

Slutty girl: My high school history teacher ate my pussy. Then the science teacher. He ate my pussy. Then in college my freshman philosophy professor and my junior year economics professor, they ate my pussy.
Practical girl: You need to put out a Zagat guide to your twat.

Man: It was nice to meet you. Now will you shake my hand?
Little boy: No.
Man: Why not?
Little boy: Because she gave you her number, but she already has a boyfriend! I don’t like that.
Woman: Shut up. That’s not true.
Little boy: If it isn’t, then why did it say “Jason and Trish, together forever” on your phone, when I turned it on right now?
Woman: Together forever, my ass; now shut up!

Second grader: Earth is the greatest planet in the whole world!

No One Knows How To Keep Their Voices Down in the Office, Either

Chick: Nice flowers!
Dude: Yeah, I had a bad day yesterday and treated myself. You ever have one of those?
Chick: Yeah, but I just drink.

Sales guy: I went to a funeral once, and everyone there got a packet of the cremated remains.
Sales girl: That’s a nice parting gift!
Sales guy: Well, we were all supposed to disperse them somewhere. Mine sat on my mantle for about a month. Then I finally threw it away.
Sales girl: You sent the person to the dump?! So wrong! So wrong!

Paralegal to friendly lawyer: I’m sorry, I can’t shake your hand.
Lawyer: What’s your problem? We just saved the firm hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Paralegal: It has nothing to do with that… I’d help to bankrupt an orphanage if it came to it.
Lawyer: Then why won’t you shake my hand?
Paralegal: Sir, I was in the bathroom when you took a shit after the meeting, and you didn’t wash your hands. That’s just disgusting.

Boss: So see if you can find these people’s email addresses.
Intern: …You want me to find Desmond Tutu’s email address?
Boss: Try Google if you get stumped.

Boss: So, is there any other duty that you do on a daily basis that we should include on this list?
Worker: You mean other than miscellaneous bullshit?
Boss: Well, how much time do you spend on miscellaneous bullshit everyday?
Worker: Depending on the day, between 10 minutes and 8 hours.

Worker #1: Stupid fucking Back Office Support people are retarded.
Worker #2: Fuck the fucking fuckers.
Worker #1: Amen…without the sex part.
Worker #2: Heh, their pillow talk would go something like this: “You are the one that is hot, that is what I am telling you now.”

Co-worker #1: What’s a carpet muncher? Is that a new slang for vacuum cleaner?
Co-worker #2: Um, no. He, he, he. I’ll give you a thousand bucks if you ask the boss for a carpet muncher.
Co-worker #1: Why? I don’t have carpeting.

Teller: I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to see The Da Vinci Code. I want to see it, but if I do I’ll feel like I’m. . . supporting. You know?
Bank AVP: . . . Supporting?
Teller: The Devil!
Long pause
Bank AVP: Tom Hanks is the devil?

Suit #1: So, you feeling better today?
Suit #2: Man, I’m never eating Indian again.
Suit #1: Can’t have been that bad.
Suit #2: It’s just not manly to pee out your bum.

You’re Not Safe From Them At The Beach

Boy: Dad, who’s more intelligent? The father or the son?
Dad: The father, of course.
Boy: Who invented the telescope?
Dad: Galileo Galilei.
Boy: Why didn’t his father?

Teen boy to friend: Don’t trust women — they have vaginas. It’s where they keep all their secrets and lies!

Guy on cell: When the freeway ends, turn left…Yes, the freeway ends….Because the continent ends, dipshit.

Mother to father: Oh my! Jerry, say something to that old man. His testicles are hanging out of his swimsuit.
Little girl: I have testicles. They’re in my mouth. [Opens mouth]
Mother: Not tonsils. Testicles!
Father: Seven, and already MTV has ruined her.

Lifeguard on megaphone: Attention, beach-goers, due to the sunset, you must get out in 5 minutes or else we will turn the waves off.
Girl: Oh my God! Is he serious?!

Guy: Hey, beautiful ladies! My name is Sean. I run a company that increases the number of hits your website gets on search engines. I’m sure I could help you in your line of work What do you do?
Woman: I’m a neurosurgeon.
Guy: Hey, it’s good to see that even a brain surgeon has time to head out to the beach. Let me show you how my company can help you get more business.
Woman: I’m sure it can’t.
Guy: Well then, how ’bout I just give you my number?
Woman: How about I just give you a lobotomy?

American: Why did she stare at me like that? Is my accent that horrible? Did I say something wrong?
Japanese-American: Your accent isn’t that bad. But you made the Japanese “fuck you” gesture with your hands.

Beach patrol: Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to put on your top. This is not a “clothing optional”beach.
Man sitting with topless woman: Leave her alone. She is trying to get a full body tan.
Beach patrol: Sir, I think you are asking quite a bit from the sun.

Chubby twink: The ’80s called, they want their lipstick back.
Chick in black with bright red lipstick: Your boyfriend called, he thinks you’re fat.
Chubby twink runs off crying, chick in black lights a smoke.

Fat lady screaming: Taneesha! Homegirl, get yo’ ass in here and see this! There be more sand up in my vah-jay-jay than the Saharia desert!

Bimbette looking up at cliff face: Hey, do rocks eat other rocks?
Guy: … Huh?
Bimbette: Do rocks eat other rocks? You know, so that they can grow into bigger rocks…
Guy: Are you serious? No, rocks do not eat other rocks.
Bimbette: Then, like… How do they get bigger?
Guy: [Silence.]
Bimbette: Like, what do they eat?

Boy #1: Yeah, it was cool, but that bouncer searched me like crazy. He was patting my thighs and stuff. Security is crazy at that place, huh?
Boy #2: What security?
Boy #3: What bouncer?
Boy #1: You know, that big, fat guy near the entrance.
Boy #2: There was no security dude.
Boy #1: … Then who the hell was that guy?!
Boys #2 and #3 laugh hysterically.

Group of valley girls, giggling: So you’re bisexual, right?
Girl with piercings and multi-colored hair: Ummm… Yeah…?
Group of valley girls: So, what does that mean?!
Girl with piercings and multi-colored hair: Holy shit… Okay, you know what? Go ask your preacher.

Swedish guy: Are you the hippies?
Dreadlock guy: I guess so.
Swedish guy: So, you hippies, do you have the orgies?
Dreadlock girl: Um… We decide that on a hippie by hippie basis.
Swedish guy: Oh, because you say ‘Yes,’ and I sign up now.

Girl #1: Oh, man! So, for Christmas my dad is letting me get my cartilidge pierced! I’m so excited!
Girl #2: Oh, man, that’s so cool! I want to get mine done, too.
Girl #1: Yeah, I’ll only ever get my ears pierced. Everything else is so gross and weird.
Girl #3: Yeah, well, I have my clit pierced — do you think that’s weird?
Girl #2: What’s a clit?

Teen boy: Fucking faggots!
Gay Man: How can he tell I’m gay?
Gay Woman: How can he tell I’m a lesbian? What, do we exude a flamboyantly-homosexual aura or something? Fuck, we’re cuddling with a member of the opposite gender, and people still know we’re gay! Damn, it’s like P.E. class all over again.

The Duh, It Ows, And It Is Everywhere!

Crazy lady: Oh, no! Those teenagers did not just steal my outhouse!

Mom: We can’t have ice cream. You just had candy at the movie.
Little girl: Mom, you are such a gutter-skank.
Mom, flabbergasted: What did you say?! What did you call me?! Where did you hear that term?!
Little girl: Dad.

Blonde to friend: You know that guy I was going out with? He told me he was going out with me because he liked blondes, and I thought, ‘I’m not a blonde,’ but then I remembered I was… But that’s not a good enough reason to go out with me.

Really happy college chick: So many people will die. You know why? The demons are hungry. When you die they eat your soul. They’re hungry and they aren’t happy about it, so people have to die.

Chick: So, what are your irrational fears?
Dude: Well, I’m afraid of that song. You know, the John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt one. I mean, ‘that’s my name, too’? What does that mean?! I mean, think about its larger sociological implications. That just freaks me out.

Beholder: You are not a beholder, buddy.
Non-beholder: Nah, dude. I’m pretty sure I behold.

Drunk guy with pink hat: You guys should totally use chop sticks — it’s so pussy not to.
Hippie, light-heartedly: We’re trying to save some trees.
Drunk guy with pink hat: Do you have any idea how many geese I killed today? 12.

Drunken wedding guest to videographer going from table to table: Zach, I want to wish you and Jenny many years of happiness, and I hope you get as much pleasure out of fucking her as I did.
Other guests at table: Erase that! Erase that!
Videographer: Are you kidding? This is like gold!

Pregnant, tattooed hipster: This is killing me. How can I go without ink for nine months?
Tattooed hipster friend: Oh, I know.

Guy #1: I totally told her I wasn’t with anyone else on my cruise, but I clearly slept with another girl!
Guy #2: Victory!

College dude #1: What are those birds that fucking talk?
College dude #2: Parrots?
College dude #1: No, that’s what my teacher said… Ravens! That’s right!
College dude #2: Ravens talk? That’s like Edgar Allen Poe shit or something.
College dude #1: No, dude, they for real only say like one word, though.
College dude #2: imitating a raven: Aquafina!
College dude #1: Yeah, dude! ‘Aquafina!’ Only I’d make mine say, ‘Radiator.’

Woman #1: How do you spell ‘rarely’?
Woman #2: R-A-I-R-L-E-E… Here, maybe I should fill that out.

Lady with mic: Nothing is more powerful than Jesus! He die; he get up!

Lady hobo: Man, you is the biggest crackhead I ever met.
Giant hobo, muttering incoherently: No, man, I ain’t no crackhead. I ain’t no crackhead.
Lady hobo: N*gga, you smoke drywall!

Young mother to five-year-old daughter: Morgan! Come here! Do you remember that film we watched about perverts? Now hold my hand!

Guy on phone at leather bar: Yeah, I’m at a church social… doing the Lord’s work. I’ll be on my knees later.

Panhandler: Do you have any change? I need money. My old lady kicked me out. I need money for a penis… reduction… It’s too big, and she kicked me out. She said not to come back until–
Man: –No.

Man pushing wheelchair lady, singing: Handicap, handicap, oh handy handy handy…

Bathroom-bound tech woman: Are you following me? Not that many people follow me at my age.
Tech guy: No. I’m more of the ‘call-is-coming-from-inside-the-house’ kind of guy.

Celebrity Stupidity

MBA guy: Did you see that George Clooney’s pig died?
MBA gal: I’ll be his pig if he wants. Oink, oink!

Eminem: Yo, I failed ninth grade three times, but I don’t think it was necessarily ’cause I’m stupid.

California senator Barbara Boxer: Those who survived the San Francisco earthquake said, ‘Thank god I’m still alive!’ But, of course, those who died — their lives will never be the same again.

Anna Nicole Smith on suicide bombers: Why would they do that? Wouldn’t they think it was kind of painful?

PETA on global warming: The most powerful step that we can take as individuals to avert global warming is to stop eating meat, eggs, and dairy products.

Simon Cowell: It’s very fashionable to be in rehab.


Davids versus ”Goliath”

Because this sort of thing pisses me off, I’m spreading the word (again; I’ve discussed this before). You can Google “Todd Goliath Goldman art thief” and verify the links yourself. He seems to have laid low in 2012, but he was still ripping people off as recently as 2011.


Monday, April 16, 2007

Dave vs. Goliath: Shameless Art Thievery, Ahoy

Keenspotbox Once upon a time, I was strolling with two people down at the Grove shopping complex in Los Angeles. We passed a gallery with giant windows, a gallery packed to the gills with the most insipid, offensively dull paintings we had ever seen. We stood in awe that this person had conned someone into giving them an entire retail space to soil. There were paintings of lamps that looked as if they had been done by “getting old ain’t so bad” greeting card illustrators. Mr. Bill-like cartoon faces, with no perceivable expression or appeal, stared sightlessly off white canvas. Seemingly random depictions of household objects bore zany witticisms scrawled atop.

“Jesus wept,” someone said, “this shit is TERRIBLE.”

Instantly, he was upon us. The artist himself, lurking at a nearby cafe table and supervising the reactions of the gallery’s passerby, leapt to his feet and verbally laid into us. Sputtering and red, he demanded to know what we had said about him, if we knew who we were dealing with, and who the hell we thought we were. We pointed and laughed at the poor crazy man who couldn’t draw, and went to a movie.

I have just found out that the shouting hack was none other than Todd “Goliath” Goldman, renowned “artist” and accomplished plagiarist. He’s ripped off designs from sources as far ranging as ancient Windows animated cursors, Threadless t-shirt company, spooky comics scribbler Roman Dirge, and most blatantly, internet cartooning legend Dave “Shmorky” Kelly. As the panel at right illustrates, one of Goldman’s recent paintings is a near-exact trace of a panel from Kelly’s “Purple Pussy” webcomic.

Goldman’s publicist has released that his client has vowed to cease any and all marketing of the stolen design, and to forward the proceeds already collected either to Kelly or the charity of his choice. However, Goldman’s other plagiarism is extensive, and unredressed.

Now that he’s been called on his bullshit, and the Internet vs. Todd Goldman onslaught has begun in earnest, the man has retreated to slander, hacking, and douchebaggery to make his point:

The girl who originally reported the theft of Shmorky’s artwork also had her MySpace hacked. Some of the MySpace pages were replaced with an image saying TODD WAS HERE. (Note that the image is hosted on Goldman’s website, indicating it is either Todd or an employee with access to his webserver)

This is one example among many. What can be done about it, besides spurting reams of textualized nerd rage into every venue that will tolerate it? Shmorky’s got the original design up for sale on a shirt. And one can always Digg, of course. Otherwise, I encourage the perusal of the following links, so that you may familiarize yourself with his myriad offenses and be able to hold forth on the subject at parties, whist drives, and strawberry teas. Do it for ART.

Holy cow, Todd (Goliath) Goldman ripped me off! [Something Awful Forums–Schmorky speaks]

Todd Goldman: Art Thief [Mike Tyndall–lots of examples; see some below]

Todd Goliath Goldman, Art Thief [Digg]

Did Todd Goliath (Goldman) Steal His Art? [You Thought We Wouldn’t Notice]

Blog About Art Swipes [boing boing]

Todd Goldman’s Lawyers Sending Nastygrams [boing boing]

Artist Roman Dirge, creator of Lenore, is a victim of plagiarism and complains.

Artist Liz Greenfield may also be a victim, and she complains as well.

Some excerpts from Mike Tyndall‘s site:

Theft by Goldman on left, original Dirge piece featuring “Lenore” on right.

Theft by Goldman on the left, original Jim Benton “Happy Bunny” character on right.

Shirt by American Apparel on the far left, Neko (‘an old cursor-chasing desktop accessory that was created for older computer systems such as Windows 3.1″) in center, Goldman theft on far right. Another comparison of  “Neko” with Goldman’s theft below:

More kitty theft (save the kitties!):

Goodman theft on far left; original art in center and at far right. Reader Christopher Rhodes told Mike Tyndall that the purse was probably made by Faster Pussycat. (In Atlanta, those stickers were sold by Cookie Puss and Pussy Scented.)

Bot angry yet? This image from goon Joe Anglican (View post) shows what Goldman earns, on average, from his paintings.

This is just gross.


And he’s still at it.