The motherfucking dress…


Say it, motherfuckers.

Say it, motherfuckers.

Work in progress.  I has one.  In fact, I was thinking of wrapping it up today but the Go Fuck Yourself Weekly post is so fucking fantastic that I didn’t want to bury it under the weight of The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås.  Then Blitz decided to bury it with a poem about that motherfucking dress.  The cunting dress.  The dress that has enraged me so much that I’m now suffering from bloody Tourette Syndrome and am one step away from involuntary commitment to a psych ward.

Dress, I fucking hate you.  There is only one blue dress that matters and that’s the one with Bill Clinton’s DNA on it.  There’s only one white dress that matters but the fuck if I know what it is because I DON’T FUCKING CARE.

Llamas in dresses, llamas on the lam, dresses on llamas, dresses changing colors, dresses, dresses causing me distresses.

My thoughts on the dress:

1.  It is fucking hideous.
2.  It is made of substandard fabric.
3.  It doesn’t deserve to see the light of day.
4.  Not even the most desperate of drag queens would touch it.
5.  You’re going to see it on Halloween (Someone who is trying too hard to be funny will wear it).



What goes better with insolence…

…than twee?

I made a few modifications to the website today:  a new theme (isn’t it just fabulous, darling?), some pop-culture Easter Eggs hidden here and there and a few other things that I’m (naturally) forgetting now as I write them down.  I’ll likely either remember them when the bill arrives or forget and yell at Dock for buying some audio gear.  Such is the way my mind functions (or doesn’t) these days.

The old design was that – old.  And while I love what a pine cone represents in relation to a creative process, it was time for a change.  I’m making a lot of changes these days (new tattoo, lop off a fuckton of hair) and thought RM needed a fresher outlook on life.  Or maybe I’m simply projecting as I recover from Kang’s Dark Days of December.

Way, way back in time, when Random Misanthrope was started, I think I went full-bore and signed up for premium-this and uber-that. Welp, Milkface is in private school now.  I drive VWs instead of SAABs, the standard vacation is no longer to Swedenland and Random Misanthrope is run on economy scale because this bitch needs more money in the old retirement fund (Wow…do I sound like the Queen of the First World Probz or what?).  This is my loquacious way of saying :lowers head in shame: there may be ads.  I know.  I’m so very sorry.

Usually, I do most of my scribbling of the thoughts on my laptop which has that marvelous Adblock plug-in.  I don’t see the nasty, little fuckers when I’m reading RM.  One night, as I lay in my bed trolling the internet on the iPad, I noticed the most offensive thing on Random Misanthrope – ads!  Dafuq?  For years I crowed that I would never let commerce encroach upon our artistic paradise for we are esteemed and dignified people. We are writers and poets, for fuck’s sake!  We shall not sully our work with pedestrian and unnecessary twaddle.  But here they were – ads.  Ads on Random Misanthrope.  This is more offensive than a pledge pin on a uniform!

When I changed the site design, I looked into the cost of blocking ads from RM.  $30 annually.  Oh, WordPress.  Oh, silly, silly WordPress. All that AdBlock asks of its users is a donation and you are trying to shake me down for $30 when most people are already running AdBlock? Yeah.  NO.

To those visiting us (all two, three, four of you) via tablets or mobile phones, please accept my most humble apologies for the ads and my unwillingness to pony up $30 per year.  As it turns out, my integrity is much cheaper than I had initially thought.

WOTD: cinnamon, according to the Urban Dictionary

I love the Urban Dictionary. I fucking love it. Type in even the most mundane word you can think of and it will produce several surprising “definitions” you never would have thought of in a million years. I typed in the word cinnamon because I was looking at the furry lump lying on the bed that’s named Cinnamon. There’s no way this word is going to be in there, I thought. Boy, was I wrong.

There are actually seven definitions for the word cinnamon. The first one is my favorite:

1. Cinnamon is something difficult to say when drunk.

These are also difficult to say when drunk:
Thanks, but I don’t want to have sex.
Good evening, officer. Isn’t it lovely out tonight?
Nope, no more beer for me….

Cinnanannomm …..Cinomon …Ciniman …uhhh!i give up, gimme another beer!

I also really love the third definition:

3. The equivalent to a ginger, just more attractive and usually has a soul. Commonly found in the North Eastern part of the United States and Western Canada. Freckles are prominent and usually in large numbers. Some cinnamons are found wearing obscene clothing, beware. Large families are usually together in one area of the country of this breed.

Differences between the two are skin tones, which are usually a shade darker than most gingers and the cinnamons are more aesthetically pleasing,

“Yo man, did you see that slamming ginger over there with her tits hanging out?!”

“Yeah I did man but that’s no ginger! It’s a cinnamon! You don’t find banging gingers anywhere these days!”

Apparently, cinnamon also means roughly same thing as cherry (not the sexual meaning):

4.excellent, very good
Dude, you’re [sic]Jedi cloak is so cinnamon. I wish I had one.

Cinnamon the cat approves of this post.

Stay tuned…

WOTD: Agnotology

Here’s a little something off the request line. I’d like to dedicate today’s WOTD to Cissi, Shark and the other upstanding members of Random Misanthrope.

Today’s word is a relatively new discipline, developed in recent years by two historians of science at Stanford University, Robert Proctor and his wife, Londa Schiebinger. Agnotology is defined as of the study of “culturally-induced ignorance or doubt, particularly the publication of inaccurate or misleading scientific data.”

There sure is a lot of bullshit masquerading as scientific research these days, which is why I’m not surprised to learn that this is such a new discipline. It used to be that scientific cranks could rarely get anything published because, well, they were hacks and quacks, and everybody knew it. Nowadays, thanks to the internet, just about any nut with any nutty idea can publish that belief for the whole world to see. One can find websites that offer definitive proof that 9/11 was a government plot, the Apollo 11 mission was a hoax, vaccines cause autism, homeopathy can effectively treat any disease including cancer, there are huge and powerful “lasers” currently orbiting the earth, and of course that President Barack Obama was not only born in Kenya, he’s also a Muslim.

Just look around. If you want confirmation for any crackpot idea then the internet will provide it.

My ex was a real tin-foil hat club type who was frequently out of work and spent his days reading about various conspiracies on the internet while I was at the office. One day he arrived to pick me up at work wearing a surgical mask. The explanation he gave was that there were a lot of jets flying over head that day and he read on the internet they were secret government planes generating “chemical trails” which rain down toxic chemicals that penetrate our bodies and control our minds.

I said that if that were really the case, then a surgical mask probably wasn’t going to provide very much in the way of protection.

Until next time…

…oh just

shut the fuck up, already!

Honestly.  I know some rambling motherfuckers and it’s all I can do to grit my teeth, smile and sit on my hands so I don’t reach for their necks and strangle the last breath of life out of them.  These people come in all shapes and sizes, all walks of life and there is absolutely no escaping them.  No matter what you do.

Not one to sugar coat things, I have tried all sorts of different tactics to silence the verbose.  I have left the room in mid-sentence.  I have pretended to be unwell.  I have played up being partially deaf.  I have (absolutely true) looked someone in the eye and excused myself by telling the gasbag that I had to go stick my head in the nearest oven.  Granted, I’m not always Miss Sweetness and Light but even I, for all of my evil, understand when it’s time for silence.

After two meetings today with someone who loves to her herself jabber away, I’m left with little patience and an enormous amount of frustration.  If only I could get away with deploying my absolute, most-favoritest STFU meme.  Life would be so much easier.

And before you even ask – NO.  I am not always a people person.

…say it in llama

Llamas.  They are adorable, fuzzy and spit at people.  Nature’s perfect creature!

Now, nature’s perfect creature is the world’s most perfect font.  Have a love letter to send?  Say it in llama.  Have some bad news to share?  Say it in llama.  Would you like attention the next time you send out your CV?  Write your cover letter in llama.  After all, llamas make everything better.

…fuck Time Warner Cable

Seriously.  Fuck it hard with shards of glass and sand.

I don’t ask for much out of life.  All that I really need is a little financial security, a happy and healthy toddler, a home with Tiffany lighting and an internet connection that doesn’t suck greasy, hairy ass.

I’m woefully addicted to connectivity.  I go through withdrawal if we lose power and my iPhone battery runs out of juice.  I shake.  It’s worse than going without a cigarette, in certain ways.  That said it’s not just a consistent internet connection to me.  It’s my livelihood since I work out of my home.

Years ago, I was able to work off-line.  Since I transitioned to my new position last year, I no longer have the luxury of keeping things on my own desktop as I work with patient data which must be double-sooper-seekrit encrypted in llama and wingdings.  Trying to download and upload any document is a complete pain in the ass on a good day.  When the size of the file is the cyber equivalent of the entire State of North Carolina, the task is odious.  The process takes so damn long that I’m able to empty and reload the dishwasher and do laundry.

While I appreciate being able to multi-task like no other, I am far too impatient for this madness.  Around middle-March, I upgraded my service to uber-maximum-light speed performance.  Or so I thought.   Our service may be faster but I wouldn’t know as I am now unable to maintain a connection for longer than a mouse fart.

After sitting on the phone with the diagnostic staff stationed in, oh let’s say Bangalore, they finally agreed that it’s an actual physical problem.  Being the nice folks that they are, they agreed to dispatch a technician to make some repairs.

The technician showed up in a torrential downpour with a surly attitude.  I suppose I’m having flashbacks from all of the acid I did not drop in college because he made us believe that the problem is in our heads.  My seven years of living in this house and dealing with the same fucking problem over and over and over again did not matter.  Jesus could be standing next to me, explaining the problem to the tech and I would still be wrong.  Oh.  And going to hell, too.

After slamming my head off the wall and hopping up and down in the foyer (not really), I finally convinced the surly tech that the problem is, indeed, with the actual cable running to the home.  Yay!  Unfortunately, surly tech did not bring the appropriate equipment to make such repairs.  Our only recourse is to schedule another appointment.

I can certainly appreciate the fact that not everyone is a prognosticator and not everyone will bring every fucking tool in the shop to a service call.  What I do not appreciate is paying for an upgrade and receiving a downgrade or a no-grade.

So, again, I will have to call Time Warner and sit on eternal rot with Bangalore to have the same surly tech dispatched to the home where I will have the same irritating conversation about what is actually wrong.  Because, you see, I have an infinite amount of time to spend on this issue.  I will end up dropping to my knees, with tears streaming down my face and pleading with someone who couldn’t give a flying fuck that the problem is not with the router.  It’s not with the modem.  It’s with that tangled up mess of a cable outside of the house.  In short – it’s not me.  It’s YOU!  It’s you and your shitty cable that does not deliver a consistent bleep-blip-bloop signal to my damn house, Time Warner.

In the interim, I will spend, at the very least, ten minutes trying to access my WLAN to spend an additional ten minutes trying to upload a document.  Then I will spend an additional ten minutes trying to explain to my boss why it takes me twenty minutes to complete the simplest of actions.

All because of an upgrade.