Go Fuck Yourself Weekly: The Anti-Muslim, Anti-Syrian Refugee Brigade

OMG you stupid fucking fucks. You googling simpletons. You idiotic keyboard warriors. You ignorant, bigoted fucksticks. You insufferable, simple-minded, tea-bagging hard-ons. For the love of whatever it is you worship, cut it the fuck out with the ISIS/WASWAS bullshit!

We can all agree that ISIS/Daesh/whatever is a cadre of lunatics. Yes. That’s about as much courtesy as I’m going to extend. That’s it. That’s all you’re getting from me.

When I posted the ISIS/WASWAS meme, I did so as an indictment of Ronald Reagan’s fuckery. He was given the Go Fuck Yourself Weekly award. I told his ilk to go fuck itself, too. Note…I didn’t even suggest it. I wasn’t polite about it, either. I meant it. Go. Fuck. YOURSELF. Method of fucking irrelevant. Fuck yourself with a dildo. Fuck yourself with a butt-plug. Fuck yourself with your neighbor’s shoe. Fuck yourself with a fluorescent light bulb. Fuck yourself with a tent stake. Fuck yourself with your gun. I don’t care. Just go fuck yourself. Quietly.

I repeat…

Now, après-Paris, the ISIS/WASWAS hits are higher than ever. I chuckle when I see the stats and think “I wonder what these sacks of nobs think if they bother to read the piece?” Then I remind myself that they likely rank considerably low on the reading comprehension scale and sigh. These people who land on Random Misanthrope because my stupid fucking meme happens to be el numero uno on an image search don’t quite understand history. They certainly aren’t going to agree with my perspective. They just want blood and validation of their hate.

ZOMG! Let’s find another reason to hate brown people!!!111!

Very well. But I don’t have to give it to them.

What I can give them is this: Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly award. And why? Because I despise their way of thinking. Because I despise their politics. Because I find bigotry so fucking offensive, I cannot even describe the intensity of my rage without sounding like I have Tourette’s.

It is well within their right to morph into some Francophile now that a tragedy fits their narrative. It’s well within their right to revert to calling frites French Fries instead of Freedumb Fries. It’s well within their right to fly the French flag beneath their American flag and their confederate flags. Just as it’s well within my right to openly mock them on the most juvenile level possible because, as we have learned, it is imperative to write to the level of one’s audience.

I mean it, fuckers.

(unedited, not proofed because I just don’t give a fuck)

Apple Music…

…please eat a bag of dicks.

We interrupt the current rational posts with one from the perspective of a person who has been dealing with a wee bit of PTSD over the past three or four weeks. A person who does not care to have her cheese moved before 08.00 in the morning. A person who wants to listen to her music when she wants to listen to it and will not be denied.

This morning, I needed (yes, needed) to listen to the Purple Rain soundtrack – the songs Computer Blue and Baby I’m a Star, to be precise. Yet, being the addle-minded, drooling idiot I have become lately, I stupidly updated my music player the other day without much thought. I put on my DJ P0n-3 headphones, pulled up the horrifying menu and started hyperventilating. Where is my fucking Prince??? No, not that one. We all know that notion is a giant, fucking joke. I mean PRINCE. The Purple One.

Fuck me.

So, after one panic attack averted, I finally locate the album and the required songs only to be rewarded with Computer Blue on infinite loop.

Look, Apple, I get it. You’re trying to play catch up. You’re slightly out-moded in this particular arena. That’s fine. Progress is pain. No, seriously, I get it. I’m in the middle of a corporate re-org. I KNOW PAIN. Change is a significant emotional event for all of us. That said, why must you monkey with my little island of sanity? Why tamper with what is of paramount importance to me? When this bitch needs to listen to Nine Inch Nails to scare teachers, she needs to listen to Nine Inch Nails. When she needs to listen to Prince to get revved up for her five mile walk, she needs her Prince. When you deny her this – tantrums will be thrown. And, as I mentioned earlier, in the throes of PTSD flashbacks, denial and upset is not something graciously accepted.

Sort the shit out, asshats.

Love…
/Kang

Kang tries poetry…

…and doesn’t do it well.

Kitten says it’s World Poetry Day. This is my contribution. It’s not satire. It’s not snarkasm. It’s a stunning display of my complete ineptitude and my deep appreciation for the beauty that Blitz and Kitten produce so easily. Sincerely, I’m in awe of their talent.

Years ago, before Kang existed, Kang’s parents were beatniks living in Greenwich Village (explains a lot, nej?). They hung out with poets, walked the walk and talked the talk (but did they inhale?). Yet, this influence and the words from the first editions of Ginsberg’s works that sit on my nightstand (thank you, Daddy) enter my brain, swirl around and go to the file cabinet drawer where things like finite and applied calculus reside. Poetry, like men and mathematics, is a code I cannot crack no matter how hard I try.

Marnie can’t Haiku
although she doesn’t blame you
Poetry is weird.

Oh, Kang. You made Applebloom sad.

To the poets of the world, I thank you for the gift you share, the joy you bring and the thoughts you provoke.

Go Fuck Yourself Weekly: Ronald Reagan and His Sheeple

Thinking. You’re doing it wrong. Alternatively, not at all.

Good grief. The stupid…it is powerful.

This shit popped up today. Isn’t it just sooooooo funny‽ Don’t you see the fucking hilarity of it all? If Ronald Reagan was alive, ISIS would be WASWAS!!!! ZOMG – The sheer brilliance of it all! King Ronnie would shepherd his flock to safety. He would save the world! No more pesky and nagging threats from radical religious fundamentalists with a thirst for blood and an unyielding need for decapitating human beings. Peace on Earth shall be. Finally. And after that, King Ronnie would quickly rid the world of the scourge that is Welfare Queens in Escalades. Although, he’ll only do that to those who are of color. White, corporate welfare queens; you are safe. Kindly resume life in your ivory towers giving zero fucks about the struggle outside the moat. It is not yours to manage.

And this is why Rainbow Dash is 20% cooler than you.

What these people who post this tripe fail to understand is that Al-Qaeda and its bastard children are the fucking product of Ronald Reagan’s foreign policy. In the spirit of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Ronald Reagan armed, trained and developed the militia that is now Al-Qaeda (and subsequent splinter groups cum bastard children). This is a fucking fact. Yet, it’s so oft overlooked, I wonder where my generation was when this was in the news? Oh wait – outside playing until the street lights come on. That’s right. I forgot about the series of memes waxing idiotic about the good old days when it was acceptable to beat your kids and kids didn’t sit in front of screens all of the time. Also, do homework.

And, furthermore, how was Reagan going to deal with ISIS? Was he going to deploy that monument to awesome military strategy taught to all West Pointers? You know the one I’m talking about – running away like a fucking coward when 241 Marines were slaughtered in Beirut?

These people who think Ronald Reagan was the Second Coming (more like the Second Coming of Lucifer if you happen to be religious) seemingly overlook all that was wrong with the 80s. They forget about the bullshit that is “Trickle Down Economics.” Fuck that. Why should any of us have to wait for a fucking trickle? Why didn’t anyone ask that question? You work hard. You think a trickle is an acceptable reward for your labor? This bitch doesn’t. This bitch, like many other bitches, doesn’t break her back so an executive can have a golden parachute.

Iran/Contra. I could go on for hours about that because I listened to every single hearing during the summer of 1987. I’m emotionally scarred. My shrink has advised me not to go back to that point in time.

The dissolution of the family farm. Now, we have agricorporations. It’s not unlike the health care model Nixon and Kaiser developed in the 70s. Shut out the little guys, allow the big corporations to take over and *presto* instant monopoly, albeit legal.

These are mere highlights of one of the absolute worst things to befall this country. And people line up to metaphorically gargle the balls of Saint Ronnie’s corpse. Not even Nancy would go that far (unless her astrologer told her to).

So, for those spreading the ISIS/WASWAS, for those who ache for the golden era of Ronald Reagan and for Ronald Reagan and his political cabinet (less James Brady) – CONGRATULATIONS, MOTHERFUCKERS. You are the recipient of this week’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly award.

Don’t like it? There’s the door, sugartits.

Exasperation, irritation…

…frustration.

Lacking a punching bag and the requisite energy to jab the punching bag, I need to find an appropriate substitute. I’m going to assign blame to my hair. Yesterday, I went for the periodical untangling of the rat’s nest and shearing of the fleece. As hairdressers are wont to do, mine straightened the curls. I don’t care for this, as a rule, but she actually makes it look like something other than newsreader hair so I keep my gob shut and let her attack me with the flat iron. Now I have a headache because trying to keep the mess out of my eyes is a Herculean effort. The hair – it knows not what to do. It just wants to hang…straight…in my face. Now, don’t get me wrong, I usually keep the hair wild and longish so I can hide behind it but I do this of my own volition. I AM IN CONTROL – not the fucking hair. This is me. Right now.

Contributing to my positively shitty mood is my struggle with a stupid essay I have been trying to write for five or six (sive) weeks now. Oh yes, I crow about how wonderful it is to limit myself to essays. I say “Why yes, real writers of books and things, if I get bored or if a concept refuses to come together, I can just bin the shit and move on to the next because I am awesome, lazy and lacking in discipline.” The sad, pathetic truth is that I might find myself reworking something to the point of madness. Barking madness. Madness that results in stuffing cookies in my face and retreating to my bed to snuggle two stuffed bunnies and whichever cat decides to grace me with his or her presence (lately, it’s been Annabel – the kitty that is so muscular and solid, it feels like a cinder block is crushing your legs). It is as ridiculous as it sounds, especially given the pajamas that I’m wearing when I engage in this behavior.

My undoing, my descent into rambling lunacy came at the hands of an upgrade. Miss Thang actually got off her ass and renewed the domain and upgraded the website early this year. The upgrade has given me power and nothing is more intoxicating to Kang than power (ok…maybe a foreign accent emanating from a handsome man or a quality Belgian beer). Knowing that my involvement with style sheets and CSS results in bad things, I refrained from going anywhere near that mess. No one wants to help unfuck whatever fuckups I make while coding. People would sooner try to figure out my parents’ A/V rig than sort out what I call coding and that’s saying quite a lot because the A/V rig cum home entertainment system is a hot fucking mess of a nightmare.

But I’m genuinely irritated because I ~~might~~ have OCD tendencies.

Depending on the device and/or platform I use to access the site, the justification is off. I make adjustments for tablets and it skews the view for computers. I make adjustments for computers and tablets and mobile devices suffer. The alignment looks a lot like my son’s handwriting did in the beginning of the school year (or my husband’s current penmanship). I look at the analytics and the device mix is 50/50 so no matter my decision, I’m going make sweet, sweet fuckery love to one segment of the wittew audience we have. And, yes, I might just be like the average male who is driving a car and finds himself lost; I’m not going to ask for directions or guidance. I’m going to drive in circles until the tears flow freely and the tank is empty. Which is where I am now – on a park bench, stroking myself (not in that way, you disgusting pervert) and telling myself I’m pretty and I have value to someone, somewhere (likely only my parents or my kid).

Right now, the Emotional Traffic Light Engagement essay (see – even the concept sounds clunky) is back in the draft bin for the millionth time, paragraphs are askew in some posts and my sack of fucks to give is very small and lacking depth (Dock just loves that line).

Random Misanthrope’s…

….Go Fuck Yourself Weekly!!!

Since my return from my self-imposed exile, I have refrained from scribbling about politics because, at this point, it’s pretty much like shooting fish in a barrel. It’s effortless skewering requiring little thought – these idiots write the material themselves. All we need to do is read any old newspaper (note: NOT BLOG. A blog is not a legitimate news source, you right winged asshats. Neither is a newsletter from your local “I have a throbbing hard-on for the 2^nd Amendment” gun club.) and it’s all there in its glory. Be it from Palin, LePage (a personal favorite of mine), Chris “Governor Sammiches” Christie or Rand Paul – it is an infinite font of stupid. Thus, I have been reluctant to dispense of the stink-eye because *everyone* is doing that and Kang is not a joiner. Kang is a trendsetter. Remember that. ಠ_ಠ

Until today.

Until I had some inspiration. Or…several sources of inspiration.

Aside from my daily devouring of various LIEberal (tut tut tut) media websites, I also troll for memes and keep a reasonable cache of them for quick and easy reference. I do this because, sadly, my humor is not far removed from that of a 12 year old boy or the average 4chan user. The more ridiculous the meme the better, too. For instance – take any children’s show, slap adult language on top of it and I’ll keel over with laughter. It has become the visual version of the “what do you call a guy with no arms and no legs?” jokes that, for whatever reason, bring forth a laughter induced asthma attack. Not only am I a cheap date, I’m easily amused by dad jokes and shit.

Between the reading of the news and the trolling of the memes, I thought “Hmmm…it’s been years since we have done any sort of writing exercises. The last time I had posted any asshole du jour spleen vents was back when Kang World was still Kang World – 2008, mebbe? What if I tried a serial? Do I have the attention span and stamina for that?” Welp – let’s find out. And let’s give it a catchy title, too. How about: “Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly?” A nice lilt. No irritating alliteration. Includes the word “fuck.” Ok, possible. I might get bored and change things if I find it’s not succinct enough. Or, I might get bored and forget about it altogether (the more likely of the two possibilities). But let’s just amuse the strange lady and let her have her moment, shall we?

The inaugural installment of Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly is dedicated to the junior senator from my current state (how I miss living in a Commonwealth. It sounds much more dignified.), Thom Tillis.

Thom Tillis. Think about this for a second. Thom. Thom with an h. This annoys me. This annoys me almost as much as Toms who spell their names with the letter ö. No, assholes, your names are not pronounced “Teum” so, for fuck’s sake, stop using a letter that has no place in American English. Just stop it. And to you, Senator Tillis…learn to spell. You’re making us Southerners look bad.

Once upon a time, Pa Tillis and Ma Tillis birthed a baby in Jacksonville, FL, America (see…he’s not even from here. Wait…most of us aren’t. Never mind.). Being born a white male in the United States, this lad was destined for great things and a life of marginal leisure. After frittering about at two universities (1/2 the amount of colleges attended by Sarah Palin), he managed to obtain his sheepskin at the tender age of 36. According to Wikipedia, the source of all things correct and valid, Senator Tillis’ life of public service began shortly after moving to suburban Charlotte and serving on the park board for his town (Leslie Knope or Leslie NOPE). After serving as town commissioner for two years and getting a taste of that sweet, sweet nectar that is power, Tillis set his eyes on a higher branch of government, The State House of Representatives.

Really? Who the fuck cares. The guy is our junior senator because the evil Koch brothers bought an election and threw an otherwise competent and exceedingly moderate senator out on her ass (Sorry, Kay. I tried. I really tried.).

Yesterday (see how interested I am in the body politic these days), Thom-with-an-h makes some noise news. This bastion of Conservative Values® thinks that people who work in the food service industry should be freed of the yoke of socialist oppression and have the freedom to decide whether or not to wash their own damn hands (soap optional) after throwing mud, as our Founding Fathers intended. I guess that’s reducing the stranglehold of the nanny state? But…he does feel that a sign should be posted (so, would that not be a form of…regulation????). Ultimately, Senathor Thillis feels the Frhee Marketh will remedy the situation and the businesses that don’t make their employees engage in appropriate hygiene practices will go under. That’s great, Thom. What happens in the interim when one of the poorly paid line cooks comes back from his trip to the potty with a ½ wiped ass and unclean paws and gives everyone an extra serving of E. Coli with their barbecue? Please refrain from saying the market will take care of that. It won’t. Now shut up and sit down before I make you sit in a corner or something.

So, for the man who thinks that public health is a non-issue, the man who thinks excrement the perfect flavor enhancer for any meal – all I have to say is “Congratulations for being the first in a line of an esteemed many!” or until I get bored with the concept of Random Misanthrope’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly.

Hugs and kisses
/Kang

More headdesk

Ha ha! Fuck you!

Behold…the end of the calendar and fiscal year. All reports (time and expense) must be filed by close of business today to make the finance trolls less stabby. Surely you did not expect things to function properly? Why would the most erratic VPN on Earth be anything but? And why, why would you operate under the silly assumption that your piece of shit Lenovo StinkPad not crash 40 times whilst reworking a file the size of…I dunno…something really large? At this point, I’m really at a loss for words. And hope. That’s lost, as well. And sanity. Let’s review what is lost: hope, words, sanity. Yup.

Please, please keep crashing, StinkPad. Please inhibit any progress I may attempt to make today. Please make doing rework more exhilarating. I would love nothing more than to be sitting in the exact same position, performing the exact same exercise in futility at 10 pm. Really. I would. Don’t believe otherwise for this is the stuff I live for. This is the stuff of dreams.

Fuck me, right?

Look. At. The. Picture. Assholes.

Yup. I’m sprawled across the bed, perusing Better Homes and Gardens, City of Durham edition. Oh who the fuck am I kidding? There is no such thing. After today, after seeing one too many homes with one damn bathroom for a family of three (and shut your mouth, I don’t care what you think. Princess Demandy-Pants shares a bathroom with NO ONE. Not even the cats), one too many homes that need some TLC (eat a bag of dicks, realtors) or one too many homes out of my price range, I’m about to give up on this fleeting fantasy of moving closer to PCSGU. I will resume the 147 shuffle and I will like it. I will miss the gym and I will embrace the flab. I’ll get up at 04.00 instead of 04.30/05.00 when Dock is travelling so I can write the pretty stories with the hyperbolic flourish and profanity overkill. Yup. Fuck it all! Oh…and I’ll even pay through the nose when the lease on the white VW expires because heaven knows when we’ll repair that lovely dent I put in the front quarter panel of the blue VW (compliments of a garage in Durham – yet another sign I need to stay the fuck put).

Yes. Sprawled across the bed I am when I hear my son talk about the time that tickle juice (otherwise known as cortisone cream) ended up on his itty-bitty toothbrush instead of actual toothpaste. I remember this morning well.

In the audio-sound-engineering-bleeping-blooping-noise-making industry that is Dock’s, the work seems to be feast or famine. Either he’s in town and grating on my last nerve or he’s out of town on a road gig and I’m plotting his death because he left me alone to deal with *everything.* Let me say this right here, right now: if anything happens to my husband (heaven forbid), I will marry the first man I can find with a pulse, a non-negative bank account and remotely respectable credit score because I am not built for single motherhood. The man can have tombstone teeth, Leprosy and Typhoid for all I care. Just so long as he’s capable of taking out the garbage, running the vacuum and unloading heavy shit from my car – we’re good. And, it goes without saying, mad props to single moms. How you do it and not end up in a straight-jacket mystifies me. Furthermore, if you doubt me – see if I’m walking upright and speaking in full sentences at the end of this month since Dock will be away 10000% of the time. I won’t be and there’s a really good chance that I will have had to forgo the shower that day, too.

That morning was one of those that started off decently. I woke up early enough to grab several pots of coffee, read websites bearing no relevance to my job and get cracking on those wild and crazy spreadsheets I whip out at a snail’s pace only to rework and rework again. I wake up the Milkface, get him dressed, drag his blanket, select fluffies and his limp body down the stairs and force him to feed the dog. I likely kicked the dog out the door after arguing with him to drop his stupid toy which he always tries to sneak out of the house and then I focus on feeding Milky. Dishwasher (the glory hole free version) is unloaded, dishes put away, more dishes thrown at the sink, several rounds of “eat your fucking breakfast, I don’t give a single fuck about what so-and-so did at pre-k yesterday” later and it’s time to scrub up. Dollars to donuts, it was one of those mornings I said “fuck it” and threw a bra on beneath the pjs, pulled the hair up in a knot and considered myself appropriately attired for morning drop off. For some reason, I did have to take off my glasses. Milky probably spewed syrup, tears or allergy medicine in my face.

Life may begin at forty but your eyesight will fuck off at forty. Guaranteed.

Of all the things one comes to value when they turn 40 – it’s the glasses. I have had the esteemed pleasure of wearing glasses since the summer after freshman year of college. Progressive lenses, at that. But I could manage to fumble around well enough without them for a few minutes without setting the house on fire or causing bodily harm to myself or anyone else within a five mile radius. Once you’re in your 40s, things change. You need your glasses on your face all the time because everything becomes small and blurry.

Milky is at the sink and I hand him his toothbrush. I’m yelling at the dog (the dog and I, well – it’s complicated. I love him. He’s a good dog but…he is a dog and I…I am a cat person) about his stupid toy or something and I hear this retching and gagging noise followed by screaming and wailing. Milky with teary wide eyes looks up at me and says “Moooooooooooooooooooommy! This is not toothpaste!” Fuck me, right? Turns out, what comes out of the Tom’s of Maine kid’s toothpaste tube bears a strong resemblance to “tickle juice” (cortisone cream). So, on that particular morning, I inadvertently poisoned my kid.

I do not panic. I’m too cool to panic about these things. I work in healthcare! I know people! I know people who have degrees in sciency things and do the medical stuff like put bandaids on booboos and replace heart valves. And, because I know these people and I play with this shit all day long, I am :drumroll: a doctor by extension.

No. Really. My mail is addressed to Dr. High Priestess Kang. All the glory and none of the malpractice and student loans. GO ME!

Not really.

What I did do while I was certainly not panicking about potentially killing my kid was google “cortisone cream instead of toothpaste.” Turns out, I’m not the only moron on the planet. I scream “Did you swallow?” (here, have some bleach for that gutter mind of yours) and Milky responds “No but this tastes awful!” “Spit! Rinse and spit” I bark back. I rip the toxic toothbrush out of the kid’s hand and then spend the next 20 minutes trying to convince him that the new toothbrush has actual toothpaste on it and Mommy promises she won’t try to kill him again. He takes the bait and off to school we go. I spend the remainder of the day waiting for child protective services to show up and take Milky into foster care.

This evening I hear the words: tickle juice, toothpaste and Daddy. I scratch my head and holler from the room “No, Milky. Mommy tried to poison you; not Daddy.” Milky walks into the room followed by Dock. Dock turns and said “Wait…you did that, too?” Dock is the worst about wearing his glasses. Bitches and moans like you would not believe. It’s one of those things about your significant other that invokes images of their heads on pikes. Left eyebrow raised, I look over Better Crack Homes and Whore Houses of Durham Weekly and ask Dock “Did you try to kill our child with tickle juice?” Milky interjects “YOU BOTH DID!” Uh. Oh.

Silence washes over the house for the first time since 2004 when the deed was passed to us. Then, our sweet, loving, freakishly intelligent child says with his finger pointing in the air “I have a suggestion. JUST LOOK AT THE PICTURE ON THE TUBE.” And with that, two 40-somethings were given the giant bowl of STFU from a five year old. Looks like we’re getting our money’s worth from Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. Either that or he’s morphing into a horrible smartass.

They say…

…and they are always right, aren’t they?

They say that when one resumes the “art” of writing, that the writer should be disciplined; that the writer should sit down once and day and grab some words, rearrange them into sentences which will inevitably form a paragraph which could potentially result in many paragraphs with the ideal goal of producing some sort of cogent essay or story. I was really hoping for a massively long run-on sentence and this should demonstrate exactly where my brain isn’t because I couldn’t even formulate that.

I crawled into my office this morning with a cup of coffee and a bit of grit and determination to make the words say something pretty or something repulsive. Nothing happened. I grew frustrated and started fidgeting around with WordPress which made me unpleasant and intolerable so I tried taking a nap.

Après failed nap, I waddled back into my office and resumed the exercise. Again, nothing happened.

I went downstairs, grabbed a handful of chocolate covered raisins, stuffed them in my foodhole, washed them down with water (which I always carry with me in some nalgene-ish bottle) and dragged myself back upstairs to my office. Nothing.

I turned on the tv and watched recorded episodes of The Gilmore Girls. Nothing.

I started thinking of my usual sources for inspiration but it’s a slow news day so I cannot get in touch with my inner hate. My husband and child aren’t home so I cannot start any fights with the husband and use him as a fire source. There aren’t even any annoying dogs barking in the neighborhood today. It’s just…quiet and pleasant. MEH.

In an attempt to avoid the dreaded and much feared writer’s block, I have started making notes of topics I’d like to explore further. So far, I have a few really solid ideas and a handful of 1/2-assed ones but I’m not even in the mood to work through those. These potential stories have meaning and I don’t want to water down the impact they may have because of my general ennui.

Yeah. So I just banged out 300+ words to sum up what Pinkie Pie says in one picture: