Oh for fuck’s sake…

…do grow up.

Nothing grabs my attention more than the moans and groans of “Mah Christmas was ruuuuuined forevaaaaaah!!!!”and “ZOMG! Scarred for life!” This is likely due to the fact that I have zero compassion for anyone or anything. Really. Years ago, my husband turned to me and said “I have finally figured it out. You’re basically the real-life version of Frank Pembleton from Homicide. No emotion or compassion what-so-ever.” Now, we all know he’s wrong. I do emote and feel the things. It’s just that I only feel the things that are important or relevant to my own interests (ok…that’s called sarcasm, kids. Narcissist, I am not).

Trying to get myself excited about working on bariatric analyses, I needed to surf the old internetz for inspiration (erm…riiiiiight) and I happened upon this bullshit on Gawker. Apparently, some parents had a very unmerry Christmas because Santa brought their precious snowflakes a Play-Doh kit with a penis. Working in healthcare for as many years as I have, I immediately assumed it was clinical and thought “Golly jeepers! Educational play, at last!” Nope. The kit in question is Play-Doh’s Sweet Shoppe Cake Mountain Playset (so girls can prepare themselves for the workforce, I suppose). Within this set is an icing extruder that happens to look phallic. Maybe. I mean, I’m pretty much the most frigid woman on the planet and I have neither seen nor touched a penis since I did my wifely duty of procreating five years ago (for the record, when I closed my eyes, I did not think of England) but after reading that it could, potentially, resemble a penis – I admit – I can see it. I can also see that it looks like a really bizarre syringe. We have tons of play syringes around the house for Milkface because he wants to be a veterinarian when he grows up (or maybe he wants to be a smack addict and lacks the temerity to fess up to that).

Christmas day comes ‘round and those blessed with the Make-Your-Own-Dry-Crumbly-Fondant-Nightmare-Cum-Poor-Excuse-For-A-Cake-Kit open their packages. Much to their parents’ chagrin, the penis comes tumbling out. Twitter goes bananas, as does every other form of social media. The verbal spanking of Play-Doh begins. The screams of “YOU RUINED MY CHRISTMAS!” echo throughout a good, Christian nation. Appointments will be made with qualified mental health professionals to deal with the impending PTSD. One family member will inevitably snatch up the icing extruder/penis and spirit it away to the bathroom to perform unspeakable acts which will be featured in DeadSpin’s “What Did We Get Stuck In Our Rectums Last Year” series. Trauma will be inflicted upon otherwise clueless children who see things for what they are because that is what egocentric children do. That is how the child brain works. It is what it fucking is to kids. You can hold up a pipe cleaner, tell them it’s a mind-reading device that detects fibs and they will believe it. And, once again, a grown-up who is supposed to be setting the example of appropriate behavior shows the child how to behave like a fuckstick.

Behold the circle of idiocy. Is it not a thing of beauty?

As Milky grows and his genius brain expands, I try to instigate some profound discussions with him in the hope that some of my wisdom and/or observations make an impact. One thing I often tell him is that while grown-ups are the voices of authority and are to be the voices of reason, grown-ups are flawed and far from perfect. Grown-ups make stupid mistakes from time to time. It’s imperative to not only observe the mistake (and it is exceptionally impolite to point it out) but observe the follow-through; how the grown-up remedies the mistake. There are times grown-ups won’t because they don’t understand they have done something incorrectly or, to be blunt, wrong. There are times grown-ups won’t because grown-ups can be prideful which is foolish. We don’t dance with fools. Time is precious and precious time is not invested in fools.

The mind I previously considered a curse because it never shuts off, never stops thinking and never stops formulating ideas has become an actual blessing in this regard. I’m able to quickly examine the situation, Milky’s behavior, my behavior and what the long term implications are going to be from my example. It’s why I would never scream “Christmas is ruined!” in front of my kid. If the phallic icing extruder came tumbling out of the box and landed in front of Milkface, I’d likely laugh and just carry on like it was nothing. But, if I was genuinely offended, I certainly wouldn’t carry on in front of him and potentially ruin his experience (tainting the toy and potentially making Christmas awkward).

These stories pop up in the news and result in two outcomes: a source for moral outrage for those who feel they are more righteous than others and a source for intellectual validation for those of us who feel we are smarter than others. And yes, I ate the bait and am giving it play by writing about it and looking down on the ridiculous idiots who let their entire Christmas be ruined by something that really wasn’t worth being upset over. So, shame on me. And, shame on me, again, for being higher and mightier for laughing at people for being so thin-skinned and tight-assed. Triple the shame for my judging their parenting. Although, in this instance, I really think my brilliant approach is better. If you don’t make a big deal out of something, your kid won’t either. If you leave things be, you don’t run the risk of ruining a pleasant experience for others. If you manage to keep your mouth shut, you may actually be giving the best gift of all: selflessness. You may also be teaching your children something, as well: use of histrionics does not result in a positive outcome.

Gävlebocken…

…did not burn this year.

Okidoki. It’s Monday morning. It’s raining. Apparently, I’m the only douchewad who is working today. And, the fucking goat did not burn. Why not run over one of my cats (hipster crazy cat lady) and make this day a complete exercise in suckitude?

For those unaware, I have a marginally unhealthy obsession with the julbock in the town square of Gävle, Sweden. A julbock (Yule goat) is a symbol of Christmas in Scandinavia. Present day, it is a Christmas ornament made of straw and bound with red ribbon. One could hang small versions on a tree, place larger ones around the base of the tree (we put ours on the mantel because…cats) and insanely large ones are erected in town squares. Here is a picture of Gävlebocken in its unnatural state – intact.

Why so obsessed with a straw goat, you ask? Well, it’s not because it’s huge and weird. It’s because since its inception, people have tried to destroy it. This is some insight into Swedish humor (and the Danes say they have none). A brief (and most notable) history of the destruction for your edification:

1966: First goat – set on fire.
1968: Rumor of a randy couple engaging in naughty behavior one evening.
1969: Set on fire.
1970: Set on fire a mere six hours after being assembled.
1972: Collapsed due to sabotage.
1976: Hit by car.
1978: Kicked to pieces.
1980: Burned on Christmas Eve (See, even Santa wants in on the fun).
1983: Legs destroyed.
1987: Goat was fireproofed. Burned down week before Christmas (Nelson Muntz ha-ha).
1988: Nothing happened. Hmmm…I was in Sweden in 1988, although not at that particular time. Maybe.
1992: Burned after eight days (a Chanukkah miracle).
1995: Norwegian arrested for attempting to burn it (See how well Norwegians and Swedes play together? Swedes assign blame to Norway). Actually incinerated on Christmas Day (Again, go Santa).
1997: Damaged by fireworks.
1998: Burned in a major blizzard (I admire the dedication to the cause).
2001: Goat set on fire by American tourist who was jailed for 18 days, convicted and ordered to pay 100,00 SEK in damages. The court also confiscated his lighter.
2003: Burned.
2004: Burned.
2005: Burned by vandals dressed as Santa and the Gingerbread Man.
2009: Burned after the webcams were hacked and knocked offline by a DoS attack (yay hacktivists).
2011: Burned.
2012: Burned.
2013: Burned.

For years, I have been watching and waiting for the destruction of this glorious monument constructed of straw. Each year, we hold the Goat Incineration Sweepstakes where each participant chooses a day when the goat is to be destroyed. The prizes: a virtual trophy, pride and the ability to gloat for one entire calendar year. Some people go fucking apeshit for Christmas. Some lose their marbles for Chanukkah. I, on the other hand, freak the fuck out when julbock time arrives.

With the Goat Incineration Sweepstakes of 2014 underway, each morning I wake up and check the webcam. I also check it each evening before going to bed. For 28 days, the goat stands – mocking me, giving me the proverbial goat middle finger, suggesting that I suck its proverbial goat dong. I make notes of who has been ousted from the sweepstakes. I realize something awful has happened: we are all losers. The goat that should look like this:
still looks like this:

What. The. Fuck!?!?!? This is entirely unacceptable. This is not how I want my winter to begin. This is not the Yuletide season I know and love. This is…this is…this is fucking goatshit! Action must be taken. I begin to wonder how many frequent flyer miles we have when reality settles in – my fucking passport expired so if anyone is going to do it, it’s going to have to be someone from Team Sverige.

I pull up the webcamera this morning and receive this message: Tack för ett fantastiskt år! Vi ses igen första advent 2015. Translated: Thanks for a fantastic year. See you again on First Advent, 2015. O rly? My hopes rise. Did someone burn the goat? Could 29 December 2014 be the day that lives in goat infamy? Immediately, I head over to t3h g00gl3z to search news. My heart is racing and hopeful. There is a slight smile on my face. No one from our sweepstakes would have won but that’s not the spirit of the exercise. The true meaning of the Yuletide season is scorched goat.

Article from Sweden’s government radio is the first to pop up. The news…unwelcome. Heresy, actually. The lede reads: Gävlebocken monteras ner – får nytt liv i Kina. Translated: Gävlebocken dismantled – given new life in China.

Holy shit. There are so many levels of wrong with this. First – it’s not even New Year’s and they dismantled the goat? Those of us hoping for destruction had three more days. Gävle cheated! It cheated us out of our inalienable right to set that bitch on fire. And sending it to China? To its twin city, Zhuhai, because 2015 is the year of the goat? Give me a fucking break. Oh no, Gävle, you’re not that nice of a kommun. You’re simply a scared, pissy little hamlet and you’re afraid that your precious julbock is going to be incinerated…as it should be.

I look down upon thee, Gävle. Nästa år. Nästa år…

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.

MY FATHER, THE THIEF

Like a tiny little thief I took the way that you walk,
Copied bits of your style,
Took the way that you talk,
Took every little bit that my tiny heart could steal,
But it took more than forty years till I could manage to feel,
What you took from me,

At only nine years old well what was a boy to do,
You pulled the rug from under,
I tried to build a bridge to you,
With a box under your arm you shook my hand and said goodbye,
Never once looked back to see me as I lay there and cry,
You did not want to see,

What did that box have in it, cuz I never got to know,
The things that you took with you,
On that day you chose to go,
It must have been filled with moments we’d never get to share,
And whatever mask you used to help show you never care,
And my security,

Well I’ve a box inside me, and it’s been there since that day,
Tried many times to open it,
But then locked it back away,
Every once in a while I could take a peek inside,
But now I’ve found the keys to rip the damned lid open wide,
And I’m fucking angry!

Angry for abandonment and angry that you lied,
Angry for the way things went,
And that you never even tried,
Angry for the holes you left for me to fill myself,
Angry cuz your feelings are still locked upon some shelf,
Angry for the fact I never got what I deserved,
Childhood was torn from me, I was poorly served,
Angry cuz my hunger for you kept my feelings caged,
When the simple truth is long ago I should have been enraged,
Angry that my longing interfered and that I let it,
Angry because forty years on you still don’t fucking get it,
I’m Angry!

As I Am

As I am I am,
Am I as I am?
Love me or leave me,
Deny or receive me,
Don’t ask for changing,
Or expect rearranging,
My self is my own,
Not yours to construct,
Don’t like how I’ve grown?
Then go and get fucked!
Didn’t travel this far,
To get put in a jar
A gem for your collection,
Void of self reflection,
I don’t give a damn,
If I pass your exam,
Am I as I am?
Yes, I am as I am!

Eau de Yuppie

In a few weeks’ time,
The Swede and I will be moving.
The current occupants,
Of the soon-to-be-ours apartment,
At first seemed very nice.
They sold to us for cheap,
Things they put in the place,
Custom blinds, a dishwasher,
And a built-in microwave.
Also, they’ve got a lot of stuff,
And were we interested in any of it?
Well, we do need more furniture.
We’ll come over and take a look.
The wanted to sell us,
Just about everything they had,
Couches, desks, shelves,
Sideboards, and even curtains.
But particularly…
Their dining room table and chairs.
They were nice. Quite nice, in fact.
And very expensive when they were new.
(They made a point of telling us,
How much everything cost,
When they bought it new.)
“These were the most expensive
Chairs in the country!”
Yes, but they are also,
The ugliest chairs in the country,
Stark, modern, Scandinavian design.
Not to my taste at all.
And even though the table and chairs,
Cost more than four months’
Of my current salary when new.
And they’re selling them,
For one months’ salary,
I’m not paying that for second-hand
Stuff that I don’t really like.
But they did have other furniture,
That we liked, and said we wanted.
But they seemed to be insulted,
That we weren’t interested in buying,
The over-priced table and chairs.
Like how could we not want them?
Didn’t we understand how nice they were,
And what a deal we were getting??
How dare we turn them down?!
So, no deal. No sale.
They wouldn’t sell us the desk,
The shelves or anything else.
“We’ll have no more of that!!!”
They said, dismissively and rudely,
Like an impatient parent,
Admonishing a recalcitrant,
Four year-old child.
When we move in,
I’m going to burn nag champa,
In every room.
To rid the place,
Of the lingering smell,
Of Eau de Yuppie.

You’re breathing my air

Of course I know it’s only natural to encounter drunk people in bars. The whole point of being there is to eventually become one of them. However, last night was the first time since moving to Sweden that I was met with any real hostility because of my nationality. Or maybe it was because I’m an immigrant. The agitator was very drunk so it was difficult to tell exactly what his problem was. I was sitting with an English friend and we were chatting away, in English naturally, which tends to attract attention from bar patrons curious about those two good looking English-speaking women sitting at the bar. My friend and I weren’t there to get drunk, though, just to catch up and visit. A bar might seem an odd place to do this particularly due to the fact that my friend is three months pregnant. Still, this place is her local, where she used to go all the time before she got pregnant, and she knows everyone there. Plus she was drinking non-alcoholic beer.

While I was visiting the ladies room, an inebriated man had managed to maneuver himself into a piece of bar real estate right next to my friend. I took my seat and saw that he stood slobbering over her not noticing or caring that she had her face turned away from him. She seemed to physically shrink from him every time he opened his mouth as if she were afraid of getting drunk off of his breath. Apparently, when I was away he had ascertained that she was English. When I took my seat he asked if I was also English, to which I replied that I was actually American. What followed was a slurring diatribe against America and Americans and George W. Bush and American foreign policy. Now my friend is not very confrontational, and her usual way of dealing with unpleasant people is to wait for them to go away, which usually works just fine. But this guy wasn’t going away. He kept moving closer and closer to her until he was practically slobbering into her hair. I’m not really that confrontational either, but this had gone far enough. “Okay, you need to move away from my pregnant friend. Right now. You’re too close and you’re breathing on her. So piss off.”

“Yeah, well, you’re breathing my air.”

At that point, I knew what I was dealing with, which was probably a member of Sweden’s most racist and xenophobic political party: the Sweden Democrats. Basically they believe that immigrants are at fault for all the problems in this country, and that those problems would simply disappear if we all just went away. Even those of us who have been living here for years and have paid tons of money in taxes to the Swedish government. “Sweden for Swedes” is their party motto. Having said all that, I should probably point out that my friend and I don’t really fit the description of the type of immigrant the Sweden Democrats don’t like. We’re white, you see. And we’re not Muslim. I’ve been in the same room with people having a conversation about how the “fucking immigrants” are ruining this country. When I politely point out that I am, in fact, one of those fucking immigrants, they quickly reassure me that of course they didn’t mean me. They meant the “brown” immigrants, naturally. Oh I see. You don’t really have a problem with immigrants, do you? You’re just a racist asshole.

Eventually we did manage to get Mr. Racist Belligerent Drunk Man to leave us alone. Maybe he wasn’t a member of the Sweden Democrats after all. He didn’t seem to be giving my friend a hard time for being English, so I’m pretty sure he just hated America and Americans, which is fine. I can’t do anything about that. Haters gonna hate.

Down with Stuff!

It’s the First of May!
The day when we say
Down with Stuff
That’s not okay!

Down with oppression!
With harsh regimes.
And down with
Stupid internet memes.

Down with recession!
With the one percents,
Add software
License agreements.

Down with repression!
With economic squeeze,
And down with…

Actually,

Down With Trees!

(No, not all the trees.
Just the ones
That make me sneeze.)

A trip down memory lane…

It’s pingback time on Random Misanthrope. Be prepared.

Amazingly, the one year anniversary of RM came and went without anyone noticing. Back then it was called Project Mayhem, which was the name of a previous multi-blog writing project started up by High Priestess Kang, myself, and the marvelous Ming. (Whatever happened to her?) That project was abandoned after about six weeks, so keeping this current blog going for over a year has been quite a feat, and therefore a little nostalgia is called for.

After a month or so we realised that there are several intentities on teh intarwebz called “Project Mayhem,” which meant that we had to change the name to something totally original. Eventually we settled on Random Misanthrope. Before then however, on the 6th of April, 2011, the first ever Project Mayhem/Random Misanthrope post was posted by High Priestess Kang. It was called, appropriately, “…and she’s back!”

There have been a few changes since then. We have lost one founding member and there was a lot of drama associated with that, none of which ended being shared here (thank goodness). We had a lot of great ideas but very few of them were carried through to the present date. For example, in the beginning I took it upon myself to write a Word of the Day post every single day, but only managed to keep it up for about three months. One thing I’ve learned about keeping a blog is to not make any promises to the reader. I “promised” several times to get back to posting regular WOTD updates, but I never actually did.

The Month of April 2011 was the busiest month on RM, with a total of 129 posts. And no wonder. It was our first month and we were all so full of energy and enthusiasm for the project. Exactly one year ago today, on the 19th of April 2011, we posted three updates:

Word of the Day: Hopefully <–by Miss Kitten

…fuck Time Warner Cable <–a great rant by High Priestess Kang

McJobs: The Road to Recovery
<–by Shark

Where does the time go…

To the Test Cheaters

It used to be that honesty,
And hard work were rewarded.
The cheaters and the liars,
And the charletons were thwarted.
But now it’s all about success.
Honor and integrity, less and less.
Now ambition and a little greed,
Will take you very far, indeed.
The sad fact is the test cheaters,
Become the most successful leaders.
Still, no matter how far you go,
And no matter what you do.
Just know that there’s a special place,
In hell, reserved for you.