Politicians Are Self-Important Dickheads

Dear Every State and Local Politician:

Let me start off by mentioning how unimportant you are. You're not any more of a person than anyone else. Therefore, you have no excuse to be invading my personal space, stepping on my feet, and making a racket (whilst sober) at the restaurant you think you're so cool for going to because it's local and you're a bigshot who thinks he'll get more votes by pretending to be a down-to-earth, friendly person who can hang out with commoners (no!) when really you just belong in that restaurant anyway, because you're here, the restaurant's there, and you need somewhere to eat. JUST LIKE THE REST OF US. That means you're not cool. I've had enough of your carrying on loudly and pompously at the table right next to mine, getting elbowed in the gut as you pass by without apology because you think you're of a status so elevated that you can pretend you didn't notice everytime you knock small children to the ground, and your attempts to make me feel inferior for not being a legislator. Yelling across the room when you see a colleague enter does not make you cool and superior for knowing one other person in this whole entire town, and letting everyone else know you've got semi-famous connections. It makes you an asshole for yelling across the room and disrupting my dinner. You local politician-types are such encroaching dickheads that you're even suffocating me as I type, forcing me to construct long, drawn-out, run-on sentences that are extremely rambly and difficult to follow due to my blind rage, such as this particular one. I'm not impressed by the fact that you go to dinner at ten-thirty and still in your suits, because you've had a long, lawmaking day at the office. Nobody is sitting there going, "Oh, wow, look at those guys. They're so well-dressed and well-spoken despite the fact that everyone else in here is sitting at the bar drunk as a skunk. They must have superior, incredibly important jobs to be that cool. We should look up to them, for clearly they are gods." No. Instead, this is what everybody is thinking of you: "Stop wasting my tax dollars on Armani suits and start legalizing gay marriage, for god's sake." So maybe the next time you want to have an All-American, average-Joe experience, don't go bothering the rest of us folks by having it at a restaurant. Go home and cook for your children. If you know how to cook.

You're just like the rest of us but in nicer cars,
Laura

Michael Phelps

Has everyone heard the news about Michael Phelps? You've probably had it shoved down your throat by every newspaper, radio station, and news channel by now. It's pissing me off.

CNN went to the streets and asked a bunch of random people what they thought about the "controversial" photo of Mr. Phelps taking a hit on a bong. One woman said she was offended. Seriously? What is the matter with people? It is ridiculous to take offense to the actions of a person you do not know, particularly when they do not affect you. I do understand that this behavior does not contribute positively to your young son's idea of a hero, but then hero worship is unhealthy. One should not aspire to be like someone else; one should aspire to be the best person the he or she possibly can be. Don't teach your kids to be like Michael Phelps, or anyone else but themselves. Oh, and by the way, CNN. That's really not news. Another twenty-something tried weed. I think the fact that I lost two pounds yesterday is bigger news.

But let's get something straight: Winning nine million, four hundred and sixty-three thousand, three hundred and eighty-two gold medals at the Olympics, while indeed quite an achievement, does not elevate one to god status. He is a person and therefore prone to error (though it is more likely that the only event he considers to be a mistake is allowing that photo to be taken). And honestly, he smoked pot. I think there are worse things. He didn't stab three of his friends, run around town naked, then break into some poor, unsuspecting family's house and raid their fridge. (I say this with a certain amount of confidence, because if people consider a celebrity smoking weed to be noteworthy, then I'm sure we would have heard about what happened next. He probably sat around and was like, "Dude.....dude.")

And Michael? Stop citing your age as an excuse, please. Quit being a pandering, spineless ass and either accept full responsibility for your actions or just don't apologize. The people who are silly enough to take your trips to Margaritaville and Stoned World personally are not going to be brought back with an apology. You didn't do anything wrong, anyway. Except the picture. That was stupid.

So let's leave Michael Phelps alone and stop blaming him for the corruption of America's children. Instead of getting angry with some celebrity every time he does something questionable because he is your kid's hero, try taking some initiative and being a more involved parent. No icon should be able to influence children more than their own parents.

(And if smoking weed is the worst thing your kid ever does, you really can't complain when you live in a world filled with murderers, rapists, and drivers from New Jersey.)

Centipedes Are Lazy

Alright, centipede. We've got beef. So much beef, in fact, that I'm posting on my blog, which you will never even see.

You are a HOUSE centipede. If you are going to live in my house, you need to earn your keep and start eating my HOUSE spiders and HOUSE camel crickets. Okay? Don't get me wrong, I like spiders well enough. When I can, I'll catch them- or any other critter- and put them outside. But when there is a giant fucking wolf spider sitting in the middle of my hallway, staring me down like he owns the goddamn place, and sizing me up and wondering whether I'd make a decent meal for him and his 14,000 babies, we have a problem. When that camel cricket the size of Ryan Seacrest's ego hanging out on my wall decides to jump onto my face in the middle of the night, we have a problem. I'm sure Mr. Cricket has a wife and four kids, but the second he disregards my need for personal space (I am American, afterall) he ceases to have a name and a face. If they just want to chill out in the basement, that's cool, but if you can avoid midnight spider bites and prickly legs, why wouldn't you? Exactly.

This centipede is the most lazy piece of shit I have ever met. I'm getting ready for work this morning (because some of us work for a living), when this guy comes scuttling across my carpet as though he's nowhere to go and nothing to do. WRONG. In fact, buddy, you should be eating my spiders. And seriously? I don't think I'm asking that much. It's not like you don't need to do your job in order to LIVE. You stop eating, centipede, you DIE. That's what happens. I know. I've seen the impoverished children commercials.

You clearly cannot function in society and don't even want to take care of yourself. So the next time I see you and you don't have arachnid entrails clutched in one of your ten million arms, I will not show you mercy. I will not give you another chance. The world has no room for centipedes like you. I will kill you.

On Wheat Chex and Amy Tan

It irritates me deeply that Wheat Chex are not available in some sort of larger-than-necessary value pack type thing.

Also, I realized something today that I have only come across once (and that was just in a novel). I am not terribly fond of ice cream. I don't really know why; I love other cold desserts, including milkshakes, but ice cream just does not do it for me.

That is all.

ND

Fuck Titles; I Hate Them

So, I've been getting all existential lately, and it's weirding me out. And people keep fucking me over.
Example:
I was reading Descartes the other day, and I was like, "This dude really gets it!" We could have been soul mates, or something. Then he got weird, and I got depressed. Why is it that when I finally find someone who thinks along the same lines as me, and who would totally "get" me, that person has to take it one step further and turn into a complete freak?
Also:
I came to the realization that even if there is a god, it doesn't matter (for reasons that I'll go into later, if I ever get around to posting my fuck-god-and-the-world paper). So- why am I stressing out over the possibility of there being a god? WHY? God, damnit.

History has been made today.

For the first time...

EVER...

Someone managed to stick me with a needle and get it right the first time. I know- crazy. Moron-lady stabbed me, and the blood not only came out, it went into the tube, too! I'm really excited. Maybe I do have actual veins. It's a heartening thought- in elementary school P.E, I was always that kid on whom nobody could find a pulse. It's nice to think that maybe I am alive, after all (provided my senses aren't fooling me, or anything).

Alright, this is a weak post. My life has been somewhat boring as of late. I figure that's a good thing, though.

Oh! Finally got my car home from the asshole state of Pennsylvania this past Sunday. And after driving it all the way home, when I needed to go out to Glenelg the next morning, lo and behold, it was dead.

And here's another thing: I have just vacuumed my carpet for what I believe to be the sixth or seventh time today. Why is it that after vacuuming the rug thoroughly, visually inspecting every inch of that damn thing to be sure I have missed nothing, and replacing the vacuum in its usual spot, I turn around three seconds later and I find more shit to vacuum? WHY?

Why does God hate me?

Oh, yes.

Because I hate him.

Well, fuck you, God.

An Important Discovery

You guys can thank Holy Week and Greek Guilt (yeah, it gets a captial "G") for this one. Alright, here it is, the breakthrough of the century.

Have you ever eaten Fruity Pebbles? Of course you have- it's, like, the best cereal ever. And you've probably had your Fruity Pebbles with milk.
Now then: Have you ever eaten Fruity Pebbles with cranberry juice?? It's delicious! Go try it right now.

[Cranberry juice is not intended for use with all cereals; it is a dangerously addictive substance that should be consumed with proper caution; Ocean Spray is recommended. Void where prohibited and results may vary.]

And More!

Oh, and here's something else: This week is my Holy Week. I am fasting for a god I do not believe in, just because I need to kiss my mother's ass. I missed Easter last year; she still has not forgiven me. Neither has the rest of my family, I gather. So here I am, not eating any meat or dairy and getting ready to go to church. Church. Oh, god. And you know what? There are quite a few Greeks in Pennsylvania. I am going to blame Pennsylvania for this one, too.