The Decemberists were losers- mini rants.

Do you even know the story? A quick summary, from here:

As Sarah Palin would say, “How did that work out for ya?”

Me, I like the misuse of articles in Russian translation. Anyplace there should be a “the”, they don’t include it. Conversely, often when there should Not be a “the”, they do include it. I think the latter is more subtle- what exactly is your grammatical rule for excluding a “the” once it is written? If you don’t know, maybe you should let it go… it reminds me of the writing of our very own Ramira, who I like very much despite this grammatical criticism.

Please Santa. For Christmas I want to log on to CNN and see “Trump” and “hospitalized” and “genital warts” in the same sentence.

The Postal Service suck a bag of dicks too.

Yeah, rehashed R.E.M. + fake Irish folk rock = meh. Never did work out for Russia, you’re right about that.

nm

I actually like them LOL

Most boring band, ever.

TRUMP MAKES SURPRISE VISIT TO INTERNET MESSAGE BOARD POSTER HOSPITALIZED WITH GENITAL WARTS

I kid, I kid.

I have finally had it with the government trying to protect drug addicts from ODing, or whatever the fuck they are doing. Those of us who actually need the drugs and who have scripts for them, have to jump thru so many hoops that the result is frequently - we don’t get the drugs.

I take two class 3 drugs, which these days means that I have to get a actual written script every month (no phone in, no fax in and certainly no mail order), walk it in, stand in line, wait while they fill it, stand in line again to pay and then walk out. Which is fucking ridiculous for someone who is in pain 24/7, but whatever. But then there was today - I forgot my handicapped parking placard so I had to park a ways away. OK, my fault. I get in, I stand in line, I get up there and oh gosh, we changed the rules two weeks ago, you have to have your ID too! No, I can’t bring it in when I pick them up.

You assholes spam me twice a week, but you couldn’t send me an email about this? What the holy fuck?? OK, OK, it isn’t her fault, I go back out to the van, get the ID, come back in, stand in line even longer and find out …

They are out of Vicodin. You couldn’t fucking look that up before sending me out to get my ID, which is now worthless? You know DAMN well that your stock of those sorts of drugs is always chancy, due to yet another government regulation, but yeah, send me outside and then back to stand in line while you dick around and then tell me that the PAIN MEDICATION I CLEARLY NEED won’t be in until Monday.

So I came home and started drinking. I might have enough to make it to Monday, but when I’m home, I can just be wasted. Way to go government officials.

Isn’t it called Norco now?

Pregnancy hormones suck monkeys.

I’m constantly tired, sore…and alternating between queasy/bloated. Artistic productivity is down in the gutter right now, because 'm either feeling like crap, or having this weird, complacent feeling of “all is right in the world”, complete with pink fluffy clouds, sparkling cherubs, and all the shite. The latter is actually worse than the former, because it feels like I’m on some kind of drug. Happy, happy drug. HAPPY DRUG DOES NOT PRODUCTIVITY MAKE. EFF THIS THING.

Oh. And hubby’s been getting on my case about drinking stuff with caffeine in it. I love you to death, honey, but SCREW YOU. I’M ALLOWED 200 FUCKING MGs A DAY, DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE GET IN THE WAY OF THE CAFE MOCHA. Oh. And thank you for getting that mocha for me when we went out last night, because they were out of mulled cider. BUT YOU DO NOT GET TO GIVE ME DIRTY LOOKS BECAUSE OF IT.

Takes a deep breath.

Bright side, hormones are the ultimate excuse to everything ever. Yes. Bright side. LET’S GO WITH THAT.

(Hormones do not, however, excuse the caps. But, if memory serves, a bit of those is alright in the Pit.)

My gf decided the house needed new garage doors. Cool. Since she is off on Fridays, she called a guy to look at the job and give a quote the following Friday. I was at work with our three dogs and parrot when he came.

He ended up coming back two more times, once with additional catalogues and once with a quote. All three visits were on Fridays, so each time she was home alone.

He came to begin the job last Tuesday. I returned home from work around 3 pm, found somewhere to park, and went into the house with the dogs and bird.

He called my gf at the number she gave him (her work number). She was called out of a meeting, and he told her:

[QUOTE=Garage Door Guy]
Hi, it’s Jim. I’ve got the old doors removed and the job is going fine. But a few minutes ago, some man with three dogs and a parrot of some kind showed up and went into your house. Is this OK???
[/QUOTE]

Dude was nervous; all ready to call the cops on me for coming home. She explained and calmed him down.

I totally thought that was going to end up going a different, more alarming way. Good on Jim for payin’ attention, though. :slight_smile:

There is both. I used Vicodin because it’s what most folks recognize, but I do take Norco.

To be fair, the implantation of random exotic animals into American households is a very real problem. :slight_smile:

He did seem overly concerned about the fact that I had a parrot of some kind.

Men and dogs can be reasoned with if it comes to some kind of confrontation. But parrots

Three visits and unaware that she was anything other than single? :dubious:

How would anyone know (we discussed this very thing after-the-fact). It’s an awfully big place for one person (3 BR, 3 Baths, integral two car garage, barn, sheds, pastures, etc) but then again it’s an awfully big place for the two of us.

No ring. I haven’t yet had her forehead tattooed.

ETA: the other thing she realized is that all discussion was about garage doors. No personal chit-chat.

Additional ETA: Indeed, she is single. We have cohabited in sin the last ten years, but are each “single” (unmarried).

And Bon Iver sounds like Neil Young’s turds decided it was going to record an album. Not one of Neil’s big proud glorious steaming morning logs, either, but a pale, weak afterthought of a turd that sneaks out around 11 o’çlock and is more fart than shit. That’s what Bon Iver sounds like.