I remember reading a really good article a few years back that described all the design flaws of the human body…in particular, it noted how poorly designed the knees are for long-term use.
Have the intelligent design people ever explained why their creator would place what is essentially a waste treatment facility next to an amusement park? 
What is with the idiots on Amazon that haven’t even used a product but have to rate it anyway?
“I didn’t like the color of the box so I only gave it 2 stars. I’ll come back and update once I actually open the box and use the thing.”
There was an inch of snow on the lawn this morning. Snowed like hell for 2 hours. It’s gone now. But still!
TheKid’s cell is spazzing, so I guess it’s time for a new one. Second in a year. Yeah, high quality products! Go to the AT&T website - their pricing is so mangled. She can get a crackberry free if she meets a list of criteria, one of which is a $15/mo data plan. She had the $15/mo data plan, but found out we qualify for some weird discount, so now it’s only $10/mo. So she does’t qualify. I could pay $109 for one. Wait, $50? No, $149. WTF? Clear prices would be much appreciated!
Secondary phone gripe: She has a ton of photos on her phone. Go to upload them, and are told we need to download the device manager. Okay, no problem. However, we cannot find the device manager for Windows7. Vista? Of course. XP? Sure! 7? Nope. Googlefu is not working, grasshopper. Instead I see all kinds of things about phones with Windows7. Not what I want, dammit.
And why are we messing around with phones when she should be in school? Because she hurled in class. Huzzah.
I still hate midgets.
My husband won’t go to the fucking doctor and get his blood tests done. He hates doctor’s offices. Really hates needles. His mom died young, of diabetes, and he has had enough of hospitals for a lifetime. I get it, I really do.
But I have had three fucking miscarriages in a year. Three. The last one passed “naturally,” i.e., my cervix dialated, very painfully, and I expelled 18 gallons of blood and funk over a lovely 18 hours. It sucked donkey balls!
The testing is not for shits and giggles, assface. You want me to keep putting my body through this shit… do your fucking part!!! GAAAHHHH!!!
ps. I might be pregnant again (should have gotten my period today). Based on my preliminary tests, the OB told us not to wait. But I am scared shitless.
Dammit, Dad, you are NOT King of the Universe! When you go to the doctor’s office, there will be paperwork. Period. It is inherent in medical treatment. There is no getting away from it. So when you throw a hissy fit and state that you’re never returning to this particular doctor because the front desk had the utter temerity to give you paperwork, you have only managed to guarantee the following things:
You did not strike a blow against The Man. You are The Fucking Man. You get free medical care for LIFE because you served 20+ years for the military. You’ve now been out of the military for twice as long. You make more in retirement pay than I’ve ever made as a teacher, and you have the absolute brass balls to complain about the damn liberals and the Obamacare, when you know one serious illness will bankrupt me, and in the meantime, all my spare cash goes to COBRA payments, doctor’s bills, and prescription meds for the not-quite-serious-but-still-chronic health problems I have.
I swear to Og, Dad, keep it up, and I will bribe the cable company to block any and all Fox related channels and replace them with Nick Jr.
Also, stop blaming me for losing/breaking your shit. I don’t touch anything belonging to you unless you specifically ask me to, so I’m sure as hell not playing Easter egg hunt with your ATM card, your meds, or your tv remote.
The same way someone can watch 4 or 5 porn DVDs per week and still do nothing but missionary-style PIV sex.
I approve of this mockery.
This is why I always sort reviews by “most helpful” instead of “most recent.” It’s too bad you can’t get reviews removed and reviewers blacklisted for shit like that, though.
Good luck with the pregnancy. Kick your husband in the ass to get him to take the fucking tests already.
I don’t know how the hell you put up with him without losing your mind. And I thought my father’s rantings about the evils of blogs were bad.
Amen. I have a DIL who not only does this, she keeps repeating if I don’t answer, sounding more and more worried each time. It’s a tickle, dammit. You’ve seen me do this before.
Oh, man, llcoolbj77 and phouka. Those rants don’t sound mini. Hugs to both of you.
I can somewhat related from the other side - my husband has avoided getting his vasectomy for almost nine years now. He doesn’t want me to get the tubal ligation, because it’s a much more difficult operation, but he won’t go get himself done up. Oh well. Husbands - can’t live with 'em, can’t force 'em to have medical procedures.
ETA: Thought of my mini-rant - my temp agency had me come downtown to do the data entry tests. Seriously, I need to take two hours out of my life to do ten minutes worth of testing in this age of internet and connectivity? I just figured it was more hoop-jumping, which is par for the course when you deal with temp agencies. :mad:
(Not even sure if this belongs here, but…)
Dad? Please please PLEASE tell me the truth when you talk to me. I know you’re dealing with end-of-life stuff. I know you’re never going to look at me as an adult. But giving me half-truth which I feel better about, and then telling my brother the full truth, which I then learn from him, makes me not feel better, become more stressed, and trust you all the less. Grrr.
My rant du jour:
I hate you BODY. I hate that your cramps and on-fire boobs could mean either my period is coming OR that I’m pregnant. I really, really want this IUI to work because it’s our last shot for a while since we’ve agreed to take the summer off, PLUS, IVF is expensive and I was hoping that we didn’t have to go that route.
And damn you BRAIN for allowing me to obsess when I told myself ten days ago that I wasn’t going to think about it and I’d wait the full two weeks to test.
Guess I’m picking up a box of tests on the way home. Ugh.
I’m sorry - I don’t know how you haven’t lost your mind yet. But I did a real-life spit-take on this line.
Do these behaviors represent a change for your dad? Aggressiveness to cover up failing memory is a common thing in early Alzheimer’s, and I can see that if my memory was getting poor, I would be taken aback by a big pile of forms to fill out.
There was a tick on my darling dog today. It had chomped onto his eyelid! Dog was a real trooper as I pulled it off. (From 15+ years of dog ownership in the freak’n tick capital of CT I am adept at getting the entire tick out with just my forefinger and thumb.) I was soooooo angry! They are such disgusting things anyway; but RIGHT NEXT TO HIS EYE??? I killed it three times. I squeezed so hard it sort of exploded, then I drowned it in vinegar and then I cremated it with the cigarette lighter I keep specifically for that purpose.
As Aaron Neville says: When something is wrong with my baby; something is wrong with me.
To the cricket behind the dresser: screw you for waking hubby for two nights in a row. I know you’ve got to advertise your availability to mates, but, from my point of view, waking to hubby shining a flashlight at the dresser and insisting that he just saw a tail go behind it -sucks-.
Also, being awake in the middle of the night/not knowing what’s behind the dresser/reminiscing about “Haunting of Hill house”? Sucks monkeys.
Hey Mother-in-law–go fuck yourself. (orginal, amirite?)
Last fall MIL moves to Mexico to retire. Calls us up randomly to come help her pack/move every now and then. We gamely drive across the state on a day’s notice more than once, over 9 hours in the car over two days each time. I tell myself “Don’t bitch about this, you are living the dream. How many people actually get to pack their MIL off to Mexico?” Finally she goes and I think I’m done driving to fucking Western Iowa and its flat expanse of shitty depressed tiny towns and fuck all.
Ha ha, I was so wrong. Turns out she had ordered two Amish style electric heaters before she went so she could take them along. (Yes, she bought giant heaters to take to Mexico. Go ahead, wrap your brain around that one.) Due to a shipping mixup (read she fucked up the order) the heaters didn’t get delivered until she was already south of the border. In December she calls my husband up to say “Surprise! I am giving you and your brother in Georgia (another arctic environ in desperate need of auxiliary heat) heaters for Christmas! All you have to do is drive over to your grandma’s house (in BFE Western Iowa), mail the one to your brother and take the other one home!”
This is not a Christmas present. This is a fucking chore. Not only will we have to give up an entire fucking weekend driving across state to get this “free” heater, we will have to spend at least $60 in gas and $50 on a hotel room and then whatever stupid amount shipping it to his brother. (I’m sure we’ll see that reimbursement check right away.)
December and January go by with shitty weather nearly every weekend. Birdman and I do actually make plans a couple times to make the trip but we keep getting interrupted by freezing rain, the occasional miscarriage, etc. Then in February Birdman has parts in two plays back to back and in March we have plans most weekends, including my 30th birthday party belated from February. Also, I got knocked up right away again in January so I felt like shit until about two weeks ago, not to mention taking long car trips as a pregnant lady is not recommended.
So last week Birdman tells me his mom is furious that we haven’t gone to pick up the heaters yet. We don’t have anything going on this weekend, so I agree to go. He lets MIL know we are going and her response is “Oh good. I’ll be back in town for a couple weeks too because I need to get my taxes done.”
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Bitch did you just say you’re going to be in the state? You do realize that Birdman and I have lives and jobs and limited funds, right? That just taking the weekend off to drive across state is kind of a big deal right now? And now you tell us you are going to be in town anyway and could just fucking mail us the heater for a hell of a lot less $$$ than us driving over there and getting it ourselves? Or, since Birdman actually does want to see you, you could take your fucking rental car with unlimited fucking miles and fucking drive the heater here and hang out with your kid for more than the hour or two we will have to spare while we are there?
Jesus Christ you cunt. You keep trying to act like you are being nice and are this sweet old lady and Birdman believes it and won’t ever tell you no but just fuck the hell off back to Mexico. I’d like to see you try this shit in a few months when we have an infant to cart around. I’ll let Birdman bow to your every whim now, but you can just get fucked if you think we’re going to be carting an infant across the state because you can’t think of someone other than yourself.
Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off.
Oh and Mom and Dad? When I bitch to you about MIL it really doesn’t help at all for you to say “Oh, she’s such a nice lady and she really does love you guys and you could really have it a lot worse…” Either sympathize with me or tell me to bitch somewhere else. I know I could have it worse but I could have it a whole hell of a lot better too.
Fuck you Chase. FUCK YOU.
I am not interested in refinancing my mortage. When I tell you this I mean it. This does not give Chase officials permission to send me Fedex packages or telemarket my house three times in a single day. When I call you up to get you to stop this behavior the proper response is not to explain how you can save me money and how dare I harrass you! The proper response is an apology. The proper response is most certainly not to hang up four times and then call my house and curse me out.
Fuck off, you pigs. You could be the world’s only mortgage company and I still wouldn’t do business with you.
It’s probably not Alzheimer’s, but it probably is some related form of dementia, most likely caused by vascular stenosis. He just doesn’t get enough blood to his brain.
He can’t focus on tasks anymore. He can’t take his meds on time (and he gets grumpy when I remind him and grumpier when I bring them to him and insist he take them). He can’t learn new tasks. He’s forgotten a lot of old tasks - I literally had to show him how to cut and paste in a Word document last week.
He’s depressed. He drinks too much. He’s anxious, hostile, bullying, and short tempered. He’s also a hypochondriac about stuff that doesn’t matter and completely in denial about the things that do.
And, oh, yes, he’s still driving. (I think I’m going to have to suck it up and be the Big Bad Guy who reports him to DMV, Og help me.)
If you’re a business and you put an e-mail address on your website, then fucking read the e-mail that goes to that address!
Hey, I know it’s just a “info@” or a “sales@” address and everyone at your hoity-fucking-toity company has their own e-mail, but those addresses aren’t posted, now are they?
Read and respond to your fucking e-mail or don’t post the address!