Cookiebitch

I WORK BETTER PANTLESS

I write this post as I work from home. I am pant-less as well as bra-less. I type while reclining in my easy chair with my cat napping at my side. I have a little dry oatmeal splatter on my T-shirt from the breakfast I ate this morning. I’m saving it for later.

I work from home every Friday. It is a perk of my current job. It’s also one of the main reasons I am still remotely sane - although the picture I just painted of myself may suggest otherwise.

I live in the Silicon Valley and although my job is a mere 27 miles away it usually takes me one hour each way to commute. One day this week it took me two hours to get to work. When I finally arrived I was not only more violent than usual, but I also had to pee so badly that I ran by security in 6 inch heels, pushing a meek engineer into the wall to get to the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to drive the two hours BACK to my house to change my pants.

I blame the exceptionally bad traffic this week on Yahoo CEO Marissa Mayer, who has banned all telecommuting at her company. All those Yahoo employees who used to be happy at home in their underwear now have to get dressed and get behind the wheel – further clogging up my commute and adding to the road rage.

Here in the Silicon Valley, telecommuting is not a luxury. In many ways, it is a necessity. Very few people live right next to their work. If you are living with a significant other, chances are you both commute and live somewhere in between your jobs. People also change jobs here more frequently, which can change or lengthen their commute.

But it’s not just about traffic. Most companies continue to demand more from their employees in a still-struggling economy where it is difficult for them to justify adding more people. The expectation is even when you aren’t supposed to be “working” you are still “connected” – via blackberry and laptop – so you can respond whenever necessary. Business also demands it – especially when you are dealing with customers in different time zones and in an industry that is constantly changing. Even if a company’s policy is to not work from home, you end up working from home on weekends and evenings in order to do your job well.

Which is also why the people I see in the car next to me stuck in traffic have that exhausted, on-the-edge, I-could-totally-drink-a-martini-even-though-it’s-only-9-a.m. look in their eye. They are mentally DONE. Between the commute to the office, picking up the kids, stopping at the store, making dinner, doing the necessary household chores, checking their e-mail, and finishing that report at midnight, they are lucky to be getting 5 to 6 hours of sleep before it all starts again. And god help them if they want to nurture any relationships. There’s no time for that kind of frivolous behavior. Screw the people I love, I’m tired.

Telecommuting is like everything else – it works in moderation, and it works when it is managed properly.

I think everyone understands the value of face-to-face time with the people you work with. Even if you hate your co-workers, you can be more efficient about showing your hatred when you see them in person. After all, flipping off an e-mail just doesn’t give you the same satisfaction of flipping off a human being. Also, ideas tend to grow and flourish when people are under one roof where they can banter, watch each other’s reactions, and feed off of each other’s creative energy.

But there’s also something to be said about having uninterrupted time for projects and detail-oriented tasks. I get more done on my Fridays from home because I don’t have Sue stopping by my desk to tell me how mad she is at the new parking policy or Bob stopping by to ask me – for the third time – if I want to buy Girl Scout cookies from his daughter. Having one day where I can focus, and save two hours on the road, helps me be a better employee, I believe. And it also makes me less likely to smack either Sue or Bob.

I hear you mocking me. “Sure Cookie, you say you’re a better employee – but aren’t you supposed to be working RIGHT NOW?” There’s a party-pooper, finger-pointing goodie-two-shoes in every crowd, isn’t there? Yes, I’m supposed to be working, and HAVE BEEN except for the hour it took me to write this – an hour I also used to suck the leftover oatmeal off my shirt and chase it with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s an hour I also like to call LUNCH. So get off me, kill-joy.

Besides, it’s up to my manager to pay attention to whether I’m getting my job done or not. If I don’t make a deadline, produce shoddy work, or don’t answer my phone when she calls because I’m writing a blog and watching reruns of Roseanne all day, it’s my ass. As it should be. But if I’m getting the job done well and on time, does it matter if I did the work half-naked in my living room with an empty jar of peanut butter next to me?

Working from home should be a privilege that employees earn and respect. It also should be limited so people still know what their co-workers look like. The problem at Yahoo was that it was neither of those things.

The bigger problem at Yahoo is that they let things get out of control. Employees performance suffered, and as a result the company’s performance suffered. But the knee-jerk response by Marissa that no one should telecommute AT ALL does not solve that problem. It just changes the geography. Without a change in how people are managed and held accountable, my guess is that the people watching reruns of Roseanne at home during the week will just find a new distraction when forced to come into the office – like watching You-Tube videos of cats on their smart phones.

The people who weren’t abusing the privilege and used telecommuting as a way to keep sanity in their lives without jeopardizing their work performance will just be more tired and frustrated and in need of that 9 a.m. martini. They will also be less likely, I’m guessing, to give Yahoo any extra time than is absolutely necessary. And that won’t help Yahoo either.

OUR HOUSING CRISIS

So I got a new job. After a year of downers at my current place of employment, including having to let my entire staff go and becoming pretty much insignificant, I decided that my husband shouldn’t be the only one to start fresh and learn something new.

Besides, it would be nice if we were in the same zip code again. As one of my loyal fans pointed out, I’m much less bitchy when I’m getting laid on a regular basis. Although I would venture to say that world peace would be within all of our reach if everyone was knocking it out. It’s just not as easy to bomb people right after an orgasm.

My new gig is as a communications manager at a high tech company. It’s a great opportunity for me to learn new things, not to mention I get more money, more vacation and something I never have heard of before – STOCK OPTIONS. I thought they were an urban myth, but apparently real people get them sometimes. And I didn’t even have to blow anyone. YET.

I’m still in shock I got the job – and that I got it so quickly. Usually the 6-inch hooker shoes and my aversion to talking to people are major road blocks during the interview process. But I think I’m just good with nerds. For the most part, they don’t like to talk to people either. And the shoes just make them blush and stuff dollar bills in my pants. So it’s a good match.

I gave a months notice to my old job, and now we are facing the daunting task of packing all our shit, finding a house to rent in the Silicon Valley, renting out our house here, and trying not to have a nervous breakdown in the process.

Where we currently live there is a flood of rentals available, meaning you have to give wads of cash away and offer free hand jobs just to get someone to even look at your place.

On the other hand, just 90 minutes down the freeway where we are moving there are no rentals available. The handful of landlords with houses that are for rent can pretty much get anything they want and have herds of people begging to do anything to be able to move in. I had to show a guy my boobs just to see a 2 bedroom condo the other day. Actually, he still wouldn’t let me see it. Gravity is a bitch and the girls ain’t what – or where - they used to be.

My husband and I spent the weekend looking at rentals with the hope of finding a small older home for around $2,500 a month. Out of six homes, we didn’t even go inside of three. It may have been the gang graffiti on the fence, or the drug dealers on the lawn. We’re just pussies I guess. But I had packed my Uzi in my other purse.

We did go to one home in a nice neighborhood built in the 1940s. All the other homes on the block had been upgraded and were really cute. This one looked like not even a paint brush had been used since the foundation was poured. The lawn was dead, the fence half falling down.

The landlord was late to meet us, and my husband wasn’t feeling well. He was pale and his lower intestines were rumbling – probably from the fear of getting shot at the last place we went to. But we didn’t know where the nearest gas station was, and it came on him suddenly.

“I’m not going to make it!” he announced, grabbing a box of tissue from the car and running into the overgrown bushes in the corner of the front yard.

I stood on the sidewalk, trying to think of witty one-liners in case the landlord appeared just as my husband was wiping his ass. Would this affect our credibility as tenants, I wondered?

Fortunately, my husband was able to do his business before the landlord showed up. As we walked up to the shabby front door, the landlord asked us to take off our shoes before entering the house.

I had new cowboy boots on. If you have never owned a pair of real cowboy boots, it takes at least a half dozen wearings to break them in so you don’t need a crowbar to get them off your feet. It’s worth it because they will be the most comfortable footwear you own. But in the meantime, you need a stick of butter and a half hour to get through airport security.

I looked inside the threshold. The carpet was the indoor-outdoor kind many people use in garages. My boots were way cleaner – and probably more expensive – than that piece of shit carpeting.

My husband, afraid to bend over to untie his shoes lest he stir up some more bowel action, was not happy either.

“Really?” he growled in my ear. “What could we possibly do to that carpet that wouldn’t be an improvement.”

“Well you did shit on his lawn,” I whispered back.

“Yah, but he doesn’t know about that.” My husband countered, unhappy that I would bring up such a delicate subject.

“But you look guilty.” I said. “He probably suspects something.”

The house was a disaster. The original 1940s wall heater – the only source of heat in the house besides the stove – looked like it would spontaneously combust. The bathrooms were less appealing than the bushes outside, making me think that my husband made the right decision.

The landlord was also an asshole. He told us he wanted first, last, deposit, and we better hurry because more people wanted it too and it was a first-come, first-serve situation. What was our credit like, he asked. What was our combined income? Would we be willing to give a blood sample? Was I a real blonde?

My husband walked outside with the landlord, feigning interest in seeing the “property.” He came to the spot at which he recently relieved himself and looked down.

“What kind of place are you trying to rent to us!?” my husband cried out, pointing at his own feces. “People are taking dumps in your lawn! Is that the kind of neighborhood you want us to live in? We aren’t going to live in this shithole!”

We hustled to the car, trying not to burst out laughing and give ourselves up before we could make our getaway.

The rate we’re going, there’s a good chance we may be homeless. But by god, we’ll still have a good time.

 

MY SINGLE LIFE

Three to four days a week I am single again. My husband leaves Monday morning for his new job, where he stays until Thursday or Friday night.

At first, I thought this would be a good thing. I'd get a break from having to come home and consider his feelings and communicate about our day. Because when you are married you have to do those things, I'm told. ALL THE TIME. Which, let's face it - can be EXCRUTIATING. I mean, didn't we talk about feelings last week? Or maybe it was last month, I'm not sure. But it sure seems like we JUST DID IT, because I remember being EXTREMELY uncomfortable. Besides, I've talked to people all day - most of them morons. My job, technically, is to communicate. So why would I want to do it when I come home? Why can't I just have a beer and watch television until it's time to have sex?

So I thought it wouldn’t be so bad coming home to an empty house where I didn't have to be nice to anyone and could sit in my underwear and eat microwave popcorn or cereal for dinner. I might even be able to watch a Project Runway marathon without having to deal with my husband’s constant eye-rolling.

This would also give me a chance to go out drinking with girlfriends, or take an exercise class, or anything else that I kept saying I wanted to do more of, but made the excuse that I couldn't because I needed to be home with my husband when in truth I was just too damned lazy. In fact, my husband would probably RELISH having me out of the house more often so he can watch the Military Channel without me rolling *my* eyes. Maybe he could also surf internet porn without having to listen to my constant commentary. Why are the men in porn flicks always so fucking ugly, by the way? Can’t they find guys with big dicks that don’t look like their parents were related and possibly marsupials? Women like porn too … give us something to look at that won’t make us want to become lesbians.

So the first week, I made plans with a couple of friends and signed up for a Zumba class. And I came to a realization. The reason I don't do this shit is because I hate it. I love my friends - don't get me wrong. But if I don't even like talking to my husband about our feelings after work, why would I want to hear about their feelings? I was exhausted by the end of the evening having to talk to TWO women about their feelings and pretend like I care. I thought at one point I’d have to call 911 as my brain might explode from all the SHARING. To make matters worse, they both hugged me at the end of the night. REALLY?

Zumba, with its shiny happy instructor, peppy music and complicated dance steps made me look like an uncoordinated, angry cow in a herd of Stepford wives. Who the fuck came up with this shit? Why do people try so fucking hard to make exercise FUN? It’s exercise … it isn’t supposed to be fun! All those smiling women in that class have to either be drunk or on a shit load of mood stabilizers. And the bitches didn’t give me any!

So the second week I decided I was just going to sit at home in my underwear and not talk to anyone or do anything. This was better, but also not ideal. No one was making fun of me for not shaving my legs, or stealing the remote out of my hands, or laughing at me because my boobs had flopped under my armpits. And I had no one to mock in return. Where could I direct my pent-up angst? Would I have to go outside and start beating up neighborhood children again?

Also, while microwave popcorn is a very tasty snack, it pales as a substitute for dinner three nights in a row. I missed my home cooked meals, and got wayyyyy to familiar with the acne-scarred “sandwich artist” at the Subway down the street. When he invited me to his winter formal, I knew I was in trouble.

I found myself not sleeping well either. Which pissed me off. When did I become one of those women who couldn't sleep well without a man? Was I that big of a wuss now that I needed the security of a penis in the house? Unless the penis could fire bullets, I doubt it could do more than I could if someone broke in. In fact, I’m betting in a rage, I could probably insult a burglar to death. Yet there I was, wide awake half the night thinking that a California King bed felt like the size of a football field when you were by yourself.

All this has given me a bigger appreciation for marriage. This week, my husband is home because he’s taking a class that’s closer to our house. During this time, I will watch the Military Channel without complaint and listen to him talk about his day with rapt attention. I will savor every home-cooked meal like it is my last. Hell, I might even shave my legs. But only if he promises to put out.

 

The good, the bad, and the ugly

First of all, I'd like to thank anyone and everyone who is reading this. I'm sure you thought I was dead. At least that's why I think I received that enormous cross-shaped floral arrangement with the card that said "Karma finally bit her in the ass." I appreciate it. Although I'm sorry to say it spontaneously combusted when I touched it. I'm pretty sure the florist fucked up on that one.

A lot has been going on in my life - both good and bad - which I will go into more detail about later. But here's a breakdown:

Bad: My husband got laid off in October, forcing me to give up buying shoes and midget strippers in preparation for being poor white trash. I even bought a tube top to look the part.

Good: Three days after he got laid off, a new company recruited my husband to work for them, which allowed him to take some of his severence money and take me to Mexico to celebrate. I still wore the tube top though to get free shots of tequila.

Bad: His new job is about an hour and a half away from our house in good traffic, and there is no such thing as "good traffic" in the Bay Area. This means he has to stay in a cheap hotel three to four nights a week until we figure out "what the fuck we are doing." This also means that because he's the cook in the family, and I barely know what an oven is, I've been forced to eat soup from a can and microwave popcorn while he is gone.

Good: I have lost more than 60 pounds. This is not just because I am now forced to fend for myself in the kitchen - although that is a contributing factor. But I realized that at 42 I better not fuck around anymore or you really would be sending me cross-shaped flower arrangements. I also wanted to feel better. So I started going to the gym again and counting calories. I am not going to sugar coat it - it is really fucking hard work to be thin. Between running 3 to 5 miles a day and eating vegetables for lunch, I pretty much want to rip anyone's head off for eating a cheeseburger.

Bad: My company went through layoffs - which fortunately I avoided - but my entire staff didn't. Then they announced that in the next year they will be moving their headquarters to Dallas. I don't know if you aware of this, but I'm not allowed in the state of Texas. I think it's because last time I was there I took one of my favorite stiletto heels and shoved it through a cowboy's ball sack for telling me I'd look good in his stable where he could "break me" like his other horses. I never got the heel out either, which saddens me because it was one of my best pair of Carlos Santanas.

Good: Although for awhile I felt I had absolutely nothing to say as Cookiebitch anymore, all this has sparked a whole new volume of rants inside of me. And I feel the need to share them.

A few things will be different this time around, though. First, instead of writing lengthy posts like I used to, I'm going to be doing a lot more short posts via Twitter and Facebook. These will just be little observations I make throughout the day ... such as why people who wear red thong underwear with white pants should be imprisoned. These are life tips really - little nuggets of wisdom I like to share with the world. I will also be posting things I see on other people's Facebook and Twitter pages that I think are funny. And of course, being a shoe whore, I will post links to shoes that I think you should buy me.

I will still post longer rants on this blog - but unlike Twitter and Facebook, which I will attempt to do several times a day, the longer rants will be further apart. They take longer to write - and right now I need as much time as I can to figure out what to do with my life. I'll also be working on updating the blog site in the next month or so in my rare moments of lucidity.

So I appreciate you reading again. I hope we'll have some fun together.

Don't forget to check me out on FACEBOOK:

And on TWITTER.

No, I'm not dead. Just drunk.

Miss me? I'm coming baaaaackkkk ....
Wait for my bitchy return coming in February.
In the meantime, become a fan on my Facebook page, or subscribe to my Twitter feed @bitchrants.

I'll make it worth your while.

THERE'S ALWAYS ROOM FOR BACON

I found out today I missed the opportunity to realize my life-long dream of becoming a Bacon Tycoon.

People close to me have often heard me say that if I could do one thing to make a difference in the world - to make the earth a happier place - it would be to make everything taste like bacon.

Think of it. Everyone WANTS to eat bacon. But we all also know that if you succumb too often to that crispy brown goodness swaddled in a glistening coat of swine fat, you will most likely keel over from a massive stroke by the age of 35. So you try to eat celery instead, all the time FANTASIZING about bacon. Mmmmm ...

And then there are the vegetarians and vegans. Granted, they are freaks. Still, I feel sorry for them, for they have never experienced the pure joy of dipping a slice of perfectly fried pig's flesh into the yolk of an over-easy egg. Or watching a piece of prosciutto slowly curl itself around a sea scallop as they are barbecued in a lover's embrace. To give this up is like giving up sex, or laughter, or music. For a life without bacon, is a life without joy. But if you could bring that joy to the leaf-eating masses somehow, without asking them to give up their freakish values - well that would be the ultimate gift, wouldn't it? And to put bacon in a form that would not make your arteries harden or cause you to look like Jabba the Hutt - well that would be an accomplishment as great as putting a man on the moon!

But I am not a scientist. I am a dreamer. So while I have imagined this perfect bacon Nirvana, I have never known how to make it a reality.

Then the other day, my niece texted me this:

"I just listened to a presentation from the founders of Bacon Salt - their motto is 'Everything should taste like bacon.' Isn't that your dream?"

Damnit! These people stole my idea! Still, I was intrigued ... how did these geniuses harness the complex flavors of the bacon strip and compress it into itsy bitsy grains of salt? If this was possible, what was next? Teleportation? World peace? Comfortable panty-hose?

I started to research this magic pork powder and the men who developed it, and what I found out was AMAZING.

The founders of Bacon Salt - Justin and Dave (yes, just mere mortals - who woulda thought?) started the business with $5,000 Dave won on America's Funniest Home Videos for a movie of his son hitting a T-ball at his face. Brilliant! A man who isn't afraid to exploit his children for money already has my respect! 

Justin and Dave's love of bacon led them to tirelessly research how to bring a better way to eat bacon to the masses. The result is Bacon Salt - a zero calorie, zero fat, vegetarian and kosher seasoning that makes everything taste like bacon.

This fairy pig dust seems just too good to be true. But the reviews on their web site offer overwhelming evidence of this bacon miracle. Here are just some of the testimonials:

"Thank you for organizing the party in my mouth."

"My savior has arrived and its name is Bacon Salt."

“I can't think of an individual thing you should try it on, because it belongs on almost everything. Heck, you could season one of your knit socks and suck out it out through the fibers.”

“When you put Bacon Salt on mashed potatoes, they try to eat themselves.”

“Epoch shattering invention.”

According to the Bacon Salt site, Bacon Salt has also been talked about on ABC News, Fox News, and Good Morning America - just to name a few. Groups have formed in this product's honor like "The Bacon Salt Society," "The Church of the Holy Bacon Salt," Bacontologists, and a Facebook group called "Bacon Salt: Because it was inevitable." People are even dressing up as 7 foot tall pieces of bacon to celebrate this earth shattering seasoning.

Bacon Salt also comes in a variety of flavors including original, hickory, peppered and natural. But they also have limited edition flavors like applewood, maple, cheddar, jalapeno and mesquite. It's like a crack house of bacon, I'm telling you!

The company also recently released another product called Baconnaisse. That's right, people. Bacon is now SPREADABLE. And if that even isn't enough, they also have come up with bacon-flavored lip balm to constantly remind you of the awesome power of bacon. Still, I'm concerned about the dangers this last product may pose to pet owners. Making yourself taste like bacon is a recipe for disaster that will either get you french kissed by your Poodle, or leave you without lips after your Doberman has them for lunch. And let's face it, if you are constantly licking your lips to access more bacony flavor, people will start to think you're weird, especially if you tell them, "I taste delicious."

But Justin and Dave aren't just bacon masters, they are bacon humanitarians, launching "Operation Bacon" - a program that delivers Bacon Salt to our troops who are serving in bacon-less countries. Because yah, it sucks to be in the middle of the fucking desert with people bombing your ass. But to do it without BACON???? That's just inhumane.

But why just stop with the troops? Why not drop cases of it into areas known to be frequented by terrorist groups? My theory is that the reason there are suicide bombers in the world is because these people don't have bacon and therefore have nothing to live for. Give them bacon, and world peace could be just around the corner. With Bacon Salt, they don't even have to break any religious rules about eating pork, because there is no pork in it. I'm telling you, this could CHANGE THE WORLD!

Believe it or not, though, there are limits to my love of bacon, and I think Justin and Dave have not just reached those limits, but crossed over them with reckless abandon when they announced on their Bacon Salt blog their latest idea for making EVERYTHING taste like bacon - baconlube. The motto of this product? "Keep it Sizzlin'." And folks, they are looking for volunteers to "beta test" this bacon-flavored love jelly.

Now I think we can agree that everyone loves bacon - but to "LOVE" bacon as you're loving your significant other? Well that's just a threesome I can't quite get into. I mean, wouldn't it be a little like going down on BABE or Porky Pig? "Thhhhhhhat's all folks!"

Plus, I want to know that I am being loved for me, not for my bacon-flavored vagina - although let's face it, that is a man's ultimate fantasy. Which brings me to my next point - In a love triangle that includes a man, a woman, and bacon, is the woman really going to come out on top?

Still, Justin and Dave seem to have appealed to a segment of the bacon-loving market. Just look at some of the comments left on their blog:

"...because my girlfriend has always said "baby, i wish you tasted more like bacon" when she was down there......"

"Perfect for Passover!"

"Is this still kosher? It probably depends where you put it. ;-)"

I guess I can't blame Justin and Dave for pushing the envelope. As long as it is bacon-flavored, of course. And while I won't be signing up to help test this new Baconlube in the traditional way, I may buy a jar once it is available in stores. I bet it's great on toast.

Check out the Bacon Salt movie above - and wait through the testimonials for some funny quotes and pictures.

DOWN WITH ASSHOLES

My friend went to the doctor yesterday. When she went in, there was no one parked in the spot on her driver's side. But when she came out, she was greeted by this:

 

Are you fucking KIDDING me???!!!! Not only did this moron park in a spot that was clearly labeled compact, but the fucker felt it neccesary to park diagonally, completely blocking any hope that my friend had of getting back into her car the same way she came out. 

Why did this person do this? Because they are a complete and total ASSHOLE. There is no denying this fact - no arguing this point. You can also probably add that they are a bad driver - and never have sex because they drive a Ford Aerostar van. But even these observations would take a backseat to the overwhelming message this person is sending, which is: "I AM A STUPID, SELFISH, DUMB-FUCK ASSHOLE." In fact, they should just get that tattooed on their forehead as a warning to others, so we can all either stay clear, or beat the living shit out of them for sport.

Now I guess my friend could take a little comfort in the fact that the Asshole didn't actually hit her car. And I suppose it takes some skill to get this close to another vehicle - close enough to barely slide a piece of paper in between the two cars - without hitting it.

Still, I doubt my friend was impressed when she had to contort her body through the passengers side door and over the gear shift to get behind the wheel. Considering she was at the doctor for a shoulder injury, this wasn't exactly helping her recovery either. Thanks again, ASSHOLE.

Not to mention that once she did manage to get into the drivers seat - after almost having sexual relations with the parking break - she was then faced with the dilemma of trying to back up without hitting the Asshole's van. Which really ... who the fuck cares about his van? I would have been happy to run it over with a semi-truck, if I had one handy. But the last thing you want to do is damage your own car because this shit-stick can't park.

And the REAL scary part is that this Asshole isn't alone. There is an ARMY of this kind of asshole out there. I know because two of them hemmed in my car so badly at a parking garage once I was forced to wedge my ample butt, and even more ample tits through my sun roof in order to get into my car - narrowly avoiding a call to the fire department asking them to bring the Jaws of Life.

Someone needs to create an Asshole Hotline so when incidents like these happen, we can call and get some big, hairy, burly guys - possibly named Bubba and Igor - to come over and help us teach these fuckers a lesson by turning their vehicles on their roofs and welding their doors shut. This way, when the Asshole comes out to get into their car, they will understand how we felt when we saw what they did to us. And then THEY'LL be the ones screaming "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!" And then we can point and laugh, and maybe throw rocks at them. Because that would be fun.

In the meantime though, we are forced to take matters in our own hands without the aid of the Asshole Hotline and Bubba and Igor.

I have a few ideas for this. First, if the Asshole didn't lock their vehicle, I would suggest getting in on their driver's side - which as you can see in this case has plenty of room - and pissing on their front seat. Hopefully you would have recently consumed a Big Gulp or a venti latte so you have lots of piss to share. When the Asshole gets into their vehicle, they will be greated by a wet, clammy sensation that can only be urine soaking through their pants, followed by the unmistakable stench of someone relieving themselves - a stench that won't easily be forgotten, or covered up. Beautiful.

If they did lock the vehicle (or even if they didn't), I would suggest letting the air out of the tires. Don't slash them - as if someone sees you there could be a vandalism charge brought against you, and that would just let the Asshole win. Instead, just use a tire pressure gauge and make the tires go flat as a pancake. Asshole will spend hours trying to figure out how the fuck THAT happened. 

Finally, write down the Asshole's license plate number and call the cops to report you saw someone shoving what looked like a dead body wrapped in a carpet in the trunk of this vehicle. When Asshole comes back, imagine their shock when a bunch of cops there are waiting, hopefully with Tasers. With any luck, Asshole may even get a cavity search. Bonus!

Come on people. It's us against the assholes. Let's take a stand.

WONDER WOMAN HAS NOTHIN' ON ME

 

My friend The Hotfessional (also known as Professor Caped Stick) introduced me to The Hero Factory, where you can create your own Superhero character. It's fun, but not quite accurate, as it gave me the superhero name of "Merciful Avenger." Since I hate mercy, and think it's mostly for pussies, I changed it in Photoshop to be "The Bitchy Avenger" which has a much better ring to it, don't you think?

I'm also a little disappointed because the site didn't give me the option of wearing some kick-ass stilettos. You may not know this, but stilettos not only make you look taller and sexier, but are also an effective weapon as you can quickly take them off and drive the heel through someone's ball-sack, or eye, or any soft tissue. No superhero should be without a good pair - or in my case 80 (you know, for backup).

However, because my talents in Photoshop are limited, I could not alter the picture to include a pair of Christian Louboutins. So I've resorted to running around the city beating people up in bare feet - mostly because I refuse to wear Superhero boots that resemble Uggs (or should I say Fuggs - because they are FUCKING UGLY!)

You'll also note I chose not to wear pants because they are fucking uncomfortable and if I'm going to be saving the world, I'm going to do it so I can BREATHE and not have a waistband digging into me - especially after I've eaten a super burrito for lunch. I did, however, choose to wear a supportive, bullet-proof top because with my rack, I don't need to be giving myself whiplash as I'm running after bad guys.

So now it's just a matter of figuring out what kind of super powers I want to have.

Most people would choose flying as a power, but quite frankly, I don't need my hair getting all wind-blown and my teeth getting pummeled with bug guts. That's for your "special" heroes like Superman, who let's face it, was not the brightest bulb on his planet, which is why they dropped him off here - so they wouldn't have to deal with his stupid ass. I would much prefer a private jet of some sort that comes with a lot of half-naked men on board that cater to my every whim. Because when I get to where I'm going, I'll need to be relaxed to rid the world of evil, not all tired and jet-lagged.

I don't need x-ray vision either, because people are ugly enough without me having to see through their clothes and crazy enough without me having to see what they do behind closed doors. Superheroes don't have time for therapy.

I *do* want super strength though ... just so I could teach a lesson to people doing really annoying shit that deserve a good ass kicking. Like the chick at work today who just stood in the middle of the fucking main doorway for 30 minutes with her enormous shelf ass that you could set a couple of martinis and a cheese plate on. She was completely oblivious to the fact she was blocking EVERYONE'S path with her behind. She just chatted away inanely about cleaning her tile grout this weekend to another woman who at least had the courtesy to stand AWAY from the door - probably as she was looking for an escape route, or something sharp to help end the conversation. How fun would it have been to have been able to pick table-tush up and toss her over the second floor landing and watch her bounce off the lobby floor. That would make her think twice before blocking someone's path again. And what is a Superhero if they can't get people to learn from their mistakes?

I'd also want the ability to render people completely mute. When I found people talking about completely useless shit that no one cares about - like their quest to find that last Donny and Marie album on Ebay to complete their collection - I'd just shoot lasers out of my eyes and they would lose the ability to speak or make sound. Think of all the people I would save from being bored to death! Not to mention the wars I could divert by keeping people from pissing each other off because they didn't know when to keep their mouths shut.

And while I think Wonder Woman's truth lasso was pretty freakin' cool, I'm thinking that instead I would like a magic mirror that when I held it up to people they could actually see themselves clearly. They would see how ridiculous they look in those parachute pants, or understand for the first time that they don't know as much as they think they do, or realize in one big epiphany that they really are a complete asshole. Because it seems that the thing people are lacking most in this world - besides common sense - is SELF AWARENESS. They just wander through life thinking they are the center of the fucking universe, when really they are a cockroach on the ass of the universe.

Of course, like any good Superhero, I'd also need a sidekick, and who better to be at my side than The Little Avenger, my faithful midget, who I could launch at enemies using a slingshot I kept in my Gucci purse. Bad guys wouldn't know what hit them. 

"Look in the sky! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No ... it's .. OH MY GOD ... it's an ANGRY MIDGET! RUUUUUNNNNNN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!!!!"

Yes, The Mini-Avenger and I will clean up this planet - and all the idiots in it - starting with bitchy store-clerks and ending with the Oxy-clean guy, who, let's face it, NEEDS to shut the fuck up. It's a big job, but somebody's got to do it. And hey, I've already got the uniform ...

CAN WE PUT IT IN THE WATER?

BIG LIES ABOUT THE BIG O

 

Two recent news articles have me thinking that people not only in the general public are stupid lunatics, but seemingly EDUCATED people - people of SCIENCE - are also completely off their rocker.

The first article is from The Sunday Times in the UK and proclaims that women can experience a drug-free, pain-free labor that comes with ... are you ready for this??? ... multiple orgasms.

Now I have never given birth ... THANK GOD ... so my point of reference here is limited, I admit. But I was present during a friend's labor as a substitute coach and saw many films about child birth. Okay, so I really only saw the beginning of a lot of child birth films. I usually passed out or ran into the bathroom to vomit somewhere in the middle and never quite got to the end.

Still, I can tell you from these experiences that not once did I see a woman having a good time. Not even close. There were moans and screams - yes. But these cries were not of the "OH YAH ... RIGHT THERE, BABY" variety as much as in the "KILL ME NOW SO THE PAIN WILL STOP" category.

I'm thinking that when your vagina opens up to roughly 200 times its normal size, ripping you in half because an alien being is writhing its enormous head out of it, it is not a pleasurable experience. That's probably why they don't write a lot of romance novels about it.

But hey ... again ... I've never given birth so who am I to poo-poo science? So I asked some women who did give birth what they thought of this story.

After the laughing stopped, this is what they told me:

Mom #1 - gave birth once, naturally.

"What complete and utter bull-shit! Who has time to concentrate on having an orgasm when it feels like you are being pulled inside out? And even if you COULD have multiple orgasms, is it really the appropriate place and time - in front of all those doctors and nurses - to be writhing around and moaning "YES, YES, YESSSSSSSSS ...."

Mom #2 - gave birth twice, once naturally, once by C-section.

"I think these people are smoking crack. Being in labor is the most horrific and grueling pain I have ever experienced. I wanted to die when I was having my son. I wanted someone to hit me over the head with a hammer and end my misery. I don't know how someone could have enjoyed that, unless they were a masochist and get off on pain."

Mom #3 - gave birth four times.

"The only way I was able to have four children was because of drugs. And all I can think of is that these women who said they experienced an orgasm while giving birth had too many drugs. It had to be a drug-induced hallucination. Or maybe they were in so much pain they were delirious?"

Mom #4 - gave birth once and says that was enough.

"Seriously, orgasms are great and all, but who wants an orgasm THEN? I'd much rather have 5 minutes of pain-free peace and quiet - and maybe a margarita. Save the orgasms for after the baby is out and in college. Because until then, I don't have time."

Mom #5 - gave birth once.

"Was the doctor doing something? Maybe with his tongue? Although that would be ... very ... gross."

Mom #6 - had one child, pregnant again.

"I had a C-section the first time and am ADAMANT about doing a vaginal birth this time. If I can have an orgasm too ... are you kidding? Sign me up right now! I mean you are using the same muscles I think, although I don't really know. I was hoping the article offered tips or something, but it didn't. Needless to say, I'm mildly disappointed."

Just think how disappointed she's going to be when she finds out that Mom's 1 through 4 are right and this article is all a ploy to get a million dollar grant? But I'm going to keep an open mind. I've asked her to report back to me  ... you know, in the name of science. For her sake, I hope this article is right.

I don't need anyone to report back to me about this second article, however, which states that women also have orgasms while they work out at the gym. They call it a "coregasm."

I can point to a herd of fat women everywhere - myself included - who will debunk this theory all the way to hell and back while riding on a horse made entirely of cellulite. Don't you think if we were getting ORGASMS at the gym, we would all be waifs? Fuck, I'd never leave the gym. They'd probably find my skeletal remains on the elliptical machine. But I'd be grinning ear to ear, and probably smoking a cigarette.

I recently went back to the gym after a four year lethargic period in which my ass got its own zip code. And I can tell you, if I was getting orgasms there, it would be a LOT less painful getting up at 5:15 a.m. and dragging my sorry aforementioned enormous butt there. I'd probably fly out of bed and skip all the way to the gym humming a little tune if I was promised a couple of good solid O's. But no ... instead I get exhaustion, misery, and have to wear a sports bra that resembles an ace bandage. Instead of relaxed and glowy, I just end up sweaty and pissed off. This is about as far from an orgasm as I can imagine - except for child birth, that is.

Am I doing it wrong? Is there some sort of machine that my gym doesn't have that makes your eyes roll back in your head not from exhaustion, but from passion? Or are the women in which this article refers all bringing vibrators to the gym? Because that's the only explanation that makes sense to me.

Oh wait ... there is one other explanation. This article appears in MEN'S HEALTH magazine. Figures. It's all an evil plot by men to get their women to drop a few pounds. Nice try, boys. But you should be thankful this hoax isn't true. Because if we could have orgasms at the gym, what would we need you for?