tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58431871145113392662023-11-15T08:22:41.289-08:00Disney Cats Don't Have AssholesBabs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-10655141833085754492016-02-21T15:03:00.001-08:002016-02-21T15:03:36.335-08:00The EU Just Bulldozed the Goondocks.<br />
The Question of the Day is: Can the European Union possibly get any douchier?<br />
<br />
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<br />
Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-38584847286150599002015-05-07T16:59:00.001-07:002015-05-07T16:59:11.902-07:00List of Recent Uncharitable Thoughts, in No Particular Order"You know, if <strong><u>I</u></strong> looked like Shrek, I think I'd do something about it."<br />
<br />
<br />
"Nice dye job, slut."<br />
<br />
<br />
"God bless you; those ginormous legs look awfully uncomfortable."<br />
<br />
<br />
"I'd like to kick his crutches out from underneath him."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"At least when we move, I won't have to listend to Hopalong gimp around all day."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I bet you sniff your own farts and then smile, you pretentious prick. Who the hell quotes themselves in an email signature?!?!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Nice phone you're playing with there, while meandering slowly down the staircase in front of me, holding me up. It would be a shame if you "accidentally" slipped and fell."Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-40600521480183075312015-02-28T07:29:00.001-08:002015-02-28T07:29:03.488-08:00Found Whilst Cleaning: Impulse Control<span style="font-size: large;">I was searching through the piles of little papers on my desk, trying to locate the login information for the Facebook page under a pseudonym that I forget to maintain. I found this, written on a piece of notebook paper.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<u><span style="font-size: large;">IMPULSE CONTROL</span></u><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A list, in no special order, of impulses I am currently working very hard to control.</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">urge to hit someone with a chair</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">urge to push someone down the stairs</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">urge to say to someone, "That haircut is STUPID."</span></li>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">related: urge to tell co-worker that her new 'do makes her look 10 years older, in addition to being stupid.</span></li>
</ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">purple nurples</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">urge to go, "Duh da de derp de derp da dope de dope..." while someone is speaking.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">assorted namecalling and slurs:</span></li>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">doucher, fuckwit, douchebag, asshat, cuntbag, fucktard, quivering pile of douche, faggot, fuckface, bootlip, Hootie, and shouting 'Run, Trayvon....RUN!!"</span></li>
</ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">urge to punctuate statement with flatulence</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">urge to quote Bible verses at people</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">urge to tell someone, regarding an ill-behaved child: "Put that thing on a leash!"</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">urge to kick small dogs</span></li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">urge to end sentences with "SELAH", or "So mote it be."</span></div>
</li>
</ul>
Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-2360802257599356762015-02-06T18:09:00.001-08:002016-02-21T15:07:09.561-08:00Look, Rabbit! I Don't Git Mad No More!<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: xx-small;">I had this brother, see. He committed suicide 14
years ago, an event I can honestly describe, with no melodrama or exaggeration,
as the worst thing I've ever experienced. He took himself out in such a way that
his body was not discovered for three months. Three long months in which I
learned, the whole family learned, that "the worst thing is not knowing" isn't
just a cliche', and the true meaning of the word HORROR.</span> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Grieving a suicide is unlike any other kind of grieving,
because on top of the sorrow is a pile of anger and guilt. Sorrow because he was
gone, guilt because I didn't see clear to stop it. Anger because I felt betrayed
and slighted and because of the damage the whole sorry mess did to my parents
and my sister and his sons and me. What a selfish prick, I thought. Not only did
he decide to exit stage left, he did it in such a way that we were all dragged
through three months of fear and grief and uncertainty. Search parties and
search dogs and police reports; false reports of sightings and bank activity
that raised hopes, only to see them dashed. More guilt because I felt relieved
when he was confirmed dead; not the outcome we wanted, but better than not
knowing.</span> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: xx-small;">A little more anger
swirling around the fact that in addition to the anniversary of his death, in
August, there's the anniversary of the discovery of what was left of him, which
is in November. Anniversaries are hard, and we have two of them. This last
August was especially difficult; it's the 19th, and this year a week or two
before it fell a celebrity killed himself. High-profile suicides are horrible
for survivors, for they bring about the inevitable flood of do-gooding self-help
nonsense where everyone tries to convince themselves that it would never happen
to them. Look for the signs! These are the red flags! Here are the warnings!
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">The reality is that someone who
means to take themselves out don't give you a heads-up. They don't drop hints.
People who are trying to get attention do this; the ones who mean business go
off somewhere and do the deed as quickly and efficiently as possible. People
will argue with me about this; those people are dead wrong.</span> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Anyway, the histrionic do-gooding is really difficult
because it's feels like we're being admonished. We missed the signs, ignored the
portents, ran passed the red flags, dropped the ball. We didn't, because that's
all crap, but that's what it feels like. And as much as I tried to ignore it all
last August sometimes it's just unavoidable, so on top of the guilt and the
anger and the grief I already carry around, more guilt is piled.</span>
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">So this year I prayed. I have a few basic
prayers: God grant me wisdom, God grant me strength, and Please Jesus help me
not to be such an asshole (h/t to Anne Lamott for this one.) To this I added,
"Please help me lose this anger. This particular burden would ease if the anger
was gone."</span> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Funny thing, prayers;
sometimes you get what you asked for, but make a mental note to add a caveat
next time that the vehicle by which the thing is delivered not be unpleasant. My
request was granted in the form of excruciating pain.</span> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: xx-small;">The expurgated explanation: my brother hurt his back as a
very young man, and as a result suffered with severe chronic pain nearly all of
his adult life. I knew about his injury, and the one botched surgery plus the
additional ones to fix the first one. I knew he went to a rehab hospital for
pain management after drugs stopped working. I knew he could never sit for more
than 20 minutes and had to either get up and walk around or lay on the floor. I
knew he had to quit working. I knew these things, but I did not really understand until
I twisted the wrong way and ended up with a bulging discs and sciatica that
didn't respond to steroids or physical therapy. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: xx-small;">It hurts so bad sometimes I can't think straight. My heart
starts pounding; I get flushed and hot. I get the shakes, I get nauseous; I hold
my breath and then I get light-headed. All because I sat too long or moved the
wrong way. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">At some point I realized that
my brother had this for 20 years, and had been told there was nothing else they
could do for him. This is what he felt like, I thought to myself, except it was
worse. Day in, day out, every day for 20 years and no end in sight. Well, hell,
I thought. No wonder he opted to bow out. I can't say I blame him. I can't say I
wouldn't do the same thing.</span> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So now
I'm not angry at him anymore, and that particular load is no longer quite as
heavy<span style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-60087172134545435522014-05-16T16:29:00.001-07:002014-05-16T16:29:18.221-07:00Babs is Out of the Office<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">I am out of the office.</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">If you require immediate assistance, I can be summoned but it
requires some work.</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">You will
need:</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">• a container of salt</span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">• chalk</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">• a live chicken</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">• a
small dagger</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">• a silver chalice</span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">• matches or a lighter</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">• a working knowledge of correct Latin pronunciation</span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Step 1: Draw a pentagram on the floor with the
chalk.</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Step 2: Stand in the center of
the pentagram.</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Step 3: Make a ring of
salt around the perimeter of the pentagram</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Step 4: Cut the throat of the chicken with the dagger.</span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Step 5: Fill the chalice with the blood of the
chicken.</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Step 6: Repeat this
incantation: “Boden excitant iratus sum, et meam impleat crimine
voluntatis.”;</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Step 7: Set alight the
blood in the chalice, holding the chalice in your RIGHT hand and the flame in
your LEFT.</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I will then appear, but I
will not be happy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Caution:
Boden-conjuring is a dangerous enterprise, and is not recommended unless the
problem is urgent. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Please note that I
will require a boon for any tasks completed once I have been summoned. This may
be Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate, a large Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee (with skim
milk and three packs of Equal), an icy-cold can of Diet Coke...or your little
finger. Be sure to have all of these items and/or a small, sharp knife on hand
prior to beginning the rite.</span> Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-63378309148580729772014-05-14T18:12:00.001-07:002014-05-14T18:20:13.790-07:00Box
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #1a2a37; font-family: "Sylfaen","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He sealed the box with
packing tape and left it on the table before he dragged the blade across his
throat. I think it might have snakes in it, or a Hurst shifter rebuild kit for
a '76 Nova, or a stack of old letters, a rain-swollen photo album, and some old
Tupperware (no lids.) <br />
If it's snakes, they're probably dead by now. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #1a2a37; font-family: "Sylfaen","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If I look at the box,
which I try to avoid, I see snakes. Hooded, black, and angry. When I'm not
looking, I can hear them sliding against the cardboard and butting the seam of
the flaps with their angular heads, their searching tongues sometimes sticking
to the underside of the tape. <br />
I hope there are no snakes in the box. I would really like to open the box and
find the Hurst shifter in the same way that I half-heartedly hope that someone
will call out of the blue to offer up contents of the unknown-to-me U-Stor unit
he had somewhere that holds the '76 Nova to put that shifter in, along
with pictures and letters and his favorite chair, plus a box of record albums
so that I could frame "Houses of the Holy" to hang on my wall and say
to people, "Oh, that - it belonged to my brother." <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #1a2a37; font-family: "Sylfaen","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It's probably snakes. In
August and November and at my birthday they thrash insistently like the time we
had to take the cat to the vet in a cardboard box we taped shut because we
didn't have a carrier, and the cat thrashed and yowled and pissed in the box,
finally loosening the tape enough to push his head through the top and hiss at
us. The snakes will do that, someday. <br />
There might be something nicer, something that I would like to have. A vintage
Molly Hatchet or Foghat or Uriah Heep t-shirt, for example. Baby pictures
and wedding rings. A pressed prom corsage with Budweiser bottlecaps stuck
between the brown and wizened petals of the orchids. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #1a2a37; font-family: "Sylfaen","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the time the box was
sealed, I thought he was ancient but he was younger than I am right now, and
I'm not that old. When you're in your twenties, you think everyone over the age
of thirty needs to give away all their possessions, wrap themselves up in a
bedsheet, and climb to the top of the mountain to wait for the eagles to carry
them off. Then some time goes, and you realize that people in their twenties
are very, very stupid. <br />
Now that I am an age he never reached, I think I hear the snakes around my
birthday and not just the anniversaries. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #1a2a37; font-family: "Sylfaen","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Why you would box up some
snakes and leave it on the table is beyond me. Thinking about it logically,
rationally, there probably aren't snakes in that box. Probably it's unpaid
electric bills and expired pizza coupons, a stack of Hardees' Moose cups and a
half-eaten carton of Whoppers. Of course, it might be that stuff PLUS the
snakes; they ate the Whoppers. </span><span style="font-family: "Sylfaen","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #1a2a37; font-family: "Sylfaen","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What I would like to
have, instead of snakes, is a set of hand-written instructions for car
detailing, because I can remember some of the things he used to tell me about
that but not all of them. Plus a recording of him telling his best Polack
jokes, and another of his imitation of our mother which sounded like something
off Monty Python.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="color: #1a2a37; font-family: "Sylfaen","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What I have, however, is a whole lot of nothing. There is nothing because all the material things were in the possession of the woman he lived with at the time, and none of us can remember her name to call her up and ask her for something. There aren't really any snakes, but figments of my imagination; visceral representations of my guilt, anger, and grief. Plus more guilt. There is not even really a box, just a wish to have something material with which to remember, over which to grieve, and a wish to be able to rewinde and do things differently. It's a misguided belief that, if given a chance, I could go back and fix things. This lurks in my peripheral vision as a box on a table.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-53604502261820031512013-08-09T17:34:00.001-07:002013-08-09T17:34:39.635-07:00Just A Thought...I used to blog anonymously on MySpace. Now this blog is here, and it's under my actual name. I wonder if this has anything to do with why I don't get called back when I apply for jobs? Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-84156707977487258262013-08-09T17:24:00.000-07:002013-08-09T17:24:13.632-07:00Udo's Full House<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em>"Man, that Uncle Jesse; what a head of hair!" -
Udo</em> <br /><br />Nickelodeon shows reruns of
"Full House" in the mornings. I know this because Udo watches it
surreptitiously. I caught him in the act, and he was apologetic.
<br /><br />"I know you think this show is crap," he
said, "but I kind of like it. I think that's okay." <br /><br />I told him he can watch whatever he likes. "If YOU like it, then
watch it," I said. And so he does. <br /><br />Like many Family Hour sitcoms of the era, it's an excruciatingly
bad show. Bad jokes, ridiculous situations, and improbable outcomes, all with a
laugh track. And oh, the coolness! I realize that any program will bear the
vestiges of the fashions of its age, so the most hilarious thing about the
program from this present vantage point are the clothes and the hair.
Acid-washed denim? Great big poofy perms, and hair-sprayed bangs that stand six
inches of the top of the precocious moppets' heads? What in God's name were we
thinking about in 1989? <br /><br />The most
cringe-worthy aspect isn't the button-fly Levi's and floppy socks, it's the
lingo. I can't imagine what might have been going on in those script-writers'
meetings. "So listen, guys; we need to come up with a catch phrase for a
toddler. Somethin' HIP, somethin' NOW, somethin' HAPPENIN'!" And they decided
on "You got it, dude!" presumably because you coudn't have a two-year-old asking
"How's it hangin'?" on network TV during the 8:00 hour in prime time.
<br /><br />Awwwwww...how darling! I mean, I know the
little one whose catch phrase this was kind of resembled a monkey until puberty,
when the twins that played her sprouted mams and developed perpetual duck-face.
(I believe that they make this face, actually, because the bulimia leaves them
with constant puke breath, and duck-face-lip occludes the nostrils and blocks
the stench. But, I digress.) Still and all; a toddler that calls everyone
"dude?" Old ladies and elementary school kids across the country went nuts for
it. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So the upshot, then, is that I don't like the show, and I don't want to watch it. I don't want to listen to it playing in the background when I'm doing other things. I want to change the channel and hide the clicker; I want to set up the parental controls to block it as obscene.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I won't do that, though, because dear Udo loves the show. He thinks the poofy permed hair is AWESOME. He belly laughs at the stupid jokes. The family often hugs and says how much they love each other; they kiss one another on the nose while making sad puppy dog eyes. Soft-hearted Udo, also wont to deliver wide-eyed kisses while declaring his devotion, sits and smiles sweetly as he watches. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /> </div>
Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-8663896344959739162012-09-26T15:15:00.002-07:002012-09-26T15:15:14.264-07:00SIck and Tired<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">Things of which I am sick and tired, in no
particular order:</span> <br /><br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">biased
journalism</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">horror fiction</span>
<br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">conspiracy theorists</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">classroom mommies</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">full
cart in the express lane, paying with food stamps</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">zealots</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">broads</span>
<br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">other people's perfume/cologne</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">newscasters who pronounce nuclear "nuke-you-lar"</span>
<br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"supposebly"</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"expecially"</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">lies</span>
<br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">sharia law apologists</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">jihad sympathizers</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">media
hipocracy</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">fake nails</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">tattoos</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">feather
extensions</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">synthetic fabrics</span>
<br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">stripper shoes</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">other people's children</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">ghetto culture</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Prius
drivers</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Federal overreach</span>
<br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"women's health"</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">angry atheists</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Facebook</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">guys hogging
the arm machines the gym</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">couples who
work out together</span> <br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">teen moms</span>
<br /><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">shattered illusions</span> Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-27819687390104029132012-09-26T02:57:00.003-07:002012-09-26T02:57:52.318-07:00PetulanceWhy do I even bother with this nonsense? I'm not the writer.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-53186455143224856192012-09-15T10:19:00.000-07:002012-09-15T10:19:15.897-07:00Aunt Flo Says, "Gesundheit."I believe there may be some kind of force out there in the ether, a malign and disgruntled force that conspires against me. This is the reason that if there is a product on the market that I especially like, that product will be discontinued. Weaver's Batter-Dipped Fried Chicken, for example. Ginza brand shampoo and conditioner. Aqua Silk conditioner. Meguiar's Tech Wax 2.0, the car wax squeezed straight from the nipples of the gods.<br />
<br />
When the dark force is not trolling my cupboards, trying to suss out with which products I would be most aggrieved to part, it is causing co-workers to schedule long meetings on the second day of The Curse of Eve. On the second day, the Overlook Hotel elevator doors open up, and blood fills the streets. There are clots the size of small babies, which must be checked for faces before the toilet can be flushed (just in case.) The second day, (and then often the third, and sometimes the fourth) requires the largest absorbency tampons that are made, in addition to the type of extra-long maxi pad with wings and blood-gutters down the side. Frequent trips to the can are required. <br />
<br />
The second day is a bad day for a two-hour meeting. Yesterday's meeting took place in a small office, and one of the participants was wearing some kind of flowery, powdery old lady perfume. I kept trying to move out of the cloud of violets, talcum, and presumably, the musk produced by the dread of the impending nursing home. Eventually, though, I breathed in a great big lung bucket full, and promptly sneezed violently. Twice.<br />
<br />
Some broads say that they pee when they sneeze. I don't have this problem, but if it happens to be the second day Auntie Flo is in town, it may dislodge something unpleasant. Like, say, a clot. And when clot is dislodged, a torrent might follow. Which is what happened. And the back-up pad failed, so the effluvia shot over the sides and over the top, like a mongol horde. <br />
<br />
It looked like I had been shot in the crotch, and that is why I had to go home and change my pants. Thank God for long shirts.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-58941077820388624342011-10-08T10:08:00.000-07:002012-09-26T02:56:56.961-07:00I'm trying to ignore the anti-Wall Street protesters. It's not easy, as I like to read the blog posts on the National Review, and it's been getting daily mentions out there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It annoys me. Lots of things annoy me, actually; some things more than others. I really don't like being in a perpetual state of annoyance, as I'd rather be amused. I am more frequently annoyed, these days, and less often amused. It's an imbalance I seek to correct.<br />
<br />
<br />
Avoiding things that really annoy me is part of my plan to restore my annoyance/amusement balance, and that is why I have been trying to avoid those stupid protesters. I have not done a good job, because I've read a fair number of articles on the subject (excluding the purportedly glowing endorsement from Krugman: how can you sing the praises of anti-capitalist protesters when you make seven figures writing for a paper that advertises for Rolex and Tiffany's? Seriously?) I have read some articles, and so now I am annoyed. <br />
<br />
I like to rant when I am annoyed, so here I go: <br />
<br />
I have worked in the student aid industry for fifteen years now, and I know those protesters. They're the same ones who failed to file their federal aid applications on time, missed grant deadlines, and screamed at me because somehow it's my fault that they wouldn't be getting aid that semester. They're the ones who missed a line on their loan application, and screamed at me because their wouldn't disburse in time to buy books before the start of the semester.<br />
<br />
These are the same kids that spent all six (count'em, six) years of undergraduate study calling up and screaming at people like me because the loan limits weren't high enough. I'll repeat: they screamed and ranted and raved because they COULDN'T BORROW ENOUGH. After all, loans are generally the only type of aid for which middle-class kids qualify. (The free money is for people on welfare; the financial aid system is set up to reward bad behavior, so if anyone in your household is working, you're screwed.)<br />
<br />
For Federal loans, the schools determine a borrower's eligibility, and transmit that information to my agency. (Well, they used to under the old system, which was a much better system than the system now in use, but that's a rant for another day.) I used to call school financial aid offices on behalf of borrowers whose loan applications were pending school approval, and the story was always the same: the student was either ignoring requests from the school for verification of their income/status/costs, or was in some way ineligible. Generally, "ineligible" = "crap grades," but not always. I would relay this to the borrower, and the borrower would scream at me. Then the borrower would call up the school and scream at them, too.<br />
<br />
After they graduate, or drop out, they call up to scream about how they can't possibly repay all this money they borrowed. In spite of the fact that they are counseled to borrower conservatively, and only borrow enough to cover attendance. (Using loan money to fuel your three-five-dollar-Starbucks-frappuccinos-a-day habit is just a bad idea.) They don't listen, they borrow loan amounts in excess of what they could ever hope to earn with a degree in interpretive dance or filmmaking or basket weaving, because the screamers are often from the most useless and unmarketable fields of study, for some reason.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then they file bankrupcty, and call and scream at us because you can't discharge student loan debt in bankruptcy. This is stated on the promissory notes they sign when the apply, mind you, but they never read them. Most of them have their mothers completeing the applications for them, so how can they possibly be held responsible?<br />
<br />
They default, and they call up and scream because their wages are garnished and their tax refunds seized. Then they decide that the loans aren't theirs; someone stole their identity and borrowed money in their names, so they file fraud claims. When that is disproven, they'll file disability for their depression and anxiety. When that's denied, they'll add fibromyalgia and ADHD to the disability discharge application form.<br />
<br />
<br />
These disgruntled student loan borrowers, blocking the sidewalk waving their little cardboard sign with their outstanding loan balance scrawled in Sharpie have always been disgruntled. I think they're extra angry now because they lived better when they were living off student loans. The majority of them are unemployed not because they can't get jobs, but because they can't get the jobs they think they deserve. They're underemployed because they're following some pipe dream ideals of working in some low paying activist job, or forgoing better-paying jobs they COULD get for low-paying jobs they ENJOY. <br />
<br />
And the spoiled little smelly shits think it reasonable to expect someone else to now foot the bill for their degrees, like the banks, and taxpayers. <br />
<br />
<br />
I am slightly bemused by the "smash the system" socialists of the movement, who say they want to overthrow the government. (This will never happen as long as Ted Nugent is alive, by the way.) Ditto the "anti-capitalists" who completely miss the irony of Tweeting anti-capitalist sentiments on their iPhones while eating pizza donated by sympathizers who ring up local pizzarias to place mass orders, paying with their VISA cards.<br />
<br />
The student-loan-forgiveness jackasses, however, just piss me off. Perhaps they should have paid attention when they were told not to overborrow, and chosen less expensive schools. Or, more importantly, perhaps they should go back to their respective alma maters and ask why the rate of inflation for higher education is four times that of any anything else?<br />
<br />
I hope they actually do affect some change with their villify success/eat the rich/sour grapes bullshit nonsense. I hope Herr Obeekaybee pushes through some kind of legislation to allow student debt to be included in bankruptcies. I predict that when that happens, the banks will jump ship, and people like the "erase student debt" assholes won't be able to borrow themselved in to a hole in order to attend college. In fact, they won't be able to go at all.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-64284989228520841242011-09-05T16:07:00.000-07:002011-09-05T16:07:17.497-07:00Mrs. Kintner Ruminates at the Wave Pool. Udo and I went to hang out in the wave pool at the local amusement park. Me and Udo, we love the wave pool. <br />
In previous years, Udo was a reserved swimmer. Whether the beach, or the swimming pool, or the wave pool at the water park, Udo stuck close to the side and did NOT get his head wet.<br />
This year, however, Udo has got the spirit. The gods of summertime water fun must have reached down and annointed him with chlorinated holy water, for he is now a most exhuberant swimmer. He is ZEALOUS. He jumps, he dives, he floats; he puts his face in the water and screams for all he is worth, sounding alarmingly like little Alex Kintner, about to meet his toothy, bloody end.<br />
So Udo is joyfully splashing and diving about in the wave pool, while I sit at the edge and let the water lap at my toes (noting with some alarm that the size of the arthritic toe-bumps seem to have increased exponentially since last summer, and that the heavily chlorinated water has played hell with my pedicure.)<br />
Udo's favorite thing in his new gung-ho wave pool repertoire is to do a dead-man's float kind of thing while letting the waves carry him in. He will do this over and over again, or as long as the pool's wave cycle lasts.<br />
Little boys playing dead in a large wave pool at an amusement park is an alarming thing to the lifeguards; they don't like it one bit. This is understandable, as it must be hard to differentiate between little boys joyfully floating face-down on the waves, and actual kid corpses. The lifeguard blew her whistle at Udo, and told him not to float around like that. <br />
Udo was sad; Udo's summery wave pool joy had been compromised by a well-meaning lady with a whistle. I tried to explain to him that she wanted to make sure that he was just playing, and was not hurt. I told him that floating around like that makes it look like he was a dead guy, and lifeguards try to keep the dead guys out of the pool.<br />
Udo looked sad, with big blue watery puppy dog eyes, but did not want to be consoled. "Are you OK?" I asked him. Udo smirked. "Yes, I'm FINE," he said. "Can you please go away now?"<br />
So Udo went back to playing in the waves, although his splashing lacked the same level of joyful exhuberance. This is the trouble with Udo's complete lack of cynicism. The rest of us in this family expect the worst and hope for the best; Udo expect sunshine, rainbows, and unlimited freezepops at every turn. His heart breaks audibly whenever someone proves disproves his perception of the world as an amazing place with unlimited possibilities, where a guy can dead-man's-float around the wave pool as much as he likes.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-12210327922410452752011-08-05T18:00:00.000-07:002011-08-05T18:00:07.466-07:00Further observation.Women who have big fake plastic fingernails and go around tapping them on everything deserve to have their fingertips smashed with a hammer. <br />
<br />
<br />
Then they should be forced to eat the pieces. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hey, you at the ATM. Yes, Sheniqua, I'm talking to you. What the hell are you doing up there, programming the damn thing? You've reinserted your card three times, and pushed all the buttons, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to make that TANF money appear in your account any faster. Now move so that those of us who actually have some money in our accounts may access it. Thank you. <br />
P.S....Nice braids. <br />
<br />
<br />
Can we please call a moratorium on the damned Obama shirts? The fact that I disagree with the man's Keynsian "redisribute the wealth" bullshit nonsense policies notwithstanding, your shirt is offensive. He's the bloody leader of the free world, Lord 'elp us, not Kid Rock. It's not a rock concert, it's not a tractor pull, it's not a charity walk. The face of the POTUS does not belong stretched across your giant bulbous midsection. <br />
<br />
Stop it. <br />
<br />
P.S....No, you can't. <br />
<br />
<br />
A cell phone is not a free pass that absolves one from common courtesy. You may be engrossed in your text or posting to your FB page or checking the hits on your porn site, or whatever it is you silly millenials do with those damned things, but it does not give you license to walk the hell in to me because you're too busy to watch wher the flaming fuck you're going. <br />
Asshole.<br />
<br />
Lastly, I would just like to reiterate that I hate tattoos. I know, I know...I'm a blinkered, stodgy old lady with antiquated ideas and a stick up my ass. Whatever, jackass; you look ridiculous. They are not beautiful, they are not artistic, and perhaps most of all, they do not make you unique. They do not affirm your individuality. You dig, freak show? They make you look just like every other shitass twenty-something with a bloated sense of self-worth and a lip ring. It's just ugly, and it makes you look trashy. I maintain that the only people that ought to have them are bikers, longshoremen, convicts, and soldiers. If you're not one of those things, don't get one.<br />
<br />
And a special note to the tattooed ladies out there: I'd like to come after you with the same hammer I use on the fake fingernails.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-6782830853214867482011-07-26T20:28:00.000-07:002011-07-26T20:30:43.019-07:00Observations (Assorted)I'm fed up with politics, and have decided to stop paying attention. I've come to the conclusion that one side is the same as the other; two sides of the same coin, and the coin was formed out of shit. I suspect that the ultimate goal of either side is to implode the system from within by 1) excessive interference with everyday life, and 2) tipping the scales heavily to one side or the other of the wage scale.I feel that it is rather hopeless, and my one regret is that I never got around to stocking up on MRE's and ammunition. When I head for the hills, I'm going to be hungry and unarmed.<br />
<br />
(**I have formulated an opinion regarding the current debacle of a budget debate, though. At this point, they may as well be shouting, "Less filling!" "Tastes great!" across the aisle at one another. It may actually be slightly more productive.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Along a similar vein, I can't decide which pack of zealots I dislike more. Progressives? Evangelical Christians? Naturopaths? Vegans? (Insert vocal racial group here)? People who get all their news from Jon bloody Stewart? People who get all their news from Glenn bloody Beck? Conspiracy theorists? Smart phone owners? Luddites? "Pet parents?" People who are against abortion? People who are for abortion? Union members? Breastfeeders? Anyone who refers to himself as an "advocate"? Have I mentioned "pet parents?"<br />
Decisions, decisions.<br />
<br />
<br />
A side note: commenting on a local news channel's FB post regarding a study about some supposed extra benefit of breastfeeding and using the term "La Leaky Tit Nazis" will get your post deleted. FYI.<br />
<br />
<br />
Note to parents of screaming children: if you hit it, it will stop. If you would have hit it a few times when it was much smaller, it would not be screaming right now; it would have learned its lesson. So please, for the love of God, take your squalling lump of meat in to the can and whack its ass a few times. <br />
<br />
<br />
Pink lip gloss looks smashing when one has a tan.<br />
<br />
<br />
McDonald's has announced that every Happy Meal will now automatically come with apples, an indication that those in the greasy monolith who make the decisions are a punch of frilly-skirted nancies. I don't want corporations to kow-tow to special interest groups and Obeekaybee's fright of a wife! I want them to tell them to bugger off, whilst lifting a leg and farting. It's fast food, for Christ's sake, it's supposed to be unhealthy! If I were given a chance to make this decision, I would decree that Happy meals will now come with a side of bacon and six Pixie Sticks.<br />
<br />
<br />
If I ever win the lottery, I will: <br />
<br />
*Buy a house where the nearest neighbor is at least a mile away. My moat will double as a swimming pool.<br />
<br />
*Special order my Aston Martin<br />
<br />
*Spend a whole summer at the beach.Drink in my hand, toes in the sand...<br />
<br />
*Turn my current house in to a used book/record shop, zoning laws be damned.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-45022575336461346752011-04-27T17:05:00.000-07:002011-04-27T17:11:18.001-07:00The Blair Witch: Some Thoughts on the Royal Wedding.I will not be getting up at 4AM to watch Prince William's wedding. I'm sure that some people assumed I'd be sitting up all night in breathless anticipation, wearing a tiara and an imitation Princess Diana sapphire ring; those people would be wrong.<br />
<br />
By the time I do get up at 5:30-ish, I'm sure that the newscasts will be rife with instant replays and commentaries, never mind the impending economic collapse, and wars and pestilence and famine. But the hell with it, we've got us a new princess!<br />
<br />
There are things about the royal wedding I'd like to see, though. Former Prime Ministers John Major and Margaret Thatcher were on the guest list; Tony Blair and Gordon Brown were not. I read a commentary that Wills is pissed off at Blair over the way he used Diana's death as a vehicle to further his political agenda, and also the way he goaded the Queen in to making a televised statement in spite of that fact that those kinds of things are NOT in her queenly nature. I don't know if this is true, but I sure hope so. It makes it all a little more interesting.<br />
<br />
My friend Rosenrosen suggested that perhaps Brown and Blair might swing by Westminster Abbey and do a drive-by mooning, which I think would definitely be worth getting up at 4AM for. I'd also like to see Blair disguise himself as a kindly old lady, and give the bride a bouquet booby-trapped with a cursed thorn upon which she would prick her dainty finger. This would cause her to fall in to a deep sleep for a hundred years, and all of London would be overgrown with a mighty tangled hedge that no warrior could tame. <br />
<br />
Tony would then hop on Cherie's broomstick and ride off in to the sunset. Being the Toniest of Blairs, of course, he would be so busy looking back over his shoulder and laughing maniacally at the havoc he had wrought he would not see the towers of London Bridge looming ahead of him. SMACK, he'd go, right in to the wall, and his head would shatter like a terra cotta pot.<br />
<br />
Gordon Brown would just be standing around uselessly, looking frumpy.<br />
<br />
That's not likely, though. I'm also wondering how tight the security might be for this ultimate whopper of a shindig. The UK has a very loose immigration system, so that they've been letting in boatloads of disgruntled middle-eastern types for years. These people form little angry clubs and plot to blow shit up, so I'm wondering if the might target the royal couple on their wedding day. This would certainly justify setting the alarm for 4AM.<br />
<br />
Given the prince's knack for shunning convention, I also wonder he might be working at dismantling the monarchy from within, which will be something interesting to witness. Then again, once he gains the throne he might go all Henry VIII and start lopping off people's 'eads. This I would also like to see.<br />
<br />
Still and all, I'm awfully disappointed that no one bought me a Wills and Kate tea towel for my birthday.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-52628676377447049642011-03-23T17:03:00.000-07:002011-03-23T17:03:21.427-07:00Cloudy with a Chance of Popcorn ChickenUdo got in big, big trouble. In fact, Udo got suspended from school for one day because he made a threat against someone. Threats are awful and terrible, and people who make them get kicked out of school for a day. <br />
<br />
<br />
Here's the gist of what he said: <br />
<br />
"I'm going to cut you up, deep fat fry you, and eat you like popcorn chicken." <br />
<br />
He was either joking, or we have a fledgling Dahmer on our hands; a second-grade Albert Fish who's only a few years away from learning to cook the livers of small children, and purchasing many, many sewing needles. <br />
<br />
My money is on the former, but the school is not taking any chances. Bad, bad Udo had to sit out school for a day. Here is what bad Udo had to say about that: <br />
<br />
(Singing) "I-i-i-i-i don't have to go to schooooool on Mo-ho-ho-nnnndaaaaay....lucky meeeee, lucky, lucky meeeeee...." (etc.) <br />
<br />
<br />
Udo said the bad, horrible, terrible thing about chicken to his little friend. Socially retarded Udo has one little friend, by the way. Some other kid overheard the exchange, and ran and told the paraprofessional who was minding the playground. There were interrogations, apparently. There may have been nipple-twisting and cattle prods, but I cannot say for certain. I'm sure the school people wouldn't admit to it. <br />
<br />
<br />
Supposedly, Udo gave up the information willingly. When the teacher repeated it back to him, he corrected her. "No, I didn't say I'd fry him...I said I'd DEEP FAT FRY him!" <br />
<br />
Udo was in a squirrely mood on Friday, I guess. He had been making smart comments to his teacher all day, and had shaken his fist angrily at the director. <br />
<br />
<br />
I told him that he should not say things like that at school, even if he means it as a joke. I also told him that the world is full of assholes who like to tattle, and get off on getting other people in trouble. "All your life," I told him, "you will have to deal with assholes like that. When you find those people, you need to stay away from them." <br />
<br />
<br />
I realize that in the post-Columbine era, the schools have become hyper-vigilant about possible threats. I realize that this is because the schools have to think about liability, and the legal ramifications of NOT taking seriously any word or action that could be perceived as a threat. It seems to me, however, that chasing after the Udos in the schoolyard, the ones who make exaggerated and cartoonish threats amongst their friends, is pointless. I doubt that the alphas who lay painstaking plans to bring Grandpa's guns to shoot up the school are going to waste much time making jokes about it.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-20850098200293502032011-03-09T15:54:00.001-08:002011-03-09T15:54:58.930-08:00The Birthday PartyMy friend’s grandmother called and asked if I was going to the party. I tell her I don’t know anything about a party. <br />
<br />
<br />
“She’s having a birthday party, and I know you were invited,” she says. <br />
<br />
I tell her I never got an invitation. “Oh, sure you did,” says the grandmother. “Look on top of the piano. I look, and there is an invitation. Thick cream-colored card stock, obviously professionally printed. The party is today, and I have to leave right now. <br />
<br />
I go to a building down the street from the house where my friend is living. A firehall, or perhaps the social hall at the Catholic church. My friend is there with her extended family. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” she tells me. “Everyone is waiting at the house, and we’re going to make an entrance.” <br />
<br />
I go to the house where she lives; her stepfather’s house, the one she grew up in. It’s a ranch house that used to have just a small concrete block by the front door, and not a proper porch. A porch of massive proportions has been built. It has a gabled roof and several levels. It’s full of party guests, waiting for the grand entrance. <br />
<br />
Her blind step-father is there, and tells me that the family is bringing a goose. “When they get here, we can cook the food.” <br />
<br />
There are lots of people I don’t know, as well as a few I do. Kenny is there, which strikes me as odd because he dealt himeself a fatal gunshot to the head many years ago. It is very dim under the porch. <br />
<br />
Three 80’s-era conversion vans pull up and park at angles by the curb. The vans are dented and rusty. The family all jump out of the vans, waving, and the party guests on the porch whoop and cheer. <br />
<br />
Someone opens the sliding door on the side of one of the vans, and what I presume to be the goose flies out. It is a massive bird with white feathers, and it is a skeleton from the chest up. It flies up on to the porch, and lands on a table behind me. <br />
<br />
“Someone turn on the grill,” says the stepfather. <br />
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The bird stares at me with its gaping sockets.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-60739106887091627702011-02-10T18:11:00.000-08:002011-02-10T18:11:23.350-08:00Udo the BarberOne day when Udo was in kindergarten, during German class, he broke another kid's crayons and cut another kid's hair with the safety scissors. It was funny, apparently, until his regular teacher and the principal questioned him. He lied and said he didn't do it. When they told him they knew he'd done it, THEN he got scared because he realized he was in trouble. <br />
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I don't know why he did it, or why he'd ever think that either of those things are acceptable. <br />
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I said, "Why the hell did you cut that kid's hair???" <br />
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He says, "I didn't like it." Sigh. <br />
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When we got home, Udo ran inside ahead of me and locked the back door. <br />
"Don't let her in!" he yelled to his father, and then went to hide in the bathroom. Apparently I'm pretty scary. <br />
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I took his CD player away for a week, he's not allowed to play his Wheel of Fortune plug'n'play game, and we WERE going to go to Friendly's this evening but now we're not. I also shouted at him for a while and wacked his ass, the sociopathic little bugger. Then I sent him to bed. <br />
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Udo was very, very sorry. Sorrier for the loss of his video game and his CD player than anything else, I think, but sorry nontheless. <br />
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He had to write letters of apology to the German teacher, the kid whose crayons were broken, and the kid whose hair was cut. That was a party, I can tell you, as he was not in the mood to write when we sat down to write them. Udo can do anything provided he <em>wants</em> to; if he doesn't want to, he feigns stupidity. This makes me angry, because I know damn well he reads and writes above grade-level. So I shouted at him and whacked him on the head with the pencil, which made him cry. I don't enjoy making the child cry, believe it or not, but he is so infuriating that sometimes I'd really love to beat him with a stick. <br />
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However, we got the letters done and he promised <em>not</em> to touch other kids or their possessions. We'll see how long this lasts. Later, he asked me if I love him. I said of course I do. He said, "Sometimes you don't love me!" I told him that when he is disobedient I get angry at him, but I always love him. He didn't look like he believed me, probably because I do things like lose my temper and whack him in the head with a pencil.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-64242923355442014812011-01-09T17:34:00.000-08:002011-01-09T17:34:51.441-08:00On the Rampage.I've been reading the news coverage of the shootings in Arizona. I read some articles on MSNBC, just because the old man insist on keeping it set as the homepage and they're right in my face when I log in. I dislike MSNBC's coverage of just about everything, on the grounds that it's dumbed-down, and more than a little biased.<br />
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This site, as well as a number of others, are all frothing at the mouth in blind leftist ecstasy because they've all decided that they get to blame this particular incident on the right-wing entertainers they so despise (I call them entertainers because they're not journalists. Just like network hacks like Meredith Viera or that Olberman douchebag more vaudevillians than journalists, but I won't elaborate on that at this time.) People also seem to be calling for the head of Sarah Palin on a platter, as they have decided that it's also her fault.<br />
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I don't have the audacity to presume that I can say who is to blame, although my money is on the guy with the gun. I don't watch Fox News, and I think Sarah Palin not only a disgrace to conservatives and Republicans, she makes all women look bad. She's another sinewy, b'suited corporate bitch with a stupid haircut, just like every female executive I've ever encountered; women like her are the scourge of the earth.<br />
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The vitriol and bile I've seen in the comments sections of the news stories I've been reading (why, oh why, do I ever waste my time with the bloody Huffington Post?) are coming from those who are gleeful about their certainty that the responsibility for the catastrophe can be laid squarely at the feet of the other side. <br />
"Oh, yay!" they're shouting. "Score one for us!"<br />
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It reminds me of April 1997. Hitler's birthday, to be exact. Remember? Two teenage boys carried bags of weapons in to their high school and laid waste to a number of school mates and faculty. Remember that? Remember how the right wingers were pissing their charming underclothes in self-righteous glee because they were convinced that they'd get to pin the whole thing on violent movies, video games, and most importantly, Marilyn Manson?<br />
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It was a shining, golden moment for the religious right...except that they were wrong. The shooters were not Manson fans. The shooters, it seems, thought Manson was a tool, and favored German industrial metal like Rammstein. Imagine that! To this day, Manson maintains that Columbine ended his career. Too bad the shooters weren't even fans.<br />
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Those kids were narcissistic little turds and were likely psychotic. Just like the guy in Arizona is a narcissistic turd; preliminary reports indicate that they guy is anti-government period, and doesn't seem to favor one side over the other.<br />
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Again, I don't presume to know one way or the other. What I do know is that at this point no one knows what really motivated the shootings, and like Columbine, it's possible no one ever will. In my mind, the political affiliations of the assholes laying the turds are irrelevant; whether it's a right-wing evangelical shitting stupid unfounded divisive rants all over the comments sections of national news sites, or a left-wing progressive shitting stupid unfounded divisive rants in the same manner, it's still shit. You can slap all the pretty pink ribbons of justification on that pile of shit as you want...it still stinks, and no one needs it.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-32854292163936599002010-12-31T09:03:00.000-08:002010-12-31T09:05:16.341-08:00Zoo Sign.**Credit where credit is due: my pal Rosenrosen made a sign similar to this one, and hung it up in her cube at work in an attempt to prevent people from bothering her. I stole her idea and modified it to suit me.<br />
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The North American Boden (praecantrix misellus)<br />
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Native to the wilds of Hummelstown, the North American Boden is easily startled once you get its attention, and has been known to react violently to stupidity and the threat of taxation. Selectively deaf, it is only able to be safely approached by people whom it does not dislike. The Boden has been known to slay its victims with a barbed tongue and rapier wit; its mean-spirited sarcasm is often mistaken for humor.<br />
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The Boden responds well to "Top Gear**,"70's arena rock, British comedy, and subtitled films. It also enjoys McVities Milk Chocolate Digestive biscuits, icy-cold cans of dietCoke, and dark beer. If you don’t have any of these to offer, then please observe from a distance, and quietly back away.<br />
**BBC "Top Gear," not the shitty American version.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-30055326242970925532010-12-31T08:55:00.000-08:002010-12-31T09:06:03.278-08:00Happy Christmas from the Douchebag Family<div style="text-align: left;"> I have been thinking about Christmas newsletters. You know, those long-winded and boring letters that some people tuck in to their Christmas cards where they tell you all about what they've been up to during the past year. </div> It seems to me that if I cared enough to know about your husband's promotion or your son's hockey league or the family trip to Mexico, I might have called you up at some point during the year to chat. But I don't...so I didn't. There seems to be a new twist to the Christmas newsletter: the Year End E-mail. Maybe this is not a new thing, but this is the first year I received one. This one involved each member of the family listing the top five things that happened during the year, and came with a PowerPoint photo slide show of the year's best photos attached.<br />
It seems that you send this out to everyone in your address book, with no regard to whether or not they might actually give a shit about what happened to you this year. I would think that one would want to be at least a little selective, a little considerate, when sending out something like this. I have email addresses of businesses in my address book, and I'm reasonably certain that Bank of America, LTD Commodities, and eBay aren't terribly interested in my family's lists of of the top five occurrences from the past year.<br />
I would enjoy receiving Christmas newsletters, in traditional paper or electronic format, if EVERYTHING that happened during the year were discussed. Like how the Mexico trip resulted in dysentery and your daughter's very first dose of the clap on account of that terrible business with the Mexican border guards, or how your husband's hemorrhoids got so bad during tax season that you had to spend hours on the Internet tracking down those special ice trays that make ice cubes shaped for rectal insertion. Your struggle to rid your home of bedbugs would be an interesting topic, as would the day you lit the gas grill with the lid closed and burned off your eyebrows. The zenith would be the newsletter in which you announce your impending divorce and/or sex change, although you could only do that once. That's a PowerPoint slide show I'd be interested to see.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-62810351528020335692010-11-03T15:36:00.000-07:002010-11-03T15:36:50.381-07:00BiographyA few years ago, when I worked in a fun department, we were informed that the intranet site was going to be updated, and they wanted a short biography for each person on staff. My co-workers and I each collaborated on one another's blurbs. We weren't allowed to use them, of course. I found my bio in my email archive today, and decided that it's a shame it's never been published.<br />
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"Short, squat, and gruff yet lovable, Linda startles easily. She is not as dim-witted as you think. She likes to swear. When you leave after speaking to her, she makes fun of you. It is rumored that she collects dust. Has 17 confirmed kills in the field. <br />
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Once had 4 GI Joe torsos, a pack of gum, a baby starling, 16 marbles and 1 very rare replica of Tom Selleck's moustache removed from an unmentionable area by a veterinarian after a long night of binge drinking Mad Dog 20/20 and doing body shots off a very confused elderly couple. <br />
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Nickname: "Butch", "Babs" <br />
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Favorite Song: "A Country Boy Can Survive" <br />
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Favorite Quote: "Milk, milk, lemonade, around the corner fudge is made." <br />
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Marital Status: Yes <br />
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Children: Two (Inadvertantly purchased with Marlboro Miles. She thought she was getting a commemorative Dale Earnhardt collector's plate.) <br />
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Hobbies: Huffing paint fumes, BMX bikes, Fistfighting, Scrapbooking."Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-35756534569816523712010-10-18T15:22:00.000-07:002010-10-18T15:22:13.803-07:00Sweet Leaf My Ass.I am sick to bloody death of paranoid pot smokers. <br />
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Disclaimer: Everything I'm about to say is wholly anecdotal and based on limited personal experience with dope-smoking fucktards. I have no empirical data with which to back up my claims and accusations, no scientific studies with caged monkeys or lab rats or control groups or placebos. It is based solely on my own observations. Furthermore, I'm not interested in debate. I don't care what anyone else thinks about this particular subject. You want debate? Go somewhere else. <br />
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People who smoke pot get weird and paranoid and annoying. They develop a special type of narcisism wherein anything and everything anyone says or does can somehow be interpreted as a personal slight. Because dope-smoking also fries a fucktard's short-term memory, their recollections become half-assed and distorted, so that when they choose to throw past events back in someone's face, they're forty-nine shades of wrong. <br />
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You take a fucktard who is predispositioned to depression, and you give that fucktard some pot. The pot enhances the depression, so that its width and breadth and depth increase exponentially. Then you take the fucktard to the doctor, and the doctor gives the fucktard some antidepressant medication. (Which, more than a few studies have shown, are remarkably ineffective in the majority of patients and have no more effect on the clinically gloomy than sugar pills. This is true, look it up.) <br />
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Pot is a depressant, as is alcohol. I think that physicians should be required by law to test mopey fucktards for drugs. If they are found to have drugs in their stupid systems, they should be informed that perhaps their outlook would improve if they laid off the depressants. However, there are no kickbacks from the pharmaceutical companies in that approach. <br />
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Antidepressants change people, never for the better. So you take a paranoid mopey fucktard with a bad memory and then you throw some Prozac or Zoloft or whatever on top of it, and they seem to get pissed off. Their interests change, their likes and dislikes change. Their personalities are altered. <br />
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Then you have a dope-smoking fucktard who was mildly annoying but had some good points and rearrange their personality with the magickal anti-glum pills, and you're left with someone you probably don't want to know. <br />
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You might get to the point where you don't want to be around that person very much, and you might discuss this loudly and abundantly with other people who know the fucktard. Then the fucktard might go and commit suicide in the woods with a box cutter so that you're left feeling guilty for the rest of your stupid life. <br />
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Or worse yet they don't pick up a box cutter and off themselves, and you're stuck listening to their ridiculous dope-smoking antidepressant-addled bullshit nonsense. <br />
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I can't decide which is worse.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843187114511339266.post-29519582564749197462010-09-29T16:49:00.000-07:002010-09-29T16:49:43.811-07:00Pondering Dawkins.I've been thinking a lot about the notion that the world would be a better place without religion. I was watching Ben Stein's documentary "Expelled," which addresses academe's treatment of researchers who study Intelligent Design, and it set me thinking. I've heard the anti-religion sentiment from many camps, from journalists to academics to entertainers. Citing the many atrocities committed in the name of one god or the other, it is supposed that eradicating religion would enable humans to become more civilized and stop lobbing bombs at one another. <br />
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I reckon there is a preponderance of evidence supporting this viewpoint, between the Crusades and the Inquisition and the entire history of the Middle East. One could argue, however, that there have been just as many horrors inflicted by one group of flag-waving humans on another group of flag-waving humans that were not motivated by religion. Pick your communist government as an illustration of this, given their fascist tendency to kidnap, imprison, and murder dissenters. The National Socialist German Worker's Party is also a fair example of this; you may know them as the Nazi party. <br />
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Buddhists and Hindus also seem to put a rather large whole in the "religion is responsible for all the bad things in the world" theory. Admittedly, I am not a scholar on such things, and there very well could be some horrible atrocities committed at some point in history in the name of the Buddha or Ganesh. In any case, I can't recall any recent instances of groups of pissed off Buddhists bombing shopping malls or abortion clinics. Also consider that there are many religions not only are non-violent, but also are responsible for much of the charity in the world. Do a Google search on the outreach ministries of the Mennonites and review the long list of community services the church provides. The Salvation Army? Great organization, outstanding charitable works...no guns. <br />
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Acts of war and terrorism, whether committed in the name of a god or a political party, seem to stem from the very human desire to achieve some kind of perfect state. Whether the result one seeks is heaven or a perfect society, it seems that once a group of zealots are whipped up in to a fever about the possibility of perfection, they will maim and kill anyone they see as an obstacle to its attainment. If you're a Muslim, infidels stand between you and your 40 virgins in heaven. If you're a Christian in the Middle Ages, dirty Muslim heathens befouling the Holy Land stand between you and the Perfect Kingdom of God. If you're a Nazi, Jews, Gypsies, retards, and other assorted imperfect human detritus stand between you and Utopia. If you're an environmentalist, whaling ships, loggers, and people driving large SUVs stand between you and a perfect, pristine planet. Combine humankind's desire for perfection with a propensity for smug self-righteousness along with some faith, ideology, or creed that accommodates both, and you've got a recipe for disaster. <br />
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I'm of the opinion that eradicating religion would not make the world a better place. Making a civilized, rational, and concerted effort to contain zealotry in all its forms, however, would probably work to the benefit of everyone.Babs Bodenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08490236099739292781noreply@blogger.com0