I Don’t Want to Walk a Mile in Your Shoes, Your Feet Stink

As Shang Tsung from the awesome first Mortal Kombat movie said “Save your pity for the weak!” Best line of one of the greatest Action B-movies ever.


I don’t know if it is because of how I was raised, or my time in the military, or just my personality, but I hate when people feel sorry for themselves. Heck, I hate myself when I get all weepy and depressed. But it seems many people in this day and age think that if they stub a toe, or don’t win an award they should be coddled and given a cookies.

I’m all out of cookies you whiny mustardbustard. I’m on a diet! I drink poop tea! (Some stupid weight loss tea that seems to make my insides liquefy).

Frack you Morpheus! Frack you and your no cookie having butt!

I think it has to do with the mentality that everyone’s a winner from out of the womb. Babies participate in a game, a sport, and everyone is supposed to let the room. If children are playing as a group, EVERY last snotty nosed ankle biter should get a trophy, even little John-boy, who stood there digging in his butt for gold for a few hours. Give that stank brown hand a trophy!

People aren’t honest with their kids. They praise my son being self-sufficient, but gasp when I say I never let him win on a game with me. And that I flat-out answer honestly any question he asks about life. To them, it’s too embarrassing. Why the frack did you have kids? Did you think it was going to be like a Hallmark movie where nothing bad or uncomfortable ever happens? Did you hit your head after pushing your monstrosity out and forget the world we live in?

You are setting up your child to not have realistic expectations, and to get wedgies everyday, you punk.

And then those pinks raise punks to grow up to be… Grown up punks. And they get to a college, and whine about how hard it is. And they expect a degree to be handed to them. And then they get a job, and they whine about how hard THAT is. And why aren’t they running things by now when they have the life and work experience of a gnat?

Or maybe they are just those people who have had a rough hand in life. Dog and every family member dead, a disease that’s worse than Mr. Glass in Unbreakable. Just incredibly poopified life. And I have a little empathy, to a point. But Dear God day in and day out I say hi and you start to list the reasons why you’d be better off dead? I might just hand you a rope and knife. Remember, not ACROSS the wrists.

I’m just saying…

Sorry (not really), I’m just lately fed up with the in person pity parties people like to throw in my face. I’d much rather read about in online. At least on Facebook if you go all F*** My Life crazy, I can click Like. And you can sit and wonder if I’m sharing in, or laughing at your sadness.


Self Created Nicknames of Lameness

So today, I misheard lyrics to a song that my son was singing. I swear that I heard Grilled Cheese Ninja somewhere in there. And decided that it should from now on be my cat’s superhero name. Even cats need superhero names, dontcha know! So if I mention a four-legged she-devil by the name of Grilled Cheese Ninja, I’m talking about my crazy cat.

And it’s cool to make up nicknames for people. I seriously do it all the time. Especially with my students that have weird names. It’s not to offend them, its how I remember. I’m not going to remember a name that has no vowels. I gotta find something to call you where it doesn’t sound like I’m hacking a loogie or cursing in chinese.

What I can’t stand is those that make up their own nicknames. It’s all over the book of face. And usually, I’d say 75 percent of the time, of the ghetto/hood/trailer persuasion.

You know. The people who use Wal-Mart to debut the latest fashions of “Oh, God Killitwithfire” wear.

I’m all for cosplay. I’m not for Walmart-play.

The other 25 percent are the religious ghetto fabulous persuasion. The people have to put bible quotes up on Sunday, even though Saturday they posted pics of themselves in club clothes before they headed out.

These people have learned the interwebs.

And these people seem to have an animal impulse to add their own nicknames to their natural names on Facebook. I don’t know if its genetic, or group mentality, but what do you expect from people who have names that sound like their mother just picked letters out of a hat and then called it a name.

So Boomquisha Jones already will fail at anything above fast food and doing hair in her kitchen, but on top of that she has her FB handle as Boomquisha “ChocolateThighs” Jones. Boomquisha, I know you are 300 pounds and those chocolate thighs may be actually made of chocolate by now. And then there’s Boomquisha’s brother Antwon “Swaggalous” Jones. And in case you think I’m picking on the brown crayon ghettoness, Antwon’s girlfriend is Brytani “ChicksWannaBMe” Sullivan.

Those 3 I’ve actually seen across FB.

And of course, online religious leaders of FB have names like Tonya “2Blessed2BStressed” Williams, and Chris “RealMenPray” Johnson.

Why the fudge bucket do we need a nickname written into our FB identity?! It’s not even a nickname really. It’s the words that the announcer for HBO boxing before you come out into the ring.

I’m almost willing to believe that all the people are passing secret codes to each other. They are part of the government conspiracy of YOLO.

Maker of YOLO. Leader of the conspiracy of stupid.

All I know is, I can’t take seriously anyone that does this. It equates in my head with all manner of foolishness. Like YOLO, and swag, and other pop inspired shenanigans.


Dimension “youonlyliveonceinalternatedimensions” the 5th

That’s Just My Day Face? Ramblings of Military and Civilian Life

My first time trying this:  Rarasaur and Prompts for the Promptless – Season 2 Episode 1:  The Alter Ego

I’ve worn a uniform so many years that it feels abnormal not to wear boots or a cap on my head. Of course, the longest I’ve gone without the uniform is probably about 30 days of vacation in a year.

So it makes it hard to understand civilian life, to make friends outside the military. To not bring the military in every aspect of my life.

The military has its own language, that not even most movies can duplicate. There’s certain responses to situations we are conditioned to make. Or well, we WERE. The guys that I see coming out of basic training are softer than a wet roll of toilet paper. No offense, though it does offend me.

Not like I’m the toughest chick outside of my uniform. I run and scream at the carpenter bees, super mosquitoes and stink bugs that think my patio is their nighttime club and bar. But there is a mask that I can pull on, the military mask. When in uniform and told to stay still, I’ll let bees crawl all over me while I stay the frack still!

But back to making friends outside of the military, to being a separate person. I swear I don’t know how you guys do it! I mean, if you move to a new place as often as I do, how do you connect with others? What do you talk about? Do you just use your holdover friends from high school and college? Make nice with the neighbors?

Is this how I do it? Stalk people to make friends? Hmmmm.

And, how do you be a regular human being nowadays? My time in the military has been a part of my identity for so long, that I don’t know how to separate from it. It’s gone from being a face that I put on, to something I can’t take off even after the day is done and the uniform comes off.

So along with online dating, I’ve added online friend making with Meet-Up.com. Dear Baby Jesus, in order to be a normal person, I’ve trapped myself in the interwebs!

Oh No, I’m Blinded! Dealing With Monster Teen’s Growing Body

I share this because after telling the story to friends, I realized that maybe other mother do not talk with their sons this way. And plus, in hindsight it is hilarious. But when it was happening I was just frustrated.

So my son is a musician, and plays in the school band. The other night he had a performance, and I found out only the night before that he needed to be dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. Of course I have to buy this ish short notice!

So after work the next day, I run to the store, estimating my monster teen’s growing size. Pretty much holding things to me and picking a size slightly bigger. It works well for the shirt. For the pants, well, the last size I’d bought him was 32-32. And as a side note, stupid men’s sizes are stupid. Yes, I know they make more sense than a woman’s because you can have a tall skinny dude that needs a tiny waist and all, but it’s too confuzzling for me. So, I just bought his dress slacks in 32-32. I forgot about the one thing my genetics have cursed him with.

My son has a badonkadonk.

This is not a representation of my son. He has a huge butt, but that does not turn him into a monkey.

It is a ridiculously big behind for a male. He’s in denial. He thinks I’m making it up just how like I had him believing for some time that he was a clone after my first of him had an “unfortunate accident.”

But his butt is huge, and when I rushed home, gave him his new clothes to iron and throw on while I changed, I came back out to a visual dilemma.

From behind, his pants looked rather tight. It was showing off just how curvy those back cheeks were.

Me: You gotta go up a size in pants next time.

Monster Teen: Why? They fit.

Me: You look like you are smuggling cantaloupes back there.

Monster Teen: My butt is NOT big Mom!

And then… He turned around and I’m blinded.

Me: Oh no! You can’t go out like that!

MT: What?!

Me: All I see is crotch!


Me: Your junk is sitting up like a beacon right up front. No one will be able to see anything but that!

You remember in the movie Labyrinth, how we as children were introduced to David Bowie’s package? David Bowie has websites dedicated to his package.

My childhood… if it hadn’t already been sullied, that moment would be now.



I don’t want my son to have websites. *Shudders*

Monster Teen: What am I…

Me: Can you move it? Push it down the leg of your pants or something. Ugh. Just, just get it out of everyone’s face!

MT: grumble grumble grumble

Me: BIGGER PANTS. And boxer briefs.

If it wasn’t for having to leave out the door at that moment, I would have NEVER let my poor teen go out the door like that. I know he already catches the eye of many a young female. Well the other night he was serving them free teen on a platter with that get-up. Much to my “ew that’s my son” disgust.

How would a man handle this same situation with his son I wonder?

I Pity the Fool That Makes Me Look the Fool

The other day I had a no good, horrible, very bad day.

Except my hair looked better


It didn’t start off well. I went to bed late (reading Beautiful Creatures right now). I woke up late for the gym. I left the gym late, took too long to get ready for work, and was late there too. So, of course it’s the day where people keep asking me if I’m okay.

But it wasn’t until after lunch that it went from just having a pissy face to being truly off. Why?

Because my so-called peers can’t handle their ish.

There’s nothing like trying to do a job that someone else used to handle, and them not giving the information you need to complete it. Especially if someone like dimensionthe5th is about to test her students online and nothing works and she looks like a dummy because the previous a hole of the 9th power that usually handles the test only told me step 1.

There are many more steps than step 1 -_-

I hate looking stupid, not organized, or just plain incompetent in front of my students. But that’s what happened. And knowing my super paranoid self, they probably didn’t notice and just assumed this was the way things went. OR, at the end of the class they’re going to give lots of comments in the end of course feedback saying that dimensionthe5th is a hot mess. And I might commit a felony against another teacher.

I am not OCD. You should see what my car gets up to, junkwise. But I am very much a by-the-book person when it comes to a job I must complete. And yes, it must be step by step by daggone step. I’m talking about, if you are teaching someone how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you better first list all ingredients, including plate. And the you’d better start with “Take 2 slices of bread and lay them on plate.” Yes I am that anal.

And the other day all I had was Step Frackin 1.

Because having complete directions is so important to me, I go one track mind and cannot breathe, cannot function until I fix what I see as a problem. My whole afternoon was lost, while I worked on writing out instructions and trying to breathe deep and let murderous thoughts go. I could breathe a sigh of relief by the end of the work day, but the anger is still there. Because it’s not the first time it’s happened. With the same crappy person.

But I can’t kill him. So, whenever it comes into my mind again, I just have to send my evil brain waves towards him. I hope he gets gout in his crotch or something. Karma.

You think that’s too harsh? Frack you too. Grotch be upon you also. Grrrr, argh.



Charmin Bears Are the Nastiest Approved Commercials

Oh Sweet Baby Jesus! This video, this dude knows my heart!


AHAHAHAAHAHA! I hate those Charmin Bear commercials. Is it supposed to  be okay showing someone using the restroom because they are cartoon bears? NO, I say! NO!

Parents Please STOP! You and Your Child Are NOT a Special Snowflake

I love STFU Parents Blog http://www.stfuparentsblog.com/. I may have posted things as a parent in the past that are considered overshare  But honestly, nothing as bad as some of the things I’ve seen up there. Some of those posts, whether it’s crazy mommyjacking, or a picture of somebody’s hoohah wide open until you can look up the canal and see the baby’s living room, are just super insane.

Speaking of insane, I give you this link:


Yeah. If you feel that this okay, I’d like to come to your house and poop at your dining room table. I swear I’ll be quick and clean it up right afterwards.

I’m so confused… do I eat here or go potty?

Because this is what these privileged parents did. They changed their child’s diaper in an eating/drinking area, had a hissy frackin fit when they were told to clean up. And then threw their coffee on the ground because the workers there were so rude!

I hate people.

Seriously, there is one thing I really can’t stand in the world, and that is privileged parents that think that their children are gods and should be allowed to do whatever they want, whenever they want. If little Bobby decides to come to your house and murder your cat “while playing” you shouldn’t be pissed. He’s just precocious!

This isn’t exactly that situation, but why do you think other restaurant goers want your baby’s potty particles all up in their nose and mouth? I don’t want to smell my own bathroom mess, let alone your child’s stanky Similac behind.

A friend asked the question if I was against breast-feeding in public too?

No. NO. Two VERY different things!

Feeding makes sense because guess what? You are in a restaurant! Everyone should eat. Whip out your giggles and feed your monster baby.

But, how does the saying go? You don’t sh** where you eat, and neither should your spawn.

My monster teen, when he was a little nuisance, had complete blowouts whenever he went in his diaper.  As a young parent I got peed and number 2’d on. Just think if I was the parents in the story above changing one of THOSE diapers in a public place where people are eating and drinking. Yeah, that turns my stomach too.

Take that changing pad back to the bathroom with no changing table and lay it on your lap in a stall, or lay your child on the floor or sink. Take your monster out to your car and change their diaper.  Do not make this an accidental scat or golden shower moment while I am sipping my latte.

And frack Starbucks for apologizing. You are just allowing these kind of idiots to continue to act this way.

Makes me wish that there was a law that you couldn’t have children unless you passed a common sense and common decency questionnaire. I swear, it would cut down on welfare lingerers. And parents that think children should be worshiped.

We need… Willy Wonka.