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.

Signed,

Dimension “youonlyliveonceinalternatedimensions” the 5th

I am NOT made of Money!!! I am Made of Pissyoffedness

I have a boatload, a shipload, a starship full of love for my mommy. We may not have a traditional relationship since I’ve been calling a lot of the shots for years, but it works for us.

What does not work is her reliance on MY money.

Since I joined the military more than 10 years ago, I’ve helped my Momster in any way I can. Especially because she raised my son as I went playing in other countries. Especially because my sperm donor father could not be bothered to pay child support for her 2 underage children she still had to raise.

But that meant my accounts were in the negatives a lot.

See, my momster, with all her innocence and naivety, does not understand money. Sure, she can do math better than me, but actual saving, not living above her means, well, I guess you don’t learn that in the hood. Because the father unit didn’t either. And he taught her some very very bad habits.

On top of her having to pay rent for a house she really can’t afford, my brother who lives with her has no job, has never had a job, and is 20. I on the other hand give her money EVERY FRACKIN month, even when my son is not staying there because of military happy times. And, in addition to the set amount I give her every month, I give her over when she is behind on bills… Which is pretty much every month.

Let’s review: momster works two minimum wageish jobs, has a house she can barely afford, a vehicle she barely affords, an adult male who eats her out of house and home that has no job, and goes to a tech college maybe 3 days out of a week (and has a loan out for like $60 thousand for it), and doesn’t even do frackin chores, AND me, who is paying for these failings.

ARGHHHH!

It is to the point that for Mother’s Day I almost didn’t give her jack shitTAKE mushroom. Why should I? I am depleting my savings for her whims!

Let’s not even mention the family wedding in Vegas that she just assumed I would pay for her to go. Plane ticket and hotel. Let’s not even talk about the insane idea she had of me paying for a ticket to fly to my state and then fly with the Monster Teen and I so she didn’t have to fly alone.

We are for serious here, and I have loss some blood vessels. They are leaking out of my ears I swear to you.

I love my mother. But I have frackin spoiled her. I knew this a couple of years ago when she was upset that I got her a kindle for her birthday instead of an over $1,000 treadmill. More than half of the things like the frackin flooring and other furniture was paid with my money.

But I’m.Just.Through.

I can’t do this anymore.

I can’t continue to be unhappy looking at my accounts because they’re not as pretty looking anymore. I’m not a money hungry person, but its my daggone money! And she’s frackin bleeding my accounts and my happy frackin spirit :-/

 

Well… when I’m sad, only one thing can make me happy nowadays:

 

This Curvy Chick Hisses at Donuts like a Vampire with Holy Water

I’ve lost about 10 pounds in a week. No, it was not completely in a healthy way, frack you very much.

Sorry, that’s hunger talking. I’m straight Hangry here.

If you’ve never been around the military, there’s one thing that you know: we’re not allowed to get fat. I know you’re probably saying “I’ve seen PLENTY of tubby troops, looking like they’re about to try out for the Biggest Loser.” Well, all I can say is many slip through the cracks, mostly because their leadership is not putting a boot up their hey-nanny-nanny to get fit. Also, a lot of us are just broken from deployments.

And that’s what’s had me depressed and frustrated. I’ve been on a no upper body workout for the past couple of months and loads of pain killers. Certain painkillers cannot be taken on an empty stomach. Which means I was barely working out from pain, and eating a lot of food. Especially a lot of unhealthy food. I guess you can’t help but to get fat if you are having a slice of pound cake as a “quick breakfast”.

And then, you go to the doc, get a height and weight done, and find out you’re about the same size you were when you were pregnant with the Monster Teen. It makes you get on that pity train faster than the hounds of hell after you.

But I’ve been in the military for years, and understood what I needed to do. Cut out all deserts. Cut out pastas and bread. Fruits and veggies meals with only a small portion of protein for one meal a day. Cardio for at least 45 minutes a day with a trip to the sauna for at least 15 minutes afterward. And the unhealthy stuff: double dose of green coffee pills and raspberry K each day. And fiber pills each day, along with a water pill. On top of that, loads and loads of water to keep me hydrated.

It makes for a grouchy DT5th. I growled at people who had cupcakes the other day. I seriously blanked out and had a honey bun in my hand from my pantry the other day. I was getting ready to leave for work, and the stupid thing was there. I gasped and threw it back on the shelf, running before the fat girl personality inside me took over again and grabbed the honey bun. I think I really may have a split personality right now!

I dream of donuts, and cake loaded with icing. Milkshakes. Fully loaded potatoes with sour cream and butter and salt. Oh my. The office had donuts the other day. The smell of them had tears pricking my eyes. My coworkers saw as I whimpered and tried not to breathe, moved the donuts from my sight, and then waved folders to try to get the smell out the area.

I’m gritting my teeth with hunger, even when I just had a huge bowl of spinach. Fatgirl DT5th says it’s not enough food. It wants some pasta!

Pray for me readers of these interwebs. I feel like I’m a step away from the Stephen King short story where the man stranded starts eating himself. Fatgirl DT5th wants to gnaw on my arm.
I may need an exorcism and some pound cake after this next weigh-in. Before I turn full on crazy and gnaw on someone like I’m on Bath Salts.

Girly Men… The Rise of the Metro… And my thoughts on it

Let me be clear right now. This is in no way a post about LGBT men. This is all about straight boys and men. And my thoughts on them losing their identity.

Being a woman raising a young man is a truly trying situation. And many women end up fracking those boys up. And with the rise of single mothers, I think this is also we have a larger generation of punk men. My son also has the fact that he’s a black man against him. You can’t argue the facts of how many are in prison. But, I’m rambling. Kinda. Maybe.

Anyway, some single women raise their boys like how they always fantasized the men who knocked them up should be. Some baby the heck out of their boys with a subconscious fear that they will leave them like the other men in their life. First off: your son is not your man, or boyfriend, or husband. That is gross and the beginning of either incest porn, or your child becoming a serial killer.

They also do not instill the fact that you have to work for things. I can’t believe how many times I’m met with surprise that I don’t take out the trash, clean my son’s room, wash dishes, or wash my son’s clothes. Those are HIS chores. He also knows basic cooking skills. And he’s been doing all of this for a while now. Why? So he doesn’t expect a woman to take care of him. So he can stand on his own two feet.

The other thing parents seem to be teaching their sons is that it’s never their fault and that the rules in place do not apply to them. How many times have I heard or read online some mother (and sometimes father) complaining that their child should be excused for their actions, or that a teacher was rude for not caving to a parent’s expectations. Let’s not even go into the “everyone’s a winner so no child is left out feeling like a loser mentality.” Or, its okay for Johnny (probably spelled JahnNee because that’s what’s hot nowadays) to stay in and play video games instead of going outside and playing. I mean, you don’t want your little precious to get dirty right?

So it’s my belief that with those combinations of things, more men are being raised to be soft men. Its okay now for men to look more like girls than girls. It’s okay that they expect the world to be handed to them. Why can’t a man carry a purse and eyeliner and pants tighter than mine? I’ll tell you why:

Because when I’m a military female and have your soft-*ss son as my troop that cries when he gets told off for not having his hair cut to the standards, when he cries at being made to work longer hours, cries when they failed because they’ve never failed at ANYTHING at life – well I’m tempted to check if their balls have dropped.

My son is not allowed skinny jeans. He is made to respect women, and knows that the one thing I will turn into a monster about is it he does. My son is not my friend. He is my child that I raise to be strong and self-sufficient. My son knows at 18 he can go straight to work or go to college but he is getting the frack out of my house. My son knows that yes, having emotions and being able to express them are okay, but no one takes a male blubbering all over the place seriously (women either). My son knows that he should accept people for who they are, but at the same time he must decide who HE is and what HE stands for on his own. He knows life is not fair, and that you must work for what you want. He may slip up here and there and make me want to bust him upside the head for things, but I have to let him learn from his mistakes. One day my son will make a woman very happy to be his wife. Heck, even if some day later he decides he’s gay, he’ll make a man happy to be his partner. Because he will not be weak.

My Thighs Need Their Own Zip Codes – Winter Hibernation Fat Blues

This post is brought to you by the letters P, M, and S.

While being on a “You did something reeeetarded to your back and are not allowed to do any upper body” work out plan, and having my new terminator back on backorder (hey Billy-bob, how about you hop to it, and jump to the future and steal one)… I’ve begun to expand. Like a balloon. Filled with donuts. And bacon.

In other words… There’s a lot of pants I can suddenly no longer fit. I’ve gone from curvy, to “oh my God what are you hiding in your pants?! 2 watermelons?!” (Soft watermelons? Mushy watermelon booty?) My buttocks need backup lights. My thighs are like small toddlers hanging onto my bones. I’m not positive I could pass my military weight test right now. And that’s the first time in over 10 years. Muthafrack me with a pickup truck.

I don’t trust my back anymore. My knees are somewhat shady also. They are plotting to have me fall in front of people looking like a bloated floppy manatee. Stupid back. You suck. At life.

Forget going on a date right now, I’m ashamed of myself. And it takes a lot for that to happen. I mean, I can out weird myself, out gross myself, but hardly ever is self shame. Seriously, my brainwaves are usually more fun than a bucket of monkeys (robot ninja monkeys that I plan to amass for an army, and one day take over the world).

The hibernation fat is just making me doubt myself all the time. It’s like my mental control board got stuck somehow on “PMS Mode Activate”. For anyone that says severe PMS doesn’t exist, go choke yourself with a science book. I’m insane-er during super PMS time, but FGS (Fat Girl Syndrome) has taken this to an alternate reality. I’m unhappy with how tight my pants fit, which makes me want chocolate to cure my fat heartache, and then I’m sad all over again because I just inhaled a chunky slice of chocolate cake and can feel myself expanding! Vicious cycle. On top of that, if I want to take the pain medicine, I can’t take it on an empty stomach. Well, I CAN… But one day I’m sure all the Motrin 800 I pop will catch up with me.

A work friend says cut out bread. But bread is so nummy. Especially toasted with lots of margarine, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Someone else said cut out dairy. But, but, ice cream! And cheese. And milk for my Lucky Charms!

Awww, SHITtake mushrooms. I’m screwed 6 ways til Sunday aren’t I?

Adult Students that Cry Deserve Throat Punches

I had a student cry yesterday, after they sucked big blue donkey berries. There were some more tears today as a couple more failed, and even some happy tears. I’m saying… just no military bearing. You know, it may sound sick, but in the regular military world without the teaching, I took great pride when I made a troop cry. Not because I’m sadistic or anything… Seriously!!! I’ve just always looked at it as that I gave my troops tough love. And all the good ones have always come back to thank me for it.

It’s not the same when those troops are failing students and I’m crushing their dreams like a bully slapping the ice cream out if your hand. “No nom-nom for YOU!” It’s so frackin depressing when you know that they have had this dream to be a great somebody and it’s just gone… With a flick of my mechanical pencil. Now does that mean I feel like looking at the little buggers crying– uh, that’s a big heck no Billy-bob. (Shhh, Billy-bob is a new voice in my head. Trying to make him feel welcome). No, I feel completely out of sorts because I want to say to them what I tell my son and previous troops when they start with the waterworks: fix your face and get your punk self together.

To me, showing weakness like that doesn’t make me feel like you’re a strong person. In fact, it makes me feel like you’re looking for sympathy. And frack that! If you want to one day take my job, take my place and become the next up and coming Soldier/Sailor/Airman/Marine, you don’t show me weakness. Keep it together until you step out of my office. I mean, this is the classroom. If you’re falling to pieces here, what the frack are you gonna do in the desert sandbox when someone is shooting at you? But I can’t say all that. Or I can, but I have to word it a bit nicer, and hand them tissues. Sigh. This is one side of the teaching thing I didn’t really expect. Irritation at the weak butts.

Children are Evil – My monster just fracked up my awesome mom track record

So no matter how great a job you are doing as a parent (or how well you THINK you are doing as a parent), your idiotic teenager can just frack up your track record.

You didn’t know this was a contest? OF COURSE IT IS!!!

And now I’m behind in the race like a fat kid trying to win carrots. Shut up. It DOES TOO MAKE SENSE! Ahem, yes, my mind is wandering, I can’t sleep (Clowns will eat me… not in a good way).

My MonsterTeen (patent pending), now has a juvenile record. And not for doing something cool that he can tell stories about when he’s my age. Oh no, he will have a lame “I was a follower that didn’t want to be looked at like a punk” story.

Let me set the scene for you: The other night, I’m chilling on my couch, half out of uniform, flexing my online shopping muscles while buying Christmas presents for the MT. As soon as I pressed the “place order” on my favorite site (really, I’m not sure if I love Amazon.com or bacon more) there’s a knock on my door. A policeman. A cop. A cute cop, but a cop nonetheless. And I think cutecop maybe got the wrong address until he asks if I am MonsterTeen’s mother.  Oh sweet baby Hay-soos. What is going on.

Under the threat of going to jail this is the story that came out: He was hanging over in his “girlfriend’s” neighborhood with her and another dude. We’re just going call her Shanaynay, because that’s just as ghetto as her real name. The other dude is going to be called Oomfoofoo Jr. So, they are all on the stairs and Oomfoofoo Jr. asks to borrow a pen from my son. My son gives it to him and then he an Shanaynay proceed to just stand there and watch as Oomfoofoo Jr draws male and female body parts in health class detail, writes that he’s fracked the wife of whoever lives there, and many other crude and violent things – ending with “and this was written by to black guys, you better be scared!”

Are you frackin kidding me. -_-

So MonsterTeen now has a record, because he was a punk, and didn’t tell on the little bustard, or just walk away. He is lucky as heck that cutecop didn’t take him to the station as he threatened. He is lucky that the man who’s door was defaced only wanted an apology. He is lucky that the housing complex isn’t pressing extra charges, fees, or kicking us out of our home. And he is lucky that I didn’t murder him.

Instead I took away all electronics: TV, cell phone, PSP, PS2, PS3, Wii, Nintendo DS, laptop, ipod (yes, the little bustard is spoiled). No TV, no going outside, no sodas, no desserts, and no candy even though we’ve got a lot leftover from Halloween. He’s grounded until Christmas… unless he fails any classes on his report card.

Meanwhile back at the ranch… in my brain that is… I’m starting to go into somewhat of a depression. I don’t want my son to ever turn out like his biological genetics donor. I was stupid, but my son should not pay for it. He has all the tools to be better than the both of us. So I may sip a little more wine than usual this weekend. And I may shed a tear or two where he can’t see. I already have. And I’ve also had friends that have been very supportive by understanding that I don’t just take this as “oh, boys will be boys, he got in trouble, and it’ll be cool.” My real friends have been either talking to the Monster Teen, or taking him out for some male bonding. Because mom just might lock him in a closet somewhere.

So Monster Teen has ruined dimensionthe5th’s mom track record of awesomesauce. Back to training. And torturing. Maybe I should reinforce the story that he’s cloned and tell a new story of what happened to the first version of him.