Secrets – DON’T LOOK!

Sucker! Reverse psychology works. Hahaha.

Some of my secrets have never been revealed….until now.

Why do I keep using every dish in the house? Every single god damn time. I can’t get angry or yell at anyone else because I live alone. It’s ME! It drives me crazy. I’m the plate and utensil dirtying idiot.

A meal here, a snack there, a cat dish everywhere. The next thing I know there’s a stack of porcelain piled so high it looks like I’ve just fed a hoard of starving Ethiopians. I have to wash them because I don’t want my kitchen to smell like I have a sewer rat as a pet. I always make it such a chore.

Seriously, why can’t I just keep using the same plate?

Yeah…don’t act like I’m the only one. Even Jackie Chan has issues.

And then there’s my cats…

I relax and sink down into my tub filled with warm water, Epsom salts and lavender.

OH YES…BLISS! Feelings of pure heaven.

Why do those two torture inflicting furballs of mine always defecate such a smelly shite every single time I’m in the bath?

My two cats probably talk to each other. “Okay, she’s in there. No…no, don’t eat the dry crap, eat a Jethro sized bowl of that wet, funky smelling food. Yeah, that’s it. Gobble it down fast. Let’s blow her out of the water with a vile submarine turd missile. We’ll target the enemy. The result will be catastrophic.”

They set their plot in motion. The foul smell eventually permeates over to the bathroom and slowly drifts up my nose like a twerking genie returning to his bottle. It hits my nostrils like a I-HISS terrorist attack. This soul destroying stench puts me into a state of septic shock almost knocking me out cold. It’s like they know exactly how to time it. When it assaults my senses I could die a million deaths.

I scream in agony. “NOOOOOOOO!”

~And then here’s my greatest secret of all ~

My bonsai tree has a penis!

Men, don’t be jealous.

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This isn’t going to end well

Well, before I get into my personal story, let me start off with this image I found which I think is as funny as hell. It’s Macho Man, Randy Savage body slamming Jesus. Um, yeah…

Oh….this isn’t going to end well.


Would you care for some sweets?

Oh…this isn’t going to end well, either.


They are a little chewy.

So…on with my story. This happened on my way to work.

A big, black truck cruised along the road and then attempted to make a right turn. At the same time, a handicapped girl barrelled down the sidewalk on her red scooter trying to make the green light. Neither of them noticed each other. The scooter flew forward into the intersection with lightning speed and the truck driver made his turn.
All I could think at that moment is…

Oh…this isn’t going to end well.

It reminded me of a chicken being thrown out of a helicopter and expected to fly, the feeling of complete helplessness over the situation.

Then…..CRASH! The girl smashed right into the side of the truck, her face plastered up against the passenger door like she was auditioning for a Yop commercial. Then everything changed to slow motion. She flopped backward like a limp gymnast onto the ground. The scooter turned and did an Evel knievel maneuver on two wheels. Then it came to a stop at the sidewalk and tipped over onto one side.

Amazingly, or perhaps it was a miracle, the lady stood up on both legs and swore like a truck driver at the guy in the truck.

The irony.

“You ran me over!” She screamed frantically.

Well, technically she got smooshed. I don’t know if that term would hold up in court, but that’s my personal jargon.

I saw her a few days later riding a spanking new, blue scooter with all the bells and whistles. Insurance is a wonderful thing.

No, it didn’t end well…or did it?

A Day In The Life Of A Cashier

A feral woodland creature with big hair, all decked out in her leopard coat, walked up to the grocery store cash register pulling her shabby wheeled cart behind her. She sluggishly pulled out each of her items one by one and dropped them on the conveyer belt.
I rang in her purchases, but then she decided that she didn’t want some of them and I deleted them from her bill.
By this time it started to get busy and the lineup curved around the corner of the store. Folk’s eyes started rolling with impatience as she leisurely took coins out of her purse. I felt trapped in a Looney Tunes cartoon with granny counting pennies.
One…..two……three.
Well, it wasn’t really pennies but it felt like it.
Then Ms. Indecisive realized she didn’t have enough money so she chose to pay with debit instead. With immense difficulty, she finally pried the debit card out of her wallet using her talons. She tapped it too quickly. Two beeps!…NO!!! Holy mother of all shite that is holy. The tap didn’t work, so now she has to insert her card.
She stood there with a vacant look on her face. OH MY GOD…She can’t remember her pin number. She wasn’t just missing a screw, the whole toolbox was gone!
At that moment, I just wanted to die. I literally wanted to internally combust and explode into flame…at this point I’d even be willing to pray for the naked rapture.
At the same time customers started to line up at the opposite lottery counter. Some dick-wad wanted me to serve him immediately. He lowered his eyebrows and his mouth curled into a sneer. “Miss, can you get me some lottery tickets,” he snapped.
“Sir, you have to wait your turn. There are other people ahead of you in line,” I politely replied. “I can’t let you butt in, that wouldn’t be fair.”
His eyes grew wide as saucers and his face turned red. “Well, I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes!”
Okay, now he’s getting my dander up. The next part that is bolded I didn’t really say, however, it’s what I screamed to myself inwardly with the intensity of a nuclear bomb.
“First of all, that is not true – You ignorant piece of shit on a rope – It’s been about three minutes. Secondly, although I’d be delighted to serve you all at the same time – I’d like to serve you a brick thrown directly at your forehead – I am not an octopus. Please be patient.”
Actually, I really wished I was an octopus so that I could slap eight people at once. I have one hundred billion nerves in my body, and some people have the ability to irritate all of them.
Mr. lottery entitlement buggered off into the distance in a huff because his privilege didn’t work with me, and the slow-witted wildcat finally paid for her food and pounced off into the distance to catch her bus.

Pandemic

Do you believe you can’t be exposed to an infectious disease outbreak? All you have to do is spend a day at a grocery store to change your view on this subject and learn what the word “contagious” really means.
I hate to say it, but the behaviour of the human race is revolting. Villiage idiots grossly pick through the food at the salad bar with their fingers. Virus infused shit-heads sneeze on the grapes and into the meat bunkers. The bacterial infested grunters even spit into their hand to open a bag.
They’re like junior high school nerds with a buck-toothed overbite, splattering the customer service counter with their regurgitated spew. I know there are a lot of anti-vaxxers out there in the world, and honestly if you want to die in a pandemic, God speed. Hand me a hazmat. We’ll fire up the furnaces!
~You can’t get autism if you die from the plague.~
What about the small doses of mercury to prevent the contamination from microbes? What about the formaldehyde that inactivates the virus?
Folks, In this case I’d be willing to drink it in a cocktail glass, shaken…not stirred.
Yes, seriously.
Let me make one thing very clear about myself. If I see even one diseased person screaming in pain from a noxious pathogen and blisters exploding from their skin like a Hiroshima rhino ejaculation, I’ll be brutally stabbing myself with a vaccination needle as fast as Freddy Krueger goes after a sleep deprived virgin.

Literary Snobs

Ego is the only requirement to destroy any relationship so leave the “e” at the door and let it go. Ego kills your talent, be humble.
Years ago, I used to run a writer’s site online. Trust me when I tell you that residing in the depths of self-absorption lays in wait a whole slew of literary snobs just eager for somebody to make a spelling error, put a comma in the wrong place, or perhaps even break from active voice.
They strike with precise brutality, reducing the person they decided not worthy to be a writer to a pile of scratched off eczema dust, weeping on the floor. They not only destroy the person’s creative process, but many new writers never write another word again.
They approach an unsuspecting victim with gorilla-like thumping to the chest, while making cough-grunting noises which sounds like they’re saying, “hack, hack…..I’m better than you.” Either that, or they really need a big gulp of oregano oil and a good suck on a Fisherman’s Friend. (That’s a cough candy, for all you foreigners). Chuckle!
It’s actually a sign that this person is insecure and in reality craves affirmation and attention. You can always tell when they are obsessed with themselves.
For the life of me, I cannot understand what joy there is in being an academic wanker by crushing somebody else’s creative muse. Let’s face it, it’s just downright mean. This type of dip wad probably hacks up puppies in their spare time.
The big kicker is that most of these folks aren’t even mainstream published. That’s the real laugh. They are usually self-published ego-maniacs who are so cold that butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth. They are critical, quick to anger, and try and hog the spotlight.
If you are the type of person who likes to throw toasters into pools of creative talent to watch them fry, then you’re a negative piece of crusty knicker sweat, and that’s me being nice about it.
~Don’t be a negative piece of crusty knicker sweat!~
Blogging is a mysterious thing. I mean, you don’t really know who anyone is. Hell, you don’t even know who I am. If you go around insulting people, they could be a publisher or an agent. If you are looking to get a book published or you’re wanting to be a real author, you might be wiping out all hopes of anyone even glancing at your unpublished piece of dribble. If you think publishers don’t talk amongst themselves, you’re dead wrong.
To be honest, I’ve always wished I could take a Nerf bat and whack the shit-stirrers up-side the head like a whack-a-mole.
Seriously though, if you have your own site you want other people to visit, don’t be a dick to other writers, nobody will want to be around you. That’s the best advice you’ll ever hear from me.
You will be ever so joyous to know that I am always open to discover what makes other writers tick. (Passes around popcorn and small, fluffy cakes)… I’d be interested to hear if you’ve had any run-ins with egotists lately? Tell me about it.

Aging Reality

Everyone told Mildred that she shouldn’t feel bad about getting older, that it’s a privilege denied to many.
The golden age fell upon her like the shite of a bird on a wire. She’d become a little more round across the middle, however she kept eating foods she hated and drank things she disliked in miniscule amounts hoping that she’d drop a few pounds of lard and not look like a total pink-haired heifer.
The sagging wrinkles indicated where her sarcastic smile once lived. Her limbs couldn’t move like they once used to and her clumbsiness made her fall on her hip a lot. She often bruised her forehead badly too and folks nicknamed her lumpy. She hated that. Although she aquired quite a bit of gold over the years she traded her jewelry in for a life-alert necklace. Her family rarely came to visit. She adored that electronic honing device because it talked to her.
Mildred rocked the fashion world with her green, gargantuan, orthopedic shoes even though they made her feet look like giant blocks of frozen spinach. Sometimes she’d go on outings with a herd of other grizzled seniles and she’d brag about how many ailments she gathered over the years. She laughed about how she evaded death. Old age didn’t feel as bad when she considered the alternative.
Younger folks tried to make Mildred feel a little bit better about the whole fogey process. She felt okay about it for many years, until she saw other elders dealing with severe pain, throwing their butt truffles on the floor and peeing all over themselves and the carpet.
That’s when she realized it wasn’t really a privilege.

Pet Peeves

Yeah, I have some pet peeves. I like to consider myself a tolerant person, but I’m sorry to say some things just irk the hell out of me.

The rudest lunkheads on the planet are people who can’t seem to get off their friggin’ cell phone when they are in the grocery check out line. I mean, come on! What is so damn important that you can’t say…”Hey girl, I’ll call you right back.” Don’t get me wrong folks, I’m not a violent person. However, when customers pull that ill-mannered shit and ignore me when I’m trying to ask them how they want to pay for their carcinogenic, processed, artery clogging slop, I just want to snatch the phone out of their hand and throw it forcefully against the wall, smashing it into oblivion. It amazes me how many people do this and they are completely unaware of how obnoxious they are.
Another thing that really exasperates me is when stupid dipshits are driving and don’t signal when they are going to turn. Seriously, it’s not rocket science. Show me which way you’re going so that I don’t accidentally ram my giant boat of a vehicle into the side of your little eco-car, killing you and your seven children. These are the same dolts that drive slower than a pack of snails going through peanut butter in the left passing lane as well. That’s why speed limits are set. I have to get to work, I actually have a job I have to get to. I don’t have all day. Step on it grandpa, or get in the right hand lane with the rest of your prehistoric, geriatric herd.
The worst peeve for me personally, is when inconsiderate folks bathe in perfume and I’m forced to breathe it in because they come to my till. Seriously, why does one have to wear so much? Have they never heard of the expression, less is more? I have severe allergies to that chemical torment. Whenever they come around me my throat closes up and I sneeze like a combusting, epileptic snuffleupagus. It’s not pretty.

Work Smirk

Life is punny, especially when that pun is risqué. Folks at work are funnier than they realize.

There’s a lady I work with at the supermarket. She hates it when the younger co-workers talk about boys and sex. She’s a bit of a prude. One day she held up a gift card and kept mentioning out loud that she had 69 cents left on it. I raised my eyebrows. “Really, 69? Really?” I teased, and then cracked up laughing. She turned beet red. Folks get embarrassed so easily and I find that hilarious.
Today, one of my co-workers told me that she needed to get her eggs. She held her tummy because of an unrelated stomach issue, totally oblivious of how funny that looked. I snickered at that as well.

Well…later in the afternoon, I sold a customer a shit-load of scratch tickets. He spent over one hundred dollars! Some people seem to have money to burn, but hey, I don’t ask questions. I put the first card under the scanner, and it didn’t win anything. I turned to him, shook my head and said, “not a bloody sausage!” He smiled and asked me where I got that expression from. I told him that it’s a British expression which means he didn’t get anything. “I like that expression,” he said happily. “I’m going to start using it.” I began scanning his other scratch tickets looking for a win. He clenched his fist, raised his arm above his head and thunderously yelled, “Come on, give me a big sausage! I want a big sausage!” I stopped what I was doing. I could not contain myself and roared with laughter. When he realized what he innocently said so loudly, he busted up laughing too.

Diet Riot

The one thing that annoys me the most about diets, is that there are too many of them. Of course, every know-it-all on the planet feels they have the answer. What I have noticed through the years though, is that very few people actually keep the weight off. The problem is that as a society we are creatures of habit, and that creature happens to be a glutonous sow. Habits are hard to break. Let’s face it, nobody wants to grow as big as a double decker bus. One must be somewhat dilligent, however, the road to healthy eating is about as smooth as eating a bowl of gravel.
I start off doing really well. I eat healthy oatmeal with fruit for breakfast, a nice salad for lunch, but by the time the evening rolls around, I stand at the fridge like Jason in a horror flick looking at the cheese like I’m about to mass murder. The hardest part is eating the right foods so that you aren’t depriving your body and end up looking as old as a wrinkled knee cap. Everyone seems to have a different idea about what is healthy and what isn’t.
I wouldn’t say I have no will power. I can go for a decent length of time denying myself of what I really want to eat. But folks, when I start craving something it speaks to me like I’ve summoned a hellhound on my shoulder, and I become as weak as a one hundred year old arm wrestling grandmother. It also doesnt help that I work in a supermarket, ringing in a million different delicous, death trap morsels every day.
A few days ago this fellow walked into my place of employment with his girlfriend yammering about how they are both on a high fat diet and they both lost seventy pounds. I scrunched my eyebrows and inspected both of them for a moment in disbelief. I eyeballed them up and down. They both looked like runway models. “You can still eat chicken wings and cheese,” he continued. “Don’t screw with me, man,” is all I could think of to say. I honestly thought he’d lost his marbles. Either that, or he was running in a pagent as a world class douche in denial. I pondered about his diet for a moment. All I could invision in my mind is every artery in my body clogging up with plaque, like a street vegabond with a gob of crusty teeth, and then exploding into a massive heart attack.
Yes, I know that if you can’t pick it, pluck it or shoot it, it’s not real food. However this journey is about as easy as fitting a wort hog through the eye of a needle. I know you are probably thinking this is a lifestyle change and not a diet, but don’t kid yourself. It’s still a diet. Or perhaps torture. You may as well just pull out my fingernails with rusty pliers, one by one.