Computer viruses can fuck off. The people who make them can fuck off dipped in hot tar.
L.A. residents who complain about any semblence of weather when they really only have to deal with it for around two weeks a year can fuck off. I'm tired of listening to you moan that it's not perfect outside. Shut the hell up already.
That's all for now, but it's been one hell of a week, so I might come up with more later.
Your turn.
It's late. The holiday is to blame. I assumed we were all too busy giving thanks to complain. Those of us that weren't, go ahead.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Food poisoning can fuck off.
Catching up at work the day after food poisoning can fuck off more.
It's yours, folks.
It's been a good week. Nobody to flip the birdie to, with one exception that I've decided is so useless and stupid that it's not even worth my time.
It's all yours this week.
My right ear and the stupid infection it has that won't go away can fuck off. I'm beginning to think Vincent Van Gogh had a good idea.
The white trash couple that live a couple doors down who think that the courtyard of our apartment building is Dr. Phil's couch and a convenient place to work out their troubles at the top of their lungs can fuck off.
Come to think of it, Dr. Phil can fuck off. So can his couch and all of the tacky people that believe that network television is a good place for therapy. It's called "dirty laundry" for a reason.
I've got a lot more, but there are plenty Fridays to come (we should hope!), so I'll save them for later. It's your turn.
Fire can fuck off. I know it's nothing in comparison to people that have lost their homes and precious belongings (our hearts are especially with Julie and her family, who lost all of their photos - take her advice and get your own put on CDs or something easily transportable ASAP), but for the last three days, I've had a headache, my eyes have been burning, I've got the remnants of somebody's fucking couch floating in my air sacs, and I woke up yesterday with a bloody nose.
Again, that's all a cake walk compared to what some people have suffered, but something's got to give here or I'll lose my fucking mind.
And arsonists? Oh, there isn't enough space on the internet to issue the size of FUCK OFF that you deserve.
Please, fuck off away and make 'em good this week. I need it.
ADDED: I also want to give a shout out to people like Ken's little bro, who are busting their asses, defying human endurance, and making enormous sacrifices to get these goddamm things put down. "Thanks" just feels like too little. I wish I could do more to show my appreciation.
Jury duty. Ugh.
That's all I've got time for. Take it away.
To the "gentlemen" who decided to race each other down the boulevard this morning and thus very nearly killed me: listen, I don't care what the guy at the dealership told you when you kicked down extra for the asshole option, nothing about your car - including the interior, the fancy and loud stereo, the leather seats, or the hyper-fast speeds at which you can blitz down public streets endangering the lives of innocent citizens - is going to make your prick grow. I'm afraid the only thing that will help you in that department is surgery.
Also - please, stop thinking that just because you have a fancy car, every woman in the world is dying to rip off her clothes and spread 'em for you. Not all of us are impressed by glitz and bling. In fact, the only ones who will be are shallow bitches. Come to think of it, the likes of you deserve each other. Have a nice life together.
And FUCK OFF.
To Ken and Val - I didn't get back to you because I took last Thursday and Friday off and then hit the ground running on Monday because of it. When I finally caught my breath, the first word that came to my mind was "beer." So I had one or six. Sorry 'bout that.
This Friday Fuck Off is for our friend Joel, who wrote sending this link.
I don't even know what to say. I don't have kids and, as of this post, don't want them, but that lady takes the cake.
"I really regret it. I really regret having children."*
She's like the antidote to those mothers who think that bearing and raising children makes them eligible for sainthood. Compared to this selfish woman, it does. "Like, ohmygosh, I had to give stuff up when I had kids! It never occured to me! The horror!" Her arguments become especially obnoxious when they resort to things like "it is conformist" and "you will be an ally to capitalism." It practically makes me want to go out and procreate right now.
*by the way, lady...I hope your kids remember this little book of yours when you're old and infirmed and need someone to change your dirty nappies. They just might find themselves conveniently regretting having parents.
Emily is currently unavailable, so I am hosting the festivities this week. I have purchased my very own Val-written Fuck Off, not yet written as I am judiciously weighing my options as to the appropriate target of my wrath.
With that in mind, here is a small FO to get us started: A hearty and heart-felt Fuck Off to me. This has been an ugly, intense week and I am starting to forget things. I had a bundle to ship out yesterday which is still sitting in my freezer (as I noticed this morning). There are a few other things I've forgotten this week, also, despite having written them in my notebook, which I have also temporarily misplaced a couple of times this week.
And the worst one? I can't remember for sure, but I fear Emily may have asked me a few days ago if I would host the FFOT this week [UPDATE: Yeah, she did. Another heartfelt fuck off to me and my pathetic brain]. So this delay in the post may also have been my fault. But I can't remember.
So Fuck Off to ME and my overburdened synapses.
Meantime, Val has some dandies purchased by some of our compadres and madres, and strongly recommends the use of polarized sunglasses as you read.
Now take it away, folks!
Warren Jeffs can fuck off. And I mean fuck off in the most passionate way I can possibly scream the words at the top of my lungs.
I've listened and watched footage of a lot of cult* leaders over the last ten years or so, but this guy takes a special prize. First, because he didn't attract followers - his victims were born in Colorado City. Women and children given away like pieces of property. Men ex-communicated because the disporportionate gender ratios that come about from allowing men to have multiple wives but women only one husband make them useless. Thrown out like trash, their families taken away and "given" to another man, dumped friendless into a world they've never known with nothing but the clothes on their backs. This piece of shit bastard doesn't just deserve to rot in prison. He deserves to get ass-raped as frequently as he eats.
Watch this video, if you can stand it. This guy isn't just strange, he's fucking horror movie creepy. The last words he spoke in the final minute of the footage gave me chills - "why don't you just obey?" As if he cannot understand why every person in the world won't just submit to his whims and let him abuse them like a fucking soulless object.
Asshole. Rot in HELL.
*if anyone here, for whatever reason, feels compelled to give the insanely fucking ignorant argument that the only difference between a cult and a mainstream religion is the number of followers/years it's been around/popularity of its beliefs, shut the fuck up. You don't have the slightest clue what you are talking about. With rare exceptions, nobody is going after these people for their beliefs. It's their BEHAVIOR that is unacceptable. To paraphrase John Sweeney in his BBC Panorama special about the Clams (my favorite part being little Tommy D. telling Sweeney that he "won't be accountable for his actions" if Sweeney continued to use the word "cult" in reference to his "faith." Nice to know these people think they shouldn't be responsible for their actions every time someone says something they don't like about their "religion"), after being stalked, yelled at, followed everywhere he went, lied to, stolen from, physically and psychologically intimidated, and finally, threatened with legal action that had no basis whatsoever, "somehow, I can't imagine this sort of behavior coming from the Church of England."
Stupid, pointless, pre-season exhibition games can fuck off.
And the L.A. Kings can fuck off, too.
Whoever it is running that stinking fucking club that's a Clam can double, super-duper fuck off. With knobs on. And cheese.
And you?
This thread is dedicated to everyone who has to work with someone who deserves to hear the following four words loud, in digitally mastered stereo enhanced by THX:
GROW THE FUCK UP.
I can't go into details; most of us can't when it comes to talking about our jobs online, but let's just say I'd like to shout it through a bull horn right now.
Is it five o'clock yet? Even better, anybody got a useful excuse for starting to drink before then?
We've spent countless entries here bitching about the "I'm the only person in the world" types, but this morning at the grocery store, I got hit by all of 'em. The block-the-aisle guy, the talk-loud-on-the-cell-phone chick, the clueless moron who waited until everything was scanned and bagged before bothering to get out their check book, the clerk who thinks "I have to be here for eight hours; why shouldn't you?" Dude, I just want to pay for my sandwich and go to work, not navigate an Olympic level slalom course of selfish assholes.
And my obnoxious, loud, rude, stupid neighbor has recently decided that he doesn't need to bother knocking - he just opens the door and walks in like he's Larry from "Three's Company." Now I have to be mindful of always keeping the door locked. What's next? Helping himself to the fridge and putting his feet up on the table? Where do some people get off?
Ugh. I need the three day weekend. What about you?
I don't know if this constitutes a genuine Fuck Off or not, but I was wondering what all the bigoted Euroweenies who would repeatedly insisted that ohmygodAmericansaresostupidandbackwards'causetheydon'thavepassports crowd have to say now that the requirements are changing so that you need a passport to enter Canada and Mexico. Applications have shot through the roof to the point where there's something like a six month delay for people who need one issued.
I'm sure they'll still come up with plenty of reasons to hate us while ironically congratulating themselves for their sophistication as they reduce an entire country down to stereotypes they learned from imported television shows.
Your turn. Let the Fuck Offs fly...
I don't really have anything today. It's sunny, we're firing up the BBQ at lunch, and the weekend is here.
But if you've got something, the FFOT is open for business.
Nurses who bother women who have just given birth that are otherwise perfectly healthy and just want to SLEEP can fuck off.
As can male clients who call and initiate conversations similar to the following:
"Is He there?"
"No."
"What about Him?"
"No."
"Well, is anybody there?"
Yes, asshole. I am here. And I do the same fucking job they do. In some cases, I even do it better. How many times does somebody have to tell you that before you get it through your dense, macho head? This has happend gawd knows how many times and I am sick of it. It is not 1955. I am not here to just fetch coffee, babysit the phones, and do the filing while waiting for someone to pat me on the ass and call me "sugar."
Tough week, anyone?
Insomnia can fuck off.
That's all that I can muster this week. Take it away.
Kevin Lowe can just fuck the fucking fuck off. Not because I'm one of those wussies who thinks it's unfair when sports actually get, you know, competitive and stuff, but because the jackass did it when he knew the Burke was gone fishing and before Scotty was ready to make his decision about retirement public. You desperate assfuck, going after our boy that, in case you hadn't noticed - and I'm sure you have, because nobody offers a deal that big without thinking about it for a little bit, unless they are totally fucking stupid, which I think Lowe just might be - has been nursed through the minors for most of his career and didn't really get his game on until he found the right chemistry with the other boys on his line only last year, and now you're trying to snatch him up at that price? Holy shit. I know Edmonton has still pathetically not gotten over the fact that Chris Pronger left because their town sucked (okay, and other reasons....), but give me a break. Back off, Oilslicks.
Nightfly...are you out there? Because I need a hockey hug. Hold me.
To:
The manager of my office building, who expects us to keep every light switched off to save on the electricity bill while he's too fucking lazy to spend five minutes figuring out how to program the automatic air conditioner so that it doesn't kick on in the evenings and weekends when nobody's here.
Governing bodies that have the authority to pass legislation regarding subjects that they know absolutely nothing about that will ultimately require hours of extra work on my part but won't make the slightest fucking difference in terms of what the laws were intended to accomplish.
Sports Illustrated (a few weeks late - couldn't get around to the issue until last night). For fuck's sake, some of the best free agents in the game being swapped around, players like Sidney Crosby, the Predators drama, California getting the Stanley Cup for the first time, and the best fucking cover you can give hockey is a "where are they now?" feature about some guys from a thirty-year-old movie filled with nothing but bullshit we could all easily learn courtesy of Google and a visit to their website? What the fuck? Don't get me wrong. I love that movie, but come on.
And finally, you little shitstain of a brother, you can seriously fuck off. The rest of that story is below, if you care.
If you don't, fire away. And have a great weekend.
It didn't last long. He was at my place by a quarter to five and gone before the hour was up. He asked me "how are you?" and the most I could muster was "pissed off." I barely spoke to him. I made us dinner and just sat on the couch and read, basically ignoring him and just grunting brief answers when he asked me any questions. I told him he didn't get to stay at my house during the day while I was at work because I couldn't trust him. He asked what time I left in the morning before work. I said between five and six. He said he couldn't get up that early because of the medication he took - which is complete and utter horseshit. When he stays with my parents in Colorado he easily gets up at those early hours. Does he think my parents and I don't talk to each other or something?
Then I just lost it. He has this habit of pounding around like an ape - and he's a big guy, 6'7" tall and gawd knows how much weight. The thing is, I live on the second floor, which means my poor downstairs neighbors have to listen to his thougtless racket-making like somebody's dropping bombs on their ceiling. I get angry at him about this every single fucking time he comes over and it never, ever, ever gets through his goddamm head because if it isn't something that bothers HIM, if it doesn't put HIM out or take away anything from HIM, then it just plain doesn't matter. He did it once, flopped his thug feet on the floor like the noise didn't matter and I just let loose on him. Screamed at him. I wasn't really screaming loud, but I was talking really, really fucking mean. I couldn't help it. I'd been stressed out about having him over all week. I'm not really supposed to have guests that stay for several days in my building, especially ones like him that are just rude noise-makers with no regard for the peace and quiet of the neighbors. He's come around a few times when I wasn't home, dressed like a thirteen-year-old punk rocker on crack who smells like he's been rolling in a pig pen for a week with dirtbag buddies that have names like "Cannibal" and "Ugly" and loitered in the lobby waiting for me to return, talking about smoking pot just a few short feet away from my manager's fucking apartment, as if it weren't against the law. He's almost gotten me evicted twice. I had absolutely no patience whatsoever left for him. None.
He tries to explain that the big thud was only because he was trying to make sure he didn't kick over my beer, interrupting me. I keep telling him to shut the fuck up and actually listen to the words that were coming out of my mouth. He keeps interrupting me. Finally, he says "I don't want to be a burden to you. Look, I've got a friend who lives five miles from here. I'll go stay with him." I tell him he's welcome to stay as long as he's respectful and leaves when I have to. He gives me the same bullshit about his medication, says he doesn't want to be a burden again and walks out the door.
Good fucking riddance, you goddamm brat.
The other night, I was talking with my step-mom about all this. She's had her share of his freeloading bullshit and more, as I explained in my last post about him bumming around her house just drinking and being a lazy slob and expecting it like it was his due or something. She said he wrote her some letter asking her why she can't just be his friend and why she always has to give him such a hard time. Well, first of all, you stupid shit, she's your mother, not your friend, and parents shouldn't feel any obligation to support their grown children who are making bad, dumb choices while taking advantage of them. Second, you don't mean "why can't you be my friend?" You mean "why can't you just let me do whatever I want whenever I want to no matter how much of a pain in the ass I'm being without giving me shit for it?"
Last night, it got worse. My aunt called to let me know that J. had called her to tell her he was fine and that he had a place to stay (oh, and did I tell you? This is after he fed her a load of rubbish about having to sleep in bushes and shit all the time and giving her whopping, lying-ass sob stories about poor widdle J.'s struggle to survive as if none of his problems had anything to do with his own behavior. The thing is, she wasn't around for a lot of his antics while we were growing up. She spent most of her life in New York, three thousand miles away. She believed him. After I called to tell her what had happened Wednesday night, she was genuinely worried about him. I told her not to be, that he'd figure something out. He always does. It's how he's made it to his age without barely ever having a place of his own to be responsible for). Well, that much was nice of him, but then he calls me to say he's sorry. The thing with J. is that "sorry" isn't something he genuinely means. It's something he thinks he can just say after being an asshole and that all should be forgiven because of it, no matter what he's done. If I could count the number of times he's blurted "I said I was sorry!" when I've been upset with him, as if that one fucking word just gives him some tabula rasa...jeebus. It makes me SICK. I try to tell him it's not that I don't love him or care what happens to him, it's that I can't trust him and that he's going to have to work long and hard to earn back that trust. Then he says - and this is the absolute kicker. My gawd, my jaw nearly became unhinged it dropped open so wide - he actually says the following words to me:
"I have never stolen from you."
I couldn't believe it. Could. Not. Believe. Those. Words. Left. His. Fucking. Mouth. That's like a German saying "we never invaded Poland." Then, the worst part of all, when I call him on it? He just says "I can't talk to you, Emily" and hangs up the phone. I guess that's an easy thing to do when you don't have to face someone in person or deal with honest criticism when you've hurt, betrayed or taken advantage of them, the gutless little wimp. Go ahead. Just hang up the phone. Run away from what you've put people through and get back to your beer and dope. Shitstain. Like I said, good riddance until you grow the fuck up.
Ugh. They're everywhere. Print, electronic, television. Every corner of the media. The thing is, I can't remember the last time I've seen so much fuss over something that hardly anyone is talking about. Even people that didn't want to talk about Skanky McHotel at the height of the oversaturation talked about her long enough to at least tell you they didn't want to talk about her. This morning, even our local dink carried the headline "THEY'RE IN OUR GALAXY NOW."
Don't get me wrong - this fuck off is not directed at David and Victoria Beckham* personally. Welcome to L.A. I hope you guys like it here. It's actually directed at celebrities who pay publicists to work overtime to have themselves splattered all over every magazine, television show, newspaper, gossip site, and bus billboard and then try to play it off like it's all some organic buzz machine that's beyond their control. Because this whole "the Becks have arrived in L.A." furor is very, very orchestrated. It damn sure ain't public demand putting it out there. I know I'm not exactly the Liz Smith of Los Angeles, with my finger on the pulse of every bit of up-to-the-minute chatter, but I do pay attention enough to know that the media coverage of those two moving here is definitely not porportional to the amount of interest that most of the residents of this city actually have. Thousands of people move here every week from all over the world without having to take out an advertisement about it - and that's exactly what all this shit is - one big giant ad for a potential reality TV show and a sports team**.
Please, we're not that stupid. We know this is deliberate. For celebrities who try and act like it's not and that you're being hounded by an adoring public who just won't leave you alone - FUCK OFF.
*Victoria, Posh, Mrs. Becks, whatever you like to go by, they're called "smiles." We actually kind of like them here. Try one some time.
**David, one of the really great things about American soccer is that the guys who play it don't do it for the huge money or the fame. They do it because they love the game. It's one of the last professional sports you can actually say that about in this country. Please don't ruin that.
PS - though I do want to add a very special kudos to the Beckhams for at least having the class to keep their children's privacy under wraps instead of treating them like fashion accessories and/or marketable commodities the way a lot of other celebrities do.
Your turn.
To the lovely person staying in the No-Tell Motel that is unfortunately my back yard who has decided to set their alarm clock for 4 am every bloody day and then proceed to either sleep through it or ignore it because of whatever drunken/drug-ridden/unconscious state they may be in so that it wakes me up and keeps me up from that hour on, if I ever find you, I am going to choke you until you turn purple and keep squeezing until the very last second before the lack of oxygen to your barely functioning brain takes your life forever. And when I am finished, I will only hope that it left you at the very least mildly retarded for the rest of your presumably short days. Asshole. Other people live around here, too.
To the people who cannot comprehend that those fireworks they bought were for the 4th of July and not the weeks both before and after, loud bangs are unnerving enough in this part of town. I'm sure most of us could do without them for two straight weeks. Next year, please save your fireworks for the 4th and, on that day, use every stinking last one of them so that you haven't got any left to tempt you on the 5th or any day after until New Year's Eve. You have made me angry enough to have fantasies about shoving Roman candles inside of human body cavities and lighting a match to enjoy the show.
You people seriously need to FUCK OFF. Repeat after me: I am not the only fucking person in the universe.
Take it away, my friends. And have a great weekend.
The last couple of weeks can fuck off. First I lose my keys. I didn't misplace them, mind you. I had them when I left my apartment, put them in my pocket - a very deep pocket, didn't take them out once and, at the end of the day, they were just gone. Then a couple of days ago as I was going home, I stopped off at the market to buy some food, paid with my ATM card, put my wallet in my back pack and went home. The next morning, it wasn't there. I didn't touch it that night - not my back pack, not my wallet, nothing - nobody came over, nobody could have broken in...nothing. Just gone. Six to ten days to get a new ATM card with no money and no ID in the meantime. The earliest appointment I can get at the DMV to get a replacement license (oh, can they ever FUCK OFF) is next Friday.
Last night, I was clipping my toe nails (yeah, I know how much you guys must love reading stories about toe nails) and tugged a little on the one on my left middle toe and the whole thing just tore off. The entire nail. It didn't hurt last night thanks to the two-and-a-half pints of Guinness I had under my belt, but it sure does hurt this morning, so my left middle toe can fuck off as well.
Burned out. You?
UPDATE: To the very kind, generous, sweet, thoughtful soul who found my wallet wherever my space case of a half-minded nit wit self left it behind and dropped it in a mail box so that it was returned instead of attempting to go crazy with my credit or ATM cards, THANK YOU.
People who put shit off until the last minute and then expect everyone else around them to scramble at breakneck speed while making miracles happen can bite me.
People who ask you a question and don't like the answer they hear, so they keep asking the same question over and over as if anything's going to change if they repeat themselves enough - get out of your stubborn funk. The answer is still "no" or "I don't know."
Insomnia can fuck off. And, just until I feel a little better, vodka can fuck off too.
Your turn.
To that fat woman outside the market this morning, the one in the designer clothes, who asked me for some spare change so she could get something to eat and who then proceeded to glare at me like I was the worst person in the world when I told her "I'm sorry, I don't have any spare change?"
Yeah, you know what you can do, sister.
To people who cannot grasp the idea that there's a difference between individualism and just being a plain old selfish asshole. (*cough*)
Suck it.
Happy Friday. Let it all out before the weekend.
Sad, I know. I suggest you go here to vent.
BAHAHAHAHA!
UPDATE: It's back on. The lovely Michele has offered to host one this week. Have at it, kids! ICIP is an FO-free zone this week.
Another update: And if you're feeling excessively happy and just want to have some fun, go here.
Still running around. The Friday Fuck-Off Thread is officially CANCELLED tomorrow alone. Find another place to complain. I will have none of it this week, this EVENT. The Stanley Cup is in California.
If any other blogger wants to offer their space for vulgarity's sake, feel free to e-mail us with the links to add here. There will be no complaining allowed this week at Pints.
The Stanley Cup is in California.
Jeebus. I almost forgot. I still got nothing, but you guys have at it.
The Detroit Red Wings can fuck off.
Oh wait. They did. Never mind.
Otherwise, too disgustingly cheerful and happy to bother with anything else. If you're not, you know what to do.
Have a great long weekend.
Dear Apartment Building Manager,
I know tenants can be a pain in the ass sometimes. I'd like to help do my bit to make your job that much easier by being a courteous one, but for the sake of Jeebus, grow a pair already. Just because the two oversized black guys living in consecutive apartments to my east can't stop arguing over who's the worse asshole with the even more oversized car that they don't need but have anyway because it makes their penis feel bigger or whatever the reason idiots blow obscene amounts of money on automobiles doesn't mean I should be forced to accomodate them by moving my car flush against the divider. They have plenty of space between the two of them. They're both just jerks bickering over who's pissing on their fire hydrant. It's their beef. Not mine. Leave me out of it and stand up to the shitballs already.
Thanks. And have a nice weekend.
It's yours.
This week is dedicated to every shithead who throws their cigarette butts, matches, or other combustable material into extremely dry areas around L.A. that are everything short of a sign that reads "TO START MASSIVE BRUSH FIRE, DISPOSE BURNING MATERIALS HERE." You don't need anyone to tell you how hot or windy it is outside. It doesn't take Albert fucking Einstein to explain to you what could happen when you do something like that, and even if it did, it's not like these brush fires don't occur nearly every stinking year, often enough for everyone to know better. You almost burned our shiny, newly remodeled Griffith Park to the ground. Asshole.
And a special nod this week goes to people who buy ten billion dollar homes in areas in the long-established paths of these fires who don't buy insurance and then expect the state to compensate them for their losses. I can only stretch my sympathy for people who lose everything so far before my inner bitch kicks in and declares it's your own damn fault. It's called planning ahead. Most grown-ups are expected to know how to do this.
Have a nice weekend, everyone. Feel free to shake off your moans before getting it started.
This Friday is dedicated to our buddy Joel, who didn't have the opportunity of the FFOT when he originally wrote this.
I hear ya, Joel. I have petit mal epilepsy (which means I only twitch on occassion instead of having full blown seizures) and someone once asked me why I don't "just stop." Yeah, I do it on purpose because it brings so much fucking bliss. Asshole.
Take it away, kids. And have fun today. I'll be here all day, so I'll have to catch up on the festivities tomorrow.
Life related: How many hours on these threads have we devoted to people who think they're the most important person in the universe with complete disregard or respect for the space, time, and needs of everyone else around them? Ugh. They're fucking everywhere. I don't even know where to start.
Work related: People who need to hear magic words like "the shit you lost that was supposed to be delivered here weeks ago cost four hundred thousand dollars" before they feel like doing their fucking job.
Health related: If hate smoking. The only thing I hate more than smoking is my inability to quit doing it. The cough is getting obnoxious. Any pointers or words of encouragement would be helpful.
News related: The American media and their 24/7 rush for ratings, cut-to-swoosh, bickering, moronic pundits at the expense of dignified reporting can fuck off. Again. When you start making things like the BBC look appealing by comparison, you know you've delved into an entirely new territory of exploitive suckitude that has no business being counted upon to properly inform the public.
I leave it to you.
Crap. What a fucking week. Do I ever need this. Virginia Tech, the anniversaries of Waco and Oklahoma City yesterday, Columbine today...where it's both Hitler's birthday AND Earth Day. So appropriate, considering how slavish and mindlessly devoted to dogma a good section of the environmental movement has become. Like a cult, but without matching jackets.
The media, for once again proving how completely lacking in class, good taste, and humanity in general you bottom feeders really are. There are too many examples to cite in the past week without exceeding my bandwidth tenfold.
I just want the fucking WORLD to fuck off right now.
And Fred Phelps and your little clan of inbred opportunists, you're so low, you skate beneath the Fuck Off. People like you are best ignored. I won't be a part of making your selfish, sinister intentions a reality any more. Just fade into obscurity, where you belong.
And, on a lighter note, whoever came up with the idea of the "insert" function on keyboards, or even better yet, whoever thought of putting it in a spot where it is readily hit by accident while reaching for something else so that you inadvertently turn your flashing cursor into a crocodile eating everything you just wrote three bloody times a day, can totally, completely, utterly, wholy fuck OFF AND DIE.
Take it away.
UPDATE: It's BUG WEEK at the FFOT! (Hey, we had a week devoted to fonts, why not bugs too?)
Emily is off enjoying a well-deserved break, probably involving lots of alcohol and potential jail time, so I am once again in charge of the weekly FFOT. I have a couple.
My first Fuck Off this week goes to myopic bean-counters. Yeah, jerks, it looks good to you to keep your inventory numbers down to teeny-weeny dollar levels. Looks a lot less good to me when my folks run out of raw materials because we weren't allowed to keep enough on hand to cover unplanned builds. This also applies when different departments butt heads trying to find time on the only instrument inhouse because bean-counters don't like a lot of "excess" capital assets. I don't appreciate getting snotty emails wondering why we can't make the commitments made on our behalf by other people who have absolutely no clue.
Which brings me to my second Fuck Off: Marketing pukes and Sales pukes (sorry, John).
Listen up, MPs and SPs: When asked
"Why did you promise that we would deliver a product that we can't deliver becausethe correct answer isa) the proper systems, processes, and controls are not yet in place,b) we don't yet have the necessary (and expensive) raw materials (see above),
c) we don't yet have the proper, validated equipment necessary,
d) we don't yet have supply agreements in place with our vendors,
e) we haven't yet validated the manufacturing process,
f) we haven't even completed all the required documentation because of late formulation changes and other delays,
in short, because it's not yet a product,
Oh God, I'm so terribly sorry, we never should have made unrealistic commitments without checking with the people who have to do the work, it will never, ever happen again, please don't hit me."The correct answer is NOT
Because we had to promise it to make the sale.That way lies madness and possible bodily harm.
All right, kids, your turn. Let 'er rip.
UPDATE: Thanks to Ricki and Angie, this thread has officially become another math joke thread. Especially if you can come up with more Euler material I can forward to DNT.
Daughter Number Two is home again this weekend (as will be Daughter Number One, but I don't know when she will arrive). DNT was home for a short time last weekend and she sang a bit from a song that I meant to blog but forgot. But since she just sang it again while we were discussing her Euclidian* geometry classes, I thought I would share it.
*Pronounced "OY-clidian" in honor of Euler's 300th birthday party next weekend, for which DNT is soliciting ideas for a celebration. She is planning to make a model of the Koenigsburg Bridge Problem with Belly Flops**
**These are rejects obtainable at the Jelly Belly factory for something like a penny a bag. But you knew that, I'm sure***.
***If you didn't know that, I can't help you.
But first, to get off the subject even further, she also told this joke:
Q: What do you call a small Eigen sheep?
A: A lamb. Duh.
UPDATE: Almost forgot: she also pointed out that Gauss was the Gandhi of mathematics. Euler was the Chuck Norris of mathematics.
But to get back to the original subject. She sang what could possibly be the longest song ever:
Aleph-null bottles of beer on the wall
Aleph-null bottles of beer
If one of those bottle should happen to fall
Aleph-null bottles of beer on the wall****
Yeah, I'm glad she's home.
****Email me if you need it explained.
I got nothing today, but I'm sensing from some of the comments here and the contents of other blogs, that the same isn't true for a lot of you guys, so I'll just zip it and cut to the chase.
Fire away, and may the weekend help cure it all.
Misogyny. I'm not some feminist that shaves my head but not my legs who throws that word around a lot. I really don't see it very often and when I do, it's usually because I got stuck on the Lifetime channel when I was drunk after losing the remote.
But I have seen it. I've been the butt end of it. And misogynists can fuck off. Don't give me any of that "mamma didn't love me" crap. Mamma didn't love me or anyone else either, and left a 27 fucking page suicide note behind telling us all why. That last succubus that fucked you over? She doesn't speak for ME. She is not the blueprint for all of womankind. I have been beaten, abandoned, screwed over for money or other selfish pleasures and even fucking RAPED by men and I've managed to not hate the whole lot of you for the mean, unkind actions of a handful of your sex. Maybe you might consider - just fucking CONSIDER - that sometimes, the queer or less-than-sweetums-can-I-fetch-you-your-slippers reaction that you get from women might - just MIGHT - be a response to your own goddamm behavior and attitude? Maybe you could just THINK that it's not all of womankind being deliberately rude to you and perhaps just reacting to you? Seriously, you assfucks sound like that twatwaffle L. Ron Hubbard, who, after presenting the most ridiculous, absurd fucking theories on mental science to the psychiatric community, found himself met with rejection and instead of reconsidering his thoughts, maybe reworking his theories, blamed the entire fucking profession for not recognizing his genius. That's why Tom Cruise thinks you're glib. Because one man who found himself against the unfriendly or dismissive face of thousands wouldn't consider for a single damn second that the problem might be with HIM.
I'm sick of the "oh, isn't it cute? She has an opinion" e-mails. I'm sick of being talked to like I'm a goddamm six-year-old by some guy who thinks his dick and chromosomes give him the right. Men like that are the reason you only see me here on Fridays now, the reason why I'm quietly blogging somewhere else in fucking peace. Bite me, you fucking wastes of life and space. I only wish I could get over the anger and feel the way I should when it comes to men like you: BORED.
And for the record, in case I haven't made it clear (which I'm pretty sure I have, but again, I'm just a dumb, lowly woman who shouldn't even presume to speak of such matters in the first place), I'm not talking about ALL men. Most of you are GREAT. I love you and all of the wonderful things you bring to my life. But when you come across one of these ratsucking assmunchers, you don't forget them too easy.
Fuck 'em. At least I'm half the way to bored.
Your turn. Take the wheel and drive us to Saturday. I really fucking need it.
Recorded political messages on my answering machine can fuck off. If you think bugging me during my personal time at home urging me to support Candidate X or Initiative Y is actually going earn my vote, you are very, very delusional.
Those people that stand outside of supermarkets aggressively urging me to sign one of those fucking petitions to get an initiative on the ballot can fuck off. With cheese-covered, assburger knobs on. I know it's your job and you're just trying to earn a living like everyone else, the thing is, some of us deliberately choose occupations that don't necessarily demand that we abruptly get in the face of people just trying to buy a loaf of bread and some lettuce. The ones who try to trip some upstairs psychological guilt switch by accusing me of hating children because I won't support their dumb inititative can fuck off and DIE A HORRIBLE FUCKING DEATH. I mean it. The only California voter initiative I will ever vote "yes" for is the voter initiative calling for an end to voter initiatives. Like I'd sign the fucking petition to start the process in the first place.
Bite me, the government of the state of California. You suck harder than Paris Hilton in the back seat of Brandon Davis' SUV in the earliest hours of Sunday.
A while back, the Nightfly feller composed a tribute to our end-of-the-week hobby. If we ever manage to work out how to record this stuff on the web with FFOT virtuoso Val, maybe someone out there can set it to music.
It's below the jump. Thanks, NF. Nobody's ever written me a song before! As for my fuck off this week, it's directed at anyone who is under the very fucking mistaken impression that owning high-end luxury automobiles not only entitles them to drive like an asshole, but also to act like an asshole in general. Dude, having a lot of money to burn on a car is not a mark of character. It does not define you as a superior human being. It's one thing to enjoy riding in a fine automobile, it's another thing to think I'm desperate to blow you because you drive a German car. Grow the fuck up and try and find some inner solace that's deeper than a goddamm puddle.
Mother doesn’t go out anymore
Just stays at home and trolls her favorite blogs
On culture, politics, and war
She has a message for the world at large
If you wanna bitch ‘bout the Clams and enablers
If you wanna know what they ban in France
If you wanna gripe about lousy drivers
You can do it in the Friday Flip Off
Em’ly’s typing up the latest screed
Why should she hold back when the world is dumb?
So many people feel the need
They’ll get their chance when Friday comes
If you wanna hear about corrupt politicians
If you wanna howl about their stupid laws
Wonder what the deal is with Lohan and Hilton?
Read about it in the Friday Flip Off
(Friday Flip Off!)
Jerks and jokers!
(Friday Flip Off!)
Sots and knaves!
(Friday Flip Off!)
Brainless sales clerks!
(Friday Flip Off!)
Rant and rave!
Val is heading that way now, I guess
He just wrote something made my face turn blue
Got nothing against the mainstream press
It might be funny if it was not true
If you wanna drop about a dozen f-bombs
If you wanna scream about dolts and toffs
If you want it done to them with knobs on
You can say it in the Friday Flip Off
Talk about it in the Friday Flip Off
(Friday Flip Off!)
Spoiled rich kids!
(Friday Flip Off!)
Scams and lies!
(Friday Flip Off!)
Crooks and posers!
(Friday Flip Off!)
Sod off and die!
UPDATE: Uh, wow. So Val shows up and allasudden talk turns to small peckers. Then when I finally get home and crack open a Nectar of the Gods, I start clicking around to places I haven't had time to look at yet this week and see this.
Her Ladyship is extra busy today so I'm hosting the Friday Fuck Off Thread today. I have two particular Fuck Offs today:
Continuing from last week's FFOT and last night's rant against the fuckulatorynannystatepecksniffianbusybodydembulbs, my first Fuck Off goes to the pinheaded twatwaffles in Congress who so stupidly decided to move the start date of Daylight Savings Time. I hate to keep harping on this but I estimate it has cost my company at least $10,000 in lost productivity, and the losses continue because we are still experiencing some issues with communication between servers, computers, and telecommunications systems. All this for potential energy savings measure meaningfully only in yoctoergs. It takes a yottadamn gall to force this kind of bullshit on us for no better purpose than to make retarded Congresscritters feel good about themselves. So a great big YOTTAFUCK OFF to said Congressional assburgers. With knobular encrustation.
My second Fuck Off is for the "antiwar" assbags and vaginaclots running the crosses "memorial" in Lafayette. They have every right to protest the war and the crosses are on private property. But they have NO FUCKING RIGHT to appropriate the names of the dead without permission from their families, particularly those families who support the troops in their mission.
Scott Conover of Tracy was interviewed on KSFO this morning. He removed the name of his son Brandon from one of the crosses yesterday, as noted in the linked story.
"Using our son's name is disgusting," said Tracy resident Scott Conover, whose son Brandon died in Iraq in January 2006.Another mother made her views known also:
[Sherry] Perussina, whose 21-year-old son spent a year in Iraq and is expected to be deployed again, said of the crosses, "This to me is the worst thing I've ever seen. It's shameless. It's bigotry. Stealing identities to make their political statement is shameless."Quite so. Have your marches and "memorials" and "vigils" and whatnot, but don't steal the names of the dead whose families don't support you.
Okay, boys and girls, we're in need of more fuckulating neologisms. The floor is open.
Sorry I'm late today. The reasons why can fuck off.
(Next week, Nightfly and Val...I promise)
Go ahead.
My bedroom window faces a pretty busy boulevard lined with a bunch of those No-Tell Motels that attract drug addicts, prostitutes and other wasteoids from various walks off life who tend to live after regular people hours. This means I will routinely be woken up at three o'clock in the morning to the shouts of a meth-raved lunatic on her third day without sleep screaming at the top of her lungs that Santa Clause has stolen her car keys. Or a cowboy crack head obsessed with some disgusting Tim McGraw "Mamma Didn't Love Me" shit song that he's got set on permanent repeat in his stereo that goes to 11. Or the drunk that spends twenty minutes beating on the door of an empty room screaming "let me the fuck in, bitch!" before he realizes he's on the wrong side of the motel.
On an ordinary day, I'd want to tell all of these people to fuck off. The thing is, some of them are either born stupid or are in such a perpetual state of drug-induced euphoria, that they do really dumb things, like reach for their keys to the entrance without realizing they've just flung everything out of their pockets with them. Including their money. This morning, I found seventy dollars lying on the ground outside of one of the worst motels on the street. I consider it penance from the ghosts of the building.
Take it away. Like I did.
For every asshole who lives in my apartment complex that decides the ninety second walk down to the trash dumpster will steal too much of their life and instead puts their steaming bag of rotting food and snot rags outside of their door so that everyone else who lives in the building has to look at it until they decide to get off of their asses and stop treating the courtyard like a fucking landfill...FUCK OFF. You know what? We don't live in a seven story walk up in New York City where taking out the trash means braving endless flights of stairs and miserable weather. We're not living in apartments the size of storage spaces so that just setting aside our garbage in OUR OWN FUCKING SPACE SO EVERYONE ELSE DOESN'T HAVE TO LOOK AT IT is going to take up half of our living room. This is Southern California. There's a 90% chance it's sunny outside. The dumpster is a short walk away. Take your fucking trash out. PIGS.
Do you guys remember that moment in Xanadu when the poor and under-appreciated Sonny Malone finally found the muse for his art? Of course you don't, because unless you're an idiot with stupid hobbies like me, you've never seen that dreadful movie. Anyway, that happened to me yesterday. I can't describe it other than to say a fire was lit. And I don't feel like telling anyone to fuck off today. Not anyone. It would just spoil the amazing feeling I'm having right now.
But y'all feel free to go right ahead.
To the "gentleman" sitting at a neighboring table last night who ruined what would have been an otherwise perfectly enjoyable dinner by boasting about his vast and manly sexual exploits loud enough to entertain every brainless, chest-pounding jock as far east as Cleveland, I would tell you to fuck off, but you'd probably consider that some kind of invitation. You may think that announcing to everyone within and beyond earshot that you're a slut makes you a Big Man, but trust me, most of us recognize you for the selfish, rude, disloyal and likely dirty windbag carrier of nasty and possible incurable diseases that you really are.
I've taken two showers and slept for eight hours since encountering this person and I still feel dirty. What the fuck ever happened to restaurant owners that told guests like that to either pipe down or get out?
It's yours.
It's not that there's no one specifically that I'd like to fuck off this week, it's just that I find there are times in life when it's best to keep your yap shut. So I will. But that doesn't mean you have to. Take it away.
-The asshole too busy yapping on their cell phone to notice there was a FUCKING PERSON in front of their car and therefore nearly ran me over.
-Really long voice mail messages with elaborate instructions that explain to you "when you are finished speaking, hang up." Thanks. I might have sat for the rest of the day clutching the phone to my face if you hadn't made that clear.
-Work related shitheads I can't mention by name, title, department or occupation for obvious reasons.
-Rupert Everett for saying "it's just like every other religion." NO. IT. ISN'T.
-Stress headaches.
All of 'em can fuck off.
Happy Friday.
This morning, every newspaper in Los Angeles had the David Beckham story as their major headline.
WE GOT BECKS!
Honestly, I don't have anything against the guy (at least unless he joins that happy fun cult), but isn't there like a war going on or something? Floods? Famine? Political corruption? Police scandals? I know that it really is news that there is finally going to be somebody playing for an American soccer team that anyone has actually heard of, but front page headlines with exclamation points is taking it a little too far.
Do I even have to say the words?
Take it away.
The legislature of the state of California can fuck off. For a lot of reasons, but today, they can fuck off for fucking up so bad they created a statewide energy crisis which afterwards they tried to rectify by fucking their constituents sideways fifty times a week. The little incentive programs they've offered apartment owners to urge them to install energy-saving lighting and heating devices can fuck off. Not that energy saving is a bad idea most of the time, but when I wake up in fucking Siberia and the override function on my heater won't let me turn it on in the name of "saving energy"? FUCK OFF.
Take it away.