I finally broke down and purchased myself an ipod to use at the gym. I've given so many of those fuckers away as gifts, I would have thought Apple would at least thrown me one.

Yeah... but no.

However, they did allow me to select two free plastic pieces of shit cases so that made me happy. Until they admitted that they were running some kind of promotion and everyone got those.

Cheap Bastards.

My ipod that costs half a mortgage came in a little tiny box with little tiny instructions. It didn't really matter how big the instructions were anyway. I couldn't figure the fucker out even if they were written specifically for me.

"Chris, plug that little white thingumabob into the front of the computer with the big sticky saying plug in HERE."

I still would have fucked it up.

In my many years on this earth, I have gotten to know myself a little bit and don't even attempt to try to install, program or even open packages with sharp instruments. I immediately turned the little box over to my son.

"Put music on this".

Three minutes later my entire itunes collection was on it along with a couple of songs he had stolen from somewhere that he thought I would like.

That's my kid.

So now I have this little rectangle thing that I need to figure out how to work. Seeing I received a satellite radio for Christmas that I have yet to learn how to turn on, I thought I might be in trouble.

It was then I was informed by my wonderful son that the headphones that came with the ipod suck duck dick.

That is also my kid.

Don't worry, he says, he'll send me a link of what I need.

Which costs the other half of that mortgage payment.

I decide to stick with the duck dick ones and psyche myself up for a lesson.

"OK, Mom, see this wheel?"

"What wheel?"

"The wheel in the middle of the ipod," he said patiently.

"No."

"No? Right here, this white round thing," he said with a tad less patience.

"That is NOT a wheel, it is a white circle and if you are going to complicate this with all that technology jargon, just stop now," I snapped.

I wonder where I can get a Walkman?

Two Nuns Walk Into A Bar. The Third One Ducks.

George Carlin has a new special on HBO. I would tell you the name but I don't pay attention to shit like that. I just channel surf through pay channels and stop when something may have the potential of making me forget my crappy boring life for fifteen minutes or so.

This morning, while having my daily infusion of caffeine and cigarettes, I noticed Georgy's name with the name of the special (that I forgot) on the info tag.

And stopped to check it out.

First thing I notice is the G Man has gotten fucking OLD. I saw him live a couple of years back and he had mentioned he recently quit drugs. I think he should take them back up because he was looking a lot perkier back then.

The second thing I noticed is that his new special is his last two specials with the name (that I forgot) changed. None of it seemed original although it was still slightly humorous in a familiar sort of way.

No, this isn't a review of Mr. Carlin's new HBO with the name of the special I forgot. It is more about age and knowing when it is time to give it up.

When my son and I saw him a couple of years ago, the dude was reading off of note cards. He joked about it explaining he needed to learn new shit for his up coming HBO special (the name of which I also forgot) and he is working some stuff out.

Not for anything but I think he should have paid the audience if he was only going to use us as practice.

I am sorry but I don't think old performers are nostalgic. I think they are used up and a little sad.

Sort of like the 50 year old walking through the mall with the long dyed blond hair and the hip huggers.

There are some things I just don't want to see.

When I am trying to be entertained and I feel obligated to laugh or clap to make the performer feel good, it is time for them to go behind the scenes and help out the up and comings that don't require note cards and naps between sets.

Just sayin'............

Tramp Stamps and Whale Tails

and lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my.

I am a hypocrite.

My attitude towards the world is live and let live..god bless....do unto others and knock yourself out.

Except please try to show a little class while you do whatever the fuck you want to do.

I took the kid to Dennys for our weekly ritual junk breakfast before school and was treated to a lovely view of the ass of the gal at the adjoining table the entire meal.

What amazed me is not only was she totally unabashed by her butt being on display, she offered it purposefully.

To show off her ass in her low rise jeans, purple whale tail and her tramp stamp.

At 7am.

In Dennys.

I totally get wanting to attract men and being half naked is certainly the way to do it. The construction workers and UPS guy were certainly enjoying the view unless they actually needed to go back and forth to the restroom four times each. However, it was fucking Dennys in the morning!

Always willing to research oddities for the benefit of all man kind, I quickly assessed whether Bambi was perhaps a leftover from the clubs last night.

You know the look...the finger brushed hair and the rumbled clothes from being on the floor all night after wastedly falling into bed with a stranger.

I mean not that I personally would know anything about that kind of thing.

Of course not.

Nope, this little gal was showered , spiffy and ready to start her day.

I hushed my kid who was babbling about something unimportant such as failing math or a school bully and tried to tune into the conversation going on at the next table.

Where was Bambi headed in that attire?

Her breakfast companion was a fully dressed young lady about the same age who fucking mumbled! The bitch.

Shit, I really need to learn how to read lips.

The best I could get was that they were indeed off to work after their nine cups of coffee and Asscrack was adamant about not taking any shit off the boss that day.

Okay kids, so tell me, what line of work permits employees to dress a perfect 10 on the Slut-O-Meter with normal work hours that doesn't involve a pimp?

I am at a loss.

Fuck all of you that don't update at least once every week.

You know who you are. Quit looking around all innocent like.

Yes, I am one of those sucky lurkers that don't comment often. While I love you all blowing smoke up my ass, I don't have the patience to enter my blogger name, password and then put all those fucking meaningless random letters in that little piece of crap box.

But I read you, oh yes I do. How else am I supposed to get through this G-d Damned work day?

Hmmmm???

I may have to start a shit list. Those people that are too freakin' lazy to come up with at least one anecdote to share with those of us that have limited social lives and only this to look forward to.

So go back and write about that fucked up bitch that was ahead of you at the market Saturday or that inconsiderate prick who brought his rugrat to the movies or that lady walking through the mall with her skirt caught up in her granny panties.

Don't make me beg.

Meet Sam. Sam is a six pound Brussel Griffon that I adopted as a spare to keep the dog I like company.

Not considering myself an animal lover...well I am not really a lover of anything that isn't fattening or clothing optional afterall............ I was surprised when I grew attached to the little Affenpinscher I bought last year. I think I grew attached to it simply because it grew attached to me and either I got used to him following me around all the time or punted him across the house against the wall.

Lucky for him, I choose the former.

Max was bought to replace a bitch beagle mix that lived up to her name. Fucking thing took a hunk of thigh out of a neighbor as a late night snack.

At that time, we also had a poodle mix, Cassie, that was also a big pain in the ass but because since it was too small to do any real damage to the neighbors, I allowed my kids to keep her.

So two little dogs hanging out together while I worked, having puppy parties and living it up.

No problemo.

Except that technically the poodle was SCMs dog. After his step father died, his mother was lonely and asked if she could take Cassie to live with her.

I didn't give a shit, I never liked that little bitch either.

Apparently, Max the Affen did though and mopped around in loneliness for days and days.

Believe me, the fucking Dog Whisperer was out of the question but even hearts of stone sometimes get a chip in them.

So, in comes Sam.

Sam the spare dog to play with Max the real dog.

Sam is a pretty good sort. Came pretty much house broken, likes to be held and scratched, doesn't eat too much...etc.

So is this a post to introduce the world to my cute little puppy?

Geez, you guys know me better than that by now.

No, this is a post about a little dog that has the WORST gas of any person or beast I have ever encountered in my forty something years.

And I had an Uncle from the old country that could fart the star spangled banner in two keys.

This thing, though,....this thing is a walking fart machine and holy shit does these farts reek!

His old owner was feeding him pretty cheap food so I thought once I got him on some better stuff, his gas should subside a bit.

WRONG.

I now am convinced one of my loving children are feeding the fucking thing broccoli when I am not looking.

My house smells like a porta potty during a heat wave at a country fair.

That serves fried Twinkies.

And Turkey Legs.

The good news is I no longer wonder where little Sammy is. I look for my family members and go to the place in the house that is furthest away geographically.

Max has even taken to avoiding Sam as if saying..."Dude, can't you do something about that? Have some fucking mercy."

So we are renaming him Stinky and have resigned never to take him to the dog park.

We don't want all the other dogs to make fun of him.

That's our job.

I have decided that I am not going to allow this fucking bad hair ruin my day!

But it will.

I am vain and self conscious like that.

Every time I talk to someone I will think they are looking at my hair and wondering what the fuck I could have done to make it frizz up like that.

Or worse, think that the bitch has finally lost her mind and that finger in electric outlet is her new look.

But I will not allow this to ruin my day.

Every trip to the ladies room will have me pulling out the brush and the hairspray trying to create some semblance of order to this mop and each effort will be awarded with grunts, growls and a look worse than when I walked in.

But I will not allow this to ruin my day.

At lunch, I will decline going out because I just know the rainy humid weather will create havoc on my already disastrous golden locks so I will send out for a salad and eat it at my desk.

But , NO! I will not allow this to ruin my day.

This afternoon, I will stay in my office and decline to see any vendors or salespeople because I can not make logical decisions when I feel like shit about myself.

But, I will certainly not allow this to ruin my day.

As I bid goodnight to my employees they will leave wondering why I was a recluse all today and what they did to make me want nothing to do with any of them.

No, a bad hair will never ever ruin my day.

At closing, I will put on my sweats and tee, pull the mop up into a pony holder and head to the gym where it is acceptable to look like shit and feel normal for the first time all day.

Good thing I did not allow a bad hair day to get me down.

Rumor Control

If you are one of the kids from the kewl table that have been around a while, you know that I run a small company.

I love what I do and enjoy most of the people I work with.

Most.

Because in every office there has to be one or two people that can not be happy unless tornadoes of shit are constantly swirling about.

You know the type. Not only do they listen to other people's conversation, they jump right in as if they have a right to know everything that is going on. Of course they must give their opinion as well.

Lucky me, I have a pair of these numnuts.

They both are hard workers and good at their jobs but Lord Almighty, they can get a rumor around as fast as steroids in the locker room at a wresting match.

One of my little stars has a small office catty corner to mine. When I oversaw the construction of the workspace we utilize, I asked specifically for my office to have extra insulation for privacy.

Which means her rumors are close but not quite right.

I guess holding the little glass to the door has its problems.

Yesterday I met with the accountant to discuss some financial concerns regarding the first quarter of 2008.

Concerns. That's all. The economy is slow and our numbers are slightly down.

Slightly.

This morning I came in to odd expressions on the faces of every employee to which I offered my typical good morning greeting.

I shrugged it off knowing if anything major is going on, I'd be privy to it soon enough.

I was not disappointed.

My assistant came in and wanted to know how many employees I plan to cut and from which departments.

Ummm, WHAT?!

When I asked what she was talking about she told me my neighbor, Ms. Gossip McNoseypants said she overheard that we are going to have to lay off 25% of our workers.

Now first of all, this woman doesn't even lie about listening at the door. She admits is freely and with no shame.

Secondly, she listens INCORRECTLY and proceeds to scare the shit out of people that now fear they are going to lose their jobs.

I attempted some damage control but it is hard to convince people that it really is a rumor when they are frightened.

I need to speak to the stupid twat but am trying to calm down so I don't rip her arm off and beat her to death with it.