thepissedkitty

I’d like to shake his hand…!

There are lots of unpleasant things about riding the bus, but this guy (as well as the one I sat next to this morning, who had Tourette’s), and well…not paying $2.75 at the pump, while avoiding even crazier guys panhandling while squirting your windshield with dirty water without your permission…that…kind of makes it all worthwhile.

On the ride home, I got to wondering about that man. Who is the guy who belongs to the voice which announces, “APPROACHING…MELROSE…AND BRONSON”?

Sometimes the bus drivers use this auto-announce hoopijoob when they don’t feel like bellowing out, SUUUUUUNNNNSEEEEET! which is good, because most of them are kind of freaky-scary, and I couldn’t understand them, anyway.

But then some of them don’t use any announcements at all, which is shitty if you don’t know where you’re going, because, durrr, you’ve never been there before. So I actually quite appreciate the auto-announcer, Mysterio. Plus bus drivers tend to get surly if you ask them things, like, will they please pull forward, because they have run over your foot.

Sometimes, Auto-Announcer Guy has to say some really f—ed up shit, like, “APPROACHING…CHACACHACA AND GASSER…FOLLOWED BY…CACAPOOPOO AND HUAHUAHUAHUA *retching noise*…” or, “APPROACHING…HOOKER AND DRILLDOE.”

It’s a sketchy part of town, folks. What can I say.

And he does it all with a straight fac…er, straight disembodied voice. Wow!

So, AAG, I salute you…!

I would ask the bus driver who you are, but I’m not supposed to have “unnecessary conversations” with him or he will fine me $250.

So Jerky was edjumacating me about Korean food and what’s in it and I still happily scarf it up, anyway.

Especially kim chi, which makes me gassy as all get-out and which she informs me is often fermented in a bucket under the sink next to the household cleaning products, and I still don’t care.

My grandma used to grow sprouts under there.

My (Easter European, practically living in Mexico) grandma also used to pickle watermelon rind in the fridge, and I would munch it down (my dad and I are called “The Hoovers” for a reason) even though I can only imagine what kind of gas that gives you. Probably green, pickled, noxious mushroom clouds of it.

My friend Joe’s mom would make green Jell-O molds with bits of canned asparagus suspended innit and the old man would slurp that stuff right up.

On my mom’s side, my grandpa enjoys his Saltines in a glass of milk (eyyeccch) and he will chew, but not swallow, his meat. Apparently, my great grandma, his mom, Beullah “Missouri” Belle, told him it was bad for his digestion. Which, if you think about it, is sort of true. So growing up, I thought it was normal for people to have chewed-up balls of meat furtively stashed under the iceberg lettuce on their plates.

That is probably why I went vegetarian for 10+ years, in fact, until I left Texas.

Also, I have a sneaking suspicion that they used to eat scrambled cow brains for breakfast and liked it, but prefer not to discuss it, especially since that whole It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad Cow thing. Thankfully.

I don’t know if these customs are “from de old country”, redneck, Mexican, or just…disgusting.

Did your grandparents do any of this or are we just nucking futs…?

I am like this superhero of clumsiness.

Last night, while looking around furiously for the source of the stanky cigarette smoke that was emanating from the new neighbor guy/guy who is fucking the new neighbor guy, I fell in the bushes and got my butt all wet.

There is nothing less delightful than a wet butt on a rainy day. Except maybe a new neighbor who, not wanting his apartment to stink, goes out on the balcony to smoke, which of course rises, and is sucked directly into YOUR apartment, so yours can reek, instead. Delightful!

I would have liked to have stepped in dog business, and then onto his face, grinding my heel into his nose, in order to show him what inhaling his stench was like, but no time - I had to go blow-dry my ass. I’ll send down the welcome wagon later.

(Possibly in the form of a note suggesting that smokers in apartment buildings should only be allowed to smoke in their own cars, with all the windows rolled up, or in the street. And by that I mean in traffic. Die, smelly fuckers, die. Hey, I’m just giving them what they want, faster!)

Then, I had come slogging home in the rain only to crunch a poor snail on the sidewalk. Aaah! I hate killing snails! They are my friends! So I bent over to scrape poor dead Smedly off the sidewalk and *crunch*. Aaaah! Another gastropod dead! Oh the humanity!…*crunch* Son of a…!

*sniff* I am Pisser, Destroyer of Worlds with My Huge-Ass pontoon-feet, but I didn’t mean to do it! I HATE STEPPING ON SNAILS IN THE DARK! *crunch*

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! *crunch* AAAAHHHHHHHH…!

I am the Godzilla of the class Gastropoda.

And earlier today, I dropped a Goldfish® on the floor, bent down, picked it up, and threw it in the trash. It hit some other trash, bouncing out of the trash again. I bent down to throw it away for the third time, picked it up, and my zipper busted. Great.

Enough of this I-Love-Lucy-but-lamer shite. I’m sick of being Miss Klutz America. Please pass me the hammer so I can attempt to pull nails out of the wall and only succeed in hitting myself upside my own head with it. That should take care of the problem, and I wouldn’t have to smell smoke through the floorboards any more…!

On second thought, don’t give me any hard or blunt objects. That would be just about everything. Like the time I went to answer the phone and clocked myself in the head with the receiver. Think of what I could do to the neighbor with common household goods if this is what I do to myself on a near-daily basis.

Have you ever almost put an eye out with your own knee? I hope not. It takes a special kind of stupid. Yes, that’s right. I’m fucking talented. I can fall off a pebble or my own shoes. Beat that, Quasimodo Butt.

The only time the clumsiness comes in handy is when stomping and stumbling as loudly as possible on my floor, hoping to convince my malodorous downstairs neighbor to have a self-help eviction.

Now excuse me while I go shove these expired snails through Stinky McReekerson’s mail slot.

Right now
Gonna take you over

Hate baby hate…
You’re only human
What can you do
It’ll soon be over
Don’t let your pain take over you - INXS

Dude. It’s like, when they wrote that, they were thinking about this new Aqua-Velva commercial, i.e. 30 Seconds of Hell. It does pain me. It’s fukkin’ killing me, dyuuuude.

SPLASH! BRING OUT THE BLUE!!!
IT’S THAT BALL-STINGING FEELING!
SPLASH!!! YOUR BALLS ARE BLUE!
WHEN SHE TOUCHES YOUR SKIIIIIIIIIN….

It’s like that, but worse.

Agggh…! Who wrote this? Manhattan Transfer?! And what’s with the “jazzy” choral arrangement?! Damn thing sounds like it was ripped right out of the 70’s, but without a trace of irony.

Plus the oversexed voice over lady (just what the world needs - another oversexed woman) says “…that MANLY SCENT.” Which immediately makes me think of the smell of balls. Yack. Let the slut HAVE her ball-sack smelling face. See if I care…!

It grates on me, folks. And who wears AQUA VULVA, anyway (besides Jason Champine of Royal Oak, Michigan)?! What a tool.

If Wet Vulva Co., Inc. is really shooting for a “younger, hipper” market, they sure as shit missed the mark with this fucked-up smooth jazz choral craptacular and Mr. Innocent Boring Golf Dad model. But what did you really expect from the makers of Just For Men® (whose super-annoying “no play for Mr. Gray!” spots - target market: divorced men trying to fuck much younger women - feature a guy dying his stupid 70’s beard, so that he then looks like the same dorky guy, but with a different colored beard. I just LUNGE for men who use hair color on their FACE, don’t you?!) and Brylcreem® (which apparently is trying to garner favor with the S&M market)? Anyway, I only wear Old Spice men’s B.O. De-O, ‘cuz I like my pits to smell like Grandpa Hollis.

Die, smelly sexist stuck-in-the-vulva-of the 70’s pigfuckers, die.

I am really going to have to stop watching TV just to avoid this real dog’s butt of a commercial.

That, and the way Tim Green’s thin upper lip moves (or doesn’t move) when he says “A Current Affair.”

Euuurrrrrgggh.

We get the strangest things in the mail.

Some postcards we have received…

Yeah, right.

I love this company’s mailings, and want this on a t-shirt. Didn’t know people got so devastated about leaks unless they were…y’know. Personal. Or Liberace.

And speaking of geldings…

Win a Spanish horse? Is that like, Spanish fly, with the thinger to go with it?

This woman looks entirely too happy about being “mounted”. I am alarmed…are they background checking the “lucky” winner for a history of bestiality?! Note to self: Call Society Trying to Outlaw Inappropriate Thingies During Insane Crazy Kontests (STOPITDICK).

Next, these alarming pamphlets direct to you from the L. Ron Hubbleheads, who are still trying to get to one of our employees who dropped them for basically being a giant pyramid scheme. Unless they are now trying to get to me, in which case, knock it off, Jenna Elfman - I told you I cancelled my Earthlink account!

Is there something wrong with this picture, or is it just me…?

These women holding the thing always look blissfully, blissfully happy.

Here’s another one:

Is that an e-meter, or are you just happy to see me?

She looks a little too happy if you ask me.

Though if those engram dealies are designed by Pleasure Chest, I’m starting to see Scientology’s appeal.* And apparently, I’m not the only one who’s noticed this sketchwad female phenomenon…why don’t they ever show a guy smiling while getting e-felched, huh…? Tom Cruise: this means you.

*Too bad they cost like $3000.

I am guilty of watching the nanny shows again, both ABC’s Supernanny and FOX’s rip-off, Nanny 911.

ABC’s is a far superior show (I’m not just saying that because I have a giant lesbian crush on this woman), and besides, they didn’t steal the idea from the other network, right down to the British Isles nannies. Yet both shows fascinate and perplex me. A) Because I have absolutely no concept of proper child-rearing, and B) because neither of them are anything like the show I was thinking of pitching.

I’m afraid that my show, SuperPisser 911, would only find a market in Japan, where they are both hilariously random and strong on discipline. Actually, in Japanese, “SuperPisser 911″ translates literally as Why You Have So Many Kids, Anyway?!

But instead of making kids go sit in “The Naughty Closet/Room/Stoop/Rug/Trash Can”, I would make them go to hell.

Also, since I don’t really understand how the nanny convinces an already misbehaving child to stay on “The Naughty Step”, I would have to nail them there.

Don’t get all puffed up, I’d use carpet nails. Sheesh.

But not before strapping them into their chairs for dinner, so they could not escape. I would use “The Naughty Rope/Tree/Gallows/Machete”.

Rather than complaining that the kids were on a sugar high all day, which makes them even more obnoxious than usual, I’d happily eat all their snacks while popping their Ritalin like a Desperate Housewife, except fat. Then, at mealtimes, they would not complain about having to eat my used tofu refuse, ‘cuz they’d be ravenous.

Afterwards, instead of admonishing the kids for playing in the street, I would encourage them to “go play in traffic.”

It worked for my parents and it works for me.

When I wanted to go shopping, instead of subjecting the huddled masses to my screaming brood, I’d have them go play with their little friends by asking them, “if Timmy jumps off a high bridge, does that mean you’ll do it, too?” That way, I wouldn’t need a sitter.

I’d also have them “go suck an egg” and “ask someone who cares”, “go jump in a lake”, and “go chase yourself”, which would keep them happily occupied for hours.

That way, they’d be too tired from chasing themselves and egg-sucking to give me any guff.

I realize that some would consider this child abuse. That is why I do not have children. I am not allowed. But I think we can all agree that the kids on these shows are not responding to conventional methods. They need DISCIPLINE…! Discipline, and duct tape. And a lethal dose of Shutupazone.

The parents need discipline, too. One or both of them must undergo a tubal ligation/vasectomy by the end of each show, depending on who is the worst parent. Then, as a prize, I give them a kick in the pants and a nice pineapple.

Now before you hate me for hating kids, please consider this. I don’t really hate them. I just hate loud noises. I like kids. Especially somebody else’s. So much, in fact, that I am calling Child Protective Services on both shows for child abuse. You heard me. I believe that it is child abuse to show your kids toilet training on national television. How would you feel if, at your high school graduation ceremony, or at age 37, for your bachelor party, someone had gotten ahold of a DVD of Nanny 911 showing you doing “The Poopy in the Potty Dance” with some bint in a cape?!

Not good, that’s how.

However, there is one point on which Supernanny 911 and Why You Have So Many Kids, Anyway?! agree. The commercials.

Last night during Supernanny, I noticed that FOX runs Ortho-Novum ads for their new birth control pill.

*APPLAUSE*

Thank you.

There was a superbootytastic songstress/diva in to work today, but she didn’t stay long because her voice was “not good”.

I wish I was a pissylicious diva.

I could come in to work and stay for 2 minutes and then leave because I was “not good”. Except I would be REALLY “not good”, not just “not good” because my voice was tired and I needed to check myself before I wrecked myself, vocally.

And they’d gone and made fruit platters and everything.

But then…

This happens to me only very seldom, but I am in total awe.

He was here. CHET. Chet was here…! Eeeee…! Be still, my weirdo heart!

He also made this.

This man is my IDOL…!

I am such a geek right now, I could just piss myself. Be still, my beating tard…oh, f—- it (beating anyway).

Note: If you are not a child of the 80’s, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.

Isn’t it odd that it takes something like a power outage to get us to act like normal, social human beings…?

When I used to live in this crackhouse in Hollywood, our power went out approximately every 30 minutes, but that was okay, because we had free cable. Not that there was any power on to watch it with, but still. Free…!

You could hear everyone in the whole ghetto shoebox building going, “BOOOOO! WAAAAAH…!” when the power went off and “YAY! WOOOOOO…!” when it came back on. And one time, a guy ran up and down the courtyard yelling, “I HAVE NO PANTS!”, but that’s another story.

Anyway, it was the strongest sense of community I felt there, during those power outages, until the management hired the Taliban to be our new apartment managers. We were all in the same leaky, sinking, crusty, stinking boat.

Everyone would gather in the courtyard and talk when the lights went off. That’s kind of what we had going at work today, except we had donuts, dogs, and fire hazard votives lit in the bathroom so we could pee by candlelight. It was very romantical!

Then we went to breakfast while we waited two more hours for CPS to even decide to show up, and the boss had buggered off somewhere. I could hang with this every day.

Except that my brain cannot deal with the fact that there is no electricity, and the voices…the voices again…

ME: Oh, poop. The power’s out.
SELF: You know, this isn’t such a bad thing. People used to do quite well without lighting. Electrical appliances weren’t even widely introduced until the 40’s. Surely you, even in your limited mental capacity, can find some way to amuse yourself.
ME: I know! I’ll use the computer…!
SELF: You can’t do that.
ME: Huh…? But WHY not?!
SELF: Computer requires electricity.
ME: Aw, damn! Well, I’ll call someone.
SELF: Phone also requires the use of electricity.
ME: It DOES?! But I thought it ran on…I don’t know…phone juice.
SELF: You’re really quite daft. (For some reason, my Self has a British accent.)
ME: Well ha ha, Self, you think you’re so smart…I have…a CELL PHONE! whips it out
SELF: Mmm hrm. Guess who forgot to charge it last night?
CELL PHONE: *bleep* It dies.
ME: Oh yeah, Smarty Trousers?! I also have…A CHARGER! Plugs it in and stares at it for five minutes while nothing happens. Oh…damn.
SELF: Dear Lord, this child is dense. Sprays Me in the face with Lysol to test reflexes
ME: Unfazed…blinks I know! Let’s go nuke a burrito…! Very dim bulb appears over head and then fizzles and dies.
SELF: *sigh*

Durrrrr. How are all your brains werking today?

Is the light on, but no one’s home? Is the wheel still turning, but the hamster’s dead…? Is there a naked loony in the henhouse, but no one’s making enchiladas?!

I have no idea what I meant by that.

Do you…?

Lately, I seem to be talking to myself a lot. I find this habit alarming.

I even find myself recapping to others the conversations I’ve had with myself, which is just queer, and think:

ME: Hey! We’re talking to ourselves…!
SELF: No shit, Turdburglar Brain. Where’d you burgle that pea-brain from anyway, a cat? Because it’s about the size of a wad of used chewing gum.
ME: Hey! Be nice to Me, Self.
SELF: Whatever you say, boss.
ME: Haven’t you seen those SIMPSONS episodes where Homer threatens his brain by stabbing it with Q-tips or killing it with beer…?
SELF: Suits me.
ME: I mean, you should feel sorry for me when I can’t remember shit, and have to ask you.
SELF: Well, somebody’s got to remember stuff around here.
ME: Like this…?

THE EX-FRIEND
ME: Hey…*why* are we mad at her again…?
SELF: Because of that guy we used to date.
ME: Is that the only reason? ‘Cuz that’s stupid.
SELF: No. She sucked a lot before that guy came along. It was just one of many reasons why we dumped her ass. We gave her lots of chances not to suck. On numerous occasions, she could have not sucked. But instead, she chose, indeed, to suck. I stand by my decision.
ME: Oh, yeah…you were right, Self!
SELF: Yeah. She was sucktastic.
ME: Thanks…!

So sometimes we get along. But mostly we argue. In fact, we have the same argument every morning:

ALARM: Bleep…!
SELF: Nooooo…!
ME: Noooooooooo…!
SELF: Get up.
ME: Noooo! Can’t we call in sick?
SELF: No!
ME: Yes!
SELF: No! Need dough!
ME: D’OH!!!
SELF: Must buy kibble. Must pay vet bills! Cats control my brain…!

And it continues, over:

THE GROCERY LIST
ME: Huh? Why did I come here? *scratch scratch*
SELF: Don’t do that in public…!
ME: Sorry. It itches. What do we need, again…?
SELF: Why don’t you ever make a list?
ME: I can remember…
SELF: Yeah, right.
ME: ________. …what do we need, again…?
SELF: Tortillas. We need tortillas.
ME: Hey…!
SELF: Now what is it?
ME: These tortillas are BROWN!
SELF: So…?
ME: We need FLOUR tortillas.
SELF: Flour is brown. What else would it be? Corn?
ME: Oh.
SELF: Moron.

And finally, in the liquor aisle…

ME: I know! Let’s buy some SCOTCH!
SELF: Do you really think that’s a good idea?
ME: Assballutely…!
SELF: I think this is maybe one of the reasons why you need help from me.
ME: HEY…!
SELF: I’m afraid to ask. What brilliant revelation have you had now…?
ME: It says MADE IN SCOTLAND. Scotch is from SCOTLAND…?
SELF: …
ME: That’s why they call it SCOTCH?! ‘Cuz it’s…uh, SCOTCH?!?
SELF: Surely you knew that. It’s elementary, my dear Watson.
ME: I did not know that! Who’s Watson…?
SELF: *sigh*
ME: WOW! Scotch is neat!
SELF: Oh, fuck it. What say we have some of that now? Muttering I’ve gotta get outta here, find myself a new body…this kid has got shit-for-brains.
ME: Cheers…!
BOTH: Aaaaaah. At last, we agree.

Callers I hate:

Plain Old Fashioned Wrong Numbers: damn it, my name is not Pedro, and I do not mow lawns. Now stop calling here or I’ll send some nasty broad over there to professionally munch your rug.

Missed Callers. These are personally my least favorite. People who say, “you called me?” when what came up on their caller ID was the main company number, so it could have been anyone in the entire building. Some of them are even hostile about it, and/or don’t speak English…why jou call me here, Juan Carlos?!

Then you have to spend five minutes explaining that, a) no me llamo Juan Carlos, porque no tengo un pene, and b) I did not call you. You called me. KNOCK IT OFF-!

Phone Trash - this is of course everything from people looking for jobs to telephone solicitors of all varieties. These are obnoxious. Salesmen are the worst. Especially the ones who don’t ask, but DEMAND to speak to the person in charge of janitorial services, etc. As if you are going to tell them who that would be. However, I do on occasion, if that particular employee happens to chap my hide. I’m very democratic that way.

Redundant Message-Leavers. The ones who call all the time and leave a message on your cell phone, but it’s always the same, i.e. Hi. This is StupidBoringPerson. Give me a call. This has no real information, therefore why should I call you? And why are you wasting my valuable cell phone minutes just so I can check your useless message? NO CALL FOR YOU-!

Nosey Neds - callers who ask, is Gino there? No, Neddy Nadsucker, I do not know if Gino has finally decided to grace us with his presence, because I am NOT Gino. And Gino is not me. It wasn’t my turn to watch him, and I have no idea what is going on on other peoples’ desks because I am unfortunately not omniscient.

Unless you are interested in who he fooled around with after the last company party, in which case I can help you.

Babblers and Dawdlers - people who take entirely too long to spit out what they are going to say. This category is inclusive of those who are driving while fiddling with the radio and blasting LOUD music in my ear, as well as those who just aren’t sure what they want and/or couldn’t be articulate if I slapped every syllable out of them.

And yes, this is up to and including people who eat Doritos in my ear and the pricks in suits who I can TELL are calling from the “executive washroom”, because I can hear the urinal flushing - QUIT IT, you sick frat-boys-turned-CEOS! You are disgusting, boorish fucks and your wives and children hate you, too!

Obscene callers. Especially at work, where you’re not expecting it, and you think they’re a Dawdler, but when they finally do speak, they blurt something about bending you over your desk, and before you can think of a clever retort, you hang up because you are too flustered and the background noise you formerly thought was fumbling turns out to be furtive whacking. GAH!!!

Prisoners. People who call from a prison phone. Self-explanatory.

Scammers. These may also be Prisoners. If you get a collect call and/or hear a message that says this person is calling from a prison phone/the Los Angeles County Corrections Department, this is most likely what you are dealing with. Do not humor them. If they ask you for the numbers on your copier, ask you to dial 9 for them (so they can call Tokyo) or claim to have your lost pet (in PRISON?! Man, Fluffy had a rough night!) do NOT respond! I don’t care if you’re elderly, doddering, and gullible. No good can come of conversing with a man who has been institutionalized, unless you are really that hard up. And under NO circumstances should you participate in phone sex with this person, even if the operator tells you that you are helping to catch a felon.*

BEWARE of the phone. If you think any of the above is bad, consider this: people will break into your house while you are at a funeral and make long-distance calls to Guyana.*

*True, first-person story from a good-hearted but very silly friend. And the Lost Cat thing? Happened to me. And the Guyana thing? My mom. FUN.

Maybe it’s better just not to answer it.

The phone is a dangerous instrument, folks. Even now, I am eying it leerily. Before you use it, especially for business purposes, please take a moment and collect your thoughts, get rid of the background noise, and decide what you’re going to say before you waste everyone’s time and become a burr on the ass of phone-answering society. And stop whacking!

As for you answerers, if in doubt, just assume it is an obscene, whacking AND whacked caller, calling collect from a prison phone in Guyana. And he does NOT have your cat.

That way, if it isn’t an obscene caller from a prison psych ward on Guyana who does NOT have your cat, you are pleasantly surprised.

Thank you.