thepissedkitty

For Brenda and Liz…first of all, f— you for making me do this. Flargh, I don’t do memes, but it’s Monday, and I can barely…f—–sdg;ktje[[/.!!!

Their instructions are: Once you’re done you point this meme at three people you think will be cool with putting in a good two cents on it. Don’t forget to add a profession to the end of the list with a link to your meme!

My instructions are: NO. But you can do it if you want. Not that everyone in the Western world but me hasn’t done this already, because I’m surly like that.

The (@#$%!!!ing, F— This List) List
If I could be a scientist…
If I could be a farmer…
If I could be a musician…
If I could be a doctor…
If I could be a painter…
If I could be a gardener…
If I could be a missionary…
If I could be a chef…
If I could be an architect…
If I could be a linguist…
If I could be a psychologist…
If I could be a librarian…
If I could be an athlete…
If I could be a lawyer…
If I could be an innkeeper…
If I could be a professor…
If I could be a writer…
If I could be a llama-rider…(by Ogre)
If I could be a bonnie pirate…(By Teach)
If I could be a servicemember…(By Jeremy)
If I could be a business owner…(By Blue 944)
If I could be an actor… (By Blue 944)
If I could be an agent…(By KelBel)
If I could be video game designer…(By KelBel)
If I could be a comic book artist…(By Stoli)
If I could be a hooker…(By Pollo Loco)
If I could be a crack addict (by Elizabeth)
If I could be a porn star (by Elizabeth)
If I could be a f*cking meme…(Pisser)
If I could be a serial killer…(Pisser)
If I could be a dung beetle…(Pisser)

If I could be an architect…I would build a feline utopia with a 2,000 mile wide moat around it containing bitey things like stinging jellyfish and evil phosphorescent sea-leeches and sharks capable of launching bombs at assholes who try to catch them just to be assholes. I would only have a two-lane causeway to the island because not that many people would be allowed to come there as people in general piss me off.

Anyone already on the island who pissed me off would be immediately ejected via catapult, followed closely by all their sh*t…and I DO mean sh*t.

If I could be a doctor…I would get in beeg tr-ouble for malpractice because I would arbitrarily decide who should be allowed to reproduce and go around zapping people’s ‘nads just because they pissed me off. I would tell them I was just giving them free bonus electrolysis for being such hairy trolls and next thing they would know, they’d be ‘nadless wonders.

I should not be a doctor. I am not allowed.

(How many of these got-damned things do I have to do?!)

If I could be a llama-rider...(by Ogre) Who t.f. is Ogre? I actually like this one.

If I could be a llama (rider), I’d llama in the morning. I’d llama in the evening. All over this land (who’s gonna clean that up?) I’d llama out a warning. I’d llama out danger. I’d llama out love between my brothers and sisters. All over this land. Like, Llama llama ding-ding, or some shit.

Thank you for tolerating this llama…I mean, lame Monday. Llama-llama. *ptooey*

Oh, what the hell. If they haven’t done it already, I hit Zombie Flyboy, Grand Hamster-Master Anne, and f—ing Joe McPuppet, just because I know they’ll f— it up real good. You can all feel free to ignore my llama shit-slinging. I know I do. Doo.

So I was walking home yesterday and was in my happy place, where I go whenever I attempt any form of exercise, which dislodges fat cells in my bubbly ass, which then go and set off mini-aneurysms in my brain, creating the phenomenon most people know as happiness.

Or endorphins, if you prefer.

There I was, farting merrily along, and here comes a complete lunatic, which is not at all unusual in L.A.

I wasn’t hogging the sidewalk and I didn’t make eye contact, even. No idea what set her off.

“YOU DID IT TOO, DIDNCHA, YA LITTLE BITCH…!” she hissed.

I walked about 20 feet before the sheer nastiness of her statement and tone seeped in under the fat glob riding on my brain.

“………………………………………………………..huh?”

I turned and looked back. She was walking but still looking back at me. Despite my myopia, I detected a sneer.

(Cue Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’”.)

Did what? It? No, not on the way home, I don’t think. Unless by “did IT” she meant paying my income tax, I didn’t do it! Falsely accused! Sheez.

I momentarily contemplated delivering a well-placed roundhouse kick to her melon-head (you never do get to use your snappy moves, do you, Billy Blanks?), possibly knocking some sense back into her - hey, it worked for my car, computer, etc. - when I realized that only stupid people get into altercations with wandering loonies who have no idea who you really are anyway because, in their mind, you are probably Nancy S. Chalmbers-Mertz, who once crossed them by stepping on their toe in 1987, scuffing their shiny red retard shoes, and not even saying “sorry.”

Well, I am not Stampy Nancy. But still, I wondered what I’d done wrong.

Had I offended her with my lousy posture? Did I move to the side to fast? Was I wearing an insensitive shade of yellow that reminded her of her deprived childhood after-school program, where the snack was always generic knockoff Hostess cupcakes with no little icing squiggle in the middle?? Was it my hair…? Did she mistake me for one of the cops in the Rodney King thing? Because I had nothing to do with it. Those photos were faked.

I was almost all the way home before I realized, hey. She called me “little”!

Hey, thanks, crazy lady…!

So you don’t have to…!

I love new things, especially things that are bad for you, so I have sampled the following new introductions to my junk food repertoire. Please be advised that I did not do this all in the same week, or even the same month - so it is not necessary to lecture me on the resultant effect on my hiney, thanks.

IF YOU ARE A BIG, WHITE ‘N SQUISHY HONKY OR AN EYE-TALIAN…OR A SEXY DARKIE (YARD BIRD!)

JACK-IN-THE-BOX - Bruschetta Chicken Ciabatta Sandwich
First of all, I got this without the bruschetta because I didn’t realize there is also a “classic” version. (How can it be a “classic” if it’s new?) This was a mistake. The sandwich was too dry, and I don’t think I cared much for the ciabatta bread they are making such a big stink about. It was kind of bouncy and gummy and weird. The chicken was okay, a little gristly though. The cheese I don’t even remember, and I always notice the cheese because I’m a big, fat, lactose junkie-fiend, and I think cheese should be memorable, damn it. I’m making this thing sound awful and it really wasn’t. Just not particularly impressed - with all the advertising revenue they put into these things, you’d think they’d actually bother to make ‘em taste good. Not so much.

I don’t really care for their Pannido™ baguettes, either, and those commercials made me want to stab myself repeatedly in the eyehole with a festive cocktail toothpick, but that’s another story so I’ll shut my gob.

Redeeming values: Drive-thru fried cheese and chocolate cake. Mushy mystery tacos. Most take ATM cards and serve breakfast all day. Thank you, Mr. Round Headed Antenna Ball.

Calories for Who-Gives-A-Shit: 510, 13g fat for the Classic; 660, 26g fat for the Bruschetta, which I’m sure is much tastier, accounting for the 13 additional grams of fat.

SUBWAY - Toasted Chicken Parmesan Provolone Phantom Something Sandwich of Doom
Okay, I know I ate this sandwich. I swear it. I saw the annoying, too-heavy-on-the-Italian Accent commercial and immediately waddled directly to the nearest franchise and faithfully plunked down the $5.00 whatever and sucked the whole 6 inches down (NO PERVS!) while waiting for the bus. And I think… I think I liked it.

And yet, it’s like it doesn’t exist. No mention of this sandwich on their website. It’s like I ate a GHOST SANDWICH. Was the indigestion I experienced afterwards from The Other Side, too? Eeep.

Redeeming values: I find their wraps’ (any sub can be made into a wrap) tortilla thing, which is a strange gluey substance similar in taste and consistency to papier-mâché, oddly appealing. It’s either an acquired taste, I have a cardboard deficiency, or I was a termite in a past life. I also appreciate their creative use of pickles in their salads. If you ask me, there is no better place for a cold, dead, briney cucumber than a nice head of Iceberg.

Calories for Who-Gives-A-Shit: ??? Since ghost sandwiches have no caloric value, we can eat them with impunity.

WENDY’S - Mozzarrella Chicken Supreme
I felt that I should give Wendy’s my patronage because of that jerk-ette who put a finger in their chili, so it is with a heavy heart that I must say I was not impressed with this sandwich. And that is a lot, coming from me, to say about anything that is fried, with cheese and mayonnaise.

It is supposed to contain mozzarella, but as a certifiable cheese expert, I was forced to conclude that is was NOT mozz, but an artificially mozz-flavored Kraft Single. This depresses me deeply. I am one sad fattie.

Redeeming values: Hey, free finger!
Calories for Who-Gives-A-Shit: As this is a promotional item, I was unable to find that info. Aha! Another ghost-wich = 0 calories. (In that case, I’ll have another!)

What is it with these fast-food companies trying to get all schmancy with their sandwiches, anyway? The other day, I could have sworn I heard IHOP advertise a sandwich containing brie. Was I hallucinating? NO…! Off to IHOP. Hope it’s not plastic brie.

NOW, IF YOU ARE A BIG OLE BEANER MEXICAN…

EL POLLO LOCO - New Chicken Verde Quesadilla
Not bad, (cheese), not bad at all…but as a faux Tejana, I must say Not. Greasy. Enough. I dig on green chilis, though. Breaks up the grease. Or, as my family in Texas says, “what’re them GREEN THANGS?!”

Calories for Who-Gives-A-Shit: 651, 27g fat.

Redeeming values: I’d rather have had the Grilled Fiesta Burrito, which has crunchy bits of tortilla in it and a creamy chipotle sauce which makes a most excellent creamy spooge-stain on your un-creamy “Dry Clean Only” blouse, for a whopping…

Calories for Who-Gives-A-Shit: 1,253, 74g’s of fat. ZE WEENNA…!

PIZZA HUT - ¡Quepapas!
(More racially targeted advertising for Dirty Dan! I.e. if you’re brown, you should eat this.) I believe they call these “Jalapeno Poppers” elsewhere, so as not to confuse de white folk. Who might be rather alarmed if they knew ¡que papas! translates poorly, as what potatoes! or alternatively, THAT POPES!* I shit you not, Google told me so.

*I don’t know if that means you should chuck them at the Pope, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind as they are not as bland as The Jesus. However, they might leave a nasty stain on his glam pageant dress.

And eerily, they aren’t even mentioned on Pizza Hut’s website unless you register and login as a SoCal resident. Spooooky. Are these really regionally and racially targeted? Are they Soylent Green? Are they Pope Soylent Green?! Do they contain secret contraceptives in a covert operation by the CIA? If so, good idea…!

I mean, aherm…

Supposedly a “bite sized potato cruncher filled with cheese and a hint of jalapeño.” In actuality, a glorified Tater Tot with what tastes more like mild green chili than jalapeño. Still pretty tasty, however.

I would advise getting delivery, though. I would advise not walking up to a not so much dine-in as delivery Hut, though, or your cheesy potato thingers will take way too long and you will come out smelling like a cheesy Pizza Slut who’s just had an illicit act with a vat of Parmesan and some breadsticks.

Redeeming values: You smell like a cheesy slut who’s just had an illicit act with a vat of Parmesan and some breadsticks.

Calories for Who-Gives-A-Shit: 140, 8 from fat. I suspect this is wrong (see: Jalapeno Popper Conspiracy. I think this is per every two “poppers”/”crunchers”/¡Quepapas!)

Jesu Crispy.

I hope this has been of some assistance to you. I know it has “helped” mine.

Fatilly yours,

It’s been TV week here at TPKC just because I have been rendered a dain bramaged zombie by pilot season and two overly strong drinks I had last Tuesday.

That’s right, Mr. Liver is getting old and out of shape. He hasn’t been getting very much “exercise”.

Maybe that’s why I enjoy watching Extreme! Makeover on occasion while stuffing my face with Asian noodles (the better to become an E.M. recipient myself, someday). I use Asian noodles because you do not want to be stuffing your face with anything yellow or red while watching Extreme! Makeover unless you want to have an Extreme Barf-O-Rama.

Last night, one of the human carving turkey contestants was this girl idiot who enjoyed jumping out of planes (who’s gonna fix her when she shatters her new porcelain veneers?) and thought she should move to Hollywood and have a career in show business based on her Extremely Made-Over face. Ha, ha! Uh, bad idea. But I’m not about to crush a young girl’s dreams by telling her that, even after all the painful and expensive work she’d had done, she was still pretty…fugly.

Or the bride-to-be, who obviously needed an Extreme! Makeover, because her groom looked like a slightly more attractive version of Will Ferrell and so obviously he would cheat on her if they didn’t fix her face. Gee, thanks for your vote of confidence, E.M…!

I’d just like to see more worthy contestants, that’s all. Not Jenny McCarthy’s mom. I don’t care if she is a janitor, and has to clean up hwarf for a living. I want to see FREAKS! People who are missing major facial features, like a man with no nose (how does he smell? Terrible!), or Anna Nicole Smith, er, a woman who was born without a brain. Or maybe, at least, people who are really hideous. Not women who are about to get married (so how ugly can they be?) and are pissed off just because they can’t fill out the top of their $99 David’s Bridal wedding gown. It’s called a tailor, Bridezilla, you walking human Kleenex wad.

And the “blushing” bride couldn’t even blush after they were done with her, let alone show emotion, or move her face during the ceremony. At all. Her mother had to stand next to her, and hold her mouth open, so it looked like she was smiling. And she probably had to wear one of those sexy chin-support mummy head wrap things on their honeymoon. Nice. Oh well. At least she didn’t mess up her mascara by crying tears of joy, since her tear ducts had been cauterized.

Ooh, can’t I have an E.M.? I’d like to have both a double mastectomy and an assectomy, and they have them all sewn back on, and reconstructed, with a cherry on top. Except I would like my butt to be where my boobs are currently located, and my boobs, which are the approximate size of Nicole Richie’s butt, would be my new hiney. I’d also enjoy having six lips and a chin, instead of three chins. And a miniature face-butt (cleft) carved into the new one. Cute, huh…?

Please do this now. It may get you fired, or make people think you are crazy. But that is not my problem. And if your wife asks you what you are doing, tell her “juicing”.

Take two oranges. Now squish ‘em together and connect ‘em with a toothpick, and squash ‘em down a little until the back sides jut out like the narrow end of a hard-boiled egg. Thank you.

Now use your imagination.

Imagine them walking down the street balanced on two toothpick legs.

Would you:
a) whistle or make lewd slurping noises
b) speed up
c) think about baseball, or
d) fuck off?

Are you:
e) Afro-American
f) Hispanic Causing Panic
g) Caucasian
h) Eskimo/Inuit/Other?

My “oranges” are experiencing a lot of a) and I’m getting kind of irked that they only seem to be appreciated *exclusively* by e)s and f)s and not at all by g)s or h)s. I don’t like being skewed, or screwed, by any particular demographic. Actually, I really wish that they would all just d).

Ugh.

Guess that’s what I get for walking or running in LA. People either think you must be looking for action or you have stolen something.

And now, my uniformed, disinterested rundown of the phenomenon (doo DOO doo doo-doo) known as American Idol.

If you do not watch the show, there’s no need to piss off. I don’t watch it, either. In fact, I was just not watching it last night. Notice I hardly even know the kids’ names.

Here are my totally unbiased* impressions of the remaining contestants.

*Except for my ‘nads.

1. Blondie (Blandie) Underwear - country singer. Explain why I should care. There was another blondie who was indistinguishable from this blondie, but she got the boot (scoot boogie).
2. Blackalicious - too pretty for me to find interesting. Where’s Nadia? Meanwhile, ‘Licious can be backup in case someone in Destiny’s Child kicks off.
3. Fattie - why is the fat guy still on? I’m pleasantly surprised at you, American public.
4. Dreads - I like Dreads. I want to pluck him and shave him and call him “Terence Trent D’Arby”. I think the name’s available, as Terence is now called Sananda Maitreya, and this symbol, for some reason.
5. Constantinople - I Think I Like You, so what if you’re a cheesewad! Reminds me of that Russian hair band from the 80’s, Gorky Park. Remember them? BANG!? Da.
6. Blondie (male) - Oh, Jesus Cripes. What is this - SPROCKETS? Should be deported to Germany immediately and upset the reign of terror by David Hasselhoff.
7. Bo Bice - I hate the name, Bo Bice. He should change it as this sounds like a toddler babbling: bo bice ba ba goo goo poo poo. However, he makes me want to spread and make a bad music video involving cherry pie and a fire hose. But he won’t ‘cuz he’s got the Jeebus.

However, I don’t think he will be the new American Idol as he’s not plastic enough. And anyway, I wanted Nadia and her Frohawk. Should join a male strip revue/musical in Vegas, or better yet, go back to Alabama, Bo, before they cut your hair. It’s gettin’ kinda long.

Does getting kicked off this show automatically make these kids eligible for the Spanish version, Objetivo: FAMA?

If not, I’d like fries with that. Make ‘em dance, buttboys and girls, make ‘em DANCE!

Uh, not you, Bo. Just…take it off. And please wear this photo of Robert Plant in his heyday taped to the paper bag on your head, thanks.

I’m stalling.

The feature I intended to have for you today was not completely researched, because SOMEONE wouldn’t take me to the place, but that’s okay, because he let me do my laundry, and now his dryer smells like cat pee.

So instead, please consider the following movie posters:

1. Sin Titty. Oops, I mean, Sin City. Observe ze Jessica Alba. Ees nice, no? Ees hot, no…? I think, No. For why…? Because:

WHY ZEY PICK ZEES PEECTURE?!

Es fugly.

Of course, a-ha! None of you were looking at her FACE! Except, perhops, you catty women, like me. Because she is stunning, especially as a brunette. There is no reason for her to be cross-eyed…has anyone seen this? Is it a character thing? Enlighten me.

And speaking of fugly…
2. House of Whacks. I mean, Ho Us Wax. As in, we wax all the time to dis ho:

Is this supposed to be Paris “Punani” Hilton…?

If so, I actually quite like this poster. It appears that Paris is melting. Or dead.

Not that I would wish any such thing on the porny little bitch girl. I would merely like to see her locked in a closet until she is 49, post-menopausal, and can no longer reproduce. I know that sounds mean, but it’s for her own good, and for society as a whole. There is a well-established pattern of fuckedupedness in children of mothers named “Paris.” Just ask Sebastian “Sebitchian” Bach’s kid! Although I can’t recall if his Paris is male or female. Oh my fuck, I hope that is not Paris’ new boyfriend (also named Paris). See, Paris is French for “spoilt brat-child of new money.”

Besides, the dark closet really wouldn’t be so bad. I would let her have a mirror to snort coke off of and pose for and to stare at herself, which would amuse her for years. And her tanorexic skin would thank me later.

This morning wasn’t so bad, for a Monday.

Other than sweating profusely because I was schlepping my laundry, losing my change, and having to run to catch the damn bus, which inevitably results in boobies and flab flying and lewd whistling by a fine, upstanding member of the Hispanic (thank you) community, it was fine.

Other than having to cross the street and go out of my way in order to avoid the strange man playing Karate Kid with a street sign. Yeah, he was doing the “stork” pose and kung fu fighting a post. And Iiiii can’t tell you why.

But this morning was really fine. Other than accidentally dropping my dainty garments in public, that is.

Certainly not as bad as the other week, a Sunday. I had decided, against my better judgment, to go grocery shopping. This is always a mistake.

It is so crowded in there on weekends, one can hardly move. This is a problem because I don’t actually like people. I need to take a Wellbutrin just to deal with it.

So I’m schlepping my bags to the bus stop, and if there’s anything I hate more than people, it’s to schlep. I settled my generous hindquarters on a bench until a bus finally came. It was full. By the time the next one showed up, I was quite cross and it was full, as well.

I hate having to stand in the aisle with my bags sliding around and my butt in the face of some poor unsuspecting person and because you need to hold on to something, arms get raised and armpits exposed and that is never a good thing.

Because of this activity, my blouse, which was made out of some kind of slippery material that is only marginally respected by buttons, burst open. And of course, instead of a white, tan, or neutral-colored bra, I was wearing the green one. With lace. And a hole near one nipple. Not too inconspicuous. And because I was hanging on for dear life with one hand and my bags with the other, I wasn’t able to button back up - since the bus was so packed, I had been struggling since the last stop to get off and had no free hand. Fine, I figured, I’ll just fix it when I get off the bus and nobody will see.

Unfortunately, the Pope had just died, or almost died, or was thinking about dying, that Sunday. Because of this, there were fourteen hundred people at the Catholic church which is right next to my stop. And it had just let out.

The bus pulled up right in the thick of the people, respectable ladies wearing pastel suits and hose with new hairdos, and their jaws dropped.

So yes, I exposed myself to an entire Catholic mass, and for once, it wasn’t my fault.

Consumer report: TurboTax sucks the diseased hairy rectum of the IRS. Their program is buggy and their customer service rots in hell.

Witness the following transcript:

Please wait while we find an agent to assist you...
[5 mins later…]
All agents are currently busy. Please stand by.
[Another 5 mins. later…]
An agent will be with you in a moment. Thank you for your patience.
[Doo doo doo do doo doo doo do doo...]
You have been connected to 320 Rebecca.
320 Rebecca: Hello , how may I help you today?
Pisser: I cannot print my payment stub to send to the IRS because of a bug in your system. I received an e-mail including a promotional code that supposedly would allow me to print my stub, but the program does not give me the option to enter a new promotional code. According to your own FAQ, you cannot enter a promotional code except for when you are paying for TurboTax, which I have already done. What now…?
320 Rebecca: Okay, what is happening when you try to print your stub?
Pisser: It is telling me I have to pay you AGAIN before printing. I have already paid and received my refund.
320 Rebecca: Okay, what version of TurboTax are you using?
320 Rebecca: What amount are you being charged?
Pisser: Turbo Tax for the web.
Pisser: $44.95.
Pisser: Basic, 2004.
320 Rebecca : Okay, the only way that you are going to be able to get around this is to pay the fee and then get a refund from our sales and service department. Sales and service number is 1-866-373-7820.
Pisser: Oh, hell no.
320 Rebecca : You are unable to enter the promotional code and that is the only other way that I can get the fee to go away.
Pisser: Well, I’m not paying again. I’m sorry I paid the first time. I won’t be using your product again if this is the way I am to be treated.
320 Rebecca: You will get a refund of the amount that you pay.
Pisser: Look, I already paid you. It is ridiculous to ask me to pay a SECOND time. And frankly, I don’t have the funds available.
320 Rebecca: Okay, could you hold on a moment please?
Pisser: Thank you.
[I hold on for 15 mins. and the thingy times out]
320 Rebecca: Thank you for waiting, in your return can I get you to click on step 7. filing and click on “the bottom line”.
Pisser: Sure.
320 Rebecca: What options do you have on that screen?
Pisser: One sec…have to sign back in
320 Rebecca: Okay.
Pisser: It just tells me my total is $44.95, including a promo code
= $0.00. I can only go Back or Continue.
320 Rebecca: Okay, one moment please.
320 Rebecca: Okay, since you [oh, FINE, go and blame the customer] have already entered a promotional code you are unable to enter another. [Why would I enter a promo code for $0?!] You could start your return over [!!!] and get you a new promotional code. I could send you the download for the TurboTax desktop software so that you can install that and download your data file and then you will be able to print for free.
Pisser: I don’t think I am allowed to install anything on this computer, but I will try anything to avoid doing the whole thing over again. Unless I can just send the IRS my order summary or something.
…
[This is the long boring technical part that didn’t work anyway so I cut it out while bitching to our friend Dex.]

Dex: 320 Rebecca sounds cute!
Pisser: Hey…how did YOU get in here? Fine, I’ll ask her out for you. Yeesh.

320 Rebecca: Are you on a home computer, or where are you at?
Pisser: Work. I might be able to try it from home if it doesn’t work on this one.
Pisser: Does the IRS really need that stub…? I can’t just send them a check w/ my SSN on it?
320 Rebecca: I do not know that, you would have to contact the IRS to find out if they would except [sic] that.
Pisser: Uh…okay. Doesn’t know what the IRS will accept, yet…they make tax software. *mutter, mutter*

320 Rebecca has left the session.
Your agent is experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by while we re-establish contact or find a new agent…
Please wait while we find an agent from the Triage_Chat department to assist you.
You have been connected to 320 Rebecca .
Pisser: Ha!
320 Rebecca: I apologize for that I lost my connection.
Pisser: No problem. Everything I touch breaks.
320 Rebecca: Can I get you to go to the following link and enter your Request ID: 1167066593…
The agent is sending you to http://support.turbotax.com/go/get.
Pisser: Downloading…
320 Rebecca: Great.
Pisser: (whistling)…Do people flirt with you on this thing…?
320 Rebecca: I can actually say that yes it has happened.
Pisser: Egad…! Okay, it’s opening.
Pisser: The cust. svc. bot, Anna, on the IKEA site doesn’t put up with that, you know
320 Rebecca: …Okay.
[She blew me off…! Didn’t work, didn’t work]…
Pisser: Well…I don’t guess anyone could fax it to me somehow.
320 Rebecca: No, we are unable to access your information. I would check with the IRS they may accept something else.
Pisser: Splendid. I am not in that big a hurry to pay my taxes anyway.
320 Rebecca: Yes, I understand but it has to be done.
320 Rebecca: Okay, the link has been e-mailed to you so you will be able to install that when you get home. [Yeah, but I still couldn’t open my shit!]
320 Rebecca: Is there anything else that I can do for you right now?
Pisser: No, thanks, Rebecca 320. I shall commend you to your dark overlords.
320 Rebecca: I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for visiting TurboTax Support chat today. I invite you to participate in the customer survey that will be presented when you close this chat window. Thanks again and have a good day!
Pisser: *sniff* She didn’t even say goodbye…

Epilogue: None of this worked. I finally hauled off and did it myself, then mailed the check this morning…parting is such sweet sorrow. I had to go to the IRS site and fill out a 1040-V, which they didn’t make very easy to find, either. I guess they don’t want you to be able to find your forms, so they can PENALIZE you.

Not to mention that doing my taxes MYSELF online, AND paying for it, and then still having to e-mail them three times, do a chat session, and then spend another hour trying to download their crap (which didn’t work), all for naught…well, I might as well have paid somebody to do it for me considering that my time is valuable, damn it.

Well, not that valuable, but worth the $100 to pay H & R (Cock)Block or something, sheesh.

I want my money and my damn 3 hours back…!

Last night, it finally happened. I dreaded this day would come.

Before, it was only happening to other generations - people much older than me, or so I thought. I figured I was safe, buffered by “Brown Sugar” (Kahlua), “Like A Rock” (Chevrolet), “Dream On” (Buick), and other such sellouts.

But I never thought it would happen to me. That they would play one of those songs, you know, the ones that remind you of your youth; of making out with your first real boyfriend in his beat-up Pinto with no door, next to the Guadalupe, while the old river coots yelled “play some Stevie Ray, maaaaan!” and chuckled at your fogged-up windows.

But it’s true. Last night, they played one of the songs that was burned into my life’s soundtrack - Jane’s Addiction’s “Mountain Song” - during a cheesy beer commercial.

HOLY CRAPAPALOOZA.

O, my sweet Perry. How could you…? I knew you were working as a DJ and all, and that you cut off your dreads, maybe stopped wearing fishnets and stuff, and Dave - I know you had to drop a load for Carmen’s next set of boobs and that klieg-like rock, but isn’t this a little bit extreme? Coors Light, for crissake?! A light beer, even?

“Tap the Rockies”? Tap my aging ass for making me feel old, fucking Coors. I pee in your beer…! In fact, I pee just about anywhere now that I’m stress incontinent, thanks to you.

Now please pass my teeth and my bifocals, so I can watch my stories and later, Matlock.