thepissedkitty

I have anger management issues.

Today I am wearing black leggings under a skirt because my legs are cold, and two people already made fun of me. First of all, fuck all y’all, leggings are back. Even if they shouldn’t be, shut up, it is frigid as a WASPy bitch in here, and do you really want to see my hairy, pale-assed, spider-veined legs?! No, I don’t think so. So shut up, or I will show them to you.

Furthermore, the people who made fun of me are a) a fatass, and b) a dreadlocked freak, respectively. I don’t think either of them really cares what other people think about how they look. It’s the hypocrisy that really pisses me off.

Secondly, the florist keeps sending us lilies for the office and I’m fucking allergic. I will probably look like a huge asshole for doing this, but I’m asking them not to send ‘em anymore. My eyes turn rabid red just from being around them and now Dreadlocks thinks I’m perpetually stoned.

Thirdly, they won’t get me any blinds and the sun comes in and hits me upside the head at three o’clock every day, so no matter where you are, at three o’clock Pacific Standard Time, know that I am pissed. Am getting wrinkles on my left cheek but not my right, and I have a family history of melanoma. NICE. You know, if this was happening to one of the guys in the offices upstairs, they would cry like the widdle baby-bottomed suits they are until someone came over from Corporate and gave them an ergonomic assessment. They can suck my administrative butthole (that smells like someone else’s ass, since they won’t get me a new chair, either.)

Fuck this fucking inconsiderate workplace bullshit. I’m out of here as soon as freaking possible. Either that, or all the rage I’ve been suppressing for two years already is going to boil over in the form of conspicuous donut consumption. And I don’t even like donuts. Real scary threat, I know.

You know you hate your job when you would actually welcome getting jury duty.

1) Getting out of bed first thing in the morning and eating a Cadbury’s Cream Egg on the toilet while felching the under-the-sink area for Tampax.

2) Being semi-flirtatious with an ex (as J.C. pointed out, The Past) on the phone while I was mad at Cranky (The Current) and mostly for the benefit of The Future (not happening - see: The Flinching), who was nearby pelting me with soiled napkins.

3) Also, kissing the nose of the dog who had just deeply crotchsniffed him. I am gross.

4) Calling my mom from a sex shoppe where I had gone to buy soap. What? I really did go there to buy soap; no one else carries it in the area. Okay, so I also picked up a chocolate penis on a stick for Cranky.

5) The fact that he actually ate it.

Well, he broke it into pieces so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

1) Our friend Mr. Handsome got popped by some gangbangers on St. Patrick’s Day, but my first thought upon seeing his two blacked eyes? Dude’s had a little nip-tuck of the eye baggage. Sheesh.

2) On the way back from Von’s, I almost ran over a tranny wearing stripper shoes in a wheelchair. Again.

3) Mr. Timpson went to close our front gate, and a crack pipe fell on him.

This is normal?

Okay, ad execs. Stop beating around the bush and just spit it out.

What I gathered from my Thursday night TV dumb-down-a-thon, is, apparently:

Washington Mutual wants us to start calling them “WaMu™,” like they’re our buddy. To this, I say, FORGET IT. NO. We are NOT pals; you are a large, monied, financial institution, and we are the folks you get your money from with fees and etc. when it might actually behoove some of us to start keeping it in the mattress. Now shut up, or we will start calling you “‘Shi-toMu™,” or something.

Always? What have I told you? There are no “happy periods”, so stop telling us to have one-! A maxi pad is not a lawn chair, aeroplane, or pinball machine. There is NO pinball game in our pants during “that time,” I assure you. (Don’t even get me started on “Always Fresh Sniff“.) Now stop trying to make it fun, or else break out the vibrating maxis, and possibly a ben-wa tampon, BITCH.
And now, in a similar vein (ew)…

Seasonale® commercials, instead of “Fewer periods. More possibilities.™” (and a woman selecting a pink chair, shoe, balls [we wish], etc.) should just come on out and say, “you will have your period less so YOU CAN HAVE SEX MORE. NOT BLEEDING = PENIS.”) I have no idea what else all this pink sh*t is supposed to symbolize, other than drops of blood/stains on clothing. And what’s with the pink balls?! Sadly, having your period less often does NOT give you balls, OR a penis. No. Also, you will still have to sit on a pink chair/yoga mat because of breakthrough bleeding. I guess that’s what they mean by that. And the woman painting a giant blood clot? Nice touch. Klassy.

New Gatorade Rain (say that fast, three times) needs to fuck itself, because rain is not a flavor. Neither is “Frost”, or “Xtremo,” or new “Mango Electrico.” In fact, they should just change the brand name from “Gatorade” to “MinorityAde,” because that is so blatantly their target market, because obviously, according to them, only white people are smart enough to know that shit is bad for you. Gatorade = the suck.

Also the suck: its cousin, Propel Fitness Water (proposed name change: Gatorade for White People)’s ads featuring giant pieces of fruit everywhere, yet flashing the caption, CONTAINS NO FRUIT JUICE, need to go to hell. Instead of fruit, they should show large bottles of whatever chemical poo they put in that crap to make it taste kind of like fruit. Ish.

Similarly, ads with old/average guys trying to pick up gorgeous young women should say, DO NOT ATTEMPT; ads featuring actresses with fake boobs should be captioned, NOT HER REAL BOOBS, and models eating cream cheese-infused snacks should flash, MODEL CONTAINS NO ACTUAL FAT AS SHE OBVIOUSLY WOULD RATHER THROW HERSELF DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS THAN EAT ANYTHING WITH A FAT CONTENT, as she obviously would rather throw herself down a flight of stairs than eat anything with a fat content. (Can you say, “spit bucket”?)

Oh, man, all this false advertising makes me mad. And it is not just ‘cuz I am having my pink ball. Which, by the way, in reality, should be a big, reddish-brown, nasty-assed clotty basketball, but I’ll spare your lunch.

Kiss my pink whatever. I’m goin’ out to buy a bunch o’ red clothes and furniture, for me to bleed on.

This is Cranky’s niece. He will never, ever let her live this down.

At her high school graduation party, he will probably bust this out of his wallet. At least she’s not one of those kids on Nanny/Supernanny 911, doing “The Poopie on the Potty Dance”, ON NATIONAL TELEVISION. Poor victimized kiddoes.

Everyone is having babies, having somehow, mysteriously spawned while I wasn’t paying attention. This is just rude. It makes everyone else feel like they have been remiss, or something.

Hrm. At least you can pay someone else to potty train them now.

My only consolation is watching this repeatedly (thanks, JD.)

Don’t forget to wear a condom, kids-!
Just don’t eat ‘em.

Today has been so hair-pullingly, slamming-own-head in door-edly, three ring dumbass circus-demented, I wish I just had dorsal and ventral ganglia instead of a brain, and could answer all stupid/paranoid/control-freakish bullsh*t questions in the manner of the crab in this commercial.

CRANKY: You’re breaking my ______!/Stop doing/not doing _______!!!
ME: I pinch.

FUCKTARD: Why didn’t you do this thing, that really isn’t your responsibility, but we need a scapegoat, so why didn’t you…?
ME: I want to pinch.

ASSFELCHER: What’s that on your head…? Did you go to bed with wet hair? Har, har…I will now bend over right in front of you, by accident.
ME: Maybe little pinch…?

DICKSMACK: I am an incredibly obnoxious self-important prick, and will now condescend to you.
ME: Why no pinch?

UNDERWEAR MODEL: Hi! I do not care if you are fat. I am here to give you a car, a house, and a large sum of money. Oh, and have I mentioned that I am rather well-endowed…? Also, I will now shampoo your geriatric cats, naked, every day, for free.
ME: No pinch, no pinch…no pinch.

Yeah, in my next life being a crab may not be such a bad idea. For example, CRABS IN SPACE-!:

The crustacean subjects appeared remarkably unperturbed by the whole experience, according to researcher Roberto Araujo.

I want to be “remarkably unperturbed”.

Hrm. Looks like crabs can handle just about anything…dickhead boss? Flaming retardo-schlong of a boyfriend? A–hole cat? Like Shel Silverstien wrote, “it’s all the same to the clam.” [Crab.]

Just so long as I don’t come back as a pubic crab louse.

Every year, it comes. And every year, I forget:

Being confronted with bad scenes like this on a Sunday summon my inner sociopath and make me act all kinds of antisocial.

I never would have rented in this L.A. “Luxury Shoebox” ‘hood had I known that the freaking L.A. Marathon comes right down my stupid street. Of all the ¡Pizza Loca! flyer-strewn streets in this litterbug meth whore of a city, why does it have to be mine?! My street they block off, and run down, like it’s so scenic. Because obviously they have nothing better to do. Dumbassed brain-dead fitness freaks.

So I cannot get to where I live, on the one day of the week I can run errands, and schlep laundry, or maybe get home to pee, or try to hand-feed my sickly cat, all because some shithead named Bluto in too-small shorts thinks he needs to wear a number and trot down my street while his fatassed friends sit on the sidelines and set up churro stands and play obnoxious music on their ghetto blasters and litter and yell “WOO!” Right. Outside. My. Goddamn. Window.

I wanted to make a giant poster that said “FUCK OFF” and “DON’T YOU PEOPLE HAVE HOMES?!” and “RUN DOWN YOUR OWN STUPID STREET!” or “GET A LIFE!” and “I HATE THE L.A. MARATHON!!!” and hang them outside my apartment, but runners are thugs and would probably break the window with a jar of their recycled pee they had been saving for a special occasion to drink because they worship their stringy-assed leathery-looking selves so much, they probably think their own urine tastes like pee-no noir. Ugh. Runners are gross. I think they taste their own earwax to see if they need to eat carbs or something, and they pee everywhere, including down their own legs (which probably explains the ball-flaunting short shorts), just to shave 30 seconds off their time. I don’t want this kind of crap on my street.

They also run until the walls of their bladders rub together, causing blood in their urine, they have no shins, etc. ATTENTION, FREAKS: if you are peeing blood, you are working out too hard. Even I am not this stupid. Running is for suckers, unless you’re being chased by the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. If I run, I am at least smart enough to go up into the hills to do it, where the ground is soft from all the horse poop. Not on a paved road, through the ugly middle of Hell-F–ing-A.

These people are endorphin-happy cardio-zombie morons, and not in a good way. Also they are extremely rude.

When I finally managed to park FOUR BLOCKS AWAY FROM MY APARTMENT, after being stuck behind a grocery truck that was detouring onto residential streets it was too wide for, because the marathon is SO FREAKING IMPORTANT that FOOD can’t even get delivered, I finally said “f— it” and marched my irate a** across the street, directly impeding several a-hole runners, one of whom sweatily barked, “MOOOOVE!” as I tried to schlep my 10 bags of assorted essentials TO GET TO WHERE I LIVE. “Thank you! Go and fuck yourself,” I answered cheerfully. What a running blowhard. I hope I cost him his precious 2 seconds he needed to come in 47th and he is now lying on bathroom floor, repeatedly flagellating himself with a toilet brush while purging repeatedly for NOT BEING GOOD ENOUGH. I kind of hope he was one of the three people who collapsed/dropped dead, but probably no such luck. Like this stupid shit is really worth losing your life over. My sympathies to their families, but really the only good reason to run 26.2 miles is to get the FUCK out of L.A.

For Bluto, and the rest of those uppity inconsiderate fathletes, I give you THIS:

(My a** broke the camera, so I shall have to essplain):
A. Le Stink Eye
B. Ye Olde Finger of G_d (or possibly some sort of phallus)
C. My Powerful Hindquarters
D. RIPE, READY TO EAT sticker (self-explanatory).

Eat up, you happy assed tananorexic panting bastids. I’ll show you the meaning of PAIN, since you can’t seem to get enough of it.

Pass me the toilet brush, Bluto.

I wholeheartedly support and applaud this measure. Now, if only there were laws comdemning smoking as child/pet abuse, and if only I could keep my lovely neighbor from reeking up the !@#$damn hall, ruining my newly-washed hair…ugh. Disgusting.

Sure, there are those who would argue the smoke is nothing more than an annoyance, such as bad breath or B.O., but last time I checked, B.O. doesn’t cause cancer.

Now, if only I could figure out where Calabasas is…is it near Rancho Cucamonga (”Land of Cucumbers”)? Eh, I just like saying that.

Looks like these folks are incensed (burnin’ incense - get it?) by a similar ban in the U.K. As for them, they should move to L.A. I personally know of several nearby coffee shops that could give them their hookah. I mean, hook up. One is right next door, just around the corner from the (also illegal, but the Fed doesn’t seem to be shutting ‘em down) medicinal marijuana clinic.

P.U. and good riddance.

Whole lot of nuthin’ (fun):

Going on job interviews, which were pretty grueling (I couldn’t even get the first interviewer to crack a smile at all, she just kept firing off questions like a damn cannonade) followed by lingering sense of impending doom. Fretting and fussing and making retarded “pluses and minuses” lists in my head, which is highly goofballish, considering nothing has actually happened yet.

Fighting and then making up with Cranky Well, I still don’t know if we’ve truly made up, but he gave me food and took me and the gatito to the doctor late at night, so good enough. Besides, it was my turn to be the asshole.

Going to the vet Iddy Biddy needs an ultrasound. His blood tests came back normal = the good news. The bad news = my vet, who has more nervous tics than a fly-infested Appaloosa and is possibly just a highly functional tweaker, is now mystified. Also, does anybody know if they make cat diapers? I would use Huggies or some shit but there’s no hole for the tail.

Dialing 9-11. Twice, when three miscreants from a rave next door (although personally? I think they sounded more like raving queens/bears from the gay bar down the street) smashed themselves/each other into our security gate, caving it in and almost breaking the glass front door. (Not that we were exactly surprised, especially considering how they usually end a gathering/quincinera/wedding reception: by firing their guns off into the air until the police helicopters come. Klassy joint.)

I never actually had to dial 9-11 before I moved to Los Angeles, and now it’s old hat, however troublesome. Don’t you love how some of the operators actually make you feel more panicky than you were before you called? Not to mention that my first call got disconnected while the operator was yelling at me (”Ma’am…MA’AM! I NEED YOU TO TELL ME IF THAT PERSON IS BEING HURT!!! YES OR NO, MA’AM!?!”)(I had no idea, as we were only hearing crap through the door and did not feel especially inclined to get close to the glass in case they had guns.) That, plus the disconnect, plus the fact that I usually get the busy signal when I call, and all 5 (or so) times have been true emergencies, makes me hella-nervous.

(The trick, I think, is to snag that 9-11 operator job in Beverly Hills. The pay is really good, and you typically don’t have many emergencies involving gangbangers or other bad elements. Well, not until some rich athlete or etc. decides to kill his wife.)

At least the gate is fixed - Cranky talked to the man who owns the place next door, who happens to be Ukrainian. He said he’d take care of it, but blames “those Oaxacans-!”

Ah, ze cultural diversity. Especially since everyone, regardless of whether they, themselves, are some kind of weirdo space alien basket-hat wearing crustacean llama farmer/nudist with six heads and ten legs, is prejudiced against everybody else…I love L.A. (sometimes), between bouts of dialing 9-11.

In sum: job search, a couple of assholes, pissy p*ssy, cat diapers, bigoted Ukrainian club owners, and gate-crashing queeny Oaxacan gangbangers.

Typical.

I am getting chronic stareitis and extreme eyeball poppage from OCD-ishly checking and re-checking names, if only because otherwise someone might be mistakenly credited after a movie as “Ron Erosion” or possibly “Ron Erection.” And said film is not a porn.

Similarly, Smartypants Mr. Spell Check thinks “Timpson” should be changed to “Tampon” and “Laduba” to “Labia”.

Yeah, I’m sure that when the credits rolled, and your name appeared mutated into a feminine hygiene product, you wouldn’t be mad, naaaaaaaw.

Christ, this stresses me out. No pressure or anything. Shit could fuck people’s careers, that’s all.

Do me a flavor: run spell check on your name, and tell me if you get anything off-color, or if the celluloid gods just have it in for my administrative a**.

Thank you.