Thursday, May 27, 2010

Dear Facebook, Can I have my job back? XOXO, Ali...

Well... it's official... we have hit ROCK BOTTOM...


Apparently when they say that "there are plenty of fish in the sea", the "fish" they are actually referencing are really a smattering of asstards, douche mongers, and serial killers...

and when they say "sea", what they actually mean is "their mom's basements"...

And the "they" that is saying all this ish is actually a group of chat-room enthusiasts and match.com sadists...

The good news is The Bachelorette is back...

 

The bad news is that The Bachelorette happens to be Ali Fedotowsky post weekly age-regression serum injections that rendered her physically and mentally comparable to that of a socially dwarfed 5 and 1/2 year old... (insert ear piercing manufactured Ali-giggle and pouty face here)

 

The TERRIBLE news is that never in my 30 years have I been exposed to a more ghastly collection of Table 9 Mutants than the 25 jack-offs selected to win Ali's heart, save my mild and brief obsession with frat parties (I'm looking at you Sig Eps)



Listen, I can get past the first-impression-skin-crawl reflex that inevitably sachets across my body when some dick-wad puffs out his chest and regurgitates a despicable collection of lines intended to spontaneously drop panties to the floor. I've been known to date (shag) a guy on the basis of charm alone (I'm looking at you Sig Eps). But this shit show is a virtual revolving door of one malformed, mildly terrifying suitor after the next.



Ali, Ali, Ali, if you weren't everything I hate about intelligent, capable girls who dumb-it-down and baby-talk-it-up to get a guy's attention, I might pity you and the journey you have just embarked on... but as it stands now, all I can say is hahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha, dumb bitch...



Here are my faves... And by "faves" I, of course, mean "What The Shit Were You Thinking ABC?!?!.. And Thank You"... in alphabetical order... because I just can't choose... I can't be made to choose...


Craig
I'm fairly certain this guy is already married... to Tori Spelling... and his name is actually Dean... and he has already been on a HORRENDOUS reality show... and it's called Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood

Craig (yes, again)
Gave Ali some crusty ass yellow Converse key chain that he, no doubt, purchased at his local Dollar Tree with the preface that he had one too, and "someday they could meet back up and become a pair again"... and then upon second glance realized that they were both bloody left shoes and that he has just succinctly and  unequivocally cemented his retardation for the whole of America

 
Frank
Takes residence in his mom's basement for sure. And lives amongst comic book figurines and dead hookers... that he has embalmed... and is currently concocting a formula for re-animation serum to bring them back to life... so that he can finally lose his virginity...

Hunter
Earned international fame playing the role of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Off-set he learned to play the ukulele... sorta... and write REALLY SHITTY songs that he would later sing on national TV...
 John
I'm in theatre... I love my gays... And I REALLY love them when they step out of the closet and squash the "I'm fighting for the heart of a woman and am IN NO WAY doing this show so that I can participate in a 3 month slumber party with 24 other single men that may or may not get confused and lonely and in a fit of desperate solitude decide to reenact a scene from Brokeback with me" charade

John (yes, again)
I've seen this guy's drag show... in Vegas... I'm almost positive... 

Justin (aka Rated R)
Self-proclaimed "Entertainment Wrestler"... which is...??? Not a "Professional Wrestler"... Not a "WWE Wrestler"... An "Entertainment Wrestler"... Alter Ego = "Rated R"... Ummmm... the jokes write themselves, bitches...

Monday night just can't come soon enough... (that's what she said)

Monday, May 10, 2010

Do I look like the kind of girl that shops at Home Depot?


Dear Home Depot Hiring Manager,

I admit that I am not the most conventional member of the Handy-Peep Community. I am fully aware of how I look... and what I wear... and that I carry designer handbags... I, unequivocally, embrace and celebrate my allegiance to spiked heels and Nordstrom sales. I suffer no ambivalence in regards to my self-image. And I make no apologies for any of this.

I am also a bit of rock star when it comes to fixin' shit. I was raised by an I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar type. Independence was ingrained in me from the start. I have never been under the assumption that a man is required to carry, or repair, or reach, or program, or lift, or hang anything. Helpful, they may be, but necessary, they are not. I can take apart a vacuum and find out why it smells of burning flesh. I can repair a leaky faucet with a pipe wrench and a smile (that's what she said). I can program one remote control to serve as the mother board for a bevy of electronics. I have a tool box... with tools... that I use...



Which brings me to today's experience at your fine establishment. Now, admittedly, I did forget to don my paint-stained coveralls. And I retired my favorite carpenter jeans in 1997... (er... 1999... stop judging me). But in my own defense, I left the stilettoes and winged eyeliner at my place of residence. And as I strolled through your oh-so-warm-and-welcoming warehouse of fix-it yo' damn self paraphernalia, I was confident in my ability to "look the part" as it were. And then I was greeted by Paul. Oh, Paul. A man of roughly 48 years. Orange apron, work boots, stand-alone molestache. I smiled... like I do... with nary a hint of confusion upon my face, and Paul, in all his asstard chauvinistic glory responded, "Are you lost? You don't look like you belong here."

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.....

To which I replied, "No, Paul, I'm not lost... but I appreciate your concern."

His retort? "Ha... hu... well the mall is just down the road if you're looking for directions..."

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.....

Now, as the years wear on, and the memories blur, I have found it sometimes difficult to remember certain details of certain events, and certain names of certain people, and what I ate yesterday... However, I am confident that I would have recollection of strapping myself in to Doc's magic Delorean and flux capaciting my way back to 1954. And yet, I have no memory of this... which leads me to believe that I remain safe and secure in 2010.


Confused by this unsolicited character assassination, I checked to make sure I hadn't accidentally left the house with my polka-dot apron fixed to my torso, or my hot rollers fastened snugly to my skull... (Okay, I won't lie to kick it, I don't have an apron... I can't even boil water) And alas, Home Depot Hiring Manager, no such costuming was present. Just a typical gal, I was, being verbally accosted by Paul VonSexistPrick.


So I am writing this letter as a sort of Atta-Boy... to you, mainly. I would like to assure you that your clientele are undoubtedly thrilled with your decision to hire a man with the kind of integrity and forward thinking that is so lacking in this community. Rest easy in the fact that the manhood of your patrons has not been compromised by the likes of mall rats and damsels running amuck in your lumber department.

Well done, my friend, well done indeed.

~jill

And PS- I will continue to shop for my home improvement needs at your establishment, just to be witness as Paul's testicles crawl up inside his body to die and he is forced to chest bump and shotgun beers to prove his dominance.