I hate you USPS

I was going to single out a single branch of the USPS but then I remembered that the woman who works at the one back home is a royal bitch too and then post office in DC is a fucking nightmare and so I’m going to keep this simple.

I hate you, United States Postal Service. Despise. I’m hissing at you and trying to light you on fire with my eyes. I’m also googling whether or not it’s even legal to talk trash about you because I feel like the U.S. holds you on a this tiny, pathetic pedestal in an attempt to save you from being shut the fuck down and I’m sure I’m going to get some super serious notice about treason and being nice to postal workers but RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU DON’T GIVE A FUCK? Mmm, pick me, pick me.

Before I get into how the postal people tried to break me and make me cry today, I will give you my initial thoughts on customer service. Having been a waitress for at least 6 years of my life, I know how important it is to smile and be nice to people while you do your job. I know that if you want respect, you need to give it. I also know that people who treat you like shit get their steaks spit on and their bread shoved in pubes, but that’s a waitressing thing. I’m not sure what the equivalent of how you’d try to screw me at the post office is but tossing my packages in the trash might be it. Anyway. This paragraph is to let you all know that I am certainly well aware of acceptable public behavior when dealing with people in the customer service/hospitality industry.

But fuck these people. Seriously. First of all, they really put in an effort about what? Three months a year during various holidays? The rest of the time you stand around with your hands down your pants, proving to the world that you laugh at the thought of a sense of urgency while selling books of stamps to old ladies that still send birthday cards. That’s in between government holidays, which are plentiful. Tough life.

So today. These motherfuckers I think are just trying to set me off. Honestly. Here is my newest POST OFFICE FAIL.

I walk in with three packages for my family (you’re welcome) that are nicely wrapped in kraft paper, my taxes AGAIN (oops, didn’t sign them) and a magazine renewal. I knew it’d take at least 45 minutes in the black hole of moving slower than death. I look around for the customs forms. Shocking, there are none. I ask the woman next to me and she says they’re out.

“Excuse me,” I say to the man at the counter while he helps someone out, “Do you have any more customs forms?” He eyes me and waits at least three minutes pretending to pretty up packages until he answers me. Then he points to the empty bin where the forms belong.
Apparently not only is he fucking toothless, he’s fucking blind.

“You’re out.” I say being very, very patient except that my head is starting to pound and my foot is trying to tap but I won’t let it.

“How many do you need?” He is clearly hoarding all of the customs forms behind his stupid weight machine and I fucking want a stack of them so I can pre-write the rest of my slips for the rest of the year so I never have to spend more than one minute in this place again EVER.

“How many can I have?” These people hang on to customs forms like the Thai place hoards their peanut sauce. Jesus FUCK, just give me what I want.

“You can only have the number of boxes you have.” He hands me three, so he obviously saw my boxes so WHY MUST YOU FUCK WITH ME?

After filling out the forms, I stand in line, not able to see because my boxes are stacked so high and my forearms are shaking. I see all three workers–Toothless Joe, Berny Mac’s cousin and the harmless one that is just hated because I hate the rest, all eye me and slightly smile because they know there’s not one thing I can do but stand there and shake around and attempt not to create a scene. I want to shank them all, I thought as I listened to them carry on about last week’s games, which I knew held a great deal of importance to them as two out of the three were wearing football jerseys like a bunch of assclowns.

When Toothless Joe took me at the counter, I smiled and asked kindly that all my packages be mailed priority.

“We ain’t taking those packages.” Awesome use of grammar and flexibility. “They got scotch tape on them.” This man was a genius.

No shit, it’s all I had to tape them with. Apparently scotch tape is a no-no and I ask for some tape.

“Could I please have some acceptable tape, then?” He was really pushing it with this tape discrimination.

“We don’t have any.”

“Well you are the post office. I find that hard to believe.”

“No.”

“So you want me to take the boxes back?” I was going to light them on fire in the parking lot if they had to leave this door.

A man standing behind him, someone a bit older and seemingly a bit nicer spoke up, “Well, she said she wanted to ship priority. Give her some priority tape.”

My savior.

I wrapped ugly priority tape all the fuck around my packages, making it especially ugly just to prove a point. About what? Hating the post office, of course.

I handed him the packages, still trying to smile and said thank you and handed him back his tape. These fuckers were not going to break me or make me get back in line behind the twenty new people who had shown up.

And then it happened.

The seemingly nice old man with the barely there white spikey hair and glistening pink head, pointed teeth and fleece vest tried to make my head explode.

“Are those flat rate packages you packed your stuff in and wrapped them in brown paper?” Well, what do we have here, Captain Nosey? I was previously unaware that this was a postal offense, probably one punishable by jail, but his tone let me know he was on to me.

“I don’t know. I didn’t wrap them all.” That was a lie, because I knew two of them were flat rate boxes and I did wrap them all. He was not going to win this battle, though. I am Ms. Fight the Man and he would be the next to fall.

“I think they’re all flat rate boxes. You need to pay the flat rate for them and you can’t hide them in brown paper.”

“Well you can’t be sure they’re all flat rate boxes and by yours you mean the USPS and I’m 100% positive that one isn’t.” I pointed to the one box I was willing to bet was not a flat rate box.

“How do you know it’s not?” He would just not fucking let this flat rate shit go. There were now twenty-five people behind me, not so silently wishing me death and he was going to have a pissing contest with me about these fucking boxes.

“Because it had champagne in it days ago and then I drank ALL OF IT and then I threw a bunch of stuff in it and wrapped it all up in the brown paper I use as a decoration, not so much a super secret flat rate box hiding device. And unless you want to unwrap all of my boxes, take out all the gifts and throw them out, I think I’ll pay the HIGHER priority price I asked for originally and we’ll call it even.”

Toothless Joe kept stamping away and wasn’t making eye contact but he’s shifty like that anyway. The bald one stared straight through me and started to get red in the face which meant I WAS WINNING.

I smiled sweetly at the toothless wonder and asked him for some Christmas stamps, preferably ones with something Christmas-y on them but when he handed me Jesus stamps, I handed them back.

“I said Christmas-y.” Then I sighed, took my receipts and left that nightmare establishment.

Fuck the post office. Seriously.

Reasons I’m moving to France

Today I’ll list the two three reasons I need to move to France.

1. I am an educator of the world around here. Ha. Well, in my head I am. But sorry, that’s what happens when you get asked to start teaching French kids American history and viola! I am not only an American Ambassador to the world, I am also a mentor. Here is a picture of me in my teacher outfit, which could be confused with a date night outfit you may or may not wear when you want The Sex.

The only thing missing were my glasses.

But hey, it’s France and I wasn’t going to show up looking like a frumpy American for a bunch of twelve year old French kids. We all know twelve year olds are the worst judgers.

Anyway, I had just left the map where I pointed out the most important parts of my lesson:
a. Where Disney World was, obviously important to this audience

b. Where all the movie stars live, because they love American films

c. New York City, which always gets the most aaaaahhhh ooooohhhss. WE LOVE NEW YORK CITY! This is usually the part where I tell them that NYC is only nice during Christmas and otherwise is full of nothing but homeless people, crime, dirt and shopping

d. Maine, where my family lives and all the lobsters and lastly,

e. Massachusetts, where the Pilgrims ate dinner and home of the best sports teams in America.

I carried on my lesson with the story of the Pilgrim’s journey, their hard year adjusting to the New World and their friendship with Squanto and the good years to follow. I left out the part about land thievery and murdering the Natives. I would need a week for that.

The best part of the presentation was my explanation of a typical Thanksgiving day. I told them the day unfolds in this order.
1. If you’re lucky, your parents are cooking for you and you sleep in late.

2. You eat a snack and get into your warm clothes. If your parents are booze hounds, you probably kick off the day with a mimosa or bloody. All kids understand the word cocktail and I said mummy and daddy so I wasn’t pushing booze on them.

3. You go outside and either stack wood, chop wood or play in the woods. I realized this is probably only typical to kids from New England but fuck it, they don’t know better.

4. Around 1 or 2pm you eat your first round of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, rolls, excessive amounts of gravy, pumpkins pie and maybe some of those little pearl onions if shit gets crazy.

5. Announce to your family what you’re thankful for this year. Be sure to list your family first. *Announcing such things as, I’m thankful for being STD free or having nice nipples still, are not typically acceptable and should be replaced with, I’m thankful that I’m not homeless, that people still speak to me and that it looks like the Pats will be in the playoffs this year, are better options.

6. Drink as much wine as you can fit in during a two hour dinner. Try not to offend your sister or mother in law and try not to horrify your grandmother. This takes great effort during family holidays.

7. Naptime, hopefully performed in a recliner by the fire. If not, you just nap wherever your body shuts down.

8. Football watching and eating a turkey/stuffing/cranberry sauce/gravy sandwich

9. Nap again

10. Pie time while watching more football

I felt like this was a pretty great description of present day Thanksgiving. I was only thrown off by the fact that they had never heard of cranberry sauce before, as they don’t have cranberries. I told them I’d bring some back next year.

All in all, it was a great presentation on my part. It ended with loud clapping and everyone passing me by, practicing their exits shouting, GOODBYE!! GOODBYE!! Very cute.

So that’s reason 1 I need to move to France.

Reason number 2, and maybe more compelling.
I FOUND MY MOST FAVORITE JUICE IN THE WORLD. Yesterday, while shopping for our last Thanksgiving dinner treats, I decided to browse the juice selection, hoping there would be SOME juice similar to the one I have been lusting over for 5 years. And, lucky for me, I FOUND IT and then remembered that it was one of last year’s New Year’s/Life Resolution and so we can check that one off the list.

Upon seeing the juice, I got so excited, I fell to my knees and started hoarding the bottles, snatching them off the shelf and tossing them in the cart like someone was about to fight me for my juice. I also shrieked loudly, breathlessly and then half shouted “CHRRIIIIIIIIIIS. OHMYGOD CHRISSSSSSS. THE JUICE! THE JUICE!”
Keep in mind, he was fifty yards away from me.

Five French people turned to look at me and turned their heads curiously, probably wondering who the hell the American was, sitting on the floor in a bright red coat, surrounded by framboise juice, shrieking and making animal sounds. I didn’t care. I just kept tossing juice in until I had bought them out.

And here is my juice, which will be hidden in my basement at home and drank only by deserving people if and when I deem them fit to drink my juice.

And lastly, reason 3 I’m moving to France.
The stationary selection is outrageous. There is no shortage of pretty paper that’s soft to the touch and I’m about to go spend a paycheck on a few new collections.

So there you have it. I need to find a job in France. Add it to my resolutions list for 2012.

*I didn’t actually tell the kids they should be thankful for those things. I was very polite.

Teaching American history to the French….

For Thanksgiving, we took Amber to France and have stopped in to Chatillon Sur Seine to visit friends and force upon them American culture and our Thanksgiving traditions.

But instead of horrifying them and amazing them with our traditions and excess amounts of food, etc, they have thrown a curve ball at me.

Last night, as we were prepping to drive across the border to give Amber the really quaint version of France, I received this text.

“English teacher at Laura’s school wants you to give speech to English class about American Thanksgiving.”

Surely he was not asking for me to teach French kids anything. But then again, my dream of being a history teacher was about to come true.

“Sure, happy to do anything for the French.”

Fuck me. I had to re-learn the history of Thanksgiving. “We stole the land of the Natives, made them teach us how to cook and farm and then killed them,” didn’t seem quite appropriate to tell a bunch of twelve year old French kids.

“You eat a 20 pound turkey, eighty-three sides, nap and watch football and sometimes chop wood outside,” also didn’t seem appropriate.

What in the fuck was I going to tell these kids?

And then, after three glasses of wine, I was told, “Oh. The local newspaper will be there and you will have your picture in the paper.”

Well la dee mother fucking da. Famous in France now? Yep, that’s what I’m kinda feeling like. It’s not so shabby being an American novelty sometimes.

Alright. Gotta get back to playing Monsieur Patate.

The International

I meant to write about this awhile ago, but forgot. Lucky for everyone that I remembered today and have nothing better to write about and so The International it is.

A few weeks ago, I was having a lengthy conversation with a friend about dildos. I’m not sure what started it. It could have been
that I have been forced to toss The Rabbit, because I just ruined it over time and countless battery refills. Or it could have been that I don’t actually understand jamming something up you when you diddle unless it vibrates or wiggles around. Could just be me, though.

“I think they should make dildos with hoodies.” She offered before 10am one day.

“Well, I didn’t see that one coming. I suppose they should. They might already, though I’ve never seen one.” They would be the porn world. I would have to consult them that night when I was not on my government computer. I doubt the super secret spy monitor people would like to know that I google “dildos with foreskin” at my desk at 10am. They are so fucking serious and no fun about everything.

“I shouldn’t be made to sleep with a hood-less dildo.” She said it as one would say, I shouldn’t be made to clean the toilet with no gloves, or I shouldn’t be made to eat bugs for lunch. God forbid.

“You shouldn’t. It’s inhumane, really. Especially since you love the hood so much. How dare they?” She really loves a good bit of foreskin. Honestly. This particular friend raves about extra foreskin and hooded sex like it’s better than Slim Jims and grilled cheese. I think I’ve even seen her make a gagging face when I once asked what in the world would she do if all the hoods of the world were to just up and disappear? I have no idea how that would happen, but it was worth warning her about.

“I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to focus. I’d be lying there thinking about what I’m missing, resenting the normal dildo.”

I was wondering where she was finding all these hooded men she was sleeping with, considering she lives in the Land of the Cut. DC has a pretty good market of men from around the world but I spent a good number of years banging around when I lived there and I never once encountered a surprise hood in my sexual adventures.

“We wouldn’t want you resenting anything while you were jamming plastic up yourself, now would we? We should make you a hooded dildo and sell it to other hood lovers around the world.”

“Thank you. You are so thoughtful.”

I try.

Now if one friend wanted a dildo with a hood, maybe a few more would. Maybe this was my new calling. Dildo invention. I decided to consult my penis focus group, made up of six of my closest girlfriends.

“Would you use a dildo with a hood?” was the question I emailed all six of them.

Friends 1, 4 and 5 responded with: “No. Fucking gross. Stop emailing me about foreskin.”

Friends 2, 3 and 6 went with: “Yep. I’m in. Order me one.”

Keep in mind that this focus group is made up of one girl who didn’t snip her own kid because of her own amazing sexual experiences, one that is petrified of hidden bacteria, one that said she’d be willing if she could try out Rob Pattinson’s hoodie (um who WOULDN’T), one that reminded me that when a baby gets their hood snipped it looks like calamari, one that said she was too lazy to learn a peel back trick, one that told me a story that I cannot repeat here but was intriguing.

Since I had considerable interest from my American girlfriends, I had to assume the rest of the world would be on my side because they are always sleeping with hooded bandits and so I had just one more friend to consult. This friend married her husband perhaps just because he came hooded. She would go into business with me with this type of idea. I texted her.

“New invention idea. Dildo with a hoodie. Hoodie will be detachable, like a convertible car, in case your mood varies. Interested?”

She wrote back, quick as a flash.

“Very. Like the detachable option. We shall name him ‘The International’ and market it to the NATO crowd.”

You could be as happy as he looks.

The NATO crowd. I like it. The International, the box would read: Bettering the world, one hooded dildo at a time.

The Housekeeper Strikes Again

This is getting to be out of control. First my housekeeper was asking for gifts and now she’s just taking them. It appears that anything left on my counter on cleaning day is fair game. Before I tell you about her newest instance of thievery, here is how it began.

Two months ago, I left a tube of hair removal face cream on the counter. It was old and I had found it and I was going to use it. We know I love my hair removal tools. So. I come home that day to a note reading, “Heater, I like face cream. Where can I get?” or something like that. The following week, I leave a note telling her it’s all hers, no fee, happy Thursday to her. I know what a crisis Germany is facing with having only this threading trend. I’m happy to share the goods.

A month later I come home to this note.
“Hi. Why do you leave coffee pot in basement? Does it work? I like it.” Well, little Miss Sticky Fingers, I liked it too, before I gave up coffee and before I started burning the fucking house down by using American appliances and shitty adapters. So the day before her next visit, I drag up said coffee machine and leave a note on it.

“Needs to be cleaned. Lots of calcium build-up. All yours. Enjoy!” Let’s be honest. I was giving it away because I couldn’t bring myself to clean it and she loves to clean and so I felt like I was giving myself some good karma or something. When I came home that evening, the coffee maker was gone, as was my note.

I did stop and wonder what else she had been eyeing in my house. She did have access to everything. I imagine she had quite the wish list going and I wondered if I could get her to take the enormous, copper bull off my hands. That damned weathervane seemed like a good idea but so do a lot of things when you’re drunk.

So now we’re up to the week where she transitions from asking for my belongings to taking whatever is left near her cash. Let’s all remember that just two weeks ago she swiped my birthday candle as she scolded me. Well. I thought that was surely it. I would not leave nice things around her money and we could avoid a little, Please Don’t Steal My Shit, talking to.

I was wrong.

Last week I was cleaning out my office, getting ready for the Tour of Guests and found an unused notepad my mother had sent me last Christmas in my stocking. It was one of those Christmas Tree Shoppe notepads, the ones with the magnets on the back so you can hang them on the fridge and use to make grocery lists or chore lists. Well, apparently I had forgotten about it and so la-de-da, I brought the notepad downstairs, put it by the bowl that holds the pens and keys and was tickled we had paper around for notes.

Then I went to Albania and left Mr. H to pay our housekeeper.

He paid her alright. He paid her and he left her a note next to her money ON THE NOTEPAD and sure enough, when he returned that night, the whole damned thing, all 200 fancy pages, was gone.

Next week I’m leaving my dirty laundry next to the money and tying the Mr.’s *charming dog to the counter and hoping for the best.

Lazy Sundays

I’m never sure why I have to argue why Sunday is my most favorite day of the week.
1. I usually lay in bed for up to ten hours playing on the computer, napping, reading and talking to friends.
2. I eat a lot of snacks.
3. I don’t get out of my pjs. Magic pants and a hoodie are even pushing it.
4. I drink an outrageous amount of tea.
5. I make sure not to do one thing stressful or anything considered to be work or house work.

So today I am figuring out how to add quotes to my photos (and pretty photos from other people) on my new computer and it’s a delightful project that will keep me busy for hours. Or until I run out of creative juices, whichever comes first. (you never know when nap time will strike, really) Here are a few.

**Starry night photo isn’t mine and links to author. All other photos were taken by moi.

The Apple Bottom Solution

Each morning, my office mate and I start the day with coffee hour. It allows us to catch up on what the other did the night before, discuss lunch plans, discuss online shopping and most importantly, discuss random and inappropriate topics and that we don’t discuss with normal people. The other day was good example of this.

“So you can’t grow like that, right? You must get implants.” I asked my office mate and Official Expert of all things African-American. She was bumped up to Expert recently because technically, she’s my only black friend that listens to me on a daily basis and puts up with me.

“What are you talking about?” She asked, sounding mildly interested because I’m sure she assumed the conversation to come would surely be inappropriate, but at least entertaining.

“Your asses. Your asses that grow like shelves. I want to know how they grow like that.“ I was generalizing again, because that is what I do. In fact, that is what most people do and I don’t need to be politically correct during our morning coffee chats.

“Mine isn’t like that. I wasn’t so lucky. But it’s hereditary, Heather. It’s not implants.” She sighed and was probably thinking about all the other questions I’d asked in the past year about tattooed eyebrows and why black kids are born with more rhythm than twenty white kids combined and can she do that ass jiggling thing and can I touch her fake hair and ohmygod, owning multiple hair pieces is normal?

“I don’t believe you. I want to see x-rays. Your asses are like shelves. Like a tetrus piece. You could set a beer on that ass. Seriously. Your bones grow like that? Like your spine bone hits your ass bone and then it grows out and then woooosh.” I was making a motion with my hand that was to display a supple asscheek jutting out of a perfectly normal back. I hoped she recognized my upside-down P hand gesture.

“Who are you talking about?“ she said, turning around to look at me.

It was true. She didn’t have a shelf ass and I wasn’t really talking about her. I was talking about maybe some girls she knows. Girls I didn’t know. I needed more black girlfriends, just as much almost as I need a hot, gay (male) assistant. My whiteness knows no boundaries and its so boring being white. Especially if you’re translucent, part cooked but not really, shrimp white.

Well, honestly, it fucking is.

As she turned, she could see I had Googled “Black girl asses like shelves and apples” because really, that’s a great search and as I had assumed, gave me many images to work with. In a different tab I had Googled, “Black girl hereditary asses growing like shelves” to see if there was some sort of scientific evidence of this hereditary nonsense she was referring to, and I was hoping to run across an x-ray or two.

There are no x-rays comparing the ass bones of a white girl to a black girl, in case you were wondering. You’re welcome for me doing the leg work for you on this one.

“Why are you looking at Apple Bottom Jeans?” She was watching me scroll through a number of ass shots on my screen, most of which I was tracing the booty with my pointer finger, staring at the screen with my mouth open in awe. I wanted a shelf ass. I’d even take an apple ass. It was better than the squishy, pale ass I was given.

“I’m not. I told you. I’m looking at your asses. I just don’t understand because you are not born….wait a minute. Did you just say Apple Bottom Jeans….like,” and then I sang it and obviously added “Boots with the fuuuuuuuur.”

“Yeah, the jeans. Made by Jay-Z and Luda.” She was looking at me like I was special again but I’ll be damned. They rap AND make big booty jeans? Fucking brilliant.

“Time-thefuck-out. You have your own jeans? That’s not just a song? You have your own shelf ass jeans?” My eyes are wide and now I want a weave (mostly just for the holidays) AND a pair of fruit basket jeans.

“You wouldn’t like them,” she carried on, “they’re for girls with tiny waists, big bottoms and skinny legs.” I didn’t need a reminder that I was not Skinny-Fat-Skinny, but more so, Chubby-Robust-Husky. Compact, I like to categorize myself on bad days. I started thinking of a produce that would classify as compact. I came up with no fruit but couldn’t decide whether I was a squash or a zucchini or an eggplant. The thought of being an eggplant, though, horrified me and so I went back to thinking about fruit.

“What fruit is my ass?” I asked her. We had already decided two coffee sessions ago that my entire body was definitely not a banana, not really a pear, was kind of an apple but more like an entire fruit basket. I’m big into comparing things on my body to fruit lately. I’m not sure where that came from but for now I’ll blame it on the three Women’s World magazines that I read recently that my mother had sent me.

“No fruit. Your ass is not a fruit. You have a normal ass, like mine. A normal ass that needs the Special K diet.” Not only would she not let me have a fruit ass, she was going to remind me that my ass needed a diet.

I made a face at her.

Inside, I was sad. My ass has never quite been able to do that shaking thing. You know. The arch your back to make it look like you have an apple ass while you shake around like you’re stuck in a blender? I so wanted to be able to do that as my white girl party trick.

“What are you doing now?” She asked, seemingly surprised by my computer screen.

“I’m emailing my mother to tell her I want some motherfucking fruit basket jeans for Christmas.”

Merry Christmas to me.

Reason 732 that men are fucking animals

So I received this in my inbox this week. My stepmother sent it to me and asked for my first reaction to this video.

Here’s my reaction.

My first thought was really, Nice outfit, particularly the use of the star boots.

My second thought was, JESUS CHRIST, was he touching himself during a clip that lasted twenty some seconds??? Goddamned fucking animal. Men. If they’re not thinking with their dicks, they’re touching them.

Honest to God.

Doggy dog world

So you remember that I thought it was “Nip it in the butt,” not “Nip it in the bud,” right? Well, I found a new phrase that I was clearly wrong about. Apparently, it’s not “Doggy Dog World,” it’s “Dog Eat Dog World.” (insert me shaking my head)

Oh, I’m sorry, you think I’m shaking my head because I am the idiot? No, never, stop being so damned foolish. I’m shaking my head because I want to know what assclown came up with these sayings, thinking they’re the kitten’s mittens, while I think they’re fucking mental.

Speaking of mittens on kittens, has everyone seen the “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” ep where Charlie invents mittens for kittens and films his own commercial? Jesus, now that’s a brilliant episode.

Anyway, sure, blame me for being the idiot with a hearing problem that gets these phrases all wrong. I know I’m partially retarded, but I blame it on me misunderstanding people because I have this cute habit of just ignoring most people while nodding to pretend I’m comprehending. OR, even BETTER, I blame my third grade teacher for teaching me shit like writing in cursive, which was a fucking waste of time. Why don’t grade school teachers teach you something of value? Like how not to sound like a fucking moron in your thirties? That would have been a much better spent hour than learning how to connect my name with squiggly lines.

Definition of Dog Eat Dog World:
Dog-eat-dog describes a world in which people fight for themselves only and will hurt other people. Example: “I have been in this business for twenty years. It’s dog-eat-dog. The competition is always trying to steal your customers.”

Oh.Really. And I’m supposed to be the moron? First of all, dogs don’t eat other dogs, unless you’re on the Vick farm. Second of all, if that’s the definition, the better saying would be something like, “”I have been in this business for twenty years. It’s Neighbor Fucking Your Wife type shit out there. The competition is always trying to steal your snatch.”

A neighbor snatching your wife’s snatch seems more cutthroat than a dog eating another dog. Or at least more realistic. Or maybe it’s just a bad example. I don’t care.

Now, sure. I have no idea why I would have thought Doggy Dog World would make sense but does it matter what I thought? I’ve never used this phrase, therefore I have done no wrong. I just tossed it around in my head a few times incorrectly. And let’s be honest. I’d rather have someone stab me in the thigh repeatedly with an unsharpened pencil than use that phrase in a sentence. And further? I think anyone that has ever said that out loud with a straight face is a goddamned idiot.

I mean that as offensively as one can say it.

PS, apparently if you English isn’t your native tongue, you can learn these other stupid phrases and sound like a real American. More stupid idioms FOUND HERE.

**Post about setting stuff on the ass of a sista friend comes tomorrow because wow, it’s a really fun topic to research and write about.

Muuuundays.

I hate Mondays. Especially when I take off Thursdays and Fridays from the week before. Especially when I have friends in town and I’d rather be doing anything than sitting at my desk. Especially when I came in to 210 emails.

Yeah, 210 motherfucking emails. How is that even possible?

So here you go. Here’s the kind of thing that keeps me going on Mondays.

Which is from the very cool site, It’s Moh.

This should keep you busy until tomorrow. Tomorrow I am going to write about black girl jeans and my latest idiom fail. This will be another post about my mild retardation and *charming thoughts on life.