Friday, April 30, 2010

It's a Fuck You Friday [PG-13. Fuck you, gratuitous profanity!]

Good friggin' morning, ain't it just a grand old sunshine suppository of a day? I'm not typically fond of rampant bitching, but it's just One of Those Days and if I'm gonna complain without being constructive, I may as well save it all up for a good old-fashioned
Fuck You Friday!

Fuck you, Nancy Grace. You're a gossipy old hack. I guess if your relentless ululating throat-punch style works for you, you should milk it for all it's worth. Right? RIGHT! Fuck you!

Fuck you, CNN, for tricking me into watching even one second of a Nancy Grace clip. NOT COOL.

Fuck you, feet, for being cold all the time.

Fuck you, forum posters who condemn the RP scene as nonexistent without ever having done anything but sit conspicuously in a bar emoting heavy sighs and being vaguely provocative. "Please pay attention to me! My character is so deep and you would know if you would only sit and hear my sad, mysterious, sexy and important tale!" Grats on being the 14292358th person who couldn't be assed to try.

Fuck you, salt, for being so goddam delicious.

Fuck you, $224 million Megamillions jackpot that I won't win. Fuck you, sticky change in the bottom of my cupholder. Fuck you, people who write and propagate malware. Fuck you, coffee pot, for scorching my second cup. Fuck you, Friday, for being almost indistinguishable from Monday.
Now for some special guest submissions on this lovely FYF:

"Hey Friday? Fuck you. It's stormy, my net connection is trying to shit the bed, and I may end up actually having to do laundry. So, double fuck you." - Reggie
[Author's Note: I am super-jealous that I wasn't the one to think of the ol' double fuck-you for today's post. Fuck you, creativity!]
Fuck you, needing 7 hours of sleep to function. Fuck you, guy on the highway, for cutting me off only to slow down. - Greg
"Dear filthy club whore who came into my store at 3 AM: Fuck you.
Fuck your condoms.
Fuck you for scoffing at me when I ask if you have a fucking CVS card. I know, you're too drunk to know whether you're in CVS, W
algreen's or the tattoo parlor.
No, I'm not staring at your withered tits. I'm looking at your nasty hickey from last night, and NO you can't use my bathroom to wash up." - Branden
Getting fed up listening to old men whine. "Back in my day, we didn't text, we talked to people". Yeah, well, back in your day you were amazed by indoor plumbing and electricity. "My daughter never picks up the phone when it's me". All you do is gripe and complain, why would she? - Anon.
[Author's Note: "Back in my day, we talked to people. And made damn sure Those People didn't drink out of our water fountains." Amirite? Fuck you, misplaced nostalgia!]

Who wants to get in on the action? Consider this your one-day pass to get your gripes off your chest. Show me your best FYF face in the comments.

Tomorrow: 'It's Not You, It's Me' Saturday!

Sunday, April 11, 2010

[rl] A Wrong Number

It's been both a long and short Spring Break out here on Master's week (god, I hate golf so much), and it's winding down to a close. We stayed up a little later, woke up a little later, and the days were hot and full of shenanigans and even some spring cleaning (that was out of left field, let me tell you).

The reason I write this is because a weird thing happened to me the day after a couple delicious full-strength gin & tonics made me so loud I was repeatedly removed from populated vent channels. At some point during or after such hijinks I put my cell phone down and couldn't remember where. Being a lazy asshole, I couldn't be bothered to go look for it.

Picking up my house phone, I dialed what I thought was probably my number. (In addition to being a lazy asshole, I am also terrible at remembering stuff.) I wasn't sure, but whatever.

Instead of the loud ringing I expected, a young woman answered.

"Oh, sorry, I dialed the wrong number."

"Wait, I just picked this phone up off the ground, did you lose it?"

What?! [In my head, Ethan is already getting a huge lecture for taking my phone outside again.] "Um. Well, I did misplace it, I was just expecting to hear it ring in my house."

"Oh! Well, are you still at the Tulip Festival? I can bring it over to you?"

Tulip Fffffffffffffffff- "Uh... I'm in Augusta, Georgia. Where's the Tulip Festival?"

"The Tulip Festival? It's in Woodburn, Oregon! How did your phone get out here?"

Oh, for the love of-- "It didn't! I just uh, happened to call the wrong number of someone else who just lost their phone."



So, after mutual declarations of weirdness, she took the phone to the lost & found, I got the correct number, and my phone was found. (It was on the console table in plain sight, of course.)

I've been told since that I should buy a lottery ticket. Once again, however, I'm still a lazy asshole, so unless I can buy one by calling a number, the alignment of stars and/or splotches of bird poop on my car will continue to mean nothing.

Happy spring break, everybody!