My old college trunk/It's a good thing I was a lonely child

I didn't know what to title this posting. In a nutshell (as it's late, plus i'm distracted by my 637th viewing of a certain THREE'S COMPANY episode), I needed something to put this mammoth desktop computer on besides my kitchen chair...rummaged through the parents' house...found my old college trunk...it's PERFECT, just ungodly ideal...can't believe it was so easy to find something. SO...I get it home, then start thinking about college...then start thinking about all the friends I don't see anymore...and how it angers me that some make zero effort to remain consistently in touch...so i'm sad and angry at once...but then I think, well, I'M busy and self-absorbed and don't even have a spouse and child to use as an excuse, so I cut them some slack. SOME. And then I think how I was well-trained from a very young age to enjoy my own company, so it's probably served me well as an adult. Me trying to put a rosy spin on things again. It's true, though. In the middle of all this, there was a story on NYC news...not Oklahoma, not central Pennsylvania...about a big high school football game at the Meadowlands tonight between 2 teams from the same town -- Wayne -- fighting for the state championship...which explained the massive traffic and POLICE ESCORT for schoolbuses I saw on Rt. 3 as I drove home. NYC news usually doesn't cover HIGH SCHOOL sports, but I digress. But when I saw this on the news -- and I'll likely be accused of being bitter and crabby and resentful for saying this -- I just thought, how pathetic...THIS will be the highlight of many of these kids' lives...all downhill from 16, 17 on. Not all of them, of course, but some. Yes, I hated high school...is it obvious? Even though it got progressively better, i'd NEVER go back. EVER. And I can't stand 16-year-olds with perfect little lives. It's why I canNOT get into FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS. Sorry, not into kissing the asses of privileged, genetically-lucky, and athletically-gifted teens...though it's immensely gratifying when they're bloated messes with an unplanned child by 25. Wow, all this from a TRUNK...for a computer. It again shows the fascinating way the mind works...the Trigger Effect, if you will. It also shows how a gawky, insecure 18-year-old CAN still become the cocksure, smartass motherfucker (with an enviable bod -- sorry, couldn't resist) they always dreamed of. If only I could learn to throw a football...

Breaking down answering machine/VM messages to the bare minimum

1) "HI/Hey," -- OK, this is polite and it doesn't get any shorter and sweeter. Anything MORE than either of these two words is superfluous and a waste of precious time.

2) "you've reached..." -- still good, still acceptable...

3) "(NAME)" -- COMPLETELY unnecessary and potentially dangerous if a home/cell number, IRRITATINGLY necessary, I guess, at work...though not always.

4) "(at) (PHONE NUMBER)." -- essential for verification purposes, combined with, well, the sound of the person you know's voice.

5) "I'm/We're not here right now to take your call..." -- NO WAY, FUCKING REALLY?

6) "so if you'll leave your name and number..." -- Oh, THAT'S what I should do?

7) "and the reason for your call..." -- Jesus fucking Christ...TOTALLY unnecessary.

8) "we'll get back to you as soon as possible." -- Well, MAYBE that's the truth, but if I don't want to fucking talk to you or it's no rush, I either won't call back or it'll be at my leisure.

9) "Thank you..." -- Polite, but wasting my time.

10) "and have a nice day!" -- Aww, how sweet and neighborly...but MOVE IT ALONG!

SO...here's what everyone's message SHOULD sound like...which is the way MINE is...me being wildly impatient and valuing my fucking time...

In a friendly, yet swift tone, of course..."Hi, you've reached (MY NUMBER)." BEEP.

Hilarious Bigoted Comment of the Week (*excluding anything said at the Republican debate)

A white, 30-ish, normal LOOKING New Hampshire man interviewed on the CBS Evening News (and ain't bigotry more fun when it comes out of the mouths of polished looking individuals?), speaking about Barack Obama...

"It's not that i'm prejudiced or anything, but I'm not gonna vote for a colored man to be our President."

Pop culture moratoriums, Volume 1

The following need to NEVER happen again:
1) ANY commercial, jingle, movie trailer, theme song, ANYthing...that uses Natasha Bedingfield's UNWRITTEN. I USED to really like this song...now it's like being in Hell to hear it. God forbid the "creative" types actually BE such.
2) Any music video that features artists singing on top of a Los Angeles skyscraper, the same view of the Library Tower in the background.
3) ANYthing filmed in the (dry) LA River.
4) ANYthing filmed on those SAME LA River industrial-area highways & bridges.
*Regarding the last 2 points...listen, trust me, I recognize the photogenic appeal of everything to do with the LA River, but you're just being LAZY if you can't think of ANY other evocative, intriguing, picturesque LA-area scenery to highlight for the masses. I detest follow-the-herd laziness. Jesus, put the spotlight on Hermosa Beach or something...

Blogging from my PLUSH SOFA...

Ah, PROGRESS!! Indeed, the computer desk is in pieces on the curb! Sadly, proper etiquette prevented me from hurling it chunk by chunk out the window. Instead, I had to unscrew and/or rip it apart and make 3 trips down 2 flights with heavy, awkward loads (stifle your dirty minds). Then there was the temporary reconfiguring of the computer and furniture. THEN there was the small fact that the computer monitor wouldn't turn on for a good half hour...then suddenly did after, well, i'm not sure what I finally wound up doing. But I exhaled GREATLY. The mammoth computer now sits...on a kitchen chair; it was the highest and sturdiest thing I could think of short-term. Sure, it ain't a living room outta Ethan Allen, but I must say, this set-up is GRAND. The computer and TV both are in front of me now, I've got the keyboard on my lap, and the mouse is geniusly gliding over a small Verizon Yellow Pages book on the edge of the couch. It's PRETTY fucking ideal! What to use under the mouse was my biggest worry. I mean, I could've just leaned over/hunched forward to place it on the coffee table, but dammit, I demand maximum personal comfort! Now my feet are up, the soft couch cushions are against my back and ass, and my hot cocoa's at my side...while my soft white Xmas lights outline the room, exuding warmth and comfort, and the skyline of NYC glistens like jewels against the night sky. OK, i'm getting out of hand, but the ambience is SOOTHING, I tell you! And to think barely more than 36 hours ago, I "didn't have" at-home computer access! And the LIBRARY...UGH! It's already like a distant memory. Won't you come over to discuss the issues of the day and sip cocoa with Uncle Gary?

A grateful nation exhales (OK, just me) as a New (LIBRARY-FREE!) Day dawns...though I'm an idiot...

Was that the longest run-on title or what? Today's been joyous...odd...like Christ spoke to me and showed me The Light. Out of NOWHERE at about 12:20pm, it dawned on me that my archaic living room computer still WORKED...and I could simply revert to THAT one instead of waiting for The Magic Cord to be found for my laptop. It took me TWO AND A HALF MONTHS to realize this. I just can't explain my stupidity. I mean, I just had it in my mind that it was a "dial-up" computer only (I know, idiotic)...coupled with how ancient and bulky and desktop-y it was...and I just did not EVEN think to hook it up to the DSL line. What the FUCK is wrong with me?! Ultimately, what's saved me here TWICE since early summer is my 50-foot DSL cable. Isn't my life insanity? So, i'm DONE with the library!! I can't believe it. It was such a cast of characters...I'm pondering going back one last time just to wistfully stare at them all, playing sad music in my head, like it's a series finale. I actually very well may go back there...just not to go online. It's a beautiful library...an old mansion...and I DO so love the vast array of newspapers and magazines spread out before me. I've gotta be careful, though, NOT to become a slave to the internet now that I've got it at home again. It's indeed been liberating in a way. I'm optimistic, though...about everything. I'll get SO much more done, as I can CONCENTRATE now. And do things when I want...like now, at 12:30am. It's just unbelievably freeing. And in my zeal to CHANGE THINGS, I consulted with Dipshit tonight...the desk that the computer sits on will likely be tossed to the curb tomorrow night. It's falling apart, awkwardly big, and takes up needed space. You KNOW how I love to streamline, and am DESPERATE for whatever change I can get. I'll have to see tomorrow if I can manage with the bigass computer on the coffee table...or even just the floor. It belonged to a PREVIOUS Dipshit whose living here was seriously one of the WORST decisions I made in my life -- so I'd take immense glee in slamming this piece of Ikea shitwood to the sidewalk, imagining it's his hair-plugged head. Yes, sad as it may sound, this simple computer desk's removal would be yet another small step toward BIG CHANGE and doing things MY WAY. Damn...I can't get over it...I'm back online at home again! What, pray tell, will just pop into my creative mind TOMORROW to change my life for the better?! Goodbye, Library Freaks! Hello, (slightly) lower blood pressure!

Dipshit gets rid of his futon...while Gary treasures his ancient twin bed from Colonial times

Dipshit became a big boy today...he got a REAL BED! Bye, bye, futon!! I wonder if he was misty-eyed? I also wonder if he'll retain the habit of placing his numerous stuffed animals on his pillow. They're red bulls. From where, I don't know. I just know that this grown man has kept stuffed animals on his bed, er, futon up till now. He's clearly SLOOOOOOOOOWLY growing up. First came the new dresser a couple years ago. Now the bed. If only he added some remotely adult decor to the walls besides his college pennants. And maybe some photos in frames? And dusted for the first time EVER? SOMEthing that says "i'm a 32-year-old man." Now as I mock him, the funny thing is...I'VE been sleeping in the same bed since I was ten. To which I say, WHO FUCKING CARES?! I know it's odd...and yet, it doesn't seem strange to ME on a daily basis. I rather like my bed that resembles something Martha Washington died in. It'll make a good shore house guest bed someday when I'm rich and famous. I also have my same childhood dresser. And desk (though it's a Big Boy desk, as Gary was ALWAYS somewhat a Big Boy -- if you know what I mean; it was my GRANDfather's desk). And I just computed last week that my "rabbit eared" TV is 15 years old on Christmas (I'd like to take this time to plug GE, who HAVE brought good things to MY life) -- I have 14 months to buy a new digital set. Hmm, what else? Many things in my bedroom are ancient. I mean, TRULY bizarrely ancient. The knick-knacks on my desk? Um, I've had some of them since I was like seven or eight. Like the "GARY" whale pen holder. There's several "GARY" things...yes, i've always been self-absorbed. But i'd argue that these things are "curious" eccentricities rather than some freakish, emotionally stunted personality trait. I'M the one who knows you should have your own tools, vacuum cleaner, measuring tape, cookware by your late 20s. Dipshit doesn't. So this entry was all about mocking Dipshit while acknowledging my OWN peculiar social tics...and saying I'm better than him. WAY better. Like SO much better! I mean, CMON!

Nirvana's NEVERMIND & Madonna's EROTICA -- two albums that hold up VERY well

Sixteen and fifteen years later (OY!), respectively. NEVERMIND is a classic that still makes me wanna thrash around, break things, and scream out loud. Its raging catharsis is exhilarating. EROTICA is sorely underrated, suffering in '92 by having been released at the same time as that sweet and gentle tome known as SEX. And i'm still annoyed Garth Brooks held Madonna to a #2 album debut...though Garth's far better than New Kids on the Block and M.C. Hammer, the 2, um, acts who relegated M's I'M BREATHLESS and THE IMMACULATE COLLECTION to the runner-up spot. EROTICA's cold, relentless beats, in-your-face attitude, and innuendo-laden lyrics would sound just as fresh on the radio today. It's also the album that serves as the demarcation line between Old and New Madonna. It's dark and edgy, not the sunny, optimistic fare she released up to that point. A surly, experimental, questioning Goth teen would dig EROTICA, whereas the perky, don't-dare-deviate head cheerleader would bitch about missing the poppy pep of EXPRESS YOURSELF. And, yes, i'm thinking of myself and patting my back as I write that. NEVERMIND and EROTICA are both steeped in anger and cynicism. And yet, they're two albums that I not only keep going back to...but I often do so when i'm in a great overall mood and feeling abundantly creative. Hmmm.

TVs in cars

Believe it or not, I just sat here for a few minutes with nothing coming to mind to bitch about. Then I thought of Sunday in the ShopRite parking lot. And how I was screaming to myself. Then laughing to myself...because, really, me in a car is like an A-list comedian on stage in Vegas. I'm too unfocused (read: irritated by others in...in...yup...THE LIBRARY) right now to provide you, the generous reading public, with a blog that lives up to the hilarious origins of my rage on Sunday...but it had to do with spying a fucking minivan in front of me with a TV on for the kids in back. Then I thought of my cousins in Indianapolis and how they have one...and when I was out there 14 months ago, I asked why the FUCK that is...and they replied something to the effect of "well, Gary, you don't understand WHAT a nightmare ANY car trip would be without one...it keeps them occupied." I knew then and there i'd lost them forever, victims of their well-paid jobs and keeping-up-with-the-Jones' overindulging of today's youth. They'd forgotten the obvious...THEY survived. As did I. And trillions of others. God fucking forbid little Taylor and Chase (this is me mocking pretentious names, by the way) are forced to either OPEN A FUCKING BOOK, educating their minds and expanding their vocabulary, or...GASP...merely LOOK OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW to figure out how the fuck they're getting to Grandma's. Of course, mommy and daddy are dumbing themselves down by relying on the GPS system, so why should the kiddies tax their precious little heads learning geography? So that's a summary of what I was screaming to myself in the car for, well, less than a minute. Sadly, you can't SEE me pretending to be a retard and pushing at my non-existent GPS device, which I was doing on Sunday. But surely you can visualize? I'm so THANKFUL I thought of something that merited bitching!

Dipshit did it...he opened my ketchup

At some point yesterday. So I guess the fact that I took it OUT of the fridge 2 weeks ago and put it back on the shelf didn't clue him in that, hmm, maybe there was some uncertainty about whose it was (though he's an imbecile for not knowing in the first place). So somehow i've yet to run into him...partly deliberate, as I LOATHE the idea of this UNSPEAKABLY awkward conversation this motherfucking dolt has forced me into initiating. I mean, merely saying "hey" to him in passing saps me of all energy. But he's NOT just gonna take my fucking ketchup for his own. I don't clip coupons, painstakingly analyze 3 supermarket circulars a week, and watch every fucking penny I spend TO PUT FOOD IN HIS MOTHERFUCKING WHINY MOUTH. If it's not clear yet, 1) he's a fucking across-the-board idiotic asshole and 2) I fucking detest him. THEN there's the "don't put your food in the drain" chat, TOO. UGH...LIFE IS TOO SHORT...

One of life's finest things...a cloudy, brisk November Sunday

Don't you agree?

Dad and I agree (!)...PEOPLE ARE STUPID

When I asked dad yesterday about clogged drains (by the way, i'm back in the library and the Retarded Girl is speaking loudly again, but I digress), I brought up Draino. He said Draino wouldn't work. Well, that's what I thought, too, I told him...but how then can it have existed as a product for decades? Because PEOPLE ARE STUPID, he replied. I agreed and smiled. Yes, people ARE stupid. I then had a soothing cup of tea...

Gary fixes a clogged drain...and BECOMES A MAN!

The kitchen sink "drained slowly" since Thursday. I'm SURE it's because Dipshit doesn't know that's it not a garbage disposal and his endless pasta and veggies have finally become a clog. Well, I kept trying to shoot hot water down the drain, tried stabbing down the drain with a plastic knife and large bamboo shoot (don't ask), and even poured the remaining 8-year-old Draino into it. Nothing. So yesterday I googled "how to clear a clogged drain." The hot water thing came up again, but it mentioned something I'd NEVER even thought of...a plunger! Of COURSE! I mean, it really is a case where I felt like a complete moron for not having thought of a plunger before. I was convinced another eye-rolling visit (surely at 7am) from the landlord and a plumber was in my near future. But NO!! After my 1pm breakfast today, I filled up the sink with like 2 inches of hot water, then plunged away. Within 2 minutes, water was rushing down the drain! GARY fixed it! GARY fixed a pipe!! I felt beyond triumphant! Dipshit mentioned buying Draino...good, I hope he did, and wasted both his money and his time. His kitchen sink food bullshit has grated on my nerves for YEARS, and I think this is finally the perfect way to SOMEhow bring it up...though I don't know how I'll do it without calling him a fucking idiot. I'll keep you posted. When he asked me Thursday night if I'd noticed the clogged drain, I felt like throwing a blunt object at his head. It was another moment when I struggled not to lose it. Anyway, it's FIXED! Because of ME! No landlord or plumber needed! Gary's all growed up, y'all!!

Approaching road rage from a devilish new angle

While still in bed this morning, I began pondering the many times I've been infuriated on Rt. 3 by left-lane assfucks. No, this isn't something I dwell on often from bed...but for some reason, I was, and the funniest idea came to me. Next time this happens, I should speed up to pass the idiot, swerve in front of him...and then slow practically to a grinding halt. Say he's doing 50...I'll do 45...maybe even less. Now I certainly don't wanna enrage NORMAL, SMART drivers, so the timing of such an action would depend greatly on the situation. Ideally, it'd be JUST the one dumb fuck in back of me, so I'M not now the reason for enraging others behind him. God, the thought of this tickles me. I won't be able to drive so slowly for any more than about 5 minutes, but i'm pretty sure my fucking point would get across. And if they try to go around ME...I'll speed up. I'll slow THEM down the best I can!

VERIZON customer service...THE WORST ON EARTH!!

They've infuriated me before, but today took the cake. I could NOT reach a motherfucking human being. I reapplied for Caller ID online on SATURDAY. It's Thursday...still didn't have it. Ring, ring. "Welcome to Verizon...for English, press one." And so began my nightmare. I pressed every button imaginable...kept being told "we'll connect you to an operator now." OK, great. Only to hear "for English, press one" again. And again. And again. AND AGAIN. Then "Welcome to Verizon!" Hung up. I'm already red-faced with rage, with 10 minutes of my life wasted. Tried another number -- they have literally like 10 different numbers to call on their bill, for seemingly every issue BUT "if you're seething and want to throw your phone against the wall." SAME shit with the second number. I was now SCREAMING into the phone, using the word FUCK, when the recorded bitch asked me what my problem was. This outburst oddly (?) seemed to work, and I was FINALLY connected to a human. Alas, SHE couldn't help me...determined after further wasting my voice with my personal info. Call ANOTHER number...the "E-service dept" or something, since my issue originated online. I'm on the verge of a stroke, but call. Get someone...talk to them...seems my account was BLOCKED due to a late payment NINE MONTHS AGO...which I kinda knew, but figured, you know, once it was PAID and my account balance was ZERO, the technology of 2007 would UNblock it. Um, no. I had to CALL to unblock it...which I was THEN doing. And so my Caller ID order was cancelled due to the blocking. AND I NEVER FUCKING GOT ANY CORRESPONDENCE ABOUT AN OFFICIAL "BLOCK" AND THAT I'D HAVE TO CALL TO UNDO IT!!!?!?!?!!?!!?! The woman was borderline condescending, acting like I'm a fool for not knowing to call to unblock it. Somehow I resisted calling her a CUNTY FUCKING CUM-SLURPER...even after I was told she'd connect me to someone ELSE to re-place the order after she'd just unblocked me. At this time, my fantasy of planting explosives in a local Verizon office is escalating, but I'm soon speaking to a man now, who asks how he can "PROVIDE THE BEST CUSTOMER SERVICE AVAILABLE." Sapped of strength, I give my name, acct. #, and special 3-digit security code for seemingly a 27th time, and explain I want Caller ID. "Sir, you're blocked...you're gonna need to call..." I cut him off, explain that I was just UNblocked and told to call him. He stammers, tells me to wait a minute...awkward silence...okaaaaaaaaay..."Ok, sir, the block was JUST taken off your account...so you want Caller ID?" "YES...JUST Caller ID...the $7.50 Caller ID only thing, nothing else." "Ok, sir, that'll be working within 10 minutes...is there anything else Verizon can help you with today?" "No, that's IT...THANK you...have a good day." Almost on the verge of tears, I hang up the phone and tend to my soggy granola yogart. Motherfuckers even ruined my lunch. I think it might have been faster and more efficient to send a smoke signal from my roof.

Can Alicia Keys bore me more?

I should go into the library bathroom...

...and call the front desk from my cell, then whisper threateningly, "WOULD YOU ALL SHUT THE FUCK UP?!"

"Plesher"

This is how some dumb twat spelled PLEASURE on some MySpace page I just stumbled upon. Oh, 2007...not only are people idiots, but through technology, they get to announce said idiocy to the masses!! YAY!!

From irritation comes the pearls of an oyster

Or something to that effect. That's what Phyllis Diller said on that Carol Burnett PBS thing, and I just thought it brilliant. She was speaking about comedians in general...how their distress brings about great comedy. It was something beyond the Sad Clown cliche. I just totally GOT what she was saying and it was so simply put, and in a way i'd never heard before. Bravo, Phyllis! Yes, I think i'm a comedian...without the national acclaim...yet. But i've officially decided to identify myself as one...and a writer. I'm a comedian and a writer. A non-famous, broke one. And NOT always angry, you fucking short-sighted idiots!!

Is today National Pacing Day?

Or did I just wake up on the wrong side of the bed? (Actually, I DO have a kinda-stiff right neck.) Because first Dipshit aggravated me more than he has in a LONG time...ENDLESSLY back and forth to the kitchen or bathroom over roughly a 2 hour period. Nothing like having my pork roll hot muffin as he huffs and puffs his bowels into the toilet. OH, and he shits (I know, I know...endless shitting info lately on him...) without putting the fan on. He never puts this on, and while i'd always realized it when it came to showering, SOMEHOW it was only yesterday that it dawned on me that he doesn't put it on when he shits, either. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HIM?! So EVERY time he shits, I have to endure his VERY vocal grunting and sighing, which would be greatly muted by the fan. Of course, the non-fanning also adds to the post-shit air stagnation. Again, I beg of you, WHY? WHY, LORD, FUCKING WHY?!?! If you're lucky enough to have a bathroom fan, FUCKING USE IT, ASSHOLES! But i've gotten off-topic. So now my irritable Sunday has continued at the library, where first i'm ushered to the MOST irritatingly placed computer terminal available, with my back to everyone...and I HATE the feeling of people looking over my shoulder and reading/seeing what I'm doing. But EVERYONE is just endlessly running around. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down. To the printer, back to the computer, repeat. You'd think we were in the New York Times newsroom during a national disaster. My nerves are shot to hell and it's only 4pm. A trip to ShopRite would surely put me over the edge today. So, whoever commented that it seems i'm irritated whenever I leave my house...um, you're just realizing this? And I don't EVEN have to leave my house...

THE CAROL BURNETT SHOW

Just caught some documentary on this on Ch. 13...oh, the memories! Yet again, I have a nostalgia for the 70s that would seem to imply i'm at least 10 years older than I am. It was the repeats I'd watch with mom and dad when I was SUPER young...just the best memories, sittin around, all of us laughing hysterically. I was such a mature 5-year-old. That show is just such a classic...funny as hell. They really DON'T make em like they used to.

I just went 7 months sans Caller ID on my home phone

Amazing, huh? I think so, too. However, I'm equally happy to have saved money AND to make the following argument -- I've got an answering machine, SO...i'm either not home OR can simply LISTEN to who's calling and decide to pick up or not, thus no GENUINE need for Caller ID. And, um, if you have Caller ID, why would you pay for *69 service???!?! But that's another argument. So Caller ID makes things easier, and sometimes (in my very special case) it's good to see WHICH credit fuck who doesn't identify themselves beyond "Sally" or "Frank" is actually calling me. It's a GREAT invention...I know this...and I've just reinstituted it. I'm merely saying I SURVIVED. It's NOT, as so many things aren't, essential to life. Seven months times $7.50...divided by Dipshit = $26.25 that I saved! YAY!!

The word CUNT

I've used it a lot this week...and I know it's MOST offensive to many...YAY! It's not so much that i'm TRYING to offend...but I DO use it intentionally sometimes to kinda gauge who (namely women) has a stick up their ass to some degree. Anything I say or do is rarely about offending...it's about 1) not being repressed, 2) making people think, or 3) gauging my company's stuffiness level. Many women I know who curse like sailors draw the line at THIS word...and it's always interesting to me. Basically, what i'm saying is that I REALLY like a chick who uses "The C Word." It shows me you're REALLY unflappable and easy to get along with. Oh, if you're a MAN and don't like this word? Well, you're just a fucking pussy. This word's really on a par with FUCK for making me feel good when I say it. CUNTFUCK...ideal!!

HAHA...OMG..."CRAZY LAUGH CUNT" IS AT IT AGAIN!!

Oh, Jesus Christ, can a camera crew PLEASE follow me around?! So, heavy sigh, i'm at the library again...4 days after I last bitched about Laugh Cunt. I haven't been here since, thank Christ. But she's here again...was in another room...and apparently pissed someone ELSE off (YAY! OTHER REASONABLE HUMANS!!), because there was just a MOST raucous encounter between her and, well, EVERYone, where she was bitching that they're insane, they can't tell patrons not to laugh, blah blah blah. It's now officially a Bigass Fucking Issue, where I'm not sure she'll even be allowed back in the library. Praise Jesus!! I saw her on Sunday on the street after I left, and it took everything in me not to hit her with my car. HOW are some people so FUCKING stupid? She's not retarded...she can't use that as an excuse. Maybe she...nah, she can't have Asperger's Disease, can she? Hmm, maybe? Some form of autism? Not that I fucking care...she's still a public nuisance. I just hope she doesn't come back with a gun...at least not while I'M here...though that WOULD give me a chance to be both heroic AND smash her head through glass...over and over and over...

The 4 block bus ride

Last night. Hoboken Terminal. 9:10pm. 45 degrees. No precipitation. In other words, for those not grasping my scathing sarcasm...ideal walking conditions. A hazy-eyed, doughy man gets on the bus...and exits at 3rd Street. That's roughly 5 blocks for those of you unfamiliar with the area. FIVE BLOCKS. Again, FIVE BLOCKS. I've seen this before. Often. I'm pretty sure i've even blogged about it before. And, no, he didn't have any bags...I know how fellow lazy assfucks like to give the benefit of the doubt. Just mindblowing. And i'm just skewering the laziness factor...I ain't even addressing the MONEY factor. I'll assume he had a bus pass...why I assume that, i'm not sure, but I will. If he actually PAID $1.65 to go 5 blocks...well, I'm out of profanities...

Grown men...now like 12-year-old girls or Lucy & Ethel

This is my analysis of GROWN MEN ON CELL PHONES. I REALLY just never tire of being infuriated by the prevalence of cell phone usage. And as much as ANYone who abuses them grates on my last nerve, the worst offenders are adult men. I AM one of them, yet am rarely compelled to talk to another living soul. But apparently a lot of "buddies" need to talk to each other...to update each other on every pressing move and thought pattern. Like, say, DIPSHIT. Awww, I'm picking on him mercilessly lately, aren't I? Eh, he deserves all of it. He's not evil...just unspeakably agiting -- let's be clear on that. But say it's a Sunday...he'll be on the phone to an endless stream of "buds"...going through a play-by-play on the night before like he's Carrie Bradshaw. All he needs to do to complete the comparison is lay on his bed on his stomach, feet in the air behind him as he coquettishly twirls his hair. It's just fucking ridiculous. The Wall Street fuckwads who blather endlessly on the train after work...don't you want PEACE AND QUIET after yet another long day of work? Apparently not. And ABOUT that train talking? How the FUCK do you even HEAR the person at the other end?! I mean, I could be in a motherfucking cornfield in the dead of night and have trouble hearing, so I often find myself just staring in awe at the seemingly perfectly audible pointless chitchat ensuing as the train screeches violently. Of course, they're talking obnoxiously loud, too...signifying to their trainmates JUST. HOW. IMPORTANT. THEY. ARE. Just yesterday, actually, on a BUS (shoot me)...it reached another level of outrageousness...foot stomping to highlight JUST how relevant certain points were. Now the culprit was a queeny Latin gay man...i'll let it go at that. I DID wanna take a club to his fucking head, though. Not to mention his legs. Stunning...on SO many levels, just stunning. SO many men...just like giddy schoolgirls or middle-aged housewives...Lucy & Ethel, if you will. Hey, American men, get on the TEXTING train, would ya?! PLEASE. My blood pressure depends upon it. This way, the rest of us don't need to HEAR pertinent information such as "I'm on the train now...yeah, the train...the PATH...yeah."

PROVIDIAN FINANCIAL is the WORST!!

I've been meaning to use my blog to start smear campaigns against certain companies that suck moosecock. PROVIDIAN FINANCIAL definitely vies for the top spot. I blame no one but myself for credit card misery...but that doesn't mean this company's practices aren't HIGHLY suspect, shady, and unethical. Like taking a week for a payment to register as having been received...thus incurring a $30 late fee...but then magically taking 2 days to process when they're HOUNDING me for a payment and WANT it. They suck! They are the WORST! Words can't express how negatively I feel toward them. And I will diss them to anyone who will listen for the rest of my (hopefully very long) life. My small little step toward vengeance...DON'T DO BUSINESS WITH PROVIDIAN FINANCIAL!!!!! AVOID THEM AT ALL COSTS!!

HALLOWEEN

Though produced on a sometimes very obvious low budget, it remains one of the most nail-biting thrillers ever made. I've literally seen it like a hundred times...maybe more...yet I'm still on the edge of my seat, despite knowing exactly what's gonna happen. But, damn, can you imagine having seen it for the FIRST time in a THEATER? Unbelievably tense to watch. It is SO well done. Little actual gore, just a MASTERFUL combined effect of camera POV and music. Oh, my God, I never tire of those final scenes. OPEN THE DOOR, TOMMY, OPEN THE DOOR!! When I was really young, I used to stalk the even YOUNGER girls in the neighborhood, pretending to be Michael Myers. I'd fetch a plastic white knife and assume that same rigid and purposeful walk, humming the theme music to myself. Ahh, I can hear their screams in my head to this day! Best was when I'd hide right around a corner, then lunge out at them as they peeked around. And I'd chase them to their front doors sometimes, and they'd run inside shrieking bloody murder. Oh, it was quite something. I felt I WAS Michael Myers. Sweet, sweet memories. I need to find a movie poster for that film and frame it -- it's just such a fundamental part of my life. And I HATE movies generally. Thank you, John Carpenter and Debra Hill.

Gary learns about CANOLA OIL

This is the perfect example of how bloody across-the-board curious I am. So Shop-Rite has a 4 day sale on Crisco gallon jugs...only $3.99!!! Now I don't use vegetable oil much, but the holiday season's coming and I'm yearning to bake and be overall more experimental with food, blah, blah, blah...and the PRICE...so I bought it. I mean, it's regularly $8.49 for that size. But i'm digressing. So while i'm staring at a mountain of Crisco, I see there's THREE kinds...the standard vegetable oil, but also CORN and CANOLA oils. And I'm instantly like "well, what the fuck's the difference?" And I proceed to spend a good half hour analyzing the labels of each...and not finding much info at all, besides the fact that canola had the least amount of saturated fat. So I wander from the sale endcap to the oil aisle, determined to find SOMEthing relevant about what distinguishes the three. I was mainly thinking about COOKING...does each TASTE different? Or are certain foods better with a certain oil? WHAT, DAMMIT, WHAT?!?! All I REALLY learned was that canola seemed to be the HEALTHIEST and corn gave certain foods like french fries a good base or something...though i'm sure canola does the same damn thing. So it came down to HEALTH...and Gary thus picked up the canola. Does it annoy you when I use the third person? But I still yearned for more info, so I just finally googled canola and learned ALL about its origins! YAY! Can YOU guess where the name CANOLA comes from?! I had NO idea, even though in retrospect it's kinda obvious. And now I have yet another odd bit of trivia to drop at my next cocktail party. "I've been doing some fascinating reading on the origins of canola oil..."

Hey, BLONDE CUNT just got yelled at!!!

A minor victory!! I couldn't hear every word, but it was clear she was miffed...arguing back at the library guy. Stupid fucking cuntwhore shoulda been dragged out the front door and thrown into the trash pile she belongs in...then urinated on. Stupid fucking bitch...and she's STILL laughing. My God, i'd love to shove a pole up her fucking ass...

Giddy foreign bleached-blonde CUNT

I'm back to my library surroundings now. I'm so absolutely livid at this fucking laughing cunt. CUNT, CUNT, CUNT!! Quite often, this broken-English speaking, bleached-blonde twat saunters in, sits down, puts on headphones...and STARTS LAUGHING...non-stop...LOUDLY. Like she's doing now. It's seriously to the point where it's almost like she's having an orgasm. She also yawns and gasps rather audibly. I'm NOT kidding. Again, I canNOT make this shit up. And it's NOT just me...as I write this, others are twirling their heads to stare. Just absolutely ZERO awareness that she's being inappropriate. NONE. And she's not even seemingly retarded...like the ACTUAL retarded woman. I honest to Christ feel like walking up to her, grabbing her neck and repeatedly slamming her fucking head through the fucking glass window. WHY can't I do that?! Or maybe the wall? Maybe the wall would make for a more harsh head injury. But glass would instantly cut her, inducing satisfying bleeding. Wait, she just actually said the word "HAaaaaaa!" It PAINS me like I can't express that I'M the one who's painted as unreasonable, crazy, NUTS in this society. WHY was I made so bright? Surrounded by my fellow inadequate humans, it's more distressing by the day...

Dipshit's ASS PARTICLES

**Perhaps my most disgusting post yet, so proceed with caution, but I simply MUST vent my rage**

Dipshit shits often. And after he does, and the smell of air freshener mingled with his anal waste permeates my fucking apartment, I'll soon enough find myself needing to piss. La-di-dah, Gary walks into the bathroom...and the seat's still down. This is the first offense -- if you're just living with guys, put the MOTHERFUCKING SEAT UP after you've shit so I don't need to 1) waste MY time doing so, 2) TOUCH something your ass just sat upon. But this isn't even the point. ON the seat, for as long as I can recall while Dipshit's lived with me, is...well, i'm not even sure. It's usually toward the back of the seat, and it's...i'm struggling to come up with a way to explain it...kinda like fine, white particles...from the toilet paper?...as if he dunked his ass in a tub of water and then gently rolled his ass over a layer of powdered sugar (yes! powdered sugar!) and then sat back ON the seat...leaving this "stuff" on the seat for me to deal with. Wait, I left out the ASS HAIR part of this. I mean, that MUST be the problem here, right? His ASS HAIR acts like a suction...like one of those Pledge Dust Cloths...for whatever the fuck these particles are...which are then left on my toilet seat. So this is how it USUALLY is...which is beyond appalling enough -- not to mention wildly perplexing. But the other day, for the first time...SHITBALLS. Super, tiny SHITBALLS were left on the seat. Like the size of, hmm, 3 or 4 grains of salt maybe? DEFINITELY shitballs, though. Kids, I don't make any of this -- pardon the pun -- shit up. I defend EVERY tiny morsel of my rage in life. And so, I mean, don't grown men and women...after they've SHIT...look down at both the seat AND in the bowl to make sure they've left NOTHING BEHIND? Don't reasonable, smart, civilized, non-retarded adults do this? HOW do you take a shit...and leave shards of feces ON the fucking bowl? HOW? FUCKING HOW??! I BEG OF ANYONE TO TELL ME. THIS is yet another small example of the FLAGRANT STUPIDITY I am forced to endure on a daily basis.

Dipshit touches my ketchup

SO...attention to detail being one of my many strong suits, this morning I instantaneously notice a gaping void on the microwave stand where I keep some of my non-perishables until I'm ready to put them in the fridge. After a perplexing minute wondering what I'd had there, I realize it's my super large bottle of Heinz ketchup. A quick glance into the garbage can reveals an almost empty one of same. So Fucknut Dipshit's out of ketchup...and just TAKES mine? Um, NO. Now he's VERY lucky he didn't open the seal...he'd merely put it in the fridge. I already have an open bottle of ketchup, thank you...when THAT'S done, i'll open up the new, fresh one. Now let me explain something...we're merely roommates and don't share ANYthing besides a fucking roof. I don't WASTE WHAT LITTLE MONEY I FUCKING HAVE on food for HIM. In all fairness, he's like never done this before, but it doesn't lessen my rage. I mean, he KNOWS all that shit on the stand is mine. He can't possibly think it's his. Well, he's either stupid or nervy. Actually, he's definitely both, but I meant just in this case. So I just took out the bottle and put it right back where it's sat for MONTHS. Let's see if he says anything and i'm forced into an unspeakably awkward, aggravating conversation over fucking KETCHUP. I'm already enraged that I'm even THINKING and WRITING about this insanity. Life's too short. Have I mentioned I fucking hate him?

My fist has NEVER been closer to flying into strangers' faces...

...including a 5-year-old boy's. Yes, i'm in the LIBRARY again...only 5 minutes and i've already lost count of how many have rendered me enraged. How 'bout the stupid cunt with the 5-year-old next to me...who isn't aware she needs to have her library card (if she even has one) and needs to sign in to use a computer, and also can't keep her tyke's fucking mouth shut? I really canNOT properly express how pissed off I am that my computer cord so needlessly got FUCKED UP, leaving me to face this misery for closing in on 2 months now. I DETEST THE GENERAL PUBLIC. OK, i'm on a roll...

So, like, if I yanked my parents' phone out of the wall...

I'D be the crazy one. ALL it's fucking done is RING. And dad constantly goes, "I'll get it!"...as if I would. And instead of getting a jack in the rec room 25 years ago, where they mainly spend their time, let's run up to the kitchen EACH time it rings. And mostly, it's bullshit telemarketers anyway. What's that? Turn off the ringer? No, no, NO! We MUST answer the phone WHENEVER it rings! Why not get a cordless phone, you wonder? Why would mom and dad EVER do anything remotely practical? Same reason our garbage cans still have no side handles, let alone, GASP, wheels. We'd rather pick them up awkwardly and struggle to the curb. Instead, they'll keep running up and down the stairs to get the constantly ringing phone. Well, dad mostly. RING...RING...RING..."I'll get it!"...run, stomp up stairs...RING...RING..."HELLO?"...repeat every 10, 15, 20 minutes...constant motion...constant ringing...constant FUCKING AGGRAVATION. ZERO SILENCE.

What's it like to go to bed at midnight?

Or SOONER? Seriously. I can't imagine it. To turn off the lights and TV and computer and get into BED. And close your eyes. While Letterman's still on. And bars are still open. I think of these things on days like this, when i'm utterly depleted and also fighting a cold. But somehow, I"ll still be up at midnight. I think it's environmental. If I was alone in a cabin in the woods, sans TV or computer, I'd likely be able to do it at like 10pm. Hmm, maybe that's pushing it. Instead, i'm surrounded by 2007 comforts and Dipshit...who'll traipse off to the same Hoboken bar for the 783th time. And while I'm REALLY trying lately, I've NEVER been the type who can "go to bed" unless everyone ELSE already has. In other words, I don't wanna be fucking woken up 20 minutes after I've dozed by some noisy drunken fuckface. Back to Dipshit, as I feel like bashing him out of nowhere...HOW does he do the SAME thing EVERY fucking weekend for YEARS on end? HOW? When I feel like a rat in a cage, I always mildly comfort myself by turning my gaze toward him. Same job. Same car. Same apartment. Same commute. Same stupid ass Hoboken bars. Same ridiculously wasteful calls for a cab, both ways, both weekend nights...and sometimes weekdays. Between $8 and $10 each way. Every week. For YEARS. You do the math. WHEN HE HAS A CAR SITTING OUT FRONT HE COULD DRIVE. Dumbass. Does he get THAT drunk that he can't drive? If so, DOUBLE dumbass. Sorry, I don't get getting SO drunk that you can't drive. Call me a control freak. Have I? Sure...but not remotely regularly. I guess this is morphing into a rant against CABS and lazy ass motherfuckers without any regard for money. In NYC, WHO needs a cab? WHO? We have like the most intricate subway system on earth. And, yeah, those 2 feet of yours. Waahhhhh...i'm a female at night, alone. Waahhhhh. And it's raining. WAHHHHH. And I worked hard all day. Wahhhhh. Ugh, I can't fucking deal with it. I INSTANTLY judge you if you're always calling/hailing a cab. And not positively. DOUBLE my harsh judgment if you're male. Pussies.