Inane.

It has been a parade of stupidity throughout my workday this afternoon, as I attempted to process, unpack, price, and merchandise and unexpected shipment of goods that have only just arrived. Not so much one single, bloated, blatant instance of pure redundant idiocy, just a heckled peppering of foolishness throughout. Here are some examples I am the unfortunate witness to record:

"I just like to look around little places like this," a twenty-something girl states to her older companion, a father of perhaps fifty years; who replies while picking up a bronze Hindu oil lamp from Java, "Oh, here's something from Australia!" They both spent approximately fifteen seconds within the gallery.

"Do you have any oils (pronounced AWL-lus)?" demands yet another black woman looking for something to put on her ashy, ashy skin. There's more dead flesh on her than in a graveyard. She is perhaps the fifth one this week to insist that last she was in, we carried her "awl-lus" and I am hiding them from her deliberately.

"So did you just buy all this junk from wholesalers, huh? Yeah," the bitch answers her own question; ironically, everyone who ever makes this incredibly insulting, demeaning, ignorant statement inevitably nod to themselves and reply on their own, before shambling out the door - usually tripping on the lintel in the process. For fuck's sake, pick up your feet!

"This (INSERT OBJECT NAME HERE) was way cheaper when I bought it in (ASSCRACK END OF THE WORLD)! Why are you so expensive?" Two words, fucktard. Shipping. Handling. Never mind that your statement is beyond inappropriate to make to me, even if it is honestly curious.

Sigh. It never ends. Yes, I hear you up there in the peanut gallery, this is the world of retail. Shut the fuck up before I break my foot off in your ass.

Travesty In America.

Please read with an open heart...

Since September 11, 2001, Americans have come together as never before in our generation. We have banded together to overcome tremendous adversity.

We have weathered direct attacks on our own soil, wars overseas, corporate scandal, layoffs, unemployment, stock price plunges, droughts, fires, and a myriad economic and physical disasters both great and small. But now, we must come together once again to overcome our greatest challenge yet.

Hundreds of Major League Baseball players in our very own nation are living at, just below, or in most cases far above the seven-figure salary level. And as if that wasn't bad enough, they could be deprived of their life-giving pay for several months, possibly longer, as a result of the upcoming strike situation. But you can help!

For only $20,835 a month, about $694.50 a day (that's less than the cost of a large screen projection TV) you can help a MLB player remain economically viable during his time of need. This contribution by no means solves the problem as it barely covers the annual minimum salary, but it's a start, and every little bit will help!

Although $700 may not seem like a lot of money to you, to a baseball player it could mean the difference between spending the strike golfing in Florida or on a Mediterranean cruise. For you, seven hundred dollars is nothing more than a month's rent, half a mortgage payment, two unemployment checks, or a month of medical insurance with COBRA, but to a baseball player, $700 will partially replace his daily salary.

Your commitment of less than $700 a day will enable a player to buy that home entertainment center, trade in the year-old Lexus for a new Ferrari, or enjoy a weekend in Rio.

HOW WILL I KNOW I'M HELPING?

Each month, you will receive a complete financial report on the player you sponsor. Detailed information about his stocks, bonds, 401(k), real estate, and other investment holdings will be mailed to your home. Plus, upon signing up for this program, you will receive an unsigned photo of the player lounging during the strike on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean (for a signed photo, please include an additional $150). Put the photo on your refrigerator. It will remind you of other people’s suffering.

HOW WILL HE KNOW I'M HELPING?

Your MLB player will be told that he has a SPECIAL FRIEND who just wants to help in a time of need. Although the player won't know your name, he will be able to make collect calls to your home via a special operator in case additional funds are needed for unforeseen expenses.

YES, I WANT TO HELP!

I would like to sponsor a striking MLB player. My preference is checked below:

[ ] Infielder

[ ] Outfielder

[ ] Starting Pitcher

[ ] Ace Pitcher

[ ] Entire team (Please call our 900 number to ask for the cost of a specific team - $10 per minute)

[ ] Alex Rodriguez (Higher cost: $60,000 per day)

Please charge the account listed below $694.50 per day for the player for the duration of the strike. Please send me a picture of the player I have sponsored, along with an Alex Rodriguez 2001 Income Statement and my very own Donald Fehr MLB Players Union pin to wear proudly on my hat (include $80 for hat).

Your Name: _______________________
Telephone Number: ____________________
Account Number: _____________________
Exp. Date:_______
[ ] MasterCard [ ] Visa [ ] American Express [ ] Discover

Most Expensive Glass Ever.

I am so endlessly tired of the same pedantic rounds of questioning I must endure from the fuckwits who schlep their shambling way through my gallery with nary an intelligent thought mashed between the pair of wee brain cells left in their craniums. Every fucking week, without fail, at least one brilliant slack-jawed wonder pipes up with the exclamation, "Thats the most expensive glass I've ever seen!". The article in question is a bank of prayer candles from Mexico, a series of twelve cobalt votives with little white tealights, all arranged in rows on a wrought-iron stand of filligree and turned legs. Upon a single cup I have placed a price tag; it is this marking that causes the shocked, condescending, smug debates I am forced to answer time and time again.

Who would ever think that a single glass, in an obvious set of one collective piece would ever be sixty-three goddamn dollars?! And whats even more pathetic is that these pissants think they have the upper hand with me, cleverly deducing that indeed, no bit of blue bauble should ever be the same price as a complete surf & turf dinner for two. Not that these trailer-park celebrities probably ever have tasted such a meal - these are probably the same people who buy that gristly, purple meat thats sat so long at the butcher's counter in the supermarket its been reduced to half-price. So on top of the idiocy I get to handle their swollen egos and pride, gleefully bursting their mis-shapen bubble of superiority with my pointy pin of bitter bitchcraft. Suckers. At least there is something in this outcome from which I may derive satisfaction.

Meanest Landlord Ever.

Sadly, this disparaging tale of the classic themes of greed and stupidity does not come as a shock to me; rather I was almost expecting something like this particular pile of shit to hit the fan of social conciousness sooner or later. Danielle Kousoulis, a twenty-nine year old blossoming executive served as vice-president of Cantor Fitzgerald, located on the 104th floor of the north tower of the World Trade Center. She had just signed a lease for a twenty-five-hundred dollar a month loft apartment and moved in her furnishings, when ten days later she was killed in the devastating terrorist attack. Now her fucktard landlady Denise Lyman has suddenly sprouted the thought in her little pinhead that she is an unpaid creditor, and has threatened to take the dead woman's family to court. Only a full fucking year has passed for her to come to this conclusion, but hey, sometimes pissant narrow minds like this one need a little more grunting at the pot to pinch off an idea.

To the tune of twenty-seven thousand dollars of unpaid rent, landlady Lyman cites in her complaint this month that one cause of the demanded monies due is that the client failed to give three month's departure notice; further evidence of this brilliant hack job's train of thought. Lyman also had refused to allow the family of the deceased Kousoulis entrance to the apartment, in effort to obtain a DNA sample from a brush so as to identify remains. It took police intervention for this fuck Lyman to open the door and let them collect the hair. Can you possibly imagine what was going on in the mind of this dead woman's mother and father as they entered with law officers to collect the hair of their lost child, so the government teams could discern whose foot or finger was their daughter's? Why is it, in this insane world, its people like Lyman that are put into positions of power? I suspect once this story truly hits the streets of the Big Apple, she's going to become even more vile and hated than old Juliani.

The family even sent a letter to Lyman last October, stating that all personal effects would be vacated by the twenty-second day of that month; the family cleaned the apartment, left the key with the doorman, and scheduled the Salvation Army to take away the last of the furnishings. Lyman expressly ordered the doorman not to let any of them in, and then moved into the fucking apartment herself! How is it this woman can possibly expect anyone with an ounce of common sense or human decency, to feel she is owed a year's rent from a dead woman, while she lives in the dead woman's home herself! Amazing! Incredible! Only in America! God bless, I guess.

If anything at all, at least I am appreciative of my own crackpot landlords, who treat both our building and ourselves like slum residents; still, they never come around to pester or harass, except to sneak into the flats when no one is home, and snoop and spy through our belongings (this is a true statement; two of my neighbors have caught the landlady coming out of their apartments, with only a weak and thinly-veiled story as an excuse). On purpose for the next time this happens, I have left a little ... surprise for the Slumlords. Lets just say, it could shock the old farts into apoplectic seisures.

Today's Photo.

I think there's three square feet of space left over in the lower right-hand corner ...

And you wonder why Japan has one of the highest suicide rates in the entire world? I can only imagine the incredibly banal, ear-piercingly sharp reverberating whine of the language welling up from this "water park" like a geyser. It would probably make a Westerner's head explode from the sheer pressure of the soundwaves.

Stephen Hawking's Voice.

Someone's being a Negative Nancy in response to my humble declaration of my supreme genius, so I have soundly trounced them with an appropriate epithet, striking deep within the well of their self-conciousness. Naturally those among you who worship me most had to provide added commentary to the fray; see this archive and the appropriate comments link above it.

As a reward for my loyal hounds, I have endeavored for hours, slaving away at the great fount of knowledge that is Google to bring Marc and all you other dedicated fans a true taste of stereosymphonic sound sensation. Thanks to Bell Labs Text-to-Speech now Marc (along with the rest of you precious poppets) can indeed listen to what the glorious Burgermeister of Brains himself, Stephen Hawking, would sound like if he too called someone a 'pissant ball-less wonder sack of shit'. Simply repeat the previous text into the alloted box and select the 'pitch' of the voice; choose the Big Man tone to hear what I believe is an approximate tone of Stephen; click on the 'Ridiculous' voice to experience what the Supreme Bitch would sound like, were it to denounce this apoplectic, jealous fool of a pissant ball-less wonder sack of shit.

If you have a DSL connection and a couple of minutes to download (it took me less than three) then please feel indisposed to fill in the blank with this diatribe instead - and remember to use the 'Ridiculous' voice. I want to record this shit and put it on my voice-mail.

You pissant ball-less wonder sack of shit. You make me sick like a bulimic cow which devours its own fecal matter, hurling up chunks of half-digested diaspora from the very pit of my soul. I loathe you with the white hot heat of a thousand suns. Satan has prepared an especial place in Hell for you, bitch.

Post-Script : Indeed, the Supreme Bitch does refer to itself both in the third person, as well as a sexual null. So then, Negative Nancy, if you wish to post an anonymous whine regarding this fact, please take the preconcieved reaction from the Bitch and kindly go fuck yourself.

Christian Crazies.

Where the fuck were these people back when I was still allowed to enter the church? Nowadays if I even go near a house of worship, a divine finger thrusts from the clouds to menacingly shake at me, sparks of lightning setting afire to any nearby unfortunates as it prepares to mightily smite my wicked ass. But if ever you're in Cedar Hill, Texas, y'all better haul yer gizzards to Hell House and get the holy fright of your life!

Unsurprisingly, it would be Fundamentalist Christians in the steer state that came up with the concept, though I must give them Bitch Snaps (TM) for the creative effort in surpassing all good taste, social grace, and offending virtually every ethno-socio-economic group in existence within the country. This is what a religious cult should be! A haunted mansion populated not with your tired, cliche ghouls and ghosts and goblins, but with the Dark Prince himself, the Sultan of Sin, That Red-Assed Guy with the Pointy Pitchfork, none other than the one, the only, Satan!

Beelzebub relaxes and unwinds during his leisure time within Hell House, vacationing for a fortnight or so while enjoying the hosting of Trinity Church. For his perusal and pleasure there are many delectable delights awaiting his torture, roleplay scenarios a-go-go; a young pregnant girl to mock and tempt into abortion, another happy-go-lucky dancer at a rave to seduce into taking Exctasy, be raped by a naughty frat boy, and subsequently end her life by her own shaking, sinful hand; yet another schoolchild suicide, this time by a young boy in his class. Then theres the wife of infidelity, running off with some stranger from the Internet while abandoning her husband and four children. With each seperate scene, Satan gets to taunt the victims before dragging them kicking and screaming to his Hellish fire-pit.

Presumably the goal is to save souls through abject terror. As with all good B-rated horror shows, this one is no exception, wrapping up in a culminating final scene depicting every last baddie being tortured in the realm of Hades. After all these fun and games, the good-hearted Christians step forward and ask if you wish to declare Jeebus to be your Lord and savior, and join their church (seems to be a hand-in-hand one-two punch; you still roast in the flames of damnation if you choose to go to another house of worship).

I think what frightens me most of all is that these right-wing freakies are bringing their Hell House to fifteen different cities this year.

Bathroom Bobby.

Seems America is not alone in its vehement complaintative state regarding its own corrupt and scandalized domestic police system. In Merry Ole' England one bobby radioed for water-closet support after he realized that the stall he had the unfortunate fate to select contained no toilet tissue. Since apparently this was one massive dump, the civil servant turned to his dispatch buddies and had no less than four fellow members race to his aid within minutes, each laden with a veritable bounty of asswipes heaped in their arms (since they're not allowed to carry guns I suppose they have plenty of cargo space available). And naturally, this event occurs immediately after a major 'bank holiday' weekend, as those dashing Brits so charmingly call their useless archaic government memorials; during which several hundred telephone calls were completely ignored, including a desperate woman crying for help as her sister was attacked by a knifeman. Supposedly this sheer gross negligence stems from a lack of resources available to support public demand. But at least there seems to be enough to go around for group shitters!

Pariah Of A Stalker.

Oh, kaloo, ka-lay, my little poppets, certain love-slaves of the Bitch around here love me enough to spend at least an hour or two neglecting their own children while building an intricate blog journal that exactly mimics mine! The very model of admiration, this magnificent work is! Taking cues from my bitter, disjointed rants and random bits of bullshit featured in these poison pen pages, Bead Feebs, in its shining brilliance, truly captures the essence of all that I despise!! Could this be the ultimate form of flattery? Or is some fool simply attempting to mock me from my own gilded throne high in the ivory tower? Who can say? Go and see Bead Feebs for yourself. Or else! Move it, lard ass! Chop-chop, on the double! What do I have to do, tie a piece of fucking fried chicken on a string and dangle it in front of your bloated, sweaty face?

Hard Evidence.

Finally, some proof of what I have always known deep within my most secretive and dark of hidden, secret hearts - that I am a friggin' genius! Behold the final, shining proof of my cerebral greatness!

Quiz kindly drawn to my attention via sugarmama - thanks to spacefem for providing the veritable bounty of brainfood.