16 things that still suck in 2016.

Well, the holidays are long gone, and with them any inclination I had of being all happy and grateful. In my calendar, gratitude departs with December. And then in strolls that colossal douchecanoe, January, patron saint of grouchiness and gripes, and the world goes back to its usual petty little self again.

Remember all those nice things I said about 2015? Fuck ’em.

Now is the winter of our discontent.

1. Cold toilet seats. It’s 7am on a frosty January morning and it’s still dark out. You don’t want to leave your bed and its safe cocoon of warm, comfy blankets, but you know you have to get up because of stupid work and responsibility. So you sigh, haul yourself to your feet, and tiptoe to the bathroom for a wee…only to have the toilet seat latch on to your ass with the icy power of a thousand Antarctic blizzards. Because mornings weren’t bad enough already without adding a frostbitten kiester into the bargain.

2. Stupid work and responsibility. While I would never under any circumstances want to go back and relive my childhood, sometimes being an adult just really sucks.

3. Taxes. Not the part where I have to pay them, but rather the part of my job where I have to explain them to other people.

Like, oh, I don’t know, our vendors’ accountants.

I wish I were kidding. There’s a certain air of quiet desperation that comes of having to patiently teach another company’s accounting department how to accurately demand money from you.

4. Taxes. The part where I have to pay them.

5. Migraines. By my calculations I have already spent approximately 1/6 of 2016 under the impression that someone is playing my skull like a drum. Only instead of drumsticks they’re using ice picks and hammers, because I guess they want to be more metal or something? Don’t look at me, I don’t know how these things work.

TL;DR: My head hurts. Probably because of taxes.

6. Cancer. That asshole of a disease that so recently robbed us of the tremendously talented David Bowie and Alan Rickman, among others, while dimwits like Justin Bieber and the collective Kardashians continue to walk the earth, wasting our air and leaving a toxic trail of self-satisfied selfie-spamming twatwafflery in their wake with every entitled step.

Not that I’m wishing cancer on Bieber or the Kardashians. Okay maybe I am a little bit. And maybe that makes me a terrible person. But come on, cancer! Kardashians are a dime a dozen, but we only had one Goblin King. Where is the justice? I ask you…

7. “Female problems.” I am so over owning a uterus. Can’t we just make the womb an optional in-app purchase already instead of it coming standard with the female body? There’s a good chance I’ll never even use mine for its intended purpose. Couldn’t I transfer it over to someone who needs one more than me?

And if you think those Powerball tickets were a waste of money, try a lifetime of buying tampons. At least the lottery offers you a chance, however slim, of getting something good back. What kind of victory do you get from frittering away your hard-earned cash on cotton crotch-stoppers? The satisfaction of having clean underwear? Well gee whiz, start the fuckin’ parade, I’m a winner!

8. Post-nasal drip. The bane of my existence since age 15. I used to keep a bottle of oil of oregano with me everywhere to help keep this chronic clingy bastard at bay. Until one day the dropper cap came loose and everything in my purse became permanently infused with the concentrated aromatic power of a thousand Italian kitchens. Since then I’ve opted to leave the oil at home and just make really gross snorting and hacking noises whenever my own mucus threatens to choke me in public. Judging by the looks I get, I’m assuming it gives me a certain je ne sais quoi. Okay, maybe less je ne sais quoi and more what the fuck.

In conclusion, post-nasal drip can go fellate itself with a blender.

(I’m not posting an image for that. Just use your imagination.)

9. Calories. Oh hey, remember me? I’m all those Christmas cookies and mince pies and white chocolate Toblerones you devoured so passionately during your month of eating dangerously! Well, you seemed to really like me, and guess what? I like you too! So much that I’m never leaving you! I found some prime real estate available on your thighs, and by golly I just moved right on in. Hey, wait a minute, why are you renewing your gym membership…?

10. Our friendly neighborhood poop bandits. Picture it, Vancouver, 2016. The future of Back to the Future Part II is now the past. We have hoverboards – sort of – and a lovable new Star Wars droid. And yet there are still people who don’t understand that picking up after your dog doesn’t just involve the bagging of your pooch’s poop, but also the removal of it from the scene of the crime. Everywhere I go, I find abandoned shitsacks. What the fuck, poop bandits, what the fuck?

A walk to the gym earlier this week took me past no fewer than three lawns decorated with neatly knotted plastic bags of still-steaming crap nuggets, and I just don’t get the logic. You’ve already done the gross bit of the actual picking up; what exactly is so difficult about toting your little doggie bag another block or two until you find a trash can to chuck it in? The part where you have to be a decent human being, I guess.

11. Idiot gymgoers. So you made a resolution to work out at least twice this year. Good for you. I applaud your determination, I really do.

But if you have no earthly idea of how to get your feet wet in the wide world of workouts, ASK SOMEONE FOR HELP. If not for your sake, then for the staff’s; the poor unfortunate souls who’ll have to clean up after you accidentally decapitate yourself trying to do lat pulldowns with your neck. Be honest with yourself: do your push-ups look a little like you’re trying to do The Worm? Did you almost take off a finger trying to adjust the seat on the recumbent bike? Maybe you should take the gym up on that New Year’s deal they’re having on personal training sessions.

Remember: no matter how tan and ripped you are, trying to operate the rowing machine with your feet impresses no one.

12. Idiot drivers. So you don’t understand how black ice works. Why are all these cars around you approaching stop signs extra slowly? Solution: Take corners just as fast as you normally would, silly! What could possibly go wrong?

13. Asshole drivers. So you don’t understand how roundabouts work. Okay, you do, you just don’t care, because you clearly have more important places to be than the rest of these yahoos on the road! Solution: Assume the right of way and cut everyone off while honking and dropping f-bombs out the window. Everybody wins!

14. Strangers patronizingly telling you to smile. I’m sorry my resting bitch face doesn’t help you meet your forced cheerfulness quota for the day, but that’s your problem, not mine.

15. Donald Trump. ‘Nuff said.

16. When literally all the avocados at the grocery store are underripe. You know, as much as everything else on this list blows, I think this might be the worst one. There’s just nothing more depressing than an unripe avocado.

So. How’s your January going?

Quoth The Nut: Day 2

And so arrives Day 2 of the Three Quotes, Three Days challenge, or as I like to think of it, using the words of those wiser and wittier than me to take a vacation from thinking up anything clever of my own. Thanks again to Christina of The Wordy Rose for the friendly kick in the butt.

If you’ve already forgotten how the rules work, see yesterday’s post. I’m not rehashing all that shit again just because you weren’t paying attention. Sheesh.

Today’s quote comes from…somewhere. I’ve seen it questionably attributed to George Carlin and Mark Twain, among others (Twain wrote something fairly similar, and Carlin did spend a lot of his time talking about stupid people so I can see why he’d be a logical choice), but nobody can seem to show their work, so I’m just gonna chalk this one up to the Universe. Nice one, Universe.

I don’t generally give much credence to star signs, but I’ll still be the first to admit that I do in fact have all the stubbornness of a Taurus and then some.

Which is to say I learned this lesson about idiots the hard way.

I didn’t have such a bad time of it before the internet came along. But then, y’know, the internet. An endless miasma of antiquated views, religious fanaticism, prejudice, conjecture, and questionable grammar at my fingertips, and I’m just supposed to stand idly by and watch?

Fat fucking chance!

The most painfully accurate XKCD of all time.

Facebook debate about the morality of same-sex relationships? You’re on.
Article questioning a woman’s right to choose? *cracks knuckles* Bring it.
Bigot with two brain cells and a YouTube channel? To the comments!

Just kidding about the YouTube comments. That’s a kiddie pool of crazy even I wouldn’t dip my toe into.

But I was still a sucker for the rest.

I don’t know how many hours of my life I wasted in futile games of cat and mouse with people who were actually proud of their own ignorance, but it was too many. This time, I would think, this time I will find the perfect way to word things so the light bulb will go on in their head and they’ll see reason! And after every “this time” failed, there was another waiting just behind it.

Still, even the most stubborn person eventually runs out of “this time”s.

I was in the middle of writing some stupidly long Facebook comment when I finally snapped out of my delusion. I can’t even remember what we were debating. And I don’t know what was so different about that day as opposed to any other day. But I recall looking at my words, then looking back at the words that had set me off, and having everything just click.

Wait just a goddamn minute… You know what? Fuck this.

There will always be stupid people. And that sucks for us all.

But it’s not your job to fix them.

They don’t want to be fixed anyway. They are far more committed to being stupid than you are to talking sense into them. You are not a lesser person for giving up, you are just making more effective use of your time.

So let it go, go eat an Oreo, and get on with your life.

What are you waiting for? GO!

Quickly, before I could change my mind, I highlighted my meticulously worded wall of text, took a deep breath, and pressed Delete.

Immediate relief washed over me. I didn’t feel like a failure. I felt more like a genius. A belated genius, perhaps, but better late than never.

It was so satisfying, I almost didn’t even need the Oreo.


Edgar Allan Poe’s Ebola.

Once upon a rainy evening, while I worked but dreamed of leaving,
For the tasks I dwelt upon were all a most insufferable bore,
While I typed away, unceasing, suddenly I heard a wheezing
And the sound of someone sneezing just outside our office door.
“‘Tis some passerby”, I muttered, “sneezing near our office door –
Only this, and nothing more.”

I would like to state, moreover, this occurred in late October,
When the mood is dark and sober and imaginations soar.
Eagerly I wished this stranger would be gone and quell the danger
That seemed sure to strike our chamber should he think to linger more –
Silently I willed the man to quit the threshold of our door
And to trouble us no more.

But, despite my quiet pleading, no footsteps were heard receding,
And the sound of labored breathing filled the air beyond the door.
“Scoundrel!” thought I. “Who’s this man to walk up to our door and stand
With no hello and no demand, and pant upon our office door?
Who’s this creeper, why’s he here, and why’s he breathing on our door?”
Then the stranger sneezed some more.

Presently, to quell my fears, I stuck my fingers in my ears,
But I could not help but hear the stranger knock upon our door.
It was nearing closing time; surely it would be no crime
To leave him out there in the grime left by the heavy rain downpour –
Leave this man to think us absent, and those knocking sounds ignore,
And my peace of mind restore.

But he knocked again, determined, and I felt unduly burdened,
Duty-bound to find out what had brought him to our office door,
So I called out, “Just a second!” as I walked in his direction,
Praying that no grave infection would attack me from his pores,
Hoping fervently that what this man was bringing to our door
Was a cold and nothing more.

Suddenly the door flew open, and I rued that I had spoken,
For this man was rife with tokens of the illness that he bore;
Glistening with sweat excess, he claimed he was from UPS
With a box for our address, a package we’d been waiting for.
This he uttered, then he coughed all over me, and box, and door,
As I stared at him in horror.

Terrified out of my mind, I grabbed his clipboard, quickly signed,
Shut the door and closed the blinds upon that sickly, fevered form.
Though by panic paralyzed, I knew that I must sanitize,
Hurrying to improvise, I snatched some Lysol from my drawer
Used its disinfecting spray to cleanse my hands and box and door –
“Please protect me,” I implored.

But it was with spirit sour that, within that selfsame hour,
I could feel the fever start to burn into my very core,
Slow at first but then more dire; soon I was a walking pyre,
Blazing with a savage fire like that which doth from Hell outpour.
Curse thee, wretch, for bringing this Ebola to my office door!
Quoth the virus, “Wait, what?”

Then to my computer turning, fever still within me burning,
I began to Google like I’d never Googled e’er before.
“WebMD, what’s my prognosis? How to fight this plague ferocious?
Which the meds and what the doses? Tell me truly, I implore!
Tell me what the pharmacy can give me for this viral war?”
Quoth the virus, “Dude, wtf, I’m just the flu.”

But my thoughts I could not vary from that dratted Typhoid Mary
And the sentence that he carried and delivered to my door.
Death he brought me, death and pain! I’d all to lose and naught to gain!
This evil flowing through my veins would be my end – I was done for.
Too soon the sunset of my life had come to pass on Death’s dark shores!
Quoth the virus, “Will someone please explain to this nutjob that I’m not Ebola?”

And Ebola, cruel and chilling, still is killing, still is killing
My poor body hour by hour as I lie shaking on the floor.
Prithee do not weep with sorrow should I fail to wake tomorrow
But this slice of wisdom borrow: stay inside and bar your door,
Trust no others – all are foes – and set no foot outside your door!
Quoth the virus, “You’re a fucking idiot. I’m gonna go find someone sane to infect.”


My sincere apologies to Mr. Poe who I’m sure is currently rolling in his grave, likely put there by Ebola.


Observing the common idiot in its natural habitat.

It’s been a long week for me. I’ve had this alliteratively sneaking suspicion that someone’s been slipping me sleeping pills on the sly, except in reality my thyroid’s just an inconsiderate douchecanoe and the pills I actually am taking to remedy the situation are taking their sweet-ass time to kick in. I’m tired, and I’m achy, and I’m cranky.

So in the spirit of crankiness, I’m just going to take some time to bitch about one of my pet peeves.

Learn to fucking look around you, people.

And watch this show, because it’s awesome.

Continue reading