Friday, September 17, 2010

In which Our Hero makes an exception for a righteous cause.

Now normally I'm not one for posting fancy-pants images and videos but I've come across something so absolutely delicious that simply feel the need to spread it everywhere, like an enormous pair of vaginal lips but without the fishy smell.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the incomparable Cee Lo Green.  You'll thank me later.

There's also a music video which is just as good in a different way, which you can find on YouTube.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

In which startling developments are revealed while Our Hero waits for the Other Shoe to finish dropping.

Startling developments are startling!
Once again time and life have gotten away with me, which has prevented me from posting with any kind of respectable regularity.  Somehow I'm sure the blogosphere has not ceased to exist without my acidic bile spew for the past 11 days.

So many things, both good and bad (for once thankfully mostly good) have happened that it would be exhaustive to go over them all.  Additionally good news isn't nearly as interesting as bad or bizarre, so I'll just gloss over the big good fun things: my parents came to visit the weekend after Third Party's vile, wretched sire and screeching banshee beldam "graced" us with their presence.  The visit was the proverbial night-and-day deal, was an absolutely pleasant experience, and went a long way in repairing the psychic mauling TP's parents gave the both of us.  It doesn't hurt that we went out to dinner at Red Robin.  Jesus in a sidecar wearing a lobster bib, but those are some tasty burgers.

Following that, we receive word that two very dear people offered to sell me a spare car for incredibly cheap.  A 2000 Hyundai Elantra is worth about 2 to 3 times what they're asking for it, it comes from a good pedigree since they have mechanics in their family, and all it needs is an inspection and a new left front turn indicator light and it's good to go.  Furthermore, they're letting me put half down now and giving me time to pay the rest off at my leisure.

 I eyed them suspiciously when they told me the deal, expecting there to be some caveat somewhere that would involve me getting raped to sleep by dickwolves nightly for the next 12 months, but apparently there actually are good people out there in the world.  The car, in fact, is being brought over this evening for perusal and I'm looking forward to seeing if they are as actually forthright as I suspect they might be.

In a final recitation of what can be called "good news," I've decided to take my UK client up on the offer of more work.  Hopefully this will lead to me being able to phase out the transcription proofreading assholes, as they have become somewhat tarnished in my opinion of them of late; indeed, to refer to them as the most vile of used, dripping douche nozzles would seem an insult to the relative sterility of such a feminine hygiene product.  I'm tired of them either going days without sending me anything or trying to foist off on me poorly-translated files that take ridiculously long to proofread.  Not for $10 an hour, anyway.  The people who assign me work like that deserve the Special Hell, as Shepherd Book would say.

Finally on to the Fucking Weird section of our evening:  in a recent trip to the local Taco Hole, whereupon discovering they had once again gotten my regular order of 3 Meef Chewbaccas with a side order of Chili Chimps completely and totally wrong, necessitating a trip inside to the front counter.  While I waited for the fine young MTV viewers behind the counter to correct my order, I glance over to the bulletin board on my left where I find the most absolute bizarre business card ever:

D McGinty                                                                Birthdays * Funerals * Weddings
The "D" stands for "Awesome"                            Professional * Vindictive * Fnord 
Pentanthera Paracommunications                                                                                 610-906-2490 

So what in the holy hand grenade is up with this guy?  I'm including the phone number and email address here because, well, fuck 'im, he put his god damned business card up at Taco Hole.  If he doesn't want the free advertising he can leave me an email or a comment and tell me just what the shit he actually does.  Besides immanentizing the Eschaton.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

In which Our Hero realizes yet again that he's actually glad that can't afford a smart phone.

It's not paranoia if they are out to get you.
As I've mentioned before in previous work-related rants, I'm a freelance editor (also known as corporate whore) that picks up regular work for an audio transcription company proofreading transcripts for them.  Today I received a packet of work that, after doing some curiosity-fueled research, completely scared the ever loving shit out of me.

The file itself is similar to what I did a couple weeks ago where I slaved over 30 hours of retarded requests for penis jokes from that text message answering service.  I thought it was the same thing, but I was getting different style messages - less instances of "suck my big black cock" and more along the lines of email and text messages spoken aloud.  What I did keep hearing over and over again was the word "Vlingo," so I conducted an exhaustive bit of research (I fucking Googled it okay?  Get off my dick.  Jesus fuck.) and it turns out there's some company with a new smart phone app that has some pretty good text-to-speech recognition, judging from the raw file that I've got here in front of me.

Of course at that point I started thinking, "Holy shit, these are people's personal emails and texts!  Why do I have access to them?"  And then I figured out that this Vlingo company is obviously recording all the instances of people using the app on their BlackBerrys or their Droids or iPhones or whatever, saving whatever the person says and obviously storing it somewhere.

My Tinfoil Hat Senses started tingling, and I went and checked out the Vlingo website, where after some exhaustive digging I uncovered their Privacy Policy (I finally scrolled down to the bottom of the page and found it, like a god damned retard).

The second paragraph seems innocuous enough:
Vlingo never stores or keeps personally identifiable information on any user and never shares any user information outside of Vlingo for any reason. We do collect personal information to improve the service...
 Jesus Mary and Slowbro.  At least they admit it, even if they're not recording any personal information.

Then, I find another gem:
We collect and store the location of your handset only when you speak (which you can opt out of at any time through the Options screen of the Vlingo mobile client application). We do not associate the handset's location with your personal information. We do not know who you are when you use the location-awareness component of our service. We use this location information for research and development purposes and to improve your experience with the service.
 Great, now they're tracking my location too.  So they're pinpointing where and when I'm using their service, and what I'm saying.  At least you can opt out of it.  And what the hell are "research and development purposes?"  It's bad enough mobile phones have GPS trackers built into them already, but at least that has some survival use if you're lost in the middle of nowhere.  Then again, you probably have shit for signal anyway out there in Bumfuck, Minnesota or wherever it is you've gotten dumped after some crazed coyotes removed your liver and wrote "CALL THE AMBULANCE" on your chest in lipstick.

Do I really want some god damned company knowing where I am when I send filthy text messages to some fat bloated disgusting fursuit-wearing diaper fetishist I met on Craigslist last night looking to exchange "yiffing" for some free salvia?  Furthermore, is what I'm currently going through considered "user information?"  If so, why is it something I'm allowed to look at?  I ain't employed by Vlingo; as an independent contractor, I'm actually not employed by the transcription company either, technically.

Should I even care?  I mean it's just a job.  I should be working on it right now and earning some money that I can put towards buying some shitbox car so I won't be trapped here with two poo-eating dogs and their lovely owners all the god damned time.  At the same time I feel like I should be warning people about this Vlingo bullshit and how they're installing radio transmitters in my teeth so the Russian canine astronauts can communicate with me in the middle of the night, or whatever crazy paranoid people talk about.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

In which Our Hero is rick rolled in the god damned bathroom.

Now that my bubbling ire has subsided in regards to a giant vat of cherry-flavored Rita's Ices currently languishing in the freezer downstairs (like toilet-clogging bowel movement, it was simply taking up too much space in my little mini-fridge), it's time to relate the horror show that was my weekend.

As I mentioned, Third Party's parents were here for an overnight, plaguing us with their nasty presences.  They left New York on Saturday morning, promptly sat in traffic for about 6 hours, and finally got here sometime in the late afternoon, nice and extra surly.  This is a remarkable feat, considering that TP's mother has the temperament (and the shrill Noo Yawk accent) of Fran Drescher high on motherfucking Angel Dust.

I got a free lunch and dinner out of the deal, which was nice but a rather high price to pay, considering how I had the distinct pleasure of tagging along while TP's meat head father completely ignores his shiny new GPS and gets us terribly lost on our way to their hotel to drop off their bags.  We got to take the fucking longest shortcut ever, through the wilds of former Pennsylvania railroad towns that have since degenerated into places even "the nigras" wouldn't be caught dead in.

We finally pull up to the goddamn Best Western in Limerick and, to my absolute horror, this is what fills my view:
Yeah, that's right.  There's a god damned nuclear power plant in the fucking hotel's back yard.  It just then that I suddenly remember that Three Mile Island is in Pennsylvania.

Well, weekend couldn't get any worse, right?  What could possibly be worse than spending the entire weekend with some shrill harpy and her devoted, balding, metrosexual manchild of a husband?

Well, after they'd gotten checked in, they decide to take Third Party shopping at the nearby outlet stores (again, with the fucking Pillars of Death in full view beyond the parking lot), where finally I'd had enough from ducking into overcrowded stores stuffed with overpriced crap and excuse myself in order to go to the bathroom.

Finally, peace and quiet.  I can get a few moments to myself, I think, maybe take a seat, read some graffiti, leave some of my own perhaps.  I choose the handicapped stall; I like the roominess.  It feels comfortable - it may very well be bigger than the room I'm renting upstairs at Chucklehead Estate - and I settle in for a nice 5 to 10 minute break.  I light some candles, put down a throw rug, hang my favorite picture of David Hasslehoff on the wall.  Of course, as soon as I really start feeling comfortable is when the boring, inoffensive pussy music being piped in over the speakers ends and something else comes on.

We're no strangers to love....

I blink, disbelieving, as the first bars of a new song shoot through my ears and bypass the cognitive centers of my brain and light up the part that handles incensed rage like a fireworks show.  

You know the rules, and so do I....

Even in the fucking bathroom, the one place I have that is completely and utterly mine even if it's just for a few minutes, even here, my god damned Fortress of Solitude, the Universe decides to troll me.  Hard.

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down.... 

Fucking Rick Astley on the god damned loudspeaker.  Fuck my life.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

In which Our Hero tries to shove an entire quart of Rita's Cherry Italian Ice into his mini-refrigerator's tiny little freezer section

So I'm doing my best to stay awake and actually complete the work I've got pending for tomorrow morning when I hear a knock on the door at the bottom of the stairs. To my surprise, it's Little Miss Tripping Balls holding a giant quart of Rita's fucking Cherry Italian Ices, gratis, for both myself and Third Party, who is sleeping off the fatigue of having to deal with a weekend visit from their vile troglodytic parents.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with 12 pounds of cherry-flavored shaved ice? Is this some sort of god damned joke? I've got a fucking mini fridge. The freezer compartment is about the size of a stick of butter; these things were designed for dorm rooms for the love of Zombie Hipster Jesus (he was nailed to a cross before it was cool).

I wanted to dump it on her god damned head and wipe that smug fucking look off her face. Does she think we can be bought by god damned crunchy water with some red food coloring thrown in? I need at least 2 pints of Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream to even consider any favors. Hell, if she really wanted to get on my good side, maybe she could clean out the fucking sink downstairs in the kitchen that's teeming with mother fucking fruit flies because
of the rotting corn cobs and tomatoes and Flying Spaghetti Monster-knows what else rotting in the bowels of their plumbing systems.

White-hot rage burns itself out quickly, however, and I find myself embracing the annoyed apathy expressed by our good friend the bubo virgianus here:

I need to find my fucking Xanax.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

In which things get really fucking petty and more than a little creepy.

The last twenty four hours have been filled with a ridiculous amount of horseshit, but two things stand out as particularly effulgent beacons of fuckery that just must be shared, both of which revolve around Signore Flailing Retard and his wonderful fiancée leaving for the weekend to go to another fucking LARP.

The two of them left last afternoon at around 2 o'clock or so; I remember the time pretty clearly because I was working upstairs in my little Anne Frank Apartment at 1 when that chucklehead stuck his head through the door and bellowed that they were getting ready to go, and I was still banging away on my work assignment when his cock holster girlfriend did the same thing approximately an hour later. Normally the event of them leaving for a weekend is met with much rejoicing, even though we have to watch their two coprophagic little flea buffets, but there's already so much shit going on with me thanks to relatives coming out of god damned nowhere that it was just one more thing to do.

Still, the two of them are gone, and everyone seems to breathe a little easier. My relative shows up at about 3 and I give him a quick tour of the filthy locale before heading out for some free food, and on the way out I notice the Benefactor (Who Simply Does Not Give a Shit) seated not at his usual computer station but at his daughter's. I file it away in the part of my brain that isn't salivating at the prospect of food I don't have to pay for and don't give it a thought until my return later that evening.

The house is empty; as usual on a weekend any time after 5 PM, the Great White Beast of a pickup truck is parked, probably across three spaces, at the nearest bar. Knowing that the dogs have been in their little crate for a few hours, preparations are made for releasing them and letting them careen down the stairs, probably shitting the whole way, and I pass by Little Miss Tripping Balls' computer screen.

There I find the web browser open to a hardcore porn site, complete with bare asses and tits and giant sloppy cunts.

Now I know that Little Miss Tripping Balls isn't getting her rocks off from Signore Flailing Retard, since they're about as passionate a couple as a pair of dead god damned squirrels, but I highly doubted that she would take the morning and schlick her way to happy times in the middle of the day with her father 10 feet away from him. This means that Daddy's probably been cutting his coke with Occam's razor and decided to plop himself down in the chair his daughter was sitting in only a few hours prior, pull out his fucking dongle, and rub one out while amidst the accumulated garbage on the desk in front of him, which I know for a fact includes several pieces of mail where his daughter's name is prominently displayed.

So yes. 58 year old man sitting at his daughter's desk and chair and masturbating while ostensibly looking at porn but also his daughter's full name.

I can think of only one possible reaction:

The other thing, well, it seems absolutely paltry in comparison. Maybe because it doesn't involve implied incest. It does involve some direct bullshit from both cuntwrangling douchenozzles, however, in that I got a call this morning from a mutual friend. It turns out that Signore Flailing Retard had called this friend, who I will code-name The Mexican, and bitched to him about inviting myself and Third Party to dinner without inviting himself and Little Miss Tripping Balls along.


The Mexican and his wife, two awesome people with something like 14 children each, have been trying to make tentative plans with both myself and Third Party for a few months now. They've come out to Chucklehead Estate many times over the summer, their brood in tow, to use the pool, hang out, and unfortunately be pressed into slave labor from time to time by Signore Flailing Retard (they were noticeably absent until the late evening at the recent party, most likely to avoid that fate). They're pleasant, down-to-earth people, excellent cooks, and in general just a blast to be around. It helps that the Mexican's wife has some nice god damned tits, too.

We all met this summer, and Third Party and myself hit it off with them pretty damn well, beginning to develop a friendship between the four of us. Recently they invited us out to where they live, just across the border in the wilds of New Jersey, for an overnight stay, and we've been either postponing or rescheduling for a few weeks now, between having no reliable transportation and no money and a myriad of things that just make life fucking complicated, like trying to keep two dogs in a bathtub. Or two testicles in an asshole.

Apparently Third Party mentioned these plans to Little Miss Tripping Balls in passing, stating that it would be rather difficult for us to watch their little bastard dogs overnight if we go out to Mr. and Mrs. Mexican's hacienda sometime in the future. It got back to Signore Flailing Retard, and he placed a call directly to the Mexican to complain that both he and his lovely "girl"friend weren't invited as well.

I was informed of this earlier today by a puzzled phone call placed to Chucklehead Estate, informing me of the new development. The Mexican related the news to me, and I could envision him scratching his head in wry confusion. I simply informed him that our mutual friends were jealous about missing the opportunity for a free meal.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

In which a massive amount of douchebaggery is distilled down to a few hundred words.

Once again it has been several days between now and my last update. Once again, I am thoroughly unapologetic; I've had other shit that needed dealing with. Some quick highlights from the past two weeks have been:
  • preparing for, attending, and then cleaning up from Little Miss Tripping Balls' birthday party
  • battling a flea infestation brought on by two neglected dogs and one neglected cat, neither of which belong to Our Hero
  • extended caring for said dogs and cat in light of the fact that Little Miss Tripping Balls, Signore Flailing Retard, and Our Glorious and Illustrious Benefactor (May His Blood Alcohol Level Never Exceed the Legal Limit) have all been out of the house for extended periods of time
Let's break these down, shall we? The day of my last post was the Monday after a middling-large social gathering to commemorate the eventful day when Little Miss Tripping Balls slid down her mother's vaginal chute into a pile of drugs and money, of which one or the other has she been steadily consuming since that date. There were several key players in attendance, along with several more who just couldn't be bothered to come all the way out to the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania for the privilege of having a shitty time. The farm was in relatively good shape, thanks to the ministrations of Our Hero and Third Party, who had been steadily maintaining the work done on the side patio in addition to the backyard pool and deck areas (despite the giant dogshit landmines everywhere).

Additionally there was a flurry of cleaning and preparation that had taken place that previous Friday when, after an indefinite amount of prompting and and encouragement from outside sources, both SFR and LMTB actually got off their fucking asses and cleaned their shit up and out of the first floor. Of course, their version of "clean" is rather laughable; all the loose pieces of personal property were trundled upstairs and deposited into their dumping ground on the second floor, a dog-shit encrusted room that used to also be their bedroom until they actually moved their bed to a smaller, adjoining room in some asinine bid for World's Most Stupid Couple. I think they're still in the running.

So the pool room was cleansed of all their ridiculous mess, and the shared living room and kitchen space was given a once-over as well. There was some work done outside in addition, such as the vile, reeking cooler hosed out and disinfected before being filled with cheap, evil-smelling beer and the pool cleaned within an inch of its life, but alas they cannot take credit for all of these things themselves; as people began arriving early for the party, they were actually put to work on these tasks. Can you fucking imagine? Later I discover this is why so many people arrived either later in the evening or not at all, as this kind of behavior has occurred several times in the past.

Another reason some people were reticent to come is because their two hosts would routinely, in addition to making their guests clean their filthy house and environs for them, also neglect to purchase adequate amounts of food and drink to actually entertain their guests. Well, in a stroke of altruism and goodwill that is surely forgotten by now, both Third Party and myself got together, pooled our resources in regards to food and drink easily purchased with government aided funds, and went food shopping for the party. We were determined to at least be able to offer some sort of recompense for all the poor assholes that got suckered into coming over for this noxious celebration, and since Signore Flailing Retard and Little Miss Tripping Balls now have no money since Il Benefattore (Lui Che Non Parla Italiano) took his credit card back from the clutches of his vapid little daughter. Hell, TP and I were even the ones who paid for her fucking birthday cake.

But that's neither here nor there; the actions weren't taken for her or her vile fiancé but for their guests, several of which are friends or at least people that don't deserve a slow, painful death. So we did a mitzvah, so what? No expectation of gratitude. Which was not really all that forthcoming.

Behavior displayed during the party was of the head-scratching variety, of course. The general demographics of the party broke down in two ways: close friends of approximately the same age, or newer, younger people known through some retarded LARP game both the Birthday Girl and her remora of a fiancé frequent once a month. The two of them spent the majority of their time with the teenagers over on one side of the house, while the adults were all gathered on the other side, as far away as possible from the kids. There was little to no overlap, save a frightened little boy or girl scurrying outside to grab something from the cooler (which was luckily placed in our demense). Occasionally our Host and Guest of Honor would grace us with their single or combined presence, but we were mostly left to our own devices. From all accounts, it was more preferable that way.

After the weekend was over and everyone had gone home, things went back to normal, of course; this means that the place was slightly rumpled and in need of being policed for empty cans, bottles, and cigarette butts. I personally had to rescue any perishable items from the cooler while there was still some ice left in there keeping it cold, as I wasn't about to let a full gallon of orange juice go bad. I knew that if I didn't pull it out of there and stick it in the fridge, we'd be buried in rot and filth by October when it's opened again for the next ridiculous party.

So as soon as that was done and taken care of, the next week and a half have been a constant struggle to contain and eliminate a massive flea infestation brought upon us by neglect: the decision was made to bring an absolutely wonderful indoor-outdoor cat upstairs and away from the dogs because both I and Third Party would continually find that he had terrible scratches and scabs from when the dogs would play with him much too roughly. As the cat weighs about 10 pounds and the dogs weigh around 35 pounds each, it was an easy decision on our part.

Unfortunately both he and the two dogs were teeming with fleas, which spread to not only any other animals in the area but also any human beings. This resulted in a massive expenditure of funds and effort in such things as two kinds of flea medication for cats, thoroughly vacuuming, cleaning, and linen-washing the contents the entire attic from top to bottom, and giving a bath to four cats.

Think about that. Four cats. Not all at once, thank God - that would have been absolute Bedlam - but one at a time, right after the other. It was a miserable experience, and not just for the cats. Only now have things started to show improvements; last night was the first time in two weeks where I hadn't woken up with my legs teeming with flea bites.

All of this effort could have been avoided by the owners of these God damned pets actually taking care of them, of course. The cat has unofficially been adopted by me and Third Party, so we're comfortable in seeing to his needs, even though he's not fixed yet and we'll have to figure out a way to pay for his neutering, but there's no way in Hell we can take responsibility for two very rambunctious growing dogs. We have been reassured time and again by their owners that the dogs have been given all sorts of preventative flea medications, and while that may be true, unless someone actively cleans the locations where the dogs frequently inhabit indoors, they can become re-infested and start the cycle all over again.

Guess who hasn't taken any efforts to clean the living room, where the dogs are constantly whenever they're not outside, looking for delicious chunks of their own shit to eat? That's right, Little Miss Tripping Balls and Signore Flailing Retard. I'm doubly sure that they haven't cleaned their living space on the second floor as well. This means that even sitting on the couch downstairs to watch television is an impossibility when you constantly feel fleas swarming out at you from the seat cushions.

The only solution would be to not go downstairs unless when absolutely necessary, of course, but not only does that make this little room up here into a prison, it's just not practical, especially since once again the dogs' "owners" have left for the weekend, leaving it to other people to care for the little abused bastards.

And I do mean abused; I had taken them outside Friday night so that they could urinate and defecate outside for a pleasant change when I noticed the fur had all been chewed and scratched off one dog's hindquarters, leaving large patches of exposed skin. Of course this was brought to my attention when he squatted down to expel his foul excrement all over the patio I had just scoured within an inch of its life, but I praised him for shitting outside, like a normal dog, and began to walk towards him to reach the long-handled shit scooper nearby.

He jumped up fearfully, his sphincter still clutching a half-deposited doggie log, and scrambled out of reach of me. He then squatted back down and released his putrescent load, all the while watching me warily, like I was going to rush him and beat him severely for shitting all over the place.

Like it had happened before or something.

It's times like these that make me wonder why I don't drink.