Tuesday, June 30

Politically corrected!

I was in my first week of community college when I learned the true nature of political correctness. It was in photography 101, my only elective. We were assigned an open project so the teacher could get a feel for our talent. My photo was a rich black and white of a beautiful teenage Latina. It was titled, "Shouldn't you be pregnant by now?". I thought it made a real statement.

When it was my turn I had to stand up in front of everyone, present my photo, and then listen to the other students criticize it. After a fairly awkward silence, this guy Mike said, "I think it's offensive!". The teacher asked him to explain. Mike continued, "It's based on an unflattering stereotype." I didn't say a word, even though the prick had completely missed the point.

I decided I would teach him a lesson, but I wasn't sure exactly how. So I followed him out of class and down through the hall. There was a sudden rush of students out of the nearby classrooms, and the hallway became cramped with an ass-to-elbow density of kids. That's when Mike got distracted, then looked down to see a girl who had apparently fallen to her knees.

Afraid that she'd be crushed by the mob, he swiftly crouched and lifted her torso up from behind by her armpits. I saw what was happening as I passed them. I laughed out loud and snapped a quick picture. The girl wiggled and screamed, "Put me down!". Still supporting her, Mike looked down with a puzzled expression to discover that she had never fallen at all. She was a little person.

Placing her down, Mike was clearly mortified by what he had done. The girl just stormed off into the crowd, so he didn't even get a chance to apologize. That's when I ran my ass back to the darkroom and developed the photo. Then it was straight to the library photocopier to put together some petition posters, which claimed that Mike had picked this nice girl up just to mock her in front of everyone.

By the end of that next week the petition to remove Mike from our campus had been signed by over half the student body. The school didn't even have time to issue a response before Mike just up and left. Apparently he had been getting shoved and threatened all week long. I'm not sure he even needed any further education after that. I had giving him the schooling of a lifetime.

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Thursday, June 25

You can't handle the tip!

Every so often the subject of tipping etiquette comes up, and the "experts" who respond always seem to be members of the service industry. So of course they tell you to tip a minimum of 20%. You can ask a hooker what they think is fair for a dry hand job and they're gonna tell you $20. But you could probably negotiate a wet one at last call in exchange for a $6 Long Island Iced Tea!

And don't even get me started on all the well paid folks out there who think they deserve a tip. I will never tip salon employees, clerks, or cabbies. These jerks make plenty of money, and shouldn't be demanding a handout for the job they were paid to do! Bartenders and servers, on the other hand, make like $2 per hour, and therefor deserve some consideration.

Still, some servers deserve absolutely nothing. But rather than stiff them I think you're better off leaving them an insulting amount. Like this one steak place we visited in downtown Richmond. My family walked in and were seated quickly. I had to make an trip to the bathroom, so I broke off from the group on the way to our table. On my way back I happened to overhear two waiters talking at the back.

One of them said that he recognized "that bitch". Another one said "Ugh, I know. She's worse than the Canadians!" Which I thought was weird because we don't get a lot of Canadian tourists around here. Then a waitress, who had also overheard them, said, "That's what you guys get for expecting the worst!" and she offered to take our table.

I walked around the dining room so as not to be seen, and the waitress arrived to take our drink orders. She was smiling, but I detected some sort of contempt in her eyes. I admit that she kept up with our constant demands for more water and lemons (to make our own lemonade!) and tarter sauce. But somehow I just knew that she was condescending me, if only on a subconscious level.

I didn't want her to think that I was too dense to notice, so when we were done I left her a dime as a tip. Then we walked out nice and slow so I could see her face. She picked it up off the table and stormed off. Apparently the manager decided to take up for her, because he chased us out into the parking lot yelling, "Excuse me! You forgot your dime!". I faked surprise and embarrassment, then slapped him on his mouth when he got close.

Of course sometimes you get really good service, like a bartender who slips you free drinks, or a waitress who forgets to charge you for something. In that case I'll tip as much as 10%, plus I'll leave them a little treat, like a Ricola lozenge, or an old lighter that still has some juice in it. If the waiter is fun and has a good personality I might even play a silly trick by laying their tip in something wet, or hiding it in the salt shaker.

When it comes to actual tipping amounts, here are my own guidelines:

Food: 50 cents per person. Subtract 10 cents for every item that isn't as good as you could have made at home, and another 20 cents for every minute you have to wait for something that you spontaneously desire at any given moment.

Drinks: 10 cents for opening a bottle or pouring a draft. 25 cents for mixed drinks, a pitcher of beer, or a bucket of bottles.

Takeout: Nothing. In fact, go ahead and swipe a buck or two from the tip jar when the cashier has her back turned to bag up your order from the kitchen.

There's one last thing to do before you lay that tip money down. You might not know that servers are allowed to claim whatever they want to the IRS, so they only claim a fraction of their actual tips! That's why I suggest you tip a pretax amount. Figure out the tip they deserve, then deduct around 30% from it. That way it's fair for everybody.

Click here for more of my dining advice!
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Friday, June 19

Cell phone love!

I don't even like to think about what life would be like if I didn't have a cell phone. This one simple device allows me to live my life to the fullest. It keeps me on top of my family affairs, what my friends are up to, and what time my next booty call wants to meet up for a little game of "No, I don't have a condom either! Ah, who cares? Just put it in!"

Have you ever looked around at your fellow commuters and wondered why they're all on the phone? Who the hell are they talking to at 7:15 in the morning? Well in my case I'm yelling at Phil because my kids don't want to ride the bus and I need him to take them to school. Or maybe I'm calling in sick to work so I can spy on my ex-husband's girlfriend.

A cell phone also has the power to make the people around you feel inferior. But it's not about the type of phone you carry. It's about having someone better to talk to than all the people you're with. It's about planning your next move because wherever you are just isn't cool enough. You don't actually have to be talking to someone. You can pretend. In fact, most of the folks you see talking on their cellphones don't even have service!

What I really enjoy about today's phones is how customizable they are. Mine is pink with rhinestones, and has a miniature dream catcher hanging off the strap. It also has a case which matches my Louis Vuitton bag. And I have the two best ring tones available. It plays "My Humps" for everyone except Luke. For him I've got this hilarious ring tone of Donald Duck having an screaming orgasm.

Luke is our babysitter, and he's is a tall, dark, disturbing fellow who came to our door one night to ask about our home security needs. I didn't think I needed an alarm system, but I did need a babysitter! Apparently he needed the money because he jumped at the chance. He's single, so he's always available at a moment's notice. The kids seem to fearfully respect him.

So Phil and I went on a special date to Bonefish Grill last Wednesday. I left the table to use the bathroom and forgot to take my purse with me. That's when the babysitter called, because my clumsy daughter had fallen through the glass part of the coffee table. I didn't find this out until later, because it took poor Phil the entire ring cycle just to get the phone out of my purse. I got back and couldn't believe the way everyone was gawking. I guess they'd never heard a cartoon duck cum before!
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Tuesday, June 16

Gain favor with Satan!

Y'all know I'm a Christian woman. I may not go to church, but I still maintain a personal relationship with our lord God. While my faith is strong, I believe that in these days of uncertainty It's still a good idea to hedge your bets. That's why I'll continue to do a little something each day to satisfy the whims of Satan. It's not difficult. In fact, he seems to be whispering little commands to me more often than not!

Finding your path to the dark lord isn't something you should overthink. It's as simple as doing his work. You see, God loves all creatures, both human and animal. The only true way to impress Satan is by destroying ourselves and each other. So don't turn your life around when you hit rock bottom! Instead, point your mortal shovel straight to hell and start digging!

The dark lord is a bit of a prankster, so try carrying out a few silly tricks in his name! You might decide to make fun of a really nice handicapped person. Or dig up a freshly buried corpse and leave it on the bus on a hot day. And if you feel like you've been too much of a Samaritan up until now you could probably make up for it by curb stomping a Latter-Day Saint!

Sure, not everyone can afford to put two of every animal into an RV and drive it off a cliff. Sometimes we've got to make do with what we've got. Like one time when my friend and I came across a couple of possums who were locked in the heat of a territorial stand-off. They were so focused on hissing at each other that they didn't even notice when I ran up and punted one of them off into the woods like a football! The other possum nearly shit a brick!

One thing God really hates is false idols. So go ahead and sacrifice a goat to Zeus, or accept The Weinstein Company into your heart. Maybe you could become a top-tier member of Amway. Pray to Miley Cyrus. Or visit a Krispy Kreme donut shop, and give thanks to the gods of sugar by making physical love to a hot glazed right off the belt!

There's one last trick which will practically guarantee you an enchanted afterlife as an earthbound demon. All you have to do is betray a true man of god. As powerful as this act can be, It's really as simple as tainting a priest's communion wine with the blood of a virgin. Or as complicated as hiring John Walsh under some unholy contract, then keeping him busy for months with something stupid, like locating your spare set of car keys.

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Friday, June 12

The angel of Doswell!

I was downtown last weekend and ran into Dale Brumfield, the man behind News from Doswell. He can be a little intimidating at first, because he's about 6 ft 10 inches tall, and he's got hands the size of tennis rackets. We chatted a little about our blogs and whatnot. But then he got this really concerned look on his face and he grasped my shoulder really hard.

He said, "Jocelyn, I'm afraid you're in danger!". I looked around, then back at him. "What the heck are you talking about?", I said. "Your sins!", his voice boomed, "I'm talking about your immortal soul!". I laughed. He said, "Come to Doswell and I'll convince you. When we're done you'll know exactly what I mean." As silly as it seemed, it was an intriguing offer.

So last night I drove up to Doswell after work. There isn't much going on out there that I could see. Just farms, woods, a couple of gas stations, and King's Dominion amusement park. As I turned the car onto a dusty side road I noticed a cock-eyed man sitting on the corner. He had a pile of soiled tube socks on his lap, and a sign that read "Thumbless Mittinz - $5 a pare".

A few miles later I was approaching the Brumfield compound, which was fitted with guard towers and a tall fence. I drove through the entrance gate and was greeted by several homely women and about sixty ragamuffin kids, all running around with dirty faces. They stopped and stared and there was an almost perfect silence. Then a small door creaked open, and out stepped our man Dale.


(click image to see the long view)

He led me beyond the crowd into the surrounding woods, and then into a clearing. He gestured towards an old tire filled with oily rainwater. I glanced down, and there, in that small pool of liquid were the secrets of Doswell. The lives, the hopes, and the secrets of a few hundred lost souls. Dale Brumfield is no reporter. He's a Shaman. And for this brief moment he was sharing his horrible vision.

Without warning, Dale yanked a fistful of hair out of my head and threw it in the water. The previous visions were replaced with visions of myself. I gazed deeper, drinking in the essense of my life, wincing at my many indiscretions. All was laid bare. "I believe! And I'm sorry!", I screamed, and for the first time in my life I fell to my knees and just cried and cried from the darkest depths of my soul. Dale whispered, "You shall be forgiven...".

That's when he kicked the back of my head and I fell face first into the disgusting magic tire water. I tried to lift myself out, but Dale was now forcing my head down into the abyss. My sins must have been worse than I'd thought because he held me in there until I'd completely blacked out. When I finally awoke it was midnight and I was lying on my front lawn. My body was wrapped in soaking wet newspapers, and a pair of socks had been placed over my hands.

Everything felt different. I guess you never know how many sins you carry until you've been absolved of them all at once. I began to realize why Dale would live in a place like Doswell. In a way, that town is full of people like me. Confused outsiders, all of us trying to make it through the day in whatever way makes sense to us. I truly believe that those who have been healed by Brumfield have been forgiven in the eyes of the almighty. One day we'll all be in heaven together, and the rest of you fuckers will be eating shit down in Hell!

Edit:
Apparently the Doswell spin machine is in full effect over this one!

Monday, June 8

One fine day!

Saturday was a great day. It started with a trip to the CVS for some lube. I like the warming kind, so I make Phil use it even though it burns his dick hole. I happened to notice an old timer reaching into his back pocket for a prescription. He was unaware that he had dropped two $20 bills. I snapped 'em up and darted into the next isle. I hope he's not on a fixed income, or that old fool will be eating cat food for a week!

It felt like luck was on my side, so I stopped at the off-track betting office. $40 dollars on "Daddy's Rash" to win. Of course that piece of shit came in last. I swear to God, if I ever see that horse I'm going to break all four of his legs. You know I'll do it too! I've done worse, and for a lot less! My only consolation was that the money I lost wasn't mine to begin with.

After that I took the kids to visit mother in the nursing home. It's been so long since we left her there that I'd forgotten what a dump that place is. Everybody's all drugged up and moaning, and the hallway smells like a boiled colostomy bag. We stayed to eat with her but the food sucked. I'm sorry, but raisins with shredded carrots is not a dessert! Mom was so happy to see us that she cried the entire time.

On the way home I decided to get us something good as a treat. I pulled into the Wendy's and waited in a really long line at the drive-thru. I ordered three things of chicken nuggets, and paid for them at the first window. At the second window they hand me these two giant bags. I pulled around the building and discover that they'd given us enough food for like 8 people! Me and the kids filled up. Then we found a quiet highway overpass and took turns tossing chili and hamburger patties onto the cars below.

Tuesday, June 2

That little puke!

With over a hundred blog posts, you'd think that I'd have mentioned more than one vomiting experience by now. I'm actually kind of a stranger to the barfcore lifestyle. I only seem to blow chunks under the most extreme of circumstances. That's why I'd almost forgotten about this one gnarly experience that happened back when my son Brandon was just a baby.

It was my day off of work and I'd just finished all my errands. It was time to start relaxing! Since nothing works as well for humans as catnip works for cats, I usually settle for a cold jug of Ice Box brand pre-mixed cocktails. My only complaint about their products is how they make me hungry almost right away. That was especially true on this day, because I was out of cigarettes.

We stopped at Shoney's. For some reason that lukewarm cottage cheese on their salad bar was calling my name! When I got up there the lady stocking the croutons told me to take all the cottage cheese I wanted because she was about to throw it out. I lifted the entire metal buffet tray out of it's spot, carried it to our table, and openly gorged myself like some deranged nursing home patient.

I realized as we were leaving that I hadn't gotten a chance to change Brandon's diaper since that morning, just before I'd put him in his little automatic swinging baby chair. That was a mistake, because riding in that thing always left him with a full, sloppy diaper. I usually had to wipe it off his back afterwards!

So I was tired and wanting to head home, change the baby, and take a rest. But I had promised my daughter that I'd take her to a stupid monster truck show. The goddamn place has a closed roof, so the fumes started getting to me right away. I was also feeling somewhat nervous, because there were just way too many white people in there.

We took our seats and I started preparing baby Brandon for his dinner. I held him to my breast and he began feeding. I used my free hand to muffle his one exposed ear from the loud truck noise. Then a couple vendors came by, so I bought a cotton candy for my daughter and a pack of peanuts for myself. The very first peanut was a bad one, and it left a really disgusting taste in my mouth.

I bummed a cheap cigarette off of the woman next to me. As I took my first drag it made a loud popping sound, which was probably just an irregular clump of chemical additives. It made the smoke taste nasty, which made me choke. The cigarette fell out of my mouth and landed in my lap as I gasped for air.

In doing so I managed to inhale a hearty whiff of Brandon's unchanged diaper. There was no time to prepare. I vomited quick and hard, right in the face of my breastfeeding child. So the next thing you know I'm running through the Richmond Coliseum with a screaming, puke-covered baby, one exposed breast, and a cigarette burn in my Wranglers.

I found the concession window and reached for the napkins. Of course they were that cheap, flimsy kind that break into pieces as you try to remove them from the dispenser. Even when I finally pulled a wad of them out, they weren't absorbing worth a damn. As mortified as I was, I somehow had the presence of mind to stuff Brandon into my oversized purse. Then I carried him out to the van, where we waited for my daughter to find us.