SHITHEEL

We are bringing it back, by the suggestion of NMH. I had a discussion today, regarding the origin of the term "shitheel." I looked online, but I cannot find a definition that is satisfactory for my own purposes, so I am eliminating those options and just going with my own, as a spin-off of douchebaggery, with just a sprinkling of evil bastard. Less clueless than douchebag and dipshit, I think that shitheel is a tad more malicious that its cousins. Out of curiosity, I also did a google image search for shitheel, and this is what I found.

Keepin the little shitheel dry and warm!

Which leads me to believe, as was earlier discussed outside the confines of bloggington, that the term shitheel definitely originates with the emergence of canine domestication, and consequently, the emergence of shit, all over the place. Thus we find that the term shitheel is related to karma. As the people who are finding the shit on their heels kind of deserve it. But that's not really all that interesting.

So now let's talk about abortion. I was going to dedicate a singular glorious posting just for this topic, but I am so excited about it that I can't wait another day.

Point number 1: I LOVE abortion

I think it's a spectacular solution to a potentially catastrophic mistake. Insert here: GASP! But it's a CHILD not a MISTAKE!!! Oh, spare me. These words are most typically uttered by a white middle aged soccer mom that will never really be affected by the issue and if she is, it's because her daughter popped one out on the volley ball court after concealing it for 9 months. Some ladies find themselves pregnant with an "unwanted" child, because their school opted out on or couldn't afford sex education, so you thought that if you were on top you couldn't get preggoed. "Whatever shall I do?" Those afflicted with a surprise order of preggington special may ask themselves. Chippy Chuck, football team quarterback, is long gone. He is already screwing Zippy McBoobmaster and he doesn't even remember your name. When he sees you in the hallway at school, his only thought (which by the way results in his flunking mathematics), is: "That girl should lose some weight." Of course, I am relying upon stereotypes, and that is wrong, but oh so fun. So back to the story, you're lonely, you've caught the preggers, and you've got nowhere to turn but here:

This is a "Hanger Chrome Three." Which means that you're actually spoiling yourself. Girls in the ghetto have to use items such as this:

It doesn't have a schnazzy title, because it was constructed by your great grandmothers and grandfathers and forefathers and apes using discarded barbed-wire. So stop complaining. The Chrome Three is like the Waldorf Astoria of Abortions.

Anyways, I'm getting off topic. You will also need a lot of moonshine and a friend. The friend can be like the person that you would have at your wedding that makes sure that everything runs smoothly. But push all of those silly thoughts of marriage out of your head. You are tarnished, a spoiled woman, the rotten apple in a bushel of shiny ripe apples, and you probably won't live through what's about to happen anyways. Among other supplies that you will need are as follows:

Plastic bags, a lot of them, or just a few rolls of saran wrap. It's always good to have duct tape. A picture of Chip to get you through. Wear a skirt! And bring a bucket. But the best ingredient for your successful abortion? PASSION. You are lost without motivation and that get-em-go attitude!!!

SIGH. As I don't have anyone to bring the reigns in on me, I think I have to do it myself and say, you should abstain from sexual relations before marriage. Not only is it a sin in the eyes of god, but think about what all of your friends will say. However, I am going to go out on a limb and say that abstaining from sex IS another form of abortion. Think of all of the babies that died before they were even given a chance to be sperminated.

Next up: Rollerskates, why don't I have any?

Breaking News

This, my friends, is AMAZING

http://stitchymcyarnpants.com/moks06/index.php?paged=6

LOVE SURGE

As promised, today's discussion is entitled "love surge." At this point, I don't know why. Unfortunately, the love surge was perpetually challenged en route this morning, beginning with a harsh wake up call in the form of my alarm clock, cold winds, and a bitter commute across what I now fondly refer to as "that fucking bridge." Again, the bus is partially to blame for this.

Love Surge: My pillow, my warm bed, cozy times

Insert alarm clock here followed by wind, just enough rain to piss me off, and then finally, my favorite bus line, careening past me, leaving in its wake, also my path, also my face, a large gust of dirt, garbage and moisture. Which just made my surge of love crusade of the day go, er, "limp." This is when I turned on my i-pod. I didn't join the revolution until New York forced me to mind you, because it's times like the above described that everyone needs a pitiful soundtrack to accompany them. Also in the presence of the multiple pedophiles and insane folks I get to sit next to on the subway. ANYWAYS.



THEN MY I-POD WENT DEAD.



I was loving the world, and it was not loving me back. SO IT GOES.





Chin up little soldier. This day will improve with time.

On that note, I'm going to sign off, and leave you with a picture of my favorite place, Staten Island.

Next up: Afghan Hounds, Man's Best Friend?

The Three D's

Bush: "I love me some white folk!"

This evening, I was pondering the self proclaimed "three D's" those being: Denny's, Douchebags, and Dipshits. I was thinking about how I'd really enjoy sitting at a Denny's restaurant for an entire night or entire day, indulging in several cups of watered down coffee while surrounded by truck drivers, crass waitstaff and drunkards. (Maybe there should be four D's). Awhile back, I wrote a "rant" about New York City, inspired by my hatred for its coffee shops. If indeed you can actually define them by what we traditionally consider a coffee shop; a place where one can read, relax, drink coffee, work...et cetera. Coffee shops in New York should actually be incorporated into the modern version of Dante's Inferno, quite possibly as the previously unknown 10th ring of hell. Okay, so let's blame Manhattan, rather than the entire state of New York, or just the city. But I will list the factors that equate to fire and brimstone as follows:

Please leave these at home:

And get off your:

You are not a:

I would also like to ask a favor. Stop talking like this:

PS: We all can recognize by your attire that you are neato, and secretly know that you're very important! Now go get em sport! But refrain from inciting visions of the below in my head. I know something is going on there, I'm not sure what it is, and I don't really care either. KthxBYE!

This all leads me to my aforementioned promise in Chapter 1 that I would begin to discuss type A personalities and this of course is intrinsically linked with the elements of the Four D's. Oh shit, it was three. Okay, Drunkards makes an unofficial Four. To refresh, Denny's, Douchebags and Dipshits plus an additional Drunkard equals four. I was thinking that there is a large divergence in personalities on the East Coast to those anywhere else. I think that Manhattan specifically has an asshole magnet, or at least, when one crosses the city line, a huge stick is inserted up one's ass. This eventually leads to therapy. Of course, the habit of the Type A personality or Dipshit, or Douchebag is to talk about, (using various avenues of expression), how necessary it is to have them around, or in the Manhattan case...how the nature of the dipshittery and Type A-ology is an extraordinary facet of their ability to "survive," and achieve "greatness" in a sea of greatness.

Summary: I am specialer than you are!

Which brings me full circle back to Denny's and how I would much rather be seated at an establishment surrounded by drunkards and fuckups, versus being immersed in a steaming pile of overwrought shit-headery simultaneously listening to screaming babies or mothers offering their overly indulged 3 year old an unending list of suggestions from the ol' starbucks buffet.

You make me feel like this:

The Type A personality is a rather interesting phenomenon, as they are a contradictory concoction of low self esteem or fear of imagination coupled with extreme behaviors and "impressive" activities used to occupy themselves with thoughts of how splediforous they are.

Here they are, hanging out at the lodge in Vermont. He is probably talking about this awesome merger:

Or he is talking about how he did this, last weekend, not realizing that he should be talking to his therapist about how he cannot comprehend the void of our existence:

I'm just throwing this one in for amusement. I don't necessarily consider this a Type A personality example. I just think it's funny, and I hate crotch rockets. WHY oh WHY would you invent something that displays the ass crack of anyone prominently meanwhile drawing attention to it because of that sound barrier breaking ear-drum bursting buzz sawing music making that rips through the universe when one of these asshats decides they need to pump the gas in hopes that everyone in a 5 block radius runs from their homes and exclaims, "WOW! A MOTHERFUCKING CROTCHROCKET MOM, DAD, AUNT JUDY! IT'S FUCKING AWESOME!! I NEED TO BE ON THAT! OH BUT WAIT, I CAN'T EVEN SEE IT, IT'S GONE SO FAST!!"

On that note, I'm going to sign off. Next chapter will focus on more lighthearted issues, like abortion.

Title: LOVE SURGE

Chapter One

Today I was walking down the street, on my way to work, bypassing the usual Champion coffee stop for a latte to help fuel my trek across the bridge. Before getting to my observation, I shall lamely digress....the reason I walk the extra 15 minutes across the bridge is because I hate the bus. I loathe the B61, and anyone that knows me well, has been tortured by my texts and soliloquies expounding upon the loathsome nature of the f'ing B61. I hate it, and it hates me back. We share the same mutual negligence with one another. So, I will brave the windy torrent and constant barrage of honking that defines the bridge I walk across, (name to be withheld to discourage stalking), primarily to avoid the bus.

I hate you:

You are like this:

Minus the:

Plus this:

Edna St. Vincent Millay is quoted as saying, "I love humanity, I just hate people." I personally subscribe to this stance because I wonder consistently why people are so stupid and predictable, and I'm sure that I'm also guilty of being stupid and predictable. So...as of late, I've been avoiding all contact with people, or at least not partaking in conversation, OR simply relying upon a gamut of ridiculous statements to keep things interesting. The guilt I feel for hating people is nothing in comparison to the pain I experience while being around them. But this way, I do not have to struggle with the constant existential paradox of myself versus everyone else, and can instead selfishly indulge in my own hateful observations.

So, as I was walking this morning I saw this guy that had this blue jacket on with faux fur trim:

It was somewhat shorter than this one, and the faux fur was black. The dude wearing the jacket had on black pants and black shoes. He also had on those large ear muff head phones. He had a shaggy black short beard, black hair, and large black rimmed glasses. If this sounds familiar, it's because....it is. The term "Hipster" may come to mind, but this is one example of several differing varieties. This is probably the much more subtle toned personality of hipsters, and there's a good chance he still listens to cassette tapes.

He is like the guy on the right:

Minus the:

Plus the:

and the:

Plus the:

The end.

Tomorrow's edition:

Type A personalities: On the list of "things to do before I die," getting ostracized by Jensville shall be one of them.