Rant and Rave! Rant and Rave!

You know what ticks me off?  The way people look down on bisexuals.  I mean, really, whether you want to call it “switch hitting”, “AC-DC”, or whatever, it shouldn’t be up to YOU to judge OTHER PEOPLE who want to say they are bisexual.  I like both sexes, genders, and whatever.  I guess you could say I’m “omnisexual”, although I’m not progressive enough to use such a term as that.  I just feel silly.  But, honestly, I don’t give a crap if you’re genderqueer, FTM, MTF, male, female, or any other part of any kind of spectrum.  If you’re a cool person, then cool.  Because it doesn’t matter what’s in your pants, it matters what’s between your ears.  And you know why?

Spoiled milk.

I read this post on a forum once about dating exes again.  This wise, wise person said something along the lines of “if you pull the milk out of the fridge and it’s spoiled, then put it back in the fridge, if you take it back out a few months down the line, does that mean it’s not spoiled anymore?  NO!  It’s still spoiled milk.  So why date someone again if you know it didn’t work the first time?”

Granted, I don’t look at relationships that way because people are people and can grow, unlike milk.  Ok, so, maybe milk can, in fact, grow.  How else do you explain cheese?  But that’s not the point of what they were saying, I don’t think.

In either event, people are people.  Period.  That’s it.  So stop telling me, when I tell you I’m “bisexual” that you “used to be bisexual, but then I got tired of sleeping around”.  Uh, hey, thanks!  Because what every person wants to hear is how their sexual orientation/preference/whatever is basically a synonym for “skank”.

I am not a ho, thank you.  I don’t sleep with anything that moves or has tits or a penis or what have you.  That doesn’t mean I couldn’t.  I mean, sheesh, I DO have hormonal urges, but that’s why they make clown porn.

So I settle for telling people I’m “half gay”.  They usually look at me like I’m stupid unless they aren’t straight, and then they just look at me and go, “Ooooohhhhh….so you’re bisexual.  I used to be bisexual, but then I got tired of sleeping around.”  It kind of sucks.

And you know what else totally ticks me off is the lack of consideration the working world has for Special Ed kids.  I’ve got this employee at work, it’s his first job, he’s ADD with a learning disability, and everyone wants him gone because he’s not picking it up fast enough.  No one’s willing to work with him to help him and I rarely work with the kid to help.  It really kind of sucks and pisses me off all at the same time because some high falutin retail VP guy has decided that people only get one week (that’s five days or 40 hours) to learn everything they are ever going to need to know about doing the job.  That’s just insane.  I can’t teach everything you’re ever going to need to do the job in 40 hours.

So, you know what world:  You can fucking go to Hell.  Really.

And I now concede the soap box to the next Ranter.

SOOOO tired, but must bloggy

So this new store…yeah…see, people, if I wanted to smell like a bartender, I would be a bartender.  But, alas, I am not a bartender, and yet I leave work smelling of cheap beer, cigarettes, and pot.  The people are polite, though.  No arguments about sandwiches not being fresh, no complaints about Subway (since we don’t have one)…

Really, we don’t even have a hose for the mop sink, y’all! And the ice down (that thing where beer is kept on ice, seriously, I have to explain EVERYTHING to you people, gah!) doesn’t even drain.  Nope, it has a valve and we put the mop bucket under it and oh G-D somebody shoot me now!

Other than that it’s not really too bad.  It would be like if I worked in my neighborhood…which I don’t…for a reason…

Then there’s “creepy-seemingly-homeless-guy” who you can’t tell is drunk or just that crazy.  Other than seeming crazy, he didn’t appear intoxicated…  Really, he reminds me of 90% of the homeless guys in downtown Savannah.  I was waiting for him to break out his trumpet and start playing for tips…or make a palm frond rose and try to sell them.

And then the “crweens” came in.

Crweens: noun

1) Creepy Tweens/Teens

These two girls, one covered in tattoos and looking ~20 years old, the other looked about 14, stand by the door closest to my register and the one in tattoos starts going off about how the other one (the true crween) thinks I’m just “sooooo cute, and, like, are you single, cuz she needs a boyfriend” and I ignored them in favor of the customer I was doing business with.  Then they walk up and are all “OMG yer hot, you should, like, totally take her out” and I was all “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that” and the one with the tattoos just runs out the door and the other girl seemed completely mortified and couldn’t remember her pin number and then just ran out the door a few minutes later.  It was funny.  Now, if the blonde had actually been around my age and hot, this whole thing would have gone completely differently and, hopefully, rather Skinamax-ely, but, meh, I’m not picky.  Although that extremely hot bear from my old store…yeah…I need to go now, it’s hard to type and…yeah….

Why can’t I get the cool jobs? It’s all Target’s fault!

All I want is an awesome job that gives me awesome things to write about for you awesome people who read my blog.  But can I?  No.  Why?  Ask Target.

See, there’s this guy who spent 24 hours in Wal-Mart and then wrote, not one, but two entries to Zug about his stay at The Mart of Wal, and can I do anything like that for you guys to enjoy?  NO!  Why?  Because Target isn’t cool enough to be open 24 hours, and when I tried to apply, they told me they “didn’t have any positions open at the current time”.  Well, you know what, Target?  Your mom had plenty of positions open for me last night and I didn’t hear her complaining.  Yeah, that’s right, I said it.  YOUR MOM’S A WHORE, Target, and I’m gonna prove it to the world!  That’s the real reason you aren’t open 24 hours, isn’t it?  Because you gotta be your mom’s pimp.

No wonder you charge so much for your store brand products.

That’s it, I’m boycotting Target, at least until they start actually offering good-looking prostitutes in their clearance aisle.  Who’s with me?


So I’m sitting at IHOP listening to songs from Disney movies.  I’m not sure if that’s cool or if it just makes me more of a loser.  I do know, however, that when I turn my music off and people think I can’t hear them because my ear buds are still in their conversations are rather interesting.  Or maybe they just seem more interesting because I’m effectually spying on them.

I think I’ve finally figured out why “Beauty and the Beast” is my favorite movie: I AM The Beast.  I’m all kinds of ugly and psycho on the outside, but am super sweet and wonderful and prince-like on the inside.

And why the fuck is “movie” spelled with an “ie” when it’s not plural?  IT MAKES NO SENSE!  If there’s no “s” at the end it should be spelled with a “y”.  Stupid English teachers enforcing rules for a stupid language!

And what is with the cute server waiting on the guys next to me and having to shake her butt in my face?  I mean, I’m not normally all slutty when it comes to girls, but DAMN!  I kind of wonder if she was watching me check her butt out in the reflection of the window (she watching the reflection, as I’m not nearly lame enough to watch some chicks butt reflected in a window, I only watch it live, especially when it’s right in my face like it just was.) because she would shake it more every time I looked over.  I kind of wish it would come back.

I’m so confused right now.  I’m listening to a Pandora station for musical soundtracks and pining for a chick.  What the FUCK is up with that?

I’m not nearly THAT big of an asshole

So I don’t have much time on my hands to get out and meet people, thus my turning to the Internet. I’ve posted before about meeting people online and how well it doesn’t work. Sometimes I meet someone interesting, mostly they’re flakes, but occasionally they turn out to be far above the level I’ve lovingly titled “Douche Yacht”.

Case in point:

I went over to Craigslist (likely my first mistake) to check out things for sale (still in the market for a new fridge/freezer combo) and made my way over to strictly platonic. Usually I don’t like these things and tend to laugh at many of them, but sometimes one will catch my attention and I’ll reply. This chick was just looking for a friend, or so she claimed.***

I emailed her and was like, “Yo, wassup” and thus began what I thought was going to be a strictly platonic instant messaging relationship. As anyone who’s read more than one post on this blog knows, my life has been hectic these past couple months. I’ve been working anywhere from 50 to 60 hours or more a week, have been struggling with insomnia and panick attacks, etc, etc, bitch, moan… You get the idea, I’m sure.

So, I log into Yahoo messenger and was like, “I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with this chick in a while, so I’ll see what’s up”. So I send a message along the lines of “Wow, it’s been a while, how’ve you been?”

Apparently this makes me an asshole that deserves to be told off. Somebody has some inferiority issues they need to work through because, sorry bitch, I have a life, too. Being the mature guy I am I quickly apologized for bothering er and wished her well.***

I can’t, however, keep from being upset because this cunt seems to think she’s just oh so important after we had a total of maybe three conversations before my life turned to shit. So, to all those self-important bitches out there, just get over yourselves already.

***Oh, how I wish this story could have ended with the makings of a great story for a new porn, but, alas, thus is not my life.

***And if you believe that, I’ve got a great condo right off the Arizona bay you’ve just gotta see to believe.

Rant, Rave, and then tell a story that has nothing to do with anything

So thus far the week’s been pretty crappy. And, yes, I partially mean that in a literal sense. Figuratively speaking, I mean I tried telling my boss off and that I couldn’t deal with his shut anymore and also explaining to him that he’s giving me an ulcer but he just told me I’m a great employee an that everything will work out just fine and that I’m doing a great job. And, yes, I realize commas should be somewhere in there but, really, with everything else I have to worry about, I’m saying “Fuck punctuation!”

And I started a grammatical argument with a coworker concerning “lay” vs “lie” and whether saying “I don’t lie” could be interpreted as I sleep standing up. I simply explained that people “lay” and things “lie”, which   I was taught in Primary school in the grand state of Florida. I feel absolutely no need to look up whether I am, in fact, correct, since I know the Florida state education system is filled with wonderful and fine institutions. (read: everything I learned in Florida has been proven wrong time and time again)

Also, the great state of Texas neglected to teach me the proper process for human procreation and I fully believed lesbians couldn’t get pregnant by having sex with a man until the age of 22. True story. Had a girlfriend sit me down so we could have that wonderful talk about the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees. And hen h explained to me why Jeremiah was a bullfrog and the real reason he shouldn’t be my friend. Did I mention she was almost always high on something and this conversation involved several joints and a bottle of rum? Eh, that’s not important.

What IS important is that I’m starting to get antsy about finally writing my book I’ve been threatening to write for two decades and am considering the purchase of a netbook to help in this cause. Or possibly just the battery charging iPhone case. Or a new notebook and doing it all the old-fashioned way. But when I do that I never know just what I’ve written since I tend to get excited when I write and have no idea what I’ve written due to horrific penmanship.

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want too, dammit!

So I decided that since I couldn’t actually go out on my birthday I would go out last night and party.  And I did.  Only, I’ve gotten to the point where “partying” actually means “sitting-at-IHOP-drinking-coffee-and-enjoying-completely-horrible-service-because-NO-I-guess-I-wasn’t-hungry-after-all-Mr.-Server-Guy”.  It’s a rather odd occurrence.  Partying used to totally be about how much beer/vodka could I down in 20 minutes before stripping and running around naked until someone finally decided to pay me to put my clothes back on (as I’ve said before, I’ve always been quite the scam artist/drug dealer entrepeneur) or someone starting having sex in the middle of the Twister game.

Have I just gotten old?  Is this what life’s going to be like after 27?  Now that I’ve hit 27, there is no fun, no games, just sitting around like the guys waiting to die in 1984 until I finally learn to love Big Brother?  That’s not the life I want!  I want to be 19 again.