How Alejandro Became a Bastard

Above.. Not Alejandro, But Close


Christian Children's Fund


I have an illegitimate Mexican son named Alejandro. Was he the result of a torrid affair with a hot-blooded Latin man? Sadly, no. Alejandro came to me through the Christian Children’s Fund. You know those commercials where the old pervy guy wearing kakis and birkenstocks tells you that for the cost of a cup of coffee a day, you can help feed a hungry child? Yeah, I’m the person that fell for it.


You see, even though I can be very bitchy about many things, I do have a soft spot for orphans..and some days, hobos. So one day, even though I had watched those commercials a thousand times before (and usually changed the channel because, let’s face it, they’re depressing) that particular day something struck a chord in me. I promptly got online and went to their website. The first thing I got to do was pick out my kid. It’s fun! It’s like you are shopping for children although it did make me feel a tad like the people on “To Catch A Predator.”


I chose Alejandro because he was young (around 1) and he looked like he really could have been the result of a one night stand between me and a hot Mexican. So I signed up and anxiously awaited my “welcome kit” in the mail. It came a few days later and I tore open the envelope as soon as it arrived. Inside was a pic of Ali (my nickname for him) and a letter about his family. [[iframe]]d the pic immediately and secretly wished whoever took it had wiped some of the dirt off his face, but maybe they wanted him to look really poor/desperate.


The letter described his family. He was the youngest of three kids (I see the family didn’t feel the need to practice birth control) and it listed his dad’s occupation as a peasant and his mom’s as a servant. Hmm, did I accidentally sign up to support a Medieval English family? I mean, are peasant and servant really “occupations?” I think not.


I was excited anyway and wrote my first letter to the family. I also enclosed a photo of myself with my family. The guidlines for photos were very strict. I couldn’t send any photos that showed material possessions such as a car or house, I’m assuming so that the poor people wouldn’t feel even worse about themselves/life choices. So I sent a pic of my family sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner and then later realized maybe they would be pissed off to see a bunch of white people eating so much damn food. Oh well. I think it was cool though, because I got a letter back from his “real” mom thanking me for my support. I definitely got the feeling this bitch was way jealous of the amazing bond that Alejandro and I had created in such a short time span. I had dreams of Ali one day coming to the states to go to college and I could visit him on Mom’s Weekend. It would be so great.


Alas, I couldn’t keep up with the $25 a month payments. And the Christian Children’s Fund kept sending me letters asking for even more per month, those selfish bastards. So even though it killed me a little inside, I had to cut off Ali and his entire freeloading family. I’m sure his whore mother talked shit about me and tried to turn him against me. But I know one day that little Ali will find me. While Paul Simon’s “Mother and Child Reunion” plays softly in the background, Ali and I will have a glorious reconnection. I can’t wait!

Khaki Wearing Walmart Worker, I hate your fucking GUTS.

Dear whatever the fuck your name is-

I truly feel your pain. Not only do you work part-time at one of the biggest retail franchises in the world still legally promoting "slave labor" and dependance on welfare; but on the day we had our "encounter", it also seems that earlier in the shift, you had shit your pants. I was sure that because of your nearly non-existant wages and embarrassingly small employee discount, you couldn't have afforded to buy a newly pressed and less shitty pair of khakis from the neighborhood flea market, let alone from the very establishment you work in.

So I forgave you temporarily for your disgusting display of excrement.

Although this day we met you clearly were having issues, I don't understand why my simple request for you to grab me a copy of the Underworld trilogy was so hard for you to complete. You ARE working in the movies and electronics section of walmart, in case you didnt know. I stayed up, eyes burning and all til 12 am wandering aimlessly through Walmart just to get it. I had cold, hard, CASH.. 60 dollars to be exact and I wanted to blow it all on the blue-ray edition of Underworld. I am almost positive that my mere purchase of this blue-ray disc set was going to go toward paying your entire years salary, but you being the worthless, un-grateful cunt you are had to go and cop an attitude.

After waiting in line for almost an hour, when it came to be my turn to come up to the register, I approached you slowly and made eye contact for less than a nanosecond, and then you squawked "GIVE ME A SECOND!!" and put your hand up in the air as if to say, "Oh no she didn't", without actually saying it.

I thought, What a bitch. But I continued to wait in silence for you to finish doing whatever it was that you were fucking doing. Finally, after about 15 minutes, you shrugged and rolled your eyes, then did one of those tilted head, chest out, on the defensive moves before frowning and scoffing, then finally shouting "TWAT can I help you with?" I noticed your 'not wanting to be at work' attitude right from the get-go. I brushed it off moments earlier trying to think about how I would feel about myself and my job if all I did was restock DVD's, and occasionally pull out a video game for a geeky teen. There must be a requirement at Walmart as far as being borderline retarded cause it seems like I'm always running into douche-bags there. It's like when you walk in for an interview they must have a robot asking a set of questions like, "Did you eat paint chips as a child?" Or, "Were you the product of incest?".. "If you answered yes to either of these questions, Congratulations! You're Hired!" I mean honestly, what kind of gargantuan life mistakes would have to have been made in ones life to end up passing out carts and checking bags on the graveyard shift thier local Walmart? I don't even want to know.

Finally, after being distracted by the last tooth hanging in your dragon mouth and thinking, "Wow, that really resembles a piece of corn" I explained I was there to pick up the new release of Underworld. You grimaced again like you were too much of a twit and much too monsterous to come out of your little box to look for it. Just then a kid in the back with bad dandruff shouted he wanted Underworld too. So I thought, 'YES, strength in numbers, this dumb shit mongrel is gonna HAVE to find my movie now.' Of course your bitch-ass scowled like a cat in heat before walking over to the new release rack, rummaging through May 12th Midnight releases quickly before deciding that was enough work for the day and that Walmart didn't have it. But not before bending over in my face and not ONLY displaying your colossally shit covered behind, but also bending far enough down to where I was staring directly at your stretch mark covered tit sacks. The get-up Walmart provided you with was clearly too stretched out to be considered appropriate, and thanks to your unwanted display, I now have an image burned into my retinas that will surely haunt my dreams for years to come.

You trashy CUNT. What happened to the happy go lucky Walmart employees that wander around knocking down smiling prices all day? What happened to them!?! What happened to a certain level of competence to handle remedial duties being required from employees at any job? What the FUCK happened to that? Had you been wearing a name-tag I would have screamed for a manager and hopefully got your bitch-ass fired, but since you had not I was left standing there, helpless, with 60 dollars in my pocket and nothing to spend it on. I am completely positive at one time you DID have a name-tag, but over time somehow it got sucked into one of your enormous rolls, or you used your last snaggle tooth to sharpen and fashion it into some sort of shank, so you could mangle boxes filled with new crap needing to be put on shelves. Either way that is fucking disgusting.

I just want you to know, I got my copy of Underworld. I waited till you walked away and I searched the rack myself. There, right on top, lay a perfectly crisp and seemingly 'just vaccuum sealed' copy of the trilogy. You tried to stop me from leaving your section without paying at your little box you ruthless bitch, but I ignored your barking and walked straight to the register upfront. You can thank your ridiculous attitude for the fact that the fat hoe on the cigarette lane is now going to get her bonus. My sixty dollars is all she needed to push her quarterly sales over the edge. Thank yourself you worthless harlot.

I hope your nights are filled with loose, watery shit for years to come. I hope your sphincter loses all elasticity and you end up a walking, talking hemorrhoidal/defecation-stain forever. I hope your last tooth rots out of your fucking skull and you have nothing left to sharpen your shanks with. I hope you get fired you toothless wonder. I really do.

Lastly, but not least, go FUCK yourself.

With absolutely no love-

Jess

Office Women. Hate 'Em.

To the women who work in my office… I hate you

Girl with the bright blonde weave who works in reception- I don’t know how you got your job, you are so uneducated it makes me sick. Did you graduate grammar school? I think I would respect you more if the answer to that is no. I want to throw a rock at your face every time I walk by when you are answering the phone and you say something like ‘who you callin’ for?’ or ‘he in a meetin’ right now’ or my personal favorite, ‘who this is?’ I bet the people on the other end of the phone want to throw a rock at your face too. I also can’t stand when I get message notes from you that are written like so: Mr. Smith called hes wanting to kno wen he shuld ecspect the letter of aprovle. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? It amazes me that the only two things in your job description are answering phones and taking phone messages and you can’t do either of those things!

Tall girl in design with the short brown hair- You have horrendous body odor! I’m not talking a little stench here and there I am talking everyday when you walk into the building people drop dead. I don’t know how you don’t notice it. I’m going to buy you deodorant for Christmas.

Fat woman who works in suite 19- I don’t know exactly what you do for this company, but I know far too much about your personal life. When you talk to your boyfriend on company time, please refrain from telling him it felt so good when he slipped his hard dick into your fat ass! Yea I heard that, and so does everyone else that walks by your suite when you are on the phone. It’s disgusting, and we don’t want to hear about it, so keep your voice down.

Blonde woman who works for accounting- I know that you are 30, not 25 and I also know that at the Christmas party last year you had sex with the bosses son in the broom closet and that he got you pregnant. Please don’t insult me in front of our coworkers again or I will tell everyone.

Girl that works in sales- When you wear that brown skirt with the white flower on the bottom and you sit down, we can all see that you don’t wear panties.

Boss’ old receptionist- My name is not Rachel, Roberta, Carol, Kim or Kelli’ it’s Jessica.

Middle age woman who works in reception- Your job is not that hard. You answer phones, put people on hold, and take messages. I don’t care that you were up late cleaning the house or that you sat up all night waiting for you delinquent son to get home, that does not give you a reason to get rude with a customer or walk around bitching about how your job is so stressful. Half of us come in still drunk from the night before, but we never yell at clients, bitch about our family members or say our jobs are soooo hard.

Pregnant bitch- There is only one of you, so no need for further description but let it be known that you are not the first person to ever get knocked up! You are not the first person to get heart burn, you are not the first person to get morning sickness. You are not the first person to pee their pants because the baby put too much pressure on your bladder and you certainly are not the first person who has had strange cravings for cheese and anchovies. Stop complaining about it!

Little intern girl- You are so cute with your stringy brown hair, acne and braces but your coffee skills are lacking. All I ever want is a large black coffee but you seem to think that I would rather a low-fat Latte, or a Caramel Frappe, or even a Chai Tea. Nope I don’t want those, I just want a damn black coffee! Also, you obviously don’t know your alphabet because my filing cabinet is a mess. F does not come after R, sweetie. Do you want to flunk the class you are doing this internship for? No? You better shape your ass up and get me the right coffee then!

Pretty girl who is head of the writing department- You are the only girl who works in this office that I can stand. You greet me every morning with a bright smile and a cheery hello. And you are so damn smart. No wonder you are 22 and head of the department that could pretty much make or break our company. One time I asked you the Circumference of the earth and you knew it! Usually I would think that is weird and dorky but from you, I find it really nice. I also like that you are the only girl in the company that hasn’t slept with someone that works with us. But for the record, if you did, I wouldn’t respect you any less.

Hispanic girl who works in design- You wear way too much makeup, I hate that you draw your eyebrows on, and I’m pretty sure you have an adams apple and are a man.

35 year old secretary- You have a 20 year old son, and a 15 year old son… yet you dress like you are 16. I would be embarrassed to be your children. Oh and you look really stupid when you wear that plaid school-girl skirt with the white tights and hooker boots. This is an office… not a brothel.

Getting Lippy With The Teacher

Dear Mrs:

In just over a month, you will be my sons' Grade 4th teacher. He is ever so excited to be under your tutelage. Why, since the last day of kindergarten, entering your class was all he could talk about. He gleefully thrust a piece of paper into my hand on that June afternoon, and said, “Here’s a list of the stuff I need for school next September!”

And I have to admit, I, too, was excited. I’m a school supplies geek from way back. And so, in early June, I set out to buy the items you’d listed.
It was on my fourth store that the realization began to sink in.
You’re a crafty bitch, aren’t you?

This list was a thinly disguised test. Could I find the items, exactly as you’d prescribed? Because if not, my son would be That Kid, the one with the Problem Mother, Who Can’t Follow Directions.

For example, the glue sticks you requested. In the 40 gram size. Three of the little buggers. (What kind of massive, sticky project you’ve got planned for the first day of school that would require the students to bring all this glue, I cannot imagine.) But the 40 gram size doesn’t come in a convenient 3-pack. The /30 /gram size does. But clearly, those would be wildly inappropriate. So I got the individually priced 40’s, as per your instructions.

Another bit of fun was your request for 2 packs of 8 Crayola crayons (basic colors). The 24 packs, with their 24 /different /colors, sat there, on sale. I could have purchased /three/ of the 24 packs for the price I had to pay for the 8 packs. (Clearly, you’ll not be teaching the youngsters any sort of economics lessons this year.) Even the cashier looked at me, as if to say, “Pardon me, ma’am, but are you slow?” as I purchased these non-bargain crayons. But that’s what the list said. And I was committed to following the list.

But the last item, well, now, you saved your malice up for that one, didn’t you? “8 mm ruled notebooks”, you asked for. Simple enough. Except the standard size is /seven /millimeters. One. Millimeter. Difference. Do you realize, Mrs., exactly how infinitesimal the difference between 7 mm ruling and 8 mm ruling is? Pretty small, I assure you. The thickness of a fingernail, approximately. But that millimeter, that small bit of nothingness, made me drive to four different stores, over the course of three sweaty June hours. And when I finally, FINALLY found the last remaining 8 mm notebooks, I took no pleasure in my victory. I merely shifted my focus. To you, Mrs.

You wanna dance, lady? Let’s dance.

Because I am just batshit crazy enough to play your games. And, in turn, come up with some of my own.

On show and tell day, my son will be bringing the video of his birth. It will be labelled, “Ben’s First Puppy.” Enjoy.

He will be given a list of words, and daily, he will ask you what they mean. Words such as, “pedophile”, “anti-sematic”, and “skank”. Good luck with those.
At some point, you will attempt to teach him mathematics. And I’m quite sure that, like most of your ilk, you will require my son to “show his work”. And he will.

Through interpretive dance.

Because that is who you’ve chosen to tangle with, toots. A stay at home mom who is not entirely balanced, and has altogether too much time on her hands. But is, most certainly, A Mother Who Can Follow Directions.

Sincerely,

J.

...Annnd then I forgot to Blog.

So I've stepped out for a bit. Forgot to blog. I should have. But I didnt. So SUE me. Turns out I got this "gig" at this modeling place. Worked at one before, just not quite like this. I prayed for this job. PRAYED. For those who know me you know I never really pray for anything. Except another breath every once in a while when Im in the car with someone who's driving a little too fast, or whenever I get all stressed out and smoke too many cigarettes. But this time friends, I prayed for this job. It must have been some sort of miracle because before I could say, "Amen" I got the job and was sitting through some grueling 8 hour-a-day, two-week long training. (When I say grueling I mean like, "Biggest Loser" grueling, which is basically equivalent to ripping off your own fingernails) Listen folks, Im not gonna tell you where the place is, or WHO it is because lets just say they are big and I dont feel like having Big Brother knocking down my door anytime soon.

Needless to say, I was super ecstatic. I updated my status on Facebook like, 455 times saying how ecstatic I was. It was, in retrospect.. just a tad fucking pathetic. But 5 months later and about 7,000 models in, the place is consuming my LIFE. I mean, literally, EVERY. Waking. Moment. Of my existance. I cannot count the amount of times I have sat im my office and wished that I could go back in time to just seconds before I pushed "SEND" on my resume. Its not a bad job. Dont get me wrong.

Actually.. Scratch that. Fuck it. The job sucks. It really, realllly SUCKS. I wish there was some sort of disclosure law that would force companies into being honest with you, like brutally honest, on what you were getting yourself into before you started a job. Because this right here, this shit right here.. this is some straight up bullshit.

I have met some cool people though in interviews. I always wonder when I meet a person around my age and they are there to be "evaluated" by me, why they are there in the first fucking place. What fork in the road did they make a wrong turn on to end up sitting, twiddling thier thumbs in front of ME? It blows my fucking mind. (And then thats when I get nosey and ask a bunch of questions to try to figure it out. Lmao.) But if you follow my blog and pay attention you would know Im like, the LAST person on earth who should be scolding girls who get into trouble, or telling parents how to raise thier kids. I was a runaway. I got kicked out of an all girls school, ended up pregnant, became a stripper/go-go dancer/car show girl and spent 5 years traveling like a vagabond. I smoke, have dabbled elsewhere and make out with my girlfriends on a regular basis. I swear like a sailor and know more about gangs and prescription pills than the average person SHOULD. "Fist-pumping" is my favorite pasttime. I mean, COME ON... I am practically the EPITOMY of heathen. I live on the "other" side of the rainbow, folks... in case you care to know. Sometimes people tell me things in interviews, and Im like, Oh My God, Me Toooo! Then I snap back to reality and realize Im supposed to be Mother-Fucking-Theresa.

Let me explain what I do. So I guess girls/boys (oh and dont forget our newest division; old ladies) fill out resumes or something online, Im not really sure, but I get thier name and I call them and tell them to come in for an interview. They come in for the interview and I basically decide whether or not they should go directly into agency, or they need training. (they always need training, it's a gimmick) If they need training I tell them how much it is (It cost your SOUL, and on occasion, your first-born's too) and so on and so forth. The programs are great, dont mistake that, they are absolutely worth the money if you have a million dollars to blow along with zero confidence and need some direction in your life from a bunch of ABSOLUTELY unqualified idiots who have no direction in thiers. (Aside from thier plan of remaining skeezy sales people for life and continuing to pretend that they are somehow "better" than you) But dont expect to become famous off them. In fact, most of the jobs we get them they can get on Craigslist on their own if they were smart enough. Ive done it, so I know this for a FACT. That isnt the point though. The classes they offer are wonderful and absolutely do what they say they are going to. I guess you could say, long story short, we help Ugly Ducklings turn into Swans. We help people (girls mostly) who would normally have no chance in hell snagging a husband, learn how.

I wish they would have told me how much time and dedication it would take to effectively accomplish this BEFORE I agreed to take the job. Which is why I havent blogged. I havent done anything. I havent dyed my hair, gotten my nails done, spoke with my friends, hung out with family. I havent had time for ANYTHING. Least of all.. blogging.

I am there all day, everyday, all weekend and all night. And just when I think its over they usually have us come in on our one day off to make appointments. So fuck it lets say im literally there all the time. I dont even really like the people I work with except maybe two, because they are all so fake it makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. The people working there are either graduates of the place with over inflated egos, or what I like to call "lifers" and they think they own the joint. Walking in that place is like walking through the wardrobe into fucking Narnia. Except instead of being all beautiful and adventurous, its zombie model HELL. I wish I could go into detail but Ill wait until I find something new to publish a book on "the truth"... Lmao.

All that bullshit aside though, Im BACK! At least for a week while I contemplate whether or not I ever want to step back into the Matrix. I can honestly say at this point Id almost rather wipe someones ass 8 hours a day than go back. But we will see how I feel in 6 more days. In this economy I know people should hold onto thier jobs... but this is more like a life sentence. Im terrified one day I will walk-in and the whole place will implode and take me to some alternate reality... where Ill be like, totally trapped for the remainder of my existance. And all I will be able to hear is some stupid promotional modeling video over and over and OVER again. That is literally my GREATEST fear at this point.

Well Im going to paint my nails. Then Im going to sit on the couch and watch all the re-runs of True Blood. The new season is starting up. I need to be refreshed. Lmaoo.

The Infinite Monkey Theorem and My Shit Can Memory

To Whom It May Concern-

I’ve been gone. I’m sorry. I’d tell you where I’ve been, if I knew.

I’d like nothing more than to know where I’ve been and what I’ve done. I’d like to pull my brain out through my ear, pop it in the DVD player, sit on the couch with you, a vodka-redbull and a bowl of popcorn and see what happened; see the things my brain is busy blocking out. Or maybe it’s the vodka that blocks it all out. There is no way of knowing.
The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. The movie in my head that we’re watching has been edited by a monkey, but not that Shakespeare monkey. I have a shit-tossing, public masturbating, screaming howler monkey. He’s collected random outtakes found on a barroom floors across the city. Blasts of dialogue. Seconds of music. Bits of light. Sound and vision run sideways, backwards, not at all, skipping, skipping, skipping. Some things look familiar. A flash of a foot, cut to a hand holding a glass of vodka - it could be mine, there is no way of knowing. Jump to nothing, nothing, nothing, an unidentifiable horizon. Pan to darkness, nighttime, maybe the lights are just off. Maybe none of it’s real. Maybe all of it is. There is no way of knowing.
There are some things you think you know, too. Like, a roach wandered into my microwave oven once just as I was about to warm up a biscuit. I thought, "Gotcha motherfucker!", slapped the door shut, turned it on high and I listened to him snap, crackle and pop. At the end of six minutes I opened the microwave. To my horror the biscuit had turned into a rock, but that little roach shook himself off and toddled away like it was nothing more than a fricken cockroach tanning booth. Nothing I do or say is going to change the fact that you can nuke a roach long enough to cook a hamburger and the roach couldn’t care less. I thought I knew something there. I thought it was an indisputable fact. Guess not.

Remember and know are two different animals.
I know I was born. My mother remembers it.

Here’s what I know: You can’t see the bruises and burns for the welts my own body has created. From my collarbone to my pubic bone, and every inch of skin in between, I’m covered. My face has cracked open. My cheeks, my scalp, my eyelids, even the tender skin under my eyes, dried and cracked like a desert floor.

I know Police don’t take care of people like us. We take care of us. Except when we don’t, and then you’re on your own.
I am on my own. Oh yeah, I know that, too.

My friend said she consulted a dermatologist who said she'd developed an allergy to commercial soap. I never used soap on my face again. Ever. That I remember and I know for sure.
Some things I don’t remember or know at all. My first kiss. My first date. I don’t remember a lot of my life. Not the way you remember yours.
I remember photographs of events, but not the actual event.
Sometimes I think that I made the whole thing up.
All of it.

Then, fiveten years later I run into someone who was there, in that snapshot moment and they say, Yes, that’s what happened. Yes, it was exactly like that. Or they don’t say anything because maybe they blinked too sometimes. Or they look at me like I’m crazy because they remember it a whole ‘nother way completely.
There are things I know, the way I know about Columbus or the Kennedy assassination, but I don’t technically remember, because, like I said, I wasn’t actually there.

That’s how my life has been. I blink and days will disappear. Even when I knew where I was, I wasn’t really there. I left my baggage in the lobby, but I was gone, baby, gone. Checked out. I know the stories, but they happened to that other Jessica while I watched from the back side of the looking glass. I shouldn’t be held responsible, because I wasn’t actually there.
I don’t remember not one single thing from my own eyes. I remember from the eyes of the other me, the one who stepped out, stood in the shadows, sat next to me in the clubs, lounged on the couch in the corner and watched with no reaction at all. To anything. No matter what was going down. From the safety of the shadows I watched my life just happen– the good, the bad and the ugly. Even in a room by myself, I stood in a corner, watching to see what I would do next.
Word is you remember the things that are important to you. I think I remember the things that changed me, even if they didn’t seem important at the time. I can't be sure. But either way... whether I know it or remember it, whether it's important or it's not, whether it's vodka-redbull induced or infinite shit-throwing monkey proclaimed, I've got to be sure... because I doubt brains will start coming equipped with "Ti-Vo" anytime soon.
I mean, after all, what's the point of doing anything if with a blink it dissapears? My life has been pretty fucking entertaining so far. I would like to reserve the right to watch the "Re-runs" anytime I want.

Thanks.
-Jess

SAY NO TO KIDS

For those who already have children past this age, this is hilarious.

For those who have children nearing this age, this is a warning.

For those who have not yet had children, this is birth control.

The following came from an anonymous mother in Austin, TX. Things I've learned from my children:






A king size waterbed holds enough water to fill a 2,000 sq. foot house 4 inches deep.

If you spray hair spray on dust bunnies and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.

A 3-year-old's voice is louder than 200 adults in a crowded restaurant.

If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42 pound boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape. It is strong enough, however, to spread paint on all four walls of a 20X20 foot room.

You should not throw baseballs up when the ceiling fan is on. When using the ceiling fan as a bat, you have to throw the ball up a few times before you get a hit. A ceiling fan can hit a baseball a long way.

The glass in windows (even double pane) doesn't stop a baseball hit by a ceiling fan.

When you hear the toilet flush and the words, "Uh-oh", it's already too late.

Brake fluid mixed with Clorox makes smoke, and lots of it.

A six-year-old can start a fire with a flint rock even though a 36-year-old man says they can only do it in the movies. A magnifying glass can start a fire even on an overcast day.

Certain Lego's will pass through the digestive tract of a four-year-old.

Play Dough and Microwave should never be used in the same sentence.

Super glue is forever.

No matter how much Jell-O you put in a swimming pool, you still can't walk on water.

Pool filters do not like Jell-O.

VCR's do not eject PB&J sandwiches even though TV commercials show they do.

Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.

Marbles in gas tanks make lots of noise when driving.

You probably do not want to know what that odor is.

Always look in the oven before you turn it on. Plastic toys do not like ovens.

The fire department in Austin has a 5 minute response time.

The spin cycle on the washing machine does not make earth worms dizzy. It will, however, make cats dizzy, and cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.

Dear other shoppers using self-checkout-

Just fucking stop. All of you. You, old man with the cart full of groceries. You will die before you scan all of those groceries. And you, mother of seven bratty children, who are running and screaming while you search and search for the code for broccoli. They put the code right on the fucking vegetable, you know! And especially you, group of obnoxious teenagers, who loiter around the machines like you having nothing fucking else to do except make it look like you’re using more than just one machine.



Sweet mother of God, I’m not saying that I so swiftly move through those registers. Or that I don’t get flustered because it tells me there is unauthorized merchandise in my bagging area even though there is no unauthorized merchandise in my fucking bagging area. Or that I quickly can put my change into my wallet. This, I realize, is a physical impossibility for me, no matter where I might be. I mean, I have marginal retail/cashier experience and I get flustered pretty easily. But if I can handle the self-check out - you should, too!



I swear, I can’t take it any fucking longer. I thought self-check out would be a wonderful, wonderful thing - a taste of the future. I never realized the future was so stupid.



While you’re in an argument with the poor high school aged emo kid with the sweeping bang problem, I’ll be in a cashier lane, getting the fuck out of the store.

Thanks-

Me.

Blegh. Teachers.

Tax Man Bob

The Tax Man cummeth

Will Trade Tax Service for Sexual Favors - m4w
Reply to: anon-628263@craigslist.org
Date: 2009-03-04, 1:45PM EST

I do your taxes and you give me sexual favors. Fair trade. Write for more details.

Karizmatic wrote:

I got my W2 and a 1099 in the mail today and I hardly know what to do with them. I don't know my way around those confusing tax forms nearly as well as I know my way around a man's cock and balls. I know my area of expertise and you know yours. I'd be interested in an equal exchange of services.

I would like to be assured that you will handle my taxes as well as I handle your member. Will you get me a write off for every time I get you off? I think that is only fair. I might even let you ride my D-cups with your manmeat, assuming it makes me eligible for the Earned Income Tittyfucking Credit.

I hope your expertise when it comes to tax public policy will equal mine in taxing pubic policy. Believe me, your schlong will be very taxed and need a break when I get through riding it.

Tax Man Bob wrote:

do you have a pic to share? when can we meet to do taxes?

Karizmatic wrote:

Hi -- I know that you are a businessman, and indeed I want to get down to business, but your email was a little businesslike and impersonal. Please tell me more about yourself and how you like to mix taxes and sex. I'm not going to H&R Block for a reason. I'm going to H&R Cock

Tax Man Bob wrote:

37 5'11'' 158lbs 7+ brown hiar and eyes. Average looking.

I love to please women orally. my wife doesnt like oral so I miss it.

Karizmatic wrote:


God, you make talking about sex as boring as talking about taxes. If this is the way you approach it, no wonder your wife isn't into it. Please go into dirty details about what you want to do to me sexually.

Can I deduct some jizz from your balls?

Tax Man Bob wrote:

I want to tax your pussy with my 7+ inch cock and see if it can handle all of my inches. I also want to see if your mouth can handle my cum and I want to itemize my cum on your tits and mouth. I want to suck your clit until taxes are due. I want to make sure your savings are in order so I will load you up with enough cum to last the entire year. I will take my thick pencil and shove it up your tight ass and make you press my adding machine with your nipples.

Cum and do me baby and I will write you off.

Karizmatic wrote:

Are you a two-pump chump? I'm not looking for Turbo Tax here, but a thorough preparation. But if you can’t last more than 30 seconds, I might consider giving you head, as charitable giving is deductible.

Tax Man Bob wrote:

More than 2 pumps. I will do the long form with you and take my time to make sure all the boxes are filled in. I will make sure everything adds up to a big deduction. You will get a load of cash as I give you a money shot on your face.

Karizmatic wrote:

Can you do my backtaxes? You might just get a piece of my backside. I'm talking state AND federal here.

Tax Man Bob wrote:

I can do your back taxes if we protect your ASSests.

Don't want the IRS having problems in the future.

Clay Pigeons?

Them Bitches is Crazy

Pigeons annoy the crap out of me. You'll just be sitting on a park bench, trying to enjoy a nice turkey sandwich and before you know it you're swarmed by them. They look at you, side-eyed, and mock you. They scream Hoorlooorloorl - which is the sound a pigeon makes. And with each step they bob their heads. Which leads me to believe that pigeons are byproducts of South American drug shacks from long ago.
It was a nice nesting place, the pigeons thought. The warm, tropical climate made it comfortable and the lush scenery made them the envy of all their pigeon friends. One day a group of them went out for a joy flight, just soaring over the landscape, drinking in the beauty when, hark! They spotted a party. The barbecue was roaring, there were lots of people, lots of guns and everybody was nude. And pigeons looove to party, so they swooped in. They noticed how hyper everybody was. The adults were talking and dancing, still nude, and were very fidgety people. The children ran into the jungle and wrestled gorillas. And they ran back smiling, toting severed gorilla heads.



But the pigeons were a chill group. They just kicked it off to the side, sippin' on some tequila. One of the pigeons noticed a large mound of white powder all the human-peoples kept going to. So the pigeons slyly made their way over the the white mountain. Hoorlooorloorl, they said, giving head nods to the gunned lunatics. The gunned lunatics replied, "Hoorlooorloorl." People were smelling the powder. "I bet it's scented!" one of the pigeons exclaimed. Human-people were stirring it into their drinks and rubbing it all over their bodies. This party was legit.
Pigeons were at the time notorious for knowing how to get down, so they imbibed. "I don't smell anything," one said. "Well, maybe we need to smell a lot of it," another followed. Within minutes the pigeons were themselves nude, acting a fool. Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Then the pigeons just started humping like crazy. "It's not mating season," one of the females said, "but this feels so right." And they had lots of crazy pigeon sex.
By the party's end, they decided this was too much fun to forget about. But they noticed the mound was quickly dwindling. So each of them swooped up a beak full of the happy powder and flew back to their pigeon village. They shared it with the locals. Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! all the pigeons screamed.
Pretty soon all the pigeons started doing their best friend's pigeon and lying to each other. There were lots of pigeon orgies and lots of diseases that ensued, and also lots of incest. Before long, there were too many pigeons and not enough magic powder. So they started going insane. But they still reproduced in great numbers.
So that brings us to today. Now, human-people can't enjoy a day at the park, alone, because of the conniving, codependency of these orphan birds. What was once a grand animal is now a twitchy, head-bobbing creature, desperate for attention and their next fix. Don't be fooled, them bitches is crazy.

Dear Sally Please Understand

"Sally"
I know I’m an asshole for emailing but I want to be honest. You asked where your CD’s went, and I told you I didn’t know. But I do know. I destroyed them. At least all the Bread and Dan Fogelberg CDs, same with the Air Supply and Wham. It’s been almost 2 months and I swear i couldn’t take it anymore.
I tried to overlook the truth, that you have the worst taste in music of anyone I’ve ever met. I know I told you I liked alright those CDs, but then I told you I really didn’t, I actually couldn’t stand them and I wished you wouldn’t play them when I was around. But you continued to play them and not just on your iPod but on the stereo, in the car, etc.

I’m sorry. You were out and I was having a shitty day and I saw them all sitting there on the shelf, and I just grabbed them and smashed them to smithereens. I used that big hammer from the garage and smashed the shit out of them, and I enjoyed it. Because honestly "Sally" they are total garbage. The music you listen to is total garbage.

I probably shouldn’t have done this or at least discussed it with you one more time. But the truth is these bands are among the worst in the history of music on earth and when you hum along with them and struggle to sing the lyrics, as if the lyrics are worth struggling after and not even stupider than the music, I just want to throw up. And I wonder how can such an otherwise great, smart and totally nice woman be so fucking stupid when it comes to music.
I hope you understand. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I can replace them but really if I do I’ll probably just smash them again. I’ll be back later and, if you want, I can come over and bring you the replacements and then leave because if you plan to listen to this shit again I’m just not going to be able to be there.


J: Are you joking? Where are you, I’ve left messages. Youre not joking are you. I don’t believe this, I don’t believe you. I’ve been looking for days. No, you don’t have to come over. And I’m throwing away anything I borrowed of yours after stomping all over it with my boots, just so you know. So no don’t come over. Ever. I do have good musical taste. You’re just a spoiled immature idiot.

My Stalker (True Love)

Dear Stalker-



Although you and I have not met (to my knowledge), our relationship seems to have blossomed over the past few days. Not only have you graduated from months of calling private and not saying anything, to actually belching into the phone, but I think I have figured you to be female from gauging the force used and frequency in which you can. Not that there are 'girly burps' or 'manly burps' but from the high pitch of yours, I think I can surmise that you are not a man. I apologise in advance if you are gay.



The frequency and duration of our 'encounters' has increased too. You will sit on the phone with me for ten minutes now, just listening intently..or if I hang up on you, you will call back incessantly. I cannot describe how many times you've interrupted me whilst getting pile-driven by my man, or when I'm trying to do something important and because of you, I lose my train of thought. I just wonder what your purpose may be, or what I have ever done for you to warrant me such attention. You must really like me, Stalker. Even when I curse your mother and tell you to commit suicide yourself, you insist on calling back. Why wont you meet me, Stalker? It would be easier for you to keep tabs on me if you knew where I was. You definitely aren't a professional at this.



Alas, I can only hope that one day we can meet face to face, or that you will finally take the initiative to say something into the phone, I'd like to pick your brain. Don't be afraid, Stalker. I have grown somewhat of an affinity for you over the past few months. In fact, if I don't hear from you all day, I often wonder whether something is wrong. Did you forget to pay your phone bill? Or do you have a stalker yourself and that led to your untimely demise? I certainly hope it's not the latter.



Oh dearest Stalker, I hold our breathing sessions near to my heart. I am forever grateful for your attention and *love* that the impact I've impressed on your life has made you unable to speak in my presence, or even over the phone. I am extremely flattered. You've almost crossed the threshold over to full blown pathetic. Keep it up.




All of my Love-
Jess

This Guy will PAY for Crabs

Another 100% REAL post (as always) and conversation with a REAL freak. The things people will agree to!! WTF? Are there ANY normal men left out there?? Fucking CraigsList...



Can crabs surive in snow?

$1000 TO CUM INSIDE YOU TONIGHT - m4w - 35
Reply to: anon-69721734@craigslist.org
Date: 2009-03-25, 4:49PM EST

No games. I am totally serious. Will donate $1000 if I can cum inside you with no protection. Can meet wherever is convenient for you.

We meet, have quick, hot, raw sex (will literally take about 10 seconds)...then we go our seperate ways.

Karizmatic wrote:

I have crabs, so I'll do it for $500.

Brad wrote:

Are you really serious…or is that a joke?

Karizmatic wrote:

I am completely serious.

I do not have the money for the Lindane genital shampoo needed for the treatment of crabs, thus I seek sex with you for $500, which will more than cover the cost of the prescription. I tried over-the-counter Permethrin cream, but it didn't work, so I need the prescription shampoo.

So you see, I do not have the money for the shampoo until I have sex with you, but I will not be crab-free until I get the shampoo, which requires funding from having sex with you. It's quite a catch-22.

Brad wrote:

are you on birth control? how old are you?

Karizmatic wrote:

I am 22 and I am on the pill. I didn't realize the pill only works for pregnancy -- that's how I got these goddamn crabs in the first place.

Are you seriously interested or just fucking around? When can you do this?

Brad wrote:

I am very serious about this. Where do you live around here?

Karizmatic wrote:

If you are ready to do this, I think I am too. Basically you just want to fuck my crabcunt without condom, and you say you'll come within about 10 seconds? That is certainly worth the money. Where can we do this? I cannot host.

Brad wrote:

I am getting the feeling this is a game...who calls it a "crab cunt"?

Karizmatic wrote:

I have crabs -- I told you that at the start. I am for real. If you are afraid of my crabs, then just say so and stop wasting my time.

Brad wrote:

The crabs aren't a problem. I can either get a hotel room, or we can do this in my car. Do you have a cell phone?

Karizmatic wrote:

Hotel or car works for me.

Also, before we do this, I should tell you, I started having a puss-like discharge last night. I'm sure it's nothing, I just wanted to tell you now so you won't be surprised. I hope this doesn't change your mind. If it does, what if we knock the price down to $300?

Brad wrote:

$300 is a bargain. Give me your phone number and we’ll work out the details.