I was so looking forward to coming home and writing Friday night, but wound up being pretty much in agony with back pain exacerbated by period cramps until Sunday morning. I’ve had better weekends.
And you’ve had better Mondays, because this leaves you with nothing to read when you’re supposed to be working for a living. Dammit!
Foiled by the universe again.
My back has improved considerably since yesterday morning, though. Graduating from somewhere near “agonizing” to merely “sucking ass totally”, but, believe you me, that’s not just mere semantics — that’s change! And I’ll take it.
I have nothing else to really report, except I got this comment yesterday from someone who’s all pissed I had the gall to do the lame-ass “you can donate to my PayPal” request on my birthday posting, and also totally chewed me out for chewing out someone who left a comment, since I should apparently just delete comments instead of chewing the person out.
What fun is that, though? I have a million arguments on why that posting deserved reaming in particular, but I deleted yesterday’s comment, so I won’t bother with specifics. Hey, he more or less told me to do so. I aim to please.
But let’s say two things here and now. If I want to be a loser and ask for money, since you never know if you don’t try, that’s my prerogative. I’m the stupid fuck who’s whiling away MY life to write this blog, so why not ask for reward? I’ve been broke off my fucking ass all year, so why the hell NOT ask for money? If you laugh at it, GREAT, because I’m being half tongue-in-cheek about it. If you donate, then holy shit, awesome! If you ignore it, all the power to you. Who gives a fuck? But to waste time getting RILED because I’m being a goof? Well, that’s your prerogative, but don’t expect me to care.
Oh, and never mind that I spend a couple hundred bucks a year on hosting fees or countless hours writing. I work for a living, too, you know. Clearly *my* time isn’t worth anything so long as you have your 2.3 minutes worth of reading. Fucking hell.
And, finally, if you don’t like my writing, don’t waste my time, and don’t waste yours. Go read someone else. Seriously. Life’s too fucking short. For either of us.
I learned a long time ago — all the things that piss people off about me are the things others come to love about me. So I’d rather keep it simple, be myself, and worry about the select people who actually can like someone who’s an acquired taste as much as I am, and fuck the rest. Because life’s too short.
Oh, and this guy gave me hell for trying to be the ruler of The Internetz. Um, I’m not, dude. But it’s my blog. I used to call it The Cunting Linguist. Do you really think I’m all about sunshine and roses, pleases and thank yous? No, I can be a cunt. It’s what I do. I can be a bitch here as much as I like. See the quote on the bottom of my sidebar? When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it? Right.
And if not, then there’s the door.
Tag Archives: annoying people
Hey, honey, mind photocopying this — and your ass — for me?
A recent sexual harassment lawsuit was tossed out of court in the USA. It doesn’t amount to much in the scheme of things, but I’m fucking elated about it.
During writing meetings on the show “Friends,” things would get raunchy. Sex-talk and profanity would lace the meetings, and one woman got her panties in a twist as a result of it.
I’m sick and tired of the politically correct bullshit out in the world. Whether it’s no longer being able to flirt at all at work or having to check your tongue before you speak, people just take things way too goddamned seriously.
I recently had a reader object to my use of the word “chick” when talking about women. I had to rewrite my response to her because I was so pissed off at first. What the fuck? “Broad” or “skirt” or “twat” or “bitch,” yeah, those are offensive, sure. When you get an email from me, wanna know what the sign-off signature reads? “Resident Cunt.”
Words are words. Intentions behind them are what matters, and people need to start looking at the big picture, not using a macro lens to examine every little happening.
I will never, ever clean my language up for you, people. Sorry, not going to happen. Don’t like it? Read someone else. Go read fucking Miss Manners, for all I care. My blog, my words, my way. Soon, I’ll be having to watch every period and every verb when editors harangue me for perfection and for publication-quality work, but for now? I’m a rebel with a cause, baby, and my cause is “whimsy” and “spontanaeity”. I think it, I say it.
This chick, getting a job on a sitcom about sex, one of the top sitcoms of its time (this was six years ago), was LUCKY. She was FORTUNATE to have an inside fly-on-the-wall perspective of some of the best comedy writing on television. She was warned about the workplace approach when she got the job, yet she decided to rock the boat based on her own narrow perceptions.
It doesn’t work like that, honey.
This is tantamount to something we have occurring a lot here in Vancouver, home of the million-dollar apartments. Yuppies move into areas with clubs and bars and then they piss, moan, and bitch about noise after they’ve moved in. What part of “entertainment district” did you fail to fucking comprehend BEFORE you moved in, HUH? Fucking whiners.
There are a lot of standards I possess that are not met by the world at large, whether it’s cleanliness, food, manners, what have you, but when I leave my front door, I know I need to compromise. That’s life. But these whiners and wimps looking for a perfect, safe, clean, proper life, they’re spoiling it for the rest of us.
It’s one thing to say that unwanted sexual advancements are not appropriate for work, but it’s another thing to let that pendulum of so-called decency swing to extremes. Life just isn’t as fun as it used to be. Personally, I always pushed the envelope in the office. I was known as “flippant.” When I write, I have a backspace key. You think I’m off the hook here? You don’t know shit. In person, the things I say, man, I’m amazed I’ve never been beaten senseless and left for dead some days. Having a cute smile and a twinkle in ze eye serves a girl well, it would seem.
But why should I have to watch what I say? Why can’t I just say it, and if it’s too much, apologize? When did we start cutting the leg off before the gangrene set in, huh? We’re a preventative society now. Playgrounds aren’t nearly as fun as they used to be. Merry-go-rounds are practically a thing of the past. Teeter-totters? Dear god, the potential for death and dismemberment! Get that thing out of here!
We are a nation of pussies, and I don’t mean in the get-it-wet-and-get-it-now “mreow!” sort of way. We’re wimps. We’re too timid. “Park your indecency at the door and homogenize with the rest of us” seems to be the credo of the day. If we were a colour, we’d be beige, man.
So, we’ve had a small victory here with this court case being trounced. For once it seems like filth and debauchery are allowed to be a part of the creative process. But what about the rest of the world? What about workplaces that are boring and stoic? What if a little juice and impropriety was good for productivity? Maybe workers wouldn’t be so compelled to surf for tits and ass when the boss ain’t looking. Who knows. All I know is, talking about sex and swearing and being inappropriate makes me smile. Smiling means I’m happy. Happiness means I get more shit done. Getting more shit done means the wheels of this economy work better.
There’s an argument for scrapping the harassment laws. Economic benefit. Really, look at it – all this shit came into play since the whole Justice Clarence Thomas “Is that a pube on my can of Coke?!” scandal way back when. The economy? Has been tanking ever since.
A connection? Elementary, Dr. Watson.
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Addendum: Okay, I’m being a tad facetious, but really… don’t we all hate work a little more than we used to? Isn’t impropriety, oh, I don’t know… fun?