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Jerk-Faces

A while back, when I lived in the DC area, I complained about the aggressive and douchebag-like driving technics of those around me. Since then, I have moved and for a while everything was fine. My commute was a brief eight minute drive through suburban streets. It was a pleasure to drive in the mornings.

However, I changed jobs and started commuting thirtyish minutes downtown, where the style of driving mimicked that of the DC beltway. I bring you my whining about shittier, asshat drivers.

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So here we see a road. The right lane has been clearly marked as being a right turn only lane. Signs have been posted several blocks back, informing drivers of this impending condition. It is not a surprise. However, since traffic slows down in this spot due to the road going from two lanes to one, people get impatient.
So somewhere back a block, despite seeing the signs stating this soon is about to become a right turn only lane, fuckers get into the lane to pass all the traffic.
Then upon seeing that they are being forced to make a right turn, they cock-block the person next to them, cutting the off, causing them to stop and create more traffic delays. 
So the whole thing is a loop. Traffic is slowed down by impatient fucktards whose action create the very situation they are trying to avoid. If they just waited the minute, traffic would move and nobody would be inconvenienced. But they think they are too special to wait, so they jack up everyone else's day. Screw these bastards. We should be allowed to smack repeat offenders.  I get missing it once but freaking every single day?  No.  I say zero-tolerance to jerkface drivers.  Enough is enough.

 

Flashback: Your Crappy Network

Craptasticnet 

Flashback: Jor-El

Flashback: Older than Dirt

 

The other day I was blindsided by the marketing industry.  It seems that I have reached the milestone that one apparently needs to achieve to be marketed to as an old person.  I was greeted by this lovely catalog in my mailbox. 

I am taking this opportunity to critique this before the loss of my faculties, which as this catalog indicates, is soon impending.  This document is written in large font for all of my similarly aged friends.

Disclaimer:  These pictures were taken using my telephone from a catalog.  I do not own the copyright on these images.  They are displayed for satirical purposes only.

Nothing screams crone like a Nordic fifty-something woman in faux fur on the cover.  Seriously, who recruited this woman?  I can just see it now. Talent scouts endured below freezing temperatures, blizzards, and ice storms.  They arrive in a frozen land which time forgot.  The place is filled with reindeer, smiling cherubic children, and this woman.

They promise her a lucrative career as a supermodel in the distant mysterious United States.  She poses for these pictures, never to see the printed photos.

She is compensated with a bag of angel's tears.
Does the carpet match the drapes?  I don't know, but I do know this stunning ensemble matches the sofa.  

This could turn my immanent dementia into one hell of a trip!  I won't be able to tell if I'm sitting or I'm just dressed to go out.  The nurses should be able to keep me entertained for hours.
I swear to God I'll pistol whip the next guy who says "Shenanigans."
No, you are reading this correct.  It really says "Bend Over".  This catalog caters to old horny bastards.

Forget the internet or Victoria's Secret catalogs, this is nursing home pornography at its worse. The pages are filled with cover to cover with old lady ass.  Those young, firm models are just a distant fantasy when you are under constant supervision from the medical staff.  But Mable, from three doors down, can wear this.  And those doctors have to sleep some time.  Maybe when the nurses aren't looking...

*Bend over John
 
This is a special value!  for only 17.99, you can have the flattest front ever!

I guess that if you are not an ass man, the flat front might be your thing.  I'm not sure how that's a turn-on, but if you're 200 years old and you need to take a pound of Viagra to get a stiffy, pretty much anything walking must be hot.
 
And the fanny doesn't stop, especially if Alfred Dunner has his way!

Alfred has his finger on the pulse of the assisted living woman, and the pulse screams S-T-R-E-T-C-H!

The modern assisted living man has no objections because ass is always in fashion.

Is that an arm or a bad Photoshop job on the waistline.  Looks like even old bitties have to be image conscious in this day and age.
Why pay $85 to be the suburban mountaineer of the nursing home?  You can roam the hallways of the home, exploring the natural environment of your tapioca pudding.  You can bravely tame the wilds of the bingo hall!   And your arms are always free for the nurses to give you your 'vitamin shot'.

Fear not, they have your size.  This stylish must-have is available from petite to 5x!
She can turn the world on with her smile.  Frankly, she'd better, because this outfit is full of fail. It's not like Mary would be caught dead in this, to begin with. 

It's like an outdated tweed suit was gang-raped by a shag carpet and gave birth to this...this thing.

Just looking at the fabric makes me want to coat my body in Cortisone.  This frock is obviously full of itch.

And what is that color?  Is it beige or gray? Did something go terribly wrong on the road to taupe? Maybe it is beay or geige.  Either way, it is blander than overcooked, fat-free, white rice.  It is an assault on my senses with its lack of commitment.  This is the color of death, not white or black, but this horrible, non-committal, geige.   

 
You can be the princess of the memory ward!  

There's a color for every day of the week.  As royalty, your servants can tend to your every whim, bringing you fresh Jell-O at the push of a button. 

Being princess can be fun!  Especially when your royal subjects have to wipe your ass for you.
Why be princess, when you can be queen?  Tell your daughter-in-law just what she can do with her crappy cooking and her so-called career.  That bitch should be home cleaning anyway.
No crone catalog is complete without an assortment of muumuus.  Here are a bunch in lovely tackiness.  No figure needed.

You won't need to remember much when these loud prints speak to you.  Just slip one on in time for your grandchildren's visit.  They will be certain to be traumatized by the sight of grandma in a tent.
Yeah, well, I got nothing.  

Cobbler Apron pretty much says it all by itself.

Do you need a special apron to coordinate with each dish you make?  I suppose you must need one for cobbler, or else why would they sell this?  Who knew cobbler was such a specialized art?

You can spend your days home with your cats making cobbler for the neighbors.  Creep them out, when they wonder - is this just puke in a plate or is it actually a baked good?  They may never know.  But you'll have this styling apron that you can wear.

Now, I ponder, how did they know that I am on the old lady downslide?  Was it all those trips to the dollar store?  Are they scanning my store receipts for evidence of Bengay?   Has homeland security has created an old person identifier program, where the elderly are trapped and secured as they turn?  Is the AARP reading my email?  Should I be worried?  Is it too late for me?

Hey, you kid, get the hell off of my lawn!

Flashback: Craigslist

 

Okay, so I am revisiting the whole Craigslist topic.  In the past, we've explored people selling broken crap like it's new; unreasonable demands for free stuff and various other displays of twisted human behavior.  Since Craigslist is an ever-renewable display of human crackheadedness; here is a new, brief, list that I collected.

I begin with the call I always wanted to make.

My first exhibit is the overvalued, badly photographed item.  For some reason, the seller just can't come to terms with the concept of depreciation.  Or maybe they have some misplaced sense of emotional attachment to the item.  Perhaps it belonged to their Uncle Frank, or their favorite cat used to puke on it.  You can't know.  But whatever it is, they want a billion dollars for it; even though the photo displays something that appears to be worth ten bucks on a good day.
Then there is the weird ugly thing, that the seller is clearly trying to ditch by any means possible.  They even give you usage suggestions, in case you are too dumb to figure out how to use it.  They say that you "must" see this in person to see how amazing it is.  This their ploy to suck you in.  They count on you investing too much time invested to walk away.  So you end up with some hideous thing, that you paid too much for.

And then there is the weird garbage that someone has given some strange value to.  They think that someone may need their refuse for some odd art project or construction venture.  They feel so altruistic disposing of their trash by giving it to away to the needy.

 

 

Flashback: Daily Beatings

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Beatings

Flashback: Tax Quest 2017

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The Scandal of "O".

Flipping the channels the other day, the discussion arose about premium television and the fate of some shows we watched, the conversation turned to Sesame Street.   This groundbreaking show continues despite funding issues, but now premiers new episodes on HBO.  Nine months later the shows appear on PBS.  Setting aside the fact that the show has been shortened to 30 minutes and the obvious "updates" to the format, I can't see any downside to the arrangement.   Nobody is going to be forced to avoid overhearing Sesame Street spoilers.  I mean, it's not like you will be waiting a year to find out what happened to the letter "O". 

Hey, did you here did you hear about the "O" drama?  That guy is such a diva.  He thinks he is a rock star or something.

I heard that O was caught off set with P in a comprising position.

I heard they found O passed out after the cast party in a pool of piss, crap, and puke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tree hell

When we think of trees, most times what come to mind is something like this:

It's green, serene and not at all unsettling.  I grew up with trees like this.  Some had acorns, some had pine leaves and pine cones, some had flowers.  Even when they were sick, they were not the stuff of nightmares.

Since I moved south, I gained an appreciation for another type of tree:

Again, peaceful and serene.  Even in a hurricane, thrashing in a breeze, they don't have a murderous disposition.  I like trees.  I like the shade and the shelter they provide the wildlife.  What I don't like, however, are the murderous death trees in my backyard.

What is a murderous death tree, you may ask?  It's something that looks less like the above and more like the below.

Every branch of this skinny, twisted, murder-plant is waiting to fall on my head at any moment.  I have eleven of these in my back yard.  Eleven!

The twelfth tree is different.  It is not a skinny, twisted, murder-plant.

It is a fat, twisted, murder-plant.

So I was determined to rid myself of these death trees.  After a couple of years and barely surviving a hurricane without a direct tree hit, I managed to gather enough cash and schedule a tree guy.  We planned and arranged and I had him set to come out on Monday.

Monday came and he did not arrive.  I called him.  He explained that he had run into a snag at the job before mine.  He said he would be by in the afternoon or the next morning.  Tuesday came, still no tree guy.  He let me know he was now delayed by a truck problem, but for sure he would be by in the morning.

He came Wednesday around 9:30 am - for about five minutes.  That's when the wackadoo neighbor told him to leave because they wanted to sleep in and didn't want to hear the noise.  He felt he had no choice and left.

What the hell?  Why would anyone even do that?

The thing is, the trees threaten that neighbor's house, too.  So to send the contractors away was not just rude and annoying, but idiotic on their part.  But since they are tenants and don't own the place, I guess they just don't give a crap.  I called the landlord of the place, who was confused why the contractor would even talk to them.  It shouldn't matter.  These are their tenants, they need to get these people in line.  I think she didn't want to deal with it.  That's her prerogative.   But now if a tree attacks their house, no longer my problem.

So Monday, we try again.  Hopefully, no crazy neighbor drama this time.  I'm crossing my fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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