Sitting here at my day job bored as hell. Work has been completed, orders are done and it’s a slow one since it’s rainy and nasty. So, being that I have nothing do nor the motivation to find something to do, I log onto Facebook and peruse the vault of sharing of life information and pictures and videos. Lo and behold, I’m greeted by the unreal, the bs, the depressing..the fuckery. Depending on how many friends, fri-enemies, acquaintances, and family members one may have, Facebook tends to run the gamut once that darned news feed is opened. You tend to have the few who actually just use Facebook exactly what it was initially supposed to be: a place to post some pictures, reconnect with people that you actually liked in high school and college and keep up with distant family members.

But then…….you have THOSE motherfuckers.

You know who I’m talking about. THOSE people, the ones who make you wish sometimes that you could break their fingers through the computer or your smartphone with a mallet just so they won’t post the fuckery again.  The ones that you want to unfriend because of their stupidity and sometimes do. The one’s who just get on your gat damn nerves. Just in case you don’t I’m going to spell them out, see if there’s any one you might recognize.

1.The Wannabe Gangsta:

This type of Facebooker is definitely one of my top five to laugh at. I’m not saying that it is inconceivable for a person to develop some sort of  toughness over the years; people change, this is a fact. I am referring to the people that jump at their own shadow. This type of person is one you see more than three times a week, you might even be related to them. Suddenly, you sign on, and it’s like they were visited by their Gangsta Fairly Oddparent or something. If you’re like me, you may just give it a cursory glance and then snort in derision. If you are like my other personality, you want to shout them out about the time that guy took their chocolate chip cookies and they didn’t do jack shit but cry. What the hell is it about a keyboard and monitor that turns people into fucking Scarface?  Muthafucka, I cannot respect your gangsta when you play “Farmville”.

2.The One Who “Always Keeps It Real”

I love these assholes too, because they are usually full of shit and don’t realize it.  I mean; they are almost as bad as the religious hypocrites. This person will almost always end or begin a status with the words “Real Talk” “Just Keeping It Real”, “#teamkeepinitreal” or some other contrived bullshit. They tend to get about five or six likes from people who don’t know them that well and therefore actually believe the person they are representing is really them. Deep down, they are flakier than a Pillsbury biscuit and crumble just as fast at any sign on them backing up the words they type.

2.The “Letting You Know I’m Here” Significant Other

I dated someone like this (note: I said dated), and I know certain people are now involved with someone like this. This type of Facebooker tends to comment on everything their significant other posts and I do mean just about everything, especially when a member of the opposite sex makes a comment . For example, let’s say you see someone post some generic shit that says “Had some cheese today, it was good.” you would in turn post a comment that reads like “No shit, I had some cheese too, hooray for dairy.” Simple. Pretty innocuous. Enters the significant “LOL! Yes baby we sure did have some cheese on our burgers.  Yes WE did. I totally LOVE it when WE are eating cheese together, I’m sooooo glad we’re not lactose intolerant.” Yes, I may be embellishing, but you get the point. This person is marking their territory to let everyone know that said status maker is taken, not realizing that 1. No one gives a fuck in that sense. 2. To many people you look like a dumbass. I’m pretty sure most people are respectful of the fact that a Facebook buddy is involved. It ain’t that serious, shut the fuck up.  (let me reiterate; this applies to male or female).

3.The “Model”/The “Rapper”

I’m not going to waste too many words on this. Let me just be perfectly clear. Just because some pictures were taken in the basement of an amateur photographer’s dank hidey hole does that automatically make you a model. Put the word “aspiring” in front of the word, stop faking the funk. And just because you can make some words rhyme to a rhythm does that make you a hip hop artist, independently or otherwise. I’m not a hater and I’m not one to kill anyone’s dreams, nor am I  one to tell anyone to give up on theirs. But, if music is indeed your life, sometimes you have to re-evaluate and explore other ways to be involved, because 7 times of 10 your lyrics suck, I really don’t care if your mama or big cousin told you different  (it’s the holiday season, I’m feeling gracious.)

4. Duckfacers

I know hate is a strong word, but I hate, hate, hate HATE this fucking look. Seriously what is this supposed to convey? Sexiness? Plump, supple lips? Chicks who do this look like they got their lips caught in a steel trap door. It looks like a fucking discarded cartoon character draft. This. Shit. Must. Cease.

5. The “All Men/Women Ain’t Shit” Daily Ranter:

This Facebooker, always, always, ALWAYS has something negative to say about the opposite sex. Believe me, I’ve gone through crummy break-ups and have had my share of  dating horror stories (that’s another blog if I ever feel like revisiting what I’ve done my best to suppress). I had a few brief moments of the “men ain’t shit.” but, I got over it. Because while I am of the belief that most human beings ain’t shit, I know there are still a few good ones around. True, sometimes it seems easier to find fucking Waldo than to find one, but damn, maybe it’s time to take a step back and check what fucked-up pheromones you are giving off that is attracting these types of people. And I’m not just saying it to say it, I had to do the same thing too, because I always seem to attract the “appears normal until you really get to know them” type (shoulda known he when he told me he did a background check on his ex-wife’s new husband.)

6. The Baby Mama/Deadbeat Dad Whiner:

I know co-parenting can be a pain in the ass, been there, done that and got the t-shirt and the shot glass. In my early years of being a mom, I got into the verbal battles with my son’s father ( I ABHOR the term “baby daddy”) a lot about everything. At least ten times a day I see this type of Facebooker going off, always getting on the soapbox and call themselves clowning someone and shouting them out. Especially when they get someone new, then they REALLY want to break bad by constantly rubbing in the other parent’s face what the new man (or woman) is doing for the kids. That shit ain’t cool, because kids see that. They see a lot already and can make up their own minds.  I just don’t get how you can have more than one child with a person and THEN get on that kick about how they ain’t shit. And I don’t want to hear  “well, they weren’t like that before.”  or ” I thought once the baby came he would change.” blah blah blooey bullshit. A person ALWAYS shows their true colors, it’s just that we tend get blinded by love and some women are under the impression that pussy and baby will change a dude. (The only thing pussy has done is start wars, bad Reality TV episodes, and lyrical beef between Nas, Jay-Z and Tupac & Biggie).  If “baby daddy” ain’t shit you allowed him to be, because you still cocked your legs back and did bedroom hand stands without protection, and gave birth to more than one child for him. Men, if baby mama ain’t shit, you fucked up by not treating your sperm cells with tender loving care and not strapping up and making sure she was on some birth control pills. Don’t get me twisted, I know there are dead beat moms and dads out there, I know there are women out there who will use their children for leverage or to hold an ex hostage. But putting the shit on Facebook to get your hens cackling or your bros “hmmphing” in agreement isn’t the way, it’s a bitter pill I learned to swallow but grow up and handle that shit in private, the world doesn’t need to know that Big JuJu skipped out on a child support again.

Yeah, I could go on and on…might even include another part to this, because this is only the tip of the Facebook Fuckery iceberg. The whole purpose of the number one social website has  been lost and it’s turned into a worldwide melting pot of douchebaggery, asinine bullshit and posing. But then again I can’t complain too much, because the stupidity provided me with inspiration. Ah well, veni, vini, vici.

Until my next rant, keep it sexy..


Now, in continuation of my explanation and opinion of why your hip hop sucks, I decided to kick some knowledge and delve a little deeper into the “what the fuck” situation this genre has become.

Today is the 37th birthday of hip hop. That’s right, kiddies; Hip Hop is now the same age your mom, dad, favorite auntie, anyone you could think of. November is also recognized as Hip Hop History Month, the month of the annual celebration of this anniversary by the Zulu Nation (if you scratched your head, please go read something…seriously.) This day and this month is a celebration of what Hip Hop was and always will be to the enthusiasts: A celebration of a culture, a CULTURE, that  encompassed the elemental components of  emceeing, DJ-ing, graffing (spray-painting if you will) and the dancing styles of breaking, popping & locking and knowledge. KNOWLEDGE, kids.

The father, the daddy, (if it were possible for Hip Hop to have a DNA test, he would be the positive outcome in a Maury episode) of this culture is none other than DJ Kool Herc. No, not Afrika Bambaataa, Kool Herc (I’ve actually had people try to argue with me on this, so that’s why I’m saying it that way).  This gentleman is credited for taking the ingredients of Soul, Jazz, Funk and Disco, mixing that shit up and putting those ingredients in the oven of  the rec room at 1520 Sedgwick Avenue, in the Bronx and becoming one of the people to start a revolution. Time progresses, Afrika, being one of the leaders at the time of the Fraternal Order of the The Black Spades, leaves and forms the Zulu Nation and then helps to spread the name “Hip Hop” as originated by Love Bug Starski.

By the time I entered this world, the seeds of Hip Hop had taken root and was starting to flourish. By its first decade I was around four or five, hanging out with my bigger cousins (or trying to) and soaking it in. Watching the older kids of the block try to spin on their heads on a broken down cardboard box and doing the wop (failed miserably…I had zero rhythm at that time) when someone had their boombox outside. Yeah that’s right, mofos. Boombox. A big ass stereo that took like fifty D batteries and weighed more than a newborn baby in some cases, that damn contraption lived up to its name.

Hip Hop was essentially underground, it was getting out and being played for the masses but it was still pure in a sense. It had yet to be tainted.

“When did you first fall in love with Hip Hop?” : This question seems cheesy but it’s valid. Not too many can really pinpoint and recall. Ask anyone older than me and it might indeed be the first time they went to a block party, rec party and listened to what Kool Herc brought forth from his equipment. It might be the first they heard “Planet Rock” and knew that something was in the air. It might be when they realized that there was a voice coming out that helped to release the anger and frustrations of an economical downturn and other factors. The Bronx, hell, New York was pretty shitty back then, lack of jobs, NYPD were bigger assholes than they are now (no one get their panties in a wad because I am not anti-police, but I can say that some cops are with it.). The youth at that time needed a release. Y’all can’t even understand it, because the youth of today are so babied, spoiled, and Dr. Phil parented, that it’s funny.

Hip Hop when first created was meant to be uplifting, challenging, thought-provoking, raise awareness. It was meant as an avenue for love, unity, having a good fucking time, it was meant to get AWAY from the negativity, not glorify it. What the fuck happened?

Part III…I’m going to psycho-analyze the fuck out of this shit..

Depression sucks.

Depression drains.

Depression is a motherfucker.

Pardon the frank language (ehh..not really), but I need people , especially Black,  Hispanic and other minority people to understand something that has always plagued our communities but has been ignored, denied and brushed aside too long.There is a stigma placed on something that’s swept under the rug and it needs to stop because it’s a dangerous problem. And it’s time our pride get pushed to the side.

Today, I like many others, have heard the news on the passing of Mr. Don Cornelius. To then hear that he possibly took his own life reopens old wounds for me. Not that I knew him personally, but having lost my son’s father to suicide. I can understand. Having dealt with severe depression for what I now know to be most of my life, I can understand. Being a person of color and knowing how “people will look at you.” because you’re “crazy” I can understand.

Not too long ago, I confessed to someone that I had entered into therapy. And I only confessed it because I had gotten annoyed at hearing her go on about how depression should have a “time-frame” of no more than a few hours. In other words, confront the problem, deal with and move on. I knew I would get the side-eye look but I still stood my ground looked her dead in the eye and said. “I suffer from depression. I am in therapy to help me deal with it.” Thankfully, she shut up after that. But it also made me feel better to tell her that, because it doesn’t make me any different. My views on life are certainly askew and I have a pretty dark sense of humor , true, but I’m still pretty “normal”.

“How bad could it/things be…?”

I always hated that question. Because while one cannot understand “how things could be that bad” to someone suffering from severe depression and/or bi-polar disorder, it just is. They don’t WANT it to be, and trust me they are trying like all hell to understand it themselves. But amongst minorities, it just seems to be that we aren’t supposed to be depressed, we aren’t supposed to be down. And we don’t get the proper diagnosis or help. We will clown and rag on someone, call them crazy. Not knowing the internal demons they are carrying, not realizing that we have to stop placing this taboo on it and try to get the person help. Given his age, I can only assume Mr. Cornelius, like most older people who complete suicide, was terminably ill and didn’t want to put his family through the torture of watching him die or didn’t want to feel any pain. There are a lot of reasons. My own depression was heightened in grieving for my son’s father and trying to come to terms with what he’d done, which I still haven’t been able to do fully and probably never will, family issues, feeling unsatisfied at my job and then some. I realized I needed help because I couldn’t cope. I couldn’t just “let go and let God” anymore because (no offense to the Big Dude) he wasn’t helping and prayer wasn’t helping.

Depression, Clinical Depression, Bi-polar Disorder…There is a difference

Depression is a part of life. Most people will go through a few small bouts of depression a few times in their life, depending on the circumstance. Clinical Depression  is a mood disorder in which feelings of sadness, loss, anger, or frustration interfere with everyday life for weeks or longer. It makes you want to not get out of bed, it makes your body hurt. It discourages you. It changes your view on life in general and perception on yourself, your life and the people around you. Bi-polar disorder is a condition in which people go back and forth between periods of a very good or irritable mood and depression. The “mood swings” between mania and depression can and do happen very quickly. Add drugs and alcohol to the mix and you have a real dangerous ball game. Understanding definitions is helpful to gaining understanding but, it is dangerous to self-diagnose. That is what professionals are for and there is nothing wrong with seeking help. Absolutely none.

The info line from the Facebook page “Putting A Face On Suicide” makes it clear: “Every 40 seconds somewhere around the world someone dies by suicide, that’s 99 people every 66 minutes. Every 15 minutes someone dies by suicide in the United States, that’s 96 or so people each day.”

Symptoms of Depression:

  • Agitation, restlessness, and irritability
  • Dramatic change in appetite, often with weight gain or loss
  • Very difficult to concentrate
  • Fatigue and lack of energy
  • Feelings of hopelessness and helplessness
  • Feelings of worthlessness, self-hate, and guilt
  • Becoming withdrawn or isolated
  • Loss of interest or pleasure in activities that were once enjoyed
  • Thoughts of death or suicide
  • Trouble sleeping or excessive sleeping

Depression can appear as anger and discouragement, rather than feelings of sadness.


I guess my basic reason for writing this is that I am so tired of people assuming that they can remain untouched from something. I am tired of seeing people flail in the sea without a lifeline. We are all human. We all have our problems. Mental health issues touch us all. Therapy is not just for white people. Getting treatment doesn’t make you crazy…..

Ignoring it on the other hand…does.

I pretty much start my day in the same manner everyday. I growl at my alarm clock, hit the snooze a few times, get up begrudgingly, and perform my morning ritual of getting my son and myself ready for the day. After all of this is done, I then go onto my phone and to briefly check my Facebook to see if there is anything interesting or may be see if I received a reply or maybe answer one of my notifications.

But I cannot sign on…This has perturbed me.

So I say “screw it” and think that maybe there is a little glitch as usual on Fuckerberg’s (I ❤ calling him that ,”The Social Network” did not exactly endear him to my heart.) end and went about getting my coffee and breakfast and left for work. When I was able to take my morning break, I signed on to Facebook via computer only to find out that I am banned (Whaaat??) for 24 hours because some Puritan got happy with the power of the “report” function over a picture that I had posted that was a little risque (but not all blatant with titties and schlongs galore) on my little fun page that I use to post this blog (whenever I am able to fully formulate a sentence from the many thoughts in my head) and post pictures that make me laugh and sometimes help me get a lift in this otherwise hectic fucking world .

For as long as I have ever had an email account or social media page or participated on discussion forum there are always one of two people online. The E-Thug/Keyboard Killa and the Prissy Prude. To me these are the upper echelon of in the hierarchy of assholes. They are usually immature, but some of them go above and beyond and feel the need to infect the rest of the world with their parasitic misery. I know I am no alone as I refer to these idiots, because I see it online everyday and usually I do a good job of ignoring them but after weeks of the bs I have to ask…. How the hell do you go on a page or a website, knowing full well what it’s about from the title alone or the description and then take offense to it? That’s like having sex with someone who told you outright that they have an erectile dysfunction disorder, frigid vagina or at worse and STI and then complaining when you don’t get off or your genitals become more toxic than rat poison…. Fucking moronic.


1. The “E-Thug/Keyboard Killa:


While the picture isn’t an exactly accurate representation, the sentiment is the same. The “E-Thug” is an individual who will usually see something or post on some sort of forum and have a different view from others. Instead of conceding and acknowledging said differences, this person then presses the CAPS lock in order to convey the point that they are serious (pffft..ok asshole). This individual  is also prone to virtually threaten everyone by indicating that they have somehow captured everyone’s IP address and they are sending police to the home or that they have had the time to take a screenshot to go run and bitch about someone hurting their “feelings” online, or whatever else tickles their bitchass fancy (I’ve seen it many a time and it always cracks me up.). This species of idiocy will even go so far as to create a cowardice page or website, to further annoy the masses.This person also eight times of ten doesn’t have a job, girlfriend/boyfriend, their pet ran away and they sit at home all day looking for people to annoy instead of doing something more constructive like oh, I don’t know maybe ACQUIRING all of those things.



2. Fucking Prissy Prudes

The dictionary defines a prude as a person who affects or shows an excessively modest, prim, or proper attitude, especially regarding sex.

Well then………

Sex…sex…sex……sex…………. fucking SEX! There you prudish ass wipes, I said it. Go clutch your pearls and sing your unused vagina a lullaby.  Avert your eyes, gasp and clutch your pearls if you must, but stop being a kill joy for the rest of us. There is beauty in the body, there is an art form to sex, it’s beautiful, therapeutic and feels fucking great. Go have some of it and trust me, you won’t give a shit about a picture showing a hint of side boobies or even two animals humping in the wild. This is why most of the world thinks Americans are fucking morons, because heaven forbid we really get upset about anything tragic…we get indignant over Calvin Klein ads and cleavage. It’s just tits and ass folks, just tits and ass. Personally, I think if we could see them more and get over the Puritanical bullshit, this country might be better for it.

And don’t get me going on the whole  fucking “profanity” thing. (Gasp!, Oh my, did she just say fuck? Well I never! *report, report, report* and maybe I will even include a long, lengthy diatribe full of my pompous self-righteous superiority for effect..that’ll show her!). They say there are power in words and that’s true to an extent, but,for me they are just words and have no weight in my life. And psychologists even say that letting loose profanities is a GOOD thing for controlling anger issues and alleviating stress (read it in O! Magazine Online, so you know that shit is legit)



Since the invention of the Internet, there have been those who want to censor it and what can be found on it. And the proposition of SOPA didn’t really help matters either. So listen here assholes…I understand the concept of the term ‘freedom of speech” can never really be free because the restrictions and loopholes needed to avoid “fighting words”, libel, slander, or  incitement to commit a crime, etc. But here’s my big thing: I can and will censor myself if have to, I don’t need you to do it for me. You have the right to go about your business if what I say or post bothers you because I am not posting anything  horribly offensive. In all honesty, I’m being pretty fucking tame because my sense of humor is downright sick and as much as I don’t want to offend anyone, I could give two flying fucks if I do. My content and anything I post will almost always showcase the ironic, the absurd, and the sarcastic (name of the blog and page should give you a clue.)


In this world we are not going to always agree with what someone thinks is funny or what they think the world needs to see, and if that is the case click the “unlike” button, or never go to the website again and go about your fucking business. Don’t start that trolling shit or whatever they call it making it seem like only YOUR right to not view something is important, because guess what? It fucking isn’t. Don’t start hyperventilating talking about “But what if kids see this??” Guess what nimrods…. They have parental controls so if you are a parent…fucking control and watch your kids.

And on that note, I’m off.


Yes, yes fucking yes I know. Jay-Z and Beyoncé had a baby. Congratulations, kudos, mazel fucking tov. And after hearing the song where it was revealed that she’s suffered a miscarriage before, from a personal aspect I can understand that pain but that’s pretty much where I draw the line. Enough about it. It’s a wonderful thing having a baby, I popped mine out almost 11 years ago and sometimes I’m still in awe that my uterus was in working condition. What I don’t understand is why THIS warrants front page news in various newspapers. Why is that a woman having a child is enough for people to give more various opinions than they do for any other important event that calls for more attention and discussing. For the past few days whether it’s on Facebook, the news, the neighbors, all I’m hearing about or reading is Blue Ivy, Jay-Z, Beyonce..blah blah fucking blah.

In addition to the media circus, there is the bitching about the name. So what? Show me a celebrity who gives their child a name that is normal and I’ll show you a virgin that doesn’t know how to give hand jobs. I don’t care about it. What I do care about are the allegations that have also been made that the personal security of this couple made an issue with a father going to see his own children and wife and having his own family members removed from the waiting room. If it’s true, then it’s  disgusting. And that would be the type of entitlement that annoys me about people and their thinking process. Being a celebrity does not make a person better than any others, and if it was that deep then a home birth should have been scheduled.  But I digress, the real question is why are we so engrossed in the lives of these celebrities that it seems  we can’t function or damn near get into arguments with each others various opinions?  I’ve observed people getting all butt hurt and willing to go to bat for this couple more so than they would their own family. Even having to read about some fuckwad who stabbed someone for not knowing they were married, why?? Did the question involve a money prize of a million or so? (’cause that would be the only way you could justify that type of  to me)  What does it say about our morals and values? Why are we so ready to be up in arms and go bat shit crazy for something that is done everyday?

As aforementioned, I am not heartless and can sympathize with her having a miscarriage and now being the proud mama to a baby. But I’m not about to be all up in her uterus about it. It’s a story that’s been happening since civilization was created (or evolved for those who want to be picky). Man+Woman=Baby. Period. I care not about the monetary value of this couple, or her worth as an heiress. As a human being I am glad that she arrived into this world safely, as a thinking person I can give two fucks about it. If that makes me a “hater” to some then so be it.  There are more important things in the world.

Let me perfectly blunt: In the daily struggles and circumstances of your life, these people do not know you and do not give a fuck about you. Little philanthropic causes here and there, what are they doing for anyone? Are they making charitable donations to a family in need? Are they paying anyone’s bills? If so then fine, champion them from the rooftop, but if not then shut up about it already.


Like any other patriotic, country- lovin’ American, I exercise my right to complain about my job.  A right that I hold near and dear to my heart, right up there with the 1st and 2nd amendments. Yes, I know I should be happy that I have a job in these tough times and yes, I know how many people would LOVE to have it (I give them two weeks…seriously) and if it wasn’t for the fact that I brought someone into this world that needs trivial things like food, clothes and shelter; I would quit this bitch in a fashion that includes fireworks, a skywriter and quite possibly a marching band. But, I digress.

One of the main reasons that I detest my job is because of the people  I come across. Between “management” and the people who are dumber than a dildo with dead batteries, it makes the work day pretty hard.  So let me state for the record, I don’t bemoan the fact that I must work, because I actually like the food..a lot, way too much for some people but that’s another story. I bemoan the asinine fuckwits that I have to share my hell with. Speaking from past and personal experiences, I have always worked in an office setting,and while I understand that there are different personalities in the world and they won’t always clash, these motherfuckers are the reason I refuse to put “gets along well with others” in my cover letter.

The Incompetent, scumbag  Supervisor:

There is an expression: “If common sense was common, then everyone would have it.” and believe you me, if it isn’t the goddamn truth. You ever have someone  who is over you and wonder how the fuck they get out of bed without maiming themselves ? This person has somehow perfected the art of fucking up the simplest thing and leaving the underlings to sort it out while they scuttle back into their office and shuffle papers around looking important and competent. And don’t ever think that this person will actually acknowledge who does the real work. Every honor, accolade or simple comment will somehow never reach your ears. Ass-kissing is obviously an important characteristic for someone in this position to have. And they do it shamelessly. I’ve watched my supervisor ass-kiss with such  abandon that it amazed me that our VP doesn’t have her lips literally tattooed on her ass. They are also not above blaming you for their fuck-ups because it’s easy to sit behind a desk and shuffle papers whilst looking capable then actually working.  But if you so much as try to wipe your nose with the corporate Kleenex they are full to the brim with asinine quotes about teamwork,  leadership, no I in we bullshit. Kick rocks.

The Brown-noser

This person is not to be confused with the Incompetent Supervisor, but they are just as bad, because this person also helps to make life a living hell. It doesn’t matter what needs to be done. Let’s say your supervisor has the audacity to tell you that she needs the dried shit cleaned from her Yorkie’s ass-hair by a process that includes finger combing with a complex solution of baby Palmolive and Distilled water…you might look at the bitch just like she is….fuckin’ crazy. This motherfucker will scramble to his/her feet, baby-talking the rat dog all the while telling a bullshit story about how their Grandma Mabel used to run a Yorkie mill and this is exactly what they had to do to earn their allowance. They either don’t know when to quit or they really truly believe that if they prostrate themselves low enough to have their spines completely aligned from being walked on enough they will succeed. And usually sometimes because they are the pet they get away with a few things, because have no real ethic and are just bullshitting along or even occasionally sabotaging shit so that he/she can look good. Annoying as hell right?  You might want to get them back but might not know how or fear for your job security, Which is why you must not get caught setting their home page to granny porn or possibly drug them, duct-tape them and lock them in the old supply room usually used for office sex. (If you’re a nervous Nellie, I vote for the latter.)

The Tattletale Who Tries To Make It Seem Unintentional:

This person is always trying to make sure that they are around, peering into your cubicle or trying to look over your shoulder to see what you’re doing on your computer, asking what you’re reading in a really loud way so that they can scuttle back to their desk and shoot your supervisor an email under their secretly understood spy name or put on that phony ass “Taylor Swift shocked” look when you give them the Death Star glare. Depending on your office size, it is a challenging mission to keep this person a wild-goose chase for information to go runtelldat. I once had a tattletale who was clocking what time I came into work, what time I went to lunch, how long I stayed in the bathroom etc. Not just me, but other people in the office as well. Even if they weren’t really doing anything bad per se. It was real fucking annoying. Until, one day I cornered her in the parking garage and whispered sweet nothings in her ear about my knowledge of her afternoon trysts with a married person who I knew had a certifiable, psycho wife. Et voilà! Suddenly, she knew how to keep her mouth shut and mind her business. And I wouldn’t have really told about her scandalous, car hood genital bumping activities because that’s her business. It was just a matter of principle.

The Whiny Bitch:

Male, female. It doesn’t matter, whiny bitches just grate the nerves. I would rather listen to Fran Drescher sing Christmas carols through that God-awful T-pain microphone. I’d rather have a starving baby scream in my ear through a megaphone than listen to this person for longer than five minutes. This person will complain about E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. The office is too cold, the office is too hot, that wasn’t the microwave that they agreed to chip in $5 for, they think someone switched their chair. Blah, blah, blah. Their complaints are never really anything worth them spreading their rancid smelling carbon dioxide. This person usually has no significant other,( or if they do then this person has held their genitals hostage  or  is sharing them with someone else) or they have no prospects of getting one, and/or  some sort of pet that only pays them attention because they rely on them for feeding. On a bad day, you might want to crack them in the mouth with your keyboard, just so they can shut up. On your best day you can tune them out and subconsciously gain some fodder to imitate them later on at lunch.

The Permanently Incredible Hulk: “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry” seems to be the personal motto of this person. My question is: When the fuck are you not angry? Life can be a real drag but sheesh can’t you smile about something?  Most of my friends say I’m cranky, and I am even willing to admit it to an extent but this person has me beat. This person makes me look like a damn sweetheart. It seems like they are ready to throw a chair through the wall at any given minute or quite possibly go on a murderous rampage. This type of person is always confrontational, which means something as simple as “Good Morning” could turn into a UFC fight or an argument because they feel the need to reply with some snarky shit like “What’s so good about it? Do you know what I had to go through today?? Do you?!?”…yeah they are just a fucking joy.  And don’t even think about trying to not say  “good morning” because then they will be pissed off about that too. They seem to live their life in a cluster fuck of anger and it leads one to  wonder if they go home and kick their cat or masturbate with that much intensity.

The Genital Bumpers (who might turn into ex’s) :

Provided an office doesn’t have a strict no-dating policy, then there is potential for work to turn into some afternoon, copy-room humping please and dating co-workers are fucking nauseating (at least until they break up..then it gets interesting). They are always stealing away to canoodle and sending each other cutesy nauseating emails filled with “xoxo” and cutesy emoticons, giggling like fucking loons as they go to “lunch” and never return with a doggy bag or even ketchup stains on the collar (I don’t even want to think about any other stains they might return with) they are even worse than couples who check-in as being “Home with the love of my life currently” on Facebook. Not only is it sometimes distracting while they are in the throes of lust, but if it goes bad..then it’s hell on Earth eight hours. The sniveling, the hiccupy crying, the fucking sad songs Ipod playlist. There is a real potential for disaster…especially if the new boo comes around to get that nooner lovin’.


There are many other types: Thieves, compulsive drug abusers and the one who always seems to wind up with your favorite pen. And I’m not using this say go ape-shit and judo chop that annoying bastard in the throat, but it helps to know you’re not alone, or maybe gain some perspective if you are one of these people. Life is difficult enough with the day-to-day grind and the individual stresses of trying to keep your head above water, dealing with assholes is to be expected but it’s not so hard to check yourself and not be the asshole all the time.

(A-fucking-men it does…)

There is a fine line between crazy and just being batshit psychotic that people flirt with daily. Christmas shopping just seems to exacerbate that line even more.

The long lines, God awful music, the rudeness fact that just seems to increase after Black Friday. The fact that today I actually got into a tug of war over an Elmo toy that I wasn’t even fucking buying (I’ll get to that). I’m not a shopper, I hate crowds and I don’t like to be poked (on Facebook or otherwise). So of course I am now kicking myself in the ass because I let myself get talked into going into Wal-Mart after my lunch hour (fyi…I hate that place) and it’s more packed than a paddy wagon at the Mexico border. None-the-less I grit my teeth and peruse the selections along with my co-worker, all the while taking in the frustrated, aggravated, stressful tones.

My ears take in all the various snippets of conversations “No, she likes blue.”…”If I can’t find this video game here so and so is gonna freak.”….”Do you think she’ll like it? She complained the last time she didn’t like what we got her.” , “Just shut up and buy it.” Blah, blah fucking blah. I’m not a grinch, I like the holidays well enough, but to honest I more than likely would not be celebrating it if it wasn’t for the fact that I have a kid and don’t want to deprive him of a childhood. But my patience gets thinner by the nanosecond, I can feel my fingers curl into a fist and have to curb the urge to punch a singing Santa display right in his chubby-cheeked grinning face.

   So now we’re in the toy section, and my friend sees the Elmo doll that she wants to buy for some kid that will play the fuck out of it and annoy his/her parents until the batteries run out (it does run on batteries..right?) but it’s on a high shelf. So naturally, my Amazon-ess comes in handy and she asks me to reach it for her. At just about the same moment my fingers close on to it and I start to pull it down, some hand with big, fat fingers grabs at it…in something could only happen to me, our fingers close on it at the same time and we both bring it down. Sir Snausage Fingers then tries to muscle it from me.

Oh. Hell. Fucking. No.

My Bronx kicks in,because you ain’t just gonna try to punk me Mister. Yes, there were still a few more on the shelf, but all of a sudden in that moment… I wanted THAT one. So I proceed to make eye contact and tug back.. Snausage fingers tugs again with a little force…I tug back and pull extra hard and snatch Elmo to my bosom, give him the evil eye and walk away, adrenaline pumping and cheeks aglow. Fuck yeah..I win Porky. I even do an evil laugh as my friends and I walk and they laugh at my expense. Because isn’t that what Christmas shopping is really all about? Isn’t that what makes people leave their families and homes to be at stores at ungodly hours on Black Friday? It isn’t really just all about the potential for fabulous and unbelievable markdowns. It’s about the possibly of  maybe, just maybe, getting to cross that threshold into psycho land, relieving some stress and having the opportunity to bitch-slap someone who tries to get in the way  (as long as you can run before the cops get there). ‘Tis the season.

While not allowing myself to become completely apathetic, it feels so good

When I  made the decision to start and write a blog. I was at a loss as to exactly what I would write about. When I sat down and looked at the “about me” section of the blog, my very first words I typed was “Ms. Sarcasm doesn’t give a fuck.” and with that simple sentence the blockage was gone.

Sometimes, if I allow myself to sit and think about the course of my life, I analyze how I reached that impasse; how I arrived at the town of Fuckitville, and why I feel so much better for it and glad I decided to move here. The basic and simple answer is: Life is too short to run myself ragged. The more detailed explanation includes stories of boofriggityhooin’  and just in general always caring. Caring about what was thought of me, caring about what was said about me, caring about making sure I made people happy. Until one day, a little after the death of someone close, I sat down and just saw what wasn’t totally healthy for me, what didn’t benefit me, what just left me drained. I’m not totally apathetic and uncaring..I just don’t give a fuck.

Fully accepting my “weirdness”: It always amuses me when people who don’t know me well, cock their head and look  at the little things I say and I do as if I’m strange (or at worse encourage therapy). Everyone has their quirks. It takes a truly psychotic person to let them out in public. One of my biggest quirks: I like to sing show tunes, commercial jingles or sitcom theme songs at random. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, if mama feels the need to belt out “Seasons of Love” she’s gonna do it. (plus she will also refer to herself in the third person, because that’s how she rolls).  I remember once going out on a date with a dude when I was about 18 and we’re traveling all over Manhattan, having a good time and I just suddenly started singing the theme song to the “Brady Bunch”….and some women who were walking in the tunnel going to the “A” train started singing with me.  Granted, I know there are situations where the need for solemnity might be  called for, and sometimes I might even do it. But I like to have fun, I like to have a laugh at my own expense and definitely at the expense of doesn’t matter. Most people might think I’m an escaped patient from Bellevue, some might ignore me,  someone might get a lift in their otherwise shitty day. The point is that I don’t waste my time caring about acceptable so-called standards of “normal”. I’m gonna ride the fuck out of this roller coaster.

Realizing that I can’t do it all and damn sure not killing myself to do it:

365 days, 366 in a leap year, 7 days in a week, 24 hours in said days. And you know what? That’s STILL not enough time. If you are fortunate to have a job, that’s a good 8 hours a day, 2,920 hours out of your minimum, if you have kids in school then your day starts earlier, you have to drag them out of bed, give them their clothes because for some reason they can’t remember to find the dresser and closets that you put them in (unless of course, they just HAVE to wear that blue shirt with the dude skateboarding across it…that is of course..fucking dirty), possibly feed them all the while trying to gulp down a coffee while simultaneously brushing your teeth while hopping one leg.  Somewhere in the middle of that is the subconscious thought that you are also supposed to go to a doctor’s appointment, then your kid is a tizzy because you apparently forgot to bake 400 cupcakes in recyclable liners that they promised their  school recycling awareness club for a bake sale. Then you get to work and your supervisor is going crazy because she doesn’t know how to explain your idea that she took credit for and wants you to write a quick summary. Then your mom calls because in all the commotion in your head, you forgot her birthday (Unless,you’re one of those freakazoids who plans every minute of your day, to which I say, you’re just sick). My point?..You are more than likely not going to remember everything, unless it is vitally important to the general health of someone (you might miss breakfast, but the other two meals should happen once in a while.) If it can wait…that’s good, the world isn’t going to end if you don’t do everything everyday.

Being liked is nice…. not giving two shits about it is awesome: I am not everyone’s cup of tea, brand of flour, drug of choice. In other words…everybody ain’t gonna like me. And it actually took me a very long time to accept that. I used to worry and damn near tripped over myself if something about me put someone off and wondered what I could do to change their mind, not realizing that it didn’t matter because then it all becomes phony and I don’t do phony. Once I reached my second year of high school, it just became quite easy for me to learn to not be bothered with people who didn’t like me (as long as they were respectful, because if not,  then it became a whole different ball game.) As I reached adulthood, it became an art. I have lots of friends, and have been thankful to have had most of them for an extremely long time, so I’m not all that bad.  There are just those as I said before, don’t. For whatever reason or misconception, and that’s okay too. They could fucking kick rocks.

People who throw stones, not realizing I can catch them mid-air and throw it upside their heads: We’re human (at least I hope most of us are) so to say we are not judgmental is a bit extreme, actually it’s fucking bullshit. Whether we want to admit or not. But I guess to touch on the being liked thing..judgements are a major reason. And the basic truth is, someone is ALWAYS judging you. You see that skinny, gap-toothed gimpy legged bitch at work that you tried saying good morning to (trying to be polite), that keeps giving you the stank eye? Yep, she’s judging. You see your MIL roll her eyes when you tell your kids….anything? Of course she’s judging you. Do you give a fuck about it? NO! Why? Because someone will always have something to say. That is the glory of flapping the gums. It is quite easy to say and criticize someone without taking a good hard look at oneself, and most people usually do. And no matter what you do, how many donuts you buy or even if you decide to follow their every criticism to avoid their criticism, the shit ain’t gonna work. As a matter of fact it will make them respect you less. By not giving a fuck and doing what you need to, in the way that works for you and if need be, sticking up for yourself, will make them respect you more. Why? Because you don’t give a shit what they think and that will stick in their minds and come out in the conversations they have behind your back.

Changing from doormat to brick wall:  When it came to the people I love/loved. I was a total doormat. I’m not afraid to admit. There was a part of me that thought that if I didn’t do something for someone or in the way that they wanted it to be done then they would remove their love from me. I was a total sucker, believing that I gave the sympathetic ear, loaned money etc. The last person that I ever truly loved is the one who helped me change that mind-set. Wanna know how? By leaving me for another woman.  Former friends helped me change that. Wanna know how? By never being around when I really needed someone. Some family helped me too. Trust me, when you realize that for the most part people you care about are using you, don’t respect you, or don’t love you it’s eye-opening. That shit made me open my eyes wide like I had snorted coffee grounds and chugged Red Bull. Now, I’m a bit more selective, and not as stupid…because most importantly,..I love me. If no one else will…Fuck it and fuck them, right in the ear.

You want something sugar-coated? Eat a doughnut: I’m not rude (although I most definitely can be) but I don’t have any hair on my tongue. So if I need to say something, best believe it’s going to be said. I can no longer be bothered with all the hemming, hedging, wondering if I will offend someone by standing up for myself or if I answer a question honestly would they take it the wrong . Or for speaking my mind when I feel something is fucked up. The same applies to my friends. They have come to realize that I am going to give an answer straight with no chaser. And if you don’t like what I had or have to say, then don’t ask me. I’m “tactfully blunt” as a friend once put it. (Whatever that means…it sounded good, so I rocked with it)

Again I reiterate, I’m not a robot nor am I totally a soulless creature, I have a really big heart but I am very selective about how much I give a fuck about things. Especially things that are going to make me go crazy….and I’m crazy enough without all the extra shit. So if you’ve procrastinated on whether or not to just not a damn..take my advice and stop putting it off….because it feels so damn good.

After my last horrid attempt at a relationship and against my  last slightly inebriated vow, I have started dating again. I thought at first that it was too soon, but I had waited the proper dating mourning period ( and by that I mean I deleted every picture we had taken together from Facebook, blocked and deleted him because he turned out crazier than even I can tolerate and briefly contemplated becoming a lesbian) and let a friend set me up because I realized again that I was right about what I said 3 and a half years ago …that I am not that good of  a judge of character and normalcy when it comes to relationships.

None-the-less, here I go again embarking on the relationship roller coaster. And so far, the ride is off to a great start..we’re on the incline. Our very first date was slightly chaotic and funny (a girl from Long Island rammed into the back of his car while we were waiting at the light behind a cab on the Williamsburg Bridge coming from Brooklyn to Manhattan….trust me, shit like this only happens to me). Seven dates later, he enjoys my company, so far I am not nauseated at the sight of him eating.  We both have the same sick sense of humor. My bitchiness excites him, his sweet nature and awesome pecs and biceps excite me. He’s a germa-phobe, so am I.To quote Charlie Sheen…… “Winning”.

Now, he wants me to meet the parental and units. And his six brothers and sisters. Have I mentioned that with the exception of three, they are all police officers? I’m sweating bullets (no pun intended) because I’ve never been on this side of the law before, (or under it for that matter….*tee hee*). And that’s where it gets tricky. One-on-one I am great, I can dazzle, giggle, and be completely at ease with being myself. But there is something about “meeting the family” that just turns me into a fucking moron. Seriously.

Ten seconds.I have basically have the  first ten seconds is all I have to either make mommy want to  really get to know me or dismiss me as the Jezebel who’s corrupting her son. And I’m nervous as fuck.  First of all, what the hell do I wear? I have to find or put together the perfect outfit that says “Yes, I’m shtupping your son every chance I get, but I’m totally not a whore.” Why? Because that’s what mothers look at. (I’m a mother, I know that’s what the hell I would be looking at.) Is there too much cleavage? Is she even wearing a bra? Does the make-up remind me of the women of the night and sometimes mid-afternoon on Hunts Point? (Or drag queens at best)? The Pants. Does the pants seem to be a rubber stamp of the vagina she’s imagining that I am trying to entice her son with? (I only wear those with him) Does it look like I poured on latex  body paint and tried to pass it off as clothing?

The next phase of my moronic tendencies is my mouth. I have a smart mouth which is a given and I tend to deliver some sort of dry comment.  I also somehow wind up inadvertently falling into the trap of answering a question with an honest answer. Because that’s what they want right? WRONG. They don’t want the honest answer. They want the Mother-Tested and Approved answer. A statement as completely innocuous as me stating that I have a severe allergy to ghost chili and could die would somehow translate into me insulting her cooking into the deepest fiery pits of hell. Strike Two.

Should I tone down my totally deviant and for the most part, socially unacceptable  brand of humor? Or will I for that matter? Will I mistakenly laugh at the fact that she lost her pet cockatoo when she was seven, not realizing that may have been her only friend at that time because she walked with a limp for weeks after stubbing her toe and people mistook her for gimpy legged? Will I look like a raging alcoholic if I pass on the wine and ask for the scotch? (If they even have wine) It is not a question of whether I really care if they like me, it’s more a matter of, if they don’t like me will that spell major chaos for us?

It goes without saying that meeting the family can be stress-inducing and nerve-wracking. And if they don’t like you, then sometimes that causes tension, unless the person genuinely doesn’t give a fuck what their family thinks. I don’t care who you are. I don’t care if you are now married to the love of your existence. It goes beyond being yourself, it’s about possibly having to not totally be yourself because people don’t really make an attempt to understand you. I’m not in the business of conforming, but I also don’t want them to assume that I’m a sexually unsatisfiable hussy (not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

I have a few more weeks to get over my completely over-analytical thinking, and possibly enough money in the bank to get a different shirt other than the V-necks that I adore because they work fabulously together with Vicki’s Secrets bras.

To be continued….hopefully.