Sunday, October 3, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Before I embark on my literary journey for this evening, I would like to quote a beautiful poet from our past, for this talented genius was able to sum up the entire meaning of tonight’s topic at hand in three simple words.
“Fuck the police.”
Of course, I don't really mean "fuck the police." I had to call the police once when I was younger, and as my 7-year-old sister was trying to figure out how to throw the ladder out our window so we could escape from what we thought was a deadly intruder (not that exterminators aren't deadly intruders...), the police were there to help calm us misunderstood children down, and if an intruder ever did break in to my house, I would call them and know they'd do all they could to save my life. Not that I couldn't kick an intruder's ass myself. Cause I could.
Though technically I am not brown, I still got it bad. And I don’t mean Usher’s definition of “got it bad,” but if I ever do choose to blog about love, I’ll keep him in mind, even disregarding his spelling. Look, Usher, I know your Kindergarten teacher taught you something different, but "u" is actually spelled with three letters. Mind-blowing, I know. So is the fact that you refer to breasts as "boobies." Wow. Oh. WOW.
I actually got it bad because to me, a 92 dollar ticket is BAD. And you know what’s even worse? Traffic school. And worse that that? Traffic school for two days. And even worse than that? The fact that a car drove by me last week as I was walking across the street and yelled, “DIKE.” But that’s completely irrelevant.
I must have bad luck, because the last time I was in a speeding car, as a poor, helpless, innocent passenger, this was the play-by-play:
My sister sees the blue lights before I do. We look at each other, already knowing that we both are repeating the word, "Fuck" in our minds, kind of like this: Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, and my sister pulls over, as we are both still thinking, "Fuckfuckfuckfuck," maybe even adding a "Fucky" in there, which I blame on the pressure of the situation, since "fucky" isn't even a word. The cop slowly paces up to the car...my sister exhales slowly, preparing herself for the ticket to come.
Cop: Whoa! You were going over a hundred!
My sister: I'm sorry, I was just trying to get home on time for curfew.
Cop: The speed limit is 55!
My sister: I'm really, really sorry. I didn't realize I was going so fast.
Cop: Ha! Ha! Ha! Man you were going fast! Well, slow down, okay? Hahahahaha!
The cop walks away laughing, turns his car on, and drives off.
My sister: Dude...he was so...fucking... STONED!
We laugh in utter joy and continue on our way home.
Ahem, with that experience fresh in your mind, I will now tell the story of my own cop-encounter, which occurred only a couple weeks following the former.
I am driving along the freeway. Alone. Again, I am a poor, helpless, innocent, soon-to-be-VICTIM of pure bad luck, and pure-bad-FUCK. As in everything. Okay, that wasn't clever at all. I just didn't want to blatantly say, "Fuck everything," because that would be cynical. Oh well. FUCK EVERYTHING. (Pessimism is acceptable as long as you balance it out with optimism. That is the golden rule. I never knew Mother Theresa personally, but I know she would agree with me. You see, I may have directly stated "fuck everything," but I wasn't finished with my statement. If I had stopped there, I would be shaking Lucifer's hand in a couple years, but I did not stop there. You interrupted me. What I was GOING to say before you were rude was, "Fuck everything, EXCEPT for easy-bake cookie dough." See? Saying that everything should be fucked except for easy-bake cookie dough means that easy-bake cookie dough is a wonderful thing, which it is, which means that I was positive just then! Cookie dough has brought me positive thoughts! Yay! Life IS worth living! Thank you, Nestle Tollhouse. Thank you.
The truth is, I was not thinking of frozen cookie dough when I saw the flashing blue lights; I was thinking of how long I could get away with refusing to pay my taxes. Because there's no way in hell I'm giving those shitheads money to get UNDERCOVER COP CARS. Play-by-play time:
Total Dick: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Innocent Me: My left headlight is out?
Total Dick: Uh, no...is it?
Innocent Me: Uhhh...nevermind.
Total Dick: Do you know what the speed limit is?
Innocent Me: Seventy?
Total Dick: Even if it was seventy, you were going seventy-five. The speed limit is fifty five.
Innocent: Oh??? Reallyyyyyy???
Total Dick: And you were speeding in a construction zone.
Innocent Me: Oh??? Reallyyyyy???
Total Dick: I know you don't think it's a big deal to speed. None of you young people do. You think it's all about fun and games.
Innocent Me: I didn't know I was speeding, I'm sorry.
Total Dick: You'll be sorry when you're speeding and you kill someone.
Total Dick: You'll be sorry when you're speeding and you get hit and die.
Total Dick: Do you know what it's like to pull a dead girl out of a car?
Innocent Me: Um....no...I have never done that...
Total Dick: Do you know what it's like to have to call someone's parents and tell them their daughter is dead and hear them cry?
Innocent Me: Errr...no...I've never done that, either...
Total Dick: Well I have. Do you know why that girl is dead now?
Innocent Me: No...
Total Dick: Someone who was speeding hit her.
Innocent Me: Oh??? Reallyyyyyy???
Total Dick: I'm not going to give you a speeding ticket.
Innocent Me: Oh, thank y---
Total Dick: I'm going to give you a reckless driving ticket. Because not only were you speeding, you were speeding in a construction zone. Sign here.
One 92-dollar-ticket after, and my dad has "good news."
Dad: I have good news!
Dad: You're eligible for traffic school!
Think of the cookie dough, think of the cookie dough, think of the cookie dough...
A month later, I am not thinking of the cookie dough. I am sitting in a room with ten other people, one of whom has turned his seat 90 degrees so he can stare directly at me and wink whenever I look over at him, and listening to my traffic school teacher tell a guy named "TT" to pull up his pants.
"TT, pull up your pants."
"Duuuuuuu...my pants IZ pulled up, mayne!"
"The crotch is past your knees."
"Nah duuuuu, my crotch right HEE-YA!"
TT grabs his junk and shakes it in order to make sure that everyone in traffic school is aware that he has testicles.
"Thank you for that, TT."
"I'm jus showin you, duuuuu....DIS my crotch!"
TT continues to shake his junk toward our 72-year-old traffic school teacher, just in case we were all wondering, "Does TT also have a penis?"
"That's enough, TT. Why don't you tell us all why you're in here instead."
"DUUUUUU...see what I don't git is how can a cop be goin n suspendin my license when I don't even GOT no license!"
"You don't have a license, TT?"
"TT...you can't drive without a license."
"Dat's what I'm SAYIN', dawg! If I ain't got no license, how can dem cops be suspendin it?"
"Because TT, you cannot drive without a license."
"Yes I can! I be doin it since I was foe-teen!"
"You cannot to that, TT."
"Yes I can! How you think I got here if I couldn't be drivin without no license?"
"No, TT. I'm not saying you physically are not able to drive without a license; I am saying, TT, that it is illegal."
"Mayne, dis shit STUPID!"
"That's it. Everyone, take a break. Go. Go."
Thankful that TT had managed to annoy our 72-year-old teacher, who I will refer to as Mr. 72, enough to give us a 20 minute break after only being in the class for half an hour, Mr. 72, for a reason I will never know, singles me out and tells me his life story as I am sitting outside.
"I smoked 4 packs a day for 53 years. I just quit 13 months ago."
"Wow, Mr. 72. Are you glad you quit?"
"Hell no! I sure do miss it! Smoking and chain-smoking are 2 different things, young lady. Before I'd start up, I'd light up. I still love the smell. Boy, do I miss it. Smoking is such a wonderful joy."
As I then decided that Mr. 72 was FUCKING AWESOME, we went back inside and watched videos about babies dying. TT told us how it wasn't fair that he got a ticket when all his friends "be ridin dirty," and don't get pulled over, while he "jus be goin to see one of his booty calls," and he gets a ticket for going the opposite way down a one way street. This concluded Day One.
Day Two began with me not being able to enter the building, since the two bitches working as security guards found it to be just hilarious to refuse to unlock the door for me, and then wave at me from inside as they smiled and laughed. I put my hands on my face, dragging my cheeks as far down as they would go, because in times of hating everyone in the world, I find it comforting to smash my face downwards. They then unlocked the door for me.
"You don't know how to open a doe [door], hun-nay?"
I stared at them, trying to look as disgusted as I possibly could.
"Well, you gots ta start by takin yo hands off yo face, did you know dat?"
I continued to look at them as if they were naked. Which in their case, would be quite disgusting.
"You know you gots ta put yo hand on da doe handle to open a doe? Did you know dat?"
I continue to picture their nipples dragging across the floor as they walk.
"You gots an attitude. hunn-ay?"
Those would be some dirty nipples.
"Fine, be dat way. Why you here?"
I walk away and sit by my entire class, who were all smiling at me as they waited in the lobby and witnessed Bitch 1 and Bitch 2 live up to their names. Apparently, they had done the "haha we're not opening the door for you because we're fat security guards who are going nowhere in our lives" trick to everyone there. I deemed myself The Hero of Day Two, though I'll admit TT would have done a much better job had he been there.
Day Two began with Mr. 72 making jokes about his ex-wife's body being in his trunk and how his spine is messed up. TT, however, was kind enough to clue us all in on the new drug on the market.
"Duuuuuuu....dis drug be from like Jerusalem, you know where JEZUS was bone [born], and like, it be fixin ALL yo problems. Cause like, it come from where JEZUS wuz, ya feel me? It be da JEZUS DRUG, mayne! Like, dis drug do ANYthang. You got a problem, and it fix it. It would fix yo spine, and like, you know dat true love feelin? That first love feelin ya git, and how aftuh dat you never get dat same feelin again wit no mattah WHO you be tappin, well dis drug GIVE you dat feelin, BRUH!"
Feeling a bit guilty for questioning TT's capability of feeling love, Mr. 72 soon interrupts my thoughts with:
"That's why I buy Viagra."
Which then leads to a discussion of who in our class had taken Viagra, whether it works or not, if it's true that you will have a boner for 3 weeks straight, which TT had heard, which then somehow led to Mr. 72 informing us of his 3 ex-wives and how one of them killed herself. Now, whether that correlated with his need for Viagra or not, I was too timid to ask. But I'm still wondering.
After a video of how texting can lead to car crashes killing everyone except the toddlers in the backseat asking why Mommy and Daddy won't wake up, a 30-minute conversation about how my dad is a news reporter, and The Guy Who Wouldn't Stop Staring At Me jumping out from behind a corner and grabbing me, yelling, "BOO!" which is just highly inappropriate and I have NO idea why he felt comfortable around me enough to grab me and think it's okay, Day Two ended.
It turns out traffic school wasn't nearly as bad as I had imagined; in fact, it was quite entertaining. TT, if you're out there reading this...I will miss you. And your crotch.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
In order to fully understand this particular doctor's visit, I'll have to lead you through a mini-bio of yours truly. I was born Natasha Lee Ferrier; I was awesome, and I had a freckle on my back which I would later name Fupa. And by "later" I mean 19 years later. As in just now. Because I have fupas on the mind and I really wish I had one so I would know what that thing feels like. (Is it mushy? Is it hard? Does it still look like a giant fanny pack underneath the pants when the pants come off? Oh, the mystery of the F.U.P.A...) (That, too. Is it capitalized? 'Cause it should be. In fact, it is. I just declared. The Fat Upper-Pussy Area MUST be capitalized whenever written or said. How you're going to capitalize a spoken word is for me to act like I know how to do, and you to actually figure out. I suggest yelling it.) However, over time, this freckle grew into a mole. A big, black mole. A mole that belongs on the chin of The Wicked Witch of the West's wicked chin, not on the Innocent Non-Witch of the East's innocent back.
This was 10 years ago that my freckle gained 50 pounds and became an Aborigine. I went to the doctor, like any normal 4th grader with a beauty mark that looked like an ape in the fetal position would do. After 15 minutes of the nurse scarping it as I cried, it came off. Then the doctor came in and denied it ever existed since there was nothing there. Since his nurse is a fucking idiot. And he believes fucking idiots over his patients. Ten years after that, and Fupa makes a back-attack. (Yes, that was an attempt at a pun.) Of course I didn't realize it was back until I walked into the kitchen and my dad grabbed my shoulders from behind, exclaiming,
"OH MY GOSH WHEN DID YOUR GIANT BLACK MOLE COME BACK."
...then booked a doctor's appointment that very day.
So I'm sitting in the waiting room, being forced to not only listen to the most disturbing country music I've ever heard in my life, but the kind that gets stuck in your head. For the rest of the day, I will have this chorus playing in my mind:
"Rain is a good thang, rain makes corn,
corn makes whiskey,
whiskey makes my baby
feel a lil frisky."
You know, had I known it was that easy to put a single on the country charts, I would have gotten into the music business when I was 3 years old.
"Food is a good thang, you eat it,
it stuffs your belly,
then you shit,
and the food is smelly."
CMT Music Awards, here I'm a-comin!
While I am being brainwashed by lyrical ballads regarding the things that water is capable of, I am filling out a sheet. This, I didn't mind at all, for I love filling out sheets. It makes me think of "Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion," because there was this one scene where they filled out a sheet. (I'm sure there are others, but the sheet-filling-scenes were obviously not as emotionally moving.) It's all the things I know are necessary for a doctor to know: my name, age, insurance company, why I'm there...until I get to the bottom of the sheet, which is where they completely lost me.
Have you ever had dry eyes?
Have you ever been depressed?
Where do you work?
If my eyes have ever been dry, does that mean they cannot glance at the mole on my back? Did they used to ask all these questions? The more time progresses, the more questions at the doctor's office. Sixty years from now, I'll go in to have my earlobes shortened, and I'll be answering questions like:
Have you ever smiled before?
Do you have friends?
Please list below your sexual fantasies.