Braless Betty

"Where the hell is Betty? Taking an hour break again, huh? God I'm so sick of her. She doesn't do anything. She's out of her mind. I can't believe she hasn't been fired yet."

This is where I have to disagree with my fellow employees when it comes to Betty. Because she is by far my favorite person to work with. I think I decided this the day our air conditioning broke at work and I heard her asking a special request from my boss.

"Dad gum, sir, I am sorry but do you thank you could turn up the air? I'ma sweatin' like crazy and I'ma gittin' big, red welts all o'er my body 'causa this heat. I mean, shoot, I can't take it with this hot mess and this tight bra rubbin' up against me makin' me itch and gittin' all these rashes underneath it."

"I'm sorry, Betty, but it's broken. There's nothing I can do about the air conditioning until the A/C guys come in on Monday to fix it."

"Well then, you thank I could jus' go to the bathroom real quick like to take off my bra? I can't work with all these rashes it's giving me 'causa this heat."

"Um. Okay, Betty. Okay."

"It's just this bra---"

"It's okay, Betty. Just go. No need to explain. Just go. Go."

In case I hadn't heard her request earlier, Betty was kind enough to return from the bathroom and personally explain to me what article of clothing she had just removed as I was ringing up a customer.

"So you had a 6-inch turkey and a foot-long---"

"I jus' went to the bathroom to take off my bra."

"Uhh...um...right. So that was a 6-inch turkey and---"

"It's giving me all these rashes on my breasts 'causa this heat. I don't want no rashes on my breasts when I gotta friend who I like to get with when he has his condoms---"

"Right, right. I totally understand Betty. I would take mine off, too, if I could. Let me just ring up this customer real quick. Could you do me a favor and bring me some receipt paper?"

"Sure thang, honey, lemme tell ya, it's way easier to move around this place without that bra rubbin' all o'er me..."

This was Day 1. Then came Day 2.

"Alright, sir, so you had a ham combo with a medium---"

"Well, had to take off my bra again."

She really does just appear out of nowhere sometimes.

"Oh really?"

"Yep, didn't wanna risk gittin' any more a'those lil' red bumpies."

"I understand, Betty. I wouldn't want any little red bumpies, either."

"No, sir. Not with this heat. Hey, do I got hair on my back?"

"Um, let me just ring up this customer real quick and i'll get the hair off of your shirt for you, Betty."

"Thanks, sweetie. I'ma go dab under my shirt with some paper towels. I'ma sweatin' like crazy 'causa this heat."

And then came Day 3.

"And what kind of cookies did you want with that, ma'am?"

"Well, bra's off again."

She really does grow on you, ya know.

"Oh yeah? Still too hot?"

"Well yeah, it's too hot! This heat'll kill me, bra or no bra!"

"At least you have the option."

"You should do it, too, girl, if you're gittin' rashes like I am, hell."

"Maybe I will, Betty. Maybe I will. Let me just get these cookies for the customer first."

"Alright, I'll help Sarah put them vegetables on these peoples' sandwiches."

"Okay, Betty. Sorry, ma'am. So you wanted two cookies---"

"Hey Sarah?"

As much as I wish I could have taken part in this next chapter of Betty's dilemmas, I found that the only thing I could do was stand and watch as Betty addressed our newest employee, Sarah.

"And what kind of dressing would you like on this?"

"Sarah? Hey Sarah?"

"...Yes?"

Sarah finds it best to whisper when talking to Betty so the customers won't overhear. I've grown to learn that this serves no purpose, for it's what Betty says that usually shocks the customers, not me.

"Hey do you gotta tampon?"

Yes. This happened. Betty has her hands on a customer's sandwich, quickly assembling a row of green peppers and onions, preparing the lunch they have been looking forward to eat all day, as she asks Sarah if she has a device to stop vaginal bleeding.

"Um...no...I'm sorry, sir, did you want regular or spicy mustard?"

"Well shoot, you don't got no tampon? How 'bout jus' a pad?"

"No. WAS THAT SPICY OR REGULAR MUSTARD?"

Sarah believes that if she shouts after Betty has asked something that might be deemed inappropriate public dialogue for the food industry, the customers won't be able to take in what Betty just said. That, however, doesn't seem to phase Betty in the least bit.

"Well, darn it. I'm gunna hafta run to the bathroom real quick then and jus' shove some toilet paper up there."

Sarah believes that you should never hide your emotions, as her jaw drops open and she stands there motionless, afraid to look at the customers' reaction. I, however, believe it best to laugh and then look straight at the customer because they're usually too in shock to file any sort of complaint. Then I'll usually drop something to divert the attention. Or quickly remove all the containers of buffalo sauce so nothing is present that might remind the customers of blood. Or maybe next time I'll just point to the sketchiest-looking guy in line and yell, "THAT GUY HAS A GUN!" But, since I can't really do any of these things, I usually just ask Betty to please finish the dishes. In the back room. Away from the public eye. Which is really quite unfortunate when I find myself forced to do this because it makes the day go by much slower.

However, there are times when we'll both be in the back room, after the lunch rush has died down, and my day starts to get fun again. Like the time Betty showed me her tongue.

"Are you okay, Betty? I keep seeing you dabbing the inside of your mouth with paper towels. Did you cut yourself somehow?"

I try to be really nice to Betty because everyone else I work with can be pretty mean to her since she doesn't do any work around the place. But it's because she's a bit off her rocker, just as we all are, NOT because she's a lazy ass, just as a lot of us are.

"Nah, I got something wrong with my mouth. I was fixin' on gittin' it fixed up but the guy that was'a gunna do it for free can't do it no more cause he's in jail."

"Oh...that's...too bad."

"Yeah, well. My teeth always been real black and fallin' out but now my tongue is all covered in these white bumps with pus comin' all outta 'em so I gotta dab the pus outta my mouth cause otherwise it jus' runs 'n' runs all day like that."

This is when Betty opened her mouth to show me her pus-filled-bumps-covered-tongue, as well as her black teeth, as well as her sporadic lack of teeth, which I realized I had never noticed because Betty doesn't open her mouth much when she talks and when she smiles, it's always with her lips together. This combined with Betty's lazy eye, which she was kind enough to explain to a customer as,

"Yeah, this one eye I got right here, I hear folks call this one a lazy eye and that's what I got."

---makes the perfect recipe for the comic relief I crave at work that I can't provide myself because I perform better when reacting to others' odd behavior. For instance, I would not be the one to trip and fall down on a crowded street. I would be the one to witness someone trip and fall down on a crowded street then point and laugh and then someone else rush up to help him then look at me and say, "He broke both of his legs, you asshole." Then I would feel awkward. And that would be kind of funny. But not until later when telling my story to a crowd of people about how awkward it is to laugh at someone who you just witnessed doom themselves to a wheelchair as you doomed yourself to hell by using their unfortunate fate for others' amusement.

As much as I think that Betty has become my reason to wake up in the mornings, I realize that there are some tendencies that I, myself, have at work that she may find just as interesting. Or maybe I'm just flattering myself, because I'm pretty sure no one comes close in comparison to Betty. But just to even out the playing field, here's my list of my poor attempts to be as interesting as Betty:

Poor Attempt #1 - I sweat. A lot. I sweat to the point of having to abruptly leave in the middle of taking someone's order to wipe my face because the droplet of perspiration I can feel trickling down the left side of my face just might happen to plop right onto their Italian bread, giving it a nice, little, soggy spot. And if the thought of that is disturbing to me, I can't imagine how disturbing it must be to the customer. I sweat to the point of Betty yelling across the store,

"TURN UP THAT FAN! NATASHA'S SWEATIN' LIKE CRAZY 'CAUSA THIS HEAT! SHE'S DRIPPIN' EVERYWHERE!"

Which is my cue to leave.

Poor Attempt #2 - I have a very specific place I like to take my 15-minute break.

"Natasha? Are you getting the onions?"

"No."

"Then...what are you doing standing in the walk-in cooler?"

"I'm on break."

"In the cooler?"

"Yep."

"Um...okay...well, could you hand me the onions?"

"I'll hand you the onions in 15 minutes, buddy."

"Err...alright. I'm gonna shut the door now..."

"Okey dokey."

Poor Attempt #3 - I'm the only employee who goes to a party on a Saturday night and is recognized by complete strangers. Multiple complete strangers.

"HEY, I KNOW YOU!"

"I'm sorry, I can't seem to remember you...what's your name again?"

"YOU MADE MY SANDWICH YESTERDAY!"

"Hey! Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"Do you go to Nashville---"

"Waitwaitwait, I know what it is! YOU MADE MY SANDWICH!"

"Hey! You look really familiar..."

"Footlong turkey on white with american cheese toasted."

"YEAH! That's it! YOU MADE MY SANDWICH!"

My first getaway from work. And work is all people want to talk to me about. Then the next day I return to work. To be surrounded by people at work, talking about work. I would go crazy if it weren't for one thing, because bra or no bra, at least I have Betty.

Ferris Nubler

Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned. It has been 290 days since my last cuss-filled rant. In these past 290 days, I have come up with a considerable amount of reasons for why I have neglected my keyboard, as well as my sanity, for such a long period of time. Since I only came up with 5 reasons for such, which means I only lied to myself once every 58 days, I also had the time to realize why each of my reasons are not good reasons.

My Five Reasons For Sitting On My Ass Not Doin' Shit

Reason #1 - My fingertips got cut off, making it impossible to type.

Why This Reason Sucks - Were my fingertips to get cut off, they would eventually heal, and although I would no longer have the elongated phalangees of Nailsodite (the goddess of manicures, pedicures, and Asians), I would still have tips to my fingers. They would be nubs, of course, probably deeming me some cheesy nickname like the Greek one I myself just created, but mine would be more along the lines of something such as "Nubstasha," or "The Nubinator," or "Nubby Balboa," or "Ferris Nubler," or even plain ol', "Hey you with the nubs," but they would still suffice as fingertips. Fingernubs, so to speak, therefore making it possible for me to still type. That is why Reason #1 is really more like Fingerlikcin' Lie #1.

Reason #2 - I have become addicted to porn, making it impossible to stray from any porn-related website.

Why This Reason Sucks - I've never watched porn. I must have been born with something wrong with me, because the thought of watching strangers get naked and then touching myself doesn't really appeal to me in the least bit. I'm sick of our culture's infatuation with nudity. An ass is an ass, people. We're all going to get old and all our asses will get saggy and then where will we be? When I turn 80 I'm moving to China. I hear they respect the old there. Here in America, it just means your ass has gotten ten times more wrinkly. This is why Reason #2 is really more like Wrinklyassed Lie #2.

Reason #3 - I've had a bad case of the runs, making it impossible to sit still while at the computer.

Why This Reason Sucks - I stole this reason from someone else. Though I do like to consider myself as "original," as everyone in the world does, which doesn't say much, I heard this excuse used a couple weeks ago and knew I had to try it on for size. After an accomplice of mine had realized they would not be able to go to work that day on account of still being heavily intoxicated from that morning's partying, I insisted that they call out of work instead of just not showing up. It went like this:

"I insist on you calling out of work. You cannot drive in your condition."

"Give...me...thephone."

"No, no, I'll do it. You cannot speak in your condition."

"LEMMEDOIT!"

"Fine. Here, it's ringing."

"Allo?"

"Hey man, I canshwork tonight."

"What you say?"

"YeahIcansh...man."

"Can what?"

"Can't work, man. CAN'T. I got a bad case of the runs."

"What?"

"The runs, man. The RUNS."

"You be running where?"

"I'm not running anywhere; I HAVE them. The runs. The pizza. Last night. It hit me hard. I got the runs. Bad."

"You no run anywhere, you get better and come into work in one hour. I see you in one hour."

"THE RUNSSSSSSS!"

Click.

Good. God.

Next time I want to call out of work, I'll make sure to take a few shots beforehand so I feel completely at ease telling my boss I can't come in because of the continuously-running feces pouring out of my asshole. As far as writing goes, however, this does not serve as an acceptable excuse, because technically I can shit and write at the same time. This disturbing fact makes Reason #3 more like Shitfaced Lie #3.

Reason #4 - I've gained 600 pounds in my stomach alone, making it impossible for my arms to reach the keys.

Why This Reason Sucks - Obviously I've run out of brilliant excuses, because I've had to resort to obesity, which is by far the easy-way-out as far as comedy goes. Ran out of witty lines? Throw a random fat guy in the scene! That'll make the talking monkeys laugh! It's so hilarious to witness the effects of eating more than the recommended portions! I pity them, really. The bigger the breasts are, the more fat that's in them. And that makes a woman sexy. The bigger the stomach is, the more fat that's in that. And that makes a woman a laughing-stock. Fat is fat, if you ask me. Hell, if I owned an easy-go, I'd be riding that thing everywhere in a fat-suit wearing a strap-on and optically illussioning any child that passed me with it and then shooting their parents the bird. And that's the truth, unlike Reason #4, which is really Big Fat Lie #4.

Reason #5 - I've been working to the point of exhaustion and apathy, making it exhausting as well as stressful to try and exert my energy toward any creative outlet, especially one that I like to share with the world.

Why This Reason Sucks - Because it's the truth.

The thing is, I have so many stories to tell. SO MANY FUCKING STORIES. And that's why I've decided to being writing again. So fuck work. Fuck the stress of being financially unstable. Fuck the fact that my air conditioning is broken in 107 degree weather. Fuck the maggots that infest my kitchen floor. Fuck my car radio that is broken for good. Fuck that little girl who told me my hair was really messy. Fuck the guy who reached into the tip jar to pay for his food in exact change. Fuck Harry Potter for dividing the last book into 2 movies to make more money. Fuck Twilight for doing the exact same shit. Fuck the industry, bitch I'm in these streets. Because, if you're anything like me, you treasure a good story, a good laugh, and a good amount of profanity. And it's about damn time I give you that.

Invasion of The Vagina-Snatchers

Alas, it is time to write. It's not that I haven't been writing; it's just that after weeks of writing on Rousseau, Jefferson, and Lao-Tzu, I find it more appealing than ever to write on things that have to do with my life. Since I am not a prince (though I do own a couple Prince albums and after multiple times of clicking "repeat" I find that I still have no idea why the rain is purple and not blue or maybe even a deep crimson), and I did not write the Declaration of Independence (for if I did, I would classify men's inalienable rights as Shooting The Bird In Traffic, Shooting The Bird In Photographs, and Shooting The Bird When Not Quite Sure How To Respond With Words), and I am not Asian (though, according to The Vapors, you can turn Japanese on a daily basis, depending solely on how horny you are), I am forced to write only of what I know of. And what I know does not pertain to government, our country, or obtaining peace, but instead pertains to the following: red cardigans, cop calls, and bare-naked asses.

I really hate having to "paint the picture," but since you may not understand this story fully, or learn a valuable lesson from it for that matter, I find that I must paint said picture, and it's not going to be pretty. Since I hate doing it. Which I just told you. WERE YOU NOT PAYING ATTENTION? Alright, summary: IwasinChattanoogafortheweekendandthisiswhathappened:

True friends will greet you with hugs, kisses, and an unlimited supply of margaritas. I have these true friends. While sitting outside and catching up ("What are you up to?" "Not shit."), we all found it rather amusing to mock the packs of Catholic School Girls who had all seemed to flock to this particular college campus. Knowing that we were on such a location, we were quick to infer that these were not actual Catholic School Girls, but instead Big Fat Attention Whores. We all knew that by boycotting the frat party of the night and spending our evening making fun of the cheeks peeking out from behind the plaid, we were super fucking cool. However, it is a known fact that alcohol tends to make people less cool. And I will willingly admit...I was the first to surrender my cool points.

"So...do you guys...maybe...wannagotothefratparty?"

Cringing cringing cringing waiting for a response please say yes cringing cringing cringing.

"I WAS THINKING THE SAME THING BUT DIDN'T WANT TO SAY ANYTHING!"

Jumping jumping jumping we are all way too excited and therefore must be way too intoxicated but still jumping jumping jumping.

"Well hell yeah dude, let's go!"

Piling piling piling how can we all fit into this car at least I am focused enough to call shotgun piling piling piling.

After the two man-boys of our group, a group which we like to call BCM (Big Cock Mafia for long), and the two man-boys who I shall refer to as Thing 1 and Thing 2, change into some more appropriate "successful man clothes," which can be defined as the question of, "Just how closely can you resemble an Easter Egg?," we're ready to hit the road. Us girls, 3 of us in total, decided to go as Catholic School Girls Who Had Been Expelled, which can be defined as, "I'm not changing my clothes just to be half-naked, you bitch." And off we were, completely oblivious to just what lay in store for us.

Having been born with vaginas, the three of us were allowed to waltz right in. And they say there is still inequality among men and women! Pshhh! Vaginas have obviously, obviously, acquired much respect over the years, since now there are whole social gatherings planned discreetly themed as, "Invasion of The Vagina-Snatchers." Yay for women! Aretha, your wish has come true! Aretha, EUREKA!

I'm starting to not relate to my audience. Moving on.

Thing 1 and Thing 2, on the contrary, had been asked to please "check the list," a list of which they were not on, since neither of them are Sperry-wearing, condom-carrying, dick-slobs from The Bone Zone, so off they went into the darkness of the night...never to be seen again...until 45 minutes later when they appeared on the balcony dripping with sweat.

"YOU...HAVE...NO....gasp for air...IDEA WHAT WE JUST WENT THROUGH."

Trekking through the woods for miles. Hopping a barbed wire fence. Climbing over a giant air-conditioning unit. Hopping yet another barbed wire fence. Hiking in the dark. Through the woods. Around the corner. Up the balcony. Across the planks. And there they were.

All for a frat party.

Damn alcohol.

After a mere 10 minutes of mingling with drunken sluts (why is it that girls only get the way they get when they drink? I never see guys slurring their words and falling all over the place and touching everyone they come across and telling everyone how "cute" they are in a voice that has become much more high-pitched than it was pre-drinking. girls suck. and these ones sucked in lots of different ways.), Red Cardigan, a.k.a. Giant Doucher, a.k.a. Preppy Asswipe, a.k.a. WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING WHEN YOU PUT ON THAT RED CARDIGAN YOU CHRISTMAS-TIME-WHORE, approaches Thing 1. Pulls him aside. All with his cheesy-smile and his pretentious attitude and his doomed post-college future. To "have a chat."

Thing 1 soon returns, relieved because "that was a close one that was a close one that was a close one he almost caught me but I convinced him I was a frat brother I can't believe he fell for that," all while I am in clear view of Red Cardigan eavesdropping from around the corner.

"Thing 1. Thing 1. Thing 1."

I was thinking that maybe if I just repeated his name over and over again, he'd stop talking. My method proved to have some flaws.

"Hey, buddy, can I talk to you again real quick?"

I still don't understand how any man could take himself seriously in a cardigan.

I mean it's a cardigan.

Cardigan.

Red cardigan.

Cardigan that's red.

CAR.

DI.

GAN.

Whatever. Thing 1 comes back with the news that we're getting kicked out. I was ready to leave after having been asked "where my costume was," but I soon changed my mind after hearing from Thing 2 that there was a dance party downstairs. Because if I were a machine...

But, Thing 1 was getting "sketched out" and therefore we collected the 5 total members of Big Cock Mafia and departed from the soon-to-be-orgy.

But I was pissed.

I was so pissed, in fact, that the whole way back to the car, I was yelling at Thing 1 for allowing Red Cardigan to kick him out like that. And for being polite to Red Cardigan. And for leaving in a calm, cool, collected, and mature manner. WE ARE 20 YEARS OLD THIS IS NO TIME TO BE MATURE WE'RE AT A BEER-BINGING-BROTHEL FOR GOD'S SAKE.

Thing 1 began to see things my way. But how would we get revenge? One of us Catholic-School-Outcasts made a little joke from the backseat as we sat pondering.

"Ha! It'd be so funny if we called the cops on them and busted their party!"

Bingo.

"YES, HELLO? OH MY GOD OH MY GOD THERE'S THIS FRAT PARTY ON FAGGOT STREET AND OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I CAN'T HANDLE THIS I CAN'T LOOK OH MY GOD YOU NEED TO GET THE POLICE OVER HERE NOW---"

"Please calm down, sir. We are sending some officers over right---"

"OH MY GOD OH MY GOD PLEASE STOP MAN PLEASE STOP LOOK I HAVE TO GO NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

The minute he hangs up, we all start laughing, while realizing that Thing 1 could make quite the soap opera star. For none of us could have done it quite like that.

We pull up next to the house and wait. I, personally, was paranoid as shit, but was much thankful later that Thing 1 insisted on us posting up outside the house, for minutes later, it was one...two...three sirens.

And one stampede of sloppy sluts.

We drive off, parking in a random, abandoned lot and getting out of out mere panic and a total lapse of logic.

"Uhh...LET'S WALK!"

"GOOD IDEA!"

Thing 2 and I soon lost the other three, missing out on their venture back to the frat house. Apparently it went a little something like this.

"Hey! Where's Red Cardigan?!"

"LOOK MAN I HAVE BIGGER THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT HERE SOMEONE CALLED THE COPS ON US IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY NOTICED."

After hearing this tale, we all decide to get back in the car and head back to campus to reminisce on the night and tell each other how badass we all are. It is to our luck that to get home, we first had to drive past the frat house.

"HEY! HEY! WHERE'S RED CARDIGAN? I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR RED CARDIGAN!"

While Thing 1 is standing on his seat and hanging out the window, Thing 2 sees such a moment as the perfect opportunity to pull down his pants, stick his ass out the window, and shake it a little to and fro.

Their faces...oh, if you could have just seen their faces...the countless amount of shocked, angry faces...and the ass out the window.

"OH MY GOD HE'S GONNA HIT US!"

We zoom back into the lane, with Thing 2 falling in Thing 1's lap, still with his pants down, mind you, and we return to out humble abode, where we had previously been sitting, only imagining what it would be like to attend such a party.

Not even knowing that later that night, the 5 of us would MAKE that party. Fuck with Big Cock Mafia, and Big Cock Mafia fucks your world. I'd now like to abruptly end this with a little piece of Ferrier Wisdom:

If the Scatman can do it, so can you.

The Jesus Drug

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!

Me: What?

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?"

"NAH, DUUUU!"

"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.