The End Is Extremely Effing Nigh Or, No. Not At All, Dudes. Not. At. All.

Two weeks ago at work, I got this odd little envelope in the mail – No point of contact and the return address was the same as the mailing address (despite the fact that the postmark indicated it had been mailed in a city over 40 miles away).

So, I open it up.

(If real life was anything like the movies, I’d be the moron who dies in the cold open thus launching the Jack Bauer-esque antics to follow).

Good news – it’s not anthrax.
Bad news – it’s even more annoying than a neurotoxin.

It’s a business card proclaiming the END IS NIGH from some batshit organization that’s batting about .0000 in the prophecy department. About fifteen years ago, they predicted the second coming of Christ and to the surprise of pretty much no-one, they were wrong.

However, if it turns out that these screwballs are right and the world really is ending on Saturday, I am going to be super pissed for the following reasons:

– Totally screws up my vacation plans. How’s a girl supposed to dip her toes in the Pacific if it doesn’t exist anymore?
– I won’t get to see Hermione finally kiss Ron. Come on, nerds. You know you’ve been waiting for it as well.
– Football won’t finally coming home to England in 2014 (shut up, McGillis. It could happen)
– I won’t get to spend quality time with my sister eating Primo Hoagies and Capogiro gelato, crafting and watching truly terrible reality television.
– And speaking of reality television, I won’t get to see Adam kicked off the new Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I’m calling it now. His antics might fly with Nany, but CT will straight up house the dude.
– I’m pretty sure Rob Sheffield has another book in him.
– I won’t get to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band in concert again. It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to spiritual, so I figure it’s important that I see them again. For the sake of my eternal soul.
– I haven’t eaten fried avocado tacos in Austin, Texas yet.
Cabin in Woods will never, ever be released. For really real this time.

So, fingers crossed the world doesn’t end on Saturday. But if it does – heathen afterparty at my house? You bring the chips, I’ll make the salsa?

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Kids Suck Or, Ma Fratelli Was Right

I work in a pretty wealthy area right across the street from a high school.

As a result, high schoolers are always parking in our lot and taking up the good spots, meaning this girl has to make a mad dash from the car to the front door in fifteen degree weather every morning.

While teetering on 4″ heels.

And balancing a giant bag and tumbler filled with coffee.

Every single morning.

Not cute.

So, last week — we started issuing warnings and letting the kids now that starting Monday, we’d tow any car not belonging to an employee/guest of my company.

Yesterday afternoon, a thoroughly pissed off high schooler came into my building and started griping about the fact that we towed his illegally parked car.

I can understand his anger. I’d be annoyed too if I spent all day in class and then discovered that my illegally parked luxury SUV had been towed.

Not understandable, though? Cursing at a lady.

Look, Dude-Bro – I know it’s hard out there for a pimp wealthy, privileged young jock. .

Your teachers don’t understand that texting your boys is more important than paying attention in class, your girlfriend makes you wear a condom because she doesn’t want to get pregnant and your parents, cheap bastards that they are, got you a 2009 luxury SUV instead of the most current model with the customized leather interior. Dude, they might even make you pay the towing fees.

Your life is like, way hard.

But here’s the thing.

I don’t know where the fuck your car is.
I don’t care where the fuck your car is.
I don’t care where you park from now on or that you didn’t see the sign (This ain’t Vegas, dude. We’re not gonna blaze up the neon).
And I really don’t care for the way you’re speaking to me and my co-workers.

I’m not going to lie — I use the Seven Words You Can’t Say On Television with both glee and abandon. But I would never have the temerity to drop the eff bomb in front of complete strangers. Especially if I’m in the wrong and the people I’m talking to are in a position to assist me.

Maybe it’s from living in the South or just from being around men who would never drop the eff bomb in front of a complete stranger, but rule number one — there are only two things you should ever yell at a lady:

A) Excuse me, miss! You dropped this!
B) Hey Mom! Wait up!

That’s it. No exceptions.

So to everyone out there who teaches high school: You deserve hugs and cookies and ponies covered in diamonds.

If I had to deal with jerks like this on a daily basis, I’d pretty much have a Wes Mendell-ian meltdown, tell the kids that for a good majority of them, this is about as good as it gets and that everything after high school will be a soul-crushing plummet to anti-depressants, thinning hair, weight gain and children who are twice as shitty to you as you were to an Office Girl Friday when you were 17.

Charlie Sheen is Encino Man Or, Shut Your Mouth When You’re Talking To Me

I haven’t really been following this whole Charlie Sheen mess for three reasons:

1. He’s my least favorite Sheen (sorry Meems!).

2. I hate Two and a Half Men. I’ve seen exactly one episode and didn’t laugh once in 22 minutes. Here’s the thing – it’s on CBS, it has a laugh track and the comedy is hackneyed (“There’s a half-naked lady in our kitchen” “Which half?” Yuk-yuk-yuk yuck). People watch this garbage en masse and shows like Arrested Development and Party Down get canceled.

3. It’s not really news. Does it honestly surprise anyone that Charlie Sheen is such an asshole? Dudes, he shot Kelly Preston and held a knife to Brooke Mueller’s throat. I think those two events alone qualify Sheen for Asshole of the Epoch.

BUT, I have this theory that Charlie Sheen is in fact, Encino Man.

However, unlike being trapped in ice like Brendan Fraser, Sheen has been ensconced in a bubble of willful ignorance where it’s still 1988 and everyone is totally partying hearty, bro!

Since this whole controversy blew up, Sheen has used the following:

“I’m tired of pretending I’m not a total bitchin’ rock star from Mars” – Bitchin’? For real, dude? Look, that phrase is only acceptable…you know what. It is never acceptable. Using it will always make you sound like a tool.

“I’m the best at what I do. It’s like, ‘Duh.’ Sorry, Middle America. I said it..” — In the words of the great Randy Meeks, “Oh really, Alicia?” Despite it’s omnipresence, this phrase was dated in 1997.

“That’s how I roll. And if it’s too gnarly for people, then buh-bye.” — Gnarly? Has anyone ever used that term in real life?

“Awesome. Awesome. Top Gun rockstar. Awesome.” — Let me put this in perspective for you: Top Gun came out in 1986 – two years before one of your goddesses was even conceived.

#Winning – I’m with Drea on this one. The shelf-life of this idiotic phrase has expired. Let’s move on.

This is what happens when you surround yourself with pornstars, drug addicts and hangers-on. You end up sounding like Corey Feldman circa The Lost Boys.

And in 2011, that’s about as far from winning as you could possibly get.

Jim Hoft Is The Biggest Asshole On The Internet, Or Jim Hoft Is The Biggest Asshole On The Internet

Disclaimer: I’ve already used the word ‘asshole’ twice. The fact that there are some stormy seas ahead shouldn’t surprise anyone. However, if you’re more insulted by my language than you are by Jim Hoft’s, you probably shouldn’t be here in the first place.

xxx

The internet is awash with three things — pornography, memes featuring kittens and assholes.

And Jim Hoft is the biggest asshole on the internet.

Apparently, being the dumbest man on the internet wasn’t good enough for Hoft. See, idiocy and ignorance can be remedied. Being an asshole, though? Terminal like stage four stomach cancer. There isn’t a cure.

Regardless of the bile spewed by Hoft, Lara Logan was not sexually assaulted because of her ‘liberal belief system.’

She did not ‘wander into Tahrir Square last Friday’ because she thought it was a good idea or because she missed the rocks, camels and taunts. She entered Tahrir Square because it was her job. Because that’s what a good reporter does. He or she goes into the field to uncover the truth. Because the story matters and people should know what’s really going on.

Does Hoft also refuse to grieve for fallen soldiers? Because blaming Ms. Logan for the sexual assault is akin to saying, “Well, the soldier should have known better. I mean, what did they expect? It is a war zone.”

Hoft refuses to apologize for his words and also refuses to take down his hateful post condemning Ms. Logan. I’m actually glad about the latter because people should know what a victim-blaming, intellectually and morally bereft twat Jim Hoft really is.

What happened to Ms. Logan was not her fault.
Blaming the victim is wrong.
Saying the victim deserved it because of where they were is wrong.
Saying the victim deserved it because of what they wore or said is wrong.

And anyone who says otherwise is an asshole. Just like Jim Hoft.

The Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network (RAINN) is the largest anti-sexual assault organization in the country. They lead efforts to prevent sexual assault, improve services to victims and ensure that rapists are brought to justice. They also operate the National Sexual Assault Hotline (1-800-656-HOPE).

It’s a pretty important organization and if you can donate to RAINN, I urge you to do so.

What did my brother do today? He stood up and fought for his country. And what did I do? I made a papier maché lobster head.

Last night, I had a bit of a quarter-life crisis/meltdown that resulted in sniffling, raccoon-eyes resulting from non waterproof mascara (Life Lesson #458: Always pick waterproof mascara. Always) and essentially, being a grouchy little madam.

In a few months, I’m going to be 27 which is closer to legitimate adulthood than I care to admit and when I look at what my peers have accomplished so far (thank you, Facebook….you bastard), it makes me a little shaky.

They have weddings, cute homes and cuter babies. They dress like adults, travel across the country and world and have jobs they actually really love.

And we’ve got….a shitload of movies and books.

Luckily, I have a sweet man in my life who gives me hugs, lets me bury my head into the crook of his neck while blubbering and then, sits down and talks with me until my world is rational again.

An Open Letter To The Grouchy Little Madam Who Spent Last Night Blubbing:

Dear Jaime:

Firstly, you need to invest in some waterproof mascara. ‘Cause seriously, that shit ain’t cute.

That being said, have you turned on a television in the past few days? Do you have any idea what the rest of the world is going through? Has been going through?

Are you seriously complaining about the fact that you can’t afford a wedding or the fact that you don’t get to travel? Because in the grand scheme of things, that is so unimportant, it’s not even remotely amusing.

Want to hear something messed up? Water covers 71% of the Earth’s surface and yet, nearly one billion (that’s Carl Sagan with a B Billion) lack access to safe water. That, my darling girl, is messed up.

It’s messed up that people are being evicted from their homes. It’s messed up that the term ‘war rape’ even exists. It’s messed up that tonight, a little kid will go to bed with a gnawing hunger in his stomach.

So, how’s about you quit bitching and realize that you’ve got so much more than most people do. Seriously. Quit being such a wank.

Lots of love:

Jaime Plus Sorely Needed Perspective Minus Wankery.

And speaking of wankery, I almost cried at work today.

Why?

Because I spent ten minutes on the phone with the world’s meanest neurosurgeon. Dr. Dickbag belittled my station in life, actually compared my department to the Gestapo (guess he was a Glenn Beck fan) and told me that if he didn’t get what he wanted, I would, “have a big problem.”

Needless to say, he was a huge asshole and I hope he gets chronic hemorrhoids.

I came home, I put on sweats and made a kickass dinner:

Rotini with peas, asiago and roasted tomatoes.

Boil pasta. Drain. Set aside.
Chop up a bunch of cherry tomatoes.
Mix with garlic, onions, salt, pepper and extra virgin olive oil.
Roast at 400ºF for 40 minutes.
Remove from oven, drizzle with balsamic vinegar and smash with fork.
Mix pasta with tomatoes.
Sprinkle cheese.
Eat and realize that despite it all, good things do exist in this world.

And while I ate, I watched Bruce Springsteen rock the masses at Madison Square Garden.

Like that, a lousy day turned into an OK one.

I still hope Dr. Dickbag gets piles, though.