It is time for my pre-bed burrito

Because it was a long day and shut up, that’s a thing.

But maybe my standards are too high

We attended my mother-in-law’s funeral service a couple of weeks ago.  Before we left, I had a quiet word with my five-year-old about my expectations for his behavior at the cemetery, and I reminded him of those expectations once we got there.  He performed admirably.

This sort of behavior– today, at Arlington– would not have gone over well.  We would have had words, and had them quickly.  My son– who is, again, LITERALLY FIVE FUCKING YEARS OLD, is better behaved at solemn events in public than this… person.  So was every single one of the dozens of seventh and eighth grade students I have taken on tours of the place. 

It’s fucking unhealthy how much I hate him.  I thought I hated George W. Bush.  I had a shirt that said so, and I wore it! A lot!  

That was fucking tee-ball, Pampers pull-ups hate compared to this shit.

ADDENDUM: Also, it seems pretty clear that he doesn’t know all the words to the anthem.  Yes, I can be pissed about that too.

In which I will not sell to you

itemeditorimage_54c12805aa7a3I have decided something, as of yesterday.  I am no longer going to be selling furniture to anyone I know in the real world.  I will continue to recommend that people who know me in my Clark Kent guise come into my store if they need to buy stuff, but I’m not going to be your salesman.  I’ll hand you over to someone who is good at their job and let them do it and that’s going to be it.  Why, you might ask?  Because since I’ve been working at the store I’ve had four people who I know IRL come in specifically to buy from me because they knew I worked at a furniture store.  The following things have happened:

  • Person #1 bought a coffee table and a couple of other things.  The other pieces were fine but the coffee table came in broken.  Twice.
  • Person #2 bought a sofa and love seat.  They were slightly backordered when they were ordered and they proceeded to slide back repeatedly after being ordered, and took, if I remember correctly, nearly two months to come in.
  • Person #3 ordered a customized sofa and loveseat.  Normally these are pretty bulletproof in terms of coming in on time so long as they’re ordered correctly.  Note the caveat in that sentence, though.  For these folks, I discovered that what is called a “loveseat” when it is sold in the normal configuration is called a “sofa with console” if you special-order it, and so they had to wait eight weeks (normal for a special order) for the wrong goddamn loveseat to show up in the store and then eight more weeks for the one they wanted.  Of the four, this is the only one that was unambiguously and clearly my fault; that said, I blame the company because that’s completely ridiculous.
  • Person #4 ordered a loveseat that was also slightly backordered and supposed to arrive in early April.  When it finally arrived– in the middle of May– it was, inexplicably, the loveseat that they’d ordered but in the wrong fabric.  The loveseat in question cannot be special ordered and does not come in that fabric.  In other words, I couldn’t have ordered it the way they got it if I’d wanted to.  No one has any idea how the hell this one happened.  It has to have been some sort of screw-up at the factory but here’s the kicker: our company owns that factory, and we don’t sell our furniture to other furniture stores.  So it’s not like this was the way this piece gets sold at Furniture Store B and it got shipped to Furniture Store A by accident.  Even the warehouse guys at our main facility in Mississippi had no idea at all how this happened.  This is, in other words, some bullshit.

So, yeah.  I’ve learned my lesson and I’m done.  I still recommend that you buy stuff from my store– despite those four examples, this shit really doesn’t happen all that often— but apparently I’ve gotten hit with the bad-luck stick in terms of selling to people I know.  So I’m done.

Deja vu

I feel like I wrote this exact post a few months ago, but it is a fine night for baseball.Be nice to each other.  See y’all tomorrow.

Briefly: This Is Who They Are


Let’s be real: you hadn’t heard of this derplord two weeks ago, and neither had I.  And as an experiment, I’m going to be a bit of a dick and not use his name in this post– mostly to see if I can remember who the hell he is or what outrage against decent people he perpetrated when I inevitably go back to look at this post a couple of months or years from now.  I haven’t been able to independently verify this, but I’m seeing on Twitter that the vote total on Election Day was more in his favor than the early vote.  Meaning that Montanans saw this fucker assault a reporter and went “Yep, that’s the guy I want representing me.”

Remember that.  This is who they are.  This is who they have always been.  Beating up a reporter now GAINS you Republican votes.  He will not be the last one, and the next one will do it as a matter of strategy, not unchecked id.

(That said, I can’t get too het up about anybody deciding they didn’t want to vote for this dude, who sounds like a mess as a candidate also.  But at least he’s not a thug.)

And then there’s this pigfucker:


There’s some yammering going around about how the toy medals on this idiot’s jacket are “stolen valor,” which is an accusation that has a very specific meaning: that he’s wearing military medals that he didn’t earn.  That’s not quite what’s going on.  David Duke Clarke has not claimed to be in the military and doesn’t claim to be wearing military medals.  The shit’s literally costume jewelry, for the most part, as this probably overly-literal Snopes article points out.

So, okay.  He’s not guilty of stolen valor.  But he’s for goddamn sure assuming that most people who see him in his little costume up there are going to think those are real medals and not some flair he stole from his waitress at one of those put-shit-on-the-walls restaurants.  And he’s absolutely right.  Because appearances beat out reality every single time for these fuckwits.  Truth doesn’t matter, just the appearance of it.  David Clarke wears a bunch of pretty pieces of plastic on his stupid little jacket so he must be Tough and Honorable and Real, and not a child trying to impress other children.

This is who they are.