Note to men: YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE for how you act toward and around women. Not the women. Not the women’s fucking clothes. You.
Fucking idiot asshole scumbags.
Tag: morons
In which I am Not an Asshole: a brief true story
The wife and I just got back from a brief shopping trip that included a stop at Barnes and Noble. This is an educator discount week (25% off of everything) so it was worth it to putter around a little bit. At some point I overheard someone a few aisles away bitching vociferously about people spreading spoilers about Game of Thrones. Bitching loudly enough, in fact, that she would have herself spoiled the events of the Purple Wedding to anyone around her had they been nearby and not wanted to know.
In a fucking bookstore. Where the actual books were no more than fifteen to twenty feet away.
I did not start loudly shouting plot events from the next two books.
But I wanted to.
I figure someone owes me candy for bein’ civilized.
Oh shit I almost forgot
I confiscated this little gem from one of my girls today. It’s behind a jump because it’s crazily, hilariously NSFW; you want to click through, though, trust me:
I’m going back to bed: an anecdote
I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee. I need dairy, so I go to the fridge to get milk.
I not only grabbed sour cream instead of milk, I got so far as to grab a spoon from the drawer before I realized what the hell I was doing.
I may be about to have a long day.
Where do they find these idiots? A play in one act.
The scene: OtherJob. It is cold and rainy outside, and getting darker by the moment. I am still sick and very bored, and the book I have brought to work with me is not very good. I am playing Temple Run on my iPad.
The phone rings.
ME: “OtherJob, how may I help you?”
IDIOT JACKASS WHOSE PHONE NUMBER AND NAME I COULD TOTALLY POST BUT I’M NOT GOING TO: “Yeah, how late is your driving range open?”
I glance outside. It is still cold and raining. And we don’t have a driving range.
ME: “We don’t have a driving range, sir.”
IJWPNANICTPBINGT, suddenly sounding very irritated: “What? Is this OtherJob?”
ME: “Yessir.”
IJWPNANICTPBINGT, ignoring my affirmative answer: “Well, do you have their number, then?”
Sound of teeth grinding. No, I don’t have the number of this place you made up, and why would I give it to you if I did? Who thinks the world works like this, where I can just call one business and have them give me the number of another business?
ME: “This *is* OtherJob, sir. You’ve dialed the right number. We don’t have a driving range.”
Literal, not-shitting-you sputtering sounds from the phone. This guy cannot believe my effrontery.
IJWPNANICTPBINGT: “My friend told me you had a nighttime driving range.”
ME: “We do not.”
IJWPNANICTPBINGT,angry: “You’re serious? You’re not fucking with me right now?”
ME, suddenly much less in the mood for this idiot: “Check Google Maps or something if you don’t believe me, sir. There’s no driving range and nowhere to put one.”
IJWPNANICTPBINGT: “Well, do you know where it is?”
ME: “No, sorry. I don’t know of anywhere around here that does that.” NOTE: This is true. I might not have told him if I had known, because I don’t like people swearing at me on the phone, but I truly don’t have the vaguest idea who he might be referring to. Plus it’s COLD AND RAINING, WHAT THE FUCK.
IJWPNANICTPBINGT, working his way into a huff again: “So my friend’s just lying to me, then, huh? That’s your story?”
ME: “Sir, we close at eight. You come on over. If you can find the driving range, you can play for free.”
The line goes dead.
Exeunt.
In which something entirely unexpected happens!
Have you read yesterday’s post yet? Of course you have! You read everything I write, right? Sure. So you know all about the sexual harassment issues that blew up my third and fourth hour and then ate most of my prep.
Remember the bit at the beginning, the bit that I almost deleted on account of it was the Same Rant All Over Again and wasn’t entirely connected with the rest of the post? The bit about how bullying is a Huge Fucking Deal until the very second the kids are best friends again and then oh, wait, we were filing formal complaints on each other? Never mind.
Yeah, keep that shit in mind.
Today’s highlight involved confiscating a note from the threesome-wanting blowjob-denier in the first story, who threw the whole school into a tizzy and wasted several hours of the time of at least three different staff members by filing a formal complaint of bullying against two other students, one of whom was her ex-boyfriend and the other of whom was his best friend.
The note was passed through the second girl in the first story– the one who everyone was mad at because she supposedly started everything– to the non-ex-boyfriend, to be given to the ex-boyfriend.
Note that I barred the two boys from class today, hoping that a day without them would help to calm things down a bit.
The note was asking the ex-boyfriend to please please please take her back so that she didn’t have to give up on true love.
I took it to the counselor.
“I cannot deal with this without using words like idiot and moron, and I probably also cannot deal with this without pointing out in clear language to this young fool that this boy thinks of her as nothing but pussy. It is therefore your problem.”
I have nothing else to say about my day.
The more you know: Essential addendum
Maybe an hour after eating the Arby’s Smokehouse Brisket Sandwich, you start sweating Arby’s Smokehouse Brisket Sandwich Sweat out of the pores of your nose, which is not a terribly pleasant experience. Note that the Arby’s Smokehouse Brisket Sandwich is not actually terribly oily (I’m blaming the gouda, for no damn good reason) so the Brisket Sweats I’ve been experiencing for the last couple of hours are both confusing and somewhat inexplicable.
Perhaps this is one of those rare “wash your face after eating” types of sandwiches.
Oh: fingers, also. My fingers smell like brisket. I swear I’m generally clean. It’s the sandwich.
Still tasty, though.