Carolers from the Food Bank just left my front door. As they were finishing the Fa-la-las, a loud “YOU SUCK!” came from upstairs; evidently, father dearest had lost to my brother again playing Street Fighter. Normally I would laugh, because these guys were a tad off-key and I’m used to my parents obsessively training their voices, but hey. We gave them a few extra cans and told them they were great. One “You Suck” for the holidays is one too many.

Ah. If only I were available; and if only he were HIM, which he’s not, since HE is not HERE, and HE … well, that’s another blog post, and frankly, none of your beeswax, anyway.

Still. It was nice – I think – being called a ninja.

Considering when I met him, I was shouting: “You suck!” at him.

I had an excuse. The house in which I live here in California is a virtual palace: in addition to all the black leather furniture, the stone floors, the decks festooning every outdoor wall, and the pool house – which houses, ha-ha, not only an in-ground pool and Jacuzzi, but also a pool table – AND an arcade, an air hockey table, a fuzball table, and other fun-fun-fun activities…

… but also the crappiest television service I’ve ever endured.

This would NOT be so terrible if I did not have two daughters, 13, and 10, who live with me in tranquil nowhere, and when they are bored, expecting me to be “Julie McCoy, their cruise director,” because apparently horses to ride, miniature horses to visit, three and half-acres (with a pond) to stroll around on, and the aforementioned Pool House of Joy are not QUITE as entertaining as, say, iCarly, or SpongeBob.

So there were actually two gentlemen – and gentlemen they were, indeed, to suffer such abuse at the hands of a tiny, leather-clad loudmouth, when all they really did was politely inquire:

“Excuse me: may we ask what service you use for your TV?”

Which triggered extreme wrath indeed, and the following blast, when I spotted their spiffy little “DirectTV” shirts.

“I have DirectTV, and you SUCK,” I said.

Loudly.

Maybe, kinda, too loudly.

To their credit, they were shocked and dismayed, instead of outraged and defensive, which, also frankly, (apparently Today’s Word Of The Day) would have been MY reaction.

The tall, blonde DirectTV guy, about six feet, six inches tall – putting him at about a foot and a half taller than myself,  bent slightly over me apologetically, with a dash of defensiveness.

“Well,” he said, “all you had to do was call 1-800-DIRECTTV.”

Still enraged, I stared back, eye to, well, chest. “How would I KNOW that? Is it on the screen, at night, when it would be a smart time to LET me know? When I might be inclined to order? Like I said. You SUCK.”

His babyface fell.  “You can call them right NOW,” Blonde Jock suggested helpfully.

“YOU call,” I dared him, crossing my arms over my chest.

Charmingly, he took my dare.

“I will,” he said, pulling out his flip phone.

And he DID.

(Later, the ex-footballer confessed, after we became Lifelong Friends For Five Minutes, he’d always wanted to learn how to ballroom dance. “Good choice,” I advised him, “You’ll get laid for the rest of your life.”)

Between the two of them, we got my service upgraded to the next level, easily and quickly. The only potential glitch was the customer service phone rep was Southern, and started out a little brusque, but that was easily dispatched when I laid on the Georgia sugar: that is, calling him “sir” (he was obviously older than I was) and deliberately mentioning my other home in Rocky Plains.

Amazing how things go smoother south of the Mason-Dixon line when you’re “from around there.”

It WAS funny watching the DirectTV Duo listen to me switch up accents quicker – and way better – than Angelina Jolie or Meryl Streep.

By now, we were all great friends; I’d pulled out my iPhone with the graffiti cover for admiration, as well as my ever-present Leatherman, for further admiration. (Blonde Jock is planning to get the iPhone soon, as was intrigued with my mirrored privacy cover.)

And, of course, anyone with a penis is always intrigued by a genuine Leatherman.

(If you don’t know what the Leatherman tool is, http://www.leatherman.com/)

ANYWAY…

After show and tell, the conversation turned to the fact I’d just been run over by a truck, which was true.

“So, you’re like, a ninja,” said one of them, in an impressed whisper.

Ninja? Aren’t ALL moms?

“I wish you were MY girlfriend,” he said, in a sort of awestruck tone. “Or that you could train my NEXT girlfriend.”

Thinking this would be a good time for me to mount my white steed Silver and “Hi-Ho” off into the sunset, since any time any conversation veers even remotely into the territory of “can I have your number?” or “girlfriend” or even “what’s your name?” I tend to get a bit skittish, I laughed and said there was fudge calling me at the front of the store (which indeed there was) and waved good-bye – where, in fact, the sistah selling the chocolate pound of wonder and delight even walked me to the very front of the line. How cool is that?

Ninja?

Nah. Just a woman, following the Secret, Closely-Guarded Girl Manual.

Fat people suck.

I’m American. You’re American. We’re all somewhat American. If you want to fit into that super-consumer fat ass with a jacked-up gas-guzzling white trash mobile wearing your BBQ stained wife beater tank top that you bought at Walmart for a buck oh’ five, then FINE. Good for you. You’re a piece of shit.

What is it with fat white trash and their love for theme parks? South Park recently aired a hilarious episode about this and I laughed my ass off. Okay, their plot was more geared towards minorities, but still. Fat people infest theme parks. The last time I went I saw two- count it- TWO giantly fat people get kicked off rides because their FUPA got in the way of the safetly bar and it wouldn’t close. If you are SO FAT that the safety bar on a rollercoaster won’t close then just shoot yourself right now. Thanks for almost endangering MY life because you couldn’t resist the late night dollar menu at Wendy’s.

If ten orders of 99cent chicken nuggest just isn’t cutting it and you happen to be in the Magic Kingdom at Disney World, then why don’t you just pick up a genetically altered giant turkey leg to munch on? 

NOM NOM TURKEY LEG!

Seriously? Giant turkey legs? Aren’t those reserved for obese Kings of Old England that probably have the gout and rule over peasants? As fat white trash, aren’t you technically a peasant? You don’t deserve a turkey leg. No wait, no turkey deserves to have his leg nom’d like that as it’s bitter end.

Call Jenny Craig, get on a treadmill, or just WALK around Disney instead of driving those stupid carts, and lose the weight of that whole other person you’ve been carrying around with you most your life.

Eat a carrot, you fat piece of shit.

YOU SUCK.

Sorry for this…

If your significant other is working like 50 hours a week and your house is going bye bye, AND she’s thinking about getting a second job when you refuse to get a first, GET A FUCKING JOB. The end…

Here’s what I consider an example of a form rejection letter done right: It doesn’t offer uselessly general advice, generic statements about what the agent is or is not looking for, lengthy attempts to justify the rejection, or nonspecific critiques. It’s just a simple “no thank you, try again”, which in my opinion is all a form rejection needs.

Of course, the handwritten “Best Wishes” is nice too.

Don’t forget to vote for the next scene of the month!

Im really freaking pissed at all of you fans. I mean seriously, you guys are losy excuses to even play on CP. Im going to have my 2,000th hit party. I try to give you guys awesome cheats and guides to help you with CP. I try to party with my fans and guees what happens. NOT A FREAKING ONE OF YOU SHOW! At 2,000 hits, Im expecting you guys to show up to some of the partys I throw! But no, tell me a time you want a party and I might think about it. Personally, you guys only care for the freaking free giveaways we all have to boost are hits. Well, screw that. No more free giveaways until we get to 10,000 hits. Here is a picture of no one being there!

LOOK AT IT! SEE WHAT I MEAN? If you start a site and have a party, do you want this? Probably not, so guees how I feel!

-Zecktroid (A VERY PISSED LOSER SUCKER OF A WEB OWNER)

What would you do if one of your friends had a big piece of broccoli in their teeth that they were oblivious about, and the two of you were about to go out clubbing? That’s a no brainer. If they’re your friend you’d say, “Sucka MC, you got some mad broccoli all up in your grill. You betta check yo self in the mirror before you wrigggity wreck yo self.”

Growing up I went through a series of bad haircuts. In fact, it was pretty late in life before I ever had a good haircut, which in one sense is good, because the repulsiveness of my haircuts probably kept me from getting a few STDs. But that’s hardly the point. The point is that I knew a lot of friends through the course of those haircuts who should have told me I looked like a water logged circus clown who just entered a methadone treatment clinic. These friends would have told me if I broccoli in my teeth. So why couldn’t they tell me my haircut sucked?

But it’s not just broccoli and haircuts we should be calling out our friends on. We all know acquaintances, family, and friends who are habitual fuck ups in life, and the story of their lives is being watched by people who know they’re fucking up but don’t want to say anything because it would be rude or it’s not their place.

I used to know just such a fuck up, and I always felt guilty every time he made an ass out of himself, because he didn’t realize it, but everybody did, and they were just going to let him keep on being an ass and keep ruining his life. Well I couldn’t live with that on my conscience. So one day I had a long conversation with him about how he was making his life harder, and he needed to put more thought into the decisions he made, yada, yada, yada.

He lashed back. Asked me what made me think I was so great. From then on he was quick to criticize me. I’d made an enemy by trying to help him. And all the people he thought were his friends just kept laughing at him behind his back and let him be a dumb ass. But I didn’t give up. There were a few times after that when he did something stupid again, and I said, “This is what we talked about. That was a bad idea, and you’re going to regret it, and when that happens you need to analyze the situation and learn a lesson from it.” His stupidity always came back to haunt him, and he never learned a lesson…but he did resent me more.

It was ironic that he thought I was a prick, because I was the most honest, concerned, and helpful friend he had in that circle. It absolutely blows my mind the unwavering resolve people have when it comes to not listening to (or more precisely, thinking about) advice and staying stupid. I’ve seen this time and time again, even when people ask you for advice. You give it to them, they argue with you, do the opposite, regret it, and then do the same damn thing over again and wonder why their life sucks.

So do you think I was being a prick by calling ole’ boy out on his fuck ups? Don’t answer. It’s a trick question. It doesn’t matter if I was being a prick. The mother fucker needed someone to point of the proverbial broccoli in his teeth by any means necessary for his own good. If I came across harsh he should have cussed me in public to save face and then listened in his head.

Do your self and the world a favor. Embrace criticism. It’s better to lose face (Ironically, usually the only person you’re losing face to is your self.) and look like a dumb ass for a minute than to be a dumb ass for the rest of your life.

This week, I reached into my vast collection of rejection letters and pulled out this double-sider from Marietta Publishing:

Side one is a flier advertising Tom Piccirilli’s short story collection The Dog Syndrome.  Checking Wikipedia, that places this rejection at around 1997.

Side two is the rejection. It’s a very nice rejection, but unfortunately, I have no idea what story it was for.

If I still had my submission tracking database up and running I could find out, but that requires MS Windows and MS Access and I don’t have either of those anymore. Important safety tip, kids — when possible, avoid proprietary formats!

Incidentally, if you’re looking for a short, creepy, moody novel, you could do worse than Tom Piccirilli’s A Choir of Ill Children. I picked that up at World Horror 2004 and rather liked it.

these people suck and do not deserve to be famous. they need to be thrown into the bog of eternal stench and chewed on by rodents of unusual size!!! and while your at it, transfer your funds directly to me because i need it more that these assholes.
1.John Gosslin-

Your a looser and no one should be celebrated for have 8 hell spawn kids.
2.Brett Favre-

way to go selling out the team and the fans that made your career turd.
3.Bill Gates

i just like this picture,as a linux user i really don’t like mr. gates but i still like this picture.
4.Sidney Crosby-

Sid “the kid” sucks. i want Chara to break his face!
5.Angelina Jolie

why don’t you go adopt some more kids ya jerkass

How can you tell me you love me,
Then lie to me?
It hurts me when you burn me with your words.
You are just a well of unmet promises
If I’m just a facade, please let me go,
I’d rather walk through this world
Alone.

i don’t do this for you. i don’t blog for you. i don’t write for you. i don’t get up in the morning and suck down three pots of coffee and break my fingers on a crappy Kensington keyboard for 12 hours a day for you, and i sure as hell don’t grind myself to mental paste trying to promote books for you.

i do it for me.

and my bills.

Her life was empty, hollow, useless,
They all speculated on why,
She kept these people at a distance,
There was never a need to try,
Princes and Princesses were never her thing,
She was into the dark and unknown,
And to fill her lonely life she sang,
Praying her voice would fill the world,
So no one heard her cries at night,
She sang all day, and she thought they might,
But no one listened to her words of pain,
So she turned the knife on herself again,
Digging deeper each and every time, she did not cry,
The pain was inside wanting out,
The more she hurt, the deeper she cut,
She had to let the pain run free,
But she should have known and taken heed,
She only had so much to bleed

She ran away and wanted him to chase her,
She cut herself and wanted him to see the scars,
She bruised her knees because she begged for him to return,
She hurt her heart when she found him gone,
She cried herself to sleep at the thought of his name,
She wished that she knew life was a game,
She broke her back trying to carry him,
She ignored the signs telling her to stop,
She drank her thoughts away too much,
She beckoned just to feel his touch,
She blanked when she thought of life before him,
She fell in love way too hard,
She can’t believe it happened to her,
She died of a broken heart.

The lines between up and down are so thin I cannot see them,
There are lines between everything, it keeps them situated,
I count these lines and keep their distances, so that I do not cross them,
The lines between good and evil are blurred by unimaginable character,
Lines that hold our distance used to be closer together,
Now they’ve been replaced with my lines between drunk and sober,
The lines between love and hate are too fine to define,
And the lines between ‘used to’ and ‘now’ are somewhere between ‘yours’ and ‘mine’,
There’s a few thin lines between reality and what you see as fiction,
And those are the same lines I use to draw myself a different description,
Your lines, my lines, they all cross the same paths,
But I’ve crossed your lines and my lines and now I never want to go back

There’s a girl I hate at work. She’s short and ugly and MEAN.  She is as wide as she is tall. Her eyes are too close together and she has the worst accent ever- always droppin’ her ah’s cuz she grew up in Reve-yah (Revere). Wipe that sour look off your face because you’re already ugly.

Besides this girl looking like a retarded oompa loompa, she is just a plain bitch. If you are that ugly and uncharismatic, wouldn’t you at least try to be pleasant to other people? I mean really, you have nothing going for you! BE NICE! You can’t help being a bitch. That’s okay,  but don’t take it out on me. I never did anything to you. You finally stopped talking behind my back, but I would still love to punch you in the face, right between your dumb narrow eyes.

Even today- I tried to be civilized and said ‘good morning’ in the kitchenette. Your answer? Nothing. Who the fuck wouldn’t have the decency to respond? Especially since I was just trying to be nice and you are the bitch!

Whatever. I’m never initiating conversation with you ever again. May you get laid-off next quarter.

YOU SUCK.