Lord 'Tunderin' Jaysus Christ B'ye

So there is this wee tiny part of me that is Irish and I get a bit sentimental when I hear the accent or see pictures of rolling hills and valleys separated by stone fences.

I love most things Irish.  I love soda bread and barley soup.  I like my colcannon made with cabbage, not kale ,and it is spelled faeries, not fairies.  I like reading about Michael Collins and listening to U2 and The Commitments.  I cannot drink anymore and I miss Guinness.  A properly drawn pint of Guiness that is, not the shite in a bottle.  So.  Wrong.

So when something "Oirish" comes along, I cringe.  This gem landed on my Facebook wall:

I can't even.

PS: Westlife called.  Kian wants his hair back.

I Blame Cath And Amy

Am back.  On Facebook.  Ugh.  I feel like I just handed over every shred of decency I have to Mark Zuckerberg and he is doing unspeakable things to it.  This better work better than it did last time girls!

Yes, I remember what I said about Facebook and all its co-conspirators last year.  I still stand by that.  I have even more arguments against it (planking, homicide due to wall posts and Farmville) now and, quite frankly speaking, cannot wait until the next thing comes along.  Oh sit down Justin "I just bought MySpace" Timberlake.  Best you will do is piss YouTube off.  This business of you trying to be an actor and trying to relive your Social Network days makes you look silly, cheesy, and deficient.  I digress...

Are we fighting yet, Amy?

As a precaution, I have created an account that is part my name, part not.  So if you want to add me as a friend, and if I think you will not stalk my life and irritate the fuck out of me with your narcissistic wannabe bullshit are worthy, I will add you.  You can email me privately for further information.

If I do not respond to your email or add request, I want you to give some really deep thought as to why I have not before you blast me about it and start calling me all the bitches under the sun in your news feed, status box, etc.  I mean really really deep thought.  And then choose my answer(s) from the following list that best apply to you (and they do):
a] I am not interested in your drama.
b] I am not interested in you stalking my life.
c] I really just tolerate you because I find myself in socialized situations where I am required to or I may loose my job.
d] You are a friendwhore, we are not now nor will we ever be friends, and I would not be caught dead on your friends list.
e] Your "join this club" invitations and all the other spam you posted on my wall last time I was on Facebook created so much spam I had to abandon a much loved email address.  Fuck off with the invites, I can join myself.
f] We may be related but that does not mean I like you or would consider you a "friend".
g] You bore me with your feeble and pathetic attempts to look cool.  If you really were as cool as you want me to think you are, if your life was as cool as you attempt to project onto me, you would understand that cool never ever tries.  Cool just is.

Random Sauce, Part One

I am not a fan of Justin Bieber.  I want to fill my ears with concrete whenever I hear his voice.  But I was absolutely a fan of what he did when someone hacked his Facebook or Twitter account (does it really matter which one it was?  No.).  The Biebs tweeted the phone number of the kid who hacked his account and said something like, "Yo its Justin, call me."  And the fans got the Bieber Fever.  Say hacker boy, has your phone stopped ringing yet?

~~~~~

If you have extensions or a weave, please do the following: pay the money to get it done properly and wash that shit regularly because I am tired of smelling your nasty stank, especially when you try to stand on top of me.

~~~~~

Stop standing on top of me.  This is my space.  You have your own.

~~~~~

Understand that when you speak to me like I am stupid, I am going to call you out on it.  Every time.  I am not an idiot, I am not "special needs" and even if I were, I do not need to be spoken to like I have the i.q. of dirt.

~~~~~

Yelling a conversation across the hall to a co-worker who has an office that is less than fifteen feet away from you makes me want to get homicidal on your lazy, fat, chair-bound ass.  Pick up the phone or get up and speak to them.  Enough with the noise pollution.

~~~~~

Want to see crazy?  Hang out near a bank's ATM machine at 6:30 AM.  Cuh.  Ray.  Zee.  Don't ask how I know, just know that I do.

~~~~~

Does My Ass Look Like A Friendwhore In This?

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on February 18, 2010.)

Look around; they’ve [consumers] taken great American literature and turned it into Twitter. – Kelly Cutrone

I don’t Foursquare, Twitter or Facebook.

I used to Facebook but got sick and tired of the narcissistic bullshit that permeates it. Here’s other reasons why I deleted my account (at least I think its deleted… you never know what that pack of bastards is up to or concealing):

-The idea that anything I post to Facebook instantly becomes Facebook’s property is frightening. They now have pictures of me and information on me that can be used against me on the Internet. And I have no recourse because I agreed to their terms of use, which they tend to change A LOT, and I agreed to follow their stupid rules… the ones I signed up with and the ones they have changed or added. Visa and MasterCard already own my soul, now that pile of dung that runs the show over there can use my second grade class picture against me. In my defense, it was the 70’s and my ringlets were an attempt to disguise a bad hair cut.

-Friendwhores. Get over yourselves. You wouldn’t walk across the street to take a piss on me, even if I had been on fire, in high school and now you are sending me private messages wondering if we can add each other and hang out when you come to the “big city”? For really? Let’s you and I get something straight, OK? I wanted to light your hair on fire in high school for being one of those five bitches who dragged me around the school, both levels, and then picked me up, carried me down a hall, and threw (yes threw) me at Darren Nimchuk’s feet when you found out I had a crush on him. I bet you forgot about that, huh. I didn’t. For two years, every time I saw him or one of his friends, I wanted to die. Literally. Like go Peden Hill and throw myself in front of an oncoming logging truck. You and your bitch friends took time out of your day for four years to mock me, set me up for rejection, reduce me in every way conceivable, and now you want to be friends and hang out? Fuck off is too good for you darling.

-Spam. I have had to abandon the email account associated with my Facebook account. It gets flooded with stupid requests to join inane Facebook groups and I have seen just about every email in existence that has anything to do with the sale of little blue pills, member enlargement, inheritance collection in Nigeria, and watches. What is it with watch spam? Is there really that big of a black market for Timex’s?

-Being stalked by THAT aunt. And the rest of my family. When the hell did anyone other than my cousins start Facebooking? I definitely knew it was time to get the hell out of dodge when THAT aunt tried to add me. The last thing I need is for her to be calling everyone I’m related to and telling them that my new status is “His and Her’s KY jelly rawked my weekend”. True story and no I will not be discussing it any further. Not here, not privately. I over-shared, as one tends to do on Facebook and Twitter and now my step granmonster knows I’m a KY fan.

-Being stalked by THAT co-worker. I don’t need her calling all the branches and every division and each department telling them I had a KY weekend either. She’s got a big mouth and if you think I over-shared, in the name of narcissism and competition, she will not be outdone and will retell the story every chance she gets, using some escapade involving her psycho husband. And the gym. And the dog. And tightwad Tuesdays. I stop listening when she explains what THAT is. I already know that her step daughter’s nipples point upwards and that her husband likes to stick his dick between her legs (THAT co-worker, not the step daughter... come on, they are born again Christians and so not into that) when she’s sleeping. Ya, she’s like that. Really really.

But the number one reason why I can’t stand these social networking services is that I just don’t care. I don’t care that you took a shit this morning and it felt like it was leaving you sideways. I don’t care that you just posted another set of 200 pictures trying to convince me that your weekend was better than mine. I don’t care that you have over 600 friends because I know it is simply not true.

Honey, allow me to be honest with you, you are lucky if you have 6 real friends.

True story.

Paranormal Whaaaa??

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on October 24, 2009.)

I’ve been desensitized.

That’s the only answer I can give at this point.

What was the question? It may have gone something like, why did you laugh all the way through a movie that is being touted as one of the scariest pieces of cinema ever? Definitively, it was the ghetto-tastic crew of fourteen year olds sitting down front. But you can’t rule out the big baby powder chicken foot prints either.

Beware of the hype surrounding Paranormal Activity. I totally bought into it. I was so close to puking before the movie that I could literally taste stomach acid on the back of my tongue. I’ll be honest, I was shitting myself. I had heard that this movie had been banned because it was sooooo scary. A guy that I used to work with (who’s poker game is predictable but who’s opinion can be trusted) saw this movie the other night and when he got home he was almost in tears and told his younger brother he wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a few nights. Feckkkkkkk. I was going to need some Depends, I was sure of it. I told Dana, my partner in crime for the evening, that I was going to ask for my popcorn to be double bagged so I would have something to barf in later. After some research, which I could have totally benefited from yesterday afternoon while my guts were fermenting my breakfast, turns out “banned” is some new code word for “limited release”. That’s right folks, viral Twitter and Facebook accounts are now the new way to market a film. Well done Mr. Peli and Mr. Spielberg. As much as I cannot stand Facebook and Twitter, this move was nothing short of fucking brilliant. Nicely done, indeed.

Prior to the movie starting, the crew of tweens assembled a few rows down, in the section directly in front of the movie screen. They were definitely the “rolling with the homies” crowd complete with askew head wear and baggy jeans that look like they have already shit themselves and are carrying this steaming load in their shorts. And that was just the chicks in the crew. I stated to Dana that I was going to spend my night watching them watch this movie and that I was going to enjoy watching them screaming like a bunch of four year old girls. I know it’s not very kind or gracious or remotely compassionate to watch others suffer, but I’m not above deriving pleasure from observing someone being served up a well deserved and much needed attitude adjustment… cos that’s how I roll, yo. Karma’s a bitch and I can be one too. Deal.

As the lights went down, the punk assed kids sitting down front would not shut the fuck up. I thought about throwing a candy at them but I really do throw like a girl and it would have been a waste of peanut butter and chocolate. It took some dood from the back of the theater screaming at them to shut the fuck up (after several other requests to shut the fuck up but his was a much more darker, sinister, I’m-gonna-curb-stomp-your-ass-in-the-parking-lot-before-your-mum-comes-to-get-you-later-tonight shut the fuck up). Clapping ensued, shutting the fuck up emanated from the front rows, and we were on our way to Spookyville.

I couldn’t help myself. I giggled and mocked for most of the night. Maybe it was it was being surrounded by people screaming at a light turning on and off. Maybe it was the kiddies screaming for their moms when a door slammed on screen. Ya, you read that right. A bedroom door slammed and they went from “all up in this mutha ghetto fantastic” to screeching pre-schoolers. Maybe it was the use of a chicken’s foot print to depict a big scary demon. Christ Almighty, even I’m more creative than that. Could someone please remind me again why I burnt up my afternoon being scared??? The king of movie reviews Roger Ebert called this mockumentary “ingenious”. Seriously? It’s The Blair Witch Project in a house. And I laughed my ass off at that shit too. Think back to the booger shot. You’re welcome.

I suspect it is futile to try and understand why the fear surrounding this movie went viral. Could it have been the look on the possessed Katie’s face while she was sniffing and licking Micah? Perhaps. But some people are down with that and licking can very easily be thought of as not so much demonic but very much erotic. My guess is the “fear” is nothing more than hype and I’m ashamed to say I bought into it. Luckily, on this night, I was not the only one donating my time and money to a gimmick.

Obviously this was not the Paranormal State/Ghost Hunters/Most Haunted/A Haunting crowd. If it had been, then we all would have been laughing as we left the theater, slightly miffed that we didn’t get our $12.50 worth of scary but grinning because we know those kids in the front are indeed hard core… hard core pussies.