Monthly Archives: December 2011

My Ragingest Things

A song. (Alternately titled LOOK AT ALL THE FUCKS I GIVE!)

God-awful drivers and steaks that have gristle,
Empty beer bottles and people who whistle,
All of the bitching that one mistake brings,
These are a few of my ragingest things.

Short-pour bartenders and chewing-gum smacking,
“Girl, you should smile more” and other crap macking,
Asking for drumsticks and just getting wings,
These are a few of my ragingest things.

When the boss calls,
When the glass breaks,
When I’m seeing red,
I simply remember I can’t go to jail
And go to the bar instead.

Whiffing a slap shot and mold in my shower,
Racists on Facebook and morons in power,
Deafening cell phones with stupid-ass rings,
These are a few of my ragingest things.

Stains on my trousers and gay-marriage bannings,
Tebow and Crosby and most of the Mannings,
Emotional crises with unending stings,
These are a few of my ragingest things.

When the jerk brags,
When the child screams,
When I want to kill,
I simply remember it’s 15 to life,
…and sometimes I’m raging still.

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Refresh, dammit

Weird week. Weird weird week. Seven days of “vacation” wherein my biggest accomplishment was stuffing fake snow under the coffee table. A one-day work “week,” and even that’s too long, considering I’m now done with what I had to do and, y’know, writing this blog.

(And what did I have to do? Why, I wrote seven different blurbs all about romantic restaurants. Hey! Fuck you, February issue! Fuck you, magazine lag time! Fuck you, [radio edit] and your stupid story about chocolate mousse cake and princess-cut diamonds! If you need me, I’ll be in the bathroom, dusting the Cheetos crumbs out of my bra.)

Feeling more banana than hammer these days—a bit soft, a bit brown around the stem. Battered and haggard from the constant tug and sting of emotional stuff, which at least does have some moments of not sucking entirely, but suck is definitely the mood of the season. It’s like having a nightmare about drowning, waking up relieved and then actually forgetting to wear pants to work.

So I’m trying not to dwell on my emotional pantslessness and thinking instead about…what? Bagels. Bourbon. My Shakespearean insult magnet poetry and how I’d now like to call my band “Prodigal Codpiece.”

Of course, I have to be in the office until they let me leave. People say that’s a good distraction, but it’s really not, because I just sit and bounce between IE windows compulsively refreshing my email and Facebook, halfheartedly checking the Bradenton Herald website, then bouncing back. Refresh. Refresh refresh refresh.

“Charges dropped in Holmes Beach panties theft case.” Well, at least it was the charges and not the panties. (*rimshot*)

(Refresh refresh refresh.)

Trying to figure out where to meet Little J for dinner tonight. How does Bahi Hut sound? Pineapple and maraschino cherries count as food.

(Refresh refresh refresh refresh refresh.)

I initially typed “cheeries” and couldn’t figure out why it was wrong. Stupid fucking cherries all happy and shit. I reject you. I take you out of my mai tai and fling you across the room, so much do I detest your cheerfulness. You are not the fruit I’m looking for.

Banana and pineapple, sitting in a tree, D-R-I-N-K-I-N-G.

(Refresh. Refresh refresh.)

Sigh. Can we go home yet?

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…to whom?

As good a story as any to start with, I guess?

So I’m searching for regular-salt, all-fat, NORMAL cream of mushroom soup in Sweetbay’s massive Campbell’s display. Sixty-something guy behind me turns and asks, in not the friendliest manner, “What kind of sauce would you serve with roast beef?” indicating a bag of sandwich meat in his basket.

My thought bubble is nothing but an asterisk and a puff of smoke from the short circuit.

“I…uh…like a horseradish…something?” I sputter.

“Something here?” he asks, indicating the wall of condiments, the steak sauces right in front of him.

I grab a jar of creamy horseradish and hand it to him. “Maybe like this?”

He is annoyed/incredulous. “You’d serve this? With roast beef?”

“Well, yeah, I guess”–I’m annoyed that I feel apologetic–“like maybe on a sandwich or something.”

“This isn’t for a sandwich,” he huffs. I shrug, at a loss, and he turns back to glare at the A1.

We should also note that I was wearing basketball shorts, a dirty white t-shirt and flip-flops. My greasy hair did not scream “foodie.”

I dunno what the hell he’s looking for, but I’m staying the fuck away from that guy’s house for dinner.

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Peeled and pounding…

Coming soon: BananaHammer, uncensored…

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