Why I Should Not Care For Living Things

It turns out I only appear to be responsible. 

Or, you know, as responsible as a grown up person who lives in her childhood bedroom in her parents home can appear to be.

That is, so I thought. 

Until my entire sense of self worth was thrown into an abyss of uncertainty after an unfortunate near-death experience  (see The Weekend I Almost Killed My Dog On Accident).

Upon reflection, I've realized that I actually have an extensive history of irresponsibility—specifically as far as other living creatures or organic materials are concerned.

Just ask my Ficus plant. 

This is what a Ficus plant should look like

This is what my Ficus plant looks like after 5 years of tender love & care...

Note the adorably whimsical sign my very helpful work cubby mate attached.

 

 

I rest my case.

WTF Wednesdays: Emergency Room Deceit

Dear All People Who Work in Emergency Rooms,

Wearing scrubs when you don’t have the credentials to administer morphine is mean and should be illegal.  PLEASE STOP.

Thanks,

The Cranky Bitch in Room 2

p.s.
STOP SMOTHERING ME WITH YOUR EFFUSIVENESS AND CHEER. 

Conversations on the Job: Bob, again.

Welcome to a new series on this here blog that no one reads, in which I will chronicle actual conversations that actually happen at my job which I shall proudly call: Conversations on The Job.

You may remember my previously documented interactions with my client, Bob.

Well, I ran into Bob again.

And, again, he was in need of some "female advice".

Bob: Alright, so I got this girl, feel me?
Me: No.
Bob: Well, she be workin, you know? So I gotta decide if imma smash or pass.
Me: Smash what?
Bob: Huh?
Me: Are we talking about marijuana?  Because I saw that movie where Chris Rock is all like, "puff puff GIVE!  You're fucking up the rotation!" Is that what we're talking about?
Bob: *staring blankly*
Me: You know.... by "pass".  Marijuana?
Bob: *more blank staring*
Me: I'm sorry, I forgot myself.  Go ahead.
Bob: So...
Me: Oh, wait!  I get it!  She's a prostitute.
Bob: I don' like ta play it like that.
Me: I don't understand
Bob: I mean, you know...
Me: No. I don't know.
Bob: *sigh*
Me: *no response*
Bob: Man, you gonna help me or not?
Me: Probably not.
Bob: I'm for real.
Me: *no response*
Bob: So I got this girl...
Me: The prostitute?
Bob: Now you aint even payin' attention...
Me: What? I'm paying attention!
Bob: Nah.
Me: Ok so I may have drifted off a little bit.  But NOW I'm paying attention.
Bob: *side eyeing me*
*uncomfortable silence as Bob side eyes me*
Bob: So i got this girl...
Me: Who is NOT a prostitute.
Bob: Well, she and we smashed, you feel me?
Me: Smashed what?
Bob: Nah, I aint tryin' ta play it like that, you know?
Me: Not really.  I don't know what any of this means. You got to white it up for me Bob.
Bob: A what?
Me: I'm a white girl Bob.  I grew up in *insert very white suburb here*.  I don't know what any of this means. 
Bob: Oh.  I feel ya.
Me: See?
Bob: Yeah. Okay, lemme break it down.
Me: That'd be great
Bob: so I got this girl, feel me?
Me: So far, so good.
Bob: And she be gettin some attentions.
Me: Nope
Bob: What?
Me: You've lost me.
Bob: Oh forget it.
Me: I think that's for the best.

Pseudoephedrine + Blow Jobs= Methamphetamines (this blog post makes no sense whatsoever)

Oh Pseudoephedrine

I love you. 

I don't care what the Feds say...I want to buy you in BULK.  Not because I wish to become a meth addict, lose all of my teeth/frontal lobe brain cells and commence the manufacturing of massive quantities in my garage laboratory to sell for profit...but rather because I have SEASONAL ALLERGIES.

That's right.  SUE ME.  My nasal cavaties become inflamed, drippy and in need of theraputic levels of pseudoephedrine to remain viable transbuters of oxygen to my lungs during certain times of the year. 

Apparently our legislators do not have seasonal allergies.  Which makes sense since they are all aliens Republicans anyways.

Because in my neck of the woods, one now has to show three forms of ID, give the pharmacist a blow job* and sign away their first born child to get some pseudoephedrine these days.  Which begs the question:

Whose brilliant idea was it to crimininalize the purchase of SMALL quantities of pseudoephedrine via Walgreens?

Is that really where the bulk of the supply was coming from...my local Walgreens? 

Clearly the Feds have never been in MY local Walgreens because there aint nobody up in here but a bunch of arthritic 80 year olds and some broke-ass white bitches giving pharmacists blow jobs.**

Once upon a time, I could be allergic to Acacia trees without feeling like a goddamn criminal for seeking pharmaceutical assistance. 

Now, Me + Acacia pollen = OMFG YOU MAY BE MANUFACTURING METHAMPHETAMINES!!!!!    

Another example of a few morons fucking it up for the rest of us and I am feeling resentful. 

Because of YOU, meth users, I can no longer buy Sudafed in BULK.  

Let me be clear as to what I mean by "in bulk"....I mean that I used to buy Sudafed 24 tablets at a time. 

There are several problems with this picture.

First of all:  I know, right?  ooooooooo, SO RISKY and DANGEROUS.  24 whole tablets at once.

Secondly: You know why I bought the 24 pack instead of the 8 pack?

I'M LAZY.

I don't want to drive to goddamn Walgreens every 8 days during tree pollen season.

WHAT KIND OF TIME DO YOU ASSHOLES THINK I HAVE?!

Thirdly: According to my sources (and by that I mean Google), it takes KILOgrams of pseudoephedrine to produce meth in any kind of quantity worth the effort in terms of profit margin (which, frankly, begs the question; how many blow jobs are those pharmacists getting?***)

Therefore, it seems to me that the REAL problem here is that the Feds have an unrealistically low opinion of meth manufacturers. 

Are they really such underacheivers such that their primary source of meth production is my local Walgreens?  Because, how much meth, REALLY, is a 24 pack of Sudaphed going to produce?  I'm no math genius, but I believe that those numbers would be less than a KILO of any sort and may, in fact be only a teeny tiny bit.

May I offer, as it apparently has not yet occurred to our illustrius legislators, that it may be more likely that meth producers are utilizing other sources than their local Walgreens via one-at-a-time purchases of 24 pack pseudoephedrine to manufacture their methamphetamines for mass distribution?

Oh, WHOOPS. 

Was that too much common sense for one day?

Sorry.
 

*I have since been advised that giving pharmacists blow jobs for sudaphed is NOT part of the new Federal regulations....FYI.

**I have never actually SEEN any broke ass white bitches giving pharmacists blow jobs-that is mere speculation on my part.

***I have no actual proof that blow jobs were exchanged for sudafed.

Man Tutorial: How To Get Laid

I've decided that I should be doing more community service activities.  You know, as a way of giving back...because I'm all into philanthropy and all. 

I shall begin with the following VERY useful Man Tutorial for all of the needy men with no game out there, which I shall call: Man Tutorial.

In today's Man Tutorial, I will discuss how to get laid.

Are you ready for this awesomeness men?

Here are my tips:

Lesson #1: The following pick up lines will usually* NOT get you laid...so you should avoid these: (*when I say "usually" I mean FOR FREE)

"Heyyyyy YOU!"
"How much?"
"Yo."
"Hi"
"Whaaaat?!  Guuurrrrl, you got it going ON!"
"Can we fuck?"

So you should avoid all of the above.  Are we clear?  Good.  Moving on.

Lesson #2: Get a better job.

Always.  I don't care what your job is, you should get a better one, right now.

Lesson #3: Put appropriately sized tires on your car (unless your car is an oversized, giant pick up truck in which case skip to Lesson #6)

Really men?  When we see that you have GIANT tires, and/or a car that is 500 feet above its tires, our default assumption is that you have a very, very small penis.  And there are NO women on EARTH that are gonna want a peice of your infinetesimally small man parts.  NO THANK YOU. 

Lesson #4: There IS a dress code, and it does NOT include showing off your underwear

Pull your damn pants up.  As a woman, when I see a man walking around who has to use one hand to hold his pants up, I immediately assume he is a moron.  And I don't know any self respecting women who want to DELIBERATELY have sex with a known moron, so this exponentially decreases your chances of getting laid.   Just buy a damn belt already you moron.

Lesson #5: Do not advertise your teeny tiny penis.  This is a turn-off.

Occasions wherein you (perhaps inadvertantly?) advertise your small penis include but are not limited to:

wearing a toupe
dying your hair
any and all comb-overs and/or attempts at comb-overs
putting lifts on your car/truck (also see Lesson #6)
wearing giant gold jewelry
wearing any jewelry whatsoever

Lesson #6: Drive a regular vehicle.  Do NOT put your car/truck up on lifts
It doesn't matter WHAT kind of automobile you own-if said vehicle is up on lifts and/or the tires are so enormous that a step-stool is required to enter said vehicle, the default assumption of all females on Earth is one of the following:

1) you have lost all or part of your penis in some kind of horrific freak accident and are now penis-less
2) you are missing one or both of your testicles
3) you have never, ever been laid ever
4) you have an itty bitty penis. 

Either way, none of the above will get you laid.  Also, all of the above assumptions are multiplied times 100 if said "automobile" is a giant truck...

That is all men.  You.  Are.  Welcome.