Friday, September 10, 2010

A Hairy Situation - An Open Letter

Dear Hair Follicles:

You're fired.

You're services are no longer needed from my eyebrows down. It has come to my attention that you've all been working overtime without permission and have taken it upon yourselves to pick up some day laborers as well. Please cease any projects you are working on now and vacate from those premises immediately.

I no longer have the desire or the funds to find new ways to remove the over-production of hair in places that make hair-removal necessary. My legs have endured too many cuts, bruises and scrapes as it is, so I refuse to use anything else on them that might cause bleeding, require immediate medical care and cause possible scarring. It has come to a point where I need to carry tweezers with me at all times for plucking emergencies.

Cease and desist any and all hair growth from my face down. I have sustained red, mustache-shaped burns over my lip in my efforts to be hairless along with an angry mob of blisters above my eyebrows. Because of your insistent desire to over-produce and because of the pain my poor face has endured, my only choice is to fire you all and just consider going with the Tom Selleck look. Please don't take it personally.

You are all very hard-working, dedicated follicles with potential for continued growth. I've heard my scalp has lost some employees and the ones that remain are lazy and unmotivated. All applicants are welcome.

If you all feel qualified, which I know you are, please make the journey to the top of my head and begin work immediately. It would be nice to brush my hair without gathering it all up afterward from the floor, sink, counter tops, my dog's head or the front of my shirt. It would also be nice to have more than three strands in my ponytail, which I can only hold together by one of those tiny rubber bands kids use when they have braces. I am not greedy and I don't require much at all. My only preference if anything is that when you begin producing, please make it that nice hue of brown rather than that wiry silver that seems to be all the rage up there.

Love and Ponytails,
Ol' Forty

Sunday, September 5, 2010

A Heads-Up to Santa....

Dear Santa...

I know I am going to win "Meanest Mother Award" but please by-pass my house this year. I know it sounds unreasonable to ask you to do such a horrific thing, but let's review:

- Thirteen no longer believes in you so... screw him. Why go out of your way to bring him 652 presents he tosses aside, some which he never winds up using anyway?

- Eight is onto you, as well. She's a savvy little creature. But at least she pretends to believe: she helps me leave you cookies and milk and always wants to wait up so she can hear Blitzen and gang trampling on the roof. But she will always keep up the charade, that little schemer, because she now wants a laptop, an iPhone, a pink convertible car with leopard-striped interior and exterior (no, not a Barbie car - a real one), an iPad, anything with a lower-case "i" prefix, actually, and a Blackberry. If you decide to fly by, just drop an "iCarly" video into my mailbox and keep going. PLEASE.

-I busted my old ass going through my basement, or what I should really call, The Toy Graveyard From Hell, aka - Someone,-Please-Break-Into-My-House-of-Toy-Horrors-and-Steal-Everything. I carried up approximately thirty board games, boxes and bags of Legos totaling probably thousands of tiny pieces minus the ones my nephew, Fifteen, claimed to ingest a few years ago "just because" and the ones my dog probably munched on, three boxes of books, maybe 10 of those books, if that, read, a Leap Pad, a ghetto-version Lite Brite (which anyone who knows me knows I spilled half the pegs on the way up the stairs), and a shit-load of puzzles. Nevermind the half-colored Spiderman, Dora and princess coloring books I tossed.

Five over-stretched garbage bags later, I'm still not even close to having anything resembling a clean house. There are still:

- Twenty baby dolls, some with newly streaked blue hair, most naked, all neglected.

- BINS and BINS full of body parts: Green Goblin/Spiderman/Superman heads, arms, legs, wings, feet. You name it, my kids dismembered it.

You get the idea.

If you really need to drop by, come pick that stuff up and give it to kids who enjoy using the stuff. I'm throwing that shit out on the driveway to make a few bucks so you better come before I sell an entire Game Cube system with 100 perfectly good games to the lady who doesn't speak English except to say, "No, a quarter."

Dude, we're really Jews who become conveniently Catholic in December anyway.

Just a heads-up.

Ol' Forty

Friday, September 3, 2010

I'm Going to Kick Your 3rd Grade Teacher's Ass

Today as I was driving, I bypassed my annoying, evil iPod to see what was happening on the air waves. Every station was saturated with the same shit I hear all day, everyday, whether it's on the radio or blasting from Thirteen's iTouch. Finally I settled on, I'll Be Missing You by Puffy P. Diddy Daddy. Something old, yet new compared to everything else.

But then it happened - I heard it.

Every bref you take....

I suddenly felt venomous towards Puffy Diddy Daddy's third grade teacher.

Seriously, why is this man rich? Clearly, he has not been able to master the difference between the sounds th make and the letter f and people pay to hear him mangle the alphabet?

Then I got to thinking: I've heard waaaay too many people do this. Unless you're under the age of 12, (and that's very generous) or you have something physically preventing you from proper pronunciation, please learn how to say the following as these are the most common (that's so fucking sad) and the most annoying:

birthday, NOT berfday.

breath is NOT bref

While I'm on a rant, if I see one more apostrophe where it doesn't belong like on the end of a plural, NON-possessive, or another error where their, there and they're is concerned, I'm going to find the offender, force the name of their third grade teacher out of them, and kick their ass hard. The same goes for your and you're. Really.

I'm by no means a grammar snob, but if you think so, then you can Thuck Oth. ;-)