Guest-Blogger: Amy on Old People

Every day I come across a butt-load of things that piss me off- but this one reeeeally gets me roaring with hatred.

Old People.


Now I understand that's an unfair generalization. Believe me; I know plenty of sweet elderly lasses that I would utterly enjoy spending an afternoon with, baking cookies and working on my cross-stitching. BUT there are so many geriatrics running amok these days!


I work in a veterinary clinic on the outskirts of Portland, and that means 60-70% of our clientele are 1) old 2) have either a dozen cats or 3) own a Lhasa Apso.


(This was the first image that came up on Google Search for "old lady and small dog.")

This means I am subjected to a barrage of asinine questions day in and day out, and just because they're 105 years old they think it's an excuse to be rude OR that I should know exactly who they are and what they want when they walk in the door. "Look, I know YOU'VE been coming here for 35 years, but I have worked here only 2."
It's as if they expect me to be a fucking reader of dementia-inflicted minds.

Here's a conversation I have with these dinosaurs on a weekly basis:

Amy: "Hi there, what can I do for you?!!" (and yes, I do have to shout because they won't hear me otherwise)
Old Person: "Oh, uhh, oh yes. I'd like to refill my medication for Teddy." (for some reason all old people name their pets this- - a likely throwback to Roosevelt)
Amy: "Okay, I can do that. Which one do you need?!!" (I have to ask this because most of the time the dog is on more meds than Lindsey Lohan)
Old Person: "Oh, well I can't remember the name! It's the blue one... I think. I don't remember what it's for."

And that, ladies and gentleman, is when I have to go through the Bible-sized chart this animal has and decipher which is the "blue one".

I always WANT to say to them, "Here's an idea. Why don't you write this shit down before you get into the ole Buick and drive down here?" But I CAN'T say that because they will likely storm off and complain to my almost-geriatric boss.

It's not even work-specific issues I have with them. They can't drive, they're so damn frail, they always smell like a closet (or like cat food), they're cheapskates. The list goes on and on.


I will say this though: they are a goddamn fountain of (mostly useless) information! I've had a lot of great conversations with the elderly, but it's when they talk about "that time in the war" for the eighteenth time I have to declare enough is enough. Another downside of said conversations is that they spit a lot whilst talking- usually with food in their mouth. Gross.

I guess that's just the way it is. And I completely understand that one day I WILL be one of them (if liver disease doesn't take me before my time) And I am TOTALLY going to be one of those asshole old folks who pretends to have no idea she's cutting the line at the grocery store, or taking up 3 lanes of traffic, or stealing things she thinks should be free. But for now, I am youthful, attractive, and can control my bowels. SO HAW! SUCK IT, OLD PEOPLE!


p.s. I love you Grandma!

Guest Blogger: Amy (total bitch....just sayin')

Maybe this isn't the job for you: Robot Strippers

Here's something that makes me want to throw a tantrum, but I won't because I'm a mature and responsible person who would never "act out" or "look down" upon others......Robot Strippers.

I mean it's like "C'mon lady, you're job is to be SEXY" and you're up there lookin' like the Tin Man in need of an oil change. Those things to the right and left of your vagina are called hips- use em! You're making us women look like... like objects instead of skilled sexual beings! I mean Christ, it looks like you just got back from having the worst PAP smear of your life.

I totally commend the outgoing, i -love-my-body-no-matter-what, take-it-as-it-comes(no pun intended) stripper and you're disgracing this beautiful art by acting like you'd rather be having a root canal than making hundreds of dollars to be naked. I coulda used that dollar to buy a KFC Snacker!


I mean, things could be worse. You could have to wake up and go to work from 9-5 every day and not get to drink cocktails on the job or listen to the sweet sounds of Van Halen while wearing fishnets.




I guess what I'm saying is, if you're getting naked and NOT getting arrested for indecent exposure(i'm not naming names), you might as well LOOK SEXY and not be that girl with the sourpuss look on her face just going through the motions.


So c'mon you lourdess of the lapdance- get it together, pretend that guy over there isn't thinking about following you to your car after work, and start sexing it up! You never know, I may decide to be generous and buy my boyfriend a private dance.

Are YOU a bitch?

Hey there! Do you sometimes feel like this?


How about like this?


Well, how you would like to marginally amuse the barely literate masses with your bitchery? HOW, you ask? Tell you how it works? Tell you how EASY it is!?




Well, you jot down your feelings on all-things-ass-hair-twisting and email them to me.

Are you excited, 'cause I'm excited!?

Halloween

This holiday seems to be a favorite of everyone and theoretically I should like anything that encourages escapism, having license to look like a retard (as oppose to every other day where I just look like a retard for no reason) and candy, but….not so much. The first gripe of Halloween is that….I don’t love children, and I certainly don’t love them hopped up on sugar knocking at my door like some costumed panhandler. I just keep my porch light off so that I won’t be mistaken for a Halloween participator and have to explain to a 7 year old that I’m not going to contribute to adolescent obesity in America- -something about being confused for a Jehovah’s Witness that doesn’t really strike my fancy. Thankfully my neighborhood is mostly child-free, so that’s not a conversation I ever have to have. For whatever reason, people really get down on women who are in their prime child-bearing years and who openly denounce reproducing. Don’t let these hips and thighs confuse you- -my uterus is purely ornamental. Trust.


The second part of Halloween is that I work in an office where a handful of my coworkers have children, and at some point there is a metaphysical guarantee that they will displace all of the surplus Halloween candy from their homes to the office break room….so that, in addition to the day-to-day splendors of our jobs, we also get to be tempted into self-inducing glycemic comas whilst adding some thunder to our existing “problem areas.” Fun! Thanks, Halloween!
The third aspect of Halloween is perhaps the most annoying. As a dude, I can understand the enthusiasm that for one day it’s ok for girls to get all whored up under the guise of a festive costume and to get drunk enough for you to have a chance at taking your wiener off the proverbial bench and getting in the game. I mean, have at it. If I had a dick, I would probably do the same thing. For me, though, I’ve always been a big supporter of “be who you are,” so if you’re a whore in life…just be a whore. Own it. Instead it’s like, “I’m a good girl…but one night a year, I get to be a naughty police officer….because I have no imagination….and Walgreen’s tacitly made this suggestion…..plus, my friend, Mandy is going as the Naughty nurse and we look too dissimilar to go as Slutty Nurse twins….ipso facto.” (This girl wouldn’t use any Latin references, but you get my point.)


Each successive Halloween, my Halloween costume disdain has resulted in me dressing as unattractively as possible. One year I was a “house wife,” but the reality of a house wife not the kind you see on TV. I wore a robe, no makeup, my hair was in a towel and I was drunk.


The year after that I was “mixing medications” where I went to Goodwill and just picked out the most hideous shit I could find.


All the naughty nurses must have been busy with cocks in their hands, because a guy dressed as Zorro actually said to me, “Those purple crepe pants would look good on my floor.” That’s ballsy and hilarious- -I mean, that nearly deserved an “honorable mention handy”…just not from me. Anne Frank almost took one for the team- -she loves…nevermind.


Last year I went as a Puritanical whore…which meant, I was completely covered in conservative clothing. Sadder still, barely anyone got the reference- -it made me wonder if High Schools have done away with required reading lists. Either way, the “readers” had a good chuckle.

This year, I’m bypassing the slutty undertones of all commercial Halloween costumes for adult females and just going as a straight up whore. Make no mistake, I’m not talking about some high-class escort- -I’m talking “take my teeth out so that I can blow you in a construction site port-a-potty” kinda whore; the legit and bargain basement type. The kind of unfortunate creature that can’t even be the catalyst for an erection on a prison inmate.

Forced Guest Bloggers: Installment One

I've been trying to get guest bloggers on this piece for a long time...mostly because I happen upon imbalanced lunatics every day. For whatever reason, everyone is gun shy...maybe it's because my guest blogger pitch goes a little something like this:

Me: "Hey, you should contribute to my blog."
Other Seething Jackass: "Awesome!"
Me: "Cool, well it's a PMS Blog. It's basically a safehaven for the bitchy and insane to communicate their skewed opinions about the world...and no one really reads it....or cares what you have to say. So...eh?"

Why do I get to be the only unsung-run-of-the-mill-crazy female which a chip on her shoulder and an annoying abundance of opinions and nonsense to share with the world?!?! (That last part was funny because of the glaring irony...try to keep up; this isn't a sing-along, Folks.) It's for this reason that I'm going to exercise the majestic might of non-consensual cutting and pasting- -so now my friends and co-workers get to be part of the bitchiest blog on the Interwebs without even wanting to be or knowing they are. That just feels nice, like a pair of wool thongs.

I haven't figured out what I'm calling this segment yet, so I'll probably just try a couple of titles on for size. To the five people total that read this shit- -feel free to make suggestions.

"Installment One" (sorry, that's all the creativity I could muster after watching an hour's worth of Computer Based Training Videos about our upcoming computer upgrade) has been cut and pasted from company email against the will of the author, Jesse. He's gay, so he's earned the ol' Girl Scouts Red Badge of Bitchery- -honorary member. Enjoy.....or continue watching kiddie porn on the other monitor- -either way, I'm ambivelant.



Clearly, the person in this bunny suit is a malnourished Guantanamo Bay prisoner, test piloting a new form of interrogation. Just look at how tight a grip “W” has on that poor man’s wrist. “Alright, IbDjad- we didn’t wanna do this. But if you don’t start tellin’ us where them Commie Jap Jihadists hid the bombs, we’re gonna make you W’s personal cuddle toy. And he wont be gentle.”

Me vs. HR

Corporate America never lets you forget that Big Brother has access to everything you do that’s related to your company. Your first day of work in any office, it is made clear to you that every email you draft is kept, every website you visit is documented, every phone call “may” be recorded, and blah blah blah. Who doesn't love threats and intimidation as a vehicle to try to influence good behavior?!


Like a good little new hire, I tried to blend into the flock and, at first I heeded the warnings and took them seriously. I was instilled with a healthy amount of fear of reprimand from my company introduction packet which detailed all the rules and guidelines…..and consequences for non-compliance. I didn’t swear around the office or in my company emails. Like an internet-fearing hillbilly, I abstained from certain favorite websites for fear that the HR police force was going to break down the office door and haul me off to talk about policy and slap my corporate infidel wrist with a politically correct warning...before manipulatively employing some big, warm hug tactic to try to lure me back to the light (Do I win a prize for gratuitous run-on sentence? My rebellion seems to have extended to the English language.)

Well, now that I’ve been here three years, I’ve tested ALL the waters and, BELIEVE ME, there is no man behind the curtain. I’ve looked...extensively; searched even. Why, you ask? No idea, but I consider myself a corporate HR Lewis & Clark of sorts (not the college- -the explorers, Dipshit- -keep up!).



As the months wore on at my company, I sort of cautiously came out of the ol’ compliance cave of obedience and explored what was out there….and there isn’t much. My company has effectively blocked ALL of the fun websites; Youtube, Facebook, Pandora, porn, various blogs…but oddly enough, they aren’t blocked every day…and I know this, because I check……every day. It’s mostly just out of convenience. Like, “Well, if I’m going to do a Google image search to find an appropriate/inappropriate photo to pepper my reply to one of my co-workers- -I might as well see if Youtube is permitted today...I mean, while I’m here and my shoes are on.” Upon discovering that Youtube is working, I immediately email several of my co-workers to alert them that we have a temporary, unfettered green light to fuck off and laugh a little in our, otherwise, joyless jobs. Hooray! The last several times that I’ve sent the triumphant email, the response has been that no one else has access to Youtube- -so, it’s just me. Then I would send out an email alerting people that Facebook wasn’t being blocked…and again, I was the only one that had access to it. THEN, I get an email from HR saying that I’ve been selected to be part of a surveyed test group of employees whose internet activity will be monitored- -NOT AS A PUNISHMENT- -because “I’m part of a random sample group, selected at random.” Random. Yeah, that seems convincing enough. Random. (Sorry...I laugh every time I think of that little cute Corporate white lie.)


Realizing that I violate a whole gaggle of “appropriate internet use” clauses (as identified by my employer’s HR guidelines/mandates) every day, I start treading a little lightly. I mean, I had all ready learned all the hard lessons about, say, Google Image Searching “Hot Gay Asian” in an effort to entice my Gay co-worker to go get sushi with me for lunch. I probably won’t do that again. (Probably.) If not for the HR flag that it undoubtedly triggered, for the fact that there are some things you can’t unsee. There was also the time that a few of my co-workers and I were trying to gently browbeat my “every-stereotype-about-Jewish-people” Jewish (actually Jewish) co-worker into spending pennies and nickels on cocktails with us for happy hour, but I was having difficulty finding an appropriate image to effectively illustrate. Out of necessity, I Google Image Searched “Greedy Jew” and after scanning through a few pages of disappointing selection, I cackled with delight when I found the perfect image…only, as I clicked on it, I realized that it was an illustration on a white supremacist website. Whoops-a-daisy. It’s one of those websites that you sort of nervously laugh and back away slowly when you realize you’re not in Kansas anymore (or...maybe you ARE in Kansas). It was an internet reconnaissance mission of sorts. Emily-1, Hill People Hate Mongers-0.



I feel like HR and I have tacitly reached a “don’t-ask-don’t-tell” agreement, and that is...I know that they have a lot of shit on me. THEY know they have a lot of shit on me. I’m sure they have a whole file somewhere, but I also realize that as long as I continue to do my job in a way that keeps me stealthily under the ol’ proverbial radar- -I’ll probably be fine. I can sustain/not be seen or heard as a mid-level cog that generates very little waves in a Fortune 500 machine (I’ve all ready been doing it for three years). But seriously, walk around any fucking office- -even the mute, reject, non-communicative underbellies of society are bad asses when it comes to inappropriate internet use at work. Every time I brazenly defy and leave my desk for a few minutes, I get an eyeful of people on TMZ, US Weekly, some parent blog, reading some stupid 10 page email forward. It’s a fucking who’s who of work-dodging slackery- -I can’t possibly stand out.

I mean, who cares if I have stocked my company hard drive to the hilt with 18 subfolders in my Pictures folder (and dozens of subfolders within those)? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to be image-prepared for any situation. I’m like a Google Image Boy Scout…which is why I have folders with such useful titles and applications as: “F,” which is devoted only to middle finger images, “Puking” (I don’t think I need to explain that one…but they come in handy), “Funny”- -I even have a folder for celebrity mug shots, and one that is just titled after one of my co-workers, because every time he foolishly forwards on an embarrassing photo of himself, I like to keep it for later use when he’s being petulant over email.









(Sorry, Kris....there I go laughing at your expense again, Buddy.)

With all of that being said...I see you, HR. I fucking see you.

Soylent Homeless

Oh, this may be the crown jewel of bitchery in this series, Folks. It’s one thing to dislike co-workers, nice people, semi-retarded dogs that shit in cars, but I’m going to go ahead and drag my soul through the mud on this one because…..well, because my PMS insanity knows no bounds and I’m shameless in flexing those muscles this month.

Where I’m originally from in Maine there are almost no homeless people and the ones that you do see, you want to shake the hands of, because you have to be one tough son-of-a-bitch to survive a Maine winter outside…..which is why most of them are also insane. The two are correlational conjoined twins. Furthermore, in Maine I was in the habit of leaving my restaurant leftovers in conspicuous places in downtown Portland, Maine to help feed said tough homeless people. I would also occasionally give them some spare change or a dollar, and most of them are too proud to even ask for it, which I quite like. I mean, shit(!), living in a house with a parent-monitored thermostat is hard enough during a typical Maine winter- -I can’t imagine enduring it outside. It’s like an episode of Survivor. In fact, at some point the networks will probably have that show when we’ve exhausted all other soul-depleting options for bad reality TV- -“Homeless Survivor: Maine Edition- -Tune in next week to see who didn’t make it through this big Nor’easter.”
I’d like to say I wouldn’t watch, but I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to The Hills and Rock of Love, so who’s to say? I would, however, be more apt to watch “Homeless Gladiator Death Match: Portland, OR edition.”


This brings me to my next point. Upon arriving in Portland, OR for the first time I concluded that I had never seen SO MANY homeless people in my entire life. It’s like a stinky piñata spewed forth an army of these smelly, non-working, drug-addicted, semi-insane parasites of society. I didn’t realize how different the Maine homeless people are from the Oregon homeless people and my naivety went unrewarded when I offered a homeless “starving” person (or so the classy cardboard sign indicated) my leftovers from dinner when I first moved here, to which they declined. Tell you what- -how about the next time you’re “starving” we just grind up your Stinky friend who’s sitting there next to you and we can kill a couple of birds with one stone…..And so began my romance with abhorring this particular segment of society.

The Portland, OR homeless come in two varieties. The insane kind who can’t take care of themselves because of X, Y, Z that was out of their control (who I can muster sympathy for- -also women/children who are victims of domestic violence and are thusly displaced)….and the rebelling youths from the neighboring suburbs who are of sound mind and body and could easily be working, but they choose to hang out in or around Pioneer Square during a normal work day and ride our city’s free transit and ask the working man for money and ruin the dining experiences of anyone in eyeshot or olfactory distance. GET...A...FUCKING...JOB. I can’t muster any sympathy for people who are between the ages of 16-35 and aren’t working and who are living off the giant Liberal hearts of a city.

I live just a street or two outside of the immediate downtown and I have to say that two of my “favorite” Oregon homeless phenomena are: 1.) Picking through my entire neighborhood’s trash, and then dining on their findings, and then leaving the remaining trash in a heap somewhere in the neighborhood. Fun! I’m pretty sure that flies do this same kind of service, only are less offensive and bothersome. 2.) Urinating and shitting anywhere they please. Honestly, if these people had homes, I would give serious entertainment to a home invasion solely devoted to urination and defecation. I’m sure I could rise above any kidney or intestinal shyness for this task. I’d like to come up with a list of said perpetrators so that when I don’t ever become a politician later in life, I can create a task force. Congratulations, you now have a home...and we’re going to pee in it. Have a nice day.




The people who are homeless as a result of meth addiction are a special breed of scary. I am nearly certain that directors/screenwriters who have manifested Zombie and Undead films were doing so in homage to Portland’s tweakers. They’re skeletal, unwashed, discolored and bare no semblance of brain activity until they see you at an ATM on a dimly lit city block around midnight and then their catatonic saunter quickly escalates to a terrifying sprint. I’m thinking that if I accidentally “double tap” on of them in the skull (with the cricket bat I don’t yet carry), I probably have ONE “I thought it was a zombie” get out of jail free card with the Portland police.



Also, there is just the social unfairness of demanding a dollar from passersby and having them fucking relent to an extent that you can actually sustain life in this manner. Are you fucking kidding me? Your stench doesn’t hypnotize me into opening my wallet, it makes me want to run away so that I don’t puke from involuntarily assessing what attributes of your anatomy have brewed that stink. It’s the grizzled and hardened New England man (with the likeness of R. Lee Ermey) in my psyche that’s like, “You want money? Great! Go get a job” like my parents said to me when I was growing up.



I had a teenage homeless girl ask me for money as I was walking through the downtown and I afforded her the courtesy of an answer by telling her that I didn’t carry cash, I only had a card…to which, she retorted, “Yeah, well McDonald’s takes cards.” To which I replied, “you’re right, they also take applications.” I thought punctuating my “Oohhhh, Snap!” moment by purchasing some item from McDonald’s and feeding it to her dog might be investing a little too much energy into scorn- -plus, nothing deserves to have to eat that shit, especially not a precious dog.

I once had a homeless guy with vomit around his mouth and on his shirt demand a dollar from me, and when I inquired what he would do with my dollar, he hesitated….which is when my anal fissure flared up and took over and I reactively taunted, “Exactly! You want my dollar to drink and I want my dollar to drink, and guess what- -I win!!!” Then I may or may not have discussed the tenets of free will and how the choices I make to not be a piece of shit differ from his own employment of free will. I’m sure he swiftly heeded my advice, and has since turned his life around. (So WHAT if my current uppity bitchiness is accessorized with a soap box?!?!?)


Maybe all of this is just a childish jealousy that while the rest of us have to work in jobs we hate so that we have homes, and worldly possessions that we are enslaved to- -these people are handed free money by strangers just from sitting on street corners and looking pathetic and stinking. They have no schedules, no strongholds to social conventions, they are about as free as it gets. The local government feeds them and provides them shelter- -all they have to worry about is finding cigarettes and booze so that they can get drunk out in public. They are given so many free passes in society that the middle class isn’t afforded. I actually had an unmedicated schizophrenic homeless man attempt a home invasion in January of 2009, which is pretty scary when you are a female living alone in a basement apartment. I called the police after the guy threatened me and tried to break down my door for 30 minutes. He eventually left, but the cops had the courtesy to call me back to let me know that they hadn’t done anything but “send him on his way” because “he’s just a local crazy.” What?!?! Wow...is that all you have to do to get away with shit these days. I have every capacity to be an unmedicated schizophrenic for at least 4 days out of every month.

Solution, you ask? Well...I hadn't really thought of one.




Talk to me next week about compassion. This week is about multiple personalities all failing at coexistence.