I am the face of evil…

April 11, 2011 at 12:27 am (Funny at least to me, Somewhat Serious) (, , , , , , , )

Yep, it’s true. I am what’s wrong with Western Civilization. I am the face of evil…though I kind of think if this were *really* true, I’d be a little bit better dressed, and wouldn’t be weighed down by this pesky conscience-thing. But apparently, I have become the undoing of society: I am a teacher.

And frankly, I’m getting a little tired of the being blamed for everything that goes wrong. I’m a teacher, therefore I am why kids are failing at school (not because parents no longer insist that school is a priority). I’m a teacher, therefore my union is hell-bent on destroying the local economy by demanding exorbitant salaries and job perks (such as health insurance, and wanting to earn enough so I don’t have to go out and get a part-time job to support my family).

But I’m not really angry. Just frustrated. It’s so easy to point fingers and place blame on the little people…and let’s face it, teachers are the little people in education. Society points at the school board, who points at the administration, who points at–you guessed it–the teachers. However, teachers are also the most important part of the educational puzzle. We are the ones in the trenches every day, trying to keep a broken system from destroying what is left of the educational process. And though there are bad teachers out there, just like there are bad doctors and business executives, society may be better served by *supporting* those individuals who spend more time with a child that their own parent, rather than attacking them for asking for a fair deal.

So I figured what better way to deal with my frustration than through sarcasm and technology? Can I just say Xtranormal rocks?

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Now with more Neil Gaiman

March 20, 2011 at 6:07 pm (Funny at least to me) (, , , , , , )

I didn’t realize how unbelievably awesome eBay really is. I mean, I knew I could go there and bid outrageous amounts of money on an old dishrag that showed the image of our Lord after mopping up an oil stain. That’s pretty cool. But imagine my surprise when I searched for one of my favorite authors and guess the hell what?

Neil Gaiman for sale!!!

Neil Gaiman for sale!! Now with Buyer Protection!

That’s right, kids. I can buy Neil Gaiman on eBay! And what’s better, they also offer me eBay Buyer Protection…in case, upon receipt of my Neil Gaiman and I find he’s not quite up to snuff, I can send his ass back.

I could have also titled this post: reason #246 that search engines suck. But what would be the fun in that? And if you don’t know who Neil Gaiman is, SHAME ON YOU!

So now that eBay is apparently in the business of human trafficking, who would you buy?

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Guinness is good for you…you’re welcome

March 10, 2011 at 12:32 am (Funny at least to me, Uncategorized) (, , , , , )

Everything I try to write tonight is being shoved aside in my brain by this confectionery orgasm:

Photo Courtesy of Stone Soup on Flickr

It’s a cake. It’s a Guinness Cake. That’s right, yo, a freakin’ Guinness CAKE! This makes me want to weep, it’s that beautiful.

I spotted the Guinness Cake on, of all places, a Facebook Ad. And then Facebook decided to eff with me, because as soon as I spotted the Guinness Cake ad, my screen refreshed, and it was gone. GONE! But by the power and grace of google, I discovered Guinness Cakes a-plenty…now I just have to make it. And eat it. Because Guinness is good for you. So it’s a health food. Healthy living, brought to you by me. You’re welcome.

From epicurious.com

GUINNESS CAKE

Cake

  • 2 cups stout (such as Guinness)
  • 2 cups (4 sticks) unsalted butter
  • 1 1/2 cups unsweetened cocoa powder (preferably Dutch-process)
  • 4 cups all purpose flour
  • 4 cups sugar
  • 1 tablespoon baking soda
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
  • 4 large eggs
  • 1 1/3 cups sour cream

Icing

  • 2 cups whipping cream
  • 1 pound bittersweet (not unsweetened) or semisweet chocolate, chopped

For cake:
Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter three 8-inch round cake pans with 2-inch-high sides. Line with parchment paper. Butter paper. Bring 2 cups stout and 2 cups butter to simmer in heavy large saucepan over medium heat. Add cocoa powder and whisk until mixture is smooth. Cool slightly.

Whisk flour, sugar, baking soda, and 1 1/2 teaspoons salt in large bowl to blend. Using electric mixer, beat eggs and sour cream in another large bowl to blend. Add stout-chocolate mixture to egg mixture and beat just to combine. Add flour mixture and beat briefly on slow speed. Using rubber spatula, fold batter until completely combined. Divide batter equally among prepared pans. Bake cakes until tester inserted into center of cakes comes out clean, about 35 minutes. Transfer cakes to rack; cool 10 minutes. Turn cakes out onto rack and cool completely.

For icing:
Bring cream to simmer in heavy medium saucepan. Remove from heat. Add chopped chocolate and whisk until melted and smooth. Refrigerate until icing is spreadable, stirring frequently, about 2 hours.

Place 1 cake layer on plate. Spread 2/3 cup icing over. Top with second cake layer. Spread 2/3 cup icing over. Top with third cake layer. Spread remaining icing over top and sides of cake.

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It’s a gym you nitwit, not a beauty salon

February 25, 2011 at 7:37 pm (Funny at least to me, Uncategorized) (, , , , , , )

Photo Courtesy of elvissa on Flickr

Dear young blonde thang at the gym the other night:

I regret to inform you that you and your friend mistakenly entered into a gym…not a jungle gym, which would be more appropriate befitting your age, but a gym where people work out and sweat. A lot.

So while I understand you were a bit perturbed when I walked my sweaty ass into the women’s lav in order to wash my hands, I really was making a better use of the facilities. I know you desperately needed to know that your hair hadn’t lost it’s proper curl-to-skank ratio. And that your make-up was still attached to your face, because, god forbid, someone see you without eyeliner. But you’re not at a freakin’ beauty salon, honey, you’re at the local no-frills gym. Where I am the norm. Someone sweaty and without an ounce of make-up. And wearing some bargain t-shirts and sweats. Because as cute as your little leopard-print short-shorts are, they don’t really scream “take me seriously!” to the dudes I have to share equipment with. They do scream “take me!” though, so rest assured you will get plenty of the attention you claim to despise.

I also apologize for getting a bit perturbed myself as I had to wait to wash my hands because you and your friend were busy fixing said hair and making kissy faces at the mirror (because if you’re reflection doesn’t love you, who will?). I guess I don’t have the patience I used to with idiots. Sorry. I’m in my 30s. That’s the decade you become allergic to idiots.

Hopefully the dye-job didn’t seep into your brain, and you will be able to figure out that you were a bit confused on your surroundings, and we can co-exist in harmony the next time our paths cross. But lose the leopard-print shorts. They really do scream “take me.”

PS. And to the 40-something dude who couldn’t be bothered to say “thank you” when I held the door for you, despite my strong belief that my arms were about to fall off, your Certificate of Douchebaggedness is in the mail. “You’re welcome.”

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A year later & VD still sucks…

February 13, 2011 at 10:58 pm (Dating is Fun, Funny at least to me) (, , , , , , , , )

Valentine’s Day, you pervs. Valentine’s Day still sucks (though it goes without saying that Venereal Disease is certainly a unfortunate event as well).

But I am woman enough to admit that if I did have a significant other, I would so be expecting some candy, a car and a Ferrari. See, no one can live up to my expectations.

So in celebration of the little fat bastard, a.k.a Cupid, I give you some special Valentine greetings from those of us not so keen on the bloody holiday (and no, I have not become British…the mascot of the holiday is a non-toilet trained toddler who shoots *arrows* people, how could it not get bloody?)

zwani.com myspace graphic comments
Easter Graphics

zwani.com myspace graphic comments
Easter Graphics
cupid
Anti Valentine Day graphics comment

Button

Card

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I blame the teenagers…

February 1, 2011 at 3:07 am (Funny at least to me) (, , , , )

Potty humor...get it???

I’ve never been the model of propriety. E.V.E.R. I inherited the potty humor gene from my grandfather, and have also been blessed with the ability to say something inappropriate at the world’s most inappropriate time. It’s my gift. I accept it.

But working with teenagers for 8 hours a day has enabled me to rise to a new level of maturity…especially the boys. I’m not even sure a sailor could make me blush anymore. And I confess that as I listen to people speak, I hold back the urge (sometimes) to shout, “That ‘s what she said!” The result of my interaction with teenagers is a collection of everyday words that make me giggle. Which pisses off people trying to communicate with me on a serious level, which thank goodness, does not happen too often. So, I give you the top 10 words I can no longer hear without giggling.

1) sack

2) tea bag

3) your mom (technically a phrase, but it’s my list)

4) titillate (don’t judge–you know you just giggled, too)

5) junk

6) hard (pretty much in any way shape or form…usually used in a sentence which is followed up by “That’s what she said.”)

7) balls

8) pump

9) nut(s)

10) Uranus (like you don’t laugh at that one, too)

Lovely image of the potty by Bart Everson

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How May I Not Help You?

August 9, 2010 at 10:45 pm (Funny at least to me, Livin' La Vida Loca, Somewhat Serious, Uncategorized)

Today one of my friends–we’ll call her Gloria, because that’s what Samir insisted on calling her, because apparently he couldn’t quite get the name Claire…who is actually Gloria here, but whatever. So Gloria Claire tries to contact customer service for our local cable company.

Local, as in, the customer service company is in India. Because it wouldn’t make sense to have the department charged with helping your customers located in your own country.

Now there is a semi-humorous exchange between Gloria Claire and Samir, which ends up with Samir being useless, and Gloria Claire serving as her own technician and solving her problem. Thumbs up, girlfriend.

But that’s not my real point today (yes, I actually have one).

How many of us have called customer service lately, only to reach a customer service rep who is struggling with English, and has an accent so thick you really not quite sure if they are crediting your account, or preparing to send you a contract for your soul? And how many have lamented about those damn foreigners taking away jobs from Americans due to the great outsourcing movement?

Now, I agree; outsourcing sucks. Big time. Outsourcing of jobs have cause friends to lose jobs, small towns to lose the livelihood of their citizens in one fell swoop. So I am totally anti-outsourcing.

But the problem, I contend, lies with us. Or with US.

Americans have an insatiable appetite for the cheap. We love our capitalism as long as it means we can buy jeans even cheaper…but the very same beast is responsible for your neighbors losing their jobs.

In order to produce goods cheap enough to satisfy us, companies have no choice but to move operations where they can get away with paying pennies…rather than the living wage we as Americans expect. What do we really think is going to happen? A company is going to take a hit on their profit so that they can keep jobs here and fill our need for greed? Not happening. Instead, we complain about having to deal with customer service from across the globe, when we are the ones responsible for its existence. Way to chase your tail.

So the next time you are bragging about the $10 jeans you got from Wal*Mart, be sure to go to your local unemployment agency, and thank anyone there who might have made that possible for you. Sure they lost their, jobs, but damn, you got a hot bargain. Awesome.

Photographic Evidence of Superlative Customer Service by James Cridland

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Best Dating Site Message. Ever.

August 2, 2010 at 7:17 pm (Dating is Fun, Funny at least to me, Livin' La Vida Loca, Uncategorized)

Not really sure if I was supposed to just find this funny, be impressed, or be horrified…but this was definitely one of the most entertaining messages I’ve ever gotten on a dating site:

RandomDatingDude: lol don’t you dare lose those lovely ladie lumps your very sexy the way you are

Um, yeah. Thanks…I think. Maybe not.

Also, thanks for getting “My Humps” stuck in my head for the day. Jerk.

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I Think My Dog May Go Bald

June 23, 2010 at 2:56 am (Dating is Fun, Funny at least to me, Livin' La Vida Loca, Uncategorized)

You know what does not mix? Nair and Dogs.

So here I am, rushing around earlier this evening, trying to get ready to go out. Like usual, I am running behind, because I tend to forget that time passes. And, wouldn’t you know it, I need to do pretty much the only primping ritual I take part in–the removing of the leg hair.

That’s where the Nair comes in, or goes on, I should say. Nair is nasty stuff that eats away at your skin if you don’t remove it within 5 minutes, and sometimes it actually removes the hair. At the point where I literally finish applying this hair removal miracle, my lab decides it would be a great time to bust into the bathroom…and rub against my leg.

My first reaction is to yell. Loudly. I have never seen my dog give me that look before, which makes me think people in New York city may have heard me. Now, I’m no scientist, but it’s a pretty safe assumption that if Nair can dissolve hair, it’s not going to be too gentle on a dog’s gastrointestinal tract.Which is why I yell. I’m scared I have somehow just killed my dog in an effort to conform to society’s expectations.

After I am reasonably assured that Zoe did not ingest any of the nasty stuff, I take a look at her. She has Nair smeared on her head, down her neck, and onto her back. My first thought? She’s going to look really freaky if I don’t get that crap off of her. That is not something I want to explain to the vet.

So I grab a towel and begin to wipe it off, when I realize you usually have to rinse the Nair off. But I’m running late. I don’t have time to hose her down. I run downstairs, and wet some paper towels and succeeded only in rubbing the Nair around a bit. It’s about this time that the Nair on my underarms begins eating through my flesh.

So now I am faced with a choice no one should have to make. Do I choose my dog’s hair or my own skin? I figure, she’s got a lot of hair, and I’m really getting a little tired of her shedding anyway, so I choose my skin. Sorry, Zoe. We’ll laugh about this some day, really.

Please note, no animals were harmed in the making of this blog. And my dog really isn’t going bald from the Nair experience. At least, not yet.

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