13 posts tagged “funny”
If you haven't heard about the tragedy of Jesus and the Wiener Poopie, I suggest you watch this video. Be prepared, though. It's a tear jerker. This woman thought her statue of Jesus was safe on her front yard, but NO. Someone STOLE JESUS. They STOLE HIM and wrote a RANSOM note for Jesus, claiming this woman had disrespected their yard with some wiener poopie:
The woman, Jean, is smarter than the Jesus-scatchers thought, however, as she reckons it's a kid that wrote the carefully scripted ransom note. Why? They happened to draw little lines by Jesus' name and Jean explains that "no adult would take the time to do that...and 'wiener poopie'? My gosh." See? That Jean is on it. I would have thought the fancy circles above their "i"'s were a clear giveaway."We are holding Jesus ransom until you clean up the poopie from your wieners and trust us we see you take your weiners for long walks without picking up their poopie in our yards. This has upset us dearly. So please, clean up all the wiener poopie if want to see Jesus unharmed."
[via Dooce]
If nothing else, I've realized that I would look horrible with bangs that short, and that Iain would look fucking awesome with a pompadour.
Dear Fellow Commuters,
Hi! I'm not sure if we've met properly, but I'm sure you must know who I am, seeing as you somehow manage to dry hump me, sneeze on me, slice my flesh open with the corners of your newspaper, and jab your gargantuan handbag into my rib cage every morning on the train.
For the record, my name is Cate.
I know most of the time I dress like a broke college student, but really, I'm not just going to London to shop or to catch my 9am Art History class. I have a job. A real live one. I have emails that I need to answer, phone calls to return, and a boss to fire me if I'm late - just like you!
So, I know how important it is that you get on this train promptly, as I need to, as well.
But the one thing I have that you don't, is consideration.
Ah, yes! Consideration!
Consideration: con·sid·er·a·tion [kuh
n-sid-uh-rey-shuh
1. the act of considering; careful thought; meditation; deliberation: I will give your project full consideration.
2. something that is or is to be kept in mind in making a decision, evaluating facts, etc.: Age was an important consideration in the decision.
3. thoughtful or sympathetic regard or respect; thoughtfulness for others: They showed no consideration for his feelings.
I know this is a difficult concept to grasp, but trust me. It works.
For example, girl with the ugly skirts that are that are the wrong length and cut for your body type that waits for the 8:19 train with me. Look. I'm not sure if you realize this, but every single morning you practically shove me under the train so you can get in the doors before me, so that you can be sure find a seat for your ass and the massive log that's shoved up between your cheeks. And whyyyyy do you need a seat every morning? Because you're too lazy to get up 20 minutes earlier to do your FUCKING makeup at your FUCKING house like the rest of the FUCKING women in the world.
Can you imagine how many lives you would change by doing your makeup in the privacy of your own home? You would change mine, because you wouldn't be raising my blood pressure so early in the morning. You would also change the people that have to sit next to you on the train, by not getting your shitty Wet & Wild eye shadow all over them, and digging your pointy elbows into their love handles, reminding them that they really shouldn't have had that extra helping of risotto last night. See? Right there? That's like 4 lives! Just but having a little consideration.
And the rest of you, well, you're no better. I know you're important. I know you've got somewhere to be. I understand that if you don't get on this train you will more than likely die, but seriously. Let me help. Help me. Help you.
1.) A vagina and a set of ovaries does not entitle you to a seat on the tube/train.
Girlfriends, you are not senior citizens. You are not old. You are not disabled. Look. I know that second X chromosome gets pretty heavy and that sitting down on the tube is lovely privilege, but it's just that, sister. A fucking privilege, not a right. Therefore, do not trample me or shove me on the train just so you can HAVE A FUCKING SEAT.
2.) If you see someone who is pregnant, give them a seat. (Even if part of you thinks that they're just fat.)
Pregnancy sucks. It sucks even more if you have to walk up and down the stairs at a train station, and get shoved on a smelly, stinky train with all the mother fucking media people that work in the West End. If you see a lady with child, offer her your seat. Yes, she may decline, but chances are, she appreciates the kind gesture. Would you rather be the asshole who let a pregnant lady stand for 5 stops, or be the polite gentleman/woman who offered her a seat?
3.) "Would you mind taking your handbag out of my armpit?"
Here's an idea. If you have a massive handbag and you're in a confined space underground with lots of people surrounding you, take your It Bag off your shoulder, and hold it it front of you. No. Not like a baby, like a grocery bag. See? See how much space that just made? Look at you! Your growing up! And that bitchy looking art student has stopped hexing you!
4.) It's not your right to READ on the TRAIN
The Metro, The London Paper, The Financial Times, The
Guardian...they're all fantastic papers, aren't they? And that book
you're reading! It's awesome! However, you may notice that there are
quite a bit of people around you. Therefore, if you just sucked it up,
and put away your book./newspaper, see how much more space you created?
I know all you want to do is stare at pictures of what Girls Aloud did
last night. However, poking the woman standing next to you in the eye
with the corner of London Lite isn't exactly considerate, is it?
5.) If you've been sitting on the train, this doesn't mean you also must get off the train first
How great for you! You've been sitting comfortably for the past half
hour, checking your Facebook page on your Blackberry. However, you see
all those people standing by the doors and in the aisle? Yeah. They're
not so comfortable. They've had some weird guy rubbing his crotch on
their backs for the past 30 minutes. Therefore, when the train stops,
it's rather rude to hop up and shove past everyone, and try to get off
the train first. Let all those suckers who weren't crafty enough to
shove old ladies onto the tracks in order to get a seat off first.
Jesus sees all!
6.) Get off your fucking phone.
You're not funny. No one cares what you did last night, or what you ate for lunch. (Good for you for only eating rice all day.) Your voice is irritating. No one cares how many sales you made at work. No one cares how much you hate your boss. You know what we care about? PEACE AND QUIET. We've been at work all day, too. Therefore, we all just want you to shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP SHUT UP.
7.) "Can you move down, please?"
No. No I can't move down. At least once a day, I'm standing on a packed train, under or over ground, and then some asshole jumps on the train 2 seconds before the doors shut for good and shouts, "Can you MOVE DOWN please?" Here's the thing, love. There ain't no fucking room. NO. WE CAN'T MOVE DOWN. TRY THE NEXT CARRIAGE. Or better yet, THE NEXT TRAIN.
I know these may sound like crazy suggestions, but trust me, they're just basic common sense. I'm writing to you, because I am sick and tired of getting pissed off and angry at every single person who practically shoves me on the escalator shoves me on the tracks so they can get by or get a seat on the tube. Yes. I know I need to center myself and realize that I don't need to get mad at everything.
But after I got hit in the head with the tube doors, last week, when some important jack ass needed to hop on the tube FOR ONE STOP, and not ONE PERSON asked me if I WAS OKAY. I've just had enough.
Therefore, I implore you. I beg of you. Please, next time you're on any form of public transport, try to pull your head out of your ass, and be a little more considerate, eh?
Love,
That angry girl who shouts at everyone and calls them cunts and yells I HATE PEOPLE in the middle of Waterloo Station
xoxo
One of my all time favorite bloggers, you may have heard of her, likes to do these special posts called "Exclaimation Point!" where she posts excerpts from all of the hatemail and shitty comments she gets.
I would now like to take this opportunity to share with you some of my favorite hatemail/comments because just keeping them to myself isn't nearly as fun as sharing them with all of you.
On Dollymix, I wrote a post about the new TV show that's like the UK's version of Laguna Beach. I'd say the name here, but these kids like to set up Google alerts on their names, and then get all their drunk coked up friends to leave me comments. Gotta love their enthusiasm.
But anyhoo. I wrote this post saying, "Oh great, another TV show about spoiled teenagers." and I got a large variety of very wise comments from some very articulate young people:
cupcake - u r obviously very jealous and actually if you think about it - you've actually taken the time to write this and go on the website and analyse.. a very jealous person
shut th hel up u snooty fckin narrowminded wallposting on th internet loser! hahahaha mate. GIMP
HaHa Cupcate got slatered!
cupcate babe,
if you watch the show, which im sure you will as im sure you have nothing better to do than sit at home all night, judging by the fact that you dont seem to care about your own appearance....
you're a fucking jealous bitch
get a life babe x
Awesome. Another young man was enraged that I had a problem with the website "My Free Implants".
Well, in response to 'cupcake's' blog, I certainly DO hope you throw your laptop out the window, and take a framing hammer to your desk-top if you have one...! Keep opinions grounded in the 1800's to yourself, my friend.
Find a cause just 'slightly' better to stand behind, like some very serious environmental issues, political concerns, SOMETHING!! And as far as the BAAPS is concerned, WHO FREAKING CARES what they think??
You REALLY need to get a life, or get laid, or stop wasting your time judging women who decide to seek help for whatever reason, and as for the men who donate their money to these same women?
grow up, get a life, get with the current century, and most of all, get off the NET - You don't belong here!!
General fuckery:
Darling, your a gas! One of your cupcake wellies is sticking out your arse. Oh sorry...it's your mouth.
So, you're one of those. And you fancy yourself all cutting edge and hilarious, right? Aren't you original!
And because racism is always fun..
You can always go back to your own country, it will be no loss for us. Are you one of these here Yankie dolls that wants to be British? God, not another one. The country is full up with people like you now, can't you go somewhere else? If you are genuinely concerned with liberating women, and it's not just a load of old vodka and tart fumes, please go to Afghanistan and get stuck in.
However, my favorite backhanded, incredibly confusing compliment(?) is...
I find you disgustingly erotic, intellectually bipolar, and haphazardly stylish. Therefore, I will be back for more and hope to comment on a few in the future if you don't mind, that is?
I'm not even sure what that means, but it made my morning. Getting hateful, hurtful, and ridiculous comments has helped me grow tougher skin, as if I believed most of what people said about me, I would have surely quit my job and thrown myself out a window by now.
What's the worst comment you've ever received? (And hopefully it wasn't on Vox!)
Dear Women at the gym,
Hello. I know we haven't properly met, but I wanted to take this opportunity to reach out to you, considering we've been seeing a lot of each other lately.
(Yes, once a week is 'a lot' to me.)
I'm sure you must know who I am, as you have spent plenty a minute observing me. See, I'm the girl on the Elliptical machine next to you only going for 10 minutes at a speed of 6.7. I know you enjoy how slow I'm going because you keep looking over to make sure you're going faster than me.
I assure you, you are. You're the fastest Ellipitcal machine rider of all time. You win.
(Plus, it's my WARM-UP!!!)
And yes, that was me next to you on the treadmill ranting to my husband that I can't, "FUCKING believe I have to come to THE GYM and then am forced to stare at some dancer's FUCKING ass JIGGLE all over the place!!! This isn't a music video! THIS IS SOFTCORE PORN!!!" in between sweaty pants as I power walk because I "don't do running."
And just because I know you heard it, yes, that was me who farted next to you while you were taking up the whole floor doing your pilates exercises. It slipped. I'm sorry.
I can imagine why this was so alarming for you because clearly, you don't have gas. That would require eating.
I also just wanted you to know that YES, that's me in the lime green bikini from Old Navy two years ago that walked past you while you were perched on the jaccuzzi wall.
And,yeah, I could totally seeing you staring at my ass in horror as I walked by.
Our eyes met when I purposely turned around to catch you staring at my ass, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed how startled you were that OH MY GOD THE WOMAN THAT THE ASS IS ATTACHED TO HAS EYES.
I know it must be quite alarming, that I dare turn around and catch you in your sneaky past time of staring at other women who dare display the fat on their bodies IN PUBLIC and critiquing them and reassuring yourself that No...My ass is definitely smaller. Thank God. If I ever get that fat, I'll just kill myself. Ugh.
I know I have some nerve obstructing your view of the hallway to the steam room with my stretch marks.
And my cellulite.
And that ingrown hair on my shin.
Dude, I'm totally sorry. I know.
I'm, like, tooootally nastified.
But here's the thing. I'm going to the gym for a reason. And it's probably not why you're here.
I'm here, ladies, for my mental health. I'm here, for my physical health. And yeah, I'm to stay a bit more toned so I can eat my pizza and cupcakes and not have to keep buying a bigger pair of jeans every fucking 3 months.
To the girls in the pink track suits afraid of going any faster than 3.2 on the Elliptical because you're afraid of sweating, GOD ALMIGHTY GO HOME.
If you have nothing better to do than stare at other women and their fat in the pool area, why don't you go busy yourself with a session with a personal trainer, or go suck on a popsicle?
I may not be as dedicated as you are on the Power Plate, or lifting as much weight on the abduction machine, or be afraid of walking around in my bathing suit because everyone will see my thighs jiggle but that doesn't give you any more right to be here than me.
So, ladies. I just wanted to cut you a deal.
If you happen to be one of those women talking in the steam room about the £1million home in Cobham you were just looking at and how crazy you are because you forgot to tell your husband you were going to be at Yoga until 10pm last night I'm going to make you as uncomfortable as possible.
Yes, that was me who farted in the shower. (Again. It slipped.)
That was me standing there naked as long as possible while you and your gal pal Sandy discussed preschool prices and low fat salad dressing.
It may not seem like the most clever revenge I can get on your rudeness and irritating way of breathing, but being all offensive with my size 14 ass, and my offensively large tits, and tattoo, and stretch marks, and PUBIC HAIR (because, sorry, I'm not down with some chick waxing that shit all off) is the best I can think of.
I enjoy that when I do this y'all clearly get really fucking uncomfortable with having a naked chic who clearly doesn't do Yoga at 7:30 every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday night standing 2 feet away from you.
Ladies, I am comfortable with myself and comfortable with my body and CLEARLY that makes you uncomfortable.
Do me a favor and stop staring at my "flaws". If you're staring because you're impressed with my magnificent tits, than just say so. (I mean, you have every right to be. Let's be real.)
Otherwise, if you're staring at me with disgust and I catch you, you're going to get The Stare, and possibly a nipple in your eye if you happen to have a locker near mine.
You have been warned.
Kisses!!!
See you next Tuesday....
-Cate
xx
As previously mentioned, Monday I was threatened by an 86-year-old postal worker to be "refused service". Yes. It's true.
My aunt and my mom both sent me wedding/birthday presents (we like to do things "better late than never" in my family...) and the mother fuckers over at PARCEL FORCE were holding them hostage.
Monday, July 10, I receive a "Sorry we missed you!" notice because I actually have a job and don't stay at home in my cupcake slippers all day any more.
So I phoned them up to have them send it to my local post office, and of course, got someone who spoke a language other than COHERENT AND MAKES SENSE, so it didn't go all that well.
"When we deliver?"
"Yesterday."
"You call back tomorrow, your parcel not delivered to depot yet."
"But it says on the note it IS at the depot and to contact you within five days..."
"Yes, you call back tomorrow."
"You don't even have my name, though. How do you know that?"
"YOU CALL BACK TOMORROW."
So then I did CALL BACK TOMORROW and thought instead of speaking to more people who don't understand me, I thought I'd talk to a robot. After spelling out my post code, and full address, we were at the whole, "What is your name?" bit...
"Please.Spell. Out. Your. Sur. Name."
"H-A-S-S-E-L-H-O-F-F**"
"Now. Please. Spell. Out. Your. First...Name."
"C-A-I-T-L-I-N"
"...You said: GAIL Hasselhoff.....Is that correct?"
I spent all day Friday waiting for the package that never came, so I called Ye Old Fucker named Parcel Force and talked to someone who spoke English and said for some reason the system said I meant to have it redelivered on Monday...FINE, I said. Send it to my local post office on Monday and I'll pick it up "after 3pm" like he said.
So, I take walk to the post office at 4, all excited because FINALLY I shall have my boxes.
"Hi, I have two parcels to pick up." I nicely said to the half-dead man behind the glass.
"TWO? Can I see your ID please?" (No one could possibly love you enough to send TWO!)
"Sure...The only thing is that my passport still has my maiden name on it, and the packages are being sent to my married name."
"OH....WELL. That's different than."
"Well, no, not really. My married name is Hasselhoff, so my package will be for Caitlin Hasselhoff. BUT, you can see on both of my visas in my passport that I am married to Iain Hasselhoff. So."
The old man looked at my passport, and I could see on his wrinkled, pompous face that my passport said TERRORIST all over it.
So then the old man charged me £1 for having Parcel Force redirect both packages to my post office, and unsmiling, handed me over MY two packages.
"But this isn't your ID then.""Are you joking? Yes it is. It's just my maiden name."
"No. I am QUITE serious. This is not your ID then."
"What? Yes it is! That's ME. It's just my maiden name! You can see on my visa that that's my husband's last name!"
"...Well....Are the packages for your husband?"
"No. They're for me."
"Oh! Well then that's different."
"What?!"
"This isn't your ID."
"What? Are you telling me that I should have brought my marriage certificate down here?"
"If you CONTINUE to be so FACTIOUS I am going to REFUSE TO SERVE YOU."
"Oh, really? I've been trying to get this package for a WEEK and the Royal Mail and Parcel Force have been ANYTHING but helpful. I need those packages. That is MY ID."
I was so fucking mad I could have set him aflame. I didn't know what pissed me off more:
The fact that he would have given me the packages if they were for IAIN, but not for me.
Or that he got his ancient knickers in a twist because a young, American girl DARED tell him he was being ridiculous and threatened to not serve me for being FACTIOUS.
Facetiousness is the new Terrorism, folks. Look out.
But, at the end of all that, my mama sent me some cupcake wellies from Target that I was drooling after, so, in the end, all was well.
Lesson of the day: If you're sending things internationally, use FedEx or UPS. Parcel force sucks balls of all kinds and sorts, and The Royal Mail is filled with crotchety old uptight people who will refuse you service if you don't treat them as the ALL MIGHTY MAIL GODS that they are...
**No Iain's last name is not Hasselhoff. I'm just preventing people from bombing our house and putting horse heads in our bed.
...And then go BUY SOME OF HER FABULOUS FURNITURE.
I died laughing while reading this article, hopefully you will, too!
Be back soon with the story of how I was almost refused service at the post office for being too "factitious". Seriously.
This is THE! BEST! THING! I've seen in a very, very long time.
For those of you who are offended by words such as "Penis", or "Vagina", or people talking about sex in a very frank way...or phrases such as "they penis is on fire" I highly recommend that you do not watch this video.
Just don't do it. For your sake and mine.
However, if you'd like to embark on the journey that is the Alexyss Tylor Show, and enjoy her discussions about men, 'they penises', and her theories on women, sex and relationships...please turn up your volume (or put on headphones if you're at work), and press play.
It's magical.
*Gloriously discovered at Feministing.com
I mentioned before that Iain and I were getting kicked out of our flat.
Basically, our landlord raised our rent by £200.
Um, sorry, do I have a book deal? Is Iain actually Tom from Myspace?
Fucking NO, landlord! No! <insert Amy Winehouse "Nooo Nooo NO!">
We can't afford it, so we're leaving. Which is actually good considering we live in a stroller infested borough where the Council Tax is out the ass and the cost of everything else is up the wazoo.
It's fracking expensive, just like our fracking flat However, the really awkward and shitty thing about all of this is that we feel like our landlord is sort of screwy.
First off, his name is Dragon. Yes. Dragon. Like the mythical flying character.
My first thought was,"Shit...That's frightening." And it is. It really is. To me, it sounds like a code-name. Like in Kill Bill. Which then leads me to wonder if he's friends with like Phoenix, Centaur, and their bodyguard LoMo. (Short for Loch Ness Monster)
Secondly, he's kind of weird. He has a very thick Eastern European accent and is just sort of jumpy. Kind of stand-offish.Like...like he has secrets. Like he doesn't really want to talk to you about your weekend or ask how you're doing because you might start asking him questions, even if it's just to be polite, you'll start asking him shit, and then he'd go all paranoid and while he knows deep in his heart you're just being polite, he wonders if you know something. He wonders if you asking how his kids are, if it's really just code for: "What is going on with the deal with Natasha, and where did you dump the body?" and then he might freak out and be forced to kill us.
So, we don't really talk.
If something is wrong, he'll come fix it.
And by "fix it" I mean he has Sasha come take care of it.
"Um, Dragon? The entry phone isn't working."
"Oh, okay. Yes. I'll have Electrician come take care of it."
Then he and the Electrician show up. And by Electrician, I mean his friend Sasha shows up with a tool box.
"Hi Dragon. Our boiler has stopped working. Like...we have no hot water. At all. And it's snowing outside."
"OH, I so sorry. I have Plumber come take a look at it right away."
And
then Dragon shows up with the Plumber, and by Plumber of course I mean
Sasha, with a tool box and an instruction manual for the boiler. Did I
mention Sasha doesn't speak English?
"Dragon? Our bed is like...broken."
"Oh! I so sorry. I'll have-"
"-It's cool. We'll see you and Sasha The Bed Builder tomorrow."
(And I'm realizing while I'm writing this that I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE STILL LIVING HERE.)
Every problem, and trust us -there's been many- is solved simply with Dragon and Sasha and their tool box. But when I say "solved" I mean, they throw around some tools, bang on some pipes, ask for a screwdriver and a rag, cuss in Mysterious Eastern European Language, do a secret handshake, Sasha pees in our toilet without asking, and then Dragon will find us and go,
"I so sorry. Everything should be fine. If not. Call me. Sasha and I will come back."
Who needs proper construction workers or Electricians or Plumbers when you have SASHA.
However there are things that Sasha hasn't been able to solve..
Like the fact that our water
pressure is so bad that a "shower" is just a warm, steady drool
dripping out of the shower head. Sasha can't fix this because it
requires Dragon to spend the money to buy us an electric pump for the
shower, but he probably needs that money to help hide his Mafia friends in the country pay his bills.
I also just found out that when we moved into our apartment, it had just recently been completely refurbished...new kitchen, newly converted bedroom, ya know, the works. Well, I knew it had been refurbished, I just didn't know that SASHA, Dragon's Dad, and Dragon's brother were the ones to do all of the construction on the place.This would probably explain as to why everything appears to have been bought from Ikea, and why things that are "BRAND NEW!" are fucking breaking.
Our flat is also furnished, as we don't have any real furniture because I couldn't really fit what little furniture I had in my suitcase, and that we couldn't exactly go raid Habitat because I WAS UNEMPLOYED FOR 10 MONTHS.
I feel the best part of our decor, aside from the Magical Mint Green pastel paint color in the living room, and the Soft Lilac Breeze color in the bedroom, would be the exquisite grasshopper leg light fixture Dragon ever-so-kindly installed for us when we said, "Hey, it's kind of dark in here." and he replied, "Oh don't worry. I have lovely, perfect light fixture. It very nice. You'll like it."
But really! Aside from all of the frightening "DIY to the XTREME" stuff, and scary decor, our flat is nice. It is. We have an amazing view from both ends of the house, it's in a lovely Victorian building, with lots of room. This is why we stayed. It wasn't that bad for our situation at the time, and I got out all of my "But I want to live in the city!!" feelings, as I've found out walking home with your groceries really isn't that exciting. It actually sucks a big fat one.
So, we've obviously started looking for some place to live. The only curious thing is that we haven't heard from Dragon in 2 weeks. Now, if you were a landlord and you were waiting for your current tenants to leave so you could get the flat up on the market, and get the new tenants in, all within the next 10 days...you'd think you'd be around, wouldn't you?
You'd think you'd be making lots of phone calls to your tenants. Or perhaps even writing letters. Emails. The occasional telegram....
...But no. Nothing. We've heard zilch.
Now, we're probably just overreacting and are being completely judgemental and paranoid...
But we're maybe sort of afraid that he decided to leave the country with his Mythical Character Mafia and has taken our deposit to Amsterdam where they'll then snort our money off of the bodies of some very nice " 5 for the price of 3" Dutch hookers.
Or, maybe he's just busy.
Or maybe he'll just send Sasha round on the 30th of April to collect the keys and make sure we've gone so they can convert of Flat back to its original condition of being a office building/brothel.
We're really not sure....
