Canal Fishers

You know what I hate? Canal fishers. Yeah, these are my lovely neighborhood peers who haul their grubby little Igloo coolers down to the canal banks of downtown Sunnyslope , toss a line in, and wait for a beheaded body catfish to hook itself on the lure.

I'm sorry, but are we really this hungry in Phoenix? Cause I'm thinkin' starvation is a better course of action than eating catfish from the banks of Sunnyslope. In fact, I'm pretty sure you'd be better off eating a spinach leaf with a hyperdermic needle stuck to it than you would eating a crud-water carp. Have you looked into the depths of a canal lately? Seriously. Let's think about this: canals are serial killers' preferred venue for dumping their bodies. This can't be a good sign!

I won't even talk about the fact that a canal is the poor-man's bidet. The poor, homeless man who has the runs due to eating a rotten hotdog from the QT garbage (true story, courtesy of my husband). I won't talk about that. Because I want you to enjoy your crap-flavored carp.

Or maybe this isn't about the food. Maybe we're not that hungry or desparate in Phoenix. Maybe it's about the sport. Yeah, the sport. As in, "kids -- go get your fishin' poles; we're headin' down to the wastewater treatment facility to have us some fu-uuun!" To this, I say, good for you. Good for you, canal fishin' dad, for taking the li'l ones for an afternoon outing they'll never forget.

They'll never forget the bloated prostitute torso floating by, or the used condoms bobbing in the water like a few slightly off-kiltered synchronized swimmers, or the brown engorged baby diaper, or the shardy crack pipe pieces or the bum washing his ass after eating a rotten QT hotdog. They'll never forget that day. These are the things from which memories are made.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take the kids to the Nuclear Power Plant to roast some marshmallows. Family fun for all!

Semicolon Bunglers

You know what I hate? Semicolon bunglers. I would normally say, “You know who you are,” but, in fact, you don’t. Because semicolon bunglers are pretty much clueless. And dumbassed.

One thing that significantly feeds my superiority complex is my ability to use the semicolon properly. It’s an elite club. To join, you must be able to punctuate a sentence using a semicolon in a non-retarded fashion. This, unfortunately, is reflective of about 1 percent of the American population. So, yeah, I’m in the club. And if you're reading this, you most likely aren’t. I'm sorry; I know that's harsh. But I don't make up the statistics; I just report them. It’s okay; I still like you. Just don’t go trying to crash my club. Don’t be like that greasy-haired dork who thinks he can sit at the jocks’ table. People will know you're a fraud.

So, how can you know whether you’re using the semicolon correctly or incorrectly? Let’s dig into the details. First of all, know this: the semi-colon is not the Leatherman of punctuation. It can’t be used to group your dependent clauses, end your sentences, OR open your can of beans. It doesn’t work like that. It’s a very special symbol with a very special purpose. So stop bastardizing it!

Here is a real-life example of someone who has clearly not learned proper use of the semicolon. On a side note, he has also clearly not had enough oxygen during childbirth.

"I sent this information out before; if you develop any automation scripts for BUSA; you have to follow the procedure listed below; the metrics have to be captured; You need to follow the below procedure for any script that you have already running; and scripts in development."

No, I’m not joking. This email came to me a few days ago from a well-respected colleague. He should be put into an abuse program for overuse of the semicolon. Semicolons Anonymous or Retards-R-Us or something.

While this is extremely annoying, it at least demonstrates a willingness to embrace the semicolon. Many others, anticipating the tedious rigmarole of pledging to the Semicolon Sorority, simply shut down, refusing to even try using it correctly. These are the people who turn to the ellipsis in times of distress. The people who preserve the integrity of one grammatical symbol while mutilating another. You’ve surely seen it before…however, you might not have noticed. The ellipsis just sneaks in there like it’s lived there all along.

People: punctuation marks are not inter-changeable! You can”t just go, and, put ? them in strange: places *willy-nilly*@.

So, I’m sure that I’ve intrigued everyone to learn how to PROPERLY use the semicolon, and lower their "special needs status" to a respectable level. Well, lucky for you, Sunday is National Punctuation Day. For those of us in the elite Fraternal Order of Punctuation Snobs (FOPS), this day is in our honor! Thank you, Jeff Rubin!

For the rest of you, stop being so abusive to the semicolon! What did it ever do to you?

http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/semicolon.html

Meet Potty Grunters

You know what I hate? Potty Grunters. Potty Grunters is wife to Gym Grunters, who I wrote about in an earlier post. Potty Grunters thinks we should all know about "her business" -- "her business" being piss and shit.

Yes, Potty Grunters is the ma'am in the handicapped stall next to you. She isn't handicapped unless spastic colon qualifies. Potty Grunters sounds as if she's giving birth to an alligator -- teeth first. Like her husband, Gym, she has no vocal restraint whatsoever.

Potty Grunters doesn't only grunt when squeezing off a baseball bat-sized turd; she actually finds every task difficult. Sitting down, standing up, flushing. The CACAphony coming from her stall makes me want to toss a hand grenade in there with her. That's right -- if Irritable Bowel Syndrome doesn't kill Potty Grunters, I might.

Sadly, Potty Grunters is JUST the type of person who sometimes skips the hand-washing. I mean, the world revolves around POTTY GRUNTERS, so get over her stinky poo germs already!!!

If the Cuddler fits, wear it!

You know what I hate? The fat-lady-ailments that doctors are starting to test me for. Things like diabetes and hyperthyroidism and circulation. Should I be taking a hint from this?

The latest esteem-busting test was for heel spurs, as in "your dense body is crushing your feet." I got an x-ray for that one. Heel spurs? Check.

The worst thing about heel spurs is that my leg swells up like a Walrus flipper. Check out this picture of my cankle thighkle.



The second worst thing about my heel spurs is that I had to go to Kmart and buy "Cobbie Cuddlers." Have you heard of "Cobbie Cuddlers?" Yeah, they're designed for nurses and fat girls. They're really comfy. Really cuddly.

Unfortunately, the Cuddlers don't come in that many varieties. So, when it comes to footwear, I'm pretty much lookin' like my grammie. Here is a picture of a Cobbie Cuddler in case you can't get the full appreciation. Beautiful, huh? I think Bea Arthur wore these to the Tony Awards once.

I hate to say it, but my Cuddlers are so pleasurable to my feet, that I'm falling in love with them. I can only imagine what's next in my premature fashion aging: some stretch denim, a cross-your-heart bra and a hairnet?

The runs

You know what I hate? Food that gives me the runs. But you know what I hate even more? Food that already IS the runs. Case in point: the new "Whips" yogurt by Yoplait.

No, I'm not kidding. This is, indeed, edible. At least that's what the container said. I personally don't dine on anything that looks like it came out my dog's ass after said dog consumed a half disintegrated roof rat and 4 cat turds from the litter box. However, apparently, some people are buying this crap by the flats.

You might be wondering why the hell I bought this if it's so gross. The answer: clever advertisting. Look at the container. I mean, it represents this fecalish mess in such an innocent, if not downright mouth-watering, way. I mean, look at how "Whips" is all frilly and cursive. I would use that type of font to describe something good and tasty. Unfortunately, that's not the type of font I would use to describe assgurt. Yes, I was duped.

My husband and I had a slight disagreement about the origins of this product. While I thought it seemed very scattish in nature, he thought it looked like brain matter. Unfortunately, being a cop, he's seen his share of brain matter. We had a slight tiff over what the yogurt most resembled. In the end, we decided it didn't really matter. Brain dumplins or frothy feces -- either way it was NOT going to be eaten in our house.

College: It Ain't What It Used to Be

You know what I hate? Academia. Even saying that word makes me feel like I'm trying to act smart. It's so pretentious. I prefer the term "school" or "a place to get some smarts."

As many of you know, I've decided to go back to school and get a Master's degree so I can be an elementary school teacher. I hadn't stepped foot on a college campus for the past 13 years....until Wednesday night. A lot has changed. And not necessarily for the good. My main observation: when did everyone get so dang dumb? Honestly, people. You are retarded. God help the youth of tomorrow if you people are going to be teaching them.

Where to start, where to start. Whoa, nelly. Here we go...

First of all, did you know that Granny Clampett is still alive? Yeah, she is. I know because she's in my class. You thought she was old in her Beverly Hillbillies days -- you should see her now! She needs to have everything repeated twice. She takes notes at a speed of 1/10th the time I take notes. And, she can't see a damned thing. Thus, the instructor reads lengthy URL's to her, letter-by-letter! Poor Granny. Shame on Jethro and Jed for spending all of the Clampett fortune and leaving Granny with no other option than to turn to a career of teaching. Greedy boys.

There is also a poor 40-something year old woman in our class who, bless her heart, has been living in a cave for the past 20 years. I know, huh? How horrible. How horrible that she not only hasn't changed her hair since emerging from the cave, but that she also completely missed out on the roll-out of the Personal Computer! "What's Powerpoint?" "I've never cut and pasted; how do you do that?" and "Could you show me how to log into our student website one hundred more times?" were some common phrases coming out of this poor soul's mouth. Twenty years is a long time to have been in a cave. I'm not sure if she'll be able to come up to speed within the 2 years of this program -- at least before someone in the class kills her.

Imagine my surprise when entering the class to find that there were 23 women and only 2 men. Shocking! And then one of the two men told us his name: "Bible Boy." Okay, that wasn't really his name but it may as well have been. He loves the Lord. Okay. We get it. Move on. No, but really, he loves the Lord. Like, really, really, really loves the Lord. Yeah, okay. But let's get a start on our assignment, okay? But you don't understand: he LOVES THE LORD. What the hell is wrong with you people? HE LOVES THE LORD. HE LOVES THE LORD. HE LOVES THE LORD. He even proudly stated that he was able to put personal differences aside to read Steven Covey's "Seven Habits of Successful People" book. I didn't know what this had to do with the Lord, but then Bible Boy clarified it for me. STEVEN COVEY IS A MORMON. A MORMON I TELL YOU. And Bible Boy still managed to read his book. What a good Bible Boy. Jesus loves you, Bible Boy.

Then there was the instructor. He was really and truly a nice guy. And he seemed to pretty much know what he was talking about. But dude, 'Boolean' is pronounced "Boo-lee-in" not "Boleen." Come on. You have a PhD. And you're like the superintendent of a hundred slummy schools in the hood. We should know these things. We doctors. I can't help but say I'm a bit ashamed. But I'm willing to let it slide cause you let us out 15 minutes early. Thank you.

I can't end this post without admitting my own college shortcomings. As I said, it's been awhile. So, when doing a "skill inventory" for our Learning Team (Learning Team = retarded concept that everyone should work on homework together), I asked, "Who's good at doing library research." I received a lot blank stares. Girl who just graduated (possibly young enough to be my offspring) says, "Oh. I've never been to the library. Not once." Apparently, all research is now done online. I found myself wondering what inhabits the huge underground "library" on ASU's main campus. The one that I had to lug my shit down into for each research paper during the '90s. The one that I sat in front of many a microfilm machines twisting two knobs in random patters until my page appeared. The one whose bound-up old magazines I had to locate and blow the dust off of just to get a reference. What is in that building now? I want to know. Spin classes? A Starbucks? An oxygen bar? Does anyone reading this go to ASU?

Despite it all, I'm really excited about college. I mean, how many people can say they know a cavegirl, Granny Clampett and a real, live Bible Boy?