Excuse me

but Fuck you Mr. Voight. Because being a prisoner of war never "programmed" anyone to be "militant and angry". Right. Again, I say fuck you.

It isn't perfect, but it's ours.

Pardon this interruption to my normal assholery.


April 6, 1995. On that day, I nervously walked into the Social Security office to start my first office job. I was hired as a student assistant to help with filing and general office maintainance, and translation when needed. As I walked through the office with the secretary, taking a tour so she could show me where everything was and introduce me to the people I'd be working most closely with, I passed your desk. You were busy. You didn't see me, at least not that I could tell. I noticed your puffy hair and almond shaped eyes. You had, and still have, the most amazing eye lashes I've ever seen on a man. There was something about your demeanor that day that caught my attention, and has held it ever since. You were so comfortable, sitting there, on the phone with whichever claimant needed your help at that moment, so focused on doing your job, on helping someone and getting it right, and yet relaxed enough to laugh and actually enjoy the conversation. I don't remember meeting anyone else that day, but I remember seeing you. It would be weeks before I gathered up the courage to even say hello to you. Talking to you made me so nervous. I felt like a child waiting for Christmas every time you'd walk by my desk. When we took that long walk along the river, talked for hours, and shared more than two relative strangers probably should have so soon, I fell in love with your honesty, your intelligence, and with you. I felt as if my whole life was a dream. 13 years later, you can still make me feel that way.
The day I became your wife was one of the happiest, and hardest, days of my life. Binding myself to you for forever and a day was something I wanted, but not something I was prepared for. Never have I waivered in my love or devotion to you. There have been times when I have felt that being your wife meant being someone or something other than myself. There have been times when I have lost sight of our strength, our connection. There have been times when I have wondered what would become of us. But there has never been a time when I have regretted us. There has never been a time when I wished to not be your wife. The last 9 years have been full of love, laughter, pain, frustration, sorrow and joy. And for every last second of it, you have been by my side, whether I chose to see you there or not. There is no one I would have rather shared it with than you. This life we've made, it isn't perfect, but it's ours, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you for being mine, for making me yours, and for not giving up on us when I pushed you away.

Oh. Honey. No.

Dear Douche Bag Motorcycle Guy,
You're killin' me smalls. The 80's called. They want their leather pants and feathered, permed, and free-flowing locks back. They'll take that vest, too. That look wouldn't have worked on you then, Bubba, and it sure as Hell isn't working on you now. What it IS working on though, is making me revisit my breakfast. Holy. Hell. Man. How did you EVER get into those things. The phrase "painted on" doesn't even come close to describing how tight those suckers were on your rather portly ass. And who told you men should wear bright red thong underwear? They lied. It is not manly. In fact, it's frightening. While I appreciate that your 'whale tail' spared my children the site of your ass crack, I do not, whole-heartedly do not, appreciate having to listen to my four year old point, laugh, cough, gasp, and laugh some more about the fat naked ass that just cruised by his window as he sat in his car seat on the way to his sitter's house. Nor do I enjoy or appreciate having to explain to him that you were not, in fact, bleeding up your back, but instead had made a poor fashion choice in regards to your chonies. For the love of Pete, and all the is Holy and good in the world, do the world a favor and buy some new pants, man. And by pants I mean an entirely new wardrobe. Lest I be forced to knock you off that bike the next time I see you.

Best,

L

Why do people feel the need to be complete assholes?

I need to know this. I need to know why some people just can't go a day without being giant balls of suck. It seems as if everywhere I turn, I encounter another asshole. More often than not, they are the kind of asshole you stare and wonder at, rather than the kind you can roll your eyes and make fun of because their assholish behaviour is just not funny.
I have a myspace. On that myspace, I have many current and former students. I pretty much only keep it to spy on the few kids whose lives would give me nightmares, and because they know they can contact me there and I'll help them however I can.
The other day I got a message from a former student. She was in my class maybe five years ago, and graduated two years ago. She was and is a good kid. When she was a senior, I had several long talks with her about what she wanted to do with her life. When she told me she wanted to go to cosmetology school, it gave me pause, but I supported her (in addition to begging her to consider doing something more than that.) I told her she had a huge opportunity to do whatever she wanted. I told her that cosmetology was nice, but that I saw her as a person with more than superficial beauty to add to the world. She had expressed an interest in law enforcement and criminal justice. So I made her pursue that for her senior project, and at the end of it, she loved it and had a plan. Her plan was to go to cosmetology school right out of high school, work and save money, then go to college for a degree in criminal justice or try to get on with a local law enforcement agency and get into the academy. She could still do the cosmetology thing on the side or when she wanted to make extra money. Great, right? Right. She left me with a plan.
Skip to the other day, and she's feeling like a failure. All of the adults in her life, the people who are supposed to encourage and support her, are trying to talk her out of doing anything more than cosmetology. I don't get it. Why would you deliberately try to talk your kid into a life of poverty and customer service? Why wouldn't you want more for them? Most cosmetologists don't end up in Hollywood, catering to the stars. And even those that do, don't make a huge amount of money. THe salon owners do, but the stylists? Noooooo. This kid could do something. She could contribute to the world in substantial ways. And they want her to do hair? Maybe I'm the ass hole. Maybe it's me that doesn't see. Don't get me wrong. There are people who LOVE cosmetology and cannot see themselves doing anything other than that for the rest of their lives. And for them, awesome! I love the woman who cuts my hair. I am thankful for her every time she fixes this mop on my head. But if I went in to see her tomorrow and she told me it was her last day because she'd taken an office job, or gone back to school, or decided on a new career of any kind, I'd be ecstatic for her because she's be doing more for herself. And I want more for this kid. It just kills me that I can't give it to her.

Catching up

I'm fine. The boys are growing. All's right with the world. Now on to more douchebaggery, and the real reason any of you stop by for a read. Seriously, it shouldn't be this easy to find so many ridiculous examples of retardation, but it is.
More letters to the complete trash that never ceases to entertain me:

Dear Mother of the Year:
I applaud your parenting skills, or not. Really. It's quite a talent to be able to reign in your children while sitting on your ass, smoking a fat pile of cigarettes, by doing nothing more than screeching at the top of your soot-infested lungs for that "little fucker" to get off the slide. Really, it was one of the few times I've ever felt sadness at having grown up and moved out of the ghetto. My ghettiquette is obviously, and sadly, in disrepair, as I could not get my mouth to form a coherent response to you or to the untrained monkeys you claim to be your children. I can only assume that "ass hole", "little fucker", and "dumb ass" are yours, since each of them responded with a finger or a bare-assed salute when you called upon them to leave the playground equipment. You've obviously trained them up right. You ma'am are a true, shining example of douchebaggery at it's best. As long as you continue to stumble through the world, I will sleep safe in the knowledge that my worst day as a parent pales in comparison to you. On the scale of suckdom, you are a perfect ten.

Truly,

L


Dear Douche bag Dog Walker,
Your dog is ugly, really ugly. And she's mean. And no, it's not cute when she growls and snaps at my small children. It's especially not cute when she runs up into MY yard to get at MY children. I don't care that you have her on a leash and you think she's "just playing". She's not. If you knew anything about dogs, you'd know that teeth baring isn't a smile, it's a warning, you complete douche. She wants to eat my babies like a dingo. I will snatch your nuts off like a paper towel if you let that dog on my property again. That is, provided you have any. What kind of man has a tiny dog, anyway? And don't tell me she's your wife's dog, because your wife is just as scared of that thing as my kids are. Me? I love dogs, but I'll punt that little fucker into next week before I let it eat my kid. You'll notice she doesn't run up on me. She and I have an understanding. She stays away from me, she lives.
I suggest you look to your dog for a role model.

Your friendly neighborhood ass hole,

L