...and yes, I know that I spend WAY too much time blogging about things that annoy me and piss me off due to the sheer stupidity of the matter.
But guess what? Look to the left of your screen. See the name there? SANDRA. Sandra's blog. I have an insane amount of opinionated aggression, a keyboard, a Blogger account, and a Publish button - and while I may not possess the ability to use them tactfully, I do have the ability to use them - and giggle about it later, while still being able to sleep like a baby at night.
...It's sad that I'm so proud of my authority over a blog that lives in a minuscule corner of the internet, but humor me, will ya?
I've already been over the retarded cliches that, if used, will irritate me enough to either walk away from the person using them or chase them down the road pelting them with random sticky pastries - so I won't go back over those, but if you missed them, you can find them here.
No, what we're covering today are subject matters (different thing, I swear!) that will make my eyes glaze over and roll into the back of my head (picture Dan Ackroyd in Coneheads after his daughter has told him that she's in love with her boyfriend Ronnie).
- WOMEN, DON'T COMPLAIN ABOUT YOUR WEIGHT. I know, I know - it's that time of the month, your jeans feel 3 sizes too small and you're retaining more water than Niagara Falls. I'm not talking about general conversation or genuinely looking for weight loss advice, I'm talking about women that fall into 2 categories - the skinny heifers fishing for compliments, and the all-you-can-eat buffet preferred customers. Don't aim your hate-mail trigger finger just yet - I fully realize there are people that can't help their weight due to a medical condition, and women who've just had babies (been there, nothing makes you want to cry about your body like 3 feet of loose skin and your intestines feeling like they're going to fall out your bum) - this one doesn't apply to you.
Skinny heifers - if you fumble with the half a millimeter of "fat" on your side, trying to pull it out to illustrate how disgustingly obese you are, I will slap you. Just for general purposes. Then I will tackle you, hold you down, shove a funnel in your mouth, and force-feed you pasta, milk shakes, and croutons.
Buffeters - if your weight bothers you so much, STEP AWAY FROM THE FORK. Simple as that. Don't gripe about how big you are while you're stuffing cheesecake down your throat - try this amazing aerobic move I like to call "PUSHING YOUR CHAIR AWAY FROM THE TABLE." If you like food too much and can't do either of these, then try being comfortable with who you are and not worrying about what anyone else thinks - because if I see you mouth the words "God I'm so fat, I shouldn't be eating this" around a mouthful of masticated chocolate cake, I will take you seriously, and I will steal your fork and make you cry.
- MEN, NO ONE CARES ABOUT THE SIZE OF YOUR TROUSER SNAKE, OR YOUR PAYCHECK. Same difference, in my book. I shouldn't have to explain this one, but for some of you out there - I don't just mean literally. Anything that refers to the amount of Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders you can bench press, the amount of phone numbers you can collect in any amount of time, what kind of car you have parked in the parking lot (imaginary or not) - all amounts to a giant, testosterone-driven, ego flexing pissing contest. I may be a chick, but that doesn't make me a bimbo - and despite popular belief, a woman's clothes won't magically fall off if you mention a 7-digit salary. Well... mine won't, anyway.
- If you're over the age of 15, don't gossip about celebrities. Especially if you're a guy - and DEFINITELY if you're a straight guy. Seriously. Do you golf on the weekends with Sean Connery? Do you go on umbrella bashing marathons with Britney? Odds are, no. If you don't know the person, and I don't know the person, I really couldn't care less who's dating, who just had a baby, or whose newly released controversial sex video you just downloaded.
- It's one thing to talk about some icky oozing disease you caught from a public toilet, but please don't try to show it to anyone. I don't know why on Earth one person would want to tell another person that they have some icky, oozing disease in the first place, complete with exactly how many salves and creams they require and how many times a day, and how itchy and burny it is (and yes, believe it or not, I have had a few people who, for some ungodly reason, thought they needed to tell me these things) - but rest assured, the mental image is disgusting and nightmare-inflicting enough. DO NOT, under ANY circumstances, think that it's even close to okay to disrobe any article of clothing - and don't be too surprised if I just quietly walk away as soon as you tell me that little tidbit of information, pouring sanitizing hand cream on myself from head to toe as I go.
On the same note, no one needs or wants to know too much about any of your bodily functions. If you have Irritable Bowel Syndrome and fart like a howitzer, I'm pretty sure everyone already knows. Don't bring attention to it - let's try to keep the friends you have, shall we?
Last but definately not least -
- Don't be a kiss ass. I know, you're thinking, "WHAT???" Seriously. If I look like shit, I KNOW I look like shit - so don't insult my intelligence and tell me how great I look. I also have a pretty highly tuned bullshit radar - I'll know if you're lying to me, and I'll probably have a pretty evil double-edged response waiting, complete with a syrupy sweet smile.
Hey - roundabout's fair play.
Until next time...
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