Bitch Session

Why is it that an assertive, knowledgeable and determined woman in the workplace is a "bitch," while her male counterpart is considered simply as "successful" or "persuasive" or "venerable" or any other positive adjective you wish to insert.

Webster's defines bitch as:
1. the female of the dog or other canine
2. a spiteful, malicious woman
3. a sexually promiscuous woman

The negative connotations of this word are endless, and quite frankly, tiresome. The sexual revolution ended decades ago. Get over it already! There are a plethora of alternatives available for your consideration including, but not limited to "despotic," "onerous," "premenstrual" and my current preference, "ball-buster.

I've been both offender and defender in this sport, and I must admit that I derive a great deal more satisfaction being referred to as a bitch. It pleases me to no end when my accusers demonstrate their limited vocabularies, lack of creativity and inability to adequately assess a situation, and then flounder in a sea of denial when asked to justify their comment. Hey, I don't necessarily disagree with you folks, I just expect you to validate your opinion. Not that I really care what you think, I'm just looking for a good laugh.

I firmly believe that their are times when using such an identifier is appropriate. More often than not, the subject of the accusation is, in many ways, inferior and futilely attempts to obscure this fact through malevolent mannerisms. This woman will go to great lengths to make those around her equally as miserable. She relentlessly sucks all of the joy from life with her sociopathic behavior. Her inferiority complex is not of my concern, nor would I point out the obvious to her. She is more than likely aware of her limitations and has foolishly chosen to embrace the label as if it were a badge of honor.

Wake up, peeps. A woman who demonstrates ability, intelligence and motivation is not, I repeat NOT, a bitch. She is highly desirable. She is respectable. She is honorable. She is admirable. Be not threatened by her faculties, embrace them. Do not undermine her efforts, encourage them. Do not personalize your attacks with demeaning, juvenile name-calling, as you may acquire some valuable lesssons from her. If you haven't already come to this realization, it reflects very poorly on you and only serves to emphasize your own deficiencies.

Moo

I'm pleased to report I have survived my first day on the farm. I joined the masses of cud-chewing, methane-spewing, sammich-eating cattle as we were promptly herded into the corral , only to be immediately separated into our own stalls. I was lucky yesterday. I avoided the slaughterhouse. Moo.

Today may be a different story. While I attempted to locate the electric prodding device, its whereabouts still remain a mystery to me. I predict that should I continue to keep my head down, and the bar up, I will avoid said tool of pain altogether. Go me. Go moo! However, the prod may be more figurative than literal, as I am subjected to the wailings and whinings of Tim McGraw, the Dixie Chicks et al. Poor me. Poor moo.

I am unimpressed with the depth of breeds on this farm. It seems to me that these forty hour per week residents are either one of the aforementioned bovine non-individuals (moo) or the ubiquitous Prairie Dog, as they frequently pop their heads out from the safety of their cubes to satisfy their curiosity in the newbie. They then promptly retreat to the sanctuary of their salaried homes to busy themselves with looking busy. Now that's some well-earned money. Moo.

Into which category I will fall remains to be seen at this time, although I have become quite fond of this philosophy. Unfortunately, it does not mesh well with my "personality," as pointing out the short-comings of others is one of my few hobbies and brings great joy and satisfaction to my life.

Until I have determined which species to associate myself, I shall remain a bitch in cow's clothing. The costume may be different, but it's a role I know all too well.

Moo.

Return of the Demon Kitty

The cat came back - not the very next day.

The cat came back - fer shur she was a goner!

My world is complete. I have my pussy. Of course, she'll probably need a rabies shot, a nice, warm bath with a lice shampoo, and in a few weeks, we can expect the arrival of quintuplet pussies in our humble abode. But, DAYEM, was I happy to see her, even if she is a whore!

After ten days of searching the neighborhood, checking every gutter for a decomposing mass of fur, calling and calling at all hours of the day and night, the demon kitty has decided that maybe the grass isn't so green on the other side of the door. Either that, or like any other fickle feline on the planet, she grew tired of her muse and ditched him. Poor bastard!

Or, is he the lucky one? From the little I know about the male species, I assume a ten-day sex fest with no strings attached is ideal. Sure, there would be some chafing, but that's nothing that some lotion and a few days of rest wouldn't cure. I'm sure, where ever he is, his chest is filled with pride, knowing that he has ensured his immortality through the spread of his genes. There must be a certain smugness to his Cheshire Cat grin with the recognition that he is in no way legally bound to my pussy. No midnight feedings, no lengthy talks about his feelings, no monthly support payments. His obligations in life remain the same - sleep, eat, sleep, shit, sleep and procreate. Then, perhaps a nap before he repeats the process.

I'm convinced. When I die, I'm coming back as a male cat.

A Cork is a Cork, of Course. Of Course!

The bain of my existance the past couple of days has been CHRONIC POOPAY PANTIES. (Insert cringe here.) I am sure that, given the current state of affairs between my stomach and anus, I am solely supporting the entire Bathroom Tissue Market. (You are most welcome, Scott Paper Products!) Though the intestinal opus is highly entertaining for both my significant other and me, the gut-wrenching cramps are a killjoy all on their own, and the time intervals between "deposits" are shrinking rapidly. I am beyond Immodium. I need a CORK!

So, the dude I see, who spent eight freakin' years pursuing a post-secondary education and calls himself a "medical professional," naively inquires about my caffeine consumption. "Caffeine is a stimulant," he says. No shit, Doc SuperGenius! Why the hell do ya think I drink it? I mean, besides the fact that I am addicted to it.

But, it does make me wonder...Could my past position with one of the world's largest purveyors of overpriced, over-roasted and over-rated coffee be the culprit of my intestinal infirmity? I reside in the most litigious country in the world, so I wonder...could I sue the poop outta them for squeezing all the poop outta me? I think I could score at least a mill for the pain and suffering alone!

Maybe I won't need that job after all.

Movin' on Up

Not to the east side, nor to a deluxe apartment in the sky-hy-hy. Rather, I am...

(drum roll please)

EMPLOYED!

(pat on back)

Go me!

Now, if I could just find my pussy, life would be ideal.

As if Lorne Michaels doesn't have enough money already

Call me crazy (or any other adjective you wish to use), but I think Mr. Michaels may just have a valid beef on his hands.

This originally aired on SNL December 9, 2000.

That was released in the motherland November of 2006.

Yeah, I know, it's not the EXACT same, but TTH's In View tune is definitely reminiscent of Fallon's, Sanz's, Morgan's and Kattan's ode to the Christian holiday season. While I call myself an admirer of TTH, I must admit that I prefer the former jingle to the latter.

In this case, I call 'em like I hear 'em.

No, I wanna job

I have something to offer. I have something to contribute. Most importantly, I have golf lessons to pay for so that I can achieve my goal of becoming a pro at the ripe old age of 55. So, future employer, that gives you a couple of decades to use and abuse me.

Any takers?

I don't wanna work!

Awakening to the evil bemoanings of Alanis Morrissette at 6:30 am five days a week is not what I would refer to as "appealing." Of course, I could change the AM frequency on my alarm clock, but I would only surrender my blissful REM stages to AC/DC or Aerosmith. Either way, it's painful!

Selecting an appropriate ensemble is also quite a disheartening adventure. Who the hell put all of my clothes in the dryer at the highest heat setting possible and shrink them so that only a short anorexic could wear them well? Alright, so I put on a few pounds. But, it's always easier to point the finger elsewhere, n'est pas? (Just ask Former Boss. I'm sure he'll concur fervently. Well, he would if he had a dictionary!)

Hoping that my aging TBird will turn over on the first attempt is just one of those scenarios I just don't wish to face regularly. Mostly because it's a futile hope, and it often requires patience and a spare set of keys as I often lock myself out.

Facing morning drive time is also a non-enviable position, when and if I am able to motivate the TBird into action. Ladies, the rearview mirror was not created with the sole intention of morning make-up application. It was strategically placed in your car so that you can easily view me venting my anger towards your lack of driving skills.

Should I survive all of these obstacles to my sanity and happiness, what do I have to anticipate? Eight hours of the mundane, interspersed with a plethora of stupid questions. Moments of true clarity (yeah, right!) only interrupted by the torrent of apathy from co-workers. Objectives quashed by the narrow-minded, lazy peons with which I am surrounded.

I wave my white flag.

I wanna job!

I wanna job, if for no other reason than to stave off the inevitable dementia for just a few years more.

I'M BORED! Gimme something to do, then pay me for it!

Why isn't it all just that simple?

Hmmm...isn't it ironic that this post should follow my previous Dear Former Boss? A domestic goddess I am not, but I always did love irony.

Dear Former Boss

Do you miss me yet? I thought not. You require a great deal more intellectual fortitude to realize the veritable gold mine you squandered through your ineffectual and infantile dealings with me. Had you demonstrated the ability to pull yourself away from your Fantasy Football stats long enough, you may have developed an appreciation for my efforts. After all, I made you look pretty damn good in the eyes of your superiors.

Now that the dust has settled from my expeditious departure, I pity you. You have many realizations to attain. In your measly quarter century of life, you have not been able to reach the conclusion that a simple "hello" may have precluded my single-sentence, two-word Letter of Resignation. Your chronic scowl will create deep furrows in your brow, rendering you unattractive to future objects of your desire when your spouse inevitably divorces you. One more bit of advice: While it may seem warm and comforting, opting to keep your head up your own ass is not only painful to observe, it may result in permanent damage to your cervical vertebrae.

Yes, you are a "little fucker." Though that quote was derived from a private conversation on my personal cell phone while I was off the clock, I stand by my statement. I own it. I admire it. I'm proud of it. No apology has, nor ever will, fall from these lips.

What can I say? I call 'em like I see 'em.

Seeing Eye Person

Poor Norm! In my mind's eye, I always pictured my "son" carrying out the most humanitarian of jobs. You know the ones; helping the developmentally challenged turn on the lights, aiding law enforcement in discovering large caches of contraband, soothing lonely octogenarians with his mere presence.

Alas, the dream is dead. The table has turned. The ball is in my court. I now spend hours on the net, futilely searching for that elusive white cane that is easily manipulated by its master, who, through no fault of his own, possesses no opposing digit. Age has reduced Poor Norm to a shell of his former, most kewl self. Cataracts have clouded his vision and judgement. Recurring bacterial infections have destroyed his ear drums. Dysplasia has ended his phenomenal frisbee career. You may think my "parental" opinion is biased, but even the eldest offspring of my parental units thinks Norm is kewl, and he, like Life Cereal's Mikey, HATES EVERYTHING!

I now find myself guiding Poor Norm through the obstacles of life - the furniture, the demon cat and the doorjams that will inevitably thump his nose producing a pathetic "YELP!" I am proud to report, however, that he has mastered the ups and downs of stairs, with my constant coaching and counting of each and every step. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

BLOG...WTF?

Banal lugubrious outpouring of garbage?

Works for me!

Thanks Matt and Trey!

Golf claps all around for the creators of South Park. They have renewed my faith in humanity and provide hope that, one day, potty humor will be as widely accepted as Visa or Master Card.

Despite their chosen medium, Mr. Parker's and Mr. Stone's social commentary is far more relevant than that of any so-called pundit who clog up our electronic devices in some futile attempt to persuade our moral positions.

Though my vote doesn't count in this country, I support Turd Sandwich over Giant Douche ANY day of the week!

Supply Crisis?

There simply is just NOT enough Charmin in the world to wipe away all the "will-nots" on this planet. You know the ones; no matter how much you wipe, they just WILL NOT go away. I could list several, myself included, but that would require far too much effort on my part.

Popping the Cherry

Despite my aversion to the ubiquitous ovine psyche, I hereby throw my hat into this ring of intellectual (or otherwise) SPEW referred to as Le Blog. I simply lack the self control or restraint required to bite my tongue, or sit upon my hands as it were, any longer.

The sole motivating factor in the creation of ProctoLogic? I just wanna discuss my shit, literally or otherwise, without the disapproving, mortified glares of those uber-moralistic individuals who truly believe theirs in no way, shape or form offends the olfactory senses. (Sorry peeps, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but your feces is not very petunia-like.) I like my shit. I am proud of my creation. It's the one thing in this world to which I can claim sole proprietary rights. I would die happy if each of my small contributions to the local Waste Management Facility popped out with the tag line "NOOBERS™." But, I digress...

Fear not! Photos of said topics shall not grace this site. A photographer, I'm not. 'Tis better to utilize your own powers of mental visualization than for me to make it easy for you, n'est pas? Just don't forget your triple-ply, quilted Charmin when you return. My spidey senses suggest you may need it!