Showing posts with label stupid women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stupid women. Show all posts

Friday, June 9, 2017

Toto, I Don’t Think We’re in Kansas Anymore



[Subtitle:  Or Maybe We Are; Kansas Has Nothing to Brag About]

More entries have been written, erased, revised, re-written and erased again in the course of the last 7 months than I may have made the effort to, in the last 7 years.  Reason:  As soon as I wrote one sentence, another appalling outrage made it obsolete.

Could have gone either way:  either something appalling actually did happen, or appalling headlines made it seem like it did.  Whatever, most Americans on social media were punched in the face and sent reeling on a daily, if not hourly, basis.  It’s a miracle most of us aren’t curled up in a fetal position, sucking our thumbs. 

Only reason we’re not (yet) are the news stories in print or airing everywhere (except Fox News and Breitbart) of the rather dramatic implosion of the current ... whatever you would term this mindboggling assortment of embarrassingly clueless idiots ... to the point where they’re calling it a death rattle.  You get the impression you’re about to witness the second presidential disaster of your lifetime ... Nixon being the first.  At the moment, Robert Mueller is installed as Special Counsel and former FBI Director James Comey just testified in the Senate, in a hearing that boasted of more listeners and viewers than the imaginary inauguration crowd we keep hearing about.

I’m not going to go on for pages about our current political situation ... I don’t think I could say anything that millions of people haven’t already said ... instead, I’ll whine about social media.

You may have noticed that I’m not overly fond of other women.  (You:  “Nooooooo!  REALLY??”)  Lots of reasons, long before now.  The last 7 months seems to have exacerbated the dislike.

I had finally settled on one Facebook page that has about 40,000 members in it ... let’s call it, “Griping About Politics”.  Not their real name.  I settled on one mainly because almost every FB page on the same topic has the same posts, the same memes, the same blather.  Some worse than others.  Some, run by ridiculous wannabe twinkie cheerleaders who have never once read, “The Art of War” and demand that you toe the “When they go low, we go HIGH!” line, to the point where you want to slap them all silly – repeatedly.

Then there are the liberal dimwits who truly believe that, for the sake of argument, if the current president finds himself tossed out of the office on his keester, that means that Clinton would automatically be installed since, you know, she won the popular vote.  No matter how many times you remind them of a line of succession laid out in a document they may have heard of (anyone remember we have a Constitution?) ... you can’t get it through their thick heads that such a scenario isn’t even remotely possible.  “But that’s not faaaiiir!” they wail ... there’s only so far I can roll my eyeballs.  Yeah?  Life isn’t always fair, buttercups – suck it up.

Next are the discussions about choices for 2020.  That’s even more disheartening.  I swear liberals never even heard of the concept of “strategy”; they just want the warm, familiar fuzzies of legacy names.  First they want Michelle Obama.  We shoot that down.  Next they want a Kennedy.  Any Kennedy:  Joseph, Caroline ... not because either of them are qualified (and I doubt they even think they’re qualified), but because they’re Kennedy’s.  Then they want Bernie Sanders – a Socialist.  Then they want Cory Booker, Tulsi Gabbard or Kamala Harris ... the list goes on and on, absurd choice after absurd choice.  No wonder Democrats keep losing.  Here’s my idea – you just lost the entire south because they’re all racist boneheads who hate women and anybody who isn’t white, rabidly regressive and depravedly theocratic.  So, let’s nominate anybody who makes a southerner’s hair curl – sure, that should clinch the White House in 2020.  And yet Liberals keep coming up with these absurd suggestions.  You want to knock  their heads together until their brains kick in.

Proof positive that there are so many awesomely stupid people on both sides of the political spectrum, you are left wondering how this country manages to function at all.  Or maybe it doesn’t, which is why we ended up where we are.

Unfortunately, the FB page I selected had their own issues:  women, two or three in particular.  Let’s call them Tinkerbelle (“Tink”), “Bossy” and Dolores (“Dot”) Umbridge II.

Tink, Bossy and Dot decided that their main purpose in life was to post every single post they could find anywhere on the entire internet, on the “Griping” FB page, without bothering to check if (a) it was already there, (b) if it was relevant, or (c) if it was fake news or legitimate news – they didn’t care, they just uploaded everything they could find.

You’d sit there and watch post after post after post from Tink, Bossy and Dot get uploaded, literally one per second, to the point they drove you freaking nuts.  No matter what time of day ... I watched them go berserk with these posts at 3 in the morning when I was up getting a drink of water.  4 in the afternoon.  8 in the morning.  Noon.  Midnight.  I swear, that’s all they did.  God forbid you mention any of the above objections:  already been posted, fake news site, off topic, irrelevant, whatever ... and these drooling bobble-heads would go screaming menopausal-psychotic on you.

Other gripes:  Type “Yes” if you agree.  New Rule:  I will type “No”, and “Fuck You” whether I agree with it or not, I’m so sick of that. 

Another woman posted her idea of what was REALLY important:  “5/25/2017 5:55:50 AM:  Biggest mistake of the day - watching the Dirty Dancing remake instead of the Survivor finale.”

Women.  That’s why we’re in the hell we are now in.  Are you a woman and object?  Suck it up and admit you and your gender are idiots.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Day of the Lobster, More Stupid Women and the Corn Moon


So this week, I went back to the beach for another two hours, in another weekly attempt to strengthen my core ... except this time I had a beach chair!  I experienced another roller where I got knocked down by a wave and rolled around in the foam before getting my bearings again, and all of my muscles felt the force of it the next day.  The only other difference was the time – rather than 8-10am, I ran a little late, stayed only a half hour longer and was there from 9-11:30am.

By the time I got home?  I looked like a lobster.  Lay most of the afternoon under a soothing high thread count sheet, teeth chattering, moaning, thinking:  oh, KMN.

I did learn that the same Vitamin E oil that I had on hand to minimize my head scar I incurred a week before my brother’s death worked well on sunburn, so I am now slipping and sliding around in my (now) oily chair, hoping the oil soothes this killer sunburn.  My scar responded better to patchouli oil, by the way, which I have no intention of spreading all over myself ... while I love the scent of patchouli in small doses ... the stuff is too precious to use as a body lotion, and I would probably choke the cat – and maybe even myself - with the fragrant overkill.

I also learned that women are just as empty-headed, narcissistic and mentally unhinged on the beach as they are on the commuter rail.  Within the span of those 2.5 hours, I witnessed idiot women ignoring the beauty of the ocean at their feet while they babbled loudly and maniacally on their cell phones, I suffered through not one but TWO idiot women positioning their idiot selves upwind of everyone else and then proceeding to spray themselves – therefore asphyxiating all the men, women, infants and children downwind of them - with toxic waves of aerosol sunscreen (LEARN TO DO THAT IN THE PARKING LOT, YOU STUPID NIMRODS!!!), and I watched a gaggle of seriously demented women thinking it was cute when their demonic and sadistic spawn chased down seagulls with plastic baseball bats – fortunately, I wasn’t the only person who yelled at them, so there is hope for humanity yet ... maybe.  (Also fortunately, no seagulls were injured due to these women’s complete and utter lack of parenting skills).  The rest of them babbled never-ending bullsh*t at each other in such high, squeaky, loud voices you wanted to muzzle each and every one of them.  Give me a roll of duct tape and next time I might just do it.

And that experience ought to teach me not to oversleep on the mornings I plan to visit the beach.  Last time, I had left before these jackasses showed up.  And before I looked like a lobster.

We’re in the middle of Metageitnion Aug 6 - Sep 4 (no, do not ask me to pronounce that), which I’m guessing runs from new moon to new moon, which Drew Campbell tells me are considered sacred – in Hellenic Reconstruction circles, so I’m assuming in ancient Greece as well.*  The Corn Moon on the 20th (more or less) was magnificent.

(*And once again, I’m wrong.  According to the www.hellenion.org website, Metageitnion began on the 8th, not the 6th, although I hope someone familiar with Grecian months can explain why, because the new moon WAS on the 6th).  True, I could raise my hand on Day #1 of “Witchcraft for Dummies” (not the real title of the course I signed up for in New Hampshire – I just can’t remember it) and ask, “Hey!  How come Metageitnion began on the 8th, not the 6th, considering that the new moon WAS on the 6th??”  But no, I figured I’d wait just a wee bit longer before getting myself expelled for being annoying.

I have spent the last week wandering around the apartment, scoping out “circle sites”.  Nowhere can I find room for a 9-foot diameter circle, but a smaller one, possibly.  I do have my altar in the bedroom, but realized that perhaps I needed more room for spiritual activities as opposed to a focal point for feeble attempts at meditation.  Options are down to the living room and study.

And yet another illiterate witch set off the The Grammar and Spelling Psycho Police Squad.   This time I had looked up Pennyroyal to see if I could remember why I ordered it.  A dumb witch had decided to make anti-flea stuff to spray on the floor outside of her door.  Included in her directions was this piece of nonsense:
The Grammar and Spelling Psycho Police Squad

"Since the infusion is quite dark and heavy looking I deluded it with water."

???

You what?  You deluded it?  You gave it a delusion?  Your anti-flea concoction is now delusional?  Sure you didn't mean you DILUTED it?  Argh!!!   [Ker-blam!]  [Ker-pow!] [Ka-blooey!]  DILUTE, DILUTE, DILUTE!  OMG PLEASE. Buy a dictionary. 

I still haven’t figured out why I bought pennyroyal.  If anyone has a good use for it, let me know.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

More Comments from "Anonymous"

No offense, "Anonymous", but why can’t you even come up with an invented name? This next "Anonymous" who posted on Piero Barone and His Marshmallows, and who I assume is not the same "Anonymous" as the previous few "Anonymous-es" – wanted to know why I hadn’t rushed over to Amazon.com to assault the women who had written bad reviews about Il Volo’s latest cd.

Um ... perhaps because I hadn’t been reading them? In all fairness there aren’t that many of them, but (a) they seem to be copying each other, leading one to suspect it’s one troll under multiple screen names, or (b) the few bad reviews there are seem to be the work of a boatload of poorly educated broads who have no idea how to compose a proper review.


My favorite childish outburst came from a genuine dimwit named Carol Cortazzo, who was "reviewing" (and we use that word so loosely it may not be in the same stratosphere), "We Are Love". Now, trust me I don’t really care if you have good reasons for not liking something, but this was her inane "review":

"From being amazing young Italian singers they have become imitations of American punk-looking, skinny nobodies who happen to have been blessed with great voices. We have enough no-talent teanagers here. We need more original talent. They should be themselves. I would not recomend this CD to anyone and probably will not buy their new CDs."

Oooooh. There will now be a pause while we applaud Miss Cortazzo’s "sterile granny panties in a twist" grand diva-esque exit and peculiar spelling of the words "teenagers" and "recommend" and yell "Buh-bye!" at her cellulite-laden buttocks ... but really – none of that made a lick of sense. PUNK-looking? This group of teenagers? (see photo, above left) The least punk-looking group of teenage boys I can think of? And "skinny"? What, she’d rather they were all fat and clumsy?

Hey, but at least they had "great voices" – and you would have thought that her review of a cd of songs would have made mention of that, instead of picking on them for getting skinnier as they grew taller, which at least two of them did. Since they are – when last we looked – teenage boys. She may not like it, but she can’t get around it. Teenage boys grow up.

I’m not even sure I want to beat the broad up, Anonymous – this wasn’t even a review of the cd – I doubt anyone could figure out what had pissed her off, but it sounds insanely personal. Either that, or proof that women need to gobble down a handful of Midol before composing reviews of anything. Damn idiot sounded like one of them stood her up on a date or something.

I know, I should talk, since I seem to be complaining about everything too. My only explanation at the moment: in addition to a broken kneecap, the Sky Sadist knocked a filling out of one of my bottom molars and then laughed uproariously at the doubled pain. One emergency root canal later ... I sit in the office glumly opening one of my two lunchtime Chinese fortune cookies that reads, "Your winsome smile will be your sure protection." Really? You’re sure about that? I HAVE NO WINSOME SMILE RIGHT NOW, YOU IDIOTS!!! I can’t even open my mouth! [kapow!]

Actually, to be even more accurate, I’m not all that sure I had a winsome smile before the emergency root canal, thanks to the Bells Palsy.

The other cookie: "You will be traveling and coming into a fortune." OK, that I can live with. I’ll come into a fortune and then travel without any sure protection. Lovely. Remind me not to carry cash.

My previous entry may have reminded some readers of Umberto Eco’s famous quote about lunatics in Foucault’s Pendulum:

A lunatic is easily recognized. He is a moron who doesn’t know the ropes. The moron proves his thesis; he has a logic, however twisted it may be. The lunatic, on the other hand, doesn’t concern himself at all with logic; he works by short circuits. For him, everything proves everything else. The lunatic is all idée fixe, and whatever he comes across confirms his lunacy. You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flashes of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later he brings up the Templars.

Or, in my case, "she". Fine. I claim lunacy with pride – probably caused by intense pain – having circled back around to the Templars two entries ago, in the Solomon and David discussion.

I also mentioned in a previous entry that I was reading Born of a Woman, by John Shelby Spong ... one of his comments led me to research another book and author, The Illegitimacy of Jesus: A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives, by Jane Schaberg – basically, her theory was that Jesus was actually the son of a Roman centurion and a product of rape, and I say "theory" only because I haven’t read the book.

What struck me, though, were the hideously evil posts from christians that followed the book summary: cursing her, damning her to hell, threatening to murder her, wishing they could burn her at the stake ... basically post after post of things so vicious and ugly your jaw just dropped. Jesus must be so proud of all these insane followers doing things he sure never did.

Nymphs
by: Evelyn Scott (1893-1963)

Normally I’m not a big fan of Evelyn Scott – after we tried to parse and otherwise evaluate her "Tunnel" (which had my U of M creative writing class muttering "ewww!" under their breaths) I didn’t think I would like anything she wrote– but I later changed my mind. This one I liked.

The drift of shadows on the mountainside,
Blue and purple gold!
Purple dust sifting through fingers of ivory:
Cool purple on ivory breasts.
I see arms and breasts,
Upturned chins,
Slanting through the dust of purple leaves:
Ivory and gold,
Bare breasts and laughing eyes,
That drift on the shadowy surf
And surge against the side of the mountain.


Sunday, July 29, 2012

Minchiate Tarot Magus and an OCD Meltdown

Ahhh. A weekend. Shaving a bar of soap for my month’s worth of laundry detergent (yes, some of us actually make our own laundry detergent !) and checking out my new Minchiate deck, created in Florence in 1725.

While you would THINK this was a typical tarot deck, it is not – this deck has 97 cards instead of 78, and started out as a game of tricks, played in northern Italy. The symbolism is also different in many respects than other decks people are used to seeing. Fascinating deck of cards. Trying to decide how to make best use of them; or interpret cards that I’ve never seen before.

The one I frowned at was the Magus. "Frowned" not in the sense that I didn’t like it, but in the sense that I didn’t understand it. I’m familiar with the powerful Magus of, say, the Thoth deck, or even the Rider Waite, although THAT Magus always looked too young and inexperienced and the infinity sign over his head looked like the path of cartoonish birds flying in circles and tweeting up there, making him look dazed and confused instead of all wise and powerful.

The Magus, as I’ve mentioned before, shows up in my own readings quite frequently. I could shuffle the deck for hours on end, and still get the Magus in consecutive readings, because as I said, it’s the card representing Mr. Signpost. Every time I get the card, I know that I’m going to be sent flying off on a fact-finding mission because of something he wrote or tweeted. Basically it means: "Pay attention. You’re about to learn something." And it hasn’t failed me yet.

But THIS guy, the Minchiate Magus ... I had no idea what to make of him. First, they don’t identify him as a Magus, but instead as a giocoliere, a juggler, except he’s not juggling anything. He looks seriously cranky, for one thing – which I’m OK with – but the turban: is he supposed to be from the far east? One of the original Magi? And who are the other two characters who look so afraid of him? He almost looks like he’s poisoning them.

Minchiate Drama in Three Lines

Giocoliere/Juggler: (sotto voce) Psst! Here. Drink this foul brew and don’t ask questions.
Man #1: No, no, you can’t make me! (*sob*!) ...
Man #2: Yes, he can make you drink that, he can bewitch you into drinking it! He’s a ... juggler!

See? The whole thing makes no sense. If anyone out there has experience with this deck ... I’m all ears.

In my previous post I had mentioned discovering a symbol, and then never described it. I was actually intending to describe a cimaruta ("sprig of rue" ). I’d discovered it in the book on Italian witches, and wanted to get more information on the protective or homeopathic properties of rue.

I ended up in a state of rage. Picture it: 2012. The Internet. A search for "rue" using Google. Result: innumerable cooking sites. Woman #1 perkily announces she uses vegetable broth to make her "rue" for turkey gravy – and why she’s doing that I have no idea. She can’t be a vegetarian, or why would she be having turkey? Woman #2 cheerfully burbles that she’s always wanted to try using vegetable broth for her "rue". This goes on for comment after comment, reply after reply, each dumb woman using the word "rue" for the same gravy base until steam is coming out of my ears. Wait for it ...! The emotional OCD meltdown is coming ... NOW:

"AAARRRGGGHHH!!!! NO, NO, NO, NO! YOU STUPID NINNIES!! YOU ILLITERATE COWS!! "Rue" is an herb!! "Roux" is the flour-butter gravy base! RUE HERB! ROUX GRAVY!" How did this country manage to churn out so many bleeding fools?? No, I am NOT going to calm down!! These women are IDIOTS! BIRDBRAINS! EMPTY-HEADED BUFFOONS! Shoot them! Kill them! Put them in a stew! To start the stew, use a ROUX! Want some flavor? Add some RUE! (Clutching head, running around in crazed circles screaming, "I’m surrounded by idiots! I’m drowning in a sea of stupidity! And these dimwits are raising children!! We are all doooomed!!!" until shot with a tranquilizer dart. Regains consciousness an hour later).

Okay, I’m back.

The Italian Cimaruta, or Witch’s Charm is a charm that Frederich Elworth (
http://www.sacred-texts.com/evil/tee/tee14.htm) dates back to the Etruscans or the early Phoenicians, based upon an amulet located in the museum in Bologna. The name means "sprig of rue" – which it is – and from the rue branches at each end is a sprout; out of the sprout comes forth symbols such as a key, dagger, blossom, and moon. The Cimaruta was often placed above the beds of infants, as protection against the "mal'occhio" or evil eye. I’m told it is a very traditional gift for new mothers to hang over babies’ cribs in southern Italy – I just thought it was beautiful!

As I said, Lammas falls on Wednesday of this week, so I’m having two specifically Lammas-style feasts: one this weekend, and the second next weekend. Today’s feast is Mushroom-Barley-Wild Rice soup and a carambola for dessert. I have never tasted a star fruit before, so this should be interesting. Next week: corn fritters! I’m also going to try to make some of the mezzaluna cakes and see what they taste like.

I found this poem which I liked, mainly because he’s something like Damien in his love for the fall and winter weather, rather than moping around when fall creeps around the corner. The poet, by the way, lived in Connecticut from 1796 to 1828, and no doubt enjoyed the New England fall colors. I thought I’d publish it here and dedicate it to Mr. Signpost, the guy who’s hanging on by his fingernails, waiting for Halloween to arrive.

The Indian Summer
By John G. C. Brainard

WHAT is there saddening in the Autumn leaves?
Have they that "green and yellow melancholy"
That the sweet poet spake of?—Had he seen
Our variegated woods, when first the frost
Turns into beauty all October’s charms—
When the dread fever quits us—when the storms
Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet,
Has left the land, as the first deluge left it,
With a bright bow of many colors hung
Upon the forest tops—he had not sigh’d.
The moon stays longest for the Hunter now:
The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe
And busy squirrel hoards his winter store:
While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along
The bright blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest’s pride,
Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,

"What is there saddening in the Autumn leaves?"