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Droid Doesn’t.

9 Feb

I’m going to throw my Droid into the ocean. I have had it up to here with this glitchy piece of shit. Last August after my Blackberry stroked out, Trent and I decided to go ahead and head into the Verizon store seeking iPhones, only when we got there, the salesman had a boner over Androids, and long story short, we left with Droid X2’s. At first I was thrilled. My Blackberry was autistic at best, so any functioning work of technology was like seeing Jesus walk on water to me. Things went well for a while, but lately it has gone downhill.



My phone has gone full retard. It force quits applications constantly, it randomly shuts itself off multiple times a day, screens freeze, the camera refuses to initialize—I’m getting pissed. To make matters worse, I do not have upgrade options until March.



I am writing both Verizon and Android a letter expressing my discontent. My goal is to get them to at a bare minimum, bump up my upgrade eligibility. Otherwise, I will pistol whip a bitch. I desire an iPhone 4s so badly. Siri and I will be the best of friends. I just can’t wait.



Due to my lack of blog-writing for the past couple months, this topic is a little outdated, but I just have to touch on it. Did you guys read about the model who walked into a plane propeller? Lauren Scruggs got off a small plane in Dallas, Texas, and shortly thereafter walked straight into the plane’s propeller, losing her left hand and mangling her shoulder and her face.



How the f-ck does this happen? This isn’t like having one margarita too many and walking into a sliding glass door at the 4th of July party. It’s not like going on a hike and accidentally getting slapped in the face with an aspen branch. You don’t just mosey into an thundering airplane propeller by accident. It’s a PLANE. It’s kind of hard to miss. My first suspicion that she was ham-smacked after drinking 8 gin and tonics on her flight was squashed by ABC News who reported that the woman had not been drinking, so what other possible explanation exists!? Way to battle the “models aren’t all dumb” stigma.



I need a cattle prod. I feel like it would be an extremely useful tool to have in my arsenal. I would get a lot of use out of it. The price-per-use would balance out beautifully. I could zap loud-mouthed teenagers in movie theaters, rapists, crying children, I’d electrocute people who say, “I seen you,” I’d shock people who are wearing Crocs—the uses are endless. Our roommate’s dog eats her own shit. She won’t stop. As soon as that steaming pile of feces exits the body, she can hardly turn around fast enough to inhale it. It’s nauseating. A good cattle prod shock or two could change that pretty quick I think.

WELL, time to fill up cup o’ tea #3. I can’t stop. BYE!


B:   “I don’t even really know what to do on a stripper pole.”

C:   “I just try to like hump it and shit.”


9 Sep

Friday is always a bad day to publish a blog post. People are too busy destroying their bodies, minds, and spirits with…well, spirits. Not that I blame them. The right thing to do on a Friday night is to come home all pissed off from work, log onto Facebook, update your status to how drunk you’re about to get, grab a Coors Light, and step into the shower with said Coors Light while you shampoo your hair, blare rap songs about getting hammered, and then go get hammered yourself. What’s a Saturday morning without a pounding post-tequila headache, a missing cell phone, regret, and throw up on your shoes? Well that’s just not a Saturday at all.

I am ready to bludgeon multiple citizens of Jeannette and/or Latrobe, Pennsylvania to death. Can I get in trouble for saying this? I don’t think so. I think I am protected by several amendments. Well, maybe one amendment. Anyway, freedom of speech, blah blah blah. Seriously. People here need to be punished. They all share the same mentality that they deserve everything for nothing. They’re all victims. The world owes them something because they work so hard at being lazy, jobless, bottom-feeding parasites. I was red with rage today. Dealing with these people is going to drive me to drink myself to death, and turn grey in the process.

Helping people with insurance claims here in western PA is like trying to help an injured, famished animal. All I’m trying to do is wrap your bleeding wound and feed you some Apple Jacks, raccoon! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO BITE ME?! DON’T YOU KNOW I’M ON YOUR SIDE?!?!?

People don’t get it.

I am 100% certain that I will be slapping one or more people across the face before I leave this state. I am also delivering some very brutally honest, mean, “you suck so bad” letters when I depart. There are so many people here that need to be told how miserable, ugly, incompetent, disagreeable, and ignorant they are. I am first in line to do so. I’ve already written one. It begins like this:

Dear Toucan Sam,

It’s a nose joke. This woman’s nose is the size of the Great Pyramid of Giza. You could build a gazebo on it. You could install an in-ground pool on her nose. They could move the Iowa State Fair campgrounds to her shnoz. It’s that big.

I can’t wait to deliver it. I am rubbing my palms together with anticipation, snickering all the while. I hope she cries and is too embarrassed to ever show her nose I mean face in public ever again. Perhaps she’ll cut it off. I’ll have to send a follow-up letter to find out what she decided to do.

I’ve really been sucking down the Dr. Pepper today. In the store, I noticed they sold 8-packs of these miniature cans of Dr. Pepper, so I bought them thinking that it would be a good way to satisfy my insatiable craving for DP without drinking a pony keg of it at a time. That didn’t work. Instead I just drink like 3 miniature cans instead of one regular one. It’s too delicious. I have no regrets.

If you need me, I’ll be in a soda-induced coma. Goodbye for now.


“At my grandfather’s funeral and I just sharted bad.”

“You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on.”

1 Sep

What the f-ck does this mean? I just viewed a photo on Facebook of some drunk girls with “You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on (hearts/peace signs/other arbitrary symbols Picnik’ed across the top. This literally means nothing. It makes no sense of any kind. So…if I were to climb upon a weak table and do the macarena, I am a weakling? Looks like I had better find Arthur’s round table and bust a move to prove my strength.

m3, b3iN cUt3. ♥

^ Caption under some huge girl’s profile picture. Why.

It is a sad day in the world of social media.

Moving right along.

“2-in-1 conditioning shampoo” is bullshit. Hotels need to stop acting like putting a miniature bottle with two tablespoons of shampoo that supposedly simultaneously conditions your hair when you use it is going to fly. It’s not. Without 100% real, pure conditioner, my hair is a tangled, matted, impossible rat’s nest. If I shampooed my hair without following with conditioner and then attempted to comb through it, I would literally have to cut all of my hair off. Forcing a comb through the ratty mess would be like trying to force a cinder block down a bathtub drain. It would be like trying to comb a fork through a chain link fence. It wouldn’t happen.

I recently saw a commercial on television advertising Krazee Glue. It showed a man jumping off an enormous bridge with his bungee secured only with Krazee Glue. He survived, springing back into the air with a smile on his face. I’m ready to sue for false advertising. I recently tried to repair an earring with Krazee Glue, and it didn’t adhere the earring to the post for more than a few days before it fell apart again. And you’re trying to tell me that I can bungee jump off the Golden Gate Bridge secured with Krazee Glue and be just fine? Stop it. Super glue is good for gluing your fingers together by accident. That’s about it.

I woke up this morning to rumbling thunder and heavy rain. This continued until lunchtime when the skies cleared and the sun beamed down. A co-worker’s computer screen was open to the Weather Channel, and the hour-by-hour chance for precipitation said this:

1 pm – 10%

2 pm – 10%

3 pm – 100%

4 pm – 10%

5 pm – 10%

….How does the weather forecast go from a 10% chance of precipitation all the way up to a 100% chance, and directly back down to just a 10% chance in a single hour? Sure enough though, when 3 o’clock rolled around, thunder cracked overhead and it began to rain. Bizarre indeed.

WELL, time for me to go digest my wonton soup. Nom nom.



“All I wish to do today is go metal detecting with you, followed by hardcore thrifting.


Haha….initially my phone auto corrected to ‘hardcore thrusting.’”


Shot through the heart.

31 Aug

If you don’t believe in receiving consequences for your actions, maybe you should start.

Yesterday, the Associated Press reported the following story:

SAN DIEGO — San Diego police say a boy throwing rocks at vehicles was struck in the abdomen by a crossbow bolt fired by a passenger in small sport utility vehicle.

Officer Dino Delimitros says the boy and a friend were throwing rocks in the Linda Vista neighborhood Monday afternoon when a passenger in a black Toyota RAV4 pulled out a crossbow and fired.

The boy was shot in the abdomen and was taken to a hospital. The San Diego Union-Tribune says his injuries are not life-threatening.

His name and age weren’t released.

Nobody has been arrested.

And no one will be. That boy got exactly what was coming to him. Serves you right, Tommy. Throw rocks and get shot. That’s what happens. I think we can all agree that universally speaking, grounding children really doesn’t work. Sure, take their PS3 or their Blackberry from them for a week and they’ll start wearing eyeliner and listening to death metal in their bedrooms, but they won’t stop doing whatever nasty shit they were doing before. They’ll just lie more to cover it up. A slap on the wrist isn’t going to turn problem kids into Beaver Cleavers. What they need is an appointment with The Punisher. A good bow and arrow scare works 99% of the time. Get shot once, and you won’t throw another rock ever again.

I wonder who Robin Hood in the RAV-4 was. Who just so happens to have a crossbow ready for fire in their moving vehicle? What a shot. Nailing an obnoxious vandalizing child with an arrow from a moving car is a pretty impressive feat. I wouldn’t be able to do it. I would curse and shake my fist, and that’s about as effective as I would get. Way to go, Squanto. Teach that boy a lesson. Next time, he’ll really give you something to cry about.

You know what I realized the other day? (p.s. – for you sensitive people out there who get offended by words, stereotypes, and ironic racism, this is your cue to go to and stop reading this post). You never see paparazzi photos of black rappers in tabloid magazines. It’s always people like Victoria Beckham, Kate Hudson, Zac Efron, Justin Beiber, Lindsay Lohan’s vagina, etc. I wonder if it’s because when you see someone like T-Pain or Gucci Mane out in the streets, it’s just like, “Oh…there’s…another black person.”  They don’t exactly stick out. It’s not like you see the Ying Yang Twins in public and think, “Omg, it’s the Ying Yang Twins!”  You just think, “I guess I should lock my doors.”


That’s all. Babies, you can start reading again.

I am having a HELL of a time with allergies this week. Meet the bane of my existence:


Ragweed. F-ck you, ragweed. I cannot get a single molecule of oxygen through my nasal passage. Completely blocked. It feels like my skull is filled with concrete. I sound like a retarded or deaf person. I’m breathing through my mouth, so I have agape-face all day long. This morning while eating my cereal, I actually had to take breaks while I was chewing to open my mouth and inhale so that I didn’t suffocate while eating. Not to mention the headache I’ve got pounding away inside my cranium from all the pressure my skull is under. No amount of Zyrtec in the world is going to get me out of this one. Bring it on, frost. Kill these plants. Kill them dead.

WELL, I’m off to continue mouth-breathing and being pissed about my allergies. Adios amigos.


C:   There are two videos tagged of me singing Whitney Houston in just a week’s time. That is two too many.

B:   Your fault.

C:   Her fault for having the voice of a g-ddamn angel.

Boob Tube.

25 Aug

Attention all ladies and overweight males:  the perfect bra has been found. The search for comfort, steadfast elasticity, and a seamless silhouette has finally been nailed. Victoria’s Secret has created the most incredible bra ever, cleverly named the “Incredible Bra.”


I am not even messing around about this. I had barely even finished putting this thing on and I was already in disbelief at how awesome it was. My boobs were smiling. They were actually smiling. No pinching, no tightening required, it was snug, comfortable, and seamless. I have boobs the size of hamburger patties, but I am constantly struggling with bra straps that are trying desperately to migrate south for the winter. I’m constantly having to tighten them and pull them up. Plus, they need readjusting about fifty times a day. After I bought one (okay, I bought two), I went directly into the bathroom at the mall, ripped off my old bra, and donned the new one. I could not have been happier. Big breasted women and man-boobs males, get out there and get yourself an Incredible Bra. You’ll thank me.

So the other night, Trent and I tried a delicious Italian restaurant nearby called DeNunzio’s. It was superbly delicious, and I will be returning multiple times before I leave Pennsylvania. This is not the point. What I’m getting at is the company we kept while dining at this lovely Italian Ristorante. Keep in mind it was a pretty classy joint; like, there aren’t ketchup bottles sitting on the table, and there aren’t sticker producing quarter-slot machines for children to run around and get fake tattoos out of or anything. There aren’t french fries on the menu. It’s a nice restaurant. ANYway, I look to my right after we were seated, and see this man sitting at the table next to us:


Nice pixelated camouflage mesh spandex tank top, you freaking weirdo. Are you serious? I wouldn’t even wear this to a tractor pull. What was this man thinking? Who buys that shirt? Who manufactures that shirt? Would a polo have killed you, Steve? Would it have? This shirt, if you insist upon keeping it (and God only knows why you would), is only acceptable to wear if you are mowing the lawn or jogging. And if you are doing either of those activities in it, it had better be before 5 a.m. when it is dark, and no one is up and around to witness you in it.

That man could not possibly have teenagers. They would have ripped him (and it) to shreds. Unless of course they all have that shirt. Some families do that sort of stuff…you know, for pictures. Usually that’s in all denim though, not stretchy, cut-off spandex fatigues. So bad.

The other day I was browsing some apps for my phone in the Droid Market, when I came across an interesting one and started reading reviews. This was one review/comment left by someone:

“Itz ohk I thinx itt kan be betrr.”


I’m supposed to take advice from someone who spells 6 out of 8 words incorrectly?

WHY do people type like this? I’m so serious about exterminating people like this. It needs to be done. We cannot allow degenerates like this to populate our earth. It’s poison to society. Stupids. So many stupids.

Okay, time to plunge into a piping hot bowl of wonton soup.


“I am so hung over. My head ache? I am never drinking again. Either Nick or I threw up in his kitchen sink last night. We will never know who.

….I just dropped my pizza in the sink. Suicide is in my not so distant future.”


Never trust a skinny chef.

9 Aug

My roommate (husband) has been watching Masterchef for the last couple of hours. Or should I say Masterdouche.  I’ve seen freshman cat fights that have been less dramatic. I would very much like to choke each and every person on that television show. More importantly, I would like to slaughter this man simply because of the way he looks.


They say to never trust a skinny chef, but my personal policy is to never trust someone who is large enough to eat you. This man is a hog. Like, he might actually be a direct descendant of swine. He is such a fat bastard. Like, he could have guest starred in Saw III as one of the pigs that went through that giant destructive machine that turned all the dead piggies into a pig smoothie of sorts (gag).


V – Uncanny resemblance.


I went on an absolute cleaning rampage today. I went to bed with plans to go measure and inspect a few properties in the morning, but awoke to torrential rains and nonstop crackling thunder and lightning. Something came over me and I cleaned the shit out of our apartment. I turned into a Merry Maid in the blink of an eye. Apparently turning 23 put me into domestic housewife mode (temporarily). I mopped the kitchen floor, vacuumed the entire house, did two loads of laundry, washed the dishes, cleaned the toilets, scoured the shower, disinfected the counter tops, cleaned the sinks, took out the trash, organized the living room, and then topped off the extravaganza with a quart of Febreze, a Bath & Body Works Wallflower, and rubbed my dog down with a Downy dryer sheet for good measure.


I won’t touch another Lysol wipe til Christmas.

I want you to go ahead and search images of “vacuuming” on Google right now.


Oh my god, you lazy f–ks, here:,or.r_gc.r_pw.&fp=f065e8756ae6259d&biw=1108&bih=624

Just browse the photos. Why are all these people smiling? Nobody is traipsing around their living rooms having the time of their life whilst pushing around a bulky vacuum cleaner picking up pet hair and dead skin cells. Who are these people?

The vacuuming needed to be done so badly. I purchased a $32 Dirt Devil from Big Lots upon my arrival to Greensburg, and it worked for about 11 seconds before it turned into a useless hunk of plastic that clogged constantly. Had I been blindfolded and someone attached a dead cat to the end of a vacuum handle and had me run it back and forth across the carpet, I wouldn’t have known the difference. The Dirt Devil did nothing more than move carpet particles and tufts of dog hair around the room. My next door neighbor, Kathy, let me borrow her prehistoric vacuum cleaner that was probably made in 1985. It weighed about a hundred pounds. I was drenched in sweat by the time I finished. It looked like I had run the mile. Dammit it worked though.

Nothing ruins a delicious frozen fudgsicle treat like the wood stick it is frozen onto. I cannot stand the feeling of my teeth on that wooden stick, nor can I stomach the taste of the wood on my tongue. It is truly like nails-on-a-chalkboard feeling to me. Why don’t these companies put popsicles and things of the like on plastic sticks? This would solve the problem. It would also be recyclable that way. I am going to start boycotting wooden stick treats. You should all join me.

Sign up sheets are at the back of the room.

Ok, bye.


“Did you ever play this game as a kid?  ‘The floor is lava!‘  They all meant the same thing. You were poor.”

Making a comeblack.

22 Jul

I arrived at the home of an elderly man approaching his upper 80s this morning for a routine roof inspection. I informed him it would take me 15 minutes or so to scope everything out. He replied with, “Good, that gives me some time to check my Facebook.”

He wasn’t kidding. I checked.

Frank. 33 friends.




Apparently Rebecca Black didn’t get it the first time. After an online backlash bludgeoning of Nagasaki-proportions, she still remained delusional enough of her imaginary talent to come out with yet another song for the world to mock. “My Moment” confirms what everyone in the world already knew; she sounds like indigestion, and looks like a downie.


.“But guys, I can’t dance,” she says to the producers as they outline what they want for the video.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” they retort as they wave their hand. “We’ll do about 400 split second shots of you moving your arms and legs and then edit the shit out of it until it’s one big pixelated, choppy blur and no one can even tell what’s going on—-basically the same thing that we’re doing with your voice.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, and reapplies lipgloss.

“Oh yeah—and be sure to fake laugh a lot and smile like a lunatic so people think you’re unaffected by the violent hatred and suicide-encouraging negative feedback you got from the last song,” they add.



Did they instruct her to constantly blink slowly and deliberately throughout the entire video, or did she do that on her own? She looks like an insane person. A crazed person who has just decided they’re going to eat someone.

I like that there are young children in the background wailing away on the guitar, when absolutely no guitar tracks are even heard. All I hear are synthesizers, keyboards, and autotune.

I wonder how much money they had to pay everyone to stage fake red carpet appearances and limo rides and pretend paparazzi for this video. I’d like to point out at this point the black man from her original “Friday” video making a cameo as a “paparazzi” at 3:06. Is that not enough of an indication that you’re not famous and talented that you have to stage and hire “fans” (relatives) because you don’t have any real ones? Sounds like a classic case of common sense to me. Then again, I’m not retarded. Black doesn’t have much to work with in that arena.


Facebook stopped conveniently showing me when it was everyone’s birthday on the right margin of my home page. Thanks a shit ton, Facebook. You’re making me look like a bad friend.

Speaking of birthdays, mine is on Sunday. I will be celebrating by consuming an excessive amount of Italian cuisine, Funfetti birthday cake (is there any other kind?), and digging through my mother’s care package which is always full of delightful goodies. You may send $20s and $50s via mail or PayPal. Thanks.

Bye, fans.

Kidding. Bye “Hans.” My friend Hans likes to read my blogs.


“I’ll tell you what you’re about to find is my foot in your ass!”

“I don’t think we have enough lotion for that.”

Friend Zone.

18 Jul

Do you ever look at people who comment on your wall posts and think, “Who the f-ck are you?”  I do this far too often. Half the people I don’t even remember ever deciding to befriend and have no idea who they are at all. Sometimes I sit down and try to clean out my Facebook friends, but get too discouraged by the time I reach the C’s and give up.

Life is rough.

I don’t like Elijah Woods’ face. He’s a tiny, pointy little man. He’s like a glossy gnome. I want to put a pointy hat on his head and tinkly bells on the tips of his toes and watch him work nimbly with tiny tools on tiny toys.

He’s a nymph, is what I’m trying to say.

I think I might start having a weekly bit starring people who shouldn’t be parents. Here is example 1 for this week—This person comes to us from a comment thread on someone’s status update about their own offspring:

nice.. i have a 6 and 8 yr old i have custody of there the best! he

my oldest is my wild one my youngest is quiet and sissy.. there out in cali right now until aug 15th then they come back they go see her for the summer.. witch becomes my time to so how many kids do you have?

The spelling? I’m surprised this person was able to read the results of their pregnancy test.


It is SOOOOO HOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I wanted to type out “hot” with a million O’s to elaborate, but then the word would be “hoot” instead of “hot” dragged out. “Becca, why didn’t you just write HOTTTTTT then?”  BECAUSE, you guys. Then it would phonetically be “HOT-TUH-TUH-TUH-TUH.”  And I’m smarter than that.

Anyway, back to how hot it is. It’s SO hot. This is hell on earth. I called it quits today at 2 pm. Unfortunately, what is usually a 12 minute drive home became a long, sticky, smothering 55 minutes because of construction on the highway. I sat in one spot for 45 minutes, absolutely baking in my Blazer. My car may as well have actually been on fire. I wouldn’t have known the difference. I have no air conditioning in my car. That means I sat there with the windows open on a 97 degree day in the blazing sun, sweating my beaver off with no relief. No wind breezing through, no movement of any kind. Just stagnant, unmoving, deathly heat. I smell like a slobbery dog. I also look like a slobbery dog. I’m not even sure I can wash my shirt from today. I may just have to dispose of it.

I’m tired of television shows that are about pawn shops trying to have clever titles. “Pawn Stars.”  “Hardcore Pawn.”  We get it. Pawn sounds like “porn.”  So racy.

Has anyone seen the latest York Peppermint Pattie commercial? According to York candies, sex toy companies are about to go out of business. Who needs a vibrator when your Peppermint Pattie can give you endless sexual pleasure? My, god. The commercials have me convinced that just one bite of a crisp, minty York Peppermint Pattie will have my eyes rolling and my toes curling in a lip biting orgasm. Really amping up the sex appeal, York.

Different, but, whatever works.

WELL, I’m off to chug my body weight in water since I lost 80% of it in my car today.

I bid you adieu.


“And that, my friends, is why you don’t get your money’s worth when you wear jeans to a strip club.”

Teen Mum.

7 Jul

I think the show would be funnier with a British twist to it.


Someone:  teen mom premire

Comment:  i been waiting for thisssssssss

I don’t think further commentary is necessary.

I’m really tired of Kaplan “University” advertising that they can turn 19 year old girls on their second unplanned pregnancy into RNs in 12 months. What a joke. A “university” that is located in the middle of a shopping mall should tip you off, for starters. If you can buy Hello Kitty purses, eat Burger King, and get an “education” in one convenient location, you probably aren’t headed for the glorious fields of success. I worked at Taco John’s in the Mall of the Bluffs where a Kaplan University was located for six years. I know all of these things to be factual.


Slapping a pair of powder blue scrubs on 200 pound Qu’aneisha with her hooker-esque curling purple nails does not make her a nurse. It doesn’t make me want her to draw my blood or check my blood pressure. Put her back behind the counter to serve chicken nuggets like she’s qualified to do.



It’s not racist if it’s true. I have a friend named Daniel who would agree.

Extra hilarious side note:  I Googled images of “black nurse” and didn’t come up with much of anything (obviously), so I then Googled “Latisha in scrubs,” and found the above photo. Hahaha.


I hate it when couples say, “We’re not trying, but we’re not doing anything to prevent it” when referring to pregnancy. This is complete bullshit. If you’re “not doing anything to prevent becoming pregnant,” you’re “trying.” I can close my eyes and drive down the interstate and say that “I’m not trying” to crash my car into a median and die, but the fact of the matter is, I am. Refusing to take your birth control and not wrapping your tool is asking for twins. You’re not fooling anyone. Just come out with it.

Every time I make a joke about Rebecca Black’s “song” Friday, the terrible lyrics (if you can call them that) latch onto my brain for hours and hours. By simply titling my last post “Fryday, Fryday,” I’ve unintentionally sentenced myself to a terrible day, repeating that stupid, whiny song over and over in my head. It’s like an inescapable virus. It’s the “Black” Plague.

I’m so clever it hurts.

We, we, we, so excited. We so excited. We gonna have a ball, to-night.


Well, that’s all I’ve got right now. THAT’S ALL I’VE GOT.



“Fine. I got a cat. Release the Cracken.”

Dependence Day.

4 Jul

Today is Independence Day. To some, a day to glorify those who serve this country and to recognize the birth of the nation. To most, a day for the white trash Americans to storm the streets in their red, white, and blue Wal-Mart attire, hauling a dirty thirty around, letting their guts hang over their cut off jean shorts, acting patriotic and slurring, ” ‘Merica!”  loudly with a soggy cigarette hanging out of their mouths. The same invalids who wind up in the emergency room with injuries from idiotic firecracker stunts. You know, the type of people who spend half of their paychecks on lottery tickets and Marlboro Reds, bitch about the Mexicans “taking over,” and don’t even know the words to our National Anthem.

I generally dislike the Fourth of July holiday. I’m not into fireworks. I don’t get why people are so fired up about them. I have way more fun with those little white things you throw down on the pavement and they crackle. I associate watching fireworks with being eaten alive by blood-sucking mosquitoes and trying to avoid little children who think I want to play with them. To me, fireworks shows are like the zoo. Once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all. Fireworks might be cool in the middle of the desert high on peyote, but a downtown Pennsylvanian fireworks show is as white trash as it gets. I would rather watch QVC.

To make matters worse, it is illegal to even have fireworks that shoot into the sky here in Pennsylvania. Also, you can’t just go out and buy booze at the grocery store or Quik Trip. You have to go to an actual beer warehouse. If you want liquor, you have to go to a separate liquor store. They make things so ridiculously complicated here, it doesn’t even make sense.

Why do we always have that twinge of grave fear before we delete photos off our digital cameras, even when we know we successfully loaded them onto our computer already? There’s always that bit of uncertainty, that shadow of doubt that grips us and makes us question if we actually saved the photos or not. What if we didn’t? What if we somehow didn’t actually get everything uploaded to Facebook, and after we delete them off the Fuji, they’re gone forever? Lost in a digital cemetery, never to be seen again?

Sometimes you just have to have faith.

(Faitha, faitha, faith. – Thanks, George).

There is a furniture store in Latrobe called Three “K” Cabinets.  (  I am not making this up.  Are they trying to be subtle, or? Just go ahead and call yourself Skinhead Cabinetry. KKK-itchens. Ku Klux Kullinary. We get it. You’re Neo Nazis. Good lord.

Like I said, this is the armpit of the USA.


Well, enjoy yourselves this weekend, kiddies. Drink lots of beer, and stimulate the economy.



A:  “Are you doing anything to celebrate the fourth?”

B:  “Andrew, I’m not even from this country. I don’t give a shit.”