Saturday, May 22, 2010

I don't hate Starbucks, don't get me wrong...

I don't hate Starbucks, don't get me wrong. I like coffee. Actually, I love coffee. I'd have sex with it if I could, that's how much I love my goddamn coffee. Hell, most of the time, a good cup of coffee is better than sex. Coffee is more readily available, that's for sure. And there's no moral or ethical dilemma in paying for coffee. I'm always satisfied after drinking a cup of coffee. I can easily drink coffee standing up. I can have coffee in public whenever I want and not be arrested. Wait - what was my point? Oh yes - I love coffee.

I don't hate Starbucks, don't get me wrong. I live on the North end of Columbus, near Polaris Fashion Place. If I head toward the mall, how many Starbucks do I find? In the mall itself - a Starbucks kiosk on the first floor. Moving onto the second floor, you find a Starbucks at the Great Indoors store, and yet another damn Starbucks further down. And what's across the street from the mall? Another damn Starbucks. And in the Barnes & Noble behind that Starbucks? You got it - another damn Starbucks. Leave the mall, and head down toward 23... before I even make it there, the Bank One offices have - you guessed it - another damn Starbucks. Onto 23 N... coming up on your right, you've got Giant Eagle - with a damn Starbucks inside. Cross the street, and you come to Meijer, with what else - another damn Starbucks. In front of Meijer, there is - do I even need to say it? Everybody sing it now... another damn Starbucks. In total, according to the Starbucks web site, there are 14 Starbucks within 5 miles of my home. Starbucks has spread across the country like a virus, infecting us with their formula of what a coffee shop should be. I hate the homogenization of American culture that Starbucks represents. Like McDonald's, Applebee's, Wal-Mart, and all other corporate chains, Starbucks is a major contributing factor in the growing blandness of America.

I don't hate Starbucks, don't get me wrong. I admit, I'm barely old enough to remember what it was like before Howard Schultz swept down out of the great Pacific Northwest and clusterbombed us with franchises. I grew up in a town that to this day is Starbucks free. Going home to visit is sheer hell. My java choices are to drink the swill that barely passes for coffee from the local Speedway, or to drink Folger's at my mother's house. It's at those moments that I fervently pray for a Starbucks to magically appear. However, I went to Ohio State back in the day, before Starbucks burst into town like a plague of locusts, and there were plenty of little independent coffee houses that offered a great cup of joe. Going away to college was a coffee-addict's wet dream. Unique house blends, roasted to perfection, lots of people watching opportunities - all in all, great places to hang out and get a caffeine fix. Every coffee place was different. They had open-mic nights where you could watch your friends embarrass themselves. Some were set up in old houses, some in strip malls. Some had work by local artists up on the walls. Some of it was bad art, some of it was good, but it could have been painted by someone sitting next to you. I prefer to support these independent coffeehouses that often existed long before Starbucks set up shop right across the street from them. As a consumer, I have a choice, and I choose to spend my money at locally-owned businesses when I have the opportunity.

I don't hate Starbucks, don't get me wrong. I drink Starbucks coffee on a somewhat regular basis and am generally quite satisfied. Sometimes, it's about convenience, and like I said, there's a damn Starbucks on every corner. The coffee isn't great there, but it's consistent. I know that if I walk into a Starbucks in Seattle (like I really would - there are a ton of better independent places there), or a Starbucks in Columbus, my venti Americano is gonna be the same. Which brings me to another point of my rant - venti? What the heck is that? Whatever happened to small, medium, and large? It's as if Starbucks is a country unto itself, with a language all its own. Or an exclusive club. You ever seen some poor uninitiated soul go in and order a "large coffee"? They look at that bastard as if to ask, "what rock did you crawl out from under, idiot?" That air of superiority, the pretentious snobbery, that condescending attitude in which they correct your order, "I'm sorry sir, we don't have a 'large'..." But sometimes, you've got to have your caffeine, and you've got to have it NOW. So I get in line and meekly ask for my 5-shot venti Americano like the well-trained sheep that I am. Baaaa.

I don't hate Starbucks, don't get me wrong.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

It's not hard, douchebags. A grammar rant.

Okay, I've had it. I've finally snapped. I admit, I'm a bit of a grammar and spelling Nazi. Hell, sometimes I correct people when they comment on my blogs. I make no apologies for it, and if you expect one, then fuck off. However, I received an email today with the subject of "your hot". I shit you not. Your. My hot what? I would have replied with that question, but something tells me that the recipient wouldn't have been in on the joke. I mean, this person didn't seem phased that my default picture is currently one of me in my wedding dress. At my wedding. Getting married. If someone can't take that sort of hint, I fear the subtleties of my sarcastic question would have whizzed ten feet or so over his head. Someone I respect once said that the blogosphere is a "congregation of self-important hookers and weirdos". While that statement bears a lot of truth, he also should have added that it is a haven for illiterate fucktards who create pages upon pages of tripe rife with egregious spelling and grammatical atrocities. That's not to say that this is the only place this happens. Far from it. Hell, even upper-level executive, three piece suit management types do it. I've seen it often.

It's ridiculous. It's fucking embarrassing.

I don't know, maybe I actually paid attention in school. Maybe this shit comes naturally to me. Maybe I'm a fucking grammar and spelling idiot savant. It doesn't really matter. What does matter is that this shit needs to stop before I lose my mind.

So with no further ado, here's a crash course, okay?

lose - the opposite of win, to misplace something, ONE FUCKING O.
loose - the opposite of tight, your mother/wife/sister, TWO FUCKING O's.

I see this more often that I should... how can so many people get these two confused? IDIOTS.

your - a possessive, similar to mine, his, her as in "your loose slut of a sister loses her mind every time she gets railed by your whole inbred, shitbag excuse of a family", NO FUCKING APOSTROPHE.
you're - a contraction of "you are", as in "you're a dipshit", A FUCKING APOSTROPHE.

its - another possessive, similar to your, NO FUCKING APOSTROPHE.
it's - a contraction of "it is", as in 'it's fucking simple', A FUCKING APOSTROPHE.

Need a trick? Fine - when using it's or you're, expand the contraction. If "you're head is full of shit" becomes "you are head is full of shit" and doesn't make any sense (maybe it will to you because you're a fucking idiot), then you are using the wrong word. Queef.

to - a preposition, as in "turn to the right" or "it's time to go back to school", ONE FUCKING O.
too - an adverb (know what that is?), synonymous with "also", "as well" as in "Really? I went to college, too. I actually read a fucking book." It can also be used to mean "to a regrettable degree" as in "It's too late for you, moron", TWO FUCKING O's.
two - a number, it comes after one.

there - an adverb, similar to here as in "your short bus is over there".
their - yet another possessive, similar to your as in "it's not their fault that you're a fucking retard. It's your fault."
they're - a contraction of "they are" as in "they're not responsible for your complete ignorance of your own fucking language. Read a book!"

affect - a verb, to influence, as in "Your consistent poor grammar negatively affects my opinion of your intelligence, fucktard." A FUCKING A.
effect - a noun, result, as in "Your inability to spell, punctuate or use words in the proper context had a terrible effect on my ability to view you as an intelligent lifeform, you douchebag." A FUCKING E.

Occasionally, effect may be used to mean to bring about" or "cause", as in "Try as I might, I could not effect real change to your level of intelligence by kicking you in the skull."

Effect and affect are similar but not interchangeable. To effect is to cause; to affect is to influence.One trick that might help you remember the difference between the two: a, the first letter in the word affect, comes before e, the first letter of effect. This makes sense, because something is affected first, and the result is an effect. For example: Your complete inability to grasp the basic constructs of the English language affected our ability to understand your point; the effect of this was that we all laughed at you, mocking your ignorance, you asshat.

I/me - man, you would think this one would be a no-brainer. But no. I see so many pictures on teh Interweb bearing a caption similar to "Jessica and I at the mall". Wrong, fucktard. Here's a handy rule. Remove your BFF Jessica from the picture for a moment, shall we? You wouldn't say "I at the mall," would you? (Well, you probably would, but that misses the point) If saying "I at the mall" makes poor sense, then you should probably recaption your shitty little picture to say "Jessica and me at the mall", mmmkay?

Really, it's not fucking hard, douchebags.

By the way, grammar is spelled with two fucking a's. So next time you want to comment on someone for bad "grammer", at least spell it right.


Sunday, February 7, 2010

I Love My Dog, but... Ewwwwww

I love my dog, but there are times when she is so gross I don't know what to do. She happily licks out my other dog's ear canals, and eats used Kleenex out of the trash. She sniffs out all manner of grossness. She would fight for a morsel of vomit. And she delights in feces. Lest you think that just any feces would do, oh no - this dog is a feces connoisseur. She will only eat her own.

I didn't believe the early reports that she was a poop sucker. I'd never even heard the phrase coprophagia before until my son reported seeing her do it. I thought he was playing a prank or angling for more allowance, somehow. But no sooner did he tell me than I myself found her in the living room, hypnotically munching her own poo - with a smack-smack-smack sound, the kind you might make when you swirl a delicious food in your mouth and roll your eyes. She was in an elevated state of the yummies - and she was eating her own turd.

She's barely bigger than a turd herself. And very cute. Everyone loves her.

I did my research and learned that it's a fairly common thing for a dog to do. It's a doggie idiosyncrasy, they say. (Needless to say we have banned doggie kisses in our household). I even took her to the vet. There's a medication that supposedly stops this nasty, disgusting behavior. And it worked. For the whole 14 days she took it. It's supposed to break the behavior long enough for your dog to be retrained. To "forget" that they like the taste of their feces, I guess. But not our dog. As soon as the medication stopped, she was right back to munching on her own poop, as if it were filet mignon.

Since the day I discovered her habit for turd snacking, I have never looked at her the same way again. Oh, I go through the motions, but it's always there waiting to bubble to the surface, the picture of her munching poop. She's as cute as a little stuffed animal, but I just can't surrender to her cuteness - because I know what she is stuffed with.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Working Out

I want anyone reading this to know that I'm really a nice person. People like me. Honestly. It's just that I have very little patience for just a few things: stupidity, things that just don't make any sense and people that act on impulse rather than common sense. That's not to say that I have a problem with impulsive people, in fact, I admire their ability to act, well, impulsively. I myself am rather impulsive at times. But, there's a difference between throwing caution to the wind and just being dumb. You'll get a better idea of what I mean as you read on. I went to the gym after work today, as I often do, and observed several recurring situations that warrant a rant of the proportions that only I can bring you. Before I continue, let us ponder the purpose of a gym, shall we? My estimation is that such an establishment is for the betterment of one's health. This takes the form of moving one's body, usually strenuously, for a period not less than half of one hour. Now that this has been established...

As I left the gym, I decided to count the vehicles that were illegally parked and those that were driving slowly through the lot looking for the primo parking spots. There were a total of nineteen. That's right, nineteen people, either parked illegally, or lazily cruising the lot hoping to get the best parking spots. The majority of those illegally parked vehicles were illegally parked within fifty yards of the gym entrance. Those vehicles hoping to bolt into any open front parking spot were about the same distance, ie. fifty yards away. There could be several reasons for this. I present those now:
  • Bad weather (There are only ~65 days of rain/snow a year in Columbus, today was not one of them.)
  • Poorly lit/dangerous parking lot (It is very well lit with constant activity)
  • The drivers of said vehicles are handicapped, and all the handicapped spaces are occupied (There were handicap spaces available, and none of said illegally parked or cruising vehicles had the appropriate markings. In addendum, most of said vehicles are are also either lowered to be six inches from the ground or lifted to be six feet away from it)
  • The illegally parked cars broke down and ended up where they ended up (Wrong.)
Another conclusion to which we may arrive is that these people feel some sort of need to park near the entrance because it is too far to walk from all of the open spaces a mere 250 feet away. Drawing from our understanding of the purpose of a gym, shall we conclude that these fine automobile operators are lazy? Surely not! What then is the mental condition of these offendors? Given the sheer volume of autos, I think we can safely assume that some are using equipment inside the gym that require a form of human propulsion, such as an exercise bike, or (gasp) treadmill. So, drawing again from the purpose of a gym established earlier, there are probably some of these fine persons who spend half of one hour on a treadmill. For the sake of argument, let's say a given person walks a mere one mile on a treadmill. One mile is equal to 5280 feet. Recall that the distance between many of the illegally and/or closest parked vehicles and a vast number of open parking spaces is at most 250 feet. For you math wizards, that's about 1/20 of a mile; obviously an intolerable distance to travel by foot pre- or post-workout. You're at the fukcing gym, people!!

I now turn my ire toward specific individuals who work out at my gym, who shall remain nameless (mainly because I don't really know their actual names):

Sasquatch man. You, the guy that has more body hair than an adult male silver-back gorilla. I understand that your copious amount of body hair is stiflingly hot - it's the equivalent of working out wearing a sweater. I understand that you want to wear as little clothing as possible to stay relatively cool while working out, and that a wife beater offers some coverage and also ventilation at the same time, but for the love of all that is holy - stop it, stop it, stop it. Cover it up, please. And while I'm addressing you, stop standing in front of the fan, hogging all the air. For one, you're blocking the airflow for the rest of the room. For two, the sight of your back and shoulder hair blowing in the breeze is distracting, to say the least.

Mr. I Wear Cologne to the Gym - what the hell? I understand if you slapped on a little Cool Water on in the morning, went to work, and the smell was still lingering when you got to the gym. I understand it - but guess what? You wore too fucking much cologne if I can still smell it three machines away, ten hours after you applied it. Better still are the fucktards who apply cologne before they work out, requiring the use of a gas mask to even crack out a few reps in their general vicinity. What in the holy hell are you trying to cover up? I get that you don't want to be "that stinky guy" that we all talk about, and point at, and make fun of. But a little bit of sweat is expected at the gym. It's normal. Other gym-goers aren't bothered by it, because they are generally sweating their asses off as well, and smell pretty ripe themselves. Your smelling sweaty is preferable to choking us all on the stench of your Kenneth Cole Black, I promise.

You, the guy that smells like cat piss, and not just vaguely of it either. You know who you are, how can you not? You've somehow managed to marinate yourself in Eau de Tomcat. I think that you must be raising an entire den of mountain lions in the secrecy of your basement, because no common housecat could produce that level of stink. I can tell that you're on the premises just by taking one whiff after walking in the door. I don't even make it past the front desk before the lining of my nostrils is assailed by essence of litterbox. Even better, the harder you workout, the more you sweat, and the stinkier you become. You smell so offensive by the end of your workout that you should have little wavy stink lines above your head, a la Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip. While the cologne guy is annoying, I would gladly pay untold sums of money to buy a 50 gallon vat of Drakkar Noir to dip your funky ass in.

The January gym-goers. I know you made a New Year's resolution to get off your ass and lose some weight, but there are millions of you, hogging up my elliptical trainer, milling about in the walkways, and just pissing me off in general with your new-to-the-gym cluelessness. I just have to take a deep breath, and know that by March, you will all be gone, back to Super-Sizing your meals, and lazing about on the sofa, watching the O.C.

The Grunter. 300 pound squats, or 20 pound bicep curls - it doesn't matter, you want to make sure we all know how hard you're working. I shudder to think what you may sound like in the bedroom, if pumping iron does this to you. Sounding like a cross between a deer in rut and a Cro-Magnon man trying his hardest to communicate quantum physics, you push, press and pull your way through your reps, your grunts of effort echoing through the weight room. I eagerly await the day you shit your pants or get a hernia from the exertion. If you could, please notify my in advance of said event. I want to bring a camera.

In conclusion... thank you, you cat-piss smelling bastard. Thank you, New Year's resolution makers. Thank you Mr. Polo Blue. Thank you, the lazy and illegal parkers. Thank you, obnoxious grunter. You are the reason that my workouts are so effective - your moronic behaviors stoke my rage until it burns with the fire of a thousand suns. My fury spurs me to work out harder, with more intensity, until the point of near-exhaustion. So while you piss me off to no fucking end, I guess that you're sort of doing me a favor. Thanks again, and keep up the good work.

Friday, September 25, 2009


Seriously. Are we done with the fucking pennies yet? Because it is time. The American public hasn't been using them for about a decade. They have become so worthless, that people give them to each other as a matter of routine. Get your change, pick out the pennies, and leave them in that "have a penny take a penny" cup there on the counter for the next guy. Need a penny or two? Well, there should be a few there for you, because the last guy sure as fuck didn't want his. That's the game.

I hate when stores don't want to play the game. If a store doesn't have that little cup, I am immediately annoyed. The hell if I'm fishing another dollar out of my pants because it came to $5.02. When that cash register rings up $5.02 and you look at me, were fixing to have a long staredown. I'll return an item before I break another dollar and let you give me three more of the fucking things in return. And that item probably had a profit margin of at least $.03 to you, so who's the loser now? Get it? As long as pennies are still around, you'd better play the game.

When there is no cup for the pennies, my normal routine has become to fish through my change and immediately pick them out and deposit them into the trash. Not only are they worthless, but they are disgusting, and I'm not carrying them around. Most have been in circulation for 20 years, and as the stepchild of your change purse, they have been given no love. They live in ashtrays, parking lots, and huge jars owned by 72 year old men who remember when they were worth something. Old copper is gross enough to start with. Add to the fact that they are covered in gum and shit and filth, and you need to wash your hands every time one touches you.

Think about this: a stamp costs $0.39. 39 pennies weigh 6 ounces, give or take. It takes about two stamps to mail 6 ounces of stuff. Therefore, if I wanted to mail someone 39 cents in pennies, it would cost me 78 cents. By my definition, its pretty clear cut. When a monetary unit can't afford to mail itself, it's worthless. Dont get all cocky either, nickels... you arent far behind. (I don't really know how much 39 pennies weigh, that was just a guess. I have a scale at home, and could find out, but I can't since I threw out all my fucking pennies. Just trust me though... I'm right on this on general principle. I know by instinct that they can't mail themselves.)

Vending machines won't even take them. They hired engineers to assure that any penny which entered the slot would be immediately routed straight to the change opening. Think about the engineering involved. Dimes, which are smaller than pennies, go right into the till, but they had to create some sort of mechanism that would sort out and eliminate any penny that enters the machine, lest they get involved with the REAL money that is in there, and contaminate it with their inherent worthlessness.

Have you ever tried to give one to a bum? Seriously. I almost got in a fight in downtown Seattle last year over the fact that I gave a bum a handful of pennies. The man had no home, was hungry, cold and hopeless, yet when I gave him a handful of pennies, he tried to spit on me. Fortunately, his lack of front teeth seriously affected his aiming abilities and I easily dodged the saliva-based projectile, but nonetheless.

Isn't this enough evidence for Alan Greenspan and the Fed to say enough is enough? I now summarize my case:

1. Pennies are considered worthless, even by homeless people
2. Pennies are disgusting
3. Pennies can't even mail themselves
4. Americans are actually giving them to strangers, like some nationwide game of hot potato
5. Vending machines are even too smart to take them. Their job is to take money, not pennies.

Case Closed. Please, Federal Reserve, I beg of you. End the game.

I'm done with the fucking pennies.

Friday, August 21, 2009

I only came in here to pee, you didn't need to scar me emotionally

I know that as a woman, I'm not supposed to talk about this stuff, but dammit, today put me over the edge. Poop. Shit. Dookie. Crap. There, I said it. Hi, I'm Jen, and I can't poop in the presence of others. I hate pooping at work. Despise it. Thankfully, this works out for me 99% of the time, and I'm not forced to do anything but good ol' #1 while at work, but sometimes it sneaks up on me. You can't win 'em all. So while I hate having to poop at work, I'm not about to deny my body its basic need to rid itself of waste. I'm a one-woman show. I won't shit in a public bathroom where someone's already occupying a stall unless it's an absolute emergency. I work on the third floor of a four-story building. If someone is in the bathroom on my floor when I arrive, I go I to the other end of my floor and try that bathroom. If that one is in use, I go down to two and check that one. Occupied? Rinse and repeat. I've gone as low as two and as high as four but not the lobby. So far, anyway. If I'm in a stall preparing to proceed with a #2, and someone who obviously doesn't follow my rule above comes in and starts crapping, I'll wait her out. Apparently, I'm not the only woman with the "wait it out" strategy - I've had women try to wait me out, too - but they don't know who they're dealing with. They are clearly outmatched. I will die on that toilet if necessary, bitch. The longest I've ever had to wait is 20 minutes and thankfully there was an Avon catalog in there to pass the time. I realize that operating this way, I could possibly run into a string of several crappers in a row and spend literally days in the john, but I haven't had to yet.

While I readily acknowledge that my shitting practices are at times inconvenient and often require a little extra effort, I don't just do it for the privacy aspect. I also do it as a courtesy to the women I work with, ensuring that they don't unexpectedly walk into a cloud of less-than-flowery fumes from my lunch at the Indian place up the street. And if God-forbid someone were to walk in on me mid-dump, I give a courtesy flush. It's the least I can do. Alas, if only every woman in my office operated at this level of politeness. But no - I had to run into YOU. You beat me to the bathroom by at least five minutes. Not a lot of time, but obviously time enough for you to seriously unburden yourself in the stall. The depth of your incredible stench was only completely obvious to me once I was already seated and mid-piss. Bitch, you took my breath away, and that isn't something I ever thought I'd say to another woman. Every orifice in my body slammed violently shut as your scent assailed my nostrils. Now, I'm no shit expert, but I would say your shit is about as foul a shit as I've encountered.

As my eyes watered uncontrollably and I forced my bladder to empty itself so quickly and forcefully that I feared I'd soon find my inner workings splashing into the water as well, I held my breath. Feeling queasy, I fought to keep my lunch inside my stomach, and not on my pretty new sandals. The toilet groaned as you flushed, straining mightily against what must have been the biggest obstruction the office plumbing system has ever encountered. I imagine that the toilet usually thinks it's pretty tough; able to handle nearly anything with all its tremendous water pressure... but no - today, you made this toilet your bitch. I frantically finished peeing as I made plans to exit the restroom faster than a whore leaving a confessional. As I opened the door to make my escape, you somehow managed to trundle out of your stall and get in front of me. How the hell did that happen? A large woman, you moved with deceptive speed to block the door. Okay, you probably didn't mean to block my exit with your elephantine, polyester-clad ass, but you did. I stood behind you for what seemed like eternity, knowing that if I so much as opened my mouth to say, "excuse me, can I get by here?" that my lunch would soon follow. I knew that if your stench actually got inside my mouth as I spoke, my digestive system was sure to engage in such violent reverse peristalsis that the splashback from the tile would surely soak us both. So I held my breath as you washed your hands.

Of course, such a power shitting deserves an equally intensive hand washing. Sweet Jesus, woman! Only an obsessive compulsive takes as long as you took to wash. I think you missed a spot somewhere near your elbow. HOLY FUCKING HELL, MOVE THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY! I continued to hold my breath. I wondered if this is what it felt like to drown. Scenes from "Titanic" flashed through my mind, along with various scenes from my childhood and vague kindly remembrances that I'd long forgotten. I was in a long tunnel and I was edging toward the light. Your shrill whistle brought me back like a set of deftly applied defibrillator paddles. Yeah, I guess I'd be cheerful too, you bitch, if I'd just excreted ALL the toxins from my body in one fell swoop. Moving at approximately the same rate as a giant blob of frozen molasses, you reached for paper towels to dry your hands. I steadied myself against the wall, closing my eyes and fighting my instinct to breathe. Death was surely imminent. As you turned, you said, "Oh, do you need to get by?" YES, YOU STUPID CUNT! I NEED TO GET BY! I NEED AIR! I WANT TO LIVE! In reality, I think I was more polite than that, but I can't be absolutely positive.

My oxygen-depleted brain must have blacked out at some point, and the seconds stretched out endlessly as I watched my life again flash before my eyes. As I opened the door, a waft of gloriously sweet, fresh air enveloped me like the warm arms of a long lost best friend. However, I was not out of the woods yet. The bathroom door closing created a bit of a backdraft and as soon as I began to take an involuntary gasp of breath in, I knew that longed-for fresh air would also be tainted with a bit of YOU. As I smelled you again, I thought of everything I could to avoid vomiting my lunch upon my new white dress. Kittens? A sunny meadow of fresh flowers? The air speed velocity of an unladen swallow? Something, anything. Somehow, I survived this second assault upon my nostrils, and have lived to tell the tale. Sure, meeting you may have taken a month or so off of my life, but I AM ALIVE! So anyway, to wrap this up - if you're reading this, Ms. Fecal Grim Reaper, please eat more fiber. And email me your schedule so I can adjust mine accordingly. I don't ask for much.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Dear Lady Who Works in My Office

Really? You're getting married? It's news to me. After all, you only call your mother to talk about it five trillion times a day. Loudly. Sometimes you call your sister and your best friend and have the exact same conversation again, this time adding, "well, my mom said..." You then seek out random coworkers and start the process all over again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Every fucking day. Look lady on the other side of the cubicle wall whom I've never met - I am happy for you. I am sure you and your fiancé will live happily ever after and have 2.5 wonderful WASPy children and drive 2.3 nice, but sensible cars; but if you mention this Goddamned mother fucking wedding one more time I am going to rip the mouse from your computer and strangle you with the fucking cord. Hey - I am all for the institution of marriage, whether it be among gay couples or straight couples. Interracial or homogenous. Animal, Vegetable or Mineral. I myself am married. But I swear to God that your holy union will not come to pass if I hear you prattle on about each and every minute fucking detail one more time. This may come as a HUGE shock to you, but no one in this office is lying awake at night worrying or coming in from the parking lot at a dead run, kicking over little old ladies in an attempt to get here as fast as we can in order to overhear what GODDAMN FLOWER ARRANGEMENT YOU FINALLY DECIDED ON!

What? You decided to get white roses instead of red? Stop the presses! You decided on Pastor Bill instead of Pastor Tom? I can now sleep at night! Your Great Aunt Edna says she can make it after all? Hooray! Here I thought she wouldn't make it.

Really. Shut. The fuck. Up. Do you really think we want to hear which hotel it is you are going to put all the guests in? I guess you do because every morning you regale us with an update on everything from square footage of the rooms to the layout of the fucking bathrooms. Seriously? The bathrooms? Do YOU even care about this? Do you honestly think that I go home wondering where you and your fiancé will finally decide to place the cake in the reception hall? Sure, the corner would be nice and out of the way, but don't you want it in the center, where all can see you so cutely shove cake in his face? Well, I don't think about it. The only thing I really ever think about is how I hope you drop the fucking knife you cut the cake with and impale your fiancé's foot.

Look - you're not special, you're not different. This isn't the first wedding in the history of the world. People get married every fucking day. This isn't the most important day of your life, though I've heard you say that no less than 10 times a day. I swear to Christ, if I hear that little gem pass your lips again, I will personally write and hand-deliver a letter of condolence to the groom, expressing my sympathies at having married such a self-absorbed, self-important cunt. If your wedding day is the most important day of your life, you, my dear, are profoundly fucked up.

So, lady on the other side of the cubicle wall whom I've never met, if you do want to wear that pretty nice dress (whose picture, incidentally, you have shown me, a person you don't even know, on at least 15 different occasions), you will kindly shut your fucking mouth before I, and everyone else in this office, take turns beating you like a fucking piñata. On a similar note, if the word "fiancé" slips out of your mouth one more time, you'd better prepare yourself for a severe and merciless gouging of the eyes with the first letter opener I can find.
Anyway, congratulations on the engagement. Bitch.