Saturday, December 31, 2011
Just a quick message to the villain who broke into my car on the day after Christmas and stole several items, notably my wife's new coat:
No seriously, thank you. You reminded me of the true meaning of Christmas, how it is better to give than receive, and to help the less fortunate.
Obviously you are an incredibly unfortunate individual, presumably stricken with a debilitating mental malady that renders you about as useful as your lace-up shoes when you're unsupervised, someone so intellectually crippled that you can't even maintain a job collecting the trays and scraping spackled feces from the toilets at the local Taco Hut.
Judging from the stench of apathy and cigarettes you left in my car I have extrapolated a profile that portrays you as a someone that has given up on themselves, someone who is ok with wearing trackpants in public and their clothes have the telltale lonely existence ammonia fragrance of calcified semen from many a dateless Saturday night. Obviously your visage is nothing less than that of a nicotine stained puckered sphincter, otherwise you would have been spending your weekend cuddling with your sister instead of relieving citizens of their hard earned belongings, rummaging and foraging like a malnourished raccoon, alone. Always alone.
I can only presume you are the same desperate individual who opened the jar of Jif in the supermarket and scooped out a few finger-fulls of extra-creamy peanut butter and placed the jar back on the shelf for me to discover when I actually foolishly purchased it. With actual money! From a job!
So thank you intrepid hoodlum, for reminding me of the dregs of humanity, the stains of the world, those completely devoid of offering anything to society, those so monumentally pathetic that you have validated and strengthened my conviction in my misanthropic ways. I had almost foolishly bought into the whole Christmas cheer nonsense until you selflessly brought me to my senses.
P.S. Enjoy the coat, it can only be returned for an in-store credit at a woman's clothing store. In the Christmas tradition, don thee now your gay apparel, for a pashmina and jeggings can only improve your worthless existence.
Merry Christmas, Peace on Earth, and Goodwill towards Human Trash and Asshats.
Friday, December 23, 2011
From all of us here at Shirt of the Day, aka: me,
Thank you for a great year and your show of support!
Wishing you a SUPER Christmas, Hanukkah, Rohatsu (sorry I'm late), Ramadan, Kwanzaa, Yule, and....whatever....
Have a great holiday and time off work!
I hope to see you all in the New Year, with more Tees, Tales, and My Life In 100% Cotton!
Monday, December 12, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
The other day I was forced out into public to rub shoulders with the unwashed masses. This unplanned and unpleasant sojourn had been necessitated by the commerce driven ritual know as Christmas Shopping <shudder>.
Normally I would ensure that all of my shopping had been completed no later than Halloween because, according to my therapist, my temperament is not conducive at the best of times to be dealing with throngs of shuffling lollygaggers. However, I had been tasked with securing a specific festive item: The Christmas Pickle.
For the solecistic in the class, the Christmas Pickle is not a fermented cucumber, but an ornament hidden within the foliage of the Christmas tree. On Christmas Day the children take turns searching for the pickle, and the child who finds it gets an extra present, a prize for being diligent and observant. Kind of like Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. Except green. And phallic.
It was during this perilous quest that I overheard an exchange between two inappropriately dressed middle aged mothers. It appeared as if they had actually Dressed Up to go shopping, but had become discombobulated at some point and had stumbled into their sixteen year old daughters closet, by way of a Bootlegger change-room.
Hipster Mom #1 had selected the sensible shoe of choice when walking the length of the mall for extended periods of time: the stiletto-heeled knee-high boot. To ensure one could witness the full glory of these podiatrists nightmare, the cuffs on her jeans had been rolled up several feet, like some Dominatrix Captain Kirk.
Hipster Mom #2 was head to toe in Lululemon. As advertised, this did indeed, and unfortunately, accentuate her buttocks, as well as her lovehandles, and her stretch-marks. It looked like a Breakfast-To-Go bag of cottage cheese, a muffintop, and strip bacon. The hood of her yoga top, which had apparently never seen the interior of a Power Yoga studio, was lined with fur which at first glance I took for a nesting ferret.
I wasn't eavesdropping. My mama didn't raise no Nosey Rosey. I was a hostage, a captive audience. The aisle was barricaded, my flight from the inane dialogue that followed barred by Lulu Lemon's stroller that had the approximate dimensions of a Sherman Tank. And they were LOUD. These attention whoring bubbleheads actually WANTED people to hear their boastful chatter.
Captain Kirk was griping that little Aiden's teachers didn't realize that he was smarter than them and they weren't capable of dealing with his Specialness. She postulated aloud that they were jealous of him. The tyke in question stood sullen at her side, head down, focussed on his Blackberry. She then referred to him as her "Special Little Man" and reached out a veiny and bejeweled hand to tousle the dour moppets fop coifed mane, but stopped herself short, a glimmer of fear flickering in her eyes. I found this last "Special Little Man" statement kind of creepy. He was 11.
Lulu Lemon countered with how she totally understood because her Aiden was also Very Special and Destined for Greatness, why just the other night she was pretty sure that the precocious little sprite had used the word "Klangfarbenmelodie" when putting the finishing touches on his first symphony, and that his use of Deceptive Cadence on the 2 litre saucepan was intentional. He was the one in the Sherman Tank.
This competitive praise heaping was the equivalent of schoolyard "oh yeah, well my dad can beat up your dad" banter, where prowess and success is attributed not to oneself but a third party, in a feeble attempt to deflect away from ones own inadequacies and lack of accomplishments, living vicariously through the achievements of others.
Kids, I'm gonna give it to you straight: If your parents have told you that you are special, they lied to you. You are as unique as everybody else.
Unless of course you have retractable metal alloy adamantium claws.
Or can shoot lasers out of your eyes.
Or you find the Christmas Pickle.