I’m Only Human So Don’t Piss Me Off

fwordYou know what I’m not? I’m not a robot. I’m not one of those holier-than-thou people who spew forth goodness, but in reality are just as terrible in real life as you and me. You know who I mean. We all know one or two. Every morning their social media explodes with colourful, flowery, powerful affirmations to get us through our day.
Holy Mofo. Sorry about the language! Namaste. Hah! They drive me completely insane – mostly because you really don’t want to turn your back on these people. Now I’m not saying there are no genuinely wonderful people out there. Of course there are. I’m living proof. (Okay, sit down in the back. It’s called a freaking joke. Sheesh!) But the truly genuine, wonderful people are not afraid to let off some steam.
Now I’m not saying I know everything. (Which of course I do, but you already knew that because you’ve read this blog before and keep coming back for more because we are impossible to resist. I apologise in advance for the addiction, but we really needed the followers in order for our world domination plan to work, so we use subliminal drugs to keep you coming back. I’d love to take the credit for our powerful writing prowess, but it’s the drugs. Really. Would I lie? Of course I would. Wow. You really have been here before! As if you had any choice.) I do however, know a little. I can tell you it is human nature to get a little pissed off from time to time. In fact it is human nature to feel your blood rushing through your veins as though you are about to EXPLODE! So, if I feel my blood start rushing, I do what comes naturally. I talk to someone. I explain why I’m upset. And depending on how pissed off I am, I may talk to others before I talk to you. Is this gossip? Not if it’s true. Am I being malicious? No. I’m saving your life. NAMASTE! I’m letting off a little steam so that when I next talk to you we will both come away with all our limbs intact. You know why? Because I don’t want to kill anyone. Because deep down I am a nice person. Because I don’t want to hurt anyone. Because there is a very good chance I care about you. And the number 1 reason to talk to someone else first? Maybe, (doubtful, but it could happen.) just maybe, I’m wrong. Or maybe that someone else will give me another perspective. Maybe they can see clearly that you did not intentionally piss me off/hurt me/ etc.
In short, I will never make a promise to never talk behind your back because doing so might save our relationship. (Also, I don’t look good in orange jumpsuits) I would love to be perfect. I would love to never judge another human being. But honestly, I’m human. I do make mistakes. I’m just smart enough to not tell you. Hypocritical? Absolutely.


Rich Man, Poor Man, F-Wad!

poverty-no-accidentUnless you have actually been poor, you will never truly understand what a drain it can be on your soul. You can’t say you get it, or you understand any more than I can tell a parent who has lost a child that I get it. I don’t. I can imagine the feelings of devastation, but I can never really, truly get it, until I have been there. And trust me, I pray to every god of every religion, – I never understand that anguish.
Now I’m not saying that I understand what it is like to be homeless. I do not claim to understand the level of poverty that many third world people face each day. I do however know what true poverty by western standards is like. I have lived in a home with no indoor plumbing, where we had a five gallon pail to use as a toilet. I know what it is like to live in a house – for lack of a better word – that only has three rooms left because the other half of the house burned down years before. I could go on, but I’m pretty sure you get my drift. So it drives me stark raving mad when people who have never truly gone without tell me how money is not everything. These people are what I like to call F-Wads.
F-wad is my new favorite word. I’m pretty sure it has been around longer than Jesus. So if it was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.
Recently I had the pleasure, (Maybe pleasure is the wrong word.) of meeting a true F-wad. I was out enjoying a social evening with friends. At some point the topic of conversation turned to charity. We discussed what could be done to help the needy in our country. I explained that I see the world as one country and that I believe those who are literally starving need to be the top priority. This was when the F-wad spoke up. The conversation was really enlightening – if enlightening means pathetic/selfish/self-absorbed/arrogant/f-wad. The F-wad explained that the best way to help the truly poor was to not be poor myself! This was a true eye opener for me. Why hadn’t I thought of that myself? How stupid was I? This was of course the answer to world poverty. Not to be poor myself!
Now I really needed to think about this for a minute. So what the F-wad was saying, was that if I wasn’t poor – if I wasn’t a dreg on society, (His words.) the world would be a better place! Of course! Yes! That makes perfect sense! If the rest of us do our part, to make certain that we are not poor, the world will be a better place. In other words, let me try to break this down for you, so it’s easier to understand. If we do what we have to, to reach a certain standard of living – if we keep that dollar we were giving to the homeless guy who hadn’t eaten in days, if we kick all those disabled veterans out on the street, if we raise the price of canned dog food so the old age pensioners stop eating food meant for our pets, if we stop providing aid to the starving peoples of this planet – we will all sleep better at night! Come on, admit it! The F-wad has a point. Doesn’t he? Think of all the surplus if we stopped helping every sob story out there. I, for one, will surely sleep better at night knowing the dregs of society are no longer dregging. F-WAD.
So did I take it personally? I would have been a F-wad if I hadn’t.
Then I remembered that I too have been a dreg in my life. I remembered that things weren’t exactly cushy in my world. I thought of my own dad who had worked hard his whole life to support his family and pay the medical bills of his dead wife and crippled son. How he had died old and broke, but loved. I remembered my brother who was stuck in a wheelchair, but would take a homeless person back to his small apartment and feed them. I remembered the young woman who stopped us on the street so she could hug my brother and explain to me how my brother had saved her life. How he had taken her home when the rest of the world had shunned her. How he fed her, cared for her, and believed in her, when no one else would. I remembered – and I was proud.
So did I take it personally? I would have taken it personally if I was born with a silver spoon. Rich or poor does not make the person. I choose to believe this F-wad is the exception, not the rule. I have to believe this. I have to believe mankind as a whole is better than this. If this F-wad is not the exception, what hope do we have? What the hell are we fighting for?

Psychopaths In The Neighborhood…

i_am_not_crazy____pun_t_shirt_design___by_mikaeltrondsen-d4m6elhSo today was going to be a simple, run of the mill story about the dangers of internet dating, but then I had a real life encounter with a psychopath. So now I need to warn you about both! By that I mean psychopaths online and in real life. We’ll start online because those people are crazy.

Sometimes life becomes complicated when you realize that you may actually be related to someone seriously dangerous. Here is the crazy conversation I had with my cousin last night via text. I’m going to change someone’s name to protect the innocent. (Me) Because I don’t want my cousin to know who I am talking about. So for this episode, we’ll call her Sybil.

Sybil:  Are you behaving tonight?

Me: Badly. Drunk.

Sybil: Good for you. Safest place for it.

Me: Under the bridge?! Are you spying on me?!

Sybil: Of course. I’m in the troll outfit. (She also sent terrifying face of Satan with text)

Me: I knew I smelled something.

Sybil: You’re too kind! Eau de goat. My own blend. (She blends goats?!)

Me: I liked your old perfume: Kitty de Litter.

Sybil: I had to quit using it. Bits kept dropping into my goat lunch adding an unnecessary crunchiness.

Me: Is that what was yellowing your teeth? Kitty urine is so hard on enamel!

Sybil: My fangs you mean? No. They were always yellow. A nice sunshine color, I always thought.

Me: Well yes, until they became stained by the blood of your suitors.

Sybil: Suitors and dressers. But they asked for it. Showing up without even a tender kid. I kid you not they would say. So I ate them instead.

Me (now terrified to stop): Hey, at least you got a free meal out of them!

Sybil: Exactly. Had to ditch the cars in the river. (Explains how she knew I was under bridge) Time consuming.

Me: Should have just parked them in my neighborhood.

Sybil: That would have taken care of it.

Last week Sybil explained her diabolical plan to take unsuspecting internet dates swimming with sharks. She plans to make jewelry out of what is left. She said matching toes for earrings, big toes for pendant. She is going to call them toe-kens. Get it? Tokens of their affection! This is the kind of situation people are walking into every day! One day you are chatting and calling the soul-mate you met online – the next you are a toe-ken. I’m kind of surprised that Sybil hasn’t designed shoes yet. Pretty sure she would add a soul-mate or two to the bottom.

All I’m saying, people, is keep your eyes open! Be aware. Unless you want to date Sybil. It’s true, there is no free lunch!

Now my real life run in with a psychopath. I was sitting at my computer beginning my blog when our dogs began barking. I was not the only one home, but no one went to the door. So I did. I peered cautiously through the window first. Then slowly opened the door. A complete stranger stood on my front step, carrying a large bag on one shoulder. I knew immediately that she was going to stab me with the weapon in her hand.

“Gillean Ollsin?” she asked.


See how stupid I was? The psychopath even knew my name! It was only a matter of minutes until I was someone’s lunch. I do have insanely nice toes. Had Sybil sent her? Did I know too much? Do psychopaths have a union? Do they all know each other? Do they all look the same? Okay, now you’re just being racist. Not even funny.

So it turns out that the psychopath was not actually a psychopath, just a mail carrier. But you see how dangerous this world is? Do you see the situation I knowingly put myself in? Not good. Think next time, that’s all I’m saying.

Aliens Among Us…

My dog may, or may not, have burnt poop popcorn. There is a slight possibility that my want-to-be-a-hippie son burnt popcorn. But if he did, how do you explain the smell of burnt poop? I don’t trust my dog. Something very shifty is going on here.

Let’s start with tPortiahe facts. One: I’ve never allowed my dog to use the stove before. Not that she has ever asked. Because, holy shit, if my dog asked to use the stove, I’d let her make all popcorn she wanted – burnt or not! Two: If she was going to take up cooking, I’m pretty sure popcorn would not make the short list.

I’ve just had another thought. If the smell of burnt toast means you’re about to seizure – maybe I’m f-ing dying! For the love of god, I’m smelling burnt poop popcorn! This can’t be good! Another thing is that maybe I’m not smelling burnt poop anything. It’s just possible, in fact, more like probable, that I’ve been teleported to some crazy, freaky spaceship, where dog aliens are playing with my brain and I just think I’m smelling burnt poop popcorn! I know it sounds crazy. Right? But it would make perfect sense for dog aliens to make poop popcorn. Though you’d think after mastering flying a freaking spaceship they could make popcorn without burning it!

Why did this have to happen to me? I was asleep in my own bed. I wasn’t bothering anyone! This is just like those movies. The aliens always work at night. But who would have suspected their trusted dog? No one, that’s who! I think my dog hates me. That would explain why she called the dog aliens to come and get me. I should never have allowed her to watch E.T. This explains all those toys she has been dragging outside and throwing around. I thought she was innocently frolicking in the yard, when in fact, she was calling home!

Another thing, the next time I think I have the most brilliant writing experiences in the middle of the night – Pulitzer Prize winning shit – I’ll remind myself that I’m not always the brightest monkey in the box. Though I would like to know where my dog hid the burnt poop popcorn, because honestly, that shit stinks.

National Poverty Day. No Sex For You!

The first thing I would like to bring to your attention is your attitude. Holy crap, did you see that accident?! No? Wow. You’re really sick. I mean that nicely of course, as in whoa that’s sick! But not really. You like the title? Yes you do. Stop lying. Honestly, I think you may have a problem, but not with the lying. You’re super good at that. Now admit it, the only reason you are here is because you think poor people can’t have sex! You read the title and thought, Awww, that’s terrible. No one will have sex with the poor people.

So being a pervert is what brought you to this page. Hey, I don’t mind – fact is I knew you’d fall for it. I knew if I put sex in the title you wouldn’t be able to resist this page. I think you should know that I’m not actually going to write about poverty, or sex. Okay, now I’m lying. Thanks. I didn’t know lying was contagious, asshat. And just so you know, poor people are having sex. Rich people are having sex. My goldfish is having sex. The only one not having sex around here is you. I think it’s because you’re a perv. It’s really nice that you care about poor people though. There are lots of us out here. So I’ll give you brownie points for caring about the poor people. But the perv thing… that’s just creepy.

So now that we’ve talked about the sex and the poor people, I think we should address your pervieness. I was talking to the police about you and they said the only way to avoid getting arrested for reading this blog was to send them money… lots and lots of money. The police don’t really have time to be out collecting money from you pervs though, so they said I could collect the money for them. I’m thinking a cool $500 is a nice place to start. You can send me your money through paypal or just mail me your credit cards. The police are greedy so they will take anything. But let’s not tell them I said they were greedy.

They might get upset because they’ve been super sensitive ever since the government took their guns and tasers away and replaced them with fluffy kittens. They still get really riled up over pervs though. No one likes a perv, buddy, so just keep moving along – unless you brought your cheque book. Form a line to the right. No sex for you!

I’m a Genius and this is Important Shit.

helenI’m the kind of person that people go to with their problems. I think the reason for this, is that they want good advice and since I’m so smart and have the perfect life, they think they can trust me. (Which of course, they totally can) Now I don’t mean to blow my own horn – except I totally do or I wouldn’t be on here telling you this- but I give the best advice! If you have a cold, I might suggest chicken soup. Then again, I might suggest that you find every enemy you ever had and French kiss them. Haven’t you always wanted to make your enemies sick? Wouldn’t you love to see those mofos hacking phlegm and snot all over their shoes? Of course you do. Nothing would be more fun. Well maybe shark fishing with my ex-husband’s head.
For the next few minutes we are going to imagine a tranquil meadow covered with our favorite wild flowers. Aren’t they beautiful? The colors so vibrant. Breathe… breathe. You can also hum if you like. Humming totally helps! (Unless a bear or fire breathing dragon show up in your meadow. Then you should shut the hell up.) I’m pretty sure my soul is smiling now. I feel so much love! Remember, when we hate others, we keep ourselves in prison! Love is the answer. Unless you have a pet shark and there isn’t any evidence. Then sharks are definitely the answer.
The thing about being a genius is that I feel so good when I give advice to the people I care about. Another thing that is nice, is how they always follow my advice to the letter! And why wouldn’t they? I mean, if I’m a fricking genius, why would they not do as I say? They came to me for advice. Right? They ask what they should do. Right? They must think I know a thing or two about something. Right? Right.
So then here’s the thing, why don’t they take the fricking advice?! Why did they spend hours talking to me and asking all these important life changing questions, when they weren’t going to do as I advised?! Why did they waste my time? Where can I buy a shark? What time is it on Mars? Seriously, do Martians switch to daylight saving time?
My cousin had a squirrel once that threw acorns all over her driveway. Pretty sure she had it coming.

You’re Not Nice

You’re not nice. There, I said it. I’ve wanted to say it for a long time. I’ve wanted to tell you that nobody believes you. We’re not stupid. We know an act when we see one. We know you don’t really love us. In fact, you probably don’t even like most of us, but that’s okay – we don’t like you either.

In truth, I almost feel sorry for you. I say almost, because every time you spew forth your phony rhetoric, I feel this almost uncontrollable urge to wretch. Why, you might ask, do I feel sorry for you? The answer is fairly simple. It must take an unbelievable amount of energy to keep up such a farce; to love, when what you really feel is disdain

I almost feel sorry for you because you must have real self esteem problems or you wouldn’t feel the need to constantly tell everyone how wonderful, intelligent, creative, kind, loving, supportive, giving, and industrious you are. How you’ve faced every adversity and adversary possible, yet came out this wonderful, nurturing individual. From the way you talk, I’m sure you must float out of bed each morning on a ray of sunshine. I bet even when you fart the gases permeate the air like lilacs.

I almost feel sorry for you because if for five minutes you could stop playing the part, if you could stop trying to control every situation, if you could let go of the bullshit and just be real; if you could let someone else have an opinion; if you could stop thinking only you have a brain, then maybe, just maybe, you could have and be a friend. The fact of the matter is, nice people don’t have to tell others how wonderful they are. Anyone can bandy about a few hugs and compliments. True kindness come from the heart.

In case you need clarification, I’ve been so kind as to provide a link: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/kind

Unfortunately, you are too afraid to let go of the power you believe you need. You are afraid to let people get to know the real you. Instead you choose to stay locked in your imaginary world, where everyone loves you and you love everyone. I almost feel sorry for you because you don’t know the jig is up. Hugs can only go so far. We see the rage behind your eyes; your inability to really connect with anyone; your need to own us. We are no longer amused. If it’s minions you want, take your business elsewhere.

If you’re wondering why I never told you this before – the truth is – I’m nice.

Hating The Man

You know what the hippies were right about? I’ll tell you. They were right about The Man. It’s true. The man is out to get you. No I am not paranoid. No I have not been smoking anything. I’m just telling a universal truth. The old saying – you can’t fight city hall – it’s true. Now I know there are bigger issues in the world. I know children are starving. (Don’t even get me started on that one!) I know there are wars and atrocities that we cannot even begin to fathom. Trust me. I know. I try to keep up. Bradley Manning and Edward Snowden will be granted asylum at my house forever. (The Man is behind these as well.)
Shit. Well, that kind of took the wind out of my sails. I was ready to REALLY swear and everything! Now, I’m feeling a bit silly for my coming rant. But the hell with it, I’m ranting anyway.
Today I went a little crazy. Pretty sure they’ve posted my picture at city hall and have tightened up security. (They can afford to. How do you spell a**holes?) (Poor dad must be rolling over in his… jar?) Sorry. I digress. I do that… A lot.
So let me take you back. It was a cold and blustery winter day on the prairies. (Everyone who lives here thinks I’m an idiot. It’s always cold and blustery in the winter, on the prairies.) Sorry… digressing again! So I’m sitting at my computer (in my jammies) when I noticed this… (What should we call him? Commissionaire? I think I’ll go with d**kwad), so I notice this d**kwad (This was before I knew him. At which point he graduated to full-fledged-a**hole!), so this d**kwad is putting a ticket on my car. I jump up and run outside in my jammies. (I’m sure he thinks I’m on crack as I basically rolled out of bed and stumbled to my computer. I also live in a ‘questionable’ part of town.) I’m not stupid. (Some might argue that. Sit down in the back! This is my f-ing rant!) So, not stupid me meanders up to the d**kwad and asks in a very calm and nice voice, “Excuse me, sir, may I ask why you are giving me a ticket?
Before I go any further I must explain that in our lovely part of the world we get snow. Not the ‘oh look it’s snowing. Isn’t it lovely?” kind of snow. We get REAL snow. So the city likes to plow the snow into large snowbanks so that it becomes impossible to park our cars. They like to do this so they can ticket us for parking ‘more than 300 mm from the curb’. Of course we are parked more than 300 mm from the curb you d**kwads! There is NO WHERE else to park!
And now back to the story. We begin where the heroine (Me) first greets the d**kwad (d**kwad). “Excuse me, sir, may I ask why you are giving me a ticket?”
I would be here all day and you guys would be long gone if I told the entire story of what happened next. (Assuming you are still here?) So here is the gist of it: D**kwad explains that I am more than 300mm from curb. I explain I have no choice, said curb cannot be found. By now elderly neighbor lady is outside trying to nicely tell d**kwad that he should not be giving me a ticket. This is the point when d**kwad man turns into full-fledged-a**hole. (It was quite impressive really. Kind of like watching Mark Ruffalo’s character Dr Banner turn into the Hulk, except that I am not envisioning d**kwad man with no clothes.) Full-Fledged-A**hole tells elderly neighbor that had we been nice he would have kindly ripped up the ticket. If we had been nice?! How much f-ing nicer could we be? We were polite. We approached with caution. We did not, however, offer money or chocolate cake. Maybe we should have offered cake. Maybe my elderly neighbor should have stripped down right there and offered herself to d**kwad! Our mistake? At this point I asked full-fledged-a**hole why mine was the only car on the street he was ticketing? He told me that was none of my concern. I think full-fledged-asshole was afraid to ticket anyone else. He’d already dealt with delusional jammie woman and elderly neighbor. He was getting out while he could. It was at this point, he was getting in his car, that I told him I would be taking pictures of all the cars on the street. Then and only then did I call him by his first name: A**hole.
Court day came and I was armed with my pictures. It was then that the prosecutor told me to leave the pictures at home as they would do me no good. (I kind of felt like Bradley Manning. None of my evidence was going to be admissible in court.) So, long story short – Full-Fledged-A**hole blatantly lied in court. He drew a diagram of how I was parked and said that I was eight feet away from the curb! He also claimed that I had come out of my house screaming and swearing at him. When I finally had my turn to speak I explained to the judge (who, frankly, was about 80 years old and more than a little confused) that full-fledged-a**hole was lying. I also explained that every car on the street had been parked like me as we had no choice because of the snowbanks. Full-fledged-a**hole spoke up and said that I was the only car parked eight feet away. The other cars were only four feet away. I again explained that full-fledged-asshole was lying. It was then the judge told me he would have excused the ticket had I only been four feet away like the other cars. It was then he said I should have brought pictures. Unfortunately, you cannot tell The Man that the prosecutor and full-fledged-a**hole have conspired against you. Who is the judge going to believe – the prosecutor and full-fledged-a**hole, or the villenous parker? For a moment I saw the judge begin to sway my way, but the prosecutor quickly stepped in and explained that even if everyone on the block was parked eight feet away from said curb, that did not give me the right to break the law! She went on to explain that if he let me go, what was to stop me from say… parking in school zones or bus stops! OMG! I would have found me guilty as well! Her arguments were so strong and filled with raw emotion! I knew I was doomed. The judge had no recourse. He found in favor of The Man. Full-fledged-a**hole had won. The judge found me guilty. I would have to pay the ticket.
It’s been several weeks since that fateful day in court. I had stood against The Man and lost. Still, I held my head high as I went to city hall this morning to pay the ticket. I guess The Man wanted to twist the knife a little deeper – as I handed the ticket to the teller she informed me that they would be adding an additional $40 to the fine. Apparently, they like to add on these extra dollars just so they can squeeze every last bit of blood out of us citizens. I explained to the woman behind the counter that I was not upset with her. I was upset with The Man. So if anyone is looking to start a new/old movement sign me up! I’ll even make the cake.