What I'd Like to Say

Q: Can you recommend me a book? I like everything.

A: No - no you don't. Nobody likes everything. And if you were truly the exception, you wouldn't need my advice; since, as someone who literally cannot be disappointed, you would just close your eyes and pull a random book off the shelf. And you would like that book. You would like everything about that book. You would even like the cover, and the blurbs on the front, and the ragged faux-antique page edges.

Whereas all I like is the world "blurb." It makes me giggle.


Q: Omigod I love the Twilight books!!! Have you read them?

A: Just the first one. I vomited glitter and Mormonism into a bowl formed out of dead feminism immediately after. Coincidence?


Q: What's the cheapest thing you have in here?

A: You.


Q: I'm from out of town. Can I get a deal on this bookmark?

A: 1. Being from out of town is not going to help your case, and I have no idea why you people insist on bringing it up. Surely there are better weapons in your cheapskate arsenal. 2. If you can't afford to spend $1.25 on a bookmark, maybe you should have forgone the vacation? Just a thought.


Q: Do you have a boyfriend/phone number/drastically low standards?

A: For you, yes/sorry, I'm a technophobe/not nearly low enough.


Q: Ya got any books in here?

A: Yeah, 'cause I totally haven't heard that one before.


Q: Where do you have [such-and-such author]? Oh, you don't have to get up! - just point me to the right shelf.

A: Look, I get that you are trying to help me out, and I appreciate your lack of demanding assclown-like behavior. Really I do. But this is a small store - it is cluttered, with the spaces between the shelves forming a winding maze of windingness - and I simply cannot point you to the right shelf, at least not from my desk. I honestly have no problem standing up and walking to the other side of the store, so please don't fret, okay?


Q: What's your favorite book?

A: Yeah, so, I don't do favorites. I don't have a favorite food, color, animal, movie, musician, or song, and I definitely don't have a favorite book. I have books I love, but I do not have one that I prize above all others, and I fail to see anything wrong with that. Oh, don't give me that pitying look - maybe I'm just less reductionist than you. Maybe you fail at life.


Q: Hey, you need to look up a book on that little computer thing there. You know how to do that, right?

A: Yeah, only I can't now - I'm too busy blogging about how much I hate you.

Yeah, the New Harry Potter Movie Was Good. However:

There are things I want to know. Things like: Who the hell takes a full bag of popcorn into a bathroom stall? Well actually, I know who - giggly preteens. But what is the thought process there? And why did they have a full bag of popcorn post-movie?

More importantly, what makes said giggly preteens think it's okay to leave the spilled popcorn on the floor, along with their spilled water? Because there's no way in hell I'm going to wade through an ocean of wet popcorn kernels. That's disgusting. Therefore, Dumbshit Youths, I'm not going to let you leave the restroom giggling about your mess - I am going to block the doorway with my imposing frame and watch as you pick up each individual kernel. You will crawl on your hands and knees as you rid the world of your ridiculous mess, because this entitled bratty rich kid shit? Does not fly.

Thank you girls. You have a terrific, sunshiney day now.

So, This Unbelievably Stupid Woman Came In Today.

She held up a book on hand reflexology and asked, "do you have any books on foot reflexology?"

"Um, I'm not sure. I'll take a look." I walked out from around the desk and started toward the health section; she blocked my path, saying:

"And I'm also looking for a book called Heal Yourself From Within. And one called...I think it's Move Your Stuff. And I think it's by someone called Carter - like, Karen Carter. I think."

"Okay." I walked back to the computer and ran a search for the titles. "Hm, I don't see either one."

"I'm not sure of the title for the second one. Something like Move Your Stuff, Move Your Life...I don't know."

Well maybe you should have figured that out before asking me.

"Well, I don't see anything with a title like that, and I checked for books by people named Carter as well. What kind of book is it?"
"Feng shui."
"Okay, well, I can show you the section where -"
"What about Healing Yourself From Within?"

Yeah, it's not like I just told you we didn't have it or anything.

"We didn't have that one, no."
"And books on foot reflexology?"

Are you freaking serious?

"Well, I'll have to take a look - over in health -"
"Where is health?"
"Right this way."

I walked her over to the health section and started scanning for reflexology books.

"Where would stuff on feng shui be?"
"Probably in self -"
"Self help? Really?"

Yes, really, although I don't know how you could be so sure about what I was telling you since you didn't let me finish.

"Yeah. I'll check in -"
"Why wouldn't it be in decorating?"
"Well, it could be - I'm going to che -"
"And foot reflexology?"

Forget checking. Maybe I'll just shoot you.

"...Would be here, in health."
"And where is self-help?"
"Right there, where you're standing."

I continued looking for foot books; then she turned to me...

"Where is self-help again?"

DIE.

"That shelf in front of you. And it doesn't look like we have any books on foot reflexology, sorry."
"I don't see any feng shui. Why isn't it in decorating?"
"I'm looking there now."
"Do you know what it is?"
"Do I know what what is? Feng shui?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, I'm familiar with it. But we don't get very many books on it in, so..."
"Well that's surprising."
"I guess."
"I don't see any books on feng shui."

I am going to cry.

"Well, I'm looking over here, too - but again, it's not something that we tend to have a lot of."
"Ooh! Dr. Phil!"
"Um..."

She held up a copy of Love Matters. "I like him."

Yes, I'm sure you do.

"Ooh, you have a whole Dr. Phil section!" She pointed to a label on the shelf reading Dr. Phil.
"Mm-hmm."
"Are the books here in order?"
"Yes, somewhat - the labels tell you the sub-categories..."
"Like what?"
"Like...Dr. Phil. Or relationship issues, here. Or parenting - it's all categorized."
"I can't remember the name of the feng shui book. Do you have internet access? You can find it on this website, called Amazon."

Oh my God. No way. There's a website called AMAZON? And I can look shit up on it? My whole. World. Has opened up.

"Yes, I've used Amazon. I'll check for you."

I abandoned my perusal of the decorating section, did a search for the book, found the correct title, and checked our database again. We didn't have it, which I told her, and then I enjoyed a few moments peace while she browsed.

Eventually, though, she walked up to the counter with a stack of books. And amazingly, she had a question.

"So, like, how does it work?"
"Um, how does what work?"
"Bringing books in."

Oh, Christ. Now I have to explain the credit policy to this woman?

I explained the policy in painstaking detail, and she listened with her head cocked so far to the side it was almost lying on her shoulder. When I finished she stared at me for a moment; then:

"Well, can you give me an example?"

So I did. I gave multiple examples, and after about five minutes or so she seemed to digest it. She asked me to set some books back for her so she could buy them later, which I did, and then she asked:

"So did you find any books on foot reflexology?"

And I killed her.

I Am the Lumberjack of Shitty Music

When confronted with a forest I will always, and without apology, focus solely on the trees. I do this because I like trees. Taking this cliché to its metaphorical extension, I dig details, and frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. Big Pictures are fine; they are varied and expansive and cover a blank space on the wall quite nicely, but as I am a Seinfeld fan, I find my greatest satisfaction in the dissection of irrelevant trivia.

As a result, I have a thing about stupid lyrics. The song itself could be fine, and the overall lyrics could be decent, but if there is one stupid phrase, I will harp on it like nothing else. Take, for example, this line in the Death Cab For Cutie song “Crooked Teeth”:

At night, the sun in the trees
Made the sky line up like crooked teeth
In the mouth of a man who was devouring us both

I actually think this is kind of a cool image. Except:

At night, the sun in the trees

Yep, that makes sense. Because, y’know, I love going sun-gazing at night. I like to just lie on my back under the pitch-black sky, soaking up those glorious golden rays. Just make sure to wear your sunscreen, kids – 90% of skin cancer is contracted by professional spelunkers.

The song, to be fair, is really pretty decent. But you know what song isn’t decent? That Proud to Be an American song. I don’t know exactly what it’s called – probably “Proud to Be an American” – but I’m not looking it up, because I’m lazy. Anyway, forget the forest; this song contains one particular tree I’ve been dying to eradicate for a long time. I’ve ranted about this line many times, so I expect that some of you will read this, sigh, and type your way to a less redundant destination. But you know what? I don’t care. Because this lyric pisses me off, and I want my disgust recorded for posterity.

I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free

I have many problems with this line, but let’s start with the problems I have with its message.

First, there is the notion that all it takes to be proud of one’s nationality is freedom. That’s it. Freedom. Nothing else. And this annoys me, because it requires that one’s standards be tragically low. Add to this the fact that “freedom” in this instance is such a vaguely defined concept (not that this is terribly unusual, but whatever) and you have one cantankerous Sam.

The use of the word “American” to refer solely to citizens of the U.S. rather than those of two entire continents is also irritating, but could possibly be justified on the grounds that “U.S. Citizen” does not lend itself well to lyrics. I’m willing to give a little leeway here, if for no other reason than to keep from appearing militantly P.C., since those people drive me bonkers. Bonkers, I say.

Anyway, it’s not the major issue. What really burns my toast is the fact that this lovely couplet makes no grammatical sense whatsoever.

I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free

I too am proud to be what I where. Or proud to be where I what. Or where I know, or what I’m free. Also:

My brain just shriveled up and died.

Why I'm Not Getting a Degree In Journalism

Our local paper is the Black Hills Pioneer. I don't expect much from it, because it sucks. But when I looked it up today for information on the recent murder that took place at a local motel (the mayor's stepson was the killer) I was even more disgusted than usual. The whole article is pretty badly written, but this part really stood out:

Bell was arrested at 8:15 a.m. Sunday only blocks away from the motel. He had been on the run for almost nine hours in bitterly cold weather and his feet were bandaged in court Monday.

You'd think they'd have taken care of that earlier - and in a more sterile environment.

In Which I Get Obnoxiously Political

And now, for the most wonderful thing I've done all week - or possibly month:

When I recieved a particularly heinous and poorly punctuated piece of propaganda from the so-called "pro-life" movement, I decided, at the encouragement of a girl who usually dispenses wretched advice, to make corrections in red ink, grade it an F, and mail it back to the pit of stupidity from whence it came. And beneath that enormous blocky F I wrote:

Formerly pro-embryo; however, in light of your barely rudimentary grasp of the English language, I have switched teams, and am now batting enthusiastically for the rabid anti-American baby-killers. Also, a suggestion: if you truly wish to end the "97% of abortions which are used as birth control," perhaps you should encourage the immoral people who seek them to Go Gay. This could be both pleasurable and highly effective, in my view, and while I realize that my plan has the potential to make Jesus cry, at least the six-month-olds in overalls pictured on this charming flier would be safe from harm.

Love,

A Lesbian

P.S. - Why is the smallest photo on this flier also the only ethnic baby pictured? Is black ink just less cost-effective?

And, okay, maybe that was mean, but Christ. I like this state alright, but the local Crazies are unusally motivated. Most Crazies just fire off grammatically puzzling letters to their senators, but the people in South Dakota are actually trying to overturn laws. I mean, just shut up, Leslie Unruh.

I would like to add here that I do understand that abortion is a difficult issue, and not all who oppose it are moronic assmonkeys; that said, the self-righteousness of some of these people occasionally makes me want to punch walls. Also, this "exception for rape and incest victims" crap is utter BS, since it would mean that in order to get an abortion, a woman - or girl - would have to prove not only that she was a victim in the first place, but that the pregnancy resulted from that assault. Well, good luck with that, sweetie. Even if you did manage to prove it, the chances of you doing it in time are slim to none.

And what does "abortion as birth control" even mean? When I graded the flier I wrote "PLEASE CLARIFY" every time they used that phrase, because clarification is sorely needed. What woman says to herself, "hmm. I could get on the pill, pay about thirty bucks a month...or I could just mess around and get abortions when necessary. Yeah. That sounds like a wise and cost-effective plan." Uh-huh. Their hypothetical woman sounds like a financially illiterate dumbass.

So the point is, I'm kinda proud of myself. Even if I don't change a single opinion, at least I got to exhibit some impressively curmudgeonly behavior.

A Gift For the Silicone-Pumped Lolita In Every Man's Life

Is it irony? Or is it just offensive?

Pro-Date Rape T-Shirt, Sold By Amazon (Update: shirt is no longer available through Amazon. Ha. There are still pictures of them, however.) (Update 2: The pictures are down as well. Which is good. The shirt in question was a three-quarter sleeve raglan emblazoned with the words "Anti-Abortion, But Pro-Date Rape.")

Maybe it's meant to point out the hypocrisy of the so-called "pro-lifers" - in fact, it probably is - but I still felt sick when I looked at it. If it is meant to be ironic, it isn't clear enough, and thus it has failed.

Of course, you can also get this shirt - in a junior size - at the manufacturer's website. Or this one. Or this one.

But no, I think my favorite is this "girly-sized" stunner. One would presume that once she gets drunk, the shirt comes off.

Actually, wait. I don't mean to be one of those indecisive, wishy-washy women with breasts for brains, but after further perusal of this charming website, I've found it. The shirt I want. The shirt I need. The shirt every girl is destined to wear:


Yes, it comes in a junior size.

My Snarkiness: Provoked, Explained

"I dropped some books off here two years ago. Name's Ulong. I'd like 'em back."
"You want them back? The books you dropped off?"
"That's what I said."
"Well, um, we don't have them anymore."
"You don't. Have them. Anymore."
"Sorry, but...no."
"So what did you do with them?"
"If you bring us books we put them out for sale."
"And you can't take them back off the shelves and give them back to me?"
"If it was two years ago we probably already sold them - but even if we hadn't, I wouldn't be able to tell which ones were yours anyway, so no, I really couldn't."
"Get out of here!"
"I'm sorry, but that's just the way it works."
Muttered: "Stupid bitch."

I've been trying to cut down on the vulgarity - in this blog, at least - but seriously? Fuck off.

No, really. Because guess what, asshole? I am smarter than you. I am smarter, I am wittier, my clothes are free of mustard stains: I am superior to you in every possible respect. You are stupid and rude and condescending and I hope to God you don't have any daughters.

I know I'm too sensitive about this crap and I shouldn't take it personally, and I realize that at some point I'm going to have to hitch up my big girl pants and get on with my life, but at the moment all I want to do is track down this guy and mace him. Or cry. I don't know.

I mean, why? Why call some girl you don't know, who's answering your idiotic questions as politely as she can, a "stupid bitch"? What does it accomplish? Did he really think it was going to make me sympathetic to him?

You know what this guy needs? He needs a blog. He needs a place where he can type up nasty, insult-laden, poorly-written pleas for underpaid 21-year-olds to be his personal slaves. And then he needs to drink a Guinness, unbunch his panties, and adopt a disabled puppy.

As for me - I just need a cupcake.

So, As It Happens, I'm a Money-Grubbing, Low-Talking Moron

I never claimed to be all that intelligent. But surely I am intelligible?

Well, I used to think so. But I guess not.

Every freaking day I have about five dumbasses who misunderstand our policy for accepting used books, and it's always my fault. Always. I didn't explain it clearly, I didn't speak loudly enough, I didn't illustrate each step with huge fucking signs in primary colors and block letters so their attention couldn't wander. Sometimes the problem is that I didn't explain it at all - I glossed over all the important details in an attempt to Rip Them Off. Or maybe I'm not an evil money-grubbing parasite. Maybe I'm just really, really dumb, and they're really, really smart, and I need to understand that they are superior, and maybe take an ESL class, because I clearly am having trouble communicating.

But that's all bullshit, because my neurons fire quite well, thank you, and I can speak English, despite having been born in southern Ohio, and as far as ripping people off goes, I lack the ambition and/or appetite for self-destruction.

Oh, and one other thing - if you really want to prove how smart you are, you should probably make an effort to pronounce the names of your alleged "favorite authors" correctly. Jodi Pi-COLT-ee? Steffin Ambrose? WHY-la CAY-ther?

Dumb dumb dumb.

P.S. Jodi Picoult sucks.