Oh My Gawd Sodagirl!

Archive for the 'Just Stuff.' Category

June 5, 2010

I hate you.  Here’s why:

Because you’re stupid.  You flooded our house with your dumbassness.  When water is leaking from a tap that is on, TURN IT OFF.  Do not wrap many feet of electrical tape around the WET , LEAKING TAP/HOSE.  Electrical tape is for NOT FIXING WATER LEAKS.  Also, when water is leaking, tell someone.  Like, um, YOUR LANDLORD.  Do not let water leak for a month and then say, “oh by the way…”.  This makes me hate you.

Because you didn’t look.  You apparently believe you are the only person on the road.  You smashed into my suv and caused damage.  Luckily my fist didn’t smash into your face.  I like how you pretended to not speak English yet you chanted FUCK many times and surprisingly, you, all of a sudden, learned English at the police station.  Cute.

Because you suck at your job.  Thanks for following up AFTER we’ve already taken care of the issue.  You know, WE did YOUR job. Thanks for telling me you were on vacation and forgot to take care of us before you left.  I feel like a special client.  My advice for you?  Go shit in your hand.

Because you stole $800 from us.  Which, yes, thank you because we’re rich and all.  We don’t have two mortgages to swallow or children to feed, so feel free to take what we’ve worked for.  Much appreciated.  Oh, I hope you drop the soap while showering in jail.

Because you tell me your life story every single time I go through your checkout lane.  And you whine about the meat leaking, which I didn’t see any leaks but thank you for telling me that it was leaking and asking if I needed a paper towel to wash the leaky meat juices from my hands, which? there was no leaky meat juices on my hand, but whatever.  And?  A dry paper towel is not going to properly sanitize my hand should there actually be leaky meat juices on it, but it’s the thought that counts, right?  Sure.  Please.  Stop.  Talking.  To.  Me.  I don’t care that you’re wearing a fellow employee’s uniform because you forgot yours.  Don’t. Care.

Because you’re clearly INSANE.  We don’t owe you money, fucktard.  But, hey, if you think we do, SUE US.  There are judges.  There are courts.  That’s how normal, reasonable people try to get money (that they delusionally think is owed) – they sue for it.  Take us to court.  Pounding on windows and doors, making threats and screaming that you “want your fucking money,” is not how sane people go about things.  Oh, gosh, let me whip out my cheque book and write you a cheque for the money THAT WE DON’T OWE YOU.  You’re an artard.  You’re a few turds short of a shit pile.  And to think that you’ve stewed over this imaginary owe you money thing for TWO YEARS, is hilarious.  How about you move on?  Get a life.  Get a job.  Get a brain.  But most of all?  FUCK THE FUCK OFF.

Because you blow chunks as a CEO.  Your professionalism is… wait, you have NONE.  You have no balls and are spineless.  You spread lies to suit your needs, which hey, if that’s how you run a company, then so be it.  I don’t see you moving up the ladder of success.  Oh, and your face looks like a can of smashed assholes.  Just sayin’.

Because your hidden “fees” are highway robbery and yet we can’t get out of the contract without paying MORE money.  It’s awesome how your customer service, uh, DOESN’T EXIST.  It’s like you’re a legitimate, legal thief who has the right to take, take, take but never give back.  Thanks.  A lot.

And that concludes my short rant.  I swear, rainbows and butterflies are now taking up most of my dining room.  Yay!

Posted by Sassy @ 6:25 pmI want to Punch You in the Neck,Just Stuff.2 comments  

February 9, 2010

Dear Santa: Here is what I want this year.

Christmas is 319 (or 318, or 317, or 316… depends on when you read this.  You get the idea) days away.  And while that seems like a long time, it will creep up on us faster than blowflies on a dead raccoon (but hey, you can make meatloaf out of it).

Anyway, I have decided to write my letter to Santa early, so the fat, jolly man can get a head start on making my wishes come true.  I’m a planner like that.  Plus?  I’m demanding and want everything on my list.

Here’s my letter:

Dear Santa,

I think I’ve been a good girl this year.  Sure, it’s only February, but I’m not planning any naughtiness unless you count ringing my neighbor’s doorbell and running away as she opens the door with only her ratty blue nightgown on and her hair in a crappy ponytail with mascara streaked down her face as she holds a bottle of beer in her hand.  That’s all in fun – hardly naughty.  Anyway, as it stands, I’m gonna be a damn fine little princess.  So?  I think you should fulfill my wish list.  While some things on it may seem unobtainable, I’m sure you can make it happen.  I mean hello?  YOU ARE SANTA FUCKING CLAUS.

First, I need you to make Octomom go away.  No, I’m not asking you to kill her.  That request would certainly put me on the naughty list and/or jail and besides, who would look after her 76 children?  Oh, right.  The nannies.  But still.  I’m not saying kill her, just make her go away.  If I have to see her ridiculously bad photo-shopped bikini photos one more time, I’ll punch you in your fat gut and vomit in your shiny black boots.  Yes, see?  You’ll be the one paying the price if she stays around.  She’s a lying, narcissistic fame whore who thinks the rest of us are sitting around drooling over her tummy tuck I just ate veggies and worked out at midnight while my babies were sleeping to get these abs kind of body and when I see her fish lips move, it makes me slightly insane.  Please take her back to the North Pole with you.  She can feed your reindeer.

I’d like a Hummer.  I do have a SUV but a Hummer is bigger SUV than what I currently have.  Why do I need a bigger SUV?  Duh.  To run over the bitches that try to cut me off while driving or run stop signs and then give me the finger.  The hell?  Oh no you di’int.  And while I can technically run over those crazy bitches, with a Hummer, there would be way less damage to my vehicle.  Yes.  It’s all about me.  I’m cute like that.

I’d like a new pair of sharp, shiny scissors.  You know, for shanking.  I like a clean, perfect shanking and with dull scissors, you don’t get that.  Make them pink, please.

I’d like you to eradicate all stupid people.  Start with the woman who works at the grocery store who constantly spews her stupid.  Her stupid is so stupid it wants to stab itself in the stupid face.  And honestly, doesn’t this make me very selfless?  I mean people will love me if all the stupid people are gone.  They’ll be all like, ohmygosh! you asked Santa to get rid of all the stupid people, we love you!  See?  Win-win situation for everyone.

A bag of money.  Oh come on now, I’ve helped get rid of all the stupid people… I deserve a big bag of money.  Like a huge bag of money.  Huge money.  Lotsa money.  Make it happen, you jolly old soul.

Burn all the Snuggies.  Seriously, dude.  Snuggies are redonkulous.  It’s a fucking robe worn backward.  It is.  Just look at it.  And I’d like you to to ho-ho-ho punch all the people who buy their loved ones a Snuggie.  Really?  What kind of asshat are you if you purchase someone you care about, a Snuggie?  I’d rather have Vince the Slap Chop dude sprinkle his nuts on my ice cream cone.  Anything is better than a Snuggie.  And now?  There are Snuggies for dogs.  The fuck?  No.  Burn the Snuggies.  I know you can do it, Santa.  You’ve got people.  Or elves.  Whatever.  Same difference.

Drop the guy at the post office a note that lets him know when he talks to me as I’m purchasing a stamp, I’d prefer if he looked at my face.  My face is not down my shirt.  Tell him that his slyness is so not working.  He’s about as subtle as Miss Piggy and twice as annoying.

Boots.  You know what I like.

Please don’t let Paris Hilton become a mom.  Is that wrong of me?  OK, at least not until she matures.  I mean really, she’s only 28, just a mere child with a wonky eye.

Tell Kanye West he’s annoying.  Put coal in his stocking.  Explain to him that most people think he’s a big, whiny douchenozzle.  Make him understand.

Boots.  Did I mention I want boots?  A few pair.  Heels.  Thigh-highs.  Ankle.

I’d like Russell Hantz to win Survivor: Heroes vs Villains.   Not that Russell needs Santa to help him out, but still.  I want him to win.

In closing, I’d like to thank you in advance, Santa.  I know you won’t want to disappoint me because I’ve been a good girl (see opening paragraph) and a lot of my wishes will help others, not just me, so that makes me awesomesauce, right?  Right.

I promise to leave you your favorite cookies and a big glass of milk (I may get hungry while waiting for you, and in that event, you can just get your own damn cookies and milk.  You know where to find them).  I’ll just ask you to take off your snow-covered boots before tramping across my hardwood floors.

Thank you, Santa.

Love, Sassy.

Posted by Sassy @ 2:43 amHoliday Shiznat,Just Stuff.6 comments  






Add to BlogEngage

 



Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 Canada License.

Search:


  •  






Try Not to Choke On It




My Amazon.com Wish List

www.flickr.com

Development and Hosting by:

Visit Swank Web Style for All Your Blog Design Needs

Site Meter