Archive for the ‘I Don't Need This Shit Right Now’ Category

Overheard On A Flight To Indianapolis….

September 22, 2013


US Airways Flight I Don’t Have My Old Boarding Pass In Front Of Me To Indianapolis
Tarmac, Logan, Approximately 1:15 PM

There is a middle-aged bordering on elderly couple sitting two rows behind me.

There is a shrieking toddler behind them.

The husband begins to grumble.

Husband (turned around and looking back over his seat at the child’s guardian): You’re going to have to do something about that.

Guardian: (murmurs something I don’t catch)



Guardian: (silence)


Husband (to the female flight attendant currently helping a couple in the row across from me stow their bullshit-sized carry-ons, seriously, just fucking check it, you’re ruining everything by trying to store the Ark of the fucking Covenant in the overhead bin): Miss? MISS? We need help here!

Entire plane  (to themselvessome excited and others dreading what’s to come): Oh, it’s on now…

The flight attendant is early 40s, pleasant-looking but also has that veteran passenger wrangler air about her. This dude is clearly in trouble if he thinks he’s going to tussle with her.

Flight attendant: Yes, sir? How can I help you?

Husband: You NEED to do something about this (I assume he indicated the horror behind him with an indignant thumb). He is KICKING MY CHAIR. And he has PULLED MY WIFE’S HAIR ALREADY! He keeps KICKING MY CHAIR.

Oddly, it bothers me somewhat that he keeps referring to his seat as a “chair”. That’s not a chair. Stop it.

Flight attendant: Sir, we have a full flight. There are no empty seats. Let me see if I can resolve this, though. Ok?

Husband: *harumph*


I can hear the attendant talking in a hushed tone with the child’s guardian. The child’s screaming volumes down slightly. The attendant makes her way back up the aisle to the front of the plane. The child’s screaming ratchets up to maximum volume. Shifty kid.

Husband. Great. GREAT. Can you believe this?

We can believe it. The entire plane hates you and that kid. It would be a toss-up as to which of you we would jettison if we were allowed. Probably you, because toddlers can be cute.

The flight attendant makes her way down the aisle heading to the back of the plane.



Me: (under my breath) Seriously?

The guy to the left of me: (under his breath) Asshole.

The guy to the right of me: (under his breath) Sky Mall has some cool shit.

Flight attendant (gritting her teeth but keeping it together): Sir, I have already explained to you that this flight is FULL. There is nowhere to move you or your wife to. I’m very sorry. These things happen. Perhaps…


Yes, the last thing he said was in a sing-songy voice meant to imply that she walked up and down the aisles like she had some brain components missing. The entire plane went silent (except for the kid so maybe they didn’t go silent because jesus, he was loud). I could HEAR her jaw tighten.

Before she could respond (I actually heard an intake of breath because she was going to let him have it), a couple approached her and they conferred.

Flight attendant: Sir, these gracious people have been generous enough to offer to switch seats with you. That’s all I can do for you. Hurry now.

Husband: Fine. Fine. You know, I like kids. I don’t hate kids. We have grandchildren. It’s just that he was pulling my…

Flight attendant (over it and talking down to him so blatantly that I’m waiting for him to accuse her of pulling his wife’s hair): Hurry! Hurry now! Hurry up! We’re waiting to taxi because of this. Please hurry!


The kid stopped crying the very second we left the runway, and remained quiet until we touched down. At which point he began screaming again. *end scene*

How I Knew I Needed To Stop Seeing A Certain Therapist

July 17, 2013


So I see a therapist on the regular. I’ve been through maybe…five(?)… since the mid-90s. There have been some good ones that should be credited with my continued existence, and a couple of “eh” ones that ended up just being amusing anecdotes from my past. The following is about one of those.

While working in Wakefield for a number of years, I began seeing a gay male psychologist in not-even-nearby Beverly. Therapy wasn’t going well. Mainly because I wanted to sleep with my therapist. He was a burly salt-and-pepper sort who constantly wore snug trousers that highlighted his broad buttocks and he would laugh at my jokes with a boyish giggle that sent me (and my genitals) swooning. Our arrangement wasn’t very therapeutic. This became evident during one session when he confessed that he had “trouble being professional” around me. Oh, good. Like I inspire you not to do your job? I’m too far gone to take seriously? People wonder why I drink so much.

But I liked being a patient that he looked forward to seeing, even if it was just because I was an extra amusing part of his day. Being the class clown makes me feel like I have a reason for being around. That feeling was one of the reasons why I was IN therapy. So you see the cyclical dilemma I was experiencing with this therapist.

My attraction to this dude grew more and more. I started to seriously debate whether I could land him or not, and then thought about what a special moment that would be in my life. Torrid! And seedy when you think about it. I would be the wanton slut who caused a man to defy the Hippocratic Oath just so he could show me what those trousers were holding so snugly. It didn’t help that, back at the office, more than a few co-workers told me that they had crushes on their own therapists. So it was an office full of neurotics that were all fantasizing about nailing their shrinks. Our Christmas parties were legend.

My crush on my therapist, and the perceived sexual tension between us, was slashed to ribbons one day when he called me fat. He didn’t just come out and say “you’re fat.” And he didn’t try to broach the subject in a therapeutic, counseling-type manner. It was something he had been secretly thinking and that he accidentally blurted out.

He was leading me through guided meditation, designed to relieve stress and be “in the now”.

A transcript:

Shrink: Your eyes are closed. Now take some deep breaths. Hear the sound of my voice. Follow what I say.

Me: *breathes*

Shrink: Picture a ball of light. It’s warm and comforting. It starts at the tip of your toes. It moves across them, taking away all your stress, all your pain. Now it’s rising and moving slowly and gently over your feet. It’s healing light absorbs all the fatigue, and all the negativity. Now it’s reached your ankles. You can feel the light reflecting upwards. It’s so soothing and warm. You’re beginning to feel totally relaxed and at peace. Now it’s going past your calves and it’s reached your knees, healing as it goes. Absorbing all the tension. Now it’s at your big thighs…

Me: *my eyes popped open* WHAT? Did you say ‘big thighs’? *incredulous*

Shrink: Sorry! Sorry, just – I meant…your thighs…close your eyes again and let me guide you back…

I looked at him for a second. The sonofabitch was SMIRKING. He was blushing. But he was also SMIRKING. And then he gave that giggle again!

My eyes closed again, as he tried to talk me back into that halcyon meadow or whatever and the ball of light came back. But the ball of light was having an issue. The ball of light barely emitted a glow now BECAUSE MY THIGHS WERE TOO FUCKING FAT TO ALLOW IT TO CAST ANY LIGHT ON THE REST OF MY BODY. This bitch just threw shade at my fat legs! I didn’t feel at peace. I felt betrayed! He was looking at my thighs and thinking “damn, he’s got some pudge on those ham hocks” and then accidentally said it!

I decided then and there that I would no longer be utilizing his services. And that his buttocks were not “broad” but “fat, fatter than the fattest things!”

Now I only see lesbian therapists. They could give a shit if I’m fat or not. Or if they do, they’ve got the internal editor switched on to “THINGS NOT TO TELL HIM”.

J. Fall Down. Go Boom. With His Face.

April 28, 2013


“GGGFAAOWWNNUUHHH!” is roughly the sound that issued from me before my face smacked directly on to the sidewalk.

I went DOWN. DOWN DOWN. As if poleaxed! If you translated that sound, it would come out to be:


As I lay there stunned, not even in pain yet, I heard two cars pass me. Two cars. Neither of them slowing. There’s a man lying facedown on a sidewalk in broad daylight. And not in the sort of area where people lying facedown on the sidewalk (whether dead, dying, high, drunk, lazy, or just plain fatigued) is a common occurrence.  And he’s hoping to hear someone’s power window slide down and a tentative, hoping-to-hell-he-answers-in-the-affirmative-because-we’ve-got-little-Shenandoah’s-soccer banquet-to-go-to voice ask if he’s alright. Nope. Two cars drove by. “What’s that man doing?” “Bleeding dear. Take a pic and Facebook it.”

When I took my face off the cement and noted the pretty drops of blood that were starting to pepper the sidewalk, I was pretty scared. I didn’t have a compact in my purse, so I had no idea of just how bad the damage was. Had my nose been reconfigured and pushed to the side? Was my eye hanging out? I could have answered that one for myself because my vision was fine. What little deductive reason I possess tends to fly away in the face of sheer panic. And my teeth – were my teeth all there? I know people with gaps in their teeth. People automatically assume you watch Duck Dynasty when you have one of those.

The worst part of it, after all was said and done, was that my husband was at the movies. With the car. And I was two blocks from our apartment. And I looked like Bloody Face, I assumed. I was able to deduce that from the pain and the blood. From my face.

Alone. I was utterly alone. No cars had stopped and I probably had a skull fracture and part of my brain was probably leaving (I hadn’t seen it on the sidewalk yet, but who knows – maybe it had fallen into a shrub or something) and I had to walk home alone.

I took my hoodie off, and held it to my face like people do when they’re trying to prevent smoke inhalation. I was trying to prevent unnerving people. Which is odd seeing as I was still resentful about the TWO CARS THAT DROVE BY, PROBABLY SAW A MAN LYING FACEDOWN ON A SIDEWALK, AND KEPT DRIVING TO SHENANDOAH’S SOCCER BANQUET.

It was a long two blocks. I passed three people. One was a small Asian woman. One was a young white man getting into a car that had been idling waiting for him. And one was an older white gentleman walking a dog. Apparently they had been invited to Shenandoah’s soccer banquet as well. Cuz’ not one of those assholes asked me if I was ok. And the sweatshirt wasn’t covering all the damage. That patch on my forehead you see is post-initial clean-up. It was bleeding pretty heavily at first. So the three people who saw me would have been able to see THE BLOOD STREAMING DOWN MY FOREHEAD. Wow, that must have been some fucking soccer banquet. Maybe they had a DJ.

What did people think I was doing? Converting to Muslim but had gotten confused about which gender wears the niqab? A stupid Muslim who was gender transitioning and couldn’t work her niqab correctly? Concerned about the smog levels in Quincy, MA? Really?

Now that I look back, I honestly think the general public’s apathy towards my plight had something to do with the marathon bombing. It was probably a case of “Look, guy. We’ve all had enough of the death and maiming and we’re trying to get back to normal. Can you swing this one on your own? KTHANKSBAI.” So the One Fund won’t be supporting my recovery. I’m ok with that.

The only damage I really did was give myself a non-displacing fracture in my nose. Which means I broke it but not in the way where you need surgery to point it back in the right direction. This is good news, because I have that modeling career to get back to and Ford Models demands that your nose go in the right direction or you can kiss that Marie Claire cover goodbye, darling.

My face hurts.

Overheard/Witnessed: MBTA Car, Inbound, Ashmont to Alewife, 8:15 AM

September 21, 2010

I could have forgiven the whole thing if they were wearing this...

This one was actually pretty short but it bears writing about.

Dramatis Personae:

The Dancer. Youth, early 20s. White sweatshirt, designer jeans, black plastic sneakers. Braids.

In The Moment. Youth, early 20s. Black hoodie. What looks like harpoons in his face.

The Dancer boards, holding on the pole to the left of me. He has ear buds in, and it is loud enough to hear the hip-hop joint that he begins DANCING to. Not crazy-ass dancing (I once saw a girl in NYC do a pole dance to the music only she could hear on her iPod, it’s one of my favorite NYC moments) but there is some bobbing, some ass action, and some challenging an imaginary adversary to a dance-off on the floor. Except we’re on an inbound MBTA car, son. Oh, and did I say the adversary was imaginary? Not anymore!

In The Moment boards. He looks like he has seen the other side and it’s not exactly halcyon up in there. His handheld device is BLARING some kind of combination nu-metal/rap concoction. Worse than say Linkin Park or Korn (is that possible?). He is without ear buds, he is just LISTENING to his phone play shitty music. And making the rest of us do the same. My morning trip to Venice (I finally got around to reading The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt) has been ruined. The city has already been sunk for me.

The Dancer (still dancing) dances to the other side of the car, directly opposite In The Moment. Their eyes lock. It’s a spaghetti western. Correction, it’s an asshole western. In The Moment closes his eyes tightly, brings the handheld device (still blaring “You Thought Metal Was Bad But We Added Shitty Rapping To It” by Suck) to his chin and freezes. He is In The Moment. He is lost in shredding guitar riffs and bellowing. The Dancer begins to bump his ass against the doors directly behind him, angry that In The Moment has chosen passive resistance. He wants to throw down, but what he doesn’t get is that In The Moment IS throwing down. Because this music is SO good he simply has to FEEL it. The Dancer puffs his chest out and club steps in place.

Is this the shitty remake of Fame? Is this a fucking Droid commercial? Can they tie their wrists together and knife fight and do us all a favor and hit the right artery at exactly the same moment? At least Scott Pilgrim had cool effects during this scene and Allison Pill on drums!

This is not your performing arts high school! It’s really loud on this fucking train now! This is not the dorm or your living room. People have books and ear buds for a reason so everyone can keep whatever they’re into to their goddamn selves. This is Boston. People’s lives shouldn’t get splashed all over each other! No one wants this. This is not a rebellion, these are challenged people!

Anyway – no one won. In fact, I think we all lost a little this morning.

The only way I can forgive audible music on the subway is if it’s coming out of a boom box that lights up and it’s 1983 and someone’s named Lazer.

How Does 9-Year-Old Willow Smith Have A Single And I Am Carrying A Bologna Sandwich To Work?

September 8, 2010

She's 9. I think she tried to kill James Bond.

So here’s Willow Smith‘s hot track “Whip My Hair”. She’s the 9-year-old daughter of superstar Will Smith and his wife Jada Pinkett-Smith. Willow has an incredibly obnoxious brother Jaden (wait, check this photo, how obnoxious is he?)

Throwing up the deuces? You practically just came out of your mom. Settle down.

who was so annoying in The Day The Earth Stood Still that I wanted to reach through the TV and alarm DSS. The Smith family are always together on the red carpet, and the kids are always in edgy outfits despite being kids. I hate that. I had boogers at that age.

Will is one of those guys that there are gay rumors about but I tend to think he turns to dudes only because sex with Jada looks like it might be painful, like humping up on a large concrete hexagon. She just looks like she has a lot of edges. Ow.

When you’re 9 and fabulously wealthy, you get to cut hot singles in the studio about whipping your hair. It makes me a little uneasy. I don’t think a 9 year old should be whipping her hair about. I think I saw Morgan McMichaels showing a rotund housewife how to do that so she can reclaim the sexy fire in her life on Rupaul’s Drag U. Little girls don’t need to be anywhere near sexy fire. They need to wait until they’re at least 30. Doesn’t she have dolls? Why is someone auto-tuning a 9-year-old?

Imagine you’re the producer and you have to bow down to this little girl in the studio. “I want a sound like when unicorns booty dance. WHERE IS MY CAPRI SUN?”

What about Yo Gabba Gabba and blankies *sad face*? The lyrics sound fairly clean, but who at 9 has the drive to go running around with her little gal pals and giving face and acting like they are grown-up fierce ladies, and being the terror at the food court? Who am I kidding? They all do.

Also, her music has one up on her mom’s. Cause Jada is a big dykie Korn fan or some shit.

Why Must I Cry? End Hazing Now!

August 9, 2010


Tim Tebow struck down by some Mean Girls in jockstraps with trimmers. Unacceptable. I’m normally all for hazing. Hey, dudes should totally spank each other and do other homoerotic things behind closed doors…but this? This is a Lifetime Television movie starring Joanna Kerns! There needs to be a climactic scene at a rally, or hugs on a wraparound porch as the credits roll and we note that Tim’s hair is slowly growing back. STOP HAZING NOW!

p.s. I know he’s creepy religious…but, well, I’m weak and look at him in his natural environment of hot.


Yes again.

I’m Totally Pissed At David Boreanaz

July 23, 2010

I assume this was taken before he shot on her in the Mini-Cooper.

Listen to me. Joss Whedon shows are the nearest and dearest to my heart. It feels like yesterday that I was watching and streaming salty tears at Buffy having to shank Angel so that Acathla wouldn’t swallow the world (you are a complete and total geek if you understand what I’m typing). Actually it was yesterday, right before I had to sell my Buffy box set for food and Percocet. What I am trying to say is, if you are part of the Joss Whedon company of actors – you keep your sexual crazy on LOCKDOWN. He is trying to get The Avengers together, you don’t embarrass him this way! David Boreanaz (aka Angel) is being sued by a Bones extra for sexual harrassment. And she’s claiming he did some JACKED-UP shite. And say hey and by the way, Boreanaz publicly confessed to effing around on his wife Jaime Bergman back in May

Actress Kristina Hagen (the woman with my hairline who is NOT Angel’s wife in the picture above) claims that it all began on the set of Bones last August when David began sexting her ass. Then shit got REAL according to her suit, via TMZ.

The suit also claims David was driving with Kristina in September, 2009 and told her he was “the boss” and that he could “make things happen for her.”

The suit claims David then parked his car, and “attempted to kiss her and touch her breasts but she pushed him away.” The suit then alleges Boreanaz “unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis and began stroking it until he ejaculated.”

She stayed for the denoument?!? “Yeah, I gotta go, there’s some Turtle Wax interior wipes in the glovie if you get any on the dash.” Did he threaten to kill her if she told? Didn’t Jackie Earle Hailey pull (literally) that shit in the best scene in Little Children in front of the chick from Hung? Great movie. Anyway – Cordelia, Fred and Lorne are giving Angelcakes the side-eye for this!

The suit goes on to say that David also “grabbed, kissed, and fondled her — and then masturbated in front of her” in his trailer that September. Angel’s camp (basically Harmony with a briefcase…MORE GEEK REFERENCES) denies Hagen’s claim.

“The allegations concerning any alleged inappropriate conduct by David Boreanaz are totally fabricated and absurd. There is no validity to this lawsuit.”

What in hell is going on in TV Land lately? Is Caligula an executive producer at Fox?

Uncle Jessie (Allegedly) Tapped The Wrong Underaged Ass

July 13, 2010

Run your underage fingers through this silkiness, baby...

I never had the fascination for Full House that others (I see you, Bill Cosby) did. Though I was sorta into the mannish face on Kimmy Gibler. When she was legal! But I’ll tell you now, “Kokomo” will be summoning visions of underage jailbait in hot tubs and soft, bushy-mulleted celebrities with cocaine nosejobs from now on. That really makes the song so much better for me. Anyway, the Associated Press is sayin’ that John Stamos has been the victim of a blackmail plot. Wait til’ you hear what Uncle Jessie was supposedly up in, and it wasn’t Lori Loughlin (though it sounds like the Olsen twins may not have been safe…)

A Marquette, Michigan woman named Allison Coss is claiming she had a sexy (gross) fling with the actor during a spring break trip to Florida in 2004. When she was 17. HI-YOOOOO! And it wasn’t just a journey of romance through the bar area and ending up at a tastefully decorated hotel room provided by the American Broadcasting Corporation. We had hookas, strippahs, cocainya, and herp germs percolating in the jacuzzi!


This Is What I Took Away From A Visit To A Beat Amusement Park In Agawam, Massachusetts aka Screw Your Phone Socks!

July 5, 2010
Yeah, no shit.

Yeah, no shit.

Ok, so Scotty and I decided we wanted to go take a day trip together a couple of weeks back. Because most of our time is spent catering to the whims of our fucking dog (and I mean “fucking” in the most loving way possible, like a gentle blossom falling onto a placid lake) and we don’t actually have any time when we’re really alone. So of course, being the mature adults we are we decide to go to Six Flags New England.

See, when you’re a gay guy you don’t really have that much responsibility to handle all the time and there can be a certain lack of maturity for some of us who are…I guess…fun-loving? Unwilling to hang up our Chuck Taylors? So, whereas most couples would elect to maybe journey to a darling little seaport for a day of shopping punctuated with lunch and cocktails, we decided to go tempt a miscarriage by riding the Superman coaster and tracking just how redneck the teens in western Mass have become (we are talking tramp stamped butterflys, the smoking habits of 1970s Vegas strippers, and mullets galore. Throw in a Slipknot tee, some messy French kissing and dry humping in public and puree. I thought I was at a biker rally in Laconia, NH.)

Anyway, the trip was a wash (except for when we found out that their water park has a tiki bar…getting slightly drunk and critiquing the scary people in unflattering swimwear in the smoking area wasn’t bad). Roller coasters…hurt now. Isn’t that sad to admit? And they’re scary because when you get older, you know what pain and loss is like.

And we also discovered that there is a grave injustice going on in the world of phone socks! Keep reading.


Chris Brown Had Better Sob!

June 28, 2010
MJ should be looking down at him like "Really? Really, Chris?"

The BET Awards were held last night, and Chris Brown was responsible for the Michael Jackson tribute (he died a year ago around this time). They couldn’t get Usher? At least Usher didn’t punch a lady about the head and shoulders. That we know of. Sure, Usher is an annoying twat but he didn’t try to launch a album on the heels of a domestic abuse charge, either. And Usher can dance! Sorta. He does a lot of kinda sluggish popping and locking and a couple of steps, usually down stairs that light up. Seriously, shoulda gone with Usher.

Oh, and the gist of this post is that Bust-her Brown got all choked up during his tribute and couldn’t finish singing “Man in the Mirror.” I’d get weepy, too, if I had Ike Turnered my girlfriend and everyone found out about it and my career did that thing that dirgible did back in the 1800s when the announcer was screaming and it just BLEW UP and not in a good way. And then had to look in a mirror.

(Sorry, the video is such a suckjob, but BET is being hainty about the rights.)

He was so tearstricken that he reportedly had to be led off the stage by Jermaine Jackson. So the debate is on as to whether he was really touched by an angel known as MJ or staging the emotional flash flood to get the public back on his side. I am one cynical bitch, so I’m going to say he’s crying because of all the bits of green paper that are currently flying out of his windows.

To get over this farce, we need to pray over the outfit Prince wore to the show last night. It will fill you up and put you firmly on the path you need to be on. Because someone needs to wear a spaceship turtleneck with their own likeness emblazoned about it. And his name is Prince. And he is funky.

Girlfriend is lookin' like Malificent and the Grinch had a baby lately...

Girlfriend is lookin' like Malificent and the Grinch had a baby lately...

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