Archive for the ‘Shitheads’ Category

As Promised, Tension At The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

April 18, 2014


This post should be an interesting attempt to relay an uncomfortable yet amusing incident whilst still maintaining an a modicum of respect towards the setting. Hopefully, this won’t come off as “yah, so we were at that Nazi place in DC and these bitches…” Knowing me, it probably will. Alas!

The other Mr. Harvey and I were in DC to celebrate his 40th birthday at the beginning of this month. He’s not one for big parties where people look at him (that was actually a concern he voiced once…people looking at him…when he doesn’t have his hijab on) so we thought a quick jaunt somewhere fun would be keen. Plus, we’re both currently unemployed (we’re the American nightmare) and had the time laying around and look, Jet Blue has a deal! Cherry blossoms and new bars in which to get intoxicated and new sidewalks to stumble upon while drunkenly abusing Uber!

Despite it being a birthday trip, there were some tourist attractions we had wanted to see that weren’t exactly going to be the ball pit at Chuckie Cheese (that’s not a gay sex reference). We had both heard that the main exhibit at the Holocaust Museum was a sobering must-see. We got our tickets online for our 1st day there so we could get the horror portion of the other Mr. Harvey’s birthday out of the way.

It’s an interesting space. I wouldn’t call it pleasant because it’s designed to evoke concentration camp imagery with a lot of brick and exposed girders. Another interesting feature? The staff, for the most part, are made up of some really extreme personalities. Most of the service industry members we encountered in our nation’s capital that trip were really friendly, laid-back and warm. I’m not sure why, but most of the staff at the Holocaust Memorial were WROUGHT. Witness our first exchange with the female human that womans the entrance elevators to the main exhibit.

We make our way in-between her velvet ropes (that came out dirty) but Scotty has us pause so we can call up our tickets on his phone. Please note in advance that there is no line behind us or in front of us. At that moment it’s just the Harveys. My husband has been searching and scrolling for maybe two seconds when she attacked.

Holocaust worker: Tickets?

Husband: Just calling them up on my phone here…

Holocaust worker (perhaps she didn’t hear him?): I said, do you have tickets?

Me: He’s just getting them on his phone.

Holocaust worker: Well, maybe you should move over there to find them so you’re not blocking the way, ok?

I look behind me and note the absence of any other people behind us. Just some velvet ropes. Air. Is this a fire exit? My husband, who does not suffer being spoken down to by fools, bitches, or maniacs, jerks his head up from his phone. Sometimes I feel like there’s a rubber band stretched to its extreme in his brain. That rubber band is marked “JUST TRY IT, BITCH.” I myself loathe confrontation. I’m the shrinking violet who nervously laughs when he forgets to hold a door for someone AND RUNS BACK TO DO IT because I want them to know I didn’t do it out of spite. It makes me look like a wackjob but it’s all designed to not get a dirty look or have anyone think “remember that asshole who didn’t hold the door for me at the mall” before they fall asleep that evening.


“I’M CALLING IT UP RIGHT NOW,” he said in a slow, emphatic tone. Oh dear. Before Officer Friendly could ignore that and ask for tickets again in a disgusted monotone, they popped up on his phone. She waved us through towards a bank of elevators with a chubby, indifferent hand. Another holocaust worker shot out of nowhere with blond curls and a peppy demeanor. She was the radiant ying to ticket bitch’s yang. You would have thought she was seating us at a Disneyworld character breakfast. She had obviously never read up on XYKLON-B or what they were making the lampshades with in Nazi Germany.

We were put in an elevator with a large, equally happy family. Mom was smiling widely as they bantered. She was standing directly in front of the elevator’s panel of buttons. Smiling. No button was pressed. Nothing was lit up. Nothing was moving. A couple of dreary pics of German soldiers added to my discomfort from above. Do I…move her? What do I say? Can I get in there? What if she thought I meant her ass? Her ass was almost ON the panel. NOTHING WAS HAPPENING. WE WEREN’T MOVING. There’s no switch outside they can press? It’s hot in here. They’re talking like it’s fine. Is this like the Haunted Mansion and we’re actually going down but it’s so mechanically deft we can’t feel it? Scotty didn’t notice. He’s looking at his phone and reading the walls. Swiss Family Oblivious are laughing and chatting like it’s the cherry blossom festival. THERE’S GONNA BE FOOTAGE OF EMACIATED CORPSES BEING MOVED OFF OF TRUCKS WITH PITCHFORKS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THOSE DOORS. I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE. I made my move.

“Can I…” I advanced towards Denim Elevator Panel Ass, weakly pointing behind her. She looked at me, and then turned to see why I was invading her space. Her mouth opened wide and she began giggling.

“Oh! OH! We were just sitting here! I’m sorry!”

“Way to go, Mom!”

“Duh, Ma!”

I smiled nervously (“Oh, that,’s ok!’ I shrieked), sweat beads barreling down my ivory expanse of a 10-head. Social anxiety is the fucking worst. Button pressed. Nothing happened.

Nothing happened. We were in a hot elevator with nothing happening. They didn’t even give us a button light for assurance. Was this part of the show? That’s fine, we deserved to suffer. We deserved a portly ticket taker making us feel stupid. We didn’t go through what all those people went through. We deserve to sweat and feel awkward in this hell-avator.

The doors sprang open. Cool air rushed in. The happy Holocaust worker regarded us quizzically. Blonde curls bounced as she cocked her head to the side like a curious toy poodle.

“Well, um, wait? What happened?”

“I guess we weren’t going anywhere…” Denim Elevator Panel Ass Mom offered helpfully. Happy went to get Grumpy. She waddled over with a ring of keys and her usual stank face. Resentfully flipping open a little door on the panel, she shoved a key in, and pressed the button again with a girthy finger.

“This breaks…,” she announced moodily to no one in particular. She was never one for an apology.

The doors shut, the floor shook and hydraulics hummed. Up.


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*

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.

Paris Hilton TOTALLY Jacking Lindsay Lohan’s Useless Cokewhore Swag

September 1, 2010

I would use my limited Photoshop skills to clumsily draw rifle sights over their faces but I don't want the police to come after me. Celebrities can do that!

I KNEW IT! For real. No one just opens up the purse they’re carrying and dumps out a bag of powder in front of the police. How sick is it that these crazed sinkhole bitches will commit felonies just to get back in the limelight? Does it really raise your appearance fee up that much? Word is that Paris Hilton, jealous that Freckles McLeggins (Lindsay Lohan) got so much press from her recent incarceration, PLANNED to get busted for cocainya. Is it bad to wish someone could be sent through a crematorium but still be alive? We could make the coffin pretty at least..

E! has the speculation this morning. Did wall-eyed fuck pony Hilton get so jealous of her former friend Leggins McEffYouNail’s recent infamy that she got pulled over on the Vegas strip on purpose? Her and the gentleman she is currently allowing in her nethers were rollin’ down the street, with weed smoke BILLOWING out of their car. After being yanked, Hilton asked the cop if she could go use the bathroom at the Wynn. He escorted her, at which time she asked for her bag back to get some lip chap (herpes sores need soothing) and she let a Ziplock fulla .8 grams of disco dust fly outta there.

Paris dialed up the obvious and said it was someone else’s bag, despite the presence of her credit cards in said bag. You know, the ones that had her name printed on them.

And I can see it. It’s not far-fetched. She and her dude were probably frantically sucking on joints to create enough of a smoke signal to attract law enforcement. How much weed do you have to smoke so that people can VISIBLY SEE THE CLOUD AS YOU ARE DRIVING PAST THEM? Did she step out of the car with dreds in?

So far, she’s free and clear because celebrities can sink an axe into the heads of babies and MAYBE get a ticket. They really are a class of people valued higher than the rest of us by the dreck that runs this world. Then again, E! and I propagate the mess by reporting on these people. I mean this E! report is basically just me speculating on that skank’s motivation, but with a nicer looking blog and better pay. It wasn’t a news story. So we’re actually worse than she is. If it makes everyone feel better, my life is a pit of shadows.

Hopefully this will backfire on her caricature ass and she ends up in jail for a long time. Actually eff that, hopefully she ends up in some serial killer’s dungeon and experiencing the table saw. Serial killers need to leave off killing innocent people and going for the ones no one likes. Like her.

In other news, I saw a man today wearing a livestrong bracelet and carrying a copy of the The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. And I wanted to behead him. Is that bad? Where was your The North Face backpack? Can we talk about The Office?

Overheard: MBTA Car, Inbound, Ashmont to Alewife, 8:20 AM

August 30, 2010

It’s really early. And everyone’s just trying to read their book, or make faces at that free newspaper with the daily insane animal story, or listen to their iPod while making plans to kill their husband and blame it on a faulty garage door opener. And unfortunately for those people, I am on this T car. Because whenever I ride the T, something annoying happens in the form of Today’s Crazy.

Two youths board the car, standing in the direct middle of the aisle, allowing the motion of the car to cause them to stumble in circles while baying loudly at each other using foul language.  They refuse to hold on to the poles, instead choosing to jostle the people around them. Are they drunk? No. High? Maybe. The guy’s jeans are dirty on the front, I note with disdain. It looks like Pig Pen mistook him for Santa. The girl is tall, wearing a short grey jersey dress with a small leather jacket over it.  She is screaming obscenities. I don’t mean she’s angry. In fact, this seems like an average day for her…boarding the train to engage in a conversation at a decibel level so high that seagulls are exploding.  I have a mouth like a Times Square strumpet but no one should be dropping fuck bombs at this time of morning when people are barely awake. No one needs this twat alarm clock.

All I can think of is C7 on the snack machine at the office. C7 is my morning breakfast of mini-choco chip cookies.  Yes, I have the code memorized. All I can think of is those cookies and how I can’t concentrate on my book because two people are screaming at each other and making everyone uncomfortable. They are ruining this morning’s anticipation of C7 for me.

I always have the fear that a T Crazy will catch one of my quick angry glances at them, and turn their nutty on me. And because I have no happy medium when it comes to confrontation, I will turn Bernard Goetz 2010 and start swinging my canvas bag at them and screaming “SHUT UP! DIE! SHUT UP! DIE!” and I know it won’t end well because the water bottle and iPhone charger in my bag aren’t enough to render anyone unconscious. Which is why I hope the T Crazies of the Moment do not note that I’m stealing quick volcanic glares at them.

Oh, you probably want to know what they said. It was a looonnngggg, screamed conversation but here are some AMAZING snippets:

On Tiana, and how she’s holding up people’s lives:

“Tiana’s all up on my DICK, man. I gotta get to FUCKING WORK!”

(Note: The GIRL unveiled this jewel. And at the emphasis on “dick,” about seven people including me looked up, widened their eyes, and looked back down. Praying for her death. And Tiana’s. We all blamed Tiana. And wished that the girl’s work was land mine detection by jogging in Croatia. )

What happens when you tell someone their cousin was “rolling up on em'” and you are mistaken?:

“Muthafucka, don’t you TELL ME what my cousin’s bout! I know my MOTHAFUCKIN COUSIN!”

Sometimes signals get crossed, and people’s feelings are hurt:


When a sista doesn’t take care of her eyebrow situation:


(Ed. note – I don’t get that one. Were they messing with people’s eyebrows at the funeral? If you go to a sasquatch funeral, is there some sort of reverse spa situation in which they bushy up your brow? Is this some sort of tribute to Bigfoot? His last wish, perhaps?)

Signals uncross, and flirtation takes place (and the cousin is downgraded from thug to thyroid issue sufferer):


This screaming (of which I have only given you but a sip) took place in an otherwise silent T car. There was no need to get on the car and start screaming. He could have heard you if spoke in a normal tone.

For the second half, the ignorants sat on either side of a young girl and screamed over her head at each other. The girl kept looking for the emergency straight razor to drag across her wrist. I felt for her. I wanted to hold her as she wept on my shoulder. I know, dear, I know. They are gone now. The dirty lap man and the dumpster-mouthed woman are gone.  Ooo, child, things are gonna get easier.

In conclusion, I hate people.

Jennifer Aniston Is Insensitive

August 20, 2010

Caw! Caw!

So, there’s a movement on to get rid of using the word “retarded” to describe stupid actions or a dumb movie or your sister-in-law trying to drive an SUV home from the Cape after a wedding and twenty-five Bud Lights in . I’m not sure censoring actual words is a good idea. They tried it with “gay” as in “ugh, that’s totally gay, Jennifer.” It didn’t work, if what I overhear EVERYDAY is an indication. But I understand the intent. I have friends with kids who have Downs, and that’s hurtful to hear that. The kid has enough obstacles, like he or she needs that in their life. I blame Corky for giving everyone with Downs a bad name and causing them to use that word. Did you see when he tried to rap? If I had Downs, I would be bullshit and want to kick him in the nuts. So it’s all about tact. So here’s an idea…don’t use the term when it’s going to offend certain segments of the population. Like on live television, Jennifer Aniston. You beige, boring Wheat Thin.

Rachel is shilling that TERRIBLE-looking new movie wherein she gets sexy with a turkey baster and has a kid and Jason Bateman should know better. She talked to Reeg and that dorky bitch Kelly (who hasn’t done anything useful since she played that drunk-ass Hayley on All My Children) and was talking about her recent stint dressing up as Babs Streisand for Harper’s Bazaar. And when Reeg accused her of always playing dress-up (well, it’s not like she has anything better to do since Satan stole her man), she replied:

“Yes, I play dress up! I do it for a living, like a retard!”

Old girl should know better. You just KNOW she refers to her cleaning lady as Juanita despite the fact that her name is Julie. And she’s white. So the people over at an advocacy group called The Arc heard about her dumb ass, and let Us know how they felt.

“Frankly, someone in her position ought to know better. She is using language that is offensive to a large segment of the population in this country. We estimate that there are probably in excess of 5 million people in the country with intellectual disabilities, and when you think about all of them, their family members and friends, you’re talking about tens of millions of people who find the use of that term to be really offensive. Every time folks hear that word, it kind of reminds them of all the discrimination and oppression they’ve experienced in their lives. Even if it wasn’t intended to insult them, that is the effect of it.”

They also added “…and every movie she’s done besides The Good Girl has sucked salty nuts.” Maybe Aniston was in a mood because of the picture above getting ouit. That Baba Yaga-looking thing is Aniston un-retouched from a recent photoshoot. And holy damn, isn’t she the one that demanded the eye from Perseus in Clash of the Titans?

Oh and by the way, everyone with developmental disabilities is getting together to ride bikes over Aniston’s lawn this weekend! Please join us in Malibu this coming Saturday at 10 AM. There will be a bounce house!

Gisele Bundchen Needs To Put A Breast In Her Own Mouth And Shut Up (That Came Out Weird)

August 3, 2010

Eh, which way to the court that will declare global law for me?

So living in Boston means we have to hear a lot more about Gisele Bundchen than you do. Why? Well, she married Tom Brady. Who is like Boston sportsland royalty in these here parts. Exotic Amazonian Bundchen now makes the nightly newscasts. So heavily coiffed bitches on Channel 7 with pantsuits from Ann Taylor Loft have to report her every move in Boston in all seriousness, while the closeted newscaster beside them (not you, Randy Price, we know you’re out and proud – ya big drunk) has to fake some “hubba, hubba” bullshit. Next!

So Gisele just had Brady’s kid Benjamin (except she didn’t get kicked off the gravy train for it like other bitches. Hi, Natasha from Sex & The City) and now she’s giving interviews how she’s the best mother ever as if she was the first woman to have a baby. Arrogant tramp. And she’s also on this kick where she has declared that all women should breastfeed. She even said so in an interview with Harper’s Bazaar (via The Daily Mail). Start your breast pumps, ladies.

“I think breastfeeding really helped. Some people here think they don’t have to breastfeed, and I think, “Are you going to give chemical food to your child, when they are so little?”

“There should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breastfeed their babies for six months.”

So would that be like, Norfolk County District Court that would do that sort of thing? This ho has been a mom for seven months and now she’s trying to tell you how to raise your kids? EFF THAT! Let me tell ya a little something. I have a friend who was like TERRORIZED by the tit nurse (or whatever you call her, lactation nazi?) after giving birth into giving it a try. My friend (who is a sane woman who loves her two children) said it was comparable to having some sort of demonic lamprey clamped to her boob. DEMONIC LAMPREY!!! Isn’t it enough she massaged a child with her innards out of her cave of pleasures? A BIG CHILD out of a hole that doesn’t really make sense to push people out of? That’s where I say “My body has done it’s part. Let’s go down to the CVS and buy that fake milk stuff!”

My friend opted not to breast feed. It just wasn’t her. The kids will be fine. Watch one of them win the Nobel Prize or cure cancer or kill Miles from Work of Art! Then that kid needs to walk up and slap Gisele Bundchen in her supermodel mouth for being so damn fascist about breast feeding! She should be more worried about this lesbian business her husband has going on. My Mom didn’t breast feed and look how I….shit, you bitches need to breast feed.

Here’s Mel Gibson Sounding Enraged And Coked Out Of His Mind

July 12, 2010

[redlasso id=”d135898c-f6f7-4bbb-b5d4-4bc6c46565fb”]

First off, you might want to turn the volume down on this bitch because if you’re at your office, someone might thing you’re being attacked in your cubicle by a crazy with racial issues. Or if you’re at home, the kids might think Daddy got into some blow and had a life-changer before he got home. Here’s Mel Gibson making a strong case for a muscle relaxant to be administered or a straight jacket to be tried on in a taped phone call to ex Oksana Grigorieva. Radar acquired the tape.

He flips out about her alleged “foreign bodies” (aka breast implants), and tells the mother of his child that she’s a whore and looks like a “bitch on heat” (which makes her sound like she’s on a stove). My favorite part is when he tells her that her clothes are so slutty that he can see her vagina from the back (it’s like x-Ray ‘gina vision)!

And of course he makes his now infamous comment implying that black guys are running around looking for ladies to rape as a group sporting event.

Why do I get the impression this chick was smiling the entire time as she listened to his mania and watched the recorder’s digital time read-out increase?

Lindsay Lohan Out One Lawyer, Teaching Civics Now

July 9, 2010

Professor Lindsay.

This bitch here. Your Lindsay Lohan is a spoiled cunt update is now available for download. So Lohan’s lawyer got tired of all the leggings sweat, traces of cocaine cut with baby laxative, and crusts of psychotic delusion Lindsay would leave around the office and in her lawyer-type Escalade. So she has parted ways with her client. TMZ says that when they contacted Shawn Chapman Holley‘s office, she told their asses that she and Lindsay were over.

Lohan’s preferred method of communication (besides Twitter, god love her) is now nail sculpture. So maybe legal eagle Holley flashed her own fuckfinger at Lindsay with the digit-ized message of “get new counsel, crazy bitch” at her.

You know Lindsay’s Dad has already tried to contact her (throwing a note tied to a brick through her window) to offer his legal services.

And Lindsay apparently thinks that her civil rights are being violated because she’s being sent to prison. Bitch thinks she’s the Rosa Parks of lawfully prosecuted drunk-driving, multiple probation violating coke whores! Lindsay will NOT be sent to the back of the bus! She Twittered this mess this other night. There’s some other bullshit, too. I think her Twitter should be renamed #Some Other Bullshit.

It is clearly stated in Article 5 of the U.N. Universal Declaration of Human Rights that, “No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.”

There really is our world and then the glorious world in her head that caters solely to Lindsay Lohan, huh? In her world, there should be parades in support of her skank ass and the Miami Heat should be looking to sign her.

Lindsay Lohan Was Secretly Telling The Judge To Eff Off In Court Yesterday

July 7, 2010

Wow. Smart. Judges love being told off via nail salon.

Except her extreme subtlety didn’t fly (*eye-roll*) because someone got a pic of it.

CNN reports (which I assume means this isn’t a Photoshop job by someone I would gladly befriend and buy a pint for) that Lindsay Lohan had “FUCK YOU” emblazoned on what Stephen King refers to in one of his novels as “yer fuckfinger” in court yesterday. Check the above picture.

So basically, despite that “I really respect you in the morning despite not even leaving money on the nightstand when I flew off to Cannes” speech to the judge yesterday, she thought she was being slick and throwing shade at Super Judge Marsha. I would have been hurling gavels at this disrespect!

Someone please forward this post and/or the CNN link to Judge Marsha Revel, c/o the LA court system. Contempt of court!

Well, at least Lindsay won’t have to say much when she meets her new girlfriend in jail. She can just flash that digit and they can get to pokin’.

P.S. Thanks, Greg.