The man in slush-dirtied Kenneth Cole knock-offs trudged through the industrial park. The Cup O’ Noodles clutched in his angry, defeated, ashamed, rueful hand followed. Or something to that Stephen King’s The Gunslinger series effect.
Archive for the ‘Taking It To The Streets’ Category
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!”
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.
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?
Rain, rain, DON’T go away! Seriously, it’s 20,000 fathoms under Morrissey Blvd. and I am LOVING it. It’s like someone turned my psychotic depression inside out and splashed it all over the world! And then everyone goes to their Facebooks and they’re like “WAH! I’m WET!” and I say “HA! So are all of your dreams!” And….*looks around*..uh, well someone tried to kill Paris Hilton.
What’s the first thing you do while police are subduing a dude who showed up at the door with two big knives, looking for an autograph in blood? You hop on your Twitter, obvi! Here’s what Paris had to say:
“So Scary, just got woken up to a guy trying to break into my house holding 2 big knifes,” she said. “Cops are here arresting [him].”
The Whore of Babylon noted the amateur knife salesman Nathan Lee Parada on her security cam at 6 AM when he began pounding on her windows and lit up 911. A “male friend” (that poor bastard, why?) confronted the intruder while Paris spread for attention on Twitter.
The light coming off of her nuclear herp sores has dimmed in recent years, and she has been eclipsed by other celebrity tramps such as former friend Kim Kardashian. So anything to get back in the public eye and achieve even a slight bit of relevancy even if it’s your own attempted murder. One wonders whether or not she would have still been Tweeting even as he stabbed her.
TMZ reports that sad sack Parada (seriously, who stalks Paris Hilton anymore?) was charged with felony burglary.
The DA tried to get attempted murder on there but everyone merely laughed at Ed Exley’s crusading ways and reminded him that trying to cut off Paris Hilton’s head is pretty much community service. Christ, play soccer with it. Or use it for one of those home Barbie heads that little girls and gay kids used to style back in the 70s.
And I know she’s only a mean teen, but I think Ashley is the worst. Anyway, so the other night Bravo showed the eagerly awaited part 2 to the fashion show/country club/my Chinchilla mini-jacket from Paterson, New Jersey is waiting to kill you, Danielle, you BITCH! episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. And shit was effed up!
It was sort of everything you pray for in a gross reality show about plastic-faced, aging narcissists. You had broken heels, hair-pulling, screaming, running, big-haired women mourning the death of class, crazy women who go to “energists” taking refuge in Bentleys, really weird hairlines (what is going on with Teresa‘s hair? I won’t ask her personally because she’s from Paterson, did you know she was from Paterson?), snotty mean teens getting wet over discovering that becoming the villainess on a reality show is way better than being Homecoming Queen, and why being being called “honey” is better than being called “bitch.”
Anyway, I’m thinking that the producers have these tricks blow a couple of rails before having the Kim Twins wrangle their asses to the same events and then they let the fur, er, the extensions, fly.
And I know none of it is actually really “real.” Teresa knows that if she plants her Chinchilla mini-jacketed ass outside in the foyer waiting for Danielle to walk by so that the blood games can begin, she will surely get re-signed for next season. The two Kims know if they stage a fashion show, and play both sides, and have fuck hair (did you see the hair on Danielle’s primary Kim? What, did she let a train get run on her before the Posche show?), it could possibly result in becoming a main cast member next season. After all, they are out one Housewife! Hell, the Two Kims should get their own show! That Bethany slut over in NYC got hers and that show consisted of her raging at her mo’ wedding planner and shopping at Costco!
These women aren’t fools, they are business ladies, and they are getting theirs!
Danielle Staub seems to be the craziest, most paranoid middle-aged waspface ever to grace our screens, but she’s on the fast track to becoming a household name! Who else calls the cops when they break a heel and suddenly can not move or breathe after being yelled at after a country club (emphasis on “cunt”) fashion show? Perfection!
And that Ashley girl. Man, have you ever wanted to take off your evening glove, weight it with a brick, and smack a smug teen upside her nosejob? Ooo, Danielle and Teresa are just crazy, but this one is young and immature and thinks she’s Alexis Carrington. When in actuality, she’s attention-starved, sneer-faced imbecile trash (although, props for “un-beweave-able” – even her totally ineffectual mother smirked at that shit). When she was mouthing off to her parents at the end, I wanted her to experience Carrie’s mom, Joan Crawford, and the woman who drove her kids into the lake all at the same time. Can the guy who punched Snookie punch Ashley?
This show is actually so soul-deadening that it gives me chest pains after I watch it for too long. Considering all the bad press Joisee has gotten lately, how hasn’t there been a mass exodus? At this point I would lie and say I was from Cleveland.
As expected, Dina Lohan acted her usual enabling stagemom “who’s gonna float me my Xanax money?” self yesterday when Lohan’s tearbombs burst as she heard she was going to do a bid and Dina heard the verdict. Here’s what Popeater says she said:
“This is so not fair to do this to my child,” a flabbergasted Dina Lohan told PopEater exclusively shortly after Judge Marsha Revel made the announcement.
Come again? Fair?!?!
Someone on Facebook mentioned that they sorta kinda felt bad for Lindsay because it’s fairly obvious this aging hag supported her ass by building the “you can do anything you want, you’re Supergirl, now sign this check for Mommy” scaffolding around her. Which made her a sociopath. Frankly, I think that as an adult, you can’t blame your shithead behavior on your parents. There is something called “responsibility.” RiRi Harvey once made me wear Chinese knock-off Nikes from Building #19 with the swish REVERSED and in GOLD LAME (they would be so hot nowadays) to school and I haven’t raped a nun, yet. Although it totally made me like boys…
But nevertheless it IS obvious that Lohan had next to no chance to even OBSERVE how a normal adult carries themselves while growing up. Not that it excuses anything. I wouldn’t excuse her from the Sarlac pit at this point, she’s so awful.
Oh, and don’t think Manic Mike Lohan didn’t show his crazy self outside the courtroom. Firstly, word is he tried to barge INTO the courtroom during the proceedings to attempt to read some sort of statement on behalf on Lindsay. Keep in mind that his entire estranged family wants nothing to do with him, and he is INSERTING himself into the center for attention. This is a grown-ass man. And check this out:
While he declined to issue a comment following the sentencing (ed. note – he must have had food in his mouth or something), his spokeswoman baffled reporters when she urged Lohan to report to rehab immediately, apparently unaware the actress must first go to jail. When corrected by an onlooker, the unidentified rep said the rehab portion of the ruling was “a great victory” for the Lohan family.
So basically, even their EMPLOYEES are crackers. Then again, this was probably some slut he met down the pub and declared her his “spokeswoman.” Right?
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
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.
“Want to go shopping?” “Not really.” So this queen is RARIN’ to get into this Toronto mall, which was apparently closed due to the riots happening in protest to the G20 summit. When he encounters some locked doors…..well, all bets are off as he unleashes a torrent of bellowing and demands to know why he isn’t being allowed to mall walk his ass around the place.
Is it really that serious, I asked myself when I first watched this? Then when he turned around and his crazy hard boiled egg eyes alighted on the cameraman, I knew it wasn’t a case of perceived injustice. It was a case of “this mo’ snapped quite some time ago and this is just the latest chapter in his wackjob epic.” Seriously, this is a workplace shooter-type individual. You don’t eff with that guy, you merely hide your smirk behind your hand and keep walking.
You know someone is round’ the bend plumb loco when even the dick children behind him kinda shrug and give up on mocking him. His insanity outlasts “brat.” There’s no shame in this fruit bat’s game.
Update – The original has been taken down (hey, if this crazy came to your house with a Taser in a shopping bag demanding you stop sullying his image, you would take it down, too). But please enjoy the remix.
Well. Here’s Snoop Dogg‘s video for “Oh, Sookie.” It’s a hip-hop tribute to….Sookie Stackhouse. From True Blood. *hangs head*. Playa, no…
Fun J. Harvey fact: the only hip-hop album I ever listened to over and over and cherished completely was Snoop’s Doggystyle. Weird, huh? “This one goes out to my nigga Slick Rick. And for those who don’t like it? Eat a dick.” Yes, there was a young gay guy mouthing the words to that in the subway while commuting to school. It must have been the “eat a dick” part that I found particularly interesting, cuz’ girl, I had more tricks in that subway bathroom!
Anyway, Snoop is a beloved part of our pop culture tapestry now and so he can probably get away with something as Gouda as this. Maybe he was inhaling some particularly kind bud when this offer came across the coffee table. There are hoes in the back wearing Merlotte’s uniforms. I can’t with this.