Scooby sings with HeliumHead the Receptionist.
I've discovered, while driving and singing to the inane shit on the radio, that any song, commercial jingle, country music, or otherwise, sounds insanely funny when sung in a Scooby Doo voice.
Try it. Squealy and a little throaty with some goofiness thrown in. Oh, and substitute every first letter of every syllable with "r."
"Ro it's rue, re are rirune... Runday, Ruddy, Rundaaaaaaayyy..." (U2)
"Rye rawnt rye raby rack raby rack raby rack raby rack, Rye rahnt rye raby rack raby rack raby rack... Rilli's raby rack ribs..." (Chili's commercial)
"Raint re a Rirmingram, rake rit rook rust rike Rye reeeeel..." (Some country shit, I forget who)
I was practicing this while driving home in the rain. I hate thunder and lightning, but love rain, so I had my windows down. There are those crowded intersections where you are right next to vehicles heading the other direction and this woman in an old Chrysler had her window down too.
I was singing at the top of my lungs, mostly because I was cracking myself up, and, after a quick glance, thought that I may possibly be entertaining her as well.
When I finished with a particularly difficult verse of a Beastie Boys tune ("Rass Runkey, rat runky runky"), I did the Scooby laugh ("Eee-heeEEEheeeheehee"), gave her an appealing look, obviously looking for praise and adulation (eyebrows moving up and down independently, a la Jim Carrey).
Her mouth opened, as if to say something, then closed. She frowned, snapped her head straight ahead, and actually squealed her tires as she rocketed forward over the 18 foot gap between her and the car in front of her. In my side mirror I actually saw her rolling up her window too, as if to avoid further possibilities of being assaulted auditorily by Shaggy or Velma.
Everybody's a critic.
Hell, I didn't even bust out the "Goofy" version of the Staind song that was on.
On the way to my hockey game last night, I found out that the aerodynamics of my truck are such that, when flicking cigarette ash out the window directly behind the side mirror, it blows said ash in an arc, first out the window, then back in. Directly into my ear.
The fact that the still-lit cigarette in my hand singed a bit of my already-short hair while I picked the ash out didn't stop me from testing this "aerodynamic-ash-ear" theory numerous times during the trip. It went 6 for 7. Perfectly. Into my ear.
The "I-may-possibly-be-the-biggest-dipshit-I-know" theory is still a work in progress, but valuable, VALUABLE data is still being processed.
All of the people at work are being a big, bunch of fuckers.
Why?
‘Cause they're making me WORK. Fuuuuaaaaacccckkkk.
Don't these shitwags know that I got a diary to keep up?
The nice part is, I'm fast like our receptionist going after the last doughnut.
Speaking of that flaxen-haired, helium-headed beauty...
I was asked to do some graphic work for our site redesign and present it to the execs and some board members. Being that I'm just a code-monkey, this is a real banan... uh... honor.
They didn't want to bore me with the whole meeting, so they said they'd just call me in for the last 15 minutes or so.
I wait, with stuffy-boardroom-anxiety for the phone to ring.
Bllllurrrrrp
Me: "Yallow."
HeliumHead: "Mmmph... arhgkle... umph..."
Me: "'Allo, ‘allo, ahr yew theah?"
HeliumHead: "ARglkle, urmph, shiz secomb... (silence) smack, smack... SORRY, they're ready for you now."
Me: "Were you eating or some shit?"
HeliumHead: "Yeah, sorry, I just took a bite when I was dialing you... don't know why I did that."
Me: "Strange, neither do I. Maybe I make you hungry"
*click*
A few days later, my buddy Dozer, who occasionally works in the same building, comes by to go out for lunch.
He comes in and she's on the phone. Despite the fact that he's a snappy dresser and quite tightass-all-business looking, he gets ignored in favor of the telephone.
HeliumHead: "...I know... I tried to tell her, but she was so wasted she wouldn't listen... totally..."
Dozer: *Ahem*
HeliumHead: "...Um... I'll have call you back..." (hangs up pissily) Yeah?
(I've actually heard of receptionists that use such clever phrases as "Can I help you?", "what can I do for you?" and "Wow, you're devastatingly handsome, how ‘bout a blowjob?" but those must be rare.)
Dozer: I'm here to see your CFO about your taxes.
HeliumHead (with eyes like dinner plates): Oh!
Dozer: I'm kidding, is JuddHole here? I'm his friend, Dozer, and I'm here to meet him for lunch.
HeliumHead (forcing smile): Oh, hang on.
Bllllurrrrrp
Me: "Yallow!"
HeliumHead: "There's someone here to see you."
Me: "Cool, on my way."
*click*
HeliumHead: He didn't ask who you were, so I didn't tell him.
Dozer: Sure, sure. ‘Cause that just makes sense.
HeliumHead (back on phone): "...Hey, it's me, I'm back... yeah, I know... yeah... well, she's like... an alky or something, I KNNNOOOWWW..."
Earlier today, she comes by my cube. I know, I know, you're thinking, "what could possibly tear her away from her diligence at the front desk?"
HeliumHead: So, um, your friend that came by the other day?
Me: Oh, Dozer? Yeah, what about him?
(expecting a possible gaseous-cranium-bitch-session here)
HeliumHead: So... um... is he, like, single?
Me (stifling a giggle): HA! I mean, um, yeah, kind of.
HeliumHead: Whaddya mean, ‘kind of?' Like, he's seeing someone or what?
Me: Well, his sentencing just came down and, even though it's just a few short months in County, I'm betting he's going to find a ‘special' someone right away. *wink*
HeliumHead: What? What ‘county?' What are you talking about?
Oh Jesus. *Exasperated sigh*
Me: Yeah, he's got a girlfriend.
HeliumHead: Oh. (walks away)
Aside from actually working and torturing the empty-headed imbecile up front, things have been slow.
Things should pick up though, Dozer's girlfriend works in the building full-time and I'm going to have her come up to HeliumHead's desk and speak nothing but German while gesticulating angrily and wildly.
I plan on coming in during her tirade and shouting at her in nonsensical Mandarin Chinese (I watched "Crouching Tiger" 3 times, I can do it) and then I'll twist her arm behind her back and shove her into the elevator.
I just heard HeliumHead's name over the intercom for the third time in the last half hour.
PSSHSHKKSH, "HeliumHead, you have a call on line 2."
PSSHSHKKSH, "HeliumHead, please find CEO-Guy when you have a minute."
PSSHSHKKSH, "HeliumHead, Custom Balloon Service is here for your bi-weekly cranial fillup and pressure check"
I'm going to go back to plotting her termina... uh... WORKing now.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.I discover a miracle called “caffeine” and party like an uberstar.
I actually fell asleep in the shower, at a stoplight, and at my desk all by 9 this morning. After tapping my lightly on the back of the head, the gayboy from across the way introduced me to a beverage in our kitchen called, "coffee." Ever one for the fabulous insights, he also showed me something called "creamer" that I thought may be a come-on, but turns out it simply turns coffee from something along the lines of liquid ass to a smooth non-asslike treat.
I thanked him by shouting, "that's the bestest shit EVER, thanks GayBoy!"
The sheer amount of homosexual innuendo of that entire interaction wasn't lost on me, but I am awake now.
The QA chick is hanging at my cube explaining to me why none of my shit is going to get on our production servers until early next ice age or I grow breasts (whichever comes first), and GayBoy walks by once, twice, then three times a checkin' her out. "Hmm," I think, "I know his husband works in the corner office, but that didn't stop him from showing me how ‘creamer' works this morning. No reason he can't be checking out QA girl."
Then he stopped and asked her if those were new shoes she had on.
Aha.
My semi-conscious state can be directly attributed to a weekend full of hard-drinking and not-hard sleeping.
Friday night, me and The Girl grilled up some steaks and sat on the back patio, drinking, playing with gotard dogs, and bullshitting into the night. It amazes me that for someone I grew up with, we have so many different stories about the same people and/or their siblings. It's especially fun to re-tell each other the stories about our first "date" and stupid shit her brother and I have done, just to hear the other's perspective.
We smoked cigarettes and drank Avalanche until we ran out and switched to wine (midnight).
Strange how my belly was firmly against this. Christ, it was even singing me the song:
Belly: Beer before liquor, never sicker... Liquor before beer, never fear... beer...
Me (shouting at my midsection): Dude, don't be a pussy, we can handle it.
Belly: You give me nothing all day but spicy Thai, steak, and 7 beers, and now you think you can get away with cheapass Chateau Screwtop? Man, you're so in for it.
Me (still shouting, Girl is beginning to stare): Chill out. It was only 5 bucks, can you argue with that? Besides, it ain't bad, I mean it shouldn't upset you too mu...
Belly (interrupting): Beer before liquor... la, la, lalaa...
Me (angry with Belly now): Fuck you, you'll take it and like it.
Girl: Um, I'm going for more smokes.
Me (to Girl): Yeah, that's cool. We're fine here.
Belly: That's what you think, fucker. Beer before liquor...
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Belly always wins, when will I learn that?
I'm leaving Sunday night out because the tiring part of that evening was me staying up to finish a sappy, chick book that left me crying after the very last paragraph. I'd be the biggest pussy I know if I didn't look so fucking tough in a skirt (see below).
So, Saturday Night.
Let me preface this with the fact that I've never met anyone online and then in real life. So, when I shot my mouth off about showing up in my kilt and stripping/singing for ubergrrl's 30th birthday, she called me on it and invited me and The Girl. I told her I'd be there if I could clear it with The Girl:
Me: We got plans Saturday night?
Girl: Nope.
Me: Want to go to a party?
Girl: Sure, sounds good.
Me: Ummm, it's up in Longmont.
Girl: Shit, we've driven farther than that for a party.
Me: Ummm, it's a girl I met online.
Girl: As long as it's not MeFuckYouNasty1411 or some shit.
Me: Nah, nothing like that, it's ubergrrl.
Girl: Oh, I've read some of her diary, sounds cool.
The invite only mentioned wine, so we figured we'd bring beer. Hell, if the invite had said "Barney-soda and kool-aid" or "Hoity Toits and Dom Perignon" we'd have brought beer. We're classy like that.
Turns out Longmont was farther than we thought, plus we got lost, so only half the beer made the trip. We were definitely in a lets-makeout-in-front-of-a-house-full-of-people-we-don't-know mood when we got there.
A small pad full of good folks, excellent food, and copious amounts of vodka awaited us. Plus, the uber-cool-girl and her apron-of-nipples. I gotta get me on a' them.
The Utilikilt and my mating-cat-like wailing were both well received.
I got to taste what happens when you let a clever homosexual near the drink mixing station (apparently something he invented called a "Princess" something). He was a really cool guy, but I seriously had to question his motives when he took one alcoholic beverage (Mike's pink lemonade, I think) and decided to mix it with enough vodka to power a Russian anti-aircraft tank. I'll let the uber-one elaborate on what it means to drink several gallons of said drink (hint: think nudity and bazooka-barfing).
Ubergrrl, an amazingly talented and successful artist, showed me the huge COCK she painted. She says someday she'll teach me to paint with something other than my fingers and those canvasses that have the shapes and numbers already on them. Sweet.
I got to show off the whole reason the Girl bought me a Utilikilt. Well, not the WHOLE reason... wink, wink... nudge, nudge.
As I often do, I showed a little leg with the birthday grrl. This was before she found out that I was wearing what I like to refer to as, "blackmail protection" or "boxers." And trust me, she found out (drunken-wandering-fingers-girl is NAUGHTY). It's okay, I can't keep my hands off myself either.
After our li'l angel puk... I mean... RETIRED for the evening, I got to wear the tiara.
I got to meet the chicks that she refers to as the "psychic friends." They're called that, apparently, because they are all into being psychic. They told me about classes where you go for 4 hours and learn about things like intuition, premonitions, and other "ition" type things. Since it sounded so cool, I figure I can market a psychic clinic for hicks. I'm going to call it, "Shit t'ain't happen'd yet." It'll be 4 hours, but we'll have a 3 and a half hour lunch with a 28-minute "beer break" and the rest will consist of me chewin' tobacky and tellin' 'em, "Lurn ta' trust yer gut. Thanks fer comin'. That'll be twenny bucks."
I'm going to make millions.
For the limited amount of people left at 1 am, the karaoke machine actually got quite a bit of use. Uber's friend, Erin, I think, was singing with the only other person in the living room and talking to the other two of us like we were a throng at the fricking Apollo, "thank you all for coming. I'd like to dedicate this next one to the girl in the bathroom driving the porcelain bus. You, in the skirt, get me more wine. Wake me UP before you GO-GO..."
After I got drunk, harassed her friend Jason (in the nipple apron) by repeatedly groping his breasts and said goodbye to the sweet girl by the toilet, dribbling recycled pizza down her chin, we trekked back to Denver.
And a much good time was had by all.
I was fully impressed by my first "internet-friend" and the fact that she didn't kidnap, drug and dismember me even once.
Me and The Girl are definitely planning on hanging out with the ubergrrl whenever she recovers from her extended-brain-cell-killing session.
Should be about August or so.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.I lie like a bastard.
I know I promised to spare this diary from the inanities of everyday life, but, well, I lied.
I've received 7 calls in the last 4 days from this freaky-looking number. Having no idea who they are (telemarketer?) I've been ignoring it. Finally, I relent, answer it and it's my Credit Card company... and it's automated.
"If you are the JuddHole, press 1"
"If you are the JuddHole who lives at 321 Street, press 1"
"If you are the JuddHole with a humungous penis and an asshole dog, press 2"
"Enter your social, so that we may steal your identity, then press pound"
The first 2 times they called I hang up because I like to pretend that I don't have time for that shit. I really just hate the phone. And feeling pathetic because the only time my phone has rang in the last 2 days, it's been a fucking machine calling me.
Now when it rings and it's the strange number, I'm fully into making this piece of shit happy so that it'll leave me the fuck alone, but I have to pee. I'm not totally against peeing while on the phone with someone, but it depends. If it's a machine, it gets to hear everything, even me grunting when shaking off. Turns out my payment is past due. That would explain their diligence in calling me. Go figure.
On the extreme-plus side, I found out I can piss using only one hand. I may just do it that way from now on, simply because I can. What I'll do with the other hand will depend on my mood. I may scratch myself, I may pretend to be on a phone so small it can't be seen, I may tell a story to anyone in there complete with wild, one-handed gesticulations.
The world is my oyster.
As I walked in the door Tuesday night, both of my gotard dogs came to greet me at once. I usually come in and hold my hands out like Jesus in those big stained-glass representations at Churches. I try to emit a holy glow whilst my gotards jump up and down in disbelief that I didn't leave them forever... again.
This time however, they collided at the end of the hallway and became entangled. Asshead is called that for a reason. She's one of those that, when put in an unpleasant situation, takes out her anger on whatever is nearest. It could be your feet, a wasp, a shoe, ninjas, Rottweiler's, our sweet dog, Dingbat, it just doesn't matter. So Dingbat got pretty chewed up by the time I threw myself into the middle of them and broke them up.
As the Vet was shoving a two-inch nozzle into Dingbat's open wounds and began "flushing" them, I apparently made quite a face as the Vet Tech kept asking me if I was going to pass out. Especially when he would squeeze it and all that shit would run out. Who wouldn't make a fucking face? You're hurting my baby. AND it's fucking disgusting.
Christ, I am such a pussy.
Now, I get to "clean" the wound and force pills down her throat for a couple weeks.
I'll be making my "face" the whole time, I'm sure.
Today at work I:
Gained valuable fashion insight from the homosexual across the aisle from me (turns out you're not supposed to wear a brown belt with black shoes and shit like that, who knew?).
Organized all the chew cans on my desk (~12) according to the warning text,
When asked a completely ricockulous question by a superior, took the nameplate off the side of my cube and began smacking my own ass with it.
Fell asleep in a meeting about "data" (really a meeting designed to torture Judd) and drooled tobacco-juice down my "Opie Gone Bad" shirt.
Explained to the CEO that when running late during a golf game, it's best to utilize the "polo" shot, which involves hanging out the side of the cart and swinging one-handed while driving top speed.
Received invitation from CEO to the next executive golf outing.
Released a particularly foul gaseous creature from my ass, then borrowed a cube-neighbor's battery-powered mini-fan in attempt to blow the entire entity-of-stench into CoworkerBuddy's cube.
Got pegged in the back of the head by CoworkerBuddy's Nerf Dart Gun while he screamed, "what crawled up your ass and died?!?"
Sat in disbelief that I get paid to be here.
Overheard from a neighboring cube: "The trick to enjoying a New York cab ride is to be drunker than the driver."
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.The fucktarded shall inherit the Internet…
So, I'm feeling much better. Many thanks to all of you wonderful souls who had something to say, you know who you are, I sure appreciate it.
Life, in fact, couldn't be any better, and I'm pretty sure I feel this way mostly because of the sharp contrast between being a miserable fuck and feeling like the ol' JuddHole again.
At times like these, when exciting things fail to happen to me within journal entries (daily at least), I still feel the need to put something interesting in here and hopefully entertain, at the very least. I would hope that even my bouts with sadness and profound moodiness would be entertaining but that may depend on your level of sadistic-tendences.
I refuse to tell you anything about my lunch, shopping, or other inanities for the very reason that when I relive them in my head they bore me to tears, and I can't imagine that I'd want to read about them.
Therefore, for today, I've compiled a list of emails that we receive from MyCompany's web site. Our Customer Service chick is awesome at handling this shit, but she sends them on to me, for grins, and I send her my comments back, for ball-tingling excitement. I've removed any names and places in hopes that posting this doesn't get me in a shitload of trouble.
These were all received from the "Contact Us" link that asks users to pose questions or send comments concerning our reports and reporting system.
Our company sells an online report consisting of information on doctors. We provide standard data, and that is ALL that we provide, which makes some of these emails slide greasily into the realm of the violently disturbed.
I didn't make any of this shit up. These people really are this fucking helplessly ignorant.
Retarded-water-buffalo-rapist questions are in italics:
BODY: If you'd like to read all about giraffes (this is actually 100% relevant to the medical question at hand here) then you can waste as much time as I have on your web site... OR, I have a very novel creative idea... why don't you list ALL your specialties BY ALPHABETIC ORDER (rather than dividing them up into "childrens", cardiovascular", etc, etc, what kind of fucking moronic idiots do you fucking idiots hire for a webmaster??? If you cannot hire any better quality of webmaster than that, then I'd certainly not want to go to any doctor that would list through your site either.
Fuck you for wasting my time.
From,
PissOff
Dear PissOff,
We apologize that you feel our specialty search is disorganized. We feel that it works for the majority of our customers, those who are not complete asswads, and we have a suggestion for you: Take a fucking Chill Pill. Better yet, take two, the first with a sip of water, then the second, douse in gasoline, ignite, and shove directly up your whiny bitch ass.
********************************************************
BODY: Mr. XXXX,I realize your and your wife's grief, but you must realize there is someone still out there who actually did shoot the gun. Police know who is was and so do a number of people in the area. It was not XXXXX, everybody knows that but you would do well to question police on the other man. They kept you out of the courtroom when testimony was given as to the guilt of the man who actually did it. They framed XXXXX because they thought he would be an easy try. Please, if you want justice, seek the truth about the other man.
Dear LivingTheLifeOfASoapOperaAsYourOwn,
It would be a mistake to call you a "nutjob" as it would only make nutjobs feel fucking crazy. No one at MyCompany can hypothesize what manner of gotard you happen to be, so we've decided to hire out a hit ma... uh... "independent contractor" to visit you soon in order that we can reduce the aggregate amount of nutjobbery in the Universe.
Please remember, while this may be unpleasant, we do it because we care.
********************************************************
BODY: I read about the "Super Foods" everyone needs. Dr. XXXXX XXXXX seems to have great wisdom.
What does he suggest that those of us who suffer from 'flatulence' do to "tolerate" such foods as:
Beans,
Broccoli,
Spinach and "green leafy" foods,
Yogurt and "dairy products"??
Is there any way at all to contact the Doctor and 'chat' with him?
Dear Farty McStupidPants,
We've ‘chatted' with the good doctor and his advice was to just let 'em rip, baby, because those of us here at MyCompany, who never made it out of 6th grade intellectually, happen to think "flatulence" is "funny" and should only have to be "tolerated" by those around you. If they don't find your "flatulence" amusing, you should offer to stuff a box of Tic-Tacs in their rectums, one by one.
The Doctor also pointed out that you forgot to mention such foods as:
Beer,
Nachos,
Beer and Nachos,
Beer,
Pizza,
Beer and Pizza.
We would very much appreciate it if you took your stank ass elsewhere now.
********************************************************
BODY: i'm looking for a doctor to perform a penial emplant/peninal pump.sex drive is present but erection last five to ten minutes.
Dear Inflatable Von LimpyWang,
"Penial emplant" operations have been discontinued nationwide as a result of a rash of serial balloon-tying-mime incidents. Details cannot be disclosed.
We recommend necrophilia as the best way to make those five to ten minutes count as best they can. We would be happy to provide names and addresses of area morgues should you need them.
********************************************************
BODY: i am looking for a physician that did breast augmentations in 1988-1990 in XXXXX, new mexico. the procedure was done in his office. I do not remember his name. i need to find a record of this surgery. thank you if you can please help me.
Dear Chesty McSaddlebags,
Having anything wrong with your fake funbags should be the least of your problems since you can't even remember the name of the fucking doctor that gave them to you.
We can give you a brief recap of the surgery for your records, the doctor:
Hope this helps you out.
********************************************************
BODY: I was trying to find a doctor for about 15 minutes, selected all the choices. You had FREE written all over the place. Then when i go to get my results, i have to pay 10 bucks. WHat the fuck is that. You fuckers are just greedy little assholes trying to find any way to make a little money. Go FUCK yourselves.
Dear Pissy Fagnosticator,
You've given us good reason to question our motives concerning our site, and we agree that we are indeed, "greedy little assholes." We've chosen to give our reports away for free and pay all 70 of our employees in Pez samples from the grocery store across the street.
We've expanded our reports to now offer information we feel could benefit you such as:
We feel you will find these revamped reports to be very beneficial.
********************************************************
BODY: i am looking for a psychiatrist familiar with and has patients who knows about paranormal, visions, dreams of death and disasters that come to pass, and has seen and felt the other side.
Dear LostAllTouchWithRealityAndDesparatelyNeedDrugs,
My spirit guide told me you'd be emailing soon and we've already gotten this information together for you.
The doctor's name is U.R. Ayfukinkook. He's very in touch with people like yourself and informs us he routinely "feels the other side."
We can assure you that the fact that he told us this while his hand was down the back of his pants has no bearing on his credibility.
We have also added a column in our search criteria called "has seen and felt the other side" so that you may more easily search on these types of doctors.
********************************************************
BODY: Why when you pay $24.95 plus tax fro the South Beach Diet is there nothing for a vegetarian??
Very Very Disappointing. There are supposedly 12.5 million vegetarians in the US.
Dear WhatTheHellSiteDidYouHonestlyThinkYouWereOn,
Apparently you have our site and services confused with those offered at
www.youreacompletegotard.com.
Before filling out an online form, we strongly suggest that you first bang your head repeatedly against a solid surface while chanting, "Why am I so fucking stupid?"
For best results, complete no fewer than 173 repetitions of such and, if you lose consciousness, when you wake, simply pick up where you left off.
********************************************************
BODY: You are listing an XXXXX XXXXX in Arizona. She is currently being charged with NUMEROUS counts of animal cruelty. She could be charged with a felony. Do you feel comfortable recommending her on your listing?
I would not feel comfortable sending ANY human to her, let alone an animal.
Perhaps you should do some research to see if you want to keep her on your list. That is just my personal opinion and I wanted to make you aware in case you were not. I'm sure you can find information on the horrible charges on the XXXXX website, or on the court or justice department pages in XXXXX, Arizona.
Dear YouSeriouslySpentTimeTypingThat,
Thank you for your diligence. We've spoken to our Database people, and have now removed the field, "Actively Abuses Animals" from our reports.
We've been informed that this still won't exclude those that are classified as "enjoy sex with deceased animals", as the issue of whether or not this is "abuse" is still up for debate.
********************************************************
BODY: can you get gray hair from stress, i know that heritary plays a factor
Dear YourParentsObviouslyHatedYou,
Our research indicates that gray hair is predominantly caused by receiving emails from people who are so incredibly fucking stupid that they can't even start a car/toaster, not from "heritary".
To spare your natural hair's color, we recommend avoiding such folks.
********************************************************
BODY: I want to know how to add a VERY URGENT message to a doctors report so no one else will enocounter the horrible surgical results I did? This man is NOT a plastic surgeon for facial plastic surgery...I cant close my eyes...I have blurred vision .the forehead lift is horrible...there are retention stitches NEXT TO MY EYE!!!! My cheeks have uneven indentations. when I smile one of my cheeks is "Stuck" to the bone of my face"..I have scars that have to be taken off my face now by another plastic surgeon caused by him. My eyelid is scared and below my eyes have half inch scars. The sides of my face have four inch scars...he did the facelift in front of my hairline instead of in it. a laser surgeon is going to try to minimize those. This has to be added to his history. How do I do this before he cuts someone else??
Dear Stitchy Von Frankenstein,
Without the doctor's name we can only assume that you are referring to a doctor practicing the specialty referred to as, "Cutting up drunken idiots." While this specialty is rare, you would do best to, in the future, avoid any doctor that:
We recommend you pour steak sauce on what's left of your face, lay down in the alley you received your operation in, and let the rats chew your head gristle into little brown turds. Seriously, is that any worse than how it is now?
********************************************************
BODY: i am thinking of renting a room from someone who claims to be psychatrist, he is, I believe to be from lattin america, he said he is rarly home becase he travelsto diferent citys, to do therapy. Something seems a little stange to me, I just want to know if he is legit, I am meting with him tonigt at 7:30 pm, to discuss rentting the room, there are already people rentting other roomes he has. i spoke with them and they say he is a nice man, but I want to be sure he is what he says he is, I didn't find anything in your dirrectory. He told me he was in town seeing a few patients yesterday (6-03-04). This is Texas, so would he be listed in the data base if he practises in the area and was lisensed in an other country, could you find any information on him for me, please?
Dear WeAreNotFuckingMindReaders,
We at MyCompany do not offer rental advice, especially when you don't provide us with a fucking name, but we still feel we can help you. This may be a difficult task as your head seems firmly wedged in your rectal canal, but we are willing to give it a go.
Things with this "psychatrist" may seem "stange" because, for starters, you have the spelling capabilities of a constipated orangutan. He may be from "lattin America" but it's a good bet that he's speaking a language you have no grasp of called... English.
We can offer the advice that, if his "patients" or other "renters" seem to be of the simian variety, you should fit right in.
Try to remember that the BLUE button is for food and the RED button gives you a mild shock.
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BODY: I am a medical typist searching for the proper name and spelling of what sounds like "Dr. XXXXX" who performs prophylactic endarterectomies of the right carotid system for stenosis. Thank you!
Dear UsesBigWordsToImpressPeople,
First, try a fucking phone book. None of us here at MyCompany have ever heard of the shit that you just spouted so freely.
It did make us giggle convulsively when you mentioned "prophylactic" and, to be honest, everything after that was just a blur.
If you want to sound so goddam smart, go to your local grocery store and ask the clerk if he's heard of your goddam smartass doctor. If he hasn't, we recommend you rake the tied-down-pen-chain-on-the-counter across his neck until you can ask the manager your question, smartypants.
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BODY: I have used cocaine and as a result my septom has damage. Is there any kind of surgery I can get to help repair it?
Dear DrugsTurnedMyBrainToTapioca,
Wow, "septum" damage? What were you "using" the cocaine for? We at MyCompany use it to spice up our baked dishes, but that's never hurt our "septoms" before.
Surgery? No. You should try "snorting" the cocaine and, if you've done this already, try snorting more. A pound at least.
And then some fiberglass shards. And Drano.
That should fix you right up.
Idiot.
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BODY: Please send me a magizine of your products can't find. I'm looking for a Egg creat back supporter for my bed. 111-555-1111
Dear WasteOfOxygen,
You appear to be under the misconception that we cater to people that haven't shat what was left of their intelligence out of their retarded asses.
Please take what can be referred to as "your head" and wedge it firmly under the nearest 16-inch radial tire. Since you provided us with your phone number, please wait there until we call with further instructions.
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BODY: My husband received 220 volts of electricity at work. Do you know of a Doctor that specializes in electrical shock survivors? We are having trouble finding a physician that knows and "believes" what he is going through is the result of the electrical shock. We are so desperate to find help with this.
Dear MaybeHesJustStupid,
If your husband exhibits symptoms such as: Frequently wetting himself, forgetting his name, or finding Wayne Brady funny, we suggest that maybe he's just a drooling fucking moron, and you should proceed with the systematic elimination of his life-providing air-supply.
If you truly "believe" that his symptoms are from electric shock and are seeking a physician, we can recommend any that are under the specialty heading "SADISTS."
We've found that they EXCEL in matters of electrical shock.
Good Luck.
My heart goes out to anyone who works in any facet of Customer Service in this day and age. The exceptionally retarded seem to be running amok, and, without you fine folks, people like myself would be instructing them to find the nearest screwdriver and plunge it into their ear.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Depression. Oh, watch me FEEL.
Dealing with depression, on a personal level, is something that I'm not sure I've ever had to fully deal with. Maybe I just wasn't aware that that was what I was doing in the past, but this time it's very, very real.
I'm very analytical. I look at everything from as many angles as I can think of before I come up with a verdict. This is why I'm so good at my job. People tell me what they are in need of, and I poke, prod, and probe until I'm sure I know exactly what it is that they are looking for. Then I give them what they need.
The problem with depression is the ambition/will/life sucking qualities that it has, and this is new to me. I don't even seem to have the energy, nay, the will to analyze what it is going on in my head.
Talking to the Girl, and having her dissect a good part of it certainly helped. She brought to my attention things, simple things, like the shitty weather Denver-metro has been having for 4 days. Late night hockey games that I have such little energy for. Both of us having things to do, and therefore spending less quality time with each other.
I understand that these things are all factors in what I would normally call a "funk." But, this is beyond that, and is unfamiliar territory for me.
The Girl has now read all of Dusty's entries, and even left a comment on the one about depression. I knew it hit her in a deep way, because she was quoting it tonight while we were talking.
I went back and read it again and it now speaks to me on a whole different level.
But, the problem remains. No matter who knows how you feel. No matter how many people have gone through it before you. No matter how many people have gone through it to a much more severe degree and much more often than you.
It still fucking sucks.
Me and The Girl were going to head up to Greeley tonight to spend some time with her brother, my friend, Shithead and his family. He will never acknowledge it in a kazillion fucking years, but he needs us. He needs those he loves close to him because his marriage sucks and he doesn't know he's unhappy, even though he is. He's dug his own hole and we can't help that, we can only be there for him. And his wonderful, wonderful kids.
And I'm not there for them, or him.
I could've sucked it up, pulled up the bootstraps and went up there. But, I just don't have it right now. I would have gone, had the Girl not been able to go, and, as much as it hurt me to have her leave me, I told her to go and be there for him as I couldn't.
When we were kids (my brother and I), our mother, while going through the divorce and the eventual custody battle she lost, would say to us on occasion, "boys, I just don't have it today. Can you give me a little space? I'll be okay soon. This too shall pass" and we would. We would do whatever she asked.
She's fond of telling that story and marveling at the fact that we were always such angels when she would say that, even though he was only 12, and I was just 6. When in fact, we were just listening. She made sure we heard what she said, and we respected and loved her enough to do whatever we could for her. What else could we have possibly done? What other options were there?
I had to say that tonight.
"Honey, I just don't have it."
And it sucked.
This may sound like I'm a little too full of myself, a little too egotistical, but I ALWAYS have it. I'm always the guy that's there when someone needs something. It's just who I am. I'm the goalie you want during the playoffs. I'm the guy you want in net during a one-goal game that you must win. I'm the guy who's shoulder you cry on, when you got dumped/divorced, or lost that promotion. I am the white knight. I am the super-hero. I am Superman.
But, what happens if Superman says, "I just don't have it."
Who will come to the rescue?
Who will save the day?
Who will vanquish the villain and save the damsel?
What happens when there is no villain?
What happens when there is no damsel?
What happens when there is no Superman?
The vague, peripheral feeling that depression brings is amazing to me. Colors, sights, sounds, they all just seem to lose their clarity. They seem, to quote the Girl, "muted."
I was aware earlier though, of something very real. The feel of the woman I loved in my arms. The soft, warm feel of her lips on my forehead as I cried in her arms. The very real feeling of my heart being torn as I wanted more than anything for her to stay with me, but telling her to go to her brother, because he needed her more than I did.
I became aware of a brown dog, curled up in a little Mazzyball on the couch. The warmth of her rotund belly as she rolls over on her back, giving me easier access to her tummy. The slightly musty, comforting smell of her fur when I nuzzle her and hold her tight.
The speckled gotard, Carhartt, following me blindly as I get another beer and sit down, waiting for me to be stationary so that I may only give her love. My hand on her sweet head as she sits, for hours it seems, and shares this moment in time with me, acting as if our sole purpose on this Earth is to give each other love in its simplest forms.
The cold, caramelly, bubbly sensation of a Colorado micro-brew sliding down my throat.
The cold rain, lightly landing on my head as I sit on our back porch and smoke a cigarette.
The incredible pain in my head, as I went to piss in my own backyard and smacked my noggin on the bird feeder hanging from the tree.
The feeling of my lips, pursed together in a pensive thought, tells me that I can still feel. That my face, my body, is still real and I can feel it.
These feelings, these incredibly visceral feelings aren't always there, even if the things that inspire them are.
I am aware.
Am I through it?
Is it over?
That remains to be seen.
But... I do feel better.
This too shall pass.