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Roller Derby Enrollment Skyrockets; Tea-Partiers Blame ObamaCare

12 Nov

Before Mary Rocco became “Marilyn MonRoll,” she spent quiet evenings watching Breaking Bad reruns with her boyfriend or chatting with her up-cycling group at local coffee houses. But when Mary saw a hand-written flier for a local roller derby league, the mousy, almost full-time administrative assistant thought it was time to lace up her wheels. “I hadn’t worn them since I dressed up as Rollergirl for Halloween. I wasn’t even sure if I could zip them past my ankles anymore.” Not only could she zip them, but in little time, she found herself zipping around a waxed roller rink with girls who looked like this:

Image

The Boner Crushers recruited SvetLama a.k.a “Roller Serb” from a Ukranian dodgeball league in 2003, when women acting like men was at an all-time high with the hit HBO series Sex and the City.

Mary is one of a thousand of unfeminine women across America who are having bottom surgeries and joining roller-derby leagues. When asked about her inspiration, Mary said, “That Juno girl gave up her baby and then joined a roller derby team. I found it inspiring.”

Mary’s teammate PeTUNA Clark, a gym teacher by day and a defensive jammer by rink, said that she’s been wanting to join roller derby for years, and now can thanks to her new ObamaCare health insurance plan. “Roller Derby is too dangerous of a sport to do without health insurance. Unfortunately, Phy ED teachers are going down all across the country. Not only are our benefits and hours being stripped away, so are our gender identities.” Clark cites ObamaCare as the reason she is able to join a league of women who are so successful at making both men and women equally uncomfortable.

Clark says that before derby, she got most of her pleasure from teaching a basketball unit to freshman girls because there was a lot of "bouncing up and down and jumping around." Here she is posing in her locker room.

Clark says that before derby, she got most of her pleasure from teaching basketball to freshman girls because there was a lot of “bouncing up and down and jumping around.” Here she is posing in her locker room.

And Clark isn’t alone. Her teammates HairThere Delilah, Barron Erin, and Dolly Pardoner have been waiting until they’re insured to join roller derby. U of Texas-Austin Gender Studies grad student and roller derby participant TestosteRhonda, states that roller derby enrollment has been up “a whole lot” since the rollout of ObamaCare this past October. She estimates an increase of “like 200%” since the sport was established in the “1970s or so.”

Rollerderby is a sport that was inspired by the 1979 cult- hit film The Warriors in which the music band the Village People turn in their police outfits for roller-skates and switchblades and comment on racial tension and HIV in New York City. Early pioneers in the sport include Billie Jean King, Cheryl Miller, and Greg Louganis. It was rumored that Donald Trump unsuccessfully organized The High Rollers, a group of wealthy CEOs interested in roller derby. The team disbanded after LEZZIE (The League of Embittered GirlZ Zipping around In Eye-makeup ) ruled that players with a history of more than one heart attack or two metal knee replacements were too much of a liability to the league. The High Rollers disbanded, only to form the GOP.

Trump declined to comment on his roller derby failure, but was rumored to adorn the rink names "The Whig Party" and "Never Tuopee it Forward."

Trump declined to comment on his roller derby failure, but was rumored to adorn the rink names “The Whig Party” and “Never Tuopee it Forward.”

But as roller derby teams pop up all over the heftier states, not everyone is enthused with the sport’s increasing popularity. Long-time member of the Young Tea Party Patriots, Rick Roll, says that the sport not only threatens traditional gender roles, but also the status quo, “Young women are finding pleasure outside of the domestic and work sphere. This is dangerous to maintaining gender and economic inequality. I blame Obama Care.” Earlier this fall, TMZ reported that Roll’s ex-girlfriend left him, shunned her upper class roots, adorned the rink name “Percy Slayer,” and  joined The Maple Sizzurps, a straight-edge roller derby team based out of Vermont. TMZ aired footage of the couple arguing over how much time Slayer was spending at practice instead of with Rick Roll. TMZ insiders recorded a brunch date between Roll and boyhood friend, Mark Zuckerberg, which during Roll whined to Zuckerberg: “Before ObamaCare, the only thing that I had to offer to women was a health insurance policy. Now what do I have to offer to them?!”

After the health care law passed, Lil' Wayne publicly endorsed Vermont derby team The Sizzurps. Roll immediately defriended him on Facebook.

After the health care law passed, Lil’ Wayne publicly endorsed Vermont derby team The Sizzurps. Roll immediately defriended him on Facebook.

But tea party men aren’t the only ones threatened by women’s increasing desire to act like men. Stay-at-home mom, Freda Felcher, shares Roll’s sentiment, “Call me conventional, but wouldn’t these women rather be at home with their families, scrolling Pinterest and making cake pops?” Last week, Felcher organized a group of “domestic engineers” to protest outside of popular Joliet derby rink “Rink Wormz.” Officials were called to the scene when derby girl PM Essence spiked Felcher’s pumpkin latte to the ground. Bystanders reported that Felcher shouted at Essence, “I paid four dollars for that!”

Many roller derby girls feel that the game’s controversy is part of the sport’s allure. AnitaWaxJob said that she grew up playing “boring soccer,” in which the most exciting event of the season would be “the team lesbian wearing a thong under her uniform shorts.” Players cite several league policies that contribute to the sport’s controversy, including rules that ban players who don’t listen to the Misfits and who haven’t had at least one abnormal pap smear. During pre-season deliberations, the league’s lowest ranking team from Mendocino County (coincidentally also named “The High Rollers”) petitioned league commissioners to lessen the number of required team practices.

Mendocino's High Rollers' team captain Lady Dreadfull unsuccessfully petitioned LEZZIE to reduce the amount of required team practices. According to commissioners, Dreadfull was 25 minutes late to deliberations.

Mendocino’s High Rollers’ team captain Lady Dreadfull unsuccessfully petitioned LEZZIE to reduce the amount of required team practices. According to commissioners, Dreadfull was 25 minutes late to deliberations.

When asked how her boyfriend handles her grueling practice schedule, TwoInTheStink from Madison’s 3 time regional champion team The Slambers says “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Perhaps a more significant controversial aspect of the sport is the small legion of derby girls interested in racially diversifying the league. Ravin’ Samoan and Scar TissueLanda of Trenton, New Jersey’s derby team “Sistas with the Parts of Mistas” consider their participation in roller derby as advocating racial equality in the sport. TissueLanda says the sport was once dominated by “skinny white bitches with hipster glasses.” The two have been actively recruiting players at apparel stores Maurice’s and Dots across the country.

Scar TissueLanda's game face.

Scar TissueLanda’s game face.

Like it or not, Roller Derby participation has skyrocketed. And the jury is still out as to whether a wealthy black man is the reason why women across America are dressing up like gutter skanks and jammin’ one another.

Bottoming Out in Front of My Principal: Ununsual Side Effects From Full-Time Teaching

16 Sep

Someone once said that teachers are the guiding light for the future. Or some shit like that. If being a guiding light for the future entails forgetting to wash your hair and being the Midwest’s best drunk driver, then, children of the world and of America, look to me as your guiding light, your shore in rough seas, your whore with tough knees, your aging skank in loafers and unhemmed capris. I, yes, one of the world’s most irresponsible, non-committal femaliens, have taken a full-time teaching position in a large urban Milwaukee high school. Please, serve me my hemlock in a sifter.

For all of you unlearned chodes, the wise philosopher Socrates died from drinking hemlock. I have that same robe.

For all of you unlearned chodes, the wise philosopher Socrates died from drinking hemlock. I have that same robe.

Aside from bouts of serious self-doubt, depression, and insomnia, I have endured unusual side effects from the first two weeks of teaching. Being the aged scientist that I am, after conducting several double-blind experiments, I have ruled out chronic peyote use and Lucky Charm-ingestion as the cause of the following maladies:

1. Rancid Pee. Sure, teachers drink a lot of coffee. My jr. high social studies teacher drank coffee all day AND had braces. She was in her 60s. Of course. The only thing more foul-smelling than her breath had to have been her urine. But I’ve actually cut back. SO when my morning pee smelled like poo, I referred to the ol’ scientific method. Hypothesis: apparently when you’re working 12 hours a day for ungrateful sh*ts, you’re too busy to bust a sweat. Conclusion: a third foul smell coming from the ol’ devil’s trio.

“We’re not exactly sure where the stench is coming from. But we think that someone might’ve taken a shit in the urinal.”

2. New Fondness of Anything Country, Alternative, or “White.” Let me preface this by mentioning that I am as racist as Jesse Jackson. I voted for Obama. I still liked R. Kelly after he sang for 8 minutes about being trapped in a closet. But when your one-race student population only listens to one kind of music, you begin to dread that music- even if it makes you want to bump and grind and ride dirrty. Every time you hear a song with a little rhythm and with lyrics about love-making and paper-making, you change the channel because it reminds you of work. And you hate your job. So much that it feels good to blare Smashing Pumpkins during the commute,  even though you hate them. It feels good because you know that your students hate them too, and, like a true educator, you hate your students as well.

He may not see anything wrong with a little bump and grind or with foul-smelling urine, but I do.

3. Sore throat. In addition to starting a new full-time job, I moved into a new flat. Because the owner is too fabulous to worry about things like central air, exposed wires, front doors, and asbestos, I’m most likely dealing with the early signs of mesothelioma. It’s not enough that the old building that I slave in is probably infested with mold and that 15 year-olds like to breath on your water bottle and to sneeze with their arms flailing everywhere but over their mouths, but I get to come home to an old, falling-apart mold-trap. My sore throat may also be from screaming at kids to stop choking each other (or more likely to tighten their grip and to simultaneously swing with the other fist) or from all of the bong rips needed to get through the day. And night.

“Now kids, remember that you’re going to want to spread out all 5 fingers to get the best choke.”

4. Nightmares that trees are chasing me with gats. Yes, literacy coach, please send me yet another 50-page power point print-out of a lecture on Eco-friendly publishing presses. F*ck, are schools solely responsible for deforestation? I like to sit in the staff/printer room (to which I don’t yet have a key and have to pound on the door until some disgruntled tech teacher who doesn’t know his ABCs lets me in) and watch “educators” make thousands of copies of pictures of animated fuck-tards conjugating a verb. Because conjugation demands a visual. It is in my subconscious that redwoods and maples seek their revenge. And it is in that printer room where I printed out copies of my thesis-one for each loved one who can read. Thank you, tech teacher, for not logging out of your printer code.

Apparently, the buyers for garden stores that sell mean tree faces are laid-off teachers.

5. Resemblances to Mussolini.  Before this job, time was optional- just a mere suggestion. I’d get there when I got there. Usually via bike and powered by rum and cokes. But in a century-long battle to resemble prisons, those who work in schools cannot be laissez-faire about this subjective thing called “time.” Everything must run by it. Every student must be reminded that they have four minutes to get to their next class, one minute to finish the test, eight to run a mile, and ten years before their lives really start to suck. I’ve acclimated so well to such structure and time-keeping, that I expect the same promptness from others outside of school. So when the pizza guy delivered in 22 and not 20 minutes, of course I told him to come back for a lunch detention. A sister can learn to make them trains run. And believe me, this honkey can. I also like to grade everyone based on their performance. Apparently, screaming out “B minus for effort, C for execution” isn’t conducive to boners.

“Everyone works 8 hours. Except teachers- they work 12 hours. Because they have no sense of self. Starting Now. Go.”

6. Sci-Fi and Aliens are making much more sense. That movie where they sterilize people after having one kid. Totally makes sense now. So does China’s one-child law. And so does Mao Zedong for that matter. And Mitt Romney. Kidding with that one. Kinda.

Yes teachers, them trees that you’ve been slaying are the perfect size. You want slave wages?

7. Car Problems. Sure, flying down pot-holed side streets and alleys to avoid rush hour traffic and side-swiping garbage bins may not be the greatest for my detached muffler, but smoking a joint and texting on the main strip is way too risky. It doesn’t help my 96 Camry that I commute everyday for 40 minutes, blasting heat in the a.m. and AC in the p.m. and that I, forgetting to fill up, oftentimes run on fumes. According to staff members, it’s been “by the grace of god” that I haven’t gotten into an accident making two illegal U-turns and entering the parking lot via an exit-only to get to hell/school. Even worse, you can bet your lazy ass that when that bell rings, I will be the first outta that student parking lot (thanks, admins., for the staff lot permit, fuc*wads), weaving in and out of and cutting off new drivers who invested 5 hunnie in their Impalas’ sound systems. If getting home before 5 means having to bottom out in your Toyota with leopard print seat covers  in front of your administrators who are running around in three-piece, pin-striped suits shouting “Baby Baby” into megaphones like they’re in a music video that’s Biggie’s “Juicy” meets Too Live Crew, then a student casualty is worth it.

Coming to an urban school near you.

This work is not for me. The side effects do not match the pay-off. Even if I get to work with cool-ass chics like the one below, when people say that teaching is God’s work, I like to tell them that Jebus must’ve been a cold-ass mother fuc*ker. I’m currently and desperately scanning the help wanted ads, looking for another out. Wait for my memoir: Done Before I Started: A Quitter’s Guide to Running Through Life or Done Before I Started: A Runner’s Guide to Quitting Life.

Cool, but not enough to make me like my job.

Chigger Bites on Office Etiquette

1 Aug

The same week that I started my new office job, I got my first chigger bites. A chigger is:

A.) a wigger from Chicago

B.) a trigger-happy chicken

C.) a mite that lives in dry grass.

Because of the recent “drought” and “global warming,” driving through Southeastern Wisconsin is like going through Nevada. But with better music stations. So there’s a lot of chiggers, all A-C kinds.

Anxious to stretch my legs after our 3 week road trip, I started running again. On trails. But running is never enough to maintain my iron thighs and buns of steel. I wanted to lunge, knees in grass, and to do push-ups, palms in dirt. Apparently, I wanted to go in to my first day of office work looking like I slept in a trough of bed bugs.

Professionally trashy.

Professionally trashy.

And more important than productivity in an office is appearance. At least in the one that I’m in. Because nothing dulls the pain of realizing that you’re a glorified administrative assistant than a feminized “power suit” that U-turns the women’s liberation movement. Because in order to look professional and to appear competent, you must fool people that instead of a hairy beaver beneath your double-seamed crotch, there’s a well-coifed wiener that goes from 6 to midnight for working 9 to 5.

I walked in an hour late on the first day of my new job. Because when someone tells me “regular office hours,” I assume 9-5 not 8-4:30. But thankfully, the office manager was the first to greet my late arrival and to inform me about the real start time. But only after assessing me up and down several lengths. Because we’re in the enlightened age and appearance is still equated with competency. Because we’ve made strides to debunk superficial attire standards. Because despite my legs appearing to be white trash, the purple dress allowed direct crotchal ventilation on a 95-degree day. And that’s smart.

The extent of my office productivity has been creating a guide of what office attire signifies. I intend to save this in the office’s shared computer file and to send a department-wide memo for all employees to read it in preparation for a 2-hour long briefing. Because all 2-hour long office meetings are “brief” and absolutely necessary:

1.) A mock turtleneck: You apparently haven’t seen Dinner for Schmucks, you probably still wear a diaphragm, and you’re worried that layers will add heft to your already hefty frame.

Whatever, Uncle Eddie was cool as shit. And he could rock a dickey.

Whatever, Uncle Eddie was cool as shit. And he could rock a dickey.

2.) Square one-inch heels: You’re still in limbo regarding professional attire. Not Omarosa or Spiccoli, you find safety somewhere in the middle. And you usually end up with the left-over garlic bagel when someone gets Panera for the office. Your favorite movie is Reality Bites and your CD player constantly shifts from the Black Crows to the Cranberries. You’re not nearly as square as your heels.

3.) A power suit: You’d rather total your Mercury Sable than be seen as incompetent. The most intimacy that you’ve had in the past two years has been with your massage buddy that you cover with silk soccer shorts. Your idea of a wild night is drinking Miller 64 and listening to Steely Dan’s greatest hits. Alone. One time you were so sure that someone popped your office ball/seat that you filed a report, only to remember that you took it to the gym for your “Pilates for office workers” class.

It’s sad but true, sister: our IQs go up when we dress like dudes.

4.) Pencil skirts: You watch way too much Mad Men and believe that you can still sleep your way to the top. There’s gays at the top now. Check your memos.

“Ugh, why aren’t my tits working…”

5.) Vests: Your favorite holiday is Thanksgiving and you steal AARP magazines from waiting rooms. You call home everyday at lunch to remind your husband to take his blood pressure medication. You don’t understand power-suits. I like you.

“I’ve seen your stapler. I stole it.”

6.) Short hair and big earrings: I don’t know why you’re working here. And you don’t either. You graduated with an art history degree and your student loan payments pucker your ass. Even though you park your VW beetle in the same spot directly in view of the supervisor’s office and get a ticket every week for not having a $150 parking permit, you’re still waiting for her to give you the free pass that everyone else got. I’m the one who’s been eating your Activia.

“Ugh, is that another parking ticket. Maybe I’ll ask for the permit next week…”

7.) Simple brand shoes: On the office webpage, you list Adult Swim, indie music, and organic gardening as hobbies. You’re really looking forward to the Radiohead concert. Thanks for fixing my computer.

The dirt on these are organic. And grass-fed.

8.) Thick-shouldered tank tops. Every day. You’re going through a mid-life crisis and/or a divorce, but your boot camp classes have really helped. You know, to just like clear your mind. You haven’t talked to your 18 year-old daughter in a month and you wonder how she’s been away at college. And if she knows if it’s still cool to drink martinis. I’m jealous of the muscle tone in your arms.

“Here’s your f**king office ball.”

9.) Jeans: You don’t give no fuck. Let’s be friends.

If jeans aren't direct enough.

If jeans aren’t direct enough.

I give credit to the office workers. The competent ones anyway. The ones who actually serve a purpose. I truly don’t know how you do it every day.

And it makes me a little sad, to see you in front of the computer screen for 8 hours at a time, to see the empty frozen lunch trays spill over in the office recycling, and to watch everyone walking to their cars in the parking lot every morning and evening- the jingling of their keys louder than the birds.

Janet, Miss Jackson because I am nasty, said it: “Joni Mitchell never lies.” And  that bitch didn’t lie: they did pave paradise to put up a parking lot. The one that my car is getting ticketed in right now. Thankfully I wore my Simple shoes and can run out in time to stop the parking nazi. Briefing to come.

Look at Me, All Humanitarian and Employed and Sh*t

29 May

Guess who’s entering the world of 40-hour-work-week chumps. This slut right here:

My slut face

That’s right. Get used to that face because it’ll be ridin’ dirty around your suburb in a pimped-out caddie shouting “C.R.E.A.M.” Ya’ heard me, right after graduation, I found myself a FT job. You know how us Capricorns do: straight-edge all hopped up on no other stimulants than productivity, good deeds, and hard work. F**k yes. I can’t wait to drive to work in my ’92 Toyota Camry that my parents bought me with a steaming cup of joe that Greg’s ma made me and feel all self-made and adult. F**k yeah. Running on self-sufficiency. I’m like Bill Gates without the one-inch d**k.

I’m pretty much walking on air right now. My biggest concern is if this job’s going to disturb my shit schedule. For the past 7 years, 8 a.m. has been poop not commute time. Other than that, I’m straighter than Marcus Bachmann. As a FT AmeriCorps VISTA (Volunteer in Service to America), I’ll be making a whopping $900 a month. What’s to worry about?

I’ll be making so much green, I’ll be able to chew it and spit it back out.

Not only will I be employed FT for a year, I’ll be serving my community like I’ve always wanted to, running between The Boys and Girls Club, the Workforce Development Center, and the local college working with other successful peeps to teach youngsters how to get as blinged out as us.

Aside from my poop schedule, I have some concerns. One being if Papa Murphy’s still takes food stamps. Because I’ll be eligible for them with my new post-grad-school job. I’ve already started a list of all the things that I will buy with my new job, the first a bus pass and the second, a vaporizer.

This is what I’ll look like with my new vaporizer, walking every day to the bus stop, and living on food stamps.

As for the real concerns, there are several.

I will enjoy my new job, the partial loan repayment that comes with it, its subsequent opportunities, and its limited span. Helping people is rad, but I’m not entirely selfless. This is a major concern. I have an ego. I hope that I will still have time to stroke it via writing and working on my pecs.

Stroking my ego, working on my pecs.

VISTA positions are considered 24/7 jobs– meaning that you have to be available 24/7, like being on call. Since pagers have been disassociated from drug lords, they no longer are cool. Not to mention that being on call should violate some labor rights law.

When I was 14, and more intuitive than I am today, I wanted to live in a tent on a different beach each month. I thought that happiness was being commander of your own dinghy. I knew that people could do the same thing, and the difference was whether they were obligated to or chose to do it. I was certain that behind the value of “responsibility” were unhappy people scared of the realization that they made decisions that enslaved them. In this vow to beach hop, I very buddhistly decided not to be a slave to possessions and desires.

But can I be commander of my own dinghy having a 24/7 job?

Commanding your own dinghy.

No one would ever accuse me of a lack of work ethic. But I’m plagued by this crazy kinda critical thinking and the absurd realizations that I won’t live forever and that I’m only a minuscule part of a magnificent span of time and space. Not being able to deny these things, becoming absorbed in work or humanitarian deeds seems stupid. A hard-working hedonist, I have dedicated the past 8 years of my life to attaining a lifestyle that doesn’t require much time and responsibility. I have worked very hard to be able to work very little.

And so I wonder, being fully aware that there is no time like the present, should I have  held off for a higher paying, a more selfish, or a less time-consuming job to bask in during one of my last years as an ultra-hip twenty-something? Something like an editor of a thriving newspaper or an investigative journalist for one of the many hard-hitting news sources? Perhaps a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model?

Attempt at swimsuit model. I was going for the sandy look.

Realizing the separation between delusions of grandeur and reality is tough. To appease any right-wingers reading this, of course I am enthused just to have a job and don’t expect much pay from a govt. job. 🙂 But to the rest who happen to be critical thinkers (you heathens), really, this is what 8 years of Asperger school-focus gets me?

I’ve never been one for the money. But I have been one for the show. I do like status. And this job comes with status, just not the artsy, Mensa kind that I want and have earned with my Ivy league education and many publications. I do know that seeking jobs that have status, like jobs that are rewarding, is a privilege to those who can afford to be picky about jobs. My parents didn’t have that luxury and they worked hard so that their kids could (cue Bruce Springsteen). If my dad wasn’t laid off without a pension 2 years before retirement, I would almost say that I believe in the American Dream. But it’s a crock pot full of hot shit.

My working-class immigrant dad and entitled me, believing in the American Dream.

Another one of my absurd realizations is that even though I may live forever, others may not. And while a lot of my friends are traveling the world, searching for their true selves (that totally exists, *wink), I’m happy that this new job lets me live near my family. I used to think that I had to live in Nepal for a year to have some wondrous revelation (see Eat Pray Love). Thanks to hallucinogens, I don’t have to leave my parents’ basement to do this.

Another concern, it starts mid-July, my without-a-doubt fave time of the year. Maybe you don’t understand this if you live in a climate that is warm year-round, but being stuck inside during Wisconsin’s two nice months blows chodes. Plus, having to wear underwear when it’s hot makes me all yeasty. Having summers off is part of the reason why I thought I wanted to be a teacher. In addition to, like, helping kids.

Steamy under-carriage in July.

I now semi live by the principles that I had when I was 14. I could afford to live on my own, in a shit hole nonetheless without digital cable, but that’d require not being able to spend freely on food, booze, and hookers. I’d rather tolerate minor discomforts, like watching Greg’s dad eat a whole Kringle in a day and not gain weight, than slave to live in a studio apartment. Obviously, Greg and I are lucky to have parents that let us live with them in our “recessions homes,” but if we didn’t have this option, we’d live with a house-full of crusty losers to save on rent.

Someone crusty who I lived with.

Hesitant but happy, I’m collapsing all categories. I’ve finished my thesis and found a job. From here on out, it’ll just be musings from the dark side that occupies hedonism and humanitarianism, mania and slump. Quips from someone ruled by Saturn and its contradictions, who knows that you can only find peace within and not outside of the chaos. A post-modern in service to America, who, despite better judgement, still believes in an authentic, self-made existence. And rims as fat as my ass.

Embracing My Underemployment on May Day

1 May

Today is May Day, a.k.a. International Workers’ Day. It’s like Labor Day for the rest of the world– a commemoration of and a fight for workers rights and labor movements. A national holiday in 80 countries, it’s celebrated worldwide with marches, protests, and street festivals.

Specifically, it commemorates the 1886 Haymarket Massacre in Chicago. At this time, there was a general strike in Chicago and some peeps were holding a public assembly. Police dispersed the assembly and some crazy mo fo threw dynamite at the po po. Then the even crazier mo fo po pos opened fire, killing and injuring some peeps, including demonstrators and officers.

The massacre continued after these initial incidents. 7 German-born and one American anarchist were accused of the crime. 4 were hanged, 3 were imprisoned, and 1 killed himself in jail. The beau’s really into this stuff, evidenced by his line of Anarkhos Ale©:

And his tat of one of the martyrs.

In commemoration of May Day, I’m going to embrace my underemployment, my lack of full-time work, and what it has allowed me to do over the past year.

Spend more time with family. With flexible and part-time hours, I have more opportunities to hang out with the fam. I spent the entirety of the other day with my mom for her birthday. And she appreciated it:

Experimenting with recipes. I feel that when one grows and cooks their own food, they develop a more intimate relationship with and respect for it and nature. Because I’m not bound by a 40-hour work week, I have plenty of time to experiment with recipes that I’ve been interested in for years:

Perfecting my resume. As an English major, I tend to use a really convoluted and superfluous writing structure with lots of complex sentences, unnecessary modifiers, jargon and sometimes I use the occasional run-on but not all of the time onlywhenI’mdrunk, hashtag! But with my extra time, I’ve really been able to condense and streamline my writing. And my updated resume really reflects my progress:

Helping local youth. I do love kids. Spending time with them is invaluable both to me, them, and to my community. Every chance that I get, I love to help them with their schoolwork or to just be there as a mentor. And one way that I do this is by exposing them to really healthy and productive adults. And by playing drinking counting games with them.

Familiarizing myself with technology. What current job doesn’t require some kind of tech or computer skills? So while I apply to every full-time, part-time, and minimum wage job, in the mean time I dedicate a couple of hours each day to really familiarizing myself with current programs and applications, particularly Mac ones, of which I’ve become rather comfortable with:

So in honor of May Day, I challenge you to really embrace your un- or underemployment, as I am. Despite dire situations, I’m looking on the bright side. If my new streamlined resume won’t snatch me a job, this post certainly will.

I’m Down With O(ther) P(eople’s) P(ets): Owls Do It Doggy Style and Other Lessons Learned When Sitting

10 Apr

Because I’ve never had real responsibilities or healthy boundaries, when a friend needs someone to sit their dog, cat, house, or bunny, I’m the man. I’ve dog, house, cat, bunny, and parrot sat. (The parrot gig was more Greg’s than mine.) If “sitting” is in a job title, I can do it. And do it well.

Since I’ve also never had pets or owned a home, I’ve learned some things about houses and animals during my sitting gigs:

1. It is perfectly normal for a dishwasher to make all that noise, to steam, and to call you a “ho.”

2. If a parrot starts shedding and shrieking incredulously, they’re about to embark on one of the freakiest acts of nature. And you thought human vaginas were magical.

3. When a “heterosexual” married couple tells you to not go onto their third floor, it’s because it’s a library full of homosexual literature.

4. When you go onto that third floor (because it’s a peaceful open-minded library) and get a DVD stuck in the player, try not to let it be one that’s pothead humor.

5. That god-awful clicking noise from the water bowl means that it needs to be refilled.

6. Bunnies are the stupidest pets ever. Don’t let them out of their cages.

7. Cats’ butt holes are supposed to look like shot-out targets. Especially this one’s.

8. If an animal becomes perplexed and stares at you when you’re naked and/or breathing heavily (as in working out), it means that their owners are uptight.

9. Unless they were cooking something that left a stain like this:

10. That long, unmoving pale fish is indeed not dead. It’s just malnourished from a steady diet of everybody else’s shit.

11. Those same shitting fish are also humping fish:

12.When I drop off dogs for my dad to walk, he calls every one “Simba” not because he likes The Lion King but because he thinks they’re all my brother’s dog who has been gone for over 5 years.

13. When a friend tells you that it’s okay to dump kitty litter down the toilet, it’s not.

14. Owls do it doggy-style. Well, these Urban Outfitters ones do anyway.

Gallery Interview in J.Lo Power Suit

29 Mar

Warning: this is my fire moon. And this is what it looks like:

I’m horrible with interviews. They make me angry. First I feel embarrassed for saying such phony, cheesy sh*t, then angry– not  at myself but at the same old awkward, ineffective hiring process that is interviewing. After interviews, I usually sit in my car, parked near the lake, and rotate between slamming my hands against the wheel and my head and repeating through clenched teeth, “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

I usually stumble in wearing Payless heels, half-straightened hair, and say “um” 400 times, speaking so slowly that I sound like a 12-year-old stroke victim.

I read that people perceive slow-talkers as intelligent.

For today’s interview, with my new  J.Lo power suit (from my ma), I looked professional. Different from feeling professional. I feel professional doing a skill that I’ve honed, and let’s face it, the only skill that interviews assess is acting. 

Interviews are stupid. Aside from jobs working with the public, what relevant skills do they evaluate– how well you provide B.S. answers to “Tell me a time when you lead a group/got creative with a project/took initiative/resolved a conflict/farted in the wind.” Stupid!

The worst is “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” Well, hopefully not still working this part-time, benefit-less sh*thole job. What do they want to hear: doing your job, banging your husband/wife, and hiring cheap labor? I was asked this question when I applied at Family Video when I was 17 and again when I was 25 by a local newspaper. Really? How does a person applying for a  part-time job know where they’re going to live in 2 years or how they’re going to pay their bills in one, much less where the f**k they’re going to be in 10?

I don’t know what these people want: some cut throat Apprentice sh*t or humanitarian peace corps flunkee. Always one to do so, I just act naturally. But there’s nothing natural about contrived interviews and their questions. Give me a test. Let me teach a lesson. Watch me wax that pole. F**k asking me where I’ll be in ten years and me robotically regurgitating some bullsh*t line from Steve Jobs’ guide to being a corporate c**ksuc*er.

When I walked into the gallery interview, I felt that the soft-spoken and subdued interviewers wanted to point me in the direction of the marketing department– to the crude and unrefined gang of derelicts. Sorry I’m loud. Sorry I only know two words for “adaptive.” Sorry I have tits. Sorry that my parents didn’t read Proust, sipping Grand Marnier next to their fireplace. I’m an autodidact, bitch!

Thanks ma for the J.Lo power suit (yes it made my ass look even fatter). But this is where it ended up: slung on my passenger seat beneath Sock Grams packages. Because I’m returning that sh*t and vowing to never wear it again (thank god I left on the tags). And all those packages: done is less than an 45 mins. Interview my nut.

*The interviewees were actually very nice and this is all baseless insecurity.*