Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Look God ... I know you and I have had our differences. I bitch you out for being an insecure prick who doesn't exist... You claim I don't exist and curse me with male pattern baldness and a pretty serious drinking problem.
Our relationship works. We know where we stand with each other.
But lately, you've raised the fucking stakes, haven't you? This extreme tooth pain is a game changer. You've upped the ante ... little insecure non-existent bitch that you are.
I know I've started baiting your more misguided followers on Twitter, but calling out some closeted queer who was 'nauseated' by the five times he watched Milk is not a satisfying payback for you making my jaw swell up to the size of a dirigible.
Look ... I understand natural disasters ... sometimes you have to clear the decks of poor people to make room for all the unwanted babies you've saved from blissful non-existence.
I understand war ... You need to make your believers fight it out to see which of them "want it more". By the way, I'd like to cast my vote for the faction that don't believe in the Afghani Rape Law, but you aren't listening to me right now, are you?
Because, if you were listening to me, you wouldn't have given me this incredibly excruciating tooth pain.
I know I've had a, let's say British, attitude towards my teeth all of these years. I know I have had said in the past "May God strike me down with incredible tooth pain if I ever drink again" while hungover. I have done nothing to deserve your non-existent mercy except ...
I'm a White North American Male. Remember? I get special treatment?
If you could take this tooth pain and give it to some poor deserving bugger in Sri Lanka I'd really appreciate it.
Your (other) Nemesis,
The Aging Hipster
at 1:09 a.m.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
I've had to deal with quite a few stage mothers in the past couple of weeks. It was kind of a new experience for me and I wish I had a list of rules to follow -- much like this one I've just made. You are welcome, future generations of theatre workers. Just try to pay it forward.
1.) Never tell stage mothers -- or dance teachers, for that matter -- how creepy it is to see a nine-year-old tarted up in make-up and a short dress. They assume just because you noticed -- whether it makes your skin crawl or not -- there is something genetically wrong with you.
2.) Have plenty of Vodka, Triple Sec, and cranberry juice on hand. Stage Moms ADORE Sex and The City and love to drink Cosmopolitans. They are often single as most right-thinking husbands have left them. However, the courts being how they are:
3.) Have plenty of faux independent beer on hand for the husbands who stuck around (or feel obligated) to watch. Keith's and Rickard's Red seem to be the most popular.
4.) Never tell Stage Mothers/Gary Bettman/Dance Teachers to hurry it the Hell up because of the Crosby/Ovechkin playoff match-up. They don't appreciate the savage ballet that is Professional Ice Hockey. Instead, just pour yourself a scotch and water, no ice, and figure out how to watch it in your office. Not that I did.
5.) Always invoke the safety of their creepy, overly-sexualized child -- because someone has to. God knows, someone has to. "I'm sorry but you can't go back there. What if someone was trying get to your child? We can't let anyone back there except ushers and teachers." Promise the ushers extra hours if they try to convince the kids to wipe off the make-up and play hopscotch or jacks or whatever kids used to do.
6.) Never Let dogs in the theatre -- really this one is just for me. Really, bitch, you thought I'd let your yappy little dog into the theatre? Your Yorkeshire Terrier would really benefit from seeing your stupid, probably untalented niece dancing to Cuban Pete, or some other tired routine? I won't let a can of Coca Cola into my theatre. What makes you think I'd let you bring a yapping, pissing, shitting little dog into my realm?
I notice you did not lodge the complaint with my superiors you claimed you would. So be it.
at 12:52 a.m.