Thursday, September 25, 2008

Slut On The Wall

Hey peoples, what's good? I'm trying to pass along information to my women friends, women who keep complaining about other women. The problem is, they don't listen, they don't read my blog, and they don't know about my blog, so it's kind of hard to convey this information to them. I hope you pass this along to people who need it.

Men fucking love slutty women and women in slutty clothes in general. The only time I've ever heard men complain about slutty women is when that woman decides not to give THEM the pussy. They never complain about women who dress slutty, except when she's related to them. Well, there is one other time. They complain about women who dress slutty when they see them out and their wives/girlfriends are with them. Ladies, this is the oldest trick in the book. It buys them a few more minutes to look at the ass and titties while pretending to be critical of the lady's morals. It's bullshit. A man has never complained to another man about some slutty dressing woman. It doesn't happen, ever.

As much as y'all hate and despise these women for dressing and acting "loose", I need you to understand one thing. To paraphrase Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men", you want that slut on the wall, you NEED that slut on the wall. That slut is the cure for erectile dysfunction and general boredom. The memory, the ideal, of that slut is what gives that dude a hard-on when you wear that hideous flannel nightgown and giant panties with a panel in the front to bed night after night and then want to act in an amorous fashion. His ability to recall that slutty chick is the entire reason for your sex life. Whether she's in his office or working at Starbucks, that chick is almost certainly the saving grace of your fragile ass relationship.

So the next time you want to crash on some skimpily clad young nubile, take a deep breath and muster up a smile for her. You are in a symbiotic relationship. She's the other monkey picking the fleas off your monkey ass.


Wednesday, September 24, 2008

The Entire Reason I Still Love Hip Hop

Liquor and Cookies

Muthafuckas don't know that they're insane. You know they're insane, but them themselves? Not so much. I try to remember that when I'm at work, because it makes my interaction with insane people go a lot smoother. I mean, how can you get mad at someone who doesn't know better?

So, when I'm sitting at my desk trying to make sure people get their homes assessed for flood damage so that they can potentially qualify for FEMA (ha!) aid, I can ignore my secretary busting in the door like the building is on fire to ask me if I want some doughnuts somebody brought. Hell, I can even ignore the loud black receptionist who's obviously on a personal call during this mini-emergency. Well, either she's on a personal call or she's telling a resident about what the doctor found whilst fiddling around her vajayjay. It could be either one of those, right? It's not like we don't have a multi-million dollar budget and we're called to recoup half that operating budget through fees, permits, inspections and citations all of which must be handled by the receptionists. Oh, wait a minute, it IS like that!

I'm able to forgive bouts of insanity by all my staff, like my staff person who thinks it's OK for her husband to come visit her EVERY MORNING with their two small kids. Yeah, I get that you miss that smelly bitch, but EVERY MORNING? She just left home, dude!

What I'm not able to ignore is Wispy. Wispy is like the office "Glenn Close". She will not be ignored. She comes in my office squealing on everybody. She's got on a "No Snitching" t-shirt with a Ghostbusters line drawn through it. Not literally, but damn, she was tellin' on everybody. She ended her tirade by crying REAL TEARS because the other receptionists hate her. They hate her because she's better at her job than they are. I foolishly ask "It's not because they know you tell on them?" Heaven's to Betsy! No! That's not it! It's jealousy, according to the wispy one. "I was talking to them about Cloris Leachman on Dancing with The Stars and they just ignored me!" Big, huge, super teardrops started poring out then. It was amazing.

"Wispy, I can't make them like you, but anything that affects the function of this office, I'll address."

She walked out of the office crying. And I couldn't think of what I wanted more at that point to comfort me. Either (or both) would do me a world of good.


Thursday, September 18, 2008


This dumb assed person who lives here (I refuse to refer to her as my friend anymore), Agent Zero, just got a foster child in her care. The baby is really, really new. Around a week and half old. She's a single mother with two teenagers and a full time gig, so she's busy as heck. The baby is taking up a grip of her time, but somehow she's managing. She asks me if I wanna see the baby.

KZ: Uh, no.
AZ: What? Everybody wants to see the baby. Why don't you?
KZ: I don't give a fuck about a baby. Fuck a baby.
AZ: What? Are you serious or are you just pulling some ol' Detroit shit*?
KZ: I'm dead serious. I don't fuckin' like kids.
AZ: How could you not like kids?
KZ: I just don't. I don't think about it. Other people's kids are fucking irritating. And when you try to tell them about their kids, they fucking get defensive. If I can't hit 'em, I don't want 'em the fuck around me.
AZ: You don't really mean that, do you?
KZ: Really and truly.
AZ: I can't understand how anyone could not like kids.
KZ: I don't understand how anyone could not like pussy. But I'm surrounded by straight women and gay men. I don't judge y'all, I just accept that shit. That's a two-way street. Accept that I don't like kids.
AZ: You are unbelieveable. You on that Detroit shit.

Her kids are Exhibit A in why I fuckin' hate kids. Those fucking kids interrupt her constantly on the phone, beg constantly,they're irresponsible, talk back, and they're lazy fucking kids. My mother woulda kept her foot in our asses. I blame her and I hope they find another home for that baby before she's able to raise him the same way she raised those other irritating little bastards. Arrrrgggggghhhhh!!!!


*This is Satan's Anus code for being belligerent or cynical. You gotta be on some "Detroit shit" if you don't trust white people completely or if you don't take being treated second class lying down.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

A Friend To Hip Hop and Animals and Such

What up folks? It's me, Zed. Zed Zednanreh. I'm chillin' in the office today after spending yesterday driving back and forth to Detroit. I had a job interview, for the first time in many months, in a suburb of the D. It's far from my ideal gig, but it'll do in a pinch.

At the interview, they asked me several questions that I bullshitted and answered half assedly. If they offer me the job, I'll know they are quite stupid. I gave it my best shot, but I really wasn't all that prepared. You ask me specific questions about your specific problems and I have little insight to the information at hand, and you got yourself a half assed guess.

After the interview I got to eat lunch with TAD in one of my old stomping grounds. The food was good, the company was better. After that, I had to go get measured for my tux. The good news is that I went down a suit size after 10 1/2 weeks of working out 6 days a week and dieting I finally saw some tangible results.

Once again, I got to drive home and clear my head. It's not such a bad drive if gas was cheaper. It's not that bad at all.


Monday, September 08, 2008

Mildly Retarded

So Friday, we had to go on a management retreat to discuss who we are and our "feelings". This type of shit rankles me to no end. Why? Because it's really none of your gotdamn business what makes me tick. It's your business to ask me to perform a task and it's my business to perform that task. Fuck how I tick, you tick, or the gotdamn public ticks.

The job can only give me half of what makes me tick. Until the job grows a pussy, they're fucked as far as my complete satisfaction goes. Fuck them for wanting that much information. I don't want that much information from the staff I'm over. Just do what the fuck I tell you to do. I don't give a fuck about your job satisfaction, just do what the fuck I say.

Maybe I'm a little off, maybe slightly mentally deficient, but in this little barter system we have set up, I figure either I do the job I get paid for or I get replaced. Who gives a fuck as to what motivates me to perform. You gotta work to eat, as the saying goes.

Man, fuck this whole place entirely.


Wednesday, September 03, 2008

I'm Sick of These Cowards

OK, I can buy the argument that raising a teenager that has pre-marital sex and gets pregnant does not make you a bad parent. But do I extend that argument to include raising a teenager that steals, or sells dope, or even shoots people? Most people probably wouldn't, but most people didn't build a platform based on being the moral stewards of America.

Staying out of other folks' business is my second nature. Actually it's my first nature. Fuck people, in general. I guess I find irony in a group that wants to extend governments reach into people's private lives through spying and religious based edicts asking us all to keep private matters private. What the fuck is private, y'all? You don't respect privacy at all and now you want yours respected.

And just like I expected, the pussy ass Democrats, instead of smelling blood in the water, buy into this fake assed civility. "Families are off limits". Right. Just like the question of whether your dead parents were communists, or if you're letting your half brother live in squalor in Kenya, or if your wife is a bitter black radical. "Families are off limits". Priceless.

They'll be off limits until some shit happens to your family, believe me.

Be Easy,