In a world fraught with Minotaurs (especially Minotaurs who make ill-advised threats to a certain Angry Black Lady not knowing that said Angry Black Lady will cut you, your minotaur, and your minotaur’s mom), sometimes you need to watch Brian Cox teach a little kid the “To be or no to be” soliloquy from Hamlet. Only then do you know that all is right with the world.
***All British kids are named Oliver Twist, aren’t they?
(H/T Lily!)
Posted in Celebrity Shenanigans
Tagged Brian Cox, British stuff, cute shit, Hamlet, kids, The Minotaur
All this Minotaur-activity has got me all riled up. She is pissing me off. I really do not understand how something so small can make so much fucking noise. The only thing that is masking her stomping is Wu Tang Clan cranked up to eleven. Every time she moves, I crank it up. Not like I expect her to make the connection since she clearly has no idea that she is so goddamn heavy-footed. I’ve talked to her about it. She seems apologetic, but short of going up there and saying, “Excuse me, but you are walking ALL WRONG!” I’m going to have to wait until the landlord makes it rain over her heavy-footed ass. She’s supposed to get carpet. Biebs help her if she doesn’t get carpet. This shit is bananas.
Oh, I think she’s listening to Morrissey. Pffft. I love Morrissey and the Smiths, don’t get me wrong. But Morrissey vs. Method Man? Ninja, please.
At any rate, if you can’t tell, I’m losing my mind a little. It’s almost three and I haven’t eaten yet. I’ve just been yelling at the ceiling all day. I figure if I’m going to continue yelling at the ceiling well into the night, I’m going to need energy. So I just ordered a pizza and a pear and gorgonzola salad for lunch from Z Pizza. Yum.
But, I have a question: What is the deal with people who can’t write down 10-16 numbers without interrupting each set of numbers with “uh-huh.”
Looky here. If you call me to give me a phone number, just give me the damn phone number. All ten numbers. I can take it. Whatever is going to come out of your mouth can only be one of ten digits and I’m pretty familiar with those numbers. So, I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever you’re planning to throw my way. You want me to write down a 7 and then a 9 and then 2? Done. I can do that. Or, a 593 and then a 3398? Easy peasy. All I ask in return is that when I am calling you and ready to tell you what my phone number and/or credit card number is, is that you fucking keep up!
Is there anything more annoying (besides lots of other things) than starting to give your phone number — straight through with no pauses — and having the person on the other end of the line say, “uh-huh” right after you’ve given your area code and are charging through, well into the first three digits of your actual phone number? And then what happens? You have to go back and say the numbers again because the stupid person on the phone was too busy saying “uh-huh” to be able to hear what you were saying. Hey person! QUIT TALKING OVER ME. I’M GIVING YOU MY PHONE NUMBER HERE.
And sometimes, something worse happens. The person on the phone says “uh-huh,” thereby establishing “uh-huh” precedent. So after you’ve backtracked and restated the first three digits of your actual phone number, you pause, waiting for the inevitable “uh-huh.” BUT IT NEVER COMES. Because this person is now trying to adapt to your “uh-huh”-lessness.
It’s madness. This is how entire civilizations have broken down.
Even worse than the senseless “uh-huh”-ing is when the person repeats everything you say. Hey buddy, I’ll just give you the numbers, and at the end, you can repeat them back to me if you really aren’t confident in your abilities as a scrivener. In the meantime? Shut your yapper.
We need a streamlined system. Maybe there needs to be some sort of negotiation beforehand. “Listen, I want to order a pizza, but before we get into this, I need to know one thing: Are you going to fucking interrupt me with every set of telephone or credit card numbers I give you? Or can you handle writing down a series of no more than 16 numbers without interrupting me? I just want to know what I’m getting into here.”
You all know about my fucking Minotaur problem. I won’t shut up about it. Well, this morning, I awoke to SILENCE because the Minotaur is out of town until Thursday, and then it is apparently going on vacation to Minotaur Island to get some hot grunty Minotaur lovin’.
Needless to say, I’ve been happier than Sarah Palin at a wolf-hunting convention. Seriously y’all. I hate waking up in the morning. Every morning that I have to wake up before 8:30 a.m. is the worst day of my life. I’m not even kidding.
Luckily, I have worked for my bosses for going on 6 years now, so they have become accustomed to me showing up at work no earlier then 10 a.m. (unless I have a court appearance) and receiving emails and documents from me at three in the morning. That’s just how I roll, son.
I’ve got the insomnia, and I’ve got it bad. I love the nightlife… I like to boogie–first person to name the movie reference will be added to my list of People Not to Set on Fire–and I get most of my best work done between the hours of 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. I sleep on average about 5 or 6 hours a night. I need a good big sleep once every couple of weeks, but for me, a big sleep is 8 hours…maybe 9. Sleep is dumb. Who needs sleep? You can sleep when you’re dead.
Considering my hatred of waking up in the morning, you can imagine what it must be like for me to wake up to the cloppity clop of the Minotaur. It’s like being woken up by the sound of heavy artillery fire. I wake up in a panic, like “What the fuck is going on!?!?” It’s not the best way to start one’s day, is what I’m saying.
But the Minotaur has been so silent lately, I’d almost forgotten it existed. It’s been glooooorious!
So this morning, I woke up at the crack of 9 a.m. (after having worked until 2:30 a.m., thankyouverymuch) and started puttering around the house getting ready for work. Suddenly, my doorbell rang. Of course Nate Dogg started barking like Mad Dog 20/20. So I peek out the window and see the postman walking away. He didn’t even ring twice! What an asshole. The postman always rings twice. Them’s the rules.
So I open the door thinking it would be a package from Amazon containing my friend Ernessa T. Carter’s book, 32 Candles, but it wasn’t. I’m not going to say what it was was better–I’m pretty sure that Ernessa’s book is going to fucking rock–but it was pretty exciting! I never get random packages from people. Well, rarely. A couple close friends have sent me bacon salts, packages of cheese, and Baconnaise. (You know who you are — ::cough lisaandcait cough::) But this package wasn’t from them. It was from one of my readers! (And my real estate agent***, except not really because before I could get to the whole “I’m going to buy a condo thing,” I lost my mind and had to go on medical leave. Let’s call her a friend and an Angry Black Reader.)
So I open up the package, and there’s another package inside, all wrapped in birthday paper! “What the..?” I thought. I so rarely get birthday presents–I couldn’t get my ex-boyfriend to even acknowledge my birthday, or any holiday for that matter. He thought it was contrarian and cool. (He was mistaken; it’s actually obnoxious and dooshy… but I digress.) Furthermore, I almost never get presents sent to me in the mail! All wrapped up and pretty like! (Hey, I’m not complaining. All the birthday presents I dole out tend to be gift certificates or “hey, let me take you out to dinner” cop-outs.)
Anyway, here was this perfectly nice woman from whom I did not buy a condo, sending me a birthday present a full week before my birthday! YAY! Eagerly, I opened the package… and then I died right in my own face of the laughter:
Posted in I Am Batshit Insane, I Heart Ye, Kick Ass, Personal Tales
Tagged birthday, cakes, Legos, minotaur, Nate Dogg, people who are not asshats, The Minotaur
Sometimes my friends ask me to write crap for them. Evites. Sassy letters. Emails. Last wills and testaments — well, just the one time. The probate lawyer deemed it invalid… just because it said, “I bequeath all my shit to Angry Black Lady. The rest of y’all get bupkis.” Whatever.
Moving on… This week, I wrote an evite for my friend’s birthday. The party was last night; it was a hoot. I think. There was tequila involved. I don’t really know. Why are you asking so many questions? I said I don’t know!
But back to the point of this post: This is the text of the evite. I’m posting it here for posterity. And for my posterior.
ANGRY BLACK LADY PRESENTS L—- J—-’S BIRTHDAY
Hot diggity damn, y’all! It’s LJ’s birthday. She’s turning 24. Or maybe 23. I don’t know. I don’t care. All I know is that she’s young as fuck. She grew up in the age of Britney and ‘N Sync. I grew up in the age of NKOTB and Vanilla Ice. She had a cell phone at age 16. I was using a rotary phone at 16. She’s a happy white girl. I’m an angry black lady. She has her entire life ahead of her; I broke my hip while writing this sentence. She’s from Tennessee and has a sweet southern disposition. I’m from Philly and will set you on fire.
LJ is the shit. She’s the jam. She’s so hardcore, she’ll drink the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle, regurgitate it, and then eat it again. Her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. I don’t think you’re ready for her jelly. She’s like a fresh bag of Skittles — open her up and taste the fucking rainbow.
Come to LJ’s party. Don’t be an asshat. Do it. Don’t make me come over there.
Bring your friends. Bring your friends’ friends. Bring that guy friend of yours whose peen you’ve always admired from afar. Bring that girl whose vagine you’ve yearned to touch. That guy you met at Canter’s at 3 a.m.? Bring him. If all goes as planned, everyone will get laid. Or arrested. Or laid and then arrested.
The shit is going down on Friday night. And when the shit goes down, you better be ready. So get ready, motherfuckers.
If you can’t come she’ll understand. She’s nice like that; she’ll say a little prayer for you and keep right on guzzling tequila. But me? I will kill your face.
So, if you’re not coming, start running. I’m charging my flamethrower.
Here’s another invitation that I wrote a couple of years ago for a joint birthday party for me and my friend HNK:
Posted in I Am Batshit Insane, Miscellany, Personal Tales
Tagged Angry Black Lady, birthday, Cypress Hill 101, fire, minotaur, parties, The Minotaur
I haz the sads
The woman above me who just moved in a few weeks ago is extremely heavy footed. She’s a thin woman. But she clearly does not trip gaily on the balls of her feet. She aggressively thunders across the floor on the heels of her feet. The heels of her feet? That sounds weird. Whatever. You get my drift.
The guy who used to live above me was heavy footed too but he didn’t move around a whole lot, and there was carpet. Oh, sweet delicious carpet. But the landlord ripped up the carpet when my ex-neighbor moved out. Goodbye fair carpet. We hardly knew ye. Hello thunderous fucking noise that makes my apartment shake and enragens me. Yeah, I just made that word up. I make the rules around here.
Anyway, this is hilarious. From Best of Craigslist:
To the Minotaur that lives above me.
