Random Rants

Yesterday, I was tired. I was cranky. And I was in the mood to rant. Not always a good combination.

Let's start off with someone that's been bothering me ever since this year's eMpTeeVee VMA's - Puffy Puff Daddy P. Diddy whatever he's calling himself these days. I refuse to stroke this man's ego anymore by referring to him by whatever name of the month he's using to get some attention. From this point forward, he will simply be referred to as "Sean." That's the name he started out with, that's the name I'm going to use. The same goes for Marion Knight, Marshall Mathers, Curtis Jackson & Calvin Brodis. And any other actor/performer/artiste who thinks more of themselves than they probably should (I'm looking at you Tony Hall, Ms. Ciccone & Cherilyn LaPierre Bono Allman).

While we're on the topic of celebrities, I'd like to thank the Good Lord Above for the birth of Britney Spears & Kevin "look at me, I'm Britney Spears' husband!" Federlane's baby. Why, you ask? Because I was so frickin' sick of seeing pictures of her trying to wear the clothes that she wore before she was pregnant! Tight t-shirts, long skirts & cowboy boots? Ugh! Hey, Brit - here's a little tip for you, should you decide to procreate again (& I pray that you think long & hard before doing that again): quit shopping at Wet Seal & Hot Topic & try the maternity section at Sears or Wal-Mart. Please?!?

On the international rant front - Canada. I went to buy a soda from the machine this morning, thinking that I had the requisite $.90 to purchase my morning fix, only to find Queen Elizabeth staring back at me. Listen, Canada - if you want quarters that are the same size, shape & weight as American quartes, then apply for statehood. You can have all the quarters you want then. Heck, wait a few years & you'll get your own state quarter. Lousy America, Jr.

And now, a personal rant or two. First off, who was the person who thought that two days off was an adequate amount of time for a weekend? I mean, you get off Friday evening & spend the time unwinding. Saturday, you try to cram as much R&R into as possible. Then, on Sunday, you spend the day thinking about the week ahead. So, in effect, you have one decompression day evening, one carefree day & one day getting ready for Monday, followed by five days of wishing the weekend would hurry up & get here. Thanks a lot, Mr. Architect-of-the-workweek! Would a four & three workweek have killed us?

This one's directed at the guy in my apartment complex with the Harley, who feels that it's necessary to let it run for a bit before leaving & the wonderful parents from across the park who displayed their awesome parenting skills (which basically amounts to "let them run around & scream & someone else will take care of them") at The Boy's birthday party last year (which they invited themselves to), who decided to make friends with the neighbor behind me. Meaning that I get to listen to her little girl scream her head off while the mother says "Don't be too loud" in the most unconvincing manner. All of you & your ilk are the primary reasons that I want my own house.

On about a thousand acres.

In the middle of nowhere.

On Mars.

And you, Mr. LA Fitness rep, who, after being told I don't know how many times in one phone call (& about three or four before that) that we're not interested in a membership with your establishment, had the cajones to ask me, several times, "Why?", even though I told you, again, I don't know how many times that your rates were ridiculously high. You had the nerve to set up an appointment that we didn't even ask for. Please tell me - when does "How much are your membership fees?" translate into "Please set me up for an appointment without my asking & then call me incessantly, even though I told you, repeatedly, that I'm not interested"? Have the steroids shriveled your brains as well as your genitals?

Frickin' retarded musclehead.

And finally, a rant directed at the ex, who annoys me just by the fact that she breathes. Gah! What was I thinking?

There. Much better now.