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Today in Wingnuttery: Get on the (Canadian) Bus

The Patriots© at Glenn Beck’s The Blaze have uncovered a grave scandal in the Obama administration. Actually, they copied a story word for word from The New York Post, but taking the time to write up your own summary is socialism, so what the hell. Anyway, Nobama has once again proven to be a treacherous enemy of America by purchasing a tour bus that was made in socialist Canada!

Actually,  The Post story admits that only the shell of the bus was manufactured in Canada. The interior was customized and the bus was sold to Secret Service in 2010 by Hemphill Brothers Coach Company, which is located in freedom-loving Tennessee. A (presumably) annoyed spokesperson for the Secret Service points out that the buses meet specific requirements to protect candidates and may even be used to transport the 2012 Republican nominee.
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The Fall

This spill…was special.

I knew I was in trouble after I’d spent ten minutes crawling around on concrete in the 25 degree weather, in the icy breeze blowing off the lake, looking for a tooth that may, at one time, have been in my mouth, without success.   The part of brain not in crisis mode and still well-acquainted with my Girl Scout training said, “Say, I understand you’re concerned about spitting out mouthfuls of blood but do you think you should still be on the ground in icy weather when you might be going into shock? I mean, don’t you think your dentist could just make you a new tooth, if need be?” This is the part of my brain that likes to sprawl on a ledge overseeing the panic neurons as it relaxes with a glass of Riesling.

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Back In Black

If you were a betting type, you could invite me to a social event and be certain I’ll show up in black.   I have worn black almost exclusively for the last two decades, ever since escaping from my parents’ home.   I almost bought a black wedding dress.

I was not tapped by the beauty fairy with her magical wand of loveliness.   I’ve always leaned toward the chubby. I have a round face, with a soft jawline.  My hair is thick and frizzy, reminiscent of a dandelion in July.

In school, I longed to slip away from elementary society and find a nice corner in which to read, rather than present my bulk for bullying to my classmates.  This was not okay for my social butterfly mother, who wanted her daughters to sparkle and not take after her introvert husband in any way.  I was forced into tap dance lessons, led by a man called Mr. Bill who adored costumes so bright they could be seen from Venus.  My mother loved neon pink shirts and teal pants and anything that deposited a kitten or a puppy on my early-developing chest.

We really entered the canyon of horror when my mother, who never trained or worked as a hair stylist, thought it would be a fine idea to perm my hair.   I wound up spending several years with burns on my neck and scalp, and being the only Irish Catholic girl in school with an Afro.  Even the parochial school uniform didn’t give me a chance to blend in with that hair.

One of my most vivid school memories is showing up for a field trip in a lime-green tennis dress – with matching shorts!  The top was too tight, as my mother refused to believe her baby was developing, making my panic-attack breathing even harder to pull off.

Things descended in high school, where the fashion stakes were raised.  I observed, like Margaret Mead, other girls actually going to the mall to buy their own clothes.  They picked them out!   By themselves!  I was given a pink button-down shirt – even the collar buttoned down – to wear with purple corduroy pants and a purple sweater vest.   That earned me the title of Grape Ape.  I was given a weird stretch knit unitard item, styled with a turtleneck and wide green stripes across the chest, which really did wonders for my D-cups.  My mother was like a mad scientist, cruising K-Mart and Bradlees and Sears for clothes:  More polyester! More ruffles!  More flowers!  More stripes!  Ooooh! Polka dots!

Years after my escape, years after I started earning my own money and doing my own shopping,  filling my closet with black sweaters, and skirts, and boots, and tights, my mother was still giving me hideous bright clothing, trying to lure me into her toxic rainbow.  On my 25th birthday, I opened a box of pink flowers, meant to be worn as a shirt.  My grandmother could take no more.  “Noreen,” she said to my mother, taking a long drag on her Tarryton 100s, “she doesn’t wear that shit, for Chrissakes.  Give her money.”

Now, I dip my toe into the color pool every now and then.  At the age of 37, I have purchased a purple dress.  And a blue one!  Even though my husband tells me I look beautiful in color, I feel  gigantic and swollen in color, like I’m lumbering through my day.  I can’t shake that girl in the lime-green dress, and how she felt, and how she yearned for a dark suit of armor.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fSEjlLQcRY

It’s Never Too Late To Deliver the Perfect Retort

The situation happens faster than you can blink; someone says something or does something so awful to you that you freeze in shock, anger, or both. Much as Betty eloquently described, your face turns red, you feel that hot embarrassment flush across your face, and you mutter some quick reply and the situation dissipates and the moment is over.

Hours later, or even minutes later, the perfect retort comes to your mind. You want to run back and find the insensitive prick that insulted you, mocked you, or annoyed you, and shout at them your perfectly formed, scathing, ego-bruising remark. Unfortunately, they are long gone.

Here is your chance, fellow Crasstalkers, to join me in “What I Wanted to Say.” Below are some situations in the past couple of months that have truly annoyed me (some less than others), and what I wanted to say:

To the Girl Who Always Takes My Spot at Gym Class

I hate you. I put my water bottle down, I go get my step, and I come back and you are a foot away from my spot. Do you not see my water bottle there? Why are you so rude? Why can’t you just have basic gym etiquette like the rest of humanity and respect the water bottle markage? What do I have to do? Pee on my spot? Please go away.

What I Wanted to Say: “Hey, I was here first. That’s my water bottle. (Bitch)”

What I Actually Said: Give a dirty look (that she doesn’t catch) and move my spot.

To the Girl Who Told Me “This Is My Seat.”

I hate you too. I’m sure this is your seat – IN THE FOLLOWING CLASS. I’m sorry I take too long for you, princess, to gather up my belongings and move my rotten ass out of the way, but I’m SLOW, okay? And not just MENTALLY. Please, just stand there an extra thirty seconds, and I promise I will be out of your way.

What I Wanted to Say: “Great, BITCH.”

What I Actually Said: “I’m in the previous class. I’ll be out of your way in a second, honey.”

To My Mother Who Made Me Feel Like Shit For Being Financially Irresponsible

Mom, I’m sorry I have no money management skills and have no money to pay for my cell phone bill right now. You’re right – if you weren’t paying it, it would be turned off. You’re right, I did buy a new dress for my friend’s engagement party. No, I shouldn’t have charged on my credit card. Yes, you are enabling me.

What I Wanted to Say: “When you said you would support me no matter what my decision was regarding law school, I guess that didn’t mean financially.”

What I Actually Said: I left and went back to my apartment in NYC instead of talking about it.

To the Hot Boy That Returned My Cell Phone

This guy found my cell phone, hung up signs around the school until I saw them, and then gave me my cell phone back. He was also smoking hot. Did I take this opportunity to form a connection with another human being in law school? Absolutely not.

What I Wanted To Say: “Hey, thanks! Where did you find it? Do we have any classes together? We should get together some time and study. And bone. Either or! Call me!”

What I Actually Said: “Thanks so much! I didn’t even know I lost it.” (truth)

To the Dumb Sales Guy at Lush Who Said “Oh my GOD I love your BAG!”

Hey, buddy. Relax. I’m going to buy some bubble bath, don’t worry about your sale. The bag is hideous, and it’s a typical black tourist bag with “Amsterdam” written over it. I’m pretty sure they have them in Times Square and they say “New York City “ all over them. Mine is not any prettier than those. Please cut the phony sales routine and give me my damn bubble bath.

What I wanted to Say: “Thank you!”

What I Actually Said: “Thank you!” – after all, it’s a compliment, no matter how phony, no need to be excessively rude.

To My Leasing Agent Who Said You’d Take Care of My Broken Mirror

You said that the super would come fix my mirror a month ago. Nothing has happened, and my mirror is still cracked. When it shatters and I cut my foot on glass, I will have malformed feet and I will sue you for pain and suffering. I will theoretically also not be able to practice my future career, and will request compensation for that as well.

What I Wanted To Say: “Dear Rude Ass, my mirror is still broken and I have no fucking hot water in my kitchen except on random weekend mornings. Can someone please fucking fix this so I don’t have crusty ass dishes?”

What I Actually Said: Nothing. I’ve had to call the super twice, once to let me in after I locked myself out of my apartment, and once to turn my oven off when I left it on and went back to Long Island for the weekend. I feel like I’ve used my quota up.

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Okay! Now your turn! Share your most infuriating story in the comments below, and tell us what you said – and what you really wanted to say. Or, if you’re one of those people who never hold back, give us your best retort – tell us about the time you put that douche bag right in his place – and be sure to describe in detail your smug satisfaction for all of us to take vicarious joy in.

Bad Country Music Wars

Last week, we had a battle battle for Light Rock supremacy here at Crasstalk. After the dust settled and the weak were vanquished, it was suggested that our next battle involve both kinds of music.

So here you go warriors. Let the battle of the cheesy and terrible begin. Here are a couple to get you started.

Let’s mix in some obligatory patriotism.

This is why I never tell people I grew up in Nebraska.

All right warriors, you know what to do. May God have mercy upon your soul.