Our AC is finally fixed, but that was only after the last two weeks consisted of having the AC company come out five different times to continue to fix it and waiting a period of 4-6 business days for a part to be delivered. How the fuck can a part take that long to be delivered? I can order something from Japan that will be here tomorrow, but the piece I need to keep from sweating my ass off in 94 degree weather has to be hand-delivered by Pony Express? Was it being manufactured to order by amputees in China using only their feet?

My head hurts. And not just a headache. But a HEADACHE. It wraps around my head and won't go away, even when I sleep.

Business is slow. July's always a slow month, but it's killing me this year. I'm always stressed when our sales aren't at the level I'd like, but this is just compounding all the other shit that July's given me.

Everybody's tempers seem to be flaring. Some of the recent drama has died down, but recently it's just been nothing but people being angry and upset and frustrated and short and terse.

I feel like I don't have the time to do the hundred or so projects that I've been working on. I have an announcement for the Halloween party that I've been wanting to make for over a month, but I still have to wait on someone before I can do that, and it's very frustrating.

Everything just makes me want to punch something.

Anybody want to exchange a shitty July for a bright new shiny August?

If that didn't tantalize you with regards to my mood, just wait until tonight. For our fourth episode of "Clearly, you're retarded", Britt and I will be verbally sparring with our fleshy mouth swords at 9 PM EST on Talkshoe. The topic tonight is PORN, which is a topic very dear to my heart. C'mon and listen in - it will be fun! You can listen live online at Talkshoe.com, or download the Talkshoe application and you can chat and even call in!

The author Warren Ellis started his own message board about a year ago. It was called The Engine, and one of the underlying premises was no anonymity. Every person who had an account had to use their full name. No cute nicknames, no stupid puns - their real names. And what happened on this message board was that since everyone was actually accountable for their words, people acted civilized! It was a grand experiment, and I was sad to see it go when it got too big for him to maintain and he had to shut it down. But it makes me wonder - wouldn't the Internet be a better place if people had accountability for their words?

Anyone who's online for more than a day knows about trolls. Trolls are the lowest level of humanity on the web. They use anonymity as a shield, which makes them feel powerful and strong, and then they try to use that power to attack whomever they want. Since they have no accountability, they feel invincible, which spurs them to attack more and more. Usually they like to attack people who don't hide behind anonymity, and the more personal the attack, the better the troll feels about him or herself. And the troll needs to feel good about him or herself - they're usually filled with self-loathing. Whether they're some biker trash in Bend, Oregon, trailer trash in California, welfare trash in Massachusetts, or redneck trash in the South, they're always unhappy people with very few redeeming qualities. And they know that they're shit, too, because they have no defense for using anonymity as a weapon.

Other than trolls, though, there are plenty of valid reasons to stay anonymous online. People want to write private thoughts without worrying about being found out, or they're trying to avoid a stalker or angry ex-spouse. Or they just don't want their work to see their opinions on everything from movies to sex to life in general. I will always respect those valid reasons - it just makes sense.

I feel, however, that the very second that anonymity is used to attack someone else without repercussion or accountability, it should be forfeit. Every time I read some little idiot's personal attack on another person, it just infuriates me. It takes every effort for me not to spend the resources to find out exactly who and where they are (which can be done for the right price), then drive to their home and beat them severely with a rusty pipe. Then I'd take a picture of their broken and busted faces and post them online with all of their contact information, linking to each and every time they thought they were powerful by attacking someone anonymously. I bet they might actually learn a little maturity, responsibility, and accountability then!

Maybe I should start a company called Trollbusters. It would probably make millions!

To the idiot driving ten miles under the speed limit on a busy road.

To the twat making the ugly face at the cigarette smoke when sitting outside in the area designated for smokers.

To the Florida heat that has almost made my balls sweat off.

To the white trash mother ignoring her screaming baby in a nice restaurant.

To the rednecks with those truck nuts hanging from their bumpers.

To anyone, of either political party, who insinuates that someone likes a candidate because that person is brainwashed and can't think for themselves.

To the retard delivery guy who thinks that dropping a package is handling with care.

To anyone who is so blind as to think that all Republicans are Jesus freak morons or all Democrats are tree hugging pussies.

To Friendly's, for taking my favorite burger off of their menu.

To anyone who watched The Bill Engvall Show, Tyler Perry's House of Payne, or any show like that and keeps it on the air.

To the numbnut executives who canceled Veronica Mars, Firefly, and Angel, but think it's a good idea to bring back 90210.

To the social rejects who think extreme body modification is their way of expressing themselves.

To the lazy blogger who just writes a bunch of random one-liners instead of a real post.

To each and every one of you, I say:

Fuck you, you fucking fuckers.

So, in the movies and television, what's the deal with evil CEOs who spend all of their time in the top floor of the office building that they ostensibly own, staring out the window at the city below?

You know the type I'm talking about. They have a visitor and when the visitor walks into their huge office (an office that must be 2,000 square feet with nothing but a desk in it that has nothing on it but a lamp and a phone), they're standing at their floor-to-ceiling windows with their back to the visitor, hands clasped behind their back, and then, right as the visitor is about to say something, they say something that they think is profound.

Half the time there isn't even a fucking computer on their desk, and of course, there are never any papers or files or anything that needs to be done. They might have a wet bar on wheels so that they can pour themselves some Scotch on the rocks to drink, right in the middle of their workday.

Maybe if these guys actually did a bit of fucking work in their role as CEO, they'd be too busy to be evil. I mean, there have to be emails to respond to, department heads to meet with, decisions to make, projects to check on and things to sign. You'd think, right?

Shit, maybe I should become an evil CEO. I'd love to just turn around and stare out of my window rather than have to work until I'm falling asleep at my desk to try to make payroll because I had a salesperson who had to leave town for a family emergency. It would be awesome to have my desk completely clear and drink Scotch all day long instead of mainlining caffeine so I can feel halfway normal.

Now I just need a nemesis.

N.B.: If you haven't read The Appeal by John Grisham, and you plan on it, beware of spoilers ahead.

Have you ever read a book that made you mad? I'm not talking about non-fiction - not like a book about the Holocaust that makes you angry and sad all at the same time. I'm talking about fiction.

Have you ever read a fictitious novel about fictitious things and when you were done with that book, you wanted to punch the author in the back of the head?

John Grisham's a fairly transparent author. His good guys are good. His bad guys are bad. You can predict which way the ambivalent guys are going to go. This doesn't mean his books are poorly written, though. I thoroughly enjoy Grisham's novels. His books are fun to read because they explore legal issues, they build tension, the characters sound and feel real, and they usually examine some type of moral or ethical quandary.

But when I read this type of fiction, I'm not reading it to be depressed or to watch evil triumph. I want the bad guy to get some type of retribution. I want to live vicariously through the protagonists as they experience some type of success and vindication. It's cathartic and rewarding and it makes the hour or two spent reading his 400 page novel worthwhile.

After reading "The Appeal" (this applies to a lesser extent to "The Partner", as well), I didn't get that emotional release. I got a depressing look at corruption with absolutely zero consequences for the villainous Trudeau and no satisfaction for the Payton family. Everybody who was getting fucked throughout the book continued to get fucked. Everybody who profited from the fucking continued to profit from the fucking.

I understand that some novels aren't meant to be black and white, that they're not cheapened so that there is a happily ever after ending, that they reflect reality, not fiction. Those aren't novels for light reading. Those aren't John Grisham's disposable legal thrillers. If I wanted to read a book that had no point, I'd read non-fiction or something existentialist. I wanted to read a decent book that would keep my attention and then satisfy me with a resolution that felt like it meant something. Instead, I got fucked.

Fuck you, John Grisham. All that time I spent with your book I could have spent masturbating to donkey porn.

On a totally unrelated aside (idea stolen from Kapgar):

Go congratulate Sarcastica for winning Best Teen Blog at the 2008 Bloggies!

And in that vein, fuck Perez Hilton for stealing Best GLBT Blog from Puntabulous - Perez Hilton isn't a GLBT blog, it's a gossip blog!

And, while I'm at it, have I mentioned that I hate Dooce? Fuck her for winning anything - she is NOT a blog! Dooce.com is a series of articles about some of the most tedious subjects possible. A blog allows comments and recognizes its readers as part of an interactive environment. Fuck Dooce for winning "Best Designed". Her blog is black and white. Real fucking creative. And "Lifetime Achievement" and "Blog of the Year"? Fuck you! Dooce hasn't written a worthwhile post in at least three years. I hate her with a fiery passion. My first exclamation when I saw that was to shout, "I hope you get cancer!" (Yes, I know that's horrible and evil and dreadful and shameful. And I think she already had cancer of some sort.) Britt said that I wouldn't want that, because then she'd just get more sympathy and become even more popular. And she's right. So, instead, I just hope that she breaks her fingers and can't type for six months and all of her advertisers realize what a sham her non-blog blog is.

You fucking syphilitic little shitheads.

If I ever see your slackjawed drooling little cro-magnon faces in public, I will run you over in my car. And back up. And drive forwards. And back up. And drive forwards. And park on you, then squeal my tires and drive off. And then come back and pee on whatever's left.

Your job consists of either (a) pushing buttons on a register or (b) following simple, explicit instructions in the proper creation of a sandwich. Both of these tasks requires nothing more than the brainpower of a turd from a retarded frog. Not only should you have the cranial capacity to do your task plus carry on a conversation, chew gum, and avoid drooling, but you should also be able to do these things with a speed higher than an old man riding his Rascal down the sidewalk on his way to the liquor store.

To the poster child for abortion running the register: Fully 90% of your products involve bread. If you are out of a specific type of bread, this would be something that might be helpful to tell the customer before they order a sandwich on that bread and pay for it, expecting it to be on that bread. The same goes for bread bowls. If you don't even know if you're out of a major part of your inventory, you really should have skipped work, stayed home, and played hide the flesh pickle with your gross step-dad, okay? At least that way, only the person who deserves it would be getting fucked.

To the dead-eyed rabbit turd-brained skull-fuckee who prepares the sandwiches: It's bread, meat, tomato, dressing, lettuce, bread. That's it. You could even make a mnemonic out of it if you were having problems: Beat Me To Death. Love, Bobby. See? Your job is so easy that I'd like to attach electrodes to your little prepubescent testicles and shock you every time you take more than twelve seconds following a fucking picture diagram! In kindergarten, were you the one who just sat there and peed yourself while everyone else put the round peg in the round hole and got a gold star? Maybe it would have been better if your mom had just left you in the car with the window cracked while she ran into the casino for 8 or 9 hours to gamble away her welfare check. At least, then, you'd have a reason for the massive retardation that emanates from you in a palpable wave.

I hate you all. You make me fear for the future of society and weep at the potential for America's youth, but mainly you make me want to inject Ebola into your eyeballs. And once your face has melted off, I'm going to let the nastiest, rankest homeless man I can find with a rancid, rotting penis skullfuck you until your head actually explodes in an explosion of pus, semen, and more pus. This could have all been avoided had you just shown a modicum of intelligence, common sense, and ability to function in normal society.

Fuck you all, and may you die a fiery painful death.

Love,

Adam

P.S. My chocolate chip cookie was very good.

One of my regular blog reads is Oh, the Joys. She had a post yesterday about boys babysitting her daughter.

Here's the pertinent part of that post, quoted verbatim:

Later, after listening to me drone on about the mundane ups and downs of finding a baby sitter, a male friend said,

“Aren’t you worried about a boy babysitting your daughter?”

“What?” I said. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

He was talking about the potential abuse of my daughter.

See my innocence smashed to bits there on the floor?

Honestly, nothing like that had occurred to me.

Nothing that disgusting had even crossed my mind.

She concluded the post by asking for insight, perspective, and opinions. And you know what? Reading the comments just cemented my belief that some people are fucking morons.

I can understand a parent being hesitant about having anyone babysit, male or female. I can understand someone who had been abused feeling skittish about leaving their child alone with someone else. What I cannot understand, however, is a parent who would hire a female babysitter but refuses to even consider a male babysitter. And I saw several comments from close-minded women who have no problem making this decision. These are the type of parents who I'm sure will fill their children's heads with racist stereotypes and fearmongering.

Their reasons? Complete and utter bullshit.

Reason #1: Most molesters are men.

Well, no shit, fucknut. So are almost all rapists. And serial killers. And even murderers. This is what's known as a syllogistic fallacy. Just because men are molesters and your babysitter might be male does NOT mean that your babysitter is a molester.

Since almost all rapists are men, does this mean that you'll never let a boy date your daughter?
Since almost all serial killers are men, does this mean that you'll never let a man work with your daughter or talk to her?
Since almost all molesters are men, what happens when your girl babysitter has her boyfriend come visit?

I know! Why don't you create such an environment of fear that boys are assumed to be molesters just because they have a penis? That's an awesome idea. Why don't you just transfer all of your petty paranoia and stupidity to your children so that they're just as fucked up as you?

Here's something else to think about. If you treat someone like something that they're not, eventually they will become that something.

Reason #2: Boys are more hormonal than girls and their brains make them do strange things.

Bullfuckingshit. Find me a boy who lets his little head do the talking, and I'll show you a girl who has recently discovered that her body can convince boys to do whatever she wants. I'll speak in small words here, so see if you can follow along. The goal is to find someone who will know right from wrong even with hormones running wild. See? How hard was that?

Reason #3: Girls are more nurturing than boys.

I babysat from when I was 11 until I was 18. I was an excellent sitter. I watched boys and girls from six months old to 11-12 years old. I changed diapers, made dinner, helped with homework, put the kids to bed, and cleaned up. Some of the kids were family, some weren't. And I got asked back to be the sitter time and time again, because I was the only sitter that the parents liked. The girl sitters? Would sit on the phone all night, have their boyfriends over, and do a piss-poor job of actually taking care of the kids.

Splitting the ability to nurture and care along gender lines is the same thing as expecting all Asians to be good at math, all blacks to be good as basketball, and all Germans to be Nazis. It's a shitty perspective.

It's all about making smart decisions, not stupid fucking choices based on bad information, faulty logic, and fear. You should never assume that a girl babysitter is going to be awesome and you should never assume a boy babysitter is going to fucking molest your child. Anyone, male or female, that watches your child should be someone that you can trust, and you should do your due diligence in making sure your child is in good hands. Simply choosing to eliminate male babysitters from the equation, though, is stupid, ignorant, and sets the worst type of example for your child to follow.

In conclusion, don't be a fucking douchey cunt. The End.

**P.S. Let me say that most of the commenters were intelligent and logical and said things like "you should figure that out on a case-by-case basis". But it was the fucking idiots like Imhelendt who supported this completely illogical and irrational perspective.

**P.P.S. ARRRGGHHHHH I hate ignorant people.

Firstly, I'm feeling much better. And I have my car back!

Secondly, I'm going to talk about drivers. (No, not just slow drivers, RW. Stop yer bitchin'.)

Avitable's 10 Rules of Driving:

1. On the interstate, the left lane is called a passing lane. It's not called a driving lane! That means that you use that lane to pass slower vehicles, and if there are faster vehicles behind you, you get over and let them pass you! It's one of the simplest concepts in the world, yet nobody seems to grasp it. And I don't care if you're going 80 so you think you're going fast enough - it's not the fucking driving lane! If I'm going 110 mph, and you're going 80, I should not have to get in the right lane, go around you, and then get back in the passing lane. And yes, I'm going to cut you off when I do it. Because you're a retard.

2. Applying makeup, eating a sandwich, plucking your eyebrows, watching a movie, flipping through your CDs, using your mirror for something other than keeping an eye on the other several-ton death machines around you going at high speeds, putting on or taking off clothes, texting, or even talking on your cellphone while drinking, smoking, eating, or doing anything else - these are NOT activities you should be doing while driving. ESPECIALLY if you're going at a speed that will cause you to suffer from a case of death if you hit someone else because you're not paying proper attention.

3. When you put on your blinker, get over. Don't put your blinker on and casually slide over so that it takes you a full mile to get into the right lane. If you do that, I will share the left lane with you and make you feel like I'm going to push you into your lane. I have no problem with that, and I have no patience with idiots who can't even change lanes properly.

4. If you're going to go slow, great. If you're going to go fast, great. Whatever you're going to do, do it consistently! Staying at 55 mph, and then speeding up to 90 mph for a mile, then slowing down to 60, and so on is not only dangerous because it's unpredictable, but it's just stupid. Maintaining a consistent speed allows other drivers to anticipate your driving, which allows them to react better. Fucking spaz.

5. Don't EVER give me a dirty look because you didn't know enough to get over and I came up too quickly behind you. I was the one maintaining a constant speed in the passing lane, passing the cars as intended. You're the evolutionary throwback who has decided to get comfortable in the passing lane without checking your mirrors.

6. If you're on a motorcycle, stay the fuck off my interstate. No, I don't want to race you, and no, I don't have any problem getting right up on your ass. If you keep zipping around cars to keep up with me without using your turn signals, you're going to end up a very big stain on the pavement. And nobody is going to miss you.

7. If you're driving a big rig, just stay the fuck in the right lane. I don't care if there's a horse and buggy in the right lane going 20 mph, all you're going to do is snarl traffic and fuck everything up.

8. You don't look cool if you're slouched so far down in your car that all I can see is your stupid Cro Mag head. That means you can't see your mirrors, which means we're risking our lives with a moron who has his pants pulled halfway down wearing a wifebeater who thinks he's hot shit. And if you've tricked out your car so that it's so low to the ground that every bump causes sparks, stick to side roads where you can slow down drastically without fucking the rest of us up.

9. If you have a nice car that is meant to be driven quickly and driven well, and you're driving it like it's a Yugo, I hate you.

10. Just stay home. It will make my life easier.

Okay, so I'm writing this Monday evening to be published on Tuesday. My head still feels like someone stuffed it full of wool socks and turned the dryer on. My eyes are swollen and there's something dripping out of my nose that I can only assume is my brain.

Plus? No car yet.

Saturday morning, I bring the car into Midas to have the brakes fixed. The brake pedal was pushing all the way to the floor, so I knew it was an issue.

"It will be about 3 hours", the manager says. This makes sense - the place is packed. We say okay, and walk over to a place called Mimi's for lunch. We take our time and then walk back to Midas. It's only about two miles from our house, so Amy decides just to walk home. I decide to hang out and play with my iPhone. It is noon. I don't have to leave to go to Britt's until 7:30 that night. Plenty of time!

One o'clock rolls around. My car sits outside, lonely, pleading for someone to check her brakes and give her an oil change while she's at it.

Two o'clock. A clean, normal-looking, well adjusted, grease-free mechanic gets into my car and drives it into the bay. Oh wait, the glare of the sun was playing tricks on my eyes. He's none of those things.

Three o'clock. The wheels are off. I stroll around to the bay and see if cobwebs have managed to grow between my car and the ground yet.

Three thirty. The manager, Ron, tells me that the brakes are fine. It's actually the master cylinder that needs replacement, and that's the reason the pedal is pushing all the way to the floor like that. A quick search on my iPhone confirms that this is the possibility, so I give him the go ahead. He orders the part from one of the many part stores around here.

Four o'clock. They're actually working on it. Three of them are testing the brakes now, with one of them in the car, up in the air, pumping the brakes while the others open a valve on each brake to watch fluid arc like a wino's pee to the ground.

Four fifteen. The manager is furious. Apparently the part supplier sent them a faulty master cylinder. He calls them and tells them that he needs a new one immediately.

Five o'clock. No master cylinder yet. This Midas is supposed to close right now, but the manager assures me that they'll stay open until they fix it. One of the other mechanics walks in and informs the manager that he was waiting on a coil pack for a minivan since two and never got it, from the same part supplier. The manager calls the part supplier and says words that even made me blush.

Five thirty. Still nothing. I have memorized every sign and magazine in the waiting room. I haven't had anything to drink since noon, and I can feel a sore throat and runny nose developing.

Six o'clock. The manager calls the part supplier and gets the manager or owner on the line. He explains the situation eloquently, punctuated with "fuck" and "cocksucker" every other word. I fear that the manager's head may explode.

Six fifteen. The parts supplier shows up and delivers the coil pack. "We don't have any master cylinders for that car left", he shouts as he sprints back to the truck and drives off before the manager can kill him. The mechanic informs the manager that the coil pack they delivered is the wrong one. This time, I really think his head is going to spontaneously combust. He promises me a rental car until they can get it fixed. This Midas has a relationship with the local Enterprise which is right around the corner. He can just call them and they'll come get me.

Oh wait. They close at six on Saturdays.

Six thirty. The manager has secured a rental car at the Orlando International Airport. Which is forty fucking minutes away. And I get to ride with one of the mechanics all the way there!

Seven thirty. I get the car. I drive a million miles an hour home, pick up Amy and friends, and we head off to Britt's only an hour late.

Britt's house: She made me chicken wings! You know, that food that you have to eat with your hands? That I can't do! I gorge on brownies and pretzels instead.

To be continued once I get my fucking car . . ..

Before you get to today's post, don't forget to go into the comments of yesterday's and ask me a question!

Okay, so let's say you own a business that sells cyberskin vaginas that are warm to the touch and very realistic and almost indistinguishable from the real thing. And let's say that you're so confident in the quality of your vaginas that you actually guarantee that it's the most realistic fake vagina they'll ever feel or they get a full refund.

How frustrated would you be if you had the following telephone conversations?

One week earlier:

BRRRRIIIINNNNNGGGGG!!!!

Me: Vaginator, Inc, for the times you're in a rush for snatch you can't match. How can I help you?

Idiot Retard Dipshit with the Brains of a Cow with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (IRDBCFAS): Hi, yes. I wanted to find out more about how I can take advantage of the vaginas you have available.

Me: Well, sir, I can definitely help you with that. Have the vaginas you've been finding in the real world not met your needs?

IRDBCFAS: No, not at all. Some are stinky, some are the wrong color, and one was actually a butthole in disguise. I really need a vagina, though, and I need one fast. I really need to get myself into a nice, cozy vagina within the next eight months.

Me: No problem! Our custom vagina service, called Just Twat You're Looking For, is designed with you in mind. We'll custom-make a vagina that is perfect to your liking and fits your needs and penis like the love glove you've needed. It only takes about three weeks to create, and we offer a full, money-back guarantee if it's not vagtastic!

IRDBCFAS: Oh, that sounds wonderful! I've been trying poor substitutes, like two pieces of lettuce that I microwave, a jar of peanut butter, and three hairbrushes taped together, but nothing's been satisfying my need for a better fake vajayjay.

Me: We definitely provide the best one out there. Our cost is about $4,000, but since the government wants you to try all the pussy you can, it's tax deductible, and once again, we guarantee it! Penis happiness, we call it.

IRDBCFAS: Well, it's a lot of money, but I really need to find myself a vagina soon, or I'm out of luck. Can I think about it for a few days? I've got a meeting with two of the smelly ones and the butthole later, but I really need my own fresh, clean vagina that I can take home to my mother.

Me: Absolutely. I'll follow up in a few days. Have a vaginamazing day!

Four days later:

Me: Hi, IRDBCFAS? It's Adam from Vaginator. Just following up after we talked about your need for an excellent artificial cock box.

IRDBCFAS: Hm? Oh yeah, I remember. Sorry, but I decided to go with the butthole.

Me: You did? But I thought you wanted a vagina?

IRDBCFAS: I was a bit worried about not finding a good vagina in the next eight months, so I just went with the butthole.

Me: You do understand that I could have presented you with a freshly made vagina ready for penile gymnastics within three weeks, and I would have guaranteed your satisfaction, right? And even though you wanted a vagina, you're going to go with a butthole?

IRDBCFAS: Yeah, well, I won't go with the butthole forever. Just for a little while.

Me: But . . . but . . . I . . . you . . . vagina . . . guarantee . . . cock . . . pussy . . . retard . . . head . . . exploding . . . PLOOOOOMPH.