Here’s the rub right off the bat, you’s guys. Cash is still valid United States currency until they take that shit away from us – oh, and they would love that because they could then monitor every…single…transaction we make in our lives, but let’s dive into that swamp of dung and dirty needles some other time. We’re not here for that. We are here to discuss one of the businesses that I continue to pay in valid United States of America currency. Greenbacks, baby. I like to see money change hands and whenever possible that is how I pay.

Spectrum…..they are in business because they have virtually no competition in the area. First of all, I thought that was fucking illegal on account of monopolies and all that jazz, but I’m sure that I’m misunderstanding all the legal mumbo jumbo that’s floating out there in the ether that is so convoluted because the goverment and corporations don’t want the average person to comprehend it. Bastards. I digress again already! Shit.

All I want to do, once a month, is enter your establishment and pay my bill. Yes, I still want to pay in cash. I pay on fucking time every fucking month and you shouldn’t be making it needlessly difficult for any of your customers to pay their motherfucking bill no matter what mode with which they choose to pay. Fuck.

Now, what happens nine out of ten times? Number one, the payment kiosk is broken and is “not accepting cash”. Really, shitheads? Because thousands and thousands of grocery stores have somehow installed tons of self checkouts that accept cash every single day and they work. They work like a charm, you dicklicks. Don’t sit there and try to tell me you’re dedicated to providing the best customer experience possible, because if you were then you would find a way to make this rudimentary technology work instead of sucking corporate balls all day, all night, and on fucking weekends.

Then there is always a line to wait for one of the two or three associates that are working. I must impress here that this is never enough people to deal with the crowd that is in the store and there is almost always at least one disgruntled customer that ends up stalking out in a huff. Not me. Those sons of bitches won’t beat me. Fuck you. It’s not the associates’ fault they are understaffed, but they also work as slowly as possible, then when a person is called up after a long wait not one of them deigns to utter something along the lines of, “Sorry for the wait today.”. They always have this attitude that they are doing you a huge favor just by being there. Again, fuck you.

On this latest trip, two people gave up and flew out while I was waiting. When it was my turn, I took out my bill and money and told the chick I just wanted to pay my bill. Would someone tell me why the hell they need ID now for a person to pay a bill? I have the bill. I brought the approriate funds. Who cares about anything else? I’m not trying to extract money. It’s not the bank, assholes.

When I asked why she needed it, she quickly informed me that she had been there for six years and they always required it and if someone else didn’t ask for it, they weren’t doing their job. Did that answer my question? Why? Why was what I asked. Not how long your dumbass policy had been in place. Fuck you. I informed her that I usually used the payment kiosk and, no, nobody had ever asked for my ID because I always had my bill with me.

“Well, that kiosk is getting removed,” this twat sniffed with satisfaction. “It doesn’t work.”

Yeah, I noticed and that’s why you get to deal with my ornery ass every single month now. This is the level of customer service here, folks. And it’s at this piss poor level because there is NO COMPETITION. If there were more internet providers, they would be forced to actually do a halfway decent job.

First world problem? Fuck yes. Could I pay another way? Not the point. Spectrum, your locations are hell on Earth and you deserve to be demolished by a comet of fire and chlamydia. Fuck you one more time.

Most sincere regards,

Ms. Snow

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To anyone who has suffered the abject inhumanity and outright, unmitigated bullcockery that is our healthcare system – this one goes out to you, special request. And I would also like to make a heartfelt dedication to that industry called “Goin’ in dry, no KY wit dis middle finger right here”.

You’ve been there. I’ve been there. Your monkey’s uncle’s midnight sneaky step-brother has been there. The doctor visit. Freaking cringe fest. Admittedly, a definite first world problem. Especially for generally healthy people, this may be more of a mild inconvenience than anything else. However, I hate inconvenience….and needlessly spending my small pile of greenbacks that were earned through an obstacle course of irritation and tolerating a gaggle of chuckleheads that would be better off lighting themselves on fucking fire. Does the doctor’s office experience feel any less infuriating when I try to remind myself that there are a multitude of poor souls in third world countries that can see their own ribs and have no access to indoor plumbing? Perspective. Nope – guess what? The scam and inefficiency of the health care industry should be considered one of the goddamned deadly sins. No, seriously, may all of your rude staff develop a condition in which their tongues forever taste of black liquorice and day old dog shit that’s been taking a bath in cheese wiz.

This might be a two parter…..yes. Because there are two different offices that are coming under fire here along with the insurance company that’s blasting my asshole without even buying me a drink.

Okay, so office number one: this was earlier in the year, but I have been galvanized to write about it now after receiving bills from the second office. They are both equally ridiculous though. I got the covid literally two days before New Year. Good thing I take amateur night off anyway. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I called my employer and took days off. I bought an antigen test and swirled my boogies up into my skull until they touched my brain. The test said negative, but that was a fucking lie. No big deal. One of the urgent care places around here was offering covid tests on the taxpayer dollar (which is also me, whatever) so I figured I’d go get tested up. No problem so far. Smooth as peanut butter. PB&J even. Raspberry. Sure.

The front desk checks me in. Cool. Waiting room time was about 20 minutes. Totally fine, still cool over here. They call me in and the male nurse man swabs around for covid and strep – my throat was fired up like had been doing some serious deep kissing with a dragon followed by a habanero chaser.

Then I wait in the little cold room for a bit. OK. The doctor comes in, feels my glands, and says the strep test was negative. Okie dokie. She was nice enough. She informed me that the covid test results would be relinquished via text message and gave me a sheet of paper instructing me to gargle with salt water and blah, blah, blah. No particular complaints about this doctor.

Here’s the rub, friends. The bill comes in the mail and some sort of diarrhea stroke wracks my whole soul. Tax payers covered the covid test. Check. Insurance covered the strep test. Checkity check. But……what the actual fuck is this right here? What is this burning my eyes as I read it? That motherfucking jizz stank urgent care charged me a $300 “new patient” fee. First of all, where do you slimy butt suckers get off charging ANYONE 3oo bones for scanning a driver’s license and insurance card, then sending them home with no treatment for their symptoms. Damn, you could have given me some Nyquil on the house or some shit! I spent more time in the waiting room than with the medical professionals. Three…hundred…dollars?! Are you friggin’ kiddin’? For 30 minutes in the building. That’s $100 every 10 minutes. The mafia doesn’t even shake people down that hard – assholes!

Then, then, my high priced health insurance company only chipped in $82 of the $300. Wow. Thanks. Good job. That’s all you can puke up after the exorbitant amount of money you collect every month? In general, I am the kind of person that has three visits a year as I am a mostly healthy and active person. One, a yearly physical. Two, a yearly gyno visit (we must keep the snatch top notch, you know). And three, the dentist. That’s it. No smoking. No heart attacks. No cancer, thank the Lord. NOTHING. Nothing else that they “pay for”.

There is a very, very specific and wretched place in hell for you health care system people and I hope the money shot squirted on your face for all eternity feels like hot tar and smells like an engorged ostrich anus.

Good day to the rest of you,

Ms. Snow

Dear Pennsylvania Lady,

Hi, Michelle. May I call you Michelle? You were on the news and you have posted about today’s topic on your Facebook page already so I feel that being on a first name basis is not insanely out of line here.

There was a truck crash on Route 54 in Pennsylvania on Saturday, January 22nd. You witnessed said crash. There were monkeys on board. We are talking dookie flinging primates that may or may not be carrying Herpes B and may or may not have a sick affinity for disco music. Sure, you didn’t know that they were triple secret CDC monkeys being transported for triple secret purposes. How could anyone know that??

I must, as a concerned citizen, question your instincts here however. In your news interview, you stated that you could not see what was in the crates, assumed it was cats for whatever reason, and went ahead to stick one of your hand digits in to probe the mystery crate. Wow. You see a vehicle lose crates all over the highway and your mind immediately goes to cats? You know what? Let’s just leave that right fucking there – because even if it was some caged up felines there remained a chance of getting scratched or bitten by some unknown animal. May I kindly lay out another set of viable options that may have been available to you?

Option 1: Drive by and forget about it. You’re an American right? Sometimes we are stone cold assholes. Not all the time, but it happens.

Option 2: Drive by and tell a friend or co-worker about the crazy shit you just witnessed.

Option 3: Drive by and call the authorities once you’re a safe distance away from the monkey truck.

Option 4: Drive by and live your best life at a Beverly Hills cop themed rave. Don’t forget your Detroit lions shirt!

Option 5: Drive by and smoke a fat blunt.

Option 6: Drive by and grab a burrito with extra sour cream, tomatoes, and volcano sauce that will create a series of interactions with spicey butthole the next morning.

Option 7: Stop when you see said accident and call the authorities right away.

Option 8: Drive by and induce violent and explosive upchucking, which will result in an ER visit and you meeting a supa-fine M.D. who is waaaaaaay out of your lane, but loves you for your personality and your ability to serve up hella pot roast.

Option 9: Drive by and hurl yourself into an estrogen-fueled shopping spree at Bath and Body Works. Buy all the candles and lotions you possibly can and experience a zen moment so powerful that a full body orgasm renders you paralyzed for the next 17 – 29 hours.

See! Behold how many different possibilities there were! So many sets of circumstances! But noooooooooo! You, in all the wisdom you could muster, decided on option number 10 – to put your car in park, frolic over, and try to make besties with a strange, caged animal.

Did you notice how many of the previous options involved driving by and not mingling with possibly diseased wildlife? Are you a zoologist or a vet? No? DON’T TOUCH THE MONKEY!

Sincerely startled,

Ms. Snow

First, a brief lead up – then a jacked up conversation that you would think involves a three year old on one end, but it really fucking doesn’t.

Fact: I am a hardcore introvert. Also a fact: I find myself around other humans quite often and most of the time it is due to my own misguided choices. Sometimes work related; sometimes other; always regrettable. Any way you slice it, it causes me great vexation. The bottom line? I witness, overhear, and experience some weird shit that sounds made up because a normal person would look at these situations and say to themselves, “People don’t act like this.”. Oh yes they do, doubtful Debbie! Have you had even a small dose of the jerks on the interwebs? Well, to the disappointment of many, they are not fictional characters. These freaks are out there in real life. Driving with their finger stuck in their left nostril up to the knuckle. Adding tragically to the gene pool. Allowed to vote. Getting in my goddamn way at the grocery store. Stop chatting with your pal right in the middle of the aisle right in front of my fucking bran flakes. MOOOOOOOVE! Literally no one else in here cares about your chronic yeast infection and the new potato chip diet you found that “just fits your lifestyle”. Fuck off.

Sorry. Went off on a tangent. With all that said, please enjoy this incredibly moronic yet undeniably non-fiction convo I had the “pleasure” of overhearing. Before you delve in, be aware that it pulverized six of my active brain cells.

Employee: “Good morning. What can we do for you?”

Customer: “Do you make a BLT?”

E: “Yes, we do.”

*It starts so normal, right?!*

C: “What’s on a BLT?”

E: *looks startled* “Um, bacon, lettuce, tomato, and mayo. Pickle on the side. Would you like a BLT?”

C: “What can I get it on?”

E: *now wearing a poker face and probably suspecting fuckery on the horizon* “Any of our breads, hardrolls, or a croissant.”

C: “Can I get cream cheese instead of mayo?”

E: “Sure. What would you like the sandwich on?”

C: “Is that common?”

E: *the poker face is starting to twitch minutely; she was right about the fuckery* “Is what common?”

C: “For people to put cream cheese on it.”

E: *eyes indicate that the murder rate in this county is about to go up* “Sir, we will make it however you like. Do you want a BLT?”

C: “No, thanks though.”

This son of a bitch didn’t even order anything. No fuckin’ diggity, you guys. Now he’s out there……making life decisions.

God help us all. Until next time,

Ms. Snow

Dear random stranger,

You were nice enough to inquire how I was doing. It was the usual daily banter between two people. Shooting the shit, if you will….which I am not proficient at in the first place and would very much like to avoid altogether, but here we are.

What I didn’t have the heart to tell you since you’re a perfect stranger and all is that current life for me is a bleak hellscape wherein resides a debilitating anxiety over my daughter starting her first job, an ex-husband that is harassing me about the hours she is working, surprise car issues – we’ll get to that on a different day, friends – and the general public sucking my soul dry through a straw of casual rudeness and award winning stupidity. Also, in the midst of pulling up my pants this morning I noticed that my underwear were inside out. Feeling so overly defeated by existence, I just left them like that.

My response to your innocuous, everyday question while knowing full well that I didn’t even possess the mental stamina to right my drawers before pulling my pants up – “Great! How are you?!” as I picture my inside out panties laughing away at my expense.

Underwear are overrated anyhow. Cheers.

Ms. Snow

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To whom it may concern,

The notion has occurred to me that I will soon be at the point of no return regarding the depth of immersion in adulthood. Of course, we all grow and change as the roller coaster of time fucks up our hair, faces, and maybe even pops a titty out of our tank tops at some unfortunate moment – I’m talking to you men here, too – put them man boobs in a shirt that holds them, for us all. My personal roller coaster needs a loop or a corkscrew or some exciting shit soon before life is more like those lame-ass booth seats on a merry go round. You can legit drink a steaming hot cup of coffee in one of those seats and never spill a drop of that scalding liquid on your mommy-daddy bits. The boredom level is terribly disconcerting considering I used to do new things all the time and travel on a fairly consistent basis. And if the government locks us down again, I’m probably just going to lay on the floor, cry, and wish I’d bought a goat…and an alpaca…and a pot-bellied pig…and a couple horses…..and a miniature pony to pull me around in a sled.

All this rambles through an already cluttered and fatigued mind while wearing my new prescription glasses, sitting on the love seat with my sewing kit open, and repairing a small hole in a pair of pants that are probably 10 years old. They hold absolutely no emotional value. I paid $8.00 for them – at a thrift store. I just do not want to shop for a new pair; they’re still good. This on its own isn’t so sad, but preceding this I found myself lackadaisically eating a bowl of bran flakes and fretting over all the news and podcasts that I watch. This came hot on the heels of a mid-day nap that needed to happen because apparently my 40 year old ass can’t handle a one hour leg day at the gym anymore. Cheese and fuckin’ crackers, man. I am officially that old person that is obsessed with fiber intake and national news. I become extremely disgruntled by loud noises or strange vehicles parking outside my house. Better not be on my lawn, bitch!

Another factor that compounds this is that much of my time is spent with young people – like, within 1-3 years of my own daughter’s age (21). Some would say that surrounding yourself with youth keeps a person youthful. I don’t know about that. Not very scientific, if you ask me. I’m exposed to a lot of modern slang and song lyrics I’ve never fucking heard before from music that I probably wouldn’t enjoy anyway – just a hunch. These things are no reflection on how I feel about the young ladies that keep me company during the week – they’re all awesome. They make me laugh; they are dependable workers; they put up with my ass grabbing, which is usually frowned upon in the workplace. They are sweet to me and to each other and I love them. But by the end of my shifts I am usually droopy, sore, and hoping I don’t have to hear the phrase “weird flex” for another 48 hours. I often have flashbacks to my teen years when my mom would just sort of nod and look at me when I said something she didn’t understand. It turns out she was going to work and asking her younger employees what the fuck I was talking about. By the grace of the interweb deities, I have the option of doing research on the urban dictionary.

So it’s super duper double not-secret official – new words, new music, and new tech generally annoy and confuse me.

Now, many people are nice enough to tell me that I don’t look much older than 30 – which is always very nice, but optics are not always reality. I do take care of myself to a reasonable degree. Diet, exercise, vitamins….the ever popular bran flakes. Yet there is no comparison between 28 year old me and 40 year old me physically….maybe even mentally. I know more information, but the acuity of whatever fires in my noggin seems to have dropped off a little. I am sore, tire more easily, and am chronically cynical and cranky.

There are probably at least another 40 good years in front of me and I have to find something that revs my engine without pissing me off soon before I end up collecting pets and sinking deeper into my healthy distrust of politicians, which will most likely develop into a detrimental case of conspiracy theories.

As ever,

Ms. Snow

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Dear fellow town person,

Did you know that sloth is one of the seven deadly sins? And even if it wasn’t, laziness is still a fairly unattractive quality in another person. Like, have you ever gazed upon a lazy individual and been all, “Oh, I bet we could dick down later after a nice beef steak dinner.”? No. By lazy, I don’t mean having one too many relaxing days at home or pushing the garbage down a little more to put off changing it until the next morning. These are relatively harmless and everyone does them from time to time. No biggie.

This particular complaint is about serious D-bag moves, man. Putting one sip of milk or any other liquid for that matter back into the fridge instead of rinsing it the fuck out and tossing it in the recycles is a fan favorite, for one. The monsters that used to return VHS tapes to the rental store without rewinding for the next customer – they are absolute sons of bitches. Why weren’t you kind? Why didn’t you rewind?? It says it right there on the video tape with a smiley face! Another fun group is the animals among us who – even to save their sorry lives – cannot seem to clean up after themselves. Are you planning on building a fucking fort with all the Gatorade bottles heaped around you or what?

The specific issue at hand is something that happened yesterday and is stuck in my head like that “Take on me” song. It was a small, but aggravating discovery by the road in front of my house. No, it wasn’t a random pile of dog shit nor a pair of overenthusiastic paranormal investigators asking over and over, “Did you hear that, bro? Did you hear that?”.

There, laying between my recycle and garbage bins, which had actually been left out an extra day – was an empty Sprite bottle. BETWEEN TWO EASILY ACCESSIBLE RECEPTACLES! The bottle on its own is nothing new. Assholes are always littering. That’s ok – I believe in karma. All kinds of karma. Tip karma. Relationship karma. Driving karma. Shit-talking karma – I’m usually a victim here and guilty all day long, twice on Sundays. And Earth karma. All you friggin’ ingrates that treat the world like a trash can….you will get yours.

So let me lay it out and make sure I’ve got it right. You were passing by. Now there is a decent amount of foot traffic on my street as it is a suburb and also right off the main road through town. Plus, there are joggers, dog walkers, the occasional high teen, etc. You were passing by; you tapped out your pop. Instead of lifting the lid of either can, you and your four buttwad brain cells decided to toss the motherfucker on the ground between them. Bravo! You are a special D-bag, huh? You yourself are a piece of trash. And your parents are trash for raising their crotch goblin without the common sense equipment to dispose of refuse properly.

Since I’m certain this isn’t your first littering offense, may the minor gods of karma smite you, you scurvy bitch.

Your friendly neighbor,

Ms. Snow

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Question: If the government was a person, how comfortable would you feel about the amount of control they can exert over your life?

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Excuse me young lady,

You! The chick walking into Planet Fitness at 12:30pm Eastern Standard Time! Oh wait, you really didn’t walk in so much as wait for me to open the door so you could glide in on your cloud of entitlement that can only be acquired by having been spoonfed to the age of six, having your ass wiped until the age of ten, and experiencing years of other humans bending over backwards for you until their heads are lodged in their buttholes. And those poor saps must either be blinded by love or suffer an inexplicable derangement – because it is hard to squeeze a skull through a tight sphincter like that. I mean, that sounds medical, right?

Here’s the scenario: I was leaving the gym; you were coming in. The door is a “push from the inside, pull from the outside” deal. We both reached for it at the same time, but as soon as you saw me, you snatched your hand back and waited. Ok, we’re still fine here…. Normally, I would push the door open, exit, then hold it for you as you entered. See – I was already going to hold the door for you out of pure common courtesy. But your bitch ass couldn’t wait. Oh no. As soon as I had that door open enough for you to squeeze in, you breezed by me, flicked your hair in my face, and said “thank you” in a tone that reflected more than a little disdain. Wow! You fucking uppity bitch.

Now, I would LOVE to be able to say that you were some trashy, ratchet-looking scab. But that would be disingenuous. You were actually very pretty. You were sleek and slim. All of your gym clothes were fresh and matched perfectly. There must have been a lot of painstaking shopping, thinking, and general coordination to assemble the all important and pristine Tuesday afternoon gym outfit. Your hair was long and dark and shiny. All those things – good for you, darling. No, I’m not kidding. Listen, I’m not one of those “older” women that glowers at young ladies and get pissed because my prime is back there somewhere. I’m 40; I’m fit; my face hasn’t been too ravaged by time since I don’t smoke, take in too much sun, or do any heavy drinking. Overall, no complaints, you know? So this isn’t about that. This is about trying to make your inside as attractive as the outside. My advice? Start small. Don’t treat strangers, or other people in general, as if they were spawned specifically to do you personal favors from sunrise to sunset.

Your shit smells, too. Don’t be a cunt.

Ms. Snow

Dear YouTube,

Here’s the deal – I will never, EVER, purchase your ad free version. Do you know why? Let’s elucidate, bitch. My people are the Gen X-ers. Now, you may have forgotten we exist. We tend to hang back. Our voices aren’t particularly loud compared to the millenials and the Gen Z pack. But, make no mistake, cupcake, we’re here. We consume just like everyone else.

Now, here’s the rub. Many of us have this obscure thing called patience. So weird, right?! We grew up in a time when not everything was instant. In fact, we were the ones that got to watch as technology grew at an almost sickening pace. The very first time I personally went on the internet was at the tender age of 17 – and it wasn’t even to do anything fun like chat or play a game – it was to research colleges. Was chat available in 1997? No idea. Wait, I digress already.

Back to the ads. See, when I was growing up waiting for shit was just a fact of life. There were two options for radio – AM and FM. AM was all talk radio – I suppose the podcasts of the day, but nowhere near as entertaining. Mostly for stodgy old adults, blah! So what did the young people have? FM radio, records, cassette tapes, and eventually CDs. I didn’t see an MP3 player until I was a young adult. Do they still make those little mothers? 8 tracks were out by my time thankfully. We also had MTV and VH1 – there were only two music stations and yes, they mostly ONLY played music.

THE POINT we’re getting to here is that there was no skipping ads. You wanted to hear your favorite song? Oh ok. Either buy it or – and this is the fun option – if you didn’t have a whole lotta cheddar laying around, you sit there and …………WAIT. Yes, you waited through 3-7 commercials. Sometimes waiting for your favorite song meant HOURS of your time. I mean, you could get really ambitious – many of us did – and grab a blank cassette, put it in the stereo, and sit there with your fingers hovering over the record and play buttons until that jam came on. Lightning quick, you gotta smash both those buttons down at the same time and try not to cut off the beginning of the song. Also pray like hell that the motherfucking DJ isn’t talking when it starts playing. Why do they do that? My music enjoyment is serious business over here.

Adding to this situation was the fact that I had the kind of mother that wouldn’t let me get Mario 3 until I beat the first Mario Brothers – the one that came in the box with your new Nintendo system. Also, fuck that Duck Hunt dog. I will shoot you in your stupid, giggling face one thousand times! And that’s how it went. If I wanted a new game, I had to beat one I already owned. Do you know what kind of mind that cultivates?? The kind that can sit through two stupid ads on your platform before each video. Your game is weak and I can dunk on you all damn day, pussy.

As ever,

Ms. Snow

Dear fellow grocery shopper,

It has come to my attention that your time is extremely valuable. This absolutely must be the case since the cart you’ve been surreptitiously inching forward is now crammed into my ass and I’m sorry to break it to ya, but I don’t do that kind of porno. Also, you appear to be practically foaming at the mouth to start your transaction.

When I turned to let you know that I was going as quickly as possible – after all, there is a short series of events that must occur before one can leave with their groceries – you mumbled that you were sorry. But you made no move to retract the would be colonoscopy from my backside so I don’t think I believe you. May that box of double frosted banana cakes you’ve chosen be the final nail in your diabetes coffin, you impatient bag of fuck.

I declare fisticuffs in the parking lot.

Ms. Snow

Dear weather people,

No, not meteorologists. Not those quasi-attractive men and women, their blinding white teeth gleaming while they spew half truths through an ultra chipper filter that belongs on some children’s network. Those liars are another story entirely. It’s barely a real job – there, I fucking said it.

The weather people – those humans in our midst who must talk, complain, and fixate on the varying activity of our atmosphere. Listen, the weather is gonna motherfuckin’ weather. Okay? Unless a fiery tornado of death fueled by the flatulence of 376 wild Florida hogs is about to touch down in my town and wreak havoc on my Aliens/Predator movie collections – guess how many fucks I’m gonna give about the drizzle coming at us. Not only will I NOT give a fuck, I just might try to steal some extra fucks from the Miller smelling, ripped jeans guy down at the gas station. I need to assemble more fucks into my arsenal of fuckery to cope with your weather related drivel.

Cheese and fuckin’ crackers, kids. The conversation yesterday legit went a little something like this….

Weather person: “Can you believe all this rain?”

Me: “Uh, yeah.”

WP: “Can we get one nice day?”

Me: “It makes things grow. Stop complaining.”

WP: “It would just be nice to get some sun, you know.”

Me: “Well, you could go move to Seattle or the UK or somewhere it rains all the time and it would be a lot worse.”

WP: “What about California with all the sun and fast cars and girls?”

Me: “Oh yeah – and with the droughts, wild fires, earthquakes, and mudslides. Not to mention their sketchy government out there.”

WP: *blank stare*

God, please help me.

Ms. Snow

Just to preface this extremely short blurb – I am half deaf. I’m not joking. There is seriously something wrong with my hearing, probably stemming from countless childhood ear infections. People talk to to me all the time and 1 of 3 things happens – 1. I don’t hear a damn thing they say. 2. I hear what they are telling me – about 50% accuracy here. 3. I hear them say words, but not the ones that my botched ears have filtered through. So with that said –

~A friend of mine announced that she was going to get her car detailed when she went home, but I heard “I’m making party dough when I get home.”. And now I’m sad that there’s no fucking party dough. Does it or does it not sound fucking delicious?~

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~This morning I found a little piece of chicken tender on my upstairs bathroom sink. Finally, a reason to hire a private detective.~

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Dear fellow cell phone user,

Are you aware that there are moments in life when having that magical little gadget super glued to your ear isn’t only inappropriate, it’s rude to everyone around you? It’s like ripping a long, juicy, fart with a whole lotta bass right in the middle of a grocery store aisle while you’re shopping for cereal alongside Mrs. Johnston and her three small kids and their grandmother. You CAN do it, but SHOULD you wait? Yeah, that would be the most respectable thing to do. There is a time and place for everything, as the saying goes. While cell phone use is not highly recommended while driving, welding, base jumping, skunk hunting, or experiencing spicy butt hole diarrhea – it is also super uncool to burden strangers around you with whatever bullshit is happening on the other side of that device. Once you exit your home and arrive at a place of business, you are now in what we call “public”. Out in public, there are other “people”. WOW!

Now you’ve entered a business, a food establishment to be more precise. There is a line. There are about 5-7 employees behind the counter and these girls are all busting a move like Young M.C. The line is moving, but it’s still backed up to the door as new people continue to filter in. As customers, this is where WE come in to help move it all along a little faster – have your shit together when it’s your turn! Ah, and here we go. Okay, sir, go for it. Let’s rock and roll so we can all get about our lives.

And this is where we hit a streak of shit and it all slides sideways.

The chick at the counter has her gloves on and she asks what she can get for you. You have a paper in one hand – presumably a list – and a phone surgically attached to your outer ear. You paused your conversation for half a second to tell her a dozen bagels. What a prince! It takes her another half a second to grab the bag.

“What kind?”

And then…the finger.

No, you didn’t flip her the bird. You, you fucktard, at the head of a long line have the freaking nerve to put up the “hold on a sec” index finger. Holy fuckity shit, friend, if laser beams could have shot out of that lady’s eyes and struck you through the chest, I think she would have done it. Her body language suggests that she might just drag you out to the parking lot and roll your self important ass in front of everybody. She’s probably 5’4″ and a buck thirty, but she could most likely take your 6’2″ soft handshake bitch ass to the cleaners. And if she doesn’t do it, one of us might. Get your crap in order, sir! We are all trying to get somewhere! Perhaps we could just smash your orbital bone with that mini computer you are so fond of having attached to your face.

Finally, you end your conversation and read off the list. It doesn’t even equal a dozen bagels and you seem baffled by this. Now you have to choose 3 more bagels and it only takes you 17 years! Cheese and crackers! So not only are you a rude fuck, you are a stupid fuck. Got it.

Sir, I think I speak for every person in line behind you and probably a multitude of service workers you’ve pissed off over the years when I say, may you go suffer the first fatal case of herpes in the history of the world and perish alone with the phone that is apparently more important than literally all the real life that is happening around you.

So very sincerely,

Ms. Snow