Wednesday, October 13, 2004

pls hlp im very ded nd i need hlp

I named my blog after this because of its great importance. Please do the right thing with this one! It only takes a few seconds of your time to forward this, three times, to everyone you've ever known.

From: "ihavenohead" headless@hotmail.com
To: havingbabiesforeva@hotmail.com, poptartsarecows@hotmail.com, ihatemoney@hotmail.com, carsrunoverhats@hotmail.com, no-one_likes_me@hotmail.com, foam4eva!@hotmail.com, hitler_is_my_brudder@hotmail.com, dead_people_make_love@hotmail.com, cats_are_pretty_obvious@hotmail.com, kites_suxx@hotmail.com, my_mums_a_preying_mantis@hotmail.com,i_was_born_a_lesbian@hotmail.com,
rabbit_shat_on_my_mom@hotmail.com, Cats_smell_like_butter@hotmail.com, catz_at_hotmail_suxx@hotmail.com, i_smoke_pot_nd_im_a_retard@hotmail.com, caroline_is_obese@hotmail.com, genatels_of_moms@hotmail.com, k?k@hotmail.com, 10x_for_fet@hotmail.com, dancing_queer_monkey@hotmail.com, i_am_a_cool_demon_who_kills_babies@hotmail.com, fantasy_dragon_farting_princess@hotmail.com, ghengis_khan_killed_flys@hotmail.com, i_sell_porn_for_sex@hotmail.com, sex_is_monkey@hotmail.com, rockpile_for_sperm@hotmail.com, stephen_is_annoying_my_dog@hotmail.com, carlkurmi_is_ghey@hotmail.com, sour_hairballz@hotmail.com
Subject: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: k
Date: Sat, 18 Sep 2012 11:56:24 +0200
+954655437-76548-765470

pls,



this kid


is a poor child


who is dying

of toe cancer,


he gains



1 hitpoint evry e-mail


that is sent


send dis 2 all of



yor frnds and he will sur5,



if you dnt, he will die




10q


ps: you will die if you ignore this


PS from me (anya): the picture of him doesn't come out on here, and it's just a drawing of him that someone did, but he looks pretty bad.

The WinCo cake - not very interesting (as Rob would say)

For my parents' 40th Anniversary party, my mom had ordered a special cake. The day of the party, my dad and I went to pick it up at WinCo, a warehouse-type grocery outlet. When we arrived, there was no cake for us at the bakery. Party in two hours, no good. As a replacement, I asked the woman working in the bakery to decorate one of their standard sheet cakes with some simple words such as "Happy 40th Anniversary." She told me that they had a 48-hour advance notice requirement for cake decoration. To be fair, I think she may have thought I was requesting more decorating thatn just the words. Arggh...I explained very carefully that we HAD given them 48 hours' notice...we had in fact given them a WEEK'S notice...but since they hadn't had the notion to actually MAKE the cake, we were in a position of needing one on shorter notice. She agreed to have someone write the words on the cake and we waited while that was done. I should have been much nicer. No excuse, but that 48-hour notice thing really got me. Sort of a retail Twilight Zone moment.

Back at home: Explain the fiasco to my sister-in-law. Finish with, "That's the last time we order a cake from Winco!!!" Puzzled look from sis-in-law. "W-Winco?" she asks, expression changing from bewilderment to amused horror. "Your mom said the cake is at COSTCO!"

Oh, dear. Well, that would explain why WinCo hadn't miraculously had a Happy 40th Anniversary cake just sitting around in case we stopped in. Augh -- painfully remember my explanation of the "week's notice" concept through gritted teeth, irritation not hidden, to the poor bakery lady. Go to Costco to pick up Cake #2. Upon return, recount cake story to my mother. Mom feels very bad about how I've treated the bakery lady. Poor bakery lady, not at fault in any way, victim to our collective stupidity/lack of communication, and my rudeness to boot.

Mom insists that I call the bakery lady to apologize. OK, OK, I will, I say. Half-hour later, Mom asks if I've called yet. No. Mom dials phone and hands to me. Wonderful thing happens: I apologize profusely and explain the mix-up. Tell her that regardless of any sort of mix-up, I should never have been rude and am very sorry. She is unendingly gracious, accepts my apology, thanks ME profusly for calling back, and warm fuzzy feelings zing back and forth across the phone lines. We wish each other a great day and a happy life, and hang up somehow feeling like best of friends. The good feelings we have in connection with this incident are such a nice contrast to the not-so-good feelings we had before that I sense we are both actually sort of glad it happened, and that our faith in our fellow human is somehow restored or something.



Moral of the story: Never force your mother to order her own anniversary cake.

Farzad Story, Part One: Booze, Bigotry, and Belligerence

I put myself through college working as a server at Lyon's Restaurant. Lyon's used to have these fairly cheesy "clubrooms" with a full bar, live music, and servers who wore better uniforms than the coffeeshop-side people. In my clubroom we wore tuxedo tops and bow ties. Like I said, cheesy.

Anyway, one of my managers was a guy named Farzad and he had a really beautiful voice. I think he had sung professionally with his brother or something. He was from Iran and spoke Farsi. He was sort of roughly handsome with strong features and dark chocolate skin. Every once in awhile, at our request, he would come up and sing some beautiful, romantic song in Farsi. Sometimes he would also sing it in English. I suppose the customers loved it -- I never really thought about them. I loved it. His rich, full voice and the mournful beauty of the songs sometimes made me want to cry.

One Sunday we had a full clubroom and Farzad agreed to sing. He was sort of shy about singing in the restaurant, but he sometimes would, if he wasn’t too busy. This town was fairly homogenously white & Eurocentric, but as it was a college town, people were not completely unexposed to broader culture.

A few minutes after he had begun, I heard a loud, alcohol-soaked voice from the other side of the room, yelling. It was one of those things that is incongruous and hard for the brain to place at first. Why would someone be yelling? In the middle of the song? His words took on meaning quickly. "You shouldn't be up there singing that.....I don't know what this is....what are you singing for...can’t even understand what you’re saying….why don't you [I can’t remember exactly what he said here; his meaning was “why don’t you go back to your country”]...is he the manager? What is he singing for...." I looked around in horror and saw the owner of the voice, a sixtyish, redneck, alcoholic-looking good old boy, moderate gut, bolo tie, belt with a buckle, and polyester slacks with a crease down the pant leg, looking like the kind of guy who probably never left Butte County in his miserable life, yet sure that all his strongly held political and social opinions were wisdom from the good Lord himself. In dismay I realized he was in my station. His mousy wife sat next to him, silent and mortified.

Farzad's voice faded away. The look on his face broke my heart as he mumbled something about being sorry and that he wasn't going to sing anymore, stepped away from the mic, and disappeared down the hall to the manager’s office.

To be continued...





Friday, October 01, 2004

I do not like cats at all and I also hate them

I don't like cats, at all. No sirreee, I do not like them. I also don't like it when people try to make me hold their cats or like their cats or usually even share zip codes with their cats. Why do they want me to do this?

If I had something you hated (like telemarketers) and you told me you hated them, or even were actually allergic to them, would I say, "I know you hate telemarketers," while inexplicably trying to make you cradle the phone in your lap and continue blithely and cheerfully, "...but MY telemarketer is not like OTHER telemarketers. In fact, MY telemarketer is really not like a telemarketer at all."? What if this very thing happened a lot to you in connection with telemarketers and their owners and in fact you had heard many variations of "Trust me, my telemarketer is a unique telemarketer. Actually, my telemarketer is like the anti-telemarketer."? Wouldn't you be the slightest bit suspicious? Wouldn't you wonder how it is that almost everybody's telemarketer is allegedly not at all like the usual telemarketer? And when, against all odds, it turned out that their telemarketer was much like every other telemarketer you'd had the good fortune to meet, such that the non-usual type of telemarketer was actually so common that it was, by definition, the usual telemarketer, wouldn't that just confirm for you that you really do not like usual telemarketers, non-usual telemarketers, or any telemarketers at all?

Before I begin to digress, let's focus on my main point, the essence of which you have no doubt grasped. I don't like them. They are evil, they are hateful (and they hate you too, by the way -- except me --- they love me), they are stuck-up, they do nothing useful (unless you call leaving plague-infested roadkill on your front porch "useful"), they cause lacerations and death, they shed every last one of their hairs every day and grow it all back at night, and they make weird annoying noises.

In addition to all the excellent supporting sentences I have added to my topic sentence: I am allergic to your furry friends (I'm not sure how they became yours, but they're certainly not mine, so anyway) to boot, such that they make my throat itch, and eyes water, and my nose run, and I can't BREATHE very well around them. I realize that I am hopelessly high-maintenance in that I like air to go in and out of my lungs, freely, all day, day in and day out.

I also realize that starting out a blog with a post about how much I hate cats might immediately alienate half of my loyal audience. However, when you consider that: 1) I don't have an audience at all; 2) I only started this blog so I could comment to someone ELSE's blog; and 3) I don't like cats, it actually makes sense to begin as I have. Anyway, there you go. I should add, though I hate to admit it, that I have had a couple of cats that I liked OK. (Crock pot thing, really easy. You can have the recipe.)


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