In a perfect world, all Big Macs would already have fries in between the buns, and my cats would enjoy taking baths; “Crystal Pepsi” would still exist, and Bahamut would be my mode of transportation. And no one would ever make stupid grammar mistakes–like using “your” and “you’re” interchangeably–because misusing words would be a crime punishable by death. Actually, you know what? That’s the only thing I’ll need in my perfect world, so forget all the other stuff before it.

Putting people on death row for having crappy language skills may seem harsh, but forcing those of us who have worked to attain and maintain our grammar and spelling is worse. What did we ever do to deserve the cruel and unusual punishment of living in a world where people screw up basic words and phrases? Nothing! And yet, we are expected to suffer in silence, with no opportunities for redemption, while certain members of society beat us to death with their nonsense words–a few prime examples being:

I Could Care Less

The phrase “I could care less” is used when someone wants to convey the idea that they really despise something or someone. Unfortunately for the speaker, “I could care less” is not the same as saying “I could not care less,” the difference being that the former has more Care Points than the latter. Thus, if you’re talking about how you hate clowns so much that you “could care less,” you’re basically saying you don’t hate clowns at all. At most, you dislike them because they are scary and make balloon animals that look more like folded dongs, but you definitely do not hate them because you have Care Points to spare.

Being able to tell the difference between “could care less” and “could not care less” is very important, especially when you are talking smack because that is when emphasizing your point really matters. For example: I hate that show “The Hills.” I’ve only managed to sit through one whole episode—which I will never, ever do again because I honestly believe watching that show kills brain cells. That is the only rational explanation for its popularity: killing brain cells enables a person to find “The Hills” entertaining. It definitely has nothing to do with an engaging storyline because all L.C. and her groupies seem to do is go out to restaurants and bars, and complain about how difficult their lives are as a result of going out to restaurants and bars. That’s a pretty weak premise even for a fake reality show. My turd could come up with something better, and it’s a freaking turd.

I do not care at all for “The Hills”—to the point where I could not care less. And if I ever find myself feeling otherwise—i.e., being able to care less—you have my permission to suffocate me in the armpit of that fat guy down in Mexico.

Irregardless

I know what you’re thinking: people don’t actually use “irregardless”! That’s just an urban legend! I can’t blame you for feeling this way for I, too, was once in denial. Back when I was a young and naïve 24 year old, I used to think it was common knowledge that the opposite of “regardless” was “regardful.” I mean, come on! The antonym of “less” is “full”! How is it possible for anyone to screw that up? Even when we’re living in a time where “The Hills” is a popular show, no one is that stupid.

Sadly, I was blinded by my faith in the human race and could not see the truth: there actually are people who are that stupid. These people use “irregardless” in place of “regardless,” and most likely say “regardless” in place of “regardful” or “regarding.” Can you imagine how annoying it would be to talk to someone like that?

“Regardless of my stank body odor, I can’t get a date even if my life depended on it.”

Tell me how that makes sense! Tell me!

Literally

I was reading an article that talked about how this year, children are asking Santa Claus to bring jobs and help their parents pay the bills. One of the mall Santas mentioned how hard it was for him to see young kids worrying about the economy, “I’ve had children just literally tear my heart out.”

Let’s get this out of the way: “literally” means “actually.” If you say something literally happened, you are saying it actually happened. So if Santa had children literally tear his heart out, then he should press charges!

It’s an emphasis thing, I know, but that’s not an excuse for crap-ass vocabulary. Ever heard of “figuratively”? I’m guessing the answer is “no” because otherwise people would be using it instead of misusing “literally.” And people who misuse “literally” should literally be beaten to death with rubber hoses.

Stop manipulating words to make up for your weak language skills! It’s disgusting!

Because I am so confident in my femininity, I have no problems telling you that I tweeze my upper lip…*dead silence* I mean…I have a friend who tweezes her upper lip…yeah…

Yeah, right. I’m not going to deflect any potential shame or embarrassment by talking about “my friend” instead of myself. That is almost impossible for me to do anyway, because I’m such a narcissistic attention whore. Whose morning breath was so foul that her cat tried to bury her the same way it buries its poop? Mine! And who defrosted raw chicken in the microwave, left it sitting out half-raw for 20 minutes, cooked and ate it even though it was probably covered in bacteria, and then ended up with debilitating diarrhea? Me!

So yes, I tweeze my upper lip. Every now and then I’ll find two or three dark hairs just relaxing on my face, and will rip them out before they start inviting their friends. Unless I’m looking for a job with the circus (and I’m not…yet), I don’t see any reason for me to let those hairs remain.

Checking my upper lip for wayward hairs is an important part of my regular grooming routine. Even though I rarely find anything worth plucking, and when I do it’s at most five hairs, that does not give me an excuse to become complacent. If anything, it is an indication of how imperative my plucking has become, as it is the most important defense I have against a horrible predator: the Girl-Stache!

Yes, the Girl-Stache–the evil that has afflicted some girls with thick, full, luxurious mustaches even though they are not on Jose Conseco’s Juice diet or undergoing hormone therapy. One should always be on the look-out for any signs of the dreaded Girl-Stache because anything less than total vigilance will make you vulnerable to attack.

Trust me when I say this: Girl-Stache is not to be taken lightly! It stalks your hair follicles with unwavering patience, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And when that opportunity comes, when the victim has neglected to check her upper lip, the Girl-Stache moves in with such stealth and speed that its target has no idea of the assault that has just taken place right under her nose. There, the Girl-Stache will grow–silently increasing its territory and influence, unimpeded by its host because the Girl-Stache has used its super ninja skills to conceal itself from being noticed–until it has successfully attained total domination. And when it does, the world will know that another Upper Lip has succumbed and cannot be saved…

…at least, not without facing a serious dilemma: should you alert the victim that her facial forest needs a mowing, or keep it to yourself so she doesn’t feel embarrassed? The Girl-Stache knows it has created a delicate situation, which is what makes it both frightening and intruiguing.

Beware the Girl-Stache!

Behold, the product of a truly genius mind:

(Okay, so it looks more like a mallet than a hammer…but whatever…)

The world would be a much better place if we had Wiggidy-Wack Hammers available for us to use whenever we really need to beat someone down for being wiggidy-wack. A regular hammer just does not cut it because people tend to presume you are committing criminal assault if they see you hammering at someone’s face. But with a Wiggidy-Wack Hammer, everyone will know you’re bludgeoning someone for a good reason.

I came up with this awesomely awesome tool of awesomeness while I was taking the Multistate Professional Responsibility Examination, better known as the MPRE, last Saturday. It was bad enough that I had a freaking test at 9:00 in the morning, but I was also stuck taking it with a wiggidy-wack asshole.

If you have ever taken a standardized test, then this should look familiar to you:

Ah yes, the Scantron form. It’s quite the pain-in-the-ass, isn’t it? Especially if you have a long name and are stuck filling in a bunch of bubbles—what a freaking nightmare. I’ve only got 6 letters in my first name, but filling in a measly 6 ovals has turned out to be a most excruciating experience because of my obsession with staying within the lines.

Anyway, you can pretty much figure out how the Scantron sheet works just by looking at it: you write in your name or whatever information in the blank boxes, and darken the bubble with the corresponding alphabet letter. As for the blank ovals at the top of the column–it doesn’t really take a genius to realize that those are to be filled in if any of the boxes above are left blank. Although the standardized tests I took in the past did not require me to do so, I guess the MPRE wants to stand apart from all the other Scantron-based exams by making their testtakers fill in the blank ovals.

So the main test proctor read us instructions on how to properly fill in those letterless bubbles–causing a few people to mutter or sigh because it didn’t seem necessary to tell us how to do the obvious. We just wanted to hurry and start before anxiety set in. However…

This guy seriously could not figure it out. It was as if he was being asked to conduct open-heart surgery or something. It’s a blank oval for blank boxes! Fill them in with your pencil, dumbass! The longer I watched this guy, the more pissed I became; the more pissed I became, the more I wanted to beat him down.

Okay, so my version of Tony Montana leaves much to be desired—but, lucky for me, I can still be a badass without emulating a character from a movie that is apparently a staple of every rappers’ DVD collection. Indeed, although I’ve amassed a Mount Kilimanjaro-sized pile of lackluster “achievements,” I also have a handful of accomplishments that have made me a bona fide badass. Granted, I am the only one who thinks I’ve rightfully earned this title, but you know what? Chicken butt (oh no I di’int!). You know what else? I watched both the English and Japanese versions of “The Ring” and “The Grudge” and couldn’t sleep without the lights off until I turned 24, so I don’t care that my badass status only exists in my own mind because that is the only thing preventing me from being the lamest person on Earth I’m a badass…and yes, I like to use circular arguments whenever I can’t come up with anything better.

All joking aside, I think everyone has accomplished something that makes them feel pretty badass even though most people consider that “something” terribly mundane. But it’s the fact that you were able to do it that makes it meaningful. For instance, I think of myself as a badass because I got all four of my wisdom teeth removed at once. Not really that exciting…except two of my teeth were impacted–i.e., growing on their sides:

Oh, and I didn’t have the luxury of being knocked out during the procedure. Instead, I went in with nothing more than two shots of novacaine, an MP3 player, and my massive balls of steel. And for 20 minutes, I got to listen to a dentist hammer and saw away four of my teeth–which had not even grown out of my gums yet–because the MP3 player wasn’t loud enough to drown out the noise. And then I drove myself home. See, I ain’t no punk b*tch!

I know getting one’s wisdom teeth removed is something many people have experienced, but I’m still pretty proud of myself for going through it because seriously, I had considered running out of the dentist’s office and just living my life with really jacked-up teeth. I was that scared. But once it was over, I felt like such a badass, with my face all swollen and my mouth stuffed with gauze. Sexy.

So…what have you done that makes you a badass? 

I cannot wait for November 5th, because it means November 4th is over, as is the political drama that’s become increasingly more hostile the closer we get to Election Day. Families are disowning each other over diverging political views, and friends are turning into each other’s mortal enemies because they are voting differently—it’s getting so bad that you can’t answer someone who asks, “who are you voting for?” People who ask things like that aren’t trying to satisfy their curiosity; what they really want to do is find someone to pick a fight with—because you know if you answer something contrary to what they think is correct, you will get your ass beat–verbally, physically, or both. And don’t try to answer the way the asker wants you to, or say you are undecided, because you might trigger a long, political discussion. Also, if you lied to avoid a confrontation, this long, political discussion will most likely expose the truth…and lead to an ass beating.

Listen up, you hardcore Republicans and Democrats who choose your political parties over your personal relationships: you already have a vote and can use it however you wish, so stop trying to get another one! And if your preferences don’t come out on top, well, tough sh*t–that’s how democracy works, so welcome to America, b*tch.

Not that I would ever say any of that to your faces because I really don’t want to be trampled to death by you crazies while you’re wielding your Obama and McCain signs. Hell no. However, what I would say is this:

Which will most likely lead to this:

You see an ass beating; I see a bipartisan ass beating. Mission accomplished!

I’ve somehow managed to maintain a level of ig’nance when it comes to the recent global economic crisis. Note that “ig’nance” should not be confused with “ignorance,” because they are two different things:

Ignorance: showing or arising from a lack of education or knowledge. 

Ig’nance: purposely choosing not to be educated or knowledgeable—even though such information can be easily acquired and understood—for the sole purpose of keeping life as uncomplicated as possible.

You’ve got to admit, maintaining my ig’nance is quite the astounding feat considering all the media coverage that’s been going on…not to mention the fact that 95% of my school’s student body has included this topic during their freakouts over whether they’ll be able to find a job after they pass the bar. The other 4% already have jobs–and shanks, which they will use if you even think about messing with their employment. And I am in the remaining 1%, a group made up of students who have no chance of passing the bar, who are in America illegally and will be deported after they graduate unless they manage to trap someone into marriage, or who plan to surprise their parents by living with them forever.

Sadly, my impressive streak of going so many days without keeping up on important issues abruptly came to an end yesterday…as well as my dream of being listed in the “Guinness Book of World Records” for being the least deserving person to ever be in the “Guinness Book of World Records” (it still hurts to talk about it). And it all happened because of this:

Notice anything depressing about this Mini? Then how about this:

No, this is not one of Criss Angel’s fake magic acts. What you see is 100% real: the price of the “Something sweet” Mini increased from 5 Credits to 15! Highway robbery!

The 10 Credit increase is a severe kick to the nutsack that doubles as my wallet because that Mini was the one I used most often. Yes, it was one of the cheaper ones, but it looked a lot better than some of the expensive Minis. It was also on like the first page of the Mini list so I didn’t have to click on the other pages…and it didn’t hurt that it was often featured on that little quick-pick thing next to the comment box.

Anyway, now that my default Mini is more expensive, it is starting to put a strain on my Xanga lifesavings account. Credits are easy to get if you’ve got money to buy them–but I don’t, so I instead have to earn them by completing surveys. Actually, I spend more time attempting to take surveys than I do completing them because being a 26-year-old female with no income and who does not speak Swahili puts me out of the qualifying demographic. In other words, my opportunities to earn Credits are few and far between because the surveyors are aiming for a target audience that does not include me.

Time to come up with a plan that will allow me to continue my lavish, Xanga lifestyle!

Odds of earning Credits through surveys

+ regular use of the “Something sweet” Mini

= hire a bunch of illegal male immigrants to work in my chain of “massage” parlors located within every “Curves” facility!

I had just returned from grocery shopping, and was taking an elevator back to the apartment.

I had just walked into an atmosphere of ass!

It didn’t smell like a regular fart though. It was instead one of those warning farts you get right before you have explosive diarrhea–i.e., stank^extreme.

A few floors into being suffocated by this noxious ass gas, someone else got onto the elevator.

And then…

Under normal circumstances, I would have just let this woman think I was the culprit and be done with it–but it smelled like death in there, people, and I didn’t want to be known as the person who turned the elevator into a hot box of butt mist. But I, with my subpar thinking-on-the-fly skills, couldn’t think of anything except: I should blog this.

What should I have done???

Halloween started as a Celtic festival to celebrate the dead spirits that returned to Earth every October 31. The Celts believed these spirits made it easier for priests to make predictions about the future, and every year they would dress up in animal heads and skins and tell each other’s fortunes, and then do some stuff with bonfires.

This Celtic tradition changed when the Romans took over, and again when Christianity spread through the Celtic territories. But it still remained as a day to honor the dead, and was celebrated with bonfires, parades, and dressing up—but as angels, saints, and devils and not in dead animal.

Hmm…so how did we go from celebrating spirits to giving out free candy?

I’ve never been much into Halloween. I just don’t see the rationale behind telling kids to avoid taking candy from strangers, but then make an exception on October 31st. And it isn’t really much of an exception when you think about it: parents still have to check all the candy for glass or needles or whatever it is weirdoes put in there—like they would if their kid received candy from a random person on any of the other 364 days. I don’t get it! How does that make any sense?

Needless to say, Halloween and I aren’t very cool with each other. I mean, we’re mature enough to be fake nice to each other when we meet every year, but we both know it’s just a cover-up for our true feelings.

Halloween sees his day as a positive social tradition where cute children dress in costumes and visit nearby families, and everyone gets to enjoy enough of the spirit of giving to last them until December. I see it as a day where strange kids you have never met or even seen before show up at your door and demand candy.
 
This tradition is very, very annoying. Trick-or-treaters are a threat to the candy stash I have painstakingly amassed, and I would very much like to just close the door on them, but I can’t. Failure to appease trick-or-treaters on Halloween is an egregious offense, and those kids will make you pay!
 
And you know they will. What’s the first thing they do the minute you open the door? They greet you with a threat! Allow me to dissect the two most common ones:

1. “Trick or treat!”

    Translation: give me candy, or else I’ll toilet paper your house!

2. “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat. If you don’t, I don’t care, I’ll pull down your underwear!”

    Translation: if you don’t sniff my stank feet and then give me delicious candy, I’m going to make you have to register as a sex offender!

And don’t be fooled by the kids’ costumes. Even though they are dressed like a baby Batman or some little honeybee, that does not mean you can get away with giving them air or, worse, dry-ass granola. (Sidebar: Do not go there. I’m telling you: avoid giving apples, raisins, or any other healthy snacks. We may be fighting a war against childhood obesity, but there is a cease-fire agreement every October 31st.) That costume is the kid’s version of a ski mask—and he is wearing it because he knows he can get revenge, while all you can do is file a police report that Pikachu egged your house and toilet papered your trees.

While I was going through my box of recycling papers to make sure I didn’t accidentally throw in an important document like my birth certificate or Social Security Card, I came across a really old essay I had helped proofread for a friend back in college. Ah…seeing it again stirred up a lot of emotions and made me remember an important lesson I learned so many years ago:

Never agree to help edit someone’s essay when the first sentence is this:

I wanna go to college cuz skewl is kewl.

OMG! What the f*ck is this?!?!?!

I really wish I could tell you that I made that sentence up, instead of having to admit it was actually the opening of an essay someone thought would get him accepted into a first-tier university. I don’t know…maybe he was hoping to impress schools with his enthusiasm for academics, or show how much he wanted to major in Retartalian…or maybe he was just dumb…like, really, really, really, really, really, really, really dumb.

And I was way dumber than he was because, even though I was sitting there wondering, “how the hell did this guy manage to make it through the education system with a shred of brain that barely had the capacity to construct a kindergarten-level sentence?” I agreed to help turn a steaming pile of sh*t into a golden doodoo nugget. I assumed that was what friends did for each other…and it helped that he was going to pay me $20 for my time.

So I sat there and read pages and pages of raggedy-ass writing, corrected the spelling and grammar errors, and made notes on which sentences needed to be revised and how. Then I e-mailed it back to my friend, and waited for him to send me a new draft after he made the changes–all while feeling like this:

Five minutes later, he sent me a new draft:

I want to go to college because school is cool.

And beneath that, perhaps as a bonus, I got paragraphs of stuff that looked like it had been a copy-and-paste of the school website’s “About Us” section. Better sentence structure: yes. Less of a piece of crap: no. So I sent it back with the comment:

It looks like you put in a lot of effort into researching the school! Incorporate why you want to attend with the information you found, because right now it just looks like a bunch of facts. Don’t forget the transition sentences! 🙂

I put in a 🙂 when what I really wanted to have was >:{}.

Two hours later, I got a response:

Can u write it 4 me i dun know how 2. thx.

And right after that:

my app is due tomorr.w

You know, I’ve been stuck at this part of my entry for a few days now because every time I read those two responses, I get super pissy and start saying all the things I wanted to say to him back then. Things like, “your dad is your brother, and your mom is your grandmother, right?” or, “someone with your intelligence wouldn’t even be able to get one of those Sally Struther degrees.”

But my snarky side wasn’t fully developed by then, so I kept my mouth shut and rewrote the damn thing. The school rejected his application, but I got my $20…the price of my dignity.

So say “no” to sh*tty prose!