By Brunhilde on The Fur Pie
I'll say it's 50/50 absolutely not giving a shit and laziness.
I tell you what, *this* 40-year-old suburban mom has made her little kids sit in the Highlander with her, strapped in their carseats in the driveway, till she finished listening to of a number of these songs, very loud, on Sirius's Lithium (90s alternative) channel. Oh Mazzy Star, I'll never ever be over "Fade Into You." On a related note: There really should be more songs about happily day-drinking with strangers while the workday world goes on around you.
Ah yes, the time-honored tactic of producing a birth certificate. That always shuts down birthers.
Ah, 1996. A great year. For me to graduate from high school :/
This is such good satire of other self-identified lady blogs that my first reaction was outrage. Well done, Emma. Well done.
Meanwhile, men get their Viagra at least partly covered by insurance because they are SO GOOD at controlling their libidos that they are OWED medical intervention, by golly.
John Smith picked up his post as he got home from his job as a marketer. He flipped through some leaflets for take out food, one credit card bill and then paused with a frown on his face as he came across a slim white envelope addressed to "John Smith, Being Stalked, Or Current Business."
"What the fuck?" He tore open the envelope to see that it was a promotional leaflet for a car wash. He glared at it for a moment, perplexed, and then tossed it with the other leaflets into the trash.
He knew about some of this stuff from work. "Someone got it wrong," he muttered to himself as he headed to the kitchen. "Fucking interns."
Two days later, he got home to another slim envelope, brown this time, addressed to "John Smith, Being Stalked in his own Neighborhood, And at Current Business."
Hands trembling slightly, he tore it open and extracted a leaflet advertising a local computer repair company. He pulled out his mobile phone.
"Hello, Computer Fix. We fix it for you. How can I help you today?"
"I got this leaflet in the post from you, and it's actually addressed to me, being stalked?"
"What? You're being stalked, sir? Online?"
"No! Your leaflet. It's addressed to me, and says I'm being stalked."
"If you're having trouble with an online stalker, sir, you need to contact the police. We can only fix your computer."
"No! Look, who's in charge of your marketing? Look, just put me through to a manager."
One pointless conversation later during which he managed to learn absolutely nothing, he jammed the phone back into his pocket and went to fix himself a stiff drink.
The third envelope was waiting for him a week later. This time it was a stiff rectangular cardboard one with a white adhesive printed label, addressed to "John Smith, On Suicide Watch, At Home or At Current Business."
Inside the cardboard envelope was a small, free sample penknife from an online company which sold knives and pocket tools. He swore and flung the whole lot into the trash.
After that the letters came everyday.
"John Smith, Seeking Help for Anxiety, At his MD's."
"John Smith, Still Being Watched, All the Time."
"John Smith, The Police Just Laugh, At You."
And so on.
He began to miss work on some days to wait for the postman. He would grab the letters before the postman could slide them into his mailbox, and then hurl them straight into his trashcan. And then later when he found he couldn't think of anything else, he would creep back, extract them, and read them fearfully.
"John Smith, Self Medicating with Alcohol, At Current Business."
"John Smith, Fired, From Work."
"John Smith, Treated For Paranoid Delusions, In Hospital."
"John Smith, RIP, At Home."
The last accompanied a brochure for a funeral home.
For once, it wasn't spam.
@eiffeldesigns But do they come in dog sizes? My new hound will wear clothes and hates the cold and I've been looking for a sweater with maximum visibility that will also remind one and all that we are in America and what our flag looks like. Kind of.
I track my cycle on paper in my calendar, because I prefer to party like it's the last century.