ENJOY!

Except for all those months when I didn’t post any PAY IT FORWARDs. You can say I never gave you anything then.

Looking through my designated PAY IT FORWARD folder in my email, I am sad to say that some of the best ones contain image links that are now broken, meaning that they have gone to that great inbox in the sky, which looks a bit like this:

Most of the now-defunct forwards were given to me courtesy of Wog (not her real name), so, Wog, if you’re reading (and you remember that you told me to give you that nickname to protect your identity), I’m sorry. And sad. And hoping you are currently doing something much better with your time than reading this.

I also haven’t forgotten about the rest of you who’ve sent me forwards, as they are all still lovingly filed away and waiting patiently to annoy the ever-loving shit out of us. Today’s installment comes to us courtesy of Caitie, who submitted it over a year ago. Caitie! You still there?

Hey — if there’s going to be embarrassing silence, it might as well be super neat-o keen.

Today’s forward is one that involves quaint old people and the sage advice they give us. Before we get to that, though, I’d like to take a moment to share with you how tired I get of people pretending that being really old is peaceful and Zen and gives you some sort of other-worldly insight to bestow upon others like so many Werther’s Originals. Sure, old people have gleaned a whole lifetime of knowledge, but my friends, getting old sucks. It is no kind of reward for anything, really, unless your idea of a reward is forgetting your grandkids’ names and losing the ability to digest meat. There are those incredibly lucky olds who manage to cheat the system and are still relatively healthy and living independently at the age of 95 or whatever, and in fact, I knew one of them when I was young. She was a friend of the family who lived all alone in a giant old Victorian rowhouse, filling her days with cooking, gardening, and bird-watching. And then she had a massive stroke that killed her ability to do all of that, and she died not too long afterwards (from what I can’t remember, but I imagine it was something along the lines of BEING ROYALLY PISSED THAT SHE HAD SUCCESSFULLY ENDURED SO MANY YEARS ONLY TO BE SUBJECTED TO SPONGE BATHS BY A CRABBY ORDERLY).

Anyhoo. That’s how I feel about aging. You can still do it gracefully, sure, but let’s call a spade a spade and stop pretending like it’s some sort of awesome pot of gold at the end of the life rainbow, or whatever. See?! I’m only thirty-five and already I’ve lost my ability to craft a decent fucking metaphor. Of course, I could never really do it in the first place. Whatever! Where the fuck are my hard candies?!

Inspired by my grandmother, my only goal for old age is to have a constant supply of Brach’s on hand.

Onward to the forward!

Yeah, because if there’s one thing old people do really well, it’s wait patiently. Christ — have you ever seen old people waiting for a table in a restaurant? No? That’s because they don’t. And if you’ve ever been a server, you know you’d best be bringing them their food 4.2 seconds after they order it. The clock’s a-tickin’ for the elderly, folks, and they don’t have time to mess around.

Also, way to go with the sentence structure up there, forward: he had his hair fashionably combed AND shaved each morning? Man, he WAS well-poised.

Oh, and just in case you were naive enough to believe otherwise, no, this is not and never will be “AWESOME.”

So…he was really excited for about 20 minutes and then whined around and made excuses when it actually came time to take responsibility?

Also, what kind of shithole is this? Sheets on the windows? I guess you need something to obscure the garish view of the DirectTV dish hanging from the fire escape.

Ignoring for a moment the distraction of the randomly placed apostrophes, I can say with certainty that I admire this sentiment. I can also say with certainty that no creaky old person in the history of the universe has ever felt this way, unless there’s some secret joy to having a colostomy bag that I’m unfamiliar with.

So…I guess the old guy is still talking? And we’re supposed to believe that, at 92, he can remember even half of the shit that’s happened to him in his life? Well, have fun sipping on tea and recounting all those awesome times during the Depression, dude. And don’t forget the race riots. Those were sweet.

Oh! All those ignorant people who’ve been filling their old age accounts with Alzheimer’s and incontinence! FOOLS!

Ugh. Fuck you, forward.

OK, I’m confused. He’s talking about jerking off now, right?

Number 5 FTW!

Sorry. I didn’t hear what you just said.

So, just when I was about to say that this forward wasn’t too horribly bad, it pulls a triple whammy in the last few sentences. Terrible grammar? CHECK. Empty bullshit predictions? CHECK. Snotty-ass sentiment to tie it all together? CHECKITY FUCKING CHECK.

And just so you know, yes, forward, I do have other plans.

I’m so excited, I just OakRidged in my leisure suit.

I know, I KNOW! It’s been so long! I’m pretty certain this is the first official PAY IT FORWARD! of 2011, and I’d check my archives to be sure except that it would make me sad to know that I’ve neglected one of my favorite things in the world for eight solid months. BOO!

Please to temper your anticipation, though, because you must remember: we are still dealing with email forwards here. Soul-killing, hope-crushing, eyeball-searing email forwards. There is a good chance your sense of humor will be flatlining by the end of this blog post. And for that, I am truly sorry.

I’m also truly sorry for Flatliners. Anyone remember that movie? Awful.

Before we begin, make sure your eye-rolling muscles are nice and stretched and limber. I don’t want any injuries, and we’re all a bit rusty. Here we go!

Today’s installment came to me courtesy of a random family member…I think. I’ve had it saved on my desktop so long that I sort of can’t remember. SHAME! So if you sent this to me, let me know & I will place the blame credit where it belongs.

Yep, it’s one of those horrendous slideshow deals that overtakes your whole computer when you click on the attachment. And there’s music! Of course there’s music. I mean, how else will you be sufficiently embarrassed in front of all your coworkers while you frantically search for the ESC key?

Also, as you can tell by the whimsically tilted letters in the word “CHILDREN,”shit is about to get insufferable up in here.

(One more thing: “Author unknown”? HA. Oh, OK. But thank goodness “Tommy’s Window” took the time to copyright it. Christ.)

Yeah, talk about price shock! Or maybe sticker shock, which is the actual phrase, but maybe Tommy and/or his Window do not have the necessary copyrights required to use it.

I’m also kind of confused about the cost of raising a kid “for a middle income family.” Wouldn’t the cost of raising a kid be the same for any family, regardless of income level? Isn’t that why this whole “cost of raising a kid” thing is (supposed to be) so shocking? Are poor kids cheaper? Rich kids more expensive? So many stupid questions I will never know the stupid answers to!

I don’t know. Seems a little steep.

Hey — has anyone seen that poisoned Kool-Aid I left sitting right hereOHGODNO!

Yeah, I know. Like we didn’t see this grossness coming.

For the record, you can get three out of those four things (glimpses of God, giggles under the covers, more love than your heart can hold) by smoking peyote. Just saying.

Isn’t it funny how creepy these things become when you imagine them applying to a grown-ass adult instead of a child?

“Have you met Todd in Purchasing yet?” “Yeah, he spent, like, 20 minutes yesterday telling me how awesome clouds are, and his hands are always covered in jelly. Fucking sociopath.”

HAHA OH, HONEY, DADDY LOST ALL OUR MONEY IN THE STOCK MARKET SO IT’S REALLY GREAT THAT YOU LIKE DRINKING OUT OF THE NEIGHBOR’S GARDEN HOSE BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE WE’LL BE GETTING OUR KEY NUTRIENTS FROM NOW ON.

Again, that seems steep, especially considering you will still be expected to do adult bullshit like make dinner and get your period.

OK. So. This photo is another prime example of how creepy things get when you replace kids with adults. Just picture the three kids in this picture with three people you work with. Go ahead and vomit. I’ll wait for you.

Whoa, smug much, kid? He seems to be saying yeah, you’ll take that fucking glittery pasta wreath and YOU’LL LIKE IT, even after it absorbs too much moisture after a humid summer in storage and becomes riddled with black mold. Oh, you want to throw it away? Only if you want to throw away PART OF MY CHILDHOOD. That’s what I thought. BOOM!

My kid never acts like I’m a hero for doing any of the above, and she shouldn’t, because that shit is lame.

First step? First word? AWESOME. The rest of it? I’ll need a stand-in, thanks.

Whoa, what? When you use the phrase “limbs in your obituary,” it’s time to reconsider your metaphor.

Also, not real sure what that “criminal justice” and “human sexuality” thing is all about. Not sure I want to delve too deeply into it, either. Basically, it sounds like parenting is a lot more interesting for some of you out there. Cripes.

Oh, yeah, God-like for sure. Remember that one time in the Bible when God chaperoned Jesus’s slumber party? And who can forget the time He totes grounded Jesus for getting crucified? He took away his cell phone and everything!

Ugh. Gross. Shut up, Tommy, with your gross old hairy wrist.

Also, a link to the website! Goodbye, next three hours of my life!

BTW, I totally went to that site. Of course I did. And while there, I read this brilliant sentence: “We hope you’ll take time to enjoy an appetizing, fresh, and revitalizing banquet of life through our unique and inspiring PowerPoint and Flash Presentations.” Sounds delicious!

Remember to take a clean plate each time you visit the banquet of life.

That’s it for this installment, Internet! Whew — did that feel good. I promise not to lapse so horribly in my PAY IT FORWARD! duties ever again.

Unless you need me too after reading this entry, in which case, I totally understand.

]]> http://www.jiveturkeyjives.com/?feed=rss2&p=5244 0 http://hodgepodgesociety.com/?p=970 http://hodgepodgesociety.com/?p=970#comments Thu, 31 Mar 2011 18:18:51 +0000 Hodgepodge Bot http://hodgepodgesociety.com/?p=970 The Hodgepodge Society is back! On April 16th, we’d be beyond delighted if you’d join us at our first show in WAY too long. It’s going to be our biggest show yet and we can’t wait to see you there.

Keep watching this space for a bolder and far more awesome HodgepodgeSociety.com!

The Hodgepodge Society Presents!
Saturday, April 16, 2011 at 10:30 pm
The Cabaret Theater, Pittsburgh, PA

Hey, Emma — my grandma called. She wants her fugly red ruffled turtleneck back. WHAT?! Oh, sack up, Emma, for real.

A bit of background before we delve into today’s PAY IT FORWARD: OK, so, we all know I was a total nerd growing up, right?

Right.

Being a nerd, I was also a huge bookworm. That’s good, right? Reading and literacy and whatnot? Sure! But my taste in books? Was a bit…unique. OK, fine, I’ll just come out and say it: my favorite author during the early half of my teen years was Erma Bombeck. ERMA EFFING BOMBECK. THE WOMAN WHO WROTE ABOUT BEING A MOTHER AND HOUSEWIFE, THE SAME TWO THINGS I DESPERATELY RAILED AGAINST BECOMING.

A riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a perm.

I owned and repeatedly read each and every one of the woman’s books, even though MY OWN MOTHER (i.e. Bombeck’s target demographic) showed absolutely zero interest in any of them. I mean, I suppose I maintained some street cred by sneaking in some V.C. Andrews books here and there (one has to learn about sex somewhere), but still: DEEPLY LAME, 14-year-old me. DEEPLY LAME.

So it was with a sinking heart that I read through today’s submission (which came to me courtesy of MLE), because I knew I was being called upon to poke fun at the very woman who provided me with so much reading material all those years and years ago. Such are the hurdles I overcome to bring this snark to you, Internet!

Also, she is dead, so I’m also risking a wicked — but candidly observant, humorous, and heartwarming! — haunting.

Subject: Fwd: Fw: Passing the purple hat to you…

OK, everyone relax: the “purple hat” is not, as I initially assumed, some sort of gross metaphor for a penis.

(Although that probably would have made a much better forward.)

Uh…thanks?

(Yes, that’s a flower, not a hat, but just nod and act natural and don’t look the forward in the eyes or else you’ll challenge it.)

Oh, I see. What we have here is a simple case of multiple font sizes, types, and colors, and clip art usually reserved for the windows of nail salons.

Also, this email was sent in November, and Women’s History Month is in March.

(But I had to look up which month was Women’s History Month, so I’m probably not in a position to cast a whole lot of judgment here. But what the fuck has Women’s History Month ever done for me? Last I checked, I still get motherfucking cramps during Women’s History Month, and until my March paycheck reflects the higher salary I would earn if I had a penis, I ain’t celebratin’ shit.)

Item 1: DON’T GET FUCKING CANCER.

No way, Erma! We have to martyr through that shit! How else are we supposed to make everyone feel guilty?

Little known fact: “Cat’s in the Cradle” was originally written about an unburned candle.

…YOU KNOW WE’LL HAVE A GOOD TIME THEN.

As is clearly evidenced by this rambling-ass list.

Amen to this. How else are you going to get rid of that stain on the carpet? Give your friend a glass of red wine, position her strategically near the stain, nudge her arm, and BOOM! Spilled wine, apologizing friend, free carpet cleaning. DONE.

I would have combed all the fibers of my carpet in the same direction only once a day instead of twice! I would have washed my hands 50 times in a row in the ‘good’ bathroom! I would have worried less about buying the name brand bleach when I bought my weekly 40-gallon drum!

I call bullshit on this. Five minutes into the first story, dear old grandpa would mention something about “colored people” and quaint nostalgia would fly right out the fucking window.

…she said during Women’s History Month.

Will no one think of the hair? It cannot protect itself!

But…if you already had grass stains, why would you care?

Please note: People will judge you less if you weep during “Not Without My Daughter” instead of during a bra fitting.

Good news for me! I just took out a third (and fourth) mortgage so I could score this awesome Neverland espresso machine.

Subtle!

*BLARRG* Oh, my bad — that wasn’t wonderment. Just mango salsa.

NO TIME FOR AFFECTION. HAMBURGER HELPER WAITS FOR NO ONE.*

So help me, Hayley, if you try to kiss me before dinner I will rinse your mouth out with double cheeseburger macaroni DO YOU HEAR ME, YOUNG LADY?!

Oh for shit’s sake. Look, I understand the message here, but NO, you DON’T want to live your life SEIZING EVERY MOMENT because it will drive you fucking crazy and you’ll never get laid. Your life is not a waste if you didn’t cherish every agonizing second that you had explosive diarrhea or were stuck in a boring staff meeting. IT’S NOT ALL FUCKING FABULOUS. EVERYBODY RELAX.

And most of all, don’t worry about punctuation.

And this image makes the room go round. BLAAARGH. SETTLE DOWN, hearts and roses clip art! Holy shit.

HA! Oh, how I LOVE the inclusion of “If you don’t mind…”. Because it wouldn’t be a celebration of Women’s History Month/Erma Bombeck/lady cancer/something vaguely vagina-related without showcasing one of the female gender’s most annoying habits (and one I practice every day): watering down all your requests with an “if you don’t mind” or a “if it’s not too much trouble.” IT’S A FORWARD, AND YOU’RE STILL WORRIED ABOUT PUTTING SOMEONE OUT? Spoiler alert: sending a forward already did that damage.

What? What the fuck? How is this relevant to ANYTHING?

(Also: that’s what he said.)

Update your calendars! Women’s History Month is over — now it’s Beautiful Women’s Month. Seems fitting, because I’m pretty sure this forward has eaten up roughly 30 days of my life. (Days I should have been SEIZING AND APPRECIATING, by the way.)

Either this makes sense or I just had a stroke. Can’t be both.

OMG, STFU stupid ribbons for EVERYTHING. This forward is really pulling out all the stops to make my head explode, isn’t it? Although I have to admit I’d really hate to get cancer of the All Cancers. That sounds pretty aggressive.

So wait, now we’re lighting candles? What about ribbons? And hats? And didn’t someone say something about Beautiful Women’s History Month?

Here’s an idea: let’s just use the candle to light the fucking ribbons and hats on fire, and call it a win.

Don’t you look at me that way, E-Bomb. You knew what this was.

*Hamburger Helper also apparently died for our cheese-laden sins:

Our Helper, who art in Hamburger, hallowed be thy carbs.

Go away, MOM! I’m getting my daily recommended allowance of potassium!

Although we’ve explored disturbing food here before, I fucking GUARANTEE today’s forward is much, much worse. You have reader Marcy to thank for bringing images of NSFW fruit (I AM SO NOT KIDDING) into your life this fine December morn. No subject line for this one, which is just as well. No use delaying the inevitable:

I mean, don’t they have any responsibilities? Like, say, FORWARDING MORONIC EMAILS?

Yep. It’s one of these. Another installment of the ol’ “Gallery of Anthropomorphic Food That Should Be Cute But Is Really Just Unsettling.” This is actually one of the better ones, believe it or not.

See? It didn’t take long to descend into nightmare fuel. Suicidal onions gleefully shaving themselves into oblivion, complete with discarded eyeballs? CHECK.

YOU GUYS. RACIST EGGS.

RACIST.

EGGS.

Although it’s not really a true forward until there’s at least a pinch of racism, right?

Well, I never thought I’d say this, but THANK GOD for the vaguely dog penis-y hot dog mummies. THANK GOD.

Back to eggs, who are, apparently, real jerks. It’s not exactly clear what’s going on here (is the ladyegg flirting with the manegg and her significantotheregg is boiling with envy? Or is the ladyegg just a negligent mother who is too busy trying to get this dude to scramble her silly to notice that her little babyegg has cooked in the sun?), but I’m sure it’s not good.

There’s no delicate way to put this: you are looking at a banana getting one up the ass. I’m sorry.

Apologies also go out to your supervisor, who is going to have a hell of an awkward time explaining to HR that he had to let you go after spotting produce porn splashed across your monitor.

Now eggs are terrorists. CUTE!

OK, you can relax: these are simply eggplant penguins. No more, no less. However, when I first scrolled through this email, I was already so scarred by the previous images that I stared at this one for ten minutes trying to find genitals and/or sodomy.

I suppose he’s winking, but it really just looks like he has a flying seagull for an eye. There’s an “albatross” connection to be made here, I just know it.

Now what the fuck is this? Those first three things AREN’T EVEN FOOD. We’re looking at three cruel pool balls and an orange that was mauled by the dog.

The next chapter in The Horrifying Life of Eggs. Actually, if I pretend that these are the racist eggs from the third picture, I feel a lot better.

BRB — just gonna go throw up for about 45 minutes.

OK, Internet. The next one isn’t pretty. Like, even LESS pretty than the shit we’ve seen so far. I’m relatively sure this photo will ruin bananas for you forever, and possibly give you erectile dysfunction. You’ve been warned:

BANANA PENETRATION.

Seriously, what sick fuck thought this up AND THEN NEGLECTED TO CRUSH IT WITH HIS MIND VISE?! And you know the worst part (besides, you know, the PENETRATION)? Is that the artist obviously tried to make BANANA SEX look SENSUAL and ROMANTIC, what with the moody lighting and the two bananas all curved towards each other in banana tenderness, and OMG I NEED A SILKWOOD SHOWER.

OK. Better.

While this is, admittedly, much better than FORNICATING BANANAS, I have to take issue with the fact that these eggs — while not racist — are just kind of poorly done. The Peter Criss egg? Weak.

How adorable! A whole grain re-enactment of that time the neighbor’s kid drowned in the pool.

Seeing as how I’ve always perceived kiwis as the testicles of the fruit world, this photo takes on a nice double meaning.

This is just irresponsible. Someone took a fucking radish, turned it upside down, pressed a couple furniture tacks into it, shoved a rolled up receipt in there and called it a day.

Also, if this radish is really supposed to be a person, it has a wicked nasty harelip.

Things are really getting lazy up in here. Not to mention that they also missed a prime Lorena Bobbitt opportunity. (And I’m apparently drawing my jokes from 1993 now.)

This? This right here? This is something a well-meaning roommate or significant other would do with the intention of making me smile, but I am telling you right now that if I opened the fridge and saw this shit staring back at me — ESPECIALLY if I was having a crappy day — I would close the door, grab my purse, walk outside, and set the goddamn house on fire.

This one deeply unsettles me. That is all.

Yeah, yeah, pirate marshmallows — I am way too distracted by that totally fucking delicious-looking bottle of what I believe to be Godiva hot chocolate mix to focus on anything else.

Sorry. Seems I turned into Cathy for a minute there.

This photo 1) makes me hungry for the pasta I’m having for lunch, and 2) makes me wish that Chef Boyardee would adopt this image for their new ad campaign.

Wait. On second thought…

This is way better. Looks like someone can really handle his Beefaroni.

(Internet, I have no idea what the fuck is going on here, but it came up in a Chef Boyardee image search, and I think it’s best just to go with it.)

Honestly, I really don’t understand this. At all. Did he murder someone and then…make them into a delicious dessert? Is he attempting self-circumcision? Why isn’t anyone bringing me some fucking ice cream? All valid questions.

I feel your pain, pumpkin man. But still: gross.

And now for the grand finale:

NO. WRONG. STOP.

But at least we did not have to see the act of orange sex that led up to this, which would have been really distasteful. Especially if you had just brushed your teeth beforehand.

Well, that’s it. Apologies for any psychological damage you’ve sustained. I’d be happy to discuss treatment options over my new diet of non-violent, non-sexual, penetration-free bread and water.

Make that crackers and water.

Make that water.

Today’s installment comes to us from reader Whalin, who sent this to me all the way from freaking QATAR. I find it so heartwarming that the mockery of forwards has extended to the Middle East, an area of the world that could really use some sparkles right about now.

Awww, see? That’s better.

This forward came to Whalin the way so many of us receive forwards: courtesy of coworker, and with the email flagged as HIGH IMPORTANCE (why not?).  But this coworker works with Whalin at her Islamic government job, so…just keep that in mind as we continue.

Subject: FW: GOD vs SATAN…very nice presentation

The subject line was apparently written by my third grade teacher. What a lovely book report, Satan! It sounds like Superfudge was quite an entertaining read.

So, this forward contained one of those dreaded Powerpoint slideshow files that overtakes your entire screen and always makes me break out into a cold sweat because I’m convinced my computer’s been infected with a virus and I’ll have to call the IT department, and HOLYSHIT, it will be really hard to come up with a work-related reason for opening a file named “GOD vs SATAN.”

Anyway, the “soft music” that accompanied the slideshow sounded exactly like someone left your grandmother’s creepy music box open.

(Ew. That did not come out right.)

Well, there’s a good reason for that.

OK, so Adam and Eve had a lot of gas. And?

WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA: Satan made Krispy Kremes and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (nevermind that Ben & Jerry didn’t exist yet) out of cauliflower and spinach? Was there a New York Super Fudge Chunk plant growing nearby?

Also, I resent the implication that Satan is responsible for delicious sugary treats. One of the only times I’ve ever felt the presence of God in my life was when I bit into a warm, freshly baked Krispy Kreme glazed donut, and that’s a fact.

O, Holey Night.

Oh, fuck this shit.

First off, I am so sick and fucking tired of having yogurt marketed towards me because a have a vagina. If you want me to get my calcium and stave off yeast infections, inject some live and active cultures into a goddamn vanilla milkshake and get the fuck off my lawn.

Secondly, if God is so concerned that no dudes will want to bone me (within the confines of marriage and for the purposes of procreation) if I have some junk in my trunk, then He can give me a quicker metabolism. PROBLEM SOLVED.

Third: Where’s the yogurt for Man’s fat ass?

OK, since we’re apparently talking about Adam & Eve here, I just keep imagining naked people wearing nothing but belts, and let me tell you: it is not attractive.

See?

Spending eternity in Hell is actually starting to sound quite delicious.

Oh! How fit and healthy we all were when we had to toil changing the channels!

God seems awfully inept at this whole thing. Like, couldn’t He create a potato that tastes like chips but is still good for you? Poor form, Lord.

Wait: Satan is behind McDonald’s?

Oh. Yeah. That sounds about right.

(Disclosure: He admits turning people into pillars of salt was not helping.)

Oh no. We’re veering into political territory here, and YOU KNOW the forward cannot be trusted with politics.

What? That’s IT? It’s over? I never thought I’d actually want to see more of a forward, but what the fuck?

So, that’s it, Internet. We’ve been blue-balled by a forward. Feels about how I thought it would. Which is to say, it feels like I’m the carpet in a world full of golden labs.

(Many thanks to Mermanda for providing me with this image, and, subsequently, an opportunity to shoot scalding hot tea through my nose.)

HAAAAY GIRRRRL!

Before we continue, allow me to admit that today’s forward doesn’t specifically cover the topic of sexuality, but after you read it, I think you’ll agree that it’s pretty much woven between the lines. I mean, there’s no saying that a gay man can’t be a “Democratic Liberal-Progressive’s Worst Nightmare,” but…I’m guessing you’d have to look pretty far and wide for that person. Also, this forward comes to us courtesy of lovely and related-to-me Dana (here and here), who received this crap in an email from a family member shortly after posting something on the Facebook about how Jesus would be accepting of gay people. INSTRESTING.*

LET’S BEGIN!

Subject: FWD: I Am the Democratic Liberal-Progressive’s Worst Nightmare

Yeah, this picture is ACTUALLY PART OF THE FORWARD, and really only nightmarish if one is terrified of large quantities of denim.

So, he’s into leather and likes to work long and hard with his hands for a living. MOVE ALONG, NOTHING GAY TO SEE HERE.

(Also, way to burn me for not working with my hands! I’m such a disgrace, sitting here pounding away at my keyboard with my elbows day in and day out.)

What a NIGHTMARE!

I won’t stand for my hard-earned money being given to lazy sons-a-bitches who aren’t going to spend it on denim!

I take an emotional inventory each morning over a cup of hazelnut chai, OK?! I like the way pink satin panties feel on my balls, SO?! You gotta problem with that, tough guy?

That would explain why so many Crips are in Mensa.

Replace “minority” with “shouty old white bastard” and now we’re talking.

I demand cultural purity from the purveyors of my Grade D beef!

(For the record, I’ve never had anyone in the United States try to sell me something in another language, have you? What the fuck is this cock-for-brains talking about?)

The forward is being rational. This is surely a trap.

Jesus Christ, just have sex with Willie G. Davidson (or one of his AWESOME motorcycles) already and be done with it.

But, sir, where do you stand on pitying fools?

OMG I NEED THIS SO BAD.

Uh…wut? Why the random defensive interjection about wrestling?

Hey waaaaaait a second, we’ve been here before, although that time it was supposedly Andy Rooney being the cranky old asswipe, and this time it’s Mr. Definitely Not Gay But Totally Into Leather and His Feelings. A quick trip to Snopes determines that these stupid forwards are indeed related to each other, and sometimes incorrectly attributed to George Carlin.

Who now has permission to haunt the shit out of people who forward this stupid crap, as far as I’m concerned.

True, but just this morning I was interrupted by the Spanish Inquisition on the way to work. Inconvenient!

Alright, then! Back I go to…Pennsylvania? Oh dear, this isn’t working at all.

Except that Russia isn’t a socialist country, but whatever. Details!

Oh, how I LOVE it whenever people include the “Hussein” in Barack Obama’s name to imply that he’s a dirty terrorist/a communist/brown-and-therefore-bad-but-don’t-you-dare-call-me-racist. It’s about as subtle as a fucking sledgehammer.

Speaking of cleaning house, can you imagine a special White House episode of Hoarders? With half-eaten cans of cat food stacked floor to ceiling in the Lincoln Bedroom? Old KFC buckets and Big Gulp cups lining the Oval Office? AWESOME.

I want to know what business it is of yours, exactly, where Jesse Jackson gets his money, as he is not an elected official.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, you’re only a reverend if you preach in a church (just as you are only a doctor if you perform open heart surgery every day), and being an activist = being “part of the problem.”

No.

Ooh, someone has a sore spot! And gosh, for good reason. I can’t tell you how tired I am of reading all the news reports of cops pulling bikers over JUST BECAUSE THEY’RE BIKERS.

(And also because they like to give handy-jays for ten bucks a pop at the Sunoco station, but still: UNFAIR!)

Did…did I ask you if you minded?

Well, it should be *printed* on your money, not written on it…oh waaaait a second. You’re using Jesus Bucks again, aren’t you.

All about the Corinthians.

Yeah! But don’t get a job selling stuff at intersections or raising money for a good cause, because that’s just lazy. Fuck charities, man! (Unless they are Harley Davidson-related charities.)

Seriously, what? What the fuck is he talking about? Are you talking about gay marriage or welfare or WHAT?! Please define your hate more clearly, sir.

I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure lawyers tend to think “illegal” is illegal too. Lawyers? Your thoughts?

Girl, I know you don’t mean that.

But not before you spend ten minutes in the crate. BAD AMERICAN!

Well, which is it? Ours or yours? Is this forward being written by a 2-year-old child? MY country! MINE!

That’s nice.

Highly doubting this dude descends directly from Revolutionary War-era Americans, but whatever. Sounds like the men in his family really know how to party.

Not to get all serious up in here, but after watching this documentary over the weekend and spending six years around people who research PTSD, I am, quite frankly, of the opinion that no one dies for any flag. You die for many complicated reasons, all of which fall under the umbrella of the fact that humankind will always find a way to be dicks to each other, and you shouldn’t have been expected to experience war in the first place.

Why am I all angry now? SHUT UP, FORWARD.

Forward? Why are you still happening?

OK, some facts: the Mexican flag was not displayed on a flag pole, it was just hung somewhere in the school for Mexican Heritage Day. ONE DAY.  And a student tore it down and threw it away. Go on, tell me that’s not incendiary in any way, and that the student in question shouldn’t have been punished. And then I will tell you you’re a moron.

As for the Cinco de Mayo thing, the students (who didn’t usually wear American flag garb to school), made a point to wear flag t-shirts and bandannas on this particular day, because, one presumes, they were looking to be little passive-aggressive bitches to their Mexican counterparts. You can’t tell me that’s not what was happening here. I went to high school, my friends. This is a classic high school asshole move. I do not necessarily agree with the students being sent home (as the shirts themselves are not a problem), but the motive behind wearing the shirts was far from innocent.

(Although they weren’t sent home merely for wearing the shirts, they were sent home for refusing to turn them inside out. Same thing, I suppose, but I like to be straight with the facts.)

Honey, nothing’s been straight around here for years.

Actually, eight is enough.

Additionally, in America, every American needs to say “America” as many times per sentence as possible. (America!)

Bitch, it’s never long enough! Oh shit, you know I went there!

What? What’s this? The forward is offering to sever all ties with me? Please grant me the sweet release, forward!

Nope, you did that all by yourself.

It just means I keep yelling about how this is MY country and how I hate Mexicans is all!

Wow, do all that before finding a place to live? Way harsh. Although I’m totally sure this guy would volunteer to be your sponsor, just as I’m totally sure all of his ancestors spoke perfect English (and ONLY English!) upon immigrating to America.

Wait.

He doesn’t care if I’m offended, but wants to know why I don’t care that HE’S offended? Well, OK then.

Now, the best part:

HA! Yes: May God Bless You.

(Unless you are brown.)

(Or don’t like Harley Davidsons.)

*I owned (and still own, actually) the Beavis and Butthead book, Ensucklopedia. It was given to me as a Christmas gift in 1994 from my completely awesome high school BFF, and in it, Beavis and/or Butthead consistently misspelled the word “interesting” to read “instresting.” And now? More than 15 years later? I STILL CANNOT STOP SAYING AND WRITING IT, although I know full well 100% of people think I’m just a moron who misspells and mispronounces “interesting.”Oh well, I can handle it.

Heh. I said “handle it.”

(It isn’t and I don’t.)

Forwards like these make me irritable and uncomfortable, because they operate under the guise of being heartwarming but are really just condescending. The whole story (which is entirely fictional, by the by) is nothing but a giant exercise in pity, as Cedar observed when she submitted this steaming pile to me. In keeping with my self-photo theme, I decided to consult my giant, motion-activited Freddie Mercury figurine for his take on the forward. Freddie, this forward makes me feel all icky. What do you think?

Yeah? Really? Oh, that makes me feel better. You’re so wise, Freddie. You look awesome in that jumpsuit, by the way. You sure you’re not into chicks? I mean, it’s cool if you’re not, I’m just saying I’m open and…

…mmm…your hair smells good. Wanna sing a duet? I’ll take the low parts.

Look at us rocking the tiny mic like a vandal! Oh, Freddie, you always know how to make a girl feel better.

As much as I’d like to continue with my photo essay of a 33-year-old woman’s inappropriate relationship with a statuette from Sky Mall, I suppose it’s time to tackle the forward. Sigh.

Subject: Fwd: THE FOLDED NAPKIN

When I read the subject line, I was absolutely ABUZZ with excitement over what this shit could possibly mean. Was it a folded napkin that someone threw through a car window as a sign from God? Was it a folded napkin passed back and forth between mother and daughter until one of them died? Was it a folded napkin that some dude slept with while his wife died of Secret Cancer? Oh, the possibilities!

I want to include some of the messages from previous forwarders of this email that I had to scroll through to get to the story, because it’s pretty priceless. In the way that things that make me feel a bit like gagging are priceless.

Hello, flashback to that really bad date I had my sophomore year of college. I’d like to un-remember you again soon.

The word “precious” is never, ever a harbinger for anything good. Just ask Precious.

I AM NOT AN ANIM…OK, maybe I am.

Gross.

It would be a real bummer if a mentally handicapped busboy offended the delicate sensibilities of a trucker who just came off a long shift of dozing at the wheel and jerking off across five state lines.

Gosh, don’t you just hate when your Downs Syndrome makes you look dumpy? Class act, forward.

Just replace “meatloaf platter” with “head” and “pies are” with “meth is.”

First: truck stop germs are real and in effect, motherfuckers. Just ask the makers of Valtrex.

Second: the college students, yuppies, and businessmen are the ones you think will not accept Stevie? Not the truckers who have fucking “No Fat Chicks” mudflaps? OK, then.

Third: college students are commuting via four-wheelers now? You do know what a four-wheeler is, right?

It’s super rad, but there’s no room for my laundry! Bogus!

Stubby little finger? Truck stop mascot? ENTER UNCOMFORTABLE FEELINGS.

A mascot? Really? Way to put a mentally handicapped person just trying to do his damn job on the same level as the fucking Phillie Phanatic.

Make that the Phucking Phillie Phanatic.

He was “like” a 21-year-old kid? Since the forward doesn’t bother telling us his actual age, I guess we have to assume he’s older? Younger? I don’t fucking know.

Hold on tight, Internet. Shit’s about to get sappy and cancer-y up in here.

Also, they’d had no running water at their house ever since a train carrying grandmas, puppies and lambs derailed and crashed into a tank of hydrochloric acid, polluting the water supply.

HA! How much do I love this? “He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart.” Yeah, a new valve or something. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. Where the fuck is that slow kid? These tables need bussed.

Three things: It’s WAR WHOOP, “Marvin Ringers” sounds like something you’d get after eating the aforementioned meatloaf platter, and I hate the word “shimmy” with all of my heart.

I’d love to hear that joke. I’m sure it’s just sublime.

Oh, gurrrrl, you know that wasn’t the first time Frannie walked into the office looking funny & carrying used napkins.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I have to keep actively reminding myself that we’re not talking about Stevie Nicks.

The description of Frannie’s wet-ass beady eyes is freaking me out.

You know what might be a nice celebration of his first day back? GIVING HIM SOME FUCKING HEALTH INSURANCE.

Well, thank goodness the heart surgery “or something” made him thinner & took care of that unfortunate “dumpy” problem he used to have.

And just as one should never follow a hippie to a second location, one should never follow the author of a forward to the rear of anything.

WHAT?! TWENTY FUCKING DOLLARS?! There was $160 up there that fucking Lurleen or whatever her name is found!

Oh.

I guess this is where I’m supposed to cry? Because I will cry at everything, but this shit only makes me feel ALL FUCKING WEIRD for these grandstanding truck stop motherfuckers who never existed in the first place.

Also: $10,000? Would not cover two fucking days in the hospital, let alone any expenses associated with heart surgery “or something.” I SHIT ON YOUR CHARITY, SIR.

I cannot read this without immediately channeling a Waylon Jennings Dukes of Hazzard voiceover: “Well, ’round about that time those Duke boys were in a heap of trouble…”

(I just watched the Dukes of Hazzard opening credits and was overtaken by nostalgia. And the urge to totally bone Young John Schneider. Although I specifically remember having a crush on Tom Wopat when the show was on the air. Ah, the misguided yearnings of youth!)

Well, this says it all, doesn’t it? While everyone stood around fucking congratulating each other for forking out a one-time $20 donation to a disabled person, Stevie was ignoring the awkward bullshit and doing his damn job.

And what need, pray tell, is that? The need to cram stupid bullshit into other people’s inboxes? Because my coworkers have that covered, thanks.

If you did not shed a tear, let me hug you, because you are my kind of person.

NO. NOT A GOOD ONE.

A GOOD ONE. Even with my mom’s 1983 hairstyle.