72 Days? I can't believe he made it that long...

So, Kim Kardashian is getting divorced already?  Is this all that surprising?  That guy is straight up tired of her fat ass already.  Well played, NBA Dude.  Well played.

Happy Halloween!!!

That's a cat.  Wearing a taco.  Probably photoshopped, but who gives a crap?  It's a cat wearing a taco, and that's just awesome.

Did it?

Really!

Here's a little head's up, men I date:  My heart is not your piñata.

People have no skillz - that's right, with an effin z

Ok, candidate I interviewed this morning.  Here's some free advice, from me to you.  If you live in IDAHO, and you work for one of those loan places that loans up to 3K in unsecured cashola out to people with no credit and no business taking out loans, and you work on a green screen DOS based system, and you only have a high school degree and are making 45K base and a total of 70K a year with commission - STAY THE FUCK PUT!  DO NOT QUIT YOUR JOB! 

Seriously.  Don't roll in my office with some story about how you wanted to move and are hoping to make the same kind of money here but will settle for 50K a year, telling me a story about how you can't use Word or Excel or motherfuckin GOOGLE because, well, you been blowing up some green screen dot matrix printer shit for the last 16 YEARS at Shadyloancompany Inc.  Seriously.  I almost laughed in her face and told her to get on the phone and beg for her job back.

Oh, also, I failed to mention, she had one of those 1992 T-Boz from TLC haircuts, you know, long in the front, super short in the back?  Also, Shadyloancompany Inc.  apparently didn't have dental insurance.  Just sayin.  And she smokes.

Beeeeotch, please.  I can put lawyers to work around here, all day every damn day of the week for $15 bucks an hour.  Though, it should be noted, those bastards don't know Excel, either.

Pure Fucking Poetry - that Lil Wayne guy

If you can love the wrong person that much, stop and think how much more you could love the right one.

— Lil Wayne … People, PAY ATTENTION. This is wisdom. (Source: veena, via blondiebird)

What porn looks like. For women.

Update

I'm taking stuff down, reposting old stuff, making some changes.  Deal.

Screw you, Bridget Jones, Volume 2

Scene: Restaurant in the Gateway section of Springfield.  Which, this idiot decided, was half way between our two houses.  Way to go the extra mile, asshat.

A client of my company actually fixed me up on this blind date.  Same old story.  This person thinks I'm great, this guy is great, we will have a great effin time together blah.  She gives him my number, there is some texting that isn't exactly inspiring but we decide to meet.  Sunday afternoon at 5:30pm.  Clearly, this guy is rolling with a different crowd then I am, because at 5:30 I like to be pregaming my night, but whatever.  So I drive out to the Roadhouse Grill to meet Asshat FisherMan (AFM) in the bar.  I get there, he's the only person sitting in the bar.  Walk over, introduce myself, he doesn't get up.  What the fuck is that?  ON YOUR FEET, BOY!  I sit.  He's a couple drinks ahead of me.   This retard pregamed the date.  He looks, and kinda smells, like he's been drinking all day.  AFM is an electrician, owns his own electrical company.  And by company, I mean one motherfucking van with his name vinyl sticker'ed to the side.  Let's not get ahead of ourselves here.  I sit, we talk about work, he tells me his business is terrible, he fired his secretary, so he's doing everything.  Continues to bash every other electrician in town, for "taking up my business".  It's hell.  My ears were bleeding.  I do some cheerleader pep talk about having a job he loves and he launches into a story about how being an electrician isn't his real job.  I bite.  "Oh, really, what is".  He says he's a professional fisherman.  Now it's making sense.  There is a big truck with a logo of some sort in the parking lot, this fine speciman of a man clearly rolls in that thing.  AFM goes on to tell me he spent all day fishing on Cottage Grove Lake.  I ask the obvious question - how many fish did you catch?  He says 22.  I say that's a lot of fish, what are you going to do with them all?  He replies "I threw them back"...............um.....huh?  What? You threw them back?   In the water?  AFM launches into a diatribe about catch and release fishing blah blah yada.  That's when the tourette's kicks in.  I ask the obvious question "How the fuck do you know that you didn't catch the same damn fish, 22 times?"  He actually has a story about how a fish will only bite once every 3 days or something.  Then he launches into the whole "fishing like this is a sport".  Now, I will let you catch fish all day and throw them back, you retard.  If you want to spend a whole day on a lake drinking beer, getting fatter and smelling like bait, rock out with your cock out, I could care less.  But I know a "sport" when I see one.  And that ain't it.  Now we are going to have an argument.  He keeps going on about his sport "And see, when I took up this sport.....blah blah sport...."  I finally interrupt.  I lay out the obvious "Fishing isn't a sport".  Crickets.  I've stumped AFM.  He replies "It's on tv, and I have a sponsor, it's a sport".  RG "No, it most certainly is NOT A SPORT!  If you there was cardio involved, possibly it could be a sport.  Say you, AFM, jumped in the fucking lake and outswam the fish, then it would be a sport.  Sitting on your ass pulling a dumb animal out of a lake all day while kicking back PBR's, not a sport.  How do you train for that?  Extra time at the tavern?" 

At this point, things are going downhill at a rapid pace.  I pull out the big guns and text my 14 year old son the following: You want a laptop for christmas, I want out of this date.  Mommy needs  a 911 call right now.  Feel free to improvise the emergency, but no kidding, CALL NOW.  Beloved son makes the call, I answer the phone and do my best impression of oh no, we have an emergency "What? The dog got out?  Oh no, where is Moose now?  Dammit, I'm on my way"

I bail.  AFM sends me a text saying I should come over after I deal with the dog and sit in his hot tub.  Probably with a beer.  I text back that I'm unavailable to help with his "training" in the hot tub with brews, but best of luck in the future....

Happy Fall, Y'all!

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

— “It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers,” Colin Nissan (via notyourlife)