Archive for the ‘vituperation’ Category

Reaching New Nadirs

I have about had it with expensive bags (or purses or whatever you want to call them).  It’s one thing to own a nice, well-constructed, chic bag that makes you feel happy and goes with all of your outfits.  It’s another thing to spend four times your mortgage payment on a bag.

For example:  The Legacy Ostrich Coach Bag, for only $4800.

Ack!  What?  $4800?  This is a COACH BAG, Y’ALL.  A COACH BAG.  You know, the same brand that every spoiled thirteen-year-old with a Sidekick, every babymama on food stamps who’s spending her pocket money on LV and Coach instead of her kids, every clubhopping slag who wears shirts from Glam, every annoying person at the mall who runs you over while horking down their Chai bubble tea carries.  It’s PLAYED OUT.  It’s PAST played out.  It’s just over.

And now we’ve got a $4800 Ostrich-skin Coach bag hitting the streets?  Who the hell is going to spend almost five grand on that ugly, bright-blue tribute to chavdom?  Because they need to be slapped, sharp and hard.

Owning a tacky, blue, Ostrich-skin bag that you were suckered into paying five grand for isn’t going to make you feel any better about yourselves, ladies.  I promise.  You’re only helping us reach new nadirs as a society…


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I don’t like credit cards.  I don’t like the entire notion of the credit system here in America.  It’s too easily disrupted, skewed, abused and heavily-relied upon in general.  It’s a huge scam that we’ve all bought into, but…it’s also not going anywhere any time soon.

The one small, tiny thing that I do to combat the credit system is that I don’t have a credit card.  Not a single one.  Sure, I have a car loan.  We have a home loan.  There are a million other unstickable ways in which I am entrenched in the credit system, but having a credit card is not one of them.

I’m of the mind that I shouldn’t be buying things unless I have the cash in my pocket to do it.  With the dual exceptions of the car and the house, I don’t see the sense in buying things on credit and paying interest to someone else when that money could be in your own accounts, earning you interest until the day comes along when you can finally afford to buy that couch or those shoes or that TV.  But what if there’s an emergency? you ask.  Well, that’s what all that money that should be in your savings accounts, accruing interest, should be used for, since you aren’t spending it on paying credit card bills each month.

My husband, however, is a dutiful consumer and does in fact have several credit cards.  He’s extremely frugal with them and does clever little things like buy a tank of gas and some groceries with one card and pay it off the next month.  To build credit, he says.  And he does have a spotless credit record to show for it, whereas I — the stubborn asshole that I am — don’t.  I have a mediocre credit report with remarks on it like, “No credit history” and “Insufficient credit history,” as if refusing to buy into the system immediately gets you blacklisted.

Back to my husband…  Wanting to maintain his system of buying a few things with one of the cards and then paying it off, he gave me his credit card this weekend to buy some things for our upcoming trip abroad.  I set off to several stores, in the market for some winter boots and a couple of warm sweaters.  And this is where my disgust for credit cards comes into play.

I went to six different stores on Sunday — a shoe store, jewelry store, clothing store, grocery store, drug store, and a coffee shop — and every single one of them blindly accepted Richard’s credit card without thought.  Three of the stores asked to see my ID, which I provided, and pretended to compare the ID and the credit card.  None of the stores seemed to bat an eyelash at the fact that I was not, in fact, my husband.

My husband and I don’t share the same last name, much less the same first name.  My driver’s license has my full name on it, not his.  And I’m clearly not a “Richard.”  Yet every single store let me use his credit card without a second glance.

I watched each merchant, more amused each time, just waiting for someone to point out that my ID and the credit card I was presenting didn’t remotely match one another.  But it never happened…  And right there is why I hate credit cards.

Why put your entire life and well-being into a network which has no safeguards in place to ensure that someone else can’t come along and use the credit which you have so carefully constructed and maintained?  Identity theft is a rampant problem in today’s society, yet the credit system has made little to no adjustment to compensate for that threat.  It’s like knowing that criminals carry guns, yet refusing to protect your law enforcement officers with Kevlar.

Sure, the credit card companies have a few of their own safeguards in place, like monitoring your card to make sure that no “unusual” purchases or transactions are made.  Same thing with your bank.  But what about the credit bureaus themselves?  The Experians and TransUnions and Equifaxes?  Have you ever tried to get a bogus or erroneous record removed from your credit report?  Tried to get your credit cleaned up after an identity theft?  Good luck.

I don’t have a single answer as to what better system could replace our current credit boondoggle.  In fact, with my hyper-Libertarian attitude, I’m probably a really poor person to ask in the first place.  All I know is that in my ideal country, in addition to not having any executive branch departmental agencies (i.e., Department of Education, Department of Agriculture, the IRS) and only a few independent federal agencies (you can stick around, U.S. Postal Service), there would be a complete abolition of all credit bureaus, too.

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I am so hungry right now.  I am so hungry that I could tear sheets off my desk calendar and eat them.  I am so hungry that the little pushpins on my bulletin board are starting to resemble tiny, delicious berries.

I was so nervous last night that I couldn’t eat anything besides half a tomato sandwich.  Not very filling.  And I was so nervous this morning that I could only take two bites of a banana.  Also not very filling.

And now here it is, less than six hours prior to surgery, that goddamned window of time when I’m not allowed to eat or drink anything at all — not even water — and I’m fucking starving.

What’s worse, I know that I won’t be able to eat anything for at least a half-day after the surgery, because I’ll be so doped up and/or in pain.  So the next time I eat will be…Saturday morning?  Jesus.  And even then, it’ll be hard to get or keep anything down.

Maybe I can turn this into a religious fast or something.  Heh.

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When I bcc you on an email out of professional courtesy — so that you can see how a certain situation involving one of your employees is proceeding, even though you’re really not supposed to have this much detail about said situation at your level of involvement and I could get in a lot of trouble for even forwarding the email to you, much less bcc’ing you on it — DON’T REPLY TO ALL, YOU USELESS COW.

I’m just saying.  You might want to consider it.

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Because of doofuses like this…

Me:  How are you doing today, Mr. Doe?

John Doe:  Fine.  But I have a big problem with my retiree medical insurance.

Me:  Okay, and what seems to be the problem?

John Doe:  I’m afraid that I’m going to lose my coverage.

Me:  Well, I show here that you’re covered through the end of this month.  The only reason that it wouldn’t continue past that point is if you didn’t send in a check for the next month.  Is there a reason that you’re worried about losing your coverage?

John Doe:  I received a letter in the mail from Giant Company You Work For that said that since I was 65, I had to do something about Medicare.

Me:  Hmm.  That doesn’t sound like something that we would send out.  Do you still have a copy of the letter?

John Doe:  No.  I threw it away.

Me:  Okay…  Can you tell me what the letter said?

John Doe:  I don’t remember.  Something about being eligible for Medicare and having to do something.  There were some instructions.  I think they wanted me to send something in.

Me:  Did you follow the instructions on the letter?

John Doe:  No, I threw it away.  I told you.

Me:  Alright, well…  Do you remember anything else about the letter?

John Doe:  It just said that I needed to contact someone if I had questions.

Me:  Who did it tell you to contact?

John Doe:  There was a phone number.

Me:  Did you call it?

John Doe:  No.  I called you.

The conversation went on like this for a few more minutes, until I finally managed to get Mr. Doe off the phone with a promise that I would try and figure out who sent the letter, what is was and what is needed of him.  So I’ve spent the rest of the afternoon calling and emailing people both in and out of the company, pestering them over a letter that doesn’t even exist any more.

I love my job.  I love my job.  I love my job.

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Thanks A Lot, Assholes

Due to recent events, upon which I am unable to elaborate, my company has decided not to distribute bonuses to the rank-and-file employees this year. Thanks.

However, the upper-level executives wouldn’t be upper-level executives without a little bit of cunning under their belts, would they? And so they have decided amongst themselves to give each other “cost of living adjustments” to the tune of $150,000 to $500,000 a piece.

Because the cost of living in Houston has clearly skyrocketed in the past year… I just don’t know how they make it on a paltry $750,000 yearly salary, the poor dears.

Meanwhile, the rest of us may or may not have been enrolled in the “Jelly Of The Month Club.” Can’t wait.

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From today’s riveting article: “UH film entries still win with proffesor (sic)”

I remain more convinced than ever that the Chronicle is like the vast wasteland where journalists who simply couldn’t cut it elsewhere end up, like T.S. Eliot’s straw men.

Also?  It couldn’t hurt to invest in a program that offers some kind of spell check.  Like some kind of professional word processing software; I’m sure that someone sells something like that.  Or even just a dictionary.  Do you remember those?  They’re books that have words in them, words that are spelled correctly.  You can get a whole set at Sam’s — dictionary AND thesaurus — for, like, five bucks.  It’s quite the steal.

Just a thought.

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