Hubby's Ex-Boss Needs A Kick In The Crotch and I Predict Best Buy Will Be Going Out Of Business If They Don't Change Their Ways

For those of you that love my rants, Merry Friggin' Christmas. For those of you that don't, you're in the wrong place, leave while you can because I have more than one 'rantee' today... "Leave Stanley. Run, run, go, go, run".

Alright, now first of all let me start by saying that I'm thoroughly pissed off from the moment my eyes are subjected to the harsh glare of mid-day these days. You'd think (at least I would) that a personal, breakthrough with the magnitude of the one I had a few weeks ago, followed by another one a couple of weeks ago, would have calmed me down some. You know, helped me quell the inner fires that I'm so longing to burn everyone at the stake upon. But, no. No, these breakthroughs have left me ready to stab random people on the street for the major infractions of breathing and blinking. I'm aware of it, although unsure of how to quell it, so for now, I simply have stopped carrying mace to use on people just for the fun of hearing them scream.

OK, that said, I still have two big ass rants to share with y'all today. You're welcome.

What The Fuck, Hubby's ex-boss from before I met him? Two months ago, you called Hubby up and offered him a little side job and asked him to bring his code-reader to diagnose a vehicle. So Hubby does. All nice and neat, he shows up on your doorstep at oh-early-thirty with his code-reader and some tools in hand ready to do your bidding some 50 miles round trip from our home. He gets there, is shown to a complete and total piece of shit that a blind ghetto rat would push into any body of water to simply be rid of it, and does, as you asked him to, get codes on and diagnose this craptastic hunk of recycled beer can that's trying desperately to pass for a vehicle that your dumb ass took in on trade. Hubby does the diagnosis, tells you that it's such a piece of shit that it would take more than it's worth to fix it, You still want Hubby to fix it, and after two hours of your southern-drawl-salesman-speak, you send Hubby on his way with nothing more than a 'we'll see' attitude and your fake ass smile. Not so much as a nickle for his time or gas or any other damn thing after you told him on the phone that you'd pay him for the diagnostic no matter what.

Obviously, with being handed that sack of ass-reaming-lies, Hubby never went back, nor did he ever see a dime from you. Then Saturday, you have the nerve to show up here in your brand spankin' new pick-up truck with your perfectly groomed wife and make all polite-conversation-and-fake-friendship-like so you can ask Hubby to come to your shop Monday (today) and work on some vehicles for you. Again with the I'm-helping-you-out attitude even though you can plainly see with your own two eyeballs that Hubby is already working on his ex-wife's piece of shit that has already had an entire engine replacement that he was only told about when he finished replacing the radiator and various other small items and found that the head gasket is leaking so now, for the sin of trying to help someone out, he's up to his ass in alligators. And so, Mr. Cheap-Ass-Ex-Boss-Salesman-Think-My-Shit-Doesn't-Stink-Cause-I'm-A-Fucking-Millionaire you want Hubby to drop what he's doing so he can drive 50 miles to work on your garbage for less money than the gas it takes to get there. AND you've got the brass balls the size of coconuts to call my house at 8 something in the am to find out where Hubby is, like he's your employee, when Hubby never, for one solitary second, agreed to do the job. What the fuck is wrong with you, you cheap ass bastard?

Not to mention that I know all about how you asked Hubby if I was a lesbian the first time you met me, so you're lucky that I don't drive the 50 miles roundtrip my damn self simply to slash your mother fucking tires. Fuck you, have a nice day.

And then, there's our old buddy Best Buy...

Dear Best Buy, what the fuck are y'all thinking? I guarantee you that by placing full length and huge wall sized mirrors in your ladies room that you will loose sales. No woman who has, say recently quit smoking, or who has never lost the massive tonnage that was gained during a non-Hollywood pregnancy does NOT want to wash her hands staring at an actual-life-sized-holy-shit-when-did-I-turn-into-Jabba-the-Hut fucking reflection of herself.

When she's at home with her little over-the-sink-medicine-cabinet sized mirror, she can delude herself into the belief that she's not quite so big. Because she doesn't feel like she could out-weigh an 18-wheeler. She still has a mental image of herself from high school when she did aerobics during P.E. and wore stretch jeans and cropped-mock-turtle-neck-sweaters and hung around with the football players drinking beer after games and giggling cutely.

So she is not ready to be smacked in the face with the reality that she is now almost 40 with a child-fingernail-induced scratch on her upper lip, her hair looks all slack and sweaty and pulled back into a pony tail and that she didn't put on make-up because her Hubby said that they were just going to pick up a VW part from the parts store to finish up the ex-wife's headache-car and then he changed his mind and after getting said part, he went to His Nirvana in Blue and Yellow 'to get out of the heat', whereby his wife, in an attempt to not look quite so bad, went to the bathroom only to be hit with each and every single self-esteem demon that she has ever had in her life, and in fact, it looks as if she has eaten them, because she seems to be almost half as wide as that wide-ass mirror and holy-fucking-hell I am NOT staying in this store for one more second because I was not prepared for this mirror since Best Buy doesn't sell clothes and I didn't realize that I look so bad that I could blind Medusa. So now, I want to have both a nervous-breakdown-crying-jag and a full-out-postal-homicidal-killing-spree-targeting-all-the-skinny-girls-in-the-store-*fuckingBarbies*.

So that she comes out of the bathroom at holy-shit-it's-a-charging-bull speed, laser-targets her husband, grabs his arm and her child and says as calmly as possible, "We are leaving THIS SECOND." In an 'if you have a brain in your skull you will not argue, but will simply follow me' tone of voice that also implies that if they don't follow, they will have to do their own laundry and cooking and will be single for the rest of their lives because it's not easy to get a new wife when you've been castrated and you have to sleep sometime. Then again, it will be easier to get the replacement wife when you're filthy stinkin' rich, which you will be when you sue Best Buy for the loss of your family jewels, because any male judge will rule in your favor with his legs uncomfortably crossed from behind the bench. And then Best Buy will be the punchline to every junior high school boys' joke for the next 10 years and Circuit City will come back and you'll be the ones with all the sad, empty, unlit buildings all over town. All because of your fucked up mirrors in the ladies room.

I suggest you change them now.