Calorie counts at fast-food restaurants

As soon as I beer-belly up to the counter of McDonalds/Burger King/Wendy’s/Chick-Fil-A/Jack in the Box/Popeye's/Arby’s/Taco Time/Taco Bell/Taco del Mar, I know I’m eating a week’s worth of calories. As soon as I turn into a drive-thru, the die has been cast. Why you gotta be reminding me of a truth that’s self-evident? A Big Mac tastes like a heart attack-in-training; I’m pretty sure that I’m not getting beta-carotene and antioxidants from the special sauce.

I know I’m a tub o' lard.

I know I’m killing myself.

And above all, I know I need to jam this signage in the deep-fat fryer.

In Seattle, Mickey D’s and its fatass-inducing friends are required to post nutrition information (i.e. calorie counts) on menu boards in the restaurant. Some even print it on the receipts.

Um, I already bought what you're selling; do I really want to remember the not-so-happy meal I put down my piehole when I’m recording the receipt in Quicken?

Roy Kroc is rolling over in his grave, and not because of acid reflux. It’s time to rip open the ketchup packets, become a BK Basquiat, and create a bit of avant-garde graffiti on the menu boards. Receipts and pamphlets will be gathered up, dipped in the fryer, slathered in mayo, brushed with Brazier flavor, rolled in a tortilla, covered in salsa and sour cream, and sandwiched between two waffles. Actually, that sounds pretty good. Maybe I should just hoover the nutrition information; anything goes down easy with a buttload of high-cal condiments. And this treat is guilt-free, as I suspect my rage is burning more than a few calories.

(Photo: www.gamingring.com)

Carnations

My loathing of this wretched bloom probably started in high school, when cheerleaders would sell them as a fundraiser around Valentine’s Day and Homecoming. The more flowers you received from cupids who could do the splits, the more popular you clearly were. And the popular bitches would carry those stinky stalks around from class to class.

Let’s just say, I did not have a bouquet stuck out of my Trapper Keeper.

Now, I hate the crapass carnation for all new reasons. It stinks. You can often buy the dyed blue variety at gas stations. Classy. It fills in for better buds at funeral homes and the race track. As a boutonniere, it becomes a ball of blech.

Carnations are supposed to represent fascination and distinction. They can have the distinction of being the first flower to fascinate at my fist. The time is nigh to mulch these asshole flowers into a pulp. And after putting the petal to the metal of my rototiller, I am happy to report that I now only smell success.

Baby’s breath, you're on notice. If you know what's good for you, you'll steer clear.

(Photo: flowerstopetersburg.com)

SkyMall

Three hours into a flight from hell, a Meerkat Gang Sculpture is starting to look pretty damn good. In fact, I don’t know how I ever lived without it. What's happening to me? Who am I?

The trip starts out okay: I’ve taken my Dramamine, and I’ve got snacklets, an aisle seat, plenty of reading material, my iBook, and some sort of craft project.

Then it all goes to shit.

The seats are too small to pull out my laptop or knit, let alone stretch my legs. The guy next to me smells like 1969 and the overhead vent is not assuaging the stench. The three year old behind me is taking great delight in kicking my seatback while crying without pause. I plow through my rag mags in short order. Clearly, there’s nothing left to live for…so I pull out the SkyMall catalog.

When, at 30,000 feet, I think I've hit rock bottom, things gets worse. I feel very 1993 Franklin Covey as I contemplate a framed print of a Zen garden. Ooh, where do I swipe my card? Oh wait, here’s a light therapy system! For only $399.95, I can make my frown turn upside down in rainy Seattle! A plantar fasciitis kit? Now you’re just freakin’ my shit out, SkyMaul—you’re reaching into my soul and uncovering my deepest desires. In fact, I think I just might— Holy fuck, a watch winder! If only there was an automatic piehole feeder and a bum wiper, I could just throw in the towel.

Before I give up on life and go down the battery-operated rabbit hole, I need to do one last thing: unleash a can of whoop ass on this twisted love child of QVC and Lillian Vernon. A few repurposed items should do the trick.

I don a Doolittle & Loafmore sweatshirt and LED lighted safety glasses and get to business. I collect a plane's worth of DieMall catalogs in a NFL hammock. I heap them into a copper fire pit and crumple up a wall-size crossword puzzle as tinder. With my Swarovski lighter, I torch the hot mess. No number of indoor hoses and plant waterers can help you now. Go back from whence you came, demon catalog, and take Hammacher Schlemmer and its schtupid name with you.

But leave the snow cone cart.

Penis names

Big Daddy, Cock Hudson, Unihorn, Richard Dixon, Carl, One-Eyed Willie, Casanova, Sir Lancelot, Ralph.

You see where I'm going with this. If you’re a dude, chances are good that you've dubbed your dick.

Ever since I read Forever… by Judy Blume in junior high, I’ve been aware that guys have a penchant for naming their junk. I can appreciate the package as much as the next girl, I just don't need to be on a first-name basis with it.

I’ve got a few names for your Johnson, Junior, and none of them are found in the Big Book of Baby Names. Your little Richard doesn’t have a birth certificate, it doesn’t have a separate heartbeat, and it doesn’t merit a name. While my lady bits are remarkable, I’m not christening them and requesting a Social Security Number. They are much-loved, and yet remain nameless.

Your constant cumpanion needs to be put in its place, namely your drawers. And I know just the thing to turn Voldemort's Wand into He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Say hello to my little friend. Its name is Left Fist and it's ready to, uh, whack these upstarts into global amnesia anonymity. A penis by any other name would sound as beat.

(On a related note, if you're a chick who has given a pet name to your puss, belly up to the bar for your own cocktail of hurt.)

(Photo: dorridgecc.org.uk)

Doctors who go by their first names

I know that we are living in an exciting age, where everything is becoming democratized, and the playing field is being leveled. But call me crazy, I want my president to be WAY smarter than me and I want to be slightly intimidated by my physician or my date with the PhD.

Use your last name, for fuck’s sake! Print it on your business card, use it in your talk show title, own it.

Even Doctor Doom goes by his last name (and, come to think of it, so does Doc Ock in his own fashion). He may be a costumed villain but that dude has decorum (and admittedly, a bad-ass last name).

It works my last nerve that these doctors use their first names to appear approachable and likable. Homey don't play that. I don’t want to let my guard down and place myself in a target-rich environment, Quick-Draw McGraw. I do want to draw a bullseye on your never-ending forehead and use that as a makeshift punching bag. Dr. Drew, while I respect your curriculum vitae, your moniker gets me so agitated that I want to stuff a handful of Quaaludes down my piehole just to calm the fuck down. Dr. Laura, your name does make me want to open up…and share my Zippo with your physiology PhD diploma. Dr. Ruth, I'll give you a pass this time. You're the shit.

Don't even get me started about Judge Judy.

(Photo: baldiness.com)

Horror movie trailers

I’m home, minding my own business. The front door is locked, the windows secure. I’m wearing my jammies.

And then, unexpectedly, I’m violated.

By my television.

I might be innocently watching the nightmare that is the Rock of Love Bus or a grisly surgery on House when the show cuts to a commercial. Sigh. Instead of a Cover Girl or Comcast ad, it’s a goddammed horror movie trailer. A young girl is running in the woods, presumably away from a psychopath or the not-so-Steadicam that’s hunting her down. In just two minutes, I hear a lot of screaming and I see duct tape, knives, guns, menace, sweaty faces that haven’t been shaved in days, lots of moody lighting, fear, choppy editing, a microwave…



My heart is racing and I’m seriously disturbed.

It's coming from inside the house.

Like Drew Barrymore in the opening sequence of Scream, I can’t escape. It’s bad enough that Friday the 13th forever screwed my chances for a fear-free camping trip, but now I have to be afraid every time I reach for the remote. The obvious solution is to quickly turn the channel or turn off the TV before I punch it in the cathode ray tube. Fuck that. These trailers make me mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more.

It's time to turn the tables on my tormentors. I need to strap on my hockey mask, pull on a red-and-black striped sweater, pick up my hand saw/ice pick/mallet/meat hook/rusty farm tool and…oh heck, who am I kidding? I can't go serial killer on these trailers' asses, as they are digital and as elusive as Jack the Ripper. Unless I infiltrate a movie trailer producer's studio and wipe the hard drive, crash the servers, and destroy the FTP site, my hands are tied (but not in a Hostel kind of way). Wait a minute, I bet that demon chicklet in need of a deep conditioner and a comb from The Ring could help. Samara could crawl back into the TV and magnetize anything that triggers my gag reflex.

Meanwhile, I'll watch a Clean House marathon on the Style network and mute the cheesy freecreditreport.com commercials. That kind of horror I can stomach any time.

Matthew McConaughey’s armpits

Reputedly, McConNoWay has not worn deodorant in decades. Are you serious, you bongo-playing Bozo? Do you think we’ll be so enchanted by your sap-dripping drawl or leathery good looks that we’ll lose the use of our other senses? Like smell, for instance?

Aw, HELL no.

Kate Hudson supposedly asked surfer dude to roll on a crystal deodorant to ban his natural McConaughmusk while filming Fool’s Gold. He declined. I may not know how to lose a guy in 10 days but I do know how to lose a gal in 10 minutes, and it has something to do with B.O.

J.K. Livin' claims a good diet and showers contribute to his fresh scent. I’m sure you smell like butterflies and rainbows, Texas Tea, especially after a long run with one of your bromantic workout partners. I’m betting that Lance Armstrong is breathing out of his mouth during that last mile.

I suspect that designers aren’t keen on loaning red-carpet suits to him, either. If he wants to sit in his Airstream and stew in his own juices, that’s his business. But when a movie star takes up permanent residence in Funkytown, it’s time to take action.

I wish McKindahippie would take a tip from Duckie in Pretty in Pink, who at one point sniffed his pits and asked, “Do I offend?” No, sweet Duckie, you smell like Designer Imposter Drakkar Noir. Wooderson, on the other hand, does not smell all right, all right, all right, all right.

And because of that, he’s subject to my reign of ire. I want to make contact with Pigpen, driving his stanky ass through a carwash for a wash and buff. Better yet, I’d like to grab the biggest hose I can find, a bucket of industrial-strength cleaner—Dr. Bronner isn’t strong enough for this job—and scrub him down Silkwood-style. I’d roll on multiple coats of deodorant and force him into a shirt with a pocket so I could tuck a car air freshener in there for added measure. There’s no stench on my watch.

(Photo: unclestinky.wordpress.com)