Another Reason to Hate Text Messages (as if we didn't have enough)

Updates should be coming more frequently soon.  The Internet has informed me that I may have it in my home again after its long absence.

For those who were unaware, rather than typing http://nobodylovesyouandicanproveit.blogspot.com into your browser and getting carpal tunnel syndrome, you may simply go to www.nobodylovesyou.info, which will forward you here.  This is easier to remember when you're telling everyone you know about it, which you should since I'm way funnier (and more inclined to update) when more people are paying attention, probably.

Anyway...

Due to my recent lack of Internet I've been forced to communicate with human beings via other means, such as phone calls, text messages, and [shudder] actual conversations.  This has led to more than a few altercations with my phone.  I have a dumb phone.  This is because I don't want a "smart phone" because I hate technology.  In fact, if I could get by without having a phone I'd get rid of mine but it's damned hard to order pizza and call in phony police reports without one.  Therefore, my old-ass phone with its T9 text messaging occasionally forces me to spell out--letter by letter--the myriad words it is inexplicably missing from its dictionary.  
I have found that the following words are not in my phone's dictionary.  Do not ask why I have needed to use these words in text messages; suffice to say that it's very important.

hippopotamus
aardvark
sluts
felafel
walrus
bastard
assfucking
hipster
pterodactyl
mistletoe
Uranus
erogenous
lefty

However, the word "undulating" is in there.  Thank god for that.

The Devil Made Me Buy Coke Zero

Anyone who’s read much of my writing would probably tell you I love writing about things I hate.

That’s not true, though. I hate hating things. When I hate something, that means it’s wronged me and it’s probably decreasing the quality of my life. When I write about it I have to relive the hatred. Therefore, I hope you all appreciate the great sacrifice I’m making by writing this for you.

Which brings me to something I just learned that I hate. Coke Zero. It’s Coca-Cola. It’s got zero calories. But it’s not Diet Coke. It’s better. It’s different.

NO! It’s the same goddamn thing!

I went to the store today to buy some stuff and as I passed the beer aisle, that little devil on my shoulder calmly insisted that if I didn’t buy some goddamn beer he was going to pitchfork my eardrums until April. Fortunately, the angel on the other shoulder bailed me out (somewhat). Here’s a rough transcript of their conversation:

Devil: 

BUY BEER! BUY BEER!

Angel: 

No, we’ve had our fair share of beer in the past few days. Let’s not do any drinking tonight. Besides, beer’s expensive. We make like $40 a week. We’ve eaten Ramen noodles and grass clippings for three days straight.

Devil:

BUY BEER! BUY BEER!

Angel: 

Ugh, what, are you retarded? Are you listening to what I’m saying?

Devil: 

Buuuuuuuuuuuuy…

Angel: 

Listen, if you—

Devil: 

BEEEEEEEEEER!

Angel:

All right, let’s compromise here. Remember that big jug of whiskey? We’ve still got a fair lot of it left. We’ll drink some of that. It’s already paid for. No additional hits to the wallet. Deal?

Devil:

[grumble grumble want beer] Ok. What are we mixing it with? All we have at home is milk and water, and damned if I’m drinking that bottom-of-the-barrel-five-dollars-a-gallon piss-whiskey straight. Buy some Coke. Or Pepsi. Whichever’s cheaper.

Angel:

All right, fair enough. We can spare a buck or two for a two-liter. But let’s not go full-sugar soda. We’ve been watching our food intake a bit of late and can finally refer to our pecs as “pecs” instead of “tits,” which is nice.

Devil:

[angrily] Fine. You win this time, but next time we get drunk in public I’m making sure we do something especially stupid. You’ll regret this. [disappears into cloud of smoke]

Angel: 

[to me] Ok, we don’t much care for diet soda, so let’s do one of those that are supposed to be low-calorie but better than diet.

Devil:

[reappears in cloud of smoke] But if they’re better than diet, why doesn’t everyone buy them and stop buying diet altogether?

Angel:

Would you fuck off already? We’re getting some nasty aspartame-filled bullshit regardless; I’m just trying to ease the pain. [to me] So anyway, get Pepsi Max or Coke Zero.

Me:

I’ve tried Pepsi Max before. It’s just Diet Pepsi in a different bottle.

Other store patrons:

Who the hell is he talking to? Weirdo.

Angel:

Fine, get Coke Zero instead. We’ve always liked Coke better anyway…

BEGIN TANGENT

…but not so much more as to make me be a total assclown like you dicks who order a Coke and upon being asked if Pepsi is ok respond with something along the lines of, “Oh. Well. Never mind then. Just piss into a cup and give it to me because I’d rather drink that than Pepsi.” FUCK YOU. They’re both colas and taste only marginally different. I bet most of you inbred siamangs couldn’t even tell the difference between the two if it weren’t for the bottles being labeled. Unless Pepsi raped your mother and robbed you of your 401k, cut the bullshit and just drink what’s available. God, I hate you.

END TANGENT

Me:

Yeah, sounds good. Hey, there’s only one bottle of Coke Zero left. Lucky me! I bet that means it’s gonna be really good because so many people buy it and stuff.

Devil: 

You don’t believe a word you’re saying, do you?

Me: 

[despondent] No.

FOUR HOURS LATER

Me:

COKE ZERO SUCKS! THIS IS JUST DIET COKE IN A BLACK BOTTLE! YOU DIRTY BASTARDS, YOU TRICKED ME!!!!

FIVE HOURS LATER

Me:

I’m fairly certain I have stomach cancer. If I don’t have it, I deserve it for pouring such utter filth into my guts. Damn you, Coke Zero. You are all that is bad and wrong in the world.

Albert Pujols Signs with Angels, Begins Reign of Terror

Up there!  It's a bird! It's Superman! No, it's that plane I bought.

Yesterday, first baseman Albert Pujols called a press conference to announce that he had signed a 10 year, 254 million dollar contract with the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim (who apparently can't decide which city they play for).  Albert had worn number 5 on his St. Louis Cardinals jersey since the beginning of his career, making his home in St. Louis and opening a restaurant there called "Pujols 5."
Albert approached the podium chewing vigorously on a piece of "5" brand gum produced by the Wrigley company, which Albert had purchased that morning along with three new BMWs, a solid gold bidet, and the planet Neptune.
After giving a brief statement, Pujols was asked why after repeatedly saying money wasn't a high priority for him and he simply wanted to play on a successful baseball team he opted to leave the St. Louis Cardinals, who had won the World Series twice in Albert's time with the team.  His response was as follows:  

"Yeah man, you know, it's all about the winning.  I just wanna play some ball, you know.  The Cardinals, we win the World Series and stuff, and the Angels, they gonna pay me a whole lot of fucking money, man.  So yeah, I just wanna play on a team that's gonna win some ballgames."

When he was told that his statement made absolutely no fucking sense Albert killed three reporters, removed their spines, and twisted them into a horrific representation of the number 5. 
Albert then informed those present that he had a special surprise for all of his fans:

"I got a big surprise for all my peoples today, man.  Back home [in his native Dominican Republic] we kinda poor, you know, so I figure I buy the whole goddamn country.  We gonna rename it and everything.  I call it 'Pujols.'  It's cool, yeah?"  

Albert then produced a large map with the Dominican Republic circled and a picture of his face sloppily glued on top of it. 

"Now that I got all this money I can help out all my peoples back home.  I can use the money I make in the Angels to help make the Dominican Republic a great place for all the kids to sew my baseball jerseys and make shoes and stuff to sell so I can make some money, you know?  It's gonna be great, man!" 

At this point, Albert smiled broadly; the first time he had done so since the conference began.  
When asked if he thought he would be able to maintain his high level of play throughout the length of his 10 year contract despite already being in his thirties, Pujols cackled maniacally, turned into a bat, and flew out of the room.
There were no survivors.

Nolan Ryan Looks Like A Turtle.

 

That's all.  You can go back to your lives now.

I want my quarters (fighting the machine).

My apartment complex's laundry room is pretty much awful.  On any given day, three or four washers or dryers will be broken, the change machine will be finicky at best and most likely empty, the whole place smells like the north end of a southbound Mexican immigrant, and it's full of those awful flying abominations that look like giant mosquitos.  I don't know if they actually suck one's blood like mosquitos, but damned if I'm going to let them have the chance.
After a great many heated arguments with the washers/dryers (I lost most of said arguments), I decided it best to give the machines' owners what for.  The exchange was as follows.

Me: 

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to request a refund in the amount of $1.25 due to the malfunctioning of your dryer at [my address] (Unit number PFD-886).  Having placed a reasonably small load of laundry into the dryer (perhaps it would have been a larger one were the washers not so godawful small), I inserted my money and returned later to find my clothes slightly warmer and moved around a bit, but still quite wet.  Being that the machine is known as a "dryer" and not a "clothing warmer and reorganizer" I had expected that my clothing would be dry.  The other dryers worked fine.  I have had problems with other dryers before but did not bother to report them, thinking that maybe God just hated me.  Due to my failure to report them I do not expect a refund for past occurrences, but with gas prices currently exceeding tolerable levels, I must ask that I be refunded my $1.25.  Also, I must ask that the money be mailed to me in quarters since the laundry facility's change machine only accepts dollar bills that have been hand-delivered in hermetically sealed cases straight from the U.S. Mint.  I would try ironing my bills to make them acceptable, but I do not own an iron.

Sincerely,

[Me]

Them: [sends check for $1.25]

Me:

To Whom It May Concern:

I recently submitted a refund request due to a faulty dryer in my apartment complex’s laundry area. The text thereof was as follows:

 [original email text]

I subsequently received a check for $1.25, which would be completely acceptable were it not for the indisputable fact that a check for $1.25 is not five United States quarter dollar coins.  With gas prices currently exceeding $3.50 per gallon, it would cost me more than $1.25 to drive to the bank and cash the check. I could walk, but it’s been rather hot outside lately so I would need to stop for a drink at some point, which would most likely cost more than $1.25.  Furthermore, it seems logical that since the dryer stole my money when it was in the form of quarters, it is only fair that the money be returned in the same form. Additionally, since no one can be bothered to refill the change machine in the laundry room, quarters are a rare commodity here nowadays. This makes me less inclined to consider non-quarter refunds to be acceptable. In light of the above, I must again ask that I be sent $1.25 in quarters as previously requested.  Upon receipt of said quarters, I will either A) place the check in a self-addressed stamped envelope (to be included with said quarters) and return it or B) destroy the check, whichever you prefer. If this form of reimbursement cannot be arranged, I’m afraid I will have to renege on my previous promise and demand refunds for past incidents so as to be compensated for the gasoline required to travel to my bank.  Thank you for your prompt response, I am sure this can be resolved soon.

Sincerely,

[Me]

Them:  

          Dear [Me],

We apologize for the inconvenience but it is not normally our policy to send cash.  You will have to talk to our customer service department.  The number is [number].

Sincerely,
Yolanda

Me: [demands larger refund, randomly selecting machines to report as faulty]
Them: [sends refund]
Me: [wins]

Whoopi Goldberg Soils Herself and There's a Phallus In That Puppet (commercials that make me feel ill)

So let's say you're an actress.  You've won an Oscar, a Tony, a Grammy, and some Golden Globes.  You're filthy stinking rich.  What kind of commercials do you sign on for?  If you're me, the only commercials you run are public service announcements reminding the general populace that you're awesome and they're not and that you've just purchased the country of Honduras for your own personal vacation spot so could everyone living there kindly get the hell out, please?

If you're Whoopi Goldberg, you casually announce that you've been pissing yourself of late.

For those of you who didn't bother watching it, the commercial consists of Whoopi dressed in various outfits discussing her tendency to wet herself.  She then tries to brush it off like it's nothing, saying that one in three women have the same issue.

Ok, so about 2/3 of American women are overweight and 1/3 are peeing themselves... I'm no mathematician but statistically speaking, you're all disgusting.

I can't begin to understand why Ms. Goldberg feels it's necessary to tell us about her bladder problems, but it does explain a strange anomaly on one of her old movie posters:

---

...And continuing in that vein, here's Jamie Lee Curtis reminding us that women need special yogurt to make them poop:

Those of you with weak stomachs probably didn't watch that, so in summary: two sacks of uterine filth are clucking about their holiday dinners and the younger one declares that she's constipated.  Her mother gleefully responds that she used to be plugged up too until she started eating the magical dairy Drano that Jamie Lee Curtis is hawking.  Is it just me or is Jamie Lee just a little too happy here?  Clearly this is not only gross, but a total sham.  Everyone knows women don't poop.

---

Moving along.  If this next one doesn't give you nightmares, you're probably Jeffrey Dahmer.

 

Again, a summary: some unsuspecting bloke wakes up to find that the horrible, horrible Burger King mascot is in bed with him.  But it's ok because the King gives him a sandwich.  They hang out and share a laugh and everything's great until their hands touch, most likely reminding them of the brutal sodomy inflicted by the King the night before. 

This commercial is the king of all horrors.  Enough said.

---

Every now and then, an ad comes along that has even me wondering if maybe living in a Tibetan monastery might be a preferable alternative to viewing any sort of media at all EVER.  This is one such ad.

To paraphrase the text on that ad for those of you who are so profoundly stupid as to not understand why this is so horrifying, there's more inside Doug the puppet than you would expect.  Apparently what's inside Doug is a flesh-colored object that has to be censored.  Yeah.  It's a... you know... well... a... umm... how to put this nicely...

Please don't make me go into more detail.

 The expression on Doug's face just makes it worse.  Is he ashamed?  Is he angry at the mystery man who (and this is why it's so horrible) must have reached his hand into Doug's body and found... that?

Suffice to say, I did not "click to expand for video."

Miller Lite is terrible.

 "Oh, look at this!  He's having a go at the light beers again!"
Yeah, yeah, I know.  As soon as they stop deserving it, I'll stop harping on them.

Have you ever tried Miller Lite? (That's lite, not light, mind you.  G's and H's are heavy.)
If you're scowling right now, the answer is probably yes.


"More taste or less taste?" they ask in their stomach-churning commercials, which employ the ever-so-subtle tactic of implying that if you drink a light beer other than theirs you must be a social pariah. 

Well, the simple answer to that is "Depends on what the taste is."  Let's say you're forced to eat a pile of cow dung.  More taste or less taste?  For the love of Horgh, less!

Miller Lite has "more taste" in the same way a rapist is "more affectionate."

I don't know how a beer that's so watered-down still manages to be so catastrophically awful.  It must have something to do with Satan.

The face of ultimate evil

 
Last time I drank a Miller Lite, my stomach went on strike for two months until I promised it a lobster and some Guiness.

And then there are the "vortex bottle" ads. 

If your beer's greatest appeal is that the bottle is designed to get the beer the hell out of there so you don't have to spend as much time tasting it, you've got a problem.  Might as well claim that it tastes better on the way back up from your stomach than the other beers (note: it doesn't).

In their defense, though, the watered-down taste isn't their fault.  The only reason Miller Lite is so watery is because every time a new batch is brewed IT MAKES GOD CRY.