Flashback Friday: Racist Piece of Shit Edition

Mitch McConnell has always been an at best willfully ignorant and at worst proudly racist piece of shit.

And for God's sake, if you know you're going to present an award to an at best willfully ignorant and at worst proudly racist piece of shit, at least iron your racist-piece-of-shit flag before you hang it on your wall. Tacky.

The tip of a stay. Right under the tit.

Why is it OK for women to show the space between their boobs at work?

I’m not asking this as a gay man who finds boobs to be distracting only because they’re funny-looking. I’m asking as a man who is expected to keep anything below the top of my sternum hidden under clothing if I want to be taken seriously as a responsible, mature, focused professional. Who doesn’t work in porn.

And I’m not singling out any woman I work with; I’m talking about professional women in general. This morning on the bus I sat next to a woman whose blouse neckline was cut so low I could see both the top and bottom of the front of her bra … and the tops and bottoms of the insides of her boobs. And you know I wasn’t even trying. Other than her porn-o-rama décolletage, this woman was dressed for court: dark power suit, sensible pumps, briefcase, modest makeup, wash ’n’ go hair. But her two-for-one produce display made her look like she was headed to a bachelor party instead of a corporate merger.

Across the aisle sat another rack-and-bra combo exploding out of an unbuttoned sweater-and-tailored-slacks ensemble. Standing in the aisle hung a pair of well-fed prisoners clamoring to escape from the minimum-security prison of a barely buttoned silk blouse. All three displays included full xiphoid process at no extra charge.

I’m not crying double standard here. I seriously couldn’t care less if a woman wants to bring her daughters to work. It’s just that if I showed up for work in a shirt that scooped down to show the hair between my pecs, I’d probably hear about it. And not in a wow-you-sure-have-nice-pec-hair kind of way. And in all my 16 years of seeing boob crack in my professional life, only once has anyone said anything … and only then because the boobkeeper professed to be a fundamentalist Christian and we all found it deliciously ironic that she dressed to ensure a second coming and more than once made reference to the bright pink “baboon butt” on her chest.

I know: My straight male readers (all two of you) are totally jealous that I rode the mammary express to work this morning. But my life isn’t all tits ’n’ jiggles. Since I’m always the first on my bus and I always get a seat, sometimes women in miniskirts end up standing next to me and they have to reach up to hold onto the bars. And that’s a cat out of a totally different bag.

How to be sick

• Develop a scratchy throat, a general sense of malaise and a Rovian case of dragon breath.
• Work the fact that you’re sick into every conversation. Say things like, “I’m sorry I’m no fun today; I’m sick.”
• Be sure to add that you bit a huge chunk out of your cheek over the weekend—and mention that it’s still swollen and tender—so people understand how much you are suffering. And how profoundly admirable you are just for showing up.
• Make a big show of using gum or mints or breath spray in meetings so people understand you are protecting them from the sulfuric pits-of-hell stench that your scratchy throat and chunky cheek are producing.
• Eat a double Quarter Pounder with cheese value meal—and super size it!—for lunch because the salty fries will help your throat, the Diet Coke will temporarily mask your dragon breath and the double Quarter Pounder with cheese will … um … just be so damn tasty.
• Duck out of work a little early, explaining that you’re sick and you need your rest.
• Constantly check the lymph nodes in your neck to see how swollen and tender they are. And to gauge just how much time you have left on this earth.
• Above all, do not feel sorry for yourself. There’s nothing more pathetic.

Chicagoans on their cell phones

Girl standing on the bus a few people away from me:
“I have a modeling job tonight, and as soon as I’m done modeling I’m gonna have to walk home from my modeling job in the clothes I modeled in. DID EVERYONE HEAR THAT? I’M A MODEL.” (Words in caps may or may not be my own sarcastic addition.)

Salesperson of some sort at the bus stop:
“Yes, this one is 20 miles, which is a lot shorter than the other ones because the other ones are so long.”

Woman on the train:
“Donchoo GET in my face when I’m talking to you. Donchooo GET in my face!”

Stoner crammed on a train during evening rush hour:
“I gotta stop at my dealer’s and get a sack of herb before I come over. You need some too?” Then, looking around and realizing about 30 people just heard that: “No, I’m not buying you DRUGS, Dude. I stopped doing that shit. So STOP ASKING.”

Kid on a skateboard scraping along next to me as I run:
“Dude, I can’t hear you ’cause I’m on my skateboard. Dude. I’m skateboarding so I can’t hear you. Talk louder, Dude. I’m. On. My. Skateboard.”

Public Service Announcement

You work in a small office. It has a small bathroom featuring two tiny stalls situated freakishly close to each other.

You head to the bathroom to visit one of the stalls. You find there’s already someone occupying the other stall.

Q: What do you do?

A: You LEAVE. You go sit uncomfortably at your desk for 10 minutes so the first guy can do his business in peace. Once he’s gone and the air has cleared, you head back to do your business. And should a third guy enter the bathroom while you’re in the stall, he should leave you alone and wait his turn as well.

I’m glad we had this little talk.