It's Time for Keyword Fun! (a.k.a - Girl With Gun)
I don't know what the hell a California Naget Fucking Vidio 2010 is, or how it would even make my blog come up on a search, but a few people found it that way. Perhaps it was one friend calling another. "Hey, I Googled some shit today. California Naget Fucking Vidio 2010 was what I was looking for, and I came to this weird blog thing. Just enter that in and you'll get there. No. I don't know what the hell a Naget is." If any of you readers have a clue, fill me in please.
Less surprising is the search for "photos of amazon cannibalists." "Cannibalists" is an odd term, but since I write about cannibalism enough, it's no surprise that a search for that would bring people here. If any of you are women looking into cannibalism -- I want your numbers.
"Girl With Gun" brought quite a few lookers, too. I often use images of females packing heat, so I'm not shocked. I find it sexy. Who wouldn't? Cowards, that's who.
After that came another puzzler. "Insane asylum ideas." Really? Here's what I picture: Some unemployed, clueless guy is sitting at home trying desperately to come up with an idea to make rent. He thinks, "You know what? There aren't enough insane asylums around. I think I'll open one. Now, how do I go about doing that?" Boom. Welcome to the Zeitgeist, you budding entrepreneur. If your insane asylum idea tanks, how about an orphanage? We don't have many of those, either.
And finally we have "Japanese hookers." People looking for hookers often end up at my blog. My guess is they leave pretty disappointed. I have no hookers here, let alone the prized Japanese ones. Now that Craig's List can't advertise these services, I suppose more and more people will end up here looking for a $20 hummer. I hate to disappoint, so if any hookers want to advertise, I'll run your ads for a small fee. I'll run a special for the next month for all hookers of the Japanese persuasion. Just contact me for rates. (By now I know some of you are wondering if I'm joking or not. Hell, I think I would run them. I could use the extra income with the holidays coming, and if people are coming here looking for it ...)
Sticking with the theme of whores, my mail-in ballot should have reached its destination today. I can't remember how many "No confidence" write-in votes I cast, but it was a rather large number. As always, I voted on the local measures and state propositions. Today I got a slew of calls from the Republican party (proud member for years just to fuck shit up) urging me to vote, vote, vote (or at least stomp a Move On groupie). It's tiring, really. At the post office today, though, I ran into the best example I think I could possibly find of a Meg Whitman supporter.
There was a big SUV parked in front of the post office. The first thing I noticed was the woman with the three large boxes trying to close the SUV's doors. Then I saw the Whitman sticker, gently placed on the vehicle's rear window, almost as if it were some agency parking permit.
The woman got into the post office before me. As soon as I entered I could tell she was pissed. "Why is this closed?"
I didn't think she was talking to me until she said it again, and I could tell it was said in my direction. Keep in mind, I am not a postal employee, and nor did I look like one with my black cargo pants, black hooded sweatshirt (I don't call them hoodies because I'm not fucking twelve), sleeves rolled up and tattoos exposed and septum piercing down.
"Why is this closed?"
"It's after five," I answered, not that I needed to.
She let out a loud sigh. I imagine she wanted me to know how upset she was. I could tell. The bitch aura was coming off her in nausea-inducing waves. "Well what time is it?"
Time to kick you in the teeth. "It's almost five thirty."
Another loud sigh. I get it, Lady. You've got three huge boxes that had to be there yesterday. You knew about it for weeks, though, but you fell behind. You had things to do. Now that you got your shit together and lugged these things into the post office, you think someone should be there to serve you. No matter that you waited for weeks or have a lousy sense of time. You demand service.
I'm sure your husband is a happy guy.
"I need to send these out."
I did not respond, but I did slow down my recycling efforts. I was disposing of sales fliers and all my Republican party endorsements that they spent good money sending to me. This was getting good.
The woman looked around, almost as if she were searching for some secret door so that she could get into the back room. "I think I hear people back there." She was starting to calm down.
And then, cryptically, she said, "This is why people use e-mail."
I looked at her boxes and said, "Yeah, that's how I send all my packages."
Oh my God, she wanted to kill me. Or at least that's what this Whitman supporter's stare said. Instead of castrating me and then choking me to death with my dismembered member, she broke out her cell phone and contacted someone. I didn't stick around. I was already running late. I'll admit that I was really tempted to go back in and say that I saw her Meg Whitman sticker and that I was a really big fan of Meg's father, Walt, but I was pretty sure she'd fucking explode.
So, Super Bitchy Meg Whitman Supporter, if you ended up here because you were lookin' for Japanese hookers or a California Naget Fucking Vidio 2010, I bid you welcome. You're kind of famous now. Just be thankful I didn't have a phone capable of video or I would've put your little tantrum all over Youtube.