Tuesday, November 4th, 2008
I am proud of you, for voting, for caring, for making history, for fighting on, for proving people wrong, but most of all, for giving the biggest ever middle finger to the Republications. Job well done.
Now someone go get McCain some hot milk and a nice warm bath. The man’s a wreck. Eww wait, I just had a mental image of McCain in a bath and it’s ruining the moment for me. Back to the issue at hand; Obama, hope, change, yada, yada.
Thursday, October 30th, 2008
Here’s what might happen if you don’t:
Sunday, September 28th, 2008
As I get to the security check for my flight to Philly on the weekend, no sooner had I put my bags on the table than some chick grabbed my boarding pass and said she would be giving me a body search and going through my bags.
“May I ask why?” I enquire.
“It’s just a secondary search,” she tells me.
“Well, you haven’t done the primary one yet.”
Why can I not object to being searched? Do I not have a right to know why I’m being singled out – why I’m always singled out? Are people with freckles and long dark hair posing a huge threat to your national security nowadays?
You know what? You don’t even have to tell me. I know why. It’s because of my impeccable sense of style. The chicks who do the searches see my nice outfit and want to know what I have in my bags. Nosey bitches.
Then comes the body search. I’m not joking when I say I felt violated. I was molested by security. They felt my boobs! And my ass! In front of people! At least take me out to dinner first. You know what that is that you’re feeling around my boobs? No, it’s not a kilo of cocaine – it’s padding, bitch. I’m a B cup. I need a little assistance. So shoot me.
You know how we clear U.S border control in Toronto? Well, you might want to get the memo out to your staff there that technically, they’re still on our turf, so they might want to play nice.
It’s really not necessary to perform a ten minute inquisition over a 48 hour visit to Philadelphia. All you need to know is that I will be spending money there, contributing to your economy, which I understand, is currently in the shitter. Hey, no problem, you’re welcome.
I even told the border control person to ‘have a nice day’, because I notice people in North America say this all the frikkin’ time. She had no response. Well, you know what? I’m British and I really couldn’t give two craps what kind of day you have, but you could at least crack a smile, bitch.
So next time, if I could just be waved through with a high five, a coke and a smile, it’d be much appreciated.
Monday, June 2nd, 2008
In an ad for Dunkin’ Donuts, Ray wore a scarf which is apparently favored by terrorists in the middle east. After a typical American over-reaction, the ad was dropped. As we all know, the terrorists love of iced coffee runs deep. Who knows what kind of stampede this ad could have caused at the local Dunkin’ Donuts.
I would actually like to thank Rachel Ray for her unintended fashion faux pas. I have wanted those scarves to disappear for the longest time and having her wear one, well, she may as well have had a funeral procession behind her to help her lay the trend to rest. She is about 2 years to late and 10 years too old to even attempt to wear that thing.
The thing that annoys me about those scarves is not the supposed undertones of islamic extremism. It’s kind of a stretch to say you’re a terrorist sympathizer if you wear one. What bugs me is that it’s one of those items that people with no sense of style whatsoever throw on in an attempt to spice up their lame outfit.
We’ve all seen those people; tacky T shirt, jeans and running shoes – the very essence of the fashion clueless – but they throw on one of those scarves and think they’re ready to sit on the front row at Paris Fashion Week.
If you hadn’t had enough of every hipster wannabe wearing them for the past three years, when you saw those scarves on sale in the train station for $2.99, that’s a big hint that the trend is running it’s course. But when you see Rachel Ray wearing it? It calls for a coming together anyone who has ever owned one of these scarves, for a mass ceremonial burning.
So thank you Rachel Ray. You have put the final nail in the coffin of this ridiculous trend. Now lets all go and enjoy a muslim extremist symbolism-free iced coffee.
Monday, May 26th, 2008
The plane from Tokyo was packed. I’m not sure if I pissed off someone at the check in desk, but I got the crappiest seat in the house; last row, aisle seat, next to the bathroom. Take it from me, it’s not cool being privy to anyone’s bathroom habits, but on a twelve hour flight, it’s nothing short of painful.
The Delta flight ‘attendants’ didn’t attend to much at all really. The ones assigned to my side of the plane were, naturally, the worst of the bunch. One of them looked as though she’d been a flight attendant for about 50 years. She was a dumpy blonde who’s uniform was too tight and too short. Perhaps she was trying to hold on to her glory years, but it’s high time she threw on some Spanx beneath that get up. Her hair was scraggly and her roots hadn’t been touched up since the Nixon administration. Her make up was a veritable palette of shades that were popular in the sixties and so poorly applied it looked like she hadn’t actually washed her face since approximately 1963. And there was me thinking that flight attendants could shower during the stop-overs.
I guess she was approaching retirement (and if she wasn’t, for the love of God, someone should make her), so she didn’t really care much for the protocol. While people were trying to sleep, she pulled some Mills and Boon novel out of her bag and paraded up and down the aisles yelling to her coworkers she was going on her break to read.
I’ve traveled a fair bit and most flights I’ve been on, the attendants walk around every now and then to make sure things are running smoothly. Not this in-flight crew. If you wanted something, you’d better be prepared to get out of your seat and go track one of those bitches down, because they sure as shit weren’t going to help you willingly.
Considering the distribution of meals was the only part of the flight the staff had actually decided to participate in, they couldn’t even get that right. There was all sorts of confusion over who was having vegetarian meals and they ran out of options in no time – were you expecting an apology or explanation? Don’t be silly! I ended up munching on a bread roll and pretty much nothing else for the entire flight.
Trash was left on the trays in front of us for an age. When I finally got sick of staring at the filth, I picked mine up and went to the back where some attendants were just hanging out. When I asked if I could give them my trash, they looked at me dumbfounded. How dare I have the audacity to ask someone to do their job!
I overheard the staff calling passengers ‘stupid’ on more than one occasion and was even lucky enough to hear one discussing how she thought she was going through the early menopause. That’s really not a conversation you need to have in the workplace, particularly not when your workplace is a confined area, 30, 000 feet in the air where people have no escape.
The crappy service, even crappier movie selection and being constantly bombarded with putrid odors every time the bathroom door opened, had me reaching for the parachute and making a bee line for the nearest exit a few times.
Finally we landed in Atlanta. I had a long wait for my flight to Montreal but was told that I might be able to catch an earlier one out of Atlanta and should just arrange this once at the airport. I waited for my luggage and found the Delta desk. I was greeted (and when I say ‘greeted’, I mean ‘scowled at’) by another lovely Delta employee. No ‘hello’ or ‘how may I help you?’ just a blank stare. I read the sign above her and it definitely said ‘help desk’ – why the hostility? I just got off a 12-hour flight, where I ate nothing but a bread roll, smelled nothing but crap and heard nothing but inappropriate chatter from flight attendants – if anyone has the right to be pissy here, I think it should be me. Nonetheless, I managed to break out a smile and say I’d like to catch the earlier flight to Montreal. She said nothing to me, just directed her attention to her computer for 5 minutes.
‘That’ll be $25,’ she says.
I get out my wallet and hand over some crisp bills.
‘You need a credit card,’ she scowls.
‘Well I don’t have one.’
‘Then you can’t do it.’
‘You can’t take cash?’
‘No, just credit cards.’
‘Because we only take credit cards.’
I rubbed my temples. I really couldn’t see what difference it made but it was clear I wasn’t going to make any headway with an ‘assistant’ who resented having to assist anyone with anything. Thanks to her, I had to wait 6 hours in Atlanta airport for my connecting flight to Montreal.
And I must say, if Atlanta: The Airport is any kind of representation of Atlanta: The Place – I have absolutely no desire to go there. Every last person I encountered was rude and unhelpful. If I asked someone a question, the typical reaction was something close to rage.
May I make a few suggestions, Atlanta Airport employees? If you work at the ‘Information Desk’, you’re pretty much required to give people information. If you work at the food counter, people who approach you, generally speaking, would like some food, sans a side order of your pissy little attitude. And if you work in ‘Customer Service’ it’s your responsibility to provide service to customers. It would be even better if they didn’t have to wait for you to wrap up your cell phone conversation before you do it. Just some thoughts.
The six hours dragged by painfully slowly. I desperately tried to stay awake because if I fell asleep, I’d be in a coma and would miss my flight. When I saw my flight number up on the screen, I went to the boarding gate. The flight was 45 minutes late boarding and needless to say, no one from Delta felt the need to explain the situation to the lounge full of frustrated passengers.
Finally at 1am, I landed in Montreal. The airport was like a ghost town. Passengers from my flight gathered around the luggage carousel to get their belongings. One by one, they grabbed their stuff and left, until there was just me. I stood there alone, exhausted, watching a random surfboard go round and round the carousel. How does someone forget to pick up a surfboard?
A man approached me and said something to me in French. God, I just left behind a year of the most intense language barrier of my life and now I have to deal with this? I looked at him blankly as I tried to recall a few of my GCSE French phrases. He got the point and translated it to English.
‘No bags,’ I say, pointing at the surfboard. He takes me to his desk. As I’m, sadly, all too familiar with the lost luggage procedure, I filled out the forms in record time. I had the dimensions, make, color and unusual markings of my suitcases committed to memory, because as a rule, if there are 10,000 flights passing through an airport on any given day, it’s pretty much a certainty that my luggage will be the one that doesn’t make it.
I’m told my bags should arrive the next day. As I was moving countries, these suitcases, literally, had my life in them, so I was a little worried to say the least.
The whole of the next day I wait around my new apartment for the delivery guy. Finally, at 7pm, he shows up, with two suitcases formally known as my luggage. In what appeared to be Delta’s final middle finger to me, they had completely destroyed my bags. Handles and zips were broken, metal wires stuck out every which way, the locks were nowhere to be seen and they were filthy. I don’t know where the hell they’d sent my bags, but they came back with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
After numerous complaint letters, Delta sent me a $100 voucher to use towards another one of their crappy flights. While I appreciated the gesture, I was reluctant to use it. I value my life, my olfactory senses and my luggage way too much.
Wednesday, May 14th, 2008
Well, more specifically, pole dancing. A couple of weeks ago, me and my girls took a pole dancing class. Technically, there was no removal of clothing, but it was still a good time. (Come to think of it, if people actually are removing clothes in that class, I may have to go for some sort of medical screening).
I was a little apprehensive before the class, but it’s amazing what a pole and some cheesy 80s rock classics will make you do. Sure, having to give my girl a lap dance was a little uncomfortable (especially when she didn’t pay me at the end of it), but other than that…
I’m not sure if this is a good or a bad thing, but I’m actually a damn good pole dancer. About 20 minutes into the class, I was finding the twists and twirls around the pole pretty easy. By the half hour mark, I was just pissed off that I hadn’t been doing it for the past few years. Damnit, I coulda been making serious money!
If only my pesky morals didn’t get in the way. They always ruin a good time. Mind you, I could just don a blonde wig, change my name to Natasha, work the pole and no one would be any the wiser (Natasha is a total stripper name to me).
And now to issues overseas
The other day I was watching the *ahem* really informative CNN news, to see what the crack was with the cyclone devastation in Burma. (And here lies issue number one: it’s called Burma, not Myanmar, CNN. Seriously, get with the program.)
The overly made-up studio anchor is talking to the correspondent overseas in the midst of the devastation. One of the first questions was (I kid you not): ‘How will this affect the rice shortage back here in the States?’
Jesus America! Again with the rice?! Fucking let it go already. Never mind the fact that hundreds of thousands of people lost their lives in the cyclone, newly orphaned children are roaming the streets trying to figure out how to survive, and the estimated death toll could rise to over a million without the provision of clean water and sanitation. Yes, forget all that and lets talk about how all that will affect a few million obese douchebags going without a couple of grains of rice for a while back in America.
CNN, get your head out of your ass and get over yourself.
Sunday, May 4th, 2008
Being just north of the border, we’re exposed to a whole lot of American media. Sometimes this is good (I’m very thankful Jon Stewart comes into my life on a nightly basis), sometimes it’s bad (I could really do without Al Roker). American news shows, in particular, are pretty in your face, but over the last couple of weeks, they’ve been nothing short of a giant high school girl bitch fit on steroids.
First there was the rice shortage. With all the food in America, I doubt the lack of a little bit of rice will lead to a famine. But of course, the way it played out in the American media, it was the end of the world. Sam’s Club (which I believe is some sort of CostCo type outlet) was limiting purchases of rice to four bags per person. It should be noted that these ‘bags’ of rice are more like sacks of rice that require a fork lift truck to carry them. How hungry do you have to be to buy four sacks of rice? I imagine one sack would keep you going for an entire year. But yet, the news showed people stocking up on rice like it really was going out of fashion.
Then there was the Miley Cyrus controversy. OK, um, news flash America: it was an Annie Leibowitz shot with her back exposed, not a centrefold in Playboy. Calm the hell down. It garnered hours and hours of debate on every show going and the general consensus seemed to be that this was the worst bit of child pornography the world had ever seen. One show had a segment with mothers called ‘what should you tell your kids about the Miley Cyrus photos’. Well, I would tell my kids to have better taste in music and I’d tell the mothers to get a grip.
And then of course, there’s the story that refuses to die: Reverend Jeremiah White. First off, I thought the States had that whole ‘separation of church and state’ thing going on. So, technically, the church Barack Obama chooses to attend should have nothing to do with his campaign. Oh, but I guess it’s a different rule book when there’s a black man running for president. As for what the Rev said about 9/11 being karma for the states – is the USA really that unaware that the rest of the world kind of shares that view? And no, that doesn’t mean, in any way, shape or form that anyone deserved to die. It just means that America had been going around bombing the crap out of other countries for years and it’s a little unrealistic to think that no one would bomb America eventually.
So, US of A, how about you just chill the hell out. The rice ain’t going anywhere anytime soon. Miley Cyrus’s back will not corrupt the youth of the country. And don’t just focus on the craziness of Jeremiah White. The man has great robes that can definitely rival those of the Pope and the Polygamists. C’mon – credit where credit’s due people!
Earth to London, Come in London…
Ahhh, LDN, you know I love you right? I do, I really do. From the moody shop assistants, to the most knowledgeable cab drivers the world has ever seen, I love it all. So, when it came to the mayoral elections last friday, well, what happened? I feel like I missed something and woke up to a really bad practical joke where Boris Johnson is suddenly mayor. Except it’s not actually a joke. Boris Johnson? BORIS FRIKKIN’ JOHNSON??!! That’s the best we can do? Seriously? Did you all just forget to go out and vote or something? Words kind of fail me. What kind of crazy, topsy turvy world are we living in where that mumbling, bumbling mess that is, Boris Johnson, can be mayor of London town? Answers on a postcard please.
Monday, April 28th, 2008
The race hasn’t even really started yet because the Democrats are still bickering about who the nominee should be. I think at this point, it would be perfectly acceptable to get Hillary and Obama in a room and do a bit of ‘eenie, meenie, miny, moe’. Or how about ‘rock, paper, scissors’? It’s quick, it’s effective and, as school children everywhere can attest, it’s fair. How many conflicts could be resolved with the words ‘I’m sorry, paper covers rock. You’re out’? There’s no arguing with that shit.
But instead, we’re treated to painful months of drawn out debate after debate and vote after vote. I live in Canada for Christ’s sake! The upcoming election has shit all to do with me or my country, yet I can’t escape it on the nightly news. I feel that since America likes to involve itself in the business of other countries so much, the residents of those countries should be allowed to have a say in which jack ass gets the right to bomb the crap out of them. Had that been allowed, the monumental fuck up that is Dubya, could have been avoided for the past eight years. But I digress.
Now, both candidates seem like shadows of their former selves, when you compare them to their rhetoric at the beginning of the race. I specifically remember Hillary talking about how important it was to be humble. Now she might as well walk around wearing a T Shirt that says ‘I am the shit’. And Barack had sworn not to fight dirty and focus on the issues, but it seems whenever Hillary throws one of her bitch fits, Obama can’t help slinging mud pies back at her. But hey, they’re politicians and part of the job requirement is to be full of shit.
So, America, just as I offered to settle the inquest into Diana’s death a while back, I hereby offer my services to you. For a tidy sum, I will get Hillary and Barack in a room and bang their heads together until one of them admits defeat.
Though, if I happen to be otherwise engaged when you need me to do this, may I suggest a worthy alternative: Mr Jeremy Paxman.
If you are unfamiliar with the work of Paxman, you’ll thank me for bringing his wonder into your life. Better late than never, my friends.
As the US election spirals out of control, Paxman is the only person that can clear this whole mess up. One thing I’ve noticed about American political commentators, is that they’ll slug it out with each other, but when it comes to asking the politicians questions, they basically pussy out and don’t take them to task. Well, not the very British Paxman! Oh hell no! He will get all up and in your face till he gets an answer and don’t even bother trying to avoid it, because homeboy ain’t gonna let it drop.
I present to you, Exhibit A:
So Americans, ask yourselves this: do you really need those other states to vote, or do you just need Paxman to get in there and end this thing swiftly? Don’t spend too long thinking about it – clearly The Paxman doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
Hey, TTC workers…
Go fuck yourselves. Seriously. You are a bunch of whiny bitches, and from my days of throwing hissy fits, I can tell you, no one likes a whiny bitch.
Walking off the job on Friday night, without warning, leaving thousands of people stranded, is not cool.
This is all about you not receiving full pay, if you have to be off work as a result of being assaulted on the job. I actually agree with you, you should get full pay for that. But here’s a little news flash; ask anyone who works in the public domain, from servers, to retails clerks and I’m sure they’ll all be able to tell you a personal tale of abuse on the job. The only difference is, they don’t get almost $30 an hour like you, they’re not protected by a union and they don’t have the nice cushy benefits either. So, stop frikkin’ whining!
Did it ever occur to you that walking off the job on a friday night, probably only serves to increase your risk of being assaulted at work? I don’t mind telling you, I would relish the chance to be first in line this morning to give every last one of you a good bitch slapping.
So, in fairness, when you take your lazy, overpaid, whining asses back to work today, I think it’s only fair that we don’t pay fares for a while. I mean, you did pretty much fuck up everyone’s weekend. And anyone who had to take a cab as a result of your impromptu tantrum, should present their receipts to one of you friendly overpaid TTC drivers and be reimbursed.
Just grow up fellas. The city is sick of your antics already.