The Sound of One DWiP Peeing

I just spent a miserable week in my office next door to my scathingly angry boss The Devil Wears Payless.
My temper is like a sparkler- a few moments of sizzle, then a fast cool-down.
The DWiP's temper is more like a nuclear reactor, always simmering white hot, but lethal when released.
Her silent seething this past week has been like working under a cloud of poison vapor gas. My once happy job has now been reduced to bitter drudgery. I have to drag myself to work and ponder her in the next office, adding perceived infractions to the massive dossier she's been keeping on me.
She's getting to me. I feel like I have an anvil strapped to my shoulders.
Like many eccentric, artsy types, I have aversions to certain bodily functions most would hardly notice. I loathe public belching and farting, for instance. And in a public restroom, I cannot stand to be seated next to a loud urinator. It just grosses me out.
So there I was on Friday morning, sitting in my stall having a quiet, dignified pee.
Suddenly I hear the clack of cheap stilettos entering. The stall door next to me opens, I hear the DWiP rustling around, getting ready to pee.
Then I hear the sound of peeing so loud it sounded like someone on a step ladder, pouring a bucket of liquid into the toilet bowl from above.
She bears down.
The sound takes on three distinct notes, so I know she's forcing it so hard she's making three separate streams. The sound abates for a moment. Then here comes another stream, still sounding like a racehorse peeing on a sheet of corrugated tin.
I was frozen to the pot in my stall, worried she could finish at any moment and I'd have to meet her at the sink. But the peeing continues, and I start to imagine her toilet filling to the brim, then overflowing and streaming over to my side and soaking my buttery soft, brown suede mules.
She finally finished off with a few more staccato blasts, then several more moments of steady dripping.
I sat petrified, wondering why The Devil came equipped with a three-gallon capacity racehorse bladder.
I waited until I the sound of her stiletto heels clacked out the door, then I timidly emerged and washed my hands extra long, trying to purge myself of the dirty vapors.
The sound of that pee session was seared into my brain.
I couldn't share my revulsion with any of my co-workers because it would have sounded catty, so I had to sit with cold chills running up my spine and my imagination running wild.
I envisioned the amber alert message flickering over the freeway--warning commuters that a cloud of toxic urea had been released over the freeway near our office.
I felt imaginary dampness in my shoes and thought I smelled ammonia wafting up from them.
I wondered if anyone as provincial as she thought to trim her pubes. Then I imagined her jungle-wild, jet black bush percolating all that urine back-splash under her prim nylon briefs and tight pantyhose.
I've been so grossed out, it's taken me 48 hours to process the unsavory event well enough to put it in writing.
I'm just relieved she didn't have to defecate.

Ahmadinejad: No Gays in Iran

Sure, not if you keep killing them off, ya fuckin' bum.
Call me fussy, but if I were a man addressing the UN, I think I'd wear a tie.
I'm all for free speech, but this guy is about as bad a PR rep for the Islamo-bad guys as Bush is for democracy.
I say we settle this fair and square. Give Bush and Ahmadinejad each a gun and the guy who isn't dead at the end agrees to shut the fuck up and disappear.
Then let's all have a big, gay parade.

My Boss, the DWiP

Yeah, it's getting a bit thick down the South Hall in Suite 600.
My boss, the Devil Wears Payless, continues to be a totally unprofessional shrew.
Since our catfight last Thursday, we have exchanged two tepid morning greetings.
"Hey, Karen" (Hey) and "Hey, Karen" (Hey).
She sends me terse, strictly business related e-mail. I reply with a simple "thank you for the information."
The CEO has been toggling between our offices trying to broker a detente.
Best part? He comes to my office but summons her to his office.
Nobody's supposed to know what's going on, but three separate people have come to me with insider scoop. They don't say it aloud but I can see by the gleam in their eyes that they are banking on me to bring her down. She's an arrogant, petty tyrant who refuses to indulge in even a whit of socializing with the staff. Nobody even sends her funny e-mail--they're afraid she'll tattle.
I told them, "She thinks I color outside the lines, but I think she doesn't color at all because she thinks coloring is childish." They howled.
Yesterday,the CEO and I had a heart to heart and he gave me the usual corporate crap about "you don't have to respect her but you do have to respect her office."
Then he asked me to write up my version of our catfight.
I wrote it, then snuck it in to our Human Resources Director who edited it for me.
If we get mediation, she's the mediator. I was invited to her recent bachelorette party, but the DWiP was not. Then when the DWiP heard about the party, she asked if she was invited. The HR Director had no choice but to invite her, then the DWiP didn't show up. Asshole? Oh,I think so.
Anyway, after the CEO and I talked and he suggested I be the bigger person and take the high road, I considered his suggestions.
Today I was leafing through a competitor's hilariously awful magazine and I found a lead paragraph that could easily win the Bulwer-Lytton award for non-fiction.
I started laughing aloud and decided to share it with the DWiP, just to break the ice. I went into her office, laughing, and asked, "Have you got just a second?"
She said no.
Yes, she said no. So I walked back to my office next door, quietly closed the door and printed out my version for the CEO.
I took it down the North hall to his office, asked if I may be seated and handed him the page. I sat quietly while he read it, then when he was done I said, "I tried to take your advice," then I described my attempt to break the ice.
He said, "She's not over it yet."
I said, "What should I do, just deal with the silent treatment?"
"Yes, give her time to get past her anger, but I think it was kind of you to make an effort."
I said, "Sir, I don't think she's gotten past her anger from our disagreement two months ago." (She nixed me doing a film review for a movie that dealt with our memberships' profession, then she caught hell from my publications committee).
He just looked at me and sighed. I think he agreed.
Then he said he was going to Vegas for the rest of the week and for me to lay low until he came back.
Fortunately, ignoring the seahag for the rest of the week will be a pleasure.
...to be continued

Viper Snake

What do these hideous shoes have in common with my sickening boss, the Devil Wears Payless? They are both made of viper snake ard neither are worth $499.99.
I wish I could adequately describe the week that ended on Thursday with us in a shouting match, but it's just been more of the same shit, only deeper and shittier.
See, my one year anniversary is coming up in two weeks and DWiP has obviously been trying to drive me over the edge so the sadistic twit can work me over the coals and try to palm off a pissy 2% raise on me.
Fortunately, the CEO had come to my office on Tuesday morning and said the Board of Directors loved my magazine, he said he loved it too, and he wanted to tell me how glad he was to have me on his staff.
Seizing the opportunity, lest he think my post-review complaints were sour grapes, I shut my office door in case the DWiP was eavesdropping and said to him, "I love my job, my co-workers, our readers and you, but I may have to quit."
"WHAAAAT?" he replied.
Then I told him that DWiP was the most miserable supervisor I've ever had in my 30+ years in the workforce. I described some of her petty, micro-managing, vindictive, piece of shit maneuvers, told him I'd covered for her for far too long, and said unless the situation changed soon, I'd have to leave.
He listened with rapt attention and said he'd have to take what I said under advisement. Then he patted my shoulder, told me to give him some time to think and left my office.
Apparently, the DWiP intuited what was going on and proceeded to behave like a perfect bitch toward me for the next two days, using the silent treatment and ignoring my e-mails
By Thursday afternoon she had mashed so many of my buttons, I got fed up and told her to either get off my back or fire me. And if she planned to fire me, I told her she better come up with some pretty good excuses for losing what I've been told is the best magazine editor in the 155-year history of the company.
By the time things got really heated, she actually put her hands over her ears and wailed, "I'm not listening."
Yes, just like a 3-year-old. I just laughed, muttered, "You're unbelievable," left the office and drove home.
So today, I showed up at the office about 10:30 after covering a press conference downtown. DWiP was at some meeting somewhere, but I immediately met with the Operations Manager to get a sense of the blow-back.
"Am I gonna get fired?" I asked.
"No," she said, "She's gonna write you up for insubordination."
Yes, at age 54, I am getting my first-ever insubordination citation.
And the DWiP, whose reputation for being a horrible bitch of a boss is legendary, thinks she's gonna get by with it.
Not true.
I plan to lodge a formal grievance against her and take it all the way to the top.
If the CEO fails to remove me from her sadistic supervision, I plan to take it to his bosses on the Board of Directors and lay it on the line, warts and all.
I make my living as a writer and editor, and the grievance I'm planning to write will be a masterpiece in concise, ass-kicking narrative.
I'll cap it off with the fact that she's become so self-aggrandizing, she's been forcing me to run more photos of her in my magazine than anyone else in the company. And all they'll have to do is check.
Game, set, match.

O.h J.esus, Simpson!



Double murderer O.J. Simpson is back in the slammer in Las Vegas for his role in a September 13 armed robbery at the decidedly seedy Palace Station Hotel, where (he alleges) he was there trying to get back his personal property (sports memorabilia) from the guys who were planning to sell it at a sports memorabilia auction.
Fortunately, an audio tape was made during the crime and you can hear O.J. cussing, screaming and menacing people like the madman he is. Whether he held the gun or not, he was an active, vocal part of an armed robbery and will be charged on at least six major felony counts and one major misdemeanor count. It seems the law in Vegas hates armed robbery and they take the prosecution of it very seriously.
The murderer was jailed in Las Vegas without bond because he was considered a flight risk without any ties to Las Vegas. The law ain't messing around with this creep.

So, here comes the fun part.

When and if bail is granted, Nevada is a no-property state, meaning one cannot put up his or her property as an asset in lieu of cash. The murderer moved to Florida to avoid having to sell his home to satisfy part of the multi-million dollar judgment against him in favor of Fred Goldman. Florida doesn't allow it, but California does, so the sniveling coward fled to Florida.
So...if Simpson cannot put up his house for bail, that means he'll have to put up cash.
BUT, if he has enough cash for bail, then he has money to which the Goldmans are entitled before it's paid to anyone else, for any purpose.
And Fred's lawyers are ready to pounce, as well they should be.
Also, if the sports memorabilia in question has monetary value sufficient enough to stage an armed robbery, then that too becomes an asset Goldman has the legal right to seize.
So, unless Simpson has a friend who'll loan him the cash for bail (alas, he probably does) he's fucked.

Another fun part is to imagine the jury pool in Las Vegas.
Recent statistics indicate that only 8 percent of Las Vegas residents are African American. That means there will be no stacked jury of biased nitwits who'll consider O.J.'s race as justification for jury nullification.

In short, it appears some modicum of justice might be served after all these years. Simpson faces a possible 30+ year prison sentence--and at age 60 that means he could end up dying in prison.
Somehow I think the Goldman family would prefer that to getting the money they were awarded in the wrongful death civil suit.

The Emmys

I just have a few things to say.

#1: I thought Christina Aguilera's duet with Tony Bennett was a bad idea. What gall she had to sing so fucking loud and add so much improvised, hip-hoppish phrasing to the classic song, "Steppin' Out With My Baby."
Poor Tony was singing in his soft, hep-cat style, then when it was her turn to sing she belted it out like some neo-Ethel Merman. Nora Jones or Joni Mitchell would have nailed it with Tony, but this brassy ham needs to publicly apologize for trying so hard to upstage him. Even the way she moved all over like a whore while he was trying to sing just screamed, "NEVER MIND HIM--LOOK AT ME!"
She's got no class and she's too fucking brassy to be anywhere near old Tony.

#2: Instead of censoring Sally Field for calling it a "God-damned war," they should censor the men who start these God-damned wars. Besides, Hollywood hates Bush, it's their awards show, so let them say whatever the fuck they want.
If anyone objects, let them turn the channel to Fox News and listen to them smooching Bush's ass 24/7.

#3. Ryan Seacrest, you are gay enough without the black velvet renaissance costume. If I want to see gay men prancing around, I can sneak into the men's room at the Republican National Committee headquarters.

#4. It was a live show- someone should haven mentioned O.J. Simpson being in a Nevada jail without bail for seven felony counts and Condi Rice and her partner Randy Beans-Rice.

I Knew For Sure She Was Gay When I Saw This Pic

No straight woman would intentionally don this dominatrix costume and parade around in public. From the knee-high, black leather jackboots to the black military long coat, this ensemble screams dyke dominatrix.
If I picked up a date wearing this get-up, I'd know that later I might have to face discipline for some imaginary infraction.
It's enough she's a closet dyke, but I think she was mighty cheeky to send this secret gay message to her peeps: "I'm here, I'm queer, but don't tell!"

Woo, Daddy!

Hats off to my darlin' Princess Sparkle Pony for leading me to this bit of juiciness from RAW STORY.
Check it out:

Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice co-owned a home and shared a line of credit with another woman, according to Washington Post diplomatic correspondent Glenn Kessler, who reveals the information in his new book, The Confidante: Condoleezza Rice and the Creation of the Bush Legacy.

Kessler discussed the revelations with talk-show host and gay author Michaelangelo Signorile Friday on his Sirius Radio show.

According to the book, Rice owns a home together with Randy Bean, a documentary filmmaker who once worked with Bill Moyers. Kessler made the discovery by looking through real estate records.

Bean explained the joint ownership and line of credit to Kessler by saying she had medical bills which left her financially drained and Rice helped her by co-purchasing the house along with a third person, Coit Blacker, a Stanford professor who is openly gay.

Blacker later sold his line of credit to Rice and Bean.

Kessler mentions rumors about Rice's sexuality in the book and notes that many older single heterosexual women have been "unfairly" targeted with regard to their sexual orientation. He also says Rice has been the focus of "nasty attacks."

When asked about the revelations on Signorile's show, Kessler "said he did not know if this meant there was something more to the relationship between the woman beyond a friendship."

Perhaps the most popular remaining high-profile figure in the Bush Administration, Rice was promoted to succeed Bush by many of her backers. She repeatedly declined offers to run for president in 2008 and will return to Stanford upon her departure from the White House.

Rice faced attacks from liberals in the gay community over the State Department's reluctance to rebuke Iran for the hanging of gay teenagers. The gay rights lobby Human Rights Campaign called on Rice in 2005 to condemn Iran's human rights abuses after the hanging of two gay teenagers, and to express indignation over "other horrific human rights abuses against gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people across the globe."

Rice did not.

The Secretary has remained silent on whether gays should be allowed to serve in the military and has not commented on the permanent partners immigration act.

Andy Humm, a New York gay journalist who discussed the Iran hangings on his TV show Gay USA, says Rice's silence gives "consent."

"Condi Rice works for an administration that uses attacks on gay rights to win votes," Humm told RAW STORY. "She has stood by silently while the President has proposed writing anti-gay discrimination into the Constitution of the United States. Whenever she is given the opportunity to distance herself from their anti-gay polices she punts."

"Silence," he added, "gives consent."

Signorile excerpted a brief quote from Kessler's book on his blog.

"After she became secretary of state, she came to a party at Blacker's house, kicked off her shoes, and began dancing through the night to rock and and roll," Kessler wrote. "Blacker, who is gay, wanted to show his partner how tight her behind is; he postulated that if he aimed a quarter at her butt, it would bounce off like a rocket. He was right. Rice, who was dancing, didn't realize what he had done until everyone began laughing hysterically. She was flattered -- and proud."

The blogger who first posted emails about former Rep. Mark Foley's (R-FL) solicitation of male Congressional pages, Lane Hudson, also questions Rice's silence.

"Secretary Rice has typified the juxtaposition that many Republicans have between their public and private lives," Hudson said. "Privately, she is very supportive of gays. However, she heads a State Department that has done little to move foreign governments around the world in the direction of equal rights for their citizens."

Steve Clemons, who blogs at The Washington Note -- and who travels in high-level foreign policy circles -- told RAW STORY that "Condoleeza Rice may or may not be gay but she is in a relationship which legitimately raises these kinds of questions. Before he took office, the president and first lady had close relationships with a number of gay men, including Charles Francis, whose brother managed Bush's reelection campaign for Texas governor."

New Shoes for the Devil Wears Inexpensive Payless



As I mentioned in my comments box in my last entry, the DWiP is getting careless in the random, stupid clericial assignments she likes to lade on me as punishment for times when I get the better of her.
Now she's getting crazy eyes when I catch her at it, like a horse when you see the whites of their eyes before they freak out.
She can wear these shoes now.

Eat It, DWiP



My boss, the Devil Wears Inexpensive Payless (aka: DWiP) was nice to me for as long as she could stand to be- about three weeks. Today ended that streak.
As most of you know, I am a magazine editor. DWiP is a lobbyist, our company's director of external affairs, and unfortunately, my boss.
Part of my magazine includes a monthly legislative column from DWiP, which I usually end up writing for her because she thinks copy deadlines only apply to everyone but her.
I am 99 percent done with the magazine copy for the next issue- lacking only HERS.
Yesterday, to get a move on I actually wrote her column for her, leaving her a few blanks to fill in. She sat on her ass reading the newspaper all afternoon yesterday, so early this morning I sent her an e-mail letting her know I needed the edited copy no later than noon.
At 11:20 this morning she came into my office and said she couldn't use what I'd written for her.
I said, "That's fine, but I need whatever you want me to publish no later than 2 today."
She said that would be impossible.
I said, "Then I'll have to scratch your page for this issue."
She said I can't.
I said I can and would.
She stormed out.
I stormed to the CEO's office and raised holy hell. He said he'd e-mail me later today and ask the status of the publication, at which point I could tattle on her via e-mail.
He hates confrontation.
She's passive aggressive and vindictive.
I am under the gun to publish the magazine on schedule by him, by her and by the entire Board of Directors.
She does everything she can, every single month, to try to keep me running late.
I overcome her opposition by working nights and weekends to get the damn thing out on time. Her copy is always last to come in.
Once the galleys come back from the designer, she's always the last one to make her edits. Always.
I don't want her to shove this $12.99 shoe up her ass, I want her to eat it.
Tonight, I have to go the a country club and cover an event my company is hosting. She will, as usual, try to get her face in all the photos I'll be taking.
That will not happen tonight.
After she eats the shoe, she can eat my camera, too.
Bitch.

General Betrayus, What Say You?

Can you imagine dedicating your life to rising through the ranks of military service, only to have your career fizzle out because you got stuck being the military spokesman for a dullard, drug addled, alcoholic draft dodger who pops a woodie by sending troops in to be slaughtered in another nation's civil war?

Last night I watched James Gandolfini's HBO movie called "Alive Day Memories: Home from Iraq" where he interviewed 10 seriously wounded Iraq war veterans. I somehow doubt Bush TIVO'd it--he's not about facing the consequences of his actions. I cried watching the soldiers talk about their injuries. It's nothing short of a disaster to think of their lives of suffering and millions of hours of medical treatment and rehab to return to a modicum of normalcy. And for what?

I wish they'd stop calling the act of bring home the troops "redeployment." Anything with the word "deployment" in it has horrible connotations.

Today, General Betrayus will report on his assessment of the surge. Actually, what he'll really do is read the report prepared for him by the Bush spin factory- full of more lies, distortions and bullshit.

Any politician who speaks even slightly in favor of prolonging this absurd war should be forced to live in Baghdad for a month without assistance from security guards or military escorts. Yep, rent a little apartment without electricity or water, go shopping for groceries, sweep the sidewalk, hang out with the neighbors.
Then tell us how the surge "needs more time to work."

Fred the Notorious Cocksman
Pic #1 Here's Fred and the would-be First Lady who divorced him because he was a notorious cheater. She was knocked up with Fred Junior when they married.

Pic #2 Here's Fred with the Trophy Wife.
Before he married her in 2002, during the Lewinsky scandal he sent Clinton's Chief of Staff a naughty note that said he "shared Clinton's taste in cigars."

Pic #3 Is this the wide-stance crotch and crouton teeth you want to stare at for four years? I think not.

A Replacement for the Red Pick-Up

By now, we all know Fred Thompson used a leased red pick-up truck as a prop to get himself elected to the Senate. He got rid of it once he was elected and returned to the All-American, down-home comfort of a stretch limo.
Now that he's a little longer in the tooth and running for president, might I suggest this new form of campaign transportation more befitting a man of his age? And please note the extra large storage space for his medications, adult diapers and colostomy bag.

And furthermore, Fred Thompson you Saggy Old Fart...

Put your slippers on and pop another Viagra. Baby Mama needs some hoeing in her pussy garden.

Oh God, Not Fred.

Swell, the GOP has a new old fart to worship. Fred Thompson.
Like Reagan, he's an actor. He plays roles like a N.Y. District Attorney who's plainspoken, gruff, tough on crime and soft on the American flag, apple pie and Christian values.
Unlike Reagan, he's a registered lobbyist.
He lobbied for an insurance company trying to reduce its asbestos liability. He lobbied for a savings and loan deregulation bill that helped screw the taxpayers out of $150 billion in bail-out money. He lobbied for a nuclear reactor project that was canceled before it was built--after the taxpayers sunk $1.7 billion into it.
Jack Abramoff has nothing on this scumbag.
On the Senate campaign trail, he used to have his limo take him to where he had his prop red pickup garaged, got in it, drove to appearances and drove it back to the garage and got back into his limo.
He's a fucking phony is what he is.
I was aghast to learn he's only 11 years older than me. I thought he was in his mid 70's. My hunch is he's a boozer--he's got the bloodshot eyes and the rosecea for it.
Those gullible, gutless ignorant Republicans have been praying for another Hollywood-honed facade of a man to worship, and here comes old Fred, straight from Central Casting.
Oh, and Fred's straight, too.
His trophy wife is 40. He's 65. They have two kids, a 4-year-old and an 11-month old. His oldest son is 47.
His daughter died in 2002 in her mid-40's of a drug overdose.
With the Republican rank and file's penchant for macho style without substance, Fred's the best thing since George W. bought his ranchette and started clearing brush.
I worry that Fred will fool the imbecilic GOP lemmings just like Bush and Rove did. In fact, I predict that Karl Rove left Bush so he could join the Thompson campaign and help him bullshit his way into the Oval Office.
If America elects yet another phony, right-wing, money grubbing, war mongering, lobbyist motherfucker like this jowly old piece of shit, I give up.
I'm moving to Australia and shacking up with Jane.