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From 2005 - 2008, I celebrated Festivus at my favorite blog The Airing of Grievances. But time took its toll on the old girl, and by the time Festivus 2009 rolled around, the AofG was no longer the mighty beast of awesome I'd come to know and love. So I checked out of the game. Well, a couple days ago, a request came through my inbox and I said what the hell. I returned to the AofG to bitch today, which means, obviously, I've returned to my own blog as well.

ESPN: You are some triflin motherfuckers. So Rex Ryan has a foot fetish. He and his wife even get down with BDSM and swingers. Big fucking deal. Does it affect the New York Jets? No. Does it affect his job performance? Please. Does it have any impact on the NFL? Not at all. So why do you have anything to say about it? You had no trouble going silent on Ben Roethlisberger's sexual assault allegations, but ensuring that Sports Nation knows that the NFL and the Jets consider this a personal matter we should all fuck off from is news? Fuck that. You're Deadspin with a larger staff, better videos, and a played out Bill Simmons. The sooner someone drops a bomb on Bristol, the better off the world will be. 

Chris Berman: I hate you with the fire of 10,000 suns. And no, it's not because your lack of preparation causes you to stutter and stammer while reading the teleprompter; or that your cultural knowledge was cryogenically frozen around the time Tears for Fears broke up; or even because you're so fat that you can't say more than five words without descending into a breathless grumble.

It's this: “Just don’t call me a personality. What is that? That’s a morning disc jockey. I entertain, but I take what I do, the journalism part, seriously.”

FUUUUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK you. My left breast has more substance. You are an automatic mute; a clown; a jester; a jock sniffing beached whale in a Men's Warehouse suit whom Greenpeace needs to tow back to sea. Sports coverage is buried in the avalanche of your journalistic inadequacies, you fat, vaudevillian fuck, and it'll likely never recover. Die.

Jenn Sterger: While I enjoyed your near-botched shaming of True Grit Favre, why don't you and your gold digging cock socket do some real philanthropic work and mount Chris Berman? He'll die of a coronary, and I will celebrate you forever as the Whore of Occasional Good Deeds. It's win-win.

Size-challenged men who send pics of their junk: If you're attempting to seduce someone with this method, logic dictates that you send shots of your business at its largest, hardest, and most impressive. But most men aren't logical, are they? Instead of fluffing up and showing off a piece that's ready to do work and turn us out, too many of you send pictures of flaccid, wounded turtle cock and wonder why we aren't turned on. It's as if you're saying to yourselves, "She's been a little resistant. How can I fix it? Ah, yes - a picture of my dick. It's only four inches long and looks like an enlarged thumb, but if I get it at the right angle…" Sorry (Brett), but no. A rule of thumb to all you romantic gentlemen out there: show us something we can use. If your stock looks like it'd be at home with a little relish, mustard, and a bun, put it away.

The AofG: This site was a must visit for years, unlocking the magic on various topics five or six times a week. What happened? Your demise makes me sad, and it must become great again. Cozmo? Jackie Chiles? Frank? Are you out there? Please do something. I want to live here again.

My man's lesbian assistant: You asked your boss to donate sperm to you and your partner three weeks after he found out he's going to be a father. Then you told him that I should contact you if I have any questions or concerns. Bitch, are you crazy? This isn't a fucking sorority. His sperm is claimed, spoken for, taken. It flies my flag. So you and Vanessa need to take your asses to the sperm bank, Vietnam, or a foster home, because the only person having his babies on this planet is me. "We'd like to use your sperm." I ought to kick you in the goddamn neck.

Ron Washington: You do realize Neftali Feliz was in your bullpen, right? He of the 2.73 ERA, .176 opponents’ batting average, and 71/18 K/BB ratio in 69 innings? Since you kept running out Darren Oliver – a corpse with pubic hairs older than you – I wasn't sure. Oh wait, you're the type of fool who snorts up week-old cocaine when there's a purer, fresher batch wasting away right in front of you. Darren Oliver makes perfect sense.

England World Cup team: God save the Queen, huh? For the fifth time in 10 years, you have shamed our nation. Eat a hot bowl of dicks, you preening, gutless slags. I would rather England quit footballing all together than see any of you on a pitch in Her Majesty's colours again. You disgust me.

Robert Green: Yes, I'm still mad at you. I'm also wondering why someone has yet to throw you down a well and fill it with hot tar and bricks. I'd do it myself but I don't know where you live.

Arsenal Football Club: No inspiration, no discipline, no passion, no glory. Oh to be a Gooner.

Arsene Wenger: Some say that Arsenal can't play beautiful football and win silverware. I disagree. It's a very real possibility, but do you know what stands in our way? You. We don't have a viable keeper, a true striker, or any experienced leadership because you sold it all away and replaced it with fetuses. What's that, you say? Cesc can lead us? Please. Cesc couldn't lead this squad of children into a hole in the ground.

"That was the big difference that played in our heads," said Fabregas, after ManUre humiliated us. "Sometimes we seem scared of losing these big games. We don't really go for it and we're tempted to drop back and see what the opposition will do."

Oh Captain, my Captain. Thanks for guiding the troops. The thing is, Arsene, I'd pray for the board to force you into action instead of allowing you to sit untouched in your ivory tower of footballing genius, but what good would it do? If you had to act, all of your buys would be 15 years old still sucking on their mamas' teets. "Our new captain has acne and isn't old enough to drive? That sounds about right, Arsene." Fucker.

My unborn child: Being pregnant is crap. These are supposed to be the most magical 10 months of my life, so this opinion probably makes me a bad mother. There have been magical moments, mind you. I cried when we heard your heartbeat for the first time and again when we watched you punch and kick like a lunatic before relaxing to suck your thumb during the ultrasound. But apart from those amazing 20 minutes and my ramped up sex drive, I'm in a bad way.

If I'm not peeing, I’m nauseated, and if I'm not nauseated, I'm playing chicken with your father's hands, which involuntarily grab at my boobs even though I keep reminding him that my chest feels like it's been pummeled by large, hot rocks. My OBGYN banned me from surfing until you're born (an understandable yet soul-crushing edict), a scene in the Boardwalk Empire finale made me cry, and random people touch my stomach without asking.

However, I now realize my grievance shouldn't be addressed to you but to your father – the guy whose enthusiastic sperm beat the pill; the guy who – much to my extreme dismay – already bought you Celtics onesies and then suggested your middle name be Truth; the guy who runs around dropping "we this" and "we that" as if he also has a human being growing in his body and jumping on his bladder. Some days all of this makes me want to knock his cheery ass out. Needless to say, Baby Flash, today is one of those days.

Happy Festivus, one and all! 

So I stopped at the post office over the weekend to mail a card. For some unknown reason, the last time I mailed anything, the cost of stamps was something like 29 cents, so I was woefully lacking in metal funds at the vending machine. Not wanting to walk the 40 feet back to my car for a dime, I popped in a $20.

This was a huge mistake.

The machine spat out 1 stamp and then blew up like I'd hit 3 cherries on the nickel slots on the senior gambling boat. At first, it didn't seem so bad. I saw a couple quarters, a nickel, a few pennies. But then came the gold coins and more gold coins and even more gold coins. 19 Thomas Jefferson dollars in all.

A little pissed that the post office had the nerve to give back gold doubloons as change, I tried to exchange them for dollar bills at the window. The woman all but put her hand in my face. So I stuffed them into my white trash, mini-Crown Royal bag that I use for change (I'm a classy broad, I know) and forgot about them until this morning when I went into the BP for some milk. While fishing a couple $1 coins out of my bag, the illiterate, illegal alien behind the counter stopped me:

"Miss we don't take no old coins."
"Oh no, these aren't old," I responded. "They say 2007."

I grabbed 2 Thomas Jefferson dollars and a quarter and handed them to BP Clerk, who then had the nerve to scoff at me. "Pfft. Miss, we don't take treasure."

"Excuse me?"
"No treasure alright?"
"This is legal US tender! Sanctioned by the government! It's MONEY! It says $1 on the back!"
"Credit card or dollars or coins please."

I asked for the manager. He scoffed again and then stared at me like I was the one with the problem. We had a non-lethal Mexican stand-off until some hilljack with hairs on his balls older than my parents told me to "run along to school." After I shouted at him, I was asked to leave.

Perhaps it had to be thus.

But what kind of bullshit is this?? First of all, if I thought somebody had a sack of treasure and I worked at the BP gas station, I'd smack them with a roll of lottery tickets, thieve the coins and try to buy my own island. I wouldn't stand around with my hands on my hips having melodramatic breathing fits behind the counter. That said, I'm still giving Paco a pass for our interaction. Though the experience left me a little heated, I did keep strange looking coins in a purple and yellow bag that looks like something pirates throw at the ruffians as payment for a kidnapping well done. That's my fault. But what dickbag clowns are pushing these things at the U.S. Mint? There is no logical reason for the government to issue money that looks like you can unwrap it and eat the chocolate inside. Something has to be done!

So I live with three boys. I love them dearly but like most men, when they put their heads together, they turn into prehistoric idiots. Normally, this doesn't faze me but last night, I was left nothing short of lost.

For at least two weeks they've been talking about building a bonfire - not for a party or anything, which is completely legit, but because "that'd be cool." But with an inch of snow on the ground, what's the point, right? No. I got home to find a heap of wood in my backyard and the lads going to town on it with axes. They were wearing work gloves and hats and the whole deal. It was a ridiculous sight that I, sadly, let pass without comment. But when I happened upon 2 economy cans of Dinty Moore beef stew simmering on the stove, I poked my head back out to ask where they parked Babe the Blue Ox. They were not amused.

Eventually they called me back outside to join them in the supposed magic. Now, I was told a bonfire was in the making, which, to me, meant I'd see a free-wheeling beast made of anything and everything that would inspire drunkards and potheads to magically appear, hold hands and dance around in one of those scenes reminiscent of a Grateful Dead concert.

But this was no bonfire. Christ, it wasn't even a campfire. This looked more like the Dinty Moore flame from the kitchen. If I got a toothpick, I might have been able to roast a mini-marshmallow. So you know me - I couldn't help but point these things out and, yet again, they got indignant. To make amends, I offered to get some lighter fluid...

"Ugh! We don't need lighter fluid, Flash!" "Yeah! We can build a fire without all that, THANKS!" I don't know who they thought they were. This isn't Man vs. Wild, ya know? I didn't see flint and a bunch of rocks just laying around.

In any case, they stacked, steepled, prodded, poked, rearranged and stacked some more. After another 10 minutes of poking, a real fire began to sustain itself. It reached one foot in height and then two. And that's when they went crazy. Hooting, hollering, patting each other on the back. It was like watching the monkeys at the zoo. Somehow in this process, 5 more males arrived with a dog in tow, as if they sensed fire creation and were drawn to our house by primal instinct. Not surprisingly, the emoting continued and soon they were all heaping on more logs. After the fire reached 6 or so feet, the herd sat around it and watched in amazement.

"That's an incredible fire," commented one. "Yeah, that's reeeeeeally, really nice." Heads nodded in agreement. "We should throw on more logs and see how big it'll get." "No. Let it chill. Goood stuff." My mouth fell open. This shit was not that deep. But after four or five minutes passed without another word, I went in the house. Fucking weirdos.

Now, fires are a breathtaking and quite fun to look at - I get that. But what's the deal with the self-congratulatory bonding over building one? And why be so enamored with the quality of blaze? It took 3 hours to make it and in a quarter the time, a separate fire could have spontaneously erupted on its own and burned down half the block. To make matters worse, these goons were outside for God knows how long, doing little more, than staring at it, nodding to each other and randomly poking it with sticks. When I woke up this morning, it was gone. I'm not sure how they put it out but if they all peed on it, I wouldn't be remotely surprised.

About an hour ago one of them called me, "Hey, did you see the fire last night." "Uh, I was out there with you." "Yeah, well... it was a gooood fire."

??????????????????? 

Due to some unfortunate events at work, my Nerf basketball caught fire and melted into this gooey heap of mess. The day was all but here and gone before I remembered that I needed a replacement but at nearly 9 pm, my only options were Meijer and Wal-Mart and Meijer's toy department is substandard.

So I headed to Wal-Mart... There are times when my desperation knows no bounds.

<information tangent>Now, if you've read this blog for any length of time, you're well aware that I suffer from some serious personal problems, including but not limited to: debilitating OCD, germophobia and misanthropic malaise. And since I generally do my best to avoid human contact if I'm not a) at work, b) in a sports-related situation or c) on my 8th shot, the latter two issues, make trips to Wal-Mart, particularly troublesome.

Depending on your location, Wal-Mart is either a pretty decent store or a mecca for the unclean, uncouth and unsanitary of your town. If a sign hung outside mine that said: "Give me your barefoot, your trashy, your huddled unwashed masses yearning to breathe illness and stank, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp of slashed prices beside the golden, sliding door!," I would not be remotely surprised.

Seven of ten people at my local Wal-Mart are missing teeth, various items of clothing and immune systems. Their children are sticky, fat, snot-covered abominations that scream, fuss and whine. Maybe they're hungry, maybe they're cold, maybe they're just tired of staring at their mother's muffin top while she bends over to get another 24-pack of Natty Lite. It's anyone's guess. And if they're school age, they rip and run through the aisles, spreading colds, flu, SARs and funk, while their parent/guardian mindlessly scopes out Dog the Bounty Hunter on dvd and I cower near the wet wipes and hold my breath.

As such, I started bringing along a latex glove for my Wal-Mart visits. Crazy? Paranoid? I don't deny it. I pick up a lot of stuff while I'm at the store that I don't end up buying. I'd rather be crazy than come down with the plague because some "patron" coughed and snotted all over something before I happened along. </information tangent>

Armed with my latex glove, I grabbed the Nerf stuff pretty quickly and then meandered around the store looking for stuff I didn't need. I wound up in the empty automotive section and tested out some car freshener that I carried for 8 aisles until I saw a Jeep trademarked utility pack. It came with bits, blades and what looked like flares and only cost $30. So I switched air freshener for pack and kept going until I reached the express line. All in all, I made 10 product exchanges on my way to checkout before placing my final pickup - a 10 pack of Orbit gum - into a magazine rack.

While waiting on slow-as-molasses Glenda to check people out, a grim-looking man approached:

"Miss, please step out the line." I asked why. "We need to talk to you about your activities." I didn't see any "we." Just some an overweight tool in a black outfit. I refused to leave the line until I received an explanation on these supposed "activities" ... I should have left the line.

"Miss, we've been watching you in the store with one hand in your coat pocket and one hand exposed. Where is the Renuzit spray." "On a shelf." "And the tool package? "On a shelf." "Budweiser neon sign." "On a shelf... the only thing that isn't on a shelf is that pack of gum. It's in a rack." He stared at me with pure rent-a-cop malice until some dude came in over a radio. Apparently my "on a shelf" descriptions were too vague, prompting the wench in front of me to clutch her purse, as if there was anything in there beyond condoms and a pack of Nicorette.

Security guy began questioning me again, so I took off my coat, shook it and asked where I'd put all of these allegedly shoplifted items. "Are you saying you shoplifted?" "No, YOU are." "We haven't said anything. We're just trying to get to the bottom of this. Maybe you have a partner. Maybe you're leaving stuff behind... that would explain your glove. No prints." I was dumbfounded. "Look, I don't think you get it." "Explain it to me then."

But I couldn't. I couldn't out my own craziness and paranoia in front of the 30 people in the vicinity - 25 of them were the very reason why I was wearing the glove in the first place! But when he threatened to call the police, I came clean in as low a tone as possible. Like it mattered. Security guy's voice went up 450 decibels: "SO YOU DON'T WANT TO TOUCH ANYTHING IN WAL-MART BECAUSE YOU THINK ALL OF OUR SHOPPERS HAVE DISEASES AND YOU'RE AFRAID YOU'LL GET SICK?" "Well... see..."

Security guy got on the radio. "The girl isn't a suspect. She's just a lady Monk." "A what?" "You know that show on channel 51 with the crazy guy." "The blonde on that show is hot." Security guy walked away.

The rest of the shoppers stared at me with scorn. At least they didn't boo or hurl empties. About 4 seconds passed before the purse clencher - who was buying construction paper, cigarettes, balloons and Coke - called me a snobby brat and the lady behind me chimed in as well: "Hey little girl, just because I don't have a nice coat like you doesn't mean I'm not a good person. This is America. We're not out to hurt anybody." While I tried to figure out how that related to germs, she started coughing. And I mean really coughing. Wet, phlegmy, had pneumonia for 18 weeks coughing. When she finally stopped, she wiped her hands on her pants and put the People magazine back in the rack.

So appropriate.

Okay, here's the thing. I'm in J-Bay, South Africa on a surfing trip and am simply too chill to get be a malcontent right now.

Since this is the place where I have my routine rage-outs (as I like to call them), I'm sure you've noticed the cobwebs developing on the main page over the past days. For that, I apologise..
 
I'd log on to tell you about my days but they look a bit like this: fall out of bed, surf, eat, surf, drink, surf, surf, drink, surf, bed. Repeat. Somewhere in that daunting schedule, I've managed to drop my phone in the ocean, be grazed by a shark and get sucked into facebook by Cozmo from the AofG, the last of which possibly being the most shameful and ridiculous happening/admission of my recent life. Hopefully, I'll cut this shite out of my life once I'm back in the real world but all the same, go ahead and cue my temporary shame spiral.
 
In any case, fear not! I have a wedding next week and then I'll be back in your lives. Once I settle in and realize the horrible things that have occurred - like Thierry Henry turning into a dripping, foul cunt with legs and heading to Barca, thus leaving Arsenal in the goddamn lurch, I will have an overly emotional freakout for the ages and we'll be like peas and carrots once again.
 
Cheers, kids. See ya in a week.