Cameron Diaz is Doing What?

There’s a new movie called The Counselor with  and  and as soon as I found out their #1 selling point was that Cameron has sex with a car… well… I felt a blog post coming on. Because who hasn’t been in this situation, right?

The Counselor Poster

Is it even possible to have sex with an inanimate object? That’s the question of the hour. I consider it masturbation, but that’s just my logical mind coming into play. Unless that car is named Christine and has a will of its own, I don’t really see how “sexual intercourse” can happen. I don’t think there’s a person alive who wasn’t waiting for the kid to have sex with his car in that movie.

So, Cameron is going to make sweet, sweet love to this vehicle? Call me a nay-sayer, but I believe Hollywood is getting desperate to sell movies and make money. Think about it… people actually paid good money to go see Snakes on a Plane. I didn’t. The previews told the story just fine in a minute and a half. Snakes? Check. Plane? Check. Samuel L. Jackson cursing? Check and check. What more could possibly happen? I admit, I still haven’t seen the movie, but who allows thousands of snakes transport on a passenger jet? Get the fuck out… Samuel was saying the same line over and over in the trailer and that wasn’t enough to irritate the piss out of everyone? Okay.

I’m not saying it isn’t a sweet “ride” or anything, but I’m taken aback by the excessive advertisements about Cameron’s auto-lovin’. Have we gotten that perverted? Humanity is that bored? I understand the jaded populous wants more and more all the time. A lot of people have financial struggles that prevent them from travelling and taking real life adventures, but really? Car sex?

Look at him, just sitting there...

Look at him, just sitting there…

Can you imagine watching some crazy chick rubbing her muffin all over the windshield of your rad-ass sports car? That’s a rhetorical question. I can already see men everywhere shrugging and nodding in approval, but I don’t know many women that are willing to crawl on the hood of a car and slide their va-jay-jay around on the glass. If you’re willing, fine, but not on my car you don’t. That’s liable to piss off a car enthusiast lickity-split. I, sure as hell, am not willing to whip out the Windex because you wiped your filthy butt all over it in sexual ecstasy. Stop being dumb.

Movies are going too far. It’s bad enough that television is better than cinema these days. We’re now being lured to the theater with the promise of watching Cameron-fucking-Diaz pleasure herself with a car?




The Watching of: Les Miserables (2012)

*Spoiler Alert* This is what happens… No, seriously. This is my experience with Les Miserables. The all-singing, all-dancing singing again summary of the movie everyone just couldn’t wait to see and still delight over today.

So here goes… Les Miserables (2012)

6 Minutes into the film and they haven’t stopped singing yet. Wolverine isn’t the best singer I’ve ever heard but that’s to be expected. Yes, yes, I’m aware of the Broadway thing. Maybe I should have seen that to prepare for what’s in store for me here.

22 Minutes into the film and they’re still singing everything. Catwoman has showed up. She works for Wolverine. Cinderella Man is in it too, singing away. They’re all just singing. It’s not phenomenal. These aren’t sing-a-long’s. Matter of fact, they’ve just taken the script and decided to sing it instead of speak it. It’s like while you’re cleaning the house and you start making up songs, narrating what you’re doing. “I’m washy-washy-washing the dishes,” and so on. I don’t know how much of this I can handle. I’ve had to run through my check-list of things to do tomorrow to entertain myself.

40 minutes into the film and I don’t think they’re going to stop singing. Is this a musical? What is this shit? Musicals are supposed to be fun. Even the hookers are singing. Catwoman cut off all her hair so she’s sing-crying like crazy. Literally singing and crying all at the same time. There’s snot and tears dripping everywhere. Dear lord…

45 minutes into the film, a cute little girl shows up. I don’t know why, but I thought it was Dakota Fanning on the poster. It’s not. It’s this little kid and she’s the only thing entertaining thus far because singing kids are cute. Sing-crying grown men? Not so much. Here comes the Red Queen. Damn, this woman doesn’t age. She’s 46-47 years old, looks the same as she always has. Probably because she dresses like a bum in real life. Matter of fact, I think she’s wearing her own wardrobe in this movie. I’m certain of it. Her hair looked exactly like that in the last candid photo I saw of her in OK Magazine. I don’t know why dressing like a bum would keep a person looking young, but I’m willing to give it a shot… and, of course, she’s a-singin’. She’s really belting it out.

48 minutes… One word: Borat. He’s singing.

1:17 minutes… Not even half-way through. This is one of the longest movies I’ve ever seen in my life. I think they’re singing part of a song from the Sound of Music now. I liked the Sound of Music and they’re ruining it. They’ve just put their script to the song of “Doe, a Deer” and called it a day.

I’ve lost track of time… The dumb one from Mean Girls is singing and I can’t get the image of her doing lesbian things to that ginger woman, Julianne Moore, out of my head from the movie Chloe. Who was expecting that to happen? Right? Kind of like a train wreck, only cray-cray.

I don’t think I’m going to make it. I believe another two hours have passed and this song isn’t over yet. The whole movie is the same song, they just change the tune to make you think this is planned. Longest.Song.Ever.

Wolverine stopped singing long enough to get me excited and my eyes popped open! Could it be? Is the singing over? Nope.. back to singing…

Now, God knows where I’m at in this never-ending movie… there appears to be a love triangle happening here among Letters to Juliette, Hick and the only good singer in the film. I’m glad I already know this story or I might not have any idea what they’ve been singing about all this time. I’ve dazed out several times and there’s that Sound of Music tune again… damn them. What’s wrong with the Claire Danes version? People weren’t pleased with that terrific film, they decided a movie about a convict who stole a loaf of bread would be better in song? This is ridiculous. If this man sing-cries about some damn bread one more time, I’m going to flip out.

So much time has gone by that I’m not sure what day it is anymore… Why are they using coffins to block off the street? Does that have some kind of hidden meaning? They were ransacking everyone’s houses and using all their furniture to build a blockade but there are apparent coffins here. Someone must have had some coffins laying around their house. Probably because of the plague, people stocked up on coffins, bought them discount…

Fuck, it never ends! I could never sit through this movie again. Once is too many. I understand the value of the arts, I love music, I love the story Les Miserables… This is opera. Terrible opera. The kind of opera where you can’t tell if they’re singing or not. This is sing-talking. It’s rubbing off on me. I’m sing-talking everything I write now. My thoughts are all in song.

Okay, it’s time for a battle… Their fire power is not very power-full, if you know what I mean. They’re having a cannon fight five feet from each other and it’s not even knocking over the coffin barricade. That’s terrible. Plus, they’re singing while they do it. Sing-fighting. ♪♫ Everybody is sing-talk-fighting. ♪♫ Yes, I absolutely did sing that to Carl Douglas.

It’s about over. It has to be. Wolverine is on his eighth sing-crying song. The returned-from-the-dead Catwoman is here so it’s got to be the end. Letters to Juliette and Hick are singing and crying and snotting together.

Fade Out… Fade Back In…

Conclusion: Oh.Dear.God. It’s finally over.

Fuck this…

Curse of Chucky – The Summary

Curse of Chucky
Summarized by Author Coey Cain.
Absolutely nothing but *SPOILERS*
(if that’s possible, I think my retelling is better.)

I honestly don’t think I can ruin this movie any worse than it’s already ruined itself. Personally, I think I’m going to make it better by telling you about it. It’s far better than having to watch it, like I was asked to do by Author Catherine Stovall. This is all her fault. If you have any problem with this, send Catherine Stovall your hate mail, because after watching this film, my emotions couldn’t handle one more ridiculous thing.

It all began (for me) with a chili scene. Yes, a chili scene. A very long, extended, drawn-out, tedious, over-acted, ridiculous, monotonous, unnecessary, sitting-on-the-edge-of-your-seat-with-anticipation, nothing happens… Chili Scene.

Here’s how it goes: there’s a bunch of people and they’re eating chili for, what feels like, twenty minutes. They mention several times how good and hearty it is, the little kid credits the oregano (because shockingly there’s no meat in it! ::eye roll::), they’re spooning chili into their faces – at close up – over and over. Then, their faces begin to scrunch up in disgust like there might be poo in it. They’re still eating. The little kid says it tastes bad (this is approximately five minutes after they all cheered in delight over how good this chili is). The preacher starts sweating. (I don’t know why there’s a preacher, I hadn’t been paying much attention because I was completely enthralled with Castle Story on my iPhone.) They’re still eating chili with a close-up of their mouths accepting the spoon. Ominous music is playing in the background and they keep eating chili.

These motherfuckers literally eat an entire bowl of chili and someone taped it. I’m not shitting you. Nothing happens. You think Chucky is going to, like, kill someone – but no. He just sits there like a doll and watches them eat for a good ten minutes.

Now, I was ready to give up. My time isn’t the most valuable time in the world, but I was positive I could find something more productive or entertaining to do than watch an entire group of people eat fucking chili – that’s a fact. But no. Cat talked me into finishing this shit, and since misery loves company, here we are because the ridiculous doesn’t end when they finish their chili.

So, let’s do a quick re-cap. I don’t recognize any of these actors aside from preacher man and he’s dead now, so it’s a non-issue.

There’s a handicapped woman whose mother gets killed in the beginning, please note I wasn’t paying attention. The “handi-capable” chick’s sister who comes to stay (to take care of her, I imagine) and the sister brings her husband, their little girl, and a nanny. I honestly don’t know why there was a preacher, but as I said, he dies. Don’t even worry about it. I think there’s an unwritten rule somewhere that horror movies must have a preacher in them. They make the preacher the most famous person in the movie and kill him. This preacher is the most recognizable person in the film and he’s like, “Just pay me. Kill me early on. Your movie sucks.” And he’s totally right.

Right when the film begins, Handi-capable’s mom asks her to get the door. The delivery guy is being friendly, whatever, and she asks her mom in giddy surprise, “Was that guy hitting on me?”

To which her mother replies, “Oh, honey, he was just being nice.”

Thanks, Mom. You’re super supportive and encouraging.

Anyway, the delivery guy had brought the mom a Chucky doll and she dies three minutes later, so you don’t even have time to hate her for shitting on her daughter’s confidence. It happens fast. Gets doll, throws it away, it’s night time, there’s a scream and then Handi-capable totally overreacts to seeing her mom’s blood spreading over the floor. It’s like the Miss America surprise face when they win. Only in this case, she doesn’t get a crown or flowers. She’s the winner of a brand new dead body. You know – that reaction… moving on.

I keep calling her “Handi-capable” because everyone treats her like an invalid dope and it obviously irritates the piss out of her. Cuz who could love a handicapped person? Right? Right? Yes, that’s the mentality happening all over the place in this film. “Good thing you’re my family or I would have to roll you off a cliff. You have no quality of life.”

They say stupid shit like, “Is that a new wheel chair? That’s really cool!” Because giving her genuine compliments would be a lie.

So, the sister, brother-in-law, niece, nanny, and preacher show up. The little girl has to take a tinkle and at this point, you’re pretty sure there’s something going on between the brother-in-law and the nanny. He’s eye-balling her sweet blonde ass and following her places and they’re waiting outside the bathroom for this little kid who’s old enough to pee by herself. You get to watch this kid take a tinkle and come to find out, Chucky is hiding behind the shower curtain. She screams, there’s this big to-do with the two adulterers trying to break into the bathroom, and this kid is just standing there, holding Chucky… but the dopey laugh she lets out is priceless. “He scared me! HUR, HUR, HUR!” It’s a really dopey laugh, even for a kid.

Never mind the fact that this ugly-ass doll is mysteriously moving around the house on his own – because they did. This doll is creeping everyone out, but not a single person thinks to get rid of it. Mind you, the mother tried and she got killed, but I would think of something better than throwing it in the kitchen trash can. I mean, it’s a really big fucking doll. It would be like taking a stereo speaker and throwing it in the kitchen trash. That’s going to piss someone off. You can’t put anything else in there after that. Now, someone else comes along to throw something away and the damn trash is full. All I’m saying is, it wasn’t bright or considerate to throw Chucky in the kitchen trash. Everybody knows you take the big shit straight out to the garage trash because that bastard can hold a Buick.

Anyway, back on point, the dad utters the phrase, “It’s a doll. What’s the worst that can happen?”

HUR, HUR, HUR! (Sorry, still thinking about that kid getting a chuckle out of herself for being scared.)

Chucky looks different. I don’t know if it’s just me, but he’s got a weird look about him in this one. Catherine says he looks like a drag queen. I think he kind of looks like a Teletubbie. If a Teletubbie did drag, you would have this version’s Chucky. Graphics and computer generated shit has come a long way, but not here, not in this. Not Chucky. If you want to watch this for the fright factor, remember that I said Teletubbie. That’s what you’re getting.

Every time there’s a scene change, a cop car pops up. That’s how you’ll know. If you see a cop car, they’re somewhere else now. They don’t want you to think this whole movie was shot in one house like a low-budget D-movie or anything. They want you to know they’re versatile and have the money to go other places (like the end of the driveway).

The coolest scene is the decapitation of the preacher. Like I said, the biggest names play the preacher and they get the coolest death scenes too. Take Danny Trejo, for example. The movie Zombie Hunter was pretty terrible, but somehow they got Danny to play the preacher who gets a cool death scene. Danny is an awesome dyer. His head got duct taped to a turtle and crawled across the desert with a bomb in it, for Christ’s Sake. He’s one of the coolest dudes of all time and looking at his resume, he’s a Yes Man who compulsively must work. He’s seventy years old and I don’t think he’s ever said ‘no’ to a movie offer. Ever.

Now, this dude ain’t no Danny Trejo, but he is Hispanic-looking and I’ve seen him before. I don’t know him by name, but I’ve definitely seen him during the 80’s and 90’s. Somewhere. I’m positive of it.

This movie is really ridiculous, I’m sorry I got side-tracked again. Back to the show.

So, once again, Chucky is missing and the adults are trying to find him for this kid who has developed an unnatural attachment to this Teletubbie Drag Queen doll. He pops up all over the place randomly, giving everyone a start, but no one is concerned past questioning gazes and curious head-tilts. Whatever. I have a bit of an aversion to dolls and here it is, twenty-five-years later, and they act like they’ve never seen Child’s Play before. Even Sidney Prescott has seen the movie “Stab” in the Scream movies. Are you telling me these people live in an alternate universe where no one has ever introduced the idea of living, murderous dolls to them? Not once?

So, the nanny is trying to find the doll for this kid, but she gets side-tracked by kid’s mother and they start up a serious make-out session. HUR, HUR, HUR! (that’s not going to get old anytime soon.) Here we thought for sure that the dad was gittin’ sum. Turns out, mommy is a big old lezzie. Not many people can pass up a hot blonde.

Meanwhile, Handi-capable is the heroine who finds Chucky (who was just watching tv with dad) and jumps on her handy-dandy elevator where she gets stuck with this creepy elusive doll from hell. She’s calling for help, rings the elevator buzzer and then… get this… get this…

The lesbian sister is tonguing the nanny so hard, she can’t be bothered. (I mean kissing, not the other thing, stay with me.) She sighs in frustration, all irritated and shit, and she rolls her eyes. She tells the nanny, and I quote, “See? With her, it’s always something. She needs my help and then resents me for it.”

Before the chili scene, you should have seen the disbelief on her face that Handi-capable wanted to make dinner for six people. It’s the same way you react to a man who just told you he’s going to get his balls waxed. It’s dumbfounded mixed with fright and riddled with humor, but you can’t laugh because that’s your man and you’re worried about his safety and his mentality all at the same time. You understand at this point, due to the seriousness on his face, that he wants to do this: he wants to wax his balls, but you already know he can’t. He had a cold last month, wrote his own obituary, gave you explicit details on his burial desires, rationed out his electronics to his bros, and you know he’ll never survive a ball-waxing. He just won’t. He can’t.

That’s exactly how sister acted when Handi-capable wanted to fix dinner. ::face palm::

So, instead of letting Handi-capable out of the elevator, the lesbians chat and complain about shit and call Handi-capable a hot mess.

Out of nowhere, the elevator powers on and Chucky pulls an Exorcist and spins his head all the way around to laugh at her. Once again, he spins his head around by himself when they get off the elevator… and not a damn person is catching on that there’s something totally fucked about this man-doll.

The child tells the mom about all this crazy shit Chucky says and, of course, mom thinks kid is a liar, but goes along with it. “Life is a motherfucker and then you die? You sure daddy didn’t tell you that?”

The nanny gets electrocuted by her laptop while dirty web-cam-ing with the mom in the same room as the sleeping child. Like, here’s how it goes down: the child is asleep in the room she’s sharing with the nanny. The nanny comes in and strips down to bra and panties, dials up the mom, they make kissy faces at each other, and then the nanny looks over and Chucky is standing at the end of her bed. So, of course, she just stares at him in horror. He kicks over a little pail of water which floods a five foot radius, it hits the plug mounted in the floor and nanny sizzles.

It was pretty impressive, to say the least. My laptop shuts off on its own if I so much as blow it kisses. It’s zero tolerance. Sometimes it simply decides it’s had enough and powers down. No warning. It doesn’t even let me know it’s tired. I’m willing to bet I could drop it in a bathtub and nothing would happen. Especially not the fireworks show I just saw. The bitch sizzled like bacon. Maybe she should use a Sony Vaio. It would be safer. I doubt I could even get this thing to give a jolt equal to one of those trick hand shockers.

By the way, you know how the kid was in the room? She totally slept through the entire traumatic event. You know, some kids are so unaware and selfish.

It's the drugs.

It’s the drugs.

Shit hits the fan after that. The bitch sister gets offed, Handi-capable has a run-in with Chucky and manages to get away. She wakes up the dad who thinks Handi-capable is totally killing everybody in the house. The kid is missing and the level of ridiculous is growing by the moment. The dad ties up Handi-capable and decides to watch the recording on the nanny cam that he hid in Chucky’s OshKosh B’gosh overalls. ::smh::

One of the most special parts is when Handi-capable jumps out of her wheelchair to chase after her sister before she gets killed and drags herself up three flights of stairs.

Imagine this backwards.

Imagine this backwards.

Now, okay, dad watched the dirty nanny cam feed and he knows that Handi-capable wasn’t lying about the Chucky situation, but there’s no time for any heartfelt apologies, nor is there time to untie her, because Chucky sneaks up on them (while dad is watching him sneak up via the nanny cam. The fact that he’s watching himself get sneaked up on and he just sits there is… ::sigh::) and then Chucky runs over dad with Handi-capable’s wheelchair with Handi-capable still tied to it.

Chucky has an axe by now and it really got me thinking. He’s just a doll. Other than the fact that he’s a homicidal doll, he doesn’t have any superpowers. He can’t pick up a car or leap tall buildings or fuckin’ fly. The only thing this little turd has going for him is that he always finds weapons and maintains the element of surprise. He shocks people more stupider than they already are. They see him and just stand there like idiots, giving him time to murder them. Well, that’s not very logical. You could just kick him across the floor, smack him around, lock that bastard in a box, but he always gets the drop on these stupid people.

What's wrong with these people?

What’s wrong with these people?

He chopped off the dad’s jaw with the axe and dad dies immediately. I’m not sure if that would happen in reality. I don’t think losing a jaw is an immediately fatal wound. I’ve seen a guy who blew his whole face off with a crack pipe and he made it.

Anyway, Chucky goes after Handi-capable and gets his axe stuck in her numb crippled leg to the point that he’s not even strong enough to pull it out and you know what she does? She slaps that bitch in the face and he goes down like a sack of potatoes. There’s nothing super powered about him.

She takes the axe she pulled out of her own leg and cuts Chucky’s head off. Then she just rolls away, leaving him there. I know how this is going to go. I’ve seen it happen a hundred times. You never just walk away after a beheading. Possessed shit will always find a way to put themselves back together. Elementary shit, friend.

Sure enough, he puts his head back on and pushes her off the balcony. Her wheelchair explodes like Forrest Gump’s leg braces when it hits the first floor. Parts go everywhere. So much for her cool new wheelchair.

Flash to the backstory…

Shit gets doubly re-donk-culous. I don’t even want to tell you about it, it’s that fucking queer. (Queer means odd, unusual, strange – not that other thing jackasses made it out to be in order to insult people.) Fuck it, I’ll tell you. So, when Chucky was a real boy, he had terrible hair, and I’m guessing his test scores were below average. He’s just a weirdo and he has a thing for Handi-capable’s mom, who he ties up in a basement while she’s 20 months pregnant with a beach ball and brings her sunflowers. Lots and lots of sunflowers. Her husband died or got killed, I don’t really know. There was a funeral, he’s dead, now she’s tied to a bed in a basement, surrounded by ugly flowers. Then he says some creepy shit and tells her he’s part of the family now and then the cops show up. ::sigh:: So, all he’s left to do is knife the baby belly which is why Handi-capable isn’t named plain ol’ Capable in this movie summary. Oh, and then he runs away to escape the cops, gets shot in a toy store or something and does a voodoo witchcraft spell that summons lightening and transfers his soul over to the Teletubbie doll. Okay, that about sums up the backstory, let’s go back to real time and see what silliness is going on… Don’t worry, it’s almost over.

Handi-capable didn’t die. She’s just lying on the floor, taunting Chucky and laughing at him. “You can’t paralyze me! HUR, HUR, HUR!” He chases her into her elevator, she stabs him… he comes back, she screams and cut to the cop car.

Why are the cops here in the first place? The power in this house sucks balls and her phone never works. Did they sense trouble? Did Lassie help out on this one? The fuck are they doing here?

I have a feeling this is going to be hard to explain to the police… I can’t wait to hear what she’s going to say about all these dead people, a missing child, and then try to blame a doll. Just for a moment, try to imagine doing that in real life. I don’t care how many people I’ve seen Chucky kill, as the sole survivor, I’m pretty sure I’m going to jail. So why even mention it? Fuck it. Yes, I killed all these people. No, I don’t know anything about that doll. No, I don’t hear voices. I swear.

She does get blamed and gets put in the loony bin, and so far, that’s the most believable part in this movie.

A person would hope that was the end. After twenty-five years, they’ve managed to drive this Chucky franchise into the ground and it’s time to stop this insanity. Handi-capable is sentenced to the crazy-house for her crimes and then there’s more stupid to follow. Here’s the good part: they managed to scrape up enough money to afford Jennifer Tilly for a full minute right before the end. That’s right. You see Jennifer Tilly, in all her brilliance, for one minute and twelve seconds. I love Jennifer Tilly. Big time. I love that she’s a professional poker player, I love her persona… but for a minute and twelve seconds, I can’t recommend this movie to anybody with a thinking mind or as much as a sub-par respect for logic. This movie hurt my brain. I got a little bit dumber after having watched this.

I read a bunch of people’s responses after having watched this retardation of a film and I’m fucking floored. Here are a few comments:

Maria says:
This was DEFINITELY better than I expected!! I love a good scary film without all the gore but with enough scares to keep your heart racing and occasionally jumping out of your mouth!! heehee!!
(Did you guys HUR, HUR, HUR with me? Please say you did.)

Shao says:
Definitely did not expect it to be this good.

Marsmaid says:
At first I was annoyed with how long Chucky’s hair is (I am a traditionalist) but this was great. So much better than I expected!!!

newgurl says:
This movie was just as bad or even worse than The Seed of Chucky.

Ailleen says:
Crazy horror fun, don’t bother engaging your brain. enjoy.

I’m just… there isn’t… I don’t… it’s not…

::hanging head::

I have to go.

My Opinion on Your Opinion About Self-Publishing

I’m sitting here waiting for my computer to do a long overdue backup and I remembered I have a blog. Yes, that’s how it happens. I could sit here and talk to you about my memory loss for hours, but I’ll save that nibble of goodness for another time.

Today, I think I want to talk about this battle and controversy on self-publishing, independent publishing, and traditional whateverthefuck. I’ve been reading all these endless blog posts about it for months and I don’t see any reason why an uneducated nincompoop like me can’t get in on the topic. So, watch now as I proceed to discuss this for a while without even researching it. Sounds like fun, no?

First, I just want to admit that the only reason I want in on this is because all these blog authors seem to have a oversize opinion on the matter and I’m well-known for having an opinion on things too… so I want to talk about everyone else’s opinion and have an opinion on their opinions. Yes?

The other day, a bunch of my author friends were practically livid over this blog post titled “Why Indie Authors Still Suck,” so I’m going to use it as a jumping off point. Took me a few minutes to find the link and I discovered the blog didn’t exist anymore. Shocker. Someone else re-posted it, but unfortunately you can’t read it. I tried. That’s okay, though, because if you search “Indie Authors Suck Ass” or any other combination of the like, you’ll find all kinds of uninspired blogs to read by authors as uneducated as I am on the topic. ::maniacal laughter::

I Googled (I’m good at it) and I’m going to pick a blog out from the top and take a dump on it. Why not?

“But Coey, that’s rude and you don’t even know that person.”

Who cares. Let’s do this. Our first victim of my opinion is going to be someone I’ve never heard of before named Chuck Wendig. Maybe you’ve heard of him, hell if I know who you know, but he’s not on my radar. Even if he was, it wouldn’t stop me from proceeding. I’m very self centered and reclusive, so if you’re reading this and your name is Chuck Wendig, well… five more people on the planet just heard about you for the first time and you can send your thank you letter to my mom’s house. She likes getting mail.

I looked this dude up on Amazon and I see he’s authored a shit-ton of books, which already makes him more experienced at sitting on his ass, making shit up about stuff, than I am. Good for him. It says on his Amazon author profile, “Emmy-nominated digital narrative COLLAPSUS.” Outside of this blog post of his, I don’t have the faintest idea what he writes, but the book covers are neat-o. I should be too intimidated to even attempt to talk smack on his blog, but… I don’t have a conscience to advise me against it.

His blog post is titled, “Why Your Self-Published Book May Suck A Bag of Dicks.” (See? I didn’t make it up. I couldn’t if I tried.)

Right away, he opens with this charming-ness that makes me want to get to know him better:

Dear Self-Published Word Badgers,

I’d like to take a little time out to commend you for your intrepid publishing spirit! And by “commend you,” I mean, “slap you about the head and neck with your own bludgeoning shame.”

He’s so mad he’s ready to deliver a flurry of slaps and he just got started. Not that I self-published. I’m an indie and I take none of this personally, but some authors do. In 99% of these types of posts, the author always states clearly that they aren’t referring to 100% of everyone who self-publishes or chooses an alternative publishing method, but everyone needs some kind of disclaimer. Am I right, or am I right?  His disclaimer comes right after the flurry of slaps, which states that he’s not talking to everyone. (By “not everyone” he means, “Well, I’m talking to all of you, but there were about two self-published books I thought weren’t entirely slap-worthy.”)

Don’t believe all the nonsense you read in people’s blog posts, because I guarantee you that they’re happy to tell you to go suck a dick if you disagree with them.

Think about it, this is my world and I get to say whatever I want to in it. If I’m having a bad day, I get to come here and vent because that’s my God-given blogging right. I only started a blog so I could bitch in the first place and I’m positive I didn’t invent the concept.

Back to this being opinionated thing… Okay, so, here we have one out of a bazillion examples of an author hating on authors for taking matters into their own hands and publishing their shit work. I fail to understand what the big damn deal is, frankly. More than once, I’ve been helped by a cashier who couldn’t do simplistic math well enough to give me change for a ten dollar bill. I didn’t run and get their manager or write a fucking blog post about it. (Well, technically, I mentioned it, but that’s not the point here.) I’m just saying, everything comes back to this “Everyone is Special” problem.

Let me explain… Self-publishing is a rather new-ish ability that came about around the time schools and programs started handing out participation trophies. You know, for participating. When I was growing up, there were winners and losers. If you didn’t win, you fucking lost and the other team would shake your hand and thank you for losing and that’s all you got. You hung your head in shame while the winning team laughed at you and then you kicked their ass behind the school for being cocky. You didn’t go home and kill yourself like they do these days. So, a bunch of people back then got all butthurt from losing, time went on and suicides were committed, and all of a sudden everyone gets a goddamn trophy for standing in the back field with a finger lodged in their nostril. Congratulations, ‘Merica.

In case you don’t see the problem here, when I was growing up, people didn’t kill themselves because some insecure taint gobbler called them a crab-riddled slut on the internet. It just didn’t happen. If any one of my sports programs tried to give me a trophy I didn’t earn, my father would have knocked it out of my hand and given the proprietors a four hour lecture on the retardation of giving people things they didn’t earn. Are you with me so far?

This is a generation of entitled, “special people” who feel deserving of stuff and praise because society, as a whole, fucked up and decided we can’t handle the emotions associated with being a failure. There’s no “we’ll get ‘em next time.” Individuals are killing themselves because someone called them a bad name. Back in the day, people committed suicide for real reasons, like, they had never done a single thing right in forty years and now the bank was taking everything they own and selling their children to the circus to be raped by clowns or some shit… real reasons. These days, a girl can’t fart in front of her boyfriend without killing herself over it, so what the fuck did you expect was going to happen?

In case you weren’t aware of this, taste is subjective. Books fall into the entertainment category, which is the most subjective of them all. Some people get a kick out of watching football. I get a kick out of shooting guns and smoking a lot of cigarettes. You dig where I’m going with this? It’s not everybody’s cup of tea and not everyone takes theirs with vodka like I do. To each their own.

This may be a little off-topic, but I read a few books from a famous author *cough.V.C. Andrews.cough* who had a thing for incest. When I say “I read a few books,” I mean, I’d read about five before I was old enough to realize what was happening and that this woman was incapable of writing a book without incest in it (and decided she must have serious psychological issues). Not to be an ass, but what’s that say about traditional publishing? There ya go. (Notice I didn’t kill myself over it?)

I didn’t invent the concept of giving out participation trophies and these writers simply want to see something “special” with their name on it before they die. I have nothing against traditional publishing, and I imagine they pay a hell of a lot more, but I can’t say I trust their opinion on terrific literature, either. I’ve seen some real stinkers become mega famous and popular for no good reason whatsoever. *cough50ShadesofGreycough*

Here’s what it all comes down to… telling a group of dyslexic pigeons with eating disorders to “suck a bag of dicks” is inappropriate and ridiculous. And that’s how I feel about a person saying, “Some of you should be really quite floored by the quality — or, rather, the sucking maw of quality, a veritable black hole of hope and promise that leeches the dreams from the minds of little girls sleeping and replaces those dreams with nightmares where unicorns are stabbed repeatedly by interlopers on icy sidewalks and left to whimper and bleat until the police come and finally end their misery with a single round from a service revolver bang – that your work puts out into the world.”

Because if that was a book, it actually sounds 10 times more interesting to me than contemplating a person’s drive to hate on a fellow author(s) for self-publishing a crappy book. Here’s an idea: Don’t buy it or read it. They’ve made their book an option, it’s not been added to the required reading list at your child’s school. Why are folks getting their panties twisted over it? Know what I mean?

“Everyone is equal and special and important” believers are the ones who created opportunity and possibilities, so things like self-publishing come about. People will exercise their options and who gives a shit what other people do as long as they’re not affecting you personally (or killing themselves, I guess. Although, I remain strictly under the “If you want to kill yourself, that’s not my business,” belief.). They’re the ones who are funding the whole thing and if they want to spend their time and money to publish a crappy book, who are you to tell them they suck a bag of dicks? I’m an asshole from hell, truth be told, and I still can’t promote jealous, emo-nonsense such as this.

I think it’s mighty arrogant to believe good ideas are only possible through big traditional publishing companies. People are so caught up with editing and format they have failed to listen to the message as it’s coming across. I’ve intentionally kept from bothering myself to edit this blog post. Ideas and stories have nothing to do with proper period placement or dangling participles. It doesn’t matter if your three-year-old drew the picture on the front. If you can’t get past the silly things, I don’t know what to tell you. As authors, I thought it was a given that we had imaginations. I thought we understood what it was like to dream better than anyone. Yes, I have a profound respect for grammar, but if you think that’s what it’s all about, kindly go suck a bag of dicks.

But please don’t kill yourself… because I really don’t want to see the day they create an award show like the Emmy’s where they pass out an Oscar to toddlers for succeeding at being potty trained. (Or at least for trying.)


The Disappearance of Coey Cain: Explained

As far as I’m concerned, every experience makes for a good story if you tell it right. At this moment, I’m going to attempt to tell the story of why I, Coey Cain, have been missing for a week and a half without so much as a “see ya later, folks.” This is unlikely to be a short blog post, and that’s okay, because I’m highly amusing.

Names will be changed and possibly omitted because I’m anti-lawsuit… if you know what I mean. However, I still own the story.

Let me start by saying, for the past year and a half, I’ve been a “good girl”… ish. I stay at home 99.99999% of the time, only leaving the house one-point-five times a month for supplies and to get a quick social kick. It doesn’t make me unhappy to be a recluse, I rather enjoy it because I have the gift of “I’m Not Interested In You.”

My adventure started on a Friday night, roughly a week and a half ago…

I have a tendency to break the rules from time to time. And if I was totally honest, I would admit that I have a tendency to break the rules, like, usually. People are always hounding me that I shouldn’t do this and I shouldn’t do that, but it’s always fun shit they’re trying to stop me from doing. “Coey, you can’t take vodka through airport security!” or “Coey! Don’t do that with super glue!”

Two years ago on the Fourth of July, me and some friends decided to get together and make a day of it. Some time in the early afternoon, we walked into a bar and had a drink in a small southern town in the midwest. Make mine a double. Know what I mean? It’s a holiday and I like to get-down. Drinks drank, we were on our way, on foot, in the moist, blistering heat of midday in order to meet the second group of friends. We stopped at a little store to buy bottled water before we got to the car. Our intention was to leave the small town and seek out festivities elsewhere, in a more eventful location where you couldn’t hear banjos playing ominously in the background. While my friends went inside to purchase water to quench our thirst on the journey, I remained outside as I had a fresh buzz tickling my senses and I’m a die-hard smoker. Cigarette in hand, I sat down on the concrete edging of a cute little flower bed and pulled out my phone to text more people. Let’s get this party started. You with me so far? Right… so, by the time my friends purchased four bottles of water and other goodies, I was being guided into the back of a patrol car with my hands cuffed behind my back. That’s right, you guessed it… Public Intox.

I know what you’re thinking… there’s a huge chunk of this story that’s missing. No, I’m afraid not. As I sat in my tattooed glory, legs crossed, minding my own business and texting on my phone, a cop car came to a screeching halt right in front of me. Both officers got out of the car and addressed me strictly with, “Ma’am, you cannot sleep here!”

(Please take a pause and realize the complete absurdity of this.)

I laughed. “I’m not sleeping. I’m sitting here smoking a cigarette and texting on my phone, which is perfectly acceptable, even in this backwards town.”

“Have you been drinking?!” Demanded officer number one.

“As a matter of fact, I just had a drink with my friends.” And at that moment, I had the right to remain silent. I was under arrest.

And put some money on my books!

And put some money on my books!

I told you that story in order to tell you this story…
I have a very short memory. I mean, it’s embarrassing. I’m not a good listener and I tend to forget, if I even heard you to begin with. It should come as no surprise that in order to get out of jail for this bullshit charge, I had agreed to their ridiculous, uncalled-for, extremely aggressive terms which included, but was not limited to, some drug and alcohol program. Even as I told the judge I would do it, I already knew in a week’s time I would be out of this Podunk state, nestled safely in my liberal home of Reno, Nevada, where shit makes sense and you can have a drink and smoke a cigarette anywhere you damn-well please. (And pick up a prostitute while you’re at it.) So, as I nodded my head at the judge saying, “Sure, sure. I’ll skip to my lou while I comply,” I’m laughing on the inside and thinking, You’re gonna have to catch me first.

Well, two years later, I’m back in this Podunk state and I simply forgot about my prior transgressions. Honest mistake, I forget shit all the time. I’m at the end of the first social outing I’ve been on in several months, with a person I just met-no less, and police are standing there telling me I’ve got a warrant. Shit just got real. The fuck you mean I got a warrant? As they explain, my memory is coming back very slowly…

Now, I’m not stressed. I’ve been to jail a few times and, sure, it sucks. No one wants to go there. It’s like being locked in a third-world country the size of a walk-in closet where you can’t smoke cigarettes or… leave. But it ain’t my first rodeo and I already know I’ll be out of there in a few hours, a day tops, fiending for a cigarette and a cup of coffee. All in all, I’m in good spirits about the whole deal. Once, I was in and out of jail in an hour and a half, ya dig? The cops cuff me in front, so I already know I’m going to have an easy go of it. No brutality here. Awesome. Hell, I didn’t even get the pat-down. They didn’t read me my rights, we just got in the car together and drove off singing Kumbaya. No big deal.

I’m standing at the booking desk ready to do this “Like A Boss” without a care in the world. The guy behind the desk asks me what I do for a living and I toss out “I’m an author” like a flock of doves, head held high. Roll out the red carpet, boys! You caught yourselves a quasi-celebrity! You can’t get me down, I’ll be out of here by tomorrow with a new story to tell!

It was at that moment they hit me with the news. “You have no bail.” No… Bail…

All of a sudden I feel like Kat Williams. “The fuck you mean I have no bail?”

They had to explain it to me three times that I wouldn’t be released no way, not any kind of way. Gears are turning in my head, creaking like a rusted-out hamster wheel. No bail? None at’all? I’m not panicking just yet. It’s a Sunday which means I’ll see a judge come morning and we’ll get this all straightened out.


In Podunk Ass-Jack country, they play by different rules than the rest of the civilized world and they do things a little different. Court is in session only sometimes, when the ass-pillaging monkeys aren’t busy dueling banjos. In other words, my ass was in there for 3 fuckin’ days before I got to attend video-court in my striped onesie jammies for criminals. I sat in a tiny room inside the jail with three other bitches in front of a big tv screen with a grumpy-ass judge in it. It was similar to Skype and I could see myself in the little box in the corner of the screen, so while he was dealing with the first two hillbillies, I was checking my hair and shit. Right before it was my turn, he starts bitching about the “noise” in the background. Walkie-Talkies are going off, there’s a mini-riot taking place in another room as we haven’t left the jail and this judge is straight No-Nonsense, right? I’m candidly rolling my eyes at his show of dominance and the guard inside the little room is looking around as if to say, “It’s JAIL, judge. The fuck you think it’s like in here?”

So now that the judge is thoroughly irritated, it’s my turn to go. He’s asking me if I understand all these papers I signed. I can only assume it’s because the majority of the inmates I’d encountered thus far should be required, by law, to wear a safety helmet and a sign that reads “I don’t know how to count money.” Not to show my ass here, but I’m aggravated that I’ve been in jail since Sunday, it’s now Wednesday, and I couldn’t give a hot damn if I pissed the dude off even more–as a matter of fact, it was my goal. I’ve already been in for 3 or 4 days, which is equal to a month, and I know he’s going to let me go on “Time Served” so I’m cool. Just to be a smartass, I said, “I understand it, but I don’t get it.” He gives me a dirty look and says, “What don’t you get?” and it was at that point that I realized smarting off to the judge was a terrible idea and he had the ability to sentence me to life in prison, should he choose to do so. I switched gears and got wise real quick. If there was ever a time to eat shit and grin, this was it. I reeled in my sarcasm and proceeded like the educated turd I am. I still got sentenced to 10 fuckin’ days. Doesn’t sound like much to some people–and all those people were in my jail block.

Up until this point, I’d made a point of sleeping off whatever exhaustion I felt from the outside world. Going to jail is like a vacation without all the fun or pleasurable shit that makes it a vacation to begin with. They feed you three terrible meals a day and you’re free to sleep as much as you want as long as the constant yelling, screaming, shit-talk, banging, metal-door-slamming bullshit doesn’t bother you. I can sleep through almost anything, and for those first several days-did. However, now I’ve seen the judge and I’m all rested up, but I ain’t going nowhere fast. Fuck me.

Now I actually have to socialize with these back-hills lunatics with which I’m being forced to coexist. I find out immediately that they’re all druggies, thieves, and brawlers… and being an All-Female cast, their menstrual cycles have synced up together and guess what time of the month it is… I felt like making up a story about killing a man so I wouldn’t be viewed as the fresh-faced weakling whose only crime was not attending classes like a truant teenager.

You should know that everyone in jail is innocent. At least, that’s what they’d have you believe. Everyone you encounter will tell you what their charge is and proceed to explain why it’s bullshit and they didn’t do it. “I wasn’t even there!” Every time I’ve stepped foot in a jail, I’ve heard the same shit ad nauseum. Wrong place, wrong time. It wasn’t me, it was the person I was with. Guilt by association. The list goes on and on, excuses for everything… I feel you, I feel you. If you hadn’t been doing crack right then, you wouldn’t be here. Then again, you’re a crack whore–so, what do you do? Such is life…

One of the first women I encountered was a loud, very loud, and tempestuous heroin addict that I came to know as the toothless troll living under the television which guarded the remote control as though it was her royal sceptre. Thou shalt not pass! Or watch anything on television without my permission–is more like it. Not to be a naysayer, but she had her very own name tattooed on her wrist. I can only imagine it was so she could remember and/or identify herself while she was in a drugged-up-on-heroin stupor. Her mouth was running twenty-three hours a day, which is a whole lot of talking for someone who had nothing to say. Repeatedly, proudly, and enthusiastically, she told the story of how she threatened to never give her husband another blow-job if he didn’t bail her out. (Pardon me while I vomit.) To describe her to my best ability, she’s the reason why pools are chlorinated. I’m sure her lack of bail money had everything to do with her verbal diarrhea and altogether grossness. Her husband is probably sitting at home right now, tickled to death that it’s quiet and he can watch whatever he wants on television. No blow-job in the world is worth putting up with that hot-mess, even if it’s an ass-fingering combo. God Help Us, Everyone.

Next comes the troll’s faithful liege, whose voice filled in every gap of silence when the almighty Troll Empress of the Television was drawing breath into her lungs so she could spew another fifteen solid minutes of verbal noise pollution at a time. This is the one who came up to me at one point and said, “I can tell you’re really smart by the way you talk. You just sound smart.” I had no idea how to respond to that statement. I assume because my vocabulary extends beyond profanities, she can only gather with her feeble mind that I may know a thing or two. I don’t think anything I said was fathomed by any of them, as they had an overall look of confusion plastered on their faces anytime I opened my mouth, but by their overall perplexion had decided my words must mean something, they just didn’t know what, and therefore I was smart. (My brain hurts from telling you about it.) I have to admire their ability to communicate in utter gibberish, frankly.

I hate to end my descriptions here, but I’m sure I’m being put on the Meth-Head Crack-Whore Heroin-Junkie Shit-List as we speak and I’m next in line to be shanked or someshit.

As soon as I walked in, they immediately wanted to know what my drug of choice was. Now, I admit freely, to God and everybody, I’ve never done drugs a day in my life. I’ve never tried crack, crank, cocaine, heroin or meth… or any of it. Nothing. I’ve never so much as been around it. Call me naive, but I had no idea the drug problem in this world had gotten so bad that it’s automatically assumed you do them. I’m a self-confessed wild-child, but I simply never had an interest. I can pull off insane stunts as sober as a priest, thank-you-very-much.

As I tried to mind my own business and keep to myself, all their periods were finished syncing up and I discovered I was locked in a big concrete room with six menstruating women with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Profanities are flying at the speed of light as though the curse words, in and of themselves, were a new and special language and there was no sanctuary from it. Their little criminal egos were in full swing as they told one story after another (and often the same story over and over) of how badass they were in the outside world. “Laying bitches out and droppin’ triflin’ hoes,” and whatnot. Each one refused to be outdone by the other and this parade of retardation and subnormality continued every day as though they were taunting me to completely lose my shit and catch a real charge. I kept reminding myself that if I held it together, I would be out of there and free to smoke my cigarettes and watch whatever I wanted to… quietly… in peace… at home… where no one was pounding “Fuck You, Whore” in Morse Code on the walls to communicate their disdain of a person in another jail block… or “Toilet Talking”… Real quick, I’m going to explain Toilet Talking, for anyone who is unaware, as it’s rather fascinating in its crudeness. The toilets are metal which echoes well and the pipes lead directly up to the men’s cells. With the help of an empty toilet paper roll, they could amplify their voices and it resembled the mentally handicapped version of talking through cans on a string. (I fondly refer to it as a Pottie-Talkie, as it’s similar to a Walkie-Talkie. ::snort:: Get it?) And bitches be takin’ their Toilet Talkin’ serious. I’m not sure if they acquire boyfriends this way, but when I think of something steamy in the toilet, I never imagined in a million years it could be something other than a turd… but I digress.

If I could just keep my temper in check, I would no longer have to eat savorless food that was laced with something called “Soft Peter” which, apparently, is put into everyone’s food and prevents the male inmates from getting erections. (facepalm)

You can’t make this shit up…

That being said, believe it or not, these half-wits were Offence Sentence Guru’s. By that I mean, from the moment you stepped into the block, they immediately wanted to know what you were in for and produced an astonishingly accurate prediction of what you would be sentenced with by the judge. And I mean, ridiculously and amazingly accurate. These drugged-out ghetto whores know their shit! They’re the fortune tellers for criminal offences and you can find them in any jail cell anywhere. You simply had to tell them what your charges were, which judge you’d be seeing and, lickity-split, these hookers would break it down for you. The moment I walked in, they predicted I’d get 10 days and, by God, I sure fuckin’ did! It was a pleasure to watch them work.

There’s a whole ‘nother system taking place inside jail cells. It’s a whole new world. It’s a place where you can communicate by banging on walls like a primate and talking through toilets! Notes are passed through the laundry like the Pony Express and you can use batteries to light a coffee cigarette! Macgyver, eat your heart out!

Challenge Accepted.

Challenge Accepted.

Anyway, to sum it all up, now I have some court fines to pay… so buy my book so I don’t have to go back to this shithole. :)

Featured Like Lil Wayne

I’m on tour for The Elite next month so I’ve been doing a bunch of interviews and guest posts lately. Today, I’m writing a guest post all about how I got into writing.

I’ve put this one off for two days now while I pondered the question and here in a moment I’m going to bust that out like I mean it. Hopefully. All I can tell you is, I still haven’t wrapped my head around becoming a published author. Even after hitting the Top 100 list several times, I’m still in a fog.

Things have started a little early. I’ve hit a couple blogs already, so I’m totally counting them. First off, I did an interview on Paid by the Weird with Lynn Townsend. I’m not positive, but I think that’s the first interview I’ve done. I’ve also hit Elodie Parkes’ blog, which you should check out right here.

Well, did you? Are you gonna? Okay then…

UM… Okay, next…

As I’m writing this, I’m shopping music on Spotify, putting together a playlist for another interview, and looking out the window at the gray skies and dripping rain. I say ‘dripping’ because this does not count as rain. It’s just wet enough to make a bitch irritated that I can’t kick the dogs out of the house.

Oh, and today’s music is not pleasing me. Artists should do something about that, please and thank you.

I have a certain love for Lil Wayne I don’t understand, so everything I’m hearing with him in it is tolerable. He’s just the cutest lil thing, I don’t know how to explain it. If he weren’t so cute, I’d smack him in the face and tell him to watch his filthy mouth. However, it’s like when a toddler cusses. It just hits the humor sweet-spot and causes a giggle.

The only thing better than Lil Wayne would be a Coey Cain Featuring Lil Wayne Tour. I think we would tear some shit up together. Hell, he’s featured on everyone else’s shit. Why not come on board with me and hang out? Obviously he likes hanging out with other people, and I’m cool as hell, so there ya go. Someone call his agent and make it happen.

Then I started thinking… me and Lil Wayne have a lot in common. He’s featured on everyone else’s albums and I’m being featured on everyone else’s blogs.


Things Are Looking Up

You know when you wake up in the morning and shit is just running smooth? Me either… but yesterday, some problems got worked out and that’s all I want out of life.

Maybe now I can get back to focusing on my real job, eh?

I’ve decided I need to start making lists for myself. Reason #1: I think I suffer from short term memory loss. Reason #2: I don’t remember what I’m supposed to be doing. Reason #3: What was I talking about?

::sigh:: I can’t remember…

So anyway, this old man comes to the house yesterday and knocks on the door. I’m thinking, “What the hell is this? Get off my property.” Right? I mean, I’m a borderline recluse at this point. I live way out in the country among farms and other like-minded folks who enjoy their privacy. Never mind the fact that I’ve not been able to eat dinner in peace in over a year. So, I’m pissy with the guy.

He starts talking and I can’t focus on what he’s saying because I’m mostly concerned about the dogs trippin’ out over the fact that some stranger is on the property, which is the most excitement they’ve seen in months. “What!” I demanded, because I’m being disturbed and all I want is this guy to fuckin’ leave.

He starts asking me about a cannon. Excuse me, WHAT? I can’t quote him because I wasn’t paying close enough attention to what he was saying. At one point, the puppies busted through the gate and I had to slam the glass door in the guy’s face to herd the dumbass dogs back to their secured area. Moving on… So, this guy is talking about a cannon, supposedly left on this property, and he wants it. You know what I’m talking about? A cannon that shoots cannon balls.

A Fucking Cannon!

A Fucking Cannon!

He mentions the previous owners and how he’s been talking to the “daughter” and the “brother-in-law” who said there was an old cannon from the 1800’s on this property… and he wants it. He’s some kind of Geologist and he’s interested in the “history”. Whatever.

I explain to the guy, “The previous owners are the previous owners.” They don’t own this land anymore and if he thinks, for one second, I give a shit what the previous owner’s “daughter” said about a canon, he’s out-his-damn-mind. You don’t walk onto someone’s property and start implying that the previous owners said you could have something. Everything and anything  that is here, is mine. Period. In other words, this old man is a presumptuous ass and he thoroughly irked me.

Back to work… life is ridiculous.


Come Sit By Me.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, that’s right… come sit by me.

I don’t know what I’m going to blog about, but I’ll come up with something.

Recently, I watched Julie and Julia, and that chick wrote a daily blog about following a recipe book. I don’t have that kind of dedication.

Some people write blogs about their interests and hobbies. Isn’t that cute…

I’ve discovered the trick to blogging isn’t about what you write – it’s about setting it up – and it’s not easy to do. I’ll have you know, I’m not happy with any of the themes I’ve looked at and this one won’t be sticking around very long – that I guarantee. So, now I have to learn CSS? Whatever happened to plug-and-play? …That’s cool. It’s not like I have anything else to do but blog.

Frankly, I just like to think of it as my own personal ranting platform. It’s not as though I want everyone out there to see me as a woman who complains nonstop, I just can’t afford therapy, that’s all. Buy my books and maybe I could… ::snort::

Let’s see what’s on the agenda today, shall we? Oh yeah. I’m on doggie-doody-duty. Dogs are pretty cool, but they’re a pain in the ass. Did you know that? It would be pretty badass if just one of them was trained to kill on demand, though. (Don’t go getting your britches in a bunch, this is my ranting platform – go find your own.)

I spent the morning screwing with the settings on this damn blog again – installing plugins and nonsense. The things I had to “install” should just come with the damn thing, are you serious? Things like, share buttons and email subscriptions. ALL PEOPLE WHO START A BLOG WANT FOLLOWERS. For Christ’s sake, this isn’t a foreign concept. Not that I expect to have a thousand people following this retardation I call a blog. It’s going to be more like a journal of things that piss me off. HA!
(Kinda kidding – not really, though.)

It’s not going to be a real journal. It’s going to be more like a food journal. You’re only getting half the facts.

If It Kills Me.

Sometimes you just can’t win.

I had a blog prior to this one that I just couldn’t deal with. Customizing was a bitch and it never really wanted to do anything I asked. I don’t ask much, so that’s totally unacceptable.

I started my day with coffee and cigarettes, as always, but this damned blog was heavy on my mind. Why? Well, I gave up on it around 2am this morning when I couldn’t figure out why it was bridge-returning in the middle of the fucking writing window. And no, I don’t know how to make you understand what a bridge return is – look that up on your own. God knows I’ve done my fair share of Googling this morning. NOTE: I have taken it upon myself to look up “bridge return” because too many people had no idea WTF I was talking about, and here’s why. Fuck, whatever. Maybe that’s not what it was called. When I say bridge return, I’m talking about when you get to the end of a line in a document and it automatically jumps to the next goddamn line – all on it’s own. Get it? Back in my day, when we invented the wheel, it was called a fuckin’ bridge return. Moving on…

Just so you know, it stopped doing that all on it’s own after I’ve invested hours researching the problem. Go figure. Technology hates me. Whatever.

It’s shit like this, all the time, that makes me feel productive if I can see through my glasses.

Next order of business, (or should I say, at-the-same-time order of business) I’m trying to catch up on Facebook notifications. I’ll get to you, don’t worry. First, I just want to change the font on this blog theme. Oh, I can’t? ::head desk::

RSS feeds? Forget it. I’m about two seconds from losing my shit already.

This calls for a professional. So, while I’m over here rocking back and forth whimpering, someone else can come in here and wrestle for a while. I’m tapping out for the time being.