Elsie the Cow has dating down during COVID and Black Lives Matter. She’s a single White American and makes sure she’s individually wrapped. Single and not ready to mingle unless on top of a cheeseburger.
Author: kbtwomey
For Karen Out Loud!
I need to get something off my Double D chest. Unlike my husband and others on Facebook, I’m never a ranter or political in any way. I never get into social media fights with others keenly understanding that social media posts are as grounded in concrete as fence posts and do nothing to ever bring others with dissenting opinions to the the post spewer’s point of view. In the current climate, I believe Black Lives Matter, Blue Lives Matter, and your life and others matter to you if you will wear a mask. However, I need to stop the next bias movement flooding America. The movement, of which I speak and which Wikipedia lists as a term, is the anti-Karen movement. In the midst of racism, Karens have emerged as dyed blonde, bob hair styled, racist, white privileged, mini van driving, soccer moms, spouting entitled complaints and asking to see the manager. I AM NONE OF THOSE THINGS! My blonde is real and while I may have some history of asking to speak to the manager, my complaints were valid-Damn it!
Ok, I realize I didn’t speak up when Karen first was maligned as last year’s K name for hurricanes, but I never have even been a category 1 entitled bitch. When I ask to speak to a manager, it’s been for things like $200 airline change fees to be waived in an emergency, as I’m not a sheep enough to believe that there’s real costs to an airline if a customer service agent has to click a computer a few times to change my ticket. Sure, I want to speak to a manager hoping that a human might be decent in an emergency. As if any Tom, Dick, or Rashawn hasn’t pulled out their hair in dealing with customer service reps who allow themselves to be the faceless tools of corporate America’s inflexible and profit dollar driving inane policies geared to keep the little man, woman, and even the Karens down. When did the pursuit of excellence in customer service become a surrogate for racist tirades defaming women who have a popular name from the late 50s/early 60s? Calling a woman who calls the police on a black guy standing 50 yards in her vicinity a “Karen” instead of a racist, intolerant, small-minded, bigoted, C U next Tuesday is a miss. Honestly, how could a so-called Karen not see color, if her black roots need to be touched up from her blonde bob? To add to it, in memes with pet influencers like Grumpy Cat, Esther the Wonder Pig, and that sarcastic husky, they are always rolling their eyes at Karens and say “Just shut up Karen, i know there’s a pill wrapped in that piece of baloney”. This viral stereotyping makes me want to complain to their human supervisors!!
I’m asking for Karens to rise up against the intolerance being bestowed upon us, as they besmirch our good name! Already not a single millennial will ever name a daughter Karen, as the name’s resurgence will not go the way of a cool old name like Sadie or Dahlia, but has been relegated into extinction fossilized forever with Gladys or Ethel due to social media co-opting my good name in this way. If we don’t fight back now against the tyranny of the oppressors against us, they’ll soon come for you too Susan and Linda. Perhaps we can get the millennials to change the term “Karen” to Gertrude, because, let’s face it, most of them are dead by now and the dead don’t ask to speak to a manager. If the millennials don’t make this change, I want to speak to their manager!!!! I ask all Karens, Susans, Kathies and Lindas to 1) stop calling the police on perfectly lovely non-threatening black people 2) ask to speak to the manager only with legitimate complaints, once you’ve allowed the server/customer service rep adequate time to handle your situation 3) fight this with me by sharing & tagging all your friends named Karen, Kathy, Linda, and Susan in taking back our good name! Get out of your She-shed and put down your Pinterest and fight!! #KarenLivesMatter
Cockadoodle Don’t!
Meanwhile in Jamaica, an advertising pitchman is being fired….
Don’t Take the Brown Acid!
50 years ago, I missed Woodstock, as I was six and played with woodblocks. Tonight, to mark the festival’s 50th Anniversary, we are back in the garden. By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a sandwich strong. If I was around then, I think I’d be the one yelling “Damn, dirty hippies,” as I cringed at a woman with 6 feet of dreadlocks hiding Jeffrey Epstein’s madam in her hair causing the geriatric crowd in attendance to use their inhalers to combat her overpowering patchouli aroma. No need to stay away from the brown acid, as orange juice is enough acid dropped to warrant dropping the purple pill, Nexium. We are front row center, so if this was the real Woodstock, I’m sure I’d be plucked from behind the barricade by Joe Cocker’s roadie for some backstage orgy. I’ll settle for being here 50 years later sitting comfortably with an unobstructed view rather than slathering in some mud pit with Sunshine, Rainbow, and Porcupine. The tie-dye remains here, but as opposed to when I was a kid with a package of RIT dye, some rubber bands, and a tub; Chinese children counterparts are making the $40 versions in a sweatshop. In 50 years, the bathroom situation here hasn’t improved much except no one is picking through the overflow looking for magic mushrooms. As Ringo sings, All you need is love. Peace, love, and music.
Fucking Bunnies!@#%$&!
My favorite drinking game in college was called Fucking Bunnies. Now, everyday, like a modern day Elmer Fudd, I curse the endless infestation of fucking bunnies in our neighborhood. Two weeks ago, after the rain, I walked this two-headed monster, when they saw an aforementioned fucking bunny. They sprinted after it, as I ran on the wet lawns trying to stop them from eating Peter Rabbit. After a few lawns, I fell and dislocated my left shoulder. As I awaited the dreaded MRI prior approval, I gave my disapproval for animals that fuck like bunnies (most of which are bunnies), as I walk the white menaces.
Today, I finally got the MRI; which I repeatedly said needed to be stand-up MRI, only to show up to be placed in open MRI. Perhaps I don’t understand the medical definition of open, which is akin to sharing a coffin with a family of 4. As predicted, I freaked and would’ve preferred rotator cuff surgery without anesthesia than to spend another minute in stuck in the crisper draw. I ended up going to a stand-up place: which had no stand-up, but rather wedged me into magnetic jaws of life with walls that struggled to accommodate the Double Ds. After 40 minutes of being tilted in the worst tilt-a-whirl ever, I was finished, as I’m sure is my left shoulder. On my way home to hunt wabbits!!!
Captain’s Log-Day 1. Post Apocalyptic Hurricane Maria Tour.
Traveling with the Ancients.
We arrived in San Juan a day ahead of our cruise arriving on 3 planes within 20 minutes of one another. Hopefully, we didn’t use up all our trip luck in the first 20 minutes of it. It rained most of the day, but we were able to stay dry, not because of these umbrellas overhead, but because there were so many rolls of Presidential paper towels left in the Trump surplus from Hurricane Maria. We came into Old San Juan dining on Mofongo, which sounds like a great curse word of the Soprano’s when they are served bad gabblegool, but it’s a delightful dish with plantains. If only we were eating the Mofongo while listening to Mungo Jerry. With Devra Robins standing only 4’8”, she almost got drafted by a scout from Menudo, who erred in thinking she was a tween Puerto Rican boy. To make up for it, she’ll continue to live La Vida Loca. If you love Pina Coladas…after a week with my family, I will plan my escape.
Captain’s Log-Day 2. Post Apocalyptic Hurricane Maria Tour.
Traveling with the Ancients.
Well, the first day of a cruise is more of an administrative day, as we and our fellow 3000 travelers got herded onto the ship and dipped in hand sanitizer to keep the ship named, Freedom of Disease (the Seas). As usual with travel, I share a room with my mom, but use a constant noise machine. She ran herself ragged trying to keep up her conversation with it, so for the first time in over 50 years, I’m sharing a room with my childhood bully, Dev. This caused Royal Caribbean to move the muster station to our cabin, as the casino gave us 15:2 odds that we’d be able to muster one another. Fortunately, Lauren aka Switzerland can always be used as a life jacket saving us from each other; if this version of Big Brother doesn’t work out. Additionally, they made a mistake and had our beds together, as an additional challenge round. I’d give up immunity before sharing with her. Tune into this week’s episode of Big Sister/Retribution Island to see who survives.
Captain’s Log-Day 3. Post Apocalyptic Hurricane Maria Tour.
Traveling with the Ancients.
Today, we spent in St. Maarten. While we make sure to washy washy our hands on the ship, we were met with an infestation on the beach nonetheless. Worse than the Norovirus, worse than Legionnaires, yet no vaccine can stop it. I’m speaking of the blight of “Lady, got scarves, got sun hat, I massage you, I braid your hair-itis.” When did a white person with their pasty scalp and fine limp hair ever look good with beaded hair? If they left Bo Derek’s hair alone, the movie could have easily been called Fifteen instead of 10. If it didn’t work on a supermodel, what hope would there be for our kinky Jewish locks? Then, dressed to complete our authentic Island look with a cover-up rocking that carefree Island look as interpreted by 12-year-old seamstresses in China locked in a factory pushing out this beach attire. It’s the textile industry’s equivalent of inmates in New Hampshire prisons banging out license plates with the state phrase “Live Free or Die.” So many women wanted to massage me that I thought I was lying on Harvey Weinstein’s couch in his Ritz Carlton suite vs. on a spinal cord torturing $10 beach chair rental. After being accosted by the first 30 salespeople in about 8 minutes, I now understand why our doctors’ offices and hospitals don’t let our sales reps in. If I had only read up on St. Maarten, I would’ve known that he was the patron saint of crap for sale. Just rename the Island St. Markdown, as we were assured we got the lowest price for beaded necklaces on the Island!
Captain’s Log-Day 4. Post Apocalyptic Hurricane Maria Tour.
Traveling with the Ancients.
Today, we had a wonderful beach day in St Kitts. Much like the fun-size Kit Kat Bar, St Kitts gets split in two with its other half being the island of Nevis. We learned that the people are known as St Kittitians rather than St Kittens, as the population is more dog people and they don’t want their homeland to be referred to as a litter box. Speaking of animal feces, we were offered to take photos with several capuchin monkeys in Premie Luvs diapers, unless I’m wrong and they have some god awful looking babies on this island. In short, we described our day as “Monkey see, monkey doo-doo”. We saw a wild monkey cross the road. He was chasing the chicken.
Captain’s Log-Day 5. Post Apocalyptic Hurricane Maria Tour.
Traveling with the Ancients.
We spent a lovely day at Ffryer’s Beach in Antigua (which Devra Robins thought was named Friedberg or Friedman’s Beach. Sure there are more Jews in NYC or Brooklyn than in Israel, but Ffryer’s Beach is still not Coney Island but is a place where the Jewish population probably numbers a guy who ate a bagel once, my sister believes the beach has a Jewish name). Anyway, we are midway through our cruise and so far, I haven’t fallen out of the dwarf twin beds, they give you on cruise ships. They are the United Airlines seats of bedding and mattresses. I spend each night in a semi-awake state fearing that my pillow will fall on the floor or I’ll awaken to a face full of curtains not washed since Leon Klinghoffer last cruised. When they designed these narrow short beds, I think that Royal Caribbean used their Filipino cabin boys much like crash test dummies substituting for us large wide-bodied American guests. On a positive note, if you leave your room for even a few minutes, the cabin stewards clean your room in your absence. Much like Bigfoot, they are rarely seen while using their elfin magic, yet some of these mythical creatures even leave behind their calling card shaped as a towel animal. Now, to supposedly reduce their carbon footprint, Royal Caribbean has room attendants only making towel animals upon request. So, now as a guest, I made to feel shame and guilt for wanting to come home to a towel penguin laying in my bed wearing sunglasses. If loving that is wrong, I don’t want to be right. I drive a hybrid, damn it! Is it too much to want to come home to a little towel elephant with a washcloth trunk? Anyway, I read that the average cruise worker works 6-7 days a week and an average of 16-18 hour day and makes only $2000 a month. I’m planning to offer $2200 a month to hire a steward to live in a crevice in my house to provide me the same services and let my love for towel art be what’s sustainable. I’ve just placed an order with Aramark for my first towels. I can’t wait for Bernardo’s arrival.
