Category: Deep Thoughts

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

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!!!

The Joy of Business Travel.

I flew in on a red eye from Vegas to Newark, which was delayed with a tight connection to Chicago. Just as I thought I had a glimmer of hope to make it, turns out the Duggar’s were in front of me. 18 and counting the minutes away to my Chicago boarding closing. It was like watching Walking Dead Junior Edition, as the little zombies obviously ate their parents brains for thinking taking children to Vegas is a good idea. Maybe they are mules for the medical marijuana from there with their sticky hands from gummies. Needless to say, I missed the flight, but perhaps I’ll follow the pack to their field trip to the Turtle Back Zoo. On another note, I’ve sneezed three times between both flights and no fellow passengers have blessed me. You’d think they’d understand that as we travel 500 mph in a tube at 35k feet that my unblessed self will meet their same fate. Being a minister now, I just blessed myself and called it day

Is This Tax Deductible?

Just when I thought Scott couldn’t hate weddings more, I got ordained to officiate your weddings, bar mitzvahs, car dealer openings, and your livestock judging events. I can christen your babies, ships, and new toilets. As this is the Universal Church, Instead of lighting a unity candle as at Catholic weddings or stepping on the wine glass as in the Jewish faith, I will institute that brides will sing “I’m a little teapot”, while their groom’s will try to chuck the ring bearer pillow and all through a cornhole board opening. Looking forward to the clergy parking, as always having to be employee of the week is exhausting me.

Welcome to New York-circa 1975!

For those who think business travel is glamorous, I’m staying at the Four Points across from Port Authority. The neighborhood near this bus depot is so nasty that I used to joke that I am no longer of an age where towing my luggage behind me might cause a pimp to mistake me for a cornfed runaway looking to make it in the big city only to end up in his stable. There’s also a strip club next to the hotel where if you’d walk inside, you’d see women of my age and dimensions shaking and working the pole in granny panties.

However tonight is at an all-time low, as if you filmed this block to represent the big bad city, filmgoers would think that the staging was over the top. First, from the safety of my car, I saw a man running with a toddler holding him ala the Kramer vs Kramer injury scene, although I’d be surprised if this kid wasn’t dead. After parking in a garage around the corner, I got treated to a hobo spending a quiet night at home(less) pleasuring himself into an old phone booth stall. (Is there no doubt why Superman stopped coming around?) Minutes later, I was offered crack for purchase, but took a pass. Next, while venturing into a construction walkway, pizza rat sans his endearing pizza crossed a foot in front of me. I emerged from the walkway only to miss stepping into a fresh pool of urine provided by another homeless gent. After this journey, I arrived at my crappy hotel where the rate tonight is more than the GNP of most 3rd world countries.

I’m actually more than a bit anxious about leaving here at 530am to be at Mount Sinai Hospital at 600am. I hope to arrive there as a vendor and not as a patient due to the anticipated morning greeters on the street. I may be the only person in NYC, who’s looking forward to moving on up to stay in Harlem tomorrow night. Even in his current crazy state, bring back Guilani!!!!