Apparently I’m A Wizard

Shreveport was a common airport for airplanes to randomly land at in case any airports in Texas threatened bad weather or someone sneezing.

There were times where we would get 10+ aircraft landing at the airport and I would end up working an 18 hour shift and have to return in six hours to work another 10 hours to play catch up.

There were days where my job was a total and complete nightmare.

And then there were days where I was actually on the local news.  No joke.  I was on the news twice.  National news once.

Not even slightly kidding.

However I was pretty blurry and I had glasses on and my hair in a bun, so there’s a very slim chance any of you realized it was me.

We had an instance where we had flights divert to Shreveport, and our regular flights would come in and cancel, or our outbound flights would cancel due to a single snowflake landing nearby.

 

Because heaven forbid the south deal with snow.

Okay, I’m not being fair.  For someone not raised in cold weather, it can be terrifying.  My coworker didn’t know that cold weather can make your tires look deflated, so when he was going to come into work when it was 10 degrees outside, he called and said he couldn’t come in because all four of his tires were flat from how cold it was.  I told him that once he started driving they would become round again and back to normal, but he didn’t believe me because he was over twice my age and heaven forbid someone half his age knew something.

Ugh.

Anyway, I have a common theme with my airline job posts.

I dealt with a lot of crazy people.

Like, you have no idea.

People think I’m a fucking wizard, for instance.

We actually had really bad weather one day.  There was a tornado that was visible from the windows of the front of the airport.  Not close enough to cause severe damage to where I was at, but we could actually see the tornado.  So naturally the flights cancelled.

I had a woman who said she was a doctor and she shoved her way to the front of the line, telling me she was a doctor and that I had to un-cancel the flight because she had patients waiting for her.

I explained to her that there was a tornado and that it was a safety consideration since tornadoes have habits of completely fucking up aircraft.

“But I’m really important and I have to get on a plane today!  You have to get a plane out!”

“No, I don’t, because I don’t control the skies.  It’s a safety concern, ma’am, I can’t help you.”

Well, one flight did not cancel and it was the very last flight of the night.  And this flight had 52 people booked for a 50 seater plane.  This flight was severely oversold.  And this happens a lot when there’s bad weather.  It’s unavoidable.  This lady was standing to the side and was on the phone trying to make arrangements when I made the mistake of doing my job and checking in a passenger.  When she saw me checking him in, she literally shoved this guy away from the counter and started to scream at me.

“HOW COME HE GETS TO FLY AND I DON’T?!”

“Because his flight didn’t cancel, yours did.”

“Well take his ass off the flight and put me on the flight.  I’m a doctor!  I’m far more important than him!”  This guy just looked at her flabbergasted.

“I have to work too, you know,” the guy had said.

“Yes but you’re not saving peoples lives.  I am.  Therefore I’m more important.”

You’re probably thinking I’m exaggerating this story, and I’m really not.  I had people tell me all the time how they’re more important.  It pisses me off.

“Ma’am, I can try to put you on standby, but the flight is oversold so I won’t be able to get you on the flight.”

Oh this pissed the dragon lady off.  She continued to scream at me and tell me how I must not care about dying children because that’s who she was saving and that if she didn’t get out of Louisiana those children were going to die.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I left my magic wand at home so I can’t fix the weather.”

My friend told me this line, and I loved it so much and I had so little fucks left to give so I told this lady that exact line.  Her jaw dropped, but I think the realization of how little I was able to do finally dawned on her.

I never saw her again.

Have you ever dealt with people who thought they were better than you?  Have you ever used a magic wand to change the weather?  Let me know in the comments!  DISCUSS SOMETHING PLEASE!

Also, Alex has started his own blog.  If you want to read about how being an adult while working out and being a super nerd is working out, click here and read about his shenannigans of his ambitions to be a viking god

 

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The Were-Gay

Hi everyone!  I wanted to wish everyone a happy holidays and a great new year!  I’m sorry I haven’t posted in so long, I’ve been incredibly busy doing training for my job and overall dealing with crazy people (I have several posts planned).

This post is a prequel to a post I will be posting later this week.  Alex and I have a joke about were-gays, which are were-wolves but not quite.  The story I was going to tell involves that joke, but since it would be kind of hard to explain without this story, Alex has graciously offered to write this post regarding the origin of the were-gay, so I can tell the awesome hilarious story later on.  So without further adieu, I hope you enjoy Alex’s writing 🙂

Having been a long time reader of my wife’s post (this is definitely said without her looking over my shoulder), I wanted to give the first-view perspective to a situation that happened to me. I hope you enjoy.

I once had a group of friends that would get together and shoot the breeze with. It was a great group of people and I miss them greatly. One of them (for the sake of protecting the innocent we will call her Amber) was a particularly violent lesbian who was also an army recruiter. She was by far my favorite as all of her stories were over the top and hilarious from my point of view. I’d still be supportive to her plights, but MAN was she funny to listen to.

During one particular story she was talking about funny double standards in dealing with gay recruits. Recruiters will often transport an applicant to several locations to in-process the individual. It is a huge taboo with recruiters (apparently) to transport applicants of the opposite gender anywhere. This is a good rule in making sure that no one is being taken advantage of and keeps people safe.

The one drawback to this is when the applicant happens to be gay. In the happenstance of the applicant being a gay male and the recruiter being a hetero male, this causes “strife”.

I know why this is probably the case, but I go ahead and ask Amber why.

“Because none of the other recruiters want to be alone in the car with these gay guys,” she groans, her eyes almost rolling out of her head onto the floor.

I’m genuinely intrigued by the statement. “So they think these men can’t get through a car ride without hitting on them?”

“You should hear these guys,” she laughed, “they honestly start to panic when they have to take him somewhere. They’re convinced he’s going to overpower them on the car ride.”

At this point I start to laugh, and when I say laugh I mean that kind of laugh where you start at a chuckle and slowly evolve into a full-blown “I-can’t-breathe-please-stop-me-before-I-hyperventilate” state of mind. I’m holding my sides and laughing while Amber is chuckling but also wondering why I’ve suddenly lost my marbles.

When I finally catch my breath I let her in on the little secret. It was a scenario that played out like this…

Two men, an army Tech Sergeant and a hopeful recruit, sit quietly in a car driving on the freeway. The radio playing a country song that neither man is listening to. The sergeant drives, hoping to keep conversation to a minimum as to avoid any awkward situations. The recruit keeps his silence and looks straight ahead.

Suddenly, the full moon looms overhead and the recruit clutches his chest in pain. He screams in agony and doubles over in pain against his seat belt. The recruiter is at a loss and begins to panic at the situation.

“Are you ok?!” the recruiter yells, hoping against all odds that this is not as bad as it looks.

“I…can’t…fight it…” the recruit manages to gasp in painful breaths.


The recruit looks the sergeant, his eyes a tinted yellow and wolf-like. He licks his lips and bears his now canine teeth. A mad look of hunger and desire are apparent behind those inhumane eyes.

“…I NEED THAT DICK!!!”

With that the were-gay lunges from his seat while the sergeant is helpless whilst driving the vehicle. In an unnatural move of dexterity and super-gayness the recruit rips off that sergeants pants and jams his cock right in his mouth. The were-gay howls in delight, his howl of course coming out unclear with all the man meat in his supernatural jaws.

So yeah, that’s what ran through my mind at the thought of that. Of course it’s silly for me to think that’s actually true. Pretty ridiculous, right?

…although I’ve never seen a werewolf and a gay man in the same room together…

Have you ever been subjected to werewolves?  Do you know people who think that this is how homosexuality is caused?  Do you have a similar hilarious story?  Let me know in the comments!

Crazy Yacht Parties: Tales Of A Crazy Biatch Bonus Round

Have you read about Marjorie before?  If so, continue, if not, here’s some context.

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4

 

So, of course, Marjorie had a lot of other stories that I just couldn’t fit in because they just weren’t as bat shit crazy as the rest of her stories, but there was one that I remembered, and I thought, “My god, this would get me so many views and people might use these stories in work seminars to explain why you should avoid crazy—I SHOULD TOTALLY TELL IT!”

So, alas, here is the story of how Marjorie told me about how she threw a party on her yacht when her dad died.

Yes, you read that right.

Marjorie claimed to be a gold digger.  However, I thought gold diggers were supposed to be extremely pretty and hot and pretty much super models, something that Marjorie wasn’t.  She wasn’t ugly by any means, but she was fairly average looking, and on the heavier side.  When I think gold diggers, I think more along the lines of Kate Upton.

Definitely not Marjorie

Definitely not Marjorie

However, she said that in her home state, she had a bunch of sports cars and sports boats, and even a yacht, because her sugar daddies and ex-husbands believed in taking care of her in the best possible way.

At this point, I figured that she must be delusional, but I smiled and let her continue her bat shit craziness.

She told me that her dad was a military officer and she had 5 or six siblings, I forget honestly.  She said that she and her siblings all hated their dad, but before she told me that, she said that her dad died a few years ago.

I told her I was sorry and her response was something along the lines of, “Oh it’s no big.  We all had a huge boat party to celebrate when he died.  We were so drunk!  It was so crazy!”

When I gave her a look of horror, she went on to explain.  “Oh, my dad was a total asshole.  We hated him.  So we had a big party on my yacht to celebrate him dying.”

Because, you know, that’s what you do when someone dies.  Have a party on a yacht.

She went on to explain all the things that they did on her yacht, and how they all did their greek mythology worship, which to me made no sense.  A friend of mine who is extremely well versed in greek mythology laughed quite a bit when I told her Marjorie’s “religious beliefs” because Marjorie was totally and completely misinformed about what each god represented.  Also, it was increasingly difficult to follow her stories, they kept changing.  I’m sure if she told that story now, the party would have been on her own private cruise ship, because her sugar daddy owned Princess Cruises or something like that.

I don’t know, I just know that the stories seemed to never end.

What is the craziest thing you’ve heard people do when someone dies?  Did you enjoy the stories about Marjorie?  Let me know in the comments!

Damn Retarded Yankee

So today, apparently, I was upgraded from a “Damn Yankee” to a “Damn Retarded Yankee.”

This confuses me too, since us yanks are far more educated on average than the average confederate.  Or southerner. Or whatever the hell they’re called.

 

Basically these assholes.

Basically these assholes.

Anyway, after I got off work, I noticed that my nose was full of black heads.  One thing anyone who is in my very close inner circle knows is that I’m OCD with my skin care.  I don’t wear makeup or sun screen, but I moisturize my face every night and always have the high end lotions and lip balms to make sure my skin always looks fresh.  I have a professional waxer for my eyebrows and mustache, and overall, I’m just very OCD with my skin.

Today I noticed I had a lot of black heads and I needed nose strips, because apparently I love to induce pain to get rid of black heads.  So on my way home from work, I walked into Walgreens and got what I needed.  I stepped in line and I was the third person in line.  An elderly black woman was behind me and a tiny little white guy was in front of me.  The white guy was buying some cold medicine and was minding his own business.  He looked grumpy and mean and ‘murican, so I turned to the woman behind me.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I said to her.  She smiled.

“Yes, I love this cold weather.”

Good, someone who shared my likeness for the cold.  “Oh I love it.  When it’s cold like this, I open all the windows and put a bunch of the blankets on the bed and wrap up like a cocoon.”

The woman was about to respond to my comment, when the guy in front of me practically yelled.

“That’s just retarded.  I’m sorry, you’re retarded.”

What the fuck, right?

“Well, I’m a Yankee and I like the cold weather.”

“That makes you a damn retarded Yankee then.”

When I looked up damn retarded yankees, I kept getting pictures of Red Sox Fans

When I looked up damn retarded yankees, I kept getting pictures of Red Sox Fans

Dude.  What the fuck was this guy’s problem?

“Sir, I lived in Alaska.  I don’t deal with the hot weather.”

He continued to talk, which surprised me because I was easily 4 inches taller than him and twice his width.  And I am wonder woman.

“That makes you doubly retarded.  Why would anyone want to live in the cold?”

See, this is how I feel about the south.  Why would anyone want to live in the south?

“Because you’re not sweaty and sticky all the time,” I countered.  The super sweet woman behind me nodded in agreement.

“That’s what air conditioning is for.  Besides, what activities can you do in cold weather?  Nothing, that’s what.”

BECAUSE THIS IS APPARENTLY NOTHING

BECAUSE THIS IS APPARENTLY NOTHING

I was feeling a little frustrated.  “There’s a ton to do in the winter.  Skiing, Skijoring, dog sledding, ice fishing, snow shoeing—,”

Then he cut me off.

“Find warmth.  That’s what you do.  Nothing else.”

Then I had it, this guy was probably perverted.

“You can snuggle up to someone for warmth and see what happens,” I said, rather smugly.  Probably too smugly.

“Yeah, and you can just turn down the AC so it’s hot outside and cold inside so you can snuggle up.”

“THAT WASTES MONEY AND RESOURCES!” I nearly roared, making a few heads turn.

Don't worry, the AC is on and it's a thousand fucking degrees outside

Don’t worry, the AC is on and it’s a thousand fucking degrees outside

“It’s better than living somewhere that’s cold where you’ll be eaten by polar bears.”  He grumbled something else, but I wasn’t sure what.

“THERE ARE ONLY POLAR BEARS IN THE ARCTIC CIRCLE!”

To which he checked out and repeated I was retarded and that I should have a nice night.

The cashier rang me up and said, “I’m from Nebraska.  I prefer snow too.”

So we high fived for the Midwest and I hugged the lady behind me for helping me out with the moron who thinks I’m retarded.

And believe it or not, I didn’t even hyperbolize this story.  It’s damn near spot on.  Because I’m a magnet for weird fucking encounters.

Have you ever had a random stranger call you retarded?  Have you hugged a stranger and had your wallet not stolen?  What is the weirdest encounter that you’ve had with a stranger?  Tell me in the comments!

Living Dead in Dallas

Sorry Charlene Harris, but I think it was perfect to describe my trip to Dallas a few weeks ago.

So shortly after I started my new job, my work told me that I needed to go to Dallas for a few days for training.  I figured why not, and went, because I wouldn’t be allowed to work at my awesome new job unless I was trained and certified.

So while I was waiting for my flight, I had a beer, and was waiting and waiting to find out that my flight was canceled.  I’ve mentioned before how driving to Dallas has ended in my car breaking down in the middle of nowhere, but my coworker, who is a pretty awesome guy, found out that we would be reimbursed for gas and he offered to drive.  Which was great for me because if the car broke down, it wouldn’t be mine.

Naturally, I had to prank Alex and my mom because I was driving to Dallas alone with a man.  And I had a beer in my system.

I call Alex first and put him on speaker phone.  The conversation went like this.

Alex: Hello?

Me: Hey honey, so I got drunk and some random guy kidnapped me and is dragging me to Dallas.  I’m probably going to die from either murder or Ebola.  Hope that’s okay.

Alex:… What?

Me:  Well the flight was canceled so I was drinking and my coworker is kidnapping me to Dallas and you’re never going to see me again.

Alex: WHAT?!

Me: It’s all good though, he won’t rape me because he’s gay.

Alex: Ugh, fine, let me know when you get to Dallas*

Then I called my mom next.  That woman is a hard woman to rattle and I told her that I was drunk and being kidnapped and she just said, “Okay, be safe!”  It was rather disappointing.

Halfway to Dallas, we decide to stop and get some Mexican food in Canton.  I’ve mentioned how I’ve had some bad experiences in Canton before, but this time the Mexican restaurant had a church on top of it and I got to touch a giant cock.

Take that, Bloggess

Take that, Bloggess

 

Once we were back on the road, we got lost after getting to Dallas and after making the same turn about six times, we found our hotel.

After training the next day I enjoyed a margarita and a walk with Jesus, and this time  I didn’t make a total and complete fool of myself like the last time I walked with Jesus.  I felt the drinks were necessary in order to enjoy Texas.

Our last afternoon in Dallas, we got out of training early and decided to explore the mall.  I have to say, Grapevine Mills mall in Irving is fucking fantastic.  It has everything.

Even ass fire.

Even ass fire.

However, there was one particular store that left me very confused.  The store was called “Heroes” and it was a store that sold military paraphernalia, airsoft guns, camo, hunting knives, so on and so forth.  They even have a website.

To say the least, this store screamed, “MURICA!”  Not even “America.”  Just ‘Merica.

The main thing that confused and scared and awed me was the mannequins.  The mannequins displaying the women’s clothing were taller than me (I’m 5’8), they had DDD boobs, and their pants were low rise and it was all camo.

Words can't even describe my confusion

Words can’t even describe my confusion

SeriouslyTexas, what the fuck is with this?  Why do the mannequins need to have huge boobs?  Why can you see the fucking nipples of the mannequin?

My coworker and I just stared at the mannequin for a few minutes, just in stunned silence.  We were so confused.  I like to think I’m fairly comfortable in my own skin, but the fact that this mannequin made my boobs look like less than mosquito bites and the fact that this clothing was so… ‘Murican, I had no idea what to make of it.  So I took a picture and moved on.

The next morning was our last morning in Texas, and I couldn’t be happier to go back to my little house.  I missed Alex and Texas has this obsession with the shape of it’s state that was weirding me out.  And I lived in Alaska for heaven’s sake.

         

Seriously?  A fucking Texas shaped waffle

Seriously? A fucking Texas shaped waffle?

So I made it home and I’ve been working so much that every muscle in my body aches and I just want to crawl under a rock and die.  It’s fucking awesome.

 

Have you ever gone on a business trip that went better than expected?  Ever been somewhere where the culture just confused the hell out of you?  Have you ever eaten hot sauce that made you fart fire?  Let me know in the comments!

The Journey for Pants

Any woman reader will understand this story in all of its entirety.

I’ve mentioned before how Lane Bryant is incapable of figuring out how women’s pants should fit.  Seriously, what the hell?

I went to five stores to find navy blue dress pants for a job that I’m starting this week.  I have to have navy blue pants and a light blue button down shirt.  That’s right, I got a job where I have to wear nice clothing.  I’m going to be fancy.

So I go to the first Lane Bryant, and the sales associates were avoiding me.  They’re starting to bring back wide leg, which is fantastic, because they fit me like flares.  Because, you know, I have huge legs.  And calves.  And feet.

I finally track down a sales associate and she shows me this white button down shirt, which makes me nervous because I love to wear my food.  They have no light blue shirts, and they were out of blue pants.  The boardwalk store had blue pants though.  One pair, in my size.  Success!

So I drive the twenty minutes to the board walk.  I ask the sales lady at the front of the store where they put the pants on hold and she said “over there” and walked away.  I walk to the counter and ask and they said, “They’re right there!” while not pointing to any direction.  I get really mad, then I see a huge tag that has my name and I grab the pants.

I see the pants and cringe.  They’re petite.  Apparently I sound petit, even though I’m 5’8”.  This makes me nervous.  I try the pants on and I can button them, but my ass is too big for the zipper. Oh, and they stop an inch above my ankle.  And for some ungodly reason, Lane Bryant makes pants with fabric so thin that you can see the cellulite on my ass through the pants.

Nope, not happening.

So I took them off and put them back on the hanger.  When I came out of the dressing room, the lady at the counter asks me if those pants are all I’m getting.  I told her I’m not getting the pants.

“But those are the only blue pants we have,” she argued with me.

“Yeah, and they don’t fit.  You can see the cellulite on my ass through this thin fabric.”

“You’re too young to have cellulite.”

Oh, how I wish age played a role in cellulite.  I told her no because they were too short and they were too small for my thunder thighs, and she was still trying to talk me into the pants.  I asked her if torrid had blue pants, and she said she didn’t shop there.

Whatever chick, you totally shop there.

So I walked down to Torrid and the lady there was so excited.  “Yes we do!  We just got our pixie cut pants in!”

Not even cute on skinny girls

Not even cute on skinny girls

Now, I was unsure was pixie cut was.  But let me tell you what they are.

They are stretchy jeans that are the size of an arm sleeve that stop an inch above your ankles.  I saw these jeans and the waist was in my size, but the legs were for someone who skipped leg day at the gym.  These pants were for people who had no fat in their legs, or never used their legs because these pants were made for someone who had a 45 inch waist and legs that were six inches around.

Only picture I could find, so sue me.  You get the point.  Hell, you're probably not even reading this.  I could say anything, such as stupid bumfuckery.

Only picture I could find, so sue me. You get the point. Hell, you’re probably not even reading this. I could say anything, such as stupid bumfuckery.

Seriously fashion industry, what the fuck?

I couldn’t even get my hand into the bottom of these jeans, how the hell was I going to get my giant feet through them?

I told her no and she tried to argue with me that they were the style.

Lady, have you not seen what I look like?  I rarely comb my hair, much less dress according to fashion sense.

Every Morning

Every. Single. Morning.

I went to dress barn and no navy pants.  I’m about to screech.

I go to Catherine’s plus sizes, a place that I always associate with my mom’s grandma clothes (sorry mom), and the sales lady was a tiny little black woman who had a thick southern accent.  She was so sweet, found me the shirt I needed (and no need to iron), found me pants that fit, and when I tried them on, asked me to show her.   I asked her for the mom opinion, since I didn’t have my mom to help, and she gave the same responses my mom would have given.  I think.

So… Five stores, two hours later.  I found one pair of pants that fit kind of meh.  I found two shirts.  And I swear on my life, I am never shopping at Lane Bryant in the south ever again.

 

Have you ever gone clothes shopping and had absolutely no luck of any kind?  Do you ever feel like no matter where you go, you can never find clothing that fits?  Do you hate Lane Bryant?  Let me know in the comments!

You’re My Aphrodite

Alex and I have decided to save on our water bill by always showering together, so when it was once sexy to shower together, it has turned into more of “HAHA! BOOBS!” and we usually just poke each other’s belly fat while having philosophical conversations never lasting longer than five minutes.

Where Romance Goes To Die

Where Romance Goes To Die

The other day, I must have looked less ragged than normal and Alex smiles at me, kissing my forehead and whispers, “You’re my Aphrodite.”

I’m flattered, and trying to remember my Greek mythology, and trying to not get in trouble for not saying something romantic back, I quickly respond with, “You’re my Hephaestus.”

Dead Sexy for a Troll

Dead Sexy for a Troll

He pushed me away.  “Seriously?  You had a plethora of Greek gods to choose from, and you choose the stupidest god there is?  The one god that everyone on Olympus hates and is always treated horribly unfairly?  Also, the ugliest god on Olympus?  You think I’m ugly?!”

Of course this backfired on me horribly.  We are just no good at this romance crap 

“He was married to Aphrodite!” I protest.

“Yeah, and she cheated on him nonstop with every other fucking god on Olympus!”

“Fine, you’re my Apollo,” I state, thinking that makes it better.  Of course it doesn’t.

“Oh yes, because I’m such a tan, beautiful athlete with a wild temper.  Try again.”

I’m getting frustrated.  “Fine, you’re my Zeus.”

Alex laughs.  “Then you’re my whore of a wife Hera who also happens to be my sister.”

“It’s funny because your sister and I kind of look alike,” I retort, to which he begins to bang his head on the wall of the shower.

“Why do I even try to be romantic anymore?” he asks, then showing himself out of the shower.

And that, my friends, is how I have artfully killed the mood between Alex and I without even trying.

Have you ever had an instance where you’re trying to be sweet back to your significant other and it just totally backfires?  Have you ever called someone a sweet pet name and it was horribly insulting?  Let me know!

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