Go Suck It!

TGIF everybody!  Yeah, Thank God It's Friday.  I guess that statement doesn't quite work for you atheists out there.   I suppose those of you who refuse to identify with any kind of deity there's Thank Goodness It's Friday, as lame as that may sound.  So I guess for you Muslims out there its TAIF and TBIF for the Buddhists!  For the Fundamentalists there's TJIF give me an AMEN and Alleluia all you sinners out there!!  There, that should almost cover it.  Anyway, I got thinking this morning when my husband uttered that phrase to me on my way toward the bathroom to go empty my bladder before my daily travels to work.  This being my M-F week, it was a relief to know that this day would be the day to end all days of work for the week.  But it also made me think how society has forced us to cheat the other days of the week.  Say you were to personify days, I'm sure I'd be Monday.  And think of how jaded Monday must feel.   No one ever says, "Thank God It's Monday!"  No, in actuality it's the one day of the week that is universally dreaded by all of humankind because it's the beginning of the "work week." No one says, "Thank God it's Thursday because it's the day before Friday and Friday is the day before Saturday!"  I suppose that would be a tad impractical wouldn't it?  So automatically I'm seeing a trend here.  Aren't you?  Seems like our human philosophy revolves around the ideals that WORK SUCKS!  There's the evidence: We don't like it when a new work week has to begin, which is why Monday gets such a bad wrap.  But we worship Fridays like it's that one last cling to hope for our future existence.  Perhaps some of us will even bow down and pay homage to Friday at the thrown early Saturday, depending on how intense our worship for Friday becomes tonight.  FRIDAY.  I suppose then Friday isn't suppose to suck?  Friday is great.  Everyone wants to be friends and go hang out with FRIDAY!  Mothers everywhere want their daughters to date and marry Friday.  Bet Friday just got voted prom king, got promoted to CEO, was photographed for the cover of Playboy and was voted no. 1 genius of the universe for inventing the j-Pad, cuz Apple had no place else to go.  Hell, Friday would even have my vote for Sexiest Man Alive on the cover of People magazine.  Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday...invisible.  You see us humans are so inclined to concentrate on the beginning and the end — the extreme hate for one and congenial respect of the other — that we far forget all the things in between.  We say, "Wow, time really flies!"  or "Is it Friday already?" or "Where did the week go?"  I'll tell you.  We wanted leper Monday to leave and class president Friday to come too quickly.  We wished the time away.  And why...AGAIN...Because work SUCKS!  So all of you out there who plan on celebrating the close of another SUCKY Work week I want you go out and raise your glasses, then take your straws and suck down that Gin and Tonic, Suck down that Vodka and cranberry...but SUCK IT to the other days. Suck it to Tuesday!  Suck it to Wednesday!  Suck it to Thursday!  There's no reason why WORK should make us HATE all the rest of the Days of Our Lives...So today, I speak on behalf of all the fat girls, the total geeks, the guys with man tits (you know who you are!) — all those deemed "not good enough" for society — all those who were poked fun of or laughed at when we asked Friday out, or just never had the balls to do so — Toast to Monday through Thursday!  We owe it to ourselves.  We owe it to society. And most of all...WE OWE IT TO BARS AND PUBS EVERYWHERE.  Go be happy and HATE those who try to prevent you from doing so!

Hypno-Farts? There's a Yogurt for that!

In today's episode of Day of Our Lives, undercover Hope and John struggle to escape the single jail cell of Albania (apparently Albania has one jail cell, one French cafe and is inhabited by a population of 15 white people and a Shit-zu) to get back to their loved ones as they face the evil "monster" Stefano DiMera and his plot to destroy their lives by turning them back to their alter egos: Princess Gina and Sinister Sniper John Black, the special agent former priest.  Stefano brings in his favorite Nazi side-kick with the "sounds like he's evil to me" accent and forces them to wear gas masks that will emit a special elixir that will transform their personalities.  But to no avail, the special happy gas does not work and Hope makes a last-minute cry to her dying, or at least we all wish they'd kill him off, husband Beau, who is in a hospital bed a thousand miles away in Salem where his former whore and love interest Big Lips Billie is about to suck his bruised and bloodied face like one really long Ramen noodle.  So of course, I posed this question: If someone makes you suck happy gas and it therefore gives you gas, thus would you expire "Happy Farts?"  A very plausible hypothesis I must say.  For the answer I looked to Anorexic Geriatric Gonzo, the lurking umbrella that inflicts homicidal and suicidal thoughts to cartoon women everywhere!  Then there's Anorexic Gonzo's cousin the Terry Cloth Bathrobe (AUGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!), raped from the studios of Comedy Central's South Park.  Umbrellas and bathrobes, they're out to get us all!!!!  The bathrobe even takes notes as it watches a video of cartoon doctor listening to himself talk.  Makes me realize that no matter what dimension — this or the animated — doctors just like listening to their own bullshit...Anyway, if you can't trust the bathrobes or umbrellas, who the hell can you trust anymore!?  Apparently,  Jamie Lee Curtis.  Yes!  Jamie Lee and her pack of middle-aged baby boomer bitches are constipated and they're not going to take it anymore!  Just so happens their constipation causes the inner umbrellas and bathrobes to come out and haunt them.  All they can think about are clean bowels and which anti-aging cream to buy.  But don't worry girls, there is a way to fight back.  America...give me your tired, your weak...your CONSTIPATED!  We've got a way to make it all better...ACTIV--IAAAAAAA!!!!!  Now don't you feel better?  I know I do.  But how much better do you feel?  Well apparently if we want to feel our best, we've got to eat that Crazy Good kind of yogurt.  Yeah, it's "Crazy Good!"  We don't exactly know how crazy or how good CRAZY GOOD is, but listen to me when I tell you this this white stuff that looks like a bird that just ate from a boysenberry bush shit in this cup is CRAZY GOOD! So this afternoon, I hate regurgitated soap opera plot lines from writers with no creativity or originality and I hate  Hollywood and the Food and Drug Administration for telling us that one happy pill and a yogurt a day will make all our troubles go away!  Damn you Spaceballs!  It's YOOOOOOOGurt!

Sticking it to the Man

Today I must have a bad case of Stickittothemanitis.  My throat is killing me, I'm tired, I'm losing my voice, which could actually be a joyous occasion for some, and I'm just plain exhausted.  For those who still exist within the "normal" realms of society, whatever those may still be these days, you might ask, "Well, if you feel so crappy, why didn't you call in sick?"  Yet I sit here, perched upon my ripped circa 1970s office chair that probably Nixon wet farted in, and type this upon my Norwegian Denmarkian Apple that's so freakin slow, a 103-year-old could probably poop faster than it boots.  My sole responsibility of the day is typing press releases — because I knew when I grew up, all I ever wanted to do to feel like a contributor to society and to be the ultimate journalist, was to sit here wasting my time typing up press releases — a job a high school kid could do and so no one will read them anyway.  This is the dream baby!  Such a worthless effort, yet you may wonder, "Why didn't she just stay home then?" or "Why doesn't she just go home now?"  My answer is simple: The Man.  You see, if I were to call in sick or say I needed to go home early, it would be the MAN who would condemn my actions and make sure I never ever forgot the consequences of not giving it my all for one day in my life. It's The Man who says during that call-in phone call, "Well do what you need to do!" and hangs up so abruptly you swear you could feel his spit in your eyes and the metaphorical dagger he just plunged into your back.  It's The Man, who when you come back to work, has to ask you 50 questions about your illness and inspects your entire body with multiple vertical scans of his beady little eyes.  She doesn't look sick to me!  And it's also the man who will make you talk to 50 people for five stories you need to get done in 4 hours when your throat still feels like a cat is trying to crawl up to the roof of your mouth.  It's also THE MAN who will stone and harass you because god forbid you couldn't have been that sick, you just played hookie — went off and had fun in some imaginary place.  So we need to harass you, find any little analosity that would give excuse to yells, screams, belittling and embarrassment among co-workers.  That is your punishment for being sick.  It's all about the head games.  And yet, if I were to sever my right arm just above the elbow and plop it upon your waste-filled paper bin, you'd but shrug and reply, "Yeah, what is this?  So where's your left?"  My point is my friends, we give and give and give, yet The Man thy take it away.  Nothing is ever good enough for the man.  No sacrifice is ever recognized by the man unless it is in that lucky instance you just so happen to make him look good.  Then you are quickly vanished from memory — forgotten!  Like a dream, you never truly existed.  So why do we let this come of us?  Why do we let The Man place fear upon us and the anxious desire to make him happy under any and all circumstances?  What has the Man done for us, but take away our soul, our dignity, our self-respect, our ability to stand up for ourselves — what's right or wrong — our ability to ask even ourselves, "If I feel this shitty what the &$@#* am I doing here?"  All for what? I'll leave you with that question.  So today, whether you're feeling shitty with me or not, I say STAND UP TO THE MAN!  Go home!  Go smoke, drink, fool around — ANYTHING YOU WANT — in a unified effort to Stick it to the Man.  Let The Man know he will no longer instill fear in us from this day forward and that we will no longer question ourselves or our worthiness!  And whether we are sick or not, we still have the right to live dammit!  Screw you guys, I'm goin' home. Today, I hate being sick and I hate THE MAN!

Wow, my first blog!

Yeah Ok, so Nik finally enters the 21st century woohoo blabidy blah blah!  I know, it's about freakin' time.  Quite frankly the one person I hate talking — the one thing I HATE talking — is ME, so it's short of a miracle that I'm even here right now.  So what does Nik have to say?  What deems her worthy of her own blog? What she got to change the world?  ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!  Say I was inspired by my friend Beth and it is with her genius (yeah don't get a big head over there bitch) that I came up with the idea for this blog and thus christened it "Don't B Hatin'................Nik"  Well, I don't know if it's because of the fact I've hit 35 and getting old, but in the last couple months I've discovered a new sense of self-awareness.  I've been able to look as far back as even certain childhood events and have come to understand why I reacted to certain things in years past the way I did, and kind of how that has shaped the person I am now.  Even though I still don't have a freakin' clue who that is!  I'd like to think this is all coming about because, you know what they say, women reach their sexual "peak" at the age of 35.  I will just keep telling myself that the next time my hubby hounds me to put on a G-string, which I prefer to refer to as "Ass Floss."  I know some of you gals out there are with me on this one.  Anyway, my response to him next time will be, "I don't need to make me sexy for you, I'm already 35 BITCH!"  Just let it flow naturally.  So why "Don't B Hatin'"? Because naturally with age and more time to reflect on life's experiences you learn to hate more.  Wow, that just sounded good to me, I don't know about you.  But you don't have to be old or 35 to hate either.  Hell, 20-somethins do it every day: "Whatcha mean I gots ta add 2+9?  My laptop and iPad can do that but they just died!  Where's the easy button?" Yes be warned I'm a bitter "HATIN'" Generation X-er and like to put down Generation Y-ers as much as I possibly can.  It's an art form.  If you don't know what an Easy Bake Oven is, never came home from school to watch G.I. Joe and Transformers or never knew what it was to play with your Pound Puppies and sing along to the Get Along Gang song, then I HATE YOU!  You have nothing worthy to say to me.  And so....the hate has begun.  Listen, throughout the generations HATE has just gotten a bad wrap. You say I hate doing this...I hate my boss...I hate my job...I hate that it's cold outside...I hate that my co-worker won't wash his skanky salt-stained pants...The list can go on and on.  But if we tend to use the word "hate" a lot, we are condemned by some as being "negative."  Why ya gotta be so negative?  Can't you ever find something "positive" to say?  Why hate?  Cuz it's easy!  And we've been doing it since the beginning of time, so why should we have to fight it?  It's part of human nature — how we express ourselves.  Like you know, when Adam and Eve were over there in the garden playin' with each other's apples and God said, "Um don't be eatin' that!," and Adam replied, "Don't B Hatin'...God!  Just cuz you can't get no apples.  Just cuz you can't get your core on.  How 'bout them apples?"  And God pointed his pointer finger, started shaking it, and yelled, "That's not how you speak to your father young man, so you can go to hell!"  And thus instead of humans living in the eternal sunshine of the mind, we're stuck in this shithole: Earth!  Now that was the hate that started all hates ladies and gentlemen.  So truthfully, how can we NOT hate?  And you know who the best haters are?  Women!  Now guys, I'm not saying that to be sexist here.  We have to look at this from a historical stand-point.  For generations, women have been able to pass onto their children and children's children the art of BITCHING.  Yes, this BITCHING is the ultimate form of hate expression.  And only women have perfected it.  I can only imagine that bitching must go as far back as to when men used to hit their chosen lovers over the head and carry them by the hair to their caves.  "I just VO5 hot oiled asshole!" Day one: the first bitch.  Let's face it, besides beer (we'll have to get into that in another episode), what else do we have to make us feel better but bitching!  And what is bitching?  It's a form of complaining and why do we complain, because WE HATE!  So next time a man says something and it's considered a complaint, but a woman says the same thing and she's accused of bitching, don't be insulted galfriends!  It's actually who we are and what we do!   So I say the movement is this: It's OK to hate.  It's OK to be bitter.  Don't fight it, let it out!  There's lots out there to bitch about and there's lots to hate.  And the scary thing is: Some good things may come out of it, even if it's just the fact that we feel a little better.  That the monkey isn't weighing so heavily on our shoulders.  We're not promoting violence here.  We're not promoting any type of aggression whatsoever.  So if you need to bitch about something..If you need to hate?  Come right here.  We're here to listen and still not give a shit.  Bring it!  BRING IT!!!!!