Can you spot the differences between the two drawings?

Those are pictures of the trash room in my apartment complex. The first one is what the room is supposed to look like: it is nice and clean, and has a fully intact black recycling bin located right across the trash chute. The second picture is what the room actually looks like: there are trash bags on the floor, flies and gnats all over the place, and the recycling bin doesn't have a lid.

When I first moved in, the bin still had a lid that looked like this:

The top had the message "bottles and cans" printed on it in large white letters, which I interpreted to mean that the recycling bin was for bottles and cans only. Someone, however, threw the lid away so he could throw in his Domino's Pizza box.

I didn't see the logic in that at first, but then I put on my Retarded Douche Bag Hat. You should always keep one handy in case you find yourself stuck dealing with a dumbass.

Anyway, the Retarded Douche Bag Hat helped me see that sure, the lid said "bottles and cans," but it didn't say "no pizza boxes." And if "no pizza boxes" wasn't printed on the lid, then it can only mean one thing: "yes" to pizza boxes. Duh.

Unfortunately, you can't fit a box through a hole that is only big enough for a bottle or can. Under those circumstances, it makes perfect sense to throw the lid away. Thank goodness the trash chute is conveniently located!

Ever since the lid's mysterious disappearance, some residents have begun using the recycling bin as a trash can. Why they would do this when there is freaking trash chute in front of the bin is beyond me. Maybe they think it's an oven or something, I don't know, but finding the recycling bin full of someone else's garbage has started to piss me off. As someone who gets her vitamins and nutrients primarily from foods that come in bottles and cans, I am often able to fill the bin with just a week's worth of glass, plastic, and aluminum containers. So I like knowing that while I am probably cutting my life short with my bad eating habits, at least I am doing it in an Earth-friendly way.

However! Now that people have started filling up the recycling bin with their trash, my attempts to live like a greenie have hit a somewhat burdensome snag. But instead of saying "screw you, Mother Earth!" and throwing my bottles and cans down the trash chute, I take the time to fish the garbage bags out of the bin. I've been doing this for months now, just for the sake of buying my way into Heaven the planet.

At first, removing the trash bags from the bin didn't annoy me much. I mean, it was disgusting for sure--especially whenever the bags were leaky or contained rotten food--but I didn't mind since the trash chute was so close that I didn't have to handle the bags for longer than a few seconds.

But then there was last Tuesday--the day Mother Earth decided to b*tch slap me with her balls. I had gone to the trash room with my weekly collection of bottles and cans and, as usual, found garbage bags in the recycling bin. And as usual, I began removing the bags and throwing them down the chute.

Trash always smells like crap, but one particular bag smelled crappier than usual. I grabbed it and was all ready to throw it down the chute when I suddenly felt something warm fall onto my foot.

The trash bag was filled with dirty diapers that were so heavy they broke through the bottom of the bag. And that warm thing I felt was a diaper. It was overflowing with so much steamy sh*t that my foot ended up covered in the most noxious brown paste to ever come out of a human body. Even I haven't dumped a load that foul, and I eat junk every single day!

I've had it with the recycling bin abuse. That incident was the sh*t that broke the camel's back, and I'm done putting up with dumbass residents. Therefore, I am going to make a new lid for the recycling bin. I have the materials to do this, I only need a kick ass phrase to put on the top because just having "bottles and cans" printed on it is not enough. Remember: I am dealing with Retarded Douche Bags who basically deserve getting their asses owned by a makeshift lid.

And who better to ask for input than you guys, right? I've read your comments, and many of you have deliciously snarky humor.  So dearest readers, what phrases do you suggest I put on the lid? The meaner they are, the better...oh, and in as many foreign languages as possible...we definitely want to cover all the bases, you know?

No one should have to experience feces foot! And with your help, we can eliminate this evil and make the world a better place!

Like every other Asian, part of my childhood was spent learning how to play a musical instrument. I started taking piano lessons when I was about 8-years-old, and stopped when I was 18. During those 10 years, however, I only performed in 3 recitals. The last one I participated in was back in 1993. I was only 11-years-old at the time...

It was clear Sunday afternoon, and I was scheduled to perform at a joint piano recital being held by my teacher, Ms. F., and her friend/rival piano teacher, Ms. M. The event took place in a small auditorium on a university campus; the room, however, looked like it hadn’t been used since the age of the dinosaurs. It was kind of musty and dark, and there were stacks of chairs all over the place. But somewhere in that jungle of dusty storage stuff, there were actually theater seats and a small stage with a baby grand piano on it.

I didn’t know it then, but I was about to have one of the worst experiences of my childhood...no, of my life.

The recital started at around 2:00 p.m., and I was listed as the ninth performer on the program sheet. I was doing okay watching the first 7 students perform, but when the 8th kid went up, I suddenly turned into a hot mess. It wasn’t because I was nervous about playing the piano in front of 50 strangers—that was the easy part. I was freaking out because of something much, much worse.

Maybe there were vibrations coming from the piano, or it’d been a long time since that room had been exposed to fresh air and light—but while the 8th student was performing, something in that room woke up. It was very alive and apparently very angry at us for disturbing it because it started flying around the piano. And it was moving so quickly that the only thing I could tell was that it was brown.

I kept watching it fly circles around the piano until it finally disappeared. And it couldn’t have picked a better time to go away because it was my turn to play. I walked towards the stairs leading up to the stage and then:

“Ffttt!”

Out of nowhere, that crazy brown thing reappeared and flew right in front of me. I turned to my teacher and made this “do I have to?” face, and she responded with a “you better go up there” look of her own. That was a sign of rotten things to come.

So I sat at the piano and tried to play my song, all while a mysterious brown thing flew around my head. And it was really close to my face because I could hear its wings flapping whenever it came nearer.

The only thing I could think about was, "what is that?!" I didn't know if I was playing the right keys, or if my tempo was correct. I was just going through the motions. What if that thing is a bat? A blood-sucking bat? Or a bird? What am I going to do if it takes a dump on my head?

I managed to stop freaking out long enough to realize I was close to the end of the song. My nerves started to ease up: I'm going to be home free soon! I'm going to be able to get away from this scary flying turd!

And then...

So not joking. I was sitting on a stage, in the middle of performing at a piano recital, and that brown thing freaking flew into my face! It flew into my face!

Reflexively, I grabbed it with both hands and pulled it off me...

Giant-Ass Moth!

*Awkward silence*

I never played in another piano recital ever again.

    I. The Movie Quoter

He insists he’s making his dad “an offer he can’t refuse” when he asks to borrow $ 20, and says “I’ll be back” even though he’s just going to the bathroom. He can’t say “is nice” or “high five” without the Borat accent, and really likes to interrupt people with, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, ex-zip-it A,” “Look! I'm Zippy Longstocking,” “When a problem comes along, you must zip it,” and “Would you like to have a suckle of my zipple?” He is the Movie Quoter, and you should avoid him because he is annoying as hell.

The problem with Movie Quoters is that they tend to recite movie lines that don’t have anything to do with whatever you’re talking about. It’s like they get all Tourettesy or something, because they just hurl quotes that don't fit anywhere in the conversation. You could be talking about kittens, and the Movie Quoter will suddenly blab, “Say ‘hello’ to my little friend!” and then pull some lint out of his pocket. Now what? You're stranded in the middle of a WTF moment!

    II. The Problem Sufferer

When you first hear a Problem Sufferer talk, you’d think she was the most unfortunate person on Earth because of all the tragedies she experiences—one after another, like a never ending chain of misery.

But if you listen carefully, you'll quickly realize the Problem Sufferer isn’t just talking about her current problems—she’s also complaining about old problems that have already been resolved, and even nonexistent ones that may never occur. She wants to talk about them all, all the damn time. And just when you think you’ve heard the last problem, she starts over and begins retelling all her current, old, and nonexistent problems. And it’s not like she wants your advice because, if she did, she would give you an opportunity to respond. But she’s not letting you get a word in. No, she just wants you to sit there and listen to her freak out until you die...and chances are, you’ll be dead way before she stops talking.

    III. The Bad Joke Teller

Also known as the “Dane Cook,” Bad Joke Tellers don’t tell jokes…they tell b*tch slaps. They b*tch slap your sense of humor and then wonder why you’re offended.

The Bad Joke Teller likes to ruin a good laugh by telling a joke of his own—a joke that is so bad you can’t even pretend it’s funny. And he has no idea you’re not laughing because the joke sucks ass; he thinks you don’t understand his comedic genius, and will then start explaining the joke to you. Too bad his punch line flat lined…as did your interest in being anywhere near him.

The Baby-Voice Talker is someone who is no longer a baby, but who alters her voice so that she sounds like one when she talks (e.g., Paris Hilton).

To be clear: just because you’re a non-baby who talks with a baby voice doesn’t necessarily mean you’re the type of Baby-Voice Talker people should avoid. There are actually a number of situations where using a baby voice won’t result in society ostracizing your ass.

        Acceptable Baby Talk

            - You're talking to a baby.

            - You're talking to your pets that you treat as your babies.

            - You're mocking someone who is talking like a baby.

            - You're a voice actor, and your character is a baby.

        Unacceptable Baby Talk

            - All other situations.

I know a guy who recently moved in with a female friend he has known for about 10 years. They are simply roommates sharing an apartment…oh, and they occasionally have sex. But don’t get the wrong idea: they both insist they are still “only friends” despite this arrangement. They are both free to date other people—and the guy does, but must later deal with his roommate’s jealous tirades. And they both lead separate lives, such as hanging out with their own friends—except the girl calls and sends text messages to the guy, demanding to know where he is and whether there are any vaginas near him. Normally, this girl would be considered a possessive girlfriend, but that definitely isn’t the case here because she and this guy are only roommates, and not boyfriend/girlfriend. At most, they are just “friends-with-benefits.”

*Sniff* *Sniff*…what’s that stanky smell? I think it’s Eau de Dumbass.

This guy’s situation just reinforces my belief that there is no such thing as being strictly friends with someone you have sex with. None. And this is true regardless of whether you call it “friends-with-benefits,” “friends-that-f*ck,” or whatever. Someone is going to develop feelings for their booty-call buddy and once that happens, it is no longer no-strings-attached sex. You are entering relationship territory—which, ironically, was very thing you hoped to avoid when you set up the arrangement in the first place. Sucks to be you!

It’s hard for me to sympathize with anyone who enters into a friends-with-benefits agreement and ends up in a “real relationship” he never wanted. In fact, I find their misfortune very, very funny. These people all wanted to get laid without compromising their singleness or paying for prostitutes, and came up with the brilliant idea that sleeping with their friends was the best solution. I guess these geniuses somehow forgot that “friendship” is the step immediately below “relationship.”

But is it really a surprise that being in a friends-with-benefits situation has the potential to turn into a romantic relationship? All of us are friends with people we like, but admit it: there is at least one you’d consider being romantically involved with. That person just happens to have more of the qualities you’d like in a boyfriend or girlfriend; and being able to see yourself dating that person—however remote the possibility—kind of makes your friendship a little more than “just friends.”

As for the friends you would not get romantically involved with—well, you’re simply not attracted to them. Doesn’t mean you value their friendship any less...they just aren’t your type. I have a number of guy friends I genuinely like, but the thought of getting freaky with any of them turns my vagina into the Gobi Desert—as in, go be nasty with someone else.

And if that is not enough to convince you, then this will: friends-with-benefits? Friends-that-f*ck? Girlfriends and boyfriends? It’s not a coincidence that they all have the word “friend” in them. That alone should be enough to scare you.

Of course, you may disagree if you know from experience that there is such thing as an emotionless friends-with-benefits friendship, but you’re obviously only saying that because you weren’t the one who developed romantic feelings. That, or your friends-with-benefits friendship was something like this:

Now there's a friends-with-benefits relationship I condone!

Have you ever dated a friend’s ex?

I have never done this or had it done to me, but I know quite a few boys and girls who couldn’t resist the allure of a friend’s leftovers. And, by the way, I know some people call a friend’s ex “sloppy seconds,” but that is so not what the term actually means. "Sloppy seconds" refers to using someone else’s, umm…go look it up!

Anyway, I like eating leftovers—especially reheated fettuccini alfredo…mmm--but that doesn’t mean I want to date them. Dating a friend’s ex seems like a major betrayal, you know? It cheapens a friendship that most likely required a lot of effort to develop. Trampling on that emotional investment just so that you can have someone to hold hands with makes you a giant tool—and you deserve to be beaten with a rubber hose and then set on fire.

Besides, dating a friend’s ex isn’t exactly the best way to advertise your hotness. It kind of screams, “of all the people in the world, the only person I could attract was someone who once dated my friend.” And that’s just sad.

While I think dating a friend’s ex is generally a bad idea, it seems less heinous if your new boyfriend or girlfriend was the one who got dumped. Think about it in terms of trash: all the garbage I throw away consists of stuff I do not want, either because it is useless, or got all fat and lazy after I first acquired it, or whatever. Since I don’t need any of it anymore, I’ve kicked it to the curb for the garbage collectors to come haul it away. But if my friend discovered she could use the items I threw out, she could take my trash bag and I’d be totally okay with it.

The same cannot be said for a situation where stuff I do want to keep disguises itself as trash and escapes from my possession. That is definitely not garbage—and if my friend tries to take my trash bag, she’s going to have to deal with me getting all up in her face or dragging her ass onto a Jerry Springer-type show.

Applying the trash analogy, dumping a person is like throwing out garbage. And once you dump someone, your ex is fair game for everyone, including your friends. After all, just because you don’t want him doesn’t mean all your friends have to feel the same way. If your ex dumped you, however, then your friends can’t date him or her without looking like a disloyal ho.

As I said earlier, I have never dated a friend’s ex, nor had a friend who dated one of my exes—but I am really curious to hear from people who have experienced either scenarios. Were you okay with it? Was your friend? Are you even still friends?

Back in March, one of my good friends sent me a message asking me, “is this you?” and included a link to a website. Worried about the possibility that nude photos of me had somehow ended up on the Internet—which could tarnish my reputation and threaten my nonexistent Xangalebrity status that only exists in my imagination—I clicked on the link and saw this:

Yes, that is my face—but it’s on someone else’s MySpace page! Someone named Rose! And since I am pretty sure I was not separated at birth from a slutty twin sister, Rose is a complete stranger who is using my picture as her own. In fact, all of Rose’s pictures are of me—and were taken directly from my Xanga site!

I know I am writing about this in May even though my friend had written to me back in March, but that's because I couldn’t think about this MySpace page without becoming extremely pissed off. And when I am pissed off, I can’t write. My friends did try to placate my pissiness by telling me to look at the situation as a positive rather than a negative one. Having my photos used for someone else’s profile could be a sign that I have achieved a certain level of hotness. After all, no one steals pictures of ugly people—what’s the point of doing that when the person stealing it is usually ugly? He should just use his own picture, right?

And Rose has to be, like, the fugliest person on Earth. She couldn’t even use what I call the Hotness-By-Cropping technique. Hotness-By-Cropping is done when someone puts up a cropped picture of one of her body parts—e.g., her eyes, lips, abs, etc.—instead of posting a photo of her whole face. Some people do this as a way of maintaining anonymity, but come on now: that’s not the first thing that comes to anyone’s mind when he or she sees a Hotness-By-Cropping profile picture. We’re actually thinking, “This person must think her face is fugly.” And if you think you’re a fug, then you must be.

So this Rose person, being such a hot mess she couldn’t even use Hotness-By-Cropping, was complimenting me by stealing my photos and using them as her own on her MySpace profile. Whew! I feel so much better!

NOT! I'm nowhere close to feeling even remotely better because that isn’t enough of a “bright side” to outshine my pissed-offness. I don’t care that my pictures were misappropriated; my problem is that my face is associated with a profile created by a dumbass!

I mean, look at this sh*t!

People are going to look at my picture and think, “Damn, she can’t even spell “girls” correctly! That’s probably because her highest level of education is ‘some college’.” Noooo!

And the whole thing about “I’ll meet any freaks out there who wanna talk nasty” and “tell me everything you want me to do to you or that you want to do to me”—look at the guys who responded to this b*tch:

*Barf!*

Every so often we will all come across someone who has been given the opportunity to have feet, but takes advantage of the privilege by committing F*ckery Foot—i.e., gross abuse of feet. These people misuse their feet by doing foul things like sitting cross-legged in restaurants, shaking one of their legs even when they don’t have an urgent need to pee, or biting their toe nails (bonus f*ckery points if they do it while sitting on a tree stump). Clearly, Mother Nature did not intend feet to be used in any of these ways, so if you’re doing an act F*ckery Foot, you’re basically committing a crime against Nature. Foot f*ckery, on the other hand, is A-O.K.

A person who commits F*ckery Foot deserves to have his feet ripped off and waved at him (wouldn’t that just totally suck? Someone waving at you with your own feet? Ugh.)—but no one deserves it more than a person who does the ultimate act of F*ckery Foot…and I just so happened to witness such an act this afternoon.

Today, while I was driving on the freeway, I ended up behind a truck—at least, I think it was a truck. I’m honestly not exactly sure because all I could see was this foot hanging out of the passenger side window. Yes, a foot—a corny-ass foot with bright fuchsia nail polish painted on each toenail, and a gold chain dangling off an ashy ankle. It was leaning outside the car against the passenger side mirror, thus forcing everyone behind the truck to view the reflection of the bottom of this person’s foot—which appeared to have been ravaged by fungus or something because the skin was jacked up. It was like someone took Freddy Krueger’s face and grafted it onto this woman’s heel. It was nasty as hell.

Whenever I see someone sitting in the passenger’s seat of a moving car, with his leg dangling out of the window and his foot flapping in the wind, I start to hear that siren noise from Kill Bill—like when Uma Thurman first sees Vivica A. Fox in the first 5 minutes of Volume 1. It’s frustratingly disgusting. Have you ever thought about why someone would stick her foot out of a car window? It’s not because showing off your crusty, gnarled up toes is oh so classy (surprise, surprise). No, it’s because the person is airing out her foot. She’s using the wind to dry sweat, and blow the toe jam out from between her toes. And you know where that foul waste ends up? All over the people behind the car—people like me.

Not only was the vision of this janky foot burned into my memory, I was in the unfortunate position of driving behind it. On the freeway! In traffic! That wasn’t a coincidence—it was Divine Retribution kicking my ass. And since this was not the O.J. Simpson trial, I knew my punishment actually fit whatever crime I had committed. Maybe I was a mass murderer in a past life? Or a ventriloquist? Oh man! Please don’t tell me I was a ventriloquist!
 

Remember my “Five Things That Make You a Douche-tastic Douche” post? I apparently hurt someone’s brittle feelings when I wrote:

“That’s right: if you use Twitter, you are a giant douche-tastic douche. You honestly believe people find your life so interesting that it warrants posting 140-characters worth of status updates every 10 minutes.”

...because a day after I posted, a girl took to her Twitter site to write the following:

What I meant was: annoyed @ non-Twitter users who thinks all on Twitter tweet mindless status updates every 10 mins about what they r doing
2:05 PM Apr 30th from web

Perfect example: http://absolutangel64.xanga... (see #2 on the list) way to be judgmental!
2:08 PM Apr 30th from web

(Sorry, but no link included. You can, however, easily find this girl’s page using Google.)

It wasn’t until someone showed me this girl’s site that made me realize the truth behind her “tweets”: maybe I was being too judgmental. When I wrote that post, my intent was to list five signs of douche bagism—and in my haste, I was completely ignorant of the possibility that I had power over someone else’s emotions; that I was an unwitting puppet master of a female Pinnochio who had been shunned by the Blue Fairy and thus, still had strings to hold her down, to make her fret, and make her frown.

I owe this girl an apology, as well as a “thank you” for showing me the error of my ways. After reading her Twitter page, I learned that not all Twitter users post 140-characters worth of status updates every 10 minutes:

Instead, Twitter users post “mindless status updates” throughout the day—just not necessarily every 10 minutes.

Going blind is definitely not something I want to experience, but if it were to ever happen to me at least I could take comfort in knowing I’ll never have to see another whack-ass tattoo—or, as I like to call it, a wacktoo.

Unlike a regular tattoo—which is usually a visual symbol that, when interpreted, will yield a meaningful message—a wacktoo cannot be interpreted as anything other than, “I am a dumbass poser.”

There are many different types of wacktoos, but I’m only going to focus on the two I find most asshat-ish: unoriginal Chinese character tattoos, and name tattoos.

Unoriginal Chinese Character Wacktoos

Let’s get this disclaimer out of the way: not all Chinese-character tattoos are wacktoos, so don’t get pissy until after you read this entire section. The only ones which qualify for wacktoo status are tattoos of the characters for “love,” “dragon,” “power,” “wind,” “fire,” and “heart.” I don’t know what it is, but people who decide to get a Chinese character inked on their bodies always gravitate to one of those six. Do you all shop at “Claire’s” or something? Because you paid someone to permanently mark your body with a character that shows up on key chains you can buy at a kids’ accessory store.

It’s bad enough that wacktoos of the characters for “love,” “dragon,” “power,” “wind,” “fire,” and “heart” are completely unoriginal—but the rationale behind choosing one of those symbols is equally generic. I mean, they are words, so it's not like there is much to interpret. You have the character for “love” on your body? Then I guess that stands for—wait, don’t tell me—that you appreciate love? Wow…really had to dig deep for that one.

Oh, and the “dragon” and “power” wacktoos—I love the meatheads who pick those! Because you know they were all thinking, “man, I am so strong, so I’m going to get a tattoo of the character for ‘power’ or ‘dragon’ to let everyone know that I am so strong!”

As for the dumbasses who have a tattoo of “wind,” “fire,” or “heart,”—those guys are probably trying to summon Captain Planet…because when wacktoos combine, a blue man in red tights will fly out of your ass.

Name Tattoos

I’m not talking about getting a tattoo of someone else’s name on your body. The wacktoo I’m referring to is of your own name. I don’t think there is anything more WTF-worthy than seeing someone with a tattoo of her own name on her own body. I mean, what message were you trying to tell the world by making that brilliant decision? The only one I can come up with is that you are someone who can’t remember her own name—to the point where writing it on your hand with a ballpoint pen isn’t enough. You had to have it inked on your body—but not on an area you can easily see. Your tattoo is instead on your lower back, outside your field of vision!

Dumbass.

What tattoos do you think deserve wacktoo status?