Tag Archives: bite me

Shedding Sheldon

The first line of the blog post read, “I was flying in to Cape Corral Fla. on southwest” and I was forced to swallow the bile that immediately rose.  Admittedly, the rest of the story was entertaining, but I had too much difficulty getting past that first line to enjoy it.  You see, I’m a grammar Nazi.  A spelling Nazi.  A detail in the written word Nazi.  Had the line read, “I was flying in to Fort Myers, FL on Southwest”, I could have enjoyed it more.  I happen to know that Southwest likes their name capitalized, that Cape Coral doesn’t have an airport, and I know how that particular city spells its name.  I’m my own worst enemy.

I have a group of friends online that are the same.  We skip through the interwebs and get together in little groups to point our collective cyber fingers at the grammatical miscreants and laugh at them privately.

But, I realize I need to change my ways.  I have friends who tell me they’re afraid to comment on anything I post because they fear I’ll point out their errors; if not to them, then to my other grammatically high-brow friends.  It’s gotten to the point that I actually annoy myself.  I won’t go into a store with a misspelled word on their marquee or in their windows.  Cutsie spellings just piss me off, and I won’t ever buy ice cream at Kustard Korner, even though I crave their root beer floats more than breath.

Yes, Sheldon. I, too, am a loser.

I realize that I have become Sheldon Cooper; I’m annoying, and not in a cute way.  I feel superior and refuse to take into consideration the fact that I can’t shoot a hoop, work a mathematical equation or rebuild an engine.  My grammatical skills have made me a snob.

So, from here on out, I’m going to try to amend my ways.  Tpyos are just something taht happen.  Kyootsie spellings will be overlooked and I’ll learn to think of them as kewl.  txt spk wl b 4gvn  No, I’m sorry.  I just can’t go there.  Pour grammar n speling will be… Oh, hell.  Who am I kidding?  Certainly not me, and probably not ewe.

Did I mention that the book I’m currently reading is set in 1977 and they drink bottled water and play Pac Man at the arcade?  Do you have any idea about just how much this pisses me off?

It’s baby steps, Bob.  Baby steps.

*Image of Jim Parsons as Sheldon Cooper courtesy of Google

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Read This or I’ll Slap You

I’m hormonal as hell.  Menopause sucks scissors.

I’m hot flashing and night sweating and crying and bitching and yelling and blaming and wanting to kill something.

I’m fat and bloated and hot and cold and horny and you better not touch me and then I’m happy and sorry and apologizing and crying and eating all the chocolate and drinking all the beer and wine and crying more.

I want your attention and you better give it to me but you better leave me the hell alone if you know what’s good for you after you give me more chocolate and wine and tell me that I don’t look fat and that’s an order.

I love you all.

Bite Me

Bite me.  Now, there’s a phrase for you.  A lot of people say it.  It’s usually said as a way to tell someone to “go to hell” or some such commentary.  I’m very fond of saying it, myself.  I’ve often wondered why I use it, because it seems I am obviously asking for harm to befall me.  Last night’s menopausically challenged sleep cycle left me with a few hours to contemplate my navel, the meaning of life and the phrase “bite me”.

I imagined myself to be the recipient of this offer, rather than the giver.  I pictured someone I potentially didn’t like telling me to do this.  I tried to imagine going up to said person and chomping down on their arm.  I couldn’t do it.  The thought of putting my mouth on any part of a person I hated wasn’t going to happen.  I then realized the phrase could be used as a challenge.

Next, I imagined the most innocuous biter I could think of: the mosquito.  I pictured a mosquito landing on my arm and dipping into the lusciousness of me and what would then happen to it.  Of course, I smashed the little bastard to death and flicked his flattened ass to the gutter.

But that wasn’t enough.  I let my imagination go to another level.  I pictured someone I didn’t like, say, my boss.  I imagined her doing any number of the things that she does to annoy me, and me giving her my standard response to “bite me”.  I then saw her lunge forward and sink her teeth into my arm.  That’s when I imagined punching the living hell out of the side of her head.  I’m pretty sure one punch would be all it would take to make her let go, too.  So, there we have the challenge, again.  Go ahead.  Bite me and give me a reason to finally knock you senseless, you ignorant bitch.

I then took the imaginary biting to the next level.  Let’s say I offered this challenge to a Doberman.  Of course, if I was dumb enough to offer myself to this dog to begin with, I would have a weapon nearby.  Since this is my imagination, I can have any weapon I want.  While there was some joy in picturing a .357 Magnum in my hand at the appropriate moment, I felt I would get more satisfaction out of a steel shovel.  So, the dog has angered me to the point where I offer the challenge.  “Bite me,” I encourage.  It goes for my leg and begins a vicious assault.  I grab my shovel and begin to beat it into oblivion.  When it has let go, I continue to beat it, just because it really pissed me off and I can.

So, what I have deduced is that when one tells someone to bite them, it’s like a double dog dare.  The phrase has taken on new meaning for me.  I’m going to enjoy using it even more.

So, come on.  Bite me.

(Disclaimer:  The above mentioned Doberman is an imaginary dog.  An imaginary and vicious dog.  Possibly rabid.  Definitely an ugly dog before I ever had anything to do with it.  It probably has cooties, too.  Please don’t call the ASPCA on me.  I really love dogs.  I have a dog.  Really.)