THIS BLOG HAS MOVED

Please visit PissedAndPetty.com.

Fun with the DMA.

By now, you should be aware of my deep seeded loathing of Patricia Kachura, the societal cancer that works for the Direct Marketing Association (DMA).

Since her job is to justify sending people millions upon millions of unsolicited advertisements and phone calls every day, I figured she would be happy to receive an unsolicited phone call from me. I left the following voicemail at her office today:

"Hello Pat. This is PissedAndPetty.com calling with a quick survey. How do you sleep at night? Thank you so much for your time and we look forward to hearing from you. Please give us a call at (646)XXX-XXXX with any insight you might be able to provide regarding this matter."

What's wrong, Pat? You don't like receiving unsolicited phone calls? Well, me neither, bitch.

Switching Over

I did some more work towards switching over to Wordpress today.

Take a sneak peek.

Like it? Hate it? What do you think?

What Have I Become?

Okay, damnit. I haven't posted on my blog since February.

Right when I came back, I checked my traffic stats as any good blogger would.

We have a problem... besides the stunning lack of traffic. What's the problem?

Do me a favor. Run a google search for "pooping grannies". What's the first result?

Yep, thanks to this post, my blog is the #1 search result for "pooping grannies".

Fuck.

Wait, I think this might be something to be proud of.

Really?

I was flipping channels late last night while my girlfriend was sitting next to me. She has an interest in fashion. I flipped right by a DKNY runway fashion show and my girlfriend begged me to turn it back so she could watch.

The conversation went something like this:

Her: Ooo! Ooo! Turn it back turn it back pleeeeease!

Me: Why? You can see this in any department store.

Her: No, don't even start. I know way more about this than you. I like really like "Dackney" clothes.

Wait, what? Really?

Movin' On Up

Like Gershwin, things are looking up.

There is an old-time gambling legend that lives in Texas, a man named Amarillo Slim. Amarillo Slim used to brag that he was so famous that you could send a letter from anywhere in the country addressed only to "Amarillo Slim in Texas" and the letter would find him. Tall tale? Maybe not.


In my never ending quest for global domination, I have taken a huge step. According to Google, I am the most relevant and/or important person named "Ryan" in all of Washington Heights, NYC.

Don't believe me?

Google search: ryan in washington heights

Yeah, that's right. You found me.

Numero uno, bitches!

Also just as exciting, I am now the top result for Google search: pissed and petty. I know you're thinking that that should have happened a long time ago, but Tom Petty wasn't giving up the top spot easily.

Also, readers, you may want to run a google search for: Pat Kachura

Yep, number one again(and two)! Poor Pat. Poor, poor Pat. It can't feel good knowing that if anyone ever runs a search on you, my rantings are the first things they're going to see. Ouch!

I have now thoroughly owned Ice-T, Washington Heights, Tom Petty, and Pat Katchura just to name a few.

Ahhhh, being bad feels goooood.

This Really Happens

A story from work the other night:

Sometimes I work nights as a poker dealer. My boss’s name is Mike.

Me: Hey, Mike! C’mere for a second.

Boss: Yeah?

Me: Who’s the new girl?

Boss: Which one?

Me: The hot one setting up that blackjack table.

Boss: Which one?

Me: The one in the corner.

Boss: That’s my daughter…

Me: (silent)

Boss: …and she’s sixteen.

Me: (gulp)

A Letter From Oklahoma:

I am currently in Oklahoma visiting my family for the holidays, a far cry from my home in NYC.

The following is an exact quote directed towards me from one of my darling twin nieces, eleven years old:

"The land you live on may be worth ten million dollars, but the land I live on is worth as many bullets as I can put in the air."

Cheers, little girl. You win.

Happy Holidays

"Twas the week before Christmas when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse."

... because I smashed that bitch with my shoe right on the counter top and put it straight through the garbage disposal just to send a message to all his other mouse buddies who might have the gall to sit right in front of my face and eat out of the grease trap of my George Foreman Grill while there's a salmon steak cooking on it and I'm trying to finely chop garlic two inches away on that same counter top.

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Blowing of the Whistle

I want to draw more attention to a post I wrote a while ago. Read the link if you haven't already.

The DMA are a horrible organization that decrease the quality of life worldwide on many levels. Basically, they are solely responsible for every type of junk mail on the planet. Spam and mailbox and telephone.

I have recently received several hits on this website from NYC and Washington government agencies via google searches for "Pat Kachura" of/and the "Direct Marketing Association", (DMA).

Anyway, due to the recent rush of hits I have received from government agencies relating to this post, I can't help but think that something is stewing. Cross your fingers.

I hope the prosecution calls me as a witness in front of the grand jury or some shit.

New Features & Connecting the Dots

Yeah, ok. I haven't written in a while.

Fucking sue me.

As previously mentioned, I've been busy trying to research ways to make this site cooler.

I succeeded in taking a couple of small steps.

If you look at the address bar in your browser or browser tab, you should see the Pissed&Petty crab icon to the left. How awesome is that? It should also appear in your favorites/bookmarks list if you have me bookmarked. *ahem*

Also, I have a new comment box at the bottom of my sidebar. It's awesome. Now you guys can write whatever the hell you want at anytime on my website. Take a sec to test it out and let me know if it's too much of a hassle.

Plugging away...

"Ice-T" & Me? We have an understanding.

Several years ago I was sharing a shoebox two-bedroom apartment with three friends on the upper-west-side of Manhattan. Two roommates had to sleep on an air mattress in the living room. They were allowed cheaper rent as they were responsible for moving furniture and inflating and deflating their mattress every night and morning. The apartment was right behind Lincoln Center at 63rd & West End Ave., NYC.

There is an ultra-luxury building right across the street from the far-less-than-luxury building I was living in at the time. The property across the street had huge windows that were always freshly Windex’ed. The people that came in and out of the building were always dressed impeccably, like senior level HR women, or investment bankers, or high priced prostitutes. There were always taxi cabs waiting outside of the building. The drivers knew that these people were loaded.

I know all this because I love to skateboard. The luxury building across the street had these amazing curbs with angle iron attached to them. For those of you that don’t speak “skateboard”, just believe me when I say that it was awesome.

On the weekends during spring and summer, I loved nothing more than to skateboard on the curbs of the luxury building across the street. The best parts of the curbs were right by the exit of the building’s parking garage. As such, I would often have to stop, pick up my skateboard and step aside as the garage door would raise and a resident would pull their car out of the garage.

There was one Saturday when I was skateboarding early in the afternoon and I heard the ‘click’ that I had come to know as the sound of the garage door beginning to open. I picked up my skateboard and stepped aside.

The garage door slowly rose to reveal a cherry red Ferrari, its engine purring in idle. I dreweled for a hot minute and then wanted the car to move so I could Skate-or-Die.

The car just sat there so I looked through the windshield to the driver’s side.

It was Ice-T.

Ice-Fucking-T.

Cop Killa.

He had his left hand on the wheel, and his right hand between the legs of a ho (literally a ho in every sense of the word, you’ll just have to trust me) that was sitting in the passenger seat. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. As he idled his Ferrari in the driveway of the garage, he seemed much more focused on his right hand than his left.

Ice looked up and seemed startled when he realized that the garage door was already open. His eyes immediately fixed on me standing there with my skateboard. I did the stoic-chin-raising-head-tilting-back gesture while I looked at him with my eyeballs as if to say, “I didn’t see nothin’ man. I can keep shit on the DL, for realz.” Ice nodded at me with stern eyes and he drove away with his ho.

I took a deep breath.

I spent the next hour nervously shifting my eyes in preparation for men in black ski masks carrying silenced oozies to come and silence me. They never came. I continued to skateboard.

Over the next year this became a regular occurrence. The only difference was that Ice had a new ho and a new car every week.

I think this is what they call “The American Dream.” A new ho and a new car every week.

So basically, here’s how I figure:

Ice-T is cool with me skateboarding on his curb as long as I’m willing to keep my mouth shut about his hoes and his cars.

Well, Mr. Ice:

I don’t live across the street from you anymore and I’m busting the lid off of this story. I’m not scared of your silenced-oozie-toting ski-mask-wearing goons anymore because I live in Washington Heights now and I just downloaded a freeware security suite for my computer so there’s no way you can find me. Not even on my myspace account.

Take that, Cop Killa!

No, assholes. NOW it's personal!

Another tale from Washington Heights, NYC (the land of no-speak-y-english):

My neighborhood in NYC is populated about 99% by varying degrees of immigrants from The Dominican Republic. I love my neighborhood, but I would be lying if I said that the folks in my neighborhood didn’t occasionally make me want to pull my hair out.

As I jumped in the shower this morning I realized I was running dangerously low on soap, shampoo, conditioner, and whatnot. I made due with what little I had left. Meaning, I popped the tops off of all the bottles and filled them part way with water as to dilute each substance to get a little extra mileage, you know the drill.

After my shower, I decided to head over to Rite-Aid and restock on shower supplies. I like going to Rite-Aid in my neighborhood because they are a national chain and therefore usually manage to hire employees who are not complete retards. (I know this sounds counterintuitive but trust me, in my neighborhood, when compared to their privately owned contemporaries, Rite-Aid employees come off like NASA engineers).

I ran around the store for about half an hour collecting all my items in my little basket. As I was laying everything on the checkout counter I noticed an Adidas box-set way up high behind the counter. It had body wash, deodorant, aftershave, and a little bottle of Adidas cologne. I had just collected nearly all Adidas products one-by-one around the store. I figured I could just get the box-set and save a little money. I ask the woman at the check-out counter, “How much is that Adidas Sports Package?”

The woman turns her back and looks up at the display case. I don’t think I ever saw her look directly at the product I wanted, but regardless, she turns around and says, “nine-nine-nine”.

Not, “nine-ninety-nine”, mind you. No. Just, “nine-nine-nine”.

I figure she means “$9.99” because all the products separately would come to around “$16.00” and that would be a reasonable savings.

“Cool! I’m going to go put all this stuff back and just get that box-set instead. I’ll be right back.”

I ran around the store and put all the items back on the shelves exactly where I got them. I got in the back of the line and waited to check-out again. I figured someone would have taken the time while I was putting everything back to get my Adidas Sports Package down from the top shelf behind the check-out counter, and it would be waiting there for me. Of course not. That would have been far too logical.

Instead, when I got back to the register the cashier looked at me like she’d never seen me before. This is particularly ridiculous because aside from the fact that I shop there all the time, there isn’t another long-haired-white-dude besides myself within fucking miles of this place. Anyway, I decided to hold back my rage because I was certain that someone would give me better reason to unload, shortly.

The cashier continued to stand there with this confused “Can I help you?” look on her face.

A special note to readers: I hate when people have confused looks on their faces when they should be crystal clear as to what is going on. Seriously, it makes me want to start throwing things just so they’ll change their expression from confused to terrified, at least. Call me petty.

I looked back at her with a look of utter disbelief and said,

“Uh, yeah. Didn’t we just go over this two minutes ago?”
>
She still looked confused. I hate that.

I then gestured wildly up to the top shelf behind the check-out counter and said uber-curtly, “Can you get than down for me so I can buy it, please?!” The woman then looked over to her male co-worker who then walked over and asked me what he could help me with.

I grit my teeth and tell the man what I want. He nods knowingly and quickly runs to the back of the store. I assume he’s retrieving a ladder or something.

So I wait, and wait.

Finally he comes back with a step ladder and asks, “Ok, what do you need again, boss?”

Please tell me he didn’t just ask me again.

Oh. My. God.

Through my blinding rage, instead of smashing him, I somehow managed to make a joke that went directly over his head, of course.

“No man, not BOSS, ADIDAS!!!”

He gets up on his ladder and takes down an Axe Body Spray box-set and hands it down to the cashier, and she rings it up. I am now in complete and utter fucking disbelief. Fuse now burning dangerously short.

“No man! ADIDAS! ADIDAS! It’s right there! That big ass box that has “ADIDAS” written all the fuck over it! ADIDAS! Jesus!”

He looks back up at the display case still standing on his ladder and grabbed a really girly-like bath oil package. They oils were in a straw basket filled with hay or some shit.I gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought maybe he was moving the girly-like package so he could reach my package… although this didn’t really make sense because it wasn’t in the way.

But no. He handed the cashier the girly-like package and she rang it up.

I totally lost it.

“DUDE, JUST LOOK AT YOUR FUCKING SHOES, MAN!"

The idiot on the ladder looks down at his shoes, reads the emblem embroidered on the tongue and says,

“Oh! Adidas!”

I wanted to kick that ladder right out from under him.

Come the fuck on, people.


*After "OK", "Coke" and "Marlboro", surely "Adidas" is pretty high up on the list of most internationally recongnized words. Fuckin' seriously, man. Damn.

Three Steps Back (at least)

(this post is not funny.)

"Pissed & Petty" is growing up, folks.

I started this blog as a way to kill time from 9-5 and it has since turned into, well, a bonified monster. As such, I decided that I am going to start taking serious steps to kick this website up to the next level.

I finally bought the domain "PissedAndPetty.com". I'm still figuring out what I'm going to do with it exactly, but it's a start. I finished completing the switchover from Blogger to Blogger Beta. This was possibly a total waste of time because I'm considering switching blog servers again, so I haven't really designated my newly owned domain to anything in particular yet.

I've started studying HTML and CSS coding.

I got in a little over my head with the coding and I lost my whole blog for about two hours today. I nearly had a fucking heart attack. I've run into several seemingly insurmountable problems while messing with my code before, but this time I thought I'd really done it. I thought that my whole blog had dissapeared forever. No shit. If that had happened, I don't know if I would have rebuilt the blog at all. It seemed like too much work, what with several thousand-word-plus posts and the picture links and god knows what else (none of which is backed up anywhere). It would have truly broken my heart/spirit.

One of the worst things about the situation is that the visual aspects of my site(aka, what makes it cool) were designed by someone else. I'm not fluent in HTML or CSS. I'm not even semi-litarate. A very kind individual had taken the time to design my site for me and I somehow managed to screw the whole thing up.

Ugh.

After hours of frustration, somehow, I managed to recover almost all of my writings and get the visual components back into place... almost. My margins and header are still screwed up and I have no fucking clue how to get my "latest posts" field back to the way it was. There are about six thousand other things wrong too but it feels great to know that all is not lost... literally.

Bear with me guys and girls. I love you all and the site will be bigger and better than ever before you know it!

MySpace: Telling It Like It Is

[UPDATE: Bianca has responded in the comments section of this post.]

As some of you may have seen, I recently found it necessary to put a stop to some atrocious MySpace behavior.

My lovely friend Bianca has a little monkey on her back called “the myspace bulletin”. I swear to god that this chick posts no less than 400 myspace bulletins every single day.

I decided to post my own myspace bulletin titled: “Bianca: An Intervention”.

It read:

“Though I love Bianca with all my heart:

Bianca and I have known each other for many years and we dated briefly in the 7th grade, so I feel that I have suffiencient authority to step in
and say the following:

Bianca, sweetheart. You post entirely too many bulletins. I mean, really. It's kind of like the boy-who-cried-wolf theory, ya know? One must pick their spots carefully or one runs the risk of becoming nothing more than white noise, ambient.“

About half an hour later, Bianca fired back with a bulletin titled: “Ryan Needs More Myspace Friends”. I would post her response in its entirety, but it really doesn’t matter. You get the jist from the title.

Well, thankfully, I can address this pretty easily.

Being the open minded individual that I am, I would never immediately disregard a long-time friend’s advice as to how I could improve my life. So I went to Bianca’s myspace page and looked at some of her many many many “friends” and read what they had to say about her on her page.

Let me highlight a few particularly thoughtful entries from these “friends” that I apparently “need”:

Put on your safety goggles, readers.

In this comment, a gentleman is articulately addressing his concern regarding the quality of the comments of Bianca’s other male suitors, obviously trying to separate himself from the pack. Maybe it would have worked if it was a room full of retarded deaf mutes. But then again, some of them may be able to read lips, so that’s out. It’s on her picture with the star tattoo. This is fucking priceless.

“these fools is LAME as FUNK!!and thats all these fools about an tryin to shoot down dem stars and shoot for the stars.. as for me i am into ASTROLOGY!!soo i know my SUPA'STARS!! and uumm hmmm i see dem now... oooh eeeeeeee.. goose down blankee da best when u start gazing... hee hee hee“

This guy only confirms my position on mercy killings. If I were a doctor, I’d pull the plug on this fucktard in a heartbeat… or lack thereof.

This next comment was left on Bianca’s picture with the rabbit ears:

“HERE bunni bunni bunni!! HERE bunni bunni bunni.. shit.. what must i do to bring that bunni to smile or roll over or do a damn back flip.. and why is the bunny lookin alllllllllllll mad and shit.. HA THATS JUST TO dont have me get BUGS BUNNY ON YO ASSSSSSSSSS!! um hmmm lol“

I… I’m speechless. Really.

Last, there is a picture of my darling Bianca on her myspace page where she is donning a tasteful green sweater. I happen to think Bianca is a beautiful woman and I always have. But, regarding this last comment, all I have to say is this: With Friends Like These… (you know the rest):

“this looks like a herpes ad”

So, no Bianca. I do not think I need more MySpace “friends”. I’m perfectly happy knowing that no one in my network would tell me I look like a herpes ad.