Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Category: World Leader Pretend

Desperately Posting

…as A Certain Person accused me of doing. Well, desperation is never far away. But I owe you a


–$25 in winning lottery tickets from the Birdman. It seemed appropriate to spend lottery winnings on alcohol, which was consumed long ago. Of course, now I have other alcohol, to observe what they insist on calling the “4th of July holiday weekend,” in spite of its occurrence on Tuesday, which is not even near a weekend.

I also got gift cards for Walgreens and Visa, which I have already spent, and hope to remember what I spent them on once I sober up. It wasn’t more alcohol, though.

$150+ from people at work paying me to go away! This requires some thought. I once dreamed I got 3 roses tattooed on my butt. That might be a wise investment for these funds. Perhaps I should take a poll.

Speaking of which, in my estimation, a tattoo’s workmanship and originality count for naught if it is also ugly. I saw a woman with an elephant’s head with ram’s horns, impaled on a stick, tattooed on her arm. I picture her talking to the artist–“I want an elephant head with ram’s horns on my arm. It has great significance in my life.”

Do not get a nose ring that looks like a drop of snot hanging out in profile. In fact, do not get a nose ring at all. What if you sneeze? GROSS. I am now retired and don’t have to care if you think my disapproval old-fashioned. Speaking of which, I saw an ad for leggings that said, “You’ll never wear real pants again!” See, even the MAKERS OF LEGGINGS admit they’re not really pants.

McDonald’s yesterday was full of hipsters. They even ordered hipster stuff like a McFrappe (or whatever they call them) with just a large order of fries for lunch. It looked like a McDonald’s commercial, except that their clothes didn’t fit as well.

CVS ad–“Long Live Skin!” It’s guaranteed for 2 weeks after death, you know. (That was a sign at the place where I got my tattoo, many long years ago.)

Nick has offered to let me live in his basement. He seems to think it would bring him good luck.

Look, Nick’s on TV!

–Rom said he thought Mark Wahlberg wasn’t yanking the chain hard enough, but then said, “Well, then he might choke the poor thing.” The poor thing in question has actually gotten somewhat bigger since then, so the ears don’t look so prominent, and the barbs on the tail had not yet developed. And no, I can’t move the video closer to the top of the post, and in fact, for all I know, it might not even play once I hit “Publish.”


–Trying to guess which people belong to which vehicle: The pickup with Browning Buckmark logo (designed by my brother-in-law!) and “REDNECK” across the back windshield? Probably the guy with the t-shirt that says “Her Buck” on it. Probably not the skinny guy with long blonde hair, Indiana Jones hat, and tie-dye Allman Brothers t-shirt, although I bet he’s a redneck also.

–A couple snuck in the back door of McDonald’s with food from somewhere else, including chips and drinks, and settled down to eat it at a back table. They even grabbed a bunch of McDonald’s napkins.

–Kids’ lives are filled with nagging. “Is that yours? No? Then don’t grab for it.” “Don’t do that, it’s gross.” After all, how else will you learn what’s gross? There might be another culture in which licking the condensation off the outside of your drink cup is perfectly acceptable.

A CAN OF BABY CORN WAS SIGHTED IN A CERTAIN PERSON’S LOCKER. THE CONSPIRACY LIVES ON IN MY ABSENCE. See ancient posts tagged “Conspiracy News” for details. Don’t know how to look those up? Neither do I.

Day 14: Waiting For Godot Or Someone Like Him


–rinse out milk glass

–scrape out litter box  (The Search For Buried Treasure)

–comb out hair

–lay out clothes, including locating coordinating underwear and socks

–put on underwear and one sock

Yesterday was National Hairball Awareness Day. Awareness may help us someday answer the eternal question, is stepping on one barefoot worse if it’s fresh and warm, or icy-cold?

Tomorrow is National Awareness of Rom’s Birth Day, which I’m celebrating by taking the day off.


“Why was he chasing you with a knife? Oh, because you stepped on his lawn?” I TOLD YOU KIDS TO GET OUT OF MY YARD!!


So Trump has a red button on his desk to summon someone to bring him a Coke. A dream come true! I also want a lifetime supply of cashew butter and dark chocolate chips. Oh, and for none of those things to have any calories. Hey, wouldn’t Reese’s Cashew Butter Cups made with dark chocolate be great? I’ll issue an executive order.



“Scientists can now extract Neanderthal DNA from cave dirt.”



I want you to listen to this (hopefully) embedded video and imagine Donald Trump singing it.

Remember all that whining I did (sure you do, it was in the last post) about accidentally deleting that post and having to re-type it all? Well, guess what? It was saved after all, just not where I’d been looking for it. So I did all that typing in vain. You can stop laughing now.

I got a spam message that said, “I looked at your post ‘The Parents of Baby Corn’ and thought that you could increase your blog’s traffic if your subject matter was something readers were interested in.” Or if they knew what the hell I’m talking about.


Caller: “I want to know the reason for the closing of this city’s only east-west thoroughfare”…pausing dramatically…“the Lloyd Expressway.” I sternly informed him that there are many east-west thoroughfares, although everyone forgot them as if they had never been once the Lloyd Expressway was completed. The reason for its closing, incidentally, was that someone had been killed on it.

And you gotta love a call that begins with “I just heard someone in the background there talking about Yankee Candles. I find that unacceptable.” (Yes, we are allowed to talk about topics other than work, so bite me.) and ends with “Just forget it. If I end up dead, it’ll be in the paper.” (Well, if end up dead, it’ll be in the paper, too. So what?)

There’s probably a punctuation error in that last paragraph, but I am too weary with life to correct it.


Halloween inflatables? Really? I can hardly wait for the coming of President’s Day inflatables. Donald Trump will probably require them.


I’m Just Typing Whatever I’m Thinking

Disclaimer: Yeah, I’m on vacation, and yeah, I’m drunk.

Blog School Assignment #2 (hey, they said I could do it at my own pace!) was to read other people’s blogs, which need not concern you. I will note, however, that I’ve become a fan of Jon Webb at the Courier & Press. (Yeah, I should no doubt include some sort of link, but you know how that goes.) It’s like what you’d get if I’d actually become a journalist, instead of what I really became, namely, the Queen of Spiders.


#1: “He ripped me off”= drug deal gone wrong. Example: “Those guys beat me up while my boyfriend was down the street looking for a guy who ripped him off.”

#2: Me: So why do you think they’re doing drugs at that address?

Caller (solemnly): I just know. = I was doing drugs there with them, and then they ripped me off.


–If you get a small or medium (blue cup) drink from Thornton’s, do not equip it with a red (for large/red cup) straw. There are blue straws available in the very same place.

–If you can’t be bothered to get your garbage cans OUT OF MY WAY on the sidewalk (which is theoretically for people to walk on, not just a place to stash your trash), I will walk on your lawn to get around them, not out in the traffic.


The Indiana Revenue Service discovered, at this late date, that I owed them money on my 2013 taxes. Including penalty and interest. So why, if it was their mistake (they’d even sent me a refund that year, and now they want it back) do owe the penalty and interest? I, you know, kind of assumed that if they sent me a refund, that meant I kind of, well, the reverse of owed them money. Hey, remember when they thought I might be an identity thief? What the hell is the deal in Indianapolis, anyway? Rom said, “It just took them that long to find out the depth of your depravity,” which sounds like something Nick would say. See, Nick, I mentioned you after all. I know you’re kind of needy that way.






Turn Me Loose!

…I’ve gotta have it my way, or no way at all! So it is, and so it shall be, to quote Patti Smith.

Yeah, I’m on vacation, and yeah, I’m drunk, as Nick so astutely noticed, since he’s all astute and stuff.

You gotta love when your husband comes in and says, “Well, you stepped in it.” Stepped in WHAT? I should know after all these years–a hairball. Remember the ongoing philosophical debate–which hairball is worse to step in, fresh and warm, or old and icy-cold?


“Hey now baby, get into my big black car…I just want to show you what my politics are.” Courtesy of Cream, and I think of it often in this electoral season.

Hey, how long has it been since we had a CONSPIRACY POST? Anyone remember the
Baby Corn?

OK, I just almost choked on my drink. This is NOT FUNNY. In fact, it’s kind of painful.

Anyway, I now announce that, considering the dearth of acceptable candidates, I unhesitatingly support A CAN OF CREAMED CORN for President. Any can will do.

I’ll write later if I think of something to say.


…Courtesy of the people at some laundry-product company. A woman SNIFFS THE CROTCH OF HER PANTS and says, “These pants have that yoga smell!” Um, that’s not what we call it. She then sniffs the area again after laundering and says, “Now I don’t smell like wet dog!” Um, that’s not what it smells like.

3:26 and All Is Not Well

“…I was up till 3:30 last night,” says Stephen Colbert, as if there’s something unusual about that. I cannot rest until I write. I’m like Cat Esmerelda with petting–“I’VE DONE WITHOUT IT FOR DAYS, BUT NOW I MUST STAND IN THE HALLWAY AND YELL, AND GET IN FRONT OF YOU WHEN YOU TRY TO LEAVE THE ROOM, AND COME BACK AND GET YOU WHEN YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME, BECAUSE I HAVE TO HAVE IT NOW NOW NOW–”

Ahem. Anywayz, the 28th was Rom’s birthday (he’s 65! how did that happen?), and we went to Turoni’s with D. It’s a good thing I remembered what I wanted (3-cheese/chicken/broccoli pizza, yum!), because their current menu struck me like a blow (albeit a very minor one–unlike their bathroom, which thanks to their mid-century modern decorating scheme reminded me of the restrooms of my childhood, so I expected their toilet to do likewise, and instead it was a supersonic TOILET OF THE FUTURE, and startled me when I flushed), because the menu was an over-crowded BARRAGE OF WORDS, and I was momentarily overwhelmed. (The accompanying illustrations did not help. Pictures on a menu should be of food, not cartoon characters.) I had been thinking I might like an alcoholic beverage (or 2, or 3, or 4), but that required a separate menu to present their hellish profusion of beers, so that was Not Gonna Happen. By the way, the pizzas of my table companions were overly colorful. A pizza should not look like it has confetti strewn over it.

This post is reading like a grab bag of World Leader Edicts. And I’ve only just begun.


You didn’t know I had one, did you? Neither did I.

Nothing like a letter from that source which cheerily begins, “We’re NOT accusing your of identity theft!” Oh?

“…but you need to go to our website, and pass a quiz to verify your identity, which will only take a few minutes, and we’ll give you 3 chances to pass it, and then we’ll send you your refund, if you first tell us the exact amount of the refund you were claiming.”


I grumpily went to my pile of leftover tax documents. Well, guess what? After doing the taxes, I had separated the paperwork into 2 piles–one to toss and one to keep–and guess what I did. That’s right, I threw the wrong ones away. Stuff like this would make me think dementia is setting in, except that I’ve been doing stuff like this my whole life. It’s a wonder I can even feed myself. Oh wait, I don’t, Rom feeds me. Well, not by hand, because I bite.

Soooo…I don’t have the paperwork they require, so I need to call them, at their non-toll-free number. How can I prove I’m not the identity thief they’re not accusing me of being? Maybe they’ll tell me to come up to Indianapolis with my state I.D. (it’s like a driver’s license, except that it says Don’t Let This Person Drive) to get my refund.

You know, I carefully arrange my life so I seem normal, to myself and others. But going to a city I’ve never been to, where I know no one, and try and find a building I’ve never been to? That is so Not Gonna Happen. They can just keep my refund, paltry as it is. Identity theft has claimed another victim.

Tingling With Excitement

…since I have a giant can of ale. Did you know that 24oz is the perfect serving size for me?



Why? Because an internet (do we still capitalize Internet these days? I think not–apparently the novelty has worn off) test on Which Side of Your Brain is Dominant? pronounced me Left Brain Dominant 68%. Hey, I wanted to be more creative and artistic and stuff! Of course, an I.Q. test also revealed that I’m not as smart as I think I am. And that wasn’t on the internet, that was a Real Test given by a Real Police Department Expert,

for my current job. Apparently I am just smart enough to do the job, but no smarter. Did you know that the average I.Q. of police dispatchers is higher than the average I.Q. of police officers? It says so on the Internet. It makes sense when you think about it. So don’t. (If you’re an officer, that is.)

I think some of the questions on that test (the brain-side test, not the I.Q. test, which I don’t remember any of the questions of, being under a lot of stress at the time) were unfair. (“Please provide an example,” they say.) For example, “Does your desk need to be neat and orderly, or are you comfortable with clutter?” My desk is cluttered, but I am not comfortable with it. So what does that mean? That I’m left-brain-dominant, but incompetent? That’s not the answer I was looking for.

I am now experiencing difficulty deciding what needs italics/CAPITALIZATION/bold-face type. I suspect alcohol makes you stupider. I doubt I am now smart enough to dispatch police.

OOPS, LOST MY CURSOR AGAIN…I take no responsibility for the unexplained space in the middle of the above paragraph. I am, for some reason, unable to correct it. (I am how smart, again?)

OK, I just almost choked on my drink. Apparently I can’t drink and write at the same time.

Where was I? Oh…

I’m tired of having a dog bite on my leg.

Did you know that pants fit better if they’re not on backwards? “How is that even possible?” male members of my FanBase wonder. It’s one of the mysteries of womanhood. Ooh, I said “male member.” Sorry. I remember one night on 3rd shift we spent listing all the synonyms for that organ we could think of. It was a night of few emergencies, obviously.


…on his furry-hat segment, which is a rip-off of my World Leader Edicts…

“If you name your genitals, you now have to introduce them at parties.” Good thing I’m never invited to parties. I have not yet been drunk enough to reveal her name to anyone but Rom.



I Am Rabid

…So everyone wants to know, “World Leader, how did you get bitten by a dog?” Actually, not even Nick wants to know this, but I will FORGE BRAVELY AHEAD because I have had 2 cans of mango ale, and I am a cheap drunk. It doesn’t take much, obviously. OK, I guess that’s what “cheap drunk” means, so now I’m committing the sin of redundancy.



I headed for Mass on Palm Sunday (DISCLAIMER: I am drunk enough to make lots of typos, but {hopefully} sober enough to discover and correct them) at St. Agnes, in the heart of Howell, on the wrong side of the tracks, if you live on Reitz Hill. As I do. As luck (or lack of luck) (I guess that’s what we call “bad luck”) would have it, I got the Evil Bus Driver (the one who won’t let you take drinks on board). But I had no drink and didn’t care (actually, I did care, having discarded my drink prematurely when I thought the bus was coming, BUT IT WASN’T, which was a bad omen showing my bad luck coming up, but ANYWAY…)

After we’d been on the way for awhile, the bus pulled over to let someone on, but the old lady being  let on tripped over the bus step and fell. The driver, being obsessed with doing things By the Book (reminiscent of a certain supervisor I once had–some of you who served with me will know whereof I speak) (or whom-of) said, “Let me pull the bus over so I can call an ambulance.” “Oh no, I don’t need an ambulance,” the poor soul said. And indeed, she seemed to need no ambulance, having only bruised her knee, if that. “Give me your name, address and phone number, anyway,” the driver said, and so she did. I looked on, disapproving of the delay, LITTLE KNOWING THAT I WOULD SOON BE DOING SOMETHING SIMILAR.

Finally, we got underway, and finally, I got off at my stop. I proceeded confidently on Glendale Ave., but my confidence was soon undermined by a pair of black dogs, one of whom (the larger and more Lab-like of the two) stared at me challengingly. (Spellcheck informs me that is not a word, but I DEFY SPELL CHECK! DO YOU HEAR ME? I DEFY IT!) I refrained from staring back at it and proceeded on my merry way, and then felt a CHOMP! on the back of my right calf. “I’VE BEEN BITTEN BY A DOG!!” I realized, in my usual perceptive manner, and screamed, which sent the dogs off down the street in a we-were-just-leaving-anyway sort of way.


But I’m drinking again, so you don’t need to worry.

Did you know I can consume a can of ale in only half an hour? Did you also know that Redd’s makes its cartons hard for drunks to get into, WHY WOULD THEY DO SUCH A THING?

I was sober when Rom left. Won’t he be surprised?

Oh no, he just came in. I better drink quick, or dinner will be served.


I hobbled to church (only a block away). You know when you have to look at an injury, but you’re afraid? Well, maybe Nick and similar tough soldierly types aren’t afraid (unless the bite should be from a spider), but I was. I had three (3) bloody tooth marks, and bruising/swelling already underway. It looked, not terrible, but not great either. I called 911, excited at the prospect of being my Very Own Emergency in the eyes of my co-workers. (Especially since my phone makes a special sound when you call 911, as if to remind you of the importance of your situation.) I tried to guess which co-worker answered the phone, but I came up clueless, and I apologize if she is reading this. I got a rare look at what it’s like being on the Other Side of the Phone–I was annoyed that she was making me decide whether I needed an ambulance or not–how can decide? I’ve just had a stressful experience! You hardly need to be reminded that I am annoyed when someone who calls 911 can’t tell me if they need an ambulance or not. At least I didn’t say “No lights or sirens.”

I then called Rom (there’s another thing–call 911 first, not your Emergency Contact) and informed him of my misadventure. He and I could both hear the siren of my ambulance, which was exciting, in a weird way. You know, all of this story is In a Weird Way. In retrospect, it’s like I was on drugs.

The ambulance arrived with commendable promptness, and Animal Control showed up a few minutes later. I had to tell him that the suspect was no longer on scene, but he left to see if he could locate said dog.

I was surprised to learn that an ambulance crew is kind of like your school nurse–they can’t do much other than Stabilize Your Situation until they get you to the hospital. It seemed unto me that I didn’t need the hospital, just some first aid, but they had not even Neosporin to offer me, although they did recommend I get my own, and I later did so. (Doesn’t Neosporin sound creepy? Like it’s full of spores.) So they just wiped me down with alcohol (unpleasant, but I am nothing if not stoic) and bandaged me up. I commend the guy who did so on his perfect touch–tight enough to stay in place, not tight enough to make swelling really get out of hand.

The Animal Control guy then returned, unable to find the dog, and we went into the crying room at church (although I was not crying), and sat in chairs designed for mothers to sit in and comfort their fractious infants, and he took my information for his report, and informed me that he’d only been on the job for 6 weeks. I assume the dog was never found, since they haven’t called me back. I also assume I’ll find out that ambulances are really expensive, even if they don’t take you to the hospital.

I then went in to church, and was amused to find that the psalm for Palm Sunday (Psalm 22, for those reading along at home) said, “A pack of dogs surrounds me; many evildoers close in upon me.”


Day 29: Loud Drugs


Nothing like thinking you’re looking put together, and then discovering (some time after you left the house) (OK, after you returned home) that you had dried toothpaste on your face.


How many licks does it take to get to the middle of a Tootsie Pop? Archer has undertaken a study, and informs us it takes 44.


“Are you in a car? Then just put the car in drive and drive away from him.”

“Caller believes the loud music is to cover up drug activity.” Um, how does that work, exactly?

S.G.’S 29TH POST: World Leader Pretend: The Reign of Terror Begins

Drunk with the power of my new seniority, I instituted new rules for Dispatch, and enlisted Nick as my enforcer. You see how long that lasted.


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