“….It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat……”

The pictures of a good day.

Posted this to twitter yesterday:

Why are women so fucking complicated? Just say what you mean. I can’t read your fucking mind. Dropping a random subtle hint won’t ever work.

If you want a Blueberry muffin, then say “Will you bring me a blueberry muffin?” I’ll be _more_ than happy to bring you one. That would make my day, in fact. To see you smile and enjoy eating a blueberry muffin would be the highlight of my otherwise droll and unimportant day. Why? Because there’s no confusion involved in that statement. Hell, even simplify it further and say “Please me eat Muffin. Blueberry. Now. Please.”

Do not say: “My grandmother used lard when she made blueberry muffins.”
That will not magically lead me to deduce that you’re craving a muffin and you’d like me to bring you one, along with a lowfat major minor grande latte spiced coffee drink thing.

If you talk about your grandmother using lard to make muffins and I’ll think about—wait for it—hold on—-YES! I WILL THINK ABOUT YOUR GRANDMOTHER USING LARD TO MAKE MUFFINS. Then I will stop thinking about that, and move on how people made lard, and where it comes from, and how nasty it is. Then I will move on to the cows on the farm in North Carolina, and how my Grandmother grew up there, and her brother made me a milking stool.

And I’ll respond and say “Hm. That’s cool. My great-uncle made me a milking stool when I was a kid.”

Do you know what that means?? THAT MEANS YOU WILL NOT GET A FUCKING MUFFIN.

Why? Because you didn’t say anything about wanting a muffin. You said that your grandmother used lard when she made muffins. That’s it. Zip. That’s it. Your grandmother making muffins will not make me remember that you told me 8 months ago that you like your blueberry muffins warmed to 103.8*, and that you feel neglected at 7:30 in the damn morning and that a blueberry muffin would make you feel better about the fact that it’s 20 below and dark and you’re hungry.

Then you’ll get pissed off, and tell me that I’m not listening to you. The fact of the matter is that I AM listening to exactly what you’re saying. YOU ARE NOT BEING CLEAR. Don’t drop hints. If you want a muffin, speak the fuck up and say so! I am not responsible for your lack of clarity. It’s unrealistic, unfair, and generally stupid that you expect me to magically take a statement about lard and turn it into “Go get me a muffin, please.”

“Bring me a blueberry muffin” So fucking simple…..and your gender makes it so incredibly complex.

I don’t hate women, really. I like women. I just get tired of women who cannot, for whatever reason, say what they mean.

This likely won’t invoke the same response for a lot of you that it did for me. Still, I feel like sharing. Perhaps because it’s 3 in the morning and I can’t sleep. I dunno. Here’s the vid.

It’s not that I hate Palin. It’s not that I think she’s a complete idiot. It’s that she knows she’s an idiot, and simply doesn’t care. Palin believing she needed to write down (…answers to basic questions…) is the political equivalent of reminding yourself to breathe.

*sigh*

I say this here and now. If Palin wins any manner of nomination, I’m going to move out of the US. I’ll move to Nepal permanently. Not “if she wins the general election.” If she wins any nomination. Why? This will be the final turning point for this country–and it will go downhill quickly. The democrats could nominate Elmer Fudd and he’d win if Palin is nominated because she’s so utterly incompetent.
That’s not how the system should work.

(A) You people are fucking crazy.
(B) Take a larger dose of lithium next time.
(C) Choose someone _sane_ as your spokesperson next time.

So, for those of you that don’t keep up:

There are whackjobs out there that either don’t like the fact that Obama’s black, that his middle name isn’t “Robert”, that he’s not a stupid cunt named “Sarah”, or that he’s a democrat.

Whatever–these people have a name now, other than whackjob–”Birthers”. Ugh. So the dumbshit in the video above came out with this birth certificate that says that Obama was born in Kenya. Ugh. It got press, but it was press of the “Hey, look at this crazy bitch!” type.
For obvious reasons, I think.

I dunno about you, but if you want something investigated, send it to the press. Seriously. There’s nothing that the press does that’s worth much of anything, but those fuckers know how to find out if you’re telling the truth or not. So come to find out, this crazy bitch from above copied the stuff from, get this—an AUSTRALIAN—birth certificate and changed key elements, say, like the name. But it doesn’t take much to find out that it’s a fake……Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

This video sums a lot of things up, The commentator calls the whackjob bitch by the wrong name. Hilarious. Best laugh I’ve had in quite some time.

(Edit: OH MY FUCKING GOD, I would _pay_ to be this entertained.)