Smartassery

it doesn’t matter how you get there, as long as you get there

March 7th, 2008

Actually, I just found out that sometimes it matters a lot.

JAP: Beatrix, call the orthopedical shop and ask him if he received my custom knee brace

Off I go into my soon to be proven continuance of JAP’s eternal quest to chip away at my allotted existential time in this planet.

Beatrix Kiddo: Hi, could you please tell me the status of the knee brace for JAP

DumfoundedÂ Assistant on the phone: Let me look…………………………………………(10 minutes later). I’m sorry for the wait but it’s not here. And judging from our records we’re still waiting to get his prescription to be be able to build the brace

Makes sense, first you get the scrip, then you get the product that’s based on it. Let’s give JAP the benefit of the doubt:

BK: JAP, they told me that they don’t have your prescription.Â Ergo, no custom brace. Let me know the date of your visit so I can ask theÂ doctor to forward the prescription to the shop

JAP: Sure, it’s next Tuesday

BK: (Deadpan) As in the future?

JAP: Yeah,Â it’s next week!

BK: (This cannot be, nobody is that stupid, nobody). Ok. What’s this appointmentÂ for?

JAP: So he can measure me for a custom knee brace and give me a prescription. Duh!

BK: (Thousand mile stare)

Â Do you see? Commutative property my ass.

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acquired taste

January 25th, 2008

A while ago I was entrusted with the task of buying a special tea for his Royal Highness. His uppity ass heard somewhere about this very exclusive tea that only the greatest connoiseurs of tea would drink. And so I bought two bags of Lapsang Cheusong for him.

It is described as a top quality black tea sub-variety with the heady aroma ofÂ an oak fire.

And by ‘oak fire aroma’ I mean it tastes like ass. Never before have I tasted a more vile concoction. How can I describe the flavor? Ah yes. Imagine you takeÂ the coals and ashes from the barbecue, where you previously cooked moose buttholes and Scottish haggis, and you put them in boiling water. Now drink the water. Excuse me while I visit the vomitorium.

For those of you who say this is an ‘acquired taste’ I say single malts are an acquired taste, green tea ice cream is an acquired taste…Drinking Lapsang Cheusong is a terrorist attack on your tastebuds.

I’ve thought long and hardÂ about how I can possibly rid myself of this without going against everything I’ve ever been taught and just throwing it away. I have hosted office tea parties whereas I have invited all theÂ psychos in my building (and the one across) to taste this witches’Â brew in the hope someone will take it away. But alas no takers…despite the scones and the cookies. Leeches.

So I had to put on my recycling thinking cap and think of fun ways to re-use this ~~piece of shit~~ useless bag of leaves:

*Post an ad on Craigslist. This can be the bag of tea that circulates throughoutÂ Silicon Valley

*Give it to one of my EA friends at another crappy VC firm where she will unsuspectedly (and this will take some effort as this thing smells)Â put it in her boss’ cup of coffee. He then will go home with an ulcer and she will appreciate the down time

*Re-gift it to someone IÂ hate for Christmas

*Turn it intoÂ compostÂ

*Use it as confetti at the next wedding I attend

*Use it as barbecue potpourriÂ

*Throw it at yuppies, like JAP,Â who don’t thank you for holding open doors or complimenting their $2,000 pedigree dogs

*MakeÂ San Francisco’s Villancourt Fountain a tea fountain

*Sell it to my teenage neighbor as weed (at least I’ll make the money back)

*Use it cover the stench of vomit (like at the mall’s bathroom for example)

*End all wars and conflicts in the world by spraying tea from helicopters onto pesky guerrillas

Completely unrelated:

Â Â

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I’m changing over to Peet’s, they make real coffee

January 23rd, 2008

Beatrix Kiddo: Â Let me have a tall skinny mocha with no whipped cream, half the mocha, hold the foam, 72Âº Celcius (for JAP of course) and three shots of espresso (for me of course).

Teen in Training: Certainly. Can I get your name?

BK: It is Beatrix

TIT: (Puzzled look, pen and cup suspended in mid air) I’m sorry do you have an easier name?

BK: (Deadpan look) Err, not really, it didn’t occur to my mom to give me another one…Pssshhhhh, the nerve. Just write ‘B’

TIT: (Head cocked, furrowed brow - Oh oh I think she may short-circuit any moment now)

BK: How about Susan?

TIT: (Back from the dead) Yay, that’s easy!

And then I get my coffee cup and this is what it says:

Suisen

I’m tired of pratting on about the idiotic education system so now I’m just going to blame Starbucks instead. More efficient.

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VC Adventures of the Super-Harlots Club - Installment 5

January 2nd, 2008

Rosemary’s Baby Momma: Hiiii Beatriffff (10am and already drunk), JAP wants me to organize the holiday dinner

Beatrix Kiddo: Great (fucking great, last year we got to eat at her husband’s hunting club, basically the creepiest place in the Bay Area, complete with velvet curtains, animal heads, and old geezers in camouflage pants talking about their rifles)

RBM: So this year I think we should keep it at the hunting club because we like had so much fun last year, didn’t we? (quick question: if she is here, who’s running hell?)

BK: Oh, yay…loads of fun last year (especially when half of us got sick from eating the mystery meat appetizer)

RBM: OK, so I’ll have everyone pick from 3 entrees (awesome, mommy please I can’t make up my mind… I’m going to go out on a limb and say steak, chicken, and fish). So I’ll need you to create place cards with everyone’s names and entree choices

BK: Sure (of course, can never manage to pull the whole thing out on your own, can you bitch?). What will be the choices?

RBM: Steak, chicken and fish (You don’t say?! Sometimes I scare myself…)

BK: No worries, I’ll take care of doing the place cards

RBM: Now I need you to give me the codes you’ll use for each

BK: (Uh, codes?) Sure…the codes are: Steak, Chicken, and Fish

RBM: Hang on, let me write those down

There’s nothing else for me to do but to carry her Bimbo Majesty onto the stage on a giant gold, bejeweled throne as handmaidens fan her with palm branches, six African eunuchs dance around throwing rose petals in the air and ten orphans head the procession while burning myrrh and incense. Then an old man in a long flowing robe and sandals would read from a scroll, telling tales of her Rosemary’s majestic power and wisdom. And Kevin Bacon himself would then hand her the Oscar to Most Stupidistic Bimbastic wife in the history of VC.

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some things never change

December 26th, 2007

First off, I know, I know, I haven’t been writing lately…like in the last quarter. Life happened, ok? Everything sorta came at the same time and I was overwhelmed there for a while. Boo hoo.

I don’t know how but I managed to get a solid 4.0 GPA this semester at school. Actually, I know how, by completely slacking at work and mismanaging their Internet resources and time for the benefit of moi. I’m taking selfishness tips from my husband. Wot up! Also, I’m fabulous…it’s in my genes.

At work we have a new EA. Hey hey hey. This is how I managed to get the aforementioned A’s at school. Because really, it is not thanks to Incubus, I tell ya. Speaking of Incubus, who shall be also known henceforth as JAP, he’s as lost as ever…what with the recent addition of the brillo-haired spawn.

Jewish American Princess (JAP): Beatrix, are these drinking glasses clean?

Beatrix Kiddo: Which glasses?

JAP: The ones on the dish rack (hhhhmmmmm, a job for Sherlock Holmes)

Beatrix Kiddo: Those are dirty, the ones that are clean are the ones in the sink (jackass)

JAP: (Shit eating grin)

Aaaahhhhh, I love this job!

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in the deep south

September 5th, 2007

Is there a heinous actÂ left on earth that everyone can agree upon it being wrong?

Case in point: ASSHOLE Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick, who pleaded guilty in a federal case two weeks ago for his role in the fighting and execution of eight dogs (that are known).Â Of course, the dogs were all pit bulls. Naturally, they were kept in appalling conditions.Â

Mind you, at the beginning, he steadfastedly hung on to the raft of denial and said he didn’t have any part in the dogfighting (and accompanying gambling) that ocurred at his property.

Then his lawyers brought him back to reality on the grounds that usually when the feds indict you with something is because a) they’ve been quietly building a huge case against you for years, and b) part of that case includes several witness who will ~~sink~~ testify against you.

To make a long story short, yes it was his property, yes he knew about it, yes he provided the funds to keep the whole enterprise going, and yes he killed dogs with his own hands. Some of the deaths were done by hanging, wetting and electrocuting, and others. Charming. Bigger.

However, and hang on to your chair for this one, he maintained that he didn’t gamble. Uh…I guess I’m not smart enough to know the difference between providing money to go gamble and gambling.Â

But that’s not all. As it is customary in America, everything has to become a racial issue. I swear, one of these days, I’m going to paint myself black and use it as an excuse for everytime I fuck something up. Couldn’t get a job? They didn’t like me cause I’m black. Was driving like an asshole and crashed? Honda doesn’t make a car that takes into account the biology of being black. The hamburger and fries didn’t settle with my stomach? Well of course, the whites put shit in them to make us blacks vomit. I put the baby in the microwave? My mamma did it too. I didn’t know it was illegal. Â I have a pit bull chained to my front yard? I’m black.

Anyway, if a black dude hacks two white people to pieces, leaves a trail of blood to his car, but has a glove that shrunk from being soaked in the blood for too long, guess what?, he’s innocent. Even when he publishes a book called “If I Did It,” where *hypothetically* he theorizes how the murders went down if he *really* had done it, he’s cool mate.

So now, a dude has admitted to being an animal abuser, torturer and killer…but he’s black. So it’s peaches. A majority of black celebutards have come out to his defense by posing these asinine arguments:

I used to see dogs fighting in the neighborhood all the time. I didn’t know that was Fed time. So, Mike probably just didn’t read his handbook on what not to do as a black star. I think in this situation, he really didn’t know the extent of it, so I always give him the benefit of the doubt. (Jamie Foxx)

A-ha!Â Now that makes more sense.Â As it turns out the real victim here is Michael Vick.Â Because he didn’t even know executing dogsÂ was bad.Â That’s why he held the fights on his front lawn in broad daylight.Â Oh, wait, no, he didn’t.Â He held the fights at night, in barns in the woods painted pitch black with no windows or outdoor lights.Â Nothing suspicious about that.Â I guess the spiel that judges give about “ignorance of the law is no excuse” only applies to non-blacks.Â

He’s from the South, from the Deep South … This is part of his cultural upbringing. For a lot of people, dogs are sport, instead of just saying Vick is a beast and he’s a monster, this is a kid who comes from a culture where this is not questioned. (Whoopi Goldberg)

Y’allÂ might wanna rethink “well they’ve done it in the deep south for years so it’s roses” position.Â Other *cultural* things theyÂ used to do (and still do) in the deep south were:

hangings
slavery
drowning black babies
conduct unethical medical experiments (Tuskegee anyone?)
racial segregation
miscegenation
denial voting rights
unequal education
racial profilingÂ
systematic discrimination

What are your feelings on that, toots?Â Is all that cool too?Â I mean that is all part of the *cultural* upbringing of many people in the deep south. Suck on that bitches.

Michael VickÂ is a waste of DNA.Â Fuck him.

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miss teen U.S.American - JUICY UPDATE

August 26th, 2007

Q: Recent polls have shown a fifth of Americans can’t locate the U.S. on a world map. Why do you think this is?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZABeQ5vkpXMÂ

Note: If you couldn’t understand a fucking thing don’t feel bad. Intelligent people are not supposed to. Top scientists have decoded this secret language, known as babebonics, a new form of communication employed byÂ shallow alien entities to blend in withÂ humans

A: I personally believeÂ that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because uhh there are some uhh people out there in our nation that don’t have that and I believe that our education such as in South Africa and uh Iraq everywhere elseÂ like such as and I believe that uhhh they should uhhh our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S. or should help South Africa, it should help Iraq and the Asian countries so we would be able to build our future uhh for us

Mario there looks like he was saved by the bell (see what I did there?! comedic genius).Â

Hey, don’t make fun of Miss South Carolina! She is a productÂ of going to school to enjoy the recreation hour uh such as other U.S. Americans.Â

You never know, maybe she is really good atÂ showing her tits because, my friends, that’s what high school is all about.Â That and talking bad about those other bitches. And comparing jeans,Â posing, partying hard, studying the bible, and conning dad into increasing my allowance so I can get more ecstasy pills. Err I got carried away…

But above she’sÂ blonde and good looking and that’s the American dream.Â Â I’ll be damned if she shouldn’t win.

UPDATE 08/28/07 - Miss Tits & Ass went to the Today Show to clear her name. When asked the same question again, she said:

I would love to re-answer that question. Well personally, my friends and I, we know exactly where the United States is on our map. I don’t know anyone else who doesn’t. And if the statistics are correct, I believe there should be more emphasis on geography.

Which if you were reading closely still doesn’t answer the bloody question. Even after she had the whole weekend to prepare a better answer, she still couldn’t come up with the correct answer which is “because our educational system sucks ass.”

Furthermore, and in perfect alignment with my brilliant prediction, she didn’t win but she placed third runner-up. Third! According to this the one who won probablyÂ answered her question by jamming her first in her mouth. You see, is not about being smart but about who’s the biggest imbecile.

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my diabolical revenge plot

August 16th, 2007

Daydream #759

This implementÂ looks like a normal boxspring, but ifÂ I secretly replace Incubus’ queen boxspring with this one, revenge will be assured!

The incessant squeaking of this sturdy foundation will torment Incubus through the night!

With every toss and turn, the grating of metal on metal will penetrate his subconscious, conjuring dreams of fingernails on blackboards, trains careening off tracks, dentist drills, and other unimaginable horrors!

Oh, the sweet revenge I will reap when my victim enters the light of day with a tortured, haunted visage! No sleep! No happy dreams! Night after sleepless night, my evil plan will mature, slowly driving the hated one insane!!! (Insert evil laugh here).

He will have no option but to stop coming to work so he can either catch on his sleep debt on the couch or go shopping for a new boxspring…in which case the plan wouldn’t work as he’ll most likely have me go to pick out the new bed. Hmmmm…

Note to self:Â Abort.

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a literal monkey

August 15th, 2007

In his ~~continuous~~ desperate quest to pretend that he is eternally young and thus “in” with the anatomically blessed group, Incubus has taken a fondness for Valley talk. As in:

“So like I need those PowerPoint presentations hella fast,” and my favorite

“Oh my god, that cash flow schedule is off the chain. Do they really think they can be all like ‘my company is mad sick and all? Psshhh,” and let’s not leave out

“Aww mah gawd, that reporterÂ was literally smoking hot!!!”

Ugh. Unless she was perched atop a lit barbeque, this sentence is plain wrong.

“Literally” means “in a literal sense”. Dumb fuck has now taken over this word, and in his misguided efforts to sound literary (isn’t it ironic?, don’t you think?), he ends up coming across as a big buffoon.

And worse yet, he drags normally intelligent people, such as le moi,Â into the tractor beam of his Grammatical Death Star. We gots to move on, y’all.Â

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VC Adventures of the Super-Harlots Club - Installment 4

August 6th, 2007

As you know the First Harlot is with child.

So as it is to be expected I now have a sixth boss. Namely, the Succubus. Part of my days have been filled with $1000 orders for strollers, car seats, and silver rattles…Never mind that I tried to politely explain to her that silver things may burn the baby…you know…since he is the devil’s spawnÂ and all. Whatever, I’m sick of her, her million daily calls,Â and her annoying drunken raspy voice. Of course, if I didn’ need the miserable paycheck, this is what my advice to her would be like:

Don’t call and immediately ask “Who is this?” Who am I? I’m the same assistant who has answered the phone the past 8 times you’ve tried to reach him within the last hour. Who are YOU? You’re the one who is calling me. Say your name, why you are calling and if you’re polite, I may transfer you. If I feel like it.

Don’t say that I don’t need to know why you’re calling. By now you should have realized that he will only answer the phone if he knows who is calling and the reason of the call. If he doesn’t feel like dealing with you at that particularly moment, get over it.

Don’t call “to talk.” I know your friends are impressed that you’re giving sloppy blowjobs to a 40-something executive, and hey some of them led to the ultimate stay-at-home insurance, but he can’t be at your beck and call 24/7. There’s the 11:00 meeting. Then lunch. Then the 2:00 meeting. Then a meeting at 4:00 to tell the other clowns executives what happened at the 11:00 and 2:00 meetings. If he doesn’t even have time to yell at me for hanging up on you (which byt the way you swore he would), then he doesn’t have time to talk.

Don’t pester me as to why he didn’t return your 2:30pm phone call. It’s probably because he knows you’ll call again at 3:30. And he won’t return that call either.

Don’t make small talk. “How are you?” “How is your day going?” I hate this shit. You’re the 77th person who has called the office today. How am I? I’m annoyed that I had to pick up the phoneÂ 77 times only to hear people grumble about how so-and-so hasn’t returned their phone calls or e-mails. Get in line. Your message is number 31 on his voicemail. Also, I really don’t care how your day is going.

Don’t try to be my friend. There is nothing an assistantÂ detests more than someone with verbal diarrhea. “I haven’t seen him in forever. Does he still love me? We haven’t had sex in a week. Is anyone else calling his office besides me? Is he going to buy me flowers? Does he talk to you about me?” Shut the fuck up. The only thing I’m thinking about is when I can go on break because I’ve had to pee for the past 10 minutes. When you ramble I don’t listen to a single world you say.

Don’t give me your phone number and ask him to call you. I have caller ID. I know your work, house, cell phone numbers and when I see them on the caller ID, I simply groan, “I hate it when this idiot calls.”

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Smartassery

it doesn’t matter how you get there, as long as you get there

acquired taste

I’m changing over to Peet’s, they make real coffee

VC Adventures of the Super-Harlots Club - Installment 5

some things never change

in the deep south

miss teen U.S.American - JUICY UPDATE

my diabolical revenge plot

a literal monkey

VC Adventures of the Super-Harlots Club - Installment 4

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