Tuesday, August 01, 2006


Pissed-off rant from earlier today:

What is it about a bad haircut that just fucking RUINS your day?

I thought I was going to be giving this rookie stylist a break by giving her a shot at her future profession. I mean, I would THINK that I would be one of her easiest customers, seeing as how my freakin’ HAT covers my head for most of the day. But no. She forgets to manicure the one part of my head that the hat CANNOT shield from a golfers’ eyes: the lower portion of the back of my head.

As a hair stylist, I think you have some options available to you. You can go straight across, you can rat-tail it, or you can leave a “W”-like pattern and consider yourself a fucking traditionalist. After using an attachment (analogous to fucking TRAINING WHEELS), you need only to use one of those little buzzer thingy’s and finish the job.

I mean, she did remember to trim my sideburns. I’ll give the little bitch that.

On my way out, one of the anxious, twitching Korean stylists finally decided to speak up: “Uh, sir, you happy with the back of your head?”

“Yes, why do you ask little anxious twitching Korean woman?”

“I just wanted to make sure.”

Didn’t really know what she was talking about until I just happened to be walking by a mirror and saw the horror that IS the back of my head. Yes. The fucking little newbie bitch-ho decided to slack. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she’s just retarded. Or BO-tarded. Whichever is worse.

Now I’m sitting here in Starbucks wasting my money on Iced Mocha Venti thingy’s, leaning against the back wall so as not to make all the little women and children faint at the sight of my head while trying to spend more money on the internet connection because I’m a complete and utter jackass.

Oh, and that Venti drink? Yeah. I just spilled it on myself.

A little prayer before bedtime:

I’m currently lying in the fetal position praying to the God of Beano to make the gas stop. If the pilot light on the nearby water heater decides to finally spark, I don’t think I will survive the night. And neither will the 20-30 people living within a 2-3 house radius.

I mean seriously: who farts consistently for four straight hours? Do I have a medical condition? I’ve never had this much trouble with Mexican food. I guess an ill-timed diet of beans can do all sorts of crazy things. I think I almost had an ASTHMA attack just then. I haven’t had any problems with my asthma since the counselors at “Camp Superkids” taught me how to use my breathing to help keep my lungs under control. I guess it has been too long since then and I have forgotten my rigorous Jedi training.

So, God? I know I smoke crack. Okay, a lot of crack. And I know I did have some ho’s for a while that I DID in fact pimp out for money. But I’m a good shit. I don’t deserve to die this way. Like…you remember that one Zookeeper in the Darwin Awards who was massaging the elephant’s butt-hole? You felt it was appropriate to allow that elephant to relieve himself and kill that poor Zookeeper, burying him in over a ton of elephant shit. If that poor bastard isn’t getting blown by Marylin Monroe right now I will know, quite emphatically, that you do not exist and that I should convert to Taoism. But please don’t make me do that. I mean, maybe the guy was molesting his nephew and deserved to die in that fashion. I mean who am I to judge?

Wait, so where was I?

Oh yeah. God? Please disable any and all electrical devices in the house this evening that might spark and blow up the neighborhood. Those poor families. Leave them out of it. It’s me you want.

1 comment:

Kiwi said...

yeah i went out with a trainee hair stylist for a couple of years . I'm telling ya i was a walking experiment and invested in a lot of hats