Archive for the ‘Winners’ Category

Mr. Brady,Was that you I saw getting ready to pass out (surprise, surprise!) in a bar? It brought back quite a few delightful memories and I’d like to share them with you, as I’m sure you don’t remember –what with your constant drunkenness (how DID you manage so often to be intoxicated around school-aged children without notice? Do Tell.)

I am a lover of English, and I feel like your love of the sauce is the only reasonable explanation for the things you did as my 8th and 9th grade English teacher.

I wonder if your hazy memory might recall the time that you actually dribbled in your pants a little whilst screaming at the top of your lungs– I think because someone had belched under their breath during your recap of the previous night‘s Chicago Bears game. You were so adorably worked up that your scarlet face actually highlighted the broken blood vessels all around your nose.

Anyway, you always wore very tight sweatpants to school and I vividly recall a large wet spot appearing in the general vicinity of your “junk”. We sure did love that full-on-leave-nothing-to-the-imagination view of your “junk”.

I believe this was sometime shortly before you, in the midst of a defaced chalkboard-related tantrum, shoved a TV-VCR combo down the stairs and STILL managed to retain your teaching position! Remarkable. I think St. Patrick’s Day (on which you made little or NO effort to conceal your intoxication, up to and including ACTUALLY hitting on some of the female students) was my favorite though. That’s the day you became SO enraged at someone’s suggestion that St. Patrick’s Day was created by the Lucky Charms Leprechaun– you actually fell to the floor and had a seizure!

Thank you so much Mr. Brady, for igniting my passion for the language–and especially for making ALL reading material sports related, because I don’t know what I would have done had I never had the privilege of reading “Brian’s Song” 3 times in two years (you silly, forgetful man you!).

Much Love,
The Very Traumatized Girl In the Front Row


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Amy, goddess of decisiveness. 

I have had this conversation or one almost identical more times than Scott Stapp has been called a douche, and if I have to have it again my head may explode. I have had this conversation with ex-boyfriends, first dates, workplace lunch pals, friends, and brothers. I am officially taking a stand and refusing to participate ever again.

Me: So, where do you want to eat?
Other Person: Um, I don’t care, wherever…
Me: Chipotle?
Other Person: No, I hate Mexican.
Me: So, El Vacero is out too?
Other Person: Yea.
Me: Subway?
Other Person: No, I had a sandwich for dinner last night.
Me: House of Japan?
Other Person: Too expensive.
Me: City BBQ?
Other Person: Gross!
Me: Chick Filet?
Other Person: I don’t go there on principal remember?
Me: Oh yea, they put that church flyer in your bag that one time. Hummm… BW3?
Other Person: No, I’m boycotting them.
Me: Okay, so McDonalds again?
Other Person: Sure!

If anyone ever asks you where do you want to eat and you say “I don’t care” you relinquish all veto rights when a suggestion is made!

Rantasaurus Says: Yeah dude, wherever you want. Oh. Actually. You know what? I’m thinkin’ delicious Arby’s. No. I don’t want to go anywhere else. Actually, shit. I had Arby’s a few days ago. How about… oh. I think I actually have to meet my Mom for dinner anyways.

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Catherinette Singleton, TWO TIME RANTSPLOSION WINNER! Stop it, you minx!

I live in a nice little house, in a nice little neighborhood, next door to a family that belongs in a van down by the river. At first, I thought them merely a little off, now, I want to beat them with hammers whenever I see or hear them. And it seems to me that I hear them more often than I see them. It’s gotten so bad that I can’t stand being outside when they’re around. If I’m in my backyard and see any of them come outside, I immediately run back inside under the pretense of having to go do something really important – like stick my head in the oven or throw myself down the stairs. Let me introduce you to these upstanding members of the community:

The Single Mother (who we shall call Ms. Travesty): is a recovering alcoholic, recovering drug addict, and full-time nurse. Ms. Travesty enjoys wearing light colored blue jeans and stained white shirts. She’s in her mid 50’s and has an 8 year old daughter – she met the father in AA meetings (he’s on methadone). When she’s not picking up single bachelors from her AA meetings, she’s calling the cops to have them dragged out of the house, and/or trying to tell me stories about how she’s gained weight.

My favorite story about Ms. Travesty happened last summer: she had met this real winner and had been dating him for about 6 weeks. Mr. Winner had no job, no driver’s license and had pretty much moved into her house. Suddenly, they start fighting like cats and dogs. On a Tuesday afternoon, I was sitting in my den watching TV, when I noticed that there were 3 cop cars parked outside my house. I immediately called my friends and family to share the drama that was unfolding. 20 minutes later, out comes Mr. Winner in a pair of handcuffs, his cut off jean shorts, and the dirty white wife beater. It was just like being on an episode of Cops! The officers put him in the back of the cop car, and then he started yelling all sorts of crazy stuff. Since then, I have tried my best to avoid Ms. Travesty at all costs. It’s gotten to the point that when I see her standing in her driveway, I whip out my cell phone and pretend to be on a very important phone call. This ploy seems to work pretty well, I highly recommend it to you.

The Daughter (who we shall call Little Tragedy): at one point I thought she was cute, now she makes me want to kick her when I see her. She and all her little friends love playing in the neighborhood. That’s all well and good, but why must they do it on my front lawn? Don’t they hear my dog going nuts in the house? Seriously, I’m surprised that my dog hasn’t jumped out the window and eaten her and her little friends. My dog, a St. Bernard, loathes and despises her. I know this because he decided to biter her one day, twice. It was not a pretty scene, though it was an extremely effective way to ensure Little Tragedy never came into my house again.

She used to drop by my house all the time, when she was hungry and her mother had left her alone with her grandfather – who would pass out on the couch and not even realize that she had left the house. As Little Tragedy has grown up, I’ve noticed her imminent progression into soon-to-be-school-hussy. What 8 year old do you know that wears cropped tops and glitter eye shadow? It’s sad to Little Tragedy her go down this road, but I know she’ll end up pleasing the boys in the men’s’ room sometime really soon.

The Dogs (lovingly referred to as the Hounds of Hell): I hate them with a passion that burns to my very core. I wouldn’t hate them so much, but Ms. Travesty thinks it’s a good idea to let them out at 4:00 in the morning. Fine, release the Hounds of Hell, but please let them back in when they start barking. Oh no, not Ms. Travesty. Instead, the Hounds of Hell bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, for 2 hours straight, directly underneath my bedroom window. What’s really super is that sometimes she lets the Hounds of Hell out right when I’m attempting to go to sleep. There seems to be no limit to her disregard for her neighbors.

I hate you Ms. Travesty, I really do.

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Dear DS,

Could you please give this unrequited stalking thing a rest?

Informing one of our (in)subordinates that I was acting like a slut while taking orders from Dr. X was beyond the pale. I’m lost at how reporting a fall and verifying new insulin dosages was slutty, but you were there, so I guess you can clue me in later on…

I know you dig this guy, but the desire to eviscerate anyone he talks to is not healthy.

You don’t have anything to worry about from me–I’m just not into a doctor who looks like he could be in my gene pool (more on that later) and wears grey athletic socks with a suit. I guess I don’t have your highly developed taste. Before you sharpen that axe and drive to my house to decapitate my dog, I’m not “dogging” your Beloved.

I’m just trying to point out we’re not all interested in him. To that end, I’d like to give some hints to get your guy and ease our working relationship.

Some tips to win your man:

  1. Don’t share all the family inbreeding with him. I know in this county it’s cool to be kin, but speaking as an outsider–it’s warped.
  2. Don’t tell him you haven’t had sex in 10+ years. And when you do finally make it with one of your internet buddies—don’t tell him that either.
  3. Post-its are meant for paper, not for sticking to other humans in a sad attempt to flirt.
  4. Don’t brag you’re a 4x and can eat 4 corn dogs unless you’re with your girlfriends. It kind of leads to “corn fed” jokes. (Not that I’ve told any at your expense. Ok, I did once, but it was after you said I might as well have been pole dancing while I was reading accu-check results to Dr. X.)
  5. Finally, and most importantly, don’t seem homicidal. Also–don’t act desperate. If you can’t get rid of the “Take me, break me, make me a woman” attitude around Dr. X, the only way you’re going to get him is bound and gagged with a tourniquet around his nether regions to facilitate procreation.

I hope this helps set things straight between us and you can quit driving by my house at all hours. It’d also be nice if you’d quit calling me “That doctor chasing heifer bitch”, but I know that may be asking a lot at this stage of our healing…

Your fellow nurse,

Brown Haired Heifer #2

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Congratulations. Watch the video to learn the winner of this Rantsplosion and hear the hilarious rant, read by our own very talented Rantoceros.

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Catherinette Singleton, besieged on the beach

How do I begin to explain the horror that was my family trip to Florida 3 years ago. My father and step mother thought it would be grand if we could all go down there and spend some time bonding as a family.

Let me just give you a few phrases to provide you a brief description:

  1. 1. The smell that hit us when we walked into the house where I would be staying.
  2. The disgusting toilet I had to clean with a washcloth and bar soap because no one had bothered to do it before I arrived.
  3. Random children all over the house, adding to the smell.
  4. Having to watch the birth (via Cesarean section) of a child I did not know.
  5. My step-mother’s racist father that insisted that Mexicans only eat goat and tortilla. Didn’t seem to bother him that I was Mexican, and insisted that it wasn’t the case.
  6. My step-mother’s crazy mother breaking out into song, and insulting one of her daughters. Wonderful comments included, but were not limited to: “Fatty fatty 2 by 4, can’t get through the kitchen door,” “My god. I didn’t think they made swimsuits in your size,” and “I don’t think that chair can take all of your weight.”
  7. And let us not forget the convicted felon that had just been released? What was his crime? No one would tell us. All they would say is, “Best keep your little one away from him.”

Classy, classy trip. Just thinking about it makes me want to bang my head on my desk and weep openly.

Rantasaurus Rex: I know. When I went to Florida, I ate lobster, drank wine and sunbathed luxuriously, too. Wait, I think I missed the point of your story.

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RantyRex, contributor extraordinaire

Yes, I admit it, I work for the local government (county job and no, I don’t hold a shovel on the side of the road). Have you heard about the lazy and “take advantage of the system” attitudes people have in government work? Because if you have, it’s all TRUE!

I work with men and women (if you can call them that), that are never to work on time. They clock in (fingerprint scanners), then walk back out across the street to get Starbucks and donuts and come back 30 minutes later. Yes, eating and drinking on taxpayer’s money.

At 0830 it’s off to the races to see who can pawn their work off on someone else the fastest before the bosses come in. Did I say “bosses?” Now there is a useless position of authority. I should say “overpaid babysitters” instead. I think each department could let the supervisors and managers go and it would all run just fine.

Sick leave….OMG. It’s a weekly epidemic of so many different “I’m not feeling well” scenarios. I’ve never seen so many sick people come back with tans and smelling like fishing bait in my life. I admit I have used sick leave, but I’m actually sick! Yet I’m sure nobody believes it because I don’t smell like bait from an all-day fishing expedition.

Let’s move on to the “disabling carpal tunnel syndrome or stub your toe at work and claim workman’s comp” people….there is one person here with over 30 (yes 30) workman’s comp claims in 20 years. In a department of 30 people, 12 are out on workman’s comp.

Do I hate my job? No, not really. Why would I hate such a precious source of amusement? I get a kick out of seeing what’s going to happen next here.

This week, I worked all by myself because everyone in my little group called in sick, had a flat tire, or their kids got eaten by a dog. I’ve heard every excuse in the book and some that aren’t in any book on the planet. Sick leave is mandatory around here. You better use it or else you get looked down upon by all the other sickos. I love it!

Wait till I get rolling on part 2!

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