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Dear Honey,

I know you want to treat me special, and apparently this means that we have to go out this suggestion”on the town” and have dinner in a restaurant every once in a while. I truly believe that sucks. And you don’t seem to understand that.

Why? There are so many good reasons:

I was a waitress for years and years and years. If I never step foot in another restaurant again, I would be fine. I know what the kitchens of those places look like. I know that most restaurants hire 15 year old kids or retards to wash their dishes (which is just gross). I know that the wait staff doesn’t give a fuck about either of us and would be happy if we died at the table (after paying the bill, or at least dropping our wallets from our cold dead hands). Do I want to be subjected to that? NO.

Further, if I ever do say, “ok honey, fine, let’s go out to eat,” then that’s only the beginning of a world of misery. Where do I want to go? Truly, I want to stay at home… so YOU pick the damn restaurant. And no, I don’t want to spend a crap-ton of money on steak and potatoes. You know I prefer salads.

Every time we have this discussion we end up pissed off at each other, and it has ruined more than one nice night on the town. Remember sitting in Hardee’s after a hard night of indecision? No? Let me remind you. I was crying and you were ranting on and on about how the fast-food workers should get off the phone and take your order. The food was horrible, and the company worse. That was a night that will live on in my memory forever. Is this a nice night on the town for me? Or for you? Don’t you have any male friends you can eat steak and drink beer with? Why do I have to be involved at all?

Really, if you want to do something nice for me, don’t drag me to a god-forsaken restaurant. Go grocery shopping, cook a nice meal, and then wash the dishes afterwards. You really are a good cook, even if you have to use every dish in the kitchen to make spaghetti.

Love,
Me

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Stephanie, not an Oprah fan, I’d take it

Was it really necessary to cry for three days when I shaved my head at age 17? Did you have to be all dramatic when every I expressed a teeny, tiny individual impulse? Well, screw that I guess. I learned how to hide my freak flag. It is a skill that serves me well.

And to this day, you still don’t understand me. You don’t know my hopes and dreams. Heck, you don’t even know my goddamn JOB! You truly suck because of this. And I know I should be all, ‘you did the best you could’ and all ‘Oprah vagina forgiveness’ about it. But, no. I still think it sucks when you can’t get your self past the tattoos to see the glory of me. Dumbass.

But lets try a tiny step here. I am NOT a physicians assistant. I am a PSYCHIATRIC NURSE PRACTITIONER.

Big difference between the two. Just like us.

I still love you though. Your grand-kids love you more. See you next week.

Rantasaurus Says: Steph, I get you. I get you. When Mr. Perfect Dumb Billasaurus was off stomping skulls and making Mamasaurus proud, I was reading in the corner, learning Milton, Thoreau. Who do you think got the Caveasaurus when Mama passed away?

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To the newly-preggers new employee,

You must think that everyone in this office is a complete idiot. We all know the gestation period for a human fetus and can all do the math. We all know that you got knocked up the same week you started working here. Batting your eyelashes and acting “suprised” about the result of your stupidity isn’t going to wash, especially with the poor sucker who has to find a replacement for you while you ride the government dime.

Creative Freakin’ Genius-a-saurus 

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Dear MySpace world,

I am posting this because I am absolutely disgusted, and I believe that you should know. I don’t care if you think I’m a terrible person, but I think that this is absolutely horrible.

I saw a bulletin headed “girl raped in [my city]….” and was instantly worried. Was it true? Of course it must be. Why would someone post such a horrible lie? Was it someone I knew? Even worse–what if it was a friend?

I opened the bulletin, and to my dismay, was confronted with a story I had seen before (very likely fictional) about a young girl named Diane who is saved from being raped because she prayed to God. Unfortunately, the woman following twenty minutes after Diane was apparently not quite as pious and was brutally raped. Next comes the tale of how Diane was inspired by the grace of God to go to the police station and identified the man that would have raped her, had God not been on her side.

At the end of the story comes a message:

“Amazingly, whether you believe or not, you’re never alone. Did you know that 98% of teenagers will not stand up for God?

Repost this as A GIRL RAPED IN (your city) if you truly believe in God..,

PS: God is always there in your heart and loves you no matter what
“If you deny me in front of your friends, I shall deny you in front of my Father”
STAND UP FOR HIM

93% won’t repost this.”

I highly doubt those are factual statistics, and if they are, you know WHY? Because most people have a sense of decency. Rape is not something to joke or make glib bulletins about.

To everyone who read it and found the story in the message inspirational, good for you. More power to you, I have no issue with a message that many people may find uplifting.

But to anyone stupid enough to repost this under that Subject heading…shame on you. I don’t personally know anyone who’s been raped, but I at least have enough common sense and empathy not to post a bulletin that is so blatantly insensitive.

Tyree

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Joe Drinker, hanging like meat in a bucher shop 

Way back when I was in High School, my church youth group went on a “missions” trip to Jamaica. Some missions marketing genius finally figured out that if you want people to pony up a ton of their own money to fly around the world with you to build houses in the jungle, there had better be some perks included. Hence, Jamaica. Two weeks of work, with time off for touristy stuff. Count me in!

Now, despite the fact that this was, as I said, a church group, it was, more importantly, a group of high schoolers. High schoolers with raging hormones, senses piqued in anticipation, going to be further away from our families than any of us had ever been before. Yes, some good would come out of this trip, but, ah, not the kind you can print in the brochure.

In the airport, when we first arrived, my buddy and I did what the rest of the guys did: we scoped out the co-eds who would be accompanying the group, and there were many. This is going to be great. As soon as I saw her, I was a goner: tall, with long brown hair, big brown eyes, a crazy tan, the cute baby-doll face – I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was speechless.

On the first flight, fate dealt me a cruel blow by putting her seat way up towards the front of the plane, in what seemed to be the “beauty queen” section, while my friend and I were seated towards the back of the plane, near the lavatory. Bad for me, but good for my friend, because he didn’t seem to get along too well with air travel. Flying from Phoenix to Chicago to Florida, around Cuba (don’t want to get shot down), and on to Kingston, Jamaica, not once was I anywhere near the girl of my dreams. People around me must have thought I was super-spiritual with all the praying I was doing, but truth be told, I was really counting on a force greater than myself to orchestrate the meeting, falling in love, staying in Jamaica forever plan. Because I was incredibly shy, unless I was going to be seated next to her by an outside mandate I probably would never speak to her.

And I didn’t. For over a week, even though I was continually in her group as we went out in teams into the jungle to do, uh, whatever it was that we were supposed to be doing, I went along with her. And about 12 other people, but still, I’ll take what I can get.

Then, finally, one of the much-anticipated days off. In the Caribbean. This is the place where people come to honeymoon – love is all around us, flowing like, um, well, you get the point. It just couldn’t get any better than this. The planets had aligned. I made my move.

I worked up the courage to talk to her for a little bit at Montego Bay, and then when the group headed over to Dunn’s River Falls, we talked and walked together. By this time I was infatuated. We got to the falls, and, being the gentleman that I am, I held her hand, leading her up the slick rocks. It just got better and better. After several hours, we loaded the bus and we all drove into Kingston searching for food. It didn’t take long – real high school food straight ahead: Burger King!

We walked inside together, and when we got in line, she moved up a bit to giggle with some of her friends, and my buddy came up from the end of the line to talk to me. This must have been the only fast-food place in the city, because it was hopping. While standing there, I started to get really cold, but I thought it was just because this was the first air conditioning I’d felt in ten days, but something just wasn’t right – a draft, brushing me someplace it shouldn’t. Not wanting to make a scene, I ask my friend if I had a tear or something in the back of my swim trunks, he immediately begins shrieking in laughter. Not just a good hearty chuckle, but an all-out, hyperventilating uproar, complete with pointing. Not a good sign. Once he can breathe, he suggests that I may want to head to the restroom to fix the issue with my shorts.

Once in the restroom, I undo the drawstring and the shorts basically turn into chaps and fall off. Somehow, I managed to rip the seam from the waistband in back all the way between my legs to the bottom of the fly in front, effectively creating a peep show with every step. These shorts weren’t the kind with the netting failsafe netting sewn into them either. I was humiliated.

“Hello beautiful stranger. I’ll be your escort through this romantic hideaway. I’ve worn my special crotchless shorts for the occasion. Enjoy the view.”

The second week there was spent avoiding her and her friends, and since there was no way that the rest of the team wasn’t going to hear about it, I was shunned. An outcast, I spent most of my remaining time with the locals. I even found a few who hadn’t heard about my “incident,” and they let me hang out with them during our free times.

And that, friends, is how I learned to play cricket.

Rantasaurus Says: See, that’s the problem with your human clothing. I walk around with no pants on, like Donald Duck. I lay it all out there and wait for the ladies to come a-knockin’. Not too many ladies so far but… um… nevermind.

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Dear ______,

I tried my best to like you despite the fact that I was warned that you were a terrible person. For some reason I just couldn’t believe that what I heard was true. Even when those closest to me told me the things that you said and did I continued to believe that you were just misunderstood. I was wrong, you suck.

I’ve followed your dating drama with special interest and I’ve finally come to the conclusion I should have reached a long time ago. The problem right in your mirror. YOU are the problem, not the multitude of men you’ve gone on one or two dates with. You are shallow, boring and not very attractive inside or outside and yet the other people keep giving you the old “Forget about Him” and “His Loss” every time a guy says he’s rather fuck a donkey than see you again.

I’ll say it again…the problem is you. The only solution to your problem is to get realistic and either embrace celibacy (which you have probably done unwillingly) or latch on to the first guy dumb enough to overlook your obvious faults…go home with him and marry him because nobody else is knocking those Payless boots of yours. You could also realize that marriage and children don’t define a person but that’s about as likely to happen as you winning a beauty pageant.

Thanks,

Will

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Jeff, your friendly neighborhood dealer

Please indulge me for a few minutes as I’m going to try and make your next trip to Las Vegas a much easier experience. I was born and raised in L.A. but I moved to Vegas in 1992 and became a casino dealer. I primarily deal 21, Roulette, and Pai Gow Poker. I also deal Let it Ride, Caribbean Stud Poker and 3 Card Poker.

In my fifteen years as a dealer I have grown weary of all the usual complaints from the average tourist – many of which are not the fault of the tourist. This is no accident on the part of casino management. Everything in Vegas…EVERYTHING IN VEGAS is designed for only one purpose…ONLY ONE PURPOSE – to take every dollar you have in your wallet, your bank account, your kids’ college fund, you house payment, car payment and whatever you have hidden in that coffee can in your closet.

This may sound redundant since most people already realize this, but
do you realize to what degree the House (the casino) goes to guarantee their win?

In this informative and hopefully enjoyable multi-part Rantasaurus Mini-Series I will do my best to dispel all the usual myths, misconceptions, and legends that surround Las Vegas gaming, due in part to movies, television, and those “Professional Gamblers” the Travel Channel hires to bullshit you.

As I do it, please be advised of one thing: Whether or not you (or I) think it’s a question of right or wrong, good or bad, fair or unfair, you must understand that casino management doesn’t care what you or I think – it’s simply THE WAY IT WORKS IN LAS VEGAS.

The rules and procedures are in stone and there is no grey area, as this is the most “Black and White” place you will ever see. There are winners and there are losers, period. The casino concerns itself with NOTHING ELSE. The sooner people realize this, the happier you’ll be when you’re walking the length of The Strip in the middle of August when it’s 118 degrees in the shade weeping about their upcoming home foreclosure…

My first two points reference a lack of customer service in Vegas. If you are the kind of person who enjoys Top Drawer Customer Service on your vacations, and you are the typical hard working member of the “Working Class” who lives on a budget without money to burn, do not come to Las Vegas because you will be kicked in the teeth. In Vegas you are not a customer. You are not a guest. You are player, a gambler, a MARK.

After you make that long, boring drive on Friday night and you walk into a busy casino expecting the staff to be at your beck and call, you have watched too many re-runs of The Love Boat. A casino is not a cruise ship nor is it that all inclusive resort you stayed at in Cabo last year – and it’s certainly not Fantasy Island where there is “Smiles everyone, smiles!”

1) Customer service here will not find you – you will have to search it out because there are fifty thousand other people trying to accomplish the very same thing at exactly the same time. For every ten frowns you will find a smile. Ask that employee what his/her schedule is and stick with them.

Ever since Corporate America invaded Las Vegas, the typical casino staff has been cut down to a minimum and this is the number one reason why you WILL WAIT. Many employees are on the “Extra Board” which means it’s possible they work six day weeks, back to back. People tend to get tired and cranky as they’re working twelve straight days.

2) Just because the cocktail waitresses wear those tight, revealing, sexy outfits it doesn’t mean they are whores, strippers or will provide you with a lap dance. In many cases they are hard working parents with kids to feed just like you and they don’t appreciate inappropriate comments, mindless come-on’s or a well placed pinch. If you plan on parking yourself at a gaming table or a slot/video poker machine and will be ordering drinks, keep one very important thing in mind: YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY PERSON DRINKING.

When a single waitress is handling one whole side of the pit or an entire section of machines, YOU WILL WAIT. After taking fifty drink orders she will then battle her way through the crowd to the service bar. She will wait behind the five other girls ahead of her while the ONE BARTENDER fills everyone’s orders. After you have been waiting twenty thirsty minutes do not ask the dealer “WHERE THE HELL IS THAT FREAKIN’ WAITRESS??” because you will not like the answer. Unless she is a mean spirited bitch, it means she is waiting for your drink to be made among the other two hundred.

In upcoming rants, I will address gambling procedures, tipping etiquette, card counting, shuffle tracking, myths about Nevada law and other important things you need to know about Vegas. Don’t be shy – feel free to leave any comments you want and ask any questions you have. I will be honest and very candid with my answers. I feel very strongly about this because I’ve seen too many people have a very bad time in Las Vegas.

Rantasaurus Says: Now, I’m not one to argue but… but… can’t I just give that waitress one little pinch? For good luck? I hear it’s all about luck in Vegas.

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