You Might Be Eligible for "Dumb Tourist of the Week" Award If...

... you can not figure out the intricacies of Rome's metro (ie underground).

Look people, I know I suffer from Tourist Fatigue and readily admit I am a misanthropic bitch 99% of the time. But if you can not determine how to use the Rome Metro, I doubt you can find your arse from your head.

It's two lines, people. Two. Linea A & Linea B, which in English means 'Line A' and 'Line B'. The clearly marked Linea A & Linea B coincide at exactly one stop - Termini.

Termini is also the main train station Scratch that - I wouldn't want to confuse you.

If you have to ask me at the turnstiles how to get to 'Spag-na' with the fucking stops being outlined clearly before you just beyond the turnstiles, don't be surprised if I rip the shitty new yellow ticket machines off it's perch and use it to brain you beat the everliving shit out of you.

One can't very well brain a creature that is missing one.

Back in the USSRUSA

Home for the holidays does not apply here. Home is Rome, ergo I ain't at home right now. But a visit to see the fam was in order, if only to ensure my continued presence in my parents' wills (yo, I'm joking sis)

Let me just say that it's no fucking wonder why Delta is on the verge of bankruptcy. 1.5 meals with no free wine on a 10 hour flight is not my idea of service. The plane hadn't even been retrofitted with those nifty headrest TVs. And when the cost of alcohol is not adjusted for various currencies, it tends to piss me off. Four dollars DOES NOT equal four Euros, you greedy, grasping little fucks.

Add to that the eternal joy to be found in a 15 minute late arrival, watching one cart of the flight's luggage arrive, waiting twenty minutes for your bag to be unloaded so that you may proceed through customs to recheck your bag domestically, and then sprinting to the other fucking end of the airport so that you can make your connecting flight with literally 3 minutes to spare and you have a customerformer customer who will be frolicking on your corporate grave when you finally go tits up.

I'm not even going to describe my infinite loathing for the Department of Homeland Security posters at border control.

If there was any question as to why I hate people in general...

...this comment on MeFi illustrates it perfectly. It looks like the Kill-Them-Ragheads-They-Hate-Our-Freedom and It's-Adam-and-Eve-Not-Adam-and-Steve Retards have just royally fucked over our country. Way to simultaneously send a big ol' "Fuck You" to the rest of the world at large and ensure the economy continues it's journey to the sewers.

I wonder if I can declare refugee status....

Currently Chafing Like a Sandpaper Condom:

1) Conjunctivitis
2) The slight vertigo resulting from wearing my glasses due to #1
3) The appearance and subsequent abuse of panini in North American vernicular. As in:

"I had a pesto and sprout panini today"

No, you didn't. Either you had A panino or you were a stereotypical fat-assed American and had more than one panini.

For this idiocy, I would hazard a guess we have the same corporate asstards who brought you venti, grande, latte and frappucino to thank.

(Yes, asstards. As in Tards of the Ass. Corporate asstard fucks aren't the only ones who can make up new words. Frappucino? Asstard. Venti latte? Shitpulling staplemonkey. See?)

100% Pure Beef Patties...

...using only the finest Sacred Cows

Drop the fucking martyr act, America.

Thursday's Woes

10.00 - I go to my place of work to meet BG and Fucking Possessive Jealous French Canadian Leech from Hell so that we can trek off to IKEA as arranged the previous night. Fucking Possessive Jealous French Canadian Leech from Hell is tagging along because he will be driving the rental truck and we needed some testosterone to lug large objects around. Curly couldn't make it due to Larry being a cuntrag and refusing to switch shifts.

10.30 - They finally show up.

10.35 - mandatory cappuccino infusion.

10.45 - Our Really Cool Boss (Please Ignore His Family) pulls his world famous flapjack routine; one minute he's going to give us the company credit card, the next a second party check, the next a second party company check.

11.00 - We call IKEA's info line to double check on requirements for second party checks. The operator informs us that we need a copy of ORCB(PIHF)'s identification, his tax number, and a signed statement of consent. He hands us a blank check.

11.10 - BG asks me "So how are we getting there?" Apparently the battery in her car is shot to shit. Public transport it is.

11.15 - We purchase metro tickets and hop onto the humid, foetid Linea A, settling in for a long ride to the last stop at Anagnina.

11.16 - I immediately kick myself for not having a camera on me to document the first time (and last, I suspect) I have ever seen BG riding public transportation in Rome.

11.40 - We arrive at Anagnina and bumble about looking for the fecking IKEA shuttle bus. Upon asking a public bus driver where the pick-up point is, he informs us we just missed one, but we could take the 507.

11.45 - We get off the 507 at the rear of IKEA and realise that we have to walk all the way around to the front as they have a fucking fence surrounding everything. The good news is that there's a nice brisk wind blowing. The bad news is that it's blow sand from a construction site into our eyes, despite the sunglasses.

12.00 - We enter IKEA. First stop: another cappuccino. And something to eat.

12.05 - Second stop: bathroom

Mondays Can Bite My (Currently) Lilly White Ass

As if Mondays in general don't suck enough anyway...

The Room

The room I rent is very very close to my place of work, which is handy as I have a tendency to hit the snooze button 50 times a morning. I've been living at this place for over 3 years now. The flat is inhabited by a Romanian couple (also co-workers of mine, thanks to me switching to my current place of employment 2 years ago) and life-long bachelor Mr. Pervy Bear, thusly nicknamed as he resembles a bear and is a bit of a perv.

Google Toolbar Induces Projectile Vomiting

My Google toolbar has decorated itself for Valentine's Day. Hurl. Where's the "I'm Feeling Like Slowly Torturing That Fat Diaper Wearing Fuck With the Heart Tipped Arrows" button?

addendum or however the fuck you spell it: I think the referrals from ask.com are trying to tell me something:

"what does it mean when girls get wet?"

A) It's raining.
B) She's about to throw you on your back and ride you like an epileptic being electrocuted on the mechanical ponies outside Walmart.

Pick one.

Things I will Never Understand #1001

When a person does something that they know you most likely won't approve of, tells you all about it, and then ends the confession with "I had to tell you or else I wouldn't be able to look you in the eye any more".

What the fuck is this logic?!

Knowing that you have the choice of:

A) Engaging in said activity, knowing that at the very least I don't approve and more likely will commence activities of my own that will be detrimental to your mental and physical health.

or B) Just saying no

if you really give two shits about my opinion of things, why choose guilt-inducing A? Why value my opinion if you're going to do it anyway? What is this fucking pat-on-the-back tack-on of "Well, I did X which I know you reaalllly don't like, but now that I've told you, the guilt weighing on my karma has been negated by my honesty and I can look you in the eye now with a clear conscience."

The only thing you are going to be looking in the eye is my fist, motherfucker. Why?

Because honesty is not some fucking "Get Out Of Jail Free" card for the consequences of your actions. Nice try, but pedal that crack somewhere else 'cause I ain't smoking.

Snippets

*I want a soundtrack to my life. Barring that a big strapping Negro fellow following me around with boom box. Or an iPod with speakers. Whatever. I just want music following my every move, so that I won't just be some spaz who starts waltzing down the street to the music in my head.

*Why a big strapping Negro fellow? Well, are you going to fuck with a chick who has a big strapping Negro fellow following her around with a boom box? I thought not.

*I hate the Euro. Everything has doubled in price. Excepting of course, my salary.

*Above thought prompted by the discovery that floor tickets for Ani Di Franco tomorrow night are 30 fucking Euros. 60,000 Lire. 60 bucks old skool money for Ani Di.

*And I'm going anyway. By myself. How's that for loserville?

*The sector of tourism that I work in is not only fucking incestuous in terms of competition, it's also rife with copycats. Case in point? The new websites I did. There are already three -count 'em - THREE other places that have flat out stolen the text I did for our sites. Can we say "copyright infringement notice"? I thought we could.

*In other Evil Webmistress related news, I take perverse pleasure in redirecting certain people *cough*oldwebmasters*cough* to a special 404 page when they try to look for a way in to the admin side. One that says "The page you are looking for IS NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS. Thanks for logging your IP with us. Have a Nice Day."

That's fairly nice. Little script kiddies and spammers looking to exploit formmail get sent to Tubgirl (don't go googling for that unless you really really really feel the urge to scrub your eyeballs with steel wool and Clorox.)

Decisions Decisions Decisions

Spring is um, springing and layers of clothes are peeling off. Cue surging hormones.

My best girl friend and I were trying to figure out exactly how long we've been in bianca (ie secondary virgins) the other day. She was around the 6 month mark. I outdid her by an additional 4 months.

10 months of no nookie. No wonder why my right forearm muscles are more developed than the left. Christ. I wonder how many batteries I've gone through since then. Enough to power a small city?

Meh. What's a picky monogamous nymphomaniac to do? Lower my standards? It's not as if I have this huge conscious list of "Requirements to Date Me", like "Must be earning 6 figures and drive a bitchin' car" or "Mensa IQ required" or "Those hung like cocktail weiners need not apply"

Cocktease

Because I can. Neener Neener.

If you bore me, I will play with you for my own enjoyment. If you didn't get the hint the first few times around and you continue to drool in my near vicinity, I will pick up the puppet strings and make you dance. My pants are tight, the belly is bared, the cleavage is in full effect, and I grow bored. I smile - you twitch. I dance - you twitch. I look up at you from underneath my eyelashes - you twitch. I insult you then laugh - you twitch. I walk towards the bathrooms - twitch twitch twitch. It's a tango of body language and you don't know the rhythm. I've got 17 years of training my body to speak in millions of voices without ever saying a word. I know exactly what you want and I can make you think the carrot is in your reach, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, but you'll always go forward. I don't even have to touch you. But this game I play grows easier as it continues and I am bored once again.

Game over. You lose.

Old Rant

This might look familiar to a few. Slightly edited.

Prozac Popping, Whinging, Pop-Culture Sniffing Dipshits

or

Holy Shit, You People Are Stupid


Ah, the good old days. Times when I truly believed that peace could be achieved in our time, the wanton destruction of the rainforests would cease, and everyone could live together under a rainbow's arc of happy multi-ethnicity.

My family and my friends I will gladly give my kidneys, nay, my life. The rest of humanity at large can fuck off and die. If the four horsemen of the apocalypse should come pounding out of the yellowed pages of my Catholic upbringing, I will swing myself up behind the nearest one and gleefully help humanity come to its nasty little end.

What, you might ask, caused a budding neo-hippie to transform into a misanthropic, snarling bitch?

You ever worked tourism?