Monday, August 27, 2007

Slack bastard, with excuses and apologies

Yes, I have fucked off once again. I had planned on taking some time off, if you remember, before the Broccoli Incident, but I never got around to it. It's kind of been forced on me now.

As some of you may have guessed, my health has been crap, and I've had a lot of doctor's appointments lately. Plus, both the kids have health problems, so they've been at the doctor's, too. I also have a lot of other stuff that has to get taken care of around here, that I'm on deadlines for. I'm sorry to leave you all hanging, but I've been too tired and worn down to even visit 'round the blogs, let alone post. Okay, check.... check.... check.... check.... I believe that's all my excuses.

I'll try to visit, and post, when I'm feeling better and have some spare time again. It may not be for a couple of weeks more, however. My apologies, also, for not replying to everyone's comments wishing me a Happy Blog Day/telling me to fuck off and die/telling me to "Post something you cunt" from my last post.


Fat Sparrow

P.S. -- If anyone needs to reach me, you can still e-mail me. The Spouse Sparrow will check my mail for me, and let me know if I have any.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

It seems like so much longer

Today is my blog day. I've been posting this dreck for a year now. I still can't believe I have readers. Thank you all.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, August 02, 2007

109 things you never wanted to know about me

Having been tagged by NiolK, and dared by Old Knudsen to take the Knudsen Challenge, I decided to combine them, and now you get....

109 things you never wanted to know about me!

1) I went partially blind for about a month when I was 11. The doctors never found out what caused it.

2) I really, really, really hate drug addicts. This may have something to do with me being married to one for 10 years.

3) I was always the shortest kid in my class, and I was also the youngest.

4) I started kindergarten when I was 4, and got kicked out within 12 weeks. I thought they had made a mistake and put me in the Special Ed class, so to be helpful, I went around doing all the other kids' classwork for them. The school board recommended to my parents that I be promoted to 3rd grade, and go to a special school for gifted kids at a local university. Instead, my parents put me in to a private religious school. Not that I am bitter.

5) My ex-husband used to tell me I had Flintstones feet. I prefer "Picasso feet," myself.

6) I had a nose ring back in 1988. It was a small gold hoop. No one else had nose rings back then. I took it out when everyone and their grandmother started getting them.

7) I met the Spouse Sparrow on an Internet discussion group, and immediately chatted him up and asked him to marry me. We were both married to other people at the time, and lived a half a world apart from each other. These turned out to be minor complications.

8) I love to sing, but usually I totally suck at it. When I win the Lottery, I am going to take voice lessons.

9) I once got thrown out of a nightclub at Disneyland for dancing "far too sexually" (their words, not mine) to "Blue Monday." I was dancing with my brother. We were trying to show a friend of mine just how it should be done. Definitely not the most embarrassing moment of my life, but certainly one of the more bizarre. And no, it was not "that kind of family."

10) I am a Sagittarius with Taurus rising.

11) My hair is about 40% white. No, not grey, white. I dye it red. Getting white hair early runs in the family; my mom and grandma both had completely white hair before they were out of high school. Mine didn't start 'til I married the Ex.

12) I don't like muscle-y men. I prefer the slack fucker body type. Think Simon Pegg in "Shaun of the Dead." I also like what the Spouse Sparrow calls "skinny dying fuckers," but they had better have enough of a belly for me to use as a pillow.

13) I like dark-haired, dark-eyed men. Think Dave Navarro from early Jane's Addiction. Yet I have managed to end up married to blondish/gingerish men, twice. Go figure.

14) The only reason I vote is so that I get complaining rights. I dislike and distrust all politicians, as they are professional dissemblers, and if there was a NOTA (None Of The Above) option on our ballots I would regularly use it.

15) That being said, I campaigned and voted for Ross Perot, because he is a crazy little fucker, and I respect that.

16) I would love to meet Ursula K. Le Guin before she carks it, although I have no idea what I would say to her.

17) I named my daughter (well, her middle name) after one of Ursula K. Le Guin's characters.

18) I met Ray Bradbury when I was 17. It was rather surreal. I was small and young and hot, and everyone else there was geeky and male, or older women schoolteachers. He was large and old and drunk. He autographed several books for me.

19) I know quite a lot about most of the world's religions, even the obscure ones.

20) I was an Anthro major/Psych minor.

21) I have known 3 people who had their doctorate in Poli Sci, and they all delivered pizza. That was after they had their doctorates, mind you.

22) I tend to be either incredibly cautious or stupidly rash. If it's something physical, I'm always incredibly cautious. Erm, unless it's sex.

23) I do not take physical pain very well. If I am in pain, everyone within hearing distance will know all about it.

24) I tend to be very loyal, but if you have fucked me over, all bets are off.

25) When I was 11, I only weighed 55 lbs.

26) By the time I was 12, I weighed 90 lbs. The difference was all tits and ass.

27) I have been married twice, and engaged three times. I broke off the engagement with that one I didn't marry, and I hope he never tracks me down. He was a cunt.

28) I am a hopeless romantic and an awful cynic.

29) Everyone in my high school used me as their agony aunt. I cannot believe how many girls thought that douching with Coke is an effective form of birth control.

30) Speaking of birth control, I am allergic to latex if it comes in contact with my mucous membranes, and I am allergic to spermicide, and the Sponge.

31) The Ex and I split up more times than I can remember before we finally got divorced. I haven't spoken to him in about 2 or 3 years now. I am so glad to be out of the constant drama and psych ward that is his life.

32) I have one tattoo. It is on my left butt-cheek. It is a blue rose and a red rose, with leaves, and a scroll with the Spouse Sparrow's name. Getting a tattoo was nowhere near as painful as I had thought it was going to be. Compared to giving birth, it was a piece of piss.

33) I have done many different kinds of drugs, and I can take them or leave them. I have a hard time understanding how people get addicted.

34) Ditto with cigarettes. I quit cold turkey when the Spouse Sparrow asked me too, and have never had a problem.

35) That being said, if someone offers me free food I will jump at the chance. Even if it's crap food.

36) I was date raped when I was 13, and that's how I lost my virginity. I don't recommend it, even as a conversation piece.

37) Yes, I have issues. Many, many issues.

38) I carry an umbrella with me when I'm out, because I am pale and can get a very bad sunburn in less than 10 minutes.

39) My grandmother was Cherokee, and my grandad was a mix of a couple of different tribes. Not that you could tell by looking at me. White bread all around; I take after my dad's side, mainly. The Native American's on my mom's side.

40) I always laugh when I hear Prince Charles or the Queen speaking on television, because they look like my Okie relatives, and so I expect them to sound like my Okie relatives.

41) Black people with British accents also make me laugh. No matter how many times I hear it, it's still unexpected.

42) I have a love/hate relationship with Disney movies.

43) I fucking well love all the "Harry Potter" books, and would happily go off to live in that 'verse. I don't want to hear any of you Muggle cunts giving out about it either, or I will kick your shit in.

44) I'm a lot like Hermione, but fucked in the head.

45) I was really into Hinduism for a while (see #6), and I love saris and bangles and Indian music and all of that.

46) Unfortunately it dawned on me that I would never fit in, a) because I was white, and b) because while I was able to abstain from eating meat during the summertime, once Thanksgiving came around I became a ravenous carnivore. Plus I have no compunctions about squashing bugs mercilessly. Fuck, if I was a cockroach, I'd want someone to put me out of my misery.

47) I don't watch much TV, never have. I was in to "Twin Peaks," "X-Files," "Buffy," "Angel," "Futurama," "Firefly," and now "House," "Battlestar Galactica," and "Dr. Who." We don't get BBC America, though, so no "Torchwood" for me.

48) I thought Christopher Eccleston was pretty good as the Doctor. I don't much care for David Tennant as the Doctor. The Spouse Sparrow says I'm not allowed an opinion, as I'm a bloody Yank.

49) I love Jane Austen. I saw "Pride and Prejudice" recently, and it really chapped my thighs. Stick to the fucking book, you twats. There's a reason it's a classic.

50) I saw "The Virgin Queen" on Masterpiece Theater, and got the hots for Tom Hardy. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. He was in some awful movie on the Sci Fi channel that the Spouse Sparrow was watching, called "Minotaur." That really helped put me off him.

51) I used to have the hots for Ben Stein and Dave Navarro. I know, there's no accounting for taste. The Spouse Sparrow bugged me so much about Ben Stein that I went off him. I went off Dave Navarro when he hooked up with Carmen Electra.

52) The Spouse Sparrow is very jealous, and gets a perverse pleasure in making me go off my Honeys. He has been trying to convince me for years now that Hugh Laurie is gay. He doesn't seem to get it; I don't care if Hugh Laurie is gay, I have the hots for House, not Hugh Laurie. The Spouse Sparrow doesn't give me shit about liking Jason Bourne or Spike from Buffy, as I secretly suspect that he would do them, too.

53) I am a flirter. I don't even realize I'm doing it. I've tried to rein it in, as men seem to think that it means that they're getting somewhere. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. If you think I'm chatting you up, I am so not hot for you. If I was hot for you, I would be all tongue-tied and shy and doofus-y. If you're getting my full-wattage charm, you don't stand a chance of getting the ride. Er, Spouse Sparrow excepted. He was the only one.

54) I never pick up on it when men are hitting on me. They have to be really blunt about it and tell me "I like you and I want to fuck you." So shy, subtle men need not apply. Not that I am taking applications.

55) I am attracted to brainy men but I have found that they cannot fuck. The Spouse Sparrow is my perfect combination of brains and rough trade, my bad boy with a heart of gold.

56) The Spouse Sparrow had a dog that had my mom's name, and I had a dog with his mom's name.

57) I have this need, deep down, to fit in with some kind of group, but I have never been able to find them. Then again, I hate fucking groups and I hate people.

58) I am built for gymnastics and not ballet. I wish I was built for ballet. I can do ballet, but not gymnastics. I am not limber.

59) I am a klutz, and have been one all my life. There's a reason my parents didn't name me "Grace." I trip over invisible objects. I do much better if I walk barefoot. I used to go barefoot all the time when I was a teenager, and the soles of my feet got to be about a half-inch thick. I could walk over a long, long stretch of asphalt when it was well over 100 degrees out, and not feel the heat through my feet. I used to get detention every day in 10th grade for going to school barefoot.

60) One time when I was in high school I walked out of the locker room after P.E. class with my dress tucked in to my nylons and my knickers showing. No one told me and I didn't realize until I went to my next class and sat down on a cold seat. Nobody bothered to make fun of me, because they knew I wouldn't care, anyway. They still should have told me, the cunts.

61) I wear bi-focals. I've worn bi-focals since 9th grade. Some people take them as a sign of getting old and won't wear them, but that's just stupid, as they're damn handy. It was really inconvenient having to take off my reading glasses to look at the board, and then put them back on to copy the notes from the board, and then take them off, and them put them on, ad infinitum, so I told my eye doctor I wanted bi-focals.

62) I thought I would deal with aging really well, but now that it's creeping up on me I find that I am not. Still, no one in our family looks their age, and people who meet me in real life don't think I'm as old as I am.

63) I love Volvos. I miss my Volvo.

64) I love RVs. I am fanatical about RVs. I favor Class C motorhomes, but I am well versed in the ins-and-outs of Class A's, Class B's, Fifth Wheels, Toy Haulers, Vacation Trailers, Travel Trailers, Tent Trailers, Vintage Trailers, Pop-Up Trailers.... You get the idea.

65) I am a flake and a procrastinator. I mean well, and I get fits of energy and start a million projects, and there they sit, years later.

66) I have a very small birthmark on my right cheek. It's a reddish-pinkish dot. My mom has it and my grandma had it, too. It pissed me off because in some school photos, they airbrushed it out, thinking it was a zit, and I am strangely proud of my birthmark.

67) My parents both worked full time, and mom had to return to work 6 weeks after I was born, so my Great-Aunt took care of me. I was with her for about twelve hours a day, and she was wonderful. I used to feel guilty because I loved her more than my mom, and when I was a kid, I thought I might go to Hell because I loved her more than my mom. Auntie died a few years ago, and I still miss her terribly.

68) I miss my Grandma, too. She died 11 years ago, and I still haven't gotten over it. I was there with her when she died. I still get teary-eyed when I think about her.

69) I don't see much point in 69. Neither party can concentrate properly.

70) I had my first orgasm when I was ten years old. I multiple orgasm very easily. My record's 37, but that was on my own.

71) I would like to go on a cruise, just for the all-you-can-eat lobster and buffet.

72) I'm not a big drinker. I do not like to get drunk, and will stop drinking long before that point. I like wine, especially mead, and Midori Sours, 7 and 7's, and that's about it. I like having Bloody Marys at home, but I don't order them when we go out, as very few places have good Bloody Marys. The Spouse Sparrow and I went all through Vegas without finding one single place that had a decent Bloody Mary. Caesar's Palace came the closest, but was still piss poor, and Excalibur was the absolute worst. I can't drink tequila at all. It comes back up as soon as it goes in.

73) I used to be very in to Ren Faire. That's the Renaissance Faire, for you tourists. I dressed as a respectable peasant-type. Peasants have more fun, as we can sit on the grass and show more cleavage than the middle- and upper-classes. Cleavage is something I have a lot of, and I would put it to good use at Faire. I can just set my plate on top of it when I'm eating, and it's useful for me to take a nap on, too. Huzzah!

74) Some of my favorite movies are "Shaun of the Dead," "The Mosquito Coast," "The Year of Living Dangerously," "Lost in Translation," and "Until the End of the World."

75) I just saw "Marie Antoinette," and I am now convinced that Sofia Coppola could shoot film of someone having a shite, add a soundtrack, and I would fucking well love it. It does crack me up to hear her give direction or interviews, though, as she is so, like, um, non-communicative in a Valley Girl kind of way. How on earth does she get the actors to do what she says? How the fuck can they tell what she wants? It's all very strange.

76) I laugh at fart jokes, and am impressed by comic timing. The other night, we were putting the Nestling Sparrow to bed in his crib, and I kissed him and asked him if he needed anything else, and then turned to go. He said "Wait, I forgot something!" and then ripped off a really long fart. I laughed so hard I cried. I have high hopes for him.

77) I myself do not fart. Okay, it's kind of like that "If a tree falls in the forest, and no one's around, does it make a sound" kind of thing. But still, I fart very rarely. I read that the average person farts about 15 times a day, and I can go days without farting.

78) People always describe me as "cute." Not pretty, not beautiful, not striking, not stunning, but "cute." God must have a sense of humour, giving me a cunning and twisted interior, and a "cute" exterior, the fucker.

79) My high school yearbook is filled with "You're so sweet, don't ever change!" No, they didn't know me very well.

80) I bitch and moan about being called "cute" and "sweet," but let me tell you, you can get away with a lot if you look innocent and no one thinks to suspect you. Oh yeah.

81) I have naturally curly hair. If I get out of the shower, and scrunch it slightly, it will go in to perfect corkscrew curls.

82) It really pissed me off when "The Breakfast Club" came out, because I had red, curly hair, in a semi-bob just like Molly Ringwald did, and I DID NOT COPY HER, SHE COPIED ME, dammit. Fuck that pissed me off to have people thinking I copied her. That was probably why I started having it straightened and went blonde.

83) I dislike most types of music. That being said, there could be all kinds of new stuff out there that I like, and I'd never know, because I can't afford CD's and I can't stand listening to the radio or watching videos. I just don't have the patience.

84) The phrase that comes to my mind a lot lately is Danny Glover's, from "Lethal Weapon": "I'm too old for this shit."

85) My whole life, everyone keeps telling me to write and get published, but I know my own limitations and I really have nothing to say. I think I would enjoy being a ghost writer.

86) I admire Rose Wilder Lane, who ghost wrote the "Little House" books for her mother, Laura Ingalls Wilder. Rose led a very interesting life, and she's an excellent writer. I identify with her a lot.

87) Speaking of roses, if I'm not wearing Paloma Picasso perfume, I'm wearing rose oil as a perfume. I love roses.

88) I'm not too sure about men giving me flowers. I like the idea, and it's very romantic, but my ex-fiance used to give me flowers. I thought it was just because he loved me. I finally sussed out that he gave me flowers every time he cheated on me. He gave me a lot of flowers.

89) I am the type of woman that would appreciate home appliances or power tools for her birthday, anniversary, etc.

90) My dad was an engineer, mechanic, and all-around handyman type, and I always wanted to learn. Whenever I tried to get him to teach me things, he would tell me to go help my mother, and then he would make my brother come out to help. I finally learned to just not talk, stay on the sidelines, and learn by observing. I don't know why my dad was like that with me, as I was his favorite kid, and he definitely didn't think that chores or tasks fell along male/female lines. Years later, I'm still puzzling over that one.

91) I really miss being able to afford sushi and sashimi. I love Japanese food.

92) I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I'm not doing anything with it now.

93) I like to play Pente. I've been playing it since 1984. It's kind of like Go. I'm pretty good at it.

94) I hate all sports, and know absolutely nothing about them. Thank God, the Spouse Sparrow is the same. I couldn't stand being married to someone who's in to sports.

95) I like archery, and I used to be really good at it. No, that doesn't count as a sport.

96) I love horses, and used to go over to my friend's grandparents' house every day to take care of their ponies, cows, chickens, and goats. I used to try to convince my parents to turn the garage into a stable so I could have a horse. I can milk cows and goats, candle eggs, trim hoofs, and do all that farm-type stuff. All of this in spite of being allergic to hay, and breaking out in large welty hives every time I touched it.

97) I am a keyboard pounder. I took typing for two years in 7th and 8th grade, and we learned on old manual typewriters. According to the Spouse Sparrow, I still sound like I'm on a manual typewriter.

98) My taste in decorating is fairly eclectic. It's like if a Cost Plus World Market truck and an Ikea truck collided and then crashed in to a Victorian library that someone was holding a rummage sale in. Most of my living room is bookcases, which are crammed to the gills. I need more bookcases, but there's no room. I don't like having my neighbors over because they ask dumb questions like "Have you read all of those?" Of course, these are people who don't own any books, or if they do own a book, it's the Bible.

99) I love "The Twilight Zone," and my favorite episode is "Little Girl Lost," that one where the girl falls out of bed and in to another dimension and the parents barely find her in time. I still get chills when I watch it. And I still cringe over that one where Burgess Meredith's glasses break, poor git.

100) I like shiny glass things. When I was 1, my mother tells me I bit into a glass ball ornament for our Christmas tree, even though I knew better. They rushed me to the hospital and I was just fine.

101) I hate to cook. Love to eat, hate to cook. I mean, I can do it and all, and fancy stuff, too, it's just that I consider it a pain in the arse. I'd much rather go out to a restaurant.

102) I hate doing dishes, too, but I'm always the one that does them, because I'm really, really anal about the dishes getting clean. I wash the dishes before they are put in the dishwasher, and I consider the dishwasher to be an autoclave. My ex-in-laws used to not even rinse the dishes before they put them in the dishwasher, and they used cold water for the dishwasher, and barely any soap, and then they let them air dry. When they took the dishes out of the dishwasher, they would just flick off the bits of dried food that were left on, and then put the dishes away. And they wondered why I didn't want to eat there.

103) I am a wanna-be artist, and used to dabble with charcoals and also with pen and ink over watercolors.

104) I suck at math. I used to ditch my math class in 9th grade to go and sit in on my friend's physics class, and then I would discuss theoretical quantum physics with the teacher. He thought I was brilliant until he realized that I wasn't on his roll list and that I had flunked Algebra I. Oh well. I ditched Algebra because my teacher was an asshole who liked to brush up against my tits while he was "helping" me, and he called his T.A.'s "Bimbo 1" and "Bimbo 2." He was also the football coach. I tried reporting him, but sexual harrassment was not a concept back then, and my counselor told me I was imagining things.

105) The only bone I have ever broken is one of my ribs. I originally broke it during a coughing fit one of the many times I had pneumonia and bronchitis, and then I broke it again during sex with the ex-fiance.

106) I started out left-handed, and was trained to write with my right hand. I still get my left and my right mixed up. Up until the time I was an adult, I could write with either hand, as long as it was print and not cursive.

107) I have no sense of direction. Wait, I do have a sense of direction, but it's the wrong one. Whenever I'm really, really sure that something is this way, it is sure to be the opposite way. I have often wondered if that has to do with that right/left mixup thing I have.

108) I am a very fast reader. And I can read upside down or backwards writing faster than most people can read regular writing. I also invented my own phonetic alphabet, that was based on the English language, when I was about 12, so that I could write in code. I had a nosey brother.

109) I have not forgotten about your tag, Devin, this one was just easier and is buying me some time, as I am a slack fucker.

Fat Sparrow

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Marriage: Probably not worth it

So, there I was, on my so-called summer blog vacation, supposed to be getting shit done, but I wasn't. I did manage to go to doctor's appointments and what-not, but stupid me, I forgot it was Migraine Week, and I picked up some kind of a bug that made the lymph nodes in my neck all puffy and made me all tired, so I was just sleeping a lot.

I did manage to do one thing, though; I made broccoli salad. I had been meaning to make some broccoli salad for a while, as I had tried it at the deli in Stater Bros., and I was pretty sure I could make it for far less than the $5.99 per lb. they were charging for it. So, I got all the ingredients, about $10 worth (which may not seem much, but we are on a budget) and made a huge batch. So that was what I had done tonight.

But now, sadly, I will never be able to eat my broccoli salad. I have gone off it.

"Why?" you ask? Well, I'll tell you why. The Spouse Sparrow, who had been slagging off my broccoli salad all night, telling me how minging it was, decided to have some.

Of course, I didn't find this part out until he boked it all up over my side of the bed, my pillows, and my side of the bedroom, floor and walls and baby crib included. Oh no, I never would have known he had eaten any broccoli salad if the entire bedroom, including exercise bike, shoes, dressers, and spare blanket were not covered in little broccoli florets. The carpet is drenched, as before he ate the broccoli salad, he drank an assload of vodka, followed by a lot of water, apparently.

He then went on to liberally coat the hallway and the bathroom in tiny chunks of greenery. Yes, there was also carrots, as the broccoli salad had carrots in it. My only saving grace is that I was at the computer, and not in the bed when he horked. The baby, asleep in his crib, missed getting puked on by about 6 inches. Nice.

I could kill the Spouse Sparrow, I really could. It's left to me, the one with the horrible headache, to mop up the mattress, bedroom, bathroom, etc., while he is passed out on the couch. I'm the one that will be up all night washing pillows, sheets, and trying to pick chunks out of the carpet. I'm the one who'll spend the next 3 days shampooing the carpet in the bedroom and the hallway. I'm the one that is scared of bugs, and now I have to go back and forth to wash all the stuff, out in the garage with all the flying, crawling, and hopping things.

And it really, really chaps my thighs because he fucking well knows that I have a serious phobia, an actual phobia, about people barfing, and he really, really knows I don't like him to drink that much. I don't care if it's part of the British/Irish culture, he's fucking well in America now and he should adjust.

He is passed out on the couch at the minute, as the mattress will have to dry out for a day or so (and will still smell like shite when it does, and let's not forget that smell will be on my side), and I am tempted to smother him with my puked-on pillow. And do you know what's stopping me? The thought of him shitting and pissing on the couch when he carks it from me smothering him. I would kill him, but I'd just have another mess to clean up.

And he actually had the audacity to give me a dirty look when I ordered him out of the bedroom and on to the couch, and provided him with the barf bucket.

Truly, the thrill is gone.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Like summer vacation, but without the vacation part

I'll be taking some time off from the blog circuit for the next week or two, as I have doctor's appointments and tests for me and the sprogs, and I need to get the kids' room sorted out so that we can finally start to get the Nestling Sparrow out of our room and into the other room with the Fledgling Sparrow. That will involve stripping and repainting a bed, cleaning the carpet, painting, renovating, and boxing up two tons of crap, not to mention the wailing and gnashing of teeth on my part.

I also need to sort out all the crap my parents dumped on me when they downsized, sort stuff for a yard sale, patch and paint our bedroom, clean the upholstery in the living room, and.... Well, you get the idea. I've been feeling a tad better lately, so I figure I should get stuck in before the weather gets too hot to be able to do anything (we only have a swamp cooler for the house), or my healthy spell wears off.

So, posting will be sporadic to non-existent, along with me making the blog rounds to all of yours. I'll try to sneak in to visit you lot whenever I have some spare time.

If you simply cannot bear not knowing when my next post will come out, you can scroll down in my side bar to sign up for Feedburner e-mail notification when a new post is up. And I can still be reached by e-mail, of course, if anyone needs to get a hold of me.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, July 12, 2007

An open letter to the dirty minger that used the toilet at Stater Bros.

Dear Dirty Minger that used the toilet at Stater Bros. --

Thank you so much for leaving the bathroom in Stater Bros. in such a state, as there is nothing I like more than to use a bathroom where someone has left a snail trail all over the toilet seat.

Even better is when it is a bloody snail trail, like the one you left when removing your tampon.

Even better than that is seeing where you have flung your used, bloody tampon, as you tried to get it in to the bin. Rest assured that when it comes to wall art, Jackson Pollock has nothing on you.

Looking at that wall, I could truly feel your state of mind when you tried to chuck that unwrapped, used snatch plug into the trash can. To you, that state of mind says "I too can be empowered just like Sheryl Crow, and not use unnecessary toilet paper." To me, that state of mind says "I am a precious fuckwit, and I think I am too good to touch anything that comes out of my body, as it is icky."

Grow up. If you don't know by now that you need to wrap up your vampire's teabag after you have rooted it out of your stench trench, you are not mature enough to be using one anyway. You weren't beyond touching yourself when you shoved that cotton version of the Hoover Dam up there, so you certainly aren't too good to wrap it up in bog roll when it comes out.

If I see you in the street, I will drop trou right then and there, squirt out my Tampax Slender Regular, and bitch slap you with it.

And for fuck's sake, wipe your fucking piss flaps already, and use more than one square of toilet paper while you're doing it, you dirty, dirty minger.


Fat Sparrow

Monday, July 09, 2007

Really? You don't say

Your Anti Climactic Fortune

In the future, I foresee.... Continued human stupidity, in the form of bloggers who like to hide behind various personalities, and have nothing better to do with their time. I also predict that these same bloggers will be exposed for what they are, i.e., a pack of lying and denying cunts.

Live Earth? Not for long

Boy, nothing says "I want to stop global warming" like setting up concerts all over the world and encouraging millions of people to drive or fly to them, not to mention the gazillions of kilowatts of electricity being used to light up and power the concerts. And let's not forget the gas that's being used to truck in the beer that is being sold for $7 a cup and truck out the boke, piss, and shit.

I suppose "Live Earth: Let's Stay Home And Listen To Music" just doesn't have the same kind of ring to it.

Al Gore is really, really on my list, the cunt.

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, July 07, 2007

I knew he wanted me

I have been trying for ages to get the ride off Philip, and finally, he has at least fingered me. I am encouraged at this sign of foreplay, but also disturbed, as it seems he is in to the really perverted stuff: Memes.

Now, quit gasping in horror. Some people just consider them "kinky."

Either way, I get to do it 8 times, and here it goes....

1) I never heard the word "fuck" until I was 12 years old, and I had no idea what it meant. I dare say I've made up for that. And to think, people say that kids don't learn anything in public schools.

2) I was a child prodigy, and I learned to read at 9 months, and could read a newspaper by the time I was 18 months old. I have done fuck all since then.

3) My pinkie fingers on my hands are abnormally short. When I was a child, my mother had to sew up the pinkie fingers in all my gloves because of this. You would think that this would have clued her in to the fact that piano lessons were not for me, but oh no, it did not.

4) I have nipples like JCB starter buttons, and I like anal sex. Those two things may be completely unrelated.

5) In my youth, I memorized the New Testament, which was a complete waste of time. I did win a prize, although I can't remember what it was. Anyway, the important thing was: I won!

6) When I first started driving, I came upon the scene of an accident on the freeway. Traffic had slowed to a stop. For 5 minutes, I looked out my car window at a severed head. I couldn't have gotten out of my car without kicking the head out of the way. I can still see that head, in my memory. It had a rather shocked expression on its face.

7) When I was a child, I read unabridged dictionaries and encyclopedias for fun.

8) My dentist tells me that my mouth is too small and my tongue is too big. I'm beginning to wonder what he has in mind by telling me all this.

Fat Sparrow

People I am fingering: First Nations, Fumie, Devin, Annie, Sassy, Gimme A Minute, and Old Knudsen. I know Old Knudsen won't do it, but I just like to finger him. Oh, and let's toss Eddie in too, as I suspect he secretly wants a three-way with me and Footie, who has also tagged him.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

An inconvenient truth: You're a fuckwit

Al Gore's son was arrested, as I'm sure you've heard.

Personally, I am shocked.

I had no idea that a Toyota Prius could do 100 MPH.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Happy Fourth of July!

I've had a valium, and am feeling a tad mellower.

I ran across a quote that I liked, from Erma Bombeck:

"You have to love a nation that celecbrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of guns, tanks and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism."

I'm off to be patriotic fat fucker. If I don't eat, the terrorists have won.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Forced patriotism and family gatherings

Neither one is valid.

I found out yesterday that all of our little happy family plans for the 4th have been shattered. Why? Because my brother's a cunt. In fairness, it's not completely his fault, but he's still a cunt.

Some background:

I made a really dumb mistake years back, and hooked up my brother with my daughter's babysitter. My daughter's babysitter used to live next door to us, and her mom still does, although her dad died recently. My brother married her, and so now what was previously just my next-door neighbors turned in to my brother's in-laws.

Spouse Sparrow and I had planned a nice little Fourth of July celebration, just us and the kids, as this is the last year that fireworks will be legal in our city thanks to the city council, the unbearable witless mongs. I can't believe I voted for them. I saved my receipt from voting, and I am going to demand my money back, the fuckers.

This being the last year that fireworks are legal here is kind of a big deal to me, because we have the sprogs, but no car, so it's not like we can go and see the public fireworks displays. Spouse Sparrow even humoured me and splurged and bought a nice little assortment of fireworks with the last of his birthday money that his family had sent him. He set some money aside for some beer, and we were going to barbecue, veg out, and set some explosives on fire. Nothing fancy, nothing involving any cleaning of the house, or dressing up, or even wearing a bra.

Then my next-door neighbor came to the door to invite us to a party and barbecue she's having. My parents (thanks a lot for the heads up, Mom!), my brother and his wife and their three girls, the Hell Kittens, will all be there. It's right fucking next door, with all my family, and so there's no way I can get out of it. I'll have to spend all day listening to my idiot brother (we'll call him "Shane"; if you're a fan of "The Shield," this should give you some clue as to his personality, bearing in mind that Shane on "The Shield" looks like a fucking genius and a liberal compared to my brother) mouth off about absolutely everything, including all his little racist tirades and xenophobic crap, not to mention his foul fucking language (I'm a perfect fucking laydee except on this blog, I'll have you know) and I'll have to put up with all of it in the name of family harmony. I'll also have to put up with a whole bunch of stupid, forced patriotism and probably some religious crap, too, thrown in for good measure.

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm fond of my country. No matter how much I slag it off, I still think that at least we're trying, and no one's perfect, and furthermore, there's lots worse countries out there. I just don't like to be forced to be patriotic, or risk looking bad. It's like Mother's Day and Father's Day; you're over a barrel and have to pay 6 fucking dollars for a card or you look like a right cunt. It's not fair. What's also not fair is that all of my white trash neighbors look well patriotic, with their stupid huge flags and their strutting and their yellow ribbons, but none of the stupid twats vote, while I do, so who's more patriotic? I do believe that would be me, even though you won't see a flag in sight and even though I am constantly taking the piss out of America.

I have to clean my house, because the nosy bitch that is my sister-in-law will come up with some excuse for wanting to come in and poke around. I have to turn on the oven and bake a cake, even though it's going to be 90 degrees in the house before I even fire up the oven, and that's with the swamp cooler on. I'll have to smile and act cheerful and not slap the Hell Kittens when they push and shove the Nestling Sparrow, and I'll have to wear a fucking bra. And to top it all off, it's supposed to be 109 degrees on the Fourth.

The Spouse Sparrow has informed me that he is boycotting this family gathering, and I would too, if I could get away with it. Instead, I'll have to be out there, exposing my kids to a bunch of crap I'd rather they not hear, with the Nestling Sparrow picking up all kinds of bad manners and habits from the Hell Kittens, and my digestion being totally ruined from having to be around my brother.

The next-door neighbor told me that my parents are bringing fireworks, so I suppose we'll just save ours for next year and risk getting a ticket. It's not like you can see our house from the street, anyway, and ours are just little quiet fireworks, as the big noisy whistling ones scare the Nestling Sparrow. I'm sure my parents will have sprung for the really big expensive collection of fireworks, with all the noisemakers, so I'll probably have to bring the Nestling Sparrow back in the house beforehand, so I don't have to listen to my dad and my brother rag on him for not being tough enough to take the fireworks.

So much for our lovely holiday.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, June 29, 2007

Dr. Love, baby

Some of you may remember my doctor from previous posts. For those of you who are hot for her (you know who you are, Fumie), you can see her picture here again, just in case it is not stored in your wank bank. I fondly refer to her as Dr. DeVil. She is an evil sadist, an Asian with a Valley Girl accent, a clueless college post-graduate with the attention span of Dori from "Finding Nemo," and continually overbooked.

She also has a crush on the Spouse Sparrow.

She's not my Primary Care Physician anymore, but since I go to a group practice I do occasionally get her as my doctor if one of the others is not available.

The last three times I have seen her, she has asked about the Spouse Sparrow. By name. And then she blushed.

Oh, she also asks about the Nestling Sparrow and the Fledgling Sparrow, but she can't seem to remember their names, even though they are also patients of hers and she has seen them for years now. The Spouse Sparrow isn't even a patient of hers, but she manages to remember his name. I'm pretty sure the only reason she remembers my name is because I have an unusual name.

I'm wondering if this crush of hers might have anything to do with her not caring if I cark it, quite frankly. The first time she specifically asked about him, she was quite surprised to hear that he was my second husband, and that the Nestling Sparrow was a planned baby. The expression on her face said "How did someone like you manage to catch someone like him?!" Really, it was most unflattering to yours truly.

I have told the Spouse Sparrow all about it, of course. He's getting fairly used to the attention from womenfolk here in the States now, as they throw themselves at him, even with me standing right there. I mean, I am obviously his wife, we obviously have a kid together, as he is right fucking there in the stroller, and the Spouse Sparrow will still get women hitting on him in the shops. Right in front of me. Did I mention the "right in front of me" bit? Because the hotties are doing it right in front of me. I mean, I understand the attraction, really. He's cute, witty, has a really good accent, and they can see that he is great with kids and is a hands-on dad. Still, if the stupid bints could just manage to restrain themselves until I walked over to the next fucking aisle I wouldn't be slagging them off half so much, the stupid whoring twats. It's a good thing I'm not the jealous type.

(waits for laughter to die down)

Now, the Spouse Sparrow is quite shy and modest, and blushes easily. It's taken quite a lot of totty being thrown at him, and me harping on about it, before he even realized what was up. And now this, with Dr. DeVil, on top of it all.

I think that next time I have an appointment with Dr. DeVil, I will bring along the Spouse Sparrow, and then she can see him turn bright purple and stutter in embarrassment and maybe then she will go off him.

No, dammit, she will probably just think that is "cute." Fuck, she may even think he likes her.

Maybe I will just start smearing him with shite before he leaves the house.

Not that I am bitter.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

The drugs don't work, they just make things worse

WARNING: Long and boring post ahead. Money will not be refunded.

Thank you,

The Mgmt.


A few people have e-mailed me to ask me about the state of my health/test results/promised nude photos,* and I figured I had better get off my ass and post about it before I got any more e-mails. For those of you who have already received e-mails about this, you're in luck; you get to read my brilliant writing once again.

Re: Lupus.... So far, the doctors have not definitively ruled out Lupus, buuuuuuutttt.... It looks like the majority of the Lupus symptoms I was having were due to side effects from an allergy/asthma drug I was taking called Singulair.

Mind you, I saw several doctors and none of them were able to figure this out. Oh no, it was me that figured it out. Do I get paid $175,000 a year for it? Like fuck I do.

I had a few really bad days a while back, days where my stomach was so bad that I couldn't eat. And because I couldn't eat, I couldn't take my pills, either. After a few days, it dawned on me that I felt much, much better. I had a sneaking suspicion right then and there, but being a fan of the scientific method I started taking the pills again. Lo and behold, I felt like shit.

I went on the Internet and pulled up the list of side effects for Singulair, and there they all were -- fever, nausea, joint aches, kidney pain, unusual weakness, vomiting, dizziness, headache, hallucinations, muscle aches, irregular heartbeat, numbness/tingling of the hands and feet, general swelling, excessive thirst, and extreme fatigue, just to name of few of the really fun ones. Fucking hell. Months of torture, and it's due to a prescription medication.

I started on Singulair last August, and I suppose the first symptom I developed was fever. Unfortunately, I didn't notice it at the time because I already had a fever. When I went to the doctor in August, it was for a sinus infection and fever, and that's when she put me on the Singulair. The other side effects came along a bit later.

Still, the doctors won't rule out Lupus, because Drug-Induced Lupus does not cause the facial rash like regular Lupus, and I have the facial rash and the photosensitivity. I did read on the Internet forums that some people have developed other auto-immune diseases while taking Singulair, and other people who already had Lupus and other auto-immune diseases had to stop taking Singulair, because Singulair caused flare-ups and made them worse. So it is possible that I am susceptible to Lupus, as I had been tested before when I was 10 or 11, and the Singulair may have triggered it or at least triggered an episode. Come to think of it, when I had problems and they tested me for Lupus before, they were also guinea-pigging me on new asthma/allergy meds. The problem is, Singulair works wonders for my allergies, and when I'm off it, all the other problems go away, but I'm incapacitated by constant sneezing, wheezing, runny nose, runny eyes, and all that shite.

My new doctor and I are filing an official report (MedWatch) to the FDA (Food and Drug Administration, for you Brit-type people), and it would not surprise me in the least to hear, some 10 years from now, that there is firm scientific evidence that Singulair can trigger Lupus in susceptible patients, as Singulair works on the immune system.

So, that took care of most of the symptoms, but then I was still was getting kidney/bladder infections even after going off the Singulair. Guess what, turns out that another of my fucking prescription meds has been messing with my pancreas, kicking out sugar into my urine and causing those kidney/bladder infections. Again, it was me that figured that one out, without help from the doctors.

I started doing research on the Net about the other prescription drugs I was on, and found a new study done by the NHS there in Britain which shows that Inderal (a common beta-blocker, which I was on for prevention of severe migraines and it did away with my anxiety attacks too, dammit) can trigger Type 2 Diabetes in susceptible patients. Jesus wept. Of course, my doctors hadn't seen this study, because it hasn't been published over here.

Lovely. Just what I need, Type 2 diabetes.

My new doctor tested me, and yep, I'm pre-diabetic with a super-sensitivity to carbs. Off the Inderal I went.

I'd already been on a self-imposed diabetic-type diet since last November, due to all the kidney/bladder problems I had been having, and there's been no temptation to break it as if I eat something with sugar in it or what-not I become violently ill.

I'll have to do another fasting, 3-hour Glucose-Tolerance Test in 2 months, and we'll see how I'm doing then. In the meantime, my allergies and asthma are back full-force, as the Singulair and worked really well to control those. I am not taking another pill. I'll just put up with it.

I will have to do something about my migraines, though, as they are completely out of hand. God only knows what, as the doctors have put me on pill after pill that didn't work, already. $342 for 10 fucking pills, if you can believe that. Thank God it's not me paying for it.

It positively amazes me that I have been seen by scores of doctors, who all knew exactly what meds I was on, and yet not one brought up the possibility of side effects. And it's not just that; not only did the doctors not pick up on it, their response was to put me on more fucking pills, to control what was actually side effects from the pills I was on.

Oh, and while I was researching all those other side effects, I found out that it could be that the Aciphex, which I take for my ulcers, could be eroding my hip joints, causing my hip pain. Nice.

Basically what I am hoping for is for me to get back to the same level of illness I was at before they started prescribing all those helpful medications, and then I will bang my head on a wall, repeatedly.

So much for modern medicine. And the doctors wonder why I question them all the time. Jeez.

I will leave you all with this little gem.

Fat Sparrow

* Yeah, right. Where's my money, bitches?

Sunday, June 24, 2007

My new Internet campaign: Free NiolK's balls!

After a lot of harassment,* NiolK recently posted a picture of his balls, and I have seen hostages in the Middle East that have looked happier than his balls do. The way he has kept them trapped and caged is simply appalling. Just think how his poor testicles must feel, never being able to run free and let their true beauty shine out to the world. Old Knudsen has speculated that NiolK has even been keeping his balls trapped in cycle shorts!

As you can see, he has not even fully freed them to take this picture. God only knows where his poor willy has gone to....

Please join with me in my new Internet e-mail campaign, Free NiolK's Balls! Here at Campaign Headquarters for Free NiolK's Balls!, we are demanding that NiolK free his balls, and to prove that he has freed them we are also demanding that he post a full-frontal nude picture (face included) so that we can be sure that NiolK's balls have been freed. At this point in the campaign, it may be too much to hope for that one day we might see NiolK's balls freed at parks, shopping malls, and even workplaces, but we can have hope for the future when NiolK's balls will be free everywhere, all the time. Please go to visit NiolK right now, and let him know that we will not give up until our demands have been met.

Additionally, Free NiolK's Balls! is demanding that NiolK come up with some badges** for Free NiolK's Balls!, as we here at Campaign Headquarters do not have PhotoShop or any type of graphics programs. Thank you.

Fat Sparrow

* Not really. It only took two comments on one of his posts.
** He came up with a badge for those of us who are Banned by NiolK!, so we know he can do it. You can see the "Banned" badge in my sidebar, just keep scrolling down.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Like Tony Blair, I am converting blog over to the new widget-type thingie version on Blogger. Up 'til now I've done everything in my sidebar and what-not in HTML, and the Spouse Sparrow has been telling me how much easier it is to do all sorts of things on the blog once it is changed over, so.... I'm sucking up my courage and I'm gonna have a go.

I've been dealing with massive computer cuntery this week already, what with the computer crashing and losing everything. It seems to be going around lately; I know a few other people have posted about it, too. We had to do a lot of incantations involving anal sex, the blood of a black cock, and the horrible ancient deity Factory Settings. I happen to like bum sex, and the black cock thing was easy, as we live in the 'hood, but having to invoke Factory Settings was simply awful.

Hopefully everything will work out all right, and I will not lose my Site Meter count, and it will not take me too many weeks to add back in all my links and badges and tags and and and. This may be a work in progress for a while, so please bear with me.

Fat Sparrow

UPDATE: Success, M'lud! Fuck, that was traumatic. I still have some kinks I'm working out, but everything seems to have gone okay, for the most part. I'm still trying to get my links to open in a separate page, like they used to, instead of having to right-click on them, like I have to do now. If anyone notices any other problems, please let me know, either by comment or e-mail ( Thanks!


Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Chingate, you crazed Castilian cunt

I took Spanish for 4 years in school. Back in the day we learned proper Spanish, which means we learned Castilian. It also meant that by the time I left school no one else who spoke Spanish in Southern California could understand what the fuck I was saying.

My teacher for most of those years was a short, tiny woman from Spain, who had married the German teacher at our school. Her name was.... Well, never mind what her last name was. It rhymed with "psycho," so we called her "Mrs. Psycho." As a bonus, if you were a student sitting in the back of the class room, Mrs. Psycho could not tell whether or not if you were calling her by her real name or her nickname.

She was psycho, which was how she got the nickname. She cared far, far too much about how we pronounced our Spanish words, and would make us repeat them endlessly until we got the pronunciation and accent correct. We were required to speak grammatically, and with proper inflection. I, with my Valley Girl accent, was a hopeless case. Much like singing class, I could understand what the teacher wanted me to do, and I could understand the way it was supposed to sound, but I could not make those sounds come out of my mouth. I can still hear Mrs. Psycho's voice, in my head, shouting "¡No, no, y no! ¡Es incorrecto!" every time I go to say something in Spanish.

She also liked to whack students' desks, aiming as close to our hands as possible. I believe she must have been educated in a Catholic school, as you could tell she was just itching to be able to whack us directly, and she frequently invoked the help of the Virgin so that she could have patience with us gringos estúpidos. She took Spanish very seriously, as only a native Castilian, descended from the proud hidalgos, can. Here in Southern California, we just wanted to be able to order a beer, find the bathrooms, and possibly ask where the donkey show was ("¿Dónde está la demostración del sexo del burro lo que esta con el burro con el pene gigantesco y la puta rancia?"), once we grew up and visited Tijuana.

We were taught the correct Castilian pronunciation of words, which involved a purposeful lisp (theta). A "z" or "c" in Castilian is pronounced as "th." In Castilian, of course, you say "platha" for "plaza," and "thero" for "zero." If you speak this way in a country where the majority of Spanish speakers are from Mexico, and do not use the theta, you end up sounding like Thorro the Gay Blade, if you know what I mean.

It's like if you're an American visiting England, and you go up to your average English tosser-on-the-street, and ask him in your best posh accent, "I say, old chap, could you possibly tell me where I might find a jolly good cup of tea whilst I am visiting your fine country?" If you try this you will get twatted upside the head, and rightly so.

If you speak Castilian Spanish to a Mexican, they will not twat you upside the head, as Mexicans are a polite people (which is surprising considering how they stand so close to you and breathe all over you and thing), but it will be hard for them to control their laughter. It is best to know the Spanish vernacular of Mexico while having important conversations with a Mexican, like buying a taco, asking the price of his daughter, or purchasing marijuana. If you do not know the vernacular, they will think you are an idiot, or a narc, and neither of those is a good thing, as the Federales will happily butt-fuck either.

My daughter, the Fledgling Sparrow, is taking Spanish in school, and she is not learning a damn thing, as they teach something called "Conversational Spanish" nowadays, which means that the lazy teachers don't have to teach the students Spanish spelling, or grammar, so I have to do it at home. She has the best accent in the class, better than the barrio kids even, as I hound her about it often. The muchachos pendejos del barrio resent being taught Spanish, as they think they already know it. I resent the fact that the school even has the cojones to call the class "Spanish," when in fact they are teaching Spanglish.

The school is misinforming the students, by letting them think that they are learning proper Spanish, and they are not even teaching them truly practical Spanish, like cursing. That is a shame, because Spanish is a beautiful and expressive language to curse in, far more imaginative and effective than cursing in English. Also, it is good to know when people are talking shit about you, especially in foreign languages, and it helps to know exactly what people are yelling at you as they cut you off and give you the international sign of goodwill while you are driving. That way, when the Highway Patrol ask, you can inform them in detail exactly what was said before that stupid fucking Mexican shot at you on the freeway. It has been a long time since I have had a car, but I still remember the rules of the road, you know.

Because of this, I have tried to keep my Spanish cursing up to par, and I am teaching it to my daughter at home, since the fucking fregado profesores cricas won't teach it to her. Don't worry, her accent will be perfect.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, June 14, 2007

America, fuck yeah!

Obviously Al Gore's little movie made a big impression on your average American, because large SUV sales are up 25% over the same time last year.

When I win the Lottery I will be buying one myself, along with a 40-foot motorhome, and the license plate frames will read "Fuck you, Al Gore." Maybe Al Gore will feel so guilty that he'll quit jetting all over the world and showing up at his appearances in limos and SUVs, and maybe even downsize his house.

What? It could happen.

Fat Sparrow

P.S. -- Sorry to have fucked off yet again for so long (due to health problems). I'll be around to everyone's place as soon as possible to catch up.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Spouse Sparrow talks about: How a McDonald's legend is born

Spouse Sparrow says:

During my time as a manager at a McDonald's in Belfast, the head restaurant manager was an English girl called Jill. Her style of management was bossy, she was always there to catch you doing wrong and never saying a good word about you. She was a Psychology major, as you would say here in America, and thought she knew how people's minds work. If it was some young person's first job or someone had worked there for numerous years she thought she could treat them like shit, as they wouldn't leave. One time she did say "This is all they know." I felt insulted that she had summed someone up like that, and it occurred to me that she was just a dickhead without a clue. When I get pushed I suddenly feel the urge to go slower and not really give a crap, which is why the Army didn't suit me well, and Jill pushed me.

Jill would do the 6 month Progress Reports (or P.R.s as these dreaded things were called) on her managers. If you did well you got a raise, not much but it added up with the hours you do. I used to get these from school and they usually said "quiet in class" and "must try harder." I would be doing my job, happy and content that I was doing a good job. I could motivate crewmembers, I was liked and I sold burgers. Well okay, I did get 2 complaint letters, one from a customer that was drunk and an asshole, and another from the owner's friend who said he saw a blue-shirted blond manager eating fries on front counter. I knew I would never do that, the fries stink and besides I lead by example; also it sounded like the other blond manager that worked there but it got pinned on me.

When it came time for my P.R., I felt confident. Then I had an hour of Jill telling me how crap I was. This became the routine at every P.R., and I expected it; those that didn't lick up to her got the shit end of the stick. I am glad to say I never kissed anyone's ass which is why I didn't do as well as I should have. I grew to hate Jill, and I did my job, no more no less. I sold burgers, kept the place clean and protected my staff and customers, and I only did favours for other managers I liked.

Then it happened; Jill got moved to our other store in DunDonald. I had worked there for a while, it was a drive-thru unlike the Belfast one and definitely not as violent as the Belfast one.

We got a manager called Michael but then the franchise owner, Ian, screwed him over and demoted him forcing him to leave. Then we got a manager called Johnny. I loved that man; funny and easy going and quick to compliment you. I knew him from when I was a crewmember and he was a trainee manager, he spoke up for me to get my (manager's) shirt.

One shift, Johnny told me I was going on my BOC at the end of the year which is a promotion and meant I'd be salaried with a white shirt. Sure I was happy, I'd be about 4th in charge. Well, the end of the year came and went and no one told me a thing. Johnny said Ian had changed his mind. That's when Ian made his big mistake. He was a good businessman, but always f**ked you over for a profit. A McDonald's slogan was "People are our most important ingredient," I guess they meant in the Mac sauce as they f**ked you over in the work place.

I got the newspaper "The Belfast Telegraph" every Friday for 3 years as that's the day the job finder was out. A fellow manager, Sharon, used to joke that I would never leave, and how long have you been looking for a job? I even applied for a funeral home as dead people usually don't try to punch you over burgers. I creeped Sharon out by saying that if she died I might be the last person to see her naked. I'm sure she imagined something else happening, as I didn't have to say a word, the look on her face was priceless. To see a millie lost for words and disgusted at the same time is a wonder.

For 3 years I searched for a job. We were always short-staffed at McDonald's as Ian loved the low labour figure (who cares what corners were cut), then Johnny announced he had given in his 2 weeks notice, then a Dunkin' Donuts opened (first ever in Belfast) and 2 other managers gave their notice. One of them was called Eileen, a tall girl with a kind soul, she called me "Sparrow Boy full of the horn" whatever that meant; it was a term of endearment. Things really went downhill fast. No adverts were placed in the paper for new workers, it was very unreal, and Ian worked shifts doing everyone's head in with busy work.

I had a really bad morning shift one time, as the night manager Mark was really slack. I had called him on it before. This time he left a really shit clean up, also my front counter staffer sent a night staff person home without me knowing, saying that she would finish their job of removing Ajax from stainless steel. My 10 am person didn't come in, and we were packed to the doors. Tracy on till and me in the kitchen, that was it. Lobby full of people, trays all over the place because fast food customers can't manage to put their rubbish in a trash bin. Nevermind it's not your job, you're just a lazy f**ker, otherwise you'd be cooking at home, ha!

That was the day that 2 regional supervisors walked through the door. I am not making this up. They asked "Where is all the staff? Have you phoned anyone in?" all the questions you don't really need when you are trying to feed the 5,000, then they worked in lobby for me.

When it all had settled down and some staff came in one of the regional supervisors sat me down and told me of his worse shift, he was trying to make me feel better. I was shaking due to adrenaline and not having eaten anything all day. They went and threw some sauces that were a few days out of date, possibly due to bad rotation and when everything was fine they left.

Ian, the owner, came in. He wasn't angry, he was like "Oh shit, what do they know? What did you tell them?" He took me and Tracy to Laveries (the pub next door) and got us a couple of drinks and pried some info from us.

I was still in shock at having the worse shift I've ever had, and now I was a little beer buzzed, although I only had 2. Ian got me to go through the trash area and bring in the sauces that were thrown out, as they were only out there for 2 hours and in black plastic bags so to him they were all right. I didn't give a shit, I just wanted the nightmare to end.

Then the impossible happened; one of the many jobs I applied for came through. It was working days instead of nights for the same money, and it wasn't McDonald's, so I gave 2 weeks notice.

I was working a graveyard shift at McDonald's, as we were open 24 hours. And at the end of that shift Ian called me to his office. He showed me printouts of low profits (so he said) and how he couldn't have promoted me back then. I recalled how him and his secretary (that he was banging in the top office) both got new cars then. He asked me what I thought of getting my white shirt and now going on my BOC. Well, 3 managers leaving, which leaves 3 not so good managers and one good one (Sharon) and she was going to be the restaurant manager. I said to Ian that I was pissed off that no one had told me I wasn't getting my shirt, he blamed Johnny of course. Ian told me I'd only do day shifts, and he even offered me to work just Saturdays, cash in hand, and then I said my movie line "The only move I want to make in McDonald's is out."

On my way down the stairs, I saw Eileen who had waited to hear about it, I told her he had offered me my shirt and I told him to stuff it. She was so excited and couldn't wait to tell her mum who for some reason really disliked Ian. I was now a hero.

Johnny agreed to stay on an extra week before he realized I was leaving too, then he kicked himself for being dumb. On my last shift, a morning, I came in with a sweater on, and in slow motion with trumpets sounding (well in my head that was happening) I took it off. I was wearing a white manager's shirt underneath the sweater. I had been issued one when I first started, until I got my blue one. This was a statement completing my legend. Ian came in and said that it looked good on me.

I didn't want to leave that last shift but my time had come. When you wish for something to keep you at work it never does.

Weeks later, one of the inexperienced managers called my home so I could talk him through the safe's combination. I was happy to be the on-call assistance. Later a customer, a bright female student, was using the hand dryer in the disabled toilets and it electrocuted her dead, it was on his shift. Unlucky for both of them. Drunk customers punch and break anything in McDonald's, including hand dryers; I cringe every time I use one now.

They made a manager of a moron that Ian swore once would never be a manager and he poached staff from a Burger King. I may have been burnt out at the end, in need of time off but I do miss working there sometimes. Jill had a baby and mellowed out though I still really disliked her and would avoid her in the street.

Now I am in America, and I still have Mac sauce in my veins. Every time I eat at a McDonald's, I have to open up my burger before I eat it to check and make sure the dressings are centered, and that the pickles are side-by-side, and not touching. They never are, as Yanks are slack f**kers who just can't be arsed. They are all soft as shite over here, the McDonald's in Belfast that I worked at was like that movie "Roadhouse" but with burgers.

Spouse Sparrow

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Now that is funny

And you thought you had a bad day....

"Figgis Detained After 'Shoot a Pilot' Comment

From AOL News

(May 29) -- There are certain things one should probably refrain from saying at an airport, and director Mike Figgis unfortunately learned the hard way.

Figgis, who directed "Leaving Las Vegas," was reportedly held for over five hours at Los Angeles International airport after he told immigration officers "I'm here to shoot a pilot,"
according to The Guardian. In television, the first episode of a potential television show is called a pilot. However, the agents, apparently not in-the-know with industry terms, took it to mean Figgis had plans to gun down an airline pilot.

Figgis was then held in an interrogation cell for five hours, and was released after officers figured out he had no assassination plans. "

Monday, May 28, 2007

I have a mind like a steel trap

...that has been left out in the elements and has warped.

I've been depressed lately. You can often tell what mood I'm in by what I'm reading, and when I'm depressed, it's Anne Rice. Yes, I love to wallow. Bring it on.

So, I was re-reading Anne Rice and thinking about how it would be really cool to have those sorts of powers the vampires in the Rice-verse have, like killing people with the power of their mind and flying. Now I have tried, repeatedly and how, to make people cark it just by thinking about it but I have yet to have any success. If practice really made perfect my brother would have dropped dead in childhood. Still, if Bill O'Reilly suddenly and mysteriously drops dead, I'm claiming credit for it.

Where was I? Oh yes, depressed and reading Anne Rice. Suffering from insomnia, and lying in bed. Or laying in bed. Fuck, I can never remember that one. Anyway, I was thinking about how the vampires in her books never go underwater. Because if I was a vampire, I'd be going underwater. But not in pools, because I have an irrational fear of pool drains, and I have a bad reaction to chlorine. It would have to be the ocean. I like the ocean; it's very peaceful. Not when it's coming up with giant waves to kill people, but when you're swimming through the water a mile or so out from shore it is very calming. Until you start thinking about sharks, at least.

And then I wondered: If I were a vampire, and I was swimming in the ocean, would I be immune from sharks? Theoretically, no, as vampires are cold (temperature-wise) creatures, but if I had just snacked on a human I'd be warm and then maybe a shark would go for me. Then again, the shark might anyway, as sharks are rather indiscriminate eaters who will munch on things like tires and license plates and Haitian immigrants, yuck. So, if the shark does munch on me, the vampire me, that is, would I survive? Bearing in mind that the vampires in the Anne Rice universe can re-attach their limbs, if the limbs are severed, and after a period of healing everything will be hunky-dory. But, if the head is severed for any length of time the vampire is well fucked. So if it's just an arm or a leg I should be all right, as long as I can wrestle it back from the shark. That could be kinda dangerous. I don't want to be some kind of vampire Captain Ahab/Steve Zissou, disastrously in search of my missing libido and taking it out on the wrong creature. That would be bad. Also it would be bad if the shark ate my head. But even worse than that would be if the shark ate all of the vampire me. Really really a lot worse than that would be if the shark became a vampire because of eating me. Sharks are bad enough on their own, without having any vampire attributes, I think. And no one would go in the water again, if there was a Vampire/Fat Sparrow/Shark on the loose in the sea.

I wonder why no one has written about vampire/shark hybrids. After having seen "Underworld" (completely not my fault; the Spouse Sparrow revels in watching shite) I am sure that it is only a matter of time before someone writes a screenplay, and it ends up on the Sci Fi Channel, so don't blame me when it happens.

Now you know the kinds of things that keep me awake at night, while the rest of you were worrying about the Irish elections, which, as you can see, I did not even bother with. I'm still getting my head around the fact that Bertie Ahern and Enda Kenny are guys, even though they have girl names.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Why I am for the death penalty

So, I was reading the newspaper (Yes, I know; how very 1950's. Deal with it. I still have dial-up, too.) and there was an interesting story in there that I thought I might share with you....

Killer who wouldn't appeal is executed

A condemned killer who fought for seven years to drop his appeals, saying he owed it to his victims, was executed Tuesday by injection in Florence, Arizona.

Robert Charles Comer, 50, had been convicted of a 1987 crime wave in which he killed a camper east of Phoenix and raped a woman in front of her boyfriend.

Comer was mostly quiet as he lay strapped to a gurney before his execution. When the warden asked whether he had any last words, the California native replied: "Yes, go Raiders."

I am so morally conflicted.... Here we have a criminal who seems to understand the concept of justice, who seems to feel remorse for his crimes, who may even have partially reformed himself in prison, yet he still supports the Raiders.

Fuck it. Juice him up, Warden.

Fat Sparrow

P.S. -- Translation for all you Brit/Irish-type people out there who have no clue as to what is going on: The Raiders are a really lousy American football team, and their fans are chavs and hooligans.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Hey hey hey, it's Fat Albert!

I am so sick of seeing that smug bastard, Al Gore, plastering his smarmy face all over the media. That man is such a gasbag and blows so much hot air that if he would just shut up the carbon emissions for the United States would be cut in half. Do we really need to hear every political commentator on the planet speculate on how he may pull a last-minute surprise and announce his candidacy for the presidency? Is there anyone out there who hasn't heard about his movie? Are his 15 minutes of fame not up yet?

It's all well and good for him to preach about the horrors of gas-guzzling cars, but not everyone can afford a hybrid. Sorry Al, some of us have to buy cars that are (gasp!) 10 years old or more. Some of us don't have the luxury to make choices about what kind of hybrid we want; it's more like what hooptie we can afford. Some of us can't afford cars at all. And you know, for someone who preaches about the wonders of public transportation, I don't see Al on the bus very often. Now, mind you, he might have been squeezed in between the guy that was drunk and crawling with lice and the little old lady with 37 shopping bags who insists on giving me child-rearing advice, but I didn't see him. Besides, he strikes me as more of the type that takes up two bus seats and worries about people stepping on his shoes.

So, I'm doubting he took the bus to his photo shoot with Richard Branson, in which they looked like what they are, a couple of aging smug bastard wanna-be hippies that are actually richer than fuck. They offered up $25 million in prize money to whoever can come up with a contraption that can reduce carbon emissions. Now, I'm no rocket scientist, but gee, don't most contraptions (or at least the manufacturing of them) use electricity? And isn't a lot of electricity generated by burning coal? So what we would have here, besides a failure to communicate, is something that would generate more carbon emissions while supposedly cleaning up carbon emissions. Hmmm, I wonder why no one's claimed the prize yet?

Well, into the void leaps little ol' me, as usual. I have come up with a machine that reduces carbon emissions. It is even solar-powered. What it does is this: When Al Gore and Richard Branson come up to inspect it, a sensor is triggered, and it kills them. No more of Richard Branson coming up with wacky ways to put people in space, while making loads of money off it and not worrying about the polluting effects of manufacturing something completely useless, like fuel for rockets. Who the fuck needs a rocket? If you're going to take a bunch of rich idiots into space, Mr. Branson, please leave them there. No more Al Gore, jetting away to speaking appearances all over the world, to harp on about global warming and lecturing at me, who doesn't even have a car.

Listen up, you hypocritical twats; what you're looking for doesn't exist. It will never exist. What you're looking for is for someone to clean up the mess that you've not only made, but will continue to make. What you're looking for is some small expiation of guilt, so you can continue business as usual. Here's a little tip: You guys are going to have to make the biggest sacrifices of all. You're going to have to practice what you preach. Buying "carbon offsets" isn't going to cut it. Eventually the little guys are going to figure out that the papal indulgences you're selling are bullshit. It's just not as simple as you're making it out to be. I know you've got a lot of celebrities all lined up to lick your hole, Al, but you know what? Celebrities are not that bright. A lot of them haven't even finished high school. So when you go around talking about chemistry and science and biology, they're nodding politely, but they're actually thinking about their spa appointment later that day. They don't know shit from shinola as it is, so they're eager to lap up whatever snake oil you're selling, even if you're just selling yourself.

When I hear about Al Gore selling off his McMansion to live in something small and environmentally friendly, and Richard Branson putting out commercials saying "Hey guys, you don't really need to fly anywhere; why not take a vacation closer to home next year?" then maybe I'll listen to something they have to say. In the meantime, they can kiss my petunia.

The earth may very well be heating up, but in the meantime half of my town's water wells have been poisoned by companies that manufactured jet and rocket fuel, and now it's undrinkable. I live less than 7 miles from an EPA Superfund Site. Everyday, my family's lungs are the worse for wear because we live in a part of America that has one of the highest rates of fine particle air pollution, and everyday, more and more semis and freight trains come through here. What difference does it make if it's 119 degrees here in my town in the summertime, or only 110, when we can't drink the water or breathe the air? Carbon doesn't cause birth defects. Our water now does. Our land now does. Our air now does. Where is your outrage, Mr. Airline Owner? Where is your outrage, Mr. Wannabe President?

Just something for Al Gore and Richard Branson to think about, while they're cutting me my check for $25 million.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, May 11, 2007

The Diamond Ring

Once upon a time, there was a Man and a Woman.

The Man loved the Woman very much, and she loved him.

The Man and Woman planned a life together, and as they were both educated, well-off people, their families were very happy for them.

The Man and Woman got married.

Some time went by, and the Man, hoping to show the Woman just how much he loved her, gave her a beautiful diamond ring.

The Woman was overjoyed. She loved the diamond ring.

A couple of years went by, and the Man thought once again of how much he loved the Woman, and so he gave her a pair of beautiful diamond earrings to go with the diamond ring. The Woman loved these, too, and they went very well with the diamond ring.

The Woman wore the diamond ring and the earrings everywhere she could. She couldn't bear to be without them, and the Man indulged her in this. After all, everyone admired them when they were all together: The Woman, the Man, the diamond ring, and the diamond earrings.

The Woman and the Man decided to take a holiday, and they decided to bring the diamond ring and diamond earrings along with them. The place where they chose to vacation wasn't exactly the sort of place for wearing a diamond ring and diamond earrings, but once again, the Woman and Man couldn't bear to be parted from them. And after all, other people wore their jewelry there; why shouldn't they?

Once they got to their holiday destination, they found that there were some places they wanted to go in which it would be inconvenient to wear a diamond ring and diamond earrings.

They wondered what to do.

The Man said to the Woman, or perhaps the Woman said to the Man, "I think we should leave the diamond ring and diamond earrings in the hotel safe. It's said to be very secure."

"I don't know; you never can tell just how secure those things are. What about that service the hotel offers, where someone would come here and guard the diamond ring and diamond earrings while we are out?" the Woman said to the Man, or maybe the Man said to the Woman.

The Man said to the Woman, or perhaps the Woman said to the Man, "Oh no, I'm sure that would be worse; you never can tell about people these days, and how do I know what the guard would be doing while we aren't watching? You know I can't bear to let the diamond ring and diamond earrings out of my sight!"

"You may have a point there. You do hear all sorts of things nowadays. And those guards.... They're so expensive," the Woman said to the Man, or maybe the Man said to the Woman.

The Man said to the Woman, or perhaps the Woman said to the Man, "Oh dear me, yes. You know, I'm sure the diamond ring and earrings will be ever so safe here. It's really a lovely place, and I'll put them safely away in a drawer. We won't be that far away, and one of us can run back every few minutes to check on the diamond ring and the diamond earrings."

And so that is what they did. They put the diamond ring and diamond earrings in a drawer, forgetting that they had previously said they could not bear to have the diamond ring and diamond earrings out of their sight.

The Man and the Woman went out the door of their hotel room, which had a notice on it saying "DO NOT LEAVE VALUABLES IN HOTEL ROOM."

One or the other of them came back to check on the diamond ring a diamond earrings a few times, and everything was fine. The diamond ring and diamond earrings were safe in their drawer.

Each time they went in or out of their hotel room, the Man and the Woman passed the sign that said "DO NOT LEAVE VALUABLES IN HOTEL ROOM."

The Man and the Woman came back once again to check on the diamond ring and the diamond earrings, to make sure they were safe in their drawer.

The diamond ring was not there.

The Man and the Woman looked everywhere, but the diamond ring was well and truly gone.

The Man and the Woman notified the police.

Many people were sympathetic. They knew how they would feel if a diamond ring of theirs had gone missing.

Some other people were not so understanding.

These unsympathetic people could not believe that it had never occurred to the Man or the Woman that someone else may have wanted a diamond ring, and so took theirs, as it is generally agreed that diamond rings are a very valuable commodity, and not the sort of thing that one would leave in a hotel room.

These cynical people found it hard to believe that that the Woman and Man could act so irresponsibly if they had valued the diamond ring as much as they professed. Some even went so far as to put forth the opinion that maybe the Man and the Woman shouldn't have the diamond earrings, considering the care, or lack of, that they had shown with the diamond ring.

The Man and the Woman were shocked, and protested heartily, and most of their protestations began with "I didn't think...."

Truer words have never been spoken. "I didn't think __"

"I didn't think something like this could happen here. I didn't think that something like this could happen to us. I didn't think that notice on the door, the one that said "DO NOT LEAVE VALUABLES IN HOTEL ROOM" applied in our situation."

But the Man and the Woman have to do a lot of thinking, now.

Now the Man and Woman have to think about what someone has done to their beautiful diamond ring after it was stolen. They have to think about how gold can be melted down, and diamonds can be sold, and how they may one day get their diamond ring back in an unrecognizable shape or form, or only parts of it, and then the Man and Woman will have to take the word of the police that it actually is their diamond ring.

Years may go by, and the Woman may never know what has happened to her diamond ring, all because she and the Man didn't bother thinking things through.

And maybe the Man says to the Woman, "Don't worry. I can give you another diamond ring."

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, May 05, 2007


In a vague, hopeless attempt to keep you lot entertained while I am pissing (get it?) my life away, you can go and read one of my earlier posts. It's fucking brilliant, of course, but it was from back when I first started out, and was mainly blogging to myself, so you probably haven't read it.

Fat Sparrow

Monday, April 30, 2007

So, sucking on stem cells.... Does that really work?

Sorry to have fucked off, but I have yet another bladder and kidney infection, so I feel like shit. I thought I had all this over and done with and my latest medical problems sussed out (a story which will make more sense when you read an upcoming post of mine), but apparently not. I'll be creeping around to doctor's, dentist's, and various other appointments this week, so I'll try to catch up with you lot and get you sorted later.

In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves, I'm all verklempt.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, April 19, 2007

The other day I received an e-mail from a start-up company. I thought I'd share it with you, along with my response. The name of the company has been changed, as I don't want to encourage them by giving them publicity. I have left their e-mail "as is," so don't even go there with "There are spelling/punctuation/grammatical errors!"....

In a message dated 4/4/2007 12:04:41 P.M. Pacific Daylight Time, writes:

Hi Fat Sparrow,

From what I read, your blog seems to cover a lot of interesting topics around your original and personal vision on everyday's life . Your blog is quite visible (I found you in the first results of Technorati), so I guess you must receive loads of messages.

We are just a small tech startup running a beta test for a new widget for blogs.
As the topic of your blog fits pretty well with the type of high end blog we are looking for, it would be very interesting if you could join our AnnoyYou Roll beta test.

What's all about? AnnoyYou is the blog roll of your readers. It’s a widget that displays links to blogs your readers are visiting the most often.

How does it work? We trace the number of visits of each unique reader on each blog that has installed AnnoyYou Roll. The more often a reader visits a specific blog, the greater his affinity is with this blog.

What are the benefits for you? First of all, you will provide your readers with a very entertaining blog roll, based on other readers with similar reading habits. Moreover, you will get highly qualified incoming traffic for your blog. Indeed, as other similar blogs display your blog on their AnnoyYou Roll, they will feed you with new readers with a strong affinity with your blog.

It takes 1 minute to install:

I would be really interested in your personal feedback on this widget.
Thanks for your help.

Project Manager AnnoyYou

PS: I apologize in advance to be another guy sending you an email! I am NOT here to sell you anything whatsoever.By the way, I guess I hate those stupid spams as much as you.

My response....

Dear Peter --

Thank you for your kind and flattering remarks. It is a difficult business sending out e-mails to strangers, is it not? Therefore, let us pretend we are dogs; you have sniffed my backside, and now I will sniff yours.

I have been on your website, but short of installing your program, I cannot find any way to test it beforehand, to see what kind of sites would be linked to me. Perhaps you could let me know how your program differs, if any, from blog-coding programs such as, or, or If it does not differ, I fail to see how it would be useful to me, quite frankly. If, for instance, your program could generate new commenters to my site who are not assholes, this may be a plus. Or, on the other hand, if what I get is new assholes (and I cannot find that your implied promise of "highly qualified incoming traffic" precludes this) commenting, who have had their sense of humour surgically removed, and insist upon commenting on subjects of which they know nothing, that would be a minus. People often think that they are funny or intelligent when in fact they are neither. I can safely say this, as I am both funny and intelligent, and therefore am in a perfect position to criticize everyone else.

I also find that if people want to see whom I read, they can easily look at the blogs listed in my links. Unlike many blogs who will do automatic reciprocal links, I do not list people whom I do not read at least occasionally. Many other people link to me, yet I do not link to them. I would be uncomfortable with a program that would automatically link me with such people. It appears to me that your new program is this type of system. If I have misunderstood, please feel free to correct me.

Also, I notice that you mention that if I use your system, I would have "a very entertaining blog roll." Just how entertaining should my blog roll be? I would hate to have a blog roll that is more entertaining than my actual blog. It would rather defeat the purpose of my blog, would it not? I mean, upstaged by my own blog roll.... Just think of the pressure, and then of the sad and possibly untimely demise of my blog, all because I could not live up to the expectations of those who had looked at my very entertaining blog roll! And then there is the thought of more traffic on my blog. Do I need more traffic, or should I be more of a "planned growth" kind of blog? A virtual Master Planned Community, if you will. I wouldn't want to have so much traffic that I was accused of succumbing to that dreaded disease of planners everywhere -- sprawl.

I would suggest that maybe you could come up with a blog program that screens commenters. I know Blogspot (which I use) has "word verification," but I have found that even idiots, unfortunately, can type in a random string of letters and then attach their inane comments to my perfect post. I think that if you were to come up with some kind of IQ test, or some type of litmus test that would use some basic, predetermined requirements before a person would be allowed to post, you would be doing a great service for all of Bloggingkind. If and when you develop such a program, please feel free to contact me.

Thank you,

Fat Sparrow