A Third Party Worth Considering in 2012

Now this is a third-party candidate that makes sense for America.

Thank to Jim Wright of Stonekettle Station for sharing a link to this great video on YouTube. Really gives you some food for thought, eh?

Hello, My F-ing Name is Maria

My submission to “Hello, My Fucking Name Is…”

Today I discovered Hello, My Fucking Name Is…, a website that offers people a chance to explain what their name is and how people get it wrong. From the Why This Site page:

This site is a joke, but the topic is serious

Crafting our personal identities is a lifelong process on which we spend quite a lot of time and attention. So then why is it that people can be so damn casual about paying attention to people’s names? In my four decades of living, I’ve been called more than 11 different names—and I’m sorry to say that not one of them is an ACTUAL variation on my name…

Submitting your story is as easy as clicking a button and filling in a form. Your submission is moderated — probably for spam, certainly not for language. The stories there are pretty funny expressions of people’s frustration of other people getting their name wrong.

You may think it odd, but people get my name wrong all the time. Seriously. So I decided to write up my own submission. It’s in moderation there now, but here’s what I submitted.

My name is Maria. Not Marie. Not Mary. And, for Pete’s sake clean out your f-ing ears, not Gloria.

My name is not Marie. The only Marie in my family was my uncle’s wife. They got divorced. She stole heirloom items from my grandparents estate that should have gone to my sister, brother, and me. She has liens against her that come up every time I try to buy or sell a property. I hate her, I hate her name. When you call me Marie, you remind me of her and that pisses me off. I’ll allow you to do it one time — because most people do — and if you do it again, I will correct you. Firmly. If you do it a third time, after being corrected, I will ignore you since you so obviously ignored me. My name is not Marie.

I was named after my grandmother. Her legal name was Maria. Just because people called her Mary don’t think you can call me Mary. You can’t. My name is not Mary.

If you think I introduced myself as Gloria, you should see a doctor about your obvious hearing problem. My name is not Gloria.

Yes, I realize that when you meet me for the first time, you might have an uncontrollable urge to sing, “I just met a girl named Maria.” Control that urge. I’ve heard it too many times for it to be even remotely funny anymore. All it does is make you sound like an asshole. Especially if you have a crappy singing voice.

You can also skip singing My Maria, Ave Maria, Take a Letter Maria, and How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria. Give it a rest already.

And one more thing. Just because my name is Maria and I live in Arizona, don’t look so surprised when you meet me in person and I don’t look the least bit Mexican. I’m not Mexican. My mother’s side of my family immigrated from Italy — not Mexico — in a time when it was still socially acceptable to immigrate into the United States from another country. Deal with it.

The other entries might be shorter, but they’re mostly in the same vein. Check them out. I think you’ll find them amusing. I did.

Internet Trolls Impress NOBODY

Sound familiar?

I think the second and fourth panels on this excellent comic strip by Scott Meyer can easily be applied to Internet trolls — you know, the dickwads who always have something nasty to say in online forums and in comment threads. Do read the whole thing to get the full message.

How to Impress NOBODY

Image embedded with the author’s permission.

The Pros and Cons of a Bad Haircut

An attempt to make myself feel better about a serious bad hair situation.

On Tuesday afternoon, I got my hair cut.

I told her to take off about half the length of my hair. (I like my hair short.) She started well — for a moment, I actually saw the Maria I like to see in the mirror. But then she lost control. She kept cutting. And cutting. And cutting.

I was afraid to make her stop. I was afraid one side would be left longer than the other.

She took off about 90% of my hair. It lay in piles on the floor.

I left there with the shortest hair I’ve ever had in my life.

I was born with more hair on my head.

So I figured I’d try to console myself by listing the pros and cons of having hair this short for the first time in my life.

Pros Cons
After 30 years, I finally get to see what color my hair really is. I have to see what color my hair really is.
It should be really easy to dye my hair. If I dye my hair, I’ll have to do it again in two weeks when it’s twice as long.
I don’t have to comb my hair. I don’t have enough hair to comb.
I don’t have to deal with tangles. I don’t have enough hair to tangle.
I can check the health of my scalp. I can see my scalp.
I don’t have to worry about hat-head. I have to wear a hat.
I finally get to wear some of my hats. I have to wear a hat.
Short hair is really nice in hot weather. It’s autumn.
I look like a very healthy cancer survivor. I look like a cancer survivor.
(I didn’t really have cancer.) People I meet are uncomfortable, wondering whether they should ask about my cancer treatment.
People will be convinced that I got my helicopter flight training in the military. I was never in the military.
I won’t have to get my hair cut again for at least three months. I’d rather have hair to cut.
I have an excuse not to go out in public. I’m too embarrassed to go out in public.

Can I think of any more? I probably will. I’ll add them above.

Oddly, I just joked with a Facebook friend who is hair-challenged — not his choice — that hair is overrated. I take that back. I wish I had my hair back.

And no. I won’t share a picture. I’ll be lying low for a while.

An April Fools Joke

Well, maybe it wasn’t April Fool’s day, but it was a good joke.

All the April Fools stuff going around the Internet today got me thinking about some of the jokes I’ve played on people in the past. This one came to mind and I thought I’d share it.

Municipal Building (from Wikipedia)Back in the mid 1980s, I worked for the New York City Comptroller’s Office, Bureau of Financial Audit. I was a Field Audit Supervisor, with a cubicle on the 22nd floor of the Municipal Building.

In my cubicle, I had a small basket filled with hard candies. I didn’t eat them very often and didn’t recall seeing any of my cubicle visitors eat them very often. Yet the supply of candies was steadily declining. I realized that someone was pinching candies when I wasn’t around.

That made the culprit eligible to be a victim.

CandiesI went to a gag shop in Queens, NY, where I lived at the time. I bought a small package containing four garlic-filled hard candies. They were individually wrapped with shiny gold paper and cellophane — very easy to distinguish from my other candies. I brought them to the office and dropped them in the bowl.

Time went by. Every morning, I’d peek into the bowl and count the gold-wrapped candies. Four. Four. Four. More time passed. Four. Four. Three.

The day I arrived and found only three candies in the basket, I knew the trap had been sprung.

I never did find out who was pinching the candies…but they did stop disappearing.