YOU SHALL RECEIVE NO PIE

Hey, guys. I'm watching football all day today, but I still decided to post for you.

Last month, I did Bloggerstock, and in honor of Turkey Day, the topic was "What Are You Not Thankful For?" I worked really hard to not make my contribution boring and stupid, but as it turned out, that didn't matter because nobody fucking read it.

What the fuck, you guys? You've all hurt my feelings and shall receive no pie.

So how about this: I'm reposting it for you guys here to force you to look at it. Yay! Merry Christmas! Or whatever.

Here it is. Observe:

There were a lot of things I was thankful for this year, but you don’t care about that. What you really want to hear about is why I’m so bitter and sardonic, yet still so damn lovable (hooray!).


So I’ve been going to my gynecologist for a few years now. All women think that seeing the I Spy doctor is a major pain in the ass (pun intended), but that’s definitely the easiest way to find out that the random dude that you picked up at the side of the BQE gave you crabs. What’s especially obnoxious is when a guy asks if I’ve ever gotten turned on during my annual jaunts to the metal torture chair. I don’t know- let’s have a huge dude stick a cold metal scalpel up one of your orifices and see if you get aroused. Yay, or nay?

My gynecologist visits are especially annoying because he always keeps me waiting for like, nine years, and that’s just sitting in the waiting room. Plus his magazines suck. All he has is Parenting and Old People Weekly.


The last time I was there, the usual shit ensued. Height, weight, blood pressure, put on this dashing paper smock that was last seen on the Paris runways, etc. They had all the usual inquiries about my (pathetically non-existent) sex life, including whether I was pregnant, which made me cry saline tears because I can’t even get my mom’s cat to follow me into the bedroom.  All the normal tests were administered and then the nurse left me alone to wallow in the fact that I didn’t even need to be there because I’ve been “enjoying” the quiet, depressing art form of masturdating for the past year.


So I lie there uncomfortably with my feet in the cold, hard stirrups when the nurse came back in with my doctor, looked at me with Sadeyes and goes,“um, are you absolutely sure you’re not pregnant?”


Um. What.


There was silence for what seemed like a full decade (it was probably about ten seconds) until Nurse Ratchet laughed and told me she was trying to “lighten the mood.” Obviously my pain is some kind of fucking endorphin because they both started cracking up.

First of all, what kind of stealth pregnancy test was this that I didn’t even realize it was going on? And second, why the hell would that “lighten the mood,” unless everyone in this office is some sort of damn sociopath? Where did you get your license, Dr. Harold Shipman’s Medical School For The Criminally Insane?


So, thanks for that, Dr. Strangelove. YOU are what I am not thankful for this year.


Oh, and I also hate the Twilight kids. Someone needs to throw all of them into a poorly-lit tunnel during rush hour.


So that was what you all missed out on. I know, you're going to cry. It's OK, I'll wait. I'm also doing Bloggerstock this month, so you'll have plenty of other opportunities to ignore my handiwork.