Saturday, February 28, 2009

Beverly Hills(billy) 90210

Today is moving day at Fussy and Bitchy Inc. (My place of employment). The hoopty U-Haul is loaded. All we need is a mattress and a couple chickens on top to complete this tragic scene.
Where is the Northern Van Lines moving truck with cute boys to do the heavy lifting? Who is catering lunch? Do these people not realize I am allergic to manual labor?
If Mr. Fussy Pants asks me to ride in the rocking chair in the back--
I will quit.
I swear.
I hope you have a swell weekend (Damn your hides).
Y'all come back now,
Ya hear?

Friday, February 27, 2009

Trailers for Sale or Rent

Yesterday Viv the obstinate poodle and I were discussing the current state of our financial affairs. Actually, I was doing most of the talking. She was mostly trying to sniff my crotch.

I was patiently explaining that I was trying to change my attitude, turn over a new leaf, focus on what’s important, stop crying because I can (for the time being ) no longer justify our conspicuous consumption. I told her I thought she should do the same. We would both be happier. This was going to be GREAT!

She pretended to ignore me.

Undaunted, I rallied on—“There are more important things in life than new shoes! (I am not sure what they are, but I think it is time we find out)… So what if we cannot shop or go out to dinner, or spend weekends at the beach? We can be frugal! We do not need fancy wine or gourmet cheese. We have each other! "

"As long as we are together, it would not matter where we are. We could live in a singlewide trailer and be happy, couldn't we?”

Well, couldn't we?



I guess not.


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Fat Tuesday

"This is a shell building with no restroom or interior water. Previously occupied by Handley Feedstore. Please check potential use - with current regulations or requirements. Directions: Historic Handley, adjacent to Red Rooster Lumber Co."

I am fat.
It is Tuesday.

Fat Tuesday will be followed by WTF Wednesday.
I am sure I will still be fat on WTF Wednesday.

I baked a cake on Mind Melt Monday and proceeded to consume the chocolate monstrosity in its entirety.


When you fall asleep with a mouth full of cake and wake up five hours later convinced that your not so welcome furry four legged house guest took advantage of your reluctant hospitality by using your face as a potty pad-- I think the experts would agree that this a warning sign. A referral for treatment to a twelve-step program for frosting addicts will probably follow.

Admitting that you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I know these things because I watch Intervention on television while eating cake and congratulating myself for not being addicted to cough syrup or slot machines,

I think the events of Holy Shit I Killed the Dog Friday would have forced anyone to bake. (Addicts always have excuses).

Holy Shit I Killed the Dog Friday was the day the stupid dog that I agreed to baby-sit while its owner went to Mardi Gras jumped off my bed. I was nice enough to let him sleep with me (even though Viv the obstinate poodle warned me that he was trouble). He re-payed me by hitting the floor like a five-pound brick of semi-sweet baking chocolate, and then proceeded to flop around like a carp. It was a horrifying sight I assure you.

A frantic trip to the Doggie Emergency Room ensued. $250, a diagnosis of a fractured pelvis (Apparently a freakish occurrence that will require specialty surgery that could total many thousands of dollars- I am not even kidding), and three prescriptions including one for liver flavored Morphine later, the dog acts as though nothing in the world is wrong with him. He runs, he jumps, he chews shit up. I hate him.

I do not know if Fido has made a miraculous recovery, or I just imagine he has because I took the Morphine myself (It is not so bad once you get past the taste). Either way, I still feel terrible about the poor weasel's plight. I hold the ratty little beast all the time, even though he leaves hair all over everything, including the black turtleneck sweater I was wearing on Ghetto Saturday.

Ghetto Saturday was the day that I was stuck with Realtor Djour because Mr. Fussy Pants (My boss) announced on Are You out of Your Mind Thursday that he had found a shill buyer for our current office (I was unaware that he was looking for a buyer!--Nothing like job security, or lack thereof to make a woman break out the hand mixer). I was charged with the duty of securing new offices by March 1, otherwise known as Just Fucking Shoot Me Sunday.

Anyway, Realtor Djour could not resist pointing out that I had furry boobs. Ironic considering that she herself was wearing a frock adorned in chicken feathers as we stood in a feed store (SWEAR TO GOD) with no indoor plumbing. Clearly, the realtor needs treatment. Not me.

Yes, more excuses! So what?

Now it is Fat Tuesday. Tomorrow is WTF Wednesday, the day I have to tell my former loved one I broke her dog.

Before you know, it will be Just Fucking Shoot Me Sunday.
The day I have to show Mr. Fussy Pants our new office, but first I must find a company that rents his and her Porta-potties.



Thursday, February 19, 2009

I Love the Smell of Money Burning in the Morning

It reminds me of bacon. On second thought, that lovely aroma may be my ass on fire, or yours. I am not sure.

I do not have the strength for a full-blown rant today. This post is more of a whimper.

Make. Them. Stop.
Thank you,

If you refinance your 100 thousand dollar mortgage from your current rate of 6% to a new lower government subsidized rate of 4%, you will see a monthly savings of a whopping $122 per. month. I suppose you could add that to the $8 per. month you will save from the new tax cuts and buy yourself a bottle of Xanax, provided you still have health insurance.

Have a nice day.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Be Mine

Dear Boyfriend of the Doo-Doo Head Variety,

I am touched by the lovely Valentine card you recycled from last year sent me. Words cannot accurately express how I feel about you. I tried to write you a poem, but I could not think of anything that rhymes with douche. Perhaps a love song is more appropriate.



Wednesday, February 11, 2009

No One Wants Ugly Shoes

I am sick and tired of hearing about toxic assets, bailouts, TARP, and stimulus plans. Sick of it I tell you. This financial crisis is exhausting.

To be candid I would not know a toxic asset if it bit me on my not-so-perky ass. So I decided to do a little research (by little, I mean very little, like almost none).

I have concluded that toxic assets are like ugly shoes. It only took me about ten minutes to figure this out. I am not sure why our esteemed elected officials are having such a hard time. I think they should give me a call. I would be happy to explain it to them.

The convo would go something like this…

Hello congress?
T. here.
No one wants ugly shoes.
Get rid of them.
Ugly shoes will never be cute.
Give them away if you must.
Make room in the closet for cute shoes.

See? How easy was that? Banking crisis solved. They can thank me later.

Maybe that was a little too brief for politicians. Fine. Allow me to explain (Or leave now if you know what is good for you).

Banks are like shoe stores. Banks buy and sell bonds, stocks, and loans. They have expanded their business to include MBS (mortgage-backed securities), CDO (collateralized debt obligations), CDS (credit default swaps).

Shoe stores buy and sell boots, sandals, and high heels. Many shoe stores also sell handbags, hats and scarves.

Simple? Yes?

Business has been good for the last several years. Banks were buying all the paper they could get their hands on. Instead of doing proper due diligence, banks relied on credit rating agencies to tell them what they were buying. This would have been fine if the credit rating agencies had known what the hell they were doing, but they did not. OOPS.

Business for shoe stores has been booming. Keeping shoes and accessories on the shelves is challenging. Our shoe store owner turned to E-Bay to make a large purchase of assorted items and relied on the seller’s description without benefit of photos to make her purchase. This would have been fine if the sellers knew what the hell they were doing. Sadly, they did not. OOPS.

When the banks got around to looking at these assets, they discovered that about thirty three percent of it was worthless. These car loans, credit card loans, and mortgages would never perform. Total crap. Thirty three percent had potential. If the banks held these assets for a period of time and the economy continued to prosper these assets had a good chance of performing. Thirty three percent of these assets were stellar. Gold balls. No problem.

When our store owner received her order from E-Bay, she was horrified to discover that thirty three percent of the shipment was hideous, Think Payless end of season clearance. Thirty three percent was from an up and coming designer. They had potential. Thirty three percent were fabulous, Think Prada.

Common sense would dictate that the banks would act swiftly to write the bad debt down, or off their books entirely, sell the remaining assets, and be more prudent in the future. They did not. Instead, they held the paper. The economy slowed down. They were holding the worthless paper. The second thirty three percent of the assets were deteriorating. The remaining third was at risk due to pressure on these borrowers from job losses, gas prices and the general fuckery that was the economic climate. OH NO!

Our store owner could not face her epic screw up; instead of marking down the Payless rejects and getting them out the door, she stashed them in the back room. Out of sight. Out of mind. The up and coming designer she was counting on to recoup her losses from the Payless crap was busted for using kitten fur to line his trendy boots. She would have to mark his stuff down to get rid of it. Demand for Prada purses fell due to the same economic fuckery that was plaguing the banks. OH NO!

As the economy continued to spiral downward banks were faced with insolvency. They turned to the Federal Government for help. Gazillions of dollars were handed out to stabilize the banking system. The toxic assets remain on the balance sheets. No one knows the value of these securities. The private sector is unwilling to invest in them. The government cannot possibly buy them all. So now what? Nationalize the banks or let the free markets dictate who lives and who dies?

Our shoe store owner has hard choices to make. Sell her inventory at pennies on the dollar and risk bankruptcy, or make a deal with the devil. Her soul in exchange for a loan. A bailout in exchange for eternal hellfire and damnation. So now what?

No one wants ugly shoes.
See? How hard was that?