Archives For Nausea

I’ve got to switch things up around here.  My recent posts have been sentimental and/or introspective and frankly, I’m starting to annoy myself.  It’s time to break away from all that thoughtful shit and bust out a new batch of search terms.  For a refresher on the other mind-boggling search terms that bring people to my blog, please click here and here.

First, the newest members of my I Hate Alex Trebek club:
why is alex trebek such an insufferable prick
why does alex trebek think he’s hot shit
i fucking hate trebek
alex trebek isn’t a nice guy

I wish I didn’t like Jeopardy! as a game because I have such a hard time watching it with that smug bastard hosting.  I yell at the television at least once per episode, usually more:  “Fuck you, you little douche!”  “Shut up!  Stop talking!”  “Ass!”

What is WITH these people??
weebles boobs
weebles rack
weeble porn
weeble butt plug

Based on the disturbing popularity of these sorts of terms, I’m going to create a new literature genre: Weeblerotica.  There’s obviously an unmet need here.  A very twisted, baffling, unmet need.

Not quite the right URL, sorry:
heynicerack.com
loveyourtits.wordpress.com

If only I had thought of either of these for the name of my blog.  I could have been Madame Boobs.  Both of these domains are available, by the way.  I checked.

Some pressing questions that require answers:
can cats carry demons
Yes, but only if the demons are very small.   Cats can’t handle a big saddle.  Also, cats are pretty lazy.

what do i do i’m scared of weebles

Did they not read the title of this blog?  FEAR NO WEEBLES.

can i touch up my hair and raid it the same day

I suppose so, if you have a lot of bugs in your hair and you don’t mind that bug spray smell.  But you know, you may have more important concerns than your hair.  Just saying.

i wore pantyhose for halloween, now i can’t stop
I find this one particularly curious.  Is this person now addicted to pantyhose?  How does this happen?  What was their Halloween costume, anyway?

you see another brother in christ and you get nauseous
Whoa, is that any way to talk about a brother in Christ?  Let he who is without nausea-inducing qualities cast the first stone, dude.

Um, what?
prepare to fuck a new woman every day … but first read through our policies below

What the hell kind of organization is this?  I’m going to need to see these policies of theirs.  And is there a division for those who might wish to fuck a new man every day?

Variations on Fuck You:
fuck you american style
i fuck people like you in prison

Yes, well.  “American style” could mean so many things…  And although I’ve never been to prison, I watched Oz, so I know what’s up.  But if someone says, “I fuck people like you in prison,” does it mean that you’re a tasty piece or does it mean that you’re an obnoxious jerk who needs to become someone’s bitch?  It could go either way.

So many weevils, so many idiots:
how to make sure weebles aren’t in your food
what happens when you swallow a weeble
what to do if spaghetti has weebles in it

You mean like this? I usually just pick them out and lick off the sauce. It’s really no biggie.

If I had a dime for each search term where they obviously mean weevils and not Weebles, I’d be writing this post from my yacht on the Riviera.

My personal favorite:
geddy lee madame weebles in bed

Geddy, is that you????  Don’t be shy, baby.  Email me.

More search terms that would make great band names:
picturesque vagina
barricading the cheese
big pubes little dick
pantyhose ascendant
precocious tits
subway penis
dead marshmallow

Not really.  Well, maybe.

I’m doing a post soon to thank and acknowledge everyone who has bestowed awards upon me.  When other bloggers accept awards, I enjoy reading their “10 things about me” or “answers to 7 questions” usually associated with the awards.  I like knowing about people’s quirks, random likes and dislikes, answers to wacky questions, etc.  So I decided to write a bunch of stuff about myself in lieu of doing the awards ones.

So here it is, a bunch of random shit about me:

  • Whole portobello mushrooms scare me.  I’ll eat them, but not if they’re whole.  When they’re whole they look like little aliens and they creep me out.
  • I’m an only child.  People ask me, “What’s it like to be an only child?”  I never know how to answer because I have no other frame of reference.  All I can say is, it was good.  And no, I wasn’t a spoiled brat—my parents made sure of that.
  • For some reason I have a fascination with Victorian undergarments.  All those corsets and stays and petticoats and stuff.  Despite the fact that they were probably extremely uncomfortable.
  • I love pistachio ice cream, but I dislike pistachio nuts.
  • I detest honey (sorry, bees, I still love you).  Just the smell of it makes me queasy and hurts my teeth.
  • When I was a kid I played the piano.  I haven’t played in years, so it would take me ages to get my chops back.  But I’d love to learn how to play the harpsichord and the pipe organ.   I’d have to buy a really ornate candelabra for that, though.
  • Despite playing piano for many years, I utterly suck at reading music.  I literally still have to count the bars on the music to see which note it is:  “Okay, that’s one, two bars up, above the bar, so that’s an A.”  It’s brutal.  For me it’s much easier to play by ear.
  • Third and final music-related fact: I’ve composed a jazz tune, although I haven’t actually written it down or arranged it yet.  It mysteriously started composing itself in my head when I was about 8 or 9.  I have no idea why.  It’s nothing I’ve ever heard, and to my knowledge it isn’t a song that already exists.  It’s a ragtime-style piece, and over time it wrote itself, adding more passages every so often.  The song is finished now, and I can hear the whole thing in my head with all the instruments.
  • My elbows are double-jointed.  Mr. Weebles finds it alarming.  (And sadly, I am double-jointed in no other areas.)
  • My favorite curse word is “motherfucker.”
  • I cry whenever I watch movies or TV shows where animals are hurt.  Even if they’re computer-generated animals.  I sobbed my guts out at Godzilla, and I refuse to watch King Kong or Mighty Joe Young.
  • Even though I’ve seen every episode eleventeen million times, I still laugh out loud at I Love Lucy, Seinfeld, and The Golden Girls.
  • I really love practical jokes, as long as they’re not mean.  That’s the one thing I really miss about office life—playing pranks on my coworkers.

So there you have it—random info about Weebs.  It feels a little self-absorbed to do this but you know what?  It was fun.

But enough about me.  Let’s talk about you.  What do YOU want to know about me?

[Disclaimer: This is not aimed at my Republican buddies here, who are intelligent, thoughtful human beings.  This is for the members of the GOP who are hell-bent on fomenting hatred and encouraging discrimination, among other things.  Anyone who is offended by this, however, is exactly the type of person I'm referring to below and should be offended.]

[Note: I'm not generally a politics person.  I will probably never write another political post, so I wanted to make this one count.  I'm coming out swinging.  I might lose some readers, and that's okay.]

Hey, wingnuts.  You don’t know me but you hate me.

I’m from New York City.  To you guys, that’s just another name for Sodom.  Y’all hate us city slickers because we’re not honest, hard-workin’, church-goin’, “real” Amuricans.  Yet my city, along with 3,000 people, took a big hit for you 11 years ago.  Fuck you.

I believe that a person’s race, religion, or sexual orientation has absolutely nothing to do with a person’s right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  You, on the other hand, cloak yourselves in your “Christian faith” and use it to justify your perverse views on humanity.  And you’re fine with people enjoying freedom—as long as they’re white, Christian, and heterosexual, and as long as they think exactly as you do.  You’re fucking hypocrites.

I care about the earth.  I know global warming is real.  I oppose drilling in the Arctic, fracking, and everything else that messes with our fragile environment.  I support the Kyoto Protocol and I’m ashamed that we are one of the few nations not to ratify it.  You hate that hippie shit.  As long as you make more money, who cares what happens to the planet, right?   You clueless fucking idiots.

I’m a woman.  I’m everything you dislike in a woman, too.  I am child-free by choice.  I didn’t take my husband’s last name.  I have my own career.  I believe all women should be able to live without the government dictating what we can and cannot do with our bodies.  You think we should be smacked around and put back in our place.  A lot of you don’t even seem to believe rape is a real crime.  That’s how much you hate us.  Fuck you, you sick misogynist bastards.

I say women should have equality in the workplace and get equal pay for doing the same work as men.  You hate that idea with a passion.  Let me tell you something, wingnuts.  The first women in my family to work outside the home were my grandmothers.  They were working their asses off when Lilly Ledbetter was still just a gleam in her daddy’s eye.  My grandmothers worked because they had to.  One of my grandmothers was an immigrant from Sicily.  You would have hated her just for that.  The other was a Rosie the Riveter—she worked at Fairchild Camera, manufacturing bomb sights and reconnaissance camera equipment for the war effort. (You’re welcome.)  They had difficult lives and few options.  Today, American women have opportunities that my grandmothers couldn’t even have dreamed about.  And you can’t handle the fact that women are now outclassing you and challenging your authority, can you?  Fuck you, you deserve it.

One of our greatest Republican presidents, Theodore Roosevelt, was a champion of women’s rights.  He also spoke out against racism.  His unorthodox views didn’t endear him to a lot of people, but he was a very forward-thinking guy.  I suspect that if he were alive today, he would have been just as open-minded on the subject of gay rights.  Meanwhile you halfwits are trying to drag us back to much darker times.  You’re a disgrace—not just to the Republican party, but to the whole country.  TR would kick your sorry asses back to the Stone Age.  Fuck you.

You disgust me.  You’re vile, arrogant, and pathetic.   I hate how you’ve given my country and my people such an awful reputation around the world.  Because the Americans I know—immigrant, American-born, gay, transgender, hetero, black, white, Latino, Asian, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, atheist, whatever—are decent, kind, open-hearted souls.  They’re better Americans and human beings than you will ever be.

You’ve rewritten history to suit your agendas.  You’ve twisted the truth to such an extreme that it’s not even recognizable anymore.  Some people say you’re insane.  I disagree.  You’re not insane, you’re just evil.

The only good thing is that the more you talk, the more you reveal yourselves as hate-filled, ignorant troglodytes.  And the more that happens, the more people will want to stop you.  Because you need to be stopped.  You need to go back to your caves and pick bugs off each other, and leave my country alone.

Fuck you.  Fuck you all.

No photos, please

Madame Weebles —  August 21, 2012 — 162 Comments

Yesterday you may have seen my blog and thought, “Holy shit, Madame Weebles has lost her mind.”  As you discovered, that post was written by this guy.  But letting him guest post is obviously an indication of insanity on my part, so you weren’t wrong.  Special thanks to Le Clown for an awe-inspiring display of profanity and crudeness, perfectly underscoring the points I made in my post on his blog.

Now for my whiny tale of woe.  Please go and fetch your tiny violins so you can get ready to play “Hearts and Flowers.”  I’ll pour myself a few fingers of scotch while I wait.

Are we ready?  All righty then.

You may have noticed that there are no photos of me anywhere on this blog.  That’s very deliberate.  I have no photos here, no photos on my Facebook profile, no photos anywhere.  I like it that way because the only thing I hate more than having my photo taken is looking at photos of myself.

Lately I’ve been checking out websites of other patient advocates to get some ideas for my own site.  They all have photos of themselves.  It makes sense.  It’s a very personal thing, helping someone with medical care.  Potential clients might want to know what someone looks like, to see if they’d want to work with them.  It shouldn’t be a beauty contest, but a picture can be helpful.  Someone might think, “He looks like a nice person, I’ll email him for more info,” or, “She reminds me of that bitch I went to high school with—no fucking way am I contacting her.”

There’s no law that says I have to put up a photo, but it will seem odd if I don’t.  It’s like online dating—if you don’t have a picture, people assume you’re coyote ugly or that you have something to hide.  Or both.  So I guess I’ll have to do it.  I’m breaking out in hives just thinking about it.

For the record, I’m not a hideously disfigured freak.  (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)  I can look in a mirror without shattering it.  People don’t retch when they see me.  I’m your basic garden-variety person.  But I don’t want anyone to see my picture.  I’m not especially photogenic, and I occasionally have flashbacks to when I was younger and people made unkind remarks about my looks.  I may have grown out of that awkward stage, but my brain hasn’t.  So sue me.

I’m considering putting someone else’s photo on my site.  Yeah, I know, eventually clients would meet me and see that I look nothing like the photo, but so what?  It’s not like I’d be the first person to do a bait and switch.

Hi. I’m here to help. I’m sorry to say that in reality I look nothing like a young Sophia Loren. It’s just that her picture is a lot nicer than mine.

Or I could be an adult, suck it up, and use an actual photo of me:

If you read my palm you’ll see that I’m a nice person. (For the record, this really is my hand.)

I should not be so freaked out by this.  But honestly, I’m finding this to be the most nervewracking thing about developing my website.  Many of you have photos of yourselves on your blogs and/or Gravatars.  The idea of doing that myself terrifies me.  I admit it, I’m a big chicken.  I’d rather have multiple root canals than show people a photo of me.  It’s a very first-world problem—a luxury problem, if you will.  It’s pretty fucked up.

Now whip out those violins and play that sad, sad song just for me.

I’ve just seen a commercial for a new TLC show called Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.  This Honey Boo Boo creature, who is 6 years old, is one of the stars of another TLC train wreck, Toddlers & Tiaras, and is a regular on the children’s beauty pageant circuit.

Now this little monstrosity has her own fucking show.  Because when TLC deliberately scraped the bottom of the barrel last season, they apparently still weren’t satisfied.  I haven’t checked the weather forecast for the week yet but I’m expecting locusts and frogs.

Here’s a video clip to give you an idea of what we’re dealing with here.

That “special juice” she’s talking about, by the way, is a mixture of Mountain Dew and Red Bull that her mother concocted for her.  She calls it “Go-Go Juice.”  No wonder the kid has the crazy eyes.

This is going to be one hell of a show.  A children’s beauty pageant contestant, her nightmare pageant mother, and the rest of her trailer trash family (although they don’t actually live in a trailer).  The daughter is an obnoxious, mumble-mouthed brat who’s cruising for a bruising if the parents continue to encourage that attitude of hers.  Mom is a brash, ignorant fame whore and a diabetes disaster waiting to happen.  And one of her other daughters proudly proclaims that they’re not rednecks because “we have all our teeth.”  With all that Red Bull and Mountain Dew?  I doubt that, honey.

And if that weren’t enough, the mother is a self-confessed “coupon queen” and one of the teenage daughters is pregnant.  TLC won the Extreme Reality Jackpot with this crew.  They must have wet themselves when they realized they hit the dysfunctional mother lode.

And before anyone starts yelling that I’m unfairly going after Southerners, rest assured that I also have plenty of venom for Snooki and her vacuous, sun-fried friends on Jersey Shore, the shrieking harpies on Real Housewives (all of them), the snarling shrews of Bridezillas, and most other reality-show “celebrities.”  They’re the worst of every possible stereotype.  I’m sure the producers edit the footage so that they seem as appalling as possible, but surely that doesn’t require much effort in most cases.

Networks will continue to put this dreck on the air as long as we keep watching it for our guilty pleasure.  Reality shows about well-adjusted people sitting around reading on their Kindles just doesn’t make for riveting television.  The problem is that these programs end up spawning legions of increasingly self-absorbed, brain-dead lemmings who want their 15+ minutes of fame.  They celebrate and encourage ugly behavior.  And they make us look bad as a country.  It’s embarrassing.

Sure, the world hates Americans because we’re big bullies and we know think we’re better than everyone else.  But big deal—that’s been the case for decades.

No, it’s these literacy-free cretins who really ruin it for us.  They’re why people in other countries think we’re fat, lazy, arrogant assholes with the intelligence of a speed bump.  For better or worse—mainly worse—in today’s world, these reality shows, like Hillbilly Handfishing, My Teen Is Pregnant and So Am I, Bad Girls Club, etc., end up serving as our nation’s ambassadors.

So forget about our ham-handed approach to world affairs, our penchant for going to war, and the fact that McDonald’s can now be found in even the most far-flung locations on earth.  Our reality shows are why everyone hates us.  Can you blame them??

Unlike many of you, I am a mere mortal.  I have many weaknesses.  You know how Superman was powerless against kryptonite?  There are many things that are kryptonite to me.  Some in a good way, some in a bad way.

For instance, certain accents are kryptonite to me.  Yesterday we were treated to The Reclining Gentleman’s English accent.  The English accent weakens my knees pretty quickly.  But the accent I’m most powerless against is the Irish brogue.  I can’t resist it.  Can’t.  Won’t.  It doesn’t even matter if the speaker is male or female.  I’d pay good money just to listen to an Irish person read aloud from the dictionary or the phone book.

There are several other things that are guaranteed to evoke a visceral reaction in me, such that I am unable to resist swooning, making an ass of myself, and/or indulging in to an unspeakable degree:

  • Cute animals—anyone who doesn’t turn into a mess of goo with cute animals is probably Hitler reincarnated.
  • French fries—this should require no further explanation.  They’re delicious, greasy, salty proof of God’s existence and benevolence.
  • Carvel ice cream—for those of you not fortunate enough to live in an area with purveyors of Carvel, Carvel is like Dairy Queen or Mr. Softee, except much, much, much better.  See “proof of God’s existence and benevolence” above.
  • This guy—at this point he should need no introduction.
  • Flea markets—where you can find all kinds of crap you never knew you absolutely must have.
  • Bookstores—at least, until Amazon destroys them all, anyway.
  • Las Vegas—over-the-top decadence and debauchery at its best.

Then there’s the bad sort of kryptonite. Things that are so heinous and awful that I can’t stand looking at them, hearing about them, or being in the same room with them:

  • Disgusting holeswe’ve discussed these.
  • Roaches—Satan’s emissaries on earth.
  • Any of those interminable ASPCA and Humane Society commercials—why don’t you just waterboard me, it would be less traumatic.
  • Cottage cheese—to some, a healthy snack.  To me, a vile poison.
  • Honey—to some, a delicious topping for toast and other things.  To me, a vile poison.
  • Kevin Costner’s voice—want to send me into a homicidal frenzy?  Force me to listen to the audio from Dances With Wolves.
  • Tom Cruise—my hatred of him is even more intense than my hatred of Alex Trebek.

So how about you?  What’s your kryptonite?

Hello.  My name is Madame Weebles and I’m a trypophobic.

I’m going to go ahead and assume that most of you haven’t heard of trypophobia.  It isn’t one of those phobias that everyone knows about, like claustrophobia or acrophobia.  But it’s real.  Peculiar, but real.  Google it.  You’ll see.

Trypophobia is basically a fear of holes.  Or, more accurately, it’s an extreme aversion to holes.  Or clusters of holes.  Or other clusters of things clumped together.  It’s hard to explain.  Things like honeycombs.  Cracked earth.  Spores.  Seed pods.  Wasp nests.  Holey cheeses.  Closeup images of pores or cells.  Clusters of alien eggs in horror and science fiction movies.  The bubbles that form on the top of pancake batter as the pancakes start to cook.

I’m not just saying that these things gross me out or that I hate looking at them. It’s waaaayyy beyond that. I’m saying that they affect me on a visceral level.  I get physically and mentally repulsed.  I get angry.  I panic and squirm.  I feel nauseated.  I desperately want to flee and wash off all the cooties.

This isn’t something that affects me on a daily basis, fortunately.  If I were a beekeeper I would have a big problem with all those honeycombs, but ordinarily I can go about my days happily, free from offending visuals.  Although every once in a while a television show will sneak in a honeycomb or cracked earth or some other nasty hole-riddled item and I have to close my eyes.  And I have to prepare myself when I watch movies because you never know when they’re going to show some sort of pods or insect sacs or vampire eggs or something.  But I can safely watch cheese commercials because I’m okay with most cheeses.  Most.

This cheese does not upset me.

Yeah, I know, it sounds strange and silly. But hey, if you’re going to have a fear/intense aversion to something, it may as well have some comedy value.

I didn’t even know it was an actual thing until a few years ago.  I assumed it was just my own personal weirdness. Then Mr. Weebles found an article about trypophobia on the Internet—he showed it to me and said, “I think this is what you have.” And sure enough, that was it.  After years of getting wigged out by all kinds of dots and holes, I finally learned that my weirdness had a name!

Nobody really knows what causes trypophobia or why these images trigger this reaction in some people.  There seems to be a genetic component to it because it tends to run in families.  My mother has it too, and I didn’t even know it until I mentioned it in passing several years ago and she said she had the same problem. There are theories that it involves genetic memory—a primitive, instinctive understanding that things with holes can indicate decay, disease, or danger, and should be avoided.  But I don’t know that this sufficiently explains such an intense revulsion.

If you want to have some fun, do an image search for “lotus seed pod” or “Surinam toad.” But be warned: they’re really disgusting, even to a lot of people who don’t generally have an issue with this type of stuff.  But just the idea of them is making me sick and creeped out right now.  It makes me wish I could scrape my retinas to rid myself of those images forever.  Unfortunately, I will always have pod- and toad-related flashbacks.  Those horrific little fuckers will haunt me until the day I die.

Okay, I have to go and throw up now.