Call Me Dingo Fierce

Things have pretty much sucked since my last post, Innernetz.  With so much going on it’s been difficult to write with blinding tears and snot running all over the keyboard and whatnot.  Everything I wrote sounded like, Waaaaaaa!  Waaaaaaaaa!  Moving sucks!  Waaaaaaaa! I hate living in the ‘hood! Waaaaaaa!  We’re broke! Waaaaaaa! See how boring that gets after a while?  I tell you waaaaat, I was sick of myself.  I needed something to take my mind off of my pathetic pity party and the unsettling feeling of just seeing my new neighborhood on Cops. 

And then, then Innernetz, I got an email from the folks over at Noble Works Cards.  They asked if I’d be interested in hosting a giveaway on my blog.  Giveaway?! Hells yeah, I’d be interested in a giveaway!  One lucky and creative As I Was Saying reader is going to get a $25 gift card to spend on some of the hilarious, irreverent, and often downright offensive Noble Works gift cards, mugs, calendars, and memo pads.  Could anything be more perfect for you, Innernetz?!  But simmadownnow, bitches.  You gotta work for this. 

Here’s how this is going down.  Head over to Noble Works Cards and take a look around. Pick your favorite card and leave a comment to this post telling me what card made you pee in your pants, who you’d send the card to, and any additional comments you’d write on the card before dropping it in the mailbox.  You have until Saturday, February 13th at noon (because I’m not rolling outta bed before then) to submit your comment.  On Valentine’s Day, I’ll announce the comment I love the most.  And Voila!  You have a $25 gift card!  How easy is that?

You wanna know how easy it is?  Here’s a card I ordered for Mr. Dingo’s former employer with the $25 gift card Noble Works sent to me for hosting the giveaway.  And here’s my P.S.:

I hope that you get syphilis of the soul from all the people you’ve fucked over and that the dried piece of jerky you call a heart is absorbed into your lower intestine like a cancer and passes through your anus like the hardened piece of shit you are.

Dingo

I wonder if I should sit on it for a day or two?

But Innernetz, my absolute favorite purchase is the St. Bitch the Fierce Magnetic Memo Pad.  I love this memo pad.  It’s a legally recognized license to be the fashion police and to launch a citizen’s arrest all wrapped up in one delightfully robed visage — St. Bitch the Fierce.  I can’t wait until they get here.  I will be a superhero!  I can write wrongs and right wrongs.

My first citation will be given to the baby mamas and their crotch fruit who live directly above me.  How shall I put this?  Oh yeah, I hate them.  Hate.  Them.  The never ending noise. Sweet baby jebus, the constant noise!  Are they wearing cement shoes?  Why are they running around in circles for hours and hours every single night?  I mean, shouldn’t the little semen demons be in bed by 8?  But the running, jumping, and screaming continue until 2 or 3 in the morning.  Are they herding sheep before they count them?  All that running simply reminds me that polio once played an important role in child care.  And then there’s the music.  I may have been able to forgive the loud thumping bass that rattles the three-inch-thick steel security gates over my windows but I cannot forgive the desecration of the King of Pop and Billy Jean.  Aren’t there copyright restrictions that prevent Menudo wannabes from singing “Billy Cheen es not my luvah.  Cheese jussa girl says dat I am de juan”?  Really, Baby Mamas?  Is that the song you really want to have on repeat?  I know, I know, many of you are probably saying, “Oh Dingo, have you tried talking to them?” Silly Innernetz, do you want me to get stabbed in the face?  Because a knife sticking out of my face would not be a good look for me.  And that’s where my St. Bitch the Fierce memo pad comes in handy.  I can anonymously leave them a polite note asking them to respect their neighbors and STFU.  I should get a good citizen award but I’m already a saint and it would be a sin to be so greedy. 

Two nights ago the thumping and jumping reached Def Con 4.  My earplugs whimpered in defeat.  And then, it happened.  There was crash that shook the ceiling and sent Dingo Girl running for cover.  All was quiet for about five seconds and then there was keening and howling like a pack of drunken coyotes on a Spring Break bender.  Holy shit.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  Should I bang on the ceiling?  Call an ambulance?  The po-po?  No, I St. Bitch the Fierce had an even better idea. 

Running into the bedroom where the crying was the loudest, I climbed on top of the dresser.  I was only six inches away from the shrieking and crying.  But it was six inches too far.  I stretched up on my tippy toes.  My calf muscles, still sore from the move, groaned in protest, but this was important.  I was not going to stand by and do nothing.  Bracing my hands on the wall to give me some leverage and traction, I was just three inches from the ceiling.  Three scant inches from ground zero.  I didn’t hesitate.  I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with air, and shouted:

HAHAHHAHAHAHWOOOTWOOOTHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHTAKETHATMUTHAFUCKA!!

And for five blissful seconds, the yelling, crying, and music stopped.  I held my breath.  Fuck.  And then I breathed a sigh of relief.  I am St. Bitch the Fierce.  And I don’t care how obnoxious you are, you wouldn’t stab a saint in the face.  Would you?

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