Showing posts with label the bitch files. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the bitch files. Show all posts
11.18.2009
7.23.2008
Boo's Top Ten: Reasons I Should Not Have Left Bed Today
10. Nearly sprained my ankle getting out of bed.
9. Nearly breaking my dog's leg by almost spraining my ankle getting out of bed.
8. Late for work.
7. I might not have a place to live when I move out of my rental. Next week.
6. Fighting with the hubs is bad for sex life.
5. No breakfast due to being late for work.
4. Was awake past 2:30 am again. Couldn't sleep.
3. No clean socks. At least, no good clean socks. Everything is packed up to move.
2. Unusually expensive water bill. Like, as in, three times the normal water bill. Which might mean we have a leak, but you know what, fuck it, I'm moving out; my landlord can deal with it.
1. I want to murder everyone that crosses my path with eye daggers. That is probably a good indicator that I should not leave the house. Much less come into contact with....people...
ugh.
9. Nearly breaking my dog's leg by almost spraining my ankle getting out of bed.
8. Late for work.
7. I might not have a place to live when I move out of my rental. Next week.
6. Fighting with the hubs is bad for sex life.
5. No breakfast due to being late for work.
4. Was awake past 2:30 am again. Couldn't sleep.
3. No clean socks. At least, no good clean socks. Everything is packed up to move.
2. Unusually expensive water bill. Like, as in, three times the normal water bill. Which might mean we have a leak, but you know what, fuck it, I'm moving out; my landlord can deal with it.
1. I want to murder everyone that crosses my path with eye daggers. That is probably a good indicator that I should not leave the house. Much less come into contact with....people...
ugh.
6.16.2008
Dear Fucking Diary
Dear Mawthrfucking Diary, *and yes, this is the Amish edit, apparently.
It could have been a stranger weekend, really. I keep telling my husband that, but he just laughs. But, really, it could have been stranger. For instance, my brother could have told me he was pregnant...and not been kidding. See? Now THAT would have been strange.
Or I might have awoken on Saturday morning to a blizzard. That would have been really weird. So all in all, what happened this weekend wasn't completely out of the realm of reality. Just partially, perhaps.
Friday was truly a good day--not a bit of strangeness to be found. I got off work early, thanks to my company and its summer hours policy. I had a delicious margarita, went by a new blues/rock-a-billy club that will be opening soon, and walked around downtown. Gorgeous day, easy to be peaceful. Good.
Me and hubs went to an art opening, met up with some friends for sushi, went back to the opening for free beer, and came home early. No hangover! Good.
Saturday morning, we woke up early (well, early for me not him, that freak), decided to go to the housesite that is finally (FINALLY!!) being built, after which we would go to one of the best swimming holes in the South, and then on to another art opening for a friend, and then a party for three newly engaged couples. Good.
Well, on our way to our new house, we saw this great stuff by the side of the road: Two sets of old movie-type chairs. You know, four chairs connected by heavy metal framing, fold down seats, the whole she-bang. "Free!!!!" we screamed simultaneously, and whipped the car around. Unfortunately, we were in our little gas-efficient vehicle, which I love, but it had no room to fit one set of these lovely chairs, which I didn't love. As we stood by the back of our car, debating our course of action, a gentleman approached us and said he had two more sets of these things if we wanted them.
Score! In a matter of minutes we had doubled our booty. Sixteen cool old chairs! With so much awesome-potential! We asked him if, pretty please, we could hide these things in the bushes on the side of the road, take off the free sign, and later claim them when we had our truck. No problem, he says. Yay we say. So off we zoom to our housesite, see the progress (squeeee), and with the pooch in tow, head toward the swimming hole, aptly named Skinny Dip Falls.
It was a beautiful drive down the Blue Ridge Parkway. There were no tourists on the road--highly unusual for this time of year--so we sped along and were at the spot in record time. It rained off and on the whole drive, and it was fabulous. Living in a temperate rain forest really has its perks. Yes, there was one moment of blinding--and I'm mean literally blinding--downpour in which I coached my sweet hubs to just stay calm, don't brake suddenly, and follow the lines on the road. (Now listen, that shit is scary when there is no guard rail between your little car and a long, long plummet down a mountain that would surely end in serious brusing if not death.) We made it through, phew! and got to the swimming hole. There was a chill in the air, a sprinkle in the breeze, and a spring in our step as we made our way down the trail to the falls.
It was freakin' cold. I mean, gasp for breath fucking cold. And I loved every minute. I jumped in fully clothed as soon as we crossed the rocks, and my dog followed suit (she is so awesome). We swam for as long as we could stand it, hiked down the trail a bit more where the dog rolled in scat and proceeded to completely gross me and hubs out--that shit STINKS, people--and we came back to the falls to wash her off. And then I gave her a bath when we got home. And then another bath. (Cute aside: My doggie-love LOVES the hairdryer. She would lay there for hours as long as I was blowing her fur with a nice warm stream of air. But she hates the vacuum. Go figure--everyone likes to get blown.)
Hubs and I took a shower, and got ready for the friend's art opening. His photographs were amazing--beautiful images full of character, flawlessly exposed, and gorgeous subjects. Great show. I met a friend there, Tom, and his friend, Shane. I say his friend, because I Do Not Like This Woman. There are very few people that, after only two meetings, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I would not tell them if their hair was on fire. This woman is one of them. She is fucking unbelievable. She is whiny, demanding, negative, and just has a sucky attitude in general, and what was about to transpire would not help my attitude towards her whatsoever.
Here is where things get really strange.
Tom, the hubs, the bitch, and I were sitting outside of the gallery space so Tom and Bitch could smoke a cig. As we sat there in the wonderfully pleasant evening, a streetpunk came walking by. He was clearly fucked up on something, probably meth, and was out of it. He asked us collectively if we had a cell phone he could use, and Tom, hubs and I all rightly ignored him. Clueless bitch, however, hands over her cell phone. Now, this kid didn't look like he could remember his own name, much less a 10-digit phone number. And yet, he stood there for almost 25 minutes having the strangest one-sided conversation I have ever heard. I could make very little sense of it, as there was a lot of cursing and huffing, but one thing was clear: No one was on the other side of that conversation. The entire thing was an act for our benefit, a desperate attempt for some type of attention. Red flag.
Finally, after what seemed like forever (especially considering Clueless Bitch's constant complaining that she was hungry) Tom asked the guy politely if she could have her phone back, as we had to go. Tweaker freak slams the phone shut (without saying goodbye to anyone--another indication that he was crazy and having a conversation with no one), throws it at Tom, and screams, "FUCK YOU, YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE!!" and proceeds to verbally abuse the four of us. Now, I just sat there kind of laughing, because I have experienced this kind of shit before, and saying anything just eggs these idiots on. At one point, he even got on his knees in the street and bowed down to us, saying things like You Perfect People, and You Beautiful People.
Um, ok. Crazy fuck.
We gather ourselves, say goodbye to the fabulous artist, and start walking down the block so Clueless Bitch could get some food (she had not stopped complaining through Tweaker Freak's entire tirade), and attempt to leave this freak-fest behind, but of course, he followed us. He harrassed us for three fucking blocks. At one point he screamed at me two inches from my face (I moved away out of fear of catching something nasty) and that was all it took. Something snapped in my sweet-hearted hubby, and my hubs smacked the crackhead with his umbrella. The crackhead tried to come at him, and my hubs smacked him a few more times over the head. He ran back, cowering and screaming, and came at him AGAIN. At this point, I was not going to watch this freak go after my husband, so I employed my square-toe boots and kicked the shit out of that bitch. Luckily, a restaurant owner that I am friends with (and consequently owns one of the most fabulous Southern French 'rants in the South) came out with the cops on the phone, gave them a description of this douchebag, and the freak ran away. But not before my sweet hubs destroyed our umbrella. He had blood on his hands, and it was the tweaker's blood, so he went into the lovely French 'rant to wash up. (Big shout out to Michel, the best Frenchman in the South!)
So what was Clueless Bitch doing this whole time, as my hubs defended me and I defended him? BITCHING ABOUT HOW HUNGRY SHE WAS.
Seriously, what????
That kind of shit doesn't always happen, but when it does, it is kind of strange, isn't it?
It could have been a stranger weekend, really. I keep telling my husband that, but he just laughs. But, really, it could have been stranger. For instance, my brother could have told me he was pregnant...and not been kidding. See? Now THAT would have been strange.
Or I might have awoken on Saturday morning to a blizzard. That would have been really weird. So all in all, what happened this weekend wasn't completely out of the realm of reality. Just partially, perhaps.
Friday was truly a good day--not a bit of strangeness to be found. I got off work early, thanks to my company and its summer hours policy. I had a delicious margarita, went by a new blues/rock-a-billy club that will be opening soon, and walked around downtown. Gorgeous day, easy to be peaceful. Good.
Me and hubs went to an art opening, met up with some friends for sushi, went back to the opening for free beer, and came home early. No hangover! Good.
Saturday morning, we woke up early (well, early for me not him, that freak), decided to go to the housesite that is finally (FINALLY!!) being built, after which we would go to one of the best swimming holes in the South, and then on to another art opening for a friend, and then a party for three newly engaged couples. Good.
Well, on our way to our new house, we saw this great stuff by the side of the road: Two sets of old movie-type chairs. You know, four chairs connected by heavy metal framing, fold down seats, the whole she-bang. "Free!!!!" we screamed simultaneously, and whipped the car around. Unfortunately, we were in our little gas-efficient vehicle, which I love, but it had no room to fit one set of these lovely chairs, which I didn't love. As we stood by the back of our car, debating our course of action, a gentleman approached us and said he had two more sets of these things if we wanted them.
Score! In a matter of minutes we had doubled our booty. Sixteen cool old chairs! With so much awesome-potential! We asked him if, pretty please, we could hide these things in the bushes on the side of the road, take off the free sign, and later claim them when we had our truck. No problem, he says. Yay we say. So off we zoom to our housesite, see the progress (squeeee), and with the pooch in tow, head toward the swimming hole, aptly named Skinny Dip Falls.
It was a beautiful drive down the Blue Ridge Parkway. There were no tourists on the road--highly unusual for this time of year--so we sped along and were at the spot in record time. It rained off and on the whole drive, and it was fabulous. Living in a temperate rain forest really has its perks. Yes, there was one moment of blinding--and I'm mean literally blinding--downpour in which I coached my sweet hubs to just stay calm, don't brake suddenly, and follow the lines on the road. (Now listen, that shit is scary when there is no guard rail between your little car and a long, long plummet down a mountain that would surely end in serious brusing if not death.) We made it through, phew! and got to the swimming hole. There was a chill in the air, a sprinkle in the breeze, and a spring in our step as we made our way down the trail to the falls.
It was freakin' cold. I mean, gasp for breath fucking cold. And I loved every minute. I jumped in fully clothed as soon as we crossed the rocks, and my dog followed suit (she is so awesome). We swam for as long as we could stand it, hiked down the trail a bit more where the dog rolled in scat and proceeded to completely gross me and hubs out--that shit STINKS, people--and we came back to the falls to wash her off. And then I gave her a bath when we got home. And then another bath. (Cute aside: My doggie-love LOVES the hairdryer. She would lay there for hours as long as I was blowing her fur with a nice warm stream of air. But she hates the vacuum. Go figure--everyone likes to get blown.)
Hubs and I took a shower, and got ready for the friend's art opening. His photographs were amazing--beautiful images full of character, flawlessly exposed, and gorgeous subjects. Great show. I met a friend there, Tom, and his friend, Shane. I say his friend, because I Do Not Like This Woman. There are very few people that, after only two meetings, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I would not tell them if their hair was on fire. This woman is one of them. She is fucking unbelievable. She is whiny, demanding, negative, and just has a sucky attitude in general, and what was about to transpire would not help my attitude towards her whatsoever.
Here is where things get really strange.
Tom, the hubs, the bitch, and I were sitting outside of the gallery space so Tom and Bitch could smoke a cig. As we sat there in the wonderfully pleasant evening, a streetpunk came walking by. He was clearly fucked up on something, probably meth, and was out of it. He asked us collectively if we had a cell phone he could use, and Tom, hubs and I all rightly ignored him. Clueless bitch, however, hands over her cell phone. Now, this kid didn't look like he could remember his own name, much less a 10-digit phone number. And yet, he stood there for almost 25 minutes having the strangest one-sided conversation I have ever heard. I could make very little sense of it, as there was a lot of cursing and huffing, but one thing was clear: No one was on the other side of that conversation. The entire thing was an act for our benefit, a desperate attempt for some type of attention. Red flag.
Finally, after what seemed like forever (especially considering Clueless Bitch's constant complaining that she was hungry) Tom asked the guy politely if she could have her phone back, as we had to go. Tweaker freak slams the phone shut (without saying goodbye to anyone--another indication that he was crazy and having a conversation with no one), throws it at Tom, and screams, "FUCK YOU, YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE!!" and proceeds to verbally abuse the four of us. Now, I just sat there kind of laughing, because I have experienced this kind of shit before, and saying anything just eggs these idiots on. At one point, he even got on his knees in the street and bowed down to us, saying things like You Perfect People, and You Beautiful People.
Um, ok. Crazy fuck.
We gather ourselves, say goodbye to the fabulous artist, and start walking down the block so Clueless Bitch could get some food (she had not stopped complaining through Tweaker Freak's entire tirade), and attempt to leave this freak-fest behind, but of course, he followed us. He harrassed us for three fucking blocks. At one point he screamed at me two inches from my face (I moved away out of fear of catching something nasty) and that was all it took. Something snapped in my sweet-hearted hubby, and my hubs smacked the crackhead with his umbrella. The crackhead tried to come at him, and my hubs smacked him a few more times over the head. He ran back, cowering and screaming, and came at him AGAIN. At this point, I was not going to watch this freak go after my husband, so I employed my square-toe boots and kicked the shit out of that bitch. Luckily, a restaurant owner that I am friends with (and consequently owns one of the most fabulous Southern French 'rants in the South) came out with the cops on the phone, gave them a description of this douchebag, and the freak ran away. But not before my sweet hubs destroyed our umbrella. He had blood on his hands, and it was the tweaker's blood, so he went into the lovely French 'rant to wash up. (Big shout out to Michel, the best Frenchman in the South!)
So what was Clueless Bitch doing this whole time, as my hubs defended me and I defended him? BITCHING ABOUT HOW HUNGRY SHE WAS.
Seriously, what????
That kind of shit doesn't always happen, but when it does, it is kind of strange, isn't it?
1.16.2008
A Brief Word from the Bitch Files
Since the Bears really took it in the ass this year, I kind of stopped caring about football season. But the bullshit that is piling up about the Dallas Cowboys simply must be addressed.
There are several pertinent points here, as follows:
1. Jessica Simpson does not have the ability to wield the kind of power it takes to make an ENTIRE PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL TEAM fail. Anyone who thinks the she does is clearly touched in the head, and probably already fondling her double D's. (I'm looking at YOU, Papa Joe.)
2. Tony Romo has already proven himself an idiot simply by affiliation, so to think that he could bomb a big game on his own is no fucking surprise.
3. Apologies in advance, but it's the Dallas fucking Cowboys. They haven't been good since the days when Kurt Cobain still walked the earth, Michael Jackson wasn't a child molester, and Arnold Schwarzenegger still pretended to act. So yeah.
The people who are blaming Jessica Simpson for the Cowboy's loss (ahem, national media) are, to put it mildly, retarded. (Thanks Texas! I mean, not only did you give us Bush, but remember, Jessica is one of your own.)
Oh, and also, TO, you are a pussy. This is why no one likes you. Not even Cowboys fans, and that IS scraping bottom. (Again, no offense meant, Cowboy fans. But truth is truth.)
There are several pertinent points here, as follows:
1. Jessica Simpson does not have the ability to wield the kind of power it takes to make an ENTIRE PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL TEAM fail. Anyone who thinks the she does is clearly touched in the head, and probably already fondling her double D's. (I'm looking at YOU, Papa Joe.)
2. Tony Romo has already proven himself an idiot simply by affiliation, so to think that he could bomb a big game on his own is no fucking surprise.
3. Apologies in advance, but it's the Dallas fucking Cowboys. They haven't been good since the days when Kurt Cobain still walked the earth, Michael Jackson wasn't a child molester, and Arnold Schwarzenegger still pretended to act. So yeah.
The people who are blaming Jessica Simpson for the Cowboy's loss (ahem, national media) are, to put it mildly, retarded. (Thanks Texas! I mean, not only did you give us Bush, but remember, Jessica is one of your own.)
Oh, and also, TO, you are a pussy. This is why no one likes you. Not even Cowboys fans, and that IS scraping bottom. (Again, no offense meant, Cowboy fans. But truth is truth.)
12.18.2007
A Quick Gripe
You know what really buggers my ass? When people use the "it's going to look so horrible when you're old" argument against getting tattoos.
Guess what dumb dumbs: we ALL look like shit when we're old. A little skin decoration isn't going to change that.
So suck it.
Guess what dumb dumbs: we ALL look like shit when we're old. A little skin decoration isn't going to change that.
So suck it.
6.27.2007
Idiots Taking Over the World and Lots of Swear Words: A Blog in Three Parts
Part One: The Drinker
I have been thinking about my live music experiences lately, (and obviously, if you have managed to struggle through any of my recent posts, you may think that's all I do, which isn't really true), and a few things have been bothering me.
Now, in general, I think we all experience a period in our lives of being raging alcoholics. For me, that was from high school until I graduated from college, but hey, I'm alive. And that is perfectly ok. I am certainly not one to judge people (to their faces). But there comes a point in everyone's life where the alcoholic tendencies fade and real interests take up the reins. For most of us.
The Pumpkins show I went to last weekend was a real eye-opener for me. There is having a beer at a show and having a good time, and then there is using any social situation as an excuse to get drunk. Do you see where I'm going with this?
The show was male-heavy, which I don't have a single problem with. In fact, for most of my life I have related more to the male sex (in attitude and behavior, not in wanting to be one, thanks) than the female sex. I guess many of my personal characterstics are stereotypically male: direct, sex-driven, addicted to sports, etc. So I actually like being in situations where there are more men than woman. But at this show, the men, the grown mutherfuckin men, were no different that the barely post-pubescent lads grasping toward the threads of manhood: two beers in hand, hair (or what is left of it) in disarray, and completely, COMPLETELY shitfaced.
I understand kids drinking past excess; I mean, that is a damn rite of passage. It is a new, uninhibited, exhilarating feeling. But an adult man? I mean, a grown-ass adult??? Let's be serious here: there is nothing more pitiful than a slightly balding man with a punk t-shirt, an expensive watch, a marriage ring line, and attitude of entitlement. (There were drunk, grown-ass women there, too, but for the most part they minded their own business and drunkenly swayed through the whole show.)
Perhaps I expect too much. Yes, that's it. I just put the bar too high there.
No! No, that's not it. Dammit.
I go to a lot of live music in my town, and the Pumpkins show was the first one here that I've really noticed this phenomena. I think it has to do with the out-of-townies coming in for the biggest act to play here. Which, now that I think about it, are actually small turds (turdlettes, if you will) from a larger shitter: the tourist.
Part Two: The Tourer
I don't know about where you people live, but here in my hometown, tourism is a HUGE industry. I mean, we call it tourist season, but when we say "season", it really means "all year long". We're lucky enough to live in a beautiful place that is climatically interesting year-round, but unlucky enough that everyone and their brother comes here for fucking vacation. And in a town of ninety thousand, the tourists really stick out.
I don't mind tourists in general; hell, every time I go anywhere, I become one. But the difference, and this is a big difference, is that I don't leave my fucking brain at home. For example, my husband and I use maps. We love maps, and I am usually the HBIC (head betch in charge) when it comes to navigation. Now, some of the brainless tourists use maps too, but only after they stop their car in the middle of the street, get out to look at the street signs, and ask 50 people for directions. So maybe, the pitiful drunk men at the show are not so much their own phenom, as much as they belong to the "left the brain at home" populus. God, they drive me crazy.
And then there were two.
Part Three: The Suer
Our country is cultivating a society of nitwits.
"Don't take responsibility for your actions," they say, "just force the people around you to do it." Don't worry about putting hot coffee between your legs while driving, if it burns you just sue the place that made it too hot! Don't teach your children to eat well, sue the fast-food chain for your child's obesity-related diabetes and heart disease. God forbid you teach your children how to be healthy. Don't blame the mentally tortured kids that choose to take their own lives, blame the fucking music they listen to!
In such a litigious society, our world has come down to the fine print. Contracts. Such-and-such company not responsible for (insert common sense here). Release forms. Once our court system decided that individuals are too stupid to think on their own, they gave everyone a "get out of jail free" card. Don't think for yourself: if someone doesn't tell you not to do something, it's their fault!
I am a firm believer in social evolution, and all we are doing by saving the idiots from their own plights (if you put hot coffee between your legs, you should deal with the burned twat, not make millions from a lawsuit) is lowering our common denominator. And color me fucked if those are the same people contributing to our overpopulation problem.
I have been thinking about my live music experiences lately, (and obviously, if you have managed to struggle through any of my recent posts, you may think that's all I do, which isn't really true), and a few things have been bothering me.
Now, in general, I think we all experience a period in our lives of being raging alcoholics. For me, that was from high school until I graduated from college, but hey, I'm alive. And that is perfectly ok. I am certainly not one to judge people (to their faces). But there comes a point in everyone's life where the alcoholic tendencies fade and real interests take up the reins. For most of us.
The Pumpkins show I went to last weekend was a real eye-opener for me. There is having a beer at a show and having a good time, and then there is using any social situation as an excuse to get drunk. Do you see where I'm going with this?
The show was male-heavy, which I don't have a single problem with. In fact, for most of my life I have related more to the male sex (in attitude and behavior, not in wanting to be one, thanks) than the female sex. I guess many of my personal characterstics are stereotypically male: direct, sex-driven, addicted to sports, etc. So I actually like being in situations where there are more men than woman. But at this show, the men, the grown mutherfuckin men, were no different that the barely post-pubescent lads grasping toward the threads of manhood: two beers in hand, hair (or what is left of it) in disarray, and completely, COMPLETELY shitfaced.
I understand kids drinking past excess; I mean, that is a damn rite of passage. It is a new, uninhibited, exhilarating feeling. But an adult man? I mean, a grown-ass adult??? Let's be serious here: there is nothing more pitiful than a slightly balding man with a punk t-shirt, an expensive watch, a marriage ring line, and attitude of entitlement. (There were drunk, grown-ass women there, too, but for the most part they minded their own business and drunkenly swayed through the whole show.)
Perhaps I expect too much. Yes, that's it. I just put the bar too high there.
No! No, that's not it. Dammit.
I go to a lot of live music in my town, and the Pumpkins show was the first one here that I've really noticed this phenomena. I think it has to do with the out-of-townies coming in for the biggest act to play here. Which, now that I think about it, are actually small turds (turdlettes, if you will) from a larger shitter: the tourist.
Part Two: The Tourer
I don't know about where you people live, but here in my hometown, tourism is a HUGE industry. I mean, we call it tourist season, but when we say "season", it really means "all year long". We're lucky enough to live in a beautiful place that is climatically interesting year-round, but unlucky enough that everyone and their brother comes here for fucking vacation. And in a town of ninety thousand, the tourists really stick out.
I don't mind tourists in general; hell, every time I go anywhere, I become one. But the difference, and this is a big difference, is that I don't leave my fucking brain at home. For example, my husband and I use maps. We love maps, and I am usually the HBIC (head betch in charge) when it comes to navigation. Now, some of the brainless tourists use maps too, but only after they stop their car in the middle of the street, get out to look at the street signs, and ask 50 people for directions. So maybe, the pitiful drunk men at the show are not so much their own phenom, as much as they belong to the "left the brain at home" populus. God, they drive me crazy.
And then there were two.
Part Three: The Suer
Our country is cultivating a society of nitwits.
"Don't take responsibility for your actions," they say, "just force the people around you to do it." Don't worry about putting hot coffee between your legs while driving, if it burns you just sue the place that made it too hot! Don't teach your children to eat well, sue the fast-food chain for your child's obesity-related diabetes and heart disease. God forbid you teach your children how to be healthy. Don't blame the mentally tortured kids that choose to take their own lives, blame the fucking music they listen to!
In such a litigious society, our world has come down to the fine print. Contracts. Such-and-such company not responsible for (insert common sense here). Release forms. Once our court system decided that individuals are too stupid to think on their own, they gave everyone a "get out of jail free" card. Don't think for yourself: if someone doesn't tell you not to do something, it's their fault!
I am a firm believer in social evolution, and all we are doing by saving the idiots from their own plights (if you put hot coffee between your legs, you should deal with the burned twat, not make millions from a lawsuit) is lowering our common denominator. And color me fucked if those are the same people contributing to our overpopulation problem.
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