Who gives a crap?!

The Twilight series can kiss my heiny.

John Gosselin can suck my bottom.

Obama Care, Shmobama Care.

Bill Clinton DID have sexual relations with that woman, you lying sack of grits!!

P. Diddy, Puff Daddy, Sean Combs, Comb Daddy, Daddy Diddy, Combs Puff, DiddyPuff….whatever you go by, enough is enough.  Stop.  For real, I’m not even playing around here.

We get it, Dane Cook.  You think you’re hilarious.

I can’t get behind Snuggies for Pets.

Pepsi vs Coke?  Who cares.  why don’t be match up the great rivals:  Abraham Lincoln vs a great white shark?

These are things that weigh heavily on my fragile mind.

Oh, Canada….

I love Canada.  I want to live there, make love to it.  That is how strongly I feel aboot Canada.

Why?

What’s not to love about our northern neighbors?

They are polite and courteous.  Plus, they have something called “Canada’s Wonderland.”  The name itself implied all the good things in life, like puppies and warm chocolate chip cookies and grandmas.  Canada’s Wonderland is an amusement park in Toronto.  Chalk up a point for Toronto.

More things to love about canada:

1.  Kids In The Hall.  Uh, hello.  Best sketch comedy show that is or ever shall be.  I recently watched some episodes of The State and I just got all monkey mad nuts at it because I was convinced they stole all of their material from KITH.

2.  Fun province names like Saskatchewan.  Or if you’re a Mr. Show fan, Saskatchatario.

3.  Hippies love Canada for dodging drafts and the IRS.

4.  Unnecessary “u” in words–savour, flavour, colour…..Canadians love excessive vowls in their words, dammit!

I’m sure there are many more wonderous things about Canada I’m failing to mention, but you must forgive me as I have maple leaves in mine eyes…..

Gentle Readers

Hello and greetings from E.E. Zulkoski. I wanted to write and let you all know that I am still alive and well, thanks. It’s been quite a while since I’ve written, but rest assured to my waiting masses–a.k.a. “Mom”–I shall be back in full force soon. Just been whipping up some tasty morsels to feast your eyes uponst.
Until we meet a-gain,
warmest wishes,
E.E.Zulkoski

wackity smackity doo

McDonald’s is going down, friends.  Down, I say!! 

Again, it’s totally my fault for going back to the fast food establishment, but dang it, I had to. 

I ordered my usual Night After Special:  Sausage McMuffin and o.j.  but I was feeling cantankerous and wanted an iced tea, too. 

All was well, I got my food on my way to work and I went to take a big sip of tea, when BLECH!!!!  SON’S OF WHORES GAVE ME THE NEW SWEET TEA!!!!!  As you may tell, I hate sweetened iced tea.  I loathe it, really, so to take a huge gulp of nasty sweet liquid just threw me for a loop.  I stopped, pulled back into the parking lot, and went inside.  Now, this is pretty big for me because usually I would just be all “oh darn it!” and then drive away with wrong food, but not that day, friends.

I went inside and up to the counter with the counterfeit tea. 

ME:  “Uh, hi, I was just in the drive thru and I ordered regular tea, but this is sweet tea.”

McNazi:  “So……you don’t like that, then?”

Silence. 

I wanted to say, “No, i just wanted to drop back in and tell you all what a bang up job you’re doing here at McDonald’s.  Keep up the good work!” 

I looked at the little keebler behind the counter and said, “Actually, I hate sweet tea.” 

She reluctantly handed me a new cup and I got my damn regular tea.

I need some sort of shock collar to zap me when I get so many feet of McDonalds.  Let’s work on this, people.  Please send submissions to:

EZ’s No More Mickey D’s Fund

c/o EZ

Lincoln, NE

Thank you.

 

Is that a butt on your face, or are you just happy to see me?

Ah, behold the mighty buttchin.

In my admiration, here are some folks with tiny tooshes on their faces:

Shine on, brothers.  Keep them buttchins a’blazing!

What the hell did he used those for?!

Greetings.  Today’s blog is in honor of my uncle, Dean Hoffmeyer.

My Uncle Dean recently passed away.  I didn’t know him very well…he was a bit of a loner and worked for Burlington Northern Railroad back in the day, so he also traveled around the country during my youth.  The only times I ever saw him was Christmas Eve.  He’d come to our house while the rest of the family was at church, stay long enough to get his fill of Christmas Eve dinner, give us our presents, then he’d vanish in the night for another year. 

Uncle Dean was a very quiet, reserved man.  During his visits, he’s mostly sit on the couch and channel surf.  My mother wasn’t very fond of Dean, but what could she do?  He was her husband’s brother.  Dean never married and had no children, so my brother and I were his only neice and nephew and he was our only uncle, as my dad was the only other sibling of their family. 

Here’s a look at how quirky my Unlce was:  One Christmas, as usual, he had arrived while we were at church, filling our hearts with The Good Story, or so I thought back then, and after the service, my brother and I were anxious to get home.  The faster we got home, the sooner we ate, the sooner we ate, the sooner we’d get to open our presents.  Kids…..

Anyway, we got home to find a huge mound of presents under the tree.  My brother and I were beyond exicted.  I immediately got down to the ground and began sifting through our booty.  Not only were there a large number of presents, they were HEAVY.  Oh, how my mind raced at the thought of what might be inside these packages.  I kept picking a box up and shaking it, trying to hear a tell-tale sound of something  I wanted. 

As you can imagine, eating dinner was torture and we could no longer contain our excitement.  By then, my uncle had left and my brother and I were eager to start ripping into our very own Christmas miracle.  I was dying of excitement as my brother passed out our gifts.  After all the presents were given to their owners, the maylay began.  I tore into the boxes, nearly soiling myself at the thought of what could possibly be inside.

I ripped into one box and stopped.  I was dumbfounded.  What the–?  I can still remember my feelings and the look on my brother’s face as I turned to see if he had been stupified as I had.  Yep.  He had.  To what horror had our little eyes brought to us?  What could drain the joy out of children on Christmas Eve? 

My uncle, ever so clever and the jokester, had only gotten one gift for our family that year, and it was for my dad, but Uncle Dean had wrapped each piece seperately and addressed the boxes to the entire family.  What was it, you ask?  My uncle had gotten my dad a tool bench and tools.  Can you imagine the utter disappointment of young children as they tear open a box to find freakng tools?!  Incredible.  I was sure my life was over and was very cautious around my uncle from that day on.  How dare he trick us!  That bastard….

So, that’s my uncle in a nutshell. 

The true testament to his personality came when he passed away.  As mentioned before, Dean was a traveller and had acquired many things over his 67 years.  He owned two houses in different towns and each one was stuffed to the rafters with his possessions.  The day of his funeral, my dad took me to one of his houses, just so I could get a feel of what daunting task lay ahead of him in cleaning out the properties. 

I have never seen so much stuff in my life.  The floor was covered and the piles were a good four foot high.  The only way to manuver through the house was through little paths that had been made in the junk.  What kind of junk?  You name it, it was there.  My uncle was fond of HAM radio and computers, so one room was just that–walls of old radios, microphones, and headphones.  The other wall had about 10 computers, all plugged in and running.  In between were stacks and stacks of books, training manuals, and magazines. 

While cleaning the houses, my dad told me that much of the things he found was still new in box and had never been opened.  He also had a huge collection of dictionaries, and not the small Webster’s Dictionaries, either.  We’re talking the huge behemoths set on pedastals in libraries.  What would a man do with over 50 dictionaries?  I could not believe my eyes.

Uncle Dean also had himself a nice little personal arsonal going.  My dad found over twenty knives and daggers, a few cross bows, three sets of nunchucks, a Derringer pistol, and three semi-automatic rifles.  What the fuck?!  Crazy, just crazy. 

I was down to visit my dad this past weekend for an early Thanksgiving and he wanted to show me the progress he had made in cleaning the houses.  One house was done and ready, but the other still had a few rooms left, but for the most part, things were looking good.  We came to the room that still needed to clean and I began poking around, hoping to find some unseen treasure. 

I found an old cigar box and opened it up.  Inside were tons of old keys and keychains, none of which were of use anymore.  Apparently, Dean had been taking a correspondence course in locksmithing and just had a crapton of old keys.  I was sifting through the box and something caught my eye.  It was a metal keychain, and well, here it is:

Hilarious.  I found it, said, “What the hell is this?!” and pulled the bottom of the keychain to make the figures engage in coitus.  I fucking lost it.  That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and what made it all the more funnier, was the fact that this guy whom I’d always thought was reserved, had this “fuckyfucky” keychain.  You best believe that I took that home and am going to proudly display it. 

I also took home with me the nunchucks.  What I’m going to do with them, I have no clue, but they’re just fucking cool to have around.

So that’s it.  That’s my uncle for you.  I take pleasure in knowing that when I die, someone is going to find this keychain and hopefully, have the same reaction I had when I found it. 

It does make me sad, however, that I always thought of my Uncle Dean as a weird guy, because in death,  I realized he was a pretty cool cat. 

Thanks for the stuff, Uncle Dean…..

OH MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO BOB BARKER?!

Oh.  That’s right.  My bad.  He retired.  That’s Drew Carey.

No joke, I had a brief freak out moment this morning while tuning into America’s favorite game show, The Price Is Right.  I haven’t had a chance to watch the show for a while and obviously, hadn’t seen it since Mr. Carey took over, so I was all “what the heezy?” when I turned the channel and thought I was watching a rerun of The Drew Carey Show. 

I only got to see the final showcase portion, but from what I saw, I didn’t really like what little I saw.  The look of the show is pretty much the same, but instead of the iconic 70s feel to the set, it looks like a “designer” from Trading Spaces renovated the joint.  And Drew seemed less than thrilled to be the host.  Sorry Drew, this shit ain’t “Whose Line”.  Ryan Stiles isn’t going to pop up and start doing “improv” at random, but mark my words, if that happens, you heard it here first, folks. 

So, the verdict is still out.  I mean, The Price Is Right has been a freaking American classic since the Crusades, so to try to improve upon it will prove a bit tricky.

  I like to think that Bob is watching from his phat Hollywood Hills mansion, rolling around in mad stacks of money, hookers licking his feet, and drinking baby bald eagle blood out of a goblet made out of ivory from an elephant tusk and munching on diamond crusted blue whale chips, because honestly, what else would The Bob be doing now? 

So, best of luck to Bob, hope you’re enjoying your golden years and good luck to Drew because you’re going to need it, son.

McDonalds: 5 Erin: 0

Like an abused woman that keeps going back to the boyfriend that beats her, I keep going back to McDonalds, hoping things will be different this time. 

I wanted something for breakfast.  I was having problems choosing between getting a bagel and some coffee at a local bagel joint, or getting the Erin Zulkoski Mickey D’s Special:  Sausage Egg McMuffin, orange juice, and the fruit and walnut salad.  Not wanting to pay a quarter for the parking meter, I foolishly chose McDonalds. 

I drove up.  Ordered.  Paid.  Got my food. 

But what’s this?  The bag seemed curiously light for the bulk of the items I ordered.  I grabbed the bag from the nice drive-thru employee, who seemed terrified to be at the window, or perhaps it was my haggard appearance.  Either way, I think she was relieved when I drove off.  I got to the end of the drive-thru lane and looked in my bag, suspicious of the contents inside.  Sure enough, my sandwich was AWOL.

*sigh*……”Goddamn it…..” I muttered under my breath.  “Every motherfucking time….” 

I kept muttering self-deprecating phrases to myself as I walked in and stood in line.  Finally, it was my turn.

McJob:  “Hi, Welcome to McDona–”

Me:  “Save it, twinkie,”  I interrupted him.  “ You folks fucked up my order for the last time.  Now, I fuck YOU up!!”

With that, I lept over the counter and grabbed the young teen’s neck from behind and pushed him to the fryer, dunking his head into the bubbling oil.  Pandemonium erupted as all the employees scattered about.  Someone started throwing Big Mac’s and chicken nuggets at me, but I swatted them away as they came hurling towards my face. 

“FEAR YOUR MAKER BECAUSE YOU ARE AT THE BRINK OF MEETING HIM FACE-TO-FACE!!!”

I get very prophetic whilst on killing sprees.

People were screaming, crying, huddled in corners, sure that  I was going to take my wrath out on them next.  Then, I saw her.  The waifish flower that had made the mistake of forgetting my sandwich.  I stopped and stared at her.  Sweat, grease, and blood were dripping down my face.  I snatched her visor off her deceitful head and wiped my face with it, throwing it back in her face.

I pointed a trembling finger at her. 

“You.  You caused all this pain, not me.  Because of your actions, innocence has been lost today and the blood of your slain co-workers is on your hands.” 

I motioned for her to get up off the floor and come over to where I was standing, which just happened to be by the griddle. 

“Get up…..”  I looked at her name tag so I could know the name of the beast that caused this.  Her name was Elena.  “Get up, Elena.  Get up and defend yourself.”

She slowly rose to her feet.  She was sniffling and wiping away the tears that were coursing down her face.

“Please.  Please, senorita….don’t hurt me.  No muerta….no muerta…”  she begged.

I grabbed her arm and yanked her towards me so we were standing directly facing each-other.  I slowly walked around her in a circle, glaring at her; hating her. 

“Why did you do it, Elena?  It is a simple task.  All you had to do was put my sandwich in the bag.  That’s all.  Open bag, insert sandwich.  You’ve done it hundreds upon hundreds of times already.  Why did you choose now to forget how to do something so easy?  Why me?”

No answer.

I walked behind her and stood. 

“Well, now, this is going to happen to you.”

I shoved Elena toward the grill.  She went flying face first onto the sizzling hot surface.  All I could hear were the desperate screams of a woman being burned horribly.  Because I”m sure getting a face full of hot iron on your face hurts a great deal. 

I turned to leave and I saw my missing sandwich sitting on the counter.  I grabbed it, ripped open the wrapper, took a bite, then threw the sandwich at Elena. 

I walked in to McDonalds today a scorn woman, but I left having served justice.

The End…..?

Ok, actually, all of what happened after I got in line is a big load of crap.  Here’s what really happened:

I walked in, stood in line, and when it was my turn, I politely told the cashier that I was in the drive-thru and had ordered a Sausage McMuffin but didn’t receive it in my bag.  An employee from the drive-thru was standing near and heard me, and grabbed a bag and said, “Oh, here you go.  Sorry about that.”  I grabbed the bag, said thank you and left.  Not nearly as dramatic and exciting as the above fabrication, but dammit, that’s what I wish happened. 

So the lesson I learned today is that I am a glutton for punishment and I should never eat at McDonalds again. 

 The Real End. 

Stealing Is Fun.

The husband and I moved out of our apartment a little over a month ago.  This morning, as Jason was getting ready for work, he received a phone call from our previous landlords.  Here is the exact voicemail that was left:

“Hi, this is Jeff from TriWin Properties and I’m calling in regards to the washer and dryer in 939 Peach Street and was wondering if you guys stole them from the unit.  Please give me a call back at 438-0639 as soon as possible.”

Jeff, from TriWin Properties, called us to ask if we had stolen the washer and dryer that were in the apartment. 

He called us.  To ask us if we had stolen the washer and dryer. 

After a good hearty chuckle and a few minutes of me shaking my head in disbelief that A) the choad freaking called us, and 2) someone broke in to the apartment and stole two relatively large appliances, I called good ol’ Jeff back.  Here is the exact conversation:

Jeff:  “TriWin Properties, how may I help you?”

Me:  “Hi, may I speak with Jeff, please?”

Jeff:  “This is Jeff speaking.  Can I help you?”

Me:  “Hi Jeff.  I’m calling about the message you just left about the washer and dryer.”

Jeff:  “Yes.  Did you steal them?”

Me:  “No, Jeff.  We did not steal the washer and dryer.”

Jeff:  “When did you move out?” 

Me:  “We were out of the apartment by September 1 and I turned the keys into your office.”

Jeff:  “Were the appliances there when you moved out?”

Me:  “Yes, yes, they were. ”

Jeff:  “Alright, thanks.”

Me:  “You’re welcome.”

End of conversation.  I felt like telling Jeff, that yes, we did steal the appliances due to the fact that the last 3 months we lived there, I made repeated attempts to them to come out and repair our dead bathroom outlet and replace a broken light switch in our guest room.  Yeah, I got nothing.  Paybacks a bitch, Jeff!  TriWin is a crappy rental agency, anyway.  Have I ever shared my broken front door lock story?  Oh.  Let me.  It’s a good’n.  So, last Halloween, I was on my way home from school and had an interview to get to that afternoon.  Being Halloween, I was dressed up like a pirate and obviously, needed to change my clothes.  I get home and put the key in the lock.  Nothing.  Wouldn’t budge.  I tried for 10 minutes.  Nothing.  I drove out to the rental office and explained my situation to the dude behind the counter.

“Hi, my front door lock is broken.”

“Are you sure?

“Yes, I”m sure.  I just spent 10 minutes trying to open my front door.  It’s broken.”

“Maybe it’s your key.”

“No.  It’s not my key, it’s the lock.  My key worked fine this morning when I locked the door.”

“Well, I”m going to make you a new copy of your key so you can try it again.”

“Dude, it’s not the key, it’s the lock.”

“Well, it probably is the lock, but I”m going to make you a new copy of the key anyway.  Go back and try this new key and if it doesn’t work, then come back.”

“Sir, I have an interview in an hour.  Can we please just get the lock replaced and skip this step entirely? ”

“I”m sorry, but until I know for sure it’s the lock and not the key, this is all I can do.”

“Fine.” 

I walked out, sped home, tried the copied key WHICH DIDN’T WORK, and sped back.  When I walked in, the guy that helped me wasn’t there, so I had to explain the situation to a new guy, who didn’t understand what I was telling him.  “Wait, you mean the key won’t work or the lock is broken?”  THE FUCKING KEY WON’T WORK BECAUSE THE LOCK IS BROKEN, JACKASS!!  So, he then decides, yes indeed, we need a new lock for our front door.  He goes to pull up a work order for our apartment, which takes him 15 minutes to do because apparently, our address isn’t in his computer system.  The whole time he’s doing this, I’m freaking out on the inside because it is now 1/2 until my interview.  I interrupt him and ask how long this is going to be.  “Well, our repair guys are working on another project right now, so it’s going to be about an hour before they can come out.  And you’re going to have to stay there with them while they work.  It’s our policy.”  The aneurysm that is in my brain is slowly leaking blood at this point and is in danger of bursting.  “Sir, I have an interview in a 1/2 hour.”  “Well, we can wait until tomorrow if that works better.”  HOW THE FUCK ARE WE SUPPOSED TO GET INTO OUR APARTMENT THEN, ASSHOLE?!!?!  “Fine, send them over.  Can I borrow your phone, please?  Mine is locked in the apartment.”  I call the place I was supposed to interview with and had to reschedule.  Awesome.  Word of advice:  don’t ever do that.  You won’t get hired.  So, an hour and half later, two dudes come and change the lock.  “Yeah, here’s the problem…the lock broke.  That’s why your key didn’t work.”  Amazing….

Back to the Mystery of the Stolen Washer and Dryer….ever since we left that neighborhood, it has gone to the birds, I tell you!  The week we moved out, some ass with a coke craving smashed out the passenger side of our car to steal my most empty purse and about a week ago, there was a drive by.  What?!   And it’s not like the neighbors are any help in solving these crimes.  First of all, the house on the right is rented by hoodlums and like they give a shit what happens.  The house on the left is owned by an 85 year old man with Alzheimers.  One day during the summer, he came walking up the alley to me as I was getting into the car to go to school.  He asked me if I had seen a suspicious looking “Armenian man” lurking around the neighborhood.  I told Ralph I had not.  He then proceeded to tell me that I should be careful because this man is going around the neighborhood and kidnapping women and keeping them in his basement.  As he was telling me this, a car pulled in his driveway.  Ralph got this crazed look in his eye and said, “I bet that’s the son of a bitch now.  I’m going to get my shotgun.”  Holy shit, dude.  All I could do was watch as the car door opened and young women stepped out.  “Grandpa!  What are you doing?!”  Ralph went into the house and his granddaughter came over to me.  “What’s he been saying?”  I told her the story about the guy and how Ralph was going to shoot him.  “Don’t worry, Grampa doesn’t own a shotgun.  He’s got Alzheimers and another neighbor called us and told us he’s been wandering the neighborhood, knocking on peoples doors telling them the same story.”  Holy shit, again!  So, basically, even if Ralph had seen the perps who stole the washer and dryer, his poor destroyed brain would have interpretted the burglary back to WWII and probably would have claimed that Hitler did it.  Incredible. 

Ironically, the neighbors are all involved with the Neighborhood Watch program.  Or not.  The leader of the group is a wacky old Italian woman who would drop off flyers at the house, but in a really creepy way–she’d ring the doorbell 2 times, then immediately open the screen door and try to open the front door, jiggling the knob back and forth.  Then, she’d slide whatever propaganda through the bottom of the door.  The first time she did that, I was scared to death.  Who does that?  Creepy lady. 

So how’s YOUR day? 

Excuse me? Come again?

Long story short:  I’m about 4 weeks away from graduating from college and in the last quarter of my schooling, I have been “working” as an extern at the Nebraska Heart Institute.  By “working”, I mean I go in, put in a 1o hour day, and I get “paid” in learning the tricks of the trade:  a.k.a.  I don’t get paid at all.  

This week, I have been learning about the medical records/billing/insurance aspect of the job and have been working in the medical office.  Good stuff.  I sort through medical records all day and alphabetize things.  Boring?  Not at all.  I really enjoy the monotony of it all. 

Anyway, I’m working, la la la, sorting through a bunch of papers, trying to find an insurance claim on a patient, when the lady I’m helping out asks me out of nowhere, “Erin, do you have a rubber finger?”

 Que? 

 Do I have a rubber finger? 

 I giggled.

Uh, no, I do not have a rubber finger.  Why do you ask? 

Well, it turns out to be not as funny as what I was hoping for.  There is a device that peope who deal with sorting papers and whatnot put over their index finger and it helps them flip through the pages with ease without being a grossykins and licking your fingers to help you flip through pages.  I freaking hate it when people do that.  It’s like thanks pal, for licking your fingers and then touching my paper.  Awesome.  Why don’t you just stick your finger in my ear while you’re at it.  Great.  Thanks. 

I knew what the device was, but still, her asking me if my finger was rubber threw me off a bit.  It just seems like a personal question to me.  Kind of like when you have to fill out a questionaire at the doctors office….

“Have you ever had a blood clotting disorder?  Do you have a history of stroke, heart disease, or cancer in your family?  Do you have a rubber finger?”

Do they, and by “they”, I’m referring to a group of people, make prostetic fingers?  Like, if you lost your index finger in a freak fake gun fight, could you get an actual rubber finger?  Or do you just not bother with it and use the stump to scare small children?  I sometimes pretend that I lost part of my finger.  Because I’m partially retarded and take joy in stupid stuff like that.

 That’s all.  I spend my days alphabetizing and pretending part of my fingers are missing. 

Jealous?