One of my favorite things to do is to visit thrift stores and collect weird little items and people watch. We call it “thriftin.” Only two groups of people do this activity: Poor people and hipsters pretending to be poor. But thrifting has so many advantages and can even help your self esteem.  You do not even know how many fuck ups walk this earth until you hang in some second-hand shops in shitty country towns and observe actual fights over nice trousers or a lamp with frogs on it. You’ll also behold the whopper hoggus hoarder who breathes heavily from their mouth as they dribble all over their cart while complaining that they don’t have their scooter. Keep an eye out for this species…it’s going extinct.

I was a thrifter since the day I came out of my Mom’s junk, and it doesn’t matter how much money I  make (or mostly don’t make)…you can’t stop the thrift! Let me explain to you why I will never stop thrifting, even if some schmuck ever gives me a book deal or Revlon calls after my braces come off and presents me with a lipstick modeling deal…that won’t even stop the thrift.

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Yeh, I said it. While I commend any attempt by man towards a greater world with technology, I want to give a big fuck you to whoever thought of Self Check Out. I’m sure your dreams for this venture were grand, but you failed execution of said dream like I failed my Introduction into Algebra class with a 5.

It doesn’t matter when, and it doesn’t matter where, but Self Check Out harpoons my hopes every fucking time of getting out of a retailer in a timely manner. Let’s take today for example, when I had only a few items, and I wanted to get the hell home before a storm was coming. I saw lines, and then I saw no lines at Self Check Out. “Ugh. Self Check Out. Maybe just this once this shit will work,” I grumped to myself. I went over to the scanner, and I started scanning. About halfway through, the entire store’s power goes in and out, and what do you know? The register I was on goes pitch black, and pimply cashier boy tells me to switch to the other register. “Uhh, That one like, shuts off real bad before a storm. Sorry.”
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This has been a topic in my mind for many days now, and I think it’s one worthy to blog about. I have decided that officially, the Sasquatch is indeed a better homemaker than my sister could ever hope to be.  As he rustles the leaves, and wipes his ape-like ass with various foliage, and possibly sleeps in his own feces…he is still Martha Stewart compared to my sister. I can always count on her to disappoint me in her ways of home making.

I’m going to explain why Sas is a better maternal figure to you, and I’ll do it in the form of a snarky list, free style flow.

So without further hold up:

10. When I got a brand new toaster oven about three months ago, and I excitedly texted this amazing shiny treasure to my sister, and she replied back with “wat is that?” Yes, she wasn’t able to identify a toaster oven. When I told my mother, she wasn’t surprised.

9. Thanksgiving of 2009, the pot for the mashed potatoes was missing a handle, and there wasn’t a pot lid to be found, so we had to use one of her tacky ass burner covers as a pot [...]