Archive for the 'Rant' Category


dear south charleston blockbuster


Hello. It’s been a long, long time since we’ve seen each other, but you know how that goes. Turns out I got a job offer far away from the friendly confines of Kanawha County and I haven’t had any reason to come see you. I know, I was a really good customer. I rented a ton of stuff from you during the cold winter. But then spring arrived, I moved and I knew our relationship couldn’t continue. Rather than just break things off with you, I abandoned you. I figured you’d just go away quietly.

But like any bad relationship I’ve had, you don’t go away quietly. Sure, you go away. You even disappear. But then you rear your ugly head once more.

After all of our years together, I’m stunned to find out you don’t even know me at all. For you to accuse me of trying to hold on to a copy of ANY movie starring Katherine Heigl tells me you never listened to a word I said. And what’s even worse was you never even called me to accuse me. You had a cold, emotionless nasty gram sent to me asking for your DVD back.

Well, Blockbuster, I’m here to tell you … I don’t have your stupid DVD. I don’t know who has your stupid DVD. It’s someone who obviously thinks a night well spent involves vapid chick movies.

Now, before you call me out on my rentals of all three Amy Fisher movies, just know I’ve never rented a movie that involves Meredity Baxter Birney or the phrase “Not Without My Daughter.” Just because I spend lazy Saturdays watching Lifetime Movie Network doesn’t mean I’d ever have the desire to pay for a new release.

Again, it’s like I said — It’s like you never knew me at all.

So, understand that demanding the return of something I don’t have will get you nowhere. In fact, you should be thanking me for preventing someone else from having to watch that movie. But you won’t thank me. You never did.

I miss you, but only when there’s nothing on TV. I know I have one of you just down the street, but it won’t ever be the same. Nothing compares 2 u.

Love (but tinged with hate),



an(other) open letter

Dear Douchebag Scooter Owner Who Lives at My Apartment Complex,

First, I’d like to commend you for doing your part in both helping reduce fuel costs for those of us with actual vehicles and helping decrease the amount of alleged gases that contribute to “global warming.” Your dedication to saving money, and the planet, are admirable.

However, I’d like to be frank with you if I may. If you don’t stop parking your f-ing mechanical bicycle in one of the four spaces directly in front of my apartment, I am just … going … to lose it.

Yes, I realize that there is no assigned parking in the complex. I also realize you have the right to park your moped wherever you choose. I have the right to think you’re a dick for it.

With the size of your Big Wheel, you really don’t NEED a parking space, period. You could easily wheel it under the stairs that lead up to your apartment. Chances are, the apartment management won’t even mind. I mean, let’s be honest. It’s half the size of your partner-in-douche, the Vespa owner, who also takes up parking spots right up front.

Let’s put this into proper perspective a minute, shall we? On your girlymobile, you can’t possibly haul cargo. The other night when I came home from a sizable grocery trip, I had to walk completely across the parking lot because, again, you took one of the four spaces directly up front. I carried — by myself — 13 plastic grocery bags about the length of a football field and then up four flights of stairs.

I don’t necessarily mind, though. It’s good exercise. Keeps me strong.

But you know what I do mind? Coming home in the pouring rain with a broken umbrella to find you, again, parked RIGHT up front. Certainly you were already prepared for inclement weather when you took your trike out to the organic coffeehouse to read your book about the Summer of Love and drink your ethically-grown-and-brewed $7 coffee. I, however, wasn’t as prepared after my day spent downtown under florescent lights trying to squeeze four days worth of work into 10 hours.

However, I digress.

Sometimes, when I’m staring out the window of the Metro, I fantasize about covering your prized weeniemobile in lighter fluid and throwing the match. I smile to myself as the heat from your burning, blue-flower-covered scooter warms me from the inside. I see you running from your apartment with your hands flailing yelling, “Whyyyyy?”

I giggle to myself as I tell you why. Because owning something that takes up a quarter of a parking space, while efficient, doesn’t give you the right to be a douchebag about it. Yes, I get it. You’re with it. You’re “green.” I’m black, like my heart.

So, in closing, please stop parking right up front. It’s not cool. You’re harshing my mellow. I promise to donate to any cause of your choosing if you give me the consideration of NOT taking one of the better parking spaces. I think we can agree to these conditions and continue to co-exist peacefully. That’s my goal, of course.

Failure to comply may result in an action for which I may not be held liable. This includes, but is not limited to, toilet papering your scooter, accidentally dropping an egg from my balcony onto the scooter, covering your seat in peanut butter, letting the air out of your tires (not flattening them … I’ll preserve your tires, just empty them) and leaving you passive-aggressive notes with Post-Its on your windshield.

Thanks for your consideration in this manner. We’re all in this community together. Let’s be friends.


Jacque Jo


oh, screw you, washington post

There are days like today that there’s just not enough duct tape to hold the pieces of my head together.

I absolutely, positively HATE the patronizing tone of this entire article.

Here’s something for major news outlets for your reporting down the road:


(This is also NOT UNIQUE in Kentucky, Alabama, Mississippi, Missouri, Kansas, Florida, Ohio, Virginia or about 41 other states.)

Let me do a little back reporting for you, guys. Two perfectly normal white guys (note: by saying “normal white guys” I’m not implying that black people are NOT normal or different or anything — I know you’re ready to jump on that) got WAXED in both 2000 and 2004. You know why? Voters basically got told the Democrats would take away their guns. (You don’t do that in a state like West Virginia. It’s also very bad to steal JoBoo’s rum.)

Here’s the thing you all don’t know, or you choose to ignore: West Virginia’s Democrats are largely Democrats in name only. The state (by and large) is controlled by various unions and special interest groups and all of that who throw the label “Democrat” on their candidate and tell you anybody Republican is just simply evil. Most labor unions in the state just encourage you to vote straight ticket and not even think about it. (This would be why about 40 percent of West Virginia’s House of Delegates is filled with absolute self-motivated morons who have no business being the representative of their cul-de-sac, much less many, many residents.)

West Virginia’s residents are conservative by nature, and yes, they do love their God and guns. The only reason Democrats got a free ride in this place was largely because of people being too uneducated to actually research the issues and vote with the candidate they choose. Now, would that have always been the Republican? No. It wouldn’t. I’ve never, ever voted a straight ticket in my life and I never will. (Such is the hell of the Libertarian.) What’s happening now isn’t racism. It’s just the state’s overall realization that, “Hey!! We don’t like those liberal hippie babykilling socialists.” (Note: This is 100 PERCENT NOT how I feel. I’m just paraphrasing.)

When I see stories like this, again, I just feel cheated. I feel like I’ve eaten this cereal all the way to the bottom of the box and they forgot the toy. Would I be lying to you if I said I know there are people in West Virginia who will vote for John McCain strictly because he’s white? No. There are plenty of them. Would I be lying to you if I said there weren’t West Virginians laboring under the delusion that Barack Obama is Muslim? No. Again, there are plenty of them.

But there are plenty of them in every state. And it gets so tiresome and overdone to be this country’s beaten-down red-headed stepchild and I don’t even live there anymore. I had to leave to find the kind of opportunity I wanted and I’m fine with that. It’s not the state’s fault that I felt it had nothing left to offer me. But it just gets under my skin to see the national media do these kinds of stories. We’re not your little novelty project.

(Exit soapbox, stage left.)


i’m just sayin’

When I find out which one of you gave my phone number to the crazy old person, I’m going to kill you without mercy. Today, the story ideas he gave me were the Italian Army near World War II (I think — I wasn’t listening as soon as I heard who it was) and why Westclox changed its name to Westclocks.

Oh, and it’s someone I know and you’re prank calling me, I’m going to break your kneecaps.


thanks, Mr. Metro Sneezer

Dear Man in Really Nice Suit with Leather Briefcase Who Got on the Metro Yesterday at Union Station,

I understand. You’re a busy man. I’m a busy girl, even though I don’t look it with my pale blue backpack, hippie messenger bag and iPod stuck to my head to drown out the collective sound of defeat around me. I understand that you had a lot of important paperwork to get done in your short ride to Farragut North, so I even forgave you for spreading out all over me to get this paperwork done. Chances are, you’re far more important (and make far more money) than I ever will be. Deadlines, pressures, clients. I’ve been there. I get it.

What I didn’t get? Why you didn’t cover your beak when you sneezed yesterday. Why you turned your head not toward the aisle, but toward me. Maybe it’s instinct. But I felt your germs blanket me like fog at the Golden Gate before 9 a.m.

And now, I’m paying for it. I feel disconnected. Light-headed. Throbby and achy. I’m on the cusp of a first-class sick, all because you hosed me with your own personal germ rinse. No amount of Bath and Body Works hand sanitizer was going to stop this. You, Man in Really Nice Suit with Leather Briefcase Who Got on the Metro Yesterday at Union Station, are Patient Zero. And now I’m Patient One.

I would tell you that I hope you’re paying for it as much as I am, but I can’t really afford to tempt Karma any more than I already have. I will just say I hope your office is as close to a CVS as mine is. And next time, please don’t sneeze on the person sitting beside you. It’s not cool, man.


Jacque Jo (sniff sniff … blahhhh)


quote of the day

“They always seem like good ideas till someone drops a deuce in the apple pie.”
— Sweet Ann


an open letter

Dear Guy Behind the Counter at Organic to Go at McPherson Square,

I realize that my box of vegetable-laden salad I just purchased weighed 1.3 pounds when you put it on the scale. By some standards, that would make me “a pig,” but in this case, I don’t think getting in more than the required daily servings of healthful, organic vegetables falls under that label. However, your muttering of “whoa!” when you saw what said healthful, organic, vegetable-laden salad weighed was more than enough to kick my self-esteem down another couple of notches and let me know that you, sir, believe that I spend my nights holed up in my closet sneak eating Ho Hos while crying and writing in my journal. This simply isn’t true.

(I mean, I do eat Ho Hos, but usually on the couch in front of everybody.)

Thanks for making me feel like Manuel Uribe. I can only hope that in a couple of more months, they’ll forklift me out of the house and put me on a flatbed truck to see what the neighborhood looks like.



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July 2018
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