They’re taking the piss now

In true acronym form, there is a medical condition here in America called OAB.

For those of you unaware of what OAB stands for, or if you’re a fucking camel, OAB stands for Over Active Bladder.

Actually, the word ‘Overactive’ is not two words but I haven’t got the strength, the time or the energy to take the piss out of them for this.

Pun intended.

Anyway, OAB is a big thing here in America.  I’m sure it’s a big deal elsewhere in the world to those of us with the bladder of a 3 year old girl, but it seems to be a bigger problem here in America.

I can’t fathom why.

This is actually a ‘small’

Give America a little credit

1 year, 7 months and 26 days.

That’s all it took.

Just 604 measly days until some fucking fucker attempted to use my credit card.

Back in the UK I had held a credit card for over 22 years without any fraudulent activity at all and yet it seems that every American I have met has been the victim of credit card fraud.  I wonder why it happens here so often?

Very strange.

Oh, wait, my mistake, I’m talking total bollocks…it’s not strange at all.

As much as I love this country, they’re unbelievably lackadaisical about credit card security. They’re more careless than a micro-surgeon with Parkinsons; it’s ridiculous.

When I moved to America back in 2015, they were in the process of transitioning credit cards from the strip to the chip. This was for ‘added security’, and I so expected to be asked to enter my 4 digit PIN number[1] on every transaction.

Nope.

Apparently all that changed was that you now insert your card into the card reader at the front, instead of swiping it at the side.

Ooooh!

Basically, all it did was introduce Americans to another type of motion…..or ‘exercise’ as some of them call it.

And a lot of shops and stores don’t even use the chip reader because they don’t work or aren’t set up yet!

Not only are you not expected to enter your secret and secure 4 digit PIN, but more often than not you’re not even ask for a signature or proof of identity!

Petrol stations (Gas stations) vary in the way they take credit.  Some ask for a signature, some don’t; some ask for identification, most don’t. It’s a fucking minefield and thoroughly pisses me off when i’m not asked for ID.  I could be anyone!

It gets even worse at restaurants where the server takes your card away and you don’t see it for 5 minutes until they bring it back with a wad of receipts for you to sign. This, I discovered, is plenty of time for them to make a copy and charge it to some fucking clothing company in Beverly Hills to the tune of $650!

Wankers.

Back home in Blighty, the waiter or waitress (I really don’t like the term ‘server’) brings the credit card machine to your table and you enter your PIN number directly into it. The card never leaves your sight.

Not once.

Ever.

It’s such a simple thing and saves a shit-ton of paper.  Seriously, why am I given so many pieces of paper?  I always pause when trying to figure out which one i’m supposed to sign and which one i’m supposed to take home and wallpaper the house with.

And the scariest thing of all is that no-one in America seems surprised about credit card fraud; a compromised card over here is as common as rain in England…or drunken violence.

So now I had no choice but to cut up my existing card and wait for another to be delivered. Thankfully I have another credit card I can use until some bastard decides to help fund some Nigerian prince with it.

Debit cards, on the other hand, need a PIN number to be entered.

I give up.

[1] Yes, I know that PIN stands for ‘Personal Identification Number’, so saying “PIN number” is effectively saying “Personal Identification Number number”.

Fuck the what? 

It’s been a while since I’ve posted something, so I thought I’d write a nice, long observation on a hilarious life event. 

Nah. 

Instead here’s a photo of something that literally stopped me in my tracks. 

 Seriously? 

Apparently cyclists can only read words in the order they are presented. 

Finest its at idiocy is this. 

A queer insult.

Sometimes the difference in culture between the UK and the USA rears its ugly, and usually amusing, head. Today was one of those times.

At work we have some internal instant messaging software which is great for employees to communicate when they:

A) Can’t call.

B) Won’t call.

C) Have the social skills of a gibbon with its scrotum in a jar of fire ants.

As my department is like a central hub for any questions or issues from our call centre, we get a lot of instant messages to help out with all kinds of weird and wonderful situations.

Here is a conversation I literally just had:

Fran: Hi, I need some help

Me: Hey Fran, it’s Daniel, your favorite Brit 😉

Fran: Hey Daniel! How’s it going?

Me: Pretty good. Busy! So what’s up?

(For security reasons, this part of the conversation is omitted as it’s work related.  Needless to say, I fixed the problem like a boss!)

Me: Done!

Fran: Great! Thanks.

Me: No problem 😉

Fran: Have a great day!

Me: You have a great day too 🙂

Fran: Poof

Now, she meant to imply that she magically and dramatically vanished from the conversation in a puff of smoke, like a genie….or Batman.

To me she ended that conversation with ‘Faggot‘.

I laughed like a drain for at least a minute, solidly.

It was one of the funniest insults I’ve received since living in America, particularly because it was unintentional and from a person who wouldn’t even say boo to a goose (with or without their nuts in a jar of fire ants).

poof

This is also the word we use for an ‘Ottoman’. England is a weird place.

 

Please give a crap… 

This is a public service announcement.

Diabetes is on the rise in America and something needs to be done about it.

wp-1487978834141.jpg

For just the price of one hot steaming poo a day,  we can help find the cure for this debilitating disease.

That’s right,  just one heavy,  corn infused bum dumpling and we can take a stand (or squat) against diabetes.

We hope that,  one day,  we can shit our way to finding a remedy against this insulin deficiency once and for all.

So,  please read our book and create food that will enable you to birth the most substantial,  eye watering,  bung stretching turds you’ve ever experienced.

Let’s end this sugared tyranny by standing together.

Or squatting.

Yes,  squatting makes more sense.

Two in the pink….

Usually,  when I write a post,  it’s regarding a situation or event that either amused me…or frustrated me to the point where it was simply laughable. 

But sometimes,  just sometimes,  something comes along that requires no back story or train of thought. 

So,  in keeping true to my ‘Life Is Funny’ mantra,  here is a photo of a van I was stuck behind in traffic the other day. 

In this post I claimed energy drinks gave you anal seepage; it now seems they have a remedy for that. 

You want beef?

It’s Sunday and I’m at work.  It’s actually my scheduled day to work, so this isn’t a ranty post about having to work weekends and the world can lick my sweaty bumhole.

Sorry.

Instead, this is a post about the baffling and idiotic mindset of one of my friends and colleagues who is also here today.

So, for context, we have a large bistro on campus here at work which offers all sorts of foods, drinks and dubious stains and spills on the floor.  Usually, when I take my lunch, I head down to the bistro and then text my colleague (let’s call her Numpty) and let her know what free soups they have on offer that day.  She then replies and lets me know which she’d like and I take one back to her.

I’m simply awesome like that.

Well, being a Sunday, there was only one choice of soup instead of the usual three.  Today’s soup was beef chilli.  Yes, I know it’s not technically a soup, but it resembles a soup more than a barrel of squashed frogs.

Actually, squashed frog soup sounds pretty good.

Anyway, when I got down there I sent her a text.  In fact, here is the ACTUAL conversation we had (my comments are in yellow).

twattext

There’s a lot of love between us

I deserved it.

But then again, so did she.  I mean, all she had to do was type ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.  In fact a simple ‘Y’ or ‘N’ would have sufficed.

This is why she’s a twat.