Category: rant

Sales Assault

Don’t you hate walking down the front of the electronics aisle at the big blue superstore? You know, the one where they have stacks of TVs and large bins of movies to dig through? Movies, which, by the way, this is a lot of commas, you would never actually watch? Like Sylvester Stallone’s Over the Top, a movie about arm-wrestling. :| Seriously? Who thought that was a good idea?

But that aisle that separates the electronics area from the rest of the store is where they lurk. Standing there with their clipboards and their nice tucked-in polo shirts… The Sales Assaultiate. Dun dun dun.

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Let’s Talk About Gun Laws

I went to a relative’s house for Thanksgiving this last year, and someone who wasn’t really part of the family was hanging around. It wasn’t awkward, as such, it was just one of those things that makes you frown for a second and pull your head back a little, and then you move on and eat a bunch of turducken. But I did have a conversation with her that I thought was worth mentioning. It was one of those things that made me frown for a second and then pull my head back a little.

So I walked into the house and shook all the dudes’ hands and kissed all the ladies’ knuckles and hugged all the kids. The usual. Then I said hi to this woman. And she saw the handgun I was wearing in a holster under my jacket, on my hip. So she sees my gun and says, “You think you’re going to need that on Thanksgiving?” and sort of made that face. You know the one. The one that says, “Ooh, you just got burned.” And I looked at her for a second and said, “I don’t know.”

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An Open Letter to Adobe

Dear Adobe – and mainly you, Acrobat Reader. Listen here, bub. Your delusions of grandeur have escalated to a whole new level. Well, I guess they did a long time ago. They’ve been at this level for quite some time. But it’s not funny anymore. It used to be kind of cute how you’d show up at the party with the bigger boys acting like you’re one of them. Like you’re the really cool cop who brought the donuts to the Saturday Morning Citation Plus Club meeting. We all used to kind of watch you as you entered and we’d smile and say, “Isn’t that cute?” and “Yeah. Thinks he’s a big boy.”

You are like the high school kid who shows up to a frat party with your older sister and tries to hang with the college kids. The kid who must be reminded that he’s still just a high-schooler, and he shouldn’t try to act so cool while he’s at the party. You can’t drink as much as the big kids, you don’t know the secret handshake, and – no matter what you say – no. You have not been laid near as much as the college kids.

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Can there really be a happy Columbus Day?

Happy belated Columbus day! Anyone? Did everyone have a good one? Anyone? Anyone there? Is anyone there at all? I’ve been walking around the office this morning asking everyone I run into if they had a good Columbus Day. And all I get in response are variations of the standard grunt. No one seems to have a committed meaningful response. It’s almost, almost as if no one even celebrates it.

So apparently, as I see it, the story goes like this: some Italian dude sailed across some ocean, ran into some land, thinking it was some other land, sees a bunch of red-skinned people running out into the water to greet him and bring him gifts, whereupon he decides they would make good slaves, and sets about to slaughtering most of them, and therefore, some five hundred years later, our kids don’t have to go to school on that day. Have I got it about right?

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Gone Are The Good Merchants

When I first started home-brewing, I bottled my beers. There’s something almost magical about popping the cap off a cold bottle of beer that you brewed yourself, pouring it into a pint glass. I love it. But pretty quickly the hassle of putting the beer into the bottles gets old, and most brewers begin kegging. I only bottled two batches of my beer before I said eff it and bought myself some kegs. Then I went online and ordered a kit – the regulator, the hoses and attachments, and a five-pound CO2 tank.

There are smaller tanks available. You see them attached to paintball guns all the time. But when it comes to home-brewing and the like, I’m not sure you can get a smaller bottle than a five-pound. And it’s about the size of one of those large fire extinguishers you see on the wall at work. Anyway, I immediately went to the homebrew forums trying to find where I could get my tanks filled. There were a couple of places in downtown Dallas that did it – well, they swap tanks, but don’t fill your tanks. That means you have to give them your new shiny empty one and they give you one of their rusty old ones full of air. But there was nowhere real close to where I lived. And then I stumbled on a liquor store.

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The Importance of Good Grammar

In the age of self-publishing, and the ease with which anyone can be a writer and publish his/her own work on Amazon and the like, we find ourselves both blessed and cursed. On one hand, it’s great because anyone who’s ever wanted to write can do so. And be heard. On the other, there is no QA for the work.

Listen, I’m not trying to criticize any particular writer here. I’m sure we all have fine stories. And I applaud everyone who self-publishes for seeing it through, for writing terrible drafts and making them better until they finally have a product they feel is ready for readers! That’s the process we all take as writers. My first manuscripts were pretty horrific. But that was because I didn’t know much about storytelling. The grammar, on the other hand, has to be there.

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The Fear of a Not-So-Scary Movie

I suffered through a horror movie last night, because someone very special to me told me it was the scariest movie of all time. He had never been more scared by a movie than this one. All right! Well, considering the source, I had no reason to doubt him. I’m sure, in fact, that he was being completely honest. However, comma, I don’t think he’s seen many movies in his life. He is, after all, only thirteen.

But I’m not really here to rip on the movie, though it did suck pretty badly. Like a brand new purple Dyson. In fact, I wasn’t scared of creeped-out even one time during the entire film. Not even startled by the Dolby shocks. Seriously. I’m not bragging here. When I watch a ‘scary movie’ I want to be scared. I want to wake up with nightmares when I go to bed. I want the horrifying images I’ve seen on the screen to haunt my waking days for the next week. I want to be terrified. The Possession didn’t even come close.

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Walking the Tightrope

So many times my red-haired wife will come home and tell me about news stories she’s read or heard, and I’m always surprised. I don’t read news sites. I don’t watch TV, so I never see the news there. I don’t believe in newspapers. I mean, I’ve seen evidence of them before, but I just really don’t believe in them. Too much like bigfoot. A lot of hearsay and no real proof. And I really don’t listen to any news-bearing stations on the radio. So I guess you could suffice it to say that I don’t really keep up with current events.

I was sitting on the couch today, getting ready for my mid-afternoon nap when I suddenly had the urge to turn on the ole telly. I have one of those real old-school ones that’s not LED or 3D or 4K or any of that. It’s just a simple 1080p LCD. Remember back when those used to be cool? Anyway, I looked through the list of recorded shows – all the Doc McStuffins and Good Luck Charlie and various other Disney crap we record for my daughter – past my Ultimate Treehouses and Treehouse Masters, you know, the good stuff. And I found Nik Wallenda – Walking the Tight Rope.

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Smart Phone, Dumb User

Have you ever paid attention to your phone bill? Do you know that they actually still send you a list of all the phone calls you made and received during the billing cycle? Why do they do that? I mean, sure, I think the log should be available if we need it, but really? Who the hell actually looks at every call every month? Does anyone keep a record of it on a notepad or something and then check it like a bank statement, making sure he didn’t get billed for a call he didn’t make?

Another thing you might not have noticed on your bill – for those of you with smartphones – is the fact that they charge you thirty dollars a month for a data plan. Well, I know some charge more, some charge less. But the median is somewhere right around thirty bucks. Well, I know you know you get charged that every month, because when you signed up for the service and got the smartphone you agreed that you had to have a plan on it to be able to use it. But have you really sat back and thought about what this really means? Of course you haven’t, you silly goose!

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Here’s the thing about weddings.

See, I get mad when I think or talk about weddings. Not just the kind of mad you get when someone slams a door behind you unexpectedly. No, not even the kind of mad you get when someone calls your mom a whore. The mad I get is like the burning fiery rage of a thousand suns. It makes me angry in my soul. When I find myself getting into a conversation about weddings, I have to withdraw instantly, lest I burn up inside and start shouting all the reason they’re bullshittical, hogwashical and colossal wastes of money. And there are several reasons why this is so. I shall now tell you about them.

First of all, I know the big white weddings are traditional. Most women (and I know I’m gonna get a lot of flack for this, but that’s fine – I’m ready) seem so stuck on this “tradition” excuse that they turn into robots. I SIMPLY MUST GO SPEND A THOUSAND DOLLARS ON A DRESS. Yeah. You must. Why? Because your mother did it. And her mother before her. And you know what they all have in common? They all had an expensive white dress in their closets that never got used again. Because when it comes time to pass your dress down to your daughter, she’s going to say, “Oh, that’s so 1950s! I need my OWN one.” And your daughter is going to do the same damn thing. “Oh mom, I can’t wear that! That’s so 2001!” So yes, by all means, you’re right. You absolutely MUST go out and spend a thousand dollars on a dress you will wear one time. Ever. Because YOU have to follow tradition. You’re smarter than the rest of them.

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Cheerleaders Don’t Lift My Spirits

Here’s a hot sports opinion for you: I think cheerleaders are annoying.

What, you wanted more? No, that’s it. Yeah, that’s all I wanted to say. I think they’re distracting, irritating and annoying. And boring. Sigh. Okay, I’ll explain for you. We go to my son’s football games, and we sit in the bleachers and – well, since he’s in middle school, they don’t take football near as seriously as high school and – well, I … let me start over. Okay, the schools at which his team plays only have bleachers on one side of the field. Which puts you in the uncomfortable predicament (pre · di · `CAY · ment) of sitting right beside the opposing team’s fans. And, more specifically to my point, both groups of cheerleaders are right there next to each other. On the same side of the field. Like five yards away from each other.

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My Science Fiction Fantasy

You know, there are a lot of things in life that get under my skin. So I won’t start this paragraph by telling you there’s nothing that pisses me off more than this one thing. But it does bother me a frightening lot. I mean, most people would think I was being petty and oafish if I complained about it publicly. So I’ll just do it here privately on this here little forum, you see?

So moving along, there are, as I said, many things that bother me. And this is just one of them. I absolutely cannot stand that everywhere you go, Science Fiction and Fantasy are grouped together. Petty? Inane? Shrug. Maybe so. But it really bothers me. Because some people like one or the other, and not both. I, for one, love some science fiction. I like some space opera, which it seems most of the sci-fi genre has moved to, but I really like pretty much anything fictional that involves sciency stuff.

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Vincent Hobbes is a Thief

I’m a writer. One might debate how well I perform this craft. Or not. Almost everyone who has read my books has told me they liked them greatly. I say this not in boastful arrogance, but just to say that I do it to the best of my ability, I take it seriously, and I take pride in making it as good as my ability will allow. I’ve written millions of words. A lot of them on this website. If you peruse back through the archives, you will see I have over 450 columns attributed to my name. And most of them are 800 words or more. Not just some quick paragraph about nonsense. Why do I say all this? I don’t know. I think I’m just trying to justify the title I used in the first sentence of my column.

But I don’t need to. Not really. The word writer speaks nothing of the personality of the writing. It doesn’t lend itself to any superlatives or adjectives describing the talent of the human being who takes the title. It only expresses that he or she has set out to perform a task, an effort that takes at least a fair amount of talent or skill, and has thus taken the label.

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Congratulations, America! You win!

Way to go, the United States of America. On Independence Day – the day in which you celebrate your nation’s birth – the most important day in this country’s history – you host a hot-dog-eating contest. Let’s all celebrate our nation’s freedom and make ourselves look even more gluttonous and stupid and self-serving and arrogant by stuffing our obese faces with tubes of processed pig intestines and giraffe anus. I can think of no greater glory!

This hot-dog-eating contest has become a staple in American entertainment. These skinny little dudes eat fifty-plus hot dogs in a matter of minutes. They dunk them in bowls of water so they’ll go down more quickly and easily. Do you know how bad hot dog buns (or any bread, for that matter) taste when they’re soaked with water? Yeah, me neither. You know why? Because it’s gross!

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I Hate Websites That Suck

It seems that in this age, everyone is required to have some sort of web presence. Even if it’s just to tell everyone what your name is, that you have a cat and you like listening to the Jonas Brothers. Everyone has a Facebook page. I don’t even know what happened to MySpace, but it has very clearly been supplanted to the far less flashy Facebook. Everyone has a Twitter, from which they let all of their followers know exactly what they’re doing all day long, every single day. The ridiculousness of all this is getting ridiculous. And there’s your opening paragraph.

First of all, no one cares about you and your stupid cat. No one cares that you like Justin Bieber and James Blunt. You don’t need to take up space on a web server hard drive somewhere just to tell people about your pathetic existence. Nor does anyone care that you’re STANDING IN LINE AT PIGGLY WIGGLY AND IT’S TAKING FOREVER OMG LOL WTF!!!!1 Do something useful with your life. Take down your stupid alliteratively titled website (e.g. Hannah’s Heaven, Carol’s Closet, Mykynzy’s Mansion) and post instead, something useful.

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Open-Source My Life

Here in the last several months, I have begun to embrace the open-source. I have gone off the corporate teet, one might say. I no longer support the big boys just because they come standard and they’re the most well known and popular. Just because they’re the most well known does not always necessarily mean they are the best. And since I have stopped supporting the big guys, my life has gotten markedly better. Allow me to explain.

You see, there are some products out there whose brands have become synonymous with the product they’re selling. Kind of like how everyone says, “Hey, I have some chunky green snot with some hard furry flakes in it, can you pass me a Kleenex?” Facial tissue would be the proper term for it, without applying the brand name. Another popular one is “Hey guys, let’s set up some plastic cups on the Ping-Pong table so we can see them chicks’ boobs!” Table tennis is the brand-detached term for the game.

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What is a reunion without first a union?

It’s that time of year again. You know, that time after Halloween when you begin taking down the sheety ghosts and throwing away the rotten, moldy, blackened, gnat-infested carcasses of the pumpkins on your porch and prepare to replace them with Christmas decorations. It’s that time when we begin winding down the year and getting ready to board up the tree houses for the winter, and start migrating inside where we can convene around fireplaces and football games. We also tend to have a lot more family reunions this time of year.

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Baseball and Politics Don’t Mix

There are a few things I wish to discuss with you under the topic of ‘baseball’. I know we’re all excited that the Rangers were in the World Series for the first time ever, even though they got their asses handed to them for all intensive porpoises. It was still exciting. Irregardless, I’m not really here to talk about the Rangers. Or the Dallas Cowboys. Ahem. One and six? Seriously? Yeah. Let’s move on.

Let’s talk about little league! My son plays for the Local Ball Club Association for Baseball Playing Children of the Local City Ball Club Academy. It’s not a school team, but a select registration team. Anyway, I’m not sure any of that is relevant except to say that it’s not a school team. Which is important for several reasons, which I will list here:

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The Dumbest Animals at the Zoo

The Fort Worth zoo is a very big place. It’s full of animals. If your goal is to see every exhibit, you really have to haul ass. If you monkey around at the aquarium, you won’t have time for the elephants. I mean, it’s a zoo out there. But really, I think the dumbest animals in the park are – well, you guessed it: humans.

There should be certain rulesets to which we all adhere when in a public place. For instance, when there’s a path that everyone is to follow, and one direction has, say five feet, then you don’t stretch your party across the entire five-foot path. There are other people who are interested in seeing exhibits, and might possibly be traveling faster than you and your party of hambeasts. Sorry, women, the beached whale exhibit is back by the entrance.

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Would it kill you to smile?

I am not a pessimist, well not completely… yet. I try to have a positive attitude at all times. Especially times that involve people who do not know me. I like to make a good first impression. With that said, there are some actions that just deserve reciprocation. Actions that try to promote a positive setting like a friendly wave or saying hello. My major expectation? If I smile at you, please do me the courtesy of smiling back.

I was very shy when I was younger, and I would keep my eyes pointed down when I was in public. I would never make eye contact. I would walk past friends in a mall and never know it until they yelled my name. Now that I’m older and I have a job where I work around hundreds of people, I try to be more personable. I work in a warehouse that has been converted into office space, and I work in the very back of that huge building. Every morning I walk from the middle of the large parking lot to my desk; it’s about the equivalent of two and a half blocks. I pass quite a few people while walking and I look at each one, in the eyes, and smile. Heck, sometimes I even say, “Good morning!” or “How are you doing?”

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More Ways to Screw the Customer

I’ve long been of the opinion that companies should listen to their customers. I know you all remember my column about Coca-Cola changing their formula. Well, I highly doubt a consumer requested that. Companies that listen to their consumers though, are the ones that will last. Like Dodge, when they listened to Dodge drivers and installed a step in the tailgates of their pickups. Who doesn’t want a tailgate step? Another example would be Microsoft, when they listened to consumers and made Windows 7.

Ahem. To a lesser extent.

But what about those companies (like Coca-Cola) that don’t listen to their customers and consumers? The ones that make changes that cause all kinds of havoc and ill schlit to happen? Those are the ones I want to talk about this morning. And one of them just happens to be a company I’ve already mentioned.

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Can you feel yourself getting dumber?

Why is reality television so popular? I guess I should put quotes around “reality”, because, as we all know, almost none of it is really real, realistically. But “reality television” has become the standard for all programming on broadcast television now. It’s become so popular that Fox, in the extra cable packages, even offers an ‘All Reality – All The Time’ channel. Is this seriously what people want over drama?

See, to me, television has always been about being entertained. And what scares me is that people really are being entertained by this low-brow programming. Women competing to see who gets to be some dude’s next wife. Men competing to be the next ex-husband of some woman who’s not really even all that pretty. Why did I say pretty, instead of mentioning her personality? Well, obviously, that’s all it’s about, because it’s television! Lowest common denominator. Have you seen Idiocracy? Yeah. Think just like that. And that’s not the worst of it.

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Retirement Party: This Weekend

So when I heard the news that Brett Farve was finally retiring, I sighed and shook my head, then went to sit on the sofa with a beer. As I was in motion dropping into sitting position, a news flash came on saying he had changed his mind. Again. Now I don’t actually have television service of any kind, and the radio was not on. But a news flash surely did happen, and – well, I just knew he wasn’t really retiring. And now I’m kind of getting a little tired of his Barbra Streisand-like retirement hoopla. Dude, I don’t care how many times you “retire”, you’re only getting one party.

Seriously, how many times can one really ‘retire’ anyway? Take the Eagles, for instance. When Don Henley said, “We’ll get back together when hell freezes over…” everyone believed him. But does anyone believe you can get a snowcone in hell right now? From what I hear they’re touring again, and they’ve even got a new quarterback. Wait. Not that the Eagles. It’s like the ‘in’ thing to do right now is to retire, take a few months off, and come back acting like it’s a whole new gig. Sorry though, Poison. No one wants to hear your new stuff. They only want to hear Unskinny Bop and Talk Dirty to Me.

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You Ruined My Friday

Just so you have a frame of reference, you need to know I am lying in bed right now writing this on my SpaceBook. It is Friday night, 18:05 and I’m lying in bed on my laptop. You’re probably out painting the town, tearing it up, getting some trim, drinking some Cold Ones, and I’m lying here in bed. On my computer. On a Friday night. Have I emphasized that enough yet? Well allow me to pour a little salt in the wound. Even though it’s just after 1800 hours – six for you non-military types – my evening is already set in stone. There won’t be a break. I’ll be doing the same thing in two hours, and in six hours. My night is ruined.

Last night my red-haired wife and I were sitting out on the back patio just enjoying the cool summer breeze and a couple of Ones that were – at least to the best of my recollection – pretty Cold. When all of a sudden, from out of the corner of the backyard, I spotted something terrible and sinister. And before I could gather my senses and react appropriately (which would be to grab my Browning from the deep-conceal holster in the small of my back and put two in dead center mass), it was on me. I’ve never been attacked and overcome with such rapid efficiency or tactical precision in my life. My defenses were useless.

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Do these genes make me look fat?

I hear people all the time saying obesity is a disease. They talk like it’s something people get infected with, and there’s nothing they can do about it. Like cancer. Oh no, you got the fat? So sorry to hear that. Did the doctor say how long you have? I’ve also heard people say it’s genetic and there’s nothing they can do about it. My dad was fat so I have to accept that I’m fat too, and there’s not much point in trying to change it. What?

I’ve known people who go through phases where they gain a bunch of weight, then get busy, bust their ass, and lose it. Is that genetic too? See I think our problem here in America is the fact that we want to be lazy. Whether or not we’re lazy seems to be irrelevant. We want to be lazy. We don’t want to do anything about it. We’d rather sit around eating twinkies, getting fatter and bitching about how we’re fat. I say be fat and happy, or lose weight. No excuses for being fat and pissed off about it.

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Truth in Advertising

I’d like to talk with you about radio commercials. Well, I don’t really want to, but rather, I think we need to talk about it. Specifically, I think a message needs to be sent out to these radio advertisers. And the message doesn’t need to be long or complex, or deep. I just want to say a couple of words. Namely, “I don’t give a flying AIDS-infested skunk’s ass what your damn name is!”

Wow, it feels really good to get that off my chest.

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No More Nuts On My Elbows

Well I hope you all enjoyed the last two days, with our two newest writers. What a delightful treat, yeah? Now if we can get them to keep writing, that will be the trick. But you know what encourages them? What motivates them? Responses. Keep posting your comments and letting us know how we’re doing here. I know, I know, Siege ranted about a traffic incident. It’s long been an unspoken law around here that we don’t talk about traffic. But I quite like his perspective on it, not actually coming out and calling the guy a douchebag, but rather implying he is one by saying his helicopter is in the shop. I see those every morning. And they’re usually driving H2s or H3s. Yeah, I said it. You drive a Hummer, you’re a douche. Simple math.

Stout and I were talking last night about the haircut, and how it costs so much damn money. You know, the price of the haircut is going up every year. And I should know, because I only get mine cut twice a year. I despise going to the barber shop. Again, I don’t mind a male barber, or necessarily prefer a female barber… It all comes down to the one question you face when you’re about to have to choose though: “Do I want nuts on the elbow, or boobs on the shoulder?” And of course, at that point, I always have to swing toward the she-barber’s chair. But the nuts on the elbow isn’t why I hate getting my hair cut. I think it’s the act of sitting there for fifteen minutes, paying fifteen dollars for a shitty haircut that I could have done myself, better. Seriously. No, really. I really do cut my own hair most of the time. I don’t do a great job on the fade in the back, but the top part with the scissors? Man I got that shit down.

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Why SpaceBrew Was Down

Another good title for this column would be “Why You Should Never Host With HostMonster”. Or even another good one might be something like “HostMonster And The Incredible Display Of Incompetence, And How They Are So Disinterested In Their Customers That They Would Rather Cancel Their Accounts Than To Make Money, So I Don’t Know How They Even Stay In Business, But They Should Probably Be Shut Down, Bombed, Or Both”. That would be a pretty long title, but it gets the point across. So let me tell you what happened.

Now this is pretty high-tech stuff, and I have to admit, I wouldn’t understand it if I hadn’t been in IT for fifteen years, and spent four years as an Internet Systems Engineer. So I don’t expect you to get it all, but I’ll try to use some awesome analogies. But I absolutely must write about this, because they pissed me off so bad I almost went postal on them. Through Live Chat. Yeah. It was that bad. Read on, dear friends, loved ones and enemies. Come with me on a little journey of customer disservice, ridiculous policy and guarantees of dissatisfaction.

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Happy Birthday Hard to Come By

Wednesday was Stout’s birthday. So Siege and I took him out to the Works to have a few drinks, look at some girls, have a few laughs – you know, the usual birthday celebration that real men do. Real men. And we had a good time. That’s one of the main reasons we like going to GameWorks is because it’s typically totally douche-free. They only allow 21 and up in the bar itself, so there’re no 17- and 18-year-olds hanging out being retarded and thinking they belong at all. It’s a cool place, and it’s got some soul. They serve good cold beer and the bartenders are pretty.

So anyway, we hung out there and closed the bar down (they close at 11. I know. Gay.) so we rolled out to Nick’s to maybe shoot some pool and have a couple more Cold Ones before we called it a night. And that was where we made our mistake.

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Seriously, dudes. Save the trees.

Does anyone read the yellow pages? Okay, that’s not what I mean. I know no one reads it! Haha! That would be a boring ass read, amirite? Yeah. Seriously. But yeah, no, see, yeah what I meant to say was, does anyone use the yellow pages? Yeah, see that’s what I thought.

I used to use them all the time. I’d pop one in Callie’s seat so she could reach the table. But I haven’t actually opened the yellow pages since – well, shit, I don’t think I ever have. Why would I? I have an iPhone. I have google 411. I have the Internets. That’s all free. And faster. And last I checked, no trees had to die to support the internet. So please, Southwestern Bell, save the paper. Save the trees. And stop sending me the stupid yellow pages.

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Keep On The Grass

Well for the last two months I’ve been away from Geek Squad, settling into my new job, and loving it. No more people approaching the counter demanding refunds for the laptop that just “stopped working” with the promise that there’s “no way in hell” they dropped it, and oh, what’s this crack in the LCD? Well that stuff just happens. Or it came like that. Or software did that. :rolleyes:

Anyway, it’s nice not to have to deal with the brunt of society’s idiots on a daily basis. Now I provide desktop and server support to all the clinics for the company for which I work, but really there are no stupid people here. There are those who have no idea what’s what in the world of techmology, but they’re sensible people. This is, after all, the medical industry. And I love it. So why am I writing? Ah, you know me. I don’t write about things when I’m happy about them.

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It’s all Exxon’s fault. Again.

Seriously. I am sick to death of gas stations and their evil ways. Oh what, have you not noticed? Seriously? So for the last thirty years there’s been a conspiracy between all gas stations. Every single one of them lists gas prices the same way. It’s not $1.32. It’s $1.32.9. Like anyone actually uses penny tenths. That’s the cheap way of saying the gas costs $1.33 per gallon. Unless you’re giving me back my tenth of a penny, you cobbler.

:rant: I am outraged because I know deep down inside that everytime my wife or my buddies tell me how much gas is, I know they are actually a penny off. And that’s PER GALLON. And I’m actually probably guilty of it too. I fall victim just like the rest of you. I glance up at the sign and think I’m getting a good deal when I see the gas costs 2.42, but I forget to add in the .9. Enough with the chicanery! The tomfoolery! The ballywho! The SKULLDUGGERY!

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Fleas Flee, Please

Not too long ago, I had a dog named Daisy. Or Dixie. Something like that. You see, I’ve never really connected with her. Because see, she’s never allowed me to. She’s so scared of men that she wouldn’t come to me. Every time I would approach her, she would make a rather large puddle of this dark yellow liquid. I’m not sure what all that is about. But I couldn’t have a relationship with this dog like most people have with their dogs. You know, like petting it and saying, “Come here, Butch!” and have him actually come see you. So I’ve never connected with her, and thus – I don’t really remember her name.

Regardlessly, she brought some of her friends in a few weeks ago. And now they’ve taken over. Fleas. I hate them. I hate them worse than I hate golf. Thousands of them. You couldn’t walk through the grass to the back door without having them hop onto your legs and start biting. The little cocksuckers.

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It’s a scam and I’ve got proof.

DirecTV is my satellite service provider. But when I say ‘service’ I use the term loosely. And I’m talking loose like a two-dollar whore. You know, like throwing a hot dog down a hallway loose. They don’t actually provide a ‘service’ in any respect, if you want to get technical. What you have is them flipping a switch which allows you to receive certain channels on the box you pay for. So you pay for a box and they allow programming to be sent to your dish. Right? I mean they don’t really have to do anything after the install of your equipment is finished.

And that’s the thing. They don’t actually install anything. Well, at least not properly. You see, there are different crews when it comes to installing and repairing. Example, an install crew comes out, does a shitty ass piece of mothercobbler shit ass job of installing your shit, and leaves as fast as possible. They get paid per job. Not per hour. So then what happens is your shit doesn’t work. So you have to call the company. Who then dispatches repair crews out to your place. Not the original install crew. Not any install crew, for that matter. And for that matter, how about another matter – they aren’t even the same company. The repair crews work for a different company who is contracted out by DirecTV.

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Calling the Call Center

I hate having to call customer service. Mortgage company, bank, cell phone company, whatever. I hate having to call them. If I can’t handle whatever problem I’m having on the website, I’d rather just cancel my service than have to call and sit through all the bullshit. Alas, that’s not very realistic though, as I’d be changing providers and canceling shit about every month. So I have to deal with calling in and talking to someone – hopefully – a lot more often than I would in a perfect world.

The first thing that pisses me off is the menus. Forget the fact that I have to push a certain number to hear it in English. I don’t mind the “Para Espanol prima el numero dos” or whatever, so the Mexican folk have to press two to continue in Spanish. That’s fine. Just don’t make me push something to continue in the national language. But the menus are just silly and time wasting. Now what they’re trying to do here is keep you from talking to someone. If they can take care of your problems with an automated system, they much prefer that. Keeps their call volume down. Store hours, available balance, directions, whatever – they can all be taken care of without having to talk to a human. But most of the time I already know all that shit. And I need to talk to a person. Enter my next complaint.

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A Real Local Celebrity

I was listening to the radio in the kitchen Saturday morning (because we have one of those kick ass radios that mounts under your cabinets and plays your iPod and stuff…) when the most interesting thing happened. I got annoyed. Yeah I know, it’s not seldom that happens. Anyway, this guy called in and was making a joke about one of the disk jockeys, so one of the hosts goes, “Tell him who you are!” to the guy on the phone. So of course our ears perk up and we get all excited, because there’s someone who is obviously very important on the phone.

It was the corny dog eating champ.

So this guy ate twelve corn dogs in like ten minutes and is obviously very proud of himself. And the hosts were asking him questions about eating corny dogs and whatnot. He’s answering them like he’s an authority on something. Get over yourself! You ate a dozen corny dogs at the state fair! I bet there are three people on my street who could beat that record, but you just happened to show up to the fair. And enter the contest. Fag.

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Ringtones Are For the Birds

Okay, I guess it’s time to admit something to you, great readers: I don’t really work in a high-rise condo-style office building with a swimming pool in my office and a glorious view of downtown Dallas. Gah. Man, now that I type it out like that it sure does look good. Actually, never mind. I really do work in that. I have a four thousand-square-foot office overlooking glorious downtown Manhattan. Or did I say Dallas? Whatever. The point is my office is probably better than yours. I have more leather in here than a cow farmer in Fort Worth. I would put up a form that allowed you to submit to me your office square footage and value and it would return to you a value of whether or not mine was better than yours. But it’s not worth the time coding it because all it would ever say was, “Nope, sorry, Space’s is better.”

So anyway, to my point. Let’s say I didn’t work in a high-rise luxury office. I would, in that case, probably work somewhere lowly like the rest of you, like a cube farm. Okay, screw it. I can’t really tell my story if I keep up this lie. I will go ahead and shoot straight with you. For the last two weeks, while my office was being renovated with solid platinum and diamond stuff, I have been working in a temporary location at a normal office, in a cube farm. It’s a step down, but it’s also a way for me to keep in touch with the people. The normal people. And I’ve come to learn one thing for sure about cube farms: I hate ringtones.

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What happened to baseball?

My girlfriend and I were at her son’s baseball game last night, and I have a few words to say about it. First of all, he’s eight. So it’s still not that serious. It is, however, more serious than your typical “everyone plays” league. It’s double A ball, so the kids are a little better than average, and this year, they’ve begun to allow base stealing.

Now for those of you familiar with the rules of Little League baseball, which I am not, you’ll know that up until a certain age, they aren’t allowed to steal bases, and the coaches pitch part-time for the pitchers to give every batter a fair chance at a hit. Except that sometimes the coaches screw it up for them worse than the pitcher was doing. Whatevs. The point here is that now they allow base stealing.

And encourage it.

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Some things just weren’t meant to be.

You all know how badly I want the new iPhone. Well, I have in fact already ordered one and paid for it. Now I wasn’t like some of those fools who went and stood in line for seven days to get one of the first releases of the 3G. I waited a couple of months and then mosied into the AT&T store because I needed a phone. Might as well get the iPhone. It’s been out for a couple of months now, so there shouldn’t be a big wait or anything. So what this should tell you is that I’m a patient guy. When a new electronic device comes out, I don’t rush out and get it right away. I wait until the excitement dies off.

Then I rush out and get one.

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Ending the Week Right

Weeks to me are like grass. I insult (or cut down) my grass once a week. But it keeps springing right back up. So too are my weeks. I keep ending them and nailing down the lid with drinking massive amounts of alcohol, but new ones just keep popping back up and sending me back to work. And this was a short week, since I took off Monday. And last Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Well, in fact, that long vacation made this short week feel like an eternity. How am I supposed to be expected to want to be at work?

Anyway, I thought I’d write a quick note about the kick ass phone call I got as soon as I arrived in Florida last week. A publisher called me and said they were publishing a short story of mine, and said furthermore that they were very, very, very, very interested in my second novel. Yes, he did say the word ‘very’ four distinct times. Which excited me quite a bit. So you are looking at the next published author! Well, maybe not the next one. Someone might get published in the next couple of days. But definitely one of the next ones. Pretty cool, huh? I know, it took long enough.

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Rights? What rights?

Why are people so willing and ready to give up their personal freedoms so easily, and with so little objection? Read ahead and you’ll see what I’m referring to. You might not think this is a big deal, or that I’m nitpicking about trivial shit. But I’m not. And I’m not willing to bend on little shit like this, because the more you give them, the more they will take from you. And you have to draw the line somewhere!

When I’m leaving Wal-Mart, I don’t expect to have to show you my receipt. Big deal, you say? Yes, it is a big deal. Number one, I’ve already paid for the shit. It’s mine now. The receipt is also mine. It’s proof that I purchased my stuff in case I need to return it. It’s not yours to see, and you have no legal right to ask for it. If I refuse to show it to the old woman at the door, there is nothing they can do about it, and they certainly cannot detain me over it. Most people just assume they have to show their receipts at the door, when asked for it. No! You don’t!

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The Price of Ice is Not so Nice

Happy Friday the 13th everybody. Hope spooky things happen today. :rolleyes: Actually, you know what would worry me more, would be Monday the 13th. If I were a superstitious guy, which I’m not, because that’s just gay, and I really don’t get into gay stuff, especially meaningless shit like superstitions, yeah, including that one about throwing the salt over your shoulder, but if I were a superstitious guy, and I actually believed that the number 13 was unlucky, and it fell on a Monday, then I might be worried. But Fridays are awesome!

Anyway, so I went camping this weekend. Just a few close friends and I – nothing big. We only took like six coolers full of food and beer. Don’t you have to be close friends to go camping with someone? I mean, really – are you going to take someone you don’t even like? Anyway, yeah, like I said, we went camping. And it was so son of a bitching hot that we had to keep buying bags of ice. And I finally realized something. I’m in the wrong damn business.

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I’m not a patient patient.

Have you ever noticed that no matter what time they tell you your medicine will be ready (at the pharmacy) you will still end up waiting at least fifteen minutes? I’m curious, why the hell is it that Chili’s is able to tell me exactly what time my meal will be ready for pickup – and they’re always right on time – and they’ve only been doing this guaranteed time thing for like two weeks, yet pharmacies, who have been overcharging people for medicine for almost a hundred years still can’t get my mother freaking prescription ready on time? Wow, that was a long sentence.

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Happy Gay Pride Month

It’s June. How the hell is that possible? It seems like just yesterday it was May. Well, day before yesterday. This year is just hauling ass. Like a pickup full of donkeys. But it’s also Gay Pride Month, and I’ve something to say about this. You knew I would.

Just like Black History Month. And the Black Entertainment Network. And Indian Appreciation Day. I don’t even need to delve into that bullshit and how racist and divisive it is. But Gay Pride Month? Seriously? Do we really need to proud to be gay? Well I’m okay with your being gay, and your being proud to be gay. Let me rephrase. Do we really need to have a month that condones and celebrates outward pride about being gay?

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Don’t Be That One Guy

My father always used to tell me, “There are three types of people in this world. Those who can count, and those who cannot.” Smart man, he was. But I think there are more types of people than the three I just listed. Maybe there are four types. Either way, the type I want to talk about has yet to be named. I need you to help me find a name for this type of person.

It’s a pretty broad group of people, and includes all different races, sexes and ages. While it includes the woman in the Lexus talking on her cell phone, slowly drifting into my lane, causing me to swerve over and hit the orange barrels to avoid a costly collision (Hey bitch I just saved you a ton on your insurance…), it also includes the redneck who still thinks it’s funny to have a set of large plastic balls hanging from the rear bumper of his truck. Nothing says class like a set of testicles on your pickup.

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Good Things About the IRS

I wanted to say good things about the IRS. So I did. Now we can move on to other sentences I should say. Like, “To hell with the IRS,” and “Son of a bitch I hate the damn IRS,” and “Wow, so the IRS is like legalized crime, right? What the hell.” Those are pretty typical sentiments when talking about the IRS. IRS, of course, is an acronym that stands for Invasive Rape System. And for those of you who don’t know, they take your hard-earned money from you. So not only do you get raped, they take your money while they’re doing it. Then if you protest or anything, they do what’s called an “Audit” where they bring several friends to your house, dig through all your private shit, then take turns raping you before throwing you in jail. That’s right. If you don’t let them have their way, they throw you in jail to get what? Ass-raped some more.

So tax day has come and gone another year. I know millions of you filed extensions. And you know what I say about that? I say kick ass. I pat you on the back. Because you know why? Because screw them, that’s why! I filed this year on April 1 or so, and throughout the process got more and more angry as I watched more and more dollars get tagged to be sent to them. Oh, so the ten thousand dollars I sent you already last year wasn’t enough? Right. So I found as many deductions as I could, claiming everything I could think of. Donated to charity? (You can claim up to $500 without a receipt.) Uh, oh yeah. Now that you mention it, I did send about five hundred bones their way. Who the hell wouldn’t claim something you have to show no proof for? Duh.

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Eradicate the Crickets

You know what’s worse than lying there, not being able to fall asleep – when you should damn well be tired enough? Lying there, not being able to sleep – when you should damn well be tired enough – but you can’t because of a stupid effing cricket. Clearly it’s in the laundry room, which backs up to our master bedroom. But every time I open the door to look for his little ass, he shuts up.

So you end up sitting there in the dark, flashlight in hand, waiting for him to speak up. Sitting on the cold tile floor, waiting like a ninja. Or, ooh-ooh a Green Beret! And he never chirps again. I know he must be under the dryer, but I don’t even want to go into how much of an anathema that is. There’s no room in my laundry room to move the dryer unless I disconnect the washer and move it out first. So I have to live with the chirping?

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Not a Happy Customer

If there’s one thing I hate more than slamming my finger in a rusty door, or stepping on a squeaky nail, it’s got to be incompetence in customer service. When I’m in a store inquiring about a product, your sales staff should know the answers to all my questions. Whatever happened to training the employees on the merchandise they are selling? When I worked in the Wal Mart Photo Lab, I took time every day to stand there reading the boxes of all the cameras. I learned what the best features were on every one of them, and was able to effectively compare and discuss intelligibly the best options for the customer. So if I go into Best Buy or Circuit City, why can I not expect someone working in the television department to do the same thing?

There’s nothing I hate more than asking someone a very specific question and having them look at the damn tag. Dude, I can do that myself. And already have. For instance, yesterday, I was in Micro Center, picking up an IDE/SATA I/O controller board for my home PC. I’ve troubleshot the problem down and determined that the root cause must be a bad IDE controller on my mother board. And since the computer I built is around three years old now, it’s a little outdated. It’s still a bad ass machine. I have a Pentium 4, and a good amount of RAM. But you know how quickly technology upgrades and supersedes itself. So my point is that it’s hard to find a socket 775 mother board that still supports the type of memory sticks I have. DDR2 is the new thing.

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Things That Make Me Go Boom

You know what I hate worse than – well, than almost anything? I hate going to the cobbling farmacy. Seriously. You pull up to drop off your prescription, or – if you’re like me and actually get off your lazy ass – go inside and wait at the counter. You wait while someone says, “Someone will be right with you.” Then you stand there watching them act like they’re doing something really important. More important than you, the customer. Which is the whole reason for their existence.

So after standing there for a pre-determined amount of time that only they can deem appropriate, someone finally decides to walk over and take your scrip. So you stand there while they key it in, then ask you when you’d like to pick it up. Wait. What? Mother cobbler, if it’s gonna be ready in ten minutes, you tell me to come back in ten minutes. Don’t ask me so I might say twenty which gives you a ten-minute break! Cock! Tell me the soonest possible time I can return and pick it up. That fries me, seriously. Then they tell you it will be ready in an hour (after you’ve requested a ten-minute return time). So you return in an hour only to stand there and wait another twenty minutes while they get ready to serve you. Then they finally come to the counter, get your name – as if they don’t remember it – and then say, “Oh he’s filling it right now. It will be ready in just a moment, please have a seat.”

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Out on Humanity

Yeah, I’ve been out on humanity for a while. You know this. But this weekend, I started thinking about it. We’ve come so far with technology, that now you can be connected no matter where you are. Think about it. Ninety percent of us carry a cell phone. And most of those never turn them off. They just charge them when they need charging and never (ever) turn them off. (Ever.) I know that when I leave the house, if I don’t have my cell phone, I’m a little uncomfortable until I go back and get it. And I hate that I have to be that connected.

What I really can’t stand is that sect of people who carry blackberries, trios, palm phones, etc. You know the ones. Imagine being so connected that you can’t go anywhere without being able to get your email. Getting that uncomfortable feeling because you’re away from your mail and you might have to wait a few hours to check it. Imagine that. Now most of those people do it for work, but still – if I’m not on call, I’m not checking my work mail. Unless I’m in front of my work computer. I want to disconnect when I get off. I only really carry a cell phone so my wife can reach me in emergencies. (That’s a lame excuse, but hey.) I will never feel so important that I have to be wired constantly to my email. That’s ridiculous. So what’s next? Mobile US Mail? Carrying a GPS device that the postal service monitors so they can deliver your mail right to you? Mobile television? “I can’t be anywhere that I can’t get television constantly.” I swear, if I see people walking around watching Friends or Oprah, I’ll start shooting people. (Get it? The irony in what I’m saying there juxtaposed with my literal argument against it? Ha? Ha?)

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All I want for Christmas…

Christmas is the season for giving. It’s better to give than to receive. Giving is the king’s – – you know what? That’s BS. All of these quips have one thing in common. They all involve giving stuff away. Well they have two things in common. They all involve someone receiving something. You can’t very well give something away without someone receiving it, right? Well I’m ready to be on the receiving end! That doesn’t sound good. But I’ve already made the joke, so I expect no comments containing jokes about me being “the receiver” and all that nonsense. It’s Christmas, people.

So I wasn’t going to complain, but now I think I am. Just a little. All of this giving is going on. And I’m doing quite a bit of it myself. SpaceBrew did really well this year, so I’ve been able to afford a few thousand dollars worth of stuff to give to family and friends. That doesn’t mean I want a seven-thousand dollar gift coming to me. (Well actually I wouldn’t complain…) But I would like a couple of little somethings to open. Yeah? Yeah. Is that so wrong?

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Happy Halloween. Yawn.

The building where I’m working this week had a ‘fall festival’ today. Everyone was supposed to dress up in costumes (aren’t we getting a little old for that shit?) and each team carved a pumpkin. Yawn. Well, I’m not really a part of this company. I’m sort of stationed in the building using their resources while away from my home office. I’m out here building servers. But anyway, one of the organizer ladies likes me, so she invited me to the what-have-you for some free pizza and soda pops. Who can resist?

Let me start by saying I’m not totally against parties and festivities based around holidays by default. I’m just kind of against the idiocy that typically arrives at such events.

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Elevator Etiquette Refresher

I know I’ve spoken about Elevator Etiquette before, but it’s time to bring it up again. People still haven’t caught on, and some of this stuff is worth repeating. There should be some formal set of rules one must follow before he intends to board an elevator. It pisses me off when people misuse the power and authority that comes with being the only one inside the car.

For instance, when I’m rushing up to catch the closing car (because in my building there are five cars that go to my floor, and if you miss one, you’ll be waiting at least three or four minutes for the next one…) and some woman sees me coming but just stands there looking down, chewing her lip and clutching her purse because she doesn’t want to reach out and push the door open button, she should lose her privileges. For the next three months, she’s forced to use nothing but escalators and stairs. Selfish bitch.

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Is there a woman who can drive?

I had to miss work yesterday because of an injury. Let me tell you what happened. I (once again) was the victim of a CWDOCP – a Careless Woman Driver On a Cell Phone. Not a big deal, but it did render my vehicle undrivable this time. I was sitting at the intersection of my street and the main street, waiting patiently to get out of my neighborhood when a woman comes barrelling into the entrance, aiming for the wrong side of the median! It was obvious she had been going too fast, and since she didn’t want to set the phone down, she couldn’t stop fast enough, and rather than keep going and u-turn to come back to the entrance of the neighborhood, she decided to turn into the wrong side of the median. While I was there.

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Customer Freaking Service

I’ve something to say today about something that’s very near and dear to me. Well let’s not mince words here, I’m going to rant. I’m going to use very strong language. Language I never use on the site. But I’m so full of rage I can’t see straight, and I think to shave off the language would be to strip the column of its spirit. I’m madder than a mean bull in a – what are those bullfighting things called? In one of those things. This issue about which I want to write is Customer Freaking Service. And yes, those words should always be capitalized. I will attempt to outline the reasons why.

One: Because of the first word, Customer. If I’m a Customer, that means I’m either buying a service or a product from you. I’m not one who is automatically of the opinion that the Customer is always right, but I’m definitely one who believes that the service side of the counter should try to make the Customer happy.

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Shit on the Radio

We all know that the quality of music these days has suffered pretty drastically. And thus the standards have dropped, so we expect less of our musicians – if you can even call them that these days. And with lowered expectations, it’s easier for shitty bands like Mediocre Charlotte (See what I did there?) and Simple Plan to “break in” to the music scene where truly they don’t belong.

And of course instruments and pedals and effects processors and pre-amps and synthesizers and harmonizers and all this other gear makes it easier to make music without really having any talent. And who suffers for it? We do! All these singers who try to sound like Eddie Vedder are kind of phasing out, and we’re left instead with all these singers who try to sound like Tom DeLonge, who is altogether less desirable in the vocal department.

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Steroids in Professional Sports

There sure has been a lot of talk about steroid usage in the news lately. Namely pertaining to professional athletes. This bothers me only slightly. What bothers me surprisingly isn’t the fact that they are using steroids, but the fact that it is newsworthy at all. Of course we all get to hear the ‘news’ that Brad and Jennifer broke up, and the ‘news’ that woman got lost in a corn field. With no corn in it. (Isn’t that a dirt field?) So in these cases, we are shown that anything is indeed newsworthy.

Thus my complaint can’t really be that this is news so much as that it shouldn’t matter enough to ever make it into the news. Who the hell cares if they use steroids? If Jose Canseco wants to pump up so he can knock one over the fence, I say more power to him. So to speak. Why should this bother us?

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People are like birds.

I’ve noticed over the last however-long-I’ve-been-driving-now that birds are evolving to be less afraid of cars on the road. Slowly but surely, they and their children grow more and more daring and brave about sitting there in that damn puddle drinking shitwater – and not moving when I’m about to run over them. Sometimes they wait so long that I don’t see them fly away, and when I look back, there’s nothing there. So they’re obviously still getting away, but they just wait until the absolute last second to move now. What the hell is up with that? I know I’m going to hit one one of these times, and I’m not going to feel the least bit bad about it. You want to take your chances and play chicken with me, then don’t bitch when I squash you with my tire.

Similarly, I’ve noticed humans evolving the same way. Nothing is more annoying, in fact, than having to slow way the hell down to wait while some asshole struts across the street like he’s on a Sunday stroll, staring right at me to see if I’m going to react. These people know they’re holding up traffic, and they know they’re being arrogant selfish pricks, but they do it anyway. And that look they give you while they’re walking is like ‘yeah, what are you gonna do about it?’

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Newscasters: A Hive of Scum and Villainy

We watched House tonight on television – great show, by the way – and as I was getting up to turn off the TV, the ‘next on’ bit came on to tell me what was going to be on the news at nine tonight. Immediately I got so disgusted I wanted to hit someone. Real hard. And this isn’t one of those annoyances – this was an almost incoceivably inconsiderate and disrespectful piece they were advertising.

She said it with fervor, “… Plus, how this swimsuit supermodel barely survived the crashing winds of the tsunami!” played against some moving footage of the woman modeling in a bikini.

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Women Drivers – An Oxymoron?

I know, I know, you’re all getting sick of hearing about how bad women drivers are. But they keep staying bad. And I had to laugh this morning on my way to work when I saw an overturned SUV in the middle of an intersection.

Now I would never laugh at someone’s misfortune or injury. But I gladly laugh at their stupidity. Because I am of the opinion that 100% of accidents can be avoided with defensive driving. You might not be able to prevent someone REAR-ENDING YOU, but the person behind you COULD HAVE PAID ATTENTION (what a novel idea) and prevented it themselves. So when some pompous SUV driving idiot tries to make a light when it’s yellow – and they’re still a hundred yards out – they end up running through an intersection, phone glued to head, on a red light. They deserve to be plowed into. Teach their ass a lesson.

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Everyone is out to get me!

No joke, every six months, someone wants to mess my shit up. Someone comes out of nowhere, not PAYING ATTENTION, and SLAM. Three days after I got my Durango, someone decided it was time to sandwich me in it. So I was without it for two weeks while it got repaired. Then some stupid little uninsured bitch decided it was time to slam into my wife’s car. And now, the Durango again.

Yesterday, sitting at a red light, the woman in front of me was the first in line. The light greened and she stalled out. I obviously didn’t move because I WAS PAYING ATTENTION so I just waited patiently. Well the guy behind me decided it was time to go, since he saw the other lane moving. He obviously wasn’t PAYING ATTENTION to what was going on in his lane. You know, the shit that mattered. So he slammed into my bumper. Now I have to take the damn truck in for another week or two to get it repaired. All new rear end. The place I always take my vehicles is overbooked right now, so it will be a while. You know, I’m on a first name basis with them guys since so many people like to drive without PAYING ATTENTION. People need to get they heads out of they asses and start taking driving a little more seriously. It ain’t a damn game where you wreck and game over you lose your quarter. Put your damn phone away and watch what the hell you’re doing.

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My War on Wasps

I hate wasps and hornets. They piss me off. I respect them, because – unlike ants – you have to piss them off before they sting you. But I still hate them sons of bitches. They all live up under the eave of my house thinking they own the place, and they dive bomb me when I’m trying to relax in my pool with a beer.

What I want to know, is how the hell do they know how to sting? It’s obviously inborn behavior, but it’s still a mystery to me. At what point in their lives do they become aware of the fact that that stinger on they tail is a weapon? No one teaches them that shit. They just know. And some wasps die after they sting you. So what’s the point of stinging if you know your ass is gonna die? screw that.

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Chick Games

Why is it that women wear things that show off their beautiful bodies? That’s it. No buts attached to that question. We obviously aren’t allowed to look at them, so why is it that they force us to by wearing these things which accentuate their better parts? I’ve been less than happy with the results I get when I give them the attention they so obviously crave. Don’t tell me that these women don’t have a choice in what they buy. If the only clothing available on the racks was this stuff that shows midriff and cleavage, and hip-huggers, then all the old women out there would be wearing the same things.

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Lines, lines, lines…

I’ve got something on my mind that’s been pissing me off lately. It’s about waiting in lines. I was standing at the grocery store the other night, waiting patiently to give them my money. The cashier two lanes over opens up and the dude behind me bolts over there like he’s running for his life. Then that checker steps out and says, “Sir, you can come down here.” So I walked on over there. This dude is all looking at me like he’s nervous, but at the same time, he wasn’t about to give me his place in line.

Now. My gripe is this: What in the hell makes him think he should be in front of me? I was in front of him in this line over here, and granted, he ran to the other one first. But my theory is that if a new checkstand opens, it should serve the people who have been waiting the longest. At the fronts of the lines. Not from the backs. I’ve been waiting ten minutes longer than this lunger, but he gets to be in front of me in the new line?

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We’re Not PC Enough

On my way to work this morning I heard on the radio that about 1500 people are lined up to sue New York City for damages incurred on 9/11. Let me say this again. 1500 people are going to sue New York City for dust damage and smoke inhalation and stuff like that. Are we a suit-happy nation? In the heat of those terrorist attacks against our country, we have people living here claiming to be Americans who want to sue their own city because it was attacked?!? What the hell are you people thinking? Why don’t you sue the al Qaeda network? Sue Afghanistan! what the hell kind of patriots are you that want to sue your own country for being attacked?

That to me is like suing your home builder because your wife got murdered and got blood on the carpet. Why don’t you sue Ford because someone rear-ended your pickup? I am so sick and tired of hearing about people wanting to sue other people. Everyone wants a quick buck and they shamelessly pursue it, without regard for taste, coherency, or humanity. That is completely and totally ludicrous. And it fills me with rage beyond that which words can describe. I say anyone that wants to sue their own city because it was attacked by terrorists should be deported immediately. Don’t want to leave? Fine. Bullet to the head. Extradition or execution. Your choice. You should be donating to help relieve New York. Not suing them to get rich, you arrogant insensitive pricks.

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Boycott movie trailers!

Movie trailers are beginning to really irritate me. They have gotten so good at making movies look really really good. Then you go see them based on the weight of the trailer, and the movie blows horse snot. I’ll give you some examples. Number one is Vanilla Sky. I had so many people telling me it was a great movie, and that it had a good twist at the end. Okay, so I watched the trailer. Excellent! I can’t wait to see it.

It sucked. Well, that’s not really fair either. Most of it was good, but

Spoilers Doodz
when you find out it was all his mind that made all that mysterious shit happen, because of the EL dream package… Hogwash! What a waste of a good plot! The whole story could have been excellent if they wouldn’t have turned that direction. I thought overall it was a waste of a movie plot at that point.

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What’s happened to humans?

At some point in my lifetime, I realized how much of a real rotten apple I was. I have always been somewhat humane. But not until a few years ago, I guess, did I realize that I was a blithering canker sore on the rear of humanity. I was the guy no one liked, because I was an asshole. I treated everyone the same. Everyone got the same cold, quick responses. I hated people. I hated what collectively, humanity stood for. I still do. I can’t say that situation has improved much.

But I realized that some people don’t fit into the same category as the rest of them. There are always those who float together, then there are those who don’t. I’ve never been one who glides along with the rest of the people. Often times I’ll be in the same stream, but going the opposite direction. I cannot stand – in fact I loathe – the direction collective humanity generally takes. To sit back and watch people interact will give you an idea the direction I am headed. Even take the worst bully in school, I would. I would think of him in a one-to-one situation. I knew he would react differently than if he had all an audience. People are weak. But when together, and in groups, they find strength in the ignorance of the rest of the party.

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Superstitious

I hate superstitions. I think they are the stupidest hogwashical bullshit I have ever heard of. I will attempt to give you a few examples. Number one, the black cat crossing your path. It means bad luck. This tells me that at some point in history, a man was walking and a black cat crossed his path. Shortly after, he was attacked by a mountain lion or a dinosaur. Key: He either lived to tell about it or someone was with him. If he lived to tell about it I say he was lucky as hell. And to have the hindsight to realize that “Hey that was bad luck. It must have been the black cat that crossed my path a couple days ago.” Gotcha.

Number two: If you spill some salt, you have to throw some over your left shoulder. (or is it right?) This tells me that someone had an incident shortly after spilling some salt. And then realized it was the salt spill that had caused his bad luck. Right. So it happens again in his future and he decides to throw some over his shoulder, then discovers that doing so prevented another instance of bad luck. But if nothing bad ever happens, how do you know it would have? And what if you can’t remember the proper shoulder? Does it become even worse luck? What a brilliant guy! This holds no more water than a colander with me.

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Hot women don’t wait in line.

Attitude is everything. I don’t care how good looking you are, or what kind of clothes you wear, or what kind of car you drive. Attitude is everything. I would sooner take the hand of the lady wearing poor clothes and driving the hatchback Honda then the bitch wearing the Versace dress driving the Porsche. Well, depending on who has the better tits, of course. But that’s beside the point. We’re not talking physical here. It’s about character.

I saw this woman at the store the other night. I was picking up a loaf of bread and some leche. Thumbing through a magazine while I waited in the checkout line, this chick started talking to me. She was right in front of me. She had a very pleasant smile and glasses, she was humble and kind, and all in all, very attractive. And her voice was friendly and full of care. It was pretty cool, I instantly liked her. She asked what I thought about something in the magazine. I talked to her for probably fifteen minutes. The line gets really long at Wal-Mart Supercenter the day before Independence day. It was incredibly slow.

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The Turd Burglars

Have you ever been sitting on the can in a public restroom, peacefully enjoying your solitude, when all of a sudden the bathroom door swings open and a whole crowd of people come in? Doesn’t that piss you off? You kind of like to be alone and do your business, so to speak, without the element of pressure or hurriedness. In relation to that, if – for some reason – you cannot be alone in the bathroom, the only element that somehow comforts you, is the privacy you attain by the enclosure of your stall. And the security you feel in that privacy is the simple twist lock that keeps the door from swinging open.

If, however, this lock is compromised, all security, privacy, and comfort flee in an instant, as you are left fumbling to cover yourself as a stranger attempts to enter your stall. This happened to me.

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Not In Your Area

Check this out: I called Pizza Hut last night and asked for some pizza. The stuffed crust, which they got the monopoly on. The lady asks what the nearest cross street is to my house, and I tell her. She says, “Oh, well you have to call this number.” Click. So she shunned her responsibility.

A little perturbed, because I had waited on hold a few minutes – and every minute counts when you’re hungry – I called the other number. They took my order, then said, “but wait… Where do you live?” I said “off such and such.” He says, “east or west of it?” I said, “East, but right off it. Like five feet east.” Well, that didn’t matter. He told me I had to call this other place.

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A Few Anger-Inducing News Blurbs

I was watching the news last night, and every single story pissed me off. First of all, and I think the worst of all, two grown men got into a fist fight at a children’s football game. And someone caught it on videotape. So they showed it on the news. Every single dude on that tape was a big brawny guy. And it clicked on in my head. All these idiots are football (NFL) freaks and they are probably forcing it into their sons’ lives hoping they become champions at it. And they get into an argument because “your son dropped the damn ball” and they end up fist fighting! What kind of moronic ignorant stupidity is this? You oafish ignorant assholes! You have the mind of a gorilla! Who the shit cares about the outcome? Let your kids get out there and have fun without worrying about the score! They’re not supposed to be professionals! If they don’t win, and you get into a fist fight over it, that just shows your very very low intelligence level. Wouldn’t you rather hide that?

Another news story from this week: A parent at a peewee league knocked down one of the ten-year-old players because he was upset with the way the boy was performing. This is a grown man knocking down a ten-year-old boy with a football blocking maneuver. If you start knocking down children, you have problems beyond just obsession with the sport. You deserve to be prosecuted. This dude is being charged with a felony class action against his dumb ass. Good. That makes me feel a little better. I don’t think there could be a punishment too harsh for someone like him. Thankfully, the child only received minor bruises and bumps. But the thought of it makes me ill.

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Drive Space Low on Planet Earth

There are some six billion people alive in the world right now. That is half of all the people who have ever lived. On top of that, the population will have doubled by 2020. And you think it’s crowded now? Think about thirteen billion people. Furthermore, statistics show that by 2020, there will be more people buried than there are alive. I don’t know whether they mean alive now or alive then. (6 billion buried or 12 billion buried.) But that is still a lot.

That’s kind of scary. That’s also one of the main reasons I don’t want to be buried. They better cremate my ass. I think it’s a waste of space to be buried. I know I won’t need this body once I’m gone, anyway. Oh. I know! How about being buried on the moon!

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Fear of a Silent Elevator

Have you ever noticed the silence that fills an elevator when more than one stranger boards together? A nervous tension is evident in the air, and it’s like a vow of silence would be breached if someone were to open his mouth for a simple, “hi”. Why is this? In most cases, if you pass someone on the street, a simple nod, or a “hey, what’s up?” is usually in order. So why does this not carry over into a crowded elevator? It is beyond me. It seems the strangers around you would rather not even look directly at you. Everyone plays the quiet game, and stands as still as possible, staring at his shoes. An occasional glance at the floor indicator is the only sign of life among these passengers.

I have to ride the elevators to the fifth floor every day on my way to my office. As a rule of good measure, I generally try to start up some weird ass off-the-wall conversation, just to break some ice, as well as to observe people’s reactions. You would be amazed at how shy these people are. They treat everything you say like a yes or no question. I have been known to bring up such conversations as “Did you hear about the bicyclist on the freeway this morning?” or “What ever happened to that baby that was trapped in the elevator last week?” It really doesn’t matter what I ask. I sometimes ask the same question for a week. And since I never forget a face, I can tell if I have used it on them before.

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