Friday, September 10, 2010

re: my student loans

Dear Sirs,

Regarding your recent letter on the subject of my tardy payment of my student loans, I would like to present to you the reasons for the lack of past or future payments.

First, and most importantly, is the Mayan calendar. According to their ancient wisdom, which was further reinforced by a John Cusack-lead blockbuster from Hollywood, the world will be ending in 2012. I doubt the fine writers in Hollywood could possibly get that research and interpretation wrong. They never do. So, assuming the Mayans were accurate keepers of the calendar, we all have just over 2 years before catastrophe and bad CG effects end us all. By this point, I will have made little more than a dent in the near-70 grand in loans it took for me to achieve my two degrees. Further, since the world will come to an end, it's unlikely that the money I would pay you would do you much good (given the world not existing anymore and all). Additionally, the small pittance that you would recover from me in that time would be something akin to whale hunting with a BB gun. Sure, I may hit the target, but no one's likely to start calling me Captain Ahab.

Further, let's say that the End of Days comes along and I do actually survive. I'm assuming this would be the case because and only because I DO plan on keeping up on my car loan. Let's face it, I don't plan on running from rivers of molten magma on foot. That just doesn't make sense for anyone, and certainly not if they have my knees. So I'll keep up on the oil changes and keep the tank full when December of '12 rolls through town. Now, should I have survived (as I'm assuming Cusack did, because frankly, I couldn't watch that drivel), I have to think that food, water, shelter, and gas to run my death-mobile in this "Mad Max", post-apocalyptic world will be much more helpful than my General Studies degree. As myself and a small coterie of survivors fend for our lives in this new, dangerous, and desolate wasteland, having a Masters in Communication and Information Sciences probably will be less helpful than than a certificate of completion from the 'Paul Teutul Sr. School of Management and Fathering'.

As it happens, even prior to God splitting the clouds, reaching down his considerable hand, and bitch-slapping humanity, my MS is pretty much worthless anyway.

Which brings me to my second point. Since completion of my graduate degree, I have spent almost as much time LOOKING for work as I have ACTUALLY WORKING! So what am I getting for my money anyway? Unemployment benefits? Isn't that just stealing from one hand to pay the other, when you think about it? Classic Peter and Paul scenario, right? In fact, I'm kind of insulted that you didn't think of that in the first place. You are the FRIGGIN' GOVERNMENT, for the love of beef ('It's What's for Dinner', or so Sam Elliott would have you believe). My point is, that in the midst of one of the worst economic recessions of all time... (which, c'mon, just between you and's really a depression, right?....huh? C'mooooooon...) degrees are as worthless as tits on a bull.

Worth less than the paper their printed on.

Worth less than a sense of humor at a Paul Reiser comedy show (he's just not funny).

Worth less than a penis at an Indigo Girls concert.

Worth less than the song "YMCA" at a dance for dyslexics.

Ok, probably crossed a line on that last one, but do you get what I'm aiming at here? Does me no good. I bought into the lie. Go to school, get good grades (well...passing grades anyway; they're never gonna ask), get a good job, be a productive member of society and the capitalist machine. A wife, 2.5 kids, a dog named Spot, and a white picket fence wouldn't have hurt either.

But you and the collegiate system have not lived up to your end. So, I'm calling foul and bowing out until you start coming through for me. I'll accept the studio apartment with no picket fence. Fine. Don't need the wife and kids (but a girlfriend wouldn't kill ya). To be honest, I probably couldn't take care of the dog named Spot, let alone the 2.5 kids (the .5 one is SOOO high maintenance!!). So fine, but a job and that mindless naivete that I had as a kid, when I once thought the lies were the truth, would suffice just fine.

Thank you for your time...and the Government Cheese. It goes great on Ramen.


Friday, August 6, 2010


It occurred to me the other day that maybe the biggest problem with being unemployed has more to do with the spin we put on it rather than the lost job, money, self-esteem, et al. Maybe one of the government agencies, be it federal or state, should try some bumper sticker slogans that might shed some light on the positive aspects of joblessness. Being that I am currently unemployed and have both the insight into joblessness and the requisite time on my hands, I thought I might take a few stabs. Tell me what you think.

Unemployment: Nah...go ahead. Take a nap.
Unemployment: You're high? It's noon? Job well done, Willie. Job well done.
Unemployment: The beer makes the hurt go bye-bye.
Unemployment: Watchin' Scrubs, eh? Yeaaaaaah.
Unemployment: MMMMMM.....Ramen!....
Unemployment: Eh, showering is sooo last year!
Unemployment: Glad I spent that 70 large on a Masters degree.
Unemployment: Because if I don't watch TV at 4am, who will?
Unemployment: Who needs insurance anyway?
Unemployment: It's like a long vacation...without the fun, food, money, and exotic locale.
Unemployment: Think of all the interesting people you'll meet in the unemployment lines!
Unemployment: 'Cause all that self-esteem was just slowing you down...
Unemployment: CHICKS DIG IT!!
Unemployment: Now you've got time to work on that screenplay!
Unemployment: It's like prison...without the social life.

That's it for now. (Maybe) more to come if i think of any.

Stay positive!

Now Hiring

I need a stalker.

Not necessarily the "call my mom with a fake pregnancy story" type or the "here's a necklace with a vile of my blood so you'll always have a piece of me" brood either. Just a normal, everyday, quasi-sane (and, yes, possibly homicidal) stalker.

Go 'head, poke through my recycling bin. A voodoo doll made with my actual toenail clippings is weird, but I applaud the effort. Slept in your car with binoculars and a 'sixer of Steel Reserve tall-boys? I have a keen appreciation for that type of stick-to-it-iveness. Bravo!

Not too much to ask for, right?

And it isn't that I need someone to lavish that type of subversive attention on me (though it would be nice to feel wanted). I think having a stalker would add some much needed zest to an otherwise fairly pedestrian existence.

I go to work. I eat a lunchmeat sandwich and a pudding. I work out. I go home.

I'm just saying, a little excitement wouldn't hurt. Maybe waking up naked from a GHB-induced slumber in a wooden box in Tijuana is a BIT much, but a Hallmark card with the phrase "Obsession isn't just a perfume" and a lock of hair would certainly add some intrigue.

The way I see it, there are some upsides to having a stalker.

· You never really feel alone
· It's easy to get rid of a bad date when your stalker chases them off with a gas powered weed-eater
· The America judicial system is fascinating and restraining orders are sooooooo much the "it" accessory in Paris this year
· Seriously, how often have you heard of a stalker story ending badly? Seriously.
· There's always someone there to listen to you (albeit via illegal wire taps)
· Everyday is like playing "Hide and Seek" (except you are always "it")
· Constantly looking over your shoulder increases flexibility in your neck

Who among us hasn't wished for their very own nut-cake, strung out on a clean concoction of equal parts God complex, self loathing, and OCD? All the cool celebrities have them. Conan O'Brien? Check. Debbie Gibson? You bet! David Caruso? Yeah, him, too!
If it's good enough for Paris Hilton….well, ok. Bad example. Should have thought that one through a bit more thoroughly.

Sure, there's a better than decent chance that one day you'll come home to find your cat shaved and all of your underwear on the front lawn. But that's part of the charm, now, isn't it? Don't be too surprised when you walk outside only to find Mayonnaise on your car windows, your garden gnome violated, and your mailbox sullied in ways that defy both the laws of gravity and good taste. This is what you signed up for, Chuckles.

So. I will be accepting applications for my personal "covert observer". Please include a current resume or CV, pay history, and psychological/media history. Include any and all experience with surveillance, cat shaving, window accessorizing/demolition, voodoo doll manufacturing (with or without toenail clippings), cult membership, arrest records, and weapons certifications.

I will review all applications and contact qualified parties for initial interviews as soon as possible. I'm looking to fill this position soon, so please do not procrastinate. Punctuality is a very important quality for a professional window watcher.

A heaping-helping of the crazy doesn't hurt either.

Big cats, hoo-hoo’s, and hockey hair

I have a few questions which do not really qualify as another installment of "things that chap my o-ring", but nonetheless seemed like things I need to get out there:

1) British people, can you please make up your minds? Either use all the vowels or don’t use all of the vowels, but pick a side! "Jag-you-are"? Ok, I can live with that, if you need to emphasize the ’u’ in ’jaguar’. But then you get to the word ’literally’ and that middle syllable goes bye-bye. "Li-trilly"? Serious, folks, just because you invented the language doesn’t mean you get to play fast and loose with the rules; deciding all willy-nilly whether or not a vowel merits pronunciation or not. I’m not trying to be a pain in the arse, but try to be a bit more consistent there, Constable. That’s all I ask.

2) Who in the heck is doing the re-writes for edited-for-television movies? While watching a bit of Blade Trilogy this weekend, Ryan Renolds’ character at one point utters the phrase "Why don’t you take a sugar-frosted jump off the end of my hoo-hoo!" What the hell does that mean and what kind of profanity are we replacing here? At no point does that phrase even caress this side of intelligible. A "sugar-frosted jump"? What does that even mean?! Is it as bad for your teeth as it sounds? And where EXACTLY will I land if I take one of the aforementioned leaps from the end of your hoo-hoo? Am I aiming for the sandbar or the treasure trail or a soft landing on the satchel? Will I be judged on form and if so, have measures been enacted to make sure the French judge gives me a fair shake (get it? A penis joke, a fair SHAKE….aw, never mind…)?

3) Is the mullet making a comeback? And if the answer to that question is "yes", then I will have a follow up question: "WTF?" I’ve been seeing the ol’ "biz up front, party in the rear" ’do making the rounds lately, from game show contestants to baseball players and I had to ponder the implications. The bright side, of course, would be that my high school yearbook picture would now be en vogue again. Good news if I suddenly become famous and "Extra" manages to dig up a pic of me with "the Beav" (so named by my friend Matt, who thought it looked like a beaver crawled up my bean and died). The bad news, I’ll have to buy high-top Reeboks and start wearing a Canadian Tuxedo (read: denim pants, denim shirt, denim jacket, belt made of bacon….ok, not really with the belt, but it would make trips to the zoo more exhilarating). …OR, can I trade in the jean jacket for a Members Only jacket? BONUS! Next thing you know, hockey will make a comeback, piss-ugly-green Buick Regals with powder blue and red racing stripes will make their resurgence, and Meredith Baxter Burny will trade in made-for-Lifetime TV movies for a starring role as the mother on a prime-time sitcom. Another side effect of the mullet-revolution: the Camaro. Didn’t we just finish killing this friggin’ thing off by deeming that cars should get more than 12 miles to the gallon? Seriously, now we’ll have to bring it back, bring back the confederate flag license plate, the Calvin-pissing-on-a-Ford-symbol sticker, and bring back the "Lakeland insult" (otherwise known as shouting "Dick!" out the driver’s window and peeling out; leaving the scene without allowing for a retort). Does any of this make you tremble a bit in your BVDs?

If not, picture all of the above in the Michael Bay-directed version:

Grainy, slow motion shots of said Camaro steeped with CG effects, quick-cut editing that would make ADHD patients nauseous, explosions, and general impossibility-iciousness! Starring the ’Hoff, Alf, and the entire cast of "Joanie Loves Chachi" (Scott Baio has to eat, folks, there’s nothing wrong with that). Soundtrack by Diddy (which really means "soundtrack by legitimate artists whose works have been blatantly stolen and re-edited with a new drum track, piss-poor singing in the chorus, and 14 rappers each contributing 3 sentences of disjointed and unconnected lyrics"). With a cameo by Christopher Hewett from ’Mr. Belvedere’.

Chilling portents of things to come, folks. Chilling.

Advice to the 16 year old me

I’ve seen some other blogs similar to this and it started me thinking. So here is what I would say to the16 year old me, back in the year.....never mind....shut up! Don’t judge me!!!

>Buy stock in Yahoo! As soon as you can and as much as you can, and don’t sell ’til sometime after the millennium.

>Go to Purdue, get a degree in Computer Science, invent something that has to do with streaming media, sell it to Microsoft and buy an NBA team (Damn you Mark Cuban, you idea snatching bastard!!!)

>Don’t buy a Subaru. Or any car with a boxer engine. They have 2 timing belts, and when one goes bad, it all goes bad. Very bad.

>Go someplace nicer than Olive Garden for prom! Dumb ass!

>Be an asshole. Walk around with a smug, absent look on your grill at all times. Nice guys don’t finish last, they finish ALONE!

>DO NOT, under any circumstances whatsoever, move to Eugene Oregon. Nothing but bad luck awaits you there. For every ounce of happiness you might feel, you’ll have 10 tons of bad luck. Trust me.

>Boxers or boxer-briefs. Those are your choices. AND NO DAMN LEOPARD PRINT!

>Skip school at least once a semester your Junior year. You’ll thank me. Seriously.

>Listen to your father. Believe it or not, he’s right and you’re an IDIOT!

>From this point forward, do not ever consider buying a gaming console. You just simply do not have the temperament for it. Your guys won’t tackle. And try and relax a bit, that temper isn’t productive!

>Never stop playing guitar and never stop wanting to be a rock God.

>Don’t lose touch with Lan. He’s one of the true good guys and you’ll sorely miss his friendship if you do.

>There is nothing, I reiterate NOTHING, redeeming about a mullet. High and tight, jerk wad, high and tight!

>You’re not going to go blind, but seriously, take it easy on Nixon! We’re not playing "Whack-a-Mole" here! It’s like you’re angry at it!

>Accept that there are people in this world that will always skate through life unscathed. And accept that you will always be the exact and polar opposite of that on the Bell Curve. You’ll be a stronger person for the trials and tribulations. But if you follow my’ll own them all!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!!

>For the love of all that is good and holy, please stop wearing tank tops! You’re like, what? 145 lbs soaking wet? Hit the weight room for about a year and a half and then talk to me.

>When you get to Purdue...Trish and Rachael....nope, you got that one right....

>Way to go with that scooter, JAFO! That’s the express train to "Girfriendville", you friggin’ tool!! Get a car!!!

>Get out of your own head for a while and loosen the F*ck up!!

>If anyone offers you the opportunity to sell books door-to-door, do not under any circumstances (even if there is a gun to your head and a mouse trap to your junk) even consider that offer for one friggin’ second!

>If you follow all of the above advice and still manage to meet Kelly, don’t be a dick. She deserves the best you have; the best you are. She’s good people. She’s one of the few exceptions to the "be an asshole" advice.

I don’t know what else I can say to prepare you for the ebbs and flows that await you. Theoretically speaking, if you follow this advice, the me that is now will cease to exist and the "you" that develops into the older you will replace me. And maybe communism will prevail I don’t have a lot of control over that.

Best of luck, kid. If my experience is in any way’ll need it. And then some.

Me and the Green Monster

I'm not a lucky guy. Anyone who knows me knows that my luck vacillates between "God-awful" and "horrendous", and rarely tips the scales above "unfortunate".

Normally, winning something in a raffle would be considered lucky, but, again, it's me we're talking about here. I have won 2 things in my life in raffles, and explaining this should help you understand why I consider my luck to be so terrible.

The first "prize" I ever won was at a basketball game when I was in Jr. high. It was a fire extinguisher.

Let me repeat that: I won a fire extinguisher.

Just what every growing boy dreams about when they lay their impressionable heads to pillow at night. A fire extinguisher.

Pinch me.

The second thing I won happened in High School. It was a car.

You might, at this point, be saying, "A car, Dave? That sounds awfully lucky to me! What gives, you insufferable, ungrateful prick!?"

That's a bit harsh. But I'll press on. But for future reference, if you really want the rest of the story, you might try a bit more tact. Just a suggestion.

It was my junior year at Lakeland and someone in the administration came up with what was originally a solid plan. For every quarter of perfect attendance, a student would get one entry in a drawing to be held at the end of the year. Imagine how minds raced when it was announced that the grand prize would be an automobile!

No, seriously. Imagine it. NOW! …..That's better.

So, throughout that year I managed one single quarter of perfect attendance. One entry. Not good odds in a school of roughly 700 students, especially given that my luck has ALWAYS been shatty!

So as the year drew to a conclusion, the details of the drawing trickled in. The car was to be a repo aquired from a local bank. It was a mid-80's Buick Regal. Bearing in mind that it was 1991 (Goddammit, I'm OLD!!), that model of car wasn't the worst thing in the world. Second prize was to be a $500 gift certificate to the local stereo shop. Not too shabby.

As the seniors were given a few extra days off to prepare for graduation, they held a general assembly about a week prior to the end of the year. The dragged us out to the football field bleachers for the production and drove the car to the 50 yard line.

The base color of the car was piss-green (this actually being offensive to piss, as this color was appalling!). The interior was an even worse shade of velvet asparagus, though admittedly in very solid condition. Compounding the dreadfulness, the administrators (in their infinite wisdom) had sent the car to the Elkhart Career Center, where they allowed the auto detailing students-slash-slack-jaws Carte Blanche. What was returned was a piss-green Buick with a light tan splotche covering the front of the car, THICK baby blue and red racing stripes jetting down the sides of the car, and the words "Laker Mobile" on the back quarter panels.

This was an abomination to a degree that defies description. This thing was horrible on a level you have to take stairs to reach. There simply aren't enough words in any language to describe how hideous this car looked.

I actually just threw up a little in my mouth thinking about it!

So, the plan was to drag 10 unfortunate cattle down to the slaughter and then draw from those 10 names. With each passing name, my anxiety grew. I did NOT want to be on that field, with the smiling gazes of my peers staring holes through my soul.

The 7th name passed. "Thank God! Now I know it won't be me. With my luck, I would have to be picked in the first 3 so I could stand there and fester for longer."

The 8th name was called, and the unlucky soul sauntered begrudgingly down to the lineup on the turf. "We're good. It won't be me."

The 9th passed. "Thanks, Big Guy. I appreciate you sparing me."

Then it happened. My name echoed for what seemed like hours.

"Fuck!" I thought. My friends laughing the laugh of insanity as the pushed me out of my seat and toward that automotive bastardization. I passed the other 9 students, who all shared this look made up of equal parts terror and shame.

Now I started doing the math. "1 in 10 that I win that stereo gift certificate. 80% that I walk away completely unscathed. I can live with those odds."

First they drew for the gift certificate. My friend Jimmy won it. "Son of a bitch! I wanted that! Now I just have to be one of the lucky 8!"

Time seemingly stood still as I stewed over losing out on that certificate. I was still in mid-lament when they called off the "lucky winner". Hearing my name echo for the second time that day, I can't honestly say I remember what went through my mind. I'm told however, that it could clearly be read on my lips one single word.


Laughter ensued throughout the stands, as if I'd just been "pants" …and then crapped out a clown. This was the single-most embarrassing moment of my life to that point and ever since. But it wasn't over.

Then they brought out the photographer from the local newspaper. It wasn't bad enough that all of my friends and girls I still hoped to sleep with were there to witness my utter discomfiture; now the moment would be captured for posterity, recorded en photo for future generations to laugh at until they pee.

Full page spread in the paper. And the yearbook.

Bear in mind that I still had several days until the close of the year to reap the rewards of that fugly, rolling eyesore. I couldn't hang my head low enough walking down the halls of Lakeland to evade the jeers of my peers; the laughter and snickering.

I sold that awful thing as quickly as I could to the first taker (a hillbilly who actually LIKED the paint job those knuckle-draggers had ensconced the car with!!). I saw it driving around every once in a blue moon; a constant reminder of the most embarrassing day of my existence.

Yes, I made money off the deal. But how much money is dignity worth?

See? Even when I win, I lose. My luck sucks!

Thursday, August 5, 2010

An Open Letter Regarding Insurance Company Advertising

Yes, All State, Progressive, and State Farm, I’m talking to you. You’ve ruined every show I can think of by constantly inundating me with the annoyance that is your commercials. You seem to think you can break my will by inserting your idiot spokespeople into every 30 second slot in the known universe.

Your approach is akin to Neil Goldman trying to get a date with Meg Griffin on Family Guy: relentless and ineffective. You’re like the president of the chess club repeatedly asking out the head cheerleader, hoping upon hope that the force of sheer will and attrition will land those pom-poms and that multi-colored skirt on the floorboards of your dad’s ’97 Camry. It won’t work. All the chess club dork ends up with is low self-esteem and a restraining order. And all you’ve managed to do is make the mute button as familiar as the menu button on my satellite remote.

And stop, for the love of Charles in Charge, telling me how much I’m going to save with you versus another company! It comes across a bit insincere when every single one of you, and all of your competitors, are making that claim. If I could save that much off of every one of you, insurance wouldn’t cost a cent!! You can’t ALL be the cheapest option, if the laws of mathematics still hold true. (And they do, right? I mean, not more than a handful of years ago, Pluto was still a planet and we all saw how that worked out!)

All State, you are the least of the offenders. But you are not without stain and blame, so don’t pat yourself on the back too quickly. Dennis Haybert is a commanding presence and a better than decent actor, but he only PLAYED the President on TV; he can’t actually order anyone to do anything. And seriously, “Your in Good Hands”? Still sticking with that slogan after all these years? At the end of the day, it just makes it sound like your claims providers are sitting in a van next to a playground with a bag of candy and a bottle of chloroform! “Get in the van, kid, you can save money on your auto insurance!!”

And yes, I just equated insurance companies to child molesters. Thought it couldn’t be done? Oh. It’s done!

All State, you’re up next. I don’t know if it’s the theme music you have infesting my ears in every one of your ads or the condescending prick you hired to be your talking bobble-head. Either way, STOP THAT! BAD INSURANCE COMPANY! BAD!! Maybe I don’t want to confer with my friends and “Tu familia”, as that massive blowhole put it (which is a whole other gripe of mine, since I don’t happen to be a big fan of Telemundo). It’s been my experience that insurance companies are very adept at finding individual ways to screw each customer out of their money, while denying claims with absolute indiscretion. As it happens, not all of my family (yeah, in English, Chichi) and friends are 36-year-old white males, driving a Hyundai Tiburon GT, with only one single traffic violation in the last 5 years. In fact, none of them are. So I’m guessing their experience might not necessarily translate. But nice try.

And that brings us to you, Progressive. The worst offender of the bunch, with your insurance-company-cum-grocery-store ad campaign. One stereotypically annoying customer after another, demonstrating that you insure every motorized form of transportation on the planet. Bravo. Whoopidy-freakin-doo, you insure wave runners. A fat lot of good that does someone after they smack their skull against a pier at 30 mph. Can’t file a claim from a coma, can you? Yet worse than this, and worse then the black-haired ass-puppet that All State is marching out, is the Progressive girl: Flo. Say good-bye to the career train, Flo, because this little stop in your professional life is the end o’ the line. Back to community theater for you! This character is more annoying than all the rest combined for the thick veneer of oblivious optimism, enthusiasm, and repressed self-lament that convinces me that in her off-time, she spends her night quietly poised on end of her couch, surrounded by cats, with the double-barrels of a shot gun lodged firmly in her yap; her trembling thumb pressed precariously against the trigger in a tête-à-tête with the inevitable. I weep for you, Flo. God rest your soul when you are predictably replaced as spokes-whore by an animated, talking opossum.

In closing, I would say that the three of you could take a lesson from Geico, which while still annoying, is, at the very least, kid-friendly. That is all, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your time. Now… go screw.

Monday, August 2, 2010

The age of celebutards is upon us...

…And I’m really not happy about it. Used to be you had to actually DO something to get some recognition and fame. Now all you have to do is be a boarder-line retard that doesn’t mind whoring off any good nurturing your parents might have raised you with. (Yeah, that was a painfully long sentence. I’m aware of the problem and have notified management). Here are some examples that spring to mind:

1) Kim Kardashian

Glad there’s nonstop coverage of your dumb ass dalliances invading every media outlet on cable INCLUDING ESPN! IS NOTHING SACRED?! On the bright side, because of this undeserved attention being rained down on you like so many loads of….well, let’s not be too graphic here, but at least I’ll know in advance who’ll be featured in your next un-watchable sex tape. God, that was some poor production value. Get a MAC and a second camera, whore!

2) “Snookie”

First of all, “Snookie”? Really? That’s the best you could come up with? Take a break from the spray tan, pumpkin head, it’s starting to stunt your ridiculousness! Secondly, how would the cops have been able to tell if she was drunk? After all, Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. What gives? Did she try to talk again? Damn you, coppers! You’ve discovered her Achilles Heal!! Yeah, we all know that was a publicity stunt. You know why? Cuz we have IQ’s that exceed 12.

3) Any friggin’ one of the douche-nozzle “Real Housewives”

Oh, so you married for money AND got a TV contract? Greeeeaaaat…I’m really hoping karma hangs a U-turn and hits you like a Peterbilt! Well, not so much “like” a Peterbilt, so much as “an actual” Peterbilt. Just make sure you’re all standing close in ridiculous poses and in ill-fittingly tight and restrictive dresses like the end of every one of your stupid commercials SO YOU CAN’T RUN ANYWHERE, you snarky, pretentious, entitled meat-puppets!

That’s enough ranting for now. I’ve got to go find the cast of “Jersey Shore" and hit them repeated with a fungo bat.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

The 3 Rules of Text


Don’t start off the thing with a “Dude.” or “Yo!” or something like that as your first text out of the gate. One or two word texts are not acceptable. Ever. Maybe you’re on an unlimited text plan, but I’m not and every single incoming or outgoing text counts against my balance, so make it friggin’ count! Besides that, this isn’t IM and it wastes my time to have to ask what is up. JUST TELL ME!! Stop texting like a 13 year old girl, dammit!! “Yo” is just the beginning of the though that you already have in your melon, so put down the rest of it in the first damn text And if you’re thumbs just aren’t in good enough condition to type all those pesky little digits….THEN FRIGGIN’ CALL ME INSTEAD AND STOP WASTING MY TIME!! Dammit, man, the Gilmore Girls are on!


This one really chaps my chode (my taint, my tisnt, my sandbar: and if you don’t know what I mean by those synonyms than I can’t help you)! I already delete the forwards I get in my email before I’ve read them (sorry, Dad!), but now you have to inundate my phone with these stupid things, too? Really? As stated before, this transaction costs money for those of us who don’t text enough to make an unlimited plan necessary but occasionally exceed our allowance of texts per month. Don’t push me closer to that redline with a joke about a hooker, a chicken, and the Statue of David. First of all, I’ve probably already got that in my email inbox waiting to be deleted, but secondly IT ISN’T FRIGGIN’ FUNNY!! Don’t be so casual about texts that they become reflexive and nonchalant. And what is your goal anyway? To waste yet another of my texts with a reply of “LOL” even though I didn’t laugh, and even if I had, it would have only been a slight chuckle and certainly wouldn’t have been audible to anyone but dogs (which I believe is abbreviated as “CQTMSQODCHI”---chuckles quietly to myself so quietly only dogs can hear it) ! Texts are designed to convey important information with an economy of words. If you want to waste words and time on things which no one gives two craps and a Kit Kat bar on….sign up for Facebook like the rest of us have!


First of all, I don’t have a data plan, so you cost me money when you send me pictures (and I would think the two rules above should have established and illustrated the fact that I’m a cheap ass). And it would be fine if the picture was of something of interest, but it’s porn. And not even good porn. It’s sad porn that makes the other porn feel sorry for it. The porn that had to get free lunches in school and wore shoes from Payless. We’re talking low-rent porn here. Secondly, the screen on my phone isn’t very large, so the quality of the sad-sack porn you sent is further diminished. NO SQUINT FOR TITTIES!! That’s the platform I’m running on: the view I’m espousing. And thirdly, but most importantly, there’s this thing called the Internet. Heard of it? Yeah, it’s absolutely filthy with….well, filth. If I need porn, you better believe I can find it. And I can find it for free! Doesn’t cost me anything but a half hour of my time and a tablespoon of swimmers. I’m mid-30’s and single, do you honestly believe I DON’T know where to go to find some free porn? Read the tealeaves, Chachie, I’ve got time on my hands (and I’ll leave that sentence alone so you can insert your own joke at the end).

Those are the rules and they are rigid and unbending, yet elegant in their simplicity. Follow them unwaveringly and there will be no problems. Violate them and you will soon find yourself on a no-fly-zone, blocked sender list that is impossible to extract yourself from without heavy penance and costly bribery. Thank you for your indulgence.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Dave versus The Bat

I hate bats.

The flying mice type, not the Louisville Slugger type. Hate them! And there are 3 reasons why. When I was really young, I found a dead one in my grandparent's basement and that was freaky enough. Also in said basement, my sister and I were scared witless when another bat (may or may not have been related to the dead one, I didn't ask for I.D.) started circling the room, squealing like a banshee and then magically disappeared.

Tangentially, have any of you actually heard a banshee? Do they squeal? Probably why more people don't have them as pets, I guess. I should probably start doing more research for these whimsical rantings. I digress.

So the third reason I hate bats happened while I was attending Ball State University in scenic Muncie, Indiana (at least 3 or 4 people I know are going to absolutely piss themselves laughing at the "scenic" part of that sentence!). It was the night before classes started, fall semester of 1999. I wanted to be rested and ready for classes (for a change), so I took a couple of Tylenol PMs and went to sleep early.

About 3 in the ante meridiem I awoke to the strangest sound. I couldn't put my finger on what exactly it was but it sounded like fluttering. It was obviously dark, but my eyes adjusted enough for me to make out a form circling my very small apartment like a 737 waiting for clearance to land at O'Hare. It wasn't squealing like bats normally do, but I knew immediately what it was.

Luckily, I had a futon at the time, so I was already about 5 inches off the ground. So there I was, serpentining along the floor like I was in Nam and "Charlie" was lighting off tracers over my head. You have to do this because, as everyone knows, those shits ATTACK your hair!

I made it to the bathroom and turned on the light, still groggy (as Tylenol PM seems to log-jam in my head for days sometimes), flipped onto my back to survey the situation.

No bat. Nowhere to be found.

What the heck? So I grabbed a golf club (a seven iron, which was admittedly too much club for that lie, but I was planning on choking up and taking a nice, easy 65% swing) and turned on every light I had except for the one in the refrigerator (couldn't risk the bat getting to my beer and condiments, which is all that was in my fridge at the time).

Nothing. Had I just dreamt it all? Was I just loopy from the TPM? I figured that must be the case, so I resigned myself to taking a leak and going back to bed. I opened the door to the bathroom, which I had closed to check behind for the bat. As soon as I opened the door, I looked up and there it was, clinging to a pipe in the ceiling, wings draped around it like a cape (seems like you could use that imagery for some sort of super-hero or something….hmm…anyway). It was sleeping like a baby (probably resting so it could buzz my tower a couple more times like Maverick and Goose!).

I damn near soiled myself! I slammed the door closed, grabbed some duct tape and sealed off the room like some sort of biohazard, grabbed my golf club and cowered in the corner for hours, keeping ever vigilant (after all, there could be more waiting for me to let my guard down, and dammit, I'm not letting anything happen to my hair!).

At around 8am, Animal Control showed up. I took down the duct tape and let him into the bathroom, where our little friend was still cuddled up and dreaming of attacking my cabbage. The guy had these massive leather gloves on and simply grabbed the little guy, who was none too pleased to be leaving the shop! It squealed and screamed and bit the holy hell out of that dudes gloves. And just like that, it was over.

Turns out there was a hole in the ceiling of my closet that the bat navigated through to launch its little Pearl Harbor sneak attack. I used good ol' ingenuity to seal that hole up (duct tape and cardboard from a Busch Light 24 pack) and never had anymore unannounced visitors.

When I told my landlady about it, she was THRILLED! She was Asian, and apparently, being "visited" by a bat was a sign of good fortune!

Good fortune?! I think we can all agree by the ways things have turned out that this simply isn't based on reality or I really need to get swarmed by few thousand more of those little bastards!

So the next time you encounter a bat, just remember the following to get you through:

  • Wear a hat
  • Stay low
  • Choke up on a 7 iron

And in case you were wondering, I missed my first two classes that day to recuperate from my near-death experience.

Ok, I'm going to go wash my hair which is still intact due to quick thinking!

Things that abate my chode

(originally rant from my myspace page)

Annoyances Continued!!!

Annoyance 14: backseat whisper-singers

This only happens with women. I've never in my life heard one single male do this. A whisper singer is someone who clearly knows the words to a song, as well as the melody, but doesn't have the voice to actually sing along, so they kind of whisper the song. So quietly that you can only hear the sharp consonants. Other than that, there is this slight drone interrupted by S's, T's, and P's that stick out and jab the other listeners directly in the eardrum. My sister was famous for doing this all the time and I was equally famous for yelling at her to shut the F up so I could enjoy the F'ing song!


You've quite clearly realized that actually singing at full voice would be inappropriate and very annoying, so you substitute this muffled crap instead. Please for the love of God and all things holy, SHUT YOUR DAMN MAN-PLEASER! Public singers are bad enough (see previous rants for more of my opinion on that) but this is a whole new level of annoyance because clearly you see that your behavior is annoying but you seem to think you have mitigated the typical reaction by bringing the volume down so low that only the sharp sounds escape. This has the opposite effect, Chichi. Either sing or don't F'ing sing. It's really that simple.

And if you're in a car that I'm in, just DON"T F'ING SING AT ALL!!

And if I run into you and your significant other at the mall, scuffling your merry way along the isles while whisper singing along to the Muzak, be prepared for a flogging of epic proportions.

You have been warned!

Annoyance 15: taking the dog EVERYWHERE

I see it constantly, from driving around to shopping at the mall. Some people have to take their little mutts with them every-friggin-where they go! Fido has a shopping list for Target, does he? Really? What exactly is on that list there, Chachie? I'm guessing it goes something like this:

  1. Food
  2. A butt to sniff
  3. Someone to rub my belly
  4. Dryer sheets
  5. A place to drop a deuce

I get that the family pet is…well, part of the family and all, but for the love of all things SENSIBLE, leave the dog at home! Does it gross anyone else out when you're in the produce section and a golden retriever saunters up behind you and buries its nose squarely up your split side? I know there's one or two of you saying "No. Why? I don't get it…" and frankly, that's a cry for help that I simply don't have the patience or psychological credentials to deal with right now. Sick-o. I bet Peanut butter is on your dog's list! For the rest of us, however, it's really kinda gross. Dogs are not very sanitary animals and you can spare me that whole "Their mouths are cleaner then ours are" argument, because I brush my teeth and gargle Listerine while your dog eats its own poo. Advantage: ME! Game, Set, Match, MoFo! These same people would probably be horrified if someone put their cat on a leash and brought it to the shop, but somehow that bulldog that's been rolling around in your compost heap gets the invite?! Simply put, if you can read this blog, you're not blind, so I'm retracting your pet-pass! Rover's just gonna have to wait it out in the Land Rover (which is pretty cruel in and of itself and is yet another argument for leaving the mutt at home).

For the record, no one (and I mean NO ONE) cares a damn about your dog to the degree to which you believe they do. There are people out there who aren't "dog people" at all, and having a smelly animal sniffing them up at Bed Bath and Beyond out is downright offensive. You can't force someone to be a dog-lover any more than you can compel someone to become a nudist! And I promise you, you'd have a really tough time refraining from a magnificent chunder if you were picking out bananas when someone sashayed your way with their junk out, swinging like a pendulum!

Annoyance 16: Rap music

Back in the day, rap music was amazing. From ICE-T to Rakim, these were street poets, word smiths, and (dare I say) musicians. Nowadays, it's become formulaic to a sickening degree (never mind the fact that rappers only perform about 20% of their own songs anymore!). Find a phrase and repeat it 40 times. Done. Where's my money? I haven't actually done a "Party like a rock star" tally to see how many times the phrase gets repeated, but I bet it's just short of the number of times a two year old says "Why?" in any given month!

Wanna be a rapper? Here's all you need to talk about:

  • all the money you have
  • the car(s) you drive (which must be from the following auto makers: Bentley, Rolls Royce, Mercedes, Jaguar, Lexus, and BMW)
  • the size of your rims (must be over 20" so you can use the word "Dubs")
  • your "bitches" (no room for chivalry here, fellas)
  • the VIP room or strip club
  • your jewelry (or "ice", for those of you up to date on the lingo)
  • the brand of champagne/alcohol you're buying for the whole bar
  • the expensive brand of watch you own (Rolex, Cartier, or Breitling are all acceptable answers here)

Rap used to be a reflection of the reality of the streets (from what this white-bread, Indiana boy would actually know about that reality, which isn't much). It was raw, real, articulate, and pretty damn well-crafted. Now it's turned into this complete and utter fantasy, where poor kids from the streets brag about all the things they don't actually have but assume would give them "cred" if they really did.

Yes. I used the word "cred". If the anchors on ESPN can, so can I (I am, at the very least, as "street" as Trey Wingo!!!)!

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that if you are a 19 year old from the projects in D.C., it's something short of plausible that you actually own that $250,000 Bentley with the 22 inch rims that you so prominently display in your very first music video. I'll go further out on that proverbial limb and say that it's rented and that the "bitches" in bikinis dancing around you are PROBABLY rented for the video, too. They probably wouldn't spare a cup of piss to put you out if you were on fire if they weren't bought and paid for. Just a hunch.

Where, oh where have you gone, Young MC? We miss you.

[uncontrollable laughter]

Ok. Not really.

Annoyance17: Insomnia

I've never been a particularly sound sleeper. I generally lay there, eyes splayed open, staring at the ceiling for hours (literally) before I finally relent to slumber. Don't know if I just have too many thoughts swirling through my noggin (which seems highly unlikely even as I type it out) or if I have a case of the "crazy legs", but I have never been one of those people who's asleep before my head hits the pillow.

I hate those people.

…And envy them, but mostly it's hate.

With the best of intentions, I go to bed. After a long day, tired and ready for the sweet relief of slumber. Ready to fade off into dreamland, ensconced in reveries starring Christina Aguilera, cowboy boots, a kiddie pool of butterscotch pudding, and furry handcuffs. Yeah, I know. Don't judge me.

I've brushed my grill, turned out the lights, and I slip under the covers and then….

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Wide awake. Instantly; regardless of just how tired I might have been.

Then the games begin.

"Well, if I get to sleep in the next half hour, I'll get a good 6 hours of sleep." As soon as that thought crosses your mind, you are screwed. This is the exact and polar opposite of a Self Fulfilling Prophecy. You aren't going to get 6 hours of sleep, Billy. Huh-uh. Nope. Might want to trim that prediction by at least 50%, but don't worry, you'll have plenty of time to retool those numbers while you're NOT SLEEPING!

Seemingly minutes later, "If I get to sleep in the next fifteen minutes, I can get a solid 2 hours of sleep." Instead of thinking this, you would be better served to just accept that "I'm going to be a cranky SOB tomorrow; drunk on Red Bull, with all the personality and patience of a cornered badger." There's something to be said for truth in advertising, after all.

Then you get angry (actually physically upset) at yourself for not being able to sleep. This spirals downward faster than Michael Richards' career post-"Seinfeld". You start considering any and every possible solution to your problem, from cranking one out to taking a couple of shots of Whiskey (not always a viable solution when you have to get up for work in two hours, but you'll consider just about anything at this point).

Count sheep? I'm at 147,328. How much longer should I count?

Warm milk? What am I, like 5? Maybe warm milk and Whiskey?! Isn't that how alcoholism starts? I bet if I went down to the overpass and bugged one of the residents of the cardboard condos, they would trace their sour lot in life back to insomnia. I'm sure the PTSD didn't help either.

And the best news of all: you get to do this all again in less than 24 hours. Sweet dreams, Skippy!

[yawn] I'm tired. Anyone got any Whiskey and warm milk?

Annoyance 18: Cartoon characters with foreign accents.

Let me start by confessing that this is more about jealousy and envy than anything. You see, I’m terrible at foreign languages. Beyond awful.

I took a year of Spanish for a couple of years in college.

Still can’t ask where the bathroom is. The translation of my sentence is something like "Beer bathroom please the beach." Must sound like a crazy person to a native Spanish speaker. The fact that I’m wearing nothing but a sailor’s hat and a jock strap might be part of the confused looks as well.

Digress, Dave. Dammit, man, DIGRESS!

So Pepe Lepew speaks fluent English, but with a French accent, eh? Bi-friggin-lingual?! This would mean French is his native language and he DABBLES a bit in English! And you wonder why we hate the French, even their skunks are elitists!

So a friggin’ cartoon skunk is smarter than I am? Dammit! Does he have a PhD in Astrophysics, too? Maybe he’s a Rhodes(kill) scholar!

Like how I did that? Rhodes(kill)….like road kill…because he’s an animal….and they get run over by...ok, screw you if you don’t get it!

You’re not my real mom!

…Anyway. Even Speedy Friggin’ Gonzalez has a Spanish accent. I could have been tutored in college by a friggin’ rodent, who is apparently more linguistically advanced than I am. So I’m smarter than Stimpy, but Ren could hold a conversation with (I suppose) Speedy and I would have no friggin’ clue what they were talking about!

That sucks!

Hold on, I need to head to ACME’s website to find a good solution to this.

What do you think? A giant slingshot, some rocket skates, and a butterfly net?


Annoyance 19: Fingernail clippers.

It isn’t that the clippers themselves cause me any real consternation, but I own like 20 of these little bastards.

…and I can’t remember EVER in my life actually buying one.

Chew on that a moment and I’ll get back to you.

"Ewwwww!" is the right reaction. That’s kinda gross! Where the heck did I get these things and what kind of crusty, yellowed, fungi-laden claws have these things been biting on?

Coulda been someone’s toenails for all I know, and that only heightens the chunder-ificence of this whole situation.

Maybe I can get reduced shipping if I tack a pair of new clippers on my ACME order….

Annoyance 20: The old man at the gym.

You know that crusty old fart at the gym with the prospector’s beard? Yeah, the guy that looks like ZZ Top’s great- great- granddad. One day, I finished up working out. I worked up a good sweat so I shuffled to the locker room for a shower and some fresh hair gel (priorities, folks, priorities!).

I push the door open and turn the corner only to find an image that will haunt me to my core for the rest of my days on this little pebble.

So there stands Father Time, buck-nekkid in all of his pasty glory, right leg perched on a bench, cheeks akimbo, towel gripped tightly in his veiny hands, BUTT FLOSSING!

I imagine at least a few of the people who read this will laugh hysterically at that image. I understand this reaction. You can imagine the old man, wearing his flabby skin like a raincoat. You can image a locker room (probably very similar to the one at the gym you attend, assuming you actually care about physical health ---though reading this blog attests to your utter indifference to mental health and acuity!). You can probably imagine the butt-flossing motion, comically over-exaggerated in your fruitful imagination. You might even be able to string all of these images together into a colorful mosaic of old-man-butt-flossing-comedy.

But you weren’t there, man! You have no idea the horror of having actually witnessed Old Man River in this tete-a-tete with a towel; looking like his arse picked a fight with a hammock and the hammock was winning.


It was one of those moments that seemed to go on forever and, having witnessed it first hand, I can tell you that it shook me to the very underpinnings of my existence.

…And not in a good way!

Worse yet, the towel. These are provided by the gym and taken off-site for laundering. I’m sure the steam cleaning sanitizes them. But steam doesn’t get hot enough to remove the image of Santa’s sphincter itching along that rough-grade cotton in super-slow motion! What if I use that towel in the future? Will there be some sort of butt-transferance that only Gil Grissom and his CSIs could detect? God help me!

Then comes the really disturbing part. Yeah, that’s right. We haven’t hit the really disturbing part yet. Here’s the really disturbing part:

We made eye contact.

There’s no coming back from that. It’s almost as bad as walking in on your parents having sex or Rosie O’Donnell at feeding time. There aren’t enough hours of psychotherapy in any given millennium to reverse that train once it’s left the tunnel. That ship has sailed and my innocence is listed on the manifest. One can only hope, at some point in the future, the brain cells I kill with 7&7’s will eventually include this horrific blight on my long-term memory. …Oh, and that time I won a car. You can have that back, too!

Until then, I’ll forever be haunted by the image of Uncle Jesse smiling the smile of child on Christmas morning, sans clothes and good taste, toweling off his O-ring with that poor, hapless rag…. Ugh!

I gotta go boil my eyes….

Annoyance 21: Flying

It all starts with the airport. Could you possibly find a bigger cluster f*ck anywhere on the planet? You think malls are a pain in the kibbles and naughty bits to walk around? Airports are all of that madness to a multiple I can't even compute! People in airports walk with a single-minded purpose that precludes any and all common courtesy whatsoever! Hockey players don't get hip-checked as often as I do walking through an airport. The rules: THERE ARE NO RULES!! Seriously, carb up and chug a Red Bull before you hit this joint, because you're gonna need all the stamina and energy you can get! Sharks feed with more organization than people walking through an airport. Pinball machines have more predictability than this cacophony of foreign nationals, hillbillies, and tourists.

Compounding all of this is the rolling deathtraps of luggage people are dragging behind them. Really, that laptop case needed wheels? REALLY?! Are you taking Big Blue for a tet a tet with Kasperov? Packed an IBM mainframe in that friggin' backpack, didja? How damned lazy are we as a society when we can't even be bothered to carry a damn backpack? That's just sad! Sad on levels that defy description! But it can be funny to watch the trail of carnage as people are laid to waste behind one of these morons, swinging this masterpiece of death behind them, clear cutting and plowing down women and children with Mussolini-like abandon and disregard for human life.

Then comes the inevitable congestion in front of the gate. As soon as one single section (usually the first class customers who can't be bothered for a warm cup of piss to put you out if you're hair is on fire) is cleared to board, the rest of the cattle mosey up to the fence, blocking the line off from those people who have actually been cleared to board while they chew on their cud. Seriously, you can't just sit the F down and wait patiently? Do you really expect the trip to be expedited in any fashion whatsoever by crowding up by the gate? You probably think honking your horn in a traffic jam will clear the way as well, eh? Idiot.

Then the fun of boarding the plane begins. There's always some genius who has to try and stuff a friggin' Subaru in the overhead bin. Not gonna happen, Slappy! I'm glad you were clever enough to smuggle the ENTIRE mini-fridge out of your hotel room, but that crap ain't gonna compress enough to wedge it that 2' by 2' space. But seriously, take another ten or fifteen minutes to wrangle with it while your rudimentary understanding of simple friggin' geometry continues to confound you. We've got time, it's not like we have a flight to catch.....oh...wait...

So, after these chuckleheads have stowed their crap and taken a seat, you get to sit as well. Seems like you're in the clear now, right? Not even close! Inevitably, you'll get sardined into a seat next to Elbows O'Spreadeagle and Mary McBackfat, if you aren't lucky enough to get pinned against the fuselage by Jaba the Hut. Engineers, in their infinite wisdom created 3 seats with 2 interior armrests. I'm not great at math, but something about that equation makes me think there might be some friction. Unfortunately, the safety pamphlet outlines what you can do in the unlikely event that the plane crashes into an ocean and anyone actually survives, but they failed to establish a simple guideline for who gets the pleasure of extending their elbow an extra 3 inches. Thanks for that! So I get my midsection worked over like a welterweight while the oblivious bastard next to me fiddles around like a 3 year old on a sugar buzz! Four flippin' hours of being poked and prodded mercilessly....and no "happy ending". Fantastic.

Eventually the plane leaves the ground, the flight attendants pass out the requisite mini-pretzels "Thank you Heather, you are a life saver indeed. I was minutes away from a swollen belly and flies circling, but you saved the day with these 3 mini-convections. Prior to this, my tummy was making more noises than a VW Vanogan! Bless you, kind woman. Bless you!" In the isle seat? Expect a reflex test on that funny bone (not so damn funny when a metal cart is driven into and through your arm, is it Chuckles?). In the middle seat, expect to be pummeled from both directions by random elbows. I have the song "Kung fu fighting" going through my head and I know there's a joke there. Just can't get the bat off my shoulder. Hmmm. The window seat is the ideal one here as you get the pleasure of causing discomfiture in other's but you don't have to make any crucial adjustments yourself. Well played, grasshopper!

Eventually, after every extremity has cramped up, seized up, or been beaten up by your fellow passengers, the plane will finally land. Now we're in the clear, Padre. Right? Wrong!! Now comes the funniest display of human vanity and arrogance. Almost at the very same millisecond as the wheels grab asphalt, people have to whip out their cell phones, as if the entire world has been watching with bated breath, anxious for your safe return. Never mind that you won't be able to hear squat over all the other arrogant jackholes in this aluminum tub, but please continue to repeat the same sentence ad nauseum in increasing increments of volume. That's helpful.

Of course, deplaning is not in any way organized either. Before the ship has come to a complete halt, half of the occupants have stood up, in the middle of the isle, opening up the overhead to try and finagle their mini-fridge back out of the compartment (no, seriously, don't worry about dropping that on the head of the 4 year old directly beneath that carry-on-of-death, she's from Minnesota so she doesn't have that much to look forward to in life.). Then, once the door has been opened, the stampede begins! This is fantastic because the faster you get off the plane, the faster they route your luggage to you. Really. That wasn't sarcasm. Ok. Yeah it was. But some people act like getting out of there is more important than the elderly couple you turned into mulch while disembarking from the plane with all the care and dexterity as the Cool-aid man making his famous entrance.

Is the fun over, Uncle D? No, my friend. Not even close! Now you get to go wait for your baggage, which is yet another activity that should prove to you that people in large groups are essentially cattle. So, everyone lumbers up to the carousel, with visions of actually being one of the first people to reclaim their belongings and make their way to Disney World (or Fetish Planet, I don't know what the hell you're in town for!). So you go up and stand there, 3 feet back from the baggage belt, waiting patiently until some dick comes up, plows past you (invading your personal space and just generally pissing you off!), and proceeds to stand DIRECTLY in front of you. So, yeah, I was just saving that space for you so that the rest of the day will be more pleasant for you and more work for me. Thanks for acknowledging that. Of course, the last laugh isn't going to go to this douche bag, it will go to the third or fourth douche bag that cuts in front of the original douche bag (I know, you need a program or something here). Why can't everyone just back the hell off and let everyone have an equal go at? And do you have to send your 5 year old, who frankly looks like he hasn't been eating very much, to go up and lasso your Samsonite from the belt. What'd you pack in there anyway, your bowling ball collection? Watching young Sammy struggle with this piece of luggage in a ballet of futility would be soul crushing to most people…had Sammy not been the little shit sitting behind you kicking your seatback like he was playing hacky-sack. Let's face it, this little prick deserves to be drug behind and around that baggage claim for a few more hours, screaming like a little girl, bouncing off people like they're bumper cars. Of course, once you have managed to navigate past Sammy and his antics to grab your own luggage, you're bound to be met with a surprise. The last time I picked up my luggage (my brand new luggage, btw) it came off the belt looking like a yak had tried to mate with it! It was covered in some sort of oily residue, the handle was broken, and it was torn to shreds. Not pleased. But at this point, you have thumbed your noise at the travel gods and made it safely through flying. Congrats! Now all you have to look forward to is public transportation and seriously unhygienic hotel sheets!

For now, that will have to do. I'm sure I'll find some material that grates on my sandbar in the future, so stay tuned and I'll stay angry!