Articulated Vulgarities

Why I Should Become a Hermit, Part 3

For the last two or three weeks I've been trying to put on a happy face, and it just hasn't been working.  I've been stressed out over a zillion things and unlike when I'm going through anxiety, I tend to internalize my stress.  Instead of turning to people for help, I crawl into my shell and don't want to be bothered by anybody - which should help explain why I've been a bit of a dick to people I care about in the last few weeks.  Sorry 'bout that guys (and gals).

That said, one of the best ways to relieve stress is to vent... and right now I'm going to do just that.

Perfume and/or cologne.  How do I put this delicately?  You aren't supposed to BATHE in it.  One little spritz will do you just fine.  I shouldn't know that you've walked through the same hallway ten minutes prior to me because you have left a trail of stench down the length of it.  Also, there is a world of difference between perfume and deodorant, and the former should never be used to cover the latter.  If you stink, no amount of perfume or cologne will cover it - it will simply make you smell like body odor AND cologne.  Take a shower.  Please.  Don't be afraid of the water.  Just think of it as unscented cologne and go nuts.

Let's talk about fat people.

Fat people bother me.  I'm not talking about chunky or people with a few extra pounds - I'm one of those people.  I'm over my ideal weight, but I am by no means fat.  No, I'm talking about people who weigh three hundred pounds or more and then they complain about it.  "My knees hurt." - Gee, I wonder why! 

I hate it when fat people absolve themselves of all blame.  "It's genetic."  Bullshit.  I know better than anybody that metabolism makes a big difference.  My brother eats almost as much as I do, yet he's still skinny as a twig and he doesn't work out or anything.  He just hit the genetic jackpot - but genetics will only help you so much.  I, on the other hand, did not get the best, most efficient metabolism so the food I eat goes straight to my belly, which is why I make it a point to eat until I am no longer hungry - not until I am so stuffed I can barely move and then I sit around for the next 10 hours.  Stop trying to pass the buck like it's your body that made you order that third cheeseburger or that second dessert.  It's your lack of self control and piss-poor willpower.  

Oh, and here's a tip - gastric bypass surgery only works if you adhere to a DIET afterwards.  You cannot go right back to eating any and everything in sight and expect to still lose weight.  It doesn't work like that.  It's not liposuction and it's not magic either.  Don't come in to the office holding a bag of White Castle for breakfast (true story), go to A&W for lunch, eat vending machine snacks throughout the day, then have pizza for dinner and then have the nerve to wonder why you're still fat.  Also, ordering a diet soda does not counteract all of that.  Your ass did not become the size of a King size bed because you drank regular Pepsi.

While I'm on the subject - fat people: Walk single file.  There is only so much real estate, and you cover most of it, so be considerate and allow those of us who didn't put the local buffet restaurant out of business to pass.  I should not have to press my back against the wall like I'm a fucking spy infiltrating a top secret enemy base just so you can pass without leaving a trail of destruction in your wake.

Lastly, would a little exercise kill you?  I kid you not, this is the exchange I heard just yesterday between two fat coworkers waiting for the elevator to arrive:
Fatty McFatFat: "I'm waiting for the elevator."
Slobby Eats-A-Lot: "Me too.  I like to ride because I hate walking."
Are you fucking kidding me?  You HATE walking!  "Hate" is a pretty strong word.  Not something I generally associate with something that is necessary for most human beings.  She doesn't dislike it.  It's not mildly irritating to her - she HATES walking.  Hates it with a passion.  When walking becomes that big of a chore, I think that's a sign that maybe you ought to think about losing some weight.  Our building is only three floors!  It's not the God damned Empire State Building! 

Even worse are the people who pull up to the curb at a store and demand to be dropped off as close to the doors as possible.  You can't walk over the flat parking lot to get to the store?  That's too much for you?  You need to hold up all the traffic behind you while you spend the next ten minutes squeezing yourself out of the door frame? 

If I may shift gears for a brief moment, I'd like to talk to the ladies... Ladies, when you wear revealing clothing, don't be offended when men look.  Men like boobs.  It's a proven, scientific fact.  If there are boobs on display, men will look.  You can't put a proverbial neon sign up that reads "HEY, LOOK AT THESE!" and then get angry if our eyes wander.  I'm not talking about guys who stare and slobber over them - those guys are pigs - but the occasional glance is bound to happen.  The same goes for tight jeans.  We men do not have that kind of self control.  I admit it, we are pigs.  I apologize in advance for my gender, but we are but simple beings.  It doesn't mean that we're undressing you with our eyes.  If you don't want to be looked at, start wearing burkas.  Just don't show too much ankle, because that's hot.

On that note, fatties?  Please do not wear revealing clothing.  I know it's hard to find cloth that will cover that large of an area, but if they can make tarp large enough to cover a baseball field, I'm sure they can make something big enough to keep all of you underneath your shirt.

Now it might seem like I'm being very mean... I am.  I'm not going to deny it, but just to take the sting off I'm going to focus my anger on possibly the worst people on the planet - Assholes who throw their cigarette butts out of their car windows.

The world is NOT your personal ashtray.  If your car doesn't come with an ashtray, you have other options.

Option 1: Don't smoke in your car.  Wherever you're going, I'm sure you can make it without a cigarette.
Option 2: Stop smoking altogether.
I know, I know - unthinkable, right?  After all, why would you want to do something smart that's good for your health?  Look, I really don't care if you want to kill yourself.  I don't.  In fact, if you're the type of person who throws their cigarette butts out of their window, there's a good chance you deserve it.  You're a selfish prick with no consideration for the planet or the other people inhabiting it.  However, if you really want to, there are quicker ways of doing it.  You could drive off a cliff, or put your head in the oven, or see just how long you can breathe with a plastic bag over your head - and none of these things will harm the environment.  OK, well maybe the car over the cliff if it gives off a lot of smoke in the ensuing explosion.  And possibly the plastic bag if it isn't biodegradable...  Look, that's not the point...  The point is, you're an asshole.  Smoking is one thing - some of my friends smoke and while I don't like it, I don't think of them as assholes because they are considerate enough to use ashtrays.  I would like nothing better than to take a public ashtray, like the ones you'd find outside a sporting arena that are loaded with butts, and dump it into your car.  That way when you ask me what I'm doing I can respond "Hey, I thought I could just throw these anywhere like you do!"

Now you might think I'm even angrier after a rant like that - but you'd be wrong. Don't try to analyze me. Who do you think you are? Geez. Write one post full of vitriol and suddenly everyone thinks I'm angry... Oh, and if you don't see the humor in this post - lighten up, lest I write a post about people who take everything at face value and take things way too seriously. Come to think of it... that irritates me too.

Why I Should Become a Hermit: Part 2

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Oh yes, this is a recurring post.  You see, lots of little things will make me very happy - an e-mail from a friend, a new movie/CD/game I want coming out, flipping channels to find a movie I love is on - but lots of little things make me very, very angry as well.  Perhaps I'm easily irritable, or perhaps people have simply gotten more obnoxious and stupid over the years.  Perhaps both.  Honestly, I'm known for my short temper, but you can't tell me you haven't driven past a high school at some point in the last five years and seen all the delinquents that emerge from it.

Anyhow, posts like this allow me to vent about things that irritate me, while still keeping it lighthearted and funny.  If you miss the humor, well clearly you're reading the wrong blog and I'd like to introduce you to my friend Sarcasm.
Sarcasm, this is Reader.
Reader, Sarcasm.
There, now you two can be friends.

Moving on... Let's talk a little bit about the dos and don'ts of public restrooms, shall we?

Do:  Wash your hands when you're done.  What kind of disgusting slob are you to hold onto your wang then leave without washing your hands?  Do you realize you touch the same things in the office that other people touch?  Doorknobs, the printer, etc.?  This is why I don't shake hands with people unless it's absolutely unavoidable, and even then I do it begrudgingly and with noticeable discomfort.  I don't know whether you're the type of person who washes their hands or not, and I so don't want to take that risk.  I do not want whatever might be crawling around on your body to jump ship and decide that I would make a suitable vessel.

In addition, you are not fooling anyone when you turn the water on for a fraction of a second, then walk out of the restroom.  Your pitiful attempt to make yourself look like anything other than a grotesque, unclean human being is futile.  There is no possible way you could have gotten your hands under the faucet in the span of time you ran the water.  You didn't even use the soap, and I know because our soap dispensers at work are automatic and they make an audible noise whenever they spit out a bit.  Your ruse does not fool me or anyone else in that restroom.

Don't:  Talk on your cellphone in the restroom.  Seriously?  What is so important that you can wait until you're done peeing/crapping to have that conversation?  Not only do you sound like an idiot, trying to cover up the fact that you're sitting on the toilet ("Oh THAT sound?  Yeah, I'm uh, pouring myself a really large cup of coffee,") you're making the other people in there uncomfortable.  I don't know about you, but I have a rule similar to one laid out by Sarah Chalke as Dr. Eliot Reed in the show Scrubs - I cannot talk or be talked to while I am on the toilet.  That's just... wrong.  That's my private time and I don't like the idea of someone standing next to the door, listening to every grunt or bodily noise.  Your incessant yapping about proverbial useless shit is making it hard for me to concentrate on my IMPORTANT literal shit.  That's what restrooms are for - shitting, not talking. 

You have no idea how bad I have to fight the urge to yell embarrassing things out whenever I'm confronted by some douche who is so important they have to make business deals while on the crapper.  The next time it happens, I'm going to bring back an old tradition from my Best Buy days and yell "Something smells like SHIT in here!", just so the person on the other end of the phone will know that they are talking to someone who is in a restroom.

Don't:  Under no circumstances are you to talk to me while I'm standing at the urinal.  Whenever possible, I will attempt to use a stall regardless of my reason for entering the restroom, but whenever it's not possible it seems I end up standing next to the chattiest person on the planet.  Look, I don't mind talking about sports or video games or whatever, but there is a time and a place for that.  Here's a hint: standing there with my penis in my hand is NOT that time.  If you simply must talk to me, and really you mustn't because restroom conversation is never about anything important, at least wait until I'm at the sink washing my hands.

If I may move out of the restroom scenario for a bit, I would like to address people who talk extraordinarily loud on their phones.  Quiet.  The fuck.  Down.  The purpose of the telephone was to connect people over great distances so that you wouldn't have to shout loud enough for them to hear you no matter where in the world you are.  Nobody gives a shit about your plans for the evening, your workout regiment, what you had for dinner last night, the girl you met at the club, the hot beat you came up with for your amateur rap career, your sick relative, or whatever other garbage you have to talk about.  You are not that interesting.  Put your inside voice on.  When I can hear you OVER the music in my headphones, you're being too loud.  Since you obviously want everybody to hear your stupid conversation, I guess you won't mind when I start offering my opinion then.
"Oh dude, that girl is a skank-ass ho.  I hear she's got the crabs.  What?  No, you don't know me, but I figured since you were talking so loud you must have wanted me to know."

Speaking on my headphones, when they are on my head, that is ME time.  Do not attempt to strike up a conversation with me.  Can you not see I'm listening to music?  The entire purpose of me putting on my headphones in a public place, such as the lunchroom at my work, is so I will not have to talk to people I don't wish to - and that means about 99% of the people there.  My friends are welcome to interrupt me because they're my friends.  I'm always happy to talk to them.  The crazy lady who I see walk into the restroom, inspect the tables, and then walk out?  Nuh-uh.  And no, she is not the cleaning lady either.  The cleaning lady is a tall woman with a mass of hair, an absolutely stifling amount of perfume, and an untraceable foreign accent.  This is just some lady whom I've seen on numerous occasions walk into the lunchroom, do one lap around the perimeter, look at everyone who is sitting there, then walk out.  I don't even know what she does in the building.  I have only seen her in the lunchroom or aimlessly wandering the halls.  I honestly don't even think she works there.  She's just a vagabond who got into the building one day and now we can't get her to leave.  She likes to ask me random questions and she resembles Lorraine Swanson, the deranged middle-aged woman played by Mo Collins on MadTV (for the record: that show sucks).

As a side story, this same strange, somewhat frightening woman also interrupted a conversation I was having with my friend while on break the other day.  We were sitting at a table when she approached and asked if one of us could "help" her.  The operative word is "help," which implies that she needs assistance.  So I stand up and follow her into the little computer training lab that resides next to our lunchroom, where she points to the window and asks "What is that?"  My first instinct was to say, "What, the WINDOW?!" until I realized she was pointing to a small brown insect crawling across it.

So let me get this straight, crazy lady: You interrupted my break to ask me about an insect?  From the looks of it, I'd say it was probably a cockroach, but I will contact our resident entomologist right away so he can answer the question that was so important you felt it necessary to butt into my conversation with my friend during my fifteen minute break.

I'm digressing.  Getting back to my point, the fact that you may also have an iPod does not give you license to talk to me while I'm listening to mine.  I don't care that you recently bought one for someone you know.  No, I do not want to discuss the contents of it with you, and I do not feel like giving you a demonstration of how it works.  "Well, you see there is a tiny little jukebox inside that is operated by magical elves.  Pressing the center button gives them a horrible electric shock and they'd better put the record I want on or else I'll shock them again."

Lastly, when I'm in the lunchroom and I'm clearly concentrating on something, be it a portable gaming system or a legal pad that you see I'm furiously scribbling on, don't peer over my shoulder and ask me what I've got.  This goes DOUBLE for the latter.  If you see me writing, I have obviously been struck by inspiration.  Don't break my fucking concentration to ask me what I'm writing unless you want my answer to be "I'm writing your life story.  It's called 'Chronicles of the Annoying Fucktard who Interrupts People When They're Clearly Busy.'  Catchy title, right?" 

Also, no you cannot play my portable game system.  Get your greasy hands away from it.  You don't need to stand there and watch me play it either.  That cannot possibly be fun.  Don't remark about how amazing the graphics are.  I know they're amazing, I'm holding the fucking thing in my hand.  I can see exactly what you see, only a little better because my view is not blocked by someone's head because I'm not standing behind someone watching them like a God damn hawk.  Technology is wonderful, blah, blah, blah.  Go away.  If you want to know how much one costs, look it up on the fucking internet.  I am not employed by Sony or Nintendo and it's not my job to explain to you why you should get a DS instead of a PSP or vice versa (for the record, DS FTW).   You know what?  There's this awesome new game out.  It's called "Mind Your Own Fucking Business".  You should try that one out; I hear it's really fun!

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Side note: Most of these rules do not apply to my friends.  You are allowed and encouraged to talk to me while I'm playing a game, listening to music, writing, or doing whatever else I might be doing.  However, you should still be washing your hands after using the restroom.

Why I Should Become a Hermit: Part 1

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Do you know what I hate?  Well, I hate a lot of things - or at the very least, I'm irritated by a lot of things - but in this scenario I am specifically talking about a handful of them. 

For starters, I hate when I purchase an item off eBay and the seller does not have the foresight or common sense to properly pack and ship it.  Example:  Sega Saturn games came in large jewel cases.  They look like traditional CD cases, with a clear plastic cover on hinges that opens to reveal the disc itself set inside a black plastic inner tray.  They're roughly the size of two standard CD jewel cases if you stacked them spine-upon-spine.  As a result, they were notoriously fragile and generally broke if so much as a hair fell on them. 

With this in mind, why would you ship a game you listed as "mint" in your auction in a plastic mailing bag and use cardboard to protect it during transit?  I understand that the shipper shouldn't be held liable for the way the U.S. Postal Service mishandles the mail, but they should at least know better than to basically increase the chances of the fucking thing getting smashed to pieces tenfold by "cushioning" it with rigid cardboard instead of bubblewrap.

While I'm on the subject of eBay purchases, the only thing more irritating than getting an item that was damaged in transit is getting home to discover a new package waiting for me, opening said package, and being greeted with the smell of stale cigarette smoke.  Nowhere in the auction did it state that the game smells like somebody used it as a fucking ashtray outside of a Smoker's Emporium.  I once received a game where the jewel case was actually stained yellow.  Even after soaking it in dishwater for an hour and wiping it down with Clorox wipes, I still can't get the smell out.

Of course, nobody mentions the item reeks of smoke because they're afraid nobody will purchase the wretched, disgusting thing as a result.  I am of the opinion that you, the seller, deserve negative feedback for not fully disclosing that the item you are selling smells like your gaming room doubles as the testing facility for Philip fucking Morris.  Jesus Christ, I felt like I was going to get cancer just from opening the mailing envelope.

Moving on...

Bluetooth headsets - Don't wear one.  You don't look cool.  You don't look important.  You look like a douche.  Not only do you look like you're a crazy person holding a conversation with himself, or possibly the people that only you can see, you just look plain stupid with that thing in your ear at all time.  I understand the necessity of a hands-free kit, but when you are not on your phone there is no reason to have that thing in your ear other than just to show off that you have one - you and the rest of the cellphone-owning public.  They give the God damn things away in Cracker Jack boxes.  You are not special.  You are not making some important business deal.  Take it out of your ear.  You.  Douche.

While we're at it, cell phones in public should be outlawed unless it's in the event of an emergency.  You do not need to call your stupid, vapid, brainless friends to inform them that you are at the grocery store.  Calling to ask them what the difference between small and large curd cottage cheese is does not quality as an emergency either.  Get the fuck out of my way, you're preventing me from getting my cottage cheeese. 

The mall is even worse.  The mall is where all the zombified hordes of delinquent teenagers go to meander about aimlessly while they yammer away about the most inane topics in the world, oblivious to the world around them.  Everytime you try to push past them, they seem to have the uncanny ability to drift right in your way, like a drunk stumbling around.  If I'm forced to go into the mall, my plan to get in, get what I need, and get out in as short a time as humanly possible is always hindered, nay, DERAILED by the retarded masses who are more concerned with discussing last night's television lineup or stupid high school drama than walking at a reasonable pace for anyone under 100 years of age. 

Side note: I can pinpoint the exact moment when I lost my faith in humanity.  When the film Titanic came out, I was in a B. Dalton bookstore and I heard the two girls behind me in line discussing the inspiration for the movie.  What follows is, I swear to God, an account of that conversation.
Girl 1: "Is Titanic a true story?"
Girl 2: "Yeah, it's based on a book."
Smart people who may be reading this: Don't think about that too much.  Your brain simply can't take it and it may implode (yes, implode - not explode).

Since I'm already on a roll, I'm just going to keep on going.  Do you wonder why the gas prices in this country are so high?  While it's no secret the gas companies are gouging us, as they rake in record profits yet, inexplicably and against all mathematical logic, they claim they're raising prices to break even, did you ever stop to think about how the price of gas is determined?  You see, gasoline is a publicly traded commodity, thus the price is determined by the theory of supply and demand.  Why do we have such a high demand?  Because every morning when I drive to work and every evening when I drive home I have at least three assholes driving Hummers riding my fucking rear bumper like they're Ben Affleck in Mallrats. 

I have a theory about Hummer drivers - they are all dickless.  I don't mean they have no proverbial guts, I mean they LITERALLY have no penis.  No genitalia.  At all.  Like a Ken doll.  It's just completely flat, and the reason they buy Hummers is because it is the only type of hummer they are capable of getting.  You don't impress anybody with your giant, hideous-looking vehicle that gets 4 miles to the gallon.  You look like an asshole with too much money on his hands and a severe masculinity complex, yet somehow you're the first one to complain about the high cost of gasoline and how much it costs you to fill your tank every day when you drive to the corner store drains your ginormous tank. 

You do not intimidate me just because you have a large vehicle and you're on my tail.  This goes for all tailgaters, regardless of vehicle size.  Driving so close to me that your front end is practically fused with my car only serves to infuriate me and ignite my desire to make your drive a living hell.  I will purposefully slow down, pace cars adjacent to me, and speed up when you attempt to pass.  If you're in a rush to get somewhere, I guess you'll just have to learn to leave earlier next time because weaving in and out of traffic and driving down the street at 65 mph only makes me wish that you'll spin out and crash into a fucking telephone pole.  We are not in Germany and you are not driving on the Autobahn.

Conversely, if you are not going to drive the speed limit, get the fuck out of the left lane.  I don't know about you, but when I was in driver's education I was taught that the left-most lane is the "passing" or "fast" lane.  If you're a decrepit, mummified old soul who cannot control your vehicle once it passes the breakneck speed of 20 mph, stay in the right lane please.  If you can't see over your steering wheel, you shouldn't even be on the road in the first place.  Do old people have some form of sonar that they use to drive, because I don't understand how they can possibly maneuver a vehicle safely if they're sitting face-to-face with their speedometer, their gnarled, arthritic fingers clasped in a white-knuckled death grip around the steering wheel in an attempt to tame the vicious motorized beast that is their Lincoln Towncar. 

This really doesn't fit into the whole rant, but since I'm on the subject of the olds, I'm going to share another theory with you - the theory of the "spare".  Have you ever been driving behind or beside a group of old people and you've noticed there is what appears to be a superfluous old person in the backseat?  There's the driver and his or her counterpart in the front seats, but then there's a third, unexplained old person in the back.  My theory is that this is the spare old person; just in case one of the ones in front passes away, the spare gets to sit up front.  I don't know what happens if the spare passes away after taking someone else's place.  I haven't thought that far ahead yet.

OK, I'm done.  I just needed to get some things off my chest.  Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

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