I often go back and forth with the idea of having my own children. Some days I'm thrilled with the idea of extending my lineage, another generation of proud people who happen to share my last name. Other days, I gag at the idea of bringing a defenseless child into this world. This is usually brought upon by seeing how other people interact with each other on our shared planet. Do I really want to subject another living person to having to deal with 6 billion dicks, pussies and assholes?
I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.
When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.
You child unleashed is one of them.
I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.
Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.
Thanks, you worthless cunt.
This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.
My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.
Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.
They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.
God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.
Trust me.
Showing posts with label etiquette. Show all posts
Showing posts with label etiquette. Show all posts
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
A Fortune Awaits Who Ever Can Tell Me Who's More Racist:
Old griseled white man Clint Eastwood, or Perpetually cranky, Knicks floor seat season ticket holder, Spike Lee.
The two acclaimed directors started mouthing off to each other over Lee's comments that Eastwood failed to place a single black actor into either one of his recent World War Two epics "Flag of Our Fathers" and "Letters From Iwo Jima."
To this, Eastwood plainly called Lee "nuts" and told him to "Shut his face."
And to that... Lee explained to the media that Eastwood was not his father and they were currently not standing on a plantation.
See, why do some people have to take it to that level? I'm not just talking about blacks, I'm talking about everyone. Because everyone does it, even we white folks are just as guilty of pulling the (reverse) race card as a black guy, Asian lady, Mexican chulo, whatever.
Anytime there's a disagreement between two people of opposite skin color, one (usually whoever's on the losing side of things) will immdiately pull the race card and throw it down like an NFL ref with a yellow flag.
An example I had the pleasure to overhear a few years ago on a Manhattan-bound Q train:
"I don't know what you're talking about dude, she's not that hot," said a white guy to his black friend.
"Why don't you think she's hot? It's because she's black, right?" Said the black friend.
"Or.. it could be because she's fifty pounds overweight and has bad skin?"
"You're saying black skin is bad skin?"
"No, I'm saying that pock marks and flakes make bad skin..."
And yet, this poor white guy couldn't win! Everything he said was being bent back around to make him look like a racist. In public.
And that's a heavy weapon to be able to weild, because no one, black or white or yellow or brown or green, likes to be a racist. ...no wait, let me rephrase that: People don't like to be thought of as racist.
It's because individually, we all are racist and revel in it. I am, you are, your sister is, and most likely the girl behind the cash register at the GAP is too. We all pass judgement on people based on appearances alone.
Take that girl at the GAP register there. I bet she swipes at least 100 credit cards in her four hour shift. For however many she swipes that come back over their limit and rejected, I almost guarentee she thinks the card owner is a deadbeat scum bag.
I'll tell you this much: I've had credit cards turned down more than once, and it's a shitty feeling to have someone come back to you like "oh hey, do you have another card, this one's rejected." And when they say it, it feels like all the people in the place you're at all collectively took a breath at the same time, so everyone heard what was said to you. It doesn't make you a bad person, just slightly irresponsible.
But back to the subject of racism: Who's the bigger racist, Clint or Spike? Clint left out black people from two of his films (though I'm sure they were filled with plenty of fucking yellow-fisted nips), and told a celebrated black director to shut the fuck up. But Lee couldn't take being told by a man, like a man, to shut the fuck up and had to make the ordeal racial in nature. No one was even thinking about racism until Lee had to bring into the conversation a plantation. Then everyone saw it as a black/white thing. A struggle of oppressed power. Here's another black man being held down by an old white man, someone will think.
The real racist is the media. And I understand that's very cliche for me to say and blame, but it's true. They blew this whole thing so far out of proporting that it's almost dispicable. So what if a white guy who's won a crap ton of Oscars tells a revolutionary black director to shut up? Spike's comments were way out from left field in the first place. I'm sure there were many brave black soldiers on the island of Iwo Jima but the story wasn't about them. It was about... Marines raising a flag and fighting for America.
Being in the military, I know, that there's no such thing as color when your life is on the line. The only thing you're thinking about when shit hits the fan is if the guy next to you is qualified or not.
The two acclaimed directors started mouthing off to each other over Lee's comments that Eastwood failed to place a single black actor into either one of his recent World War Two epics "Flag of Our Fathers" and "Letters From Iwo Jima."
To this, Eastwood plainly called Lee "nuts" and told him to "Shut his face."
And to that... Lee explained to the media that Eastwood was not his father and they were currently not standing on a plantation.
See, why do some people have to take it to that level? I'm not just talking about blacks, I'm talking about everyone. Because everyone does it, even we white folks are just as guilty of pulling the (reverse) race card as a black guy, Asian lady, Mexican chulo, whatever.
Anytime there's a disagreement between two people of opposite skin color, one (usually whoever's on the losing side of things) will immdiately pull the race card and throw it down like an NFL ref with a yellow flag.
An example I had the pleasure to overhear a few years ago on a Manhattan-bound Q train:
"I don't know what you're talking about dude, she's not that hot," said a white guy to his black friend.
"Why don't you think she's hot? It's because she's black, right?" Said the black friend.
"Or.. it could be because she's fifty pounds overweight and has bad skin?"
"You're saying black skin is bad skin?"
"No, I'm saying that pock marks and flakes make bad skin..."
And yet, this poor white guy couldn't win! Everything he said was being bent back around to make him look like a racist. In public.
And that's a heavy weapon to be able to weild, because no one, black or white or yellow or brown or green, likes to be a racist. ...no wait, let me rephrase that: People don't like to be thought of as racist.
It's because individually, we all are racist and revel in it. I am, you are, your sister is, and most likely the girl behind the cash register at the GAP is too. We all pass judgement on people based on appearances alone.
Take that girl at the GAP register there. I bet she swipes at least 100 credit cards in her four hour shift. For however many she swipes that come back over their limit and rejected, I almost guarentee she thinks the card owner is a deadbeat scum bag.
I'll tell you this much: I've had credit cards turned down more than once, and it's a shitty feeling to have someone come back to you like "oh hey, do you have another card, this one's rejected." And when they say it, it feels like all the people in the place you're at all collectively took a breath at the same time, so everyone heard what was said to you. It doesn't make you a bad person, just slightly irresponsible.
But back to the subject of racism: Who's the bigger racist, Clint or Spike? Clint left out black people from two of his films (though I'm sure they were filled with plenty of fucking yellow-fisted nips), and told a celebrated black director to shut the fuck up. But Lee couldn't take being told by a man, like a man, to shut the fuck up and had to make the ordeal racial in nature. No one was even thinking about racism until Lee had to bring into the conversation a plantation. Then everyone saw it as a black/white thing. A struggle of oppressed power. Here's another black man being held down by an old white man, someone will think.
The real racist is the media. And I understand that's very cliche for me to say and blame, but it's true. They blew this whole thing so far out of proporting that it's almost dispicable. So what if a white guy who's won a crap ton of Oscars tells a revolutionary black director to shut up? Spike's comments were way out from left field in the first place. I'm sure there were many brave black soldiers on the island of Iwo Jima but the story wasn't about them. It was about... Marines raising a flag and fighting for America.
Being in the military, I know, that there's no such thing as color when your life is on the line. The only thing you're thinking about when shit hits the fan is if the guy next to you is qualified or not.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Roommate and The Prostitute from Friendly's
"You eat like a soldier," The Lady says as she sits next to me at the counter of a homey diner in Orleans while I'm digging into a stack of pancakes. I keep my head down as I eat, shoveling food thoughtlessly into my gullet, chewing, sipping coffee, intent on my next delicious morsale, not taking the time to enjoy the one that's currently in my mouth.
I bring this up because we tend to go out to eat alot. It somewhat burns me up that I'll drop a hundred bucks on groceries at ... sigh... Shaw's, and then go drop another 50 on dinner with The Lady and The RM.
So this takes us to last night: We three are sitting at the local Friendly's at The RM's behest and being served by a reasonably attractive blonde. The Lady remarks about how attractive she is to the RM, who is turning red with each passing minute.
A long discussion is had about my RM's lack of balls. We, The Lady and I, keep provoking him to ask for her number and he's still acting like himself, not taking intiative - yet complaining about how he's going to go through life lonely and sad....
It makes for a very tiresome evening meal.
So fast foward to the end of the meal and the RM's all nervous... he asks us, me and The Lady, to step out and get a smoke and we do so. He then mans up and gets the digits from the waitress while forging my name on the receipt. He exits the Friendly's smiling ear to ear, and it seems like everything in the world is right for once.
So again, fast forward and I'm in bed right at that point where you're about to fall into a delightful slumber, when in busts my RM, panic-stricken.
"Dude, I texted that girl..." He says. We had given him explicitly strict orders not to make contact with her for at least the night.
"Why?" As I'm laying face down on my bed.
"Well she text me back," he manuavers around the question, "and told me to lose her number, because we didn't tip her!" I can hear the panic in his voice so I look up, half push up style.
"What? Why didn't you tip her?!" I'm somewhat angry... well agitated mostly, by this news and as well as being interupted as I'm close to sleeping. But importantly, I'm somewhat pissed at the fact that we didn't tip this waitress, because I'm very fond of tipping, and tipping well. So the idea of this waitress (she was a shitty waitress though, had a whole lot of attitude...) going without a tip got under my skin.
"I thought The Lady was leaving a cash tip!" What had happened was that we had discussed seperate bills and a cash tip during the meal, but I just said 'fuck it' and opted to pay for everyone on my card because it was easier. The Lady had taken out some cash to leave towards the tip but I told her to put it away. Hence all the confusion.
So at this point, the RM is up in arms and freaking out. I tell him, rather grumpily to forget about it, "if she's so into the money, then why would you be interested in her at all?" I say from my pillow. He closes my door and goes to bed.
...So I think....
Turns out, right after that, the RM takes off to an ATM, gets twenty bucks in cash, and with a note places it in an envelope and shoots back over to the Friendly's as it's closing. He manages to talk his way inside and confronts the waitress giving her the envelope.
"I threw it in her face," he goes on to tell me this morning, "like an OG would."
She text messages him back shortly there after apologizing for her gold-digger-like first impression and they set up a date for a movie.
Now, what hits a couple of key sour notes in this tale is that, 1) where did my roommate's balls suddenly come in, where he would march back into an closed establishment, and pull of this Jack Bauer-like stunt? Especially without witnesses. And then! And then! I check my bank balance this morning online and see that Friendly's took out 58 dollars from my checking account last night. ...I remember distinctly that the bill for the three of us was 49.00 even. So where did this extra 7 dollars come from?
Either the RM actually did leave a tip (a seven dollar tip seems about on point for what he'd leave) and this entire story is a farse, or the little prostitute took it upon herself to help herself to a tip. If that's the case I plan on filing a complaint with the Friendly's.
Allow me to go off on a brief tangent: Being that service industry folks make like 3.50 an hour, they depend on tips. I understand this, and my heart goes out to the hard working waiters and waitresses that literally slave for customers like me. That's why I try to over tip as often as possible, even when the service isn't what I'd consider up to par. That's the situation we had last night. The waitress, the RM's apparent new paramour was lifeless, sarcastic and unpleasant. I thought her waitressing sucked. She dropped plates in front of us, had very little enthusiasm when taking our orders and had zero personality. All that said, since she was taking care of three of us on one bill, I would've left her probably a ten or twelve dollar tip.
If the case is that she tipped herself, thinking we were cheapskates, she had no right. No tip or gratuity is considered a guarentee. You EARN a good tip, and you do so by being polite, friendly, a little outgoing, etc. I'm not asking her to adorn flair and sing happy birthday songs and stand on her fucking head, I'm just asking for decent service, maybe with a little less sarcasm/spit in my food.
Also, if she told the RM to lose her number, would it be conceivible that she would've deleted his as well? How would she have been able to text him as he was leaving?
So, what's it going to be in the end? I need to sit down and grill my RM about all of this and get down to brass tacks. If he tipped her out I need to know if his whole story is make-believe or not. If that's the case then I'll sit down with him and have a man-to-man about making shit up. If it turns out his side of the story is true, than I know of a local Friendly's that'll have a 'help wanted' sign posted in their front window, very soon.
I bring this up because we tend to go out to eat alot. It somewhat burns me up that I'll drop a hundred bucks on groceries at ... sigh... Shaw's, and then go drop another 50 on dinner with The Lady and The RM.
So this takes us to last night: We three are sitting at the local Friendly's at The RM's behest and being served by a reasonably attractive blonde. The Lady remarks about how attractive she is to the RM, who is turning red with each passing minute.
A long discussion is had about my RM's lack of balls. We, The Lady and I, keep provoking him to ask for her number and he's still acting like himself, not taking intiative - yet complaining about how he's going to go through life lonely and sad....
It makes for a very tiresome evening meal.
So fast foward to the end of the meal and the RM's all nervous... he asks us, me and The Lady, to step out and get a smoke and we do so. He then mans up and gets the digits from the waitress while forging my name on the receipt. He exits the Friendly's smiling ear to ear, and it seems like everything in the world is right for once.
So again, fast forward and I'm in bed right at that point where you're about to fall into a delightful slumber, when in busts my RM, panic-stricken.
"Dude, I texted that girl..." He says. We had given him explicitly strict orders not to make contact with her for at least the night.
"Why?" As I'm laying face down on my bed.
"Well she text me back," he manuavers around the question, "and told me to lose her number, because we didn't tip her!" I can hear the panic in his voice so I look up, half push up style.
"What? Why didn't you tip her?!" I'm somewhat angry... well agitated mostly, by this news and as well as being interupted as I'm close to sleeping. But importantly, I'm somewhat pissed at the fact that we didn't tip this waitress, because I'm very fond of tipping, and tipping well. So the idea of this waitress (she was a shitty waitress though, had a whole lot of attitude...) going without a tip got under my skin.
"I thought The Lady was leaving a cash tip!" What had happened was that we had discussed seperate bills and a cash tip during the meal, but I just said 'fuck it' and opted to pay for everyone on my card because it was easier. The Lady had taken out some cash to leave towards the tip but I told her to put it away. Hence all the confusion.
So at this point, the RM is up in arms and freaking out. I tell him, rather grumpily to forget about it, "if she's so into the money, then why would you be interested in her at all?" I say from my pillow. He closes my door and goes to bed.
...So I think....
Turns out, right after that, the RM takes off to an ATM, gets twenty bucks in cash, and with a note places it in an envelope and shoots back over to the Friendly's as it's closing. He manages to talk his way inside and confronts the waitress giving her the envelope.
"I threw it in her face," he goes on to tell me this morning, "like an OG would."
She text messages him back shortly there after apologizing for her gold-digger-like first impression and they set up a date for a movie.
Now, what hits a couple of key sour notes in this tale is that, 1) where did my roommate's balls suddenly come in, where he would march back into an closed establishment, and pull of this Jack Bauer-like stunt? Especially without witnesses. And then! And then! I check my bank balance this morning online and see that Friendly's took out 58 dollars from my checking account last night. ...I remember distinctly that the bill for the three of us was 49.00 even. So where did this extra 7 dollars come from?
Either the RM actually did leave a tip (a seven dollar tip seems about on point for what he'd leave) and this entire story is a farse, or the little prostitute took it upon herself to help herself to a tip. If that's the case I plan on filing a complaint with the Friendly's.
Allow me to go off on a brief tangent: Being that service industry folks make like 3.50 an hour, they depend on tips. I understand this, and my heart goes out to the hard working waiters and waitresses that literally slave for customers like me. That's why I try to over tip as often as possible, even when the service isn't what I'd consider up to par. That's the situation we had last night. The waitress, the RM's apparent new paramour was lifeless, sarcastic and unpleasant. I thought her waitressing sucked. She dropped plates in front of us, had very little enthusiasm when taking our orders and had zero personality. All that said, since she was taking care of three of us on one bill, I would've left her probably a ten or twelve dollar tip.
If the case is that she tipped herself, thinking we were cheapskates, she had no right. No tip or gratuity is considered a guarentee. You EARN a good tip, and you do so by being polite, friendly, a little outgoing, etc. I'm not asking her to adorn flair and sing happy birthday songs and stand on her fucking head, I'm just asking for decent service, maybe with a little less sarcasm/spit in my food.
Also, if she told the RM to lose her number, would it be conceivible that she would've deleted his as well? How would she have been able to text him as he was leaving?
So, what's it going to be in the end? I need to sit down and grill my RM about all of this and get down to brass tacks. If he tipped her out I need to know if his whole story is make-believe or not. If that's the case then I'll sit down with him and have a man-to-man about making shit up. If it turns out his side of the story is true, than I know of a local Friendly's that'll have a 'help wanted' sign posted in their front window, very soon.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Etiquette Enforcement: Shotgun.
The term "shotgun" or "calling shotgun" derives from the days of cowboys and stagecoaches. The man riding "shotgun" actually rode up front with the driver and carried a double-barreled 12 gauage "coach gun" that was used to defend the passengers of the coach from indians and highwaymen, etc.
Now-a-days, "Shotgun" means the guy who gets to ride up front with the driver, and all the status that's implied with said seating. To ride "shotgun" tells other people that, aside from the driver of the vehicle, you're in control; you have all the powers that the driver does except for driving the vehicle. Nay, some could even argue that you're more powerful than the driver because he has to remain focused on the road, while you get to fiddle with the radio, your phone, your iPod, your computer, etc. You also get the best view, and people tend to think you're more important than the poor sons of bitches in the back seats, forced to look at the back of your skulls for the duration of the trip.
But there has to be rules to calling "shotgun", lest you engage in an actual "arms race" with your fellow passengers.
Yes, we all know the "can't call it before you see it" rule, which implies you have to actually see the vehicle in question before calling it. And of course you have to respect the first person to make the call, even if they've been calling it all day like a total dick.
But there are other, often over looked rules to "shotgun" that fall to the way side. How about "deferring to seniority" meaning that a good car mate should give the eldest rider at least a chance to call "shotgun" while walking across a mall parking lot, well within the sights of the vehicle? To this I would suggest that if you're practically on top of the vehicle and they still haven't called it, then it'd be acceptable to nonchalantly "call it." Calling it excitedly makes it sound like you were chomping at the bit the entire time we were walking and not paying attention to my story about the Victoria's Secret sales lady hitting on me.
How about the "door handle" rule, where, if you call "shotgun" and my hand's on the door handle to the front passenger seat, all bets are off. You dare call "shotgun" when my hands on the handle, or even - Jesus, the door's open, I'll probably shoot you in the stomach, and we can reinact the scene from "Resevior Dogs" where Mr. Orange is bleeding to death in the back seat.
In the back seat.
And then there's the two rules which negate calling every time: The "my shit's in the front seat" rule, and the more precident "this is a two-door coup and I'm being dropped off first" rule. The latter is self explainitory, however the former seems to get over looked all the time. Listen, if my shit's in the front seat, whether it's my iPod, or purchased items, or a sweater, fucking leave it there and let me take my seat. The only way this rule can be vetoed is if by some chance, you can prove I left my shit in the front seat on purpose to act as a place holder.
Which I invite you to try, Balls Mahoney.
I'd also like to dicuss some of the over looked responsibilties of the co-pilot riding "shotgun:" When stopped to get gas, the shotgunner should get out and clean the windows. If you think you're slick enough to jump my seat while I'm out of the car, cleaning it, then god help you when I get back into the car. I'll be sitting behind you, making your life a miserable Dante-esque-9th-Ring-Hell.
Other responsibilities include: when pulling up to a toll booth and the driver doesn't have an E-Z Pass, they fish for the change or pay the toll out of their own pocket. Also they clean up all front seat trash accrued through the trip.
And of course, should the vehicle be overrun by blood thirsty savages, they lay down a heavy barrage of gunfire to cover the escape.
Now-a-days, "Shotgun" means the guy who gets to ride up front with the driver, and all the status that's implied with said seating. To ride "shotgun" tells other people that, aside from the driver of the vehicle, you're in control; you have all the powers that the driver does except for driving the vehicle. Nay, some could even argue that you're more powerful than the driver because he has to remain focused on the road, while you get to fiddle with the radio, your phone, your iPod, your computer, etc. You also get the best view, and people tend to think you're more important than the poor sons of bitches in the back seats, forced to look at the back of your skulls for the duration of the trip.
But there has to be rules to calling "shotgun", lest you engage in an actual "arms race" with your fellow passengers.
Yes, we all know the "can't call it before you see it" rule, which implies you have to actually see the vehicle in question before calling it. And of course you have to respect the first person to make the call, even if they've been calling it all day like a total dick.
But there are other, often over looked rules to "shotgun" that fall to the way side. How about "deferring to seniority" meaning that a good car mate should give the eldest rider at least a chance to call "shotgun" while walking across a mall parking lot, well within the sights of the vehicle? To this I would suggest that if you're practically on top of the vehicle and they still haven't called it, then it'd be acceptable to nonchalantly "call it." Calling it excitedly makes it sound like you were chomping at the bit the entire time we were walking and not paying attention to my story about the Victoria's Secret sales lady hitting on me.
How about the "door handle" rule, where, if you call "shotgun" and my hand's on the door handle to the front passenger seat, all bets are off. You dare call "shotgun" when my hands on the handle, or even - Jesus, the door's open, I'll probably shoot you in the stomach, and we can reinact the scene from "Resevior Dogs" where Mr. Orange is bleeding to death in the back seat.
In the back seat.
And then there's the two rules which negate calling every time: The "my shit's in the front seat" rule, and the more precident "this is a two-door coup and I'm being dropped off first" rule. The latter is self explainitory, however the former seems to get over looked all the time. Listen, if my shit's in the front seat, whether it's my iPod, or purchased items, or a sweater, fucking leave it there and let me take my seat. The only way this rule can be vetoed is if by some chance, you can prove I left my shit in the front seat on purpose to act as a place holder.
Which I invite you to try, Balls Mahoney.
I'd also like to dicuss some of the over looked responsibilties of the co-pilot riding "shotgun:" When stopped to get gas, the shotgunner should get out and clean the windows. If you think you're slick enough to jump my seat while I'm out of the car, cleaning it, then god help you when I get back into the car. I'll be sitting behind you, making your life a miserable Dante-esque-9th-Ring-Hell.
Other responsibilities include: when pulling up to a toll booth and the driver doesn't have an E-Z Pass, they fish for the change or pay the toll out of their own pocket. Also they clean up all front seat trash accrued through the trip.
And of course, should the vehicle be overrun by blood thirsty savages, they lay down a heavy barrage of gunfire to cover the escape.
Friday, April 4, 2008
That's Gross.
When asked, I couldn't tell you why I seem to write so extensively about my roommate's social/sex life. Maybe it's because I like to live vicariously through him, or probably it's because I don't think my social/sex life is all that interesting.
Or maybe I just think that its none of your fucking business. Not to mention my stalker tends to read my posts (on that, thanks for sending me that kitten's head in the mail the other day, appriciate it.).
Anyway, the roommate was scoring some trim the other night. How do I know this? Because I could hear him achieve orgasm through the bedroom walls. The only downside to all of this is that the young lady in question moonlighted as a stunt whale at SeaWorld.
But it's whatever. Every guy's had at least one nasty lay that they're not proud of. I know I have, shit, I have a few. Actually, I have a whole stable of unsavory sexual encounters that I would love to forget if it weren't for the warts.
..Joke....
Anyway, so this story starts off where again, innocent me is padding his way out to the rest of the apartment, in my robe and slippers to fashion some sort of chinese food-left over-breakfast. I enter the kitchen, make myself something to eat and then go into the living room to watch the news or the Weather Channel, or whatever it is that white people watch with their morning meal, when before me lays this little crumple of black on the floor in front of the tv.
I set down my bowl of food and take a long stare at this bit of black fabric and curiously wonder, slightly under my breath as to what it is. I walk towards it, bend, and with two fingers pluck it up from the rug. What unfolds before me was as horrific as the events that took place on the morning of 9/11.
It was my roommate's date's lacey little black panties. However, there was nothing 'little' about them.
I gagged and dropped them back to the floor. They were likely size 11 or greater and smelled like sweatsocks. I chuckled a little and then picked them back up, daintily, and flung them on to my roommate's still sleeping head (teaches him a lesson about A-not picking up after himself, and B- not closing his door.).
What irks me so much about this whole situation is that it's just plain disrespectful for this she-beast to leave her things literally laying around our apartment. She left early in the morning, but after the sun was up and shining through our picture window. You don't think she would've remembered that 'oh yeah, hey, those are my underwear,' and retrieved them?
I mean, not to mention she ... probably wasn't wearing a set?
Obviously she meant to leave them there, and I would suspect that she probably even went so far as to plant them there on purpose. I mean, in front ... center front at that... of the big LCD display television?
She wanted them to be found, and she was - in a round about way - ensuring that my roommate would have to see her again to return said property. Bitch, there's other ways of getting a second date; leaving your filthy, used under-things behind as a souvenier does no one a favor.
And it's very disrespectful, in case I haven't already mentioned that.
Regardless, upon waking an hour or so later and discovering what was placed on his head, the roommate quickly put the evidence into the rubbish, exclaiming "that's gross!"
"So... how did it go?" I ask from over my cup of coffee. He grins like an adolescent: childishly, yet endearingly shy.
"It went ok... did you hear me through the walls?" He references his ... and my... homage to a by-gone wrestling star that he and I both have been shouting at the top of our lungs for the past two days.
"The 'Rick Flair-Woo?'" I ask.
"Yeah, did you hear it? I did it twice!"
"No, I had my ears in," I lie. I heard it, twice, and the thought of his ... exclaimitory orgasm embarrassed and grossed me out at the same time. I mean, I share bowls of Cap'n Crunch with his kid, I don't want to have to think of him jettisoning his spunk across the stretch-marked back of a female moose.
"But I did it for you!" And not only does the conversation become so awkward that I can no longer look him in the eyes, it becomes kinda gay as well. I clear my throat,
"Well, I'm glad you had a good time, are you going to see her again?"
"No way bro, she was gross!" He says. I concur, she was in fact gross. Now he starts to get sorry for himself.
"I want to find a hot chick, one that I can like, take out to places," He says.
"You took out this chick, you took her to Sam Diegos."
"Yeah, well, I want to be able to take out a chick that doesn't eat like the T-Rex from 'Jurassic Park',"
I hate the game where people leave their shit behind on purpose only to get you to see them again. It's such a weak and desperate and sad manuever. If you find yourself resorting to those kind of tactics, it's probably because your gut's telling you that the other person really wants nothing to do with you. And you know, 90% of the time, it's painfully obvious. People tend, through body language or even verbally, telegraph that they are no longer interested or in some sort of phyiscal pain just being around you. Fucking.. take heed, man. Suck it up, move on, lick your wounds, yeah it hurts, but do you really need to leave a momento behind so you can call a day later and be like "oh hey, yeah, um, I think I left my laptop in your car...." Dude! No one "leaves a laptop" in someone's car. That's like me saying "Oh hey, you know that $800 dollar gun I just bought, yeah, oops, left it in your car. Can I maybe have you swing by and drop it off for me? The door will be unlocked so just let yourself in... if you hear the shower running, feel free to stick your head in the door and say hello...."
Fucking sad man, fucking sad.
Or maybe I just think that its none of your fucking business. Not to mention my stalker tends to read my posts (on that, thanks for sending me that kitten's head in the mail the other day, appriciate it.).
Anyway, the roommate was scoring some trim the other night. How do I know this? Because I could hear him achieve orgasm through the bedroom walls. The only downside to all of this is that the young lady in question moonlighted as a stunt whale at SeaWorld.
But it's whatever. Every guy's had at least one nasty lay that they're not proud of. I know I have, shit, I have a few. Actually, I have a whole stable of unsavory sexual encounters that I would love to forget if it weren't for the warts.
..Joke....
Anyway, so this story starts off where again, innocent me is padding his way out to the rest of the apartment, in my robe and slippers to fashion some sort of chinese food-left over-breakfast. I enter the kitchen, make myself something to eat and then go into the living room to watch the news or the Weather Channel, or whatever it is that white people watch with their morning meal, when before me lays this little crumple of black on the floor in front of the tv.
I set down my bowl of food and take a long stare at this bit of black fabric and curiously wonder, slightly under my breath as to what it is. I walk towards it, bend, and with two fingers pluck it up from the rug. What unfolds before me was as horrific as the events that took place on the morning of 9/11.
It was my roommate's date's lacey little black panties. However, there was nothing 'little' about them.
I gagged and dropped them back to the floor. They were likely size 11 or greater and smelled like sweatsocks. I chuckled a little and then picked them back up, daintily, and flung them on to my roommate's still sleeping head (teaches him a lesson about A-not picking up after himself, and B- not closing his door.).
What irks me so much about this whole situation is that it's just plain disrespectful for this she-beast to leave her things literally laying around our apartment. She left early in the morning, but after the sun was up and shining through our picture window. You don't think she would've remembered that 'oh yeah, hey, those are my underwear,' and retrieved them?
I mean, not to mention she ... probably wasn't wearing a set?
Obviously she meant to leave them there, and I would suspect that she probably even went so far as to plant them there on purpose. I mean, in front ... center front at that... of the big LCD display television?
She wanted them to be found, and she was - in a round about way - ensuring that my roommate would have to see her again to return said property. Bitch, there's other ways of getting a second date; leaving your filthy, used under-things behind as a souvenier does no one a favor.
And it's very disrespectful, in case I haven't already mentioned that.
Regardless, upon waking an hour or so later and discovering what was placed on his head, the roommate quickly put the evidence into the rubbish, exclaiming "that's gross!"
"So... how did it go?" I ask from over my cup of coffee. He grins like an adolescent: childishly, yet endearingly shy.
"It went ok... did you hear me through the walls?" He references his ... and my... homage to a by-gone wrestling star that he and I both have been shouting at the top of our lungs for the past two days.
"The 'Rick Flair-Woo?'" I ask.
"Yeah, did you hear it? I did it twice!"
"No, I had my ears in," I lie. I heard it, twice, and the thought of his ... exclaimitory orgasm embarrassed and grossed me out at the same time. I mean, I share bowls of Cap'n Crunch with his kid, I don't want to have to think of him jettisoning his spunk across the stretch-marked back of a female moose.
"But I did it for you!" And not only does the conversation become so awkward that I can no longer look him in the eyes, it becomes kinda gay as well. I clear my throat,
"Well, I'm glad you had a good time, are you going to see her again?"
"No way bro, she was gross!" He says. I concur, she was in fact gross. Now he starts to get sorry for himself.
"I want to find a hot chick, one that I can like, take out to places," He says.
"You took out this chick, you took her to Sam Diegos."
"Yeah, well, I want to be able to take out a chick that doesn't eat like the T-Rex from 'Jurassic Park',"
I hate the game where people leave their shit behind on purpose only to get you to see them again. It's such a weak and desperate and sad manuever. If you find yourself resorting to those kind of tactics, it's probably because your gut's telling you that the other person really wants nothing to do with you. And you know, 90% of the time, it's painfully obvious. People tend, through body language or even verbally, telegraph that they are no longer interested or in some sort of phyiscal pain just being around you. Fucking.. take heed, man. Suck it up, move on, lick your wounds, yeah it hurts, but do you really need to leave a momento behind so you can call a day later and be like "oh hey, yeah, um, I think I left my laptop in your car...." Dude! No one "leaves a laptop" in someone's car. That's like me saying "Oh hey, you know that $800 dollar gun I just bought, yeah, oops, left it in your car. Can I maybe have you swing by and drop it off for me? The door will be unlocked so just let yourself in... if you hear the shower running, feel free to stick your head in the door and say hello...."
Fucking sad man, fucking sad.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Etiquette Enforcement: The Gym
I've been spending an inordinate amount of time at the gym lately. I've probably mentioned this about a hundred times in the last few posts, so I'll spare you the details on how much time exactly I've been lifting. However, as I'm lifting, I wouldn't be me if I wasn't observing human interaction and behavior. So for you, the reader, I've broken out some rules that may or may not be in existence, to help facilitate a more productive and comfortable self-improvement session at your local trendy gymnasium.
1. Don't Be A Dick:
I can't stress this enough. No one likes a dick, not even the most semen stained pornstars. What people like a lot less is the dick at the gym. The dick is the guy wearing the tight Underarmor t shirt and leggings, bench pressing too much weight without a spot and letting everyone know in earshot because he'll be grunting through his hernia. He slams weights, yells and never wipes down benches and equipment when he's done, leaving a sweaty puddle/hand print every where he goes. When he's resting between sets, he's giving "pointers" to other gym goers on how their technique is off. He knows all about "isolating" certain muscle groups, and even though you've got earbuds in, he still talks to you in the middle of your set. The dick is no one's friend.
2. Don't Rest On The Equipment:
Even I do this, and I really try not to. Resting on the equipment, especially when you're at the gym during busy hours, is like being the selfish three-year old at day care hogging the 'good' blocks. If you notice someone hovering around, and they may not be right on top of you, get up and stretch. If they come over and ask to work in, let them. So what? You're going to rest between sets anyway, might as well let someone else get their work out done in a timely manner.
3. Change Back Settings:
If someone does allow you to work in between their sets, be the cool kid and set their weight and seat settings back to where they were at before you sat down. The seat settings might be tricky, but if you change them drastically, try to put it back as close as possible. Take note of what weight they were using, and set it back to that weight when you're done your set. They'll be sure to set yours back for you in return.
4. Wipe Down The Equipment:
As aforementioned, no one likes to sit in someone else's sweaty leavings. Nothing is less attractive than grabbing a handhold or bar or whatever, and seeing a big sweaty paw print on it. No one likes to climb up on the treadmill and see it soaked in your spray. So take a few seconds, get a towel, and wipe it down before the next guy uses it.
5. Be a Good Spotter:
If someone asks you to spot them, be a good spotter by being attentive and encouraging. Someone's trusting you to make sure they don't get hurt, so in the very least pull the plugs out of your ears and be focused on them. It's ok to give them encouragement as well, but watch what you say. Acceptable words or phrases would be "c'mon up", "go, push", or "almost there." Unacceptable words or phrases would be something like "Yeah baby, push it up there" and "Mmm yeah feel it, dig deep" because you'd sound like a total fag.
6. Eye Contact:
Don't make it with anyone. Ever. Especially if you're spotting them.
7. The Opposite Sex:
In 2007, chicks go to the gym too. It's usually considered poor taste to try to flirt with someone at the gym because we're all supposed to be there to be working out, not hooking up. But if someone does catch your eye (and on that, don't stare. A casual glance is acceptable), either if you're a guy or a girl, it's ok to talk to them in a non-threatening way. Bring up something about the excersise you're doing and ask how you can improve on it - ask for tips. Do not try to inform them of what they're doing. No one likes unsolicited advice. And wait until their done their set. If the other party is receptive, then take it from there as you normally would. If they kinda brush you off, because they're at a gym and not at a bar, walk away and get back to work.
Remember guys, you're basically looking at a chick as she would appear during rough doggystyle sex. Be a gentleman and try not to point that out as an ice breaker.
8. Cell Phones:
Most gyms today have policies restricting cell phone use on their property, so adhere to this. If your gym doesn't have a policy in place, do not, and I repeat, do not use your phone in the gym area. If you have to make/take a call do it outside. It's annoying for one, to have to listen to someone on the phone while you're working out, two how do I know you're not taking a picture of me while I look like I'm engaging in rough doggystyle sex? I don't.
9. Know your limits:
Don't push it. Grunting isn't sexy nor is leaving the gym on a stretcher because you've blown your testicles through your scrotum. No one likes to have to stop in mid set to save your ass because you had too much pride to ask for a spot. Also, no one likes to have to slow down their set to watch you struggle with weight that's too much for you to handle, in case you drop a bench bar across your throat. My tip for picking the best weight to work out with: Go up to an easy weight, where it's no problem for you to do ten reps, then simply add five to ten pounds to that weight. You'll have just enough resistance to build muscle without looking like a jackass who's trying too hard. No one's impressed, because no one's looking at you. Trust me.
10. Being a Regular:
If you find yourself at the gym more than three times a week, it's safe to say you've established yourself as a regular. Being a regular is nice because you get to know the people at the gym. But don't let it go to your head and turn you into a dick. Gyms are public places, open to whoever want to join. Remember, you were once the new guy that people wondered about too. If you notice someone new and they seem to be lost or confused by the equipment, no one says you can't walk up and introduce yourself. Ask if there's anything they need help with, or just offer a spot if they need one later. Having a friend at the gym is helpful and prevents you from looking like a total tool who lifts too much.
I hope these tips help give you some insight into behavior, acceptable and unacceptable, at your local gym. I can only educate, it's up to you guys to put it into practice.
1. Don't Be A Dick:
I can't stress this enough. No one likes a dick, not even the most semen stained pornstars. What people like a lot less is the dick at the gym. The dick is the guy wearing the tight Underarmor t shirt and leggings, bench pressing too much weight without a spot and letting everyone know in earshot because he'll be grunting through his hernia. He slams weights, yells and never wipes down benches and equipment when he's done, leaving a sweaty puddle/hand print every where he goes. When he's resting between sets, he's giving "pointers" to other gym goers on how their technique is off. He knows all about "isolating" certain muscle groups, and even though you've got earbuds in, he still talks to you in the middle of your set. The dick is no one's friend.
2. Don't Rest On The Equipment:
Even I do this, and I really try not to. Resting on the equipment, especially when you're at the gym during busy hours, is like being the selfish three-year old at day care hogging the 'good' blocks. If you notice someone hovering around, and they may not be right on top of you, get up and stretch. If they come over and ask to work in, let them. So what? You're going to rest between sets anyway, might as well let someone else get their work out done in a timely manner.
3. Change Back Settings:
If someone does allow you to work in between their sets, be the cool kid and set their weight and seat settings back to where they were at before you sat down. The seat settings might be tricky, but if you change them drastically, try to put it back as close as possible. Take note of what weight they were using, and set it back to that weight when you're done your set. They'll be sure to set yours back for you in return.
4. Wipe Down The Equipment:
As aforementioned, no one likes to sit in someone else's sweaty leavings. Nothing is less attractive than grabbing a handhold or bar or whatever, and seeing a big sweaty paw print on it. No one likes to climb up on the treadmill and see it soaked in your spray. So take a few seconds, get a towel, and wipe it down before the next guy uses it.
5. Be a Good Spotter:
If someone asks you to spot them, be a good spotter by being attentive and encouraging. Someone's trusting you to make sure they don't get hurt, so in the very least pull the plugs out of your ears and be focused on them. It's ok to give them encouragement as well, but watch what you say. Acceptable words or phrases would be "c'mon up", "go, push", or "almost there." Unacceptable words or phrases would be something like "Yeah baby, push it up there" and "Mmm yeah feel it, dig deep" because you'd sound like a total fag.
6. Eye Contact:
Don't make it with anyone. Ever. Especially if you're spotting them.
7. The Opposite Sex:
In 2007, chicks go to the gym too. It's usually considered poor taste to try to flirt with someone at the gym because we're all supposed to be there to be working out, not hooking up. But if someone does catch your eye (and on that, don't stare. A casual glance is acceptable), either if you're a guy or a girl, it's ok to talk to them in a non-threatening way. Bring up something about the excersise you're doing and ask how you can improve on it - ask for tips. Do not try to inform them of what they're doing. No one likes unsolicited advice. And wait until their done their set. If the other party is receptive, then take it from there as you normally would. If they kinda brush you off, because they're at a gym and not at a bar, walk away and get back to work.
Remember guys, you're basically looking at a chick as she would appear during rough doggystyle sex. Be a gentleman and try not to point that out as an ice breaker.
8. Cell Phones:
Most gyms today have policies restricting cell phone use on their property, so adhere to this. If your gym doesn't have a policy in place, do not, and I repeat, do not use your phone in the gym area. If you have to make/take a call do it outside. It's annoying for one, to have to listen to someone on the phone while you're working out, two how do I know you're not taking a picture of me while I look like I'm engaging in rough doggystyle sex? I don't.
9. Know your limits:
Don't push it. Grunting isn't sexy nor is leaving the gym on a stretcher because you've blown your testicles through your scrotum. No one likes to have to stop in mid set to save your ass because you had too much pride to ask for a spot. Also, no one likes to have to slow down their set to watch you struggle with weight that's too much for you to handle, in case you drop a bench bar across your throat. My tip for picking the best weight to work out with: Go up to an easy weight, where it's no problem for you to do ten reps, then simply add five to ten pounds to that weight. You'll have just enough resistance to build muscle without looking like a jackass who's trying too hard. No one's impressed, because no one's looking at you. Trust me.
10. Being a Regular:
If you find yourself at the gym more than three times a week, it's safe to say you've established yourself as a regular. Being a regular is nice because you get to know the people at the gym. But don't let it go to your head and turn you into a dick. Gyms are public places, open to whoever want to join. Remember, you were once the new guy that people wondered about too. If you notice someone new and they seem to be lost or confused by the equipment, no one says you can't walk up and introduce yourself. Ask if there's anything they need help with, or just offer a spot if they need one later. Having a friend at the gym is helpful and prevents you from looking like a total tool who lifts too much.
I hope these tips help give you some insight into behavior, acceptable and unacceptable, at your local gym. I can only educate, it's up to you guys to put it into practice.
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