21: People who hang out at the OTB

God, I fucking hate people who hang out at the OTB.

Hey, guys – notice who’s not there?

WINNERS. RICH PEOPLE. PEOPLE WHO ARE SMILING AND LAUGHING AND HAPPY.

Oh.

AND WOMEN.

Holy Secretariat’s nutsack, people. Look at yourselves. Your faces look like weathered baseball mitts and Jack O’Lanterns in late November. The average age inside any OTB is somewhere between 59 and deathbed. When I walk by the OTB in my neighborhood, to do something productive like drop a Netflix in the mailbox or buy some scotch, I have to wade through a sea of depleted humanity that’s like swimming against a tidal wave. Why are there so many of you? How do you organize? Do you really think that trifecta at Pimlico is going to come through? When did you go from looking at the actual numbers to just picking horses by name? 1989? 1990? You are failing. It’s not working. It’s fun when you have money to waste on a horse because the name reminds you of your ex-wife, and you have plenty of scratch to blow. But when it’s your unemployment check? You should save the money you’re going to burn and walk down the street a few steps. Buy a sandwich and some coffee, and maybe a paper. Look at the job listings. Good fucking lord.

There was a 30 for 30 documentary on ESPN recently about Jimmy the Greek. Aside from his football prognostications, he was quite the pony player. But at some point, he basically says that anybody who thinks they have a system to win at the track is lying, because it’s too unpredictable.

Does that make any sense? Does that hit home? A guy named JIMMY THE FUCKING GREEK, who was so good at predicting the outcome of future endeavors that CBS hired him and PUT HIM ON TV EVERY GODDAMN SUNDAY TO TALK ABOUT THE COUNTRY’S MOST POPULAR SPORT WITH A FORMER MISS AMERICA, BASED MOSTLY ON THE FACT THAT HE WAS GOOD ENOUGH TO GET AWAY WITH A NAME LIKE ‘JIMMY THE GREEK,’ said flat-out that playing the ponies is a pointless pursuit.

But it’s addicting. Sure, I get that. I imbibe in many addictive activities. But let’s look at your company: see any members of the opposite sex around? When was the last time a woman with an address and a checking account wandered into the OTB? I’m going to say … never.

I know you don’t have many options. Some sort of big payday seems enticing. Fine. But you’re not playing the odds – the odds are playing you.

Wait, I take that back – the odds are fucking you in the ass.

20: People who wait for a table outside a restaurant and block the sidewalk

God, I fucking hate people who wait for a table outside a restaurant and block the sidewalk.

Last Saturday my girlfriend and I went to see Where the Wild Things Are with some friends of ours, another couple. But first we went to brunch.

We decided on Cafe Orlin, a place I had been to before but not in a long time. When we got there we waited a few minutes for a table, and we pushed in and stuck it out at the bar. My girlfriend got a drink, and the rest of us did our best to stay out of the waitstaff’s way. We were seated, and everybody enjoyed their meals.

Then we left.

We had arrived shortly after noon, presumably at the start of the brunch rush. When we left around 1 pm, it was clearly the height of it. Outside, about 15-20 people milled around on the sidewalk on St. Mark’s, the majority of them being hipsters in their early-to-mid 20s. Outside the cafe there’s patio sitting, and a thigh-high black fence runs the length of the tables along the sidewalk, where nobody was sitting because it was too cold.

There was also a large tree by the street across from the cafe’s steps, and it had a stone perimeter. Now, there were a couple people sitting on that, and also five or six people stretched out along the fence. Everybody else? Standing right in the middle of the sidewalk.

GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY. IT’S A SIDEWALK, NOT A SIDESTAND, YOU SHIT-EATING BASTARDS.

Instead of barreling through them, the four of us veered off to the left, toward the street, and walked around them. Sure, I sang a song about morons blocking the sidewalk as I was already past them, but it didn’t satisfy me enough. Would they have moved out of the way if we had tried to plow right through them? I don’t know. I do know that we went around them because THERE WERE A BUNCH OF NO-GOOD SUICIDE CANDIDATES STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GODDAMN SIDEWALK.

Choke on your poached eggs.

19: People who show up minutes before a big movie starts, on its opening night, and expect to find two or more seats together

God, I fucking hate people who show up minutes before a big movie starts, on its opening night, and expect to find two or more seats together.

No, there’s not two seats down at the end of this aisle. Yes, I am saving that seat for someone; you can tell because there’s a goddamn purse on it, and I’m a big fucking man with facial hair and a dick.

Now, this only applies to highly anticipated movies in bigger/large cities where there’s a 99.999999% chance the fucking thing sold out a few hours before it starts. The latest, and the inspiration for this post? A 9:30 pm showing of Inglourious Basterds at Union Square, one of the busier theaters in New York. On its opening night, a Friday.

And this isn’t meant for the people who show up 45 minutes early, only to find themselves stuck at the very back of that line outside the theater doors. No, those poor bastards are off the hook for now. I’m talking about the people who obviously didn’t come in at the tail end of that line, who waltz in seconds before the first preview trailer and walk around muttering to themselves “I can’t believe it’s so packed. Over there, are those two?”

NO GODDAMMIT, THOSE AREN’T TWO. IT’S ONE AND A SEAT SAVED FOR SOMEBODY BUYING POPCORN OR TAKING A PISS, SOMEBODY THAT GOT THEIR SHIT INTO THE THEATER ON FUCKING TIME.

What I don’t understand is that if these people theoretically were able to get their tickets hours ahead of time, why can’t they get there earlier so they don’t have to hunt in the dark for seats? Was that overpriced whisky at Union Bar really fucking worth it? Is your life that fucking hectic and exciting? No, it’s not.

And God forbid if you make me get up to go to the end of my aisle only to get halfway there, realize one of the seats is saved or unavailable, and then make me get up again. I’m 6′5″ and movie theaters are one of the MANY places I don’t fucking fit. Not only do I have to worry about you stepping on my bag that won’t fit under these goddamn seats, I’ve got to worry about you knocking my 124 oz. drink out of the arm rest’s cupholder.

Here’s a new policy: one more row of seats at the very base of the screen, tilted back. Anybody that pulls this shit gets to lean back and break their neck.

18: People who take fantasy sports way too seriously

God, I fucking hate people who take fantasy sports way too seriously.

My friend and coworker recently sent me an email the commissioner of his league sent out. Here is a sample.

I expect…nay, I demand that every single person who voted to veto this trade respond with reasons why. I’m not even kidding. This looks to me to be a clear case of collusion to block a competing team from improving, and I will not participate in a league in which this sort of behavior persists … I don’t think it’s out of line to say that the consideration that I have given everyone else thus far has not been [sic] [name redacted] and me, and I suspect that it has maliciously been denied from me.

Well, what was the trade, you ask?

As to this particular trade, I asked [name redacted] what he would want in return for [Hanley] Ramirez. He said A.) a top pitcher I can run out there every week, B) solid closer, and C) a good hitter to replace him. How have Wandy Rodriguez, Heath Bell, and Alexi Ramirez not filled these needs? In fact, this is a bit of over-paying on my part, as it’s parting with the two best members of my pitching staff and a solid contributor in four hitting categories. I negotiated with [name redacted] about an alternate in the swap, he stuck to his guns, and I decided after thought that it was worth the high pricetag.

Yes. Such a high price tag for ONE OF THE TWO BIGGEST FANTASY STUDS IN ALL OF BASEBALL, AND A PLAYER MANY GUYS WOULD CHOP THEIR DICKS OFF TO GET. Wait, I need to get a tissue. The tears … they are a comin’. Surely, this man is a bastion of purity, a beacon of light in an otherwise dark and twisted world.

[Second name redacted] explained his action in the veto, but not a single other person has offered explanation. I am hard-pressed to come to any conclusion other than this league and the players in it are “integrity challenged.”

Hmm. He’s questioning other people’s integrity. This is interesting when you learn that this person streams his pitchers. What’s that? Basically, that’s when you drop and add pitchers constantly, picking up as many innings, wins, Ks, and saves as possible. Many leagues have settings that allow it, so some think it’s ok. Anybody with a brain, however, doesn’t. Why? Because “[s]treaming is seen as an easy way out of having to strategically play fantasy baseball and instead of analyzing matchups and proving you know your stuff. Streaming can allow any idiot to outshine the competition. Basically, anti-streamers claim that this strategy takes away the most important element of the game: fun.”

So, based on this information, isn’t it ODD that he would want to give up TWO WHOLE TOP PITCHERS to get arguably the biggest producer in fantasy baseball? Oh, it’s not? Since he likely would’ve dumped them to pick up other pitchers, anyway? Ok.

He goes on to call my friend a coward, and links to a bunch of ESPN fantasy articles that somehow prove his point. As if anything on ESPN.com has proved anything in the last 10 years other than “we can pay Rick Reilly $775,000 per word and nobody will bat a fucking eye.”

When my friend – who, by the way, had clawed his way back to the top of the league WITHOUT STREAMING HIS FUCKING PITCHERS – recently decided to give up on this fiasco and sit his team, he immediately got an email from this commissioner (who sits, IRONICALLY, in second place) noting the “suspicious” timing of his actions. He then gave my friend an ultimatum of a few days on whether or not to field a team, then IMMEDIATELY emailed another player in the league – the second name redacted, and my friend’s friend – and asked him whether or not my friend was going to play. THIS WAS 1 PM ON A GODDAMN TUESDAY.

So, my friend must be giving up a lot of money to quit this bullshit league, right?

Nope. It’s a free league.

A. FREE. FUCKING. LEAGUE. No money. None. Zero. Free. Like a summer breeze, and napkins at McDonald’s. A FREE FUCKING FANTASY LEAGUE.

Hey, cuntbucket. Here’s some tips: stop fucking cheating, stop trying to wield a tin fist over a bunch of people who are just trying to kill some time and connect with some buddies who live far away, and remove that gigantic, prickly, self-important stick from your puckered little unvirginized asshole.

Oh, and take a long walk off a short pier. With rocks in your pockets. If your parents are anything like you, they’ll just pluck a replacement son off the waiver wire. Actually, I think your parents once tried to trade you for the Menendez brothers. My friend vetoed that trade, too. Why?

He didn’t want your family to get better.

17: People who tell me I need to get on Facebook

God, I fucking hate people who tell me I need to get on Facebook.

Yes, I know. Everybody’s apprehensive at first. Nobody really thinks they want to, until they sign up.

Then it’s as if some wonderful kind of treasure trove opens up and bestows all kinds of priceless gems at your feet. Oh, look, it’s Mark Fitch, the kid that wore tight jeans and flapped his legs, subtly masturbating in Ms. Swanson’s English Lit class! And look – it’s Christy Gerlick, the chick that got wasted and blew the pizza delivery guy at that keg party junior year of college! And hey, is that … is that CARTER FLEISCHBACH? It is! Hey, man, remember when you sold me that bag of bunk mushrooms? No? Well I don’t really, either! How the fuck you been, bro?

If I had wanted to talk to the interstate pile-up of human wreckage that is my past, I would’ve done so by now. I would’ve Googled them, or asked any one of the three people I still talk to from high school about what happened to what’s-his-face or if he’s still banging what’s-her-fuck. But none of that interests me as an adult with things to do, like look for a new job or watch my latest DVR’d episode of PTI.

I’ve been lured before. In college I was told to try Friendster, so I did. What the hell, I thought. It’s something to do. Then, literally months after I had signed up, this new thing called MySpace sprang up out of the ground. Now that was the hot new thing, and I was stuck with the ‘82 Pinto of social networking sites. Great. To this day I still get emails from them, urging me to update my profile so the 74 other pathetic losers still gripping their Friendster accounts tight like a last breath can find me. Guess what? No thanks.

So then. MySpace. I had seen the oncoming pattern: sign up for X, hot-shit new thing Y comes out. Sign up for Y, cool-ass new thing Z comes out. Sign up for Z, gotta-have new cocksucking thing SUBMIT-OR-DIE Z.A is there, ready to pounce on and devour your soul. But, still, a friend had said the only way to see her pictures was to get a MySpace account. So I did. I haven’t looked at that thing in years. I’d just as soon remember my third day on Earth than the password to that creepshow.

So why Facebook? Why has it not been completely conquered yet? There’s those cute little update messages people can leave; well, guess what? I can do that shit on Gchat, or, God fucking forbid, Twitter (which I am also boycotting like Facebook). And those quizzes? Christ. Who gives a flying pussyrocket whether or not your friends know what you’d rather be doing on a sunny day, or which John Cusack movie best sums you up as a person? HANG OUT WITH SOMEONE IN REAL LIFE, OR PICK UP THE PHONE AND CALL THEM. Didn’t we use to do that? Now it’s “Friending” and “Pinging” – sounds more like a bad SyFy movie than anything.

Look, I blog. I instant message friends. I text, I email, I do all that shit. I’m a person of this age, of this time, and I use just about every technological advantage available to lead a somewhat normal life. But I never sat at the “cool” table in school, and I’ll be fucking damned if I’m going to clear away a seat at the digital version of it now.

15: People who use broken umbrellas

God, I fucking hate people who use broken umbrellas.

First of all, the thing is fucking broken. I’ve said it before; I know times are tough. Believe me, I know. Once again I ate Friday work pizza. It tastes like glorified cornmeal and comes at 11:55 in the A.Fucking.M. But I ate it. Again. Why? Shit’s free, son, and these days, free is good.

That doesn’t mean, however, that you should endure the monumentally shitty uphill battle against life with inferior equipment.

Arm yourself. Get yourself ready for the onslaught of shit that is Tuesday. You have ample time; prepare.

DON’T LEAVE THE HOUSE HOLDING A TATTERED PIECE OF TRASH OVER YOUR SHOULDER.

The reason this is problematic, however, is twofold:

1) YOU ARE WALKING AROUND WITH SHARP PIECES OF METAL PERILOUSLY CLOSE TO OTHER PEOPLE’S EYE LEVEL. This is dangerous why? Because …

2) IT’S NOT EVEN FUCKING RAINING RIGHT NOW, GODDAMMIT, WHICH MEANS I DON’T HAVE MY OWN UMBRELLA TO SHIELD ME FROM THE MULTI-PRONGED ORBITAL-SKEWER THAT USED TO BE YOURS.

You’d think you might notice that, since you’re walking around with HALF OF A FUCKING UMBRELLA COVERING THE WORTHLESS PORTAL OF EXISTENCE YOU CALL A BODY. But no. You must be made of sugar, or the fucking Wicked Witch of the West, because you’re morbidly afraid of the two raindrops that have fallen in the last 37 minutes.

RUN FOR THE FUCKING HIGH GROUND, THERE’S GONNA BE A GODDAMN FLOOD! Jesus Water-skiing Christ, people, it’s barely drizzling. Your suit isn’t that fucking nice.

But when it does come down in sheets, drop five bucks. Ten if you want one to last a few months. That’s it. Splurge. Go nuts.

Oh, and stop walking around clutching a potentially retina-piercing piece of garbage, you shit-eating cockgobblers.

14: People who overreact to public health scares

God, I fucking hate people who overreact to public health scares.

Now, I understand people in ground zero of an infectious disease taking the necessary precautions. But that’s not what I’m talking about.

“Oh no, there’s swine flu in Mexico! That means I – 2,000 miles away – should hide behind this flimsy oxygen mask or, better yet, this handkerchief tied loosely around my face. That will surely stop the germs!”

Outbreaks happen, and people die. It’s been happening for years, and it will continue to happen. God forbid something crops up every now and then to remind us how fragile we, the civilized world, really are. “But surely this bottle of Purell hand sanitizer will save me the terrible fate suffered by those poor, unwashed masses in Africa, Latin America, South America,  and Southeast Asia!”

No. It won’t. If you’re meant to get [insert animal here] flu, you will. And you will suffer greatly, hopefully live and in primetime.

Speaking of, the CDC has just put out a list of possible new strains of the virus:

• Manatee flu
• Badger flu
• Great Blue Heron flu
• Earthworm flu
• Flea flu
• Fly flu
• Duck flu
• Cock flu (aka Chicken flu)
• Glenn Beck flu
• X-Men Origins: Wolverine flu
• Susan Boyle flu

Prepare accordingly.

13a: People who put children old enough to walk in strollers

God, I fucking hate people who put children old enough to walk in strollers.

Have you seen these people? They squeeze overweight five-year-olds into fold-up strollers from 1987. Arms spilling out over the side, feet clad in dirty velcro shoes, these children look like little human sardines. I wonder where these parents got the shoehorns big enough to stuff their offspring into little mobile pushcarts, because they’re either A) too lazy to walk with them, B) too lazy to carry them if necessary, or C) too lazy to give a shit either way.

Listen, if your kid’s three or older, let the little bastards walk. It’s called exercise. Allow them get used to it. Might not be a bad thing.

Do you just want somewhere to put your drink? Do you like being a pain in the ass on public transportation? Do you take pride in humiliating your child? Well, congratulations. You’ve succeeded. You’re an awful parent.

And your kid’s going to grow up to be a serial killer.

• This is obviously only regarding kids of able mind and body.

13: People who hold their toddler’s hand while walking slowly up or down crowded stairs

God, I fucking hate people who hold their toddler’s hand while walking slowly up or down crowded stairs.

I HAVE SOMEWHERE TO BE.

I have a bad back. It’s not the worst, but it’s not the best. I’ve had it cut open and a thing was removed. So I’ve got a legitimate gripe. But I would have to assume that you fucking people have the wherewithal, intelligence, and strength to carry a 30-lb kid up or down a few flights of fucking stairs.

I CAN HEAR THE SUBWAY COMING AND I AM LATE FOR WORK.

There weren’t any steps at the park, or your fucking apartment, or somewhere people don’t go, like the library? You couldn’t have picked somewhere a little less populated for this special moment? Look, the kid’s not even happy. They’re not smiling. You know what they’re thinking? “God, this shit is hard. Look how steep that is! I can’t count, but if I could, I doubt I’d be good enough at it to count all those fucking steps. Why the fuck won’t this bitch pick me up? Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup!!!”

Some people just shouldn’t procreate. More on that later.

12: People who shop for groceries at pharmacies

God, I fucking hate people who shop for groceries at pharmacies.

Yes, I realize Walgreens has a special on Pop-Tarts and Ramen. Got the coupon? Great.

You know who else has specials on food through a special discounted credited piece of paper? Fucking supermarkets. Do you know why they’re called groceries? Because you buy them at a fucking GROCERY store.

The worst is when you slip in because you want to buy some cold medicine, or toothpaste, or shampoo, or batteries, or cigarettes … you know, things normally purchased at a PHARMACY.

Then you get in that behemoth of a line behind some insipid 62-year-old woman who hasn’t left her apartment in weeks, and just now decided to venture out to Duane Reade to stock up on 23 cans of Metamucil.

So you wait in this DMV-like Hell because there’s only one cashier since two of them decided to take a smoke break or go talk with LaShanda working the camera kiosk. And when the fossil in front of you finally gets to the register, she whips out the aforementioned coupons … which the cashier doesn’t know how to process.

ALL I WANT IS TO BUY MY COUGH DROPS AND GO THE FUCK HOME, DAMMIT.

If you shop for groceries at pharmacies you’re either lazy, cheap, or old. Either way I wish they still sold hairspray in aerosol cans, because I’d grab one and use a Bic lighter from the counter to burn you alive.