26: People who preemptive honk

God, I fucking hate people who preemptive honk.

This isn’t about people who honk at you at a red light the nanosecond it turns green. No, these are the ones that, if you’re driving and you’re at a stop sign, easing out because cars are parked all along the street and you can’t see the oncoming traffic from either direction, you slowly edge yourself out, right? It’s all you can do. You can’t see through tangible matter. You’re not fucking Superman.

So here comes Superasshole, cruising perpendicularly. He sees you. Creeping. Invading his territory. So what does he do? beepbeep. A couple of quick lovetap honks. “I’m here, motherfucker. And I’m coming. Beware me.”

Ugh.

Worse, however – far worse – is when you’re walking. Yeah, man, I know I’ve got my headphones on. And, yes – my ears are weird and the iPod buds don’t fit in them, so I have to rock the over-the-ear Sonys. It’s what I do, how I roll. You know what else I do? ARM MYSELF WITH THE KNOWLEDGE OF MY SURROUNDINGS, PARTICULARLY – AND ESPECIALLY – WHEN IT INVOLVES GIGANTIC, MOVING MASSES OF METAL THAT CAN CRUSH OR HARM ME.

I’m an adult, for chrissake. You think I just walk wherever the fuck I want without reaping the consequences? I look where I’m going, and what’s coming at me. Are you compelled to honk because you’re concerned for my safety?

Bullshit.

You do it because you don’t want your shit fucked up. What if you clipped a car, or worse, a person? You’d have to maybe, possibly, like, stop and stuff. And that would be awful! So, no, you’ll just honk. Preemptively. Like an idiot.

Next time, just hit the person. They deserve it. Especially these little shits who cross the street like they own it. They’re daring you, man. Don’t honk – smack those little bastards like you’re in bumper cars at Six Flags.

Then honk at their funeral. That would be great.

25: People who refer to Denver omelets as “Western” omelets

God, I fucking hate people who refer to Denver omelets as “Western” omelets.

This appears to be most people east of the Mississippi River and, oh, every single fucking diner in New York City.

I guess I’m a homer. I’m from Denver, and despite being – in mine and plenty of other people’s opinions – a pretty cool city, Denver doesn’t really have a lot to call its own. Mile-High City? Cool, I guess, until you realize a place like Salt Lake City is over 4,000 feet above sea level. Then there’s the Denver boot, which is cool … unless you’ve ever had one put on your car. Then it sucks.

If you think of TV, what do you get? Well, there was Dynasty, which was cool, I think, at the time (I was a young boy when it was on – not exactly their target demographic). Mork & Mindy took place in nearby Boulder. That’s pretty much it.

What about movies? The first thing that comes to most people’s minds is Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead, which is an OK flick but mainly posited that the only gangsters in Denver were bumbling idiots. Which was probably true, but shit … you didn’t need to tell everybody.

Music? A few bands here and there, but mostly jam bands from, again, nearby Boulder. And nobody loves jam bands.

No, Denver doesn’t lay claim to much – except a delicious breakfast omelet with diced ham, onions, and green bell peppers. In Role Models, Ken Jeong asks for a Denver omelet (dressed in medieval king garb, no less). In FlashForward, Penny from Lost and one of the Fiennes discuss moving to Denver and talk about, first and foremost, the sheer bad-assedness of the Denver omelet. Did anybody ask for a Western omelet? No. No. NO NO NO NO NO.

This is yet another example of East coasters lumping all things outside their little circle into one big ball of generic.

WELL NO FUCKING MORE.

Fight with me, people. Ask for a Denver omelet. Make Denver omelets, and tell other people you want to make a Denver omelet for them. And if you’re at a place that has “Western” instead of “Denver” on its menu, say you’re going to leave. Tell them why. Make a fuss – stab somebody with a fork, knock the tray out of the busboy’s hands – until they change it. If they don’t, boycott them. Picket out front with a sign that says “Mile-High Shitty – It’s a DENVER Omelet, Dammit” and chanting “Hey Hey, Ho Ho, that omelet’s wrong name’s gotta go!”

We will never be free until this glorious, wonderful breakfast dish is called by its rightful and true name – not its awful, degrading slave moniker.

24: People who don’t help the cashier bag their groceries

God, I fucking hate people who don’t help the cashier bag their groceries.

Now, in theory this only applies to people shopping in big cities. Many grocery stores in suburban areas have baggers, those oh-so-cheery pimply teenagers who are just waiting to go on cart duty so they can get the fuck outside and sneak a cigarette or lightly dent the fender of that bitch’s Lexus.

But I live in Queens, so I’m talking about your Key Foods and your Associated Markets and – for you rich assholes with jobs who can afford to live in Manhattan – your Gristedes … es. These places have a dozen lines, any six of which might actually be open at once, manned by high schoolers or elderly Iranian women. The conveyor belts are all of two feet long (and they all have that separator stick to mock you, as if you could fit your food on that rubberized postage stamp while the person ahead of you still has that family-sized package of chicken quarters on it), and the stainless steel area next to the plastic bags where the groceries accumulate after being scanned can comfortably handle a box of cereal, two yogurts and a thing of Ziploc bags.

Mainly, though, there are no baggers.

Short tangent: yes, there is the self-checkout automaton area. In my grocery store, one of these four always – ALWAYS – has a plastic bag over it, meaning it is temprorarily out of order. You can’t go there if you have beer, because the high school kid with the little card is talking to his buddy 20 feet away. And if you want to try to save the planet and use a canvas bag, you have to do an Indiana Jones switch to put it on the sensor with a product in it so that it doesn’t say, in that creepily stern subway-like female voice, “the weight is incorrect. Please remove the last item.” It’s an eighth of an ounce, you fucking whore! What are you, a drug dealer? Goddamn self-checkout. Way to shed costs, grocery stores.

But I digress. Anyways, when you’re in one of these stores, there will inevitably be long lines. It is my simple theory that these lines would invariably be shorter if people stopped being condescending pricks and just helped out.

The other day I was in line behind a woman with a cart about half full. She was standing behind her cart, which takes up the entire space between the register you’re at and the one next to you. Also, there’s only a small aisle at the end of the registers for people to walk through toward the exits. So, this lady unloads her cart, watches the cashier scan everything, watches the cashier bag everything, then hands the cashier her EBT card, which took more swiping/signing than a regular credit/debit card (I don’t know why; I had never seen somebody use one before). It felt like this process took five whole minutes. It might’ve been longer.

What could she have done? 1) Unload the cart. 2) Push cart out to end aisle, get on the other side of it, push it back into the line in front of me. 3) Help bag groceries. 4) Give cashier the card once she’s done scanning everything. 5) Finish bagging groceries. 6) Sign any necessary papers/receipts. (And if you choose debit over credit, simply step back for a second and enter your PIN. Five. Fucking. Seconds.)

I’m confident this would’ve cut the time in half. The best part is, when I walked into the store, I remembered seeing an elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair in the produce section. After I had paid and was walking out – where I had entered, mind you – the lady in front of me was talking to said elderly woman, who appeared to be her mother.

So, to recap: a woman on welfare thought it was beneath her to help a cashier making probably barely above minimum wage bag the groceries she just fucking bought, even when doing so would’ve meant less time her elderly mother spent alone, in produce, staring at the bananas and an endcap of assorted nuts and fruit juices.

And if you think it’s solely the cashier’s job to bag all of your groceries, you are a heartless fucking prick and you’d want to shoot someone in the mouth if you were a cashier and they stood there and watched you bag their groceries instead of helping you, all the while looking down at you like you were a child molester cleaning public toilets.

Photo courtesy of the Denver Post and an example of someone not likely to help bag their own groceries

23: People who don’t watch the “Blue Mountain State” premiere tonight, January 12, at 10 PM EST on Spike TV

God, I fucking hate people who don’t watch the “Blue Mountain State” premiere tonight, January 12, at 10 PM EST on Spike TV.

Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you?

You don’t like to laugh? Who are you, Hitler? Even Hitler would’ve liked this show.

Other people who would’ve liked this show, or will like it once it kicks TV right in the tits:

• Ghandi
• Engelbert Humperdinck
• Nikolas Tesla
• Katie Couric
• Jesus
• Jesus’ apostles
• Most of Jesus’ disciples (you can’t please everybody)
• Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown
• Pope Benedict XVI
• Lucy Liu
• David Foster Wallace
• Larry Flynt
• President Martin Van Buren
• Georgia O’Keeffe
• Harmony Korine
• Jack Johnson (the boxer and the “rocker”)
• Catherine the Great
• Catherine the Pretty Good
• Andy Rooney
• Pol Pot (not a ringing endorsement, but still)
• Boutros Boutros-Ghali
• David Faustino

So … yeah. Watch this shit. Or you’re worse than Hitler.

22: People who came up with the ‘postcard’ AT&T commercial, and then put Luke Wilson in it

God, I fucking hate the people who came up with the ‘postcard’ AT&T commercial, and then put Luke Wilson in it.

First off, Luke Wilson is getting fucking fat. Lay off the donuts, tubby. Look, I’m no Calvin Klein model, but I’m not famous, either. He’s also the only person in the world whose bottom half of his head is bigger than the top half. It’s like a goddamn pear, that thing.

Secondly – and much, much, worse – is the actual EXECUTION of the ad. Here are the 3 things that really, really, REALLY FUCKING PISS ME OFF ABOUT IT.

1: It’s a two-parter. You see the first part (below), and you say “Ok, whatever. That shit’s done with.” Then you get a car commercial or something, and – BAM! – part fucking 2. That’s just a load of crap.

2: I’m from Denver. I’m proud of it – it’s a good city, in a good state. But it gets NO respect (more on that in a future post). Now, if you’ll notice at the 0:18 mark above (by tipping your screen back), Lumpy Luke is standing roughly in the middle of Kansas. This puts him approximately due east of Denver by a little over 500 miles. But in the context of that floor map, it’s maybe six feet or so. YET HE HURLS THE THING LIKE RICKY FUCKING JAY TO SOMEWHERE NEAR NORTHERN CALIFORNIA. Are you fucking kidding me? Holy shit. All he had to do was turn to the right and basically lay the fucker down. EAT MY ASSHOLE AT&T.

3: This is probably the most egregious of them all. Here, in chronological fashion, is the list of cities that AT&T throws out to prove they have such phenomenal coverage, and their consequent rank in the list of the most populous incorporated places in the United States.

PART 1: Spokane, WA (104); Denver, CO (24); Evansville, IN (214); Chicago, IL (3); Lake City, FL; New York, NY (1); San Francisco, CA (12); Dallas, TX (8); Phoenix, AZ (5); Atlanta, GA (33).

PART 2: Akron, OH (97); Madison, WI (81); Honolulu, HI (49); Daytona Beach, FL; Tulsa, OK (46); Warren, MI (179); Bozeman, MT; Dover, DE; New Haven, CT; Seattle, WA (25); Albuquerque, NM (34); Kalamazoo, MI; Tempe, AZ (129).

They’ve got two of the top three, three of the top five, seven of the top 25 and nine of the top 34. And out of 23 cities, there’s a whopping six that aren’t in the most populous 215 cities in the country. Of those six, Daytona Beach ranks eighth out of Florida’s metropolitan areas with just under 500,000 people, New Haven is the second-most populous city in Connecticut, Dover is the second-most populous city in Delaware, and Kalamazoo is the largest city in southwestern Michigan with over 72,000 people. The only truly “small” town on the list would be Lake City, FL, and even that burg is the biggest part of its county.

So, from a Verizon customer: way to prove your point, AT&T. And that point is: Luke Wilson is getting fat, he doesn’t know where Denver is even when he’s almost standing right-on-fucking-top of it, and your coverage blows. Deal with it.

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.