3: People who don’t acknowledge your own personal space

October 26, 2008

God, I fucking hate people who don’t acknowledge your own personal space. I’m not talking about in a crowded subway, or a crowded store, or a crowded street – a place where there’s limited space and nowhere for them to go except up the crack of your ass.

No, I’m talking about places where there’s absolutely no fucking reason for somebody to even touch you.

I was at a bagel place recently, and there was a pretty long line. Saturday afternoon, nothing special. And as I’m standing there, I can feel someone behind me. It wasn’t as if she was literally climbing up my back, but just like when you can feel someone watching you, I could feel a … presence.

Finally, I look back, and there’s a woman in her mid-to-late 40s eagerly looking around me on both sides, presumably trying to figure out what she’s going to order. She looked confused and Eastern European – not sure if those go hand-in-hand, but maybe they don’t have “the circle” in the former Soviet Union bloc countries.

If you’re standing in line, it’s a buffer zone of a foot-and-a-half, one foot at least. And that’s a radius; it’s in every direction. This woman was in clear violation, constantly nudging my elbows or brushing against my jacket. I glanced back and shook my head annoyingly several times, but she (not surprisingly) failed to get the hint. I’d have said something, but my words probably would’ve bounced off her like homemade Molotov cocktails off a Russian tank.

So, in conclusion: BACK THE FUCK UP, BAGLADY. I don’t know you and I certainly don’t want your schmutz on my Puma jacket. We’re not in line for fucking Springsteen tickets – it’s a goddamn bagel. Sure, they’ve got lots of nice options, and plenty of spreads, but that doesn’t mean you have to crawl onto my shoulders to look at the menu.

Gimme some space, bitch.

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2: People who use initialisms and acronyms like LOL in everyday speech

October 17, 2008

God, I fucking hate people who use initialisms and acronyms like LOL in everyday speech.

The widespread use of text messages and instant messaging has dumbed-down an already dumbed-down society. As if people needed a reason not to use proper grammar and punctuation, we get text messages with “ur” instead of “you are” or “you’re.” Or words without the vowels, like “smthng” for “something.” Look, I’ve done this in text messages – there’s limited space, and it’s a quick form of communication. And, obviously, the rise of instant messaging gave us the deplorable LOL and ROFL and IMHO.

Fuck.

When these things limit themselves to written means, it’s annoying, but somewhat understandable. There’s a (somewhat) finite amount of space. Maybe even time.

But when you’re talking? That is just lazy, stupid, and pathetic.

I was walking to the subway after work when I heard the lady behind me say to someone on the phone, “Ok, so I’ll TTYL you.”

At first I was mad because she actually told somebody that she’d “TTYL.” Then I thought about it, and the redundant “you” at the end just pissed me off even more. This was an upscale-looking, intelligent-looking, well-dressed woman. And she’s saying shit like that?

What the fuck has happened to us? Maybe we should do hands across the world and hug a big atomic bomb.


1a: People who walk and read something and don’t look where they’re going

October 12, 2008

God, I fucking hate people who walk and read something and don’t look where they’re going. This may be an epidemic local to a big city, like New York, and not those of you out in the heartland places like Boise, Idaho or Fort Collins, Colorado, or Ames, Iowa.

If so, wipe your knees off, get down on them, and thank fucking God.

These people … these fuckin’ people … good holy Christ. I may – I may, if the planets align, and someone gives me a cookie, and a big bottle of beautiful, expensive, yummy whiskey ends up on my bed – excuse the people reading a magazine. I get it. The New Yorker is fucking engrossing. Fine. I love Roger Angell as much as anybody. You started that article on the new regime in Kryzbekistan, or that one about the Large Hydron Collider just a few minutes ago. You want to finish it. Ok. Fine.

But you assholes – you goddamn wastes of fucking skin, you soulless degenerates birthed solely for the purpose of selling more shiny things – that read a fucking book, a goddamn Harry Potter novel or some mid-20s “Eat, Pray, Love” bag of repulsive, bound-for-paperback donkey shit, you have a special section of hell reserved for you.

It will involve a 19-foot, flaming, spiked club penetrating you through the anus, the ear, and twice through a hole in the throat.

And there will be 27 people waiting behind them, eagerly awaiting their turn to get by the person in front of them.

WHY IS THAT FUCKING BOOK SO IMPORTANT TO YOU? DO YOU NOT REALLY HAVE A LIFE? CAN IT NOT WAIT 10 MINUTES UNTIL YOU GET ON THAT BUS FILLED WITH SEVERAL OTHER SAD, LONELY PEOPLE? IS PAGE 148 REALLY THAT FUCKING SPECIAL?

God damn, choke on a pipe bomb. Fuck you, read-walkers. Die in a grease fire.


1: People who walk and check their Blackberrys and don’t look up

October 9, 2008

God, I fucking hate people who walk and check their Blackberrys and don’t look up.

You can substitute “iPhone” for Blackberry, or even the little fuckers and their Sidekicks. Whatever. Fuck all these people that can’t take .02 of a second to peek a glance at just where it is they’re fucking going.

I was walking to get a burrito with some co-workers yesterday on Burrito Wednesday (it’s so good, it almost deserves capitalization and quotes). Some salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman in his early-50s walked by my friend and I, eagerly checking the emails from his broker detailing how his stocks just dropped another 200 points. While thinking about how he might have to sell the house in the Hamptons to that German couple he and his wife met while having cocktails at Olives, this coat-draped-over-his-arm hooker-lover tried to walk straight through my torso.

Of course I had to side-step him, but I should have thrown a sharp elbow right into his temple.

Even if you can’t sneak a glance, at least use some GOD DAMN PERIPHERAL VISION, FUCKSHIT.

I’m 6’5″. Well over 200 lbs. I’m not a fucking fire hydrant or a fucking shit tzu. You can see me, you pentagenarian pissdrinker. You do not own the street, no matter how many times you scroll up or down on that little fucking screen of yours.

I can’t wait to see you fall in an open sewer or, better yet, have a chalk outline of your body drawn on the front of a bus.