6: People who enjoy “drifting”

November 25, 2008

God, I fucking hate people who enjoy “drifting.” I know, I know – I’m upsetting all eight of you. This rant is a bit more specific than some of the others, but is nonetheless just as deserving of my scorn and lack of original humor.

To explain – no, there is too much – to sum up: I work at a job that requires me to watch TV all day (no, it’s not awesome. Stop saying that. If it was so awesome, I’d be telling you about it all the fucking time, which I do not because I work for a stable of morons and freaks who manage to take a thing like watching sports all day and turn it into shrill, painful torture at the hand of ruthless, soulless despots who like to wear your organs as shoulder accessories. But I digress) and, recently, I had to watch a drifting event on the Speed network.

Quoteth the great Wiki: “Drifting refers to a driving technique and to a motor sport where the driver intentionally skids the rear tires through turns, preserving vehicle control and a high exit speed.”

Ok.

Now, I’m very partial to your stick-and-ball sports, the ones that require, you know … talent. Take it away, Big!

Josh: I’m much better at video hockey.
Paul: That’s not a sport.
Josh: It requires hand and eye coordination.
Paul: It’s not a sport if you don’t sweat.
Josh: What about golf? It’s a sport and you don’t sweat.
Paul: It’s not a sport if you let a machine do all the work.
Josh: What about car racing?
Paul: Shut up, Baskin.

While not a huge fan of watching a shitload of cars go left for 500 miles and suffocating Mother Earth along the way, I do respect motor sports and the drivers. Why? Because they are taking one of man’s greatest inventions, the automobile, and they are fucking REP-RE-SENTING. Cars are awesome for one of three reasons: 1) they get me from point A to point B in waaaaaaaay less time than a horse, or a train, or my own two feet, and I get to smoke and listen to Kyuss really fucking loudly, 2) many of them go ball-splitting fast, which leads to 3) the possibility of horrible, fiery, awesomely gruesome deaths.

So I’m watching the intro to this drifting event, and in order to get the novices up to speed (sorry), the announcer says that drifting is “action sports meets motor sport; there’s no checkered flag here.”

Right. Ok. Sounds like gym class after they eliminated dodgeball, but go on …

“Their main concern is overall impression. What total impact can drivers create for the fans, but more importantly, the judges, who’ll be scrutinizing their runs even further.”

Whoa. Judges? Really? Like American Idol? Which one is the gay one?

“There are four specific criteria within drifting: speed, angle, line, and overall impact.”

Wait, wait, wait. You lost me after “speed.” Are we drawing fucking charcoal portraits here or are we driving some souped-up race cars? With big, loud-ass engines and enough horsepower to drown out a Nickelback concert (that’s not a joke, I’m hoping someone actually does this)?

I watched roughly three dozen of these “runs,” and the most exciting thing that happened was when the two cars actually touched (Gosh! Golly! Gasp!) or one of the cars’ back tires went off the road and onto the dirt, which is called “dropping” (as in dropping turds). And yet there seemed to be plenty of spectators there, gobbling that shit up.

Congratulations, then. You’ve been enjoying ice skating on wheels. Or Dancing with the Cars. Oh, and you’ve also taken some world-class vehicles and the rampant and mesmerizing machismo under their hoods and turned them into fucking Zamboni machines. Way to go, taintlickers.

And if anybody has the audacity to say that it takes skill to do this, allow me to respond with: Nick Hogan.

I fucking dare you to refute that.


5: People who don’t say “thank you” when someone opens a door for them

November 13, 2008

God, I fucking hate people who don’t say “thank you” when someone opens a door for them. THANK. YOU. That took .2 seconds to type, and I was holding the ‘Shift’ key the whole goddamn time. Imagine how fucking easy it is just to say it.

The people at my company’s building are notorious for this shit. First off, the door is fucking glass. I can see the six of you shit-slurping zombies that just got off the elevator, jabbering on about the meeting with Nike or the empanadas you’re going to order at lunch or the new fucking curtains you’re going to buy. Whatever. We’re separated by this inch-thick glass, I don’t know you, I can’t hear you, but holy Jesus how I want to rip out your spine through your earhole and beat you to bloody fucking death with it.

Anyway, my point is, I can see you. And I’ve ascertained, in the blindingly blunt and brief amount of time that I’ve seen you, that it will be far easier for me, one person, to open the door for all of you and let you pass than it is for me to barge in and proceed to swim through the jumbled and murky ocean of dumb that is your group, like some self-indulgent prick who’s in a hurry to get to the mindless job that doesn’t pay him near enough.

So I do. Why? BECAUSE I’M A DECENT HUMAN BEING, YOU MISERABLE WASTES OF FUCKING SPERM. There’s six of you sodomizing shit-bags and not one of you can muster enough breath to spit out two measly syllables? Is that where we stand? And then, while you’re not thanking me, you can’t even look at me and give a slight head nod? So slight twitches and movements of your neck and ocular muscles are now taboo, too? No offense to doormen everywhere, who are great at their jobs, but I AM NOT THE FUCKING DOORMAN. Am I wearing a maroon suit with matching hat? No, I am not. I am wearing shit like you because I am like you, e.g., not an employee of this goddamn building, you cardboard toilet paper tube-fucking miscreant.

Next time I’m going to trip one of you and I hope to the heavens above you take a big bite of pavement, and I hope your fucking dentist is scuba diving or sipping Mai Tais in Puerto Vallarta and you suffer excruciating pain, deplorable disfigurement, and a sharp, stinging sensation when drinking cold beverages or eating ice cream.

That, or I could just slam the door in your face. Fucking pricks.

You’re welcome, assholes.


4: The people who booed Barack Obama at John McCain’s concession speech

November 5, 2008

God, I fucking hate the people who booed Barack Obama at John McCain’s concession speech.

Look, the man himself is telling you to shut the fuck up. So you know what you should do? SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

You lost. Big-time. Suck it up, climb into your SUV, and get over it.

Obama is not a terrorist. He’s not a Muslim (although it shouldn’t matter if he was). He’s not a gutter-cleaning monkey. He’s a smart, charismatic, intelligent man. So is McCain (minus the charismatic part). Obama will not sell this country to infidels, or rob the insanely rich to give to the insanely poor. He won’t pull every soldier out of every conflict and put them on the Canadian border. He won’t buy up all the bad mortgages and give them to his cousin.

He ran an historic, monumental, brilliant campaign. To wit: Obama’s campaign was like a dinner of perfectly cut medium-rare porterhouse, garlic mashed potatoes, grilled asparagus, and a tall glass of lager. McCain’s was like a half-chewed Big Mac, those thin, pointy fries that are ice cold, and a Diet Coke consisting mostly of backwash. Basically, no comparison.

So stop booing. McCain’s right arm is cocked at a 70-degree angle, and it’s waving at you to stop. You should listen to it. Lord knows what it’s capable of.