21: People who hang out at the OTB

November 20, 2009

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.

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15: People who use broken umbrellas

May 15, 2009

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.


12: People who shop for groceries at pharmacies

February 4, 2009

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.