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

October 20, 2009

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.147631709_41e609d1d5

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.

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

August 24, 2009

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.


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.


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

March 6, 2009

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.


10: People who are so self-absorbed that they don’t notice anything around them

January 12, 2009

God, I fucking hate people who are so self-absorbed that they don’t notice anything around them.

Yesterday my girlfriend and I went to Brooklyn to watch football at a friend’s place. We were on the Q, sitting at the edge of the long seat. There’s one spot next to my girlfriend, and then the bar that basically splits the long seat in half (it was a newer train). Across from me, also at the edge of the long seat of the opposite side, sits a man. He then puts his backpack next to him on the seat and angles his body so that his legs are pointing to the end of my long seat. And then he crosses them.

He’s obviously quite comfortable.

So Mr. Comfortable pulls out a NY Times from his backpack and eagerly sets about reading what would soon appear to be every word. As he takes up two seats, with both his backpack and his body language.

A few stops later, the car starts to really fill up. A woman and her daughter get on, and she sits the daughter down next to my girlfriend. The woman sits directly across from her, next to Mr. Comfortable’s backpack.

Every piece of etiquette states that this woman would have been completely within her rights to ask him to move his backpack so her daughter could sit down next to her. But it wasn’t that big of a deal, there was no real reason for her to need to sit next to her … no harm, no foul.

Except that every 20 seconds or so Mr. Comfortable would bend his paper down, turn the page, re-fold, or basically do something that would bring the paper down below his sightline. And I can guarantee that he knew the woman sitting next to his backpack had a little girl sitting across the aisle.

Did he do anything?

No, of  COURSE he didn’t. He just kept reading the NY Times, then would put a section back in his backpack, pull another one out, and start reading.

As if this wasn’t bad enough, his backpack at one point kind of flopped over and was now impeding on this poor woman’s personal space. Did he move it? No. When the little girl came over to her mom, and stood in front of her talking, did Mr. Comfortable see this through his peripheral vision and offer to move his backpack so they could sit together? Not a chance. In fact, the guy sitting next to the woman, on the other side of the bar, got up and gave his seat to the little girl. He walked all the way to the other end of the car, found a spot, and sat down.

Now, was this completely Mr. Comfortable’s fault? Some might say no. Some might say that it’s her responsibility to ask him to move his backpack and move over.

At some point, though, no matter what you’re reading, what you’re listening to, or what you’re doing, you’ve got to just do the sensible thing.

As for you, Mr. Comfortable: you better I hope I never see you so engrossed in the NY Times ever again, or you’ll be shitting out that yarmulke. Along with bits of my shoe, after I kick your goddamned teeth in. Selfish fucking jerk.