I was at breakfast, and while waiting to pay my bill, I noticed a family walk in the door; it looked pretty clear that it was a couple coming in to have breakfast with their dad. Watching them walk in, dad looked like your typical crotchety old white male, with a scowl on his face, and generally looking miserable with his life. As for the couple, the wife appeared to be late-thirties, possibly early-forties, but still attractive, but as far as the husband was concerned, I couldn’t look beyond the massive beer belly that was protruding bulbously from his torso.
The next thought that ran through my head was simply, “how much does it suck to be her, that her husband turned into such a fat guy?”
This post helps if you imagine it being yelled to you by Bernie Mac (R.I.P.)
What is WRONG with you motherfuckers that can’t seem to grasp this idea?
I don’t understand men who think it’s perfectly adequate to flush the commode before or during their urination, and then walk away afterward, often times leaving a bowl full of piss behind them. The fuck is wrong with you people?
Flush the fucking toilet after you use it. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter if you flushed it before you used it, flush it againafter you used it. It’s not calculus, it’s not even fucking math. It’s a simple concept of disposing of your waste for the sanitation and consideration of others. I will never understand why there are people who can’t seem to grasp this very simple concept.
I was sitting in traffic this morning, which is nothing out of the ordinary. Unfortunately, it was worse than it usually was due to the fact that for no apparent reason, six straight traffic signals were out, and the vast populous of Atlanta is completely oblivious to the rules of the 4-way stop in such conditions.
On more than one (fifty) occasion(s), I watched as people sped off into a turn lane, dividing lane, oncoming traffic, or some other form of asphalt not designated for regular automotive traffic, and then cut in front of some schlub too slow-reacting to prevent impatient and inconsiderate assholes from cutting in front of not just them, but every single law-abiding citizen who opt to grind it out with the rest of the pack.
It’s times like these that I wish that for one day, I could be a police officer. Not to do anything dramatic and go off on high-excitement, high-speed car chases, bust drug dealers, stop crime and be a hero. No, I’d love to be a police officer for a single day, just so I could troll the ever-living shit out of law breakers, and by “troll,” I mean enforce the fucking law.
It should come as no surprise, but I’m very much a creature of habit. Repetition doesn’t really faze me like it fazes others, and I can go numerous periods of time eating the same things, doing the same activities and seeing the same programs for probably more than the average person does. I like routine, and I like there to be some degree of normalcy and repetition in my life; it’s comforting, effortless, and once engrained, simply a part of daily living. Maybe this is to say that I’ve got a facet of my brain that’s possibly autistic or at least obsessive-compulsive, due to this desire for routines and repetition.
This is no more obvious than the fact that I’m bothered probably way more than I should be when things nudge me off my routine or my expected courses of actions. Whether it’s another person’s complete lack of spatial awareness that causes them to aimlessly walk and consume space which encroaches on my line, or a person that coincidentally happens to be at the workout station that I was planning on using next, and I’ve already accomplished all my other lifts, people that disrupt my rhythm aggravate the ever living shit out of me.
But the worst of all perpetrators to me are the people that insist on taking the parking space that I’ve been trying to park in consistently for almost three years now. It is evident now that my preferred parking space is clearly the most valuable parking space in the entire fucking lot, based on how many people insist on having it now. But seriously, my days become monumental emotional uphill battles on mornings in which I can’t get my parking spot. Nothing infuriates me worse or faster than seeing that some motherfucker has gotten to it before I did, and I feel nothing but unadulterated anger for the few minutes it takes me to find another not-as-adequate-but-passable parking space.
I really, really want to write something about this story about how IKEAs in mainland China are being raided on a regular basis by mainlanders who invade the stores, and abuse the showrooms and display furniture by taking naps in the beds, lay all over the sofas, and let their kids run around unsupervised. About how it’s completely uncivilized, inconsiderate and disgusting, but mostly just how uncivilized it all is.
Despite the fact that there’s so much I’d really want to actually say, the only words that seem capable of formulating in my head are unfriendly remarks about how barbaric and uncivilized the Chinese are, that the world really doesn’t have a lot to fear about their secluded society plotting anything grander than scheming to get into IKEA before others so they can camp the beds, and other insensitive remarks about how Koreans are vastly superior on so many levels over the Chinese.
So, I guess I won’t say anything at all about the matter.
When Kobe Bryant dunks a basketball or hits a three-pointer, typically it involves having succeeded in the face of a fervent defender, who’s trying to use body positioning, superior footwork, or simply sheer physical strength to prevent it from happening.
When Tom Brady throws a touchdown pass, typically it involves locating an eligible receiver within the span of five or fewer seconds while there are anywhere from five to six 270 lbs+ linebackers and tackles who want nothing more than to sit on him, and he actually has to succeed in throwing the ball in a place to where the receiver can catch it.
When Miguel Cabrera smacks a base hit, typically it involves hitting a little white ball that’s 2 7/8” in diameter, traveling at him anywhere from 79-94 miles per hour, and is sometimes coming at odd angles or irregular curving motions. He has to put the bat in a position to where not only will it make contact, but send it into a patch of field where an opposing fielder cannot catch or corral it.
It’s funny whenever I think about cars that belong in the I give up on life category, Saturns never really crossed my mind. But in a way, it’s fittingly appropriate in several ways; one, because Saturns are the most forgettable car manufacturer in history, and two, Saturn as a car company is dead, and has been dead for going on three years now. Unfortunately, three years isn’t enough time to wipe them from existence as their turds on wheels are still being capably driven on roads across America as we speak.
Saturn was essentially a joint venture between General Motors and Rubbermaid (not actually true) that put out mediocre plastic (mostly) cars that were cheap to buy, cheaper to maintain, and supposedly cheap to repair when necessary (often, being a GM), in exchange for your dignity (factually accurate). But after twenty years of sucking souls, Liu Kang and the automotive industry had enough of Saturn Tsung’s soul-sucking tendencies and putting an end to the Saturn brand, hopefully for good.
