I Hate Corporate Fashion Codes


At least once a day someone on my floor will complain that it's too cold and call maintenance so they will turn down the AC. And at least once a day I will realize that my back is covered in a slick layer of sweat and I'm seeing stars because I'm dying of heat stroke. I hate when people do this. It's terrible. I'd rather be sucker-punched by someone holding a fistful of quarters than be subjected to the ninja thermostat move. And, I hate to generalize here, but it's mostly the gals who do this.

Now, I get the logistics behind you ladies getting a little bit chilly in the office. Most of you wear skirts and shirts without sleeves. Some wear even less. Maybe a sundress. But I refuse to believe that when you're getting dressed in the morning that you don't realize it might get cold in the office when YOU'RE NOT WEARING ANY FUCKING CLOTHES!!! Seriously, bring a sweater, or a space heater, light a fire in your garbage can and sing Doo-wop, anything to stop me from agonizing in a puddle of my own sweat. I AM DYING OVER HERE. You may be cold, but it's no comparison to how hot I am. When I hear people say, "Brrrrrr" and rub their shoulders, I want to lob grenades into their cube like it's the cab of a Panther Tank.

Maybe you don't understand what men have to wear to work to look "presentable." My pants feel like they're made out of fucking Kevlar and my shirt absorbs and retains heat like a fucking sleeping bag designed to keep hikers warm on the south face of Mt. Everest. If I walk ten feet outside in hot weather, I look like I just spent the day shadow boxing in a sauna. Thank God I don't have to wear a tie. If I got a memo saying that I had to wear a tie, I'd blow my brains out.

I wish for once we could just all take a deep breath and relax. What's wrong with linen khakis and a polo? Is that so fucking insulting? How about nice loafers with no socks? Would you lose sleep at night if I wore shoes like that? If you answer yes then you deserve to beaten with a fishing rod in front of your son, because you're not a man; you're a fucking douche. I will never understand why people care when someone wears something unconventional. It's not like I want to wear a fucking cock-ring through my pants and a leather vest that has the word LESBIAN embroidered in the back of it. It's a polo. It has a collar. What the fuck is the big deal?

You know who still really cares about traditions? Old people. Cranky old people who are casually racist and clip coupons even though they haven't spent a penny of their own money since 1957. Most traditions are fucking stupid. Fashion traditions: even stupider.

A few weeks back I took it upon myself to alter the casual Friday code and toss on a polo instead of a button-down. When I got to work, someone, I shit you not, said, "Whoa, a little early for a polo, no?"

Oh, I'm sorry, did I miss the polo memo? It's too early to wear a polo? Can I please borrow your fucking polo-wearing calendar, because I must have lost mine last night when I was punching your mom in the face. TOO EARLY??? WHY??? Because it wasn't technically summer? It was hot outside. I decided to wear a polo. Does that mean I'm not "in it to win it"? Does that mean I don't care about my job? How fucking twisted and shallow does someone have to be in order to judge someone's dedication to their job based on what style of fucking shirt they're wearing? Gandhi wore fucking tighty-whiteys and didn't eat for like 6 months, but he really didn't care about India's liberation, because if he did, he would have gone to Brooks Brothers and gotten himself a nice double-breasted monkey suit and some cool Kenneth Cole shoes, right, right?

(swan-dives off GW Bridge)

Every day on my way to work, I see people dressed to the nines and wonder whether they feel the same way as me. But I'm sure they don't. I'm sure their suit makes them feel great, and they can't wait to get a new one. And you know what, fine, I have no problem with people wanting to look nice. If buying suits is your thing, cool, go buy a fucking rack of them. Go dry-hump a closet full of gabardine. But why do I have to conform? Why do I have to spend ridiculous amounts of money on clothes that make me want to fucking vomit? I'm not asking to come to work looking like a fucking homeless person, but why not make things more comfortable for the men? Maybe productivity will go up? Maybe people will be *GASP* happier and more pleasant? Maybe I won't have to throw a shit-fit when the thermostat is switched from 70 to 98? The possibilities are endless!

I Hate Your Rubbernecking


Traffic is my least favorite thing on this planet. In hell, I am stuck in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike with no air conditioning, riding in a car with Curt Schilling, Paris Hilton, Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon, talking politics, and my radio station is stuck on a Ecuadorian news station at full volume. I'd rather play Russian Roulette in a Vietnamese death camp than sit in five minutes of traffic. I'd rather eat Raspberry Sorbet out of a prison toilet than spend another hour crawling down I-95. There aren't many things I wouldn't do to avoid sitting in traffic. Traffic fucking sucks. It sucks ten dicks filled with stricnine and gasoline. If I had one wish granted to me, it would be for there to be no more traffic, ever. Or it would be for $1,000,000,000,000,000 so I could buy all of the major thoroughfares in the United States and then blow them up. Back to horse and buggies, motherfuckers, and maybe some enforced walking for you fatties who park in the handicapped spots because your disgusting gut squishes up over the steering wheel and you hyperventilate from the effort it takes for you to inhale a bag of Frito's.

Every time I hit traffic, I take a deep breath and tell myself, "It's okay, friend, it's okay, just relax, it will all be over soon. There is nothing you can do about it now, let's just ride it out calmly..."

OH IS THAT RIGHT, BRAIN? THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO, YOU SAY? WHAT IF I SMASH THROUGH ALL OF THESE CARS AND GET TO THE PEOPLE CAUSING THE ACCIDENT AND DRIVE A PITCHFORK THROUGH THEIR ESOPHAGUSES? WHAT ABOUT THAT, FUCKING BRAIN??? WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT??? AND FUCK YOU 880 AM, YOU DIDN'T WARN ME ABOUT THIS TRAFFIC. IF YOU WARNED ME THEN I WOULDN'T BE HERE. I WOULD BE HOME DRINKING BEER ON MY COUCH IN THE AIR CONDITIONING, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE, NOT STUCK NEXT TO THIS PERSIAN ASSHOLE BLASTING OSAMA BIN LADEN'S GREATEST HITS FROM THE STEREO IN HIS DROP-TOP MERCEDES. DIE!

The rapid progression my brain takes from serenity to insanity never fails. I laugh a little bit at first...then grip the steering wheel a little tighter and wish I'd taken a different route...then I start to sweat and curse under my breath...then I hope that someone looks at me cross so I can get out the car and punch them in the throat...then I shake and scream and punch the dashboard and pray to the lord that a asteroid will come down from heaven and land right on my fucking face because I can't take sitting here any longer.

I have issues, I know...

But what makes traffic worse is when it's caused by a bunch of dumb shitheads trying to sneak a peak at what's going on. Oooooooooooh look, smoke! Let's all slam on our breaks and hopefully cause more accidents because no one has anything better to do, right? And people rarely stop for anything worthwhile. It's always some jackass who forgot to properly tie down his suitcase and now his stupid clothes are all over the road and his wife is yelling at him instead of helping him, making the situation that much worse. Now the man will go home so fucking pissed off at his wife that he will inevitably end up plowing Carl's slutty secretary simply out of spite. Great job, nagging wife on the side of the road, YOU RUINED THE MARRIAGE!

There is no reason for you to slow down and satisfy your curiosity. None. You are making everyone late. Just drive past the accident at 70 mph like I do and give the poor bastard with a busted tire the look of death. But no, that's asking too much. You'd rather act like you're on a fucking African Safari. When other people are riding in the car with me, I have to tone the ranting and fury, which aggravates me even more, because venting is the only thing that keeps me from squirting blood out of my eyeballs. Oh look at my smile, everyone in the car, I'm not pissed, you see? I'm laughing at the situation. I'm not ready to thrust my head through the windshield, oh no, that would be barbaric.

I always pretend that the people who insist on slowing to a crawl so they can check out a fender-bender can hear me. And oh let me tell you that I give them the verbal thrashing of a lifetime. You are a failure. You have a below average IQ and your mom dropped you when you were two, THAT'S why you can't hold a steady relationship. Your haircut sucks. You car sucks, too. Yeah, that fucking Honda you're so proud of? Well it makes you look GAY. And you're kids are all stupid. And your daughter is sleeping with a black guy. Oh, I'm so sorry you had to hear it from me, but it's true. So maybe you should be hurrying home to deal with these issues instead of WATCHING SOME DICKHEAD CHANGE HIS TIRE.

I Hate You, Freudian Dreams


"I hate dreaming. Because when you sleep, you wanna’ sleep. Dreaming is work, you know - there I am in a comfortable bed, the next thing you know I have to build a go-kart with my ex-landlord. I want a dream of me watching myself sleep."
- Mitch Hedberg


Sigmund Freud, quite frankly, was an asshole. Actually, allow me to clarify: anyone who dedicates the majority of his/her life to dream study is an asshole. Why? Well, let me explain. Now, this may not be completely true, but I'm pretty sure dreams are just a composition of shit your brain mushes together and plays out for you when you fall asleep. Sort of like one of those B movies starring Roddy Roddy Piper, no rhyme no reason, just fucking MUSH, some beatings, and a few soft-core sex scenes. And since your mind is asleep, it is in a state of 'fucked', hence the weirdness. Oh sure, you can get all scientific on me and tell me that my dreams are repressed fears and unfulfilled desires and needs and blah blah blah blah, but then you'll just have to answer me this: The other night I had a dream that I was a geriatric homeless man who got mad at a young woman for hiding crumbcake and proceeded to push her down a grassy hill and steal the whole thing…

Now, Smarty McNerdfuck, what I would like to know is, WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN???

Bottom line, dreams suck. They are either a titanic letdown, shit-your-pants scary, or a mind-fuck. There are no other versions. And I can't decide which version is the worst. But what I do know is waking up in a state of disorientation because you were only seconds earlier playing lawn darts with Martin Scorsese fucking blows.

In my dreams, I win the lottery way too often. It's honestly unhealthy. Do you know the ill effects this has on a person's mind? You wake up and for one second you actually believe that you are a newly minted billionaire. "Holy shit, I can't wait to got to work today with no pants on and piss into the copy machine ink!" But then the fog washes away and you quickly realize that the whole thing was a farce. WHY DID YOU JUST DO THAT TO ME, BRAIN? It's literally the worst feeling in the world. Oh look, back to mediocrity, ho-hum. Say, are there any errant knives laying around here that I can plunge into my jugular?

And it’s not just the lotto dreams - all fun/enjoyable dreams are like this. One minute you're watching reruns of "The Office" and dozing off in your bed, the next you're cruising the ocean on a yacht with all your friends. BALLING. It's sunny, breezy, and utterly divine. Then some beeping sound rips you from your slumber. You look, and it's you cell phone ringing. You quickly realize that you're back in your bedroom. It's Will calling. Will wants to know what round Bo Jackson was picked in the 1987 NFL Draft? YOU TOOK ME AWAY FROM MY YACHT FOR THIS STUPID QUESTION? He was taken in the 7th round, asshole. Happy? Now please go slip on the ice outside whatever shithole bar you're in and crack your head open on the cement.

For some reason, I have an overwhelming amount of terrible dreams. Nightmares, if you will. I find myself knife fighting my mom on a busy highway. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ABOUT? I hate falling asleep and realizing that I am wanted for murder. Who did I murder? Why did I murder this person? And dream-me does dumb shit, like hide in a shed. Why the fuck am I in this shed? I should be shaving my head and applying a fake mustache and putting in fake contact lenses. I should be following James Dickey's "To the White Sea" word-for-word and escaping to freedom in the Japanese wilderness. But no, here I am, hiding in a ratty old shed, holding a fucking broom. Bravo, dummy.

Some people say they enjoy the feeling of relief when they realize their bad dreams were just bad dreams. But you know what? FUCK THAT. Why do we even have to go through the pain and stress of being involved in a murder case? Why can't I just not dream about being the patsy in a global mercenary operation altogether? I'd rather dream about eating a Watermelon Italian Ice. If I dream about the Watermelon Italian Ice, at least I can actually satisfy that craving in real life. But no, back to the corporate scandal dreams, and the stressing over lawyer fees and that talking fucking spider that speaks Japanese, and my uncontrollable urge to piss even though all the toilets are actually Venus Fly Traps...

I'm so fucking envious of people with insomnia.

I also can't stand waking up from a fun dream and then trying to jump back to sleep so I can try to recapture it. Maybe if I close my eyes nice and tight then I will return to the mansion I just bought on the French Riviera with a skeetball alley. But nooooooooooo, there's no going back once old mister bladder comes bitching for relief. No, instead I end up falling asleep to a blank screen or returning to some bizzaro version of the mansion dream, where everything is all shitty and weird, like the alternate version of 1985 in "Back to the Future 2."

Hopefully, sometime in the near future, scientists will discover a way for the gen-pop to manipulate their dreams so you can use them as platforms to act out their twisted little fantasies without actually going out into public dressed as Shamu to fuck a fire hydrant. These machines will act like the precogs in "Minority Report," only less pale and creepy, and you know, not a living, breathing human being. Unfortunately, by the time this technology is invented, I'll probably be either dead or all fucking old and senile and shitting myself to appreciate this awesome tool. But I can be unselfish, believe it or not, so I do hope that future generations get to decide what they dream about. Because real life is rough, and there's no reason we should be going to bed to face a jury of bananas over a murder rap or walk the streets of Manhattan stark naked or think you've been given the GM job of the Yankees only to wake up and realize you're late for work and it's sleeting outside and your a white collar slob.

I Hate You, Bandwagon Fans

Coincidentally, I also hate Dane Cook

I'm not really a fan of the World Cup. While I do understand why people enjoy it, I know that it's just not for me. I don't know any of the players, I don't know all the rules, AKA I don't give a fuck who wins or loses or ties (note: ties are gay) or which country's dictator murders the goalie for failing to block 7,831 consecutive shots by a vastly superior team. In the end, it's just soccer, and I don't like the sport. Would I ever care about a New York Red Bulls game? Fuck no. I'd rather watch an old man get twisted up in a lawn hose and fall down a hill than watch a bunch of guys run around AstroTurf in front of a crowd of 12. But again, this is preference, so I don't judge. I don't like the sport, so I don't watch any form of it.

Personally, I save my rooting stamina and invest myself in the sports I truly enjoy to watch. I live and die with every insignificant headline. Wait, Darrelle Revis is unhappy? Unhappy with what? HOW UNHAPPY IS HE???

(chugs vile of cyanide)

I can't sleep some nights when the Yankees bullpen blows a game. FUCK YOU CHAN HO PARK, YOU SON OF A BITCH. Me, crazy? Try bat-shit crazy. But you can bet your ass that I know what it's like to be a real fan of a team. A fan that doesn't go to games just so he can tell his boss he went to a game. I go to games to get drunk and lose my voice and heckle opposing bullpens and offer my opinion about double-switches to a father and son sitting three rows ahead of me even though the dad didn't ask for it and is whispering to his son that he would rather have him grow up and become a gay pornstar named "Boner Stallone" than ever become an obsessed asshole like the guy sitting three rows back spilling his beer everywhere and cracking peanuts all over himself like a homeless man.

The best part is, as obsessed as I am, there are people 100x more obsessed than me. For instance, I own a Joe Klecko throwback jersey that I handlle like I would the Holy Grail, or a lock of Derek Jeter's hair, or newborn Jesus. But...There is someone out there who owns 17 Joe Klecko jerseys and spends his nights lying them all out on the floor so he can roll around naked in them. It's a fact. I know the guy. His name is Alonzo.

Of course, there is the ying to the die-hard's yang. On the other end of the spectrum are bandwagon fans. Aren't familiar with the term? Bandwagon fans are people who will overnight become the biggest fan of whatever sport is choice at the moment. Remember back in January 2008 when the Giants went to the Super Bowl and suddenly EVERYONE in New York was a life-long Giants fan? Even the maintenance guy in my building who had moved to America from Ecuador three months prior was suddenly able to recite Amani Toomer's career stats. I was fucking amazed by the shameful jump of thousands of apathetic people onto the Giants' swelling bandwagon. I was also fucking pissed. Because even though I live and die with Roger Vick, Lance Mehl and Browning Nagle, and I absolutely HATE the Giants, I still felt for the die-hard Giants fans who invested time in watching bad Giants teams and then had to deal with amatuer hour on the biggest night of their fucking life.

And I felt some of it last year, too, when the Jets surprised everyone, myself included, and made their way to the AFC Championship. But I was ready for it. I became a fucking hawk overnight, searching for people who I knew didn't give a shit about the Jets just a few days earlier, but would suddenly claim to be life-long fans. I was ready to end friendships over it. I was ready to do 25-to-life. I WAS READY FOR BLOOD. I wanted to stumble across Dan the sales planner who I knew liked the 49ers telling someone he was always a Jets fan and his dad is a Jets fan and his Uncle Carl has season tickets and the only reason he likes the 49ers is because he knows Alex Smith from sleepaway camp...blah blah blah, you know what you get for statements like that, Dan? Insecticide to yo face!

The World Cup is a prime example of bandwagon-ism at it's worst. If people just rooted for their favorite country without feeling the need to continually prove their dedication, I wouldn't care. But when peers act disappointed with me for not caring about the competition, I want to staple their assholes to their faces. Since when did you start caring about sports, Lily? Last I heard you were too busy caring about the affair you're having with Frank to give a shit about a soccer game. GASP - did I just go there? FUCKING-A RIGHT I DID.

Do you really want to see dedication to soccer/football? Go to any pub in England and throw on a team USA jersey. Hooligans will beat you to death with a chair in seven seconds. And then the cops will come and they will use your dead face as a toilet. And then the cops and the hooligans will throw your lifeless body into a sewer. Because soccer hooligans are fucking psychotically dedicated to their respective teams. But they are awesomely psychotic, because they fucking beat each other to a pulp over who's a bigger fan of which firm or which club. I wish baseball fandom was like this. I would love to arm myself with a fucking tire iron and go bash down the door to some Red Sox bar in SoHo and battle like I'm motherfucking William Wallace. And then when the cops come they don't arrest you, no, they decide who won the battle and then everyone gets shitfaced together and tries to replace their teeth with broken pool chalk. Doesn't happen this way? Well in my mind it does, buddy.

If you want to act out this charade where you're such a fucking patriot to the USA soccer team or some huge fan of a sport, fine, but please do it with someone who is playing the same game that you are. You can bullshit each other until you puke. Go paint your fucking chests and head to some trendy bar and cheer and yell and act like you give-a-shit even though you really don't. And do you know how I know that you don't give a shit? Because in a day or two you will be over the whole thing. In a day or two, you won't be defeated. You will be back to form, being the fat dickhead you are who smells like sauerkraut that's been sitting in the sun for too long. But like most idiots obsessed with a team, I have a hard time getting over big losses. I spent two weeks trying to get over the Jets loss to the Colts, even though I KNEW they had no real shot. Back in 2004, my brain literally erased any memories from the whole month of October, because I cannot relive the horseshit that happened over those 9 days, or I will scoop out my eyeballs with a melonballer. Does this make me cool? Abso-fucking-lutely not. But at least I'm not pretending, Mr. and Mrs. matching Landon Donovan jersey with the Modell's price tags hanging off them.

So, when the US eventually loses to fucking Italy or Finland or wherever, don't come crying to me. Because I will feign sorrow at first to lure you into a cosset of trust, but then burn your house down. The lesson? Dedicate your life to a sport that has no significance on your actual life, asshole, jeez, what's so fucking complicated about that?Look at me, look how well it's turned out for me?

/scrolls MLB Trade Rumors for 7 hours

I Hate Your Guilt Trip, Tip Line


I, for lack of a better term, am a sucker. I can't help myself from over-tipping people. "Oh thanks for doing your job, mister, here's 40% because I'm a bleeding-heart bitch when it comes to blue collar workers!"

You see, at one point in my life, I was a waiter. It might have lasted all of two months, because I was awful, but no matter, I still served food to people who were seated at a table and weren't related to me, so in essence, I was a waiter for a short period of time. One time I spilled a plate of salad on a guy. He was thrilled. Another time I chased a patron down and returned the $1.25 they tipped me on a $70 check. My boss thought that was just charming.

But I remember just how unforgiving the job was. You get paid nothing, get to see what happens in restaurants behind closed doors which in turn makes you NEVER want to step foot into a restaurant again unless you're drunk or starving, and if the people you are serving decide to be assholes, well, then you can forget about making any money. WHY DID MY BAKED ZITI TAKE A WHOLE 20 MINUTES TO MAKE??? ARE YOU RETARDED??? I MAKE MINE IN 7 MINUTES AT HOME WITH MY MICROWAVE, EVER HEARD OF ONE??? I DON'T CARE THAT YOU'RE NOT THE CHEF, IT'S STILL YOUR FAULT!!!

But I digress...

I tend to over-tip because whenever I'm in a restaurant, bad memories begin to resurface like I'm a veteran of the Tet Offensive watching a fireworks display at the town park. Did you see how heavy that plate looked? Maybe we should throw him another few bucks, no?

(wife takes wallet away from me and burns all the credit cards)

I also over-tip cab drivers. But with less reason because I've never been a cab driver. But in my thick, twisted brain, I believe that my extra $1 tip is going to help them bob above the poverty line. It won't, but still, I'm having none of it. Here you go sir, thank you for almost killing me when you ran that other cab off the road and then accelerating to 87 mph but slamming on the brakes every 30 seconds so my wife and I can go home and fight to see who will vomit first.

Again, the whole digressing thing...

Since there is no smooth segue into what I want to talk about, I'll just jump right in. I hate being handed receipts that have tip lines printed on them from people and stores that do not deserve tips. I buy coffee in the morning, they receipt has a tip line on it. I buy a roll of toilet paper, the grocer gives me a receipt with a tip line on it. What the fuck? Why are you giving me a guilt trip? Yes, yes, I know, I should just ignore it...BUT I CAN'T. Even when I go to get takeout food, I have to draw a slash through the tip line while the polite Asian lady watches me with absolute DISGUST. Spoiled American, doesn't want to give me extra money to make his food. But you know what? FUCK THAT. The point of takeout is so I don't have to sit around and have you serve me. You see, I'm a friend! A friend! Please, please, please don't spit in my Hunan Chicken next time I come here!

I'm also convinced that if you don't scribble over the tip line, the cashier will add a $50 tip to my receipt. I read about stories of Midwestern couples being swindled out of thousands of dollars by their local pizza place, and I scoff. BAHAHAHA, I bet they were too busy watching Fighting Illini games and eating fried cheese to notice their money being siphoned away! But then, the mind begins to go, and I start to panic. What if Juanita the coffee lady is slowly bleeding me dry of my hard earned money? What if she is taking a few bucks a day, and then a few more, and then a few more? So the next day I go in and give Juanita the evil eye and then she says something to me in Spanish that I don't understand and now our amicable relationship is RUINED.

It should be against the law to use receipt paper that includes a tip line if you're not a sit down and eat business. Fuck you, bakery, you do not get a tip for baking bread for the general public. It's not like I came in here and asked you to bake me a loaf of seeded Italian bread. If I didn't buy this loaf of delicious bread, someone else would have. You decided to become a baker - I didn't make you go to baking school. I don't ask for tips when I build presentations for clients, and they're kajillionaire cocksuckers. I should be getting tipped. I should be getting envelopes of tips from clients for doing their dirty work. They don't pay me. I don't see a dime of their money. And so what if I'm technically salaried to do a job that includes building presentations for them, the fucking movers job is to move your shit, and they get tipped on top of it, right? This whole fucking tipping business is backwards. I work my ass off and receive nothing extra, but Bobby the fucking pizza man hands you a slice of margherita and gets a bonus dollar for rotating his fat greasy hand from the oven to the counter. He handed you a slice of fucking pizza! I fucking photoshopped a picture of your CEO eating sushi inside a fucking spaceship with John Lennon! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE???

I Hate Your Poorly Produced Commercial



Everyone has had that moment where they were halfheartedly watching TV and halfheartedly dicking around on the internet, but not really putting effort into either activity because you are too tired from listening to someone tell you how mediocre your work performance has been recently, and that you could be doing better work if you weren't so tired all the time, but to also remember that tomorrow there is a client breakfast and you need to be on the 5am train along with all the heroin addicts so you can have time to greet the non-English-speaking Japanese executives who have no fucking clue what you're saying, but still demand you entertain them for a minimum of four hours with stories about video game conquests and Hideki Matsui. And just as you slowly enter that deep, funky haze and your brain lets its guard down, lulling you into the land of zero-cognitive-thought, a commercial begins airing on the TV that is the decibel equivalent of someone holding an airhorn to your ear and blasting it for 75 minutes. These are local commercials, and they fucking SUCK.

Every network provides air-time for local commercials. This is the first place where we should direct our angry mob. I can't say that I understand the metrics and financial intuition behind local advertising as opposed to national advertising - one would assume that there is always more money in national commercial breaks - but what the fuck do I know? I'm just the asshole with the oil stains on his button-down and beaded sweat on his brow because someone called maintenance and fucking complained about it being too chilly in the office, so they shut off the air conditioner again and now I'm going to die of heat stroke.

ANYWAY...All local commercials are un-fucking-bearable to watch. Never has one been created that would be mistaken for anything other than a video filmed by a homeless man on crystal-meth. I'd rather watch a tiger cub get beaten to death with a monkey wrench. And all the commercials have video quality of a Vietnamese snuff film, and star awful-looking people that look like Jeffrey Dahmer during different stages of his murder/cannibalism career. Mustache/comb-over/mustache/horse-shoe-hairdo/goatee/mustache/mask made of someone's skin...

One of the worst parts about these train-wrecks is when a guy who looks about as funny as a child falling down a well pops up onscreen and tries to be funny, but fucking fails MISERABLY. They have the comedic timing of a corpse. And they all deserve a steel baton to the cock for making me uncomfortable in my own living room. Wucka-Wucka, look, you threw fake money in the air! Well, I hope it spontaneously combusts and sets your head on fire. THANKS FOR MAKING ME SQUIRM BECAUSE YOUR STARE IS UNWAVERING LIKE A MASS-MURDERER AND YOUR TOUPEE FUCKING SUCKS.

And when the camera inevitably scans the dumpsters that these guys use to hock their products, I get even more angry. Look at those dirty Hondas and Mazdas - holy shit do your cars suck. I bet you fucked a hooker in one of them, didn't you? Oh yeah, Mr. PleatedKhakis, do you really have the best and cheapest appliances in New Jersey? I'm sure you do, and I'm sure it's because you rummaged through foreclosed houses and salvaged the stoves of people who have been thrown out into the street and shot. Glad you're using blood money to buy your brat kids an undeserved new car for their sweet sixteen even though they are going to wrap it around a telephone pole in two weeks, asshole.

Nothing about your commercial is clever. My nephew can edit better, and he's two fucking months old. By the way, hire some actors, you cheap fuck, because your wife looks orange and your kids look like they're as smart as a toilet seat. I bet they get spit on at school because you forced them to be in your shitty commercial. When your son finally admits to you that he's dating a transvestite named Gustavo and your daughter swears to you for the 15th time that she's shut down the glory hole for good, maybe then you will realize the error of your ways.

The best part about local commercials is that I will never buy anything from any of these assholes, EVER. And my decision is based solely on a stupid commercial that their stupid fucking friend told them would help business. Guess what, buddy? Your commercial isn't helping business. Quite the opposite, actually. It just HURT your business. See these crisp Lincolns I'm holding? WELL YOU CAN FORGET EVER FEELING THEIR BEAUTIFUL TEXTURE IN THE PALM OF YOUR HAND!

If these guys had any self respect, they would pull their commercials off the air so they would stop showing up on my TV at a volume level meant for Helen Keller, buy some clothes that fit, get a new family that doesn't suck, and then torch their store while still inside of it.

I Hate Your Pitiful Remakes, Hollywood


When I saw the trailer for the remake of Billy Zabka's immortal classic, "The Karate Kid," my initial reaction was to laugh it off. But I saw it again, and my scoffing turned into heavy breathing, which in turn gave me a sour stomach, which then began to produce thoughts of branding my eyeballs with iron rods stenciled with Pat Morita's face, hopefully sending me into a permanent state of insanity so I wouldn't be allowed near theaters showing this heaping pile-of-shit. Fuck you Will Smith's kid, you suck. And you too, Jackie Chan, you should be ashamed of yourself. RALPH MACCHIO WILL KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS!!!

(rocking back and forth in the corner)

So where does it end? Where does Hollywood draw the line and stop destroying classics so they can milk fat, brain-dead idiots who don't know any better than to just toss away their cash to see movies they can already see for less money by buying the original DVD from Target for $5.99, minus the absurd amount of added special effects and John Travolta's neatly-cropped mustache?

I fully understand that Hollywood is a business. Oh, you thought it was all about red carpets and magic and marquee lights, and the story behind a sweet innocent Kansas City teenager getting her big-break and then turning into a superstar overnight and then winning an Oscar, and then making a bomb costarring Kevin Costner and then falling from grace and subsequently acquiring a taste for some choice Bolivian Marching Powder and then making a sex tape with a 7'4'' MMA fighter from Algeria that eventually turns out to be her "rock bottom" which in turn sends her into rehab which then creates the perfect stage for an epic comeback? Well guess what - YOU'RE WRONG. It doesn't work that way. Only your stupid brain works that way, probably because of all those whip-its you did in the parking lot of a Dave Matthews concert back in 1997. Producers will do ANYTHING to make a dollar. A remake of "Gone with the Wind"...SET ON THE SUN? I love it, how quickly can it be green-lit? "The Wizard of Oz" re-imagined as a slapstick comedy starring those two gay kids from "Twilight"? How much should I make the check out for? There is no limit to the madness.

Where are the original ideas? If we could clone Charlie Kaufman and the Coen brothers, we may be able to salvage the movie business, but my prototype cloning machine isn't working properly, because instead of making another me it keeps spitting out soggy toast. So, until I get this shit worked out, we are all FUCKED.

(plants screwdriver into light socket)

It's gotten to the point where movies are being remade before the originals are even dated. How about "The Hulk"? That shit was remade like 16 months after Ang Lee made his horse-shit version. And both of them sucked. And there are rumors swirling right now about "Spiderman" being re-imagined already. WHAT THE FUCK? At least when the Batman franchise started up again in 2005, it had been ten years since that hack Joel Schumacher turned the last two Batman movies of the 1990's into a fucking off-Broadway musicals about two sexually frustrated men wearing costumes with plastic nipples fighting off villains covered in neon paint. *Shudders* Couldn't have been gayer. And at least the two newest versions featured an awesome director in Christopher Nolan*. But soon he will tire of the franchise, and so will Christian Bale, and then Kevin Smith will take over as director and hire Orlando Bloom to star and I'll be too busy to notice because I will be dangling from a highway overpass.

I used to love IMDB. I cruised that site more often than Ricky Martin does a Santa Ana truck stop. I'm always checking out what's coming up in the next few years, getting overexcited about shit that will probably die before it even reaches pre-production. But recently, I've found myself staying away from the site because I've been coming across remake after remake after remake of movies that have NO BUSINESS being remade. "The Warriors"? Really? Fuck you, Tony Scott. You're moving the setting to Los Angeles, and it's going to be set in the modern day? So why even call it "The Warriors"? Oh that's right, because you want to use the name of the original movie and rape any happy memories fans have of the original, you fucking cock.

At one point I came across a listing for "The Wild Bunch," and next to the title was a future date, like 2011 or something. I immediately began loading a pistol and searching for the producer's home address. But as I investigated further, I realized it was actually a cartoon about wild animals that was using the title and poster image of the original. Get it, The Wild Bunch? WUCKA-WUCKA! What a great idea for producers to model a cartoon after a movie in which 90,000 Mexicans are Swiss-cheesed with a Gatling Gun by the baddest motherfucking cowboys ever, and a bunch of innocent people are slaughtered on the streets by crossfire, and throats are slit and people are shot in the face? PERFECT for the kids. But seriously, why would ANYONE pick this movie's title as a moniker for a kid's cartoon? What fucking idiot thinks a 5 year old is going to make the connection to a movie made 41 years ago? And what fucking idiot thinks a parent will make the connection and then say, "Oh honey, I think it's time little Bobby is introduced to the world of MURDER. After all, he just turned five."

Someone also had the bright idea to remake "Red Dawn." Never heard of it? That's because you're a COMMUNIST. In short, it's a movie about eight American kids from Colorado who band together to fight off a Russian/Cuban invasion. It was made at the height of the Cold War in 1984. It starred Charlie Sheen, Patrick Swayze, Jennifer Grey, and C.Thomas Howell. And it was AWESOME. I totally wanted to be a wolverine. I would fucking destroy those Commie bastards and free all my friends from the concentration camps in my town and become a legend. But the movie was also terrifying. Kids were killed, people were executed; it was really intense. The premise was obviously ridiculous, but still, the movie made you think about what would happen if the U.S. was invaded. Anyhoo, the remake is set to be released this November. I suggest boycotting it. Did I mention Tom Cruise's son is in this? He totally looks like a little bitch. This is going to seriously suck...

None of these straight remakes are worth pissing on, even if the only cut of the film is burning in a garbage can. They're not worth my spit, which is why I have stopped spitting on the move posters. They are all stupid. Most re-imaginings are too. But for some reason, they rake in cash at the movie theaters. I blame MTV. But my biggest question is, are any films are off-limits? Are there plans to remake "The Godfather"? If so, someone please shoot me in the face with a elephant gun, because I do not want to part of the human race when that happens. Thanks.



*my only beef with "The Dark Knight"? Maggie Gyllenhaal. No way am I buying that a billionaire playboy wants to fuck her. To be perfectly honest, there's no way am I buying anyone wanting to fuck her. She looks like the mushy pumpkin. There are 4,000 leading ladies out there and every-single-one of them would have been a better choice. Even her brother would have been a better choice. I have a hard time getting past this, because every time I watch it, I'm like C'MON, NOLAN, GYLLENHAALL, REALLY? WHAT THE FUCK???

I Hate Your Fake Diligence


Most people do things because they are attention whores. They are not motivated enough to actually do the task they are imitating, so instead, they just pretend to do it. It's called a ruse, and I fucking hate it. Like that girl you're friends with who, every night you go out, inevitably ends up crying and carrying on, cursing out bouncer and making a HUGE scene for no reason other than she's a drama-starved-bitch, mascara running down her face, shoes off, ten-inch ash dangling from her cigarette like the old lady who snoozes on her porch with a lit butt and eventually lights her nightgown on fire. Or the guy who goes to the gym, owns more gym clothes than Jack-fucking-Lalanne, has 17 iPod shuffles, but spends most of his time walking around talking with girls who think he's cool because he wears his $400 sunglasses inside, and flexing his coke-sculpted arms in the mirror.

It's all about the ego. People servicing their ego because they are really full of shit and feel the need to be something they are most definitely not. And you know what? I don't care. I really don't. If it doesn't affect my day, feel free to wear a fucking astronaut suit on the subway. Dress up like a fucking Navy SEAL and call in air strikes in Central Park. I don't give a fuck about your need for attention. But if what you do does interfere with me, what I'm doing, than you can go drive your car into a volcano.

For instance, I was at a bar last Friday. It was relatively crowded; Friday, happy hour - it's a given that most bars at this time will be more crowded than they are on a Tuesday at 10am, when all the most awesome people in the world do their drinking. So I was fine with the stuffiness. But I was a little annoyed because, for whatever reason, the bar owner thought that, since it was hotter outside than Mumbai in the summer, it was perfect weather to turn off the air conditioner and let in some nice, balmy, lung-choking air. Terrible idea. But I was dealing with it because I was drinking and there was still daylight outside, and drinking during the daytime is fucking awesome. So, at some point I went to get another round and upon my return to our table, I accidentally brushed up against a bunch of papers hanging off a neighboring table. My initial reaction was to apologize, because sometimes lonely old bastards take their newspapers to the bar and pretend to read while they're really wishing they weren't 80 and being beckoned by death. And I do feel bad for these guys, so I wanted to say, "Hey sorry, pops, didn't see you breathing over there, I thought you were DEAD! Know what I mean, eh, eh, eh?"

But when I looked down, it was just some young doof wearing a salmon colored shirt, one hand holding a pen, the other holding down the pages of a text book. He was alone. All over the table were papers and books. He couldn't have been older than 26-27. And he was giving me a dirty look, like I was the fucking problem. I wanted to break my beer bottle against the table and grind it into his face, because that is the exact punishment he deserved for acting insulted because I, a patron of the bar who is there to spend fucking money to get drunk, accidentally brushed his fucking lab papers off the side. But I didn't maim him. Instead I went back to my table and did what you're supposed to fucking do in a bar. Still, I couldn't help but wonder why the fuck this guy packed up his law/business/grad school work and decided, "You know what? I think I'll go do my 40 page paper outline at O'Connell's. There's just something about being surrounded by a hundred drunk people while baking in 90 degree heat that gets me motivated to do some hard, honest work."

What a fucking LOSER. He was at the bar pretending to do work because he was desperately hoping some girl would notice him and she would think he was Will Hunting or some sort of fucking cool intellectual. OH, HE IS SO SMART, HE EVEN DOES WORK AT THE BAR - I SHOULD BLOW HIM! I bet his girlfriend just dumped him for a Persian coke dealer and he had been out of the game for so long that he had no other gameplan. Well guess what, buddy? Your fucking gameplan SUCKS. Everyone is making fun of you. Even that fat guy who looks like Peter Jackson with Rag├╣ stains on his shirt thinks you're a dork. You've had that same pint of Wheat-Holland-Bullshit for an hour and a half, it must be like fucking hot chocolate now. I've drank 37 bottles of Miller Lite during the same time frame - who fucking rocks more, huh? If the bartender smartens up and stops trying to bang that married woman who is clearly waiting for her husband while flirting and working him for free drinks, he will hopefully heave you into the gutter for taking up a whole table to not spending money so you can pretend to do work.

This is not Europe. We do not go to bars to do anything besides drink heavily and/or try to convince someone to have sex with us. Want to pretend to read a A Light in August? Well...HOW DOES MOTHERFUCKING "MAN IN THE BOX" SOUND AT FULL VOLUME WHILE YOU'RE TRYING TO CONCENTRATE??? You're lucky the alcoholics who normally sit at the table where you've placed your fag-bag and cashmere scarf don't tear your pockets out of your pants and then beat you with a guardrail out back.

Being fake sucks. But I understand the practice will never go away. It should be curbed, though, held to arenas created for the assholiest of assholes - lounges and clubs with one syllable like Dusk and Night and Heat and Cream, places reserved for douchebagery. You see, young man with papers everywhere, this is a bar. A real fucking bar. People get punched in the fucking face here. And no one sues. No one here owns a summer house. No one here talks about stocks. No one here went to summer camp. If you feel like drinking too much and vomiting on yourself and the table and the floor, go right ahead. Remember, if the name of the place begins with an "O" and ends with an "S" do not come in and pretend that you are studying for your MBA.

I Hate Your Litter


When I was a kid, I littered all the time. When you're a kid, you don't understand shit like the ozone layer and greenhouse gasses. Oh, there's an invisible shield hovering over us, protecting the human race from incineration via the sun? That's interesting. But do you know what's even more interesting? Discussing whether or not the new Optimus Prime is really the same as the old Optimus Prime, because I think it's a SHAM!

Kids are fucking dumb. I was fucking dumb. So, I threw shit out the car window whenever my mom wasn't paying attention. The bigger the better. I knew there wouldn't be severe repercussions, so I would crack the window and drop shit out the window and watch it flutter into the wind, most likely landing in a lake and hopefully strangling some Canadian Geese, because they are the spawn of Satan. But still, look how quickly it fucking flew away - the window is like my own vacuum cleaner!

And this is the reason why I give kids a break in this area of concern. But once you turn say, 17, you should definitely be finished littering. Because before you turn 17 and can drive everywhere, you still have the need to dump empty beer and Popov Vodka bottles in the woods and into reservoirs (fuck you, Manhattan tap water). It's just the way it is. But there are so many fat, lazy fucking assholes on this planet, it's inevitable that many of them will continue littering well into adulthood.

Recently, while waiting for a subway in balmy 95 degree underground steam-heat, fighting off the urge to walk back above ground and jump into the East River and hope for the poison in the water melt me, I noticed a 50+ year old woman eating a big bag Cheetos nearby. Eating is a polite way of saying: she was stuffing her stubby Carney-hands into the bag and transferring handfuls of orange shit into her fucking face faster than the speed of light. Obviously, I had a problem with this immediately, because the last thing Mrs. Augustus Gloop and her knock-knees needed was more saturated fat pulsing through her clogged arteries. Also, she was wiping the cheese dust on her pants, which made me want to simultaneously vomit and cry, because that shit is made out of equal parts processed-cow-asshole, grease, and horror. When she finished, she wiped her hands clean and then chucked the empty bag onto the tracks, and then went back to wiping sweat from her head and developing heart disease. And she tossed the garbage so nonchalantly - no sly peaking to see if anyone was watching her actions, no behind-the-back toss, no worries at all. Just, HUM-DEE-DUM, HERE YOU GO PUBLIC, HERE'S SOME MORE GARBAGE FOR YOU. CARE? OH I DON'T CARE, AS LONG AS I'M MILKED AND SHELTERED AND FED FRESH HAY WHY WOULD I GIVE A FUCK IF I AM A SHITTY PERSON?

Now, I hate the MTA. I fucking wish the MTA would go bankrupt so everyone was forced to ride bicycles around like we were in 19th century London. The MTA fucking sucks. Everything about the MTA sucks - the perpetually skyrocketing fares, suffocation by overcrowding, changing a local to an express mid-ride, no motherfucking air conditioner when it's 150 degrees outside - but I still have the decency to not throw my garbage all over the place. Would I like to upturn garbage cans and start small fires and maybe incite a riot and overturn a subway car and maybe corral a bunch of the Mole People and train them to be my own personal army? Of course I would. But I don't.

The worst part about the incident with the lady was, there was a trash can about thirteen feet away from where she was standing. And I know that this woman saw it. But she decided that exerting minimal amounts of energy TO WADDLE over to it would be too much of a hassle, so she said, fuck it. Well guess what lady, WE ALL WANT TO SAY FUCK IT. Who doesn't want to just toss their garbage everywhere? Hey, let me see if I can loft this empty soda bottle onto that brownstone's roof! I think about doing shit like that all day long. Finished with my coffee? I want to launch it onto the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza and hopefully hit one of those middle-aged losers pretending he's Kim Yu-Na. Oh look, I'm done with my sandwich - that Cartier storefront window looks like it needs some motherfucking pastrami and spicy mustard on it! It's a constant impulse that my brain has. Just do it, man, just fucking do it. Everyone else is doing it. Throw your Dunkin Donuts cup on the street. It will feel soooo good.

But I don't do it. I can't. I don't want to be like that fat blob in the subway. I have zero discipline with most things in life, the least I can do is wait four seconds to rid my hands of garbage and toss it in one of the 8,000 garbage cans lining the street.

The next instance happened at a drive-thru window in my hometown, which is filled with entitled douchebags who all deserve to be beaten with a bamboo cane. I was stuck behind this chic, maroon minivan that was bursting at the seams with insane little kids fighting and yelling and rocking the car back and forth on its axles. I never got a look at the mom in the driver's seat - all I saw was her turkey-neck arm sticking out. But I could tell she was annoying just by the way her profile jerked around and shook as she screamed at everyone inside the car, and then gestured at the person serving her to hand her 900,000 extra napkins. After she finished passing along the food from the drive-thru, she pulled over to a parking spot near the exit and began heaving trash from inside her car onto the pavement. Bottles, used tissues, food, empty bottles of Windex. My jaw dropped - it was fucking INSANE. I was in shock. Literally, my body was humming. She then lobbed about half the napkins she bitched for RIGHT BACK OUT THE WINDOW. Before I had a chance to fully process what happened, she was pulling out into the street and then she was gone. I hoped that later on in the night, she would be mauled by a Kodiac Bear, but I couldn't find anything in the papers about it the next day. Fucking Karma, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU FOR THIS ONE???

We are fucked. As a society, we are fucked. It's beyond repair. And I've come to terms with the logistics of this. But I will never be able to comprehend how someone just unloads their trash so I can sit next it while I'm trying to find a good song to tune-out the Jamaican lady who's holding up a tattered Bible and preaching about something but no one can understand her because she's screaming and angry and totally contradicting herself. But at least we have Earth Week!

I Hate Building My Own Furniture


If I could trade places with someone born wealthy, just for a day, there are 3 things I'd make them do to truly experience what it's like to be a blue collar dickhead with a mortgage and car payments and a closet full of faded Van Heuesen button-downs.

1. Work in an office.
As we all know, this fucking sucks. Unless you are the CFO of a Fortune 500 company and you have a 2,500 sq ft office that overlooks heaven, complete with a hot tub and a Brooklyn Decker doppelganger as your assistant, or you have a time machine that takes you back to the "Mad Men" era of advertising and you can smoke cigarettes and drink scotch and slap any passing-ass during a client pitch, working in an office is as fun as covering your face with turpentine and then lighting it on fire.

2. Commute
Not many things are worse than commuting. Now, these rich assholes may spend lengthy amounts of time in a car while idling, but most likely they're in the back blowing coke and having unprotected sex with Brazilian models and berating the driver for the city's uncontrollable congestion. That's not too hard to endure. I'd also include a couple of subway rides too, because, as we all know, they are Satan's playground. Every time that I read a story about some rich asshole saying they love how charming New York City is, I want to invite them down to the Union Square 4/5/6 platform during August rush hour and see how fucking charmed they are when someone begins playing the electronic saxophone into their eardrum and the guy in front of them begins emitting an odor that smells like a rotting waterlogged corpse. Let's see how fucking charmed they are then...

3. Build a Piece of Cheap Furniture
Yes, you guessed it, this will be the topic for today. Putting together furniture is more fucking difficult and painstaking than trying to work a faulty vending machine while drunk.

To expand on this topic...

Since I moved out of my parent's house and went to college, I've probably put together 5,000 different pieces of furniture from 100 different vendors. None of them physically exist anymore, because they were all pieces of shit. When you see the desired piece on display or in the box, you immediately think, "Wow, this looks great, it's perfect for displaying all the difficult books I pretend to read!" But then you go home and begin to assemble it and the shit is all types of fucked up, and you want to explode. The holes for the pegs aren't big enough (that's what she said), the midget screws are stripped, and sometimes the cheap wood is peeling. You feel violated. WHAT THE FUCK, I SPENT $79.99 ON THIS BED AND IT SUCKS???

Nothing will make you feel more inept than failing to assemble something stupid, like a nightstand. It's a fucking nightstand. What is difficult about four sides, four legs, and a top? Well, when the directions are written by a Swedish Savant and the drawings are more complicated than "The Ramsey Theory," it's no wonder the piece-of-shit comes out looking like it belongs in an alley next to a strung-out hobo.

God forbid you try and buy furniture from a place that sells things already assembled. Nothing EVER costs what the ticket price says. Stores list them cheaper so you will come in, ask about it, feel stupid when they price you out, and then make fun of you as you go back to your studio apartment, shut the shades, and cry about how much of a failure you are.

You: I'd like to buy this desk.

Clerk: Oh, what a fine choice. This antique Californian Redwood table is varnished with the marrow of a Siberian Tiger Teddy Roosevelt killed with a crossbow, and is held together by screws made out of human femur chips. It's one of our most popular pieces we have. Shipping and delivery will cost you $5,500 because the table can only be flown from California to New York in an HU-16 Albatross. We have a special payment plan that will only cost you $899 a month plus taxes for the rest of eternity. Now, can I have your address?

You: (blows brains out)

And there is really nothing you can do about the furniture business. You can't build your own. That's just fucking stupid. About 30 people in this country can build their own furniture, and they're smart enough to know that some rich old bitch will pay 1,000% over the production cost because it's considered "one-of-a-kind" and "modern-vintage." Well, fuck you, modern vintage. Look over here at this table I MADE. I made it out of a fucking tree stump from a tree I cut down in Madison Square Park. And I carved a picture of Steve McQueen fucking Ali McGraw into the wood. Price? $100,000 - it's NEW-AGE-VINTAGE-OBSCURA!

The best part is, I'm building a bookcase right now as I write this, because I am a rube. And staying true to my bitch-fest above, it fucking BLOWS. I've had to reassemble shit like five times already. Oh look, the leg is in the wrong spot, what a happy fucking surprise. On top of the instructions sucking, I've had to stop myself from grabbing the hammer and absolutely destroying the fucking bookshelf's life. Oh man, it would just be so satisfying to hear the splintering of wood. I wouldn't even mind cleaning up the mess - just to see it ruined would make me happy for a month. "Remember that bookcase I had? Well, I fucking smashed it to pieces with a rubber mallet. It was amazing. What do you mean I'm an idiot. YOU'RE A FUCKING IDIOT!"

I Hate You, Mr. Uninformed


Be honest with me for a moment. Be honest with me and stop telling people that you made-out with Alexis Bledel at 1Oak one night last summer. Stop telling people that you are being recruited by Viacom to be the new Director of Media Sales and that they are enticing you with a brand new SLK. Stop telling people you can do 100 push-ups without a break when we all can clearly see your bitch-tits through your sweat-stained shirt. Stop being a liar and come clean with me here, just once, just for a moment...

Do you know who Che Guevara is?

I bet you don't. Most people don't. They know his face, but not who he was or what he did. And that's perfectly okay. But somehow, he still remains an icon for counterculture Americans and anti-government movements. And that's fucking annoying. Because 96% of all people involved in counterculture movements are scraggly-haired douchebags with trust funds and silver spoons shoved up their ass.

I know a little about Che. I know that some people love him, and people hate him. And then there's me. I don't give a shit about him. Because he is dead. But I do care about his image, and the assholes that use it to say: Yeah, I may be eating a turkey club here at this cafe, but I am so against our country's foreign policy, and you know what? That cop over there better not come over here and tell me to stop smoking cigarettes even though it's banned because this is a free country and I'll fucking sue that pig and take his house because my dad is a lawyer and even though I hate him for not this I'll use it to fall back on when I eventually get thrown out of whatever small, piece-of-shit liberal arts college I go to.

I don't get involved in the politics behind Che Guevara. I don't want to. But I don't particularly like counterculture. It's just too much of a hassle, you know, to care, because I realize that I'm powerless. But some people live to fight shit the government wants to implement. Not me, it just becomes an inconvenience. Ever get caught in protest traffic? It takes all the might in my dark little heart to not punch the gas and drive over these chanting dummies at 60 mph. Manslaughter would never have tasted so sweet. Oh, you hate the government? Go fucking move to North Korea and abide to that shoe-lift-wearing, Dolce&Gabbana-clad lunatic's laws and see just how fucking fun other countries governments really are. Now, I'm not in agreement with everything the government does; who is? But what I hate more than paying sales tax on a fucking soda are rich, whiny nerds who throw on a Che t-shirt and go protest the building of a fucking reservoir dam. Yes, yes, yes, taxes suck. Nuclear weapons suck. Our country's unquenchable thirst for oil and power sucks. But is it all really that bad? No, it's not. If you prance around city hall with posterboard, do you honestly fucking believe that it will change anything? If you do, you need to have a date with oncoming traffic, because you're more worthless than a woman's Armani powersuit in Iran.

You are privileged. Get-fucking-over-it. You have been given the gift of financial stability. There are literally a billion other people in this world who would chop off their foot with a paper cutter to be in your position. OHHHH, YOU THINK THAT THE MAN IS OUT TO GET YOU BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO ANTE UP SOME EXTRA MONEY PER MONTH FOR YOUR STUDENT PARKING SPOT??? Try wandering through a Sudanese desert, naked, while your government tries to wipe you out by dropping bombs on your fucking head and sicking Arabic murahaleen with swords on you. Oh, and YOU'RE ONLY FUCKING SEVEN YEARS OLD!

Read David Eggers, "What is the What" to really feel good about not being born in a war-torn country.

Want to help someone? Study to be a doctor. Or a scientist. Join the Peace Corps and go build houses for people who lost their home to a tornado. Have you ever even seen real tornado damage? It's shit-your-pants-scary. Maybe do something noble and teach inner-city youth? Don't like any of these options? Go do heroin in an abandoned box factory. I promise you that if you take this route, no government official will ever bother you. Yes, you may end up on the painful receiving end of a romp with Harold the giant homeless rapist, but at least no one will be taxing the money you make cleaning windshields near the highway overpass.

Unless you're someone cool like Banksy, you have no business strutting around in a Che shirt. You are not special. You are not going to change the world. Pretty soon you're going to knock-up that hippie chick with the dreds named Starlight and have a kid and end up buying a mini-van. And one day while you're on your way to play golf with some other financial swindler, you will get just as pissed off as I do because you will be caught in motherfucking traffic caused by a bunch of 23 year old losers picketing the government's ban on travel to Turkmenistan. And I GUARANTEE that at least one of them will be wearing a Che shirt.

I Hate Parking Lot Jockeys


As I've stated before, I am relatively lazy. I get lazy over stupid things. I would rather carry Dom DeLuise's coffin up thirty flights of stairs than get off the couch to turn off the lights in the hallway. Little things turn into earth-shattering dilemmas. Who the fuck put the hamper seven feet away from where it used to be? You expect me to get up and walk over to it, and then put my shirt into it? Fuck no, not happening. How about I stay seated and I try to throw it in?

(throws shirt)
(shirt lands five feet short of hamper on top of lit candle)
(fire)

It's a given that I do things like this at least fourteen times a day. I almost starve daily because I don't feel like walking outside to get food, even though this is Manhattan and there are 5,000 places to get food withing arm's reach. That rumbling you hear, it's called STARVATION. But fuck it, I'll just chew on some printer paper and see how long that keeps my stomach from turning cannibal and feasting on itself.

But I will never get lazy over things that will ultimately become an inconvenience. I can't be inconvenienced. DO NOT INCONVENIENCE ME. I am busy. Can't you see me pretending to do shit even though I'm really imagining who will play the lead in the movie version of "World War Z"? Exactly, I'm busy, so leave me the fuck alone. I would honestly rather spend an extra $400 on a TV than ever step foot into an electronics store during a major sale. I treat those places like tuberculosis hospices.

But over the weekend, I had to go to Home Depot to get some shit even though I knew that the parking lot would be an absolute mob scene filled with douchebags trying to out-douchbag other douchebags with their douchebag BBQ spread. Honestly, I was still not prepared for what I encountered. Holy-fucking-shit, I completely forgot just how ridiculous these places get during holiday weekends. It was like a methadone clinic opened up outside a rehab center. The parking lot was swarming with fat assholes who would rather spend three hours baking in their Dodge Stratus's, waiting for a spot within throwing distance of the front door than just park a good distance away and waddle their asses through the front door. Oh no, that would involve EXERCISE. There were cars standing idle everywhere, blocking traffic, and slowly trailing people to their car like perverts outside a Victoria's Secret. And everyone was fucking PISSED. About what? I have no idea. No one is ever forced to go to Home Depot, they made the decision to tear their stupid kids out of the house, pack them into the car, and drive them to a place that is as interesting to them as learning about the economic trends of Indonesia. But regardless of whether it was voluntary, these people were honking and screaming out their windows and yelling at their kids with such ferocity that their Blue Blockers were falling down their noses and dangling from their gullets. And some of them would get so upset that they would peel out and almost mow down elderly couples trying desperately to avoid both heat stroke and these fucking lunatics simultaneously.

The scene was a living, breathing oxymoron. Mr. Obese McFatshit, who spends twenty-three hours a day lying on his couch watching TruTV bloated and limp like a rotting whale carcass, and then suddenly realizes that he needs to restock on pork loin and Gouda, rolls off his couch and heads to the store where he loses his patience in seven seconds because the truly handicapped people are having a tough time loading their new wheelchairs into the back of their Honda*. It was shocking just how quickly people flew off the handle over situations they placed themselves in. HOW DARE YOU TAKE LONG TO MOVE YOUR CAR FROM THE SPOT I AM WAITING FOR? I'M HERE WAITING AND BLOCKING 67 CARS FROM PROCEEDING WITH THEIR LIVES BECAUSE I AM A FUCKING WORTHLESS DRAG ON SOCIETY!

I wanted to put polished nickel lawn furniture through each and every one of their windshields.

I can't mentally comprehend how or why someone could actually want to wait in line for a fucking parking spot. I like parking far away. It's not like I enjoy the exercise, but I do enjoy the space. Driving through spots to face bumper out is fucking awesome, just in case I need to make a quick getaway because I'm suddenly caught up in a heist and have to shoot my way out. When I'm out there all alone, at the back of the lot by the broken bottles and overgrown weeds, I pretend like I'm Mad Max and my area is the motherfucking Thunderdome. Just my car and a broken shopping cart and a vagrant wearing woman's Uggz with fuzzy tassels. Look at all you peasants fighting for your tiny spaces - I have an acre to park my car! Come out here and I will disembowel you with a fence post!

The worst offenders are the people who pull up on the curb right next to the entrance. There is a funnel of four-hundred-people-per-second going inside the store, and now everyone has to struggle past the bumper of a Chrysler Grand Voyager because this asshole thinks he is the most important person in the world. Oh, you need to get in? Well I need a new lawn chair, so have fun milling past my dirty car and getting dust all over your pants while my wife gives a clerk shit about some expired coupon she found in the Pennysaver and holds up the checkout line for an hour. If God was really vengeance-driven, he would have this person's tire explode while they they are texting and driving down the highway, and laugh as their van tumbles down an embankment and lands belly up in a shallow riverbed that's filled with alligators. Lesson served, sir.

Maybe I should be more mindful and not try my patience by going to these places during peak hours. But then again, what gives people the right to be such unmindful fucks? In the Utopia that my creepy brain creates, there is a guard who designates spots for people in busy parking lots. Crippled? There you go, right up front near the door. Mercedes? You will use that spot next to the rusted coupe with nine kids swinging the doors open and closed like fucking dent-inducing guillotines. Parking lot jockey with fast food bags all over your interior? Well, let's see. Umm, question 1: do you have a FUPA? Why, of course you do. Question 2: do you breath heavy while eating? Yes? Okay, see that pine tree cresting over the horizon, disappearing with the curve of the Earth? That's where you park. Try not to die on your way to the store.




*I can't stand when I see a gigantic pig with a handicapped pass dangling from their rearview mirror. It's absurd. When I see this, I start wishing that Red Dawn would actually happen, and Communism would sort these issues out. Extreme? Fucking-A right it is, but we're out of options, friends.