I Hate Your Poor Service

Since most colleges are holding their graduations in these next few weeks, I got to thinking about all the young, ambitious, starry-eyed-grads with high-hopes and lofty dreams, ready to be released upon the real world, looking to take it by the horns, tame it, pet it, calm it, kiss its silky fur, name it "Big Blue," and then walk across this great country with Big Blue, conquering it city by city, state by state. But after about a week of graduation parties and a week of searching Monster.com, and a few weeks of your mom bitching at you for leaving cigarette butts on the driveway and wasting the day because you're sleeping until 1pm, you will soon realize you need a fucking job, and you will take the first thing that comes along, and it will be as a waiter at a chain restaurant, taking my food order and attending to my beverage needs. Because that's the way life works, so deal with it. You didn't go to Harvard, you went to fucking Ramapo College, what do you expect, $75K, a company car, plus motherfucking stock options? No, you get a stupid vest and a stupid notepad and a stupid hat, and you will like it!

I know the drill, I was a waiter at one point in my life. Not right after college, no, right after college I was too busy being drunk and depressed that college was actually over and pissed that everyone thought blacking-out on a Tuesday while watching a pre-season game between the Lions and the Chiefs wasn't fun anymore. I waited tables during my junior year of college, for about three months, before I realized waiting tables sucks and that bartending fucking ruled. But during that short time wearing an apron and carrying burning hot plates of Baked Ziti while trying not to drop it on anyone's head or eat it myself, I developed a serious respect for the job. What I also realized was, besides how hard waiting tables is and how little respect you get, I also realized that the more shitty I acted, the less cash I received as a tip. And that sucks. You feel like a fucking slave when you wait on some fat shit and his fat wife and his fat fucking kids for an hour and get nothing in return because you were staring at them like they were infected with the Bubonic Plague the whole time. And watching those dumplings waddle out of the restaurant, well, those were the times I wished assault with a deadly weapon were legal.

So, I'm here to tell you what you shouldn't do while waiting tables. Not should, shouldn't. I do give a fuck about what makes a good waiter. I only know about the shit that makes you suck and makes me hate you. And that's why I'm going to help you maximize your cash, because I know you need to scrape together as much as cash possible in order to move out of your cushy rent-free room at your parent's house and move into a 200 sq. ft. closet on the Lower East Side that is musty and smells like a corpse and is infested with cat-sized rats so you can bang that slut girlfriend of yours without having to shush her every time you here the floorboards above you creek. Just trying to live the dream, I know, I know, so listen closely, or continue to enjoy sneaking people in and out of your basement for the next five years of your twenties.

First, don't fucking forget to read me the menu specials. I need to know the specials when I sit down. If I'm forced to ask for them, but am then told that they are right there on the back of the menu, I will have to decide whether or not I jump up and sink my steak knife into your head or slink down in my chair and pout for being an idiot.

Second, don't forget to check on me at least once throughout my meal and see if I'm doing okay. Just once. Not ten times - once. Make sure I don't anything for my food, or check to see if I'm missing some sort of fancy sauce. If I get food that requires sauce, and it isn't there, I fucking freak. Don't promise and titillate me with the idea of Chipotle Honey Baked BBQ Sauce if you're just going to deny me of the tangy heaven. And also, I cannot concentrate on any other fucking thing happening around me if I run out of whatever I'm drinking. A man could set his fucking face on fire in protest of the restaurant's use of chemicals in their meat, but I'll be in a complete fucking panic - WATER, I NEED SOME FUCKING WATER TO DRINK! ARE THEY FUCKING BLIND? CAN'T THEY SEE I'M DEHYDRATED???

Also, I know you see me sitting here, my plate wiped clean like it just came out of the dishwasher, so stop stalling and bring me the check already. I'm going to puke, I need to go home. I don't want any coffee, it's ten o'clock at fucking night, just bring me the fucking check. I don't need to see it, I know you added in a calamari salad that I didn't order, but I don't care, just run my fucking debit card so I can get the fuck out of here before I walk over to that table of ten wearing business casual and start tossing glasses of wine in their brazenly loud, stupid faces. I stopped eating thirty minutes ago, why the fuck am I still sitting here being ashamed of how disgusting I am and being forced to listen to shithead over there tell the table about his golf handicap? What did I do to you to deserve this?

Oh yeah, and waiter, don't try to be my friend. I don't want to banter with you. I don't want to bullshit or trade hysterical remarks back and forth. Do you really give a fuck how my night was? Do you? Well since you insist, I'll tell you how it was - I strangled a drifter behind the Port Authority Bus Station and then rolled his body into the Hudson River. Why? Because HE WOULDN'T LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE! Now explain to me why do you feel the need to linger? No offense, but I don't want to become friends with you. Are we going to start hanging out, going to Yankees games together? That would be fucking weird.

Wife: Who are you going to the game with?
Me: Frank.
Wife: Who's Frank? Do I know a Frank?
Me: Yeah, Frank from Lucia's. The waiter, Frank, from Lucia's.
Wife: (packs suitcase and leaves)

And most importantly - possibly the most important thing for a waiter to remember actually - do not recommend an entree unless I ask you for your opinion. Appetizer suggestion? Fine. Tell me all about those fucking scallops. If they suck, I can recover with the main course. But never fuck with my head when I'm trying to order the shit that will no longer make me hungry. Seriously, if I have something in my head that I am set on ordering, and you go and say, "You should try the Filet, it's divine!" I will burn the fucking restaurant down. Because I will end up agonizing over the decision and ultimately get what you tell me, because I am a sheep and assume we share the same taste. And then if I don't like what you suggested, it will be all your fault, and my night will be fucking ruined. And I will probably be distracted on the drive home and accidentally run over a couple who just got engaged. Do you want that hanging over your head forever? Well I don't, so let me order the chicken and let me be already.

I Hate You, Bar D-Bags

I used to love bars. Imagine how much you love Blair from "The Facts of Life," but multiply it by ten. Yeah, that much. If given the opportunity, I would have lived in one. Oh, wow, this bar has a tent! No, no, that's just my home, where I can be awesome, and rip it at my leisure. Does this make me an alcoholic? Meh, I think I was always more drawn to the scene. You see, I hate bright lights, old surly people, rich people, not sitting in booth seating all the time, and annoying kids crying and wiping their dirty hands on all the door handles. Now where can I find a place that accommodates all of this? That's right, a bar. Plus, there is a lot of whiskey.

Recently, I have slowly began to wane off my bar fixation. Maybe it's because I'm getting old and fucking cranky and 90% of the time would rather be home wearing stained Yankees t-shirts that are softer than the Shroud of Turin and watching HGTV, or because I'm married, or because I'm no longer one of the people who can afford to be a complete fucking dick every time I step from the sidewalk onto some stained-oak flooring. I don't know, but being leery of bar night makes me observe things that never would have bothered me before, probably because I was too busy vomiting on a car hood in the alley.

First off, who the fuck is actually friends with the guy who is so drunk he can't even string together a sentence? I don't mean, I know him from work, I mean, who fucking calls him on the phone and is like, Hey Jimmy, let's go have some drinks at O'Fuckyou's tonight. And please promise you wont pull your pants down and crap into the garbage can again, okay? I don't get this guy. I know that on certain nights I have drank a 500 beers and forty shots of Jameson (no), and I have still NEVER been as fucking bombed as this guy. This guy is not awesome. He is not funny. Spitting in stranger's faces as he tries to retell his life story in fucking Pig Latin is not awesome. It ruins everyone's buzz. Sweating and rubbing up against people trying to pound a couple of beers and mind their own fucking business is not awesome. This guy is a bigger liability than a homeless man walking through a unsupervised liquor/canned food store. At day-drinking festivals, at concerts, at Preakness, St. Patrick's Day, Halloween, etc, this guy is fine, because awful, unruly behavior is expected. If you are not blacked-out by 11am at one of these events, then you are a NARC. But, 9pm on a Wednesday at fucking Public House? Get this guy out of here so I can stop envisioning myself hitting him in the throat with a chair leg and accidentally killing him. Now I'm doing a 25-to-life bid upstate even though I'm a hero, and I'll have to become a skinhead and get Nazi tattoos and hope nobody attacks me while I'm naked in the shower. GODDAMMIT WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE, AWFUL DRUNK GUY???

And now let me rant about the ladies for a moment. In college, I was a bartender...

(waits for applause)

I know who the good tippers are, and who the bad tippers are. And women, nay, girls, are fucking HORRIBLE tippers. Not all of them, but the vast majority. Oh, you want twelve Mai-Tai's, and nineteen buttery nipples shots? THIS IS NOT "SEX AND THE CITY," IT'S A COLLEGE BAR - WE HAVE POPOV VODKA AND EVAN WILLIAMS. But seriously, I would be forced to make elaborate drinks for a group of ten girls and then watch as they walked away without leaving a dollar because they were too busy screaming and dancing along with the newest awful piece-of-shit song playing on the tattered DJ speakers sung by whatever retard had OD'd last or dropped her kid on their fucking head. But I'd usually get them back later on in the night when they would stumble to the bar hammered, and I would overcharge them as they stared through me with glazed eyes, their teeth stained red and their hair all messed up from making out on the dance floor with the Mexican bar-back. I win.

Also, why do NYC bartenders insist on serving the dummy holding the American Express out like he's trying to feed crackers to the fucking Canadian Geese in Central Park?. Hey, serve me, the transaction will only take twenty minutes! Who cares about that doe-eyed drunk holding a wad of $20's over there. Look at him and his Hanes t-shirt, he looks POOR! And normally these douchebags who use cards like cash will then do the whole, do you mind if I run it now? Oh bro, thanks bro, you're the man, bro, I'm gonna hook you up FO SHO! Then they wait for the bartender to walk away so they can round up to the dollar and then run back to their stupid table of nerds in blazers and creased khakis, and then I'll watch with my handful of cash as they do it all over again in fifteen minutes. Nice clothes do not make nice tippers. I find it to be the opposite, actually. So: DIE.

One of the worst things about NYC are bar lingerers. The place is packed, there is not a square inch of free real estate for me to squeeze in and order a drink, because the actual bar is lined with old nerds trying to kick game to hot young girls who want NOTHING to do with them, aside from skimming off the top of their cash pile and getting drunk for free. The guy has half-a-bottle of Amstel Lite in front of him and the bartender is content to let him sit there and smirk and take up as much room as he likes so he can try and take the girl home who will immediately realize said guy is fat and old and resembles Wallace Shawn, and then he can her unravel even more, crying and eventually running home to her estranged, dead-beat, musician boyfriend. Where the fuck was I going with this...Ah, right: DON'T YOU SEE I WILL OVER-TIP YOU FOR JUST ONE FUCKING COORS LIGHT?? I AM UNREASONABLE WITH MONEY WHEN I'M DRUNK, SO SERVE ME!

There are obviously still things that I like about bars. Like the alcohol. And the TVs. I love being surrounded by TVs so when you start talking to me about your job, I can nod my head and look over your shoulder to watch the ticker and see whether or not Jason Heyward went yard again. I'll probably never lose the itch to post up at a nice, glossy, mahogany bar like a gentleman and order thirty two drinks and then go home with the spins and puke, but it's still disconcerting to realize that I'm now the shithead I used to mock when I wore a Wayne Chrebet jersey out at night because I thought the ladies would LOVE it. But I guess that's just the way it goes sometimes.

I Hate Your Coffee Snobbery

I don't love coffee, I need coffee. It's an integral part of keeping me from pulling a Tender Branson. I would probably cease functioning without it. Maybe this is the case because I mainline it directly into my temple and spine, but who really knows?. And since drinking whiskey at 10am isn't considered "appropriate" or "charming," and I desperately need a stimulant to get through the day without hurling myself off a tenth floor landing, I slug down thirty cups of coffee and then wonder why my heart palpitates and flutters like you when you come across a photo album with a pony and a rainbow painted on it. But it gets me through nine hours of monotony and emailing, and for that, I thank you, Juan Valdez.

/bows appreciatively

Unfortunately, like everything in life, certain people found a way to ruin coffee. For example, coffee snobs; people who go out of their way to insult the kind of coffee I am drinking even though I don't give a shit if the brand is called "Diarrhea Bold," and at the same time, force me to fillet them with a butterfly knife...

Snob: What is that you're drinking there, friend?
Me: Coffee
Snob: Ah, coffee. From where?
Me: The deli down the street.
Snob: Really? Hmm...You see, I can't drink that pedestrian blend. It tastes like water to me. Have you tried the Roasted Gourmet Walnut Cafe Lala from The Espresso Blend House Extreme?
Me: No.
Snob: You mean to tell me that you've never heard of or tried Roasted Gourmet Walnut Cafe Lala? Pshhh, maybe that's why you're still drinking that toilet water.
Me: (jumps over table)
Me: (bites off snob's nose)

Why anyone would care what I am drinking is beyond my fucking comprehension. My brain cannot process why anyone would care what I eat, what I drink, or what I put into my syringes (hint: it's model glue). Unless I'm eating chicken noodle soup from a hollowed-out dog's skull, don't fucking bother me. If you sat down next to me, and you were sipping from a cup filled with blood, I wouldn't intervene. Enjoy your blood! Drink a gallon of it - I really don't care. If I see you dunking a straw in a urinal and taking some sips, while I may not make eye contact, I know that I definitely won't intervene. If I ever see you drinking milk straight from a cow's udder, I promise you, I will not interrupt, because I'm 100% serious when I say - I DON'T GIVE A FUCK!

As you know, I hate people that force their preferences on others. But forcing taste preferences is the absolute pinnacle of self-absorption. I shattered my nose three different times when I was a young, perennially drunken man. If you poured a pound of salt on a pepperoni stick, I would barely be able to taste anything. But should I have to explain this to you because you want me to drink a $3.99 cup of burned shit from a place that I would prefer to see firebombed? No, I shouldn't. Don't make me show you pictures from the morning after my nose was destroyed, because I'll whip them out while you're enjoying your Santa Fe Chicken Wrap, motherfucker.

I think coffee is one thing that's chic and timeless and douchey enough to keep people pretending they like shit even though they can barely swallow it. And these people will always insult what you drink, not only because they suck at life in general, but also because they are always trying to degrade their peers whenever given the chance. These people, deep-down, hate themselves and probably choke themselves with a belt sometimes. And I don't have pity for them. Personally, as I explained earlier, I drink coffee because there is a drug in it that makes my pupils glow and keeps me from sleeping in a bathroom stall during the day. Simple as that. I'm not super-fond of the taste or the after-taste that is similar to licking a bar ashtray. But honestly, I don't care if the coffee is from a gas station or from a freeze dried bag found in King Tut's fucking tomb, as long as there is caffeine in it and it gets me going, I'm a happy fucking guy. So, next time you feel the need to insult someone's choice of coffee, instead reflect on whether or not you think that they actually want to hear your stupid opinion, and then when you realize you are wrong, shut the fuck up and go find that belt.

And be forewarned - if you hand me decaf, I will use your face as a sink drain...HOW DARE YOU DEPRIVE ME OF MY DRUGS???

I Hate Your Morning Ambush

For some time now, my body has decided to act like a giant fucking sideshow. My back goes out at the slightest tweak, to the point where I sometimes have to manually drag my leg up the subway stairs like I'm Keyser-fucking-Söze. My nose bleeds randomly - just opens like a faucet. It happened during a client lunch recently, and got all over my shirt. I'm sure they didn't think that I was sneaking off to the bathroom to blow rails off the toilet seat, no, no - everyone's nose bleeds for no reason. And they must have loved staring at my blood-stained shirt as they ate their Hill Country brisket. Also, I wake up at 7am on the weekends, my eyes unwilling to shut again, even though I have absolutely NOTHING to do. But during the week, I wake up thirty-seven times throughout the night and then finally fall back into the deepest sleep possible three minutes before I have to be up for good. It fucking sucks. It makes my mornings unbearable. So when I see someone I know during my morning commute, and they want to chat, it's takes all my energy to not impale my throat with an umbrella-spoke to avoid an extended conversation.

I'm not sure why this bothers me so much. Maybe because they're acquaintances and have nothing important to say, but are so fucking full of themselves and/or shit that they would rather gnaw-off my ear talking about some fucking club they got fucking drunk at on Saturday than listen to their music and pretend they are the King of Hawaii, like I do. Oh, you didn't know that Hawaii has a king, WELL GET WITH THE FUCKING PROGRAM ASSHOLE, BECAUSE IT DOES*.

I would listen if you had something to say, but you don't. Your stories are boring. Blah blah blah, she was so hot...blah blah blah, I threw up in my pants...blah blah blah, I suck...I DON'T CARE! Talk to me when you have a story that involves you fighting off a giant Russian spy with a shovel on a ghost-driven Greyhound Bus. I promise that you will have my full attention when this happens.

I literally collapse in on myself like a dying star when I'm on the subway and I meet eyes with someone that I know. It's more disheartening than watching your dog get mowed down by a drunk driver. I have to physically restrain myself from diving head first through the subway window. I know I can do it. I saw "Money Train."

When the inevitable conversation starts, I have to feign interest. Oh let me pull out one of my earphones for you, dear friend, because I care about how much tequila you drank on Friday, and the hottness of the NYU girl you banged in the alley next to Dos Caminos. I'm nodding my head and smiling, because I am interested, not because I'm thinking about who around me would try and restrain me if I suddenly leaped upon you and began biting your throat like a fucking werewolf. Yes, yes, I too love Calico Jacks, yes, yes, it's my favorite bar in the city! What a coincidence, we have so much in common! I'm so fucking glad you interrupted my coma to talk to me about your new fucking Sony Trinitron.

There's really no way to avoid the inevitable and potentially awkward exchange, if the person approaching you is intent on talking. One time, I locked eyes with a guy I worked with. But I was fucking cranky as shit, so I lowered my head and blew past him. I turned back to see if he had noticed. The look on his face was complete shock. It was like I just dropped my pants in front of his mom and began playing the air guitar and singing "Paradise City." I didn't see what the big deal was. So what, so I don't want to talk to you - why the fuck do I have to? Why? Why can't I just be LEFT THE FUCK ALONE BEFORE 9AM???

There was one time I found myself face-to-face with a coworker. It was -39° Celsius, snowing, the sun hadn't been out in three weeks, and the refuge, believe it or not, was the subway. He looked up, saw me, nodded his head, and went back to his book. It was like winning the lottery. Sweet, sweet serenity. Then the mariachi assholes got on and starting singing, but I was too satisfied to care. They got a pass on that day.


*false

I Hate Kissing Your Cheek

I'm not a huge fan of people touching me...Eh, let me clarify that statement - I'm not a huge fan of people I barely know touching me. Skin-to-skin contact between me and someone I've known for like a week freaks me the fuck out. Maybe I'm autistic, I don't know. But what I do know is that I don't like it. I don't like hugs. I don't like a friendly arm around my shoulder. I can't stand it when the mailman insists on giving me a back rub. But my biggest gripe of all is cheek-kissing. I fucking hate to kiss people on the cheek. I hate being kissed on the cheek. It's cyclical hate. Personally, I'd rather sip expired apple cider out of a handicapped Chili's toilet.

There is a clause to this hate though - I don't mind kissing family members and close friends. That's fine. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends from a long time ago: all fine. But a random friend-of-a-friend? NO. Stop leaning in for a cheek-kiss. When did we reach this level of friendship? Did I come over to your house for a family BBQ? Did we celebrate Memorial Day together at your cousin's lake house? No. I can barely remember your fucking name. And to be honest, I sometimes confuse you with that other girl, the slutty one who blew the bouncer from McFadden's for a free bar tab back in 2005.

And how about the pull-in hug after the cheek kiss? FUCK. THAT. We have to hug now? Yeah, let's make it even MORE fucking awkward. Let's come up with a serious of intimate gestures to perform so the greeting last three hours! How about I pick you up and twirl you around while we hug? Oh, you think that's weird? WELL I THINK IT'S WEIRD THAT YOU WANT ME TO HUG YOU! That awkward moment where I hesitate and someone places their head on my shoulder is more painful than removing a layer of skin from my face with a vegetable peeler. I actually would prefer the latter if it meant never being put in that situation again. I'm not even kidding.

The cheek kissing parameters are expanding, too. People now do it at WORK. I go to client meetings and watch people kiss on the cheek who, behind closed doors, would rather fight to the death with flaming Katana swords. It's insane. Why can't we just shake hands? What's wrong with shaking hands? I feel like a man when I shake hands, like I just got finished mowing down a bunch of Rebel soldiers with a Gatling Gun and now it's time to celebrate with some good old fashioned binge drinking. But kissing a client on the cheek? Fuck that shit - I'd rather have a custom that forced me to get into a crab-crouch and smack my bare feet with another human-being than kiss them on their stupid cheek.

I think about this a lot. I think about how, since I hate cheek-kissing so much, I will eventually have to endure it for a serious amount of time. And I am crazy enough to imagine that, if there is a purgatory/hell, mine will include 1) locked in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike during the middle of a heat wave in August with no air-conditioning while stuck in a car with Gilbert Godfrey as he reads the extended screenplay to "Steel Magniolias"; 2) being forced to inhale the smell of Manhattan street garbage through a snorkel tube for all of eternity, 3) being forced to watch Susan Sarandon clip her toenails, naked; and 4) walking down a never-ending receiving-line of people I don't really know and being forced to kiss every single fucking person on the cheek until my lips chap, scab, and eventually fall off...and then I'm forced to do it all over again.

I Hate That You Think Your Kids Are Cute

Growing up, I was TERRIFIED to act out in public. Having a father who is a homicide detective will do this to you. For example...

It's 1985...I'm 4 years old...I'm at the beach with the family...I'm being an asshole and throwing sand around, hitting people...my father tells me to stop...I do not...

Now, being the large-headed weirdo kid with a deep voice that I was, I thought I was the fucking man, so I kept doing what I was doing. Long story short, I spent some quality time sitting inside my old man's Chevette, staring at the beach as my brother frolicked around and got a Bubbalo Bill or some other awesome shit from the ice cream truck. Needless to say, I learned my lesson that day. But looking back, I'm glad that I had strict rules growing up, because it now gives me the opportunity to berate your kids for being little fucking shitheads. And make no mistake about it, many of them are, without a doubt, little motherfucking shitheads.

Before I begin, let me first say that not all kids are terrible. I see kids that are well behaved and I want to give them money. But that would be creepy. I guess marveling at them from afar is creepy enough, so handing them a dollar might make things weird. Either way, I felt it necessary to say that not all kids are awful. Just 97% are.

Now, for those of you who cannot teach discipline...

Your kids are not cute. That molar-rattling scream that sounds like Adam Lambert coming across a clearance sign in the window of American Apparel? NOT FUCKING CUTE. Letting your one-year-old wobble down the subway stairs as you delicately guide them while 7,000 people are bottle-necked behind you, forced to watch as the subway doors close and you clap like an idiot because you basically dragged the kid down the stairs - NOT FUCKING CUTE. I don't care that your fucking kid can walk. I DON'T CARE. Stop pretending the world revolves around your kid, pick him/her up, and carry them down the fucking stairs before they get trampled. I NEED TO GET ON THE NEXT TRAIN SO I CAN GET TO MY CART GUY BEFORE SOMEONE BUYS THE LAST SESAME BAGEL AND I'M FORCED TO EAT PLAIN!

I work in a high traffic area. There are literally thousands upon thousands of tourists wandering around my building. What I don't understand is, how do these roving families of high-socked, fanny-pack-equipped dummies let their kids roam free? It's not like this is Canada. This is New York City. People get stabbed in the face with jigsaws for no reason. And I know that I personally almost plow over about thirty wandering kids a day, and I'm barely walking a block. What about kidnappers? As a kid I always assumed that I would be kidnapped if I wandered away from my parents. I clung to them like B.O. on a fat electrician. But not these kids; they're hanging from the building molding, rolling on car hoods, playing in the revolving doors, tap-dancing in traffic - it's insane. Now, how do we solve this minor inconvenience? Well, I once saw a mom with her kid on a leash. And it wasn't one of those stupid wrist-to-wrist phone-cord leashes, nope, it was a fucking waist leash. This should be city code. I would love to see some schmuck from Idaho strolling down the street with his nine kids on a leash like he's a fucking chariot driver in ancient Rome. I would probably buy him a hot dog for being such an innovative parent.

Kids on the subway are awful, too. They have absolutely no sense of space. They spin around on the poles, bump into people's legs, step on feet, lay down on the benches...and what do their parents do? They stare off into space and pretend they aren't dbags while an old lady stares longingly at the five seats their kid is taking up and struggles to not keel over. I would pay exactly $100 to see someone just plop down on top of the kid. The scream alone would be worth the cash.

I also cringe when I go out to eat and see a family of fourteen sit down at the booth next to me. I hate eating at restaurants to begin with, but when I see those little fuckers coming, weaving in and out of tables, giggling and screeching as their parents play the ignorance card and stare into space like De Niro in "Awakenings", I contemplate taking my steak knife and committing Seppuku so I don't end up spending the remainder of my night wishing an asteroid would come crashing through the ceiling and obliterate their table just so I can enjoy some motherfucking Chicken Scarpariello.

I think it all stems back to parents bending over backwards to please their spoiled fucking kids. Why punish them when you can give in, feed them sugar, and then get annoyed when they grow up, develop a recreational coke habit, flunk out of college, and start dating a ex-stripper named Big Sexy who has three kids and a mortgage she can't pay?

So yeah, let your kids do whatever you want. At least you know you'll have Big Sexy to look forward to - that should make for an interesting Thanksgiving.

I Hate Your Email Etiquette

As a corporate society, we've officially become over-reliant on email as the main form of business communication. I'm guilty, you're guilty, even your mom is guilty, and she types with two fingers like a fucking orangutan. But there are so many things wrong with email - mainly the etiquette involved - that almost 90% of the emails I receive make me want to put my foot through my monitor.

For example...

- Smiley faces. Fuck you, smiley faces. Sending me a dick-ish email, whining and moaning about some fucking document you didn't get (or more likely deleted because you're a fucking idiot) and then adding a little smiley face at the end of it does not make it forgivable. In fact, I'd rather you just added a threat to the end of it instead, something like, "I'm going to murder you in your sleep if you don't send me this shit in exactly one hour." If you did that, I would like you much, much more. But no, you use a fucking smiley face instead of idle threats. And every time I see one, I want to sew my eyelids shut, because you fucking suck. I once had a man put a smiley face at the end of his email. A MAN. So, so, so gay. Oh, and a huge, ripe, triple "fuck you" to those of you who use winking smiley faces. This is work, when the fuck did this become okay? What if I signed my emails, "8==========> - - - -- " Would that be okay? No, I would be fired, and so should you.

- Salutations. Don't say to me, "Best" when you finish an email. What the fuck does that even mean? Best what? You're the best? No, you're not. You're fucking balding and you're fat and you smell like italian dressing, so you are not the best. And "Regards". What are we, fucking World War II pen-pals? Are you worried my face might be melted by a canister of mustard gas? Just write "Thanks", it makes you sound like less of a fucking nerd, if that's possible.

- People who sign their names with just one character. Really? Okay, 'T', see if you can decipher this message: Suck my C, you B, I hope you fall off a B and D. REGARDS :) A.

- I can't fucking stand replying to something that is easily solved via a phone call. God forbid we fucking use our fucking voices to speak to each other to work out a fucking issue. No, let's send a one sentence email so I can respond with just one fucking word. PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE AND ASK ME WHETHER OR NOT I FINISHED THE FUCKING DECK FOR VOLKSWAGEN!!!!!!

- People who turn every email into an art show. Honestly, if you think I can't figure out which words are important, then why the fuck am I working here? Oh, I appreciate you bolding the word "Urgent" but because you patronize me, I'm going to do the complete opposite and make is less of a priority now that you decided to treat me like a fucking three-year-old, Picasso.

- People who use the Outlook "High Importance" button on every single email. These people are the fucking worst. When I see that exclamation point, I want to vomit. OH MY GOD, CHERYL JUST EMAILED ME WITH HIGH IMPORTANCE TO LET ME KNOW THAT THE COPIER IS DOWN! WE'RE ALL GOING TO FUCKING DIE! These emails get the old Shift-Delete, out of spite. You are no more important than the next person, dickhead, so get over yourself.

- People who ask for email receipts. I know this isn't common, but there are actually people out there who do this, and it couldn't be more fucking obnoxious. Oh, you want to keep track of me because I never respond to your dumb fucking ideas? SHIFT DELETE - NO MOTHERFUCKING RECEIPT FOR YOU!

I Hate You, Hipsters

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I don't consider myself "hip." In fact, you could say I am the complete opposite of hip: I cut my own hair; I routinely re-use clothes from the hamper; I like to wear cargo shorts and put tissues and napkins and other shit in the lower pockets so they bulge outward like a fat man's love-handles stuffed in spandex. Needless to say, I am an abomination to anything labeled "chic" or "in." Why? Well, mostly because I don't give a fuck. There are more important things in life to worry about (i.e. why does Javy Vazquez suck so bad? Why is there no more toilet paper? Who greenlit a remake of "The Karate Kid" starring Will Smith's stupid scientologist kid?) than what I plan on wearing to go and get a slice of pizza.

But I am smart enough to know when someone looks ridiculous. Case in point: Hipsters. There is just something about coke bottle glasses and fedoras and flannel shirts and jeans that are so tight they can give an unwanted sex-change that makes me want to start hurling Molotov cocktails in the general direction of the stoops in which they inhabit. You idolize Allen Ginsberg? Well, then go write shitty poetry and take it up the ass, but just stay the fuck out of my way - CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I’M TRYING TO BUY LOTTO TICKETS?

And what the fuck kind of hairdo is this? Dunk your head a piss-filled toilet and flush? You look like an asshole. Actually, you look like a fucking soccer mom in full mid-life-crisis mode...is that the angle you're going for? Every single douchebag (both famous and common) who wears his hair like that can go fall into an open sewer filled with Chlamydia and molten lava. If I ever have a kid who one day decides to look like this, I'm going to shave his head with a broken Budweiser bottle and force him to watch “The Wild Bunch” until he can recite the entire script word-for-word, and then make him reenact it for me and my friends. Why? Because "The Wild Bunch" fucking rakes, and it's the farthest from hipster ideology possible.

And what about guys who wear skinny jeans? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? Skinny jeans were invented for women, not for you, dickless. The fact that I have to look at you as you mosey into the subway like a fucking cowboy on your way to Urban Outfitters is grounds for castration. STOP IT RIGHT NOW. You are not a part of an Indie Rock movement. And if you were, you'd be double-fucking-dead, so be happy you're not.

This speaks more to growing plague of pansies in this country. Whiny cry-babies who would rather smoke American Spirits, watch a shitty French movie, and listen to terrible bands from Williamsburg, than go out to a real dive bar, listen to brain-melting rock, punch someone in the fucking face, then go home at the end of the night and bang a waitress like a real man. But this is beside the point. We need to start the de-pussification of men somewhere, and I think it starts here. So go home, grab a pipe/baseball bat/axe, head out to the streets, and start prowling for anyone wearing a fedora and Buddy Holly glasses. Just make sure it's not an 80 year old senile man who still thinks it's 1957.

I Hate Your Birthday Dinners

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You know what my favorite thing in the whole world is? Getting together with a bunch of friends, maybe six or seven or eight of them, and then getting their spouses together too, and then going out and hitting the town and grabbing dinner at the newest, trendiest, most exciting one-syllable restaurant in town. I fucking live to sit in a seat built for a Guatemalan dwarf and drink “house” wine that’s actually vinegar and piss. These situations make me smile and clap and say, "It is a great time to be alive."
I mean, what's more fun than only being able to speak to the people within six inches of your mouth because the designer of the restaurant decided to make the acoustics similar to the fucking Sydney Opera house? And who fucking doesn't love the sound of pots and pans banging for two hours at a time and the feeling of blood seeping from my ruptured ear-drums because my seat is a foot away from the open kitchen?

You know what else is great - when some asshole at the table orders lobster and crab claw appetizers and filet mignon and a bottle of wine and a digestif and an assortment of dessert samplers and then suggests the bill be split evenly. That guy is the best! He's so cultured and so charming. I bet he also cheats on his wife and berates minorities while in the confines of his own home. At no point during his performance do I want to twist a broken wine glass into his eye.

Oh, and who doesn't love eating 3oz of steak and five string beans? What, you don't think this is filling? You don't enjoy the fact that the meat was flown in from Brazil and the cow was slaughtered with a 7,000 year old samurai sword? Well, you should, because all of this makes the food more filling! And I never want to take my plate and throw it through the window out of protest and then weep on the dirty tiled floor of the bathroom after I shell over $100 for half a chicken breast and spoonful of corn.

But you say that you really do enjoy going out to dinner? Well that's just fucking great. There are times when I do too. Most of these times it's at a wonderful place called, "Chipotle." But if it's not just me and the wife going out to dinner, I prefer to keep it to six people at the absolute max. Unless everyone at the table is best friends with one another, and you all can have equally stimulating conversations without wanting to stick bamboo shoots under your fingernails, then there is no need to go out with a larger group and not be able to talk to anyone you like. Nothing sucks harder than being stuck with strangers at the far end of a table. I'd rather eat at Long John Silver's with a band of Islamic extremists than sit at the very end of a long table and have no one to bullshit with, while watching as the group of people at the other end shit their pants with laughter. But I'm the guy who always gets stuck next to the new guy who nobody knows, and he always hates sports, and he isn't a drinker, and loves Christian Rock or some other shit like that. Just thinking about it gives me hives on my eyeballs.

And I know I’m not alone here, I know there are many, many more people out there who fucking hate these dinners. How about birthday dinners with 75 people? What the fuck is that about? Why is your cleaning lady sitting across from me eating an endive salad? If people still feel the need to have parties in honor of their birthday, then they should have it at a bar, so people can come and go as they please. They should have it at a bar so I can buy the birthday boy/girl shots until they piss and puke a little bit, and then laugh at them as they fall asleep on a park bench. That’s the way it should be. You have birthday dinners with 900 people when you’re the President of the United States, not the manager of a bank.

I Hate Surly Sandwich Makers

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I tend to get unreasonably angry at minor nuisances. Like socks losing their elasticity. I fucking hate that shit. It's like wearing a floppy cotton garbage bag over your foot. But instead of tossing the socks away and putting on a new pair, I act like it's the end of the world. BECAUSE IT IS! Same goes for butterflies, I always get mad when someone compliments them. Oh, you think they're beautiful? Fuck that, they are CREEPY!

But there is one group of people in this city who, and I strongly believe this, actually overreacts to more minuscule shit than I do. These people are deli sandwich-makers. Holy shit, talk about acting as if all is lost when you tell them you'd rather have provolone than Swiss. These guys are some of the meanest motherfuckers on the planet. They should be hunting down Al Qaeda operatives in the Afghan mountains. The way they look at me when I ask them to add sweet peppers to my sandwich, I assume, is similar to the look a serial killer gives a prostitute before he chops off her head with bread knife and makes a toupee out of her scalp. Where did this transaction go wrong? Did I spit on your wife? All I wanted was Swiss-fucking-cheese, pal, not your first-born child.

Ever have them mess up the order and then have to correct them mid-sandwich-making? I have. It's terrible. It's like defusing a bomb; you have to go about it in the most delicate way possible.

Me: Uhhh, no mayo. Please, no mayo.
(Specifically said ‘no mayo’ while ordering)

Sandwich Man: YOU NO WANT MAYO NOW?
(Stares at me like I'm Hitler)

All of this could be in my head, but I doubt it. I've seen these guys lose their fucking mind on people. It's gotten to the point where I just let them do whatever they want, eat around the shit I don’t like, and go back to staring at my computer while on the verge of tears.

These guys are cowboys. They have more power than Bill Gates in their respective area of expertise, and rule with an iron fist. You want Onions? YOU GET SPROUTS! Sometimes these guys don’t even clean their knives while switching condiments. And I don’t care about this because of sanitary reasons (that bucket of water they swish the knife around in was dipped in the Fountain of Youth, so no worries), no, I care because when I bite into a turkey sandwich, I do not want to taste peanut butter. EVER. And who the fuck is going to the deli and ordering a peanut butter sandwich anyway? What are you five-years old? Go to the store and buy your own jar and make it yourself. Even I’m not that lazy.

But the sandwich makers will continue their reign of terror, because there is no one out there who can give them an attitude adjustment. Aside from physically fighting with one of them – not recommended, they are squatty and carry multiple knives - no matter what you say, no matter how much you shake your little white-collar fist, you will not have an affect on their attitude. It’s like global warming. And so we’re all eternally doomed to choke-down gobs of chipotle mayo when all we wanted was some spicy mustard. Oh, the fucking horror.