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.

Weekend Reprieve - April 9-10

Because I spend all week hating the fuck out of everything, here's a short break from it all. Weekends deserve no hate, unless you have to go to an engagement party or a kid's birthday where they will not be serving alcohol or some other shit like that. Then your weekend deserves to die.

Anyway, this Friday the reprieve comes in the form of Miller's Crossing, one of the best movies of all time. If you haven't seen it, you need to remove your head from your ass.

I Hate Your TV Show Suggestions

There are reasons why I watch what I watch on TV. My mind is warped and exceptionally biased. I can't help it, this is just the way it is. I sample, and I decide if I like something or not. I also do not promote my favorite shows to other people. Unless someone asks me, 'got any shows you may think that I might like?', I keep that shit to myself. And regardless of how much I enjoy "Parks and Recreation", not in a million years will I EVER force it upon you.

Contrary to my approach in this area are those people who take it upon themselves to promote a TV show like it was written, directed and produced by their fucking mom. And even when I explain that, yes, I have seen this show a dozen times already and don't really care for it, they still insist that I watch it again. This mentality drives me to drink more than I already do. I can't fucking stand when people look at me and say, "Hmm, you know what? What this guy needs is for me to recommend 'The Mentalist' again, because I think it's a great show, and even though I already know he doesn't like it, I'll suggest it again, because he may like it this time around."

No, I will not. I will not love your show. "The Mentalist" fucking sucks. But the only reason I'm relaying my opinion on "The Mentalist" is because you feel it necessary to push me to watch it. Did my coarse response hurt your feelings? Tough shit. I do not want to fucking listen to you sales pitch. I don't care. My lifestyle is sedentary enough, I don't need anyone to fill me in on what's been on the air for multiple seasons already. I read 7,000 different websites a day, and most of them hate the same shit that I do. THEY ALREADY TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD AND SHOULD NOT LIKE, SO YOU CAN STOP!

The only thing worse than people like this are those people who like to tell me that the shit I watch and enjoy is no good, mainly because it's without prompt.

Asshole: What are you guys talking about?
Me: LOST
Asshole: LOST? That show fucking blows!

Oh it does? Holy shit, is that why I've been watching it? Thanks for letting me know, BECAUSE I ASKED FOR YOUR FUCKING OPINION!!

(takes out flamethrower)
(melts Asshole's face)

Normally, these people are also the same ones that, after telling you how bad your taste is, then try and push their favorite shows on you. And, as I mentioned earlier, it's never anything good. It's never something that I haven't heard of or seen yet, gone and checked out, and then ended up loving. It's always something that's lame, and is more mainstream than Michael-fucking-Jackson, like "24" or something.

Oh, what is this "24" you speak of? I've been trapped in a P.O.W. camp in Cambodia for the last fucking twelve years, being beaten with bamboo reeds and eating field mice, so please, please inform me about this show, because I've never heard of this show called "24."

To all of you out there who do this, I assure you, it's a very easy habit to ditch. I know that if I ever ask someone if they watch a certain show, and they tell me that they don't, I move on. It makes life so much more enjoyable. I get it, your wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/cat/dog won't listen to any of your television suggestions. I GET IT. But what in the fuck makes you think that I will listen to you? What is it about me that makes you think that I'm taking ballots for new shit to watch on TV? Let me give you a hint: NOTHING. So stop. Now. Before I come over to your house and take a hammer to your LCD.

I Hate Surly Sandwich Makers

image via here

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.

I Hate Office Culture

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I Hate Fat People on the Subway

True story, this woman bullied my 5'2'' wife out of THREE SEATS. Of course, the wife scolded her in front of the whole train car and then ran for her life. And I couldn't be more proud...BTW, please note the Big John Stud wrestling boots.

If asked, I doubt any of the 8,000,000+ people living in New York City will truthfully say that they enjoy riding the subway. You have to be certifiably insane, or you must genuinely enjoy hopping into a cramped box that's filled with putrid body odor and perverts and armed-maniacs and panhandlers spouting poorly executed sob-stories (you did not just lose your job, lady, you have three fucking teeth). It's just one of the many shitty aspects of living in NYC that you have to suck up and deal with (unless of course, you're loaded, and you can afford to travel around in your Bentley, living it up with your rich friends and laughing at assholes like me as we shuffle down oil-slick stairs into the pits of hell. I know that if I were a rich, entitled brat, I would definitely be laughing at your sappy puss as I leisurely caroused Manhattan, sipping 30 year-old Macallan's in between doing lines of cocaine off an anorexic model's bony ass. You may call me an asshole, because it's the truth.)

But there is one thing that makes riding the subway worse than anything, and that's fat people sitting down.

And I'm not talking about slightly overweight people (/me). I'm not even talking about people that might benefit by shaving off, oh I don't know, 70 or 80 or 130 lbs. I'm talking about obese people. Walking Cholesterol. People who are hoovering Big Mac's and French fries and onion rings into their fucking face for lunch, and then blaming only the 64 oz. soda for their planet-sized gut. I'm talking about people who have thighs wider than my waist and torsos the size of Jersey City. And I don't care so much about myself not being able to find a seat (I obviously need to stand-up in case a suicide bomber decides to end himself in honor of his invisible-friend/god on my commute home so I can dive under a bench and save my sorry ass), no, I'm talking about the middle-aged people who are forced to stand and watch these fatsos stuff their fucking hole with Cool Ranch Doritos while pretending they don't see the frail elderly man who's one shove away from a heart-attack, staring down at them with doe-eyes, silently begging them for one of the three seats that their fat-fucking-ass occupies.

Obviously, unlike airlines, there is no way to settle this problem. For the most part, we are a fat, selfish population and given the freedom, fat, selfish people tend to get their way. Do I hope some of these people fall down the stairs and maybe learn a lesson? Of course. Am I a bad person because of this? Probably. Do I give a fuck? No. If I were mayor, I would install scales into the turnstiles and anyone who registered over 380 lbs and wasn't Andre the Giant's son or above 6'3'' would immediately be sent to the fat car at the back of the train and forced to bump fupa's with the rest of the gluttons.

But that's just one terrible man's terrible solution, friends...

So, this next statement is meant to be read by you, Mr. or Mrs. Gigantic Fat-ass: if there are seats aplenty, then please, enjoy the feeling of three seat-separators penetrating your doughy thighs. But if the train is crowded, and their is a 100 year old woman hanging onto poles for dear life while trying not to bump into the bumbling psycho with a machete tucked into his sweatpants, then do society a service and stand up, or opt for the fucking "Ranch-Lite" once and a while.

I Hate Meetings

For all of you who spend nine hours a day rotting in a fluorescent-lit cube while surrounded by people who, albeit tolerable, sometimes make you want to light your face on fire, I'm sure you'll all agree with me on one of the things that I find to be the most ridiculous aspect of corporate America. And no it's not the shallow banter with people you secretly despise, or the inability to tune out the asshole down your row who laughs like a fucking circus imbecile, or the monotonous routine that sometimes make you wonder what would happen if you suddenly threw a rock through the conference room LCD screen. No, it's much more petty and simple than any of that.

It's just the abundance of fucking meetings. The never ending rush of meetings. God, do I fucking hate meetings.

Maybe it's my adult ADHD, or my inability to focus on someone speaking without coarsely criticizing every word they say because they sound like they're reading from a buzzword handbook in order to sound intelligent instead of mediocre (which they probably are), but personally, I'd rather spend an afternoon having political debates with homeless people than spend my time in a meeting.

When I see a meeting invite appear in my inbox, I briefly flirt with the idea of smashing my computer screen in with my fist, smearing the blood on my face, and screaming at the top of my lungs until I either vomit or pass out. Extreme reaction? Fuck you. Nothing is an extreme reaction when you're faced with a potential sixty-minute slice-of-your-always-diminishing-life being flushed down the toilet because some higher-up wants to hear himself talk for an hour. I work in advertising sales. I'm sure some of you out there do as well, so you know the feeling when some dickhead wants to discuss an integration concerning their adult diaper product, or you're forced to click through a PowerPoint presentation that looks like it was constructed by a blind person. It's literally less fun than eating hot garbage. But for those of you who don't know what it's like, for those of you who are able to avoid this ritual privy to corporate slobs, well, I can't decide if I envy you, or hope your boss suddenly decides to force you to attend a one-on-one motivational seminar hosted by Andy Dick.

Hey look at this, what a coincidence, another meeting reminder!

/burns down building

Fuck you, meetings.