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 Your Ruse, Lottery

I play Mega Millions every Tuesday and Friday. Being the imaginative young man that I am, I always believe that I am going to win. When a pot goes unclaimed and swells, I naturally assume that the man with the beard who lives in the clouds and makes rainbows and puppies and Adriana Lima is making the pot fatter so I can have more money to spend on beach houses with deck-anchored water cannons and silk overalls and shoes made of gold. This is just the way my brain works. I also think that when more money is added, it's so I will have enough cash to settle with the people who I smash in the face with lemon meringue pies as I ride around my office on a motorcycle, naked. Again, this kid's brain works in mysterious and disturbing ways...

But these are some of the many reasons why I hate the Lottery. It's tricky. It's slimy. It's like that guy at the San Gennaro festival who tells you can win a Playstation 3 and then hustles you out of $50 as you try and toss a washer around a milk bottle. It continually brainwashes me into thinking I can actually win, that the 38,000,000 to 1 odds don't matter. When I hand the Pakistani dude at the deli a $5 and he says "good luck," I say to myself, "no need, my mustached friend, I got this locked up," as if it's a done deal. I see cars pass on the street and I scoff, "Pshhh, you only have the 500 series? Ever hear of the 700 series? Well that's the one I have - in MY BRAIN..."

Sometimes I start imagining what my resignation email will say. I decide who I will express sincere gratitude to, and who I will burn the shit out of...Hey Sheri, I just thought that you should know that YOU ARE A FUCKING DICK AND EVERYONE HATES YOU, INCLUDING YOUR BOYFRIEND, WHO'S CHEATING ON YOU WITH AN INTERN. AND YOUR BREATH SMELLS LIKE ROTTEN ASS. SO FUCK YOU, I'M OUT.

I think I imagine stuff like this because my brain refuses to concede the mediocrity of my career thus far, and wants to make the jump from young, go-getter to comfortable retiree before I hit 30 years old. I know this is ridiculous and lazy-thinking, but c'mon, who wouldn't want to spend their days sipping on some vintage McCallum, hanging out on your sick deck staring at the ocean while you laugh and laugh at all the schmucks who have to go to work each morning. "Oh hey, Jim. What's that? You're at work finishing quarterly reports? Oh, I'm sorry, I can't hear you, the MOTHERFUCKING ATLANTIC OCEAN IS SO LOUD TODAY..."

And yes, I realize I am a dick.

Again, I know that this is pipe-dreaming at its worst. But I still go out and play the game, giving my money to the Lotto man in hopes of a lump-sum cash payout, thus allowing me to make a bonfire of pleated Banana Republic khakis and Van Heusen shirts and Aldo shoes, and to also be able to BCC you all on the scolding email blast I send to Sheri. Because seriously, she sucks.

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 Abbreviations

It's no secret that everyone in this country is getting lazier by the day. And I am no exception - I've gotten to the point where I wish there was a urinal under my desk because I dread having to walk the twenty steps to the bathroom. In my head it's the Bataan Death March. Fuuuucccckkkk, I have to walk by Derek, he is so fucking annoying, I don't care about your fucking kid's little league team...

I've also voiced my desire to have a water bottle attached to the wall by my bed at home. Like a hamster. God forbid I get out of bed and fetch myself a glass, no, I need a little tube so I can roll over on my soft belly and have a few sips in the middle of the night and make sure my feet don't get cold. And yes, I am aware that just two generations ago, Americans slaughtered Nazi's with cast-iron frying pans and survived without a 52'' HD Samsung TV and had no problem working 90 hours a week for $4.50 a day, so I don't need to hear it again.

Anyway, I blame all of these problems on science. So fuck you, science.

Unfortunately, this penchant for laziness bleeds into every aspect of our lives. For me, it's most notable at my place of work - as you have probably already surmised - where it's spreading like that rash on your inner-thigh (editor's note: GO SEE A FUCKING DOCTOR ALREADY).

I know I briefly touched on this subject last week, but I think it needs more touching on, because nothing makes me want to guillotine myself with a elevator door more than when people refuse to spell out shit that I need to do in an email. It's like deciphering the fucking Zodiac Killer's code.

"Hey A-, can you grab the DB's from C and bring them over to the AVFO bldg? Thx."

Wait, what? Was that English?

And it's only getting worse. If there isn't an acronym or a shortened version of the word already, some dickhead will create one.

"Thx..."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? You couldn't spare less than one second of your stupid life to add in two more letters? Are you so preoccupied with backstabbing Johnny from sales that you couldn't just write "thanks." You deserve a errant brick to the head.

Here are a few more contractions/acronyms that make me want to murder...

IMHO
Too be honest, I'd rather listen to those retards on "The Real Housewives of New York" debate Canada's foreign policy than hear your "humble opinion." I know it's your opinion. You don't have to caveat everything you say just because you're a fucking little bitch. Here's my opinion: fall into a landfill filled with asbestos.

TTYL
Nope. Not talking to you later. Why? Because you're going to be DEAD!

COB/EOD
People who use this term can go get fucked. Just tell me you want it by the end of the day. Do you actually say "close of business" when you're talking to your coworkers? No, because you're not a Sudanese refugee, and you speak like every other moron in this country, so stop trying to sound smarter than you are. I already saw that James Patterson book on your desk, so give it up.

Plz
This falls in line with writing "thx." Just as douchey, just as blood-curdling. Now PLZ go get mounted by Lady GaGa, because you are terrible, and I hope your spouse is cheating on you.

TY
I've seen emails where a person uses this to sign off. TY. T-FUCKING-Y. That's it. This is the equivalent of a morbidly obese person getting cholesterol injected directly into their heart, because they've pretty much given up, and so have you.

FYI
For Your Information, I hate you. I also put laxatives in your coffee and licked your turkey sandwich while you were washing your hands. Enjoy!


One day, when I'm the boss (never), I'm just going to send out blank-fucking-emails, and follow up with the people that I send them to to make sure they understand it. And when they buck, I'm going to fire them on the spot, because that's the fuck how I do. "Oh what, you can write emails in Morse Code, but you can't decipher the meaning of my email? Well guess what? You're fucking FIRED."

A Quick Hit of Beautiful Hate: Dancing with the Stars

The only time I ever want to see Ochocinco dance is if he just scored a touchdown, and even then, I'm not too keen on it. This fuckin’ reality show even has other reality TV stars on it now, so where the fuck is the reality in watching some random asshole on two different reality shows? The only other thing I’m going to say about this show is, what the fuck, Buzz Aldrin? For real? What's he gonna do, moonwalk ten steps then have a stroke? That guy’s 80 years old, give me a fucking break.

I Hate The NY Smoker's Quit Line Campaign

There will be no lead-in today. It's Friday, and I want to get right to the point. So, here we go...

I fucking loathe the New York State Smoker's Quit Line ads. The creative agency who designed these horror shows should be dragged into the street and stoned to death. I would rather watch the lady who had her face ripped off by a chimpanzee eat Honey Nut Cheerios on a 24 hour video loop than stare at these goddamn things, they are that fucking awful.

Every evening, after spending nine hours having my pride and self-worth beaten and raped by corporate shitheads, I get on a subway packed with foul-smelling douchebags. While standing ass to face with 587 lb giant with breath that smells like a mix between kitty litter and vanilla pudding, my only solace is to read the stupid ads on the subway, and pretend the guy staring from across the car at me isn't palming a grenade, or worse, himself. Sometimes the ads are great. Sometimes it's an advertisement for a new book by some hack thriller writer, complete with hokey imagery and quotes from dorks who write for Christian Style magazines. Sometimes it's an ad for a storage place in Brooklyn with half-naked girls. Sometimes it's an ad for the bible or some shit. Sometimes the ads are in Spanish, and I use my limited grasp on the language to completely butcher what they say: Bring your Mom and your Ice Cream to our lawyers for the tornado - Wow, what the fuck does THAT mean? But recently there have been ads featuring photos taken during surgery, with the New York Smokers Quit Line tagged on them. I don't know what the picture is actually of - a lung, a heart, a throat - but it's clearly a fucking human's insides. It is the worst fucking thing I've ever seen. I would rather stare at photos of Cuban refugees with compound fractures, or rotted deer carcasses piled up on the side of I-95, or the ads for the feet corn, and I FUCKING HATE FEET. But seriously, I would rather look at anything else besides the fucking inside of a throat.

As a former chain-smoker, I get what they're trying to do. I get that they're trying to scare people into quitting. But you know what? IT DOESN'T FUCKING WORK. Showing me pictures of a fucking dead lung or a rotted throat does not make ANYONE want to stop smoking. Those ads with the lady who had her entire body amputated? They only make me change the channel, taking my eyes away from other advertisers. How about the fucking guy cleaning the hole in his neck? DISGUSTING. If I was another advertiser, I would tell the fucking YES Network to keep my fucking commercial as far away as possible from these fucking things.

What really bothers me is New York State advertisement standards okays these ads. A commercial with a girl dancing around in a bikini, shaking her ass, maybe juggling cantaloupes and singing "Oye Como Va"? NO WAY, WE HAVE TO THINK ABOUT THE CHILDREN, SAVE THE CHILDREN! IT'S NOT LIKE THEY HAVE ACCESS TO THE INTERNET AND A PORTAL TO UNLIMITED PORNOGRAPHY AT THEIR FINGERTIPS OR ANYTHING! But an open heart spitting blood and shit everywhere and a byline that reads, "Your mom is going to die tonight if she doesn't quit"? That's acceptable, let's post that on every 2 train and also air a commercial of it between every fucking inning so people watching the game will lose their appetites and want to go fucking puke in the sink.

I think what makes me most mad is that I know there is some douchebag executive out there who thought it was a clever idea, "It will save lives, dammit!" But it's not clever. It's the equivalent of airing crime-scene photos of murder victims to stop serial killers from killing - so far beyond anyone's reach, it's incomprehensible and a waste of time. If I ever win the lottery, I'm going to buy the New York Smoker's Quit Line. First and foremost, I'm going to create better trivia questions for YES and not allow Fat-Head Michael Kay to answer them before viewers, and then I'm going to create my own commercials with photos of this kid I went to college with who's finger-webbing was yellow and who's breath smelled like a menthol corpse. That right there was enough to make me contemplate quitting, I didn't need surgery photos. Until then, SMOKE 'EM IF YOU GOT 'EM.

I Hate Conference Calls

Working in an office, you must learn to cope with annoying people, because almost everyone is annoying in some way. Some people just don't "get it", mainly because they fucking suck. They have zero awareness of anything going on around them. And these people do not confine their stupidity to the office, oh no - they are the same people who try to read a book while walking down a busy street, treat waiters like ancient Egyptian slaves, and eat Quizno's Italian Combo subs dripping with balsamic vinegar on a fucking unventilated subway. They are the very top of the asshole chain. They are the apex of assholes, if that's possible.

And life would make too much sense if it was just one guy/girl who did all of this annoying shit, because then I would be able to focus all my hatred on one target. But no. It's all different people doing different but equally aggravating shit. Some of them are disgusting eaters. They microwave food that smells like Bum Feet and eat it three feet away from my nostrils. And they will eat it loudly, like a fucking starved pig sawing through a deer carcass. Other people like to listen to music. Like Salsa music or Musak or something equally as terrible, all of which make me want to funnel boiling cooking grease directly into my ear-canal. Some people bicker with their spouses while I cringe..."Do not buy those. DO NOT BUY THOSE. I TOLD YOU YESTERDAY WE DON'T NEED ANYMORE FUCKING TOWELS. WHY DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING LISTEN TO ME? FINE, GO OUT WITH SHARON, SHE'S A SLUT..." Some people coo with spouses while I vomit into my lap - "Ohhh baby, I love you so much. You are the best baby. What's that, baby? I'm your snuggle muffin, baby? Awww, baby, I love you too. Mmmm I can't wait to see you in three hours either, baby..." Some people have full discussions all by themselves, like shitty, a one-man, unsponsored Shakespeare play in Central Park, starring that creep from across the hall who does his laundry wearing only underwear and a v-neck. The aggravations are literally endless. But the worst of them all are the people who put their conference calls on speakerphone. Those people deserve to rot in a Bengali prison.

I know I'm a little crazy, but listening to people hold conference calls through a speakerphone at their desks, to me, is the annoyance-equivalent of someone screaming in Arabic through a megaphone while beating a tambourine into an amplifier and using a jackhammer on a piece sheet metal while I'm trying to sleep five feet away. The minute I hear that scratchy jumble of stupid voices, my stomach boils. And the call can never be kept quiet. That would be to cordial. No, these people feel the need to pump their speakerphone volume to level 7,860, making the people on the line sound like Buffalo Bill from "Silence of the Lambs."

And conference calls in general are the fucking worst. The calls are always super-disorganized; it's mostly people mumbling and whispering and typing too loud and bullshitting about the weather "How is it out there, Bob? Is it raining. It's raining here. Is it nice where you are, Bob?" BOB IS IN CALI-FUCKING-FORNIA, FUCKFACE, OF COURSE IT'S NICE OUT!!!!

And there is always a technically-retarded person on the call who is unable to hear anyone because they have the call on mute and they're just saying, "hello...hello...hello..." until they hang up and dial in again. They click all the buttons at once so it sounds like Speak-and-Spell while some other shithead wanna-be-hero tries to help them, even though shithead #1 can't hear a fucking thing. At this point, I'm so annoyed I put the call on mute and start to decide who I'm going to pimp-slap when I win the lottery.

Once the call is underway, it usually takes me less than three seconds to decide who I hate the most. There have been times when I've been on calls with like thirty fucking people, and after just one introduction, "KAAARRRAA in Chicago..." I will already know that I hate this person. And I also know that they will be the one who needs things explained sixty times.

Person Leading the Call: So does anyone not understand the 35 minutes of nonsense I've just dictated?

(Silence)

Person Who Doesn't Fucking Get It: Umm, yeah, actually, Ken, I don't. If you don't mind, could you repeat it all again? My three-year-old nephew and my Ukrainian Au Pair just joined me, so I just want to make sure everyone is in the loop on this.

That blood-curdling screaming you hear? That raging cry of lost humanity? That's my fucking soul. It gets stabbed in the fucking eye every time someone extends a call for the sole purpose of feeling important and having their voice heard and contributing to the worthlessness of what's unfolding before us. And this same person, the one who needs everything repeated, he/she will be the one who keeps the call going just as its about to wrap up.

Person Leading the Call: Well, I think we're all set here. Thank you for sacrificing 123 minutes of your life to hear my idea that will never see the light of day. I will be setting up 34 more meetings this week because I'm paid handsomely to do futile shit like this.

Person Who Doesn't Fucking Get It: Ummm, did we discuss the time frame for this idea? What about budgets? And time travel, did we discuss that? Can we also go over why my husband/wife fucked the cleaning lady/plumber? I was too busy putting the call on mute and bad-mouthing my assistant for being a slut and wishing my kids didn't hate me for never being home so I can be here to BE THE MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE WHO MAKES CONFERENCE CALLS DRAG ON FOR 3 FUCKING HOURS!!!

(crying on a bus stop bench)

Honestly, I could keep going. I could probably write 45,000 words on speakerphones and conference calls. I could pull a Jack Torrence and write the phrase "Speakerphones and Conference Calls suck fucking dick" a million times over. But I'll stop here, because each paragraph I write on this topic is shaving six months off my life.