I have no words...

The 50-year old Brat

To the old prima donna that came into the bar last night with a look like a slapped ass on his face:

You seemed really hard done by when I told you that we didn't have WD40 for your bike outside. This is a fucking bar you jackass. We serve beer and liquor. We oil people, not machines. Go across the street to the damn hardware store for that.

You continued to express your perma I-look-constipated-but-I'm-just-a-spoiled-midget-trapped-in-an-old-man's-body look even when you were sitting with your buddies, sipping on a Sierra. The look didn't leave your face the entire night. Even while you were eating. It was remarkable.

Oh, and thanks also for tapping me on the shoulder every 4 to 6 minutes to ask me where your food was. In case you didn't notice, hockey playoffs were on, we were slammed and 40 plus people had ordered before you. Sit the fuck down and wait like everyone else.

One more thing...your snarly request for the check was awesome. It especially made it worthwhile with your 4% tip. Awesome.

Please don't fall off your bike on the way home.

Agents of douche

To the other band that played on Friday: even though Union St. was your first show ever, your band's sound could have had a shred of 1988-imported charm if it weren't for the off-key wail of your snotty lead singer and her horrible attitude. We asked to use her stool and her "sure, whatever" was so frosty we may as well have been asking if we could sit at the cool picnic table for middle school recess. After we played and started taking our stuff off the stage, not a single member of your band so much as smiled at us. We didn't expect a "good job" since you weren't even there to hear us play, but came in during our last song. We sat and listened to your set, even though your songs made me feel like I was listening to a sixteen year old band practice in suburban Olympia. We were impressed with the Zendrum your "drummer" used and, thinking our missing member could use a great birthday present, approached you guys after your set to ask how much it cost and where it was purchased. Your drummer rolled his eyes and said "uh, can I hug my girlfriend first?" Go the fuck ahead. Don't you have to be really good to be that lame? Or is the attitude enough? 

This Is What She Said:

From Miss M:

"dear semi-sexy painter guy that i've been trying to make-out with for the past two weeks,

thank you very much for being such a wonderful host last night. i am so glad that i decided to leave my two amazing friends and the hot irish guy who was hitting on me to go over to your place.

after driving 30 minutes at 3 am to see you, i really appreciated the fact that you were inordinately wasted when i arrived. i loved how you could barely get off your ass to open the door for me. the tantalizing aroma of cheap wine, burning plastic and weed that seeped out of your pores was mesmerizing. god you're hot. i particularly enjoyed how your two friends didn't talk to me at all, and how the girl gave me the death stare when i said that i like disney movies. it was just great meeting your friends.

oh and the farting, how charming! you really know how to turn a girl on.

but i think what made the night absolutely perfect was your complete lack of balls. it is so refreshing to find a guy who is too apathetic about everything in his life to realize that a chick just wants to fuck him. i'm really glad we didn't have sex.

thanks for a fantastic night, asshole.

love,
the chick who definitely does not want to fuck you anymore."

9pm Watershed

In England, any evening after 9pm, naked men/women, the words "fuck" and "shit" and really violent scenes are typically permitted on all television programs.

In Boston, you can't drink alcohol at a concert on a Friday night after that time.

So, thanks Agannis Arena. Thanks very much for letting me and my friend know this. Especially after you made us each, separately, purchase our one drink (because two for one is not allowed - God forbid one of you still stay in your seats and enjoy the show) at an extortionate price. The cashier's snarly comment - "Enjoy the stupid show" - really made my beer taste a lot better too.

Thanks a lot. You're fucking awesome.

And good luck with your Kings Of Leons fans tonight. I hope they smoke weed, inject heroin and Caleb throws buckets into the audience and chaos ensues.

Thanks a lot.

It's not what it looks like, we've actually known each other for months

Robert Benchley, you are not funny. That essay you wrote about "How To Get Work Done" which turned out to be SARCASTICALLY about procrastination is totally predictable and boring. I laughed more when I got my W2 in the mail. 

Speaking of humor, I have to give a daily douche shout out to myself this morning, sitting in the sunlight of the C line above ground amid the fresh-faced and office-employed, looking like I belong in a rehabilitation facility and feeling like Hester Prynne with a Fanueil Hall hangover.

Bananas

This morning I picked up breakfast on my way to work and there was this woman who literally FREAKED OUT on the poor cashier because her blueberry pancakes had a banana on the plate.

Mind you, the banana wasn't touching the pancakes, nor was it peeled. Nor was this woman even allergic to bananas. She just didn't like them and she demanded that an entire new set of pancakes be made for her because she "just couldn't get the image out of her head". She needed a new plate and everything.

(NB: This lady looked like she probably should be choosing bananas over pancakes anyway.)

Now, I know certain people have phobias and what not but this, I could tell, wasn't a phobia. She was just being a total spoiled piece of horse excrement.

All the people starving in the world and this glutton goes gaga over a damn banana.

Get real.

Public service message

In case the English language is confusing sometimes: 

"right behind you" = "fucking move because I am carrying something hot/heavy"

Livers For A Dollar

This morning, in a CVS parking lot, a guy asked me for a dollar so he could "get some gas".

I probably would have given it to him but seeing as this same guy, on at least five different occasions, has asked me asked me the same exact question, I gathered that we're not talking about the same kind of gas so I told him no.

He then told me to fuck off and that he was going to "eat my liver".

Really? Fine. Take it.

I need a new one anyway.

Iowa Has Corn Fields

For Mary:

The guy decked in a Harley Davidson jacket, Harley Davidson shoes, Harley Davidson pants, Harley Davidson gloves and a Harley Davidson helmet, who was driving a motorcycle. But NOT a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Weird.

Thought

This blog is going to get me in big trouble. 

Some pretentious writers, a drunk gay guy and a God-fearing midget walk into a bar...

I literally have so much that I could ramble about on this post, that I'm already fearing that I may lose the plot and go off into jagged, feverish tangents. So, I'm purposefully going to be succinct and try to salvage any remnants of sanity I have left after these encounters:

1) Writers who aren't writers so much as PRETENTIOUS SHOCK ENGINES. You suck. Using excessive foul language (I'm talking every other word), cliquish diction, purposeful bad punctuation that confuses even you, and multi-colored/sized/fonted typeface should not be mistaken for intelligence nor wit. Of course it's your prerogative to do whatever the hell you want on your website/blog, but please, PLEASE don't call it writing. It's not if people don't understand what you're even saying. Perhaps consider a career in foreign languages. Or graphic design.

2) Obliterated homosexual who enters blatant testosteroney sports bar after last call. Don't try and flirt with the hairiest guy at the bar, who happens to be drinking a Miller Lite and wearing a Sox hat. He may just kick your ass. Luckily, he didn't and found you massaging his shoulder while singing Aerosmith into his ear mildly amusing.

3) Self-obsessed Barbie Doll who likes to steal and then go to Church. Why aren't you going to one of your oldest friends weddings? Just because it's not all about you? A little envious perhaps that you're not walking down the aisle? Stupid. People like you exist only for people like us to laugh at you. That is your one and only purpose in this life. Remember that.

James Blunt

Rambling, crowd of douches, the hour between my classes

A woman made me (and about 40 other people) leave the public lounge in the Boylston building so that she can hold a "private meeting, by invitation only." I thought about asking her for identification. 

Now, seated on a windowsill by the door of the building so I can charge my computer, I have been lucky enough to see these gems of humanity in action: 

A man in a three piece suit, iPod buds in his ears, a briefcase and a Starbucks coffee cup walked towards the door and then noticed that it was already raining. Apparently, this was the worst thing he could imagine. He stopped, sighed, threw his coffee cup in the trash and ripped out his earphones. "REALLY? Already? You can't fucking predict anything these days. It wasn't supposed to start for three hours, it's ridiculous. Why even look at the weather?" Thank you, kind sir, for verbalizing your internal monologue. Can I have a hundred dollars? 

A twenty year old sat on the bench and ate a burrito with his mouth open. 

The stream of people from classes trying to exit the building is hilarious to watch. Everyone is "eager" to get outside and annoyed that people are stopping in the doorway. Then, when the annoyed person gets to the doorway, he stops to get his umbrella out. Cause and effect, etc.  

I fucking hate umbrellas. 

The only difference between me and internal monologue guy is that I am blogging and he was talking out loud. We are both anxious. He had nice shoes. I am aware that sometimes my rage is projected self-loathing. It is still raining. I might dedicate my next douche post to the month of April in Massachusetts. 

A girl on the phone next to me: "Hi, I have a reservation for this afternoon and I just found out that someone joining us is vegan. I was wondering, are any vegan options on your menu?" 

"_________________________________."

"There's no possibility of preparing a pasta without butter or something?"

"_________________________________." 

Big Brother Sucks Ass

Ted,

Your job is immoral and spineless. You are a casting director for Big Brother and I can't imagine how you can wake up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror.

Especially when you seek out girls in seedy bars for your much more seedy show. How can you possibly think that any girl, who looks relatively put together, would ever want to partake in "fifteen minutes of fame" simply because you throw a CBS card out at them and then proceed to tell them that you think they're a bitch.

Just because you have a "job" with a network, pimping out face time via a ridiculous show that is directly responsible for the dumbing down of society, does not ingratiate you with the role of top dog.

You're an asshole. No, you're a douche.

Let it be known that having a California drivers license, and flaunting your "LA-ness" does not entitle you to respect.

Your show sucks. And so do you.

Leave us alone.

Tax season nostalgia

This entry is an anniversary shout-out to the Massachusetts Department of Revenue, all 241 employees, every cubicle, every bagged lunch, every wasted fax paper and manila folder.  

I haven't filed my taxes yet, but the TurboTax emails that arrive in my inbox every day remind me constantly of the bad news last April brought me. I can smell it in the rainy air: negative 2,000 dollars.

I love paying a few grand in taxes when I made 33,000 dollars all year waiting tables. Especially when the city I live in looks like shit and the Arlington T stop station's scheduled construction end date is sometime in 2015. I like to fantasize about what that two thousand dollars went towards. Vegan options for the Mass Dept. of Revenue cafeteria? Color-coded parking passes? 

My favorite: you fined me for not having health insurance. Do you know why I didn't have health insurance? BECAUSE I COULDN'T AFFORD IT. 

Audit me, I dare you

British Bulldog

(NB: This blog has no boundaries - it CAN and WILL cross continental borders. Douchebags are rife everywhere in the world.)

My mother told me an interesting story yesterday. She was driving down a street in London (for those unfamiliar with UK city side roads, they're essentially two-way streets that only have room for one car to go down at a time because cars are parked on both sides) and was two-thirds of the way down the street when this big, white van came sailing down from the other end.

My mother continued, seeing as she was well past the halfway mark and there was no visible empty street parking spot for her to slide into. The white van also continued at an alarming speed before screeching to an abrupt halt (because the fucker was about to hit her).

The toothless wonder then signals at my mother to move HER car back. Yes, dipshit here wanted a woman to back more than two-thirds of the way down a street when she already had the right of way.

Typical protocol would have been for the lazy, common piece of horse excrement to back his shitmobile out and let the lady through.

But NOOOOOOO. Instead, after a few moments of signaling for the other to move, this deranged guy puts his car into park, pulls out a book and begins to read.

My mother doesn't have the best eyesight in the world, so she probably failed to see that he had the book, most likely Ryan Giggs' autobiography or something of that ilk, upside down. We all know that most people in white vans who behave like this are illiterate, right? That's a given.

Thankfully, another car came up behind my mother, now putting the jerk-off into a predicament - it was now 2 against 1. And the car behind my mother had a man in it, who was less patient than my sweet mother. The bloke got out, yelled a few obscenities, and then Man-In-A-Van-Who-Can't-Read was forced to back out.

The icing on the cake is that my mother flipped him off and called him an asshole on her way out.

Good for you mom. What a big sack of douche.

I am mentally flipping through my douche catalog, 542 entries for 2009 so far

SO, since I am in the library reading "Maus II" by Art Spiegelman, this entry goes out to Nazis. 

And also the guy who sat behind me in the class I am reading it for and jiggled his knee the whole time with so much force my chair was knocking into the one next to it. Thanks for continuing to do it, even when I turned all the way around and stared at you. Your nervous energy is fucking charming. 

Champguy

This one goes out to the douchebag who came into the bar last night:

Thank you very much for asking me a series of inane questions when I was clearly slammed and other customers were waiting patiently for their drinks.

When you asked me, "Ahem, yes, at what temperature do you serve your champagne?", I can't tell you how sorry I was that I didn't know the exact degree offhand. I had hoped my answer of "Cold" would have sufficed, but it didn't.

I thoroughly enjoyed how you continued to press me on various finicky aspects of the only three types of champagne we have on the menu, as if some kind of bubbly connoisseur and then proceeded to pronounce Veuve as "vooove". Idiot.

I can't tell you how happy I was when you then, some three minutes later (practically three hours in bar time) finally ordered a glass of the cheapest sparkling wine. Simply splendid.

And when the crowds dispersed, you really showed your true comedic side when you whipped out a copy of Debbie Does Dallas and asked me to put it on our televisions because "hardly anyone was left in the bar".

When I declined your brilliant suggestion of watching pornography in my place of work, the joke you cracked, which I didn't get, must obviously have been a funny one had it not gone over my head.

And I'm glad that you caught my puzzled expression and remarked, "You wouldn't get it. You're not a Harvard grad."

No, I'm not. Shrewd observation from you.

Shrewd observation from me: you're a big douchebag.