Boring People Shouldn't Have Babies

I'm all for babies. I love them. I'm a total sucker for a fat face and soft feet that have never walked a day in their life.

This probably explains a lot already about my bad choices in the romantic sector. But that's for another entry.

THIS entry is for all of the people who have children and decide to unabashedly whore them out on social networking sites for all of the paeophiles, creeps and friends (these are not necessarily singular characteristics of a person - one can encompass a more than one) to see.

But that's not my problem. That's their pre-Kindergarten bad-parenting-choices-that-will-scar-their-child-and-eventually-drive-them-to-mass-suicide decisions to make.

What irks me is the comments that people insist on leaving on their walls:

1: This is so cute!

2: I just love her!!! So cute!

3: What a love!

4: LOVE this pic! So cute!!

5: OMG! Total cutie pie!!

6: Too cute!! Honey, let's get together soon!

7: Love, Love, Love!!

8: When do I get to meet her?

9: Adorable! SO cute!

10: Precious! Love her already!!

Redundant? Yes. Honest? Probably not.

It is a tri-annual struggle (probably as often as I look at these) to stop myself from writing: Your child is incredibly ugly. Ewww.

Whore hex

Dear door guy, 

I hope you're not still mad at me for telling you to stop creeping out my female customers when we still worked together. Not only was that almost two years ago, but it was the best advice anyone has ever given you. No cute young girl having a cocktail in Back Bay wants to hear about your obsession with guns, how your penis is small from excessive steroid use, or how you can't come from sex. I know I didn't when I was your co-worker and a waitress hosing down the patio after last call. 

Trying to slander my name is hard: I do a pretty good job telling everyone about my fuckups before gossip-starved freakshows like yourself have the chance. Being hated by you is a compliment! I'm pretty sure you only cut up the girls you like into little pieces. Next time I have a beer at my old place of work, I'll warn the new waitresses not to let you walk them to the cab stand. Unless they want to wind up in your basement. 

Good luck getting laid! 

Crowds, cameras and ou est la swimming pool.

To all of the underage hipster-wannabes (yes, hipster wannabes) that attended La Roux last night...you're a disgrace to your generation and the entire music community.

Don't go to a concert if you don't know the band playing. It's not a social gathering, it's a fucking concert where artists are pouring their heart out on stage. It's normally not great decorum to make out with your girlfriends/boyfriends right in front of the stage the entire time - a glance towards the performance would be nice.

And to the rest of the over-excited, over-snappy audience members (particularly the couple in front of me): Is it really necessary to take over 5,263,119 pictures throughout the course of the evening? Having your arms flash up and obstruct my view every third second was GREAT. Really enhanced my experience. But it was definitely worth it because I'm sure it was completely imperative that you got a picture of Elly Jackson at every degree, with every movement she did. I suppose you'll be making a scrap book or a moving cartoon with that later. Sounds great.

And thanks again for turning around every 30 seconds to yell and point and aero-distance-dance with your friends sitting up in the balconies, over 70 feet away. Looking right into your faces was really the reason I bought the ticket in the first place.

Oh, and the miming and the yelling and the 45 degree leaning you were doing ALL TOWARDS THE BACK OF THE THEATRE was simply priceless.

Here's hoping you're not actually bulletproof.

And to the guys in the swimming pool or whatever/whoever...

Next time, how about wearing a full shirt instead of a half one? And how about acting a little less yuppie. You're not talented, clearly didn't want to be on stage, you made me nauseous and I hope you can't procreate. The world doesn't need more of you.

Congratulations on knowing all of the words to your own songs though. No, really. Seriously. Job very well done. You've climaxed now so you've got no where else to go except downhill.

Please stop.

Club soccer

Three guys sat down at the bar and told me they were "champions". I thought, this can only mean one thing. I was right. After shouting about how my martini was so good, he was going to call it a G-spot, the ringleader of the three called his buddy and told him to put his phone on vibrate and leave it next to his scrotum. Thank god somebody finally had the wit and insight to make a joke about vibrating phones and scrotums! Who would have thought. My co-bartender asked them to please be respectful and keep their voices down, as his wife and two year old daughter were dining four feet away from them at the bar. The ringleader, showing the other two how to "live it up", ordered a steak tartare, which his friends refused to eat. "You guys are crazy," he kept insisting. "Steak tartare is amazing! It's extravagant. It's a delicatessen!" 

Note: I am very obnoxious when I am drunk. I do, however, know how to pick my bars as well as separate my nouns from my adjectives. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Just saying

Dear guy at the bar who was hesitant to let me make his extra-dry Grey Goose martini because he wasn't sure I'd make a good one, 

There's only one ingredient.

Sincerely, 

Your literate bartender

How impotence influences the social behavior of overly-educated homo sapiens

Tonight I waited on a table of six physics professors. Much to my sincere delight this table included one man who gave his argyle sweater a good name by politely drinking three glasses of Black Label on the rocks, another who ate his burger rare and drank his coffee black (respectable), and three other nondescript human beings who babbled on about the department's publishing record. They belong on another blog. This blog is about people like the sixth man at the table, who talked over everyone in a high pitched voice, asked for bread when I first came over to the table with waters, and ordered an appetizer for an entree because it was "half the price". 

When I brought the food he asked for a drink. He did not order the glass of wine he wanted (pinot grigio) because it was eight dollars, but settled for a $7.50 chardonnay ("the driest one you have") (dumbass).  I diligently trotted back to the side station and put in the order, emerging only to find him on his feet, hovering near the bar. This is the conversation that ensued. 

Douche: "I'd like my wine please." 

Me: "Yes, I am just waiting for the bartender to pour it."

Douche: "But I want my wine with my MEAL."

Me: "Yes -"

Douche: "I have my mussels now, so I'd like my wine now."

I know you have your mussels because I was putting them in front of you when you told me order you cheap pathetic ignorant fuck. I hope your PhD in physics will explain the trajectory of this "dry chardonnay" when I throw it in your face. 

As I am writing this, I am slowly realizing that maybe it's not that big of a deal. So what, he was impatient and stupid, it's no reason to entertain homicide as a feasible option. But then again, why question rage? It feels so nice. 

Unicorns

I bumped into a girl I used to work with yesterday. She is nineteen years old and fucking stupid. When it is December in Boston and you are waiting for a cab, she is one of the girls blocking your street access, shivering in a backless tank top, and talking in mouse decibels. You know, one of the girls that make you wish for an arctic wind to come along and knock their underage asses into a snow bank. There is only one reason I want to single her out from the masses of people like her that annoy me. She found out two weeks ago that unicorns don't actually exist.