I was riding the Metra a few weeks ago when a scruffy looking guy got on the train and sat directly behind me. Then this dude started clearing his throat, only he was trying to do it quietly. However, this was counterproductive as he was unable to get his throat clear, thus requiring him to continue to clear his throat for the next several stops. After a few minutes of this crap, I was just about to turn around to him and say, “My man, just clear your throat loudly and get it over with already because you are annoying the living crap out of me.” Just then, as if he had a freaky ability to read my mind, he mumbled under his breath, “Son of bitch, motherfucker, son of bitch, you suck, you suck, you fucking suck.” This, as you might gather, took me by surprise. Then he “cleared” his throat softly again, and repeated, “You suck you son of bitch motherfucker. You suck, you suck, motherfucker.” Woah! That’s when I realized this dude has turrets! Awesome! I couldn’t stop laughing. Not at him, well, not entirely at him, but also because I thought this dude had read my mind and was replying to me.
The above situation got me thinking. How effective/hilarious would it be to fake tureets at a store, Target for instance, to return merchandise that you know is not returnable. Like a CD or DVD for example. Can you just imagine going up to Customer Service (oxymoron) and having some 17 year old chick that just got a promotion to Seasonal Department Supervisor asking you, “How can I help you today sir?” “Well, I’d like to return my copy of Gigli because THIS MOVIE IS A FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT AND I FEEL LIKE I WAS MOTHERFUCKING ROBBED AND I WANT MY GODDAMN MONEY BACK!” “Excuse me sir, we don’t tolerate that behavior in Target.” “Oh no, I’m sorry you see, I suffer from A BULLSHIT DISEASE THAT YOU PROBABLY SAW OVERLY FUCKING EXAGGERATING IN ANOTHER MOVIE AS SHITTY AT GIGLI, DEUCE FUCKING BIGALOW, AND NO I JUST NEED TO RETURN THIS COCKSUCKING MOVIE AND GET MY FUCKING MONEY BACK!”
Speaking of cashiers, I hate when cashiers at stores feel the need to connect with you. I worked at Express for like two-and-half years and they were always pushing us to make a connection with each and every customer. Make the experience personal for them. Now that I don’t work there, I can truthfully say that was the gayest policy ever. Look, when I’m on the other end of the transaction as a customer, I appreciate a little non-specific small talk, i.e. the weather or “Any big plans for the holiday weekend.” That’s fine, it makes the whole process of watching a stranger fondle the underwear you will be wearing later less awkward. SIDENOTE: How crazy would it be to have a female cashier at Victoria’s Secret sniff you panties while she rang you up? Moving on, it’s particularly aggravating when you follow the typical ettiquite rules, such as when somebody asks you, “How are you today?” and you reply, “Fine, thanks. And yourself?” This is not an open invitation to tell me your problems or solicit free relationship advice. I don’t know you, I don’t care about you. You’re not my family, and there’s a pretty good chance that if you were, I’d still rather not hear it. You are minimum wage cashier at the mall! Just giving me a bland, “I’m good” or “Pretty good,” ring up my purchase and I’ll be on my way.
They should make Red Rover an Olympic sport. I’m 100% certain that Mexico will win the gold medal every year.
I saw the Jonas Brothers on TV a couple of days ago and it got me thinking. I hate these ungrateful little pricks. That Chastity Vow and the accompanying Purity Rings are a slap in the face of all that is holy and scared about achieving rock star status. Even if it is in a contrived Disney Channel gimmick, reaching that level of fame comes with certain perks and an unlimited supply of pussy is one of those perks. Don’t ever believe anybody that tells you it’s “all about the music” because that is a fucking lie. Well, maybe it’s a half-truth, but still, the reason any man wants to be famous is to make a lot of money, get into fancy clubs and parties, never have to wait for a table at a restaurant and FUCK EVERY GORGEOUS WOMAN THAT WOULD NEVER LOOK AT HIM TWICE OTHERWISE! The Jonas Brothers publicly taking a Chastity Vow when there is a smorgasbord of ready and willing women is like a starving African kid passing up on McDonald’s food because of the transfat. So FUCK YOU Joe Jonas. FUCK YOU Kevin! And FUCK YOU in particular Nick because you could have been banging Miley Cyrus, then ruined her career by telling us about it and we’d be nearly rid of her. Just like Justin did to Britney.
I’m no longer down with tipping waiters and waitresses. Seriously, why do we even tip these people anymore, they don’t do anything. There are some places that have wait staff that still does a lot of their own work, but most places don’t. I went to Friday’s for a burger and gave my name to some 17-year-old high school girl so I can get a table, and she hands me a vibrator. I’m not really sure why this is necessary if she has my name. She can’t just yell, “Salty, party of 2?” Why take my name if you’re just giving me a lousy buzzing device to let me know I’m ready. I thought it was weird that a family restaurant would be handing out something like this to pass the time as I waited, but whatever, I had fun with it. Just a word of advice, ask for device #17 at Friday’s, it’s the strongest one. Anyway, so some chick seats me and then the “waitress” comes and gets my drink order. Only this bitch doesn’t talk like a normal human, she has to come over in a sing song way, screaming at the top of her lungs, asking me how I’m doing today. “Just fine until I realized that the put me in the section with waitress that forgot to take her Ritalin.” So she takes the order, inputting into a fucking Blackberry or Palm Pre or some shit, because the pen and pad is evidently no good anymore. Then some half retarded kid that couldn’t get a job bagging groceries at the grocery store comes out with my drinks, half of them spilled on the fucking tray. What the fuck was the role of the waitress if she didn’t bring my drinks. Can’t they have a digital screen at the counter where I can input my drinks myself? (Actually, that’s not a half-bad idea and I could make a fortune selling this to Lettuce Entertain You.) So then Bubbles the crack-fiend is back after having done a few lines and takes our order. Only she has to show us how impressive her memory is by not writing anything down and just standing there casually while we tell her what we want. Great trick, only it would be a lot cooler if my 6-year-old didn’t have a better memory than her. Which is all well and good until she comes back to the table 20 times to “verify” our order. FUCK! Then when the food is ready, she isn’t even the one that brings it to us. Some other kid, who is only slightly more functional than the drink runner brings it out do you. And several minutes go by when Bubbles McBubblestern comes back and asks, “Is everything ok?” Why do you care? What are you going to do about it if it’s not ok? Go find some autistic kid to troubleshoot the problem? So this entire time, she didn’t take my name, she didn’t seat me, she didn’t bring me drinks, let alone pour them, she didn’t bring my food and when I’m done eating, she doesn’t even take away my plate. The illegal alien Jose comes by with asking in broken English “All done sir. Take away now, yes? No?” And she expects me to give her and additional 15-20% of the bill. For what? For all I know she didn’t really have to input the order into the Blackberry, that’s just her cover and she was really texting her mom, letting her know she’s going to be late for her shift at the strip club.
As a male, one of the coolest things as you get older and enter manhood is getting to know a new side of your father. When you’re growing up you look at your dad as boring old dad that is either always mad or “resting his eyes” in front of the TV watching some overplayed Clint Eastwood movie when the MTV VMAs are on. But once you start hitting your late teens/early twenties and dad sees that you aren’t going to turn out to be a complete douche bag, he starts opening up to you and relating to you like you’re a man. This is really cool. At first it starts out with Dad admitting to you that he sometimes ditched school when he was a teen. So you think it’s ok to share with him, so you tell him about the time you snuck out of the house to go to a party. Then he tells you about the time he got drunk and high and had to sneak back into your grandparents’ house. So then you tell him about how to spent an entire semester in college drunk.
“Which semester was this?” he asks.
“The one where I got put on academic probation.”
“Figures,” he scoffs. And then you guys just keep sharing stuff, and you become friends with your dad and it’s a beautiful thing. Until the day that dad goes a little too far.
“Yeah I remember when I was 25 years old, there was this fine ass bitch that could suck dick like nobody else.”
“Dad, gross that’s too much information. WAIT! 25?!?! Weren’t you married to mom then.?” “Yeah. That’s who I’m talking about?” NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Has anybody seen the infomercial for this hearing device, Listen Up, which is supposed to be for every day use?
It isn’t being targeted at just old people or people with hearing problems. It’s being marketed so you can hear your neighbors across the street talking about how great you are. Or if you are hunting in the woods, no you can have the hearing of a wolf. Riiiiiight. If you watch the commercial, they’re listening in on all these people randomly giving you praise. Dude, I have never, ever wished I could know what people are saying because I suspect they are talking great about me. If people are whispering about you from “up to a 100 feet away!” it’s because they are talking shit. And that old due watching TV with his wife sleeping; he’s watching porn. What they don’t show you is that she wakes up and starts yelling in his ear to make him deaf for watching that shit in bed. “Hey, Listen Up fucker. You’re sleeping on the couch for the rest of the week.”
Wednesday morning on my way to work, I took a small detour to stop by Mickey D’s for some breakfast. As I took the back streets to get to work, I was driving down a road that is currently under construction when I see flashing lights, and I’m not talking about a Kanye West song either. Fuck! I think, this is what I get for laughing at the guy that got pulled over the night before as I was walking home from the gym. I look down at my speedometer, and I was going 41 in a 30, but again, it’s a construction zone. I had just happened to have seen Gabriel Iglesias’ stand-up on Friday. In it he says that if you get pulled over, make the officer laugh and you’ll have a shot of getting away without a ticket. I figure Fuck it, it’s worth a shot. I roll down the window and the officer comes up.
“Do you know why I pulled you over today?” asked Officer Bonilla.
“Because I’m wanted in 50 states for being so cool,” I said. Lame I know, but it was all I could think of when the rest of my brain is occupied with how I’m going to avoid getting murdered by my wife for speeding in a construction zone. Those tickets aren’t cheap. The officer’s lips moved into a small smile, but he quickly composed himself and looked at me puzzled for a as I looked at him with remorseful and pathetic eyes. Then, I kid you not, he says to me,
“You watched Gabriel Iglesias on Friday didn’t you?”
Oh my God, yes! This guy is a stand-up fan and he know what I’m trying to do. I might have a chance!
“Yeah sir, I did.”
“Can I see you license and insurance please.”
“Absolutely.”
“What are you doing out so late Peter?” he asked me.
“Actually sir, it’s early, I’m heading to work. I start at 4:30 and I work in Carol Stream,” I replied while I looked for my insurance. I couldn’t find it because I have so much crap jammed in my glove compartment.
“Well, tell you what. I’m going to run your license while you look for the insurance. How’s your driving record.”
“It’s good, sir, I haven’t had anything in over four years.”
“Alright, sit tight and find that insurance, I’ll be right back so you can get to work on time.” As I continued to empty out the glove compartment I found something that I had been looking for since August of 2008. I found my DVD of Transformers! Score, I had torn my house apart like three weeks ago looking for it and now I find it. I was smiling ear to ear when Officer Bonilla came back to my window.
“What are you so happy about?”
“Officer, I have been looking for this movie since at least August! I had no idea it was in my glove compartment. My fantasy girl is in this movie and I haven’t been able to watch her on my HDTV because I didn’t know where this movie was!”
“Megan Fox?” he asked, as if he didn’t dream about her too.
“Yep! I’d sell my parents into slavery for one night with her. Metaphorically speaking of course.”
“Did you find anything else in there?”
“Oh yeah, here is my insurance and registration.”
“Ok, great. Well, I’m going to let you off with a written warning. Just be careful, because I’m in a good mood. Anybody else would have given you a ticket, $375 minimum in a construction zone.”
I couldn’t believe I had gotten away from that unscathed! No ticket, not even a $75 ticket. Just a warning. Women get away with things because they have tits. I get away with it because I have wits (and no filter between my brain and mouth.)