Doggie Diner is the name of a very small--as in, a total of two or possibly three--chain of fast food restaurants around Bolingbrook, IL. The guy that owns them is a younger guy that looks to be in his early thirties. Although it's called "Doggie Diner," I'm actually not that fond of their hot dogs. They pretty much stick to the tried-and-true method of boiling them and throwing a buttload of condiments on top. A version of the good ol' Chicago way that shuts up the kids because if they don't get all the condiments, it's kind of bland. And really, a plain, boiled hot dog is just unpleasant on so many levels. Especially if ketchup is the only thing added to that poor hot dog. It makes me cry, on the inside...from my stomach.
However, there are many things that kept me coming back almost once a week to this place when I used to live in the neighborhood, and still does from time to time when I don't mind a ten minute drive during my lunch break from the office where I work. First and foremost, it's one of those places where the fries are included with pretty much anything you buy, and sweet jesus, do they give you a lot of fries. They season the hell out of them with what I'm pretty sure is Lawry's Seasoned Salt, and they're the nice thin kind of fries I like. These fries actually give you a bit of a buzz for a few mintues when you're done eating. I'm sure that's a good thing.
Also, they've got one of my favorite lunchtime delicacies of all time: the spicy polish. This isn't one of those polish sausages that's just a slightly larger than normal hot dog and gives you slightly nastier breath. No, this is one of those bright red polish sausages that snap when you bite in, are char grilled, and have an extra spicy kick to them. You know that it's got to be possibly the worst thing you can eat, next to a big bottle of something that says POISON XXX on the label, but you don't care. What is that horrible preservative they use in these types of things? Nitrates? Nitrites? Whatever that's called, it's fucking delicious, and it's probably pickling me from the inside. Yet I do not care.
I've had plenty of other great things there too, but I almost always get the spicy polish. YOU DO NOT MESS WITH SUCCESS. Also, most of the other things they have there are just fucking unwieldy. For instance, they've got something that is basically two big hamburger patties in a big ol' Pita, loaded with lettuce and condiments on top. I want to say it's called "THE ULTIMATE SHITTER" but that can't be right. I didn't realize it wasn't just a regular double burger on a plain bun when I ordered it that one time, and when I got it I just kind of scratched my head for a few minutes before making a big fucking mess of the thing and giving up halfway through. It was pretty tasty, but I just felt like a failure. There was probably some kid holding a hot dog with no bun and his face all smeared with ketchup just laughing his ass off at me about two tables over. I think I would have had more success if I had access to a large blueprint with some crazy Rube Goldberg-styled stick figure drawings like in Tom and Jerry.
The atmosphere in the place is just perfect for what you'd want a small suburban town hot dog joint to be. Lots of oranges and browns, you kind of have to wipe the table off when you sit down to clear the last guy's errant salt and ketchup, there's a juke box that sounds like it's covered in blankets and of course has some Meat Loaf classics available to rock, and plenty of local sports heroes and hot dog-themed posters adorning the walls. There's usually at least one cop eating there (probably for free), and most of the time I see the same group of really old haggard men smoking like absolute chimneys at the same table. I think they might have come with the place when the dude bought the restaurant.
Oh man, I just remembered this awesome thing that happened there once. My old roommate and I were sitting at a table right next to a cartoony-looking poster of the Chicago skyline with hot dog shapes randomly inserted where, like, the Sears Tower or the Ferris Wheel would normally be. Some kid walks by and stops dead in his tracks and yells "HEY MOM! HOLY COW! IT'S A CITY...MADE OUT OF HOT DOGS!!" This poster had absolutely blown this kid's mind--it was like this was exactly what he had imagined in his mind's eye when his Sunday school teacher spoke of heaven, and the poster was a window into his spiritual mind.
That, folks, is why I write a blog about hot dog places.
I give Doggie Diner the Nobel Prize for Awesome.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
Hot Doug's is Like Winning the Lottery, Except You Aren't a Dirtbag, and You're Paid in Gourmet Sausages
I think the title of this blog post sums it up and I should stop right there. But I will elaborate at great length.
Hot Doug's resides on an unassuming stretch of California Avenue on the Northwest side of Chicago. (Note: Almost all of the hot dog places I talk about will be in or around Chicago. However, even if I didn't live here, I'm pretty sure that the Chicago metro area is home to something like 98% of the world's hot dog joints, so this would be the case regardless.) It's not very hard to miss--on one side there are a few nondescript office buildings, and then to the other side there's a big fenced-in lot that belongs to Com Ed, and a CTA bus turnabout. The big yellow and red sign at the storefront on the corner advertising Hot Doug's as "The Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium" kind of jumps out at you, as does the occasional long line of people that stretches around the corner. It's one of those places that you pass by and kind of say "What the fuck is that place?" to yourself, or perhaps to the people that are also in your car. Maybe a couple days later, someone tells you about it and you wonder if there is a name for when that happens. Then you eventually give in to curiosity and check it out. You stop by on a Sunday and they are closed. You get kind of pissed and look them up on the web and notice that they're only open Monday through Saturday, 10:30AM to 4PM. So you go back the following Saturday around noon. Then there's a line, even though the weather sucks. But you're there so you stick around.
So you finally get in the door and take a look around. It looks like a pretty damned good time in there--chock full of people extremely happy to be eating some very interesting sausages, lots of amusing crap on the walls, good music on the stereo. You look at the huge menu on the wall and notice something right away--nothing but hot dogs and various sausages with funny names. They call themselves "The Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium" because that is really all they sell--delicious, gourmet sausages. Unless you count the drinks and fries. (More on the fries later.) Hot Doug's has part of a menu that stays the same all the time. That's where you get your typical Chicago-style hot dog, Italian sausage, corndog, and my staple fare when I'm not feeling adventurous: the "Don Rickles." The Don Rickles is what they call a Thuringer sausage--beef, pork, and garlic. These are all cheap--$1.50 for hot dog or corn dog, $3 for the Thuringer, etc. But unlike any old cheap hot dog stand, they use some really fresh, high quality ingredients in everything from the buns, to the sausage, and right down to the condiments.
Then, to the side of the main menu, they've got a few weekly specials written on a whiteboard. Here you can spend a few extra bucks--up to around $8--and choose between things like:
Game of week--Rattlesnake, Alligator, Pheasant, to name a few.
Hot Doug's BLT--A sausage that tastes just like bacon, with avocado mayo, lettuce, and little cherry tomatoes.
The Pepper Lopez--a quarter pound dog wrapped in bacon, with onions and jalapeño mustard.
Reuben--a sausage that tastes just like corned beef, with sauerkraut and thousand island dressing.
And so many more. They rotate a few of them out every week. Not only are the sausages for these things interesting, obscure, and delicious, but the condiments that they put on them are very well matched. Hot Doug is well trained in the culinary arts. I think he went to Northwestern. Much like me and this blog, he decided "fuck it, hot dogs are awesome" and decided to apply his skills to hot dogs. Of course, this makes him a pretty cool guy.
Oh yeah, I said I would mention the fries. If you go there on Friday or Saturday, you can get an order of duck fat fries. Yes folks, french fries that are fried in rendered duck fat. I should not have to tell you this, but these fries are extremely delicious. Any fries that are fried in real fat are great, but the duck fat gives them a little extra crispness and sweetness that makes me about as happy as a man that has eaten some potatoes fried in the fat that has been rendered from a duck. In other words: very happy.
After you make your decision, you place your order with the owner, Hot Doug himself. He's a personable man, quick to crack a joke and offer any suggestions if you need help deciding on anything. Hell, he'll even tell you to get the small drink because they have free refills, if you try to order a large.
You are then, and only then, allowed to grab your seat. No saving seats, for you assholes out there. Because of this rule, though, no matter how packed they are, you always seem to get a seat. They're pretty quick to get you your order, which is brought out to you by an affable young gent or some girl that I have not had any interactions with as of yet, but who seems similarly affable. After you've had time to sufficiently savor your meal, you'd better not be a jerk and stick around chatting about something stupid. They will kindly ask you to leave so that the people in the enormous line will have a place to sit. You won't mind because you really want to go home and take a nice nap anyway.
So as you can tell, I really hate this place.
Just kidding. I wanted to start off the current incarnation of my internet ramblings with Hot Doug's because I think it's my favorite restaurant in the whole world. If you could somehow involve beer and sex into the equation, it would pretty much be how I would describe what my personal heaven will be like when I die. I give it 12 thumbs up and 6 stars.
Hot Doug's resides on an unassuming stretch of California Avenue on the Northwest side of Chicago. (Note: Almost all of the hot dog places I talk about will be in or around Chicago. However, even if I didn't live here, I'm pretty sure that the Chicago metro area is home to something like 98% of the world's hot dog joints, so this would be the case regardless.) It's not very hard to miss--on one side there are a few nondescript office buildings, and then to the other side there's a big fenced-in lot that belongs to Com Ed, and a CTA bus turnabout. The big yellow and red sign at the storefront on the corner advertising Hot Doug's as "The Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium" kind of jumps out at you, as does the occasional long line of people that stretches around the corner. It's one of those places that you pass by and kind of say "What the fuck is that place?" to yourself, or perhaps to the people that are also in your car. Maybe a couple days later, someone tells you about it and you wonder if there is a name for when that happens. Then you eventually give in to curiosity and check it out. You stop by on a Sunday and they are closed. You get kind of pissed and look them up on the web and notice that they're only open Monday through Saturday, 10:30AM to 4PM. So you go back the following Saturday around noon. Then there's a line, even though the weather sucks. But you're there so you stick around.
So you finally get in the door and take a look around. It looks like a pretty damned good time in there--chock full of people extremely happy to be eating some very interesting sausages, lots of amusing crap on the walls, good music on the stereo. You look at the huge menu on the wall and notice something right away--nothing but hot dogs and various sausages with funny names. They call themselves "The Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium" because that is really all they sell--delicious, gourmet sausages. Unless you count the drinks and fries. (More on the fries later.) Hot Doug's has part of a menu that stays the same all the time. That's where you get your typical Chicago-style hot dog, Italian sausage, corndog, and my staple fare when I'm not feeling adventurous: the "Don Rickles." The Don Rickles is what they call a Thuringer sausage--beef, pork, and garlic. These are all cheap--$1.50 for hot dog or corn dog, $3 for the Thuringer, etc. But unlike any old cheap hot dog stand, they use some really fresh, high quality ingredients in everything from the buns, to the sausage, and right down to the condiments.
Then, to the side of the main menu, they've got a few weekly specials written on a whiteboard. Here you can spend a few extra bucks--up to around $8--and choose between things like:
Game of week--Rattlesnake, Alligator, Pheasant, to name a few.
Hot Doug's BLT--A sausage that tastes just like bacon, with avocado mayo, lettuce, and little cherry tomatoes.
The Pepper Lopez--a quarter pound dog wrapped in bacon, with onions and jalapeño mustard.
Reuben--a sausage that tastes just like corned beef, with sauerkraut and thousand island dressing.
And so many more. They rotate a few of them out every week. Not only are the sausages for these things interesting, obscure, and delicious, but the condiments that they put on them are very well matched. Hot Doug is well trained in the culinary arts. I think he went to Northwestern. Much like me and this blog, he decided "fuck it, hot dogs are awesome" and decided to apply his skills to hot dogs. Of course, this makes him a pretty cool guy.
Oh yeah, I said I would mention the fries. If you go there on Friday or Saturday, you can get an order of duck fat fries. Yes folks, french fries that are fried in rendered duck fat. I should not have to tell you this, but these fries are extremely delicious. Any fries that are fried in real fat are great, but the duck fat gives them a little extra crispness and sweetness that makes me about as happy as a man that has eaten some potatoes fried in the fat that has been rendered from a duck. In other words: very happy.
After you make your decision, you place your order with the owner, Hot Doug himself. He's a personable man, quick to crack a joke and offer any suggestions if you need help deciding on anything. Hell, he'll even tell you to get the small drink because they have free refills, if you try to order a large.
You are then, and only then, allowed to grab your seat. No saving seats, for you assholes out there. Because of this rule, though, no matter how packed they are, you always seem to get a seat. They're pretty quick to get you your order, which is brought out to you by an affable young gent or some girl that I have not had any interactions with as of yet, but who seems similarly affable. After you've had time to sufficiently savor your meal, you'd better not be a jerk and stick around chatting about something stupid. They will kindly ask you to leave so that the people in the enormous line will have a place to sit. You won't mind because you really want to go home and take a nice nap anyway.
So as you can tell, I really hate this place.
Just kidding. I wanted to start off the current incarnation of my internet ramblings with Hot Doug's because I think it's my favorite restaurant in the whole world. If you could somehow involve beer and sex into the equation, it would pretty much be how I would describe what my personal heaven will be like when I die. I give it 12 thumbs up and 6 stars.
Hello? Anyone? Fuck?
Well, I guess I answered my own question by not posting here in about 3 months. This blog can get fucked.
OR CAN IT???!?!?!?
Yes--In its current state, that is. I've decided that for the foreseeable future, I'm going to blog about hot dog places that I have eaten at and might eat at in the future. If something really pisses me off I might chime in with a treatise on exactly why it can get fucked, but for now, it's fucking hot dogs.
Why? Because fuck you, that's why.
Sorry, I had to make this post somewhat of a segue. No offense, the three people that might still read this!
Edit: Oh hey, I forgot, the Quarter Life Magazine article came out a while ago. Seriously, fuck the Buzz Ballads CD.
OR CAN IT???!?!?!?
Yes--In its current state, that is. I've decided that for the foreseeable future, I'm going to blog about hot dog places that I have eaten at and might eat at in the future. If something really pisses me off I might chime in with a treatise on exactly why it can get fucked, but for now, it's fucking hot dogs.
Why? Because fuck you, that's why.
Sorry, I had to make this post somewhat of a segue. No offense, the three people that might still read this!
Edit: Oh hey, I forgot, the Quarter Life Magazine article came out a while ago. Seriously, fuck the Buzz Ballads CD.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Being Lazy Can Get Fucked.
OK, I know that before today it's been forever since I have posted to the blog about people that can get fucked. I would apologize, but to put it bluntly, fuck you. You're not the boss of me.
Other than ranting about that pussy from Jeepers Creepers, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be published, sort of, in a magazine geared towards directionless twenty-somethings called Quarter Life Magazine. I think it's only going to be on the Internet, because it is also compiled, edited, and written mainly by directionless twenty-somethings. Also they aren't paying me any money. So really, I'm doing them a huge favor. One of these days, it will be up and running at http://www.qlifemag.com/. Go there and keep hitting refresh until they get off of their asses and publish the magazine.
My article is entitled "If I am Ever at Your Party and You Play the Buzz Ballads CD, I Will Defile Your Medicine Cabinet." If you've never heard of the buzz ballads comp CD, you are lucky. It can get fucked so hard. You'll have to be on the lookout for this magazine to come out before you get my illuminating viewpoint on it, though. Don't be thrown off by the absence of the word "fuck," however. The editors didn't think my usual vitriolic hate would play as awesomely in the sticks as it does to 10 of my friends on the Internet. Because apparently people in the sticks are pussies. (Note: I grew up in the sticks, and a lot of those people have the worst language I've ever heard in my life, so that is a fallacy.) But hey, diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks, am I right?
Maybe I'll post more frequently on here, or maybe this blog can get fucked. ONLY TIME WILL TELL!
Other than ranting about that pussy from Jeepers Creepers, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be published, sort of, in a magazine geared towards directionless twenty-somethings called Quarter Life Magazine. I think it's only going to be on the Internet, because it is also compiled, edited, and written mainly by directionless twenty-somethings. Also they aren't paying me any money. So really, I'm doing them a huge favor. One of these days, it will be up and running at http://www.qlifemag.com/. Go there and keep hitting refresh until they get off of their asses and publish the magazine.
My article is entitled "If I am Ever at Your Party and You Play the Buzz Ballads CD, I Will Defile Your Medicine Cabinet." If you've never heard of the buzz ballads comp CD, you are lucky. It can get fucked so hard. You'll have to be on the lookout for this magazine to come out before you get my illuminating viewpoint on it, though. Don't be thrown off by the absence of the word "fuck," however. The editors didn't think my usual vitriolic hate would play as awesomely in the sticks as it does to 10 of my friends on the Internet. Because apparently people in the sticks are pussies. (Note: I grew up in the sticks, and a lot of those people have the worst language I've ever heard in my life, so that is a fallacy.) But hey, diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks, am I right?
Maybe I'll post more frequently on here, or maybe this blog can get fucked. ONLY TIME WILL TELL!
Justin Long Can Get Fucked.
I know you are saying "Who the fuck is that?" after reading the title of this post. (That is, if anyone still reads this blog since I've neglected it for about a month and a half.) Believe me, were it not for imdb.com, I would have no idea what this guy's name was. Here is his profile on imdb.com. He looks like this:
Yeah, that guy. He can get fucked. Every time I see this guy, I just want to kick his ass. I'm not exactly a big guy--average height, kind of skinny--and I don't think I've really been in a fight since I was a 12 year old punching my older brother because he was gloating after beating me in the original Tecmo Bowl for the original NES. All of that considered, I'm pretty certain I could take this pussy. Just look at him. This guy makes David Schwimmer look like Charles Bronson.
Ever since this annoying asshole somehow was able to make that steaming pile of horse shit movie Jeepers Creepers even more of a steaming pile of horse shit, I've had a somewhat unfounded hatred welling inside me. He's one of those people that you are just about to forget about, and then they pop up out of nowhere and annoy you slightly more than the last time you saw them. Now he's in those terrible Apple commercials where he's a Macintosh and that nerdy guy is a PC. That nerdy guy is actually fucking hilarious on the Daily Show, so I don't know what Apple is thinking. Everyone hates this Justin guy, but they love the nerdy dude. I don't know about you, but every time I see one of those fucking commercials, I want to donate money to Microsoft. Seriously, I want to give Microsoft, probably the richest non-oil-related company on the planet, a company that I have cursed the name of approximately once a week since Windows 3.11 came out, some money out of my pocket solely for spite. Because of this douchebag:
Fuck that guy.
Yeah, that guy. He can get fucked. Every time I see this guy, I just want to kick his ass. I'm not exactly a big guy--average height, kind of skinny--and I don't think I've really been in a fight since I was a 12 year old punching my older brother because he was gloating after beating me in the original Tecmo Bowl for the original NES. All of that considered, I'm pretty certain I could take this pussy. Just look at him. This guy makes David Schwimmer look like Charles Bronson.
Ever since this annoying asshole somehow was able to make that steaming pile of horse shit movie Jeepers Creepers even more of a steaming pile of horse shit, I've had a somewhat unfounded hatred welling inside me. He's one of those people that you are just about to forget about, and then they pop up out of nowhere and annoy you slightly more than the last time you saw them. Now he's in those terrible Apple commercials where he's a Macintosh and that nerdy guy is a PC. That nerdy guy is actually fucking hilarious on the Daily Show, so I don't know what Apple is thinking. Everyone hates this Justin guy, but they love the nerdy dude. I don't know about you, but every time I see one of those fucking commercials, I want to donate money to Microsoft. Seriously, I want to give Microsoft, probably the richest non-oil-related company on the planet, a company that I have cursed the name of approximately once a week since Windows 3.11 came out, some money out of my pocket solely for spite. Because of this douchebag:
Fuck that guy.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
A Small Sampling of Those Who Cannot Get Fucked
As you may notice by the rather infrequency of my posts to this blog, it's somewhat difficult (for a sane person) to muster up enough vitriol to constantly be telling everyone they can get fucked. I didn't realize that would be the case when I decided to start this blog--seriously, there are a lot of people that really need to be told to get fucked on this earth.
So just to change things up a bit, I'm going to list a few people who cannot get fucked.
Dungeons & Dragons Fans
Fellas, it doesn't matter how many sides there are on those dice. No girl will ever want to fuck you.
Crazy Homeless People
Not only do they smell bad and not have a home to take someone back to, but they usually have a sign that talks about God. And nobody wants to be reminded of God and how much he hates it when you get freaky if you're planning on doing some fucking.
The Best Friend of the Opposite Sex
"Maybe if I listen to her relationship problems and offer up some sensitive advice, she'll dump that asshole and we'll live happily ever after!" Haha, yeah, that will totally happen instead of her relaying the advice to her boyfriend, listening to him make false promises, and then FUCKING THE SHIT OUT OF HIM WHILE AT THE SAME TIME FORGETTING YOUR NAME.
"That Guy" at the Strip Club
You know who I'm talking about. The dude that spends $200 on lapdances because that stripper "totally wanted to get it on" with him. Yeah, that would be the obvious reason she's spending all that time with you, because she wants to fuck you. It's definitely not the fact that "That Guy" is dumb enough to pay some skank with daddy issues and gross fake boobs $200 to rub her belly button on his knee during the entire Rob Zombie greatest hits CD.
Anyone That Goes to "LAN Parties"
For those of you that aren't L33T studs like these guys, a LAN Party is when a bunch of dudes (always, always dudes) stock up on Mountain Dew and Twizzlers, bring their brand new computers to a predetermined location, connect them up in one high-speed network, and play games against each other for hours and hours. That sounds like something you do when you've never, ever touched a boob in your entire life, and the possibility of ever doing so is at best 15 years in the future.
Other than those people, it never ceases to amaze me how disgusting, freakish, or violently evil someone is, there is pretty much always someone around that is fucking them. Seriously, I've been through some pretty hellacious dry spells in my life, and when I'd watch TV they'd have a story about how some guy had to have a wall torn down so the forklift could get into his living room so that they could put him and the couch that his 1300 pound frame had fused itself to into the emergency room. And then they would interview his wife! 1300 pound dude with a couch cushion embedded between layers of skin in his ass cheeks has a wife, and had to have been boning her at some point because they have kids!
Also, even Juggalos get laid. The fact that Juggalos get laid is pretty much the reason that I stopped believing in God.
So just to change things up a bit, I'm going to list a few people who cannot get fucked.
Dungeons & Dragons Fans
Fellas, it doesn't matter how many sides there are on those dice. No girl will ever want to fuck you.
Crazy Homeless People
Not only do they smell bad and not have a home to take someone back to, but they usually have a sign that talks about God. And nobody wants to be reminded of God and how much he hates it when you get freaky if you're planning on doing some fucking.
The Best Friend of the Opposite Sex
"Maybe if I listen to her relationship problems and offer up some sensitive advice, she'll dump that asshole and we'll live happily ever after!" Haha, yeah, that will totally happen instead of her relaying the advice to her boyfriend, listening to him make false promises, and then FUCKING THE SHIT OUT OF HIM WHILE AT THE SAME TIME FORGETTING YOUR NAME.
"That Guy" at the Strip Club
You know who I'm talking about. The dude that spends $200 on lapdances because that stripper "totally wanted to get it on" with him. Yeah, that would be the obvious reason she's spending all that time with you, because she wants to fuck you. It's definitely not the fact that "That Guy" is dumb enough to pay some skank with daddy issues and gross fake boobs $200 to rub her belly button on his knee during the entire Rob Zombie greatest hits CD.
Anyone That Goes to "LAN Parties"
For those of you that aren't L33T studs like these guys, a LAN Party is when a bunch of dudes (always, always dudes) stock up on Mountain Dew and Twizzlers, bring their brand new computers to a predetermined location, connect them up in one high-speed network, and play games against each other for hours and hours. That sounds like something you do when you've never, ever touched a boob in your entire life, and the possibility of ever doing so is at best 15 years in the future.
Other than those people, it never ceases to amaze me how disgusting, freakish, or violently evil someone is, there is pretty much always someone around that is fucking them. Seriously, I've been through some pretty hellacious dry spells in my life, and when I'd watch TV they'd have a story about how some guy had to have a wall torn down so the forklift could get into his living room so that they could put him and the couch that his 1300 pound frame had fused itself to into the emergency room. And then they would interview his wife! 1300 pound dude with a couch cushion embedded between layers of skin in his ass cheeks has a wife, and had to have been boning her at some point because they have kids!
Also, even Juggalos get laid. The fact that Juggalos get laid is pretty much the reason that I stopped believing in God.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Rolling Stone Can Get Fucked.
Man, I subscribed to this piece of shit celebrity teet-suckler back in high school, right around when I turned 18 and got my first credit card. There was some "deal" through said credit card, and being a stupid 18 year old clutching his Nirvana CDs in his beflanneled arms, I was like "credit card companies and people that constantly try to sell me magazines surely cannot have done anything not to be trusted!" so I signed myself up. Little did I know it would be 10 years later and I'd still be paying an annual fee to those motherfuckers so that they could keep telling me about how fucking awesome their own magazine and the White Stripes are approximately once every 2 weeks. Mind you, whenever the mood has struck me (say, when there's a fucking shirtless Justin Timberlake on the cover, or when they name-check Jack White 10 times in a goddamn article about the war on Iraq), I have called both Rolling Stone and my credit card company in hopes that I can end the misery--that I pay an annual fee to receive--all to no avail. One company says the other company is responsible for ending the subscription, and then I decide it isn't worth my time and rage for how much money I'm wasting on it.
The latest issue, apparently, just in case you weren't stupid enough to subscribe when you got your first credit card statement in the mail and they had "awesome deals on the best magazines!" in the envelope, was their 1000th issue. So they decide to use this issue not to celebrate, oh I don't know, the artists and cultural turmoil of the last 30-some-odd years that have kept them in business, but to celebrate THE PURE GENIUS OF THE PEOPLE THAT TOOK PICTURES OF EXTREMELY PHOTOGENIC MUSICIANS AND ACTORS. Yup. I shit you not, there is a full page devoted to a cover shot of Jakob Dylan from 1997, and without irony, they downplay that his father is Bob Dylan and that he has model looks (clearly, neither of these reasons would be why he is on the cover of the magazine! Heresy!), while at the same time lauding critical praise upon his then-hit CD. Remember the Wallflowers? Yeah? Ever make it to the second verse in one of their songs without falling into a deep sleep? Me neither.
I think it's time I got a new credit card. That would solve the problem. Also, it would be nice to get airline miles or something. Perhaps there is a credit card that will award cash back based upon how much rage one can muster over reading some douchebag trying to tell me that "One Headlight" was a hit that will be remembered throughout the ages. I'd end up with free purchases for a year with that bonus.
Who wants to make a bet that somewhere, Jann Wenner is masturbating to an essay written by Hunter S. Thompson about how they both saw crazy things when they got fucked up on some crazy drugs? I will give you odds.
My Rolling Stone subscription can get fucked.
The latest issue, apparently, just in case you weren't stupid enough to subscribe when you got your first credit card statement in the mail and they had "awesome deals on the best magazines!" in the envelope, was their 1000th issue. So they decide to use this issue not to celebrate, oh I don't know, the artists and cultural turmoil of the last 30-some-odd years that have kept them in business, but to celebrate THE PURE GENIUS OF THE PEOPLE THAT TOOK PICTURES OF EXTREMELY PHOTOGENIC MUSICIANS AND ACTORS. Yup. I shit you not, there is a full page devoted to a cover shot of Jakob Dylan from 1997, and without irony, they downplay that his father is Bob Dylan and that he has model looks (clearly, neither of these reasons would be why he is on the cover of the magazine! Heresy!), while at the same time lauding critical praise upon his then-hit CD. Remember the Wallflowers? Yeah? Ever make it to the second verse in one of their songs without falling into a deep sleep? Me neither.
I think it's time I got a new credit card. That would solve the problem. Also, it would be nice to get airline miles or something. Perhaps there is a credit card that will award cash back based upon how much rage one can muster over reading some douchebag trying to tell me that "One Headlight" was a hit that will be remembered throughout the ages. I'd end up with free purchases for a year with that bonus.
Who wants to make a bet that somewhere, Jann Wenner is masturbating to an essay written by Hunter S. Thompson about how they both saw crazy things when they got fucked up on some crazy drugs? I will give you odds.
My Rolling Stone subscription can get fucked.
Another Update on the Menards Situation: THOSE FUCKING BILLBOARDS ARE EVERYWHERE!
I'm not the type to construct a hat made out of aluminum foil in hopes of blocking my thoughts from being listened to by the government, but Jesus Fuckshitting Christ, there are now about half a dozen of those fucking Menards "GR-8 _____ !" billboards on my way to work now. Including one right outside my office. My commute isn't really super long, either.
I'm half expecting to wake up in the middle of the night to see Ray Szmanda smiling at me from the foot of my bed, saying "I sure enjoyed your blog. See, we can get to you, too." He'd probably be clutching some kid whose arms and mouth were bound with duct tape...the kid's eyes all screaming "HELP. ME. PLEASE." Then someone that was hiding off to the side would knock me out with the butt of a flare gun that they had purchased at Menards.
That shit's creepy. MENARDS CAN GET FUCKED...AGAIN.
I'm half expecting to wake up in the middle of the night to see Ray Szmanda smiling at me from the foot of my bed, saying "I sure enjoyed your blog. See, we can get to you, too." He'd probably be clutching some kid whose arms and mouth were bound with duct tape...the kid's eyes all screaming "HELP. ME. PLEASE." Then someone that was hiding off to the side would knock me out with the butt of a flare gun that they had purchased at Menards.
That shit's creepy. MENARDS CAN GET FUCKED...AGAIN.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Hipster Douchebags Riding Those Really Tall Bicycles Can Get Fucked.
What the fuck is with those hipster douchebags riding really tall bicycles? Are they doing us all a favor by making it both easier to push them over with their high center of gravity, and more hilariously damaging to their frail hipster bones when they fall from that high up? From now on, whenever I see one of these douchebags riding down the street--
--I am imediately going to roll down my window and yell "YOU LOOK LIKE A DOUCHEBAG!"
Because when I did that on the way home this evening, seeing the guy get get startled and almost fall down two stories off of his stupid hipster bike really made me feel like a million bucks.
And while I'm at it, learn the fucking rules of the road, the rest of you assholes on bicycles. Yes, you have to stop at stop signs and red lights. No, do not go down the left side of the street because that is very dangerous and totally retarded. And the sidewalk is for pedestrians, fuck face, not bicycles.
Fuck it, everyone on a bicycle can get fucked.
--I am imediately going to roll down my window and yell "YOU LOOK LIKE A DOUCHEBAG!"
Because when I did that on the way home this evening, seeing the guy get get startled and almost fall down two stories off of his stupid hipster bike really made me feel like a million bucks.
And while I'm at it, learn the fucking rules of the road, the rest of you assholes on bicycles. Yes, you have to stop at stop signs and red lights. No, do not go down the left side of the street because that is very dangerous and totally retarded. And the sidewalk is for pedestrians, fuck face, not bicycles.
Fuck it, everyone on a bicycle can get fucked.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
The Moron That Attached The Size Tag to These Pants I Bought the Other Day Can Get Fucked.
God damn it. I just removed the tag from this pair of dress pants that I bought the other day so that I could wash them, and I just happened to notice that even though the tag on them said my correct waist size, the actual waist size printed on the inside of the pants was 2 inches smaller. I tried them on and sure as shit, they're too tight. Son of a bitch. I bought two pairs of pants that were almost identical except for the color, and since I had tried on the other pair, I thought that all was well, and when I left the mall I wouldn't have to go back for a very long time. Now I have to go to the mall AGAIN this year, so I can return these fucking pants. Of course, they won't have any pairs in the correct size and color that don't inexplicably cost 3x as much.
FUCK.
Be on the lookout for a future post in which I explain why all malls can get fucked. Right now I'm too busy glaring at a pair of fucking pants.
FUCK.
Be on the lookout for a future post in which I explain why all malls can get fucked. Right now I'm too busy glaring at a pair of fucking pants.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Canker Sores Can Get Fucked.
Seriously, anything that annoys you that much but is only there because you got stressed out or too drunk can just get fucked so hard. These things don't even have the balls to stick around more than a couple days to give you a real reason complain. They just hurt like a motherfucker for a couple of days and then they hide on you until your next stressed out bender. That is horse shit.
(Note: that was the least disgusting result of doing a google image search for canker sores. You're welcome for that.)
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Almost Everyone That Calls Me On the Phone Can Get Fucked.
Now, if someone wants to call me to tell me how much they love me, how they're going to repay that money I lent them, or to fill me in on the details of our impending hang out, I am more than happy to converse with them. I am a pretty pleasant dude to talk to. In fact, some might say I'm quite the conversationalist.
However, perhaps this may come as a shock to you, but that's probably less than 1% of the phone calls I receive, on average.
The other 99% of the phone calls I receive slowly make small parts of me die. I really want to tell the following people to get fucked. Sometimes I do tell these people to get fucked.
People that call to try to sell me shit. I'll get this one out of the way first, because it's the obvious one. The thing that really amazes me is that people still do this for a living. Is there really that much of a market these days for remanufactured laser printer toner for your home or office, sold by someone that sounds like they're reading a script that's spelled out for them phonetically on a kitchen sponge upon which they are simultaneously chewing? Because I sure as shit have gotten thousands of those calls at work.
People that call trying to get me to take a survey. No, I don't have time for a survey, from which I gain nothing but wasted time and you gain valuable market research. Don't act all hurt and confused as to why I don't want to take valuable time out of my work day to do you this tremendous "solid." Besides, if you start off the conversation with "I'm not trying to sell you anything," I assume that you actually are trying to sell me something, so I hang up on you right after telling you to get fucked.
People that are either trying to recruit me or make me hire some other asshole. I have no authority to hire anyone at work. In addition, I will not sit at my desk at work and tell some dude that calls me out of the blue about how I'd rather have a sweeter job. My boss sits right next to me, and I'd tell him somewhat sooner than I'd tell some random douchebag that called me at work if I had any beef with his managerial style. Furthermore, I will not tell this dude the intricacies of how our office runs, so he can find people to do all of our jobs better than we currently do them. I will, in fact, half-heartedly tell them that I'm either transferring their call to the HR department, or they can ask me another question and they'll get hung up on. You can never get these fuckfaces off of the phone when they call you, so they always choose to get hung up on. Every time, without fail. I really enjoy hanging up on them mid-sentence. Almost as much as telling someone they can get fucked.
People that call me when I'm very busy, and say "I know you're really busy but..." Fuck you then, don't call me. That's what email is for--being deleted by me when I'm too busy to talk to you.
People that call me to tell me they're going to call me later. I would have pieced that information together when you called me later. I'm a fuckin' genius that way.
People that call me, don't leave a message, and then call again soon after. That is one of my major pet peeves. I check my voicemail. I am diligent about returning your call if you aren't someone that I really wish would just go get fucked. Usually I don't answer the phone because I'm busy, I'm on the crapper, I'm in a hot makeout session, or I'm talking to someone that, say, owns the company I work for. All of these things are way more important than whatever the call is about. Seriously, have you ever gotten called repeatedly when you're taking a dump that is like "HEY MAN YOUR CAR IS BEING STOLEN!!!!"? Nope, it's always something like "Hey man. I'm bored. What are you doing tomorrow night?" Even if you are my friend you can get fucked in this instance.
People that take the scenic route towards the point of why they are calling you, and then they start repeating themselves. In case you haven't noticed by now, I'm not the kind of guy that likes to sit around jibber jabbering on the phone all day. I quickly grow bored with pretty much any conversation within less than 2 minutes, I'd say, on average. So as a rule, if you call me, I don't really care about the entire back story of why you decided it was important that you called me. Just get to the point. None of this "you see, all this really boring stuff happened that you don't care about and I thought that I knew what was going on but then I thought wait a minute that isn't right so I thought I'd call you and find out if you knew what was going on..." I fucking hate that! And, when the conversation has run its course, there is no need to rehash what was said. I was there when you kept talking earlier. I totally heard you the first time, asshole. Just fucking stop. Because I will end the phone call in the most awkward way possible and not give any craps about it.
So if you are guilty of any of these things, please, for the love of crap, don't call me, and get fucked.
However, perhaps this may come as a shock to you, but that's probably less than 1% of the phone calls I receive, on average.
The other 99% of the phone calls I receive slowly make small parts of me die. I really want to tell the following people to get fucked. Sometimes I do tell these people to get fucked.
People that call to try to sell me shit. I'll get this one out of the way first, because it's the obvious one. The thing that really amazes me is that people still do this for a living. Is there really that much of a market these days for remanufactured laser printer toner for your home or office, sold by someone that sounds like they're reading a script that's spelled out for them phonetically on a kitchen sponge upon which they are simultaneously chewing? Because I sure as shit have gotten thousands of those calls at work.
People that call trying to get me to take a survey. No, I don't have time for a survey, from which I gain nothing but wasted time and you gain valuable market research. Don't act all hurt and confused as to why I don't want to take valuable time out of my work day to do you this tremendous "solid." Besides, if you start off the conversation with "I'm not trying to sell you anything," I assume that you actually are trying to sell me something, so I hang up on you right after telling you to get fucked.
People that are either trying to recruit me or make me hire some other asshole. I have no authority to hire anyone at work. In addition, I will not sit at my desk at work and tell some dude that calls me out of the blue about how I'd rather have a sweeter job. My boss sits right next to me, and I'd tell him somewhat sooner than I'd tell some random douchebag that called me at work if I had any beef with his managerial style. Furthermore, I will not tell this dude the intricacies of how our office runs, so he can find people to do all of our jobs better than we currently do them. I will, in fact, half-heartedly tell them that I'm either transferring their call to the HR department, or they can ask me another question and they'll get hung up on. You can never get these fuckfaces off of the phone when they call you, so they always choose to get hung up on. Every time, without fail. I really enjoy hanging up on them mid-sentence. Almost as much as telling someone they can get fucked.
People that call me when I'm very busy, and say "I know you're really busy but..." Fuck you then, don't call me. That's what email is for--being deleted by me when I'm too busy to talk to you.
People that call me to tell me they're going to call me later. I would have pieced that information together when you called me later. I'm a fuckin' genius that way.
People that call me, don't leave a message, and then call again soon after. That is one of my major pet peeves. I check my voicemail. I am diligent about returning your call if you aren't someone that I really wish would just go get fucked. Usually I don't answer the phone because I'm busy, I'm on the crapper, I'm in a hot makeout session, or I'm talking to someone that, say, owns the company I work for. All of these things are way more important than whatever the call is about. Seriously, have you ever gotten called repeatedly when you're taking a dump that is like "HEY MAN YOUR CAR IS BEING STOLEN!!!!"? Nope, it's always something like "Hey man. I'm bored. What are you doing tomorrow night?" Even if you are my friend you can get fucked in this instance.
People that take the scenic route towards the point of why they are calling you, and then they start repeating themselves. In case you haven't noticed by now, I'm not the kind of guy that likes to sit around jibber jabbering on the phone all day. I quickly grow bored with pretty much any conversation within less than 2 minutes, I'd say, on average. So as a rule, if you call me, I don't really care about the entire back story of why you decided it was important that you called me. Just get to the point. None of this "you see, all this really boring stuff happened that you don't care about and I thought that I knew what was going on but then I thought wait a minute that isn't right so I thought I'd call you and find out if you knew what was going on..." I fucking hate that! And, when the conversation has run its course, there is no need to rehash what was said. I was there when you kept talking earlier. I totally heard you the first time, asshole. Just fucking stop. Because I will end the phone call in the most awkward way possible and not give any craps about it.
So if you are guilty of any of these things, please, for the love of crap, don't call me, and get fucked.
Friday, April 21, 2006
UPDATE: Ray Szmanda Possibly Up to No Good?
"Phony Doctor Gives Free Breast Exams"
Hmmmm...who does this guy remind me of...
I might have actually just gained a little bit of respect for our pal Ray Ray.
Hmmmm...who does this guy remind me of...
I might have actually just gained a little bit of respect for our pal Ray Ray.
Apparently, the King of Nepal is Getting Fucked.
And as a result, perhaps my favorite picture of all time has been produced:
The guy riding that motorcycle gets a free pass. Throughout the rest of his life, let it be known that he unequivicably cannot get fucked.
(from http://www.rajeshkc.com/phalano/?m=200604)
The guy riding that motorcycle gets a free pass. Throughout the rest of his life, let it be known that he unequivicably cannot get fucked.
(from http://www.rajeshkc.com/phalano/?m=200604)
Monday, April 17, 2006
Blogger's Somewhat Confusing Wording on the Comments Setting of This Blog Can Get Fucked.
I just noticed that a few people had commented on my blog, but it wasn't emailing me so I just assumed that everyone was taking my rantings as the holy gospel of who can get fucked. I have excellent reading comprehension skills, so obviously, blogger can get fucked in this situation, and not me.
You can all read my replies and then get fucked. Or don't. Good night.
You can all read my replies and then get fucked. Or don't. Good night.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
The People in Charge of Advertising at Menard's Can Get Fucked.
Menard's has two billboards on the interstate that I must travel to get to work, and they're within less than a mile of each other. Man, it's not enough that I have to put up with all those people (AND MORE!) who can get fucked on the highway that I already bitched about in post #2, but now I have to stare at these things while I'm inevitably stopped because of a FUCKING GAPERS' DELAY or some shit.
These unbelievably annoying billboards have a picture of Dale Earnhart Jr, a common home improvement item, and the word "Great" in there. However, here's the "genius" of these billboards: Dale Earnhart Jr.'s car number in NASCAR is number eight. And they change it so that the word "great" is spelled like "GR-8!" I think that what really burns me up is that it's already the stupidest thing I've ever seen, and then they just decide to throw a hyphen in there FOR NO FUCKING REASON WHATSOEVER.
So anyway, the first billboard has some ceiling fans on it, and it says "GR-8 FANS!" Next to this, "Junior" is up there just fuckin' laughin' it up at the hilarious pun. This billboard just stood tall up there mocking the ever-living fuck out of my intelligence, so I was pretty fucking pissed about that when I saw it. But at least there was a semblance of a connection to something--I guess NASCAR has fans, Menards has a different kind of fans, so yeah, he's saying they are both "GR-8?" I dunno, it's a stretch. But at least it kind of made sense. My rage was lacking a murderous quality when I saw it.
The next one down the road says "GREAT PAINT!", except good ol' "Junior" is holding a bucket of paint, and has crossed out the word "GREAT" and painted "GR-8" above it. When I saw this, I was so pissed that I almost crapped my pants in rage. Just imagining the chain of events leading up to this billboard's inception just blew my mind. Did it go something like this?
Menards Ad Exec: Hey Menard's Ad Agency Guy, that "GR-8 FANS!" billboard was genius! We need another one RIGHT NEXT TO IT or those fuckers at Home Depot are going to win over the NASCAR demographic! Hurry! We stocked way too much fucking duct tape this month!
Menards Ad Agency Guy: We can do that! Let's see...we already made a hilarious pun about how Menards and NASCAR both have fans...so we can't do that one again...in fact, let's just put the whole "things NASCAR and Menards have in common" thing totally to bed. It's done. Shit's last week. ...I've got it. Hold on to your ass, Menards Ad Exec!
Menards Ad Exec: (silently pops boner)
Menards Ad Agency Guy: Two words. One of which is spelled with a dash and a number. Give up? "GR-8 PAINT!"
Menards Ad Exec: ...Jesus. I am in awe of your advertising prowess. Just...awe!
Menards Ad Agency Guy: And you haven't even heard the best part, my friend. "Junior"...has crossed out the word "GREAT" in its dictionary spelling, and has painted...using the paint that NASCAR fans can buy AT MENARDS...the "hip" spelling. The...MENARDS...spelling.
Menards Ad Exec: (signs check for $1 Million)
FUCK that pisses me off.
Also, this guy from their TV commercials totally touches kids:
I totally have no proof of this, but just look at him. You know he drives a van with no windows, and you know that van has boxes upon boxes of candy in it. Some of which are already empty.
Everyone involved with advertising at Menards can get fucked.
These unbelievably annoying billboards have a picture of Dale Earnhart Jr, a common home improvement item, and the word "Great" in there. However, here's the "genius" of these billboards: Dale Earnhart Jr.'s car number in NASCAR is number eight. And they change it so that the word "great" is spelled like "GR-8!" I think that what really burns me up is that it's already the stupidest thing I've ever seen, and then they just decide to throw a hyphen in there FOR NO FUCKING REASON WHATSOEVER.
So anyway, the first billboard has some ceiling fans on it, and it says "GR-8 FANS!" Next to this, "Junior" is up there just fuckin' laughin' it up at the hilarious pun. This billboard just stood tall up there mocking the ever-living fuck out of my intelligence, so I was pretty fucking pissed about that when I saw it. But at least there was a semblance of a connection to something--I guess NASCAR has fans, Menards has a different kind of fans, so yeah, he's saying they are both "GR-8?" I dunno, it's a stretch. But at least it kind of made sense. My rage was lacking a murderous quality when I saw it.
The next one down the road says "GREAT PAINT!", except good ol' "Junior" is holding a bucket of paint, and has crossed out the word "GREAT" and painted "GR-8" above it. When I saw this, I was so pissed that I almost crapped my pants in rage. Just imagining the chain of events leading up to this billboard's inception just blew my mind. Did it go something like this?
Menards Ad Exec: Hey Menard's Ad Agency Guy, that "GR-8 FANS!" billboard was genius! We need another one RIGHT NEXT TO IT or those fuckers at Home Depot are going to win over the NASCAR demographic! Hurry! We stocked way too much fucking duct tape this month!
Menards Ad Agency Guy: We can do that! Let's see...we already made a hilarious pun about how Menards and NASCAR both have fans...so we can't do that one again...in fact, let's just put the whole "things NASCAR and Menards have in common" thing totally to bed. It's done. Shit's last week. ...I've got it. Hold on to your ass, Menards Ad Exec!
Menards Ad Exec: (silently pops boner)
Menards Ad Agency Guy: Two words. One of which is spelled with a dash and a number. Give up? "GR-8 PAINT!"
Menards Ad Exec: ...Jesus. I am in awe of your advertising prowess. Just...awe!
Menards Ad Agency Guy: And you haven't even heard the best part, my friend. "Junior"...has crossed out the word "GREAT" in its dictionary spelling, and has painted...using the paint that NASCAR fans can buy AT MENARDS...the "hip" spelling. The...MENARDS...spelling.
Menards Ad Exec: (signs check for $1 Million)
FUCK that pisses me off.
Also, this guy from their TV commercials totally touches kids:
I totally have no proof of this, but just look at him. You know he drives a van with no windows, and you know that van has boxes upon boxes of candy in it. Some of which are already empty.
Everyone involved with advertising at Menards can get fucked.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Things That I Have To Carry That Are Not Shaped Appropriately For This Task Can Get Fucked.
You'll have to stay with me here. I had been having a string of perfectly nice, uneventful days, which means not much action on the who-can-get-fucked blog. But the last couple of days have involved spending extra hours at work for total bullshit reasons. I don't get paid overtime. So at the present I'm pissed and everyone can get fucked. Even inanimate objects can get fucked.
I'm a man that often finds himself carrying things from place to place. I'm sure you can all relate, unless you don't have any arms. In that case, I suppose you've got more of a bone to pick here with life in general than I do. You can disregard this post if you have no arms. Everyone else, please read on.
Seriously, why can't they just make everything that is likely to be carried from place to place shaped in a uniform manor so that it can be stacked with other things that must be carried along with it? I'm talking as close to the cube shape as possible, even weight distribution, all flat surfaces and none of that curved surface bullshit. This is something that seriously makes me pissed off.
I'll give you an example. I can think of literally thousands of times I've carried a computer tower from one location to another, and on many occasions, I wish to stack something on top of it to save myself extra and unneeded trips. Perhaps a box of software that goes with this computer. Why would fucking Joe Dell (or whatever asshole designed the case of the computer) make the top of the tower curved? Out of these thousands of times I've carried a computer somewhere, I can think of exactly zero god damn times that I've wished to stack something on top of this tower in which the bottom of this object is curved concavely in such a way that it will fit neatly on top of the computer. It's always something flat. So I try to balance this flat object on the curved computer and carry it out to my car. Then I get halfway out to my car and everything slides off of the computer. A gust of wind siezes the opportunity to fuck me over, and an important stack of papers I was also carrying just fucking bolts in all directions across the parking lot like so many teenagers at a house party that's been busted by the cops. At the same time, a useless plastic bag that had been skulking around the corner until I walked by flies up into my face in an attempt to shield my eyes while the papers escape, and I trip over some stupid concrete block and almost smash the $1000 piece of crap into a million pieces of crap worth 1/1oth of a penny each. Luckily, I stop that from happening by a sheer force of will that can only be attained by getting really pissed off at inanimate objects.
There are at least a million people I want to tell that they can get fucked in this scenario, and not one of them is me, even though I stacked a bunch of shit that most would deem unstackable.
Such is my life.
I'm a man that often finds himself carrying things from place to place. I'm sure you can all relate, unless you don't have any arms. In that case, I suppose you've got more of a bone to pick here with life in general than I do. You can disregard this post if you have no arms. Everyone else, please read on.
Seriously, why can't they just make everything that is likely to be carried from place to place shaped in a uniform manor so that it can be stacked with other things that must be carried along with it? I'm talking as close to the cube shape as possible, even weight distribution, all flat surfaces and none of that curved surface bullshit. This is something that seriously makes me pissed off.
I'll give you an example. I can think of literally thousands of times I've carried a computer tower from one location to another, and on many occasions, I wish to stack something on top of it to save myself extra and unneeded trips. Perhaps a box of software that goes with this computer. Why would fucking Joe Dell (or whatever asshole designed the case of the computer) make the top of the tower curved? Out of these thousands of times I've carried a computer somewhere, I can think of exactly zero god damn times that I've wished to stack something on top of this tower in which the bottom of this object is curved concavely in such a way that it will fit neatly on top of the computer. It's always something flat. So I try to balance this flat object on the curved computer and carry it out to my car. Then I get halfway out to my car and everything slides off of the computer. A gust of wind siezes the opportunity to fuck me over, and an important stack of papers I was also carrying just fucking bolts in all directions across the parking lot like so many teenagers at a house party that's been busted by the cops. At the same time, a useless plastic bag that had been skulking around the corner until I walked by flies up into my face in an attempt to shield my eyes while the papers escape, and I trip over some stupid concrete block and almost smash the $1000 piece of crap into a million pieces of crap worth 1/1oth of a penny each. Luckily, I stop that from happening by a sheer force of will that can only be attained by getting really pissed off at inanimate objects.
There are at least a million people I want to tell that they can get fucked in this scenario, and not one of them is me, even though I stacked a bunch of shit that most would deem unstackable.
Such is my life.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Monday, April 03, 2006
Scientists Can Get Fucked.
Well, not all scientists. Some scientists are pretty stand up guys. For instance, the scientists who created the Internet were cool. Scientists that found Dinosaurs were indirectly responsible for many of my happy memories as a child in school. Scientists that created effective methods of birth control have been pretty integral to my happiness as an adult. (Well, in all honesty, not enough of the early part, but the parts they did have an effect on have been pretty sweet, and I thank them for this.)
However, I am specifically irate at the scientists that are telling me that I can't barbecue any more because I'll get prostate cancer. (Link to story here.) First of all, these scientists totally gave cancer to some poor helpless creatures that probably thought they were eating hamburgers. Then, these scientists told me that I'm going to die as a result of the only method of cooking that I am particularly good at--grilling delicious meat. Why couldn't they link pancreatic cancer to a compound created during the cutting of yellow bell peppers? I don't dislike eating yellow bell peppers or anything, but we've already got green, orange, and red bell peppers, probably a few other colors I don't even know about, and they're all pretty delicious. If the yellow ones went away, I wouldn't even notice. But barbecued meat? Come on, that is bullshit!
Scientists that claim you'll get cancer from barbecueing meat are worse than Hitler, and they can get fucked.
However, I am specifically irate at the scientists that are telling me that I can't barbecue any more because I'll get prostate cancer. (Link to story here.) First of all, these scientists totally gave cancer to some poor helpless creatures that probably thought they were eating hamburgers. Then, these scientists told me that I'm going to die as a result of the only method of cooking that I am particularly good at--grilling delicious meat. Why couldn't they link pancreatic cancer to a compound created during the cutting of yellow bell peppers? I don't dislike eating yellow bell peppers or anything, but we've already got green, orange, and red bell peppers, probably a few other colors I don't even know about, and they're all pretty delicious. If the yellow ones went away, I wouldn't even notice. But barbecued meat? Come on, that is bullshit!
Scientists that claim you'll get cancer from barbecueing meat are worse than Hitler, and they can get fucked.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Everyone Else That Is Driving Their Car Besides Me Can Get Fucked
This will probably be part 1 in approximately 3 billion posts in which I bitch about assholes in traffic. I'll try to make this one cover as many categories of people that can get fucked as I can think of.
1. People that fail to use their turn signals. If I'm stuck behind you because I didn't realize you were going to wait for 300 oncoming cars to drive by before you illegally turn left, you can get fucked.
2. People that skip in front of me by passing on the right while I am stopping at stop signs. Is it really worth missing my rear bumper by 2 inches and then almost running over that woman pushing a baby in a stroller so you can save 1.6 seconds of commute time, guy in the 1987 ford escort with ground effects? Get fucked.
3. People with a big rear spoiler. Look at them. They seriously need to get fucked so hard.
4. People that have a $2000 stereo system in a $500 car. They never spend the extra $5 on a rubber strip to prevent their trunk from rattling, yet they always spend the extra $200 for the bra on the front of their rusted out 1982 cutlass. Get fucked.
5. People that immediately honk when the light turns green, when I've been staring at it, intently waiting for it to change, and have already started to accelerate. How do they manage to honk in that split second between when the light changes and when I've broken past the crosswalk? Are they pissed that I wasn't watching the other traffic light and waiting for it to turn Red, and taking off before our light actually turns green? Why do they need to get fucked so amazingly hard?
6. People that pay more attention to their cell phones than the hundreds of tons of steel flying past them at all directions. I am guilty of talking on the cell while driving, which, admittedly, I probably should get fucked for every once in a while. I'll give you that. However, 9,000 times out of ten, some asshole blows a red light and almost flattens an old lady trying to make it from the drug store to the bus stop, that asshole is talking on his cell phone. I wish the person on the other end of that call was me, and that I was telling them to get fucked.
7. People that pull out in front of you and then go really slow. If people pull out in front of me and then haul ass, no harm no foul. I might be all "what the fuck is this asshole thinking" for a split second but then I'm over it. But if that fucker doesn't haul ass, or if they decide to parallel park or some shit, that fucker can get fucked.
8. People that drive too slow, and then when you go to pass them, they speed up. When I pass you on the right because I'm trying to drive 80 mph and you're driving a paltry 72, don't take it personal. Just accept the fact that some dude is passing you, and if you feel the need to adjust your cruising speed, do so after the pass has been completed. Let it be. Ever notice that this is almost always a short dude in a full sized truck with a W sticker on the back? Man can they get fucked.
9. People that flick their cigarrettes out when I'm right behind them on the Interstate and we're going really fast. I know this probably does absolutely no damage to my car whatsoever, but there is just something about the combination of that stale ass second hand smoke smell that briefly finds its way into my car, the minor littering offense, and the fact that it's 10 degrees below zero and they've been stupid enough to drive down the interstate with their window cracked for the last half an hour that just really makes me want to tell them to get fucked.
OK, that's it for tonight. This is starting to put me back in the same mood I'm in when I've been stuck in rush hour traffic for an hour. YOU GET FUCKED, AMERICA!
1. People that fail to use their turn signals. If I'm stuck behind you because I didn't realize you were going to wait for 300 oncoming cars to drive by before you illegally turn left, you can get fucked.
2. People that skip in front of me by passing on the right while I am stopping at stop signs. Is it really worth missing my rear bumper by 2 inches and then almost running over that woman pushing a baby in a stroller so you can save 1.6 seconds of commute time, guy in the 1987 ford escort with ground effects? Get fucked.
3. People with a big rear spoiler. Look at them. They seriously need to get fucked so hard.
4. People that have a $2000 stereo system in a $500 car. They never spend the extra $5 on a rubber strip to prevent their trunk from rattling, yet they always spend the extra $200 for the bra on the front of their rusted out 1982 cutlass. Get fucked.
5. People that immediately honk when the light turns green, when I've been staring at it, intently waiting for it to change, and have already started to accelerate. How do they manage to honk in that split second between when the light changes and when I've broken past the crosswalk? Are they pissed that I wasn't watching the other traffic light and waiting for it to turn Red, and taking off before our light actually turns green? Why do they need to get fucked so amazingly hard?
6. People that pay more attention to their cell phones than the hundreds of tons of steel flying past them at all directions. I am guilty of talking on the cell while driving, which, admittedly, I probably should get fucked for every once in a while. I'll give you that. However, 9,000 times out of ten, some asshole blows a red light and almost flattens an old lady trying to make it from the drug store to the bus stop, that asshole is talking on his cell phone. I wish the person on the other end of that call was me, and that I was telling them to get fucked.
7. People that pull out in front of you and then go really slow. If people pull out in front of me and then haul ass, no harm no foul. I might be all "what the fuck is this asshole thinking" for a split second but then I'm over it. But if that fucker doesn't haul ass, or if they decide to parallel park or some shit, that fucker can get fucked.
8. People that drive too slow, and then when you go to pass them, they speed up. When I pass you on the right because I'm trying to drive 80 mph and you're driving a paltry 72, don't take it personal. Just accept the fact that some dude is passing you, and if you feel the need to adjust your cruising speed, do so after the pass has been completed. Let it be. Ever notice that this is almost always a short dude in a full sized truck with a W sticker on the back? Man can they get fucked.
9. People that flick their cigarrettes out when I'm right behind them on the Interstate and we're going really fast. I know this probably does absolutely no damage to my car whatsoever, but there is just something about the combination of that stale ass second hand smoke smell that briefly finds its way into my car, the minor littering offense, and the fact that it's 10 degrees below zero and they've been stupid enough to drive down the interstate with their window cracked for the last half an hour that just really makes me want to tell them to get fucked.
OK, that's it for tonight. This is starting to put me back in the same mood I'm in when I've been stuck in rush hour traffic for an hour. YOU GET FUCKED, AMERICA!
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