Family Guy, Homer Simpson, Pop-ups and Search Terms Used to Find My Blog

Let me just say for the record that I am completely aware that cartoons and sitcoms are not a true depiction of real life. In spite of what you may have heard or gathered, I’m not a total idiot. I just can’t help, when it comes to the vast inconsistencies between the lives of television characters and what I go through on a daily basis, to struggle to with the clear and glaring dichotomy.

Take Family Guy for instance. Great show. This show has blessed me with countless hours of hilarious entertainment but I’ve never been able to get passed the idea that Peter Griffin actually owns a home? He lives in Rhode Island for Christ sake. Do you have any idea of the cost of just an average domicile in Rhode Island? Initially, Griffin works at a fucking toy factory and then gets a job at a brewery. Like, oh yeah sure, I’m totally buying that a guy bottling beer for a living can easily afford a coastal home among some of the most overpriced real estate in the entire United States. Plus he lives in-between a police officer and an airline pilot. The financial demographic of those two professions are markedly higher than a beer swiller.

Homer Simpson is a fat, stupid moron who carries every characteristic of being a retarded dipshit and yet I’m expected to believe that he’s a somehow found employment as a nuclear engineer? I think not and I have a very difficult time watching this show knowing full well what a giant fuck up this guy is.

This line of thinking is not reserved just for cartoons either. Do you remember Al Bundy on Married With Children? I hated this show. It was unwatchable drivel. On the show, Al made his living peddling shoes. Am I supposed to buy into the very idea that this pathetic sack of shit, imbecile working as a shoe salesman can somehow afford a split level 4 bedroom house on the north-side of Chicago? Nothing against the shoe salesmen of the world, a noble career, no doubt.  I call horseshit. His wife didn’t do a god damned thing to help out either.

You probably aren’t aware of this but I may be one of the more prolific male Pinterest users on earth. Somehow this electronic goldmine of information has been labeled as a stop on the WWW for women. Because I love a good recipe, I live by a mantra of “I cook, therefor I Pinterest.” I mean, I don’t really have a mantra, I think they’re stupid but if I did have a mantra it would be something like that. Here’s my problem though, why does every god damned recipe have to come with a mother-fucking story? Jesus! can I just have the ingredients list without all the horseshit? Apparently, in this day and age of every idiot thinking they should have their voice heard, (insert picture of me here) I have to scroll thru some epic saga of how great grandma brought her recipe for chili nachos over from the old country and how she once rubbed it on her husbands feet to relieve bunion pain.

Stranger still, as I continue to scroll thru the other posted recipes for bunion relieving chili, I see the same god damned recipe that was supposedly some big family secret printed on the back of a Kraft macaroni and cheese box. Tell you what, skip the ridiculous story and just give me the freaking recipe.

Moving on, I’ve noticed a developing aggressiveness in the pop-ups on various websites requesting that I sign up for their newsletter or whatever bullshit they happen to be purveying. They kindly request my email address but if I’m not interested then, in an excessively nasty manner, I am to click a button labeled, “no thanks.” At least it used to say “no thanks.” I’ve noticed, lately, an uptick in the less than gracious manner in which I can opt out of their offer. Now I’m seeing things like this from an offer to receive the latest diet pill:

Yes! I want to lose 20 pounds in my first month of using Fat Burner and I agree to accept a new bottle every 30 days for the low price of $39.95 until you can find a way to cancel. Good luck with that!


Click No! if you wish to retain your disgusting and disfigured fat body. Bear in mind that you will continue to have no friends and probably die a lot sooner than our valued customers who clicked the Yes button. Go to hell you overweight pig!

This next one, I kind of felt, went a bit too far:

Click “No Thanks” if you think you don’t need Cialis. By clicking “No” you’re saying that you’ve given up and are admitting to a being a limp dicked loser and that your flaccid penis suits you just fine.  You, further, have no problem with the pool boy taking over the job of servicing your wife. Time has passed you by you useless piece of shit. Why don’t you just crawl under a rock and die.

Lastly, I, from time to time, like to review the top few search terms used to find my blog site. I have been getting a less than comfortable amount of traffic from people searching the phrase, “but flap underwear fucking.” Please note that I type them as I see them. Clearly the crowd frequenting and amused by my brand of humor does not know that the ass part of the human body is spelled, “butt” and not “but.” I’m not really surprised by this but still thought it should be pointed out.

My favorite, by far, has to be, “does Barbra Streisand have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?” I’m not sure I’ve ever mentioned Fetal Alcohol Syndrome or Barbra Streisand in any of my posts. I mean, I might have mentioned Fetal Alcohol Syndrome in my piece about how I found Cameron Diaz to be less than attractive but I certainly never accused Barbra of being a victim of FAS.


Random Thoughts on Wendy’s Fries, the Whopper, Pink Slime and Chuck Taylor’s

I haven’t been obsessing about anything in particular lately. However there seem to be a lot of smaller issues running through my head but nothing of any major prominence…

With that,

I’ve tinkered with the idea, lately, of putting together a compendium on fast food ordering etiquette but the word compendium demands a subject of more prominent volume and cries out for a topic of something other than Burger King. When you use the word compendium it should be about history, religion or the writings of Nabokov. Something big and important. Let’s just say that I have a few observations and “rules to live by” that I would like to impart to you.

As long as we’ve already touched on Burger King, I would like to go off subject and end all debate, the Whopper with cheese is the best fast food burger of all time. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Everything else is just an “also ran.”. However, there is one draw back, the Whopper is an “eat in” only sandwich. It’s too loosely wrapped to last through the ride home. Back in my day, these fast food joints used to pack your sandwich in a Styrofoam container that ensured freshness and heat retention. Now because of all of the environmental worry that has resulted in making us care more about nature and shit and less about the temperature of my food, I am now forced to make dine in or dine out decisions based on whether or not I can make it home before my bun turns hard and the ketchup starts to run. Does anyone like cold french fries? When fries are cold then leave an oily sheen in your mouth. It’s disgusting.

As for the environment and how it pertains to my meal, we’ve all seen these gruesome pictures of what our litter does to animals, plastic islands and such. When I see these pictures, I cant help but wonder, why is a turtle swimming thru a 6 pack holder anyway? Was it for fun? So much fun that he just decided to leave it hanging on his neck until he eventually ate his way into it becoming a tourniquet? And now because this stupid animal can’t make better decisions I have to eat my delicious Whopper while sitting in a booth chair full of some fat guys ass filth.

I always get a “road burger” when I go through the drive-thru line. My usual choice is a double cheeseburger. It’s compact and usually wrapped in paper. Eating a road burger keeps me from continually opening and closing the bag for a handful of fries while driving home. You can’t eat a Whopper while you drive. Too messy. That’s sage advice. You’re welcome.

I hate Wendy’s fries. I like the idea of Wendy’s fries with the skin on and all. It’s a very hearty, raw and rugged look but, in reality, what I always end up with box full of overly fried potato skin fragments. There are never enough fries in the box. A lot of the volume is taken up by pieces of fried-fried crunchy stuff.

Lastly, when McDonald’s got busted red-handed for poisoning people with their pink slime and such, they made drastic and desperate changes to their recipes that have left their food virtually tasteless or at the very least, different tasting (when I say different, I mean worse). Like, I don’t eat at McDonald’s enough for it to kill me, so can I please just have the deliciousness chemicals back? The nuggets were so tasty and I want them left alone, pink goo and all. The problem isn’t what they put in their nuggets or how they’re made. The real problem is that douche from the Food Channel who decided to put the video of their production on YouTube. I was totally fine until then. Thanks a lot, you invasive and assumptive asshole. I was perfectly content with the nuggets until you came along.

Has shoe shopping changed at all that much since, like, almost a hundred years ago? I mean, I’m in my early 50’s and I walk thru a department store and see that same metal shoe sizing thing and the same poor bastard running back and forth getting two sizes of the same shoe for people to try on. Who doesn’t know their shoe size anyway? I order my shoes online and have never had to send a pair back. Why? I wear a size 10 and that’s what I order.

Remember how the shoe salesman would always come back with another pair of shoes you might like just so he could get you to buy two pair? Clever right? He might wear a short-sleeved shirt and the wide-tie but he is no a dip shit. Shoe guy is a cut-throat shark.

You know when you are searching online for, say, primate condoms because your pet monkey keeps impregnating the family dog and then for the next six months you get advertisements for animal prophylactics running all over your screen? Yeah, Amazon and Google stole that shit from the lowly shoe salesman. It’s called an up-sell. Shoe guy invented that shit. Amazon should be kissing his polyester covered ass for that idea.

Shoe guy – “I thought this purple pump would look fabulous on you madam and we just happen to have it in a 7.”

Lady – “Well, you are pretty sophisticated and you do hold this position of prominence at  Kinney Shoes so you must know best. I’ll take them!”

What took so long to invent the shoe anyway? Like how many thousands of years did people step in shit before somebody decided to put something on the bottom of their foot for protection? I mean, i’m not a fucking history major so I don’t have a clue how long ago it was but let’s just say it probably took a while. The average person can’t name three US Presidents and half the population believes the Earth is flat so I don’t put a lot of faith in humanity figuring out the leather upper and the insole in a timely fashion.

Today’s athletic shoes may look bad ass and they are supposed to offer more support based on all of our modern technology but all I can think about is Bill Russell. Back in the 1950’s Bill Russell and the rest of the Boston Celtics, won 11 NBA championships in 13 years and you know what they wore on their feet? Those stupid, clunky, black Chuck Taylor’s that offered absolutely no arch support. They were flat tops for Christ sake too. The ankle was all exposed and shit. He didn’t get to pump up his sneakers with air before a game and he probably wore the same pair till they rotted out from underneath him. While we’re at it, guess how many times did Bill Russell blew out his ankle or knee from playing in what amounts to a Dutch wooden shoe? Zero. The answer is zero. I think. I mean, I wasn’t alive then so I don’t really know. He may have been a virtual cripple for all I know.

By the way, that metal shoe sizing thing is called a Brannock Shoe Sizer and it was invented in 1927. Jesus! Nothing since?


Smoke Alarms and Sudafed

Early the other morning, sometime around the 4AM mark, I was awakened by the desperate bleat of a dying smoke alarm battery; the smoke alarm securely bolted to the ceiling right outside of our bedroom door. What kind of an asshole would think that a good place for a smoke alarm? Close to the bedroom, yes, I get that. But I’d rather the smoke alarm was a bit further down the hall so that, maybe, I still have a fighting chance of getting out without being burned to a crisp but also not have to be tormented in the dead of night by a incessant beeping sound that makes me wish that I was already dead.

I understand that these beeping sounds are designed to irritate the living shit out of us but damn! Anyway, can somebody tell me why this battery dying bullshit never happens during the day? Like at a time when when I can do something about it?

And who has random 9 volt batteries just sitting around the house anyway? My wife, “Can’t you just change the battery?” Me, “Sure, let me just access my secret lair where I store our 9 volt battery hoard.” You can’t buy these things ahead of time and keep them in a drawer waiting either; they’ll expire because they don’t work with anything else. 9 volt batteries are good for two things: smoke alarms and remote control cars. There are also the people who enjoy putting the connectors of the 9 volt on their tongue and mildly electrocuting themselves. Without these three demographics — smoke alarms, toy cars and dumbasses — there would be absolutely no use for 9 volt batteries.

Why do people find a thrill in sticking a battery on their tongue. Kids think it’s pretty cool to do this for some reason and the fact that they find this bad-ass explains a lot about why kids are such pussies these days. Let me tell you what we did when I was a kid. My buddy Jimmy and I went to the drug store and bought up every thermometer they had. We took them home and shattered them open in order to play with the mercury inside. You know what mercury does? It causes cancer. Like the really bad kind of cancer. The kind that feasts on your bowels and renders you a skeleton with an uncontrollable shitting problem. We didn’t care. Really we didn’t know it did that but we would never have been caught dead garnering such amusement from mildly electrocuting our tongues.

Why can’t a smoke alarm simply plug into the wall and sit on a shelf or a desk top? My god damned doorbell plugs into the wall and you mean to tell me a smoke alarm can’t? No one has come up with the technology for a smoke alarm to run on anything but a 9 volt battery? Good luck with finding a cure for the whole cancer thing. We’re fucked. Even my iPhone has a god damned compass built into it and can even tell the government where I am at any given time but you mean to tell me it can’t tell me when my house is burning down? I can transfer money across the world with a click or two. Change the temperature of my house while I’m driving home. Bring up a naked picture of any female celebrity in the history of celebrity but we can’t find a better way to power a smoke detector?

Some smart ass with their shit together decided that we’re supposed to change smoke alarm batteries every time daylight savings kicks on and off but what am I supposed to do when a battery dies in, say, September? Am I then supposed to change it again in November when we “fall back?” I feel like that’s a giant waste of an already expensive battery. They’re like 4 bucks apiece for Christ sake! There is virtually zero chance of these two battery changing universes to ever come together for me and I will, thusly, more than likely, die in a raging inferno because I have disconnected all of the beeping smoke detectors in my house because of daylight savings time.

What genius decided that smoke alarms had to be attached to the ceiling anyway? In my case, it’s 4AM, the battery is dying and beeping. My only hope of getting a decent night’s sleep is to change the battery and get back in bed as quickly as possible without coming completely out of my sleep trance. You cant just disconnect the battery anymore because this same genius decided that there should be a back up battery that can literally go on beeping for weeks. Anywho, I’m already groggy and now I’m seething inside. That kind of anger that makes you do stupid things. Without a doubt, angry and in a sleep induced daze is the perfect time to get up on a step ladder in the pitch blackness of the night. Not to mention that I was all hopped up on alcohol laden Nyquil.

Cold medicine does not work for me. I hate taking medicine. Everybody is always like, “Dude, why suffer. Get some Advil Cold & Sinus. It works like a charm.” So I tried this stuff and let me tell you a about what it does to me, not for me. First of all, by my way of understanding, this stuff is supposed to act as a decongestant and, at the very least, make it so it doesn’t feel like someone is driving a railroad spike into your forehead. In my case, however, Advil makes a beeline straight for my genitals and renders me unable to take a piss. After a day or so of taking this chemical obstructor, my bladder has the feel of a ripe melon left out in the sun. Advil may, in fact, bring you people some relief from a cold but to me it’s a pharmaceutical tourniquet tightly wrapped tightly around my urethra. So now I can’t pee and my nose is still stuffed up so, fuck me.

As long as we’re on the subject of my private area, I recently had my yearly physical and as I have also recently turned 52, was reminded that it was getting rather important for me to have my colon investigated for ass cancer. Now, in spite of my telling this doctor woman that there is zero instance of colon cancer in my family, just to shut her up, I acquiesced and agreed to allow a complete stranger unfettered access to my anal cavity. Now, I have yet to follow through on this and chances are pretty solid that I will report in for my 53 year old physical with an still unmolested balloon knot but since I deceitfully placated her by agreeing to this violation, I have been getting calls from just about every clinic in the city all hellbent on sticking a camera up my rear end. It’s like my doctor sent my rectum out for quote on Craig’s List and now I have every pervert in the city calling me begging to ravage my butthole.

Remember when you could just go buy cold medicine and people didn’t look at you like you were running a meth lab. I just want to unclog my nose, it fucking hurts and you want my drivers license so you can keep record of my pseudoephedrine volume? This stuff costs like 9 dollars per pack. How good do you think I’m willing to feel for that price?

Did you know that people can get addicted to nose spray? Apparently there’s an ingredient in your standard OTC nasal spray called Oxymetazoline and this shit is addictive. This chemical that I cannot pronounce can lead to mouth sores, nose bleeds, fever, vomiting and wounds that refuse to heal. I just wanted my nose to not be all clogged up but now I can’t stop using this shit and I’m puking everywhere. What kind of medicine is this? Isn’t there a code of medical ethics that says do no harm? Festering and gaping wounds that refuse to heal seems like harm to me. Maybe the people who bottle this sweet elixir aren’t beholden to such standards of actually fixing my fucking stuffed up nose and are more interested in me selling my sexual dignity for a quick fix of Afrin. Jesus!

Epilogue –

In the end, given that I don’t care to die a fiery death, I bought 2 9 volt batteries to the tune of 8 dollars. 8 dollars for a couple of batteries?!?! It almost seems cheaper to let the house burn down and just pay the deductible.

Anywho, having spent a ridiculous amount of money on these batteries, I climb up the ladder and in the process of changing out the batteries, proceed to drop the smoke alarm on the floor shattering it into a million pieces. Wonderful! Now I have 8 fewer dollars and two 9 volt batteries with nothing to put them in.



The Ocean is a Giant Sewer and Other Reasons Why Fish Sucks 

From time to time I like to check to see how people find my blog. Most of the initial hits come from Facebook and Twitter but once the tremendous fervour of social media begins to ebb, the search engines take over.

In the past terms like “retard” or “stupid retard” brought me a terrific amount of traffic and that was all well and good but, in the end, it woke me up to the idea that maybe I’d outta broaden myself a bit, get a new subject possibly.

Anywho, after working tirelessly to become a much more diverse and versitile writer, I have seen a compete turn around from the search engine folks. No longer am I  pigeonholed by Google and their ilk as that guy who uses the word “retard” maybe a little too much. I was shocked when I saw this month’s blog stats that reported that the most searched words used to find me are, drum roll pkease….

“Being f#cked by a dick with a flap”


“Famous people who like Jell-o pudding”

What’s a dick with a flap? Just to prove that these search engine things can make mistakes, I checked and I have never used such a term. Dick? Yeah I’ve said that thousands of times but never “dick flap”.

As for the pudding reference, I, one time, said that Bill Cosby was a pervert subletting Doctor Feelgood’s medicine cabinet, secretly feeding barbiturates to unsuspecting women who he was then giving it to with his Fat Albert. Does this one inocuous comment really justify force feeding innocent people in search of celebrities who share their love of Jell-o products the banality of my blog? The answer is no, it does not. However, I will take traffic in any form.

What does this have to do with fish you might be asking? Absolutely nothing. Just was kinda proud of myself.

When somebody tells me about a great piece of fish they had, inevitably the first thing they say about it is that it didn’t even taste like fish. What I’m thinking is, why the fuck would you eat something and be happy that it didn’t taste like it was supposed to? I have never heard anyone say, “I had the the best steak last night and you know what’s best of all? It didn’t even taste like beef”! Even what we would consider your lower grades of meat aren’t spoken of so harshly. “I can’t eat this Souse Meat it tastes too much like Souse Meat”.

Everything involved in the cooking, prepping and consuming of fish is concentrated around covering up its objectionable taste and atrocious odor. Basically people like fish that doesn’t taste like fish. Folks who claim to love to eat fish will have no reservations treating themselves to a fifty dollars lobster and then immediately drowning it in a stick of melted butter. Your tartar and cocktail sauces exist for one reason and one reason only, to mask the atrocious taste of fish.

What most people consider to be the best kinds of fish are fish that don’t taste like fish. Take salmon for instance, if you aren’t catching that shit yourself and taking a bite out of it right there at the river, chances are, by the time you get that thing filleted and back home, it’s going to taste and smell likes whore house at low tide. Trout is the same. People like tilapia because it’s “mild”. Because it’s mild, the first thing people do is to fry it in battered grease. Know why? Because you could fry the bottom of my shoe and find it palatable.

Today, our population is fatter than ever.  Much of the blame for obesity is placed on the accessibility to fast food. We love fast food. McDonald’s was caught virtually poisoning people and they’re rolling right along like nothing happened. Yet and still, fast foods joints like Long John Silver’s are barely hanging on. What happened to Shrimp Boat and Arthur Treacher’s? Even if you own a fast food restaurant and fry every God damned thing you sell, it’s still not enough to mask the fact that you’re a purveyor of seafood. Even your most successful fish monger, Red Lobster, is just as much in the business of selling butter and cheddar biscuits as it is in the selling of disgusting fish. Punishing your customers by making them take fish with their butter and biscuits is like a a risky business plan. Its like giving a kid the dog they’ve always wanted but only if they go blind first.

Ever been to Myrtle Beach? The main drag there is inundated with these seafood restaurants all using the word Calabash in their name, Poopdeck Pappy’s Calabash Seafood Buffet for instance. Driving down this road, Route 17, if I’m not mistaken, is like a tour through an aquatic slaughterhouse complete with the stench of wet death. Little known fact, Calabash is actually is an old Caribbean word that describes the stench from a festering genital wound. Yum!!

Lastly, it occurs to me that fish is so awful that the Catholics actually had to come up with a day, every fucking Friday, where they arm twist the congregation into eating it or else risk pissing off God. How good can something really be if you have to threaten people with fire and brimstone if they don’t partake weekly? Like God made this shit so you’d better fucking eat it!

Rudolph’s Santa is a Toothless Bigot


This is my granddaughter’s third Christmas which, to me, means that she is now old enough to watch and appreciate all of my favorite holiday classic television shows. She will do this even if I have to glue her to the couch. Those of you old enough, do you remember before the days of video machines, when you had to scan the TV guide to find out when Rudolph and The Grinch were going to be on? You had to schedule the times with your parents to be sure that you would be home to watch Frosty the Snowman? Inevitably, you’d get stuck at your grandparents house and show up fifteen minutes late. It was like, “Great! I get one fucking time a year to hear the Heat Miser song and now the whole thing is fucked up!” We couldn’t just pop in a tape or a DVD if we were screwed over by insensitive adults. This is another reason why young people suck. People my age were hardened by the things we considered vital, not mattering to anyone else. “You have food? You have a roof over your head? Healthy? Then shut the hell up about how you missed your stupid cartoons!”rudolphintro

So here’s the problem. I’m older now. I’ve watched these things a thousand times and, while this might come as a surprise to you, I’m more cynical and sarcastic then I was say forty years ago. I watch these holiday specials and have a special affinity for finding flaws, inconsistencies and holes in the story line. “So you’re saying that there are vagaries and holes in a story meant for a 4 year old? Remarkable.” Regardless, I made a few notes the last few dozen times Leila and I watched the clay-mation version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and this is what I’ve come up with. As always, I encourage and welcome your feedback but don’t give me any crap about it being a kid’s show. That’s no excuse for shitty work.

Early on in this Christmas classic, Santa drags his stupid ass to Donner the reindeer’s cave. As long as we’re on the subject, why is a reindeer living in a cave anyway? Reindeer either live in a barn or they’re walking around migrating from one cold, shitty location to another. There is no cave. Ever. Anyway, Santa comes in all high and mighty gracing the Donner family with his presence and, upon seeing Rudolph’s glowing nose, proceeds to drop some of the most bigoted shit on this poor creature. I cannot imagine that the EEOC would be pleased to hear that Santa is going to restrict someone’s right to work based on the color of their nose. Santa is like, “Well, I don’t know what you’re thinking Donner but I’ll be damned if that freak baby of yours will ever have anything to do with pulling my sleigh.” Donner proceeds to cover Rudolph’s nose with mud from the cave floor. Yeah, good call. That’ll fix everything. Santa will never see through that. He’s a racist, Donner, not a nitwit you stupid loser.


Shunned from being able to find work in the ever-competitive sleigh pulling game, Rudolph ventures out on his own and eventually meets with this stupid little fucking guy, Herbie. Herbie is an elf who hates making toys and wants to be a dentist. However, it is clear to anyone over the age of say ten that this Herbie guy is frustratingly gay and “dentist” is nothing more than poorly covered euphemism for ass play and clay penises. Once again, poor Herbie, because of him being “different” from the other elves, i.e., gay, is asked to disappear and is summarily found, by Rudolph, barely clinging to life in a snow drift. So in the first ten minutes of this right to work nightmare, Santa has thrown two people to the literal wolves one for being gay and the other for having a different colored nose. God forbid you were born with a club foot or something because this fucking Santa guy would have you hung.


On a less controversial level, in Santa’s workshop, there are like ten elves responsible for building toys for every mother fucker on this earth. This is simply impossible but is clearly indicative of Santa running an illegal sweatshop staffed by little people that he holds in captivity in an icy and inescapable hell. In addition, the only toy they ever seem to make is a shitty gray box on wheels. No one wants that stupid crap so why bother?

Speaking of toys, there is an kingdom in the story that Rudolph and Herbie stumble upon called the Island of Misfit Toys. This lifeless, cold dump is populated by toys that somehow ended up here after they were not wanted or played with by the children they were given to. The moniker of “misfit toys” seems a bit harsh given that all Santa is churning out of his workshop are grey wheeled boxes. Hmmm, let’s see. Would I rather have a grey box or a gun that squirts jelly? A box on wheels or a jack-in-the-box whose only fucking defect is that his name is Charlie. Every single unwanted misfit toy was one hundred times better than the best stupid box Santa was making and cramming down everybody’s throat.

Later on, the king of the misfit toys begs Rudolph to tell Santa about their plight and to try again giving them to a thankful kid rather than the ungrateful bastard he gave them to in the first place. How does Santa not know about this island of hell? All my life I was told and manipulated my kids with stories of Santa’s surveillance system that gave him intimate knowledge of every fucking thing they and I ever did. So here he is, up everybody’s ass all year long but he has no freaking clue that there are toys, toys that aren’t a sorry box on wheels and come to him free of charge all sitting on some dumb island? Is this guy mentally ill? How can I take any of this seriously if I even have half a brain?

In the story, there is this mean snow creature they call The Bumble. This thing is apparently committing heinous and violent crimes against the residents of the North Pole. killing and eating elves and reindeer alike. We are kind of led to believe that there are more than one of these murdering snow gargoyles running around. What kind of shit is this? We’re to believe that this Santa Claus character is completely capable of delivering toys to every fucking house on earth in one night but is completely helpless against this Bumble thing? Does Santa not give a fuck or is he some kind of giant pacifist vadge? Is this why he’s down to only ten or so elves? This guy is a real piece of work, if you ask me.


There is concern the entire film that Santa is not eating enough and granted, he does look like a cancer patient. Mrs. Claus is obsessing that her husband wont fit into his Christmas attire mostly because she’s lost the will to live and doesn’t want to have to re-tailor this fat idiot’s wardrobe. Magically though, as soon as Santa eats crown and elicits Rudolph’s help with the sleigh, he gains like 150 pounds like he’s some kind of a diabetic Incredible Hulk.

In the end, Santa needs Rudolph’s help because of some storm. Here, Rudolph really missed a chance to tell Santa’s racist ass to eat shit but since he has no self-esteem left to speak of, he acquiesces to the old slave owner and “guides his sleigh” anyway. How can Rudolph even look at himself in the mirror knowing how much this old bigot hates him for his nose skin color and then help him deliver his lame-assed packages all over the world. If he had even a shred of dignity he would have told him, “You know what Santa? Why don’t you go fuck yourself! You hated me for the color of my skin! I’m not helping you and I hope you all go out into that storm and die. Die a horrible long and painful death.”

You know what else? What’s with this storm at the North Pole anyway? Really? Canceling Christmas because of a storm? It’s the fucking North Pole! The fucking place is a perpetual storm. More likely than not, Santa is just trying to find an excuse not to go on the excruciating toy delivering journey from hell and for that, i cannot blame him.

As in all customary Christmas fable fare, Santa is to fly on his sleigh, climb down everybody’s chimney and deliver toys to every boy and girl on earth as long as they been well behaved. When my kids were little I would tell them the story of Monkey Claus and how, if they were bad, Monkey Claus would come instead of Santa. In my manipulative story, Monkey Claus drops the hammer on all of the bad kids by releasing a diseased and delirious spider monkey into their house. This monkey afflicted with a severe case of hemorrhagic fever proceeds to defile their house with infected feces even using the curtains to wipe himself with. He breaks their toys and eats their food. To this day, they all vividly remember the emotional damage done by the story of Monkey Claus.

In the last scene of Rudolph, Santa is shown flying around like an asshole in his sleigh and instead of going down the various chimneys like he is supposed to, is seen carelessly carpet bombing people with all of his shitty ill gotten misfit toys that he has ruthlessly tethered to umbrellas. I remember thinking even when I was a kid how absolutely fucking lazy this was. Like get out of the sleigh you fat bastard and do this Christmas thing the right way!

Let me close this by saying that half the reason I love Christmas is for the television shows and movies. In spite of all of this vitriol, I will watch and appreciate Rudolph until the day I die. I’m just funnin a little.



Grinding My Ax Against the Innocent Pretzel

Recently, in the middle of a conversation with a friend, shockingly, I veered off subject and went into a rant into why pretzels are so stupid and gross. I was a little shocked as the vitriol started to spew so fluidly because I genuinely like pretzels. They’re good and damn versatile. They come in a ton of flavors and sizes. Hard or soft. Are great for dipping but also stand alone. Pretzels, not always needing the limelight, have made forays into supporting roles as with your Combos snacks, more on this later, or by adding a nice salty compliment to the sweetness of the always delicious Take 5 candy bar. And let’s not forget the semi-recent and delicious advent of the pretzel bun.

Pretzels do not deserve my scorn but this post and this site has never been focused on highlighting things that make me happy. This is my outlet to complain about people and things that have disappointed me and let me down and, unfortunately, the defenseless pretzel will not be immune.

The story with pretzels goes that some monk came up with the recipe, a few hundred years ago, as a reward to children for learning verses from the Bible, being good or some shit like that. There’s also some stupid crap about the shape of the pretzel being fashioned after two hands folded in prayer. Whatever. I’m not sure if that part is true but what we can be sure of is that this whole pretzel thing came about before the advent of readily available sugary sweets because no kid I know is going to rack their brain learning some twenty verse passage from Proverbs just so some creeper monk will give them a dry ass pretzel. Besides, given what’s been going down in the church world for the past decade or so, I’m not entirely comfortable with a priest handing out treats to my kids. Keep your pretzels to yourself Chester, we’ll do the memorizing at home if we so desire.

What sort of a lame ass reward is a pretzel anyway? As with any religion, Catholic or any, there is, of course, the requisite heavy focus on and motivation by guilt. Pretzels as a reward for some dumb monk’s impression of good behavior comes off as some kind of epicurean cilice wrapped around and painfully secured to the skin of my esophagus. “Good job learning that thousand word verse about how God wants to fuck up gay people or send you to hell for eating lobster. Now take this piece of salted drywall as a a sign that God may let you see another day, you pathetic mongrel sinner.”

Anywho, pretzels come in a myriad of sizes, shapes, textures and flavors and all are pretty tasty with the exception of the following:

Those hard assed things that come in a box

Ever had the occasion to eat or better yet, choke down, a Snyder’s of Hanover Sourdough Hard Pretzel? Like when you haven’t been to the grocery for a few weeks and there’s nothing else to eat but a couple of ketchup packets and an still unopened box of these cement chunks. I actually broke my tooth on one of these gems a few years ago and carry the dental crown as proof. Cereal comes in a cardboard box. Hell, lots of things come in cardboard boxes. Most food products that come in a box are also sealed in a plastic bag to stave off spoilage but because this particular brand of pretzels is made of flavorless wallpaper sizing hardened by shredded bits of old German newspapers, there is no risk. There is no way on Earth that these things could possibly get any more stale. You know what else comes in a cardboard box without a plastic liner? Shoes. Shoes don’t have a plastic liner. Laundry detergent doesn’t need a liner. And these pretzels. They need no further protection. I’m surprised there isn’t a desiccant in the box with them.

Moms everywhere will tell you not to bite your fingernails because they are made of material that is actually harder than what your teeth are made of and you risk doing damage. But go ahead and eat these pretzels that are made from busted up pieces of old driveways. That’s totally fine. Thanks Snyder’s and thank you mom for my new 900 dollar crown!

These horrible things hearken back to a day when food just sucked ass. To a day when survival took precedence over things like, say, flavor. Like the people you see in those post Civil War pictures, the ones who never smile. Little did you know that they didn’t smile back then because their teeth were all fucked up and broken from eating rocks. Why was everybody so ugly back then anyway? I can honestly say that I have never seen a picture of a women from, say, the 1920’s who I found even remotely attractive. Pick any age you like, Victorian Era? Hideous. Pre-World War I? Ugh. Movie stars of the Silent Age? They make me wish sound was invented before pictures. Just gross. It really wasn’t until after World War II that you started to see attractiveness starting to break through and while I’m not saying that these plaster clusters of dried shit are responsible for human ugliness, I do think that they are indicative of the collective physical hideous nature of humanity as a whole.

Snyder’s of Hanover Pretzel Pieces

First of all, why is every pretzel made by this Snyder consortium? They really seem to have a monopoly on the whole contorted, knot shaped snack game. Kudos to them. Here in Ohio we have a potato chip company called Snyder’s of Berlin. Are they any relation to the pretzel Snyder’s? Was there a wayward brother who frowned on the whole breaking of the public’s teeth and rebelled deciding to instead hitch his wagon to the more eatable and softer potato chip. Horrified by the way his family was systematically destroying the dental health of Americans, he decided there had to be another way to snack.

The way I heard it though, old man Snyder was a hardcore Nazi who was so distraught with the German loss in WW2 that he packed up his pretzel / drywall operation and moved it to the United States under the contingency that only members of the Aryan race would ever indulge in one of his salty twisted treats. Once entering the United States and realizing the racial melting pot he had so readily delved into, he had a heart attack and died. His gravestone is, in fact, engraved with his last miserable words, “Give me back my pretzel you Italian bastard!!” This of course is not true but it sounded good.

I am a huge fan of the Honey Mustard variety of this Snyder’s pretzel gem. These have been a mainstay on my Top 5 Salty Snack list for well over a decade. If you haven’t tried them, I highly recommend. Here’s the rub though, this bag of deliciousness is just a sack of their garbage sprayed down with a slathering of honey flavored chemicals. It’s like, at the end of the day, these Snyder’s people were wondering what to do with all of the broken pieces of pretzel and some smart guy came up with the idea of adding flavor and bagging it. I hope this guy was promoted for actually finding a way to get people to pay 3 dollars and 50 cents for the scrapings of old man Snyder’s filth.

I like those cheddar pretzel Combo things. The cheese and pretzel relationship is one forged by the gods and to have them already conjoined and readily available in a easy to open bag is an answered prayer. These, however, are the only good tasting Combos made. Why do we need pizza flavored Combos? If i want something to taste like pizza, I’ll order a pizza. I don’t need poorly copied and chemically poisoned reproductions of my favorite food in junk food form. Pizza is already junk food. Plus I don’t like the bland, white Combo sleeve they use for every other flavor besides the pretzel ones.

I feel like these white flavorless sleeves are the same things that come in a bag of Chex Mix. No one eats them but if they do, it has to come with a mouthful of the other stuff to diminish the experience of the disgusting Combo spindle tube. In Chex Mix, they are meant to be nothing more than a crunch enhancer and never as a stand alone treat so why, Combos people, would you make them a headliner in your snack playbill? I think, in order to keep costs down everything actually starts as a pretzel but Combos, Inc hire retarded people who don’t like to go out in the light to suck off the outer layer of pretzel crust to use with their other more disgusting flavors. Remember that visual the next time you eat one of those things. Bat Boy sucking on your Combo. His acidic saliva braking down all of the deliciousness.

Speaking of other flavors, are you aware that, in Japan, there are like 37 kinds of Kit-Kat candy bars? What the hell? We invented them and have only one variety. I wonder if this playing god with candy is why the Japanese people have seen the highest increase in adult onset diabetes since WW2? Like, “You know what we need? A sweeter, more palatable vehicle to deliver as much squid ink into our diets as we can tolerate. Fortunately, I happen to have just such a vehicle in mind, the Kit-Kat bar!!” The Japanese. The givers of Godzilla and the Edamame Soybean Kit Kat. Thank God.

Kit-Kats are for another day though…

Waterproof? Waterproof this..

A trend has been developing lately that is quite disturbing to me. Not that it’s doing me or anyone else any harm but whoever decided that waterproofing every last god damned thing we own is now, suddenly, of vital importance? Did something happen? Is global warming super real now? Are the polar icecaps melting at an alarming rate and perilously surrounding us with more and more water? Why are we around so much water all of the sudden that we need our accouterments sealed from this ever-growing and pervasive moisture?

In my mind, this obsession with keeping dry started when we all started carrying our cell phones around like they were life giving oxygen tanks or something. I see people at the urinal all the time reading the news, texts, emails or whatever else they can’t do without for the next 30 seconds. They look ridiculous and I cant help but wish to be there when they drop their expensive phone into a pool of loamy community urine. Can’t we put our phones down for just a few god damn seconds? Long enough to at least take a piss and not drop the stupid thing in the effing toilet? Before cell phones, I cannot think of one thing I ever dropped in the toilet. I’ve never dropped my phone in the toilet but I’m just saying, why is this expensive piece of electronics perilously hovering above the toilet in the first place? One small consolation though is the discovery of a new use for white rice. Drop your urine saturated iPhone into a bowl of rice and it might soak up enough of the liquid filth for it to function again. What about brown rice? Does brown rice work too? Can it be cooked like fried rice?

I thought of a few things where I think waterproofing comes in damn handy and no where on this list will there be an expensive piece of electronics. Shoes and boots should be waterproof. Maybe not all of them but certainly ones meant for hiking and shit like that. Gloves and mittens should be waterproof and diapers. Maps used by people fucking around in the wilderness hiking and shit like that should be waterproof. Along those same lines, matches should always be waterproof.

Lastly, bandages should be waterproof. I cut my finger and every time I wash my hands I have to put on a new bandage? I have a germ problem. Do you know how many times a day I wash my hands? Can somebody come out with a bandage that doesn’t disintegrate every time my hands get wet!?!? Dammit! There is a growing fashion craze amongst the hipster crowd for wooden watches. I believe that a wooden watch, as stupid as it is, should be waterproof so that every time the idiot who bought it sweats, it doesn’t swell up and split.

In addition, and because I have a flawed perception that people actually care about my opinion, I threw together a list of things that, under no circumstances, should ever be waterproof. If for no other reason than as a punishment for being a fucking idiot and dropping your shit in water. I didn’t want to rely on my own insight here and actually Googled the best of all waterproof products and this is what i came up with.

Playing Cards

Really? Cards? Who’s playing poker in the rain? What is the matter with you? The “you” being anyone who bought these things for three times the price of regular cards. I swear to God, 70% of the population of this country is mentally ill. You know what you do when you have a rousing game of pinochle interrupted by a sudden downpour? You go in the fucking house. You don’t sit in it like some kind of a mind numb asshole secure in the fact that while you may be getting wet, your cards are not.


Since when did we need to listen to music so badly that we felt the necessity to invent a waterproof speaker? Not the kind that goes in the shower with you although you could just as easily put a regular speaker on the bathroom counter that would offer the exact same quality of sound but wouldn’t be susceptible to  black mold.

You’re in the shower for 5-10 minutes tops. Ladies maybe a bit more if there is some manicuring to do but still, we have become so dysfunctional and in need of instant gratification so much that we can’t go 15 fucking minutes without listening to some stupid song?

Why do we need speakers that float in the pool? There’s even a speaker being marketed as being impervious to salt water. Salt water? Like I’m taking this into the ocean with me? Aren’t there waves anymore? Does this ridiculous product come with an anchor so it doesn’t float away in a riptide?


We’ve done this one already. You drop your phone in the water and you aren’t in the effing Coast Guard or calling the effing Coast Guard, then you got what you deserved.


Does it make any sense to have a waterproof keyboard but the rest of the computer is not? Is the intent for me to sit in the rain with my new keyboard and run a cable through a semi-open window to the rest of the unit? Why on earth would I do such a thing? What was the impetus behind such a stupid invention? What I want is to run my reports but to sit in the rain while I do it.

The Waterproof Bible

This is seriously a real product. Expensive too, 50 bucks! Why in the hell does anyone need a waterproof book of any kind? Is this stupid thing some kind of a sissy’s cilice? Like I’m not quite into self-flagellation enough to wrap a sharp and rusty piece of barbed wire around my thigh but I do like to punish myself for my sins by sitting in the rain reading God’s word. Can you imagine how pleased God would be if you were to read this Bible in a blinding hurricane?

I also found a few listings for waterproof chalk and chalkboards. At the time it didn’t seem necessary to make note of it but on second thought I got to wondering just how you’re supposed to erase the fucking thing?

The Dick Hole Flap Flap

I don’t know when thongs came into being for women but I’m pretty sure it was after I was off of the market. I don’t remember encountering a thong back in my heyday. Having never worn a thong, it’s tough for me to say but those things look pretty uncomfortable all crammed up your butt crack and all. Not that I’m at all in favor of bringing back the giant panties. They’re just horrible. There really  could not be a more sexually deflating piece of clothing ever created than the giant panty. I’m really glad those days are behind us.

For the most part, I’m a boxer brief guy. I never had a problem with what they nowadays call “tighty whities.” Mostly because that’s all we had back then. Sure you had your boxers but those were for old men who wore those leather straps to hold their socks up. No one under the age of 70 wore boxers. When I was a teenager they started making bikini briefs for men and I was never comfortable with those either. They were too close to what women wore and the name “bikini” certainly doesn’t illicit any feelings of secure manliness. Life was hard enough at the age of 14 without scrambling my sexual identity with androgynous co-ed under garments.

Bikini briefs can also make the laundry process more arduous. Who wants to have to hold every last pair of underwear up to the light to tell who it belongs to? I want my underwear to scream that they belong to a man and I don’t want to inadvertently have my wife slip into a set of mine only to find out that they have a dick hole.

Inevitably, I had to make the move to boxer briefs mainly because society simply frowns on the man who wears tighty whities. Who in the world ever decided to make men’s underwear white anyway? Seriously? Like, “We’re here today in this meeting to come to an agreement on what color is best for our new line of what we’re going to call, men’s underwear. It’s my opinion that wives should be able to see exactly how much urine and crap is in every pair of their husband’s draws and I say we go with iridescent white. All in agreement say AYE.

Boxers never really did anything for me either. You cant wear them with shorts because when you sit down anybody sitting across from you is going to get an unwanted eyeful of your boys. Without a tighter pair of pants like jeans, boxers leave you just hanging there and it’s an uncomfortable feeling. Plus when you’re just hanging there and you’re on the move, you run the risk of getting sore balls like if Life just used them as it’s punching bag for the day.

In these cases, tighty whities, boxers and boxer briefs, men’s underwear comes with a flap in the front that is supposed to be used as a doorway to make the process of  urinating easier. Bikini briefs do not, in my limited experience, come equipped with this flap technology but as they are, for all intents and purposes, women’s panties, I will no longer refer to them. If you wear them and are offended, I am not sorry and you really should thank me for cluing you in.

I have silently but sometimes publicly struggled over the proper use of this dick hole flap that comes as standard equipment on most of your varieties of men’s underwear. In all cases, this flap is so poorly designed that most men just pull down the front of their draws to perform the act of relieving themselves. No one goes to pee casually. While there may not always be a need to break into a full on sprint to the bathroom most people are generally in a damn hurry to get there and men, in this case, do not have the time to fuck around with a dick flap when under the gun.

Getting back to boxers, boxers don’t have a dick hole flap. They just have a hole. Sometimes the hole has a button on it but the button offers very little protection. With or without the button, wearing boxers does not offer me the kind of support and control I need and they expose a man to spilling back out of his draws and emasculating himself between two sides of a  rusty, dull vice grip we call a zipper. Every zip up your bag? It fucking hurts.

As previously mentioned, white briefs and boxer briefs both come equipped with, what is called in the industry, a dick hole flap. This flap is intended to grant proper access and facilitate the process of relieving oneself. This is not a casual flap or opening like a pair of boxers has but rather two rather large pieces of material laid one over the other that, in every case I’ve ever experienced, requires the user to be some kind of a fucking hand contortionist to make it work. I envision those people who practice pick-pocketing or can move a coin over their knuckles to be the only ones capable of making use of the dick flap.

Extracating your “guy” and freeing it from this genital snare is like reliving the first time you tried to tie your shoes all by yourself. Fumbling around all over the place like a monkey trying to do algebra. The difference being, in this case, instead of your kindly mom or dad propping you up on the nearest chair to re-tie your shoes for you, with this penis flap thing, you end up pissing all over your hand. Maybe it’s my age but I don’t have the time to be fucking around with this thing. I mean, I don’t suffer from any prostate issues or anything but I drink a lot of fucking water and when I have to go I cannot take the time to properly use the underwear as it was intended.


I Hate Outside

I hate being outside. To me, being outside for even a few minutes, is like enduring a slow, unending and painful torture with no end in sight. Being outside gives me an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and hopelessness. Outside, I haven’t the ability to alter my surroundings. I must adapt to it and I don’t like that loss of control. As if a human being has the ability to come to physical terms with 95 degree humid heat or survive very long in anything below zero. Being outside at the mercy of the elements sucks ass.

Some may contend that I suffer from agoraphobia or some other psychosis but they would be wrong. I simple hate hot, cold, dirt, bugs and any other natural infirmity that plagues this world.

Outside it’s never “that perfect temperature,” ever. It’s either too hot or too cold and if by some freak of nature it is meteorologically (I think I just made that word up) comfortable, the humidity is 90% and fucks it all up. I’m either sweating like a fat, greasy sow or covered in painful goose bumps. The are too few days with any middle ground. Probably fewer than a dozen times a year I am actually happy with the weather..

As I said, I also hate dirt and filth. Has anyone ever gone outside and actually come back in the house cleaner than they were when they left? No. The answer is no. Outside is dirty and disgusting.

I hate the sun. There’s no getting away from it. Being in it is like undergoing an unrelenting, energy sapping, savage beat down. My God! It actually burns our flesh! Like fire! Have you ever considered that if you go outside on the planet you were born on and stand in the sun that birthed said planet that you will turn to a pile ash? Does this make any sense? Clearly, we belong indoors.

Bugs and animals also make their homes outside. I don’t care for bugs. Mainly the ones that fly. Flying gives them unfettered access to my ear holes which they all seem quite attracted to. Ever get a gnat in your eye? All shoved down and crammed inside your eyelid? It fucking hurts and God only knows how many piles of dog excrement that thing has been wallowing in before it suicide itself in my optical fluid. One thing I can assure you of, shit covered vermin have never gotten lodged in my eye when safe in the comfort of my home.

Where do fruit flies come from anyway? It seems like they spontaneously generate whenever you spend more than twenty bucks on fruit at the grocery store. How are you supposed to get rid of them unless you throw away every piece of fruit in the house? Once you dispose of your fruit, why do the wayward fruit flies always gather on the bathroom mirror?

I love to play golf. The one thing I despise about golf is that it has to take place outside. I think I read once that there is an enclosed golf course somewhere in Japan. If that’s true and I lived anywhere near it, I would play every day. Indoor golf, that is happening.

The out-of-doors are now blessed with Zika virus carrying mosquitos. This festering disease causes babies to be born with tiny malformed heads. Where did this come from all of the sudden? I’ve never heard of Zika until this year. The day these things hit Northeast Ohio will be the last day you’ll see me outside wearing anything but a yellow biohazard suit.

Mosquitos don’t bother me. I mean I hate them (big surprise there, I know) but they leave me alone. Dana and I will sit outside (me reluctantly) and they are on her like a fat kid on a tube of cookie dough. By the time we throw up the white flag and head back indoors (where we should have stayed in the first place) Dana looks like she has come down with a scorching case of rheumatic fever. Maybe my blood is as sour and acrid as my personality but then they don’t even try to bite so how do they know what I taste like?

There’s nothing worse to me than a fly in the house. The only thing I’ve ever seen a house fly do outside is roll around in a pile of dog shit. Everything they touch, I throw away. I don’t try to kill them either. Just like I don’t belong outside in their domain, they don’t belong in mine.

Who’s idea was it to put grass around everybody’s house anyway? What a fucking genius that guy was. Once a week, I am forced to go outside to cut the grass. Any day of the week I would rather my house was surrounded by molten, bubbling lava filled with fire breathing dragons trying to kill me than grass. I wouldn’t have to mow lava and weeds certainly wouldn’t grow in it. Wouldn’t it be a much better use of space if we just covered everything over in concrete?

Don’t even get me started on swimming in the ocean…

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Piss mud


Stranded in the middle of nowhere covered in muddy piss is not how I want to remember a beautiful summer night sitting under the stars listening to The Beach Boys play live. To top things off, one of the Beach Boys, at least in my mind, was responsible for setting my car on fire forcing me to eat stuffed peppers made by a grease monkey.


Top 5 – People Who Are “Into” Things Make Me Sick

Maybe it’s because I’m old but I’m pretty sure I’ve held this belief as long as I can remember, I can’t stand people who are “into” things. Like so into things that it’s all-consuming and it’s all they talk about. I’m not bothered by a person’s nonchalant or cursory interest in a hobby or in a particular interest but when it borders on an all-consuming obsession, I boil inside. I’m willing to allow some grace here in a couple circumstances, one, my granddaughter has what one would describe as an obsession with Pete the Cat but she’s two years old and besides, Pete is pretty freaking cool. Even in spite of her fixation with Pete, she is still able to mix in a few other hobbies like making Play-Doh jewelry and crapping her pants. Two, I am willing to give some leeway like if you’re autistic and you get off on your fascination with plate spinning. Basically, in my mind, obsessing is okay if you’re a child or if you happen to be mentally challenged.

Lord knows that my house is full of equipment I bought in anticipation of my new hobby. Home improvement tools, exercise doodads and low fat cookbooks to name a few. My saving grace is that I had the sense to wise up. Yes, I made a mistake and got all caught up in something for a few days but I quickly came back to my senses and all it cost me was a few dollars. The people who go into something full bore, hold onto it and act like total d-bags with their stories of running fifty miles over the weekend have lost much more than money. They have also lost their dignity and probably all of their friends.

I’ve made a quick list of the things people obsess about that make me the sickest. These are, by no means, the only ones but simply the ones that will make me avoid you like the plague. “Who am I to say these things?” was a comment I’ve heard quite a bit since I started floating this idea out there. I’ve also been told, “Who the fuck are you to be bothered by anyone? You’re one of the most obnoxious people I’ve ever met,” was another observation made by others. The answer is, I’m me. Most things irritate me and this is my forum for venting. By the way, most of the people who made disparaging comments about my subject matter are the very people I loathe so it only stands to reason.

Yoga –

I see some of my people posting pictures of themselves doing(?), practicing(?) yoga and I think, “Okay, fine, so you do yoga or whatever you call writhing around on the floor carefully balancing on your earlobe. Big fucking deal. Whoopee, so what if you can blow yourself. I don’t care. Do I take pictures of myself sitting in a chair watching television which happens to be my form of recreation? What the hell does Namaste mean anyway?

Are you aware that yoga pants can cost up to 150 dollars? What kind of a mindless and pretentious d-bag pays this much for stretch pants that in all actuality are the equivalent of a couple of pairs of nylons piled on top of each other? Don’t get me wrong. I am totally in favor of women walking around in these things but I have a notion that most people are wearing them as a piece of fashion and are skipping out on the intended yoga session.

Very often you’ll find that your hardcore practitioners of yoga are also into eating gross things like lentils and wheat germ. Not only are they annoying about their Indian exercise fixation but they also smell like a hippie food co-op. This odor does not make them more appealing and frequently only adds to their annoying nature as they won’t shut-up about how I’m killing myself with beef or pork.

I went to a yoga class a few years ago at my wife’s insistence. It wasn’t so much that she demanded that I go, she gave up on the hope of commanding me to do anything years ago, but more wouldn’t stop talking about how great it made her feel. Knowing full well that nothing makes me feel great with the exception of complaining and lethargy and in order to make her stop bringing it up, I went to a class. Everyone in the class was a fucking flower-child weirdo and reeked of cumin. What was worse was the constant stream of farting that ensued once the class began. These freaks had been ingesting beans and hummus all day and were probably already on the verge of crapping themselves then thought it a good idea to sit on the floor and stretch the shit out of themselves. Charming. I don’t think I need to mention that I never went back and blame my wife for scarring me permanently to this day.

Bicyclists –

Of all the people who annoy me, bicyclists are the worst. It’s not that I hate cycling, I really couldn’t care less about any aerobic activity. What bothers me are the get-ups these people think they have to wear in order to properly operate the bike. Why do these people think that in order to be a true cyclist that they have to wear tight fitting spandex clothes slathered in French and Italian words, stupid clunky shoes and those ridiculous elongated helmets? Whatever happened to just riding your bike in regular clothes?

When I was a kid, in order to keep my father from going into a tirade about how he had better things to do than to dig my jeans out of the gears of my bike, my mother would give me a rubber band to wrap around the ankle of my pants. This is the only accessory you need to ride a bike. If you’re tooling leisurely around the neighborhood for a little exercise, you don’t need a 200 dollar featherweight, polycarbonate air-cooled helmet. You look ridiculous trying to be aerodynamic at 4 miles per hour. We didn’t even wear helmets, in my day. If you fell and got hurt, you were an idiot. We laughed at you and you got back on and rode some more. When did people start smashing their heads on the ground?

And what’s with all the Italian writing on the shirts? I’m pretty sure that some of those words translated mean “douche bag” and “pretentious snot rag.”

I drive home from work thru a national park and it doesn’t matter what time of the day it is, the roads are full of these people. “It’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon and you’re riding your bike? You must have jobs or you wouldn’t be able to afford that expensive bike costume you’re wearing so I’ll just assume that you are so much cooler than I am and run you off the road into a ditch.”

Religious zealots –

I don’t expect that I will have to go too far here to make my point as you can turn on the news at any given moment and some ass wipe is blowing up a street full of innocent people who are just living their lives, not interested in being killed for God. We all despise those people, it’s a no-brainer. Why do people find it necessary to post chain letters for Jesus on Facebook? “Repost this if you love Jesus. Ignore it at your own peril.” What? Now I feel pressure to pass this on to my friends to avoid terminal damnation? What’s worse, hell or being blocked as a friend?

My loathing does not only apply only to the devout. Atheists have a belief system that is as much a religion as any, no matter what they may say. They, just as often as the fundamentalists, try to cram their side of the debate down our non-soliciting throats and it’s equally irritating. Why can’t people just believe what they want, no matter how stupid it is, and just shut the fuck up about it? You believe that Grimace from McDonalds is the New Age Messiah? Cool. I don’t care. Just leave me out of the proselytizing.

Meanwhile Pearl Jam and others are cancelling tour events in North Carolina because the people there voted to keep their public restrooms gender specific. Why does it seem that this debate is really about religion? Your hardcore fundies and God, apparently, don’t like women peeing in the men’s room. Frankly, having been in many a men’s rooms myself, I would rather use the chick bathroom. Women seem cleaner and they sit down to pee which eliminates sloshing through the soup of every man’s pee pooling around the base of the urinal station. You ladies need to be careful of which side you take in the transgender bathroom debate. All of the politics and the humanity of the whole thing aside, I’m pretty sure that a man who opts to wear women’s clothing and use the ladies room is still a man and will still pee all over the seat.

Women have nice public restrooms. If I happen to be walking by at the right time at just the right angle I often see a furnished and carpeted lounge area. Why do women have couches in their bathrooms? I make an effort to spend as little time as possible in a public men’s room and women have furniture? I don’t see the need to take a breather on the couch wallowing in the odor of someone else’s fresh dump but women maybe don’t mind so much. Men don’t have any entitlements in our cold tiled men’s rooms. Once in a while, if you’re lucky, you’ll have that jar with the metal lid, filled with some mysterious blue juice and cheap black combs. Like, yeah, why shouldn’t I feel safe combing my hair with those vermin infested things?

You can recognize one of these people who refuse to welcome urine on what was their once untarnished toilet seat by a number of traits, snake handling, blowing up of perceived infidels, rolling on the floor speaking in tongues, protesting soldier’s funerals and / or rallying support at a Trump demonstration. They would also be the ones punching black people for having a differing opinion, sporting a cheap baseball style hat proclaiming the benefits of one of the many truck manufacturers or that they are “retired and have gone fishing.”

Sports fans –

I love sports. I can give you a baseball player’s lifetime batting average from any age of the game within 5 points of the actual. Yet and still, I have never painted my face and refuse to wear a team jersey until somebody pays me for the advertising.

I’ve been an Indians fan my entire life. I don’t know how to root for another team. I have friends who were born and raised in Cleveland and are Yankee fans. I don’t understand that but what I hate more are the people who are so wrapped up in sports that they decorate the entirety of their home in Dallas Cowboy colors or morph their car to look like a Browns helmet.

Hipsters –

Everybody has problems with Hipsters. My particular beef with them revolves around them thinking they discovered every damn thing when, really, they’re just going back and grabbing things from the past, my past mostly.

Take this obsession they have with music, specifically how they listen to their music. Vinyl, as they call them, are really called, records. I grew up with vinyl records so I know. Hipsters are, for the most part, under the age of thirty and don’t remember how shitty records were. They scratched easy, got stuck and we large, heavy and cumbersome. When CD’s came out, the first thing I did was either sell or throw my records away. You know why I did this? Because they sucked. The sound of CD’s blew vinyl out of the water. I couldn’t even listen to records anymore because all I heard were irritating scratchy background sounds. CD’s ruined vinyl and justifiably so. Hipsters act like they discovered this vinyl shit when in reality all they did was just dig through my garbage.

I hate the term “craft beer.” Hipsters drink that shit. Where I come from, one doesn’t pay 15 dollars for a beer. My age group would call you a jackass for doing that but the hipster set thinks it’s cool to piss away money, literally. If you see the words “artisan” or “artesian” before any product get ready to be ripped off and / or stampeded by a group of Hipsters thinking they’ve found the next best thing to prop up their uncertain self-esteem in partaking.

I like to think that this whole Hipster craze is based in being anti-establishment. I get that if that’s the case, and applaud it. But going against the grain set by “the man” does not mean to be a giant sucker buying things that are inferior or pay 12 dollars for a jar of pickles that are holistically bottled by a guy with a beard and a criminal record because it make you look cool.