A few months back, I published The List – my unabashed, profanity-laced diatribe on all things irritating. It was a fantastically satisfying exercise – an anger-releasing orgasm that left me with a month-long afterglow of self-satisfaction and general sense of rightness in the world. It felt so good, that by the time I wrote my closing, I was fairly certain there’d be more volumes. The many visitors who grokked what I put to page only fed my certainty, and I immediately started a new cache of hastily scribbled post-it notes detailing my daily frustrations. So, even though there are plenty of real issues I could devote my fingers to typing, I’m taking a detour back to The List with hopes of another teeth-rattling release. So here we are, with the second volume of things that really tick me off; a proverbial beatdown of minor irritants which, when added together, make my life suck more than it should.
And another disclaimer:
See you on the other side.
Why: Oh, my fucking God! When I press cancel, don't print another thing. Don’t print the whole document, don’t print half a page and then stop, and for the love of God and all that is holy, don’t print 400 one-line-of-garbage-at-the-top-of-each-page pages. Stop immediately! That means right fucking now! Whoever designed this button should be strapped to the paddle wheel on a river boat and churned from New Orleans to Japan.
Who/What: Ronald D. Moore (Warning: Spoilers ahead!)
Why: Battlestar Galactica’s last episode. Are you kidding me with this shit? That was your idea for a good ending? The bad guy gives up and shoots himself, the main character vanishes without any explanation of what the fuck she was, and the last remnants of the human race discard their technology and wander off to mate with cavemen? Forget the freakin’ plot holes you never closed – some of which were big enough to drive the Galactica itself through – this was just bad writing. I wanted to drive to your house and slap you. Seriously. I’m glad your next pilot flopped. I bet you pissed off the network executives as much as you did me.
Who/What: The Folks Who Loved and/or Defended the Aforementioned Finale.
Why: Well, you’re either stupid suck-ups or pretentious pricks, or both. Line up behind Moore, assholes, the slaps are coming your way next.
Who/What: Bands that Release CDs Without Lyrics in the Liner Notes
Why: It’s 2009! How do you not get this? People want to know what you’re saying. So much so that there are entire web sites devoted to translating your drunken, mushmouthed ramblings into readable text. Save us the hassle, and the embarrassment that comes when we sing the wrong lyrics around someone who knows the right ones. I’m giving you $15 for 15 songs. Spend the 1/10 of a cent on ink and print the freakin' words.
Who/What: Ron Livingston (Actor – Band of Brothers, Office Space)
Why: Put your fucking eyebrow down, jerkwad. Jeez.
Who/What: RoadRunner Web Mail
Why: Where is the Goddammed Empty Trash button? Are you telling me that nobody has mentioned that it’s missing from your interface? I shouldn’t have to delete messages from a folder, then go to the Deleted Items folder and delete them again. Every other fucking mail client on the planet has an Empty Trash feature. Get with the freakin' program, jerkholes!
Who/What: Joss Whedon, Screenwriter of Alien 4
Why: I know Ripley was being kind putting all of those other half-formed/mutant clones out of their interminable misery, but shooting them with a flamethrower is not the best or most humane way to do it. Yeah, it’ll end their suffering...with excruciating pain (a proverbial cherry on top!). "Hey, mutants! You thought you were in agony before, and it couldn’t be any worse? How about bathing in 1400 degree napalm for a few minutes as you die?" Writing a flamethrower-based mercy killing is just plain wrong. Shame on you, Joss.
Who/What: People my Pants Size
Why: You fuckers have been thwarting me for 25 years now, and I’m tired of having to shop for two fucking weeks in 17 freakin' stores to find one pair of jeans in my size. I mean come on – when I was a 30/30, I could only find 28/30 or 32/30. When I was 32/30, all I could find are the 30/30s I always needed. It’s like you’re following me through my exact nutrition/exercise/weight gain pattern, but just happen to leave the house five minutes before me. Stop it, Goddamn it! I need some freakin' pants!
Who/What: Unclear Windows System Messages (No matter what software makes them pop up)
Why: Here's another Oh, My Fucking God! I don’t know what SVCHOST or RUNDLL32 are, so how the fuck do I know whether they should have access to the internet through my firewall, or whether I should force quit them when they stop responding? How about telling me something useful, like which program is using those things? I’m not sure who to blame for this one, but who ever you are: fuck you, and your grandchildren, pets, neighbors, and anyone who serves you spit-free food in a restaurant.
Who/What: Elevator "Close Door" Buttons
Why: What the fuck? There weren’t any more jobs in the printer cancel button business, so you moved on to elevators? Don’t give me a button that doesn’t work, dickwads, or that only works in some elevators. Go back to every elevator you ever designed and make them work. In fact, just to pay me back, I want an additional Turbo Close button that will bisect a 700 pound man in less than a second, and get me to my floor before the bloody torso stops twitching.
Who/What: Kellogg's Frosted Mini Wheats (also good for any other flavor-coated foods or snacks)
Why: Listen to me very carefully, brain trust: if the wheat biscuit comes through without frosting, it isn’t a fucking Frosted Mini-Wheat. Send it back and spray it again. That includes the ones that were on their side, or went under the clogged nozzle. If you didn’t know, eating an un-frosted Mini Wheat is akin to eating a fucking Brillo pad. It’s called quality control, jerkwads. Do some.
Who/What: The Fucking NY State Lottery/Mega Millions
Why: Pay attention, stingy lottery gods: I’m tired of going to work, missing every sunny day, and never having enough cash to rent a fucking DVD. And I’m especially tired of seeing other people win. It’s my turn. No more “I never play the lottery, but I grabbed a ticket when I went to buy myself some Skoal and a Diet Mountain Dew on the way back to my mobile home” winners. In fact, no more fucking wins for other people at all until I win – they’re probably all pedophiles and atheists, and should never, never have access to big money.
Who/What: Democrats Who Know How to Comment on the Internet
Why: What a whiny bunch of know-it-all childish pukes you are. You make us all look bad. So just shut the fuck up. And when you do have something to say, try using good grammar, proper spelling, the correct fucking words, and some punctuation. The only thing worse than an obnoxious computer-savvy Dem, is one who writes like a retarded 5th grader. In fact, I bet it was you who designed all those cancel and close buttons. Fuckers...
Who/What: Sam’s Club
Why: What kind of sadistic mother fuckers sell me something for six months, get me hooked on it, and then NEVER FUCKING SELL IT AGAIN? Oh, there’s a special place in Hell for you, my friends – and I guarantee you it will be a place where the close and cancel buttons don’t work, and every Windows message is too obscure to be of any use.
Who/What: Television Stations
Why: Stop putting extraneous promotional shit on the screen when I’m watching a show. I want to see the entirety of the image, not clever graphics for other shit I’m never going to watch. And I already know what show I’m watching, and what channel it’s on. Stop telling me, “You’re watching 24 on Fox.” Really? I thought I was watching fucking Madagascar on PLEX! And another thing: let me see the fucking credits. I waited 45 minutes to find out who played that hot freakin' waitress or who sang that great song – don’t scrunch up the screen, run the credits at turbo speed, or tilt the whole thing to one side. And don’t fucking talk over the music/end jokes/epilogues/previews. Wow, that’s annoying.
Who/What: Town/County Tax Assessors
Why: $189,000? For my house? In 2009? Are you fucking kidding me? Did you pull that number out of your ass while you were sucking down martinis in Boca? Have you ever actually seen my house? Have you read about the economy? Are you fucking blind, deaf, and stupid? And don’t tell me I have to prove my house value is down. Is my house in some kind of magical fucking bubble where it’s unaffected by everything else that’s happening in the world? Of course it’s down, you prick. Pick up the paper, turn on the TV or the radio, or talk to any person in earshot. Know what they’ll tell you? Housing values are down, you pig-headed moron! Start cutting people’s assessments.
Who/What: Cottonwood Trees (and the people who own them)
Why: Holy fucking Christ! Does my entire ½ acre have dandruff? Why does anyone even have these freakin' trees? And I’m not just talking about my neighbor who has a forty foot tall cottonwood that hangs over my yard and craps so much white fluffy shit that it looks like ten flocks of birds got sucked into a jet engine 30 feet above my house (Karma will get you one day, my friend; if not karma, then Ripley with her flamethrower). No! In fact, it snowed cotton for a month in my town. Rise up, comrades! Burn those fucking trees down! Every one of them! I don’t care if the species goes extinct. It’s time to take back our lawns!
Who/What: Smokers
Why: Hey, assholes! The can is right there! It’s less then three feet away. What kind of lazy motherfucker are you that you can’t walk three feet to the can? Stop throwing your still-smoldering butts on the ground. And for those of you who smoke in your car: first, close your fucking windows – you wanted smoke, why are you letting it out? And second, there’s a place in your car to throw your ash and butts, dicklicks - use it! What’s that? You don’t want it in you car? Oh, I see. Then what the fuck makes you think I want it on my lawn, or bouncing off my car while I drive behind you? I’m a non-smoker for a reason, dipshits. And a special shout out for those bonus-sized assholes who bury their butts in the sand in the beach. You are absolute gems among human beings – I’m gonna tell Ripley to use a lower heat setting when she puts you down with her flamethrower.
Who/What: Advocates of Pretty Much Anything that isn’t Yet Mainstream or Legal
Why: What a self-important, self-serving, blind bunch of assholes you are. I know I speak for the majority when I say, "Oh, my God, shut the fuck up!" We don’t agree with you, and we don’t want to hear it. And what’s more, even if we don’t have strong feelings about your cause, I guarantee that your obnoxiousness will turn us against you. So to be clear: shut up and go fuck yourselves sideways in whichever holes make you most uncomfortable and have the highest risk of bruising.
Peace out, y’all.
And another disclaimer:
Warning: (Really) Adult Language Ahead
In my last post, I issued a semi-adult language warning. Then I used the f-word about 900 times, often accounting (in some form) for 40-50% of any sentence’s content. So, clearly, there was nothing semi there. With that in mind, I amend my warning: I intend to swear at least as much in this volume. My profanity will be in noun, verb, adverb, and adjective forms, and will spew unapologetically across the page. If you don’t like that kind of harsh language, stop at the end of this paragraph and go look at my Goulash Recipe. The rest of you: welcome back, and I hope you enjoy. And I hope you’ll add more of your own world gripes. Misery likes company, and my blog LOVES comments.See you on the other side.
The List (continued, and in no particular order)
Who/What: The Cancel Button on any PrinterWhy: Oh, my fucking God! When I press cancel, don't print another thing. Don’t print the whole document, don’t print half a page and then stop, and for the love of God and all that is holy, don’t print 400 one-line-of-garbage-at-the-top-of-each-page pages. Stop immediately! That means right fucking now! Whoever designed this button should be strapped to the paddle wheel on a river boat and churned from New Orleans to Japan.
Who/What: Ronald D. Moore (Warning: Spoilers ahead!)
Why: Battlestar Galactica’s last episode. Are you kidding me with this shit? That was your idea for a good ending? The bad guy gives up and shoots himself, the main character vanishes without any explanation of what the fuck she was, and the last remnants of the human race discard their technology and wander off to mate with cavemen? Forget the freakin’ plot holes you never closed – some of which were big enough to drive the Galactica itself through – this was just bad writing. I wanted to drive to your house and slap you. Seriously. I’m glad your next pilot flopped. I bet you pissed off the network executives as much as you did me.
Who/What: The Folks Who Loved and/or Defended the Aforementioned Finale.
Why: Well, you’re either stupid suck-ups or pretentious pricks, or both. Line up behind Moore, assholes, the slaps are coming your way next.
Who/What: Bands that Release CDs Without Lyrics in the Liner Notes
Why: It’s 2009! How do you not get this? People want to know what you’re saying. So much so that there are entire web sites devoted to translating your drunken, mushmouthed ramblings into readable text. Save us the hassle, and the embarrassment that comes when we sing the wrong lyrics around someone who knows the right ones. I’m giving you $15 for 15 songs. Spend the 1/10 of a cent on ink and print the freakin' words.
Who/What: Ron Livingston (Actor – Band of Brothers, Office Space)
Why: Put your fucking eyebrow down, jerkwad. Jeez.
Who/What: RoadRunner Web Mail
Why: Where is the Goddammed Empty Trash button? Are you telling me that nobody has mentioned that it’s missing from your interface? I shouldn’t have to delete messages from a folder, then go to the Deleted Items folder and delete them again. Every other fucking mail client on the planet has an Empty Trash feature. Get with the freakin' program, jerkholes!
Who/What: Joss Whedon, Screenwriter of Alien 4
Why: I know Ripley was being kind putting all of those other half-formed/mutant clones out of their interminable misery, but shooting them with a flamethrower is not the best or most humane way to do it. Yeah, it’ll end their suffering...with excruciating pain (a proverbial cherry on top!). "Hey, mutants! You thought you were in agony before, and it couldn’t be any worse? How about bathing in 1400 degree napalm for a few minutes as you die?" Writing a flamethrower-based mercy killing is just plain wrong. Shame on you, Joss.
Who/What: People my Pants Size
Why: You fuckers have been thwarting me for 25 years now, and I’m tired of having to shop for two fucking weeks in 17 freakin' stores to find one pair of jeans in my size. I mean come on – when I was a 30/30, I could only find 28/30 or 32/30. When I was 32/30, all I could find are the 30/30s I always needed. It’s like you’re following me through my exact nutrition/exercise/weight gain pattern, but just happen to leave the house five minutes before me. Stop it, Goddamn it! I need some freakin' pants!
Who/What: Unclear Windows System Messages (No matter what software makes them pop up)
Why: Here's another Oh, My Fucking God! I don’t know what SVCHOST or RUNDLL32 are, so how the fuck do I know whether they should have access to the internet through my firewall, or whether I should force quit them when they stop responding? How about telling me something useful, like which program is using those things? I’m not sure who to blame for this one, but who ever you are: fuck you, and your grandchildren, pets, neighbors, and anyone who serves you spit-free food in a restaurant.
Who/What: Elevator "Close Door" Buttons
Why: What the fuck? There weren’t any more jobs in the printer cancel button business, so you moved on to elevators? Don’t give me a button that doesn’t work, dickwads, or that only works in some elevators. Go back to every elevator you ever designed and make them work. In fact, just to pay me back, I want an additional Turbo Close button that will bisect a 700 pound man in less than a second, and get me to my floor before the bloody torso stops twitching.
Who/What: Kellogg's Frosted Mini Wheats (also good for any other flavor-coated foods or snacks)
Why: Listen to me very carefully, brain trust: if the wheat biscuit comes through without frosting, it isn’t a fucking Frosted Mini-Wheat. Send it back and spray it again. That includes the ones that were on their side, or went under the clogged nozzle. If you didn’t know, eating an un-frosted Mini Wheat is akin to eating a fucking Brillo pad. It’s called quality control, jerkwads. Do some.
Who/What: The Fucking NY State Lottery/Mega Millions
Why: Pay attention, stingy lottery gods: I’m tired of going to work, missing every sunny day, and never having enough cash to rent a fucking DVD. And I’m especially tired of seeing other people win. It’s my turn. No more “I never play the lottery, but I grabbed a ticket when I went to buy myself some Skoal and a Diet Mountain Dew on the way back to my mobile home” winners. In fact, no more fucking wins for other people at all until I win – they’re probably all pedophiles and atheists, and should never, never have access to big money.
Who/What: Democrats Who Know How to Comment on the Internet
Why: What a whiny bunch of know-it-all childish pukes you are. You make us all look bad. So just shut the fuck up. And when you do have something to say, try using good grammar, proper spelling, the correct fucking words, and some punctuation. The only thing worse than an obnoxious computer-savvy Dem, is one who writes like a retarded 5th grader. In fact, I bet it was you who designed all those cancel and close buttons. Fuckers...
Who/What: Sam’s Club
Why: What kind of sadistic mother fuckers sell me something for six months, get me hooked on it, and then NEVER FUCKING SELL IT AGAIN? Oh, there’s a special place in Hell for you, my friends – and I guarantee you it will be a place where the close and cancel buttons don’t work, and every Windows message is too obscure to be of any use.
Who/What: Television Stations
Why: Stop putting extraneous promotional shit on the screen when I’m watching a show. I want to see the entirety of the image, not clever graphics for other shit I’m never going to watch. And I already know what show I’m watching, and what channel it’s on. Stop telling me, “You’re watching 24 on Fox.” Really? I thought I was watching fucking Madagascar on PLEX! And another thing: let me see the fucking credits. I waited 45 minutes to find out who played that hot freakin' waitress or who sang that great song – don’t scrunch up the screen, run the credits at turbo speed, or tilt the whole thing to one side. And don’t fucking talk over the music/end jokes/epilogues/previews. Wow, that’s annoying.
Who/What: Town/County Tax Assessors
Why: $189,000? For my house? In 2009? Are you fucking kidding me? Did you pull that number out of your ass while you were sucking down martinis in Boca? Have you ever actually seen my house? Have you read about the economy? Are you fucking blind, deaf, and stupid? And don’t tell me I have to prove my house value is down. Is my house in some kind of magical fucking bubble where it’s unaffected by everything else that’s happening in the world? Of course it’s down, you prick. Pick up the paper, turn on the TV or the radio, or talk to any person in earshot. Know what they’ll tell you? Housing values are down, you pig-headed moron! Start cutting people’s assessments.
Who/What: Cottonwood Trees (and the people who own them)
Why: Holy fucking Christ! Does my entire ½ acre have dandruff? Why does anyone even have these freakin' trees? And I’m not just talking about my neighbor who has a forty foot tall cottonwood that hangs over my yard and craps so much white fluffy shit that it looks like ten flocks of birds got sucked into a jet engine 30 feet above my house (Karma will get you one day, my friend; if not karma, then Ripley with her flamethrower). No! In fact, it snowed cotton for a month in my town. Rise up, comrades! Burn those fucking trees down! Every one of them! I don’t care if the species goes extinct. It’s time to take back our lawns!
Who/What: Smokers
Why: Hey, assholes! The can is right there! It’s less then three feet away. What kind of lazy motherfucker are you that you can’t walk three feet to the can? Stop throwing your still-smoldering butts on the ground. And for those of you who smoke in your car: first, close your fucking windows – you wanted smoke, why are you letting it out? And second, there’s a place in your car to throw your ash and butts, dicklicks - use it! What’s that? You don’t want it in you car? Oh, I see. Then what the fuck makes you think I want it on my lawn, or bouncing off my car while I drive behind you? I’m a non-smoker for a reason, dipshits. And a special shout out for those bonus-sized assholes who bury their butts in the sand in the beach. You are absolute gems among human beings – I’m gonna tell Ripley to use a lower heat setting when she puts you down with her flamethrower.
Who/What: Advocates of Pretty Much Anything that isn’t Yet Mainstream or Legal
Why: What a self-important, self-serving, blind bunch of assholes you are. I know I speak for the majority when I say, "Oh, my God, shut the fuck up!" We don’t agree with you, and we don’t want to hear it. And what’s more, even if we don’t have strong feelings about your cause, I guarantee that your obnoxiousness will turn us against you. So to be clear: shut up and go fuck yourselves sideways in whichever holes make you most uncomfortable and have the highest risk of bruising.
Epilogue
Well, that’s it. I burned like 10,000 calories worth of angst and anger there; and yes, the language was pretty strong, and awfully harsh. I’m not usually an “in for a penny, in for a pound” guy, but this is a pretty faithful example of that. I’ll be writing a serious post at some point in the near future, so look for it.Peace out, y’all.
