1.) Pharmacies are stapler-happy. Why must they always staple my receipt to the bag? Don’t they know I need that shit for my taxes? “Hey Monty, IRS Auditor here, you got a receipt for this $13.27 prescription you paid for out of your Health Savings Account? No? Okay, that’s an extra $4.14 you owe in taxes, plus $0.65 in interest, and a $10,000 fine.” So now I gotta extract the receipt from the bag, without ripping the thing so as to make it unreadable. And they ALL do it, too. Every pharmacy folds the top of the bag over and then staples about 4 pieces of paper to it, including my receipt. Is that taught in pharm tech school? ‘Cuz it needs to stop. Just ask me if I want the receipt with me or in the bag, like every other retailer.
2.) There’s another thing that retailers do, especially fast food restaurants in the drive-through, and it’s handing me my change with the bills forming like a little bowl for the coins to sit in. I almost always end up dropping some coins on the floor in my car, or worse, on the ground outside my window. Even if I do manage to hang on to all of it, I have to make a fist with the bills/coins in it to make sure I DON’T lose any of it, and I have to stuff that crumpled mess into my pocket. Here’s how you should be handing change back to me: “Your total is $7.71, out of $20… (hands me 29 cents) $8, (hands me two one dollar bills and a ten), $9, $10, and ten makes $20.” That way I can drop the 29 cents in the little change compartment in my car, then stick the nicely-folded bills in my pocket.
3.) Who even uses cash anymore anyway? I almost never have cash on me. You should be able to accept my debit or credit card. It is 2015. That little white square thing means that anyone with a smartphone can accept cards now. You have NO EXCUSE. What’s that? I can write a check? A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Sorry, church fundraiser, Amish woman selling her baked goods outside Walmart, or angry Girl Scouts that strung up Balls in a tree because he didn’t pay for his cookies… I’m not writing you a check and I’m certainly not running to the ATM for you.
1. People who don’t understand how elevators work.
Is it really that fucking hard to see if the little arrow is going up or down before you step in and start bitching? Also, everyone on the planet knows it’s common courtesy to let people out of the elevator before you go in. People who don’t are sociopaths who should be exiled. Trust me, it’s not leaving without you.
2. Account numbers.
Do I really need 22 digits in my electric bill account number, LADWP? And when I call, why does every company make me tap in my account number, only for the rep to ask me it again when and if I ever get to a human person? And finally, BankSA, why do I need an Access Number (8 digits), a Security Code (4 digits) and a Password to access my fucking bank account?
3. Fast food restaurants.
McDonald’s – when I ask for a “Quarter Pounder with just cheese and onions”, don’t act like I’M the crazy one when you hand me a bun with literally a slice of cheese and some diced onions. I’m not in the mood for your trolling.
I’m sorry. This demands immediate execution. Death by fire.
I see my images are missing. I thought it was just because they were being blocked at work.
I blame Jeff Triplette.
Anyone ever tried mixing booze and hot cocoa?
Yes; rum at a Broncos game and it tasted great.
*Full disclosure; it was so fucking cold that day I’m not sure my taste buds were even working.
This stuff contains vodka. It’s not the best warmed up, but it’s chocolate and 80 proof alcohol.
http://www.drinkmilkinglassbottles.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/adult-chocolate-milk.png
My wife likes to put Baileys in hers.
Amaretto works nicely, though it’s not the strongest drink around.
http://38.media.tumblr.com/2120b985a4bf3e06086070bb3d284cda/tumblr_nv5tvwHi6P1s01qkyo1_500.gif
Death; I don’t want to die, especially consider it will be painful and costly.
Friends and relatives dying; nope, unless it is their time, but may the go quickly.
Loss of a limb; let’s face it: the would SUUUUU-UUUCK.
*they
I forgot Too $hort’s teachings and fell in love with a ho.
I’m still smitten.
Fuck me.
I am dangerously close (read: one shot to go) to finishing that half bottle of Jameson, and I am nowhere near ready to stop drinking for the night. That first game of the series is going to be watched by a mostly-drunk entropy tonight.
Weekend “special event” road blockages.
Now, I’m as sympathetic as the next sociopath, but why does it seem like, in every major city, there’s a goddamned special event blocking the road every weekend? There’s marathons, fun runs, fund-races, walks for…, car-free days, everything-but-white-pride parades, and – thanks to Halloween, a zombie shuffle. And I’m an a-hole for wanting to go somewhere but have to take an alternative route 20 minutes in the other direction to bypass it. GOD FORBID I don’t donate to the cause.
Look, I’ve got my select charities, thank you very little, and one of them even comes to collect my empties. Winner winner, liquid dinner.
I just went through airport security in Memphis and they have the full body scanner like most airports.
Since you’re doing a full fucking body scan why the everlasting fuck do I still have to take off my goddamn shoes?
Get the pat down. Make them cup your balls and kneel before you. It feels great.
Today has been aggravating as fuck, and I am completely over it.
My question to the commentists is, should I begin numbing the pain with whiskey & ginger right now, or wait until it’s 5 PM, which somehow makes my Tuesday drinking acceptable?
It’s Dylan Thomas’ birthday. Drinking is acceptable all day long, so long as you start biting people’s ankles.
Everything is figuratively both flooded and on fire today, and a stiff whiskey ginger sounds delightful. I think I’ll follow up on that tonight, since I have to stop at the damn store anyway.
Two affirmatives in fifteen minutes means I am drinking. Fuck it. I can finish this half-bottle before the Mets even *start* tonight, and most likely be mellow enough to not bellow at Harvey for allowing a run or two in the first like he always does in big-game situations.
Go Dirt Jets!
You should have been drunk typing this.
Apple Stores – listen you assfucks, you are one of the largest corporations in the world. Staff your fucking retail outlets so I don’t have to wait 4.5 hours for help from some fucking dickshit hipster dressed up in what I assume is some kind of costume that was created by a computer running on Steve Jobs’ spinal fluid.
I also don’t need to be surrounded by moms, babies, old people, more dickshit hipsters, and pretentious businessmen who are completely unaware of their surroundings and bounce off of me like neurons in an agitated state.
Eat a bowl of hot dicks and broken lightbulbs, Apple store.
Those better be gluten-free dicks and ethically-sourced lightbulbs.
Won a silent auction at a bullroast, yes I was drunk, went to pay for it, dude says, “Cash or check. No credit card.”
I responded with, “You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.”
My wife escorted me away.
Seriously, your smart phone can take credit cards. Your phone. Get in the fucking 22nd century, asshat. 21st century? What the fuck ever.
I hope you told him, “Well, I guess someone else won the auction!”
Fucking asshole trying to make money for a good cause; die in a house fire!
1. Dogs under 25 pounds. They bark at EVERY. FUCKING. THING. as though they were either threatened by it or somehow able to kick its ass, and that bark is so shrill and aggravating that it causes instant migraines in anyone within 15 feet. These fuckers are good for absolutely nothing. I walked a buddy’s pug yesterday and it barked like a madman at a non-moving Halloween decoration until I dragged it away, and since the little fucker wouldn’t stop barking, he sounded like I was choking him so anyone nearby thought I was the kind of asshole who would choke a dog because it wouldn’t shut up.
2. People who are unable to understand the driving order at four-way stop signs. If you were the first one there, fine, you and the guy opposite get to go. If not, WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN. And as for the asshole who just waves every other driver on as though he is King Shit of Toilet Mountain, find your validation elsewhere, you self-important prick. I can manage to go without your two-finger air jab at me. Just drive on and find another way to make yourself feel like a man. Maybe you can walk my buddy’s dog and choke the poor bastard to death for me.
3. Those insipid “In Memory of… [insert deceased’s name here]” stickers on all manner of vehicle from a somewhat worthy mid-60s muscle car to a rusted out 1996 Dodge Neon. Look, man, I appreciate that you want to remember your fallen friends and family, but honestly, do you think this person is looking at your from the afterlife and saying, “Thank you for putting my name on that piece of shit 1991 Toyota Previa with all the birdshit stains on the hood… means a lot, that you would ensure my legacy that way.” In all likelihood, the deceased is cramming The Handbook for the Recently Deceased and trying to determine how to poltergeist your ass without getting eaten buy claymation sandworms.
Re: #3
http://www.theonion.com/blogpost/thanks-for-dedicating-that-mediocre-sitcom-episode-10837
As someone who has lived in an apartment above two white, fluffy 10 lbs dogs for the last 3 years, item 1 resonates with me quite strongly. The day those mutts learned they could push aside the window blinds and look out was the day I stopped being even remotely considerate of how hard I was stomping around on their ceiling.
When my rather large dog is off the leash those little dogs usually get reeeeeal quiet.
My friend has Jack Russells and those are pretty cool. In my experience it is the owner’s fault as they let the small dogs act as the alpha instead of the way it should be; the dog is simply acting their role as instinct and the lack of training tells them to do.
Another fun thing is the younger, more athletic Jack Russells tear apart a squirrel in a few seconds of a flurry of flying blood and fur.
1. Play-Dough. This crap gets everywhere, stains, gets ground into my carpet, and my kids ALWAYS forget to put it away and/or seal the jar back up, so it dries out and poof, there we just wasted 2 bucks on that tub of colored clay. And they always. want. to. play with it. I’ve banned it from my house, but stupid school and birthday party favors keep sneaking more little tubs in the house. FUCKING PLAY-DOUGH.
2. Caillou. Because fuck that bald, round-headed, simpleton Canadian kid and his crappy animation. No wonder Canadian kids end up in the special needs classes, with the round paper and safety pencils, next to the kid who fell off the jungle gym. His fucking name means “Pebble” in French. WHO THE FUCK NAMES THEIR KID “PEBBLE”? Canadians, that’s who.
3. Rain and wind in October. I’m TRYING to enjoy the fall colors, assholes! My favorite time of year, that brief interlude between “too hot” and “too cold,” when it’s nice outside, and the trees look all purty ‘n shit, and then EVERY FUCKING YEAR, like clockwork, we get a storm that strips the fucking leaves outta the trees and dumps them in my yard. So I gotta rake, and then I get that fucking annoying blister on my thumb from raking. Doesn’t matter if I wear gloves, and it only takes about 30 seconds of raking, and then I have an oozing sore. Sort of like Tom Brady. Fuck him, too.
Them’s my 3 things. At the moment.
I think my sister stopped showing Caillou in her house after I asked my niece why she was watching a show about a leukemia patient.
Caillou is a fucking communist spy, I have proof.
Kipper the Dog, now there’s a cartoon worth watching. And Regular Show. And Bob’s Burgers.
Big Daddy Drew has an amazing takedown of Caillou. I tried without success to find it, but, I’ll keep looking. Caillou is such a useless shitheel of a character. Fuck that show sideways with a rusted shovel spade, and I hope Caillou himself is thrown into an active volcano.
I don’t think he specifically did Caillou. He’s mentioned Caillou on his twitter a bunch, but from what I can find, he never did a Dadspin on it:
Why Your Children’s Television Program Sucks: Jessie / Thomas and Friends / Super Why! / The Fresh Beat Band / Dora the Explorer / Chuggington / Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! / Max and Ruby
Cash is great! I don’t have to explain to Dr. Mrs. Mayhem why McDonalds pops up twice a week on our card when we are supposed to be eating healthy.
It also appeals to my misanthropic desire to minimize human interaction- the same reason I always give hilariously fake names for them to call out at coffee places. Now, if you will excuse me “Sir Rupert” would like to enjoy his latte in peace.
Ah, the anonymity of cash. I’m cool with that. Just don’t tell me that you don’t accept my debit card.
Also, order ready for Hugh Jass.
Exactly. I don’t think the dancer, nor her handler, are going to let me swipe my card.
N) When calling a false start penalty, you don’t have to say “offense”. (That was the sole contribution by replacement refs.) It’s redundant. Yeah it doesn’t affect the flow of the game, but that’s because
?) The NFL game lacks any flow. Reason and the naked eye have been legislated out of the game, to the delight of gambling enterprises, Socrates, and, uh, legalese wonks?
Hey. Leave the lawyers out of this. There is at least some pretense of order in our world.
Don’t you hate when you get released out of county lock-up and they give you somebody else’s shoes? That sucks, yet there is really nothing you can say about it.
Or when the scratch-off ticket you came in with is mysteriously gone? THAT TICKET WAS WORTH EIGHT BUCKS, PIGGY!
4. When discussing NCAA rankings (especially basketball), we talk about beating a “then #4 Clemson team”. I don’t fucking care that your stupid media poll overhyped a team early in the season. Tell me if Clemson is good now that you’ve had 4 months to look at them. Why should one team get credit for hammering a bad/overhyped team in December when everyone who smokes them AFTER they’ve been exposed gets different consideration?
Don’t you hate pants?
I’m only doing this so I don’t get
jailedfined.http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_iPF8hRG0w7k/StaWVRjLEGI/AAAAAAAAATQ/LYRL7iMmgXo/s1600-h/bart-after-dark1.png
One more thing: people who have not mastered the art of setting tabs in Microsoft Word.
Holy Christ on a tricycle.
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