You just made my list!

All I can do is stare at the screen and wonder what the hell I could possibly say about this.

I honestly think we may have peaked as a civilization. Maybe it’s because I watched an episode of “Wife Swap” for the first time tonight or maybe it’s simply because Taco Bell is jamming Flamin Hot Fritos into burritos, but I’m starting to feel like the human race has reached the top of the roller coaster and it’s time to all put our hands in the air and enjoy the rapid decent into hell.

Can we be trusted with the enormous task of keeping society running smoothly when Fritos are being shoved up the ass of an already heinous “burrito?” I’m not even against the practice of putting chips on things, in fact I like a good PB&J filled with pretzels, but this activity should be reserved for the end user. There is just something so grim about buying a food product already stuffed with Fritos. It’s unfortunate.

Oh, but there is some good news though. The Beefy Crunch Burrito comes with “reduced fat sour cream.” Why bother?

OK, before you get your hockey pants all up in a bunch, I will say that I also despise the accents of my fellow Chicagoans. And let me say this as well, I have been to Canada several times and always enjoyed myself. Any place with a chain of stores called “The Beer Store” has to be at least a little awesome. But those accents, eh?

Sure, Canada has exported some pretty important people who have made living on this godforsaken planet a little bit better… Neil Young, Rush, Pamela Anderson and, best of all, porn star and legendary “rope” shooter Peter North. I’m even willing to forgive you for Keanu Reeves and the Barenaked Ladies but I refuse to excuse those accents. Wait, I just remembered, fucking Nickelback* is from Canada. Thanks for shitting that one out of your country’s butthole all over us, Canada!

Lets get back to collectively hating the Canadian accent. It’s hard to really describe why I hate it so much. You might think it’s the annoying way they pronounce “out” as “oot,” or “sorry” like “soar-y,” or instead of saying “process” like “pra-cess” they insist on showing off and saying “prooocess,” but that’s just the icing on the back bacon. At the core of their horrible accent lies something far more sinister… over e•nun•ci•a•tion!

Every precious letter and syllable is given its chance to shine and be a star. While the rest of the world mashes sounds and words into one flowing mess, Canadians talk-like-they-are-speaking-to-a-deaf-person-who-reads-lips.

It doesn’t end there though. On top of this, Canadians end every sentence as if it were a question? “I’m going to the store? To buy some beer? If Bill calls? Tell him I’ll be back soon?” What’s with all the questions, Canada?

*I know, we gave the world George W. Bush, but still, Nickelback?

Oh thanks beautiful angel for letting me eat your sauce-soaked hair!

There’s only one thing horrible enough to wake me from my recent lazy holiday writing schedule. Angel hair pasta is the pussy of all pastas. I don’t mean that as a compliment, as in, angel hair pasta is awesome like female sexy parts. No, I mean angel hair pasta is the nerd of the pasta world.  Spaghetti is James Brown* and angel hair pasta is the Spin Doctors.**

I think I would rather eat actual hair than ever put another lifeless, slippery tangle of angel hair nonsense in my pretty mouth. Plus, angel hair pasta is always slimy and over-cooked because it’s so fucking thin it’s practically already cooked just from being near a boiling pot of water. It’s like when a little kid pukes just from seeing a roller coaster whiz by. At least in that scenario the people on the roller coaster are having fun, with angel hair pasta everybody loses.

*This could either be the young James Brown or the old drugged out, bat-shit crazy James Brown.

**Pick any era of the Spin Doctors you want.

If you have to declare a sad little space in your basement as your “man” space, are you really much of a man? Do you even deserve a cave? How about this… the whole house is my God damn cave, deal with it Carol!

I know you had high hopes when you bought the poker table and the neon Miller Lite sign but I’m willing to bet you have never used that table for anything other than folding shirts. You hung your guitars on the wall dreaming of late night jam sessions with drunken bros but sadly most of your pals are simply too tired at the end of the day to come hang out in your dank basement and play Counting Crows songs. Your Xbox and Playstation sit under a layer of dust, your bar stays un-stocked and the fulfillment of your dreams remains hollow, just like the life-sized Stormtrooper costume that stands in the corner with a Jimmy Buffett hat on its head… watching you… judging you… feeling sorry for you. WHAT DID YOU EVER DO THAT’S SO GREAT WITH YOUR LIFE, STORMTOOPER?!? Fuck you Stormtooper!

Carol, will you play Guitar Hero with me? Carol?

Please explain to me why it is that every time I place an order at Kinkos (yes I know it’s really called FedEx Office now) they look at me like I have just requested a handjob?

Here’s the scenario…

Brad: “Welcome to Kinkos, I mean FedEx Kinkos, um, I mean FedEx Office. Welcome to us.”

Me: “Hi. I have two PDFs on this thumb drive and I would like some signs printed. As you can see from my diamond rapper-style Rolex, I have precious little time to waste, so let’s make this happen.”

Brad: “OK, I will open your files on this computer here while giving you a dirty look for interrupting my day and making me do what I’m paid for. Do these files look correct?”

Me: “Yes, those are the files I need printed. Can we speed this along, my Lamborghini is parked in the handicap spot. Well, actually it’s parked across all three handicap spots.”

Brad: “OK. Um, how many do you need? One each?”

Me: “No, I will need 40 of each sign.”

Brad: “WHAT?!? 40 each? That’s like 80 signs total you idiot, nobody could ever have a need for 80 signs! It is literally IMPOSSIBLE to even FIND enough places on the Earth to post 80 signs! Clearly you misspoke and meant to order one each of these signs so I will go ahead and note that on the order.”

Me: “I know it’s difficult for you to believe, but when I asked for 40 each of these two signs I actually DID want 40 each of these two signs. I was also aware that 40 plus 40 equaled 80 and I even realized that 80 signs would cost more than two signs. I was under the impression that you made copies of things here at your copy shop.”

Brad: “I have to get the manager on this one. JEFF? JEFF?”

Jeff: “Hello sir, I’m Jeff and I manage this Kinkos, I mean FedEx Office, how can I help you?”

Me: “I would like to order 40 each of these two files but that request has Brad utterly perplexed for some reason. Clearly as the manager, you will sort this out and I will be on my way.”

Jeff: “You son… of… a… bitch. You God damn, motherfucking son-of-a-bitch. I suggest you remove yourself from my property before I am forced to remove you myself. Sir, you make me want to vomit! Now turn around and take your 80 signs the hell out of my Kinkos, FedEx whatever the fuck, and if I ever see your face in here asking for MULTIPLE GOD DAMN COPIES again I will not hesitate to beat you senseless with these inspirational business books.”

Me: “Can I get my drive…”

Jeff and Brad: “GOOD DAY SIR!”

If you would like to climb inside my mind and get a better feel of my mental state when I think about The American Girl Store, I suggest you turn your speakers up as loudly as they will go, tape them to your head with duct tape, smash a habanero chili into your eyes, knock your teeth out with a hammer and play the video below.

I fucking despise The American Girl Store and the army of rich, white 8-year-old zombies they are grooming to take over the planet. If my daughter asked for an American Girl doll I would kindly ask her to pack whatever she could fit into a paper sack and then she and I would take a leisurely drive to the orphanage. The uncomfortable silence of the car ride would only be broken when I softly say, “You are no longer my child” from a rolled down car window as the nuns take her and her paper sack into her new home.

“What’s the big deal, it’s just dolls” you say. After I’m done throwing my beer in your face I will tell you what the big deal is. Here’s the way it works… first you have to be a rich white girl. Second, you have to have a bat-shit crazy mother who is trying to compensate for her own fucked up childhood and thinks it perfectly normal to spend several hundred dollars taking you and your fucking piece-of-shit doll for a day of pampering most adults can only dream of. These soulless zombie dolls spend the day getting their hair styled, attending tea parties, buying expensive clothing, snorting top notch Colombian cocaine off a Huey Lewis and the News CD while getting jerked off in a 1993 Honda Civic in the Burger King parking lot near the airport. Wait, somehow that turned into my day.

The point is this, FUCK YOU and your fucking doll that’s dressed like you and is an asshole like you even though you are only 9 and fuck your overnight stays at the Ritz for the low low starting price of only $430 “for a moderate room.”

Take the pain away, Abominable Iron Sloth!

Part 473 in my series, “Why does everything suck now?”

As I mentioned before, I love old people, I really do, but it’s getting harder to distinguish them from the younger crowd when they ride around the city on Vespas wearing cool clothes and listening to The Arcade Fire on their iPods. I need to know you are old so I can respect you, otherwise I’m just going to judge you and hate you like I do everyone else!

When I was a kid, old people looked old and they acted their age. In fact, they acted older than their age and it felt right. Old ladies got their hair set once a week at the beauty shop, they protected that hairdo with a clear plastic rain bonnet while outdoors (rain or shine) and continued to protect that precious blue hair at night with yet another bonnet. They wore those old lady glasses and they wore dresses in public, house dresses while watching their “stories” at home and nightgowns to bed. I’m fairly sure they were never naked, ever. They wore enough perfume to mark you like an animal for a week after they hugged you and they didn’t fucking do water aerobics.

Old men wore their pants high and kept their pockets filled with pens, tire gauges and pocket knives. They had ear hair and nose hair thick enough to make a broom and their hands were big and intimidating. They had a favorite chair, you knew not to bother them while they occupied that chair and if you suggested they try “Sweating to the Oldies” they would punch you in the face with their giant hands, leaving you to pick hand hair out of your face for the rest of the day.

They looked the part and it gave us kids a visual reminder that they were the grown-ups and we were mostly just in the way. The good old days.

But forget about all that today. Today’s selfish old people have the nerve to milk life for everything it’s worth and can usually be spotted having fun in comfortable clothing. What the fuck is up with that?

Sad. Look at your long, luxurious silken mane! Tell me young man, are you a model for romance novels? I honestly thought for a second that you were Fabio. Seriously, I’m not kidding, I saw you and… OH MY GOD, YOU’RE BALD! MY EYES! I WAS SO DISTRACTED BY YOUR BEAUTIFUL PONYTAIL THAT I HADN’T NOTICED! IT BURNS! Come on pal, do you really think those last few tragic strands of hair clinging for life on the back of your head are enough to distract from the polished orb that sits just above? I know you desperately want to tell the world “I’m fun! I own Bruce Springsteen’s greatest hits!” but maybe it’s time to throw in the hair towel and admit that Mother Nature is kicking your head’s ass. I know you have a bit of a “rep” to maintain at the shoelace factory but maybe it’s time to let that new guy in shipping be the “cool, easy-going rock dude” for a while. Nothing wrong with being bald, right? Maybe if you shave your head you will acquire an LL Cool J vibe, or better yet Bruce Willis! There, now we’re talking, you want to be the new Bruce Willis in the neighborhood? I’ll make you a deal, cut off that feeble tail, bury it in backyard and I will buy you a harmonica. I think Bruce Willis said it best… respect yourself.