I dedicate this post to, well, all of you.
“I fucking hate people.” I might have those four words etched into my headstone. Or tattooed on my forehead. Or stenciled onto my license plate. Hell, I’m sure there’s time for all three. Let me clear my schedule this morning. I mean, there has to be a Jiffy Lube around here with a tattoo artist on staff who can then crush me beneath the weight of my own car and drop me off at the local funeral home, right? Don’t worry; I thought ahead. I put a note in my pocket requesting the “I fucking hate people” stone, so I’m good.
Truth is, this will never happen. Not the part where I go to the mechanic, try to get inked and request my epitaph, mind you. No, I mean the part where any of the people I’m depending on to follow through on this actually pull it off. Why? Because people suck, that’s why.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate everyone; just most everyone. For instance, this gal:
“What I lack in style I make up for in retard.”
Yes, ladies, I get it. Your pumps are uncomfortable and that long walk from the train stop or the bus stop (or your car, which is parked two blocks away, fatass) is murder on your feet. But, see, here’s the thing: A) guys tough it out in work shoes all the time; and B) you look like a fucking idiot. Stockings and sneakers with your smart business suit do not a good outfit make. This isn’t 1988 and you’re not Melanie Griffith.
Don’t worry, ladies. I’m an equal opportunity hater, which is why I direct all of you to this:
“Hello, I’m here to help you and others not crash and die, but strictly optional.”
Familiar with one of these? It’s located just below the right side of your steering wheel. It’s great, really. By pushing it up or down, these magical lights on the front and rear of your car — lights clearly powered by dancing imps or a mess of lightning bugs — begin to flash, indicating that you intend to make a turn. It’s a sort of signal to your fellow drivers. Some have gone so far to call it a “turn signal,” but I don’t want to confuse you. Just think of it as the “Mr. Blinky Maker.” There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it? Oh, and speaking of road-related hate:
“So what do I do on the lines again? Have a picnic? Hopscotch? I don’t get it.”
See those thick, white lines running parallel to one another? The ones that run from corner to corner at 90-degree angles? Those are crosswalks. They’re typically located alongside signs indicating when it’s okay and not okay to cross. Well, here’s the thing: you want to jaywalk, by all means jaywalk. I could give a rat’s ass. What you must do, though, is have a sense of fucking urgency already! Earlier this year I wrote a Letter to the Editor of my local paper (which is piece of shit, incidentally, and looks worse than recent pictures of Lindsay Lohan) about this very thing, particularly in one stretch of road I dubbed “Entitlement Row,” where the neighbor-folk have zero — ZERO — regard for automobiles. Here’s a little taste of the op-ed piece, “Motorist vents frustration over rude pedestrians” (their title):
Last time I checked, that [stretch of road] was outfitted with traffic lights and crosswalks, just like the rest of the town. So why, then, do residents of this area feel entitled to cross the street at their own convenience, taking their sweet time in the process? Why are traffic signals and crosswalks blatantly ignored? And why must motorists apply their brakes and nearly come to a standstill in order to stop for jaywalkers? I’m not suggesting that I’ve never jaywalked myself; however, I make a point of breaking into a jog or light run should cars approach.
You get the idea. Even the local media knows how much I hate. No, not how much I hate the local media (which I do). Just how much I hate in general.
Look, I could spend hours — days — telling you about all the various types of people I hate, so instead here’s a list off the top of my head of folks who draw my ire:
Bosses, prima donna athletes, people who answer “anything” when asked their favorite music, the guy at the drive-through window who looks put out because I asked him for a packet of honey mustard, people who use a Bluetooth when they don’t need to, people without children who talk about their pets as if they’re children, the guy at work who makes the “Your ears got lowered” comment after someone gets a haircut, bad drivers, overly-aggressive drivers, people who misuse “literally,” people who say “I seen,” people who interchange colons and semi-colons, people who can’t follow directions, people who can’t give directions, arrogant people who call me arrogant, people who insist on watching Survivor yet refuse to watch LOST, people who paid money to see any of those Tyler Perry movies, people who paid money to see anything starring Matthew McConaughey or Kate Hudson, Matthew McConaughey, Kate Hudson, people who think Jay Leno or Jimmy Fallon are funny, people who think Bud Light ads are “clever,” people who think the guy dressed up as old man in a tux in those Six Flags commercials is funny, people who get “dressed up” for a big night on the town in Harrisburg, people who think cover bands are as good as if not better than the real thing, people who insist on telling me they love all things 80’s, and people. Did I mention people?
Seriously, that took me about four minutes to come up with that list. Imagine what 24 hours might net?
Okay, folks, that’s it for this installment. Until letter “Q” gets here, have at it, you vultures!