You just made my list!

“Blah blah blah. Yap yap yap…”

“Is he talking to us? Is he a crazy person talking to a mailbox or is he a high-powered attorney?”

What’s that? You lost both of your arms in a farming accident? Great, you may use a bluetooth earpiece. You might still look a little douchey, but realistically people will mostly be staring at your stumps and will not even notice that dumb thing in your ear. It’s up to you.

For the rest of you two-armed humans, I implore you to stop walking around like some pathetic cross between the Pillsbury Doughboy and the Terminator. This is where you say in the fucking annoying voice of yours,”Shut up jerk, in my town it’s illegal to drive while talking on a cell phone unless it’s hands-free.” (Have you ever heard a recording of your voice? It sounds like a cat in a meat grinder.) Listen you pussy, break the law like a real man and quit cryin’ bout it.

I guess I don’t really care if you want to look like a tool walking around with that shit in your ear but stop looking at me and talking to your imaginary friend. I’m old and it confuses me! In my day, when someone looked in your direction while speaking it meant a conversation was being initiated or possibly a wise drifter was going to teach you a life lesson. Nowadays, apparently it’s OK to broker real estate deals 4 inches from my face and somehow I’m supposed to be the asshole for thinking you were talking to me.

I hate everything.

Can’t I just walk to Old Navy and return these cargo pants in peace without seeing your fat lazy ass getting molested by a robot in front of Cinnabon?

I don’t need to see you on the brink of an orgasm while you sit there getting a happy ending from a La-Z-Boy in your Everybody Loves Raymond T-shirt. And for the love of God, can you PLEASE put your shoes (Crocs) back on? Your dirty Frito toenails are ruining my appetite for Sbarro.

Is this “massage” a wise investment? Can you really relax while basking in the glow of The Cell Phone Zone? Luckily, you won’t need massage oil because the sweat of every Insane Clown Posse fan who preceded you keeps your little robot chair nice and lubed.

Congratulations, you found a way to make shopping malls even more horrible.

(world’s largest sigh followed by eye rolling so intense it causes vomiting)

Video games are fun, I get it. I practically got an erection on Christmas morning, 1983, when I saw a present under the tree that was the exact size of an Atari 2600. I hadn’t even unwrapped the thing yet and I was already pissing my Yoda jammies from excitement. But I’m sorry, it just seems wrong for the Cub Scouts to award kids for playing video games.

Maybe “wrong” is not the best way to describe it, “lame” is probably more appropriate. Cub Scouts should be all about tying knots, burning stuff in campfires and watching your dad build you a kickass Pinewood Derby car, because let’s face it, he’s more excited about building that car than you are. Say, that reminds me, did you know you can now buy pre-built Pinewood Derby cars that require no effort other than slapping a few stickers on it? Fuck that! Pinewood Derby was all about seeing whose dad was awesome and whose dad was no better than a little girl. Want to know which dads have a sweet set of tools and which dads secretly give handjobs in forest preserves… you need look no further than Pinewood Derby day. Pinewood Derby was a thinly veiled pissing match for the dads and it should stay that way.

Where was I? Oh yeah, video games. Um… I’m bored with that subject, I should have made this post about Pinewood Derby. Fuck everything!