You just made my list!

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?

It’s bad enough that I spend half my day reading and writing stupid emails when I could be using that time to lie face down on the floor waiting for death, but I have to come up with appropriate titles for my little miniature novels too? Why is modern society so God-awful?

I mean what the fuck subject am I supposed to use when sending an email with bad news, for example? I don’t want to blow my wad and give all the juicy details away with a subject like “Accidentally killed a hobo today. Prob going to jail” but I also need to subtly warn the recipient that this is not your average hilarious email with a link to a rollerblader falling off a roof.

On the other hand, I can’t be too casual and write a subject that is overly optimistic, like “Hey” or “Guess what” and then whack them with the bad news of my hobo manslaughter in the body of the email.

I’m left with few options and feel obligated to go with something like “Today sucked” or “Hobo news.”

And I refuse to leave the subject blank, that’s the quitter’s way out! I don’t want to be stuck in some back and forth email exchange with my mom about hobo murder, and have “re: re: re: re: re: re: re:” staring back at me. I simply don’t think that honors the life of Flapjack Pete.

Hey building, thanks for making me look like a dick every time I try to go into you. Here’s an idea, you’ve got two doors, keep them BOTH fucking unlocked! You’re an asshole, building.

What is the point of this little game of cat and mouse? Are you trying to appeal to the gambler in all of us? Should a bolt of adrenaline rush through my body as I approach your precious doors, not knowing if I will be allowed to enter the promised land or be left tugging an immovable door like some big dumb idiot? Perhaps if you actually rewarded me with money when I am lucky enough to choose the correct door I would be more excited about your dumb little game of chance. It’s like you are the older kid sitting on my chest, beating me with my own hands while saying “Stop hitting yourself, why are you hitting yourself?”

Stop fucking with me, building, I just want to go see my dentist without looking like a jerkwad.

Sorry I have been absent for a couple days, I have been helping a friend get through something difficult and I just haven’t felt motivated to complain about assholes like the Kardashians. I will be back Monday.

Thanks,
Listy
Manager

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!

I’m writing this from my phone because Comcast has decided to ruin everyone’s fun. Apparently Comcast’s internet service is down all over the Midwest. There are a lot of boners that will go un-whacked tonight. So feel free to discuss anything you like. I suggest something like “Do you think Guy Fieri wears sunglasses on the back of his fat sweaty head to cover up an underdeveloped twin?”

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?