Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Dear Pickup Truck:

You've managed to convince me that you're 1) an asshole and 2) an idiot, all in the span of five minutes.  To begin with, you almost ran me off the road with your (presumably unnecessary) giant fucking truck.  Seriously, unless you work in the construction industry and actually need a huge truck for your job, why the fuck do you need a pickup truck that has like 8 wheels and sits like 4 feet off the ground?  You barely even fit in the fucking lane.  Given the absence of anything in your truck bed and your spotless exterior, I'm guessing you don't use this truck for work, in which case, you're just a douchebag with a big truck.  Anyways, after driving down this two lane road for some time, you decide you need to get into my lane.  Now, I'm driving fairly close to the car in front of me, so there's really not enough room for your 20 foot boat of a truck to fit comfortably.  Nonetheless, you throw on your signal and just start coming on over without any hesitation.  Now, if you were just a regular sized car, I probably would have been a dick back to you and not budged at all.  But, since your truck is approximately four times the size of my average mid-sized sedan, I was inclined to brake and allow you into my lane.  Because you were being an asshole, I obviously beeped at you.  Naturally, you threw your hands up in disbelief as if it was so unbelievable and unconscionable that I could have possibly expressed any displeasure with you.  Whatever.  We continue driving down the road.  You neglect to turn your blinker off.  Up ahead is a fairly busy intersection.  There are no streets lights, but there are a lot of cars wishing to turn onto the road we're on.  Because your blinker is on, the car waiting at the intersection assumes you are turning.  As a result, it pulls out onto our road.  You are apparently not turning and instead nearly T-bone this car in front of you. We all come to a screeching halt.  Because you're an idiot and still don't realize your blinker is on, you lean on your horn to let them know they fucked up.  Except they didn't fuck up.  You fucked up.  Again.  We continue driving down the road once more and because I would like to avoid any future accidents, I try to alert you that your blinker is on.  I have no real way of doing this, so I just flash my headlights.  Unfortunately, while you recognize that I was flashing my lights at you, you cannot understand why and instead throw you hands up in the air again in bewilderment.  Your blinker remains on for several more minutes.  So, to recap, in a matter of minutes you nearly hit me, nearly hit another person, and completely fail to understand why your actions are problematic to others.  Asshole.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Dear Middle-Aged Women in Bar:

You didn't actually wrong me at all; however, your general attitude and apparent displeasure with your beverages was hillarious.  It was about 9pm on a Saturday night in a surprisingly quiet bar.  You two rolled in and went up to the bar and ordered some wine.  I have no idea what you actually ordered, but I'm pretty sure you perused the "wine list" and made a specific selection rather than just ordering some plain old red or white wine.  Upon recieveing your wines, you sniffed them and twirled your glasses and did whatever other pretenious bullshit wine snobs do with their wine.  You then proceeded to vocally complain about the wine and ask the bartender if this was the wine you actually ordered.  The bartender informed you that it was, in fact, the wine you ordered, which prompted you two to look at each other with pained expressions and lament that the wine was too sweet.  Upon being asked if you'd like to try something else, you sighed and said it was fine.  Oh, I'm forgetting one small detail.  You were in some little fucking dirty hipster bar.  This wasn't fucking Napa Valley ladies.  This bar proudly served tall boys of PBR and 'gansett.  The bartop was sticky as shit and the walls were plastered in 1950 porno covers.  You should be happy they even fucking served wine at all.  Also, if I recall correctly, you two were kind of dressed up.  Maybe not super dressed up, but clearly way more dressed up than this bar required. I'm pretty sure most people working and/or drinking at the bar this evening were all wearing some combination of skinny jeans, cutoffs, or "vintage" clothing all with the prerequisite piercings and tattoos.  Anyways, next time you want a fine glass of wine from an upscale establishment, don't be so surprised when the little local hipster hangout isn't up to your standards.

PS -- Yes, I realize I hate hipsters and I have no valid excuse for being in a hipster bar beyond it being a convenient place to grab a quick drink.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Dear Person Who Wouldn't Let Me Pass Them:

My current job requires me to drive to work.  Which means no more public transportation. Which means the risk of running into complete wierdos is significantly less while sitting by myself in my car.  (This does not bode well for my attempt at rejuvenating this blog.)  That being said, there are some asshole drivers out there.  In fact, Boston drivers are routinely rated as among the worst in the nation.  You are a prime example of one of those asshole drivers.  I don't think I drive particularly fast, but I certainly drive above the speed limit.  I usually pony up in the far left lane (i.e. what should be the "fast lane"), and just go with the flow of traffic.  That is until I encounter someone driving annoyingly slow, in which case I pass them and continue on my merry way in the "fast lane."  You were driving annoyingly slow.  Eventually I saw my opportunity to pass, so I pulled into the adjacent lane, sped up, and planned to pass you without any issues.  You, however, decided that you were not going to let me pass you.  Instead of driving at the annoyingly slow speed in which you were driving, you decide to pick up the pace and drive right next to me.  So, I continued to speed up, and naturally you proceed to speed right up along with me.  Eventually I caught up to the car in front of me and had to slow down and pull back in behind you.  Because you're apparently a huge dick, you decreased your speed back down to your annoyingly slow speed.  What the fuck, dude?  Why arbitrarily speed up like 20 fucking mph just to prevent me from passing you?  I can't even think of a reason you would want to do this besides the possibility that you simply enjoy being an asshole.  Did I somehow offend you with the notion that you're driving too slow and therefore you decided to prevent me from moving on?  Do you think you're some sort of "neighborhood patrol" of the highway, making sure no one is driving too fast on your watch?  And why are you even in the "fast lane" if you're going to drive so fucking slow?  Move over and drive with the other people ostensibly obeying the speed limit and let the rest of us who want to get the fuck home from work do so at our own pace.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Dear Woman Who Hit On Me:

At first glance this doesn't seem so terrible.  You were, however, like 40.  Still not necessarily terrible yet, you know, if you're into whole "cougar" sort of thing.  You were also shit-faced.  Arguably, this isn't that terrible either, but in between hitting me you also asked for change, so.. I think you were also homeless.  Now, I don't like poking fun at the homeless.  They obviously have had a rough life in some capacity, but getting hit on the bus stop by a drunk homeless woman is certainly fucking awkward.  You started things off by sauntering towards me in some sort of seductive manner.  Okay, seductive isn't the right word.  More like so drunk you could barely walk.  While sauntering/stumbling towards me you began singing "Rehab" by the late Amy Winehouse.  Given your incredible state of intoxication, this sounds about right.  You proceeded to stand as close to me as possible, despite my being the only person at the bus stop, and continued singing while simultaneously "making eyes" at me. After finishing your song, you proceeded to ask me all sorts of questions about what I was up to for the evening and where I lived.  Fucking awkward.  I should also note, that your vodka scented perfume was wonderful.  Your plastic change cup also exuded a certain level of class and sophistication.  How could I resist?  After you realized that your attempt at conversation was not going to be successful you began what I can only describe as wailing -- like a siren -- while periodically telling me "Giddy-up Daddy."  Naturally, the bus was nowhere to be found for quite some time, so I had to put up with this for while.  And thank god you did not try and sit next to me on the bus when it finally fucking came.  As absurd as the situation was from the get-go, I would not have been able to handle sitting next to your drunken hot mess for the entire bus ride.  So, sober up and don't fucking hit on strangers waiting for the bus.  Thanks.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Holy Shit.

Due to strange circumstances and popular demand (that might be a lie), I think I'm going to start writing this again.  New post tomorrow.  Maybe?

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Dear Woman in Market:

I was doing some shopping in an outdoor market.  It was very crowded.  People were pushing and shoving and weaseling their way through the crowd trying to navigate the masses.  Many people had those obnoxious rolling shopping cart things to put all their shit in.  I was standing off to the side while I waited for a friend to buy some veggies.  While waiting I felt something bump into my foot.  I turned to find a little old lady.  You had mistakenly bumped your obnoxious rolling cart thing into the side of my foot.  I smiled as if to say, "No worries, old lady."  Instead of being polite and perhaps pushing your cart elsewhere, you just looked at me briefly and then proceeded to drag your cart over my poor foot.  I should note that I was wearing sandals when this occurred, and having someone drag a small shopping cart over your mostly bare foot is not particularly pleasant.  But hey, I haven't actually been wronged in weeks, so good job little old lady with the annoying cart.  Way to wrong me today.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Dear Person on Plane:

Flying tends to suck.  From packing, to arriving at the airport nine hours early, to sitting in shitty cramped seats next to potentially terrible strangers, to hoping your luggages arrives with you, its all just a big hassle.  Now, I sat next to you on the plane, which actually wasn't terrible at all, but it seems as though I wronged you.  You looked pretty fancy in your nice suit and all.  No doubt traveling for business.  You took your suit coat off and put it in the overhead compartment.  I didn't think anything of it at the time, but in retrospect that seemed like a poor decision.  After you carefully laid your suit coat out over the length of the overhead, I put my bag up there, because... well, that's where my bag goes.  As soon as I was finished putting my stuff up there, you scoffed loudly, gave me a dirty look, and then got up and opened the overhead compartment, and re-laid out your coat.  I mean, I don't even think my bag was crumpling your coat, but whatever.  If you don't want your coat to possibly wrinkled, don't put it in the fucking overhead compartment.  Or if you do, wait until everyone else has their shit in there before putting your coat in.  I mean, did you really think no one was going to put anything else up there?  Like the overhead is your own personal coat stowing location?  And why not fold it up or something, instead of just laying it flat in the overhead.  Maybe you think I'm the asshole because I just shoved my bag in there without saying anything.  Well, given your reaction, you definitely think I'm the asshole here, but I don't care.  Your whole thought process with what to do you with your fancy suit jacket was flawed from the get-go.  You and your coat do not get any special privileges.  Especially when you're flying coach like the rest of us.