Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Twitter!
Yes, two real posts within ten minutes is too good to be true. Stop whining. Shit That Makes Me Angry is on Twitter! Rejoice! Follow me at @angryshit (am I supposed to say "at" and use the @ sign? or just one or the other?) and feel free to leave in the comments if you have a better idea for a twitter handle. It can't be more than 15 characters, which blows. Have at it.
Groundhog Day
What's that? Groundhog Day was almost five months ago? Groundhog Day was actually several days before the date I last posted, which was ages ago, because I'm a lazy piece of shit? Groundhog Day is no longer relevant? Wow, you are right. I'm so sorry, I should be a better blogger and write about things when they're happening. You know what, I'm just gonna go ahead and save this post for next February.
Oh, my bad, I forgot...I don't give a FUCK when Groundhog Day was, because it's making me angry right fucking NOW and it's my blog and I will write about whatever I want whenever I damn well please.
The U.S. has plenty of crazy, stupid, weird customs. But none of them seem to captivate the whole fucking country the way Groundhog Day does. You know what, it's so fucking dumb I'm not capitalizing it anymore for the rest of this post. It's not worth stretching my poor pinkie to the Shift key. So groundhog day it is.
As I have mentioned a few times, winter BLOWS. It sucks SO hard. It makes you sad, and depressed, and often unable to do basic things like, oh, OPEN YOUR FUCKING DOOR. Because there's FOUR FEET OF FUCKING SNOW BLOCKING YOU IN BECAUSE APPARENTLY THE NEWEST DEFINITION OF GLOBAL WARMING IS "MAKES NEW YORK CITY LOOK LIKE MOTHERFUCKING MONTANA IN THE WINTER." What the fuck IS that? Why does it snow 45 feet every winter in the tri-state area now? At least in Montana the snow stays white for more than 6 seconds. It glistens on trees, and stays intact in mountains and valleys that no one walks on and creates beautiful landscapes. New York doesn't even HAVE trees for snow to glisten on. And any trees we do have are being shit on by pigeons 24/7. Sort of takes away from the whole "glistening" effect.
And in those places where it's all glisten-y? It's like 1000 times colder than it ever will be in NY. And it is fucking COLD here. Some people say winter is better than summer. Those people should kill themselves. Because while it may be sweltering hot and quite uncomfortable in the summer, let me ask you some questions. When was the last time you walked outside in the summer and you literally could not breathe because of the temperature? How many times have you walked outside in the summer and immediately yelled "FUCK FUCK FUCK JESUS FUCKING CHRIST IT IS SO FUCKING HOT! HOLY SHIT!" How often do you sprint from your house to your car, only to find that your car is so fucking hot that you're literally moaning in pain as you drive until the A/C gets going? Never. None of you have ever done that. If I somehow have attracted some unknown reader who lives in a desert or a fucking rainforest and you've done one of these things, then fuck you. Remain silent. If the rest of you take my questions and replace hot with cold, summer with winter and A/C with heating, you have done those things. All of them. Like sixty hundred million times each winter. Summer vs. winter argument is over.
So since winter is so shitty, I always want to know when it's going to be over. My ideal choice for the source of this information would be, oh, a weatherman. Maybe an atmospheric scientist. I would even take one of those crazy tornado chasers. You know who is at the absolute bottom, cellar, basement of my list when it comes to being told when winter is ending? A fucking RODENT. A squeaky, buck-toothed, clueless, soon-to-be-roadkill ANIMAL. I don't want weather predictions from something that can't fucking SPEAK! And it's not even like that genius sports predictor octopus. It doesn't go up to two boxes, one that says "winter. fuck your life." and one that says "Hallelujah sing to Jesus your giblets will thaw out soon" and like pick one or poop on one or anything. We decide the weather based on whether or not it comes out of its motherfucking hole. Pretty sure that's an every day occurrence for a groundhog. Leaving his fucking house. Should we pick some sorry motherfucker in America, make a day in November "Sorry Motherfucker Day" and every four years, pick a president based on whether he walks out the front door that day? Why not? In my humble opinion, when winter ends is basically as important as who is president.
But people in charge of things like groundhog day don't care about my opinion. No one, unfortunately, is going to read this blog and cancel groundhog day forever. (if that happened, I would throw the MOTHER of all parties.) But the least--the absolute LEAST these motherfuckers could do is change the main groundhog's name. His name is Phil. PHIL! He is the boss hog (ha!) of all groundhogs, and he's named Phil? Just because "Punxsutawney" has to precede it? I get alliteration and all, but the p's don't even make the same phonetic sound. Weak ass excuse for a name. How about..."Punxsutawney Pussy Magnet?" You know all the lady groundhog's hairs spike up when Phil walks by. Or we could go the intimidation route: "Punxsutawney Piledriver." No one would EVER fuck with Piledriver at the bar. No one.
Oh, my bad, I forgot...I don't give a FUCK when Groundhog Day was, because it's making me angry right fucking NOW and it's my blog and I will write about whatever I want whenever I damn well please.
The U.S. has plenty of crazy, stupid, weird customs. But none of them seem to captivate the whole fucking country the way Groundhog Day does. You know what, it's so fucking dumb I'm not capitalizing it anymore for the rest of this post. It's not worth stretching my poor pinkie to the Shift key. So groundhog day it is.
As I have mentioned a few times, winter BLOWS. It sucks SO hard. It makes you sad, and depressed, and often unable to do basic things like, oh, OPEN YOUR FUCKING DOOR. Because there's FOUR FEET OF FUCKING SNOW BLOCKING YOU IN BECAUSE APPARENTLY THE NEWEST DEFINITION OF GLOBAL WARMING IS "MAKES NEW YORK CITY LOOK LIKE MOTHERFUCKING MONTANA IN THE WINTER." What the fuck IS that? Why does it snow 45 feet every winter in the tri-state area now? At least in Montana the snow stays white for more than 6 seconds. It glistens on trees, and stays intact in mountains and valleys that no one walks on and creates beautiful landscapes. New York doesn't even HAVE trees for snow to glisten on. And any trees we do have are being shit on by pigeons 24/7. Sort of takes away from the whole "glistening" effect.
And in those places where it's all glisten-y? It's like 1000 times colder than it ever will be in NY. And it is fucking COLD here. Some people say winter is better than summer. Those people should kill themselves. Because while it may be sweltering hot and quite uncomfortable in the summer, let me ask you some questions. When was the last time you walked outside in the summer and you literally could not breathe because of the temperature? How many times have you walked outside in the summer and immediately yelled "FUCK FUCK FUCK JESUS FUCKING CHRIST IT IS SO FUCKING HOT! HOLY SHIT!" How often do you sprint from your house to your car, only to find that your car is so fucking hot that you're literally moaning in pain as you drive until the A/C gets going? Never. None of you have ever done that. If I somehow have attracted some unknown reader who lives in a desert or a fucking rainforest and you've done one of these things, then fuck you. Remain silent. If the rest of you take my questions and replace hot with cold, summer with winter and A/C with heating, you have done those things. All of them. Like sixty hundred million times each winter. Summer vs. winter argument is over.
So since winter is so shitty, I always want to know when it's going to be over. My ideal choice for the source of this information would be, oh, a weatherman. Maybe an atmospheric scientist. I would even take one of those crazy tornado chasers. You know who is at the absolute bottom, cellar, basement of my list when it comes to being told when winter is ending? A fucking RODENT. A squeaky, buck-toothed, clueless, soon-to-be-roadkill ANIMAL. I don't want weather predictions from something that can't fucking SPEAK! And it's not even like that genius sports predictor octopus. It doesn't go up to two boxes, one that says "winter. fuck your life." and one that says "Hallelujah sing to Jesus your giblets will thaw out soon" and like pick one or poop on one or anything. We decide the weather based on whether or not it comes out of its motherfucking hole. Pretty sure that's an every day occurrence for a groundhog. Leaving his fucking house. Should we pick some sorry motherfucker in America, make a day in November "Sorry Motherfucker Day" and every four years, pick a president based on whether he walks out the front door that day? Why not? In my humble opinion, when winter ends is basically as important as who is president.
But people in charge of things like groundhog day don't care about my opinion. No one, unfortunately, is going to read this blog and cancel groundhog day forever. (if that happened, I would throw the MOTHER of all parties.) But the least--the absolute LEAST these motherfuckers could do is change the main groundhog's name. His name is Phil. PHIL! He is the boss hog (ha!) of all groundhogs, and he's named Phil? Just because "Punxsutawney" has to precede it? I get alliteration and all, but the p's don't even make the same phonetic sound. Weak ass excuse for a name. How about..."Punxsutawney Pussy Magnet?" You know all the lady groundhog's hairs spike up when Phil walks by. Or we could go the intimidation route: "Punxsutawney Piledriver." No one would EVER fuck with Piledriver at the bar. No one.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Domino's
Note: Sorry for the delay. I had an unusually pleasant, carefree anger-less month of January. But then February rolled around, which is the worst month of the year, no contest. Valentine's day, cold, snow, no fucking holidays (Groundhog day does NOT count, it's just a day during which we get reminded by a fucking rodent that the world is going to be February-style miserable for another month and a half), and cold, and snow. I mentioned cold and snow twice because this fucking atrocity of a winter deserves two cold/snow mentions. Anyway, now that you are convinced that I'm suitably angry, here goes.
Domino's pizza is the scum of the pizza earth. Always has been, always will be. It tastes like shit, looks like shit, smells like shit. The only time you should EVER order Domino's is if you are at least two of the following: 1) Drunk 2) High 3) Attending college in a poor excuse for a city that closes everything except Chinese food places at midnight ('sup Boston) and you've had Chinese food the past 7 times you have been drunk or high, which is coincidentally the past 7 days 4) In the midwest, at least 2 hours outside of Chicago. Notice I said two of the following. Not one. If you are two hours outside of Chicago and sober, fucking drive to Chicago and get a deep dish. No excuses.
Apparently, Mr. Patrick Doyle, Domino's CEO, was unaware that his company's pizza tasted like asshole until 2009. I'm not sure if he never ate it, or his pizza "chefs" got pizza from New York airlifted in whenever they knew he was coming by for a taste test, but it took him until then to decide that all the hate mail, pictures of nasty pizza, death threats, and dead delivery boys might mean that his pizza was, shall we say, subpar.
What did Mr. Doyle and his team of all-star ad gurus come up with? A nationwide ad campaign that they would bombard the country with, trying to drive home on single, simple message.
The message? DOMINO'S PIZZA TASTES LIKE POOP SHIT KETCHUP COVERED CARDBOARD ASSHOLE RAT DROPPINGS!
Don't believe me? Watch the first few seconds of this video.
And you remember the rest of them. Thousands and thousands of ads saying "look how much we suck! We can't put sauce and cheese on dough and make it work! Looook! LOOOOOOOK!" And then Mr. CEO at the end, saying. "Don't worry, we'll make it better."
The thing that embarrasses me is that I believed them. Once they said the revamp was done, I was all for it. Let's go order some fuckin' Domino's! It arrived, I opened the box, took a bite, and made a discovery. Domino's had indeed changed their pizza. It was not the same. They had spent thousands of dollars on an ad campaign, focus groups, and a "pizza makeover" to do one thing: absolutely cover the SHIT out of the pizza in garlic. Literally...that's it. Same rubber crust, same ketchup sauce, same fake cheese...just SMOTHERED in garlic. Only difference between old Domino's and new Domino's: now, after eating it, you could literally kill Edward Cullen. Which is actually great. Patrick Doyle for president.
So after Domino's comes out with its vampire-killer, they go around to a bunch of people who talked shit in focus groups and feed them the new garlic monstrosity. The result:
This video can be summed up with the following question by Chef Sam: "You're not just saying the pizza's good because the cameras are on, right?" YES. Yes she is. She is lying to your face because she is on a fucking commercial for your fucking PIZZA! When she was talking smack, she was paid to sit in a room where some lowly shithead from marketing asked her about Domino's. This time, she was probably so overwhelmed by the garlic that she just felt she should answer affirmatively to every question you ask. "Yup, pizza's great, no it really is, not just saying, uh-huh, k, gotta go," door slam, commence ralphing.
And now they've come out with these fucking ridiculous spots where they show focus groups talking about how they don't use real tomatoes, and then the walls fall down and they're in the middle of a goddamn farm. And the one where they say they think Domino's crust is tossed by machines, and the walls fall down, and they're in the middle of a fucking Domino's pizza kitchen. I'm not even sure where to begin with these ones, but I'll start with this: Umm, when these people arrived at the site of the focus group, they didn't think "Huh...weird...wonder why they're having this in a 40 by 40 foot box in the middle of a field?" My sister tells me there's another commercial that shows all participants arriving in a limo with tinted windows that you can't see out of. Ah, ok, makes perfect sense. Here is a list of questions I would ask, out of concern for my own health and safety, if I participated in this focus group: 1) Why can't I drive there myself? 2) Why is it necessary for this to take place 4 hours away from civilization? 3) Why isn't there any liquor in this limo? 4) Why are the people bringing us there wearing ski masks? 5) Why did I get pistol-whipped when I tried to open the window for some fresh air?
Like, what if someone gets car sick? Can't open the window, can't let them see where we're going. The look of surprise must be AUTHENTIC when the walls drop down around them to reveal happy farmers picking plump, ripe tomatoes.
Even if these people really had no clue they were on a tomato farm, I REFUSE to believe the ones who were secretly in a Domino's kitchen didn't know. You can put a burlap bag over my head, toss me in the back of a van and throw me into a temporary room if you want, but nothing, especially not a fake wall, will hide the smell of the devil's garlic pizza being made next door. You can smell that shit from a mile away. Those people knew they were in a kitchen. They knew.
Lastly, with these commercials, Domino's fails to see the problem. The sauce tastes like it's made from fake tomatoes. Showing me the tomatoes it's made with does not change this. It only makes me wonder what you do to these delicious juicy tomatoes that makes them taste like ass. Same with the crust. Showing me some nasty "chef's" dirty hands kneading the pizza does not mean it tastes like it is made by a human. So, all the energy you went to coming up with this great idea, constructing fake rooms, hiring hitmen to keep everyone in line...went to waste. I would ask you to just make your fucking pizza better, but as we know, the last time you tried that, we ended up with the same shitty pizza, except it also offends anyone who has to stand close to you within 48 hours of you eating it.
If this post has somehow intrigued you into trying Domino's, please don't. If you want to know what it tastes like, do the following: Take garlic powder out of the cabinet. Pour the powder on to the counter, shaping it in a little line. Roll up the $20 bill you won't be spending on Domino's. Snort the garlic powder.
Fun, huh? Now you know what it tastes like.
Domino's pizza is the scum of the pizza earth. Always has been, always will be. It tastes like shit, looks like shit, smells like shit. The only time you should EVER order Domino's is if you are at least two of the following: 1) Drunk 2) High 3) Attending college in a poor excuse for a city that closes everything except Chinese food places at midnight ('sup Boston) and you've had Chinese food the past 7 times you have been drunk or high, which is coincidentally the past 7 days 4) In the midwest, at least 2 hours outside of Chicago. Notice I said two of the following. Not one. If you are two hours outside of Chicago and sober, fucking drive to Chicago and get a deep dish. No excuses.
Apparently, Mr. Patrick Doyle, Domino's CEO, was unaware that his company's pizza tasted like asshole until 2009. I'm not sure if he never ate it, or his pizza "chefs" got pizza from New York airlifted in whenever they knew he was coming by for a taste test, but it took him until then to decide that all the hate mail, pictures of nasty pizza, death threats, and dead delivery boys might mean that his pizza was, shall we say, subpar.
What did Mr. Doyle and his team of all-star ad gurus come up with? A nationwide ad campaign that they would bombard the country with, trying to drive home on single, simple message.
The message? DOMINO'S PIZZA TASTES LIKE POOP SHIT KETCHUP COVERED CARDBOARD ASSHOLE RAT DROPPINGS!
Don't believe me? Watch the first few seconds of this video.
And you remember the rest of them. Thousands and thousands of ads saying "look how much we suck! We can't put sauce and cheese on dough and make it work! Looook! LOOOOOOOK!" And then Mr. CEO at the end, saying. "Don't worry, we'll make it better."
The thing that embarrasses me is that I believed them. Once they said the revamp was done, I was all for it. Let's go order some fuckin' Domino's! It arrived, I opened the box, took a bite, and made a discovery. Domino's had indeed changed their pizza. It was not the same. They had spent thousands of dollars on an ad campaign, focus groups, and a "pizza makeover" to do one thing: absolutely cover the SHIT out of the pizza in garlic. Literally...that's it. Same rubber crust, same ketchup sauce, same fake cheese...just SMOTHERED in garlic. Only difference between old Domino's and new Domino's: now, after eating it, you could literally kill Edward Cullen. Which is actually great. Patrick Doyle for president.
So after Domino's comes out with its vampire-killer, they go around to a bunch of people who talked shit in focus groups and feed them the new garlic monstrosity. The result:
This video can be summed up with the following question by Chef Sam: "You're not just saying the pizza's good because the cameras are on, right?" YES. Yes she is. She is lying to your face because she is on a fucking commercial for your fucking PIZZA! When she was talking smack, she was paid to sit in a room where some lowly shithead from marketing asked her about Domino's. This time, she was probably so overwhelmed by the garlic that she just felt she should answer affirmatively to every question you ask. "Yup, pizza's great, no it really is, not just saying, uh-huh, k, gotta go," door slam, commence ralphing.
And now they've come out with these fucking ridiculous spots where they show focus groups talking about how they don't use real tomatoes, and then the walls fall down and they're in the middle of a goddamn farm. And the one where they say they think Domino's crust is tossed by machines, and the walls fall down, and they're in the middle of a fucking Domino's pizza kitchen. I'm not even sure where to begin with these ones, but I'll start with this: Umm, when these people arrived at the site of the focus group, they didn't think "Huh...weird...wonder why they're having this in a 40 by 40 foot box in the middle of a field?" My sister tells me there's another commercial that shows all participants arriving in a limo with tinted windows that you can't see out of. Ah, ok, makes perfect sense. Here is a list of questions I would ask, out of concern for my own health and safety, if I participated in this focus group: 1) Why can't I drive there myself? 2) Why is it necessary for this to take place 4 hours away from civilization? 3) Why isn't there any liquor in this limo? 4) Why are the people bringing us there wearing ski masks? 5) Why did I get pistol-whipped when I tried to open the window for some fresh air?
Like, what if someone gets car sick? Can't open the window, can't let them see where we're going. The look of surprise must be AUTHENTIC when the walls drop down around them to reveal happy farmers picking plump, ripe tomatoes.
Even if these people really had no clue they were on a tomato farm, I REFUSE to believe the ones who were secretly in a Domino's kitchen didn't know. You can put a burlap bag over my head, toss me in the back of a van and throw me into a temporary room if you want, but nothing, especially not a fake wall, will hide the smell of the devil's garlic pizza being made next door. You can smell that shit from a mile away. Those people knew they were in a kitchen. They knew.
Lastly, with these commercials, Domino's fails to see the problem. The sauce tastes like it's made from fake tomatoes. Showing me the tomatoes it's made with does not change this. It only makes me wonder what you do to these delicious juicy tomatoes that makes them taste like ass. Same with the crust. Showing me some nasty "chef's" dirty hands kneading the pizza does not mean it tastes like it is made by a human. So, all the energy you went to coming up with this great idea, constructing fake rooms, hiring hitmen to keep everyone in line...went to waste. I would ask you to just make your fucking pizza better, but as we know, the last time you tried that, we ended up with the same shitty pizza, except it also offends anyone who has to stand close to you within 48 hours of you eating it.
If this post has somehow intrigued you into trying Domino's, please don't. If you want to know what it tastes like, do the following: Take garlic powder out of the cabinet. Pour the powder on to the counter, shaping it in a little line. Roll up the $20 bill you won't be spending on Domino's. Snort the garlic powder.
Fun, huh? Now you know what it tastes like.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
People Driving in the Shoulder
What's an angry blog without a little road rage?
I'll start off here by admitting I'm not the best driver in the world. I like getting places quickly, and I'm also from New York. Add those two things together and you have a sticky situation at times. Just ask my good friend Mel, who witnessed my complete disregard for automobile safety so I could get home before my hungry relatives ate my aunt's clam dip last Thanksgiving. (At one point, she grabbed the sides of the seat, looked at me with terror in her eyes and screamed, "BITCH, THE CLAM DIP IS NOT WORTH IT!!!" "It," presumably, meaning our lives. Then, we got home safely and she tried the clam dip. It was then that she understood. The clam dip was indeed worth it.)
My somewhat questionable vehicular history notwithstanding, there are some moves that people pull on the road that actually make me wish I had a .22 in my car so I could just complete a drive-by and call it a day. Or, whatever you call it when you shoot someone from your car who is sitting in another car. A drive-pull-up-next-to? Whatever.
Sitting in traffic sucks. Really, really, blows. There is nothing worse than sitting in your gas-guzzling SUV, listening to it guzzle expensive gas, going nowhere. You keep looking around, but you see the same fucking thing every time you do because you haven't moved in the last hour. You've listened to every damn song on the six CDs in your changer, and even tried some of your mom's Barbara Streisand CD that she left in there, which made you about 6000 times angrier than you already were. You try listening to the radio, but three stations are playing that Rihanna song from last summer and the other three are playing "Airplanes," which is actually the most overplayed song in the history of radio. After punching the radio, you pull out your phone for the fourth time in 3 minutes, only to see that no one has texted you yet. You sigh, put your phone down, and look out the window again...only to see some jackass douchebag in a Honda Civic blow by you on the shoulder. Cue endless rage.
The shoulder, for the record, is not a lane. It's not part of the road. Off-limits. Against the rules. Not allowed. Prohibited. And lots of other synonyms for don't fucking do it. At some point, Honda driver, you are going to need to get back into the real road. Probably when you see a cop and pee yourself and all of a sudden realize you're not a real badass. If this happens anywhere near me, good luck motherfucker. I will drive within centimeters of the car in front of me until you give up and try to inch your way in somewhere else. Do not try to pull in in front of me. I will rear end the car in front of me 1000 times over before I let your disrespectful ass in. It's especially pleasing for me when everyone feels the way I do, and no one lets you in. Then you're sitting in the shoulder, looking like the moron that you are, and you get the lovely experience of watching the car that you were behind in the first place inch in front of you. Poetic justice, Honda douchebag. That's what happens when you test me.
The same goes for situations when the left lane is closing soon. On my way to work, there is an area of the road where it goes from three lanes to two. There is ample warning in the form of a big yellow sign that says "LEFT LANE CLOSING IN 1/4 MILE, MERGE RIGHT." That sign makes it abundantly clear. Tells you exactly what you need to do. Move over. If that wasn't enough, there's another sign approximately 4 seconds further down the road that says, shockingly enough, "LEFT LANE CLOSING IN 1/8 MILE, MERGE RIGHT." Now you have no excuses. You've been reminded twice in the past 10 seconds. Move. the fuck. over. And I do. I'm happily in the middle lane, proud of myself for following directions, and waiting for the left lane to slowly and calmly taper off. Then, all of a sudden, I have to slam on the brakes, snapping my neck and letting out an embarrassingly vulgar stream of swear words. Why? Because three dickwads in shitty Nissans with bumper kits that cost more than their cars decided to have "whose dick is bigger?" contest and fly down the closing left lane so they could create a bottleneck when the lane actually closes and they have to shove their way in. Why? Please. Someone. Just explain this to me. Is it fun? Should I try it? Do they yell, "Haha, slow motherfuckers!" as they drive by, even though they know they're going to have to come to a complete halt and hope that we are nice enough to let them in? Do they actually not know that the lane ends? That's impossible, right? I mean, there were 2 signs. Two big ass signs. Needless to say, same process goes for these asshats. You wanna be a douche? Fine, I'll be one too. You will sit there, with your car at an awkward angle, while I drive dangerously close to the car in front of me. I will pass you, and probably wave at you as I do. Your small, useless brain probably won't be able to process this and you'll likely think I'm hitting on you, but that's ok. I will be happy in my victory, and laugh maniacally as I see you in my rear view mirror, still stopped, blinker on, hoping for some compassion.
Then I'll rear end the guy in front of me and realize that this whole post could very easily be directed at myself. Fuck.
I'll start off here by admitting I'm not the best driver in the world. I like getting places quickly, and I'm also from New York. Add those two things together and you have a sticky situation at times. Just ask my good friend Mel, who witnessed my complete disregard for automobile safety so I could get home before my hungry relatives ate my aunt's clam dip last Thanksgiving. (At one point, she grabbed the sides of the seat, looked at me with terror in her eyes and screamed, "BITCH, THE CLAM DIP IS NOT WORTH IT!!!" "It," presumably, meaning our lives. Then, we got home safely and she tried the clam dip. It was then that she understood. The clam dip was indeed worth it.)
My somewhat questionable vehicular history notwithstanding, there are some moves that people pull on the road that actually make me wish I had a .22 in my car so I could just complete a drive-by and call it a day. Or, whatever you call it when you shoot someone from your car who is sitting in another car. A drive-pull-up-next-to? Whatever.
Sitting in traffic sucks. Really, really, blows. There is nothing worse than sitting in your gas-guzzling SUV, listening to it guzzle expensive gas, going nowhere. You keep looking around, but you see the same fucking thing every time you do because you haven't moved in the last hour. You've listened to every damn song on the six CDs in your changer, and even tried some of your mom's Barbara Streisand CD that she left in there, which made you about 6000 times angrier than you already were. You try listening to the radio, but three stations are playing that Rihanna song from last summer and the other three are playing "Airplanes," which is actually the most overplayed song in the history of radio. After punching the radio, you pull out your phone for the fourth time in 3 minutes, only to see that no one has texted you yet. You sigh, put your phone down, and look out the window again...only to see some jackass douchebag in a Honda Civic blow by you on the shoulder. Cue endless rage.
The shoulder, for the record, is not a lane. It's not part of the road. Off-limits. Against the rules. Not allowed. Prohibited. And lots of other synonyms for don't fucking do it. At some point, Honda driver, you are going to need to get back into the real road. Probably when you see a cop and pee yourself and all of a sudden realize you're not a real badass. If this happens anywhere near me, good luck motherfucker. I will drive within centimeters of the car in front of me until you give up and try to inch your way in somewhere else. Do not try to pull in in front of me. I will rear end the car in front of me 1000 times over before I let your disrespectful ass in. It's especially pleasing for me when everyone feels the way I do, and no one lets you in. Then you're sitting in the shoulder, looking like the moron that you are, and you get the lovely experience of watching the car that you were behind in the first place inch in front of you. Poetic justice, Honda douchebag. That's what happens when you test me.
The same goes for situations when the left lane is closing soon. On my way to work, there is an area of the road where it goes from three lanes to two. There is ample warning in the form of a big yellow sign that says "LEFT LANE CLOSING IN 1/4 MILE, MERGE RIGHT." That sign makes it abundantly clear. Tells you exactly what you need to do. Move over. If that wasn't enough, there's another sign approximately 4 seconds further down the road that says, shockingly enough, "LEFT LANE CLOSING IN 1/8 MILE, MERGE RIGHT." Now you have no excuses. You've been reminded twice in the past 10 seconds. Move. the fuck. over. And I do. I'm happily in the middle lane, proud of myself for following directions, and waiting for the left lane to slowly and calmly taper off. Then, all of a sudden, I have to slam on the brakes, snapping my neck and letting out an embarrassingly vulgar stream of swear words. Why? Because three dickwads in shitty Nissans with bumper kits that cost more than their cars decided to have "whose dick is bigger?" contest and fly down the closing left lane so they could create a bottleneck when the lane actually closes and they have to shove their way in. Why? Please. Someone. Just explain this to me. Is it fun? Should I try it? Do they yell, "Haha, slow motherfuckers!" as they drive by, even though they know they're going to have to come to a complete halt and hope that we are nice enough to let them in? Do they actually not know that the lane ends? That's impossible, right? I mean, there were 2 signs. Two big ass signs. Needless to say, same process goes for these asshats. You wanna be a douche? Fine, I'll be one too. You will sit there, with your car at an awkward angle, while I drive dangerously close to the car in front of me. I will pass you, and probably wave at you as I do. Your small, useless brain probably won't be able to process this and you'll likely think I'm hitting on you, but that's ok. I will be happy in my victory, and laugh maniacally as I see you in my rear view mirror, still stopped, blinker on, hoping for some compassion.
Then I'll rear end the guy in front of me and realize that this whole post could very easily be directed at myself. Fuck.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Creepy Christmas Music
Yes, I'm grinching it up the day before Christmas. Deal with it.
Now, don't get me wrong, I fuckin' love Christmas. I do. Not even angry people can resist trees, ornaments, candy canes, gaudy light displays, people being around 5% less mean than usual, the birth of the baby Jesus, (you thought I wasn't gonna put him in here. I know what Christmas is about. Don't doubt me ever again) the annual worldwide lie to kids under 11 about the existence of Santa Claus, the holly, the ivy, jingle bells, and forced family bonding. And nothing puts you in the mood for all of the above like some good old Christmas music. I have to give a big shoutout to the radio stations that play 24/7 Christmas music during the holiday season (as long as they start after Thanksgiving.) I see what you're doing, 106.7, and I applaud you for it. However, playing Christmas music nonstop for a month gets difficult, and every so often, they'll throw in a song for variety's sake that makes you go: "Really? Someone recorded that? On their Christmas album? To make people happy about Christmas?" There are some "Christmas" songs that just make you feel weird and uncomfortable, like you and Christmas have been violated.
The other night I was jamming to the Christmas tunes on my way to work, and this came on. Go ahead, listen for a little while. I'll wait. If you're lazy, look up the lyrics. Still waiting, take your time........
Aaaaaaaaaand we're back. First things first, let's point out that this song is by a gentleman named Dan Fogelberg. Um...okay, I know we're PC and everything, but Mr. Fogelberg, I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you're celebrating Hanukkah. I know there's a lot of pressure to have a Christmas album out, but it's okay to say no, especially when we get a sketchy number about an awkwardly sexually charged encounter with an ex-girlfriend (or "old lover," as he puts it, which is even weirder, as it implies a no-strings-attached hookup from college or something. TMI.)
So he sees this chick in the grocery store on Christmas Eve, and they decide to go knock back a few at the bar. Why are both of you shunning your families to get hammered with your old fuckbuddy on Christmas Eve? Won't her kids say, "Daddy, where did Mommy go? We have to make cookies for Santa!" Like, how can you just break your kids' hearts like that? And then they can't find an open bar. What a fucking shocker, it's Christmas Eve, everyone else is home with their families. Normal course of action: bars are closed, go home. It's a sign. You guys are not supposed to kick it tonight.
But no, what do they do? Buy a six pack and drink it in her CAR. Okay, the buck stops here. That's fucking weird. Not to mention, she tells him she's married but she doesn't love the dude. Did anybody else think they were gonna throw on some Luther Vandross and do the bumpty bump in the car? No? Just me? Allllllrighty then. Regardless, at the end of the song when she drives off and the snow turns to rain, your reaction isn't "YESSSSSS, LET'S HANG SOME STOCKINGS AND TRIM SOME TREES, MOTHERFUCKER!!" It's, "Wow, that was depressing...and weird...I kinda just wanna get in my bed and cry." Thanks, Fogelberg.
[Update: Dan Fogelberg died nine days before Christmas in 2007, of prostate cancer. I'm going to hell.]
Another one that you probably know is "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime." Why did Paul McCartney, who I would say knows how to write a song or two, decide to go with some weird synthesizer shit? It's annoying, and makes me think of the mean futuristic neighbors in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. See for yourself. Doesn't it seem like they would listen to weird synthesizer Christmas music? Yes, it does.
The last Christmas song to draw my ire is the classic grotesque favorite of sadists everywhere, "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer." Why did this ever catch on? Why are we singing when grandma is dead? If you like this song, go ahead and think of your poor grandmother every time you gleefully sing the refrain. Not so fun, now, is it? No, because now you're making fun of your grandma's untimely death at the hands (or hooves, as it were) of Blitzen, who is probably under a lot of pressure from Santa to make it to your house anyway because you're such a spoiled brat. So in reality, it's your fault that grandma's dead. But keep singing, really, because what's funnier than dead old people at Christmas?
Now, don't get me wrong, I fuckin' love Christmas. I do. Not even angry people can resist trees, ornaments, candy canes, gaudy light displays, people being around 5% less mean than usual, the birth of the baby Jesus, (you thought I wasn't gonna put him in here. I know what Christmas is about. Don't doubt me ever again) the annual worldwide lie to kids under 11 about the existence of Santa Claus, the holly, the ivy, jingle bells, and forced family bonding. And nothing puts you in the mood for all of the above like some good old Christmas music. I have to give a big shoutout to the radio stations that play 24/7 Christmas music during the holiday season (as long as they start after Thanksgiving.) I see what you're doing, 106.7, and I applaud you for it. However, playing Christmas music nonstop for a month gets difficult, and every so often, they'll throw in a song for variety's sake that makes you go: "Really? Someone recorded that? On their Christmas album? To make people happy about Christmas?" There are some "Christmas" songs that just make you feel weird and uncomfortable, like you and Christmas have been violated.
The other night I was jamming to the Christmas tunes on my way to work, and this came on. Go ahead, listen for a little while. I'll wait. If you're lazy, look up the lyrics. Still waiting, take your time........
Aaaaaaaaaand we're back. First things first, let's point out that this song is by a gentleman named Dan Fogelberg. Um...okay, I know we're PC and everything, but Mr. Fogelberg, I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you're celebrating Hanukkah. I know there's a lot of pressure to have a Christmas album out, but it's okay to say no, especially when we get a sketchy number about an awkwardly sexually charged encounter with an ex-girlfriend (or "old lover," as he puts it, which is even weirder, as it implies a no-strings-attached hookup from college or something. TMI.)
So he sees this chick in the grocery store on Christmas Eve, and they decide to go knock back a few at the bar. Why are both of you shunning your families to get hammered with your old fuckbuddy on Christmas Eve? Won't her kids say, "Daddy, where did Mommy go? We have to make cookies for Santa!" Like, how can you just break your kids' hearts like that? And then they can't find an open bar. What a fucking shocker, it's Christmas Eve, everyone else is home with their families. Normal course of action: bars are closed, go home. It's a sign. You guys are not supposed to kick it tonight.
But no, what do they do? Buy a six pack and drink it in her CAR. Okay, the buck stops here. That's fucking weird. Not to mention, she tells him she's married but she doesn't love the dude. Did anybody else think they were gonna throw on some Luther Vandross and do the bumpty bump in the car? No? Just me? Allllllrighty then. Regardless, at the end of the song when she drives off and the snow turns to rain, your reaction isn't "YESSSSSS, LET'S HANG SOME STOCKINGS AND TRIM SOME TREES, MOTHERFUCKER!!" It's, "Wow, that was depressing...and weird...I kinda just wanna get in my bed and cry." Thanks, Fogelberg.
[Update: Dan Fogelberg died nine days before Christmas in 2007, of prostate cancer. I'm going to hell.]
Another one that you probably know is "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime." Why did Paul McCartney, who I would say knows how to write a song or two, decide to go with some weird synthesizer shit? It's annoying, and makes me think of the mean futuristic neighbors in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. See for yourself. Doesn't it seem like they would listen to weird synthesizer Christmas music? Yes, it does.
The last Christmas song to draw my ire is the classic grotesque favorite of sadists everywhere, "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer." Why did this ever catch on? Why are we singing when grandma is dead? If you like this song, go ahead and think of your poor grandmother every time you gleefully sing the refrain. Not so fun, now, is it? No, because now you're making fun of your grandma's untimely death at the hands (or hooves, as it were) of Blitzen, who is probably under a lot of pressure from Santa to make it to your house anyway because you're such a spoiled brat. So in reality, it's your fault that grandma's dead. But keep singing, really, because what's funnier than dead old people at Christmas?
Friday, December 17, 2010
Clichés That Don't Make Sense
(Yes, I put the accent on the "e" in "Cliché". I was a French minor, and also happen to have an affinity for things that are correct. I know what you're thinking..."ugh, how bougie of her." Well, "bougie" comes from a French word. So how bougie of YOU. Suck it. Moving on.)
When speaking in everyday English, we often toss out certain age-old phrases, known as clichés, because we've heard them before, other people use them, they sound right for the situation. But unfortunately, we fail to independently examine these phrases and realize that they are the SOLE reason why the rest of the world thinks we are fucking NUTS. All the fat people walking around, the amount of energy we consume, our healthcare system--none are reasons why the rest of the world hates us. It's because we walk around saying shit like "You can't have your cake and eat it too."
Um...what? You're telling me I have cake, which is a particularly delicious food item, but I can't eat it? What the fuck am I supposed to do with it? Stare at it? Drool on it? Use it as a nice, fluffy, frosting-covered pillow when I pass out from the stress that results from having a piece of cake in front of me that I am forbidden to eat? If I can't eat the cake when I have, it, when do I get to eat it? When someone else has the cake? Do I steal it from my friend's plate? It's her birthday, I don't wanna steal her cake. I already showed up late and drunk to the party and forgot a present, I really can't do that to her. Maybe I can eat the cake before anyone has it, before they bring it out and sing! Can I eat it before it's cooked, while it's still in the batter stage? That's almost as good. But I'll get in trouble with whoever is cooking the cake. I'm so lost...my confidence is shot. Can I just have a little tiny piece of cake...please?
"Kill two birds with one stone." That one makes a little more sense...get a bunch of shit done at once. A little morbid, but hey, birds die. Fact of life. My question is, can we modernize it a little? "Kill 7 birds with one bullet if they're standing close enough together and you're using hunting ammunition, unless you're Dick Cheney, in which case you're killing your friend's face." A little longer, doesn't roll of the tongue quite as easily, but you can bet it'll be a fun conversation starter! When you're killing those two birds with one stone, keep in mind that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. So if you have the opportunity to throw a stone of death at two birds, make sure someone is holding them. They'll be worth twice as much. I think. Hopefully enough to pay for that person's broken hand.
"There's more than one way to skin a cat." Now, we all know I'm not the biggest fan of cats. But, gross. This one raises a whole host of unanswered questions. First, why are people skinning cats? When in history has anyone ever used cat fur for anything? Seriously. You can skin a rabbit, a deer, a moose, a bear, your friend (if you're Dick Cheney) but a cat? Unless you got really angry at your cats after reading my previous post, in which case I take absolutely no responsibility for your sudden cat hatred and will certainly not take the blame when PETA shows up at your house. Can you make a cat rug? No. A coat? Imagine your friend's face when you present the coat you got him, made out of cat fur. So that's a no. Slippers? Boots? Hats? No, no and no. No one skins cats. Ever. Secondly, how many ways are there, really, to skin a cat? I can think of one...with a knife. Do they have cat-skinning peelers, like giant vegetable peelers? Are there machines? If you leave the cat there long enough, will the skin just kind of peel off? For something that is supposed to imply that there are a lot of alternatives to accomplish what you are trying to do, they certainly picked an activity with very few different methods. How about, "There's more than one way to drive to Canada!" I mean, that's very true. You have the whole northern border of the U.S. to deal with, I'm sure there are hundreds of ways to cross it. Ok everyone, start saying "There's more than one way to drive to Canada." Do it. Make it a thing. Step one to world domination.
"It's as easy as pie." Clearly, whoever made that one up never even came close to making a fucking pie. That shit is hard. Take apple pie, for instance. Peel the apples. Core the apples. Slice the apples. Make the cinnamon-y gooey delicious shit and mix it all up with the apples. Mix all the crust ingredients together and roll the dough into a ball. Put it in the fridge. Watch the Ellen DeGeneres show. Take it out of the fridge. Roll it flat. Get angry when the crust gets stuck to the rolling pin and tears a hole in the flatness. Roll it up into a ball again. Roll it flat. Try to pry it off the counter without ruining the flatness. Fail. Roll it up into a ball. Roll it flat. Pry it off the counter and lay it over the pie dish. Put the gooey cinammon-y apples in the pie dish. Roll the other crust flat, and repeat all steps above for the lower crust. Lay the upper crust over the pie. Pinch upper and lower together to try and make it look like a lovely wavy scalloped edge, but wind up with deformed globs of crust at uneven intervals throughout the pie. Yell "fuck you!" at the photo of Martha Stewart staring at you from the cookbook, holding her perfect pie and standing amongst her tasteful Thanksgiving decorations. (who decorates for Thanksgiving? Really, Martha?) Throw the pie in the oven, storm out of the kitchen and yell at someone. Now, in what world would that ever be considered easy?
"In between a rock and a hard place." Really, cliché maker-upper? You couldn't be bothered to spend ten seconds to think of another hard place? Like, "In between a rock and an anvil." Or, "In between a rock and...another rock." C'mon dude. A little creativity here.
I could go on and on. There are hundreds of clichés out there, being used every day by unsuspecting citizens who are unaware of the crippling effect they are having on our global reputation. They're making me lose my marbles. So slow down. Get your ducks in a row. Think of a different way to say what you're trying to. Make a difference. If not, we'll all go to hell in a handbasket. And thanks for reading my blog. You're the bees knees.
When speaking in everyday English, we often toss out certain age-old phrases, known as clichés, because we've heard them before, other people use them, they sound right for the situation. But unfortunately, we fail to independently examine these phrases and realize that they are the SOLE reason why the rest of the world thinks we are fucking NUTS. All the fat people walking around, the amount of energy we consume, our healthcare system--none are reasons why the rest of the world hates us. It's because we walk around saying shit like "You can't have your cake and eat it too."
Um...what? You're telling me I have cake, which is a particularly delicious food item, but I can't eat it? What the fuck am I supposed to do with it? Stare at it? Drool on it? Use it as a nice, fluffy, frosting-covered pillow when I pass out from the stress that results from having a piece of cake in front of me that I am forbidden to eat? If I can't eat the cake when I have, it, when do I get to eat it? When someone else has the cake? Do I steal it from my friend's plate? It's her birthday, I don't wanna steal her cake. I already showed up late and drunk to the party and forgot a present, I really can't do that to her. Maybe I can eat the cake before anyone has it, before they bring it out and sing! Can I eat it before it's cooked, while it's still in the batter stage? That's almost as good. But I'll get in trouble with whoever is cooking the cake. I'm so lost...my confidence is shot. Can I just have a little tiny piece of cake...please?
"Kill two birds with one stone." That one makes a little more sense...get a bunch of shit done at once. A little morbid, but hey, birds die. Fact of life. My question is, can we modernize it a little? "Kill 7 birds with one bullet if they're standing close enough together and you're using hunting ammunition, unless you're Dick Cheney, in which case you're killing your friend's face." A little longer, doesn't roll of the tongue quite as easily, but you can bet it'll be a fun conversation starter! When you're killing those two birds with one stone, keep in mind that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. So if you have the opportunity to throw a stone of death at two birds, make sure someone is holding them. They'll be worth twice as much. I think. Hopefully enough to pay for that person's broken hand.
"There's more than one way to skin a cat." Now, we all know I'm not the biggest fan of cats. But, gross. This one raises a whole host of unanswered questions. First, why are people skinning cats? When in history has anyone ever used cat fur for anything? Seriously. You can skin a rabbit, a deer, a moose, a bear, your friend (if you're Dick Cheney) but a cat? Unless you got really angry at your cats after reading my previous post, in which case I take absolutely no responsibility for your sudden cat hatred and will certainly not take the blame when PETA shows up at your house. Can you make a cat rug? No. A coat? Imagine your friend's face when you present the coat you got him, made out of cat fur. So that's a no. Slippers? Boots? Hats? No, no and no. No one skins cats. Ever. Secondly, how many ways are there, really, to skin a cat? I can think of one...with a knife. Do they have cat-skinning peelers, like giant vegetable peelers? Are there machines? If you leave the cat there long enough, will the skin just kind of peel off? For something that is supposed to imply that there are a lot of alternatives to accomplish what you are trying to do, they certainly picked an activity with very few different methods. How about, "There's more than one way to drive to Canada!" I mean, that's very true. You have the whole northern border of the U.S. to deal with, I'm sure there are hundreds of ways to cross it. Ok everyone, start saying "There's more than one way to drive to Canada." Do it. Make it a thing. Step one to world domination.
"It's as easy as pie." Clearly, whoever made that one up never even came close to making a fucking pie. That shit is hard. Take apple pie, for instance. Peel the apples. Core the apples. Slice the apples. Make the cinnamon-y gooey delicious shit and mix it all up with the apples. Mix all the crust ingredients together and roll the dough into a ball. Put it in the fridge. Watch the Ellen DeGeneres show. Take it out of the fridge. Roll it flat. Get angry when the crust gets stuck to the rolling pin and tears a hole in the flatness. Roll it up into a ball again. Roll it flat. Try to pry it off the counter without ruining the flatness. Fail. Roll it up into a ball. Roll it flat. Pry it off the counter and lay it over the pie dish. Put the gooey cinammon-y apples in the pie dish. Roll the other crust flat, and repeat all steps above for the lower crust. Lay the upper crust over the pie. Pinch upper and lower together to try and make it look like a lovely wavy scalloped edge, but wind up with deformed globs of crust at uneven intervals throughout the pie. Yell "fuck you!" at the photo of Martha Stewart staring at you from the cookbook, holding her perfect pie and standing amongst her tasteful Thanksgiving decorations. (who decorates for Thanksgiving? Really, Martha?) Throw the pie in the oven, storm out of the kitchen and yell at someone. Now, in what world would that ever be considered easy?
"In between a rock and a hard place." Really, cliché maker-upper? You couldn't be bothered to spend ten seconds to think of another hard place? Like, "In between a rock and an anvil." Or, "In between a rock and...another rock." C'mon dude. A little creativity here.
I could go on and on. There are hundreds of clichés out there, being used every day by unsuspecting citizens who are unaware of the crippling effect they are having on our global reputation. They're making me lose my marbles. So slow down. Get your ducks in a row. Think of a different way to say what you're trying to. Make a difference. If not, we'll all go to hell in a handbasket. And thanks for reading my blog. You're the bees knees.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Cats
This post is going to take the form of a fun little role play scenario. (Not that kind of role play, relax and keep it in your pants.) You decide you want to buy a pet, so you go to the pet store and a nice lady who works there helps you decide what to get. She also happens to be the most honest person to ever walk the earth.
Option A is adorable. He's a cute little pile of fluff, and as soon as you walk up to his cage, he's so fucking excited to see you that you're afraid he might explode if he's not allowed to jump into your arms. He's got big, happy eyes and when he's looking at you, you know at that moment, you make him happier than he will ever be. The honest pet lady tells you what Option A will be like if you bring him home. He will always be adorable. He will think that every single thing he does is the most unbelievably exciting thing that has ever happened. He will never leave you. Ever. When you come home, whether you have been gone for 5 minutes or 5 months, he will absolutely lose his shit when you pull into the driveway. He will probably put his paws up on the window, looking outside, trying not to burst before you walk in the door. And when you walk in, it's over. He will be hysterical with excitement. Every single time you walk in the door, it will be the single happiest moment in his life so far. Without fail. He comes with a tail that moves back and forth whenever he is happy. It will always be moving back and forth. He is loyal. He will stay with you through thick and thin, and always love you no matter what kind of miserable shit you do. When you have a shitty day, he'll know. You'll sit down, and he'll walk over to you, rest his head on your knee and make you feel better. Always. When he finally passes away, you will feel like you've lost a kid, but you'll be forever grateful for the time you spent with him.
Option B is also cute, and fluffy. When you walk over to his cage, he's cool to just kind of kick it in the corner, and look at you as if you are a foreign invader. Honest pet lady tells you the deal with Option B. In a few months, he won't be that cute anymore. He won't really take any interest in you, he just kind of does his own thing. If you try to touch him, his back will arch, his hair will stick up, and he will emit an ungodly shriek that may make your ears bleed. If you persist, razor sharp talons will shoot out of his paws and he will hiss at you until you retreat to no less than ten feet away. When you get home, he will not come to the door. He will be in the basement, brooding about being held captive by such an inferior life form and planning your demise. If you let him get outside for even a minute, he will run away and never come back. Why? Because he hates you. He hates you, he hates people, he hates Option A's and Option B's and all other animals. And all other inanimate objects. He hates everything. Never try to pick him up. You will be scarred forever by the talons and he will shoot out of your arms and across the room. He pees and shits in a box that smells like pee and shit. This box makes your house smell like pee and shit. If you have a rough day, he won't have any idea, and if he does, he won't give a flying fuck. When he kicks the bucket, you will miss only the presence of a furry thing in your dwelling. You won't admit it, but your days will be a bit brighter and less stressful.
Ok, role play over. EVERYONE and their mother knows that Option A is a dog, and Option B is a cat. Why? Because cats suck. They do. For all the reasons I have enumerated above. I am a grown ass woman, and last summer I found myself crouching on a kitchen counter in a tiny NYC apartment, with oven mitts on my hands for protection, throwing string cheese at a cat to try and save myself from an untimely death at its hands. This thing took one fucking look at me and pounced. Unless you happen to be close with Michael Vick, that shit just does not happen with dogs. As I type, right at this very moment, my dog has walked over to me and laid down on top of my freezing bare feet. How did he know my feet were cold? Because he's a dog, which automatically means he's fucking awesome. If you want a pet that doesn't give a shit about you, at least get a gerbil or a rabbit or something...it's socially acceptable to keep them in a cage. But if you already have a cat...go ahead and get a cage, I won't tell anyone. Trust me, you'll be happier.
Option A is adorable. He's a cute little pile of fluff, and as soon as you walk up to his cage, he's so fucking excited to see you that you're afraid he might explode if he's not allowed to jump into your arms. He's got big, happy eyes and when he's looking at you, you know at that moment, you make him happier than he will ever be. The honest pet lady tells you what Option A will be like if you bring him home. He will always be adorable. He will think that every single thing he does is the most unbelievably exciting thing that has ever happened. He will never leave you. Ever. When you come home, whether you have been gone for 5 minutes or 5 months, he will absolutely lose his shit when you pull into the driveway. He will probably put his paws up on the window, looking outside, trying not to burst before you walk in the door. And when you walk in, it's over. He will be hysterical with excitement. Every single time you walk in the door, it will be the single happiest moment in his life so far. Without fail. He comes with a tail that moves back and forth whenever he is happy. It will always be moving back and forth. He is loyal. He will stay with you through thick and thin, and always love you no matter what kind of miserable shit you do. When you have a shitty day, he'll know. You'll sit down, and he'll walk over to you, rest his head on your knee and make you feel better. Always. When he finally passes away, you will feel like you've lost a kid, but you'll be forever grateful for the time you spent with him.
Option B is also cute, and fluffy. When you walk over to his cage, he's cool to just kind of kick it in the corner, and look at you as if you are a foreign invader. Honest pet lady tells you the deal with Option B. In a few months, he won't be that cute anymore. He won't really take any interest in you, he just kind of does his own thing. If you try to touch him, his back will arch, his hair will stick up, and he will emit an ungodly shriek that may make your ears bleed. If you persist, razor sharp talons will shoot out of his paws and he will hiss at you until you retreat to no less than ten feet away. When you get home, he will not come to the door. He will be in the basement, brooding about being held captive by such an inferior life form and planning your demise. If you let him get outside for even a minute, he will run away and never come back. Why? Because he hates you. He hates you, he hates people, he hates Option A's and Option B's and all other animals. And all other inanimate objects. He hates everything. Never try to pick him up. You will be scarred forever by the talons and he will shoot out of your arms and across the room. He pees and shits in a box that smells like pee and shit. This box makes your house smell like pee and shit. If you have a rough day, he won't have any idea, and if he does, he won't give a flying fuck. When he kicks the bucket, you will miss only the presence of a furry thing in your dwelling. You won't admit it, but your days will be a bit brighter and less stressful.
Ok, role play over. EVERYONE and their mother knows that Option A is a dog, and Option B is a cat. Why? Because cats suck. They do. For all the reasons I have enumerated above. I am a grown ass woman, and last summer I found myself crouching on a kitchen counter in a tiny NYC apartment, with oven mitts on my hands for protection, throwing string cheese at a cat to try and save myself from an untimely death at its hands. This thing took one fucking look at me and pounced. Unless you happen to be close with Michael Vick, that shit just does not happen with dogs. As I type, right at this very moment, my dog has walked over to me and laid down on top of my freezing bare feet. How did he know my feet were cold? Because he's a dog, which automatically means he's fucking awesome. If you want a pet that doesn't give a shit about you, at least get a gerbil or a rabbit or something...it's socially acceptable to keep them in a cage. But if you already have a cat...go ahead and get a cage, I won't tell anyone. Trust me, you'll be happier.
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