[Originally posted February 2011]

Shit list

The irritating guy next to me at Starbucks whistling along to the piped-in music. Whistling douchebags are bad enough, this dickhead ratchets it up a notch – he works the vibrato in his whistle.  How much did I want to empty my scalding cup of coffee right on his stupid puckered-up face.  Once in a while, he’d break into the vocals and sing along as well.  Then I realized, he’s singing “You make me feel like a natural womaaaan!”  OMG, could you be a bigger asshole.  Stop faux-auditioning, ‘cause I know that’s what you’re doing.  You’re whistling and working what you think is a sweet soul voice, in hopes that someone glitzy producer’s gonna walk into this shitty Starbucks in midtown, hear the musical nectar filling the air, and right there and then offer you a recording contract, three bitches, and a Phantom Drophead.  Shut your fucking piehole, you’re in Starbucks, not in front of Simon Cowell.

Dwyane Wade and Siohvaughn Wade. Thanks to overeager clicking on links over the NBA All-Star Weekend, I somehow know the name of D-Wade’s (ex?) wife’s name.  And I am all the dumber for it.  All I do is wanna bash the heads of these two numbskulls together.  BOTH of you, that is NOT how you spell your names, for fuck sake.

Commercials that say, “Tell them so-and-so sent you”. What?! What the hell is that supposed to mean or do?  ”Go to that car dealership and tell them Ronnie Douchebag sent you.”  What am I, your bitch now?  I don’t even know you, you odd person on TV.  What kind of imbecile goes to buy a car from some creep on the basis that an even bigger creep from TV gave him a line to recite to the salesperson?  I guarantee you if you went to buy a new couch and told the salesperson that Billy Ballbag sent you, you’d get punched in head.  And you’d deserve it, too.  Why do we put up with crap like this?  Surely there are better ways to negotiate a sale.  ”Jimmy Dickhead told me that if I buy my car from you, you’d supply free porn for as long as I own the car!  No?  Really?  Right, how about I take the car with a grand off your asking price then?”  I smell a win-win proposition there.

People with driveways who insist on parking their cars on the street. And they’re always these big monstrosities, some fat lumbering BMW X5 or Honda Odyssey.  It’s never a sensible car, and never a small car, like a Smart car or some shitty old Kia or something.  It’s got to be just large enough to make sure you block the entire lane in one direction so that to go around it, you’re headed straight for oncoming traffic.  They make me wish I drove something really shitty that I could use to accidentally on purpose T-bone these cars right onto their well-manicured front yards.

Hypothetical conversations with wifey. Once in a blue moon, the idea of saying “screw this”, packing everything up, and moving away to some other city to start anew becomes a peculiar conversation between wifey and I.  We don’t really mean it, it’s one of those curious “what if” pointless conversations one has after three vodka tonics with dinner.  And when Boston comes up, she can’t understand why I wouldn’t live there if my testicles depended on it.  ”What about Boston?”  ”Dear God, no.”  ”Why?  Boston’s nice.”  ”No, it’s not.  It’s the most awful sports market imaginable.”  ”What?!”  ”You heard me.  You’ve got the Red Sox.  And the Patriots.  In the same place.  I’d rather snort a line of anthrax and wash it down with a beaker of ebola than move to Boston.”  End of debate, thank you very much.

Hershey Kisses. By far – FAR! – the single-most loathsome candy in the world.  Everything about it this stupid chocolate chaps my ass.  First of all, it’s goddamn Hershey’s.  Which means that as far as the chocolate itself goes, you’re pretty much eating brown lumps of drywall.  Hershey’s make the shittiest chocolates on earth.  They make chocolates the way Taco Bell make taco meat.  There’s a fairy dusting of chocolate, and the rest of it is made up of various space age plastics, a bit of carbon filings, and scraps of an old desk.  Anyone who thinks that Hershey’s chocolate is good has never eaten chocolate.  But that’s not quite enough to make Hershey’s Kisses Satan’s love candy.  No, the pièce de résistance is the wrapper.  Specifically, that little shitty paper tab tucked into the top of a Hershey’s Kiss.  That is the most pointless and irritating packaging ever to designed into anything.  I’ve got kids – who apparently were born without the sense of taste – and a wife – also, suffering from the same palate disability – who fucking love Hershey’s Kisses.  And I find these little paper tabs all over the house.  I’m constantly losing my shit about making sure these little paper tabs make it into the trash can, but true to form, everyone in the house has got a listening problem, too.  These little paper tabs are everywhere.  I wanna punch the guy who thought that these little tabs were a clever idea.  Lose the fucking tabs, it’ll still be a piece of shit chocolate wrapped in foil, Hershey.  Plus, you’ll probably save a ton of cabbage.  Win-win.  Again.