Escalator steps.  This morning, I witnessed a mildly comical scene in which two blokes rushed for the same step on a escalator at Grand Central Terminal.  The grey-suited bloated attorney-looking guy huffing to the escalator to beat an equally large, bearded man in a hard hat and tool belt to get ahead in line.  The bloated suited man clearly underestimated his blue-collared counterpart and both men made it to the same rising step at the same time.  Neither one not willing to concede, both dummies mounted the step and squeezed together.  While neither looked at other, despite their proximity, the tips of their shoes were touching.  Both dummies, only a fraction of an inch from each other.  The escalator ride took maybe all of 10 seconds.  But that had to be the longest 10 seconds either of these schmucks experienced this week.  I hope they both contracted some airborne disease from each other for being a pair of stupid, unrelenting wankers.

Revolving doors.  Not dissimilar to escalator steps.  Another situation that can easily be avoided if some people weren’t such unrelenting assholes.  This time, though, it was me who was the asshole who mistimed his entry.  Typical sort of overdisplay of courtesy: I’m gesturing to my colleague to go through the door first, he’s gesturing that I go first, I insist, he insists, we both decide that this dance has gone on long enough and we both dive into the revolving section, we both make it, quickly realize what’s happened but can’t back out without causing serious injury to limbs.  I haven’t been stuck in such closed quarters with another dude since pledging my fraternity in college.

Shots.

This is a shot of Jameson.  Or at least, half a shot of Jameson.  It started life as a full, proper shot of the whiskey.  That is, until two people at the table decided to share a shot.  That’s right: two people, one shot.  What.  The fuck.

Entrees.  During one of my unfortunate business tripes to the middle of fucking nowhere, due to a crippling lack of options, I was forced to have a sad and lonely dinner at some shitty chain restaurant not dissimilar to a Crapplebees, but it was a regional joint and it was so shit that the people who get laughed at by Crapplebees turned around and laughed at how shitty this restaurant was.  It’s the sort of place that you can single-handedly blame for America’s obesity problems and you wouldn’t be wrong by any measure.  This was the sort of place that makes the French hate us even more.  But I digress.  As I’m working my way through the least poisonous thing on the menu (I think very humble burger), two dudes walk in with matching polo shirts.  The sort that companies give out to their employees, with the company name embroidered on the left chest.  And you guessed it – these two clowns ordered a couple of beers and shared a pasta entree.  What the fuck, dweebs.  No self-respecting dude shares an entree with another dude.  No exceptions, bitches.  No sharing entrees if you’re a dude.

This:

Nothing to see here, just a couple of burly dudes in matching American Eagle outfits sharing an iPad and watching a Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy on a flight to L.A.  Nope, nothing peculiar at all.