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Archive for September, 2007

Does tardiness somehow lessen IQ?

How is it that people, ostensibly SMART people, can apparently be completely and utterly incapable of calculating their transit time in order to arrive somewhere AT THE APPOINTED TIME?

I mean honestly, if an iPod-listening, frowning and non-watch wearing teenager can get himself, his hair and his too-baggy pants into a community meeting on time, how is it that a double-Masters PhD like you can’t even get to a client meeting on time, when that client comes from a culture where PUNCTUALITY IS A MUST?

Or why can’t you, the software uber-geek, used to working insane hours to meet an arbitrary project deadline which even you deride, can’t get his sorry ass across town to meet the supposedly most important person in your life ON TIME?

Let me be clear:

1) Making others wait because you can’t get yourself organized to arrive on time IS NOT OK. It shows a complete lack of respect for their time.

2) If you can get an MS or PhD, you can get the concept of transit time. Until we have beam-me-up-Scotty technology, you DO need to take this into account when planning your movements. DO IT. Constantly arriving late doesn’t make you look busy and important, it makes you look stupid.

3) Calling 5 minutes before you’re meant to be somewhere just to say you’re going to be 40 minutes late IS NOT OK. Have you ever considered that maybe the person you’re meeting has just juggled their entire schedule and workload and risked several collisions to make absolutely, positively sure they WOULD be there on time? You didn’t suddenly realize you weren’t going to make it five minutes ago, idiot, you knew that at least 35 minutes ago. Why didn’t you call then, you dumbass? See 2) above.

3) Repeating 3) over and over doesn’t make it any less annoying or inconsiderate, it makes it MORE so.

Tardiness is for morons, my friends. Don’t make think of you as one.

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To the barista at my favorite caffeine refilling station:

Had you not been consuming so much of your own creations or snacking on Vita-Slim you snarf in desperation to shed the excess weight from the two gallons of double fudge ripple ice cream you inhaled while watching infomercials about losing excess tonnage last night, maybe the tremor in your hand would not have been so pronounced. I first took notice that the cup you were offering exhibited eddies from a Richter 4.5 happening in San Francisco when you placed the cup on the counter and a single sip slithered over the rim to spolsh upon the counter. That would have been fine for you to offer me the cup with an apology for the mess.

What you did next was an injustice to my taste buds let alone my immune system. Taking the rancid rag that had no doubt been used to swab up the last twenty of your mishandled creations you used it to lick up the misguided mouthful from the counter. Then you added the final and unforgivable injury to the proffered beverage. You used this bacteria and disease ridden towelette, this cloth that a sewer rat from New York would shun as too defiled to touch, to polish off the rest of your error from the side and place where my lips would have eventually come to rest on its porcelain surface. Then to my abject horror you offered the tainted device to me with an innocent smile.

When I objected and asked that sanitize my container an prepare another unsullied beverage, you had the audacity to wonder in your single celled brain why I would not accept the monstrosity. I did not ask for your hands to be amputated for the insult, as was my right. I asked for a beverage in my preferred customer’s platinum member cup to be presented with the honor it deserved.

Now give me a fresh coffee before I drain your blood by sticking this stir stick in your neck.

Mark

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Mark S, happy with his manhood 

How many more times will I get a variation of the mail-box clog about improving my manhood? I find it quite a bother to be continually told that nature forgot to endow me with the package that would make it difficult to wear a normal pair of jeans, let alone walk without a pirates peg-leg limp and that some monk sitting constipated has come up with a solution just for me.

I mean, how do they know I need help? Did the cybergeek Star Trek addict that formulated this and and other mind-numbing delete-key-deserving drivel somehow spy on me in my shower with an infrared telephoto wi-fi webcam bought at spysrus.com?

I fully understand the concept of mass advertising. But when an e-mail arrives at my mailbox, addressed to me specifically and my name used in the greeting instead of, say, an impersonal entry such as “Dear joke of a man,” I take insult.

The spammer is one of those dog-butt-sniffing, child-molesting porno star wannabees who needs to be neutered so that his progeny who will no doubt be born with less than the one brain cell and will never breathe the same air as us higher life forms. The spammer’s instrument is the one that needs recalibration, not mine.

For had he checked more thoroughly my curriculum vitae before adding me to his mail clog list, he would have known that I don’t need male enhancement. Had he surveyed the many women I known before, he would have gotten a response that would have made him seek me out for advice on how to use his tool more effectively. From the first to the latest, women who have experienced me, recall me with a returning glow of fond memory.

Rantasaurus Says: Oh, Mark, those were beautiful April nights in Paris… er…. yeah. Spam sucks.

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Dear Painfully-Idiotic Coworker,

I would really like to know exactly how people like you are born. So I could put a nationwide ban on the procedure. Honestly, we’re going to be seniors in high school now, you’d think you could have absorbed a tad more knowledge than you actually have. Does it ever seem like a good idea to throw rocks at dogs? Does it? Because really it’s just going to make them pissed off and (hopefully) claw your eyes out and bite your arm off.

We work at a dog kennel, where there is ALWAYS work to be done. So while I slave away cleaning kennels does it seem the best idea to chat on your cell phone for a half an hour? Really, the more pressing question is: do you like getting bleach sprayed in your face?

And bossing me around when I’ve worked here a year longer than you and happen to have an IQ double yours is probably not a good plan, sweetheart. I didn’t get a 34 on the ACT to have you try and tell me how to give a dog a bath (which, by the way, you do poorly – I didn’t even think that was possible).

And another thing… I don’t think it’s a coincidence that half the dogs here growl at you as you walk past. Just saying, I don’t think it’s the dog that’s the problem and yelling at them to stop is definitely going to help. Oh definitely. Let me bow down to your amazing and ingenious tactics.

I’m Sorry St. Francis,
Laura

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Dear Rent-A-Deputy,

I know that you think your store-bought badge makes you something special. I have to agree. It certainly qualifies you for Special Education classes based on your Inbred Mental Status. The sheriff’s department really caught an awesome guy when they finally threw out those anti-obesity rules.

You must feel incredibly brave protecting your Weight Watchers eschewing wife and your biting, barking, tree humping (also inbred) German shepherd from my elderly golden retriever mix. I know Shiloh can be terrifying when he’s trying to play. Especially when he flops down on the ground so you can rub his tummy. Fearsome. I bet you had to hold your hand steady when you nailed him with a snout full of pepper spray.

Next time you feel the need to protect Tubby and Humpy with pepper spray, I have some simple instructions for you.

1) Waddle to my front door and knock. When I answer, ask: “Ally, Shiloh’s in my yard. Could you please come get him?” I will gladly retrieve my arthritic, heart-diseased retriever.

2) Enjoy your calorie loaded breakfast with Tubby and go about your day without participating in animal cruelty.

If, in the event you choose to ignore instructions 1 and 2, bypass to instructions 3 and 4.
3) Retrieve your pepper spray. Point nozzle directly at your eyes to make certain it isn’t clogged.

4) Activate spray nozzle, maintaining eye contact with it at all times.

Following these instructions will prevent you from pissing me off.

Thanks so much,

Ally

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Dear Rat that is in my House,

You and I both know that while you have been in my house, I have not liked you. I don’t think you like me much either. Even though you accidentally stumbled upon this plethora of food that is my kitchen, I still blame you for my lack of sleep this week.

And now, my parents are out of town and if you were to die, I would have to deal with you.

But I don’t want you to be alive in my house anymore. If you could just leave, that would be excellent. For you see, you would still get to be alive, and I would not be afraid to go to sleep anymore.

I hope you know I can currently see you as you scurry across the floor. So can my hunting dog, whom is sleeping on my bed tonight. Also, if you could stop nibbling holes in my cereal boxes, that would be great. It makes it hard to pour in the morning with 2 spouts.

Please decide soon. I have to get up at 6 tomorrow morning, and I’m tired.

Thanks,
~Stephanie

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Dear Mr. Important,

Do you think you’re better than me? I, along with about 20 other cars, was stopped at a traffic light in the left lane, and you came in the empty right lane, (which was turn-only) and cut over at the last second into the left lane, thus cutting in front of all of us. Were you on the way to perform open-heart surgery? Were you on your way to talk down a jumper from the top of a skyscraper?

I bet not. I bet you’re just a douchebag on the way to some douchebag errand, like getting your faux-hawk styled or sneaking into a pilates
class to pick up chicks.

Watch it, or someone like me will run you off the road and ruin your douchebag day.

Sincerely,

Dan

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