Lines.
Maybe it's because I'm getting older and slower, but it seems to me that people are getting a little fast and loose with the concept of lines these days. With deference to various cultural mores, for example those of France where lines are treated with the same disrespect as unconscious American tourists in Paris, lines are, however, recognized more or less the same way around the world. If you live in England, you will recognize these things as 'queues'. Thanks to a little butt kicking handed out towards the end of the 18th century, we don't have to call them that anymore.
Due to the recent behavior I've been observing in public, it's apparent to me that some of you need to repeat Kindergarten. See this is how a line works: you want something that other people who got there before also want, you get in a line, you wait in the line, and then you get your stuff. Let's repeat: you get in a line, you wait in the line, and then you get your stuff.
Apparently, some of you aren't listening.
OK, I know it was tough getting through kindergarten, but as I recall the final you had to pass to matriculate to the first grade essentially consisted of being able to form, remain in for some period of time, and then proceed to some location in a line. With the schools lamentably being what they are these days it seems that this part of the curriculum has been dropped as well. Now, I know getting that gluten free hot dog at the baseball stadium is much more important than say, waiting in the damned line for your turn to order from Mr. Grouchy One Tooth and his drooling sidekick "Hammy". I mean, what the hell is a gluten anyway, and why do you want to avoid them so badly that you're willing to take the risk of cutting in front of 20 beer addled MLB fans? Luckily for you, since it's the gluten-free stand, most of the people in the line are too weak to protest let alone grab you, stuff the entire hot dog stand up where the sun don't shine and give you a one way, gluten free trip on the butt kicker express to ouchy town.
Anyway, back to my point. How hard is it to wait in a freaking line? This type of behavior is not limited to the gluten challenged, either. It has spread out of control to include bank lines, starbucks, bathrooms and of course, anything at the mall. How is it that folks come across this sense of entitlement that inflates their ego to the point where it eclipses their instinct to avoid having a hotdog cart crammed into where-the-sun-don't-shinelvania? And, seriously, who wants a hotdog cart there?
Maybe you should spend more time at the DMV. As the old adage states, "practice makes perfect!", and they have freaking lines that last for ever. At the completion of each wait, you are usually sent to another line. Plus, they give everyone a number to keep you from cutting in.
Chances are, they've had a look at your Kindergarten transcript.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
State Patrol
I'm hoping that this little chapter sparks some debate, but I have a feeling it won't.
My starting premise is this: Is the State Patrol really a service set up to enforce law and order or is it really a just a pre-cancerous colonic polyp growing in the bowels of our local highways feeding on a hidden system of self-generated revenue?
I think you already know what I'm thinking, and it has nothing to do with duct tape or the Spice Girls.
I came to that conclusion after a recent run in with a typical member of the State Patrol. Recently I was riding my motorcycle in a local canyon when something went wrong in a corner and I put the bike down at a moderate velocity of about 30mph. Not really screaming along, you might say. You might also be saying, "what was that about the Spice Girls and duct tape?" I say, pay attention. Anyway, I managed to get a few bruises, but due to the excellent riding gear I was wearing I only got the good-hurt where nothing's broken but the nice lady at the ER writes me a prescription for the really fun stuff. As I was drifting off into a nice Vicodin fueled stupor, Officer Polyp shows up and drops a citation on me for careless driving with bodily injury. Normally, I would've been like "Get your tax fattened ass out here you parasitic, self important, glorified crossing guard!" Instead I said "F-Glurmph?" and then drooled a bit. My wife explained to me later what happened. Officer Polyp informed me that after his weekend long training course on riding motorcycles with the State Patrol he learned that motorcycles that look like mine have superior traction and handling characteristics such that any accident must be due to careless driving. This is without any consideration to the gravel, oil, cold road surface, tire wear, pressure and mammoth sized road kill conditions that were all present at the scene of the accident. (OK, I made up the mammoth, but still...) Apparently, according to Officer Polyp, red Ducati motorcycles can also defy gravity, withstand 20Gs without losing traction in corners and will cure cancer with their tears. My apologies Chuck Noris, it's not only you.
Anyway, due to the fact that no one but me was injured, the bodily injury part was essentially applied incorrectly, as the statute requires that someone OTHER than the driver received the bodily injury. Based on the complete lack of evidence for careless driving in this case, the addition of the bodily injury charge must be due to the officer's barely above pond scum level of intellect tricking him into thinking that there was a mouse in my pocket. ("Write him a Ticket, George!") The mouse must've been somehow injured during the crash. Soon I was meeting with the DA, who's familiarity with the case upon meeting me for an interview during my initial hearing prompted him to ask me what type of car I was driving when I ran over the pedestrian. I was informed that the charges were probably incorrect, but would be amended after he had time to come up with new ones. So, basically no matter how incompetent and stupid the officer writing the citation happens to be, the system will still try to find a way to stick it to you.
The only conclusion that anyone can reasonably make regarding the activities of the State Patrol is that whenever they show up, someone is getting a bill. The best part about this is that they can generate enough money from shake downs like this enable them to hire more State Patrol. Remember that cancer analogy I brought up at the beginning? They might as well install a credit card reader right onto the patrol cars. That way, we can at least cut out the middle men, such as the DA, who was literally stealing oxygen while talking to me. No joke, he totally bogarted this old lady's O2 canister right in the middle of traffic court, jammed it up his nose and started swilling down O2 that could be used for all kinds of other productive purposes, such as bringing back Jacques Cousteau! Back to my point, have you ever noticed how at every speed trap, there seem to be more and more State Patrol cars? That's because they're trying to induct all of their friends and family. Every 10 tickets per day opens up the slot for another officer. Pretty soon we'll all be in the State Patrol, and then we'll have to ramp up a serious tourism marketing campaign to bring in more out of state drivers to keep the ticket revenue flowing. Of course, you'll never have a trooper around when someone is committing an actual crime since they'll all be either sitting in speed traps or following around motorists waiting for them to have an accident so that they can swipe their credit cards.
I guess the best option is avoid them all together. I'd recommend taking the bus, but you might fall down the steps and get cited for skydiving without a parachute.
For my money, next time I'm going to try to run into the Spice Girls.
My starting premise is this: Is the State Patrol really a service set up to enforce law and order or is it really a just a pre-cancerous colonic polyp growing in the bowels of our local highways feeding on a hidden system of self-generated revenue?
I think you already know what I'm thinking, and it has nothing to do with duct tape or the Spice Girls.
I came to that conclusion after a recent run in with a typical member of the State Patrol. Recently I was riding my motorcycle in a local canyon when something went wrong in a corner and I put the bike down at a moderate velocity of about 30mph. Not really screaming along, you might say. You might also be saying, "what was that about the Spice Girls and duct tape?" I say, pay attention. Anyway, I managed to get a few bruises, but due to the excellent riding gear I was wearing I only got the good-hurt where nothing's broken but the nice lady at the ER writes me a prescription for the really fun stuff. As I was drifting off into a nice Vicodin fueled stupor, Officer Polyp shows up and drops a citation on me for careless driving with bodily injury. Normally, I would've been like "Get your tax fattened ass out here you parasitic, self important, glorified crossing guard!" Instead I said "F-Glurmph?" and then drooled a bit. My wife explained to me later what happened. Officer Polyp informed me that after his weekend long training course on riding motorcycles with the State Patrol he learned that motorcycles that look like mine have superior traction and handling characteristics such that any accident must be due to careless driving. This is without any consideration to the gravel, oil, cold road surface, tire wear, pressure and mammoth sized road kill conditions that were all present at the scene of the accident. (OK, I made up the mammoth, but still...) Apparently, according to Officer Polyp, red Ducati motorcycles can also defy gravity, withstand 20Gs without losing traction in corners and will cure cancer with their tears. My apologies Chuck Noris, it's not only you.
Anyway, due to the fact that no one but me was injured, the bodily injury part was essentially applied incorrectly, as the statute requires that someone OTHER than the driver received the bodily injury. Based on the complete lack of evidence for careless driving in this case, the addition of the bodily injury charge must be due to the officer's barely above pond scum level of intellect tricking him into thinking that there was a mouse in my pocket. ("Write him a Ticket, George!") The mouse must've been somehow injured during the crash. Soon I was meeting with the DA, who's familiarity with the case upon meeting me for an interview during my initial hearing prompted him to ask me what type of car I was driving when I ran over the pedestrian. I was informed that the charges were probably incorrect, but would be amended after he had time to come up with new ones. So, basically no matter how incompetent and stupid the officer writing the citation happens to be, the system will still try to find a way to stick it to you.
The only conclusion that anyone can reasonably make regarding the activities of the State Patrol is that whenever they show up, someone is getting a bill. The best part about this is that they can generate enough money from shake downs like this enable them to hire more State Patrol. Remember that cancer analogy I brought up at the beginning? They might as well install a credit card reader right onto the patrol cars. That way, we can at least cut out the middle men, such as the DA, who was literally stealing oxygen while talking to me. No joke, he totally bogarted this old lady's O2 canister right in the middle of traffic court, jammed it up his nose and started swilling down O2 that could be used for all kinds of other productive purposes, such as bringing back Jacques Cousteau! Back to my point, have you ever noticed how at every speed trap, there seem to be more and more State Patrol cars? That's because they're trying to induct all of their friends and family. Every 10 tickets per day opens up the slot for another officer. Pretty soon we'll all be in the State Patrol, and then we'll have to ramp up a serious tourism marketing campaign to bring in more out of state drivers to keep the ticket revenue flowing. Of course, you'll never have a trooper around when someone is committing an actual crime since they'll all be either sitting in speed traps or following around motorists waiting for them to have an accident so that they can swipe their credit cards.
I guess the best option is avoid them all together. I'd recommend taking the bus, but you might fall down the steps and get cited for skydiving without a parachute.
For my money, next time I'm going to try to run into the Spice Girls.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Karaoke
I finally figured Karaoke out. It's the modern incarnation of the freak show, dispersed to every local community, that allows it's participants to potentially have sex with the other freaks. The pain comes in when the non-freaks, meaning everybody who had a normal childhood, have to listen to some one's imitation of the sounds that result when a live cat is skinned to a Stevie Nick's ballad.
Karaoke can strike anywhere at anytime. For obvious reasons, it's not advertised well. Often that sign that tells us normal folk that Wednesday is Karaoke Night is missing key letters such as A through Y, making it difficult to know whether it's safe to enter and order food. Some poor unsuspecting bastard, me for example, will go into a perfectly normal looking bar for a beer and a burger with a friend. Suddenly, in walk women in weird shoes with gold hair and black and white horizontally striped stockings followed by guys wearing star shaped, spangle rimmed sunglasses and purple Cat-in-the-hat hats. They start milling around aimlessly, swilling shooters in an attempt to kill off whatever is left of that little voice in their head that stops regular people from doing bad things to one another. I mean, Karaoke isn't Genocide, but I think you can get there from here. Soon, someone starts making Whoop-whoop noises and begins plugging in the sound system.
At that point, it's too late.
Your waitress has gone into hiding and you will never see your check in time to get out before the "singing" starts. I think that's how the community of Karaoke singers keeps growing. See, now you're stuck and will be there until someone gets your name on a request ticket, puts a few more drinks in you, and in no time at all you're doing your best "Winger" impression. Yeah, that's right, I said "Winger". Then, another very drunk person decides that you should be serenaded and before you know it, you've made little Karaoke artists. It's similar to the natural selection processes of the Galapagos islands, isolating breeding and evolution within groups of drunken Wednesday night American Idol wannabes. Your children will be born with an innate ability to air guitar and lip sync. GAH!
The saddest part of the whole awful practice is that since Karaoke came to our shores from Japan, somehow the Karaoke DJs here changed the word. Ok, read the letters: Karaoke. Pronounced Kah-ra-oh-kay. They had to make it Kah-ri-oh-kee. Why? They even still spell it Karaoke. Recently I saw it spelled Karioke at a local sports bar looking to pump up it's weeknight crowd. However, the specific day of the week that the event was to be held had been mysteriously stricken from the sign. I saw a guy lurking in the back with a funny hat. I went to Chili's.
Karaoke can strike anywhere at anytime. For obvious reasons, it's not advertised well. Often that sign that tells us normal folk that Wednesday is Karaoke Night is missing key letters such as A through Y, making it difficult to know whether it's safe to enter and order food. Some poor unsuspecting bastard, me for example, will go into a perfectly normal looking bar for a beer and a burger with a friend. Suddenly, in walk women in weird shoes with gold hair and black and white horizontally striped stockings followed by guys wearing star shaped, spangle rimmed sunglasses and purple Cat-in-the-hat hats. They start milling around aimlessly, swilling shooters in an attempt to kill off whatever is left of that little voice in their head that stops regular people from doing bad things to one another. I mean, Karaoke isn't Genocide, but I think you can get there from here. Soon, someone starts making Whoop-whoop noises and begins plugging in the sound system.
At that point, it's too late.
Your waitress has gone into hiding and you will never see your check in time to get out before the "singing" starts. I think that's how the community of Karaoke singers keeps growing. See, now you're stuck and will be there until someone gets your name on a request ticket, puts a few more drinks in you, and in no time at all you're doing your best "Winger" impression. Yeah, that's right, I said "Winger". Then, another very drunk person decides that you should be serenaded and before you know it, you've made little Karaoke artists. It's similar to the natural selection processes of the Galapagos islands, isolating breeding and evolution within groups of drunken Wednesday night American Idol wannabes. Your children will be born with an innate ability to air guitar and lip sync. GAH!
The saddest part of the whole awful practice is that since Karaoke came to our shores from Japan, somehow the Karaoke DJs here changed the word. Ok, read the letters: Karaoke. Pronounced Kah-ra-oh-kay. They had to make it Kah-ri-oh-kee. Why? They even still spell it Karaoke. Recently I saw it spelled Karioke at a local sports bar looking to pump up it's weeknight crowd. However, the specific day of the week that the event was to be held had been mysteriously stricken from the sign. I saw a guy lurking in the back with a funny hat. I went to Chili's.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Who's laughing Now???
A buddy sent this to me.
I'm getting cynical. So what? I think this pretty much sums it up though. Click on the image if you want to read the fine print.
Although I have tried to remain a-political on this blog, something snapped when I opened my retirement account statement the other day. It was almost like I went back in time to 1998, at least financially. (it would be nice to get my hair back, though)
Sunday, August 31, 2008
The Left Lane
Stay out of the left lane. I mean it.
If you're reading this and saying to yourself, "gosh, I have a right to be in the left lane like everybody else!", then you need start taking the bus.
Here's a simple rule:
If you're driving in the left lane and you're not going faster than the people in the lane immediately to your right, you need to get out of the left lane.
Here's another one:
If there's someone behind you, and you're in the left lane, and they're tailgating you while making gestures and possibly waving a gun around, you need to get out of the left lane.
Why is this so hard to understand? There are even signs to this effect all over America's highways:
"Slow Traffic Keep Right",
"Faster Vehicles Use Left Lane",
"Self Centered Fascist Idiot Slow Drivers On The Phone In the Left Lane DIE".
You know it's you. And don't try to pawn it off on the unlicensed drivers. Somebody said that to me once. "It's those unlicensed drivers in the left lane holding everything up!" Well, it's not. It's you.
Here's my reasoning...
A recent study found that across the USA, the range of unlicensed drivers on the road ranges somewhere between 6% - 23%, depending on what state you live in. (don't ask for a citation, just go google "percentage of unlicensed drivers" yourself, chucklehead) In my state it runs somewhere around 10%. Even if I assume that 100% of the unlicensed drivers on the roads in my state are illiterate, not receiving the training provided by the booklet they want you to read at the DMV before you take your driver's test, and therefore couldn't read the "Slower Traffic Keep Right" admonition, then how come 85% of the drivers on the road manage to find their way in front of me in the left lane going 5 MPH below the speed limit?? They're usually on the phone, too. The best part about these retards is the finger you get from them when you get to pass them on the right just after they finish telling their mom about this asshole on their bumper and why can't people just get along.
The conclusion is simple. It's you. You're in the left lane going slower than a flotilla of dead squirrels drifting across a city water reclamation pool. From the perspective of the people behind you the squirrels have more of a right to exist than you do. If the collective Hate Energy of those trapped in the left lane behind you could be harnessed, America's dependence on foreign oil would be over in about a nanosecond. You can drive just as slowly in the right lane. Or on your couch. Either way you'll be able to console yourself with the fact that you've probably lowered the blood pressure of about six thousand people a day, improving the overall health of the general driving population.
Oh, and then there's the Truckers. Being raised on five teeth and a banjo seems to preselect an individual to a long career of caffeine and hemorrhoids. I get the fact that truckers have a job to do, but in no way does this give them the right to form a crawling roadblock 5 trucks wide going up a mountain pass. At what point is it OK to think that going 32 MPH gives you the right to hold up the entire driving world so that you can go around the tanker in front of you that's going 31 MPH? This will never seem reasonable to the other people on the road no matter how many Kurt Russel movies you've seen. Do us all a favor and put your next load on a train and go to night school. Who knows, maybe you'll invent the flying car, and that'll for sure open the left lane....
If you're reading this and saying to yourself, "gosh, I have a right to be in the left lane like everybody else!", then you need start taking the bus.
Here's a simple rule:
If you're driving in the left lane and you're not going faster than the people in the lane immediately to your right, you need to get out of the left lane.
Here's another one:
If there's someone behind you, and you're in the left lane, and they're tailgating you while making gestures and possibly waving a gun around, you need to get out of the left lane.
Why is this so hard to understand? There are even signs to this effect all over America's highways:
"Slow Traffic Keep Right",
"Faster Vehicles Use Left Lane",
"Self Centered Fascist Idiot Slow Drivers On The Phone In the Left Lane DIE".
You know it's you. And don't try to pawn it off on the unlicensed drivers. Somebody said that to me once. "It's those unlicensed drivers in the left lane holding everything up!" Well, it's not. It's you.
Here's my reasoning...
A recent study found that across the USA, the range of unlicensed drivers on the road ranges somewhere between 6% - 23%, depending on what state you live in. (don't ask for a citation, just go google "percentage of unlicensed drivers" yourself, chucklehead) In my state it runs somewhere around 10%. Even if I assume that 100% of the unlicensed drivers on the roads in my state are illiterate, not receiving the training provided by the booklet they want you to read at the DMV before you take your driver's test, and therefore couldn't read the "Slower Traffic Keep Right" admonition, then how come 85% of the drivers on the road manage to find their way in front of me in the left lane going 5 MPH below the speed limit?? They're usually on the phone, too. The best part about these retards is the finger you get from them when you get to pass them on the right just after they finish telling their mom about this asshole on their bumper and why can't people just get along.
The conclusion is simple. It's you. You're in the left lane going slower than a flotilla of dead squirrels drifting across a city water reclamation pool. From the perspective of the people behind you the squirrels have more of a right to exist than you do. If the collective Hate Energy of those trapped in the left lane behind you could be harnessed, America's dependence on foreign oil would be over in about a nanosecond. You can drive just as slowly in the right lane. Or on your couch. Either way you'll be able to console yourself with the fact that you've probably lowered the blood pressure of about six thousand people a day, improving the overall health of the general driving population.
Oh, and then there's the Truckers. Being raised on five teeth and a banjo seems to preselect an individual to a long career of caffeine and hemorrhoids. I get the fact that truckers have a job to do, but in no way does this give them the right to form a crawling roadblock 5 trucks wide going up a mountain pass. At what point is it OK to think that going 32 MPH gives you the right to hold up the entire driving world so that you can go around the tanker in front of you that's going 31 MPH? This will never seem reasonable to the other people on the road no matter how many Kurt Russel movies you've seen. Do us all a favor and put your next load on a train and go to night school. Who knows, maybe you'll invent the flying car, and that'll for sure open the left lane....
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Starbucks
Yeah, ok, been away awhile. Nobody's reading anyway.
Fine.
So, it looks like Starbucks has saturated. Shame, really. I'm good with the Starbucks across the street from a Starbucks. I go the store. I get a coffee. I come home. I get a coffee. I don't have to make a left turn. Cool.
People think that you should have to work harder for your coffee. I'm not in agreement. I'm not saying that we need more Starbucks. We need less customers.
The problem is basically this:
The line at the Starbucks counter is not the place or the time to impose your personal re-affirmation techniques. I understand that you think you have rights and you think that it's ok to hold up the 15 or 20 raging caffine junkies in line behind you, with more being added at a rate of 5 to 10 per second, and who, in all likelyhood, would press a button, if it were available, dumping you into a mixture of battery acid and angry pirrahnas without a nanosecond's moment of remorse, just to get you the hell out of the way so that they can get to their Joe. The Starbucks line, especially in the morning, is no place for ammetuers. You don't wait until you get to the counter to figure out what you want to order. If you don't know what you want by the time you get to the Starbucks, go to Peaberry's and practice. Here's how it works: Get in line, order, pay -> WITH CASH OR A GIFT CARD, and get the hell out of the way! DO NOT:
1) Argue over the price.
It's the price. You pay it. They give you the coffee. Then, the guy behind you gets to order. The guy at the cash register is a pro, or he'd be working at the Walmart. Starbucks HAS benefits. That's why they have good people at the cash register who know what the price is. Douche bag.
2) Talk to the coffee person.
They don't want to talk to you. They have to say "Hello, how are you doing?" It's part of their job. They secretly hate you and that's the truth. If you order, hit them with a false smile, get your drink and get out of the way, you might earn grudging respect from the people behind you. The coffee person is just the delivery agent, man. Don't pretend they're your friends. We all know better.
3) Pick out anything else to buy.
You're just buying the swag to try to impress everybody behind you in line, or the coffee person. We know you can't afford it, and that coffee cup you're buying that comes with the Dave Matthews stamp of Eco approval doesn't really save the environment either.
4) Pay with a check(!)
God, if you have to be told, you need to go play in traffic. We all know that sucker's gonna bounce anyway. Check writers at Starbucks are usually floating a couple of house payments. If you need to write a check for a cup of coffee, instead consider switching to Tea, the kind you make yourself, and will be forced to drink at the shelter once all that debt comes crashing down.
5) Discuss your order.
Don't. Just don't. They're not interested. We're not interested. It's a drink. If you want the coffee person's phone number, ask for their phone number. Discussing your order makes you look like a stalker, which you probably are.
6) Change your order.
If you didn't want the double half-caff retardo-latte with Cinnamon sprinkles, deal with it. You ordered it. Something in you really wanted it. You're denying your inner self. Changing your order holds up the line and might get your car keyed. Those door dings are NOT accidental.
7) Read the menu at the counter.
For God's sake, if you're reading the menu when you get to the counter, everybody behind you wants you to die. We're not fooling around here. We can see what some of you human pustules are thinking when you get up there. "I have a right to be here and talk to the coffee person and discuss what I think I'm going to order and I have a right to question every detail and the numbers come up so fast and the coffee's really expensive here, do you really think it should cost that much? And, did I order one Latte or two, and is it OK if I write a check?" FAH!
Remember, we have a legal addiction. Sometimes that gets you off the hook for antisocial behavior....
Amen.
Fine.
So, it looks like Starbucks has saturated. Shame, really. I'm good with the Starbucks across the street from a Starbucks. I go the store. I get a coffee. I come home. I get a coffee. I don't have to make a left turn. Cool.
People think that you should have to work harder for your coffee. I'm not in agreement. I'm not saying that we need more Starbucks. We need less customers.
The problem is basically this:
The line at the Starbucks counter is not the place or the time to impose your personal re-affirmation techniques. I understand that you think you have rights and you think that it's ok to hold up the 15 or 20 raging caffine junkies in line behind you, with more being added at a rate of 5 to 10 per second, and who, in all likelyhood, would press a button, if it were available, dumping you into a mixture of battery acid and angry pirrahnas without a nanosecond's moment of remorse, just to get you the hell out of the way so that they can get to their Joe. The Starbucks line, especially in the morning, is no place for ammetuers. You don't wait until you get to the counter to figure out what you want to order. If you don't know what you want by the time you get to the Starbucks, go to Peaberry's and practice. Here's how it works: Get in line, order, pay -> WITH CASH OR A GIFT CARD, and get the hell out of the way! DO NOT:
1) Argue over the price.
It's the price. You pay it. They give you the coffee. Then, the guy behind you gets to order. The guy at the cash register is a pro, or he'd be working at the Walmart. Starbucks HAS benefits. That's why they have good people at the cash register who know what the price is. Douche bag.
2) Talk to the coffee person.
They don't want to talk to you. They have to say "Hello, how are you doing?" It's part of their job. They secretly hate you and that's the truth. If you order, hit them with a false smile, get your drink and get out of the way, you might earn grudging respect from the people behind you. The coffee person is just the delivery agent, man. Don't pretend they're your friends. We all know better.
3) Pick out anything else to buy.
You're just buying the swag to try to impress everybody behind you in line, or the coffee person. We know you can't afford it, and that coffee cup you're buying that comes with the Dave Matthews stamp of Eco approval doesn't really save the environment either.
4) Pay with a check(!)
God, if you have to be told, you need to go play in traffic. We all know that sucker's gonna bounce anyway. Check writers at Starbucks are usually floating a couple of house payments. If you need to write a check for a cup of coffee, instead consider switching to Tea, the kind you make yourself, and will be forced to drink at the shelter once all that debt comes crashing down.
5) Discuss your order.
Don't. Just don't. They're not interested. We're not interested. It's a drink. If you want the coffee person's phone number, ask for their phone number. Discussing your order makes you look like a stalker, which you probably are.
6) Change your order.
If you didn't want the double half-caff retardo-latte with Cinnamon sprinkles, deal with it. You ordered it. Something in you really wanted it. You're denying your inner self. Changing your order holds up the line and might get your car keyed. Those door dings are NOT accidental.
7) Read the menu at the counter.
For God's sake, if you're reading the menu when you get to the counter, everybody behind you wants you to die. We're not fooling around here. We can see what some of you human pustules are thinking when you get up there. "I have a right to be here and talk to the coffee person and discuss what I think I'm going to order and I have a right to question every detail and the numbers come up so fast and the coffee's really expensive here, do you really think it should cost that much? And, did I order one Latte or two, and is it OK if I write a check?" FAH!
Remember, we have a legal addiction. Sometimes that gets you off the hook for antisocial behavior....
Amen.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Air Travel
Air Travel.
This is a rant. Just in case you're not getting it, I wanted to make that clear.
I travel a bit. Most of the traveling I do is work related and a fair bit of it involves trips overseas. I've been some places that I wouldn't have considered going unless I had to be there for work, such as Suzhou, China, or Houston. Nobody should have to go to Houston, unless you live there, in which case the actual going to Houston should only involve the trip that it takes to get your stuff and go somewhere else. I digress. We'll deal with Houston some other time.
Now, the "being there" part of travel has always been great. I've never had an unpleasant experience at my destination, whether it was touring factories in the worst parts of Lima, setting up a trade show booth in Fort Worth or having all night business negotiations in Seoul, the latter which consisted of trying to get the other guy to agree to a three percent break on the product cost before I had to do a shot of something that might have consisted of fermented snake poop.
However, one must consider the "getting there" part of air travel. As was eloquently described by a software manager I used to work with, "there's something off about being sealed into an aluminum tube and shot through the air at 500mph."
It's not about the food. Everybody always expects that any airline rant involves some kind of discussion about how bad the food is. Well, I guess the airlines were listening, because now, there isn't any food, unless you consider the xxxx-bag full of pretzels that comes at you at about 9 kuh-billion miles an hour just after you catch an elbow in the ribs from the guy sitting next to you five seconds after you nod off. The "flight-attendants" are obligated to deliver this little present to you with the utmost contempt since they can't spread it out over the serving of reconstituted bean and jellied-fish paste they used to pass off as Salisbury steak. Remember how they used to smirk? "Here's your fish-pas... uh, steak. Heh heh...."
The galling part of air travel is the contrast between the extraordinary technology involved and the utter, rank incompetence of every other aspect of the process. This contrast lurks just below the surface, a landscape of every missing bag, fake smile and onion-breathed "Buh-Bye" you get as you de-plane, the mountain range resulting from two prom-night drunk continents of incompetence and NASA bred technology crashing into each other with almost Himalayan abandon. On the one hand, you have an engine capable of producing horsepower that can put a schoolbus in orbit hanging off of an airframe that will last easily through fifty thousand hours of operation. (That doesn't seem like much? Consider that your best Honda will disintegrate after about five thousand hours of operation.) On the other hand, you have to watch a lucrative trip hit the fan because some idiot drove a luggage cart into an airplane between your gate and the runway. ("Gorg not see big aluminum thing in way. Gorg just here to eat luggage.") The best part is watching them work out how they're going to route you to your destination following this tragedy, the new route which will consist of a connecting flight that won't connect, no matter how hard you try to fit the gates together. Putting over seven hundred thousand pounds of aluminum and disgruntled human cattle into the air three thousand times a day with less than one accident every couple of years while not being able to plan ahead far enough to get more than seven sandwiches on board prior to takeoff deserves some kind of award in Idiot Savantry.
And don't get me started on the TSA.
The real reason you have to take your shoes off is so that you don't inadvertently pull them off your feet and use them to kill everybody wearing a white uniform as you go through the security check point in an honest attempt to improve the human race by re-instituting natural selection. No joke, working for the TSA is a clear signal to the laws of nature that you have been selected against. There is no pride in this. If you're considering working for the TSA, instead finish that GED, go to night school and get back into the game. The TSA or "Thousands Standing Around" make the kids from Tard Blog look like the next graduating class from MIT. Being told to take off my shoes and explain why I chose to include my toothbrush in the baggy with my shaving cream to an illiterate, vastly overweight, toothless troglodyte in a white shirt while I'm trying to make a flight that was somehow rescheduled to leave a half hour early without notice is one extreme hassle that should only be reserved for Microsoft employees. To make matters worse, whenever one of those re-routing incidents occurs, you get the super secret probulator special treatment where Trog-Boy paws through your stuff, getting distracted for at least ten minutes on some shiny bits of paper in the bottom of your suitcase, and then sticks a metal detector wand up your how-do-you-do. The result being that you will now miss that connecting flight that you thought you had a shot at making.
And you have a wand up your how-do-you-do.
In all likelihood, you will spend a night in Houston.
This is a rant. Just in case you're not getting it, I wanted to make that clear.
I travel a bit. Most of the traveling I do is work related and a fair bit of it involves trips overseas. I've been some places that I wouldn't have considered going unless I had to be there for work, such as Suzhou, China, or Houston. Nobody should have to go to Houston, unless you live there, in which case the actual going to Houston should only involve the trip that it takes to get your stuff and go somewhere else. I digress. We'll deal with Houston some other time.
Now, the "being there" part of travel has always been great. I've never had an unpleasant experience at my destination, whether it was touring factories in the worst parts of Lima, setting up a trade show booth in Fort Worth or having all night business negotiations in Seoul, the latter which consisted of trying to get the other guy to agree to a three percent break on the product cost before I had to do a shot of something that might have consisted of fermented snake poop.
However, one must consider the "getting there" part of air travel. As was eloquently described by a software manager I used to work with, "there's something off about being sealed into an aluminum tube and shot through the air at 500mph."
It's not about the food. Everybody always expects that any airline rant involves some kind of discussion about how bad the food is. Well, I guess the airlines were listening, because now, there isn't any food, unless you consider the xxxx-bag full of pretzels that comes at you at about 9 kuh-billion miles an hour just after you catch an elbow in the ribs from the guy sitting next to you five seconds after you nod off. The "flight-attendants" are obligated to deliver this little present to you with the utmost contempt since they can't spread it out over the serving of reconstituted bean and jellied-fish paste they used to pass off as Salisbury steak. Remember how they used to smirk? "Here's your fish-pas... uh, steak. Heh heh...."
The galling part of air travel is the contrast between the extraordinary technology involved and the utter, rank incompetence of every other aspect of the process. This contrast lurks just below the surface, a landscape of every missing bag, fake smile and onion-breathed "Buh-Bye" you get as you de-plane, the mountain range resulting from two prom-night drunk continents of incompetence and NASA bred technology crashing into each other with almost Himalayan abandon. On the one hand, you have an engine capable of producing horsepower that can put a schoolbus in orbit hanging off of an airframe that will last easily through fifty thousand hours of operation. (That doesn't seem like much? Consider that your best Honda will disintegrate after about five thousand hours of operation.) On the other hand, you have to watch a lucrative trip hit the fan because some idiot drove a luggage cart into an airplane between your gate and the runway. ("Gorg not see big aluminum thing in way. Gorg just here to eat luggage.") The best part is watching them work out how they're going to route you to your destination following this tragedy, the new route which will consist of a connecting flight that won't connect, no matter how hard you try to fit the gates together. Putting over seven hundred thousand pounds of aluminum and disgruntled human cattle into the air three thousand times a day with less than one accident every couple of years while not being able to plan ahead far enough to get more than seven sandwiches on board prior to takeoff deserves some kind of award in Idiot Savantry.
And don't get me started on the TSA.
The real reason you have to take your shoes off is so that you don't inadvertently pull them off your feet and use them to kill everybody wearing a white uniform as you go through the security check point in an honest attempt to improve the human race by re-instituting natural selection. No joke, working for the TSA is a clear signal to the laws of nature that you have been selected against. There is no pride in this. If you're considering working for the TSA, instead finish that GED, go to night school and get back into the game. The TSA or "Thousands Standing Around" make the kids from Tard Blog look like the next graduating class from MIT. Being told to take off my shoes and explain why I chose to include my toothbrush in the baggy with my shaving cream to an illiterate, vastly overweight, toothless troglodyte in a white shirt while I'm trying to make a flight that was somehow rescheduled to leave a half hour early without notice is one extreme hassle that should only be reserved for Microsoft employees. To make matters worse, whenever one of those re-routing incidents occurs, you get the super secret probulator special treatment where Trog-Boy paws through your stuff, getting distracted for at least ten minutes on some shiny bits of paper in the bottom of your suitcase, and then sticks a metal detector wand up your how-do-you-do. The result being that you will now miss that connecting flight that you thought you had a shot at making.
And you have a wand up your how-do-you-do.
In all likelihood, you will spend a night in Houston.
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