May 17th, 2010
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May 17th, 2010 | Posted in Uncategorized No Comments »
December 14th, 2009
A Pissy Little Christmas
Fa la la la la, la la frickin’ la. It’s Christmas and I want to deck someone’s halls … preferably using a blunt object. Nothing brings out the holly-green bile in me like the idiocy associated with the holidays. Let me finish wrapping this anti-personnel mine and I’ll treat you to my official list of yuletide things that make me want to bitch slap an elf:
Shut up and check out! When women are in full shopping mode, they lose all sense of time, space and rudimentary social courtesy. This weekend I was in Borders, standing in a checkout line that stretched from the magazine rack to somewhere in Nepal. The one clerk (yes, one clerk) was waiting on a 40ish Chatty Kathy with lots of time on her hands and a behind the size of a tractor tire. They talked. They laughed. They looked at the computer screen together. They talked some more. I was going to yell, “Pay for your stinking romance novel and hit the bricks, you dizzy broad,” but the nun in line ahead of me beat me to it.
No two snowflakes are the same, and they all suck. We had a foot of snow last week. OK, act of God. No sense bitching about it. But my selfish, lazy, bovine neighbors to the north hired some cretin to scoop out their driveway using a truck with a huge bulldozer blade attached to the front. He proceeded to push several thousand cubic yards of snow onto my sidewalk, leaving a pile the size of K2. I have no idea how I’m going to move this crap. Hell, I should just host the Winter Olympics there and retire.
Who let Burl Ives in my car? It’s the new craze in radio programming — all Christmas music all the time. I thought this holiday was supposed to be about heaven and holiness. Someone should tell the manager at Classic Rock 105.9 that Bon Jovi singing “The Little Drummer Boy” is straight from the bowels of hell.
Parking Etiquette 101 When you leave a crowded mall, walk to your car and see someone patiently waiting for your parking space, please follow these instructions: Get into your vehicle, start your engine and drive away. Do not stop to check your miserable hair in the vanity mirror. Do not take this time to tune your idiot radio. Do not rummage through the grimy and worthless objects in your glove compartment. Do not stop and stare at your keychain like the banjo boy from Deliverance. Simply back out … and go away.
There, that feels better. Nothing like a little venting of rage to make spirits bright. So if I don’t see you again before the holidays, have yourself a pissy little Christmas.
August 21st, 2009
Misery at the Megaplex
I used to have it made. I lived near a first-run, eight-screen movie theater that had gone to seed just a bit. I didn’t care. It was deserted most of the time and I could see the latest films in near-empty auditoriums — blissfully unaffected by the tedious personal habits of other people.
Of course, you know what happened next. My beloved little cinema was bought by some ravenous sow of a developer and turned into offices. Thus, I was forced to return to the packed, overpriced megaplexes on the west side of the city, teeming with suburban commoners and their screeching, odious offspring. Now moviegoing has turned from one of my most beloved activities into an every-weekend challenge not to kill every living thing in the 2:00 p.m. matinee.
I can live with $5.00 popcorn, teenage ushers with IQs in the negative numbers and having to park in an adjoining county, but heaven help me, I CAN’T TOLERATE ANYONE ELSE IN MY THEATER! Sartre said that “Hell is other people.” Frankly, I think that’s an understatement. You see, other people can ruin your moviegoing experience like projectile vomiting can ruin your dinner party. Here are the main perpetrators:
• Kids – Surprisingly enough, most kids are quiet once a flick starts. They are easily mesmerized. What I hate is all the claptrap that comes with them — booster seats, bathroom excursions and dropped ICEEs that end up oozing around my shoes and down the aisle like some reeking, grape glacier from hell.
• Teens – They’re too tall, they smell like feet and they have ears that stick out like car doors. Once they sit in front of you, the only thing you can see is the exit sign next to the curtains.
• Adults – Why do 50-year-old people think they can come to a movie five minutes late and get a decent seat? These dolts have been around for years. You’d think they would have learned about “first come, first served” by now. Oh no, they have to stand there at the side of the theater in total darkness and scan the horizon like some kind of half-assed Coast Guard. Give up now, you twits, and sit in the first row like you deserve to.
• Old people – Note to old couples everywhere: If you want to have a long, loud, in-depth conversation with the other geezers you brought along, save it for dinner at Denny’s AFTER the fricking movie!
I know what you’re thinking, “Hey Carpenter — kids, teens, adults and old people — that’s everyone.” Exactly.
July 1st, 2009
Black hole on Maple Street
Last week, I was watching one of those UFO specials on the Discovery Channel where some quasi-scientist with pipe-cleaner hair, yellow teeth and an Adam’s apple the size of a volleyball theorized that there may be a black hole in the Bermuda Triangle. A black hole is an area with a gravitational field so powerful, all matter and energy are sucked into it.
Old news. I’ve already found a black hole on Earth — my local post office. I was there yesterday to get stamps and believe me, it not only ingests matter and energy, it also sucks away all joy, youth, patience, efficiency, personal initiative and clothing with natural fibers.
The effect begins as soon as you enter and see the line of ashen-colored old people clutching big, ugly cardboard boxes. All their mouths are turned down at each end, like upside-down “U”s. No one talks, no one smiles, no one breathes out of their nose. And forget about cutting in line, lest one of these biddies crack open your skull with an orthopedic shoe. The sad thing is, these people used to be in their 20s just 15 minutes ago, but the black hole had sucked 60 years off their lives while they waited in line.
And what about the staff at the post office? “Staff” is too generous a word. I suppose there used to be someone at every counter years ago, but the black hole has long since guzzled them down. There were only two service people left (and once again, “service” is a term I use lightly). One was a woman with the body of a longshoreman, and the face of … well … another longshoreman. The other was a man who looked like a ferret and kept running into the back room whenever anyone looked at him.
As I approached the counter, everything went black and I felt as though something was pulling at my jacket. Seven hours later, I awoke in the parking lot of a Sizzler in Topeka, Kansas, wearing a thong made of 44¢ stamps and holding an orthopedic shoe.
June 17th, 2009
Staring into the abyss, Tuesdays at 9 p.m.
Many people look to the book of Revelation in the Bible for signs of the Apocalypse. Unless you’re versed in biblical prophecy, it can be tough going. Let me save you the time and trouble. You can watch the world slip into the abyss, bit by gum-chewing bit, every Tuesday night at 9 p.m. (central) on MTV. From the deepest bowels of hell itself comes Paris Hilton’s My New BFF 2. (“BFF” means “Best Friend Forever” — insert vomit sound here.)
The premise of the show is watching 14 soulless, shrieking prostitutes-in-training perform acts of idiocy in order to be declared the “best friend” of the undisputed queen of soulless, shrieking prostitutes-in-training, Paris Hilton. I wouldn’t be surprised if the working title for the program was Satan’s Peeps.
At first, the list of “challenges” these cretins must endure — feeding Wayne Newton’s tiger, pole dancing, humping a giant cupcake — sounds a bit confusing. But when one realizes the group is being judged by Paris Hilton, a person so hollow you can scream in her ear and hear the echo, it all makes sense.
I submit to you that this is not just another mindless MTV trifle, but a legitimate omen of doom. Rome had the Colosseum, we have this televised cage match of media whores.
So how does this half-hour coed abomination presage the Judgment Day? In 2 Timothy 3:2, St. Paul says “… in the last days, perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud …” I now quote you from the PR blurbs on the show’s Web site: “Amanda is her own biggest fan,” “Arika feels most women are jealous of her,” “Kristin is convinced that she already has it all,” and “Stefanie is a statuesque model who also plays in a lingerie football league.”
If that doesn’t make you want to dig out your REPENT, THE END IS NEAR! sign, then listen to the Web site’s description of Paris Hilton herself: “Paris Hilton continues to grow globally within fashion design, acting, singing and producing.” I suggest that we add her name to the list of other things that tend to “grow globally” — like famine, swine flu and political assassination.
June 11th, 2009
Questions that demand answers
1. Why do people still make deposits at ATMs … AND WHY ARE THEY ALWAYS IN FRONT OF ME?
It never fails. I’ve got mere minutes to grab some cash and get to a flick, and some idiot soccer mom in an SUV is already at the ATM and learning to deposit money for the first time. She stares blankly at the deposit envelope, then at the screen, then at the envelope. She starts digging in her purse. She turns to yell at her brat in the back seat. She calls someone on her cell phone. All the while, Little Miss Frosted Hair is completely oblivious to the line forming behind her. News flash, lady — IT TAKES THE BANK THREE DAYS TO PROCESS AN ATM DEPOSIT! You could put the money in your account sooner and easier by holding the check between your teeth and walking on your hands from your house to the bank lobby on a Saturday.
2. Why do teenage kids who work at movie theaters always look like they’re going to the gas chamber?
It’s the easiest gig in the world. Take tickets. See free movies. Sneak a box of Goobers when the manager is in the can. But from the looks on these kids’ faces, you’d think someone swiped the zit cream. Cheer up you miserable little rodents, I hear they’re making Jackass 3.
3. What the hell is the Netherlands anyway?
Is it Holland or Dutchville or Hague City or what? Wikipedia describes it as a “parliamentary democratic constitutional monarchy.” Gee, that helps. And if the fricking place is called the Netherlands, why are the people called the Dutch? Shouldn’t they be the Netherese or the Landers? I suppose a country full of dolts who wear wooden shoes deserves to be this clueless.
4. What fool thought it was a good idea to put carrot shavings in Jell-O?
Carrots and Jell-O go together like STP and cornflakes, or vanilla pudding and roofing nails. This terrifying trend started in the 1950s, and like some kind of potluck pandemic, spread through old ladies’ kitchens worldwide. Now you can’t bite into a mold of cherry Jell-O anywhere without ending up with a mouthful of these vegetable toenails.
5. Why can’t I let anything go? Why must I pounce on even the most innocent of life’s peccadilloes like some raging banshee from hell?
This I can answer — helps me relax.
June 5th, 2009
More people I wish the earth would open up and swallow
Last September, I began a list of people who, because I can bear them no longer, should be sucked down into the crevasse of fiery retribution. At that time, I warned you that the list would continue whenever I felt particularly bitchy. Since this is a pretty constant state with me, I give you Round 2:
• That little gopher who runs North Korea and looks like Marvin the Martian
• Jay Leno
• Jon Bon Jovi
•The creators, participants, producers, cameramen, interns, custodial staff and anyone else remotely associated with Dancing With The Stars
• Tom Cruise
• Katie Holmes Cruise
• Pablo Cruise
• People who run spelling bees
• Donald Trump and Rosie O’Donnell
• The salespeople at Abercrombie & Fitch
• Avril Lavigne
• Branson, Missouri, during Labor Day weekend
• Jon & Kate (the Eight would be better off as wards of the state)
Well, I think my spleen has been sufficiently vented for now. Stay tuned for my next burst of venom.
May 21st, 2009
Idol Idiocy
Kris-somebody just won season eight of American Idol. BFD.
The sad truth is that Kris-somebody will soon end up like all the other Idol winners, in the waste bin of American pop trivia. Yeah, yeah … the kid will probably squeeze out a wretched “adult contemporary” CD before his face ends up on a milk carton, but does anyone really believe that people will be paying $200 a ticket to see this little garden gnome in concert 20 years from now?
But let’s be fair, it’s not Kris-somebody’s fault that American Idol is such an enormous suckfest. The whole premise is geared to advance the mediocre. The judges are studies in failure. Randy Jackson used to play bass for Journey. That in itself should disqualify him to make any comment about music for the foreseeable future. Paula Abdul is a syringe full of insanity who’s barely qualified to judge how much cream cheese to put on a bagel. And Simon Cowell is just a vacuous old queen whose “limey-bitch” routine is wearing perilously thin. Oh yeah, there’s also that new songwriter chick … but she’s too dull to insult.
Bottom line, the American Idol judges wouldn’t know talent if it walked up and peed in their giant Cokes. Can you imagine Bob Dylan “making it through to Hollywood?” Or Neil Young? Or Joni Mitchell? Or Patti Smith? Hell, even someone as telegenic as Paul McCartney would probably be bounced for being “too foreign.” Imperfection is inherent in genius.
But why get upset about it? After eight seasons of bland and blander, this franchise’s days are numbered — just as sure as Kris-somebody’s CD will end up in the bargain rack, right behind Taylor Hicks’ comeback album.
May 1st, 2009
Concert Killers
In our current el crappo economy, my only indulgence is concerts. I love them. LOVE THEM! Always have. And I’ll pay scalpers outrageous prices to get the best seats. I simply refuse to sit with the great unwashed anymore. It’s not that I feel superior to them … well, actually … that’s exactly how I feel.
Unfortunately, no matter how much you shell out for prime tickets these days, you can’t escape the Concert Killers — those Neanderthals that somehow end up sitting beside you and ruining the show because of their simian behavior. Last night I took in a Neil Young concert at the local mega-conglomo-dome, and was surrounded by a pack of these mongrels.
There are four kinds of Concert Killers, and each one of them sat within 16 inches of me:
• Dottie and Debby, the Dancing Dipshits- You see them at every concert, porky little over-30 working girls who won their tickets by answering some trivia question about the movie Beaches on the Morning Zoo, KLKL-FM. Since they have no chance of bringing an actual breathing male to the show, they stand up and dance with each other … on every song … all night. Since Dottie and Debbie are both size 12, they swivel their hips with all the seductiveness of an industrial washing machine.
• The Screeching Cretin- This is usually a man — a drooling, witless lush of a man. He feels that it’s necessary to scream “Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” at 700 decibels after every song. It might not be so bad if this baboon had something interesting to scream, but at last night’s show, the best he could do was “Neeeeeeeil!” A true poet.
• Tina, the Tiny-Bladder Girl- Our local concert venue has seats so small, anorexics complain. For full-figured guys like me, they’re torture — I have to fold my thighs into my lap and cross my arms so tightly I get cleavage. Consequently, it’s a total bitch to let someone through. This means nothing to Tina, who guzzles cheap beer all night, then has to tinkle every six minutes. The first time it’s cute. After the 23rd time, you want to hurl this nitwit into the mosh pit.
• Jimmy Olsen, Cub Photographer- Although we had awesome seats, we were still about 100 feet from the stage. This didn’t deter the tool in the row ahead of me, who shot photos with his cell phone camera incessantly. At 100 feet, his pictures had absolutely no detail. You couldn’t tell if it was Neil Young onstage or Neil Armstrong. Too bad it wasn’t Neil Armstrong … he could have ejected this little toad into deep space.
Actually, it was rather fitting that the concert we were attending was a Neil Young show, because after sitting next to this horde of peasants for three hours, all I could think about was the lyrics to “Powderfinger” —
“Raised my rifle to my eye, Never stopped to wonder why.”
January 28th, 2009
Among the Yard Nazis
I live in a working class suburb full of prissy little dolts who shovel their driveways before it even stops snowing. You hear their wretched snowblowers at 4:30 a.m. because they couldn’t possibly leave for work until every stinking flake is accounted for.
You know the type. I call them Yard Nazis. They’re even more loathsome in the summer, when they mow their worthless little lawns in different directions every week to get that crosshatched effect.
Yard Nazis come in different degrees of obnoxiousness. On the low end is the “Retiree.” This man has two choices: shovel the walk or stay inside and watch The View with his wife. Him I can understand. The miserable little wanker still torques me off, but at least he has an excuse. At the top of the nimrod ladder is the “Caretaker.” This is one of those plodding, ex-Boy Scout types who is “king of the castle.” He actually lives for this stuff. It’s the way he proves his manhood (small “m” on that). In his tedious little mind, keeping up a few hundred square yards of Kentucky Bluegrass is a goal to strive for. Moron.
Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t neccessarily want to live next door to Jeff Foxworthy. I generally avoid people with couches in their front yards and teeth that look like Indian corn. But at least when you live next to white trash, your own house looks better.
Luckily, there are ways you can get back at a neighbor who’s a Yard Nazi. My favorite is to figure out the day he mows, then have my own yard mowed a day before that. Yard Nazis hate to be beaten to the punch. It drives them completely insane. My own Yard Nazi neighbor actually moved up his mowing schedule to catch up with me. Delicious!
You may be asking, “Carpenter, by playing these kind of petty games, haven’t you become a Yard Nazi in your own right?” Nonsense. I like to think of it as being the General Patton of bad neighbors.