The 17th type of person

So there is some kind of personality test that has 16 possible outcomes, and I am outcome ENTJ. I looked through the other 15 categories and couldn't find the "asshole" category. Where are the assholes? I know of crap people who are rude as a matter of principle and whose shitty little minds are sealed air-tight. Where the fuck are these fuckers in the 16 personality types?

Wimp documents

The word 'packet' is bandied about much too freely in offices these days. Every set of forms is now apparently a packet. Membership packets, application packets, information packets.

Two stapled sheets do not a frickin' packet make. A packet is a big fat honkin' slab of paper enclosed in a PACKET. A packet lands on desks with a satisfying fly-swatting, dust-kicking thud. Rule of thumb: if I can blow my nose in it and crumple it into a ball, it's probably not a packet.

And what's up with the "cards"? Any rectangular slip of toilet paper is now a card. I can actually see right through my car insurance identification "card." Rule of goddamn thumb: if I can't poke your goddamn eyes out with it, it's not a goddamn card.

Vomiting from helicopters

When I hear a traffic report on the radio, I feel like they just puked on me from their chopper. They hop onto the airwaves, unleash a diarrheal barrage of freeway numbers, and ten seconds later they're gone. An untrained ear might mistake it all for a final frantic mayday. This is not information. This is my radio blowing chunks at me.

Since the damn report isn't useless enough as it is, one station here makes it a point to overlay thrashing metal guitars on top of the entire performance, every single time. All it conveys to me is miles of highway going up in flames. Why is this being done? What is so orgasmic about a traffic report?

Someone explain wide pelvises to me

What is this about a wide pelvis helping with childbirth? Does the kid come out of the vagina or does it shatter the abdomen to burst forth into the world? Any kind of pelvis is a good pelvis as long as you can spread the hell out of the legs. I'm not seeing a genuine issue here.

Just how dumb are the Japanese supposed to be?

All right, I've had it with all the advice on all the cultural sensitivity that must be exercised when negotiating business deals abroad. Let me clue in the well-meaning folks who emphasize this type of thing: We're not negotiating inter-galactic buyouts with Klingons, you fuckwits. All the wheeling-dealing happens to be strictly intra-homo sapiens.

Wouldn't a Japanese fellow have to be really badly adjusted to take offense every time an American acted American? If I met a Japanese peevish enough to go sobbing in one corner of the conference room every time I tried to shake his hand or didn't use a chopstick, I'd ask him to go develop some fucking self-esteem and come back when he's done growning up.

Businesspeople aren't babies. A chick in a kimono probably knows her American counterparts don't begin every meeting with incense and cross-legged tea drinking. Neither does she go "You crack joke during multi-trillion yen deal! How perfectly peculiar! I spit wasabi on you, uncouth bitches!" So everybody just chill. People on every side of the planet have brains.

Weasely business tactics R Us

This one goes out to all the scum businessmen who can't bring themselves to do one honest day of business. They are sons and daughters of crack whores. Here's an exemplar.

Some time back I decided to have my couch cleaned. Some scumbag carpet-cleaning business had sent me a junk mail ad, and I rang them up. They said yes they'd shampoo my couch and it would cost what it said on the ad, namely $20. Now I'm a single student that hasn't had the chance to develop his shampoo costing skills, never having had my couch shampooed and all. Therefore, I smelt no rats and sent for the van.

Out of the van tumbled an Israeli, a Mexican, much piping and tubing, and something that looked like a hobby cement mixer. All of these converged on my couch. At the bidding of the Israeli, the Mexican blew a gentle mixture of air and water all over the couch. This gentle spray landed very gently on the couch and the whole operation conveyed to me a sense of soothing gentleness. I was tingling in anticipation of the launch of actual shampooing, which I assumed would be rugged business with the potential to shatter the couch if not done right. Not so.

"That," said the Israeli when the Mexican was done, "is what we call shampooing."

I demanded to know what had been achieved in terms of cleaning the couch.

"Ahh, cleaning! That is a totally different business altogether and completely; fully unrelated to the present enterprise," explained the Israeli. "For to achieve actual cleaning, one must rigorously perform the steps of... Deep Cleaning!"

Deep cleaning?

"Yes, Deep Cleaning! The process will restore your couch to the factory-default setting of cleanliness that it originally shipped in. It is a scientific process involving many tubes, pesticides and fragrances, all of which the Mexican and I happen to be carrying with us. Would you like Deep Cleaning to be performed for the embarrassingly trivial cost of $120 (I blush at the sound of the amount, it is so shamefully insubstantial)?"

I didn't know about that, being a starving student and what not. $120 isn't exactly chickenfeed; it could buy me half a used textbook at the university bookstore, if I caught a year-end sale.

Sensing my caution, the Israeli sought to win my confidence. He said he was in fact not sure how effectively he could clean the couch, and said he would like to perform a small test before he felt confident asking for my custom. That struck me as a sound first step, and I gave him the go-ahead. With a quick nod, he set in motion the Mexican, who attacked the couch savagely this time. When the dust had settled, a one-foot square of pristinely clean fabric was shining out of the grime of the rest of the couch, and an Israeli was asking me, "So do you want the Deep Cleaning?"

One foot square! I realized what cocksucking bastardity had just been inflicted on me. I couldn't possibly refuse at this point. I obviously needed the whole couch uniformly radiant. This guy was very well schooled in the ways of crack-whore sons too. He didn't budge from his price and I realized whatever I could do in retaliation wasn't worth the effort. I like to not spend my weekends arguing with the world's crack whore heritage.

So in the end I was out $120, and the couch-cleaner and his junk-mail-sending masters were forever memorialized on this blog as SONS OF CRACK WHORES.

Per capita stupidity

It took me two decades to figure out that "per capita" means "per person." It COMPLETELY goes against logic and plain common sense to say capita when you mean to say person. Do I say volgat when I want to say finger? Then why on frigging EARTH would you say capita when you want to say person?

The wasted fucking years. I could've been an economist by now.

I HATE these cunty habits. Seriously, you helpless toads, do you have ANY balls at all, to say things the straight way, instead of the thousand-year-old way?

Salt should be fucking visible

I have better things to do than peer into my breakfast to count tiny white, nearly-invisible crystals so I know when to stop jacking off the salt shaker. Why isn't this shit purple or something?

Door parasites

Ever hold a spring-loaded door open for someone following you and they don't take the fuck over? I mean they just sail through the opening that has so considerately been created for them, with no effort to stick a hand out and take over the holding open of the door. You're playing doorman while the parasite gains his passage with a jaunty swinging of the arms by his side.

What kind of dumbfuck pestilence is capable of such egregiously parasitic behavior? Who are these people's incompetent mothers? Where are these diseased people being spawned and bred?

I was once so disgusted with just such a parasite that I let go of the door while he was still in the doorway. Door whacked him in the face but not hard enough.

You watch out, shits. I'm going to flatten all your profiles before I'm through with you.

Why is history so hard?

Why haven't olden people (the fucking villagers) been writing stuff down all their lives so we won't have to worry about gaps in history? WTF have the slackers of the last millennium been doing? Didn't they know someone would come around looking for their history? Why does history have to be so bloody difficult? We've known for at least a thousand years that there is some interest in history. The responsible thing to do would be to keep writing stuff down. But no. We have to go hunting for skulls and bones and pots and pans to find out anything half useful about those slackers.

I'd like to wring some rubber necks

Just because I left my apartment door open to get some fresh air doesn't mean every fucking beggar wandering in the corridors is invited to gawk. I can forgive the momentary glance, but the jaw-dropping, eye-popping bumping-into-things sideways stare I do NOT get the necessity for, given that there are no naked women in here.

Update: STOP sneaking glances into my apartment, you cunting cunt neighbor-cunts.

Liars, cheaters and stealers

There is a certain group of people who have these things in common (apart from their physical characteristics): they are all liars, cheaters and stealers; they have a low level of mental development; they are cruel and enjoy watching others suffer; they do not contribute to society but sustain themselves parasitically. It is worth repeating that they are unrepentant liars, cheaters and stealers. They are generally uncooperative to reasonable requests and are not trusted by sensible people. These people are known as children, and I would recommend keeping a protective hand on your wallet anytime one of these is near.

Dairy Sanchez

I hate that upper-lip milk stripe models wear in the "Got Milk?" ads. It's filthy disgusting. And I do NOT get the concept of advertising for milk. What's next, "Wear clothes" ads?

Wimpy water fountains

What the piddle is this crap? Click on these pathetic pictures. Ever try to get a drink from one of these dribblers? Good luck. Unless you have the snout of a bonsai poodle, that water is strictly off-limits. My campus is full of these ED-afflicted chihuahua-appeasing spouts. Why aren't alarm bells going off in some hydraulic command and control center to save the thirsty public from this torture? The wankers who designed these machines obviously had two overriding architectural concerns:

1. Provoke high levels of agitation in the water-consuming elements of human society.

2. Encase the entire unit in combat-grade armor, because said elements will attack the machines in murderous fits of rage.

One day I am going to bring a sledgehammer down on that little button. We'll see if that jet doesn't gain some altitude.

And how is it NOBODY EVER FIXES these wimp fountains? All over the world maintenance crews are proactively fixing things. There are no pothole vigilantes staking out the highways with fingers poised on cellphone buttons. There are no squawkbox vigilantes keeping an ear on the audible crossing signals for the blind. Nobody calls the city to report when that tweeter breaks and blind people have to start dodging trucks in the middle of the intersection. Things just get fixed. I want those spouts fixed, and I'm not going to LIFT ONE FINGER to make that happen, do you hear?

Guessing game

What is it with the stories on the sports pages of newspapers never introducing what the heck sport they're talking about? They'll dive right into the gory details without once mentioning WTF they're crapping about. It could be curling or it could be chess, camel-racing or BASE jumping, but they WILL NOT LET ON.

What's that you say? Have a helpful little title on top of each story? Do sports writers tell you how to worship your Jesus? Then stay the fuck out of THEIR religion.

The blogs must be crazy

Is anyone else here sick to the bone of the blogging mania? I know I am. If the blogosphere was your introduction to the human race, you'd think it consists of nothing but bazillions of hopped-up comment-monkeys, the way they're endlessly banging away at their battered keyboards and frenetically linking to one another in one huge crazy-ass URL-spewing, RSS-sucking orgasm. It's like they've never seen the Internet before. Jeez, did you guys grow up in some starving third-world country that had exactly one telephone line strung up on poles from one end to the other? This is a feeding scene right out of a pigsty. "Give me some of that Internet, I'm going to stuff my face with that thing!!" "Look, Internet, Internet, it's the Internet!! Lemme at that juicy piece of Internet!!"

Something tells me I'm not just kidding.

Quote me on this

You know you're a mediocre person with little or no prospect of success if your email signature is an inspiring quote from a famous person. This is like sucking on your mama's boob when you should be out procuring your own milk. Like hiding behind your dad's testicles when you should be growing your own.

Behind every one of these famous people email signatures is a tacit smugness--"I think exactly like Albert Einstein. I totally grok the dude." You didn't say the words in the quote, insect. Therefore, fuck off, etc. And grow some gonads.

I'm sick of hearing what Albert Einstein had to say on the proper conduct of life. Every lowly insect with an email address wants to tell me what Albert Einstein thought. If and when you start spending every waking hour in a worshipful trance meditating on Albert Einstein's all-round greatness, I'll read your miserable little signature.

Die, the whole lot of you.

Music is overrated

I can say in all seriousness I'm sick of music. I can't stand that crap anymore. I'm amazed people can engage themselves with this overrated thing that oozes fuck. Music is ridiculously boring. If I hear so much as a whistle I'm going to pull someone's tongue out. I am amazed that at the age of 30 people still pay any attention to this juvenile turd activity. I haven't heard anything new in at least 10 years now. Again, people, someone call this bluff! It is NOT necessary to be besotted with music till you drop dead. Grow the fuck up, folks! Music at 30 years of age... are you lobotomized or did you just arrive in the civilized world?

Elbow room

Elbow room. I want it.

Two chairs with room for one elbow between them is a ridiculous invention.

People protest all the wrong things. Screw the environment. I want a place to park my elbow when I pay $10 to watch a movie.

This is something we could actually get if we made a racket about it. On the other hand, nobody's going to stop using fossil fuels.

How to tell you're watching a good movie

I'll tell you how. If you watched the motherfucker five times and it still makes no sense, you've watched a great movie. If it had the occasional random thirty-second scene with no discernible meaning or purpose, you've watched a great movie. If a character persistently behaved moodily and never explained himself, you've watched a great movie. If you can't figure out why the fuck on earth anyone would make the movie, you have probably watched a great movie. If it was more than an hour and a half long, you can bet you watched a great movie. If you more than once found yourself raising your hand to scratch your head, I can assure you it was a milestone of moviemaking that you experienced. If a lot of people swear it's a great movie but none of them can give one sensible reason why, you can be sure it's a great fucking movie. If the characters are deep, dark and mysterious but you can't figure out what the heck their particular psychosomatic affliction might be, you've watched a spectacular motherfucking movie. Don't be a cinematic dolt! Pick up on these signs of movie greatness or be laughed out of the video store. If at the end of the movie you have a splitting headache and are foaming at the mouth from your sheer rage for the director, fall to the floor and humbly kiss the earth in your state of prostration, because you, my friend, are in the presence of unparalleled cinematic greatness.

A telemarketer hung up on me!

I try to be polite to these people, because peddling crap on the phone is nobody's dream job. They're just trying to do whatever they can to make a living, like everybody else. So I have a right to be hopping mad about the fucking dickhead that called me today to ask for my money; I said I couldn't make a contribution now (it was a worthy cause, so I didn't say "I'm not interested"; I'm just really too poor now to support more than the one charity I support), he went into some spiel that ended with "$35 or $25?", I said neither, he said "You said you can't help right away, well I'm not asking you to help right away, just let me fill out this pledge in your name," and I said "Cannot help in the foreseeable future either, sorry" and the bastard hung up on me without a word. After I'd been exceedingly polite to him despite hating him for calling me. Asshole. I hope he's not making enough money to feed himself decently and has to skip breakfast and sleep hungry most nights. That would be very nice.

WhyTF does it take 31 days for a Do Not Call listing to start working? The website should be called www.donotcallexceptinthenext31days.gov. Bitches.

Hungry eyes

I eat at my campus food court quite often. Standard layout - bunch of tables and chairs close together in a large open area. I like to withdraw and enjoy my meal with a newspaper or my pocket FM radio/MP3 player. At least one in five of these meals is completely ruined by hollow-skull savages who choose to seat themselves so they are staring right at my face from four feet away. I don't know if these fuckwits are trying to seduce me or what the fuck they want or whether they truly don't realize that facing away from me is an option. Five hundred freakin chairs and they pick the one in my face. The next time one of you dimwits parks yourself in front of me I'm going to throw my table at you, okay?

There was this one genius who walked over to me while I was eating and listening to my radio. Both my hands were on the table and I had headphones in my ears. This dumbass walks over to me and starts opening and closing his mouth. When I took off my headphones I discovered he wanted to know the time. My wrists were clearly visible and completely devoid of watches. There were dozens of other people around. Christ! Headphones in my ears mean "THIS DUDE IS FEELING UNSOCIAL AND ENJOYING SOME MUSIC BY HIMSELF. LEAVE HIM THE FUCK ALONE, YOU FRIENDLESS FREAKS!"

Goddamn nitwits. It is not fucking necessary for such fucking people to exist.

Politician-speak

Why do we let the people in charge of countries speak like they do? Only one word in fifty actually conveys some information. The next time a politician starts answering a question with oral fart I'd like to see all the reporters in the room beat the living daylights out of him. Gang up on him and crack the bastard's skull. Maybe then we'll hear more answers in the form of "Yes," "No" and "I don't know." All this mind-numbing rhetoric is NOT NECESSARY. Like popcorn at movies or cake at birthdays, this is a TRADITION. Unlike those two, this tradition HURTS US. Repeat after me, "We DO NOT need crap-talking leaders." Imagine how much work could get done if they didn't spend time on those UNFUCKINGNECESSARY forty-nine words in fifty. Goddamn bozos.

Crap design of the universe

I am so fucking sick of entropy. Everything around me is always
entangling with everything else. Fucking bicycles, fucking headphone
cords, fucking things that fall on the floor rolling to the remotest
fucking places, every fucking thing that has an edge is getting caught
with every other motherfucker. Especially those motherfucking
bicycles. They have things sticking out all over them. Throw in the
complication of putting two locks on the bike all the time because of
the sons of thieving bitches around here, and you have a goddamn
entropy nightmare. Spontafuckingneously headphone cords loop into
themselves multiple times while I'm not watching them. This crap has
been going on for 28 motherfucking years. I'm sick of it now, this
increasing entropy motherfucker. We should stop putting up with this
crap design of the universe. Fucking crap Nature-bitch.

How do you know?

From time to time I will appear to speak knowledgably about things I cannot possibly have knowledge of. I will say things such as "I'm pretty sure Bush thought he'd find WMD." Or "Google will do no evil." Frequently, "There is no such thing as what you call "God"."

Listen you lobotomized toads, if you ask me how I know these things, I will instantly SPIT on you. That is a question that demonstrates your sheer idiocy. Here's something else that does the same: telling me that's JUST MY OPINION. Really, turd? That comes as a frightening shock to me, because I am so used to creating transcendental truths just by uttering the words that express them.

EVERYTHING I SAY IS "JUST MY OPINION." I AM NOT PRIVY TO ANY COSMIC FACT-TESTING. IF YOU WANT TO HEAR UNIVERSAL TRUTHS, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE DO NOT LOOK AT MY MOUTH, BECAUSE THAT'S NOT WHERE THEY COME FROM.

I don't know why I have to share this planet with you invertebrates masquerading as people.

Where are you?

Do NOT call me and ask "Where are you?" unless you're my wife, which you're not. State what you want from me and shut up while I tell you if I can give it to you. Jackasses.