The Worst of Online Dating: “Wanna Bang & Have Mutual Meals?” PART DEUX

You may remember a recent post about a particularly brazen gentlemen who recently sent me a message about becoming fuck buddies…  I then sent him a super weird reply.  Well, he wrote back!

He really believed he could turn it around.  Now, that’s confidence.

Original message:

Hello,

I’m a full time student now doing masters, I work 40+ hrs at the Hosptial, and work occasionally in between that. So non-commitment sexual encounters with possible mutual meals is all I ever have time for this semester . As far as in the sheets go, I’m not turned on just by the mundane, gentle sex. I enjoy it time to time as a way to break up the rougher side. I’m definitely turned on the most by knowledge , intelligence and beauty which you seem to have all. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, I’ll answer anything.
Also I promise to keep things discreet .

Thanks,
Gary

My gross response:

Hey Gary,

While I am super-impressed that you have so much going on. I mean, I just have two jobs, two volunteers positions, classes, workshops, and self-respect, I can’t believe you’ve managed to stay awake long enough to write this charming message. I mean, my god, that’s impressive. If I had a job and some classes, I’d only be able to do that and sleep. Look at you, making time to troll the internet for women to screw.

It’s always nice when a complete stranger sends me a message that hints to their sexual proclivities. How unusual that you enjoy both slow and fast sex? I’ve never met a man who enjoyed different kinds of sex. You must be really deep. Personally, I’m only into completely silent, open-eyed, well-lit intercourse. I also enjoy wearing colonial dresses when I fornicate; it makes it more complicated, but it’s totally worth it.

It sounds like you are definitely turned on by intelligence. Sex is the best way for a person to express their intelligence. Before I put on my colonial sex dress, I usually give my potential sex partner a quiz on world history, algebra, and poetic forms. I only proceed with my straight-A students.

Here are some questions:
1. Has this ever worked?
2. How many women have you successfully banged? Please provide numbers for women you met online vs. women you met in person.
3. Why bother making a profile when you could just go to Rick’s or Necto?
4. What about my profile made you think I’d want to be your fuck buddy?
5. What’s your favorite color?
6. Can I call you Gare-Bear?
7. Can I please, please, please have your phone number? I can’t wait to come over!

All my love,
Ryan Gosling

His NEW Response:

At least it got u talking! It does have the scope to develop into something meaningful and I am pretty flexible , at the same time I am not the one to keep flooding your inbox. I can definitely predict that you would make a great writer and wish to apologize for offending you. Following are true answers to your questions:

1. Yes.
2. Met online: 30ish vs. met in person 10ish.
3. favorite color is blue.
4. I found you really pretty and wanted to try my luck, you got to try to succeed , right?
5. phone number: 313-***-****
6. you can call me whatever you want.

Best wishes,
Gary

My NEW Response:

Nope. I’m good.

His final, very annoyed response:

Hey! At you should say it in a way a writer ought to put it. You must not be as good as you think.
Simply saying no is no fun .

Creep Week: On Almost-Dating Full-Blown Jerks

Have we all been there?  The almost-relationship with someone who claims to want a relationship and then never quite gets there.  This is someone who you know through friends or school or some other connection that forces you to keep crossing paths.  Occasionally, you have an almost-relationship with someone because things just don’t work out, or neither of you is ready for it.  Perhaps, it just doesn’t happen.  Sometimes, though, that person is a gosh darn jerk.

This is the kind of jerk who mutual friends will explain as someone you’ll need to get to know before you like.  You know, they’ll be the person that their dear friends hate, but claim they just have a “hard shell.”  Here’s a tip: that person is a dick.

This person will always claim to, “like you” or perhaps, “like you too much for x, y, or z.”  This person, this almost-lover will tell you that they, “would date you… IF x, y, or z were only a little different.”  It likely took you a while, but you figured it out.  You had to eventually realize that being stood-up, or sort of lied to, or jerked around, or whatever it was… it wasn’t good enough for you.

Oh, and when you’re finally a dick right back at this person, he/she will be shocked and get all indignant

Almost-Boyfriend Quotes

“I’ll call you.”

“I was just really busy this week.”

“Has it really been two weeks?  Oh, I thought I saw you on Wednesday… No, I’m sure we talked.”

“I lost my phone.”

“I was drunk.”

“When I said, ‘I love you,’ I meant it … you know… like as a friend thing.  You know.”

“I like you too much to date you.  I’d be a jerk.”

“I’ll break your heart.”

“Maybe I’m just a jerk.”

The Symptoms

  • You will get stood-up.
  • You will not receive replies.
  • You will be booty-called.
  • You will forgive and forgive and forget and forget and on and on and on and on…  You will become exhausted by forgiveness and you’ll always remember.

  • They’ll call/text out of the blue claiming to have changed.  You’ll allow them to come back into your life.
  • They haven’t changed.
  • You’ll like them.  You’ll really like them.
  • You’ll keep thinking about it.  You won’t be able to stop.  It’ll be a whole thing.

  • You’ll tell yourself that you can change them.  You’ll unbreak his/her heart, and you’ll make them a real person again.  You’ll make them want a relationship.  You’ll make them love you.  But, you can’t.  You can’t make them love you.  They’re never going to treat you well, so give up.  They suck.  They like themselves (outwardly).  You can’t change it.

  • They will drive you crazy.
  • They will never be your boyfriend.
  • You’ll be like – “I fixed you!” And they’ll be like – “BYE!”
  • They will make you cry.  Like a lot.

The Lesson

If you come across someone who is too busy to date you, or thinks they like you too much, or whatever excuse it might be, that person will never date you.  It’s the whole “He’s just not that into you” business.  Don’t waste your time on an almost-lover.

 

Horrible Realization: I’m Too Old for Cheap Beer

When I was in college, I could drink like a fish.  I put huge douchey dudes to shame with my incredible ability to chug, handle, and hold my cheap liquor and beer.  I preferred nicer beer, even in those days, but I wasn’t about to turn down a few dozen free cans of Natty Light or PBR.  You just don’t do that in college.  You drink what you are given… You know, if it’s not from a very shady source.  Hell, even if it is shady, you might consider it if it’s totally free.  I mean, you’re supposed to be poor in college.  Why not enjoy cheap-ass bear?

College students love beer.

Everyone loves beer.

However, not everyone can drink cheap beer like 20-year-olds.

Once graduation occurs, and you move on graduate school or perhaps a real-life, grown-up job with benefits and a salary and everything, your lifestyle inherently changes.  It just does.  Life is very different after college.  Now, instead of just wanting to get drunk and maybe get a date or two out of some dude/lady, you are actually talking about relationships and even….  MARRIAGE.  Well, maybe just long-term or like… living together or something.  You’re still figuring that part out.  Anyways…

Life after graduation is quite an adjustment.  It takes some g.d. time, y’all.  And that’s okay.

There are many lessons a post-graduate must learn, and one of the first I learned…  Nah, actually the most obvious one I learned, was that I cannot drink the way and the crap I once could.  I’m a grown-up now, and Natty Lite ain’t gonna cut it.

When you start to get old, your body can’t handle the vinegar/acid/gasoline contained in cheap beer.  At least, the body can’t handle it at the same level.  When a body is young and virile, it can fight off the poisons of cheap beer – the pee in Busch Light or the dirt in Natural Ice.  When a body gets older, it starts to give up on dying and it wants to live.  Cheap beer wants to kill you and your body.  Old bodies know better.  They demand good beer.

Older bodies also don’t want you to make them suffer with yucky beer.  I learned this the hard way.

I have now learned, once and for all, that I am now too old to drink a whole bunch of crappy beer.  My body hates it.  My body wants to be a temple instead of a garbage can.  I must obey.

Until very recently, I was entirely immune to hangovers.  I had only once had a hangover, and it was after a week of no-sleep and then heavy, celebratory drinking.  You can read about a lot that night in the post, “When Kate and Patty (Almost) Got in a Bar Fight.”  With that one exception, I have been a total boss.  This has annoyed many people.  Understandably so…  Hangovers suck.  Now that I’m a little older, I’m starting to catch them.

After a night of drinking… we’ll say “some” beers, I have started to feel a little less-than-great the next morning.  Therefore, I must accept that I’m now too old for drinking cheap beer like a college-kid.

Damn.

James Franco Is Bad at Poetry

Note:  This is a poem from the Inauguration, which I know was a few weeks back.  It just took me a long time to process this and I really didn’t want to read this whole poem again.

My brain is broken.  James Franco has broken my heart and brain.  I love poetry.  Therefore, I now hate James Franco.  He has called himself a poet, somehow joined many graduate programs in creative writing, and he is demeaning poetry consistently.  This is what happens when you give a spoiled child the means and praise he’s received.  He thinks he is a good poet.  He is so, so wrong.

As a person who writes poetry, I find him offensive. There are real poets, full-time poets out there who write incredibly beautiful, meaningful poetry that is art and not simply narcissistic rambling. In some ways, he may help bring people to poetry, but if he uses his notoriety to write sub-par, high school-level prose-poems, he isn’t doing the field any favors. People already scoff at poetry; he’s giving them more reason to do so. This is the poetic equivalent to painting a circle on a canvas and charging $100,000 for high art.

If James Franco represents poetry, then poetry is dead.

Randomly, even if verbally, pointing to things in a room doesn’t make your poem illustrative.  It just means you looked around a room.  Poetry is more than a listing of thoughts, or the action of hitting “Enter” on your keyboard.  Poetry is supposed to be art, and this does not qualify.  This is a the live-journal of James Franco pushed onto thin, tall pages.

Art is not an annotated bibliography and vice versa.  James Franco seems to think that he is smart, talented, and unique enough to justify his thoughts alone as art.  Just because you write it and you think you are great doesn’t mean you’ve made something good.  It barely means you’ve made anything at all.

From Kate: “This isn’t even pragmatic or pretty prose.  This is what would happen if poetry had an abortion.”

We must pay special attention to the poem’s end; not just because he gives himself an Oscar for a black-face portrayal of Obama’s “core goodness,” but also because he tells us that “[He’d] let the writer put in all the political crap.”  By saying this, it is as if Franco might actually be aware that he’s not a real writer.  Sure, he’s discussing a fake future movie that someone would write about Obama and then actually cast a white stoner…  But, he doesn’t seem to get that he is “writing” at the moment.  He took the time to google Asheville, but he didn’t take the time to google the president.  Here are some of the last lines about this movie: “I’d let the writer put in all the political crap, / And the specific things that he was up against, / All that stuff on CNN and the Huffington Post, / And I’d say the lines that were written, just like Obama / Reads his lines, but what would really put the role over / Would be the goodness at its core. / That’s what will be remembered. / Yes, his race, no one will forget. But the soul too. / I’d win the Academy Award if I just captured that.”

The vagueness of these lines enrages me.  Poetry is not vague.  He sounds like a person with no knowledge who has randomly decided to pontificate about President Obama.  “All that stuff on CNN and the Huffington Post…”  What stuff?  Which issue?  Are you speaking of his race, his policies, his debate performance, war, economics, anything?  Also, he says that he would “… say the lines that were written, / just like Obama…” almost as an afterthought, as if we, the readers, are supposed to assume that Franco is such a gifted actor, he could easily say lines “just like” the president.

Key Features of Narcissism and Overall Badness:

  • The poem features a striking lack of imagery.
  • The poem lacks rhythm, meter, and music.
  • The poem consists of the thoughts of an easily distracted, wannabe-educated, possibly high hipster with a grandiose self-image.
  • The poem seems to have to remind itself that its purpose is to honor the 2013 Inauguration of President Barack Obama.
  • It’s basically an encyclopedia entry (think wikipedia in a book).  He just explains to us what is significant about Ashville.  He seems to think that every detail of his life and the things that he knows are interesting.  He is wrong.  “Asheville is the place where the Black Mountain College once stood / And helped birth Rauschenberg, Twombly and Johns, / Cage and Cunningham.”
  • He talks about Obama knowing him from the Spiderman movies: “He [Obama] knew me from Spider-Man.”  I’m sure Mr. President was trying to polite; it’s not like he’s your biggest fan.  Get over yourself.
  • Celebrity name dropping without reason.  We’re all excited for you that you got to meet President Obama, Katie Holmes, Tom Cruise, and Claire Danes.
  • The poem ends with James Franco winning an Oscar.  That means that when James Franco thinks about other people, he quickly finds a way to think about himself.
  • The whole poem is about James Franco thinking about how James Franco is like or related to President Obama.  If I were to write a poem about a tree and I kept comparing that to my acting career, I would be a douche bag.  My point is that James Franco is ruining poetry and he’s a douche.

*********************************************************************************

Obama in Asheville

Asheville, North Carolina, is the birthplace of Thomas
Wolfe and the sometime residence of F. Scott Fitzgerald
When he visited Zelda at her institution;
He stayed at the Grove Park Inn, a grand stone edifice.

On the phone once, Cormac McCarthy lamented
The two added wings and the spa, and marveled
At the original structure, They pulled the stones
From the mountains and brought them down on mules.

Soon after his fortieth birthday, Fitzgerald attempted suicide
Here, but couldn’t shoot his own head, drunk, I guess.
Later, after he was actually dead, from alcohol,
Zelda perished in a fire at her institution, one of nine.

*

Asheville is the place where the Black Mountain College once stood
And helped birth Rauschenberg, Twombly and Johns,
Cage and Cunningham; now I think it’s a Young Men’s Christian Association.
On the wall of the Grove Park, they have pictures of the famous guests;

I’m not up there, but Obama is. I was asked to write something
For the inauguration of his second term, but what could I write?
I was in Asheville, studying writing, but not the political sort;
I write confessions and characters, and that sort of thing.

I wrote my friend Frank about what I could do, but he was unresponsive.
I went to class and then the little burrito place where they know me,
And finally at night I got Frank’s email on my phone and pulled over
On the side of Warren Wilson Road, past the school barn with the WWC —

That I couldn’t see in the dark — right before the school entrance;
A little spot where there’s a path that leads to a lake called Snake Lake.
First I called my class at UCLA, and told them to watch Apocalypse Now,
And that it used Heart of Darkness as a model, and that we’d watch

Eleanor Coppola’s Hearts of Darkness, the making-of, the following week.
Then I read Frank’s note. He said he was sleeping twenty hours a day,
With no symptoms except that he desired sleep
And just a little more sleep. He’s in his seventies.

Then he said that my poem was a difficult task.
How to write about a man written about endlessly;
A man whom everyone has some sort of experience of;
How to write so that it’s not just for the converted.

*

I met Obama once, in D.C., the Correspondents’ Dinner.
I was the guest of Vanity Fair, guided through D.C. by the wife
Of Christopher Hitchens, when he was alive. We went to Hitch’s place,
He had books from floor to ceiling, and said he had read

To Borges, when he was blind, Old Icelandic Eddas—
Then we waited in a private room with the likes of Tom Cruise,
And Katie Holmes, and Claire Danes. When Obama entered
The crowd converged. Finally, I got to shake his hand,

He knew me from Spider-Man. I asked him for advice,
I was scheduled to give the commencement speech at UCLA
And there were some undergraduate knockers against me;
He had been denied the usual honorary degree by Arizona State

Because he hadn’t accomplished enough, so I wondered
How he dealt with detractors. He smiled his smile and said,
“Humor.” Well he’s damn right, and I wonder how much
That stand-up comedian is laughing in the face

Of this big country. Because he is one man and we are many,
And a great servant of the people—he’s a president, not a king—
And doesn’t need to face what King Charles once faced.
(Frank suggested I examine Marvell’s semi-inauguration poem for Cromwell:)

That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
     While round the armèd bands
     Did clap their bloody hands.

That most famous stanza, and then:

But bow’d his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

And he was beheaded, good-bye Charles.

*

If I were to act in the film about Obama,
All I would need to get down, aside from the outer stuff—
And I know that’s important—is his essential kindness,
I’d let the writer put in all the political crap,

And the specific things that he was up against,
All that stuff on CNN and the Huffington Post,
And I’d say the lines that were written, just like Obama
Reads his lines, but what would really put the role over

Would be the goodness at its core.
That’s what will be remembered.
Yes, his race, no one will forget. But the soul too.
I’d win the Academy Award if I just captured that.

Yes, this is a real commercial.

After seeing this on TV for the second time, I felt compelled to share it with all of you. At least, I figure, I won’t be alone in my rage against this company and whatever marketing “genius” came up with it.

The first time I saw this, I thought, “Oh awesome! This guy built a mousetrap-style machine that refills his drink! This should be cool.” Alas, I was disappointed, aghast, angered, etc. to find that instead, the solution to the empty drink glass is the girlfriend (wife?). What the fuck. How is this on television? Why isn’t the whole world pissed about this? I mean, the Miller Lite commercials they used to have on TV promoting the “manliness” of drinking Miller Lite (e.g. don’t be a sissy, girls’-pants-wearing light beer drinker!) seem tame and almost endearing compared to the outright misogyny of this gem. I mean, really? We haven’t moved beyond “women belong in the kitchen and/or serving my every need including thirst”? It’s 2012 for godsakes.

I mean, the idea of businesses like SportsClips thrive on the idea that women are meant to serve men both in deed and as eye candy (see also America’s favorite place to get buffalo wings and glimpses of boobies, Hooters). The problem isn’t only the proliferation of antiquated notions of what it means to be a Woman–that is, buxom, always sexy, kitchen- or service-centered, adorably dumb… the list goes on–but antiquated notions of what it means to be a Man. Commercials like this imply that part of being a man means treating all women like glorified servants and exclusively doing “manly” things like watching sports–and being unable to drag oneself away from such manly activities in order to groom oneself, because that’s for pussies. It’s not only women that should be outraged at commercials like this that appeal to undeniably sexist notions of male/female relations, likely located somewhere in the irrational amygdala.

I don’t want to suggest that we should be better than this. We are better than this and it’s about time we show it.

Only Forcible or Legitimate Rapists Need Apply

Okey dokey, Republicans in the U.S. Senate. Do we really need to go over this again? What the fuck were you doing during high school Biology and/or Health class, or did you spend the entirety of high school asking Jesus to punish you for your teenage boner from looking at Prom Queen Kelly Ann Simons too long? Todd Akin (R-MO)–you may remember him from the “forcible rape” debacle of a bill he co-sponsored with none other than our new pal Paul Ryan (R-WI)–apparently told KTVI-TV the following on Sunday: “From what I understand from doctors, [pregnancy from rape] is really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.”

I would like to tell the men of the U.S. Congress something very important: the female body is not magic. The vagina is not a mysterious pit that has the power to discern the motivations of the penis entering it and conveniently stop a pregnancy if the dick looks or acts rape-y. Since when did the discourse around the female body slide back into the mentality of fourth grade boys who have heard shady rumors from kids two years older than them that have grossly misunderstood their sex ed classes? (Sidenote: these are the same people who think we shouldn’t teach sex ed in school. Apparently “magical vaginas” should be the standard for biological knowledge of sexual intercourse.)

After apologizing for his comments, Akin went on to say he screwed up; what he really meant wasn’t “legitimate rape” but “forcible rape”:

Akin appeared as a guest on former Arkansas Gov. Mike Huckabee’s radio show. When asked about what he meant by the term “legitimate rape,” he said, “I was talking about forcible rape, and it was absolutely the wrong word.”

His bad, guys. But seriously, what the fuck!? How has some nonsense term like forcible rape even entered our general lexicon? What the hell does it mean? And one of the idiots who co-sponsored the initial “forcible rape” bill nonsense is running for Vice President of the United F*&$ING STATES OF AMERICA!!! This isn’t a problem of terminology. Rape is forced. Any rape is legitimate because it’s RAPE. If somebody puts their dick in you and you don’t want it there, that’s rape. It doesn’t matter how you were dressed or what you ate for breakfast. It doesn’t matter what you look like, how skinny or fat you are, how old or young you are, whether you’re dressed like a prostitute or a housewife: if you say no, it fucking means no. It doesn’t mean that it’s not rape if she’s wearing booty shorts and he does a lot of begging and then just does what he wants.

Do we really need to parce rape into different degrees of culpability on the part of the rapist? Rape is rape. Period. And on top of this, citing some nonsense pseudo-science about mystery secretions and hormonal changes under stressful situations makes every woman who ever says no and is violated and impregnated a dirty, lying whore. Scientifically.

The discourse surrounding not only rape but women’s rights to control their bodies (and one doesn’t even have to look to the issue of abortion anymore, just birth control!) is in the toilet. From personhood amendments to ultrasound probes to “forcible rape,” there’s a lot of finger pointing at and distrust of women as a class of people. I thought we had made strides in this department. I guess not. I’m just hoping this forcible rape nonsense doesn’t turn into a steaming pile of forcible bullshit in November.

File This Under “Things That Make Me Hate the World/Want to Cry”

This is terrifying because this person bought a 50,000 euro (that’s $61,780 USD) bottle of champagne, but I also have to laugh because they paid 10 euro for Coca Cola. Middle-American upbringing FTW.

This exists. Okay, not so much that this exists, but that there’s enough material for something like this to exist; and not just exist but flourish. “Rich Kids of Instagram” is a Tumblr site on which the author posts pictures of young people of outrageous familial wealth showcasing their moral bankruptcy and total disregard for reality on their Instagram accounts. Oh, and like any good Millennial, their expertise at bragging. Go figure. This makes me kind of terrified, or as the kids would say,

#omgfearthefuture

Just… yuck.

A Happy Thought for Sunday

After hearing that Chad Johnson head-butted his wife the other day, this makes me feel a little bit better.

3am Clampetts, and other summer sleep disturbers

It can be pretty difficult to sleep in the summertime. Even though I live in the Midwest, which usually has okay summers as far as temperatures go, this year has been absurdly hot. ABSURD, I tell you. Like 95+ degrees for weeks. Not okay. Firstly, if you don’t have AC, you’re screwed. No way around it. You will toss and turn all night in your awful sweat-soaked sheets (and not from any fun pre-sleep activities, either). Gross.

If you do have AC, chances are you have an outrageous electric bill, and, if you’re like me, sinuses that are completely in revolt. Yes, world, I really want to have bloody noses every morning from wanting to sleep in cool air. Blargh!

If it happens to be cool enough to sleep with your windows open, you run the risk of noise.And by noise, I mean assholes shooting off fireworks until three in the morning. Really? It’s a friggin’ Wednesday night; don’t you have to work tomorrow? WHO ARE YOU SHOOTING THOSE OFF FOR? Everyone is asleep, or at least was until you drank one too many Budweisers and came up with this genius idea. Douche.

Another risk of sleeping with your windows open in the summer is something I have christened “3am Clampett Syndrome.” We all can get a bit testy when it’s hot outside; no one is happy to be sticky and sweaty and just generally gross even into the night. HOWEVER–this is not an excuse to go outside of your apartment building and scream at your significant other in the middle of the night. Listen, you hillbilly, you’re not out in the country. People are right above you with their windows open TRYING TO SLEEP, and you’re waking me up with your shrill f-bombs, slamming of car doors, and general banging on inanimate objects. It’s not the car hood’s fault your girlfriend is a whore. It’s hard enough to sleep in balmy, humid weather without your bullshit.

Just a friendly PSA: 3am Clampetts, Drunken Firework Guy, and everyone else disturbing my sleep, STFU.

When did the grocery store become so weird?

I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point the grocery store became a magnet for weirdos and really strange behavior. In high school, I worked in a small grocery store, so I knew that weirdos, like everyone else, go to the grocery store. But I also thought that it was only because I was working eight hour shifts four days a week that I happened to see a few of them every week. And granted, we had our resident weirdos. But as a customer, I used to go to the grocery store pretty much without incident. The past few weeks have changed that.

Why is a small child pop-, lock-, and dropping-it on my cart?

I turned away only for one, brief moment. ONE MOMENT, and there’s a small child booty dancing in the one-foot space between my cart and the shelf of cookies. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? You’re six years old, and you’re acting like this is the club. It’s the cookie aisle for crying out loud! That’s not a shelf of liquor at a bar, it’s a stack of Keeblers. AND YOU’RE SIX. What is going on?!?

Since when is ass crack an acceptable fashion statement?

That’s called plumber’s crack for a reason. Not appealing. Especially when you’re a woman in her late twenties behind me in the check-out line. The worst part was that this lady was wearing a belt with her jeans, which means that she has purposely slung them so low that her butt is peeking out of the back, not just that her pants slid down while she was walking around–still not acceptable, but, you know, perhaps slightly more understandable?

I don’t need to hear your life stories while you scan my food.

When I was a cashier, I smiled, I asked people how their day was going, and I’d sometimes comment on the weather. There are acceptable topics of conversation between customer and cashier. Talking about your lunatic brother-in-law or your aunt who just got brain surgery don’t fall into that “acceptable” category. It’s especially unacceptable when you expect the customer to share some highly personal information with you as a result of your own over-sharing, and then to get irritated when they act uncomfortable or simply refuse to share similar information. Come off it, ya weirdo.

You’re a friggin’ grocery store; how can you not have heavy whipping cream?

You call yourselves a grocery store? You, sirs and madams, have utterly failed.

Why does everyone in the parking lot act like a jackass?

When I have my blinker on, that means I’m taking the space. It doesn’t mean you’re entitled to it after you see I have my blinker on because you’re in the “lane” closer to it. On another note, if I make a move you don’t like, give me the finger, roll down your window and yell an obscenity at me, but don’t purposefully park behind my car and wait for me to get out so you can fight me, and, when I don’t get out fast enough, slowly circle the parking lot as you lie in wait for me. You creep! That’s stalking!

 

I mourn the loss of days when I could go to the grocery store without being accosted by weirdness and weirdos.