Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Stale Tortillas



Right, I get it, you're of Mexican heritage.

Sooo....what else you got?

Nothing? That's it? And how long is this special?

Gym Rats

After a disastrous day at the gym, I feel it necessary to take some time and unleash some hatred on the people who make working out a fucking nightmare for me.

Dress-Clothes Guy



I'm sorry, but buy a fucking lock. I came from work too. But watching your goofy ass do lat pull downs in a button down w/ slacks and dress shoes is distracting me.

The Advice Guy


"Here let me give you a quick spot."
"No, I'm fine actua--
"No, no, no, no problem, no problem, I actually noticed you weren't extending fully on those lifts anyway."

This guy shows up out of nowhere and assumes that everyone there is looking for help from complete strangers who actually have no clue what they're talking about. In fact, chances are, this guy will usually be rail thin and in terrible shape.

Trainer Casanova


Look, I know you're hoping to get laid--that's why people become personal trainers. But I also pay to come here. So if I'm on the mats doing sit-ups, I'd appreciate it if you didn't stand practically on my fucking head and flirt with the low self-esteem blond sitting next to me.
That's my job.

This is MY Locker Room Guy

"Not only am I going to bring eighteen bags with me, blocking any way you could possibly get to your own locker, I'm also going to more or less bathe myself in the sink, getting water everywhere, maybe shave my arm hair off in front of the mirror as well, what do you think of that?"

Stick Thin w/ an Ego Guy


First off, Mark McGrath, it's great that you're working out. But this is your, what, third time ever? Why don't you hold off on the sleeveless shirts and dramatic looks you make when curling that ten pound pillow you call a weight. No one's impressed.

Workout Fashion Guy


Maybe they didn't tell you when you signed up, but simply by wasting your money on expensive, feminine-looking workout clothes, doesn't actually give you a workout. You sort of have to do that anyway. Sorry.

Singing on the Treadmill Guy


You realize you're not alone, right? And you're voice sucks? Especially while hopping up and down jogging? This isn't karaoke. If it was, I'd be drunk.

The Flip-Flops Guy

Really? What is this cause for this? Should I need to even ask why this occurs?

New Best-Friend Guy


No...No. Just...just no. I don't care that we workout at the same gym, along with the thousands of other members. I don't want to waste a half hour between sets shooting the breeze w/ you. No- don't...God, don't comment on my form either. You're quickly becoming the Advice Guy too. Just leave me alone. I didn't make eye contact with you, so don't come over here.

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall Guy


Great man, you've got killer abs. I don't think they've changed in the last ten seconds though. You can stop checking yourself out in the mirror. I'm vain and I don't even stoop to that.

The Circuit Training Guy

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm still on that, still on that."
"Oh, okay, then I'll just use--"
"No, no man. On that too."
"Well--"
"On it."
"Why don't you just tell me which machines you aren't on at the moment to speed this up?"

Sweaty Indian Guy w/o a Towel


Perhaps the worst offender at the gym. Not to sound racist, but if you're an Indian dude, chances are you're going to sweat like a fucking hole in the Hoover Dam. You need more than two sheets of paper towels to wipe down that puddle you left on the mat where my head's about to go. Make a sacrifice to Ganesh or bring a fucking beach towel.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Pond Hopping

Douchebag Intern: You know what time it is?
Me: Yeah, ten after twelve.
Douchebag Intern: Cheers, mate.

Cheers?


Mate?


Are you talking about the Love Boat/Cheers cross-over episode, or are you really using British words with your American voice?

Unless the Delorean pulled up again at 88mph, Mel Gibson single-handedly won the Revolutionary War for us over 200 years ago.


So what the fuck makes you think you can talk like you're in jolly ol' foggy London town?


As an anglophile myself, it's tempting to want to behave and act as an Englishman might (unless said Englishman is Sting...fucking daft wanker)


However, do you have any idea how ridiculous it sounds when someone with an American accent (i.e. you) uses British slang? I know you're trying to be 'hip' and 'original' as opposed to 'douchey'. Would I want a book on tape of Nicolas Cage reading a Nick Hornby book?


No, because that would sound wrong. Like some fucking trust fund intern from Encinco who tells me 'Cheers.'

Fuck you. When I give you the time, say thank you. Don't say cheers. I'm not your mate. I can't spare a quid for the tube. And I don't want to get square pissed with you at the pub, squire.


Unless you're buying.

Monday, July 13, 2009

No Handle on the Environment (...get it?)

Ralphs...fuck you.

If you really wanted to embolden your "sense of responsibility in helping the environment," instead of starting by ELIMINATING THE HANDLES ON YOUR PAPER BAGS, how about just getting rid of the waste you employ -- When I say I want a fucking pound of low-sodium butterball turkey, I don't want Dumbfuck McGee to respond with "now that was half a pound bologna, right?"


Your company claims that getting rid of the Lilliputian, but totally necessary, handles attached to your paper bags will save 140,000 lbs. of paper weight each year. Oh, you mean paper weight that could then be recycled again over and over again? Is...is that what you mean, Ralphs?

Cleary, you're cheap bastards and want to save the 3cents per bag handles might cost you.

Believe it or not Ralphs, if that IS your real name, the teleportation device from The Fly has not been approved by the Federal Transportation Commission yet, and that means that with my 40 pounds of groceries, I can't magically transport myself and an unnoticed insect, instantaneously from your store to my refridgerator.



And even though it somehow seems that the majority of your customers are obese punters scootin' around in motorized wheelchairs with bins attached, I have to carry said groceries from Point A to Point B.



But walking around with fifteen stuffed plastic bags with the strength of a wet piece of toilet paper to hold all my food, instead of two fucking paper bags AVEC LES HANDLES is much easier for me. Thanks.


Fuck, I've had broken condoms that still held up better than those fucking things.

Or I could always just cradle the handleless paper bags under each arm like a god damn pair of twins. Is that what you want Ralphs? Is that really what you want??!!

Oh, and by the way...those delicious Korean Pears you charge $2 for, well I ring them up as 40cents bananas at the self-checkout.


SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!!!!

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Belle Epoque


Oh how whimsical. What a lark, on this humid, summers afternoon, to take a stroll arm-in-arm through Westwood Village with Mr. Darby. I'll be the talk of the town with my new parasol.


Your fucking parasol??

Listen sweetheart, unless that was a Delorean run on Mr. Fusion I just stepped out of, this is still 2009. I know you have no one in your life but those Victorian romances you read alone (surprise, surprise) in bed at night of Byronic heroes and strong women, but even Jane Austen would slap you across the face if she ran into you cooling yourself down with that paperweight umbrella you're tugging around.



For starters, you see that ground you're walking on? That's called cement. Ce-Ment. Now, unlike the meadows and lilly ponds of the Monet prints you have framed so your cats have something to look at while you're at work, this wasn't a common building tool the days of yore. It reflects light back up. So all that heat and sunlight you think you're avoiding, is just being bounced back up onto you.

Secondly, you bought that in a Halloween store, didn't you? It's not even functional or authentic, is it?

Also, you're walking from your office building to the Starbucks on the corner. You're not an albino. You're clothed. I don't think skin cancer will find the time to metasticize during the five minute walk in the sun from Point A to Point B.

You're not a vampire. You're not chic. You're just another one of those people I want to push into the street against the light. Get real.

Parasol's are only acceptable in two situations. In my Mai Tai or on the shoulder of a Japanese geisha as she giggles daintily into her hand.


Tee-hee-hee-hee.