Friday, April 22, 2005

Things I hate (lemming style)

Well, since Ace (language warning) and Carin have both validated the Leftwingers' and MSMs' assertions about Bloggers being all hateful and divisive, and, since I don't have an original thought in my head (likely never have), I thought that I, too, would launch into a rambling, vitriolic screed about The Five Things I Hate, because, well, I'm a lemming:

  1. Whale Tails. You know what they are. That ridiculous "fashion" trend that has rhinestone encrusted ass d├ęcolletage staring you in the face like prettied-up plumber's crack every time you turn around. As an unfortunate side-effect of the "pants-which-don't-actually-reach-my-hip-bones," more and more young women seem to find it necessary to advertise why kind of underwear they have on. Ooohh-aaah. Folks, there's sexy, alluring, risque', and then there's just plain trashy. I call this redneck fashion. It's like girls' answer to the boxer short as an accessory item that has so many of our young men looking like they wandered off the little yellow bus and can't dress themselves without proper adult supervision. I'm all for a flash of lace here and there, but if you're showing your hygiene habits every time you bend over, it's time to rethink your wardrobe.
  2. The F-bomb, B-52 style. In the general trend towards the loss of civility in our culture, there has been an unfortunate embracing of the guttural thrill of tossing off the F-word like it was another form of punctuation. Now, I understand that there are certain stylistic uses for the word, and that sometimes there just doesn't seem to be a better, more effective way to make your point that a well-timed expletive. Heck, I'm no virgin when it comes to lobbing the ol' F-grenade out there ever now and then myself. But I tuned into the HBO series "Deadwood" the other night, and lasted about 5 minutes. I'm all for "sylistic renderings of the genre," but this was just mind-numbing. A nearly unbroken string of profanity, scattalogical references, and every other kinds of gutter filth pouring from the characters' mouths to the point where I figured it was some sort of documentary on Tourrette's Syndrome in the old west.
    This unfortunate trend also has hit the blogs, as well. I'm all for editorial license and sylistic freedom, and yes, I'm always free to "change the channel," but I guess I don't understand the need for an otherwise erudite and cogent author to resort to Eminem and Tupak-esque gutter street-lingo. If you can't make your point without resorting to the F-bomb every third word, then you probably need to find a new line of work.
  3. Door Dings. What do I really need to say here? A door ding says one thing, and one thing only: "I'M TOO DAMN LAZY, RUDE, AND INCONSIDERATE TO OPEN MY DOOR SLOWLY ENOUGH TO MISS THE SIDE OF YOUR CAR. I'M CLEARLY IN A HURRY, SO WHY SHOULD I CARE ABOUT YOU!"
    "And, when I DO crease your friggin' door, sharing some paint in the process, heaven forbid I put a note on your windshield with the name of my insurance company so you can arrange to fix the $300 F**'in dollars worth of damage I just did to your door panel."
    There is a special place in Hell for serial door dingers.
  4. The Cell Phone Bubble. It's that magical "cone of silence" which some cell-phone users seem to think surrounds them the moment they hit "send" on their cell phones. You know who you are. No topic is taboo, no subject too personal, no revelation too shocking to be discussed in the middle of Starbucks while waiting for your skinny half-calf with an extra shot of chai. I've listened to a lesbian discuss how she just didn't "feel in love" with her current partner, all while I'm in the middle of my breakfast at Denny's. One can only assume she was setting up the next lucky "gal" in line. Like I care either way, but thanks for sharing the intimate details of your personal life with me, a total stranger.
    It just amazes me how some people can tune out the rest of the world, and assume the world is doing the same for them. Hey. Get a clue. WE CAN STILL HEARRRRR YOOOOUUUU.
  5. And this last one may sound a little, well, pissy, but one of my top five "Things I Hatetm" is: Guys Who Don't Lift The F**king Toilet Seat!"
    Now, let me state up front that I'm a guy. But, like many guys, I do occasionally need to sit down on a toilet rather than just play target practice with the cigarette butts in the urinal. Let me just say what a god-awful infuriating urge-to-tear-someone's-effin'-throat-out kind of experience it is to rush in pinching back the worst kind of cramp-inducing major BM, only to be faced with quite the little piddle pattern all over the damn toilet seat. Ladies, on this one, I feel your pain.
    Guys, come one. Work with me here. Step up to the plate, be a man, and if you ain't gonna be sitting down, LIFT THE DAMN SEAT! You may think that your aim "is just that good," but you and I both know that little Mr. Winky sometimes has ideas of his own, and all that urinical discharge doesn't always go exactly where we want it to, yes?
    Sure, you may say, "Eww, I ain't touching that thing. Guys have had their hairy butts all over it." While true, there is a little thing to your left, yes, there, on the wall, about waist height. It's called a TP dispenser. Pull off a few sheets and use them as a "glove" to protect your widdle fingery wingeries as you lift the seat. There, isn't that better?
Now that I have shared the depths of my angst, I'm sure there will be a sweeping groundswell of change as illumination bursts upon the formerly clueless individuals guilty of the aforementioned crimes against humanity. No, really, I can see it happening. Any second now...any second....

Hmmm. "Survivor" must be on or something.