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Friday, July 23, 2010

Why Don't They...

Ever get gul-durned, double-fisty frustrated with the way some aspects of the world work— or, rather, don’t?

Surprised to find out that I do? Close your mouth, honey, you look like a human being with certain unspecified exceptionalities.

Sometimes, when life bitchslaps us upside the head with seemingly trivial annoyances, it just seems like more than we can take. And I understand that. I get it. It may seem to your perceptive self like this is going to be a blog post that compiles petty grievances and blows them out of proportion for exclusively self-involved, cathartic motivations and, possibly, a decidedly non-LOLish chuckle from you.

Well, congratulations—- I’ll mail you your fucking genius certificate once the Magic Marker dries. Till then, why don't you enjoy a little bit of...

Why don’t they…

• put sizes on men’s suits?

As someone who purchases suits almost exclusively secondhand, this drives me fucking duckboats. I understand, if you purchase a suit from a reputable menswear retailer (like, say, Grace Brothers) that the suits will be identified by the store’s label, with the exorbitant, ridiculous price as well as the size. I get that you’re supposed to purchase dress suits new. But I don’t. First of all, I prefer the cut, quality, and style of vintage (some may say “antique”) suits better than new ones, which, it seems, are manufactured by seven-year-old Asian girls locked in a closet. Call me old-fashioned but, well—okay, there’s no but. I’m old-fashioned. Anyway, there are few activities more irritating than shopping for a suit at a thrift, vintage, or secondhand store because you pretty much have no idea what the hell size anything is, and you have to try every fucking thing on that you like, and the meter outside of my favorite thrift store is only a fifteen minute meter. How many vintage suits do you think you can actually try on in fifteen minutes? It should be a gameshow. Would you watch me speed-try on vintage three-piece suits?


• tell you when you have a brake-light out?

Being a car-buff, as far as I know, most cars manufactured between 1897 and 2000-and-whatever do not have any discernable way of alerting you, the driver, lord, and master that you have a brake-light out. According to my owner’s manual for my 2002 Volvie-poo, there is an idiot-light that will go off when I have a brake-light out. And I thought to myself, “Well, fucking FINALLY!” I mean, how goddamn hard would that be to make for every car that rolls off the assembly line? When your turn-signal blinks really fast, we all know that means that our turn-signal bulb is a day or two from going out. And isn’t that nice to know? Why can’t something like that happen with our brake-lights? Not just the nouveau riche like me deserve the heads up, you know. It would avoid, you know, the unfortunate encounters with Johnny Law because, really, that’s the only real way you know when you have a brake-light out. And then they find the forty kilos of blow in your trunk and the family of illegal Mexican immigrants hiding underneath your backseat and, well, then that pretty much fucks your night right up.

• just give me a Twitter account and let me loose?

Seems inevitable, doesn’t it, for a self-involved asshole like me? Gotta start sometime, right? After all, what seemed like a woefully self-indulgent pastime for the up-to-the-moment-obsessed few has now been somewhat normalized by, well, the indulgence of… somewhat… normal people. I suppose the logic of my not tweeting is a bit like what a friend of mine said about the notion of mirrored ceilings in his bedroom.

“I can’t imagine anything being a bigger turn-off than watching myself have sex.”

Me tweeting, I think, would be the equivalent of me watching myself have sex. And I don’t need that. And neither do you. And neither does the world.

• sell funny coffins?

I mean ones shaped and painted to look like, I don’t know, Lifesavers packs. I think that would be fucking hilarious. When I die, I want to be buried in a goddamned coffin made up to look like a Toblerone. But I don’t want to have an open-casket funeral. Nobody needs to see that.

• legalize same-sex marriages?

What are they afraid of? That “the gays” are going to defame the institution of marriage? Don’t straight people do that every day when they divorce, smack their wives, and go out in public wearing matching tracksuits? Sheesh—all this fuss because they take it up the poop-chute and use big, purple dillies. Whatever.

• breed dogs that don’t shit?

I know it probably wouldn’t be “humane” or “within the standards of the Geneva Convention” but, like, I’d be all up on’s a dog that I didn’t have to follow around everywhere, all hunched over with a plastic bag. I mean, shouldn’t the annoying, whining environmentalists be all over inventing the shitless dog? Think of all the plastic shopping bags that would be… um… manufactured… anyway… and then… just… thrown away-- nevermind.


  1. haha! right with you the whole way!

  2. Were you addressing me specifically in the second paragraph?


  3. I tweet. Not all the time, but in spates. Usually when I'm annoyed. It's satisfying to vent my frustrations on an audience that has no option but to listen.

    Or unfollow, I guess.


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