Monday, December 19, 2011

Dear Guy at the Bachelor Party

We're all friends with the groom. That's why we are all here at his bachelor party. We are all, however, not friends with you. Maybe that's the problem. You've spent the entire night injecting yourself into every conversation like you were heroin at Lindsay Lohan's sweet sixteen party. You've tried every off color joke you know, and tried to make up several on the spot. Unfortunately, you are terrible at telling jokes, and have so far made sure that any lesbian, black guy, homosexual, Polish person, giraffe, and male from Nantucket would kill you had they heard what you said. A couple of people here would gladly play Noah and round up two of each of those to line up and take turns donkey kicking you in the taint. All this because you were trying way too hard to fit in.

Here's another tip. The words "nipple" and "pussy" are welcome at a bachelor party, but they should not be used in the name of the shot that you are ordering for everyone. They taste horrible, and it doesn't help that you yell out things like "Yeah, wrap your lips around that pussy!" when we drink the awful Pink Pussy shot you were stupid enough to buy a round of. You make me glad I am the designated driver.

The worst thing you did all night was order a Yagerbomb for everyone. This was wrong for several reasons, a few of which are as follows:

1) We are not in a Fraternity
2) We are not even in college
3) I have not had a recent head trauma to where I can no longer taste horrible liquids
4) Red Bull tastes like piss. Yagermeister tastes like licorice piss. Put them together and they make dolphins cry out in horror at the tragedy of what the world has become.

And the worst thing about Yagerbombs is that they apparently change the chemical composition of everything else in your stomach into Yagermeister and Red Bull. I know this because the guy I gave a ride home to projectile vomited onto my windshield. Even though he had several beers, other shots, and food, the only thing I could smell was Red Bull and Jagermeister. It was as if his body only rejected the Jagerbomb. I might have marveled at that fact if it hadn't been the third worst thing to ever happen in my car.

I hold you to blame for this. One day, maybe when your first child is born, maybe when you are sleeping, or on your deathbed, or when you are making an impassioned plea to a jury of your peers, I will make sure that my friend runs up to you and vomits a Jagerbomb into your mouth. My only worry is that you will enjoy it.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Dear Kia Motor Company

What in the name of all that is good and decent with the world is wrong with you people?  I am referring to the gigantic dancing hamsters you have on my television, hocking cars and raping my good night's sleep.

At what point in the pitch meeting did fat, human/hamster hybrids wearing douchebag clothing and acting like rejects from Lady Gaga's Zoo of Neverending Nightmares and Bowel Evacuations seem like a valid outlet to sell your cars?  Was the thinking that most car companies try to sell their cars by showing how safe and sporty they are, so you needed something different?  Well, granted, making it seem like you car is the choice of grotesque furry monstrosities that want to kidnap children and use them to fuel their wood shavings factories is different than saying your car is safe and sporty, but it probably isn't the best choice.  It's almost as good as trying to sell minivans by filming a commercial where Carrot Top rides around in a Ford Aerostar, throwing pills at children in the street and offering to let people take naps on the stained mattress he installed in the back.

Maybe you are trying to market your cars to the Furries population.  If so, then shame on you and your racist commercials. 

I can only assume that your company has made a deal with Maker's Mark, Irish Spring, Kleenex, and Mark's Bail Bonds, because when I see your commercials, all I want to do is get drunk, cry in the shower as I try to wash the horror away, then get in my car, drive to the zoo, and punch a koala so hard that is falls out of its tree.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Dear People Wearing Shorts In December

I really shouldn't have to write this.  This is common sense, yet, as with all those previously addressed in my rantings, you just don't get it.  You are running away from reality like a hobo with a stolen sweet potato pie. 

It is forty degrees out.  You are wearing a jacket.  Obviously, you understand it is cold, because you are taking measures to keep your upper body warm.  Why would you wear shorts?  Men, insulate your lap rockets.  Ladies, keep your yippee bogs warm this holiday season. 

I have seen both men and women doing this.  And I can't even blame the hipsters this time.  You idiots are wearing sport shorts and hoodies.  You look more like jocks than anything, and that's what makes this even worse.  You aren't letting me blame the hipsters.  This makes me so angry that I had to whittle down a Lincoln Log into a shiv and stab myself in the leg with it.  Then, I forced Tang into the wound, just so I had a pain that I could control.  Are you happy that you made me do this?  Why can't you just buy pants?  Why do you have to ruin lives?

There was a time when the only person you would see wearing shorts after October would be a big ol' fat guy.  He'd pair off those shorts with a Hawaiian shirt, sandals, and white socks pulled up past his calves.  We let him have this, because he added his own unique flair to the ensemble.  You, however, are not pulling this off. 

The only thing worse than you Mensa rejects strutting your pale winter legs around in Umbros in December are the frat boy preppie freaks that wear plaid shorts, sandals, and pastel polos in the summer.  You look like Zack Morris and Spaulding from Caddyshack got drunk on wine coolers and gave into temptation in Mr. Feeney's toolshed from Boy Meets World.  You are not the love child of this unholy union.  You are the afterbirth.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Dear Preschoolers in Barnes and Noble

Congratulations.  Your school is having a book fair at Barnes and Noble today.  Know where a better place for that would be?  Your school, where I would never go.

I didn't go to some fancy preschool.  I spent my time before kindergarten reading in the lobby of my Dad's auto detailing shop.  I didn't get dragged off to Barnes and Noble to get some new shiny books and hang out with my little nihilist preschool friends.  I didn't get to take a nap in the comfy reading chairs near the magazines.  If I fell asleep on the waiting room bench, my uncles would tie my shoelaces together.  Then, they would yell that the Three Stooges were on in the back room, so that I would try to get up and run to watch the TV.  It was Vietnam in that detailing shop.  I slept with one eye open.

I will go on record and say that I did not try to trip that little boy in the Fiction A-D section.  He ran between me and the shelf and tripped over my shoe, so his mom doesn't need to give me the stink eye.  It's not that I wouldn't have tripped him had I thought of it.  I just wasn't paying attention. 

You see, children, you've forgotten what respect is, or your parents never taught it to you.  If I went running through a store, I would have been in big trouble.  Your parents don't seem to care as long as you are leaving them alone so that they can have a moment's peace.

You know what else you've forgotten?  You've forgotten that you need to be afraid.  That little girl shouldn't have turned to her mother and said "That big man just growled like a dog!"  She should have done like her mother did and looked at me quickly, then move to another aisle.

Guess who Barnes and Noble likes more: me or you?  It's me, a return customer with disposable income.  I have that because I have a job.  You just sit around all day sipping juice and being read to.  Child labor laws are crippling the motivation of today's youth. 

Oh, yeah, and do you little terrorists know where all of your mothers got the money to buy you those books?  I put it on their dressers when I left in the morning.