Monday, January 30, 2012

Dear People Wearing Pajamas Out In Public

Congratulations!  Your fashion statement is on par most things one would would find on  The sad thing is, you don't realize it, or agree with me. 

There are three acceptable times to wear pajamas.
1) To bed.
2) To an 8AM college class.
3) To a very lax orgy at a Mattress Discounters outlet store.
If you are not involved in any of these three things, you should not be wearing pajamas. 

I don't care where you bought your pajamas, or how much they cost.  You are wearing pants held up by a drawstring.  I might as well use twine to hold up my work pants.  Hell, if all rules of etiquette and decency in public are off, I will just walk around in sweatpants and a mesh tank top so that my nipples can get some fresh air.  And seriously people, if you are buying designer pajamas and using that as a justification to be lazy about your appearance, that's like buying a new Porsche to put up on blocks in your front yard.  Just because it's expensive doesn't make it classy or mean it looks good.

Don't give me the lecture that it is about being comfortable.  That reasoning is what made Crocs happen, and we as a nation have barely recovered from those.  Comfort breeds laziness, and laziness gets you killed.  Do you want to die?  No?  Then buy a real pair of pants and keep your head in the game.

Back in the day men wore suits and hats everywhere, and women wore dresses.  There were casual suits for men when they wanted to go to a ballgame or to a bar, and for women, the gods themselves crafted the most perfect and sexy article of clothing ever to be created: the sundress.  Women wore sexy dresses all the time, and this ended two world wars and not surprisingly caused a baby boom.  Now we have tv shows like "Teen Mom" and "Preschool Aged Grandma" because people are wearing pajama pants everywhere, and those are so easy access that people just figure "Why not?" 

Things have gotten so bad that they make pajamas that look like dress pants and jeans.  It is a slippery slope, and guess where all that sliding gets you?  To this:

Where is your God now, pajama wearers?

Monday, January 23, 2012

Dear Karaoke Master

I've been at this bar for an hour and you've been up onstage five times so far.  I have seen you more than my bartender.  You are a pasty guido wanna-be wearing too much CK-1 and way too much hair gel.  My bartender is a saucy little Pacific Islander who gives me free drinks.  You stand about as much chance of being my favorite out of the two as I have of finishing a marathon. 

I put in a slip to sing, but the forty other songs you already have in have swallowed it like Madonna on date night.  I wasn't aware that Ratt had that many songs.  On top of that, you were threatening to pour sugar on people and then rock them like a hurricane. Well, buddy, I don't negotiate with terrorists. I will turn this bar into my own miniature version of Die Hard if it means I get to drop you off a roof at the end.

If the noxious stench of the half gallon of cologne you are sweating out through your pores didn't make me nauseous, your stage act certainly would push it over.  I can only imagine how many times you practiced this in front of an episode of Glee.  Last time I checked, you didn't need to close your eyes soulfully while singing Bon Jovi, and the only things giving love a bad name are the urgent pleas for sex you are throwing at every girl too drunk to run away from the area around the stage.

I see what you did there.  Originally, the bridge of "Paradise City" is just, "So far away" repeated four times but you changed that to "Hey, you in the stripes.  Wanna go out behind my car and suck it?"  Had Axl thought of that, the band may have stayed together. 

I keep hoping you will get too drink to get onstage, but it seems that you've only just gotten drunk enough to sing songs meant for women singers.  I wish I could write something horrible and witty about this, but once you got into Adele's "Someone Like You" I simply stood up, yelled "Nope" and walked out of the bar.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Dear Guy Standing In A Parking Spot To Hold It For His Friend

It is not often I have lunch with my mother and sister.  Mostly because they won't let me come unless I promise not to make a scene.  I don't make promises that I cannot keep, so I don't get to come out to lunch very often.  However, every once in awhile, they forget that I have a tendency towards righteous indignation, and I get some free lunchtime chicken wings. 

All was going so very well.  I'd gotten in the car, and I didn't freak out about anything.  We'd ridden through town, and I didn't scream out the window at anyone because they had wronged me.  The restaurant was in sight, and there was a spot in front!  I was so close to ruining my shirt in a sauce related incident that I could taste to garlic and asiago that would gently be caressing the lovely wing meat.  Predictably, this is where you came in.

As we angled towards the spot, lo and behold, we see an old fat guy (this is you, assface) jump out of the car in front of us, and run into the parking spot.  We nudged forward, waiting for you to get on the curb and go to the restaurant, and you just stood there.  Confusion took over, was quickly replaced by panic, and was then put to rest by my old friend, hellfire rage.  You girthy little bald bitch, you were standing in the spot as your friend circled the block, since he had been too far forward to pull into the spot before us. 

Unfortunately for the world, my mother was quick to hit the window locks before I could act.  She also veered back into the street before I could jump out of the car and carve the word "Pie" into your porcine forehead with a shard of street glass.  All you could hear was my muffled screams and see me giving you the crazy eyes as we rode past and found a spot a block away. 

I was surrounded by 3000 pounds of metal and flammable liquids.  You were surrounded in a sad looking scarf and a cheap overcoat that blind gay men would instinctively shun and ridicule.  I think we know who had the upper hand. 

What you owe me is a letter of apology to my mother.  You ruined her lunch by making me belligerent and revengalicious.  You made my mother cry, as far as you know.  You also owe her thanks, because she was the only reason I didn't pretend in front of the entire lunchtime crowd at the restaurant to be your illegitimate son come to finally confront you after years of neglect.  You owe her big time, because that scenario usually ends with me crying, asking why you never send birthday cards, then sobbing while I eat all the food on your plate.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Dear Type II Diabetes

I like food.  I really like food.  I have already paid for this in blood, sweat, tears, and the taunts of "Fatty fat fat fat" from the local school children.  I don't need this from you.

There I was, trying to enjoy my holidays, one cookie at a time, and you had to rear your ugly head.  I felt like my strategy of "pretend you don't have diabetes" was working out way better than the "blow off fun stuff to exercise and don't even think about eating the foods you like" plan I had been on.  Apparently, diabetes is not like Paris Hilton.  If you ignore it long enough, it doesn't shrivel up and die like the unfathomable whore that everyone knows that it is. 

Just because I don't go to my endocrinologist, don't regulate my diet, rarely exercise, and lead a mostly sedientary lifestyle you think you can waltz right in and make my legs fall off.  Not cool, man. 

So, now I have to eat sucky food, stab myself with little needles and let out my sweet, tangy blood for a computer to eat.  I am not fully convinced that the tester will not develop a craving for my blood and slit my throat while I sleep, so now I have to worry about both it and Ed Asner doing that to me. 

All in all, I liked it alot better when I just had worms.