Things That Chap My Ass, Part III

As previously noted, a lot of things irritate me.

I realize that keeping a list of such things could viewed as somewhat sociopathic behavior, however you should know that it irritates the hell out of me to have people point that out. If you want to remain on my good side, such as it is, try to keep that shit to yourselves.

Part I and Part II of Things That Chap My Ass.

Now, moving on:

- Idiot Search Functions: Specifically desktop search functions that search for a file on your computer using the single most retarded and inefficient algorithm possible. Search functions that search for an item on your local machine like a 12-year old randomly poking through the pile of crap under his bed. Seriously here, Microsoft, which one of you idiots thought it would be a good idea to start every single global search in the “Compressed Installation Files From 1999 That You’ll Never Ever Use” directory, then move on to the “Windows And Every Single Goddamned Windows Program File Subdirectory” Folder? Instead of say, I dunno, the fucking Documents directory? There’s a reason why everybody in the universe hates Microsoft.

- Motor Heads: Those guys that are utterly terrified of silence. You know, those clueless knuckle-dragging grease monkeys that get up early on the weekend, crank up the Shania Twain, and then spend the entire day, day after day, fiddling with something that burns gasoline and doesn’t have a muffler. Hell, everybody loves the smell of burnt hydrocarbon and the sound of internal combustion straight off the headers! Crank that shit up! Tuning and revving and roaring continuously, over and over and over, louder than an A-10 Warthog attack plane making a strafing run on the bombing range with its tank-busting mini-gun in full auto-fire. Cars, Trucks, boats, bikes, snowmachines, lawn mowers, 2-stroke, 4-stroke, whatever – as long as it’s loud. Rev rev rev. All day. They never go anywhere, or use the machine in question, but damn is that thing tuned up.

- Gum Snappers: People who chew gum loudly in public, mouth open, lips flapping and smacking, ferociously working on a mouthful of cud like Mr. Ed with a cheek load of peanut butter – and then suddenly without warning POP POP POP! Then back to furious chewing. I’d like to give these people a pop in the mouth, or embed them in a wad of their own bubblegum flavored shit and stick them to the bottom of a desk somewhere in hell.

- Go Faster Cars: Those little toaster-sized four-cylinder rice-burners with a total cubic engine displacement approximating that of a medium sized hamster – with the GIANT STAINLESS STEEL SOUP CAN MUFFLER AMPLIFIER. We’re talking the midget clown shoes of the automotive world here, folks. Seriously, this is the equivalent of putting cards in the spokes of your bicycle tires. Kids, the shiny soup can muffler does not make your car sound big and bad, it makes it sound like a moped with a thyroid condition. I’m not impressed when you pull up next to me and rev that thing, frankly it sounds like you’re throttling a sickly cat. Also do all those parts manufacturer stickers on the side of your jumped-up golf-cart make it go faster? That giant airfoil, the size of the St. Louis Arc? What’s that all about? My dad says that’s a handle, so you can hang your little go-cart up on a hook in the garage. Why not mount a fake batmobile rocket engine on the back? That would be just about as useful and functional (no, of course not, that would be silly). And what’s with those brake-lights? Brake lights = red. Not blue. Not pink. Not Silver. Not White. Red. Red means you’re stopping, which means that instead of crushing you unnoticed like a fucking bug in my 4-ton crew-cab pickup truck, I’ll stop too. Think about it. Really, look in the rearview mirror, and think about it.

- Bullshit Problem People: Those idiots ahead of you in line, the ones that always have some ridiculous problem that requires a convoluted and lengthy explanation when they get to the counter – then during the course of their rambling explanation it becomes glaringly obvious to everybody in line that the problem is total bullshit. People roll their eyes and shake their heads at how stupid the guy at the counter is, then they step up and do the exact same thing. Let me give you an example: The hinge on my Gateway Tablet failed, it’s under extended warranty, I took it to the Geeksquad counter at Best Buy. Best Buy’s Black Tie extended warranty is outstanding, and their Geeksquad guys are polite and professional – I like dealing with them and consider the extra warranty money well spent. But, frankly, I don’t know how those Geeks do their job. I tell you, I’d stab somebody in the eye with a chip-puller if I had to deal with the bunch of retards they do. First, there was Mz Computer Expert. Her laptop wouldn’t power up. She wanted a new power supply, right now. She had important work to do. She didn’t want any crap from the Geeks either, she knew all about computers. It was the power supply. Pure and simple. The Geek plugged the computer in, the green light came on, the machine powered right up. Well, Geez, that’s funny, she says. Besides that doesn’t explain why the lamp on her desk quit working. Uh Huh. Apparently Mz Computer Expert doesn’t know what a circuit breaker is. Then there was Coffee Spill Lady – she hadn’t purchased the extended warranty, but she expected the manufacturer to replace her laptop because, and I quote, “It just quit working for no reason!” No reason except the big sticky splooge of coffee, sugar, and creamer dried all over the entire keyboard that is. Well, yeah, she admitted, there might have been a coffee related accident somewhere in the vicinity of the machine around about the time it quit working. Pure coincidence. And besides the manufacturer’s warrantee should cover that, right? She actually thought Best Buy should give her a new laptop. Ten minutes of this bullshit. The guy behind her rolls his eyes and makes derisive snorting noises (OK, maybe that was me, but just go with me on this). She eventually leaves in a huff, the Geek smiles a small painful smile and motions for snorting guy to step forward. He plops his laptop on the counter, says something like “Can you believe people like that?” and proceeds to tell his long rambling bullshit story which could actually be summed up in four words: Laptop, Dropped, No workee. Do you have an extended warrantee? Yes. Great. Except the Geek can’t find Mr. Butterfingers’ policy in the computer. We go through his phone number, his wife’s phone number, his cell phone number, his previous phone number, his address, his previous address, his dog’s name, his mother maiden name, his finger prints, his retina prints, his DNA but it’s just not in the computer. More explanation. He used to be in the Army. He moved around a lot. Blah. Blah. He purchased the computer and warranty in Annoythefuckoutame Somewhereelse, not Anchorage. Shouldn’t matter, says the Geek, central database. Blah blah, my dad was in the Army, blah blah blah. The Geek keeps searching, but Mr. Butterfingers’ warranty isn’t in the computer. Wait! say Mr. Butterbrains, I have the receipt. It’s got the policy number on it. Would that help? It might, allows the Geek, heroically managing not to stab the guy right in the eye with a chip-puller. Mr. Butternut produces the receipt – from Circuit City. You may imagine the rest of the conversation for yourself.

- Parking Lot Stalkers: No, I’m not talking about those perverts who hide in late-night Wal-Mart parking lots to ambush unsuspecting female store employees. I’m talking about those irritating assholes who slowly follow you through the lot in their giant Belchfire Behemoth SUV’s in order to get your parking spot. It’s like being stalked by a big clumsy elephant. Then they stop, blocking the entire aisle letting traffic pile up behind them, and wait for you to load your groceries. Sometimes they get impatient if they think you’re taking too much time, then they honk, or rev the engine of their Hummers to get your attention like you couldn’t already hear that beast idling like a 747 on the taxiway, or they speed off in a huff in search of new prey. I like to walk as slowly as possible, shuffling along aimlessly - if they want my spot they’re going to have to earn it. Sometimes I stop, and stand for a while watching the plastic bags blow across the parking lot like graceful boneless chickens, just to see how long they’ll wait. Sometimes I get out my keys and pace briskly towards a parking spot right up front, near the door – and watch the Suburbans and Denalis and Navigators come speeding across the lot like hungry lions to the watering hole, bearing down on that fat tasty looking zebra. They curse and jockey for position, they’ll spend four hours running on a treadmill in their designer lycra shorts down at the gym but there ain’t no way in hell they’ll park more than ten feet from the door if they can help it. And just as the feeding frenzy reaches its crescendo, I put my keys back into my pocket and dodge between the cars into the next aisle over. Ha hah! There’s my car! Follow me! Do it enough and you’re like the pied piper of lazy selfish assholes, you can get a whole pack of them to follow you all the way to the furthest, most remote corner of the lot just for a chance at your spot – because by then it’s become a matter of principle, they don’t care how shitty the spot is, they’re not giving it up to the competition, bitches.

- Nancy Grace and Caylee Anthony: Seriously here folks, who in Atlanta thought that this pig snouted, big haired, whored-up, soap-opera milking, queen of the trailer-park trash, sensationalistic tabloid pabulum spewing, yellow journalism loving dye-job was an actual journalist? Investigative reporter? The only issues this irritating corn-pone accented rednecked Jeff Foxworthy caricature is investigating are the boxed wine specials in the local Piggly Wiggly liquor aisle. You’d think that Caylee Anthony was the only kid who’s gone missing and dead in the last fifty fucking years. Yes, it’s a tragedy, but it’s not half the tragedy that Grace and her ignorant self-righteous sensationalistic crusade has made of the once vaunted CNN. I wish this idiot would go missing herself for a good long while.

- Palinites: Those NeoCon retards who continue to try to make some kind of profound connection between Osama Bin Laden and Obama/Biden. Look it rhymes! Rhymes don’t lie. If the glove don’t fit, you must acquit! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. Our Mama’s gonna beat your Obama. Really shut the fuck up and go back to your little cabin in Montana or wherever. If the world ends, we’ll let you know. Maybe.

- LOL Trolls: Nothing says troll like ending every single sentence with LOL! I’m LOLing LOL! LOLing My Ass Off. LOL LOL LOL. Look, I’m using the Internets LOL! You’re an asshole LOL! Allow me to dazzle you with my clever trollish wit LOL! LOL, it’s the new period LOL!

- Cereal commercials: Attention Post, Attention Kellogg, Attention General Mills: I got it. You cereal is crunchy. Everybody knows. Cereal, it’s not a new invention. It is absolutely not necessary for you to run commercials with happy smiling morning people in bathrobes sitting around a table smacking and crunching and slobbering and talking about how your cereal is fortified with 8 essential sugars and enough fiber to imbue a camel with the ability to shit through the eye of a needle at forty paces. For the love of God, I really don’t need to see these people eating, and I really don’t need to hear them eating. What the fuck is it with cereal commercials? No other food product feels the need to demonstrate the sound of the their product being consumed. Steak? No. Canned vegetables? No, never heard the sound of the Jolly Green Giant chewing 3-bean salad echoing over Happy Valley. Pudding Pops? No. Oatmeal? No. Tuna in a pouch? And etc. So why do I have to listen to people eat your product. Really, I’m not interested in listening to somebody else’s digestive process. It’s a damned good thing the laxative manufacturers haven’t picked up on this idea – or the Beano guys.

I could go on, but I’m getting irritated just thinking about this stuff.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I think I’ll go have a bowl of cereal, maybe the crunching noise will drown out the sound of my neighbor tuning up his snow machine.