A while back I did a couple of entries regarding people who annoy the ever living crap out of me on a constant and daily basis. I don’t remember exactly when because whenever there’s a new season of “Project Runway” on, time loses all sense of meaning. Regardless, you can read them here and here. They’re pretty awesome. They got good responses, so I thought I’d write another. As time marches on and I grow older and wiser, one would think I would also grow some patience with my fellow man. It turns out, it’s quite the opposite. I’m more irritated by people than ever. Why are people such jerks? I get so mad! Why?! Why are you like this, you damn freak?! I just want to punch you until you cry and then yell at you to shut up!
(Why can’t you be normal? Like me!)
Dear Idiot: Talky-Talkerton
I’m a friendly person. I have lots of friends and acquaintances. I love talking to them. The sound of my own voice is charming. But I know how to pick up on the non-verbal cues that my charm is wearing thin. Not everyone is as astute as I am though. Some folks will just keep talking. And talking. And talking. And talking. This drives me crazy. If you see me peeking at the clock over your shoulder, slowly backing away from you or putting my fingers in my ears and singing “Baby Got Back”, you need to stop talking. Please, shut your face hole. I don’t want to hear anymore. You are boring me. And I hate being bored. It ranks right up there with watching the news and eating broccoli. I might be a great actress but even I can’t act like I give a shit about your upcoming weekend of wallpapering your grandmother’s bathroom but for so long. Even though wallpaper paste makes you nauseous like that time you threw up funnel cake at the Salem Fair where your favorite ride is the Scrambler but they don’t even have it anymore, but they do have the bobsled thingees where you ran into your ex’s new girlfriend and she hasn’t barfed up any funnel cakes lately because HA, she’s gotten fat, God how you hate her. Sometimes, to try to distract the talker, I’ll start talking. Ok, I listened to you talk for 42 ½ minutes. It’s my turn to talk now. How about you listen to me for a bit? Quid pro quo, Clarice. But you know what that gets me? The stink eye for interrupting! I’m like, so rude.
(As I was saying, Lowe’s didn’t have Grammy’s plaid wallpaper so I had to go to Home Depot. And then…)
You know what? Just shut up. Stop talking. Forever. Leave me alone. I don’t care what’s happening in your life. God only gave me so much time on this earth and I don’t want to spend it listening to your endless prattle. Just. Stop. Talking.
Dear Idiot: Stranger Danger
Dear Stranger. Don’t touch me. Ever. Why are you touching me? Seriously. Stop it. Why in the hell do people who don’t know me, touch me? Back when my commercials were on tv, I had a few people who would come up and poke me and say, “I know you! (poke-poke) I saw you on tv. (poke) Omg, I totally know you! (poke-poke)” Ok, you did see me on tv but you don’t know me. And stop poking me, dammit, before I bend your bony, pokey finger so far back you’re whistling Dixie. But I’m not on tv anymore and still, kids, old ladies, grown men, etc. all seem to think it’s ok to touch me. They pat me on the back, hold my hand or arm or even touch my hair. It happens in grocery store lines, at Wal-Mart, at work, in restaurants and so on. When I lived in Glendale, a couple of guys would stand right up behind me, put their face in my hair and smell me! I know I’m kinda soft and usually smell good but don’t touch! What is wrong with you? I’m not a dog that’s been left tied to a lamp post. It’s just freaking weird. Don’t get in my personal space. Especially if you haven’t even bought me dinner yet. And I know it’s not just me. I see strangers touch other people’s babies. Cuz I guess the best way to strengthen their weak little immune systems is to expose them to as many dirty hands as possible. And the worst is when you see some stranger rubbing some pregnant lady’s belly. Holy crap! Keep your creepy hands to yourself. A baby bump is not public domain! How would you feel if I just walked up and started patting your tummy? Though my guess is you would probably like it, freak that you are.
(Go ahead, touch it. It’ll bring you luck…I SAID FUCKING TOUCH IT!)
Dear Idiot: Don’t Ask
God, I hate this. That damn person who asks your advice just to do the exact opposite. WTF. And they’ll ask over and over. I told you what I think. It’s obviously not what you want to hear. Why do you keep talking?
Idiot: Should I wear brown shoes or black?
Idiot: Hm…I think I’ll wear the brown.
Idiot: Should I color my hair blue-black?
Me: No. You’ll look horrible. Like a middle-aged, goth Elvis.
Idiot: I’m going do it. I love Elvis.
Idiot: Do these jeans make me look fat?
Me: They do give you a certain manatee-esque quality.
Idiot: I’ll wear them with this tube top. I think I look sexy.
Me: For a manatee, maybe.
Don’t ask me for my opinion if you’re going to do whatever the hell you want anyway. It shows you have no respect for my opinion. Which is fine. You don’t have to respect my opinion. But then why the hell do you keep asking me? Just do what you want and leave me the hell out of it. And don’t you dare do something stupid and try to come back at me with, “Why didn’t you stop me from <insert personal disaster here>?!” I tried but you wouldn’t listen. Why didn’t I stop you? Because you’re an idiot, that’s why.
(He wants my ATM card and the keys to my car. I should totally give it to him, right?)
I don’t particularly care for fish. And by that, I mean I despise fish. I’m not interested in putting anything in my mouth that swims and eats and breathes in its own poop and sex water. Regardless, I have no problem with fisherman. You like fish and fishing, good on you. But that’s really not what this entry is about. It’s about people who fish for compliments. Yeah, those people! And especially the ones who do it by insulting themselves first. And it’s up to you to correct them and reassure them they are amazing. Knock it off, you asshole. Now, I’ll admit that sometimes I’ll make a joke about my weight or age. But first, it’s cute when I do it. And second, I’m not looking for a compliment. I’m just trying to be funny. It’s like when you have some impossibly fit and sexy friend who moans about being fat, you just want to stab her in the forehead.
(I’m huge. I just can’t seem to get back to my birth weight, no matter how hard I try!)
This also goes for smart people whining, “I mean, learning Greek, Latin, Russian, Japanese, Chinese and Hebrew were a breeze but I am just too dumb to pick up the subtle regional accents of this ancient Aramaic. I’m such a loser.” Yes, you are. But not for the reasons you think. And the guy who says, “The only work I can get is as Channing Tatum’s lookalike stand in. Curse these chiseled features and taut physique.” Shut up, you walking air and space museum. I know you just want me to tell you how smart or thin or good looking you are. But I’m not going to do that. I can’t afford to feed your ego and my crippling shoe addiction at the same time. Get over it. Appreciate and accept the gifts God gave you. And stop bothering me.
Dear Idiot: Lonely for a Reason
Ok, this goes for both men and women, so guys don’t get all mad because I talk from a woman’s point of view. This is about the idiots from both sexes. I hear from people and see on Facebook all the time that guys “just want a nice girl.” That is a lie. A big, fucking, vicious, dark and terrible lie. You don’t want a nice girl. If you did, you’d have someone. There are nice girls everywhere. But the truth is, you want a hot, young, rich, sexy, model girl who, for some reason, finds middle-aged desk jockeys attractive. This is not something you obviously advertise but there is some small part of your heart and brain and penis that thinks there honestly is some vague possibility this could happen for you. So you don’t give “regular” ladies a chance. Because surely there is some 19 year old Victoria’s Secret angel just waiting to spend her time with you listening to you talk about how much better music was when you were growing up in the 80’s and what kind of wallpaper your grandma likes in her bathroom. Then she wants nothing more than to get some sweet, hot monkey love from you all night long because you are just a machine, baby. And you know what? It’s fine to have that thought. Go for it. It’s not going to happen. Ever. But much luck to you just the same. I would be happy to meet a nice and funny guy. I’m ok with that. Is there a part of me that would prefer to get down with Lou Diamond Phillips circa “Young Guns, II”? Of course!
(Chavez y Chav-…awwww, dayum!)
But I don’t go around complaining I can’t find anybody. I’m sure I could find someone. If I tried. Which I don’t. But that’s another story. So for the love of God, stop acting like all you really want is “a nice girl/guy”. Because nice girls are just that. Nice. And usually funny and smart with a nice smile and may have a few extra pounds around the middle and some gray hairs at the temples or slightly uneven boobs or a weird little mole somewhere. And all this goes for you too, ladies! But if that’s not ok with you, fine. Just stop your bitching about not being able to find someone. There are lots of someones. Apparently, just not for you.
So that’s it for today. Thanks for tuning in. I hope you enjoyed this entry of what’s pissing me off. By the way, if you take a shot of your favorite liquor for each time I tell someone to shut up and/or stop talking in this article, you’re probably feeling pretty good about now.