Cable Companies

OK, I’m fired up. Is there anything worse in our consumer-driven society than cable companies and/or TV networks? I mean, come on, these things must have been created by Lucifer himself. Other than, perhaps, cell phone companies, there aren’t too many businesses that can get away with completely screwing up, not delivering a product at times, and then still over charging you for that product no matter what. Confused? I’ll explain:

A very short time ago my cable went out. It was a Sunday, and anyone who knows me personally knows that Sunday is TV day for me. I start off the day with a recap of the week’s sports on SportsCenter, and then I proceed to watch copious amounts of NFL football. By the end of the day, my wife and I are glued to the Sunday night lineup on HBO. Now, other than the HBO, these Sunday programs are live, thus I cannot watch them in real time EVER again. Missing these programs means my whole day is ruined, in terms of TV watching. Now, I understand that I can go outside and find something productive to do. Additionally, I realize that I could be using that time to read a book, or grade papers; but, filling the time void is not the point of my frustration. Instead, I get angry because not only did I set aside that time for TV viewing, but I PAY A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF MONEY FOR MY CABLE!

So, thinking logically, I call my cable company to get some answers as to why my cable isn’t working. Being a Sunday, it takes me about 30 painful minutes of pressing countless buttons; listening to every direction in Spanish first, then English; transferring from sales to customer service; and then finally listening to terrible music, which is occasionally interrupted by a spoken ad that happens to be 10 decibels louder than the music, while I hold for the next available representative. Eventually, I finally reach Beelzebub on the other line and I state my problem:

“Hi, Beelzebub. My cable seems to be out. Is there anything I can do to fix this?”

“Hmm, let me see. What area do you live in?”

I tell her.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. We have some reported outages in that area,” she responds as if it is no big deal and a burden for her to look it up.

“OK. Is it going to be fixed?”

“Well, sir, it’s Sunday, so there’s a chance that they won’t get to it until tomorrow.”

I know it’s Sunday, bitch; that’s why I’m pissed – I think this.

“Really? So, you’re telling me I have no TV for today?”

“Well, no cable.”

I’m gonna break your face, smart ass. – Again, I think this.

“And this is supposed to be OK?”

“They’re going to try their best, sir.”

“OK. Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do. But, is there going to be some sort of compensation for this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, am I going to have a discounted bill or maybe a free station for a few days?”

She giggles, “not that I know of.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair. If I had an emergency and had to withhold my bill for a few days, I would have a penalty wouldn’t I?”

“Probably, but that’s just not how it works, sir.”

Now, I’m going to stop right there, because this is the line that really bothers me. Why isn’t that the way it works? I mean, I pay well over one hundred dollars for my digital cable lineup (complete with HD, DVR, and HBO). So, why shouldn’t I be entitled to some level of compensation when the cable company has a problem? Like I told Beelzebub, I would have to pay if it were my mistake. Instead, I’m forced to jump hoop after hoop just to another human who acts like I’m the one who has made a mistake the entire time we chat.

This scenario is one that drives me nuts. I had a similar encounter with my phone company once, as well, when my texting capabilities went out for a few days. And again, I bargained for some sort of restitution from the company, but it was all to no avail. I had lost out to the man again.

Needless to say, I hate Lucifer and his disciples known as cable company employees. One day I will no longer be held back by the constraints of the fat rich men who own these companies. Until then, I guess I’ll just keep bitching.

Idiots.

Suggestive Sellers

So, I used to work at a pretzel stand in a mall when I was in college. One of the “techniques” that we were taught as an employee was called “suggestive selling.” This is where a customer asks for one item, and you offer them more items, or a more expensive item hoping that they will bite onto your suggestions and buy more of your product. Check it:

Customer: “Can I get a medium pop?”
Employee: “Yeah, but you know you can get a large for only 15 cents more.”
Customer: “Really?! Wow, yeah, get me a large!”
Employee: “You know for 99 cents you can add a pretzel!”
Customer: “Excellent! Get me a pretzel as well!”

Harmless enough, I suppose. If someone is dumb enough to buy into the selling every time they go to get a soda, then they deserve to spend the extra change and consume the extra calories. But, this isn’t the main point of my blog. Instead, I’d like to vent my frustrations with the annoying bunch of ass bags that work at my local Dunkin Donuts:

For the last few mornings I have entered my local establishment that serves, perhaps, the best coffee known to man. There are always the same four employees standing behind the counter- eagerly awaiting my request. Now, I must say, each of these employees has an accent that I would best describe as being Indian in its origin, and I’ve always found it to be very “cute.” The guy always refers to me as “my friend,” and I like that-this staff always made me happy. However, recently it is as if these newly formed enemies have attended a conference on suggestive selling, and they completely missed the point of the technique. Let me set the scene:

6:45 a.m. Any given weekday morning:
I arrive at the Dunkin Donuts and I am graciously greeted by the male employee.

“Good morning my friend!” he says. “Oh, hey, good morning,” is usually my reply.
“Large coffee today?” he asks in a way that almost sounds like he’s telling me, not asking. “Please,” I’ll normally say.

Now at this point, I already have my money out, ready to pay, and I am handing it to the cashier. In the past, this was the end of the transaction, and I would happily go on my way with my delicious cup of coffee. But recently, things have changed. Before she takes my money, the cashier will ask.

“What else?” Those two words are all she will say. Not, “can I get you anything else?”Or, “would you like anything else?” just “What else?”

“Oh, nothing I’m good,” I’ll reply. “We have bagels,” she will state- as if I can’t see the huge f’ing picture of a bagel in front of my face, or the countless racks of bagels sitting a mere four feet in front of me. “Just the coffee, thanks,” I’ll say.

“No donut?” “No.” “Muffin?” “No.” “Take some to work?”

By this point I’m pissed, like, seriously pissed. I’m so pissed that I’m literally biting my lip to prevent myself from saying something that I know will get me into trouble. All I want to do is get my delicious cup of coffee and head to work, but this bagel baking bastard will not take my damn money and give me my cup.

Sure, I could go somewhere else, but I love Dunkin Donuts’ coffee; it’s the greatest. All I ask is that these numb nuts stop trying to sell me more shit when I go into the store. If I wanted a bagel, I would order the damn thing. The same goes for donuts, donut holes, juice, or any other inferior product that Dunkin Donuts sells other than coffee. Just make my coffee, give it to me, and say, “Have a nice day.” Idiots.

The Over Reactive Parent

Let’s talk about a portion of the population that really gets under my skin. As a teacher and a coach, there is one thing that really gets on my nerves on an almost daily basis: the over reactive parent. Now, this vessel of anger and venom seems to exist in all aspects of my life, considering my chosen profession. But I’m going to focus on the parent that becomes way too involved at sporting events.

You’ve all seen this person: He or she is the one who constantly has to yell at the coach or the official whenever anything happens that doesn’t positively affect his or her child. For example, if said parent’s child loses a sporting event, and the ORP’s child doesn’t play, then the coach must deserve to get screamed at for not allowing ample playing time which could have resulted in a victory because Johnny All-Star would have made a dramatic impact. Surely the coach must have a personal beef with Johnny, and it has nothing to do with John’s inability to perform.

Additionally, you’ll often find this foul-mouthed buffoon screaming at officials from the sideline. “That wasn’t a strike!” “Throw the damn flag!” “Oh, come on, ref. That wasn’t even close to a foul.” These are staples at high school sporting events around the nation. Most often, these words will be spewing from the man with the cut-off shirt, or the woman with the ridiculously large buttons on her chest-her son’s picture prominently displayed on her bosom.

Whichever form this anger management dropout may take, he never follows the rules of appropriate behavior at a sporting event. My problems arise when I try to figure out just why these folks harbor the anger in which they create. Is it a lost childhood they are trying to reclaim? Perhaps it’s a spoiled sporting event from their past. I just don’t know. All I know is that I hate the idiotic tendencies that these people have, and they display nothing but poor judgment in front of their impressionable children.

Truck Nuts

Do you ever sit and wonder what the world would be like without guys who drive trucks with “truck nuts.” It’d be fucking brilliant, right? I mean, let’s think about this for a minute: These nozzles seriously think it’s a) funny, and b) cool, to hang an oversized pair of nuts from their truck’s hitch so that it looks like it has testicles. That’s fucking stupid; really stupid. Does one really think that his truck is manlier because it appears to have sperm producing appendages that merely serve an aesthetic purpose? Come on, guy. Stop it.
I guess it’s not so much the actual “nuts” hanging from the hitch that bothers me; rather, it’s the fact that all of the DBs driving these trucks look, act, sound, and seem positively the same: Shaved head? Check; dirty T, or no shirt? Check; Smokes? Check; NASCAR lover? Double-check. It’s as if some new, hillbilly god decided to start creating a race of men specifically devoted to looking like assholes.
Another confounding aspect of this inferior human’s life is the fact that he drives like he was instructed by a drunk, blind man. Sometimes I can’t tell whether or not he is really driving like shit just to be an asshole to all of the other cars around him, or if he simply can’t handle the power that his manly (according to the nuts) truck possesses. Either way, I have to hold back from tomahawking a crowbar through his window every time I am near one of these fools.
I apologize if you are someone who operates one of these macho machines; I’m sure you are a fine human being who doesn’t fit any of the aforementioned categories. I guess I just don’t understand the fascination with this practice. I don’t see any chicks throwing “bumper boobies” on their Grand-Ams. Nor do I find myself compelled to add a hood ornament that spits multiple fluids on the car in front of me four times per day.
Truck nuts are stupid, and truck nut drivers are idiots.

Firecrackers

Well, I'm sitting alone on my couch a couple of days after the 4th of July, and I can still hear the hillbillies surrounding me lighting off firecrackers. Seriously? It's 2:00 in the afternoon on a Monday. But, it has me thinking: how fucking stupid are firecrackers?

Now, I'm not talking about fireworks; those are different. Everyone loves to watch those little balls of flame shoot up into the sky and open up into a canopy of colors that drape down through the night like a pre-schooler's lite-bright picture. I'm talking about the stupid powder-filled, wick-lit, loud-bang, pieces of shit that kids light and throw into the air just to hear a loud boom because they think it's funny;it's not.

I mean, seriously, there are no pretty colors, no sprinkling of ashes that float through the air in fancy shapes, no visual stimulation whatsoever. Just a loud fucking bang.

Now, perhaps I'm a little biased because every time they light one of these things, my dog goes into a barking fit that causes her to run from window to window in my house, trying to chase the noise. But, that annoyance aside, I still think these might be the dumbest forms of entertainment on this planet.

I hope I don't sound unpatriotic. Happy 4th, idiots.

"Dead Sea Salt" Kiosk Workers

Excuse me, sir? Can I ask you a question?

I know: it’s been forever since I’ve written. Truth is, I’ve been pretty happy lately; that was until I went to the mall yesterday afternoon. Let me tell you about the most annoying assholes in the world: the “Dead Sea Salt” kiosk workers.
If you’ve been to virtually any mall in the Metro Detroit area, then surely you have run in to these complete morons. Now, let me clarify one thing: I know that these kids are “only doing their jobs.” Trust me, I get that. But, you know what, get a new fucking job, dip shit. For those who are confused, I’ll explain:
The “Dead Sea Salt” kiosk is usually located conveniently right in the middle of the damn mall, completely unavoidable. In the particular mall in which I was perusing yesterday, the kiosk is dead set in the middle of an already small walkway. The product is some kind of “miracle” skin exfoliate that my wife will truly love (or so they’ve told me).

The problem with these people is that they are the most aggressive sales people I have ever encountered in my entire life, hands down. I mean, these peeps are seven times more pathetic than those kids who come by sweating in the summer trying to sell you a dollar store candle so that they can support their drug rehab program. The sea salt workers attempt to lure you in with casual rapport: excuse me, sir. Can I ask you a question? Then, once you respond to them, you’re fucked. They stampede you like a pack of wildebeest trampling Mufasa after he tried to save Simba in the gorge (yeah, that was a Lion King reference). They rub the exfoliate on your skin, and try to convince you that it’s already making your hand look better; it’s ridiculous.

The kicker: if you ignore them, or refuse to buy their product, they look at you like you’re the asshole. Apparently you’re the one who is interrupting their precious time, and asking them the most annoying questions in the world. Oh, and did I mention that some of the time they’re wearing lab coats? Fucking lab coats! Seriously?

Please, I’m begging: somebody kick over this fucking stand the next time you’re at the mall. Take a picture too; I would love to see it. I hate these idiots.

15 Items or Less

Wow, it’s been a while since I last posted. But in that time period, I’ve run across a number of idiots in my everyday life; here’s one that really got under my skin:

Last week I noticed that my fridge was looking a little bare, and I didn’t really know what I was going to eat for dinner. My solution: make a nice trip to my favorite Kroger. Now, I could probably write a blog every single time I go into Kroger, because there is always bound to be some absolute idiot that is shopping at the same time as I. On this particular day, there were multiple idiots.

The idiot that bothered me the most, however, was the guy who thought he would step into the “Fast Lane” with about $300 worth of groceries. Literally, $300 worth; I heard his total. Now, I’m not fucking perfect, nor do I claim to be. But, any imbecile with half a brain knows that you don’t enter the 15 item fast lane with $300 worth of groceries. You just don’t do it.

What’s almost worse is that the cashier didn’t think twice about the 45 items the man had in his cart. He just looked at the cart, looked at the man, and started ringing. I found myself wondering why this cashier didn’t take pride in his lane. I mean, you’re the fast lane, the quick check-out. You’re better than every other cashier in this joint, and everybody likes your lane the best. It’s almost like the fast lane cashier is the cop that gets to drive the Dodge Charger; all of the other lanes are the bike cops. Yet, this cashier, now completely suspect of douch baggery, let the man line up all 45 items to be scanned.

I can’t explain how pissed I was. Every other lane was completely filled with old women, hands full of coupons, ready to complain. And this guy took my fast lane, my road to a quick shopping experience, and hence, ruined my day.

Thus, I was either forced to wait an extra 7 minutes that I didn’t want to wait, or leave the store empty handed. I chose the latter, and ate Subway instead. I only had six items, by the way.

everydayidiot@gmail.com

Human Interaction and the 25,000 Pyramid

I don’t know why, but lately I’ve been really bothered by people who answer my friendly greetings without first taking the time to hear what I’m saying. Let me explain:

On a number of occasions I have passed people in the hallways at work or at a store and I will greet them in a friendly manner, perhaps saying, “Hey, what’s up?” But for some reason, whenever I say that I get this for a response, “Good, and you?”
Now, I didn’t ask this imbecile how he was doing. I asked him what was up. Thus, his answer of “good, and you?” does not apply to my inquisition at all. A response such as, “Not much,” or “Nothing, you?” is far more in order for this casual encounter. This leads me to only one conclusion: this bag o’ douche didn’t even listen to what I asked him. This realization leads me to another conclusion: people don’t give a shit about other people anymore.

Is it so hard to just listen to someone’s entire statement for two seconds before throwing your own selfish response into the air like one of those idiots on the 25,000 Pyramid (yeah, I pulled out the pyramid).

Come on, people. Are we really that non-communicative in face-to-face scenarios in this time of text messaging, e-mails, and Facebook notes, that we can’t even wait until someone finishes their greeting before responding and moving on?

Stop it!


everydayidiot@gmail.com

The Suburban Hillbilly

Perhaps you’ve seen this guy. If you live in the suburbs, I know you’ve seen this guy. The suburbs are interesting melting pots of all types of people. The suburb in which I reside, for instance, consists of white, blue-collared workers, a handful of African-American residents, a sprinkle of other minorities, and of course, a number of what I call Suburban Hillbillies.

The Suburban Hillbilly can be easily spotted while driving down the road. His big black truck seems to always be propped up with oversized mud tires-despite the fact that 99% of the roads in the suburbs are paved- and it usually has some representation of a confederate flag; the flag may be on a license plate, bumper sticker, or on some occasions, flying proudly off of the bed of the truck.
So why care about this mudding, truck driving, confederate wannabe? Because occasionally, he does something so ignorant that I want to break his face for reasons other than the fact that he just looks really stupid. I’ll explain:
On Monday I was leaving work and my gas light came on, telling me that I needed to get my cheap ass to the gas station and stop trying to suck every fume out of the tank or I was going to be stranded next to the highway, forcing me to walk two miles with a gas can in my hand like one of those idiots I see every time I drive downtown. As I was filling up my gas, I realized that the salt on the roads was really eating my car alive, so I decided to buy a car wash from the adjoining automatic washer. This is where I ran into one of my favorite Suburban Hillbillies: the unnecessarily obscene Hillbilly (yes, there are many categories of Suburban Hillbilly).

As I sat outside of the automatic washer, I watched a young man (driving a pickup-go figure!) back his truck up and pull forward again about 11 times. He couldn’t get the washer to turn on, and in true hillbilly fashion, his solution was to simply keep driving back and forth until it magically turned on. Instead, a man who I assume was his father, with a cigarette in his hand and a flannel shirt barely covering his belly, got out and started kicking the machine to get it to work- another genius tactic often employed by the Suburban Hillbilly. After many failed attempts he headed towards my car.

“Damn things broke!” he said to me.

“Hmm, did you punch in your code?” I asked stupidly.

“’Course, I did,” he said, “not stupid.”

“Well, I don’t know,” was all I could think to respond.

Now, the next part is where this hillbilly really showed his true colors. The Billy, always assuming that everyone thinks like he does, simply looks at me and says,
“What these assholes need is some fucking retard out here pressin’ these retard buttons for us,” with a heavy emphasis on the retard.

This is a common hillbilly gesture: this man automatically assumed that I wouldn’t be offended by the statement of calling a car wash attendant a retard. But, in a way, I was.

Now, I’ve never worked at a car wash, but I do work with special education students every day, and since I started, I have become pretty cognizant of the words I choose to describe someone. For example, I obviously like to use the word “idiot” instead; I suppose it’s less offensive to the general public.

But the Suburban Hillbilly is in a class all of his own, caring nothing about the general public and its rules, norms, and general acts of integrity. Sure, I laughed inside when the man said what he said. But part of that laughter was because the man had a southern drawl even though he lived 20 minutes outside of Detroit. This bacci spitter obviously didn’t care what I thought, and thus said whatever he felt.

It is for these reasons that I hate the Suburban Hillbilly. The guy shouldn’t exist. I think he is one of the biggest idiots I’ve ever seen.

Annoying Plane Passenger

With an upcoming trip planned, I recently started getting anxiety about the flight that I will take to my sunny destination. The anxiety, however, has nothing to do with being afraid of flying. In fact, I usually find the flight itself a fairly enjoyable experience. Instead, my anxiety stems from a deep hatred of sitting next to someone unwanted on the plane; a fear that is admittedly a bit on the childish side.

Although childish, this phobia actually has some warranted fears that associate themselves with the ever-present anxiety:
For example, I am always afraid that I will be stuck sitting next to some fatty Arbuckle who simply should not be sitting in one regulation size chair. This oversized carry-on is surely a fair fear for those who fly the cloudy skies on a daily basis. I mean, should I really be forced to squeeze myself between a hambone and an uncomfortable arm rest? I should hope not.

Additionally, there is always the screaming baby to keep one’s nerves on edge throughout the duration of an three hour trek. This delightful bundle of bawling is just enough to make me want to punch the mother right in the face for even having the kid. And I love kids, by the way. It’s not the kid’s fault, thus, he should never be punished. But if you know your kid is going to be screaming the entire plane ride, drive a car. Or better yet, take a train-at least you can get up and walk around. If not, enjoy the Joe Louis that strikes your teeth when you get up to use the restroom.

The worst case scenario for me, however, is the unwanted airplane conversation. God, I hate this. Let me set it up:

I walk onto the plane, searching for my seat-which I already know sucks because it’s a B seat, and B always falls in the middle of two people (see section on fatties)- when all of a sudden I see him; the man who is almost standing up, eagerly waiting for his aisle-mate. Fuck! I think to myself. He’s is totally going to want to talk to me. Damn it, God. Why me? Why this guy?
Nonetheless, I pull down the fisher price latch on the overhead compartment so that everyone else’s shit from five aisles down falls on top of me, stow my bag, and take a seat on the devil’s throne for my journey. Immediately, this douche bags starts asking me questions:

DB: So, where you from?
EI: Michigan.
DB: Oh, me too.
EI: Yeah, we’re leaving Detroit.
DB: Where you headed?
EI: This plane’s going to Myrtle Beach right?
DB: Sure is.
EI: Myrtle Beach.
DB: Me too!
EI: Yeah, I figured.
DB: Gonna golf?
EI: Yup.
DB: Me too.
EI: Cool.
DB: (Pointing to my hat) You like Michigan State?
EI: Yup.
This continues for a good 30 minutes.

Now, it’s not so much that I’m an unfriendly person. But, normally, if someone is giving me short, staccato responses, I shut up. But not on a plane; nope, this guy figures he’s got three hours in which I am trapped and have no choice but to listen to him babble on about how he can’t get his teenage daughter to listen to him. Leaving me with one of two choices:

1) Listen and complain about it later.
OR
2) Act as if I have some sort of a sleep disorder and slowly, but with purpose, nod my eyes and start to lower my head to my chest. I’ve done this before; sometimes, it works. Sure, I look like some sort of invalid who has a strange condition, but it’s well worth the silence that befalls once I convince my torturer that I’m actually asleep. I try snoring a bit as well, sometimes that will trick this fool.

All in all, this is one of those situations that seems to be unavoidable. However, it still sucks. Please don’t be that guy! I hate that, idiot.


everydayidiot@gmail.com

The People Who Make Cold Medicine...

I hate these people; they are idiots. I have a terrible cold today, and none of the medicine, that costs a ridiculous amount of money, works. Thus, today's idiots are indeed the people who manufacture and sell this mediocre product. I hate you, people.

The Shirtless Fan...

Okay, let’s get one thing straight: I love sports. I’m not talking about the type of love where I watch my favorite teams when their on TV. I’m talking about season tickets for everything, yelling at the TV, pissed off mood after a loss, hating people who like the opposition, love. But, there’s one thing that you’ll never catch me doing: going shirtless at a game.

Now, I sort of get the concept- show your dedication by painting your body with your team’s colors to prove that you really care if they win or lose. But why go shirtless? Can’t you just buy a shirt with your team’s logo on it? My hatred for this fan has led me to analyze what type of person actually does this. My findings were vaster than I thought, leading me to conclude that there are multiple types of people who practice this demonstration. They are as follows:




THE FAT PAINTED GUY:
This guy is just disgusting. This is the guy who knows that he's way too fat to be painted, but it's the only way he'll get everyone's attention. It's actually quite sad: the man knows full well that he shouldn't have his shirt off, but having people laugh at him is better than not getting any looks at all.




THE TOUGHER THAN THE COLD IDIOTS:
These guys are so stupid. It's twenty degrees outside, the wind is howling, and these guys think they look cool with their shirts off. They want everyone to think that they're tougher than they really are, so they won't succumb to the bitter temperatures. The problem is: everybody else knows that they're just idiots.






PAINTED GIRLS:
Oh, boy. Stop it, girls. You should be watching the game, not posing for pictures. "Hey, look at us we painted our skin. Hehehe." Stop it.




And finally...



THE DOUCHE BAG:
This DB is the guy who simply takes off his shirt at a game because he thinks he looks good. There is no point to this shirtless spectator, he simply thinks his shit smells like potpourri. The majority of the time, this guys doesn't even watch the game; he's too busy "scoping out chicks." This might be the worst shirtless fan of all time. Not only do we have to look at this loser's shitty tribal tattoo, but he's usually yelling something in caveman at the players. This guys sucks.

I guess my point is that people need to leave their shirts on at sporting events. There are better ways to show your support-like cheering. Idiots.

everydayidiot@gmail.com

The wrong side of the aisle...

This one’s been bugging me for a long time. Luckily for me, my wife does most of the grocery shopping in our home. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t make it out of the store without a set of cuffs slapped onto my wrists. You see, there are many types of shoppers that piss me off. Some of them I can just fluff aside, and be on with my day. Others, however, deserve to be slapped, kicked, punched, and unnecessarily dragged throughout the store by their hair for all to see; similar to a champion buck hunter who proudly displays his kill. I like to call this particular shopper: The Wrong Side of the Aisle guy.

Living in the United States presents one the opportunity to live as freely as possible without causing harm to others. However, we still have our rules, and they should be carried out in a fashion that carries over into many avenues of life. For example, it’s illegal to just sit in the middle of a road. Obviously, this is for safety reasons, but it’s also to avoid being a pain in the ass that people have to avoid while driving. Similarly, we see this law carry over into the everyday social graces that are expected in something, like say, a shopping mall. No one sits down in the middle of a mall floor, and if they do, they are usually punished by a security guard, or sometimes a swift kick to the dome. However, for some reason, not all of these rules seem to carry over. In particular, the rule that we drive on the right side of the road, does not often translate into our everyday behavior.

I’ll use the grocery store to illustrate my point, but there are many other situations where this may apply: walking down the sidewalk, walking in the mall, and walking in the halls of a school. The grocery store, however, is the worst case scenario for me. Let me set the scene:

There I am walking down the aisle of my beloved Kroger store. I’m walking on the right side of the aisle, pushing my cart, looking at the shelves intently for my favorite canned food-Hormel Chili. As I approach the midway point in the aisle, I barely see a woman in the corner of my peripheral and I slam on the brakes just before bumping carts. Whoa, I think to myself, that was close. However, the woman has no regard for the fact that SHE almost caused a run-in with me. Instead, she babbles the words, “You betta whatcho self.”

Now, imagine you’re me. According to the rules of the road, we are to travel on the right side of the highway. Thus, common sense would inform us that we should probably walk on the right side of the aisle. After all, this is America. Yet, this woman finds me at fault for a near detrimental (she had a glass jar of pasta sauce balancing on top of her cart) accident, that could have been avoided had she been on the proper side of the aisle. Not only that, but she shoots me some sort of shopper’s warning about watching myself, leaving me to infer that if I don’t, she made do something drastic-like throw her pasta sauce at me.

My point is, if we take the time to use a little f’ing common sense, we would realize that applying known rules to relatively similar situations will ultimately make a better everyday experience. I shouldn’t have to get pissed when I go to Kroger. It’s a bright, noisy, fun-loving store with ridiculous deals on bacon. The last thing I want to do is watch myself because some ignoramus doesn’t know how to apply the rules of common courtesy.

everydayidiot@gmail.com

Hazard Lights...

Again, I live in Michigan; the weather sucks. Take today for example: today we got about a foot of snow in about ten, or so, hours. A foot! Do you know how shitty it is to get a foot of snow? Let me tell you: first of all, a foot of snow means that one has to shovel the driveway every hour for about ten hours. Second, it means that one also has to deal with the damn plow truck trapping him in his own property by making a fortress wall at the end of the driveway. Finally, it means that every single douche bag in the state will be on the roads.

There are many different types of driver that can fall under the douche bag umbrella on a snowy day, but I would first like to discuss one that really irritated me today: The Hazard Lights Idiot. Now, my friend Lindsey was the one who first pointed this idiot out to me, so I must give her credit for the initial hatred. However, throughout the course of a two hour drive, I too became upset with this jerk. This is the guy that who feels it's necessary to have his hazard lights on the entire time he's driving in the snow. Sure it seems like a petty crime, but remember: almost everything that pisses me off is petty.

Here's why this guy sucks: First, I can't figure out why he has them on. I mean, is it to warn everyone that there is snow on the ground? If so, then that's just f'ing stupid. I can see the damn snow on the ground, ass bag. Or, perhaps it's because he wants people to know that he's going slow because of the snow. Again, we're all going slow; he's still an idiot. Thus, because of this, I don't think these reasons are plausible. Instead, I think this simpleton leaves his hazards on because he knows he drives about as well as a fat kid rides a horse, and that's not good.

It's almost like this guy uses this stupid little button as a shield to protect the fact that deep in his heart of hearts, he knows he sucks at life. You see, one's driving skills are simply an extension of his ability to kick ass at life. The guy who drives fast, lives life fast. The guy who drives cautiously, usually lives life in a slow, cautious manor. The guy who drives like an idiot however, will almost always fail the kick-ass-human test. And this, my friends, is why the guy who uses his hazard lights continuously while driving in the snow sucks. Please stop doing this, you're an idiot.

everydayidiot@gmail.com

Here's a tip...

So, yesterday I went out to eat with my wife at a lovely restaurant in a large department store. Everything was great: the food was tasty, the tea I had was warm, and most importantly, there were no little kids running around causing a ruckus. The problem came when we had a waiter change right in the middle of our meal. Now, normally this probably wouldn’t bother me, and even at that moment it didn’t bother me at all. The issue I had came when I was about to pay the bill.

My wife and I had a gift certificate to this particular establishment, and the new waiter rang up the card no problem. However, as he brought the bill back he asked, “Do you want me to write the tip on the receipt, or are you leaving it on the table.” Whoa, I thought, hold the phone young man. Who said I was going to tip at all? And this guy is audacious enough to ask me how I was going to leave the tip. That pissed me off.

I know, I know; it was probably a harmless question that was only asked because he had to do something “special” if the tip was going to be left on the card. But it got me thinking, why do servers always expect a tip? I mean, isn’t a tip an added bonus? Sure, I would be a rude jackass to not leave a tip, but nonetheless, it shouldn’t be an expectation. Instead, a tip is meant to be a reward for a job well-done. So, therefore, shouldn’t I be able to leave nothing if the job isn’t well done?

The other day my buddy was telling my about his experience at a chain steak house-you know, the one with the “Australian” commercials. Anyway, he, his wife, and another couple went to enjoy some delicious, cheap steaks for dinner. However, he said the waiter was one of the worst waiters he’s ever had in his life. The service was extremely slow, it took forever to get their meal, and when they got the meal it wasn’t the way they had ordered it. He-my friend- told me, “You know, we almost skipped out on the bill it was so bad.” Normally, I would take these comments with a grain of salt, but not from this guy. He wasn’t one to be confrontational at all. He just really had poor service. So I asked him, “Did you stiff him on the tip?” His response, “No, we left $9.00 on a $90.00 bill though.”

Nine bucks!? That’s still nearly 10%. Some old people only leave 10% on a normal night. This bothered me. It was obvious that my friend had still left a tip-even though his service was atrocious- because he felt like he “owed” it to the waiter. Bull$h!t! That doesn’t fly in my world. I don’t owe anyone. I’m sorry, but if you want a good tip from me, give me good service. Oh, and don’t ask how I’m going to leave the tip, you may not get one at all, idiot.