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