Archive for the ‘You’re an Idiot’ Category

  • While we’re on the subject of creepsters…


    I refer you to yesterday’s gripe about dudes. And yes, I know that not all dudes are bad. As Rahul happily pointed out, these creepsters are just making the rest of you look good! Right?

    Anyway, in light of my gripe yesterday, I thought I should let you all know (as though you’re interested) what happened TODAY:

    I went to Subway, where I ate lunch. Then as I was walking back to the office, across the parking lot, this dude behind me said, “Excuse me, ma’am?”

    So I turned around and said, “Yes?”

    And he said, “Are you single?”

    I rolled my eyes and said, “NO.”

    “Are you in a relationship?” (Because I suppose it’s possible to be both not single and not in a relationship?)

    At this point, I had just turned around and started walking away, but I was almost to my office. I said, “Yeah.”

    He said, “Excuse me?”

    I said, “YEAH.”

    He said, “Well, your husband or whatever is lucky because that is one fine ass you got on you.”

    I mean, not that I don’t appreciate the compliment to my ass, I guess. But c’mon. REALLY? And now that asshat knows where I work.

  • Seriously dudes, this is not okay.


    Dear MEN,

    No, I’m not talking to all of you. But it seemed rude to start it “Dear Creepsters.” In fact, if you’re reading this blog, you probably never do this. I hope. Well, Travis might.

    Kidding, Trav, I just know how you like to be linked.

    Anyway, some of you men clearly need to be told that it’s not okay to stop a woman in the street to tell her how sexy her neck is, while licking your lips at her as though you might just throw her down and rip her clothes off right then and there.

    It’s not cool. I won’t claim to speak for all women. I’m sure there are some who like this kind of attention, but I can tell you that most of us don’t. To be on the safe side, you should all just stop it.

    And when I keep walking, because I’m not going to stop and have a conversation with you about the sexiness of my neck and risk getting raped or murdered, don’t yell “Bitch” at my back. I’m not required to respond to your creepiness. It freaks me out, and it’s really the last thing I need at 8am, on my way to work.

    I know, you “nice guys” are out there rolling your eyes, saying, “Man, you can’t say anything to women these days.” But that’s not true. Honestly, there’s a way to compliment someone without making that person uncomfortable. I do it all the time.

    But we also need to address the issue of receptivity. If a woman is not receptive to your attention, she’s probably going to find you “creepy.” Which, at this point, is as nebulous a term as “douchebag.” I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it. And everyone’s definition is probably a little bit different.

    Yeah, it’s as much a bummer for you “nice guys” as the floating definition of “bitch” or “slut” is for us ladies. Welcome to the club.

    Obviously, sexy neck spottings are not the only thing that I believe should be off limits. It’s mostly a class thing. You know, like you should have some. It’s usually easy to tell when someone is being sincere, and “Man, I’d like to put my dick in your mouth” just ain’t it.

    So let’s all take a lesson in class and consideration for our fellow humans. That means no more honking and yelling filthy things from your vehicle, no more lewd talk to strangers on the street, and having some respect for everyone’s space bubble. It’s not so hard; more than half of us do it all day everyday. Give it a try, I’m sure you’ll like it.

    Love (around the space bubble),

  • More tales from the grocery store…


    The scene: At the grocery store, innocently trying to buy some edamame.

    Customer is trying to buy a Mounds bar, from the 50% off table. Everything on the 50% off table has a sticker with a barcode on it, which is to be swiped to achieve the discount, because of course the check-out people can’t be expected to do the math themselves.

    Said customer also had a box of cereal from the 50% off table. It rang up at $1.22, after the discount. The Mounds bar, on the other hand, wasn’t cooperating. Full price, it was $1.19, but the sticker on the front wasn’t applying the discount. The cashier was having a lot of trouble, scanning, un-scanning, re-scanning.

    After several minutes of this, she said, “Can I just give it to you for the $1.22 on the other sticker?”

    Um…can you give 50% off a Mounds bar that is full price at $1.19, by using the 50% off sticker of something that costs $2.44? REALLY?

    She said, “Oh, wait, I guess that’s not quite half off.”

    At this point, I’m just dumbfounded. That is more than 100% of the cost of the thing. So no, it is NOT half off or anything close to it. She had done so much scanning that she had to call a manager for an override…OF THE WHOLE TRANSACTION. The people in the line were about to start revolting, as she started scanning all the items again.

    Then she and the manager put their heads together to do the math on 50% off of $1.19. One would think that the easiest way to accomplish this would just be to round up to $1.20 and know that half of that is $0.60, so half of $1.19 would be $0.595, or still $0.60 once rounded up.

    But no.

    These two women together, after professing their terrible math skills, decided that half of $1.19? Is $0.52. Which is what they took OFF the price, not what they charged the customer. Which doesn’t even begin to take into account the loss of 10 minutes of his life over a Mounds bar.

    I can only hope it was the best Mounds bar in the whole universe. FACEPALM.

  • Monday Morning DART Report: No, no…excuse YOU.


    Last week, I took a detour from my usual public transportation route. I got off at an earlier stop to take a look at some minimalist running shoes. I’ve been contemplating them for months, so I wanted to try some on.

    Hot damn, are they great! But that’s a story for another day. Or one I’ve already told you by now. I’m awesome like that.

    Anyway, this particular stop is in a sort of low tunnel thing, so there are stairs, elevators, and an escalator to get out. I was closer to the escalator, so I chose that. Not one to be lazy these days, I always force myself to walk up at least one escalator (at my usual stop, there are three and one of them is ENORMOUS, so I walk up the first, half the second, and the third).

    There was a man on the escalator, about halfway up. He had chosen, as people often do, to stand directly in the middle of the step and he was taking full advantage of the escalator. Read: He wasn’t moving a muscle.

    As I approached him, I said, “Excuse me.” No response. Again, “Excuse me.” Again, nothing. So I just stepped around him, since clearly he had decided to be a dick today.

    Then it happened. I stepped around him on his step, then stepped up to the next one and he said, “Excuse you, ugh.”

    I turned around, more disdain in my eyes than even I thought I could muster.

    “I said excuse me, thank you very much, but you didn’t bother to fucking listen. Maybe if you didn’t have to take up the entire fucking step, this wouldn’t be a problem, you lazy ass bastard.” I stopped short of, “and pull your damn pants up, I don’t want to smell your ass.”

    So it seems that I’m at my “rude assholes” maximum for the DART train. And it’s only been six months. This should get interesting.

  • Monday Morning: DART Story of the Week


    I’m sure that I’ll rant about public transportation more than just on Mondays, but I think for a while, I’ll try to share an awesome story with you every Monday morning. And let’s face it, that’s one less day I have to think about content, right?

    We should get things started off with a bang, too, so I’ll start with the only day that I’ve wished for a car.

    My boss, who can’t remember how to attach files to emails, has a really hard time understanding that the train runs on a schedule. And if I’m not there when it leaves…I can’t get on it. So he’s constantly just asking me one more thing or making endless small talk as I watch my train leave the station.

    The day in question was one of those days. I usually leave the office at 4:00 pm, to catch the 4:13 train. It takes 20 minutes to get to my stop from the office. That day, I had missed the 4:13 and the 4:28 and was running to catch the 4:43. I reached my stop just a little past 5:00 pm and went to wait for my bus. The 5:10 bus.

    Twice in the three months before this day, the 5:10 bus had not shown up at all. Every other time I had to take it, it was very late. And so I sat down to wait.

    And wait. And wait. And wait.

    The buses are on a 20-minute schedule at that time of day. By 5:30, the time for the next bus, I was still waiting.

    And waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

    It was a cloudy, humid day. One of the first hot days of the year. The sky was so swollen with rain, it looked like it might explode.

    Tick. Tick. Tick.

    Finally, at 5:45, when I could have walked home nearly twice (it takes about 25-30 minutes) in the time I had been waiting for the bus, I stalked off toward home.

    About halfway across a parking lot, I saw the bus FINALLY coming around the corner. I ran to catch it at the next stop.

    Safely on the bus, I figured my troubles were over.

    At the next stop, there was a woman waiting. She was not a small woman. She couldn’t climb the two stairs to get on the bus, so the driver had to activate the handicap-person hydraulic system for her. This system is slower than Christmas. The woman finally made it on the bus, sat down and left her walker out in the aisle; she immediately starting having the loudest conversation ever with the bus driver…about coupons. As our bus was pulling back out into the street, the 5:50 bus (of the same route) passed us. It stopped at the next stop and we passed it.

    We, however, got to stop for the CAN! Academy kids. One of whom, who was at most 14, was pushing an enormous stroller with her infant in it. Cue hydraulic system again. When the kids got their kid on the bus, they found themselves at an impasse. The large woman’s walker was still in the middle of the aisle (as was half of herself), and she wasn’t really interested in moving it. The bus driver refused to go until they sorted it out. We sat at the intersection through three lights and the rest of my patience.

    The 5:50 bus passed us once again, as we got underway. We were close to my stop, so I thought, again, that my pain was about to end. I pushed the dingy-bell, requesting a stop. The bus driver…ignored it.

    I jumped up and said, “HEY! That’s my stop.”

    She said, “Well, that other bus is behind me, so I can’t stop there.” It does no good to yell at bus drivers, but keeping my mouth shut was the hardest thing I had done all day.

    I had to get off at the next stop, which meant that I ended up walking half a mile home anyway. And the guy who got off the bus with me?

    “Hey. How you doin’?”

    “Sir, you can fuck off.”

    “Why you gotta be that way?”

    “Because I am having a bad fucking day and you are just going to piss me off.”

    By the time I got home, I pretty much hated everyone. Even myself.

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