Boo-#@%*$-hoo!

I LOVE this guy’s post, which I’ve lovingly retitled:
Stop Your Damn Whining, You Crybabies!

Gawd! How I revel at hearing (and especially reading the posts of) crybabies!

I hope they can hear the horn of the ClueBus over their whines of self-martyrdom! Most can’t can’t even put together a sentence without howling grammatical and spelling errors. It’s stunning to see such illiteracy as:

“I’m not writing my life according to dication!” [sic]

and
“…my success will the sweetest revenge…” [sic] — So, I guess “success” is defined as “You want fries that?”[sic]

Stupid people crack me up. I’m stupid sometimes; that’s why I crack myself up. But stupidity on display cracks me up regardless of whether it’s me or someone else. I love when someone asks for “solutions” and then, when you show them a solution, they either complain that they don’t like it (or, more often, are too much of a mental midget to comprehend the lesson) and then start complaining that ‘you don’t understand’, or ‘are condescending to them’ or any other litany of reasons that justify them holding onto their petty and pathetic excuses for why they continue to fail.

I’m so glad (and so, too, those special someones should be) that I don’t get to choose who makes it in life and who doesn’t. Even so, there will always be people who see themselves as victims and who are too goddamn stupid, lazy and self-centered to see the larger picture. And the same hypocrites who whine, “You shouldn’t judge!” are the same morons who pass sweeping judgments of whomever criticizes what they do or what they believe. I judge. And I judge these particular zeros harshly because, to them, it’s easier — in fact, ritual — to fix the blame rather than to try to fix the problem. Boo-frakkin’-hoo.

These folks are Dimwit Smallbrain toddlers and will always need to be handled with kidd gloves, otherwise they’ll scream, “Discrimination!!” and demand equality of outcome because they don’t have the mental capacity to compete with the fighters, who [sniff! sniff!] don’t understand, and shouldn’t judge and [sniff!] have had all the breaks and.. [bwaaaahhhhh!!!!!]

For their benefit, here’s a pat on their head (hopefully, avoiding the spot upon which they were dropped as a child): “There, there. Smallbrain! I understand. Life’s too hard for you. You’re the ONLY one to have had so many challenges and tough times. Poor baby! Everything’s gonna be alright. I have SO MUCH compassion for you! You just have to be given more time to get things done, dontcha? You just need a widdle lenancy[sic] on whether your work is acceptable or not? You need me to lower the bar of expectations so you can slither over it instead of jumping like all those others have had to do!” The reality is this: under-achievers are excuse-making magicians, always ready to pull out of a hat a reason why they CAN’T and SHOULDN’T be held to as high of standards as others because, why? Their life is tough? They’ve had it rough? Those are losers’ laments.

To the Dimwit Smallbrain, I say this: I accept that that’s all you’ve got. The challenge is, how long will you accept that from yourself? Like the saying goes, ‘If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough. So (for you, in particular, Smallwit) wear a helmet.’

And, if anyone is quick to dismiss or discount the above, or whatever it is that a tiny mind does to pith and wisdom, then that’s okay. Here’s one gem that’s sure to ring clear: “The world needs ditch-diggers, too!”

The Secret Language of Teenage (Mutants).

It’s a parent’s right to NOT understand his child’s secret language. Even if he suspects he knows what that child is actually saying.

In the same vein, my children are expected to understand everything I say. All the time.

I know this may sound unfair, especially to my children, but hear me out:

I am older than they are.

I know more things than they do.

For instance, I can easily recite the lyrics to “The Beverly Hillbillies” and “Mr. Ed” and “Gilligan’s Island” and sing with near-tone perfect accuracy the themes to “The Three Stooges” (and yes, there were a few themes — usually when Shemp or Joe replaced Curly —  like us kids were too stupid to notice when they changed it!)

I am FAR more experienced at chatting and typing and speaking and writing, back when “chatting” meant enunciating OUT LOUD and “writing” meant using an actual pencil and paper (and I’ll thank you NOT to refer to those implements as “charcoal and papyrus” — you’ll be older one day, too. Unless you meet with an unfortunate “accident” after one of your sass-backs.)

I have been communicating since I can remember — and, yes, smart guy, I remember farther back than last night when I told you for the 4th time to put the garbage out to th…[oops!]

Sorry.

I don’t intend for this to get personal. It’ll never happen again.

So, how am I to process this teenage language gem, mutated from some form of actual English? Ready? It goes something like this.:

“So…yeah.”

That’s it. Two words. They say nothing and yet they say everything.

This phrase is usually used after a rather LONG and DRAWN OUT “explanation” for why said child needs or deserves something. Like more money for their allowance. Or to be driven somewhere. Or, like more money for their allowance.

TEEN: “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, BLAH, blah-bi-di blah. And besides, blah-bi-di-blah-blah, blah blah blahblah [note a TWO-SYLLABLE word!] Blah blah-bi-di-blah MORE ALLOWANCE.”

ME: [a stoic gaze — in (more or less) their GENERAL direction]

TEEN: “So….?”

ME: (See above)

TEEN: “So…., yeah.”

By the time they say this, it’s too late. How do you follow up that stinger?

If you say ANYthing after these two words (except, “You Betcha!”) YOU ARE THE BAD GUY! Trust me on this! You don’t dare say, “How’s that again?” or “What do you mean?” because hell will rain on you like telemarketing calls at dinner time.

I know the brain folk’s explanation of the physiology behind this phenomenon: something having to do with the adolescent mind still in a sort of flux between formulating strong and more mature synapses and associations.

But NONE of that matters when they say those two words: “So…yeah.”

I’m like, [shaking fist in air] “CURSE YOU, DR. BRAIN-SYNAPSES!! TELL ME HOW TO RESPOND!??” It’s as if the child has mind-melded me into some sort of speechless stupor, only to discover later that I’ve been standing in the same spot for 40 minutes.

WIFE: “What are you doing?”

ME: “Hunh? Thinking.”

WIFE: “Why are you holding your wallet open?”

ME: “I’m not sure. I need some time to gather my thoughts.”

WIFE: “I can spare a few seconds, that’ll give you enough time to wrangle in both of them. So, tell me, “#1 Dad”, is all of your cash gone? Again??”

ME: “Well, you see….blah, blah, blah-bi-di-blah-blah-blah…”

WIFE: [Nothing. Not even a hint of movement in those stone-cold eyes…]

I’m left with nothing but a faded memory from my halcyon days, a tried and true secret language I learned, deftly used, then forgot, then remembered, if only too late…

ME: “….Blah-bi-di-boobih-di-EMPTIED MY WALLET….

So….yeah.”

I’ve Got Your Number; it’s … Hunh???

Is it me or is there a natural rhythm to how one should recite a phone number, y’know, once that person reaches a level of maturity and ought to know better?

I’m talking about how some individuals I know give out their — or others’ — phone numbers in a rhythm that COMPLETELY RENDERS THE NUMBER AS 32-BIT ENCRYPTED GIBBERISH.

Have you ever heard anyone give you a phone number like this? “Oh, my phone number? Sure! It’s 25 [pause] 513 [pause] 65 [pause] 977.”

I’m completely rendered BRAIN DEAD when this happens. Some people joke that this must obviously happen to me every day, but I rarely laugh when they say it. Some jokes aren’t that funny.

So, what is it that makes someone give out numbers in this manner? I mean, these folks aren’t from different cultures, like Uzbekistania, where this rhythm (and above phone number) is not only cultural but actually part of their National Anthem.

I’m speaking about the UPS driver or gas station dude who casually tosses out a number for which you asked. And then all hell breaks loose.

It’s like:

HIM: “Their number is ’24-8451-…”

ME: [in a silent panic] “OMG!! WHAT THE HELL!? IS HE STARTING WITH A COUNTRY CODE?! Is he a physicist? Is there something I needed to drink before hearing this? Did the metric system that they promised me would replace the English measurement system in 10 years (some 35 years ago) finally hit? WHY DIDN’T SOMEONE WARN ME?

HIM: “uhhh… you all right? You look like one of those cartoon characters with the squiggly line for a mouth…”

ME: [too shamed to speak my truth] “Uhh.. no. Thanks! I’ll call right now! Operators are probably standing by!”

I think there should be a law or at least public flogging for breaking the natural “Di-di-di [pause] di-di-di [pause] di-di [pause — optional] di-di.” Otherwise, how will society stay civilized? This sort of deviancy should be categorized under “General Nuisances” or something that approximates that. Certainly, there must be something like this category on the books already. I’d call and find out, but the number I wrote down from that guy at the gas station always connects me to someone with an Uzbekistanian accent.

At least that’s what it sounds like to me.

I’m too ashamed to ask.

Jets’ Pizza Marketer’s are Idiot’s! AKA: “Apostrophe Asses”

Ok.

I’ve had it with the abuse’s that keep piling up on the English language, like Mr. Smith’s on top of Neo.

I look to reputable companie’s to help set the record straight. Y’know, keep us all on the beaten path. Sure, there’s[sic] alway’s a few straggler’s (Toys R Us — i can’t even type the “R” backward’s) but, for the most part, wer’e, gonna stay together.

So, I order a pizza from the national chain, Jets Pizza, and I see this:

Hat's off to the Idiot's Savant's at Jets'

Now, is it just me, or does this send ANYONE ELSE into apoplectic fit’s?

Did ANYONE at Jets bother to PROOF READ these boxe’s, before they were MASS PRODUCED and distributed to their franchisee’s? I can just hear it, “Well, “Jet’s” has an apostrophe-s, so “Boats” has to have one, too. Otherwise, its no good English!”

Did whatever genius who BRAIN-STORMED the idea of creating the “Jet’s Boat’s” and “Deli Boat’s”  simply MISS those grammar lesson’s back in 2ND OR 3RD GRADE? Or was this a [shudder!] graphic artists mistake? Still — SOME nimrod had to approve it!! Were they seated too close to the pizza oven so that their brain’s fried? I mean, you KNOW whomever let this slip past — you KNOW they misuse APOSTROPHE “S” in ALL of their writing’s. Or is it just in locally distributed marketing collateral? God only  know’s what other abuse’s they impose on my beloved English! They probably confuse “too” with “to” and “there” with “their” and “they’re”, etc. (DON’T GET ME STARTED!)

Its about time SOMEone bitch-slapped the company and “sign-off” person(‘s) who OK’d this howling gaff.

It might as well be me.

Thank’s for reading.