Thursday, August 27, 2009

I'll Take Mine to Go

So, I’m grabbing a coffee at Juan Pelota (Lance Armstrong’s ironically—and hysterically—monikered coffee shop attached to his bike shop). As you might imagine, much of the clientele is super-fit.

One such woman, easily in her 40’s, but with a bangin’ bod and wind-lifted facial features (okay, maaaaaybe there was a scalpel involved at some point, but why go there?) stepped up to the counter and ordered her latte with skim milk. As she and her friend are waiting for their order, the guy behind the counter approaches and apologizes, “I’m so sorry, but we’re out of skim. If you like, I can steam the whole milk up really frothy, so it’ll take up more room in the cup, but use less milk. That way there’d be fewer calories, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Now, in my book, this is exceptional customer service. It’s problem-solving, smart-thinking—all the things I wish for in a less-than-ideal situation.

But Missy couldn’t be bothered. The eye-roll of exasperation was accented by a heavy sigh. “No!” she snapped. “That’s okay. Just give me whole milk.”

The guy immediately went about his task of making her whole milk latte. Meanwhile, she turns to her friend and stage whispers, her voice still dripping with exasperation, “It’s not the calories I’m worried about. It’s the fat.” Her implication was clear. What a dumbass the barista was, right?

Um . . . let’s see . . . last time I checked, smaller quantity meant less of EVERYTHING. So, skinnybitch, if the nice young man’s solution had reduced the calorie count of your latte by using LESS whole milk, wouldn’t it necessarily have ALSO reduced the fat count?

Of course, from the looks of your body, the bulk of your fat is between your ears, so maybe this really is too advanced a concept for you. Or maybe you can spend an extra 45 seconds on cardio to make up for the 1 extra gram of fat or whatever. Sha!

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Trafficking in Freshman

So, Biggerthan U, right up the street from my house, is gearing up for the Fall Semester. That means a whole new class of traffic, caused by a shitload of cars each bearing a shiny new, “My Child and My Money Go To Biggerthan U” bumper sticker.

Most of these suburban transport vehicles are driven by fathers whose anxiety on this day is second probably only to the nights leading up to the birth of this child they’re now pushing from the nest. These anxious dads are all trying to find their way without asking for directions, wreaking havoc on any jaunts I might feel compelled to take.

Now, granted, I don’t take these jaunts often this time of year. Leaving your air conditioned space in August in Texas generally indicates some genetic vulnerability. Plus, the variety and abundance of bad driving causes my blood pressure to rise uncontrollably. (I started to say, “drives me to drink” but we all know that just breathing does that.) But on those rare occasions when I have ventured out, I’ve noticed two particularly annoying manoeuvres that have me flummoxed.

First is blocking the box. How fucking complicated is it to be aware that you are, essentially, parked in the intersection. It’s not just people getting stopped short. I see people creep into the box when there is absolutely ZERO movement on the other side. There’s nowhere for them to go. Except directly in front me. Keeping me from getting to where I need to go. They always seem so sheepish, or else they do the “no peripheral vision/stiff neck” thing. You know, like they can’t see you, or they’re so focused on the car ahead of them. Which still hasn’t moved. Nor have I. It’s a win-win, right? ‘tards.

My other great disdain is for the converse of this situation: the driver who decides to stop traffic to let you turn, even though traffic is moving and he’s only blocking one lane so it’s not like you could actually get across the street without having an accident and now there’s a whole row of people who think YOU are the asshole for not taking advantage of the guy’s largesse thereby allowing them to GET ON WITH THEIR JOURNEY. Whew.

Hard to imagine that this many stupid people could produce offspring smart enough to get into Big U. I can’t wait to see how good the kids are behind the wheel. More joy to come.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

What's Next? Jesus Soap on a Rope?

I’m pretty sure I’ve posted before about the inability to escape the church newsletter of my childhood congregation. Each month, like clockwork, a little Xeroxed newsletter arrives in the mailbox, offering up Jesus-y news on people I have never heard of. Occasionally, there will be someone I recognize in the Prayer Requests section. It never says what you’re praying for, but I guess that’s okay.

Personally, I like to be very specific in my prayers. If I’m praying for a new Maserati, I pray for specific accessories, colors and trim. I don’t want to risk having God select mine as the “prayer of the day” and deign to fulfill it, only to get some raggedy assed used car in pimp purple and cloth seats.

But I digress. The church newsletter . . .

This month, I was greeted by Love Notes from the Pastor. I find that vaguely creepy and sooooo Catholic Priest derivative. But the first line of her missive (yes, the pastor is female) had me scratching my head in between the church giggles: “I smelled the aroma of Christ!” she wrote. Ummm . . . didn’t realize Jesus had come out with a fragrance. And what exactly did it smell like? Was it all flower-dy? Or was it more sandalwood with hints of murrh?

But seriously, you “smelled the aroma of Christ?”

She was referring to a volunteer outing where school supplies were provided to needy children. And she uses the same metaphor THREE times.

“You truly put on the aroma of Christ as you greeted each child . . .” Hunh? So you can actually spray this shit on? Or is it a roll-on?

Growing up in East Texas, we always hated when the wind would blow a certain direction, because we could smell the pulp from the paper mill. It essentially smelled like the forest farted. Could THAT be what she was smelling?

Regardless, she obviously thinks it’s a good thing. She closes her letter with “Keep on smelling like Jesus.” If only I knew what that meant.

Monday, August 24, 2009

I Think She Forgot What the "i" Stands For

Amanda Fortini hates her iPhone.

WTF, you ask? Who is Amanda Fortini and why should we give a shit about her iRage? Well, she is a writer for And quite frankly, we shouldn’t give a shit about her. Or her phone.

Normally, I take this sort of thing in stride. It’s part of my world. We’re not all supposed to like every product. Sure, manufacturers would love it if we did, but that’s why there is so much money spent on demographic research. That way, marketers can hopefully exploit the perfect product with the perfectly receptive audience.

But in this case, it sounds like Missy Fortini is one of those Americans who likes to foist their own shortcomings onto the gadget nearest her. She describes herself as “clumsy, scatterbrained and accident-prone.” And her iPhone as “evil” and ruining her life.

Yes, it is her iPhone’s fault—or rather her FOUR iPhone’s fault. That’s right. The iPhone has only been in existence a couple of years and she’s already on her fourth one.

“My starter phone lasted for a little more than a year, until the battery got old and the phone, which had never behaved well, really began to act up. The next one wasn't around long: I dropped it; it shattered. My third, a fussbudget sort, got a little bit damp and refused to work. Now, I am on my fourth iPhone, whose screen cracked weeks ago, and which plagues me daily with its many bugs and quirks and connectivity issues.”

“I dropped it; it shattered” and I swept it under the rug. When her phone got “a little bit damp” it became a “fussbudget.” Uh, it “got” wet. Just happened to “get wet.” Love the passivity. Hey lady, EVERYONE knows that you don’t get your phone wet. I sent my Motorola through the spin cycle once and I didn’t complain that it couldn’t take a little “clean-up.”

And then the “cracked screen.” And now it's full of "bugs." They probably got in through the cracked screen.

Oh, Amanda, I’m thinking this is more “user-error” than evildoer Apple. And why the fuck have you bought FOUR of something you hate that is ruining your life. I’m thinking your problems run a little deeper than you imagine. Maybe you should quit trying to use the Genius Bar for therapy.

Oh! Oh! And in her attempt to foment the revolution, she also published this bit of free verse from an anonymous poster (‘cause posts are REALLY where I get my accurate data):

my iPhone is a piece of shit

fuck this fucking piece of shit

it can suck my dick


Now I have a whole ‘nother bone to pick. Isn’t getting your dick sucked, even once, supposed to be a pleasurable experience? Isn’t the number one complaint of heterosexual guys that their girls won’t give them that brand of love? Maybe it’s because you’ve turned it into punishment for being on your bad side.

My guess is that the poster hasn’t ever had his dick sucked.