Top 10 most annoying late night Denny’s customers

Yes, you all know me. you may not specifically remember my face because you and your friends were shit faced drunk. I am your Denny’s Waitress. The one you hit on at 3am after the bars closed. I normally work 10pm-6am, friday-tuesday. There are certain types of people I see in my work. If you are one of them, please, go to Jack in the Box. So here we go.

10. THE HOOKER- Yes dear, I know you are a hooker, You work a hard job, So do I. Yes I am polite to you, mostly out of fear of a crackheaded rage. But when i have 9 tables, of possibly tipping customers, I do not want to drop everything to make you a strawberry shake to get that cum taste out of your mouth. Please, just wait, like everyone else.

9. THE FRAT BOYS- Yes I know I look good. Thanks. But please, I don’t like being hit on by a group of drunk guys in a bar, I do not like being hit on by a group of drunk guys at my work. I WILL NOT give you my phone number. If you are really that interested, leave a big tip, and your number, perhaps I will call you. More then likely, I will not.

8. NO HABLA INGLES- Ok please, learn the basic skills needed to order your food. I don’t speak spanish very well, and i hate having to grab the bus boy to translate. Anyone who has ever been to california, knows these people. When asked what they would like to order, they point to the picture. “Ok and how would you like your eggs?” to this i get a puzzled look, much conversing in a foreign tongue, then more pointing to the picture. This same response to the questions as to how you would like your toast, steak, etc… Please, learn to speak english, or bring someone who does. And lastly, don’t act like I’m the idiot for not speaking spanish.

7. THE HOLIER-THAN-THOU GROUP – Ok, so technically I am a server. read SERVER, not servant. Where the hell do you get off talking down to me you drunk prick? Yes I will be nice to you, I will get your food in a timely manner, and keep your coffee full. But please, do not talk down to me as if i am human excrement.
I work don’t I? And please understand that all things in the universe are not in my control. ok you ordered your steak medium rare.(why are you eating a dennys steak) I do not cook the steaks. I can not bite into each one to check it’s exact condition inside. If it is not exactly right, please tell me, politely. do not scream ” You stupid insolate whore, i said Medium rare, can’t you remeber that, or are you too stupid.” This will not get a kindly reaction from myself, and you will wait 30 minutes for a new steak, which will be extremely well done. You don’t know me, I don’t know you, You might be better then me, probably not. You are an asshole.

6. THE LOUD DRUNK GIRLS- Yes you ladies, I know you had a great time in the bar, as i can hear every word you say. Glad to hear the fake id’s worked, but you do not look older with 3 pounds of makeup and one ounce of clothing. I don’t mind that you all give me evil looks, I’m hot. Sorry i can’t help it I was born this way. I see the looks as you guzzle down your french vanilla cappuccino, and all share one salad. But ladies ahem..girls. I am one of you, why treat me with such hostility, fortunately at least one of you is a waitress, and you usually leave a decent tip.

5. THE HOMELESS GUY- Yes I let you sit in here. you aren’t dirty and don’t smell…too much. I will give you free coffee, and do my best to sneak you some food. But I am busy. I do not want to sit and listen to you droll on about how in 1972 you had a house and a wife and you lost it all. You’ve told me, I’m sorry, I’m doing my best to help you out a little, why don’t you get your ass a job, and complain to them.

4. THE RICH ROMANIAN GUYS- Yes you are all very good looking, and polite. But please, stop telling me how much money you have. Also, this is not burger king, we don’t make it your way. The options we give you are listed, want seasoned fries, great, can’t eat tomatos, alright. But when you order your decaf coffe with a shot of vanilla, water, with lemon. Club sandwich with no tomato, no mayo, extra mustard, add swiss cheese, ham instead of turkey, on rye bread, no fries but a side of sliced banana’s, this is a little much guys. Come on, make it at home. After all this, which i finish with a smile on my face, you leave me $3.00 hop in your beemers and escalades and drive away. THANKS PRICKS!

3. THE CREEPY OLD GUYS- Yeah you two. You’re pushing 60, do not act like you are 20. I am not on the menu, please stop asking, when I ask youif there is anything else i can get you don’t say ” I’d like you on a plate” After 60 years i’d think you guys could come up with something better. I am a waitress, not a Hooker. I will not let you smell my pussy for $20 dollars, I will not let your friend fuck me for $200. I do not care that you are “special forces” The giant gut really must help for all the covert ops. If you want a hooker, one will be here soon, buy her a strawberry shake, and she’s yours.

2. THE OLD MEXICAN LADIES- so when did you ladies buy those outfits? when you were 20? guess what THEY DON’T FIT. They are too small and you are too large. The bright red shiny tight skirt does not make your ass look good, nothing could make your ass look good, a trash bag perhaps. The bottle of cheap perfume you put on this morning does not make you sexy, it makes you smell, bad. No one wants to see your boobs, no matter how many push up-bras, bottles of glue, and rolls of duct-tape it took to get them above your belly button. You all are loud and drunk, and obviously you do not like coffee by the massive amount of creamer and sugar you put in. I mean really ladies, 9 creamers and 12 packets of sugar for one fucking cup of coffee?!? The sooner you realize that you are not 24, get your fat ass in a moomoo, and get the hell out of my restaurant, the sooner the world will be a better place.

1. THE LARGE CHEAP PARTY- Yes you earn number one. You come sauntering in at 2:45am and announce that you have a party of 14, maybe more. ok, we do not have a table for 14, we will have to spread you in part of the restaurant. you will all be together, just not at the same table. You bitch and moan, but hey we only have booths, they don’t move. so ten of you sit. I get your drinks, but then there is 1 more, i get this drink, and so on. then When it is time to order, are you polite enough to go in the order in which you are sitting? Hell no. Will your party quiet down so i can actually hear you? Fuck no. after everyone orders will 3 of you change your mind? But of course. Ok. 14 different meals…got it. Time to carry them out, as you may know 14 meals will not fit on one tray, so yes i have people carrying more, but Alas, that is still not enough. So while i am setting down your plates you all continue to cry ” Where is my Toast, where are my nachos, I need ketchup, etc” Hold the Fuck on, i got 5 trays, and 2 hands. so “Is there anything i an get for you?” a glass of water replies one customer, “Ok, anything else for the rest of you?” no answer, so i scurry off, and get the water. “Anything else?” I ask upon my return. More napkins, once again i run to get napkins. this process goes on and on. Ask for it all at once dammit! ok time to pay. You all want seperate checks… can you not figure out he approximate price of your meal on your own? Are you all that stupid? of course you are. After all of my efforts,there $200 dollar check divided, and many thanks for the great service, what do I receive for my efforts?!? $8 dollars. $8 Fucking dollars. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! THATS LIKE 3% YOU ASSHOLES

All of these people are actually customers that i deal with on a regular basis, they are not fictional, although i wish many of them were.

Please folks when dining out remember, we are not servants, nor are we hookers, we will not date you,tipping is 15-20%, we do not make your food, but if you are rude we will not hesitate to spit in it.

I need a hot roomate

I’m looking for an incredibly beautiful girl to share my apartment. Why does my next roommate have to be a gorgeous girl with fantastic funbags? Because I hate my job, that’s why.

I spend everyday dealing with complete cockbites, only to come home and deal with one more cockbite fucktard, and I’m tired of it. For once, I want something to look forward to, and it’s certaintly not going to be my job.

So if someone has suggested that you should be on America’s Top Model, or could be (better yet, have been) in Playboy, than you may just have what it takes to be my next roommate.

In all fairness though, it will take more than just being a scorching hottie to be my roommate, it will also take $700 every month. You will also have to put up with the following:

• My friends will always be over to check you out
• I will always be trying to check you out
• I will move all of your food to the bottom drawer of the refridgerator, just so I can watch you bend over and get it (Oh, yeah! Get those apples from the crisper, you dirty girl!)
• I will make every attempt possible to “accidently” bump into you as you are on your way out of the shower.
• I will constantly try to get you drunk so that I can advantage of you. Sadly, in attempting this, I will get myself much more drunk than you could ever be, and promplty get myself taken advantage by someone much less desirable.
• I will make you play 20 questions with me, and every time I will be thinking of my cock.
• I will never make eye contact with you, because I will be staring at your sweater puppets.
• I will hound you to be part of my amateur photography collection.
• I will eat all of your food (I’m lazy and cheap as well).

If this sounds reasonable to you, write a 5000 word essay on why you would be a good roommate for me. Then, throw that out and send me a hot picture of you instead. As long as you are hot, I really don’t care what you do. You could be a herion addicted, neo nazi, puppy-killer, but as long as you look like one of the girls from a David Kelley series, I don’t care.

And please be a non-smoker, I’ll need my deposit back when I move out.

Hating hatred

The rich hate the poor for being “low” and bothersome. The poor hate the rich for being stuck-up. Blue collar hates white collar for having to work for them. White collar hates blue collar for not kissing their ass.

Women hate men. Men hate women who hate men. Women hate men who hate women who hate men. Women hate men for wanting their bodies. Men hate women for wanting their wallets. Boyfriends and husbands hate their girlfriends and wives for taking their freedom. Girfriends and wives hate their boyfriends and husbands for not being perfect.

Fat chicks hate skinny chicks. Skinny chicks hate fat chicks. Fat chicks hate skinny chicks for getting all the guys. Skinny chicks hate fat chicks for hating them for it. Skinny chicks hate guys for looking at them as sex objects, and fat chicks hate guys for not looking at them at all.

Kids hate their parents for being parents. Parents hate their children for making them be parents.

Non-Christians hate Christians. Christians hate non-Christians for hating them. Non-Christians hate Christians for hating them back. Christians hate other Christians for not being the right “kind” of Christians. And everybody hates the Mormons.

Republicans hate Democrats. Democrats hate Republicans. Republicans hate Democrats for not loving their country enough. Democrats hate Republicans for hating the rest of the world. Independents hate both parties for having more money and influence than them. And Ralph Nader hates all of them.

And don’t even get me started about race and gays.

My God, when does it stop? It makes me so sad that me, a normally tough and stoic guy wants to cry his eyes out for people everywhere. Everybody hates everybody else, and feels completely justified in that hate. Just ask them, and they’ll tell you all about the righteousness of their hatred for whoever they hate. But ask someone who they love, and they’re strugging to find any answer beyond a significant other and a few family and friends… Are our capacities to hate so global, but our capacity to love so local and small?

I can’t take it anymore… But I guess, I’m no better. I hate everyone for hating everyone else.

Peace, seriously.

You probably aren’t Ms. Right but …

You Probably aren’t Ms. Right but:

I date women of no particular eye color or hair color or body type. I can say with 90% confidence that my next partner will be between 4’5″ and 6’1″. Based on past choices, there is 100% probability that she will be white, and a 75% chance that she will be a former Catholic. A little about me: I am a Jew, a practicing Jew at that. One of my deepest desires is that the future women will also be Jewish. Baruch HaShem Unfortunately the forecast is bad, only that remaining 25%. The only good news there is that with such a small population (four long term relationships), the margin of error is pretty high +- 50%. The 50% is pretty troubling though. That would make her negatively Jewish. Is that anti-Semitic? If so at least it is only 25% anti-Semitic. I would hate to put myself in a bad situation.

Then there is the issue of sex and sexuality. There is a 75% likelihood that Ms. Right will not do sex and I seem to only date confused bisexuals. That is not to say that bisexuals are confused. I have had many friends who are not confused about their bisexuality. And may it be that they continue to flourish in their love endeavors. That being said, there is a 50% chance that she will actually be bisexual, but temporarily and under the bizarre influence of my sexual prowess think that she is a lesbian. If you fall into this category, I am afraid that the chances are 100% that you will leave the relationship and enter into a healthy long-term relationship with a man older than your father. What is more, the uncertainty around this is 0. It will happen. You can avoid this wretched fate by moving on to the next ad.

Back to the sex problems, there is a 75% chance that the woman of my dreams will not want to have sex. I have a pie chart of reasons. Unfortunately, several attempts to attach the image failed. Please email for graphic version. None the less, here is the content of the chart.

Recovering from Sexual Abuse 35%
Repressing Sexual Abuse 45%
Gets off More on Control than Sex 25%
Really asexual 5%

Content of the chart makes clear that whether or not you like sex it is likely that you were sexually abused. Sorry you had to go through that. I did too. The biggest hang up I still have is in choosing good people and situations in my life. I am really good at the sex thing, completely recovered. Which unfortunately has led to a 100% forecast for sexual frustration on my part.

A little about our future: We will be together for 3.3 plus or minus 1.5 years. I WILL change your life open your horizons. In the end there is a 100% chance that you will become a huge slacker, incapable of holding down a 40 hour a week job ever again. Reasons vary. You may start your own unsuccessful business or you might just hang around on disability until you decide to become a permanent student. I understand. Not all of us are made for work. There is a 75% chance that you are a selfish narcissist. In the end, I will be the one to leave, and it will hurt me more than it hurts you.

Interested? Is this you?

Why I hate Whole Foods

I don’t know how Whole Foods has managed to corner the market on all the good vegetables from the produce suppliers and all the other grocery stores in the area are left with such shitty produce, but that’s the way it is. I go to the smaller mom & pop produce stands when I can and get what’s in season, but sometimes I want other produce, and since no one wants shitty fresh veggies, I put aside my hatred for you, Whole Foods on 64th, and I go there. You also have the best meat in town, and I sure do like good meat when I want meat.

I hate the stupid assholes that can’t pay attention to what they’re doing when they’re parking because they’re too busy looking all conscious and hip in their biodiesel German car and shopping at Whole Foods and checking out all the counterculture wisdom on bumperstickers. It is NOT cool to just come to a complete stop in the middle of the street and ponder your life before you turn into the parking lot as though you’ve never been there before. I see you getting out of your car with your fabric Whole Foods shopping bag. Wake up and pay attention! What crackhead decided to put that surface lot next to that underground parking with an entrance on 64th street when 65th street & Roosevelt is already congested enough? It is even worse when you have to walk across the street and these blissed-out dopey shitheads almost run you down in the street because they didn’t see you in that crosswalk as they were too busy turning up NPR.

Then there’s the scene inside that crackhead maze of a store. There’s just no way to get in and out of there when you only need a couple of items. After it takes an inordinate amount of time to park and if you manage to not get hit crossing the street, it is impossible to move quickly thru the store. There are so many “aware” consumers carefully reading labels and making proclaimations about the product in their hands–to the air–if they’re alone. They won’t get out of your way if you just need that one carton of chicken stock behind them, they just stand there all doped up on anti-depressants and Valerian and wrapped in fleece and natural fibers and stare at you like you requested a kidney if you ask them to please step aside. Then if they KNOW you’re in a hurry, they will block you and sometimes even comment you’re in too much of a hurry and you can only enjoy life if you take the time for pleasure. Shit, white woman with dreadlocks, I will take time for pleasure as soon as I can get out of this hippy-dippy overpriced shithole and enjoy this fine cheese.

Then there’s the bulk foods area; a place where bargains abound if you know what you’re doing AND you can muster the patience to wait for the stringy-haired ponytailed man to decide just how much sage powder he really needs and step aside for the other customers, and there happens to be a pen available so you can write down the product number to avoid being lectured by the smelly cashiers when you try and explain you couldn’t write the number down because there was no pen and you don’t have one on you.

Some of the cashiers are really nice, don’t get me wrong, but some of them like to give you mean looks when you buy a lot of red meat. You can see the vegan superiority in their eyes when they can’t help but comment on all the ribs you’re buying. I didn’t realize Judgement was involved with my grocery purchases; that must be why I pay so much extra.

Oh yeah, and could all you people that shop and work there maybe occasionally take a fucking shower? If that spews too much water loss, a bath really will do. Thanks.

Men’s vs Women’s Personal Ads

Mens posting:

• Lets fuck !

Womens posting:

You MUST meet the following requirements.

• Be over 6’2″
• Be in great shape.
• Be great looking.
• Be educated. I have a masters degree AND a law degree. That means I am really smart. Did I mention I have a masters degree AND a law degree? Even though deep down I know I am not that bright I can hide behind these degrees and pretend I am – phewww!:)
• Have a great job and make lots of money. If you aren’t a doctor or lawyer you aren’t good enough cuz they are really, really smart but more importantly they will make my best girlfriends jealous (bitches!).
• Be able to impress my friends and make them envious and jealous. Oops I think I mentioned that above. Just want to make sure you know what your main purpose is.
• Not be too domineering but you aren’t a momma’s boy either. Meaning whatever mood I am in I will tell you how to act.
• Like wine. I like Shiraz cuz it’s Australian and I am really worldly and only know Merlot and Shiraz and Shiraz sounds more sophisticated.
• Be well traveled. The bus tour in London was great and staying at the Paris Hilton just screams culture. It means you are smart, attractive and cultured if you travel, cuz getting on a plane and staying at the Hilton takes lots of brains and skill.
• Like jewelry. Tiffany is my very favorite – it is just wonderful. I love wearing a dog tag around my neck that reads someone elses name. Besides only 20 million other women have it. I feel so special wearing the same thing everyone else does.
• Like Starbucks. Even though their coffee really sucks and is way overpriced I must have it. What would someone think if they saw me walking with a plain styrofoam cup ???
• Like fine cars. As with jewelry, I have very unique taste in cars as well – BMW or Mercedes.
• Love Sex and the City because like the girls on the show I have whored around a ton (I will never admit that to you though) but seeing it done on TV makes it OK. Because they aren’t just whores, they are rich women looking for love! They represent sophisticated, educated, tasteful, classy girls like me. If you are a yuppie and spread your legs for lots of guys you aren’t a whore, you are just looking for the right guy. Those uneducated blue collar girls that fuck lots of guys are whores ! But I have a masters degree and a law degree, so just because I have had more men than the urinals at Fenway Park does not make me a whore!
• Be spiritual. Like myself, my mate must have a deeply spiritual side. I have no idea what this means and the deepest thought I have had in six months is what color shoes to wear on New Years Eve but it sounds good.
• Not ever, ever, ever be worse looking than any of my friends boyfriends cuz if you are I will try to fuck him behind your back and my girlfriends back (that bitch!)
• Not ever, ever, ever, mother fucker be less successful than any of my friends boyfriends. If you are I will try to fuck him behind your back and my girlfriends back (I hate her!)
• Never bore me. Yes, you guessed it, if you do see above, cuz I am getting sick of telling your sorry ass how many ways and why I will cheat on you (sigh!)
• Give me the attention I need but not be too clingy. Again, this all depends on my mood of the moment. Good luck figuring that out. Oh and if you aren’t attentive enough or too attentive, see above.
• Have a huge dick. Again, see above, you know by now what will happen if you don’t.
• Constantly be amazing in bed and live up to every fantasy I have ever had about a man. If you don’t I’ll be coming home late from work several times a week.
• Be a Prince or the son of a Prince. I am too stupid to know that the son of a Prince is still a Prince – all I know is I deserve to be married to one. If not a billionaire, millionaire, singer, actor, athlete, doctor or lawyer (in that order) is acceptable.
• Phewwww, I’m tired. Time to call one my girlfriends and talk about my other girlfriends behind their back!

12 Things

1. I have a mirror in my shower, people thing it’s for shaving (and it is), but it’s REALLY for making shampoo horn and monster faces at myself every morning.

2. I have a dent puller suction cup thing I bought to pull a dent on my car, worked great, so now I pull dents out of stranger’s cars when they’re not looking, I find this quite satisfying.

3. I wear Sponge Bob boxer shorts under my business suit, and NO, I’m not gay.

4. I’m in my forties, but I still listen to music that angry fourteen-year-old boys like, Slipknot, Lamb of God, Static-X, Pantera……REAL LOUD.

5. I send magazine subscriptions (pre-paid) to people to bug them, I figure out the magazine they’d hate the most and that’s the one they get. Ebony to my racist friend, BBW to my ex-wife, Playboy to my friend with the super jealous wife, Hot Rod to my environmetal friends.

6. On the weekends, I dress like a bum (torn shorts, baseball hat, Timex watch) and drive my old muscle car. I hit on the most stuck-up women I see, if they reject me, I get a weird pleasure in knowing that I’m really a successful Architect who could buy and sell them. Silly girls.

7. I flirt with little old ladies, not in an overt way; I get a kick out of how randy of a sense of humor most of them have. I think some of them would go for it if I wanted.

8. I have a collection of Hot Wheels and Japanese toys that is worth thousands of dollars.

9. I still eat Cocoa Puffs and watch cartoons in a tent in my living room sometimes.

10. The oldest woman I have ever slept with is 35, I find most women my age boring and controlling, I am single (Duh). I don’t look my age, I’m pretty hot.

11. I put bumper stickers on people’s cars without their knowledge, “I love my dog” ones, Kerry stickers on conservatives, those little gay pride flags or pink triangles on REAL uptight people’s cars, and again, NO, I’m not gay but I work with a bunch of gay people.

12. I tell strange dogs to “get the kitty” and watch them freak out.

You may think I’m immature, but I’m really happy.

I HATE shopping at Costco

You might have seen me if you shop at Costco-Livermore. I’m the no-nonsense customer striding purposefully down the aisles, pulling products from shelves and out of coolers. If I seem in a hurry, it’s because I am. I’m shopping for my business, so I’m working. And every minute I spend here is one where I’m not making any money. Consequently, I’m one of those rare Costco customers who is here to shop, pay, and leave in as little time as possible. The way I see it, it’s customers like me who pay the bills, not those no-life borderline retards who spend hours munching on free samples, reading entire books in the literary section, and leaning on empty shopping carts like walkers, while socializing with the other leeches. Given the chance, I would take each of you aside, customer and employee alike, and explain to you why you make shopping at Costco my most hated weekly activity. See if you can recognize yourself on this list.

The Aisle-Blocker — What’s truly impressive is not that you weigh over 500 lbs and still manage to hoist yourself vertical long enough to shop at Costco. It’s not that you have a sister/daughter/aunt/friend who closely challenges you for girth. It’s how the two of you manage to position yourselves and your two shopping carts so precisely as to completely block an aisle ten feet wide, without the use of laser-guided surveying equipment. As you pant and snort your way down the aisle, stopping every five feet to catch your breath, you resemble nothing more than two dirigibles constructed from pea-green stretch pants. “Excuse me, wideload”, I’m dying to say, “Would you kindly consider moving your fat ass six inches to one side so that folks who are actually moving can pass?” But I know from experience that it’s just faster to backtrack and loop all the way around in front of you than to wait while you complete this highly strenuous manoeuvre. Others who fall into this category are The Elderly Relative (what kind of assclown brings a disoriented centenarian, confined to a wheelchair and unable to breath without an oxygen bottle, to a warehouse for an outing?), and the Mom With Eight Rugrats (hanging off the cart or orbiting unpredictably around her).

The Free Sample Buzzard — Can we do something about the practice of leaving your cart sideways in the middle of the aisle while you rush off to stuff your face? Believe me, it only takes a second to push it to the side of the aisle, and no longer than that to move it back into the flow of traffic. I know the satisfaction of not acting like an inconsiderate asshat means nothing to you, so let me explain the benefit in a way that does. If you block shoppers like me, who just want to pass, we might be tempted to move in on “your” free samples, since we can’t do anything else until you move. Now, you don’t want *that*, do you? There’s another odd ritual involving the free sample kiosks that I don’t quite understand. It occurs while waiting for the next batch of samples to be prepared, and is like a reverse version of musical chairs. The Buzzards mill around the general area, nudging their carts along listlessly. The *bing* of the microwave is like the crack of a starters pistol, as the Buzzards abandon their carts in place and hurl themselves at the tasty snacks. It’s too bad that you had to knock over The Elderly Relative in your mad rush, but who knows when Costco might be giving away free samples again? Maybe the concussion will knock some sense back into that bony old blue-hair.

The Cashier — How am I? In a hurry. The fact that I am already filling out my check or packing my shit into the cart should make that clear to an experienced professional like yourself. Kindly focus your efforts on making sure that I don’t have to be here one minute longer than is absolutely necessary. And please don’t take it personally when I grunt a non-answer to your grindingly unfunny joke about the large number of corn dogs, French bread pizzas, and Philly cheese steak sandwiches I’m buying. Aside from the fact that I hear some variant of it every week, the last time I gave my stock answer — “It’s for my business” — the cashier (male, of course) held up the box of Light Days he just scanned and asked in a louder voice than necessary if this was for my business, too. In addition, not answering you intelligibly slightly lowers the probability that you will make your pitch about Saving Me 2% On My Purchases! I know it’s your job to ask, and you have — nearly every week for the past two years. It’s *not* your job, you smirky, window-licking frat boy, to smugly demand “Don’t you like saving money?” when I decline your offer. Just shut your gub until it’s time to announce my total, and we’ll both be rid each other that much faster.

The “Bagger” — I know you guys have your “systems” for filling my cart. I have a system, too, which is this: I want to leave with everything I’ve paid for. Not unreasonable, yes? So if you *are* going to set things aside to pack them more efficiently later, make sure everything ends up in the cart. And speaking of packing efficiency, how is it that I can pack a cart only up to the top edge, and you — who have 500 times more experience packing carts than I do — can hardly fit this into one cart?

The Final Indignity — You, the receipt-examiner at the exit of the store, are the human equivalent of a car alarm. Ostensibly a crime-deterrent, you actually serve no practical purpose other than being an intense annoyance. Legally, I’m not required to put up with this charade; I can breeze right past you, and you know it. However, I don’t want to bust your chops for this stupid ass-covering exercise that some some seat-sniffing ex-MP security dweeb from Costco Corporate dreamed up. I know that you are just doing your job and take more of the infantile level of shit than anyone else at Costco. So let’s make an arrangement: I’ll submit to stopping and handing you my receipt; you stripe it with your marker and skip the part where you pretend to check it against the contents of my cart.

And now…finally…all the crap is loaded into my van, and I am headed for THE EXIT. Could the sight of the Pearly Gates themselves produce such joy and anticipation? Now if only these two fat aisle-blocking cows, slowly waddling down the middle of the traffic lane, would get the fuck out of the way.

Wedding Cake

So, first of all, congratulations to my good friends who got married last weekend. Congratulations, ‘mazel tov,’ good luck. It was great and I hope you guys are happy forever. That said, I couldn’t help but look around at your wedding and think, ‘Wow. I don’t want any of this.’ But don’t think that your wedding specifically turned me off to weddings. No, we are all now in our late twenties and wedding invitations appear in the mail with almost the same frequency that delivery guys slip take-out menus under my door. And now, having attended and been in a few weddings, I can’t help but think ‘I don’t want any of it.’ I don’t want a country club or a church. I don’t want a hotel ballroom or a big white tent. I don’t want a priest or a rabbi. I don’t want 200 people there who I don’t even know. I don’t want numbered tables. I don’t want to put all of my random ‘single’ friends at one table in the corner of the room, making them feel even more alienated than they already are at a stereotypically ‘coupled’ event. I don’t want bridesmaid drama. I don’t want all of my bridesmaids wearing the same ugly color and the same ugly dress and hating their shoes so much that they curse me behind my back. I don’t think I even want bridesmaids. I don’t want anyone to sign a guestbook where they have to come up with some spontaneous wisdom about love and happiness. I don’t want cute little party favors with the bride’s and groom’s names scripted in gold, proclaiming ‘our special day.’ I don’t want people to figure out their seating arrangements by picking up their party favors, which are also wrapped in pink chiffon. I don’t want a big white dress. I don’t want to have to ask friends and cousins whom I see maybe once a year if their 5-year-old son/daughter whom I don’t even really like can be my ring bearer/flower girl. I don’t want guys in blue shirts and khaki pants measuring each others’ dicks with the phrase, ‘So, what do you do?’ I don’t want bored out of their mind cater waiters and bartenders, who hate weddings in a way that even I will never understand. I don’t want ‘cocktail hour’ and passed hors d’oeuvres and most people only caring about getting buzzed before the open bar ends. I don’t want to mail out then sort through 300 invitations to find out who wants steak and who wants salmon. I don’t want to be registered at Crate&Barrel. I don’t want my friends finding that all the cheaper items on my registry are gone and that, like, five of them have to go in on a set of overpriced knives. I don’t think I want a registry at all. I don’t want to have to kiss all of my mother’s friends on the cheek, or, even worse, all of my future mother-in-law’s friends. I don’t want a color ‘scheme.’ I don’t want a creepy DJ or a weird band that does a cover of YMCA. And I don’t want the place turning the lights up at 10:30 telling us it’s time to leave. But I do want cake.

Squirrel confessions

1. I bury way, way too many nuts. I mean loads of them. There really is just something fucked-up about how many nuts I bury. And then I can’t even remember where most of them are.

2. I don’t even really like nuts.

3. I worry my tail isn’t bushy enough. Sure it’s bushy, but I look at some of the other squirrels, and their tails look so much bushier than mine, and it just makes me sad, you know?

4. Sometimes I eat my own offspring.

5. I fantasize about having another boy-squirrel pound my little furry ass really, really hard.

6. Often when I’m being chased by a dog, I think I’d like to just stop and let it eat me.

7. I’m scared of heights.

8. I hate the way everyone thinks my twitchy nose is cute. Fuck you, I have allergies!

9. I try to be a decent, tolerant squirrel but I can’t stop thinking that there are too many grey squirrels coming over here and taking trees and nuts from us honest, hard-working red squirrels.

10. Some days I just wish I was a chipmunk instead.