Irritable Male Syndrome

Friday, September 07, 2007

Every single time I go into Costco, the makeshift food court is packed. Babies are sitting in their strollers, parents nowhere to be seen. Unattended carts packed with 10 gallons of catsup, 15 4lb cans of Similac, and mountains of Juicy Juice boxes are strewn this way and that, like their owners suddenly realized that, "Holy shit, I can save time by feeding my fat-assed demon spawn here instead of at home. I've been saved!"

"Oooh, look, a slice of pizza the size of ham-sized fist! ", she said without ever once considering that the man behind the counter was wearing a fucking beard net.

A net. Over his beard. To catch rotten facial hair before it falls in the soup. Hygenic, maybe. But, stir my appetite, it does not.

At the 2nd job last night, we had some insufferable prick squeal his way out of the valet zone because a) it took two extra minutes to get his car, b) we wouldn't drop his car off a block away from where we're supposed to, and it's illegal for us to do so(plus, it was raining heavier than I've seen it rain in a long time, and we would've had to walk back to work in that shit) and c) the valet that brought his car down from ramp almost hit the curb with his tire.

I hate when I come up with the perfect response to an asshole like that, though I come up with it hours and days later, and even though I know the only thing you can do to someone like that is to shit under their passenger seat, or jam an open can of potted meat way back in the dark recesses of the trunk. Basically the same thing.

For the most part, the people we deal with are out and about because they want to have fun, to enjoy the evening. But every so often we get those self-important douches that think that a superfluous $6 and leased $35,000 BMW gives them the right to be an asshole.

When he got home, Chip opened a fresh bottle of Belvedere, mixed it with the finest of Sugar Free Redbulls, bankhanded his Russian mail order bride, Sasha, to pre-emptively stop her incessant yapping, cranked the Bose system, you know, so he could really feel the Nickelback, deep, way down, in his cold, black soul. He thought; Ha!, my god-given gift of pushing the accelerator 3/4 of the way to the floor really showed those fucking valets who's boss!

And then he quietly cried himself to sleep again because his penis resembles a shallow vagina.


At 2:25 PM, Blogger Joe Speaker said...

I love that Nickelback is the de facto band to use whenever you want to illustrate a person's committment to the douchebag lifestyle.

Talk about a perfect combination. Like pb&j.


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