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Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Happy Holidays!!

No, No, No.

I'm not wishing you all happy holidays with this post.

I am writing about this annoying greeting we get THOUSANDS of times during the Holiday period; "HAPPY HOLIDAYS" - whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean.

Why "Happy Holidays" as a greeting or acknowledgement just over the Christmas holiday period?

I mean, at Easter do we say "Happy Holidays?"  Never.

During the summer holidays do we walk up to people and say "Happy Holidays?"  No, we don't.

On any holiday other than Christmas do we use this idiotic expression?  Nope.

And, what the fuck is so "Happy" about buying useless shit we can't afford and giving it away to other people; enduring long lines and stupid questions at shopping malls and stores; having that relative coming to visit that will eat, drink and sleep at our crib for a few days?

You know I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture.

So for the next few weeks, just say hello and leave it to us to determine just how "happy" the "holidays" really are.

Bah, humbug.


WARNING:    Any douchebag who mutters "Happy New Year" to me after January 8th will be instantly slapped.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Flying the "Friendly" Skies

I fly a lot.

It used to be fun.

I would get a buzz on, (to combat my fear of flying) flirt a bit with the skybitch (stewardess), bullshit the guy or girl next to me, and generally had an OK time.

Not any more.  All it is now, is annoying.

After putting up with the full body pat-down at security, long lines, no real cutlery to use, drink minimums, and aging stewardesses, the charm has gone for me.

Worse, the process of flying has gone mental.

Every minimum wage TSA screener assumes your a terrorist or are about to hatch some evil scheme.  All this from people who can't balance their checkbook properly or name all 50 States.  Every move you make has about a thousand rules you have to follow.

So now, I have to find ways to amuse myself so I don't fall over from boredom.

I read, play games on the computer and phone, and pretend to sleep while I really read my seat-mates computer screen.

So, I'm on a flight from St. Louis to L.A. a few months ago, and before we take off I am finishing up a call.  When I am using my cellphone on a plane, I always use the earphones with the mouthpiece/speaker thing so I don't have to talk loud.

After all, there is nothing worse than listening to some jack-off talking loudly into a phone about what important thing he is doing.

We get the "power down all your personal devices" message on the intercom, and I finish my call and I turn off my phone.  I unplug the phone from my headphones and put it on my lap.  But, I keep the earphones in because I'm gonna listen to some music as soon as we are given the green light to do so.

I just don't feel like rolling them up and putting them away.

As we taxi out, the Stewardess comes over to me.

HER:   Sir, you have to remove you earphones.

ME:    There not plugged in.  (I show her my phone is off and in my lap)

HER:   Doesn't matter, you have to take off your earphones.

ME:    Why?

HER:  Because if the Captain has to make an announcement, you won't be able to hear.

ME:   But I can hear you perfectly.  The announcements they make on these planes are louder than a Rolling Stones Concert.  (I hope this humor will help)

HER:  (annoyed)  No, you have to take them out.

ME:    But there not in use, not plugged in.  I need them for my ears to balance pressure.  (I have no idea where this wonderful piece of bullshit came from but it sounded pretty good)

HER:  Sir, you have to take them out.

ME:   Buy Why??

HER:  It's an FAA rule that you can't have earphones in.

ME:   Wait a minute.  Your telling me, the FAA has a rule thats says a guy can't have earphones in his ear even when they are not plugged into anything??

HER:   That's right.

ME:   I seriously doubt that is a rule.

HER:   Do you want me to get the Pilot?

ME:   Sure.  I really would like to hear this explanation from him.  I can't believe that would be a rule.


The guy next to me now has put his book down, taken off his glasses, and is wondering how the "showdown at the OK Corral" is gonna go....

HER:  (daggers in her eyes) Well, I'm not going to bother him right before take-off and delay the flight.

ME:  Well, you suggested it.... I'm not going anywhere....

HER:  You could get into serious trouble if I report this.

ME:  Oh, I'm sure it's at least 25 to life for having earphones in your ear that are not plugged into anything...

HER:  I don't understand why you being so difficult.


She STORMS back to her jump seat, buckles in, and stares at me.  I smile back.

Now, the guy next to me is almost pissing his pants with delight.  I mean, he hasn't had this much excitement since putting a banana in the freezer on a Friday night.

He shoots me a sly look.  "You sure busted her ass, there"

Once we reach cruising altitude, I tell him "next time the Stewardess comes by ask him when the Pilot is stopping by".

"No way" he says, "I 'aint gettin' involved with this"

So for the rest of the flight, I am Mr. Fucking Nice Guy to this Stew; thanking her for my drinks, telling her to have a nice day, and so on.  Every time I do she smiles through gritted teeth.  She's ready to fucking explode.

The plane lands without any further incident, and of course without the Pilot coming out to see me.

On the way out as she is doing the "Bye-Bye Now" thing to everyone I stop, smile a huge fucking smile, and say to her,  "Hey, have a earphones kind of day"

She glares at me.  She looks ready to kill.....

Thank goodness it's tough to have any sort of weapon on a plane.

Otherwise I wouldn't be here telling you this story.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Yet Another Server...

There's actually one decent Mexican joint in Kelowna, called DJ's.

I get a big hankering for some Mexican chow one night so we go for dinner.

We sit out on the patio.

After 7 minutes of no one coming to our table, I am ready to leave.  It's my own personal 7 minute rule:  if no one contacts my table within 7 minutes of sitting down, I leave.

I have done this at places ranging from IHOP to Morton's Steakhouse.  I don't care if it's a busboy, hostess, hat check girl or sommelier; if no one talks to me in 7 minutes I'm gone.  More on that one later, as I digress.

As we are getting up to leave, the server finally comes over.  She's about 26 and hot.  I know right away it's gonna be trouble because hot servers are the worst; they think their decent looks and big tits can get them through anything, and guys will put up with any kind of service.

Not me.

She comes over.  "I'll be right with you" she says.  More waiting.

Fuck it I say, let's go.  But Christa calms me down and talks me into staying.

We don't have drinks yet, so I actually get up, so inside to the bar, order 2 drinks and bring them over to the table myself.

Because I am SO fucking beyond annoyed at this point,  I decide to play the whole dinner out.  Luckily, it's a nice day outside, as my dinner is already ruined because I am too annoyed to enjoy it.  It's like being punch-drunk.

She comes over, and gives us the phony friendly, forced smile greeting.

HER:  Hi..... Oh, I see you already got drinks. (giggles and more fake smiles)

ME:    Yeah, it's a self serve bar isn't it?

CONFUSED LOOK

HER:  Ummm...no, I don't think so...

ME:   Oh.  Well we've been here for so long I assumed it was self serve. I got these myself.

HER:  Hahahahaha.  Oh, I get it now.

COLD STARE.  I don't even come close to cracking a smile.

ME:    No, I don't think you do..

We order, and wait. I get up again and get more drinks, and she is oblivious to it all.  I am actually so blown away by all of this, it's now funny.  I mean how many times have you ever got up to get your own drinks after you are seated at a table in a restaurant?

When our food arrives I ask for salt and pepper as there is none on the table.  It does not arrive after 5 minutes, and I get up and get it myself as well.

The salt and pepper never does arrive, and no explanation ever given.

The meal thankfully ends and I ask for the bill.

I am SO looking forward to getting the bill and stiffing this bimbo I am almost giddy with excitement. I sign, put my patented, bold-pencil, $0.00 in the tip line, and write a small note about how shitty our experience is.

I'm gonna tell the manager but figure a chick this stupid can't get a job anywhere else if they decided to fire her. After all, the "rub-and-tugs" are not hiring and she can't do much anything else...

We leave.

About a block away, I realize I have left my credit card in the little bill folder they give you when you pay. I hustle back double-time.

As I'm walking up to our table to get my card back, our server is looking at the bill and reading.

As much as I feel awkward, I approach her and ask for the card.  She stares me down.

She hands me the card and says, sarcastically, "Thanks"

Because now I am DOUBLY annoyed, I go off on her explaining what a moron she is and I almost went to her manager to REALLY complain, so she should thank me.

Like a dope, she flips her hand at me and utters the ultimate loser line:  "whatever"

So, all I can do now, is cross DJ's off the list.

Fuck them forever.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

"Enjoy"

Ok, I can't help it.

I know I promised to lay off the restaurant industry but I can't.

I was gonna write about this later on, but because it happened to me a few times last weekend,  I have to get it off my chest.

"Enjoy"

I am so fucking annoyed at all the servers in the Western World that use this idiotic word on a continual basis.

This all sound familiar? :

You order in a restaurant.

The server brings the plates to the table and puts them down.  Now comes the part that annoys me.  The server looks at everyone, puts a shit-eating grin on their face, extends their hands, nods their head, and then says:

"Enjoy"

OK.

First of all, fuck off.  Second, I don't need a minimum wage asshole telling me to "enjoy" anything.

What, I dressed up, drove to your restaurant, parked the car, had a few drinks and some conversation, ordered, and just before eating, your telling me to "enjoy?"  Thanks for the tip Dr. Phil.

Am I the asshole here?  I am out for an evening NOT enjoying?  Do I look so miserable that the server has pity on me, then reminds me to enjoy??

I have some really great advice for all you servers that say this:  put the plates down, make some eye contact in case someone is confused about their order, shut the fuck up, and then go look after your other tables.

We don't need you validating us to "enjoy" our food, as we came there for that very reason.

Oh, and while your at it, wipe that phony fucking smile off your face.

Enjoy!

Saturday, December 11, 2010

The "Coast"

When I think about the things that annoy me, this might be the clear cut winner. I mean, the grand fucking champion of all things annoying to me. Ready?

The Coast.

Lemme explain....

In Kelowna, a lot of people drive down to Vancouver on a regular basis, seeing how it is only about a four hour drive.

But when they go, instead of just saying, "Hey, I'm going to Vancouver for the weekend"  or "I'm working in Vancouver"  they refer to that city as "The Coast"

EXAMPLE:

ME:  What are you doing this weekend?

MORON:  Going down to "the Coast" to visit a few friends.

ME:  How have you been?

MORON #2:  Good - spending a lot of time down at "the Coast".

I have been hearing this phrase now for 10 years, and every time I do, my pulse starts racing, my skin breaks out in hives, my nutsack tightens, and my blood begins to actually boil.

Lets start with the obvious.

When someone says they are "going to the Coast"  my first thought is:

Yeah?  What Coast?  There's fucking dozens of them, moron.

For instance, my Coast is in Los Angeles.  My friend Murray's coast is in Mexico. Old pal Nick's coast is in Belize.  See, we all travel there on a frequent basus, and that is "the Coast" were on.

But when someone says to me, "Hey, I haven't seen you in a while", I don't reply, "Yeah, I've been down at the Coast".   I say I've been in Los Angeles, even though Los Angeles is also a coast.

Get it?

Slowly, I am educating the masses.  To wit, about 3 months ago:

ME:   What are you doing this weekend?

HIM:  I'm going to the Coast to see the Carrie Underwood concert?

ME:    Where's Carrie Underwood playing in Los Angeles??

STUNNED, CONFUSED LOOK.

HIM:  No no, I'm going to the Coast to see her.

ME:    WHAT coast?

A MORE CONFUSED LOOK.

HIM:   Vancouver.

STILL LOOKING CONFUSED AND SCARED I AM HIGH ON CRACK.

ME:      Well, my coast is in Los Angeles, so when you say the Coast, that's what I thought you meant.

HIM:    Oh.  (considers this sage piece of wisdom and nods his head)  I get it.

ME:     Next time, just tell me your going to Vancouver.

HIM:   Ok.  What's your fucking problem today??


I have decided to single-handedly go on a mission to educate everyone out there who insist on continually using this phrase, "The Coast".

So in the future, when your going away somewhere, mention the fucking city by name, so I don't have to spend time figuring out why you flunked geography.

Caller ID

OK.  No more restaurant stories for a bit...

I love technology.

But sometimes, it's annoying.  Especially Caller ID.

Caller ID annoys me to no end.

I long for the days that when you called someone and if they weren't home, that was all there was to it. Complete anonymity.

Now, every asshole knows when you call them; and worse, has your number.

Case in point:

A few weeks ago I'm buying some useless shit on Craigslist.  I make about 20 assorted calls, and for the most part no one is around to take my calls.  I don't ever leave a message because, hey, it's Craigslist.

No problem.  It's a busy time of year and everyone has stuff to do.

But later in the day after making these calls, my phone rings.  I don't recognize the number and go through the regular "who the fuck is this" in my head when I look at the phone caller ID.

I decide to pick up.

ME:     Hello?

CALLER:  Hi.  Who's this?

ME:   Well, who's this?

CALLER:  Someone called me from this number.

ME:  So?

CALLER:  So, who is this?

ME:  It's no one in particular.

CALLER:  Well, who are you?

ME:  Well, who are YOU?

CALLER:  Is this a business?  Or a home number?

ME:  Why?

CALLER:  Well, someone called me from this number and I'm returning the call.

ME:  Well, what do you want?  And who are you? And why are you calling me?

CALLER:  Hey, don't be an asshole.  You called me first.

ME:   You sure?  I mean lots of people could have called you from this number.

CALLER:  What is this number??

ME:  The White House. In Washington, D.C.

CALLER:  C'mon.  Who is this?

ME:  Barack Obama.  Have a nice day.

I hang up.

Now this guy is going fucking nuts trying to figure out who is at this number.  But, who gives a shit?  And why does he care? Why is this so important??  If no one leaves a message after they call you, it can't be that important in the first place, so let it go.

After an hour, because I am annoyed, I decide to torture this guy.  I call him back.

ME:  Hi. Who is this?

HIM:  Um...who is this?

ME:  Someone called me from this number.

HIM:  Um...aaah.....

ME:  See?  Now you know how fucking stupid it is to have someone call you up and ask a question like that.

HIM:  WHO ARE YOU??

ME:  I already told you.  Barack Obama.  Have a nice day.

I hang up.

So, when someone calls you, doesn't leave a message, and you don't recognize the number, don't be a douchebag and call them back and ask annoying questions.

Unless you wanna look and feel like an idiot.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

A Major Discovery...

It's always annoys me when I walk into a busy bar and can't get a drink. I think, I'm here to spend my hard earned loot, and your not taking it.  Why?

Usually I get major league annoyed when I can't order a drink at a busy bar. I mean, what the fuck is going on here??

When I want a drink in a crowded bar, my patented "$20 bill folded between my fingers resting on the bar" works sometimes, but is not foolproof.

But:  lock the doors, put the kids to bed, and settle in, because today, I am giving all men the key to getting a female bartender to get your drink order at a busy bar, way ahead of other patrons.

My friend Tony is a bartender in a busy bar in Los Angeles.  We were waxing philosophically the other night about busy bars, and how hard it is to get the bartenders attention so a drink can be ordered. How do you solve this annoyance I ask him?

It's simple he says.

If the bartender is female, look at her boobs.

What?  I respond.

Look at her boobs, he repeats.  No, STARE at her boobs.  He tells me to stare down the boobs of a female bartender when you want a drink.

I consider his take, and realize it is fucking brilliant.

Women have an innate, sixth sense when guys are staring at their boobs.  I mean, they put fucking Kreskin to shame when they just know someone is checking out their rack; even when they are preoccupied.

Women just seem to know when some scumbag is looking at their boobs, and they wanna catch him looking. This built in radar they have is insane.  It's really a freak of nature.

I decide to test this theory out.

We go to the Q Bar on Wilshire where there is always a big crowd.  I sashay (I love using that word) up to one end of a busy bar where both of the bartenders are female.  the bar is packed with a bunch of people around it trying to order drinks.

While the Bartenders are not Anna Nicole Smith big, breast wise, there is still a lot to look at.  I concentrate.

I stare with extreme focus at their boobs.  No eye contact, nothing.  Just a hard boob stare.  About 20 seconds into this routine, I look up and sure enough one of the girls catches my eyes looking at her.  She gives me a "what's up you pervert" look, but we've now made eye contact.

"Couple of Blue Moon Draft" I say.

She still looks at me with disgust, but, hey, I'm getting service well ahead of the other guys.

She brings them over and gives me a sneery, "take a picture, it'll last longer" look.

I don't care.  We have beaten the system.

I think maybe we have been lucky after we quaff down the lager.  A certain amount of skepticism creeps in. We want to order another round.

So, I return to the bar and resume the boob stare routine.  Sure enough, the other bartender catches me looking at her boobs.  Our eyes meet and I give her the "2 more" signal and we are back in business.

The other mopes stand around helplessly, trying to garner their attention to order a drink.  They look at me and think, "Who is this guy, that got served ahead of us?"

I am in awe. THE SYSTEM WORKS!!

So, fellas, there you have it.  A surefire, field tested way to always get a drink in a crowded bar when female bartenders are working.

No, no.  Don't thank me.  Buy me one when I see ya.

I Get Banned from Raudz

As I said, restaurants annoy me more than anything.  But in this case, the annoying thing was, we could not even get to sit down.  Fucking hostesses annoy me because they are minimum wage kids for the most part, trying to do a big job like managing the seating.  It makes no sense that teenagers should be there.

Alright.  I'm gonna let you all decide for yourself if I was out of line here.

I am fucking clear on my position, but here goes:

I fly into Kelowna on a Friday night and myself and 3 others go to Raudz.  It's a restaurant run by a guy named Rod Butters who fancies himself as a Thomas Keller/Gordon Ramsay celebrity chef type.  He's actually pretty good, but not not nearly as good as HE thinks.

It's Friday, so when we arrive it's pretty busy.  I ask the hostess how long and she tells me 30 minutes MAX. She puts our names down.  Alright, I say, we'll be back then.

So, the four of us go to Bernie's office around the corner and pound back some wine while we wait.  After a solid 45 minutes has passed we return.  I spot the hostess.  I should point out here that I have now had a "few" drinks.

ME:   We're back.

HER:  Oh. (gives me a who-the-fuck-are-you look)

ME:   I gave you another 15 minutes to be sure we could be seated. Phil's the name.

HER:  Right.  Yeah, thats gonna be a problem....

ME:   How so?

HER:  Well, it's gonna be at least another hour until we can seat you.

ME:   (Killer Stare Down)  You cannot be serious.  We were in here 45 minutes ago when you told us 30 minutes would be fine.

HER:  Yeah, sorry about that.

ME:   Hey, sorry 'aint gonna cut it.  It's now prime time to get a table anywhere around here and I trusted you when you promised we would be seated in 30 minutes. It's now 45 and your telling me another hour???  We cancelled another reservation.  (okay, I bullshitted here but wanted some dramatic effect)

HER:  (weak smile)  Well, I'm really sorry.

ME:    Again, not good enough.  How possibly can you fuck up 30 minutes into 90 minutes.

HER:  I'm just doing my job....

ME:   Your job??  Here's what your job is - figuring out when to sit people down, when they are getting ready to leave, and balancing times for the two.  I mean it's really, really, hard to fuck something like that up.  I mean you would have to work really hard to fuck that up.

HER:  Sir, please don't swear.  I'm just doing my job.

ME:    No, let me correct you there.  Your NOT doing your job.

HER:  I'm getting the manager.

ME:   You go, girl.

The manager arrives.

Without replaying the entire conversation, we debate what a hostess should be doing, how she fucked up our night out, and perhaps she should consider hairdressing school instead.  It's starting to get a little heated, when Rod the chef/owner steps in.

CHEF:  Hey I've been listening to all this.  What's the problem?

I relate to him how me and my 3 friends have been waiting for an hour now, after being promised a 30 minute wait, and now being told its another hour.

ME:  I don't know who is managing this whole operation, but it needs to be reviewed.

(stare from the manager that could stop traffic)

CHEF:  Hold on there.

He takes the manager aside, and the next thing we know we are being seated.

I am very annoyed at this, but somewhat revel in this small victory.  My 3 friends all come over, and they all wanna know what the fuck happened.  Bernie tells me I was flapping my arms like a fucking mongoose and ranting about something.  I say no problem, we got seated.

CUT TO THREE DAYS LATER:

My friend Bernie is a restauranteur, someone who I can always speak candidly about the hospitality industry.  If things are shitty at his joint I tell him and he takes it like a man.  No dopey explanations for the most part.  Although, sometimes he probably wants to drift me one in the teeth.

He is well known in Kelowna in the service business.  He calls me a few days after eating at Raudz.

Bernie:   Philly-boy. Rod Butters was in our place for a beer today.

ME:       I hope you charged that douchebag double, ha ha.

Bernie:  No, but your officially BANNED from Raudz.

ME:     Are you fucking kidding me??

Bernie: Yeah apparently, the hostess AND manager almost quit that night.

ME:   For what, being useless??  

Bernie:   No, for him giving you a table after abusing them.  You should apologize. I didn't hear it, but I know what you get like.

ME:   Fuck them all, I say.

I hang up.

But, then anger and emotion subside and I think about it.   I was a little lit up.  I was tired after flying, hungry, and had a buzz going.  Three bad combinations for me. Not to mention annoyed.

The restaurant isn't half bad, and most of my friends like going there, so I figure I will be missing out.  Also, Rod is a friend of Bernie's as well.  Makes Bernie look bad, hanging out with assholes like me.  Also, I retrace my words, and decide maybe I went over the top a little.

So I call Rod.  It's fucking killing me, but I do it.

I apologize, tell him my side of the story, and explain I probably should not have over-reacted the way I did.  He accepts my apology, and tells me I can come back.

But fuck him.

I feel so high and mighty now,  I decide I'm not going back until I feel like it.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

More Restaurant Bullshit

I go to another restaurant at the "famous" Eldorado Hotel.

Twice a year, I try this place to see if anything has improved.  Usually, I am disappointed.  I get sucked in by people telling me, "try it, they have a new chef" or "the new menu is really good".  I wanna believe, but rare is the occasion when they deliver.  But we try it anyway.

We sit down and order $28 and $38 entrees. Me lamb, her tuna.

The server fancies himself a guy who was transferred from the Plaza Hotel in New York especially for this vocation.

He is ok, but not what you would expect in a place that charges like they do.

The food arrives.

Mine is actually not bad, but certainly not worthy of $38,  For that, I wanna be blown away; I wanna pound the table and say, "That was the best fucking lamb I've ever tasted" and piss in my pants with sheer culinary pleasure.

She says to me, "taste this tuna".   I take a bit of the "seared" tuna that was obviously done in a microwave.  I mean, Charlie the Tuna would have been embarrassed.  It's way overdone, tasteless and downright horrible.

The server comes by to check on us with the obligatory "how's everything?"  I tell him the tuna is awful, not acceptable.

So, a funny look comes over his face.  Almost like he's high on acid or something.

"Oh, thats too bad" he says.

"Well, take it back" I tell him.

HIM:  Um, ok.  Do you want to order anything else?

ME:  No, she can have some of mine as we would like to eat together.

He Shrugs.

HIM:  Well, what are you going to do?

ME:   I'll tell you what, first tell the White Spot re-tread who cooked this, that he should be embarrassed to even send this out. Then tell your manager.

He still has this glazed look and loopy smile on his face.

HIM:  Uh, ok.  What can you do?

ME:   What can you do?  You work here.  Let these people know whats going on.

He doesn't say "let me take that off the bill", or "let me buy you a dessert", nothing.  I don't bring it up because I want to see if we get charged.

The bill comes and the tuna is on the bill.

So, I sign the bill, leave $0 on the tip line in bold printing and we go to the lounge right next door to the restaurant.

Ok - so although I'm annoyed at all this I feel a bit of retribution stiffing this asshole.

Cut to 15 minutes later:

The server is walking through the lounge and spots me. He walks over.

"Hey, did you guys leave a cash tip on the table, because if you did, I think the busboy or someone picked it up"

ME:  Are you fucking kidding me?

HIM:  Well you didn't leave a tip, and I KNOW you didn't want to do that, so I thought you might have left some cash on the table and someone else picked it up. Just checking.

ME:  Hey, Pal you have balls the size of grapefruits walking in here and even LOOKING at me, much less talking to me.  You shouldn't even be serving at a Denny's.   Think about your table with us tonight and you'll figure it out why you got nothing.

Suddenly, the dopey look is gone.  He's been called out.  He kind of gets it, but I'm not sure.  It annoys me to no end that servers expect an automatic tip for doing a shitty job.

I am blown away by all of this, and pop down a double shot to make sure I'm not dreaming.

I have not been back to eat there since, despite all the "they have turned it around" and "there's a new chef" bullshit I am handed every summer.

I am too fucking annoyed to even consider these assholes.

Fuck them forever.

Sports on TV

No, not the actual production of sports on TV, jackass.

This annoyed me to the point of threatening to blow up Rogers Cable. Seriously.

The World Series and Baseball playoffs are on last October in Kelowna.  So, naturally, I'm excited to watch all the action. After all, the Yankees/Rangers series promises to be a classic.

I settle in 20 minutes before gametime with the beer, chips, and other salt free snacks (yeah, sure) and turn on the TV.  No pregame is on any channel.

I frantically begin surfing every known channel including the Gay/Lesbian channel (after all San Francisco is also in the playoffs) trying to find the game.

Nothing.

I go through the channel guide and internet; then when nothing is found I call Rogers Cable, the local cable system.  What the fuck? I say to them.

"Oh," the operator tells me, "we've had quite a few calls about this"  No kidding.

"Yes the game will be on AFTER the Hockey Game."  she says.  Oh, great - maybe at best we can watch a couple of later innings.

OK, Rogers, so lemme get this straight.  We gotta watch the fifth game of the NHL season, a classic matchup between Nashville and Buffalo, instead of a baseball playoff game?

"Yep," she says.  "Thats the rules".  Yeah, what rules??

Without debating this issue, (after all, the operator moron is not about to go "just a minute sir, I'll get that game on right away") I frantically get myself together and bolt out to watch the game at the closest bar.  Let me list this so you can understand better:

1st Bar:      Nope we don't have the game in our dish package
2nd Bar:    Same as above.
3rd Bar:     "Yeah, we got the game on our system but theres a hockey game on."

Me:            Killer Stare, followed by "are you ab-so-fucking-lutely- serious?
Them:        "Yeah, we got a hockey game on and we can only run one channel at a time."

4th Bar:     "Yeah, we had a few calls about this, but there's a hockey game on." He sees in my face I'm       gonna launch a tirade on him so he says, "Hey Man, it's a hockey town, and people will leave if I turn on baseball"

5th Bar:      They at least TRY.  After 10 minutes of fiddling with the satellite, and people staring at me like I'm a crazed lunatic, they say no luck.  I throw the guy $20 for his effort and carry on.

6th Bar:       SUCCESS!  But, I have to buy all the morons watching curling or some other shit each a beer as a bribe.  No problem.  One of them actually asks who is playing.  I ask the bartender to turn up the sound.  He gives me a "don't push your luck" look.

All this to watch a baseball game in Kelowna.  I mean, I'm gonna write the Rangers and Yankees to let them know what I went through to watch this game.  Perhaps they will fly me out to throw out the first pitch or something.

It annoys me that a city of 150,000 plus can't figure out what MILLIONS already have: when a big sporting event is on, show the fucking thing!!

It annoys me more that Rogers Cable regularly fucks their customers on a regular basis.

P.S.  I ended up trading about 2,000 emails with Rogers until they blocked me from their system.  Without going into their "local broadcasting commitment policy" in detail, their explanation still made no sense.

"Seasonal Vegetables"

Fucking restaurants are the main source of things that annoy me.

They opened up a restaurant last summer called the Cabana Grill.  We decide to go in July.

It's a nice joint inside, and very stylishly decorated. Lots of beautiful people showing off their "Ross for Less" outfits.

The prices they charge at this place are not similar to Denny's or IHOP.  In fact, I venture to say they are high end.  One of the pricier places in town.  Accordingly, you expect the service, and the servers to be top notch.

Nope.

So this first time we go we have a cheery server, who is almost like a giggling schoolgirl. She's about 25 and clearly just excited to have a job where filing is not involved.  She's doing ok until we get ready to order.  She rattles off the special; "oh, and tonight we have a pork tenderloin in a red wine sauce, served with seasonal vegetables"

Nice job on the memorization, Toots - you only looked at your notes once to remember this one sentence.

I decide to be funny, and with a serious face say to her, "what season are the vegetables from?"

Blank Stare.

HER:  "What?"

ME:  "I said what season are the vegetables from?"

HER:  "umm... hold on a minute and I'll go check with the Chef."

We all look at each other while she runs off, trying not to fall off out stools with convulsive laughter.

She comes back.

HER:  "the Vegetables are summer vegetables" she declares with triumph.  I thank her for the clarification and decide to order a gourmet pizza instead.  Tough to fuck that up.

OK.

So about a month later we return after having an average meal the first time, and decide to give the food another whirl.  We sit down in the same table, and I half expect we get the same server, but it's a different one,  about the same age.

She gets ready to take our order, and starts in with the "special" schtick.

HER:  "Tonight we are offering a grilled lamb chop which is also served with seasonal vegetables."

So far, so good. This server doesn't even look at her notes.

ME:  "What season are the vegetables from"

BLANK STARE - looks around nervously.

HER:  "um... I think carrots and potatoes"

ME:   "really??? Are carrots and potatoes a season now??"

Another Blank Stare, bordering on panic...

HER:  "what do you mean?"

ME:   "you said seasonal vegetables, and I am wondering what season they are from"

HER (grabbing another server walking by)  "Hey Cassie, what season are the vegetables from"

OTHER SERVER:  "uh, I'm not sure ask the kitchen"

By now we are all trying to keep it together. I am certain at least 2 of my guests are biting their lip so hard to keep from laughing, their fucking jaw is going to seize up.

I mean not one, but 2 idiots trying to determine in the middle of summer, what season the vegetables they are serving are from.

I tell her never mind, as I am going to order the sliders anyway.

So, a note to all you restauranteurs out there:  if you don't want to annoy not just me, but the rest of us, when you decide to charge $25 an entree, spend a little time with the boneheads delivering the plates to us.  TRAIN them a little more than just throwing them an apron and a nametag.

Maybe then we'll come back and not feel like our 12 year old daughter could do better serving us mac and cheese at home.

Sports Radio

I LOVE sports radio.

Especially the Jim Rome show.  But mostly, I love when people call in to weigh in on the latest events.

But here's what really annoys me...

A guy calls in to the Rome Show today talking about the Denver Broncos Football Team.  Every second word is "we" and "our" He says "WE have to shore up our defense"  and "OUR coach should have been fired a few weeks ago.

Really?

We??

Our?

Hey pal, do you play for the team?  Work for the team?  Own the team?  Is the owner cutting you a paycheck every week? I think not.

So next time you people call into a sports talk show, leave the "we" and "our" to the good folks who actually PLAY for the team or work there.  It 'aint YOUR team.

Your just a lousy slob who watches the team on television or goes to a game when you get a free ticket.

Monday, December 6, 2010

taking a piss

Ok.  We've all been there before guys.

Your in a bar and have to go take a piss.

You go to the bathroom, and your at a urinal next to another guy and your both a little hammered.  The guy looks at you and says. "Hey you just rent beer, huh?   Ha Ha Ha"

Or the other equally clever line is "I guess this is where all the dicks hang out"

So here's the challenge for all of you that have uttered these idiotic lines hundreds of times:  if your gonna speak while I'm taking a leak come up with an original line that is actually funny.

Don't annoy me while I am trying to get out of the bathroom of this shit-hole bar as quickly as possible.

Honorable Mention goes to Bernie Wilson, who always yells out: "C'mon fellas, Chop, Chop" when there is a lineup for the pisser at a Rockets Game and he has to wait.

broken glass

I parked my car in a bad area downtown a little while ago.

When I returned, and was getting ready to get in it, I noticed there was a broken bottle behind the rear tire.  I am surveying the situation when this guy comes up and also takes a look.

He says to me "Hey make sure you don't drive over that broken glass.  It'll cut your tire all up".

Thanks a lot Einstein.

Now here's a tip for you:  Next time your eating with a fork, don't stick it in your fucking eye. Boy, that would hurt.

People love pointing out the obvious, and it fucking annoys me to no end.

I think they think it makes them appear to be smart, when all it does it make them look stupider than they already are.

the movies

So a couple nights ago I go see the movie "Black Swan"  No question Natalie Portman's gonna get nominated on this one for Best Actress.

The movie ends, and I get ready to go.  But the audience starts applauding.

What the fuck?

Hey people, here's a little tip:  THEY CAN'T HEAR YOU.  It's a movie, you morons.  I was half expecting the projectionist to come bombing in and take a bow and say "Thanks everyone - boy did I wind that film tight huh?  And excellent work on the focus don't you think?"

So all you movie patrons, instead of annoying me, next time you all go to a movie, keep your fucking hands in your pockets when the flick ends.

Why Things Annoy Me

So, I decided to create a blog.

Why?

Well, as some of you already know, I have an everyday craving for trying to understand people.  People provide an endless supply of amusement for me.

But, mostly, they are annoying. They do annoying things.  They say annoying things. They act annoyingly.

But, I have broken it down:  I finally understand why things annoy me.

A few years ago, a friend of mine told me I reminded him of Larry David from "Curb Your Enthusiasm"; always questioning people, rules, and life in general.  I took this as a compliment, but soon realized he was actually trying to insult me.

As a form of therapy, I decided to write down why things annoy me.  Instead of getting annoyed at things in daily life, it has become cathartic to put it down on paper.  And it has helped me understand people a helluva lot more.

So, now for your reading pleasure, I submit to you my blog as to Why Things Annoy Me.