Things I Hate

There was once a time when I decided to use the blog in a very Lane Wilson style of doing things--as a vehicle for management and mitigation of my misanthropy. And also to craft clever consonance. Aha, aha!

But I soon realized that my rage just doesn't carry with it the stamina of some.

Therefore, with the understanding that this is not another attempt at making this blog into a vitriol-delivering machine, cranking out more and more hate like some diabolical engine, I submit for your approval the following (truncated) list of things I utterly loathe.

1. Customer service


• I have a habit of being hard on waitresses in theory but easy in practice. For instance, if I sit in your restaurant and get thirsty enough to contemplate strapping on an apron and waltzing into the kitchen to refill my own drink before you have time to again pass by my table without so much as a glance, I probably won't be tipping you at all, unless I decide to be downright insulting and leave you a dime and a Post-It outlining my dissatisfaction. On the other hand, if you smile and bring me my food in a timely manner, and maybe ask if I need a refill once in a while, I'm generally willing to tip at least %20, and more if the service was really great. Bad service = bad tip; it's as simple as that.


• Next on the chopping block is the pizza delivery guys. I don't care if you have to spend money on gas to drive to my office to bring me my Caesar salad. It is not the job of the consumer (in this case, literally) to worry about the structuring of your compensation plan. I already pay an extra fee (which is more than enough to pay for the gas it took you to drive less than three miles to my door) for you to bring my food to me. If you were overly friendly, or perhaps even timely, then you might deserve a gratuity. If you disagree, allow me to offer two alternatives: 1) look up the fucking definition of "gratuity" and get back with me and 2) take it up with your boss: if you want me to pay more for the salad that I waited on for an hour, then build it into the salad's base price and let me decide if it's worth it. Oh, and since you're so into tipping, allow me to provide you this third nugget of advice that meets the double criteria of being more than you earned and more than I agreed to provide: get a better job; nobody cares that gas is hard to pay for if you can't be bothered to attend some kind of post-secondary education. If you're a college student pizza delivery boy, then you know that a better career is on its way (unless you're studying general communications, in which case I advise you to see if your pizza delivery firm has stock options).
  
• It goes on, of course. I can generally handle either one or the other, but the combination of both incompetence and unfriendliness gets me every time. For instance, the last time I visited Office Depot, I bought a trackball (yes, on purpose, you ass). The lilliputian auctioneer behind the counter doubtless heard none of my responses to the questions his Draconian corporate lower-management boss requires him to ask because he never stopped talking. Still, though, the line moved quickly enough that I wasn't too put off by his rudeness. This incident puts my recent trip to the new Einstein's Brothers Bagels that they put on campus in stark relief. The lady behind the counter smiled when she took my order and said she liked my name, though I had to repeat it twice (really, I blame my parents for this, and I have resolved on multiple occasions to start giving out my middle name in such situations, for its monosyllabic appeal). When I attempted to pay for my bagels, the other lady behind the cash register looked blankly at my Discover card and the machine through which I was about to suggest she slide it for approximately two minutes before remembering that Einstein's doesn't accept Discover (leaving it up to me to propose an acceptable alternative). Despite this inefficiency, I left Einstein's knowing that I would come back, because they gave me delicious bagels and a personal touch.


• These two experiences are meant to set the stage for the third, the most dreadful: a recent trip to Orange Julius really ticked me off. The bimbo behind the counter looked up from the text message that she was presumably tapping out to one of her idiot friends ("omg so b0rd visit plz") long enough to notice that I was there, then looked back down for a couple more seconds while she finished sending it. Once she was good and ready, she took my order. Rather, I should say, she accepted my order, as I had to provide it without either greeting or solicitation. Then she called back to the girl sitting in the back of the place by the machine and had her blend my smoothie. The two girls' relationship could only be described as "strained," and I don't care to know why ("lemme borrow that top, bitch!").


2. Pontification, both by bloggers/vloggers and Popes


• Etymology of my complaint aside, I hate it when people insist upon authority that was either 1) denied them long enough ago that it makes no difference or 2) never theirs in the first place. The Pope recently proclaimed that Protestants aren't Christians. Now, to be fair, he's not the first one to point the finger. However, he's the most prominent one to do it in such an open and faux-authoritative way in a long, long time. People can tune out the incoherent ramblings of the crazy IT guy ("Mark, Catholics aren't Christians.") or the uninformed Baptist preacher who says crazy shit to keep his job, but when the Pope turns out an actual document articulating the point... it's bad. I think we can all agree that Nazi-Pope has dealt a crushing blow to JP2's efforts at Christian unity.


• Bloggers. And Vloggers, you pieces of trash that call yourselves journalists. You're not. Get out of your mother's basement and do something. Nobody cares that you hate Bush enough to think yourself another Michael Moore. Just the other day, I saw a blogger touting the advantages of a certain radio-controlled airplane based solely on how it runs on "pure, clean electrical energy," which I'm glad she did, becuase it made sure that I knew she was an idiot. The only way electrical energy is "clean" and "pure" is when it's not dug out of the ground and extracted from vast piles of dirty rocks, with the waste piped into the atmosphere. Just because the machine itself is not burning gas doesn't mean that the energy it is using is in any way efficient.



• Digg. Don't get me wrong, I read it every day. But now it's full of idiots. It may always have been (such is the democratization of information, sadly), but it was not always so readily apparent. I have the formula for success for any Digg posting: rail on the PlayStation3, the Bush administration, the war in Iraq, Microsoft (M$!!1one!!), homosexuality and mention alcohol, all in a "top 10" list of some kind. Alternatively, praise any or all of the above to get an interesting "most buried" effect. Oh, or describe a 4 or 5 megabyte picture of a baboon taking a shit as "breathtaking."



3. People who don't finish things they started.

The First Day

At exactly 8:00am today, I officially began my career as a graduate student. So far, the day has been exactly like every other day since I began this job, but with the following changes: 1) it rained and 2) I will leave at 10:45ish for my first class.

I have that same giddy feeling that visits me every first day. The jitters, the nerves, planning that trip to the bookstore. This will be my last true first day... hopefully. I plan to get through this graduate program in one academic year, plus a couple weeks afterward for the comprehensive test I have to take before they'll hand over my effing degree.

I feel way more prepared for this first day than for any other in history. I've got my parking pass affixed, my wardrobe change ready (because I won't be "that guy" who goes to class dressed business casual--I would rather convert my office into a makeshift changing room, and that's exactly what I'm doing), my computer up and running on the campus wireless network and my work schedule synced up perfectly with my classes. Of course, foresight is never 20/20, but I rather enjoy all this crap, and I LOVE buying school supplies. Hopefully I won't become the bitter old coot that I was during (and, let's admit it, after) that last year at Truman by adopting what my adviser has implied is an ambitious workload.

I like to think that I'm not the average student--we'll see if that's true in the next few weeks.

I got up this morning at 4:30am, briefly showered, then drove to Rolla for work. I arrived tired and hungry, but in plenty of time to make it to work. I got here and worked for about an hour before succumbing to the NEED TO EAT.

Fortunately, there are people whose job it is to take pity on (and advantage of) fools like myself. The good folks at Papa Johns delivered to me a pan pizza with pineapple and extra cheese and a side of ranch dressing.

Not so fortunately, I ate half of said pizza and am now miserable, even hours later. I thought to compensate for that with oodles of red tea, which I hear helps aide the liver in removing toxins from the body. In any case, it tastes good, when one isn't glutted on pizza.

I'm no longer tired and hungry. Now I'm tired and stuffed. This isn't much better than my previous state.

I don't know quite what to say about this. Except that the proliferation of Facebook applications needs to stop. Now.

The Ray Gun as Wand

I worry.

Needlessly, most of the time.

But this time, I believe my worry stems from actual exacerbating factors with a basis in reality. My [selfish] worry is that fantasy as a literary genre will not mature soon enough for me to reap the sweet, sweet benefits.

I tell you this not only to rub your nose in the fact that I have an English degree and you, in all probability, do not (except you). Moreover, I tell you this because it is an actual concern. I've lost sleep over this one. And new material like this sh*t doesn't buoy my hopes. The dark age of science fiction was when every story featured in Amazing! was illustrated with a man in a full space suit saving a woman wearing just enough clothing to be printable (the rest presumably having been ripped off of her lithe frame by the BEM who is clutching her in one claw and posing threateningly with the other, all the while oozing... ooze), apparently implying that women can breathe in the vacuum of space (or don't need to breathe at all), but men cannot. Depending on your position, this is feminism or misogyny (but isn't everything?).

This is currently where we find the fantasy genre. Ten seconds playing World of Warcrack will show you shining examples of this very same phenomenon. The same piece of armor that could conceivably, upon visual inspection, provide adequate protection to a male character looks a lot more like dental floss when equipped on a female character. In fact, in some cases, armor which covers less actually provides more protection. Which begs the question: are Yetis, glutted as they are on their vast stores of Yeti porn (what else are they using the silver they drop to buy?), expecting some outcome other than combat when colliding with female characters, and are thus unable to do as much damage in their erotica-fogged altered state of consciousness? Is the armor value of the whore pants on this Human Rogue calculated based on the sex-starvedness of the creature you're fighting? And what about when you're fighting elementals, or undead? Surely when you're made of fire or rotting flesh, you can't be so easily distracted by a well-turned ankle..?

Now, I do not imply that Science Fiction as a genre doesn't have some kinks to work out. But it is a much more mature genre in terms of exploiting the sexual frustrations of its devotees. So the folks on Star Trek still wear spandex, but it at least covers everything, and the men aren't walking around in armor while the women wear strategically-placed napkins. Except for the Klingons, and those are really leather napkins, which everyone knows will turn a swordstroke better than paper ones.

Weird

Last night, I had a dream.  I think this dream will serve as part of the fantasy novel that I’ve wanted to write forever.  So, there’s that.  Unfortunately, this post isn’t about my nocturnal inspirations.

 

I received a weird text message today from my friend and erstwhile roommate Matt.  I haven’t spoken to Matt in quite some time, since before college ended.  Now, don’t get me wrong, Matt’s a very nice guy.  If I ever get married, I might ask him to be in the wedding.  I’m not sure he’d go for it, though, because it’s looking to be a non-traditional ceremony.

 

Anyway, the message said that I was in a dream he had, and he’s praying for me.  For those of you who don’t know, this is a flash from the past, from my Jesusy days.  Yes, I was an intolerant, world-in-black-and-white kind of guy who voted for George Bush.  I might’ve even voted for Bush back then if he hadn’t been running against the horrible alternative that was John Kerry.  Regardless, for whatever reason, I delighted in attending Wednesday night church services where the theme always seemed to be, “We need a little more Protestant guilt.”  Of course, it was all disguised quite cleverly as “encouragement” or “conviction,” but essentially what we were being spoon fed was guilt, plain and simple. 

 

Look, I’m down with Jesus.  I do pray to Him, after all.  But I really don’t know why I ever tried pursuing the shallow friendships that I had in the Christian organizations that I joined when I could’ve put more time toward making friends who didn’t like me in direct proportion to how willing I was to cram myself into a mold.  I thank God for the real friends I did make in college.  People I lived with, ate Wendy’s with, people who shared my Warcraft addictions and physically restrained me when I tried to go to bed too early on weeknights.  People with whom I still occasionally speak, even!  This text message was the most direct contact I’d had with any of the Jesus crowd since… April? Earlier?

 

So I guess I’m thankful for this textual slap-in-the-face.  Not a phone call and a quick catch-up conversation, though that would’ve actually been more considerate and not cost me $.15, but instead a quick 150 character message to let me know that I can still rejoin the fold, if I want to give up what makes me unique and center every conversation around how grubby my little soul is and how I’m trying to scour it clean with talk of how much Scripture I read on Saturday nights.  Thanks, but I’ll stick with actual interaction with actual people, not the crap you see satirized in Mandy Moore movies.

This about sums it up

This about sums up the weekend we all had at Nanny's house. This is
Ty Browning, my newest cousin. He's happy, and looks perpetually
surprised.