Here’s something I can do without: People ahead of me on the supermarket line who are paying for an inexpensive item by credit card or personal check. People! Take my word for this: Tic Tacs is not a major purchase. And, I get just as discouraged when a guy who’s buying a simple jar of spaghetti sauce tries to pay with a letter of credit from the Bank of Liechtenstein. Folks, carry some fuckin’ money around, will ya? It comes in handy! No one should be borrowing money from a bank at 18 percent interest to buy a loaf of bread.
And what about these cretins at the airport gift shop who think somehow they’re in the Mall of America? It’s an airport! I’m standin’ there with one newspaper and a pack of gum; I gotta get to my plane. Why does the genetic defective ahead of me choose this moment to purchase a complete set of dishes and a new fall wardrobe? What is this, fuckin’ Macy’s? And of course, the clerk lady has to carefully wrap each dish separately, but she’s working real fast—because she’s eighty-nine!! Plus she’s from Sri Lanka. The rural part. And now dish-man wants to know if it’s okay to use Turkish traveler’s checks. You know what I do? I steal things. Fuck ‘em! I grab a handful of candy bars and six magazines and head for the gate. My attitude? It wasn’t their stuff to begin with.
Guys who always harmonize the last few notes of “Happy Birthday.”
People over 40 who can’t put on reading glasses without rnakin’g self-conscious remarks about their advancing age.
Guys who wink when they’re kidding.
Men who propose marriage on the giant TV screen at a sports stadium.
Guys in their fifties who flash me the peace sign and really mean it. People with a small patch of natural white hair who think it makes them look interesting.
Guys with creases in their jeans.
People who know a lot of prayers by heart.
People who move their lips—when I’m talking! Guys who want to shake my hand even though we just saw each other an hour ago. A celebrity couple who adopt a Third-World baby and call it Rain Forest. Guys who wear suits all day and think an earring makes them cool at night. Old people who tell me what the weather used to be where they used to live.
Men who have one long, uninterrupted eyebrow. ! Guys who wink and give me the peace sign simultaneously. People who say, “Knock knock,” when entering a room and, “Beep beep,” when someone is in their path. Fat guys who laugh at everything. People who have memorized a lot of TV-show theme songs and are really proud of it.
Women who think it’s cute to have first names consisting solely of initials. People who give their house or car a name. People who give their genitals a name. Guys who can juggle, but only a little bit. Actors who drive race cars. Men who wear loafers without socks. Especially if they have creases in their jeans. Athletes and coaches who give more than a hundred percent. Guys who still smell like their soap in the late afternoon. Blind people who don’t want any help. Guys who wear their watches on the inside of their wrists. Any man who wears a suit and tie to a ballgame. Guys who flash me the thumbs-up sign. Especially if they’re winking and making the peace sign with the other hand.
I’m gettin’ tired of guys who smoke pipes. When are they & gonna outlaw this shit? Guy with a fuckin’ pipe! It’s an arrogant thing to place a burning barrier between you and the rest of the world. It’s supposed to imply thoughtfulness or intelligence. It’s not intelligent to stand around with a controlled fire sticking out of your mouth. I say, “Hey, professor! You want somethin’ hot to suck on? Call me! I’ll give ya somethin’ to put in your mouth!” I think these pipe-smokers oughta just move to the next level and go ahead and suck a dick. There’s nothing wrong with suckin’ dicks. Men do it, women do it; can’t be all bad if everybody’s doin’ it. I say, Drop the pipe, and go to the dick! That’s my advice. I’m here to help. I’m also sick of car alarms. Not the screeching and beep- ing; that doesn’t bother me. It’s just the idea of a car alarm that I find offensive. Especially the ones that talk to you: “Move away! Move away!” “Ohhhh? Really!” That’s when I reach for my sharpest key. And I put a deep gouge in that paint job, all the way ’round the car. Three hundred and sixty degrees. I might even make two trips around, if I don’t have a luncheon appointment that day. And then I walk away slowly, unconcerned about the screeching and beeping, because I know that no one takes car alarms seriously. Car fy alarms are a Yuppie-boomer conceit, and they’re responsible for most of the carjacking that’s going on. Car alarms and The Club have have made it harder for thieves to steal parked cars, and so instead they’re stealing cars with people in them, and people are dying. And it’s all because these selfish, k boomer degenerates can’t stand to part with their personal property. Fuck boomers, and fuck their pussified car alarms!
I’m also sick of having to look at bearded guys who . don’t know how to trim the lower edges of their beards, where they extend back toward the neck. They trim too far up toward the chin, leaving a glaring, fleshy strip where u there ought to be hair. Guys, you need to let the beard extend far enough back under your chin, so it reaches the point where your neck begins. Then, from the fold or angle that forms between your jaw and neck, you shave downward. If you don’t have that fold; if you have a fat, fleshy pouch under your jaw with no definition, you shouldn’t be trimming your beard at all. You should let it grow long and bushy, so it covers that goofy-looking pouch.
And I’ve just about had it with all these geeky fucks who walk around listening to Walkmans. What are these jack-offs » telling us? They’re too good to participate in daily life? They’re sealing themselves off? Big fuckin’ loss. And what is it they’re listening to that’s so compelling? I think a person has to be fairly uncomfortable with his thoughts to have the need to block them out while simply walking around. I’d love to know how many of these obviously disturbed people become suicides.
I’ve also grown weary of reading about clouds in a book. Doesn’t this piss you off? You’re reading a nice story, and suddenly the writer has to stop and describe the clouds. Who cares? I’ll bet you anything I can write a decent novel, with b a good, entertaining story, and never once mention the clouds. Really! Every book you read, if there’s an outdoor scene, an open window, or even a door slightly ajar, the writer has to say, “As Bo and Velma walked along the shore, the clouds hung ponderously on the horizon like steel-gray, loosely formed gorilla turds.” I’m not interested. Skip the clouds and get to the fucking. The only story I know of where clouds were important was Noah’s Ark. And I don’t appreciate being put on hold and being forced to listen to someone else’s radio. I don’t even listen to my own radio, why should I have to pay money to call some . A company and listen to theirs? And it’s always that same shit, soft rock! That sucky, non-threatening, easy-listening pussy music.
Soft rock is an oxymoron. Furthermore, it’s not rock, and it’s not even music. It’s just soft. I’m tired of being unable to buy clothing that doesn’t have A writing and printing all over it. Insipid sayings, pseudo-wisdom, cute slogans, team logos, designer names, brand trademarks, small-business ego trips; the marketing pigs and advertising swine have turned us all into walking billboards. You see some asshole walkin’ by, and he’s got on a fruity Dodger 0 hat and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. Of course you can’t see the shirt if he’s wearing his hot-shit Chicago Bulls jacket. The one that only 50 million other loser jock-sniffers own. And since this cretinous sports fan/consumer zombie is completely for sale to anyone, he rounds out his ensemble with FedEx sneakers, ValuJet socks, Wall Street Journal sweatpants, a Starbucks jock strap, and a Microsoft condom with Bill Gates’s head on the end of it. No one in this country owns his personal appearance anymore. America has become a nation of obedient consumers, actively participating in their own degradation.
A few names I like:
A guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing and won’t admit it. A permanently disfigured gun collector. A whole lotta people tap dancing at once. When a big hole opens up in the ground. The third week in February. Guys who say “cock-a-roach.” A woman with no feet, because she’s not always nagging you to take her dancing. KEEP IT CLEAN.
I never wash my hands after using a public restroom. Unless something gets on me. Otherwise, I figure I’m as clean as when I walked in. Besides, the sink is usually filthier than I am. I’m convinced that many of the men I see frantically washing up do not do the same thing at home. Americans are obsessed with appearances and have an unhealthy fixation on cleanliness. Relax, boys. It’s only your dick. If it’s so dirty that after handling it you need to wash your hands, you may as well just go ahead and scrub your dick while you’re at it. Tell the truth. Wouldn’t you like to see some guy trying to dry his genitals with one of those forced-air blowing machines that are mounted four feet off the ground?