And while I’m on the topic of hating children

A few weeks ago I got into work and sent this email to my coworkers:

Promise me that if any of you decide to ruin your lives by having a child, you will not ruin everyone else’s lives by shedding all your brain cells and any sense of decency when you shed your pregnancy weight. After my subway ride this morning, I’m seriously ready to march into Bloomberg’s office and demand that all parents who don’t have the decency to send their minors to boarding school be segregated from the rest of us so we can live productive, happy lives with other reasonable adults.

Why we haven’t instituted leash laws to make sure breeders keep their feral beastlings under their control is beyond me. That morning, there was this woman on the subway with 3 brats. All 3 were sitting on the floor. At one point, one of them started throwing a tantrum AND KEPT THE DOORS FROM CLOSING. This, of course, made the train more crowded because it slowed down train traffic, and we couldn’t fit as many people in the train because the little brats were all sprawled out on the floor taking up the space of 4 grown adults. And then this stupid twat had the nerve to get all testy when I pointed at her screaming brat and said “Seriously.” This inspired everyone else in the car to shame her off at the next stop.

Why the hell are passports issued to children?

Who allows this to happen? This has to be in violation of some anti-torture treaty. It’s bad enough that I have to deal with the children born in THIS country, let alone everyone else’s. My vote is going to the presidential candidate that forbids people from bringing anything into this country that’s too young to buy cigarettes or porn.

All I wanted was a little strawberry ice cream. An afternoon treat. That’s it. I get to Häagen Daz and these foreign tourists are in there with their litter of offspring, holding up the line while each of the little snots decides what they want and promptly has their treat vetoed by their idiot parents. “No Oreos on the ice cream. Ju can have strawberries.” Seriously? It’s fucking ice cream! What the hell difference are 1 1/2 crushed Oreos going to make! And those strawberries are drenched in that red strawberry sugar goop, anyway. This is New fucking York. If you don’t know what the hell you want by the time you get to the counter, you should have to pay $5 for using the place’s air conditioning before being promptly ejected.

Saturday night, I found out our neighborhood midget is in AA.

And THAT wasn’t even the most interesting thing that happened!

Part I: La Enana

I was looking for foreign words for “midget” to title this section. I started with French, and true to form, they sucked. They call them “miniature.” If I wanted to be politically correct, I wouldn’t be consciously trying to use the word “midget” as often as possible in this post. Anyway, then I went to Spanish. Enana actually means dwarf, but I was already bored with looking up foreign words. I went with it.

So we are out for drinks at The Gate. The midget walks in with this group of people, and this friend of a friend goes, really loudly, “oh my God! I saw her at AA. Shit. I probably wasn’t supposed to say that.” And we were like “yeah, probably not, with it being anonymous and all.” Then I thought “well, shit, if I were a midget I’d probably develop a substance abuse problem, too.”

AA is apparently working for her, though, because she ordered a Diet Coke with lemon. Go, midget.

Of course I start texting everyone I know in a fury because, seriously, what could be better than finding out your neighborhood midget is in AA? Turns out this girl I just met was at the AA meeting observing for work because she’s a social worker. And we were all like “well maybe the midget was just observing too”. And then she was like, “no no, the midget got up and spoke.” Again, anonymous. And then entire moment was interrupted by the girl who would almost make me forget about the alcoholic midget.

It’s really easy to piss off Jewish lesbians.

I was just thinking yesterday “I haven’t blogged in a while. I should rectify that.” Apparently the universe agreed and tried to kill me in the process.

While walking to the subway this morning, I was stepping into a crosswalk, the walk signal was lit, and this stupid lesbian Jew bint slams on her brakes and nearly hits me. Then SHE had the audacity to yell at ME. You can imagine how that went over:

Bint: HEY! WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!
Me: HEY! OBEY TRAFFIC SIGNALS!
Bint: You should have seen me coming and stopped.

Now, at this point, I have a split second to choose between the low road (dropping the C bomb), and the very low road. I chose the very low road:

Me: You’re living proof that this city needs to outlaw driving under the influence of estrogen.
Bint: ::::look of abject shock and horror as if I had just bitten off the head of a puppy::::

You ladies can put down your torches and pitchforks. I said it for one reason and one reason only: there is no way – NO POSSIBLE WAY – to get under a Jewish lesbian’s skin faster than making a misogynistic comment, particularly if it includes a stereotype like women being bad drivers.

The amount of time a Jewish lesbian will be upset about a misogynistic comment is inversely proportionate to the length of her hair. Since this woman’s hair was barely an inch long, she’ll be fuming about this for a good 4-6 months. There’s a good chance she’ll lose the next 3-5 nights of sleep staying up reading some book about how to make sure her adopted Venezuelan son will grow up to respect women womyn (remember, we’re talking about lesbians here). Later this week, she’ll go to her monthly shift at the food co-op and share the story. Then someone else will share a similar story, and they’ll all get all fired up about how they chose to live in Park Slope because it’s such a progressive community and they can’t believe that someone could actually still think that way like it’s 1952. This conversation will be repeated ad nauseam at mommy/baby yoga, the Friday Torah readings at her non-denominational universalist place of worship, the non-profit she works at, Ginger’s, and lesbian book club (where she will inevitably suggest everyone read the book about making sure their sons will respect women when they grow up). And the best part is that during all of this, she will completely miss the irony that she was indeed driving badly.

How can anyone possibly pass up a prime opportunity to influence so many lives? I certainly can’t.

The Best Flight Ever.

Ok clearly the universe wanted to rectify the gross miscarriage of justice of sending me to Texas by giving me what must be christened The Best Flight Ever. This is an extraordinary claim considering my flight to Texas was first class.

First, there was one open seat on the entire flight. Where was it? Between me and a lovely gentleman, equally deserving of such a fate. Second, the person in front of me did not recline their seat the entire trip. I was already in heaven but clearly the best was yet to come. 

After they handed out drinks and “cheeseburgers” that made Big Macs look like Kobe beef, a flight attendant tapped me on the shoulder. I was sprucing up the bracket sheets on my PowerBook. 

Her: I’m so sorry. This is horribly intrusive, but I saw The Battle Royale of Assholes on your computer and I just have to ask what you’re doing. 
Me: Well, um, ok. I work in a real life version of “The Office”… 
Her: I like where this is going. 
Me: And my friends and I decided that we should put together a March Madness bracket to decide who we hate most. Kind of like what they did on “How I Met Your Mother.” 
Her: Big board, big win! 
Me: ::::uncontrollable hysterical laughter:::: 
Her (whispering): Don’t pay for any more of those. 

She was pointing at my vodka. I asked for another and she got it for me. At this point I knew I had it made for the entire flight.

So like a half an hour later, I go back to the bathroom and my new friend says “hey come here for a second!” She had clearly shared the bracket with her colleagues. 

Her: This is the guy with the bracket! 
Bitchy queen flight attendant: I don’t believe you actually have a bracket of the people you hate from your office.
Me (sensing skepticism): Not only do we have a bracket, but over the last couple years we have come up with middle school nicknames and have seeded the bracket with them. 
Him (calling what he thought to be a bluff): Such as? 
Me: Peepants and Swimnubbin are two of my favorites. 

At this point they both lose it. Once they regained some sort of composure, she just goes “Swimnubbin?” I tell them the story, including the part about how she’s Jewish and thinks Chinese people are weird because they don’t celebrate Christmas, and they lose it all over again. He goes “Harry Potter? That’s so much better than I could have ever, ever imagined.” 

Needless to say, I had more alcohol than could possibly be allowed by the FAA, and didn’t pay for any of it.

I’m back in Texas.

A man just came up to us and gave us candy because he shot a wild boar in his cabbage patch this morning. So to celebrate, he and his wife decided to come drive an hour and go to the Wal-Mart.

Gum chewing needs to be abolished sooner than immediately.

SMACK SMACK CRACK POP SMACK CRACK POP

Could someone please explain to me why people are incapable of chewing gum with their mouths closed? Never mind; I explained it to myself halfway through writing this post. People are incapable of chewing gum with their mouths closed because they’re incapable of breathing with their mouths closed.

Chewing sounds are completely revolting. I tolerate them only when people are eating a meal of food because, you know, you need food to live. It’s a tolerated necessary evil. But gum doesn’t nourish your body! At best, it freshens your breath, which Tic-Tacs can do much more quietly.

Furthermore, I don’t know what asshole started the myth that chewing gum helps with ear popping on flights. Chewing gum on a flight does nothing but annoy your fellow passengers (me). Yawning will actually accomplish something. I just had to sit through a take-off and a landing that were torture. Four people around me were chewing gum, all with their mouths open. A fifth was eating barbecue and chewing with her mouth open. As we all know, the first and last 15 minutes of a flight are torture because I must endure the general public without people repellant or the ability to belittle.

Gum chewing must be abolished until natural selection takes care of mouthbreathers. I’m sure I can count on your support in this endeavor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please turn all portable electronic devices to the off position.”

I generally don’t mind flying with two very important exceptions: the first and last 15 minutes of a flight.  

First, I can’t belittle people who deserve it on planes because I don’t want to get arrested at the gate. This would be fine if I could simply ask a flight attendant to yell at someone for me, but they don’t do it right. They try to be courteous (if they bother at all), which fails to put people in their place (my mission in life).

Second and most importantly, flying requires me to deal with the general public without people repellant*. This is because we are required to “turn off all portable electronic devices” during take-off and landing.

Combined, these require me to deal directly with the general public for over 30 minutes, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nowhere to run; nowhere to hide. And unless I drink at the airport bar (as if I don’t), it’ll be at least another 15 minutes before I can get alcohol coursing through my veins. It’s just wrong.

* I refer to headphones as people repellant because wearing headphones will effectively prevent unnecessary contact with humanity, with the notable exception of liberal idealist nimrods who think I’d be stupid enough to give my credit card number to a complete stranger on the street in order to save the whales or the children or Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign.

Bring me Solo… and the wookie.

Less than 5 minutes into my trip back to New York last night, I already hated everyone. By the time the bus got to the next stop after I got on, I was pretty much settled for my trip. Then the bus stops and Jabba the Hutt lumbers on.

I knew exactly where it was headed the moment I saw it. No, not next to me, because I had conciously chosen to sit next to someone who fit comfortably in her seat. I knew this living blob of lard would be sitting right behind me. And once it made its way through the aisle – violating everyone sitting in an aisle seat as its excessive fat rubbed against them – it did try to sit behind me. Except it couldn’t fit.

It was at this moment I could discern that it was female because it spoke:

Jabba: Are you going to put your chair up so I can fit?
Me (in my head): If you weren’t large enough to have your own gravitational pull, you’d fit just fine.

Now, normally I would have said it out loud, but I refrained for three reasons:

1. This ignorant waste of flesh would squeeze herself in anyway, kneeing and shoving me as she did.
2. The poor soul stuck next to her was already going to have an uncomfortable trip and didn’t need tension to make it any worse. (See, I can be nice).
3. I had a legitimate fear that she would eat me.

One of you, stay home!

Why do couples insist on going to the store – particularly the grocery store – with all of their misbehaving children? There are two of you! One of you stay home with the brats so the rest of us don’t have to deal with them running all over the place.

I was at Wegman’s today (early enough to dodge the majority of the pre-picnic shoppers), and this kid was manhandling every clam in the icebox while his parents were 10 feet away arguing about whether to get mild or medium provolone cheese. I would have been willing the brat would to hurt himself, but then I would have given the parents the opportunity to sue Wegman’s, which would drive up the cost of running the store, which would drive up the cost of my Goldfish crackers. And I’m not about to pay more for Goldfish crackers unless that money is going toward ending the bloodline of idiot couples like this by sterilizing their children.

The sad truth is probably that both of these parents are so terrible at parenting that neither of them can stand to be alone with the little miscreants. If those were my kids, I wouldn’t want to be alone with them either. But then again, my kids wouldn’t act like that if I had them, which I won’t.