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there are two types of people in the world - updated weekdaily

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The airport bathroom is not a good place for speakerphone

Christmas is a time to tell people you’re better than them

People who write the Christmas update

People who hate the Christmas update, but read them anyhow, out of curiosity

Every year, I get more Christmas cards than I have friends.  When we send Christmas cards out, we usually go to Target, pick up a card that looks festive, and send them off to people who would not ask the question, “Honey, do we know this person?”  I think that’s a pretty sensible approach to pretty much all correspondence.  If a sender anticipates that a recipient may not know them, save the postage.

But of course, we all know that getting cards from people we hardly know isn’t the real crime of the Christmas season.  The real agony is in getting those “here’s what’s going on in our lives” letters that either accompany the card or replace it altogether.  You know, the 14-page account of every time the baby giggled, how the dog’s hips are feeling, and how the husband got lost trying to speak French to some shop owner in Bordeaux.  These updates exist for one reason only: to make you jealous.  During Christmastime, everyone is the Joneses.

Sorry it’s short this year, folks.  We’re just finished refueling the jet and we have to hurry off to Aspen.  To think, it was just 10 days ago we were in Hawaii for our short 7 month vacation.  Little Bobby just graduated Harvard and has started a hedge fund that has doubled every month since he began.  He’s going to sell it to the Japanese and use the proceeds to bring Mother Theresa back from the dead.  Hope all is well with your families, because we’re GREAT!  And as bad as it gets, we’re always better than you!

I am pretty sure that the precise number of people in this world that give a shit what is going on in someone else’s life is exactly equal to the number of women Richard Simmons has made love to.  Despite this, we all sit down with a nice warm glass of “I can’t stand these people” and read every page; every word.  We’re curious.  Has there been any failure in their life since their Shit-zoo learned how to tightrope walk last year?  Has their 15 year old who made the varsity football team last year turned to cocaine?  What about that little Korean girl they adopted - the one who won the state chess tournament when she was 5, and again at 17?  I thought I heard something about her and the tennis coach. . .

But no.  These essays of envy are not honest.  They don’t talk about when mom had too much chardonnay and told her children that daddy had erectile dysfunction.  They don’t talk about how everyone that was there on that family trip hated every minute of their time together.  That every second that passed between shots with the $4,000 digital SLR camera that stays in “Easy Mode” was spent yelling, complaining, and moaning about everything conceivable.  No, these are the Kodak moment essays that represent the true story through a rose lens:

“We refinished the basement”
- Tom spent 4 weekends cussing at the contractor while I wondered if I could trust these Mexicans in my house.

“Tina is adjusting well to college life”
- We haven’t been able to reach Tina in 4 months.  Her roommate said that she’s being released from rehab in a week or so.  We hope it’s a joke, but really aren’t sure.

“We’re loving our matching BMW convertibles”
- Suck it, my friends.  We’ve got it made, and you do not.

So I realize that it’s too late to change things this year, but for the love, give it a break next year.  Just go to Target and get a festive card, send it to people who know who you are, and let us all rest.  Then you’ll have two years to rub in our face when you sit down to figure out how to rhyme your entire Christmas card.

“Honey . . . what rhymes with learjet?”

I support wildlife with my AK-47

People who have “Support Wildlife” license plates

People who do not regularly hunt wildlife with assault rifles

I’ve been working really hard lately on reducing road rage, per my wife’s orders.  I used to see other cars as the enemy: a chaotic moving obstacle fueled by Atlantans’ self-loathing and lost dreams, but now I’ve become less aggressive.  Bruce Lee once said, “Be like the river. Flow.”  I liked to say, “Be like the river.  Crush and annihilate vehicles that stand in your path.  Deliver toxic waste from thousands of miles away.  Look serene, but be home to deadly fish that will eat a man down to the bone.”  

But my quote was too long, so it didn’t stick even though it was far more inspiring.

At any rate, I have toned it down a bit.  Now, I am more Bruce: taking it a little bit slower in traffic, letting it come to me, taking it all in.  And one thing that I’ve taken in, in particular, is the correlation of license plates, vehicles, and drivers.  There is a very interesting relationship between vehicles, their owners, and the choice of license plate.

Growing up in Florida, you learn this early.  Florida is the Baskin Robbins of license plate states.  We had more license plates than we had ethnicities, and that’s saying something.  We had Save the Birds, Save the Panther, Save the Whales, Save the Children, Save Music, Save Gymnastics, Save Trees, Support Firemen, Support Police, Support Breasts, Send All The Cubans Home, “Florida…The New Northeast”, and everything else you could imagine.  And as funny or interesting the plates ever got, the owners that went with them were that much better.

So fast forward to present day Georgia (let’s not forget that Atlanta is in Georgia: a lone Van Gogh in a gallery of Kinkade), where a regular occurrence is seeing a white Chevy Tahoe with those big lights mounted on top and a “Support Wildlife” license plate on the back.  If it’s a Monday, there might still be some deer blood on the hatchback handle.

In trying to “Support Wildlife”, a wooden wall is best.  Drywall is rarely sturdy enough to support wildlife.  Wildlife is simply too heavy.

The Support Wildlife license plate translates a little non-traditionally for those unfamiliar with it.  Georgians use the word “support” in “support wildlife” a lot like Rwandans use the word “cleansing” in “ethnic cleansing.”  While it may seem a little backwards at first, you’ll soon realize that by wiping animals off of the face of the earth, we’re actually helping them.  You know, just like wiping humans off the face of the earth is helpful…right?

But in all fairness, I don’t really think that my fellow Georgians are that ridiculous.  What it probably really comes down to is that these guys wanted a license plate with a picture of a deer on it, and when they went to the DMV, the 400 lb woman named Tameesha told them that the only option was the plate that said “support wildlife”.  Hoping the words would rub off, the hunters bought the tag and took their chances.  Sadly, the letters never did wear off, and they’re stuck with the most self-contradictory vehicle accessory available, but at least they got that deer picture.

They should have just moved to Florida and gotten the “Kill Wildlife and Immigrants” plate.

Fake Christmas trees are for fake families

People who buy real Christmas trees

People who buy fake Christmas trees

We live in a day where everything real has a fake counterpart - for our comfort and convenience, of course.  Are you a lazy turd with little sunlight in your home?  Buy a fake plant.  Want to keep up with the Joneses, but you’re more of a Jefferson?  Buy a fake Gucci purse.  Not sure if she’s really the one?  Cubic z to the rescue.

We have been living in a fake world for a while now.  We are surrounded by countless ways we can improve our lives, our homes, our bodies, and pretty much everything but our minds.  How many times have you heard, “it looks like real wood, doesn’t it?” when your friend shows you around their new home?  How about, “feel them!”?  Zero?  Bummer.

But when it comes to the Christmas tree, fake just doesn’t cut it.

I was walking around Target over the weekend getting lights for our tree when I rounded the corner and stumbled upon the fake tree wonderland.  Now, the first thing that strikes me as odd are these bright pink trees, the silver ones, the ones colored like the American flag, etc.  And there’s always that little Charlie Brown tree with like 7 branches and a single ornament that everyone reaches out to and says “aww, that’s so cute”.  No, that’s not cute.  That’s a dead sapling piece of shit, and on top of that, it’s a FAKE dead sapling piece of shit.  Putting a real one of those in your home says, “I’m broke as shit and my kids are going to cry on Christmas day.”  And putting a fake little POS sapling in your house is just plain stupid.

But the king of kings among the fake Christmas trees was just past the sad little twiggie and the bright silver monstrosity that looks like a sex toy for the Terminator.  It was a plain, regular 6′ tall Christmas tree, but with one detail that just seemed a little off to me.  And I noticed that this was the case with almost all of the fake trees: the trunk has needles on it.

Look at the very bottom - at the trunk.  Yeah, the trunk with needles.  That one.

So I can just picture this now.  Someone makes a call over to the slave labor camps in China and says, “Hey Chen-Suey, this is Earl over in Alabamer.  We need ten zillion of them Christmas trees.  You know, they’re like trees with the prickly leaves all over ‘em.”  And Chen goes to work, making “trees with prickly leaves all over them”, just as he’s been instructed.  Having never seen a Frasier Fir, they’re doing the best they can.  A few months later, Earl opens up the boxes and he’s had too much Evan Williams (fake Jack Daniels) to notice that the tree trunk has bristles, and ships them off to Target for my viewing pleasure.

Folks, it’s time to do “real”.  Stop eating your breakfast bar and sit down with your family.  Stop with the genetically-altered hydroponic pork chops, the KFC that comes from chickens who don’t have feathers or beaks, stop drinking milk that comes from cows pumped full of more hormones than a 13 year old girl at a Timberlake concert.  Stop buying backpacks that have a handle and wheels, put it on your back, and burn 9 calories.  Buy a real damn tree.  Light it your lazy ass self.  Enjoy this freaking season, dammit.

Merry friggin’ Christmas.

(and yes, that is how you spell “dammit”, so learn it, love it.  While I’m at it, it’s “new-clear”, not “new-kew-lar”)

I have won the Rwandan lottery 18 times this year

People who are drawn in to trash emails

Those people’s children

I think I’m starting to see a seasonality to chain emails / SPAM / generally ridiculous nonsense.  Lately, the volume has gone up dramatically vs. the summer, and while I’m not sure why this is, if anyone out there needs Viagra, business cards, or a device that will make your penis bigger than a telephone booth, my inbox seems to be the place to go.

One wonders if these emails really work.  I really can’t imagine ordering pharmaceuticals from some company who can’t even spell correctly in their email to me.  I can’t imagine a sweet little mother of 3 sitting down to her computer and saying, “you know, some horny sluts being nasty would really hit the spot right now.  The Petersons’ Williams Sonoma registry is just going to have to wait.”

But they must work.  These people are undoubtedly spending some money to send this stuff out, so they’re obviously in it for some sort of profit.  If it wasn’t working, it would end, right?

One of my all-time favorite scams is this thing that’s been going on for a while where you’ve either won the lottery or some African royalty needs to launder some money through the US and you’re going to get to keep a cut.  You know, they go sort of like this:

I am prince of Zimbabwe.  My family have many too many money and need urgent to give many money to someone else.  We have lottery that you not enter, but still win!  Miracle Happy!

Seriously?  But the email goes on to ask for bank information, addresses, etc.  And it works, apparently.  They had something on Dateline or one of those other alarmist news shows (”Is your refrigerator killing you? Find out after our segment on marshmallow-related deaths and a montage of plane crashes, tonight at 9″) that was telling people about these scams and to not give their bank information to anyone.  

So, tell me.  Who has nibbled on the fruit of SPAM?  Anyone?  You can fess up here anonymously.  Did you buy some orange tic-tacs with “Cialis” written delicately in toxic ink?  Did you get to keep the million?  Are you happy with the new size of your … you know?

Cat people…ick.

Cat People

People who do not scare me in some fundamental way

Yesterday, I got an email from a friend that was meant to brighten my day.  These pictures of a cat show definitely did that, but I’m finding, lately, that pictures like these are a bit like pharmaceutical drugs.  A pill might lower your cholesterol, but it may also induce vomiting, blindness, suicidal tendencies, and leprosy.  Pictures like these do brighten my day, but they simultaneously make me wonder if all people are just fucked in the head.  It’s a mixed blessing.

Where’s that right hand?  Was that shirt dug out of an elephant’s butt? [insert cat's thoughts here] CAPTION OVERLOAD!!!!

So obviously, this email got me thinking about cat people in general.  They are pretty simple to describe:

• Female
• BMI at least 20% above ideal
• Wear strange clothing and gold jewelry
• Single
• Have a computer password like “pussypaws” or something to that effect

OK, I’m busted: I’m just describing the picture.  Of course there are exceptions.  There are attractive girls who own cats (WTF?).  There are men who own cats (well, not men, but humans with man parts).  There are even people who are capable of communicating with other people who own cats.  But most of the cat owners fit the above description.

A girl I work with was about a fraction of a misfired neuron from adopting a blind cat.  She is a very nice girl, she is very pretty, and has a great personality, but for some reason this one chromosome has flipped around and she likes cats.  She ended up not getting the cat (who would need eyedrops, several times daily) because the cat maintenance interfered with her social life.  Yes, I used the words cat and social life in the same sentence.  Someone, if you have any idea of how I can have an intervention, please tell me and I’ll do whatever I can to get this fish back into the ocean.

How to increase your net worth 80% today

People who withdraw $10 and pay a $3 ATM fee

People who make massive “rob me” withdraws but get the better end of the deal

Now I realize that there aren’t a slew of economics majors out there, but this one is a pretty easy win, unless you’re scared of being robbed by that 83 year old woman behind you in line.

When you go to the ATM (please don’t ever say “the ATM machine”), you are a moron if you withdraw a small amount of money at an out-of-network machine.  On that note, why in the hell do we put up with out-of-network machines?  This concept of charging people money to get their money is totally absurd, and I think I’m going to kick the next banker I see square in the berries as a result of this micro-rage I have at the moment.

Anyhow, someone gave me this idea last week while we were talking about other, less important things.  Since that talk, I’ve been paying more attention to the amount that people are taking out of ATMs (yes, to an outside observer, it would appear I was planning a robbery), and it’s mind-blowing.  Either 90% of Atlanta has the net worth of your average Rwandan or they’re a few Skittles short of a rainbow, but in either case I can’t understand why someone would pay a 30% fee to re-own money that is already theirs.  I saw one guy go to the ATM 3 times on a single night last week.  Can someone please explain that to me?

Repeat elevator button pushers = humankind

People who hit the elevator button additional times

People who have no arms, no legs, no nose, or any other suitable protrusion, and are in a coma

So this idea has been sent to me from a number of people and stated in a number of different ways, but the gist of it is that people are pissed off when people either hit the elevator button more than once or when they come up and hit the button after someone else has already hit it.

But here’s the problem, folks: you’re all hypocrites.

There is not a single human being on earth who has been exposed to an elevator and not hit the elevator button after it’s already lit up.  Nobody.  You could go pick up a newborn aboriginal, and if there was a way to reach it, he would sit there rapping on the button with his baby boomerang, saying, “how long is this piece of shit going to take?”.  And then crap his loincloth.

This happens because human beings are not inately capable of trust or patience.  If someone else has pushed the button, we cannot trust that person to be as highly intelligent as us: they must not be capable of a proper button press.  This complicated procedure should only be carried out by trained and experienced professionals.  Second, we lack the patience to wait 4 seconds for an elevator to respond.  We are man, this is machine.  We are the superior race, therefore we demand service.

When I took the elevator up to the 6th floor at work (the top floor) this morning, the elevator interacted with 7 people.  First floor, 5 people get on.  The first three people push 3, 5, and 6.  The next two re-push 3 and then 6.  The first person, standing closest to the left bank of buttons, begins jamming “door close”.

Nobody talks.

Ding!  We’re on 3.  Two people exit.  The right-bank button operator begins hitting “door close”, but a hand shoots into the opening, opening the doors.  In a socially-awkward recovery, the man starts now hitting “door open” (the doors are already opening, but thanks for the help).  5 is hit…again…by the new passenger.

Ding! We’re on 5.  Two more exit.  One more person gets on.  My fellow passenger says “this one’s going up”, which is actually two statements in one: 1) “If you’re meaning to go down, this elevator is not for you”, and 2) “If you’re riding the elevator up one floor, fuck you.”

New passenger: “Oh, no.  I’m going up, but thanks.”  6 pushed, then door close pushed.  A double.

We get up to 6, everyone disembarks, and it’s over.

So thanks for the idea, but try to give me two types of people next time.  What’s next, “Guys who look at porn and guys who don’t?”

You can do better.

There is a reason your shirt has that many buttons

People who button their shirt to the correct level

People who unbutton the top 2-4 buttons of their dress shirt

Let me start off by saying this: there are few exceptions to the hard and fast rule of buttoning a shirt up to the penultimate button.  These exceptions are known as “hot women”.  No others exist.

Disapproved:

Approved:

Approved:

I wonder how long Google Analytics will tell me how long you hover on that image…

Anyhow, I am pretty fortunate to live in a city where the guys are pretty conservative with their buttoned shirts.  Most people understand that these buttons were invented for the specific reason of vomit-in-mouth prevention, and they work almost flawlessly when used properly.  But occasionally, guys will open the neck hatch a few more clicks, a practice I do not appreciate one bit.  In and around Atlanta, this usually happens in the spring and fall: used as a substitute technique to pissing on trees during our prime cougar hunting months.  But unless your name is Emilio, there is no excuse for this.

I am going to start carrying flypaper around and pay/dare drunk college kids to assault these people’s chest hair.  I’m thinking this can be done somewhere in the $20 - $50 range, which gives me a very high entertainment ROI.  I haven’t figured out what to do about the guys who shave their chest, but maybe their own brain is the punishment they are forced to live with their whole lives, and that might be enough.

In writing this, I have found that blog articles that people might classify as “not safe for work” or NSFW, might also be considered NSFGW, or “not safe for Great Wraps”, which is where I’m sitting as people are troubling themselves to figure out why I’m searching the internet for both men with exposed chests and women with enormous cleavage.  Maybe I’m just an awkwardness vampire, feeding on nervous tension rather than blood.  I’m feeling very strong right now.

Lord, show me a sign

People who have keen awareness of things, in general

People who have zero awareness of things, in general

There are some days that I know exactly what I’m going to write here.  I’m thinking about it on my way to work, when I’m brushing my teeth, when I’m skipping breakfast, etc.  And then there are other days when I really don’t know what to talk about and I hope something will come to me.  I hope that there will be a proverbial sign.

Well, today there was a sign, indeed.  As I walked in to work this morning, one of those gypsy lobby salespeople was setting up shop, with the below sign.  I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I just started shamelessly taking pictures as she was curiously watching me.  Several pictures.  I made sure to stay there taking enough pictures from enough angles, taking chuckle breaks (yes, I did say “chuckle breaks”), that she would have to surmise something was up.  I love causing this sort of wonder and confusion.  The tension is palpable.

Sorry, folks.  If you were hoping to be a d’bag too, the name’s taken: she’s incorporated.

It’s mornings like these that I’m genuinely happy to be alive.  I love stupid signs not because of the entertainment of the sign itself, but because of the knowledge that someone out there made this sign and is absolutely unaware of what they’ve done.  This type of person is the fruit of America.  Think about it: the crazy lady in the red sweatshirt calling Obama a muslim.  The person who thinks that our climate is changing because of daylight savings (they think we’re losing an hour of sunlight when we change our clocks, no I’m not kidding, click the friggin’ link).  People like this make life worth living.

I leave you with some more handiwork I’ve seen over the last few months:

Not the most helpful directory

Philly Style Italian Ice!  Way to go!  I’m going to go get some Birmingham Style Dim Sum now.

The name wasn’t clear enough, so they added the gray, erect, um…plane?

I don’t know what to say. It was Savannah…they’re into this sort of stuff there.

Pricy.

There is no funny caption for this.  It’s just sort of a stupid place to put your sign…outside of a sandwich shop.

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