“NOW SEE HERE: Tirades” – Vol. 1

It’s been a rough week and my inner sociopath is crying for arbitrary blood. So I’m taking you to task, things that…I’m taking to task. Nevermind that linguistic hiccup–this is “NOW SEE HERE!”



"Uh, it's called a 'venti,' not a 'large.'"

“Uh, it’s called a ‘venti,’ not a ‘large.'”

I get that they aren’t paying you to care what I think, so much as paying you to judge me for it. I work retail myself, and I know exactly how (un)seriously I take complaints from customers who say things like, “well you just lost a sale,” or, “I can’t believe you just blew your nose with my receipt!” I get it. I do. But that in no way excuses you from my ire when it’s 6:00 a.m. and I’m already an hour late for work, because I’m weak-willed and incompetent, and I have to sit there and listen to your smug little voice through a smug little speaker telling me smugly that your small beverages are actually called “talls.” To start with, those are opposite words. And what kind of idiot logic is that, anyway? “Tall” by definition indicates that whatever the hell you’re describing is of comparatively greater height than other objects in its group; in other words, you cannot call your smallest drink a “tall” one without destroying the very frame work of linguistic logic. You, and you alone, Starbucks hipsters, are responsible for the disintegration of everything that was once good about the English language. Hell, the inventor of “LOL” was probably ironically sipping an orange mocha frappucino when he did.



"Oh, you only have card?"

“Oh, you only have card?”

I don’t care how broken down your supposed “van” is that your supposed “band” needs to supposedly “get to your next gig.” Your three remaining teeth and the bouquet of urine-soaked pickles that has somehow blitzkrieged my car faster than the Nazis did Poland, together tell me you probably don’t have a van, a band, or a gig. You may have no money, but I owe money. Lots of it. And Sallie Mae is a cruel mistress of accounts–if anything, I should be begging you for change. I will, however, give you a tip: Don’t approach me while I’m sitting in line, in my car, at the drive-thru window again. That is not okay. Not okay. Not. Okay. Okay? Nevermind how creepy that is to begin with; the fact of the matter is, I already hate myself enough for being here–the last thing I want at this point is for someone to come along and draw more attention to the fact that I have no self-respect and am paying for these McDoubles only by the grace of someone else’s nickles excavated from my sofa.



Moron 5

Moron 5

I may be a decade late and a few hundo short, but better late to the party than never–the booze may have run out, but now I get to be the guy tagging all the passed out twentysomethings (who should’ve taken their shoes off) with a Sharpie. As a society, we’re always talking about the unreasonable expectations women get from Barbies and beauty magazines, but we never talk about the ones they get from that godawful song, “She Will Be Loved.” Standing on someone’s corner in the pouring rain every day may be a romantic thing to say, but in actual practice, it’s cause for alarm. For the woman, it means he’s probably going to harm you in some way; for the man, yeah you’ll get something out of it, but it won’t be the girl–it’ll be a restraining order and nasty case of walking pneumonia.



"Say 'cheese' or die, motherf*****! Told you I'd be back."

“Say ‘cheese’ or die, motherf*****! Told you I’d be back.”

If you think for one second that the many millions of cameras you assholes have made rude gestures at aren’t going to remember this when the machines finally do rise up against us, then you are sorely, sorely mistaken. And you can bet that as soon as that raging horde of Nikon Murderpix 3000s show up looking for blood, the rest of us are going to throw you straight under the vicious hybrid smartbus they rode in on, then high five the machines and share a happy moment, before they tear us into meat confetti. There is NOTHING cool about flipping off the camera. Not even when Starbucks hipsters do it ironically. Especially not then.


Does your inner sociopath cry out for the blood of a seemingly trivial aspect of society? Is there a stupid social trend or mannerism you think needs to be knocked down a peg? Have a tirade of your own worth sharing?

Send them my way, and I will probably do nothing with them. Unless they’re good! In which case, I may feature them in the next installment–crediting you, of course and by whatever name you prefer, with either the topic or the tirade itself (depending upon which you submit), as well as a hyperlink to your own page so people know where to find more of your demonstrated excellence. Seriously though, the shared traffic can benefit both of us–just something to think about before you launch into your own tirade about what a moron I am (which I can’t exactly dispute) for suggesting this.


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