Random Things That Pissed Me Off This Week

I know … such a bitchy way to title a blog post. Such a bitchy way to start anything, really; but I think we all have these lists. Lists of random shit that pissed us off this week.

Here’s mine. Is it anything like yours?

People That Act Like Life Doesn’t Suck a Big, Fat Dick

Yesterday I posted about these people that do the “I am thankful for…” Facebook posts. I don’t have anything wrong with people being thankful, but for God’s sakes could we please stop pretending like life is always a happy field of flowers and roses and unicorns puking rainbows, on which we slide down going “weeeeee” the entire way until we land in a pot of gold, that incidentally couldn’t have come at a better time?

Life is a pile of shit. Period, end of sentence. Sure, there are a lot of great moments within it. There are a lot of good things you get out of it – experiences and relationships that make it all worth it. But one of my favorite philosophers (Bertrand Russell) said that life is nothing but a morbid and miserable march toward death.

Can we please stop sugar-coating the challenges life presents for the sake of “remaining positive?” It’s OK to be honest and still have a good time amidst it all.

Premature Holiday Ejaculation

Every time I walk into a store and see that Christmas stuff is already all over the place, I think of a teenager with a premature ejaculation problem.

It’s disgusting. It’s a result of a lack of control. It’s a disorder.

I mentioned to the guy yesterday at Target that they had gone a little overboard. I mean the day after Halloween, the Christmas stuff literally took over the entire store. Do you know what that premature ejaculating teenage fuck said to me? “Oh … you just don’t want to have to do your shopping….”

Listen here you little precuming waste of a sperm, with your ear gauges and your flippantly ironic attitude: It has nothing to do with holiday shopping and everything to do with not wanting disgusting and opportunistic consumerism shoved down my fucking throat. By the way, I’ve already done all my holiday shopping, motherfucker. I might just bring it all back and shove it up your ass.

People That Won’t Shut Up About Politics

Seriously, people. The majority of people out there knew who they were voting for before the primaries even began. The rest of them have made their decision. The election is Tuesday.

Therefore, I kindly ask you all to SHUT THE FUCK UP. That doesn’t seem to work, though, so maybe if I say it a little louder:

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

The Post Office

You faithful blog followers remember how a few weeks ago the post office refused to send out my pumpkin bread, claiming it was a “threat to the security of the nation?”

Well they took it a step further by really fucking things up for me.

We’re having a Thanksgiving Open House in a few weeks and I wrote out these really nice invitations. I made those invitations by hand too – so we’re talking about maybe eight hours or more of work on my part.

I went to the post office to get the stamps and had them weighed. That snaggletoothed bitch of a postal worker said “oh, one stamp is more than enough” and then she sold me these stamps with oranges on them, that were Forever Stamps in celebration of the Chinese New Year.

They said fucking “Forever Stamp” on them.

Every single one of those goddamned envelopes got returned, with notices all over them. Half of them said that the Chinese New Year Forever Stamp was not a real stamp. The other half said they needed more postage. I should also mention, they were all mangled; in effect ruining every single one of the invitations I worked so hard to make.

Not to mention wasting all that money.

So what pissed you off this week, faithful blog followers? Any prematurely ejaculating, smart ass teenagers, or incompetent postal workers, in your neck of the woods?

The Day I Went Postal

I think we all knew this was going to happen at some point, right? I did. I just never knew it would actually have to do with the post office. I really don’t spend that much time there – especially after that incident last year when the random lady braced the table for sorting your mail and putting on stamps and stuff, then proceeded to lean over and rip one so loud the entire place grew quiet. Kind of ironic, I suppose.

You always think that it’s the postal workers that are going to go postal; that created that euphemism to begin with. Disgruntled with a low paying, back-breaking job, the lonely postal worker finally gets fed up with his meager lifestyle and goes nuts on the next old lady that comes in bitching because his branch no longer carries stamps depicting Elvis Presley she was just salivating to lick.

But the only postal workers I have ever come into contact with are usually way too arrogant to ever have a meltdown. I imagine “must have a pompous and superior sense of self” is a qualification to work at my local United States Post Office branch. No, none of those people will ever go postal.

And yet they caused me to.

Let me back-track a little. So I made up my own recipe for a low fat pumpkin bread. I think it’s pretty amazing, really. But I think everything I cook is amazing and everyone in my family usually takes a ginormous dump on it. To combat their rudeness and find out if the recipe was really worth it, I asked if any of my friends wanted some. Much to my surprise, a lot of them did, although quite a few needed to be mailed out.

No big deal, right? During the holidays people send food and shit like that all over the fucking place.

I usually use the prepaid postage envelopes and boxes, which make things really cheap to ship, so I baked fifteen miniature loaves of pumpkin bread, fucking slaving and shit in the kitchen and afterwards to get it packaged up. Then I went to the post office to get the envelopes and those motherfuckers told me that they raised the postage rates of them to nearly $6 a piece.

Whatever. I already baked the shit. Duly noted for the future. The post office is ripping people off left and right anyway, I shouldn’t be surprised. If you or any of your family or friends work for the post office, I’m wholeheartedly sorry, but my local postal branch is full of a bunch of lazy motherfuckers that are always standing around and trying actively not to work. And they screw up constantly; once they even delivered an envelope in a plastic baggie marked “damaged.” All that remained of the envelope was a corner – I don’t even know what the fuck it was.

Okay, back to the point.

So I took those little $6 fuckers into the post office and walked up to the counter to get the postage for it. The lady told me she couldn’t sell me the postage for them. I said “what are you talking about, I just bought prepaid postage from you yesterday.” She said “oh, prepaid postage … I thought you said stamps.”

Since when in the fuck can you not buy stamps at the post office from the counter?

So I bought the shit from her and she asked me nine questions about insurance and perishables. What are the contents? Pumpkin bread. Do you want to insure them? No. What are the contents? I just fucking told you: pumpkin bread. When she asked if that was technically a perishable, I told her “it’s not like I’m sending packages of rotting meat.” I suppose I was a little testy at that point.

So she took my money, wearing a black ski mask and holding a gun to my head. I then begrudgingly moved on to the kiosk to buy stamps, since she insisted she could not sell me stamps only for her to start screaming at me from across the post office that I needed to come back.

The post office would not send my pumpkin bread. They considered it to be a hazardous perishable that could endanger lives and be viewed as a terrorist threat to the entire country.

Are you fucking kidding me? They are clearly making up their own rules just to work as hard as possible to avoid working.

At this point, the bread is bad. But I have a newfound vendetta against the post office and really want to know how others think of it. Maybe I’ll reclaim my life by selling it in farmer’s markets or something – who knows? So I plan on rebaking the bread, concealing it in fall-themed plastic bags, and sending it with the proper amount of postage made up of 45 cent stamps purchased at the goddamned kiosk since the postal workers won’t sell me stamps anymore.

I feel as though I’ve gone postal. I keep walking around the house, getting everything together for this massive, offensive move I am making in my war against the post office. If you come close enough to the window, you might even hear me muttering over and over again, “I’ll show them…I’ll show them real good…”