November 27th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 18

In observance of today's wonderful holiday, I'm going to tell you all about the nicest drive-thru attendant on planet Earth. I met him yesterday.

As I pulled into the drive-thru of the Wendy's restaurant just down the street from my domicile, I expected what every American expects; a pimple-faced teenager stoned to the bejesus belt, who could care less about whether or not he/she gets my order correct.

This was not the case yesterday. After ordering my two 1/4 Double Stacks, with cheese, ketchup, mayonnaise and lettuce, he repeated my order back to me verbatim. I replied with a simple, "perfect." Much to my surprise, the "gentleman" fired back a, "thank you, I'll have your total at the window."

Dumbfounded, shocked and stunned, I shifted into first gear and pulled my car to the window where he was waiting. He shared with me the amount of money I owed the restaurant. After relinquishing the $2.19, he proceeded to inquire as to how my evening was going. 

"My evening is going well, thanks for asking," I replied. "And yours?"

"Can't complain," he said.  "It's the day before a wonderful holiday, and so I'm off early."

Our conversation continued for a brief moment, and as he handed me the bag containing my prized cheeseburgers, he bid me farewell by telling me to get home safe.

For those of you who weren't paying attention in the beginning of this post, I was in the drive-thru of a Wendy's. I wasn't at Ruth's Chris. This guy wasn't yanking my chain in an effort to increase the gratuity I was going to leave him. This was a genuine and sincere young man who seemingly cared how my well-being was at the time. 

And did I mention my order was cooked, and topped to perfection?

I'll reserve a fuck you for another time.

Thank you, Wendy's drive-thru attendant. Thank you for providing me with the hope that there are still a few good souls out there; individuals who care for their fellow humans.

Happy Thanksgiving, world, and as always;

Cheers.

November 24th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 17

Sometimes, I feel like I want to leave this place for good. No, no, not the Earth. I would have a harder time taking my own life, than the Denver police department would have figuring out who took Jon Benet's. I'm talking about this God awful city. This city can turn the most beautiful people into the fakest, greediest, and most self-absorbed schmucks. Something in the air causes people to care about two things; money, and how many red-lights they can run during their one-hour lunch break. The latter being a truly awesome phenomenon. 

In the four years that I have lived here on the face of the sun, I've seen three good friends come to inhabit this city, only to watch it suck every bit of decency out of their bodies. Three friends of mixed sex and race, who were once good, genuine, and caring people. Three people who have in one way or another, had a very positive affect on my life. Now, I sit back, and watch as they destroy themselves, their careers, and worst of all, their souls. I've watched this city suck the life-force right from their very being. Video tape an apricot sitting in a dehydrator for eight hours, put it into an editing suite, and apply a time-lapse filter to it. Then, watch it. You'll see a pretty good representation of what I am talking about.

But why? 

It is such a beautiful city. And the weather? Aside from the three months a year you dowse yourself in Gold Bond hoping to feel some sort of cool sensation, this place is paradise.

Who knows?! 

I've been trying to figure this out for quite some time now, and quite frankly, I've become exhausted while doing so. If anyone has any idea, please, help me out.

For now, I'll just chalk it up as fuck you number 17.

Fuck this city. Fuck you, Phoenix, Arizona, and your ability to lift your leg and piss on us all, like we're fire hydrants placed strategically among your busy streets.

Cheers. 

November 18th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 16

First and foremost, I would like to apologize for how long it has taken me in between posts as of late. I've been slacking, greatly. I am well aware of this, and for that, I apologize. I'll try not to let it happen again.

That being said, I will have you all know (the three of you who emailed me to tell me of my literary drought) that I HAVE been using my time wisely. Since my last post, I've consumed a quantity of whiskey known to be fatal to most Shetland ponies, and explored the seemingly uncharted territory between an anonymous beautiful blonde's legs. And I did it all while smoking enough cigarettes to bitch-slap the Marlboro man.

But enough about me. Now you know what I've been doing with my time in the last week, until this afternoon.

This afternoon I sat on hold with my cable company for an unacceptable amount of time. I don't recall the exact amount of time that I sat here on the phone, so I've devised a scheme that will assist us in deducing how much of my time I gave to, [Meatpoles] communications. 

Let us look at what we know. 

I spent way too much fucking time on hold today. 

We know that. How do we know that? I'll tell you how we know that.

We know that based on this simple equation (feel free to use it, it works): 

Time spent on hold is ≥ Number of times you wrap the duct-tape around your head securing your phone to your ear  X  Number of suicide attempts to end the conversation

There you have it. Simple as that. Try it out, I guarantee your outcome to be correct and accurate.

Fuck hold times. Fuck the complete and utter lack of customer service we have in our society today. 

Cheers.

November 10th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 15

What is the point of telling a person a little "white-lie?" Is there some sort of satisfaction that I'm apparently unaware of, for spreading these ridiculous, untrue tales? Is there a point to flat-out lying to someone? Maybe this is something I will never understand, but I feel like it is easier, and more beneficial to everyone to simply speak the truth.

As I was walking through the airport today en route back to my lovely (and when I say lovely, I really mean wretched) home, I overheard two gentlemen discussing the recent Monday night football game played between the Colts, and the Titans. As I scanned the electronic board of departures for my flight, I heard one man tell the other he was beating his Fantasy Football opponent 370-something, to 100, and that he still had to tally the points that Peyton Manning would inevitably score during this game.

False. And, false.

I've taken part in my fair share of Fantasy Football endeavors, across an array of different Fantasy Football providers. CBS Sportline, ESPN, Yahoo; they all work roughly the same. And for a person to score 370-something points in any given week, is an outright lie. Even if you were playing with a bunch of trained gorillas, who allowed you to stack your team with the Peyton Mannings, and the Larry Fitzgeralds, while they took Kerry Collins and Wayne Chrebet (does he even play any longer?), it would still take everything short of a miracle to score 370 points.

Sorry dude. Not buying it. And what did you get out of it? Your buddy looked at you and said, "No WAY!" So you received a minor erection for approximately 20 seconds, until he looked at you with that, "Wait a minute, I'm not that stupid, you're out of your fucking mind look."

Fuck dishonesty. Fuck the compulsion to feel like you need to fill others with crap, in order for you to feel a little better about your current situation.

Cheers.

November 4th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 14

Last night after watching Two and a Half Men, I was reading through the art card at the end of the program provided by my main man, Chuck Lorre. For those of you who are without a Tivo-like digital television recorder, I highly suggest acquiring one, or at least visiting the man's thoughts here...Chuck Lorre's Vanity Cards

Last night's was absolutely priceless.

Some people say there's no god. I disagree. I think there're actually four gods: The god of money, the god of medicine, the god of war and the god of technology. Like it or not, these are the gods that rock our world. I mean, when stuff goes seriously wrong who do you call? Your priest or your lawyer? Your rabbi or your doctor? Your minister or a cop? Your monk or the smug little geek who set up your home entertainment system? But while the gods of tech, medicine, guns and money give us the illusion of being safe, they don't give our lives meaning. For that we need other gods. And who are these other gods? Well, look around. They're sports stars, movie stars, rock stars, the occasional political and business figures, cute chicks who become princesses, and rich chicks who don't seem to require food. These are the deities who connect us with our abandoned inner selves. Their joy is our joy, their suffering is our suffering. We love and fear them, and occasionally crucify them. 

Thank you for that Chuck. Thank you.

Cheers.