June 11, 2009 - Fuck You Number 31

As most of you know, I spend most of my time within the creative atmosphere that is interactive design. Albeit marketing, advertising or just simply designing something for the fun of it, a large portion of my 24 hour day is dedicated to making stuff for the internet and its users.

I have a large array of clients ranging from local mom & pop shops, to national brands that most of you would recognize if I was to pull the proverbial "name drop." I'll refrain from doing this because I myself cringe at the mere thought of people name dropping.

Anyway, I'll get to the point.

Why do some (not all) clients feel the need to direct the creative, message and sometimes even the campaign that they've hired my company to put together for them? I understand this is your "baby," and that you have probably invested time and money into giving it life. But, if you're not going to trust my colleagues and I when it comes time to let us do what we do then why did you hire us in the first place?

Let me provide you with an example of how absurd this thought process is.

In September of '07, I was pulled over for driving under the influence of alcohol. Needless to say, I had to attend several court proceedings where I ultimately sat and awaited judgment from a giant man with a wooden mallet. When the time came to venture into these exclusive meetings between me and the "mallet wielder," I let my lawyer do the talking and negotiating. Waaaaaaaaaaaaait a minute...seriously...I let my lawyer do what I hired him to do? Why? Because that's what he does, and hopefully he knows what he is doing. OH, and shit, I'M PAYING HIM.

So, for God's sake if you go to a restaurant and order food, let the chef cook your food. If you take your car into the mechanic, let him change the brakes. When you hire a contractor to build your house, let the contractor build your house.

Otherwise, do it yourself and don't waste our time.

Fuck those people who feel like they have to do everything themselves; those people who can't put a single ounce of trust into any one of their fellow humans.

Cheers.

May 20th, 2009 - Fuck You Number 30

As some of you might already know from a previous post, I've recently purchased a lovely KHS road bike. It has become very dear to me. I've spent at least an hour riding it every day since I purchased it three short weeks ago. My computer is becoming somewhat jealous.

Amidst all of the positive things it has brought me, it was nice enough to bring one negative; a pseudo pair of x-ray glasses that have allowed me to see how impatient and selfish the drivers of this beautiful city are.

On my ten minute ride to work this morning, I was nearly hit by a vehicle. Twice.

One of the first things we learn as children is to look both ways before crossing the street. This lesson is applicable to all forms of transportation, not just walking.

When you're in your car waiting to turn right at a red light, and I have the right-of-way, make sure I haven't begun to enter the intersection before you squeal the tires of your beautiful black BMW. I know you have to get to your meeting, but if you're sitting in jail on an alleged manslaughter charge, you're not likely to make your meeting as it is. Right?

And I'm going to be very pissed off lying six feet underground.

Instead of saying fuck you, I am asking that as a driver you pay attention to your surroundings while operating a two ton scrap of metal.

Please?

Cheers.

April 28th, 2009 - Fuck You Number 24

I was standing near the red carpet at the premier of Wolverine in Tempe, Arizona last night.

"Oh my god, like, I totally just saw Hugh Jackman and Taylor Kitsch?! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Those are the words I hear screamed over, and over.

Over.

And Over.

I hear them screamed so many times that there is a point where I find myself peering into the mirrored sunglasses of the blonde 20-something standing next to me. And no, I'm not trying to look into her soul in order to try and score a piece of ass for this evening. I'm checking to see if my fucking ears are bleeding.

Jesus H.

When did celebrities become Gods? The Greeks had Aphrodite and Zeus; the Egyptians, Ra and Amun. Our society has become so lazy, we don't even attempt to CREATE our own. We settle for Angelina, and Patrick Dempsey.

This just in: you all are fucking clueless. These people our society idolizes are exactly like you and I. Believe it. There is nothing "special" about them.

Hugh Jackman is NOT REALLY Wolverine.

Fuck envy, and more-so, fuck all of you insecure assholes that hold Sarah Jessica Parker's life in a higher regard than the person sitting in the cubicle next to you.

Cheers.

April 24th, 2009 - Fuck You Number 23

Like Aaron Lewis said, "It's Been Awhile..."

I spent an hour-and-a-half on the phone today with a customer service representative whose English was, for lack of a better term, piss-fucking-poor.

I'm not about to go off on a "if you live in this country you need to speak English" rant, because I feel that has got to be one of the most disgustingly selfish requests of our society. However (and this is directed to YOU corporate America), if you're going to hire someone to HELP me with my issues and concerns, could you please ensure that the person HELPING me can make it through the English alphabet ONCE, without fucking up? I called you all, and I spent the better part of the conversation teaching this gentleman (and he was a nice man) elementary level English.

Fuck you corporate America. Fuck your constant thirst for that "paper" and your complete disregard for customer service, and those who ULTIMATELY provide you with that "paper."

Cheers.

February 9th, 2009 - Fuck You Number 22

Excuses.

Excuses, excuses, excuses.

They're like assholes...wait, you've heard that one before? I figured.

I'm so sick and tired of excuses. I watched the movie Yes Man last night with Jim Carrey, and it forced me to think about the people I interact with on a daily basis, and how utterly identical they are to the character portrayed by Mr. Carrey.

I know I've blogged about integrity in the past, and how important I feel it is to remain honest and true to those around you. Not just your friends and family, but the people that you come into contact with every day. As I sit and watch our society crumble to the ground faster than a 90 year-old woman with Osteoporosis, and two busted hips, I can't seem to talk myself out of what I believe to be the root of our society's suicidal demolition.

Our inability to be forthright with people for whatever reason has become absolutely inexplicable. Why do we feel the need to continually lie to those who surround us?

If we had a lunch scheduled at noon, and you found yourself in a horrendous bout with the Hershey squirts this morning, let me know. We have all been there. It's nothing new. At least I'll know that you weren't spacing me off because Heidi Klum walked into your office and asked you to take her over your desktop...although, this would be an acceptable excuse to miss our luncheon, too.

The fact of the matter is, I don't need to hear what you weren't doing. I would LIKE to hear what you were doing.

If I open the door to my house, and find you and my wife in the middle of a passionate display of affection, I can't get too mad at her if she actually tripped, fell, and landed on your dick. Okay, I take that back, I can.

The point is, no one likes to be lied to. No one.

I urge you to spend one day of your life without telling even the whitest of lies.

You'll be surprised at how you feel as you lay your head on that "100% down" (<------ that's bullshit) pillow of yours.

Fuck excuses.

Cheers.

January 5th, 2009 - Fuck You Number 21

December 31st, 2008 - #21

Goodbye, 2008.

You were a year that gave me many things to be grateful for. You introduced me to a few beautiful babies throughout the year. You allowed the Miami Dolphins to resurrect their lifeless program. You took me on a whirlwind of a ride across the United States to a place loved by many, called Myrtle Beach.

But, you also placed me in some very interesting situations. You picked up a 120 pound couch from the bed of a pick-up I was driving, and threw it in front of the Hyundai following close behind, thus increasing the time period I'm required to use an ignition interlock device to operate my motor vehicle. Then there was the time that you forced that bottle of Crown Royal down my throat, causing me to act extremely irrationally, and without a care in the world. I believe I awakened the next morning with a black eye, and a blonde I did not recognize lying next to me, half-naked. I'm not complaining by any means, but I could have done without the black eye. Finally, there was the time that you coaxed me into venturing out on that camping endeavor. You remember? The one where I lost myself in the middle of the northern Arizona woods for approximately half a day, without a person within earshot.

Yes, 2008. That one.

The good thing is, I can look back at you now and learn from the obstacles you placed in front of me. I overcame several issues, severe, and small, and I did it with great perseverance.

I pray 2009 can be as gratifying, both on an educational, and experiential level.

Fuck you, 2008.

Bring on 2009.

Cheers.

December 27th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 20

Merry Christmas, all.

I can finally utter those despicable words after a six-pack, and a bottle of wine.

Oh, and two days late, for those who didn't take note.

When I was a child, I used to look forward to Christmas. I remember the last three weeks venturing up to the holiday going so slow, it was if they were dragging behind them a trailer full of all of the snow that had been left upon the ground. I couldn't wake up in the morning without hoping and wishing that somehow or another, someone had jumped up-and-down on that gigantic fast-forward button that every other kid on planet Earth was unable to find.

I guess that's the beauty of being a child. The wondrous beauty of being completely oblivious as to everything that goes into planning a joyous Christmas occasion. After all, the only direction you have at that time is to tear open the gifts that have your name spelled out across the cute, Santa signed tag.

At what point in time did the holiday that was supposed to be the most beloved, become the most stressful, and feared?

You've gotta be kidding me? I thought I was coming home, to spend time with the people I hold dearest to my heart. Of course I would bring with me gifts for the "grandchildren," and hugs for Grandma and Grandpa? But, at what point in time did it become right for a 30 year-old's parent's to hound him/her about a Christmas list? I don't need anything.

Fuck commerce, and everything that has pushed Christmas into the simplistic holiday of gift-giving and buying. Has it really taken away our time that we get to spend with our families, and loved ones?

Cheers.

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.

October 31st, 2008 - Fuck You Number 13

First and foremost, Happy Halloween all.

Now, for the matter at hand.

I was reading over my cellphone plan yesterday, and I saw that I spend $20 a month for the capability to send an unlimited number of text messages. Really?

One more time.

Unlimited texting capabilities. What the hell is wrong with me? Do you know what that phrase means? It means, that from here on out, if I never want to speak to another human being over the phone, I don't have to.

This is absolutely unacceptable.

I have essentially become what I ultimately hate about our society. I've become too lazy to pick up a telephone and dial seven, or Christ help me, ten digits. I have come to a point where I will send, "I love you," to my sister on the other line. Really? I've resulted to sending short, concise, and often unintelligent sentences and thoughts. I've become a part of this rapidly declining roller-coaster plummeting toward the fiery depths of hell. When I get to the point of writing, "LOL," or worse yet, "LMAO," shoot me.

Why do we text? Why do we subject ourselves to such incredibly impersonal forms of communication? I can understand the concept of an email. I can write as little, or as much as my little heart desires. Hell, I can even attach other messages and letters to it, if I so choose.

But texting. Wow. What a terribly disrespectful way to communicate. In so many words, we're telling the recipient of the text message, that they're not important enough to call.

Fuck text messaging. Fuck the fact I am allowed to write more than a simple, "yes, or no" in this ridiculous form of communication.

Cheers.

October 28th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 12

Okay, so, please read my previous post. Let's get it clear people. You have to READ the post. You have to understand the words in the context of the sentence they are used in.

For example, if I was to say, "I love this thing, more than life itself," I'm not really suggesting that I love the object in question here more than life itself. That, would be absurd. Life, even in a society characterized by capitalistic schmucks, is better than not-life.

Read into it people. It's the clothing. A metaphor, if you will. I speak of the way we've all begun to take less respect in our appearance. Largely in part to our laziness. There once was a time when we as a society would wear our Sunday's finest out to Wrigley Field to consume hot-dogs, while watching America's finest baseball team lay pine-to-leather in America's most famed ballpark. 

The point is, care for your appearance. Some people can pull the "hipster" look off, because they live the lifestyle, and simply look cool doing it. Shit, Axl Rose wore leather every day of the week...I'm guessing those that followed in his footsteps aren't sitting in on any, "board of directors" meetings. For the rest, dress in a way that's gonna allow you to interact with others on a more personal level. Whatever garb you decide to throw over your head, make sure it's fitting, and it makes you feel comfortable. You'll feel better about yourself, which in turn will allow our society to grow.

After all America, that's my only purpose to composing these posts, to facilitate America's positive growth.

Fuck those people who try to find something to complain about (whoops, kinda me). Seriously, read through it, and try to find the underlying meaning of things. You'll learn more.

Cheers.

October 27th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 11

I sit here in Denver, Colorado. A beautiful city, indeed. So beautiful, it's hard for me to find something to gripe about.

But, fear not, I might have something. What's with the new "hipster" thing? Am I getting this old? I don't know when it became the "in" thing to paint on your jeans, find the oldest pair of Chuck Taylors, and comb your slicked-black hair down in front of your eyes so no one can recognize you. Honestly, this is "cool" now? Our forefathers would be infuriated. 

I don't think a person could look any less respectable. 

Now, I'm not discrediting these individuals as humans. I'm sure that there are quite a few personable, and good-natured persons beneath all of that rubbish, but I wouldn't know, as I'm immediately turned-off by their bizarre appearances. 

I suck. I know. And I might be a little judgmental. 

Sue me.

Fuck hipster dress. Fuck the fact that looking like you're off to a funeral for Glenn Danzig is seemingly cool in the eyes of our ever-failing society.

Cheers.

October 26th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 10

When someone holds a door open for your as you're rushing into the convenience store to get that much needed Diet Coke, do you take note of it? When you're standing in line at the grocery store and the woman standing in front of you lets you checkout first because you are only buying a roll of paper towels, do you see this and thank her? When someone does something out of the ordinary, do you say to yourself, "Wow, that doesn't happen everyday?" More importantly, do YOU do any of these things for others? Do you go out of your way to brighten someone's day, if even for a moment? When was the last time you held the elevator door open for the person jogging through the lobby, even though you were late for work?

These little things don't happen all that often. They're becoming somewhat of a rarity. It's too bad too, because it is these little things we're missing out on everyday, that help our society flourish. It is these small acts of kindness that make people realize that despite the wars throughout the world, and the crime riddled neighborhoods we drive through, humans are still good. We are still here to make this world better.

It is these little acts of kindness that we need to bring back to this world. These unselfish, pure, and genuine acts that let the person next to you know you're aware of the fact that there are other humans you share this planet with.

That's the word. Sharing. Something we're taught at a very young age. Share, America. Share the world with one another.

Fuck selfishness. Fuck this perpetual need to want anything and everything that you see.

Cheers.

October 21st, 2008 - Fuck You Number 7

What gives?

This morning on my way into the office, I approached a traffic light that was green, giving ME the right of way. I noticed that there were cars in the lanes adjacent to me slowing down, so I copied their actions, and began to apply pressure to the pedal on the left. As I nearly came to a stop, I emerged from the cars on each side of me, and I saw the obstruction that was prohibiting traffic from moving in the direction in which it should have been. A silver Prius sat in the middle of the intersection waiting to turn left. His light was red. He’d been sitting there as I drove up to the light, for at least 30 seconds, while multiple cars made their feelings known to him. Once all of the traffic in the intersection had come to a halt, this almighty man made a left hand turn into my lane.

I looked to my left and right and saw my fellow drivers shaking their heads erratically, some of them pumping their fists in the air and screaming obscenities behind the glass windows of their vehicles. One thing was for certain; from here on out, I was going to be driving amidst a sea of extremely pissed-off motorists.

Sure enough, as I flipped on my blinker to signal to the drivers behind me that I would be merging into the lane on my right, I was greeted by the middle-finger of the driver behind me. What a lovely man. As I nudged my Mazda across the white line separating the two lanes, the driver behind me veered into the left lane and immediately applied the weight of a thousand men onto his accelerator. He was apparently extremely inconvenienced by my vehicle's necessity to occupy the lane from which I’d be turning in a few short moments. I received yet another friendly gesture coupled with the blaring of his horn as he sped by me.

Fuck road-rage. Fuck that fat son-of-a-bitch in the white Escalade whose day was seemingly ruined when he had to unexpectedly stop at a light which was instructing him he could move forward.

Cheers

October 8th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 1

It's no secret the human race is hurling downhill faster than an overweight twelve-year-old on a toboggan, drooling butter out of the corner of his mouth. I'm one to talk. I work for an advertising agency in one of the three Southernmost states in the good old USA. My job is somewhat unethical, immoral, and downright despicable; but enjoyable nonetheless. My sole duty is to perpetuate peoples' false wants and needs. 

For instance, just yesterday I paced back-and-forth at the front of a conference room convincing the CEO of a major ice cream company the demographic they're trying to capture is a 27 year-old female. That might be true if that female I had portrayed was a hefty broad scraping by on her food stamps. Instead, I used a pampered and primped blonde with fake tits, who just finished performing cunnilingus on an Asian woman for giving her what she thought was the "Sistine Chapel" of pedicures. You know her, the woman who injects substances into her brow for that extra boost of confidence.

There's something wrong in that second paragraph? Many would think the language used to describe the plastic blonde's act of burying her face in between the nail technician's legs to be inappropriate. Others would argue I was wrong in tricking this corporate big-wig into believing these women shoving their fingers down each others' throats would actually indulge in these delicious 2,000 calorie treats. No, no. The major concern at hand here is the image we as a society have ingrained in our minds as being right. In this case, the woman who feels a $100 debit transaction to have her nails painted pink will somehow help how the public views her.

The diets. The surgeries. The air-brushed centerfold. The tabloid photograph that praises Nicole Richie for looking like a piece of Barilla angel hair ready to be dropped into a pot of boiling water. It's repulsive. Someone let these women know they're beautiful. Someone let all humans know they are beautiful.

Fuck you, insecurities. Fuck these irrational and unrealistic portraits society has painted in our minds. 

And thus begins my 365 day rant directed toward the character flaws society has provided us to help destroy each other.

Cheers.