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. 

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 15th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 4

I have a friend...wait, no, let's call them an acquaintance. We don't regularly see each other. In fact, the only time we really communicate is via IM or email while we're both sitting in front of these so-called technological devices that have turned into nothing more than four-figure masturbation assistants. Though somewhat convenient, I'll touch upon my extreme disdain for the personal computer in a future post. At any rate, I digress. The main purpose of this first paragraph is to illustrate the importance (or lack thereof) of the relationship between my acquaintance and I. [Pat] and I went to the same university. We both majored in information technology. And believe it or not, we both (separately) at one point in time shared bodily fluids with the same person. We have similar interests, and in all honesty if I needed something, Pat would probably be there for me. So why does Pat feel the constant urge to be perceived as better than everyone? Why after being told of a recent success in the workplace does Pat find the need to inform me of a success of equal or greater magnitude? 

It’s simple.

Pat is what I like to call, a big-timer. You know them. We all know them. Big-timers make up a part of the world’s population that I try my hardest to avoid. I fear that if put in a situation where I am being big-timed by one of these lowlife individuals, the probability of someone’s fist being put through the back of someone else’s face is very, very high. 

And I would have done just this, if our method of communication hadn't been over the information super-highway. Why couldn't Pat have just given me an old-fashioned, "Congratulations."

Fuck big-timers. Fuck those participants in our society who tear us down, just to build themselves up.

Cheers.