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 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.

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 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 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.