I am not a "people person." I generally do not like talking to people or hanging out with people or being friendly. I much prefer being a curmudgeon, and if I can do it in an isolated cave far from others, so much the better. And why not? About 95% of all the problems on this planet are caused by people. The rest of the problems are caused by cats.
Granny is definitely a people person. She loves to "communicate" and keep in touch with people. The worst part, however, is that she really loves kids. Granny really enjoys having kids around--even ones that aren't ours. I suppose that speaks to her kind heart and generosity. "Isn't that one of the reasons you married her?" you might ask.
I suppose you're right. But you have to admit that my point of view has some merit. In fact, I have compiled a list of an even dozen reasons why we should all shun people and become hermity curmudgeons. (I just made up that word--hermity.) I'm sure you could add twelve more reasons of your own.
1. People drive like idiots. (Otherwise known as "Get off your damn phone and watch the road!")
2. People let their dogs run off leash in clearly marked areas so their spoiled pets can nip at my heels and trip me up while I am running.
3. People do not clean up after their dogs.
4. People expect you to share your beer.
5. Maury Povich. This industrial-strength douche bag barely qualifies as a human being. I do not respect him or anything he does. He exploits the pain of others for his personal gain.
6. People at the beach are too lazy to carry their nasty garbage four feet to the trash can.
7. The San Francisco Giants.
8. People dreamed up the brilliant idea of unsolicited telemarketing and door-to-door sales.
9. Certain male people play on the fears and affections of young women for their own gratification, and then have the audacity to think they shouldn't have to accept the consequences.
10. People created decaffeinated coffee. Come on now, people. You might as well just shoot me in the face.
11. Dick Cheney.
12. Soy wheat gluten hot dogs. Only a human being could create such a travesty.
Since I am sure you are now inspired to make your way into a cave in the desert, I have only one word of advice: stay the hell away from my cave.
Showing posts with label industrial-strength douche bag. Show all posts
Showing posts with label industrial-strength douche bag. Show all posts
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
On Being the Creepy Grandpa
I am too young to be old. My back has betrayed me. My daughter has made me a grandparent. When I was playing basketball and we split up into the old guys vs. the young guys, no one had even a fleeting thought that I should be with the young guys.
But I'm only 40, and every once in a while there is a moment that fools me into believing I'm not yet over the hill. You may recall my story about buying beer to celebrate my granddaughter's birth. The cashier asked to see my ID.
The fact that I am a young grandfather, however, has a creepier side to it.
On Monday, I went with The Daughter to re-enroll her in the high school. She had taken the Fall semester off in order to have the baby. (I am happy to say that due to some hard work on her part, she managed to make up the lost units and is ready to graduate on time.) She needed a parent to go along to sign the paperwork and, as it turned out, to carry the six tons of baby gear.
My 17-year-old daughter and I don't share any genes, so there is absolutely no family resemblance. There she is, merrily strolling down the hallway carrying her baby, and I am trudging behind carrying all the baby paraphernalia. To set the scene further, let me say that I was wearing blue jeans and an old flannel shirt. Since it was my day off and I had been sick, I just rolled out of bed without even bothering to comb my hair. I was looking very much like a first-class slacker. Though I am a 40-year-old slacker, I still sometimes have to show my ID to buy alcohol, mind you.
It may have been my imagination, but the looks I got--particularly from the adults--seemed designed to shame me into taking my own life. Particularly, they seemed to be communicating, "How dare you! How dare you corrupt such a young girl, you worthless SOB. You should be castrated on the spot."
Then we went into the dean's office. One of the deans came bustling by, and he saw my daughter. He had known about her pregnancy.
"Well hello," he said. "I was wondering how you were doing. Is this your baby?" I saw him casting glances my way, where I was sitting with the baby stuff.
And then he said, quietly, "Is this the baby daddy?"
My daughter responded even more quietly, and I couldn't make it out. I was hoping she was saying, "No, that's my dad, you imbecile."
Soon after, we got up to go into another office and the dean left. As he passed by me, he said, "You have a beautiful baby there."
I should have said, "Thank you. You do know I'm that girl's father, you imbecile." Instead, my powerful wit only works on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and so I just managed a weak smile. I had no idea what to say.
Later, I checked in with my daughter. She thought the dean was asking about the baby's father, and so she just said, "He's not involved."
I admitted that was the one part about her pregnancy that always made me uncomfortable. Whenever she and I went somewhere together, I had this feeling that people were looking at me as if I were some sort of monster for doing such a terrible thing to this young girl. She said I should get a shirt that says "I'm the grandpa."
It got me to wondering about whether I should start making an effort to look older. So today, I didn't shave. There are only a few gray hairs on my head, and it takes an effort to see them. My whiskers, though, are generously sprinkled with gray. Maybe that will work. Or, maybe I should just get over it. Why should I care whether or not people think I'm a lecherous monster?
I'm getting the damn tee-shirt.
But I'm only 40, and every once in a while there is a moment that fools me into believing I'm not yet over the hill. You may recall my story about buying beer to celebrate my granddaughter's birth. The cashier asked to see my ID.
The fact that I am a young grandfather, however, has a creepier side to it.
On Monday, I went with The Daughter to re-enroll her in the high school. She had taken the Fall semester off in order to have the baby. (I am happy to say that due to some hard work on her part, she managed to make up the lost units and is ready to graduate on time.) She needed a parent to go along to sign the paperwork and, as it turned out, to carry the six tons of baby gear.
My 17-year-old daughter and I don't share any genes, so there is absolutely no family resemblance. There she is, merrily strolling down the hallway carrying her baby, and I am trudging behind carrying all the baby paraphernalia. To set the scene further, let me say that I was wearing blue jeans and an old flannel shirt. Since it was my day off and I had been sick, I just rolled out of bed without even bothering to comb my hair. I was looking very much like a first-class slacker. Though I am a 40-year-old slacker, I still sometimes have to show my ID to buy alcohol, mind you.
It may have been my imagination, but the looks I got--particularly from the adults--seemed designed to shame me into taking my own life. Particularly, they seemed to be communicating, "How dare you! How dare you corrupt such a young girl, you worthless SOB. You should be castrated on the spot."
Then we went into the dean's office. One of the deans came bustling by, and he saw my daughter. He had known about her pregnancy.
"Well hello," he said. "I was wondering how you were doing. Is this your baby?" I saw him casting glances my way, where I was sitting with the baby stuff.
And then he said, quietly, "Is this the baby daddy?"
My daughter responded even more quietly, and I couldn't make it out. I was hoping she was saying, "No, that's my dad, you imbecile."
Soon after, we got up to go into another office and the dean left. As he passed by me, he said, "You have a beautiful baby there."
I should have said, "Thank you. You do know I'm that girl's father, you imbecile." Instead, my powerful wit only works on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and so I just managed a weak smile. I had no idea what to say.
Later, I checked in with my daughter. She thought the dean was asking about the baby's father, and so she just said, "He's not involved."
I admitted that was the one part about her pregnancy that always made me uncomfortable. Whenever she and I went somewhere together, I had this feeling that people were looking at me as if I were some sort of monster for doing such a terrible thing to this young girl. She said I should get a shirt that says "I'm the grandpa."
It got me to wondering about whether I should start making an effort to look older. So today, I didn't shave. There are only a few gray hairs on my head, and it takes an effort to see them. My whiskers, though, are generously sprinkled with gray. Maybe that will work. Or, maybe I should just get over it. Why should I care whether or not people think I'm a lecherous monster?
I'm getting the damn tee-shirt.
Friday, December 5, 2008
An Ode to a Neighbor
Dear Neighbor:
As I drove to work today, I saw a man walking his dog. This reminded me of you. Specifically, it reminded me of the day earlier this week when you were walking your dog or dogs past my house. You let your dog or dogs take a dump on my front lawn, and then you didn’t clean it up.
I didn’t know this, of course, when I took the trash out to the curb that evening in the dark. In fact, I still didn’t know this as I walked back into my house, through the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen and into my laundry room. You might find this amusing, but I still didn’t know that you let your dog take a crap on my lawn and then left that steaming pile of canine doo on the grass as I began stomping on aluminum cans in my laundry room.
“Hmm,” I thought to myself. “That smells a lot like a dirty diaper.” This didn’t immediately surprise me, because there is a six-week old baby living in my house. But then, I realized that my granddaughter does not yet emit solid poop, and so the smell could not be coming from her.
Musty dishrags? No. The scent was far too powerful for that. What could it be? I leaned down toward the floor because that is where the smell seemed to be the strongest. And there it was—lovely dog crap all over the bottom of one shoe and, because I had been stomping cans, on the sides of my shoes and around the bottoms of my pant legs.
Then I looked back into the kitchen where I saw gooey poo marks on the floor everywhere my right foot had come down. The same was true of the dining room and on my living room carpet. Needless to say, I didn’t finish smashing those cans because I spent the next 45 minutes down on my hands and knees with a can of Lysol and a roll of paper towels. Then, I cleaned the front steps and driveway.
Do you know why I had the fun of cleaning up dog shit that night? It was due exclusively to the fact that you let your dog defecate on my lawn, and then you made a conscious choice not to clean it up. Let me be the first to congratulate you on your wise decision making abilities. Your momma taught you well.
I don’t know if you habitually act like an industrial-strength douche bag* or if this was a rare incident where you acted in a way that makes me want to smash you in the side of your fat head with my shovel. Either way, you are an industrial-strength douche bag. You are definitely off my Christmas card list this year.
Instead, I may keep a close eye on those who pass by my house with their dogs. I may choose to notice exactly which person or persons allow their dog or dogs to take a dump on my lawn and then leave the evidence. Then, I may decide to carefully follow that individual or individuals to their home. At that point, I may choose to line the underside of the car door handles with copious amounts of dog crap, or perhaps I’ll leave lots of the stuff in a place where it can be smelled it for several days, but not easily discovered.
No matter what I decide to do, you deserve everything you get, you industrial-strength douche bag.
Affectionately,
Gramps
*Many thanks to John Oliver for this new addition to my verbal repertoire.
As I drove to work today, I saw a man walking his dog. This reminded me of you. Specifically, it reminded me of the day earlier this week when you were walking your dog or dogs past my house. You let your dog or dogs take a dump on my front lawn, and then you didn’t clean it up.
I didn’t know this, of course, when I took the trash out to the curb that evening in the dark. In fact, I still didn’t know this as I walked back into my house, through the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen and into my laundry room. You might find this amusing, but I still didn’t know that you let your dog take a crap on my lawn and then left that steaming pile of canine doo on the grass as I began stomping on aluminum cans in my laundry room.
“Hmm,” I thought to myself. “That smells a lot like a dirty diaper.” This didn’t immediately surprise me, because there is a six-week old baby living in my house. But then, I realized that my granddaughter does not yet emit solid poop, and so the smell could not be coming from her.
Musty dishrags? No. The scent was far too powerful for that. What could it be? I leaned down toward the floor because that is where the smell seemed to be the strongest. And there it was—lovely dog crap all over the bottom of one shoe and, because I had been stomping cans, on the sides of my shoes and around the bottoms of my pant legs.
Then I looked back into the kitchen where I saw gooey poo marks on the floor everywhere my right foot had come down. The same was true of the dining room and on my living room carpet. Needless to say, I didn’t finish smashing those cans because I spent the next 45 minutes down on my hands and knees with a can of Lysol and a roll of paper towels. Then, I cleaned the front steps and driveway.
Do you know why I had the fun of cleaning up dog shit that night? It was due exclusively to the fact that you let your dog defecate on my lawn, and then you made a conscious choice not to clean it up. Let me be the first to congratulate you on your wise decision making abilities. Your momma taught you well.
I don’t know if you habitually act like an industrial-strength douche bag* or if this was a rare incident where you acted in a way that makes me want to smash you in the side of your fat head with my shovel. Either way, you are an industrial-strength douche bag. You are definitely off my Christmas card list this year.
Instead, I may keep a close eye on those who pass by my house with their dogs. I may choose to notice exactly which person or persons allow their dog or dogs to take a dump on my lawn and then leave the evidence. Then, I may decide to carefully follow that individual or individuals to their home. At that point, I may choose to line the underside of the car door handles with copious amounts of dog crap, or perhaps I’ll leave lots of the stuff in a place where it can be smelled it for several days, but not easily discovered.
No matter what I decide to do, you deserve everything you get, you industrial-strength douche bag.
Affectionately,
Gramps
*Many thanks to John Oliver for this new addition to my verbal repertoire.
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