Who's a dB?

I have an inexhaustible list of things wrong with everyone on the road and how they conduct their road business. Between SoCal (manic) and Seattle (codeine), everyone is a total dickhole driver. No one can drive. I can't, so duh. But there's one thing that never fails to make me want to throw empty wine bottles (heyyy, multiple is ok as long as they were cheap!) at your shitty ride.

Your fucking soundsystem. I get it. You want to show off your bass and your subwoofer and your speakers and your amplifiers and every other piece of equipment you can shove into the tiny recesses of your '93 Festiva. But hey, guess what, trunks are for dead hookers and not overpriced pieces of kiddie electronics that shake my apartment like it's goddamn San Francisco, 1906. You know that sub you paid $400 for? The distortions coming out of that thing could shatter glass. And to make it even worse you're always bumping some shit that contains all of four words and one basic bass line yelling BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM. So a) that's not music and b) maybe look at a dictionary. You don't even have to read it - just look at it, and think about how many words are in there. Yeah, head down. You're a fucking moron.

To all you bass crusaders and sonic offenders out there, you're wasting your money. All you're doing is telling the world you have no taste, no understanding of equipment, and a fat wallet ripe for mugging. I hope you do get mugged, you shitbirds, and I also hope you crash your car into a tree. Shut the fuck up. Stop it. You're some of the worst assholes on the road.

Requiem For A Bean

Insert Seattle coffee stereotype here, since I'm too lazy to and if I don't you will anyway, so fuck you right off the bat. Anyway, I fucking love coffee. Where's the fun in being at work and not twitching all over the place? Right, there is none. So every day before I start my shitty life I go get a coffee and enjoy fifteen minutes of peace. Except I can't even enjoy it, because every goddamn time I go, there is at least one asshole determined to fuck with what is a perfect drink.


What the fuck is a venti half-caf extra dry extra hot no foam 2 pumps caramel latte plus whip? Where in caffeinated hell did you learn to drink coffee? That's NOT FUCKING COFFEE. That is an overly complicated sugar slurry that will rot your teeth and make your ass more dimply than a sack of golf balls. If you have to describe your drink with more than three paramaters - size, type, and if you must some additional request - you need to shut the fuck up and stop pretending you drink coffee. It's bad enough that places outside of Starbucks have adopted that completely nonsensical tall/grande/venti size differentiation, so why do you have to make it even worse? What the crap happened to just a fucking cup of coffee?

Stop it. For the love of your butt, and my blood pressure, stop it. Order a simple cup of coffee. A 16 oz Americano with room, even. But if you stand there in front of me, rattling off an asshole order that makes everyone, especially the barista, stabby - prepare yourself. Because once I get my REGULAR FUCKING COFFEE, it's going right in your fat smug dopey face.

And we're back.

Who has two thumbs and was really busy not being angry last week? This bitch! But now it's Tuesday, I'm back in cloudy Shitsville, and there are still a million things wrong with everyone so expect a post to go up sometime this evening.

The Bus 2: The Busening

This one goes out to all you public transit drivers out there, you patient folks who see endless amounts of shit and crazy on a daily basis. You guys are truly doing some great work, and - no, I can't pretend to care anymore, because you are some vindictive-ass pieces. I know it, you know it, everyone who rides the bus knows it.

You know how I know it? Because I'm pretty sure neither the gas nor the brake pedals require the force and seething fury of a gorilla on PCP before they function properly. Look, I get it, you're tired of people. And it's probably The Most Fun to play passenger pinball when you've got folks standing in the aisles. But you know what else? This is a 60 foot articulated shitbox filled with cranky strangers, none of whom are keen on an intimate relationship between their face and the floor. And the most important thing to remember is that all these cranky strangers, well, we're the ones who cause the majority of your immediate problems. The more violent the stops and starts - and the more people who contract both leprosy and Hep C from contact with the bus floor - the more interesting (in the bad way) your day is likely to become. It takes very little to set off a crackhead. Or a blogger. Or a crackhead blogger. You want less shit and crazy? Drive like a fucking human being, ass.

No Lomo

In a shockingly sort of topical turn of events, I have major issues with Instagram. Well, not Instagram proper. And no, not with Facebook's acquisition; they can throw away their billions on shitty companies as much as they want. I have major issues with Instagram because that goddamn app is rapidly convincing everyone that they're Ansel fucking Adams.

What's that? You took a picture of your Cheetos 'cause you're bored? Well slap a fucking LOMO FILTER on it and call it a day! It's art! Look at your one man show, it's the best! You are OUR generation's Cezanne! Oh my god, is that your cat? Show me more, but preferably in sepia and with blurred edges! I can't take you seriously if it's just a quick phone snap!

WHAT IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE? YOU ARE STILL JUST AS BAD AT PHOTOGRAPHY AS YOU EVER WERE. You still have no talent, and putting your image through its digitized paces isn't going to change that. I am literally 0% interested in that ugly flower you shot. The amount of fucks I give about your grainy, dimly lit, poorly composed plate of - what, toddler feces? I can't even tell since you used so many filters - is none. None fucks. Your life is not compelling. Your art is not art. Put down the iPhone and stop being a piece of shit.