I shouldn’t take it personally but I can’t help it. I’m not intolerant, but if he doesn’t stop that damned sneezing I will crush his larynx. Everybody sneezes. I do sometimes. But this guy sounds like a Quentin Tarantino movie. How can you sneeze like that and not hurt yourself? Imagine sitting in an office and hearing this every fifteen minutes for eight hours, day after day: four sharp reports of staccato gunfire combined with a wheezy whistle and a semi-articulate “a-HN!” that makes it sound approximately human. Almost of this world. Maybe he’s not really sneezing. Satan’s dog is barking at me. I miss my family.
I recently got back from France (a trip I plan to share a little about soon) where I was struck by how well people stick to the left-lane-is-just-for-passing rule. Having just driven 12 hours for something else this weekend, on highways both crowded and uncrowded, I’m now just kind of angry. It seems that it’s a point of pride to stay in the left lane (hell, I must be going faster than someone!) and almost never was I able to convince anyone to move to the right (I tried gentle creeping, tailing, light-flashing, and signalling). I now think that I’m generally better off staying in the right lane, where I’m only occasionally forced to pass someone in the traditional manner.
First of all, why do you think there’s a difference (or do you think there’s a difference)?
Secondly, how could the culture be changed? It seems that until tickets for violating the slower-traffic-keep-right rule are as easily given out and as profitable as speeding tickets, it’s not going to be enforced by police (nor do I think it should be, really).
Say, here’s an idea. What say we establish a bizarro clusterflock for hackers, extremists, and miscellaneous goofbuckets? SHOUTING! And the SWORD!
We could even make it user-friendly by modeling it on bilingual sites. You know, sites that offer you the GERMAN or the ENGLISH version.
Visitors to the bizarro clusterflock could opt, say, for the MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY-KRAZEE-CHRISTIAN version or the MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY-KRAZEE-MUSLIM version.
There are infinite variations.
Rust. Irony can be found in iron itself. The carpet is not made of felt; the gray fibers are compressed years of fur, soil, and traffic. We organize a backyard BBQ and everyone brings potato salad. All of the potato salad is contaminated with e coli. What are the odds of that happening? You negotiated a 30% discount for your new tattoos but the artist used beige ink exclusively. Beyond normal expectations, we got it right! Unfortunately we are unable to locate, recognize, or analyze the data.
The cow and dog were best friends. They had been close companions for longer than any of the other animals could remember. Even the draft horse was unable to recall a time before this great friendship.
“I am pleased to see such harmony,” the draft horse said, “but it is unusual just the same. No good can come of it.”
The donkey said nothing and continued feeding. He cared only for fodder and pulling his little cart. The barn cat did not speak—she believed herself to be invisible and did not want to reveal her position. The chickens scratched and hopped around the dusty courtyard in front of the stock barn. They didn’t say anything because they are so incredibly small-minded and stupid.
Barbara is a supervisor in the accounting department. She also volunteers at work for something called “Dining for a Cure,” the proceeds of which are supposed to be donated in support of cancer research. Each Wednesday, Barbara caters lunch and sells it along with a dessert choice that without variation is stale chocolate-chip cookies. Everyone participates.
One of the few people there without visible tattoos
a 2 hour video filmed in the 80s, painfully relaying information that could’ve been put on a single sheet of paper, bad actors answering obvious questions: what is mediation, what if i cant get along with my ex-wife? The most heartbreaking nugget of advice to not strike or scream at the other parent during your mediation.
A ten minute break to go feed the (2 hr max) meters outside the courthouse.
The goth chick in the front row with sleeve tattoos from wrist to shoulder, still wearing both rings. Looking more sad than goth, despite her elaborate makeup.
The black grandmother in the back with her (18? 20?yo son) asking lots of questions while her son remained silent
The perverse combination of drivers ed/jury duty, with your marriage being ripped to shreds
The guy who was clearly in a multi-year saga who called the second mediator to talk to us “a cunt” under his breath.
Three fanny packs???
The guy who alternated between snoring asleep on the table and reading his bible.
The final 45 minute video – talking head interviews with children of divorced parents, narrated by an adult female talking in persona child of divorce. “Don’t use us as spies.”
I was thinking this morning about the government gridlock in Washington, but it upset me, so I sat down at the computer to calm myself and look at a few of my favorite sites. The connection ran slower and slower until my browser froze. This made me even angrier. Instead of punching my monitor, I went into the kitchen to have breakfast—I thought it would take my mind off whatever troubled me. The yogurt container was completely empty, which didn’t matter because the refrigerator apparently stopped working last night and all my food was spoiling. I decided to go buy ice in an attempt to save some of the food, but my car wouldn’t start and I had to jump it from a battery charger. The cable was frayed and it gave me a nasty shock. Now I was super-mad. After jumping around for a while, I shook off the tingling sensation in my arm and drove to the convenience store for ice for my food and a bandage for the electrical burn on my hand. I ran out of gas on the way home, because the car’s fuel gauge has been broken for a long time and I can’t afford to keep the tank filled, thanks to the high gas prices those assclowns in Washington seem to be unable to do anything about, which really pisses me off and then my ice melted.
From my site (here)