Archive for the 'Get off my lawn!' Category


bad form

I’ve recently experienced a couple fouls that I really feel the need to address. Now, I know I’m absolutely the last person on the planet that should be distributing etiquette lessons, but you know, when something stuns ME, it has to be bad.

So, here we go.

  1. Deliciousness

    Beer foul: If someone brings a very small amount of what is obviously a microbrew to a party, you really ought not ask to “have one.” See, beer snobs tend to know other beer snobs, and when you buy expensive beer, you want to share it with people who will appreciate and enjoy it. So, I was recently at a party (well, 3, in fact, but this only happened at one) in which I brought 2 Dogfish Punkins (for me) and a 12 pack of swill for the community pile. This person (whom I had just met) came rushing up to me and asked “Can I have one?” This left me in a very awkward spot — on one hand, really, I never mind sharing a beer with someone who appreciates good beer, or educating someone who wants to learn. But on the other, I had only brought 2, and I wasn’t even remotely close to feeling a beer snob vibe from this person. I said “Uhhhhhh, sorry, those are for me. But if you’d like, I’d give you a sample of it.” So, I pour some out for the person.  The person sipped it, and promptly responded with a kinda grossed-out, really dejected look and said, “Oh. I thought it’d be more pumpkiny.” Really? REALLY?! Do you think I’d drink that Buffalo Bills “ultra-sweet, run through an ass filter, completely overboard pumpkin” crap? GAAAAH! Seriously, get a beer palate before you talk to me again. More pumpkiny my ass. Now I know why there’s the stereotype of French chefs getting pissed off when someone doesn’t enjoy their cooking.

  2. not a safe thing to do with your child, either

    Gym foul: I see this one all the time … people let their kids go jump and play on a piece of gym equipment. And we’re not talking teens or even 8 year olds. We’re talking kids that are having problems walking and can’t even articulate words yet. I watch as they follow their children as they walk over to a treadmill, big stupid smile on both of their faces. And then they put their kid on the treadmill. Invariably, they turn it on. What happens? BAM! Kid goes down, begins to wail. OK, let me break this down for those parents and grandparents who are a little on the retarded side: The gym IS NOT a playground for your child/grandchild.  Sure, the floor may be a little spongy side, but those hard steel bars and heavy plates hanging precariously on plate trees ARE NOT. And the squat rack isn’t like monkey bars, either. So knock it the hell off before your child gets hurt and you sue because the gym didn’t stop you from being an assclown. Yes, I’m happy that Little Precious is precious in her preciousness, but Little Precious is gonna get her precious little hands preciously crushed in some big mean old piece of gym equipment. And then she’ll be blaming you for her failure to achieve Prom Queen status because of her malformed lobster hands. Seriously, you don’t let your child run loose in factories or construction sites, where there is moving equipment and things that could hurt a kid … why would you let them loose in the gym? It’s the same damn thing.

I don’t know. I’m tired from work last night. Maybe it’s time to go back to bed.


I hate your fauxdog

Maybe this is a sign of my age.

Maybe this is a sign that I’m a stodgy, crusty bastard.

And maybe, just maybe, I’m a flat-out jackhole.

But every time I see pictures or hear people talking about their dog that happens to be a “Puggle” or a “Labradoodle” or a “Golden Doodle” like it’s a real breed of dog, I want to vomit. On the person talking. On the merchandise bearing its name. On anyone that I think is even thinking about buying said merchandise or dog. Move over, Mr. Creosote, I’m taking over.

You know what we called these dogs in my day? Mutts, Mixes or “Beats the fuck out of me.” And we were happy that way. The dog was happy that way, too. All the other dogs didn’t feel the need to pee on them as they walked by.

And you know, in my day, old ladies sat around making cookies and pies, knit afghans and yelled at neighborhood kids. They didn’t have time to sit around thinking “We should breed a beagle and a pug together and call it a puggle! How cute!” and then start excitedly clapping because it’s the first idea that they had that didn’t involve a new way to insert prunes into their diet.

No, in my day, some smart-assed guy who had a couple of beers would’ve bred the two and called it a Bug, a Beg or a Beap, and it would have worked for obvious reasons. And he would have grinned afterward because he knew it would be funny, and it was the first creative idea he’s had that didn’t involve his trashy sister-in-law, pizza, beer, small propellors and a $5 admission fee.

And I hate to say this, but the average fauxdog is pretty ugly. See, for every model-esque fauxdog (like, lets say, an especially fluffy, proud Golden Doodle *blaaaaaargh*), there are about 8 brothers and sisters that are one stage from wincingly ugly. There is no standard. When you say any one of these fauxdog names, you don’t get a picture in your mind of what it is, because it can be anything. It could very well be cute — but chances are it looks like it escaped from a circus sideshow.

I know all breeds basically started out this way, and it’s just a matter of time before there is a standard for these fauxdogs. But you know, when breeds were first being “made,” the owners gave them names we could all be proud of. Some were even named after towns and regions that they originated in. That’s pride, man, PRIDE. Does mixing in an “-oodle” to the end of a traditional breed elicit that same feeling? Let me answer that for you: NO. It does NOT. I mean, if some jackhole from the ‘burgh started breeding Pit Bulls and Poodles and started calling them Pittboodles, would we yinzers be clamoring for one? Would we feel as lovingly toward it as we do about the Steelers, Primanti’s and Iron City? No. Likely, someone would track down the guy and call him a jagoff, and then watch his trashy sister-in-law do her thing with the propellors after the pizza and beer.

Now, I’m not saying that these dogs are bad dogs. I love all kinds of dogs, and I would probably befriend or help any of these fauxdogs as I would any other dog that I would run across. But don’t expect me to call it by their fauxdog name — I’ll look you dead in the eye and call it a mutt or a mix or “Whatever the fuck kind of dog that is.”

Dogs are man’s best friend. They are unconditional love personified. They bring happiness, they will defend us, they work to please us. They deserve better than what they’re getting — especially the fauxdogs.

Boxers ... now theres a REAL dog ...

Boxers ... now there's a REAL dog ...


What's in a name?

I hate names parents give their kids anymore. It’s been on my nerves for awhile now. It seems as though in their mad rush to give their children cool, individualistic names, they have not only made their child a target for the rest of his/her life, but also made themselves look incredibly dumb.

An instance of this happened the other night, when I ran a story about a kid accused of theft and other dumbness. His name was Shon. Yes, that’s right. S-h-o-n. Now, I’m not saying that the traditional spelling of Sean is much better, but at least it has an excuse–it’s gaelic. Shon, however … wow … I wonder what the parents were on that day. This is just “Hooked on Phonics” meeting crack.

Another instance happened in the birth announcements, when one of my co-workers yelled out, “Addison? What the hell kind of name is Addison for a girl?” Apparently, there were two little girls named this. And they were spelled differently, too. Don’t ask. I don’t know.

This phenomena is especially rampant in the world of professional sports. I’m still waiting for the day that in the NFL draft, they proudly announce, “With their first round pick, the Pittsburgh Steelers have drafted Buglips Moore, quarterback…”

At least hockey and some baseball players have an excuse–they’re foreign.

But for our home-grown crop of poorly named people, there really isn’t any kind of an excuse. I want to slap the shit out of these parents, as well as growing numbers that are naming their children retarded names. For fuck’s sake, this is your CHILD; a human being who will (hopefully) become a functional part of society at some point and time. This is not a pet, a neighborhood stray or some critter that you see in your lawn every morning and have named.

A name carries importance, especially because in the first 5-10 seconds of meeting someone, that person has formed an opinion about you. If you are named Rotundapotimus, Floopy or McKnucklehead, do you think that’s going to carry a positive or negative stigma in the other person’s eyes? In the dog world, your pet won’t care, and the other dogs won’t care. But for your child? C’mon, use your head.

But I really love the people who give their child a traditional sounding name, and yet spell it bass-ackwards. Like our good buddy Shon. This is not cool, hip or trendy. If I’m an employer and I see that name on application, I’m going to think it’s some kind of joke. Or, more importantly, I’m likely to think that this person comes from a poor, uneducated home, and if I’m someone who stereotypes, I could be far less likely to give him a shot because of it.

Yeah, it’s prejudicial, judgemental thinking. But it happens. Daily.

Another story that comes to mind is the day that I was sitting at the optometrist, and an old woman was talking to a younger woman about her child–a curious, quiet little boy who had to be about 5. The older woman complimented her on her child, and asked what his name was.

“Neo,” the younger woman said.

“Poor kid,” I thought. “Not only are you named after a Keanu Reeves character, but also about every other anime film ever made.” And the urge to simply smack the woman rose, but quickly subsided.

Oh, and by the way, Keanu is a dumb name, too. But yet it somehow fits a person who can be regarded as a pretty talentless human being.

Now, I’m not suggesting that every child be named traditional American-style names like Bob, Chuck, Wilbur, Karen and Sue. By no means. But if you want to tag your child with an unusual name, why not do a little research into your heritage and find one that you like there. I mean, besides making you look stupid and illiterate, spelling “Bob” like “Bawb” is also incredibly lazy. Your child deserves more effort than that. Besides, it’s not like the child pops out in a day–you have months to do a little research. Get off your bulbous ass and do some.

Really, if you must give your child a cool, hip and trendy moniker, why not just use a nickname? That way, you aren’t permanently maiming your child with a horrid, horrid name. Like Neo. Or Shon. Or Snuffoluffogus. Or Hulking Weaselchunks. Or Princess Paramecium. He or she still has a chance to outgrow it, or adopt a new one later down the line.

Christ, no wonder so many kids use street names now. It’s not to confuse authorities; it’s to hide their shame.

Follow me, Twittering fools!

Top Posts


Blog Stats

  • 28,362 hits