So You Want to Piss Me Off

I'm trying hard to write new things for this little weblog, but I always seem to be preoccupied with other shit. Mostly booze and running kids over with my car. However I do have two subjects I would like to tackle.

First, I present the (nearly) comprehensive list of action you could take should you desire to piss me the fuck off. Read it and be warned:

1. Be a FIB. And bring thousands of your FIB friends to Milwaukee when the Cubs play the Brewers. I live one mile from the fucking stadium. When the Cubs are in town traffic on I94 is akin to the congestion one would expect from a mass evacuation due to an impending alien invasion. Just stay the fuck out. It's not my fault you can't get tickets at Wrigley. But it is your fault that it takes me a fucking hour to drive the ten miles from my office to my house. Fuck you FIBS.

2. Leave me a voicemail. Unless you're telling me how much you hate me before you eat a gun, I don't need you to leave a fucking message. There is a reason that my phone shows missed calls. And who they are from. And the fucking number. And the number of missed calls. Need I go on? If you call me and I don't answer the phone, I will call you back. Seriously, even if I took the time to listen to your fucking message when I call you back you are still going to have to explain whatever it is that you want. Save you and me some time and just don't leave a goddamn voicemail, or else I will kick you in the dick. Think I'm kidding? Try it.

3. Be Rod Stewart. This only applies to one of you, but I hate you so much that I thought it warranted a mention. Do I like your body? No, you're a fucking wrinkly old fuckstick with stupid hair and a voice that makes me want to throw myself into traffic. Do I think you're sexy? How dare you ask me that you decrepit piece of dog shit. If I ever hear you say that again I will find you and feed your eyeballs to you. Please die Rod Stewart. It's for the good of all mankind. And if you don't do it for them, then at least bite it for me. I really hate you.

4. Be the fat girl in the office who pawns her work off on me. No, I don't want to drop off legal documents on the east side. Why ask such a stupid question? Oh, because you're a lazy fuck and the thought of moving your fat ass more than the twenty feet from your desk to the break room causes you to perspire? Stupid bitch.

5. Eat Nacho Cheese Doritos. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Watching someone eat chips that I can actually smell is about as disgusting as walking in on a circle jerk in the basement of the library. Those things taste like shit. Does the Frito-Lay corporation think its funny producing such a fucking horrific product? Shoot me.

6. Be Johnny Estrada, Rickie Weeks, or Derrick Turnbow. These three are, respectively, the starting catcher, the starting second baseman, and the former (mindfucked) closer and now setupman for my beloved Milwaukee Brewers. Estrada is easily the worst .280 hitter I've ever seen. How the fuck is it possible to hit almost .300 and have exactly one clutch hit (which was basically negated because after it happened Damien Mueller, our 90 year old backup catcher who should be playing more often, went yard to pad the lead)? At least he doesn't strike out as much as Weeks, though. Barely, but its still not as much. Rickie Weeks is a goddamn creative genius when it comes to striking out. A fucking artist. If that worthless fuck was to strikeout and somehow end up with the fat end of the bat lodged firmly in his asshole I wouldn't be surprised. As for Derrick Turnbow...his nickname is Turnblow. He couldn't face the bottom of the order for the Little Douchebags of the Wilson Park Little League without issuing six walks. Need I say more?

7. Write me an email/message/anything with text using poor grammar. I cannot overstate how much of a grammar nazi I am, and I am very proud of this. So when I receive a written message filled with "LOL" and the number "2" in place of "to" I die a little bit inside. And then I feel the urge to kill.

8. Replace the Diet Coke in the break room with Diet Pepsi. If you do this I will hire a Haitian witch doctor to cast a voodoo curse on your soul. Michael's Law states that you must replace what you take with an equal or better product. If you can't replace the Diet Coke with more Diet Coke then you have to replace it with packages of ephedrine or real coke. I need to stay the fuck awake at work and this Diet Pepsi shit isn't doing the goddamn job.

9. Tell me that I am tall. I'm 6'5" for Christ's sake, I'm well fucking aware of this fact. This, however, doesn't deter the legions of douchebags who find it necessary to point it out. How about you just shut the fuck up and assume that I know, is that cool? Good. Otherwise I'm going to break the wooden handle off of a rake and impale you with it.

10. Eat at your desk/work-station while I am talking to you. Mother of fucking Christ this pisses me off. Is it really necessary for you to fit in those mouthfuls of whatever nasty shit you are shoveling down your throat while I'm trying to talk to you? Is it really? People at the Milwaukee County Courthouse are the worst when it comes to this shit. I don't even go down there between the hours of 11am and 1pm anymore just because I can't deal with some dipshit who has to eat fried chicken while feably attempting to look up whatever records or documents I need. How hard is it to take a goddamn lunch break? Obviously very hard. Fucking cretins.


Contrary to what I said at the beginning of this post this list is not nearly comprehensive. If you have read any of this blog at all you will realize that pretty much everything pisses me off. Yet I am still a very happy person. I have no clue how I pull it off. I am a walking conundrum. And too lazy to finish the list.

I want to address one more thing before I end this - Cubs fans. I don't believe in any god, but every night I hit my knees and pray that a higher being redirects a meteor and sends it headlong into Wrigley Field. This season my beloved Brewers are somehow managing to stay in first place convincingly. I realize that, like every year, they will break my heart, but until then I am riding the wave. So here's the deal. Cubs fans, all of you, any of you, each of you - shut the fuck up now. Don't talk to me about baseball. Or the Cubs. Or the Brewers. You haven't won dick shit for 99 years. I don't want all of your bad fucking karma rubbing off on my great city. We need this. Don't fuck it up.

Well, I'm off to run down small children with my car. Next time I write I will introduce all three of you to the children-killing-points-system that I have devised. It makes vehicular manslaughter a game! Hooray!

Fucking kids.