Rain, rain, go away.

Why am I the guy that all crazy people want to have a conversation with?  I can be anywhere and the craziest person in the room will come up to me and say something like, “Monkeys tiptoe on cotton candy meat,” and then proceed to yap at me.  There must be something about my face that makes them say, “You’re one of us.”

There’s a grocery store in Florida called Publix, as in Pub-licks.  When I first saw it, I pronounced it Pyoo-blicks.  I was corrected immediately by at least 45 friends and strangers.

Why do some people laugh at something and then, shortly after, say, “That’s funny.”  Really?  I couldn’t tell that it was funny to you.  You only LAUGHED at it.  Redundant.  You’re the type to wear suspenders and a belt; go to a funeral and say, “I think he’s dead”; or throw a lit match on a house fire.
 
While we’re on the topic of laughter, I hate when someone laughs his or her head off throughout a movie or TV show, and then when it’s over claims that he didn’t like the show.  Yes, you do!  Laughter is usually an indicator of positive/pleasurable emotion.  Stop frontin’.  Be proud of what you like.  Don’t be embarrassed if you love the worst reality show on TV.  You’re not losing anyone’s respect.  No one respects you anyway.

If we happen to go to the movies, please try really hard not to ask me if one or all of the characters are going to die, especially during a horror movie.  If you try really hard to refrain from asking me, then I’ll try really hard to refrain from drowning you in my big bucket-sized cup of sodie pop.  OK, let’s take a look.  Based on the history of horror films since the turn of the last century, someone will probably die in a horror movie.  Plus, impatient one, there’s a reason we paid for tickets, big tubs of popcorn, XL drinks, and some damn goobers and Raisinets.  Just watch the movie.

Without fail, like clockwork, every single time I go into a public restroom, I am always that guy who can’t seem to align his hands with the faucet sensor to get that steady stream of water flowing out.  If the fate of the world relied on my ability to get water out of those automated faucets, you’d all be trying to move to Venus.  One day, I’ll get it right.  Until then, you can find me outside with my hands held high, waiting for it to rain.
  
The dirtiest-looking person on the bus is always the one carrying a folded brown paper bag or newspaper.  You ask why?  So that they can place the paper on the seat and protect themselves from the filthiness of everyone else on the bus.  Ummm hmmmm.  Yeah.  Oh?  Really?  Really, Pigpen?  You’re the dirtiest person in town right now, yet you’re implying that we should take baths.  My eyes start burning when I look at you.  You’re a smog cloud with legs.  The pungent whiff of air that attacks me as you walk by makes me want to take my skin off with a cheese grater.  You make my glasses fog up on a clear day.  Why don’t you sit next to the lady with the surgical mask on?  You two will get along really well…

…Which brings me to my next subject–lonely ass cheeks.  Lonely ass cheeks in a seat, that is.  Not sure why this happens, but no one will sit next to me on the bus.  The bus could be overflowing with people and I’ll be the only one with a seat to himself.  Cripple old ladies rather stand in the aisle, holding onto the rail, getting bumped and tossed around the bus than take a seat near me.  Hmmm, I don’t know.  If I saw me on a bus, maybe I wouldn’t sit next to me, either.  Maybe they all know something that I don’t.  Maybe I’m really the dirtiest on the bus.  Somebody hand me a newspaper.

I’m never seen people react the same way to rain the way Angelenos do.  People here in LA are literally scared of the rain.  You would think that the monster from Cloverfield was in town by the way folks out here carry on about the rain.  People get all reckless when a drop of water’s on the street.  I’ve seen rainfall bring a grown man to tears because he left his umbrella in the car.  Toughen up, city of Angels.  Calm down.  It’s only rain.  Be thankful that you get it every now and then.  With all of these crazy fires popping up all over the place, I would think that you would invite some type of precipitation.  But if acid rain ever comes down on SoCal, I’ll be with the locals, screaming and crying, and looking for my umbrella.

Who came up with the phrase “getting your ass handed to you”?  Figure of speech, of course.  But since it means to be defeated or “getting shown who’s boss,” why would the ass, out of all body parts, be the part of choice?  Why not the head, chest, or ring finger?  Armpit, Achilles’ heel, or tailbone?  Also, if I’m the victor, why would I want my opponent’s ass as a trophy?  What’s does the loser get as a consolation prize?  It’s got to be worse than an ass, right?  I don’t even want to think about what that would be.  If I win anything, I’m handing no one’s ass to anyone.  That involves a few medical degrees and some surgical skills that I don’t possess.  Or need.
 
Old folks driving through store windows have got to stop.  Every year, I read about some 88-year-old man, who’s driving at 88 mph, plowing his Oldsmobile 88 into a store, post office, farmers’ market, or living room, smashing into 88 people at 8:08 AM.  When I see an octogenarian behind the wheel, I get behind something steel, like a fortress.  Or better yet, an airplane, you can’t run me over if I’m in the sky, bitches!  When I get to the age when it’s hard for me to see the road and my legs ache just from switching from the gas pedal to the brake, I’ll know that the time has come to leave the driving to someone else.  New law: If one-half of your age is still more than the speed limit, hand over your keys, please.  Don’t come to us; we’ll come to you.  When you see extremely elderly drivers coasting down the street, feel sorry for the birds.  That car will somehow be in a tree soon.  Forget DUIs and DWIs.  There should be DWAs, Driving While Ancient.  “Driving Miss Daisy” had TWO old folks in it.  I’m surprised that they didn’t run over every character in the movie.
 
There’s a local apartment building that has a “Welcome Visitors.  Park Here” sign.  Right next to it is another sign that reads, “Park At Your Own Risk.”  Nothing makes a visitor feel more welcome than a place that screams, “Hey you, nice having you here.  Uh, feel free to park in the lot, but a resident might jack your ride.  And, oh yeah, it would be your own fault.  Enjoy your visit.”

I once saw a pig chained to a tree in someone’s backyard.

I work in a green, eco-friendly, energy-efficient building that was constructed to withstand earthquakes.  Kinda funny working in a building designed to help save the planet–the very same planet that’s trying to kill you in an earthquake.

Restaurants: Please desist from calling your “soup of the day” the “soup of the day” if you have run out of that soup FOR the day.  Begin calling it “the potage formerly known as soup of the day, but not today since we don’t have it, but we’ll have it on this same day next week, so you can have it then…if you come back, which will actually make it the soup of next week today, unless we run out of it again on this day next week–damn, we need a bigger pot” soup.

Baguettes.  French bread.  Why does it have to be so hard?  I’m convinced that this bread is made in the same factory where bricks and cinder blocks are made.  Bread shouldn’t be hard.  I don’t feel like bleeding from the mouth every time I eat a sandwich.  I can’t eat a sub without an ambulance nearby.  The only way to get this bread soft and moist is to take it out to dinner, bring it back to the apartment, put on a Mint Condition or Spinners album, break out the champagne, and rub it down in some butter, and close the bedroom door.
 
 
Standing in line at a Quiznos, looking at the menu, trying to decide which sandwich to get.  A man comes up next to me.  He looks like he knows what he wants to order, so I back up and tell him that he can go ahead of me.  He turns to me and says, “Oh, you don’t know what you want?”  No, genius, I just like to stand here all day long on my favorite floor tile in the whole wide world.  Better yet, I’m a federal menu inspector.  I make sure that all menus adhere to the strict guidelines of Federal Code 01767, Section 43 of Title 898.

There is a woman that apparently was unsatisfied with her 34 FFF breast implants and decided to get 38 KKK implants, making her the Guinness world record holder for the largest breasts ever.  Now, I’m not a fan of fake boobs or the racist group, but if I had to pick between KKKs, I’d rather be down with the silicone and not the silly cone…heads.

   
If you see a guy filling his cup with a drink and then proceeds to put his cup under the ice dispenser, after the impending splatter and liquid mess soaks into his clothes and the floor, please smack him on the back of the head as hard as you can for me.  Thank you.