I’m Alive

Just a quick update for you all, the Flu I was suffering from decided to turn into Bronchitis, so recovery took a bit longer than expected. That being said, I am on the mend and will begin posting again soon!

The Wheels on the Bus Go…

I’ve mentioned once or twice that I cannot stand people. I’ve discovered throughout my life that the general population of humanity is ignorant to at least one rule of intelligent social interaction. Most people only have to deal with these types of people on rare occasions in bars or restaurants, during vacations, etc. If you are unlucky, you have to interact with one of these people in your work place. If you are really unlucky, your boss is one of these people. And then there is public transit.

If anyone ever asked me what I thought insanity felt like I would say a crowded bus that never stops. Public Transit, in my opinion, brings out the very worst in people, more so than bars or clubs or Disneyland. Every time I have rode the bus I have run into at least one group of people who, despite the fact that “Public” is in the name, have decided that this would be the perfect time to talk about something intimate and private. I have overheard conversations ranging from STDs to jail time to the things that a certain sophomore in college did to ensure she received a good grade in her HIST 101 class. None of these, however, anger me more than the fighting couple.

I will stop here to explain something about my personal life. I am married to a beautiful, talented, wonderful and quite insane woman. We do, on occasion, disagree with each other on various subjects and, occasionally, this will lead to an argument and eventually me owing her a back massage for being wrong. So, as a married man who has at times lost his mind and decided he wanted to argue with a wall, I can fully understand the need to have a bit of yelling and disagreement in a relationship. I would even venture to say that a little bit of disagreement and positive arguing (the kind that doesn’t involve drop kicks) is healthy for the communication of a relationship. That being said, having that arguement in the middle of a crowded bus within ear shot of at least 60 people is probably not the best idea.

I recently was forced to endure a hour long bus ride from Union Station to a friend who lived in another city. One stop from where I boarded, two very angry looking people decided to take the seat in front of me and proceeded to have a death match in plain view of everyone else on the bus. We all were treated to an argument that could probably win some awards for “Best Pointless Conversation” in a soap opera. The highlight of the entire ordeal, however, was the moment when another passenger asked them to be a little quieter. The male half of the fight turned to the interloper and uttered the five stupidest words I had heard all day:

“Mind your own damn business.”

Ignorance is bliss, apparently.

So, About That Flu…

So, I haven’t posted for a few days because my body decided it doesn’t like me anymore and, in an effort to passive-aggressively force me to move out, it invited some very grumpy friends to trash the place. So I have contracted the worst flu I’ve ever had and have spent the past four days doing nothing but sitting around and wishing I were dead. I apologize that I haven’t ranted about it yet, I’m sure at some point I’ll get around to it. However, for now, I am going to lay on my couch and sneeze over and over.

Hooked on Phonics

I cannot stand people that don’t read.

I have, in my everyday travels, come across the occasional person who does not have the ability to read, whether due to a hole in the educational system, a learning disability or being raised by chimps. This post is not about them. This post is about those people who, after spending the entirety of their formative years preparing for the day that they can join intelligent society, decide that they will never again be required to read a single sentence for the rest of their lives. These sadly mistaken people, when faced with the truth that there is, in fact, a minimal amount of reading that goes into every aspect of life, become enraged and fight for their right to ignorance.

We’ve all come into contact with minor offenders of this crime in our day to day lives and they are, to most people, a vague annoyance. They are the drivers who ignore the “No Right Turn on Red” signs, the celluloid ridden passengers who refuse to halt their consumption while riding public transit and the border-line mentally challenged hipsters who play Frisbee “ironically” around the “Stay Off Grass” signs. In my opinion, these people are some of the worst people in world.

I recently came in contact with one of these literature dodgers recently at a fast food establishment. The gentleman in question, though I use that term as lightly as is humanly possible, had ordered an item from memory without actually looking up at the menu at it. The cashier-girl behind the counter then proceeded to quote a price to him, as is often the case in this situation. Upon hearing that his beloved fat-encrusted beef sandwich was not, in fact, the price he had expected it to be, he kindly informed the girl that the sandwich actually cost the amount he remembers. The exchange went something like this:

“No, I was here last month and the number one cost me $4.”

“Yes, sir, but the price has changed to $4.50.”

“That’s not true. I know for a fact that it only costs $4.”

“Well, sir, if you look at the menu…”

It was at this exact moment that I heard the slightest of snaps occur in the man’s head. It was all curtains for the girl from that point on. A couple testosterone-filled minutes later and the manager had come out to assist the girl behind the counter. He calmed the “gentleman” in question down and tried to understand the situation. It went something like this:

“Let me see if I can help you with your order, then. You said you wanted a number one?”


“Alright. We recently raised the price of the number one to $4.50.”

“But it only costs $4.”

“Well, if you look at the menu…”

And so on.

Yesterday, I talked about a certain rage-filled arse of a human who likes nothing more than to tear down the hopes and dreams of those who feed him. Don’t mistake him for the literature dodger, because these two are different, though related. The former is finding a minor offense for the sheer pleasure of devouring the defenseless emotional goo that is your average service person. The latter’s rage is induced not by a need to offend or be better than someone else, but rather a self-defense mechanism that protects his need to be right at all costs, even if it means sacrificing reason.

Customer Service Punching Bag

I will never understand the attitude people give towards the people who make their food.

Maybe it is because I have worked in several different areas of customer service, maybe it is because I was raised in a more service-person-friendly atmosphere or perhaps it is because I’m not a rage-filled ass, but for what ever reason I have the utmost respect for the people who get paid minimum wage to get yelled at by a three-hundred pound man because his hamburger wasn’t made correctly.

The idea that someone can get so worked up over an innocent mistake that can be fixed with about thirty seconds of effort has never ceased to amaze me. I’m all for getting worked up and ranting about things (In case you somehow stumbled upon this blog while looking for doilies and you are vastly confused about it’s subject matter), but theres a certain point when you have to take a step back and ask your self, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

However, since the type of person who enjoys mowing down poor, emotionally defenseless burrito-wrappers at Chipotle is probably not the kind of person to initiate this kind of self reflection, I’ll do it for them.

Who exactly are you helping? Are you under the impression that your spit-filled hate message is going to cause the pimply seventeen-year-old in front of you to experience an epiphany that will lead him to become a paragon of order correctness? Do you think the rancid, odorous profanity you are spewing all over everyone in a fifteen foot radius is going to trigger a world-changing policy that will somehow remove the human variable from the equation and create a fast-food utopia where “ketchup-only” doesn’t contain the occasional onion?

If you answered yes to either of those two questions, I have some very sad news for you. The only thing you will give that person behind the counter besides damp undies and a sudden urge to stab you is the motivation to go to college, get a degree and move into the type of job that allows him to never communicate with another customer like you again. He will go out into the world and work his ass off until he is happier, more successful and much better looking than you. Then, one day after many years of work, he will walk into the McDonalds he was once employed at, order a hamburger with no pickles and then proceed to tear the nervous, pimply-faced seventeen-year-old behind the counter a new one because his order was wrong.

The Thing About People…

I hate people in a very general sense.

Its not that I dislike a particular race or creed, or even a particular type of personality. I just generally hate people. Many people have positive aspects and, when caught alone, those positives can outweigh the festering mass of negative energy I get from exposure to society. Then I go out into the world and experience people in large groups and I mourn for society as a whole.

A few years ago, while locked in a gruesome battle with a squadron of space monkeys, I was injured. Due to this injury, I walk with an exceptionally cool looking cane. Now, being a good looking individual (I look kind of like if Brad Pitt and Harrison Ford (When he wasn’t all wrinkly, of course) had their genes mixed in a surrogate mother.), I attract a lot of attention with my awesome cane. This wouldn’t normally be an issue (I’m used to lots of totally valid attention) but the problem is that most people don’t know how to deal with a young, attractive male using a cane. It leads to many, many awkward moments that compound onto each other and continue to add more bad marks onto humanity’s report card.

A few nights ago I went to a local bar with some friends. These were work friends, the kind that you know well enough to apparently watch them get drunk but not well enough for them to drive you home. Overall it was a good evening, but I was reminded over and over that apparently no one in existence has the social capacity to see past a person’s physical disabilities.

On the one hand, we have Awkward Guy In Line dude. AGIL dude is the guy standing behind me as we shuffled toward the bouncer checking IDs who felt compelled to start a conversation with me. This is normal and perfectly acceptable social behavior.

“How’s the weather?” would have been an excellent start.

“I love your awesome tie/vest combo!” may have leaned a little towards flirting, but hey, we’ve all been a little buzzed before. I would have been accepting.

“Dude, nice cane. What’s wrong with your leg?” is not, under any circumstance, an acceptable introduction. You might as well have said, “Hi. My name is Greg. I’m a douche.” The last thing that someone using a cane wants to know is that the moment someone meets them, the first thing they notice is HOLY CRAP, IS THAT DUDE A CRIPPLE?!? Furthermore, when you ask your completely inappropriate question in that tone that suggests you love apple martinis and have had three too many tonight, don’t be surprised when I say, “I lost a fight with a cyborg.” You deserve it.

Closely related to AGIL is Someone Else’s Date man. SED is the guy who, after a few drinks, ends up next to me at the bar because his date has either 1) ended up dancing with someone else, 2) ended up leaving early because her grandmother is totally in the hospital and she’s really sorry and she’s going to make it up to you I promise, or 3) just hates you and wants you to go somewhere else. SED feels like he can relate to me because I, through some degrees of separation, know his date and that means that we are instantly the best of friends.

Now, unlike AGIL, who shoves his foot down his throat immediately upon discovering my existence, SED is subtle. He dodges around the subject, stealing glances at the cane and my leg, as if through sheer observation he can avoid the awkward conversation brewing in his mind about why I am using a cane. Failing that, he brings up several subjects that are all closely related to canes or disabilities or legs. That one time he broke his leg in high school. The family heirloom hanging in his living room that totally looks like my cane. The fact that his fa- Dude, why are you using a cane? Aren’t you like 21?

Also unlike AGIL, SED doesn’t take a hint. I can’t dismiss SED with a snide or sarcastic comment about the nature of my injury. We are best friends, remember? If I tell him a tiger mauled my leg two years ago, he’ll laugh and say, “No, really. How’d it happen?” So the two of us go back and forth like this for what seems like hours until, suddenly, like drug fueled inspiration dawning on a half-asleep rock star, he realizes the truth:

We are not best friends.

I don’t have to tell him about my injury.

My injury is, in fact, a personal matter.

He should shut up now.

Then he spews out some half-assed excuse about his herpes acting up and wanders off into the crowded bar, searching desperately for someone who is able to use both of their legs without assistance that he can talk to about sports.

The Rant-Zone

I feel like everytime someone makes a new blog they have to make the first post about why they are making the blog. It’s always something along the lines of “I love cats. Here’s a blog about cats.” or “Did you know music is awesome? Let me spend the next eight hours writing about how awesome it is.”

This is totally one of those posts.

So, everyone knows that one person in their life that likes to get riled up and go on massive rants about something that everyone isn’t interested in or, at the very least, isn’t interested enough in to listen to a five point lecture about someone else’s opinion on that thing. You know the one. You are sitting in a bar and have just gotten buzzed enough that the room looks a little too fuzzy and you are talking about a new television series or the Hadron Super Collider or president Obama’s recent visit to a sandwich shop (Seriously CNN? Really?) and then BAM he’s off to the races like this was his thesis at university and there is absolutely no way you are going to stop him now.

I’m that guy.

So, I introduce you to Ranting with Ranty: the blog about ranting. Well, technically it’s a blog containing ranting (by Ranty (That’s me!)), completely stream of consciousness (With minimal editing because damn you horrible typing ability) being force fed into your brain. I’m sure there’ll be some trends but it’s going to be unhinged, subjects unleashed like a zombie virus onto the tiny populace of the slightly too crowded city in your mind.