Or maybe just a thousand. This is really one thousand and one posts; I wasted the turning point in another thread even though I had intended to save it for this. I told myself that I should save it for a really good post - one that would be remembered for the ages - but as I saw the “Thank you for posting” text appear, I realized AAAUGH NO NO NO THAT WAS MY THOUSANDTH POST and clicked back rapidly, but all the while knowing that there was no way to take it back. So now I’m filled with rage. You know the kind; it’s when you’re planning a very special event like a surprise party for someone, and it’s going to take place in a few days and it’ll be a lot of fun and everyone will enjoy themselves except you accidentally let it slip early and then everyone knows about the surprise party and it’s no longer a surprise but everyone comes to the party anyway but it’s still sort of a letdown and even though everyone has fun it’s a disappointment? It’s that kind of rage.
So, without further ado:
To the NFL:
This is a preemptive rage. I have a low simmer of rage with regards to the replacement refs, the lack of respect my precious Vikings are getting in the predictions and rankings, and the fact that I have to drive five hours to the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field if I want an outdoor game in the winter. I’m in three fantasy leagues, three confidence pools, one king of the hill pool, and one football board, and I’m hoping to pay my January rent from my winnings in the various leagues at the end of the regular season. See, if it weren’t for your sport, I wouldn’t be gambling (nb: it’s all offshore! honest!) to keep a roof over my head. I wouldn’t waste money every Sunday on pizza and beer. I’d be a nice reliable hardworking member of society, but instead, I’m going to end up with a stogie in my mouth, hunched over a newspaper in a smoke-filled back room somewhere, hacking up a lung and wondering if I should bet against the spread. It’s all your fault. I coulda been somebody. I coulda been a contender.
To Fred, the spider who used to live in my garage but somehow tracked me down to my new apartment ten miles away:
Look. DUDE. Fred. We had a deal. You remember the deal. The deal became null and void when I moved away. This was not an invitation for you to somehow navigate across two highways, a lake, and up to the third floor of my new apartment like one of those “Incredible Journey” movies. It’s touching when your pet follows you across the nation out of love. It’s not touching when a SPIDER follows you across the city. Yes, it was a surprise to see you building a web out on my balcony. Yes, out of consideration of our previous deal I didn’t light a torch and wave it through your web, but what the hell are you doing out there? I can only avoid the fire situation for so long, but I have to know - are you some advance scout for the spider army? Have I been tagged as the first to fall beneath the eight-legged jackbooted thugs of the arachnid forces? This is just getting too creepy for me, and honestly, the fire solution is looking more and more appealing.
To Laurie, who buried an axe in her foot:
Hey, Laurie! We’ve been friends for nine years now. We even dated for a while, even though the less said about that, the better. Let’s just see if we can summarize what happened last Saturday, okay? You were chopping wood. You missed the wood and the axe went CHOP CHOP into the top of your right foot and you said OW OW OW THERE’S AN AXE IN MY FOOT. Well, maybe not those exact words, but that was the general sentiment, if laced with more profanity than I’d like to hear in peacetime. Then what? Seventeen stiches, and a great photo (note: not gory, but if you don’t like seeing seventeen stitches sewed into the top of a foot, don’t peek). All of that results in a whole lot of sympathy, not rage … until you said that I can’t call you gimpy! You called me gimpy when I had to use a cane for most of my senior year in high school, and I can’t call you gimpy because you buried an axe in your foot? See, I’m going to have to get you back. I’ll have to upstage you. I’m going to get a nice Black & Decker circular saw and cut my foot off. I’m thinking about four inches above the ankle- enough for the foot to stand alone on the bookshelf, but enough shin left to look really cool. And YOU KNOW WHAT? I WON’T LET YOU CALL ME GIMPY.
To Schultz Company, and specifically your Plant Food Plus:
I bought a plant last November. I went to Bachman’s nursery, and said, “Hi! I want a plant for my office! It’ll get no natural light, and I’ll probably forget to water it for months on end.” They said, “Oh, you want golden pothos! It’ll only die if you try to kill it, and you don’t look like a mass murderer, despite your frequent descriptions of rage.” “Great,” I said, “let’s get one. Oh, and a little 5.5 oz bottle of this plant food.” Back I came to my desk in the far corner of a room with a small plant. Now fast forward ten months. The plant has since been named Audrey III, in honor of Audrey and Audrey II from “Little Shop of Horrors”. The vines have climbed the wall, woven into the light fixtures, draped back down dangerously close to my head, spilled over into my coworker’s cube, and have overtaken my shelf and monitor. My row of cubicles is now called “The Jungle”. I’m now nicknamed “Tarzan” at work. And this is ALL BECAUSE OF YOUR PLANT FOOD. See, without such a distinctive plant at my desk with a wingspan (er, vinespan) of nearly thirty feet, people wouldn’t bother me. They wouldn’t come over to my desk and talk and be friendly. I could be curmudgeonly and spiteful and hate-filled and bilious but no, I have to be friendly and happy and polite because otherwise I feel guilty when I snap at people when they’re just trying to compliment me on my horticultural skills. I guess there’s some kind of circular logic involved in being filled with rage at my inability to be filled with rage, but I’m too busy for that logic crap!
To the eject button on my DVD remote control:
I’m sure whoever designed you had a great concept in mind - even more functionality on the remote control for the lazy American public! It’s a surefire success! Except you never tried it in the field, you moron! I’m sure our military Dopers have complaints about hardware and policies that LOOK good on paper, but are worse than left-handed scissors in practice. I’ll give you a simple example. I’m sitting on my comfortable nice leather couch snuggling warmly with someone when I try to hit ‘menu’ on the remote but end up hitting ‘eject’ instead, so now I have to untangle myself from my companion, cross the room, and push the DVD tray back into the player. See, if I WANTED to change the DVD, I’d have to get up anyway, so I could have just ejected it when I was already up. This fills me with rage. I demand that they either ban the eject button from remote controls, or add a “slurp” button to suck the tray back into the player. (And why do DVDs list things like “Interactive Menus” and “Chapter Selection” on the back of the box as special features? What’s next, “Shiny DVD included”?)
To the people who can’t understand when I’m trying to explain:
It’s frustrating when there’s something I’m trying to explain and it makes perfect sense to me but the other person is just incapable of understanding what I’m saying because whatever comes out of my mouth is just gibberish, so I provide some examples but this isn’t as easy as I think it’d be and it just ends up confusing the other person some more, and then I get more and more confused until I don’t really understand what I’m talking about and then everyone just throws their hands up in the air and gives up. You know what I’m talking about, right? Did I explain it? Hmm, ok, it’s more like … oh, forget it.
It’s that kind of rage.
