Here’s a peeve: when people use archaisms WRONG. Much like the proverbial Scottish gentleman, I don’t use these words, but at least I know how to use them correctly. Thou, thee, thy, thine = I, me, my, mine. And the verb is conjugated with the -st form: thou sayest, not thou says, for Og’s sake. “Thee says” is only acceptable if you’re an eighteenth-century Quaker and T’Pau of Vulcan. And “mine” or “thine” is an attributive only before a noun that begins with a vowel sound! It’s “thine eyes,” not “thine shoulderblades.”
A million times worse, of course, is when people misuse “whom.” “He spoke to my brother, whom said…” Either drop it entirely or use it correctly! It’s not just the fancy way of saying “who”! ("‘Whom are you?’, he said, for he had been to night school.")
A few weeks ago I needed to find a way to hold a plastic case shut. I figured that rubber bands should work, and I know I had some in the junk drawer. I had some big thick ones too, been saving them for a long time for just such an occasion. Guess what I saw when pulled them out? They were brittle, crumbly, and decidedly unrubbery. Damn.
Last weekend I get a visit from the flu that’s going around here, and decide some medication for the ole stomach is necessary. I have some Pepto Bismol in the cabinet, no problem. Hmm, it’s been in here a while, haven’t needed it since… I can’t remember the last time I used it. And I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be lumpy. Or smell like dead rats dipped in turpentine and set on fire. Shit.
So fuck you entropy. When I buy something, I want to be able to have that something until I need it. You can have stuff like fruit and meat. That’s supposed to go bad. But rubber bands? Rubber bands aren’t supposed to rot. And I need medicine in my cabinet, not at the store. If I buy it, I want it to stay in there, because when I need it, having to go the store for it is unpleasant at best, and impossible at worst. Keep you fucking hands off that stuff.
It’s snowing, but I’m not here to rant about snow. Even though I almost got stuck out in it and it took me almost two hours to make it back home through the weather and the shitty drivers, I’m not here to rant about any of that. Although the fucktards who insisted on going around me as I was sliding backwards out of control and who made it very hard to regain any control and get going the right way ought to have a transfer case shoved up their asses–but no, I’m not here to rant about that.
No, I’m here to rant about going for a walk with the dog in the lovely fluffy aftermath–four inches or so of uncharacteristically powdery snow for Oregon which turned the mundane into the magical. There we were, walking along the bike trail with me in my boots and Irish wool sweater, enjoying the sights and the crisp cold air with that indefinable snow smell, enjoying the hush of winter when all the cars are home and the only sound is the kids squealing as they slide down the hills… and the FUCKING QUADS!
Goddamn you ignorant, obnoxious shitweasels and your stupid all terrain noise emitting fartmobiles! Fuck you for tearing up the pristine expanses of snow, not to mention the grass underneath it. Fuck you for taking those blatting, stinking monstrosities on the bike trail, on which it is expressly forbidden to bring motor powered vehicles. Fuck you for jamming at 40mph past old ladies walking gingerly on the slick surface and scaring the kids and dogs into conniptions. Most especially, fuck off and DIE for taking those things onto Powell Butte, which is a NATURE PRESERVE and which is currently closed to bicycles and horses because of the erosion damage they cause–how much more damaging those huge knobby tires of yours are for the paths than horse hooves, or did you give even one second of thought to that? While we’re at it, fuck you for wearing your goddamned helmets, which shielded YOU and ONLY you from your noise, while also protecting you from the consequences of your own stupidity, thereby ensuring the rest of us will get no peace when you finally go head on into a tree while trying to jump your penis alternative toy over a stalled car. Just fuck you all.
To the whiny dumbfuckcunt who thinks I’m making up policies on a whim and/or just for fun:
Kiss my ass. If I say it’s because of a federal law, then it’s because of a federal law. I will not give you information, regardless of who paid the tuition and fees. I tried to throw you a bone to help you gather the information you need. You refused it and called my boss(!) to… what? Rat me out for doing my job properly? She backed me up… Fucking Surprise! Funny how you accepted the bone gracefully when it wasn’t coming from my lips - y’know, the lips of the little peon who can’t tell her ass from a hole in the ground. :rolleyes:
Fuck this fucking weather. Cold hot cold hot cold hot cold hot MAKE UP YOUR MIND! And this precipitation outside…is it ice or is it rain? Can you please stop being schizo and pick a season? Here’s a suggestion: It’s winter. Be cold. Be all the way frosty.
They had a project at my parking deck at work last year to ‘re-paint the lines’ and thus closed one floor a week for about a month. They repainted the lines, alright, but they made each space **6 inches smaller!!! ** :mad:
Fuck you, wind. You’re fucking annoying, blowing shit about and killing people. All I can hear at work is incessant whistling, like the fucking Seven Dwarfs are getting blown next door.
First, those of you who wind up first in line at a red light - yes, it is true that being first, you are extremely likely to make the light when it changes. This does not mean you are entitled to do your nails, read a newspaper or otherwise be distracted and totally oblivious to when the light changes. The extra seconds it takes you to wake up and realize the light is now green and that you can slooowly drive on, means that several cars further back will have to wait through another red light cycle unnecessarily. Get thine ass in gear.
If you use a parking garage where the gate is activated by a card swipe, think about actually having the card in your hand when you pull up at the gate. That is NOT the time to realize that you have no idea where your card is and start lethargically rummaging around through the stale laundry and pizza boxes in your back seat.
Thank you.
Jeeze, I didn’t think I had many mini-rants in me for this go round, but you guys keep reminding me.
Waiting for a traffic light - you can watch what’s happening in the intersection, see that other traffic has stopped, figure out that their light has turned red, and be prepared to go when your own light turns green (looking at cross-traffic before going, of course, because of all the fresh red runners). It can be done - I do it all the time. I’m starting to think I’m some kind of weirdo for paying attention to what’s happening on the road while driving (or waiting).
On a completely different note, I finished working at my job today, and I wish to pit leaving my co-workers. I really liked this bunch, even if the job sucked. For someone who hates all people, I sure like a lot of them.
My roommate drives me nuts with that shit. Specifically, he usually puts CDs/DVDs in a case, but never the right one–just the first one he sees. I open the case to one of my videogames and see a lesbian porn DVD. I try the lesbian porn DVD’s case for my game, and I find SOCOM. I check the SOCOM case and find a Nirvana record. I check the Nirvana case and find GTA. I check the GTA case and find Legends of Wrestling, etc. Finding my games is as challenging as playing the games themselves. Thankfully I only buy games used and wouldn’t be out much money if one were damaged or lost.
To the people who block the entire entrance at my bookstore in particular: Thanks! I don’t have enough money and time to spend days fucking around in front of doors while I’m pondering what to buy–because I’d have to stiff-arm you like Ladainian Tomlinson to get to work on time every day.
But do actually take my service request, instead of sending me on an endless phone-website-phone-website-grovel at office-website-phone-grovel-phone circle, never actually fixing the damn thing, and then keeping my deposit because I “failed to report” the “damage” I’d done to the washing machine, which died of fucking owner-level disrepair. Because of these fuckers, I had to take out a loan to pay the rent at my next place and I spent a month with no idea after I ate each meal how I was going to pull the next one out of a magic hat. It’s only through a series of serindipitous coincidences and incredible generosity from friends and strangers that I ate at all. $315 may not be much in your circle, but it breaks people in mine. Oh, and thanks for kicking me out of the only room in Southern California I could afford after I bent over backwards to fix the owner’s house up for him because he suddenly decided he wanted the house back. What a sweet deal–he got a handful of live-in maids who he not only didn’t have to pay, but who actually paid him for the privilege of cleaning up his house.
Fuck this fucking weather! This is freaking San Diego and I’m supposed to be able to go out on Friday night without dressing up like an Austrian ski instructor. And freaking snow? Did you forget where you were, Weather Gods? I think you’re supposed to be somewhere northeast of here.
