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Waiters who refill coffee without asking
Fuck! Just because the level of coffee in my cup is more than 1/2" from the top doesn’t mean I want you to run up and refill it. Shit, I finally had it mixed with cream and sugar to the point I like it at, had drank half of it, then you come along with the pot and dump raw coffee in without asking. Back the fuck off! -
Kids who can’t shut up
Parents: If your demon-spawn can’t shut the fuck up for the 30-goddamn minutes it takes to have breakfast in a cafe, leave the little shits at home. The last thing I want to listen to is your fucking precious child screaming his ugly (yes! he/she/it is ugly, too!) fucking head off because he didn’t get e.x.a.c.t.l.y. what he fucking wanted. Either take the belt to him, have him learn some fucking manners, or get the fuck out of the cafe! -
Clerks who ignore me
Clerk at the deli/lunch counter at Safeway: you are usually supposed to serve customers in the order that they arrive, not your friends first. Just because you went to high school with Jethro over there before you began climbing the career ladder at the grocery doesn’t he gets served before me, even though I’ve been waiting 5 minutes longer. Nor does it mean you can take your sweet-ass time making his sandwich. Get a move on! Plus, I don’t care if you also know Jose, who has been waiting even less time than Jethro. -
Line-cutters
Assholes. You think I stand in line at the cafe for my health? You think all of us just mysteriously decided to stand one behind the other in some bizzare ritual? Who gave you the right to walk right past us and try and find an empty table. Luckily for you, the waiter told you to fuck off before I did. -
People who don’t get my order right.
C’mon, guys, how fucking complicated is it to make a chicken quesadilla with tortilla, cheese, and chicken. I don’t. want. any. fucking. peppers. on. my. lunch! I fucking hate peppers. I told you politely, “no peppers please”. You even repeated to me “Chicken quesadilla, no peppers”. But then you turned to the line cook and said in spanish: ‘quesadilla con pollo’. Dude, what the fuck? I may be white, but I still fucking comprende. You’re going to hell, right behind the line-cutters.
- Salespeople who give telephone customers priority over real live ones, often to the point where they will refuse to look up and acknowledge you while on the blower.
- Security people tasked with bag check or bag search who do not say please or thank you. This is tantamount to saying gimme.
- Any group of two or more self-important urban hicks who regard the art of conversation as a valid excuse to block doorways, sidewalks, stairways, elevators, or escalators.
- Anyone who leans on a car horn for any reason whatever other than impending danger or universal public rejoicing such as a long-delayed sports championship or the end of a major world war.
- Businesspeople who screech harried jargon into their cel phones in public while wearing stony, dyspeptic facial expressions.
Oh, forgot one…
6. Bloody-minded pedestrians who hug the left corners of walls or buildings, so that they immediately pop up at you from a blind spot if you’re walking “to the right.” They typically walk very briskly, too, so they’re really asking for it.
- People who take angry, reactionary dogs in cars with them and then leave the windows down when parked in parking lots. I was getting out of my car today when this fucking dog LUNGES at me, barking its brains out and baring teeth, from within the car parked about three feet from mine. The fucking thing was halfway out the window and about six inches from my face. Best part - the dickhole owner stands right there, doing nothing. Wanna see poochy get one right between the eyes, fuckwad?
That fucking Poseidon remake. Waste of 8 bucks.
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Customers who call and want food delivered and then don’t know their adress. WTF!!! Do you not expect to have to tell us your address when you order food for delivery?
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By the same token, customers who call to order food and then don’t know what they want. Like they’re surprised I’m even asking. Decide what you want and THEN call me, fuckers.
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Prima donnas. my GOD, girl, I know you’re hungry and tired and want to go home. But the rest of us have been here even longer than you have (because you’re too important to show up on time and waste your precious time in hair and makeup with the rest of the cast) and the rest of us are tired and have homework to do as well. And if you have two scenes to change costumes, make way for the girl who has twenty seconds! she is more important than you right now!
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people who are stupid.
'Tisn’t just urban hicks. You see the same behavior from rural hicks.
I’m paralyzed by etiquette. Even though the other party richly deserves it, I can’t make myself do something rude to get my point across as I’d dearly love to do: like using my cart as a battering ram, or bellowing, “Hey, chatty bitches! Move your ass out of the way!” I’ve also had visions of building a trebuchet in my cart out of impulse items plucked from the shelves around me and launching cans of soda at them until they scatter, squaking in fear and outrage. I’d shake them cans up real hard, too, then slightly pop the tab. Guaranteed splatter.
I’ve tried coughing to gently introduce them to the fact that there are actually other people in the world besides them. (Wouldn’t want to startle the poor things.) I’ve tried saying loudly, “Excuse me!” I’ve even tried pointedly attempting to squeeze by them, which garnered me dirty looks as they roughly hauled their carts an inch to the side, their exchanged looks plainly saying, “Some people!”
I think next time, I’ll lean on my cart and stare in rapt attention, perhaps butting into the conversation. “No! He really said that!? What did Sarah do?” If they say anyting, I’ll shrug and say, “Well, since I couldn’t shop, I decided to join you.” Yeah, I know-- I’d never have the balls to do it. I’ll probably just continue to stand there, attempting in vain to get their attention, waiting patiently until they decide to acknowledge that other people might want to use the doorway, too.
Actually, I’d say “Anyone who leans on a car horn for any reason whatsoever, other than impending danger or universal public rejoicing such as the end of a major world war”.
People who lean on their car horn as a result of sports victories should be permanently and irrevocably deported to Tasmania. :mad:
Hooting and hollering at graduation. Now, the blame for this is very much on the master of ceremonies for not telling everyone, “Please hold your applause until all names have been announced.” I know for a fact that this can eliminate 98-99% of shouters at a graduation. BUT, no one said that. Therefore squeezing through 800 people takes a lot longer than it should. It also means that while your family of pre-historical primates that only recently climbed down from its tree to slouch into seats at a formal ceremony are leaping, grunting and smacking their hands when they hear your name, two or three other families don’t get to hear their child’s name.
Seriously, have some respect. Or decor. SOME damn thing.
Hey, whadya want? They know that if you leave the windows UP, the dog cooks. So what else do you do but leave ‘em DOWN? Look at the fuckin’ window button, moron! Ya got TWO choices! UP! DOWN! PICK ONE!!1!
YOU. You fucker. How dare you be like that.
Jesus fucking Christ in heaven I hate you. Pretty much everything you do and say makes me want to take a crowbar to your fucking skull. The only reason you make it through every day is that it’s illegal to strangle you with your own intestines.
You fucking bastard.
-Joe, referring to the generic ‘you’
My neighbors, who throw plastic bags in with the recycling when the sign on the bin clearly says not to and there’s a dumpster inches away.
Coworkers who clip their nails at their desks.
Anyone who touches my pregnant belly with asking. Telling me how big I am isn’t especially endearing, either.
I HATE being touched without my permission, especially unasked-for hugs. I’ve had complete strangers hug me, for example, a woman who hugged me after I took her on a tour of the museum. One of my bosses hugs me all the time. I am fond of her-- she’s a very nice lady and she’s the best boss anyone could ask for, but she’s a “hugger” and I’m not. My husband’s family members hug me whenever we go to see them-- once when we arrive and once before we leave. I tolerate it because they mean well, but I certainly don’t like it.
The most offended I ever got at unwanted touching was when I worked at K-Mart. I’m not a person who likes wearing socks, and I made the mistake of asking whether they were required by the dress code. After that, the manager came over to my register a few times and actually pulled up my pants legs to see if I was wearing socks. (Of course, if you actually have to move clothing aside, how does it matter? Not to mention the fact that behind a register, my feet aren’t seen.)
This is so wrong, and I’ve never even been pregnant. I don’t get what it is about pregnant that suddenly makes your belly common property. Would you touch her belly when she was not? Then, why???
Mine are:
Hey boss, you can type. I know you can. So why do you have to call me and dictate the agenda to me? Idiot.
How about - work, damnit! Stop chatting for hours. When do you get anything done?
Let me tell you a story about a line-cutting kid. One day I decided that for lunch I was going to go to a pizza buffet place I know. $4.95 gets you all the pizza, pasta, salad, and soda you want. Good food, too.
As I pulled in, I was barely beaten by a church youth group of some kind. About 40 people walking in the door ahead of me. I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to get back to work, plus I’d brought a book with me. So I get in the back of the line and patiently wait my turn.
Three kids get in line behind me, probably about 13-15 years old. One of them decides that he’s bored waiting (after about 20 seconds :rolleyes: ), so he just cuts in front of about 20 people. When he sees no resistance, he starts waving his friends up saying, “Come on, guys! Don’t wait in line like a couple of chumps!”
This angers me. I bellow out, “HEY KID!” He seems startled. I say, “Why don’t you get in the back of the line and wait your turn like everyone else?” “Do I know you?” he says in a snotty voice that made me want to strangle him. I reply, “Does it matter?” He shoots me a dirty look and walks to the end of the line.
After I’d gotten a few slices of pizza, I was stopped on the way back to my table by an elderly couple who wanted to say thank you for keeping that kid in line and how appreciative they were, as when he’d cut in line, he’d done so by elbowing this gentleman in the ribs to get him to move.
Now see, I’d have kicked my leg out, and then acted like it was an accident-an automatic reflex.
Okay, my turn. I pit my grandfather, for being a selfish asshole, ranting and ranting about how he’s no longer allowed to drive. Meanwhile, my grandmother is in a rehab center, due to go to a nursing home in the next week or so. She can’t walk, she can’t even stand up, she’s in a wheelchair (and has to be restrained because she keeps trying to get out of it and can’t) she’s emaciated, confused, and she probably isn’t even going to make it past this year. And yet he doesn’t care. He calls her up and rants at her about how it’s all HER fault he can’t drive.
Oh, and for being an abusive asshat to his entire family, and being resentful of everything he never had, never realizing what he DID have.
Instead of a polite cough, try a wet, hacking cough. Ought to clear any doorway you want to walk through.
It’s a little-known fact that 92% of all people who went to high school with Jethro also know Jose.
Once, Hubby and I were at Niagara Falls in that tunnel below that lets you see the backside of the falling water. We were waiting in line to have our chance to look out the window when a group of other people came into that narrow little hall/room. Instead of joining the line, they just marched up to the window, squeezing past one another for prime viewing position.
Without warning, Hubby bellowed, “YOU! You, and you! Get in line and WAIT YOUR TURN.” His loud voice rang off the rock walls.
As if yanked back by invisible cords, the group at the window jumped back and flattened themselves against the wall, their eyes cast down to their shoes. The entire room was silent. People crept up when it was their turn and then silently scurried from the room, apparently terrified of this big guy with the booming voice, who probably seemed even more scary because of his polite smiles and nods as they passed. When we left, the line was still completely orderly.
I call this story “The Time When Hubby Treated Tourists Like Inmates.”
Did you expect anything different?
For me, “Poseidon” means Gene Hackman, and Kurt Russell will never take his place.