I’d like to start with a disclaimer: there are plenty of people who patronize me. Maybe I have a very patronizable face, I don’t know. However, this post is about all the misguided gentlemen (but by no means the majority) who do so for no other reason than the fact that I’m of the fairer sex.
I was at our favorite dive bar with Jayne a while back, wearing my favorite KISS sweatshirt and generally enjoying our utter dominion over the jukebox, when a couple of college students approached us to join their game of pool. After a lot of pleading, we conceded (despite the fact that we come to the bar to plot world domination and rock out, not to distract ourselves with the hobbies of mortals).
During the game, one gentleman from the group approaches me to inquire whether I actually know and listen to KISS. Ya know, cause I’m wearing a KISS sweatshirt, but it just doesn’t add up in his mind.
Presumably, his thought process went like this: KISS! But…girl. Why? WHY COME GIRL?
Oh, what? No, I don’t know one of the single biggest, most successful bands in history. No, I don’t personally think Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley are awesome dudes. I just thought these four gentlemen in painted faces were so adorable, I simply had to wear them as a fashion statement, teehee.
The elderly are practically sacred to me. Not just because I hope to be one someday, and not just because they’ve lived through all the awful crap that inevitably comes with decades of life, but because the world is moving at such a crazy pace that even I have a hard time keeping up, and these people are expected to keep up as their ability to do so slips away. It’s a lonely, alienating experience that makes you feel like you no longer know or belong in the world in which you live.
Um, that’s just dust in my eye.
Anyway, lord have mercy on you if I see you remain seated when an elderly person gets on the bus and starts looking around for a place to sit.
I swear, if it takes them more than 5 seconds of holding on to that dirty bar and looking around uncomfortably before you finally peel your ass from the seat and offer them a place, I will make your skull burn with my fiery glare.
But if you just let them keep standing like that while you play your Flappy Angry Pigeon game, your head bowed over the screen like you’re praying to the gods of mobile gaming to help you beat your high score, I WILL SMITE YOU WHERE YOU SIT!
I’d like to start this post with a caveat: there are tons of different people who don’t say thank you (and I’ve already assigned various levels of hell to them all), but this All the Rage Wednesday is dedicated to those who don’t say thank you when you hold the door open. It’s such an arrogant quality that it merits a Rage Wednesday all its own.
I avoid doing any non-internet shopping around Christmas because I know that in a half hour among the crowds, I’ll get whipped up into a frothing rage and denounce my life in society in favor of a simpler life of foraging in the woods. However, once I made the mistake of going to the mall in December and my rage was frothed and whipped and covered in chocolate syrup before I even got through the doors.
Here I was, naively expecting to find some great gift for a friend that would redeem this whole Christmas shopping experience, ready to brace myself for the blindly shoving crowds and the large groups who walk slowly and the tourists who dart out of everywhere and don’t know where to stop. I open the door to the mall, ready to regret everything, when out wafts a young pair–a man and a woman both in their early 20s–who are so enthralled by themselves that they don’t realize there’s a whole living, breathing person making it possible for them to exit the building.
They completely ignore me, who had opened the door not for them but for myself, and don’t so much as grunt in appreciation. Once they pass the Gratitude Point of No Return (the last point at which it’s socially expected to say thanks), I realize they’re going to go on living their lives in blissful ignorance of their rudeness. Continue reading…
I am a city girl through and through. That means I have no problem shoving into people in a crowd, I swoop into parking spots like a hawk, and I jaywalk from time to time (for legal purposes, my jaywalking is “alleged”). However, when I (allegedly) jaywalk, I make sure there aren’t any cars coming and I speed up if a car does come toward me, for no other reason than my BASIC INSTINCT OF SELF PRESERVATION. Well, at least I used to think this instinct was basic, because every day of driving in a city proves me more and more wrong. Every day, there is some hipster asshole who steps out on red in front of my car, which is barrelling down the street towards a green light, and saunters his way across the street, forcing me to brake for him, because he can’t bothered to move in the way of impending death.
Why does he expect me to care more about the value of his hipster life than he does? Does he imagine that his own person is so awe-inspiring that cars automatically come to a stop when they see him? Are our own day-to-day affairs less important than whatever Instagram photo he’s currently looking at on his phone instead of watching the car coming at him? These are questions to which I may never get an answer, and yet they are posed every day when I honk at these people and get nothing but indignant scowls in return. Oh, I’m sorry, is my legal right of way getting in the way of your law-breaking? MY BAD. Continue reading…