This Week’s Top 10 Things That Piss Me Off.

I should start by apologizing to my loyal readers (especially to Larry and the fellas at the Ford Plant) for my delay in blogging. It’s taking me longer and longer to put together my Top 10. From now on, I think I’ll just try to blog 10 weekly, though not necessarily on Friday. I’ll still blog on specific issues randomly as they come up. Thanks and enjoy.

1. White Chicks/Method & Red.
As the subject of this week’s poll, clearly these two productions piss me off. Is there anything funny left to be said about the differences in whites and blacks? The answer is “no.” It’s embarrassing for both groups because it underscores only the characteristics of the blackest of the blacks and the whitest of the whites. I’m so tired of seeing this same premise hashed and rehashed. Ten bucks says in either the movie or on this sitcom you’ll see something approaching the following exchange:
Black Guy: “Skuze me, home girl. Can you point me in the dizzle of the nearest joint where’s I can gets a few mo’ of my teef gold-capped?!?!(three guys in overalls and corn rows start jumping into each other in the background screaming, “Awwww, Shit! No he ditten!”)”

White Woman (dressed in a evening gown holding a very small dog wearing pearls): “Thornton, whatever is this Negro gentleman referring to? His breath smells of malted liquor and some sort of opiate. (white woman faints
)
Thornton, the White Guy (english accent, wearing a monocle): “I’m sorry, sir. My wife is occasionally taken with the vapors. She’s been ill of late with the rheumatoid arthritis and the gout. Could you please repeat your inquiry?”

Black Guy: “Shit, bitch. You all right! (black guy bear hugs the bewildered white guy)

It’s all just a load of horseshit. I don’t know any black guys who act this way. Nor do I know any white men or women that represent these people, yet, somehow, these are always the caricatures we get: the impossibly upper-crust WASPs and the impossibly newly-rich black rapper posse. Remind me again at which point the hilarity is supposed to ensue.

Vote today for which is more stupid at chipsblog@hotmail.com. I’ll publish the results and reader feedback on Friday.

2. Teenage Girl Hugs.
I’ve discovered an alarming trend among teenage girls: they hug each other way too much. On one hand, the thought of those nubile young bodies pressed against one another, erect nipples touching ever so gently, is somewhat erotic. I’ll grant you that. (I think I’m slightly aroused.) On the other hand, the gesture is just so fake. It’s like Hug Fest ‘04 at my church during the greeting time. Half these girls can’t stand the sight of one another since someone blew someone else’s boyfriend while someone was at cheerleading camp and then someone told someone and it got back to someone and she’s super pissed! That bitch! Next time you’re at a mall or behind a movie theater, keep an eye on these girls. You’ll see some serious hugging going on and it’ll start to piss you off too.

3. Pet Toys & Treats.
I mentioned earlier that I’m a dog lover. In fact, I like animals in general, primarily because they don’t talk. I’m all for being kind to animals. As with any good thing, unfortunately, there’s always that group of enthusiasts that takes things too far. For my money, the animal enthusiasts crossed the line at ice cream for dogs. Somewhere there are enough devoted dog lovers that cried out for dog ice cream and some company actually began to produce it. There’s even a tiny freezer in the pet section at Kroger now for DOG TREATS! I’m not shitting you. I’ve heard the rationale for buying your dog ice cream treats. Dog owners say, “Oh, fluffy loves it. She can’t get enough of it.” Hmmm, is that so? You know what, last week I saw your dog eating it’s own feces. I think that was right before you let Fluffy lick your face. Her tongue may have even gone in your mouth a time or two. I’m not here to judge.” My point is, you feed your dog the same food every single day. That ice cream could be flavored like ANYTHING and your dog would eat it. It doesn’t matter if it’s ice cream or Snausages or Beggin’ Strips or whatever. Again, your dog will eat anything. I say save yourself some money at the store and just roll your own feces in oats and barbecue sauce. Trust me, your dog will eat it. She won’t be able to get enough of it.

4. Dale Earnhardt Fans.
An open letter to Dale Earnhardt Fans:
Dale Earnhardt was not Jesus. He wasn’t Gandhi or Mother Theresa. He may have been a nice guy. Depends on whom you ask. Dale Earnhardt wasn’t a humanitarian. Your hero worship is misplaced. Dale Earnhardt drove a car in a circle very fast and he was paid handsomely to do it. His “sport” (and I use that term loosely) was and still is very dangerous and he paid the ultimate price for participating. As great as you think he was, however, he’s not coming back. It’s time to move on. Take the large decals off your minivan, go ahead and give your #3 apparel to Goodwill, have the tattoo removed from your inner thighs and get over it. The Intimidator would’ve wanted it that way.
Thank you.

5. When Good Waiters Go Bad.
My buddy Scott contributed this one. It seems Scott was at a restaurant the other day and witnessed another table’s waiter chit-chatting with his guests for so long that one of the guests became visibly uncomfortable and even chastised her husband for talking so much when the waiter walked away. This has happened to all of us and I agree it IS very annoying. I respect the wait staff at most restaurants (except McDonald’s, where the order-taker-person is too lazy to enunciate, so “May I help you?” morphs into “Mao-lp you?”. Apparently it only takes two muscles to scowl, tks Rita), but if you’re like me, you’re not looking for a new best friend. In fact, I’m going to tip $2 or 20% (whichever is greater) regardless, so I couldn't really care less if you say anything at all. Hell, you can ask for my order by pointing and writing for all I care. Ask me if I want dessert through interpretive dance if you want. I don’t give two shits. Just don’t linger around the table unless you’re filling my drink. Then go away again. It’s simple really.

6. The Myth Of Doppler Radar.
Doppler radar is completely bogus. Tell you what, next time it’s storming, take a pie pan and tape it to the end of a ruler. Now, go outside, climb on your roof and spin around with your pie pan for a couple of minutes. Ok, great. Now, go back inside and get some markers and some poster board. (If you’ve got kids have them help you. C’mon, this will be educational). Take the green, red and yellow markers and color some random blobs on the poster board. When you’re all done, tape the poster board to your TV screen. Bingo! There’s your doppler radar. Call up the neighbors and tell them there are “violent cells” over their houses, then break out their windshields with tire irons. Have fun with it! You’re a meteorologist now. You don’t have to play by everyone else’s bullshit rules.

7. Dudes Without Shirts.
I still don’t understand when it became ok for men to parade around here in public with no shirts on like we live in fucking South Beach. I’m not saying you can’t shed the shirt if you’re washing the car in the driveway or playing some hoops with the fellas. If you like getting other guys’ sweat all over you (**cough-GAY!-cough**), be my guest. Those are times when I’m ok w/ you not wearing a shirt. But this idea that men should be able to go without a shirt anywhere in public has gone too far. If you’re walking down the street, take a second and put a shirt on. If you’re driving, show some class and wear a damn shirt. No one wants to see your bird chest or your beer gut or your hairy-ass back, Sasquatch. You were not gifted with a beautiful Adonis body there, tough guy, nor, apparently, were you gifted with any modesty and it’s taking its toll on the rest of us.

8. Breastfeeding In Public.
This is the female equivalent of dudes not wearing shirts. If you’re a woman (I don’t even care if you’re ugly) and you want to whip out your tits in public in full view of the rest of us, go right ahead. Far be it from me to steer you clear of public indecency. I like looking at boobs. But, I don’t like looking at boobs with a damn kid attached to one of them. It’s perverse. It’s weird. It’s gross. “But, it’s a perfectly natural act,” you granola-eating, hairy-legged women are probably saying. To that I say me taking a man-sized dump is perfectly natural too, but I can usually wait until I get home in the privacy of my own bathroom to do my dirty business. It’s natural, but it’s gross. So, too, is that tiny, hairless opossum hanging from your breast. Feed that kid somewhere away from me.

9. Whoever Keeps Crapping In Our Office Bathroom.
As I stated above, I have some decency when it comes to dropping a load. When nature calls and I gotta do the deuce, I either wait until I get home or I choose some other restroom (usually the 4th Floor) besides the one right down the hall from my office. I should point out this bathroom has NO FAN – repeat – NO FAN. Apparently, I need to craft a memo to some of the other gentlemen in my office to make the unwritten rule a little bit more written. Every day after lunch I hit the can to pee. Upon entering, I’m usually hit with a gale-force stench that’s been waiting on me like an old friend. “Come on in,” he says. “Let me settle into your hair and onto your clothing. There. How’s that? You smell like oil wells now. Your welcome.” This isn’t necessary! There are probably 10 other restrooms in the building within a short walk or elevator ride. Memo to THAT guy: Pick one of those restrooms to befoul if you must, but please stop shitting in the office. We all have to go in there on occasion and if we wanted to smell your shit, we’d come in while you were leaving that horrifying load and carry on a conversation with you and then congratulate you in an email.

10. The Cracker Barrel Gift Shop.
I’ll begrudgingly admit I don’t really mind Cracker Barrel’s food. They make a fine breakfast although I don’t like the idea of eating it in a barn or a 1967 gas station, which is kind of the décor they seem to be going for. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, what’s with the gift shop? It’s like putting a St Vincent De Paul in the lobby of Red Lobster. Hey, if you’re looking for 10-year-old rock candy or bedazzled bib aprons or Lonesome Dove on eight-track, your search is over. I don’t know. It’s just weird.