Socializing in Line

Fucking blogger. Getting rid of arbitrary paragraphs. Ruining my carefully structured flow. Don't worry. I fixed that now.

WARNING: This is a rant. Also, I like the second person. Deal with it.

Socializing in Line

Just because I am in a place with other people does not mean I want to interact with them. Sure, if it's a bar or a sporting event, yeah, I guess human interaction is good, but don't assume it in a place where I don't have a choice. Best example, shopping, especially for something like groceries. I lack the option of shopping there by myself, so I have to be around people at the time. Here's the trick. If I desired to talk to someone, I'd go with someone or possibly be that guy on the phone with no sense of who could hear him.

With this considered, I hate when people try talking to me in the store. I forgive employees up to a point when they ask if they can help me with something. I worked retail. I get that you have to ask that. If I give you a pleasant response, that's not an invitation to give me a scouting report on your whereabouts if I need help or to then, later sneak up on me with conversation on what I'm looking at. It's bad enough someone now knows I'm looking at the "Barbie's Animal Hospital" video game. I don't want to get in a conversation about how Skipper got her name from the designer's bikini waxer.

The worst is when I'm in line at the grocery. You know the scene. You get in that seemingly short line that takes thrice as long to get through because the old lady in front of you is buying individually packaged grapes, has a coupon for everything (all but three are expired), and she signs the electronic pad with a pen. You finally get through that and it's your turn. Next, your cashier goes on break and is replaced by the new guy, who has that soft voice with a southern twang that doesn't make sense for the area and always goes by his full name even though he has an obvious nick-name (William or Jonathan or something like that). Then, a middle aged woman with an energetic smile saunters into your aisle with a cart full of food on top and packed to the brim with cat food below. The perfect storm is complete.

Once you have reached this point, discourse is almost inevitable. However, I have collected a few tips and tricks to help you avoid this:

1) Don't wear anything from any school, colleges especially. No Florida hoodies, UNC hats, or IU t-shirts. I'd recommend taking the Oklahoma fight song off your cell phone or put that thing on vibrate the second you get in that store. I'm not kidding. This woman has kids that just graduated, co-workers with kids who are visiting colleges, and relatives with tenure. It doesn't matter if the school is Chaminade. The janitor at her work has a son who goes there. She will find a way to make a conversation out of this. It will be filled with inane questions, incorrect identifications*, and yes, wistful memories or her youth.
And don't expect William to help you. He called the senior co-worker, an unfortunate woman with a hyphenated first name, to waddle over and help you after he tried to weigh the bananas you're getting and got it to charge $32. You can't even make a run for it because the host of Tales from the Crypt, the bagger, is blocking you path with a cart.

*Example: "You went to Minnesota. One of those cheese heads, I see."

Corollary to rule 1: For the case of the middle-aged man. Avoid anything with a sports logo, no matter what the sport or league. Nothing is safe. You think your Manchester United shirt is safe? Before you know it, you are talking about Pele. The amazing thing is, he will always find a way to make it about his team and his sport. Texas football turns into the Cleveland Indians before you can say "10 cent beer night."

2) Don't look at any magazines. Betty (I gave her a name) watches the CBS soaps. She can't believe Reese Witherspoon had a secret wedding (but with dozens of photographers on staff). She needs to see the first pictures of Jessica Alba's baby. She can't believe the rubbish they are allowed to publish in the tabloids. And, worst of all, she needs to let you know this. Unless you also can't get enough  of Kim Kardashian's diet to lose 10 pounds in 3 weeks (Hint: The method is so obscene, you might have to gag), the you leave no openings for her.

3) This one may be a little cold, but it is necessary. Do not put down the divider when she gets in line. If you didn't do it automatically, then don't do it when she shows up. Even something small like that is too much invitation. You do that. She says "thank you". You say "Your welcome". She says, "You are such a polite young man. Most people don't have such good manners." Boom! Conversation. Those bananas will be expired before you can free yourself.

4) Don't dress nice. You are going to the store. If she even gets a whiff at "you have plans later" she will need to know about the wedding, wake, or walk-a-thon. You need to leave her with the fear that you might be a hobo, or gang member if you have the skin and/or speech* to pull it off.

*She's the racist one, not me.

Myself, I even take extra precautions like never wearing clothes out of season ("I don't know how you can wear shorts in the middle of March like that" or "Unseasonably cold today, isn't it?") and not debating if I want to get a candy bar ("Those are so unhealthy for you. My ex-husband eats those and now he is a fat-ass piece of shit"). It's equally unsafe to talk to the cashier. It won't deflect the woman. It'll encourage her, showing that you are personable. She will jump at the first chance to join in.

If it was up to me, I would have four things said to me the whole time I'm there:
"Watch out. Floor's wet here."
"Free sample?"
"Cash or credit?"
"Have a nice day."
Oh well, maybe in a perfect world.

Too Much Commitment.

As it appears, I am not ready for a blog. Apparently, my life is too active. Too many Facebook updates to check, movies to see, DVD to watch, magazines to read, rooms to clean, papers to organize, empty minutes to use staring into space (not thinking about nothing, but in fact, thinking about the fact that I am staring into space thinking about nothing and how that means I am actually thinking about something).

So, as you can see, I have very valid reasons for not posting in 20 days. Another reason, I've checked the site stats. I'm my audience. And, you know what? My audience hasn't felt the need for a post until now. Pretty easy to control supply and demand this way.

The topic for today. There isn't really one. I found myself going through my saved sites and noticed I hadn't been on here in a while and couldn't figure out why I haven't posted anything. Let me reassure you* that I'll start adding shit regularly at some point, once I've figured out a way to not make this a "Today I did this" or "Here's my deep thought that everyone has" blog. This is a rant blog dammit, so I'll have none of that introspection poppycock.


*And as we discussed, by "you" I mean "me" since this is a practice in redundancy.

Gay Mafia Controls the Candy Industry

I would like to expose a poorly concealed conspiracy that has been going on right under our noses or rather, tongues.

Candy is totally gay!

Think about it.
Milky Way. So creamy, right?
Starburts - queer as fuck (juicy and fruity).
3 Musketeers,  three dudes with porn mustaches dressed in costume.
Do we need to even guess what M&M stands for? Melts in your mouth, not in your hand.
Twix are pretty phallic, aren't they?
Skittles, taste the rainbow. Subtle.
Baby Ruth? We all know that stopped meaning baseball a long time ago.
Butterfinger, Lemon head, Juicy Fruit.

And Reeces...actually, there ain't nothing wrong about Reeces, so don't even look.

Even Twizlers look like a limp dick, especially around a pair of Jelly Beans. Yes, that concept may seem a little disproportional, but not if it's black Licorice, right?

Need I continue?

Who am I ?!

Reasons to start a blog:

1) You think you have something to say.

2) You believe you have something to say that others care to hear.

3) You have too much free time.

4) Someone once told you "You should start a blog" and you took it too heart despite it being an empty compliment.

5) You have a job that allows you a great deal of free time, and find yourself writing pages at a time about a variety of topics in between answering calls at your desk and have compiled such a large back list of rants that keeping them to yourself any longer would mean you have a diary which is something no 23, shit, I had a birthday, 24 year old should have.

Obviously, I am a victim of reason #3. But, aren't there better alternatives? No. Not for my purposes, so shut it.

Facebook: It does have much higher traffic. More people would be able to see what you have to say. People that even know you and would possibly even consider reading what I have to say. The problem is, I'm hoping for a relative degree of anonymity. Besides, my mom has Facebook. I don't need her knowing how much I love words like fuck, shit, damn, and cock.

Twitter: Fuck Twitter. Need there be a better reason.*

Personal Website: I'm not buying a website. 3 people a month will go to this and I still feel betrayed after watching the extended cuts of the GoDaddy commercials.

That brings me to the title of this post. Who am I?

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ranu8BOvQmQ

I am a blog of rants. My author is a man bothered by almost everything in some way. I have an opinion about everything. Whether it be prepared or made on the spot, I try to have an answer for anything, be it informed, ignorant, or surreal. The only other important detail is that goal number one is humor. DO NOT READ THIS SERIOUSLY. I implore you. Half the shit I say is in jest. The other half is exaggerated unless otherwise noted.

My goal is not to let the reader know me better. At best it will give an insight into how my mind works, what I find funny, where I will and will not go for a chuckle.

We will see how long this blog lasts. I give it a month.**

*Note: This had the construction of a question, but the obviousness of the answer takes away the need to answer it.

 ** I'm not big on proofreading. Pardon the typos.